Daphne was right. But for some reason it was hard to hear. “I worry about that a lot. What kind of mother I’ll be. I had no example, no one to learn from. Not that I’m planning to have kids anytime soon but eventually, maybe. The thought of figuring it out on my own scares me to death. What if I realize too late I’m just like her?” Charis’s eyes stung, her heart aching for the baby she’d lost to Vic’s abuse.
“Bite your tongue.” Daphne tapped a finger under Charis’s chin. “You will be a wonderful mother. You care about people. Look how good you are to Mr. B.” She stood, pulling Charis from her chair, enveloping her in her strong arms. “Love you, girl. Call me tomorrow.”
“I will. Bye, Daph. Thanks for listening.”
After walking Daphne to the door, Charis rinsed their coffee cups then stepped to the bedroom to dress, Kinko at her heels. She smiled as she slid on scrubs in Mr. B’s favorite shade of blue. Wendell would be leaving for Albuquerque this morning, thank goodness. It would be nice to have Mr. B all to herself again.
Over the past couple of weeks, Wendell had grown even more paranoid. After Deason turned Vic’s wallet over to the police, Detective Benton had stopped by to ask Wendell a few questions—had he noticed anyone near the garbage bin, seen anything suspicious, etc. Wendell, certain the detective suspected him of murdering Vic, had been a basket case ever since. His fears had grown so irrational, Charis worried Alzheimer’s had snatched up son as well as father.
“Later, Kink.” Charis scratched Kinko’s curly head on the way out the door. She jogged down the porch steps, unlocked her car and tossed her bag into the passenger seat.
Daphne’s voice rang in her head as she drove to Mr. B’s house. Vic and Gabriella, together? Charis supposed stranger things could happen but wow, what a pair.
Gabriella had a reputation for liking men. If Daphne’s theory was true, maybe a jealous lover murdered Vic. Or maybe Vic got violent with Gabriella and she killed him herself. And who better to pin a murder on than her ex-husband?
Charis creased her brow. She thought she remembered hearing that Gabriella had brothers. Maybe she’d put one of them up to it. After all, she wouldn’t be strong enough to hoist a grown man over her shoulder and hurl him into a dumpster.
“Stop it.” Charis sat up tall in the seat and narrowed her eyes at the rearview mirror. “And you think Wendell is paranoid?” she asked her reflection before pulling away from the stop sign.
She forced her mind onto simpler things, like what Mr. B might want for breakfast. By the time she pulled up in front of Mr. B’s house, she’d decided it was a good pancake day.
Mr. B loved pancakes but often ended up raking syrup through his hair, transforming the cottony tufts into porcupine quills that had to be shampooed out. She suspected he did it on purpose. He liked her to wash his hair. Today she’d oblige. She parked at the curb to avoid blocking in Wendell’s Audi.
She walked up the steps, glanced at the trash cart parked against the house. She remembered seeing the empty DVD player box down in the garbage bin on Mr. B’s birthday. She’d even stuffed a full bag of trash on top of it. Whoever planted Vic’s wallet would’ve had to dig through the bin to find the box…and why put the wallet in the box, anyway? So it would be sure to grab Deason’s attention on the lawn?
She jerked her gaze from the cart, settling her mind back on pancakes.
“Hold the door,” Wendell said, stepping quickly across the kitchen linoleum, wheeled-suitcase in tow. “Now, you’re certain you’ll be okay without me here?” he asked, brushing past Charis as she pressed herself against the screen door.
“I’ll be fine,” she answered, following him to his car. She helped load his suitcase in the trunk, hoping to thwart a return trip into the house. The sooner he left, the sooner she could spend some quality time with Mr. B.
“Forgive me if I sound neurotic, but it unnerves me to think that a murderer and a corpse beat the hell out of one another right in this very spot.” Wendell stepped into the grass and spread his arms.
“And what makes you so sure Deason murdered Vic?” Charis’s fist tightened around the suitcase handle in the trunk.
Wendell clucked his tongue and stepped closer. “Charis. Don’t you think this Deason McKindle hero-worship has gone on long enough? For the love of god, the man’s a trash collector. What could he possibly offer you?”
Charis leveled her gaze on his. “Cleaning up trash doesn’t make a man dirty, Wendell. The garbage oozing from between his lips does.”
He raised his double chin and looked down his nose at her, the muscles in his jaw working.
“Be careful, Wendell.” She slammed the trunk extra hard, her gaze never leaving his.
“Thanks. I’ll call when I get to Albuquerque,” he mumbled, lowering his eyes, marching around the car.
Charis turned and made her way slowly up the walk, smothering a satisfied grin as Wendell revved the motor then squealed his tires onto the street.
“What’s that idiot doing now?” Mr. B sat in his favorite chair, craning his neck at the kitchen window.
The crotchety frown on his face made Charis smile.
“No telling what he’s up to,” she said, pulling a chair out beside him. “How are you this morning, handsome?”
His frown melted. “Can’t complain,” he said, turning his faded denim gaze to her.
“So… I thought we might have breakfast together. How do pancakes sound?”
A sparkle lit his eyes. “Extra syrup.”
****
“Visitor,” Deputy Evans informed Deason through the bars.
Deason jumped up, banging his head on the unoccupied bunk above him.
“Need an ice pack for your head to go with that bandage on your eyelid?” Deason spotted the smile Evans hid behind his collar as he unlocked the cell.
“Takes more than a little bang to hurt this hard head.” Deason grinned as the deputy cuffed his hands, this time in front, and then walked him from the cell.
“Are you allowed to tell me who’s visiting?”
“Someone from the list of friends and family you provided to us.” Evans shrugged, leading him down the hallway, into a dim room lit by a flickering fluorescent.
With no family, Deason’s list consisted solely of friends. He didn’t think it was worth mentioning.
“She’s female,” the deputy said, stopping at the empty row of worn wooden stools that jutted from the floor. “Pretty, too.”
Charis? Deason’s heart clanged across his ribcage like a tin cup against prison bars.
Deputy Evans removed Deason’s cuffs and motioned for him to sit. “Talk into it just like a telephone,” he said, removing a handset from the grimy divider to his right. “Not sure where your visitor went. Hopefully she’ll be back before your fifteen minutes are up.”
Deason gripped the handset and straddled the stool. A wrecking ball swayed in his chest as he stared through the smudged Plexiglas window.
“Here she comes,” Evans said, moving slightly aside.
The wrecking ball swung hard, lodging in Deason’s throat. God, the woman was beautiful. Her blond hair was down, touching her face, flowing around her shoulders. She smoothed the strands behind her ear, focused her sky-blue gaze on his and picked up her handset. For one panicked instant he thought he might cry. He clutched the receiver more tightly and cleared his voice. “Hey,” he managed.
“Hey, yourself,” she answered, her voice clearer than he’d thought it’d be through the worn earpiece. “How’s the food?”
He swallowed hard, stuffing down the wash of tears swimming in his throat. It’d only been days since they’d spoken, but it seemed like years. Her voice warmed him as if she’d touched her lips to his ear and breathed the words. He forced a grin. “Not too bad. It grouts the cracked floor nicely.”
She returned a grin. “Don’t think I want to know how you discovered that.” Her smile faded. “What happened to your eye?”
Deason instinctively touched th
e Band-Aid taped across his eyelid. “Trust me. If you don’t care to hear the food on the floor story, you definitely don’t want to hear this one.”
“Try me.”
He looked up at the dingy ceiling tiles, thinking, rubbing his fingers lightly over the bandage. “Let’s just say my eye ended up on the sharp end of a golf pencil.”
She frowned. “And where was the dull end?”
“In a man’s fist.”
She shuddered. “You know, it could’ve been worse—”
By the look on Charis’s face, Deason could tell what she was going to say next. He said the words with her, verbatim. “—he could’ve poked your eye out.”
They both laughed into their handsets. Hers sounded like music.
“So, how’d it go this morning?” she asked, her eyes suddenly serious.
“I was assigned a public defender, Jackson Crowley. He lives here in Shaydn. He’s not too happy with me at the moment. He’s pushing me to plead guilty. Said if I do, I could get a lesser charge. He also said the last thing I need is a jury trial, given my ‘history of violence.’ I told him to kiss my ass. I’m not guilty, and that’s how I intend to plead.”
“History of violence?”
“The two nights I spent in jail for punching Ricky Holland after I found out about him and Gabby. The fight with Vic. And now this.” He pointed to the Band-Aid.
“I’d hardly call that a history. Are you eligible for bail?”
“Yeah. Judge Baker set my bail at five hundred.”
The muscles in Charis’s neck tightened, and she gave a little cough. “Not five hundred dollars, I’m guessing.”
He shook his head. “Try five hundred thousand.”
Her shoulders slumped. This time he thought she might cry.
“I’ll have to pay a bail bondsman ten percent to get out.”
“Fifty thousand dollars.” Her voice broke on the words.
“I’ll have to sell the doublewide and look for a one bedroom apartment, one that allows pets of course.” He tried to make his words light, as if he was talking about renting a condo, not losing his home. “In the meantime maybe I can crash at Jagger’s.”
“I’m so sorry,” Charis whispered.
“I need you to do something for me, please,” he said.
“Of course I will.”
“Tell Jagger the deed to my place is under the TV, along with my truck title. He can give the papers to Crowley—he’ll make sure I get to sign them. Have Jag ask Rob’s Wrecker and Salvage if they’ll buy my truck for scrap. I’ll take whatever they’ll give me for it.”
He hesitated, dreading what he had to say next. “Then tell him to look in the third drawer of my bedroom dresser, all the way in the back right corner. He’ll find an old Crown Royal drawstring bag. Inside is my granddad’s gold pocket-watch. That watch plus the trailer, the truck, the lawn mower and every other damn thing I own might be enough to cover my bail.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Tell him to sell everything at the house, inside and out. All I need’s my dog.” And you. He added silently, foolish for even thinking it. He’d had nothing to offer her before, even less than nothing now.
If he didn’t get out of this place soon, his insides would turn as hollow as his trailer would shortly be. Either that or he’d end up trapped in a cell with another good ole boy like Jimmy, and be driven to commit an actual murder. Or be murdered.
Charis nodded, her brow creased. “I’ll tell him,” she said quietly.
“Thank you.”
“Kink’s doing good, by the way. Although, I do think she misses you. She follows me everywhere, like she’s afraid she’ll lose me. Oh, and last time Daph was over, she gave her a cookie. Now she begs for one every time we walk through the kitchen.”
Deason smiled, imagining his dog with Charis. “Thanks for taking care of her.”
“Time’s up.” Deputy Evans informed him, stepping up to the stool.
Deason jumped a little, forgetting the deputy was there. For the past fifteen minutes, he and Charis had been the only two people in the world.
“It’s been…wonderful. Seeing you, being able to talk to you.” Deason searched her gaze, hoping she felt the same.
Her blue eyes shimmered, sky turning to ocean. The back of her ring tapped the glass as she pressed her hand to the window, slender fingers splayed, rounded nails peeking over the tips.
He pushed his palm to hers, lining up his rough fingers with her smooth ones, absorbing her warmth through the glass.
“I’ll see you soon,” she said, holding her hand in place as she replaced the receiver.
He could only manage a nod as he hung up. She slid her hand from the glass then rose and walked away. Through the smear of a dozen other handprints, he watched her go.
****
“How’d it go?” Daphne asked, holding Mr. Barnaby’s screen door open for Charis.
Charis dropped into a kitchen chair. “I could barely stand seeing him like that. Would you believe someone stabbed him in the eye with a pencil?”
“Oh my god, is he all right?”
“Yeah, miraculously, he’s fine. Just had a Band-Aid on his eyelid—thank goodness.”
“How’d his arraignment go?”
“Crowley’s his public defender. His bail’s set at five hundred thousand dollars.”
Daphne jumped as if she’d shuffled sock-footed across the carpet and touched the doorknob. “Seriously?”
“I couldn’t believe it either. It’ll take fifty thousand to get him out. He gave me instructions to pass onto Jagger. He wants him to sell off everything he owns, including his truck and lawnmower, in order to make bail.” She didn’t mention the watch, and had no intentions of mentioning it to Jagger, either.
“Maybe I can figure something out. Ma has funeral savings—she’s always convinced she’s dying tomorrow. I’m a signer on the account. I could pull out a couple thousand to help Deason, and then pay it back. She’d never know the difference.”
“I can’t let you do that. Plus, what if something really did happen to Maxine? I’d never forgive myself.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “If something really did happen to Mom then there’d be positively no way she’d find out about my little loan.” She pursed her lips. “Hmmm…it just might work. Do you want to hold her down, or wield the hammer?”
“Daphne!” Charis yelped, smothering an involuntary smile.
“Hush up, you’ll wake Mr. Barnaby,” Daphne scolded.
“After the comment you just made, I think maybe I should check on him,” Charis teased.
Daphne stood, hoisting her bag from the back of the chair, slinging the strap over her shoulder. “Fine. You do that. I can tell when I’m not wanted.” She winked and gave Charis’s arm a squeeze. “Oh, by the way, have you noticed he hasn’t been using his cane? I tried to get him to use it this morning when we walked down the hall to feed the fish, but he refused. Told me it was bent but wouldn’t say why. I looked it over, and he’s right. The metal has a few pings in it too. What the hell happened? Think he fell and didn’t tell anyone?”
“He stopped using it a couple of weeks ago. When I asked about it, he told me he didn’t need it anymore. I’ve been watching him closely, and he really does seem to be getting around better. I thought maybe it was because he stopped depending on the cane.”
Charis walked Daphne to the door, removed the cane from its hook beside the doorframe. She held it out, looked down the shaft. Sure enough, it bowed in the middle. “Something certainly happened.” She rubbed her finger over the sharp indentions in the aluminum. “He hasn’t had any bumps or bruises. As fragile as he is, I’m sure there’d be visible signs of a fall.”
Daphne shrugged. “Maybe he beat the crap out of someone. Heard from Wendell lately?”
Charis chuckled at her friend’s implication.
“Love you girl. I’ll have Jagger give you a call.” Daphne stepped through the door and onto the porch.
<
br /> “I’d appreciate that. And thanks for watching Mr. B for me.”
“No sweat,” she called over her shoulder as she jostled down the front steps.
Chapter Seven
Charis leaned forward between the Trans Am’s bucket seats. “Thanks for letting me tag along, Jagger. I want to help out however I can.”
“It’s no skin off my nose, long as you ain’t got a problem with rock and roll. I plan on gettin’ some use out of Deason’s stereo before we sell it off.”
“Not a problem for me. I like rock music,” she said, settling back.
“You might have a problem with me if you don’t have some Stevie Ray Vaughan in your collection, Jag,” Daphne said from the passenger seat, thumbing through Jagger’s console. “Aha! It’s your lucky day.” She pulled out a disk with Can’t Stand the Weather scrawled across the front in permanent marker.
“Shame Rob’s Wrecker can’t let Deason’s pickup go for parts. Sheriff told Rob they were holdin’ it as evidence in a murder case. I don’t see how Vic could mess up Deason’s truck and be dead all at the same time, but I’m no deputy. From what Rob said, not a soul’s been by to look at it, just been sitting there, takin’ up space on his lot since Thursday mornin’. Whole Sheriff’s department’s a bunch a Barney Fifes.”
Helplessness poured into Charis’s soul like wet cement. “What if we can’t collect enough money?”
“We’ll think of somethin’.” Jagger gave her a weary glance in the rearview. “I feel guilty as sin about the whole thing. If I would’ve been there that day he kicked the crap outa Vic instead of home throwin’ my guts up, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so far outa hand. The two of us together, maybe we could’ve intimidated him some. Talked him down.”
“I was there, remember? Believe me, there was no talking Vic down.”
“Give me a break, Jagger. I’m the one who stuffed the infamous DVD player box down in Mr. B’s garbage bin. Should I feel guilty about that? Hell no. I had nothing to do with what happened. Only two losers are to blame. The one that’s dead and the one that killed him. I don’t want to hear anymore bellyaching about you feeling guilty. Understand?” Daphne leaned over and clamped a hand onto his thigh.
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