My Soul to Keep (32 page)

She didn’t answer me right away. I wondered if she’d hung up.

“Molly?”

“Who told you about that?”

“Nobody. I dialed the number on the business card you gave me. The one with the ankh on it.”

She sighed heavily. “Okay, that was too weird. I thought you were psychic or something too. That’s right—I forgot. She uses that ankh thing instead of a signature. She was a loony bird.”

“So you did go see her?”

“Once. I went with a girlfriend from high school. On a lark. Well, it was a lark for me. She believes in that stuff. She wanted to find out who she was going to marry. The big-time, all-important life question for girls from small towns who end up in beauty school.”

“When was this?”

“Spring break.”

“That was mid-March, right?”

“Yeah. I went home for break. Why?”

“Brigid was John Mulvaney’s junior-high girlfriend. Check out the picture on his blog. The one from the school dance.”

I heard her tapping keys, and then she let out a long whistle.

“I’d say she’s not wearing her age well, but she didn’t wear youth much better, did she?”

“So you do see the resemblance?”

“Barely. How do you know she was his girlfriend?”

“I met her last January. Briefly.”

“You didn’t go for a reading …”

“Not exactly. I showed up on her doorstep and found myself on the business end of a shotgun. It was a short meeting.”

“What were you—”

“Long story. I’ll tell you over iced coffee someday.”

“What do you think’s going on?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“She’s probably the one doing the blog for him. I bet she’s the one posting the content.”

The game-show ding sounded in my brain. “I can’t believe I didn’t
think of that earlier. She was nuts about him. But I don’t think she’s seen him since ninth grade.”

“Maybe they got back in touch.”

“I’m assuming you told her you go to SMU.”

“I probably mentioned it. I don’t remember.”

“Did you fill out any paperwork? Any way she could have gotten your address?”

“I think my friend put us on a mailing list, maybe.”

“Credit-card number?”

“Yep. I paid with a credit card. It was my birthday present to her.”

I logged on to the blog. “Look at the copy. It’s so hokey. And so badly written. Brigid’s answering machine quotes that horrible song.” I drummed my fingers on the keyboard and filed through the Bad Song folder in my memory. “What is it?”

“I never heard her message.”

“Something about a quest and a star, no matter how hopeless …”

Molly groaned, then sang, “To dream … the impossible dream …”

I hooted with laughter. “I can’t believe you even know that song. It’s so old!”

“I saw it on
Gomer Pyle
. He gets to sing it at the big Marine thing. For the president.”

“That show’s still on? I used to watch that after school when I was in elementary school.”

“Nick at Nite.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t get out much, do you?”

“Someone else pointed that out to me recently.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Probably have a talk with Brigid.”

“You think that’s wise? I mean, after the shotgun thing?”

“Probably not. But that almost never stops me.”

“Want company?”

“Absolutely not. But thanks for offering.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Hey,” I said. “What did Brigid tell you when she did your reading?”

“She said I was going to be an old maid.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Dating anyone?”

“I was.” A wave of smelly shame rolled over me. “He broke up with me.”

She laughed. “Hey, maybe she got us mixed up. Maybe the reading was really for you.”

I
T’S THREE HOURS FROM
Dallas to Shreveport. A couple of hours of sleep, and I hit the road early. I was standing on Brigid’s porch by ten the next morning, buzzing with a caffeine high that could launch the space shuttle right off the pad at Cape Canaveral.

A dinner bell sat on a shelf beside the front door. The sign beside it said Knock Then Ring. I complied and waited. The door swung open, and Brigid was standing there, resplendent in peacock colors—a long, tent-like muumuu made of green and purple chiffon, an indigo turban covering most of her peroxide-yellow hair. Her nicotine-stained fingernails were sharpened into talons and painted black. She stood with her arms up, her hands resting on the inside of the doorframe as though she were accepting applause. Her eyes were half-shut, her chin lifted, her mouth painted a bright bloody red.

“How may I be of help to you, my child?” she asked regally.

I waved and flashed a quick grin.

“Hi, Brigid. Remember me?”

She shifted her eyes slightly and looked down at me without moving her head.

“You’ve been to see Brigid before, my child?”

“Dylan Foster, remember? I was here last January talking to you about your daughter, Drew?”

I saw her flinch.

“I came all the way from Dallas again, Brigid. Left at seven? this morning to get here. I was hoping to get a word.”

Her face twisted out of the Gloria Swanson imitation and screwed itself into a hard, angry scowl. She dropped her arms and pointed a long finger at me.

“You get off my porch. This minute.”

“I came to talk to you about John Mulvaney.”

“Don’t you mention his name to me, young lady. That name does not belong on your lying lips. You come traipsing in here and get me to show you my pictures and tell you my stories about the one true love of my life, and then you go and lie and put him in jail like a dog.”

“I’m sorry, Brigid. I didn’t lie to anyone about anything. I just—”

“A smart doctor like my John in prison! An innocent man! Who would think such a thing? I have half a mind—”

I held up my hands to fend off the barrage. At least she wasn’t armed this time.

“I think you may be confused. John confessed to me. In detail. He told the police the same story. Did anyone tell you that? That he confessed? They found all this evidence at his—”

“That confession don’t mean nothing!” she shrieked. “You trapped him with your pretty-girl ways.” Her eyes narrowed to slits, her voice dropping to a low growl. “I know all about you prom-queen types.”

“Now, that’s not fair. I can assure you I was never a prom queen.”

“You pretty girls, always making fools of the men, getting ’em to do whatever it is you want. You think he was really in love with you?” She looked me up and down. “You took advantage of him, with his soft heart and his sweet ways. You tricked him into that confession.”

I took a step back. I’d clearly failed to account adequately for the nut-ball factor. I could see I’d have to reconsider my strategy.

“I saw him yesterday, Brigid. I thought maybe you’d want to know how he’s doing.”

The pointing hand remained poised in the air. “You saw him?”

I smiled smugly. “Yep.”

“You went down to the jailhouse? Or did they let him out?”

“I went down to the hospital and saw him. Did you know he’s in the hospital, Brigid? Did you know that? He’s not doing well at all.”

The hand dropped. Her face fell. “What’s he doing in the hospital? Is he sick?”

“Yes, he is. He’s quite sick, as a matter of fact. I’d be happy to tell you all about it.” I gestured toward the door. “Can I come in?”

She narrowed an eye at me but stepped back and let me pass.

Brigid’s house smelled of cigarette smoke and old clothes. And hair dye. I followed her down the hall, longing for a surgical mask and perhaps a nice new pair of latex gloves. We walked past a room with a beauty-shop sink in it—the kind with the U where your neck goes.

“I do hair,” she said as we passed the room.

“I think you mentioned that last time.”

She talked without turning to look at me, gesturing over her shoulder as she walked. “You could use a touch-up on that red job you got there. I noticed that out in that sunshine.”

“I don’t dye my hair.”

“Don’t you lie to me, honey. I can spot a dye job from a hundred yards.”

There was obviously no point in arguing.

We passed another room with a purple starry sign on it that said Reading Room.

“You ever had a reading?” she asked, tossing the question out behind her.

“Um, no.” I already knew I was going to be an old maid. I didn’t need any peacock psychic from Shreveport, Louisiana, to tell me that.

We arrived at the kitchen, which was cluttered with tacky knickknacks and smelled of cake. The oven was on, heating up the already fetid room. Beaters dripped pasty batter into an empty mixing bowl. Dirty, putty-colored melamine dishes were stacked up beside the sink, along with a pile of wet dishtowels.

Brigid pulled out a vinyl-covered dinette chair and gestured for me to sit. I obeyed, folding my hands in my lap, careful, of course, not to touch anything. Brigid clearly did not give two hoots about cleanliness being next to godliness.

She stalked across the room, muumuu flowing behind her, and snatched a pack of Marlboros out of a drawer. She tapped one out of
the package and lit it, sucking a long drag into her lungs. She grabbed an empty Coors can, sat down opposite me, and glared.

“You start talking. Right now, young lady.”

Rarely do I find myself in a situation that intimidates me. But sitting there in Brigid’s filthy kitchen, surrounded by her flea-market décor and knowing there was a shotgun lurking somewhere in the house—and having been on the receiving end of that mean redneck temper of hers before—I found myself a bit cowed.

I cleared my throat. “Um, I was wondering … when was the last time you saw John?”

She blew smoke over her shoulder and tapped the ashes into the can. “I said start talking, not asking.”

I considered my options and decided to play hardball. “You want to hear how he is or not?”

The finger pointed at me again.

“Don’t you mess with me, Dylan Foster.”

“Brigid,” I said, almost touching the table, then folding my hands again in my lap. No talking with my hands today. “You have something I need. I have something you need. You want to do business or what?”

She tapped her ashes again and took another drag.

I plowed on. “Because I’ll walk out that front door and drive back to Dallas in a red-hot minute. And I’m telling you right now, there’s no way on God’s green earth you’ll get any information about John Mulvaney from anyone but me. The shape he’s in, I guarantee you will not be allowed to see or talk to him. Or get any information about him whatsoever. In fact, I can make sure that’s the case. Or …”

She raised her brows.

“… maybe I can arrange for you to see him. I’m sure he’d like that very much.” I sat back and folded my arms. “What’s it going to be?”

She considered me through narrowed eyes, smoking and tapping her ashes.

“What do I have that you want?” she said at last.

“I want to know about the blog.”

“What’s a blog?”

I scooted my chair back and stood to leave.

“Wait, wait!” she said. “Set yourself back down.”

I sat.

A long pause. “I know what a blog is.”

“I know you do. Now stop shoveling horse manure and let’s get down to business. DoctorBehindBars. That’s you, isn’t it?”

She stared at me and smoked, then gave me one quick nod.

“Yes? Was that a yes?”

“Maybe.”

“Yes or no, Brigid. Ticktock. I need to get back on the road. I’ve got a long, long way to go today.”

“Yes. It’s me. You happy? What’s it to you?”

“John doesn’t know anything about it, does he?”

She shook her head—a barely perceptible no.

I took a breath. “What about Molly Larken?”

“Who’s that?”

I reached for my purse and started digging around for my keys.

“Stop that. What about her?”

“Why are you picking on her?”

“You two meet at a prom-queen convention or something?”

“I called her up after I found out I was being blamed for running the blog. Did you think I was just going to let that go?” I tsked. “Brigid. You know me better than that.”

She dropped her cigarette into the can and reached for the pack, plucking a fresh one out and lighting it delicately with her Bic. She looked up at me without answering.

“Where did the copy come from?” I asked. “The words about Molly and me? You didn’t write it, did you?”

She thought about the question, then stood up and walked into the other room. I waited at the table while she rooted around for something, shoving boxes around and cursing. I resisted the urge to go to the sink and wash up, knowing that the sink was even filthier than the table.

She came back with a school yearbook. She opened it up and shoved it across the table at me.

I squinted at the adolescent scrawl and flipped the page to find the signature. John had signed her ninth-grade yearbook, calling her his muse, his precious angel, his liaison to the rest of the world. The prose was drippy and overwritten, like something out of a book of bad Victorian poetry.