Chapter Twelve

True to his hand signal, Allan called me later in the evening. “I need to locate Tracey.”

This did not sound good. I didn’t get to answer with a “howdy” before being blasted with his demand. “Tracey? As in my sister Tracey?”

“You’re not a dimwit, Hattie. Your sister.”

“Why?” As if he would tell.

“Stop playing games, sweetheart. Give me her number. It’s important.”

Hmm. Definitely not liking the sounds of his “important.” “Like police important?”

“You have to be the most frustrating woman on earth.”

Deal with this, moron. I hung up. My phone rang right away. I looked at the screen. Allan again. Not surprising. “Yes?”

“I apologize.”

“Hard to say?”

Nothing but grumbles.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you through your complaining. I’m guessing we have a bad connection.” I stabbed the “off” button again.

The phone rang. “Please, Hattie. Will you please give me Tracey’s phone number? Please.”

Lots of “pleases” in his ask. Yanking his chain? Tons of fun. I grinned. “I’m thinking.”

“Can you think faster?”

“Maybe you could try the white pages.” Again, nothing. “So, why do you want her number?”

Allan let out a long sigh. “Jonson Leggett’s murder—remember?”

I froze like an icicle. The importance of why Detective Wellborn wanted to speak with Tracey dawned on me with crystal clear clarity—my sissie became numero uno at the top of his suspect list, especially after the near argument with Jonson at the store.

Before I would dish any info, I required confirmation. “We discussed the sister topic this morning when you came by Wonderland. Let me reiterate, Tracey didn’t do anything.”

“Hattie.”

Allan paused a long time, which he seemed to do a lot when he talked to me, like I frustrated him. Right now, he frustrated me.

“You know how it works,” he said. “The police interview any and every person relevant to a case. Every piece of information. Everything.”

The sternness in his voice annoyed me. “Allan, Tracey didn’t do it. She didn’t kill Jonson Leggett the Third. I would kill him for what he did to my sister.”

“Don’t say stuff like that to a policeman, Hattie. You could get into serious trouble.”

Fine. Be a butthead. I hung up a third time and went straight to the computer. Allan might be right, but he could get Tracey’s phone number elsewhere, like the phone directory, or from his mother, or the police database. I don’t care where, but not from me. I would never be a traitor, especially to my sister.

I teethed my lower lip. And if Allan thinks badgering me for my sister’s number so he can interrogate her is how to get a girlfriend—he's dumb.

Settling my fingers on the keyboard, I typed. I would email my family and the other Funsisters to let them know about Detective Wellborn’s game plan. No way in hell would he get any information from us. We would form a corral around Tracey, making a fortress so impenetrable, broken bones from trying to break through would be his hugest problem.

Funsisters protected each other. Our code.

****

During my prime sleepy time, Jenny stumbled in my room and laid my cell phone on the side of my face.

Instantly, I sat straighter, my phone dropping to my lap, letting out an earth-shattering “intruder alert, intruder alert” screech.

I set my hand to my heaving chest when Jenny came into focus. “What is it? Are you okay?”

She pointed to my cellphone buried in my comforter. “Your phone…has been ringing…a lot.”

I hadn’t heard a thing; however, I left mine recharging on the credenza in the living room. “Didn’t hear it.”

“Someone wants you badly.” She yawned. “You might adjust the ringer.”

“Sorry.” I groped amongst the covers to locate my cell and placed it against my ear. My eyes closed. “Hello?”

“Hattie. Hattie. Answer me.”

An exceedingly familiar sharpness in the voice penetrated my sleepy state. I forced open one eyelid. “Mom?”

“Wake up.”

“Sorta…am…now.” I stared at my alarm clock—two A.M.—and my phone—still two A.M. “It’s two freakin’ early in the morning, Mom. What do you want?”

“I wouldn’t call you unless important,” she said. “Very important. An emergency. A family emergency.”

I brushed the hair from my eyes. “This better be good.”

“You’re not sounding one bit respectful, young lady. I know I taught you better.”

She had, but phoning at two A.M. didn’t seem respectful either. “I apologize. What’s the emergency?”

“The police questioned your sister.”

“Tracey?” I threw off my bedcoverings. “Questioned? Police? Really? When?”

“Really. Allan hauled her to the station. I bet everyone in Sommerville knows.”

And warranted a two A.M. call. I ruffled my hair. “Allan told me he needed to talk to Tracey and asked for her phone number. I declined to give it. Didn’t you see my email?”

“The one discouraging him?” Mom asked. “I did. I'm guessing his mother gave him Tracey’s number. I'll be having a huge talk with Shirley tomorrow at Super Saver. Radishes are on special.”

Radishes? I shook my head. Mom? Unstoppable.

“Tracey said Allan pressed her to come to the police station to conduct an interview. He just about accused her of murdering Jonson,” Mom said.

Every pore in my core seethed with red-hot anger over what Allan did. I gripped my cellphone tighter. “The rat. Allan tossed his regulation policeman crap spiel my way. I told him not to bother Tracey, but did he listen? Nooo. Everyone knows she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She wouldn’t murder anybody. I’ll give him a piece of my mind right now. Bye—”

“Wait. Hattie.”

My mom didn’t sound like her usual unflappable self. I said, “I'm guessing something did happen.”

“Well, your darling sister might…have done…something.”

“Like what constitutes something?”

“Like maybe she left…fingerprints on Jonson’s car something.”

“Fingerprints? On Jonson's car?” Lord, help us. I shut my eyes to blot out what Mom disclosed and pressed my palm to my forehead. A few seconds passed before I squeezed my eyes open. “I don't get it. Are you saying Tracey bumped into Jonson at Super Saver?”

“She said so when Dad and I picked her up at that-that horrid place,” Mom said. “Honestly, I don't know what to think, Hattie. Things are…are scaring me. Scaring all of us. I’m so worried.”

Now, the desperation in Mom’s voice really-really-really shocked me. Never, ever frantic, Mom epitomized the kind of woman with every curl in place. And all lacquered with super freeze-y hairspray in case of a possible tornado. Furthermore, all I’s were dotted. All T’s crossed.

I covered my lips with my fingers. “Oh. My. God.”

“Tracey wouldn’t tell me when and why she talked to Jonson. I expect pig-headedness from you. Not her.”

I set my lips and slung my legs over the side of the bed, then stood. I crossed to the chair where I’d tossed a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. I pulled on the pants. I stuck my arms in the shirt sleeves and wriggled my head through the opening while juggling the phone. “Your darling daughter is a brat.”

“God. Tracey has to tell somebody the truth,” Mom said. “Come now. We can’t do anything until she does. Hurry. Please.”

“Tracey will be talking plenty when I’m through with her.”

****

I broke land speed records to get to Mom and Dad’s house, but then, not a whole lot of cars were on the road—or cops. Usually, they seemed to home in on me like bees on pollen. Upon entering my parents' house, the atmosphere of a funeral parlor—dead quiet—enveloped everything, everyone, everywhere.

I’d never seen my mother’s house look so messy. Used tissues and coffee cups lay on top of the kitchen counters in piles. Trash spilled from the overflowing receptacle and littered the floor. Ordinarily, Mom would be plucking the tissues with tongs and tossing them away.

A small sob came from the dining room. I cut through the kitchen to the formal dining room, where I found Tracey sitting in a Duncan-Phyfe styled chair at the head of great-grandmother's table. Black mascara streaked her cheeks. Her regular stuck-out hairdo climbed to Empire State Building height.

On each side of the table, Mom and Dad paced, not uttering a word, and worry painting their faces. The only difference between them—Mom twisted her hands over and over and over.

I crouched at Tracey’s left side, set one hand on her arm, and put the other on her knee. I took her hand, and her fingers curled with mine as she blankly focused on me. I said, “Hey, Trace.”

My younger sister peeked at me through her wet lashes.

“Mom phoned. She explained what she could.”

“I-I know.”

“She said the police interrogated you.”

Tracey pursed her lips and gave a half shrug. “Yes.”

I reset my crouch. “You have to tell us what happened.”

With angry swipes, she yanked her hand from mine and dried her eyes. “Isn't anyone listening? I. Didn’t. Do. Anything.”

Her hysterics rivaled a prime-time soap opera.

“Okay?”

“Calm down. Yelling won’t help. I’m on your side, Sissie, we all are. But something happened, and you need our help.”

Rising, I shifted a chair to face her and sat, resting my forearms on my thighs. “Allan bugged me for your number, and when I wouldn’t give him the time of day, he asked his mom or went to the police databases. I think he thinks you spoke to Jonson—which must be true because the police found your fingerprints on his car. Why, sister dear?”

“It’s so stupid.” Tracey pressed a tissue to each corner of her eyes. “Your boyfriend—”

“Not.”

“—implied he would arrest me if I didn’t come in for a chat.”

“Doesn’t seem like a lot of evidence if you ask me,” Mom said.

Me neither. “Allan has to resolve everything by making a timeline.”

“Doesn’t he need DNA?” Mom asked.

“They’ll get statements, eyewitnesses, fingerprints, videos. Trace, can you please tell us? Nothing leaves this room.” I crossed my heart with my finger. “I promise.”

Mom and Dad crossed their hearts, too.

My sister blew her nose. She pinched the used tissue with her thumb and forefinger just like a seven-year-old.

Mom passed her a napkin.

Dropping the tissue, Tracey pressed her gooky fingers to the napkin.

“I went to Super Saver to get Yummy Gummy's new pistachio and cherry flavored ice cream for Stuart. When I walked through the parking lot toward the entrance, I passed Jonson’s car. Only I didn't recognize his drive. Not the old beat-up truck I knew. Some big European boxy thing.” She stared. “Looked brand new.”

I still wanted to know where Jonson got the money for an expensive ride, like over one-hundred-thousand dollars ride. Maybe from Barbie's family. Maybe she has a big trust fund. Or maybe winnings from the poker-playing mafia.

Wait a minute. Could Jonson have been a hit? I should follow up with Allan again. “Ice cream for Stuart. Got it. Jonson’s new ride. Got it. Go on.”

“Just minding my own business.” Tracey squinted. “Happy…you know?”

I nodded. The whole solar system knew cloud nine had nothing on Tracey and her happy-ever-after.

“I weaved between a truck—a red one, I think—and a mini-van toward the store’s entrance. About the time I passed Jonson’s driver’s side, a hand—his hand—shot out in front of me. For a sec, the idea some stalker, murderer, or rapist scoped me out and scared me.” She pouted. “He’s just as evil.”

“I would have been frightened, too.” I plucked a new tissue from the box Mom passed me and handed it over to Tracey. “What next?”

“Then he said in a long slow deep drawl, ‘Traaaceeee.’ He would say my name like that when he tried to sound sexy. He could be charming but rarely was. Ick.” Her shoulders shimmied. “My creep-o-meter rose to danger-danger. I ducked his arm. In a flash, he grabbed my bicep and pulled me next to his vehicle. I set my hands on the door to push away, but I couldn’t.

“My white jacket”—she face-palmed me like a traffic cop—“I know what you’ll say about wearing white after Labor Day, but don’t—was smudged across my chest and tummy with car grunge.”

“Hmm. I can’t imagine Jonson letting an expensive car be dirty.”

“Me neither.” Tracey plucked the dingy undershirt, one which had been through multiple washings, she now wore. “Huh. I forgot the police took my clothing. Something about evidence.” Her look of puzzlement shifted to remembering. “Yes, that’s why, and why I’m wearing”—she plucked the front of the T-shirt—“whatever this is instead of my suit.”

I tilted my head. “The white designer suit you found at the consignment store?”

“Yes. I couldn’t believe the price—”

“A good value—”

“Girls.” Dad's fist slammed the table, causing us to jump. “Stay on track. I'm pretty sure Allan didn't take Tracey to the station to talk about women’s clothing.”

“You're right, Dad. Allan never talks about fashion.” Except, on occasion, he said something about removing my clothing. I set my hand on Tracey's. “Please, continue.”

She bit into her lower lip. “Jonson said, ‘Hey, darlin’, how ya doin’?’ I nearly vomited, especially after how he treated me in Wedding Wonderland the other day, you know, when we argued.”

“What argument?” Mom asked. “You never said anything about an argument with Jonson.”

“Give Tracey a sec, Mom. Jonson’s main goal was to cause trouble.” I rubbed my sister’s shoulder in my best sisterly fashion. “He makes me sick, too. You should have christened his car’s interior. I know I would have.”

“Now, I wish I had, but as we all are aware, I’m an anti-vomit person. I held it in. The ol’ swallow and breathe through the nose trick.” Tracey gave an appreciative baby smile. “I only wish I’d keyed the driver’s door just like you and I did after the divorce from hell.”

Tracey smacked her hand over her mouth and looked at our parents, whose mouths dropped to the floor. “Oops.”

Dad stood and walked around the table. “You keyed Jonson’s car?”

“It’s nothing, Dad. No worries,” Tracey said.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” he said.

Tracey shrugged. “I couldn’t help myself.”

I stood, lacing my fingers, stretching my arms over my head, and stretching from my right to my left. “Like Tracey said, Dad, nothing, just a teeny tiny insignificant nothing. Really. Jonson deserved more plus.”

“Sounds like…revenge.” Dad shoved his hand through his hair. “Nothing good comes from it.”

“You remember his piece of doo-doo truck.” I dropped my arms. “The ancient pale gold and white one with the tailgate which flopped open spontaneously? Kinda funny.”

“Somebody should have declared his truck a deathtrap,” Tracey added. “He probably didn’t notice the damage.”

“Girls.” Dad compressed his lips. “Your mother and I taught you to respect others’ property.”

They did, especially Mom with her “Respect, Respect, Respect” lecture. Must be the one time her talk didn’t stick.

I lifted my palms. “Don’t be mad at Tracey. A light bulb idea whacked me. I could say sorry, but considering whose car we’d violated, not really.”

“We raised you better.”

“You did. I blame the wine.”

His lips flattened to near white. “You were drinking and driving?”

“A bottle of Moët.” I shrugged. “We celebrated Tracey’s divorce. What better way?”

“I don’t want to hear any more about his car.” Mom posed her hands prayerfully against her chest. “Tracey, please finish.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tracey inhaled. “Jonson and I were face to face. I could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath—”

“He smelled like booze when he and Barbie were in the store,” I said.

“Not surprised. Wish I had known Jonson could throw back a drink like a fish.” She frowned. “Anyway, I wanted to get away and tried but couldn’t. I have a couple of bruises.”

She unfolded her arm. Sure enough, three oval-shaped imprints left by his fingers discolored her forearm.

Mom gasped. “That’s not an ordinary grab. It’s…brutal.”

Dad inspected the bruise, too. “I wish he’d resurrect so I could kick his ass.”

All three of us stared at my father, who rarely said anything, letting Mom do most of the talking most of the time.

“It’s horrible.” I dug for my phone stuck in my hip pocket. “Tracey, did the cops take pictures of your arm?”

“A woman cop watched me undress and took pictures.” She shook her head. “I don’t think they know. I didn't know.”

“Not even when you changed clothes?”

“No, I didn’t notice until later.” Tracey slid her left hand over the owie, blanketing the hurt with warmth from her body.

“You should have told them. Heads up.” I hit the camera app on my phone and took several photos of her arm and face, explicitly including a close-up shot. I would forward the photo to Mr. Perfect Policeman Allan.

“Why did you give them your clothing?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I felt discombobulated. The other detective asked, and I agreed. A policewoman escorted me to a room.” She lifted her right shoulder.

Lordy, this sounds so scary. “So, go on. Tell us everything that happened.”

Tracey swallowed deeply. “Jonson held my arm. I pressed my hands against the window frame—where the police found my fingerprints. I don’t know how I managed a calm voice. When I asked him about his upcoming marriage, I choked on my words. He gave me one of those twinkly, revolting looks and said, ‘You know, Traceee, we always were good together. How about a last quickie before my big day?’ ”