by Erin Healy
The forty-six-year-old businessman—former businessman—had lost half of his golden hair and all of his self-assured, tall-man posture in the last seven years. The ski tan had faded to the washed out pale of a sunless existence under fluorescent lighting. The broad chest had narrowed and fallen, thickening his waist slightly. The bright blue eyes had dimmed to the color of an iceberg.
Of course, the transformation had begun long before he thrust a knife up under Tara Grüggen’s ribs.
“You look well,” Warden said.
The man blinked as if to clear a head fog, then sat slowly, eyes on his old acquaintance. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
Warden smiled with only one corner of his mouth. “No one ever is.”
Von Ruden frowned. “Can’t imagine what brings you.”
“Old stories. And new opportunities.”
“That’s the problem with you, Pavo.” His voice was slow, fatigued. “You think you’re a poet when all you’ve ever been is a hack.”
“Right now I’m working on a little ditty I’m calling ‘The Ballad of Grant Solomon.’ When I’m finished you might change your mind.”
“Huh?”
The man’s lack of enthusiasm irritated Warden. Apparently he’d have to stir up the sediment of this man’s sorry life.
“Solomon is out of jail. Been out a month.”
“That right? What was he in for?”
“Nothing he ever did to you.”
“That’s justice for you.”
“He’s the one who deserved to be in your cell.”
Von Ruden shrugged.
“C’mon now, that’s not the way you really feel. That’s your meds talking, Norman.”
His eyes flashed. “Even if it is, what’s Solomon to me? You don’t get years back, once you lose them in here. The world is upside down.”
“And now, we have the opportunity to set it right.”
The German sighed heavily.
Warden wagged his head. “This is no good. I have got to hook you up with something to drain that tar pit your brain is stuck in. Get the old Norman back in the game.”
A light appeared in Von Ruden’s eyes for the first time since Warden’s arrival. They asked an unspoken question, which Warden interpreted as Can you get me what I need? Warden glanced at the guard and nodded gravely. The men lowered their voices.
“Next time I come,” Warden promised.
Von Ruden filled his lungs with relief.
“Solomon’s time has come,” Warden said. “It’s your turn with him.”
“You say that like I’m Al Capone. What? I kill one person and you think I’ve got what I need to order a hit from my cell?”
This was the Von Ruden that Warden had been hoping to see today.
Warden grinned. “Wouldn’t you rather do it with your own hands? You’ll be out on your own soon enough.”
“It’s just a hearing. Not a guarantee.” The inmate rubbed his eyes and sighed.
“You’ve been a good boy.”
“That never mattered in this life.”
“Lexi Grüggen will be speaking on your behalf.”
A flash of regret crossed Von Ruden’s face. “Grüggen? Did she remarry?”
“It’s her maiden name.”
“What’s that all about?”
“Maybe you’ll get the chance to ask her yourself.”
The prematurely aged man sighed. “Lexi. More likely she’ll be driving nails into my coffin.”
“No. No. I have it on good authority. What do you say? When you’re out of this place with Lexi’s wind beneath your wings, you can have your justice.”
Von Ruden was not smiling. He leaned in too, matching Warden’s voice. “Killers don’t get paroled on a good girl’s word.”
“Watch it happen,” Warden murmured. “You’ve got some time to fantasize about the possibilities.”
Von Ruden dug a finger in his ear. “You still haven’t told me what brings you here.”
“A mutual goal. You want justice, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure it exists in this world.”
“Not in the courts. It’s up to us,” Warden said.
His old client took a deep breath and seemed to grab hold of the idea, if with little excitement.
“You never did anything out of the kindness of your heart, Warden. What’s Solomon to you?”
“Ten grand. And some change.”
Von Ruden whistled. “Must be a lot of change.”
Warden stood and signaled to the guard. “My grandma always said if you look after the pennies, the dollars will take care of themselves.”
“Isn’t that sweet? And you want me to do it so you can keep your hands clean while you get your cash, is that it?”
“These are the hands that can keep you all lit up, you know. I’ll be in touch.”
When Molly dropped heavily into the front seat of the Volvo, stack of books in hand, a scent tickled Lexi’s nose and she sneezed. Twice.
“What’s that smell?”
She believed Molly saw the question as further justification to be contrary. “I don’t smell anything.”
But Lexi did, and the odor seemed to be coming from her daughter. She glanced Molly’s way and sniffed. Molly shifted to face the window.
Her clothes reeked of smoke. Something thicker than cigarettes, and sweeter. The scent of an extinguished match.
The odor was gone by the time Lexi pulled into her carport, and she was thinking about calling in sick. Molly needed her, though she would have denied it. Hugging her library books and slouching as she walked, the girl sulked into the apartment without waiting for Lexi the way she usually did.
The events of the past twelve hours called for a serious rest. Lexi thought that if she could get a little sleep, maybe then she could sort out what to do about her mom’s role in the Grant fiasco, patch things up with Molly, and weigh Ward’s demand that she testify for Norm.
She picked up her mail on the way into the apartment and found a pastdue notice for the phone bill, this on top of the already tardy utility bill. She didn’t want to leave Molly with so many loose ends flopping around like livewires. But missing work, especially on the busiest night of the week, could mean the difference between phone service and cutoff. She hurried up the sidewalk at the same time Mort Weatherby passed the foot of the stairs adjacent to the building. The sight of him inspired an idea.
“Hey, Mort!”
The tall computer geek that Gina crushed on paused and ran a hand through his bushy curls. “Hey yourself, Lexi.” He offered a smile, but it lacked his usual charisma. “Isn’t the Red Rocks in the other direction?”
“Running a little late today.”
“Happens to the best of us.”
“You okay?”
He crossed his arms and planted his feet. “Fair to middling. That cat of Mrs. Johnson’s died this morning, and she’s got it in her head that me and Travis had something to do with it.”
“Juliet?”
“She scratched me up good last night trying to get her down from 10C.” He showed Lexi the inside of his forearm.
“I heard about that, Romeo.”
He grinned briefly. “Yeah. We had an audience.”
“What happened?”
Mort shrugged. “The cat was on my doorstep when I left for work this morning, stiff as a frozen washcloth. I took it over to Mrs. Johnson’s place and she started yelling at me. Maybe I should’ve dumped it.”
“Why would Mrs. Johnson think—?”
“Because she’s crotchety and she thinks Travis and I scared the thing to death trying to help it. No good deed goes unpunished and all that.”
“We all know you’re good guys, Mort. It’ll blow over. Maybe she’ll even get a new cat.”
“Maybe I’ll buy her a new cat.”
Lexi couldn’t bring herself to say that was probably a disastrous idea. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
“Not if it involves taking your roommate
on a date.” He didn’t smile when he said it.
“Now give me some credit. You know I’ll never do that again. I only wondered if you’d keep an eye on my place tonight.”
“What for? You all going out?”
“No, but I’d like a manly pair of eyes on my front door. Gina and Molly are home.”
“Guy trouble?”
“You can see my front door from your kitchen window, right?”
He followed her eyes across the driveway between their units. “Yeah. Yeah I guess I can.”
Lexi took two steps toward her front door. “So maybe whenever you grab a snack or a drink or whatever tonight, you can take a peek.”
“What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know. Anything out of the ordinary.”
“Anything out of the ordinary happens here, it’ll be front-page news.”
Lexi sure hoped not.
Inside, Molly had set up camp in the living room. She surrounded herself with library books, her back to the entryway. Nanopod somethingorother earbuds plugged her ears. A Christmas gift from Lexi’s mother.
A copy of the Gobsmacked DVD Lexi had intended to rent earlier lay on the kitchen table. Gina wore sweats and slippers and was making Ramen on the stovetop. Lexi picked up the movie, an English comedy starring some teen-heartthrob who made girls Molly’s age swoon.
“Thought Molly and I could watch that tonight,” Gina said.
“Yeah. She’s mentioned it.” There went their Saturday-morning movie. Lexi sighed and put it down, fearing Gina’s thoughtfulness might widen the gap between Lexi and her daughter. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”
“Her and every other fourth grader in the world.” Gina rubbed her eyes. “It’s right up my alley.”
“You look flushed. You okay?”
“Nothing but a headache. Long day. But I can’t complain. Your day is just starting.”
As it was going on thirty-six hours since Lexi’s last honest rest, the day felt pretty old.
“Thanks for cleaning up the paint this morning,” Lexi said. “You were probably wondering—”
“What paint?”
“There was paint on the kitchen window.”
“From what?”
Lexi paused, all answers out of reach. “It was gone this morning.”
The window glass was as clear and bright as ever in the winter afternoon glare. Gina stirred the pot and looked from the window to Lexi and back again.
“You’ll never believe what happened to me last night,” Lexi said.
“You’re late for work.”
“I should tell you now.”
The music from Molly’s earbuds was loud enough for Lexi to hear, which meant the girl wouldn’t overhear what her mother planned to say. She watched Molly while telling Gina about the Volvo, Ward, the painted target. The sweet smoky smell on Molly.
Precious Molly.
She left out the parts about Grant and Norm.
When she finished, Gina said, “All I smelled on her was cafeteria fish.” Gina was sitting at the table now, sipping soupy noodles off a large spoon. Her glassy eyes told Lexi that she found the tale far-fetched. Or maybe she didn’t feel well.
“You said the paint was on the curtains too?” she asked.
“And the door jamb.” Lexi leaned back into the hall to look at it again. Clean. “I can’t explain it.”
“And you think Ward was responsible?” Skepticism threaded her words. “Why?”
Wishing she’d made a more compelling case, Lexi shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. Her right hand closed around a plastic bag filled with soft contents. She pulled it out.
Her life with Grant had exposed her to enough marijuana to recognize the crushed tea-like leaves. Gina must have recognized it too. Her noodlefilled spoon paused halfway to her mouth, then her eyes darted to her bowl. In half a second Lexi decided not to wonder aloud where the bag had come from. That could only make this moment worse.
“You’ve been working hard,” Gina said, examining her spoon. “It’s been a long winter. I think you’re tired, Lexi. You close late tonight, don’t you?”
Lexi couldn’t explain why the reply hurt her feelings, even though she wished all those crazy experiences were nothing but the result of an exhausted, warped perception.
“Why didn’t you tell me that my mom came by yesterday?”
Gina stirred the soup. “I didn’t think it was newsworthy.”
“You didn’t think it odd that Mom would drop by when I wasn’t here?”
Gina talked around the spoon in her mouth.
“I didn’t realize you’d banned her from the apartment.”
“I haven’t banned her. But why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t sleep if I told you.”
“You’re not responsible for making sure I sleep, Gina.”
“Sure I’m not. But I try to help.”
Lexi snatched back I don’t need your help from where it teetered on her tongue. There was no point in leaving tonight having broken bonds with both Molly and Gina.
“My mother doesn’t know how to make decisions that don’t hurt people,” she said. “She brought Molly a letter from Grant”—Gina’s mouth popped open in surprise—“and now Molly’s got it in her head that she should meet her dad. If my mom starts poking her nose in my daughter’s life, I want to know about it.”
“Got it. She comes by tonight, I’ll tell her no one’s home.”
“Be serious, Gina.”
“All right, all right. Lighten up.”
“If Molly talks about Grant—”
“I’ll fill you in in the morning.”
“And please make sure everything stays locked up and—”
“Lexi! You’re late for work.”
{ chapter 8 }
When Lexi arrived at the Red Rocks Bar and Grill, she parked in the spot closest to the rear door, then threw the bag of weed in the Dumpster on her way into the kitchen. She trusted that the disposal service would haul it away before anyone found it. The presence of the bag was as disturbing as everything else that had surprised her lately. Who had put it in her pocket? And when? She’d worn the jacket all day. Even though the bag was no longer in her possession, could a dog smell it in the lining? She worried about what that might mean for her. For Molly.
The path of her thinking led her straight to Ward, the dealer who had snared Grant and Norm into his web all those years ago. He was building a new, sticky trap—for her, apparently, and for reasons she didn’t yet understand.
The cool air prickled her skin with goosebumps.
The manager, Chuck, gave her the evil eye when she blew in through the rear door ten minutes late, but he didn’t say anything, and so Lexi pretended not to notice. In a passageway that doubled as a closet and pantry, she hung up her coat and her book bag. Lexi had never exchanged her high school book bag for a purse, partly for financial reasons and partly because she intend to get to college one of these days. The satchel was a hopeful reminder.
When had it turned so grimy and brown? For a second she stared at it and thought the time might have come to give it up. Maybe until Molly was grown. Lexi needed money more than a degree right now. That was a wicked catch-22: no degree, less money. Less money to pay for school, no degree.
Lexi sighed. She’d drive into Riverbend before her shift Saturday and fill out applications for the new stores going in. Maybe she and Molly could move.
“Order up!”
The cook’s call pulled Lexi back into the kitchen. She tied on her apron, shoved an order pad and pen into the front pocket, and stuck her head out into the dining room. Mr. Tabor had already arrived. She smiled and waved at him. He grinned back, nodding his head in that slow, regal way of kind kings.
She shoved a gigantic red plastic cup against the ice dispenser, then filled it with orange soda and took it to Mr. Tabor with a straw.
“You be blessed today, lovely Lexi!”
“How
are you, Mr. Tabor?” The man’s aging coffee skin and foamy white hair reminded Lexi of a skinny mocha topped with whipped cream. He was an old soul with a frail body and a Herculean spirit. He’d been a defense attorney until his recent retirement.
He patted his stomach. “Got myself a big ol’ hole right here that needs filling.”
“I can fix that for you. Who’ll be joining you today?”
“Whoever God brings my way.”
“Should I go ahead and put in the Reuben for you, or do you want to wait?”
He stuck the straw in the sugary drink and took a long draw. “You’d better feed me, child, or I might evaporate.”
Lexi laughed. “Can’t have that now, can we?”
“Oh no. That’d be bad news indeed.”
“I’ll get that right out for you.”
Lexi found their daily exchange to be a warm comfort in her routine. She put up the order for his favorite sandwich, then dished his side of sweet deli coleslaw into a Styrofoam cup, sealed it, and dropped it into a paper bag. He liked to take that home for dessert.
A few minutes later, she was cramming a paper filter into the industrialsized coffee maker, asking God how her sister’s killer could possibly be up for parole a mere seven years after her death, when the brass bells attached to the front door tinkled against the glass.
Another waitress, Simone, nudged her with an elbow. Lexi followed her eyes, which were scanning the frame of the tallest man Lexi had ever seen. He was broad also, and from where she stood seemed too wide to have come through the door square on. He scraped his boots and removed his gloves.
Through the glass pane of the front windows, Lexi saw a pickup truck parked in the dusty lot. She noticed it for two reasons: First, because it was a bright shiny thing that looked like it had a bazillion horsepower and an engine larger than her living room and a bed big enough to park her rattletrap Volvo in. It had to be his, judging by size alone. Second, it was painted a deep shade of magenta, a color she’d never seen on any car, let alone a man’s.
“Table for one?” Simone was asking him, her hip jutted out to one side. Lexi found herself agog over his towhead and unusual eyes, which were a russet-green, like oxidized copper. He was Norwegian fair. She had a splitsecond vision of him in plaid flannel and suspenders, felling trees in one of those strong-man contests that aired on late-night cable TV.