Choke (7 page)

You think you’re so smart because you worked in a library and have a vocabulary.
Immy looked daggers at her mother, but the exasperating woman, propped with all the available pillows on the motel bed, had turned back to the show. Immy threw the book onto the plastic laminated desk and retreated to the bathroom to think.

“Don’t slam the door,” Hortense called.

Immy clicked it shut, then plopped onto the side of the tub and tried to think what to do next. Someone must have cleaned the bathroom recently. The smell of disinfectant stung her nostrils. She tore off a strip of toilet paper and wiped the drip from the tip of her nose.

What did criminals do when they were on the lam? Except she wasn’t a criminal, but the law thought she was, and her mother, too. Maybe, just maybe, Hortense
was
one.

A protective feeling stole over Immy, sort of a maternal warmth, toward Hortense. For all her feelings of superiority—and Immy didn’t doubt her mother considered herself superior to her daughter—it seemed Hortense was defenseless in this particular situation. This occurrence was highly unusual. Hortense had no experience dodging the law and being on the run. Of course, Immy didn’t either, but she thought she might be able to figure out how to survive under the radar, having gotten this far. Her mother would never be able to do that.

Their motel hideout in Cowtail seemed perfect. No one knew where they were, even what town they were in. No one would find them here. If Immy could avoid being spotted when she went out to get food, they could stay here indefinitely. That thought led to her thinking about buying food. Food took money. When they ran out of money, they would be in trouble. How to get more money? Immy wondered if she could learn how to rob banks or maybe All Sips stores. People did it all the time. It couldn’t be that hard. She would need a better disguise, though. She swiped at her nose with a new wad of toilet paper.

“Imogene, come in here!” Mother sounded like she was alarmed at something.

She flew out of the bathroom, banging the door against the thin plaster wall. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Her mother pointed to the TV screen. “Look, it’s Xenia Blossom.”

Sure enough, a picture of the waitress who had quit over the bottom-pinching incident filled the screen.

“She was in a catastrophic collision,” said Hortense.

Immy dropped her wad of toilet paper to the floor.

They listened to the news report, which said Xenia had been involved in a car-combine crash outside Saltlick.

“It appears Blossom’s car, traveling at a high rate of speed, rear-ended the slow-moving combine, an older model John Deere. The passenger in Blossom’s vehicle and the driver of the combine were not harmed. Our information says that the damage to the stricken vehicle is said to be minor.”

The news moved on to the upcoming bond election.

“What was a combine doing on the road this time of year?” said Immy. “There’s nothing to harvest this early in the spring.”

“It’s that Pinkley boy,” said Hortense. “They gave his name just before you got here. He bought a used one to rent out. I talked to his mama in the grocery store about a week ago. He was taking it home from the secondhand John Deere dealer. I hope it’s not damaged irreparably.”

“They said the damage was minor. What did they say about Xenia?”

“She’s in the hospital, unconscious. They interviewed Cathy for about three seconds. She said she was at the window at the front of the Kut and Kurl and saw Xenia rush out of the restaurant and hasten to her car where she accelerated toward the highway.”

“She peeled out, you mean.”

“That is precisely the way Cathy verbalized it. Her car squealed around the corner to get over to the highway, she said.”

“Cathy was on TV? I’ll bet she liked that.”

“Imogene, the woman is unconscious.”

“Cathy, too?”

Hortense’s bosom heaved with her heavy sigh. “Xenia is unconscious. But why was she in the restaurant? Xenia, not Cathy. Did she think she had to be working today?”

“She quit, Mother. She quit the same day I did. I was telling the truth about that. So, no, probably not. Maybe she hadn’t heard the news about Uncle Huey.”

“Poor Hugh. He lost you and Xenia the same day. He was going to be shorthanded. How could you do that to him?”

Poor Hugh! What about poor Imogene?

“The only clue they seem to have,” said Hortense, “is a footprint. It seems a portion of the sausage that protruded from Hugh’s orifice retained an imprint of footwear.”

“A footprint? What kind?”

“They showed it on the television screen. It looked like the imprint of a cowboy boot, with the shape of the ball of the foot and the narrow heel. There was some sort of squiggle at the edge of the heel.”

“Well, that’s not a good clue. Half of Saltlick wears cowboy boots. Let’s think about this. Detectives make lists. Let’s make a list.”

“A list of what?”

“Um, suspects, I think.”

Immy’s mother brightened at that. “That is a decent idea, Imogene.” She swung her feet over the side of the bed and leaned toward Immy eagerly, setting her round elbows on her rotund knees. “Yes. I did not kill Huey, we know that, so someone else did. Good thinking, Imogene. Let’s cogitate to figure out who did actually kill him.”

“OK.” Immy drew columns on a piece of motel stationery and headed one Suspects. “Should I put you down because the cops think you’re good for it?”

“I’m not a suspect to us, just to the police. Whom do we suspect?”

Immy shrugged. Her pen hovered over the first column. If she had colored pens she could put her mother down in one color and the other suspects in another. She looked at her mother. Her mother looked back at her.

“Someone wearing cowboy boots,” said Hortense.

“I’ll write ‘male Population of Saltlick.’ Oh, some females, too, right?” Immy’s pen, however, remained still.

“Don’t be mouthy, Imogene. We know that someone killed him. He wouldn’t choke himself on frozen sausage,” said Hortense.

“Frozen sausage. That’s a clue. So someone had to know where to get the sausage. It had to be someone who worked at the restaurant.”

“No, not of a necessity.” Hortense shook her head slowly and tapped a chubby forefinger on her lower lip. “Hugh could have just procured the sausage from the walk-in prior to the time when the murderer arrived.”

“Maybe the murder brought it with him.”

Hortense stared at Immy. “The murderer did not bring frozen sausage with him. People don’t carry frozen sausage around. It was a, what do they call it a weapon of?”

“A weapon of opportunity?” That had been in her
Compleat
book.

Immy thought she saw a glint of admiration in her mother’s eye. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”

“Does this tell us who murdered Uncle Huey?” asked Immy.

“No, but it makes me hungry, talking about sausage. Where’s the nearest pizza place? What is that toilet tissue doing on the carpet?”

* * *

HORTENSE FINISHED LICKING THE LAST of the mozzarella cheese from her fingers, wiped them delicately on one of the brown napkins that had come with the pizza and soda, and took up the TV remote.

“Back to our list?” asked Imogene. “I think I know who a good suspect is.”

Her mother looked at Immy with genuine interest. “Pray tell.”

“Xenia. I’m putting her down.”

“I thought she quit Hugh’s employ and left well before the crime was committed.”

“She could have come back. In fact, if she did murder Uncle Huey, she might have left incriminating evidence behind. She might have been there today to get it. Anyway, I’ve seen her wear cowgirl boots. I need to interview her.”

“It will, I surmise, be a difficult interrogation. She’s unconscious in the hospital.”

That was true. Even if she regained consciousness, she was in a sort of public place where Immy would be recognized if she tried to go there to grill her.

Her mother found a channel she wanted and set the remote beside her on the bed. Immy moved from the bed to the chair at the desk, where she had left her two reference books. It was becoming more and more clear to Immy that she needed good disguises. She turned to the index of her
Moron’s Compleat
book.

“It’s here,” she crowed. “Disguises is listed as a topic.”

Her mother picked up the remote, muted the television and frowned. “Imogene, for cryin’ out loud. Disguises
are
listed.”

“Mother, there is an entry called ‘Disguises’ in the index.”

“Oh.” Hortense put the volume back on.

The text was disappointing, however. It listed sunglasses and hats as good disguises. Immy thought she would need a little more than that. What about wigs? She turned to the
Criminal Pursuits
book.

“Wow, it’s here, too.” Her second book turned out to be much more helpful. It suggested a wig, large sunglasses, which would be good, moles or beauty marks, and a fat suit, which it said was optional. “Good thing it’s optional,” muttered Immy, “because I don’t know what it is.” She flipped the page and read on. Further suggestions were to use an accent, change posture, use high heels, if female, to change height, and stay in the shadows whenever possible. Immy thought high heels, if male, might work, too, to disguise gender. Aha, she had thought of something the hotshot author hadn’t.

There was a costume shop in Wymee Falls, but she wasn’t sure she could get there and back without being spotted. She had gotten the pizza in Cowtail, a block away, by walking there and back, but she would have to drive to the costume shop. If the cops were on the lookout for her van, or if they’d set up roadblocks, she was sunk. She wished she knew someone who could tell her if the police had her plate number on a lookout list.

She wanted to call the costume shop to see if they had what she wanted, but she was afraid the call would be traced. She would just have to visit the place. What choice did she have? She would wait until after dark, then sneak into Wymee Falls and hope the costume shop had her equipment and was still open.

It was about seven. Darkness wasn’t complete yet, but the spring dusk was gathering when Immy inched open the door of the motel room and peeked out. A steady stream of traffic droned by on the highway out front, but no one left the hard road and drove to the back of Cowtail’s Finest. Looking out for people, she cleared the area to her left, but when she looked to her right, she saw Baxter Killroy come out a nearby door and stroll toward her. Too late to duck back into the room. He had spied her.

“Imogene.” He smiled. That lazy, sexy smile. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“Sh!” She edged out and closed the door behind her. “No one knows I’m here.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the TV. The cops are looking for you and your mother.”

He didn’t look like he was going to turn her in. She needed to make sure, though. “Baxter, I’m desperate. I need a favor.”

He stuck his hand on the wall beside her and leaned close. “Anything, babe. Shall we go inside?” He tilted his cowboy hat toward the door of her room.

“No, no I don’t think so.” Immy hadn’t been sure her mother would approve of her driving into town and exposing herself to danger, so she had waited until Hortense fell asleep. Bringing Baxter in would be sure to awaken her. Then her trip might be much harder to make.

“Why not?” Baxter said.

“I think, I think it’s better not to go in.”

Baxter straightened up and stared at her. “You have someone in there?”

“Well….”

“Little Imogene has a guy in her room?” He looked shocked but amused.

OK, let him think that, but what a dolt. Couldn’t he figure out she would have her mother with her? And, hey, she wasn’t that little.

“Baxter, please don’t tell anyone you saw me here. Can you do that for me?”

He took a moment to think. “If you don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

“Fine.” Maybe he could be even more helpful. She thrust her list at him. “Could you possibly pick these things up for me at the costume shop?”

“I was headed into the city just now. I guess I could.” He squinted at the piece of paper in the dying light. “You want a blond wig and sunglasses? Hats?”

“Big ones. Big sunglasses and big hats. Regular-sized wig.”

He kept reading. “What’s a fat suit?”

“If they don’t have it, don’t get it. See if they have beauty marks, though. I’d appreciate it so much.”

He leaned toward her again. “How much?”

“Let’s wait and see.” She tried a vampy little smirk. If he still thought there was another guy in the room when he returned, she would figure out what to do next. Maybe she could tip him, and they’d be square.

“Let’s not wait,” said Baxter as he slipped one hand to the small of her back and pulled her in tight. Before Immy could squeal, his mouth was on hers, and sparks were flying. They flew from Baxter’s lips to hers, through her veins, her muscles, reaching every part of her body. The kiss was intense but short. As suddenly as he had grabbed her, he released his hold and sauntered away.

She watched his cute little Wrangler-ed butt disappear into the door he’d come from, waited for her heartbeat and her breath to return to normal, then stole back into her room, grateful she didn’t have to brave Wymee Falls until she had disguises.

Mother wasn’t asleep after all. “Imogene, I don’t think I can wear these pants another day,” said Hortense, raising her voice over the television volume. The vermillion polyester was starting to take on a brownish cast.

“Well, now, do you have any other pants with you?” Immy tried to do the sarcastic one-eyebrow lift, but she suspected they both went up, as they usually did.

“Can you not creep back into our house surreptitiously and obtain some of my clothing under the cover of darkness?”

She didn’t know if she could or not, but a good PI should be able to do a B and E on her own home. She could probably get back to Cowtail’s Finest by the time Baxter returned with the goods.

* * *

THE B AND E DIDN'T TURN OUT to be all that easy. The plan was to park outside town and walk in. Saltlick was such a small town, the distance from the edge of it to their trailer wasn’t far. Since it was almost eight and getting dark, if she were careful, no one would spot her.