Susan got a white plastic garbage bag while I consolidated what was left of the chicken into one bucket to go into the refrigerator.
There wasn’t much privacy in the apartment, but there was a small balcony with three chairs and a telescope. Sally and I went out while Michael and Susan watched television.
I told her everything.
“Sometimes… there are people I’d seriously consider shooting if I could. Dwight Handford is one, right at the top of the list. There’s a real possibility that Adele will actually be sent back to him and I might not be able to do anything about it. I know what he’s done to her and will keep doing. The courts know what he did to his niece. I’ve never hit one of my kids. I’ve never hit anyone. I’ve never held a gun. The Dwight Handfords of this world make me think about going to one of the many gun shops in this town.”
“And Pirannes?” I asked.
“I’ve got a little list,” she said.
“Of society’s offenders who may well be underground,” I said.
“Gilbert and Sullivan,” she said. “I did The Mikado in high school. Played one of the three little girls.”
“And I may have a foster home for Adele,” I said, “providing my candidate passes whatever tests you give.”
“I don’t give them, but others do.”
“Her name is Florence Zink. She’s rich. She’s tough. She drinks. She swears, but she’s a good woman. Like to meet her?”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“I can’t leave the kids. Tomorrow. Give me a number. I’ll have someone call her.”
“And,” I said getting up, “I’ll go talk to her. Who looks at the stars?”
“We all do,” she said, touching the gray telescope fixed on an eye-level tripod. “I do it when the kids go to bed. Reminds me of how little we are.”
“You want to be reminded?”
“Makes me feel better to think that what happens on earth isn’t all that important. Makes me feel that I should concentrate on what I’ve got and enjoy it. And then I take my eye away from the lens and go back to the Adeles and Dwight Handfords. I’ve got paperwork.”
Michael and Susan were watching a sitcom I didn’t recognize. Sally walked me to the door.
“How did the Baby Ruth candy bar get its name?” I asked.
“Easy,” said Susan. “The fat baseball player who hit all the home runs and drank beer before Mark McGwire.”
Michael slumped, arms folded, and didn’t bother to answer.
“No,” I said. “Grover Cleveland got married after he became President of the United States. His wife had a baby named Ruth. It was a big thing. There were Baby Ruth dolls and a Baby Ruth candy bar.”
“I’ll tell Maggie and Shayna tomorrow,” Susan said. “You know a lot of stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Stuff.”
Sally left the front door barely ajar behind us when we stepped out.
“You’re a good man, Lewis,” she said, kissing me with sincerity but no passion as she held my hands in hers.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow about Adele.”
I started toward the stairs.
“Michael’s going to an overnight basketball weekend and Susan’s staying at her friend Maggie’s on Saturday,” she said.
“Saturday,” I repeated.
13
The hard part wasn’t convincing Flo to consider being a foster parent. The hard part was dealing with a Flo Zink I had never seen before, a Flo Zink, complete with big-buckled denim skirt and bespangled blouse, who seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“They won’t let me, Lew,” she said.
“I’ve got a friend in the right place,” I said.
Flo had poured me a beer without asking. I drank it. I had no idea what the glass with clear liquid and squares of ice in front of her contained. We were sitting in her living room listening to Johnny Cash.
“I don’t know if I can cut this stuff out,” she said, holding up her glass.
“Cutting back might be a start. Flo, I’m not handing you a present. I’m giving you one great big problem kid.”
“I liked Beryl,” she said.
“I did too.”
“Well, if I can get her, bring her on. I’m old but I’m good at taming tough ones. Want a snack?”
“I’ve got to go.”
Flo walked me to the door. The drink wasn’t in her hand.
“I’d love to get a bead on the forehead of Beryl’s husband-what’s his name?”
“Dwight Handford,” I said.
“If he’d come when Beryl left, as Hank Williams is my witness, I’d have killed him and Beryl would be alive.”
“Lot of people feel that way about Dwight,” I said. “Good night, Flo.”
It was late now, after eleven. I wondered if the blue Buick was out there in the dark waiting. I didn’t see it, but I hoped he was out there and hadn’t gone home for the night or gone wherever it was he slept. I would sleep better knowing he was watching my back.
I didn’t want to think. I wanted to wash, shave, put on some shorts, put a chair under my door, watch the tape of The Mad Miss Manton I’d bought at a garage sale for three dollars. I wanted to ease the nagging throb just below my ribs where Dwight had hit me.
There were no ghosts nor any of the living waiting in my office. I didn’t feel haunted by Beryl Tree. She would know I was on her side and that there was no point in my going out on the road in search of Dwight Handford tonight. I needed rest. I needed someone with a weapon to go with me. I needed to think of a really good threat or a really good lie to frighten Handford off. None came to mind.
I was lying back on my three pillows when the phone rang. I hit the pause button and went into the office.
“Fonesca,” I said.
“Where is she?”
I recognized the voice.
“Dwight, I’ve got some advice. The police are looking for you. John Pirannes is looking for you and tomorrow I’m going to be looking for you. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Say it now,” he said.
“No. Worry about it overnight. You’re a smart man. Running would be better than satisfying your curiosity.”
“Where is Adele?” he demanded.
“Have a good night,” I said, hung up and disconnected the phone.
I was back in bed and pushing the pause button again. Barbara Stanwyck started moving in black-and-white as the window in my office exploded.
I went to the floor, rolled over and crawled to the window. I counted five and looked out from the darkness of my room. A pickup truck with a tow winch was backing out of the DQ parking lot.
No one but me lived in the office building. The DQ was closed. Traffic was light on 301. I waited in the window for ten minutes. No sirens. No police. No one had heard the shots or, if they had, no one had reported them.
I was reasonably sure he wouldn’t be back tonight. He knew I would probably call the police and he wanted to be far away with some kind of alibi. But there was also the chance that he would think it over, figure that he had nothing much to lose with two murders behind him in the past two days and come back not just to scare me off, but to stand outside my window and blow holes in me.
Dwight Handford was a piece of work.
I grabbed my things, got dressed fast and went into the night. There was a rumble somewhere in the west but it wasn’t raining. I went to the Geo, got in and went back to the Best Western, making sure I wasn’t being followed by a pickup truck. I didn’t see one. I didn’t see anything behind me. My blue angel had missed another chance to save me.
I checked in, went to my room, showered, shampooed and climbed into bed after I checked the thermostat and found that the room temperature was seventy. I was hot, hot the way I had been until a few months ago whenever I drove a car. I turned the room temperature down to sixty.
Then I lay in bed, in the dark listening to the cold air rushing in and doing nothing to cool me.
I had a dream about rain and endless bowls of soup with tiny people splashing around in the soup and crying for help as they drowned. There were soup spoons in each bowl. They could have climbed out on the handles of the spoons or at least clung to them to keep from drowning, but they thrashed around and cried for help in tiny voices, hundreds of tiny voices, hundreds of bowls of soup, white chowder, red tomato, clear broth, green cream of broccoli.