Retirement Plan (17 page)

Lois turned around mid-sentence and carried the ScumBuster into the kitchen.

Later, while loading the second load of laundry in the machine, Sophie smelled something familiar. The pair of jeans that Lois had tossed on top smelled of gunpowder.

*

Lois stood in a narrow aisle before the cat litter. When she was a child, they’d used dirt for the kitten they wanted to keep inside. Dirt was free. Now, before her, stacked almost to the ceiling, were thirty or forty kinds of cat litter. Certainly, with two cats, some thought was necessary.

Her lower back radiated pain, arthritis around her old shrapnel wound. She pushed a grocery cart even when she had only one or two items because she could hold on to the thing and take a little weight off her back.

A round woman with dark glasses wheeled a cart around the corner, scooped up several cans of cat food, and noisily dropped them into her cart. When Lois realized it was Myrtle Dixon she started to turn away, hoping she hadn’t been noticed. Then she realized something was wrong.

Lois let out a heavy sigh. She didn’t want to get involved in Myrtle’s drama. Sophie would have handled this better. Lois wasn’t the sentimental type. If something was hard, she cowboyed up. She didn’t cry—especially in public. Cursing beneath her breath and dragging her cart with her, Lois closed the distance between them.

“Myrtle?”

“Huh?” Myrtle looked toward her. “Oh, hi.”

“Are you crying?”

Myrtle made a honking sound as she blew her nose in an already wadded-up tissue. “I’m okay,” she said dismissively. “Just a bad day.”

Good, Lois thought; she doesn’t want to talk about it. To cheer her up, Lois said, “At our age, as long as you’re still taking care of your cat and walking upright, it’s a good day.”

Myrtle’s lips trembled, but she gave a weak smile. “That’s true.”

“If you want to find a lesbian,” Lois said, grinning, “just look in the cat aisle.”

“Maybe I should give up the Internet and just stand here in my spare time.”

Two little boys rounded the corner with their arms out like airplane wings and, making an annoying sound, flew down the aisle, brushing against a display of cat toys and knocking off several fuzzy-feathery items. Then, without stopping, they rounded the next corner.       

Lois waited. There had to be more. After a moment she prodded Myrtle. “What’s the problem?”

Myrtle burst into shoulder-shaking sobs. “I’m so lonely. It seems like every time I connect with a woman on the Internet, I get rejected.”

Lois reached into her own cart and retrieved a box of generic tissues, ripped it open, and held it out to Myrtle. “I’m sorry.”

Myrtle blew her nose again. “When I was young, I never had any problems. I had thick, dark hair and a good figure. I could have given the ex-Bunny a run for her money in those days.”

Lois wasn’t sure quite how it happened, but suddenly Myrtle was in her arms, sobbing on her shoulder. A woman with a baby in her cart started to turn in to the pet aisle, saw the two of them, and backed out.

Lois patted her back and said, “There, there.”

“Hey, lady,” came a child’s voice, “are you a man?”

The two airplanes had stopped long enough to point and giggle.

Lois looked down at her clothes. She wore baggy jeans (not stylishly baggy, but loose in the seat), scuffed tennis shoes, and an old tie-dyed T-shirt (from the days when people did that by hand, not the bright colors of today). She looked over the tops of her dark-rimmed glasses and said, “Where’s your mother?”

The younger of the two looked frightened and, with a “Waaaaannnaaa,” ran away. The older one didn’t run but coolly walked the opposite direction.  

Myrtle sniffed. “You know what I miss the most?”

“What?” Lois asked, hoping she wouldn’t say sex.

“Is everything all right here?” a red-faced, teenaged bag boy asked.

Both of them turned toward him. Lois could see why he was concerned. Myrtle’s eyes were swollen, her face was blotchy, and her hair was wilder than Lois had ever seen it.

“We’re fine,” Myrtle said.

“Ma’am, I can call the police if there’s a problem.” The kid gave Lois a hard look.

“You don’t understand,” Lois said. “My friend’s cat just died. She’s upset.”

The kid’s expression softened. “I’m so sorry. You have my condolences. I sure don’t know what I’d do if I lost my cat.”

Bravely Myrtle squared her shoulders. “Thank you.”

“I’ll just leave you two to, ah, to whatever you were doing.”

Myrtle laughed a bit. “What the hell will I do when he sees me in the cat aisle again?”

“What should I have said? That your girlfriend ran off with an ex-Bunny?”

Myrtle laughed more. This made her swollen eyes and blotchy skin look like Elvira before morning coffee. “What about all this cat food today?”

Lois shrugged. “Tell him you have a new kitten. He’ll be happy for you.”

“Before we were so rudely interrupted, I asked if you knew what I miss the most.”

Now that she was smiling, it felt safer for Lois to ask, “What?”

“Having someone to scratch my back.”

Lois could certainly relate to dry-skin problems. “Turn around.”

Myrtle didn’t hesitate.

Lois started at her shoulders and worked her way down the back of Myrtle’s T-shirt. “Sorry my fingernails aren’t longer.”

“You’re so lucky. You and Sophie never seem to have any problems,” Myrtle said over her shoulder.

Lois remembered her most recent conflict with Sophie, about Ruby coming home. “We disagree,” she admitted. “I usually just let her have her way. She’s right most of the time anyway.”

“You’re a smart woman.”

“You know what the most important thing about Sophie has turned out to be?” Lois didn’t wait for Myrtle to answer. “Companionship.”

Myrtle sighed and faced Lois. “Thanks, my back feels better.”

“You have a lot of friends and people who care about you,” Lois said. “Reach out to some of them. Let them help you. Have dinner or go to a movie. You’ll probably find Miss Right just when you least expect it.”

A short time later Lois stood behind Myrtle in the only open checkout lane. She heard the checker (a thin woman in an oversized smock) say, “Sammy told me your cat died. I’m so sorry. We get to where our pets are like our children, don’t we?”

Lois eyed her and wondered if the woman was a lesbian. She couldn’t imagine a straight woman saying that.

As the woman scanned twelve cans of cat food, she asked, “Are you getting another cat?”

Myrtle, caught up in the deception, said, “A kitten. I’m looking for a kitten.”

The cashier pointed with her chin toward the exit. “Bulletin board over there, someone’s giving away kittens.”

As Lois was swinging the bag of cat litter up onto the checkout counter, she saw Myrtle looking at the bulletin board.

*

Sophie folded the jeans, put the rest of the dark clothes in the washing machine, and went into the kitchen. She tossed them on the table at Lois’s place, poured herself a glass of iced tea, and sat down to wait.

When Lois finally trudged in, Sophie had imagined a thousand things, none of which made sense. Lois was humming as she set a bag on the counter. “Guess who I ran into at the store?” Then she was standing over the table. “What’s this?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

Lois picked up the jeans. “These are mine. What’s wrong, the zipper broke or something?”

“Smell them.”

Lois’s brows furrowed. She lifted the jeans from the table, then, with a knowing look, put them down. She pulled out a chair and sat. “Is there any more tea?”

Sophie started to rise, then fell back. “Get it yourself.”

Lois swallowed and remained seated.

When Sophie spoke again, her voice trembled. “What’s going on, Lo?”

Lois shrugged.

“Is it target practice? Did you take the Jumper job and forget to mention it?”

Except for the thumping of the spin cycle in the next room, the kitchen was quiet. After a moment, Lois said, “I was protecting Ruby.”

“How?”

Lois pulled off her heavy glasses, looked downward, and rubbed her forehead with her three middle fingers.

Sophie stood, jerked a glass from the cabinet, and went to the fridge. She set the tea on the table in front of Lois a little too hard.

Lois said, “Thanks.” Blade, their fat male cat strolled into the kitchen and sat watching them. He rarely followed either of them around, but when they were both in the same room, he always showed up. Lois watched him nuzzle her leg. Then, without looking up, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“Not so fast.” Sophie was still angry. “Tell me what you did.”

Lois sipped the cold tea. “Last week, I found money missing from my wallet…”

Sophie listened and resisted the urge to interrupt. The muscles in the back of her neck tightened. By the time Lois finished, the washing-machine cycle had completed and the house was silent.

Sophie said, “This was the shooting at that old hotel downtown?”

Lois nodded.

“Don’t you think Ruby will have to learn how to deal with these problems herself?”

“You’re right,” Lois said. “But she seems so vulnerable, and I really think she’s trying to do right. I just wanted to do what any mom would. You know, help her out.”

“Not many mothers would eliminate the problem with an M-16. Wasn’t that a bit extreme?”

“Yeah.”

Sophie’s anger drained, but an unsettled feeling replaced it. Those damn baby- blue eyes. Lois could seem so strong and tough, but Sophie believed she could see into her heart through those eyes. “I don’t believe you’ve ever lied to me.”

Lois smiled weakly. “A time or two about your permanent wave.”

“You’ve deceived me. I don’t like it. I might have come to the same conclusion, given all we’ve been through with Ruby. But you didn’t give me a chance.”

“I’m sorry.” Lois reached for Sophie’s hand. “I didn’t want you to talk me out of it.”

“This killing didn’t bother you?”

“It’s getting easier.”

Later Sophie told herself that she shouldn’t have been surprised. Just like the business with underpants and toothbrushes, Lois did what she saw fit. “So who did you see at the store?”

“Myrtle. I swear, that woman is coming apart.”

Sophie thought, but didn’t say, how could Myrtle’s problems be any crazier than ours?

Chapter Twelve

Tia Johnson popped up with a warrant. She’d been released from Dwight and walked away from a halfway house after a violation two months ago. Her autopsy revealed that she’d been shot with a high-caliber weapon. The trajectory of the bullet was hard to determine, but the only location that made sense was the roof of the senior-citizen housing unit across the street. CSI had gone through the upper rooms that faced the St. Peter’s Hotel as well as the rooftop across the street and looked for other evidence. While the residents were interested in the investigation, a search of the building had yielded very little. The only way to the roof was up a dark, narrow stairway. The door wasn’t locked, evidently because none of the seniors ever tried to climb those stairs. They didn’t find prints or a casing up there.

But in Tia Johnson’s reeking fourth-floor apartment, Rachel managed to dig the bullet out of the wooden bottom of a doorframe. Ballistics connected this bullet to the other sniper killings, including both of the ones in Indiana. Of course, the bullet that killed Jon Woods had never been found. The people the homicide detectives had talked to in the hotel the day of Johnson’s murder claimed they’d seen nothing. No one had heard the shot—with one exception.

As Morgan had been leaving the building the day of the discovery, a uniform directed her attention to one old guy in the lobby who’d been watching the foot traffic in and out of the building. “I think he knew the dead woman, but he talks in circles. Do you want me to take him downtown for an interview?”

“Let me have a run at him first,” Morgan said. “He may just want someone to talk to. If he seems to have something, we can take him in. If not, we’re wasting our time.”

The uniform nodded. “I’ll be covering the door to the lobby. Let me know.”

Morgan approached the man and he motioned for her to sit. The lobby of the St. Peter’s was reminiscent of a time when rooms had been expensive and lavish. Now the once-lush carpet was threadbare in high-traffic areas, and the upholstered lobby chairs had been replaced by low ones with red-vinyl cushions taped in several cracked places. As Morgan sat, she heard a soft whoosh of air. She extended her right hand. “I’m Detective Holiday.”

The old guy wore dress pants with suspenders and a white Polo shirt. Morgan caught a whiff of shaving lotion. The four cigars in his shirt pocket were still in cellophane, and sections of a newspaper lay folded in his lap.

“Nice to meet you, Detective. Name’s Rex Griffin.” He pumped her hand, then asked, “Was it that woman from 4A they just rolled out? Jesus, the stench.”

Morgan pulled a pen from behind her ear and opened her notepad. She was pretty sure the smell was on her too. “Yes. Did you know her?”

“Well, I knew her to see her. We weren’t friends. She was one of the ones waiting here in the lobby or out front most evenings.”

“Why did she wait here? What was she waiting on?”

The old guy looked over the gold rims of his glasses. “You’re pretty young, ain’t you?”  

Morgan smiled at him. Rex Griffin wasn’t talking in circles. Maybe the uniform didn’t have experience questioning senior citizens. People of a certain age didn’t talk in black and white, up and down, yes and no, or beginning to end. But you could learn a great deal from them as they circled the gray area. Morgan said, “Young is relative. Some days I feel pretty old. And I’m sure that one day forty will seem young to me.” Then she asked, “Was she tricking? Buying or selling drugs?”

“I’d say all of them did at one time or other. She only lived here a few weeks. But she caught on to how things worked fast.”

“Did she have any friends?”

Griffin snorted. “Drug addicts don’t have friends. They just have people they use and the people that use them.”