Kill Jill (2 page)

When the front door opens, Ziff Fillmore jumps to his feet.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“Thanks, I’m good,” the lady says, pulling a shopping cart from the rack.

“Season’s over,” Mavis says. “What brings you to town?”

The lady pushes her cart down the first aisle, pretending not to hear. Fifteen minutes later, at the checkout register, she asks, “Can you tell me where I might find a stepladder?”

Mavis frowns. “Why the hell do you need a stepladder?”

“Excuse me?”

“Whose cabin did you rent?”

The lady says nothing.

Mavis says, “You pulled up in a cab.”

“So?”

Mavis points at the purse in the lady’s cart. “Ours ain’t as fancy as you’re probably used to.”

“This one will suit me just fine.”

“What happened to you?”

The lady looks down at her soiled tunic top and jeans. “I’d rather not talk about it. Can you just scan my items?”

Mavis coughs out an ugly laugh. “
Scan
them?”

“Sorry. I mean, ring them up.”

Mavis frowns, but starts ringing up the items as the lady places them on the counter. She stares at each with mounting suspicion. Toothpaste? Toothbrush? Shampoo?
Lipstick
?
Hairbrush
? These are basic items a woman should already have among her possessions.

“I can’t stand it any longer,” Mavis says.

“What’s wrong?”

“We don’t
have
cabs in Willow Lake.”

“So?”

“So you ain’t from around here. And another thing: I bet you ain’t laid eyes on your cabin yet, but somehow you already know you need a
stepladder
?”

“I’m sorry,” the lady says. “I’m not used to these types of questions from total strangers. Let’s just forget about the stepladder.”

Ziff says, “Clyde Jones owns the hardware store on Second Street. He opens around eight-thirty, which is in about…” He checks his watch. “Ten minutes. You’ll find a suitable stepladder there, I expect. By the way, I’m Ziff. This here’s Mavis. She’s my wife. What I mean is, we’re married.”

Mavis frowns at her husband’s clumsy attempt at conversation with a woman who, despite her current state of disarray, is far and away the sexiest to ever step foot in Willow Lake.

“I’m Emma Wilson. Nice to meet you both.” She reaches into her cart and places the last few items on the counter.

Mavis puts her hands on her ample hips and says, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Where you from, Emma?”

“Out of town.”

“Really? Out of town? Well so’s the Pope and Derby Pie. Which cabin did you rent?”

“I’m not renting. But from what I understand, it’s a lake house.”

“Who owns it?”

“My fiancé.”

Mavis and Ziff do a double-take. Mavis says, “Who the hell’s your fiancé?”

Emma says, “I don’t wish to be rude. I realize whenever a new asshole enters the dog pound there’s going to be a certain amount of sniffing. But this is ridiculous. Can you just ring up my purchases and let me be on my way?”

Mavis starts puffing up as if to launch a tirade, but is interrupted by the sudden, soundless appearance of Emma’s taxi driver. Mavis instantly appraises him as she does all strangers, and finds him much larger and less friendly than any cab drivers she’s ever seen.

“Is there a problem here?” he says.

Emma says, “I’m not sure.”

A look of concern crosses Mavis’s face. She starts to say something, changes her mind. Rings up Emma’s items, and Ziff scrambles to bag them.

“One sixty-three seventy-two,” Mavis says.

Emma hands her two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

Mavis frowns, holds them up to the light, and studies them like a rabbinical student studies the Talmud.

After what seems an extraordinary amount of time, she says, “You got an ID?”

Emma fishes her driver’s license from her front left pocket, hands it to Mavis.

After a minute she says, “I figured you for thirty. I was right.”

She hands back Emma’s ID, puts the bills in the register, counts out the change. Says, “Somethin’ ain’t right here.”

Emma turns, walks toward the entrance. Cabbie picks up the grocery bags, follows her out the door.

“I’ll have my answers!” Mavis hollers.

Ziff says, “You were pretty rude just now.”

“And you were fallin’ all over yourself tryin’ to be helpful.”

“The lady wants a stepladder. What’s the big deal?”

“I saw how you looked at her. It’ll take her two hours in the shower to scrub your eyes off her tits.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You think? We just been through a triple homicide, don’t forget.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Lottie Sikes.”

“Lottie was local. She killed herself and two cats. That hardly qualifies as a triple homicide.”

“Oh yearh? Well, trust no one, that’s my motto. Fiancé my ass! Go outside and check the license plate. I’ll wager five dollars it’s an out-of-stater.”

Ziff shakes his head, but walks outside, stands on the porch, pretends to wave goodbye. Watches the cab back up, drive away. Notes the license plate. Continues standing there long after she’s gone. Day-dreaming what it would be like to see Emma Wilson naked.

To touch her.

To wake up beside her, just once.

From inside, Mavis yells, “Put your dick back in your pants!”

His dick
is
in his pants.

But he wishes it wasn’t.

He sighs, enters the store. “Plates are from Tennessee.”

“I told you so,” Mavis says.

“That’s somethin’ I don’t hear often enough.”

“Call Ellwood, she says.”

“Why?”

“Tell him drive to the hardware store, and be quick about it. Tell him to follow that cab till he finds out which lake house Little Miss Dirty Britches is stayin’ in.”

“Why do you care?”

“Right. Just stand there and tell me you ain’t the least bit curious about a woman who comes in here lookin’ like she rolled through two miles of hen shit, carryin’ hundred dollar bills, with no purse, no wallet, and gets driven around by a Mafia cab driver who practically threatened to kill us.”

“
Kill
us?”

“Call Ellwood.”

Ziff calls their son.

Thirty minutes later, the store phone rings. Mavis checks the caller ID before answering.

“Well?” she says.

“You didn’t tell me she was a movie star.”

“Movie star?”

“Well, she’s got the looks for it.”

“But she’s not, is she? Far as you know?”

“No. I just mean she’s hot.”

“Where’s she stayin’?”

“That dog guy’s place.”

“
Dog
guy? What the hell are you talkin’ about, Ellwood?”

“The guy that’s never here. Can’t think of his name. But you know him. The guy all the women swoon over? The one named like a breed of dog.”

Mavis thinks a minute. “Jack Russell?”

“Yeah. But he weren’t with her.”

“You watched them unload the cab?”

“Uh huh.”

“How much luggage did she have?”

“Three grocery bags and a stepladder.”

“That’s
it
?”

“Uh huh.”

“You sayin’ she had
no
suitcase?”

“Right.”

“No carry bag?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Somethin’ definitely ain’t right about all this.”

“For Jack Russell, it is,” Ellwood says. “Lucky bastard.”

“Watch your tongue, young man!” Mavis snaps.

She shakes her head. That’s all this town needs after what it’s been through, with the triple homicide and all. A pretty, single woman to get the men all hot and bothered, thinkin’ how their own wives and girlfriends suddenly don’t measure up. In an hour Miss Emma Wilson will be all cleaned up. By ten the clothing stores at the Jessup Mall will be open. She’ll have the big cab driver take her there to buy a new wardrobe. By noon the whole town will be talkin’ about the pretty little thing who’s fuckin’ Jack Russell, the building contractor from St. Louis, who shows up three times a year for maybe two weeks at a time. Jack’s handsome enough to get anyone he wants, but this one’s clearly usin’ him for the house key. And who carries hundred-dollar bills around in their jeans’ pockets these days, aside from drug dealers and prostitutes?

That’s what Mavis wants to know.

“She’s probably in there right now, takin’ a shower,” Ellwood says.

“Probably scrubbin’ her body with a facecloth full of sweet-smellin’ soap,” says his friend, Cobb, on speaker phone.

Ellwood sips his coffee while keeping an eye on the front door of Jack Russell’s place. It’s a cool morning, but not so cold he can’t keep the window open on his F150. He’d like to describe Emma’s body, but the front door suddenly opens.

“Cab driver’s comin’ out,” Ellwood says.

“How long was he in there?”

“Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

“You think he did her?”

“Of course not! He’s a fuckin’
cab
driver! And she’s engaged.”

“I’d engage her, but not with a ring,” Cobb says.

The big man stands on the porch, checks his watch, then starts walking down the road.

“What’s he doin’ now?” Cobb says.

“Takin’ a walk.”

“Did he see you?”

“Nah. I’m at the watch point.”

“Well, hell buddy, go on in there and get you some!”

“Nothin’ I’d like more.

“What’s her name?”

“Emma Wilson.”

“She sounds fat.”

“Oh, fuck you, Cobb!” He pauses, then says, “You know how their nipples get hard in the shower?”

“Tilly Chesapeake had them kind of nipples. They’d pop out so long and hard you could hang clothes on ’em.”

“That must’ve come in handy for Tilly at the laundromat. Whatever become of her?”

“I heard she moved to Fordyce and got her tit caught in a wringer.”

They laugh.

“You know what I think?” Ellwood says.

“What’s that?”

“A woman like Emma Wilson would never piss in the shower.”

“A ’course she would!” Cobb says. “I don’t care how pretty she is. They all piss in the shower when they’re alone.”

“Not Emma.”

“She’s probably pissin’ in there right now. Whoa! Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“I think she just farted!”

“Shut up, Cobb!”

“Pissin’ and fartin’ is biological functions. All women’ll do them things when they’re alone.”

Ellwood scrunches his face up. “How would
you
know what they do if they only do it when they’re alone?”

“Cold, hard facts, Ellwood. You can look ’em up if you want.”

“Where?”

“The internet is full of statistical data about this shit. Not to mention all them women’s magazines.”

“Like the ones
you
read?”

They laugh.

Ellwood says, “Well, I can promise you Emma Wilson don’t do none of them things. Wait till you lay eyes on her.”

“Maybe I’ll lay some pipe, instead.”

“Out of your league, Cobb. And that’s a biological fact of chemistry.”

“She can’t be
that
special.”

“She is. And movie star pretty. Plus, there’s somethin’ in the way she carries herself, you know?”

“You are so full of shit. She’s probably butt-ugly, and you’re still drunk from last night.”

“You’ve seen Jack Russell,” Ellwood says.

“So?”

“You think he’d be engaged to a butt-ugly woman?”

“How the fuck would I know? He’s like thirty-five, right? The dude’s nearly twice our age!”

They go quiet a minute. Then Cobb says, “You plannin’ to follow her all day?”

“Got nothin’ better to do.”

“Must be nice. Me? I gotta go. Fence won’t build itself. Let me know what happens.”

“Count on it.”

They hang up and Ellwood’s ear suddenly hurts like hell.