And then I froze on the spot. As in, my feet turned to icebergs while Cappie danced out of Justice’s reach like some macabre puppet on strings, the soles of his feet calloused and dirty, skipping atop the station’s front desk.
Zombies. The word settled into my brain like lead. Leave it to Cappie to sensationalize. How he’d connect zombies with a government conspiracy would no doubt be his next move, and would no doubt prove interesting.
“Hey, Cappie—how do you know it’s zombies?” someone from the crowd crowed, their tone suggesting they thoroughly enjoyed engaging Cappie’s delusions.
“’Course it’s zombies!” he yelped, sticking his thumbs under his frayed denim vest, easily an original from 1972. “Them mutant robots runnin’ this country gotta do somethin’ with their experiments. One of ’em must’ve escaped, and now they’re eatin’ unsuspectin’ Figgers’ brains!”
I sighed. Connection to The Man: Achievement Unlocked.
“Waylan Caprice, you get your crazier’n-a-bedbug hide down from there right now!” my mother (of all the people to use the word crazy) hollered. “Do you hear me? Don’t you make me climb up there and get you. If my sciatica acts up and you keep me from takin’ that rock-climbing course I have scheduled with that handsome boy Chet, I’ll call congress myself and show them where you live on that Google Maps!”
To say it’s odd to hear a seventy-year-old woman talk of things like Google Maps and rock climbing with a cute guy named Chet is ridiculous where my mother’s concerned. May Layne is sharp as a tack, always on the lookout for her next beau, and, to my horror, semi-Internet savvy.
I’ve done all I can to keep her off my laptop and away from trolling the web, but as you can see, she’s two handfuls on a slow day. While I love her desire for awareness and current events, I sometimes wish she knitted…or collected buttons in a sewing tin…or did almost anything that kept her in a safe place rather than on a wall in a rock-climbing gym or snorkeling or whatever crazy notion strikes her fancy at any given time.
But to thwart her zest for life—to cage her—would almost be cruel.
“You hear me, Waylan? I’ll call Noreen, and she’ll make you sleep inside with all those squawking government informants!” she shouted again as the crowd parted and allowed her passage to the front desk, where Thurman, disheveled and discombobulated, clung to the edge. She used her sharply defined knuckles to rap the hard surface as she looked up at him, her expression stern. “I said right now, buddy boy!”
Cappie almost instantly went contrite, dare I say sheepish, as he dropped to his backside and let his thin legs swing from the desk. “Aw, c’mon, May. I’m just lookin’ out for ya! These boys are gonna pin you with a bad rap and railroad you right into the pen!”
Mom pointed to the floor, her glare impatient. “You stop with all your crazy talk about zombies and stirrin’ everybody up, makin’ a ruckus, and go on home or I’m going to tell Noreen what you’re up to, and you know what that means. No zombie’s gonna come knockin’ at your door any ol’ way. You’d need some brains for them to come callin’ on you. Now, put your feet on this floor and use ’em to walk right out that door or I’ll rap you over that greasy head of yours. And make sure you put your shoes back on before you catch your death!”
Cappie looked her right in the eye—and then he threw his head back and laughed deep and hearty, before he jumped from the desk, spryer than any twenty-year-old.
Until he encountered Mom’s glower, that is. Mom was all sorts of fun and games most times unless you pushed her too far. If you hit her tipping point, her icy stare could break a Navy SEAL.
That’s when Cappie zipped toward the front doors of the station, his gait light and easy for a man who hardly ever wore shoes. “You’ll see. Just you wait until they come wantin’ a taste of your innards. You’ll be sorry you didn’t listen to ol’ Cappie!” he called over his thin shoulder, exiting the police station with a cluck of his tongue.
I closed my eyes and swallowed while the eyes of the crowd burned holes in my skin. I’m sure they were waiting to hear what the police had asked May Layne, of all the people in Fig.
But Mom wasn’t giving them the satisfaction. When I popped my eyes back open, she was giving me the eyeball. Not quite the eyeball she’d given Cappie, but certainly a close second.
Her lips formed a thin, angry neon-pink line. “Take me home, Lemon. I have neighbors to cross off my Christmas catfish list.”
There was a small gasp of shock from Norton Gruber, his watery hazel eyes seeking Mom’s with a question in them. But she promptly turned her nose up at him.
Coco rushed up behind Mom and wrapped an arm around her shoulders in support, dropping a kiss on her cheek. “You hear that, you bunch of traitors? There’ll be no smoked catfish for you lot of gossipmongers! Serves you right, too. You should all be ashamed of yourselves, hanging around like some band of serial killer groupies!”
“A serial killer requires more than one kill, Coco. Slow your roll there,” I admonished with a hiss of a whisper in her ear as I directed both she and my mother to the doors.
But Coco flapped her perfectly manicured fingers at me as she hooked her arm through my mother’s. “I don’t care what they call them, Lemon. May is one of our own. I can’t believe these nosy busybodies showed up to see her swing high. It’s like Salem or something!”
Only Coco could compare a witch trial to the astonished crowd of folks who’d gathered inside to find out what Cappie was crowing about today.
I have mentioned my best friend leans toward mountains when it comes to molehills, right? Her penchant for the dramatic stems from her thwarted dream of becoming the next Scarlett Johansson.
Throughout high school, Coco starred in every production, from Sandy in Grease our junior year, to Julie Jordan in Carousel (wow, did she ever nail “If I Loved You.” I was so proud!), and even Elphie in Wicked in a production in Seattle when she was twenty. Coco is crazy talented. She can sing, act, dance—all of it.
She’d moved to New York shortly after we graduated high school but lasted less than a year before moving back to Fig. As much as she loved the theater, she loved living in a one-bedroom, rat-infested apartment with four other people much less. Now we settled for trips into Seattle when we wanted to get our Broadway on, and that seemed to satisfy her.
I rolled my eyes at her as we stepped out into the drizzle of light rain. “They don’t have pitchforks and garlic, Coco Jolie (that’s what I call her when she’s getting too into whatever character she’s channeling at the moment). They’re just curious. You know what Cappie’s like when he gets all riled up about something. He attracts attention. What he just did in there is his, I admit bizarre, yet almost sweet way of protecting us. Now stop turning this into some kind of burning at the stake and let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Mom chirped. “I have to get back and change into my climbing gear.”
I pointed to Lou-Lou, my Beetle, and shook my head. “No. You have an appointment with a blood pressure cuff and a nice doctor who puts up with his fair share of guff from you. You also have a date with some underwear, young lady.” I reminded her of her earlier strip search comment.
Mom stuck her tongue out at me—one she’d considered piercing until I showed her on the Internet she’s so fond of what can happen if it gets infected. “Fun stomper.”
I grinned and dropped a kiss on her weathered cheek. “That’s me. Using one size nine at a time to crush your rock-climbing dreams. Now in the car you go. I want to hear about every word of your conversation with Mr. Williams.”
“Do you want to hear the part where I asked him if he likes—”
“Mom! Car. Now.”
She giggled as I tucked her into the passenger seat and closed the door, loving the red-hot spots I’m sure had blossomed on my cheeks.
Pivoting, I made my way around the back end of the car and reached for Coco, giving her a hard hug. “Thanks for finding Mr. Williams, Coco. You’re the best friend ever.”
She patted me on the back and tugged my braid with a smile. “Don’t you worry. There’ll be no frying Mama Layne on my watch. I’ll call you later. Maybe we’ll do dinner tonight, okay? I’ll cook for you and May, seeing as you cook all day.”
Nodding, I smiled in return, relieved my mother wasn’t locked up in a cell because my friend had acted so quickly. Coco might not have made it as a Broadway star, but she could make a five-star meal from a bag of Ramen and a handful of mini-marshmallows. I kid you not.
“Okay. See you tonight.” I waved her off, jamming my hand into the pocket of my hoodie, only to remember I still had that receipt from Lester’s Pawnshop that Jessica had found. Crud. I couldn’t avoid giving it to the police. It could be crucial evidence. I didn’t want anything thwarting justice. I’d return it immediately.
But before I did, I could always take a quick picture of it with Mom’s phone. I’d grabbed it before I took her to the police station since mine was flushed. While Mom was at the doctor, I could drop in to the pawn shop for a little visit, couldn’t I?
And that’s exactly what I did just before I handed it over to a very cranky Justice and went back to my car.
All my instincts said I should keep my nose out of this. But my nose begged me to stick it where I knew it didn’t belong.
I thought my nose might win this war.
* * * *
After purchasing a new phone, I pulled up to Lester’s Pawnshop, right in the heart of Fig, and slipped into a parking spot, ever grateful his spaces faced forward toward the curb. Lou-Lou loved parallel parking as much as I did—which is to say not at all. I’m pretty good with cars. No. I’m really good with cars. I’m just not as adept at rolling them sideways into a parking space. In fact, my dad used to tease me endlessly about it.
“How can a fine young lady like you know how to fix the muffler on an old Plymouth, but you can’t park your car sideways?”
It was just one of my quirks, I guess. Pulling Mom’s phone from the back pocket of my jeans, I scrolled to the picture of the receipt I’d dutifully handed over to Justice before leaving the station and tried to decipher what the item was. It wasn’t cheap, that’s for sure—not at four hundred dollars, anyway.
Checking my reflection in my rearview mirror, I smoothed my frizzy, flyaway curls back into my braid as best I could and sighed. I’d never be Coco—fashion maven, lover of anything ultimately primped and pressed. I was the exact opposite. I hated makeup, even though I do use lip gloss and mascara regularly.
The rest, like eyeshadow and highlighters, can go soak their heads. It’s too much work for someone who has to get up at the crack of dawn to continue the tradition of smoking meats in her father’s stead.
I’ve often heard Coco describe me as the girl-next-door type—only with a wrench, and the occasional smell of the Orange Goo I use to clean the grease from under my fingernails. I wear jeans and T-shirts, sweaters where you’re sure to find a thread pulled loose, work boots, and loafers or flats. But I liked me. I liked me equally as much as I liked Coco’s fancy scarves and fetish for pencil-slim skirts.
Though, admittedly, I looked a little beat up from my encounter with the TP dispenser.
One gaze at my reflection and my round blue eyes staring back at me from behind my wide circular glasses said I’d have to do, bandaid and all.
Oddly, I’ve never been to Lester’s Pawnshop. To be honest, I don’t even know if a man named Lester really owns it, but it’s always been here in Fig for as far back as I can remember anyway. Sort of like the sewing machine shop and the vacuum cleaner place, too. So I didn’t know what to expect on the inside.
One deep breath later, and I pushed my way inside the fingerprint-smudged door, the musty smell of old things and a chorus of ticking clocks to greet me. As I scanned the store, I took in the vast array of TVs, DVD players, and a long case full of old jewelry and watches. I wondered how I was going to get away with asking someone about a picture of a receipt I’d taken.
For all I know, the police might have been here and asked already—which would leave me looking rather shady, I suppose.
And then I remembered an episode of one cop show or another where a man spent thirty years of his life in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. The episode stuck out simply because when he finally found justice, he was sixty-eight years old.
Sure, maybe I was being melodramatic, but what if things got out of hand and my mother ended up accused of murdering Myron? She didn’t have thirty years of life left to offer the justice system. Well, maybe she did. She’d outlive me just to spite me, but I couldn’t just let this go.
Besides, was there some law that said I couldn’t ask questions, too? Not any I was aware of, that’s for sure.
“Can I help you?” a gruff, smoky yet pleasant voice asked.
I whirled around and faced the grizzled man who’d popped up out of nowhere from behind the long glass countertop and wet my dry lips. Then I stuck out my hand. “Lemon Layne. Nice to meet you.”
He, in turn, braced his hands on the counter and eyed me for a good long moment.
In that very awkward moment, as he assessed me, I noted his cheeks, riddled with pockmarks from acne scars, and the way he slicked back his more-salt-than-pepper hair like my father used to do. His jaw, really hard and lean for a man of his age, clenched and unclenched while he scoured my face with his gray-blue eyes.
But his clothes were neat and clean, efficient rather than trendy, and he smelled like Stetson. I know that scent well due to Justice, who’d once gotten into his father’s bottle and nearly blew out our nostrils with the stench on a bus ride for a field trip when we were in the third grade.
“I’m Haskell French. What can I do you for, young lady? Interested in something pretty maybe?” he asked with a wink as he tapped his fingers on the glass.
I decided a bold approach was the only way to go, so I jumped right into the deep end by pulling out my phone and clicking on the picture of the receipt. “Actually, I just have a quick question for you.”
“Sure,” he said and finally smiled, changing everything about his hard appearance. “How can I help ya?”
I held up my phone, watching his expression carefully. “Can you tell me what this says?”
He squinted, hooking his thumbs into the loops on either side of a big silver belt buckle with the letter H and popping his lips. “Shoot. Looks like my part-time kid Eugene’s handwriting. He’s not in today. I hired him from the work program they have over at the community center in town to help me out here and there. He’s just a kid, you know. All of twenty-two. Knows his stuff, though, for sure. But his handwriting’s for crap. I told him I can’t keep good records with that kind of chicken scratch. Don’t they teach you lot penmanship anymore?”
Apparently, the police hadn’t come here to look into whatever Myron had bought or sold yet, and that was a relief. It meant a stalled lecture from Justice about letting the police do their job.
I smiled and rested my elbows on the countertop. “If I were even close to twenty-two, I could answer that. But I’m a long way off from my early twenties.” Stuffing my phone back in my pocket, I asked, “When will Eugene be in again?”
Reaching for a clipboard behind the desk, Haskell rustled through the papers on it until he found what looked like a schedule. “Looks like he won’t be back again until Wednesday.” Then he nodded and smiled. “Yep, that’s right. I’m going fishin’ with one of my buddies, and he said he’d handle things here for me for the afternoon.”
“So you have no idea what that item was? No record of it in your inventory? None at all?” I asked hopefully.
Haskell ran a broad hand over the scruff on his chin. “I guess I could go through my records and match the amount with the inventory, but that’d take some time. I don’t use a fancy computer—everything’s done by hand here. And before you ask, I don’t have time to look through my receipts today, Miss Lemon Layne. Got a hot date with a cold longneck over at Shrimp Cocktails. Mind me askin’ why you’re so interested anyway?”
I had two choices. I could tell the truth, or I could skedaddle on out of there and hope word didn’t get back to the police I’d been digging things up better left alone and totally avoid the lecture from Justice.
But I didn’t have to answer, because just as I’d decided to tell the truth, the door to Lester’s burst open and, wouldn’t you know, in rushed Fabritzia Fairbanks, her slender ankles wobbling in her navy heels.
In Fabritzia’s favor, judging by the anguish on her beautiful face, she looked pretty torn up over Myron’s death. Tearstains streaked the foundation of her makeup, leaving muddy tracks of mascara down her chiseled cheeks. Her shiny ebony hair blew with the cold ocean air that followed her into the store, making her look like a supermodel with a wind fan behind her.
She all but collapsed against the glass countertop, leaning into it with such force, I saw the strain of her muscles in her toned legs. “Where is my Myron’s money?” she cried in her husky Latvian accent. “I need this money! When I ask where he is, he say he come to you to sell things, and you always pay cash. I need this money! I have nothing!”
Sell something? Huh. I always had the impression Myron had a pretty full bank account. He sure had treated my mom well, if you listened to her brag about all those prime rib dinners he’d splurged for.
So why would Fabritzia need money?
But then I paused. Maybe Fabritzia knew the item on the unreadable receipt.
Still, I took a small step back and watched as Haskell reached out to her, his wide hands enveloping her smaller shaking fingers. “Mrs. Fairbanks, I was sorry to hear about Myron,” he murmured with a warm tone to his voice. “He was a real decent guy. Used to love hearin’ all his old war stories at the golf course.”
“Then you will help?” she asked, her voice so full of hope it made me almost cringe. I’m sure my mother wouldn’t like me feeling any manner of sympathy for the woman who stole her man, and I knew darn well Fabritzia could be a suspect in this whole mess, but I couldn’t help myself.
I placed a hand on her trembling shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “Fabritzia, I’m so sorry for your loss. I know we don’t know each other very well, but is there anything I can do?”
No sooner had the words flown from my mouth than the door to Lester’s blew open once more, bringing with it not just the sharp bite of winter air, but a tall, dark man with cheekbones you could strike a match on and hair as black as Fabritzia’s.
“Fabritzia!” he called out, making his way the short distance to the counter, where he latched on to her arm. Then he said something to her in what I’m assuming was Latvian, but he said it sternly and with an even sterner expression.
That’s when she flung herself at this handsome, darkly European guy, burying her face in his peacoat as she sobbed. “I have nothing, Valdis! Nothing! I must protect myself, or we will be out in street once more! I need money!”
Valdis inhaled a long, deep breath before he blew it out and looked to Haskell and me, his eyes the color of coal, weary. “My cousin is…how do you say…sad? I apologize. She can be very,” he waved his hand around, “big drama in her grief. Please, forgive our intrusion. She is confused.”
“I’m sure sorry I can’t help,” Haskell said, his eyes clearly displaying his own brand of confusion. “But I don’t know what the heck she means.”
My gut told me Haskell truly didn’t know what Fabritzia was talking about. Yet, I was convinced the receipt was for whatever the Latvian was referring to when she said Myron came to sell something at Lester’s. I found myself believing Eugene had been the one to handle the transaction with Myron.
Valdis nodded, the vein in his forehead pulsing as he soothed his cousin. “Is okay, Fabritzia. Everything will be fine. I promise this.”
Fabritzia’s head popped up, her beautiful almond-shaped eyes flashing. “No! Is not okay! I am not confused!” She turned to Haskell. “Myron bring something to you to sell. He tells me this when I ask where he has been yesterday. I ask where the money is for what he sell, but then he tell me you cannot pay him. He tell me you say to come back today for money!”
Haskell instantly took a step backward, his hands in the air like two weathered white flags. “Look here now, Mrs. Fairbanks, I don’t know anything about any money owed to Myron. I wasn’t here for a coupla days, but we always pay cash up front for all the items we take. If Myron sold something to me recently, he was paid in full for it before he ever set foot out the door.”
“Do you know what he was selling?” I blurted out in Valdis’s direction, forgetting how odd that question would seem to Fabritzia when asked by a third party. I bit the inside of my cheek and cursed my impulse.
Valdis waved his hand again and frowned, clearly growing impatient with Fabritzia’s outburst. “She tell me it is jewelry. A bracelet or something.”
“Yes!” Fabritzia sobbed, her chest heaving beneath her black trench coat. “He promise to sell the bracelet he buy for that…that woman! I could not look at it in my house one more day!”
That woman. Oh, cheese and rice. I knew I shouldn’t ask. I knew it. Yet, here I was, throwing my manners the way of the wind and allowing my insatiable curiosity to take over. “What woman?”
I was already cringing long before Fabritzia answered, my instincts on high alert. Still, there was no preparing myself when, with tear-filled eyes, she spat, “Her name is May, like the month! She is the woman who has my Myron’s heart before me!”
Aw, jeez.