A Good Killing (8 page)

“What do you mean?”

“When she comes here, she comes to be noticed. Tight, tight jeans or itty-bitty skirts. That long blond hair all curled up like she spent the day at the hairdresser. Stilettos as tall as a beer bottle. Every man in this bar saw her.”

He had to be describing someone else. Jody was a tomboy. When Jody went out with Anna, she usually wore the same clothes she’d had on all day: well-loved Levi’s and hiking boots. In the winter, she wore the same puffy red ski jacket she’d had for years. Her hair was long and blond, yes, but always tied back in a ponytail. Jody fell for bad boys but was pretty much one of the boys herself. But Anna remembered that Tammy had described her sister’s outfit the same way. Anna pulled a photo out of her purse: she and Jody hiking the Sleeping Bear Dunes last summer. She showed it to Grady.

“This woman?” she asked.

“Yeah. With a lot more eye shadow. And a Jim Beam in her hand.”

Her sister drank whiskey? Anna digested his words. Okay, so Jody partied. She was a single, twenty-five-year-old woman. She was allowed to get dressed up and go flirt in bars. Just because Anna had never seen it didn’t mean there was anything wrong with it. She wondered if Jody hid that side of herself because she didn’t want her big sister to disapprove. The idea made her sad.

“So what happened two nights ago?” Anna asked.

“What happened every time she came in. She flirted with Coach Fowler.”

“How do you mean, flirted?”

Grady pushed his chair next to Anna’s and let his knee brush hers. He put his arm around the back of her chair and gazed meaningfully into her eyes. His thumb brushed her shoulder as he said in an exaggerated singsong, “You’re funny when you ask so many questions.”

“Okay.” Cooper’s eyes narrowed. “We get it.”

Grady smiled, removed his hand, and pushed his chair back.

“Look, I don’t blame her. The coach was the closest thing we had to a celebrity. He used to come in two, three nights a week. Most every woman who stepped into my bar took a swing at him at least once.”

“How did he respond?” Anna asked.

“Everyone struck out—until Jody. That man has gotta be the most faithful husband in Michigan. Or something.”

“What do you mean, until Jody?”

“They hung out a couple times over the last few weeks. And Thursday night was completely different.”

“How so?”

“He got wasted. Sloppy drunk, like I’ve never seen him. Most nights, he could drink all night and still walk straighter than me.”

“Do you know how many drinks he had? Is there a tab?”

“No. We always comped the coach. As long as he was in here, so was everybody else.”

“Do you remember what he was drinking?”

“What he always did. Jim Beam, neat. Four, five, six in a night.”

“And you’d let him drive home after all those drinks?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He wagged his finger. “Don’t look at me. He made it home all those nights. Only night he didn’t was the night your sister drove him.”

“So what happened that night?”

“He was stumbling drunk. Could barely keep his head up. I
helped her get him to the car. That was a little after ten o’clock. She drove his Corvette.”

“Did they fight or argue about anything?”

“No. They seemed
very
happy with each other.”

“Where were they going?”

Grady gave her a grim smile. “When a young lady and a married man leave together, I don’t ask ’em where they’re going. Let’s just say I doubt she was taking him home to his wife.”

“Did you see or hear from either of them after that?”

“Next I heard was the news that Coach’s car crashed later that night.”

“When did the police come talk to you?”

“That afternoon—yesterday.”

“Did they ask you anything I haven’t asked yet?”

“They asked if I’m willing to testify about this in court.”

“Are you?”

“Of course. I’m just a simple, law-abiding bartender.” He stood. “Gotta get back to work. Tell your sister to stop by sometime. Next round’s on me.”

•  •  •

At four o’clock, Anna was relieved to see Jody sitting in her Yukon parked in front of her house. Anna had been uncomfortable leaving her sister alone for the day. But what additional trouble could Jody get herself into at this point? As Cooper pulled up behind the truck, Jody got out and met them on the driveway.

“How’s it going, Sherlock?” Jody asked, as Anna climbed off Cooper’s motorcycle.

“Okay.” Anna took off her helmet and shook a hand through her hair. She looked at Jody’s face, trying to find the woman who dressed in stilettos and got into screaming fights at three
A.M.
She just saw her sister. “Got a new phone?”

Jody pulled a black iPhone out of her pocket and made an exaggerated Vanna White–displaying gesture.

“Nice,” Anna said.

“What’d you do with the old one?” Cooper asked.

“I just threw it out. The people at the store said it wasn’t useful after it got wet.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I know a guy who could rehab it.”

“I know you love rehabbing broken stuff,” Jody said. “But some things just need to be thrown away.”

Anna wanted to ask Jody about everything she’d heard today—when they were alone. While Cooper was with them, they could check out the house.

Taped to the front door of Jody’s house was a white envelope. It held a police inventory of all the things that had been taken from the house. Anna unfolded the paper and skimmed it:

Kitchen sink (and attached pipes), toilets (2) (and attached pipes), washing machine (1) (and attached pipes), shower pan (1) (and attached pipes), pots (3), pans (2), hammer (1), shovel (1), sledgehammer (1), sports trophies (23), sheets (2), pillowcases (2), blanket (1), tool box (1) w/assorted tools (18), baseball bat (aluminum) (1), metal fish statue (1), wooden butcher’s block (1), wooden carving board (1), blender (1), white sock (1), bottle of 409 (1), bottle of Clorox bleach (1), Greenworks spray (1), box of S.O.S. scrub (1), box of Borax (1).

“You have a camera?” Anna asked. Cooper nodded and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Jody unlocked the door. Anna stepped into the foyer and looked around.

“Christ,” she said.

13

O
nce upon a time, Holly Grove’s Main Street must have served the purpose of the proverbial “Main Street” that all American small towns are supposed to have. It had stopped being “main” in any sense of the word, long before we were born. By the time I was in high school, most of the buildings in the old downtown were empty and scabbed, dilapidated storefronts whose best windows were soaped over and whose worst were covered with spray-painted plywood. There was that one consignment shop, and a XXX video store. Most of the commerce was fueled by the courthouse: lawyers’ offices, bail bond shops, and stores specializing in nail files, ha ha.

Everyone’s parents talked about the Good Old Days. Back when everyone had a nine-to-five job at the auto plant and could afford a house, a lake cottage, and a little boat on that salary. It’s hard to imagine now, isn’t it? A few surviving vestiges of Main Street seemed like archaeological clues to that time: a peeling Coca-Cola mural on the side of a shuttered soda fountain, a blank theater marquee with flaking gold trim. I bet it was nice, back in the day. By 2004, Main Street had become what it still is: pre-rubble.

We never went to Main Street. We went to Meijer.

Meijer wasn’t just
a
store—it was
every
store. You could get groceries and guinea pigs, lawnmowers and live plants, chainsaws, rifles, bulk candy and eye shadow. It stretched forever, one boxy story sprawling so far they advertised it as “Meijer’s Thrifty Acres!” Meijer was Holly Grove’s Main Street, the place where everyone met and swapped stories about the crazy snowstorm or latest round of jobs that went overseas. You drove there knowing you’d see your neighbors. You put on a little lipgloss before you got out of the car.

One day, about a month after Homecoming, I was hanging out there with Jenny, Kathy, and Kathy’s two-year-old girl, Hayley. We were looking for hair paint to streak our hair blue for the Friday night football game. Outside, it was a cold November afternoon, grayed by a low winter sun and seasoned with coarse salt on the ground. Inside, it was bright and warm and full of distractions made in China.

To pass the time, we were trying on hats, not the kind we would actually buy, but the kind that made each other laugh. Kathy put on a huge straw one with plastic fruit all over the brim and became the Queen of England. She waved the cupped-hand royal greeting at passing shoppers. “Ma-ma,” said Hayley. “Gapes. Nummy.” The baby tried to grab the plastic grapes from the hat, smacking her little lips with anticipation. God, she was a cute kid. Like a miniature Snow White: jet-black hair, green eyes, and roses in her cheeks.

Kathy herself didn’t look so great. She put all her energy into that little girl, and not much was left for herself. Her dark hair was listless and frayed, and she hadn’t lost all the baby weight. She looked thirty, though she was only seventeen. She’d lived a lot in those last two years, and the living wasn’t easy.

Kathy and that worthless husband of hers rented in the trailer park, always a few weeks behind in their payments. Her husband cemented driveways, but not often enough. She’d gone through a few menial jobs by then and tried to study for her GED when Hayley was sleeping. She was exhausted to a degree I’d never seen in any other teenager. But she doted on that little girl. Said it was all worth it because she got her.

She patted her daughter’s head and said we’d go to the grocery section to buy her some real grapes. Kathy kept the hat on and continued to be the Queen as we pushed the cart down the toilet paper aisle, using a snooty voice to describe the absorbency necessary for royal arses. We were laughing until we turned a corner.

Wendy Weiscowicz was there with her mother, beaming a scanning gun at an infant car seat. When they saw us, Wendy’s mother had the good sense to look embarrassed, but Wendy smiled broadly. She was barely showing then—she must’ve been about three or four
months along—but she already wore a maternity shirt. When she saw me, she smoothed down the front, so I could see the little round bump on her previously concave stomach.

Only Wendy could be proud to be registering for baby items a week after getting married. Seeing her gut hit me in mine. A baby is way more permanent than a marriage.

At least I understood why Coach married her. I imagined she’d tricked him into it, claiming to be on some sort of birth control that she wasn’t. I felt sorry for him. Wendy was so manipulative and selfish; his life was going to be pure misery. Of course, I didn’t say that.

I said, “Hi, Mrs. Weiscowicz.”

Wendy’s mom was a nice lady. After Dad left, Mrs. Weiscowicz was one of the women who brought Mom casseroles. Mrs. Weiscowicz’s tuna noodle was the best in town—she didn’t skimp on the potato chips on top. I felt a pang of guilt. For what it’s worth, I had no idea Wendy was pregnant when we got into it at the Homecoming game.

Mrs. Weiscowicz smiled and launched into nice-midwestern-mom small talk, asking after our families and cooing over little Hayley. When there was a pause, Kathy looked pointedly at Wendy’s stomach.

“So how are
you
, Wendy?”

“I couldn’t be better,” Wendy trilled. “Married life suits me.”

She held out her hand and waved her diamond ring under our noses. The other girls said
ooh!
and
wow!
and
congratulations!
It struck me that I didn’t know a single person who’d been invited to the wedding—and that was the sort of thing you’d hear about in Holly Grove.

“Was it a big wedding?” I asked sweetly. “Did everyone throw rice?”

Wendy’s smile dimmed. She probably started planning the color of her bridesmaids’ dresses around the time she entered kindergarten. Instead, she got a quickie shotgun wedding at the courthouse. But she had a talent for putting on a good face. She turned her smile back up to its full wattage so quickly, most people might have missed the flicker. “Oh no.” Wendy flashed her ring casually in the air. “Owen
and I didn’t need a big silly deal. We’re just so in love, we couldn’t wait for our lives together to get started.”

I had never heard anyone call Coach Fowler by his first name. I’m not sure I even
knew
his first name before that moment.

“Looks like you got started right quick,” I said, nodding at the infant car seat.

She refused to be shamed. “Yes. A big family was always part of our long-term plan. We are blessed. Owen is so excited. He’s home right now, painting the baby’s room.” She looked right at me. “Have you ever been to his house, Jody?”

I had to admit that I hadn’t. She looked happy.

“Well, you’ll have to come over some time,” she said, sweet as apple pie laced with arsenic. “It’s just gorgeous. I’m having a hard time getting used to so much space.”

Thankfully, Hayley started fussing for grapes again. We said our good-byes and escaped to the produce section.

We held our tongues until we finished shopping and were in the privacy of Kathy’s old Dodge Ram in the parking lot. Jenny called shotgun, so I sat in the back, where Hayley was bundled into the car seat. The little girl’s face was the only part of her visible under her puffy purple jacket and hood. I popped grapes into her rosebud mouth while the car warmed up.

Kathy looked back at me, grinning mischievously. “Should we go see the house? Wendy said we really
must
swing by.”

Kathy didn’t get out much those days. But then again, neither did I. There was nothing else to do that night. I giggled and pulled out my cell phone. None of us had GPS back then, but 411 did the trick. We found out the address, looked at a map, and headed there.

It was a corner of the county I hadn’t seen before, not too far out of the town proper, but far enough to be away from riffraff like us. We turned onto a long smooth road lined with big new houses. The sky was black by then, but many of the houses had spotlights pointed at their façades, making them shine like palaces. Coach’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was three stories tall and made of light pink brick with black shutters. It looked like what I imaged a French
château would look like, if they built châteaus in the 1990s. It took my breath away.