Romeo Fails (10 page)

“She’s fine,” Maggie said post-swallow, licking some frosting from the corner of her mouth. “Don’t we have any napkins?” She poked around on the table, but didn’t find any. “I’ll get some paper towels out of the kitchen, if that’s okay, Dorse?” she told them, already on her way to the door.

“Good idea,” Dorsey said, having just spotted Sarah’s bikini bottoms in a large potted succulent off to the side. As Maggie went inside, Dorsey strode over to the succulent and flipped the bottoms to Sarah in one quick movement. She, in turn, put them on under the water, then resumed her casual seated position in the hot tub as Maggie came back out clutching a fistful of paper towels. And helped herself to another cupcake.

“Did y’all not eat yet?” she asked them.

“Uh, no,” Dorsey replied. “We were, uh…”

“We thought we’d wait for you, just in case,” Sarah said collectedly. She climbed out of the hot tub and dried herself with the beach towel she’d brought. Dorsey felt a keen pang of disappointment again as she glanced at Sarah, then just as quickly glanced away. Another screwed up chance for the two of them. She dried herself with her T-shirt, then pulled her jeans back on.

“Man, I wish I looked as good in my bathing suit as you two do in yours,” Maggie said wistfully as she started on cupcake number three.

“Oh, Maggie, you’re fine,” her cousin said in what sounded like a tried-and-true refrain. She wound the towel around her waist sarong-style. “But what’s up with Aunt Viv? Is her ankle broken or what? What did the doctor say?”

“Well, come sit down and I’ll tell you.”

They all three sat down at the table as Maggie doled out the food, which was far more than just cupcakes. A cool cucumber salad, home-fried chicken, German potato salad, corn bread and a melon ball medley were just some of the delicacies Maggie had prepared. Her cooking skills were as advanced as her math. Munching away, Dorsey and Sarah listened as Maggie brought them up to speed.

“It’s just a sprain, thank goodness. Dr. Melba wrapped it and told her to put it on ice and rest. I got her home and in her bed. She’s got it propped up on a bag of frozen peas, is no doubt watching a Lifetime movie as we speak and drinking a glass of wine to go with the Vicodin she found in her medicine cabinet from God knows when. I’m sure the doctor wouldn’t approve of that, but you know how Mother is. Hardheaded as all get out. But thank heaven she’s all right, more or less.”

The other two murmured their assent and they all clinked beer bottles.

“She’s already back to her bossy old self,” Maggie said with a sigh. “She practically forced me to come back out here. She said I don’t get out enough. Anyhow, I should probably get back there pretty soon. I know you’re an early riser, Dorse, so I thought I’d come get Sarah so she doesn’t keep you up too late. You know how these city girls love to party,” she said with a smile at Sarah, who guiltily jumped a little and knocked over her beer.

“Whoops!” she said, blotting up the beer with a corner of her beach towel. Maggie ran to the kitchen to get more paper towels.

Sarah took advantage of her absence to quietly say to Dorsey, “Is it just me, or have you noticed we are constantly getting interrupted?”

“Believe me,” Dorsey said grimly, “I’ve noticed.”

They had no more chances that night to talk privately. The three of them finished their dinner, then Maggie and Sarah set off for home. Dorsey watched them drive away, the pang of disappointment now more like a brick in her chest. The memories of Sarah’s wet skin, of her mouth on Sarah’s breasts and Sarah’s hands in her hair were tantalizingly painful. Just another missed opportunity, she thought. Another disaster.

* * *

George the big gray cat slunk grumpily down the alleyway behind the hardware store. Ira skittered manically along behind him, leaping at night insects flying well out of his range overhead, pouncing on shadows, bouncing off the brick walls of the buildings in his usual hyper fashion. They were headed for the trash bin behind the Sizzle’N’Shake. There was always something good in or around it. Plus, there was a streetlight nearby. George liked to sit at its base and ponder the moths fluttering in its bright beam while Ira danced around, throwing punches in the air. And eventually succumbing to his pathological need to swat the tip of George’s restless tail, which always ended with the big gray kicking his much smaller tabby ass, but he still never could resist.

George paused and crouched down as they reached the mouth of the alley. His luminous green eyes narrowed to slits. Ira skidded to a stop as well, nearly running into George’s generous hindquarters as the night breeze brought a scent of something slightly unusual on their midnight excursions. A human. The acrid smell of stress sweat announced the person to the cats like a blare of trumpets. There was another smell as well, one they recognized from their hardware store—the chemical smell of paint.

Footsteps approached the alley.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” a hoarse voice whispered. George flattened his ears back and hissed, but stood his ground. Ira, more easily spooked, backed off into the shadows, then leaped lightly up to the top of a Dumpster. He felt safer in the darkness there, plus he had a bird’s-eye view of whatever was going down. George was pissed, he could tell, but then George was almost always pissed. And something was wrong with this picture…

George’s tail lashed the ground as the human bent down to pick him up.

“That’s a good kitty,” said the whisperer, whose hands gripped George tighter and tighter. He struggled to free himself, slashing a jacket sleeve and then the flesh beneath with his razor claws which earned a guttural “Son of a bitch!” from his captor, but still the hands held him in a steely, vise-like grip.

“Gotcha, you little bastard,” said the voice triumphantly. The person stood up as George yowled and writhed to no avail. Until Ira launched himself from the top of the Dumpster onto the attacker’s head. The human shrieked and twirled, dropping George to flail blindly at Ira, who leaped off as soon as George was clear. The two cats raced away at high speed with George in the lead. The big smoky gray was unhurt, as was Ira, who had a little extra swagger in his scamper. No sweaty, crazed human was going to hurt his George—Super Ira to the rescue!

Chapter Five

Luke had a feeling the decapitated carnations would not be the end of it. First, the town’s highway sign. Then, Mrs. Gargoyle’s flowers. (In his mind, he still called her that, although he was scrupulous about always referring to her as Officer Argyle out loud, even to his wife.) Someone was just getting warmed up, Luke knew. In a sense, he had been waiting for the call that came from Pastor Reinhardt early Thursday morning. In the grassy area in front of the Presbyterian church, a small sign announced the title of each week’s sermon for the faithful, spelled out in white plastic letters on a black background. A lockable glass door kept the letters safe from the weather.

Luke and Mrs. Gargoyle stood with the pastor in front of his vandalized sign. The little white plastic letters that had previously spelled out “Eternity Is No Summer Vacation: Are Your Bags Packed For Heaven Or Hell?” now lay strewn about in the grass. Larger and more colorful plastic letters had taken their place:

U SUCK

KTHNXBAI

A slash of red spray paint underlined the colorful plastic letters, which Luke recognized. They looked like the alphabet and number magnets adorning his refrigerator door at home. The older of his two little girls liked to spell out words with them.

“I get the ‘u suck’ part of it,” the pastor said heavily. “But what does the rest of it mean, Luke?”

“It’s an expression people use when they’re texting on a cell phone,” Luke told him. “It’s short for ‘okay, thanks, bye’—but in a sarcastic, dismissive kind of way. Like if someone tells you something you already know. You know what I mean?”

Pastor Reinhardt nodded, but he looked even more disturbed than before. “So you think it was a kid then?” he asked the two police officers.

“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion,” Luke said. “Lots of people text these days, not just kids.”

Without touching the sign, he studied the glass door. It was unbroken. It had probably been jimmied open, with a jackknife blade or a nail file in its simple lock. Luke glanced more closely at the door—there was a small smear of what looked like blood on the frame. It looked fresh.

“You see that?” he said to Gargoyle, pointing it out with his pen but making sure not to touch it. She nodded.

“I’ll get the camera and the evidence kit,” she said.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and there will be fingerprints this time,” Luke said. The shoebox and its wrapping paper had been devoid of prints or any other clues.

Pastor Reinhardt had a sour expression on his face, which deepened at the mention of fingerprints.

“Luke, you know my prints will be on there,” he said.

“Of course, sir,” Luke replied. “Whose else should we expect to find?”

“Sometimes my wife puts the letters up,” the pastor replied, still sounding disheartened. “And…sometimes my daughter.”

“So, you’re telling me Mariah’s prints will likely be on there,” Luke said, careful to make it a neutral statement, not a question or an accusation.

“Yes.”

“Was that blood there before?” Luke asked him.

“Not to my knowledge,” said the pastor. “And I’m the one who changed the letters this week.” His eyes looked despairing. “You don’t think she did it, do you, Luke? Surely she wouldn’t go so far as to attack our church…to attack me like this…”

“I don’t know who did this, Pastor,” Luke told him. “And I don’t know why, or if this is the end of it. But I’m going to find out all those things.” There was an edge to his voice as he finished his statement.

“Whoever did this needs our understanding, Luke. Understanding and forgiveness,” Pastor Reinhardt said. His eyes looked worried now, his brow deeply furrowed.

“That’s your end of it, Padre,” Luke said, although not without compassion. “I just catch ’em.”

Chapter Six

Dorsey was having a late breakfast at the Blue Duck’s counter when the chief of police came in and sat down next to her.

“Mornin’, Luke,” she said.

“Dorsey.”

He ordered coffee and a cinnamon roll to go while she went back to her scrambled eggs and bacon. The rest of the stools at the counter were empty, so he obviously had something to say to her. She hoped it wasn’t a continuation of his lecture from the other night. She liked Luke, but she certainly didn’t need his advice on her love life. Or lack thereof.

The weather had turned cool and rainy again, with more thundershowers forecast for the afternoon and evening. It was her day off from the hardware store and since working outside on the Bartholomews’ deck was not an option, her plan was to run some errands, go for a swim and then work in the woodshop. She had gone home the night before after the latest miscue with Sarah feeling both depressed and restless. Depressed because what the hell was she thinking, fooling around with Maggie’s cousin behind her back? There was no way that was going to end well and she should know better. She did know better. She should either break it off completely with Sarah or get her to come clean with Maggie. But what was the point anyhow, she thought morosely. Sarah would no doubt get sick of small-town life in another week or two and take off, leaving Dorsey behind to deal with the inevitable damage to both her heart and her friendship with Mags.

The restlessness was more on a physical level. She knew she wouldn’t sleep when she got home, so she’d worked in the woodshop until long past midnight. Her current project was a dining room table and chairs. She sometimes built original items from scratch, but her favorite thing was to find an old piece of furniture—a chair, a table, a chest of drawers—at a garage sale, at the curb on trash day, or occasionally at the swap meet in Grover and “re-imagine” it. She would not just restore it, but completely re-do it, incorporating different kinds of wood to add color and texture and using different bits from different pieces of old furniture to give whatever she was working on a truly unique and original look. Her imagination and her father’s training were her only guides. The former added the style while the latter ensured the function. Some of her “experiments” turned out better than others, but all were high quality, one-of-a-kind pieces. The Larue house was full of her more successful works. She’d given Maggie a few pieces as well. Goodman let her show some pieces in the front display window of the hardware store, but she hadn’t had much luck selling them so far. Still, her hobby was a great source of comfort to her. It felt good just being in the workshop that her father had built, smelling the familiar scents of wood, linseed oil and turpentine. Using the tools and knowledge he had endowed her with made her feel useful and loved, at least for a few hours at a time.

Luke’s mother-in-law brought him his coffee and roll. Despite the cool turn to the weather, he was in shirtsleeves, his tan uniform looking crisp and wrinkle-free. There were a few other late morning diners at the tables, but no one within earshot of their seats at the counter. The restaurant was peaceful and quiet in the lull between the morning rush and lunch hour.

Luke surprised her by saying, “I suppose you heard about the Presbyterian church’s sign.”

“Uh, yeah, I have,” she said. “People were talking about it when I came in here this morning. I guess somebody’s got it in for the signs around town, huh?”

“It’s not just signs, Dorsey. You may have heard about Officer Argyle’s flowers as well.”

She nodded, but knowing how little affection many of Mrs. Gargoyle’s former students felt for the one-time junior high school teacher, Dorsey wondered if that particular incident was really part of the same pattern. She didn’t want to say as much to Luke’s face, however, since he had to work with the woman. Besides, she really didn’t care. A couple of signs and some carnations were messed up—some crime wave, she thought.

Sensing her lack of interest, Luke said, “You may not have heard this part, Dorse. Somebody spray-painted the flower heads and mailed them to the police station. And the church sign was spray-painted, as well.”