“She is.”
“Oh, good. Do you know if her court date has been set?”
“Tomorrow afternoon at two. It’s going to be a short trip to sentencing.”
I was suddenly on a carnival ride, the earth tilting sideways.“She’s going to plead guilty?”
“She’s not even electing to bond herself out of jail. She’s claiming she’s responsible for her son’s death.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Maybe she was tired of being a mommy.”
No, no way. I’d seen them together, her and Michael. Seen them play together. Seen her read to him. Seen the way she looked at him. No way. I was so stunned I couldn’t say any of it out loud. Instead I croaked, “No —”
“There was enough GHB in that orange juice to kill them both, easily.”
“There was?”
“There was. Who knows? Maybe it was a murder-suicide thing and she chickened out.”
My voice wasn’t working. “No. No, not —”
“We’ll see what she has to say in court. But, yes, she is on suicide watch.”
“Thanks.”
I clapped my phone shut and steadied myself before going in. Ashley, a deliberate child killer? Murder-suicide? That was crazy. Ashley had never shown a hint of regret about having Michael. I’d have noticed. Wouldn’t I?
The restaurant was crowded and loud, with the mariachi music playing from speakers overhead adding to the din of conversation. Sombreros and bright-patterned Mexican blankets decorated the walls. I found Royanne at a table for two in the back.
“I ordered your usual, okay?”
I was still shocked at Brighton’s revelation and wasn’t hungry. “Fine.” Royanne studied my face and decided not to pursue it. She changed the subject.
“You remember Bo?” She had to talk loudly over the music.
“Who?”
“Bo, the friend of Toby’s who helped move your stuff.”
Oh, yes. Toby had sweetly volunteered his pickup truck, and he and his friend had lugged my furniture from my Southside apartment to my new house four months ago. Nice of them, but I had no illusions that it had been anything less than another step in Royanne’s continuing conspiracy to get me married.
“What about him?”
“He wants your number.”
I tried to remember what he looked like. I knew he was a deliveryman for the bottling plant, like Toby. Red hair and freckles came to mind. And he had massive muscles. Like Howdy Doody on steroids.
“Oh, Howdy Doody,” I muttered.
“What?”
“I said, oh, hallelujah.”
“No need to get sarcastic. If you don’t want to go out with him, just say so.”
“I don’t want to go out with him.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is. I’ve seen you use it with your kids.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what I say when I don’t feel like explaining.” “There you have it.”
“He’s a nice guy.”
“I’m sure he is. I just don’t want to go out with him. My life is hell right now, and it’s only going to get worse. The last thing I need is a blind date.” Or any date. Not that I didn’t want to get married. Someday. And have kids. But my history with men lately consisted of one disaster after another. None of them were capable of understanding my work schedule, accusing me of neglecting our relationship when a crisis situation kept me out all night. As if I wouldn’t rather be spending time with them instead of rearranging some child’s life forever.
Royanne said, “Okay, okay. I’ll figure out something to tell Bo.”
Our usual waiter, Pablo, brought our lunches, and I managed to work up enough of an appetite to finish a chicken taco. Royanne entertained me with stories about her six-year-old, Alicia, who was always doing something funny. By the time lunch was over, I felt better.
I had thirty-seven phone messages to return that afternoon. The first three were routine work stuff. The fourth got my attention.
“Ashley’s in jail because of you, bitch. What happened to your tires is gonna happen to you.” The message ended. It was a man’s voice, low and rough. Not one I recognized. This wasn’t the first time I’d been threatened, nor would it be the last, assuming after all this was over I got to keep my job. Usually my clients said what they had to say, and that was the end of it.
But this message was a little different. Maybe because my tires had already been cut. That showed he, whoever he was, was serious. I was mad, but I also felt a little prickle of fear in my gut. I buzzed Mac and he came over to our cubicle to listen to the message. He’d document it, but beyond that there wasn’t much he could do. The State of Alabama had yet to spring for caller ID, so there was no way to know where the call had come from.
I had a sneaking suspicion it was Flash. I remembered his harassing phone calls to Ashley during the first days of her stay at St. Monica’s. This was definitely his MO. While it was possible the message could have come from anyone angry about Michael’s death, that kind of anger was usually directed at the agency, not at me personally. After all, only a few people knew I was Michael’s social worker. Flash was one of them.
After Mac left, I went back to the rest of my messages. Three of them were from Michael’s former foster parents, devastated about what happened and wanting to know if there was anything they could do. I told them to contact Nona, then picked up the phone to call her myself.
The secretary connected me immediately. “Nona Richardson.”
“It’s Claire. How’re you holding up?”
“That’s the question I was going to ask you.”
“I’m okay.”
“I was gonna call you this afternoon. Cheyenne left this morning.”
Not that I was surprised, but I was still disappointed. “When?”
“She took off right before lunch.”
“Okay, thanks.” Her kids, who had been in foster care for years, would have to go up for adoption. I scribbled a note on my to-do list to call Legal and start the termination of her parental rights.
Nona went on. “Nice article in the paper this morning, huh?”
“Tell me about it. Have you seen Ashley?”
“I went by there about an hour ago. She’s so sad.”
“I know. I made sure she’s on suicide watch. What’s got me puzzled is that, according to Detective Brighton, she’s going to plead guilty. Has she said anything to you about that? Or anything about what happened?”
“She wouldn’t talk to me at all, which is unusual. She always confided in me, even during the worst part of her recovery. I was there for her detox. I’ve seen her at rock bottom. She’s never clammed up like this. I’m worried.”
“Same here. Listen, Michael’s former foster parents want to donate money for his funeral. I told them to call you.”
“Thanks. We’re trying to set the service for next Tuesday. I’ll be in touch.”
I was grateful to Nona for planning Michael’s service. But what could you say about an existence that was so short and filled with so much trauma? There wasn’t an apology big enough to cover what the grown-ups in his life had put him through. As I gathered my things to go see Dee, Michael’s grandmother, I wondered if she would want to eulogize him in any way. Or, considering her rocky history with her daughter, if she would even show up at his memorial.
`
CHAPTER SIX
It was just past three thirty when I left DHS for Ashley’s mom’s place. She lived in the northwest corner of the county in a tiny coal mining community called Adger. To get there I navigated to Allison-Bonnet Memorial Drive, named for Neil Bonnet and Davey Allison, two deceased NASCAR drivers. With the Talladega track only about an hour away, this town was crazy about racing.
As I drove northwest, suburbs turned into towns and soon became hamlets. When the
street names changed to county road numbers, I knew I was getting close and had to consult the directions I’d copied from the case file.
I hoped Dee was home. She worked at an auto plant in the next county, on the assembly line. Truth be told, she probably made really good money. Maybe even more than I did. But a string of bad marriages had left her living paycheck to paycheck. From what Ashley told me, her previous husbands stuck her with mounds of debt she was still trying to pay off. She managed every month to scrape together enough for the bills. Her third husband, Al, drank or gambled away what was left.
I made a final turn onto the gravel driveway in front of the Mackey’s house, a double-wide prefab on a wooded acre. Some of the cream vinyl siding was mildew stained, and parts of the bottom skirting were missing, showing the pipes underneath. A fire pit in the side yard was used to burn trash since no pick up was available out here. Around the blackened area lay a few plastic cups and cardboard beer boxes that hadn’t made it into the inferno. I walked up a narrow dirt footpath, past an algae-covered birdbath, and up four steps to the front door. An air conditioner jutted out of the window next to the door, so I knocked loudly to be heard over its whirring.
Dee opened the door. Some of her features were similar to her daughter’s, especially the long, straight brown hair. She was shorter and heavier than Ashley, but the resemblance was there. I guessed she was about to leave for work, since she wore a navy jumpsuit with the car company’s logo on the left side of her chest. She greeted me and invited me in.
Al was there too. No surprise, since he didn’t have a job. He had thin brown hair and two days of stubble on his face. He wore shorts, and over his large belly a T-shirt sported the slogan of a New Orleans oyster house. “Eat Me Raw” was emblazoned on the front. He was focused on a baseball game on TV, the Braves versus someone I couldn’t make out. The Blue Jays, maybe. He lounged in an enormous green recliner and didn’t bother to get up when I entered. The ends of the armrests of his chair were black with dirt. One had a built-in cup holder that cradled a condensation-covered can of Bud Light. It was twenty past four. Oh, well. It’s always five o’clock somewhere, right?
Dee offered me a seat on the couch. Al swiveled around to face me but didn’t mute the television.
I cleared my throat. “Have you heard about Michael? And Ashley?”
Dee answered, after a glance at Al. “Ashley called us Tuesday mornin’, when the police was still there.”
“Oh. I just wanted to come out and say how sorry I am about what’s happened. Is there anything I can do?”
“I’m gonna try to go see her tomorrow. Me and her need to talk about what to do about the funeral.”
“One of Ashley’s friends has gotten together a fund for the burial and is planning a memorial. She’s trying to set it for next Tuesday. Did you have something particular in mind that you wanted to do?”
Dee looked relieved, and at the word “fund,” Al’s gaze snapped to attention. “No, I don’t think so. Whatever her friend wants to do is okay with me.”
“How are you holding up?”
Al decided to stick in his two valuable cents. “We’re all right. Cain’t say I’m surprised at what happened. That’s what you get when you mess with drugs. That kid’s prob’ly better off dead than havin’ some crack whore for a momma.”
There was no use in defending Ashley; it would be pointless. But I felt sorry for Dee, stone-faced, next to me. I continued as if Al hadn’t opened his fat mouth. “I’ll have her friend Nona call you when the arrangements are finalized. I’m sure if you wanted to say a few words, she could arrange it.”
The thought of speaking to a crowd of people clearly made Dee nervous. “Nah, that’s okay. I wouldn’t know what to say, no how. I got to be at work at five, so I gotta go.” I rose along with her as Al’s concentration returned to the game. I wondered which team he had bet on.
Dee picked up her purse and keys from the messy counter separating the kitchen from the long, narrow living room. “Bye, baby,” she said to Al.
“Bye.” He took a swig of the beer.
Dee walked me to my car. I said once again how sorry I was about Michael’s death.
“Thanks. I’m gonna miss that kid. I don’t know if Ashley told you, but she’d been bringing him up here on the weekends some. They was up here just last weekend. I got me one of them inflatable pools and we put it out here in the yard with the sprinkler an’ all. He had so much fun splashing around.” For the first time since I’d arrived, I saw her eyes darken with grief. “And Ashley, she was doing so good. She was thinking about going back to school. Getting her GED, and maybe taking some classes someplace. She always did do good in school, before she ran off.”
I nodded. “I bet she’d do well.”
Tears began, leaking slowly out of the hazel eyes that were so like Ashley’s. She wiped them away with her fingers. “I gave her some money. It wasn’t a lot, jus’ two hundred dollars. Something she could use to help pay for school someday. Al found out and got so pissed. He said she’s an adult now and needs to stand on her own two feet.”
The thought of Al Mackey as anyone’s life coach almost made me laugh out loud. I held my face somber as Dee continued.“I guess I can see his point, but I just wanted to do something to help her.”
“If she were my daughter, I’d have done the same thing.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“Now I gotta get me some money together for the lawyer.”
“Do you know who Ashley’s lawyer is?”
“I found her one Tuesday. His name’s Samuel Hamilton. He’s supposed to be real good.”
I knew “Sam the Ham” by reputation. He was fond of high-profile defense cases and courtroom theatrics. And she was right, he was good. I had one more question to ask her. “Dee, do you think that Ashley could’ve spent the two hundred dollars you gave her on drugs? Do you think she was using again?”
“I guess she coulda. I ain’t seen her high lately, and believe me, I know when she is. I was kinda shocked when I heard how Michael died, ’cause it didn’t seem like she was into drugs again. I know the signs.” Dee sniffled and wiped her face one last time. “I gotta go, I’m gonna be late.”
“I’ll call you soon.”
I backed my car out of the driveway. Following her fifteen-yearold Chevy Cavalier all the way to the interstate, I reflected that Ashley’s mother knew her pretty well. And that made two of us who didn’t think she was on the junk again.
GHB was done in capfuls, a fact I bet Ashley knew. She was no rookie when it came to drug use. If she put the GHB in the orange juice, she must have known that the amount could have killed her. And Michael. Why would she put a ton of it in a pitcher? Then pour Michael a sippy cup full of what was essentially poison? She’d worked so hard in rehab and afterward to build a life for them both. By my reckoning, someone else had put the GHB there and Ashley didn’t know about it.
If she’d been partying the night before and one of her buddies made the juice, why not say so? Why not point the finger at the person who did it? Ashley’s silence was troubling. Was she protecting a friend? Someone who had been there that night? Maybe. The only alternative was that she didn’t know who put the G in the pitcher, either. Which meant it was an attempt on their lives.
I didn’t think anyone would knowingly murder a small child. Who would want to OD a toddler on purpose? Was the overdose meant for Ashley? Probably. So who would want to kill her? That seemed to be the question. Flash? He fit the profile of an abuser to a T. He had a history of being violent and dangerous.
Or Ashley’s stepfather, maybe? To keep his wife from sneaking her money? Would he go that far? The thought stayed in the back of my mind throughout the evening.
Friday morning storms were imminent. After calling our secretary to tell her I’d be in a little late, I searched through the phone book and found a place that fixed computers. The shop was in Hoover, not far from my house. I unplugged the computer
and lugged it out to the car, tossed in an umbrella, and headed down the mountain.
Thesky opened up while I was driving, thick raindrops slamming into the windshield. The repair place was in a small shopping center near the Galleria, the large mall that was the hub of this uppermiddle class, soccer-mom city. I parked my car next to a minivan. On its door was a graphic of a computer with an arrow on the monitor pointing upward and the words HIGH TECH underneath the picture. Fearing water would further damage the machine, I struggled to carry it under one arm while attempting to keep it — and me — under the shelter of the umbrella. By the time I shoved my way through the glass door, I was soaked from head to toe.
Two men were in the shop. A Middle-eastern guy who looked to be in his early twenties was restocking boxes of software onto metal racks that filled most of the space. The other, a man about my age, was working behind a counter. He was hunched over a tableful of electronic thingamajigs, an open computer case in front of him, a small screwdriver in his hand. A bank of computers purred on more tables behind him. He heard me banging through the door and jumped up so fast he whacked his knee painfully on the table. “Let me help you with that.”
He reminded me of a tree. He was easily over six three, dressed in dark khaki pants and a loose, green polo shirt tucked in over a flat stomach. He rushed over and relieved me of the computer, placing it on the long red counter where the cash register sat.
“Thanks,” I said, shaking the water off my hands and wiping it off my face. My hair was drenched, and my short-sleeved sweater was sticking to me like cling wrap. He was looking at me expectantly, a few chestnut-colored curls of hair loosely draped across his forehead. Bright green eyes stood out behind a pair of geeky tortoise-shell glasses.
“How can we help you?”
“Um, my computer’s broken.” Well said, Claire.
“What’s the problem?” He went behind the counter and retrieved
a pad of work-order forms and a pen.
“When I turn it on it makes a clanking noise, and nothing comes
on the screen.” I was dripping all over the floor. The young man who’d
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