6 A Cup of Jo

by Sandra Balzo

  Anita set up to serve once more, this time taking a wild, awkward swing that sent the ball skittering my way.

  I emerged from under the tree and retrieved her wild shot from the grass.

  'Who wants it?' I called, holding the tennis ball up.

  Anita jumped at the sound of my voice and pointed at Brewster. Apparently her last effort had double-faulted the game away.

  I threw baseball-style to her husband and kept walking toward them.

  'Thanks, Maggy,' Brewster said, his tone of voice pleasant, even welcoming. 'What a nice surprise.'

  Anita didn't look pleasant, much less welcoming. Probably ticked at being caught by a former subordinate without make-up on her blotchy face. Her tennis dress hung unfashionably from her shoulders like a hand-me-down, and I could make out a stain near the hem.

  But who gets dressed up to play in their own backyard? Polite guests, after all, call first.

  'I'm sorry to just pop by,' I said, still relishing the fact that Anita wasn't quite as impressive without tailored work clothes or warpaint. And she downright sucked at tennis.

  'Not at all, Maggy.' She pulled herself up straight to regain some of the ground lost by her appearance. 'Is something wrong? You heard me instruct Kevin to dismantle your staging today.'

  After she'd yanked his guys away to do Milwaukee's yesterday. How kind of her. Well, with luck, whatever mix-up she and Kevin spoke about yesterday was still giving her fits. 'No, nothing's wrong in Brookhills. They're breaking things down right now.'

  'Is he there?' Anita seemed a bit anxious.

  'Kevin? No,' I said. 'Why? Do you need to see him?'

  Brewster's brow furrowed a bit.

  'No, no,' Anita said hurriedly. 'Just wondering.'

  'So what is wrong, Maggy?' her husband asked. 'You look worried.'

  'I am. It's Pavlik.' Could the county exec not know his own chief law enforcer had been arrested for murder?

  'Our sheriff?'

  Well, that was a start. At least he knew Pavlik's name and title.

  'Oh, that's right, Brew.' Anita flapped a hand at her husband. 'Maggy and your sheriff are . . . seeing each other.'

  She said it like it was of no consequence to her, despite the fact she'd been acting mighty friendly toward Pavlik during the aborted dedication of the commuter-train.

  I looked back and forth between them. 'You do know that he's been arrested.'

  'We've been informed,' Anita said, fingernail worrying a spot on her cheek. 'In fact, he's being held in our jail.'

  'I'd like to see him. Do you think that's possible?'

  My question was directed to Brewster, but it was Anita who answered. 'Certainly, dear. Though only during regular visiting hours, of course.'

  She seemed to feel that no special arrangements were warranted, despite the fact I knew where she lived.

  This time I turned my back on Anita, so there could be no question of whom I was addressing. 'You don't honestly think Pavlik killed JoLynne Penn-Williams, do you?'

  Brewster flushed, but once again it was his wife who did the talking. 'Maggy, he can't possibly answer that. You were in public relations, remember?'

  Drained of patience, I wheeled on her. 'I'm not a reporter, Anita, and I sure don't work for you anymore, either. What I want to know, as a friend, is what steps Brewster and "our" county are taking to support and defend Pavlik.'

  I didn't add, 'Because I'm getting the feeling that the only one who gives a rat's ass about the man is me.' But I sure thought it.

  'Brookhills County will do everything appropriate . . .' Brewster started, as if he were reading a news release. One prepared by his loving wife.

  'Oh, shut up, Brewster,' Anita said.

  OK, make that his not-so-loving wife.

  'Honey,' Brewster said, 'Maggy's right. She is a friend and deserves—'

  'Fine,' Anita snapped. 'You two "friends" talk.' She was still messing with her zit, but just making it redder. The woman would need spackling a half-inch deep to cover the thing. 'I'm going inside.'

  With that, she wheeled and stalked off.

  Brewster and I watched Anita go. 'Sorry,' I said, when the back door slammed closed.

  'Not your fault.' Brewster didn't quite have his usual 'boyish good looks' expression. 'She's been a little touchy the last few days.'

  'Work stress?' I guessed, then remembered the tennis dress just hanging on her. 'I couldn't help but notice Anita's losing weight.'

  'She is that,' he said, still looking toward the house. 'Even though she tries to hide it.'

  'Could she have an eating disorder?' Maybe our barista Amy nailed it when she mentioned that Mrs County Exec looked almost anorexic.

  'I don't think so. Anita's just not the same woman, though.'

  'As before you were married?' I laughed lightly to put Brewster at ease. 'That's not uncommon, you know. We're all on our best behavior when we're dating.'

  I, for example, had yet to fart in Pavlik's presence. I figured Frank's chronic flatulence was already enough of a deal-breaker from my side of the relationship.

  But Mr County Exec was shaking his head. 'That's not what I meant. It's my—' He broke off.

  'Your what?' I asked. After all, Brewster had brought it up.

  He turned and eyed me, as though approaching a decision. 'Your question to me a few minutes ago?'

  'Yes?'

  A pause before: 'No.'

  'No . . . what?'

  'No, I don't think Pavlik killed Jo.'

  Abrupt change of subjects. 'The authorities believe he was having an affair with her.'

  'Maggy, he wasn't.'

  There was something about the way the man said it. Flat tone, dead certainty.

  The light dawned. 'But you were,' I said to Brewster Hampton.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Of course.

  I was remembering Brewster's 'Don't touch her,' when JoLynne's body was found. And his face flushing just minutes ago, when I asked him if he thought Pavlik had killed her.

  Kate McNamara, our intrepid reporter, had said that JoLynne was rumored to be bonking someone in our county's government. Rebecca had gone further: a person JoLynne 'worked with'.

  Well, Brewster Hampton certainly fit those criteria as well as Pavlik did. Maybe better.

  'Does Anita know?' I asked him.

  This time, just a glance toward the house. 'I'm not sure.'

  'She hasn't said anything?'

  He gave an involuntary shiver. 'Anita wouldn't, Maggy. She'd just lower the boom on me without warning.'

  My God, the man was afraid of his wife. Maybe he had reason. If Anita found out that, having sponsored JoLynne into WoPro, the woman had turned around and started an affair with Anita's own husband . . . Well, the dragon lady I recalled from the bank would confront JoLynne. And it wouldn't have been pretty.

  'Do you think your wife "lowered the boom" on JoLynne instead?'

  Even as thin as Anita was now, she probably outweighed JoLynne and she certainly stood a good five or six inches taller. If my former boss had managed to get the other woman on the ground, Anita could have suffocated JoLynne the way Kevin had described. Did she have the strength, though, to get her husband's lover up and over the side of our inflated cup?

  Brewster was looking confused. 'Do you mean literally? Like Anita . . . hurt JoLynne?'

  Like kill her in this case, but: 'Yes.'

  He was shaking his head. 'More likely that Anita would suddenly have me served with reams of divorce papers. And at the courthouse, after alerting the media to be there. Maggy, she'd take everything I have.'

  'No prenup?' Men are such idiots when love, aka lust and sex, enter the picture.

  'Just one with provisions to protect her.' Brewster saw my look. 'Anita's the spouse who brought a dowry into our marriage.'

  I hadn't known Anita came from money. But another thought had occurred to me. 'What time did you arrive at the Brookhills depot Wednesday to catch your train to the Milwaukee celebra
tion?'

  A frown. 'About ten to six. I wanted to hitch a ride when the train was moved to Milwaukee at six a.m. for the first leg of the dedication ceremony.'

  Made sense. That way Brewster's car wouldn't be stranded in Milwaukee and have to be recovered after he and Wynona rode the train back to our celebration.

  'But Anita was late?'

  'It didn't start out that way,' Brewster said. 'Anita drove us to the station, but needed to take care of a few things on the Brookhills end before we left. In fact, I ended up holding the train for her. Not a big deal, I guess, because it wasn't running a regular schedule that day anyway.'

  Could JoLynne have been one of those 'things' Anita had taken care of?

  Brewster's timeline seemed to match the one Jerome had given me. 'When you arrived at our depot, do you remember what was going on?'

  'Not much, really. From down below at the platform level, it looked like the saucer to your cup was already inflated on the framework Williams built.'

  'Gallows,' I automatically corrected.

  'What?'

  Better I hadn't said anything, given Pavlik's earlier reaction to the term. Only now I was stuck. 'That's what they called the staging built above the boarding platform. Made it easier to keep the two straight, I think.'

  'But . . . "gallows"?' A shudder. 'Bizarre.'

  What wasn't? 'About the cup?'

  'Oh, right. Well, I assumed they were getting ready to inflate that, too, because the air-pump started up as I boarded the eastbound train. I remembered thinking we'd likely get complaints about the noise from our depot's neighbors.'

  If Brewster was at train-level, it wouldn't help to ask if he had seen anything in the cup. It was dark and he'd have been far too low. 'Is Pavlik aware of your affair with JoLynne?'

  'I think he suspects.'

  'Is that why you had him taken off the case?'

  Afraid, then back to confused. Brewster settled on downright startled. 'I didn't. I swear.'

  'Then—'

  'Iced tea, anyone?' Anita called out from their house's open back door. She was dressed in lemon-yellow capris and a white shirt. While I, given the distance, couldn't tell how well she'd covered her zit, the woman had definitely applied some make-up.

  Anita Hampton's world had seemingly been righted, with her back on top.

  'Sounds great, honey,' Brewster replied and made for the house.

  I skipped their iced tea in favor of bread and water: the Brookhills County Jail.

  I'd never visited anyone behind bars before, so on the drive there I tried Christy Wrigley's cellphone. I figured she'd seen Ronny enough times to have the protocol for our jail down pat. The phone rang five times and then went to voice mail. Hanging up, I turned into the county's parking lot.

  On my own.

  I stepped through the street door of the apparent visitors' lobby. Lining one wall was a row of lockers, most of them with keys attached to curly orange cords that could be slipped over your wrist.

  Looked a little like the changing room in a mammogram clinic. Remove your top and put this paper gown on, opening to the front. Place all your personal items in the locker and turn the key, taking it with . . .

  Difference was, this room was coed and both the co's and the ed's were a tad seamy. Also, the chairs were molded black plastic instead of floral-upholstered. And the coffee wasn't free, either.

  I waited for a particularly grizzled 'visitor' to cross to the vending machine, his shoes making suck-suck noises on the tacky linoleum floor. Then I approached the uniformed deputy sitting behind a glass window at the far end of the room. His name tag read 'Ernst'.

  'Excuse me,' I said.

  He didn't look up. 'Photo ID.'

  I sifted through my handbag to find wallet and driver's license. 'What should I—'

  Even as I said it, a drawer, like they have at drive-in banking windows, shot out toward me at waist level from what had looked like a flat metal panel.

  I dropped my license into the metal maw, and the drawer slid back in silently.

  Ernst, a gray-haired man who looked irritated at being relegated to desk duty, picked up my photo ID, studying first it, then me.

  Seeming satisfied, he said, 'Hats, bandannas or scarves are not permitted. Put those and your coat, bag and anything in your pockets that could set off a metal detector into one of those lockers. Secure its door and take that key with you.'

  If I couldn't tell from Ernst's no-pause monotone that it was a jaded spiel, the fact I didn't have coat or hat, bandanna or scarf probably would have clued me. However, I did as requested and returned to the window, orange stretchy cord around my wrist with the locker key dangling from it.

  'I'm here to see—'

  The deputy glanced over his shoulder at the big clock on the wall behind him, then leafed through a stapled bundle of papers until stopping at one. 'It's eleven fifteen. That's Two and Three A East, plus Juvie and East Female. Which?'

  It was like I'd stumbled into a foreign country without first learning the language. How in the world did our little Christy find her way?

  'I'm afraid . . .' I cleared my throat. 'I'm afraid I don't know which.'

  'Ma'am –' the word came from Ernst's throat more like an irritated groan than a solicitation – 'there are people behind you. If you don't know where—'

  My turn to glance over my shoulder. Sure enough. The line was halfway across the lobby. Directly behind me was Grizzled Guy, vending machine coffee in hand. He didn't look happy. Or that he'd ever been happy.

  Time to roll out the big guns. 'I'm here to see Sheriff Pavlik.'

  'Jesus Christ, lady.' This from Grizzled Coffee-Holder. 'Have you tried looking in the man's office?'

  I started to answer, but if the guy didn't keep up on the news, I didn't feel compelled to tell him the sheriff was in the slammer. Instead, I turned back to the deputy and lowered my voice. 'Listen, I'm a friend and I really need to talk to him.'

  'Sure you do.' Ernst pushed back in his chair. 'But the sheriff's not here.'

  How stupid of me. Pavlik wouldn't be in the general population of the jail. As a law enforcement officer, he wouldn't be safe.

  'Is he being held somewhere else? Can you tell me how to get there?'

  The deputy shook his head, like he actually pitied anybody so dense. 'Drive fifteen miles due east and stop five blocks before plowing into Lake Michigan.'

  It took me a second, but I got it. 'Of course. Pavlik's in the Milwaukee County Jail.'

  Ernst clapped twice in slow-motion. 'Correct. What parting gifts do we have for our contestant, Johnny?'

  'How about a kick in the butt if she don't get out of line,' Grizzled Coffee-Holder grumbled.

  I could take a hint. I stepped away from the window with a 'thank you' to the deputy which I hoped rang as hollow as his 'ma'am.'

  At least Ernst had told me what I needed to know, even if the game show shtick was a little unnecessary. I should have realized that if the case had been turned over to Sheriff Walensky in Milwaukee County, Pavlik would be held in Walensky's jail, not his own.

  I should have tipped to it when Anita said he was being held at 'our' jail and insisted on answering the questions I was directing to Brewster. She didn't consider Brookhills, the county for which her husband was responsible, her own. 'Ours' meant where she worked. Milwaukee County.

  I crossed the room to my locker and slipped the key chain off my wrist. Now I could drive fifteen miles and start the whole process over again. At least this time I had some idea of . . .

  'Thank you, Bobby,' a familiar voice called.

  I turned to see Christy coming out of the door next to the deputy's cubicle. No wonder she hadn't answered her cell, she was already visiting a cell.

  'Not a problem,' Deputy Ernst said, giving her a wave. 'Have a good day, Christy.'

  She's 'Christy', I'm 'ma'am'. Apparently the yellow-gloved one was more personable than I'd realized.

  'Maggy?' Christy said when she saw me. 'What a
re you doing here?'

  'I was looking for Sheriff Pavlik.' I gestured toward 'Bobby' behind the glass. 'You must come here a lot.'

  'Not a lot.' Christy slipped her key into the lock.

  'No?' As she turned the key, I realized she wasn't wearing gloves, yellow or otherwise.

  'No,' Christy repeated, opening the locker and retrieving her cellphone. She slid it into her pocket and then delved back and pulled out a pair of the transparent vinyl gloves she reserved for dressy occasions, where yellow rubber just wouldn't do. 'Two A-East inmates can only have visitors on Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday.'

  Again, I wondered how the woman contained her fear of germs when she was in the pokey. I guess love does conquer all. 'But they won't let you wear your gloves?'

  'Sadly, no.' Christy draped the vinyl ones over the edge of the locker door and opened the cap of a small bottle of antibacterial hand gel. 'Like some?'

  'Thanks.' I rubbed the gel into my hands and then removed my own stuff from its locker, leaving the key.

  Christy, on the other hand, used the gel and then carefully slipped her gloves over clean hands. Then she swung the locker door closed with a forearm. She was wearing long-sleeves, naturally.

  'You take a shower the moment you get home?'

  'Oh, yes.' A sheepish smile. 'Once I was in such a hurry I forgot and left the car's engine running.'

  I laughed, doing a 'tack' dance on the sticky floor. 'I can't say I blame you. Heading out?'

  'I am.' She held up her gloved hands. 'Would you mind opening the door for me?'

  I was doing just that when I caught a glimpse of Kevin Williams, coming out the same barred gate that Christy had. 'Kevin,' I called, holding the door with my butt, so I could wave at him.

  'The police were just updating me,' he said as he joined me at the exit. His expression was sympathetic. 'I understand Sheriff Pavlik was arrested yesterday.'

  'That's what I hear.' I could see Christy standing about twenty feet down the sidewalk, apparently waiting for me. I felt honored she'd selected me over the prospect of a more immediate shower.

  I put my hand on Kevin's arm. 'Listen, I have to run, but are you all right?'

  His eyes grew shiny and he looked away. 'I know people believe, since JoLynne was fooling around, that I wouldn't be broken up about her death. But I am.' He swiveled his head toward me. 'Why is that?'