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Saturday, December 28th
Charlotte entered the dialysis room and waved at Alexa, who was in a recliner and attached to a machine with appropriate tubes.
“Hey, how’re you doing?” She pulled an armchair over so they could talk face-to-face.
“Okay, but tired. Thanks for coming by.”
“How are things at home? I saw you and your mother at the memorial service yesterday, but we were sitting way in the back.”
Alexa rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Oh, that. Just glad it is over with. It was clutter I just can’t deal with right now. You know my mom isn’t a match for me? My blood is Type O, and I can only receive a kidney from somebody who is also Type O. Mom is Type A.”
“Oh, Alexa, I’m so sorry. Isn’t Type O pretty common, though?”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of other factors at play, ones they didn’t even bother testing Mom for because the blood type made it a non-starter. Now I’m wondering if I could have had one from Dad if we’d only found him sooner.”
Charlotte paused as a chill ran through her. Perhaps this wasn’t the most sensitive time to question Alexa about when she really arrived in Elm Grove—then again, maybe it was the perfect time. Somewhere along the line Alexa was playing her, and it had to come to a stop.
“Why don’t you tell me what really happened that day?”
Alexa looked up quickly, then pretended not to know what Charlotte was talking about. “What do you mean? You were with me the whole time.”
It was the slightly forced tone of puzzlement that gave away the lie, and probably wouldn’t have been forced if Alexa herself wasn’t so tired.
“I know you were in town before you asked me to meet you at Penn House. The visit to your parents wasn’t impromptu, and given how far back we go, you would have given me more advanced notice if you really needed me to help you talk to them. And then I remembered that your coat was soaking wet with melted snow—it had stopped snowing in Chicago well before you supposedly got on the train, and the platform between the train and Penn House is covered. Plus, it had stopped snowing here by the time the train arrived, but was snowing heavily an hour before.””
“Are you crazy? You think I’m lying to you? Why would I do that?”
“You were seen arriving at your parent’s house in a taxi about two hours before we were to meet up at the station.”
“That’s impossible. Who said this?”
“That’s not important. What’s important is for you to tell me why you lied to me, and what really happened that day. I don’t think you killed your father, but I think Hewey saw you there and that’s why he thinks you did. I think you’ve seen something and you’re protecting someone, most likely your mother. And now I want you to talk. You’ve played on my emotions and sense of gratitude for your help back when things were crazy in my own life. I’m still willing to help, but only with full knowledge about what is going on and why.”
Alexa looked both scared and defiant at first, but by the time Charlotte finished she looked just plain miserable, and lowered her head as she wiped away tears.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It was an awful thing to do, using you like that, but I felt like I was in trouble, and you’re still on my speed-dial, you know?”
Charlotte handed her a box of tissues, and Alexa pulled out several.
“Okay, we’ve established that you were there earlier and you felt you were in trouble. Start from the beginning. Your parents had been expecting you for some time, right?”
Alexa nodded. “Well, Mom was, anyway. I told my parents I had lupus when I was first diagnosed a few years ago, but Dad brushed it off, saying that I looked healthy, and he generally acted like I was just making an excuse to be lazy. And he already considered me lazy, you know, because I didn’t take up something incredibly difficult like biochemistry or show some kind of talent like Ellis with the piano. He said I was definitely my mother’s daughter, just wanted an excuse to coast through life. My mother didn’t stand up to him, just sort of went along. He was the scientist in the family, and if he thought I wasn’t really ill, why then I probably wasn’t really ill. Lazy, yes. Ill, no.”
Now Alexa’s difficulty with her family took firmer shape for Charlotte. “That’s why there was an estrangement.”
“Yeah. Some scientist he was, huh? His personal bias against my choices in life overrode the facts.”
“If relationships could be forged by scientific method—” Charlotte began, but didn’t finish.
“He didn’t like things that didn’t have black and white answers, and diagnosing auto-immune conditions often means dealing with big gray areas. He was convinced that I just needed to pull myself together and work harder, be more driven and focused—but in something he considered worth doing. It made me so angry. I wanted to prove to him that others valued what I did, that I was successful, that I was the best at what I did. I ended up not taking care of myself as well as I should have.”
“So your kidneys started suffering.”
“My kidneys, right. By the time I realized what was going on with them I was almost at Stage Four.”
“Alexa! How could you work or anything?”
“Just kept going, telling myself the way I felt was all in my head. I was so determined to prove I wasn’t some kind of slacker. But when it was clear that a transplant needed to be considered, I called Mom and told her, said I wanted to come and talk to them in person. I warned her that I wasn’t going to be taking Dad’s guff, and that I had the doctor’s office on call to tell them anything they wanted to know, plus my medical files. I kept it as unemotional as I could, played it as just-the-facts as I could, because I needed a kidney and I needed financial help, as well—my insurance coverage from work is pretty limited.”
“When was this?”
“The day before I came. Told her I’d be there around ten or eleven, would probably stay overnight if things went okay, but would get a room someplace if they didn’t.”
“What did she say about this?”
“Oh, she went all quiet. That’s what she does when she is overwhelmed by information or emotion, she doesn’t say a damned thing. Or she just repeats platitudes.”
“So you arrived around eleven on Friday morning?”
“Ten, actually, then got a taxi. By the time I got to my parents’ it was close to ten-thirty. The driver just stopped out on the street. It was snowing like crazy. I got my bag and walked up to the house, but nobody answered the door. I saw footprints in the walk to the lab, and a car parked by the door, so I went there. I could hear my parents arguing as soon as I went in, and since I thought they might be having a fight about me, I went down the hall to get closer and make out what they were saying.
“The doors to the offices were open, all the way back to the lounge and you know how the offices aren’t bright to make it easier to see the computers and the gauges? Well, the lounge had a weird light, too, made Mom’s hair look purple. She was standing just inside the doorway to the lounge, and looking toward the back of the room. She was really angry, and I heard her say, “How could you do this to me and our daughter?”
“The greenhouse was dark at the time, so it made the observation window like a mirror—it reflected everything in the middle office and part of the lounge. I moved up to see if I could see Dad’s reflection, and I saw both him and Gani, standing there, facing Mom. And Dad was in full alpha male mode, telling Mom not to be ridiculous, that he and Gani were going to make a lot of money, and he had no intention of breaking his promise to her grandfather that he would look after her and by extension me.”
Alexa shifted in her chair to get more comfortable. “Mom was still really upset, and she said, ‘But this? It’s illegal! And you’ve got a greenhouse full of it!’ And then he just laughed at her and told her she seemed to have forgotten what kind of girl she used to be, that she wasn’t afraid of what was ‘out there,’ as much as she was afraid of what was ‘down there.’” She looked at Charlotte as if puzzled. “He made it sound dirty, you know? Then I saw them turn and heard what sounded like steps.
“Dad laughed again like he saw something funny and told Mom that Hewey had helped them set everything up, so it couldn’t be all bad, could it? Mom was furious, said he had no right to drag Hewey into it. She asked Gani if he was honestly okay with all this, and he looked at my father and said, ‘Absolutely,’ and my father smiled at him like he adored him and kissed him. I’ve seen my father kiss men before, a long time ago, at parties and stuff, but this was different. I didn’t want to see any more, and made my way out, and I didn’t even worry if anyone saw me or heard me—I mean, after that, who needs to sneak around, right? It sounded like Dad and Gani were partners in something illegal in the lab, and they were in love with one another, and my mother was just going to have to deal with it.” Alexa paused and seemed lost in thought for a moment, then continued.
“I actually started to feel pretty confident about getting a kidney and the financial side of things. I was standing out there in the snow trying to decide if I should go back in like I hadn’t heard any of it, then decided to come back in the afternoon after everybody had a chance to calm down. But it was going to be a long walk on a bad road. I called the taxi company and asked if they could pick me up and they came right away, it was just a fluke they were like a block away with no fare, and pulled up on the street, not the driveway, like before. I was talking to the driver and then opening the cab door when Gani came up the drive in his car and pulled out. I was bugged because I wanted to play dumb when I came back, so I pretended I had just arrived, which of course confused the driver, he probably thought I was insane, and he drove off, leaving me there in the road. I ended up walking the whole way to Penn House.”
That explained the soaking-wet coat, thought Charlotte. “Why involve me, though?”
“Just in case Gani thought I was leaving, not arriving, and said something. Even if our times didn’t match up, it wouldn’t matter that much—and if Dad wasn’t killed, it wouldn’t have, would it? Plus I was not entirely certain how civil my parents were going to be around each other if it was only me there, so the part about wanting you around to buffer them was true.” He voice went quiet with resignation. “And I really did want to see you, it had been a long time. Who knows what’s going to happen, or how long I’ve got?”
Charlotte said nothing for a bit. It could have happened the way Alexa described—or at least close to it. It seemed to clear Gani, at any rate, by proving that he wasn’t on the scene when Alonzo was shot, either.
“So when we got to the lab, you were not expecting—?”
Alexa shook her head emphatically. “Oh, no! I didn’t get the sense that my mother was going to shoot my father, she wouldn’t know one end of a gun from another, anyway. But I knew they were in there earlier.”
“What do you think happened?”
“The lab was robbed after I was there in the morning. Mom was sure something illegal was being grown, and I would think it was marijuana—and the bits we saw looked something like it. I think Hewey must have said something to somebody, and they came and stole the plants and shot my dad when he caught them at it. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his mouth shut.”
“So,” said Charlotte with a sigh. “You still fear it was your mother, though, don’t you?”
“She can’t prove she didn’t. And she and Hewey are thick as thieves. I don’t know what to think. And now I have to look elsewhere for a kidney. I want to ask my Uncle Jonathan, but she’s dead set against it and doesn’t seem to have a good reason why.”
“That would be Jonathan Corton, her brother?”
Alexa nodded. “Do you think,” she began, then paused, as if rethinking what she was going to say.
“Think what?”
“Do you think you could ask him on my behalf?”
Charlotte considered the request. Part of her wanted to say hell, no! But she did offer to continue to help if Alexa would just tell the truth. Besides, the rift between Janice and her mother and brother was something she had planned to look into some more, anyway. Maybe Jonathan would have something to say about it, and greatly simplify things. One could always hope.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Jonathan Corton, a recently-retired commodities broker, lived in a gated subdivision on the edge of Elm Grove. It was so exclusive that Charlotte had to ask Detective Barnes for Jonathan’s address and directions. He wished her luck in getting to talk to the man himself, but admired her nerve for attempting it.
Charlotte didn’t have any great hopes of succeeding in getting a kidney for Alexa, but was willing to settle for just soaking up the ambiance of Jonathan’s life. She dressed in the best-quality clothes she had, including real pearl earrings. She was about to leave when she realized the Jeep wasn’t going to cut it, and called Helene and arranged to borrow her sedan.
Helene had the keys ready. “Does Jonathan know you’re coming?”
“Um, no. I’m sort of hoping to bluff my way in.”
“Oh, Charlotte, it’s a gated community, and there’s a good chance you won’t even get to knock on his door if you’re not already a friend or not expected. Why don’t you let me call him for you?”
“You know him?” Charlotte asked, then could have slapped her head. “Of course you do. You know everybody.”
At the gate, the guard called the Corton residence after getting her information, and Charlotte pretended to be totally comfortable and confident while he clearly was describing her and her intended business. She took off her sunglasses so the security camera could get a better view. The guard hung up and said that she could go on in, follow the main road, and Mr. Corton’s driveway would be the fifth one on the right.
What she could see of the homes was breathtaking, not entirely unlike Helene’s old house at Lake Parkerton, just much bigger and much newer. The hills, woodlands, and creeks did a good job of looking more than ten or fifteen years old on what was once flat, prime farmland. The fifth driveway on the right was almost three miles from the entry gate. Nosy neighbors wouldn’t be a problem here.
The driveway was more like a paved country road, curving through woods and going up and down, even crossing a broad creek with a wooden bridge, but it was, Charlotte reminded herself, a private driveway. It finally opened onto a field-like clearing, out of which rose a structure of brick, glass, slate, fieldstone, and cedar planks. She made the circle around the driveway to pull up near the front entrance.
Jonathan Corton himself answered the door, and extended his hand as they introduced themselves to one another. “To what do I owe the pleasure, something about the archives?” He gestured for her to enter the house.
“Yes, that is part of it. It’s a remarkable collection of pictures and clippings.”
“I have to admit I’m not all that familiar with it, as my mother is the one who had compiled it after my grandfather died. But I can try to answer any questions you might have.”
They had passed through a foyer that was more like a lobby, as it opened out into several different areas on the ground floor. The back of the foyer was comprised of open stair cases that crisscrossed from the lower level to the upper floor, all in silhouette against a wall of windows that looked out over a heated Olympic-size gazing pool set in a bluestone patio. The pool was framed by columnar junipers on either side that narrowed in the distance to create the illusion of a much greater distance. Charlotte liked the landscaping more than the house.
“Could I offer you a drink?” Corton pressed a button and a well-stocked bar rose out the top of a console. He poured a generous amount of Laphroaig in a glass. The label had a big “25” on it, showing how many years it had been aged.
Charlotte really, really wanted to try a single-malt scotch that probably cost five hundred dollars a bottle, but was also certain her barely-repressed nervousness would spoil the taste. “Thank you, but I’d better pass.”
He led them over to a pair of comfortable sofas in a room that had nothing else as far as she could see. The view, however, was furnishing enough: an enclosed garden of large topiary animals, some growing from the ground, some in pots. The effect was more sinister than whimsical, a giant green, stylized zoo.
“Like it? Nobody else around here has a whole garden like that. My wife finds it sinister, so we didn’t bother with a lot of furniture in here.”
“It’s fascinating. You have a talented gardener.”
“The gardener is me. That’s my hobby. I buy them pretty much finished, but I keep them trimmed and repaired. Should see it at night with the uplights. That’s when they really look like they could move, and I then I agree with Ginny that it’s a little creepy, but don’t tell her I said that.” He smiled with a lot of teeth, and took a sip of his scotch.
“Well, my first question concerns the ledger book connected to your grandfather’s efforts to expand the town’s tunnel network. One name in particular stands out, and that’s Dodie Mahon. Did you know Mr. Mahon?”
“Not exactly. I knew who he was by sight, but I was discouraged from being around when he was around.”
“Why was that?”
“My mother considered him a lowlife, didn’t want what she called my grandfather’s riff-raff giving me any ideas. She was a bit of a snob, my mother, like all the Vanderburghs.” He gave her another big smile as if the fact didn’t bother him a bit.
“I noticed there was very little pertaining to your sister’s early years in the archives, while yours were extensive. Then suddenly there seemed to be a lot about her hippie days and the missing boyfriend.”
“Eh, yeah,” he sighed, then seemed a little tense. “Janice knew how to pick ‘em. Mom said it was because Grandfather spoiled her.”
“Was there a rift between your sister and your mother?”
“No comment.”
“Well, that brings me to my second line of query. You are aware that your sister has a child, Alexa Garibaldi?”
“Of course. I’ve seen her once or twice. But Janice and I are not what you call close.”
“Alexa is in need of a kidney transplant, preferably from a family member. Her mother has the wrong blood type, and her father, Alonzo, was shot and killed a week ago.”
“I read something about that. Big loss for the school.”
Big loss for the school? Are you listening to me?
“Would you consider being a donor if you are a match?”
He looked annoyed in a tired way. “Ms. Anthony, there’s not much of a chance that Janice’s daughter and I are a good match, but I’ll play along. My blood type is AB. How’s that for starters?”
Charlotte felt disappointment, but not surprise. “It isn’t. She’s Type O, and can only receive a kidney from another Type O.” She gathered her thoughts, as it was nearly time to make as graceful an exit as she could. “Is there any way you would consider financial support for a transplant should she find a suitable donor?”
His brows furrowed as if he was hearing nonsense. “Well, the support should already be there. Grandfather Corton set up a trust for Janice, and her husband was the administrator. Apart from that, I don’t know anything. Mother administered the one he set up for me. It might have been better managed.”
He clearly didn’t feel any sense of compassion for his niece. Time to go.
When the subject was money, it was best to talk to Diane, and Charlotte went to see her after returning Helene’s car. “The man’s topiary garden alone would probably cover all of Alexa’s medical costs,” said Charlotte, describing Jonathan Corton. “And even if he had the right blood type, I can picture him considering the request for a kidney for about two seconds, then matter-of-factly saying no.”
“There could be a lot of reasons for saying no, like health problems of his own. For all you know, he might have only one working kidney or already donated one, and simply wouldn’t feel the need to share that information.” Diane was still in accountant mode, not surprising since they were in her office.
“I know, I know. But it was the feeling I got from him, a sort of soullessness.”
Charlotte thought about the rich getting richer, which led her to further speculations. “He did say one thing I found interesting. Eddie Corton set up a trust fund for Janice, same as he did for Jonathan. Jonathan’s mother managed his—I assume at least until he came of age—but Alonzo was the administrator for Janice’s.”
“How old was Janice when she married Alonzo?”
“To the best of my knowledge, nineteen or twenty.”
“That’s why, then. Alonzo was older?”
“Four or five years, I think.”
“Still,” said Diane, “you’d think Eddie Corton would have had the mother administer both trusts.” She pulled a bottle of brandy out of her desk drawer and added a slosh to her coffee mug. “Office hours are now officially over. Holiday coffee?”
Charlotte leaned forward with her cup. “Just a bit, thanks. I’m trying to make sense of all these events and connections, but something’s eluding me.”
“Not like your last case, is it, when it was clear who were the good guys and the bad guys?”
“It wasn’t all that clear, then, either. I mean, for the longest time I thought Donovan was one of the bad guys, and he turned out to be the best.”
Diane laughed. “He’s a good guy, yes.” Diane looked down at her cup for a minute, lost in thought, then seemed to have an idea. “Have you followed the money? In the murder mysteries I’ve read, the two main motivations for murder are love and money.”
“I can think of more motivations in real life. Like sheer madness.”
Diane nodded. “Yeah, but madness triggered by what? Passion? Possession? Corton’s will and estate settlement will be public record. Let me see what I can find out. Write the names down of everyone in his family, Janice’s mother’s name if you have it, too.” She gave Charlotte a notepad and pen.
After she made the list, Charlotte remembered her own money problems. “Diane, I’ve got a problem with Lola.” She explained about the higher utility bills and evidence that Lola was living in her house.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Diane looked like she couldn’t believe it. “I feel terrible because I got you to list your house with her. I’m so sorry. I’ll report her.”
“No! Not yet. I’m not going to let her get away with it, but Donovan had a good point. We need to find out what kind of trouble she’s in that she would be doing such a thing in the first place. She might be homeless, for all we know.”
“That would take the cake, a homeless real estate agent. But as I’ve seen at the shelter, it can happen to anyone.”
“I was thinking of the two of us approaching her together. I feel she’ll just lie to me, say oh, she’s just staying there while her place is being fumigated or whatever. Or she’ll give me a big sob story and try to play on my sympathy. I don’t think she’ll do that with you.”
“In that case, I could talk to her on your behalf, be very matter-of-fact about it, especially if you give me copies of your utility bills, and just asking, what can we do about this? She might very well have cost you some showings or even an offer, and between her guilt and your indignation things could get emotional. On the other hand, if she’s on the edge of crazy, I don’t want to risk her taking it out on your house. Clearly she is going to have to step down from the listing.”
“I hadn’t thought of all those angles. If you think that’s the best thing to do, I’d appreciate it.”
“Charlotte, I feel so responsible, and I want to fix it. We can handle Lola the person in trouble with compassion, but we have to be level-headed about your own welfare. You’re in no position to lose time on selling that house. As a matter of fact—” Diane went on to discuss other possible listing agents and pricing strategies. By the time Charlotte left, she was feeling better about that whole issue.
The No Trace Bar sat back in the middle of the first tier of hills that ran up from the highway to downtown Elm Grove. Charlotte followed Donovan’s instructions on where to park “for the least amount of grief,” and tried not to panic as they walked side by side to the nondescript entrance on the side of the building. After spending hours in the university library doing research “Charlotte style,” he said it was time to do some research his way.
“There’s nothing to worry about, sweetheart, otherwise I wouldn’t be taking you here. It’s just for a beer and a game of pool in the middle of the afternoon.”
“I’ll be fine after some liquid courage.”
He laughed and held the door for her, following close behind.
The first thing that hit her was the wall of cigarette smoke, and she managed, with difficulty, not to cough. It had been a long time since she’d been anywhere like this, but she was not unfamiliar with it. The bar was full of people watching the Chicago Blackhawks play the Anaheim Ducks, or at least some of them were watching, but most were just being noisy, regular bar patrons. About half the booths along the outside wall were filled, mostly with couples, one with only women. Two of the five pool tables were in use. Quite a few turned to look as they came in, and Donovan pointed to a booth for her to take while he greeted an old acquaintance.
She noted that he had put on scruffy jeans and plain work boots, the kind with steel toes, and a broken-in black hooded sweatshirt, and managed to look like just another guy—up to a point. Yet at one time, she thought, this was nearly his home away from home.
He wasn’t gone long and came back with a couple bottles of standard domestic beer. He handed her one, then threw his coat on the seat next to him. “What d’ya think?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen a place like this.”
“I’m surprised you’ve seen one at all, actually.”
She just smiled.
He got a game going, racking up the balls and breaking while Charlotte was still picking out a cue stick. She watched as he sank a couple more striped balls, then it was her turn, and to her surprise—and his, too, she noticed—she sank two solids. It was fun getting back a feel for the game, gradually losing her self-consciousness as the beer kicked in and her breathing adjusted to the smoking environment.
Donovan got them more beers, and she noticed she wasn’t the only one loosening up as the afternoon went on. She liked watching him play, bent over and concentrating, the way the cue stick would slide over his long fingers, the way he’d look up over his glasses at her on occasion and smile. He played with confidence, but she also sensed he wasn’t trying that hard, in order to keep it fun for her.
So she upped her game, and sank all seven balls in a row, finishing with a crisp hit on the eight ball that left the cue ball spinning.
Donovan was half-laughing, half-nonplussed. “You shark, you! Where’d you learn to play like that?”
She racked and broke while she explained. “With my friend Hannah, in college. She was really good. There was a pool table in the basement of our dorm, and we’d go down there while we pulled all-nighters for exams and papers. You know, an awful lot of coffee, work for two hours, take a break for two games of pool, work two more hours, all through the night. And sometimes when there weren’t exams, just because. One time we were snowed in, nothing else to do. But we played a lot back then. Comes back like riding a bicycle, I guess.”
He upped his own game, until they were a little more evenly and honestly matched, although he was easily the better player, much less out of practice. It was while trying to line up an indirect shot without sending his last ball into the pocket, that she saw the tattoo on a guy sitting on one of the stools at the bar: an elongated X inside a circle, right above the wrist, and surrounded by a miscellany of other tats. She stood upright instead of taking the shot, and with her eyes she directed Donovan’s attention to the guy. He nodded. She resumed taking her shot, missed, but escaped sinking his ball. Nonetheless, he didn’t miss, sinking it with a soft, quiet shot followed by a big grin as he sank the eight ball.
“You made me work for that one, sweetheart. I like that. Good game.” He gave her a quick kiss and they settled back into the booth after putting away the cue sticks.
The bar had started filling up as it got closer to evening. “I’m going to order another beer, just to go up there and talk to a guy for five minutes. But be ready to clear out if I nod toward the door, alright?”
“Sure, but why would we need to do that?”
“’Cause I haven’t been part of the scene here for a while and I’m not entirely certain whose loyalties run where anymore. Just in case I put my foot in it, y’know?”
“Gotcha.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. That’s all I need, she thought, is to have him get us stuck in a bar fight.
To her relief, the “guy” he wanted to talk to seemed cool about it as she watched them converse. That was why she didn’t notice much else until Mr. Tattoo was suddenly standing in front of her.
“Buy ya somethin’ t’drink?” It turned out he was the guy from the parking lot at Lester’s, and he was smiling and looking at her with only the slightest of leers.
She colored up. “Um, no, I’m not staying, just waiting for my, um, husband to get done talking to his friend.”
“Oh,” he glanced over at them, but turned back to her. “I was watchin’ you play pool. You’re pretty good. Wanna play while you’re waitin’ for him to get done yakkin’?”
She laughed. “Oh, no, no, I’ve had way too much to drink, I’ll rip the felt now. Thanks, though.”
“You look familiar. Sure I’ve met you somewhere before.”
“I’m sure we haven’t. In fact, I’ve never been here before.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure you haven’t been here before, either, but maybe someplace else. Lester’s? You ever go to Lester’s?”
“I haven’t been to Lester’s in many years, not since my daughter played soccer in school.”
“Well, my name is Bill Sawyer, what’s yours?” He stuck out his hand, still smiling pleasantly. Charlotte had to admit that her radar for trouble wasn’t signaling anything, Bill’s tattoos notwithstanding. She saw he had an identical circle-X on the same place on the other arm.
“Char-Cheryl Kleid,” she stammered, catching herself from giving him her real name just in time.
Bill slid into the booth across from her. Oh, brother. She glanced in Donovan’s direction, but he was still engrossed in conversation with his friend. Hurry it up, Donovan! She directed her thoughts to him in the hopes that his own radar would somehow go off.
The biggest tactical problem, she thought, was that Donovan’s jacket was on the seat next to Bill. If she could just retrieve it, she could just excuse herself and go right up to Donovan and ask that they get the hell outta there.
“Bill, I gotta call my ma, so could you hand me my husband’s coat? I think my phone is in his pocket.”
“Sure thing, Cheryl.” Bill handed her the coat without hesitation. She fumbled through the pockets to fake looking for the phone, and actually felt Donovan’s, so that meant she couldn’t call him.
“I must’ve left it at home or in the truck. You gotta lotta tats, Bill. What’s that one?” She pointed to the circle-X.
He rolled his eyes a little. “Just dumb family stuff. Might get it redone by one of those tat transformation dudes.” He looked down at both his arms and shrugged. “Old racist shit, y’know? No accountin’ for family, I can tell ya that.”
Finally, Donovan noticed what was going on and came striding over, tense and ready for a fight, with a death grip on his cane. Charlotte smiled as friendly as she could to let him know there was no fight pending, and gathered up their coats.
“There you are, darling, you gotta take your Cheryl home now to call Mama Kleid before the old bird gets her nose outta joint.”
It took Donovan a few seconds to process what was going on, so he said little, and just nodded a lot. “Yeah, woman, let’s go, let’s go.”
“Bill Sawyer,” said Bill Sawyer, shaking Donovan’s hand, and Charlotte stepped in.
“My husband, Donald Kleid. Sorry to rush out, but I should have been outta here near an hour ago, Bill. Nice to meet you.”
“You too. Hope to play a frame with ya someday.”
She waved as she and Donovan made their exit.
“What in the hell was that?” Donovan laughed when they reached the parking lot. “Donald Kleid?”
“I didn’t want to give him my real name, or admit I was single—he just sort of decided he was going to get to know me and I couldn’t get out of it without being really rude. I really could have used some telethapy just then to get your attention.” They got in the Jeep, and Charlotte carefully maneuvered her way out of the parking lot and back onto Progress Street.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Took me a lot longer to get the conversation steered back around where I wanted it. But it was worth it. You find out anything useful?”
“That guy works at Lester’s. He’s the one I saw plowing the parking lot. You saw his tattoos? I asked him about them and he was all embarrassed and said it was old family stuff, real racist shit, to quote him, and he was looking to get them redone into something better. He’s certainly not a hard-liner.”
“He’s probably the son of the oldest Sawyer brother I know of—what is he, about forty, maybe?”
“That sounds about right.”
“I also learned that some of the kids from that generation have married non-whites, and it’s not a big deal. The White Ghost Riders aren’t racist anymore, which is probably why they are independent, not actually part of a larger group that is. They are probably more interested in running dope or stealing cars than anything else.”
“So whoever took those pics and fed them to the hate blog probably didn’t have anything to do with the Ghost Riders.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”