I heard the voice, but I figured it was a nightmare. I’d gotten used to nightmares and I was okay with it. Except this nightmare kicked my bed and shook me violently.
“What are you doing?” asked the voice.
It seemed pretty obvious. I was sleeping. I was in bed and everything.
“Mercy!”
I rolled over and sat up. “Dad!”
“Finally,” he said from the foot of my bed. “Did you take a pill or something?”
“No. What time is it?”
“Morning.”
I glanced at the drawn curtains in my bedroom. Not a hint of light. Not a sliver. “Define morning.”
“It’s a quarter to seven. Get up.” Dad leaned against my bedpost dressed in a three-piece grey flannel suit, an overcoat with a winter liner to give him bulk and held a fedora in his hands.
“Where are you going? 1952?”
“I’ve got a parole hearing.”
“Who’s it for? Bugsy Siegel?” I asked.
“Greta.”
“Really?”
Greta was an inmate at Hunt Hospital for the Criminally Insane. My father had put her there, a move I suspected he regretted. We both visited her and I’d gotten more fond of a woman that killed her children in the throes of postpartum psychosis than I thought possible.
“Is she getting out?” I asked as I yawned and winced at the scabs cracking on my chin.
“Not a chance,” he said. “Are you getting up or what?”
“Or what.” I pulled the covers up to my nose. “Am I supposed to be going to the hearing?”
“No. There’s no point.”
“Then why are you going?”
“She requested that I be there so I’m going to be there,” said Dad. “Get up.”
“Am I missing something?” I asked.
“Work.”
“I don’t have a job, thanks to my life.”
“A little bird told me you do.”
Crap on a cracker.
“Was this a wrinkly bird that likes to sit at our kitchen table?”
“Could be.” Dad whipped the covers off me and pointed at the closet. “Now get up and get going. You’re on the clock. Clients expect results. We don’t pad our bills and we don’t sleep on the job.”
“You’re not mad?” I slipped out of bed and looked around to see if I had left any evidence of our Klinefeld Group investigation in there. We’d moved the whole setup to Nicolai Bled’s office. It had more space and nobody had used it since he died.
“Why would I be mad? I’ve been waiting for this since your third day of Kindergarten.” He shooed me into the closet with his fedora.
“That’s oddly specific,” I said, grabbing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
“I picked you up from school and—”
“You picked me up from school?” I asked.
“I picked you up sometimes.”
My father did not pick me up from school. Most of the time he didn’t know what grade I was in. Number and depth of stab wounds on a decapitated corpse found in Maplewood at five in the morning by a paperboy named Jimmy Johnson in 1985 was the kind of thing my father remembered. True story.
“Alright.” I got dressed and finger combed my hair. “What happened on my third day of Kindergarten?”
“You found Ellen’s box of crayons.”
“That’s worth remembering.” I came out and Dad shook his head. “No, Mercy. You are a professional. Dress like a professional.”
I went back in the closet and looked for something professional. It was slim pickings. I was a nurse. Scrubs I had. The only suit was the Valentino The Girls bought me for Cousin Dorothy’s funeral, and, while it did impress, it wasn’t a detecting suit. “Why did you care about crayons?”
“You found them,” said Dad. “Your teacher, Miss Mabel, was astonished. You did interviews, you traced her last steps, you did a methodical search in a grid pattern and finally found Ellen’s brand new box of crayons in some grubby kid’s coat pocket.”
“Willy Frank!”
“Willy Frank!” exclaimed Dad. “What happened to that little dirt ball?”
“He married money and got tagged for insurance fraud last year.”
“And you were the first to pinch him.”
I picked out a white tailored shirt that was mostly clean and kept the jeans. “I was five, Dad.”
“You were four. The youngest in your class.” There was pride in my dad’s voice. At least I think it was. I wasn’t very familiar with the sound.
I came out and asked, “You really picked me up?”
“I did,” he said. “And here you are finally. Taking your first paying case as a licensed investigator. I never thought it would happen.”
Neither did I.
“So why are you here exactly?”
Dad handed me a little box with a bow on top. “To give you this.”
I opened the box and found a slender red wallet inside. “Um…”
“Open it.”
Inside was my Missouri PI license with my number and expiration date. It was official and kind of depressing. Nursing seemed farther away than ever.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Put your license to carry in there and take the Mauser with you. Do you have a shoulder holster?”
“I have a purse,” I said.
Dad grinned at me, dimples popping out and all. “That works.”
“I thought you’d be upset about this. The guys were not fans of me even meeting Thooft’s sister.”
He put on his hat and bent the brim down in a rakish way. He looked like a PI straight out of Raymond Chandler, if you ignored the red hair and gangliness. “I wasn’t either, but a paying gig is another thing altogether.”
“Is it though?”
“Look, my girl,” Dad gave me a hug and held me back by the shoulders, “we’re rebuilding our brand here.”
The Watts brand, of course.
He tweaked my chin. “Don’t frown at me. You’re not satisfied with what Campbell and Rich came up with. Neither am I. Neither is the Thooft family. If they’re willing to pay you to find out what really happened, I’m all for it. Between you and me, we need the money.”
“What do I do?”
Dad let go and went for the door. “Do what you normally do.” He grinned at me and the Watts charm shone like a sunlamp. “It’s been working for you so far.”
“Yeah, but I don’t usually get paid. Aren’t there contracts involved?”
“All done. Claire emailed the contract to the Thooft family, they signed, and we’re all set. They are expecting you at eight.”
“In Whiskey Ridge?”
“Where else?” Dad asked.
“I don’t even know where they live,” I said.
“Oh, right.” Dad pulled a packet of papers out of his breast pocket. “That Spidermonkey’s efficient and he hasn’t cursed at me yet.”
“That’s a nice change.”
“You’ve used him a few times.” Dad’s blue eyes bored into me.
I looked right back. “I have. He’s super-fast and doesn’t yell or hang up.”
“He likes you quite a lot.”
“Did he say so?” I asked.
The focus was getting uncomfortable. Dad was watching my every reaction. “He didn’t have to.”
Ah, that’s why you’re here. You have a feeling.
I smiled and thrust out a hip. “I do have that Watts charm.”
“On the phone?”
Not falling for it.
“Especially on the phone.”
Dad’s focus dropped. He wasn’t getting anything and he knew it. Something about Spidermonkey made Dad’s hackles go up. That was so not good for me. The last thing I wanted was Tommy Watts sniffing around my life.
“Are you giving me that or what?” I asked.
“It’s background on Thooft and the family.”
I held out my hand. “Great.”
Dad didn’t hand it over. “It was very fast. Like he’d already done it.”
“So?”
“Why would a hacker waste his time doing background that he hadn’t been hired to do?”
“Maybe he figured you’d want it or Chuck. He’s not an idiot.”
“Maybe he thought you’d want it.”
“I didn’t, but I do now.” I took the papers from him. “Anything interesting?”
“I wish,” he said, his eyes still narrowed. “Run of the mill American family.”
“They’re not so run of the mill now.”
“No, they’re not,” Dad said with warmth. “You can put yourself aside in this, can’t you?”
“What choice do I have?” I asked.
“Leo and Avery can do it, if you prefer.” That’s what Dad said, but his eyes said he wanted me to do it. It was a big deal to him. He could’ve done it, if it were him, so I would, too.
“No. I want to do it. Like Kimberly said, nobody’s going to care as much as me.”
“Smart lady.” Dad pulled another box out of his pocket and tossed it to me. “I almost forgot. Stick some in your wallet.” He touched the brim of his hat and left.
I opened the box and my heart sank. Business cards with my name on it. Nothing was more official than that, not even the license.
I sank down on the bed and my phone started ringing on the nightstand.
“Aren’t I the popular one this morning?” I picked it up and it was Mom. “Hey, why are you awake?”
“Is your father still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell him he forgot to eat again and give him a granola bar or something.”
I ran out my door and down the hall to yell over the bannister at Dad who was at the front door, “Mom says you have to eat!”
“I’m fine!”
“You’re going to get osteoporosis like Grandad!”
Dad whipped open the front door and said, “That’s not going to happen,” and out he went.
“Did he say no?” said Mom, still on the phone.
“He said no.”
I commiserated with my long-suffering mother for a minute and then went to wash my face and apply the spackle Fats gave me. The look wasn’t great, but I no longer looked like a topographical map so there was that. Then I called Fats to see if she was both conscious and available.
“I’m here,” she said.
“Where’s here?”
“The kitchen. Joy’s giving me ginger ale and saltines for the road.”
“Well, alright then.”
I found some riding boots that looked sort of professional and grabbed a blazer that Mom gave me because she thought it would disguise my chest. It didn’t, but it did have a professional-type vibe to it. A last mirror check said I was not too bad. Me, but grown up like a big girl with a job.
“What are you doing?” Fats lounged in the doorway wearing nothing that could be remotely mistaken for professional. She had on a one-piece pink and black leopard bodysuit, turquoise sneakers with thick soles that gave her four more inches in height, and an electric blue men’s parka with a fur-lined hood.
“Seeing if I look professional,” I said.
“You look boring.”
“Nailed it.”
“Ready?” she asked.
“Did…my dad call you?” I asked.
She smoothed her slicked back ponytail. “He did. Why?”
I don’t think Dad thought this through.
“No reason. I guess he still hasn’t put you together with Calpurnia yet.” I got the Mauser out from under my sweaters and stuck it in my purse with the new wallet and business cards. If I was going to do it, I was going to do it right.
She snorted and did a squat. “Oh, he knows. He’s just decided not to know, ya know.”
“What makes you say that?”
“When we were waiting for you in the ER, he asked how Uncle Moe was doing.” A toothpick popped out onto her lip and dangled there, attached by the thick coating of lip gloss.
“He knows your Uncle Moe?”
“Turns out he arrested him for racketeering about twenty years ago,” Fats said with a wicked grin. “Small world.”
“Too small,” I said, getting a little weak in the knees. “Does he know about Calpurnia?”
“His lawyer was Joey the seal Farina.”
“And?”
“The Fibonaccis were his only clients.”
“Why ‘the seal’?”
The grin grew larger. “He was slick. The charges were dropped on a technicality.”
My stomach tried to tie itself into an extra knot. “I don’t know what to do.”
She checked her phone. “We’re due in Whisky Ridge at eight. This is cutting it close.”
“My dad thinks something’s going on with Spidermonkey.”
Fats came out of her squat and ran a hand over her growing bump. “It had to happen.”
“Why?”
She came to the mirror and admired her sideview. The bodysuit was from her pro wrestling days and did a great job of accentuating her new curve. “It’s Tommy Watts. You thought he’d talk to Spidermonkey and not get the gist that you two know each other very well?”
“They’re just emailing and texting.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“I’m getting that way and you’re saying he knows I’m involved with Calpurnia Fibonacci,” I said.
“He knows I am and so what? My sheet’s cleaner than yours.”
And that’s not suspicious at all.
“True,” I said.
“It’s also true that we’re going to be late. Do you want to be late? I don’t want to be late,” said Fats.
“I don’t want to be late.”
“Get the dog and let’s go.”
“We’re taking Pick?” I asked.
Fats tapped her wrist pointedly, so I got the dog, and we went. We were not late. We were early because when you travel with a nauseated Fats Licata nothing takes very long.
The Thooft family had gathered on the family farm just outside Whiskey Ridge and were waiting for us there en masse. I want to say I wasn’t nervous, but that’d be a big fat lie. Kimberly had been lovely, but that didn’t mean her parents would be.
“Breathe,” said Fats.
“Same to you.”
“I’m breathing.” She wasn’t breathing. She was panting and gripping the steering wheel like it was a safety line on Mount Everest.
“I could’ve driven,” I said as we went down into another gully and Fats gulped. “I can drive now. Pull over.”
“No. I just have to get through this,” she said through gritted teeth.
“This is not a workout. You don’t have to power through.”
“I can do this thing.”
“There’s no thing and nobody wants you to do it.” We came out of the gully and into another. “Tiny doesn’t want you to.”
There was a big bump in the gravel road and she made a noise halfway between a burp and a croak. “What did he say?”
You can do it. She probably won’t kill you.
“That you are losing weight,” I said.
“A couple of pounds.”
“And,” Somebody pray for me, “losing muscle mass.”
Fats slammed on the brakes. “He would not say that.”
I plastered myself against the door and Pick climbed onto the center console, barking. I pulled the hair ball into my lap and peeked at her from around his panting muzzle. “He did say it. He’s worried. And…and…your bodysuit is getting loose.”
It wasn’t, but if she didn’t keep some food down the baby was going to be in trouble, so I decided to risk a pounding.
“You’re lucky this is a paying gig,” said Fats.
“Oh, yeah?”
“I need the money.”
“For the baby?” I asked.
“For everything. Calpurnia’s going to put me out to pasture.”
Fats had been over at the Fibonacci compound, gotten dizzy, and proceeded to vomit in a fern right in front of Calpurnia. A leave of absence was mentioned.
“Maybe she won’t.”
“I get one more chance and then I’m out like some geriatric loser that can’t hold his water.”
I’m not sure what that means, but okay.
“You’ll just have to rock the last chance.”
She slammed her hands on the steering wheel and I think it may have bent a little. “I will do it.” She hit the gas and we careened up over a hill, catching some air, before landing with a thump. Fats didn’t throw up, but I nearly did.
Then we cleared the woods and drove past multiple barns, a couple of tractors, and a smell invaded the cabin of Fat’s truck. The Thoofts were hog farmers of the industrial type and although the scenery was beautiful, the smell wasn’t. Their farmhouse sat on a hill overlooking the working property. It was large, white, and square with a deep wraparound porch and had an American flag blowing in the breeze off one of the slender columns. The house had been built in 1900 and the current Thoofts were the fourth generation to live in it. Kimberly’s middle brother Gregory and his wife took over the farm when her parents retired and they lived in the big house, taking care of the elderly Thoofts.
Another house, modern with tons of window, sat on another hill not far away with a sign pointing down the gravel road to it Stackhouse Veterinary Services. That was where Kimberly and her husband lived. People thought I lived too close for comfort to my parents on Hawthorne Avenue, but, at least, I couldn’t see in their windows and vice versa.
But, according to Spidermonkey, the Thooft family didn’t seem to mind the closeness. He included every detail that he could find in the information packet he made me mostly, I suspect, because there wasn’t much to say. No criminal history. No divorces. Profitable working farm with low debt. Personal debt was low, too. To top it off, they were devout Evangelicals with a history of community service. I hoped they didn’t look too hard at me. Those DBD covers weren’t going to put me in a favorable light.
Fats parked in line on the circle drive behind three trucks and a couple of Camrys. “So what are you looking for?”
“No idea.”
“Why don’t you ever have a solid plan?” she asked. “These people are grieving and flipping freaked.”
“They aren’t the only ones.”
Fats popped a couple Altoids in her mouth and chewed them. Altoids! They were white pellets of fire.
“I know,” she said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “We’ll find out why their son turned out to be a woman-hating psycho nut job and then we’ll go to lunch.”
Not at Crabapples.
She grinned at me. “At Crabapples.”
Dammit. Where’s the nausea when you need it.
“I thought you were sick,” I said.
“And now I’m hungry.” She got out and opened the back door to retrieve Moe, who’d been snoozing on her special donut in the backseat, nice and calm. Pick was anything but calm. We got out and he went batshit crazy. So many sniffs to sniff. I doubt the poodle had ever been on a farm and it was going to his head.
“Oh, I’m glad you brought him,” said Kimberly from the porch.
“You’re the only one,” I said as Pick yanked me around the trucks.
“Chase!” yelled Kimberly. “Come out here and bring Justin!”
Two dark-haired teenage boys in crisp polo shirts and denim jackets came out to stare at me stumbling around. Until, that is, they caught sight of Fats, who came out from behind the trucks with a yipping Moe. The mini mutt had on a doggy puffer coat that matched Fats’ and words cannot express what those two looked like standing next to a mud splattered farm truck. Did I mention that Fats’ shoulder holster was clearly visible?
“Wow,” said the boys in unison.
I think Kimberly would’ve reprimanded them for being rude, but she was staring, too.
“This is my associate, Mary Elizabeth Licata. She helps me on cases.”
“How much can you bench?” asked one of the boys.
Kimberly woke up. “Chase, for goodness sake.”
“It’s alright,” said Fats. “All men want to know.”
The boys fluffed up at the word “men” and grinned shyly at us. Kimberly came down the steps and shook both our hands, trying not to stare at Fats. “I told the kids that you had an adorable giant poodle, but they didn’t believe me.”
“Why not?” I asked the boys.
“Detectives have Rottweilers,” said Chase.
“Or German Shepherds,” said Justin.
“I agree those would be more logical choices. This is Pickpocket and he’s actually my boyfriend’s dog.”
“Is he a hairdresser?” asked Chase.
Fats quaked with suppressed laughter.
“He’s a cop, but I’ll tell him you asked that question.” I was so going to enjoy Chuck’s reaction. Hairdresser. He might have to show me how fast he can break down and rebuild his service revolver again.
Pick yanked me toward the boys, yipping and wagging his stumpy tail. Moe woke up and joined in.
“What kind of dog is that?” Justin asked.
“Nobody knows,” I said.
Kimberly suggested the boys take the dogs for a walk around the farm and I happily agreed. Fats had to give them a lecture on the delicacy of Moe’s paws, which the boys were good about, but I could sense the inner eye rolls.
“Are you…ready to come in?” Kimberly asked once the boys were out of sight.
“If they’re ready for me.”
“Ready as they’ll ever be.”
We walked up the stairs and Kimberly opened the door for us. In the small foyer next to the well-worn staircase were Kimberly’s surviving brothers. Spidermonkey had included pictures in my packets, but I was still surprised. They looked almost identical to their brother. Big, heavy men with wispy blond hair and receding hairlines. The same bone structure and softening jawlines just at different ages. Gregory did have a mullet, so there was that.
Gregory and Kevin shook our hands, snuck peeks at Fats, and apologized to me before leading me into the living room where their parents, wives, and Kimberly’s husband, Holt, sat on flowered overstuffed sofas with coffee mugs in their hands. Holt was instantly recognizable, not only because he wore a fleece vest stuffed with a stethoscope and who knows what else but also because, unlike the Thooft men, Holt was slender, dark-haired, and wore glasses on his calm, studious face.
Kimberly introduced us and there was more hand shaking. Fats sat down in a rocker recliner and I perched on the edge of a bentwood rocker that was probably a family heirloom. We exchanged pleasantries and eyes were averted. Fats, groping for something to say, informed them that she was expecting. After they got over the initial shock that, I suspect, she wasn’t born a man, there were many congratulations and some discussion of morning sickness cures. Gregory’s wife Heather got me some coffee and ginger tea for Fats. Then it was back to averted eyes and uncomfortable silence. It was up to me to open things up. I guess that makes sense, but I wasn’t happy about it.
“I was surprised that you wanted to meet me, much less hire me,” I said to no one in particular.
“Why?” Stephanie, Kevin’s wife, asked. “Don’t people make amends when they’ve hurt someone?”
“You didn’t hurt me,” I said.
“We did,” whispered Ann Thooft, Anton’s mother, from her corner. “We must have.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Ann shook her head and tried to speak. Her round face crumpled and her faded blonde hair in a pixie cut waved around her head as she cried softly into a handkerchief.
Tearfully, her husband patted her back. Anthony was a large man without an ounce of fat on him. The boys got their bone structure from him. “Miss Watts, I don’t know how to tell you how sorry we are. If we’d known what Anton was going to do, we’d have stopped him.”
“I believe you,” I said and I did. There was nothing but raw sincerity in his face. “But I’m going to have to ask questions and you might not like them.”
They shook their heads in unison and waited.
“You had no hint that this was coming?” I asked.
The entire family agreed that they didn’t and a picture emerged as they began to talk about Anton and it wasn’t what you’d expect. I didn’t hear about a loner, disconnected from his family, and angry. Quite the opposite. He called his mother and sister twice a week. He visited. He joined in on the farm.
They told stories about growing up, school, church and Scouts. Photo albums came out and we poured through dozens of photos of a perfect family.
Anthony showed me his favorite photo, a shot taken on a beach with the four kids making sandcastles and grinning so wide it made you feel a little bit happy just seeing the joy.
“It was a perfect day with my family, all of us together,” he said. “I always wanted four.”
“Four troublemakers,” said Kimberly. “Or maybe three.”
Her surviving brothers groaned and the meeting became like a memorial service where you remember the good and forget the bad. I listened and flipped back and forth through photos of a young Anton and the older Anton. There was something. I felt it. There were always smiles, but something else, too. Something with Anton. I just couldn’t quite get it. Same boy, same smile, but what was it? Something behind the eyes as he got older. He was gay in a family where that wasn’t ideal. Maybe that was it.
In the middle of the discussion, Anthony, Anton’s father, went out and returned with a box.
“Ah, Dad,” said Kevin. “Miss Watts doesn’t need to see that stuff.”
“She should have the complete picture, if she’s going to understand,” said Anthony and he gave me the box.
“I can’t believe you have all that stuff,” said Gregory.
“We wouldn’t throw it away,” said Ann. “We have all your things, too.”
“And mine?” Kimberly asked.
The men groaned and the wives laughed.
“Mom would run into a burning barn to save your third-grade report card,” said Kevin.
“I would not,” said Ann, but her loving gaze on Kimberly belied her words.
Everyone began to tease about Kimberly being the favorite, the much loved fourth child and only girl. It was good-natured and I sat back to watch the interplay in a large family. I’d never had that and I missed it sometimes. There’s a lot of focus that comes with being the only, but watching Kimberly defend herself against her loving brothers, I guessed that being an only daughter with brothers came with its own pressures.
Fats watched, too, her face inscrutable. I didn’t know much about her family, just the little I picked up here and there. I got the feeling she was not the daughter that her mother expected.
“Alright. Alright. Alright,” said Kimberly with her hands up. “This is not about me.”
“It’s always about you,” said Gregory laughing.
“No kidding,” said Kevin.
“Boys. Boys,” objected Ann, wiping her eyes in both grief and laughter.
“Miss Watts,” Kimberly said. “Please open that box and prove to my brothers that Anton’s stuff got saved just as much as mine.”
They started in about how many boxes Kimberly had to Anton’s one, but I ignored that and unfolded the cardboard flaps. It was a pretty big box, the size of a laundry basket and it weighed a good amount, too.
There might’ve been a lot of different things in that box and my mind pictured the bad options, which looking back was ridiculous. Ann and Anthony kept that box. It wasn’t going to have violent porn, dead cats, or graphic depictions of the girls he wanted to dismember, namely me. The box had what normal people would’ve thought of. Memories (good ones), mementoes (ones you could show your grandma) and awards. So many awards.
“He was such a good speller,” said Anthony.
I pulled out medal after medal for spelling, heavy ones with ribbons
“I don’t know where he got it.” Gregory gently elbowed his dad. “How many is that, Miss Watts?”
“Eight,” said Ann. “He won eight. Now I ask you does a boy who wins the spelling bee for his grade eight years in a row do what Anton did?”
Not gonna answer that.
Instead, I kept digging past bundles of report cards, stacks of art projects, two baseball gloves, baby clothes, some lop-sided pottery, Hot Wheels cars, and a Dukes of Hazzard racing set to find more awards in tennis, theatre, debate, and chess, all from eighth grade and below. Anton had almost nothing from high school except report cards and academic awards.
“He was a renaissance man,” I said as a dug through to double check Anton’s high school activities or lack thereof.
“Anton was good at everything,” said Anthony.
So why did he stop doing anything, except school?
I looked around and saw no disagreement in that room. What happened? Something happened.
“He could’ve done anything,” said Ann, “but he decided on teaching.”
“I thought it was going to be politics,” said Gregory.
Heather shifted in her seat, turning to him. “Really. He was quiet.”
“Not when he was younger.”
“It looks like he stopped doing a lot of activities in high school,” I said.
“He had different priorities.” Ann focused on me, her liver-spotted hands trembling slightly. “But Anton was very popular and outgoing. He wasn’t one of those oddballs that hide in their parents’ basements playing Atari by themselves like Shifty Scott.”
Everyone nodded. Anton was not Shifty Scott. Kimberly went pale and got up, just to sit down again. Her husband, Holt, frowned at her, confused, before offering to get her more coffee that she didn’t want.
“What happened to Shifty Scott?” Fats asked, speaking up for the first time.
“We really shouldn’t say,” whispered Ann and I figured it must’ve been something really awful since Ann’s son was thought to be a woman-hating kidnapper and wannabe murderer.
“Oh, go on, Mom,” said Kevin. “It’s not that bad. I’d rather that than—” He turned red and clamped his mouth shut. It had slipped, the façade that everything was fine.
“Spill it,” I said. “With a name like Shifty it’s bound to be interesting.”
It wasn’t that interesting. Shifty Scott was the son of friends from church. I got the feeling that Ann had spent plenty of time consoling Jackie Scott over her weird kid while feeling wholly superior. Shifty didn’t win anything. He was the friendless boy with pimples and awkward interactions. Everyone thought he’d stay in that basement forever, but he didn’t. Shifty, out of nowhere, went to UMKC to study costume design, came out as gay, and now owned a drag club in LA. He was married and had twin boys from a surrogate.
“He was just quiet,” said Gregory. “He never did anything…bad.”
Ann made a sniffing noise and said, “He didn’t stay with the church’s teachings.”
“He’s happy, Mom,” said Kevin. “Jackie loves those twins.”
“I’m going to lie down now.” Ann wobbled to her feet and Kevin quickly took her arm to take her out. “I just have one request,” she said to me.
“Name it,” I said.
“I want you to promise not to do any interviews about us. No articles or TV interviews.”
“What else could they possibly say?” Gregory asked. “They’ve said everything bad that anyone could think of.”
Ann Thooft’s gaze got hard and focused and I could see the strong matriarch in her still. “The point is I want no publicity whatsoever again. No pictures in the paper. Nothing about us. Can you do that, Miss Watts?”
“I can’t promise that,” I said with all sincerity. “The media has a mind of its own, especially when it comes to me.”
“Then we will call it a day. Thank you for making this long drive for nothing—”
“Hold on, Mom,” said Kimberly, jumping to her feet. “You agreed. We all agreed.”
“It’s different now,” said Ann. “We’ve already had reporters following us around town. She could make it worse. Find someone else.”
“There’s no one else,” said Anthony. “Miss Watts has agreed and they’ve signed the contract. Thoofts don’t go back on our word.”
Ann gritted her teeth and walked out.
“We’re still on?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Kimberly. “She’ll come around. It’s just been so hard.”
I looked around the room and the faces told me that Ann Thooft wasn’t in the habit of coming around, but they also hadn’t changed their minds. I still had a job, so I packed everything back in Anton’s box, skimming some notebooks and taking note of dates. When I looked up, Kimberly’s eyes were on me and she was biting her lower lip again. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring look. I wasn’t going to out her brother, although I couldn’t imagine that could be worse than what had already happened.
“So when Detective Rich told me that he was closing the case, he said that Anton had a lot of female friends at the school. Other teachers.”
Kimberly blew out a breath and said, “He did. He always had female friends.”
Anthony showed me photos of Anton’s friends, Karen and Laurie. They were in school together all the way from kindergarten to senior year. Looking at those pictures, if I hadn’t known Anton was supposed to hate women, I’d never have guessed it. I would have guessed he was gay though. A farm boy who wore ties to school, never dated, and who has girls for best friends. Come on.
“He was always very protective of the girls,” said Gregory.
“Yeah, he went to parties just so he made sure they got home safe.” Kevin turned to Kimberly. “You know how he was.”
She smiled. “Not really. When Anton was in high school, I was watching Smurfs.” She looked at me. “He was fourteen years older.”
I knew that, but I kept forgetting. Kimberly was a late in life baby. Ann got her in right under the wire at forty-two. “You said he was very good with you.”
“He was,” said Anthony. “He really was. Anton babysat, changed diapers, played with her for hours on end.”
“Did you ever cry when he went to college,” said Kevin, rolling his eyes. “I never thought you’d stop bawling.”
“We were close,” objected Kimberly. “That’s why this is so hard, Miss Watts. I knew him best, except for Mom. We did everything together when he was home.”
Anthony reached over and gently touched her shoulder. “You three were quite a team.”
“Mom, Kimberly, and Anton,” said Gregory. “Couldn’t pry you apart.”
Kimberly nodded. “That’s why I know that what happened wasn’t just out of character, it was impossible, unless something happened to him.”
They all nodded and agreed that it was out of character, all except one. Stephanie Thooft frowned and looked away as the Thoofts all started regaling me with stories of how protective Anton was to women. Always kind. Never a nasty word. Never a complaint or a problem. Anton liked women. Stephanie didn’t say a thing. She only nodded when someone asked her to agree. She did agree, but her silence said a lot.
“Anton didn’t say anything about coming back to the States?” I asked when the insisting was done.
“No,” said Anthony. “We would’ve picked him up. We always picked him up.”
I had to ask. I’d been putting it off, but it had to be done. “What about me? Did he ever mention me?”
There were loud protestations at that, including Stephanie. Anton never mentioned me or my dad or anything to do with us. He wasn’t a fan of DBD, preferring jazz to rock, and he didn’t spend any time in St. Louis. Never went to school there and had no friends in the city.
“Well, I’m stumped,” said Fats, surprising everyone. “He couldn’t have done it, but he did it.”
They nodded and Anthony said, “That’s about the size of it.”
“Is there anything else you want to ask?” Gregory asked.
I couldn’t think of a thing. “I think that’s it for now.”
“What will you do next?” Kevin asked.
“Are those friends still around? Karen and Laurie?”
Anthony looked at his kids. “Didn’t Laurie move?”
“Chicago for grad school,” said Gregory. “She never came back. We might be able to find her address from someone at church.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’ll find her if we need to. It’s what we do.”
“Karen lives in St. Seb,” said Anthony. “You know St. Seb, of course.”
I smiled. “I do more than I ever expected to.”
A head poked through the door to the hall. “Was that nun’s ghost really in the basement of the high school?” asked Chase.
“Chase!” exclaimed Kimberly.
I stood up and put the photo albums back on the coffee table. “Chase, you wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen.”
Justin’s head poked in. “The floating eyeballs. I bet you saw those eyeballs at Miss Elizabeth’s.”
“She certainly did not,” said Anthony. “That’s just a rumor.”
I winked at the boys when I walked into the hall and they high-fived each other. Pick and Moe were dancing around with muddy feet and happy smiles.
“How were they?” I asked. “Not too crazy?”
“Totally crazy,” said Justin. “Your poodle thinks he can herd.”
“He can,” said Chase.
The boys started bickering about the herding of pigs, which wasn’t a thing but still happened when there was a poodle involved.
I took Pick’s leash and Fats picked up Moe, trying not to frown at her muddy paws.
“Here you go,” said Gregory, handing me a sticky note. “Karen’s number and address. She brought us a casserole the other day and she doesn’t believe it either. I texted her to say you’re here.”
Nobody believed it and I had to admit I was having a harder and harder time, too. Who was Anton Thooft?
“Did she say if she’s available today?” I asked.
“She’s at work, but you can go there.”
“Where’s there?”
“She’s a waitress at”—Do not say it—“Crabapples in St. Seb,” said Gregory.
Crap and double crap.
“Oh, well, we wouldn’t want to disturb her at work,” I said.
“I’ll disturb her,” said Fats. “I’ll disturb the heck out of her. I’m starving.”
Kimberly gave me directions and she looked like she wanted to hug me, but I wasn’t there yet. I might never be there.
We walked out of the Thooft house into the smell of hogs and impending snow. Fats closed the door and we walked down the wide steps in silence. After we got all the paws cleaned with Fats’ emergency paw cleaning kit in the back of the truck, we got in and she said, “Did you see that sister-in-law?”
“Oh, I saw her,” I said.
“She’s got a story to tell and I bet there aren’t any medals involved.”
“Will she tell it though?”
Fats cracked her knuckles. “Oh, she’ll tell it. Don’t worry about that.”
“We’re not threatening our clients,” I said.
“Not threatening. Encouraging.” A toothpick popped out and she gnawed on it.
“You’re feeling better.”
“Hog stink doesn’t make me sick. Who’d a thought?”
“Is there any chance that mung beans and tofu make you yark?”
“None.”
Swell.
“It’s too early for lunch,” I said, throwing out my last hope.
“I’m pregnant and losing weight. It’s not too early.”
“You’ve got me there.”
“To St. Seb,” said Fats, “and we get to interview a Karen. I’ve got fifty bucks that says she’ll have the haircut.”
“She’s not going to have that blonde bob,” I said. “But I think she’ll call the manager at some point.”
“This Karen works there,” said Fats. “She’s not going to call her own manager.”
“Wait and see, my friend, wait and see.”