by Cy Wyss
“Oh, hello again,” said PJ.
“Hi. My mom’s in the shower. Want me to get her?”
Silently, PJ thanked her lucky stars. “No, I’m just here to drop off her robe. You can thank her for me, okay?”
PJ handed the bundle of pink fluff to the girl.
“Okay,” the girl said. “What’s your name?”
“PJ. What’s your name?”
The girl’s smile lit up her face. “Bridget. But everyone calls me Birdie. Isn’t that weird? How do they get Birdie from Bridget?”
PJ chuckled. “Well, they’re both very nice. But I have to go now. Make sure to thank your mom, okay?”
“Sure. I will.”
“Bye.”
The girl seemed reluctant to close the door. PJ waved again and turned to walk down the steps and sidewalk. Finally, she heard the door close, and when she glanced back, she didn’t see anyone watching her through the windows.
PJ walked out to the main sidewalk, then walked to the garage side of the house, which seemed to be somewhat sequestered from the front windows. She took a deep breath, then stepped into the lawn and walked quickly past the house. There was no fence delineating the backyard, but they had a large playset. PJ walked through the space until she met the woods that lined the ravine, then stepped carefully into them. Poison ivy was everywhere in Indiana, and PJ knew she had to be careful not to get a foot full. She passed through a tangle of trees and brush and emerged at the top of the ravine. Carefully, she made her way down to where she thought she had washed up. She looked behind her. She could see Bridget’s house up the hill, about a hundred yards away. No one seemed to be on the back porch, and as far as PJ could tell, no one was looking out any of the back windows.
PJ studied the area around the water carefully. She saw a deep indentation that could have been made by her body. She saw her own naked footprints as well as smaller ones in slippers that were no doubt Bridget’s. Her cat-pack was nowhere to be found.
She walked north along the water’s edge. She had to pick her way through mud and underbrush carefully. Some areas, the ravine was almost a vertical drop-off; at others it sloped more gently down from the line of houses to the east. PJ was sweating by the time she came to the place with the overhanging branches where she’d seen Chip and then fallen in. Counting her steps, she figured she was almost half a mile from Bridget’s house. She had been in the water for quite a while in that case. She was lucky she hadn’t drowned. Chip, apparently, hadn’t been so lucky.
She looked southward. The ravine ran through a bend after this point, and she couldn’t see very far down the waters. They looked treacherous, though, even though they’d died down significantly since PJ’s trip through them. PJ looked up the sides of the ravine. Both to the east and west, the backs of houses were evident. Looking west, she wondered whose house backed up to where Chip had been laying.
As she stood and wondered, she suddenly felt a brush of fur against her leg. She jumped backward, startling a small black animal.
“Oh, goodness,” PJ said. “Hello there, little kitty. You startled me.”
The cat looked familiar. It was jet-black and looked like it couldn’t have been more than a few months old. One of his eyes was sticky, and he blinked it often.
“I know you. You’re the kitten I saw on my way back from the festival.” PJ knelt and offered her hand. The kitten sniffed her fingers warily. PJ wished she could change into a cat at will so she could communicate better with this kitten. As it was, she made a trill sound and closed her eyes tightly, then opened them. She hoped she wasn’t being too forward. The trill sound was a playful one, and she knew that when a cat wants to smile, it will close its eyes in front of you to show you it trusts you and is feeling good.
The kitten simply stared at her, not closing his eyes in return, but not running away.
PJ reached for the kitten. “We really should do something about that eye. It looks like the beginning of an infection.”
At PJ’s reaching hands, the kitten took off, jumping into the underbrush and stopping a few feet away. PJ knew she wouldn’t be able to catch the cat if it didn’t want to be caught.
“Well, maybe we’ll meet again some night. Do you hang around by these houses? Do you belong to one of them?”
The cat said nothing, only staring at PJ with bright yellow eyes.
* * *
When PJ got back to Stoker Hills, a nondescript navy sedan was parked outside of her trailer. She squeezed her maroon GT next to it and got out. The sedan really screamed government. That could only mean one thing.
Before she could ascend her stoop, the door opened and her brother, Robert, accosted her.
“Where in the hell have you been?”
“Well, hi to you too, Robert.”
He frowned. He stepped back so she could pass inside. He closed the door, and they looked at each other on the small patch of linoleum that PJ considered her foyer.
He said, “I’ve been waiting here almost an hour.”
PJ held up her purse. “Did you try the phone?”
“A dozen times. You’re not answering it. I saw why once I let myself in.”
“What?” PJ started rummaging through her purse.
Robert retrieved her smartphone from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “It was in your bedroom. I heard it ringing and found it on your dresser.”
“You went into my bedroom? You rifled through my things?”
“PJ, it was in plain sight. I didn’t snoop any more than that.”
PJ sighed. “So I forgot my phone at home. Did you find anything else interesting, in plain sight?”
“Well, I saw your camera.”
“Oh. Crap.” PJ recalled she had taken it apart and left it on her desk to dry.
“Never mind that. Did you get any footage of what happened here the other night?”
“Footage of what?”
“Don’t play dumb. I don’t have the patience for it right now.”
“You mean what happened to Chip Greene?”
“Of course that’s what I mean.”
“Sit down, Robert.”
They eyed each other. Robert moved away from PJ and sat at the far side of her dining booth. She went to the counter and started to make coffee. “I’ll tell you, but let me catch my breath and make some coffee first.”
“Fine.” He stared out the big window over the dining booth.
A few minutes later, PJ had the coffee machine ready and working, and she sat down opposite Robert.
“You’re not at church this morning?” PJ asked.
“Didi and Nanci went. I wanted to come here and get your side of the story.”
Didi was Robert’s wife, and Nanci was their twelve-year-old girl, PJ’s niece. PJ loved Nanci. The girl had amber eyes like her, a great sense of humor, and the suppleness of a cat in both mind and body.
“What makes you think I even have a side of the story? Maybe I was at home sleeping?”
“PJ, whenever anything happens in this town, you miraculously happen to be there. Plus, I talked to Vicky. I know you saw the altercation.”
“Altercation?”
“Between Alex Tate and Chip Greene.”
“Like I said to Vicky, I didn’t see it that well. I had my light goggles on.”
“Light goggles?”
PJ got up and went into her bedroom. She came back with ordinary work goggles strung with LEDs. She put them on and turned the lights up.
“See?”
“You look like something that should go on top of a Christmas tree.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“What’s the point of those?”
“Well, it’s possible my darkness phobia is physiological. If so, having bright light always by my ocular nerve should lessen it.”
“Is Doc Fred giving you this baloney?”
PJ turned off the lights and removed the goggles. “I don’t want to talk about it if you’re going to call it baloney. It mig
ht be working. I might be able to be outside in the dark.”
“Looking like a circus freak, though.”
“It’s not perfect, I admit.”
“PJ, it’s perfectly weird. It’s you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
The coffee pot gurgled, signifying the presence of coffee. PJ got two mugs down from the cupboard and filled them. She knew Robert liked his with a touch of sugar.
“Thanks,” he said when she handed him his mug.
PJ topped her coffee with cream and sugar and sat down opposite Robert again.
“All right,” he said, “I want to hear everything about that night.”
“We’re talking Friday, two nights ago, right?”
“You know we are.”
“Don’t get ornery. I’m trying to orient myself.”
“Sorry.” He took a sip of coffee.
“Well, I was out with my light goggles, practicing being in the dark.”
“You were randomly out walking around?”
“Basically.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“Who would be with me?”
“I mean, like Mutt.”
“Oh. Yes, Mutt was with me. He helps with the fear as well, as you can imagine.”
“Yeah. So then what happened?”
“Well, we were walking north, toward Chip Greene’s part of the park.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Nope. Just walking behind the trailers in that direction, along the top of the ravine through the woods.”
“Okay. So what’d you see?”
“I’m getting to that. When we came to Chip’s trailer, I thought I saw Alex and Chip down by the water. But I was far away and couldn’t really recognize them. I only realized who it was the next morning when Vicky was at Alex Tate’s and said he was saying ‘green’ over and over. Then I figured who I’d seen were Alex and Chip.”
“All right. Then what?”
“Well, nothing really. The one I now think was Chip fell in the water, and the other one—Alex—tried to help him.”
“You saw Chip Greene fall in the water? Did you hear anything?”
“He was yelling at Alex to get away from him.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“Like what?”
“PJ, another neighbor heard a shot around that time. This would have been about midnight.”
“Oh, how could I forget. Of course I heard what sounded like a shot.”
“Sounded like a shot? You’re not sure it was a shot?”
“It could have been a tree branch cracking. Or a hammer hitting something. You know, it was a loud bang. I can’t say for certain it was a shot.”
“We found Greene’s handgun in the water near the area you’re describing.”
“He shot at Alex?” PJ was surprised. She hadn’t seen anything like that. But did she just miss the small gun in Chip’s hand?
“Is that what you saw?”
“No. I was too far away, and with the light goggles, I can hardly see anything straight. I didn’t see any weapon in Chip’s hand that I know of. I know he almost always carries his gun with him, though, so if he fell in the water I’m sure it wouldn’t have been far.”
“Hm. How about in Alex’s hands? Did you see the gun?”
“What!? That’s ridiculous. Alex wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Chip Greene washed up at the bridge near Mayhap Road, dead.”
“I know. I saw the Alameda Sentinel this morning.”
“Why would he just fall into the ravine? There’s talk he wouldn’t—that he was either pushed or shot.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, that’s crazy. What does Alex have to say about it? You need to ask him—he was there.”
“You know how hard he is to talk to.”
“He’s autistic, but you can talk to him if you’re patient. Why don’t you get one of your shrinks to talk to him?”
“We might if we get him away from his lawyer.”
“He has a lawyer?”
“You know him, too.”
“I do?”
“Liam Pfefferheim.”
“Oh.” Liam Pfefferheim was legal counsel to anyone disadvantaged or down-and-out in the Indianapolis area, which included the residents of Stoker Hills. PJ had gone to grade school with Liam. Then she re-met him years ago when she interviewed him for an article about a Hills girl who’d been assaulted by someone from the mayor’s office. The case had been hushed up, and Liam had seen to it that the entire nation had heard about it by the time he was finished, making him the eternal friend of Stoker Hills denizens and the eternal enemy of the Mayhap elite.
“Yeah. There’s talk he might represent Trent on the theft cases, too.”
“Oh, the thefts. I forgot all about those.”
“We haven’t. It’s just taken a while to get the subpoena to go through the Tate trailer.”
“And did you guys go through it yet?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I hope you find Dad’s ring. I want it back.”
“I’ll make sure they’re looking for it.”
“Why does Alex need a lawyer?”
“As I said, there’s talk he pushed Greene or shot at him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You were an eyewitness, PJ. You could clear up a lot by coming forward and making an official statement.”
“But I hardly saw anything.”
“How about your camera?”
PJ cleared her throat. “I didn’t have a camera.”
“Sure you didn’t. PJ, we all know you take those pictures. Stop with the bullshit about some anonymous photographer sending them to you.”
“Fine. Maybe I do take a picture or two now and again. But my camera is waterlogged. I want to let it dry thoroughly before I even try to see what’s on it.”
Robert swigged from his coffee. He put the cup down and swallowed heavily. “In this case, I guess we’re all waiting on pins and needles to see what your pictures will say.”
“I know.”
“And, in the meantime, can you at least talk to your friend Pfefferheim and get Alex to open up a little more? The silence is damning.”
PJ sighed. “I’ll try.”
— 8 —
Pro Bono
Liam Pfefferheim’s law office was at 38th and Lafayette in Indianapolis, wedged between an erotic pastries shop and a check-cashing place in an otherwise nondescript strip mall. It wasn’t the greatest of neighborhoods. Sometimes the nearby Walmart parking lot was filled with panhandlers who spilled over into the mall. On those days, Liam offered them coffee and cookies until he ran out. He was doing well enough to have two assistants: a secretary who ran the front desk and a paralegal who helped him with everything else.
Liam’s secretary, Jazmin Berra, was an imposing woman with thick, long black hair, watchful brown eyes, and an accent on the British side of Indian. She favored saris and eyeshadow on the dark side of the spectrum, indigo or olive, and she complemented them with thick black eyeliner. Horn-rimmed glasses hung from a gold chain around her neck, and she was perpetually donning them and staring at whomever stood opposite her over their black-and-gemmed frames. When PJ walked in, there were no indigents, and Jazmin recognized her immediately. Her glasses were on, and she eyed PJ over their sparkly edges.
“Well, hello there, PJ. You’re here to see him, I assume? Did you think to make an appointment?”
PJ laughed. “Not this time.”
“You never make the appointment. Honestly, he is busy at the moment with a client; you will have to wait.”
“Okay.”
Jazmin actually seemed a little glad for the interruption. PJ wondered what she was working on.
“So,” Jazmin said, “how is life south of Nowhere?”
Nowhere, Indiana, was a tiny hamlet five minutes north of Mayhap and rendered PJ’s hometown the constant butt of boondocks jokes.
“Same as usual. But we had a bad
accident a couple of days ago.”
“The drowning in the creek?”
“Oh, you heard about that all the way down here?”
“I read an article; you know Liam still gets the Mayhap Mirror delivered here; there it is on our coffee table.” She motioned toward the waiting area. “I am surprised your byline was not on it.”
Among stacks of magazines PJ saw the larger folded newsprint of the paper. “Yes, well, I guess Sam beat me out this time.” Aspiring feature writer Samantha Collins perpetually wore a red fedora with a white feather and was PJ’s main rival for space in the Mirror’s pages. Sam tended to be more interested in art and interior design than crime, but if called upon, would swear an interest in anything from teapots to turkeys.
“I guess she did. And we all know about it down here. You can take the man out of the town, but the town stays with the man, right? Or at least the newspaper does.”
PJ chuckled. “Well, Mayhap grows on you. What’s new with you guys? Anything exciting?”
Jazmin frowned. Her brown eyes became hooded, and she stared listlessly at her computer screen. “Depositions. Always the depositions. Our stock in trade.”
“Got a particularly boring one that’s bogging you down at the moment?”
She shot PJ a stern look over the top of her gemmed glasses. “They are none of them boring. Some are disturbing, though. Desperate people do desperate things to other desperate people.”
PJ nodded, her eyebrows tracing a deep V on her pale forehead. “I suppose so.”
* * *
It was over an hour before Liam was done with his clients. In fact, when the consultation ended, PJ was surprised to see Alex and his mom come out. PJ stood as they neared the exit.
“Mrs. Tate! Alex. How are you?”
Alex smiled and buried his face in his mom’s shoulder. At first Maija Tate didn’t seem to recognize PJ. The woman blinked repeatedly, her head bobbing backward as if trying to flee her neck. She had small hazel eyes in a darkly tanned face and bottle-blond hair. She was taller than PJ—most people were—and heavyset. Today Maija wore a tight black sweater, dangling silver earrings, and jeans, and she had her hair pulled back into a tight bun.
“Oh. PJ Taylor. Nice to see you.”
It was a canned response, uttered out of a sense of civility rather than any genuine pleasure.