So it wasn’t just my balls she was after.
“I didn’t know then,” she went on, “that all my labor was going into making that trailer more comfortable for a drunk.” Another tart met its demise under Liz’s hand. She gave me a sharp look as she picked the broken tart up and dropped it down the disposal, like it was my fault the tart had broken.
I said, “I want to apologize for not being there for the memorial service—”
“It’s okay, Bear, Chester explained,” Mark said. “Brick did a fine job. He did a good job.”
“What I’d like to know, Bear, is why Jo broke into the house,” Liz harped on.
God tells me I have to love everyone, and I do try. But he doesn’t say anything about liking them. I didn’t like Lizabeth Pickersley-Smythe. I guessed she was still using the “Smythe.” “Jo feels guilty about what happened to Phoebe and—”
“What happened to her?” Liz wrapped the dessert tray around and around with Press’n Seal so tightly, it looked like a scene out of Dexter. “Nothing happened to her. She killed herself. She never gave a thought for anyone else, and poor Mark has—” She froze when Mark reached across the island and put two fingers on her lips.
“That’s enough, Liz.”
I stood up and put my iced tea glass in the sink. “So, anyway, Annie and I wanted to tell you how sorry we are for everything, and to please send us the bill.” I headed for the door. The woman whacked the tray down on the counter, probably breaking all her carefully wrapped tarts, and followed me. Mark came along, no enthusiasm for the task.
“I still don’t understand what Jo thought she was doing in that trailer. If you could explain it, I could—”
My hand on the door handle, I turned to face her. “Lizabeth, I don’t know why Jo let herself in to Phoebe’s trailer—”
“It was never really Phoebe’s trailer—”
“I know Jo is feeling haunted by Phoebe’s death—”
Liz put her hands on her hips. “So now Phoebe is a ghost? Is that right? She’s haunting Jo?”
I closed my eyes and took a breath. Opened my eyes. She was still there. Hard to believe I once thought she was a handsome woman. If Mark Pickersley was paying for his sins, then God preserve me from the sin of adultery—that is a price too high.
“I’m going to say good-bye.” I opened the front door and stepped out. Liz stepped out, too. If she started down the street after me, I might just break into a run.
“Send Jo over,” said Liz. “How about that? Let her explain for herself. I’d like to have a word with her. Maybe she can explain to me why she thinks she’s entitled to go breaking into other people’s—” Mark had her by the upper arm and was pulling her back into the house.
I walked to my car and got in, Liz still talking. I shut the door and started my engine. I could still hear her, so I turned the radio on really loud.
• • •
I took a personal day from work for the rest of Friday and went home to sleep. Of course, it left me an insomniac later that evening, so around one A.M., I gave up trying to sleep and went into my office and found Brick’s eulogy on the church’s website. I played it. Annie Laurie was right. Brick had done a good job.
Jo’s bedroom door opened and I heard the heavy pad of Baby Bear’s feet and Jo’s lighter tread. They came into the office and Jo curled up on the easy chair and listened to Brick try to sum up a young girl’s unhappy life. At one point she stiffened, got up and took the mouse from me. She drew the cursor back and played a segment again. Then she stopped the recording.
“Is that true?”
“What, honey?”
“Was she really going to go to the Air Force Academy?”
“Before everything went wrong for her, yeah. It looked like she had a shot.”
Jo gave me a long, considering pause. “Can I see something?” She unplugged my laptop and carried it to the easy chair. She did some typing and some scrolling and then closed the page she’d been looking at. She handed me back the laptop and then rubbed her fingers together, calling Baby Bear to her. “Night, Dad,” she said, and they went back up to bed. I listened to the rest of the eulogy. Afterward, I looked at the History button, which showed me that Jo had gone first to Wikipedia, then to the United States Air Force Academy, then to the United States Air Force page.
I thought I heard Jo crying in her room.
From: Walker Wells
To: Merrie Wells
Subject: Updates
Hey, Sugarpie—Remember when I was in the hospital and I said I missed you and you said you would keep in touch more often?
From: Merrie Wells
To: Walker Wells
Subject: Re: Updates
Hey, Dad—Sorry. Meant to. Everything is fine here. Same stuff over and over. I’m working hard at track. Really hard. Really hard. It’s not like high school. No games, no songs at practice. And Dad, I’m not tall here. 5’10”—that’s not tall in college. You know what they call me? Midge. As in Midget. I’m Midge Wells out here. I’m thinking of dropping.
From: Walker Wells
To: Merrie Wells
Subject: Re: Updates
What you lack in inches, you have in smarts. You run smart, girl. Try harder. You’ll be fine. Don’t be a quitter, Midge. The Wellses aren’t quitters.
From: Merrie Wells
To: Walker Wells
Subject: Re: Updates
Don’t call me Midge, Dad.
From: Walker Wells
To: Merrie Wells
Subject: Re: Updates
Coming home when, babyheart? I need to see my girl.
Eighteen
Saturday was Molly’s birthday party. Neither Annie Laurie or I had ever met James Wanderley’s child, or her mother, and we weren’t all that excited about going to the party. Because Jo was grounded, she would normally have had the choice of coming with us or spending those hours over at her aunt Stacy’s house. But Jo woke up looking like death on stale bread.
“Come here,” I said when she walked into the kitchen Saturday morning. “Let me feel your face.” I didn’t feel any fever.
“Do you feel okay, sweetie?” Annie Laurie asked, after also feeling no fever. “Will you be okay here alone? Dad and I have to go to a birthday party for James Wanderley’s little girl.”
“Wanderley the detective?”
“You know another one?” I said.
Jo shook her slump off. “I want to come.”
“Really?” Annie said. “It’s all the way across town—it’s in the Heights.”
“I’m coming,” said Jo. “I’ll go get a shower.”
“We have to leave by nine fifteen,” I hollered after her.
“What’s up with her?” asked Annie once Jo had left the room.
“Beats me.” I was stoking myself with coffee. Caffeine is my drug of choice.
“Do you think she might have a crush on Wanderley?”
I said I thought Alex was the man of the hour, and I took Baby Bear on the levee to do his business.
Nine fifteen and both my women were in the kitchen, gift bags in their arms, ready for the party. Jo had wrapped up one of her many tiaras—if you take ballet as long as Jo has, you’re going to collect a lot of tiaras. I almost never have to wait on Annie or my girls; Chester, on the other hand, tells me he regularly gives Stacy an event time that’s an hour earlier than the invitation, just so as to have any hope at all of arriving on time.
I whistled for Baby Bear and he came running.
“Nuh-uh,” said Annie Laurie. She put a foot out to block Baby Bear’s way. He sat down in front of her and offered her a paw. That worked every time when he was a puppy.
“Why not?”
“Baby Bear isn’t coming to a three-year-old’s party, Bear.”
“Why not? Baby
Bear loves parties and it’s outside at a park—why can’t he come?” Baby Bear put down his right paw and offered Annie Laurie his left.
“He can’t come because half the toddlers and all the parents will go into hysterics.”
“Baby Bear loves kids.”
“There’s no argument here, Bear. He can’t come. Baby Bear is the size of a pony and he’s covered in black hair and he looks like he can fit a child’s head in his mouth. That makes parents nervous. You know he would never hurt a child, I know he would never hurt a child, but no one else knows that and you are not going to be able to reassure twenty or more strangers that our huge dog isn’t going to start hunting babies like hamsters. So make your apologies to Baby Bear and get in the car. We’re going to be late, and if we’re going to do this thing, we’re going to do it right.”
Baby Bear could hear the bad news in her voice and he gave a yowl of disappointment and slunk into the family room to sulk. He would be on the couch the second the car pulled down the drive.
“I’ll bring you some birthday cake!” I yelled and got in the car feeling a little sulky myself. Jo didn’t say a word to back me up and she is still Baby Bear’s favorite.
Jo was quiet during the forty-minute drive, but she said she felt fine. I told Annie Laurie to stop fussing.
• • •
The Heights is a hundred-year-old neighborhood that has undergone gentle gentrification over the past twenty years. Instead of tearing down the old Victorians, buyers have by and large refurbished and added on to them, maintaining the wide wraparound porches and gingerbread trim. And Heaven help a new homeowner if he takes out one of the massive oaks on his property.
In Houston, the Heights are so called because they’re high ground—but that’s a relative thing. That means instead of being on really low ground, if you live in the Heights, you live on not-so-low ground.
Donovan Park was typical of the Heights: huge spreading oaks and inventive playground equipment and an eclectic mix of people gathered to enjoy the cool October weather.
Molly wasn’t the only one celebrating a birthday that Saturday, but there was a big pink banner declaring MOLLY IS THREE! so we didn’t have any trouble finding the right group. A troop of toddlers had occupied a nearby castle-like structure.
Wanderley had shown me photos of Molly, but that was a while ago and I couldn’t pick her out from among the fast-moving group. Luckily, Wanderley saw us and came over to greet us. This was a different Wanderley than I had ever met before. He wore a loose polo shirt over frayed jeans and sneakers instead of his usual cowboy boots. He looked excited and flatteringly happy to see us all there. He called to the cluster inhabiting the castle, but Molly did not appear. He held a finger up for us and ran over and plucked a child from the slide. He returned with the girl on his hip, rubbing his chin in her curls.
Molly was a sugarplum. Her white dad and black mom had each contributed the best of their genes. Molly had big brown eyes, loose black curls and coffee-and-cream skin. She had an elegant, rather adult nose that needed growing into, but it gave her a quirky, intelligent air. Annie Laurie and Jo said, “Awwww,” winning smiles from baby and dad alike.
Wanderley made introductions, and with some prompting, Molly put out her hand and shook. Then she scrambled down and was away before he could do any more showing off.
“Come meet Chloe and her parents.” He led the way through the crowd, introducing us to friends and to a brother so briefly that I couldn’t catch any of the names, and stopped when he came to a couple in their early sixties.
“Dr. Hensler, Mrs. Hensler, these are my friends, Walker and Annie Laurie Wells, and their daughter, Jo. Bear and Annie and Jo, meet Molly’s grandparents on her mom’s side. Dr. Hensler, this is the minister I told you about.”
Everybody shook hands and said the right things. Dr. Hensler kept my hand after shaking and said, “I was pleased to hear that Molly’s father has finally taken an interest in the church, Mr. Wells. Is he attending regularly?”
Before I could catch a fly in my open mouth, Annie answered for me.
“Why, we often see James at the church, don’t we Bear? And, you know, Bear and James have had some very deep conversations in Bear’s office. Isn’t that right, Bear?” See, God sent me Annie Laurie for a reason. I’m slow, and she’s fast. I get caught on quibbles, and Annie Laurie doesn’t.
I nodded, pumping Dr. Hensler’s hand gamely.
Strictly speaking, Annie had spoken the truth. Wanderley had been up to the church several times and we had had some deep conversations. Now, as far as I know, Wanderley had never been to a service or class at the church, and those deep conversations we’d had had been about murder; but talking like a Pharisee, Annie had saved the day.
Don’t think I hadn’t noticed that not only had I not been invited to call Dr. Hensler by his first name, but the father of Dr. Hensler’s grandchild was still calling him by his title. Hmmmm!
At last we met Chloe, Molly’s mother. When Wanderley spoke of her, I’d never gotten the feeling that he had asked her to marry him (she’d declined) because he wanted to “do the right thing.” If I was guessing, I’d say Wanderley had been very much in love with Chloe Hensler. From the way the man looked at her, I’d say he still was.
Chloe stood as tall as Merrie, at least five ten. Her skin was dark brown like her father’s and she was long-legged, slim-hipped and full-bosomed. She had that high-cheeked beauty that Ethiopian women often do. Kind of regal and disdainful. I’m talking about her looks here. She was perfectly friendly and shook my hand with a firm cattle-rancher’s grip.
Rebecca arrived, which meant Wanderley wasn’t joking when he’d said they gotten along, and she came with those two pugs (nobody told Rebecca she couldn’t bring her dogs) and the introductions were made all over again.
At least five toddlers descended on the pugs and let those dogs lick their faces, and the parents stood by and took pictures as if that were the cutest thing they’d ever seen. I’ve babysat those dogs. I don’t want their tongues anywhere near my face. Baby Bear is much cleaner in his habits than Rebecca’s pugs but the pugs got to come to the party and he didn’t. Newfoundlands are hero dogs. They save people all the time. There are people-saving contests for Newfoundlands. Yeah. People jump in a lake, pretend they’re drowning, and Newfies go save them. You can watch it on YouTube.
You know what pugs are famous for? Eating. Next time somebody needs to fish a kid out of a pond, try calling a pug. See where it gets you. I’m just saying.
Rebecca dropped her car keys in my hand and asked me if I could go get Molly’s birthday present out of her car because she hadn’t been able to manage the gift and the pugs together.
Halfway to Rebecca’s car, I was stopped by a couple asking if I knew where Molly’s party was. I pointed the way and introduced myself and met Ben Wanderley and his wife Fifi. Ben was Wanderley’s dad but I would have laid down a hundred dollars that Fifi (no, her name wasn’t really Fifi, it was Kiki or Gigi or some other poodle name) was not James’s mom. Not unless she’d given birth when she was ten.
On the way back to the party, as I struggled back with Rebecca’s present—it wasn’t heavy but it was so big I had trouble getting my arms around it—I met Clarice Crawford, a fiftyish woman with a big smile and shoulder-length, shiny gray hair. Clarice, it turned out, was James’s mother.
There was the usual drama when a three-year-old opens presents in front of other three-year-olds. The pugs made a total nuisance of themselves chasing after ribbons and balls of gift wrap. Of course, everyone else thought that was too cute.
Our presents were a hit. Annie had given Molly a set of wooden tools, a hammer and saw and screwdriver, a whole set with a matching carpenter’s belt with loops to hang the tools from. Molly loved it. She tried to disassemble the picnic table. Molly immediately set the tiara from Jo in her curls. It was crooked and the rakish
angle added to the charm. Cameras and cell phones clicked. The tiara was the favorite gift of all until Molly opened Rebecca’s present: a pink Hot Wheels tricycle. That became so fought over that Dr. Hensler took it away from the squabblers and locked it in the trunk of his car.
For a party where we hardly knew anyone, and where the lunch was a choice of chicken salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off or pimiento cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off, it was a nice party.
I made sure that Baby Bear got his piece of cake. I asked for a piece with a rose on it and wrapped my serving up in a napkin. Annie was visiting with a young dad with a baby in an African print sling and a toddler leaning against his leg—Jo was nowhere to be seen. We had stayed for two hours and I was ready to get home.
I checked the car but Jo wasn’t there. I wandered around the community center, and finally saw her at Wanderley’s car. I stopped and watched them. He was stowing presents in the car and Jo was talking. I was too far away to hear what was being said, but whatever it was, Jo was intent upon it.
Wanderley shook his head no, listened, said no again and threw up his hands. Then he nodded. I saw him cross his heart. He listened. And then he grew intent, too.
Jo showed him something on her phone. Whatever Jo was saying, she had Wanderley’s attention. He listened for a long time, then went and slammed the trunk of his car closed. He stood there, both hands on the trunk like he was trying to keep something from escaping. Then he faced Jo again and started talking; now Jo was shaking her head no. There was lots of head shaking. They weren’t coming to an agreement and they weren’t happy with each other.
I didn’t feel guilty about watching. Jo is my daughter, and strange things have been going on.
Phoebe had died barely a week ago. In that space of time, Jo had broken into a mobile home and had gotten me arrested and now she had commandeered a detective at his child’s birthday party. I wanted to know what was going on.
Safe from Harm (9781101619629) Page 24