The 19th Wife (53 page)

“The assistant manager. It’s no big deal.”

But it was a big deal. I was about to solve a murder, and now here were Tom and the dogs. I had a crazy image of the three of them bound and gagged in a warehouse somewhere, and I’d have to rescue them. Unlikely, I know, but I kept thinking about it and it was so clear in my mind it was as if it had already happened. “We need to be careful,” I said.

“What we really need is for this whole thing to be over.”

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Alton’s patrol car was in front of Queenie’s house, the sun glinting on the lightbar. “Is that good or bad?” said Tom.

“Good. I think.”

We leashed up the dogs and headed to Queenie’s front door. God, look at us: the gay couple out with their dogs. Except we were in the polygamy capital of America with a murderer on the loose, a Prophet on the run, and a bunch of wives freaking out. If it weren’t so serious, it would be a joke, or a skit on
Saturday Night Live.
I know some gay people think polygamy and gay marriage are part of the same stay-out-of-my-bedroom political argument, and I’m generally a live-and-let-live kind of guy, but it’s all different when there are kids, and sure, anyone should have the right to sleep with whoever, and marry whoever—this is America, after all—but you can’t do whatever you want when you’ve got kids. You can’t do whatever you want to kids. Have I said that before? I’m sorry. Political loudmouths are such a drag.

Queenie opened the door. Somehow she knew I was looking for her husband. “He isn’t here,” she said.

“His car’s out front.”

“He’s down at the church. With the tv cameras, they all went down there.”

“Mind if we wait?”

She looked at Tom, Joey, Elektra. “Sure, but not in the house. She’s allergic to dogs,” and she led us out to the garage.

“The new wife?”

“Who else?”

“How’s it going with her?”

“Oh, just great. Nothing like listening to your husband screw another woman in the room next door.”

“Queenie, what’s wrong?”

“Everything.”

“Is there something I can do?”

She laughed, and in laughing she softened up. “I’m sorry, Jordan. I didn’t mean to be such a c-word. I’ll be fine.”

I asked if I could use the phone. She brought me the portable, but then she thought to ask, “Who do you need to call?”

“Just someone.”

I dialed, and on the fifth ring I worried maybe I’d forgotten the number, but then he answered. “Yeah, Alton?”

“No, it’s me, Jordan Scott.”

A pause. “What is this?”

“I need to see you.”

“Jordan, what are you doing there?”

“It doesn’t matter. I need to see you. Where can I meet you?”

“Jordan, it’s too late.”

“No, it’s not too late.”

“Please don’t call me anymore.”

“You were the one—”

Click.

“Was that the Prophet?” said Queenie.

“Yes.”

“Shit, you guys should go. You’re going to get me in a lot of trouble.”

I told her to calm down, everything would be OK. “I know this is going to sound weird, but the Prophet and I, well, we’re sort of working together.”

“That didn’t sound like working together.”

“He’s just freaking out because of the media and stuff.”

She looked at me the way you look at someone you know has turned against you. There was a terrible silence in the garage, and leave it to Tom to fill it up. “So how many months are you?”

“It’s still early, only two.”

“Is that your little girl?” Tom pointed at the picture of Angela taped above the workbench. A little blond girl petting a cow. “So adorable,” said Tom. “What about the next, boy or girl?”

“I’m hoping for a boy.”

“A brother for Angela! How sweet.” Tom had a starry look to him, like his daydreams were carrying him to a world where everyone was more or less good. He was too honest for this. Too kind. He deserved a tidy, reliable life. He wasn’t equipped for the messier world of me. Look, there he was goo-gooing over baby pictures with Queenie and talking about boy names, and he was totally clueless she was lying. Last time I was here she was three months preggers. Something was wrong.

“I’ve always wanted kids,” Tom sighed, then looked at me. Why was he looking at me? It was so time to go.

In the van I said, “She’s lying. She must be hiding something. I don’t know what, but she was definitely lying.”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“No, Tom, I’m not. I’m seeing things for what they are.” I drove to the end of the block, turned the corner, and parked. “Alton was in there.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do. He didn’t want to see me. You stay here, I’m walking back.”

“No way, I’m coming with you.”

“You need to stay with the dogs.”

“Speaking of which, it’s their dinnertime.”

“Fine, you feed them while I go back to the house. There’s some kibble under the seat.”

“Joey can’t eat any old kibble. He needs his high-protein food. Let’s go back to my car and I’ll make their dinners and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

“Tom, it doesn’t work like that. I need to go in there now before he leaves.”

“Goldens have sensitive stomachs.”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Look at Elektra, she’s practically begging for her dinner.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” But let’s face it, I was going to lose this argument. I drove down to the post office thinking, Tom shouldn’t be here. I kept telling myself that. When we get to his car I’m going to tell him to leave.

But before I could he got busy preparing the dogs’ dinner. His trunk was like a pantry: tupperwares of organic dry food, water, bowls, squeaky toys, paw wipes, paper towels, and Febreze. He set everything out on the hood and measured out the food down to the last kibble. I’m so not a smoker, but if I were, right about now I would’ve lit a cigarette and gone for a walk. I needed to step away from this. I strolled around to the other side of the post office. A thunderstorm rolled in the western sky, the clouds gray and blue and green. I leaned against the post office wall and shut my eyes.

That’s when I heard something. Something like a box falling. And softly through the wall: “Oh, crud.”

I stepped back to look at the post office. At the top of the wall, there was a long window running the length of the roofline. It was too high to see into, but the lights were on. I walked back to Tom. “Sister Karen’s in there.”

“In the post office?” Tom was cleaning up the dog bowls and putting everything away.

“We’ll leave the dogs with her.”

“I don’t like that idea.”

Too late. I was banging on the lobby’s glass door. Eventually Karen rolled back the folding metal wall. “Can you take the dogs?”

“What?” she said through the glass door.

“I need someone to watch the dogs for twenty minutes, a half hour, max.”

“Not today, it’s a bad idea.”

But I begged. And kept begging. Sensing an adventure, the dogs ran over to press their snouts to the glass. It took some more begging, but I knew she’d give in. She unlocked the door and led us into the back room. “I’m doing some organizing. They can stay with me. But please don’t be long.”

Tom’s arms were full of supplies—bowls, water, a dog bed.

“Jesus, Tom, they’re only going to be here a little while.”

“Just in case.” He arranged the bed in a corner and filled the water bowls. He moved with such precision and purpose, it was as if in the giant cosmic scheme of things he had been put on earth to tend to the needs of these two dogs.

That’s when I saw them. And I kept looking at them in a way Sister Karen wouldn’t notice. A shopping bag filled with little-girl clothes. And a duffel bag stuffed with pants and shirts.

Tom was giving Sister Karen a litany of instructions. “They shouldn’t have to poop, but if Joey walks in a circle three times, that means he has to go. Here are some baggies.” He had a whole list of doggy do’s and don’ts.

The duffel was open and I kicked it open some more. My foot gently moved aside the white dress shirt on top. Beneath it was a dark blue shirt. The shoulder braiding confirmed it was a police uniform. I kicked the bag again, and now I could see half of a brass nameplate: Alt.

“You know what?” I said. “It’s too much of an inconvenience.”

“It’s fine,” said Sister Karen. “Just don’t take all night.”

“No, they’re so fussy. I don’t want to stick you with all their issues.”

“Jordan,” said Tom, “I just walked her through everything, they’ll be fine.”

Elektra chose this moment to decide she was tired. She yawned, walked over to the dog bed, and plopped down with an extended sigh. Joey followed suit, falling over on his side. His moist panting fogged up the linoleum tiles.

“Tom, please,” I said. “It’s too much to ask.”

Tom turned to Sister Karen. “You tell us. Is this all right?”

“Look at them. They’re going to be fine.”

“Sister Karen, you really don’t have to—” But she scooted us out the door.

In the van I said, “Why didn’t you listen to me? Something wasn’t right.”

“What? Sister Karen’s on our side.”

“I don’t know if this has sides anymore.” But Tom drove on, down the dark streets of Mesadale. He parked about a block from Queenie’s.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” I said.

“No, it’s a good idea. Until you figure this all out you’re never going to get on with your life.”

We walked up the road. It’s hard to move silently on gravel, but we tried. Across from Queenie’s house we stopped. The bedroom light was on, a gold outline around the drawn blinds. Everything else was dark. The storm clouds blotted out the moon and the yard was black, the patrol car a large dark shape. “What’s the plan?” said Tom.

“I want to see if he’s in there. Now be quiet. And follow me.”

I crouched down, ran up the side of the yard to the house, pushing myself flat against the garage. Tom was right behind me. I mouthed,
Let’s go round back.
We stayed close to the wall, bent at the waist. We continued along the wall until we were behind the house near a window. We crouched to our knees. I could hear Tom’s heart in his chest. He whispered, “Are you OK?”

I brought my index finger to my lips. I wanted to listen. At first I couldn’t hear anything. Then sounds of someone moving about, a door closing, a piece of furniture being dragged. I heard footsteps, then a second pair. Someone said, “Have everything?”

I waved to Tom,
Let’s go.
We crouched back along the wall until we were beside the garage. “He’s in there,” I said.

“What do you want to do?”

“Ring the doorbell. Act casual. We don’t want to startle them.” We made our way along the front of the house until we were on the concrete porch. I rang the doorbell. No answer. I rang again. Eventually, “Yes?”

“Officer Alton?”

He opened the door. “Jordan. Hi. Queenie said you stopped by. I didn’t realize you were coming back.”

“Do you have a second?”

Alton was blocking the door, his hand tight on the frame as if prepared to fight off an assault. “This really isn’t a good time.”

“That’s the thing. This can’t wait. I mean, you said to call if anything came up. And something’s come up.”

His lips twisted. “All right.” He led us into the living room, turning on a floor lamp and pointing to the sofa. “So what’s up?”

“You’re about to leave town and I want to know why.”

Tom looked at me like I was crazy. But Alton stayed cool. “Jordan, what’s gotten into you?”

“Why are you sneaking off?”

He laughed once. He was sitting in a recliner with his legs open, relaxed but engaged, like he was watching a ball game on tv.

“I know what I know,” I said.

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you.” He slapped his hands together. “I’m not going anywhere. And even if I were, what would that have to do with you?”

“I don’t know, but I know it does.”

“You’re free to think whatever you want.” He stood, moved to the door. Nothing threatening, more like a party host who has grown weary of his guests.

“You told me to call if I needed you. Well, I need you. Actually, I need the Prophet. I need to see him. And something makes me think you’re about to skip town with him.”

Alton froze, then cocked his head. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes.”

Tom stepped forward. “He’s just trying to help his mom.”

“I see,” said Alton. “OK, why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s going on. You’re right: I was going to see the Prophet tonight. I’ll tell him anything you want.”

So I told him my theory about my dad’s latest wife, why I needed to find out who he was about to marry. When I finished I sat back on the couch. Alton looked bewildered. “You’re quite the sleuth,” he said. “That’s some deduction work. Well, I’ll tell you, I’ll find out what you want to know. I’ll go call him now.”

Alton went into the garage. Tom shrugged. “That went all right.”

A minute later Alton said, “Guys? Come on in here with me, OK?”

He stood in the door, his finger on the trigger of a semiautomatic. It was such a shocking sight—an off-duty police officer with a dumb-dude smile and a thick, muscled body one or two years away from fat standing in his socks aiming the muzzle of a gun. At me. It wasn’t happening. That’s all I said: “This isn’t happening.”

“What’s going on?” said Tom.

“Don’t say anything. Just come in here.” We were too dumbfounded to get up from the couch. “I’m not joking. Get up. Now…. That’s right. And don’t try anything. Stay apart, just come on in here. Move slow and keep your hands up, that’s right, just like that.”

“Officer Alton,” I said.

“Nope. Don’t say a word.”

Tom gave it a try. “Please, we really don’t want—”

“Shut up. Right now. No more talking.”

“Does Queenie know what you’re doing?”

“I said shut up.”

When we were in the garage, he pointed the muzzle at Tom. “You, Boyfriend. You see that?” He waved the gun at a loop of laundry line. “Take it down and tie him up.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Tie him up.”

“I don’t know how.”