The Red Hot Fix (37 page)

Mort needed to keep the woman on the porch alive. “You won’t hear anything from me.”

Trixie smoothed her skirt and headed to the door. Mort listened and willed his dinner date a fast move to safety.

“You’re right on time.” Trixie’s pleasant chirp belied anything out of the ordinary. “You must be … let’s see, who did Mort say? Peggy is it? Peggy Denise?”

“That’s me.” Mort heard her pleasant response and struggled against his restraints. “And you’re …?”

“I’m Edie’s cousin Doreen. From Stockton. Don’t tell me Mort’s never mentioned me?”

“Not really. Are you up for a visit?” Peggy sounded relaxed.

“Just this afternoon. Surprised him on my way to Vancouver for a conference.” The ease of Trixie’s lies sickened Mort. “But I guess you could say the surprise was on me. I’m here less than an hour and my poor cousin gets hauled away by the cops.”

“What happened?” Peggy’s relaxation turned to alarm.

“You haven’t heard? That serial killer … what’s her name? The one who killed all those hooker customers?”

“Trixie?”

“Yeah. That’s the one,” Trixie said. “She’s flown the coop. Escaped. Mort and I are sitting here one minute having a cup and bringing each other up to date on family drama, and the next thing I know, some guy and a dog pull up in a police car.”

“That would be Jimmy.”

Trixie was as calm as a July breeze. “That’s him. Great dog. Anyway, Mort tells me to relax till I have to drive north, hops in the squad car, and off they go. Asks me to send along his regrets. Says he’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Oh, my,” Peggy said. “Well, I’m sure if anyone can fix this, it’s him. I guess I’m on my own, then. It was lovely to meet you. Enjoy your conference.”

Mort heard steps cross the porch and the front door close. A few moments passed before Trixie joined him in the kitchen.

“She’s a looker, I’ll give her that.” Trixie smiled. “A bit young for you, wouldn’t you say? You like ’em that young, maybe you and I have a future.” Her taunt held no humor. “How
about that? You and me riding off into the sunset. Would that be a good end for our movie?”

Mort inhaled hard against the duct tape across his chest, hoping for a slight loosening, but there was no chance for release. He tried to pull his legs away from the chair and was met with the same iron refusal. He braced himself for what he knew would come next.

“Thank you for letting her go.” Perhaps appreciation would slow her mayhem. “She’s a friend.” He paused. “A dear friend. I’m grateful to you for not hurting her.”

Trixie stepped in front of him. “I did you a favor.” Her merry laughter underscored her insanity. “You should see yourself. You’re a mess. No woman as pretty as her would step out to dinner with a fella in your condition.” She cupped a hand under his chin and gently turned his head first left, then right. “You think maybe we should clean you up a bit?”

Was there a way to leverage her lunacy? Mort huffed out a resigned gust. “I don’t think a mirror would be my friend about now.” He looked up at her with his best appreciative pose. “I underestimated you. I know that. You give better than you get, that’s for damn sure.”

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Mort twisted his swollen lips in a semblance of a smile. “I ground your face into the gravel that day. Gave you a pretty good road rash. I got a hunch my face is more than repaying that misstep.”

Trixie’s eyes went wide. “So you get it, huh? I thought I was being subtle.” She shook her head and clucked. “You ready with that apology?”

He shrugged as much as a duct-taped mummy could. “Tell you what. I’ll trade you one drink of water for the finest apology you’ve ever heard.”

Her eyes narrowed in distrust.

“You deserve it,” he added. “I mean that. And my mouth is dry as a desert.”

“Doesn’t change what’s going to happen here.” She kept suspicious eyes on him.

Mort gave a slow nod. He knew there was only one ending for Trixie’s twisted movie. “I get that. But still, you’re owed your apology. And I’d love one last drink of cool water.”

She stood undecided for several long moments. “If it’s any consolation, I want you to know it pains me we’re in Act Three. You’re the closest I’ve had to a real adversary. It would have been fun to play with you some more.”

“I appreciate that.” He wondered if he was speaking to insanity or evil. He tilted his head in supplication. “Now, about that water …”

Trixie turned to the cabinets. She opened one and found plates and bowls. As she moved to a second, a splintering roar blew open the door separating the kitchen from the garage. Trixie stumbled back. Mort heaved his weight to the left and threw himself, still welded to the chair, to the floor.

Lydia burst into the kitchen and rammed the long wooden handle of Mort’s
sledgehammer deep into Trixie’s stomach. She doubled over. Lydia grabbed Mort’s service revolver from Trixie’s exposed waist and fired two shots into the serial killer’s head. Blood sprayed across cheery yellow walls and crisp white curtains. Mort’s ears rang and the acrid stink of gunpowder stung the air. Trixie dropped into a widening pool of red, her dead eyes staring at him across Edie’s kitchen floor.

It had taken less than three seconds.

Lydia grabbed a knife from the block. One quick slice released his right arm. She pulled it free, shoved his service revolver into his hand, positioned his finger on the trigger, and fired another two shots into Trixie’s body.

The Fixer was a pro.

“You’ll need residue on your hands.” She heaved him up to a sitting position and started pulling.

Mort squirmed as she peeled tape off his legs and shoulders. “You okay, Lydia?”

Her face was frigid resolution. She tossed the last of the duct tape aside and surveyed his bloodied face. “God, you’re a mess.”

He stretched his arms and legs before standing. “So I’m told.” He set his revolver on the counter. “You okay?” he repeated.

She stepped cautiously, careful to avoid the spreading pool of Trixie’s blood. “Give me a five-minute lead. Concoct a story to explain how you were able to get the drop on Trixie. Make it good.”

“Stay, Lydia. You’re the hero here.” He reached out, but she stepped away from him.

She shook her head. “People start looking, Mort. I can’t have anyone other than you knowing Lydia Corriger used to be Peggy Denise Simmons. It’s too enticing. Somebody could get as lucky as you did. They might figure out that Peggy became Lydia and Lydia became The Fixer.”

Mort knew she was right. He hoped she heard the gratitude in his voice. “Thank you.”

She inhaled deeply. “Five minutes,” she repeated. “Then call Jimmy. And get yourself to a hospital. I’ll call you tomorrow and see how you’re doing, if that’s all right.”

“More than all right.” He watched her cross to the front door. “Lydia?”

She turned to him.

“There’s nobody I’d rather have next to me on a day like today.”

She straightened her shoulders. “It’s what I do. I fix things.”

And she was gone.

T. E. W
OODS
is a clinical psychologist in private practice in Madison, WI. Her odd hobby of conjuring devious ways to murder people has her friends wishing she’d take up knitting. Learn more at
TEWoodsWrites.com
.

Olympia

It should have been locked. Lydia Corriger looked up and down the residential side street and saw no movement through the chilling December rain. The porch was wet with footsteps that weren’t hers. She pulled her Beretta out of her pocket, clicked off the safety, and pushed the door open.

She knew better. Never enter a situation without full control.

But she’d been in a hurry.

Lydia stepped into the small foyer. Soggy footprints directed her right, into the living room. She held her gun to her side and stepped across an old oriental rug. She stood in the middle of the space and listened. She was met with nothing but the low-level buzz of an empty house.

She entered the kitchen. Remnant odors of bacon and coffee lingered in the air. She touched the half-filled carafe in the coffeemaker. Barely warm. Whoever made the pot hadn’t touched it for at least an hour. The back door overlooked an empty driveway. She reached for the doorknob. Locked.

Lydia circled left, past an empty powder room and a cluttered office across from a polished wooden staircase. She glanced back down the hall toward the front door. She placed her left foot on the far side of the first stair and brought her right foot to the opposite end. Until she was sure the entire house was empty, she didn’t want to reveal her presence with a creaky step to the center. She mounted the half flight without a sound, turned on the landing to begin the full climb to the second story, and saw the body. One leg protruded over the uppermost steps, the other bent to the side.

I know those old man shoes. I told him he was too young for wingtips
.

Lydia scrambled up the stairs, not bothering to stifle her scream.

“Mort!”

Seattle, six weeks earlier

Lydia tightened the twine around yet another bundle of newspapers and tossed it onto the pile growing next to Mort’s open garage door. “Five more minutes. Then I’m going to take my aching muscles back down to Olympia.”

Mort looked up from a box of screws and bolts. “I’m on a deadline here, Liddy. House sold faster than I thought it would. I have to be out of here in thirty days.”

“My hunch is Micki’s got a spreadsheet of assignments for every cop in Seattle.” She stretched her back. “You’ll be fine.”

“Still, I appreciate you coming by.” Mort wiped his hands and motioned her over to the picnic bench. He poured two glasses of iced tea, took a drink, and pointed to an enormous rhododendron hiding the fence. “I won’t miss that son of a bitch. It wasn’t knee-high when Edie and Robbie planted it on his tenth birthday. Now look at the damned thing. It’s a quiet green giant now, but I’m raking pink petals for a month when it’s shedding.”

Lydia lifted her face to the warm October sun. “Does it help to focus on things you won’t miss?”

“Ever the shrink, huh?” Mort eyed the back of the house he’d lived in for nearly twenty-seven years and ached to see Edie come through that back door one more time, carrying two beers and smiling, telling him that the kids were finally asleep. He shook the image clear. “This is a family joint. Let the house have what it needs.”

“But a houseboat? Are you sure?” she asked.

“The only yard work tossing tuna to the sea lions? Yeah, I’m sure.”

“What about your workshop?” Lydia nodded toward the house. “You gotta have ten thousand dollars’ worth of saws and sanders and who knows what else down there.”

Mort would miss the smell of freshly cut wood, the satisfaction of sliding stain with the perfect touch to make the grain in a straight piece of cedar sing. “Robbie’s new place has plenty of room. He’s always had an itch for building.”

“Still, that floating conclave down on Lake Union.” She sounded doubtful. “Can you be happy anchored alongside tech millionaires and corporate moguls?”

“I’ll bet I’m the only civil servant in the hood.” He looked again to his back door. “I can’t believe what JoAnne got for this place. It’s the only way I could afford the houseboat. Reward
for staying put, I guess.”

The two of them sipped their tea in the silence of the golden afternoon.

“There’s a whole crew coming tomorrow to pack me up,” Mort said. “You could come back.”

Lydia looked back over the yard. “You want me to take a cutting from that rhodie? I’ll plant it at my place. You could visit it any time you want. I’ll even let you rake up the blossoms for old times’ sake.”

Mort ignored her dodge. “Micki and Jimmy will be here.” He kicked at the grass. “Opportunity to meet some new folks.”

Lydia was quiet. “I already know enough people. I just wanted to help with your move.”

“You can’t do this forever, you know.”

Lydia’s shoulders straightened. “What do you mean?”

Mort’s tone was serious. “Punish yourself. Isolate yourself. Whatever the hell it is that you’re doing by closing off from everyone. You haven’t practiced psychology in nearly two years. You needed to heal from that bullet, sure, but that was a while ago.” He ran a hand across the thin white scar Trixie’s dance with Edie’s fillet knife had left on his cheek. “And I’ll always appreciate you were in the saving-my-ass business a few months back. But you’ve been doing a whole lot of nothing since you left Whidbey Island.”

“I keep busy.” Her tone warned him to back off.

He wanted to reach out and touch her. Reassure her he had her best interest motivating him. But he knew she found no comfort in the feel of human skin.

“You need social contact, Liddy.” He was mindful to keep his tone soothing. “We all do.”

Her eyes narrowed. “With all due respect, Mort, you have no idea about my needs.”

“I’m sure I don’t.” Mort leaned forward. “But I know about loneliness. It’ll eat at you until you’re sick to the bone. When’s the last time you saw that coffee shop guy? Oliver, right? Bring him tomorrow. We’re going to the Crystal for burgers after the packing’s done. Could be fun.”

Lydia focused her attention on the rhododendron Mort was so eager to leave behind. “I appreciate your concern, Mort. And again I mean no disrespect, but how I spend my time is up to me.”

“Is it, Liddy?” He needed her to understand. “I have more than a passing interest in your activities.”

Lydia stood and walked a few paces away. She wrapped her arms tight around her waist and kept her back to him. Mort wondered if it was guilt or fear that had her defenses so high.

“I wonder.” Her voice was cold and clipped. “Is it a good idea for us to be in any contact
at all? I appreciate your concern.” She spun to face him. “But I’m long past the need for Daddy and I’m too old to be babysat.”