Instead, she sat silently and fumed, thinking through her theory. If the doctor wanted to make some cash on the side, he’d do better with a partner—someone who moved in the low-life circles where customers were likely to be found. Using a middleman, the doc was less likely to draw attention to himself—he’d keep his hands more or less clean.
“Well, now, here we are,” Wil said as they tore through the outskirts of Fairax and into a tired subdivision on the near end of town. He pulled into the tidy driveway of a rather ordinary white colonial. Black shutters shed splinters of paint on either side of square windows set in aluminum siding, but the house was in fairly good repair. The lawn was cut to a ruthless couple of inches of turf, but otherwise the landscaping was fairly indifferent, a couple of shrubs hacked into spheres.
A bachelor’s lawn. Stella’s trained eye picked out a few other clues: the flyers jammed into the door handle, the empty ornamental urns.
“There’s no Mrs. Doctor Herman, I take it.”
“You think you’re so smart, with this whole guessin’ game,” Wil said, cutting the ignition. “Okay. Fine, Miss Smarty Pants. Yes, it’s Dr. Herman. And yes, his wife left him awhile back. Ding-ding-ding. Happy? Satisfied?”
“I still don’t get why he killed Laura,” Stella said.
“Well, not every love is like ours,” Brandy said sorrowfully. “Ain’t every couple can support each other through all the ups and the downs.”
“Wait—you’re saying Laura was his
girlfriend
?” Stella demanded. She remembered what Goat said, that her parents thought she might be seeing an old boyfriend, someone she was embarrassed about. But if she was seeing a married man, she would have had a good reason to be evasive.
“Yeah, Sherlock. And he didn’t mean to kill her, either—that was an accident.” Now that the cat was out of the bag, Wil was warming to the subject. “She showed up at his place one morning all bent out of shape ’cause she’d got a gander at his numbers and put two and two together and figured out he was moving stock out the side. She got self-righteous on him—she said she was going to report him, how he was going to lose his license. I mean, that’s not the kind of thing you spring on a guy before his coffee, you know?”
Brandy giggled as though he’d told a hilarious joke.
“So he just
killed
her?”
“No, he tried to talk her out of it, like for an hour or two, but she kept digging in her heels and wouldn’t see no reason. Way he told me, he was just trying to keep her from leaving, he had a hold of her arm or something and she was trying to, I don’t know, wiggle out or whatever and she slipped. Hit her head, something like that.”
“Uh-huh.” Now this was an area where Stella would wager she
did
have more experience than Wil—the sort of “accidents” that happen when a man and a woman have a domestic disagreement. “And let me guess … after she had this little
accident
, Dr. Herman panicked and called you, his one and only shady underworld friend?”
Wil’s scowl deepened. “I’m a
problem
-solver, Stella, that’s why he called me.”
Dang if there wasn’t a note of pride in the man’s voice. Yeah, Stella thought with disgust, being summoned to dispose of the body had been, for all Wil’s whining and complaining, a high point, a big day in his criminal career.
Another difference between them, then. When Stella’s work met with success, what she felt was relief. Relief that another woman would be able to sleep easily that night, without fear of waking to the sound of curses and the impact of fists.
But she was never
proud
of hurting people, not even the wretched, hateful targets of her brand of justice. She was proud of turning her life around, certainly. Proud of running the sewing shop without Ollie, proud of picking up the pieces of their domestic life and making it run smoothly, paying the bills and figuring the taxes and negotiating with vendors.
She was definitely proud of the body she’d toned, of the hard muscle beneath her soft curves.
And she was proud of a few of the innovations she’d come up with. The bondage gear, for instance, that kept her targets incapacitated while Stella adjusted their attitudes. The gags that kept them quiet while she explained the new rules. The follow-up regimen that ensured none of them escaped her watchful eye afterwards.
But in the moment where she saw the defiance go out of a man’s eyes, when he finally stopped cursing and started to look afraid, when she convinced herself he would never again be a threat to a woman—was it
pride
she felt?
No.
And seeing pride in Wil’s eyes made her more than a little queasy.
“So why the track?” she demanded. It was the one piece of the puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet.
“Oho,” Wil chuckled. “That was pure dumb luck. I told the doc to go on back and finish up his rounds or whatever. Don’t draw attention to himself, that’s what I said. So who’s his first appointment? Neb Donovan! In there to get a fifteen-thousand-mile checkup on that bum disk of his. Anyhow they’re talking, and Neb’s carrying on about this and that, how he’s got to get a little help getting that foundation poured. How it’s yea big and yea wide, so many cubic feet, and so on, and then the doc realizes how this might be the perfect opportunity.”
“To pin a murder on an innocent man.”
“Yeah, that’s right. He got Neb to sign a blank piece of paper—hell, Neb was so messed up in those days, hitting the Oxy around the clock, he never knew what he was signing. Then, after Neb left, the doc made out like it was a note from him so he could stick it on the body. He was thinking ahead, I’ll give him that.”
“So then what, the doctor finishes up his office hours, and the two of you all wait until dark and dragged that poor girl on out to the track in the middle of the night?”
Wil frowned. “The doc wasn’t about to do that. Kinda pissed me off. He was all,
That’s why I’m paying you, you figure it out
. Bastard. So I had to get her in the ground myself.”
“What did he pay you, anyway?” Stella turned to Brandy. “And you’re okay with this, Brandy? This man of yours putting someone’s daughter in the ground for money?”
“It wasn’t like he
wanted
to,” Brandy retorted hotly. “He
had
to. The doctor said he’d turn Wil in if he didn’t help. Believe me, that doctor’s no good. I mean, he planted evidence on that poor girl to make it look like Wil done killed her.”
“The shoes.”
“The
patent leather
shoes,” Brandy breathed, “that show every mark.”
“So you want me to think the doctor went out and got shoes special and put ’em on the body just so—”
“No, I never said that. Only, when they took that body out to Wil’s trunk, the doctor made Wil get the feet. Tell her, Wil.”
A faint pink blush ticked the back of Wil’s neck. Yeah, Stella thought, I guess I’d be embarrassed to be such a dumb-ass, too.
“He did” was all Wil said.
“And then he waited until the concrete was all hardened up to tell Wil about the prints,” Brandy continued, clearly indignant, “so’s he wouldn’t get the idea to go fessing up any time.”
“That rat bastard,” Stella said sarcastically.
Brandy glanced at her suspiciously, but Stella flashed her a reassuring smile.
So that was the story, and now they were fast closing on the final chapter. Wil unbuckled his seat belt and leaned back to unfasten Stella’s. She considered lurching forward, maybe knocking Wil out with a forehead butt to his nose, but that still left Brandy holding a gun on her.
“What-all are you going to make my mom do, anyway?” Noelle asked.
“Well, she’s going to make the doc confess, what do you think?” Brandy said. “Wil got us a nice digital camcorder and one a those tripods? You know, where you set it up so you can talk into it and record a movie?”
“Wonder which Cozy Closet customer’s missing that,” Stella said—but she was vastly relieved the plan wasn’t turning out to be a murder-for-hire after all. She glanced at Noelle, hoping fervently that Brandy would keep her mouth shut about the rest. All Noelle knew about her mother’s leisure-time activities was that Stella seemed to have a lot of friends who were going through tough times that required lots of listening. She was pretty sure that her daughter, if she had her suspicions, preferred not to know exactly how far her mother’s compassion went.
Brandy glared at her. “Ain’t nobody as needs it worse than we do, anyway,” she said.
“You oughtta
thank
us,” Wil said. “We ain’t askin’ you to kill him. You won’t have that on your conscience. All’s you got to do is get him to make the tape.”
“Why don’t y’all just do it yourselves?” Noelle asked, disgusted.
Brandy sucked in a breath, looking amazed. “Noelle, don’t you know what they say about your mama? She can make a man do
anything
. Why, if Wil and me tried to get the doc to talk, he might clam up and we could end up knocking him unconscious or something before he got the movie done. Your
mama
, though, she’s like the best there is.”
Noelle gave her mother a thoughtful look. To Stella’s surprise, it was about 99 percent crafty curiosity, with not a trace of judgment. The thought that her daughter might actually approve of her avocation buoyed Stella’s spirits considerably.
“So here’s how this is gonna go,” Wil said. “Brandy’s gonna stay here with Noelle. That’s like insurance, Stella. See, I know you don’t want nothing bad to happen to your girl there, so’s you’re more likely to cooperate.”
Stella gave Brandy her most withering stare. “Brandy, if you so much as look at Noelle cross-eyed, I’m gonna kick your ass all the way to Saint Louis.”
Brandy turned away and stared out the van’s passenger window at a bank of hostas lining the walk.
“I’d be more worried about the next hour if I was you, Stella,” Wil said. He was aiming for a hard-ass tone, Stella knew, but he was making a miscalculation. She’d been around enough amateur bullies that he didn’t scare her much. He wasn’t one of the real ones, the mean ones. As stupid and naïve as Brandy was, there was a corner of Stella’s heart that was grateful for Wil’s basic makeup, which was plenty flawed, but with the wishy-washy sorts of failings that were unlikely to ever get taken out on his woman.
The two of them deserved each other. Neither one was likely to get nominated to sainthood in this lifetime, but neither was likely to upset the balance of the universe either. Their sins were relatively minor, and along the way they probably provided enough amusement and even occasional comfort to their fellow humans that they erased their cosmic debt.
Stella remembered the way Wil’s neighbor had talked about him, admiringly, even affectionately. And Goat’s bemusement when he shared his checkered history with Brandy—if even
he
couldn’t manage to maintain a grudge against the gal, then how could she?
If she wanted, Stella was confident that she and Noelle could climb out of the van—which would be a little tricky, given the plastic restraints still on their wrists—and then walk down the street whistling and Brandy and Wil, for all their blustering and threatening and laying out of evil promises, would do no more than jump up and down in frustration. If Stella had had her doubts about Wil’s innocence in Laura’s death, they were laid to rest now.
But hell. She was here, and there was a
true
bad guy—a woman-killing, smug, unrepentant bastard not fifty feet away. And it wasn’t like she had anything better to do today. And, for that matter, she hadn’t had a single client since getting shot over the summer.
Her return to the job couldn’t wait forever. Maybe it was time to dive back into the pool.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it. But I don’t have my stuff.”
“What stuff?” Wil demanded impatiently.
“You know—my gear. My restraints, my tools. I mean I know I look tough, but you can’t expect me to go in there and tackle a six-foot-two guy and take him down on my own.”
“Course not—that’s why I’ll be there.”
Stella sighed. “No offense, but I’d really be more comfortable—”
“Quit stalling. Let’s go.”
He got out of the car and a second later the sliding door was yanked open and he extended a hand. Stella pointedly ignored it and jumped down carefully, taking the impact in her bum hip and barely staying on her feet. She held out her wrists expectantly.
Wil stared. “Oh. Um…”
Stella rolled her eyes. “Get my purse. There’s scissors in there.”
Wil snapped his mouth shut and got her purse. He rooted around for a few minutes until he came up with the little pink quilted case.
“This?”
he demanded.
“They’re sharper than they look,” Stella sighed. “Can we get on with this? I like to be home in time for dinner on days I beat the shit out of someone. It’s kind of a tradition.”
Wil fumbled with the embroidery scissors, finally getting them out of the case. They
were
a lot sharper than they looked—an expensive pair of Ginghers with curved blades—and they sliced right through the restraints.
Stella rubbed at her wrists, massaging the tender spots where the plastic had cut into her flesh. Wil tossed the scissors back in the purse and handed it through the window to Brandy, then put his hand to Stella’s back and gave her a little shove.
“So you’re letting Brandy keep the gun, instead of bringing it with us?” Stella asked, nodding in the direction of the van as Wil marched her down the street. “Think that’s smart?”
“I was a wrestler in high school,” Wil said. “I really don’t think I’ll have much trouble with a sixty-five-year-old man who takes blood pressure pills.”
“How do you know what he’s—?”
“Oh, the doc told me. It’s, like, professional interest. Folks on Clonidine get a little extra kick from nembies and purple hearts—you know, downers. It’s a nice little growth area for me.”
Stella started to respond, then thought better of it. She wasn’t about win a debate about the ethics of pushing prescription drugs today.
“Look,” Stella said when they got to the front door. “Can I at least give you a little bit of advice? We might want to try to get in without drawing attention to ourselves.”