by Alter, Judy
Mike sat calmly on the couch. “Remember that Dr. Seuss book, And To Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street? What did you see on Alston or College? Anything remarkable?”
Maggie gave him a long look. “Well I saw that old green car, if that’s what you’re asking. It drove real slow alongside me, but the driver didn’t say anything. That’s one of the reasons we ran the last time around the block.”
Mike high-fived her. “Okay, kid, you just passed the test. Good job. We’re getting you a whistle to wear around your neck.”
“No way. Ug-ly!”
“Your mom has one.”
She looked at me and I held it away from my chest for her inspection. “We could glue jewels on it and get a fancy rope,” I suggested.
I could see the wheels turning. No other girls in school wore a jeweled whistle.
But first came Buck Conroy’s visit. He barged in as usual, barely said hello, and went straight to the refrigerator on the back porch to help himself to a beer. Then he plopped down in one of the big chairs and would have put his feet on the coffee table if I hadn’t given him the evil eye.
“What? Mike has his foot on the table.”
“Mike has a broken leg. Try it, and I’ll break yours for you.”
“By golly, I think she means it,” he said to Mike, planting his feet firmly on the floor. “What’s gotten into Kelly?”
I hate, hate, hate to be talked about as if I’m not present or don’t quite have good sense.
“I’m fed up,” I said. “That’s what’s gotten into me. Mike was the victim in an accident, so why should the girls and I have to be so careful? It’s not fair.” Okay, I knew as soon as I said that, I left myself open for the classic, “Life ain’t always fair” line.
But Conroy looked at me and said, “No, it’s not. You get a plate on that car?”
I realized I’d had the opportunity and blew it. My chagrin telegraphed itself from my face.
“Tsk, tsk, Kelly. If you’re gonna do detective work, you’ll have to be better about details.” He pulled a cigar out of his pocket, looked at me and said, “Just chewin’ on the end, darlin’, just chewin’. No way I’d dare light it in your house. Now my little wife....”
“Wife!” I exploded. “You and Joanie aren’t married.”
“As of last Saturday, at the courthouse, with McKenzie as our only guest. Made it official.”
Of course we both offered congratulations, and Mike went on a bit too long about the bliss of the married state—was I hearing sarcasm? I offered to throw a party, an offer that Conroy declined without consulting Joanie. I was still mulling over the marriage and trying to think of Joanie as Conroy’s wife rather than girlfriend—with someone like Conroy, that’s a huge change in status—when Mike said dryly, “Can you two stop baiting each other long enough to discuss this situation with the green Nova? And, Kelly, would you call the girls in here?”
“Can we talk without them first?” Buck asked.
We agreed, and he launched into what he knew. It wasn’t much. Sonny Adams said he knew nothing about threats. The dead girl’s name was Rosalinda Garza. She was nineteen, from a poor family on the North Side. They thought she’d struck gold when Sonny took an interest in her.
“Have you talked to the family?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, they’re grieving. And they’re mad. I’m thinking they’d be more likely to go after Sonny and that’s why he’s hiding.”
I filed that away in my mind—something to follow up on, without telling either Mike or Buck. They’d have fits if they thought I was investigating the Garzas on my own, but of course that’s just what I intended to do.
“Have you talked to your punk friend Joe Mendez?” Conroy asked, looking directly at me.
Before I could fly off the handle, Mike said, “Buck, he’s not a punk. He’s really straightened his life out. Almost has an AA degree from Tarrant County College. Devoted to Theresa.”
Conroy waved a dismissive hand. “I know all that, and I almost believe you. But he might know something. You can talk to him better than I can.”
For sure, I thought, as I added that to my to-do list. Why hadn’t I thought about it before? I itched for Buck to be gone so I could call Joe.
We finally did call the girls into the room and explained to them that someone was following all of us. We stressed that they were not to be afraid, but they were to be cautious.
Em ran to me and buried her face in my lap. “I’m scared, Mommy.”
I stroked her hair. “Don’t be scared. Mike and I won’t let anything happen to you. We’ll get you a whistle just like Maggie’s, okay?”
She raised a tear-stained face. “Okay. I’ll be brave…and cautious.”
Chapter Five
The next day I went to Hobby Lobby and bought sequins and bits of jewel-tone stones, a pink cord for Em and a turquoise one for Maggie, and the glue to hold everything on to the whistles. Then I went to a hardware store for whistles. I didn’t even look for the green car.
Once back at the office, I called Joe. “Hi, Joe. It’s Kelly.”
“I always recognize you, Miss Kelly. What’s up?”
“Theresa gone to work?”
“Yeah, but I can have her call you tonight. I don’t go in until two this afternoon. I’m studying.”
“Well, I hate to interrupt that, but how about lunch, just you and me? The new hamburger place on University Drive?” The Grill was too crowded and noisy at lunch for a private conversation. I didn’t want folks overhearing what I wanted to ask Joe.
“Miss Kelly, you’re up to something again,” he said. “You sure it’s okay with Mr. Mike?”
I wanted to remind him I didn’t have to check every move with “Mr. Mike” but I sidestepped the issue. “Well, you know he can’t get around much, so I’m doing some legwork. I have to take him to therapy this morning, but how about if I meet you at noon? That’ll give you plenty of time to get to work.”
“Yes, ma’am. I take the bus, you know. Theresa, she’s got our car.”
“Bother. I’ll meet you at, uh, what’s close to your house? That new sushi place….”
“Can’t do sushi, Miss Kelly. Just can’t do it. I even tried once.”
I laughed. “Okay, the Paris Coffee Shop at noon, and then I’ll drive you to work.”
The Paris Coffee Shop was neither quiet nor empty at noon—people stood in line for the meringue pies. But they served a fine blue-plate lunch. Joe and I both ordered chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and green beans. And I ate every bit. No wonder I always had what I delicately referred to as a “weight concern.”
We chatted about Theresa—they had put back enough money that she had enrolled in one class at the county college this fall, even while Joe finished the last of his work on an associate degree. “I want to go on, but I’m not sure how to do it. One of my teachers says I got a good enough GPA for a scholarship. He said I should try for Wesleyan.”
Texas Wesleyan University welcomed non-traditional students, had low tuition, and a generous program of scholarships and grants. “Let’s see what we can work out,” I said.
He raised his hands, palms toward me. “We can’t take any help from you, Miss Kelly. You already done enough. Now tell me what’s really on your mind.”
“A girl named Rosalinda Garza. Know her?”
“Miss Kelly! Do you know how many Garzas there are in this city? No, I don’t know her. Sorry.” He pushed his plate away as though that ended the conversation. “Sorry, after this good lunch, that I can’t help you.”
“Wait! How about Sonny Adams?”
His face darkened. “Yeah, I know him by reputation. May have met him a time or two, but he’s nobody I’d mess with now. Little dude who thinks he’s big time. What’s the connection?”
I explained that Sonny Adams was the one who had run into Mike, and Sonny’s passenger, Rosalinda, had been killed. Now Sonny was claiming she was the love of his life.
“Probably was,
” he mused, “at that moment. I bet he’s got a new chick by now, may even be on the second or third. So why do you want to find this girl’s family?”
“Someone’s following me, and Sonny Adams was talking revenge, though Conroy says he thinks he scared the idea out of him. Adams faces charges of running a stop sign and leaving the scene of an accident but that’s all so far.”
“So what do the Garzas have to do with this? They’ve lost a daughter but I don’t think they’d follow you. Not the way my people react. If they wanted a fight, you’d already have it.”
Joe brought up a good point, one I should have thought of. “You’re probably right, but I just want to talk to them.”
“Miss Kelly, let Buck Conroy do it. You shouldn’t be going up to those neighborhoods by yourself. Where’d she live?”
“Off Twenty-Eighth Street.”
“I gotta get to work. You sure you don’t mind driving me? I’m kind of late for the bus now.”
“Sure.”
The green car followed us from the Paris Coffee Shop parking lot to the Southwest YMCA. I didn’t mention it to Joe, and as he got out he said, “You be careful. Theresa and I, we come see you soon.”
“Good.” As I drove away I hoped I hadn’t gotten Joe in trouble. He was still on probation, and if he decided to do anything on his own—I shut my eyes to blot out the thought and almost sideswiped a car pulling out of the YMCA parking lot. Focus, Kelly, focus on what you’re doing this exact moment. Stop racing ahead in your mind.
But racing ahead was what I was doing. Could I find the Garza address and run up there before time to get the girls? Obviously not. In fact, how was I going to find the right Garzas in the long list in the phone book? I should have asked Joe more questions. Obituaries! They’d give me a clue but I’d have to go back to the day she was killed or shortly thereafter—now about five weeks ago. It meant, I feared, a trip to the Star-Telegram archives.
Back at the office, Keisha took one look at me and said, “You’re up to something you shouldn’t be. Remember what you promised Mike? Where am I going to have to go with you?”
I considered a minute. Maybe she was right. She should go with me. “To see Rosalinda Garza’s family—when I find them.”
“The dead girl? You have completely taken leave of whatever sense the good Lord gave you. Do you know what Buck Conroy and Mike would say?”
“Yeah, I know, but you’re not going to tell them,” I said.
She crossed her arms and stared at me. “Beats me, why I keep working for you. Guess I’m as big a fool as you are.”
I left to get the girls. When we got home, I spread a thick pad of newspapers on the dining table, and got out the whistles, jewels, and sequins I’d bought. The girls clustered around, and I told them they could design their own whistles but they needed to remember that the glue held instantly, so there was no gluing and then changing their minds. I’d peek at them now and then, but I didn’t want to tell them how to do it.
“Mike,” Maggie asked, “you want to help us?”
“I’m not much good with sequins, Maggie. You’ll do better without me.”
So they worked. In the end, Em’s methodical mind created a whistle with stones in precise circular patterns around the round part, and careful stripes on the straight, square part of the whistle. Maggie’s designe was more free form, indicative perhaps of a free spirit. I put them aside to “set” and praised both girls. After dinner, we’d thread the cords onto them, and the girls would wear them to school the next day.
“Maggie,” Mike asked from his permanent position in one of the big chairs, “do you know when to use the whistles?”
“When I see that green car,” she answered positively.
“Maybe not just when you see it, but if anyone gets out and approaches you or talks to you. It’s particularly important you wear it when you walk Gus.”
That was an argument between Mike and me. I wanted her to stop walking Gus and run with him in the backyard. Mike said I couldn’t cage her up. I kept quiet, but if anything happened to her…my mind didn’t want to go there.
****
Claire called late that afternoon and asked if she could come over with a bottle of wine. I checked with Mike who said he’d be delighted to see her and wouldn’t she stay for supper, whatever it is. I thought that was not a vote of confidence in my cooking on Mike’s part, but I relayed the message.
Claire laughed. “I have girls to feed, remember. Even if one is in college. No, I just haven’t seen you all since Mike’s surgery, and I’m way overdue in checking on you.”
Mike and Claire didn’t always see eye to eye. Mike was the officer on duty when Claire deliberately shot her husband in the derriere, and when Jim Guthrie later died in a one-car accident, Mike really suspected Claire of having put a Mickey in his drink. Furthermore Mike didn’t like it that I let Claire live in my guest apartment during the divorce negotiations before Jim’s death. But now it all seemed to have worked out, and I hoped they would be friends.
Claire arrived waving not only a bottle of chardonnay—which she knows I love—but a chicken pot pie casserole she’d made. “I’m sure you’ve got enough on your mind, Kelly, and I just thought this might be a treat.”
Before I could thank her Mike said, “Thank heaven, Claire. I thought I was going to starve to death.” His eyes were twinkling like the old Mike for the first time in weeks, and when I gave Claire a hug, it was extra tight with an exchange of smiles that she understood.
“Okay, Mike, how are you?” she asked bluntly.
“Like a damned old woman. Can’t go anywhere without my walker. Need Kelly to help me go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, all those things of daily living that I took for granted.”
“Good lesson in humility,” Claire said, without a trace of pity.
“Well, I guess you’re on Kelly’s side,” Mike complained in mock frustration.
“No,” she said slowly, “I’m rooting for both of you. I just want to know what I can do to help.”
“Cook,” Mike said plaintively. “You know Kelly’s not the best cook.”
“She’s getting better all the time, Mike Shandy, and don’t you forget it. Haven’t Cynthia and Keisha been over here cooking for you?”
“No. I think Kelly forbid them.”
Well, maybe I had, and maybe it was time to rethink that. Of course I opened my mouth before I thought. “Let’s have a potluck this Sunday. Claire, you and the girls bring whatever you want, and I’ll get Keisha and Mom to bring things. Why, I bet I can work it so I only have to provide a frozen ice cream cake from Braum’s.”
“That’s my girl,” Mike laughed.
Claire, always attentive to the girls, exclaimed over the jeweled whistles and declared she wanted one, plus one for each of her girls.
Maggie, who had been wary of Claire for a long time, said, “We’ll make them, won’t we, Em? Mom will get us some more stuff to do it with.”
“No, no,” Claire said. “I’ll bring the materials—maybe Sunday night when we come for dinner. Hmmm…Kelly, remember the chicken casserole I made the night I moved into your garage apartment? I’ll make a double batch of that.”
Of course I remembered. That was the night after she “shot Jim Guthrie in his ass,” as she so delicately put it. I would welcome the casserole, and the girls would welcome the attention of making whistles for Claire and her daughters.
We chatted. Claire’s girls, Megan and Liz, were doing well in school and seemed to be adjusting to living at home with Claire in charge again after a disastrous period of living with their father. Claire’s job as hospitality person for a small local bank was going well. The world seemed in order—except for Mike.
Neither of us said anything to her about the stalker but he or she was always lurking in the back of our minds. “You’re sure everything’s all right?” Claire asked, “Do I have to ask Keisha?”
She knew me too well, and she and Keisha were now allies in the “Keep
Kelly Safe” club.
“Oh, a strange car has been following me, so we’re being extra cautious. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.” I tried to signal with a nod toward the girls that we’d talk about it later, and Claire nodded that she understood, but then added, “A kind of old green Nova? I saw it parked down the street.”
“That’s it,” Maggie said, “and I’m not walking Gus alone this evening.”
Claire always rose to the occasion. “Come on, let’s go walk him together. We’ll walk right by that car and show that person we’re not afraid.”
They were gone about fifteen minutes, but I didn’t fret and worry like I had before. When they came back, Claire was a bit out of breath. “Gus sets some pace,” she said. “I need just a bit more wine before I drive home.”
“Miss Claire says that’s a young girl in the car,” Maggie said, as proud as though she herself had discovered this fact.
“Pretty sure, but that’s all I could tell.”
Somehow I found that reassuring, though I well know women can be as deadly as men. Hadn’t Jo Ellen North killed my ex-husband and come way too close for comfort to killing me?
As she turned to leave, Claire said casually, “I’m about to start private yoga lessons. Want to join me? My treat. It would be good for you. Stress release and all.”
I told her I’d think about it though the idea didn’t appeal to me.
After supper, I called Mom and Anthony, asking them to come to supper Sunday. Anthony said he and the boys would be there, but Mom hesitated. Mom had kept her distance since Mike had been hurt, and I thought it was out of consideration for his privacy. Keisha burst that balloon by telling me Mom went to the church almost every day, volunteering for this or that from answering the phone to helping sort donated clothes for needy children. She attended sewing circle and a senior citizens fellowship that offered daytime trips to various places. Now, she said, “That’s the Sunday night fellowship supper, and I hate to miss it. But I haven’t seen you much. Yes, I’ll come. And I’ll bring a pie.”