Double Shot (6 page)

She said, “I hear your ex is up to his old tricks.”
Marla cleared her throat. I gazed innocently at Cecelia’s wide, wrinkled face and unruly gray hair, which was the color and consistency of steel wool. I said, “Oh, really? Where’d you hear that?”
Cecelia was genetically incapable of grinning. Her uneven, greasy gray bangs fell across her forehead and over the tops of her glasses. She pulled her lips into a serious scowl. “I heard you had a bit of an incident at the Roundhouse this morning.”
I smiled. “Define ‘bit of an incident.’ “
“Who do you think hit you?” she pressed.
“Hey!” Marla exclaimed. “How do you know what happened —“
I held up a hand to quiet Marla. “Actually, Cecelia,” I replied, “you probably have a better idea than I do.”
“I have complaints about your ex on file,” Cecelia persisted.
“So do the cops, Cecelia.”
“Not the same kind of files, I bet.”
I tilted my head at her, curious. “You want to explain yourself?”
Cecelia straightened her glasses and squinted at me. she replied in a deadpan voice. “Not here. But I can, if you want. Especially if you can tell me what I want to know.”
Arch bounced up, chewing on a brownie. “Mom! I thought we were in some kind of hurry to get to Dad’s.”
“We are,” I told him. I bade Cecelia a polite good-by, then hustled Arch out the service exit. Backing the van out of its narrow parking space, I came very close to whacking Cecelia’s battered old station wagon. I hit the brakes and did some maneuvering to wiggle the van clear, without incident. Cecelia wasn’t the kind of person you wanted to have as an enemy.
Zooming past the club’s mini-mansions in the direction of John Richard’s rental, I wondered what in the hell Cecelia had been talking about. There was Marla’s question: Now that the Jerk is out of jail, where’ he getting his money? He had no job that I knew of, or, more important, that Marla knew of. My best friend had also calculated that John Richard’s highly publicized sponsoring of a local golfing event — twenty-five thousand bucks — plus purchasing the Audi — another forty thou — plus rent must have been subsidized by Courtney, the newly wealthy widow. Lots of her money, apparently, had been lavished on the Jerk.
But John Richard had dumped Courtney, and according to Marla, he was renting in the club area while he looked for a big house to buy. In this, Marla had joyfully concluded, he would not be successful. While our ex was incarcerated and deprived of the Mountain Journal, he probably hadn’t heard that home sales in Aspen Meadow had virtually stopped. Fire insurers had refused to write new homeowner policies. This did not bring down the general anxiety level in the town. Was John Richard’s search for a house what Cecelia wanted to know about? Maybe. But I doubted it.
I whizzed into an area of extra-large houses: here a huge colonial, there a rambling contemporary, around the corner of a Swiss-style chalet. Every few houses, there was the type favored by John Richard: a mock Tudor, with lots of plaster and crisscrossed exterior woodwork. One thing the houses in the club did have in common: They all boasted very green lawns. In town, rumors of how country-club residents managed illegal watering were rife. Some said hoses whistled across lawns at midnight. Others claimed that underground sprinkler systems hissed to life at three in the morning. Like the communists, residents were supposed to report infractions by neighbors. But in that department too, there were reports of deals — I won’t tell if you won’t. So much for community spirit.
When I piloted the van into the dead end that contained the Jerk’s current mock-Tudor domicile, another car was parked out front. I sighed and prayed that this was not a new girlfriend. Maybe that was why John Richard favored the architecture he did: He fancied himself a contemporary Henry the Eighth. Lotta wives, lotta girlfriends.
I parked the van behind the car, an older blue Chevy sedan that looked as if someone was in it.
“Okay, hon,” I said to Arch. He looked passably clean. He’d neatly parted and combed his wet hair after the shower, and he’d managed to lick all the chocolate away from around his mouth. “Just take your clubs and go to the door, do you mind? I’ll wait here until you’re inside.”
Arch pushed his glasses up his nose. “Okay, Mom. Sorry you had to go to so much trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just hurry.” It was exactly ten to four, which meant Arch and his father didn’t have a whole lot of time to get down to the club for their tee time.
Arch let out a long, exasperated breath, hopped out of the van, and heaved the strap of his golf bag over his shoulder. Then he trudged up the driveway, turning left to go up the steps to the house.
A sudden rapping on my hood startled me. An older man, maybe in his mid-fifties, with a receding hairline, gray hair combed straight back, and one of those thin-skinned, skeletal faces, wanted to talk to me. I caught my breath and looked out the windshield. He’d left the door to the Chevy sedan open.
“Mrs. Korman?” he called.
I lowered the window. “Excuse me?”
“Dad!” Arch was calling. “Dad! Open the door!”
“Mrs. Korman, do you have my money?” the man demanded. He wore a plaid cotton shirt, brown polyester pants, and worn, mud-colored leather shoes. Definitely not a country-club type.
“I’m sorry, I —“ I began.
“Please tell me you have my money, Mrs. Korman,” the man pleaded. “I was here when I was supposed to be.”
The van’s side door slid open. The clubs clanked ferociously as Arch threw them in the back. He banged the door closed, then opened the passenger door and hopped back into the front seat.
“Dad left without me! Let’s go!”
“Look,” I said to the man, “who are you? What money? Why do you think I’m supposed to give you money?”
But Skeleton Face had had enough. He was trotting back to the sedan.
“Colorado GPG 521, blue Chevy Nova,” I said under my breath. Then I dug into my purse, nabbed a ballpoint and an index card, and wrote it down. Had John Richard gotten himself into debt? Was this guy a creditor?
“Mom, he’s not here. I knocked and knocked. Come on, let’s split.”
I squinted up at the Tudor. I reached for the cell and punched in the numbers for Dr. Hiding-in-the-House. No response, but I didn’t expect there to be, since my caller ID came up as restricted. I left a message, saying that if John Richard wanted to see his son, he’d better get his butt out here. Nothing happened.
As a breeze swirled the dust in the street, I wondered what to do. Go home, and risk an angry call from the Jerks’ lawyer? Or bang on the door myself and run the hazard of a very unpleasant encounter, possibly as bad as, or worse than, the attack that morning?
I glanced at the glove compartment, but just as quickly dismissed the idea of brandishing a firearm. What if he startled me and the thirty-eight again went off accidentally?
I said, “Get your clubs, Arch. Let’s try one more time.”
As Arch trudged around to get his golf bag. I reached under the van seat and took out the Swiss Army knife I kept under there. I opened it, slipped it into the pocket of the caterer’s apron I was still wearing, and climbed up the front steps with Arch. We knocked and yelled for John Richard. I didn’t doubt that he was watching to see if his creditor was truly gone, and not returning.
“Wait here,” I said. “I’ll check the garage and see if the Audi’s inside.” I gripped the knife and hobbled back down the steps. John Richard’s geraniums and delphiniums were lush and full, I noted, no doubt from illegal watering. Still limping slightly, I rounded the house to the three-car garage.
Two bays were closed; the third, nearest to the back door, was partially open. Still holding the knife handle, I ducked down to peer into the open space. I saw myself staring at my reflection in the TT’s chrome. So he was home, the bastard.
My aching back and legs made it difficult to tuck myself underneath the garage door. Plus, I had to come up with a plan. My cell phone was in my other apron pocket, in case I needed it.
The garage smelled of grease, exhaust, and something else . . . .What? My footsteps gritted over the concrete as I eased around the back of the Audi. As soon as I got to the inside of the door to the house, I vowed, I’d call Marla. I wouldn’t go in, but I’d tell her I did need her to meet me over here and force the Jerk to open up, just in case he decided to —
I stopped and stared in disbelief. I couldn’t move, couldn’t process what I was seeing. And yet there it was. There he was. John Richard, with his head skewed at a crazy angle, his body sprawled across the front seat of his car. His chest was covered with blood. He was a mess. And he was dead.
<5>
I had loved him. I had hated him. He had stood beside me, grinning, when Arch was born. Many nights, he had thrust out his chest and thrashed me, until welts rose on my arms and back. I’d been convinced he had a black heart. Now his chest cavity was a gory mass of skin, bone, and blood.
And his heart wasn’t beating.
I couldn’t look at him, or what was left of him. I knew that smell now: cordite, the gas produced when a gun fires. My clammy hand gripped my cell phone. I called 911 and shakily explained that my ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, had been shot. Yes, I thought he was dead. They asked for my location and I blanked.
“Aspen Meadow Country Club.” My voice cracked. “A rental. Tudor house, on a dead end. This is a new place, and he’s lying in the garage. Wait. We’re at 4402 Stone berry. I can’t remember —“
But there was something I did remember: Arch. Oh my God, Arch. He was at the front door, waiting. Waiting for his father. What if he came looking for me in the garage? I was not going to allow him to see this.
“Ma’am?” The emergency operator’s voice spiraled into my ear. “What do you mean, a new place for him?”
“Look, I have to go. I’ll be out front when the sheriff’s department shows up. My van, Goldilocks’ Catering, is parked there. Please, I have to go. My fifteen-year-old son is here. He doesn’t know his father is dead.”
The operator’s voice droned on. I didn’t know if I was hearing her words or just mentally substituting what I knew she would say. Stay on the scene, stay calm, stay put, do not hang up. I ducked beneath the half-open garage door and closed the cell phone
A sudden wind whipped the aspens and pines around the houses of the cul-de-sac. A cloud of dust rose into the air and shimmered in the sunlight. Then it blasted against John Richard’s house. I closed my eyes against the grit and fought dizziness.
For he himself knows whereof we are made; he remembers that we are but dust.
What was I going to say to Arch? I simply could not imagine how to announce, “Your father had been shot. He’s dead.”
Riffs of jazz guitar emanated from the van radio. Arch had gotten tired of waiting. The time was ticking down until I told him.
I was having trouble breathing. Inhale, I ordered myself. Exhale. I pulled out the cell and dialed Tom.
“Somebody’s shot John Richard,” I announced to his voice mail. “He’s dead. Oh, Tom, please come up to his house.” The wind rose again and showered me with dust. “We need you. Please.”
I closed the phone. I would have to get rid of the hysterical note in my voice before talking to Arch.
John Richard’s chest had been blown wide open. The image of what I’d seen made me dizzy. John Richard’s pink shirt had been drenched in blood. And his pants . . . khakis, had been covered with blood, too. Oh, God, I couldn’t think about it.
I dialed Marla’s cell.
“Get over to the Jerk’s new house as quickly as you can,” I said to her voice mail. “I think somebody’s shot him. He’s dead.”
My knees buckled and I sat down in the driveway. The wind picked up another nimbus of shiny dust and whacked it onto the cul-de-sac. John Richard’s lush grass bristled and flattened. The blue delphiniums rimming the house bent and swayed.
Our days are like the grass; we flourish like the flower of the field.
I prayed. Help me. perhaps God was already sending these verses from the 103
^rd
Psalm, one my Sunday-school class had memorized. We flourish like a flower in the field, and then?
When the wind goes over it, it is gone, and its place shall know it no more.
John Richard was no more. Was it possible, after all these years? Was he really gone, this man who had hurt so many people? I swallowed hard, stood, and steadied myself. It was time to go talk to Arch.
   
* * *
“Hon, something very bad has happened.” I slipped into the van driver’s seat and turned off the radio.”
Arch furrowed his brows. “What? Is Dad okay?”
“Arch, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but your dad is not okay.” Arch frowned, his eyes fixed on me. “It’s very bad news, I’m afraid, so prepare yourself. Your dad is dead. I think he’s been shot. The police will be here soon.”
“What are you saying, Mom? Dad’s been involved in a shooting? When? Where is he?”
“He’s in the garage. Something went very wrong. That’s why the sheriff’s department is coming.”
“Where’s you cell?” Arch demanded, his voice loud. Denial, denial, of course. “Call an ambulance, they might be able to revive him!”
“Oh, Arch — “
Dust sprayed on the windshield. There was the distant sound of sirens. The sheriff’s department must have had an officer patrolling Aspen Meadow. They’d have radioed and told him to hightail it over here.
“Mom!” Arch yelled, his eyes wild.
It had been a long time since Arch had let me hug him, but he did now. He was trembling violently.
“Mom —“ His voice cracked. “Please!” He wrenched away. “What happened? Why won’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know what happened. If I did, I’d tell you.”
Arch put his head in his hands. He began to sob, wrenching cries that felt as if they were ripping my chest open. After a while, I reached out for him, but his hands batted me away. The tear-stained face he turned to me was filled with rage.
“Tell me what happened, Mom! Who was that guy who was here? Did he shoot Dad?”
“I don’t know! That’s why the police are — “ Mrs. Korman, do you have my money? What kind of money problem had John Richard gotten himself into? Had he plunged himself into a debt jam? One he couldn’t climb out of? My mind wheeled and bumped over the possibilities as Arch continued to cry.
Without warning, the van’s back door rumbled open, starling both of us. Arch used his shirt to wipe his face, then adjusted his glasses.
“It’s me,” Tom’s deep, authoritative voice announce. He climbed in, sat heavily in the rear seat, and wordlessly handed each of us a homemade quilt. These thick handmade creations were for victims and survivors of violent crime, stitched by volunteers in the county. I wrapped myself in mine, a red-and-white beauty with, ironically, a heart motif. Arch let his black-and-gold patterned one fall to the floor.