"Sheila! Baby, are you all right? I would've called you, but I didn't want to talk to your daddy."
Sheila's eyes were rimmed with dark circles and bloodshot. The poor kid must've been worried sick. I pulled her to me and hugged her tight. Her head folded onto my shoulder and her arms wrapped around me. In her chunky high heels, Sheila dwarfed me, favoring her daddy's side of the family for height. At least she had my red hair.
"Mama," she whispered into the side of my neck, "everybody says you killed Uncle Jimmy."
I pushed her back off my shoulder and looked her square in the eye. "Well, every one of them is wrong. I didn't." I narrowed my gaze, focusing on her tell-all brown eyes. "Did your daddy tell you that?" I asked.
"No, ma'am," she said softly, her eyes darting away from mine. Someone close to her had.
"Jolene!" I said.
The eyes sunk down to the floor. That scheming bitch. Poisoning my own daughter against me!
"Look at me, young'un" I said, tipping her chin up with one hand. "Have I ever once lied to you?"
"No, ma'am," she replied softly.
"Then why would I start now?" Neva had fallen asleep in the chair. From across the room I saw Bonnie watching us, a worried expression on her face.
"You wouldn't, Mama."
"That's right, I wouldn't." I forced myself to smile and look her straight in the eye. "I don't know how Jimmy came to be at the house, or what happened after he got there, I'm just sick about the whole thing, especially Uncle Jimmy's death."
Sheila's eyes welled up with tears. "Me too, Mama," she said, her face turning paler as she spoke. The child was making herself ill.
"Now, Sheila, I don't want you to go worrying about me. The police will get things all sorted out. They'll find Uncle Jimmy's killer."
Sheila didn't say anything, which worried me more than anything she could've said. When I caught up with Jolene the Dish Girl, there was going to be hell to pay.
"Sweetie, you look terrible. Does your daddy know where you are?"
"No, I'm supposed to be at home, but I couldn't stand it, Mama. I had to know what was going on."
"Well, baby, scoot on back to that brick palace, hold your head up, and remember what your Grandma always said in times of trouble: a clear conscience and a pure heart will lead the brave to truth and the guilty to justice." Neva snorted softly in her sleep.
Mama'd never said any such thing. It was more like Mama to say, if you spend all your time chasing honey, you'll likely end up with your head in a sticky mess and your butt in a sling. It was one thing for Vernell to marry a prize bimbo, but it was another for her to slander my good name to my own daughter.
I scribbled Jack's phone number down on a piece of scrap paper and stuck it in Sheila's hand. "Here's where I'll be if you need me, baby," I said. "Let's just keep that information between me and you, all right?"
Sheila nodded and I hugged her close again. "This ain't nothing I can't handle, baby. You go tend to your daddy. He'll need you close for awhile."
"All right, Mama," she said, her voice the little girl voice I remembered from years ago. I was gonna pay Jolene back for making my daughter doubt me-that day would come-but first, I had business to attend to.
I put the finishing touches on Neva's do, sent her to change, and then walked up to the counter to draw two hundred dollars from the till. The salon was in a frenzy of Saturday activity when one of the girls shoved the cordless phone into my hand.
"For you," she said, breezing past. I started to hang it up without answering. After all, it was probably a reporter, but on the other hand, you just never knew.
"Maggie Reid," I said.
The voice that answered me was muffled and indistinct, neither male nor female, young nor old. "Say your prayers," the voice rasped, "I'm coming."
The line went dead. After a few moments, someone took the receiver from my hand. Bonnie.
"Maggie, what in the hell is wrong? Who was that? A reporter? You shouldn't have answered the phone!"
The salon noise covered the sound of my heart, muffled Bonnie's voice, and saved me from answering. After all, what could she do, call the police? And what would they do? Believe me? When they'd believed nothing else I'd said?
I grabbed four fifties out of the drawer, mumbled something, and ran out the door. The caller'd said they were coming. Well, they'd have to find me first.
Chapter Seven
The house was dark when I pulled up in the backyard. I would be cutting it close to get my things, change, and still arrive at the Golden Stallion on time. I ran up the stairs to the back door and into my bedroom, ducking under a piece of yellow tape that identified my house as a crime scene. If I'd gone in the front door, it would've taken no time at all for nosy neighbors to come rushing over, wanting to know every detail of Jimmy's demise. And if Jimmy's killer was out there looking for me, then coming in through the front door would've been an advertisement for target practice. At least this way I could sneak in and get out.
I pushed the door shut behind me. I stood still in the darkness, getting my bearings before I moved toward the bedside table and reached for the lamp. My bedroom looked just as I'd left it, with a few exceptions. There was black fingerprint powder over almost all of the surfaces, the door, the phone, the dresser. Little things were out of place, a figurine moved, a chair slightly off-kilter with the rest of the room, pictures hanging at a half-tipsy angle.
I made myself go through the house, turning on as few lights as possible, looking for the spot where Jimmy died. I found it in the living room. Jimmy died on my grandma's rag rug. An ugly, brick red stain covered the center of the cheerfully colored rug, destroying it forever with blood and memory. I would throw it out when I came back to stay.
I stood still for a moment, staring down at the rug, saying a silent prayer for poor Jimmy. I started to kneel down, my fingers reaching out to touch the spot. As I bent forward, the front door exploded open with a resounding crack, like gunfire.
I jumped backward. Jimmy's widow, Roxanne, stood framed in the doorway. Even at only five feet, her two hundred-pound body blocked out all but a thin halo from the outside streetlight. She looked like a darkened angel, but the sounds emanating from her mouth were anything but angelic.
"You!" she gasped. "Why aren't you in jail?" She staggered forward into the living room, her terry-cloth slippered feet squarely planted in the middle of the dark blood stain. She wore a wrinkled pink floral housedress and a green plaid coat that might have been her bathrobe.
I wasn't sure what to do. Roxanne's brown eyes glowed with a feverish intensity, her fat fish lips were drawn together like purse strings, and her mousy brown hair stood out from her head like a fright wig. She looked more dangerous than usual.
"You are responsible for my Jimmy's death," she pronounced in a raspy voice that seemed to originate from deep within her chest. "He wouldn't have had to die like a sorry yard dog if he'd been able to stay away from you! I warned him time and again, but no, he had to keep sniffing around you!"
I didn't move, but I didn't look away either. If she sprang at me, I'd run back through the house and out my bedroom into the backyard.
Roxanne looked down just then and gasped, jumping quicker than I would've thought her mighty frame could move. "Agggh!" she squawked. She had realized where she was standing.
"Roxanne," I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice, "why don't you…"
"Shut up," Roxanne snarled. She took a step closer to me and I tensed up, preparing to make a run for it. "Now you know how it feels," she said, a slight smile crossing her crazed face.