Skewed

by Anne McAneny

  “And you think they were camera flashes?”

  “Sure looked like it. Quick, you know, kind of blindin’, goin’ in different directions. Maybe a dozen or so. Then the back door flew open and I figgered I’d best set my ass in place on that low branch. And good thing I did, ’cause someone came crashin’ out that back door and down the steps and run across that backyard into the woods. Had kind of a giddyup in his step, I remember that.”

  “A giddyup?”

  “You know, a hitch, but he ran pretty fast besides, like it wasn’t nothin’ to him.”

  “Which foot was it?”

  “Shit, how should I know? I was tryin’ to zip up and whatnot. Didn’t know I was witnessin’ a damn crime.”

  “Yes, gunshots usually suggest good times all around.” I shook my head, trying to reel in my horror over Mickey’s arboreal antics. “Which direction did the man in the woods run?”

  “Weren’t but so many ways to go. Toward the Abel place, I guess.”

  “Did you hear a car start up after that? Anything?”

  “Nah, but I wasn’t exactly listenin’ for nothin’, neither.”

  “Did you follow the guy?”

  “You nuts? I wasn’t gonna go chasin’ after some phantom in the woods while I was trespassin’, sportin’ a woody, and voy-errin’ on one of my waitresses.”

  “So you took off on your bike and never said a word to the police?”

  “Now you got to realize, I had no idea Bridget was lyin’ in there bleedin’ half to death.”

  “Otherwise I’m sure you’d have run in to save her.”

  That got him out of his reclining position again. “Don’t go gettin’ all high and mighty on me, little girl. I’d argue till my dyin’ day that any normal guy in that situation woulda turned tail and ran, just like I did.”

  I stood and leaned in as close as I dared to this animal. “No normal guy would’ve been in that situation.”

  “You weren’t there. You don’t know.”

  “Normal guys don’t climb trees and get their jollies off a pregnant lady in the middle of the night, and then run into the woods like little babies with their dicks hangin’ out of their pants.”

  “Now yer just puttin’ things in a way that don’t seem right.”

  “Don’t seem right? What’d you do, Mickey, run home and find the third time was the charm? Did you finally finish the deed, you sorry-ass deviant? Jerking off to a dying woman instead of saving her life?”

  I didn’t know if that last bit was even possible, but I never wanted to hurt someone as much as the pathetic, cowering loser in front of me. “You put Grady McLemore in jail for thirty years! A man who could’ve made something of himself. A man who could’ve done some good for the world. What have you done with thirty years, Mickey?” I gestured around the dreary trailer. “How do you live with yourself?”

  “I done some good for the world.”

  And with that, Glassie returned, the short butt of another cigarette hanging out of her mouth, the pit bull straining at the end of his leash to rip apart the small woman berating its master.

  “Tell her, Glassie, tell her,” Mickey implored.

  “Tell her what, Mick?” she said, disinterested as all hell.

  “Tell her I brung some good to the world.”

  Glassie lifted her weary eyes to mine and shook her head.

  CHAPTER 27

  My cell phone rang as I drove down the road, trying to cleanse my soul of the visit with Mickey. I wanted to shower but water didn’t come hot enough to remove the stains of depravity he’d inflicted on me. I sure didn’t like the way my mother’s final hours were panning out. Seemed like she was in trouble everywhere she turned, and calling the one person she did trust had turned out to be the worst move of all.

  The ringing wouldn’t stop. I didn’t like talking on my cell while driving, so I pulled into a roadside farm stand.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hey, Janie. Alex Wexler here.” It was the first time we’d spoken on the phone, and the first time he’d announced himself. It was endearing that he’d said Alex instead of Detective, but it left me at a loss.

  “Hey, Wexler, not to usurp the conversation, but you will not believe what I just found out.”

  “Do tell.”

  The horror of Mickey’s silence, not to mention the apelike images of him defiling my favorite tree, darkened every nook of my mind. “You know what? It’s best not discussed over the phone, but if the words of an inebriated reprobate are to be believed, then the mythical third person is quickly morphing into a flesh-and-blood entity.”

  “Does the entity have a name?”

  “Not yet. But you called me. What have you got?”

  “I heard back from that postmaster who’s probably also the mayor and premier watchmaker of Ridge, West Virginia. Ridge is one of those towns.”

  “Says the man who’s a detective, a chef-in-training, and a defender of poor maidens threatened by psycho cops.”

  “I know you can handle jerks like Schwank, but an overwhelming sense of courtliness came over me. Hope I didn’t go too 1800s on you.”

  I laughed as I got out of my car and scanned seven bins of apples, knowing I’d end up with premade apple butter and a loaf of bread baked by someone else. I’d become that kind of country girl. “Your chivalry was refreshing. Remember, I’m used to the likes of Nicholls.”

  “If that’s where the bar is set, I’d like to think I cleared it long ago.”

  “By several yards. Maybe miles.”

  The pause on the other end of the line allowed me to imagine Wexler’s full lips framing his crooked smile, and my heart fluttered as if feeling the softness of those lips on mine. I dispelled the image quickly by shoving a tiny sample of applesauce into my mouth.

  “So I have a name for you,” Wexler said. “They think it was a local woman that mailed the photos. Elizabeth Fitzsimmons, known around town as Betty. She handed the envelope to the mailman herself. I checked online to see what I could learn about her, but only came up with a letter she wrote years ago to the local paper about animal cruelty. Then I called the Ridge Police Department.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “They were closed for lunch.”

  “Closed? What if I was mugged at lunchtime in Ridge?”

  “A lovely woman by the name of Florence would take your call. She said a black-and-white could be dispatched if I was lying in a ditch bleeding to death, but, otherwise, I didn’t meet the criteria for disturbing the sheriff during his ribs and slaw. She took a message.”

  “At least we have a name. Betty Fitzsimmons. I can’t wait to find out how she got her hands on those photos.”

  “The postmaster knows Betty, of course. Said she was born and raised there. Still lives in the farmhouse where she and her brother were brought up by a widowed dad who doubled as preacher and farmer. Keeps to herself, works for a vet, bit of a packrat.”

  “How old is she?”

  “About sixty, although the postmaster hinted she looks older and acts like something out of the nineteenth century.”

  “Ah,” I said, “a woman who would appreciate your knightly gestures.”

  “My nightly gestures? Like gargling with Listerine?”

  Was he making a joke, or had he actually misunderstood? “Knightly—with a k,” I said through a smile. “I don’t know anything about your nightly gestures—with an n.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Would you like to?”

  My stomach flipped. In a good way, not the nauseating way it had in Mickey’s trailer. And then I fumbled and couldn’t come up with a single damn thing to say in return. Figured it was best to move on. “Did you find out anything about my buddy Hump Banfield?”

  “Running a search now.”

  “I owe you.”

 
“Tell you what,” he said. “If you’re not busy later, you can buy me a drink. Maybe the sheriff will have finished his ribs by then, and I can update you.”

  Despite myself, I bubbled over with nervous anticipation. “Sure, yes,” I blurted. “Where and when?”

  “The Shell Place, on Garrett. They have a great bar and small, quiet booths. Say . . . six o’clock?”

  “See you there.”

  “And Janie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I brush and floss before washing my face, and usually read a magazine before I fall asleep.”

  A grin slowly overtook my face and I wished he could see it. “Those are some fine nightly gestures, Wexler. I’ll see you later.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Ridge, West Virginia, Present

  Sheriff Tucker picked the last of the sinewy ribs from his teeth. Ralphie’s BBQ + Beer provided toothpicks free of charge on the way out the door, but they might’ve done better to serve a higher grade of rib in the first place. The sheriff, only two years from retirement, tossed the toothpick onto Betty Fitzsimmons’s front yard, hoping she wasn’t peeking out her window and tsk-tsking. For all her slovenly stockpiling of useless junk, Betty tended to be fastidious about two things: her lawn and her hair. Both were done up fine and right, the former trimmed to within a quarter inch of its life and the latter combed into a tight, neat bun that glowed with cleanliness.

  Sheriff Tucker had already stopped by Doc Mason’s on the way over to see if he could catch Betty at work, but the doc said she was home sick. Had been for a couple days. And her brother, Leroy, the local fix-it man who kept to himself more than a zebra in a tiger pen, was out of town on a construction job. Poor Betty must have been tending to herself. The sheriff felt right bad that he and his wife hadn’t heard about Betty feeling under the weather. Hadn’t even brought her a pot of soup, and now here he was, about to bother her over some photos she might have mailed. The city fella on the phone hadn’t gone into specifics, but Sheriff Tucker sure hoped it wasn’t something as trivial as Betty putting on postage a few cents short. That Betty, she could save a mangy, tick-infested hound and have him doing new tricks in two days’ time, but she couldn’t mail a dang envelope without getting the law involved.

  He knocked twice on the front door, then brushed away a cobweb thick as a long drip of syrup to find the doorbell. He pushed it but heard nothing. It was likely gunked up with dead bugs from when it used to illuminate. Betty and Leroy got so few callers, they probably didn’t even know the bell was broken. He knocked again, louder, with a good eight raps. Nothing. Now, that was weird. Maybe she was too sick to answer. He couldn’t exactly bust in, though, not over postage. He’d try back later, maybe have Florence give her a call.

  Grumbling about wasting his time, the sheriff turned to go, but then he heard a thump against the dining room window.

  “Betty? That you?” He couldn’t see through the grime on the pane. With all the cats Betty took in, the layer of filth probably consisted of tongue slime and fur, nothing the sheriff felt like taking a close look at.

  A second thump came. “Now, Betty!” he shouted. “I’m gonna have to come in there unless you can answer me.”

  He waited, then knocked one more time. In the heavy hush that followed, he walked over and placed the edge of his hand against the window and pressed his face close, only to leap back in shock as a cat plastered its body against the window in what seemed like a desperate bid to escape. Sheriff Tucker didn’t cotton much to cats, being more of a hound person himself, but he could tell that cat was none too happy about its current set of circumstances.

  Knowing the feline would take a break before its next launch, he pressed his face to the window again.

  “Lord have mercy,” he said. Then he turned around and threw up exactly eight dollars’ worth of Ralphie’s BBQ + Beer lunch special.

  Poor Betty. She sure would be displeased with the appearance of her hair in the next photos taken of her.

  CHAPTER 29

  Janie and Jack Perkins, Age 16

  “Come on! Hurry up!” Jack yelled, his newly low voice still freaking Janie out. But in truth, both twins were changing. Jack got all the height, breadth, and muscles, while Janie got thick hair, an angular face, and a figure that got her voted Most Wanna Get in Her Pants by the varsity football team.

  Janie entered his room, a sketchbook and pencil in her hands. “What is so dang important, Jack?”

  “Janie, we’re not saying dang anymore, remember? We’re removing all twang and colloquialisms.”

  “Yeah, why is that again?”

  Jack sighed while he gathered his patience for his less bookish sister. “Southern twang doesn’t play well on the national stage. No more ain’t and y’all, either—unless it’s called for.”

  “Clinton’s got some kind of accent. Worked out all right for him.”

  “Regardless, I need to be able to eliminate it if necessary, so help me practice.”

  “Fine. Now what is so damn important?”

  “We’ve got to get on the roof before Mr. Abel gets here.”

  “Mr. Abel? He’s never set foot in our house.”

  “Robbie called and said I was in deep shit.” The grin on Jack’s face said it all; he might be in deep shit, but he was quite comfortable there and could always find his way out.

  “What’d you do now?” Janie asked.

  Jack raised the window and climbed out. Above the expansive front porch, the roof flattened just enough that if they stayed facedown near the edge, no one could see them. They lay head to head, their feet pointing in opposite directions. As they got situated, they heard the crunch of the rocks when Mr. Abel’s truck turned down their long driveway.

  “Does Grandpa know he’s coming?” Janie asked, overemphasizing the g at the end of her sentence.

  “Nope,” Jack said, lifting his head and peeking at the truck. “Holy shit! Annelise is in the passenger seat. This oughta be good.”

  Janie gasped. “Did you do something with her?”

  “Please,” Jack said.

  Mr. Abel got out of the car while Annelise stayed rooted in her seat, a stubborn, snotty look on her face. Mr. Abel turned back when he got a few feet in front of the truck and realized he was alone. “Get outta that car this instant, young lady. When we have problems, we address them and accept whatever punishment the Lord doles out for us.”

  Janie watched Annelise exit the truck, slam the door, and sneer at her father. Her upper arms looked mighty red, like someone had grabbed her hard, and everything on her face looked puffy. She was a plain mess.

  “She lose a fight with a Dumpster?” Janie whispered, having written Annelise off as a friend long ago.

  Below them, the screen door opened. “If it isn’t Abner Abel,” said Grandpa Barton. “Need an insurance policy, do ya?”

  “I’ve got my insurance agent, Barton, and I visit Him every Sunday morning. Wouldn’t hurt you to do the same.”

  “How you doin’ there, Annelise?” Barton said. “You must be drivin’ by now. Need yourself some good insurance?”

  Janie and Jack rolled their eyes simultaneously, but then grinned. Grandpa Barton may have been a relentless salesman, but you’d have to search far and wide to find someone who didn’t like him—aside from Abner Abel, that is.

  Annelise’s response, if there was one, was drowned out by her father’s heavy, arrhythmic footsteps as he climbed onto the porch. Normally, he wore a brace that helped his left leg compensate for a childhood malformation of his shinbone, but when he didn’t, he tended to limp. It sounded as such now with each heavy footstep followed by a lighter one. Jack and Janie used to scare one another with made-up tales of Mr. Abel, ax in hand, sneaking up on small children in the night, their only warning the slow thumpety-thump of his approach.

  “Barton,” Mr. Abel said, “we got a serious
issue to discuss with you. It’s about your boy, Jack.”

  “You don’t say. You want to come in, have some tea, and talk about it?”

  “We’re fine right here, thank you. Here’s the thing. I found an empty bottle of whiskey in my cellar this morning, so I went and smelled the breath of each of my children before they woke up. I’m an early riser, as you know.”

  “Can’t say I knew that, Abner. Good for you.”

  “Annelise here was the guilty party,” Mr. Abel said. “Now this next part’s hard to say, but I, uh, I also found evidence of other sinful goings-on in the basement.”

  Janie and Jack took mutual pleasure in imagining Annelise squirming on the porch. Two grown men talking about her misdeeds while she was forced to stand there like a dolt and take it.

  “Annelise tells me that not only did your boy, Jack, steal the liquor from your very own house, but he got mighty fresh with her down there in the cellar.”

  “I see, I see,” Grandpa Barton said, probably having entire conversations with himself during the gaps between Mr. Abel’s words. “You’d be talkin’ of a sexual nature now, Abner?”

  Jack and Janie exchanged a look of shock and pure frustration at not being down there to witness the look on Annelise’s face. And Mr. Abel had to be turning eight shades of crimson at the mention of sex. Oh, this was the stuff of soap operas and they were missing it.

  “Come on,” Jack whispered.

  Janie understood and followed. They climbed quietly through the window, raced down the stairs, and were out the front door in less than a minute.

  “Oh, hey, there, Mr. Abel,” Jack said. “Hi, Annelise. Thought I heard someone out here.”

  Janie joined in. “Jack and I are heading to the general store on our bikes. Pick you up anything, Grandpa?”