The Wages of Sin (7 page)

 

Chapter Fourteen

Elsie was still
grousing when Ashlock pulled up to Ivy's foster home. “What a total fuckwad.”

As Ashlock put his car in Park, his eyes met hers. “You got that right.”

“How am I going to work with him?” She picked a small CVS bag off the dash and stuffed it in her purse.

“Remember the goal, that's all. This case isn't a party. And it's not a sprint. It's a marathon. And you're trying to see justice done.”

Privately, Elsie wondered how many more metaphors she would hear by the day's end. But she nodded in agreement. “That's right, Ash. I've got to keep my head wrapped around that, and ignore the personality shit.”

“That's my girl.” He opened the car door and gave her a wink. “Let's get in there before they scare the kid to death.”

Elsie and Ashlock made their way to the front door. Through the screen, Elsie could see Madeleine and Samuel Parsons sitting on the sofa in the living room. When she pushed the door bell, Madeleine came to open it. “What took you all so long?”

Her voice was less waspish than the tone Elsie was accustomed to hearing; she attributed it to Ashlock's presence.

He spoke up. “We made a quick pit stop.” As Ashlock and Elsie walked into the room, he nodded in Parsons's direction, giving a silent acknowledgment. The foster mother, Holly Hickman, bustled into the room, bearing a wicker tray with four plastic tumblers. “I made tea,” she announced.

When she set the tray on the coffee table, Parsons picked up a tumbler, and said in a voice of gratitude, “You are an excellent hostess, Mrs. Hickman. I'm parched.” He took a big swig from the ice-­filled glass.

“Oh,” Holly said modestly. “No trouble. It's just instant.”

Madeleine rattled the ice cubes in her glass. “We should get started.”

“Where's Ivy?” Elsie asked.

“Oh gosh,” Holly answered, her face contrite, “she won't come out. She's acting shy. I thought we'd give her a minute.”

“You are a sweetheart, Mrs. Hickman, that's a fact. But why don't you run on back and try again,” Parsons urged.

As soon as the woman left the room, he pointed at the glass of tea in his hand and made a face, sticking out his tongue and shaking his head. Madeleine giggled like a girl in middle school.

Ash's features were stony as he averted his face from the pantomime. Elsie raised her glass and took a sip. Admittedly, the beverage was vile: sickly sweet, with a harsh lemony tang. She swallowed it, refusing to meet Parsons's eye.
Dick,
she thought.

Mrs. Hickman returned, pulling a reluctant Ivy in her wake. Parsons rose, and said in a pleasant voice, “Well, hello there, young lady.”

Dinosaur,
Elsie thought,
nobody calls a kid
“young lady”
; but she smiled so hard she feared her cheek muscles would spasm.

Ivy pulled her hand free of the foster mother's grasp. From the look in her eyes, Elsie thought she might flee; but the girl backed into the corner where a small TV sat on a particleboard stand and dropped cross-­legged onto the green carpet.

Parsons and Madeleine exchanged a glance. Sotto voce he said, “Tell the cop to start recording.”

Madeleine nodded, and turned to Ashlock; without comment, he pulled a recorder from his briefcase. A small end table was close by Ivy's position on the floor. Ashlock set the recording device on the table and flipped it on. Parsons picked up a wooden dining room chair and placed it near Ivy. He turned the chair backwards and straddled it, resting his arms on the chair back.

“Hey there,” he said. “I'm Mr. Parsons.”

Ivy studied him, scratching at a rashy spot beside her nose.

“I bet your name's Ivy,” he said.

There was a long pause before she replied. “Maybe,” she said.

He cocked his head to one side, aping disbelief. “Maybe? Maybe? I bet a hundred dollars it's Ivy.”

She stared through the broken glasses. “I ain't got a hundred dollars,” she said.

At that, Parsons whooped. The sudden noise made Elsie jolt backwards in her seat.

“You're a little feist,” he said. “Gonna have to watch what I say.” Suddenly, his jolly demeanor disappeared, replaced by a grave and solemn countenance.

“Ivy, I hear you lost your mother.”

She turned her head toward the picture window.

“Now, don't look away. I know it's a sad, sad thing to lose your mother. But I'm a lawyer all the way from the State Capitol. You know where that is?”

Idiot,
Elsie thought. How the hell would this first grader know the State Capitol?

When Ivy shook her head, Parsons said, “It's in Jefferson City, Missouri. Can you say Jefferson City?”

“I don't want to.”

Elsie yelped with involuntary laughter. She tried to cover it with a cough when Madeleine turned a scorching eye on her.

Parsons sighed. “Well, that's fine. But I came from the State Capitol because I'm going to help put the man who hurt your mom in jail. And you are going to help me.”

Ivy's glasses had slipped down her nose. She pushed them back.

“So you need to tell me what you remember about that night. The night your mother went to heaven.”

Ivy scooted away from Parsons until her back was up against the TV stand. “I don't know you.”

Parsons smiled. “Sure; we just met. But I told you, I'm a lawyer from Jefferson City. I'm here to help you.”

Ivy looked away and remained mute.

“Ivy, did you see what Larry Paul did to your mama?”

When Ivy maintained a dogged silence, Ashlock bent and spoke to Parsons in a low voice. “Let Elsie try.”

Parsons swung around to Madeleine. “You called in the General for assistance. Do you want to turn it over to the private? It's your call.”

Madeleine's eyes shifted. She gave an apologetic sigh, a dainty huff of regret. “Well, she's worked with her before.”

Parsons stood, an ironic half grin wrinkling his meaty face. “By all means. Don't want to interfere.”

Without waiting for more encouragement, Elsie seized her plastic CVS bag and dropped onto the carpet beside Ivy, emulating the girl's cross-­legged position on the floor.

“Ivy, you know me. I'm Elsie.”

The child nodded and slid her eyes to Parsons, who stood nearby with his arms crossed. “Him I don't know.”

“He's okay,” Elsie said in a cajoling voice. With a smile, she said, “What do you think is in here?” She held up the bag.

Ivy shrugged, petulant. “Dunno.”

“Look and see.”

The girl opened the bag and peered inside. Her suspicious expression disappeared and she pressed her lips together to hide a smile.

“What do you think?” Elsie asked.

Ivy thrust a small hand into the bag, pulling out a multi-­pack of Play-­Doh in bright colors; and reaching in a second time, uncovered a box of forty-­eight Crayola crayons.

“You like it?”

Ivy nodded. She opened the box of crayons. Lifting them to her nose, she inhaled deeply.

Elsie reached out a hand. “Can I take a turn?” Ivy handed her the box, and Elsie breathed in, rolling her eyes in ecstasy. “Oh man. Does anything smell better than a new box of crayons?”

Ivy hid a smile with her hand. Her fingernails were stubby, her cuticles chewed and scabby.

Elsie heard Parsons whisper to Madeleine. “Bad idea to bribe the kid. Defense will say it affects her veracity.”

Elsie ignored him. Keeping her spot on the floor, she reached over to the coffee table and retrieved the legal pad she'd left there.

“Those colors totally need to get out of the box. You want to draw?”

Ivy nodded.

“Can you draw a picture of your house? We don't need a picture of your new house, this house; we know what it looks like. Can you draw your old house? The trailer where you lived with your mother.”

“Okay.” Ivy sorted through the colors, then picked a black crayon. On the legal pad, she sketched a rough rectangle. “It's a trap house,” she said, in an offhand tone.

The statement made Elsie gasp; she tried to mask the reaction with a feigned cough.
Oh shit,
she thought. Glancing sidelong at Madeleine and Parsons, she saw no visible response to Ivy's statement. Clearly, they weren't tuned into rap music; hardly a surprise. But Elsie knew that “trap house” was a drug-­related term.

“Where are you? Put yourself in the picture.”

Obligingly, Ivy chose a blue crayon and drew a stick figure beside the rectangle, then scribbled the hair yellow. “That's me.”

“You're outside.”

“Uh-­huh.”

“Ivy,” and Elsie spoke in a calm voice, “the night your mom got hurt so bad by Larry Paul, where were you then?”

Ivy clutched the crayon so tightly, Elsie thought it might break in two. “Which time?” she asked.

The question was a reasonable one. Elsie and Ashlock had reviewed the history of domestic disturbance calls to the trailer; disputes between Jessie Dent and Larry Paul had a history of turning violent. Chuck Harris and Lisa Peters had witnessed a violent interlude less than forty-­eight hours before Jessie Dent's murder. Elsie needed to narrow the scope of her inquiry.

“The last time. The night your mom died.”

Ivy didn't look at her. Focusing on the legal pad, she pointed at the stick figure she'd drawn.

“Right, that's you; I can tell. It's a good drawing. But where were you that night?”

With a resolute face, Ivy jabbed the figure again.

“Please tell me. Tell me what you mean.”

Ivy poked the picture for a third time.

“I like it when you talk to me, Ivy. I like to hear you talk.”

Ivy lifted her finger from the paper and used it to scratch vigorously at her hairline. Briefly, Elsie wondered whether the foster mother should check her head for lice.

“That's where I was at.”

Elsie felt a sinking sensation in her chest. “You were outside? Outside the trailer?”

Ivy nodded.

“Well, there goes the eyewitness,” Parsons said, turning on the couch to Madeleine. He pulled off his eyeglasses and ran his hand over his face.

Elsie smoothed the sheet of paper. It bore wrinkles from Ivy's index finger.

“Okay, Ivy, let's back up. Before you went outside: who all was in the trailer?”

“Me.”

“Right. Who else?”

“Mama. And Larry. And Bruce.”

“And who is Larry?”

“Mom's boyfriend.”

“And who is Bruce?”

“Mama's number two boyfriend.”

Elsie kept her face pleasant, though Parsons was groaning audibly. “Your mama had two boyfriends?”

“Mama was a trap queen. She said so.”

Shit, shit, shit,
Elsie thought. “What were they doing?”

“Drinking. Partying. Bruce brung it over from his mom's house.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was watching the TV. But they told me to get out.”

“Why?”

“They was getting high. But it made me mad, because there ain't nothing to do outside, and it was dark out there.”

Ivy took the black crayon and scribbled over the paper. “It was black dark.”

Elsie watched her turn the paper black. Gently, she said, “Ivy, you told a policeman that Larry hit your mama with a bat.”

The child's jaw clenched. She nodded.

“But Ivy—­if you were outside, how do you know that?”

Ivy picked up the yellow crayon she'd used to color the hair on the stick figure. With angry strokes, she colored a spot in the middle of the rectangle. She looked at Elsie with eyes so fierce that for a moment, her face was not remotely childlike. “I peeped. I peeped in the window.”

Elsie nodded. “And what did you see?”

“I seen Larry go after Mama. He punched her first, and she hit him back. Then he hit her in the head with the bat.”

“Did he hit her anywhere else?”

The child's voice was a strangled whisper. “The belly.”

Elsie knew the child was ready to shut down. “And what about Bruce?”

“He just smoked the pipe. On the couch. He didn't do nothing.”

Ivy's face contorted. “He was her number two boyfriend. And he didn't do nothing.” She flung herself onto the carpet, burying her head in her arms. Her shoulders heaved. Elsie watched in silence as one of Ivy's arms snaked out, groping for the crayons and the package of Play-­Doh. She scooped them under her chest, clutching them with a protective arm.

 

Chapter Fifteen

Ivy slumped in
the chair across from the pastor's desk. She pointed her toes, trying to touch the floor; but her legs were too short, the chair too high. She swung her legs, taking a peek at her new pink tennis shoes from Walmart.

The pastor smiled at her, his teeth shining like a wolf in the cartoon she saw on TV. Her foster mother let her watch cartoons every day, on Saturday and after school. The TV had cable. Before moving to the foster home, Ivy had never heard of cable.

“How's everything at home, Ivy?”

She scratched her nose; the itchy patch was getting better. “Good.”

“You like your new house?”

“Sure.”

“Bet your mom makes good food for you. Good, nutritious meals.”

No answer.

“What'd you have for breakfast today?”

Ivy thought, took a moment to recall. “Cheerios.”

“With bananas?”

She frowned. “No.”

“I had cornflakes today. With slices of bananas and skim milk.” He held up his arms like a bodybuilder. “Breakfast of champions.”

Ivy flinched. She didn't like to hear about cornflakes and bananas. It was Larry Paul's favorite, too.

Last summer, on a rainy Sunday morning, they ate cornflakes and bananas in the trailer. By nine in the morning, Ivy's mama already looked tired and worn; she was still working at Smokey Dean's then, had been working all night. And Bruce Stout had brought his dog to the trailer the night before, and it peed on the rug again. Mama said she didn't have the energy to clean it up. Ivy's nose wrinkled from the stink of the dog's urine. But she didn't complain about it.

When Mama spoke up over breakfast, Ivy tensed in her chair. Because Mama brought up the baby again.

“Larry,” she said, shaking her head wearily, “you got to help me out.”

Larry hadn't answered; just stared at Jessie over the rim of his water glass.

She pulled the tattered bathrobe around her swollen belly. “This baby has flat wore me out. Smokey says I can't stay on at the plant much longer, I'm so big. You got to think about money. Maybe you can do more for Smokey. And shit, honey—­you got to give me a hand around here. It smells like piss in here.”

Ivy stole a look at Larry. His hand was beginning to shake; it was a bad sign. A bad, bad sign.

The cereal flew so suddenly that Ivy thought she dreamed it, but the empty bowl rested in Larry's shaking hands. And her mother's face, frozen in dismay, dripped with milk. Cornflakes fell from her cheeks, and a slice of banana stuck to her chin until she wiped it off. Then Jessie told Larry she was sorry.

“Ivy?” the preacher said. “Ivy, what are thinking about?”

She tried to focus on the preacher, but it took a moment. Because in her mind, she could only see flying milk and cereal, with bananas spinning in midair.

“Are you happy with your new mom and daddy?” He leaned back in his chair, looking at her with benevolent interest.

Something about his voice didn't ring true. Ivy wasn't used to ­people who didn't say what they meant. It confused her.

“You know they ain't real. Real mom and daddy.”

The preacher shook his head with disbelief. “Why do you say that?”

“They ain't my ­people.”

“Your what?”

Ivy tried to retreat into the chair, pushing back into the cushion. “My ­people. Family.”

The preacher picked up a pencil and tapped it on the pad of paper in front of him. “Who are your ­people, Ivy?”

The question made her stomach twist. Because to answer it, she had to acknowledge her loss.

“Nobody,” she whispered.

He leaned forward. “What's that? I can't hear you.”

She stared at him, reluctant to speak of it again. Finally, she said, “Nobody. I got nobody.”

The pastor spoke with a gentle tone. “Ivy, that's not true. You're blessed. You've been blessed with a foster mom and foster daddy. And a beautiful baby brother.”

She looked away, unable to look him in the face as he spoke the lie. Her foster mom was nice to her. Bought her shiny new things at the Walmart, possessions Ivy had never dreamed to own. But she knew the difference between the way Holly Hickman looked at her baby, and the way she regarded Ivy. Kin was kin. Everybody knew that.

“And you have a big family. A big, big family.” The preacher stretched his arms wide. “Everybody in this church.”

Ivy cocked her head. She felt no particular kinship with all those ­people sitting in the congregation on Sundays, and on Wednesday nights.

“Do you know that?” Reverend Albertson asked.

She shook her head.

“Well, it's true. Do you know why it is? It's because you, Ivy, are a child of God.”

Ivy digested the statement. It had a certain appeal.

“Why, Ivy, there's lots and lots of ­people in this town who care about you. I was just talking to a man the other day, and he made me promise to keep an eye on you. You know who that was?”

Ivy shook her head. How could she know?

“It was your mother's boss, before she passed away. Dean Mitchell, Jr. What do you think about that?”

Ivy sucked her lips over her teeth and pressed down so hard she bit herself. Smokey. Smokey was watching. Smokey was everywhere. Smokey wanted to know what she'd told the preacher. Wanted to know if she talked about the meth they kept at the trailer, to sell for Smokey. But she said nothing. Kept her mouth shut.

“How do you feel about your mother? The one who died?”

A jolting pain hit in Ivy's chest; she gritted her teeth. “I sure do miss her.”

“Do you want to see her again?” His voice sounded like he was offering a candy bar. A Twix, or a Hershey's.

“She's dead,” Ivy said, her voice flat.

“But we can be reunited. At the throne. Ivy, you can see your mother again, and the sweet baby who never opened his eyes. But there's one thing you must do.”

“What?” Because she'd do anything. Anything, to see her mother. She wasn't so much interested in the baby. She never knew him.

“You must be born again.”

The overhead light reflected on his thinning hair. He was older than Larry, mom's no-­good boyfriend who had killed her with the bat. But Larry was hairy all over: his head and face and chest and back.

This preacher had a pink hairless face; and the thin golden hair on his pink scalp, parted and combed over, shone like a halo under the fluorescent light.

“You can be saved. Then you'll see your baby brother and your mother. You'll be reunited with them, and with our savior Jesus Christ. All you have to do,” and he leaned forward like Larry handing somebody meth, “is come up on Sunday morning and be baptized.”

Ivy didn't know that the preacher could be trusted. And she didn't like the idea of being up in front of the whole church. Too many eyes on her. It wasn't safe. But the offer was too tempting to pass up.

“Okay. I'll think on it.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Maybe I'll do that.”