Chapter Twenty-One – Saturday, June 25th

 

How to preserve a husband: Choose one who is young, unmarked, and frisky, but not too young for he will be green at heart. Keep warm with loving, and serve with warm apple pie and French vanilla iced cream. Who cares about the stickiness? Wrap up a cocoon of appreciation or leather if you’ve a mind for kinkiness. Deep-rooted guidance is the best kind and you can just imagine the outcome. - Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints (and sometimes helpful yet old fashioned advice)

 

Mary Grace stared at the gate for the compound known as Goose Creek Association and mentally catalogued her various aches, bruises, and scrapes. The bloody nose resulting from the car’s air bag being deployed from the impact into the back of an eighteen wheeler had lasted only a few throbbing days, leaving no discernable damage. The BMW emblem was still embedded in her door frame at her home and apparently wouldn’t cause anything to become infected or make a difference in how her house appeared. The oleanders and crepe myrtle were dead and they weren’t coming back. Her neighbor, Mrs. Frasier, swore that her pet poodle’s tail wasn’t growing back, but Mary Grace saw a few days earlier that Attila’s tail was indeed coming back, puffier than ever. The shooting attempt combined with assisted battery had caused a facial bruise that was fading fast and required neutral concealer in abundance and applied with a trowel. However, the Prada purse was toast and the Jimmy Choos needed reconstructive surgery. The successive event was Callie getting smeared by someone as yet unidentified and her leg wouldn’t ever be the same again, extra metal pins and all. Then Mary Grace could throw in the getting-banned-from-the-mall experience which included the occurrence of getting thumped over the head by No. 3 wearing a cheap disguise.

At first Mary Grace had discounted her Texas wine country escapade as a product of her own foolishness, but she reconsidered that it wouldn’t have happened if she had been looking for Deep Throat Mommy and the identity of Mary Grace’s stalker. Getting beaned with a wine press hadn’t been No. 3’s responsibility but ultimately Mary Grace was certain that No. 3 would have approved whole-heartedly.

But the thorough destruction of Callie’s Miata was definitively unwarranted and Mary Grace had ended up with a new collection of colorful scrapes on her legs and arms thanks to her erstwhile rescuer. Note to self, she thought. Send that guy some of Bill and Marv’s merlot, maybe a whole case. Hope he likes red and that he’s not a recovering alcoholic by chance.

All of that was the culmination of Mary Grace’s life for the previous three weeks. There was the loss of her job, the gaining of a lover who distrusted her, and the infamy of being a pair of walking, enormous boobies which had garnered the attention of not one perverted, doctoral candidate but a lecherous boss and his sociopathic, five year old son. Not that Trey seemed interested in my howitzers but it can’t be discounted completely.

Am I leaving something out? Mary Grace chewed on her lower lip. Probably, but who’s counting?

So she studied the gates of the compound. White painted, wrought iron gates hung lackadaisically from two natural-rock, stone pillars. A wooden sign hung crookedly on one pillar and announced in hand painted letters that this was Goose Creek Association. A flying goose above the letters emphasized the point. Through the gates was an asphalt road that had seen better days. The asphalt was breaking into piece and through the cracks weeds were sprouting at a phenomenal rate. Through a thick range of trees she could see what looked like an old plantation house.

It was smaller, of course, and the paint was peeling from what she could see. The faux columns were tilting and one side of the roof looked like it was ready to fall in, but at sometime in the last fifty years, someone had built their own version of Tara, right in the hearty part of Northern Texas.

A few cars lined the drive way, mostly older models with wear and tear evident. Mary Grace had parked outside the gate along the side of the road and stared. Jones the detective had pulled up behind her and waited unhelpfully. She thought about asking him what he could find out about the place, but knew he would probably call Brogan to tell her to stop bugging him. Then Brogan would tell her to hide in a corner somewhere until his machoness found the real suspect.

Mary Grace knew she was being unfair to Brogan but she couldn’t quite bring herself to let it go yet. The frustrated accusation of the previous day still rankled; no matter out of what well of despair it had sprung.

Focusing her attention on the gates in front of her, Mary Grace knew she had to come to a decision. Sunset was coming soon and she would have to call her mother and tell her the results of her search or she could simply walk up to the door and ask for Pippa. Mary Grace frowned. When Deep Throat Mommy had confronted Mary Grace in the mall, she had scanned the area as if expecting someone to find her. Then she had froze, and muttered, “Oh, crudcakes,” whereupon she had fled. Deep Throat Mommy had snuck up to Mary Grace’s back gate to talk to her because she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her. And somehow she had followed Callie and Mary Grace to North Arlington where Jack lived.

Why? Mary Grace hadn’t asked herself before. Pippa, or DTM, knows who No. 3 is. Furthermore, she doesn’t want No. 3, or perhaps someone else, to know that she’s warning me. So if I walk up to the house I might be putting her in danger. She pulled out her cell phone, noticed it was low on its charge, and dialed information. A minute later she had the number for the Goose Creek Association and she had remembered where she had seen the name before. When she had looked through the yellow pages she had seen it. Goose Creek Association. No logo or advertisement. Just a telephone number. She had disregarded it because it wasn’t just ‘Goose.’ But then she should have looked under something like ‘Flying Goose,’ or ‘Airborne Goose,’ or something else of that ilk.

I’m not a bad detective, she decided. No, I’m a shitty detective. And what was she going to say to Jones the detective sitting in the car behind her? ‘I’m selling Tupperware here, don’t worry, and can you have your big gun ready just in case I come running out with someone in a cheap red wig chasing after me with an order for a six piece container set in raspberry and a large, shiny, butcher knife?’

Mary Grace held the phone in her hand and started to punch the buttons for the number when the phone immediately announced it was out of juice and gave up the ghost. She reached for her charger only to rapidly remember that her cell phone charger was in the Explorer, which was in the auto shop and that she was in the Chevy Monza. Like my nose is going to forget that.

Casting a glance over her shoulder at Jones, she thought about it. If she walked up the drive, which was open and didn’t deny trespassers, she could be out of his sight almost immediately. Then she could work her way around the back of the house and maybe look inside to see if Pippa AKA Deep Throat Mommy was present and accounted for. Then she could formulate her next move.

After all, Mary Grace felt confident wearing camouflaged leggings with a denim miniskirt and a scoop neck camisole in life jacket orange. She wore Mossimo Gracie heeled boots in basic brown that set off the ensemble which she had gotten at Target for 30% off, and did she need to mention that not all chain stores were built the same? Of course, she had the Taser gun, too, just in case. It wasn’t exactly a fashion accessory, but it certainly helped prop up her coolness level.

Thatcher Jones brushed his hand through his short, dirty blonde hair and watched Mary Grace Castilla get out of her borrowed car. An ugly primer and brown colored hatchback, it looked like it would expire on its hideous back on the blistering asphalt like a beetle gasping for its last breath. That was all right with Thatcher because he’d much rather drive Mary Grace to her various destinations than follow her in a haphazard manner. He couldn’t figure out what she was doing. She had gone to several stores dealing with baby merchandize. Finally, she’d ended up here, at someone’s private residence.

Thatcher looked at the sign. Not exactly a private residence. Be damned if I know what Goose Creek Association is, though. Probably someone’s idea of a stupid joke or something that sounds a lot fancier than it really is. He thought about it before he was going to call it in; he didn’t really want to talk to Brogan while the other man was in such a shitty mood. Thatcher didn’t want to think about what the other detective was so riled up about; it might be catching and what guy needed that?

Mary Grace took her purse out of the car and slung it over her shoulder, peeking at Thatcher as she did. He thought she appeared a little guilty. He also thought that Brogan was in a lot of trouble if she was visiting baby goods shops so early in their relationship. Furthermore, if anything happened to Mary Grace while Thatcher was watching her, in the mood that the other man was currently in, Brogan would gleefully rip out Thatcher’s testicles and shove them down his throat in retribution.

Guy’s got it bad, Thatcher thought. Mary Grace seemed to be good looking, bona fide flaky, but nice girl. He nodded to himself. The worst kind. The marrying kind. So much for Brogan being a single, fun loving kind of guy anymore. Gonna miss that big screen plasma in his living room. Oh well, maybe she’s got some hot sisters or girlfriends for all Brogan’s single cop friends. Like moi.

Locking the car’s door, Mary Grace paused briefly, set her shoulders squarely, and then went through the gate. Thatcher fiddled with the keys. The sedan was still running on account of the air conditioning worked well and the air outside was very hot. Since she was going into a private house or whatever it was, he was thinking he was going to have to follow her. It was different when Brogan said she was inside her aunt’s house. This wasn’t her aunt’s house and as far as he knew, it wasn’t one of her friends. It certainly wasn’t a big chain store with a couple of dozen people, mostly women with babies, milling about. He took a deep breath and turned the keys to the off position.

Thatcher got out of the car and Mary Grace was already out of sight. Dammit, she’s like the Energizer bunny, he thought, only peripherally noticing a dark car pulling up behind him to park.

“Hey!” Thatcher called to Mary Grace. There wasn’t a response and he sighed melodramatically. He jangled the keys and put them into his pants pocket without much enthusiasm. The things I have to do. What I get paid to baby sit a twenty-something shopaholic with big moon balloons is insane.

Thatcher started to call out again, when someone slugged him in the back of his head, and the conscious world abruptly ceased to exist for him.

Brogan looked out the window of his home and wished he could have slept more than a couple of hours. He’d been watching Mary Grace all night long, concerned about her well-being, but not wanting to actually talk to her. He groaned audibly. How could he have said those things about her? Certainly, once sanity had returned, he didn’t think them. Anyone who even talked with Mary Grace for more than a minute could tell she was ridiculously innocent, as naïve as the day she was born.

His only excuse, his only rationale, was that in the moment he had realized he was looking at the squashed remains of the vehicle that Mary Grace had been driving, he had lost all sense of reason. That single moment that had stretched into a hopeless eternity where Brogan knew that a day without Mary Grace in it would be dull and lifeless, and as appealing as swamp gas. But that moment had passed and she was there, standing as if nothing was wrong, with a peculiar expression on her face. It was in that instant Brogan had nearly snapped. He found himself with his nose buried in her hair, smelling her unique fragrance as if it were life-giving, and the next second he had pulled himself away, finding a well of anger to defend himself against the unwelcome feelings raging inside him.

The wrecking ball incident brought at least one thing to the forefront of his mind. There was still someone trying to kill Mary Grace. The first one was an idiot. Trey Kennebrew thought he was doing something ethical and scientific and had lost sight of daylight in the process. The second one was ludicrous. Morgan Covington was five years old and a child prodigy. He was probably going to graduate from college before he was ten years old, but the psychological aspects of his brain development hadn’t caught up to social and ethical mores. The DA and the shrinks would have to deal with that one. So who was left?

Mary Grace had said Kennebrew hadn’t done the third attempt. Furthermore, Kennebrew had an ironclad alibi for the time period when Callie had been hit by the unidentified sedan. Brogan had checked it out himself. The kid had been playing golf with his doctoral advisor and two other doc-can’s. He’d shot a 74. The four of them had even taken a photo when the doctoral advisor had shot a double eagle on a par-5 hole.

Then Brogan had spent some time with Victor Bloodsaw putting their cases together to see what they could come up with. Brogan was seriously considering asking Mary Grace to go into protective custody or leaving the state until they resolved the issue. Even the security guards at the mall that Mary Grace had been banned from and the security feed didn’t help. In addition, the security feed in the parking garage had been drastically out of focus and didn’t help identify the figure that had systematically flattened the Mazda Miata’s tires and scratched the exterior of the vehicle. The crane operator hadn’t gotten a good look at the person who had accosted him, and apparently, neither had anyone else.

It wasn’t exactly a dead end for Brogan, but it was close. He picked up his cell phone, sighed, and called Jones for a report on what Mary Grace was doing. Even if Mary Grace wouldn’t talk to him or return his phone calls, he would know that she was safe.

But Jones didn’t answer and the cell phone rolled over to voice mail.

Brogan frowned as he pushed the end button.

Mary Grace heard someone moan loudly behind her, so she stopped. There was a wet sounding thump and she started to turn back when two little boys ran across the road in front of her. Neither paying any attention to her at all, one was a tiny brunette with blue eyes and the other was an ashy blonde with similar blue eyes. Both looked like they were under the age of three. They veered off, stumbling towards the house, giggling their little tushies off as they went.

A moment later, a harassed mother followed them yelling, “JOHNNYS! Come back here!” The mother, a tired looking brunette with ash streaks in her hair, didn’t even glance in Mary Grace’s direction because she was too focused on the two toddlers.

Johnny’s? Or is that Johnnys in plural? Mary Grace frowned. How many Johnnys can there be around here? She slipped into the wooded area next to the large house and followed a well worn dirt trek around to the north of the building deftly avoiding the mother and the two children. There were occasional toys on the path, showing that the trail was a well-used play area for the children who were in habitation. Wait a minute, she thought suddenly. DTM’s kid is named Johnny, too. She shook her head. Maybe she had misheard.

The dirt conduit rambled through a copse of thick oak and pine trees, over a dry stream bed, and up a short hill where it came back into the clearing that was the back yard of the big house. From the rear, the house didn’t look much more presentable. There was tons of peeling paint, shutters that were hanging loosely, and doors that looked like they barely were able to shut because of the foundation’s shifting in the heat and the cold.

The sun was ducking behind the tree line and caused a pattern of shadows that she used to cross the lawn, feeling a like a pitiable spy from an awful ‘B’ movie. Giggling toddlers had scrambled back around to the front of the house with the ash-streaked mother in hot pursuit. Mary Grace sidled up to a window and peeked into the corner. Inside she saw two women picking up toys in a large living room area. Another toddler was playing with a push along ball-popper. A baby was crawling across the room and attempting to eat the carpet at random intervals. Neither of the women was familiar to Mary Grace. Neither was the toddler or the baby.

She moved to the next window and saw a room set up to be a living area like the first one. This one had several play pens in it and lots more toys. A day care? Mary Grace really wasn’t certain. Women who like babies? A large extended family?

The third window was a kitchen where two more women were making a meal. They were methodically preparing what looked like enough food to feed an army. One of the women was close to her pregnancy’s end; her bulging stomach kept getting in the way and she grumbled good-naturedly about it. A fourth window was a formal living room that appeared unused; the furniture was covered with ratty sheets. Then Mary Grace ran out of windows. She peered around the corner of the house and saw several windows on the second floor. And, she was pleased to see, there was a way of getting up there. A rose trellis had been built at some time on the western end of the house where most of the sun shined in the afternoons. It ran up to the second floor and most of the roses had fortuitously been trimmed back in the past.

Mary Grace looked around for anyone who would blab on her and didn’t see toddlers, detectives, or No. 3 in residence. So she climbed. Her semi-regular jogging schedule didn’t prepare her for the ascension. Having broken three supports on the trellis and barely avoided a nasty fall, she was wheezing by the time she got to the top. Additionally, she was ready to take up mountain climbing in the future as a way to get into really good shape and completely bummed that she would going down the same way. She was, however, cheered that the window was cracked open. Without a qualm, she pushed it up with one hand and climbed into what was a child’s bedroom.

Standing still for a moment, she looked around. Nothing suspicious jumped out at her. I’m getting to be an expert at breaking and entering. I’ll have to put that on my resume.

Not hearing anyone approaching she moved quietly into the hallway and into the next bedroom, glancing around her carefully. There were several bedrooms on the second floor of the house. Most were plain and held cribs. One had a bible on a nightstand and a young child asleep in the crib. Mary Grace paused to look at the child and was surprised to see Johnny, the original Johnny, snoozing happily away. If he’s here, where’s Deep Throat Mommy? Out buying formula? Out warning other women? Hmm?

When Mary Grace went into the last room on the floor, expertly avoiding the staircases and any sighting from below, she halted dumbfounded. It was another bedroom but every inch of the walls were covered with photographs. Little 3X4 photos from a disposable camera. Larger 4X6 photos from a digital camera. Larger blown-up photos that someone could get at Kinko’s. And the big-mama of all photographs faced the king sized bed and was framed in golden oak. Mary Grace was looking at a blown-up portrait of her face, her hair whipped away in the wind, and a slight smile on her lips.

There was a noise behind her and Mary Grace jumped a little. She wasn’t alone anymore. I’m in deep kakapoodoo, she thought. Wonder how loud I can scream?