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“I’m not sure what you got me into the middle of, Miss Kelly, but the tamale part is good. And I feel okay about Michael and Alex. Where are the police on this?”

I told him about bloodstains and fingerprints and that it would be a while before the lab results were in, but I’d let him know.

****

The neighborhood association meeting the next night was noisy and crowded. There were almost as many people as there had been when the neighborhood was scared out of its wits by a serial killer. I noticed that Jerry Southerland was there, apparently with her husband, sitting next to Claire. I gave Claire a hug and welcomed Jerry, who introduced me to Jake.

“Looks like we’re about to become part of your neighborhood,” he said. “Jerry isn’t happy unless she’s redoing a house. I like to keep her busy.”

Everything about him, from clothes to watch to haircut, spoke money, so I guessed he could afford for Jerry to redo old houses, but I resented his patronizing attitude—treating her as though she were the “little lady” to be kept amused.

I managed a smile. “We’ll be glad to have you. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

When I came back to Mike, he said, “What’s the tight little smile about?”

“Tell you later.” I looked around and noticed that Tom
Lattimore
was conspicuously absent from the meeting.

Jim Price called the meeting to order and quickly outlined why we were there. Then he asked for those who wanted to speak to line up at a microphone in the center aisle. Christian was the first to speak, and he had the most important information. He had read the zoning variance application, which indicated, as far as his research could tell, Tom
Lattimore’s
investors were not from Fort Worth. Christian emphasized that meant that they were interested in money and not in our neighborhood. Then he reported that the petitions
Lattimore
had submitted contained 131 signatures, a fairly insignificant amount in a neighborhood the size of ours. About one-third of them proved to come from outside the official boundaries of the neighborhood.

When Christian sat down, Jim Price spoke to report that without an organized effort, the neighborhood association had 457 signatures. A door-to-door campaign was planned, and there would be petitions and volunteer sheets at the table in the back of the room at the end of the meeting.

Several neighborhood people spoke, among them Keisha, who repeated her plea for the neighborhood pretty much as she had given it in the office earlier. Otto Martin had been persuaded—perhaps with Mom’s help—not to talk, partly because the idea of him living behind his store was iffy and mostly because no one wanted him threatening again to kill Tom
Lattimore
. He had walked to the meeting, since it wasn’t far from his store, but he now sat next to Mom, which caused Mike to poke me in the ribs and grin knowingly.

The meeting went on predictably. No one spoke for the development plan until to my surprise and dismay Jake Southerland stood at the mike. “I’m not a resident of Fairmount,” he began, “but my wife is trying to convince me to buy a house here to redo. After listening to this discussion tonight, I can tell you that I will never invest money in this neighborhood. I’m a businessman, a developer, and I make my living building new shopping facilities. Leaving old buildings untouched and saving mom-and-pop stores doesn’t make money—building new big business that will draw customers does. You people need to wake up to the twenty-first century.”

He sat down to stunned silence. Fairmount people were too polite to boo, but I sure was tempted. Mike simply squeezed my hand.

After an awkward silence, Jim asked if anyone else wanted to speak in favor of the development. Dead silence. So he covered a few other routine business matters—a treasury report, the selection of a couple of new block captains—Claire volunteered to my great delight, while Mike held my hand down tight to keep me from jumping up—and we needed a new monitor for the neighborhood e-newsletter. I grabbed my hand from Mike and raised my hand. When he frowned at me, I said, “Piece of cake. Not hard to do. Doesn’t take a lot of time.”

Mike shook his head.

We hurried home after the meeting, knowing we had kept Theresa and Joe out far past their usual bedtime. Instead of finding them pacing the floor anxious to go home, we found Bella’s car parked in front of the house and Joe leaning in the driver’s window talking to her. When she saw us turn into the driveway, she pulled away so fast that Joe was in serious danger of being dragged. Fortunately, he had good reflexes and jumped back in time.

He stood staring after the car for a minute then met us in the driveway. “Little bitch,” he muttered. “Sorry, Miss Kelly. I apologize. But she nearly dragged me. Didn’t give me no warning she was going to pull out like that.”

“You okay?” Mike asked. “We can put out a warrant if she hurt you.”

“Nah, I’m just mad. I went out to try to talk some sense into her, but I don’t think she’s the listening kind. Asked her why she was doing this to perfectly good people and she said, ‘There ain’t perfectly good people in this world.’ So I told her oh yeah, there are and you two are them. I tell you one thing, she’s not doubled over with grief. We talked about Rosalinda a bit. Bella didn’t like her much. Rosalinda was the pretty one, the one who got good grades, the one who snagged a boyfriend with money—though I don’t think Sonny Adams was much of a catch.”

“So why kill Sonny Adams?” I asked. “And why stalk me?”

Mike looked startled. “She hasn’t been charged. Neither has her brother.”

“Partly because no one could find her. Tonight’s the first time she’s shown up since Adams was killed. She did it,” I said and sailed into the house leaving the two of them on the sidewalk. Theresa was at the dining table, taking notes out of a textbook. “Hi, Miss Kelly. I don’t think I’ll ever understand economics. To me it’s simple: you earn money, you pay your bills, and you put some in the bank. But that’s sure not the way governments do it.”

“So I’ve noticed,” I said.

Theresa sighed and closed the book. “Girls were angels. Joe read to them so I could study, and they went right to sleep…in your bed, I’m afraid. Where’s Joe? He said he was going out for fresh air. If he’s out there smoking….”

“He and Mike are just chatting.”

“I bet,” she said suspiciously. “That girl still following you?”

“Yep. She was outside tonight. That’s really why Joe went out.”

Theresa sighed. “Puts himself in danger all the time for others. He’s got a knife, but….”

Alarmed, I said, “He mustn’t carry a knife, Theresa. It violates his probation.”

“Some of his former buddies don’t see it that way. They might jump him some night. We’re both aware of that. He’s not carrying a gun, at least.”

I wasn’t the only one living with fear.

Chapter Twelve

The next day when I picked Mike up from the substation at noon, he announced we were lunching at the Grill and then going gun shopping. I balked—I had work to do, I couldn’t be out of the office that long, I had to pick up the girls.

“If you don’t stop babbling, I’ll drive the car. There’s a good gun shop out on Old Highway 80.”

“Is it a pawn shop?”

Large sigh. “No, Kelly. They sell guns, new and used. We’ll get you a new one.”

Right. I don’t want a used one. Who knows whom it might have killed in its previous existence?

The shop was innocuous enough with a small sign saying, “Hank’s Guns and Pistol Range.”

Pistol range? Did I have to shoot the blasted thing today? I wasn’t up to it. I needed time to prepare.

“Kelly, let me do the talking please.”

I bristled. Mike knew I didn’t like being treated like the female idiot in the crowd. I’m not even blonde for pity’s sake.

He introduced me to Hank. I had expected big muscles, tough guy type, tattoos, maybe a cigarette hanging out of his mouth ala Humphrey Bogart. Instead a perfectly ordinary man, slightly on the small side, wearing spectacles and looking anything but threatening, shook my hand firmly and said how nice it was to meet me. I returned the greeting, sort of under my breath.

Mike explained I needed some protection, nothing big, something easy for my purse. A handgun, he said, not a semi-automatic.

Hank had just the thing. He disappeared and came back with a small box. Inside, wrapped in tissue like fine jewelry was a small gun, maybe the length of my hand. Hank put it in his palm and hefted it. “Nice weight. Not too heavy, not too lightweight. Here, try.” And he gave it to Mike. “Smith & Wesson.”

I wanted to scream, “Wait a minute! This is for me!”

Mike moved it around in his hand, juggled it to tell the weight, and said, “Here, Kelly. Just hold it.”

I expected my hand to drop under the weight, but it didn’t. The gun was light, maybe a pound. And I guess it was what I’d heard on detective shows as snub-nosed—the barrel (I assumed that was what it was) was short, just over an inch. But still, I held it awkwardly.

Mike took my hand, rearranged the gun so it lay in my palm, and then showed me how to turn my hand up and pull the trigger. “Don’t pull it,” he said. “You don’t know if this gun is loaded or not.”

Surely he trusted Hank not to hand me a loaded pistol. That would be disaster for everyone.

Hank nodded. “It’s not loaded. I assure you of that. But you still have to check for yourself.” He showed me how to open what I would later learn was the chamber and roll the cylinders to make sure all were empty.

Mike carefully positioned it in my hand and said, “Aim it. Not at Hank, even though you know it’s empty. Never point a gun at a person unless you mean to shoot him or her.” He showed me how to hold both hands straight out in front of me at chest level. “What are you aiming at?”

“That poster on the wall, the picture of the big game hunter.” I hate big game hunters.

“You’re probably going to be three feet to the right of it. That’s why you need target practice. When are the concealed handgun license courses, Hank?”

“Every Saturday, nine o’clock.”

“Sign her up. She’ll be here, maybe next week if she’s a quick learner.”

I started to protest. How did he know I didn’t have client appointments or classes for the girls or…that was it. “Maggie has a soccer game Saturday morning. Ten o’clock. And you can’t drive.”

“Keisha or Claire will take her. You’ll be here if I have to come with you.” He turned away from me. “Hank, okay if we go do a little target practice now?”

“Sure thing. Ear muffs are out there.”

Mike showed me how to load the thing. The .38 caliber bullets were amazingly small—about as long as the first joint of my thumb and tiny around. “This can hurt someone?”

“This can kill someone,” he said firmly. “That’s why you take it very seriously. And you never shoot without meaning to kill. Don’t aim for the legs or something like that because you might not stop the person. Besides the trunk of the body is the easiest target.”

I can’t do this. Yes, I can. I promised.

Mike wasn’t through with his instructions and demonstrations. He told me to spread my legs until my feet were under my shoulders, bend my knees slightly, and use both hands on the gun, although I’d squeeze the trigger with my right index figure. It took me so long to figure out the pose that I’d have to ask any threatening opponent to please stand still for a moment while I assumed the stance.

“And, Kelly, keep your eyes open when you shoot. Don’t shut them. Lots of women are tempted to do that.”

It was all way too complicated. “What if I don’t have time to remember all those instructions?”

“Just shoot,” he said.

We put on earmuffs, and I found myself shooting at the outline of a man, with a bull’s eye where his heart should be. Somehow that was a lot different than shooting at a real person, and after a few shots that went wild, then a few that hit other parts of the target, I got in a head shot and one close to the heart. Darn! I was good at this, and, to my dismay, I began to enjoy it. In fact, I used up all the ammunition Hank had sent us with—practice bullets, though I didn’t know it at the time. It might have diminished my sense of achievement. Anyway, I was slightly disappointed when Mike called it quits.

“We’ll practice every day this week,” he said. “You should be ready for the class on Saturday.”

“Every day?”

“Yep, every day.”

“How’d she do?” Hank asked.

“Like a pro,” Mike said. “She’s going to be good.”

I murmured something about beginner’s luck and reminded myself that if I ever did have to shoot at a living person, it would be a lot different. I still didn’t think I could do it. We paid an exorbitant amount for this small gun and left with barely time to get the girls. When they asked where we’d been, I said, “Mike and I did some shopping,” and dared him, with a long look, to be more specific. The girls were not to know about our purchase.

****

Keisha asked about my afternoon the next morning and I told her the truth but emphasized I didn’t want the girls to know about it. “Those girls figure out more than you know,” she retorted. When I told her about my daylong session Saturday and Maggie’s game, she immediately said she and José would take her. “José used to play soccer. He can give her some pointers.”

I wasn’t at all sure that was what Maggie would want.

Meanwhile, I told her I’d be at the range every afternoon, per Mike’s orders, and she laughed.

Thanks for your support, Keisha.

Joe called to report he was off for the day and would be trying to catch up with Bella.

“The police haven’t found her, Joe. I don’t know how you can.”

“She’s not following you?”

“No, not since the other night. I don’t know why she turned up outside our house last night, but I suspect she knows they found a bloody butcher knife at her mom’s house and they want to fingerprint her and Ben.”

“I bet I can find her,” he said, and I decided there were some things it was better not to ask Joe about.

Sure enough he reported that night he’d found her and Ben, hiding out in an abandoned building, apparently one that several homeless kids stayed in. He wouldn’t tell me more—“I can’t betray a trust,” he said. “She says she didn’t kill Sonny and neither did Ben. She didn’t much like him, but as she put it ‘He wasn’t worth killing—not over Rosalinda.’” He paused a minute and said, “She did tell me Rosalinda was pregnant. She hadn’t told anyone yet except Bella. I gathered she kind of lorded it over Bella with how good Sonny was going to be to her and her child.”

That led my mind on a whole different train of thought—perhaps Sonny had almost staged that accident so he could get rid of Rosalinda. Gruesome thought—and it made me angry all over again. To think Mike might have been killed because that scum—excuse me, don’t talk ill of the dead—wanted to dump a pregnant girlfriend. Surely not. How could he be sure she’d be killed—or at least lose the baby—and he wouldn’t be hurt? But back to Bella and Ben.

“If they’re innocent, why don’t they come forward and let themselves be fingerprinted?”

“If they’re innocent, and it’s a big if, they still don’t trust police. Call them ‘the man.’ She asked me if I knew anything about a big development on Magnolia Avenue. Told her I don’t.”

“I do, Joe. I’m opposed to it.”

“She said Sonny Adams was mixed up in that and that’s probably why he got killed.”

How would she know that? And what did that have to do with her stalking me?

“If she didn’t like Rosalinda or Sonny either one, why stalk me?”

“I haven’t figured that out. I asked her, and that’s when she looked scared, said she couldn’t talk to me anymore.”

We talked a bit more, neither of us getting anywhere, and then said good night. I was totally confused.

I tried to repeat the conversation to Mike, but as I did it made even less sense.

“The good thing, Kelly, is that you don’t have to figure it out. It’s police business.”

How many times have I heard that before?
“I don’t have to figure it out, but I have to be prepared to shoot someone to protect myself, my girls, you? That’s even more confusing. Of course I have to figure it out.”

“Mom, you’re not going to shoot anyone, are you?” Em had come quietly into the room and now stood in front of me, looking very solemn.

I swept her into my arms. “Of course not, darling. Mike and I were having a hypothetical conversation.”

“What’s hypo-et-
ical
?”

“Hypothetical,” Maggie said calmly, coming up behind her sister. “It means it’s not really going to happen.”

“I don’t want Mommy to shoot anyone.”

Neither does Mommy
, I thought
.

I tossed and turned that night, and I know I disturbed Mike, who found it hard enough to find a comfortable position where his hip didn’t hurt him. Finally I went into the living room and curled up on the couch. It wasn’t as comfortable as curling up next to Mike.

I guess it was three in the morning when Mike, using his cane, came into the living room and sat on the edge of the couch.

“Can’t sleep,” I muttered into my pillow.

“Because you’re trying too hard to figure all this out.”

“And you’re not?” I thought he should at least be as puzzled as I was. “Aren’t you worried?”

“Yeah, I am. Mostly about you.” He stroked my hair. “I’ll talk it all out with Conroy tomorrow, though you know what he’ll say about Joe being involved.”

“Don’t say anything about how or where Joe found Bella. I wish you didn’t have to tell him about Joe at all. Joe doesn’t want to be a snitch, and Theresa says there’s always a chance someone will retaliate for his having gone over to, oh I don’t know, the other side.”

“What other side?” Mike was grinning. I could see his face in the reflection from the streetlight.

“The law-abiding side.”

“I suppose he’s right. I’ll work it out with him to keep Joe out of it.”

“And I’ll call Tom
Lattimore
tomorrow, see if I can find anything out.”

“Kelly, wait till next week to do that.”

I sat up. “Why?”

“‘Cause you’ll have a gun then. Come on back to bed.”

I overslept, the girls were late to school, Mike was late to his desk, and Keisha gave me a skeptical look.

****

Mike wasn’t fooling. We went to the practice range every day for two hours or more. He made me take apart that gun, load it and reload it more times than I care to remember. He moved targets closer to me, than farther away. He narrowed the range of the target until I could put five out of five bullets within quite a small circle and at a fairly distant range. And I did it repeatedly. He beamed like a proud father.

Friday, as we left the range, he said, “I think you’re ready. All those practices I made you do are what they’ll ask you to do in the exam.”

“Exam? I thought it was just…well, you know…they’d talk a lot and I’d sign my life away if I shot somebody and that was it.”

“Nope. It’s a test. You have to demonstrate that you can shoot.”

Saturday wasn’t nearly as long a day as I expected. The class began with lectures—about safety, about where you could and couldn’t carry a concealed handgun. The State of Texas has a thick book of regulations—no way could I remember all of them, but I think I got the basics. There was a quiz, and apparently I passed, because Hank didn’t pull me out of the class.

Hank showed some purses that had built-in sleeve-like things so you didn’t have to dig in your purse to find your gun. “Excuse me, would you stand right there? Don’t shoot me yet, because I’m still looking for my gun.” Since I dig in my purse all the time for my keys, the purse wasn’t a bad idea—but it was expensive, and I still didn’t think I was ever going to use that gun. There were practice sessions on cleaning a gun, loading it, unloading it,
etc.
Over half the people in the class of about twelve looked to be thoroughly familiar with guns and fairly bored with this part. We also had to fill out endless forms about our background, occupation, all that stuff. I presume they do a background check on everyone who applies for a CHL.

Trouble in a Big Box (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) (12 page)

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