Retirement Plan (21 page)

“One old man I interviewed in the hotel lobby told us Johnson had a friend that helped her move in. We followed up on that, but it was pretty much a dead end. Johnson was convicted for production and sale of meth and on parole from Dwight. She was buying drugs from a guy that Vice thinks might be pretty high up in the chain. But we don’t think this murder had anything to do with the process of buying and selling drugs.”

“Why is that?” Ward asked.

Redick answered this time. “The only thing this victim has in common with the others, besides the ammo we’ve found, is that she’s a lawbreaker. You could say she and the others are people that someone might want dead.”

Captain Ward’s face was growing red. He said, “Stake out the hotel and let’s bring this dealer in for a talk.”

Morgan protested. “It won’t yield much. This shooting isn’t about drugs. None of them are.”

“You got anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Then set up a stakeout. We’ll put uniforms on it over the nights and weekends.  Check with city housing and see if they have an empty apartment on the front of Northgate. If they don’t, see if one of the seniors will let us watch the building across the street from his or her window.”

Morgan said, “I’ll need cover on Thanksgiving Day. The Prairie Flower has a special dinner for the residents and their families. I’d rather work the stakeout, but I’m the only family my mother has here in town.”

“Okay, get it covered,” Ward said in a dismissive tone.

*

The two of them ended up being guests in a small, one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of the Northgate high-rise. The occupant was an old woman named Frances, who seemed somewhat taken with Redick. On Thanksgiving Day, he covered the stakeout alone, so Morgan could have dinner with her mother.

Betty Holiday had changed since her escape from the Prairie Flower. She didn’t save all of her ugly comments for Morgan alone. She had told off every member of the staff, some several times.

In the dining room Thanksgiving Day, Belle Trees, the activity director, motioned to Morgan. Her mother was getting settled at her place at the end of the table as Morgan followed Belle out the door.

The slender, middle-aged, black woman spoke in a rather loud whisper. “I just wanted you to know that your mother has reached the combative stage. The doctor will probably increase her medication the next time he’s here, but with the holiday we haven’t been able to reach him. In the meanwhile, the staff is having quite a time with her. This morning an aide was helping with her bath and your mother slugged her.”

Morgan blinked. “Slugged her?”    

Belle nodded. “Caught her in the chin, split her lip. She’s going to have a bruise.”

“Good grief. What can I do?”

Belle smiled weakly. “This is a stage they go through. The disease is progressing. Just watch her today. The volatile behavior seems to come out of nowhere.”

Back in the dining room, Morgan took a seat next to her mother. Although it was Thanksgiving and a number of family members were there, the group around the tables was smaller than normal. Several of the seniors had gone to spend the holiday with their families.  

The glasses of ice water were filled, then the kitchen staff wheeled in carts of covered dishes and set one at each place. When they removed the covers, a plate of steaming turkey, dressing, potatoes and gravy, and green beans was revealed. A dietary aide made her way around the table filling coffee cups.

A basket of dinner rolls was passed around the table. When it reached Morgan’s mother, she took two and set the basket next to her plate.

From the next chair, a sweet-looking old lady who wore a pink dress and a dark hairnet over her white hair said, “Pass me the rolls, please.”

Morgan started to reach for the basket when her mother slapped her hand. “I’m not done with those.”

“There are plenty of rolls, Mom,” Morgan said. “They won’t run out.”

Morgan heard Belle Trees behind her. “Go on, Betty. Pass the rolls.”

Betty Holiday pushed her chair back and stood. She picked up her glass of water and carefully poured it on the head of the woman who’d wanted the rolls. “I said, I’m not done.”

Before Morgan could comprehend what had happened, the pink-dress woman turned over her chair and took off blindly, holding her head and screaming. Next, Betty picked up the basket of rolls and threw it at Belle Trees. A crash came from the other end of the room and Morgan looked in time to see the blur of the pink dress as the old woman lost her balance and fell across a folding table covered with pumpkin pies.

Morgan looked back at her mother, who seemed confused. Several people, including four family members, hurried to the aid of the pink-dress lady. Belle Trees had her hands on Betty’s shoulders. “Sit down, Mrs. Holiday. Finish your dinner.” Belle then looked at Morgan and said, “Watch her. I’m going to try to reach the doctor again.”

Morgan and her mother ate quietly while the rest of the people at the table glared at them.

At home that evening, Morgan dug out a fifth of apricot brandy that Henry had given her for Christmas several years ago and broke the seal. Instead of calling David this time, she’d just have a couple of drinks. Late that night she fell asleep on the couch, and in the morning she woke to a hammering pain behind her eyes and a taste in her mouth unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The apricot brandy sat open on the coffee table, half-empty.      

*

Celia Morning felt unusually calm. “Walls don’t mean anything to you, do they?”

“I come for Kitty.”

“You need to get out of my house.” Celia hoped she sounded firm.

“I’ve come for my girl.”

Kitty said, “I’m not going with you.”

Celia touched Kitty’s shoulder. “Use the phone in the kitchen and call the police.”

The little man watched as Kitty left the room, then he stood. “The land lines won’t work.” He retrieved an orange box cutter from his pocket. When he thrust it toward her, she could see makeshift prison tattoos on the backs of his fingers. “Just let me take my girl and your problems will be over.”

“Look,” Celia said. “I know enough of her story to realize you don’t want me to talk to the police about her.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Celia wondered if Kitty had left through the back door, though she’d be easy enough to find with the powdery snow on the ground. A soft tapping at the front door startled her. Then she heard a woman’s voice. “Mrs. Morning, it’s the police.”

A lamp shattered as Curry shot past her and out through the kitchen. Celia opened the front door. An African-American woman in a police uniform stood before her.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Morning,” the officer said. “Your neighbor called and reported a prowler.” She looked past Celia into the living room. “Is everything all right in here?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I did see a man. But I’m all right.”

The policewoman turned and called to someone in the driveway. “She’s okay. Said she saw a man too.” She turned to Celia again. “May we come in?”

“Yes, sure.” Celia stepped aside.

Both officers stomped the snow off their boots on the porch and followed Celia inside. “Here, let’s talk in the dining room. I’m afraid I have a mess to clean up. You startled me. I got up quickly and knocked over a lamp.”

“Are you here alone?” the female officer asked, looking around.

“Yes. My kids are out of town. At their grandmother’s for Thanksgiving.”

They seated themselves at the dining-room table. The male officer was young and looked as if his uniform was a little too big for him. He wore a gold wedding band and, when he took off his hat, he revealed a shock of black hair. The female officer took off her jacket and hung it over the back of her chair. “I’m Officer Thompson. My partner,” she jerked her chin toward him, “is Officer Byerline.”

“Celia Morning.” Celia pulled out a chair at the end of the long cherrywood table and sat.

“Do you know who the prowler could be?” Thompson asked.

Celia shook her head. “Why would I?”

“Ex-husband or boyfriend?”

“I’m a widow, Officer Thompson.”

Byerline was doing the writing. When she said the word “widow” he wrote furiously.

Thompson again. “So you’re alone here?”

Celia’s throat was dry. She nodded. “Yes. Alone.”

“Would you mind if we looked round?” Thompson asked. “We want to make sure no one got in.”

What could she say? She didn’t want them to catch Curry because she’d already made up her mind about him. She wondered where Kitty was and once again told herself that the girl had gotten out the back. Maybe she’d return when it was safe. At least Kitty would know Celia was on her side.

“Mrs. Morning?”

“I’m sorry. Yes, of course, please look around. I sure don’t want to be left alone with a stranger in the house.”

She followed the officers from room to room, turning on lights as they checked each one and all the closets on the first and second floor. When she turned on the light to the basement, she knew something was wrong because a cold draft surprised her. She hesitated on the landing, and Officer Thompson and Byerline drew their weapons and held them out in front of themselves as they descended the stairs. A few moments later Officer Thompson was at the bottom of the steps looking up at her. “Come on down. You’ve got a broken window in the laundry room. Looks like someone might have come in that way.”

Celia slowly descended the basement stairs. The top of the washing machine was covered with broken glass.

“How long have you been home, Mrs. Morning?”

“I went out earlier to get some fast food,” Celia said. “I don’t usually have it when the kids are home. So it’s kind of a treat when they’re not around.” She was saying too much and made herself stop. It would be okay to seem nervous under the circumstances, but she didn’t want to overdo it.

Byerline said, “You probably scared him off when you pulled in.”

“What’s in that room over there?” Officer Thompson shined her flashlight at the little room that Kitty had used.

Celia shrugged. At the same time she wondered if Kitty was hiding in her own room, so she said, “I fixed up a small bedroom down here for my younger brother when he’s in town.”

“Where is he now?”

“Afghanistan,” she lied. She didn’t have a brother and sincerely hoped they wouldn’t check. These days when someone said the word “Afghanistan” people seemed to take on a different tone. No one wanted to be accused of not supporting the troops.

Immediately, Celia felt guilty about the lie. What was she turning into? She’d paid to have a man killed and here she was ready to put the money together for another one. She might be able to tell herself that the justice system had had their shot at Woods and Curry. But right now, her head was starting to hurt as the weight of it all pressed down on her.

Celia rubbed her temples as Officer Thompson crossed the large main room and pulled open the door to Kitty’s room.

“Is there a light in here?” Thompson asked.

“Find the string in the center of the room.”

Thompson located it with her flashlight and the room filled with harsh light. “Nothing in here.”

Byerline touched Celia’s arm and she jumped. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m a little stressed. My head’s starting to hurt. I haven’t had anything to eat since this morning.”

Officer Thompson was standing in front of her. “Looks like you’re alone for now. We have some tools in the trunk to cover that window, so no one will get in. But if he did it once, he might try again.”

Tears started flowing from Celia’s stinging eyes.

Officer Byerline tried to reassure her. “They don’t usually stick around once the police have been here. You’ll be safe for the night.”

“Let’s go back upstairs,” Thompson said. “Officer Byerline can nail that window shut while we finish the police report.”

Celia followed the woman up the stairs and toward the dining room. Thompson said, “You have a nice place here.”

“Thank you.”

“He may have been watching for a while. You wouldn’t believe the calls we got from people who came home after the power outage to find themselves robbed.”

“Really?”

Officer Thompson sighed and shook her head. “What kind of thief goes to work in six-degree temperatures?”

“Indeed.”

About forty-five minutes later the police car pulled away from the front of Celia’s house. Every light in every room was on. She started to turn them off and changed her mind. In the kitchen she picked up a cold French fry and chewed it. The grease made her stomach lurch so she gathered the fast food and dumped it back into the white bag. She turned toward the kitchen sink and stopped. The trash can was sitting next to the refrigerator instead of under the sink where it belonged. The hairs bristled on the back of her neck, but she couldn’t stop herself from crossing the kitchen and pulling the lower cabinet open.

Kitty was curled up in the space that would have been close quarters for Timmy, her face streaked with tears. Celia held her hand out and said, “Come here. You’re safe now.”

Kitty slowly turned her legs and then, holding Celia’s hand and the edge of the sink, pulled herself to a standing position. She looked at Celia pleadingly. “He’ll be back. He’ll never give up.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m hungry. Are you going to throw that stuff away?”

“We’ll get more.” Celia went to the hall closet and pulled out one of her old wool coats, then grabbed her down-filled one from the back of the kitchen chair. She handed the wool coat to Kitty and put on her own.

“Where are we going?”

“To get a motel room. A nice one.”

“What about food?” Kitty asked.

“It’s not ten yet. Surely one of the fast-food places is open. Let’s go.”

Kitty put the wool coat over her shoulders and held it closed with a trembling white fist. It was much too large, but for now that didn’t matter. Celia grabbed her purse and keys.

“What about the lights?” Kitty asked.

“The hell with the lights. Let’s go.”

Chapter Sixteen