Ready, Scrap, Shoot

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  I turned away so he couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

  Finally, I was getting a dad who cared about me.

  Sixty-eight

  I tucked the CALA yearbook under my arm and raced off to meet Detweiler. He got to his feet as I approached the booth in the diner. The look of him—long, lean, and exuberantly masculine—sent a thrill through me. When he pulled me close for a kiss, sparkles of electricity ran up and down my body. He smelled of Safeguard soap and the spray starch he favored for ironing his shirts. I sank into him, loving the muscularity of his chest, the sinews of his arms, and the loud lub-lub-lub of his heart. Wrapping his arms around my shoulders, he held me like I was the most precious thing on earth.

  This was home. Wherever my physical address might be, this spot, the sheltering embrace of the man I loved, was the place where I found sanctuary and contentment.

  All too quickly, a waitress walked up to take our order. We stepped apart and sank into the cushy seats of the booth. I ordered scrambled eggs well-done, whole wheat toast, and a cup of tea. He had the meat lovers’ omelet, a side of bacon, and coffee. As we ate, he talked about the investigation into the sniper attack. So far they’d found nothing to link it with Bill.

  “Doesn’t make sense. He’s talking with our informant. He’s bragging up a storm, but he hasn’t said a word about the shooting at CALA.”

  “Maybe you could find out whether he had a beef with the Fitzgerald family.”

  Detweiler shook his head. “We’ve pursued that angle. In fact, from every conversation we’ve had, we’ve heard that Bill actually liked Peter. They were golfing buddies. If that’s the case, why shoot him? As for Mrs. Fitzgerald, why shoot at her in a crowd?”

  “To make a statement?” I wondered out loud. “Like the terrorists were doing with the World Trade Center? It wasn’t just an attack, it was an attack on two iconic buildings, and on the city that’s the most ambitious in the world.”

  He nodded. “Which leads us to motive. If the goal was to get you, why risk missing you? With all those dancers milling around, you weren’t an easy target.”

  “I still don’t understand why a sniper would have delivered a kill shot and then missed so many other shots,” I said. “I mean, you wouldn’t try something like that unless you were very good and very confident, right? Let’s say that Mrs. Fitzgerald was the initial target. How did the shooter then miss Peter? The crowd was still seated. No one had figured out what was happening. The sniper could have just as easily taken Peter out as he or she did Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

  Detweiler stirred his coffee and studied the clouds of cream. “There’s a reason behind all this. Once we find the logic, we’ll find the shooter.”

  I opened the CALA yearbook. “Jennifer Moore suggested that I study the photos of Peyton, the Fitzgerald daughter. You know, she started a rebellion against the May Day ceremony.” I told Detweiler what I knew of that.

  He studied her picture. We flipped to the index, found more photos, and I moved to his side of the booth so we could examine them together.

  “Anything jump out at you?” Detweiler asked me.

  I hated myself for what I was thinking. “Well, er, yes. Yes, I do. Peyton could easily be mistaken for a boy.”

  Detweiler sat back in the booth and whistled a low tone through his front teeth. “You’ve got that right. You say she didn’t want to participate in the May Day ceremony? What would her part have been? I know there’s dancing.”

  I thought a second. “Senior girls wear long white gowns. Bridal gowns.”

  “I thought women dreamed of their wedding day. My sisters always made a big hairy deal out of their dresses and their attendants. Why wouldn’t a girl want to pretend to be a bride? What else is expected of them? A little dancing around. Wearing a long formal dress.”

  “They are presented to Elliott McMahan. Sort of like a cross between a wedding and a vestal virgin ceremony. He nods to acknowledge them,” I said as I studied the candid shots of the girl. She seemed to have lots of friends. According to the information under her formal photo, Peyton was involved in honor society, the science club, choir, and debate.

  “So, it’s like Mr. McMahan is a stand-in for the groom at a wedding,” mused Detweiler.

  I jerked my head up as a thought came to me. I glanced back through the photos. In every photo where Peyton appeared, another girl appeared as well … Neenah Sterling. Neenah always stood very, very close to Peyton. I looked up Neenah’s activities. She was in honor society, the science club, choir, and debate. Except for photos where she appeared with Peyton, Neenah wasn’t pictured in the album.

  I phoned Jennifer. It was early, but I knew her habits. She was up with the birds. “Quick question. Does Peyton Fitzgerald have a boyfriend?”

  Jennifer cleared her throat. “No.”

  “Is she gay?”

  There was a silence on the other end. Jennifer’s son, Stevie, was gay and she was a very protective mother.

  “I’m not trying to out her,” I said. “I’m only wondering because, well, if I were a young woman who was gay, the idea of trotting around in a wedding gown and curtseying to an older man would be, um, repellent. I mean, I’m not gay and I have to admit the whole presentation thingie is a little bit … creepy.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Creepy? Sort of like offering yourself up as a sacrifice, right?”

  “Yeah, exactly,” I said before I told her goodbye. It wasn’t until after I hung up that I realized Jennifer never answered my question about Peyton.

  Sixty-nine

  We drove to the shooting range in two separate cars. I hadn’t told Detweiler about my run-ins with Brenda, but we both understood that being in a car together was risky business. I ached from holding back. Of all the rough spots in our relationship, this push-me, pull-you, seesawing back and forth, where we were intimate one minute and strangers the next, was the toughest to take.

  Detweiler helped me load my gun. “Pretend that’s Bill,” he suggested as he pointed at the target. “Aim for center mass. Remember, a gun doesn’t do you any good if you won’t use it.”

  I took a black marker and wrote “BB” over the red bullseye on the paper target. Before I squeezed the trigger, I measured my breathing. In, pause, out, pause. Easing the trigger back, I fired my first shot with my new weapon. The gun pulled up, but I’d expected as much.

  “Son of a gun, you hit that perfectly,” Detweiler said with a tone of wonder in his voice. “Let’s see if you can do it again.”

  I did. When the magazine was empty, we reeled the target back in and unclipped it.

  “That’s fine shooting. I have to say I’m impressed and surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “This is your first time with that gun, and you’re doing great. You sighted the gun correctly, you slowed your breathing, and you squeezed the trigger. How’d it feel to you?”

  I admitted the process seemed more natural than I would have expected. The sound was louder than I would have guessed. The smell—thick and peppery—coated my nose. “Is that cordite?” I wondered.

  “Nope. Only very old ammunition uses cordite. You’re getting a whiff of nitroglycerin and sawdust.”

  “But people always talk about the smell of cordite.”

  He grinned at me. I loved how his top incisor was slightly crooked. “One of those phrases that we adopt and use without thinking. I think you should take this target home to Anya. She’ll be impressed. That reminds me. Mom and Dad want to have you both over for dinner. The middle of next month, I’ll have been separated from Brenda for six months. That’s long enough for them to feel it’s official. They know it’s over. Although she doesn’t seem to be getting the hint that I’ve moved on.”

  “What do you mean?” I chewed my bottom lip to keep from blurting out all my grievances.

>   “She keeps showing up at my apartment. Calls me. Sends me text messages. A few days ago she even texted me twenty-two times in ten minutes.”

  I double-checked my gun for bullets. When I was sure it was empty, I slipped it into my purse. “So, she’s stalking you.”

  “Basically.”

  “She threw you out, now she wants you back.”

  “Sweetheart, Brenda doesn’t know what she wants. She’s an addict. She’s unstable and violent, and she refuses to go to regular meetings to help her stay on the straight and narrow. If she doesn’t clean up her act—fast—she’ll be out of a job. Not to mention, she’s on the verge of being cut loose from the nursing management program she’s been taking.”

  “Wow.” I’d been counting on her moving away. If she didn’t complete her degree, that wasn’t likely to happen. The specter of a life where Brenda could show up anytime, anywhere, did not thrill me one bit.

  I didn’t tell him about the eggs on my car. It just didn’t seem like that big of a deal. I felt discouraged. It wasn’t that I expected life to be easy. It never is. But I hadn’t realized we could be dealing with Brenda for a very long time. Hadn’t Princess Di complained about there being three people in her marriage? Brenda was our own personal tiresome third wheel. If she didn’t finish her degree and move to Colorado as planned, there was no reason to think she’d ride off into the sunset.

  After we kissed goodbye, he held me at arm’s length and studied me. With a gentle touch, he stroked my forehead. “Don’t frown, sweetheart. Everything will be all right. We’ve got each other. That’s enough. We’ll get through all this mess with Bill and Brenda, and someday when we’re old and sitting in rocking chairs outside of a Cracker Barrel, we’ll have a good laugh about all this.”

  I nodded. The lump in my throat caused a pain that kept me from talking.

  He drove off first. I took a deep breath and backed out slowly. Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I reached into my purse and touched the Kel-Tec. The cold plastic reassured me.

  At a stoplight, I paused and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Lately, the urge to nap overwhelmed me. I was tired all the time. I badly needed to recharge my psychic and physical batteries.

  I missed my friendship with Mert. I missed Clancy’s usual good humor and support. I missed Dodie’s steady nature and calm reassurance. I missed living in my own house, having my own space, and not worrying if Claudia was listening in. As much as I loved Detweiler, a mild irritation crept under my skin. He wasn’t worried about Brenda, but did he have any concept of the havoc she was causing in my life?

  A tap on the horn startled me into action. I waved at the car behind me and started through the intersection. As I did, my phone rang.

  Seventy

  “Kiki, is this a bad time?” my sister’s voice came across as urgent.

  “No, no. It’s fine,” I said. I was thrilled to hear from her. I pulled off into an empty parking lot and put on my blinkers.

  “How’s it going with Mom?”

  “I’m worried about her. She has to tinkle a lot. I know that’s common in older women, but she’s also so—so—”

  “Weird?” asked Amanda. “Wasn’t she always?”

  “Yes, but she’s an animal lover and—”

  “She got mixed up. She put your daughter’s kitten into the microwave thinking it was the cat carrier, I bet.”

  Put that way, it sounded like a simple mistake. But I didn’t think it was that easily explained away.

  “Amanda, when did Mom have her last checkup? She’s not just confused. It’s like her personality has changed. Maybe you haven’t noticed it because you live with her, but I’m shocked. She used to be such a stickler about manners. Now I can’t stand to watch her eat. And personal hygiene? That’s gone completely by the wayside.”

  Amanda blew out a sigh. “You’re right. Look. I’ll find her medical records and fax them to you. Email me a fax number, okay? Meanwhile, Claudia showed up on your doorstep? How did that happen?”

  I’d been thinking about that. “My cell phone disappeared a couple of times. I guess Mom phoned her. What did you find out from the McMurrays?”

  “Nothing. Mrs. McMurray is in a coma. Doesn’t seem like the time to pepper them with questions about Claudia. I know her daughter is here working with hospice, caring for her mother.”

  “That reminds me. I can never thank you enough for keeping a roof over Mom’s head. I guess I’ve been pretty wrapped up in my own life. Now that she’s here, well, I have a better appreciation of what that might be like for you. What I’m trying to say is, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, well, I owe you an apology, too. I guess I wanted to believe you had it made. I thought you were Mrs. Got Rocks and you just didn’t want to help Mom out. Is it true you live in a garage?”

  “It’s been converted. But yes, that’s what it was. Things are tough, but I’ll get by.”

  “What do you think we should do about Claudia?”

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. If she stays here until Mrs. McMurray dies, she won’t have a reason to return to Tucson, right?”

  “Theoretically. I guess she could try to come back and move in with Mom. Sponge off of her until she finds another elderly person to pillage. Of course, Claudia might want to stay in St. Louis—and keep away from here. I’ve got a feeling that when Nancy McMurray realizes that Claudia took some of her mother’s things, she’ll press charges.”

  I stared out at the cracked asphalt and the spindly weeds poking up through broken bits of pavement. “Claudia is a survivor. She’ll find a way to explain away the situation.”

  “How can she live with herself ?” asked Amanda. “She’s preying on old folks! And how come Mom can’t see that?”

  “She’s giving Mom what she wants: attention. That’s all that matters to Mom. Maybe she did the same for Mrs. McMurray. Maybe when you are old and all alone, you’d gladly trade a few possessions for companionship and attention.”

  Amanda’s tone turned husky. “Then all of us share the blame, right? Claudia’s guilty of taking advantage of the situation, but it’s our fault that our aging parents are so lonely.”

  Seventy-one

  Guilt. What a concept. I should have no trouble finding a new job as an activities director at a guilt-trip cruise line. Now I felt awful about Mom’s plight. Had Amanda and I pushed her into Claudia’s greedy grasp?

  I could think of only one sure-fire way to get Claudia out of our lives. We had to catch her at something illegal.

  I pulled into Sheila’s driveway and turned off the car, steeling myself for what was ahead. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d gone Dumpster-diving. Or the last.

  I had a plan. All I needed was a change of clothes. When Anya heard what I was doing, my kid offered her assistance, even calling her friend Nicci to say she’d be a bit late coming over. Nicci volunteered to swing by and pick Anya up, as her older brother, Stevie, could do the driving.

  I changed into old pants, a stained tee, and latex gloves. I found one of Linnea’s aprons and stuffed a flashlight into the big front pocket. A couple of clear zippered plastic bags were in my pants pocket. Working together, Anya and I spread a plastic drop cloth on the ground to keep the mess to a minimum.

  I lowered the large plastic trash bin onto its side. Since Sheila lined all her small trash containers with plastic bags, I quickly sorted the bags by room of origin. Anya helped me paw through the contents of Mom’s trash.

  The assemblage of oddities told us a story. We found three receipts from Walgreens for snacks, colas, and a couple of bottles of cheap wine. Claudia was signing Mom’s name to these credit card slips. There was also a receipt for pizza, and this, too, had an unfamiliar script.

  “That�
�s not right,” grumbled Anya. “That’s forgery.”

  I agreed. “But I bet Mom would say it was okay with her. What we have so far is not enough to bring any pressure to bear on Claudia.”

  Seventy-two

  We were pawing through the contents of a second bag when Nicci and her brother, Stevie, hopped out of Stevie’s Volvo, a boxy blue late-model vehicle that I knew Jennifer had chosen for its safety features. Anya explained to the Moore kids what we were doing. They volunteered to dig through the garbage, too. I recognized another trash bag from the upstairs bathroom. We opened it, but all we found were used tissues and more receipts for food.

  Stevie rocked back on his heels and stared at the slips of paper. He was blonde and thin like his mother, and nearly as particular about his clothes. I was impressed that he was willing to help us with such a gross task. Although he’d been very fastidious about wearing latex gloves and handling the paper gingerly, he’d still dripped a bit of coffee on one of his perfectly pressed Dockers. I also noticed a smudge on the crisp placket of his pink Oxford cloth shirt.

  “Is this woman smart? I mean, really smart?”

  “Sort of. Why?” Anya looked toward him thoughtfully.

  “Does she know you suspect her?” he raised an eyebrow.

  Anya shrugged at me. I pondered this. “Maybe. I’ve caught her listening in on my conversations. When she saw me pulling out the latex gloves, she followed me to the back door. She asked what we were doing in the trash. I told her I lost a receipt I need for a refund.”

  “And she didn’t seem alarmed? Worried?” Stevie asked.

  “Nope.”

  “If I wanted to hide receipts or other stuff, I would be careful about putting anything into the garbage, wouldn’t you?” asked Stevie.

  Nicci rolled her palms over in a gesture of defeat. “I’m not sure we’ll find anything here.”