Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? (2 page)

When he saw her bald pussy for the first time, he got down there, examined it, and kissed her newly exposed clit.

“You look like a tropical plant!” he said. “A Venus Flytrap! But I feel a little funny, though.”

“Why?”

“Look at you. You look like a nine-year-old. I feel like a child molester!”

“Well, I can be your baby, Mr. Child Molester,” Maddie said, toying with him. “Don't make me wait all night!”

And he didn't.

Maddie and Cecil loved to laugh and they loved making love. That's what they had been doing for forty years, behind closed doors, just the two of them. No one else knew what they did together, and no one would ever know.

Maddie was ready for another forty years, and maybe she would spice it up a bit when she beat the cancer and keep her pussy shaved. Or maybe she would get a Jackrabbit vibrator and do herself in front of her man. That would be something new. He would like that, she was sure.

Fuck you, Cancer!

There was a bigger malignancy in Maddie's life than the tumor that was eating away at her breast, and Maddie knew it.

Her niece, her dead only-sister's only child, had not spoken to her in more than a year. In many ways, Ritz was dead to Maddie, too. The little, sensitive, precocious child whom Maddie and Cecil loved to pieces had turned into a self-centered, vile, insensitive, malicious bitch. Maddie hoped the time away from her family would soften Ritz, help her to realize what she was missing. But it seemed to do just the opposite.

Ritz never called. Her friend Tracee did call from time to time to check up on them. Tracee had spent a weekend at Cecil and Maddie's a few years back and had such a blast that she adopted them as her own aunt and uncle. Tracee's family
had moved from Jersey to California and she didn't really get along with them much. There was a story there, one Tracee never shared with anyone.

Tracee loved the down-home feel of the Robinsons'. She loved Aunt Maddie's mashed potatoes, whipped to perfection with just the right amount of butter and salt. She loved her sweet tea, which you only got south of the Mason-Dixon line unless you made it yourself. Tracee never understood why they never served sweet tea up north. She loved sitting on the porch after dinner in a swing chair and hearing the crickets and actually getting to see the stars in the sky, a rare sight in New York City. Being at the Robinsons' in Virginia was one of the reasons that made Tracee want to head even farther south to Florida. That felt more like her roots. While the big city, the biggest of them all— New York— had its appeal, with its opportunities, fast pace, and wall-to-wall people, the South gave you room to grow. For Tracee, who had conquered New York and made enough money to last her a lifetime, she wanted to take some time to smell the flowers, and be still, and listen to God's voice.

Tracee and Aunt Maddie often talked— just the two of them— on Saturday mornings, when Cecil would be gardening in the yard and Ritz was still in bed up in Jersey. Ritz loved to sleep, so Tracee kept Maddie and Cecil abreast of
what was happening in Ritz's life while Ritz got her beauty rest.

It was Tracee who tried to get the two to reconcile, but Maddie was firm that Ritz needed to apologize and Ritz was firm that she would never apologize.

The ancient Greeks used to wonder what would happen if an irresistible force met an immovable object. Tracee wished they had discovered the answer so she could go online and look it up. She could use the solution with Ritz and Maddie.

Maddie never told Tracee that she had cancer. She knew that news might bring Ritz running back to her, but Maddie didn't want Ritz to come back like that. She wanted Ritz to change. She wanted Ritz to see herself, to see what she had become.

Years ago, Maddie and Cecil had seen a movie called
The Picture of Dorian Gray
. It was the story of a man who sold his soul in return for eternal youth, the same way Ritz had sold her soul for Arbitron ratings.

In the movie, Dorian Gray never ages, but his painted portrait does. (Back in that day, they didn't have cameras.) Every time Dorian Gray hurts someone, his portrait ages: It grows another wrinkle, it becomes more and more grotesque and ugly, until his face in the painting is nothing more than a bloated, wrinkled mask oozing pus and blood. Dorian hides the portrait in his attic and covers it with a cloth. He cannot bear to see what he really is.

Maddie wondered if Ritz had a similar covered-up portrait in her home— a picture of herself swaddled in furs and
diamonds, but if you looked closely, the fur was teeming with lice, and the diamonds were just cheap glass. And her nose would look strange, too. And what about that nasty “butterfly rash” spreading across her face?

And did those once-pearly-white, thirty-five-thousand-dollar teeth now look brittle and stained and yellow?

Maddie also wondered if Ritz was aware that she had gained the world but lost her soul.

The soul… that was now seeping out of her life.

Maddie had to get to New York— immediately.

“Is she… is she…” Maddie couldn't get the words out as she looked at her husband.

“I don't know, Maddie,” said Cecil. “Tracee called from the hospital. No one can get in to see her. We are her next of kin. We have to leave now.”

Maddie gave him a puzzling look.

“I know you're not in any shape to leave now,” he said. “But, Maddie, Ritzy needs us. We're all she's got.”

Madalyn Robinson dug down deep and found some strength that she didn't even know she had. She went to the bathroom, took some antinausea medicine her doctor prescribed for her, took a quick shower, put on her brand-new wig and some makeup, and was waiting in the living room for Cecil within an hour.

“I'm ready, baby,” she said. “I'm ready.”

They could have gotten a flight out of Richmond that would put them in New York by the morning, but then they would have to catch a cab or rent a car. Cecil hated being at
someone else's mercy. While everyone in New York seemed to catch cabs and ride the subway, Cecil preferred to get around in his own car. He didn't care how much it cost to park in the city. Besides, they also didn't know when they would be returning. Would they have to make funeral arrangements and go through settling Ritz's affairs and then head back to Virginia, or would they have to stay in New York for the long haul to help nurse their only niece back to health?

Madalyn also didn't know how the flight would be for her. She hadn't had a calm stomach since she started chemotherapy. In the car, they could stop at will. So Cecil threw a few things in a couple of bags for them, locked up the house, put on the alarm, left a note for Mrs. Baker next door to retrieve their papers every day, and then they hit the road.

“Maddie, no matter what we find when we get to New York, we can handle it,” said Cecil. “You can do this. We've been through so much.”

“Yes, baby. I know. I just pray that Ritz is alive. We should have never let all that time pass between us. Nothing should have kept us from speaking. Life is too short to be small.”

Cecil let silence hang in the air. He didn't want to contemplate the brevity of life, not with his Maddie fighting for hers and now his niece, the girl he raised as his own daughter, lying in a hospital room, perhaps dead. It was almost too much for him. Cecil was never big on emotions. He was an old-school man. He provided for his family and was the pillar of the household. He was a God-fearing man of little words.

But the events of the past year— from not hearing from or
seeing Ritz to Maddie's cancer to now the shooting and possible death of Ritz— was so much more than Cecil thought he could handle. He was a strong man. He had to be as the oldest boy in a family of twelve, growing up on a farm in South Carolina. He picked cotton. He milked cows. He hauled hay. Back then, children were treated more like slaves. He never talked back to his parents, because the consequences were too great. They didn't have child welfare agencies back then, and if they did, no one was going out to the sticks and backwoods of Columbia to check on some Negro kids. And there wasn't a phone to call 911. So Cecil learned to work hard, keep his head down, and not expect too much.

He met Madalyn, this elegant, beautiful woman who gave him hope that he could have more out of this life. He left his life in South Carolina and embarked on a new adventure. He still worked hard and kept his head down, but with Madalyn he got to play. Madalyn loved to travel. Cecil had never been north of North Carolina or west of Tennessee until he met Madalyn. Together they went to Vegas, all along the strip. They went to Los Angeles and Arizona. He saw the Painted Desert and the Grand Canyon. Madalyn loved the islands, which Cecil grew to appreciate. Having worked in the hot sun most of his childhood, the idea of sitting in the hot sun didn't appeal to him much. But doing things with Madalyn made it all right. He climbed Dunn's River Falls, got on Jet Skis, and once even took a helicopter ride.

“Life is for living!” Madalyn would say. “So let's live, baby. Let's live!”

To watch her now, slowed down by sickness, broke Cecil's heart. And when her sister Gina died and little Ritz came to live with them, it gave him another source of fulfillment. He knew Madalyn could never have children and he married her anyway. He told her he grew up with enough children that the idea of fatherhood was kind of beaten out of him. But that wasn't exactly true. He loved Madalyn enough to sacrifice his desire to be a father. And while the sadness that brought Ritz to their home could not be overlooked, the joy little Ritz gave them more than made up for it. Cecil thought Madalyn was a bundle of energy. Ritz just about wore him out— but in the best way possible.

As Cecil drove up I-95, he looked over at Maddie, who was napping, with her head on a pillow against the window, and he wondered if either of his girls would ever be back to their old form. He hoped so.

Detective Tom Pelov grabbed Tracee gently by the arm and led her to a waiting area in an out-of-the-way part of the hospital. Pelov had investigated more than five homicides in the last six months out of this hospital and knew every nook and cranny in it. He motioned for Chas to follow.

Tracee was on the brink of hysterics and couldn't hold herself together.

“Is she… is she…” Tracee managed between shrieks of tears. “Is she dead?!”

“Please, ma'am. Please calm down,” said Detective Pelov. “If we are going to find out who did this to your friend, I need you to be calm and clearheaded. I need to ask you some questions.”

“Don't tell me to calm down! My friend has been shot! No one is giving us any answers! We can't get in to see her. And
now you— Detective
Homicide
— want to ask us some questions? I think you better give us some answers first! Is Ritz dead?!”

“No.…”

“Good!”

“But… she's not out of the woods, either,” said Detective Pelov. “I'm on this case because we believe that the goal of the shooter was to kill Miss Harper. We believe that person is still out there and that they will try again. I need you to help me. Now, I'm sorry, what are your names and what is your relationship to the victim?”

“The
victim's
name is Ritz Harper!” Tracee said, sniffling. She was sick and tired of all of the Jane Doe, victim stuff. “I am Tracee Remington, her best friend. I just came in town from Florida. Ritz was supposed to pick me up at the airport. Then I call got a call from Chas here at the hospital. I have no idea what's going on or who would do something like this to Ritz.”

Chas was standing next to Tracee with his arms folded. He was remarkably calm and collected. He didn't want to talk to the detective. He didn't want to be at the hospital. He had business to attend to, but he couldn't look like he had someplace to go.

Detective Pelov had flipped open his notepad and was jotting down notes as Tracee spoke. He didn't look up when he asked Chas what his relationship was to the victim.

“I'm the executive producer of Ritz's radio show,” Chas said.

“Do you know who may have shot Miss Harper?”

“I can't say that I do. You know her show is very provocative. She gets threats all the time. She's made a lot of folks mad.”

“Who threatened her and when?”

“Wow,” said Chas, looking up in the air as if he were counting those who had threatened Ritz. “That list is long. But I don't think any of them were serious.”

“Obviously, at least one was serious. We need to follow all of the leads. Now, where were you when Miss Harper was shot?”

“I was in the studio, finishing up some business.”

“Is that your normal routine?”

Chas hesitated. His weekday routine was to walk Ritz to her car. The two would often hang out after the show and plan the next day or the next week.

“Um, yeah. I sometimes stay behind and make some phone calls, books some guests, things like that.”

“Were you alone?”

“No, our intern, Jamie, was there,” Chas said.

“Okay. I need the names and contact numbers of everyone who works on the show. I also need some copies of the last week of shows. Perhaps there will be some clues in that. And if you can give me the contact information for the guests from the last couple of weeks, that would be very helpful, too.”