Maid of Murder (25 page)

Lew inhaled a mouthful of smoke. “Are you still interested in posting Mark’s bond?”

Student loans be damned. “Yes.”

“I called in that favor to hold Mark at the Stripling PD longer than normal, but the best I was promised was Saturday morning. If you don’t want Mark to go to the county prison to await his trial, you’ll have to bail him out before then.” He repeated the names and numbers of three bond agencies. “You’ve got collateral, right?”

“Sure,” I said, even though my only collateral was my car, which was suspect at best even before Kirk took a key to the hood.

Lew sighed as if he knew the true answer to the question. He probably did.

“Lew, how are you working this case? Are you looking for other suspects?”

Lew took another drag on his before-dinner cigarette. “I’m just a one-man show, and Mark’s isn’t my only case.”

“Did Mark tell you that he heard someone with Olivia at the fountain?”

“He did. Cell phone.” He echoed my own thoughts.

I thought of the engagement picture, which weighed heavily on my conscience. “That’s not all.”

“I’m listening.”

Pounding shook my front door, followed by the mechanical click of the lock giving way. Ina barreled into the room, Theodore slung over her thin shoulder like an obese newborn. “India! Fella’s sick.” She rushed toward me. Theodore did look a little green. Templeton, who slept the slumber of the victorious, arched his back and hissed.

“Are you under attack?” Lew’s voice came over the line. He didn’t seem that concerned.

Before I could respond, my parents walked and wheeled through the open door in matching Free Mark Hayes T-shirts. My brother’s likeness behind roughly drawn, black bars was preserved in blue cotton.

I cut Lew off in the middle of another raspy question as to whether I was witnessing Armageddon. “My parents are here. I’ll talk to you later. Tomorrow.” I hung up the phone.

My mother and Ina lobbied for my attention.

“India, where have you been all day? Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?” my mother demanded.

“I think he’s fainting,” Ina cried and shoved Theodore’s fuzzy mug into my face. “See, isn’t his coloring bad? I killed him!”

Templeton was long gone by this point, in my bedroom, no doubt shredding my slippers.

My father interjected his own admonishments.

Despite my mother’s powerful pulpit voice, for which the elderly removed their hearing aids, Ina won the shouting matching by sheer hysteria. “He’s going to die. Call the vet. Call the vet!”

“Okay,” I yelled over the racket. I took Theodore from Ina’s shoulder and felt his nose. It was cool and damp, although his eyes were slightly glazed. I ignored my parents, who continued to yell in my left ear. “What happened?” I asked Ina.

“Nothing, nothing,” Ina protested. “I treated him like a king.”

“What did you feed him?”

“Not much. Cat food,” she said defensively. “And a can of tuna. A little frozen shrimp. Some cheese cubes. Oatmeal. A sauerkraut ball.”

“A sauerkraut ball?” Theodore seconded the motion as I felt his stomach rumble in my arms. Oh no. I ran through the open door and threw the cat into the yard. He landed with a solid thump and threw up sauerkraut ball and God-knew-what-else on Ina’s sailor-outfitted leprechaun.

My parents and Ina stood behind me dumbfounded.

“You could have killed him,” Ina said. Then she saw the unfortunate leprechaun. “Oh, Fella, not on Ralphie!”

My dad wheeled over. “India, that is no way to treat an animal.”

My mother heartily agreed.

Theodore stumbled and slumped onto the grass and, after a moment, began to eat it. I ignored the yelps and proclamations in my ears as I marched around the house, unraveled the garden hose, and dragged it to the front yard. I cleansed Ralphie and returned the hose to its place beside the driveway. My movements were deceptively smooth.

I stepped in front of them. Ina wrung her hands over her head; my mother shook her entire right hand at me, one finger apparently not expressive enough; and my father snapped his fingers in my face.

“Stop it,” I said.

They froze like puppets with tangled strings.

Across the street, an open-mouthed neighbor, who pretended to prune her double petunias, gave up the charade and watched the spectacle, as did the man three houses down on his riding lawnmower.

“Stop it, all of you!” I became painfully aware that I was yelling at the top of my voice, but was unable to reduce my volume.

“India, you’re making a scene,” Mom said.

“Making a scene? What do you think you’re doing? Or what you’re always doing, huh?”

My father opened his mouth to speak.

I held up one hand to stop him. “No. I’m sorry that I didn’t call you back. I had to work. I went to a funeral—” I stopped mid-sentence, choking on the word. The finality of it, the finality of Olivia’s life was too much. For better or worse, Olivia had been my best friend for the vast majority of my life. She was a friend who listened to me whine for countless hours about my parents, a friend who came to all my art exhibitions even though it was most definitely not her crowd, and a friend who saved me from the evil clutches of Maggie Riffle and her coven of bullies-in-training. Seeing Maggie again had reminded me that it was Olivia who had saved me from that near swirly. That had to count for something. That loss was worth the inattention to my parents. Apparently, they did not agree, and I knew never would.

I shook my head, trying to sort out my thoughts, trying to think of something that I could say to them that could make them understand. In my silence, my parents and Ina began shouting again. The words I needed did not come to me because they did not exist. I turned away from them, stepped into my apartment, and shut the door. I secured the lock, deadbolt, and chain. After unplugging my landline and turning off my cell, I went to bed.

A half hour later, the knocking at my front door finally stopped.

The next morning, I woke up in my funeral outfit with Templeton kneading my head with his forepaws. I reached up to pet him and felt the dried dove poop on my sleeveless blouse. I shuddered. I blinked my eyes, fatigued from staring at the ceiling most of the night, and stumbled into the shower fully clothed.

An hour later, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and running shoes, I felt twenty percent human and eighty percent idiot. The guilt from my outburst haunted me. Ina was right—I would make an excellent Catholic.

I plugged in the phone and grabbed a new box of raspberry toaster pastries, Ina’s favorite. I hopped over the iron railing that divided our porches. It was seven-fifteen; Ina would be on her third mug of Irish Cream coffee.

There was no answer when I knocked. I knocked again, and Ina threw open the door.

My hand caught suspended in the air. I waved. “Good morning,” I said brightly.

Ina scowled. Her ensemble that morning was lemon yellow pedal pushers and a lime green tank top.

I held out my peace offering like a Girl Scout making her pitch. Giving the inside of my cheek a good chomp before I spoke, I apologized. “Sorry I blew up at you yesterday. I was angry at my parents, not you.”

Ina took the box of pastries from my outstretched hand.

Taking this as a sign of goodwill, I pressed my luck. “I know that you were just worried about Theodore. You’re a terrific cat sitter. Mark’s really grateful.” Or, he would be if he knew.

Ina examined the box. “Raspberry?”

I nodded.

Ina’s withered face broke into a glorious grin. “Come on in, Sweetie. Let’s have breakfast.”

If things were that easy with my parents, I’d write a personal letter of thanksgiving to the cereal company.

The layout of Ina’s apartment was the mirror image of my own, but that’s where the similarities ceased. Ina’s apartment had all the novelty and, well, greenness of an Irish specialty shop skirting Boston Common. The carpet was green; the curtains were green; and the walls were green. Shamrocks decorated the lampshades and doilies, and clay pots of houseplants were painted to resemble pots of gold. A large icon of St. Patrick held center stage on the wall directly across from the couch. However, the apartment held remnants of Ina’s former life—the life before the senator’s letter—in the heavy mahogany furniture and silver frames of deceased relatives.

Ina dropped the pastries in the toaster. “Fella’s doing much better. He’s in the bedroom, sleeping it off.”

“Ina, I’m sure that he only had a stomachache from all he ate yesterday. You should only feed him cat food, at least for a while,” I told her as gently as possible.

“I gave Archie table scraps all the time. He always turned up his nose when he was full, but Fella never turned up his nose. He kept eating. Made me wonder if that brother of yours ever fed him.”

I sat on the bar stool by the abbreviated counter. “Theodore is well fed. Any scale will tell you that. He doesn’t understand the concept of full, or, for that matter, self-restraint.”

The toaster popped, and Ina tossed two extra crispy treats onto a saucer for me. The edges smoked. I bit off a corner and burned the roof of my mouth. Penance. I ineffectively waved my hands in front of my mouth,

“Yes, some don’t understand self-restraint,” she remarked.

After Ina’s pastries were charbroiled, and mine had cooled to a temperature akin to the shady-side of the equator, I took three steps, Ina took six, and together, we sat on the green plush sofa.

Ina spoke. “What’s got you spooked, honey?”

After burning my mouth twice more, I fanned my mouth again. “Spooked? I’m not spooked.”

She wiped a few stray crumbs from her tank top to the floor. Theodore would eat them after his nap. “I’ve never seen you so uptight.”

I scooted away from her for a clearer view. “I’m not uptight.”

Ina shook her head slowly.

“It’s been an unusual week, and under the circumstances, I’ve held together very well.”

Ina shook her head again. “You’re three tantrums away from the psych ward. You’ll never survive if your brother goes to trial.”

Frequently, Ina rambled on in incomprehensible psychobabble, but I wasn’t in the mood to indulge. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Ina placed her saucer on the low coffee table. Sprinkle crumbs were all that remained of her breakfast. She licked her right index finger and picked up the crumbs, putting them in her mouth. I was ready to throttle her when she finally spoke. “A tiny part of you thinks that Mark could be guilty.”

I jumped from the sofa, tipping my own saucer and half-eaten pastry to the floor. “I do not.”

“He had motive, means, and opportunity.” She ticked the three points off with her hands.

I lowered my volume to a roar. “You are not Hercule Poirot, for goodness sakes. You just can’t check off these elements and have the answer.”

“My dear, I know this is hard for you, and I truly believe that Mark is innocent, but the only way you are going to find out who is really responsible for Olivia’s death is to assume that Mark is guilty and prove that he’s not.”

“You’ve got the legal system backward, Ina.” I slid back onto the sofa and picked up the pastry and saucer.

“You do want to know what happened, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

She shrugged. Case closed.

“I’m trying to help Mark as much as I can. I’ve talked to people about it. I’m going to bail him out, at least try to bail him out. What more can I do?”

“We know the police aren’t going to figure it out with that bloody Englishman in charge.”

I laughed in spite of myself.

“So, let’s hash it out. You can be the brilliant detective; I’ll be the wise sidekick. The sidekick is usually the fat one, but he’s the one that gets to write everything down.” Ina pulled a notepad and a pen out of the small drawer in the coffee table.

“Ina, I’m not a private eye, and neither are you.” I rose and took my plate to the counter. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go try to bail my brother out of jail.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

Her face fell.

Theodore lumbered into the room and begged Ina for a bite. “I’m all out little Fella, but India still has some of hers.”

I threw my uneaten pastry in the trash. “Ina, he cannot have people food.”

She nodded solemnly. Theodore licked crumbs from the carpet.

“Ms. Hayes, is it?” the burly man across the metal desk asked me. His arm was twice the circumference of my thigh. A blue plastic nameplate sat on his desk: Norman North, Bond Officer.

“Yes,” I said, wearing a gray summer suit reserved for job interviews and meetings with bond agents. My right foot tapped on the gray linoleum floor.

“You have no collateral. You don’t own any property. Your car is way past its expiration date, and you’re up to your ears in student loans.”

“I have excellent—”

“Frankly, North and South Bond Offices can’t afford such high-cost or high-profile cases. We specialize in juvenile violations, petty theft, auto theft, minor stuff. I wouldn’t touch your brother’s bail with a forty-foot pole.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

The sweaty vinyl tugged the hem of my skirt as I leaned forward in my seat. “I understand your concerns. But I have a stable job and . . .”

“I’m sorry and wish you luck, but no.” He rose from the desk. He towered over me and the ugly chair. “I’ll show you out.”

We walked through the brief reception area and passed the clerk, who was sharpening her nails to a vicious point with a rainbow-colored emery board.

North opened the dingy glass door. “You ever have a friend arrested for carjacking, send him my way.”

“Uh, sure. Who’s South?”

“Huh?”

“North and South Bond Offices.” I pointed to the sign by the reception area.

He grunted. “It sounded good.”

I stepped out into the late-afternoon sunlight filtered by city haze. On the west side of Akron, North and South Bond nestled between an exotic dance studio and a suspect-looking video rental store with iron bars on the windows.