A Thorn Among the Lilies (8 page)

C
HAPTER
11

L
eah decided to check the one place she figured she might find people who knew Mercy Jo: the Six-Gun Saloon on the western outskirts of Alvin. It was just over the city limits and sort of corralled the city's slum area, with Oakdale Road taking up the other side on an angle.

The rain had picked up as Leah walked into the establishment that, as the name gave away, was a country bar. At least that was the idea. The floor was covered in peanuts and peanut shells. The bar was circular and in the center of the room. A dance floor wrapped around one side with booths along the edge of the place. Tables filled the other side. By the looks of things, the bar did a pretty good business. Chairs at the bar itself were mostly filled with women, most alone, some with guys who looked like they were on the prowl.

Leah pushed her way through to the barmaid, who wore a tag that said M
ARGARET
. “Hi, Margaret,” Leah said, raising her voice above “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. “My name is Leah Teal. I'm the police detective here in Alvin.”

Margaret stopped wiping a glass and gave Leah the once-over. Margaret was a large black woman who wore a dress that had the look of her being poured into a glass and she'd forgotten to say when. She had very large breasts, black hair to her shoulders, and enough makeup for three people. Her fingernails were very long and very pink. So were her lips. Pink, that is. Not so much long.

“What can you possibly want with me?” she asked.

“Found a body washed up on Willett Lake. Have a hunch she might have been a regular here. Wonderin' if you could tell me anythin' 'bout her.”

“And what makes you think she'd be a regular here?”

Some guy down the bar was getting restless to buy his new “girlfriend” a drink and started whistling for Margaret's attention. Margaret turned, and said, “If I was you, I would make that my last whistle or the next time you do it, you'll be doin' it outta your ass.”

The guy quit whistling.

Margaret set down the glass she'd wiped clean, picked up another, and began wiping some more.

“Well,” Leah said, “from what we can tell, she was a loner and a heavy drinker, and there aren't too many places in Alvin that—”

“You're sayin' she was probably a prostitute and not too many places in Alvin cater to hookers. That's okay, Miss Leah, just lay out your cards. We're all grown-ups here.”

“
Detective
Teal, if you don't mind. And I wasn't meanin' no disrespect, Margaret.”

“I know you wasn't. I'm just a busy lady without time to dick around and make things all clean and sterile. Who we talkin' 'bout?”

“Mercy Jo Carpenter.”

Margaret stopped wiping the glass and thought this over. “Mercy Jo,” she said to herself a few times. “Sounds vaguely familiar. If she was a workin' girl or a stripper, she probably went by a stage name. You don't happen to have that, do you? Or a photo?”

Leah sighed. She had a photo, but it was four years old. Other than that, she had a newer one, but it wasn't one she wanted to show unless she
had
to. “Can you ask anyone else if they might know of her?”

“Only other person other than me that's in here nearly every moment we're open is Gus Coleman, old man behind me.”

Leah looked. The man must've been eighty. He wore a fedora on his head and a cardigan sweater. “Oh, Gus,” Margaret called out without turning.

“Yes, my love?” he called back.

“Remember anybody comin' in or workin' here goin' by the name of Mercy Jo . . . what was her name, hon?”

“Carpenter,” Leah said.

“Carpenter?” she called out more loudly to Gus.

“Sort of rings a bell, but I can't really place it. Why? Who's askin'?”

“I'm friggin' askin'. Go back to your beer.”

After a long pause, Leah decided to go with the newer picture. It was so much different from the older one. “I do have a photograph, but I have to warn you, it could be a mite shocking to you. Remember, we found her dead.”

“I've seen dead bodies, love. When you live a life like me, you've pretty much seen it all. Don't worry, I'm a big girl.”

“I'm not so certain you'll have seen this. The killer . . . he . . . he sewed her eyes closed.”

Margaret winced. “You mean with needle and thread?”

Leah nodded.

“Now you
have
to show me. That's just gross.”

Leah pulled out the photo and showed it to Margaret, who took one look at the eyes, and said, “You're right.
Nothing
prepares you for
that.
I think I'm gonna puke.” She still hadn't looked away, though.

“Do you recognize her otherwise?”

“Autumn Rain,” she said, her hand visibly shaking. “She used to strip at the Rabbit Room, takin' off her top while guys stuffed ten-dollar bills in her bikini bottoms. Lately she'd been hangin' out here. Tell you one thing—the woman could drink. I'd seen her drink three quarters of a bottle of tequila one night just to avoid goin' home with the guy payin' for her drinks. She wound up leavin' him passed out in the booth.”

“Did she use drugs?”

Margaret shrugged. “None of my business. But most of the girls in here full-time don't. Usually if you're into drugs, you have trashy hotel rooms you live in and just buy your booze and take it home with you. Sometimes you find a john on the way, sometimes you don't. If you don't, you party until the money runs out; then you walk Oakdale until you hook your next fish.”

Leah wrote all this down in her pad. “You gonna be okay? From the photo, I mean.”

“As okay as anyone could be after seein' that. Do you know who did it?”

“That's what I'm tryin' to find out. So, Mercy Jo was a hooker?”

“To be completely honest? Can't be sure, but I have seen her leave with men from time to time. Just because she strips, doesn't make her necessarily play. But sometimes she'd leave and come back alone only to go for round two. She was either a hooker or just really friendly. A lot of the girls are just nice to guys and the guys are nice to them in return, buyin' them things. They don't consider themselves as hookers.”

“It makes no difference to this case; the only thing I'm interested in is finding the son of a bitch who did this to her.”

“Well, I hope you do. If there's anythin' I can do to help, please let me know.” The guy down at the bar whistled at her again. She turned to him, making a fist. “You don't wanna get me mad. Not only will you be tossed out, you'll be tossed out with no teeth.” He stopped whistling.

“You've been more than helpful,” Leah said. “Do you have a phone number I can reach you at?”

“Your best bet is right here.” She handed Leah a business card for the bar. It said M
ARGARET
P
ERKINS,
O
WNER. “
I'm pretty near the only one ever working bar. Occasionally my brother, Tom, subs in for me, but that's quite unusual.”

“Thank you. I'll probably end up callin' you with questions before this case is over.”

“Please do.” Another whistle came her way. “And please get outta here before I beat the shit out of that guy and you arrest me for it.”

C
HAPTER
12

M
e and Dewey took a break from all our D&D playing and sat in the backyard for a picnic lunch my mother put together for us before leaving for work this morning. It consisted of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pears, cheese and crackers, a slice of pecan pie, and a box of orange juice. As far as picnic lunches went, this one was pretty good.

“You know,” Dewey said, and as soon as he said it I winced. Any sentence coming out of Dewey's mouth that starts with “You know . . .” generally has a ridiculous ending. Just like all the other times, this time didn't let me down either.

“You know,” he said, “I reckon I could be a pretty good psychic. At least as good as that Madame Crystalle. I reckon she's a phony.”

“And what are you basing this bit of wisdom on?” I asked.

“Just what she said. First off, everythin' she told your ma. Anyone can come up with that kind of stuff. Stuff like: I see a crazy T-shirt designer. He blinds with his designs. The number six hundred is important. Twenty-five people might die in two days if you don't do somethin' with the number six hundred. Or is it the number six? I can't really tell. It might even be an upside-down nine.

“Wait, I see a name. It's Fart. No, it just looks like Fart. No, it just smells like Fart.” He started laughing. I couldn't help myself. I started laughing, too.

“Now it's racin' away,” he continued. “No, I'm racin' away backward down a road and passin' by a road sign with two flags. One says left, one says right. The road sign says Welcome to Al Pa . . . Pa . . . Pa . . . Al Pacino.” He laughed so hard orange juice came out of his nose.

“Okay,” I said. “I get your point. Still, my mom has been usin' the information Madame Crystalle gave her to solve a crime.”

“It's just a fluke.”

“What do you mean?”

“She just happened to find a crime that fit the vague descriptions that Madame Crystalle gave her. I mean, come on, Abe. Think 'bout Carry's fortune. She reckoned Carry was smart in school. Have you ever
seen
one of her report cards?”

“Can't say that I have.”

“Well, she certainly ain't smart
out
of school. I can't imagine the situation changing once she gets behind a desk. And, okay, so she called Carry sarcastic, but
everyone
knows Carry's sarcastic, so that really wouldn't have been hard to figure out ahead of time. She also said Carry had wit. What kind of a joke is that? Carry is a
dim
wit, I'll give her
that
along with the sarcasm. Carry's sarcastic like most people walk on two legs. I liked that she said Carry didn't have many friendships, but the problem is that Carry
is
popular, so that's just another one she got wrong.”

“You're starting to sway me in your direction,” I said. And he was. Everything she'd said about Carry, now that Dewey was retelling it, really wasn't so accurate after all.

“And she said Carry had a good heart,” he laughed. “What kind of person with a good heart makes her brother paint her toenails once a week all through summer break just because he asked her to help make some wooden swords?”

“You got a point there,” I said, feeling my face redden in embarrassment. I still wanted to kill Carry for that one.

“What else did she say?” Dewey asked me.

“That Carry gets lonely.”

He laughed again. “She's got thirteen channels' worth of friends constantly visiting her in the living room when she's not out shoppin' with her real ones. She doesn't get lonely. She gets annoying. That was the word that Madame Crystalle would have seen if she was a
real
psychic.”

“Yeah, even Carry told her she didn't get lonely and Madame Crystalle argued with her, telling her she covered it with sarcasm,” I said.

“And then came the big one—the proof that Madame Crystalle doesn't have any ‘super psychic powers' or anythin' like that. When she said she saw a boy for Carry in the immediate future. Well, far as I'm concerned, the immediate future has come and gone, and I ain't seen one single boy show up at the door for Carry.”

I thought this over. “You're right. Madame Crystalle
is
a fraud. We have to tell my mom!”

“Sure. She'll figure it out eventually on her own, though,” Dewey said. “My point is that I think
I
could be a better psychic than Madame Crystalle and make some good money doing it. They called
eight
psychics before they found one that wasn't completely booked the entire two weeks before Christmas.”

“You don't know the first thing 'bout telling the future.”

“I can learn. I'm gonna get me some tarot cards.”

“With what?” I asked. “You ain't got no money.”

“Do too. I got twenty dollars from my granny for my birthday last year. I figure with Christmas right around the corner, I'll get twenty more, so now it's like free money. The twenty I got from Gran should be enough for a deck of cards and a book on how to do it. Feel like ridin' your bike to the Brookside Mall?”

“I guess,” I said. “It's kind of entertainin' watchin' you waste your money on stupid purchases.”

“Just you wait. Pretty soon I'll be rich and people will be bookin' appointments for me to tell 'em what's gonna happen to 'em and what lucky numbers they gotta watch out for and what kind of maniacs might blind 'em.”

 

Turned out the Barton's Books in the Brookside Mall sold only one type of tarot card and it wasn't the ones with the super-cool dragons on them like Madame Crystalle had. These were called Rider-Waite cards and had images of people. They were oversized and barely fit in Dewey's palm. Even though they weren't as neat as the other ones, Dewey bought them anyway, along with a book on how to read them. The book was called
Mystical Tarot.

Dewey couldn't wait to get home and start studying how to use them to tell the future. “I'm gonna be so rich,” he kept saying.

“You're gonna be so bored,” I kept replying, but he ignored me.

“You're just jealous cuz you never thought of this idea first.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That's it.”