"The second-place winner, the woman from the little ice cream store, what's her name, she wasn't even close. Her wrists were strong, from all those years of scooping, but her skin was soft, and she was squeamish." Gramma rotated her wrist, as if scooping something hard from a carton, chocolate chip or Rocky Road. "But that little ice cream business was bought out by Beatrice Foods last year, so I guess she had the last laugh. Her husband knew how to manage a business. She could afford to have soft hands."
Tess, munching unenthusiastically on her butter-and-guava jelly sandwich, studied her grandmother. She understood Gramma's bitterness now, these repeated jabs about Poppa's failures as a breadwinner. Gramma must have known, or guessed, of his betrayal. Then again, Gramma had always been a sour, unhappy person. There was no Jackie around in the early years, when she was monitoring Tess's time on the flying rabbit. Or was there? Was Jackie a one-time thing, or one in a string? She put down her sandwich, what little appetite she had gone.
She got it back quickly enough when she saw Aunt Sylvie bringing out her homemade German chocolate cake. Whatever her other failings, Aunt Sylvie made good cakes. Gramma was standing at the head of the table, tapping her fork on the side of her glass, while Samuel continued to pound at the table with his mallet. Gramma gave him a look. She didn't like to be upstaged, even by the two-year-old great-grandapple of her eye. Both lost their audience when a police car pulled up in the driveway.
"Someone probably complained about all the cars parked out front," Patrick grumbled, getting up to go to the gate.
But it was a county cop car, not a city one, and the two officers seemed tentative and embarrassed.
"Is there a Miss Tess Monaghan here?"
Everyone in the family turned to look at her, their eyes so accusing, so ready to believe the worst of her, that Tess felt just the tiniest bit affronted.
"That's me," she said, putting down the garbage bag of crab shells she had been tying up, brushing her hands off on her jeans.
"You don't have to say anything to them," her father assured her. "Let me go call our lawyer."
"You want I should call the chief of the state police, or Arnold Weiner even?" Uncle Donald asked. "I don't see how the county cops have jurisdiction here."
Penfield School is in Baltimore County's jurisdiction, Tess thought as she walked toward the gate, her mouth dry and ashy. If something had happened to Sal Hawkings, it would be county cops who would investigate, the county cops who would want to question her, the county cops who would want to know about Luther Beale's unvarying alibi.
"How can I help you, officers?"
"We found someone," said the taller cop, a strapping near-giant, his name plate at Tess's eye level. Officer Buske. With his broad chest and shiny black hair, he reminded Tess of the smiling boy in red-and-white checked overalls, hawking burgers at Shoney's Big Boys.
"Is he dead?" she asked.
The big cop, Buske, looked at her strangely. "Dead? He? No, it's a she and she says she's not going anywhere until she talks to you. We found her walking barefoot along the Hanover Pike, up toward the state line. She said she had been kidnapped, but she didn't want to press charges, that you would take care of it. She had your business card in her pocket. We took her down to your office, and when you weren't there, we went over to your apartment. Your aunt said we'd find you here." Buske suddenly blushed. "She sure is pretty, your aunt."
Tess couldn't help imagining this broad-shouldered lad sitting at the breakfast table, wearing the flannel robe that Kitty kept for all her gentlemen callers. Husky Buske.
"Back up a minute," she said. "You found who on the Hanover Pike? Some kidnap victim who wants to speak to me? This doesn't make any sense."
The smaller cop-actually, he was almost six feet, but Buske Big Boy dwarfed him-opened the back door of the patrol car and Willa Mott limped out, her bare feet as red as her perpetually stuffed-up nose, but much more painful looking.
"Willa?"
"I told them you'd take care of me," she said stiffly. "That you worked for my lawyer."
Tess decided to play along, even if she wasn't quite sure just what game was afoot. "Of course. Tyner will be so upset when he hears what happened. Your ex-husband again? Are you finally ready to press charges?"
"I think we should talk about this in private," she said, stumbling forward. Not only where her feet raw and swollen, but her ankles were criss-crossed with tiny scratches and insect bites.
The big cop lowered his voice. "Truthfully, ma'am, we think she ought to go in for psychiatric observation. She was muttering to beat the band the whole time she was riding around in the back seat, using every curse word in the book."
"She has problems, but she's okay as long as she takes her medication," Tess said. "It's the same old story. She starts feeling good, then decides she doesn't need to take the lithium any more. This happens every six months or so."
Willa glowered, but didn't dare contradict her. The officers retreated to the car somewhat reluctantly, called in on their radio, and backed out of the driveway about a minute later. As soon as they were out of sight, Willa turned to Tess.
"That crazy nigger bitch friend of yours did this to me," she screamed. Tess couldn't believe such a loud sound was coming out of mousy Willa Mott. "That crazy nigger bitch kidnapped me, took my shoes, and then put me out on the road in the middle of nowhere."
Tess glanced back at her family. Her mother looked stricken, as if she had always feared exactly this: some white cracker friend of Tess's crashing an otherwise pleasant family gathering, screaming expletives and epithets. Cousin Deborah leaned forward, a hint of delight in her shocked face, while Gramma merely looked impatient. Baby Samuel continued to pound on the table with his crab mallet. "C'azy nigga bit. C'azy nigga bit," he chanted happily.
Tess said the only thing that occurred to her. "Would you like to join us for dessert?"
Willa Mott passed on the cake, although she let Tess's father tend to her feet, whimpering as the hydrogen peroxide bubbled and hissed over her open wounds.
"That just means it's working," Patrick assured her.
"Now tell me what happened with Jackie," Tess said.
They were in the upstairs bathroom, away from the rest of the family, although Judith had insisted on being here, too. It was her house, after all. Willa sat on the closed toilet, Patrick at her feet, while Judith blocked the door. Tess was left with the rim of the tub, wedged in tight by Willa Mott's side, so she was facing her profile. Willa seemed to prefer it that way, making eye contact with Patrick instead of Tess.
"About four-thirty today, after the last of the kids had been picked up, that nigger bitch pulled up in her fancy car, said she wanted to talk to me."
"Jackie," Tess corrected. "Her name is Jackie and if you keep calling her that, I'm going to smack you."
Willa shrugged, as if so much had happened to her today that one more smack wouldn't make a difference. "So then she says, she knows. She knows, and she's going to kill me if I don't give her what she wants."
"Knows what?"
Willa's voice was inaudible.
"Speak up, Willa."
"She knows I have the records from Family Alternatives, and she's going to kill me if I don't turn over her file."
Patrick and Judith were completely bewildered, but Tess had an instant image of Willa walking back and forth through her living room, her arms full of juice packs. The whole operation had taken much longer than it should have, but Tess had chalked it up to Willa's general ineptness.
But it was only after she had returned from the garage that she began to remember the details of Jackie's case. A quick peek at the records had probably done more to freshen her memory than all the twenties Tess had dropped in her lap.