by A.W. Hartoin
Chapter Ten
ON THE WAY back to my parents’ house, I stopped at a mini-mart. It was in a bad neighborhood and I took perverse pleasure in going against Dad’s advice. He’d warned me about the area. He was forever warning me about something or the other. Sometimes I listened, mostly I didn’t. I bought the Post-Dispatch and a bottle of water, resisting the call of the candy bar rack. The way I’d been eating, I’d be more than squishy if I didn’t watch it.
At home the lights were out except for the ones that turned on when they sensed motion and Aunt Tenne remembered to set the alarm. I was late and going to hear about it. I coded myself in, unlocked the door, recoded, relocked and walked into the kitchen. Aunt Tenne had left a terse note on top of Millicent and Myrtle’s casserole dishes saying I needed to return them. Dixie was asleep and Uncle Morty called for me four times. She underlined the Uncle Morty part. I took it to mean he wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t worried. Morty being happy was as rare as snow in April. It happens, but you can’t count on it.
I spread the paper out on the table and breathed in the ink. I could’ve read about Rebecca Sample’s murder on my iPad, but it just wasn’t the same, less real somehow. On paper, Rebecca wasn’t virtual. She wasn’t to be confused with entertainment. I read with my stomach in a hot knot. She was twisted up with Gavin now and her death covered the front page. As expected, it was full of lurid details the public shouldn’t have and didn’t need. I, on the other hand, did need them. I broke out a notepad and wrote out the details in bullet format. Rebecca Sample, age twenty-five, was married at two P.M. on Saturday. The body was found during the reception in the crying room at six-thirty P.M. by the groom. The groom started looking for her a half hour earlier. No witnesses. No break-in. Nothing heard or seen. Victim was stalked previously, but situation resolved itself. No suspects. Candlelight vigil to be held on Wednesday.
The article went on to discuss Sample’s life in general with plenty of quotes from co-workers and friends. I scanned without really reading until my eyes latched on to the words “University of Nebraska at Lincoln.”
Holy shit. Aunt Tenne was right.
Sample graduated from the university three years before with a degree in marketing and was recruited by a local firm. I wrote down Sample’s graduation date and the firm name. I twirled the end of my pen in my mouth, listening to the clink of it against my teeth. It could’ve been a coincidence. Dad used to come home and have a stiff drink after chasing his tail all day. He’d say, “I can’t believe it’s just a coincidence. I can’t believe it.” That kind of thing happened more than you’d think. Dad went through a period when Mom thought he might develop an alcohol problem. Dad said it was amazing the amount of connections people had when on the surface they appeared to have no common variables at all.
So Gavin was in Lincoln right before he died and happened to call a church where a bride who graduated from Lincoln was about to be murdered. So what? Weird things happen. Of course there was the missing S file and that made it harder to dismiss. In spite of myself I wanted to hear what Chuck thought. Maybe he’d run across the same connections I had. If he wasn’t such a sleaze, I would’ve called him. I knew where that would get me. We’d insult each other. He’d make a comment and I’d have to shower it off. Then he’d take my information and use it with no quid pro quo. Pass on the Chuck experience.
I called Uncle Morty instead, expecting little better, but at least there wouldn’t be any sleaze.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said.
Uncle Morty grunted a response, so it was going better than expected. He might’ve gone straight to curses.
“Sorry about yesterday.”
Grunt.
“I took a ton of pics. You want to see them?”
Double grunt.
“I talked to Mom. Dad’s sick as a dog, but they’re coming back ASAP.”
Grunt.
“So…I could use a little help.”
Silence
“I need some background on Rebecca Sample, the bride that got murdered. I need some addresses, friends, family. Maybe check out her credit cards. See if she’s been to Lincoln recently. I think there’s a connection between her and Gavin. You know the drill. So…can you do that?”
“You Fiked me,” Uncle Morty said.
Michael Fike was my dad’s first partner. He couldn’t stand Dad and ditched him whenever he had the chance. Dad got ditched so much the squad started calling it getting Fiked.
“Um, well, that’s one way to look at it,” I said.
“Give me another,” he said.
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“Say you’re sorry for Fiking me.”
“I didn’t Fike you,” I said and a voice behind me said, “Who got Fiked?”
I screeched and fell out of my chair. Aaron stood in the kitchen doorway eating a Twinkie and wearing a hairnet.
“What are you doing here?” I said, picking myself off the floor with as much dignity as I could muster.
Aaron looked at his Twinkie and then at me. “Eating.”
I smacked my forehead and said to Morty, “Aaron’s here.”
“Yep.”
“You sent him?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks a million,” I said.
“The least I could do. Now what do you say?” Uncle Morty’s tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He was actually mad.
“I’m sorry I Fiked you.”
“You sound real sincere.”
“Yeah, it was such a terrible thing.”
“You left me with a bunch of old broads.” Uncle Morty slammed something and let out a string of curse words.
“You seem to have survived intact,” I said.
“Just barely.”
“What’d they do, force-feed you Metamucil and file your bunions?”
“Shut up,” he said.
“So about Rebecca Sample?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll email the stuff to Tommy’s address.”
“Thanks.”
Uncle Morty grunted and hung up. I supposed my weak sorry hadn’t quite made up for a drunken afternoon with The Girls.
Aaron got another Twinkie out of the freezer and sat down across from me. He’d brought supplies. That could only mean he’d been instructed to stay a while.
“Did you bring extra drawers?” I asked.
“Huh?” Aaron looked confused and I thanked the heavens. If he didn’t have a change of underwear, I could Fike him sooner rather than later.
“Who’d you Fike?” he asked.
“Uncle Morty.”
Aaron snorted into his Twinkie and I saw a wheel, just one, turning behind his eyes. It was a rare sight and I was transfixed for a moment. He was probably thinking of ways to torment Morty at their next Dungeon and Dragons meeting. Morty was their Dungeon Master and Aaron thought Morty was giving his magical troll (or whatever he was) a bad shake in the game. Aaron thought revenge was in order. I thought the chances of him making Morty feel stupid were slim.
“I’m going to bed,” I said.
Aaron didn’t answer. He continued to chew placidly as a cow and blinked as if blinking required concentration.
“So I’ll see you later.”
More blinking.
“Night,” I said.
“Night, night, sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” said Aaron, his mouth full of Twinkie.
I went upstairs and paused briefly to listen for Aaron leaving. He didn’t, but I imagined I could hear him chewing all the way to the third floor.
The third floor was my domain. It consisted of four large square rooms all interconnected by a series of arched doors and a walk-in closet in the center of the four. I never moved out of the nursery. That’s what my mother called it, the nursery. When I went to college, she threatened to move out my stuff, but she wouldn’t, if only to avoid carrying my junk down three long flights of stairs.
I went into my room. My main room, I should say. It wa
s the one the stairs led up to. My queen-sized white wicker bed dominated with a matching desk and wall unit. My high school memorabilia was still in evidence as were the mountains of teenager clothing I’d left in the closet. The other rooms were filled with toys, four sets of bunk beds for my slumber parties and books, lots of books.
I went into the closet and rummaged around to find a tattered football jersey. I stripped and pulled it over my head. I sniffed the sleeve and felt a longing in the pit of my stomach. The boy smell. It was amazing how his scent lingered in the fabric after years of wear and washing. David was still in there and still in me, it would seem.
I cranked up the air-conditioning to obscene levels and got into bed pulling the covers up to my chin. Thoughts of Dixie, downstairs in The Oasis, crept into my head. I wondered if she was awake or if she was dreaming of her Gavin, gone as David was to me. I couldn’t imagine her loss, but I’d had a hint. A mist of tears filled my eyes when I thought about her down there, alone. I fell asleep, crying for Dixie and David or maybe it was for me.