The door opened and Mrs. Pederson looked at me.
Like most teacher spouses we didn’t see too much of her. A glimpse of her at the premiere party had been the first time I’d seen her in months if not more. Maddy would’ve been used to seeing her, all the time drama students spent getting ready for productions, and Mrs. Pederson helping out behind the scenes.
I’d called Maddy earlier once I’d gotten the thought in my head of coming to see how Mrs. Pederson was coping.
“I can’t,” said Maddy.
“Why not?”
“One,” Maddy in snippy mode said, “I’m in Oregon right now. We’re still location scouting. Or Jack is. Two, I’m trying to move on.”
I’d paused before saying, “Ok.”
“It’s a central tenet, Luce. It’s…We’re leaving tomorrow. We have to. The actual premiere is Friday. A real premiere. One that won’t be interrupted by some shithead calling in a bomb threat. I just…I’ve got to keep moving. I can’t keep thinking about all of this. I’ll think about it while we’re here, and once we’re in the air, I won’t think about it anymore. However the situation is left, it’s left. I will move on. I will. I can’t afford not to. And I can’t afford to add to what’s already on my plate. Going to see Mrs. Pederson is adding more to my plate.”
I didn’t know if Mrs. Pederson even knew who I was.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello, Lucy.”
She looked beyond me, checking to see if I had accomplices. She looked so pale I imagined she hadn’t left their house in a couple of days, even though I’d seen her at the hospital Monday and heard she’d gone to court for Mr. Pederson’s arraignment.
The cat hopped off the railing and squeezed past Mrs. Pederson into the house.
“I don’t know…” and then my tongue grew still.
I’d planned on pointing out we were in similar states of distress.
“Someone spray painted your garage.”
She looked towards the building then looked at me. Nodded.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry that you’re kind of…having to deal. I mean I was at home. I’ve been at home since everything kind of went off kilter…And I was trying to figure out what to do or, you know…I thought ‘What would my mom do’, you know, because there’s been so much…”
“Carnage.”
I nodded. “Carnage. But I just got to thinking, my mom would’ve come and talked to you. Just see how you’re doing. I mean, we’re hurting, but you guys are really-”
A small blond-haired boy walked into view just behind his mother. He looked out at the world warily. Perry was only a couple years younger than Sherman and I, but he looked even younger, small as he was.
“Hi,” I said.
Mrs. Pederson spoke softly to him and Perry looked at my knees and said, “Hi.”
I kind of looked at where my train of thought had scattered and couldn’t think of how to hook it up again.
“Are you guys, ok? I mean do you have someone to take care of that graffiti?”
“I called,” said Mrs. Pederson, though not specifying quite whom she’d called.
Perry started telling me about the graffiti. He’d get them. He wasn’t going to hold back if the perpetrators returned and tried to dish out a second helping.
The way he called the faceless jerks ‘not nice people’ reminded me of the wrath I’d heard Mom invoke, calling cancer ‘one evil motherfucker’. Delivery is everything.
I drove home. The funeral remained in service. The town still. A week later I heard that Mrs. Pederson and Perry had left town to stay with relatives out of state. The next time I drove past the house the graffiti had been gone over erratically, but comprehensively with a paint that didn't quite match the rest of the garage.
Chapter 59
In middle school I remember a classmate asked if animals could sense evil.
The way they asked was, “Would a cat let Hitler give it pets?”
Our science teacher, Mr. Dobbs, sighed before trying to answer. I could only see his shoulders rise and fall. I couldn’t hear the sigh for the laughs and the put downs directed the girl’s direction. I can’t quite remember which girl it was that asked. We had a lot of quiet girls that didn’t venture out vocally. But Mr. Dobbs produced a really deep, meaningful, put upon sigh. The older he got the more often he implemented the sigh.
His reply was with the exception of Hitler having wet hands, the cat wouldn’t care.
Apparently neither did Mojo.
Driving back from the Pederson’s, I turned up our driveway and was greeted by the all too familiar sight of a black SUV parked in front of the house.
First I thought maybe it was Maddy. I honestly didn’t know if she remained in the area. She’d seemed upset enough I could imagine her leaving town without telling me. She was upset enough the other day I could imagine her driving from the courthouse straight to Ashmond’s airport for the next flight to Seattle or even Portland, whichever got her back home quickest. I could imagine her making that same decision to pick up and just go right after I’d gotten off the phone with her earlier that day. If Jack wanted to keep poking around locally, looking for locations, he could do it alone. Maddy needed to move on and do it ASAP.
Closing in on the house I could see a no neck pit bull in Ray Bans.
Trent.
Mojo trotted off the porch and down the lawn as I parked in front. Ordinarily I’d be happy to see her. Instead my heart had started to thump and I’d tensed up.
Horace Walton sat on the top step to the porch.
He remained seated until I was out of Sherman’s car and had shut the driver side door and was applying scratches to Mojo’s ears. I knelt down and Mojo snuffled my chin. Applied a quick, smelly kiss to my jaw. I heard a laugh. Horace entertained by the sloppy dog kiss.
The head of the church stood slowly and carefully almost like his legs might fold beneath him. Trent took a step towards his boss, like he could imagine the scenario, but Horace made it to his feet on his own.
Walking down the steps towards me, Horace reached into a jacket hip pocket and struggled to extract an envelope, creased down its center.
“This is for you,” he said. “Your sister gave it to me. Said she forgot to hand it over when she saw you yesterday.”
Mojo remained at my side as I approached Horace Walton. Trent stood silently, his head angled towards East Jennings like he was watching for an expected guest.
I hooked the sunglasses over my back pocket and received the envelope from Horace’s outreached, liver spotted hand. The envelope seemed empty.
Reading my concern he said, “It’s in there. You just have to look.”
It wasn’t sealed. I started opening it. He started talking to Mojo.
“You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Nice enough to let me talk to you while we waited for Lucy here, weren’t you?” He chuckled. It was the chuckle older people always make, regardless of whether they’re talking to babies or animals or anyone younger. A little bit of tease and a little bit of wisdom mixed together.
Inside the envelope was the bracelet Sherman had given me.
Tail wagging, Mojo got near enough Horace he could rub her skull. Looking at her he said, “They found it at, uh…the house. The other house. The one where they had your sister and you before your sister. The cops found it. Put it into evidence and then I guess they asked your sister about it yesterday and she must’ve seen it on you on Friday. Told them it wasn’t hers, but they gave it to her. She said she’d get it to you.”
Looking at me he said, “She was too upset yesterday to remember to give it to you. Your father…” he sighed. “Sad.”
I closed my fingers over the chain. The envelope remained in my other hand. I didn’t know what to do with it.
“That’s a hell of a hat,” he said
.
“It was my mom’s.”
“Reminds me of fishing. I used to go fishing when I was a boy a million years ago. Friend of my father’s…His wife would come. Oh, she brought sandwiches. The best sandwiches, I swear. Egg salads, I want to say.” Pointing at my head he said, “That’s the kind of hat she wore if I remember right. The exact same.”
He held my eyes. I thought of Superman’s pal Jimmy Olsen. Jimmy weathered like an apple left unpicked or fallen off the branch, wrinkling and browning beneath the sun. A face you might see in a bad dream. But I still looked him in the eye. It was polite.
Trent must have made a motion or spoken a sound only Horace could hear. Horace looked to his right and I followed the motion, looking back past Trent to Jennings and the appearance of a sedan, turning into the driveway and approaching the house.
Mojo barked. I shushed her.
Horace had forgotten about Mojo. About my hat. He seemed laser locked on the car pulling up in between the spaces left by the gleaming SUV and Sherman’s car.
The sedan parked and the engine shut off.
“This wasn’t my idea, Ms. McCall,” said Horace. “Know that.”
The driver side door opened and shut under Ruth Arnett’s hand.
Grinning, she walked towards the house. She pointed at the middle distance between where everyone stood.
“Horace. Lucy. How’s it going? I see you both decided to bring your guard dogs today.”
Chapter 60
Ruth looked at my face. She kept smiling. I’ve seen photos of my face when I’m confused. There was no way she didn’t know I had no idea what was going on. If Nick had gotten out of the car with Ruth I would have looked no less blown away.
She held something inside a brown paper bag in her right hand. Horace fixed on it the way Mojo fixed on a stick about to be thrown.
Ruth stopped and sneezed. Mojo barked. I shook my finger at Mojo and told her to quiet down. Ruth opened her eyes wide like she couldn’t believe she’d survived the sneeze. Pinched her nose like her sinuses hurt. I crumpled the envelope and slid it into my back pocket, just to get it out of hand.
“Hold on.” Looking at Trent Ruth said, “Just setting the bag down, big guy. Then I’m going to get a handkerchief out of my pocket. It’s not a gun or anything. You can’t blow your nose with a gun. Least not that I know of so there’s no need to tackle me or anything, ok?”
Bag on the ground, she drew a handkerchief out and blew her nose. Made a post-blow noise like it helped, but barely, then tucked the handkerchief back in her jacket pocket and picked up the brown paper bag.
“Ok. Whoo. Better.”
Horace stared at her. His face looked forbidden to smiles and memories of old fishing trips and delicious egg salad sandwiches. He looked like he was having trouble swallowing something, his jaw moving around and around.
“First off, where’s my money?” asked Ruth.
Horace said, “I need verification.”
“You already have verification. You called and said you had your handwriting expert take a look at what I handed you Friday night and their reports came back glowing.”
“I need,” Horace’s voice rose, “to verify that what you have is all of it.”
“Every last word?”
“I don’t like to have my time wasted, Ms. Arnett.”
Ruth sighed. Looked at me. She looked highly amused whatever they were discussing.
“Fine. Here. You can check it for cooties first if you want.” She put the bag in her left hand and held it out to Trent. He smoothly glided over and took the bag from her. He gave her a look, like he was letting her know he was watching her even if his eyes were elsewhere, and then took the few steps necessary to hand the bag to Horace.
Horace pulled a book from the bag. He glared at Ruth and dropped the brown paper bag to the ground. He sat back down on the porch steps and struggled with a clasp on the book and might’ve broken it for all his haste. He got the book open. Started turning pages.
Ruth sneezed. Trent looked at her, but mostly looked at Horace.
“Goddamn allergies,” she said.
Horace kept turning pages. For some reason it looked familiar to me. It wasn’t a book like a novel or a non-fiction work. It was a blank book or a diary.
I knew where I’d seen one just like the one in Horace’s hands. Ruth’s motel room the other day. She had a good half dozen of them spread across the table alongside the Scotch.
I looked towards Ruth and I froze up.
She had the handkerchief in one hand. The other occupied by a pistol. It was aimed at Trent.
“Like I said,” she said to Trent, “can’t blow your nose with one of these, but one of these, can’t blow a hole in someone either. That’s why I carry both.”
We put Trent in the trunk of Sherman’s car. I didn’t want to do it, but Ruth had the gun.
I didn’t question the need to put him in Sherman’s car trunk. I didn’t ask why not put him in the trunk of Ruth’s car.
Ruth headed off the potential inquiry, saying, “Your car’s better. My car’s a rental.”
We had to move an empty milk crate and a stack of old vinyl LPs from the trunk first. I tried to apologize for the items in the trunk, and muttered incoherently about how it wasn’t my car. Mostly I was just embarrassed that Sherman had Motley Crue’s Dr. Feelgood right on top of the stack of LPs.
Trent knelt in the dirt, hands behind his head, waiting for the trunk to get cleaned out. He didn’t bother dusting off the knees as he climbed in. Left the sunglasses on, too. Once she’d produced the gun, Ruth had him remove his jacket and his shoulder holster and fling them over the barbwire fence into the neighboring property, among the musk thistle. He’d marched over to the car hands behind his head. Small sweat stains had formed in the armpits of his Lucentologist blue dress shirt.
Once he was inside I shut the trunk. Ruth tried the release and tried to just lift the lid. Nothing happened. She was delighted. Exactly what she wanted to happen. She rapped her knuckles on the trunk, lowered her head to tell Trent, “We’ll be done in no time. Don’t go anywhere.”
Horace remained sitting on the steps of the house.
He just sat there, reading the diary while Ruth had forced his bodyguard at gunpoint to lose the jacket and the gun and then walked him down the lawn and forced him into the car trunk.
“Ruth. What’s going on?” I asked.
She kept staring up at the house, Horace sitting there, paging through the diary.
“Ruth?”
“Look at him,” she whispered, and I didn’t know if she meant for me to hear or if she even knew I stood right beside her and could hear. “He’s eating it up. He’s eating it all up.”
She bent at the waist and rubbed Mojo’s head with her non-gun holding right hand.
“He’s doing it.” Her voice in a kind of squeaky leprechaun-like key. “Can you believe it, pooch? He’s all over it like a bear and honey. Yum-yum-yum-yum.”
Mojo’s tail wagged and she looked to Ruth in hopes of more pets to come, but Ruth was already walking back up the lawn towards the house.
Chapter 61
Horace flipped through the back pages of the diary at an ever-quickening pace. When he got to the end he studied the backboard like he was waiting to see if more pages wouldn’t spring out of the crease between pages and spine. He looked at Ruth.
“They’re blank,” he said.
“She didn’t fill that one up, no,” said Ruth.
“So that’s it?” he asked.
“For that one.”
He closed the diary.
“’One’?”
“Selkie left more than that behind. I don’t have them all. I have several, but the whole library didn’t travel to eastern Washington with me.”
“Where did you find them?”
> She smiled. “Secrets of the trade.”
“Where are they?”
“Let’s talk money,” said Ruth.
“I want to know how many.”
Ruth smiled.
“She wasn’t very prolific, Horace. Around the time she knew you she was prolific, but that’s because she had so much going on and so few people to trust.”
Ruth looked at me.
“You remember me telling you about Selkie. Selkie Rosenfeld.” Pointing at Horace, “This guy’s gal from long, long ago. She was this brunette-“
“Auburn,” said Horace.
“Excuse me?”
“She wasn’t brunette. Her hair was auburn.” He said it like it was a color that described an entire season of the year.
“Auburn then. Fine. But just a kid that Selkie Rosenfeld. Not much older than you, Lucy. And there she was. In Hollywood in the ‘60s. All alone except for Horace here, a good dime older, trying to get in her pants, and then Griffin Sharp, Horace’s best friend, a good dime older, trying to get in her pants. They’re talking to her about Lucentology, this brand new thing, and clearing her head and how many body negatives she has and when they aren’t spinning her around and around doing that, they’re trying to help her make it in the pictures and when they aren’t doing that, they’re trying to take off her bra. It gave the girl fits. Fits and fits and fits and fits until she couldn’t take it anymore.”
She looked back at Horace.
“Isn’t that it, in a nutshell, Horace? I mean other than the parts where you may or may not have driven a car off the road and killed your good pal Griffin. Saw he was dead and then just booked, tried to get as far away from the scene as you could. There is that, isn’t there? But of course you couldn’t take the blame for that. Plus it was perfect. Griffin gone, you moved up in the church. Plus, it was the booze that did it that night, not you. An over abundance of body negatives, not you.”
He stared at the spot Trent had occupied.
“How long are you planning on leaving my bodyguard in the trunk of that car?”
Ruth shrugged. She aimed the gun at Horace.
“Long enough. Depends on how reasonable you’re willing to be.”