There’s anger in his eyes, but bigger than anger, there’s fear. My heart sinks.
“Ty, what does Mondel Johnson want with you?” I dredged the name out of my memory of the conversation with Coughlin. It sails through the air and hits Ty like an arrow through the heart. Anger disappears; fear consumes him.
“How d’you know that name?” His voice is a hoarse whisper, as if Johnson were in the next room.
“That cop, Coughlin, told me. He thinks you’re selling drugs for the guy Johnson works for.”
“Me!” Ty’s voice comes out like a cartoon character’s squeak. “I ain’t sellin’ drugs. Audge, c’mon—you know I don’t mess with that shit.”
“Well then, what’s going on? Why were you talking to him? Why have you been so jumpy and secretive?”
Ty backs away from me, shaking his head. “This ain’t nothin’ that concerns you.”
“Nothing that concerns me? It concerns me if the guy I saw pushing you around is the same guy who cracked my head like an egg.” The words fly out of my mouth before I think about their effect.
Ty seems to get bigger before my eyes. He pounds his chest with his thumb. “You think I’m responsible for you gettin’ hurt? You think I let them mess with you insteada me?”
“Coughlin thinks you owe them money. That they took it from me when they couldn’t get it from you.”
“This don’t have nuthin’ to do with money. This is bigger than money.”
“What could be bigger than money to a drug dealer?”
Ty’s face becomes a block of stone. “Audge, what you don’t know won’t hurt you. Or me.”
“But it is hurting me, Ty. The police aren’t looking for the man who really attacked me because they think you did it. Coughlin is following you. He sees you talking to that Mondel guy.”
A crease of worry appears on Ty’s forehead. I’m getting through to him at last.
“I thought that big cop was off your case. What happened to the skinny guy with the brown hair?”
“Detective Farrand is still investigating my assault. I don’t know if he’s getting anywhere or not.” I look down. It’s hard for me to say this. I’m supposed to be the boss, the grown-up. “I’m scared Ty. Creepy things keep happening to me. I feel like someone’s watching me, like whoever attacked me isn’t quite done.”
“What you mean?” Ty’s shoulders go back and his chin juts forward. This is the Ty I know, always ready to protect his turf.
So I tell Ty that someone was in my condo going through the trunk of jewelry, about the person I thought followed me from Dad’s house, and the missing yearbook.
Ty looks at me quizzically. “I don’t know, Audge. If Mondel’s crew found that jewelry at your place, they woulda took it, know what I’m sayin’?”
I do know what he’s saying, which is why all of this continues to make no sense. “What about those pills we found in the kitchen, Ty? Did Mondel take them back? Does he think we kept some of them or something?”
“Them pills don’t belong to Mondel. Guy he works for deals strictly in weed and blow. Stuff that gets smuggled in through Mexico.”
“So who did they belong to?”
Ty shrugs. “Some white dude, probably. That’s who mostly sells pills.”
Ty says this so matter-of-factly that I assume it’s true, but really, how can I be sure? Coughlin would know. I’m right back where I started, wondering if I should confide in Coughlin or not.
“Ty, I never told the police that it was you who found the Ecstasy in Mrs. Szabo’s house, and that you immediately turned it over to me. If I told that to Coughlin now, I think it would take some of the suspicion off you. After all, if you needed money to pay off Mondel, you could’ve kept that Ecstasy, but you didn’t. So I think I should tell him, OK?”
Ty snorts. “Tell him. Don’t tell him. Won’t make no difference. That cop got it in for me. Even after I get clear of Mondel, Coughlin still be watchin’ me.”
I look into Ty’s big brown eyes. “Are you going to get clear of Mondel?”
“This weekend, Audge. Everything be straight then.”
I’d love to believe him, but something tells me Ty is playing with fire, a fire he can’t control. “Look, Ty, let’s tell Coughlin everything. About the Ecstasy, about your problem with Mondel. Let the police figure it out. That would be the safest option.”
Ty looks weary, like he’s lived as long as the folks at Manor View. “You know the problem with you, Audge? You too nice. An’ then you think everybody else as nice as you. World don’t work that way.”
Chapter 38
I’ve been driving around for two days with the crushed baby doll carriage in the trunk of my car. Why was it flattened? Why was it buried? If it was broken or I lost interest in it, why didn’t Dad or my grandparents just throw it away? Every time I open the trunk, I ask those questions. I’m not sure why this toy has such a powerful hold on me. I can’t bring myself to throw it out. And I’m certainly not going to bring the filthy, broken thing into my condo. So it stays in the trunk, going everywhere I go. Finally, after about the tenth time I’m startled by it lying there, I realize where I need to take it.
Mrs. Olsen puts a plate of cookies and a pot of tea on the table between us. “You went through a phase,” she says, “when you were obsessed with burials.”
“I did? Why?”
“When you got old enough to understand about funerals and cemeteries, you started asking to visit your mother’s grave. Your grandparents had insisted on having a marker for Charlotte at St. Paul’s cemetery, but of course, there’re was no one buried there because your mother’s body was never recovered. Your father never believed in sugar-coating things for you, and he told you the truth when you asked if your mom was in there. This was when you were about six or seven, I guess, and you had seen some elaborate burial on a TV show. So, you started wanting to give everything a funeral. You buried your goldfish when it died, and Melanie’s gerbil got a state funeral. You buried Barbie dolls with missing limbs and ripped stuffed animals. So it doesn’t surprise me that you’d want to bury a broken doll carriage.”
Why is this all a blank to me? I can recall things that happened in first grade; why can’t I find a memory of digging little graves and interring dolls and pets?
“You don’t remember this?” Mrs. Olsen asks.
I shake my head as I focus on the crinkle of smile lines radiating from my friend’s brown eyes and the soft, pillowy expanse of her bosom. I want to lay my head there, but I hold myself back somehow. “It’s kind of morbid, Mrs. O. Didn’t anyone try to stop me?”
“I think it upset your grandmother a bit. But I felt we should let you do what you needed to do. You were obviously working through some issues. Eventually you stopped. The funerals weren’t necessary anymore. You moved on.”
Yeah, right.
“Thanks for telling me this. There was something about that carriage, some memory floating around the edge of my brain, that I couldn’t quite grab hold of.”
“Maybe now you can throw the silly thing away.”
“Yeah.” I pick up another cookie. I’m not hungry, but I’m not ready to leave. There’s more I need to ask. “Mrs. Olsen, did my mother ever talk to you about her work? Mention who her clients were, what projects she was working on?”
She shrugs. “Not so much. I was a little touchy about having given up my career for the kids, so Charlotte avoided the subject of her work. Why?”
When I don’t answer, Mrs. Olsen takes my hand in hers and simply holds it. The gentle reassurance of her gesture melts something deep inside me. Soon, the words are tumbling out. I tell her all my suspicions: that my mother ran off with another man, gave birth to a child who’s my half-sibling, is out there still.
When I’ve talked myself dry, she continues to sit there, never letting go of my hand. “What are you thinking?” I finally ask.
“She wouldn’t have abandoned you, Audrey. I’m sure of that.”
I slip my hand out of he
r grasp and stand to go. Does Mrs. Olsen really know what my mother would have done? Maybe all my old friend knows is that she would never have abandoned her child, and she can’t imagine a mother who would.
“Thanks for the cookies,” I say.
“Visit me any time.” Mrs. Olsen walks with me to the front door, bending to pick up a pile of mail the mailman stuffed through the slot while we talked. “Nothing but junk to recycle,” she complains.
“Once the election’s over, there will be less,” I say, as I watch her sorting through all the political flyers.
“Thank goodness.” She laughs and holds up a blue pamphlet plastered with Spencer’s smiling face. “Hey, here’s someone your mother used to work for. I do remember that she came up with the slogan for his campaign, and he was crazy about it. ‘Spencer Finneran for Congress. Honestly.’ Kind of a play on words, because he was the long-shot underdog and his opponent was a real crook. Get it?”
Too stunned to answer, I just nod.
I get it.
Chapter 39
Palmer County weather for this Halloween—bee-yoo-ti ful. Tell mom no heavy coat over the costumes, ‘cause there’s zero chance of rain and the low is a balmy 60. And there’s going to be a FULL moon, so watch out. Now, back to the music…
Damn! I totally forgot today is Halloween. After leaving Mrs. Olsen’s house I feel like driving directly to the Finnerans, pounding on the door and demanding to know why Spencer lied about knowing my mother. But Spencer, Anne and Cal are on the road campaigning today, wearing silly Democratic donkey-ear hats and handing out candy and blue Finneran buttons.
I make a sharp right into the ShopRite parking lot—may as well buy a few bags of candy right now. I used to get only a few trick-or-treaters, toddlers of the young couples who live in the condo development. But two years ago, word went out on the teen grapevine that working the condos is a great way to score a lot of candy with very little walking. Now, the doorbell rings nonstop for three hours, and woe be the person who comes up short on candy—eggs on the front door, shaving cream on the windows.
When I finish my run to the supermarket and make it home, I see my neighbor, Marge, by the mailboxes. “All ready for tonight?” I ask.
“I’ve got five bags of Skittles,” Marge folds her arms across her chest. “When that runs out, I’m turning out my lights and locking my doors. And if my bell rings after nine o’clock, I’m calling the cops.”
I’m not as crabby as my neighbor, but frankly, I’m happy to have Marge take a hard line on late-night revelers. Although I try to hide it, I’m still plenty jumpy around strangers at night. At least I have Ethel to protect me.
At home, I click on the front porch light and sit back to wait. At first, Ethel barks frantically each time the doorbell rings, but she soon realizes that the intruders aren’t coming onto her turf, so she settles down in the foyer and keeps a watchful eye on the proceedings. The little princesses and pirates are done by seven, the hippies and ninjas peter out by eight-thirty. There’s a lull, then the bell rings insistently. I open the door and a crowd of kids, dressed as sullen teenagers, thrust their bags at me silently. I dole out one candy bar apiece and shout “you’re welcome” to their retreating backs. No sooner do I sit down than the bell rings again. This crowd is also uncostumed, although one kid has made an effort by wearing a “scream” mask. They have the decency to look sheepish demanding their loot, and they chorus “thank you” as they leave. I hope Marge takes note of that.
Outside, the shouts of kids grow fainter and fainter. The evening seems to be winding down. Ethel and I are absorbed in the final minutes of “When Good Dogs Go Bad” on Animal Planet, when the doorbell rings again. I hesitate, but it’s under Marge’s deadline, so I open the door.
A strangled shriek springs from my throat and the basket of candy hits the floor.
On the stoop stand four men dressed all in black. They leer at me through pantyhose that flatten their noses and distort their lips. Ethel’s hackles rise and she barks harsh, staccato notes.
One drops to his knees. Why is he trying to crawl into my house? Frantically I move to shut the door. Ethel lunges at him.
Too late I realize they’re laughing. The one on his knees is trying to scoop up the fallen candy. Ethel is having none of this. She nips his hand.
“Ow! What the fuck!”
They turn and run off.
“I’m sorry!” I shout after them. “You shouldn’t have scared me like that.”
Kicking aside the candy, I slam the door. My hands are shaking so badly I have trouble turning off the porch light. I slide into a heap on the floor and rest my head on Ethel’s back.
I’m done with Halloween.
An hour, some deep breathing exercises, and a cup of green tea later, I’ve returned to my logical self. I’m sitting at the dining room table working on my accounts payable when I realize I’ve left an entire folder of invoices back at the office. Go get it or leave it until tomorrow? I really want to get these bills postmarked by November 1, and tomorrow is already jam-packed with appointments. With all the adrenaline circulating in my system from my scare, I’m feeling wide awake. Might as well go and get this project finished up.
“Ethel, want to go for a ride in the car?”
But Ethel is snoring on the sofa and doesn’t even hear the magical “c” word. Fine, I’ll go solo.
The folder was just where I left it, and I’m back home within a half hour. Turning the key in the lock, I use my hip to push open the door, then brace for the Ethel onslaught. It doesn’t come.
She must be sulking because I went out without her. I drop the folder on the table in the dark hall and sniff. What’s that smell? Has the dog gotten into something?
“Eth—“
Something wraps around my neck, cutting off my voice. Ridiculously, my immediate impulse is to scream.
Nothing. Screaming requires air and I have none.
The smell is stronger. Warmth. Dampness. Hair.
My senses sort it out. A human arm is wrapped around my neck. The rest of the human is behind me, breathing in my ear.
“Me and you need to have a little talk,” the voice says. I don’t recognize it except in a generic way: male, Jersey, white. His grip tightens around my neck and I feel my feet leave the floor. Instinctively, I claw at the arm. It’s like scratching at a metal pipe. “A quiet talk. Understand?”
I try to nod. The arm loosens a bit. My feet come back down to earth. There’s a steel-toe boot under my sneaker. I can swallow, but my heart is pounding so hard it’s still hard to breathe. The smell catches in the back of my throat. Sweat, covered by too much strong, musky cologne.
“You don’t learn, do you? You and the kid got some customers for my product, that’s fine. But you two work for me, not on your own.” He shakes me. “Understand?”
The kid? What the hell is he talking about? He thinks Ty and I are both selling his pills? But Ty doesn’t know this guy….I don’t understand. Not at all. But I’m afraid to say anything. All I can think of is the sound of my skull cracking the last time that boot connected with my head. I don’t want that pain again. I don’t want to be in the hospital. I don’t want to die.
“Please…” I whisper.
“And now you got Mondel Johnson sniffing around you. What’s up with that? Huh?”
“I don’t know him. He—”
The arm crushes my neck. “You lie! I’ve seen him watching your office. You think you’re some kinda player. We all got our turf. You don’t mess with that, hear?”
He stays behind me. I can’t see his face, but I can smell his breath. Cigarettes. Beer. Onions. And that awful cologne. Repulsive—I twist my head to keep my face as far away from his as I can. It’s so dark in the hall, I can’t even see the color of the skin of his arm. If only I can get him to understand that I didn’t take his drugs. That I’m not trying to pull something over on him. “Please,” I gasp. “Let me talk.”
I hear whining and scratching
. Ethel. I’d forgotten about her. It sounds like she’s in the powder room. He must’ve shut her in there when he broke in. Now that she’s heard my voice, she’s flinging herself against the door, desperate to get out. Once. Twice. I know what’s coming. Ethel can open the lever handle of that door if she hits it just right.
Boom. The door flies open and hits the wall. In three seconds, Ethel is in the front hall. She leaps on my attacker, tail wagging, tongue slobbering.
“What the fuck!” With one swing of the guy’s arm, Ethel is airborne and I’m out of his grasp. She crashes against the wall, and crumples in a heap.
I shriek. And then I kick the guy. “You didn’t have to hurt her. She’s just an innocent dog.”
Bad move. He picks me up and pins me against the wall. A nylon stocking covers his head, distorting his features, and gloves hide his hands. It’s dark, but now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see his neck and his arms. He’s white. His hair is brown and there’s lots of it. Holding his face inches from mine, he exhales his putrid breath with every word.
“I run a simple business,” he says. “Killing people’s not my style. But I might make an exception for you, stupid bitch.” He slaps me across the face. The sound of the blow shocks me as much as the pain. “Now, you and boy wonder-- Augh!”
Suddenly, I’m free.
“Ow! Get off of me. Fuckin’ dog’s biting me!”
Fur swishes by my face. Nails scrabble on the floor. I mostly see outlines, but I know what’s going on. Ethel has sunk her teeth into him and she’s not letting go.
He shakes his leg, and Ethel rises up into the air with it. Her jaw is locked on his calf, and I can see the white flash of her bared teeth. For a moment I’m paralyzed, not sure what to do. Then reason kicks in. I reach for my cell phone and dial 911.
“Palmyrton Police. What is your emergency?” The voice is calm, bland, unflappable.
“There’s a man in my house. He’s trying to kill me and my dog. Send someone fast. 419 Bishop.”
Another Man's Treasure (a romantic thriller) (Palmyrton Estate Sale Mystery Series Book 1) Page 23