Authors: Nadja Bernitt
“No. Don’t call them yet, not unless he enters the shop. And, Jason, lock the doors and stay put. I’m on my way.”
# # #
She hung up the phone, slowly, deliberately. Paw Paw’s gun cabinet and its formidable cache of weapons drew her eye—not that she needed another firearm. But it got her thinking that there might be more creative tools in Becky’s workroom arsenal, something to cut glass with, or a tool to pick a lock when she arrived at the shop. She needed to create a diversion. She also needed backup, but not just yet. The desire to face her mother’s killer overrode her professional training. She steeled herself for what lay ahead.
M
eri Ann viewed Jason’s Victorian house the way a climber views Mount Everest: with determination, respect, and great trepidation. She parked down the block from Chez Jay’s and approached from the back on foot. She searched the foliage, looking for a human form or a glint of steel in the moonlight. No sign of Graber, although his truck was there.
The house was dark, except for what appeared to be a nightlight on in the main salon. She hugged the shrub line bordering the property and studied the back of the house, looking for motion lights or some other form of security system. She remembered cameras at the front and back doors but wondered if there were others. Lucky for her, there was nothing on either side of the house, not even flood lights.
Next, she inspected the perimeter for access to the basement, but the only windows in the foundation were at the front of the house, which would make her a target. She circled around to the narrow side yard, where she spotted an old metal fire escape leading up to a third-story dormer. That would do, because if this person expected her to enter through the front or back door, he would be mistaken.
The song on the cassette had confused her, as did Jason’s call. And right now she had no idea what was going on inside the shop or who was behind it. It couldn’t be good. Jason’s intentions might be straightforward, but if someone you believe kills for fun comes skulking around your house an hour before midnight with a shotgun, you call the cops—not a visiting detective.
She had never suspected him, neither had the detectives. Still, her mother had kept weekly hair appointments with him. They shared gossip, jokes, and perhaps secrets. But then he shared secrets with dozens of women. His business mandated personal relationships. A deeply personal connection to her mother seemed remote. He preferred women like Renee, a totally opposite personality type.
She reminded herself that he was in trouble. The lyrics of the tape, implying Robin Wheatley played in her head. But his car wasn’t in the parking lot. Harold Graber’s was. Before the night ended, she would know the point of the tape and who had sent it.
She wore her backpack on her chest, which gave her easy access to the tools or revolver, as she needed them. She checked her watch. Her diversion would arrive in a matter of minutes. She hunkered down under the cover of an overgrown privet hedge, breathing the chill night air.
Three minutes later, she spotted a Pizza Hut delivery car, heard the breaks screech to a stop. The car door opened and slammed shut, and she jumped to her feet, every muscle in her body taut.
Footsteps hastened up the wooden porch stairs. The doorbell rang, rang, and rang; the absurd tune of “charge” repeated each time. Seconds later another car door slammed. Mama Mia’s Pizza had arrived, still another smokescreen.
She started up the ladder, mentally patting herself on the back, listening to the second deliveryman’s footsteps pound up the front steps. Then the two angry male voices hot in accusation. One announced loudly he’d go to the backdoor. She hated to stiff them, but if all went well, she’d make it up to them.
She was already six feet up the ladder, her head arched back. Thirty feet to go. Thank God she didn’t fear heights. The sturdy metal ladder held just fine. With each rung up she prayed to make it inside undetected.
# # #
Jack sat in his Blazer across from the Basque Center’s bar. He debated whether to go in and enjoy a nightcap or to head for home. He also considered calling Meri Ann, but there’d been no answer the last time. He figured she might have gone to her aunt’s, since she and Becky left the club separately. He felt sorry about that, and ticked off at Kari for dredging up trouble. Hell she was trouble. He frowned, just thinking of her, glad he’d escaped the reception without having her corner him. He sighed, glanced at the neon Miller sign in the window and decided to head inside. He’d visit with Pablo and watch a little football on ESPN.
The bar was moderately busy and about what he expected for eleven o’clock on a Friday night. “Hey, Pablo,” he said as he crossed to his familiar stool at the far end.
The bartender sidled up, slapped down a napkin and studied the tuxedo suspiciously. “All decked out and nowhere to go?”
“Been there and back. My buddy got married today, joined the ranks of the country club set. So many people ass to elbow, you know what I mean? I needed to get the hell out of there.” He loosened his tie and undid the top button on his dress shirt. “So here I am.”
“What’s your pleasure, Jack? Suds? Boiler maker? Johnny Walker? Jack Daniels?”
“All good fellows.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lusting for all of it but tired of drinking too. He frowned. “Got any coffee?”
Pablo grinned with his eyes and nodded. “Just put on a pot ten minutes ago.” He served up a cup in a grainy ironstone mug. “Sorry, we’re out of milk.”
“No problem. I take it black and sweet.”
Pablo rustled up two sorry-looking sugar packets, pushed them beside the cup. “I read where you found out who killed that woman back in ‘87. How’d you figure the killer was a woman?”
Jack sipped the coffee and let the warm steam moisten his face. “Can’t talk about the details, yet. Trust me, it all worked out.” Yet something about the suicidal confession bothered him. There was no specific concern he could chew on or mention to Dillon. Still the miniscule increments of doubt piled up in his craw, and every now and then he wondered about Harold Graber.
He stared at the big screen TV, watching the tail end of the LA Lakers tearing into Portland’s Trailblazers—no football tonight. He sipped his coffee, not really caring one way or the other about the score. His mind was on Meri Ann, wishing she were here so they could talk before she left. Maybe he’d drive by Becky’s and see her there. Not that he’d bare his misgivings about the case, but he just had a yen to say hi, see if she was okay.
# # #
The lock on the dormer window at the top of the fire escape was broken and the ordeal with a glasscutter unnecessary. Meri Ann opened the bottom sash slowly and slipped inside as quiet an entry as any second-story man. A streetlight cast a wedge of light across the pine plank floor, enough to see the room was used for storage and full to the brim with more collectibles: old cameras, stuffed animals, farm equipment and 78 rpm records. It smelled of old fur and camphor. She passed through quickly on her way to the hall and the stairs.
Before venturing down, she adjusted the five-inch Bowie knife strapped to her leg. It would serve as backup—thank you, Paw Paw. She also carried a half dozen skeleton keys she’d found among the gun collection. On previous visits to Chez Jay’s, she noticed the old fashioned hardware and keyholes. No locked door would keep her out. Before opening the attic door, she removed Mendiola’s revolver from her backpack. The piece felt awkward, the grip too big for her hand. But what could she do? This wasn’t a church social, and she needed protection.
Lucky for her the door opened without a squeak.
Her adrenaline pumped, dilating her eyes to the point where she practically saw in the dark. She felt superhuman, a cross between a stealth machine and a predatory cat, and at the same time, a quaking, fearful child. It was like being two opposite people under the same skin, one ready to fight like a warrior and the other ready to bolt like a coward. Still she continued.
She stopped at the second story landing, listening. She got down on her knees, placed her ear on the dusty plank floor and listened some more. There was movement below, the sound of wood scraping wood. She eased down two stairs and breathed in the acrid smell of cordite. Someone had fired a gun.
B
ecky lay on the bed in the apartment flat on her back, hands folded on her breast like an Egyptian mummy. Sumbitch if she didn’t feel dead.
Twenty minutes ago, Meg’s car engine rumbled to life. She’d gone to the window and watched Meri Ann take off, probably for Pauline’s but without any baggage. So what did that mean, that she’d leave her stuff and come back? Some nerve.
Then another thought struck Becky. Meri Ann might have gone after Graber. If he was the murderer… if… then what were Meri Ann’s chances? She hadn’t even given her Renee’s cell phone. Becky’s belly ached from the thought, and it felt as if a Boise High linebacker had punched her in the gut.
She rubbed her stomach and mumbled, “Who gives a rat’s tail what happens to her?”
Yet her conscience nagged her. In her toughest times she’d turned to Meri Ann, told her things might make a priest cringe, things she’d stored in her soul, things she told God in her prayers. She had written Meri Ann into her last will and testament. They were sisters.
Were
sisters.
Tears spilled from her eyes while she conjured an image of Meri Ann driving up to Graber’s in the black of night, her wide-set brown eyes flashing with venom. All that talk about finding him before she called in the law, and what if Graber knew that? What if he was lying in wait for her?
Becky dried her eyes. She owed Meri Ann something; at least a call to Mendiola to tell him stupid-ass Meri Ann had taken off for parts unknown.
She pushed herself up and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, face cradled in her hands. Mendiola’s number was in the kitchen in River House. It took her ten minutes to gather enough energy to get up and make her way down the apartment’s stairs and across to the house. Every step in that direction made her want to puke.
Lies hurt worse than anything did, and Meri Ann had hurt her bad.
Becky stepped into the kitchen. A note on the table drew her eye. Without a doubt she knew who had written it and wished she had the guts to wad it into a ball and toss it in the garbage. Yet, she couldn’t resist reading it.
I’m
sick
about
what
I
did,
Becky,
and
I
understand
why
you
don’t
want
to
see
me.
I’ve
gone
to
Aunt
Pauline’s,
but
I
won’t
leave
Boise
without
talking
to
you.
Love,
Meri
Ann.
Becky’s worries eased. So much for calling Mendiola. Pauline might be ornery, but she wasn’t dangerous. She wasn’t Harold Graber.
Becky searched the refrigerator for something to eat. Stomachache or not, she was hungry.
# # #
Birdie massaged his biceps, reminded he was tired, but exhilarated too. The pizza deliverymen at the door had spooked him. No doubt their appearance was a ploy by Meri Ann to mask her entrance. A clever one, too. When the commotion began, he’d rushed to the back door to intercept her. He held a slip-knotted nose and a .45 pistol at the ready. But there was no sign of her on the security monitor, no knock-down-the-door entry with blazing guns, only the acne-faced delivery boy with the cardboard pizza box balanced on the palm of his hand. The boy gazed fish-eyed at the camera lens.
Birdie watched until he left, then returned to Harold Graber. The lanky heap of bones had curled into a fetal position on the floor, too injured to do more than crawl. He grasped his wounded side and moaned with the soulful resignation of a man who’d made peace with death.
Birdie thrust the toe of his Italian boot into Harold’s ribs. “So where is she?”
Harold’s head lolled and he squinted in pain. “Leave her alone.”
Birdie snagged a towel from the second work-station chair and wiped the man’s blood from his boot. “Filth. You stink of foul birds. Look at you, your coat is garbage. And your mangy hair, you’re disgusting. You never deserved Joanna’s friendship, the nearness of her. Consider yourself lucky, Birdman. Hang on and you’ll see her one more time.”
Harold shook his head groggily like a drunkard. “What are you talking about?”
“Joanna, as she was. A living, breathing Joanna. Hair flowing.” He entertained a fleeting vision of himself as a schoolboy, combing his mother’s luscious auburn hair. The incredible, sensuous privilege… .
Harold groaned while Birdie latched onto his arm, dragging the wretch through his own blood trail. Moving the sluggish body was like single-handedly moving a mattress. “Help me, you toad.” He grunted as he pushed him into the first work-station chair. “She’ll be here any minute.”
He’d planned for Meri Ann to see Harold first. She assumed he was the killer, although the tape he’d mailed might have offered still another clue. Once she made her entry, realization would take three or four seconds, even for her. Time enough for him to subdue her and tie her to the chair. He licked his lips in anticipation. He foresaw the night as long and fulfilling. She had her mother’s face. That alone answered his prayers.
He checked Harold’s wrist, felt the weak pulse. “You might live long enough to see her.”
Harold’s breath was labored, his eyes wide. “She’s too smart… called the police.”
“Not a chance,” Birdie said. “She expects her moment when you confess and tell her why and how you killed her mother. Everyone wants to know why. She won’t trust the trigger happy cops, the chance that a fatal gunshot might take you out before she learns what really happened.”