She's Gotta Be Mine (2 page)

“I’ve got just the thing.” Mimi disappeared from the mirror, click-clacking across the linoleum.

Yes, she needed new makeup.
 
Because fixing your whole life couldn’t be accomplished simply by changing your hairstyle.

No, that new hair needed new makeup, new clothes, new shoes. And a new name. Like Bobbie. Bobbie Jones. Without the Spivey, which had always made her think of the word
spineless
. Spineless Spivey. Warren? Or herself?

And Director of Accounting would never do for Bobbie Jones. Bobbie needed something...exciting. A job where she’d meet new people every day. Doing something she’d shine at. Where she couldn’t help but be noticed.

Where there were no Mr.
Winklemans
pointing their fingers and saying,
She did it. Fire her
.

God, could she really do it? Could she really quit, try on another career like a new outfit?

What on earth was standing in her way? There was no Warren. And there was money in the bank to tide her over until she found just the right job.

Could she? Would she? She stared at the familiar yet changed woman in the mirror. That woman could do anything she set her mind to. That woman would find a new goal in life.

Roberta sat straighter, squared her shoulders, put a hand to the brand new curls that overflowed the top of her head. Bobbie Jones wouldn’t have to worry about negative impacts on a man’s sex drive. Bobbie Jones would have her pick.

Roberta Jones Spivey could stick with a job she hated and grovel at the feet of the
Winklemans
of the world. Roberta Jones Spivey could have panic attacks under a hair dryer because she’d decided to change the color of her hair. Bobbie Jones had better things to do. Important things to do. One all-important thing.

Bobbie Jones was going to Cottonmouth to show Warren what he’d thrown away when he drove off into the sunset to find the Cookie Monster.

Oh yeah, and one more really important thing. Bobbie would have sex for the first time in...much too long.

Chapter One

Bobbie Jones—she’d tossed out Roberta along with her job, her tailored suits, and her frilly blouses—tapped her brilliant crimson lip with the tip of a matching manicured nail. A new woman with a new attitude. And no ugly, painful thoughts.

“I must have that cottage.”
No, no, we can’t possibly do this
. Bobbie quashed another annoying little Robert-whine. She was getting so much better at doing it, since that day in the salon, a little less than a month ago, when she’d decided every page of her life story needed revising.

Top selling real estate agent and self-proclaimed Cottonmouth maven, Patsy Bell Sapp’s mouth opened so wide, the wrinkles marring her tanned face vanished. Almost. “You don’t want
that
.”

Bobbie smiled. “Yes. I do.”
No, we don’t
. Buzz off, Roberta.

The house, little more than a cube tucked into a postage-stamp lot, was the antithesis of the pristine residence on the stately San Francisco street. Warren had chosen the property over having children, a plan she’d, no,
Roberta
had gone along with because being a parent was too awesome a responsibility.

“But the serial killer lives right across the street.” Patsy hacked out a cough, her penciled-in eyebrows disappearing into the fringe of her bouffant hairdo. With a vigorous shake of her head, multiple shades of gray sparkled in the sunlight.

“Excuse me?” Was the woman serious? Probably not. If she was, why would she even bring Bobbie by the rental?

Still looking at her, Patsy pointed at the shaded, two-story house across the street. “He’s a serial killer,” she mouthed.

The title had a ring to it, even if it was most likely a town joke. Serial killer. Didn’t that fit her mood to a
T
?
Her
mood, not Roberta’s. She itched with a mixture of danger, disbelief, and anticipation. Heavy on the disbelief part. But still, he must be a real bad-boy type to fuel such rumors. Back home in Head Hunters salon, she’d sworn to herself she was going to have sex with someone. And sex with an alleged serial killer sounded risky. Edgy. Exciting.

Just the kind of thing a Bobbie Jones, not a Roberta Spivey, would do. It would tweak Warren’s nose right out of joint. And that’s what this whole excursion to Cottonmouth was about, right?

Her luck, the man would turn out to be a toilet paper salesman originally from Boise.

She turned back to the rental, her mind made up. “I’ll take this house. I want to move in as soon as possible.” Roberta muttered a few more whiny rebuttals, but Bobbie ignored her.

Patsy sputtered, “But you haven’t even seen the inside yet.”

“The gargoyles do it for me.” Six snarling, winged creatures lined the front walk. Warren hated yard statues.

A porch swing drifted idly in the slight breeze. The cottage came fully furnished, Patsy had told her, all of it probably shabby lived-in, not shabby chic, but that wouldn’t matter. Her brand-new Pippin apple green VW, for which she’d traded Warren’s status-symbol BMW 740i, blended perfectly with the riot of multi-colored flowers overrunning the small lot. Warren would hate the quaintness of it. A tiny smile quirked the corner of her mouth. She deserved this house.

Best of all, according to Patsy, danger and excitement lurked right across the street. Yeah, right. A real serial killer would be behind bars. Wouldn’t he?

“What’s his name?”

“Who?”

Bobbie tugged at the belt loops of her tight new jeans, pushing the waistband lower on her hips. “The serial killer.”

Patsy didn’t answer immediately. The sounds of splashing and children’s laughter wafted over the rooftops. Someone started a lawn mower a few doors down. Sunday afternoons didn’t sound like this in the city. They didn’t smell like this, either, the air heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass.

And Patsy’s cigarette. She stamped it out in the gravel drive. “His name is Nick.”

“Nick what?”

“Nick Angel.” Patsy grimaced, adding a few more wrinkles above her lip.

Great name. A lot better than Warren Spineless Spivey.

Patsy stepped closer, smoothing her knee-length, A-line skirt and tottering on her chunky high heels. Obviously seeing the excitement in Bobbie’s eyes, she said, “You don’t understand.” Her voice lowered a note. “It’s not idle gossip. We know he kills animals.”

Well, that could creep people out. Bobbie reached up to brush the hair back off her shoulders, then stopped mid-move. She’d forgotten she’d had it cut. Warren hated short hair.

“You mean he likes to hunt?” Maybe Cottonmouth residents didn’t approve of hunters.

“No,” Patsy said. “I mean, he buries dead animals around his yard. No one ever catches him actually killing them. But...we know.”

Bobbie shivered as if a cloud had passed over the sun. Except there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. “Dead animals in your yard doesn’t make you a serial killer. Maybe they died a natural death, and he’s just giving them a Christian burial.”

Patsy’s eyes went wide, her mouth made a perfect
O
as if Bobbie had said something blasphemous.

“What I mean is, there could be other explanations,” Bobbie amended.

Patsy leaned close, obviously not willing to consider any other explanation. “There are the paintings, too.”

“What paintings?”

“We’re sure he sells them for god-awful amounts.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He paints like John Wayne
Gacy
.”

John Wayne
Gacy
? “Sorry, but who’s that?”

Patsy rolled her eyes. “He killed all those boys, oh I forget exactly when, the seventies, I think, and buried them under his house. They executed him. But his clown paintings go for thousands now.”

Clowns
? “I’ve never read anywhere that painting clowns was a symptom of being a serial killer.” Or even an animal killer.

“It’s all those things together, dear. And the worst is...” She leaned in to whisper words Bobbie could barely make out, her smoke-laden breath hot and sour in Bobbie’s nostrils.

Bobbie clapped a hand to her mouth. “You mean he’s a porn star?”

Patsy’s eyes darted to different spots of the yard as if to make sure the gargoyles couldn’t hear. “Not any more. He’s too old.”

Wasn’t it the women who got too old for those kind of movies, or rather too old for the men who watched them? “How old
is
he?”

“Thirty-eight, I think.”

Two years younger than she was. That wasn’t too bad. They said a woman hit her sexual peak much later than a man. “I’m still not sure the evidence means he’s a...” She allowed her voice to trail off meaningfully.

“He was a troublemaker in high school, always getting into one scrape after another. I’m surprised they never put him in juvenile hall. Maybe if they had...”

“Boy, Patsy, you’ve done a lot of research on your serial killer.” Bobbie wondered for a minute if she’d gone too far with her skepticism.

But Patsy didn’t seem to mind. The woman actually batted her had-to-be-fake eyelashes. “He’s not
my
serial killer. But I’ve lived in Cottonmouth all my life. I knew his dear departed parents.” She put a hand over her heart. “Goodness, the trials and tribulations they had to endure with that boy, racing around the county in that monstrous orange car of his, trying to corrupt his friends.” Her brows vanished once more beneath her shellacked bangs. “The town had to lock up their daughters. And that poor Mary Alice Turner...” Patsy’s words trailed off, her eyes suddenly misty.

“Mary Alice Turner?” Bobbie prompted.

Patsy sniffed. “It’s just too terrible to talk about.”

A murder victim? No. She really didn’t believe this serial killer stuff. Bobbie wanted to hear that story, but, in deference to the moisture in Patsy’s eyes, she decided to leave it for another time.

“So, he’s lived here all his life?” she asked instead.

“Except for the twenty years he was away making those...” Patsy’s lips pursed, and her eyes squinted. “Those
movies
.” She rummaged in her immense handbag for her cigarette case. “The Angels passed away just over a year ago, car accident, and when does he come back to town?” She jabbed a now lit cigarette at the house across the street.

Bobbie surreptitiously waved away the smoke. “Right after they died?” she ventured.

“Vulture,” Patsy spat through a smoke plume. And that seemed to be the worst sin of all.

They turned to stare at the house in silence. A child rode his bike to the edge of the property, stopped, gaped, then turned around and furiously pedaled away.

The hot June sun beat down on the street and the homes lining it, but the serial killer’s faded blue house stood in the shadows of its tall surrounding oaks. A porch, dim beneath an overhang, ran the length of its front and disappeared around either side. Weeds had invaded the lawn still covered with a blanket of last fall’s leaves. Dormer windows accented an attic room. She thought of Norman Bates in
Psycho
. And shuddered.

Bobbie shifted from one foot to the other. And Roberta, well, Roberta was shrieking at the top of her lungs, but Bobbie steadfastly refused to listen. Of course, Patsy was making all this stuff up. Wasn’t she?

Dead animals in your yard, clown paintings, and a porn star reputation didn’t necessarily translate to killing human beings for kicks.
Yes, it does
, Roberta insisted.

Shut up, you wimpy woman
. She decided right then and there this was the
last
she’d hear from Roberta. She wouldn’t be Roberta anymore. She
couldn’t
be. That old life was over. Forever. No matter how much her old Robert-self sniveled about it.

But Bobbie did have to sort Patsy’s rumors from fact here. “If he’s a serial killer, why hasn’t he been arrested?”

“It’s not for lack of trying. The Sheriff says there’s no evidence.”

“How about some dead bodies, other than animal carcasses?”

Patsy looked from the house back to Bobbie. “We think he does
those
dirty deeds out of town.” The dirty deeds presumably being the real serial killer stuff. “At least for now,” Patsy added with portent.