by Amy Metz
“You think all that money your daddy’s got gives you the right to destroy other people’s things? Well, it don’t.” They’d reached the edge of the buildings where the alley turned into the sidewalk in front of the stores on Main Street.
Jimmy Dean took one step onto the sidewalk and then abruptly turned around, holding the can with the towel and spraying paint onto Pickle’s hand just before he thrust the can into his stomach, causing Pickle to grab it out of reflex. “It’s your word against mine, punk.” He turned around and sauntered off, stopping a few feet down to speak to Officer Beanblossom and pointing in Pickle’s direction.
“Oh, crap,” is all Pickle had time to think or say before the officer approached him with a grim expression on his face.
“Let’s you and me take a little walk,” Hank said to Pickle. “Jimmy Dean—” The officer stopped and looked over both shoulders and then turned all the way around. Jimmy Dean had disappeared. Hank held Pickle’s arm and led him to the alley. “Let’s go see what’s back here.”
“Look, Officer Beanblossom,” Pickle began talking fast. “I don’t know what he said to you, but this isn’t how it seems. Honest.”
The officer didn’t say anything until he reached the alley. His face clouded when he saw the back of the buildings. He looked from the graffiti to Pickle’s hands and back again. “Why don’t you tell me just what exactly it is?”
Pickle’s words came out in a rush as he recounted what had just transpired between him and Jimmy Dean.
“Son, I get what you’re saying. I totally believe this wasn’t done by your hand but by Jimmy Dean’s. Trouble is, how are we going to prove that? And why in tarnation is it always you or your mother who sees him doing these things?”
It was then that Pickle remembered the pictures he’d snapped. His face registered the light bulb moment as he pulled the phone from his pocket. “Lookie here.” He held out the phone with the picture that showed Jimmy Dean caught in the act. He swiped left and showed him the second photo.
Hank clamped his hand on Pickle’s shoulder. “You’re not as dumb as you look, Pickle.”
Back at the police station, Hank and Pickle relayed the story to Johnny, who emailed the pictures on the phone to his own account.
“Pickle, that is some fine work you’ve done, son. Now we have hard evidence and not just one word against another. He won’t be able to wiggle out of this one.” Johnny pulled up the pictures on his computer, printed them, and handed them to Hank. “Go get him.”
Mama always said . . . It isn’t the jeans that make your butt look fat.
Dee Dee hit the button on her umbrella; she heard the whoosh and felt the reverberation up her arm as it opened. It had rained steadily all day, and wouldn’t it just figure that it would rain harder now while she was on her way home from work. Walking to and from the office was the only exercise she got, and she usually didn’t mind it since her house and business were only four blocks apart, and it was a short five-minute walk. But she didn’t relish walking on this cold, dark, rainy, miserable night.
She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and glanced over her shoulder. The street was empty except for a man on the other side. At a little after six o’clock, it was already pitch-dark, and the overcast skies and rain made it feel downright black outside. Thunder rolled across the sky, and her eyes darted from left to right. She couldn’t explain it, but she had an uneasy feeling. Maybe it was just on account of the spat she’d had with Phil. He wasn’t happy about the turn of events regarding the divorce settlement, but she told him it would be handled and that he just needed to believe in her. Why was that so hard for him to do?
As she crossed the street to begin the next block, she noticed the man on the other side of the street was gone. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Then a sound behind her caused her to look over her shoulder. The man was now on her side of the street, about half a block behind. How odd.
Even more odd was the man himself. She glanced back several times to see if she knew him. He practically blended with the night, but periodic streetlamps showed him walking under a black umbrella. In fact, he wore all black—a black suit, a long, black overcoat, and a black bowler hat. A bowler hat? Well, if he was from London, the rain should make him feel right at home. She picked up her pace and vowed not to look behind her again.
Dee Dee kept the promise to herself until she reached her house. As she turned into the driveway, she glanced to her right. The man was still strolling toward her. She shivered and hurried inside. After taking off her coat and rain boots, she turned on lights as she walked through the living room. When she got to the front window, she peered out the left edge and froze. The strange man was standing on the sidewalk in front of her house, his form illuminated by the streetlamp. He had the most erect posture she’d ever seen. It was like he was standing at attention all the time, even when walking. The sinister man was under an umbrella, with one hand in a pocket, legs locked about five inches apart. And he continued to stand there, ominously watching her house as if it were a piece of art and he were in a museum. She threw the curtain across the rod and overlapped the middle edges.
Feeling soaked to the bone, she padded down the hall to her bedroom and into her bathroom, where she turned on the shower, undressing while the water heated up. She put her pants over a towel rack to dry. She had to maintain what little wardrobe she had. Someone once said she resembled a female Matlock, and she supposed she did. Her appearance just didn’t matter much to her. She stopped short. Maybe that’s why Phil has never been interested romantically. They were as close as best friends, and she thought maybe once he was divorced, he would finally make a move, but it hadn’t happened.
She stepped into the shower and stood under the water, thinking about the strange man until she willed herself not to think about him.
Instead, she thought of the woman who called herself Y. What a stupid name. She supposed it was meant to be dramatic. A hit woman named Y. She harrumphed. Some hit woman. She’d failed three times. This was supposed to be taken care of last night, but the woman had not answered her texts or her calls to explain why Caledonia Culpepper was still alive. That woman just wouldn’t die. Maybe she’d have to take care of it herself like she’d done with the judge. She hadn’t felt anything when she killed him, and it had been surprisingly easy. She tilted her head and let the water roll down her back. She’d had to kill him. The judge was going to squeal like a stuck pig, and she just couldn’t have that. What a wimp.
She stayed in the shower, trying to get warm, and daydreaming about consoling Phil when he got the news about Caledonia’s death. She’d be there for him. It would draw them closer. Thirty minutes later, when she began to feel like a prune, she turned off the water and climbed out. After drying off, she put on her tattered pea green terry cloth bathrobe and ratty house shoes which she’d had for over twenty years. She didn’t care about fashion or old versus new clothing. Function and comfort were what she looked for.
Warily, she padded back into the living room and up to the side of the window again. She pulled the curtain back ever so slightly and peeked out. Relief flooded over her. The man was gone.
In the kitchen, she filled the teakettle with water and set the fire to high. She saw it when she turned to get out a cup and saucer: a bowler hat on her kitchen table.
When the root is deep, there’s no reason to fear the wind.
Johnny waited all day for the judge to get back to him about the search warrants. It was seven fifteen and well past the end of the business day. Still, he had not heard a word. He straightened his desk, picked up the phone, and called his wife.
“Hey, beautiful.”
“Hey yourself, handsome. Are we going to see you soon?”
No matter where he was, Martha Maye’s voice always made him feel better.
“Man, I sure hope so. I need to make one stop on the way home though. Are you hungry?”
“Yes, but we’ll wait for you
.”
“I shouldn’t be too long. I just need to see the judge. I’ve been waiting to hear back from him all day, and I thought a personal visit might light a fire under him.”
“Of course. You do what you need to do. We’ll be here waiting.”
“Okay, darlin’. See you soon.”
Johnny turned off the office lights on his way out the door. Maybe the judge was sick, he thought as he climbed into his car, shaking off the rain. His secretary said she thought he was working from home today. He pulled out of the parking lot and accelerated down Court Street, windshield wipers working overtime to keep up with the storm.
The night before, when Melba Davis had been looking for the judge, came into his mind. His head tilted, and he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
He was already down the street from the station, so he pulled out his phone and called dispatch. “Moppy, can you get a number for Melba Davis for me?” He waited a moment, and then said, “Thanks a lot.”
He dialed, waited, then said, “Melba, quick question: did you ever find the judge last night?”
He listened, saying, “Oh,” and “Um hmm,” and “Well I’ll be darned.” He briefly made polite conversation, commiserating with the woman about her head cold.
“You just came down with it, huh? Well, you stay warm and take your medicine, drink your tea. You’ll be back to normal in no time. Call if you need anything. Uh huh. Bye-bye.” He hung up with a sense of dread in his belly. Nobody had seen the judge since Friday?
He pulled into Judge Fletcher’s driveway and put the car in park. Pulling his GPJPD ball cap down over his forehead, he hurried to the covered front porch. The judge lived in a big, beautiful Victorian just a few blocks from the courthouse. There was a wreath with a huge red bow on the front door and a light on in the front room. He knocked. Nothing. Straining to listen, he finally acknowledged that it was futile. Something in him had known that but didn’t want to believe it. He wasn’t going to hear anything with the amount of rain that was coming down. He knocked again and rang the doorbell several times, and then he stepped over to the bay window and peered inside. His heart sank.
The judge was lying on the living room floor in an unnatural position. He called it in. “Moppy, tell Velveeta to get over to Judge Fletcher’s house, and send me another unit and a bus too.” He listened then said morosely, “No, no need for lights and sirens.”
Mama always said . . . Don’t cut a big old oak off at the base; you take if off limb by limb.
Dee Dee’s eyes shot like laser beams across the kitchen to the bowler hat sitting ominously on the table. She took a sharp breath, hugged her arms to her, and scanned the kitchen. A black umbrella stood propped against the back door. Fear shot through her. She heard a small creak behind her and slowly turned, afraid of what she would find but more afraid not to look.
The man stood in the kitchen doorway in the same stance as he had in front of her house, except now, instead of holding an umbrella, he was holding a butcher knife.
Cold as a cucumber, Dee Dee said, “Y, I presume?”
The man slowly nodded.
Devoid of any emotion, Dee Dee intoned, “I was told you were a woman. I specifically wanted a woman.”
A woman’s voice came from the man. “Oh, I’m a woman. I’m also a master of disguise.” Her voice turned into one of a British man. “And I’m very good at dialects.”
Dee Dee harrumphed. “Good that you’re a master of something. You certainly don’t seem to know what you’re doing when it comes to killing people.”
Y shrugged. “I believe there’s a reason for everything.” The teakettle whistle blew urgently at first and then furiously. Y went to the stove and turned off the burner.
“Oh really? And what might be the reason for you failing three times?” Dee Dee shouted the last two words, finally showing some emotion. “And not only failing but killing an innocent woman.”
“I had the wrong mark,” she said matter-of-factly. “Caledonia was never meant to die.” She stroked the top of the knife and then looked up at the lawyer. Maybe I was never meant to be a killer. I don’t know. In any event, I came to tell you I quit.”
Dee Dee snickered. “I could care less. After three times, it was apparent you couldn’t get the job done.”
“Why not do it yourself?”
“Maybe I will. Now, get out.”
“I have some things to do first.”
“You don’t scare me. You should know that I’ve already called the police.” Her eyes darted around the kitchen. “They’re on their way.”
“Once a liar, always a liar, huh?” Y held up Dee Dee’s cell phone and waved it in the air. She dropped it in her coat pocket.
Dee Dee turned red. Intending to hide her embarrassment as well as to grab a knife from the butcher block, she whirled around, but the knives were gone. She did an about-face.
Y was back in the doorway, her arms folded and one foot cocked against the other ankle. “I know I have a tendency to be ditzy, but I’m pretty sure I thought of everything this time.”
“Get out of my house,” Dee Dee snarled, pointing to the door.
“I will. But first, answer me one thing: what did Caledonia ever do to you besides marry the man you wanted?”
“How—how—” Dee Dee stammered.
Y studied the knife, still nonchalantly leaning against the doorjamb. “I’ve been watching you. But I don’t get it.” Her eyes went from the knife to Dee Dee. “Did you honestly think Phil would be romantically interested in you? Is that why you wanted Caledonia out of the way?”
Dee Dee walked like a robot to the kitchen table and sat. She fingered the bowler hat for a long while, a faint smile on her lips. “At first, I wanted her dead so he wouldn’t have to go through the divorce process. Death is so much easier. A funeral, a few weeks of mourning, and you’re done.”
“Well, for someone who’s emotionally deficient,” Y said.
“But after your first two attempts failed, Phil finally came to his senses and left the bitch. That’s when I told you to leave town.”
“So why call me back? Phil was a free man. It wasn’t Caledonia’s fault he wasn’t into you.”
“No, but she was about to ruin everything. I requested you return because she was going to report me to the state bar association. I would have been ruined.”
“Hate to tell ya, sweets, but she’s done let the cat out of the bag.”
Her head snapped up. “Then she definitely deserves to die for what she did.”
“No, I think it’s lying, scheming scumbags who deserve to die. Would you happen to know anyone like that?”
“Okay, what do you want?” Dee Dee shifted in her seat. “You want money? I’ve got money. You can have it.” Dee Dee’s mouth was as dry as cotton.
“Because you only want one thing. Isn’t that right, Dee Dee?”
“What would you know?” Her head dropped into her hands.
“I know more than you think, Dee Dee girl. Like . . . I know you killed the judge.”
Dee Dee’s head jerked sideways at Y, and she balled her fists.
She cocked her head. “What, did you lose confidence in my abilities?”
“And well I should. There’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, and that’s if I want something done right, I have to do it myself.”
“Well, the judge is dead, but are you any better off?” She stared at the woman, trying to see any hint of sadness or guilt in her eyes. All she saw was hate.
In the history of the evil eye, not one has been more evil than the evil eye Dee Dee shot at Y.
“I guess I should tell you they’re going to know you killed the judge. You see, I was following you that night. I snapped a few pictures of you; I couldn’t resist. I slipped into the judge’s house today and left them on his dining room table.” Wy nodded. “I fixed your wagon, honey.”
“That’s impossible. Nobody would print such pictures.”
“You really a
re old, aren’t you? It’s miraculous, but people can actually print pictures on their own printers these days. The mind boggles, doesn’t it? So you see, Dee Dee, your fate is already decided. You’ll be spending the rest of your life in prison where you won’t be able to continue ruining people’s lives.”
“Those women were nothing more than babysitters their whole life. Now they think they’re owed something? Please.” Dee Dee dismissed her with a flick of the hand.
“I tell you what, you little-Dutch-Boy-Matlock-wannabe-horrid-old-woman you, I’d give my eyeteeth to be able to be a stay-at-home mom. Your job was to represent their best interests, not your own. You’re nothing more than a common thief. But I’m not gonna kill you. You know, I ought to thank you. Because you’ve made me see things I never would have seen. I don’t want to be anything like you. Or the me that I’ve been.”
“Get out of my house,” Dee Dee spat, her eyes filled with rage. She bounded for Wynona.
Dee Dee’s actions surprised Wy so much that Dee Dee was able to kick the knife out of her hand. It skidded across the kitchen floor. Both women dove for it.
Mama always said . . . If you don’t use your head, you might as well have two butts.
Johnny sat in his cruiser feeling totally perplexed. He’d called in officers to investigate the crime scene, but the investigation was over before it even began. He left one officer at the house to bag the evidence, but the case was cut and dry, thanks to some bewildering evidence left at the scene.
He had called dispatch. “Moppy, get me the address for Dee Dee Petty’s house just as fast as you can.” He was waiting on her reply.
When she finally returned with the address, he told her to send Skeeter Duke there. “Velveeta and I will meet him.”
Velveeta followed closely as he sped away from the judge’s house with the red and blues on. Her siren would have to do for the moment. He needed to be able to talk to Hank. He dialed the phone as he drove.