Brogan sighed. “It was nothing. You said yourself the guys at the winery don’t even have stationary, much less some with which someone wrote you a note designed to make you wonder if they’re taking you for an idiot. Do you know how many people have brown eyes in this world? I have brown eyes? Shit, so does that Lolita Lewis woman. Covington doesn’t, though. Hell, my mother has brown eyes. So does my son.”
“You’ve got a son,” Mary Grace said, suddenly veering off trajectory. Uh-oh. A son meant maybe a marriage. Marriage meant the man is fooling around on his wife. Where’s his ring? Where’s the I’m-flipping-married tattoo on his forehead? Where is my bleeping married man radar when I need it? Idiot!
“Divorced,” Brogan snarled, correctly interpreting Mary Grace’s expression. “My son’s starting college in the fall. It’s all me. Nothing immoral or illegal about us being together.”
“After the case is closed,” Mary Grace added sardonically.
“Yes, after the case is closed,” Brogan snapped. “You watch too much TV. Someone wants to hurt you, wants to kill you. It’s personal and there aren’t that many people who have a personal vendetta against you. It has to be someone close to you and it has to be someone you know. It’s only a matter of time before I figure out who and put them where the sun ain’t gonna shine on them no more.”
Mary Grace’s blood pressure surged to the boiling point. “I just want to get this straight. You want to have sex with me. But only after the case-excuse me-culprit who is after me is caught and I’m not supposed to do anything but wait until that happens? I should sit on my cute little popo and wait for the stupid nimwit to take a notion to oh, say, drop the QEII on my head so you can catch him in the act?”
Brogan frowned. She knew that he didn’t like his words paraphrased back to him. The way she was putting it made it seem simplistic and infantile. “I didn’t say you had a cute little popo. I said you had a cute little nose.”
“OH JESUS H. CHRIST!” Mary Grace bellowed. “Get out of my house! Get off my property! Take your Woody Johnson and prance outside to your unmarked police vehicle and back to your precious investigation! And keep your tootsies off me, unless I perchance ask you, to, but don’t hold your frigging breath!” She flounced over to the front door, slammed it open, and held it dramatically, waiting for Brogan to get the hint. “And by the way, Trey Kennebrew doesn’t have the gonads to call me a bitch. And Lolita Lewis doesn’t even know me from Adam, so how could she want to shoot me?”
Brogan took a breath. A deep breath. Finally, he said, “I’m going. But the patrols keep coming to your street. And you need to let me know where you’re going when you’re going, and not after the fact. Also you need to halt and desist with the little Miss Mary Grace Detective Agency antics or I will arrest and put you downtown so fast your mother’s ass will spin. And finally, you need to spill the whole story on the two gay vineyard owners.”
Mary Grace glared at him as he casually strolled through the door. Then she cheerfully slammed it behind him and gleefully said, “Like hell I will.”
Chapter Eleven – Tuesday, June 21st
To remove elbow discoloration, cut a lemon in half and plop your elbows in each half for ten minutes or more. Then squeeze lemon juice into a martini with extra sugar for taste. (Called a lemon drop martini, it contains 1 ½ ounces vodka, ½ ounce Triple Sec, ¾ ounce lemon juice, and 1 teaspoon sugar. Mix together with ice cubes a minimum of forty shakes. Finally, consume rapidly for best effects. Repeat at least twice for maximum giddiness.)
– Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints
Determination is another word for being a bitch, Mary Grace thought ungraciously. If I come across as determined, then I’m bitchy. If I kowtow to mass opinion then I’m a wimp. I can’t win. She drove Callie’s Miata to the hospital where Callie was recuperating and parked in the visitor’s lot, trying deftly to avoid the ongoing construction in the parking lots. Then she stopped at the gift shop, purchased several cheesy gossip rags, a Dean Koontz book, and a six pack of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. Finally, she got to Callie’s room and waded through several nieces and nephews who were leaving. One of Callie’s sisters waved a cynical finger at Mary Grace and said, “Oh-oh, we’ve been hearing all about you,” before she gathered up children and vanished down the hallway.
Callie grinned from her bed, looking pleasantly comfortable with her leg in traction, and a Curious George sippy cup in one hand. She held it up. “One of my little nieces thought I needed a sippy cup so she loaned me hers. It works great while I’m reclining.”
Mary Grace offloaded her booty onto Callie’s lap, and muttered sourly, “Enjoy. Hope you’re feeling better.”
Studying her friend assiduously, Callie didn’t look at what Mary Grace had brought her. “I guess you know your mother has been talking to my mother and they’re coming up with 47 ½ instead of two.”
“I figured as much when your sister nearly forked the sign of the devil at me,” Mary Grace grumbled and plopped down in the closest arm chair to the bed. “Was any of it relayed to you?”
“Something about a winery,” Callie cackled. “And two gay men who might have tried to accost you. What, did you tempt them out of gayness, or were they striking a blow at your fashion sense?”
Mary Grace glanced down at herself. She was wearing her favorite pair of well faded, ripped knee blue jeans, and a T-shirt that said, ‘A thingy (thing-ee), noun. For women: Anything under a car’s hood. For men: The strap fastener on a woman’s bra.’
“Nice,” Callie said. “Are those Crocs on your feet?”
“Of course,” Mary Grace propped one on Callie’s bed. They were a vivid fuchsia that would have blinded someone if they looked directly at them. “They were twenty percent off.”
Callie sighed. “So no Ben & Jerry’s?”
Mary Grace winced. “I should have stopped at 7/Eleven. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I don’t have any way to work off calories.” Callie smiled. “But I do have nice drugs and a detective from Arlington came to see me this morning. His name is Bloodsaw. Nice weird name by the way. He talked about you. I think they’re putting it together. But he didn’t ask me about Jack’s house and whether we were in it or not.”
“Brogan asked me if we were inside,” Mary Grace said grumpily. “He saw the portrait.”
“You mean, he saw the portrait’s boobies,” Callie laughed. “They take up about sixty percent. Did Jack fess up?”
“I guess I pretty much admitted it was us inside, but Brogan is disinclined to do anything about it, especially since nothing was taken, and we weren’t caught actually in the act,” Mary Grace said carefully.
Callie tapped her fingers on the package of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups. “Oh, dear,” she said finally. “Brogan kissed you, didn’t he? Or you kissed him.” More finger tapping. “You’ve got that guilty, Catholic look on your face. Oh, yeah,” she added as Mary Grace promptly blushed. “And it wasn’t just a kiss.” Callie nodded knowingly. “But you didn’t have sex.”
“That’s creepy,” Mary Grace snapped. “How do you know?”
“It’s a gift,” Callie said carelessly. “From untrusting Italian parents. When I have children, I hope I don’t have any girls, because I’ll go insane. I mean, they’ll walk in from a date when they’re sixteen and I’ll know. Then I’ll get a shotgun and the poor kid will have to crawl home leaving a bloody trail where his wanker used to be.” She hesitated. “So why did you go to a winery? Oh, besides the obvious reasons of drinking wine and buying more of the same.”
Mary Grace let out a breath. “Someone left a note on your car, warning me not to trust the brown-eyed one. It had a logo on it of a flying goose. The only logo I could find that was similar was Goose Winery in Tinker, Texas.” She stopped as Callie’s expression became incredulous. “It made perfect sense at the time. Scope out the winery. Find out the connection. Lean on them. Find the murderer. Only it wasn’t their logo. And the only thing they have to hide is the fact tha
t they’re a little too pro-cannabis. Well, more than pro-cannabis but I’m not going to debate that issue.”
Callie waved a nonchalant hand. “Okay. Why does Jack Covington have a portrait of your chumbawumbas in his garage?”
“He told Brogan that it wasn’t based on a real person,” Mary Grace said petulantly. “That might be true. Maybe he just likes my hooters and painted them. Imaginary ones,” she added quickly when Callie smirked.
Callie broke out a Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup and then handed one to Mary Grace. “Okay, let’s assume Jack is telling the truth. No evidence of bombs, guns, or anti-Mary Grace paraphernalia in his house. So why was he at Pictographs, Inc. that night? Speaking of Pictographs, why aren’t you in work clothes?”
“Jack called and left a message for me to take a couple days off,” Mary Grace muttered. “I think one of the cops might have let the cat out of the bag. They probably put my desk out on the curb.”
“Oh, forget that,” Callie said imperiously. “It was for a good cause. And they didn’t catch us, right? Not to mention that we got the police inside the house for them to investigate. We deserve a medal for that. It’s not like they were doing anything about it until we started poking our noses in it.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’ll sound good to the judge.”
“Okay,” Callie got serious. “You need to ask Jack why he was at Pictographs that night. You need to get inside Trey’s house and look for evidence. I’m not so sure about Lolita Lewis, since she didn’t even seem to care who you are.”
“Right,” Mary Grace said. “I’ll get right on those. I should call Jack up and ask him even while knowing that he has a painting of my breasts in his garage. Excuse me, what he thinks my breasts look like. And also with him knowing that we broke into his house.”
Callie handed Mary Grace her cell phone. “He’s at work, right?”
Mary Grace stared at the cell phone as if Callie had handed her a live snake. “Do I have to?” she whined.
“Yes. No, don’t call him,” Callie amended. “You have to go there in person! You have to look at his face and say, ‘I know it was you,’ and you have to mean it. Also you have to do it in a public place so he can’t pull out a knife and do major surgery on your intestines. Be firm. Don’t be afraid to lose your job. Remember this is your life at stake.”
“Let’s threaten your job and life first,” Mary Grace said menacingly.
“Keep your cell phone handy,” Callie said as she waved a half-eaten Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup at Mary Grace. “Call me when you’re done extracting the evidence. And don’t forget to make Jack sit in a pool of light so that he’s squirming. Also make him sit while you’re standing. Tell him you know everything. Even about him picking his nose in front of the mirror in the bathroom when he was five years old.”
“But I don’t know everything,” Mary Grace complained. “And eww.”
“He doesn’t have to know that,” Callie snapped. “Be a woman. Think of this as a seventy-five percent off sale at Gucci’s. You’re there in the front before the doors open. There are women all around you ready to eviscerate you so they can get to the goods first. Estrogen is running rampant. Women are prepared to sacrifice shins and freshly manicured nails to the gods that give us seventy-five percent off. They’re looking at you and taking out nail files to make sure they make it to the merchandise before you do. What do you do? What do you do?”
Shopping at a killer sale was something to which Mary Grace could relate. “I’d kick ho hootenanny,” she said viciously, meaning every word.
•
Pictographs, Inc. was open and the office was half full. When Mary Grace looked at her watch she saw that it was late afternoon, and people were beginning to leave. Several employees stopped to ask her questions and she brushed them off as quickly as she could. Trey Kennebrew bounced out of his cubicle with blue eyes sparking and blonde hair bouncing, and said, “MARY GRACE! It’s about time you got your cute little bum back to work. I hate this stupid work of yours that Jack’s got me doing. Please take over.”
“That’s up to Jack,” Mary Grace said diplomatically. “I may not be back this week. Apparently, I’m incapacitated by the sight of a big gun.”
Trey did his best Groucho Marx, “That wasn’t a big gun, honey.”
Jack said, “It sure sounded like one to me.”
Mary Grace turned toward Jack. He was standing in the door of his office looking at her meaningfully. “Jack,” she said as firmly as she could. “I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I kind of figured that. Come into my office.”
Trey leered and whispered to Mary Grace, “And see my etchings, little girl. Also I have candy. And say, you look a little run down. How does that feel?”
“Shut up, Trey,” Mary Grace said. She took a breath and looked around briefly. She liked working at Pictographs, Inc. The money was decent. She got along with the people who owned the company and, previous to this whole incident she had gotten along with Jack Covington. Furthermore, it hadn’t entered her mind that Jack saw her in anything but a bossly perspective. The entire office seemed different, as if it were tainted by the evidence that not was all as it was supposed to be. Additionally, she knew she couldn’t look at Jack the same way again, and it was giving her a case of butterflies on LSD in her stomach.
Trey shrugged and vanished into his cubicle.
Mary Grace entered the inner sanctum. It appeared normal. But there was the question that plagued a thousand psychiatrists and psychologists. What was normal? Ted Bundy probably had had an office just like Jack’s. The basics were simple. It was a small room with a desk, two chairs, a palm tree plant, and a linoleum floor. His credentials were hung on one wall. Business degree with graphic art minor at an eastern college. MBA at some other place. Various artwork was displayed. Some was business related. Some was personal displays. The desk was neat. Several framed photographs of his son doing various kid stuff were exhibited. In one Morgan had a large trophy in his hands and was standing next to a complicated gizmo and a sign that said it was a science fair.
It didn’t say much about Jack’s personality, but then none of the offices at Pictographs really did. Mary Grace knew he was recently divorced and had a son. A son who liked science fairs and Dorothy the Dinosaur, whoever that was, but she certainly wasn’t about to ask Jack. He also had a personal investment in Pictographs, Inc., but he wasn’t the primary owner. He was more like the 40 percent of a sixty/forty split. The other owners left the running up to Jack and only periodically came to visit the premises. Apparently, they were happy with the bottom line.
Jack sat in his ergonomic chair and motioned at Mary Grace to take a straight backed one across the desk from him. She thought about Callie’s instructions and how Jack might react if she were to remain standing. Could he kill her in his office without the rest of the staff knowing? So why not kill me when he brought me home Friday night? She asked herself. Then she frowned. He knew that Brogan was following us home. Or he didn’t want to be the last person known to have seen me alive and the witnesses were all cops at the scene of another attempted murder on me.
Or, the rational and compassionate part of her brain kicked in, he’s completely innocent of attempted murder. Yikes. I have more suspects than an Agatha Christie novel. And I keep making pseudo enemies like Bill and Marv who are going to figure out that I could squeal on them at any time and come after me in some truly Broadway glitz fashion to do me in. There’ll be a big dance number with a hundred hairy guys named Bruce doing the can-can right before they throw me off a high cliff drenched in a thousand incandescent bulbs to spotlight the effect. Big pause. Naw. They had their chance.
“So,” Jack said hesitantly. “I guess you want to talk to me about something.”
Mary Grace sat down. I guess maybe I do. So Jack, did you try to kill me four times? Or even once? “Why were you at Pictographs on Friday night?” she blurted out.
“Why was…what?” Jack sputte
red. Clearly, it wasn’t the question he’d expected out of Mary Grace. Then he added numbly, “I thought you were going to pound me about…”
“Pound you about…what?” Mary Grace said slowly. Jack was on the defensive. At that moment it didn’t matter if he was her boss and he signed her paychecks and he had a gun pointed at her from underneath the desk.
“Never mind,” he said quickly. For a solitary second, Mary Grace thought that there was a flash of relief that crossed his face, and it confused her, but she got her second wind and went for his femoral artery.
“The portrait,” she answered for him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “It isn’t from your imagination. You’ve been peeking through my windows to see my boobies.”
“Good God!” Jack yelled and stood up. Then he collected himself and sat back down again. “I’m an artist, just like you are. I’m in a nude stage right now. You know how it is. Some of my portraits start looking like whoever’s around me at the moment.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I never peeked at you, or anyone else for that matter. I never meant you to see the portrait. Even if I had known you were going to break into my house.”
Mary Grace wasn’t sure whether to flee or to apologize profusely. No, it’s a ploy. He’s trying to put me on the defensive. No can do, buddy-boy. I’ve got your excuses right where I want them. “Someone is trying to kill me, Jack,” she said determinedly. Take that, sucker. “I had three suspects at Pictographs on Friday night. Someone actually shot at me and told me to die. Maybe I got a little desperate. No, no maybe. I was desperate. I am desperate.”
Jack bit his lip. When he looked like that, he looked more boyish than man and Mary Grace nearly felt as if she were speaking a recalcitrant twelve year old caught with a stack of sticky Hustler magazines. “You think I don’t understand why you would want to look inside my house?” he asked after a moment. “I was angry at first. Totally pissed off. But I tried to put myself in your shoes. I mean, I really got it. You’re in a frightening position and you don’t know which way to turn. And I told both detectives I don’t have anything to hide. They didn’t find anything in my house that would connect me to the attacks. And if painting nudes is a crime, then me and a whole shitload of other artists are in deep doodoo.”
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