Open Season (6 page)

His political career would probably withstand the shock if he divorced her, but he had no intentions of doing so. For one thing, the kids loved their mother, and he didn’t want them upset. For another, Jennifer had her uses. He was certain she gained him some sympathy
votes—the “poor Nolan, he does his best to hold the family together” type of thing—plus if he needed her to close a deal or pay a favor, Jennifer was always willing to drop her drawers and lie down.

Of course, that meant he had to go elsewhere for relief. No way would he stick his click in her again, not after some of the trash she’d let crawl on top of her. He could have set up a liaison with any one of several available women in town—as well as some who weren’t supposed to be—had he been so inclined, but a wise man never fouled his own nest. No, it was best that he keep his urges out of town, and it wasn’t as if he ever had any trouble finding a woman when he needed one.

His private number, distinguished from the other office lines by its distinctive tone, began ringing. After first glancing to make certain his door was closed, Temple answered the call. “Yes?” He never said his name, just in case—especially not on his cellular phone, but the habit had carried over to land lines, too.

“We have a little trouble with the shipment,” said a voice he recognized.

“Will there be a delay in getting it out?”

“Yeah. You might want to see to this yourself.”

Temple cursed to himself; he had a round of golf scheduled, if this damn rain ever let up. Now he had to drive almost to Huntsville. But Glenn Sykes was a capable man; he wouldn’t have said Temple needed to oversee this problem personally if it wasn’t something serious. “I’ll take a long lunch,” he said briefly.

“Come to the barn,” said Sykes. “I’ll be there waiting.”

Both men disconnected, and Temple slowly replaced the receiver. So long as there hadn’t been a successful escape, everything would be all right, and Glenn would
have told him immediately if that had happened. But other problems sometimes cropped up, problems that had to be handled immediately before the situation became more complicated.

Three hours later, standing in a dilapidated old barn, he looked down at the problem and silently swore as he estimated the lost profits. “What happened?”

“Overdose,” Glenn Sykes said succinctly.

It wasn’t much of a stretch to guess what had happened, the mayor thought sourly. “GHB?”

“Yeah.”

“Mitchell.” Sykes didn’t contradict him, and Temple sighed. “Mr. Mitchell is becoming a problem.” This wasn’t the first time Mitchell had closed one of the girls with GHB. The sick bastard preferred them unconscious when he fucked them; Temple guessed it made him feel as if he was getting away with something. Or maybe he thought that if they didn’t fight, then it wasn’t rape. Whatever his reasoning, this was the second time he’d killed one of the girls with GHB. Using the merchandise was one thing, but when he started cutting into the profits, that was serious.

Sykes grunted. “Mitchell’s
been
a problem. The fucking idiot’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“I agree.”

“Want me to set something up?”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to. Mitchell’s fun and games are costing us money.”

Sykes was relieved. He didn’t like working with fuckups, and Mitchell was a Class-A fuckup. On the other hand, it was a pleasure working with a man like Temple Nolan; he never broke a sweat, but handled everything with a cool lack of emotion. Sykes indicated the bundle on the ground. “What do you want
me to do with the body? Bury it? Or dump it?”

Temple considered. “How long has it been?”

“Almost four hours since I found out about it.”

“Wait another couple of hours to be sure, then dump it.” The chemical composition of GHB broke down after six hours, making it untraceable unless a body was found and tests were run within that time limit. After that, the authorities might suspect GHB, but there was no way of proving it.

“Any preferences as to where?”

“Not as long as there’s no connection to us.”

Sykes rubbed his jaw. “I think I’ll take her to Marshall County, then; when she’s found, they’ll think she’s just one of the migrant workers and no one will push very hard to identify her.” He glanced up at the tin roof, where the steady rain was drumming. “The weather will help; there won’t be any trace evidence left, even if the Marshall yahoos decide to make an effort.”

“Good idea.” He sighed, looking down at the small bundle. Death didn’t just make a body motionless; it reduced it to a lump, devoid of the tension and inherent grace that the sheer force of life imparted to muscles. He didn’t see how anyone could ever think a dead person was asleep, because the whole aspect of the body was so different. Alive, the girl had been a beauty, with an innocent spark that would have brought the money rolling in. Dead, she was nothing.

“I’ll call Phillips, let him know what happened, and what we’re doing about Mitchell.” Temple didn’t look forward to the call, because he hated to admit when he’d made a mistake, and the decision to hire Mitchell had been his.

Well, it was a mistake that would soon be rectified. Mitchell had dosed his last girl with GHB.

D
aisy stood in the rain and stared at the small, shabby house on Lassiter Avenue that was her last hope. The white paint was peeling, the few scraggly shrubs desperately needed trimming, the weed-choked yard looked as if it hadn’t been mowed all summer, and the roof over the front porch sagged. The screen on the door was torn loose from the frame on one side, and one window sported a giant crack. On the plus side, the small backyard was fenced. She tried hard to find some more pluses, but came up blank. On the other hand, it was available.

“Let me find the key and we’ll go inside,” the owner, Mrs. Phipps, said as she dug in her voluminous shoulder bag. Mrs. Phipps wasn’t quite five feet tall, was almost as big around, and her hair was arranged—or maybe it grew that way—in huge white puffs that
looked like wispy clouds. She puffed as she made her way up the broken sidewalk, skirting one section that was completely gone.

“It’s nothing fancy,” she warned, though Daisy wondered why she thought any warning was necessary. “Just a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom, but me and E. B. raised two kids here just fine. When E. B. passed on, my kids bought me a trailer and we put it in back of my oldest boy’s house, so I have somebody close if I take sick or something. I didn’t want to get rid of this old place, though. It was home for a long time. Plus the rent money helps out.”

The sagging wooden porch seemed to give a little more under Mrs. Phipps’s weight; Daisy hung back, in case she was needed to go for help in the event Mrs. Phipps fell through the floor. But she reached the door without incident, and wrestled with the recalcitrant lock. Finally the key turned, and Mrs. Phipps heaved a grunt of accomplishment. “Here we go. I cleaned up after the last bunch cleared out, so you don’t have to worry about trash or anything like that.”

The house
was
clean, Daisy saw with relief as she stepped inside. The smell was musty, of course, but it was the odor of emptiness, not of filth.

The rooms were small, the kitchen barely big enough to cram in a small table and two chairs, so she couldn’t imagine how crowded it had been with a family of four. The floors were all cracked sheet linoleum, but they could be covered with area rugs. The bathroom was small, too, but at some point the tub had been replaced with a blue fiberglass tub and shower unit that didn’t match the white toilet and sink. A small space heater jutted from the wall.

Silently she walked through the rooms again, trying
to imagine them with lamps and curtains and cozy furniture. If she took the house, she would have to buy window units for air-conditioning, rugs for the floors, kitchen appliances, and furniture for the living room. She already had her bedroom furniture, thank goodness, but unless she bought the cheapest stuff she could find, she could expect to spend about six thousand dollars getting the place habitable. Thank God she didn’t live in a section of the country where the cost of living was high, or she would be looking at an expenditure of at least twice that amount. She had the money—that wasn’t a problem—but she’d never spent such a large sum in her life. Her stomach clenched in panic at the very thought.

She could spend the money, or she could retreat to her mother’s house and live there until she grew old and died. Alone.

“I’ll take it,” she said aloud, the words sounding strange and faraway, as if someone else had said them.

Mrs. Phipps’s chubby pink face brightened. “You will? I didn’t—that is, you didn’t seem like the kind. . . This used to be a right nice street, but the neighborhood’s gone down, and...” She ran out of steam, unable to express her astonishment.

Daisy could sympathize. Only a week ago—goodness, even yesterday!—she couldn’t have imagined herself living here, either.

She might be desperate, but she wasn’t pathetic. She folded her arms and put on her best librarian’s face. “The front porch badly needs repairs. I’ll handle it for you, if you like, if you’ll take the amount of the repairs in lieu of the same amount of rent.”

Mrs. Phipps crossed her arms,
too.
“Why would I do that?”

“You’ll be out that amount of ready cash, true, but in the long run your property will be worth more and you’ll be able to charge more rent the next time.” Daisy hoped Mrs. Phipps was one who could see the long-term benefit, rather than thinking of only the rent money. Daisy had no idea how much the repairs would cost, but the rent was just a hundred and twenty dollars a month, so Mrs. Phipps could be looking at several months without any rent income.

“I don’t think I can go without the extra money for that long,” Mrs. Phipps said doubtfully.

Daisy thought quickly. “How about every other month? Could you handle that? I pay for the repairs now, then I pay no rent every other month until I recoup my money. Or you pay for the repairs and raise the rent a little.”

Mrs. Phipps shifted her weight. “I don’t have that kind of cash to throw around. Okay, we’ll do it your way. But I want it in writing. And I want the first month’s rent; then we’ll start that every-other-month thing. None of the utilities are included, either.”

For a hundred and twenty dollars a month, Daisy hadn’t assumed they were. She beamed and held out her hand. “It’s a deal,” she said, and they shook hands on it.

“Kinda small,” Aunt Jo commented early that evening as she and Daisy’s mother inspected Daisy’s new digs.

“It’ll do just fine,” Evelyn said stoutly. “A coat of paint and some nice curtains will work wonders. Anyway, it isn’t as if she’s going to live here for very long. She’ll find someone special in no time at all. Daisy, honey, if there’s anything in the attic you want, just take it.” She took another look around the little
house. “Just what sort of decor do you have in mind?” she asked doubtfully, as if she couldn’t think of anything that would truly help the looks of the house.

“Cozy and comfortable,” Daisy said. “It’s too small to try for anything else. You know, overstuffed chairs with afghans thrown across them, that kind of thing.”

“Hmmph,” Aunt Jo said. “Only afghan I ever saw wouldn’t stay put unless you tied him down. Stupidest dog in the world.”

They all began giggling. Aunt Jo’s sense of humor tended to the absurd, and both Daisy and her mother greatly enjoyed the flights of fancy.

“You
will
need a dog,” Evelyn said suddenly, looking around. “Or burglar bars on the windows and an alarm system.”

Burglar bars and an alarm system would add another thousand to her growing expenses. Daisy said, “I’ll start looking for a dog.” Besides, a dog would be company. She had never lived alone, so a dog would help ease the transition. Having a pet again would be nice; it had been eight years—my goodness, that long!—since the last family pet had died of old age.

“When do you think you’ll move in?” Aunt Jo asked.

“I don’t know.” Doubtfully, Daisy looked around. “The utilities have to be turned on, but that won’t take long. I’ll have to buy kitchen appliances and have them delivered, shop for furniture and rugs, put up curtains. And paint. It definitely needs a new coat of paint.”

Evelyn sniffed. “A good landlady would have repainted after the last tenants left.”

“The rent is a hundred and twenty a month. Fresh paint doesn’t come with the deal.”

“I heard Buck Latham is taking paint jobs on the
weekends for extra money,” said Aunt Jo. “I’ll call him tonight and see when he can do it.”

Daisy heard another
cha-ching
in her bank account. “I can do the painting myself.”

“No, you can’t,” Aunt Jo said firmly. “You’ll be busy.”

“Well, yes, but I’ll still have time—”

“No, you won’t. You’ll be busy.”

“What Jo means, dear, is that we’ve been thinking, and we think you need to see a fashion-and-beauty consultant.”

Daisy gaped at them, then smothered a laugh. “Where am I supposed to find one of those?” She didn’t think Wal-Mart had a fashion-and-beauty consultant on staff. “And why do I need someone to tell me how I want to look? I’ve already been thinking about that. I want Wilma to cut my hair, and maybe put in some highlights, and I’ll buy some makeup—”

Both Evelyn and Joella slowly shook their heads. “That won’t get it,” Aunt Jo said.

“Get what?”

Evelyn took over. “Dear, if you’re going to do this, then do it right. Yes, you can get a different hairstyle and start wearing some makeup, but what you need is
style. You
need to have a presence, something that will make people turn and look at you. It’s presentation as much as anything else, and you aren’t going to find that in the health and beauty section of the drugstore.”

“But I’m already going to be spending so much money—”

“Don’t be penny wise and pound foolish. Do you think General Eisenhower could have established a Beachhead on Normandy if he’d said, ‘Wait, we’re pending too much money, let’s only send half as many
ships’? You’ve saved your money all these years, but what good is money if you never use it? It isn’t as if you’ll be spending everything you’ve saved.”