Chapter Sixteen – Thursday, June 23^rd

 

An embarrassed lady writes to me: Dearest, wonderfulest, smartest, most bodacious Auntie, I’m afraid I’ve had an incredible, shuddering, knee-knocking night in the sack with a very potent man, and my silk brocade comforter has taken one too many hits as a result. Please tell me how to avoid taking my comforter to the drycleaner’s, who happens to know my mother from our church. Sincerely, a very bad girl. My reply: Oh, energetic and enthusiastic bad girl, I have but three pieces of advice. Better aim. Use rubber sheets for that extra kinky factor. And oh, learn how to swallow.

- Aunt Piadora’s Beauty (and sometimes cleanliness) Hints

 

Mary Grace had intended spending the afternoon shopping herself into oblivion followed by a mind-shattering follow-up event at Brogan’s Highland Park love nest. Instead she had to endure snide security men, disparaging remarks from complete strangers who thought she really had tried to kidnap a baby, and arrange a flatbed tow truck to pick up Callie’s Mazda Miata. “No, you can’t just tow it the regular way,” she was forced to explain in excruciating, numbing detail. “It’s got FOUR flat tires. Four. Two of them are not going to magically re-inflate in the back so it can be towed that way.”

That was followed by a call to the Ford dealer to see if by some miracle her Explorer was ready. It was not; no canonization for the car repair place would be occurring. It had been two and a half weeks since the brake cutting, hill descending, air bag inflating incident, but the mechanics were taking their sweet assed time and blaming the delay on the parts department. Moreover, the parts department was blaming the factory in Indonesia for not sending the appropriate part. Mary Grace couldn’t call the factory in Indonesia because the parts department wouldn’t give her the number, so she was left to languish in carless abandonment.

One of the security guards had been detailed to watch her while she made her various calls. “Ralph,” Mary Grace said after a lengthy, get-to-know-each-other conversation. “You should really get your wife that Dior J’adore Pure Perfume. It’s on sale at Saks Fifth Avenue and you get a discount, too. That’ll leave you enough for roses and a box of chocolates. Nice chocolates, too, buddy. Godiva I think. Don’t scrimp.”

Ralph thought about it. “That’s going to break my budget.”

Mary Grace resisted moaning in disparagement. Non-shopping men. She totaled it up for him, including a few freebies that would impress his wife. “It’s only about $150, if you’re smart.”

“Only that much?” Ralph said wonderingly.

“And she’ll love it,” Mary Grace said. Ralph is going to get some booty, but I’m not saying that aloud.

“She’s going to complain about the chocolates making her fat,” Ralph said morosely, trying to pick the plan apart.

Oh, please. Secretly she’s going to be drooling. “Get her a small box. They have a nice selection of less expensive gifts there and if you flirt with the clerk, she’ll put a very pretty ribbon on it, and put it in a very elegant bag.” Mary Grace nodded encouragingly.

“You’re not the kook I thought you were,” Ralph said sincerely. “I’m really sorry someone has tried to kill you, and embarrass you, too. Thanks for the advice.”

“Well,” Mary Grace admitted graciously, “sometimes I come across as a little odd. This whole thing has been a stressor nonstop. But shopping and finding bargains is my little gift. I hope your wife has a pleasant anniversary.” Ralph’s going to have a great anniversary. And no one is trying to knock him off, either. Lucky son of a bitch.

“I’m going to have to escort you to the cab stand on the ground level, now, Mary Grace,” Ralph said apologetically.

Mary Grace sighed. She didn’t really want to take a cab home, but she didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t call one of her relatives who would immediately blab to her mother and she couldn’t call Brogan, who would probably blow a gasket, or some other part of his male anatomy. Besides her head still hurt and she wanted about ten ibuprofen pills or maybe an ibuprofen drip. It was a cab or walking, and it was about five miles to her house. “Okay, but don’t tell the cab driver I’m being stalked or he might not take me home.”

•

Ralph was walking beside Mary Grace when they passed the large ice skating rink and she saw a long line of tables and displays with all kinds of intricate gadgets and colorful paperwork to explain what was going on with each device. She said wearily, “So what’s up here, Ralph?”

“Science fair displays from local elementary schools,” Ralph answered positively, happy that his anniversary issues had been niftily resolved. “You wouldn’t believe what some of these kids can do. That one over there.” He pointed. “That kid did an experiment on the differences in fizzyness in soda pop. He managed to fill up three balloons with fizz. The one over there did a project on how light intensity affects solar cells. I never even thought about something like it. But there was one kid who actually built a replica nuclear device. Got the grand prize. The effects of nuclear power on the environment or something like that. Pretty whiz-bang.”

Mary Grace glanced over the displays and looked longingly at the window of the department store beyond. There were three sale signs in the window taunting her maliciously. “You mean he actually built a nuclear bomb?”

“Nonworking,” Ralph laughed. “Where’s the kid going to get the radioactive material to make a bomb?”

“Nukes Я Us?” Mary Grace answered dryly, not really interested.

Ralph laughed again.

Mary Grace trudged on, dismayed by the effects of being banned from her favorite shopping grounds. There are other malls, dammit. I don’t need this one. I didn’t do anything wrong. I just wanted to escape that mental place where I was being stalked and my stalker hasn’t been caught yet. It’s not like I can go after the murderous idjit 24/7, and shopping is so good for my calmness. Is that such a wrong thing? She glanced over her shoulder for a last look at the interior of the mall and saw a group of kids standing beside a display. A photographer was taking pictures of them. They were all proudly displaying their pie-plate sized ribbons.

She stopped abruptly, staring, something inexorable nibbling away at her brain. Ralph sighed dramatically. “Come on, Mary Grace. I’ll put you in the cab myself, you don’t have to worry about someone getting to you until you get home, and then you can call the detective you were talking about. You really don’t want to go to jail today.”

“Those kids,” Mary Grace jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “How old are they?”

“Elementary grades,” Ralph said. “Oh, some of them are as young as eight. They’re about 4^th grade to 6^th. I don’t think the younger grades do the science fairs. Pretty cool stuff for an eight year old. When I was eight I probably would have done an experiment on how big a bubble I could pop with gum. Hmm.”

“Eight years old?” Mary Grace tilted her head crookedly. Really. Could my mother have her theory half way correct? My mother? Could it be that simple? Jack Covington has an alibi for the brake job and the BMW explosion. He was at Disney World with Morgan during…the brake job attempt, and anyway, Trey admitted to that one. But Jack was in Las Vegas during the BMW explosion.

“Come on, Mary Grace,” Ralph said again, patiently. “Let’s get you out of the mall before my boss has you arrested.”

A light bulb exploded in her head. Mary Grace nodded more excitedly. “You bet. I’ve got a photograph to look at.”

When she got into the cab, she told him where she wanted to go.

•

Jack nearly groaned at the sight of Mary Grace walking into Pictographs, Inc. He took a breath, shook his head tiredly, and then did groan. He was the last one in the office and Mary Grace Castilla was the last person he probably wanted to see.

Mary Grace didn’t care. Jack didn’t have a restraining order against her…yet. And she was determined. Worse, she was going to get the answers she wanted one way or another. “I need something, Jack,” she announced. Then she marched past him, going directly into his office. There she positioned herself squarely in front of the framed photographs. Specifically, she was interested in the one where Morgan had a large trophy in his hands and was standing next to a complicated gizmo and a sign that said it was a science fair.

Jack made a sort of strangled-cat noise behind her. Mary Grace ignored it. She picked the photo up and examined it closely. The cute little boy in the photograph was about the same age as the one she’d seen going and coming from Jack’s Arlington house, the child she had met before both in the office and once at the barbeque at Jack’s house. Five years old. Five years old and he’s got a huge science fair trophy. And the gizmo in the photograph looked like a bomb. It looks like some kind of thing you’d put on the bottom of a car, not that I really know what the kind of thing that blows up cars from the bottom looks like. She considered. Maybe if it was on sale.

Mary Grace straightened up and turned toward Jack, with the photograph still in her hand. She looked carefully at his expression. He was relieved that I asked him about the chumbawumbas picture. He was relieved that I didn’t ask him something else. So what was it? “Your son…is what? A genius? A child prodigy?”

Jack nodded slowly. His expressive green eyes seemed to glitter intently. He was trying to figure a way out of the situation. Mary Grace frowned, trying to put details together. Jack did have a crush on Mary Grace; he’d painted a nude of what he thought she looked like, even if the breasts were a little excessive. But had he come to Pictographs, Inc. to ask her out as he’d said, or was he there for another reason?

“This is a bomb in this picture,” Mary Grace said, watching Jack’s face. It twisted, contorted, and attempted to bring itself to neutrality. I’m close. I’m almost there. I think maybe I got this one.

“Morgan is interested in munitions. He thought he could build a device that would take out an engine in a vehicle only with minor damage to the driver or passengers.” Jack seemed to slump a little. “I guess he sees a little too much on the news lately.”

“He’s five years old,” Mary Grace said, as if she were protesting. There’s a double-edged sword. Everyone wants to have an intelligent child, but what if that child was a little too clever? What if the kid is sharper than you are? Yowza.

Jack shrugged. “He’s a smart little guy.”

“And did he see the painting?” Mary Grace asked. You know what painting I mean, Jack. The one with the giant nipply-do-dahs. Yeah. Don’t make me say it aloud again.

Jack nodded slowly.

“How did he know the painting was me?” There isn’t a face on it. Just two something elses that pretty much dominate the whole canvas. Poor kid. He’s probably warped for life now. My boobies have made this kid go over the edge. Oh, God. I have to go see Father Patrick immediately.

“There were…other paintings,” Jack said, pulling at the neck of his shirt as if it were too restrictive. “With your face, too. Mostly, I did torsos. I burn what I’m not happy with, which is why you only saw the one piece.”

Mary Grace twitched unhappily. “So Morgan’s not content with you and his mother getting divorced?”

Jack nodded shortly.

Mary Grace stared at Jack. Time to make sure Ma’s psycho-ex-wife theory isn’t a determining factor. “So is your ex-wife the get-even kind of girl?”

Jack shook his head without hesitation. “No. Once we got past the custody thing, it was fine. She’s gotten together with a dental surgeon. They’re talking about getting married next summer. The Bahamas, I think.”

Mary Grace looked down at the photograph again. I wonder if the kid tried to blow up the dental surgeon too. “How did he get my address?”

“Hacked my computer, we think,” Jack admitted in a dry voice.

“Your ex-wife knows?” Be careful of using the ‘we’ word, Jack.

“Mallory, that’s my ex, thinks Morgan snuck out the night of the 8^th or the morning of the 9^th and drove her car to your house. With a broom handle taped to the gas and a mop taped to the brakes. And he sat on several phone books for the steering wheel. It’s an automatic so he didn’t have to shift.” Jack rubbed a tired hand over his face. “Morgan said he learned how to drive by watching us. He said it wasn’t hard at all.”

“And he planted the device on the bottom of my rental car?” Mary Grace almost couldn’t bring herself to say the words because they seemed so ludicrous coming out of her mouth. “A five year boy tried to blow me up because his father was painting portraits of my mammary glands?”

Jack winced. “Morgan thought that if you were…to be out of the picture, then his mother and I…might reunite.”

“Did you let the dental surgeon know he might have a problem with his car?” Mary Grace put the photograph on Jack’s desk and sat down abruptly in one of the chairs in his office. She stared at the office wall and wondered if her life was always going to be like this. It wasn’t like she was an alcoholic or a drug addict and she had reached the drop-dead bottom of her existence. No, it’s worse. Trey Kennebrew decided to use me as an experiment because he thinks I’m a flaky, fluffy brained twit with a stack of credit cards and a detailed map to every clothing store in town. Part of his experiment was to cut my brake lines to see how I deal with stress. I guess I was supposed to shop harder or something.

And my boss painted his version of my ta-ta’s in glorious oils. His FIVE year old son took exception to that and tried to explode me into teensy-weensy little Mary Grace bits so that I wouldn’t be in the way anymore.

How can it possibly get any worse than that? I mean, really.

“Morgan’s reasoning was that if he…uh…got rid of you, then Mallory would leave her boyfriend for me.” Jack shuffled his feet awkwardly. Obviously he didn’t like explaining his murderous son’s impulses. “Morgan’s been in a clinic since last Monday. I kept him at my house until you broke in, and then Mallory and I decided he needed a little help.”

“Are you going to let Trey take the blame for Morgan?” Mary Grace asked incredulously. “I mean, Trey did cut my brake lines, right? He confessed. He wrote it in his notes. Your son didn’t do that, too? Somehow from remote control in Florida?” She asked the question but she already knew the answer.

“Mary Grace,” Jack said reluctantly. “I don’t know what Trey’s deal is. I know he’s in jail, and his mother said something about a dreadful mix-up with you. But that he’s really a good guy who’s terribly misunderstood.”

“He’s a dorkhead and when he gets his Ph.D. they can call him Dr. Dorkhead,” Mary Grace said gracelessly. “But Trey did cut my brake lines, right?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Kennebrew admitted that he did do that.” Jack rubbed his face again. “And you know we were at Disney World, so it wasn’t Morgan.”

“So you know Trey’s been charged with the attempt on my life by means of the BMW bang-bang?”

Jack nodded. “We’re talking to an attorney. Mallory and I agreed that Morgan will cop to the explosive device in your car, so that Trey isn’t wrongly convicted of the crime. We’re talking about a plea bargain because of his age.”

“Oh,” Mary Grace said weakly. It’s hard to be mad at a five year old, she thought stupidly. I mean, he was just trying to get his divorced parents back together, at my expense. Shouldn’t I be really, really pissed off? Shouldn’t I want this kid to suffer? But Jeez, I don’t. He’s only five years old. Oh, I need to talk to Father Patrick. “I guess I need to find a new job,” she added, faintly, failing to think of what to say for the moment.

“Um,” Jack said.

“There’s a place in Dallas who made me an offer three months ago,” she went on. “Maybe they’d still be interested. It would be a pay cut, but I’d get more control over what I do.” She looked up at Jack. “Not that you don’t give me enough control, I guess.”

“Perhaps it would be for the best,” Jack murmured.

“Morgan’s in a psychiatric ward?” Mary Grace questioned. When Jack nodded, she said, “And you will go to the police about the BMW explosion?”

Jack nodded again. “We’ve got an appointment with the DA on Monday. There’s no question about it. I was going to tell you before, but I…chickened out.”

“And the shooting attempt?”

“Not Morgan,” he said immediately. “It couldn’t have been Morgan. I dropped him off at his mother’s house just before I came to see if you were all right here. She met us at the door and he was with her all evening long. I swear. Mallory swears. Besides none of us have any weapons like a .38 pistol that Detective Bloodsaw said was used. Not I. Not Mallory. Not our parents’. Not the dental surgeon. Well, he’s got a shotgun, but it’s locked up.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what a dental surgeon does with a shotgun.”

“Morgan doesn’t have brown eyes, does he?” Mary Grace asked inanely.

“Brown eyes?” Jack repeated. “No, they’re green, like mine. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it’s probably nothing,” she said. “What about knowing a thirtyish woman with honey blonde hair, blue eyes, and a four to six month old baby?”

“A blonde woman in her thirties with blue eyes with an infant?”

“Yeah, kid likes his binkie. And his name is Johnny. The baby, I mean, not the binkie.”

“I can’t think of anyone who has a little baby right now,” Jack said, clearly confused. “Not blonde or otherwise. Nothing springs to mind. What does this woman have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know, but she got me banned from the mall for six months,” Mary Grace said irritatedly.

“Mary Grace, are you okay?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she replied.