She began with a simple thank you. “I could have gone out there, and he wouldn’t have hurt me, but it would have been ugly.”
I shrugged and muttered something about it being okay, I was glad I could help.
She laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. “Okay? You surprised the hell out of me. I didn’t know you had it in you. I’m overwhelmed…and grateful. I’ve gotten rid of the gun—or will today. It was borrowed, and I’ll return it.”
Who in their right mind would loan a pistol to a woman accused of assault with a deadly weapon? Angus Mitchell’s face floated in front of me. Odd, or maybe not.
Claire brought me back to the moment by asking, “Does Mike know about this?”
I nodded.
“He wants me to leave, doesn’t he?”
I nodded again, struck dumb.
“I’ll pack this morning.”
“Claire, you don’t have to go. Mike’s afraid for me and the girls, but I’m not. I don’t think your husband will be back. I’m glad for you to stay at the house, and….” I tried to lighten the moment, “you’re a much better cook than I am.” I didn’t want to end up begging her, but I thought she ought to stay. In spite of my doubts about her, I believed I ought to see her through the trial and whatever came next. I didn’t see any other friends step forward for her. On the other hand, if I’d listened to my rational self, I’d have heard a voice saying that Mike was much more important in my life than Claire, and I should let her go. But I just couldn’t, face to face, abandon her. I would never make a lawyer or even a police officer, and maybe Mike was right—I should recognize the difference.
She raised her head and looked at me. “I feel safe and peaceful here, and if you’re sure you don’t mind, I’ll stay. But if it’s a problem—with the girls, with Mike, with any of all those wonderful people that care about you, please tell me. I can go in a flash. I’m used to being independent.”
I nodded. I’d been offered an escape hatch, and I didn’t take it. I decided not to tell Mike about the conversation.
Not having talked to Mike at length for two nights, I watched the local news on morning TV news and read the paper to find out more about Mrs. McLaughton, but I found precious little that I didn’t already know. She was eighty-five but according to neighbors alert and active, drove her own car, went to church, did most of her own gardening but had a gardener, unnamed, to help with heavy work. Unlike Mrs. Dodson, Mrs. McLaughton had lots of family, the sons I knew about plus nieces, nephews, sisters and one brother. Two sons were indignant and wondered why the police didn’t keep these crazy killers off the streets. They gave permission to release the victim’s identity, even though the youngest son, the one who lived with her, was not yet notified. The fact the police couldn’t find this son was weird, but it pointed a strong finger of guilt at him, at least in my mind. I wouldn’t tell Mike that. And if he was guilty, it sure didn’t help solve Mrs. Dodson’s murder.
The article also quoted a man named Tom Lattimore who owned property in the area and said something to the effect of what a shame it was that this would further add to the blight on the name of Chase Court, which he described as a wonderful area, significant for preservation. I knew him. Tom Lattimore was a developer, with his fingers in a lot of pies, sometimes so many that I thought he was as much manipulator as developer. I decided maybe I’d give him a call.
As I drove to the office, I wondered what this latest murder would do to the neighborhood. Whether Mike admitted it or not, we had a serial killer targeting old women. But who knew about serial killers? Did they change their patterns? What if he (or I suppose it could be she, but I didn’t think so) started targeting children? The thought almost made me drive back to the day camp where I’d just left the girls, though I knew they were safe.
I was agitated when I barged into the office where Keisha sat doing her nails. She nodded at the coffee pot. “It’s fresh.”
“Thanks. I need it.” I had just settled with coffee when Mom called. “I’ve listed the house with my friend’s realtor, but I’m not happy,” she said petulantly. “I thought I would get a lot more for it.”
“What did she say about the house?”
“Well,” her voice huffed with indignation, “she said anyone coming in would want to gut it and start over. It’s a good house, Kelly.”
I sighed, sympathizing with the agent. “Yes, it is, Mom. It’s structurally sound, I imagine. But you haven’t upgraded anything in thirty years. It does need work. What did she say you could get for it?”
“She told me we should ask $300,000. I think it’s worth twice that much.”
To you in memories.
Aloud, I said, “Mom, that’s a good price. That will give you a nice nest egg to buy the house down here.”
“Buy?” Her voice shrieked. “Kelly, I thought you owned the house. Why would I have to buy it from you?”
I took a deep breath. “Mom, I can’t afford to give it to you. That’s how I make my living—the house is an investment, but I have to turn it. I borrowed the money to buy it, with the prospect of selling it. We can talk about a rental lease with an option to buy but that’s the best I can do.”
She was offended. “Well, I don’t know that I can afford to move to Texas after all. How much will I have to pay you?” She emphasized that she would be paying me, her daughter.
“The asking price for the house, remodeled, will be $225,000. It’s a steal.”
“That will almost take everything I get from selling my house. I don’t know, Kelly, I have to think about it. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up the phone, and I sat in a stew.
“I think I’ll have to go to Chicago for a long weekend,” I said aloud. “Not so much to help her pack—though that scares the you-know-what out of me—but to look at her finances.”
“She thought you were giving her the house,” Keisha said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
“That’s how mothers are. You decide. I’ll stay with the girls whenever. I can handle Claire Guthrie and her husband, one hand tied behind my back. And Mike will always be around.”
I stared off in space for a while. “I thought about asking Mike to go with me.”
“Take Mike to your mama’s in Chicago?” She was incredulous.
“Well,” I was more than a little defensive, “we need a weekend by ourselves, away from the girls, so we can sort out what’s going on between us.”
Keisha laughed aloud. “So you’re going to take him to your mama and have a weekend alone. How does your mama feel about saving yourself for marriage?”
I glared. “You know how she feels. But it’s a dumb thought. I’m thirty-seven years old and have two daughters. It’s not like I’m twenty and naïve.”
“She ain’t goin’ to see it that way. And have you thought about how Mike might react to this invitation? Kelly, in my mind, this idea is twenty times worse than when you invited him to a reconciliation dinner and then asked him to cook. This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought of since I’ve known you.”
I stared at her, but she was not at all nervous about my reaction. In fact, she started working at her computer. After about five minutes, I muttered, “Oh, alright, you’re right.”
Then it struck me. “Keisha, you can handle Claire and Jim Guthrie, but what about that serial killer? Do you still want to stay with Mom? I mean, I’ll understand if you don’t want to.”
She gave me a long, dark look. “No jerk like that is going to scare me. I hope he does try something.”
I shuddered. I wouldn’t go quite that far.
****
The neighborhood was wired with tension. You could see it on people’s faces, and you hear the words “serial killer” in the line at the grocery store, at tables in the Grill, everywhere you went. I heard that some church circles cancelled their meetings, and Mike reported that older women were staying indoors. He was worried and distracted, not only about the killer but by the fear that pervaded the neighborhood like a great gray cloud.
And I admit to fear myself, looking over my shoulder when I got out of the car, hesitating to take the garbage out, watching that no cars were following me when I drove around the neighborhood.
Business slowed down. Who wants to buy a house in a neighborhood threatened by a serial killer?
School began on Thursday that week, for some odd reason. The morning of the first day of school is always problematic, and it was more so with both girls going to school. Maggie did
not
like her new outfit at all. The pedal pushers and matching top she begged to have, in her favorite shade of pink with flowers on the shirt and the hem of the pants, looked “dumb.” She fumed, “I look like a kindergartner.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Em asked.
Em on the other hand was full of fears. She wouldn’t know anybody, nobody would like her, she wanted to go to work with me. This time Maggie was less than helpful, absorbed in herself. They strapped on their backpacks, with nutritious lunches that I packed—no peanut butter and jelly this time. They had tuna sandwiches, an apple each, a homemade peanut butter cookie, and a juice box. I figured they’d be the envy of everyone who had those Lunchable things. I also knew in a few days I’d resort to Lunchables too—or at least pb&j.
Once we got to school, Maggie forgot all about her “dumb” outfit and dragged us to her new classroom. I met the teacher a few days before at an open house, so I said a quick good morning, saw Maggie settled, and kissed her goodbye. She gave me a rather offhand wave, for she was already chattering with two other girls.
Em held my hand tightly as we walked to the kindergarten class. I figured she was a veteran of day care and this wouldn’t faze her, but after all it was a new situation. She turned shy in front of the teacher, Mrs. Morgan, who tried hard to interest her in the various things in the large, sunny room. I looked around and saw I wasn’t the only parent coping with this problem.
“Em, I have to go to work. You going to be okay?’
“I think so,” she said without much assurance. Mrs. Morgan showed her where to put her backpack, and she put it in the assigned box. Then she chose a chair at a small table and said, “I’ll just draw,” as she reached for crayons and paper. She looked so little and so brave that my heart almost broke, but I gave her a quick kiss and hurried out before I started to cry.
On an impulse I went by the office of the principal, Susan Smith, a woman I’d known socially. By some miracle, she stood in the doorway, watching the milling crowd around her but not talking to anyone.
“Got a minute?” I asked.
Susan Smith was a no-nonsense woman in her fifties. Firm but loving with the children, she kept a tight rein on her school and as a result it achieved a “recognized” rating, second highest given by the state. She nodded. “Can we talk here so I can keep an eye on things?”
Children swirled around us, some with parents, some in small groups, chattering, even as the school bell rang. “They are oblivious to the bell on the first day,” she said shrugging. “No sense making a fuss about it. They’ll calm down on their own. What can I do for you, Kelly?”
“I just wondered how you plan to handle the subject of the recent deaths of two old ladies. With the neighborhood frantic about a serial killer, I’m sure it’s bound to come up.”
“It has,” she sighed. “You’re about the fifth parent to ask, but I don’t mind. It’s a legitimate concern. My theory is that children should have their questions—about anything!—answered truthfully but briefly, without flooding them with more than they want or need to know. I’ll tell them two elderly woman have died under similar circumstances, and the police are working on it. They as children have no need to be afraid and are safe in their homes.” She paused a minute. “And I’ll squelch any hysteria on the part of kids or parents.”
“Good,” I said. “It’s a hard thing for all of us. There’s a neighborhood meeting about it in a few nights.”
“I know. I’ll be there.”
****
Em was delighted with school by the time I picked her up, and Maggie declared that she loved her new class and they had lots of interesting lessons planned for the year. All those after-school things hadn’t started yet—ballet, gymnastics, and so on. We could go straight home, and we did.
Keisha, psychic as always, called as she left the office and said, “My mama’s at my sister’s tonight, so I don’t have to rush home. Okay if I come by and hear about the girls’ day?”
I agreed and told her I’d fix supper. I defrosted some chicken breasts, found some still-good green beans in the vegetable drawer and trimmed them, and got out the ingredients for a salad.
The girls flew all over Keisha, each one trying to be the first to tell her about the day, and she listened enthusiastically to each of the girls. She also admired their outfits, which made a big hit. “You like it?” Maggie asked. “I picked it out myself.”
