Eyeshot (14 page)

Sonora was not sure who he was reassuring.

Sam shook Sizemore's hand and clapped his shoulder. Their reasons for thinking the crime originated in Cincinnati were thin. But Sizemore wasn't arguing.

“You've been a whole lot of help, Sheriff. Run a good outfit, for a country boy.”

Sonora would never have gotten away with it, but Sizemore grinned.

“You folks just find the fella did this, and put a tag in his ear for me. I don't want to see this one ground under the heel of that Aldridge boy over at the state police. Ain't money or pussy in it, he ain't interested.” He looked at Sonora, turned pink around the ears. “Excuse me.”

She really hated it when they remembered she wasn't one of the boys. “Money doesn't offend me,” she said, deadpan. “And you can't fault a guy who likes cats.”

“We won't trouble the state boys any,” Sam promised. “And you got my number. Give us a call, if you hear anything.”

“You bet.”

Sonora looked back over her shoulder in time to see the sheriff actually tip his hat. She waved and headed toward the driver's seat, bumped into Sam.

“It's after dark, girl, I'll drive.”

“I'll drive.”

“You remember last time when I asked if you wanted to pull over and let me drive for a while, and you said you would if you could find the side of the road?”

Sonora glanced at Heather in the backseat. “Okay, you drive.” She got into the passenger's side, put on her seat belt.

Sam adjusted the rearview mirror. Looked at her. “Can't fault a man for liking
cats
?”

Gravel spun under the car tires as Sam backed the Blazer out of the lot. He glanced up in the rearview mirror. Slammed on the brakes.

“What now?” he muttered.

Sonora heard knuckles against her window, rolled it down. The sheriff again, red-faced and out of breath.

Please God he doesn't want those body parts back, Sonora thought. They'd signed for them, completed all the paperwork. Invested in a cooler.

“That back right tire looks low,” Sizemore said.

“We'll get it checked when we fill up on gas,” Sam said.

Sonora smiled. Waved. The sheriff nodded and headed off.

“You notice the tire looking low, Sam?”

“No.”

“I guess we can check it like you said. When we get gas.”

“Hell no, the tires are fine.”

“You didn't even look. What if it is low?”

“I ain't checking it.”

24

They hit fog going over the mountains that bordered the Tennessee state line. Sam squinted, following the taillights of the truck ahead.

“So then what happened? Anything in the post office box?”

“Two letters and a brown envelope.”

He glanced at her, then looked back at the road. Swirls of clammy white drifted across the lights. The road was almost invisible.

“Don't slow down too much—we'll get rear-ended,” Sonora said.

“Open that mail.”

“It'll make me carsick.”

“Then you drive and I'll read it.”

Sonora glanced back at Heather, breathing deeply and evenly, eyes shut tight. Her hand rested on her cheek, vibrating with the movement of the car.

At the next bathroom break, she would call home, and this time, Tim would be there. She did not like driving home late at night, in the fog, wondering if he was okay. She glanced back toward the cooler, bent down to the maroon vinyl case by her feet.

The zipper seemed loud in the cab of the car, road noises muffled by the fog and darkness. She looked at the white envelopes.

“Turn the fog lights on, Sam. Switch on the left. Next to that other one.”

“What other … oh, here.” He clicked a switch. The beams of light changed, penetrating the mist instead of reflecting back. “Girl, you could've brought this up a while ago.”

Sonora opened one of the envelopes. “Bill from Victoria's Secret. Julia Winchell ordered a black silk teddy and a Wonderbra.”

“What size?”

“Medium.”

“I meant the—”

“I know what you meant. She owes forty-two dollars and sixty-eight cents. Guess what the interest rate is on this thing, Sam? It's god-awful. Guess.”

“Wages of sin.”

“Sam, it's not sin, it's lingerie.”

“What else you got?”

Sonora opened the other white envelope. “Stuff from the conference, looks like. Information on panels and stuff.
The Small Business-Person Interfacing with the Local Chamber of Commerce.
My God, no wonder she had an affair. Anything would be better than listening to this crap.”

“Typical. Get the information out after everyone's left town.” He gave her a sideways look. “What's the balance on your Vicky's Secret account?”

“About the size of the national debt.”

“What kind of stuff do you buy?”

“Every flannel nightgown they sell.” She held up the big brown envelope.

“Open that,” Sam said.

Sonora looked it over. “Cincinnati postmark. Dated, let me count on my fingers here. Twenty days ago? Yeah. About the time she was calling home saying she wasn't coming back.”

Sonora was getting queasy. She took a breath, closed her eyes. Ripped open the envelope. Inside was a cassette tape.
PROPERTY OF JULIA WINCHELL
had been written on a label in black felt pen. On the other side,
PERSONAL,
in capital letters.

“Whoa,” Sonora said.

“What?”

“It's a cassette tape.” She held it up.

“Give it here, let's play it.”

“No, don't put it in my player, it eats tapes. I've lost two Bonnie Raitts, one Rod Stewart, and a Beatles in the last six weeks.”

“Doesn't anything you own ever work?”

Sonora shrugged.

“I don't blame it for spitting out Rod Stewart.”

“Are you trying to start a fight?”

25

Sonora bent the bobby pin, pushed it into the lock on her son's bedroom door. The door jammed, but she shoved harder, and slid through the narrow opening.

Tim was sound asleep in his bed. Dirty clothes, dropped in the doorway, made a pretty good barrier.

They had stopped at a rest stop somewhere near Berea, Kentucky. Tim had been home, cooking a frozen pizza, no clue as to where anyone was, no clue Sonora was looking for him. He had seemed genuinely shocked that his mother might be expecting him to make it home somewhere within a two-hour range of when he'd said he'd be in.

Sonora ventured another three feet into the room to retrieve the cordless phone, placed with precision in the boot of a shiny black Rollerblade skate. She took another look at her son, grimaced at the glass that held what looked like old, furry orange juice, and scooted back through the door.

A relief to see him home safe, asleep in the bed. Tomorrow she would ground him.

“Two days, or three?” she asked Sam, who was heading down the hallway, Heather over one shoulder.

Clampett knocked Sam sideways, leaped at Heather, then turned his attention to Sonora, pinning her to the wall with his front feet.

“Get down,” Sonora said.

The dog dropped to three legs immediately, and took the sleeve of Sonora's shirt in his mouth.

“Drop,” Sonora said.

Clampett wiggled and wagged.

“
Drop.
”

“Two or three what?” Sam asked.

Sonora twisted sideways, opened Heather's door with her free hand. She followed Sam into the bedroom, walking sideways, dog still attached to her sleeve.

“How long I should ground Tim.”

“My mama would have blistered me and grounded me for a month.”

“Overkill.” Sonora straightened Heather's unmade bed.

“You going to worry about toothbrush and jammies?”

Sonora shook her head. Heather was barefoot. Her little sandals stuck out of Sam's pants pockets. “She hasn't stirred since we dropped the cooler off.”

Sam took the sandals and set them on Heather's dresser next to a stuffed penguin. Sonora settled Heather in the bed and covered her up. They left the room, pulling the door almost shut. Clampett tried to nose his way back in. Sonora took his collar.

“Time for you to go out.”

Sam shook his head. “Too late. Better check the hall by the kitchen.”

“He's just glad to be home.”

“The wee of joy. You got a boom box for cassettes?”

“Yeah, if it works.”

“If it does, I'll give you five dollars.”

26

Sonora sat back on the couch and took the first sip of a Corona. The bottle of beer was icy cold and a small wedge of lime floated at the top. She tasted lime pulp on her tongue, leaned back into the couch, and pulled a quilt over her legs.

Sam looked up from the tape recorder. He sat awkwardly on the floor, too big to be cross-legged comfortably, unlike Sonora.

“You could turn the air-conditioning down.”

Sonora closed her eyes—her new response to suggestions she didn't like. Passive resistance. She was learning it from her youngest, the resident expert.

Sam picked up the recorder and tilted it sideways. “When's the last time you cleaned the heads on this?”

“Never.”

Clampett padded in, tail wagging. He nudged Sam, bulking him with sheer size. The boom box slipped out of Sam's hand and he dropped Julia Winchell's cassette.

Clampett had it in his mouth before Sam or Sonora could move.

“
No.
” Sonora set the beer on the floor, grabbed the dog by the mouth. “
Drop.
”

Clampett looked at her, brown eyes apologetic. But his jaw muscles were tight, and he clamped down harder.

Sonora smacked his nose.

The dog stared at her. Wagged his tail.

She tried to pry his jaws apart.

Clampett ducked his head, held on harder.

“
Drop,
dammit.”

Sam took the dog by the collar, tried his jaws. “At the rate you're going, that dog's going to think his name is dammit.”

“Get him a cookie, sometimes he'll trade. Get the chocolate chip ones in the top of the pantry.”

Sam went into the kitchen. Sonora tried the dog's jaws. No luck. Clampett gave her a sad look. He was a retriever. He was retrieving. His expression begged for understanding.

“
Drop,
” Sonora said. “Sam?”

“No cookies.”

“I just—”

He peered around the corner, held up an empty, crumpled Chips Ahoy bag. “This it?”

“I just bought those yesterday. Okay, there are sausage biscuits in the freezer. Get me one of those.”

“Frozen?”

“Clampett won't care, he eats firewood.”

Sonora heard the freezer door open and close.

“Gone,” Sam said.

“Couldn't be. Not already.”

“Empty box in the freezer. Want me to throw it away?”

Sonora heard him tapping cardboard against the counter. “No, I want it as a keepsake. Look in the fridge for leftover meatballs. Drop, Clampett.”

Drool slid down the side of the dog's muzzle and hung in a line of saliva.

“Sam? Meatballs?”

“Nope.”

“What
is
in there?”

“Pickles.”

“The one thing he won't eat. Okay. Oh, shit, he's chewing.
Stop
it, Clampett.” Sonora held his head.

“Don't you have any dog biscuits or treats, or did the kids eat those too?”

“Go back in my bedroom, and look in the shoe box on the back left-hand side of the closet.”

“Don't give him a shoe. Smack him.”

“I already did.”

“Let me get a rolled-up newspaper after him.”

“No, that just makes him playful. He thinks it's the hit-the-dog-with-the-newspaper game. Go get that shoe box.”

Sonora listened for Sam's footsteps in the hallway, heard the squeak of her closet door opening.

“Jeez, Imelda—”

“Get the shoe box, and keep the mouth.”

She heard rustling noises. The bedroom door shut.

“I'm not going to even ask, Sonora, why you keep Oreo cookies in a shoe box in your closet.”

“For emergencies, obviously. If it isn't nailed down or healthy, the kids inhale it. Clampett's lucky he can run fast.”

Sam looked at the three-legged dog. “Looks like they've been snacking on him.”

“Cookie please. No, hold it up.”

Clampett looked at the Oreo cookie, strained forward. Sonora kept a tight hold on his collar.

“Drop for a treat,” she said.

Clampett opened his mouth and the cassette hit the floor. He jumped for the cookie and snapped it out of Sam's hand. Sonora grabbed the tape and wiped it on her shirt. Clampett looked from her to Sam, black cookie crumbs on his muzzle.

“Give him another one,” Sam said.

“Chocolate is bad for puppies.”

“And firewood isn't?”

Sonora put the cookies back in the shoe box and stuck them in the refrigerator. Clampett curled up like a tiny puppy on three-quarters of the couch. She rescued her beer.

Sam pushed her sideways into the dog and took the end of the couch.

“This is cozy,” Sonora said.

Sam held up the tape. “Specialist Blair, please explain to the jury why there are tooth marks on Exhibit A?”

“Shut up and play the tape.”

27

The first sound out of the boom box was a squeak, followed by a hiss and a string of noises you don't want to hear when you value the tape inside. Sonora looked at Sam; then, like magic, a woman's voice came through amid the crackle of cheap cassette and dirty heads.

Sam grinned.

Sonora wondered how often she and Sam had wished out loud that a murder victim could talk. This one was going to.

“
This is Julia Janet Hardin Winchell, recorded in the Orchard Suites Hotel in Cincinnati, Ohio.
”

Her accent was hard to describe—a unique blend of midwest Chicago and Southern Tennessee. It hit the lush lower registers. She spoke slowly but without hesitation.