thirty-two

I stepped toward Son, and a rush of dizziness hit me so strong, I thought I might fall into his arms. I turned back to the counter and grabbed it with both hands. What was Dot trying to pull? I thought she disliked Son. Had I misunderstood?

“What’s wrong, Boots?” He glanced at my lip, then he looked at Dot’s sling.

“Did I miss the girl fight?” He winked at me. “Who won?”

“We were attacked by Norris Philpot,” Dot said, and poured him a drink.

“Seriously?” He took a sip and grimaced. His gaze swept back to me. “Sorry about your lip, Boots. You all right?”

“I was until you got here,” I said.

He frowned at Dot. “You didn’t tell her I was coming?”

“Nope,” she said.

The left side of Son’s mouth angled into a smile, but the other half was still frowning. “What’s going on, Dot?”

“Teeny’s got love problems. She isn’t sure if she loves you or Coop. So I thought I’d bring y’all together.”

I realized I was holding my breath. I let it go and air rushed between my clenched teeth. “That’s a lie!”

Dot’s lower lip slid forward until it was the twin of mine—minus the scab. “It’s the truth. You still love Son. But you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

“Did you set this up behind Teeny’s back?” Son asked.

“Well, yes.” Dot looked flustered. “I knew she wouldn’t agree.”

Son looked confused. “I need another drink,” he said.

“Gladly.” Dot refilled his glass. He turned his back on us and faced the breakfast nook, where mismatched Lucite chairs were clustered around a stainless steel table.

“I’m going home.” I tucked my purse under my arm.

“That won’t fix your problems.” Dot yanked my purse away and set it on the counter, out of my reach. “You and Coop are finished. He may have given you a ring, but he won’t marry you.”

“So now you’re a fortune teller?” I lunged for my purse, but she pushed me back.

“Even if you accepted his proposal, Irene won’t let him marry you.” Dot refilled my glass and pushed it into my hands. “Face it, you and Son are meant to be together until death do you part.”

She was starting to creep me out. A long shadow fell over us. I looked up. Son leaned against the counter, the margarita glass caught in the V of his fingers.

The back of my throat tasted of rum and bile. I was totally going to throw up. “Where’s the powder room?”

Dot pointed toward the hall. “Third door on the left.”

I lurched out of the kitchen, but I lost count of the doors. I veered around a corner, into a bedroom furnished with more Lucite. I heard a meow. A white cat uncoiled from a white bench.

Why did she keep a natural predator around her birds? It glared at me with copper eyes. “How do you get along with the budgies?” I asked.

The cat gave me an indignant look, as if to say, Do you see any feathers in my mouth? It looked at my taffeta skirt and hissed. A fashion catastrophe, its eyes said.

A faint shred of civility prevented me from hissing back. Then I remembered I wanted to throw up, so I walked into the bathroom. I’d barely made it to the toilet before the margarita came up. On my way out of the bathroom, I got dizzy again and ended up in an alcove. Here, the bird chirping was louder, and it seemed to come from a walk in closet.

I peeked inside. White uniforms hung next to ball gowns. Clear plastic engulfed a chinchilla jacket. A jewelry case stood open, and diamond rings glittered against black velvet. Further down, a shelving unit was crammed with pill bottles. I squinted at the labels. Sonata. Oxycontin. Xanax. Another shelf held jars that were filled with colorful capsules. ROHYPNOL was written on one jar. Vials of a milky drug were lined up like nail polish.

Another sick feeling waved over me, and I put my hand on the wall. Had Dot slipped a Sonata into the margaritas? And where were the budgies? I tracked the sound to an intercom system that was set into the wall. I pressed the “open” button, and a CD disk slid out. The chirping stopped. The air was still as a tomb. I glanced at the CD label and saw MAMA’S BUDGIES written in back slanted script. My finger shook as I pushed the CD back in. The birdsong started again.

At the other end of the closet, I saw a stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator. Was I hallucinating? I rubbed my eyes, but the refrigerator was still there. Why did she need a Sub-Zero in her closet? To chill champagne?

I yanked open the door and light spilled out, showing a gleaming white interior. On the shelves were clear glass bottles. I lifted one. Inside, a round white globe was nestled in a rack, like a tiny pickled egg.

Only it wasn’t an egg. It was an eyeball.

A dizzy vortex spun around me. I dropped the bottle. Dot worked for the chop shop, and maybe Son did, too. They’d killed Barb and Kendall and Vlado and the Goth-girl, and they were going to kill me.

I felt an adrenaline rush, fight or flight. The flight won. Get out of here, Teeny. I staggered out of the closet, into the bedroom.

Dot’s voice echoed from the kitchen. She was talking about her marital history. But she seemed to be talking to herself, because Son didn’t answer.

“My husbands come and go,” she said, “but my surname never changes. And it’s a darn good thing. Can you imagine the confusion? Dot Agnew-Smithers-McMann-Alexander-Travers-Sanchez. It sounds like the scientific name for a Hantavirus.”

I made my way to the foyer. I was almost out the door when a hand pulled me back.

“You’re too drunk to drive,” Dot said. She plucked a white hair off my black top. “I see that you’ve met my cat. Munchkin ate the last of the budgies. All I have left of them are Mama’s recordings. But you figured that out, didn’t you? Because the music stopped playing for a second.”

A humming noise roared through my head, thousands of beating wings and chomping teeth, a plague of locusts. “I didn’t hear any music,” I said.

She pulled off her sling, then she grabbed the broom.

“You’re not in Charleston anymore, Teeny.” She slugged me with the broom handle and everything went dark.

*   *   *

I awoke in Dot’s breakfast room, tied to a Lucite chair. Son sat across the table, his head lolling to the side. A rope was lashed around his chest, and his eyes were closed. Dot squatted beneath him, tying his feet to the chair. But he was her partner. Why was she restraining him?

I couldn’t think straight. My head throbbed. Cat. Broom. Eyeballs.

The doorbell rang. Dot raised her head, the cockatoo curls trembling. She got up and walked toward the kitchen, leaving behind a lethal cloud of Shalimar. When she turned into the hall, I tried to squirm out of the rope, but it was too tight.

“Son?” I said. My heartbeat scattered, beating in my fingertips and belly.

His head jerked up.

“Were you and Dot selling illegal body parts?” My voice sounded slurry, as if words were melting on my tongue.

“You crazy, Boots?” His gaze was unfocused.

“Son, listen to me. Dot’s going to kill us. Try to loosen your ropes. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Let me sleep, Boots,” he said. “Just let me sleep.”

From the hallway, I heard furious whispers, male and female, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“Son! Please try to get away.” I twisted around in the chair, but the rope cut painfully into my breasts.

“Love you, too, Boots.”

“We’ve got to leave.” I broke off. What had I meant to say? My thoughts finned off and vanished. Something tickled my thigh. I looked down. My blue-brown pocket gaped open, and a tarantula lifted its arm. Holy crap. A stowaway from Miss Uma’s house. So that’s what had been itching me.

Dot stepped into the kitchen. I wanted to ask her a question, but I couldn’t remember it. My thoughts darted and darted, like bait fish swimming in black water.

“You doing okay, Teeny?” she asked.

Like she gave a shit, that miserable budgie bitch. I wanted to ask what the hell she thought she was doing, but my tongue was stuck to my teeth.

“You can come in now,” Dot said to the person in the hall.

Footsteps clapped on the floor. Then a tall man walked in. At least, I thought it was a man. His face was hidden by a Bill Clinton mask. A long blond wig hung in stiff curls to the man’s shoulders.

I tried to suck in air, but it felt like a twenty-volume set of encyclopedias were piled on my chest. Hadn’t the Sweeney police found that mask? Barb’s murderer was sitting in a jail cell, waiting for me to pick him out of a lineup.

The man lifted the mask.