Bitch Factor (25 page)

Inside, with the door closed behind her, she flipped the light switch and scanned the kitchen. A cockroach scurried across the table, apparently startled from feasting on a partially eaten TV dinner. Next to the leftover meal was a bakery pumpkin pie and a new one-pound can of Folgers coffee. Despite the room’s coolness, the pie was moldy.

Dixie strode through the house with her penlight to make sure no one was sleeping in a back room. It occurred to her that Sikes might be staying right here. Stupid, but possible. The .45 nestled in a holster under the overall, not particularly accessible; but a hell of a big plumber’s wrench was tucked in her hip pocket. Her search revealed four empty rooms, with nothing more menacing than another Texas cockroach. Yet the feeling persisted that someone was watching.

Finding a wall phone in the kitchen and a Princess model
in the bedroom, she made sure they rang on the same line, then proceeded to install the tap.

The front doorbell buzzed.

Dixie froze, telephone wires dangling from her hand. A minute later, another buzz, followed by an impatient knock.

“Hermie! You in there, girl?” A woman’s voice.

Dixie pocketed the phone tap. Hefting the plumber’s wrench, she turned on the porch light, then opened the front door.

The woman outside stood about five feet tall, shorter even than Dixie, and wore an animal-print jumpsuit. She was plump, pretty, thirtyish, and curious as hell.

“Who’re you? Where’s Hermie?”

“Plumber, ma’am. Nobody’s here but me.”

“Well. How’d you get in if ain’t nobody here?”

“Landlord sent me over to fix a leak. One leaky faucet can make a whopping difference in a water bill.” Dixie drawled each word like pouring molasses.

“Ain’t it just like that tight bastard to worry about a water bill when Hermie’s been needing a new heater ever since winter broke? Anyway, I was hoping Hermie was home.” The woman tried to look past Dixie, into the living room. “Listen, maybe I should come on in while you work. You know, a witness in case anything goes missing from the house?”

“I’m bonded, ma’am. Afraid I can’t let you in, though. Shouldn’t have opened the door, but you looked like an observant neighbor who might be worried about Ms. Valdez’s property. Wanted to set your mind at ease, so to speak.”

“Oh, well… thank you. Guess I do try to look out for my neighbors when they’re not at home.”

“Don’t suppose you saw anyone else prowling around this house, did you? Landlord’s concerned about burglars. Word gets around when a house sits empty.”

“Hermie’s coming home soon, ain’t she?”

“Don’t know anything about that, ma’am. You see anyone lurking around the property here?”

“Nobody but Hermie’s no-good boyfriend, Alton Sikes.
Saw him slinking across the backyard last night. Don’t know what she sees in that good-for-nothing.”

“What was he doing in the backyard, do you think?”

“Lord knows. Looking for Hermie, I guess.”

“You see where he went?”

“Why you so interested in Alton Sikes?”

“Sikes is not a resident here. The landlord would be upset to find him living on the premises while Ms. Valdez is away.”

“Well, no, I don’t think Alton’s staying here. I’d’ve seen him coming and going, my house being right next door.”

“You have any idea where Mr. Sikes lives?”

“On the street, you ask me. Hasn’t got a pot to piss in.”

“You’d think Ms. Valdez’d worry, him living on the street.”

“Listen, Hermie’d do anything for that man, but she ain’t stupid. Alton’s a junkie. If he had a key to this house, he’d hock everything Hermie owned, and be as gone as a bee-stung cat. Wouldn’t be no good to her then, if you catch my drift. She only lets him stay over when she’s here to watch her things.” The woman paused, and a secretive smile tugged at her lips. “Anyhow, I hear the cops want Alton again. Maybe he’s back in jail, where he belongs.”

Dixie gently coaxed the woman into leaving, then finished the phone tap. She found a place in the hall where a UHF transmitter would pick up sounds from any of the four rooms. Later, after the transmitter did its job, she’d have to come back and retrieve it. Otherwise, she was out eight hundred bucks.

Before driving to Amy’s, Dixie stepped into the back of the van to shed her overall and vest. She unstrapped the .45, placed it in a compartment marked “sump pump,” and straightened her tan sweatshirt. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, she fluffed her hair, applied lipstick, grimaced, and wiped it off again. She felt as ready as she’d ever be for a visit with her sister’s family.

Fog drifted across the road, diffusing Dixie’s headlights. She exited the freeway, turned toward the inner-loop community
of West University, and parked on the street in front of Amy and Carl’s spacious home. Their gaslight boasted a hand-painted sign that said THE ROYALS. She refluffed her hair in the rearview mirror, thought again about applying lipstick, decided the hell with it, and hurried up the walk.

Amy was all smiles, warm cushiony hugs, and White Diamonds perfume. Dixie was surprised not to see Ryan bounding ahead of her.

“Ryan has the flu,” Amy explained, tucking the tag on Dixie’s sweatshirt out of sight as she steered her toward the dining room. “Started coughing this afternoon, and now he’s in bed with a fever.”

“Have you called the doctor? Does he need anything, some aspirin or something?”

“The doctor sent a prescription, and Ryan’s comfortable. That’s about all we can do.”

“Well, darn.” Dixie thought of Ellie Keyes, her chapped nose and queasy tummy. Kids seemed so pitiful when they were ill. Dixie felt helpless around them. The flu wasn’t an enemy you could drag away in handcuffs. “How long will he be sick?”

“Until it runs its course. The doctor said it’s rather virulent, especially with the bronchitis. The medicine will help a lot, and of course the usual, plenty of rest, plenty of fluids.”

“Then it’s not really serious.” She knew Ryan would hate being bedridden.

Amy hesitated, a frown puckering her brow.

“It
is
a serious flu strain. There’ve been three deaths reported, from dehydration and pneumonia, but, Dixie, two of those were street people without anyone to care for them, and the third was an elderly woman.”

“People don’t
die
from the flu.”

“Now, don’t worry about Ryan. We caught it early. He has the best of care. He’ll be fine.”

Dixie insisted on peeking in on her nephew. Sleeping, he looked thin and vulnerable, his blond hair tousled, his cheeks pink with fever. Dixie shook the prescription bottle; Amoxil, same as Ellie’s. Enough fat pink tablets to make him well, she
hoped. Plenty of tissues. A full water pitcher. She had to grin when she saw the Cessna controls beside his water glass. The plane sat in the middle of the floor, where he’d apparently been taxiing it back and forth. As soon as he was well enough to go outside, she’d take him flying.

At dinner, Dixie put everything but family out of her mind, soaked up every warm, fuzzy feeling they threw at her, and even managed to avoid arguing with Carl. The food was not as good as Dann’s Piccata, but far better than carryout. They opened gifts—ballet tickets for Amy, Rockets tickets for Carl. Her gift from Ryan was a stuffed talking bear, and from Carl and Amy a yellow silk pants suit.

“Since you quit working downtown, you never dress up,” Amy explained. “Yellow is great on you.”

When Dixie finally made going-home noises, Amy tried to talk her into staying over.

“Ryan will be awake in the morning, probably feeling well enough to stay up awhile. Dixie, we see so little of you these days.”

“You mean since I’m not on TV every other week explaining to the press why we let another burglar/killer/rapist go free.”

“You could do so well in your own practice,” Amy said, bringing up a recurring argument. “I don’t understand why you won’t consider it.”

“If you’re tired of criminal law,” Carl put in, “you could specialize in business law or civil litigation. What I’m saying, I know people who’d put up money to get you started.”

Dixie didn’t want to explain once again why business law bored the hell out of her and most civil suits were a blight on the system.

“Maybe someday.” Waving that glimmer of hope usually placated them both.

“You will stay over, won’t you?” Amy coaxed, when Carl picked up the TV remote.

Dixie thought she’d skirted that suggestion. She didn’t want to mention having to work. Amy would want details,
which she couldn’t provide, and would worry all night, details or not.

“Amy, you know how much I wanted to see Ryan, but I didn’t leave any food or water out for Mud, and I’ve been gone most of the day.” No lies in that statement, and Amy liked Mud.

“Well, give Ryan a call in the morning. He’ll be disappointed he missed you.”

When Dixie looked in on her nephew one last time before leaving, the high color had faded from his cheeks. The boy looked pale and sweaty, but he was sleeping soundly, despite the stuffy nose and occasional cough. She kissed him, smoothed his silky, tangled hair, and left feeling totally useless.

The Valdez house stood dark and silent when Dixie cruised past, no sounds transmitting from inside, Toyota parked in the same spot. She checked the phone tap: nothing. Either Rashly hadn’t released Valdez yet or the woman hadn’t gone straight home. Dixie had hoped to finish the job tonight, finger Sikes and be done with it. Instead, she’d have to stay on hold until she heard from Rash.

Her stop at the Green Hornet Saloon fared no better. Augie was still out sick. Dixie didn’t see anyone with a butterfly tattoo. She left the bar without finishing her beer.

At home, she parked the van in the barn alongside the Mustang. The outdoor floodlights brightened the porch and yard under the old oaks. Parker Dann sat in the antique rocking chair that had belonged to Barney, throwing a red Frisbee so Mud could lumber happily after it and bring it back.

Dixie’s steps slowed as she approached the porch, listening to the familiar creak of the rocker, watching the red disk sail through the night sky and Mud’s joyful leap to catch it. A curl of smoke rising from the chimney carried the smell of roasted pecan shells. Another homey scene, which gave Dixie another peculiar feeling.

Recalling the awkward moment in the kitchen earlier, she
felt a surge of expectation, and paused to collect herself. She was no stranger to physical attraction. Her longest, most comfortable relationship had been with a saxophone player, a real “stud muffin,” according to both Belle and Amy. When his big break came, Dixie and the sax player had said good-bye with the same ease they’d felt dating each other. She was happy in her independence, and she certainly didn’t need the complication of falling for a man who might be headed for prison. Nor could she afford to lose her objectivity. Dann was still a suspect in Betsy’s death.

By the time she walked into the light, he stood lounging against the porch support. He had shaved and changed clothes. Instead of a jacket, he wore two shirts, blue plaid flannel over a blue chambray work shirt. His hair spilled rakishly forward, as if he’d been running a hand through it.

She couldn’t deny a flash of tenderness when she drew close enough to see the worry in his eyes, nor a ripple of lust that made her mouth go suddenly dry. Her gaze fell to the sensual curve of his lips, the broad chest, the hard line of his freshly laundered jeans. She wiped her damp palms across the seat of her own jeans. She couldn’t deny the feelings, maybe, but she could damn well resist them.

Mud trotted down the walk to nuzzle her hand, then padded quickly back to Dann’s side. Where he belonged, she reminded herself. Where she’d told him he better by-god stay.

He kept glancing up, as if taking a cue from Dann on how to act. The cussed dog was forgetting who rescued him from mongrel heaven and raised him from a stumble-footed pup nobody would look at twice. She wanted to smack him on the nose. On the other hand, anybody Mud liked couldn’t be all bad.

“’You’re home, then,” Dann said as she climbed the steps. “Is it over?”

An electric drill and bit case lay on the porch.

“Where did that come from?” Dixie said.

“Found the tools going to rust in the utility room. Thought I’d fix that wobbly porch rail, but…” He shrugged.

Dixie saw the toolbox and an oily rag he’d used to clean the bits. The stripped-out hole had been filled with wood putty, and a new screw gleamed in the porch light. But the rail felt just as wobbly when she pushed against it.

“Tomorrow, I’ll replace the strut and look around for some touch-up paint.” He scooped the drill and bits into the toolbox.

Dixie didn’t think replacing the strut would help, but at least it’d keep him busy and out of trouble. When she opened the door, the smell of apples and cinnamon drifted on warm air.

“You baked, too?”

“Just a pie.” He carried the tools to the utility room and took her overalls and vest to hang in the kitchen closet. She saw him glance in the pocket where they’d tucked the ammunition.

“No, I didn’t have to shoot anybody tonight,” Dixie said.

He looked at her. “Sorry. Where I’m from, taking a gun out means you expect to use it. Hunting deer, elk, moose. Never people.” He hung up the vest and shut the closet door. “Ever shot anybody?”

“No. That coffee looks good.”

The dripolator gurgled and sputtered. Dann must have started it brewing the instant her headlights hit the gate.

He filled two mugs, then splashed a few ounces in the bottom of a cereal bowl, cut it with water, and put it down for Mud.

“You’re giving him coffee?” Dixie said.

“A little won’t hurt him. Who else am I supposed to drink with when you’re not here?” He set two slabs of pie on the table. “Hope you didn’t have dessert.”

Actually, she had. Fruitcake off the grocery-store shelf, which she’d nibbled to be polite.

“You made this from those apples we bought?”

“I only know one recipe for apple pie that’s
not
made from apples, and it tastes like soggy crackers.”

“A frozen pie would’ve been easier.”

“You haven’t even tasted it yet.”