Red Blooded Murder

by Laura Caldwell

  “No way. Mailer said-”

  “Jesus!” I interrupted. “Why are you so fascinated by Norman Mailer?”

  “Because he knew what it was like to be a writer. He ran for Mayor of New York. He was married six times. He had all these mistresses.”

  “So what? I don’t get it. Do you have some kind of fascination with people who cheat?”

  “No, I have a fascination for people who live their lives. Really live them. For the most part, Mailer was like that. He jumped in, and he gobbled up life. He didn’t hole up in the woods.”

  “Ah.” I actually felt a little sympathy for Mick then.

  “What’s that mean, that ‘ah’?”

  “Well, it’s not that hard to figure out, is it? I’m sure some therapist has told you already, but clearly you’re looking to idealize a male figure who wasn’t like your father.”

  His amused expression turned solemn with an underlying edge of anger. “You don’t know anything about my father.”

  “I just know what I’ve read. That he moved you and your mom to some tiny town in Maine and lived out his years there.”

  Mick shook his head, but only minutely, as if he was trying to hold back his movements. “I looked up to Norman because he was different than my dad, sure. And I choose not to be like my father. It’s not as subconscious as you might think.”

  “So then you are able to choose. You can choose whether to be a-” I searched for a replacement word and came up with none “-a dickhead,” I said, “and slander Jane’s good name or not.”

  “It’s not slander or libel if it’s true. You’re a lawyer, you should know that.”

  “No, it’s still slander and libel. It’s just that you have a defense to it if it’s true. As a lawyer, I’ll tell you that you’d also have a defense because of the fact that Jane is dead. But as a human being I’m asking you not to use those defenses.”

  “Are you saying I’m inhumane?” He seemed to find this funny.

  “Look, you clearly have daddy issues, and I can see why…”

  Apparently, that comment was not so funny. His eyes narrowed, jaw muscles tensed.

  “Look,” I pointed at him. “You’re getting pissed. I don’t even know why, and really I don’t care. I mean, I know it’s about your dad, and I’m guessing you’re annoyed because I don’t know the whole story. I just read something and now I’m spouting it back. And that’s exactly what you’re doing to Jane if you write this stuff about her or let it get out. Two wrongs don’t make a right, Mick. Don’t turn around and do to Jane what was done to your family.”

  He said nothing.

  “And if you did anything to Jane,” I said, “then you should talk about it. You should tell that story.”

  His face relaxed. “From what I hear, you’re the one they think should come clean.”

  I felt him study me. What was I doing trying to talk this guy, this investigative journalist, out of writing about Jane? He was probably analyzing me right now so he could write about me. I uncrossed my arms. “I should go.”

  He said nothing. He was looking at me with some expression I couldn’t read. A curiosity, certainly, but not the salacious curiosity that I would have expected.

  I turned and walked down the steps and onto Goethe Street, unsure what to do next.

  Traffic whizzed by on LaSalle Street. I heard shouts from Wells Street in the other direction. It was almost Saturday night. I thought about how just over a week ago, I didn’t know I would be a news reporter, an anchor, a suspect. Now my skin tingled with a weird kind of energy, my body twitched with a premonitory buzz. And a question occurred to me-if it had all changed so much in only one week, what could happen next?

  72

  T he media were outside my condo when I got home, and they were still camped out when I left for the store Sunday morning. Jittery from a night of little sleep, I stopped and took a breath before I pushed open the front door of my condo building.

  If Sam was back in Chicago, he hadn’t called the night before to let me know, and some combination of pride and caution made me not call him. I wasn’t sure what I would say. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to happen. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him right now, or, maybe more importantly, how he felt about me, about us. The lingering uncertainty from the last few months had only increased, not gone away as I’d hoped. And so, last night, I had lain in my bed, thinking of Sam, thinking of Grady, thinking of Theo, and most of all thinking of the fact that earlier this week I had all of them, and now, for one reason or another, they were gone.

  That was fine, really. Honestly, I’m not the kind of girl who needs someone-a guy or a friend or a family member-around all the time. I like being with myself. But the rapidity with which people had come and gone from my life lately was freaking me out. Not just Sam, Grady and Theo, but Jane, and the people at Trial TV, too, and Forester, and everyone at my old law firm of Baltimore & Brown.

  When I stepped outside my building, the reporters and cameramen leapt into action, shoving microphones, yelling questions. One cameraman pulled his face from behind the lens and smiled sheepishly at me.

  “Ricky?” I said. It was the guy who’d worked the equipment in the van on my first day at Trial TV.

  “Hey,” he said simply, then went back to filming me.

  They surrounded me like a swarm of bees, following me as I hurried to the garage.

  Suddenly, I heard a thump, thump behind me, then shouting. “Get away from her. You leave her alone! Now!”

  I swirled around. Then I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Bunny?”

  Bunny Loveland was the housekeeper my mother hired when we first moved to Chicago following my dad’s death. With her once-a-week beauty-shop hair that lay in rounded, gray rows, she looked the part of a kind grandmother, which was probably what my mother was hoping for. But Bunny turned out to be a cranky, fairly mean-spirited person who cracked a smile only when she saw a Polish sausage from Vienna Beef. And yet, she was honest as hell. She became my go-to person whenever I needed a swift slap in the face.

  Except that now, she was trying to slap a reporter. “Go home!” she shouted, elbowing another reporter, then cracking yet another over the head with a faux-leather purse.

  “Bunny?” I said again, louder this time.

  She paused from her beating and looked at me. “I’m trying to help ya, kid. Now get out of here!”

  She swung the purse in an arc, hitting a camera with surprising force. Meanwhile, I yelled thanks and took off in a sprint for the garage.

  I thought about taking Grady’s car, but I realized that the reporters would follow me, and even if Bunny could keep a few of them back, I had no idea how to lose the others behind the wheel of a big automobile.

  I got on my Vespa and secured my helmet, tightening the chin strap to the point where it was almost cutting into my skin. I opened the garage door and sped forward, nearly hitting one of the cameramen. I saw Ricky behind him. Bunny was still dueling with a few reporters.

  “Sorry!” I called to Ricky over my shoulder and pulled back hard on the gas, lurching over the cobblestones.

  Two cars and a van were sitting at the end of the alley, cameramen hanging from the windows. I was about to turn onto a main street when I realized that the alleys might be the best way to shake them. I crisscrossed from alley to alley, darting glances over my shoulder at the news people doggedly trailing me, the Vespa shaking and bumping from the cobblestones. One of the alleys was ultranarrow, and the van behind me had to stop. The cars kept up with me, though, and their hulking presence began to get scary.

  “Son of a motherless goat,” I muttered, my new replacement attempt for “son of a bitch.” I would have to try something different.

  I got onto Sheffield and floored the scooter. Every time there was a left-turn lane, I got in it, shot ahead of the cars going straight and then veered back into the main lane, leaving behind a trail of honks and bleats. I could see one of the news cars, about six cars behin
d me now, but still keeping up with me.

  I steered the scooter into another alley. Two SUVs were parked behind an apartment building. I drove the scooter between them and stopped at the back of the largest SUV, hoping it would obscure the Vespa from the alley. I jumped off and crouched down. I hadn’t been doing anything physical, but my heart was racing. The feeling of being chased was not one I enjoyed.

  Five seconds later, the car with the cameraman turned into the alley. And blew right by me. I dropped my head and sucked in the dirty, exhaust-filled air from the alley, grateful for it, before I got back on my scooter and steered it toward the Fig Leaf.

  My alley adventure made me late. I didn’t even have time to look for Mayburn’s van as I ran in.

  Josie glared at me. Was it because she’d seen me on TV? My heart started tripping around again.

  She looked pointedly at her watch.

  “I’m really sorry I’m late,” I said to Josie, “I-”

  She drew her finger and thumb across her mouth, as if to say, Zip it, and pointed at the back room. “Five boxes of stock. Go.”

  So she hadn’t seen me on TV. Thank God. And I needed to be in the stockroom anyway, near those black thongs. The problem was-how to get Josie’s keys and get into that locked box, high on the shelf? Josie either kept the keys on her or left them near the register at the front desk.

  I sliced open the first box and went to work on the contents-bustiers in three different colors, pink, white, black. Reflexively, I thought of how Sam would love me in the black one. Then I shook the thought away. Immediately, Theo popped into my mind. Had everything we’d shared been some kind of game to him, some sick way to get back at Jane? Nope, I wasn’t going to go there, either.

  I turned back to the bustiers, steaming and folding them, making the handwritten price tags and attaching them. But the whole time, my eyes kept dodging to the locked box up on the shelf, where Josie kept the thongs.

  Once I got the bustiers steamed, I opened the second box of stock-push-up bras with blue gingham ribbons threaded through the top.

  I went out into the front of the store. “Josie,” I said, holding aloft one of the bras. “Do these need to be steamed?”

  I knew the answer. According to Josie, everything needed to be steamed, if only to loosen up the fabric and make it softer. But I needed an excuse to see if her keys were in plain view.

  They were. Right next to her at the register.

  “Yes, of course.” She began lecturing me about the importance of steaming, while I nodded and nodded. It was both tragic and fascinating that this stuff meant so much to Josie.

  I couldn’t think how to get her away from the register or the keys, so I went into the back room and kept attacking the stock, shooting glances up at the metal box every minute or so.

  At ten, the store opened, and Josie ordered me to the front. It was a sunny, crisp spring day, everyone giddy with the weather, and the place was soon crowded. I opened the door at one point, ostensibly to let in some fresh air, but really I wanted to check on Mayburn. And just as he’d said, a white van was parked across the street with the words Midwest Gas stenciled on the side in red. The window of the driver’s seat slid down a few inches. Mayburn gave me a quick nod, then the window slid back up.

  The hours passed quickly, me manning the front, Josie ringing up customers and showing them to the dressing room.

  At about three o’clock two women walked in. “Welcome to the Fig Leaf,” I said, then went back to refolding pajamas that had been messed up by someone’s toddler.

  I could feel one of the women looking at me, just staring. She whispered something to her friend, who turned to look at me. I met their eyes and smiled. “Can I help you find anything?”

  “No,” the first woman said. “We’re just trying to figure out where we’ve seen you. On TV maybe?”

  I shot a look over my shoulder at Josie. Thankfully, she was behind the counter with a small line of people in front of her. I peered through the front window and saw Mayburn’s van, still parked across the street.

  What to do? What to do?

  I decided to go for the blatant lie. “Not me,” I said. “But I’ve heard there’s some woman who looks like me…” I trailed off and tried to keep my head down, staring at the table of pajamas with an intensity I usually reserved for court appearances.

  “Yeah, that girl who killed the newscaster!” the woman said. “That’s who you look like!”

  “Oh, you’re right,” her friend said. “Exactly!”

  “She didn’t kill the newscaster,” I objected.

  “I heard she did,” said the first women.

  Another woman, wearing a spring sundress, came forward. “Are you talking about Jane Augustine’s murder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isabel McNeil,” the woman in the dress confirmed. “That’s the woman who they think did it.”

  I froze. I started blushing. I could feel the pulse in my neck rat-a-tat-tat. “She did not do it.”

  “She took over her job,” the woman said.

  “And she’s the only one who was supposed to be with Jane Augustine that afternoon,” the first woman added.

  “Jane was supposed to be with a friend,” I said. “Not m…” I started to say not me but I caught myself. Everyone looked at me funny.

  Another glance over my shoulder. Josie was done ringing up the sales and was now headed toward us. I had to get out of this conversation. Fast.

  “Ladies, we’ve got some great underwear on sale over there.” I pointed to the side of the store, then spun around and started walking. “Be right back,” I said to Josie. “Bathroom.” I patted my stomach vaguely and made a face as if to imply female difficulties or a tapeworm complication.

  Josie frowned but gave me a quick nod.

  I hurried to the back. As I passed the counter, I saw her keys. Right there by the register. I threw a look behind me and saw Josie was talking to the ladies. Was she talking about the redhead on TV who’d supposedly killed Jane Augustine? The one I looked like? Should I pull the plug now, run out the door to Mayburn’s van?

  My eyes darted to the keys again. I thought of how much Mayburn had helped me over the last six months. Now it was my turn to help him again on one of his cases. If I could get in the metal box right now, Josie probably wouldn’t leave the front anytime soon. But if she saw me grabbing the keys, she’d lose it.

  I veered toward the register and stopped behind it, pretending to move around the gift boxes. I looked at Josie and she gave me a What are you doing? frown, then glanced toward the back room as if to say, Are you going or not?

  I nodded, smiled. “Be right back,” I mouthed. I started moving in the direction of the storeroom, but I kept my eyes on Josie, and as soon as she turned back to the women, I shot my arm out and snatched the keys.

  By the time I got in the back room, I was shaking from anticipation. My eyes swung around wildly. Where was that step stool that Josie had used to reach the locked box? I dodged from room to room, searching for it, finally finding it in a closet.

  I dragged the stool and placed it right under the box. Before I climbed up, I stuck my head out of the back room. Josie was still in front, but she was backing up as she talked to a customer, headed for the register, where she’d probably see that her keys were gone.

  Go, I told myself. Now or never.

  I climbed on to the step stool. The keys jingled as I tried to stick one, then another and another in the small slot in the metal box.

  “Damn it,” I muttered. Why did Josie have so many freaking keys?

  I held my breath for a second, listening for Josie’s approaching footsteps. But instead I heard the sound of the register ringing a sale.

  I stared at the key ring. She had a monogrammed brass plate hanging from the ring and about nine keys. I studied them, looking for the smallest one, looking at the front plate of the metal box to see if any of them seemed to match. Maybe I should just grab the whole box and take off
with it?

  I pushed up on the box. It was heavier than I thought. And it was already bad enough I was trying to steal a single thong.

  “C’mon,” I muttered, my hands trembling as I tried another key and another one.

  The last key slid in and turned smoothly.

  “I might have a 34B in the back,” I heard Josie say from the front of the store. She was talking loud, giving me a signal to get my ass back out there, I could tell. Was she heading here at the same time?

  Hurry, Izzy.

  I opened it and reached inside. I pulled out a few thong boxes, each of them gray, like the one I already had and the one I’d bought for Maggie. I shoved them back and rummaged around inside. This time I yanked out one of the black ones.

  “Yes!” I whispered.

  I locked the box, jumped down from the step stool and stashed the stool back in the closet.

  “Just one moment,” I heard Josie saying in her First Lady voice, then the sound of her clicking heels coming closer and closer to the back room.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered, not even trying for one of my swear replacements. She was steps away, and here I was with her keys and a black-boxed thong. My purse was in one of the other storerooms. I didn’t have time to reach it and stash the thong inside before she would be here.

  I squeezed the box. It was thin. I managed to squash it into a V-shape. Now, where to put it? I looked down at myself. I was wearing straight-legged black pants and a black blouse. The pants were so fitted that the pockets were useless, but the blouse was loose and full. I stuck the rolled-up box between my breasts, anchored by my bra. Now what to do with the keys?

  Josie was just outside. I could hear the angry clack of her shoes. Lacking anything else to do, I stuck the keys under one armpit and clamped down my arm, holding them there.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed. Josie stood, a hand on her hip, a snarl on her face.

  “I had to use the restroom. I’ll get back out there.”

  I hustled toward her, pressing my arm down harder.

  “Have you seen my keys?” Her eyes, narrowed and suspicious behind her silver-framed glasses, darted around the back room. I prayed that I had pushed the metal box back into place, just like it had been.