Two Guys Detective Agency (20 page)

head lolling about and waking her needlessly.

Linda fought another yawn and turned up the radio to help her focus. She glanced over to the empty

passenger seat and conceded that a stakeout wasn’t as interesting without Octavia along as a sidekick.

Last night’s incident came back to her and she groaned in frustration. Sisters knew how to hurt each

other, and she and Octavia were better at it than most. Octavia was wrong not to tell her about the stranger

coming to her house, but she knew Octavia wouldn’t knowingly jeopardize the children.

And in the light of day, she had to admit her sister had hit on some valid points about Linda’s parenting

skills. She hadn’t said anything that Linda herself hadn’t thought many times.

She wondered how Octavia was making out in the convenience store today. Her assignment was to

spend the day doing janitorial work around the store while keeping an eye on the employees who stocked

inventory and ran the cash registers to see if any of them stole.

Linda smiled at the thought of Octavia wielding a mop — her sister simply wasn’t cut out for manual

labor. So she knew what a personal sacrifice it was for her to try to close out this case for Sullivan’s

agency. Octavia had never been a fan of Sullivan’s — and vice versa — so she was doing this mostly for

her.

And her cut of the proceeds, of course.

She put the binoculars up to her face to confirm Ms. Reynolds was still asleep, then she pulled out a

crossword puzzle book to keep her mind and hands busy. An hour and three puzzles later, she stretched

again and was ready to call it a day — and a bust. The woman must have neck issues — who sat around

wearing a neck brace simply to hold their head up?

But just as she was ready to start up the engine, the woman was overrun by four children spilling out

the door into the yard with her. She sat in her chair stiffly and accepted kisses from the kids, then watched

them play for a while, dozing on and off. One of the children in particular kept coming back to her and

climbing on her lap and pulling on her. Even at this distance, Linda could tell the woman was losing

patience.

Then she lifted her hands and removed the neck brace. And swung the little girl up to give her a piggy

back ride.

Linda’s eyes popped wide open. That couldn’t be good for a fractured neck. She lifted the camera and

took several shots of the exuberant, jostling piggy back ride, and the ones that followed since all the other

kids clamored for their own rollicking ride.

Poor Ms. Reynolds — she was a good mother, but a bad employee. It was the classic push-pull of

motherhood — if you were a good mother, you were probably bad at something else.

But when was the last time she’d given
her
kids a piggyback ride? She wasn’t so sure she was good at

anything anymore.

She called Klo at the agency to let her know she’d gotten the pictures the insurance company needed

and would email them to her when she got home.

“Has Octavia checked in?” Linda asked.

“No...but I wouldn’t expect her to check in with me. You haven’t heard from her?”

“No. She’s probably busy. By the way, did you ever find that file you were looking for to send to the

D.A.?”

“The Foxtrot file? No, I haven’t found it, and the A.D.A. is hopping mad about it. I’m afraid in all this

housecleaning, I might have shredded it by mistake.”

“Well, then it can’t be helped, can it?”

“You’re right. I’m almost finished cleaning things up in the main part of the office. I was wondering if

you’d like for me to go through Sullivan’s desk for you and box up his personal things.”

It would be easier to let Klo do it...but also a cop out. “Thanks, but I’ll do. I’ll get to it in a couple days,

I promise.”

She ended the call and drove home. Weighted down with mail, equipment, and groceries, she

practically fell inside, stopped long enough to scratch Max, then turned on the ancient laptop computer in

the den. While it booted up, she put away the groceries, then came back to connect the digital camera to

send the photos from the worker’s comp case to Klo.

Mission accomplished, she started to turn off the computer, then out of idle curiosity, pulled up a search

engine and typed in ‘Foxtrot.’ The results were too numerous to be significant, so she added “Lexington”

and “Kentucky” and “crime” to the keywords.

She was halfway down the results page before an entry popped out at her. Foxtrot was the name of the

last mount ridden by jockey great Rocky Huff before he was found murdered last fall in Lexington.

A murder that remained unsolved. Was this the “big” case Sullivan had been working on?

She would probably never know. She turned off the machine, calculating she had a little over an hour

before the kids got off the school bus. But what to do first?

She went to stand in the opening between the kitchen and the den and turned a full circle — everywhere

she looked was a towering to-do pile of supplies and tools for projects that Sullivan had started, but never

finished. There had never been a master plan so she wasn’t even sure of the intended use of some of the

items. If Sullivan found a great deal on something he thought he might need, he brought it home.

She could mow the yard — it certainly needed it.

Or...

She looked in the direction of their bedroom and closed her eyes.
Don’t think about it, just do it
.

She made her feet move until she had crossed the threshold of the bedroom. Then she opened the closet

and began removing Sullivan’s clothes. He was a big man, so his clothes were bulky. The tails and sleeves

of his shirts dragged on the floor of the closet where they hung on a low pole. She took them out an armful

at a time, then spread them on the bed.

Max lay down next to a pair of Sullivan’s shoes and watched.

With her heart in her throat, she removed each item from the hangers to fold, letting the memories wash

over her. There were T-shirts from college he still clung to, featuring the names of bars where they’d gone

and charity events they’d participated in. There were lots of UK shirts and jackets he’d collected over the

years, and countless pairs of the Wrangler jeans he preferred, all in various stages of fading and repair.

There was the white shirt with the colorful stains he’d always worn when they took the kids out for ice

cream. And the leather jacket she’d bought him for their anniversary three years ago.

His blue police uniform hung under dry cleaner’s plastic, where it had remained since he’d left the

force. That she would keep.

But not the golf shirts and khakis he’d worn every day to the agency, or his dated sports coats.

There were his many handyman shirts, spotted with paint and solvents.

And sweaters she hadn’t gotten around to putting in winter storage.

And exercise clothes he’d bought when he’d gotten the urge last fall to get back into “cop shape,” some

of which still had the tags on them.

Some of the items she pulled to her face hoping to get a whiff of him, and when she did, the tears rolled

down her face.

When his side of the closet was emptied, the different parts of Sullivan’s personality were spread across

the bed — avid sports fan, policeman, businessman, dad, and husband.

But no more.

Her heart dragging, she gathered cardboard boxes from the garage and folded the clothes neatly before

stacking them inside for Goodwill. Some hipster would come across the old “Mickey’s Saloon” T-shirt on a

one-dollar rack and think it was such a retro find, never giving a thought to the person who’d originally

worn it.

“You’re getting rid of Dad’s things?”

She looked up to see Jarrod standing at the doorway, his face a mask of devastation, his hands fisted at

his sides. She moved toward him. “Jarrod, sweetie — ”

“You can’t! You can’t get rid of his stuff!” He began to pummel her with small fists, more flurry than

fury. Then he burst into tears and covered his face with his hands.

Her heart broke for him. She gingerly put her arms around his shuddering body, and he allowed her to

pull him close as he released two weeks of pent up anger and hurt.

“It’s not fair,” Jarrod cried against her shoulder.

“I know,” she said, rubbing his back. “I feel the same way.”

He pulled back, his eyes accusatory. “You haven’t even been to visit his grave.”

She put her hands around his face. “Yes, I have. But I’ll take you and Maggie with me next time.”

He nodded, then tried to wipe his face.

“Here, Jarrod,” Maggie said from the doorway, holding out a wallowed box of Kleenex. “This is the best

thing for crying. They’re nice and soft.”

Linda bit back a smile as he took a tissue and endured a chubby hug around his waist. She took a tissue

for herself and blew her nose, then exhaled.

“I’m giving most of Daddy’s clothes to charity...but I thought you might like to keep some of his UK

stuff, so I kept this box for you.”

Jarrod walked over to the box, mollified.

“What about me?” Maggie asked, all frowns.

She picked up a fedora that Sullivan had worn when he was feeling jaunty and cool, or when Maggie

begged him. “I thought you might want Daddy’s hat.”

“I do!” Maggie exclaimed. “Can I wear it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, just plopped in on her head,

and was instantly swallowed up in it.

Linda laughed and tipped up the brim to see her daughter’s happy blue eyes. Lord, she was Octavia,

through and through. “You can wear it anytime you want to. Now...who wants to help me make dinner?”

“Where’s Aunt Tavey?” Maggie asked.

“She’s working late. She might not be home in time to eat with us.”

She wasn’t, and the house felt quiet without her. And the call Linda expected to come to pick Octavia

up from the convenience store never came. Linda toyed with the idea of calling, but reasoned if she was

still working, she wouldn’t want to be bothered.

And her sister was a big girl.

“Is Aunt Tavey mad at me for telling about the bad man?” Maggie asked when she tucked her in. “Is

that why she didn’t come home?”

“No, sweetie, I told you — Aunt Tavey is working.”

“She used to be a cheerleader, with pom poms and everything.”

“Yes, I know. Go to sleep now.”

Linda turned out the light and sighed. She would never be able to impress her little girl the way Octavia

did.

She walked back through the house, then stopped when a foreign odor floated to her.
Cigarette smoke
.

She followed the scent to the den and noticed the screen door was open to the back deck, which they never

used because it was stacked high with replacement lumber. Yet another project.

Fear seized her when she saw the glow of a cigarette. Had the strange man returned looking for

Octavia? She picked up Jarrod’s baseball bat leaning against the wall, then flipped on the outside light, her

heart pounding.

“Jesus,” Octavia said, throwing up her hand. “Are you trying to blind me?”

She was sitting in a lawn chair with her feet propped up on the deck railing, still wearing the god-awful

striped smock uniform of the convenience store.

Linda stepped outside. “When did you get home?”

Octavia took another drag on the cigarette. “A few minutes ago. The owner of the convenience store

offered to drop me off, so I figured I’d save you a trip.”

“That was nice of him.”

“He had to come by the store anyway to fire the person who was stealing from him — his own son.”

“No, really?”

“Pathetic, huh?”

“Well, you know what they say — you can’t choose your family.”

“Amen to that.” She tapped ash.

“How was your day?”

“I smell like nachos, that’s how my day was.”

“But another case closed.”

“Looks like it. How did the surveillance go on the worker’s comp case?”

“Bor-ing. But I got the pictures the insurance company needed.”

“So we’re batting a thousand?”

“Beginner’s luck,” Linda said.

“Probably.” Octavia took another drag, then leaned her head back. “I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

Linda scooted a second rickety lawn chair next to Octavia’s and dropped into it. “It’s okay. I reacted

because it’s a soft spot of mine — I worry that I’m not a good mother. I mean, what would I know about

mothering?”

“You’re good with those kids. And they adore you.”

Linda pressed her lips together, half afraid to broach the taboo subject on the tip of her tongue. “What

do you remember about her?”

Octavia was silent for so long, Linda thought she wasn’t going to answer.

“I remember that she loved that sappy Lee Ann Womack song.”

“
I Hope You Dance
?”

“That’s the one. God, I hate that song. It gives people permission to do stupid things.”

Linda waited.

“And I remember the desk you have in your den.”

“Yes, that was hers.”

“And I remember she didn’t have the guts or the decency to say goodbye.”

Linda closed her eyes. She remembered that as well. “You’ve never heard from her?”

“Nope.”