A Teeny Bit of Trouble (31 page)

I balled my hand into a fist.
Dammit. Son of a bitch
.

“Ask Red about the exclusionary rule,” he said.

“Never mind that. What about your lies?” I swallowed. “Why do you keep hiding things from me?”

“I’m afraid I’ll chase you away. That’s the last thing I want. I may be a liar, but I’m a liar in love.”

“You keep saying that, but I want evidence. Why do you love me?”

“Because I feel it.”

“So when did it start? You didn’t love me when we were teenagers.”

“No, but you were my touchstone. That summer we dated, I was on my way to loving you, but Barb came between us. I went back to her for the worst reason. Because of hormones. Then I grew up and the law made me cynical. I’d lost the ability to feel joy. I was numb. And yet, I was scared. Always scanning the horizon for danger. But when I walked into that pub last June, I saw a beautiful woman who smelled like peaches and vanilla. And calmness poured over me. I fell smack in love.”

“A psychiatrist would say that we make our own joy, O’Malley. We shouldn’t depend on others to make us happy.”

“That’s why people fall in love and stay in love, Teeny. A component of love is how another person makes you feel. And what I feel for you is a forever kind of feeling.”

“If that’s true, you wouldn’t keep things from me. Because the other part of love is sharing your hurt places. Sharing things that might get you in trouble. You have to trust me, Coop. Then I’ll trust you.”

“I can’t promise that I won’t hide things from you. But I’ll try. I’ll try real hard. It’s just about impossible for me to open up. I’m so scared of—” He broke off. There was a rustling sound, followed by a murmur. “Teeny, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

He hung up. A cold pain filled my throat, as if I’d swallowed a mouthful of sorbet. Wherever Coop was, he wasn’t alone. Over the beeping, I’d distinctly heard a woman’s voice.

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, Zee went to Queen of Tarts on Dogwood Avenue. She brought back a spinach quiche and tiny buttermilk pies. Between my busted lip and my bruised pride, I’d developed a ravenous appetite. We polished off the pies and watched
Mulholland Drive
on HBO. By the time it ended, dusk had pooled in the yard and lightning bugs skimmed over the grass. Zee turned the channel and found
The Wizard of Oz
playing again.

I was ready for a hot bath and a cotton nightgown. I was tired of sleuthing. Tired of inventing theories. Each one seemed like a target in a shooting gallery, fast-moving and filled with holes.

Zee nudged my leg. “Let’s go look at the Philpots’ walls.”

“We can’t. If we find something juicy, it won’t be admissible in court. At least, that’s what my boyfriend said.” I explained about the fruit of the poison tree.

“I’d still like to know what Barb Philpot hid on that wall. It might be something about Norris. Maybe she’s got proof he’s a rapist. Because if he is, no woman in Bonaventure is safe. Especially you. If you’re afraid to go, I’ll check it out. Just give me Kendall’s keys. I’ll look around the store. And if I find any clues, I’ll leave them alone.”

“What’s the good of knowing the truth if the law thinks it’s poisoned?” I asked. “I’m not giving you those keys. If you get caught, you’ll end up in jail.”

“I once had a tiny penis in my hand, and I’m still pissed off. If I can put that dirty white pervert in jail, the state of Georgia should give me a reward.”

“They won’t. If you find a confession signed by Norris himself, it won’t hold up in court.”

She held out her hand. “Give me the keys.”

I briefly shut my eyes and channeled my favorite action heroines. Lara Croft, Tomb Raider, black leather, black hair down to my ass. No, I wanted to be Starbuck on
Battlestar Galactica.
A poker-playing, hard-drinking gal with great deltoids. Frack you, cylons. And frack you, too, Norris. Frack your itty-bitty-ness.

I looked up at Zee. “You’re really going to Philpot’s Pharmacy?”

“Yup.”

“The alarm code is Kendall’s birthday.”

“That’s easy. She and I were born the same day. June 24, 1990.”

She wrote down the numbers on a piece of paper. Then she looked up. “So when I get to Philpot’s Pharmacy, I just punch in 6-24-90, right?”

“Unless they changed the code,” I said.

“Huh, I’ll be out of there in a flash. I ran track in high school. Keep the doors locked while we’re gone.”

“We?”

“I’m not going without Asia.” She stood. “Asia? Get in here. We’re going to the drugstore.”

“And leave me alone? I’m going, too.” I heaved myself out of the chair, ran upstairs, and changed into black leotards and a long-sleeved black t-shirt. I grabbed Kendall’s keys and hurried down to the foyer. Light from the television flickered over Sir as he watched the Wicked Witch scribble
Surrender Dorothy
across the sky.

Zee and Asia stood in the foyer. They’d changed clothes, too. Black tennis shoes, stretchy pants, and tops. We climbed into the van and drove past Philpot’s Pharmacy. Asia cut down a side street and parked at the end of an alley. The area was K-shaped, and streetlights shone down on two narrow passages that angled toward side streets. Lester’s store sat in the backbone of the K, between Shamrock’s Shoes and Salt and Battery, a seafood café.

Asia strapped on a tool belt. Each slot held an instrument of pain, if not outright death. Pepper spray, Taser, knife, guns, ammo.

“I thought you were a microbiologist,” I said.

“I am,” he said. “But I also did a tour in Afghanistan.”

“Braggart,” Zee said.

“Quit talking. You’re the lookout.” He put on plastic gloves. “So look.”

Zee crossed her arms, her dreadlocks shaking. “Nuh-uh, I ain’t gonna be no damn lookout.”

“All three of us can’t go inside,” he said. “What if someone drives up?”

She got in his face, nose-to-nose. “Then
you
stay and be the lookout.”

He pressed his index finger against her forehead and pushed her back. “But you’re a good hooter.”

“Hooter?” I asked.

“As in owl. She’ll hoot if anyone comes snooping around, like the po-po.” Asia tossed me a pair of gloves.

I put them on, then I took the key chain out of my pocket.

“Let’s hope one of those suckers fit that lock,” Asia said.

“Wait, Teeny,” Zee said, slipping a paper into my hand. “Here’s the code.”

I followed him around the Dumpster, my shoes digging through loose gravel, and stopped by Philpot’s freight entrance. The metal door had a brass deadbolt. I went though a dozen keys, trying to work them into the lock. Some fit but wouldn’t turn; others would only slide halfway into the grooves.

My hands shook when I pulled out the next-to-the-last key. It glided through the notched holes, and the tumblers clicked. Asia opened the door, and we stepped inside the dark stockroom. Lord, it was hot. A red light blinked frantically on the alarm’s keypad, and the harsh beeps hurt my ears.

“I got the door.” Asia nodded at the box. “Punch in the code, and hurry.”

I glanced at Zee’s paper and punched in the numbers she’d written down, 6-42-90. The red light kept flashing. I punched in the code again, sweat dripping down my neck. Any second now, the siren would go off. The police would come, and we’d all be wearing stripes.

“What’s wrong?” Asia called.

“The code won’t work.”

He ran over and looked at Zee’s paper. “There’s no such thing as June 42nd. She’s dyslexic. She transposed the numbers.”

He leaned toward the panel and tapped in 6-24-90. The beeping stopped. A green light glowed steadily on the panel. I let out a huge breath.

Asia clicked on a halogen flashlight and the beam cut through the shadows, slicing over tall wooden shelves. We found Halloween items on the last aisle. Asia’s light picked out a witch’s hat and a row of plastic pumpkins. I was wringing wet, and it hurt to breathe the dusty air. I riffled through the masks—Dave Letterman, Hillary Clinton, Tweety Bird. But no Bill Clinton.

I pulled out my inhaler and took a puff. “Shine the flashlight on the walls,” I said.

I tracked the beam as it slid over the shelves onto the old bricks.

“There’s nothing here,” Asia said.

“We need to find Lester’s office,” I said.

“I’ll watch the door, but make it fast.” He pushed the flashlight into my hands. “Don’t point the beam toward the windows. Somebody might see. If you hear me holler, stop what you’re doing and haul ass.”

I clamped my fingers over the light and hurried out of the stockroom. A rush of cold air blew over me when I stepped into the dark store. Streetlights cast an eerie green glow through the front windows. I walked toward the raised platform in the rear of the store, Lester’s fiefdom. I glanced from side to side, hoping to see a door or a cubbyhole, anything that might lead to an office. I climbed the platform steps, keeping the beam low. I crept past the long desk where Lester normally stood, past tall shelves that were crammed with pill boxes.

I stepped around a wooden folding screen. The light picked out an oak roll-top desk. The wall above it was covered with photographs of Barb, Lester, Helen, and Norris. Dozens of brass plaques declared Lester to be Pharmacist of the Year, past president of the Rotary Club, and patron of the Bonaventure High Booster.

Drugstore Wall. Photo. White swimsuit
.

I passed the light over the photographs. The very last picture showed a much younger Barb. She sat in a boat, her breasts spilling out of a white two-piece, her legs glossy with suntan oil. One hand gripped a blue leather book, the infamous diary.

I set the flashlight on the desk. My breath was coming in hitches now, but I didn’t have time to use my inhaler. I reached for the picture, turned the frame over, and slid off the cardboard backing. A folded paper sprang up. I held it in front of the light.

It was a computer printout, with sales, dates, organs, prices. The names of tissue banks were listed, too. I searched for Barb’s initials, but the printout was clean.

Sweat ran between my breasts, where Minnie’s ring poked through my shirt like a tumor. I couldn’t take the document. It was the poisoned fruit, and the judge would kick it out of court. Even if the list hadn’t been poisoned, it didn’t incriminate the Philpots. But why had Barb hidden it?

I reached for my flashlight and passed the beam around the room. I hadn’t been able to decode all of the anagrams. I was probably missing a vital clue. But what?

Again, I shone the light on the wall. A small photograph of Emerson smiled down at me. I was tempted to grab it. But the pictures had been hung with mathematical precision, and Lester would notice a gap in the arrangement.

“Teeny? Zee’s hooting,” Asia called. “We’ve got to go.”

I tucked the flashlight between my knees, set the document into the frame, and hung the photograph on the wall, making sure it was straight. Crouching low, I hurried around the screen, off the platform, down the aisle, into the stockroom.

Asia was waiting beside the back door. He set the alarm and locked up. We’d just passed the Dumpster when the hooting stopped. A light swept down one of the narrow passages.

“Run,” Asia whispered. I heard a spit of gravel, then he sprinted around me.

I stumbled after him, my heart banging against my ribs. A light swept toward Philpot’s freight door. A staticky voice echoed between the buildings.

Crap, a walkie-talkie.

Beneath that sound, I heard low voices. A second later, a squatty man stepped around the corner. The streetlight washed over Officer Percy Fitzgerald, Dale’s older brother. A wide-hipped woman with a long chestnut braid crept up behind him.

“I’m not making this up,” she said. “I was driving Momma to the Dairy Queen, and I seen a flashlight moving in the alley. I seen people moving.”

A hand seized my elbow and yanked me against the brick wall. Asia put his finger to my mouth. I tried to pull in a breath, but all I could manage was a teaspoon of air. If I didn’t stave off an asthma attack, I’d start wheezing and we’d end up in jail for sure.

Fitzgerald’s light skimmed past the green freight door and washed upward, to the grimy second-story windows. Fitzgerald turned, and the white arc quivered on the ground. Then it skidded toward me and Asia. As the light swept across the brick wall, Asia pushed me down. The beam passed over our heads and moved to the Dumpster. A rat scurried across the pavement.

“There ain’t nobody here, Lujean,” Percy Fitzgerald said.

“Maybe we chased them off,” the woman said. “Can I go now? Mama gets in a temper if she don’t get her nightly Dilly Bar.”

“Stay out of trouble, Lujean,” Percy said, and the woman scuttled down the narrow passage and was gone.

I pressed my shoulders against the brick wall, hoping the scratchy heat would distract me from a full-blown asthma attack. My inhaler was in my pocket, but I didn’t dare reach for it.

Percy’s light circled the alley again. I took a shallow breath and held it. A scraping sound echoed in my head, and I realized I was grinding my teeth.

Gravel spit under Percy’s shoes. He turned down the passage, muttering to himself about Lujean’s paranoia.

Asia whispered, “One, two, three. Go.”

I bolted to the end of the alley. The van’s lights were off, but the engine hummed. Zee opened the side door, and I ran toward it. But I didn’t have enough air, and a spinning dizziness took hold. I skidded to a stop, braced my hands on my knees, and gasped.

Asia scooped me up and ran the last thirty feet. He tossed me into the ice cold van, then he rolled into the backseat. With the door gaping open, Zee took off, the tires crunching over loose gravel. Asia’s long arm snaked out. He caught the handle and slammed the door.

“Did y’all shut off the alarm?” she yelled, her dreadlocks swaying violently.

“Yeah,” Asia said. “Get the hell out of here.”

My chest sawed, as if I were still running down that alley. I lowered my head to the air-conditioning vent and opened my mouth wide.

“Then who called the police?” Zee asked.

“Someone named Lujean,” Asia said. “She was driving by and got suspicious.”