A Case of Sour Grapes

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  Babby blew across the top of the cup and sipped. “She showed a lot of heart.”

  “She showed a lot of impulsiveness. She could’ve been killed.”

  “True. But she wasn’t.”

  “Not this time. And there will be a next.”

  “Next time she’ll have her gun license. And she’ll have been through a self-defense course. Cindy’s right. That’s exactly what Maxine needs.”

  Kay flipped the switch on the kettle. “It’s not enough, Babby. Teaching her how to use a gun safely and how to protect herself won’t override Maxine’s inability to think through the consequences of her actions. If that man had been any bigger, or if he’d had a gun -”

  “He could’ve hurt her badly.”

  Two bangs sounded in quick succession and the women jumped.

  “Nail gun,” Babby said, hand to her heart. “We need to talk about what we want the glazier to put on the window.”

  Kay blinked. “What’s wrong with what we had before?”

  “I hated that window. Roscoe’s repaired it after Hurricane Rita without consulting us, and it looked too masculine.”

  “You want pink?”

  “No, Kay. I want something that better reflects who we are and what this agency is about.”

  “It’s about all kinds of investigations, Babby.” Kay opened a cabinet and got down a mug. “Should we list everything we do?”

  “I don’t know. I know we’re getting more and more business through the internet, and I’m grateful for the web site. I’ll draw something up and we can look at it in the morning. Back to Maxine. I’m not ready to give up on her yet.”

  “Do you want to be the one to tell Vivienne her daughter’s been injured, or God forbid, killed while under our care?” Kay poured boiling water over a tea bag. Babby lifted her cup for a refill.

  “She’s not a child any more, Kay. Her actions aren’t our responsibility.”

  “Even though she’s working for us?”

  “We can give her all the training available, but it’s down to Maxine to use it wisely. I think she’s serious about this PI thing. Finding Bret Ivey on Saturday fueled her passion for it. Could you tell? And if she doesn’t work for Lost and Found, she’ll find a job somewhere else.”

  “She’s safer with us, that’s what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe.” Babby sipped, and then nodded slowly. “But beyond that, she’s got good instincts. She doesn’t quit. She follows her heart.”

  “But can she follow instructions?” Kay asked, sitting at last.

  “Maxine will always have an impulsive streak. It’s our job to channel her strengths in the right direction and help minimize her weaknesses.” Babby almost smiled. “After watching her for the last few days, after seeing her dedication to finding the truth, are you really willing to give up on her?”

  Kay heaved a great sigh and closed her eyes. “I want more than anything to protect Maxine and the agency, Babby. But I’m not sure we can do both.”

  ABSOLUTE DESTRUCTION

  I ADVANCED SLOWLY, OPEN-mouthed at all the damage. It was utterly complete. My whole apartment was upside down. My beautiful red sofa was in tatters, its stuffing strewn around the living room like shredded marshmallows. The kitchen was a wreck, cabinet doors open, crockery crunching under foot.

  The fear that engulfed me when I saw my damaged front door evaporated and despair expanded in my chest with every step.

  I followed the intense smell of a perfume I couldn’t identify into the bathroom. My towels were in strips, the contents of the cupboards tossed about. My makeup was in the toilet. Bottles of perfume had disintegrated on impact and amber liquid streaked the walls. Light from the bulbs remaining around the mirror glittered on the glass shards underfoot. The shower was running and I reached in, intending to turn it off, then remembered Kado’s distress over Kay’s handling of evidence. Water was draining so I left the shower running.

  My mattress and box springs had been upended and slashed, the duvet and pillow torn apart. Feathers littered every surface like freshly fallen snow. I couldn’t see my shotgun anywhere and panic coated me in a cool slick. Drawers were missing from the chests, my lingerie was strewn about in silken mounds, the drawers themselves reduced to kindling. I advanced on the closet with dread, only to find its contents untouched. My intruders either had a conscience, or were aware of the consequences Diann Vega’s spouse encountered when he’d tossed her clothes in the pig pen.

  The guest bedroom was in the same shape. The equipment in my exercise room looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. I crept into the study and my panic bypassed anger and blossomed straight into fury. My computer was a jagged island of broken plastic and glass. The massive stickies Cass and I had filled with notes about Bret Ivey’s marriages and divorces, our thoughts about motive related to winery staff and Poison Ivy and the Dismembered Bunnies, were gone. I hurried to the stereo and found the album on the turntable. The original sleeve in its plastic case had fallen behind the unit. I breathed a sigh of relief as I slid the record home. Stan would’ve seriously hated me if his album had been abused.

  A crunching sounded, then stopped. I grabbed a splintered desk leg and ducked behind the study door. A figure entered and whispered, “Maxine?”

  My knees went weak. “Jeepers, Cass. Don’t sneak up on a girl whose apartment has just been trashed.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you were inside.” I stepped from behind the door and she raised an eyebrow at the desk leg. “Seriously?”

  “They stole my shotgun,” I said, and burst into tears.

  __________

  CASS PACKED A BAG and had me back in her truck in record time, leaving officers in place to guard my apartment until Kado could process it. She’d called Bruce and told him to get one of the spare rooms ready. I’ll admit it; this wasn’t how I’d imagined my first night sleeping under the same roof as Bruce Elliot since I was a kid, but it would do.

  “Poor guy,” I said. “Does Kado ever get to sleep?”

  “When it rains, it pours,” she said. “Crime seems to breed crime. He’ll get Truman out of bed to help and they’ll do the urgent stuff tonight.”

  I yawned. My supplies of adrenaline were spent. “You didn’t catch the guy again?”

  Cass frowned and I realized how rude that sounded. “He disappeared into the woods. Mr. Orange Shoes is gone, too.”

  “You think they’re working together?”

  “It’s possible. I sent Kado a text, telling him where Orange Shoes was hanging out. Maybe he’ll find a cigarette butt or piece of gum and we’ll get DNA.”

  “You don’t sound optimistic,” I said.

  “It rarely ever happens that way, but most criminals are stupid and don’t know it. We’ve got to try.”

  TELLING PAPA

  THE SMALL MAN CLOSED his phone and then his eyes. Sugar waited for the explosion; the shouting coming through the phone had been beyond furious.

  The big pages he’d ripped off the chick’s wall were crumpled in a corner. Once they’d got back to the hideout, they’d turned up the lantern and read through the notes. Again. And then again. Each time, the smaller man’s agitation grew. It took Sugar some time to figure out why, but at last realization dawned: the girls knew about the tapes. Or at least had a theory involving the tapes and BB’s former band mates.

  That was very bad news for the small man, and even worse news for his father, which was confirmed by the violent reaction Sugar overheard.

  So he waited, picking up Maxine’s shotgun and sighting down its barrel.

  The small man, usually in perpetual motion, was utterly still. Sugar had to pee, but he waited. At last the small man raised his head and Sugar braced for the explosion. But it never came.

  “That’s it,” the small man said.

  “What’s it?” Sugar ventured.

  “Papa’s sending the enforcer to take them out.”

  “Who?”

  “Everybody. Everybody who
knows about the tapes.”

  “That’s what he should’ve done when BB made the first call.”

  The small man glared.

  Sugar pulled at his nose. “Um, sorry.”

  “Good. Because you and Billy are in the same pile of mierda that I’m in.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The small man was silent for several moments. “He told me not to come back unless I find the tapes.”

  “Never?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about me and Billy?”

  “You are dead to him.”

  Sugar blinked. “Like really dead?”

  A ghastly smile crossed the small man’s face. “Like really.”

  Sugar rubbed his eyes. “What’s on those tapes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “How can you not know?” the small man said. “You were there.”

  “He kicked us out when the chick showed up,” Sugar protested.

  “What chick?”

  “Some scary Mexican chick.”

  The small man studied him. “Scary how?”

  “All scarred up. Her face.” He motioned to his cheeks.

  The small man nodded. “Ah.”

  “‘Ah’ what?”

  “That woman is my abuela, my grandmother. She was kidnapped by the Sinaloa Cartel when it was falling apart. My family thought she was dead.”

  “Whoa. That explains why Sonny freaked. He saw a ghost.”

  “That meeting is legendary, but I didn’t know it happened at the studio.”

  “What did your granny say? We were on the way, man. To stardom. It had to be something heavy to make Sonny walk away.”

  “I have no idea, but that conversation is the reason Papa wants the tapes.” The small man paced. “We must find them. Any bright ideas?”

  “The girls know about the tapes, so we follow the girls.”

  The small man eyed Sugar with something approaching respect. “Clever.”

  “That’s what I keep telling Billy. Let’s go find him. Billy’s good with girls.”

  DOMESTICITY

  I WOKE TUESDAY MORNING to the smell of frying bacon and had no clue where I was or how I got there. My muscles were so sore they were almost in spasm but I leveraged myself upright and from the odd angle of the room’s ceiling, realized I was in the Elliot house. The curtains blocked most of the morning’s light, but the clock on my phone read six-thirty, and I relaxed.

  Although I remembered getting into Cass’s truck, I didn’t remember actually arriving at the house or getting inside. I eased out of bed, stretched until I felt somewhat human again, and dug through my bag to find a robe. A mirror that was losing its silver hung over an old dresser, and I gently touched my eye. It was deepening to a lovely shade of black, but the swelling had dropped a bit. The raspberry was scabbing over on my chin, and rather than fret about it, I was grateful I hadn’t knocked a tooth loose. There was nothing I could do about my looks, so I ran my hands through my hair and followed the smell of food downstairs.

  Bruce glanced over his shoulder as I stepped into the kitchen. “I’ve got ice ready.”

  I tried to protest but he pulled a towel wrapped bag of ice cubes from the freezer. I gingerly put it against my face. “What happened? I don’t remember getting here.”

  “You conked out in the pickup and Cass had me carry you inside.” He flipped an egg. “She wouldn’t let me change you into your PJs, though.”

  My insides flipped like the egg, and I didn’t have any words.

  Bruce seemed tickled to strike me mute. “Coffee? Today’s Forney Cater is on the table.”

  “Mmmm,” I answered, and sat at the table, enjoying the sense of being served by a man. I wondered if this was what domesticity was supposed to look like. I doctored and sipped the cup he put on the table. “Nice. Blue Mountain?”

  “Just for you. I usually make a pot of the grocery store brand because nobody here appreciates good coffee.’

  “Untrue,” Cass said as she came through the kitchen’s swinging door. “We just don’t express our gratitude clearly to those who share a branch on our family tree. Are those eggs for me?”

  “These are for Maxine. Yours are coming up.”

  He slid a plate onto the table and I nearly swooned. Fried eggs, bacon, a pretty little heart shaped pancake, and a pile of blueberries topped with whipped cream. “That’s romantic,” I said.

  “That’s the only pancake mold he’s got,” Cass said. “I’m getting him a hammer shaped one for Christmas.”

  She opened the newspaper between us. “Love Quadrangle Murder Suspect Released” read the headline in huge font. The article provided a recap of the murders and named Blue Ivey as the primary suspect in all three. A separate piece summarized Bret and Blue’s marriage and the winery’s history. Photos of Blue, Annie, and Daphne were positioned above the fold.

  “Guess they couldn’t find a photo of Bret, either,” I said.

  “At least Wally added the caveat that all leads are being followed,” Cass said.

  “In tiny print at the bottom of the story. It sounds like Blue’s a deranged killer who’s on the loose again.”

  “It’s not that bad. It’ll probably boost business for the winery,” Cass said. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m stiff. How are you?”

  “Fine. I’m skipping physical therapy again today.”

  “Chad won’t like that,” Bruce offered.

  “Chad can deal. We’ve got some bad boys out there with details about Bret Ivey’s ex-wives in their hot little hands.”

  I knew where she was going with this.

  “So?” Bruce said as he slid a plate in front of Cass and joined us.

  “If they’re really after the Dismembered Bunnies’ tapes, they might think he hid them with an ex-wife,” Cass said.

  “My ex-wives wouldn’t be my first port of call if I needed help,” Bruce said.

  “You wouldn’t be married to three women at the same time, would you?”

  “That’s too much work.”

  Cass nodded at my plate. “Eat up. We need to get on the phones.”

  ALL HIS EXES

  COFFEE WAS ON WHEN we got to the agency. Kay, Babby, and Cindy had come in early to extract contact details from the various databases for the wives so we could test my theory about the instruments. After last night, we needed to warn them about the dangers of the Dismembered Bunnies, too. I was moving slowly and Kay tutted over my injuries while Babby checked to ensure the super glue was holding on my knee. Then they took me into Kay’s office, slid the glass partitions closed, and laid into me. First one, then the other, tag-team wrestling-style without the masks and flying chairs. I don’t think any of my high school escapades earned me this much grief, but memory fades with time.

  They were right, of course, about how foolhardy it was to chase someone in the dark with no backup, no weapon, and no means of communication. Or even to chase someone in daytime under those conditions. I listened and nodded. After they’d fussed themselves out, I promised I would never do anything like that again, and at the time, I meant it. They looked at each other, realized they had nothing left to beat me with, and released me.

  I hobbled to the kitchen and caffeine. After I filled a cup, I left a message notifying my insurance agent about the break-in and destruction. Then I found the Nordstrom’s bag I’d brought in last night and took it to Cindy.

  “Get your trash off my desk,” she said. “I’m busy.”

  “It’s not trash, Cindy. Look.”

  She pulled her gaze from the computer screen and tipped the bag forward. Her eyes narrowed. “What’s this?”

  “A thank you.”

  She pushed the bag at me. “I’m not for sale, Maxine.”

  Why does my cousin make everything so hard? “I’m not trying to buy you, Cindy. I’m thanking you for helping me and training me on Saturday. Is that so bad?”

  Cas
s wandered over and peeked in the bag. “Are those the driving mocs you were looking at yesterday?”

  I nodded.

  “They’re my size. I’ll take a thank you if Cindy doesn’t want one.”

  That did it. She snatched the bag and shoved it under her desk, grousing a ‘thanks, but you didn’t have to.’ Cass winked at me as she sauntered away. The girl’s got some serious psychological mojo going on.

  We split the wife list and waited to dial home numbers until eight o’clock Texas time, but that still put it at six California time. To our knowledge, Bret had had nine wives, including the two we’d met, Blue and Nicole. His first wife, Mary Sterling, was dead. That left six women, three in Texas and three in California, we needed to contact. Kay and Babby took the Texas women, and Cass, Cindy, and I took the California girls, using the speakerphone in the conference room so all three of us could listen in.

  Once we assured the women there was no immediate emergency and explained their ex-husband Bret or Baxter Ivy or Ivey or Ivye or Ivie had been murdered, their reactions were either relief (‘thank God, he wouldn’t stop hitting me up for cash’) or anger (‘he can’t be dead, he owes me money’). It seemed that although they divorced in sometimes bitter circumstances, Bret never broke contact with these women. His charm must’ve been immense. Or maybe some other physical attribute was immense.

  His second wife, Susan Spikes, cried, and once we probed a little, discovered that her second marriage to the other banker’s son had turned out very badly. Bret was wooing her again. I wondered how he thought he could make four simultaneous marriages work, but when you’ve already got three on the go, what’s one more?

  Most of the ex-wives knew or suspected Bret / Baxter had been married before, but they all said he was so sensitive about his failed marriages - that’s how he described them - they didn’t probe.

  We briefly explained my theory about Poison Ivy and the Dismembered Bunnies. Susan remembered Bret talking about his time as a musician, but she was the only one he shared that part of his life with. Although he had brought instruments into their marriages and acquired more while married to each, he’d never mentioned it to the other women. Susan had thought it incredibly sexy to be married to a guitar player, but wasn’t too keen on his banjo practice. They all thought it unlikely a band mate from thirty years ago would want to hurt Bret now, but we asked them to please take precautions for the next few weeks, going so far as to ask them to request drive-bys from the local police on a regular basis at their homes and work.