Bitch Factor (28 page)

A Metro bus stopped to pick up passengers, and Dixie was trapped behind it, cars speeding past in the next lane. The smell of diesel exhaust invaded the van’s cockpit.

Ryan was certainly determined to find a boyfriend for her. Apparently, dating was no longer a private matter. Personal columns in newspapers. Video dating services. Now the Internet.

She wondered if Jon Keyes had a normal dating life. Girlfriends… who would know about his girlfriends? She picked up the cell phone and punched in his office number.

“Keyes and Logan.” The receptionist’s cold sounded less nasal. Maybe she’d taken some decongestant.

“Hi, Sheri. This is Dixie Flannigan. I was in earlier today, to see Mr. Keyes. How’s the book?”

“The hero’s in jail! They think he killed a man, beat him to death with his bare hands. Can you believe that? Somebody’s framing him. I just know it! And I think it’s Joanna’s father, that old miser!”

“Must be some hunk of a man, to even be suspected of beating someone to death.”

“Strong… but gentle when he’s with Joanna.” The woman’s voice held a dreamy quality that reminded Dixie of Carla Jean.

“Speaking of hunks, I noticed Jon Keyes wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

“Nooooooo.” The girl lowered her voice. “He’s been divorced since before I came here.”

“Anybody in the wings?”

Sheri hesitated. “You know, I’ve never seen him with anybody steady. We have company dinners once or twice a year, and Jon always brings somebody different. Once he even brought his daughters, and no date at all.”

“Daughters? They don’t live with him, do they?”

“Well, I wouldn’t bring it up, if I were you. It’s really sad.” The woman told Dixie about the accidents, pretty much the same version she already knew, with one addition. “Jon had been working really hard all summer on the Zimmerman account in Austin—you know, that big new mall going in downtown—and when that poor little girl drowned, Jon just about lost it.”

They chatted for a few more minutes. Dixie managed to learn that Morey Zimmerman was the contact at Zimmerman-Fogarty Enterprises. She disconnected, then immediately dialed information for the number and spent the extra buck to have an operator make the connection.

“Mr. Zimmerman’s secretary, please. This is Sheri, from Keyes and Logan.” Dixie squinched her nostrils to sound congested. When a mature female voice came on, Dixie improvised: “We’re backtracking on some airfare overages, and I’m hoping you can verify a couple of dates for me. Would your
records show if Mr. Keyes arrived in your office as scheduled at eleven o’clock on the morning of August first? That was a Saturday.”

When Dixie disconnected a few minutes later, she had learned that Keyes arrived on time for a noon luncheon appointment with Zimmerman. Austin was about three hours from Houston by car. He’d have lost maybe forty-five minutes by detouring east to Camp Cade that morning. And on May first, he had arrived a few minutes late for the meeting scheduled at ten o’clock. Perhaps taking the 9:05 flight had been cutting it close.

She turned the van into a quiet suburban neighborhood. Live oak trees lined both sides of the street, and trimmed boxwood or Ligustrum hedges framed deep yards. Jon Keyes’ house sat in the middle of a block, architecturally distinctive. A pair of four-foot-high nutcrackers flanked the entrance, and a snow-flocked Christmas tree was visible in the living-room window.

Dixie parked at the curb and strolled to the front door as if expecting someone to be home. She rang the bell, glancing around as she waited. In this sort of neighborhood, at least one or two homeowners would be retired. She saw a white Ford Taurus parked in a driveway down the street.

After ringing the doorbell again, she rounded the house to check out the fenced backyard. The DOVER PLUMBING sign on the van would keep the neighbors from getting too anxious, as long as she didn’t set off the alarm system. Keyes had the real thing, not just a decal. In back, a swimming pool had been installed, with a child’s slide, and possibly a heating system, since the pool wasn’t covered for winter disuse. Some live oak leaves floated on the chlorine-blue water. The houses in this subdivision were twenty to thirty years old, and swimming pools were not part of the original packages. Keyes had given his house a pool along with the face-lift.

Leaving the van parked in front of Jon Keyes’ house, she walked three doors down to the house with the white Taurus. A wreath of dried pinecones and holly springs brightened the entrance. When Dixie rang the bell, it played “Frosty the
Snowman” and a tall, willowy woman of about sixty-five frowned through a sidelight before opening the door.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Beringer?” Dixie had read the name on a magazine sticking out of the wall-hung mailbox. “I’m doing some follow-up work on an accident that occurred last spring. Did you know Betsy Keyes?”

The woman sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes, of course.”

“Do you recall if Betsy had any close friends here in the neighborhood? Other children her age? Or perhaps a babysitter who might have known Betsy?”

“Well, yes. The Gilbert child, Rona, sits for all the little ones in the neighborhood. I’m sure she sits for Mr. Keyes on occasion.”

“Rona’s what, about fourteen, fifteen?” At sixteen, kids usually went to work at McDonald’s or Wendy’s or KFC, Dixie had noticed.

“Fifteen, I believe.”

“And the Gilberts live where?”

“The two-story blue house on the corner.”

“Thank you.” Dixie turned to leave.

“I certainly hope the drunk who murdered that child is going to be put away long enough to teach him a lesson.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Gilbert house had toys in the yard and a bicycle parked beside the front door. A basketball hoop was mounted over the garage door. Dixie rang the bell and wasn’t surprised when a teenage girl answered. Nobody’s quicker to the phone or the doorbell than a teenager.

“Rona Gilbert?”

“Yeah.” Her brown eyes widened.

“Dixie Flannigan. I’m following up on the Betsy Keyes accident. I understand you knew Betsy.”

“Yeah, sorta.”

“Do you often sit with Ellie when Mr. Keyes goes out?”

“Yeah, not often, I guess. He doesn’t go out much.”

“I suppose Betsy was old enough to sit with the younger kids… before the accident.”

The girl looked away. After a moment, she said, “Yeah, when he wasn’t going to be gone a long time.”

“What’s a long time? Did he ever stay away overnight?”

“Once, you know, when he had a meeting out of town.”

“And he left
all
the girls here?”

“Yeah.” Rona grinned. “Betsy and I stayed up all night watching videos.”

“Did Mr. Keyes ever take Betsy or one of the other girls somewhere and leave the other two with you?”

“No, well yeah. The doctor. When one was sick, I’d stay with the others.”

“Do you remember Betsy being upset about anything shortly before the accident?”

Rona’s eyes widened again. “Yeah, she was always clicking that toy thing.”

“Toy thing?”

“This thing, you know, you get at Halloween. Metal thing, and you press it and it goes
click-click
. Betsy carried it everywhere.”

“She started carrying it last Halloween?”

“Yeah. No! I don’t think I saw her with it until a long time after Halloween, after Christmas, maybe even after Easter, or some time around spring break. Yeah. I think, maybe, around spring break. Is it important?”

“Do you have any idea what Betsy was upset about?”

“Yeah, well, no. I guess she might’ve been getting hassled at school. That’s what always gets me moping around.”

“She didn’t mention any problems at home?”

“You mean with her dad? I guess he might’ve been on her case. Yeah, my dad gets on my case, I get zoned out.”

“Did Betsy’s dad get on her case often?”

“Yeah, well no. I guess, you know, like most dads—oh! There’s the phone, sorry!” The teenager glanced over her shoulder as the telephone rang again. “Mr. Keyes comes home sometimes for lunch. Maybe you can ask him.”

Dixie barely caught the last few words before the door slammed. She arrived back at the van to find Jon Keyes turning into his driveway. He jumped out of his car and shouted.

“What the hell—?”

Dixie didn’t think he’d be willing to talk about what was upsetting Betsy during the weeks before she died. Just to get his reaction, she considered asking him anyway. She was itching to confront the sonofabitch.

But his undisguised anger as he stalked toward the van suggested provoking him further would be a bad idea. And Barney had taught her to never throw a rope until it was properly looped. She didn’t want Keyes wriggling out of her lasso. Starting the engine, Dixie sketched a cheerful wave and drove away.

An hour later, after drive-thru barbecue for lunch, she found herself parked across the street from Payne Hardware. Jon Keyes hadn’t picked Dann’s name out of a hat. They must have bumped into each other somewhere before meeting that night at the Hornet, casually enough that Dann didn’t remember. After considering the acoustics in the cafe, she couldn’t imagine anyone overhearing ordinary conversation there, unless they were seated side by side at the counter. But in the hardware store, she’d had no trouble at all overhearing the banter between Travis Payne and his friend Tate.

She entered Payne Hardware to the metallic ring of a hammer hitting big-headed nails. Sawdust bit at her nostrils. Payne, jangled away from his work by the cowbell, came bouncing around the corner in his orange overalls, a big welcoming smile spread across his face.

“The copper polish lady! Hope that Tarnex worked for you.

“Actually, I haven’t used it, yet.” She scooped up one of the magnetic key holders from the basket near the register. “If I put a spare car key in one of these, where’s the best place to hide it?”

Payne didn’t even pause to consider. He must have been asked often enough to have an answer ready.

“Not on the driver’s side—first place a thief looks. Very first place. Not in a tire well, either. Too easy to feel under there without even stooping down, if you see what I mean.
Not under the hood, unless you have an external hood latch, and then not too close to the engine heat.”

“Under the front bumper, maybe?” Actually, professional car thieves never bothered searching for spare keys. They could pop a door open and have a car started in sixty seconds flat.

“Me, I’d put it on the passenger side, rear, right up on the frame.”

Dixie smiled. “Is that where yours is?”

He twinkled. “Now that’d be telling, wouldn’t it?”

She picked up a key chain with a penlight smaller than her pinkie. Cute.

“Will that be all today?” Payne asked.

“A friend said you could help me choose some fence stain.”

“Certainly! Fence stain, you say. Cedar fence? Pine? Redwood?”

“Cedar.” She had hoped he’d ask who the friend was so she could casually mention Keyes’ name. Apparently fence stain didn’t stimulate Payne’s interest as much as key holders and computers. A gallon of Barnwood Brown practically jumped in her cart without much discussion. “When I was here yesterday, I noticed you have a good selection of… baking pans.”

“One of the best cookware departments in town—Chantal, Le Creuset, Chef’s Pride. Have a brand in mind?”

“Which would you buy?” Dixie couldn’t pretend to know about cookware.

“For baking, I’d have to go with Chefs Pride, I suppose, mostly because of the variety. Let me show you…”

Leading the way to the kitchen section, he explained the difference between reflective and nonreflective baking surfaces, nonstick coatings, and the various utensil shapes. Dixie examined a bright red enamel pot with a price tag she thought had to be a typo.

“Two hundred dollars for one pot?”

Payne chuckled. “Top of the line. Some cooks won’t use
anything else. We have good brands for half the price, though.”

Dixie noticed the shelves were heavy with expensive stock. Selecting a medium-priced loaf pan, she put it in the cart. She browsed from one area to another while they talked.

“Have you been at this location long?” she asked Payne.

“Three years next week. Three good years. Bought the place after taking early retirement.”

“My neighborhood hardware store doesn’t carry nearly the variety of items you offer. What made you decide to handle housewares and decorating supplies?”

“I listen to people. Things they haven’t been able to locate, hard-to-find items, if they can get those here, they’ll shop for other items as well. Started with kitchenware. Then I built the garden center, the decorating corner, and now I’ve added the real attraction, computers.”

None of the areas he mentioned looked completed, Dixie noticed. “Must be an inventory nightmare, though.”

“No, no, no. First you set up your space. Then you add your products, then your support products. That’s where I am now, adding software and accessories.”

But he was still finishing shelves?

“Were you in the hardware business before you retired?”

“Geologist, one of those professions that suddenly got overstocked and outdated.” He laughed, his belly shaking like Saint Nick’s.

The cowbell jangled, and Rebecca Payne stormed through the door.

“I thought I recognized you. You’ve been stirring up trouble with my ex-husband.”

“Rebecca,” Travis said, “this is a customer. She’s not—”

“She’s a spy. She was at the cafe yesterday talking to Ellie. Now Jon calls asking about someone named Flannigan, the same name that’s on this card, and says he’s going to start another custody suit.” She shoved Dixie’s business card in Travis’ face.

“Custody?” Travis frowned. “Well, Ellie’s his daughter.”

“She’s
my
daughter, and he’s not taking her.” She turned
on Dixie, green eyes snapping, forefinger jabbing at Dixie’s chest. “YOU get out of here!”

“Mrs. Payne—”

“Out!”

“I’m not working for Jonathan Keyes. In fact, I wanted to ask you some questions about him—”

“Out!”

“Did Jon Keyes ever show more than a fatherly interest in your daughters?”