What are you going to do, find the real killer?
I unpacked the box, so caught up in that thought that it took Stump actually jumping on my foot for me to realize she was trying to get my attention. I opened the package of Jerky Treats and tossed her a couple.
What if, crazy as it sounded, I could actually do something to find the real killer? I mean, I was sure the police knew what they were doing, but it didn't hurt to have a fresh pair of eyes, did it?
I’d been thinking of my “help” in terms of maybe watering Tony’s plants and bringing books when I visited him in prison, but wouldn't it be cool to be the hero for a change, instead of the one who screwed everything up?
I heard footsteps on the deck.
“Hey,” Frank said as he came through the door. “Something smells good.”
Unbelievable. Frank can smell good food even while it's still in the box.
“We're having fried ham steaks and broccoli cheese rice,” I said. “Why don't you stay for dinner?” I knew he was already planning on it, but since Les had been so generous, I could pass that spirit on and let Frank get off without having to ask.
Since I worked on Saturdays, I had Thursdays off. I liked to sleep late, but that Thursday morning I woke up early fantasizing about being the one to bring Lucinda Cruz’s real killer to justice. I would exonerate Tony. Trisha would cover the story for the news, and once it was all over, she would come up to me with tears in her eyes and tell me how much she admired what I'd done. Even Mrs. Solis would wrap her petite, iron-strong little hands around mine and thank me for returning her son to her. In my fantasy, I was the hero, and somehow I was back to a size six.
In reality, I was about triple a size six and didn’t know anything about the victim except her name. I had no idea why the police thought Tony did it, nor how she'd been killed. So much for cracking the case.
And one big ol' honking question remained: was I really still married to Tony?
I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head. I did not want to think about that. Being married all this time meant that not only had I lived a life of wild debauchery for the past ten years, but I'd also committed a fairly horrific amount of adultery.
Of all the things I had on my plate at the moment, that one was the one that I couldn't even bring myself to look at fully. Well…that and sleeping with Scott. Breaking Trisha's heart – I would just as soon I'd never heard about that one.
“God,” I whispered. “There's so much pain I've caused, and I feel like I’m drowning in it. I am truly, truly sorry. I want to find some way to make things right. I can't stand this horrible guilt, and I need to do something, but I have no idea what. Please show me something I can do.”
I lay there quietly and waited for God to answer me. Here's the thing that's been driving me crazy lately. I've been reading all these Christian romances that Les's wife gave me, and in them when the people pray, God answers them, in all capital letters. They know it's God, they hear His voice in their heads, and they know it's God, and they know exactly how to respond to it, because there's no question in their minds God is speaking to them. He talks to them in all caps.
God never talks to me in all caps. He doesn't talk to me in all caps or all lower case or even in Morse code. I pray, I ask, and I hear as much as I do when I hold a conch shell to my ear.
I listened harder. “Anything, God,” I said. “Anything I can do to make things better. Anything at all.” I waited.
Stump jumped on my shoulders and stuck her cold wet nose on my neck.
I sighed and shoved myself up. “Thanks, God. That's clear as mud.”
I fed Stump and took my shower, going through options in my mind about how I could make things better for both Trisha and Tony, but everything I came up with involved large sums of money. Like hiring an ace private detective and attorney for Tony, and sending Trisha and Scott off on a two-week tropical getaway. I told God if he'd send me a winning lottery ticket, I would definitely do both those things, but I wasn't exactly rooted in faith that He would. Although I hadn’t read it in the Bible yet, I don't think God looks all that favorably on gambling. Granted, there are a lot of parts I hadn’t gotten to.
I got ready and did my prayer time, but I couldn't concentrate. I kept wondering, “What if I'm really married right now? What if Trisha went home after our talk and had a big fight with Scott? What if Tony is convicted of this murder and spends the rest of his life in jail?
“I'm sorry, I can't focus right now, God. You know what's on my mind.” Give it to God, Les always says. “I give it all to you, God. Except…if you could just send me an idea of how to help, I'd really appreciate it.”
I got up not feeling one bit better. Where was that peace that passed all understanding? My stomach was still in knots, and only a Little Debbie Star Crunch would make it better. That helped, but then I felt fat.
I wasn't going to be able to chill out until I did something, I decided. I was a person of action. I decided to get over myself and call Bobby Sloan. After all, I'd found the body. It was perfectly normal that I'd be interested in the case.
I made some toast to fortify myself for the call. I'd spent so much time avoiding law enforcement, it seemed weird to actually be calling one of them voluntarily. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became. So I made some more toast and put peanut butter on it.
That actually made me feel better, so I made one more piece and then looked up the number.
During the ensuing runaround to track Bobby down, I polished off the toast and the Star Crunch I promised myself I would save for lunch. Thinking of Elvis and searching the refrigerator for anything else I could stuff in my mouth, I was caught off guard when he actually picked up the line.
“Sloan.”
“Umm.” I swallowed the croutons I'd bought to go on the salads I never made and cleared my throat. “Bobby? This is Salem. Grimes. From the – the you know – I found the –” What did they call them? Deceaseds?
“Yeah, Salem, of course. Did you remember something?”
“Oh, um, no. No, I didn't. I just wanted to check and see if you'd made any progress on the case.”
“Why?”
“Why?” What kind of question was that? “Because, you know, there's a murderer loose and all. Plus stupid Channel 11 ran my picture with the story and I – well, that's made me kind of nervous, that the killer would link me with it all, somehow. So I just thought…” Actually, since Trisha's story made it sound like I was the murderer, the worst the killer was likely to do was send me a thank you card. But still…
“Well, I don't think you have anything to worry about. We have a suspect. “
“Look, Bobby, I know you arrested Tony Solis, but he’s innocent. He's not the guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I know Tony, and I know he wouldn't do anything like that. Really.” Go ahead. Take the word of a girl with three DUIs and a couple of bad check charges.
“I’m sure the jury will take that into consideration, Salem.”
“Bobby, seriously, he couldn’t have done it.”
“When was the last time you talked to Tony?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I just asked if there was anything I could do to help him.”
“And what did he say?”
“I don’t remember. His mother was ranting, and Tony said we weren’t really divorced. That’s when I freaked out and left.”
“You’re not divorced? What do you mean?”
“Tony and I were married a long time ago, while we were still in high school, but I got divorced, and evidently he didn’t. It’s a whole Catholic thing.” Uh-oh. That sounded kind of anti-Catholic, and I didn’t mean for it to. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“No, I think I’m Presbyterian. So you’re married to our main suspect?”
“No – well, yes, but…why do you think he killed that girl?”
“Not to just anyone off the street, no, but I did find the body. That entitles me to something, right?”
“Wrong. When was the last time you talked to Tony before yesterday?”
I thought for a second. “I guess it was when I moved out.”
“And when was that?”
“Ten years ago in June.”
Bobby was silent for a long time. “You haven’t spoken to your husband in over ten years.”
“It sounds weird, I know.”
“Not for you, Salem.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to need you to come back in and answer a few more questions.”
My heart thumped. I knew it was a mistake to call. “Why?”
“Because that’s what happens in a murder investigation. We ask lots of questions.”
“I answered them already.”
“Maybe you’ll think of something new when I ask them again. Can you come in this afternoon?”
For the first time I was actually grateful for the busted block. “My car broke down, and I don’t have a way up there.”
“I can send a patrolman –”
“I know what I’ll do,” I interrupted. “I have a friend who’s coming by later this morning to help me with some errands. I’ll have her drop me off there. I’m not sure what time it’ll be. Probably between two and three.”
I hung up in a panic. Send a patrolman?
Poor Tony. If his freedom was depending on me, he was in big trouble.
I walked around a while and decided I might feel a little less awful with clothes on. But then I faced a new hurdle. I could not get my pants zipped.
“Stupid cheap crap dryer. Got too hot and shrunk my pants,” I said to Stump.
She looked back at me solemnly, her expression clearly stating that if I needed to lie to myself, she wouldn’t call me on it. She’s supportive that way.
I heaved a great sigh and collapsed on the bed. Defying all the laws of physics, I lay flat on the bed, raised my knees and tugged until I got them zipped. I tried three times to sit up before I made it all the way upright. I sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard and counting the red spots that swam around in front of me.
“This is not good,” I said to Stump. “I think I've hit an all-time high.”
She blinked at me and yawned.
I shoved myself off the bed, already feeling cramped from stuffing my internal organs into a space they were not meant to occupy, and I had to grab the wall to keep from keeling over. I made my way down the hallway to the bar in the kitchen.
Tony had an aunt named Sylvia that I hadn't completely alienated. In fact, she brought her brown poodle into Flo’s so I could groom it. We were almost friends, but I think that was mostly because she didn't like Mrs. Solis (old sisterly grudge) and being friendly to me was her way of being defiant. But still, I could use that to my advantage. I looked up her number and called her.
“I'm really worried about Tony, and I'm trying to think of some way I can help him,” I said when Sylvia answered the phone at the laundromat she owned.
“I know, sweetie, we're all worried. I went to church and lit a candle for him last night.”
“That's good,” I said. I was thinking of something a little more concrete. Unfortunately, nothing more concrete seemed to be forthcoming. I gave her my cell number and hung up.
I had to get out of the house and do something. Not knowing what else to do, I returned to the scene of the crime. Maybe a clue would jump out at me.
I whistled for Stump.
“Remember yesterday, when we went for the walk? We’re going to do a little more today.” Church was probably three miles away. I wanted to lose weight, right? Maybe this broken block thing would end up being a great blessing. On the plus side, if I did manage to make it all the way to the church, I would be only a few blocks from the police station, so I could follow through on my word to Bobby. Yay.
“We're going to walk to the church and talk to George,” I told her, trying to sound cheerful so I could psyche myself up. George was the man who ran all the maintenance services for the church. The church contracted a private cleaning company – Tony's company, as it turned out – but they worked through George.
I knew George because one time at my AA meeting I'd remarked that the coffee was a little strong. I swear, that's all I said. But word got back to George, and he was waiting outside our meeting room the next week, telling me that he'd talked to the staff and they'd tried to make it a little less strong. He wanted me to taste and see how I liked it. He looked nervous, like a concierge in a five-star hotel like he was anxious to please the temperamental penthouse guest, except I was a down-on-my-luck drunk at an AA meeting, and all I'd done was say the coffee was a little strong.
Every week after that, George acted as if his chief job in life was keeping me from going off on him about the coffee. I swear all I did was say it was a little strong. From the fallout you would have thought I'd thrown chairs and threatened to jump off the building. I wonder how he would react if I really pitched a fit about something. Like how freaking hot it was in that room in the winter.
Carrying Stump was, again, like carrying a twenty-five-pound sack of flour, but cuter. She watched the traffic go by and occasionally yawned contentedly, as if she got lugged around all the time, which she did, I guess.
I was determined not to get frustrated. I kept thinking that I wanted to be more like Les, upbeat and happy, no matter what was going on. I would just do that. I got to choose how I felt, right?
I would be like Les. Les had told me that morning when he visited me in jail that if I turned my life over to God, I would be so filled with the joy of the Holy Spirit that I would want to shout it from the rooftops. I would sing God's praises and my heart would fill to overflowing with love for Him. I couldn’t help but be happy all the time. He said those exact words, and he had such a big ol’ grin, I believed him.
Naturally, all that sounded like such a good deal to me. In fact, I thought even now that if I could choose between a winning Power Ball ticket and that overwhelming feeling of joy in my heart, I'd probably take the joy. Probably. Maybe I could negotiate a 5-out-of-6 Power Ball and the joy.
Despite my mind-over-matter attempts, I hadn’t had either so far, and it was starting to bug me. God's love was supposed to be there for everyone. I checked my heart. Nope. My mind just spun with thoughts about Tony, about Trisha. I felt no overwhelming feeling of joy, no assurance that God loved me and was there for me; just worry and guilt and the itch to do something to make it stop.
I looked down at Stump. Now there was someone who knew she was loved no matter what. She had her pink tongue sticking out, watching the traffic go by as if she was queen of the world. She wasn't worried about the electric bill, or how we were going to afford a new car, or what was going to happen when the food in Les's box ran out. She didn't have to feel bad about something she'd done ten years ago.
“God,” I said out loud, not really caring that I looked like a looney-tune walking down a busy street, carrying a fat dog and talking to myself. “I don't even know what to pray for anymore. A little help. With anything. Money. A new car. And you know when I say ‘new car’ I'm not actually expecting a new car, I just mean something new to me, something dependable. I don't care what it is. And some way to make things right for Tony and for Trisha. I'm not expecting you to make things right for me, God. I know this is my responsibility, and I want to be the one to make it right. I'm not trying to shirk my duty, seriously I'm not. But I need you to show me how. Throw me a bone, God. Anything. Just a little something to let me know you're in my corner.”
I heard a screech of tires and a horn blaring right behind me. I jumped to the right just in time to keep from being mowed down by Viv in her big green Cadillac.
She pulled to the curb and rolled the passenger window down. “You heading up to t
he church?”
I wasn't sure if I should tell her the truth or not. Viv was only slightly safer to ride with than G-Ma, maybe not any safer at all.
On the other hand, I was still a long way from church, and an hour trip could turn into five minutes.
“Ummm,” I said, still hesitating.
“Get in, I'll give you a lift. I’m going to choir practice.”
I supposed it would be okay. Stump could serve as an airbag.
“What are you going up there for?”
“I want to talk to George and see if he knows anything about the murder.”
“Good idea!”
I really liked Viv. She'd been coming to our AA meeting for a couple of months. She reminded me of G-Ma, only more fun. Our church was big and had three services, and Viv went to “big church” – a big beautiful sanctuary with a few dozen stained glass masterpieces and the biggest organ within four states. That was the service where the doctors and bankers and politicians went. I went to the little church that meets in the Family Life Center (i.e., a gym with folding chairs set out), where we sing to guitars and bongos, and the preacher has a ponytail. We call it Groovy Church.
Viv seemed to have a lot of enthusiasm for things that didn’t really concern her. My hunch was, she was bored. She'd told us at the meeting that she'd been married five times, and from a few of the things she let slip I thought a couple of them had a lot of money. She had some interesting stories, but unfortunately most of them involved drinking to excess and then doing something either stupid or completely unbelievable.
The cool thing for me, though, was that Viv seemed to like me. When I talked at meetings, she always smiled and listened and acted really supportive. I needed all the support I could get.
It occurred to me it might be good to have Viv in my corner when I talked to George. He might be willing to open up a little more with Viv than he would with me. Viv had that same dogged determination and inability to take no for an answer that G-Ma had. Sometimes it’s good to have someone like that around, as long as you’re not the one trying to tell them no.
The Middle Finger of Fate (A Trailer Park Princess Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 9