The Fixer Upper (38 page)

“Atta girl Dempsey,” Jackson Harrell crowed. “Girl, you are one big ol’ ballbuster. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“You heard?” I glanced down at the key chain hanging from the ignition.

“Oh yeah,” Harrell said. “We all heard you loud and clear. Everybody’s in position here. Cam just called. She’s five minutes out. When you get to the church, don’t be lookin’ around, trying to figure out where we are. We’re here, okay? That’s all you need to know. Just do what you got to do. Act natural. And give ’em hell.”

Gravel crunched under the Catfish’s new white-sidewall tires. New Macedonia Church looked no different than it had on Saturday. The
parking lot was still empty. I pulled the Catfish up close to the church door, and tucked my key ring into the pocket of my slacks. My heart was already beating so fast I was sure Harrell and the rest of his agents—wherever they were hidden—could hear it as clearly as they’d heard my voice back at Birdsong.

It was two forty-five
P.M.
As I got out of the car, I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. A stoop-shouldered black man, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and work-stained overalls, pushed an old-fashioned rotary lawn mower slowly across the church’s grassy front lawn. Was this the pastor? What would he think of two strangers trespassing in his church? The old man worked slowly, back and forth across the grass. At one point, he turned toward me and tipped the brim of his hat, wiping perspiration from his face with a red bandanna.

The “pastor” was Jackson Harrell! I gave him a cursory nod and tried not to smile, but I did feel myself relax just the teensiest bit. I touched the Sunday school pin. Ella Kate was right about one thing. I wasn’t alone.

I walked briskly up the front steps of the church, and when I got to the door, I saw that it was slightly ajar. The door creaked as I opened it wider.

Inside, everything was the same as before. The heels of my boots clacked noisily across the worn wooden floors. I walked up the center aisle, and looked slowly around the room, trying not to stare at the outmoded microphone on the lectern, or up at the choir loft, where I knew the second camera was hidden.

Finally, I took a seat in the front pew, sliding over a stack of hymnals so I could sit by the aisle. I took the key chain out of my pocket and stared down at it. “I’m here,” I whispered. “Hope you guys are too.”

I checked my watch. Ten minutes to go. I stood up and walked around the church, studying the stained-glass windows. The ruined one, with its crude plywood patch, depicted the peaceable kingdom, with a lion and a lamb resting together. The still-intact window showed a smiling, benign Jesus, his hands reaching out, the rays of the sun illuminating his head. There was a small brass plaque nailed to the wall beneath each of the windows:
GIFT OF THE HENRY AND LOUELLA
BRIGGS FAMILY
and
GIFT OF THE SUNSHINE SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASS
.

I heard a car drive past on the road outside, but it kept going. A minute later, I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel lot. I clenched and unclenched my fists, rotated my shoulders, willed myself to stay calm and focused.

A car door slammed outside. Footsteps on the wooden porch. Now the creak of the door hinges.

Alex Hodder strode into the church. He wore a peach golf shirt under a blue blazer, and he radiated menace. “I’m here, goddammit,” he said. “Let’s get this thing done with.”

“H
ello, Alex,” I said pleasantly. “Nice to see you too.”

He walked rapidly toward me. I tried not to flinch, reminding myself that I was the one in control here.

As he drew closer, I was startled by the dramatic change in my former boss and mentor. He’d lost weight, at least ten or fifteen pounds. His jacket and slacks hung from his formerly athletic frame, and the flesh was stretched tight across his cheekbones and forehead, with deep pockets of dark skin sagging beneath his eyes. His hair was longish on the sides, and for the first time I noticed his receding hairline and definite bald spot—not to mention he was gray at the temples.

What had I ever seen in this angry old man?

He stretched out his hand, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Let’s see it then. I didn’t come all the way down here to chitchat.”

I took a step away from him. “I don’t see anything that looks like four hundred thousand dollars.”

“The money’s locked in the trunk of the rental outside,” Alex said. “Did you think I’d just walk in some church with a suitcase full of cash?”

“That was our agreement,” I said, trying not to sound nervous. Why would he leave the money in the car? Was he planning to try to double-cross me? I plunged my trembling hands in my pockets and clutched the key fob tightly.

“The scorecard,” he said. “I want to see it. Right now.”

I took the business envelope out of the inner pocket of my jacket, and my mother’s charm chain jingled. I held the square of cardboard tightly in my fingertips and waved it in front of his face. “Here it is,” I said. “But you’re not touching it until I see my money.” I put it back in
the envelope, which I replaced in my inner pocket—the one closest to my heart.

“Christ,” he muttered. “I don’t believe this is happening.”

“Believe it,” I snapped. “I’m not enjoying this any more than you are. But we’re not going any further until I see my money.”

His face reddened, then he turned on his heel and strode out of the church.

Come back, I wanted to scream. But I stood motionless in front of the altar.

I heard the slam of a car trunk, and his footsteps approaching, even faster this time. He strode up the aisle with an inexpensive black roll-on suitcase under one arm.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the suitcase toward me.

I laid the suitcase on the front pew, hoping the angle would be good for the cameras. My hands were shaking as I unzipped the top. I folded it back and blinked. It was that morning’s edition of the
Washington Post
.

“What the hell?” I whirled around.

“Under the newspaper,” Alex said, biting off the words.

I lifted the front page, and sure enough, was greeted with the sight of neatly wrapped stacks of cash. I picked up one of the bundles, which was banded with paper strapping, and fanned the bills. All twenties. I picked up another brick on the far side of the suitcase and fanned it. All fifties.

“There’s two hundred thousand in twenties and two hundred thousand in fifties,” Alex said. “Do me the courtesy of taking my word for it, okay? I don’t have time to stand around here while you count each goddamned bundle.”

“I should take your word for something?” I said, laughing bitterly as I put the bundle of bills back in the suitcase. “Trust you, is that what you’re saying? You really do think I’m a moron, don’t you, Alex? After the way you set me up? You had me plan that whole trip to Lyford Cay with Licata. Had me put all of it on my company credit card—including the golf and the hookers. You framed me nice and neat, and at the time, I did trust you. Look where it got me. I’m broke, jobless, unhireable.”

“You’re where you are right now because you’re a stupid, incompetent twit,” Alex said. “Don’t ask me to feel sorry for you. You deserve everything you got—and more. Now give me the scorecard.”

I hesitated. He’d shown me the money, after all. But I really hadn’t gotten him to talk enough about why he was buying me off.

He held his hand out, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Come on. Hand it over.”

I took the envelope out of my jacket and held it out.

He snatched it away from me, pulling the scorecard out of the envelope, which he carelessly tossed to the floor.

His head bent over the card as he read it. “Shit,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d forgotten about this. Fucking Licata. He even cheats at golf. He took a four on the second hole? The weasel shot a six, and expected me to act like I didn’t notice.”

“He’s a cheater?” I asked, incredulously, clutching and unclutching the key fob in my sweaty hand. “What about you? You and Peninsula Petroleum, and your other clients—you bought yourself a vote on that energy bill. Bought and paid for a United States congressman, with a trip to the Bahamas, fancy dinners, and hookers.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex said, shoving the scorecard in the pocket of his slacks.

“I’m talking about a bribe,” I said heatedly. “You gave it and Tony Licata took it. And you tried to drag me down into your slime to save your own asses.”

“You stupid, pathetic bitch.” He spat out the words. “Don’t you dare get all righteous with me about bribing a congressman. What the hell are you? A vicious little blackmailer! You say you’re doing this because you need the money? Don’t kid yourself. This is about revenge. The only reason you’re doing this is because I wouldn’t sleep with you. Tony Licata’s an idiot too, but he was right about one thing. He said I should have fucked you, to keep your mouth shut.” Alex laughed. “Hell, I told him, I got my standards. I’d rather fuck a pro than an amateur, any day.”

I couldn’t stop myself. I forgot why I was there. I forgot to be cool. Forgot to be calm. I even forgot I was holding the key chain. I hauled
off and smacked Alex Hodder as hard as I could. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed in the high-ceilinged church. The key chain went flying into the air. It landed on the wooden floor. I watched, in open-mouthed horror, as the plastic key fob split in two and a tiny silvery disk inside went rolling across the floor.

Alex looked up at me, speechless with shock. He stared at the key ring on the floor. Was that the bug that had just rolled beneath a pew? Would he realize what it was? A fine stream of blood trickled down his cheek, which bore my red handprint. He swiped at his cheek, then looked down at his own blood-streaked hand.

“Stupid bitch.” He said it quietly. Before I knew what was happening, he stalked over to the pew and snatched up the suitcase.

“No!” I screamed. “We had a deal.”

“Did you think I’d just let you walk away with this kind of money?” He laughed and tucked the suitcase under his arm. “Fucking loser.”

He turned and started for the door. With my money, and my future as ruined as my past.

“Oh, hell no,” I said through gritted teeth. Maybe it was the Power Ranger suit, maybe it was the adrenaline. I’ll never know. I launched myself onto Alex’s back, locking my right arm around his neck.

Alex didn’t go down, but he turned around, truly shocked by the assault. He grunted and shoved me backward, sending me sprawling on the floor, and in the doing, dropping the suitcase momentarily. “Crazy woman,” he muttered, reaching again for the suitcase, lying inches from my feet. At that moment, I saw red. I kicked my wicked, pointed-toe boot high and hard and right at the sagging crotch of Alex’s pants.

His high-pitched scream told me I’d scored a direct hit. He fell to the floor, clutching his wounded genitals with both hands. I scrambled to my feet and snatched the suitcase. Three more steps and I’d retrieved my key ring. Alex’s moans echoed in the church sanctuary. I ran, as though the devil himself were in pursuit, straight out the door of the church. I threw the suitcase in the front seat, shoved the key in the ignition, and threw the Catfish into reverse. Gravel sprayed everywhere. I shifted into drive and stomped on the accelerator. Glancing into the
rearview mirror, I saw, through the cloud of dust my departure had kicked up, Alex, standing silhouetted in the church doorway, his face contorted in pain and rage.

I was shaking and breathing hard, as though I’d just run a marathon. I didn’t slow down.

I
looked over at the suitcase, which had slid onto the floor of the Catfish when I’d gunned the engine during my great escape. Was it really possible that there was $400,000 in this cheap black bag?

I glanced backward, in the rearview mirror. Any moment now, I expected to see Alex Hodder’s rental car bearing down on me, forcing me off the road or worse. Five minutes passed. And then ten. I sped on, back toward Guthrie’s city limits. There was no sign of Alex’s white Acura. My shoulders and arms were rigid with tension. My legs felt like rubber.

When I got to the Bi-Lo shopping center, I pulled into the parking lot and parked directly in front of the store, leaving the doors locked and the motor running. My heart pounding, I righted the suitcase and unzipped it. I lifted up the newspaper and stared down at the stacks of bills. I picked up a brick of the twenty-dollar bills, and sniffed. They weren’t new bills, but they weren’t too terribly old either. To my untrained eye, they looked very real. But I wouldn’t have bet on it. Alex Hodder was a cheat and a crook, and I now knew that he was capable of all kinds of treachery.

I patted the stacks of bills one last time and zipped up the suitcase. And then I tenderly fastened the seat belt around my ill-gotten gains and headed for home.

I was pulling out of the Bi-Lo parking lot when my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Is this Dempsey Killebrew?”

It was a woman’s voice, with a faintly Midwestern accent, but not one I could identify.

“Miss Killebrew, this is Sharon Douglas. I’m the U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Georgia.”

“Oh. Hello.”

“I can’t really talk right now, but I did want you to know that I was with our team in the barn today, listening and watching everything. You did a great job. You were magnificent.”

I gulped. “Well, thanks. I guess. What about Alex? Did you arrest him yet?”

She laughed. “We like to think we work fast, but not that fast. No, he finally managed to limp out to his rental car and leave.”

“Do you think he’s looking for me?” I asked, my pulse racing.

She laughed. “No, I don’t think Mr. Hodder wants to see you again anytime soon. Agent Allgood is following him. He made a stop at a convenience store, and bought a bag of ice. I imagine that’s for his, er, injury. Now it looks like he’s headed in the direction of the airport.”

“But…what if he tries to get away? Tries to leave the country or something?”

“He’s not leaving the country,” she assured me. “Why would he? He thinks he’s got this thing licked. By now he’s probably destroyed what he thinks is the only credible evidence against him. Right now, he’s probably on the phone, booking a table at the Monocle for a late dinner.”

“When will you arrest him?” I demanded. “Look, I’ve had this thing hanging over my head for weeks now. My life has been put on hold, my nerves are shot—”

“What?” I could hear the low buzz of other voices from her end of the line.

“Look, Dempsey,” she said hurriedly. “I’ve got to go now. I’ve got a conference call in five minutes. We’ve still got a lot of loose ends to tie up on this thing. You don’t just bring a public-corruption charge against a prominent businessman and a sitting U.S. congressman without a lot of preparation. Now, don’t you fret. We’ve got Alex Hodder and Anthony Licata. We’ve got them both, cold, dead to rights, thanks in large part to you. If I were you, I’d go have a nice dinner out and celebrate.”

“But, the money…”

She wasn’t listening. “Oh, and Dempsey?”

“Yes?”

“Off the record? We all gave you a standing ovation when you slapped the snot out of that slimebag. And then, when you kicked him in the, uh, family jewels? Off the record, let’s just say you struck a blow for women everywhere. Good job, girlfriend!”

I dragged the suitcase up the front steps of Birdsong, and into the hallway. Ella Kate’s door was open, and when I looked in, I saw that she’d fallen asleep in her chair, the binoculars draped across her chest. Shorty was sleeping too, on a pillow on her bed, snoring lightly.

I looked down at Alex’s suitcase, wondering what to do with it now. How would I keep it safe till the federal agents came to claim it? After a moment, I carried it upstairs and shoved it under my bed.

Downstairs, I went out to the kitchen and poured myself a very tall tumbler of Jack Daniel’s. I cracked open a tray of ice cubes, and packed them into the glass, topping the whiskey and ice with two inches of water. I took a sip and then another.

When I’d finished my drink, I called Tee.

“Hey,” I said softly.

“Hey you,” he said. “How’d it go?”

“It went,” I said. “He didn’t pull a pistol, and he didn’t try to pay me with counterfeit bills. At least, I don’t think they’re counterfeit.” I didn’t bother to tell him about my kick-boxing prowess. Maybe later.

“Great!” he exclaimed. “Should I turn on the news at six to watch footage of them slapping handcuffs on the sumbitch and hauling him off to jail?”

“Not just yet,” I said. “The U.S. attorney for the Northern Georgia District called me.”

“What’s her name? Sharon something? She was just appointed last year. Supposed to be a real reformer-type prosecutor.”

“Sharon Douglas,” I said. “Yeah, she called to congratulate me, and to tell me not to expect any arrests just yet.”

“Why the hell not? You did what they asked, right?”

“She said I was ‘magnificent,’ whatever that means. I guess they want to make sure they’ve got all their
i
s dotted and their
t
s crossed. She did
assure me they’ve got both Alex Hodder and Tony Licata dead to rights. Her words, not mine.”

“You don’t sound very happy, Dempsey,” Tee said. “What’s the matter? This is the best possible outcome, right?”

“It is,” I agreed. “But…it’s weird. I just feel…kind of empty.”

“Kinda like the day after Christmas, huh? You wait all year for that one day, tear through all your gifts and candy in an hour, and then the day after, you’re wondering, what’s so great about Christmas?”

“Something like that,” I said. “Probably, I’m just tired.”

“Pour yourself a stiff drink.”

“I did. Now I just feel empty and…buzzed.”

He laughed. “Take it easy, okay? I’ll pick you up at seven, if that’s all right. It’s our night, remember?”

“I’ll be ready,” I promised.

“Dress warm,” he said. “I’ve got a plan.”

The late-afternoon sun made warm butterscotch-colored puddles on the front porch. Jimmy Maynard was dragging his extension ladder from one side of the house to the other. He was back to his usual penny loafers and madras Bermuda shorts.

“Jimmy,” I said, my hands on my hips. “Don’t you have anything better to do than paint my house?”

He propped the ladder up against the porch rail, and wiped his hands on a rag. “Well, now, Dempsey, funny you should mention that. I’m gonna be working double time around here this week, ’cause I gotta finish this job up before I move on to my next one.”

“Jimmy,” I said. “You don’t paint houses for a living, remember? You’re supposed to be in the insurance and real estate business.”

He nodded. “Oh yeah. Now I remember. Actually, I got just one more painting job after Birdsong, and then, I swear, Jimmy is putting the brushes away for good.”

“Who’s the next recipient?”

He scuffed the toe of his loafer in the grass. “Shirlene.”

“Should I read anything into that?” I asked teasingly.

“Aw, hell, I reckon so,” he said. “You know what that damned fool gal went and did?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Said if I’d paint the outside of her house and get it ready to sell, she’d not only give me the listing, she’d give marriage to me another shot. You b’lieve that? I think she needs to have her head examined, don’t you?”

“No,” I said, throwing my arms around him and giving him a hug. “I think she’s brilliant. I think she’s the smartest lady I ever met. But here’s what I want to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Why are we standing here when you’ve got a house to paint?”

“You like to paint?” he asked. “You’re kinda dressed up for it.”

“Be back in a minute,” I told him.

And in five minutes, he had me up on a stepladder, cutting in around the edges of the parlor window with a bucket of dill pickle green paint. He’d sanded the old wood smooth, and as I brushed on the new green paint, I began to see why Jimmy loved his work.

New paint was about hope. It was about believing that underneath the dirt and the crud and the hurt, it was possible to find something solid and substantial. Something worth saving. And when you found something good, wasn’t it right to try to fix it?

From four feet above me, Jimmy started whistling. After a few bars, I found myself whistling too. After an hour, we moved our ladders again and started to save a fresh patch of wall.

I only stopped painting when I realized the shadows were obscuring my ability to see where I was going, and it was almost dusk. “We’re runnin’ out of daylight,” Jimmy announced, climbing down from his ladder.

We folded the drop cloth and stowed it in the back of his Jeep, then washed the brushes and put the paint cans in the corner on the front porch. Then Jimmy, still whistling, climbed in the Jeep. “Be good now,” he admonished. “Or if you can’t, at least be good at it.”

It was almost six by the time I showered and dressed and came downstairs. Ella Kate was standing at the stove, stirring what looked
and smelled like beef stew. “I’ve done cooked,” she said, gesturing toward the pot. “There’s enough, if you want some. I got corn bread too.”

It wasn’t the most gracious dinner invitation I’d ever had, but coming from Ella Kate, it was positively effusive.

“Thanks,” I told her. “It smells wonderful, but I’ve got a dinner date.”

She got a spoon from a drawer, and dumped some in a bowl for herself, and another helping in Shorty’s bowl. She cut herself a generous wedge of corn bread, and slathered it with butter, remembering to break off a corner for Shorty.

“Going out with the Berryhill boy?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, bending over to scratch Shorty’s ears.

“How’d your meetin’ go today?” she asked. “I was watching CNN, till I dozed off, hoping I’d get to see them two crooks gettin’ locked up in the jailhouse.”

“It went pretty well,” I said. “They haven’t arrested Alex Hodder or Tony Licata yet, but I have it on good authority that it won’t be long now.”

“I seen you outside painting,” she said, making it sound ominous. “Won’t be long now.”

“There’s still a lot more to do,” I told her. “I’ve been pretty distracted with all this FBI stuff lately, but now that that’s over, I can’t wait to get back to work on the house again.”

“Huh,” she said sourly. “There’s a big ol’ wet spot on the ceiling in my room. I believe that upstairs shower is leaking again. And I seen some little-bitty bugs flying around on the right side of the porch when I was comin’ in the house today. Might be one of them termite swarms.”

I laughed. “Bobby says this house is made of heart pine. He says these old boards are like iron, and not even the toughest termite could chew through them. But I’ll have him take a look next time he comes.”

The doorbell rang then, and I went out to meet my date.