Pumped for Murder (18 page)

“I’ll go there tonight and watch for him,” Helen said. “I’ll settle in at seven o’clock and drink coffee.”

“That will work,” Kathy said. “Jackie’s cafe closes at nine.”

“Good,” Helen said. “I’ll follow him after he picks up the bag.”

“How?” Kathy said. “I’ll be driving the minivan.”

“I’ll rent a car,” Helen said.

“That’s more money,” Kathy said.

“What’s another hundred or so after ten thousand?” Helen said. Did she just say that?

“Let me call the rental car place on Manchester.” Kathy got out the Yellow Pages and dialed her phone.

“The agency has a car, but it’s a little small,” she reported. “They’ll deliver the car here, and they can pick it up tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll take it,” Helen said.

After Kathy hung up, she said, “I wonder if that dirtbag knows you’re in town.”

“Do you even know if the blackmailer is a man?” Helen asked.

“I don’t know what he is,” Kathy said. “He uses one of those voice changers. The first time he called, he had a Darth Vader voice. Now he sounds like a little girl. That’s even creepier than Darth Vader. But the speech patterns seem the same. He started out with ‘Greetings and salutations’ like he did the first time. He said he saw Tommy—”

“Did he use names?” Helen said.

“Yes, he knew my boy’s name, your name, and Rob’s name, and he knew that Rob was your ex-husband. He called on our landline.”

“So he knows I was your divorced sister in town for a visit,” Helen said, “but he doesn’t know you well enough to have your cell phone number. That tells us something.”

“Not much. Our number is in the phone book. The whole neighborhood knows you’re divorced,” Kathy said. “You know how upset Mom was when you dumped Rob. She used to buttonhole people at church and talk about the shame of having a divorced daughter. Most of those people wouldn’t have my cell phone number, either.”

“Someone saw what actually happened, though,” Helen said. “He had to, if he knew Tommy hit Rob with his bat.”

“His aluminum bat,” Kathy said. “He even knew the kind of bat.”

“Your neighbors can look right in your backyard,” Helen said. “You’re surrounded by houses.”

“Old Mrs. Kiley lives next door,” Kathy said. “She’s about ninety, but she goes to bed right after dinner. The Kerchers were on vacation in August, and no one was home at their house. The Cooks live on the west side, but their view is blocked by our house and that big tree.”

“Well, somebody saw us,” Helen said. “Which one of your neighbors needs money?”

“They all do,” Kathy said. “Do you know what it costs to heat these places? The only person we can eliminate is Horndog Hal.”

“The guy who was supposed to be at choir practice, but he was tuning up his girlfriend in his SUV on the church lot,” Helen said. “His SUV was parked there when we dug the grave in the church hall basement. He still having an affair with Mrs. Snyder?”

“Mrs. Snyder’s husband found out and beat Hal silly. I doubt he’ll be able to stray for some time if his bruises are any indication. He’s been walking very slowly, so I don’t think all the damage was to his face. Hal says he tripped over his kid’s tricycle.”

They heard the sound of cars in front of Kathy’s house. She peeked out the window and said, “There’s your car now and the rental company’s van.”

Helen watched the lanky driver extract himself from the green Neon one limb at a time. She ran out with her license and credit card and signed the paperwork, and the van took him back to the office.

“They weren’t kidding when they said your car was small,” Kathy said. “Our fridge is bigger.”

“It’s the right size to get me where I’m going,” Helen said. “I need to buy some pepper spray. That blackmailer is going to have some face time he’ll never forget.”

“There’s a sports store about two blocks away,” Kathy said. “It sells joggers’ self-defense kits with pepper spray on a rope.”

“Good,” Helen said. “I’ll wear it around my neck. Won’t have to dig for it in my purse when I spray this guy.”

“Helen, what happens if he gets mad and reports you?”

“If he lives in this neighborhood, that blackmailer has as much to lose as we do,” Helen said confidently, though she knew that was bravado. “Don’t worry. Once he gets that spray in his eyes, he won’t be threatening anyone.”

“I don’t want to leave Allison alone while you shop,” Kathy said. “Do you mind driving your car?”

“Two blocks isn’t far,” Helen said. “I need the walk.”

“But you’re tired,” Kathy said.

“A walk will wake me up,” Helen said, striding out the door. The first block seemed unnaturally long. Helen wished she’d taken her car. By the second block—her sister must measure blocks in country miles—Helen was drenched in sweat. The sports store had the pepper spray canister, and Helen wore it home. The walk back was even hotter. The sun punished her like a boxer going for the heavyweight title. Those shade trees must be for show, she thought. They sure aren’t making these streets any cooler.

Kathy met her at the door and said, “Helen, what did you do?”

“I walked two blocks,” Helen said. “How many miles are in a block here?”

“It isn’t that far,” Kathy said. “But you are my older sister.” Accent on the “older.” Kathy gave Helen an irritating smirk. “Maybe you need a nap.”

Helen was ticked off. First, Derek at the gym said she was out of shape; now her sister implied she was old. “I’m not sleepy,” she said. “I’m only two years older than you. Is Tommy home? I’d like to see my nephew.”

“Albert Pujols is having batting practice in the backyard,” Kathy said. “Take a cold glass of water and go watch him.”

Helen poured herself a generous glass of white wine instead. She couldn’t face the sight of her nephew swinging a bat—or the awful memories of what happened when he hit his uncle Rob—without wine to fortify her.

Tommy would be a big man like his father. At ten, he had a pink sunburned face and straw-colored hair lightened by the sun. His eyes still had their boyish innocence.

“I get to use a real wooden bat and baseball when I play in the park,” Tommy told her. “I still have to use an aluminum bat and those stupid foam baseballs in the yard. Mom is worried about the neighbors’ windows.”

Helen eyed the windows surrounding the yard and wondered which neighbor was blackmailing them.

Tommy loved having his own audience. Helen pitched, and Tommy did his own color commentary in the time-honored practice of baseball-loving boys.

“He hits! He scores! The crowd goes wild!” he yelled.

Kathy poked her head out of the back door. “It’s six thirty, you two. Tom is home and dinner is ready. Helen, you need to leave soon. Come in and wash up, both of you.”

Helen gave her brother-in-law,Tom, a warm hello and assured him that everything was fine. It was a pebble of a lie compared to the boulders she was already carrying. Then she kissed her sister good-bye.

“Good luck,” Helen whispered. “I’ll watch for you from Jackie’s Fine Eats.”

“I recommend the chicken and dumplings and gooey butter cake,” Kathy said.

“How can you even think of food now?”

“I’m scared,” Kathy said.

“Don’t be,” Helen said. “Just drop the bag and go home. Leave the rest to me. We’ll get this creep.”

“M
a’am, you have to wake up now,” the server said, gently shaking Helen.

Helen sat up, confused. There was a plate with a few crumbs of gooey butter cake on it in front of her. They didn’t serve that in Florida.

The confusion was clearing now. She wasn’t in Fort Lauderdale. She was in St. Louis. She’d fallen asleep after dinner at Jackie’s Fine Eats.

“Oh my God. What was I doing?” Helen moved her hand and slopped coffee on the table.

“You fell asleep.” The server had kind eyes, a turquoise uniform and a name tag that read MAGGIE.

“What time is it?”

“Four minutes after nine, ma’am.” Maggie blotted Helen’s spilled coffee with a napkin. “We close at nine o’clock. You looked so tired I didn’t have the heart to wake you, but now we have to lock up.”

Maggie was as thin as her no-color hair. Helen saw the cafe’s chairs were seat-down on the empty tables and a busboy was mopping the floor.

The fog of exhaustion, travel strain and wine was clearing. Helen had eaten her chicken and dumplings, then ordered dessert and coffee. She’d watched the Dumpster in the deserted strip mall across the street. She must have fallen asleep before she finished the coffee.

She was awake now. In the dim light of the streetlamps, Helen could make out a pale mound on top of the Dumpster. The ten thousand dollars was in place. No sign of her sister’s minivan. Helen had slept through Kathy’s money drop.

Luck was with her. The blackmailer hadn’t arrived yet to pick up the money. Helen had to leave now. She had to be in her car when the crook took the money.

“What do I owe you?” Helen asked.

“The chicken special comes to $12.32 with the cake and coffee,” Maggie said. Her fat-free frame showed she didn’t indulge in gooey butter cake. Helen thought the cake was worth a few calories. Okay, more than a few. She remembered her mother’s recipe. A single coffee cake in an eight-inch square pan had a whole stick of butter and an entire box of confectioners’ sugar.

She glanced at the big clock over the counter. It was six minutes after nine.

Helen saw a dark car pull next to the Dumpster in the deserted strip mall. The blackmailer! She dropped a twenty on the table and searched for her car keys.

“Your keys are on the windowsill,” Maggie said. “I’ll get your change.”

“Keep it,” Helen said, her eyes still on the blackmailer’s car. She watched a hand snake out of the driver’s window, and the reusable Schnucks bag was gone from the Dumpster top. He had the money.

Eight minutes after nine. The blackmailer’s car turned onto trafficclotted Manchester Road. Helen had to catch him. She ran for the cafe door, jumped in the rental Neon and hit her knee on the steering wheel.

Helen cursed, started the engine and pulled the Neon to the edge of the parking lot, ready to dive into the traffic. She couldn’t. A fleet of cars rolled down Manchester, blocking any entrance on her side of the street. The blackmailer’s car was getting away, blending in with the other cars. She could still see the taillights, but they’d soon disappear.

Then Helen caught a break. She spotted a small opening in the traffic, right in front of a speeding Peterbilt truck with a candy red cab. Helen swung out onto Manchester in front of the tractor-trailer, then floored the Neon. The rental car sat there like a rock. The trucker blasted his horn. The truck’s massive grill filled her rearview mirror. Just when Helen thought her life was over, the Neon woke up and chugged down the road.

Helen breathed a sigh of relief. The trucker shot her the bird. She knew she deserved the single-finger salute.

She wasn’t sleepy now. Adrenaline arced through her system. Luck was with her. She could see the taillights of the blackmailer’s car just over the next rise. Helen put the pedal to the metal, and the little Neon lurched forward.

The blackmailer’s car roared through the major intersection at Manchester and Lindbergh. The light turned yellow, but Helen’s rental car sailed through, accompanied by a chorus of irate honks.

At the top of a hill, the blackmailer’s car signaled and made a right turn into a side street. Helen followed, hoping she could get closer now that they were off the busy main road. She pushed the Neon up to sixty miles an hour on the residential street, but she couldn’t catch up to the blackmailer’s car.

It stayed tantalizingly within sight. Helen couldn’t get close enough to see any details. The make, the model, even the color remained a mystery. Was it black? It should be—the blackmailer should have a car the color of his heart. But it could be dark green, or even midnight blue.

Helen had no idea if a man or a woman was driving, but the blackmailer drove at a steady pace and handled the car well. She could barely make out the top of the blackmailer’s head over the headrest. If she went just a little faster, she might catch up to him on the curve.

Helen floored the Neon again, and the little car leaped forward with a shudder. There was a burst of shrieking sound, and flashing lights strobed through the quiet street. A police car was behind Helen.

She pulled over, and the Neon creaked to a stop, engine pinging. She presented her license and rental car papers to the cop.

“You were going sixty-five in a forty-mile-an-hour zone, ma’am,” the officer said.

“I’m sorry, Officer,” Helen said. She tried to look contrite. It wasn’t difficult. She was truly sorry—that she’d gotten caught.

“I’m here visiting my sister in Webster Groves,” Helen said. “I know that’s not an excuse, but I was hurrying home. I’m supposed to watch her kids.”

“So you endangered the lives of other families with your reckless driving?”

“I’m sorry,” Helen repeated.

“When do you go home to Florida?”

“Tomorrow,” Helen said.

“Drive slowly to your sister’s house,” the officer said. “I’m going to let you go with a warning.”

“Yes,” Helen said. “I will.”

Damn, the blackmailer got away, Helen thought. This traffic stop just cost me ten thousand dollars.

“Ma’am?” the officer said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Most people say thank you when they don’t get a ticket. I did you a favor.”

“H
e got away,” Helen said, limping through her sister’s back door at ten o’clock.

“How?” She could see the worry in Kathy’s eyes. Her sister would be a little grayer after this visit, thanks to Helen’s mistakes.

“I fell asleep at the diner.”

Helen had tried on various lies as she drove slowly home after her encounter with the traffic cop. They all sounded like fabrications. She decided to follow the timeworn advice: Always tell the truth—there’s less to remember. Helen couldn’t stomach one more lie right now, though she expected she’d go back to her regular diet of deceit when she returned home.