G-Ma, thank God, rounded the corner just then, holding Stump on stiff arms as far from her as she could manage. Stump flopped like a twenty-five pound catfish.
“I have to take care of my dog,” I said. It was a poor excuse for a reprieve, but since it looked to be all that was forthcoming, I latched onto it. I grabbed Stump and feigned great concern for her. “You're okay, girl,” I crooned as I scurried back to G-Ma’s car. “It's okay. Don't be scared of the big bad camera.”
Of course, now she was perfectly fine. G-Ma hurried to keep up with me. “What was that girl asking you? Was that the girl from Channel Eleven? She's too skinny. She doesn't look so skinny on TV. She needs to eat something. Probably got that disease that makes you too skinny.”
Frankly I've always subscribed to the theory that you can't be too skinny, but I was too busy freaking completely out about Tony to respond. Still married? How was that even possible? I'd gotten the divorce papers years ago.
I climbed in and tucked Stump on my lap. I shot a quick glance back the way we'd come, but the reporter must have decided I wasn't worth chasing down. Thank you, God.
“So did you get to talk to him? I missed everything. That dumb dog went running out into the street and I barely caught her before she got squashed by a cop car. What did he say? Did he do it? What was his mamma saying? She looks older than me, don't you think? She’s probably twenty years younger, but she looks older. It's all that gray hair.”
Mrs. Solis had probably a dozen strands of gray hair mixed in with the black. G-Ma dyed her hair a solid red that made it look like a Kansas City Chief’s football helmet, but there wasn't a strand of gray in it. That was important to her. She thought it made her look young. Whatever gets you through the night, I guess.
Still married? Ugh.
“What happens if you're married in the Catholic Church and you get divorced?”
“You don't get divorced in the Catholic church. No such thing.”
“But I got divorce papers!” It was enough to make me wish I still cussed.
“Not from the church.”
“No, from somebody official.”
“Catholics don't divorce.”
“But that's crazy.”
“Well, Catholics aren't always the most logical people.”
Unlike the Baptists in my family who never actually went to church, Catholics aren’t logical?
I leaned back and closed my eyes. I couldn't get Tony's face out of my mind.
God, I started to pray., for Tony, for guidance, for hope, but all I could think to say was, God, really?
I tried to imagine Tony doing anything to hurt anyone, but it was just not possible. I knew that under the right circumstances, people are capable of almost anything. I knew that it had been a long time since I'd been around Tony, and it was possible he'd changed. But…no. He couldn't have killed anyone.
Please help him, I silently prayed. Please do something to help him.
How are you going to help him? By finding the real killer? Mrs. Solis had said. Mocking, as if nothing could be more ridiculous.
I wish I could. I wish I could find the real killer and give Tony his freedom back.
As if. I couldn't even figure out how I was going to get to work in the morning.
“Did I tell you I'm going to open the restaurant back up?” G-Ma asked.
Oh no. G-Ma owned a seedy motel on the Clovis highway that catered to anyone who'd ruined their credit so much they couldn't get a room in even the scariest real apartments. The side of the building advertised Daily-Weekly-Shower rates. Bless her heart, I think G-Ma really believed that people rented a room by the hour because they needed to take a shower.
When she had inherited the place from her third and last husband, it had had a coffee shop that provided maybe half of the motel's income. A bad bout of food poisoning had put them out of business. She'd tried to reopen it as another coffee shop, an Italian place (I had told her she needed more than canned spaghetti and red checked table clothes for that to work), a burger place, and a donut shop. I had gained fifteen of my extra forty during the donut phase.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Heaven forbid if I seemed unsupportive, but I was of the opinion that G-Ma had all she could handle with the motel. “Remember how much work that was?”
“I remember, and that's why I'm not the one who's going to do it. Mario is.”
“Mario? Seriously?” Okay, I was getting a little excited now. Mario had a booming and only slightly illegal business making tamales at home and selling them to local businesses. He went around all morning carrying an insulated case over his shoulder, moving in and out of offices and through warehouses with lightning speed. He always came to the grooming shop on Thursday morning and, sad as my life was at the moment, it was one of the highlights of my week.
“He's going to quit the delivery?”
“Not exactly. The stupid health department said he couldn't cook out of his kitchen at home anymore. He has to get a professional kitchen.”
“Can't they just inspect his home kitchen? You know it's probably cleaner than a lot of restaurants.”
“I know it. But they said it was against the law and they couldn't keep looking the other way.”
“They couldn't keep looking the other way while they had a mouthful of his tamales.”
“So he's going to just cook there but keep up his route?”
“He's planning to open the dining room, too. He's going to hire his nieces to work there and another nephew to help him with deliveries. He said he figures he could easily double his delivery if he had more help.”
“I didn't know he was even looking for someone to help him.” I loved my job, but let's face it – getting to eat the Mario’s leftovers would be a pretty awesome fringe benefit.
Stump's little feet were digging into my thighs, and I shifted her on my lap. I remembered that I wouldn't be able to take her with me if I worked for Mario. So I supposed I would stay at Bow Wow Barbers.
“Do you need to go anywhere else before I take you home?”
I did a mental inventory of my cabinet: half a box of dry spaghetti., no sauce, a can of green beans, four or five slices of bread and a quarter of a jar of peanut butter.
Then I did a mental inventory of my checking account. Next to zero dollars and zero cents, with the promise of impending arterial bleeding in the cash department, thanks to a busted block, whatever the heck that was.
“Just take me home,” I said. I could eat the peanut butter and bread, and cook the spaghetti to eat plain if I had to. I didn't have the energy to lie to myself and say I was going to eat the green beans.
Although I asked God one more time for a miracle, the stupid car was still sitting in my driveway when we got home.
I opened the door, and Stump shoved all twenty-five pounds of her weight into my thighs as she launched herself, barking, up onto the front deck.
A brown cardboard box sat beside the front door.
“What's that?” I asked. As if G-Ma would know.
“It's not yours?”
I shook my head and got out.
“Wait! What if it's a bomb?”
“Why would there be a bomb on my front deck?” But I stopped.
“Maybe people hate you since they think you killed that woman.”
“But I didn't touch her!”
“I know that, but you saw that news story.”
Stupid Trisha! “Stump, get back!” Of course, Stump didn't listen to a thing I said unless it contained the words “treat” or “eat” or “go” in the sentence. “Stump!”
Stump jumped up on the box and tilted it over. G-Ma and I both screamed.
Nothing exploded. Stump didn't get blown through the air. Instead, a ham rolled out of the box and onto the deck.
G-Ma clutched at my shirt. “What is it? Do you hear ticking?” She comes from the era when bombs actually ticked. I'm not sure but I think they beep now – the age of technology.
“It's a ham,” I said. I climbed the steps and rescued the ham before Stump pounced on it. I leaned over the box and saw four or five boxes of different kinds of food, potatoes and RiceARoni, canned tomatoes, and more green beans – okay, okay, so I'd eat the green beans – and a loaf of bread. There was also a box of cereal, a box of dry milk, and a package of Jerky Treats for Stump.
I pulled out a white piece of paper. I didn't know if you'd have a way to get to the grocery store so I brought a few things by. Call me if you need a ride anywhere. Les
“People are giving you food?” G-Ma frowned. “You shouldn't let people give you food.”
“I wasn't here to stop him.”
“Still, you need to give that back. You're not some out-of-work welfare case.”
I unlocked the door and carried the box in on my hip while I tried to decide whether or not I should argue with that one. I was still trying to decide when I put the box on the table and one of the boxes inside tipped over.
“Are those chocolate covered cherries?” G-Ma reached into the box and pulled them out. “Wow. That was really nice of him to bring you chocolate covered cherries.”
Although she was right, I'm not a big fan of the chocolate covered cherry. I much prefer chocolate covered chocolate. I couldn't help but notice how quickly her tone changed when she saw something she liked.
I shrugged and took the box back from her. “Yes, it was nice, but you're right, I probably shouldn't be taking food from them.”
“Well…” She looked at the box. “Sometimes it is hard to swallow your pride, but you know, God doesn't like pride.”
“That's true, but shouldn't we try to be self-sufficient?”
“Of course, of course, but like you said, it wasn't like you asked for your car to break down.” She reached a hand out for the box of chocolate and then drew it back.
“No, I didn't, and I could really use these groceries. I don't have much, and I hate to keep asking you to drive me all over town.” And there was a big box of Little Debbie Star Crunches in there. I could live on Little Debbie Star Crunches.
“I’d be happy to drive you anywhere, but you're right, you can't keep asking me to do that.” She didn't elaborate on why not, exactly.
“Besides, he went to all this trouble and it would be rude to refuse it.” Which one of us was going to rip into the chocolate first?
“Ungracious.”
“Ungrateful. I know you can take care of yourself just fine, but sometimes it helps people if you let him help you, you know what I mean? It's better to give than receive, I've always said, so in a way you're really helping them. Can't give if there's nobody to receive, right?”
She gave up the effort and reached for the cherries. I waited till she was ready to rip through the cellophane wrapping before I stopped her. “G-Ma, are you sure? I'd hate to be accepting charity.”
“Salem.” She tucked the box under her arm and took my hand between her two. “I'm sure. You need to do this. For Wes.”
“Les.”
“Les. Exactly. He needs for you to accept this.”
I nodded, echoing her solemnity. “You're right.” No way was I going to tell her this wasn't the first time Les had brought me a box of food. The first time I had gone through the whole routine of trying to refuse his help, but G-Ma – despite her self-serving motivation – was right. Les liked to give. It was his gift.
Me, I hadn't discovered yet what my gift is. I'd like to give, if I wasn't always so busy just trying to keep my own head above water. I'd like to have a huge chunk of money to give away, but since I couldn't even pay my own bills, giving didn't seem to be in the works for me at the moment.
What are you going to do, find the real killer?
I unpacked the box, so caught up in that thought that it took Stump actually jumping on my foot for me to realize she was trying to get my attention. I opened the package of Jerky Treats and tossed her a couple.
What if, crazy as it sounded, I could actually do something to find the real killer? I mean, I was sure the police knew what they were doing, but it didn't hurt to have a fresh pair of eyes, did it?
I’d been thinking of my “help” in terms of maybe watering Tony’s plants and bringing books when I visited him in prison, but wouldn't it be cool to be the hero for a change, instead of the one who screwed everything up?
I heard footsteps on the deck.
“Hey,” Frank said as he came through the door. “Something smells good.”
Unbelievable. Frank can smell good food even while it's still in the box.
“We're having fried ham steaks and broccoli cheese rice,” I said. “Why don't you stay for dinner?” I knew he was already planning on it, but since Les had been so generous, I could pass that spirit on and let Frank get off without having to ask.
Since I worked on Saturdays, I had Thursdays off. I liked to sleep late, but that Thursday morning I woke up early fantasizing about being the one to bring Lucinda Cruz’s real killer to justice. I would exonerate Tony. Trisha would cover the story for the news, and once it was all over, she would come up to me with tears in her eyes and tell me how much she admired what I'd done. Even Mrs. Solis would wrap her petite, iron-strong little hands around mine and thank me for returning her son to her. In my fantasy, I was the hero, and somehow I was back to a size six.
In reality, I was about triple a size six and didn’t know anything about the victim except her name. I had no idea why the police thought Tony did it, nor how she'd been killed. So much for cracking the case.
And one big ol' honking question remained: was I really still married to Tony?
I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head. I did not want to think about that. Being married all this time meant that not only had I lived a life of wild debauchery for the past ten years, but I'd also committed a fairly horrific amount of adultery.
Of all the things I had on my plate at the moment, that one was the one that I couldn't even bring myself to look at fully. Well…that and sleeping with Scott. Breaking Trisha's heart – I would just as soon I'd never heard about that one.
“God,” I whispered. “There's so much pain I've caused, and I feel like I’m drowning in it. I am truly, truly sorry. I want to find some way to make things right. I can't stand this horrible guilt, and I need to do something, but I have no idea what. Please show me something I can do.”
I lay there quietly and waited for God to answer me. Here's the thing that's been driving me crazy lately. I've been reading all these Christian romances that Les's wife gave me, and in them when the people pray, God answers them, in all capital letters. They know it's God, they hear His voice in their heads, and they know it's God, and they know exactly how to respond to it, because there's no question in their minds God is speaking to them. He talks to them in all caps.
God never talks to me in all caps. He doesn't talk to me in all caps or all lower case or even in Morse code. I pray, I ask, and I hear as much as I do when I hold a conch shell to my ear.
I listened harder. “Anything, God,” I said. “Anything I can do to make things better. Anything at all.” I waited.
Stump jumped on my shoulders and stuck her cold wet nose on my neck.
I sighed and shoved myself up. “Thanks, God. That's clear as mud.”
I fed Stump and took my shower, going through options in my mind about how I could make things better for both Trisha and Tony, but everything I came up with involved large sums of money. Like hiring an ace private detective and attorney for Tony, and sending Trisha and Scott off on a two-week tropical getaway. I told God if he'd send me a winning lottery ticket, I would definitely do both those things, but I wasn't exactly rooted in faith that He would. Although I hadn’t read it in the Bible yet, I don't think God looks all that favorably on gambling. Granted, there are a lot of parts I hadn’t gotten to.
I got ready and did my prayer time, but I couldn't concentrate. I kept wondering, “What if I'm really married right now? What if Trisha went home after our talk and had a big fight with Scott? What if Tony is convicted of this murder and spends the rest of his life in jail?
“I'm sorry, I can't focus right now, God. You know what's on my mind.” Give it to God, Les always says. “I give it all to you, God. Except…if you could just send me an idea of how to help, I'd really appreciate it.”
I got up not feeling one bit better. Where was that peace that passed all understanding? My stomach was still in knots, and only a Little Debbie Star Crunch would make it better. That helped, but then I felt fat.
I wasn't going to be able to chill out until I did something, I decided. I was a person of action. I decided to get over myself and call Bobby Sloan. After all, I'd found the body. It was perfectly normal that I'd be interested in the case.
I made some toast to fortify myself for the call. I'd spent so much time avoiding law enforcement, it seemed weird to actually be calling one of them voluntarily. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became. So I made some more toast and put peanut butter on it.
That actually made me feel better, so I made one more piece and then looked up the number.
During the ensuing runaround to track Bobby down, I polished off the toast and the Star Crunch I promised myself I would save for lunch. Thinking of Elvis and searching the refrigerator for anything else I could stuff in my mouth, I was caught off guard when he actually picked up the line.
“Sloan.”
“Umm.” I swallowed the croutons I'd bought to go on the salads I never made and cleared my throat. “Bobby? This is Salem. Grimes. From the – the you know – I found the –” What did they call them? Deceaseds?
“Yeah, Salem, of course. Did you remember something?”
“Oh, um, no. No, I didn't. I just wanted to check and see if you'd made any progress on the case.”
“Why?”
“Why?” What kind of question was that? “Because, you know, there's a murderer loose and all. Plus stupid Channel 11 ran my picture with the story and I – well, that's made me kind of nervous, that the killer would link me with it all, somehow. So I just thought…” Actually, since Trisha's story made it sound like I was the murderer, the worst the killer was likely to do was send me a thank you card. But still…
“Well, I don't think you have anything to worry about. We have a suspect. “
“Look, Bobby, I know you arrested Tony Solis, but he’s innocent. He's not the guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I know Tony, and I know he wouldn't do anything like that. Really.” Go ahead. Take the word of a girl with three DUIs and a couple of bad check charges.
“I’m sure the jury will take that into consideration, Salem.”
“Bobby, seriously, he couldn’t have done it.”
“When was the last time you talked to Tony?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I just asked if there was anything I could do to help him.”
“And what did he say?”
“I don’t remember. His mother was ranting, and Tony said we weren’t really divorced. That’s when I freaked out and left.”
“You’re not divorced? What do you mean?”
“Tony and I were married a long time ago, while we were still in high school, but I got divorced, and evidently he didn’t. It’s a whole Catholic thing.” Uh-oh. That sounded kind of anti-Catholic, and I didn’t mean for it to. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”
“No, I think I’m Presbyterian. So you’re married to our main suspect?”
“No – well, yes, but…why do you think he killed that girl?”
“You don’t really think I’m going to talk about an active investigation, do you?”
“Not to just anyone off the street, no, but I did find the body. That entitles me to something, right?”
“Wrong. When was the last time you talked to Tony before yesterday?”
I thought for a second. “I guess it was when I moved out.”
“And when was that?”
“Ten years ago in June.”
Bobby was silent for a long time. “You haven’t spoken to your husband in over ten years.”
“It sounds weird, I know.”
“Not for you, Salem.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to need you to come back in and answer a few more questions.”
My heart thumped. I knew it was a mistake to call. “Why?”
“Because that’s what happens in a murder investigation. We ask lots of questions.”
“I answered them already.”
“Maybe you’ll think of something new when I ask them again. Can you come in this afternoon?”
For the first time I was actually grateful for the busted block. “My car broke down, and I don’t have a way up there.”
“I can send a patrolman –”
“I know what I’ll do,” I interrupted. “I have a friend who’s coming by later this morning to help me with some errands. I’ll have her drop me off there. I’m not sure what time it’ll be. Probably between two and three.”
I hung up in a panic. Send a patrolman?
Poor Tony. If his freedom was depending on me, he was in big trouble.
I walked around a while and decided I might feel a little less awful with clothes on. But then I faced a new hurdle. I could not get my pants zipped.
“Stupid cheap crap dryer. Got too hot and shrunk my pants,” I said to Stump.
She looked back at me solemnly, her expression clearly stating that if I needed to lie to myself, she wouldn’t call me on it. She’s supportive that way.
I heaved a great sigh and collapsed on the bed. Defying all the laws of physics, I lay flat on the bed, raised my knees and tugged until I got them zipped. I tried three times to sit up before I made it all the way upright. I sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard and counting the red spots that swam around in front of me.
“This is not good,” I said to Stump. “I think I've hit an all-time high.”
She blinked at me and yawned.
I shoved myself off the bed, already feeling cramped from stuffing my internal organs into a space they were not meant to occupy, and I had to grab the wall to keep from keeling over. I made my way down the hallway to the bar in the kitchen.
Tony had an aunt named Sylvia that I hadn't completely alienated. In fact, she brought her brown poodle into Flo’s so I could groom it. We were almost friends, but I think that was mostly because she didn't like Mrs. Solis (old sisterly grudge) and being friendly to me was her way of being defiant. But still, I could use that to my advantage. I looked up her number and called her.
“I'm really worried about Tony, and I'm trying to think of some way I can help him,” I said when Sylvia answered the phone at the laundromat she owned.
“I know, sweetie, we're all worried. I went to church and lit a candle for him last night.”
“That's good,” I said. I was thinking of something a little more concrete. Unfortunately, nothing more concrete seemed to be forthcoming. I gave her my cell number and hung up.
I had to get out of the house and do something. Not knowing what else to do, I returned to the scene of the crime. Maybe a clue would jump out at me.
I whistled for Stump.
“Remember yesterday, when we went for the walk? We’re going to do a little more today.” Church was probably three miles away. I wanted to lose weight, right? Maybe this broken block thing would end up being a great blessing. On the plus side, if I did manage to make it all the way to the church, I would be only a few blocks from the police station, so I could follow through on my word to Bobby. Yay.
“We're going to walk to the church and talk to George,” I told her, trying to sound cheerful so I could psyche myself up. George was the man who ran all the maintenance services for the church. The church contracted a private cleaning company – Tony's company, as it turned out – but they worked through George.
I knew George because one time at my AA meeting I'd remarked that the coffee was a little strong. I swear, that's all I said. But word got back to George, and he was waiting outside our meeting room the next week, telling me that he'd talked to the staff and they'd tried to make it a little less strong. He wanted me to taste and see how I liked it. He looked nervous, like a concierge in a five-star hotel like he was anxious to please the temperamental penthouse guest, except I was a down-on-my-luck drunk at an AA meeting, and all I'd done was say the coffee was a little strong.
Every week after that, George acted as if his chief job in life was keeping me from going off on him about the coffee. I swear all I did was say it was a little strong. From the fallout you would have thought I'd thrown chairs and threatened to jump off the building. I wonder how he would react if I really pitched a fit about something. Like how freaking hot it was in that room in the winter.
Carrying Stump was, again, like carrying a twenty-five-pound sack of flour, but cuter. She watched the traffic go by and occasionally yawned contentedly, as if she got lugged around all the time, which she did, I guess.
I was determined not to get frustrated. I kept thinking that I wanted to be more like Les, upbeat and happy, no matter what was going on. I would just do that. I got to choose how I felt, right?
I would be like Les. Les had told me that morning when he visited me in jail that if I turned my life over to God, I would be so filled with the joy of the Holy Spirit that I would want to shout it from the rooftops. I would sing God's praises and my heart would fill to overflowing with love for Him. I couldn’t help but be happy all the time. He said those exact words, and he had such a big ol’ grin, I believed him.
Naturally, all that sounded like such a good deal to me. In fact, I thought even now that if I could choose between a winning Power Ball ticket and that overwhelming feeling of joy in my heart, I'd probably take the joy. Probably. Maybe I could negotiate a 5-out-of-6 Power Ball and the joy.
Despite my mind-over-matter attempts, I hadn’t had either so far, and it was starting to bug me. God's love was supposed to be there for everyone. I checked my heart. Nope. My mind just spun with thoughts about Tony, about Trisha. I felt no overwhelming feeling of joy, no assurance that God loved me and was there for me; just worry and guilt and the itch to do something to make it stop.
I looked down at Stump. Now there was someone who knew she was loved no matter what. She had her pink tongue sticking out, watching the traffic go by as if she was queen of the world. She wasn't worried about the electric bill, or how we were going to afford a new car, or what was going to happen when the food in Les's box ran out. She didn't have to feel bad about something she'd done ten years ago.
“God,” I said out loud, not really caring that I looked like a looney-tune walking down a busy street, carrying a fat dog and talking to myself. “I don't even know what to pray for anymore. A little help. With anything. Money. A new car. And you know when I say ‘new car’ I'm not actually expecting a new car, I just mean something new to me, something dependable. I don't care what it is. And some way to make things right for Tony and for Trisha. I'm not expecting you to make things right for me, God. I know this is my responsibility, and I want to be the one to make it right. I'm not trying to shirk my duty, seriously I'm not. But I need you to show me how. Throw me a bone, God. Anything. Just a little something to let me know you're in my corner.”
I heard a screech of tires and a horn blaring right behind me. I jumped to the right just in time to keep from being mowed down by Viv in her big green Cadillac.
She pulled to the curb and rolled the passenger window down. “You heading up to the church?”
I wasn't sure if I should tell her the truth or not. Viv was only slightly safer to ride with than G-Ma, maybe not any safer at all.
On the other hand, I was still a long way from church, and an hour trip could turn into five minutes.
“Ummm,” I said, still hesitating.
“Get in, I'll give you a lift. I’m going to choir practice.”
I supposed it would be okay. Stump could serve as an airbag.
“What are you going up there for?”
“I want to talk to George and see if he knows anything about the murder.”
“Good idea!”
I really liked Viv. She'd been coming to our AA meeting for a couple of months. She reminded me of G-Ma, only more fun. Our church was big and had three services, and Viv went to “big church” – a big beautiful sanctuary with a few dozen stained glass masterpieces and the biggest organ within four states. That was the