“I don’t think Mrs. DeMarco’s sister really had an affair with the postman,” Mary Grace interjected before the entire story started rolling. That particular event could take thirty minutes in retelling with added adjectives, invectives, and moral admonishments. Furthermore, who knew how much had been added since the last time it was told. Mrs. DeMarco’s sister had been a widow and had been entitled to fool around with anyone she chose. Besides which she was presently remarried to an Italian-American proctologist and couldn’t be happier.
“That’s not the point,” Ghita snarled. “We still have many friends and family here. Did you think that no one was going to notice that there’s a piece of a car embedded in your front door frame?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought to pry it out yet,” Mary Grace said weakly. “Besides the crepe myrtles and the oleanders were the real victims. And did I tell you that Attila the poodle took a direct hit on his tail?”
“It must have slipped your mind,” Ghita said dryly. “You could have come to stay with us, dear. I know I’m not June Cleaver, Mary Grace, but do you have to think of me as the Anti-Christ?”
Mary Grace winced. She knew her mother wasn’t the Anti-Christ. Ghita was merely a strong personality who wanted things to run along her lines and people to fall in with what she wanted. Being a chip off the old block, Mary Grace just wasn’t the kind of person who wanted to fall in with her mother’s plans. Otherwise Mary Grace would have had four children by now and a husband who was thoroughly of Italian descent. “Ma, I really didn’t want you to worry. You take blood pressure medication. Dad told me. You’ve had a few dizzy spells. You think I want to add to your worries? Are you supposed to be drinking coffee?”
“Don’t change the subject,” Ghita instructed firmly. “What are you wearing? Didn’t I raise you better?”
“I wanted to be able to run in case I ran into the killer again,” Mary Grace said doggedly.
Ghita again allowed a well formed hand to flutter dramatically over her chest. Her eyelids flickered. Her daughter wasn’t fooled. “Three attempts on your life,” Ghita said pertly, after realizing her daughter wasn’t falling for the old standby. “Is that right?”
Mary Grace nodded wearily. Actually it was four. “Unless I missed one.”
Ghita thought about it. “Brake lines cut. Bomb under your car. A person shooting at you with a gun. That’s everything.”
The CIA would be impressed by Ma, Mary Grace thought. Did she get that out of Brogan? Or was it Callie? Yikes. I wonder if I hid my birth control pills well enough. And God forbid she finds that vibrator. Would Ma know what a vibrator is? Well, no one but an idiot would not know that one is a vibrator. After all, it’s like ten inches long and shaped like…
“Mary Grace?” Ghita said warningly.
“Four times,” Mary Grace said. “The killer hit Callie with the car instead of me. I’m assuming that Callie doesn’t have her own homicidal maniac stalker, too. Or perhaps the killer was trying to be economical and wanted to take us both out at the same time, which doesn’t really say anything for Callie.”
Ghita sighed. “And this detective, Brogan, is that his name? Too bad he’s not Italian, but he might be a little old for you. He says that you’ve been investigating it yourself. That that was the reason you were at the winery.”
Mary Grace spared a glance for the kitchen where her laptop was sitting, knowing full well that Ghita had read her list, and probably cracked her email password, too, to make sure her daughter hadn’t become a lesbian while her parents were in Florida. It wasn’t that Ghita had anything against lesbians; it was that a lesbian was less likely to produce grandchildren. Her reluctant gaze came back to her mother. “The police were a tad disbelieving at first,” she said. “Someone had to make sense of it all.”
Ghita nodded approvingly. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that’s made sense all day.”
Chapter Thirteen – Tuesday, June 21st – Wednesday, June 22nd
Beauty is an attitude. Walk proudly, believe in one’s self, throw one’s chin heavenward, and quite naturally lowly wretches will helplessly scramble over mountainous masses of moldy maggots in order to worship at the fortunate one’s well-shaped,
properly manicured, and exquisite toes. - Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints.
Ghita and Mary Grace were hunkered over the laptop. They had sat down with coffee in hand and collaborated at length about exactly who was the culprit. Mary Grace had told her mother just about everything, although she had left out certain graphic parts, such as the details about the nude portrait in Jack Covington’s garage and how she had felt when Brogan had his hand very nearly in her bed and breakfast. The poopy roof was mentioned briefly and even the nasty words spoken to Mary Grace before she slugged her attacker with her Prada purse were revealed. The unfortunate Prada and the Jimmy Choo casualties were specified in detail.
“Oh, no,” Ghita said regretfully. “Not the Prada. And weren’t those pumps a gift from your Aunt Maria?” She hesitated and considered her daughter’s words. “Jack said he wanted to ask you out,” she added thoughtfully. “That’s why he was there. Hmm.”
Mary Grace knew exactly what her mother was thinking and it wasn’t about whether Jack was a potential murderer or not. Mutilated, high quality merchandise and alleged malfeasance were of little consequence when placed next to a potential beau and possible sperm donor. Swift damage control was necessary before the whole building collapsed under the weight of maternal hopefulness. Mary Grace said quickly, “He’s not Catholic. He’s divorced. And no, I’m pretty sure he won’t convert. But he does have a really cute five year old kid named Morgan. Do you really want step-grandchildren? I mean, he might light your cat’s tail on fire or cut up your Sunday advertisements.” Suddenly, she frowned, thinking about something that was bothering her. A mental image of photographs came to her, the photographs that had been sitting on Jack’s desk. The mention of Jack’s son had brought that niggling feeling back to her, as if she had missed something important.
“Well,” Ghita said regretfully, “they can’t all be perfect. But he had alibis for the first two events and one for the car incident. That means he’s innocent…and available.”
Mary Grace stared at the list they had compiled. Jack Covington’s name was at the top, even though both women knew that he was pretty much eliminated. “He drove off in his Saturn with his son and the car that hit Callie was a black sedan with tinted windows and no plates. Since Jack didn’t know we were going to be breaking into his house with the intention of looking for incriminating evidence, I guess he couldn’t have dumped his kid, changed his car, and doubled back to the place we had escaped the police to.” She sighed. “Did I leave anything out?”
Ghita sniffed. “That’s good, yes. So this Trey Kennebrew was also there that night. And he’s another man?”
Mary Grace nodded. “Dressed in dark clothing with a likely excuse. But he’s hardly the stalking type. And Ma, he’s younger than me, barely out of college, and I think he’s got more teenage hormones than a high school locker room. I think if he rubbed up against a wall, there would be trouble in the underwear department. And the wall wouldn’t be safe, either.”
“Men,” Ghita said seriously, “are all potential stalkers. They see something they want. They don’t get it. They might go insane. Too much blood in other places besides the brain.”
Mary Grace suppressed a groan. Ghita wasn’t stupid, but Mary Grace wasn’t sure that she wanted to hear her mother’s view on crazed, horny men who might want to kill her. But Mary Grace had introduced the topic, so she had to suffer in silence because she hadn’t thought about what she was saying first.
“The quiet ones,” Ghita went on ruthlessly, “are the worst.”
“I hope you’re not speaking from personal experience,” Mary Grace muttered.
“The problem with this theory,” Ghita said, “is that your killer may not be any of those three at all. It could be a fourth person with an as yet u
nknown and wretched reason to knock you off.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Mary Grace interjected dryly. “All I need is another psycho on my tail.”
“Hush,” her mother replied. “You’re such a good girl. I don’t understand why anyone would want to kill you. Except myself and for that I would not only go to hell, but I would definitely get no grandchildren that way.” Ghita laughed to herself. “You know, I think of hell as a place where all the old ladies hang out, crocheting, baking cookies, showing each other school pictures and hand drawn pictures, and I’m the only one without grandchildren.” She shuddered once and took a drink of coffee.
“Nice guilt manipulation technique there, Ma,” Mary Grace said admiringly. “I’m going to hang on to that one for my therapist. Maybe if I found my recorder so you could say it again.”
“Back to the fourth person theory, for example,” Ghita said as she ignored Mary Grace, “Jack’s ex-wife might be horribly jealous. Perhaps Morgan talks about his father’s ‘obsession’ for the woman who works for him. He even painted a picture of you that the child could have seen. For all we know, Jack’s wife may be a certifiable meshugana who needs a shot of thorazine and a straight jacket. You wouldn’t even see it coming because you have no idea that she’s out to make you disappear from Jack’s life.”
Mary Grace had another thought.
“Why were you at Pictographs on Friday night?” Mary Grace blurted out.
“Why was…what?” Jack sputtered. 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.
Relief. Jack had been relieved that I asked that question. So he had been expecting another question. What’s the question Jack had been expecting? Suddenly, Ghita’s mad wife theory didn’t seem so farfetched. But if Mary Grace started thinking about whom else by association might be angry with her, then she could be counting double and even triple digits for reasons that she couldn’t even begin to fathom. “Meshugana?”
Ghita shrugged. “I play bridge with these lovely ladies. They teach me the most interesting Yiddish words. They understand completely about a lack of grandchildren. Wait until they hear about this.” She clicked her tongue and looked at the laptop again. “Tell me what you know about this young man named Trey.”
•
It was Ghita who came up with the plan. It was Wednesday morning and Trey would be at work at 9 AM. So when it was safely clear, Mary Grace would go to Trey’s house, inveigle Trey’s mother, and then surreptitiously seek out evidence of wrong doing. Or by default, lack of evidence of wrong doing.
“If he made a bomb,” Ghita announced simply, “then there will be equipment in the house somewhere. Wires, detonators, wire cutters, explosive materials.”
Mary Grace thought that she wouldn’t recognize such materials if they bit her on her ass, but that fact certainly hadn’t stopped her and Callie from going into Jack’s house. Fortunately for her, the police went through the house, to include Brogan, and pretty much cleared her boss of suspicion. “I wouldn’t know…”
Ghita interrupted, “Can’t you ask Brogan what a bomb would look like?” She sighed. “No, I suppose not. He was awfully upset that you went to the winery by yourself. Are you sure that he’s divorced? I know an archbishop who might be able to get him a special dispensation with the pope.”
“Ma, I don’t even know if he’s Catholic,” Mary Grace protested.
Ghita smiled evilly in a manner that made her daughter’s toes tremble in her Croc’s. “He is.”
Mary Grace shot her mother a look. “Oh, God, Mother, what did you do? Investigate him? Call up his mother or something? Is there a secret mother’s society for the advancement of Catholic grandchildren?”
“Oh, shush, and look up this boy’s address on the internet,” Ghita admonished her. “I’ll play lookout for you. We’ll take Callie’s cute little go-mobile, and stop at Starbucks for a latte.”
“And if Trey’s mother is home?”
“Well, we’ll come up with a story.”
“What if Trey’s mother is the killer, you know, like the ex-paranoidly-homicidal wife theorem? Except this time a paranoid homicidal mother who doesn’t want to let go of her baby?” Mary Grace stared pointedly, but the shot went clean over Ghita’s bow and was forever lost at sea.
“A mother of a twenty-something old boy?” Ghita said consideringly. “No, she’s busy trying to get girls to go out with him so she can have her grandchildren. She’ll probably lock you in the basement for him to keep.”
•
Mary Grace approached the front door and knocked hesitantly. Then she saw the lighted, recessed doorbell and rang it more firmly. If someone was home, then she wouldn’t have to commit another crime, no matter for what reason. Furthermore, she wouldn’t be giving her mother ammunition with which to beat her over her head in the future and use as prospective blackmail most heinously. Ghita sat in Callie’s Miata on the street, watching, drinking a grande, skinny hazelnut latte, and obviously enjoying herself.
No one answered the knock or the bell.
Trey’s house, or rather his mother’s house was in a quiet Duncanville neighborhood. Duncanville was a suburb of Dallas and about fifteen miles away from Pictographs, Inc. The address was listed on an internet directory and the Google Earth directions were quite specific. They hadn’t even made one wrong turn. The houses on the cul-de-sac were mostly one or two stories, with brick facades, and trim, green yards. There wasn’t even an errant yard gnome glaring out at the occasional visitor.
Mary Grace bit her lip. I’m a wimp. Someone’s trying to kill me. My mother shows up. Brogan warns me off and then catches me in the act not once but twice, and I turn into a chicken butted wussy. She glanced over her shoulder at her mother and repressed an urge to twitch helplessly. Looking back at the door, she gritted her teeth and slammed her fist against the door. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! On the inside she was thinking forcefully, I WANT YOU TO OPEN RIGHT NOW OR ELSE I’M GETTING A HORDE OF MADDENED SHOPPERS WHO GOT TURNED AWAY BECAUSE THE SALES STUFF WAS SOLD OUT AND I’LL TELL THEM WHOEVER LIVES IN THIS HOUSE IS RESPONSIBLE!!
The door came unlatched and opened under the force of the third WHAM! Mary Grace stared at the half open door and said, “Well, son of a bitch. Look at that.”
“Don’t just look at it!” Ghita yelled from the car. Mary Grace glanced and saw that Ghita had rolled down the passenger window to bellow at her daughter. “It’s a sign from God! He wants you to go in!”
It’s a sign someone forgot to lock the door, Mary Grace thought ungratefully. It’s a sign someone’s a dorkus malorkus and doesn’t care if their stereo, TV, and laptop get ripped off during the day while they’re at work. She paused halfway into the door. Or it’s a sign that the murderer has gotten to the house before me, killed Trey and his mother in a vicious, gory, gruesome fashion, leaving the bodies for the intrepid heroine to find in a chilling, yet can’t-look-away fashion. The killer could be waiting for me just inside the basement door, thinking he’s going to finally get his twisted hands on the beauteous Mary Grace, and give her the malevolent and grisly ending he thinks she really deserves, leaving a mystery that will enthrall the masses almost as much as JFK, Amelia Earheart, and Judge Crater combined.
Mary Grace sighed. Or they could have just forgotten to lock the door. She spared a last look at Ghita, who was looking supremely complacent, and then scanned for nosy neighbors. The mulberries and ash trees waved feebly in a hot summer breeze and no one seemed interested in Mary Grace or the Kennebrew household. Then
she went inside and shut the door behind her.
The house was quiet. A grandfather clock ticked and clicked softly. The ice cube maker in the refrigerator whirred into life from the kitchen. There wasn’t anyone around. And not even a dead body was to be found, she thought grimly. She looked around. The house was neat, clean, and did she need to mention a blast to the past? Everything within her sight was retro right back to the sixties or seventies. Modern furniture in clear varnish dominated. A sun burst clock adorned one of the living room walls. A set of dangling beads separated the living room door from the kitchen. There was a shelf of lava lamps in five different colors on one wall. A rug with large, psychedelic daisies covered the floor. All that was needed was Jimi Hendrix played from the record player and a giant bong shaped like a…
Mary Grace froze. A very large, glass water pipe in the shape of a choo-choo train sat nonchalantly on the coffee table, minding its own bongly business.
Note to self, Mary Grace thought. Send Trey’s mother a subscription to Southern Living and Modern Decorating. Unless she’s a possible murderer, in which case, I’ll wave with one of the magazines when she goes off to Huntsville for life. A thought occurred to her. Maybe they know Bill and Marv at the winery. The whole recreational cannabis thing, you know.
The kitchen was more of the same retro design. Bullet shaped breakfast nook chairs were parked up to a vinyl counter. Scarlet colored Fiestaware was displayed in a sideboard that looked like it came out of Home and Garden circa 1969. Trey’s mom even had the art deco looking, matching pitcher, and ball shaped salt and pepper shakers that went with the rest of the set. And oh, look, harvest gold appliances and black and white checkered linoleum flooring. I’m in a time machine. I need to barf.
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