“Looks like I’m in jail...huhn. Hey I’m off to jail...huhn,” answered Tucker.
Spenser woke up in a sweat.
Her eyes were still closed but she could sense her surroundings. After a moment of confusion, she remembered she was in the hospital and she also remembered why. Her head was pounding a cadence loud enough for every Iron John in the state to hear. And her hand hurt but she wasn't sure why. As a matter of fact, her whole body hurt.
She was suddenly aware of a very pleasant scent winding its way to her nostrils. It was sweet but not sickening. Pleasant and unobtrusive. When she finally opened her eyes, she was shocked to see the reticent Youngquist sitting next to her bed. Charming?
"Welcome back." Tessa's words sounded like needle scratches on an old LP.
"Happy to oblige." Spenser's voice was small and breathy. "Poison?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your perfume."
"Oh." Youngquist actually blushed. "Obsession."
Should have guessed that one, thought Spenser. "How'm I doing?" she whispered.
"You'll be back to your annoying self in no time."
"Perfume and humor." Spenser tried to smile but it hurt too much. "Your reputation's shot."
"Both borrowed."
Spenser wanted to find a more comfortable position but that too was a lost cause. "What'd he hit me with?"
"The proverbial blunt instrument."
"So, did you put his ass in jail?"
"Working on it," came Youngquist's reply.
Spenser could have sworn she saw a blush on the lieutenant's face. "Oh, great. You lost him, didn't you?"
"No...," answered a defensive Tessa. "We have an APB out. We'll find him."
Spenser closed her eyes. The body aches weren't so bad, but that sledgehammer hitting her temple was brutal. "Have you found Tucker's notebook?"
The room was so quiet that Spenser thought Youngquist had left. She opened her eyes to see the steady cop staring at her, her lips pinched with displeasure. "Again with the book?"
“Tucker's story pointed to Overoye as the thief, I know it did.” Spenser tried to emphasize her words, but she just did not have the strength. "I'd be willing to bet that One-Eye is Overoye and that he killed Gina Mae to get that book because he knew it would incriminate him."
"What planet are you on?"
"Maybe he even killed Chloe like it says in the book. And maybe even Pam."
"Who the heck are Chloe and Pam?" asked Youngquist.
“Chloe is, was, Gina Mae's best friend and Pam was ...”
Tessa held up her hand to stop Spenser. "Enough. We may have Overoye for burglary...
“May have?” asked an incredulous Spenser.
“Anyone could have placed those jewels in the shed.”
“No. That shed was Overoye’s domain. No one was allowed anywhere near it.”
“Like I said, he may be a thief, but thievery does not a murderer make. Hard as this may be for you to understand, we work on proof, not speculation."
Spenser couldn't figure out where all the fireworks were coming from. Little specks of light kept bursting in front of her. It was kinda neat. "Which is why you need to find the notebook."
"Jesus, Isaacs. You keep pissing me off like this and I'll arrest you for breaking and entering."
"Exactly. I may have had to, hypothetically, break in because no one has access to the shed except Overoye. And if you check who owned the jewelry, you'll find dead people."
"The one does not validate the other," countered Tessa Youngquist.
Spenser was running out of gas. Fast. She had to get the lieutenant to understand. "What I'm saying is, it could only have been Overoye using the shed as a hidey hole for the jewelry. And he's such a mean bastard what do you think he'd do if someone got in his way?" Spenser's head was killing her. And not just from the concussion. "You think I'm nuts."
"I assume that's rhetorical," replied Youngquist, her lips twitching into a pseudo grin. "You're persistent if nothing else. Hell, I like a woman with conviction."
"Probably because you've convicted most of them yourself."
"Humorous...Brunella."
Spenser felt what little blood she had left drain out of her. "How did...?" Spenser had never seen Youngquist smile. She wondered if it hurt.
"I know how to read a patient's chart." Youngquist rose and walked to the foot of the bed, grabbed the chart and read. " Brunella Philomena Spenser Isaacs." Spenser felt nauseous. "Quite a mouthful."
"Do you take bribes?"
Youngquist's laugh was delicious. "Don't worry, Isaacs. Your secret's safe with me." Spenser wanted to believe her. "How did your parents come up with such...unusual names?"
Spenser hadn't needed to explain this appellation aberration since the seventh grade when Sister Charles Borromeo refused to call her by her third name. "Brunella, my grandmother's mother. Philomena," sighed a smarting Spenser, "my mother's favorite aunt. And Spenser was my dad's father."
Youngquist nodded her head. "Thank god his name wasn't Schmooie."
Spenser laughed. She couldn't help herself. Although she was wishing she could. Her laugh banged around inside her body causing a shock of pain that made her eyes water.
"Sorry," whispered Tessa.
"It's okay," wheezed Spenser. "I'd rather laugh than cry. Both of which I seem to be doing." She let the air back into her lungs carefully. "Youngquist isn't exactly your typical African-American name. Is it?"
"Swedish father, Nigerian mother." Youngquist walked back to Spenser's side and began rearranging the objects on the small bedside table. Shampoo and conditioner together with hand lotion and body powder. Water pitcher next to the tissue box. Kidney bowl closer at hand.
Spenser watched, fascinated. The young cop was definitely trying to put something into some kind of order. "Your friend, Bea, is a real terror."
Uh, oh. What'd she do now. "She can be."
"She's very loyal."
"We're friends," answered Spenser matter of factly.
Youngquist stopped her fussing and looked at Spenser. "Yes." The lieutenant acknowledged this last with just a hint of envy. "She certainly put me in my place."
"You didn't have to arrest her, did you?" Spenser tried to smile.
"No." Youngquist smiled for Spenser and then was somber again. "She told me about your loss. I'm sorry."
Spenser wondered which loss since there had been so many.
"I better let you get some rest." Tessa headed for the door.
Spenser took a deep breath, her strength almost gone. "What about Tucker?"
"We're holding off on the indictment until we talk to Overoye. But I gotta tell you, Isaacs, the evidence still points to the boy."
"The evidence is wrong." Spenser's emphasis took its toll. She had to close her eyes. She felt her body becoming light. The room noises fading. She barely heard Youngquist's words wriggling into her unconsciousness.
"I know."
Youngquist's admission filled Spenser's ears. Then everything went black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Monday - early afternoon
Spenser heard music. A wispy Irish ditty floating delicately above her. She opened her eyes and beheld her best friend, a single tear escaping from a blood shot blue eye. Her clear alto voice wavered slightly when she saw Spenser awake.
"Hey," whispered Spenser.
"Hey." Bea wiped the errant tear away.
“Sweet Irish ditty.”
“I was going to do a Mötley Crüe cover, but I forgot the words.”
“Thank god.” Spenser turned to look out the window. “It’s morning again.”
“The sun rising will do that,” answered her pal. "How do you feel?"
"Got a headache. How do I look?"
"Well, the stitches follow the contour of your hairline, so you'll need to wear bangs for a while. But I fear that the black, purple and magenta eyeliner will probably never become vogue." Bea squeezed Spenser's hand, her voice trembling with
emotion. "You scared the shit out of me, you know."
"I'm sorry."
"No, I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I was way rough on you."
"Somebody else was rougher."
"I mean it, Spense. You needed a supportive friend and all I gave you was grief."
Spenser took her friend's hands in hers. "You have always been there for me. Always. Whenever I really needed you." She rested her throbbing head against the pillow. "Besides, what you were saying was true. I wasn't being very rational."
"You were being you."
"I was...oh, what is that word...obsidian, obtrusive...you know, the one synonymous with Spenser."
"Being obsessive can sometimes be virtuous."
"Very diplomatic." A quasar suddenly burst inside Spenser's head, the star matter creating neon prisms.
"Spense..." Bea worriedly fingered the nurse call button.
Spenser cautiously opened her eyes and smiled wanly. "I'm okay. My head seems to be celebrating Independence Day a little early."
"I feel so goddamn useless."
"Never."
Bea decided that the least she could do was support her best bud, albeit tardily. "So, with the jewelry in his tool shed and that bastard Overoye bolting before the cops could grab him, I’m with you. I mean, killing people just so he could steal from them. How sick is that?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe what?"
Spenser was surprised by her own thoughts. "I can’t figure out why he’d kill them. Or how.”
"All right, let me get this straight. I am now convinced of your theory but you're not?"
“Oh, I'm sure he killed Gina Mae because, one, Gina Mae was a snoop and was probably doing her best Philip Marlow on him, and, two, after he heard Planet Pizza, he worried that Tucker’s story could incriminate him in the thefts. But look at how he killed her. Her murder was rash, messy. Now, look at Chloe's and Pam’s deaths. Murdering them to keep them quiet, sure that’s probably something he’d do, but he’d do it just like Gina Mae’s. I mean, does Overoye seem smart enough to figure out a way of killing someone without being detected? Chloe and Pam, supposedly, died of natural causes, right? So, how’d he pull that off?”
“So,” asked Bea, “Chloe and Pam weren’t murdered?”
“No, I’m pretty sure they were,” answered Spenser.
"I’m getting a headache.” Bea rubbed her eyes. “All right, if Overoye didn’t kill them and you don’t think they died of natural causes, who did kill them?"
"To be honest, I don't know." Spenser waited for a wave of nausea to subside.
“So, if you're right, Overoye's burglaries were just opportune. He saw they were dead and..."
"Just helped himself," finished Spenser.
Bea was incredulous. "But, if the deaths weren't for the jewelry, what were they for?” asked Bea.
“I don’t know,” answered Spenser.
Bea shuddered. “And who?”
Spenser looked into her best friend’s bright eyes. “Someone at the Sunflower.” The tinnitus that had greeted her every waking moment was now beyond annoying. She wanted the noise to stop; she wanted the pain to stop; she wanted the bad thoughts to stop.
Bea shook her head in disbelief then noticed that Spenser was very pale. "I think I should let you rest." Bea picked up her straw hat, sat it stylishly askew on her head, kissed her friend, and headed for the door. "Don’t worry, we’ll figure this out, Spense.”
Spenser nodded and watched Bea walk away. She turned to look at the shadowy world beyond the hospital window. She had a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach, an idea as black as the night. And she didn't like it, not one bit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tuesday - morning
When she was only thirteen years old, and such things actually mattered, Spenser's illusions about the innate goodness of mankind were irreparably shattered by an innocuous thing called trust. Right after school, and just before the inevitable boredom of homework, she and Asa would pedal their brand new three speeds over to Wright's Market and buy themselves a YooHoo and a lemon Tasty Pie. Then they'd join their neighborhood chums in a six-inning game of stick ball. She was always the catcher. Asa was always the short stop. And Dougie Cochran was always the umpire.
Since the gang of eight used his house's front hedge for their backstop, it had been hard for Dougie to ignore their daily activity. And since the heated arguments over who was or was not out were also impossible to ignore, he decided that the best way to protect his property and his sanity was to act as arbiter. The youngsters were dubious at first to have a grown-up horn in on their fun, but Dougie had proven himself to be a kid at heart. And a pretty fair ump to boot.
Spenser, knocking tentatively on puberty's door, thought Dougie was a god. He was a twenty-year-old truck driver. A tall drink of water with a shock of brown hair that swept across his forehead a la Elvis. He had a smile that gave her goose bumps and a slow Virginia drawl that sounded like honey. He also had a way of making Spenser feel so very important. Dougie talked to her. He talked to her of truths. Like the truth about Marilyn Monroe. It wasn't a suicide. He talked to her of books. Like how "Catcher in the Rye" was about the banality of life, not profanity. He talked to her of friendship.
Spenser's mother, who disapproved of that Dougie person, would never have understood so Spenser often neglected to tell Little Mary of her visits to his digs. How could her mom not trust her? Or Dougie. The answer came unexpectedly one Friday in April. She'd left Asa at the "fort" (a copse of trees circling the entrance to the Delaware Racetrack where they'd play redcoats and bluecoats) and pedaled over to Dougie's house just as the sun was saying its last goodbye to the rooftops.
He was glad to see her. Pleased as all get out. He ushered her in and introduced his friend, Wes. She didn't like Wes. Right up front she didn't like him. He was small and greasy and drunk. So was Dougie come to that. Her stomach was telling her to vacate the premises with dispatch, but her teen sensibilities (an oxymoron if there ever was one) were urging her to stay. The grownups wanted to include her in their week-ending celebration. Who was she to dismiss this rite of passage?
Besides everything was fine. It really was. She was actually having fun. Talking about Roger Maris and how the Dodgers were bums and going through Dougie's baseball card collection. Then, suddenly, everything changed. The guys were way too drunk. It began with the brush of Dougie's hand on her shoulder. An innocent contact.
Then Wes's hand enveloped hers as he emphasized his dislike of the Pirates. Spenser freed herself only to feel his hand on her knee. When she tried to move he grabbed her arm and jerked her body toward him. This was not fun anymore. She was getting scared. She looked over at Dougie who was so engrossed in his prized Joe DiMaggio card that he failed to notice her panic.
Once again, she tried to move, but Wes's grip was vise-like. He stared into her eyes with his own unfocussed leer and began expounding on her many physical attributes. Then came the grope. The hand on her knee traced the seam of her Levi's, undulating up the inside of her thigh. She yelled at Dougie, who finally noticed something besides his rookie Mickey Mantle. He turned to her, smiled, and told her not to worry.
Wes was just having a little fun. Actually, Wes was having a lot of fun. He'd managed to unbutton two buttons just above her almost fully developed breasts. Panic stricken, unable to talk because of the lump of fear in her throat, Spenser shot a finger into Wes's eye. As he doubled over, cursing the bitch, she raced for the door, uncertain if Dougie had finally come to her rescue, but not caring either way. She'd trusted him, unconditionally. She knew better than to ever do that again.
Weird thing to remember.
Spenser scanned her tiny bedroom. She reached out, grabbed Rocky, her stuffed raccoon, and cuddled him in her arms. She was troubled. Too many things just weren't adding up. Number one being why Brianne would allow an incompetent, and potentially violent man like Overoye, stay at the Sunflower. And then t
here was the jewelry. Was the doctor really so blind she didn't know he'd been stealing from the patients?
Spenser didn't like where her thoughts were leading. And why was she questioning this kind, dedicated woman's actions? Because I always think the worst of people. Spenser lay on her foam mattress in her tin home listening to her mother make soup and coincidentally enough noise to wake the dead. She eased her clothed body gingerly out of bed and padded to the kitchen.
Death on Planet Pizza Page 17