Chapter Five – Saturday, June 18^th

 

A divine facial involves the application of a well-mashed ripened banana to one’s face for not less than ten minutes. After which the banana may be consumed or applied to a lover’s torso for an interesting twist on a banana split sans iced cream, whipped cream, and a cherry.

– Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints

 

A decision had to be made. Either they could call Arlington Police Detective Victor Bloodsaw and tell him that the two of them had unashamedly and manifestly attempted to tamper with evidence in an ongoing official investigation. (Could an imprint in bird dookie really be considered evidence; they weren’t sure, but they thought maybe it could be. The whole discussion on bird dropping evidentiary status had been like listening to Bill Clinton asking what the definition of ‘is’ was. ) Or they could call Dallas Police Detective Frederick Brogan so that Callie could, in fact, judge the state of his ass for herself.

“Or we could do nothing,” Mary Grace interjected ironically. She could imagine trying to explain to a police detective, from either city, that all they had to do was to make a mold from a deep pile of bird poop. “You know, that only works with foot prints in dirt,” she said firmly. Mary Grace didn’t really know if that was true, but it sounded good.

Callie carefully let herself hang over the side of the building until her arms were stretched all the way out and then dropped with a grunt. She bounced to her feet and swept red hair out of her sweaty face. “Tire tracks, too. I saw this one episode of The New Detectives where they made a cast from where a dead body had lain for a period of time before the murderer came back to move the body. He had a chipper/shredder. Got the idea from Fargo, don’t cha know?” She vigorously brushed bird crap off her jeans. “Or did you see the episode of CSI where they made a mold of the knife wound. That really wouldn’t work, but it looks great on TV.”

Mary Grace wiped sweat from her forehead. It was true that the industrial business area was 95% concrete and asphalt and as hot as the seventh level of hell. “What am I going to do?”

Callie grimaced. “Don’t worry, MG,” she said, putting an arm around Mary Grace. “We’ll figure it out before something really bad happens.” She pushed her friend toward the car. “Now we stake out Jack’s place. Where does he live?”

Mary Grace stumbled toward the fire-truck-red Miata. “How long have we known each other, Callie?”

“Since about two weeks after I was born. You were already five months old. I had to play catch up. You being the older, experienced woman and all.” Callie shoved Mary Grace into the passenger seat and climbed into the driver’s seat. “I don’t recall our first meeting but I’m sure that we were instantly simpatico.”

“This car is going to stick out like a big, freaking, inflamed thumb.”

“Depends on where he lives,” Callie said. “Where?”

“North Arlington,” Mary Grace said, resigned. “I’ll give you directions.”

“But first,” Callie announced. “I have some dry cleaning questions.”

“Oh, no,” Mary Grace moaned.

•

Two doors down from Pictographs, Inc. was the location of Big John’s Dry Cleaning. A sign in the window announced that cleaning leather and furs were also their specialties. Callie marched determinedly towards the place and looked over her shoulder at Mary Grace.

“Do we have to?” Mary Grace whined.

“Yes, grow some testicles,” Callie snapped.

“That would be physically impossible and not to mention make me a hermaphrodite.”

“Come on,” Callie wheedled. She opened the door and bells tinkled warningly.

Mary Grace went inside and discovered that the place didn’t appear to be the lair of a mad killer. Instead it seemed to be like a thousand other dry cleaners businesses. Counter in front, cash register to the side. Metal racks for the completed goods were attached to the counter. In the back was a revolving set of hangers with hundreds of plastic encased clothing.

Lolita Lewis looked up from the magazine she was reading and said, “Help you, ladies?”

Her expression was curiously bland and disinterested. Callie blinked and glanced at Mary Grace, who shrugged and nodded at Lolita, indicating that she was the one who had been present during the shooting attempt. Mary Grace was wondering what Callie had expected, for Lolita to throw herself on the floor as soon as they entered, pleading for leniency from the law?

“You don’t recognize her?” Callie asked, jerking a thumb at Mary Grace.

Lolita looked at Mary Grace with dark brown eyes and her creamy expression blank. “Um? Should I? Do you live near me? Sorry, I’m not always good with faces.”

Callie frowned.

Mary Grace thought that either Lolita was completely innocent or she was a fine actress. She didn’t seem to know Mary Grace from Britney Spears. “I work at Pictographs,” she said tentatively.

Lolita continued to appear blank. “Do you do your dry cleaning here? Do I have something for you? A receipt is very helpful, but also we file by last names so…”

“No, I don’t have anything here,” Mary Grace said quickly.

Callie put a hand on her cocked hip and studied Lolita. “So you were here last night?”

“Sure,” Lolita said. “We were short someone. Guy quit to work at a telemarketer’s place. I had to work until 10 PM. Can you believe they had a mugging last night?”

“That was me,” Mary Grace said.

“You mugged someone?” Lolita said disbelievingly.

“No, they tried to mug me,” Mary Grace corrected.

“Oh,” Lolita said. Then, she added, “Oh. Sorry. Hope you’re doing better today?”

“So, did you see anyone else last night?” Callie interjected quickly.

Lolita shook her head. “No, just her,” she pointed at Mary Grace. “And her boss, I think. And what’s his name, the little blonde haired twerp who hit on me. Then there were all the policemen and firemen. Whole lot of fuss. I had one of them walk me to the car later.”

“You didn’t see anyone else?” Callie persisted.

Lolita shrugged. “I closed up at 7 PM and got to work on what needed to be done in back. When I get going on the presses I can’t hear a bomb drop.”

Callie sighed. “Well, thanks, anyway.”

When they were outside, Callie said, “What do you think?”

“I think she didn’t recognize me,” Mary Grace said honestly. “So I guess she couldn’t want to kill me if she didn’t really know me, right?”

“Right. Let’s roll. We got your boss’s place to break into.”

“Peachy.”

•

Jack’s Saturn Vue wasn’t apparent when Callie did a slow cruise by the sleepy avenue upon which he lived. Neither one of them was brave enough to venture close enough to look inside the windows of the closed garage so Callie parked the Miata and they sat in air conditioned splendor waiting for something to happen. “So when were you here before?” she asked Mary Grace suggestively.

“Company picnic,” Mary Grace said gratingly. “Jack grilled brats. There was watermelon and lots and lots of potato salad and lots of other employees there. And you have the mind of a hound dog. And I’m insulting hounds, when I say it.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Callie protested. “I can’t think of the last time you had a date. Ever since you dumped Ivan, he of the polygamous tendencies, your love life has been kaka. You don’t even try. Ma tried to fix you up with that guy, what was his name?”

“Bubba,” Mary Grace said. “And not only is Bubba not Italian, but he walked with his knuckles dragging on the ground and, and, AND you refused to go out with him, way before Ottavia tried to unload him on me.”

Callie tried not to laugh. “I wondered why he has calluses on his knuckles.”

“And Ivan, well, Ivan doesn’t want to be married to multiple women,” Mary Grace informed Callie with poisonous seriousness. “He just wants to knock them up. Apparently he thinks they can all live together happily, dispensing little Ivan clones upon the world, so they can worship his being for ever and ever. Amen.”

Callie hissed suddenly and sank deep into her leather seat. She yanked on Mary Grace’s arm, trying to get her to duck, too. “There he is,” she whispered.

The Saturn pulled into Jack’s driveway and sure enough Jack clambered out of the driver’s seat holding a bag from McDonald’s. The passenger door opened and out climbed Jack’s five year old son, Morgan. Morgan ran for the door, waving a light saber menacingly.

“Kid’s going to put his eye out with that thing,” Callie murmured. “Told you he’s cute. The kid’s not bad, either.”

“We’re a block away, Callie,” Mary Grace whispered back. “I’m pretty sure they can’t hear us.”

“Yeah, but it sounds right,” Callie whispered. “We’re staking the place out, see?” She did a bad Edward G. Robinson impression out of the side of her mouth. “‘Listen you crummy, flat-footed copper. I’ll show you whether I’ve lost my nerves and my brains.’”

“They’re inside,” Mary Grace said in a normal voice. “Now what?”

“Wait for them to leave,” Callie said firmly. “Then, we break in.”

“What if they don’t leave?”

“He’s got the kid for the weekend,” Callie observed. “Kid’s just got a sugar injection from Micky D’s. Jack’s either going to kill the kid and bury him in the back yard in a shallow grave or he’s going to take him to the park and let him play his little sugared up brains out.”

Mary Grace groaned. “Callie, you have too many nieces and nephews. Is that what you do with them when you sit for your brothers and sisters? Sugar them up? I think you should have a tubal ligation, just like I’m going to have.”

Callie gasped and glared at Mary Grace. “I know you didn’t mean that, MG. Your mother is going to have fits if you don’t produce just as many offspring as a liquored up bunny rabbit on shore leave in the land of female bunnies.”

“My mother can go take a flying-hey,” Mary Grace stopped as she saw Jack and his son, Morgan, exit the house almost as quickly as they had gone inside. Jack had a bag and Morgan had obtained a Dorothy the Dinosaur hat. “You were right.”

“Six and a half nieces and nephews under the age of eight,” Callie said conceitedly. “I am wise with the force of children.”

“Well, Yoda,” Mary Grace said. “Shall we kick down the front door or look for a hide-a-key.”

“I can’t believe we used to take baths together,” Callie articulated. “You’ve gotten to be so tight; you’re going to explode one day.”

“I think I already did,” Mary Grace said. “Baseball bat. I almost beaned a cop.”

“You did not.” Callie almost choked. “I thought you were kidding.”

“There was a strange person in a strange car parked down the street after I was almost murdered for the third time.” Mary Grace held up three fingers for effect. “So I got the Louisville Slugger out of the umbrella stand and went to kick ass and chew bubblegum.” Her voice got louder. “And I was fresh out of bubblegum!”

Callie stared at her for a long moment. “Remind me not to piss you off anytime soon.”

Mary Grace put her hand down. “So I think that we should break into Jack’s house and look around for evidence.”

Callie held up a key ring. “Got this in Jack’s office while we were looking for a way up to the roof. Since it’s labeled ‘home’ I figured it would come in handy.”

“Well okay then,” Mary Grace said firmly. “Let’s do this sumbitch.”

“And you think I’m bad.”

•

They left the Miata in place in the deep shade of an oak tree. It reminded Mary Grace of Brogan for a moment, parked under Mr. Flagg’s mulberry all night. Puppy-dog eyes, she thought. Tall and lean. He’s kind of appealing in a David Duchovny way. And he knows Italian. “He knows Italian,” she said curiously.

“Who, Jack?” Callie said, surreptitiously sneaking down the sidewalk toward the front of Jack’s house. “Look innocent,” she added.

“Not Jack,” Mary Grace corrected. “And don’t sneak, Callie. It’s mid-afternoon on a Saturday. People are going to notice if you sneak.”

Callie straightened up. “Ixnay on the eakingsnay.” They passed a woman in a flowered muumuu plucking weeds out of a bed of roses. “Good afternoon,” the muumuu said. Interested blue eyes stared at the pair walking past.

“Good afternoon,” Mary Grace replied. “Nice looking roses. I can’t grow anything myself.”

“You have to fertilize them every week,” the muumuu said. “I use coffee grounds myself.”

“I’ll remember that,” Mary Grace responded politely. The muumuu returned to the roses and yanked venomously at the weeds. Obviously, the weeds were her mortal enemy.

Callie glanced over her shoulder when they were in front of the next house and hissed, “Why didn’t you ask for her recipe for key lime pie?”

“Sorry, I forgot to cloud her mind,” Mary Grace said cheerfully. “Only the shadow knows. And the lady in the muumuu. And that dog over there. And that kid up the street playing dodgeball with his brother. Ouch. That ball is way too big for a kid that size. Did I miss anyone?”

“The postman is delivering mail two doors up from Jack’s,” Callie said sourly. “We’ll have to come back and intimidate all the witnesses. Or kill them. Whatever. Maybe we should have worn disguises. I could have been an exquisite countess from Italy and you could have been my lowly, countrified maid.”

Two minutes later they were standing inside Jack’s house. They looked around the little foyer and Callie said, “Yikes.” She pointed at an alarm system box mounted on the wall beside the door. “We’re in trouble. Run.” She reached for the front door knob.

“It’s green,” Mary Grace said as she pulled Callie’s hand away from the door. “Not armed. Probably doesn’t have a service now. Or he forgot to arm it when the kid was here. Look, it’s covered with dust. He hasn’t used it in a long time.”

Callie took a deep breath. “Okay. I know this was my idea, but what do we look for? Blueprints for bombs? Utensils for cutting brake lines?”

Mary Grace cogitated. “Where would you make a bomb? In the garage?”

“Sounds good to me.”

They tiptoed through the moderately large ranch style house. Passing through the kitchen towards where they judged the garage door to be, Callie said, “Other than dust, he’s pretty clean, huh?”

With a groan, Mary Grace opened the door to the garage and stopped in place. Callie was admiring a Henckels knife set when she bumped into Mary Grace. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, my God,” Mary Grace muttered.

“What?” Callie said, craning to see around her friend. “A body? Torture device? A bag of unopened mail from the seventies? Smuggled cigarettes from Canada?”

“He uses the garage as his art studio,” Mary Grace said. She flipped on the light so that she could more clearly see what she thought she had seen. “Look.”

“Boobiferous,” Callie commented loudly. “Look, that one is…uh…MG, is there something you should have told me?”

“Caledonia Caprice Branch,” Mary Grace said vehemently. “Does that look like me?”

Callie tilted her head while examining the largest canvas which was also the closest one to them. It was somewhat hard to miss seeing as how it was the first thing anyone would see upon opening the garage door. And the subject matter was very… conspicuous, especially the two parts that stuck out the most. Hooters, ta-tas, boobies, boom-booms, jaboos, mammoth mammaries were all terms that popped into her head. “It’s not finished,” she said at last, not willing to give up the point.

“I have the potty mind?” Mary Grace threw up her hands. “Look for something bomb-like. Look for a gun. Maybe he has one in his bedroom.”

“I’m not going in his bedroom,” Callie said. “You go. I might get man cooties.”

“Just look for something that might be a reason for him to kill me,” Mary Grace said finally. “Or something that would clear him.”

Callie gestured dramatically at the painting. “Well, there’s a big fat motive.”

“That’s not me,” Mary Grace gritted.

“Let’s say it is you,” she went on as if Mary Grace hadn’t spoken. “Well, he’s obviously a warped creepoid bent on having you. And if he can’t have you,” she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, “then no one can.”

“He didn’t even try to have me,” Mary Grace objected. “And that portrait isn’t me, dammit.”

“Okay, Callie said mildly. “But we’ve both seen Fatal Attraction. Jack could be a male bunny-boiler. That could be the motive.”

Mary Grace didn’t bother responding. She went back into the kitchen and started looking around. Callie was right about one thing. Jack was fairly neat. Some of the knick-knacks were dusty, but that wasn’t exactly something Martha Stewart would have killed over. (No pun intended.) In any case, there wasn’t anything that really stunk like an errant red herring lying around on a summer day. His living room was littered with five-year-old-kid toys, most of which appeared to be bits and pieces of mad-scientist laboratory set-ups. The kid’s bedroom had a made bed and a desk covered with all kinds of models from airplanes to atom bombs. Jack’s bedroom even contained a completely made and unwrinkled bed. (Good example for Morgan.) There wasn’t anything hidden under the mattress and there wasn’t even something interesting like porno magazines on the top shelf of the closet.

Rubbing her eyes with one hand, Mary Grace made a face.

“Who speaks Italian?” Callie asked from the bedroom door.

“I almost peed in my panties,” Mary Grace said accusingly. “And I’m wearing my Italian silk tap pants that my Aunt Maria brought from Rome. Italian silk.”

“You never did tell me,” Callie added. “I didn’t find anything. And I did consider that portrait. The hair is black, in both places,” she stopped to chuckle. “But the face is obscured. However, you have to give me that a certain part of your anatomy is consistent with a certain part of the model’s anatomy.”

“I can’t find anything,” Mary Grace said instead of answering either of Callie’s statements. Her friend was, regrettably, correct. The larger than life portrait of a naked woman could definitely be Mary Grace’s previously unknown booby twin. And it could have been Mary Grace, except that Mary Grace knew very well that Jack Covington had never seen her naked. Except perhaps in his head. Furthermore, there was a little niggling feeling deep inside her that was almost (ALMOST!) flattered. Ugg, she thought. I’m so man-hungry that I’m flattered by a possible stalker. “It’s not me,” she insisted. “I didn’t pose for it. I didn’t come here. And as far as I know, he hasn’t been peeping in the bathrooms at work or coming to my house to peek in between the curtains. Attila would have eaten him there, anyway.”

“Maybe not,” Callie said. “But it doesn’t mean that he isn’t stalking you.”

“We’re all graphic artists at work. Doing websites and advertisements and stuff like that. We’re all artists who actually want to not starve, which is why we work there. So consequently, lots of artists do nudes,” Mary Grace persevered. “I did in college. I did when I studied in Paris for that summer. Men and women.”

“Men and women,” Callie repeated luridly.

“I’m going to hit you.”

“Okay. Nothing here, except a portrait that looks suspiciously like you. But there is only one so maybe it’s a one-off.”

“He’s got an office in the back,” Mary Grace said, suddenly remembering a brief guided tour the one and only time she’d been at Jack’s house. “We should look in there.”

Suddenly there was a fierce pounding at the front door of Jack’s house that could be heard throughout the entire structure. They didn’t even need to be close to hear someone yell, “POLICE! OPEN UP!”

Callie and Mary Grace ran for the back door. Mary Grace racked her knee on a door jamb and Callie nearly decapitated herself when a skateboard mysteriously flew out in front of her foot. “It was the lady in the muumuu,” Callie whispered frantically. “She was a stoolie.”

The back door had a deadbolt that had been thrown and no key in sight. They both stared at it before Mary Grace said urgently, “Quick, a window.”

Callie glanced around. It was a small mudroom. Coats that wouldn’t be used for months hung on wooden pegs. Flip-flops had been pushed up against a wall. A volleyball was tucked into a shelf-nook next to a basketball and a baseball mitt. There categorically wasn’t a window. “The office,” she barked, panic beginning to make her voice go edgy.

They scuttled back to Jack’s office. Someone pushed the doorbell and held it down for an indeterminate amount of time. Callie broke two nails yanking the window open and getting the screen off. She stuck her head outside and discovered a large oleander bush but no SWAT team lying in wait for them. “Hurry up,” Mary Grace urged, doing what an unprejudiced observer would have called a pee-pee dance.

Callie went out the window headfirst, the hell with formalities. Mary Grace waited for a scream or something that would indicate it was unsafe, and then followed when the same voice yelled another warning. “POLICE DEPARTMENT! OPEN THE DOOR now!”

“They ain’t gonna take me alive,” she muttered and threw herself out.

In the midst of a large oleander with huge white blooms, Mary Grace landed, albeit ungracefully and on her back, having inadvertently performed a half-gainer in the process of escaping said house. Callie yanked her arm.

Ten minutes later they had plowed through three backyards, a drainage ditch, and a patch of extremely dense poison ivy. They had startled a covey of doves and a miniature schnauzer who had hauled his tiny butt back through his doggy door lest they do damage upon his dogliness. They emerged on a street that Mary Grace estimated was three down from Jack’s street and with nary a police car, sheriff’s vehicle, or county constable in sight.

Callie was listing things that she had promised to God that she would no longer do upon the condition that God got them out of this mess. “Pre-marital sex. Cheating on taxes. Breaking and entering. Gazing lewdly at my sister’s boyfriend’s butt.”

Mary Grace interrupted, “You look at Jeff’s butt?”

“It’s a nice butt,” Callie argued, and went on. “Talking MG into weirdness. Eating the last helping of Ben & Jerry’s. Short-sheeting my parents’ bed. Putting Vaseline on my brother’s steering wheel.”

Callie was going on and on, apparently having a long list of misdeeds that would need rectifying before passing over. Mary Grace tripped over her tennis shoe lace, falling face first onto the sidewalk. When Callie stepped out into the street, she paused to look back over her shoulder to see what had happened to her friend. She never even saw the car that hit her.

But Mary Grace did. She also saw the blonde haired mama standing two houses down on the corner of the street, predictably accompanied by a cherub-cheeked, platinum-tressed munchkin in a sturdy sling.