Shoot from the Lip (26 page)

“Unless she knew who you were,” I said.

“This woman was my mother’s friend?” She glanced back and forth between us.

“We think so,” DeShay answered. “Anything in particular you remember about her?”

“She’s small, has a really bad dye job—jet-btack—and I know she works for a maid service. She wears a turquoise uniform with a togo—I can’t recall what it says, something about maids, though. And she has this odd tattoo on her hand—on her left ring finger. A diamond.”

DeShay slapped the folder and grinned. “That’s our girl.”

“You’re thinking she talked to me because she knew who I was?” Emma said.

“Probably,” I said. “How long since she first approached you at the bus stop?”

“Probably five years ago—even when I was in school, I worked part-time at Green Tree Realtors and took that same bus.”

“And she always wore a uniform?” I said.

“No, not always. She dressed like she needed help as much as we did. She always steered the conversation away from herself, though. Funny, I shared my whole life story and I don’t even know her name.”

“Her name is Fiona Mancuso,” I said. “Remember how the letter to Reality Check indicated the writer had been watching you?”

“Yes—oh, my God.
She
wrote to them?”

“She knew your mother. I don’t think it was a coincidence she found you at a bus stop,” I said.

“And because she knew my mother, she knew my baby sister had disappeared.”

DeShay said, “We need to find this woman. The logo on the uniform. Think hard, try to picture it.”

Emma closed her eyes for several seconds. “I-I can’t remember.”

We turned for help to Houston’s two-volume yellow pages, searching under
maids, housekeepers
and
housecleaning.
We found no ads that conveniently offered photos of what their employees wore to work, and the sheer number of companies made it impossible for Emma to pick out any name she remembered.

While we were still perusing the yellow pages, Kate and Clint came in through the back door.

Kate introduced DeShay to Roark and then explained that they came back to get Webster and take him for a run at the dog park. Now he wanted to bond with the dog? This was getting serious.

“It’s a beautiful fall day. Why are you cooped up in here?” Kate asked. “At least get out on the porch.”

I said, “We’re hoping Emma can remember an important detail about something she saw. Not having much luck.”

Kate bent and fastened the leash onto Webster’s collar. “Remember, Abby, I do hypnotherapy in my practice. Let me know if I can help.”

Then she and Roark were off again while DeShay and I exchanged smiles.

Monday held the promise of leads on Fiona Mancuso from both her ex-pimp and the hypnosis Emma had agreed to. I awoke way too early, had three cups of coffee before eight a.m. and my second breakfast by ten. I called Jeff but he couldn’t talk long, as he’d phoned a few home health agencies for information and was awaiting return calls.

Emma was more than willing to be hypnotized, but Kate and Emma couldn’t clear their schedules until this afternoon. DeShay and White were meeting with the parolee-pimp around lunchtime. I’d asked if I could go along and had been given a firm “No way.”

I tried answering mail, paying bills and finally decided the best thing might be to work off my extra energy. I plugged in my iPod and off Webster and I went. But even our fast walk came to an early end when it started raining. Webster loved splashing around on the way home as one of Houston’s lovely unexpected downpours hit hard and filled up the streets almost at once. At least I knew what I would do next—take a long, hot shower.

By the time I got behind the wheel of my Camry and headed for the congested streets of the medical center, I felt like I had a stomachful of bedsprings. The slick streets slowed everyone down, which made me even more anxious and impatient.

When I entered Kate’s office, she and April were in the reception area talking.

“Kate, I need therapy for acute Houston Traffic and Parking Syndrome. Is there any hope?”

She smiled. “Not with your personality. Emma called and she’s having a hard time finding parking, too. I’m ready to start as soon as she gets here.”

“You’re sure it’s okay that I’m present during the hypnosis?”

“She wants you here. She has a very strong and positive connection with you, and I can’t think of anything that would make her feel more comfortable.”

I smiled. “Really?

Before Kate could respond Emma walked through the door with a cheerful, “Hi, everyone.”

Kate led us through the reception area, door and down the hall past her family therapy area, the only therapy room I’d been in before today. We entered a room set up like a cozy living room. A matching green pastel sofa and love seat were separated by a rocking chair—the glider kind. There were lamps on two end tables, and both lights were turned on, spreading a soft, warm glow over the room. An afghan Kate had crocheted was lying across the glider.

“Let’s all sit—Emma, take the rocking chair if you would—while I explain what will happen,” Kate said.

Emma placed the afghan across her knees after she sat down. I chose the love seat, and Kate sat across from me, adjacent to Emma.

“First,” Kate said, “let’s clear up any misconceptions about hypnosis. I won’t put you to sleep, though you may feel more relaxed with your eyes closed.”

“There’s no trance?” Emma asked.

“Actually, there is one, but not like a stage show trance. Think about when you daydream. Does the daydream sometimes block out the rest of the world?”

Emma smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes, and I’ve had plenty to block out.”

“That’s all a trance is, a state of intense concentration. I’ll help you get there with guided imagery. Abby, would you turn off the lamp near you?”

I did, then leaned back against the love seat cushions into the shadows.

“Emma,” Kate said, “I’d like you to rock the chair slowly and at the same time think of yourself as resting on a huge, fluffy pillow.”

Emma closed her eyes and moved the chair back and forth.

Kate whispered, “Clear your mind. Think of something that soothes you—a warm bath, a day in the sun, a good book ... anything. It’s your decision. Everything is in your control.”

“Okay,” she said.

Kate repeated, “Clear your mind,” several times, and even in the dim light I saw Emma’s body melting into that chair as her rocking became more rhythmic.

“I want you to ride on your pillow into the clouds. Can you do that?” Kate asked.

“Yes.” Emma’s eyes remained closed, her voice calm.

“Take yourself above the streets, above the bus stop you told Abby about.”

“Okay,” came Emma’s reply.

“Tell me when you’re there,” Kate said.

“I want to go slow. Slow is better.”

“Take as long as you want.” Kate had been leaning forward whispering to Emma, but now she sat up without taking her gaze off her subject.

I swear it took an hour, but was probably no more than a few minutes before Emma said, “I see the roof of the covered bus stop. See the streets and the tops of the cars.”

“Good. When you’re ready, float down until you see the people sitting there.”

“It’s better up here.” Emma’s voice sounded a little slurred, like she was talking in her sleep.

“Safer?” Kate said.

“Yes. Much safer.”

“Abby and I are watching out for you. You can look at the people’s faces. Nothing will happen.”

“Abby’s here. Kate’s here. On the pillow.”

“That’s right. When you’re ready, Emma.”

More silence as Emma rocked and rocked for another eternity. “I see,” she finally said. “It’s me, waiting for the bus, and she’s there, too.”

“A woman?” Kate asked.

“Abby. She’s on the bench sitting with me. We’re talking.”

I saw my sister’s eyes narrow, saw her shoulders tense. “Okay. What are you wearing, Emma?”

“The gray suit I found at Goodwill. Only cost me ten dollars.”

“You’re going to work?”

“Yes. Then I have class. Scott will have to cook dinner, and he hates that. But it’s okay. Abby says everyone has to pitch in sometimes.”

Kate leaned forward. “And what’s Abby wearing?”

Emma laughed. “That funny-colored uniform.”

I saw Kate’s shoulders relax and she almost smiled. “What else does she have on?”

“The black shoes with the thick soles. She says she’s on her feet all day. I’m lucky I don’t have to be someone’s maid.”

“She’s a maid?”

“You can tell she works really hard. Her hands are always chapped, and she looks tired, even though she’s young.”

“What else do you know about her?” Kate asked.

“She smokes, but when I sit next to her she always puts her cigarette out right away. I never ask her to. She just does. She cares about other people.”

“What color is the uniform again?”

“Turquoise. White collar. The letters on her pocket are white, too.”

“Are you close enough to see what the letters say?” Kate’s tone was even, her voice soft and soothing.

I wanted to get up, shake Emma and tell her to spit it out. This whole deal was like sucking peanut butter through a straw. But I had to give my sister props. I could never do this job.

Emma went into another long, agonizing silence before she said, “I need to get a little closer.”

“However long it takes is fine,” Kate said.

I wanted to scream, “No it’s not fine!” but I remained silent, sitting on my hands to keep them still.

At last Emma said, “Purity Maids. Those are the words embroidered on the pocket.”

I must have sighed audibly, because Kate held up her hand and gave me a look that would freeze a jaguar. I mouthed,
Sorry.

Coming out of the trance was almost as slow a process as it took to get her to that pocket embroidery. Kate brought Emma back above the bus stop and allowed her all the time she wanted to return to reality. Even when she opened her eyes, she still seemed to be somewhere else.

“Turn the light back on, would you, Abby?” Kate said.

I pressed the switch at the base.

Kate said, “How are you feeling?”

“I could live in this chair.” Emma was smiling, her face content in the lamplight.

“I plan on having one like it for my new house,” Kate said.

Emma quit rocking, sat upright. “How could I have forgotten? The owner took your offer. You got the house, Kate.”

Kate grinned. “That’s great. When can I move in?” “Pending inspections and title searches, I’d say a couple weeks. Cash transactions really speed things up.”

“I think we’ve both had a good day—and Abby, too, right?” Kate looked at me.

“Yes. Do you remember what just happened, Emma?”

“Remember you in a maid uniform? I don’t think that’s an image I’ll ever forget.” She laughed. “But why didn’t I see the woman’s face, Kate?”

“The human mind will always seek to protect the psyche from harm—sometimes even in unhealthy ways—but that’s a whole other lecture.” Kate smiled. “By putting Abby’s face on this person, you felt safe enough to get close and to stay long enough in the trance to find what we needed.”

“I did it right?”

“There is no right or wrong in my office, Emma. There’s only your reality.”

Emma nodded, understanding. “Without the two of you, I-I don’t know where I’d be right now. Probably locked in a rubber room.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “Our daddy would have said you’ve got grit.”

“I have a feeling I would have liked your father,” Emma said. And then a sadness filled her eyes despite her smile.

I guessed any father at all for her would have been a bonus.

Once Emma left the office and I thanked Kate for her help, she immediately went into session with another client. I called DeShay after I emerged from the parking garage and told him we got the maid service name. He said he was glad to hear that, since they got nothing from the pimp except what a neat freak Fiona Mancuso had been and that he considered her stupid. All his girls had been stupid.

“I’m glad I wasn’t there,” I said. “You know how I shoot from the lip.”

“I’m certain you two wouldn’t have gotten along. Tell me the name.”

“Purity Maids.” I maneuvered around what had become standard fixtures on Houston city streets—orange construction cones.

“You can bet Fiona picked out a new name when she went straight. Can you work the maid angle? Try to find her?”

“Because you don’t want to scare her off?” I asked.

“Right. If you can get to her without telling anyone who you are, that would be great. We’ve already got one of Christine O’Meara’s friends in the morgue.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said.

“Quit with the guilt. You didn’t cut that guy.”

“That’s what Jeff said,” I answered.

“You probably won’t be able to reach me for a while,” he said. “We just got called out to a murder-suicide. I hate fucking Mondays. I’ve learned people are damn selfish. ‘I don’t want to go to work or pay my bills or make up with my wife, so I’ll kill myself—and maybe take someone with me so I won’t get lonely in hell.’ ”

“DeShay, come on,” I said.

“I know, I know. But suicide scenes are the worst. Usually messy, and then you got the crying relatives. Why do suicides have about ten times more relatives than other victims? That’s what I want to know.”

“Maybe that’s the reason for the suicide,” I said. “Too many relatives.”

“Yeah. There you go.” He laughed. “I gotta run. Keep in touch.” He hung up.

Ever alert for a tail, I’d driven home wishing there weren’t so many damn Ford Focuses on the road.

I sat back in my desk chair a half hour later, stroking Diva and wondering how to learn whether Fiona Mancuso still worked for Purity Maids. Seemed a safe bet, since Emma had talked to her two weeks ago. But I needed to be sure. A simple check of the yellow pages showed an ad that proclaimed Purity had been in business since I was three years old. They must be doing something right. But what if the recent publicity concerning the reality show that had come to town, not to mention the murder of her old bar buddy Jerry Joe Billings, had sent the woman running scared? If so, all I could do was try to pick up her trail.