A Teeny Bit of Trouble

by Michael Lee West

  I cranked the truck, ready to back out. Then Dot climbed out of the car, the sun glinting on her cockatoo hair. Gold crucifix earrings dangled from her lobes. Her left arm was in a sling.

  “Teeny, why are you sitting in that hot truck?” she called.

  I was so relieved to see her, I scrambled out of the truck. Sir hopped out after me.

  “I’ve been calling and calling,” she said. “Someone named Asia keeps answering.”

  “He’s a friend.” We walked toward the house. “What happened to your arm?”

  “A rapist broke in my house last night,” she said. “He crawled in through a window.”

  The hairs on my arms lifted. “Did he…?”

  “No, no. I kicked him in the balls. He had a tiny male part, but awesome upper body strength. He just about broke my arm. Then he let Mama’s budgies loose just for pure meanness. I’ll never catch them. I was already upset over this organ stealing ring. Have you heard about it?” She rolled her eyes. “I hate to drink in the daytime, but I need something real strong.”

  “I’ve got gin and tonic.”

  “Perfect. Tonic water fights malaria and limes prevent scurvy.”

  We went inside. While I made her a drink, she rehashed the attack. “I didn’t see his face. But I just know it was Dr. Philpot.”

  I squeezed the lime a tad hard, and juice squirted into the air. “How?”

  “Cause he said, ‘Open your legth.’”

  “What made him attack you?”

  “I egged him on a little,” Dot said. “I was in the drugstore yesterday and Norris ogled me. Asked me for a date. I told him to kiss my asth. Normally I don’t smart off to people, especially to alleged rapists. But he was so obnoxious, I couldn’t help myself.”

  From the driveway, a car door slammed. Dot jumped. “It’s him,” she whispered. “I just know it.”

  I grabbed a rolling pin just as Asia walked into the kitchen. He set down a sack from Salad Days. “Hey, Teeny, you’re back,” he said. He looked at the pin, but didn’t comment.

  Dot gave him a dreamy smile. Asia ignored her and lifted two cartons from the bag. “You ladies hungry? I just bought some blueberry chicken salad. It’s better with sautéed walnuts.”

  “Love some,” Dot said.

  He dumped walnut halves in a hot iron skillet, added a pat of butter and olive oil, then turned up the heat.

  Dot gave him the once-over. “Are you a chef?”

  “Microbiologist.” He shook the frying pan, toasting the nuts on all sides until a smoky aroma filled the room. He piled the chicken salad into a romaine nest, then added a sprinkle of walnuts and a small cluster of green grapes.

  Dot’s face brightened when he slid the plate in front of her. “Praise the Lord for blueberry chicken salad,” she said. “It’s filled with protein, complex carbohydrates, and antioxidants.”

  Asia grabbed a basket and opened the back door. “I’ll be in the orchard, getting me some peaches. You ladies be good.”

  “It’s too much fun being bad.” Dot blew him a kiss. “The badder the better.”

  After Dot finished her salad, we moved to the parlor. I paused by the hi-fi and put on a stack of records. While Elvis belted out “Love Me Tender,” I curled up on the sofa next to Dot.

  “This is just like old times,” she said. “Me and you and Rayette used to sit in here and talk about sex, Jesus, and food. Whatever happened to old Rayette?”

  “She married an electrician and they moved to Alabama,” I said.

  Dot propped her hurt arm on a pillow. “I hope the police catch Norris-the-rapist. Because I’m starting to wonder if he killed Lester’s girlfriend. Maybe Norris tried to rape her, too. I bet he got her drunk. Maybe she escaped. Then she wrecked her car. Norris might have found out she was in the hospital. He could’ve sneaked into her room and killed her.”

  I’d been thinking along the same lines. “But he used to be on the medical staff. Wouldn’t someone have seen him?”

  “We have a lot of new employees. Norris could have worn sunglasses and a hat. He could pass for a visitor. All he had to do was inject a fatal dose of potassium into her IV. Insulin would work, too.”

  “Aren’t those drugs traceable?”

  “Yes. But she was cremated. Now the news is saying someone put kitty litter in her urn. And her poor little body was cut to pieces.” Dot shook her head. “If murder can happen in Bonaventure Regional, no place is safe.”

  “After a hospital patient dies, what happens to the body?” I asked.

  “Our morgue caught on fire three months ago. It’s being remodeled. The deceased are transported to a holding room next to the ER. Then a funeral home picks up the body.”

  “So where are autopsies done?

  “At the funeral home.”

  “Could the coroner be involved in this organ stealing ring?”

  “I doubt it. Mr. Winky and that Russian boy were probably behind it.”

  “What about Josh?”

  “Oh, honey. I don’t think so. He trusted Winky. Josh didn’t trouble himself with the day-to-day stuff. He just planned funerals.” Dot shifted toward me. “I bet Winky was doing this on the side. And he hired Norris-the-rapist to remove corneas. I bet that lispy-lipped, murdering miscreant planned to cut me up into itty pieces. Then again, Son Finnegan is a board-certified plastic surgeon.”

  “But Son moved to Bonaventure a few months ago. He hasn’t had time to hook up with a chop shop.”

  “Unless they recruited him,” she said.

  “Would harvesters do that?” I frowned.

  “Well, it makes sense. Hospitals recruit doctors all the time. Son did skin grafts at the base hospital in Germany. He was in contact with tissue banks. Maybe he returned to Bonaventure to set up a chop shop.”

  “What if he didn’t? What if another surgeon is harvesting the organs?”

  “Remember, crime is in Son’s blood. His dad was a felon. His brothers are in and out of prison.”

  “Son grew up poor, but he’s never broken the law,” I said.

  “That you know of.” She took off her earrings and set them on the coffee table. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Norris-the-rapist and Son-of-Cissy are involved in this harvesting ring. Son has lost several young, healthy patients. He spends his money on expensive toys. He’s got a Jaguar, a ski boat, and a ten thousand-square-foot house on the lake. And, he’s bought everything in the last three months.”

  “Plastic surgeons make lots of money.” I shrugged.

  “Yeah, they make a killing. But even if Son’s not desecrating bodies, he’s a dirt bag. And you, huggy bear, aren’t the best judge of men.”

  “The Bible says not to judge.”

  “I don’t think He meant men. Otherwise, how’s a girl supposed to winnow out the Judases from the players?” Dot waved her uninjured hand. “Let’s don’t talk about scary things. Remember that time we got into mama’s cooking sherry and we let her budgies loose?”

  “They perched on the curtains,” I said. “Doody was everywhere.”

  “Remember how one budgie sat on the ceiling fan?” Dot twirled her good finger. “Nothing but a tiny blue dot going around and around. What dumbass named those birds? A budgie sounds like a bulge in a man’s Speedos. Remember the lifeguard at City Pool? He had a bulge. I used to tease him. I’d say, ‘That’s a mighty big budgie you got there. Or is it a cockatoo?’ Get it? One cock or two?”

  It didn’t take much to convince Dot to stay for supper. Zee made crab cakes and hushpuppies, Asia fixed a peach-and-watermelon salsa, red rice, sautéed spinach, and skillet corn bread. We applauded when he served dessert: poached peaches, wrapped in a puff pastry crust.

  After our dirty plates had been collected, Dot reached for her purse. “I dread going home. I’m such a pussy.”

  “What you scared of?” Zee asked.

  Dot gave Zee the short version of Norris’s attack, ending with the budgie fiasco. Zee’s eyes changed colors, like brown sugar coming to a
boil.

  A pulse flickered in Dot’s neck. “I’d like to shove a rattlesnake into Norris’s sigmoid colon. I’d sew his rectum shut.”

  “I’ll help,” Zee said.

  “You ladies need to relax,” Asia said. “Karma will stomp him into the dirt.”

  Dot rubbed her sling. “What if he comes back tonight and finishes me off? I can’t fight him off this time. Not with my hurt arm. I’d be safer at a motel.”

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “Stay here.”

  I put her in my old room. Then Sir and I walked across the hall and climbed onto Mama’s bed. Noise drifted up from the parlor. Asia and Zee were watching Repo Men on HBO.

  I wanted to call Coop, but I pushed my face into the pillow and forced myself to concoct a new recipe. Quit-Jumping-to-Conclusions Barbecue Rub would be fabulous on a pork roast. Blend ½ cup brown sugar, ¼ cup paprika, 2 teaspoons chili powder, 1¼ tablespoons dry English mustard, 1½ tablespoons sea salt, 3 tablespoons freshly ground pepper, and ½ tablespoon onion salt. Garlic is optional. Mix ingredients and pat onto the roast. This recipe will coat your hands, too, and you’ll be unable to call your boyfriend.

  I pushed down the image of the glistening roast. Then I lifted Mama’s princess phone and called Red. He picked up on the first ring.

  “You still mad at me?” he asked.

  “This isn’t a social call. Dot Agnew got attacked by Norris. She’s spending the night with me.”

  “That good-looking dame? How many people are staying at your house? Sheesh, you ought to charge rent, girlie.”

  “Will you let Coop know about the attack?”

  “Sure.” He hesitated. “Hey, listen. It’s not on the news yet, but Josh Eikenberry is missing. And, the GBI found the chop shop. A barn on the county line. Outside it had peeling red paint and a rusty roof. Inside, a state-of-the-art surgical suite.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Barb Philpot. She bought it six years ago.”

  The air filled with black globs and I thought I might faint.

  “The Charleston police talked to a new witness,” Red was saying. “A woman fitting Barb’s description was arguing with a skinny man. Blond hair. Tall.”

  Keep yourself together, Teeny. I swallowed, and my throat clicked. “Son Finnegan isn’t skinny. So you need to keep looking. Lots of men fit that description.”

  “And you need to watch yourself.” Red paused. “This particular guy is a killer.”

  thirty

  Tuesday morning sunlight blasted into my room. I put on a black J’adore t-shirt and tucked the necklace inside. Then I slipped into a blueberry-and-chocolate taffeta skirt. It had a built-in crinoline petticoat that made the skirt fan out like a bell around my ankles. The pockets were good and deep, too, perfect for tucking away candy, peaches, and my inhalers.

  I tiptoed past Dot’s room and crept down to the kitchen. I’d just finished making cheese grits when she walked in. “I had the most wonderful dream,” she said. “Leonardo DiCaprio kissed me. Do you think he’d do that in real life?”

  “Why not?” I smiled.

  “Maybe he’d like me better if I got breast implants.” She stared at her sunken-in chest.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You look like a Vogue model.”

  “Speaking of fashion, I love your outfit.” She bent closer. “But you’ve got a tumor on your chest. It’s poking through your shirt.”

  I lifted the necklace and held out the ring.

  Dot’s eyes blinked open wide. “That’s the biggest diamond I ever saw.”

  “Too big.”

  She cupped her hand against my cheek. “Coop doesn’t fit your life. But Son Finnegan does. I hope he’s not a murderer. If he’s not, you should go after him. Me and you and DiCaprio can double-date.”

  I turned back to the stove. “Have some coffee and grits.”

  “Smells wonderful, but I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to feed my budgies and face my fears.”

  After she left, Zee wandered into the room, wearing a long Garfield the Cat nightshirt. “I don’t want to worry you,” she said. “But Asia saw a man creeping around your house around three a.m. We chased him, but he got away.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall. Long blond hair.”

  My stomach pitched. Son Finnegan had been snooping?

  The phone trilled. Zee answered, and her brow tightened. She lowered the receiver. “It’s some old lady named Miss Emma.”

  I took the receiver. “Hi, this is Teeny.”

  “Child, I’ve been trying to reach you,” Miss Emma said. “I called Irene’s and a man told me to call your farm. He was very rude.”

  “What’s going on, Miss Emma?”

  “I wrote something on my wall,” she said. “And you need to see it.”

  * * *

  Miss Emma stood on her porch, a black beret perched jauntily on her head. She led me into the sunroom. In the center of the wall, she’d painted a giant spider. Above the insect, she’d written two names, Barb and Uma.

  I stepped closer to the wall, my taffeta skirt rustling. The spider was the size and color of a coconut, but with legs. “Who’s Uma?”

  “It was just on the tip of my forked tongue,” Miss Emma said.

  The nurse walked into the room, holding a tray. “Uma Cox,” the nurse said. “She’s a tarantula breeder. She lives across the street from the Philpots. A few months ago, Uma and Barb had a falling out.”

  “Over what?” I asked.

  “Landscaping,” the nurse said. “Barb was into flowers, and Miss Uma likes the scorched earth policy. You can’t miss her house. It’s the only one in town without grass.”

  I drove straight to Musgrove Square. Two police cars were parked in front of the Philpots’ house. Had they come to arrest Norris for attempted rape? I squinted, hoping to catch a glimpse of Emerson, but all of the windows were shuttered.

  My truck backfired, and I parked in front of Miss Uma’s house, which was made out of brown stucco and sat in a patch of dirt. The yard was littered with holes, as if a giant hand had descended, yanking out the shrubbery and trees. I rang the doorbell, and an elderly woman let me in. She was dressed head-to-foot in white: shoes, socks, pants, blouse. Even her walker had been painted white. I couldn’t help but smile a real smile, because this woman fit my image of the perfect grandmother. She had a hump on her back, as if someone had dropped a cantaloupe down the back of her blouse. Her thick eyeglasses magnified watery blue eyes.

  “Are you Uma Cox?” I asked.

  “Why, yes,” she said. “Are you here to buy a tarantula?”

  “No, ma’am. I just have a few questions.”

  “I’m always happy to discuss arachnoids.” She smiled, and her face dissolved into deep furrows, the skin red and puckered like a baked apple. “Prospective tarantula owners rarely come to visit,” she added. “Mainly I deal with pet stores. But I can give you a discount.”

  I stepped into a warm, dark hallway. A green smell rushed up my nose, making me think of forests and wet stones. In the distance, I heard crickets.

  “This way, dear.” Her walker scooted over the floor. I followed her into a large, gloomy parlor. White sheets covered the furniture. The windows were covered with mossy, polka-dotted draperies. Framed certificates hung on the wall: Arachnoids of the South, National Tarantula Club, The Georgia Spider Society.

  She saw me looking and smiled. “I’m the vice president of the ASS. That’s the American Society of Spiders? They’re having a convention this year in Las Vegas, but I can’t go. I can’t find a house sitter. Nor can I find a repairmen. They’ve stomped on many a prize-winning specimen. Even I myself have to be careful. That’s why I wear white.”

  I felt a ticklish sensation on my ankle, and I whooshed my skirt from side to side. When I didn’t see a brown, furry object, I relaxed.

  Uma led me into an alcove where aquariums sat on iron stands. Each tank held several inert brown objects.

  �
��Here are my best sellers—Grammostola rosea.” Uma pointed a gnarled finger at a tank. “Better known as the Chilean Rose. They’re quite docile. Though if you want something feisty, I have some Costa Rican Zebra spiderlings. Don’t be frightened. The tarantula has been maligned by Hollywood. They rarely bite. But if they do, it’s no worse than a wasp sting. Rarely fatal.”

  “That’s good to know.” My “oh shit” smile slid into place.

  “Sorry about the heat,” she said. “I keep the thermostat on seventy-nine. My darlings don’t like direct sun. But other than that, the G. rosea is an easy pet. I prefer them to dogs. No barking. No vaccinations. No housetraining.”

  I nodded. Aunt Bluette had been just as passionate about her orchard. “And spiders don’t need daily exercise,” I said.

  “Oh, no. You can walk them,” Uma said. “I know a lady who makes little bitty leashes. The cutest things you ever saw. They come in assorted colors. So you can match the leash to your outfit.”

  While she talked about arachnoids, I scanned the room. The polka dots on the draperies rearranged themselves. I blinked. Yes, the dots were moving.

  I turned back to her. She brushed something out of her hair. A furry body plopped onto a sheet-covered chair and scurried away. “A lot of people don’t see the value of owning a tarantula,” she said. “But I hope you will.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Years ago, Edgar Eikenberry bought a Costa Rican Zebra for his son. It bit the boy, didn’t hardly leave a mark, but Edgar threatened to sue me.”

  I could totally see the Eikenberrys doing this.

  “And last year, one of my escaped Chileans bit a plumber. I didn’t get my faucet repaired, and I had to pay for his medical bills. I’ve been sued many times—once for slander.”

  The word slander made my saliva turn into cement. I still hadn’t discovered the connection between Uma and Barb. But if I didn’t leave, and soon, the heat would set off my asthma.

  I pointed at the windows. “When I drove up, three police cars were in front of the Philpots’ house.”

  “Humph.” Uma steered her walker over to the window and parted the curtains, then her lips moved. “One, two … I’m counting four cars. Wonder if that little girl ran away again?”