A Bad Day for Sorry: A Crime Novel (19 page)

Vengeance was a funny thing. You got a little taste of it, and it brought out things in you that you never knew were there. What was it they said?
Vengeance is a bitter drink
. Stella didn’t much mind. She drank hers straight up, and now it looked as if she’d found herself a drinking buddy.

“Hold on to all that determination,” she said. “We’re gonna need it.”

Chrissy coasted across two lanes without checking the rearview mirror when the Popeyes came into view, ignoring the outraged laying on of horns. Stella flinched, then forced herself to relax; risk was inherent in her business, after all, and she wasn’t really in a position to micromanage at the moment.

Chrissy managed to align the Jeep more or less straight in a parking spot. When they walked in the doors of the restaurant, she took one look around and smacked herself in the forehead. “Well, dang, why didn’t I think a them? Stella, you’re a genius.”

“Oh, now,” Stella said modestly. “I’ve been doing this a while. You’re just starting out—you’ll get there.”

“Yeah, but the Green Hat Ladies . . .”

Just then Novella Glazer spotted them and hollered out a greeting; her tablemates turned and followed suit. As Chrissy and Stella made their way over, purses of the large and floppy style favored by older ladies were moved out of the way, and the remains of the meal—plastic plates of chicken bones and a smattering of biscuit crumbs—were stacked and shoved into the trash.

“Oh Lord above, Stella, what happened to you?” Lola Brennan said, placing a hand over her heart and squinting up at Stella’s stitched and bruised face.

“Oh, nothing much—just took a tumble in the shop. I’ll be fine.”

“You ought to be home in bed,” Shirlette Castro scolded. “You must have good reason to be out and about. I don’t guess this is a social call?”

Stella had consulted with the Green Hat Ladies before when she needed information. One of them had even been a client, but that was hush-hush; her husband had needed only a
light touch to be reminded that a foul mouth and ungracious commentary were not welcome in the house, and she didn’t care for anyone to know about their past troubles.

It was a funny thing about that generation, Stella reflected; they kept their own problems to themselves, but they loved to discuss everyone else’s—so much so that this bunch of septua-and octogenarians gathered for an early lunch and gossip at Popeyes nearly every day.

“I believe you all know Chrissy Shaw,” Stella said as they sat down. Greetings were exchanged.

“You ladies sure look nice today,” Chrissy said. “I do like those hats.”

The hats were bright green caps embroidered with the John Deere logo. Gracie Lewis’s husband ran a feed and supply store, and the Deere folks sent a regular supply of swag his way. When his wife and her friends caught wind of the Red Hat Ladies trend, being a thrifty type, he proposed a way to save some money and stand out in the crowded field of mature ladies’ clubs.

“I am surely glad you got shut of that Roy Dean,” Gracie said. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

“Oh, not at all,” Chrissy said. She twisted her gloss-sticky lips into a thoughtful frown and added, “I guess I might ought to have done it awhile ago. I’m not sure where my good sense went.”

The ladies made sympathetic clucking sounds. “Oh, now, we all have us a confused spell now and again,” Gracie said. “ ’Specially when it comes to the gentlemen.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to pick a rotten apple off the tree,” Novella added.

Stella laid out an assortment of facts about Roy Dean’s wandering ways as the ladies took turns patting and cooing over Chrissy. It was probably a misunderstanding, she said, but did any of the ladies know any Darlas in the surrounding area? Especially skinny youngish ones with blond ponytails?

“Oh my yes,” Lola piped up. She was a tiny thing, and her hat practically swallowed the top half of her head, nearly obscuring her eyes. “There was that one, over in Harrisonville, by the strawberry stand—”

“Ungainly thing, wasn’t she?” piped up Shirlette. “Large bust, unfortunate overbite?”

“Oh mercy no, you’re thinking of that other gal out that way. Took up with her aunt’s boyfriend. What was her name, Dora, Doreen, something—”

“It’s a shame Linda’s not here,” Novella said. “Her husband hails from Harrisonville—she’d know. She’s down with her usual unfortunate troubles,” she added in a stage whisper to Stella and Chrissy.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lola said. “You can say
hemorrhoid
, Novella, it ain’t a bad word.”

“Well,” Novella said primly. “I suppose that’s fine for some.”

“We could call her,” Shirlette said, pulling an iPhone out of her purse and peering at it over her eyeglasses. She tapped at it with her finger a few times and held up a finger.

“She’s not moving too quick today,” she said, “if you know what I mean. Oh, Linda? How are you, dear?”

Shirlette had the volume on the iPhone up high enough that everyone heard Linda’s voice, though Stella couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Is that right? . . . Oh, I’m sorry. . . . Listen, guess who stopped by? Who? No, Stella Hardesty. And she brought that darling Chrissy Shaw, remember? One of the Lardner girls? . . . That’s right, the pretty one. Anyway, do you know a Darla out Harrisonville way? Young gal, blond . . . Yes, ask him. . . .”

Shirlette drummed her fingers on the table as all six ladies listened to the sounds of conversation on the other end of the connection. “Is that like it sounds? Here, Novella, gimme a pen. . . . Yeah, go ahead, Linda . . . mmm-hmmm . . . okay, I’ll tell her. No, I’ll tell you later. What? . . . Look, Linda, it’s
Stella
who’s asking, you catch my drift? She don’t have time to be waiting for this information. Yes, I’ll call you back.”

She dabbed at the phone and slipped it back in her purse. “Well,” she said breathlessly, “there
is
a Darla over in Harrisonville, Darla Merton.”

“That’s right,” Lola said, snapping her fingers. All the ladies leaned in, and Stella found herself following suit. “That’s the one. Kind of a loose one, if I recall.”

“A regular tramp is what Linda said,” Shirlette agreed. “She might as well install a revolving door on her bedroom. She’s out on Dixon Road past the Mobil station. You take a soft right and go over a dip and there’ll be a dirt bike track on the left. She don’t know the house number, but it’s the yellow-brick ranch on the right—it’s a duplex and she’s on the right side.”

“I know where that Mobil is,” Chrissy said, gathering up her purse.

“Please thank Linda when you see her,” Stella said. “I wish we could stay and catch up.”

“But you have
important
work to do,” Gracie said, winking. “You don’t have to tell
us
. Well, God bless y’all. And Stella, get to healin’, you hear?”

After quick good-byes, they hurried back to the Jeep, Stella moving as fast as she could.

Chrissy hurtled out of the parking lot. “It’s twelve minutes to noon,” she said. “We got to haul ass!”

It was pretty much a straight shot to Harrisonville down County Road 9, and Stella gripped the dashboard most of the way as Chrissy pushed the little Jeep hard. At the Mobil she barely slowed down, and Stella was surprised the wheels didn’t lift up as Chrissy took the corner. The yellow-brick duplex came up fast on the right, and as she screeched to a stop the dash clock read 12:09.

“Now hold one second,” Stella said, slapping a hand down on Chrissy’s arm to prevent her from bolting out of the car. “You know she’s expecting Roy Dean.”

“I don’t care if she’s expecting Tim McGraw—”

“What I’m sayin’ is, we can make this easier if we start out reasonable, just stay calm and cool and help her see we’re offering a win-win all around here.”

“And
then
I call the bitch out, if she gives me any shit.”

“Well . . . okay.”

Chrissy wrenched her arm away and got out of the Jeep, and Stella had to hustle to keep up across the burned-out lawn and onto a cracked concrete porch.

Chrissy laid into the door, pounding with a clenched fist. When it suddenly burst open, a large man popped into view and Chrissy went flying inexplicably floor-wards. Only when she was laid out on the carpet with the large man sitting on
her chest did Stella see the second man, more of a kid, really, who had taken Chrissy down by throwing himself at her legs and yanking them out from under her.

“Ow,” Chrissy said. “Git off me.”

“Shit, Dad, that’s a
girl
,” the younger man said, scuttling away crab-style before jumping to his feet.

The first attacker had apparently come to pretty much the same conclusion because he lumbered off Chrissy. “Hell,” he said, sounding more annoyed than sorry.

Stella offered Chrissy a hand and hauled her up, the effort ratcheting up the ache through her ribs. “You okay?” she asked.

Chrissy glared at the two men who, now that they were standing sheepishly side by side, could be seen to be clearly related, with the same blockish heads and thin lips and fleshy eyelids. She rubbed at the small of her back and cricked her head one way and then the other. “I’ll live,” she said sourly, before turning on her attackers. “Where’s my baby? Where you got Tucker?”

The men looked at each other.

“Huh?” asked the younger one.

“Look here,” the older one said. “You kind of got in the way of a operation in progress. There’s someone coming along any minute now that needs a major attitude adjustment, so if you don’t mind, we need to get ready for him.”

“I think that’s my ex you’re talkin’ about,” Chrissy said. “Roy Dean. He ain’t comin’.”

“He sent you in his place?” the young one said, clearly agitated at the notion. He looked like a man who had his heart set on delivering a beating.

“No, he did not. He’s done disappeared. Look, all’s I want is my boy, and then I’ll go. Where’s Darla?”

“That ain’t any of your business,” the older one said, stepping forward angrily.

“I think it is.” Stella kept her voice calm, but she drew up to her full height and glared at him. “Are you her father?”

He hesitated only for a second before saying, “Yes I am. Bill Merton.”

He turned to Chrissy and added, “Your ex has been treatin’ my girl pretty poor—he needs his ass kicked.”

Chrissy sighed. “I don’t doubt it, and I don’t much care what you do to him. But way I heard it is he mighta dropped off my little boy here and left him.”

The men glanced at each other, clearly mystified. “I don’t know anything about no baby,” Junior said.

“Call your sister,” the elder Merton demanded.

Junior pulled a phone out of his pocket and dialed.

“I’m going to go look around,” Chrissy muttered, her disappointment clear from the slumping of her shoulders.

Merton started to object.

“Let her go,” Stella snapped. “She won’t hurt nothing.”

As Chrissy made her way down the darkened, cat-smelling hall of the house, Stella listened impatiently to half a phone call for the second time in an hour.

“Darla,” the boy barked into the phone. “Roy Dean leave some kinda
baby
with you? . . . No, he ain’t been by yet. There’s these two women—I
said
he ain’t come by, you deaf or something? What’s her name?”

He directed the latter at Stella, jerking a thumb down the hall where Chrissy could be heard opening and closing doors.

“That’s Chrissy Shaw, Roy Dean’s ex,” Stella said.

“Chrissy Shaw, Roy Dean’s ex,” the boy repeated into the phone. “Her little boy’s gone missing, and she thinks Roy Dean had ’im. . . . You’re sure? . . . Hell, I don’t know, I’m just askin’. Well, don’t get mad at
me
, I didn’t do nothing! . . . Darla . . . Darla, I’m giving Dad the phone.”

He handed the phone to his father. “
You
talk to her. She’s goin’ all PMS on me.”

“Darla Jane,” Merton said in a voice that didn’t invite argument. “You settle down now, girl. Roy Dean apparently ain’t comin’. . . . No, I don’t believe they found him to tell him the message. Now you come on home, and we’ll figure out what to do. Mmm-hmmm. That’s right . . . love you.”

He handed the phone back to his son as Chrissy came shuffling back into the room looking like she wanted to hit somebody herself. “Tucker ain’t here.”

“Look,” Merton said. “I’m sorry we took you down like that. Just, we were expecting that no-good Roy Dean. He’s been beatin’ up on my daughter. Which I don’t take kindly to.”

“I don’t guess I blame you,” Chrissy said. “Though you could have looked out the front window or something and seen I wasn’t him.”

“We
did
look,” Junior protested. “We saw your car pull in. But then we had to get in ready position.”

Amateurs, Stella thought. She’d lain in wait dozens of times, in alleys, behind bushes, in cars, outside office buildings—even in a men’s room once or twice—and never had she taken down the wrong guy.

But that’s what made her the professional that she was. Fastidious planning, careful preparation, flawless execution—when
you made a career out of delivering justice, there was no room for error.

She knew there were lots of folks who’d figure that, working outside the law, Stella might have flexible standards. And it was true, in some ways—but not when it came to getting the job done. She didn’t tolerate near misses or botched reconnaissance or loose ends. It made the job harder—a lot harder—but no one ever changed the world by taking the easy way out.

“So this
thing
that Roy Dean was supposed to have left here,” she said. “Was that all just a trick?”

The elder Merton snorted. “There’s a box of his clothes and shit out in the garage, but I expect what he’s missing most is them illegal drugs he left in my daughter’s home.”

He dragged out the syllables in “ill-legal” to show his distaste, even as his son rolled his eyes heavenward in a grand show of impatience. “Ain’t but a couple a nasty smoked-down blunts, Dad.”

“And that mess of
para-pher-nalia
,” Merton huffed, glaring at his son and Chrissy in turn, as though he suspected them of being in cahoots. “Them papers and clippers and I’m sure I don’t know what all else.
My
daughter ain’t got no use for that sort of thing.”