She greeted them, grabbed a gunnysack from the pile on the ground and secured it under her belt. At the tree where her mother worked, Kasey climbed to the first elbow, straddled it, and began to pick the fruit within reach.
“It’s gonna reach about a hundred today,” her mother said. “It feels like it’s there already. George and I have been out here since seven.”
“What will you do with this batch?” Kasey asked her. Inside, the refrigerator and fruit bowls were filled with peaches. All the neighbors had been visited at least twice; and George, Sherry, Artie, and Kasey had made the rounds of friends and acquaintances.
“Jam. I’ve exhausted every other avenue. Yesterday when I took another lug to Janet Mendosa, she refused to answer the bell. She was inside; I saw her peeking out behind the blinds.”
“Ma, why do you keep the orchard if you have no outlet for the product? It was different when you sold to the markets.”
“Kasey, I will not cut down one, single, precious tree. Your grandmother and her mother before her tended this orchard and they found plenty of folks thrilled to get the fruit. Why, there’s no fruit sweeter than ours. Lord knows those hard, wood-tasting things in the stores today can’t hold a candle to the real thing. Picked ages ago. Never allowed to tree-ripen like these.”
It was useless to argue. Her mother was like a whirlwind, always on the go, spinning this way and that. More important than finding an outlet for the hundreds of pounds of peaches, apples, grape jelly, sunflower seeds, and pinion nuts that ended up in the crowded cellar every year, it was her mother who needed an outlet for her excess energy.
“I was thinking that maybe next year we’d get a booth at that open-air farmer’s market in Sparks. It’s too late this year.” She paused before solemnly adding, “I hope it won’t be too late next year.”
Kasey knew she meant their financial problems and the possibility of losing the house.
“We won’t lose the house, Ma, I promise you.” If Kasey had to take a second job, she would.
They picked peaches in silence, each into her own thoughts.
“Oh, Kasey, someone’s coming out to look at Artie’s room today,” Marianne said. “He called early this morning.”
“Yeah? Male or female?”
“Male. Retired. Young, helpful fellas like Artie don’t come along every day, so I take what I can get. I just hope this one’s not looking for a nursemaid like that poor wretch, Mr. Houseman. Not only was I a caregiver to him for two years, I had to bury him when his time came.”
“No other calls?”
“Calls, but no takers. Too far out of town for most. Mr. Flynn—Irish name, isn’t it? Do you think he drinks? I mean heavy drinking?”
Kasey shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“They don’t always tell the truth. They’ll say whatever they think you want to hear. Oh, well, what’s important is that we all get along.” Marianne chuckled. “Remember that heavyset woman—now what was her name?—the one who walked in her sleep?”
“You mean the one who raided the kitchen every night?”
“She had a sleep disorder.”
“What she had was an eating disorder and a good flashlight,” Kasey said. “Ma, you’re too gullible.”
“I know. Look, can you hang around until this man comes today? You’re such a good judge of character. It’s so much easier to take them in than it is to get them out.”
A good judge of character. True. Except where the men in her personal life were concerned.
She told her mother she would be staying at the club for a while, then packed a bag to take back with her. The rest of the day was spent helping around the house, orchard, garden, and bees. She worked hard, hoping to keep her mind off Jay and the club.
At three, an elderly man in a pale-green ‘49 Hudson pulled into the yard. Kasey and Marianne showed Mr. Flynn through the house, which he took an instant liking to. Before the tour was completed, Kasey had to leave. She blew her mother a kiss and promised to call her as soon as she arrived at the club.
*
Later that afternoon, the Monk made his call. He listened to the ringing; and on the seventh ring, someone finally picked up. The woman sounded breathless.
“Mrs. Atwood, please?”
“I’m Marianne Atwood,” she said.
He introduced himself as Thomas Andrews. “I work at King’s Club. I was told you had a room for let in your home. Is that correct?”
“Well, not exactly, Mr. Andrews. Just this afternoon someone was out to look at it. He seemed very interested.”
“I see. Kasey made it sound so appealing. Just what I was looking for.”
“My daughter told you about the room? You know Kasey?”
“Yes, ma’am. She indicated you were very careful, most selective, if you will, about whom you rented to. But if the room has already been taken.”
“May I ask how old you are, Mr. Andrews?”
“Forty-one. I’m healthy, have a strong back, and I’m good with my hands.” He lifted his hand, made a fist, and jabbed at the air. “And I don’t drink or smoke.”
The Monk knew the silence on the line boded well for him.
Then, “If Kasey told—Mr. Andrews, if you’d like to see the room, I think it can be arranged. I can’t promise anything, but…”
*
The Monk stood in the kitchen of the ranch house waiting impatiently for the Atwood woman to finish bullshitting with the old fart in the living room who had wanted her opinion on some out-of-date black-and-white pictures.
Thirty minutes earlier, the landlady, all smiles, had greeted him at the front door. Of course he had put on the charm—but not too much charm; he didn’t want her to think he was too smooth or too slick—although, after only a couple minutes, he sensed this woman was about as gullible as they came.
She had taken him through the two-story house, rattling off all the house rules and regulations: No loud TV or music, no musical instruments, no booze, no smokes, no drugs, no handguns, no cooties, no nothing. Cons had more rights, he thought.
She had sent him into the kitchen with instructions to help himself to a cool one in the fridge while she helped the old guy. He was certain the “cool one” didn’t mean a brew. As he poured ice water into a tumbler he looked out the window above the sink into the rear yard. That’s when he spotted the young woman with the strawberry-blonde hair.
Something deep inside him stirred.
In the shade of an elm tree, she trimmed the hair of a young male in his late twenties. He sat on a piano stool. She swiveled him this way and that, snipping, singing, and blowing away sheared hair from the back of his neck. The boy-man seemed to like the attention; he smiled, rubbed his knees with the palms of his hands. But he acted strange—retarded.
The Monk instantly dismissed him and focused on her. Jimmy Sue. She looked just like Jimmy Sue, the only woman he had ever loved or wanted to marry. Sweet, innocent Jimmy Sue, who had given him his first dose. Seeing the pretty little thing in bare feet, her face scrubbed of makeup, her hair pulled up into a ponytail, brought back bittersweet memories of Jimmy Sue.
“A water man. Well, good for you,” the landlady said, entering the room. “People just don’t drink enough water these days. It’s cola this and soda that. And the stuff they call purified water, don’t you believe it. That water you’re drinking comes from an artesian well we have right here on the property. Doesn’t come purer.”
“That’s reason enough for any health-conscious person like myself to want to let a room in this fine house, Mrs. Atwood,” he said with an admiring eye on the young woman in the yard.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Monk, clutching his carry-on luggage, a gray nylon satchel, hailed a waiting cab at the curb of LAX. Once clear of the airport, the Sunday traffic was light. On the twenty-minute drive to the Rosemount Sanatorium, after silencing the cabby with a stony glare, he sat back to anticipate his long-overdue reunion with his stepmother, Lillie.
Repeatedly breaking into his thoughts was an image of the young woman with the strawberry-blonde hair he had seen at the Atwood house the day before. At first glance, he had felt something he hadn’t felt in years and had been convinced he would never feel again. Feelings like that disturbed him. To feel was to lose control. It disrupted his life, made him lose sight of what was important. He wasn’t looking for a relationship. Hell, no. There were two kinds of women, the kind you married and the kind you didn’t. That little woman, with her scrubbed face and her bib-overalls, singing as she worked, was the kind you married.
“We’re here,” the cabby said. “Hey, buddy, Rosemount.”
The Monk shook his head hard to clear it. He exited the cab, paid the driver; then, standing on the cracked sidewalk on the quiet, tree-lined street, he took a moment to take in his surroundings. The Los Angeles sky was just as he remembered it, a multitude of muted colors, none of which were blue. The hospital looked the same, only older, more rundown. The spiky fronds of yucca and palms now overtook the walkway. His last visit had been three years ago.
The Monk checked in at the desk on the main floor. A moment later, a nurse he remembered from other visits appeared. Her greeting was somber.
“I didn’t think you would make it,” she said. “You said early afternoon.”
“I live out of state now. It’s not easy—commuting. I had some business in Nevada that took a little longer than I expected. I missed the first flight and had to catch a later one.”
“I see.” She cleared her throat. “I tried to reach you.”
“Oh?”
“About your stepmother—”
“Is Lillie all right? When I spoke to you yesterday, you said she was doing fine.”
“Well, she was. But when I informed her of your visit, she became quite agitated.”
“Agitated?”
“Excited.”
“Which is it?”
“Well, I can’t be sure, since she isn’t able to communicate. Either way, I’m not sure she’s up to—”
“I came five hundred miles to see her. And I know she wants to see me. After all, I am family, the only family she has. Now, would you deprive the poor woman what little pleasure might come her way these days?”
The nurse shifted uncomfortably. Finally, she nodded curtly and said, “All right. But I don’t want you to overdo it. Keep the visit short, and please don’t say anything that might upset her. Remember, she’s very frail.”
“Of course.”
“She’s in her room. The blue wing.” She turned to leave.
“Oh, nurse, it’s such a nice day, may I take her outdoors?”
A smile touched her lips. “I think that would be all right. For a few minutes, anyway. Make sure the sun isn’t too much for her. Call for an orderly. He’ll settle her into a chair.”
He nodded.
He needed no help. He would tend to dear, sweet Lillie himself.
The Monk followed the blue strip on the floor to the west wing. He took his time reaching his stepmother’s room. He had made certain she knew he was coming. She had had all night to reflect upon it, and he wanted to prolong her anticipation—or should he say apprehension?
But then it was impossible to know what Lillie was thinking these days. She no longer shared anything with anyone. Not since that terrible night when she went from a heartless, teasing sexpot to a pathetic, mute quadriplegic.
Twenty-two years ago, less than a week after his father was shot and killed by a street punk, an intruder forcibly broke into their house and brutally beat her with a bat as she slept in her bed. There were no suspects, no arrests. Naturally he was questioned, then released after supplying a solid alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the crime.
If the Monk lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the feeling of power, of sheer ecstasy, wielding the bat that night had given him.
He reached her room and stood outside. Unable to stall any longer, he pushed open the door to his stepmother’s room and entered. Three of the four beds in the room were unoccupied. The bed by the window held a small, twisted lump.
He moved across the room slowly, each step sounding on the brittle linoleum. She watched him advance, her eyes open wide, staring; her lips moved, yet no sound issued from them.
“Hello, Lillie. It’s been awhile. You look lovely, as always. A little thinner, maybe. You’re not dieting, are you? I know how much your figure means to you, how hard you always worked to keep it in shape. Tell me you’re not dieting.”
Her eyes darted back and forth.
“Good. You’re just perfect, so let it be.” He let the satchel drop from his shoulder. “I have a surprise for you. I know you’re going to like it.” He pulled the zipper an inch, then stopped when he heard a toilet flush behind the closed door of the bathroom.
A moment later, an elderly woman came out. She was wearing a large pair of men’s pjs. The cuffs dragged on the floor, and her hands had disappeared into the end of the sleeves. She stared hard at him, but said nothing as she climbed into the bed across the room.
He turned back to Lillie. “On second thought, I’ll save the surprise for later, when we’re outside.”
Lillie’s lips moved faster.
He fetched a wheelchair from the corner. He pulled the bedding away from Lillie’s emaciated body, then placed her in the wheelchair, using a pillow to prop her. He took a blanket from the bed and tucked it around her.
“Here we go,” he said, pushing her from the room.
Moments later, they were on the hospital grounds, strolling down a path that gradually became swallowed by overgrown shrubs and bushes, into a copse of mature eucalyptus. The Monk found a secluded spot on a knoll beyond the trees, far from the hospital and prying eyes.
He parked the wheelchair facing west. The midafternoon sun, though filtered through layers of smog, was still bright enough to be uncomfortable, especially to the sensitive eyes of someone not accustomed to being outdoors.
Lillie blinked, lowered her lids, tried in vain to avert her face.
“Hope the sun isn’t too bright for you?” he said, unzipping the satchel. “I need the light. This won’t take long. We’re gonna have fun.”
She looked down at the satchel.
“Remember how you loved to make yourself up? The way you’d get all gussied up on the weekend.” He took one item after another out of the satchel. He saw Lillie straining to see, a muscle in her jaw twitching spastically. “You’ve missed that, haven’t you, Lillie? Missed the pretty colors, the nice smells, the tight clothes. Missed all that flesh hanging out there for everyone to see. Above all, you missed the attention.”
He worked quickly. Time was running out. He didn’t want to be interrupted before he had finished what he had come to do. Although he had never done anything like this before, he had no trouble with it. Perfection was not a criteria. A little eyeshadow, rouge, lipstick. Lillie jerked her head when he was applying the lipstick. It smeared across her chin. He left it there.
“You had a great body. And you liked to flaunt it. Yeah. Liked to give the kid a little thrill, didn’t you? A quick flash here and there. Look, but don’t touch.”
He yanked her plain cotton gown off her shoulders and pulled it down low to expose a pale, bony chest with a hint of cleavage. He hiked the hem of the gown up above her knees. Her legs were flesh-padded bones, twisted to one side, the muscles shriveled and wooden-like.
“Almost done,” he said, and pulled a brassy blond wig from the bag. He slipped it on her head, adjusting it with a tug here and there.
Standing back, he examined his handiwork. “Perfect. Lillie, you look like your old self. Who says you can’t get it back?”
He reached into the bag again and brought out a Polaroid camera. “I was going to bring a mirror, but then I thought, hell no, a picture.” He began to snap. “Pictures are forever.”
Click. The camera whirred. “Remember the time you posed for Dad and he took all those Polaroi
ds? They’re all faded and brittle now. Time for a new set.”
Click.
He shifted her around, posed her.
Click.
When he was finished, he removed the wig, washed her face with a packaged towelette, and adjusted her clothes. He took out his wallet and removed a picture from a plastic envelope. He turned her wheelchair until her back was to the sun. Once her eyes had become accustomed to the dimmer light, he showed her a picture of herself before the attack—a twenty-five-year-old in a string bikini.
She looked at it, looked away, her expression pained.
“Remember that one? The ol’ man used to carry it around in his wallet, flashing it to all the guys at the precinct, bragging about the fox he’d married.” He looked at the new Polaroids, then held them up for her to see. “What’d’ya suppose they’d think now?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. He pried them open. “Now, Lillie, I want you to look at these. I went to a lot of trouble, so you look.”
After she had looked at the each photo, he dropped them in the bag, zipped it up, tossed it over his shoulder, covered her with the blanket, and began to push the wheelchair back the way they had come.
“Oh, by the way, I’m thinking of moving back to LA. That way I could visit more often. Would you like that?” he asked, squeezing her shoulder. “Only one problem. I’m running out of surprises for you. Shit, I’ll have to think really hard to top this one.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Over the weekend, Kasey and Brad worked undercover. They alternated sitting at the monitors and making rounds through the club in the capacity of host. Whenever they were together, true to his word. Brad laid on the charm, refusing to give up.
Kasey, Brad, and half the plainclothes surveillance team monitored Thomas Andrews. There wasn’t a second that someone didn’t have him in sight, even in the men’s room. The subject went about his duties without as much as a slight infraction—just as someone who suspected he was being watched would do, Kasey told herself
Mortal Crimes 2 Page 119