A One-Woman Man

by ML Gamble

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said, he’s doing much better than he was. His doctors expect him to make a full recovery.”

  “Was he ill?” Elizabeth pressed.

  “Well, I guess I can tell you, hon,” the woman said, her voice dropping into gossip mode. “The poor old coot got knocked over the head last week. Someone, Dr. Heywood thinks it was probably some kid, broke into his room and then hit the poor old dear upside the head with his Bible, of all things! Don’t know what the world’s coming too. Probably looking for drugs or something.”

  “My goodness,” Elizabeth said, her voice tight. “Well, thank you. Can you give me the address? Daddy and I would like to send some flowers.” She scribbled down the information. Tommy Lee had crossed the room and was staring down at what she was writing, his face suffused with anger.

  Elizabeth said goodbye and hung up, then crossed her arms and challenged the glowering man she had minutes before been kissing. “What?”

  “Are you crazy?” he exclaimed. “Don’t go leaving your real name with people! For God’s sake, Elizabeth, someone’s trying to kill you!”

  “But those men are dead,” she retorted. “We just saw them.”

  He sighed, trying to calm himself. He leaned against the desk, his big hands smoothing down his rumpled jeans as he shook his head in disbelief. “Yes. Yes, we did see two dead men who were most likely involved in that near miss out on the street yesterday. But someone killed them, Elizabeth. Brutally and in cold blood. Someone we don’t know. Someone who hired them. Someone who hired them to hurt you.”

  Elizabeth felt sick. She took a deep breath of air and collapsed into the chair beside the desk. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t think all this through.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “No, you didn’t. So why not let me make the calls. What did you find out about Peach?”

  She didn’t like the look on his face when he yelled at her, but the look of disbelief when she told him what had befallen Peach was even worse. By the time she’d finished her story, he was pulling his leather coat back on. “Let’s go.”

  Grabbing her bag, she flipped off the light and tossed the remnants of lunch into the trash can. “Where to? Baptist Haven?”

  “No. You’re going home.”

  She whirled around and stared at him. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not dragging you around with me. I’ve got some checking to do. You’d better get some rest. Your mama said you’ve got a party to go to tonight, anyway, and Chief Foley tells me the committee to pick the Queen is all over his butt. Besides, don’t you need to do your hair, or something?”

  Despite herself, Elizabeth reached for her hair. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

  “It looks like you’ve been letting someone run his grubby hands through it.”

  She glared at him, but the playful look on his face calmed her down.

  “Look, I’d rather go with you.”

  “And I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I hired you—”

  “If you’re going to pull that crap, I’ll quit.”

  They stood inches apart “After what just happened in there,” Elizabeth began, “I’m surprised you can act so damn arrogant.”

  Tommy Lee opened his mouth to shout back at her, but closed it. Gently he lifted an errant hair from her cheek, felt her tense at his touch and wanted more than his next breath to kiss her. “We don’t have time for fighting.”

  “Really? I thought detectives always had time to romance the women who paid them.”

  He didn’t want to respond to that, but snapped, “Yeah, well, I thought the women who hired detectives knew when to shut up and listen to the experts.”

  Elizabeth moved away from him with a scowl, but she stopped arguing.

  Tommy Lee pulled the office door closed, locked it and took Elizabeth’s arm as he walked her toward the elevator. She didn’t look one bit happy, which was fine with him.

  But she was going home.

  And he was going to see Emmett Peach and find out what the man knew about a twenty-year-old adoption, and why the hounds of hell were sniffing around anyone who asked about it.

  Chapter Eight

  Petey Connor woke with a start, shivering with fever, his body as stiff as the bloodstains dried on the collar of his flannel shirt. He was huddled in the corner of his van, covered with a sleeping bag that smelled of gasoline and cooking oil.

  He had parked in an abandoned boat shed out by the marina. He figured he would be safe there for a couple of days, and he had enough food and water to make it until he could clean up.

  As long as he didn’t get an infection and die. The first-aid kit was primitive—alcohol and gauze, some bandages and aspirin and a nearly empty tube of antibiotic cream. But he had made use of it, and had managed to stop the bleeding from the worst of his injuries.

  He was one lucky SOB compared to old Ray and Cracker. He didn’t mind either of them being dead, but he sure was angry that they had been stupid enough to get themselves killed by a woman.

  Well, he’d be sure and pay her back, three times over. “Whoever said there ain’t no honor among thieves,” he rasped, his voice echoing eerily in the van. Exhausted from the effort of thinking and being awake, Petey wrapped the sleeping bag tighter around him. He was loaded with cash, thanks to having the presence of mind to rob Jackson’s dead body of the roll of bills before driving off. He wished he’d had time to find Ray and get his gun, but with the seventeen hundred dollars he did have he could drive over to Mobile and get himself as many guns as he needed.

  With his hands shaking furiously, Petey downed five aspirin and reached for the half-full bottle of tequila and took a swig.

  His body stopped shaking, and as consciousness started to seep away, he spent a couple of moments enjoying his thoughts of revenge. And of collecting even bigger from the woman who had nearly killed him. He had no idea who she was, since Cracker had been too uptight to share her name with him. But Petey knew how to find her.

  He had the two phone numbers he’d fished out of Cracker Jackson’s pocket, one of which was certain to be hers. And, as soon as he was stronger, he was going have what the woman who had killed his two cohorts wanted most—Elizabeth Monette.

  He was going to ask the woman for twenty-five thousand dollars to kill the Monette broad and keep quiet about her earlier nonsense. Then, when the murderous bitch brought him the money, he was going to shoot her right between the eyes. That one’s for you, Cracker, he thought.

  Petey’s mouth stretched in a parody of a smile as his mind clouded over and floated above the cold floor of the van.

  TOMMY LEE SAT BESIDE the old man’s bedside and stared down at a face that looked a hundred years old. Emmett Peach was tall and frail, his head completely bald. The only visible hair on the man was his eyebrows, which were as black as caterpillars and just as bushy.

  He was sleeping peacefully in a nearly upright position, against two fresh pillows, his plaid pajamas snugly buttoned at his neck. The only sign of his recent brush with lawlessness was a faint, greenish bruise above his right ear.

  The nurse on duty had told Tommy Lee he could stay fifteen minutes, then he would have to leave. He glanced at his watch and pulled on the corner of his mustache. It had been ten. He cleared his throat and grinned when Mr. Peach turned and looked at him with a toothless smile.

  “How are you, son? Your daddy here?”

  Obviously Mr. Peach had mistaken him for someone. “My name is Tommy Lee McCall, Mr. Peach. How do you do?” He held out his hand for what would probably be an awkward shake, and was pleasantly surprised when the old man grabbed it and pumped it vigorously.

  “Tommy Lee. Your daddy here?”

  “No, sir, my daddy died several years ago. Stephen McCall, crab fisherman by trade. Did you know him sir?”

  Emmett Peach looked confused, but calmly folded his hands over his chest. “My daddy must not be coming, either.”

>   Tommy Lee realized the futility of his trying to discuss an incident that had happened twenty years ago with Emmett Peach, but felt he owed it to Elizabeth to give it one try. “Mr. Peach, I’m trying to find out some information on an adoption you handled about twenty years ago. A little girl, five years old, who had lost her mama in a violent incident. Don’t know about her daddy. Maybe was a family in Alabama?”

  Emmett Peach looked over at Tommy Lee. His blue eyes had faded to the pale, pale gray reflection of a winter sky in a street puddle after a storm. “Why?”

  He took a breath. “The little girl is all grown up. But she may be in danger, for some reason connected to the adoption. If there is anything you can tell us, we would really appreciate it.”

  Mr. Peach looked across the room toward the TV, mounted on a shelf on the wall opposite his bed. He seemed to be staring at a picture only he could see. “I remember that case. Interesting one it was, too. The mother was dead. Murdered. Can’t say anything about the father.” He raised his frail fingers to his bloodless lips and made a motion like a key closing a lock.

  A surge of excitement shot through Tommy Lee’s blood and he understood in a flash his sister’s enjoyment of her job. “I understand, and I won’t press you about him, sir. But could you tell me anything about the mother? She is dead, after all. Do you recall her name?”

  Several moments of silence passed. “The little girl was called Marylynn. Pretty name, pretty little child. Tall for a girl. Blue eyes that would break your heart.” He leaned closer, grasping the metal railing of his hospital bed to support himself. “She looked a lot like her grandmama. I bet she’s a beauty now.”

  It pained him to think the Monettes had changed her name. She’d lost everything as it was. It would have been cruel to take her name, too. But he didn’t stop to sort that out now. His pulse pounded in his head. This man knew Elizabeth’s grandmother!

  “She is a beauty, sir. In fact, you can judge for yourself, if you will. I’d like to bring her for a visit. Can I have her do that? I’m sure she would like to hear about her grandmama.”

  Emmett looked interested, but hesitant. “I knew her other grandmama, too.” The buggy eyebrows danced up and down. “Quite a naughty one, that.”

  “May I ask her name, Mr. Peach? I’m sure my friend would be very interested in knowing any of her kin, especially if they’re still around.”

  “Some are, some are. But they’re not in ‘Bama. Gracious.” Mr. Peach laughed, a tinkly, clear sound that hinted at the personality inside the frail exterior. “Goodness, the doctor wouldn’t like hearing someone thought his mama was from Alabama!”

  Suddenly Mr. Peach began to cough. Tommy Lee leaned forward to pat the man on the back, but he shook his head and pointed to the glass of water on his bedside table.

  Tommy Lee handed it to him, then set it down again. He waited for a moment, hardly able to keep from asking the next question. Dr. Who? he wanted to shout. The sound of quick footsteps and a loud, “Well, Mr. Peach, you’re awake!” stopped Tommy Lee. He looked toward the door where a frizzy-haired woman, dressed in hospital whites and ridiculously high-heeled pumps, stood surveying the scene.

  “Hey, there,” the woman said to Tommy Lee, hurrying into the room, her thin, metal-tapped heels making nicking sounds like nails dropping on glass. “I’m Lucille Thompkins.”

  Tommy Lee stood. “Tommy Lee McCall, Miss Thompkins.”

  Lucille crossed over to the bed and shook her finger at Mr. Peach. “I hear you didn’t eat your lunch today, Mr. Peach. Am I going to have to come feed you myself?”

  Emmett Peach made a face and folded his hands again on his chest. He shut his eyes.

  Lucille walked a few feet around the bed and tapped Tommy Lee on the arm. When he came closer, she linked her arm in his and in a little-girl whisper said, “We’ll let him get some sleep now. So nice of you to come see him, hon. He don’t have many visitors.”

  Tommy Lee cast a last look over his shoulder. Mr. Peach still had his eyes closed, but Tommy Lee felt sure he was wide-awake.

  “Of course. I’ll come see him again. Tomorrow, around noon,” he said in a loud voice, sure Mr. Peach was listening to every word.

  “That’d be wonderful, Mr. McCall. You can have lunch with the old dear in the cafeteria. He’d like that.”

  She escorted him to the door, and Tommy Lee realized he was being asked to leave. He glanced back at the room where Emmett Peach lay pretending to sleep. “Who is Mr. Peach’s attending physician, Miss Thompkins?”

  “Dr. Katherine Smiths is his admitting doctor, Mr. McCall. But he sees whoever is on call. Most of the physicians from Belle Fleur General are over here. Why do you ask?”

  “Has any progress been made in finding out who attacked Mr. Peach?” Tommy Lee returned, falling easily into his cop stance.

  Lucille Thompkins took a step back. Her tiny green eyes narrowed. “You know, I don’t rightly know. Why don’t you give the police a call, hon. I’m sure, since that’s their job, they might be able to help you with that.”

  Tommy Lee felt like handcuffing her to a car bumper, but instead he smiled. “Thank you, Miss Thompkins. I’ll do that. Good day.”

  “Good day, Mr. McCall. Tomorrow is chicken nuggets and fresh applesauce. Won’t that be nice? We’ll see you at noon!”

  Tommy Lee kept walking, wondering how soon he could get Elizabeth out here, and if they had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting in to see Mr. Peach without having to go through the way-too-nosy Miss Lucille Thompkins.

  LUVEY ROSE WAS entertaining. Since last evening’s role as the bearer of bad-but-oh-so-interesting news, her popularity with the Queen of Midnight electees had grown dramatically.

  She and Tammy sat in her cozy sitting room, hosting a late-afternoon cocktail party for the group, while the drinks and gossip flowed like the Mississippi after a thunderstorm. Mayor Prince was, as always, his witty self. Holding forth from the center of Luvey’s silk-covered settee, he was focusing his remarks on Luvey’s ex-husband.

  “Why don’t you get his little cop behind over here and we can hear about his Schwarzeneggeresque rescue of Little Miss Monette, right from the horse’s mouth?”

  “Tommy Lee and I don’t speak much. Though making conversation was never his strong suit.”

  Several guests tittered and Tammy blushed. “Luvey, you shouldn’t go on like that about Tommy Lee.”

  “Yes, I should, darling,” her big sister teased. She was draped in an electric-blue jumpsuit, the neckline of which was cut down to her navel. “Some day you’ll understand what I mean when I tell our friends here Mr. McCall’s best asset was his mouth, but not when he used it for talking.”

  The giggles went up a notch, but not high enough to cover the sound of the phone ringing. Luvey’s maid came to the living-room entrance.

  “Phone, Miz Rose.”

  “Take a message, please. I’m entertaining.”

  The maid crossed the room and said something privately to Luvey. The smile fled her perfect features and she stood abruptly, oblivious to the appreciative stares of all her male guests. “Paris, darling, tell a naughty true story about a scandal involving a past Queen of Midnight. It will teach the girls who won’t be Queen that winning isn’t everything.”

  “I’ve got just the one,” the mayor purred, putting his arm around Tammy’s shoulder. “Since Rosellen isn’t here, maybe we can revisit a certain bon mot about her grandfather’s fascination with white trash!”

  The tittering increased as the crowd smelled blood and Luvey could make her escape. “I’ll take it in the study,” she called out in the hallway, then waited to hear the click of her maid hanging the extension up in the kitchen.

  “I told you not to call me here,” Luvey hissed into the phone. But before she could say more, her caller began to explain why he was interrupting the party.

  Luvey remained silent, slumping into the chair, her red hair flying around her head as she shook it in frustration. “I don’t beli
eve this could have happened. What are we going to do now?”

  She listened, then shook her head even more vehemently. “If she finds out, it’s all over, darling. Neither of us are any match for that kind of fight.”

  The caller argued, then asked for a meeting. “Okay. I can’t tonight because of the dinner party. And tomorrow Tammy has her final fitting. Friday is the Parade of Lights on the river. We’ll do it there. At the marina. Meet me at slip 25C.”

  Luvey stood, her body taut with anger and the energy of fear. “Look, I can’t see you before Friday. If she confronts you before then, well, you’ll have to wing it.”

  With a grim smile, Luvey nodded at the words spoken so truly in her ear. “Yeah, I know we’re in this together, lover. That’s the problem.” She slammed down the phone and stomped back in to her guests, her festive mood ruined, but her urge to hurt someone in full bloom.

  ELIZABETH SAT BOLT upright in bed. In the dark she felt her heart racing and a scream dying in her throat. Clutching at her chest, she listened for the sound of footsteps, a sign she had once again scared the devil out of her sleeping parents, but the old house was quiet.

  The clock beside her read 3:38 a.m. She took several deep breaths and tried to forget the worst nightmare she had ever had.

  But she couldn’t. It was as vivid as the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. She was young, a tiny girl. Swinging on a homemade plank hanging from a huge magnolia tree. It was summer. Someone—she couldn’t see who—was pushing her with gentle hands. When she turned to look at him, she saw a monster dressed in white.

  She jumped from the swing and instead of landing on the soft, squashy grass of the field, she fell through a plate-glass window. The crash was like dying, loud and clear and unchangeable. She screamed for her mother as blood streamed down her face and arms, but her mother didn’t come.

  For her mother was lying dead in the broken glass of the window, cut to pieces, eyes open and staring.

  Shivering, Elizabeth slipped out of bed, pulled on her robe and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. She poured milk into a pan and put it on the stove, then restlessly walked around the small kitchen and breakfast room, stopping to look at and touch the hundred familiar objects her mother had brought with her from their home in Baltimore. Photographs of herself as a Girl Scout, her dad and mom at the Grand Canyon; cushions she had helped her mother embroider, the summer she was sixteen and caught the mumps; the “special” turkey platter her mother had painted in one of her self-improvement classes and which they used faithfully every Thanksgiving and Christmas.