Skewed

by Anne McAneny

  Grady and I stared at each other in some sort of mutual shock. I handed him his mimosa. In sync, we both plopped down on the couch and gulped half the drinks. So much for a celebratory toast.

  “My mother gave free pie to the Haiku Killer,” I said faintly, “and I gave him tea and cookies right here in this room.”

  Grady smirked, apparently amused by my take on the situation. “Well, no one can accuse the Perkins women of being ungracious.” He reached over and clinked my glass lightly. “To fine Southern hospitality.” We drank.

  “At least now we know how my mother got the haiku. Leroy must have left it on the table or dropped it or something, and my mom picked it up.”

  Grady looked at me, weighing his options, hedging his bets. A hint of pity marred his handsome features.

  “What?” I asked. “Did I say something stupid?”

  He exhaled, then bucked up. “I doubt he left the haiku on the table.”

  “How else would she have gotten it?”

  “There’s something about your mom you don’t know.” He looked pained, but also charmed. “Your mother was an occasional pickpocket.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Bridget Perkins, 30 Years, 28 Minutes Ago

  With shaking hands, Bridget Perkins read the haiku several times before laying it down on the counter. She sat on one of the stools, rested her chin on her hands, and thought hard. No. No way that little repairman could be the Haiku Killer. What had Grady called him? Gus? Dusty? Whatever, it didn’t matter. That man couldn’t hurt a fly, and she was rarely wrong about people. But then, hadn’t she wondered about the way he’d gazed at Grady, the way he’d been hiding something, and the way he’d left in such a huff? And what had Grady said? That the little repairman had drifted into town out of nowhere and shown up at his office looking for work. When was that? A few weeks ago? Yes, she was sure of it, because she remembered Grady complaining about that stupid radiator noise. It had squealed while she and Grady were on the phone, and he’d compared it to the noise she made during sex—and when comparing her to the broken appliance, she hadn’t come out favorably. But he’d said it with a chuckle in his voice and it had made her laugh.

  It had been a few days later that Grady had gotten the radiator fixed, because he’d joked about missing the noise, not to mention the memories it elicited.

  When had the Haiku Killer last struck? Hadn’t it been just over a month ago? That poor priest, the one with the Italian name. Maybe he’d hired that same repair fellow to fix something and as soon as he’d turned to face the altar—wham! The repairman had risen up and strangled him with his own stole.

  Bridget shivered and felt the walls of the diner closing in on her.

  From his car outside, the repairman had picked up his binoculars again. He watched the waitress read the item in her hands. He felt sure it was his, but he couldn’t be certain. Maybe she swiped personal items from all her customers, the little thief.

  At first, she’d seemed to relish what she was reading. He’d recognized the expression immediately: pride. Pride and haughtiness over her acquisition. He always could sense others’ kinks—some sort of mirroring skill—and he’d just spotted a klepto who got off on the mundane. Kleptos didn’t usually care what they took; it was the thrill of the taking, the art of the gotcha, that did it for them.

  Well, this gotcha would come back to haunt her.

  He watched as her look of pride morphed into fear.

  How could he have been so stupid? He should never have taken it out in a public place.

  Would she remember him? Of course she would. That scum Grady McLemore had made such a production of pretending to care about Rusty the Repairman, like Leroy was supposed to delight in some stupid name usually assigned to gum-smacking, redheaded teens. He pushed out an angry breath. At least the nickname had maintained his anonymity in town.

  Inside the diner, Bridget bit down on her lower lip. She didn’t know what to think. The killer had been moving all around the state. First the Eastern Shore, then the mountains near Skyline Drive, then up north by DC. It seemed fitting that he’d strike near Kingsley next. Was it really possible that she, Bridget Perkins, had intercepted a murderer as he plotted his next crime? The way he’d left in such a hurry and gotten himself all in a dither when Grady entered the diner—so odd. Bridget gasped. Was it possible he was planning to take out a politician next? To take out Grady? She picked up the haiku and read again:

  Public Serve-ant Slave

  Pandering gratuity

  To none you serve now

  Public serve-ant? That would describe a politician—and be an insult, suggesting Grady was as low as a common ant. And pandering? Wasn’t that how Sam Kowalczyk described what Grady needed to do with certain constituencies to improve poll numbers? To none you serve now. Pretty self-explanatory. No politician could serve well after death, though some would argue the public would be better served.

  Bridget pressed the haiku to her chest, her heart thumping. Grady had been naïve for perhaps the first time in his life. It hadn’t been a random laborer looking for a job at his office three weeks ago; it had been a killer targeting his next mark. He’d gotten to know Grady’s routines, his habits, his vulnerabilities. And if that fellow was in the campaign office enough, listening through vents and whatnot, he probably knew about her and Grady. She started again. That man had not been in the diner tonight to eat Mickey’s soggy turkey Reuben and bland pie; he’d wanted to learn more about Grady’s biggest vulnerability—her.

  Both babies kicked at once and the sensation didn’t subside. Bridget’s stomach remained in knots, her breath coming in short bursts. Frantic, fearful, she raced to the back, through the two swinging doors to the kitchen.

  Outside, Leroy’s insides tightened when the waitress bit down on her lower lip, paling it. Oh, yes, she knew what she had in her possession now. Coupled with the odd customer from earlier, she was reaching a conclusion that wouldn’t bode well for anyone.

  He watched as she pressed her hands to her chest and glanced toward the swinging doors to the kitchen. With only a moment’s hesitation, she rushed to the back.

  The thought of the note in her ignorant hands made him sick. She . . . the most ignorant of all. What did she plan to do? Call the police? Call her boyfriend? This was his only chance. He might be able to exit the car and get to the diner door before she saw him, but what if she panicked or pulled a gun before he could get in? Oh! None of this was part of the plan. Ever since the misfire with the professor, he hated disrupting plans. But what choice did he have? It wasn’t him. She’d upset the scheme. He was certain this time. It was not paranoia, or part of some conspiracy theory or the result of chronic anxiety or whatever else they wanted to label it! He was as certain as he’d ever been—a characteristic those doctors would have used to further their case against him—but he knew this time. He knew.

  His insides churned into a thrashing turmoil of rage. The feeling was foreign to him because even when he slaughtered and killed, he managed to keep emotions at bay. Except for that one time—that first time when his father had forced him to drown those puppies. His father. The word crossed his mind with such bitter vulgarity that he had to jerk his head and spit to get rid of the taste. The tall, hawk-nosed intimidator, preaching to the masses about the sanctity of life and the value of all things created by the Lord. Puppies must have been the work of the devil, then, because his father had showed them no mercy. Nor did the widower-cum-preacher display that trait to his children. No matter how hideous the punishment or bizarre the chore assigned to Betty or Leroy, Daddy Fitzsimmons could always justify it with a verse or two. A twisted interpretation of the Good Book—or just things he felt deserved to be in there. He’d elevated himself to saintly status, so why shouldn’t he be granted poetic license over the book itself?

  Kill those puppies now, son. We can’t afford ’em and their barking remi
nds me of your mother.

  Kill something that sounded like Mom? Young Leroy had prayed endless times to be gifted with anything that reminded him of his mother. He had not a single memory or trinket or photo of the woman, only a pen and a soiled death certificate he’d stolen from Daddy’s desk when he was eight; he’d risked his hide stowing it between his mattress and box spring all those years.

  Daddy was all he and Betty ever got—and that man came up short six ways from Sunday.

  But we could slaughter one pig and feed the puppies off the bacon for a year.

  Don’t defy me, son. Do I need to remind you of your commandments?

  No, sir, no! Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother.

  But wouldn’t it dishonor his mother to obey his father in this case? Leroy didn’t actually know if his mom had liked dogs, but it’d be nice to think she wouldn’t have approved of killing them. Worst of all had been the expression on his sister’s face while mandates of death passed from father to son. Icy, hot fear. Immobilized horror. Frozen disbelief. Like her mind had left her body to escape the unfathomable reality. As Leroy had departed to carry out the command, his sister’s body had shown signs of life again. She’d started trembling near the utility sink, where she’d brought one of the puppies to wipe its paws.

  Now drown those puppies and—

  Leroy drowned the memory by humming loudly and rocking himself back and forth in the front seat of the car. He had saved the one. He had saved the one. But the rest . . . still too fresh to remember.

  By the time he’d pushed the episode to the back of his mind, his opportunity to rush the diner had passed. Bridget was back in view. She yanked the diner keys from her purse, dashed through the front door, locked it, and ran to her car before Leroy could decide on a plan of action. He couldn’t be sure, because he’d ducked down, but he thought she might have looked directly into his car.

  Her car swerved past and he knew. He knew she’d called Grady. And suddenly, Leroy saw it all play out and knew what he had to do. Of course! He’d visited his sister at work last month, as if he’d known this day would come. Thank God he was prepared for any eventuality—and those doctors had always thought him crazy. Who was crazy now?

  “Leroy,” Betty had said. “What are you doing here? You never come by Doc Mason’s.”

  “Can’t a brother take his sister to lunch when he’s home? Besides, you told me it was going to be slow today. Give me the grand tour. I want to see everything, Betty. Everything.”

  Betty had been so delighted. She’d made sure to show him a new puppy that was in for its shots because she never liked to let Leroy forget his childhood sins. But then they’d moved on, and Betty had even shown him the locked cabinets and secret storage compartments where Doc Mason kept all the farm animal medicines.

  CHAPTER 40

  “What do you mean, my mother was a pickpocket?”

  Grady smiled. “She didn’t think I knew, but I did.”

  “You were dating a thief?”

  “I wouldn’t call her that. I’d say she had a penchant for . . . pilfering things. Bit of a kleptomaniac.”

  I swigged my drink, then finished it altogether. How had I not known this about my mother? I got up and mixed two more mimosas.

  “Bridget took insignificant things,” Grady explained. “Trinkets, scraps of paper, an earring post, things like that. No idea why, but the desire overwhelmed her, like a craving where she’d get physically ill if she didn’t satisfy it.”

  “She stole,” I said, calling a spade a spade. “Is that how she came into possession of the haiku?”

  “It would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, damn,” I said, because really, what else was left to say?

  “I looked into the psychological components of kleptomania while I was in prison. They think it’s a form of OCD, and her only relief from that pent-up feeling was to pocket an item, even if it meant nothing to her. Sometimes, I saw the tension percolating, although we never discussed it, and she was clever with her heists.”

  “Not clever enough that you didn’t know.”

  “I watched her once through a peephole,” he said proudly. “We were at a hotel in DC.”

  The image disturbed me, but I hid it behind my second morning cocktail.

  “She was in the hall, stalking the cleaning lady.”

  I grunted. “That’s lame, even for a klepto.”

  “No, she took a key right out of the woman’s pocket. A master key that opened a small compartment in each room where the staff kept decorative knickknacks. The hotel had a policy of changing things up so even if a guest requested the same room, it felt new with each visit.”

  “And you embraced her behavior? Seems risky, given the spotlight you were destined for.”

  “Somehow, on Bridget, it was adorable—and worth it. Besides, she returned the things. If she were a real thief, she’d have taken the silver ashtrays and copper drink holders. She left that key on the bedside table for the cleaning woman to find.”

  “So she enjoyed—what?—a quick vacation in other people’s lives? Lived for the thrill of being intimate with their possessions?”

  He shrugged while I grew angry with this version of my mother. “Sounds like it’s only a stone’s throw from how a serial killer needs a trophy to be reminded of the high,” I said.

  Grady stared at me like a father deciding the best way to handle a testy toddler. “That’s quite a leap.”

  “Well, the whole thing’s weird. Her doing it and you enjoying it. But it does explain some things.”

  Grady downed his second drink.

  “Lucinda told me how you raved about Rusty that night at the diner. Why did you call him Rusty?”

  “When he first knocked on our office door, he was wearing white painters’ pants with rust stains because he’d been working on some old pipes. Sam called him Rusty and the name just kind of stuck.”

  “Sam was your driver, right?”

  “More than that. An odd bird, but he was my savior. Probably the only reason I polled as well as I did.”

  “Thought you were a shoo-in.”

  “Partially Sam’s doing. He stayed in the background, working his magic. And his own background wasn’t any better than mine is now, I’m afraid.”

  “Ex-con?”

  “Involuntary manslaughter. He was driving his mother to the hospital after she’d fallen down drunk and hit her head. On the way there, he hit an old guy on a bike and killed him. He was slightly over the legal limit himself, so they threw the book at him. Just a kid, really. Soft in the middle, but the time made him hard.”

  Lines like that must have made the ladies go all gooey in the center over young Grady McLemore. More than one weak-kneed woman had supposedly fainted at his campaign stops.

  “As clever and well-connected as Sam was,” Grady said, “I can’t believe he missed the Leroy Fitzsimmons connection all these years.”

  I drew back in surprise, still finding it hard to adjust to a world where Grady McLemore was the good guy trying to solve the crime. “Sam looked into Rusty? I mean, Leroy?”

  “He must have. I told you when you visited me. He looked into everyone who had a link to your mother or me. Customers at the diner, employees at the Aberdeen, the people who saw me speak that day, you name it.”

  “Does Sam still have his files? Maybe he’ll have insight as to where Leroy is hiding out now.”

  “Of course. It’s never stopped being an active investigation. The fact that the guy who killed my future wife was out there for three decades while I sat behind bars—that’s a scenario that didn’t sit well with me. I hired Sam, and Sam hired others. The thing was, we had almost nothing to go on. The police never believed there was a third person, so they never treated that living room like a crime scene. And this was before DNA evidence. I mean, what’d the
police have? Leaves on the floor? A mishandled blood sample that showed only traces of the drug in my system? A bruise? I doubt they even checked for fingerprints.”

  “I didn’t tell you,” I said, almost cringing. “I dug up a witness who saw the third person leaving that night.”

  Grady’s head shot up. “Who?”

  “Mickey, my mom’s manager.”

  “Come on. That guy’s as reliable as a jailhouse snitch.”

  “I believe him. The things he told me were not the types of things you’d fabricate to make yourself look good. He says he saw you fall to the floor—and he heard the gunshot.”

  “That’s impossible. Sam would have talked to Mickey. He would have uncovered that.”

  I frowned. “No offense, but Sam seems to have come up a few clues short of a solution.”

  “Sam is thorough and loyal to a fault.”

  I posed my next question gently. “Have you been . . . paying Sam all this time?”

  “Every month. My lawyer set it up from a trust I have.”

  “For thirty years?”

  Grady nodded.

  I looked at him with ample cynicism but didn’t push it. “I think I should talk to Sam. He might have some insights.”

  “He hasn’t been answering his phone.”

  “Maybe it’s time for a visit?”

  “You read my mind. I’m driving to his place this afternoon. Just need to hire a driver.”

  “Let me take you. I want to see everything he’s dug up over the years.”

  Grady looked surprised, yet delighted, surely envisioning that big hug he’d been denied earlier.