Shakespeare's Counselor (17 page)

Cliff was telling Alicia (for the third time) he'd just come out to put two bags of garbage in the can when he'd heard a moan, or anyway some kind of sound, in the backyard catty-cornered to his. That noise, of course, had prompted him to investigate. If I had been the object of as many vicious attacks as Cliff and Tamsin had, I am not sure I would have been so quick to find out what was making the noise.

Just as Cliff wound up his explanation, Tamsin emerged from the house wrapped in a bathrobe with wet hair. The bathrobe and hair made her look faintly absurd when she crossed the backyard under an umbrella. Predictably, she crumbled when she learned why we were all out in the rain. Stokes showed her the knife, encased in a plastic bag. “I never saw it before,” she said.

“Did you know Officer McClanahan?” Stokes asked, her voice cold and hard. Did Stokes know, yet, about Officer McClanahan's secret identity? I thought not.

“Yes, we'd talked over the hedge. It made me feel so much safer to have a policeman living so close!” Tamsin said, which struck me as the height of irony. I could feel my lips twitch, and I had to turn my back to the group clustered in the yard, a group at that moment consisting of Alicia, Claude, Cliff, Tamsin, and a deputy I didn't know.

Stokes sent Tamsin over to stand by me to clear the way for the hearse. Tamsin was shivering. “This is so close to home, Lily. First Saralynn gets killed at my office, and now this Officer McClanahan gets killed right behind my house. I have got to start carrying something to protect myself. But I can't carry a gun. I hate them.”

“You can get some pepper spray at Sneaky Pete's up by Little Rock,” I said. “It's on Fontella Road.” I told her how to get there.

After all the recent rain, the heat of the night made the atmosphere almost intolerable. The longer we stood in the steamy night, the less inclined we were to talk. I could feel the sweat pouring down my face, trickling down the channel between my hips. I longed for air conditioning, for a shower. These small concerns began to outweigh the far more important fact that a man had died a few feet away, a man I'd known. I closed my eyes and leaned against the house, but the aluminum siding still felt hot from the day and I straightened back up. Tamsin seemed to have control of herself and she pulled a comb out of her pocket and began trying to work it through her hair.

She spoke once again before Jack and I were allowed to leave. She said, “I don't know how much longer I can live like this. This…terrorism…has got to end.”

I nodded, since I could see the strain would be intolerable, but I had no idea what to reply. You couldn't stop it if you didn't know the source.

Jack came over to me and held out his hand. Though it was almost too hot for even that contact, I took it, and with a nod to Tamsin, went back to his car with him. We were glad to get home, take a blissful shower, put on clean things, and stretch out in the cool bed, to lie there close to each other with sufficient air conditioning to make that pleasant. I don't know what Jack was thinking about, but I was acknowledging to myself how glad I was that Gerry McClanahan wouldn't be writing his book now. Jack and I could lead our lives again, and we would not be exposed. Tamsin, at least for a while, would be spared some scrutiny, though if it were ever discovered who was stalking her, there was sure to be some newspaper articles about her persecution. As of now, she and Cliff had come out of it well, too. Only Gibson Banks and his publisher were permanently inconvenienced.

I could live with that.

I went to Little Rock with Jack the next morning. I couldn't stand another day in the small house doing nothing.

I had to promise Jack I wouldn't do anything too vigorous. I was absolutely all right, and I was chafing a little more each day under the weight of his protectiveness. Since I was just going back to surveillance on Beth Crider, it was easy to swear I'd limit my exertions.

I was beginning to hate Beth Crider.

Jack dug in at his office to begin clearing up backlogged paperwork and returning calls. I organized my campaign and drove to Crider's neighborhood yet again. Maybe we should just buy a house close to her. Maybe when Jack was pushing my wheelchair down the street she might slip up and discard her walker.

Today I'd come prepared. I'd brought a hand vacuum, a load of cleaning materials, and a bucket, plus some Sneaky Pete paraphernalia. I parked in front of a house with a For Sale sign in the yard, about three doors west of Beth Crider's, and I got out.

After I got everything set up, I began to work. In no time at all, sweat was trickling down my face and I was fighting an urge to pull off my socks and shoes. Jack's car had never been cleaned more slowly and thoroughly. When I needed water, I got it at the outside faucet. I was lucky they hadn't had the water turned off, since I had to go back and forth several times refilling the bucket.

I received my reward when Crider came out of her front door, with envelopes in her hand. It didn't take a genius to figure out she was going to put some outgoing letters in her mailbox. In this neighborhood, they were on posts by the ends of the driveways. With my back to her, I watched her progress in the passenger-side rearview mirror, while I polished it with a rag and glass cleaner. I reached inside the car to turn on the movie camera I had set up, loaded and ready. It came inside a stuffed panda. I had the panda propped and positioned to cover just that area, since Beth normally mailed her letters at about this time.

She slid her letters into the box, shut it, and raised her red flag. Then she hesitated, and I could see she was looking at the ground.

“Come on, bitch,” I whispered, polishing the rearview mirror yet again. “Fall for it.”

She looked back and forth, up and down the street. I was the only person out, and I had my back to her.

Down she squatted, supple as you please, to pick up the ten-dollar bill I'd torn and stuck to a tattered Arkla bill next to the curb. I'd tossed this out the window on my way down the street. I'd hoped it would seem as though the stiff morning breeze had picked up some of the trash from the car, and lodged it in front of her home on the ground.

Beth Crider straightened and walked back to her house, only remembering to resume her halting gait when she was about five feet from the steps. I knew the camera would catch the transition from robust to rehabilitative. Inside, I laughed my ass off.

And Jack's car was clean, too.

He looked up when I came in the office, having his own little transition from businessman and detective to my lover. I had the panda tucked under my arm.

“I did it,” I said, knowing I sounded proud but unable to keep it out of my voice.

“Yes!” He was up like a shot and hugged me. “Let's see!”

Together we watched the film of the temptation of Beth Crider.

“So what will happen now?” I asked.

“Now, United Warehouse will approach Beth and ask her to drop her suit. She'll probably accept. United will give her some cash, she'll sign some papers, and that'll be it.”

“She won't be prosecuted?”

“Staying out of court saves money and time and publicity.”

“But she cheated.”

“Saving time and money is more important than vindication, in business. Except in very special circumstances, when public punishment will ward off more troublemakers.”

I wasn't as happy any more. “That's not right,” I said, not caring if I sounded sullen.

“Don't pout, Lily. You did a good job.”

“Pout?”

“Your bottom lip is stuck out and your eyes are squinted. Your hands are in fists and you're swinging your legs. You look like I'd just told you about Santa Claus. That's what I call pouting.”

“So, United Warehouse will pay you lots of money?” I said, reforming my mouth and unclenching my fists. I opened my eyes wide.

“They'll pay. You'll get a percentage, like any trainee.”

I felt deep relief. Now, I could feel better about having quit my cleaning jobs.

“Let's go eat lunch,” Jack said. He turned off his computer after saving what he'd been working on. “We're meeting Roy and Aunt Betty.”

I tried to be pleased about having lunch with Jack's friends, but I just didn't know the two older detectives well enough to take a personal pleasure in their company. I'd met them both before, and talked to them on the telephone several times.

As we were led to their table in the Cracker Barrel (a favorite of Roy's) I spied Aunt Betty first. With her fading brown hair, nice business suit, and sensible shoes, Elizabeth Fry certainly did look like everyone's favorite aunt. She had the kind of slightly wrinkled, well-bred, kindly face that inspires universal trust. Betty was one of the best private detectives in the Southeast, Jack had told me.

At the moment, Betty was telling Roy some story that had him smiling. Roy doesn't smile a lot, especially since his heart attack. Though he has a sense of humor, it leans toward the macabre.

When I sat across from him, I could look Roy right in the eyes. He's not tall.

“Hey,” I said.

Betty leaned over to pat my hand, and Roy looked stricken. “Hey, baby, you feelin' okay?” He reached over with one of his stubby hands and patted the same place Betty had. “Thelma and me, we're sorry.” Thelma was Roy's wife, to whom he was devoted.

Of course, Jack had told them about the miscarriage. I should have expected that.

“I'm feeling much better,” I said, trying very hard not to sound cold and stiff. I failed, I could see, by the glances Roy and Aunt Betty exchanged. Personal exchanges with near strangers in public places are just not my thing, even though I knew I was being a pill. I made a tremendous effort. “I'm sorry, it's hard to talk about.” That was truer than I'd realized, because I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. I grabbed up a menu and began trying to focus on it. It persisted in being blurry.

“Lily caught Beth Crider this morning,” Jack said. I knew he was diverting them, and from their hasty exclamations I could tell they were glad to be diverted. I recovered, after a minute or two, and was able to look pleasant, if nothing else.

I had my back to the entry, so I couldn't see what made Roy stiffen and look angry a moment or two after we'd ordered. “Crap,” he said under his breath, and his eyes flicked to my face, then back over to Jack. “Trouble coming,” he said, a little more audibly.

“Who is it?” Jack asked, sounding as though he were afraid he already knew the answer.

“Her,” Aunt Betty said, her voice loaded down with significance.

“Why, it's the private detective table, isn't it?” said a voice behind me, a youngish woman's voice with a Southern accent so heavy you could have used it to butter rolls. “My goodness me, and I wasn't invited along. But who have we here, in my old place?” A navy-and-beige pantsuit, well packed, twitched by me, and I looked up to see a pretty woman, maybe a couple of years my senior, standing by the table. She was looking down at me with false delight. The perfect makeup and honey-colored shoulder-length tousled hair were designed to distract attention from a nose that was a little too long and a mouth that was a little too small.

“You are just too precious,” said this sleek newcomer. I don't believe anyone had called me “precious” in my life, even my parents. “Let me introduce myself, since Jack seems to have lost his tongue. His
wonderful
tongue.” She gave me a roguish wink.

Well, well, well. I didn't dare to look at Jack. I wavered between amusement and anger.

Roy said, “Lindsey, this is Lily. Lily, Lindsey Wilkerson.”

I nodded, not extending my hand. If I shook with her, some of my fingers might come up missing. You don't often meet people who will lay an unattractive emotion out on the table like that. Showing your hand so clearly is a big mistake.

“Dear old Betty, how you been doing?” Lindsey asked.

“Fine, thank you,” said ‘dear old Betty,' her voice as weathered as old paint. “And I hear you're flourishing on your own.”

“I'm paying the rent,” Lindsey said casually. She was carrying a leather handbag that had cost more than two of my outfits, which mostly come from Wal-Mart. Her beautiful shoes had two-inch heels, and I wondered how she walked in them. “Lily, how do you like working under Jack?”

I shrugged. She was about as subtle as a rattlesnake.

“You watch out, Lily, Jack's got himself a reputation for fooling around with his co-workers,” Lindsey warned me with mock concern. “Then he just leaves 'em high and dry.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said, my voice mild. I could feel Jack relax prematurely.

“Where'd he find you?” she said. Her southern Arkansas accent was beginning to grate on my nerves. “You” comes out “yew,” and “where'd” was awful close to “whar'd.”

Not under the same rock he found you
, was my first, discarded answer. I exercised my option of not speaking at all. I looked into her eyes, instead. She began to shift from pump to pump, and her nasty smile faded.

But she rallied, as I'd been willing to bet she would.

“Jack,” she said, leaning over the table right in front of me, “I need to come by your place and pick up some clothes I left there.”

Her throat was exposed, right in front of me. I felt my fingers stiffen into Knife Hand. At the same time, the part of my brain that hadn't lost its temper was telling me that it's not right to hurt someone just because she's a bitch.

“I don't believe I have anything of yours,” Jack said. From the corner of my eyes I could see his hands clenching the edge of the table. “And I don't live in that apartment any more.”

She hadn't known that. “Where'd you move to?”

“Are you a detective, too?” I asked.

“Why, yes, honey, I sure am.” She straightened up, now that she knew I'd had a good time to look at her impressive cup size.

“Then you can find out.” She would also find out we were married.

“Listen, bitch…,” she leaned back down toward me, extending a pointing finger. People around us were beginning to stop eating in order to listen.

My hand darted up, quick as an arrow, and I seized her hand and dug my thumb into the pit between her thumb and first finger. She gasped in pain. “Let go of me!” she hissed. After a second's more pressure, I did. Tears had come into her eyes and she stood there nursing her hand until she understood that she had become ridiculous, and then she did what she had to do—she walked away.

Aunt Betty and Roy began talking about something else right away, and the other diners went back to their own concerns, leaving Jack and me in a sort of cocoon. I picked up a long-handled spoon and stirred my iced tea. It was too weak. I like tea that's something more than colored water.

“Uh, Lily,” Jack began, “listen, I…”

I made a chopping motion with my hand. “Over and done.”

“But she never meant—”

“
Over and done
.”

Later, when Aunt Betty and I were discussing a recent court verdict, I heard Roy ask Jack if I'd really meant it when I'd said we'd never talk about Lindsey again.

“Absolutely,” Jack's voice somewhere between amused and grim.

“That's a woman in a million,” Roy said, “not wanting to hash over every little thing.”

“You said it.” Jack didn't sound totally delighted.

Later, when we'd eaten, paid, and gone back to Jack's car, we found a long scratch down the paint. I looked at Jack and raised my eyebrows.

“Yeah, I figure it was her,” he said. “Vindictive is her middle name. Lindsey Vindictive Wilkerson.”

“Will this be the end of it?”

“No.” He finally looked me in the eyes. “If Betty and Roy hadn't been there, maybe. But she got beat, and in front of witnesses she cares about.”

“If she keeps this up,” I told him, “she'll be sorry.”

Jack gave me a look. But at length, his troubled face gave way to a smile. “I have no doubt of that,” he said, and we went back to the office for the afternoon. He filed, and I cleaned. He gave me another lesson on the computer, and a lecture on billing procedures. As a kind of treat for Jack, on our way back to Shakespeare we stopped at Sneaky Pete's, one of Jack's favorite businesses. Jack wanted to report to Pete on the success of the panda-bear camera.

As was often the case, Pete's was empty of customers but crammed with goods. Most of the store's income came from a stock of high-end cameras and home security systems, but Pete Blanchard had founded the shop with the idea that you could buy any sort of expensive electronic surveillance device there.

Pete Blanchard hadn't made up his mind about me yet, and I wasn't sure what to think of him, so our conversations tended to be tentative and oblique. Mostly, I was content to watch Jack prowl around and have fun, but Pete seemed to feel it was his duty to entertain me while Jack shopped. The fact that Jack seldom bought anything didn't seem to bother Pete. He'd known Jack for several years, and he liked him.

Every time I'd seen him, Pete had been wearing the same sort of clothing. He wore a golf shirt and khakis and Adidas. He seemed to have several versions of this outfit, but he liked it and that was what he wore. I could respect that. A former cop, Pete had probably had trouble fitting into a patrol car; he had to be six foot four or five. His mustache and hair were graying, but his toffee-colored skin had few wrinkles, and I couldn't begin to guess his age.