"I think they own too many dogs. Do you know how many are… what's the word… legal?" she feels disappointed when he shakes his head. "Never mind, I'll call down to the local station. Are you from the local station?"
The police officer strides forward, arms swinging loose and with authoritarian hands, she thinks, wide and powerful.
"Oh, hello, Lilly Beth," someone calls from the sidewalk. Drats, now all the other nosy neighbors are spilling out of their homes like ants following a crumb line. Janice Schmidt waves a greeting, glances at the police officer, and continues to move past, an extra-wide stroller rolling ahead of her with two sleeping toddlers inside.
Lilly Beth notices the police officer stop abruptly when he sees Janice, like the fizz went out of him or like he'd been bent on a task and then changed his mind.
"You need to go back in your house, ma'am," he says, flashing a badge just like in the movies. "This is a homeland security issue, highly classified. Talk about it to anyone, and you risk prosecution."
"Oh, my. Well, yes, of course, Officer." He guides her along, pushing on her back, a little too hard, she thinks.
"Anything I can do to help, you just call me. I'm a patriotic American, not like some I could mention." She gives a meaningful glance back at the Birch house.
She opens her door. What a pushy officer. "I'll keep close tabs on them for you," she says. "Don't you worry."
He continues to stare at her house even after she backs away from the window. Then he gets into the truck and drives away, probably to return later with reinforcements. Strange that he didn't drive a squad car, but maybe that was too obvious for homeland security. He wouldn't want all the neighbors wondering why a police car was parked out front.
She hopes she hasn't interfered. She does tend to rush in impulsively without thinking things through. If she had stayed on her own side, maybe he would have crashed down the door with one powerful, bionic-like leg and seized evidence that would implicate her neighbor in some kind of international spy operation. She vows to stay close to her window in case things heat up.
28
On the way to Curves, Gretchen tried to steer the conversation back to Albert and his brutal beating, but Daisy's single-track mind was zeroed in on her future acting career and her chances of success. As hard as Gretchen tried, there was no rechanneling the woman's focus.
April and Nina led in their own cars, forming a caravan through the Phoenix streets. Even though Gretchen thought she knew the way, she gunned her Echo through a questionable light rather than risk abandonment by the other two.
She followed them into the parking lot. Mondays were always high-usage days at Curves for Women, after all those extra pounds added in the pursuit of weekend pleasures.
"It's the holidays coming up," April commented.
"Everyone's trying to get in shape for Thanksgiving so they can go at it again."
Bonnie, Rita, and several other doll club members had already begun their workouts. Gretchen and her group jumped in wherever there was room and called out to each other as they exercised around the circle of machines. April stayed close to Daisy so she could show her the equipment.
"You're new here," Bonnie said to Daisy. "Where do you live?"
"Close by me," Nina said quickly. "Right down the block."
"Hear you have a big date tonight," Rita called to Nina.
"That's right. Eric's taking me out to dinner at the Phoenician, where the Boston Kewpie Club is staying."
"Wow," April said.
"The resort has eleven restaurants," Nina said.
"I've eaten there," homeless Daisy said, her legs pumping up and down on the stepper. Nina threw her a warning glance.
Gretchen thought Daisy handled the equipment and the workout better than most of the longtime members and once again wondered about her background.
"Steve's out of jail," Bonnie said, a sly look on her face. Her eyes slid to Gretchen. "But of course you knew that."
Gretchen continued running on a platform.
"Really."
"Tell her the rest," Rita urged. "Everyone else knows."
"Steve can't talk to you anymore. He met with his lawyer, and he said Steve's to have no contact with you."
"Why on earth…" Nina began, frowning.
"Only thing I can think of," Bonnie said, all innocence,
"is that his defense is going to be that you did it. Remember, it was your knife."
"The knife didn't kill him," Gretchen said.
"Bonnie, you know better," Nina scolded. "Gretchen had nothing to do with Ronny Beam's death."
"That's the truth," Daisy said with conviction. Gretchen whirled to look at her, but Daisy seemed oblivious, preoccupied with shoulder presses.
"Change stations now."
Nina bumped into Gretchen, who hadn't moved. "Pay attention. You're supposed to move."
Gretchen saw all eyes on her, all waiting for a response to the news about Steve.
What could she say?
To change the subject, Gretchen said, "Anyone else going to Brett Wesley's memorial service?"
"When is it?" April asked.
"Tomorrow night."
"Haven't heard a thing about it."
"Me, either."
"I wasn't invited," Rita said.
"Maybe," Nina said, "the service is for those who were at the auction that day?"
April nodded agreement. "Someone put the invites together from the registration list."
Gretchen sincerely hoped that all the bidders were invited. Maybe the memorial organizers had Duanne Wilson's correct address. Maybe he would show up. She had a few questions for him. For that matter, she had a few questions for Howie Howard. She crossed him off her mental to-do list for today. Tomorrow night at the memorial would be soon enough.
Peter Finch, the photographer, lived in South Phoenix, according to the address on the business card he'd given her at the auction. With South Mountain as a backdrop, Gretchen drove down Fifty-first Street and turned onto Southern Avenue. She gazed at the dilapidated apartment building on her left, slowed, and pulled to the curb.
She made her way along the sidewalk leading to the building, stepping over and around an assortment of toddler trikes. A drape in the closest apartment moved slightly, and Gretchen saw fingers in the shadows grasping the heavy material.
Where was Nina when she really needed her? Probably having her hair done again, or her nails repaired, or Tutu's nails polished.
Her niece's life might be in jeopardy, and Nina was off primping.
What had she been thinking to call the number on Peter Finch's card and agree to meet at his apartment? He could be Jack the Ripper incarnate for all she knew. Gun toting was legal in Phoenix as long as the weapon wasn't concealed. Instead of a gun she had Nimrod, although that didn't make her feel any safer.
Gretchen rang one of six buzzers on the outside of the building, the one labeled P.F. She saw Peter's bony, unshaved face peek out at her from a door pane. Then he unlocked the door and ushered her into his apartment. Gretchen sized up the room. Sagging couch, weathered wood breakfast table, small refrigerator, no stove, hot plate on the counter. No obvious sign of weaponry, no piano wire coiled on the table. Aside from the ratty furniture, he owned a sleek forty-two-inch flat-screen television and one of the fanciest computer and printer combinations Gretchen had ever seen.
What his space lacked in basic luxuries, he made up for in electronic gadgetry.
A bachelor, for sure.
Gretchen looked around for signs of a woman's touch. Not a thing.
"Over here," Peter said, leading her to the computer. "I shoot digital all the time. It's so easy. I'll show them to you on the monitor, if that's okay."