Chapter 61
Twenty-six-year-old Jorge Mendez is currently being held on assault charges by the Cumberland Creek Police. Mendez, an assistant manager at Pamela’s Pie Palace, had recently been questioned about the murders of Marina and Esmeralda Martelino.
Mendez, an immigrant from Mexico, assaulted a Cumberland Creek woman on Halloween night while he was dressed in a clown costume.
“Freaky,” Beatrice said as she lowered the Sunday newspaper. “What was a grown man doing dressed up in a clown costume, anyway?”
Jon shrugged. “I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. It was Halloween. But going after Annie . . . that I don’t understand. What did he want?”
“He wanted to hurt her, maybe kill her, Jon. Just like he probably did to those other women,” Beatrice said.
“No, I meant, why Annie? I know he wanted to hurt her. But why her? Do you really think he’s the killer?”
“He’s got some problems,” Beatrice said. “Don’t you think?”
Jon shrugged. “It does seem that way. Some men . . . I don’t know . . . are quite macho. But it doesn’t mean they are killers. Look at Jacob.”
“Well, someone has needed to punch Bryant in the nose for years. I’m glad he was off duty so that he can’t bust Jacob for assaulting a police officer or something.”
“In France, it’s typical for an older man to be with a younger woman and vice versa. I don’t understand Americans’ view on this subject. I mean, look at us. I’m a lot younger than you. What is the big deal?”
Beatrice thought a moment. “I know what you’re saying is true. We have a fairly puritanical culture and it’s kind of ridiculous, given the fact that sex is everywhere these days. But I think Jacob was acting as a protective dad. I’m not sure it’s the age thing, the cop thing, or the ass thing . . .”
“Ass thing?”
“The fact that Bryant can be a real ass. As a dad, Jacob has every right to express his dislike. But I don’t agree with his methods. We can’t go around beating up people we don’t like.” Beatrice grinned. “Would that I could, I’d have beaten up well . . . just about everybody I know.”
“I know you better than that,” Jon said, leaning in to her.
“Yeah, you kinda do. How about some pie?”
“Oh, I think I can have a slice or two.”
“It’s the last of the pumpkin pie,” Bea said, handing him a slice.
“We can always make more,” Jon said with a hopeful note in his voice, taking a forkful.
Beatrice sat down with her own slice of pie and dug in. “Annie said that she thought Jorge was nice. She said she picked up on some tension between him and Irina but that he seemed nice. It worries Annie, I think, when she’s wrong.”
Jon chortled. “Like someone else I know.”
“I’m wrong all the time,” Beatrice said with a grin.
The day stretched out before them and it left Bea wondering what it would hold. Who would have thought a man dressed as a clown would have attacked Annie on Halloween night? Poor thing.
Bea smacked her lips after her last bit of pie and wondered what would come next. Did they have a killer in Jorge Mendez? It had to be. If not, who else had killed those young women? None of it made sense—murder rarely did. But if Jorge had the kind of temper and personality to attack Annie on Halloween, he definitely might have an inclination toward murder.
Bea worried about Annie, who had said the murders would be her last story. Bea couldn’t imagine it, Annie without a story. It seemed unfathomable. In any case, it was the second time within a year that her life had been threatened. It pained Beatrice to admit, but maybe Mike was right. Maybe she should give up reporting.
Beatrice had always thought women could do anything. But when it came to her friend Annie risking her life . . . she didn’t like it. No story was worth that. It had taken Annie awhile to get over the last incident; it was what had led her to her initial thoughts of retiring. And then the murders happened. And the assault.
But Annie had handled herself. She took him down. Beatrice grinned.
“What are you smiling about?” Jon said.
“I’m thinking about Annie taking that big clown to the ground.”
“Yep. She’s a hell of a woman.”
Indeed.
Beatrice was still mulling over Annie, imagining her tackling Jorge, when the phone rang. It was Cookie.
“Oh, Beatrice. I’m suddenly remembering so much. The dead sisters, the ritual, all of it is shaking something loose in me. One thing I remembered tonight is how much I love you.”
Beatrice’s heart fluttered. She quickly got a grip on her emotions. “Now, Cookie, Let’s not get carried away.”
“You know what?”
Beatrice heard the joy in Cookie’s voice.
“That’s exactly what I expected you to say.”