She almost did, though. Gooseflesh rippled up Dina's arms, as it had when she'd toed off her wet slippers in the deHavens' pitch-dark mudroom. Creeping through the hotel-sized kitchen, then a breakfast alcove, dining room and on into the living room was like groping through a soundproof Halloween funhouse. The rain-speckled windows seemed to absorb every lumen of exterior light and shed none.
She'd wanted out. Wanted enough swagjust enoughto rescind her deal with God forever. Wanted the courage to push her socked feet into that maw of a hallway taunting her on her left.
Then the penlight she'd gripped, too afraid to switch on, squirted out of her gloved fist. It clattered like a gunshot on the slate floor, winking and rolling lazily away. As she lunged for it, a blinding beam of light outside impaled her. Her heart stopped; her mind shrieked, Get out, get out!
The flimsy slippers on her feet were still damp from the losing race with McPhee. They conjured the yin-yang emotions she'd felt when the judge granted her divorce: failure, the satisfaction that she'd tried her damnedest not to give up, relief that it was over, fear of what the future held.
What she didn't feel were the tears ambling down her face, until McPhee smudged them away with his thumb. "Why, Dina? Why'd you do it? And keep on doing it?"
She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, but couldn't meet his eyes. "To save my mother's life."
Hearing it, even at a whisper, sounded so ridiculously melodramatic, she expected him to laugh. No response at all freed her to pretend she was talking to herself and crying alone in the kitchen, as she had a hundred times before.
"My dad was a fighter. Cancer should have killed him years before it did, but he wouldn't give up. Neither would his doctors. The bills Dad's insurance, then Medicare, wouldn't payexperimental treatments, drug therapies, you name itkept piling up. Then the factory he worked in his entire life announced they'd funded the pension account on paper, but hadn't invested most of the money."
McPhee said, "Then they filed for bankruptcy protection."
"They did. We couldn't. The laws were changed, so medical debts don't count." Dina took a breath, then continued, "After Dad died, Mom sold the house, but after paying off a second and third mortgage, there was barely any equity left. Their savings were long gone, credit cards maxed out thousands above what they could have repaid, if Daddy was still employed.
"Mom had earned 'pin money,' she called it, doing alterations, selling crocheted throws and sweaters, but she never held a full-time job. Couldn't have kept it, if she'd found one, between taking Daddy to doctors, the surgeries, and caring for him at home."
Dina swallowed past the knot in her throat. "Now Mom's heart is failing, she's diabetic, hypertensivea slew of things medication can't cure, but she'll die without it."
Jack said softly, "And you can't afford to buy it."
"Not since I maxed out my credit cards and the bank turned me down for a loan." A bitter chuckle slipped out. "Medicare covers most of her prescriptions, part of the time. It'd pay for them all, if Mom was sick enough for a nursing home. Real cost-effective, since she'd sooner die, than go to one."
Dina took a sip of lukewarm coffee and set the mug aside. She looked up at McPhee. "Ever hear of the doughnut hole? And I don't mean the deep-fried, sugar-coated kind."
A hesitation, then a nod inferred the why he'd asked for was stitching together in his mind. "The euphemism somebody gave the gap in Medicare prescription coverage."
"Cute, huh? Like it's bite-sized and hardly rates mention. What's a measly three-thousand out-of-pocket dollars to bridge the so-called doughnut hole? Medicare does cover the first couple of thousand for a few bucks' copay. Once you've spent enough to close that gap, it goes back to covering the expense with the copay, again, till the end of the year."
Jack stared at her for a long moment, his expression grim and dubious. "So for your mother, that gap opens up in late spring and closes in the fall."
A statement, not a question. Dina didn't particularly care for the content or tone. "The middle of April, last year. That's when I applied for the loan. When the bank declined it, I had to get the money somehow. Then I scrimped all last winter, saving up for this year's doughnut hole. I almost did, when the cardiologist prescribed two new medications that cost nearly six hundred a month."
Claustrophobia is the fear of small, enclosed spaces. As Dina was distinctly aware, feeling trapped sometimes arises from within. "Mom can't be left alone for more than a few hours. She has dizzy spells. Has to eat at certain times. Takes meds by the clock and in a specific order, but I've worked as much as I could, wherever I could."
"Yeah. Grooming dogs part-time and delivering pizzas."
"Yes! And cashiering at a fireworks stand, a Christmas tree lot, a Little League concession. In the fall, I pick up walnuts and sell them to a huller, and"
"Seventy-five grand, kid. That's the appraised value of the stuff you stole last year."
McPhee helped himself to more coffee, as if letting the number and his knowledge of it sink in. "So far this year, you've boosted damn near fifty."
Dina's lips parted. Her head wobbled, jerking from side to side.
He went on, "You had me chokin' up for a while there. Till I remembered the standard ten percent take-home from a fence would fill a doughnut hole as big as a wading pool."
Grade-school addition and multiplication netted a five-figured resultone as ludicrous as it was terrifying. Stealing was stealing, whether her share was $12,500 or less than half that amount.
"I didn't take anywhere near that much. I don't care if you believe me or not, it's the truth. I didn't take a dime more than I could earn."
Dina backpedaled, crossing her arms at her chest like a shield. "All right, I did. Once. $387.22 more last year, but I didn't keep it. I swear, I put every penny in an envelope and gave to the Salvation Army."
"Oh, puh-leeze." McPhee rolled his eyes. His chuckle branded her a fool and excepted him as a peer. "Next, you'll show me the receipt. No, wait. You would, but you stapled it to your tax return to claim a charitable deduction."
She pushed past him, slopping his coffee on his shirt. Damn shame, it wasn't hot enough to scald. A note to her mother was dashed off on the back of an envelope, then she grabbed her purse.
McPhee stepped in front of her. "Where do you think you're going?"
"The police station. Maybe a real detective won't believe me, either, but at least I won't have to listen to any more of your cocky amateur-hour bullshit."
His hand manacled her wrist. "That's three below-the-belts."
"Let go of"
"You're not bluffing, are you?"
"Ya think?" Dina almost laughed. "Let's review. You have my ID, you know where I live, where I work, and you caught me shinnying out the pet door at your ex-wife's house."
"This is true." McPhee sighed and relaxed his grip. "Everything you've said is true, right down to that donated three hundred and change." A hint of a smile appeared. "Well, up to that 'cocky amateur-hour' remark."
"Before that, I told you I don't care if you believe me. I still don't."
"Don't start lying now," he warned. "Okay, I should've realized quicker that anybody with the brains to hang grand theft on a Medicare prescription gap wouldn't drag the Salvation friggin' Army into it." His grin widened. "And it wouldn't surprise me if you do have a receipt."
Dina searched a face that wouldn't send Tom Cruise running for a plastic surgeon. A twice-broken nose always had stories behind it, as would the pale crescent scar beneath his hairline. Worry creases striped his brow, but were fewer and shallower than his laugh lines.
Trust Me wasn't tattooed anywhere. There was scant reason for Dina to do so, other than his reticence to involve the police. Yet.
But why? Was a bounty paid, if his client was notified before the arrest? Was there a possibility the insurance agent could be persuaded not to press charges? Maybe a symbolic trade-off negotiated, like free office cleaning for the rest of Dina'
s life.
"I deal with cheats, scam artists, swindlers and worse," McPhee said. "In one case I worked, a father smothered his first-then his second-born to make it look like Sudden Infant Death Syndrome to collect the insurance. Convicted pedophiles are known to steal identities to get jobs in amusement parks, schools, day-care centersanywhere with access to children."
He chucked Dina under the chin. "Constant exposure to the scum of the earth would turn a saint into a cynic. In other words, I wouldn't have made book on catching the Calendar Burglar tonight, but I sure as hell didn't expect to tackle Robin Hood."
"Get your hands off my daughter, mister."
Harriet Wexler stood in the hallway. Her rheumy eyes flitted from Dina to Jack McPhee. "As for you, Dina Jeanne, give him back his money. Every filthy dollar of it."
She raised her cane like an avenging Moses in flannel pajamas. "What you do out on street corners, I can't stop, but I'll sic the law on you, afore you'll bring your merry men into my house."
9
"Mother of God, Mother! You think I'm a hooker?"
Jack bit the inside of his lip to keep a straight face.
Dina the dog groomer's sideline as the Calendar Burglar was still a bit of a stretch. Imagining her on the stroll in black cargos, a long-sleeved top, socks and cheap nylon house slippers was hilarious.
"I know you've been sneaking out and back in, late of a night, week after week." Mrs. Wexler snorted in disgust. "Being sick doesn't make me deaf, blind or stupid."
"Well, it doesn't make me a"
"One day you're crossways about gas going up a nickel a gallon. The next, you bring home gadgets that cost more 'n the moon."
"A glucose monitor isn't"
"It ain't pizzas you're delivering, girl. Haven't been, for who knows how long."
"And of all the possible explanations a normal person might come up with, youmy own motherdecide I'm a whore."
Jack took her first completed sentence as a cue. "No, she hasn't, Dina."
Both women turned on him, open-mouthed and blinking as though he'd arrived by parachute. "I have some good news and some bad news, Mrs. Wexler."
"Who the?"
"The good news," he went on, "is you know your daughter isn't a prostitute, so that pretty much eliminates me as her john. The bad news is, she's a burglar and I'm Jack McPhee, the private investigator an insurance company hired to catch her."
Mrs. Wexler's withering gaze shifted from him to Dina, then lowered and raised in a head-to-toe examination of her daughter's all-black ensemble. Although several inches taller than Dina, the frail, wild-haired woman seemed to shrink with relief. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled lungfuls of oxygenated air. Slowly, she exhaled a joyous "Thank God."
Jack gave Dina a "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" smile.
To her mother, Dina repeated, "Thank God? Thank God? Like it's okay to be a thief, but not a hooker?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Dina Jeanne." Mrs. Wexler shuffled toward the glider rocker in the living room. Coils in the plastic tubing following behind her revolved like a threads on a giant, invisible screw. "Of course it isn't okay."
"I think what your mother means is, there's a difference between selling somebody's jewelry, and selling yourself."
"Don't you put words into my mouth, young man." Mrs. Wexler fell into the chair, as much as sat down in it. One foot, then the other was hiked onto the ottoman. "Even if they're the right ones."
She jerked a tissue from the box and dabbed her brow and neck. Caring for a terminally ill husband and her own failing health must have aged her a decade or two.
Although Jack knew she hadn't believed Dina was earning extra money on her back, waking to an empty house night after night must have terrified her. Death can be a blessing, a tragedy, a peaceful end to a life well lived, but few want to meet theirs all alone.
Dina shared that fear. It didn't matter if she was at a kennel, doing errands, breaking into houses or asleep. Jack had seen the anxiety when she'd hurried down the hall to check on her mother. How Dina endured the constant emotional swings between dread and deliverance, he couldn't fathom.
"I smell coffee," Mrs. Wexler said accusingly. "The real kind, not the brown water that's supposed to pass for it."
Jack said, "I'll bring you a cup."
"Oh, no, you won't. Mom can't have caffiene."
"Pshaw. I drink it all the time, and it hasn't killed me yet." She winked at Jack. "While the cat's away, the old mouse has been known to stir in a spoonful of sugar, too."
"We don't have any sugar," Dina shot back. "Knowing you'd cheat, I threw it away months ago and washed out the canister."
Mrs. Wexler started to argue and evidently thought better of it. She minced, "Well, if it isn't too much trouble, may I please have a drink of water?"
When Dina rounded the corner to the kitchen, her mother snatched up a bagful of yarn. From the bottom, she pulled up several restaurant sugar packets. Grinning flirtatiously, she warned, "Don't you tell, McPhee."
"Jack," he said, and held out his hand. "Give 'em here, ma'am, and there'll be nothing to tell."
She hesitated, then dropped them in his palm. "I can get more any time I want."
The eatery's name stamped on the packets had closed two years ago. The old mouse hadn't cheated on her diet and never would. The sugar stash was a rebellion against disease, her daughter, kidnapped stove knobs and a thousand other indignities. Far from the least of which was no one to crow to, other than a stranger who hadn't chirped, "And how are we feeling today, Mrs. Wexler?"
Jack returned a packet to her and slipped the rest in his jeans pocket. "That's enough to get us both in trouble."
Her fingers curled around it. "Thank you, McPhee."
He sighed wearily as he sat down on the couch. What was it with the Wexlers' obsession with his last name? Tacking a "Mr." in front of it, he'd understand. Without it, the semiformality was beginning to sound like a fast-food franchise's new menu item.
"Jack," he said plenty loud enough to hear over a teakettle whistling in the kitchen. "Just plain 'Jack' will do fine, ma'am."
"I thought you said you were a detective."
He nodded, wondering how she'd react to the questions he still needed answers for. And whether Dina would clam up until her mother went back to bed. Or permanently.
"Then you must not be a very good one," Mrs. Wexler said. "Or you haven't been in business long enough to know better."
"Excuse me?" he said, thinking a few key words hadn't registered while his mind was elsewhere.
"A real pro never goes by his first name. Near as a body can tell, some don't seem to have one." Apparently annoyed by his persistent bewilderment, she added, "Columbo. Kojak. Mannix. Rockford. Magnumwell, he's an exception, since his buddies call him Thomas, but the show's Magnum, P.I., not Thomas Magnum, P.I."
Rather than point out that TV detectives were as true to life as a talking yellow sponge, Jack thanked her for the advice.
Before the interview concluded, the Wexlers would call him plenty of things besides McPhee.
Dina reentered the room carrying a tray. Water, several tablets and a coffee cup were dispensed to her mother, then the latter to Jack and herself.
"One for all," she said, referring to the whitish skim in his cup, peculiar to instant decaf.
A special circle of Hell should be reserved for its inventor. He swallowed a mouthful, noting that a pinch of arsenic would be virtually undetectable. Hell, a little rat poison stirred in might improve the taste.
Dina set the tray on the floor, then tossed aside a folded bed-sheet at the couch's opposite end. She scooted back into the corner against a bed pillow, her legs tucked under her, as though distancing herself from Jack as much as possible.
"So," she said. "Did the two of you draw straws to see who interrogates me first? Or do you want to do it relay style?"
"Don't be hateful, Dina Jeanne. Let's just have a nice chat, then you and McPhee can help me pack my
things." Mrs. Wexler smiled at Jack. "I hope your car is bigger than hers. They won't let me bring much, but that Volkswagen will barely hold one suitcase."
Dina glared at Jack. "What did you say to her while I was in the kitchen?"
"It's my fault you're in trouble," Mrs. Wexler continued. "I do wish you'd been honest with me about the money a long time ago, sweetheart. But as soon as I'm at the nursing home, you won't have to steal things to pay the bills."
To Jack, she said, "Or to makewhat do you call it?uh, restitution. Yes, that's the word. She'll pay it, too, then you don't have to take her to jail."
Jack raised a hand to silence Dina. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wexler, but this situation is more complicated than your daughter burglarizing houses to offset your medical expenses. Among other things, there's a serious discrepancy between what she should have been paid for that jewelry and what she swears she received."
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