Dead Weight (4 page)

‘Caliber?’ I asked.

‘Jesus, Pugh, get a grip. You’re not a cop, OK? You know as much now as her husband does, which is more than you should. And I know I’m talking to the hand, but you need to stay out of this. I’ll look into what you told me about Berta Harris but you have to stay out of this.’

‘Will you at least let me know what you find out about Berta?’

She sighed as she stood up. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have come over here. Yes, I’ll let you know. But only about Harris! Got it?’

‘Got it!’ I said enthusiastically as she walked out the door.

I went to the kitchen to look for something in the freezer to try to defrost for dinner.

But then I thought of Kerry’s twin sons. The same age as my girls – fifteen going on sixteen. Kerry ran her home like she did her office – a place for everything and everything in its place. I wasn’t sure if Ken and the boys – Keith and Kenneth, Jr – would be able to survive without her.

But beyond all that, she had been loved. Her boys idolized her and her husband grinned whenever he saw her. Willis sometimes does that and I know what it means. It means love. It means I know your panties have a hole in them and you threw the dirty dishes in the oven when Graham’s counselor came over, and when you scolded the girls you were really laughing inside at their ingenuity. It means I know you lied about spending that money at the mall and you know I peek at you in the shower. It means I know you forgive me for what I said to your father back in ’eighty-nine, and that first dinner you made for me wasn’t really all that bad. It means after twenty-something years of marriage, I would still follow you across the quad and try to get the nerve to talk to you in the book store. It means I love you.

Something had been going on with Kerry. Ken knew that. He’d come to Willis for help. Fat lot of good that did him – seeking advice from Mr Don’t Get Involved. Ken had said she’d been nervous, jumping at shadows, staring out the window. Looking for what? I wondered. When Trisha and I saw her she was perky to the point of manic. What was going on with her, and did it have anything to do with Berta Harris’s murder? Because now I was convinced Berta had been murdered. And I was also convinced something had been going on between Berta and Kerry. Had she and Berta Harris been involved in something together? Something illegal? Fraud? Robbery? Drugs? Kerry could have been using her real estate office to launder money, or to fence stolen property, or to make drug deals. But why? Ken was a corporate attorney who headed up his firm’s office in Austin. He commuted three days a week and played golf the other four. They couldn’t be hurting for money. Kerry was a volunteer at just about everything Black Cat Ridge had to offer, and still had time for a couple of charities in Codderville. The woman knew how to organize a day, I can tell you that. OK, had known. Jeez, it was hard to believe Kerry Killian was dead. She’d been a force to be reckoned with. Like a hurricane churning in the Gulf of Mexico.

I felt my eyes well up with tears and headed to my bedroom. Twenty minutes later I was awakened by my three daughters. For the uninitiated, let me explain the circumstances by which Willis and I have ended up with, count ’em, three daughters. I’m going to explain this in order of their appearance in our home: Megan arrived in our apartment in Houston one sunny February morning, two days after a ten-hour labor and five-degree episiotomy. She weighed eight pounds, four ounces, and was fourteen inches long. Our second daughter, Elizabeth, now called Bess, we acquired four years later when her birth parents, our best friends, Roy and Terry Lester and their two older children, were murdered in their house next door to ours. We legally adopted her about two years later. Our third daughter, Alicia, we took in last year as a foster child. We were thinking of starting adoption proceedings, but then Willis suggested we put that off for a while. When I asked him why, he said for me to check out the way our son Graham looked at her. When I finally noticed, I had to agree. It would be much less complicated for everyone if they were not legally brother and sister. So far I don’t think Alicia has a clue, or the other girls for that matter, and I’d just as soon leave it at that.

Anyway, they woke me up by jumping on the king-sized bed and all going ‘Mom!’ at the same time.

I sat up. ‘What?’ I asked in a not-very-kind voice.

Then I saw the tears in Bess’s eyes, the shock in Alicia’s and the ‘wait until I tell you this’ look in Megan’s.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Keith and Kenny’s mom got killed!’ Megan said. ‘Murdered! Strangled in her own home! Bludgeoned to death! Then hung from their second-floor balcony!’

Bess elbowed Megan. ‘That’s not what happened,’ she said, sniffing back tears. ‘Or at least, I don’t think so. That sounds like overkill.’

Then Bess and Megan looked at each and both had to cover their mouths to keep from laughing out loud. I think maybe my children have been around a little too many dead bodies in their relatively short lives.

‘God, y’all, stop it!’ Alicia said. ‘This isn’t funny!’ Being new to the family, Alicia still had appropriate feelings.

Then my door burst open again and Graham, my soon-to-graduate son, came rushing in. He saw where Alicia was sitting and moved to the other side of the bed to sit down. Not too obvious, kid.

‘I take it they told you about Keith and Ken’s mom?’ Graham asked.

‘Yes, and Luna was over earlier. So I had heard.’

‘We’ve got to do something for those boys,’ Alicia said.

‘Like what?’ Megan asked. ‘Make them cookies?’ she said, her tone sarcastic.

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘that’s a good idea. That’s what people do when there’s been a death. Make food, take it to the family . . .’

‘Did people do that when the Lesters died?’ Bess asked, speaking of her birth family.

I smiled. ‘They sure did. I think we ended up with three of those sweet potato casseroles with the marshmallows on top. They stayed in the fridge for a week before I ended up throwing them out.’

‘That sounds good,’ Graham said. ‘I could go for some marshmallows right now.’

Ignoring my son, I said to the girls, ‘I think we should start work on this right now. Let’s see what we have in the fridge and pantry, then make a grocery list, and since I’m sure Graham’s going to refuse to help us cook he can go to the grocery store and get the stuff we need. Oh, and pick up one of those rotisserie chickens so I won’t have to worry about dinner.’

With that, the girls and I jumped off the bed and headed into the kitchen.

Trisha and her girls showed up about the time Graham got back from the store, so it ended up with Trisha and me doing most of the cooking while the girls babysat/played with Trisha’s girls. Alicia, the sane one, helped with the cooking. We made a batch of brownies, and a green salad. Trisha ran to her house and brought back stuff to make a from-scratch lasagna and her famous church supper potato casserole. I stayed downwind of all of it as much as possible.

MEGAN

I have nothing against Alicia; she’s a perfectly nice girl, if not just a little creepy – all that hair last year practically covering her face. She looks better this year with the make-over me and Bess gave her, but Bess and I had this thing – it’s not like we were BFFs or anything, not since we were, like, kids, but we had a workable relationship. Sorta me and Bess against the world kinda thing. Now Alicia’s in the mix and I feel left out.

Not that I really care. They were babysitting Mrs McClure’s girls, so I took that moment to scoot into the living room and text my new BFFs, Azalea and D’Wanda, who are twins. Fraternal not identical. Azalea’s hair is longer and her feet are bigger, and D’Wanda has a mole behind her left ear. Other than that, it’s hard to tell them apart. They’re African American and cheerleaders and very popular, and they think hanging with me will help their rep. I’m not sure about that, but me hanging with them has certainly helped mine. Anyway, I texted them about Keith and Kenny’s mom getting killed. Azalea and D’Wanda were in the twin club at school with Keith and Kenny, so they knew them. D’Wanda even had a crush on Keith in sixth grade. Anyway, she thinks it was Keith.

I did my texting thing and was getting ready to go back and help with the babysitting when I got a text back. ‘UR sik. No way. Details! D.’

So I shot off details as I knew them, but before I even hit send, I was getting another text. ‘R the boys OK? Horrible! What can we do? A.’

Another difference: Azalea tends to get mushy about things, whereas D’Wanda’s like me – anything out of the ordinary in this horribly boring place is fun! Even if it is sad, ya know?

I sent a reply then headed back into the kitchen where Mom and Mrs McClure were busy baking away for Mr Killian and the twins.

‘Mom,’ I said, all sweetness and light – it fools her every time, ‘did Mrs McClure tell you about the deal we came to?’

‘Deal?’ Mom asked. ‘What deal?’

‘I’m going to babysit for her when y’all need to go do something!’ I told her, all smiles like the thought of spending ‘quality’ time with Mrs McClure’s bratty kids was somehow going to be fun.

Mom looked at Mrs McClure, who nodded her head. ‘Yes, we did, but I didn’t realize, Megan,’ she said, turning to me, ‘that you hadn’t discussed this with your mother.’

OK, Biotch with a capital bitch! ‘Mom usually doesn’t have a problem with me babysitting, especially when it’s someone we know,’ I said, not losing the smile.

My mom shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s OK with me,’ she said, ‘if it’s OK with Mrs McClure.’

‘I’m tickled to have her,’ Mrs McClure said. ‘I think Megan is very mature for her age and I know the girls just love her.’

I smiled brightly, wiggled my fingers at them and went over to where Bess and Alicia were watching Mrs McClure’s girls.

‘“Megan’s so mature!”’ Bess mimicked in a sing-song voice. “‘The girls just love her!’” Turning to the little girls playing with Barbies on the floor, Bess said, ‘Don’t you two just love old Megan here?’

The two little girls – sorry, I forget their names – looked at each other then back at Bess, and shrugged. ‘Ha!’ I said. ‘Good enough!’

Without even communicating our decision, Trisha and I told my girls to watch her girls and we were off to the Killian household together.

Once in the car, I told Trisha, ‘You keep the guys busy while I check out the house, see what I can find.’

‘I don’t know, E.J.,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘They just lost Kerry. Isn’t this kinda mean?’

‘Finding her killer is mean? I don’t think so.’ I said it, but I didn’t believe it. Rummaging through their house the night after their wife/mother was killed was an awful thing to do. But let’s face it, that wasn’t going to stop me. ‘All you have to do is talk to them, the kids. I’ll do all the heavy lifting,’ I said.

Kerry’s house was one of the nicer ones on her street. Being a real estate agent gave her first crack at the better deals, and rumor was she and Ken had gotten this two-and-a-half story, five bedroom with formals for a song. It was also on two lots backing up to the green belt. Primo property. I pulled into the driveway where the twins were shooting hoops with the basket attached to the front of the detached garage. One held the ball (I could never tell them apart) while the other took a couple of steps toward us.

‘Hey, Miz Pugh,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ I said, avoiding calling him by name. Instead I held up the dishes I was carrying. ‘We brought y’all some supper.’

‘Cool,’ the one with the ball said. He threw it into the open garage and headed for the back door. ‘Come on this way. I’m starving.’

We followed both boys into the kitchen. I’d always loved Kerry’s kitchen – huge, country-style, with black and white tile floors, whitewashed cabinets with glass doors showing how perfectly organized her kitchen was, shiny red accessories and a big Coca-Cola clock bringing the color scheme together. Ken, Sr sat at the black lacquered kitchen table, his head in his hands.

‘Dad,’ one of the boys said softly. ‘Miz Pugh’s here with some food.’

Ken, Sr dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, looking like a lost little boy, then raised his eyes to us. ‘Hey, E.J,’ he said, trying to stand. I shooed him back down. ‘Thanks for this,’ he said, his hand encompassing the dishes of food laid out on the countertops.

‘You boys sit down,’ Trisha said as she opened the cabinets to get down plates.

‘Who wants what to drink?’ I asked, going to the refrigerator.

One boy said, ‘Milk,’ while the other said, ‘Water.’ Ken, Sr didn’t answer, so I fixed him ice water as well.

We served them dinner. The boys ate ravenously as only teenaged boys can. Ken, Sr pushed his food around the plate.

Trisha and I were leaning against the sink, watching, when I caught her eye, indicating I was heading out of the room. She nodded her head and I stepped out.

Kerry’s house was beautifully decorated, but you could still tell teenaged boys lived there. In the formal dining room with its Shaker-style table and buffet, two backpacks adorned the table top while jackets rode the backs of chairs. Peeking into the living room, beautifully decorated in an eclectic style, I saw a baseball bat on a chair and a soda can leaving a ring on the coffee table.

Knowing I didn’t have much time, I left all that for a look in the master bedroom, definitely a woman’s bedroom, white on white, with lace and pillows galore. Seeing a romance novel on a side table, I went to that side of the bed first. Her table had three drawers, the top one a small drawer containing a china box with nail file, cuticle scissors, and hair clips, a newish edition of a tabloid magazine, rolled up and bound with a pink ribbon, two ballpoint pens and a small tablet stolen from a Holiday Inn.

The first large drawer beneath the small one held hand lotion, a couple of bottles of prescription medicine (Tylenol II and penicillin), and two more romance novels. The second and last drawer, deeper still, held one of those mesh bags for delicate washing filled with socks for all occasions – Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, the Fourth of July, etc., although wearing socks on the fourth in central Texas seems masochistic – some designer scarves, and underneath all that a nice-sized (and manly shaped) vibrator. My first thought was,
You go, girl
.