Chapter Thirteen

Tracey pushed her hand over her forehead and sighed. “I think I’m might be sick.”

Dad gulped.

Mom gasped and ran for a bowl. She pressed one in Tracey’s arms. Tracey cradled it tightly.

I popped my eyes wide as I balled my hands into fists. Jonson Leggett the Third—creep extraordinaire—propositioned my sister—my sister—while engaged to Barbie Fenster, poor girl. Barbie had no idea about Jonson and his horrible demeanor. None at all.

The epithets tornadoing through my head were positively not PG-rated, more like Triple X. With my heart and soul, I ached to punch Jonson, but now, I couldn’t, seeing how he was already dead. “Sissie, I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, I have tales to curl your hair and more. It’s sick.” Tracey nodded. “Jonson sent flowers a while back. And emailed.”

“He what? He emailed…you?” A smashed, moldy green-pea sickness rooted in my tummy. Eyeing the bowl Tracey held, I rubbed a circle around my belly button. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Or us?” Dad asked.

My parents must be in their own unspecial hell now knowing what Tracey went through.

Tracey hung her head, her hand passing over her face and dragging her skin in a grotesque way, conveying how exhaustion took over her. She put the bowl on the table. “No one could have been more disgusting than Jonson. I wanted to be as far away from him as possible. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t.” She pointed toward Mom and Dad.

Tracey aimed a finger at my chest. “And I know you. You would have more than keyed his car.”

I pressed my finger to my chin. “You are right, sister dear. I’m thinking slashed tires—”

“Hattie,” Dad said.

Dad’s warning tone said he wasn’t pleased with what Tracey and I did long ago. And usually, I wouldn’t have done anything remotely resembling the destruction of private property. “Sorry—again. But not really—again.” I scrunched my nose and tilted with a shrug.

“I trashed those sucky thoughts PDQ. Besides”—Tracey pressed her back to the chair—“I had happier plans to think about, like my wedding to Stuart. I couldn’t let Jonson’s vileness take Stuart from me.”

Dad laid his hand on her head as a parent would to a small child. My heart melted.

“What happened next?” he asked.

Tracey glanced up. “My blood boiled. It brewed and bubbled, and a fierce red took over. No way in hell would I sleep or do anything with the moron. When he wouldn’t let go of my right arm, I socked him with my left, right between the eyes. His head cracked back. His grip loosened.”

She shook her left hand as if still feeling the impact of hand to face.

“I ran away—”

“Did you tell Allan?” I asked.

Tracey shook her head. “No.”

I threw my hands in the air. “God, Trace. You left out the important stuff.”

“She didn’t say anything to anyone on purpose,” Dad said.

“Not a word,” Tracey said. “I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

“Yet, you gave the police your clothes.” Shaking my head, I set my hand to my temple.

“What?” Dad asked.

“Nothing. I promise it’s nothing. Continue, Tracey.” I pointed at her.

“When his grip loosened, I ran like the devil to my car. My hands were shaking”—she extended her arms—“see? They’re trembling while I’m telling you. Jonson epitomized the Devil.”

Tracey set her hand on her heaving bosom. “Once inside my car, I locked the doors. I could hardly start the engine fast enough. I kept poking the key everywhere, missing the ignition.

“But I finally did and rolled on two wheels out of the lot to the street. Someone honked, I think.” Tracey passed her hand over her mouth. “I probably swerved in front of them.”

“I’d have done the same thing.” I shrugged. Getting far away from Jonson was a superb idea.

Her frown deepened. “I didn’t get Stuart’s ice cream.”

“I promise you he’ll live.”

“But he wanted this flavor.” Tracey’s face crumpled into the “little lost lamb” expression.

Very pitiful.

“Why does crap happen?”

Behind her back, Mom and Dad shared a concerned expression, one which came with years of marriage. Just a solemn look at each other, but everything conveyed through their connection. None of us said a word.

Tracey being safe mattered more than anything.

I tapped the table. “Now, you know why I insisted you take the self-defense class with the Funsisters.”

“Yes, Ms. Bossypants. Your persistence paid off.” Tracey leveled her lips. “I don’t want anyone to find out, you know, how the jerk propositioned me. I couldn’t take the humiliation.” She buried her face in her hands.

Mom scrambled to Tracey’s other side. She tucked a strand of her hair behind one ear. “We won’t say anything, darling. Not a word.”

But one entity had to be told. “Sorry, Mom. You’re wrong. The police need to know.” I tapped the tabletop. “More than likely, someone will blab to the press.”

“Why?” Mom rocked back on her heels and stood. “Tracey didn’t kill him. She hit him.”

“I’m positive his murder is of supreme interest to the public. He was set for life when he married a Fenster,” I said.

“I’d still punch him like I wanted to do to the newspaper photographer.”

“What photographer?” I asked.

Dad grimaced. “The one hanging outside the station. Most likely waiting for some big scoop. Tracey shielded her face with her handbag.”

“See?” I shoved Tracey’s shoulder. “You can thank me later for suggesting the big purse, too.”

She made a crinkly nose face. “Told you so.”

“Well, I did.”

“You did.”

“The photo will be on the front page or in the Metro section forever. All of Sommerville will see it.” Mom crossed her arms with a “humpf.”

Dad cupped Mom’s shoulder. “You know how it is nowadays. A politician will say or do something stupid, and newer news will take its place.”

Mom covered his hand with hers. “We could only be so lucky.”

I rose, paced a bit, dragging my hand across the top of the chairs as I went. “I have an idea.”

Tracey snorted. “I hope it’s a brilliant one ’cause brilliant is what I need.”

“I can’t believe you two are bickering.” Squinting, Mom drew back slightly.

“We’re not.” I glared at my sister. “I’m betting Super Saver has security cameras. We need to check their footage. If Tracey didn’t kill him, someone else did, and I think the store’s cameras might have captured the bad guy or gal. We ask for a copy, and then we’ll know for sure.” I curled my fingers in a gimme. “Let’s see your hand.”

Tracey rested her extended left arm on the kitchen tabletop.

“Make a fist,” I said.

Tracey showed me her fisted hand.

I saw three swollen knuckles, and from the forming scabs, some abraded skin. I put the phone’s camera into action again on her fist and then on her flattened hand. “Done.”

“So how did Jonson die?” Dad asked.

Everyone looked at each other.

I tossed my phone to the table. Then our gazes turned to Tracey.

“What?” Tracey asked, palms lifted. “I’ve said it over and over. I don’t know. What I do know is I Didn’t. Do. It.”

“If Tracey didn’t, then who did?” Raising her brow, Mom looked at Dad then me.

“Maybe his first ex-wife? What’s her name?” I asked.

They shook their heads.

“I don’t remember her name. I heard someone in Australia offered her a job,” Tracey said.

“Not far enough away, IMHO,” I said. “Someone would be doing the world a favor if Jonson was launched to Mars with no clothes so his willy would freeze off.”

Tracey shook her head. “He wouldn’t leave his milk train.”

“No. Whoever that is. Allan didn’t say anything about anything?” I asked.

They shook their heads again.

“Elaine?” Dad asked.

“I know nothing.” Mom raised her hands.

“Shirley know something?”

Mom turned aside her head and pressed a fresh tissue to her nose. She gave a brief rub. “I’ve been too embarrassed to call, and now is kinda early.”

“She’s your best friend, Elaine,” Dad said.

“I know.”

My poor mother. She was not dealing well with Tracey’s mess. I massaged her shoulder. “Sorry, Mom. Mrs. Wellborn is your best friend. If anyone will have your back, it’s her.”

“You’re right, dear.”

“You sound redundant,” I said. “Let’s review a sec. Detective Wellborn questioned Tracey solely because of her fingerprints.”

“And because she was previously married to Jonson,” Dad said.

I looked at him. “Allan says he doesn’t know all of Tracey’s story. By the way, how did the police get her fingerprints matched?”

“Tracey, your mom, and I attended a program at the station where you get fingerprinted,” Dad said. “When did we go, Elaine? Like five years ago?”

“I think so,” Mom said. “Took forever to de-ink.”

“They called them elimination prints,” Dad said. “Just in case.”

Wow, I’m glad I missed their field trip.

Slowly, the color drained from Tracey’s face as her hand slid over her mouth.

“Trace, what is it?” I asked.

Mom launched to her feet.

Dad touched my sister’s shoulder. “Tracey?”

With her mouth covered, Tracey shook her head. “Wh-what if my punch caused Jonson to have a brain injury or an aneurysm, and I really did kill him?”

I veed my brow. “I don’t think that can happen. Are you super strong? I didn’t think you were, but maybe you beefed up with the defense training.”

“Hattie, not funny.” Dad shook his head. “We can ask a doctor.”

“Let’s go with a no for now, Sissie,” I said.

“Okay.” Tracey’s hand fell away. “I know I didn’t confess to anything. Not. A. Word. That’s what the crime shows say—do nothing. I said nothing.”

Television, the great educator—not. Except for the guy in the British detective series. He needed water to dilute his sarcasm. “They didn’t read you your rights and stick you in the pokey. I say you’re okay.”

“For now.” Mom collapsed in an armchair in the adjoining family room. “I will talk with Shirley Wellborn. Most likely, I’ll reconsider having Allan Wellborn as a son-in-law.”

Shocked and amazed, I turned to stare at her. What in the wide world of sports is she talking about, especially at a time like this?

With a “never mind” in my head, I circled the room, scrubbing the back of my neck and hearing the scratchy sound of dried hairspray. I thought about Tracey’s predicament. What Allan hadn’t done and didn’t know. Who else would want to murder Jonson Leggett the Third?

None of us knew how Jonson died. No one knew what kind of evidence the police uncovered. The police might have lifted Tracey’s fingerprints from his car, but maybe others were deposited, and did the cops identify them? Does Super Saver Grocery have a security camera? Nowadays, most businesses did, placing them strategically in the parking lot. Surely, Super Saver’s video would exonerate her.

“Hattie.”

Mom touched my hand as I passed her.

“You’ll have to talk to Allan.”

I grabbed handfuls of my hair. “Impossible. You try.”

“Allan responds to you.”

Maybe sexually he does. I overlapped my arms. “He never tells me anything when he’s working a big case—remember?”

Mom tilted her head. “Perhaps… Never mind.”

Yikes. “Lay it on me.” God only knows what she is thinking.

She leaned closer. “Perhaps, well, perhaps your approach is wrong.”

Lordy. Her innuendo. Now, I get it and pretty ballsy of her. I rolled my eyes ceilingward. “What approach? The one where I ask politely? Or how about the one where I take off my clothes and seduce him? Which scenario do you prefer, Mother dearest?”

“Hattie, you crossed a line,” Dad growled.

“Me? I crossed a line? Sorry, Dad. She did first.” I pointed at my madre. My mother had some nerve. “Unbelievable.”

“Whatever it takes—”

“Elaine,” he said.

All of us stared at Mom—me harder than them. Mom jumped overboard, like off-a-giant-cliff overboard.

“Somehow, Mother, your brilliant idea sounds like Jonson’s—me propositioning Allan the same way Jonson propositioned Tracey.” I stabbed my chest with my finger. “I. Am. Not a hooker.”

Tracey cupped the side of her mouth. “Even if Allan looks like sex on a stick and as if sex with him would be stupendous.”

Please, God, stop the madness. I jostled her with my hip.

Her shoulder butted back.

“Elaine. Hattie. I’ve heard enough squabbling.” Dad looked toward the kitchen for a moment. He then returned his gaze to my sister. “Trace, will you see Stuart anytime soon?”

I checked my phone, not giving Tracey a chance to answer. “Tomorrow. Another dreaded tango lesson.”

Tracey stumbled to her feet with her arms wheeling so she wouldn’t crash and burn. My sissie’s voice fractured like a dropped Ritz cracker. “Thanks for your support, sister dear. We wanted our wedding to be u-u-unique.”

She whipped her gaze from Mom to Dad to me. With wide eyes, she palmed her cheeks. “Oh My God. Oh My God. Wh-What about St-Stuart? He won’t want to marrrry meeee.”

Tracey’s sobbing escalated to Noah and the Ark proportions. She whirled about, the chair crashing on the floor. She ran down the hallway to her childhood room.

When the door slammed, I flinched.

Mom shot Dad and me the see-what-you’ve-done glare, an over-the-shoulder, squinty-eyed one.

She loped after Tracey.

Dad and I gaped at each other.

He lifted and dropped a hand. “Your mother didn't mean…you know…you should seduce Allan.” Briefly, he glanced toward the kitchen again. “God, I can’t believe I said that to my daughter.”

I snorted. “You could have fooled me. Maybe Mom’s watching too much TV.”

“I suppose. Maybe too much of the feuding housewives,” he said.

“No kidding,” I said.

Rubbing his finger lengthwise across his mouth, Dad didn’t say anything more.

I teethed my lower lip. I had nothing either. Not for a long while. Guilt hung in the air. Bizarre colored the whole situation.

I couldn’t take the unexpressed pressure anymore. I flung my hands toward the ceiling. “Okay, fine. I’ll chat with Stuart—”

“Don’t forget Allan.”

“Fine,” I snarled. “Allan, too.”

“Thank you.” Dad uprighted the chair Tracey overturned, then squeezed my shoulder, and kissed the top of my head. “You’re our only hope.”

Wow. “Only hope” like a famous sci-fi action hero. Very scary.