The Pink Flamingo Murders (22 page)

And maybe Scorpion Smith, the drug dealer, over some kind of business deal. That would take care of three of the four murders. Otto could have been done in by someone he stiffed at City Hall.

Four more suspects, and these could neatly wrap up most of the murders on North Dakota Place. This was going incredibly well. I couldn’t believe my luck. Then Mrs. Meyer said, “Although I still think Margie probably killed Caroline. She has quite a temper, you know. She drinks a little, too. And she didn’t get along with Caroline at all. Margie tried to cheat my friend Mrs. Grumbacher, offering a ridiculous price for her grandmother’s silver. I don’t trust that Margie person.”

I couldn’t see how lowballing led to murder, but I didn’t say that to Mrs. Meyer. She’d been a tremendous help. She didn’t know the last names of Sally’s boyfriend and Caroline’s ex, but I could find those out from other sources. I thanked her and left. I really didn’t feel like hitting any more houses. I’d had so much iced tea I sloshed, and when I went to put on some lipstick, my face was sprinkled with powdered sugar from all those lemon bars. Anyway, I wanted to digest all that information. On the way back to my car, I stopped by Margie’s house, just for the heck of it, and to get her signature on my Meet Your Neighbor list. This time Margie was home. I stayed long enough for her to give me the name and address of Caroline’s ex-husband. She didn’t know Darryl’s last name, but she did know he hung out most days at a bar called the Big House. I knew the place. The name had nothing to do with the size of the building. It was an inside joke. A lot of ex-cons drank there. Ironically, it was located near the old Lynch Street police station. I decided I might as well see if I could find Darryl. The Big House
would be an interesting contrast to Mrs. Meyer’s begonias and lemon bars.

The Big House had bars on the windows and doors, which must have made the clientele feel right at home. Inside, the place was dingy and dirty, and smelled of old grease, Lysol, and stale cigarette smoke. Charlie Daniels was singing in a flat, nasty voice about leaving this long-haired country boy alone. I sat at the bar and ordered Bud in a bottle. The bartender, a balding guy wearing a gray apron that used to be white, brought it and a glass that had orange lipstick on the rim. I poured the beer, but I didn’t plan to drink it. I knew the bartender wouldn’t talk to anyone who ordered a club soda with lime. I asked the bartender if Darryl was there and he said, “Which one?” I realized half the clientele must be named Darryl. Mentioning that this Darryl drove a beat-up pickup with a 1-800-EAT-SHIT bumper sticker wouldn’t narrow it down. “Used to date a classy lady named Sally,” I said. “If he brought her in here, you’d remember her.”

Because she’d stick out like a sore thumb, I didn’t add.

“Oh, that Darryl. I could see what he saw in her, but I never understood what she saw in him. But then I guess I never do. He’s down there at the end of the bar, eating boneless chicken for breakfast.” Boneless chicken was bar slang for pickled eggs. There was a jar on the bar, next to a rack of Beef Jerky. A man who could eat pickled eggs for breakfast, even when breakfast was at two-thirty in the afternoon, had a cast-iron stomach.

Darryl was so skinny the elastic on his underwear stuck out over his jeans. His spaghetti arms barely had room for a panther tattoo. His hair needed an oil change and his eyes were flat and yellow, like a goat’s. He was wearing a too-short, stained black T-shirt with an American flag. “Try burning this flag, asshole,” the
T-shirt said. A real patriot. Darryl. He sat ready to defend his country’s flag wrapped in a beer fog. The bottle of Busch in front of him was definitely not his first. I introduced myself, and Darryl said, “A newspaper lady. Well, ain’t you cute. What brings you here? The fine cuisine?” He pronounced it coo-ZINE, and blew enough beer fumes my way to get me high. “Or do you want to do a story on me, Newspaper Lady? I know all kinds of interesting things.” He showed a lot of yellow teeth and gave me what he thought was a knowing, sexy grin.

“I’m trying to get some information on Caroline,” I said.

“Don’t know no Caroline,” he said. “I know a Sandy, a Dee-Anne, and a Wanda, and I left them all satisfied ladies. But a Caroline? I don’t think I ever had the pleasure of filling her hole.” He seemed to think that disgusting euphemism was the height of gallantry.

“No, you didn’t,” I said. “You got in a fight with her, several fights, in fact—on North Dakota Place.”

Darryl went from amorous to angry in two seconds flat. “What kind of shit are you trying to start?” he said, his goat’s eyes narrowing. “You trying to pin that on me, because I done some time? The cops already talked to me. I don’t have to talk to you, period. Get the hell out of here, bitch, before I punch your lying mouth.”

“Hey,” the bartender said, suddenly showing up at our end. “That’s enough of that talk, Darryl. I warned you before to watch your mouth. Can I get you anything else, ma’am?” he said to me, which is bartenderese for asking me to move on.

“Ah, no thanks. I’ve got to get going,” I said.

“I’m just getting started,” Darryl said, hiccuping. “I’ll have another Busch.”

“You’ve had all you’re gonna have, Darryl,” the bartender said, and pulled out a length of lead pipe
wrapped in duct tape from under the bar. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have to throw you out, and it will be permanent. You’ll be eighty-sixed.” Eighty-six was the bar code for eternal banishment. Darryl must have believed the bartender, because he pushed back his bar-stool, dropped some money on the bar, and mumbled, “I don’t have to take this shit.”

I was almost out the door by then. Darryl followed me down the street, cursing and muttering to himself. I pulled out my car keys, the way the instructor told me to when I interviewed her for a women and self-defense story. Right now, the rubber-topped key didn’t look like much of a defense. I wondered if I could really jab it into Darryl’s eye, or neck, if I had to. Wasn’t that the other way to fend off an attacker—a key in the neck? Did I shove it in his Adam’s apple or the hollow at the base? I couldn’t remember. Fortunately, Darryl’s pickup was parked closer to the bar than my car, and he decided to get in it. He slammed the door loudly, still cursing. I noticed, besides the decorations Mrs. Meyer mentioned, the rusty truck had duct tape over the missing gas cap.

I climbed gratefully into Ralph, locked the doors, and roared out of there, desperate to get away from Darryl. By the time I was on the highway, heading for Clayton, I didn’t see any sign of his rusty pickup. People like Darryl weren’t supposed to go to Clayton, but I had the feeling he was familiar with my next stop, or some place similar. The Clayton law offices of Caroline’s ex were a little classier than the Big House, but not much. James Graftan was a criminal lawyer who catered to the lowest of the low—rapists, murderers, and child molesters. Clayton is the county government center, and it’s supposed to be rich and modern and infinitely superior to the city. I’m always surprised how many Clayton office buildings put up a nice front but have slummy interiors. Graftan’s law office looked
like the inside of a cheap trailer. The reception room had a water-spotted dropped ceiling with tiles missing, plywood paneling, orange shag carpet, and a particle-board desk for the brunette receptionist. She looked cheap, too. Her ruffled blouse was cut low to reveal outsized breasts. Her hair was long and curly, her makeup thick, and when she walked to the file cabinet, she wobbled on red spike heels. She wore a short skirt that was bunched with wrinkles at the back and an ankle bracelet with a gold heart. Dress for success. A brass plate on her desk announced that her name was LaVyrle. Two clients sat on hard orange plastic molded chairs and stared at LaVyrle’s boobs or her butt, depending on whether she was sitting or filing. The two men looked like Danyl’s degenerate cousins. One of them winked and grinned at me. I noticed he was missing several teeth.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Graftan is not seeing clients without an appointment,” the receptionist said crisply.

“I’m not a client, I’m a newspaper reporter,” I said. “I wanted to ask him some questions about his former wife.”

“He still can’t see you without an appointment,” she said firmly.

“You could ask him and make sure,” I said.

“She doesn’t have to,” Graftan said, emerging from his office. Caroline’s ex was short, always a bad sign in a lawyer. He had mean eyes, a tight, ungenerous mouth, and an impatient manner. He was wearing a sharkskin suit. I wondered if it made his ostrich boots nervous. The boots added two inches to his height, but he still only came up to my shoulder. He was also irrationally angry. “I don’t want to talk to you and I don’t have to. Get out,” he said. “Now. Before I call the police. Don’t call and don’t come here again. LaVyrle has orders to hang up on you, if you call again.”

“Okay,” I said. “If you’re sure you won’t change your
mind.” He turned on his high heels and stomped back into his office, slamming the door.

LaVyrle glared at me and said, “You better go. No telling what hell do when he’s this mad.”

I suppose I should have been honored to be thrown out of Graftan’s office, considering who he let in. But I still felt lousy. Two ugly encounters in one day. I wasn’t ready for a third. I thought I’d tackle the dangerous kids at the trouble house another day. I would spend tonight with Lyle. I’d pick up some wine and cheese and a baked chicken from the supermarket, and we could meet for dinner by the lily ponds at Tower Grove Park. It was one of the most romantic spots I knew, with the evening shadows slanting over the pale, pointed blue flowers and the giant leathery green pads. We could watch the college students playing Frisbee with their big dogs and the lovers kissing near the fake Roman ruins. We could relax and talk and forget why we ever argued.

But before I stopped at the supermarket, maybe I should swing by the mother-loving Erwin’s house. It was only three-thirty in the afternoon. I parked a block up from Erwin’s address on Utah Street. He lived in a single-family reddish brick bungalow of preternatural neatness. His neighbors on one side weren’t home. On the other side, they were deep into a TV show. I heard music and canned laughter.

South Siders were famous for their cleaning, but even among world-class neat freaks, Erwin’s place was outstanding. The white painted trim looked fresh. The gutters were done in regulation forest green, and the concrete steps were painted battleship gray. The bird-bath planted precisely in the middle of the front yard was also painted white, and so was the concrete Madonna sitting in the middle of the birdbath. On the porch were two white-painted concrete pots, each holding one scrawny red geranium. I went up on the
porch and knocked on the door, pretending I was a legit visitor. No one answered, so I peeked in the blinds. Yep, this was a South Side house, all right. We favored the layered look. The wall-to-wall carpet was covered with throw rugs, and the throw rugs were covered with plastic runners. The sofa had two sets of slip covers, good and every day. The actual sofa would only be seen once, at the estate sale, where it would be in perfect condition. The lamps still had on their plastic shade covers. The end tables gleamed with polish. The windows were washed. Everything had been scrubbed and dusted within an inch of its life. It was clear no one was home, but I thought I’d better check the garage, just to make sure, so I walked around the block to the alley. Like all good citizens, the Shermann family put their address on the back gate. I couldn’t see into the garage windows because they were covered with starched white curtains, but I peeked in the little portholes on the metal garage door and saw there was no Buick. So I let myself in the back gate. The backyard was the size of a door mat, and most of it was taken up by an enormous garden, about six feet long and four feet wide. Crammed into that space were rows of cucumbers, bell peppers, tomatoes, and zucchini. Why would anyone grow zucchini? Did you ever know anyone to get a craving for a fresh zucchini? There was also a row of yellow-orange marigolds, which South Siders plant to ward off garden pests, although I never saw a marigold yet that did its job.

I studied the garden. The ground was oddly mounded near the marigolds, as if it had been recently disturbed. I looked closer. The soil there was looser and looked freshly turned, unlike the rest of the garden. I remembered Pam saying Erwin had worked all summer on his garden. She also said his mother went to visit her sister in New Jersey, although Pam hadn’t actually seen Mom leave, suitcase in hand. In fact, nobody
had seen Erwin’s mother since mid-May, and now it was July. That was a long time to savor the delights of New Jersey. I thought I should investigate that suspicious garden mound, but I didn’t have a shovel with me. I wondered if Erwin kept his garden tools in the garage. The side door to the garage was unlocked. I opened it. Inside, the garage was neater than my apartment. Besides the starched curtains, the concrete floor had been waxed, and newspapers put down to catch oil drips from the car. The tools were hanging in rows, shiny-clean and dust-free. The workbench had been dusted, too, and the baby-food jars of nails and screws had been washed.

I saw the shovel hanging on the garage wall between the rake and the edger. It was the only tool that wasn’t cleaned. The clumps of dried dirt on it would look normal anywhere else, but here in this scrubbed and dustless garage, they were shocking—and to me, proof that Erwin’s angel mother was no longer on this earth. Otherwise, she would have cleaned the shovel. What had Erwin written me? “She understands, but she’s no longer with me.” And “My Mother is gone, and she shouldn’t be.”

And why shouldn’t she, Erwin? Because you went nuts one night and killed her? And ever since you’ve been working hard in your garden, digging and digging. It’s a very lush garden. I bet I know what you use for fertilizer.

What did Pam tell me—“Erwin is definitely a strange one”? Of course he was strange, growing up with Mrs. Clean. I wondered if Erwin’s dad left, or if she just cleaned him out. I had to find out if Old Weird Erwin had buried Mom in the garden. I could hear Georgia and Lyle and Marlene and Mayhew all advising caution and saying I should wait and go through the proper channels. But if Erwin suspected anything, he would move the body before officialdom found it.
Far better if I did a little checking now. If I didn’t find anything under the marigolds, I could quietly hang up the shovel and go home. No one would know if I was mistaken. Erwin would not be embarrassed and neither would I. This was really the most cautious and sensible way to handle it, I told myself, as I reached for Erwin’s shovel and started toward his garden.