Rubbed Out (11 page)

T
he Dewitt police arrived before I had time to finish my cigarette. Paul and I got out of the Explorer to greet them. Paul did all the talking. We stayed outside while they went in. They didn't look too steady when they came out.

They secured the scene and called the Criminal Investigative Division, who rolled in within ten minutes of the call. An Officer Profit took down my initial statement while waiting for the CID unit to show up. I told him about the front door to Wilcox's house being opened and about why I had walked in. I told him about why Wilcox had hired me, I told him about the trip down to New York, about finding Janet Wilcox, and about my concern at not being able to contact Walter Wilcox.

Profit looked up from his writing. “Because you thought he was passed out?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“He'd been drinking a lot?”

“Enough the last couple of times I saw him.”

“He seemed nervous to you? Scared?”

“Nervous. Mostly nervous.”

“Did you have a feeling why that was?”

“I put it down to being anxious about finding his wife. In retrospect, I was wrong.”

“So he never said anything about people threatening him?”

I shook my head. “Not to me.”

“And you found his wife?”

“She's staying with a guy called Quintillo down in New York City.” And I gave Profit Quintillo's phone number and address.

“Any other family?”

“A daughter.” I was giving him Stephanie's number when one of the officers went into the kitchen. He must have hit the play button on the answering machine because I could hear myself saying, “Wilcox, are you there? Pick up the phone.” My voice sounded tinny.

I wondered if Wilcox's killers had heard me. Thinking about it gave me an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“You think there's a relationship between Wilcox's wife's disappearance and what happened upstairs?” Profit asked me.

“I don't think I know enough to know,” I replied.

“Terrific.” Profit snapped his notebook shut. “A philosopher. Anything else?”

“I pulled the heater plug out of the upstairs wall.”

He nodded, pointed to the wall in the hallway, and instructed me to stand over there. I did as I was told. A few minutes later, Paul came over and stood next to me.

“No one is answering at Quintillo's apartment,” he said.

“Maybe Quintillo and Janet went out to a movie or something.”

“Maybe.” Paul was chewing gum. I asked for a piece. He dug in his pocket and brought out a package of Bazooka bubble gum. “This is all I have.”

As I unwrapped it, a detective, a young guy wearing a navy blue blazer, a crisp white shirt, a blue-and-red paisley tie, and a pair of gray slacks came over and asked me to recreate my route through the house.

“How long are you going to keep Paul and me here?” I asked as I mounted the steps.

“Probably another half hour. How do you know Santini?”

“Through George Samson.” It was a measure of how I was feeling that saying George's name didn't bother me.

“How's George doing?”

“Well enough. How do you know him?”

“Mutual friends. What's your connection?”

“He was friends with my husband.”

“Small world.” And the detective gestured for me to go ahead of him.

Wilcox's bedroom had become a busy place since I was in there last.

As I walked through the door, one of the techs was saying to his partner, “My wife is threatening to make me take swing dancing lessons.”

“Get some balls. Tell her no.”

“Hey, I'm not the one that can't go out because I have to do the laundry.”

“At least I have clean clothes.”

His partner laughed and got out his camera. “So how's your kid's skiing doing?”

The tech grinned. “I think he's going to make it to the state finals.”

Both men looked up briefly when I came in then returned to going about their business. I showed the detective where I'd stood and what I'd touched, which wasn't much.

Maybe it was the effects of shock, but this time I didn't feel anything as I gazed down at Wilcox. I indicated the rope that had been used to bind Wilcox's hands and feet. It was heavy duty, industrial-strength twine.

“You think the person that did this brought that with them?”

“Probably,” the detective said. He looked around. “It doesn't strike me as the kind of thing you'd find in a place like this.”

As I was going down the stairs, the EMTs were bringing the stretcher up the steps. I flattened myself against the wall to let them pass. Walter Wilcox was headed for the Medical Examiner's office and his autopsy—not that there was much question about what had killed him. Why was another matter.

I wanted to talk to Paul some more, but he and his cop friends were schmoozing it up, and he showed no disposition to leave. I lingered for a while hoping I could snag him, then gave it up as a bad job.

I was on my way out the door when he called out to me, “Hey, don't go hog wild with the rest of the expense money. I need it back.”

“Gee. There goes my trip to the Keys. Don't worry, I'll have your invoice for you tomorrow.”

Outside, the driveway had been roped off with crime-scene tape. There were two more squad cars, plus the ambulance outside. A policeman was directing traffic. The neighbors who were at home had come out of their houses and were standing around, clustered in tight little knots, watching the proceedings. I recognized a few of the faces from before. I could tell they recognized me too, but before anyone could come over a camera crew arrived and I slipped away. This would definitely be the lead story on the six o'clock news.

“Jeez,” Manuel said when I walked into Noah's Ark. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I look that bad?”

“You look awful.”

I went into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror. He was right. I did. I was sheet white, which emphasized the dark circles under my eyes. I spent the rest of the day working at the store. There was something soothing about the routine and about being with the animals.

Zsa Zsa seemed to know something was wrong, and she spent the day alternately following me around, rubbing up against my leg, and bringing me her toys to play with. The beating in my chest had almost slowed to normal levels by the time I put the
CLOSED
sign on the door.

I was looking forward to going over to Calli's to see the pups. I'd made up a little gift basket to take to Tiger Lily consisting of a variety of dog treats. I was busy arranging them when the phone rang. Expecting it to be Calli, I picked it up.

Silence reigned on the other end of the line. I could hear someone breathing and the sound of traffic. Whoever was calling was probably using a cell phone.

“George, is that you?”

A car started honking.

“Last chance.”

Nothing.

I hung up.

I didn't know whether I wanted to cry or scream.

I
was sitting cross-legged on the floor in Calli's spare bedroom petting Tiger Lily's head while six naked blobs of protoplasm rooted around her belly, sucking on her teats. She wasn't doing badly for a first-time mother. I know humans who have done a lot, lot worse.

She'd made a cozy nest for herself between the bed and the wall, a space of about twenty-four inches. Like the Three Bears nursery rhyme said, the space wasn't too big and it wasn't too small. It was just right. In addition, it was out of the line of sight of the door and protected on three sides by two walls and the bed.

“You are such a good girl,” I crooned in her ear.

I could feel the tension I'd been carrying in my neck dissipating as I inhaled the odors of dog and puppy, milk and newsprint. Lily furrowed her forehead, put her head down between her paws, and looked at me imploringly with those eyes the color of dark chocolate.

“It could have been worse. You could have had ten.” She just looked at me. “I know, I know,” I told her as I untangled a matt behind her ear. “Motherhood is a pain in the ass. But the pups will be gone soon. Six, seven weeks. Eight at the most. I promise.”

She sighed the same sigh I'd heard from my grandmother. Then, resigned to her fate, she sighed for the second time, turned around, and nudged at the nearest pup with her nose. It let out a squeak and kept on sucking.

I took one of the treats I'd bought for Lily out of its package and gave it to her. She took it from my hand delicately and ate it slowly, without great enthusiasm. Clearly it was okay, but not great. She probably would have liked something from Purina better, but at the moment corporate was out and homespun was in. The dog world followed the same fashion laws as everything else.

I'd been thinking the other day that in a way we'd gone back to the time when my grandmother had fed our dog the leftover scraps that she got from the butcher combined with whatever we were having for dinner that night. Only things are more artful now. And expensive. Sincerity and simplicity are today's new marketing ploys. You get that perfect five-hundred-dollar meditation mat, and enlightenment will automatically follow.

In line with that concept, the packaging on Laura's Doggie Delights had the requisite length of sisal cord around the top and a label made of coarse brown paper. Of course the label was handwritten. What else?

According to it, Laura's Doggies Delights were an all-organic peanut-butter biscuit that contained only healthy, natural ingredients. They'd been mixed by hand, rolled out in Laura's own kitchen, and baked in her oven. I was thinking I wouldn't be surprised to hear that they had been baked on a brick hearth, powered by hardwood oak logs cut with a hand saw and split with an axe, when Calli opened the door a crack and slipped in.

“Aren't they wonderful?” she asked, gesturing toward the puppies. “I wish I could stay home with them all day. And by the way, Zsa Zsa is not pleased. At all.”

“I figured she wouldn't be.”

She'd shot me a poisoned glance when I told her she had to stay downstairs and flounced off, but there was nothing I could do. Bringing her into Lily's nursery was not an option. Not unless I wanted a quick trip to the doggie emergency ward to have Zsa Zsa sewn back up. Lily was nice, but she wasn't that nice. New mothers, whatever the species, in general do not take kindly to intrusions. In fact, I was flattered that she let me in the room. I wouldn't have been surprised if she hadn't.

“What's she doing?”

“Sitting on my sofa and sulking.”

“I'll make it up to her.”

Calli plopped down on the floor next to me. “Sounds like the guys I know. Something more interesting comes along and away they go. Then they think they can make it up to you with flowers.”

“Are we talking about Dirk?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” She gestured to the puppies. Two had finished nursing and were busy fighting with each other. “So what do you think?”

“I think they're wonderful.”

“Me too.” She massaged her lower back with her left hand, then leaned against the bed. “God, I'm exhausted.”

“You still driving up North?”

“Unfortunately. Yesterday I thought I was going into a ditch for sure. I don't know why anyone lives up there.”

“The Native Americans do it because they have to, and the others do it because they're antisocial and like the idea of being able to do what they want.”

“I think they would use the word self-reliant.”

“Yes, white power groups would. So, how's the story going?”

Calli shrugged. “Slowly. Everyone has something bad to say about everyone else. Checking out the facts is hard. Not that it matters anyway. Mike told me he heard a rumor they're thinking of killing the series. But what do I know? Why should they tell me? I'm just writing the damned piece after all.”

She yawned. “Between work and the puppies, I think I've gotten a total of four hours sleep for the past three nights. But it's been worth it.” She closed her eyes for a few moments and rubbed them gently with her knuckles before opening them. “Did I tell you, I prepared a whelping bed down in the rec room in the basement, just like the vet told me to do, but she liked up here better. On the carpet.”

“That's okay. My first dog, Elsie, had her litter in Murphy's closet. She wouldn't let anyone in there for three weeks. Anytime anyone tried, she'd run out and nip them. Murphy had to go out and buy new clothes.”

Calli giggled.

“I thought it was pretty funny too, but Murphy didn't.”

Calli lightly ran her fingers along the top of the carpet. “I think I might have to have this ripped up, not that I liked this color anyway,” she reflected. “What would you call it?”

“Puke yellow?”

“I don't know what I was on when I picked it out.”

“For sure something that wasn't very good.”

As I watched Calli, I realized that I hadn't seen her looking so happy in a long time. Maybe there is something to motherhood after all. Especially if you can mother vicariously.

Calli reached over and stroked under Lily's chin. Then she lifted up one of the puppies. Lily's body tensed. Her eyes never left the pup Calli was holding. “I'm thinking of keeping one,” she told me before returning it to Lily. “Actually I'd like to keep them all.”

I recalled the chaos surrounding Elsie's puppies. “Believe me, you won't when they get bigger and start running around.”

“Maybe.” Calli brushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead. “We'll see.”

“Manuel wants one. For Bethany”

“What do you think?” Calli asked.

“I think I'll end up with the dog.”

“Zsa Zsa would not be pleased.”

“No one likes being replaced.” I took a deep breath as George's face flashed through my mind. The pain in my chest returned.

“Are you all right?” Calli asked.

“Fine. I just got something in my eye.”

“You need a tissue?”

I shook my head.

“This is about what happened yesterday at Wilcox's, isn't it?”

I nodded, grateful not to have been the one who lied. Discussing yesterday was easier than discussing George. If I told Calli about George getting married, it would be real. I couldn't deal with that yet. Maybe I don't do well with relationships, but I do real well with denial.

Calli had been out of the office all day, so the first she'd heard about what had happened at Wilcox's house was on the six o‘clock news. Though my name hadn't been mentioned—I'd been called a concerned neighbor—she' d recognized Wilcox's name from one of our previous conversations and, being the nosy person she was, she'd called me immediately to find out what was going on. I'd been too tired to talk then. Now I wasn't.

Even though she'd found out some of the details in the interim I told her everything anyway. When I got to the part about how Wilcox had died, Calli clapped her hands over her mouth.

“Oh, my God,” she cried.

“I know.”

“I can tell you one thing. I'll never eat barbecue again.”

“That's a terrible thing to say.”

Calli shuddered. “You'd have to be a real sicky to do something like that.”

“Yeah. We're definitely talking psychopath.”

Calli crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed them. “But I'll tell you one thing. Seeing that would give me nightmares for months.”

“I don't get nightmares,” I lied.

“What a crock of shit.”

Calli was right. I'd been plagued with them ever since my father died. Something like Wilcox just brought everything back. I watched Calli pick one of Lily's golden hairs off her black cashmere sweater and set it carefully on the rug.

“I should have gotten a black lab. That way the dog hair wouldn't show,” she reflected as she picked another hair off her sleeve. “I swear I could knit a sweater from Lily's fur.” She brightened. “And speaking of sweaters, they're on sale at Good Stuff.” Good Stuff is a high-end boutique out in Fayetteville where Calli does most of her shopping. “Let's go out there Saturday afternoon. You could use some retail therapy.”

“I don't have the money.” I was going to need everything I'd earned from this job to pay my bills.

“You have Santini's expense money.”

“I have to return most of it.”

“Robin, I'm deeply disappointed in you. All those years on the newspaper. Does the phrase creative padding mean nothing to you?”

“What happened to your morals?”

“I don't have any when it comes to clothes.”

“Or men.”

“That too. And proud of it.”

I couldn't help laughing.

Calli is a great believer in shopping as a cure for everything—that or a pedicure. I used to think that was terminally shallow, but now I'm not so sure she isn't on to something. You can't control the big things in your life, but you can control the color of your nails and the cut of your skirt.

Sometimes distraction is a good thing. And anyway, I could use a new sweater. I had exactly four in my dresser drawer. When I lived in New York City, I'd had so many, I'd ended up storing some of them in my oven. I think I lost interest when I married Murphy. He hated me spending money on stuff like that and I hated buying cheap stuff, so I ended up not buying anything at all.

“Maybe you're right,” I conceded.

“Of course.” Calli tapped her fingers on her thigh. “I always am. Wilcox,” she mused. “Is there something about him I should know?”

“I can't imagine what.”

The manner of his death seemed the most notable thing about him.

“You'd tell me if there was, right?”

“Don't you ever stop working?”

“Once in a while.”

Calli might look like a Barbie Doll, but she has the mind of a Mac computer. Except, of course, when it comes to herself. I was thinking about how it always works that way when I heard the downstairs front door open and close.

“Is that Dirk?”

Calli shook her head. “No. His kid.”

“I didn't know he had kids”

Calli held up three fingers. “By two different women.” I must have given her a look because Calli added, “Don't worry. He's not staying here, not that you should talk, with Manuel.”

“That's different”

“No, it isn't. Anyway, he just came by to get something Dirk left for him.”

“And speaking of Dirk, where is the crown prince of music?”

“Playing a gig somewhere out in Tully. Things seem to be picking up for him.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said with as much sincerity as I could manage.

“He's even thinking of cutting a CD and distributing it himself. That stuff is so much easier to do with the web. I just loaned him some money to register his CD with ASCAP”

“Wonderful.”

Calli put her hand on my arm. “Please, Robin. Give him a chance. He really is trying. And you should see him with Lily.”

“It's just that you're my friend and I don't want to see you getting hurt again.”

“I know.” She patted my arm, then smoothed down the front of the sweater she was wearing. “You have to believe I know what I'm doing.”

“I do.”

“No, you don't, but thank you for lying.”

There was the sound of something falling downstairs.

“I swear that kid can't cross the room without falling over his own feet,” Calli told me. She leaned over. “What's going on down there?” she yelled.

“Nothing. I tripped over the rug and knocked over a chair,” Dirk's son yelled back.

A moment later, I heard footsteps clomping up the stairs.

“Calli, I can't find the folder,” he said. “Are you sure my dad left it?”

The voice sounded familiar.

Then he stuck his head in the door.

It was the kid from Fayette Street.