Theresa Monsour (20 page)

TRIP STOOD NEXT to the couch. Put his right hand out and clutched the back of it for support. A homicide cop was standing in his trailer. In his front room. Steps away from a room with a freezer. Inside the freezer, a naked dead woman. His hand left the couch and reached down, felt the bulge in his pants pocket. He slipped his right hand inside and with the tips of his fingers, touched the edge of the folded knife. Her eyes met his and then fell to his right arm. Whistling, in the kitchen. He started and drew his hand out of his pocket.

“Is that tea?” she asked, her eyes leaving his empty hand to take in his face.

“Paris,” he said, his eyes meeting her gaze and then dropping. “What d . . . do you want?”

She smiled. Took a couple of steps into the front room. Raised her right arm and extended a piece of paper to him. “I brought it by in case you couldn't find yours.”

He frowned. “My what?” In the kitchen, the whistling from the teakettle seemed to grow sharper and louder.

“Reunion invitation.”

The reunion Saturday. He'd forgotten about it. “Thanks,” he said, and stepped forward to take the paper out of her hand. He wanted to get rid of her, chase her back outside.

She lowered her arm before he could grab the invitation. “Is that the teakettle I hear? I'd love some tea.”

He looked down at the paper and then at her face. Was she up to something?

“Don't stand there, Justice,” said his pa. “Get the lady some tea.” Trip's eyes went to his old man's face. Frank cracked a small smile and shut the front door. Tipped his head toward the couch. “Sit, Paris. Sit a spell while Justice gets us some tea.” He thumped over to the couch, sat down. Took the remote off the TV tray and turned off the television. He patted the seat cushion next to him with his right hand. “Sit. Tell us what you been doing all these many years.”

Trip watched his father and thought:
He doesn't know she's a cop. If he knew, he wouldn't invite her to stay
.

Frank looked at his son. That small smile again. “Paris is a policeman. A pretty lady like this a policeman. Isn't that something, Justice?”

Paris Murphy isn't the sneaky one, thought Trip. His pa was the person trying to pull something.

“Tea sounds wonderful,” Murphy said. She walked over to the couch, unzipped her jacket and sat down with her purse in her lap. Her eyes went from the son to the father and back to the son. The whistling in the kitchen continued, but Trip wasn't budging from his spot. Stood in the middle of the front room. A tall, pale statue. “Why don't I make the tea?” she said. “I'm pretty handy in the kitchen.”

She started to stand up and Frank grabbed her jacket sleeve. Pulled her back down to the couch. “Justice can wait on us, pretty lady.” He glared at his son. “Did you forget where the kitchen is all of a sudden?”

Trip started to cross the front room to head for the kitchen.

“Wait,” said his pa. He lifted his plate of potatoes and hot dogs. “Take this slop with you.” He leaned into Murphy's left ear and said in a low, conspiring voice, “Justice ain't much of a cook. Some days, I swear he's trying to kill me.”

Trip yanked the plate out of his old man's hand and went into the kitchen. Slammed the plate on the counter. A few minutes ago his pa didn't think it was slop. A few minutes ago, the bastard was inhaling the stuff. His old man was putting on a show for Paris Murphy and Trip wasn't sure why. That crack about his son trying to kill him. Was his old man trying to plant that idea in her head—that Trip could murder his own pa?

The kettle was still whistling, the noise drilling a hole in his head. Giving him a headache. Trip went over to the stove and turned it off. He picked up the kettle and moved it to the counter. Opened the cupboards over the counter. All their usual coffee cups were dirty. He reached in back and pulled out three dusty mugs they hadn't used in a while. Two with
Far Side
cartoons on them. A third with some other cartoon on the outside and a dead fly on the inside. He tipped the bug into the sink. He scanned the food shelves. Pushed around some canned goods. Found an ancient box of Lipton tea bags still sealed in cellophane. He set it on the counter, clawed off the wrapper, tore off the cover, took out three tea bags. He dropped a bag in each of the cups and poured hot water over them. He stared at the steam rising from the mugs. Thought about how he'd almost poisoned her with those pills. Should he give it another try? No. Not here. Too chancy. They weren't in a restaurant this time. She'd know to blame the tea if she got sick. What if he put enough pills in so she died? Bad idea. She'd probably told the other cops at the police station where she was going. No. No poison. At least not now. That reunion offered plenty of possibilities, however. All those people. Old classmates. Old grudges. Jealous of each other's success. Still trying to get an old girlfriend or former flame in bed. Any one of them could be suspects.

He was glad she came by with the invitation. Another opportunity to get back at her. Plus like she had said earlier, the reunion would give him a chance to show off his hero status. How had she put it?
Wave it in their faces
. That's what he'd do. Wave it in their faces.

 

IN the front room, Murphy sat on the couch next to Trip's father. She breathed through her mouth as much as possible to avoid smelling the booze and cigarettes. Another smell, too. Urine? She wished she could plug her ears as well as her nose so she wouldn't have to listen to Frank Trip's lame ramblings as he tried flattering her and flirting with her. “I always thought you were the nicest out of that whole crowd. . . . You weren't homecoming queen? I'd have sworn you were. . . . Your folks must be so proud of you. . . . Bet you're the prettiest police officer on the force. . . . What color are your eyes? They're Liz Taylor eyes.”

He'd wave his hands around when he talked and then bump her left thigh with his hand when he set his arms down. As if it was an accident. It reminded her of the crap he pulled when he was a janitor at her school. He'd yell a warning and then roll his bucket and mop into the girls' bathroom. Feigned embarrassment when he caught someone still sitting on the toilet or standing in front of the mirror. It got to be a joke among the girls. When they heard him coming, one of them would lean against the door so he couldn't open it. Whisper a warning to the others.
Hurry up, the perve is here!
No one ever wanted to use the bathroom alone.

She was actually relieved when Trip walked into the front room. He balanced the mugs of tea on an old cookie sheet. He held the tray under his father's nose. “Justice,” said Frank. “Serve our guest first.”

“Oh, s . . . sorry.” He held the tray in front of Murphy, his eyes down.

She picked up a mug. “Thank you.” She looked at what
was painted on the side and inhaled sharply. Struggled to hide her shock. She felt as if all the blood were draining from her body, being replaced with ice water. A
Flintstones
cartoon showing Betty and Barney standing in front of a cave. She felt under the mug. The one she'd given Denny had a chip on the bottom from bouncing around the car. She held the mug by the handle with her right hand and ran her left index finger in a circle around the bottom. She found the chip. The only way Trip could have that mug was if he took it from Denny's car. He'd been inside Denny's car. Why? To steal a mug full of coins? When had he taken it? She had seen it in the car days before the accident. Another cold wave washed over her. Trip had tampered with the car. Caused the crash.

She didn't want to give away her horror and anger. She tried to put on a calm face and voice. She blew on the hot tea and pretended to sip. No way would she ever drink anything Trip gave her. She studied her own hands. Felt reassured they weren't shaking. She tried to think of something to say. She glanced around the front room. “You keep it pretty neat for a couple of bachelors.”

Trip's father picked up a mug. Trip took the last one. Set the cookie sheet down on the floor. Eased his tall frame into a recliner across from the couch. “I g . . . guess so.” He held the hot mug between his hands.

She imagined herself taking out her gun and shooting Trip in the forehead. A clean, wide target. She could see the hole as she watched him. She blinked and turned to his father. “This reminds me of the layout of my houseboat.”

Frank set his mug on the TV tray, picked up his cigarette, put it to his lips. “You live on a houseboat, do you? How big?” He took a drag and exhaled.

“Smaller than this. At least I think it is. I'd have to see the rest of your place to judge. How many bedrooms you got?” She took another pretend sip. Stifled a cough from the cigarette smoke.

Frank set his cigarette in the ashtray. Stood up. Leaned his left hand on his cane and bent his right arm at the elbow
like a wing. Smiled down at her and winked. “Take my arm, pretty miss, and I'll give you a walking tour of our Graceland. Free of charge.”

Murphy stood up, reluctantly set her mug on his tray. She wanted to take it home with her, but it could be evidence. She threw her purse strap over her shoulder. Looked across the room at Trip. His hands were locked motionless around his cup and his mouth was hanging open. Eyes as big as saucers. His father's suggestion of a tour obviously horrified him. Trip was hiding something. She looped her left arm around his father's right elbow and grinned. “Do you have a jungle room, too?”

Frank threw his head back and laughed. “Closest we got is Sweet's room. You could call that a jungle.”

Trip bolted out of his chair, spilling tea all over the front of his legs. “Godd . . . dammit to h . . . hell.”

“Son. Watch your language in front of a lady.”

Trip ignored him. Ran into the kitchen with the mug, set it on the counter and grabbed a towel. Returned to the front room with it. Wiped his pants legs while he talked. “Pa. Wait. This ain't such a g . . . good idea. Bedrooms are a m . . . mess. A regular d . . . d . . . disaster area.”

“Speak for yourself, son. My room is fit for a lady.” Frank paused and smiled suggestively at Murphy. “I mean fit for a lady's eyes.”

Murphy wished she could knock his cane out from under him. She grinned at Trip. Thought her face would crack from the effort. “You should see my place. Regular pit, and I live by myself.”

“Not married?” asked Frank.

“Separated,” she said. “Getting divorced.”

Frank started to cross the front room floor and headed to the kitchen with Murphy on his arm. “So you're available.”

Trip suddenly remembered the mess on the kitchen table, and in the middle of it, the peach purse. He dashed ahead of Murphy and his pa, plucked the purse off the table. He opened the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the wastebasket. Tossed the purse into it. He looked up.
Murphy and his father were stepping into the kitchen. He snatched a dirty plate off the table and scraped the leftover bacon and eggs into the trash and set the plate in the sink. He needed more garbage to hide the purse. He saw the bowl of congealed oatmeal on the table. Picked it up. Tipped the gluey mess into the trash and tossed the dirty bowl in the sink. Looked into the wastebasket. Still saw edges of peach material. The hot dogs and potatoes. He took that plate off the counter and tipped the scraps into the garbage. He looked down again. Perfect. No peach peeking out. He kept scraping food scraps into the trash and setting the dishes in the sink. Picked up the remains of glass from the broken booze bottle and chucked those into the wastebasket.

“Justice. Take it easy,” said his pa. He and Murphy had stopped in the middle of the kitchen and were both gawking at his frantic cleaning efforts as he bent over the garbage can.

“Told you, P . . . Pa. It's a d . . . disaster.” Trip stood straight and glanced at the two of them—his old man and a cop—arm in arm. Like best friends, and it made Trip furious.

“Son. Paris is available. Maybe you should ask her to this reunion thing.”

Trip glared at his old man and his pa stared back. A long silence. Murphy cleared her throat. Decided to lay some groundwork for Saturday night. “Actually, I'm seeing someone. I'm going with him.”

“A policeman?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” she said. Murphy gently disengaged her arm from Frank's and stepped farther into the kitchen. She could feel her shoes sticking to the linoleum. She noticed the room smelled like alcohol.

“This here's where Justice works his culinary magic,” said the elder Trip.

Murphy didn't see anything suspicious on the counters or table. She walked around the kitchen table and went over to the cupboards. Trip was on her heels. “You've got
more shelf space than I do.” She reached up and pulled open a cupboard while keeping an eye on him. Wanted to observe his reaction. He didn't flinch. Nothing in the cupboards he cared about. She scanned the shelves and shut the door. She saw the wastebasket between the kitchen table and the sink. Trip's eyes darted down to it and then away. She glanced inside it. Saw a broken liquor bottle. Was that what he was hiding?

“Excuse the m . . . mess,” Trip said. He opened the cupboard under the sink, set the wastebasket inside and shut the door.