Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) (16 page)

"Not bad," Stone said, smiling. "From 'birdbrain' to 'dear, sweet gentleman' in less
than five minutes."

* * *

Harriet soon joined us with her own cup of coffee. When she sat down on her rusty
bucket, we heard more creaking and cracking come out of a one-hundred-pound body than
you'd expect to hear out of a ninety-year-old house. It made me think of spraying
WD-40 on an old screen door. As she sat down, she let out a sound that resembled air
being let out of a tire. It must be dogged determination that kept this old woman
going the way she did, not always accomplishing a heck of a lot, but burning off a
lot of nervous energy in the process. She was like the embodiment of the Energizer
Bunny. Just watching her flitting around the place wore me out.

"Ya going to get on to them chores today, sonny?" Harriet asked Stone.

"Yes, ma'am, right after I finish my coffee," he replied. Then he looked over at my
questioning expression, smiled, and said, "I promised Harriet that I'd replace the
guts in a couple of her toilet tanks and look at the electrical wiring in the attic
for her. She's got a couple of outlets that aren't working properly. I'm kind of a
jack of all trades when it comes to home maintenance and general handyman stuff."

"What a nice guy you are, Stone."

"I have my moments, I guess."

"Iffing ya got time, can ya replace a couple boards on the front porch too?" Harriet
asked.

Stone chuckled. "Sure, Harriet."

"Reckon ya can take a look-see at my Lincoln too? Made a heap lot of noise the last
time I drove 'er. I thinks it were August—maybe."

"You drive a Lincoln?" he asked. I know he was trying to picture this tiny, hundred-pound
lady behind the wheel of a block-long vehicle.

"Yep, got one of dem Continentals. Bought 'er new in seventy-eight. The feller there
at the car store told me to bring 'er in fer an earl change when I got three thousand
miles on 'er."

"You mean he told you to have the oil changed every three thousand miles?"

"No, he said 'when you get 'er up to three—' "

Stone cut in. "Harriet, do you mean you've just now put three thousand miles on your
twenty-five-year-old car?"

"Well, not quite, but it's getting close to that many. Food store's only a few blocks
down, and I walks there unless I gots to git lots of stuff."

"So this is the first time you've put new oil in it, in the twenty-five years you've
owned it?"

"Yep, just doing like the feller said. Hell, the gas in 'er was put in about ninety-nine,
I'd reckon. Getting perty good mileage in 'er, iffing ya ask me."

"Hmm, okay," Stone said, wide-eyed. "Maybe I should give the old girl a thorough check-up.
Only putting a few miles a year on a car can be tough on them. The oil should be changed
a couple of times a year, at the very least, no matter how many miles are put on the
engine. It may take a jackhammer to get the old oil out of her. And the gas can turn
to shellac if it sits in a tank that long."

"Yeah, well—whatever, sonny. Still runs good, so just give 'er a look-see when you
gits time."

"Okay, no problem," Stone said. "I'll look the Lincoln over real good for you. I just
can't imagine a 1978 Continental with less than three thousand miles on it."

"Well, it were a 'demo,' or that's what that car store feller called it. Damn fool
joyriding salesman had already put eleven or twelve hunderd on it 'fore I got it."

Stone just shook his head slowly back and forth, with his chin cupped in his hand.
"Tell you what, Harriet. Why don't you make me a list of everything you need fixed,
replaced, or inspected, and I'll work my way through it as I have time."

"All righty, and maybe I could give ya a break on yer rent," she offered, hesitantly.

"No, I wouldn't think of charging you, Harriet. I enjoy doing that kind of thing and
it is really no bother at all. I'll let you pay for any parts or materials needed,
but I'll donate the labor. Sound fair enough?"

"Shore, sonny," Harriet said, and flashed him a broad, toothy smile. From years of
smoking unfiltered Pall Malls, Harriet's teeth were the color of tobacco. I wondered
if they were false. I'd have bet that she still had her own teeth, because I couldn't
imagine Harriet would ever submit to false teeth. I also wondered how long it'd been
since Stone had been called "sonny." Then Harriet turned to me and asked, "How's it
going on that there Pitt case?"

We'd let Harriet think that Stone and I were friends from way back and that he'd been
employed to help me with my research for the freelance article I was writing. Why
start telling anybody the truth now? "Going pretty well, so far. It's been a big help
having Stone here to assist me. We've been able to gather quite a bit of information.
Working together these last few days has been very beneficial."

"Otter go talk to that boy's mudder, iffing ya get a chance," Harriet said.

"Clayton Pitt's mother?"

"Yep. 'Nitwit Pitt' I calls her."

"Does she live around here?" I asked. Nitwit Pitt? Oh my. "Where's his father?"

"She shore does live 'round here. Nuttier than a fruitcake, his mudder is. Don't rightly
know what e'er become of his pappy, though."

"Where does Mrs. Pitt live, Harriet?"

"Oh, 'bout ten miles south of here, where they lock up all dem nutcases. Don't know
what the place is called, but it's out offa I-90 somewheres."

* * *

Stone utilized Harriet's phone books again, and after a few calls, found a Wanda Pitt
registered at a home for the "mentally challenged," called Serenity Village. As Harriet
had indicated, it was about ten miles south, right off I-90. It was a state-operated,
assisted-living facility, with round-the-clock nursing and psychological therapy.

After much discussion, we decided it would be best if I went to see Wanda Pitt alone.
It would be a good opportunity for Stone to tackle the list of chores that Harriet
had drawn up for him. His to-do list included everything from "sevin dust punkin"
to "fix crappers." Harriet knew a good thing when she saw it, and she was going to
take full advantage of Stone's handyman abilities.

Stone had already inspected and serviced the Lincoln. He said that there was a dent
or ding on every corner of the vehicle. "Harriet must bang into something every time
she drives it up the street to the store," Stone had said, laughter in his voice.
"She uses that car as if it were a battering ram, instead of a mode of transportation.
Remind me not to park my Corvette anywhere near the garage or driveway."

Chapter 16

With Stone and Harriet's directions, I had no problem finding Serenity Village. I
told the lady at the front desk that I was Clara Pitt, Wanda's niece. She pointed
the way down the hall, back to Wanda's private two-room apartment.

I knocked and waited for Wanda to open the door. I was shocked by the appearance of
Wendy's mother-in-law. Wanda was a huge woman, no less than four hundred pounds. I
felt absolutely anorexic standing next to her. She had several teeth missing, and
the few that remained were rotting. She looked, tragically, as if she maintained a
steady diet of fat and refined sugar. Her hair had not seen a comb or brush in days,
I was sure, and no shampoo for even longer.

"Mrs. Pitt?" I asked, pleasantly, trying to mask my repulsion.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, how are you? I'm Clara Ransfield, from Serenity Village's administrative office.
I'm here to see if there's anything you need, and to update our files." I waved the
notebook I was carrying as if it were full of official files and data. "May I come
in and talk with you for a few minutes?"

"Guess so," she said, and stepped back to allow me to enter her apartment. I walked
over to a couch along the back wall of her living room and sat down. She plopped down
in an oversized recliner across from me. "What did you say you're name was?" she asked.

"Clara Ransfield. Please call me Clara."

"Okay, I'll call you Clara," she said, nodding, and causing her numerous chins to
ripple like the wind blowing across a wheat field. "Put chocolate on your list, Clara.
I need chocolate. My candy keeps getting stolen, and these people here know that without
it I get severe headaches. Pepsi too. They haven't brought me any Pepsi in days. They
ought to be more considerate than that, don't you think? To let a person suffer like
this and all—well, it just ain't right. Guess I should expect it, since they all hate
me and have been trying to make me miserable for all the years I've been here. It
ain't nothing new."

I wrote "Pepsi" and "Chocolate" in my notebook, underneath "Obese" and "Neurotic."

"I'll see that you get what you need, Mrs. Pitt."

"About time somebody did." Wanda reached over and flicked off her television. She
had been watching a popular daytime soap.

"How long have you been a resident here at Serenity Village?" I had feared she'd be
reluctant to give me any personal information, but it didn't take long to begin getting
interesting and sensational details out of Clay's mother.

"Around sixteen years, I reckon. Ever since I killed my husband, anyway."

"Excuse me?" I nearly fainted at her nonchalant response.

"Homer was a drinker, and when he drank, he became abusive. He put me in the hospital
more times than I can remember. But he came at me one too many times, missy. The last
time he attacked me, I grabbed a butcher knife out of the dishwasher to protect myself,
and the damn fool ran right into it. I'd had enough of the bastard's abuse anyway.
Homer bled to death on the kitchen floor. I made sure he was beyond saving before
I called the police. My boy, Clayton, was there too—seen the whole thing. He testified
in court for me that I killed his father in self-defense. Clayton despised his old
man, and with little wonder." Wanda was much more articulate than I would have guessed
she'd be from my first impression of her. For a woman who'd been through what she
had, I felt she spoke fairly intelligently.

"How horrible for you and your son. How old was your boy at the time?" I didn't want
to let on that I'd ever even heard of Clay.

"Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Been on his own since then. They put me in this home for
whackos, and they haven't let me go home since. The sons-a-bitches, anyway."

"So, your husband had a long history of abusing you?"

"Oh, yeah, that's the understatement of the year. Homer was mean and sadistic—the
kind of loser my mother warned me about. Beat on Clayton even more than he beat on
me—and that's saying a lot. Used to use Clayton as a punching bag. Put cigarettes
out on his legs, then called him a sissy and a crybaby when he squalled. I had to
kill Homer to protect my son, if for no other reason. But I had plenty of reasons,
let me tell you."

"How has all that affected your son, seeing his father killed and all? It must have
been really traumatizing for a young boy that age. What kind of person is Clayton
now?"

"Can't tell you. I ain't seen that boy in... well, probably ten years. But when he
was young he was sure an ornery kid. Used to pick up pop bottles off the road and
turn them into a nearby store for the refunds. He saved his bottle money and bought
a pellet gun when he was about twelve. Used to bring home rabbits, squirrels, and
even a cat now and then, which he'd shot while he was out hunting. He even got thrown
into a home for juvenile delinquents for a spell, right after he broke into his school
and slashed the throats of several animals in the school lab—a guinea pig, some hamsters,
and a few mice. He had a bit of his daddy in him. But then, what could you expect?
He was always good to the puppy he'd rescued, though. I'll give him credit for that
much. Clayton had found him abandoned in an alley and named him Buddy. Still had him
last I knew, but he'd be pretty old by now. I hope Clayton's outgrown some of that
meanness. I wouldn't want him to grow up and be good-for-nothing like his father.
But I never hear from him anymore, so I couldn't really tell you what he's like now."

"Do you know why he doesn't come around to visit anymore?" I asked.

"Don't know. People around here probably told him I was crazy and poisoned his mind
against me. Gets kind of lonely, because no one around here speaks to me much. My
birthday is in a few days. Clayton used to always visit me on my birthday, but he
hasn't in years. I bet I won't see another living soul on my birthday this year. You're
the first person to visit me in a long, long time. What'd you say your name was again?"