The thought about a new job made her cringe mentally. Everyone in the greater Dallas metroplex was going to be reading the metro article, or, at the very worst, looking at the photograph of Jack’s portrait. The people at the agency which had headhunted her months before was going to be looking at it as well. It was her wish that the director there had a good sense of humor and a good recall of his open-ended offer of employment.
I’m screwed, she thought resentfully. Everyone’s going to be thinking boobies until bigger boobies get plastered across the paper. And I’m pretty sure that Dolly Parton isn’t going to do me a close personal favor anytime soon. Not that I’m that big.
The crane swung around and the wrecking ball hit part of the building that was being destroyed in order to make way for the parking lot. The loud noise made Mary Grace jump and she moved quickly away, hurrying inside the hospital.
Some fortuitous god of shopping must have been looking out for her, because when she stepped into Callie’s room she found her friend alone minus the usual hovering horde of fretful relatives. Mary Grace was instantly thankful. Maybe she hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
“I’ve seen it,” Callie said. She was propped up in bed, reading a Cosmopolitan magazine and sipping a Red Bull with a straw. Her leg was surrounded by a new cast and sustained by two generous pillows. The IV was gone and she was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. The shirt said, ‘Ignoranus – a person who is both stupid and an asshole.’
You haven’t seen your car yet, Mary Grace thought. Wonder where she got that T-shirt. Maybe it was made for me.
Mary Grace sat down in the chair beside the bed and said, “You got a minute?”
Callie put the magazine down. “Someone hasn’t tried to kill you again, have they? I would have thought having your mambajambas spread out over section B of the daily news would be the highlight of your day.”
So Mary Grace explained about being banned from the mall. Then she elucidated about the photograph in Jack’s office.
Callie made various comments. “Oh, God, six months? Six whole months? And they didn’t catch the lady who thumped you on the head with the purse full of bricks?” “A science fair at the mall. Wow. Whodathunk?” “My car? Not my precious, little, wubby-mubby baby Miata.” “Jack did?” “Morgan? No, really? No. NO. NOOOO.”
Mary Grace nodded her head solemnly. “Morgan. Morgan’s the one who tried to blow me up.”
“A five year old boy tried to kill you?” Callie covered her mouth with her hand and masked a half-hysterical titter.
Wait for it, Mary Grace thought. Wait for it.
Callie shook her head and wiped a tear from her eye. She sniffled. Wiped the other eye. Then she shifted in the bed. The cast came up and then back down. Finally, her eyes narrowed in understanding. “But if he’s in a psychiatric ward, who tore up my car? And besides which that little scrawny kid couldn’t have knocked you down at Pictograph’s parking lot. And. And. And he definitely wasn’t the one who ran me down.” She shook her finger in the air as if she had scored a point. “That means you’ve got another one! And Deep Throat Mommy knows exactly who it is. Oh, Mary, mother of Jesus. You got three people who want to kill you. Not one. Not two. Three.”
“Yes,” Mary Grace said peevishly. “Three. And I don’t have a clue who the third one is. It could be the pope for all I know. Or the pope’s brother. Or his brother’s wife. Or Mrs. Frasier’s tailless poodle, Attila. The postman. The guy who rents me DVDs. A guy who had a crush on me in the sixth grade. A space alien from Alpha Centauri.”
Callie sat back in the bed and the pillows made a squishing noise. She crossed her arms over her chest. “The person who tried to shoot you at Pictographs. The person who tried to run you down but got me instead. That person.”
“Yes, that person,” Mary Grace agreed. “But how do I find him? Or her?
Rubbing her head, Callie said, “Brogan?”
“He’s convinced that Trey is good for everything.”
“You didn’t tell him about Morgan Covington?”
Mary Grace shifted uncomfortably. “You know. He was really mad at me for the poopy imprint on Pictograph’s roof. And going to the vineyard. And talking to Jack…the first time and how could I tell him about the second time? Then he was really pissed about me going to Trey’s house. Did I leave anything out?”
“You’re not going to tell him?” Callie said severely. “And Jack said he’s going to the DA on Monday. I think Brogan may find out.”
“Well,” Mary Grace said weakly. “I can still pretend.”
“You weren’t going to tell me about my car, right?”
“No,” Mary Grace muttered. “But I got the tires fixed. And I’ll pay for the scratches, too.”
Callie sighed. “It’s not like you asked the person to do it to my car, MG. It’s just a car. I thank God you weren’t badly hurt.”
“I know. I know,” she said. “But it is my fault. For whatever it was that I did do that got this person so angry with me. I don’t think it’s going to simply blow over.”
Callie slashed the air with her hand, disregarding all of that as if it were nothing of consequence. “You like him, right?” Him meant Brogan.
Mary Grace nodded. “I like him. I like him a lot. But I think he thinks I’m a fluff head with a penchant for shopping.”
“Did he sleep with you and then say, ‘Let’s be friends, now?’ like in your worst nightmares?”
Mary Grace shook her head.
“Okay, then,” Callie said firmly. “Did he come over last night?”
A nod.
“Ah,” Callie said understandingly. “More hot sex. At least twice. I can tell. A man like that doesn’t have sex with you, three and half times on Wednesday, and at least two more times on Thursday, without having some feelings for you. He’s a good looking guy. Seems to have a decent heart. If he didn’t like you he wouldn’t be with you. For the love of St. Sioux Marie’s sister’s crippled cat, it’s not like you haven’t been a tad high maintenance lately.” She made a disapproving noise. “For such a confident woman, you can be amazingly unconfident about men.” Her tongue clicked. “Doofus.”
“Are you married?” Mary Grace asked suddenly. “No, Callie. Do you have a boyfriend? No. Look whose kettle is calling my pot black.”
“You know what I mean,” Callie said. “And don’t call me a kettle. My ass only looks like that because I’ve been on my back for the better part of a week.” She laughed. “Oh, tell him, Mary Grace, before he finds out from some other way and it all gets screwed up.”
Mary Grace slumped in the chair and leaned over so her chin rested on her chest. “I know. But it’s like an avalanche. It was just a little snow at first. A trickle. A handful of snowflakes. Then it was like knee high, a little surge, but I could still handle it. And now, well, it’s coming at me like a wall of packed snow yards thick and a hundred feet high. I’m starting to forget who I’ve told what or for which reason. I think you’re the only one who knows everything. I told Marv and Bill everything but they’re a little behind by now. A lot behind.”
Callie sighed. “You told Marv and Bill everything?”
“It was really good merlot,” Mary Grace explained. “And you were…unconscious with drugs and pain.”
“Okay then,” Callie capitulated. “That I understand.”
“What the bleep do I do now?” Mary Grace whined and instantly hated herself for whining.
Callie rested her chin on her hand and thought about it seriously. “I think you should make a statement to the media. You should tell them that Trey isn’t responsible for all three attempts. That Morgan is…wait, let me guess, Jack made you promise not to say anything about Morgan?”
Mary Grace nodded. “He’s five years old. They’re going to the DA on Monday. They don’t want it to get out that their kindergarten aged son is a teensy weensy bit…psychotic.”
“Okay, then you’ll say you don’t believe that Trey’s responsible for homicidal a
cts two and three because he’s really a college nerd. Plus he told you so. Plus according to the article his mother says so. The news is going to want to talk to you. They’ll even pay you for it. I bet you could talk to Good Morning, America right now.” Callie placed her hand in the air as if she were reading headlines. “‘Dallas area artist stalked by psychotic sinister student. An interview with the victim and alleged shopoholic; She denies her secret obsession for DKNY and Tommy Hilfiger.’”
Mary Grace scowled at Callie. “And what exactly is that going to achieve? Besides enraging my mother, my…um…boyfriend, and probably most of my immediate relatives. Except Aunt Maria. She’ll probably think it’s funny.”
“That’s the master plan part,” Callie said energetically. “You tell the news what a micro-weenie this unknown person is. He’s a mindless, peckerless, miserable excuse for a human being who won’t face you. He tries to shoot you in the back and then runs away. He’s a fucktard. A bubble headed, horse molesting, discombobulated, cloned troglodyte.” She stopped to think about the last insult. “That was pretty good. Inspired even. I should write that down.”
“So when he or she comes to chop me into little pieces with a souped-up chainsaw, what shall I do?”
“You have Brogan on the case to catch the guy or girl,” Cassie sighed dramatically.
“Brogan’s not going to be talking to me once he finds out what I’ve been up to,” Mary Grace complained.
“Tell him right after sex,” Callie advised. “Hot sex. Steaming, scorching, virulent sex that involves whipped cream and Hershey’s chocolate syrup.”
“When are you going home?”
“A couple hours or so,” Callie replied. “Why do you ask?”
“So you can watch my six with a sawed off shotgun,” Mary Grace said, half way seriously.
•
Callie graciously gave Mary Grace permission to continue using the Miata. “It’s not like I need it,” she groused. “Besides, what else could possibly happen to it?”
Mary Grace exited the hospital with a gloomy disposition. Telling the truth to Brogan would be like taking a sour pill. A very large, very acerbic pill that was going to choke her going down. He wasn’t going to be happy and it wasn’t going to taste like liquid kaka. The attraction she felt for the police detective was new and unusual. In fact, it was unlike any of her previous relationships. She wanted it to last.
And Brogan wasn’t the only one she had to talk with. There was also her mother, who hadn’t spoken to her in two days. That was two days longer than Mary Grace should have been allowed to go without checking in, especially considering the current situation. One of those 43 phone calls was undoubtedly from Ghita. Probably it was more like a minimum of five calls. There were also the twenty-six voice mails on Mary Grace’s cell phone that she had discovered when she had turned the power on. Some of those were probably from Ma, too. Ma didn’t give up easily. As a matter of fact, Ghita was probably waiting at Mary Grace’s house at that very moment, ready with an all new massive assault with which to bring down her wayward daughter.
Brogan and Ma. I should go see the padre first to gear myself up. I can confess my sins. Just a few here and there. Then I can be ready for the next round. Brogan and Ma. Then some of the news people. Get that statement out there before I chicken out. Mary Grace exited the hospital and turned toward the parking lot, walking slowly. Yeah. That’s an okay plan. I say all this stuff about No. 3 and then he/she gets all riled up. Then maybe it’s too late for Brogan to back out. She paused. If he believes me, that is. And that is, if he’s not too angry with me.
The sun was high up and the temperature was already on roast-o-matic. Even though Mary Grace was in a plain T-shirt and denim shorts, she was beginning to sweat. Certainly she wasn’t sure which thing was making her sweat more, talking to Brogan and Ma or the natural heat of a summertime Texas sun. Maybe if I explained it in terms of me stumbling onto the Morgan factor accidentally? There was a photograph of the kid with a bomb. Jack was sweating bullets. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put it together. It was just me being in the right place at the right time. That’s not that complicated, right?
The crane ahead of her roared into life. The wrecking ball swung around and destroyed the corner of a building. Someone started yelling from the trailer in the corner of the fenced off portion of the construction area. A man in a yellow hard hat came running out of the trailer and screamed an obscenity at the crane operator.
Mary Grace paid it minimal attention. Her concentration was focused on the words that were going to be coming out of her mouth and soonest. Her mother wasn’t going to be a problem, per se. Ghita could wrap herself around the axle no matter what Mary Grace had been doing so innocuously. But the thought of telling Brogan something she patently didn’t want to do was giving Mary Grace a case of manic butterfly stomach. It’s not going to be good.
Retrieving the Miata’s keys from her pocket, she twirled them absently as she walked toward the car. There was another problem besides Brogan, Ma, and telling the media about how her stalker was mentally deficit, the ragged scarring that jig-jagged down the sides of the little convertible. There was an odd roaring noise that distracted her peripherally, but she was too busy mentally totaling up how much the paint job was going to cost her.
Someone bellowed just behind her, just as Mary Grace was about to put the key into the door’s lock. She looked up and saw a man in a yellow hard hat charging toward her. “Holy crap!” she screamed, trying to leap back. A second later, his massive arms wrapped around her and tossed her away from the car like a discarded wrapping paper from a candy bar.
Mary Grace skidded across the pavement on her butt. The man who had grabbed her was a second behind her. Then there was a deafeningly loud boom that caused them both to be flattened to the ground. She twisted her head and saw that the wrecking ball was sitting squarely in the remains of the Miata. With a grinding roar of chains and hydraulic equipment, it tried to retract but some of the chains were firmly caught on the ruins of the car.
There was someone else roaring in the background, a muddled, angry yell of an individual pushed to the limit. Mary Grace turned her head toward the crane operator’s booth and saw a red-haired person in a thick black coat rapidly climbing down. Several men in yellow hard hats were hurrying toward Mary Grace and her nameless savior, ignoring the person with the red wig. The person hit the dirt ground running, and scrambled away in the opposite direction, disappearing behind construction equipment.
Mary Grace started to say, “Stop that person,” but she couldn’t get herself to actually speak, and No. 3, the new name she’d given her unknown stalker, got away…again.
Chapter Nineteen – Friday, June 24th
To cleanse and nourish one’s skin with this divine facial, mix ¼ cup cocoa powder, ¼ cup honey, ¼ cup cream, and ¼ cup oatmeal. Add essence of vanilla and almonds for fragrance. Mix well together, apply to face, and anywhere else that suits one’s fancy, and leave for ten minutes. Rinse off with warm water or with a warm tongue if you happen to have one eager and available. (See Auntie’s hints for chocolate removal from carpets for disproportionate cases of follow-up nookie.) – Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints
The hero, whose name was Philip Strawbridge, was talking excitedly. “I saw the wrecking ball headed right for that lady. I think it was going for her. I didn’t think it was aimed at the little red car. I mean I know there’s a certain range on the rig. It can only twist so far and the ball can only have a certain length. I thought that maybe the crane guy, I forget his name, had a stroke or something. Jeez.”
The crane guy, whose name was John Cording, said, “That nutcase got into the crane a full forty-five minutes before. She had a gun and she poked it into my back. What was I supposed to do? She watched me work the crane and kept out of sight in the back of the booth. Said she’d shoot me if I did anything wrong. Didn’t you guys see me sending you hand signals? Then when the brunette came walking out, the headjo
b hit me in the back of the head. The next thing I know one of the cops is nudging me in the side, asking me if I’m all right. Does this look like I’m all right?” He showed the bump on the back of his bald pate by removing a bag of blue ice that a paramedic had provided. The bump was the size of a baseball and looked to be increasing by the moment. “Thank God Phil grabbed the little brunette before the whacko dropped the ball on her.” He shuddered at the thought.
The crew chief, who name Mary Grace hadn’t caught, pleaded with a patrolmen about his lack of liability. “We don’t have security on the site. No one’s expecting a gun-toting broad with a wig and a trench coat to hijack the crane. Should we have put concertino wire around the rig? Sure I knew John was acting wonky when he knocked the wrong part of the building down, but I didn’t know it was a dinky dame with a piece. How can we prevent something like that from happening? Oh, Lord, what am I going to tell the insurance company?”
Mary Grace was sitting in a nearby shady area wondering what she was going to say to anyone. One of the paramedics had checked her over, pronounced her various scrapes and bruises non-life threatening, and quickly moved on to people who actually had still bleeding wounds. She held Callie’s car keys in her hand and absently contemplated the decimated remains of the Mazda Miata. That’s pretty damn flat for a car. Yep. I think that wrecking ball must weigh quite a bit to do damage like that. Couldn’t they paint the ball another color but gray?
“Mr. Cording,” one paramedic said. “We’re going to put you in the ambulance and take you around the front of the hospital to the emergency room entrance.”
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