I parked out in front of Selma’s, snagged my duffel, and hurried to the front porch, head bent, shoulders hunched as though to avoid the combination of blowing rain and biting snow. I knocked politely, shifting impatiently from foot to foot until she opened the door. We exchanged the customary chitchat as I stepped into the foyer and dried my feet on a rag rug. I shrugged off my leather jacket and eased out of my shoes, conscious of the pristine carpet. The house was toasty warm, hazy from the cigarette smoke sealed into the winterproofed rooms. I shivered with belated relief at being out of the cold. I padded after Selma, who showed me to the guest room. “Take whatever time you need to freshen up and get settled. I cleared some space in the closet and emptied a drawer for your things. I’ll be out in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on supper. You know your way around, but don’t hesitate to holler if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
Once the door closed behind me, I surveyed the room with dismay. The carpet here was hot pink, a cut-pile cotton shag. There was a four-poster bed with a canopy and a puffy, quilted spread of pink-and-white checked gingham. The same fabric continued in the dust ruffle and ruffled pillow shams, stacked three deep. A collection of six quilted teddy bears was grouped together in a window seat. The wallpaper was pink-and-white stripes with a floral border across the top. There was an old-fashioned vanity table with a padded seat and a pink-and-white ruffled skirt. Everything was trimmed in oversized white rickrack. The guest bath was an extension of this jaunty decorative theme, complete with a crocheted cozy for the extra roll of toilet paper. The room smelled as though it had been closed up for some time and the heat here seemed more intense than in the rest of the house. I could feel myself start to hyperventilate with the craving for fresh air.
I crossed to the window, like a hot prowl thief trying to escape. I managed to inch up the sash, only to be faced with a seriously constructed double-glazed storm window. I worked at the latches until I loosened all of them. I gave the storm window a push and it fell promptly out of the frame and dropped into the bushes below. Oops. I stuck my head through the gap and let the blessed sleet blow across my face. The storm window had landed just beyond my grasp so I left it where it was, resting in the junipers. I lowered the sash again and adjusted the ruffled curtains so the missing storm window wasn’t evident. At least, at bedtime, I could sleep in a properly refrigerated atmosphere.
Selma had urged me to freshen up and I used her advice to stall my return to the kitchen. I peed, washed my hands, and brushed my teeth, happy to occupy my time with these homely ablutions. I stood in the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror, wondering if I’d ever develop an interest in the painful process of plucking my eyebrows. Not likely. My jaw was still bruised and I paused to admire the ever-changing hue. Then I stood in the bedroom and did a quick visual scan. I removed my handgun from the duffel and hid it between the mattress and the box springs near the head of the bed. This would fool no one, but it would allow me to keep the gun close. I didn’t think it would be wise to pack a rod in this town, especially without the proper permit. Finally, there was nothing for it but to take a deep breath and present myself at the supper table.
Selma seemed subdued. Her attitude surprised me, given the fact that she’d gotten her way. I was back in Nota Lake, staying at her house, which was the last thing I wanted. “I kept everything simple. I hope you don’t mind,” she said.
“This is fine,” I said.
She took a moment to stub out her cigarette, blowing the final stream of smoke to one side. This, for a smoker, constitutes etiquette. We pulled out our chairs and took seats at the kitchen table.
Given my usual diet, a home-cooked meal of any kind is an extraordinary treat. Or so I thought before I was faced with the one she’d prepared. This was the menu: iced tea with Sweet ‘N Low already mixed in, a green Jell-O square with fruit cocktail and an internal ribbon of Miracle Whip, iceberg lettuce with bottled dressing the color of a sunset. For the main course, instant mashed potatoes with margarine and a stout slice of meatloaf, swimming in diluted cream of mushroom soup. As I ate, my fork exposed a couple of pockets of dried mashed potato flakes. The meatloaf was strongly reminiscent of something served at the Perdido County jail, where there was an entire (much-dreaded) punishment referred to as being “on meatloaf.” On meatloaf means an inmate is placed on a diet of meatloaf and two slices of squishy white bread twice a day, with only drinking water from the faucet. The meatloaf, a six-inch patty made of turkey, kidney beans, and other protein-rich filler, is served on something nominally known as gravy. Every third day the law mandates that the inmate has to be served three square meals for one day, then back to meatloaf. By comparison to Selma’s version, a simple QP with cheese came off looking like a gourmet feast. Especially since I knew for a fact she didn’t feed Brant this way.
Selma was quiet throughout the meal and I didn’t have much to contribute. I felt like one of those married couples you see out in restaurants-not looking at each other, not bothering to say a word. The minute we’d finished eating, she lit up another cigarette so I wouldn’t miss a minute of the tars and noxious gases wafting across the table. “Would you like coffee or dessert? I have a nice coconut cream pie in the freezer. It won’t take a minute to thaw. I can pop it in the microwave.”
“Golly, I’m full. This was great.”
“Are you cold? I saw you shiver. I can turn the heat up if you like.”
“No, no. Really. I’m toasty warm. This was wonderful.”
She tapped her cigarette ash on the edge of her plate. “I didn’t ask you about your fingers.”
I held up my right hand. “They’re a little stiff yet, but better.”
“Well, that’s good. Now that you’re back, what’s the plan?”
“I was just thinking about that,” I said. “I’m not sure what to make of this and I don’t want it going any further, but I think I have a line on what was bothering Tom.”
“Really?”
“After we spoke this morning, I made another phone call. Without going into any detail. . .” I paused. “I’m not even sure how to tell you this. It seems awkward.”
“For heaven’s sake. Just say it.”
“It looks like Tom suspected a fellow officer in that double homicide he was investigating.”
Selma looked at me, blinking, while she absorbed the information. She took a deep drag of her cigarette and blew out a sharp stream of smoke. “I don’t believe it.”
“I know it sounds incredible, but stop and think about it for a minute. Tom was trying to establish the link between the two victims, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, apparently he believed one of his colleagues lifted Alfie Toth’s address from his field notes. Toth was murdered shortly afterward. Toth was always on the move, but he’d just gotten out of jail and he was living temporarily in a fleabag hotel. This was the first time anyone had managed to pin him down to one location.
No one else in Nota Lake knew where Alfie Toth was hanging out except him.”
“What makes you so sure? He might have mentioned it to someone. Or someone else might have come up with the information independently,” she said.
“You’re right about that. The point is, Tom must have gone crazy thinking he played a role in Alfie’s death. Worse yet, suspecting someone in the department had a hand in it.”
“But you don’t really know,” she said. “This is just a guess on your part.”
“How are we ever going to know anything unless someone ‘fesses up? And that seems unlikely. I mean, so far this ‘someone’ has gotten away with it.”
“Who told you this?”
“Don’t worry about that. It was someone with the sheriff’s department. A confidential source.”
“Confidential, my foot. You’re making a serious allegation.”
“You think I don’t know that? Of course I am,” I said. “Look, I don’t like the idea any better than you do. That’s why I came back, to pin it down.”
“And if you can’t?”
“Then, frankly, I’m out of ideas. There is one possibility. Pinkie Ritter’s daughter, Margaret. . .”