Chill Factor

by Chris Rogers

  None of this practicality appeased Dixie’s emotional need to ferret out the thief. Driving toward downtown, and mentally grumbling about how easily a usurper could assume control of a person’s life, her thoughts turned to something she could investigate.

  She recalled Marty’s comment about no one caring why Aunt Edna died. Edna had died because she shot at police after robbing a bank. But the real question was why she committed armed robbery. With a wounded officer in the hospital, the shooter dead, and a quarter-million dollars in stolen bank loot to find, just how much effort would anyone focus on answering Marty’s “why” question?

  Dixie had a theory about obtaining information: Start at the very bottom or at the very top. From where she sat now, in the shadow of skyscrapers, the office of Houston’s top guy was only a few blocks away. That garage-cleaning chore would have to wait a while longer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Houston’s City Hall overlooks a reflecting pond and corners on Tranquility Park. Since the building’s completion in 1939, its lightly veined marble walls and floors have aged gracefully, and the bronze and silver inlays usually command a second look. Dixie’d seen the artistry often enough not to be impressed. Since relocating to Richmond, she could no longer vote in Houston elections, but that didn’t prevent her from speaking her piece at council meetings or campaigning for favorite candidates.

  She swept through the lobby, bound for the third-floor Mayor’s office, knowing she’d have no problem gaining an audience. She’d met Avery Barton Banning while prosecuting a fraud case. As an expert witness on business real estate, he’d impressed her as both judicious and innovative. More recently, during his election campaign, Dixie’d stuffed envelopes, arranged speaking engagements, co-hosted a fund-raising event with Amy, and then had danced briefly—not particularly well, but nobody noticed—with Mayor Banning at his inaugural ball.

  In many ways Banning fulfilled her image of a career politician. His savvy attitude attracted voters of all ages. He came from new money, while his wife Kaylynn boasted membership in the Daughters of the Republic. Youthful good looks placed him right up there with JFK or George W. Bush. His podium presence would rival the actor-president Ronald Reagan’s. And Banning had a knack for remembering useful details about everybody he met. If Houston’s new Mayor didn’t have an eye on the big chair in Washington, Dixie figured he needed glasses.

  Despite all the political muscle-flexing, Banning came across as sincerely interested in doing a good job. That put him a stroke above average in Dixie’s book. She chose to ignore the recent rumors of problems in his marriage and finances—every politician had to deflect a share of mud.

  Today she found him swinging a putter at a golf ball on his office carpet and listening to the soundtrack from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. This didn’t strike her as showing proper concern for the city’s turmoil of the past two days.

  “Tell me some good news, Dixie.” He tapped the ball with a gold-headed putter. “Everybody else today has brought gloom and doom.” The ball rolled smoothly across the five-foot expanse but missed its destination, marked by a paper cup lying on its side.

  Dixie shrugged. “I saw Gib leaving.” Councilman Jason “Gib” Gibson had been Banning’s most outspoken opponent—after abruptly deciding not to run for the office himself. Now, he shot political arrows at every issue Banning supported and, by extension, at the Mayor’s appointed Police Chief. “Looks like the HPD shootings have given Gib his big chance to see the voters repent.”

  Banning scooped up the golf ball and replanted it five feet from the paper cup.

  “Gib’s a thorn that keeps me hopping, all right, but in the Councilman’s shoes I’d be just as prickly. These robberies, and the unfortunate deaths that followed them, make our police look untrained and unprofessional.”

  Unprofessional. Untrained. Unfortunate. Hollow words. A politician’s words.

  Dixie struggled to rein in her irritation. Maybe Gib’s visit had rattled Banning more than usual. Despite the Councilman’s unrelenting attack, the Mayor’s response—at least in public—was always dispassionate and amiable. That had to be difficult. And now she’d come to question him, probably about the same topic he’d addressed with Gib.

  Banning offered Dixie his putter. She’d never played golf, but she did play pool, which involved a ball and stick. How much different could it be?

  Hefting the club, she lined up on the ball, then tapped it—whack—harder than she expected. It missed the cup by a foot and bashed into the wall—certainly not the first ding in the sixty-year-old paneling. Nevertheless, she apologized and retrieved the ball. Then she looked Banning in the eye.

  “Downstairs, inlaid in the marble floor of the lobby, is a bronze medallion, Avery, that you walk across at least once a day. It says, Government Protects The People. After the shootings this week, have you noticed that medallion tarnishing a bit?”

  Avery returned her gaze, his cobalt eyes filled with shadows. “I know that Edna Pine was a friend of yours, Dixie. I’m sorry about what happened.”

  “What’re you doing to stop it from happening again?”

  His appraising gaze shifted from her eyes to her unsmiling mouth. Dixie recalled that one of Avery’s college degrees was in psychology.

  “First,” he said, “Chief Wanamaker has issued a general order to avoid fatalities if we have another occurrence—”

  “How? Tasers? Tranquilizer darts?”

  The slight dip of his head couldn’t quite be called a nod.

  “And second, the FBI is taking additional measures within the banks—”

  “What measures?”

  “You know I can’t discuss that.”

  True. In fact, the feds probably hadn’t shared that information. Dixie placed the golf club and ball on Banning’s desk. The ball rolled and stopped against a gilt-edged journal that lay open, neat blue script filling the pages.

  “Does the Chief or the FBI have any idea what would prompt women who are old enough to know the consequences to commit armed robbery?” she asked. “Have similar robberies happened in other cities?”

  “That’s being investigated, of course.” Banning closed the journal, slid it into a desk drawer, and picked up the ball. “No similar cases have turned up so far, certainly no recent cases.”

  “Avery, when Edna Pine made up her mind, she was as strong as horseradish. With the right provocation—and Jesus, I can’t imagine what that would be—she might’ve pulled off that robbery yesterday. But she didn’t do it alone.”

  “I’m sure you believe you knew her, Dixie.” He dropped the ball into the same drawer. “Yet, think about it—even people we live with can surprise us. Secret drinkers … runaways … suicides. We live in desperate times—”

  His phone rang, saving Dixie from the rest of the soliloquy. Avery could compose and deliver on demand a speech about any topic you tossed him. Dixie enjoyed his verbal dexterity on occasion, but not today.

  “That’s another reporter,” he said, pushing the HOLD button. “I’ll have to talk to him. Avoidance only adds fuel to their suppositions. But, Dixie—” He took her arm lightly. “Chief Wanamaker, his men, the FBI task force—we’re all taking this very seriously.”

  Maybe. But why did she suddenly see his words like dialogue bubbles in a political cartoon?

  “I hope you are taking it seriously, because in the voters’ eyes, Wanamaker’s men slaughtered Lucy Ames and Edna Pine.”

  “They had no choice—”

  “I know that. But what voters will remember is that you appointed Wanamaker, you reduced the budget line item for increasing the number of HPD officers, and only after you took office did previously law-abiding senior citizens begin robbing banks and being shot down in the streets.” Seeing the spark in his eyes that revealed she now had the Mayor’s full attention, she said, “Avery, I believe there’s more behind all this than three greedy women without a reasonable brain among them.”

  The spark turned appre
ciative. “Point made,” he told her. “I’ll have a talk with the Chief.”

  Finding herself at the door, Dixie realized he’d been easing her in that direction, a trick every good hostess and politician discovered about the time they learned to walk. He moved his grip from her arm to offer a handshake.

  Dixie accepted it, and his manner seemed as sincere as ever, even when she caught his appraising glance sliding over her figure. After advocating Avery Banning to Houston voters, Dixie prayed now that her judgment hadn’t been skewed by a winning smile and a glib line of bullshit.

  “Good luck with the media,” she told him.

  As she walked out, Banning’s junior assistant, a serious young man with a buzz of red-blond hair, looked up from his Dictaphone. Dixie had seen him before, a fellow volunteer on the Mayor’s election campaign. A whiz at the keyboard. Working his way through college, no doubt. Casual but neat in a blue shirt and khaki pants, the kid reminded her of a stone in a brook, scarcely noticed in the ripple of activity, while steadily and efficiently directing the flow.

  Flashing a gentle, cheerful grin, he whisked a yellow flyer off a sizable stack.

  “Take this coupon and you’ll get a free soft drink at the Mayor’s Memorial Day celebration on Monday.”

  She glanced at the flyer and tried to hand it back. “Thanks, but I’m not big on crowds.”

  “Neither am I. Except, some occasions are worth it.”

  Ignoring the proffered flyer, he scooped up a pack of sugar-free gum. Alongside his keyboard sat a silver-framed photograph of a woman far too old to be a wife or sweetheart.

  “Okay,” Dixie relented, sifting through her mental file cabinet for the kid’s name. He was probably required to hand out the entire stack of promotional material before Monday. “I’ll take it. Maybe I’ll even show up.”

  “Great! Here, give one to a friend.”

  Who could resist that grin? She folded the yellow pages into her back pocket, planning to toss them later. Philip, she recalled. Philip turned studiously back to his typing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dixie raised the brass horseshoe knocker on Edna’s door and let it fall with a clank. Unless the cops had left every light on inside the house, Marty must’ve already arrived.

  After her frustrating morning, throwing out the accumulation of junk in her garage proved almost as therapeutic as a rousing game of racquetball, and the shelves now held orderly, labeled boxes. She’d found the records in question, with one checkbook missing. Apparently, it was missing when she’d turned the box over to her CPA, because that group of checks had not been entered on the spreadsheet she found. At least she’d accounted for where the thief obtained her deposit slips—each checkbook contained five, and Dixie rarely used them. She usually grabbed a generic slip from the bank’s supply counter and filled it out on the spot.

  Banging the horseshoe again, she wondered if Marty had fallen asleep. Then she peeked in a window, and her brain sorted through memories of the home’s interior for places that might yield useful information. She recalled that Edna had kept a memento box in a hall closet. Vacation snapshots, postcards, invitations—everything went into the box until she found time to stick them in albums or frames. Her bookshelf, too, collected memorabilia.

  After several minutes, Marty answered the knock.

  “Sorry, I was on the phone with my partner. We have a show for a new artist opening this week.” He looked distracted. “Hell of a time for me to be gone.”

  Right. Damn your mother for being so inconsiderate. Dixie swallowed the sarcasm and braced herself for the nostalgia that hit as she entered the living room. Edna’s fondness for flowers showed everywhere, from wisteria-printed draperies to hand-stitched bluebonnets on the sofa pillows. But the place had a just-scrubbed look Dixie didn’t associate with Edna. Marty’s mother, friendly, generous, and comfortable as an old shoe, had never wasted energy keeping a spotless house. And it was the new Edna she needed to learn about.

  “Did the cops take anything?”

  Marty shook his head. “Unless I’m overlooking it.”

  “They’d have left a receipt.”

  “They asked a lot of questions about the hunting rifles—wanted to know if Mom owned any handguns, which I’d already told them she didn’t.”

  Marty had tossed his jacket and tie on a chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves. A lock of hair tumbled across his ear. Dixie liked him better this way. Less pressed. He raked the hair back.

  “Did your mother ever fire those rifles?”

  “Dad taught both of us to shoot when I was about ten. After years of hunting, and bagging only one small whitetail buck, he lost interest and the rifles stood unused in the case. Come on back. There’s a desk in the dining room where Mom paid bills. The bank and tax records should be there, too.”

  Fine. She’d get to those. Did he expect to discover a Caribbean bank account containing money from previous robberies?

  “What I want to see first are the rooms where your mother spent her time.” To get to know the personal side of the new Edna.

  Marty shrugged and led the way to the kitchen. A new juice maker gleamed on the counter. A wire basket held carrots, onions, and peppers—probably from Edna’s small garden—all still looked fresh, except for the drooping carrot tops. The vinyl floor appeared recently polished—another sign of the neatness and order Dixie didn’t associate with her neighbor.

  “Did your mother hire a maid?”

  Marty peered around at the tidy kitchen. “She might’ve.”

  He opened the refrigerator and absently stared inside as he’d done thousands of times when he lived here. His features slackened into a sadness that alleviated Dixie’s annoyance with him. She turned toward the bedrooms, Marty’s first. It looked exactly as she remembered. His bed, updated during his college years, was flanked by a matching cherry-wood desk and chest with brass hardware. His college pennant sagged over the mirror. Two paintings he’d done in high school decorated one wall. In the master bedroom, a fluffy cream-white comforter replaced Edna’s antique crocheted bedspread. Plump pillows in shades of white were layered three deep against a wooden headboard, carved with angels. A sisal carpet took the place of a colorful braided rug Dixie remembered.

  “What happened to all the stuff on her dresser?” Marty demanded. “All the paintings I gave her? The pottery vases I made while I was growing up? Look at this.”

  Seven white candles in an array of sizes, each on a simple wooden holder, scented the air with a light citrus fragrance. Otherwise, the dresser top was clear. The walls were bare. She opened a drawer. Bottles of creams and oils and jars of makeup lined one side. A fancy art deco tray of brushes and combs lined the other.

  Dixie lifted out a jar to read its lavender-and-silver label. Ornate letters spelled the name “Artistry Spa” and boasted “custom-blended,” which, to Dixie, meant pricey. All the cosmetics bore the same label. A business card with the spa logo and the name LONNIE GRAY, PROPRIETOR lay beneath one of the jars. Dixie slipped the card into her pocket. Before closing the drawer, she carefully ran her fingers along the wooden surface above it. Nothing taped there.

  “No pills,” Marty reported from the bathroom. “Not even a bottle of aspirin or liniment. Just vitamins. What happened to her blood pressure medicine?”

  “Maybe she kept it in her purse,” Dixie suggested. “If she took it frequently.” She opened another dresser drawer. Not much there. A simple nightshirt, champagne white. Several bras. A third drawer held cotton underwear, the next, cotton socks and three unopened pairs of panty hose.

  She eased the mirror away from the wall to check behind it, then moved to the nightstand. The drawer held reading glasses, pens, and, toward the back, a single-dose package of Tylenol. Behind a door in the lower compartment, she found a stack of volumes, each about six by nine inches, all covered in identical fabric. She lifted one out. The cotton cover, with its tropical flower design, felt almost like satin.

  “I remember th
ose!” Marty snatched the book away. “I gave her these blank journals on her fiftieth birthday. One a year, enough to last until she reached a hundred.” He opened the volume and flipped rapidly through the pages.

  “I only count fifteen,” she told him.

  “She kept them in the attic, brought a new one down each January.”

  “Edna was what, sixty-five?”

  “Sixty-six. This one’s dated last year.”

  Dixie recounted. Fifteen. “There’s one missing.” She checked the dates on the others. “This year’s would be less than half filled. It’s not here. Maybe it was in her car, along with her purse.”

  “Which the cops have,” Marty grumbled. “Maybe they stole the journal from this cabinet.”

  “Marty, they wouldn’t take it without leaving a receipt.”

  In the closet—remarkably free of clutter—warm-up suits, leotards for working out, and a pair of denim jeans lay folded on shelves. Cotton shirts, two plain cotton dresses, both white, and a coral silk dress similar to the blue one Edna had worn during the bank robbery hung from the rod.

  “Where’s all the stuff?” Marty said irritably, coming up behind Dixie. “Mom never threw anything away. Always planning to patch it or hem it up or dye it and wear it a couple more years. She had sizes from twelve to sixteen, for all the diets she tried and the weight she lost and regained. This stuff looks new.”

  Indeed. Dixie checked the tags inside a few of the items—all size ten. Several came from one manufacturer, “Unique Boutique,” a private-label women’s shop Dixie’d seen in the Galleria area. Tracing all the flat surfaces with her fingers, as she had the dresser and nightstand drawers, Dixie found no hidden caches.