Bouncer (28 page)

“That means . . .”

“Of course. And there’s something else. Did you notice the shattered pot in the far corner of the greenhouse?”

“I did. I figured Mrs. Simms had dropped a pot while she was planting.”

“Maybe, but I remember something Fox said to me about the proximity rule. Sometimes a weapon is chosen because it is nearby. That’s why a screwdriver killed Thad.”

Roger swallowed. “You think Lea was there . . . in the greenhouse?”

“Yes, and I don’t believe that nonsense about the shovel for an instant. And isn’t that just like Fox, gallivanting off on her own without notifying backup?” His voice was half-angry, half-admiring.

“She’s worked alone for the past three years. She doesn’t ask for help or think she needs any.”

“Well,” said Nick gruffly. “I’d lay odds she needs some now.”

The basement where Charlie Simms had been imprisoned felt cool, the lack of windows and the thick walls keeping the heat at bay.

Nick spoke softly. “Little Katie down the street witnessed a limo bringing two people to this house. No one ever saw them leave.”

“Because they were dead?”

“Maybe, but they weren’t killed here. This place’s as clean as a compulsive’s kitchen. But I suspect they didn’t go far.”

“If no one ever saw anyone enter or exit the Collins house, except for that limo the one night, then there must have been another way. It’s not like there’s a helipad on the roof.” Roger took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead even though the basement was cool.

“Mrs. Simms is a proud woman. She loved her grandson, but he lacked the two things she wanted most in a grandchild.”

“And they were?”

“Beauty and intelligence. What a blow it must have been to a woman so obsessed with the visual perfection we find in her garden. And poor Charlie certainly offered her no intellectual stimulus. So she hid him and made those she felt responsible for his gross deficiencies pay. But she had to see him, being a grandmother, even though improvement was hopeless. So, it’s got to be here somewhere.”

“What’s got to be here?”

“The way in and out of this house without using the road. There’s no additional way out here. Let’s look upstairs.”

Roger progressed very slowly up the stairs and Nick immediately felt concerned.

“You alright, buddy?”

“Just gonna get some water in the kitchen. You search for that secret door. We know from experience the builders were fantastic at hiding ‘em.”

A few moments later a shout erupted from the kitchen. “Nick!”

Thayne bolted into the kitchen. Roger pointed to the breakfast nook where Fox’s dowdy bag dangled on one of the mauve chairs.

“Is her gun inside?”

Roger dumped the contents on the Formica table. A wallet, chewing gum, a small ring of keys, a business-like comb, a Spanish-English dictionary, the F & H, and a half-empty bottle of water made up the entirety of the contents in her oversized purse.

“Not here, so she went armed. But to where?”

“I have an idea,” returned Thayne. “I just hope we aren’t too late.”

It took them nearly 20 minutes to locate the wine cellar. The huge metal door opening to the tunnel had been left slightly ajar.

Roger’s cheeks were overly flushed. “She was here.”

“Goddamn, Fox. Guess she didn’t believe this little passageway was significant enough to mention to me. You brought your service revolver, Roger?”

“Never leave home without it.”

“Then come on.” They followed the well-designed passageway under the stark glare of the carefully spread out light bulbs. They were rewarded at the end of the meandering tunnel with a set of earthen steps. The heavy wooden door at the top was firmly shut, obviously padlocked from the inside.

“Now what?” panted Roger.

“I think this is where the valiant police inspector takes out his gun and fires at the lock fearing that a young woman’s life may be in danger. I do believe that’s your cameo role in all this, Mr. Chung.”

Roger grinned, his straight, white teeth flashing. “Always saw myself as the hero. Stand back,” he ordered and aimed his pistol at the brass fixture, blowing it to smithereens.

“Clint Eastwood would be impressed,” mocked Nick gently. It was just as he’d suspected—the wide wooden door opened up into the humid greenhouse. The broken pot had been swept up and discarded in the circular green trash bin. Roger leaned over and salvaged a large piece.

“Does that look like blood to you?” he asked, angling the jagged piece so Nick could inspect the stained surface.

“I think this is where you call backup,” stated Nick grimly and Roger nodded. “Let’s just hope Connie Judson’s fate hasn’t happened to Fox.” He remembered almost pleasantly her petite form, straight back, god-awful clothes, and determined chin. Though it galled him to admit the fact, it was highly likely Lea had Mrs. Simms figured out way before he did.

The back door was unlocked, enabling Nick and Roger to step cautiously into a country kitchen furnished in sweet pine and modern appliances. A loaf of delicious-smelling banana bread cooled on a wooden cutting board, and white soup with large chunks of potato simmered gently on a gas-burning stove. Nick raised his fingers to his lips and silently pushed open the swinging door. A large, raftered dining room whose oval cherry wood table was decorated with a massive Chinese vase crammed with pink and white roses remained still and inviting, the fragrance from the cut blooms nearly overpowering.

Nick gestured cautiously to Roger, indicating he should search the left wing of the house while he took the right. The serviceable scullery situated next to an ample-sized utility and pantry yielded nothing. The adjoining library was deserted, its huge stone fireplace seasonally decorated with huge pinecones and facing wide shelves crammed with books. A wine-colored recliner complete with discarded knitting needles and a pale yellow and white, two-inch strip of yarn gave the room a homey, satisfying feel. Mrs. Simms appeared the epitome of the gentle old grandmother puttering around her large house and lamenting the advent of old age. A silver-framed photo rested on a small writing desk.

“Bingo,” whispered Nick.

Delilah Simms had indeed been lovely; a testament to innocence and beauty. The screaming, contorted face of his sketch barely resembled the tranquil stillness of the redheaded teenager in the photo. Roger appeared at the doorway, and Nick pointed to the picture. Roger shook his head. The horror of it all was becoming way too clear.

“Nothing down here. Let’s try the upstairs.”

Roger followed his friend as they moved soundlessly up the richly carpeted staircase. An impressive landing opened onto a wide hall. The first bedroom on the left held a king-sized bed adorned in soft mauve colors and appeared to be Mrs. Simms’ room. The other two bedrooms produced nothing out of the ordinary, but the third housed a large crib similar to the one found in the basement of the Collins house. In the corner, a small pile of little metal cars and trucks lay scattered, along with a few red and yellow balls similar to the one in Nick’s pocket.

“Clouds,” said Nick, gazing at the wallpaper. This was the place.

Further examination of the crib revealed peeling flakes of paint as if someone had gnawed at its metal sides.

“Look,” hissed Roger. Clear scratch marks marred the crib’s side—marks that could have easily been made by handcuffs or chains. Had Thad Fisher been drugged and chained to this crib? This room faced the rear of the house, so neighbors wouldn’t ever hear the screams of the incarcerated. Nick approached the Tudor window and swung it open. Directly below, a trellis, upon which a lovely
Joseph’s Coat
crawled, tilted at a crazy angle. At least a dozen other species of rose bushes filled the planter.  Two of them had deep red petals; just like Mr. Lincoln hybrid tea roses.

“Thad tried to escape by jumping from this window. I’m positive he landed in the roses, the thorns from the Mr. Lincoln’s there imbedding his bare feet.”

Roger edged closer. “I bet he made for the green house, knowing about the passageway.”

“And she was there, halting his escape with a well-placed screwdriver.”

Roger disappeared, only to return a few moments later. “There’s only a large bathroom at the end of the hall, but it’s worth checking out.”

This bath/shower combination mirrored its huge twin in the basement of the Collins house. A large drain, centered within the tile stalls, indicated that Charlie had used this facility often.

“I’d like to wait for backup, but we’ve got to find Fox. Time may be running out. Where the hell is she?”

Roger speculated for a long moment. “It’s clear she’s not in the main house. There’s got to be a basement; somewhere Mrs. Simms could stash the boy while Philemon or anyone else for that matter was around.”

Nick snapped his fingers. “The broom closet! I’d bet we’ll find a similar door to the one in the Collins house that led to Bouncer and Eddie’s bedrooms. Come on, Roger!”

Chapter 25

The hearty soup still bubbled on the unattended stove as a persistent fly’s blue metallic body buzzed near the perfectly browned crust of the banana bread. Nick pointed to the broom closet door near the rear entryway. “Does that look familiar to you, Roger?”

“It does indeed,” agreed the older detective.

The staircase was amazingly steep, its steps formed from roughly cut, thick wood. Even so, a plank near the bottom creaked loudly at their descent.

A pleasant voice drifted towards them. “If you move another step closer, I’m afraid your partner will never understand what really happened to her after she entered my greenhouse.”

Mrs. Simms sat prettily in, of all things, a grandmotherly rocking chair. The
Kahr K9
resting in her dainty hand, however, was not grandmotherly in the least. Edith Simms shook the solid little pistol confidently at Roger.

“I’d place your service revolver on the floor there, or I’ll have to have to demonstrate what years of practice at the firing range have achieved for me. You’ve seen someone shot at close range, of course, officer? The blood can splatter most horribly and I really do hate messes.”

Roger tossed his revolver on the wooden floor, but Nick was hesitant to follow. Mrs. Simms leveled the gun at him.

“Do you know why I like this pistol, Detective? It’s so simple to use. Nothing fancy to mar the singular purpose of a gun, which is to kill. There’s just this simple trigger, slide lever, and magazine release button. Oh, and of course two seven-round magazines, in case I miss you after my first attempt.”

“Okay,” said Nick dropping his Glock beside Roger’s service revolver.

Edith Simms smiled pleasantly and began to rock gently. Nick’s eyes finally located Fox in the dim light cast by the pretty table lamp. Small hands tied with green plant tape, her small pixie face was marred by rivets of blood from the blow she’d sustained earlier that day. She rested uncomfortably upon a narrow cot, though Mrs. Simms had covered the young woman with a blue-crocheted blanket.

The room was clearly designed as a huge playroom similar to the one found in the Collins house. Another large crib hugged the corner, and a frighteningly large metal loop was bolted into the wall. In addition, a small utility kitchen, an easel, a playhouse, and once again the hordes of toy cars and bouncing balls, filled the echoing spaces. But it was the shelf behind Mrs. Simms’ rocking chair that arrested Nick’s vision. Shelf upon shelves of glass bottles lined the whitewashed wall. This was not only a play center but a laboratory storage room for a biologist.

Mrs. Simms followed his eyes. “Most were my husband’s you know. He was a professor at the University, and every time we embarked upon a trip, he brought back specimens of the numerous animals and insects he’d observed. He pickled them in formaldehyde, the first step in his quest to understand how they had developed and were formed. John swore everything living on this earth was beautiful, whether they be plants, animals, or human beings. He never found the negative in anyone’s actions or motivation. That is what I kept trying to understand, you know.” She looked sadly at Thayne, the pistol trembling slightly in her aged hand.

Nick started uncontrollably. There, in a large canning jar near her head floated the bodies of baby birds, featherless and revoltingly naked. Another housed a miniature elephant embryo, complete with tiny perfect trunk. And the third . . . Nick was a strong man, but he had never seen anything so horrifying in his entire life. Luckily, Roger hadn’t spotted it yet.

“I know about Delilah.”

“You do?” She sounded relieved. “My husband loved her so. My Delly wanted to be a scientist just like him. Had a special interest in birds. Swore that pesticides were going to wipe out the California condor. She would be so pleased to know they’re thriving now.”

Nick sought to somehow distract and disarm her. “I don’t understand why you killed Thad Fisher and Connie Judson,” he said, taking one step forward.

“Don’t come any closer,” said Mrs. Simms firmly. “I’ll kill the lot of you.” She swung the pistol towards Fox, who Nick wasn’t even sure was breathing.

“But why?” asked Roger. A tiny trickle of perspiration slid past his ear.

“It’s because of what he did.” Her voice cracked. “What he did to
her
! I made them pay. Anthony thought, with his boys dead, that it didn’t matter anymore to my girl, so he wanted to stop paying.”

“To Ashley or Delilah?” asked Roger, momentarily confused.

“No, not that
Peebles'
girl. She was just a slut . . . a slut, trying to take away my grandchild’s birthright. Imagine defiling herself with Anthony Montanari, who was old enough to be her father. Those girls, you know, they wrest every cent out of a man, swearing they will tell his family about their bastard children. Oh, but her child was a perfect little boy. My grandson should have been as faultless as he, but Charlie was spawned in sin worse than hers. I needed to warn Montanari so he would continue paying for his grandson’s care.”

Roger suddenly convulsed, his eyes finally spotting the horror. His paralyzed mind, seeking to make sense of it all, reminded him of a show he’d once seen on
National Geographic
in which a newborn fetus floated, suspended surrealistically in its own embryonic fluid. It was unbelievable, inconceivable, but there, just above the old woman in a large glass jar bobbed the tiny form of a full-term male infant. Ashley’s child had been found.

“I sent him photos of his dead bastard son so he’d understand how the vengeance of God works. My Charlie, he may not have looked like much, but he was a Montanari, though his conception was hideous.”

Roger edged closer, sweat sheeting his tense face.

Edith Simms waved her gun at him. “Stay back, Officer. I’ve nothing else to lose. I’m an old woman with pancreatic cancer and have only a scant six months to live. That’s all I was asking for . . . six more months and the promise that my grandson would be taken care of for the rest of his life. But no! Anthony Montanari said he wasn’t going to pay up anymore. Said he was having financial difficulties and couldn’t continue paying anybody, including that beast of an ex-mayor, who’d found out about Ashley and Anthony’s illegitimate son.”

“So Thad Fisher
was
blackmailing him?” Nick glanced over at Roger who was fading fast.

“Because he thought
Anthony Montanari
had killed Ashley Peebles! He couldn’t have been more wrong. I killed her! After all, I was just receiving what my family was owed after what that monster Anthony Jr. did to my daughter.

“Did to your daughter?” The vision flashed in Nick’s brain. Of course . . . the dark head of the rapist had belonged to Anthony Jr., not Anthony Sr.

“My daughter was down by the Monroe River recording her notes on the development of a covey of quail she’d been observing for several weeks. She was only sixteen when he came upon her. Do you know what he did to my little girl, my only child, and the daughter of my heart?”

“I can guess,” said Roger sadly. He put a hand out to steady himself, forcing himself to focus upon the mesmerizing voice of the demented old woman.

“He raped her and beat her within an inch of her life. He threatened my sweet angel, promising if she told anyone he would kill her and her family. She staggered off, her dress stained with her own virgin blood. I found her eight hours later, cowering in the corner of my garden shed. She wouldn’t tell me who did it and refused to go to the hospital, so great was her shame. I took care of her the best I could and when I found out she was pregnant, I begged her to abort the child. She said that would be evil—a sin compounding a sin.

“So my Delilah dropped out of school and wouldn’t leave the house, or her room, for that matter. It was as if her life force had been permanently drained. My husband, fortunately, had died two years previously, and he never had to witness her humiliation. Delilah was all I had, and as her belly swelled, I swore I would get even with the bastard who did it to her. But then, when the baby was born, everything went wrong. The only blessing was that poor Delilah never saw the hideous monstrosity of her son. As she lay dying, I forced her to tell me who the father was.”

She shrugged helplessly, the gun nearly limp in her age-spotted hand. Could Nick risk charging her?

Mrs. Simms barked out. “Are you listening?”

“Of course,” said Nick soothingly. “It’s understandable you would despise her rapist.” The gun was so tempting, just a few inches from her dusty gardening shoes. Fox moaned and shifted slightly on the narrow bed. She was still alive!

“By that time, Anthony Montanari Sr. knew what his eldest son was like and informed him he had to enlist or else. He went Vietnam, and there, the avenging angels swooped upon both him and his equally black-hearted brother. I tried to take care of Charlie the best I could and made my younger brother help. That’s how you figured it all out, isn’t it? Eddie betrayed me!”

“Actually, he didn’t. And I believe he really loves your grandson. He only wants the best for him.” Roger’s voice sounded dry, like a twig waiting to snap any moment.

The woman’s brittle face seemed to relax. “I think you’re right. Charlie was so special. Sometimes . . . it was as if he could speak . . . and then he would laugh. Oh, how I needed that laughter.”

Roger tilted his head slightly to Nick, who was preparing to lunge, not sure he could be of much assistance.

“I didn’t have much money after my John died, barely enough to raise my daughter. I was a librarian, you know, and I figured Anthony Montanari could afford to pay for his own grandson’s upbringing. And pay he did. I kept him paying and paying, until five years later, he threatened to stop coughing up the needed funds. He started visiting one of the little girls in his wetback camp himself until she got knocked up. Anthony stated he was going to come clean, that Ashley’s child was his, and that he was going to take care of her. So I had to warn him.”

“By killing her?” declared Nick. He’d managed to inch slightly closer to the rambling old woman.

“You bet, but I made sure that I cut off her finger and kept it as a souvenir in my jar up there.”

Some human actions are uncontrollable. Nick willed himself not to turn his head, but couldn’t stop his gaze from travelling to where her bony finger pointed, nor stifle the involuntary revulsion as his eyes settled upon the jar. In it, one slender human finger floated daintily.

“But Ashley’s finger has been found,” he said, swallowing heavily. Fox moaned again, turning her tightly bound head slightly.

“It’s my daughter’s, of course. I had to bury the rest of her. There were times when Ashley Peebles’, Thad Fisher’s and the finger of that whining mistress of his joined hers as well.”

“But that doesn’t explain why Thad Fisher deserved to die.”

“He became too greedy, and when Montanari said he couldn’t afford to pay off both of us anymore, I had to take matters into my own hands. After all,
mine
was a good cause—I was taking care of my Charlie. Thad Fisher was using Montanari’s money to keep his disgusting mistresses. It was really easy—I called and pretended I was Anthony’s secretary. The mayor, flaunting his newest bottle-red mistress, trotted to the Collins house expecting to receive one whopping pay-off so they could leave town and set up house in Mexico. If they hadn’t tried to escape, everything would have been easy, but Charlie, well, he got loose, and—oh—it was dreadful. He’s so easily upset. The color of that woman’s hair and nails really set him off. That, and her screaming. I had so much trouble making her stop.”

Sirens sounded in the distance and Mrs. Simms flinched.

“But, Mrs. Simms, is there really anything left to fight for? Charlie’s going to be well-taken care of by Social Services. You won’t have to worry about him after your death. There’s really nothing left to worry about; not him or this big house.” Nick’s voice was at his most persuasive.

“But Anthony . . .”

“It’s all going to come out now. Trish Fisher will make sure he takes responsibility; I heard her say so tonight. You’re tired and need rest. Let someone else worry about Charlie for a change. You’ve done your duty.”

Roger added. “If you put down the gun, Mrs. Simms. We’ll take you to where he’s staying. It’s a lovely place. He’ll have no worries or stress there.”

Edith Simms smoothed her rose-colored dress and spoke irrelevantly. “You really admired my garden didn’t you, Inspector Thayne?”

“I did. It’s truly beautiful.”

“It’s how I visualize heaven to look; all green and fresh, the flowers in constant bloom. We are all reborn there among the zinnias, marigolds, and sweet gum trees. In heaven, those like Charlie are like roses without thorns.” Mrs. Simms glanced over at the still form of Lea Fox. “You’ll cut a bunch for her from my garden, Inspector Thayne?”

Nick nodded, suddenly divining her intention. He wasn’t fast enough to stop the elderly woman from placing the pistol into her mouth and pulling the trigger. Both Roger and she hit the floor simultaneously as Fox remained oblivious to it all.