Choke (26 page)

“Why would he do that? Guido Giovanni?”

“Yes. I hear there’s a contract out on you.”

Clem’s jovial smile creased his face for an instant with his belly laugh. “Guido? We’re old friends, go way back. We went to high school together in El Paso.”

The smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He waved the knife at her. “Come inside. Someone might see us out here.”

The cat pussyfooted up to him and rubbed against his pant leg. “Good girl, Sheba,” he said. “She saw you in the window. That’s how I knew you were here.” His voice sounded so conversational, like he was telling her he’d decided to add fried chicken to the menu.

He reached down to pet the cat, keeping the knife pointed at Immy. The blade caught the light from the window. It looked extremely long and extremely sharp.

Immy was pretty sure she shouldn’t go inside his house, but how could she avoid it? He grabbed her arm, keeping the knife-holding hand out of her reach.

“Ow!”

Could she trip him? The man was solid as a brick wall, a slightly flabby but very solid brick wall. He yanked her and shoved her in the back door, into the kitchen.

“Know what?” said Immy, clutching at something to divert him. “I’m the owner of the restaurant now.”

“Are you sure? Hortense doesn’t own it?”

“No, no, the lawyer, Braden, he says I own it. It’s in Huey’s will.”

“Huey.” Clem spat into his kitchen sink. “He was going to sell the Double D.”

Immy looked around the kitchen, hoping to see another knife somewhere, maybe a bigger one. She touched her cell again.

“I need to think about this,” Clem said.

That was good. Thinking and not stabbing was good.

“Why is your hand in your pocket? You have a cell phone in there?” He snatched her hand out of the pocket and threw her cell phone across the room. The cover came off, and the battery went flying.

“Get in the pantry.” He threw her in, and she sprawled on the floor as the door slammed shut.

He stomped away, and Immy got up from where she had fallen. It was a surprisingly big pantry with room for at least four normal people to stand. Maybe one and a half Clems would fit inside. It was dark, but her eyes adjusted after a few moments, and the light seeping under the door showed her shelves full of cans and jars and boxes on the three walls. Surely she would be able to bop him over the head with one of the giant tomato cans when he came in. OK, now, how to get him to come in?

“Clem,” she called. “I have to go potty.”

She heard his ponderous footsteps across the floor. He opened the door a crack.

Clem gave a little choke. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“Yes, yes. Everyone knows.”

He stepped inside the room, closed the door, and switched the overhead light on.

“I’ll bet no one does. You’re playing detective again, and your mother doesn’t like that. She’s told me so. I don’t think you told her you were coming here to spy on me.” He coughed again, kind of a strangling choke.

“I did, I did tell her.” Immy bobbed her head up and down. She took her sandwich out of her pocket, thinking there was something she should be remembering about Clem.

“See?” She thrust her sandwich toward him. “She made me these sandwiches.”

Not true, but she could have.

Clem’s throat gave a curious gurgle. “What…is…that?”

“A peanut butter sandwich.”

Clem dropped the knife and turned, trying to get away from her. He grasped for the door knob and missed, slumped to the floor. “Allergic…peanuts…” He thudded to the ground, clutching his throat.

Oh, yeah. Clem was allergic to peanuts.

Immy kissed the sandwich and threw it down beside his massive, writhing body. She burst out of the pantry, picked up her cell phone and put it together. Called 9-1-1. And ran like hell.

Chief Emmett Emersen and Immy sat on the green plaid couch, his shiny billed hat between them. Hortense tottered in from the kitchen, bearing a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and four glasses. Ralph Sandoval had carried in a chair from the kitchen, and Drew sat beside him on the floor, undressing the Barbie doll Ralph had brought for her.

Hortense banged the tray onto the coffee table, and after she lowered herself into the recliner, Immy poured drinks. She noticed Ralph used three sugar packets. The chief had given the four boxes from Clem’s house to them after forensics finished with them. They now had a lifetime supply of sugar and sugar substitutes.

“Clem isn’t talking,” said Chief, “even with the swelling in his throat mostly gone. I know he confessed to you, Imogene, but that won’t be enough to convict him.” He turned to face Immy. “Do you think you could convince him to come clean?”

It was Sunday afternoon. Hortense, Immy and Drew had gone to church, and Immy’s prayer of thanksgiving had been more heartfelt than ever before. They had just finished a chicken dinner when the Saltlick police had shown up.

“So you don’t have enough evidence to put him away?” she asked. “I don’t think I carry any weight with Clem. He wanted to kill me.” Immy shifted on the couch with unease at Drew’s rapt attention to the conversation.

“We don’t have hard evidence,” he said. “We do have his prints on the license and credit card he must have planted on Xenia Blossom, but a good lawyer can explain those away. There’s no way to decipher his prints on the money and checks, they’ve been handled by too many people. But he probably left those for Killroy to find, then called us and told us Killroy had them. Of course, you had them by the time we looked for them on him. We’re in the process of subpoenaing phone records and may be able to trace the anonymous calls to him.”

“On what charge are you incarcerating Clem now?” asked Hortense.

“Assault on Imogene. Two neighbors saw him threaten your daughter with a knife. One of them called a while before you did, Immy.”

“I guess I knew he was allergic to peanuts, but I didn’t think of it right then. If I’d thrown my sandwich at him when we were outside, I could have gotten away sooner.”

“He is violently allergic,” said Hortense. “Merely being in the general vicinity of your peanut butter would have made him succumb very soon, whether or not you extended it in his direction.” Hortense heaved a huge sigh. “I feel somewhat responsible. Clem’s misplaced loyalty is what got him into such trouble.”

“That and his crush on you, Mother,” said Immy.

“Unca Clem in jail?” asked Drew.

“Yes, dear,” said Hortense.

“Can we bisit him?”

“No.”

“The reason I’m here,” said the chief, “is to ask a favor of either you, Immy, or you, Hortense.” He turned to Hortense. “Do you think you could persuade him to confess?”

“He’ll do anything for you, Mother.”

Hortense gave her daughter a doleful look, then capitulated. “I surmise I could undertake such an endeavor.”

Emmett waited impatiently while Hortense stopped in the bathroom to fix her face, then they all walked out to the front yard.

Ralph and the chief had both come in the Shiny Cop Car. It rested on the valiant front yard grass, which was struggling to green up with the help of the usual frequent spring rains. The early iris Hortense had planted last year made a splashy display next to the trailer and swayed in the slight breeze.

“I’ll walk back, Chief, if you want to drive Mrs. Duckworthy to the station,” said Ralph. “It’s a nice day.”

“That’s fine,” said the chief, “but I need you there soon. Don’t dawdle.”

Ralph looked hurt that the chief would think he would dawdle. “I won’t.”

“Mommy, can we go to the pleece station with Geemaw?” asked Drew.

“Not today. Maybe another day.”

“Is she arrested again?”

Ralph laughed. “No, she’s not arrested. She’ll be home real soon.”

Drew ran back inside, probably to return to her Barbies, thought Immy.

Immy watched the chief hold the door for Hortense and drive off, thinking back to the day she had been driven to the station in the back seat. A puff of dust followed them down the road. Immy was sure Mother would be able to talk Clem into confessing. She could talk him into anything.

She realized Ralph was still standing beside her.

“Don’t dawdle, Ralph,” she said, looking up at him with a grin.

“I’m not dawdling, just need to ask you a question.” He fiddled with his hair, and his face reddened.

“Well, ask it.”

“What are you doing next Friday night?”

“I don’t know. What are you doing?”

Kaye George is a novelist and short story writer whose Agatha-nominated tale
Handbaskets, Drawers, and a Killer Cold
can be found in her collection.
A Patchwork of Stories
is available in either paperback or ebook formats.

Kaye does reviews for
Suspense Magazine
and also writes articles for newsletters and booklets.

She, her husband, and a cat named Agamemnon live together near Austin, Texas.

For more information visit www.KayeGeorge.com, or catch her at TravelsWithKay.blogspot.com, her solo blog. She joins other writers at AllThingsWriting.blogspot.com.