Tessa and I stared at each other via the rearvew mirror, completely mute.
Since coincidence was out of the question, was it my fault the happy, humming dumbbell was dead?
Seventeen
FOUR HOURS OF SLEEP isn’t good for me. I felt like roadkill, wretched as it comes. My eyeballs felt like they’d been sandblasted, my lungs felt like they’d been blowtorched, and my body felt like I’d been pulled through a knothole backwards. Gran used to say that, and I could never figure out why being pulled through backwards was more of an ordeal than frontwards. Once when I was ten and feeling particularly brave, I’d asked. She told me that I had more balls than a billy goat. I decided to leave that alone, along with the knothole deal. Some things in life you just have to accept and not ask why.
I betcha Scythe would say the murders of Wilma and now Shauna were two of those things in life for me to leave alone, but I was still going to find out why. I guess that meant that Scythe and the murderer(s) didn’t intimidate me as much as Gran did.
Enough philosophical ruminating, it was time for action. I eased up in bed and leaned against the headboard. It was no sudden action—after all, I didn’t want to hurt myself. The girls didn’t look like they felt any better than I did, or perhaps they were acting like that to punish me for keeping them outside until three in the morning. Beau opened one eye, glared at me, and put her head back on the pillow next to mine. I hadn’t noticed her getting up on the bed with me, but I probably wouldn’t have noticed Ben Affleck on Viagra climbing in with me, that’s how worn-out I’d been. Char actually got up from her dog bed, dragged her tongue across my cheek, and sank down on the floor next to me. Cab sniffed at the toes of my right foot sticking out of the covers and raised her doggie eyebrows at me.
I decided to do something drastic. I threw the covers back and leaped to my feet. The girls all jumped up, barking. Mistake. My ears started ringing again after their abuse from the Roadkill. I clapped my hands over them, but it didn’t help.
Coffee. It made everything better.
If a man brought me coffee in bed before I got up in the morning, I would probably marry him on the spot. No one I’ve ever dated has even offered. I know, I pick the wrong men. Tell me about it. I tried to train my Labs to do it, but it didn’t really work out all that well. I never did get the coffee stains off my throw rugs.
I wondered if the bald vitamin salesman down the street would bring me coffee in bed. Probably. Once he forgot about my part in his toasted Porsche, I’d see about that. Scythe, I could forget. He was the macho type who’d probably expect me to bring him coffee in bed. Besides, he was bringing other things to Zena in bed. Right now, probably. The visual I got with that thought made me feel like a porn pervert.
I considered throwing a robe over my Lyle Lovett “Creeps Like Me” T-shirt and boxer shorts I’d worn to bed, but, frankly, robes are superfluous when in the company of only dogs. When I crossed the threshold, all three were there, trying to muscle their way in front. We nearly got stuck. Then they hauled ass down the stairs, yipping for their kibble in the kitchen. I had to take care of that before I got to the coffee, but finally I sucked in the air full of Costa Rican brew.
Ahh. The world was right again.
That is, until I zapped on the television to see the lovely and beguiling Amethyst Andrews on News4 talking to green–bow-tie–wearing Phil Wimplepool outside a house that looked familiar. Very familiar, as a matter of fact. I peered at the nineteen-inch screen on my kitchen TV. A two-story historic Spanish Colonial. Probably in Monte Vista. I recognized that front porch. Making sure the dogs were busy with their breakfast, I tiptoed to the door that leads to the salon, let myself in, and hugged the hall wall until I got to my dark office, where I could peek through the closed miniblinds.
Yikes!
Three television remote trucks were parked out front. Photographers and reporters were milling around.
Of course, being the visualizer I was, I hadn’t listened to a word they were saying on the damned news, distracted by what I was seeing; so I tip-ran back to my kitchen, hunkered down next to the television, and listened.
“…so here I am, waiting to talk to the city’s favorite amateur detective-cum-hairdresser, Reyn Marten Sawyer, about her latest brush with death and how it may relate to the bizarre murder of her customer’s mother, famed Terrell Hills philanthropist Wilma Barrister.”
I switched channels. The CBS affiliate also had a remote truck outside Shauna’s office, which was decorated with bright yellow DO NOT CROSS tape. The reporter was interviewing a neighbor who hadn’t heard anything and hadn’t seen anything, but wanted to bitch about how the murder was going to “kill his property value.” Sensitive sort.
The way the reporter wrapped up his report, it seemed the media hadn’t made the connection between Shauna and Percy, only that it was two murders in the ’09 zip in a week. I moved to the NBC affiliate, whose anchor was talking to an Austin reporter outside Bangers. Wretched Roadkill were under arrest, allegedly part of a drug distribution ring that must somehow involve Percy Barrister, who was under arrest on drug charges in New Mexico, where he’d gone to look for his mother-in-law to bring her back for the funeral. The funeral had been postponed because Lexa was missing, Percy was in jail, and Wilma’s mother wanted to burn her daughter on an Indian-style funeral pyre.
I returned to Amethyst and company, who were listening to their police reporter explain that her source had told her that the Terrell Hills cops had enough circumstantial evidence to charge Percy with his wife’s murder and Lexa and her boyfriend, who were still at large, as accessories. The police reporter turned to Manning, who stood stiff as a statue except for the beads of sweat popping out on his upper lip. Leaning toward him, she asked for a comment; then when he opened his mouth, she stepped back. Halitosis must have hit. “I cannot confirm nor deny,” he monotoned.
“Come on!” I said out loud to the almost admission. I almost felt sorry for Officer Bad Breath.
The dogs, who’d lapped up the last of their food, now started whining. They were going to have to go out, but then the assembled crowd would know I was home. Damndamndamn. I blew out a frustrated breath and shooed them out the door. It took them all of two seconds to realize we were the most popular kids on the block. They went doggie ballistic. Good, at least it would keep the pretty faces from storming my back door.
That was the upside. The downside hit immediately as all three of my phones started ringing, my cell phone, my home phone, and the salon phone, which I could hear through the wall. Great. I’d been waiting to hear from Trudy and Lexa, both of whom I’d left frantic messages for on our way home last night. I was too cheap to get caller ID so I didn’t know who was on the two land-lines. Served me right for being a tightwad, but the phone company didn’t use this as part of the marketing: Be sure to get caller ID so if you are wanted by reporters and cops countywide, you can avoid them with alacrity while still taking calls from your friends on the lam. I checked my cell; it was a blocked number. I had to answer.
“Hola?” I screeched with a heavy accent.
“Hello.” Cellophane voice. “I am hoping to speak with—” Reporter. I eighty-sixed her but fast.
It rang again immediately. Another blocked number. I went through the drill another three times before I finally answered and heard: “Gory goblins and geeky ghostbusters, Reyn, who do you think is going to buy that terrible accent?”
“Trudy! Where the hell did you go?”
“Mario and I, uh, left.”
“I could see that. Thanks a lot for the moral support.”
“We were helping you in another way.”
Sure. I know I am a difficult friend to have, being involved in two murder investigations in less than a year, but, hey, when shots are fired and your pal’s behind the closed door, wouldn’t you stick around to find out if you had to write her eulogy or not?
“Well,” I allowed only a bit sullenly, “I’m just glad you two are okay. You a
re all right?”
“We’re fine. All your friends are fine.”
Yeah, whatever. “I’ll try to get by and see you later today.”
“Just make sure you’re not followed.”
Huh? Since when was publicity hound Trudy afraid of reporters? Sheesh. “Forget it,” I said, and hung up on whatever apology she was whispering into the phone. Just what I needed right now, my best friend to go high-maintenance on me.
My salon phone was still ringing off the hook, probably all my customers who were canceling because they didn’t want to go through a phalanx of TV cameras with their roots showing. My cell started vibrating again. I’d kept an eye on the TV and saw News4 return to the live shot of my house with Bettina shaking her booty almost out of her favorite purple suede miniskirt and her lavender satin blouse barely containing her triple-D all-water transvestite bra as she sashayed up the salon stairs. She waved at the reporters and hiked her skirt up a little higher to show more leg. Yikes. That skirt was short. I hoped she’d employed plenty of duct tape this morning or her secret would be out. Literally. That’s just what I needed.
As I watched Bettina unlock the salon door with a jaunty wave at the cameras, I looked at the number on my ringing cell phone. Charlotte. I punched the answer button. “Reyn? Reyn! Are you okay? Isn’t this exciting? You are famous! I mean, more famous than you were before! Are you going to talk to the reporters at your front door? Wow. I can’t stand it, this is so fun! Bettina’s on the news! She is so beautiful. Life is just not fair that she’s that gorgeous and she’s a he.”
“You have no idea how unfair life can be,” I dead-panned.
“Wow. I mean, really wow. Hey, did you talk to my friend?” I could hear her wink, wink over the phone.
“Yes, I did. She was very helpful.” Threatening, but helpful. “Listen, can you call her and try to convince her to call Lieutenant Jackson Scythe at the SAPD? She can call anonymously, but he really needs the information she gave me, even if he has to find another source to confirm it.”
“Wow. Sure. Then I’d be really part of the investigation, wouldn’t I? I’d be assistant to ‘San Antonio’s favorite amateur detective.’ You know the news is calling you that?”
I made a noncommittal sound. It didn’t matter. Charlotte didn’t ever need an answer. She was a one-person conversationalist. “I’ll call her right now and get back to you, boss.” She gasped in excitement. “Wow, maybe we can put out our own shingle—Sawyer and Holmes Investigations. Like Sherlock and Holmes. Wow!”
I shivered as she disconnected. That was scarier than anything that had happened so far.
You know, I am convinced that everything in life is timing. Think back on things that have happened to you and what might be different if you had made that green light or said no to the first boy who asked you to the senior prom. I know the answer to the second question: I’d be pregnant with five kids, which is exactly what happened to the girl who went to the prom with the second boy who asked me. I said yes to the pharmacist’s son, who was scared of his own shadow and didn’t even try to hold my hand, much less anything else. I had to say no to the studliest boy in school, who would’ve been impossible to resist in a tuxedo. I have an issue with testosterone—I can’t resist it in certain quantities. Thank goodness for that particular timing. Whew.
As I was waxing philosophical, finishing my last cup of Costa Rican and wondering what timing would behoove me in this situation, my doorbell started ringing without the accompaniment of the dogs’ barking. One of the reporters and/or cameramen (I knew women operated news cameras, too, but feminizing the name was more cumbersome than political correctness was worth) had made friends with the girls, who now sat, tails wagging, tongues lolling, inside the fence along my front walkway, and my level of protection had been severely handicapped. I’d hoped three hundred pounds of teeth-baring dogs would’ve intimidated the news pretties for longer than that. So much for Labs. I’d have to invest in a pit bull—or maybe a dragon—if I was going to keep getting involved in murder investigations.
Ring-ring. Knock-knock. “Miss Sawyer!”
I leaned forward in my kitchen chair and peered down the hallway to my living room. The door shook with more knocking. “Reyn Marten Sawyer, we know you’re in there.”
A male face wearing Pan-Cake makeup appeared at my window. I jumped back, chair and all, behind the wall. Had they no shame? Maybe the networks had called. No, probably not yet. If that were the case, the locals would be crawling up through the toilets to get at me for their chance to appear on national news.
Not that I had anything against reporters, mind you. It was the nature of their business and you couldn’t hold it against them that the only way to get ahead was to get the story that would capture the most viewers. It was just like traders who wanted to find the best undervalued stock before everyone else discovered it. I suppose you could say I was that day’s undervalued stock in the news world.
I called Scythe. “What is going on?”
He sighed heavily, and from the gravel in his voice I could tell he hadn’t slept since I’d seen him just hours before. “You heard the news?”
“I am the news.”
“That’s your own dumb fault.”
“Did I suggest anything different?”
“Look, the feds have Percy and the THPD have decided to charge him with Wilma’s murder. If you hear from Alexandra, talk her into turning herself in, but stay away from her because she is going to be charged with being an accessory.”
A rock dropped in my stomach. “What about me?”
“I’m sure the prosecutors want you as a material witness, but as far as I’ve heard you’re just being accused of being gullible for falling for Alexandra’s act.”
“It’s not an act!”
“Reyn”—Scythe’s baritone hardened—“if that is the worst you get in this deal, you’re ending up damned lucky. Just keep your mouth shut and be grateful.”
Grateful to be called gullible? I didn’t think so.
“So you really think Percy whacked Wilma?” I challenged.
Another sigh, this one longer. “No, I don’t. He’s guilty of messing around on his wife and guilty of using his daughter to get to her boyfriend’s band to use them as drug runners for some scary kingpins, but I don’t think he’s directly guilty of murder.”
“Then why are you wimping out and letting them do this? The killer is still out there. Aren’t you their trusted advisor?”
“Look, Reyn, this is has become a huge clusterf—” He paused. I didn’t know why I required a censor, but he apparently thought I did. He continued, “Fairy tale. I’ve voiced my opinion, but it’s being largely ignored. I have no authority in any of the departments involved. There are too many agencies investigating and none of them of cooperating with the others—Terrell Hills, Austin, Alamo Heights, the feds. They’ll be lucky not to arrest each other by the time this is over.”
“So you’re giving up.”
“I didn’t say that, but you’d better.”
“What about Shauna’s murder? Nobody is saying anything about that.”
There was a long stretch of silence. Uh-oh.
“She was shot in the chest, point-blank range. I think the general consensus is that your friend Lexa was sent by Percy to off her to keep her quiet about her part—doing the makeup—in Wilma’s murder.”
“And, of course, Lexa has to go running off from us just in time so she has no alibi. Great.”
“She hasn’t helped herself at all with her recent behavior if she is innocent,” Scythe admitted.
“I still don’t see what motive they’re attributing to Percy and Lexa for Wilma’s murder,” I mused.
“She found out about the drug money—Percy apparently was depositing his illicit income in a secret account in the Cayman Islands—and threatened to blow the whistle.”
“Weak. Why the clown makeup?”
“Results of the autopsy came back. It was done pre-mortem. I
t’s being surmised that it was the girlfriend’s idea, to humiliate Wilma.”
“Pretty dumb if they didn’t want to get caught, considering Shauna’s line of work.”
“True.”
“This doesn’t feel right.”
“Reyn, it doesn’t matter how it feels to you, just as long as you aren’t in jail when you’re feeling it.”
“But what about that Charis girl I told you about from the Junior League?”
“We can’t find much of a motive there, Reyn, although she doesn’t have an alibi.”
“What?”
“I can’t say any more.”
“How about the rest of Percy’s clients? Lexa told me he had a lot of high-powered folks he worked for.”
“We have someone working down that list. So far, nothing.”
“What about his associates?”
“What kind of associates? He just had a receptionist and a paralegal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Reyn?”
The silence stretched. I didn’t want to point at Annette. I just wanted to nudge him in the general direction. “If you get the chance, look at the photos in Shauna’s house. Then look at Percy’s associates.”
“How charmingly cryptic. Reyn, this isn’t a game. Cancel all your appointments today. Don’t answer your phones or your door. Turn off your television. Read a book.” He paused, then added quickly, “Not a mystery. Read a romance. Educate yourself, for a change.”
“If I educate myself in that department, I might just have to go looking for a romantic man.”
His baritone smoothed around the edges again. “You never know when one of those might turn up.”
There was a long pause while I tried to read between the lines of what Scythe had said. Was he trying to put me off on another man? Was he throwing a hint about his own latent romantic abilities?
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