“My brother is in a nursing home. May I help you?”
“I’m so sorry about LeRoy. How long has he been ill?”
“Oh, awhile, now. More than a year.”
Yet Vernice Urich received weekly ACH payments from his account. Dixie dialed Beatrice French, listed at the address noted in her financials. The number had been disconnected.
Only five Aichisons listed. Dixie started at the top. On the third, a male voice informed her, “My mother’s bedridden. Tell me your name again.”
“Flannigan, but I don’t know Dolly Mae. I’m calling for Vernice Urich, a psychologist who treated your mother before her infirmity.”
“I remember Mother speaking of her.” All suspicion fell from the man’s voice. “I’m afraid I wasn’t in town during those days, but Dr. Urich helped Mother through a bad patch after Dad died.”
“Do you receive a periodic accounting for the balance owed?”
“I wasn’t aware of any balance.”
By the time Dixie ended the conversation, Dolly Mae’s son intended to request a full audit of his mother’s accounts. Dixie tried the final number.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Rose Yenik?”
“Yes, this is Rose.”
Dixie gave her name. “Ms. Yenik, I consulted with Vernice Urich this week. I believe you’re also her patient.”
“Oh, yes. I enjoyed Vernice very much. I hope she’s well.”
“How long since you saw her?”
“Why, my goodness. Six months, I suppose. Time moves like a snail, doesn’t it?”
For some, perhaps.
“Did you feel you received adequate service for the large balance still owed?”
Silence, and then, “Vernice and I explored many interesting ideas, and I received full value for my dollar. But you’re mistaken about any balance due. I paid every week, regular as clockwork.”
“By check?”
“Oh, no. My bank handled the payments directly. By computer.”
… those damn computers. Once they start messing with
your money, watch out.
Carl had hit it on the nose that time. How many more of Vernice’s patients continued paying long after treatment ended? For the financially uninformed, like Dixie, who loathed balancing a checkbook, this sort of fraud could go undetected for years. And Dixie hadn’t any idea how to untangle this sort of crime. She urged Rose Yenik to contact her bank about the ACH transfers.
At least Vernice’s patients considered their money well spent—the part they knew about, anyway. What had Parker said?
The only difference between a good salesperson and a con artist is the value of the product.
Paraphrased.
Looking back on her day at Artistry Spa, Dixie didn’t begrudge the expense. She’d enjoyed being pampered for four hours—the sauna, the massage, Kitchi’s soothing hands and motherly suggestions to “nurture her skin as well as her soul.” Lonnie’s endless flattery.
They hadn’t seemed false at the time, but rather funny and sweet. Perhaps Dixie didn’t have the daintiest nose in the world, or the longest legs, or the sexiest mouth. Her eyebrows were too straight and her fingers too short. But she
did
have good skin. And her hair
was
rather luxurious. Lonnie had focused on her positive attributes and ignored or downplayed the negatives. He didn’t need to lie to his clients to make them feel good and keep them returning.
And what the hell, Dixie’d earned the damn money. Better to blow it on a good time than leave it in a bank for someone to swipe.
Instead of pulling on her usual T-shirt and cotton underwear, she found a pair of yellow silk pajamas, a birthday present from Amy. Settled in front of the television with milk and Oreos, she tuned in
Enchanted April.
The phone rang. This time the caller ID window remained blank.
“Hello?”
“Dixie Flannigan?” The male voice sounded familiar.
“Yes.”
“Mike Tesche. Your number’s on the volunteer list at the women’s center. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No. What’s up, Mike?”
“At the moment, nothing. In fact, I’m enjoying the first free evening I’ve had in a while …”
Why did “free” sound so much better than “alone”?
“… but tomorrow’s a full day for me—starting two new YMCA classes. I expressed my regrets to your sister when she called, and I wanted to tell you personally how sorry I am to miss Edna’s party. I think it’s a terrific idea.”
Dixie agreed. “Thoughtful of you to call.”
“After you kick up your heels at the party, remember our invitation to join the Sundown Ceremony tomorrow.”
While Parker was showing his boat… inviting Mud along, but not her. A sundown whatever-the-hell sounded great.
She scanned the counter for the invitation. “Was that
this
Sunday?”
“Yes, and don’t worry if you’ve lost the directions. I’ll fax you the map.”
“Tell me again, what’s a Sundown Ceremony?”
“Not as mysterious as it may sound. My advanced students get together for fellowship, conversation, modest refreshments, and to renew their commitments.”
“Commitments to what?”
“Whatever they’re committed to—exercise, diet, health, emotional well-being. My commitment is to stay in touch. You know how sometimes we think about making a call, and we don’t, and months later we wish we had but it’s too late? I don’t want that to happen with you. You’ll meet some interesting people. And the food’s good.”
“How many people?” Dixie didn’t enjoy crowds.
“Twelve, counting you.”
Enough to find at least one common interest, and not so many she’d feel claustrophobic. “What do I wear?”
“Anything casual and comfortable. We start with a few stretches and some meditation.”
“Is this going to be a workout?”
He chuckled. “Nothing strenuous, I promise. Twenty minutes of easy movement to release the day’s tension.”
Actually, it sounded good. She could use a few squats and kicks right now. Or twenty minutes of hard sex.
“Do I have to answer tonight?”
His hesitation stretched until she wondered if he was still
there, then he replied, “A ‘yes’ now would be terrific. And if you find later that you can’t make it, we’ll only need an hour’s notice to find another twelfth.”
The mellow tones of Mike’s voice bounced against her ribs like the soft beat of bongo drums. Why not be a “twelfth”? She gave Mike her fax number, a qualified “yes,” and listened to his voice some more as he described the difference between his men’s and women’s workouts.
When she finally cradled the phone, Dixie felt better than she had all evening. Watching the movie, she painted that final nail, reviewed Ted Tally’s drawings, and decided for once not to follow her instincts.
Keep your nose out of this
, said the cautionary voice in her head—which sounded a whole lot like Rashly’s, at the moment.
You’ll piss off the entire cop community.
Nevertheless, she intended to finish the job she’d started that day. She might squirm at questioning the bereaved families of police officers, but if the murders were related to Art Harris or Ted Tally, rather than the Granny Bandit robberies, then somebody had to do it.
Sunday
Officer Theodore Tally is survived by his mother Barbara and his brother Raymond.
The obituary didn’t provide an address, but the B. Tally listed in the phone book lived close enough to young Ted that Dixie took a chance. After her usual brief Sunday visit to Carla Jean in the nursing home, she’d already struck out again with Ann Harris. No answer to her knock. No car visible through the garage window.
A Cyclone fence surrounded a rather plain white shingle house at the Tally address. In the yard, an enormous live oak tree prevented grass from growing, and the St. Augustine that did grow could use a mowing, but none of that mattered with such a rich tapestry of greens to enjoy—ivy, monkey grass, and other ground cover.
When Dixie knocked, a woman with gray hair and steady gray eyes answered the door. She looked twig-brittle and much smaller than in the photo on Ted’s bookshelf.
“Mrs. Tally?” Behind the woman, Dixie recognized the couple who had surprised her and Marty at Ted’s house. “I’m Dixie Flannigan. I apologize for calling at a difficult time, but I—”
“She’s a bounty hunter,” said the man. Officer Raymond Tally had his brother’s good looks, with or without the uniform. He moved to stand behind his mother. “I’ve heard your name around the station. You turned in Jimmy Voller last week.”
From his face and tone of voice, Dixie figured a bounty hunter was a step up from a two-headed toad, but he’d like to take a good look at the toad before he squashed it.
“Would you mind if I came in for a few minutes?”
“What for?”
“Ray! Mind your manners.” Tiny Barbara Tally gave her towering son a look that sent him back a step. “Come on in, Ms. Flannigan.”
“Thank you. I promise not to take much of your time.” Amy expected her at Edna’s viewing in less than an hour.
“That’s all right,” Barbara assured her. “Ray, move that sweater so the lady can sit down. Ms. Flannigan, this is my daughter-in-law Catherine, and my son Raymond.”
In her panic to escape the previous day, Dixie hadn’t noticed the woman at Ted’s house was pregnant—several months along and as clear-skinned gorgeous as pregnant women are expected to be. Beneath a smooth cap of dark auburn hair, narrow brown eyes gazed at Dixie with interest. She sat at a bar that separated the compact living area from the kitchen. Dixie nodded a greeting as Barbara continued speaking.
“Bounty hunters find people, if I’m not mistaken. Criminals. Do you intend to find my son’s murderer?”
“Not without a bounty,” Ray said. “And I haven’t heard of any reward being offered.” He smiled at Dixie without a trace of humor. “Or is that why you’re here?”
“No.” Dixie returned his hard smile. “This is one killer we all want to take off the streets.”
“Then keep out of the way. Let people who know what they’re doing get the job done.”
“Ray Tally! You will not speak impolitely to a guest in my home. I want to hear what the lady has to say.”
“Actually, all I have are questions, Mrs. Tally. Ted and Art Harris were both interested in local gang activity. I’m wondering if their killer might have used the robberies as a blind, to draw suspicion away from personal motivation.”
“The task force will investigate that possibility,” Ray insisted.
“And if so,” Dixie continued, ignoring him, “could the motive be related to a gang or a gang member they’d singled out?”
Ray’s hard gaze turned thoughtful.
Barbara focused a challenging stare at her son. “Will you tell her, or will I?”
He threw out his hands. “Go ahead, Ma. You’ve got the floor.”
“Then make yourself useful. Bring us a cold drink. Ms. Flannigan, we have Dr Pepper, orange soda, and iced tea, all sugar-free. Which would you like?”
“Whichever you’re having will be fine.”
“We didn’t always live in this lovely neighborhood,” Barbara said. “My sons grew up in my husband’s family home. When their grandparents built the house, they were surrounded by good people. But things changed. The good people moved away, or died, and trash moved in. Don’t take that as an economic slur, or a racial, or religious, or any other kind of slur. When I say trash, I mean trash.
Nasty, hateful, wicked
trash. My husband worked long hours, but he always had time for his sons. That wasn’t true of other fathers. Single mothers lived all around us, most of them on drugs.”
Ray returned with their drinks, diet orange.
“Thanks, Ray.” His mother smiled up at him.
“You bet.”
Dixie liked the look that passed between them, full of humor and love and respect. “Thank you,” she told him.
Barbara took a long pull on the soda before continuing her story.
“Ted’s best friend was being harassed by a bunch of young bucks who thought the world ought to bow down and lick their sneakers. I don’t know exactly what happened—something to do with money the boy refused to give up. Ted and Peter—that was the boy’s name—walked home from school after staying late for Peter’s band practice. Seven boys grabbed them, pulled them back behind a fence. Ted got bruised up good for fighting them, but it wasn’t him they were after. They took Peter’s saxophone for the money they said he owed, but that wasn’t enough. They kicked and punched the boy until he couldn’t move. Spray-painted his face red. And then they stabbed him. All the while, they’re holding Ted and forcing him to watch it. When they finally ran off, Ted was afraid to leave his friend and find help, so he picked the boy up and
carried
him the three blocks home. Peter was dead before they got there.”
Barbara had told the whole story with those steady gray eyes aimed straight at Dixie.
“I suppose you could say Ted was strong on bringing down gangs and terrorists,” Ray added.
“Strong, yeah,” his wife put in. “I saw him stop a kid once for wearing a blue bandanna around his ankle. Ted drove him home, ripped the bandanna in half, gave it to the kid’s father, and explained for nearly an hour what the gang colors and hand signs mean.”
“Do you know of any specific groups Ted tightened down on?” Dixie asked. “Groups who had the means to retaliate with a high-powered rifle at nearly five hundred yards?”
“Not something we talked about,” Ray said.
“When I spend time with my sons,” Barbara added, “it’s family time. I tell them, leave work outside the door.”
“I suppose that’s all I have, then.” Dixie rose. “I appreciate your time and … your willingness to talk.”
“We’re the ones to thank you,” Barbara told her. “Maybe you’ll find my son’s killer, maybe you won’t. But the more good people like you who’re looking, the harder for that demon to hide.”
As Dixie said her good-byes, she thought of one more question, but hesitated. She saw Ray notice the hesitation.
“I need to stretch my legs,” he told his wife. “Think I’ll walk Ms. Flannigan to her car.”
Outside, Dixie said, “I’m familiar with most of the gang symbols. But one I haven’t seen before. A red triangle on a blue background, with a gold letter ‘P’ in the center.”
Ray shook his head. “Ted had some sketches. Probably the same ones you stole from his house.”