Double Cross (24 page)
“Okay, this is too exciting,” she said. “Are you sure I can’t go?”
“Quit asking.”
She touched my arm. “Whoa, I just thought of something else. If Stanley’s phone does ring, does that mean he killed Elise?”
I stuck Elise’s phone in my pocket. “It would sure make him a prime suspect, but could wormy little Stanley be a cold-blooded killer?”
She folded her arms. “I don’t know, but I don’t like the idea of you being there with him if his cell phone does ring. If he killed Elise, what makes you think he wouldn’t kill you and your mom, too, if he thought he was caught?”
I looked her in the eye. “I’m not Elise.”
She smiled. “Good point.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
AT 6:45 I PULLED up to the curb in front of Mom’s house. Before I got out of the car, I double-checked the phone to make sure I had programmed in the right speed-dial number. I had intentionally worn an old pair of pleated khaki pants that were roomy enough that I could get my hand in my pocket and hit the button without anyone noticing. I wouldn’t be fashionable, but as they say in the world of architecture, form follows function.
The last thing I did before I opened the car door was check to make sure my .357 Sig was firmly tucked into the inside pocket of my purse. It occurred to me that I was preparing for the possibility—albeit highly unlikely—that I might have to shoot my own mother’s husband. I shook my head. The idea was too bizarre to dwell on.
Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I headed for the front door. Mom must have been looking for me out the window. She opened the door before I rang.
“Oh, honey, it’s so nice to see you,” she said in an unnaturally loud voice. She held a finger up to her mouth, and whispered, “He’s in the den. I’m ready to stick this pig.”
At least she was enthusiastic—and she didn’t even know yet that Stanley might be more than just a creepy slime bag. I didn’t see any advantage to telling her my plan. I touched the outside of my purse and felt the reassuring bulge of my pistol. “What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti—confetti.” She paused. “It’s almost ready.”
I stared at her.
“It rhy—”
“I know.”
She swept her hand to motion me toward the dining room. “I hope you don’t mind, but there’s no cocktail hour planned. We’re just about ready to eat.”
Now, here were two great examples of the different worlds in which she and I lived. First, of course, there was her bizarre rhyming. Besides that, somehow Kacey and I always seemed to overlook the cocktail hour on weeknights as we microwaved our frozen dinners.
“That’s fine with me. I don’t drink anyway, and my lunch got interrupted, so I’m plenty hungry.”
The dining room was long and ornate, dominated by a mahogany table with a gold inlay, which sat beneath a crystal teardrop chandelier. A huge blue, red, and gold Persian rug covered the floor to within a foot of the walls. An elaborately framed impressionist landscape overlooked the room from the wall behind the head of the table. Three places were set—one at the end of the table beneath the painting, and one on each side. The china and crystal were gold-rimmed and expensive. It was an impressive spread for spaghetti. And for a college professor.
“You’ll be here.” Mom pulled out the chair to the left of the table head. “You may as well go ahead and sit down. I had the caterers come again. I didn’t want to be bothered with cooking tonight. We have too many other things on our minds.”
I sat, unfolded my napkin, and placed it in my lap.
“I’ll get Stanley,” she whispered. “He doesn’t know anything’s up.” She walked out of the room.
I reached into my pocket and felt for the correct speed-dial key—the 3. For the tenth time, I tried to figure what could go wrong. As Kacey said, the plan seemed risk free. If his phone didn’t ring—and I was realistic about the long odds—neither of them would even know I’d dialed the number.
Muffled voices came from another room, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then the voices stopped. A clock ticked in the entryway. I put my hands in my lap. Outside, in the distance, a car horn honked. I turned and looked at the door to my right, which led into the kitchen. A faucet opened, and running water hummed and splashed into something. It calmed me to hear any sound in the house, even a kitchen sound. Maria was preparing to serve us. Everything must be okay.
Still, there was no sound from the side of the house where Mom had gone to get Stanley. I placed my hands on the edge of the table. I wondered how long I should wait. What if he—
Footsteps came down the back hall, and a moment later Mom and Stanley entered the dining room.
This was the first time I’d seen him without a jacket. I was a bit surprised by the loose layer of stomach that folded over his pleated slacks. It gave his upper body a bell shape beneath his silky blue shirt. He held out a hand when he entered the room. “Nice to see you again, Taylor. We always seem to have a good meal when you’re here.” He gave Mom a look. “Believe it or not, we don’t always have a chef. Your mother is still trying to build some enthusiasm for cooking.”
I suspected that he would have held that comment if he’d known what was about to hit him. I looked at Mom to see how she would react. She ignored him, pulled out the chair directly across from me, and folded her napkin in her lap. Stanley sat at the head of the table, to my right. Within seconds Maria, whom I recognized from our Sunday brunch, came wheeling into the room with a steaming serving cart. She filled each of our plates with spaghetti, asparagus, and garlic bread.
“This looks great.” The smell of garlic was warm and deep, and I was starved. I hoped Mom wouldn’t force the action before we had a chance to eat. I picked up my fork.
Mom frowned. “I’ll say grace.” I set the fork back down next to my plate, placed my hands in my lap, and bowed my head.
“Dear Lord, we thank you for bringing us together . . .” It quickly became apparent that when Mom prayed for a meal, she wanted God to know she meant it. She had already given thanks for the mild winter weather, the bounty of the fall’s harvest, and the peace of the season when she lost me. I wondered whether she was going to revisit the Protestant Reformation.
It occurred to me that this was the perfect opportunity to speed dial without drawing attention. I opened one eye. Stanley was sitting upright, head unbowed, but his eyes were closed.
Thanks to Simon and the 12-step program, I had been reintroduced to prayer during the past year. Admittedly, my progress had been spotty. Nevertheless, the occasion called for all the assistance I could get. Besides, my head was already bowed, and I had always considered myself an opportunist. I was more to the point than Mom:
Lord, if Stanley did it, please make this work. I reached into my pocket, felt for the 3 key, and held it down.
Lord, if Stanley did it, please make this work. I reached into my pocket, felt for the 3 key, and held it down.
It had been unrealistic to think there was any chance that a cell phone was going to ring in Stanley’s pocket, and it didn’t. Mom was now talking about life-sustaining spaghetti, and she even requested blessings on Maria as she served us. The only noise other than her voice was the steady ticking of the entryway clock—until I heard the faintest sound from the side of the house where Mom had gone to get Stanley.
I turned my ear in the direction of the sound. It was a tune, one that I recognized: “Music of the Night” from
Phantom of the Opera
—a cell phone’s ring tone. I opened one eye and peeked at Stanley. He didn’t seem to have heard it. Mom was oblivious, now entreating heaven for peace in troubled times. I reached in my pocket, hit the End button, and waited. Within a second the music stopped.
Phantom of the Opera
—a cell phone’s ring tone. I opened one eye and peeked at Stanley. He didn’t seem to have heard it. Mom was oblivious, now entreating heaven for peace in troubled times. I reached in my pocket, hit the End button, and waited. Within a second the music stopped.
I never really expected this scheme to work. Now that it had, I couldn’t believe my good luck. I was practically giddy. As Kacey had said, this was the stuff that legends were made of. Then I began to doubt. Maybe it had been my imagination. I felt in my pocket for the 3 key and held it down again. Mom’s voice became louder and fell into rhythm with the ticking of the clock as she built toward a climax. I strained my ears, focusing on the hallway. There it was: “Music of the Night.” I opened an eye and peeked at Stanley again.
His eyes popped open.
He turned toward the hall but caught me out of the corner of his eye and stopped. Just then, Mom ended with a flourish, “In the name of Christ our Lord, the savior of the world, and our hope for eternity, amen.”
I kept my eyes on Stanley. I clicked the phone off and set it on the table next to my plate. He gave me a perplexed look. Then a red wave began to spread from his neck, up past his jaw, and into his cheeks.
Mom placed her hand on her fork. “Well, let’s eat.” She looked at the phone on the table. “Are you expecting a call, honey?”
I tapped a finger on the table. “No. I think Stanley might be, though.” I pressed the speed dial button again. Within a few seconds the music drifted into the room, more easily discernible now that Mom was no longer praying.
A drop of sweat appeared on Stanley’s forehead. It hung there for a moment, then it released and slid quickly down to his thick, dark eyebrow where it disappeared. He swiped at his eyebrow with the back of his hand.
Mom wrinkled her forehead. “What’s going on?”
I hit the End button and the music stopped. I kept my eyes on him. “Mom, I think it’s time we had our talk with Stanley. Would you like to go first?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
I’VE SEEN LOTS OF people get caught doing things they shouldn’t. Reactions are as different as personalities. Some people are aggressive, some are cool thinkers, some are contrite, ready to take their medicine. Stanley was none of those. He was pathetic.
I kept my mouth shut about the cell phone while Mom hit him with the prostitution. At first he denied it, of course, but when Mom gave him the details about Katie’s investigation of the extortion ring and the list she had gotten from the police, he caved. Then, as her voice grew louder and louder, he began to sob.
It was a sickness, he said. He needed help. It was purely physical, nothing more. Mom meant the world to him. Without her, he may as well be dead.
I wanted to puke. Instead, I shoveled spaghetti into my mouth while Mom beat him farther and farther down in his chair. I figured that my time for questioning would come soon enough. I had no intention of going hungry for this worm.
In the meantime Mom impressed me. She was emotionally needy but she wasn’t stupid. She lambasted him. Before long he was blowing his nose into his table napkin. He had never been good-looking. Now, sitting there with his pointy nose running, his narrow eyes puffy, and his sallow cheeks blotched with red, he was one of the least attractive men I’d ever seen.
The only time he showed even a hint of spine was when she brought up the fourteen-year-old hookers. His usually low voice practically squeaked as he denied that he knew there were any girls that young. He pointed out that it was Southlake, for goodness’ sake. He thought it was a reputable place. As soon as he said it, his eyes made it clear that he knew he had chosen his words poorly. “I feel awful. It’s tragic that this happened,” he added hurriedly.
I couldn’t take any more. I threw my napkin down as I rushed my last few chews and swallowed. He practically cowered when the napkin hit the table. “Tragic? Happened? You’ve got to be kidding me! It didn’t just happen. You did it! Tragic is what happened to those fourteen-year-old girls who were preyed on by a sick, middle-aged man. With a comb-over!”
Okay, the part about the comb-over was a cheap shot, but it just popped into my head. I wasn’t going to let it break my rhythm. “The only tragic thing about this is that you didn’t catch some sort of disease! That’s what you deserved.”
Mom’s eyebrows narrowed. It was obvious I’d raised a subject she hadn’t considered. She glowered at him. “You don’t have a disease, do you?”
He couldn’t have made himself any smaller. “Of course not. Anyway, they require condoms.”
I threw my hands in the air. “Spare us the details!”
“Okay, I’m sorry.” He sniffled and wiped his nose with his napkin again.
I looked down at the phone on the table, which I had almost forgotten. I picked it up. “Before we go any further with this, I’ve got a few questions for you, myself. Do you mind, Mom?”
She shook her head.
“Then follow me.” I pushed back my chair and moved around the table toward the hallway.
Mom took a drink of water as she stood. She wiped her mouth, folded her napkin, and dropped it next to her plate. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Mom followed me into the hall. Stanley lagged behind, and I looked at him over my shoulder. “C’mon, Stanley, don’t get lost back there.”
He hung his head. Sweat pooled above his eyebrows now and beaded on his cheeks. He had brought his napkin with him from the table and he blotted his face every few steps.
When we got halfway down the hall, I stopped and held up the phone. “Let’s see, now, we should be getting close.” I pushed the 3 button and held it down. Within a few seconds, “Music of the Night” drifted down the hallway.
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