A Teeny Bit of Trouble (34 page)

“Plastic surgeons make lots of money.” I shrugged.

“Yeah, they make a killing. But even if Son’s not desecrating bodies, he’s a dirt bag. And you, huggy bear, aren’t the best judge of men.”

“The Bible says not to judge.”

“I don’t think He meant men. Otherwise, how’s a girl supposed to winnow out the Judases from the players?” Dot waved her uninjured hand. “Let’s don’t talk about scary things. Remember that time we got into mama’s cooking sherry and we let her budgies loose?”

“They perched on the curtains,” I said. “Doody was everywhere.”

“Remember how one budgie sat on the ceiling fan?” Dot twirled her good finger. “Nothing but a tiny blue dot going around and around. What dumbass named those birds? A budgie sounds like a bulge in a man’s Speedos. Remember the lifeguard at City Pool? He had a bulge. I used to tease him. I’d say, ‘That’s a mighty big budgie you got there. Or is it a cockatoo?’ Get it? One cock or two?”

It didn’t take much to convince Dot to stay for supper. Zee made crab cakes and hushpuppies, Asia fixed a peach-and-watermelon salsa, red rice, sautéed spinach, and skillet corn bread. We applauded when he served dessert: poached peaches, wrapped in a puff pastry crust.

After our dirty plates had been collected, Dot reached for her purse. “I dread going home. I’m such a pussy.”

“What you scared of?” Zee asked.

Dot gave Zee the short version of Norris’s attack, ending with the budgie fiasco. Zee’s eyes changed colors, like brown sugar coming to a boil.

A pulse flickered in Dot’s neck. “I’d like to shove a rattlesnake into Norris’s sigmoid colon. I’d sew his rectum shut.”

“I’ll help,” Zee said.

“You ladies need to relax,” Asia said. “Karma will stomp him into the dirt.”

Dot rubbed her sling. “What if he comes back tonight and finishes me off? I can’t fight him off this time. Not with my hurt arm. I’d be safer at a motel.”

“Don’t do that,” I said. “Stay here.”

I put her in my old room. Then Sir and I walked across the hall and climbed onto Mama’s bed. Noise drifted up from the parlor. Asia and Zee were watching
Repo Men
on HBO.

I wanted to call Coop, but I pushed my face into the pillow and forced myself to concoct a new recipe. Quit-Jumping-to-Conclusions Barbecue Rub would be fabulous on a pork roast. Blend ½ cup brown sugar, ¼ cup paprika, 2 teaspoons chili powder, 1¼ tablespoons dry English mustard, 1½ tablespoons sea salt, 3 tablespoons freshly ground pepper, and ½ tablespoon onion salt. Garlic is optional. Mix ingredients and pat onto the roast. This recipe will coat your hands, too, and you’ll be unable to call your boyfriend.

I pushed down the image of the glistening roast. Then I lifted Mama’s princess phone and called Red. He picked up on the first ring.

“You still mad at me?” he asked.

“This isn’t a social call. Dot Agnew got attacked by Norris. She’s spending the night with me.”

“That good-looking dame? How many people are staying at your house? Sheesh, you ought to charge rent, girlie.”

“Will you let Coop know about the attack?”

“Sure.” He hesitated. “Hey, listen. It’s not on the news yet, but Josh Eikenberry is missing. And, the GBI found the chop shop. A barn on the county line. Outside it had peeling red paint and a rusty roof. Inside, a state-of-the-art surgical suite.”

“Who owns it?”

“Barb Philpot. She bought it six years ago.”

The air filled with black globs and I thought I might faint.

“The Charleston police talked to a new witness,” Red was saying. “A woman fitting Barb’s description was arguing with a skinny man. Blond hair. Tall.”

Keep yourself together, Teeny.
I swallowed, and my throat clicked. “Son Finnegan isn’t skinny. So you need to keep looking. Lots of men fit that description.”

“And you need to watch yourself.” Red paused. “This particular guy is a killer.”

thirty

Tuesday morning sunlight blasted into my room. I put on a black J’adore t-shirt and tucked the necklace inside. Then I slipped into a blueberry-and-chocolate taffeta skirt. It had a built-in crinoline petticoat that made the skirt fan out like a bell around my ankles. The pockets were good and deep, too, perfect for tucking away candy, peaches, and my inhalers.

I tiptoed past Dot’s room and crept down to the kitchen. I’d just finished making cheese grits when she walked in. “I had the most wonderful dream,” she said. “Leonardo DiCaprio kissed me. Do you think he’d do that in real life?”

“Why not?” I smiled.

“Maybe he’d like me better if I got breast implants.” She stared at her sunken-in chest.

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “You look like a
Vogue
model.”

“Speaking of fashion, I love your outfit.” She bent closer. “But you’ve got a tumor on your chest. It’s poking through your shirt.”

I lifted the necklace and held out the ring.

Dot’s eyes blinked open wide. “That’s the biggest diamond I ever saw.”

“Too big.”

She cupped her hand against my cheek. “Coop doesn’t fit your life. But Son Finnegan does. I hope he’s not a murderer. If he’s not, you should go after him. Me and you and DiCaprio can double-date.”

I turned back to the stove. “Have some coffee and grits.”

“Smells wonderful, but I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to feed my budgies and face my fears.”

After she left, Zee wandered into the room, wearing a long Garfield the Cat nightshirt. “I don’t want to worry you,” she said. “But Asia saw a man creeping around your house around three a.m. We chased him, but he got away.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. Long blond hair.”

My stomach pitched. Son Finnegan had been snooping?

The phone trilled. Zee answered, and her brow tightened. She lowered the receiver. “It’s some old lady named Miss Emma.”

I took the receiver. “Hi, this is Teeny.”

“Child, I’ve been trying to reach you,” Miss Emma said. “I called Irene’s and a man told me to call your farm. He was very rude.”

“What’s going on, Miss Emma?”

“I wrote something on my wall,” she said. “And you need to see it.”

*   *   *

Miss Emma stood on her porch, a black beret perched jauntily on her head. She led me into the sunroom. In the center of the wall, she’d painted a giant spider. Above the insect, she’d written two names,
Barb
and
Uma.

I stepped closer to the wall, my taffeta skirt rustling. The spider was the size and color of a coconut, but with legs. “Who’s Uma?”

“It was just on the tip of my forked tongue,” Miss Emma said.

The nurse walked into the room, holding a tray. “Uma Cox,” the nurse said. “She’s a tarantula breeder. She lives across the street from the Philpots. A few months ago, Uma and Barb had a falling out.”

“Over what?” I asked.

“Landscaping,” the nurse said. “Barb was into flowers, and Miss Uma likes the scorched earth policy. You can’t miss her house. It’s the only one in town without grass.”

I drove straight to Musgrove Square. Two police cars were parked in front of the Philpots’ house. Had they come to arrest Norris for attempted rape? I squinted, hoping to catch a glimpse of Emerson, but all of the windows were shuttered.

My truck backfired, and I parked in front of Miss Uma’s house, which was made out of brown stucco and sat in a patch of dirt. The yard was littered with holes, as if a giant hand had descended, yanking out the shrubbery and trees. I rang the doorbell, and an elderly woman let me in. She was dressed head-to-foot in white: shoes, socks, pants, blouse. Even her walker had been painted white. I couldn’t help but smile a real smile, because this woman fit my image of the perfect grandmother. She had a hump on her back, as if someone had dropped a cantaloupe down the back of her blouse. Her thick eyeglasses magnified watery blue eyes.

“Are you Uma Cox?” I asked.

“Why, yes,” she said. “Are you here to buy a tarantula?”

“No, ma’am. I just have a few questions.”

“I’m always happy to discuss arachnoids.” She smiled, and her face dissolved into deep furrows, the skin red and puckered like a baked apple. “Prospective tarantula owners rarely come to visit,” she added. “Mainly I deal with pet stores. But I can give you a discount.”

I stepped into a warm, dark hallway. A green smell rushed up my nose, making me think of forests and wet stones. In the distance, I heard crickets.

“This way, dear.” Her walker scooted over the floor. I followed her into a large, gloomy parlor. White sheets covered the furniture. The windows were covered with mossy, polka-dotted draperies. Framed certificates hung on the wall: Arachnoids of the South, National Tarantula Club, The Georgia Spider Society.

She saw me looking and smiled. “I’m the vice president of the ASS. That’s the American Society of Spiders? They’re having a convention this year in Las Vegas, but I can’t go. I can’t find a house sitter. Nor can I find a repairmen. They’ve stomped on many a prize-winning specimen. Even I myself have to be careful. That’s why I wear white.”

I felt a ticklish sensation on my ankle, and I whooshed my skirt from side to side. When I didn’t see a brown, furry object, I relaxed.

Uma led me into an alcove where aquariums sat on iron stands. Each tank held several inert brown objects.

“Here are my best sellers—Grammostola rosea.” Uma pointed a gnarled finger at a tank. “Better known as the Chilean Rose. They’re quite docile. Though if you want something feisty, I have some Costa Rican Zebra spiderlings. Don’t be frightened. The tarantula has been maligned by Hollywood. They rarely bite. But if they do, it’s no worse than a wasp sting. Rarely fatal.”

“That’s good to know.” My “oh shit” smile slid into place.

“Sorry about the heat,” she said. “I keep the thermostat on seventy-nine. My darlings don’t like direct sun. But other than that, the G. rosea is an easy pet. I prefer them to dogs. No barking. No vaccinations. No housetraining.”

I nodded. Aunt Bluette had been just as passionate about her orchard. “And spiders don’t need daily exercise,” I said.

“Oh, no. You can walk them,” Uma said. “I know a lady who makes little bitty leashes. The cutest things you ever saw. They come in assorted colors. So you can match the leash to your outfit.”

While she talked about arachnoids, I scanned the room. The polka dots on the draperies rearranged themselves. I blinked. Yes, the dots were moving.

I turned back to her. She brushed something out of her hair. A furry body plopped onto a sheet-covered chair and scurried away. “A lot of people don’t see the value of owning a tarantula,” she said. “But I hope you will.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Years ago, Edgar Eikenberry bought a Costa Rican Zebra for his son. It bit the boy, didn’t hardly leave a mark, but Edgar threatened to sue me.”

I could totally see the Eikenberrys doing this.

“And last year, one of my escaped Chileans bit a plumber. I didn’t get my faucet repaired, and I had to pay for his medical bills. I’ve been sued many times—once for slander.”

The word
slander
made my saliva turn into cement. I still hadn’t discovered the connection between Uma and Barb. But if I didn’t leave, and soon, the heat would set off my asthma.

I pointed at the windows. “When I drove up, three police cars were in front of the Philpots’ house.”

“Humph.” Uma steered her walker over to the window and parted the curtains, then her lips moved. “One, two … I’m counting four cars. Wonder if that little girl ran away again?”

“Did the Philpots ever buy a spider for their daughter?”

“Barb tried. But I refused.”

“Why?” I felt something crawl up my foot. I looked at my shoe. Nothing.

“She called my yard an eyesore. I have a time getting someone to mow my lawn. I can’t do it anymore. I’m eighty-three. I can’t tend to flowers or shrubs. So I had everything dug up. The grass, too.”

A dot fell off the curtain and scuttled up her arm. “This spring, Barb got a petition against me. She dropped it when I threatened to tell her husband about her lover. Not that I’m a voyeur or anything. But my bedroom window looks straight into hers.”

Uma gently lifted the tarantula off her arm and set it back on the curtain. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. So I used binoculars.”

“I guess you saw plenty,” I said.

“I hated to watch,” Uma said. “But I was afraid Barb would hit me with a new petition. So I videotaped her and Dr. Finnegan. It was this position, that position.” Uma flicked her hand. “And when they weren’t doing gymnastics, they talked. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but it looked like they were plotting a terrorist attack.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “You’re sure it was Son Finnegan?”

“He’s my plastic surgeon. He took a mole off my shoulder. All he did to Barb was take off her clothes. She was a nasty woman. I hope Dr. Finnegan didn’t catch a disease.”

On my way out of the house, I promised Uma that I’d read up about the G. rosea. I hurried down the sidewalk, trying not to gawk at the police cars.

When I got home, the driveway was empty. I unlocked the door and Sir ran over to me, sniffing my shoes. I blinked down at him. “Do I smell like a spider?”

Definitely, his eyes said.

“Where’s Asia and Zee?” I asked him.

Sir looked toward the door and sighed.

“They’ll be back,” I said. The petticoat was itching my skin, making me think spiders were crawling up my leg. I jerked up the skirt. No spiders. Just nerves. But I was sticky hot, so I ran up to Mama’s room. I left on the J’adore shirt, then I stepped out of the skirt and put it on a hanger. I put on shorts and ran down to the kitchen.

Emerson burst through the back door, pigtails flying, the stuffed hedgehog dangling by one ear. She dove against me, smelling of sweat and dirt. I put my hand on her head, smoothing her damp hair. I thought of the police cars I’d seen at her house. “What’s the matter, honey?”

“The test came back,” she said, her voice muffled against my shirt. “Nobody’s my daddy. Not Mr. Philpot. Not Coop. I’m nobody’s child.”

I knew she was waiting for me to speak, but my knees buckled as the full force of her words swept through me. She lifted her face, eyes brimming. “I want to live with you and Coop.”