The Sassy Suspect, page 11
"This is gonna work," she assured me. Like I hadn't heard that before. "Oh, I've got a pair of earrings for you, too." She held up an enormous pair of silver hoop earrings. "But you've got to be careful with these. They're real platinum. I know 'cause my mom keeps them in the safe."
I almost choked on my fry. "You stole your mom's earrings?"
"I creatively repurposed them," she said. "It's not like she wears them every day. Or any day. I mean, she's got tiny ears. Your ears are a lot more proportionately appropriate to them."
Those earrings wouldn't be proportionately appropriate to Dumbo.
She handed them over. "Anyway, all moms wear jewelry, right?"
Not my mom. My mom wore a perpetual air of despair that she hadn't gotten her daughters married off yet.
Wait.
"What do you mean, all moms?" I demanded.
Maizy sighed. "I knew you'd get hung up on that. You have to pretend to be my mom. Who else would I trust enough to bring to a meeting about killing my husband?" She held up her left hand. She was wearing a plain silver wedding band. "Did you think I was kidding about hiring a killer of our own?"
"Killing your husband? What husband?" I pointed at her hand. "Where did you get that? Did you steal your mother's wedding ring too?"
"Sssh." She glanced through the windshield. "You're scaring the birds. They're entitled to eat here too. Although why they'd want to is beyond me."
I lowered my voice. "Did you steal your mother's wedding ring, Maizy?"
"Don't be silly," she said. "I couldn't get it off. This is a knockoff she uses when she travels, so she doesn't have to take the real stuff. Pretty good idea, don't you think?"
I hadn't heard a good idea yet.
"Why do I have to be your mom?" I asked. Maybe whined. "Why can't I be your big sister?"
Maizy snorted. "Get real. No one would buy that."
"Oh, but they'll buy you being old enough to have a husband," I shot back.
She shrugged. "In some societies, I'd be considered middle-aged."
Sure, if that society was Hollywood.
"Besides," she said, "he got caught. How smart can he be?"
I finished off my fries but found I'd lost my appetite, so I rolled up the burger bag and stashed it in the backseat next to last week's leftover Whopper.
"I told you he was diversifying," Maizy added.
I rolled my eyes. "I thought you meant in what he stole. Not that he was going to start killing people. That's a big leap, Maize."
"It doesn't hurt to ask," she said. "People appreciate being asked. And it'll be good for him. Like a jobs program. Ex-cons need to work too, right?"
I stared at her.
"So we try to hire him to see if he's willing to kill people. You know, like Millard did."
"We don't know that," I reminded her. "We've been wrong before."
"Not wrong," she said. "Prematurely right." She chewed on her lower lip. "Just in case, we've got to find out more about the Giggler."
I sucked up the last of the milk shake. "Still not over that, huh?"
"I saw Crystal Portnoy today in the cafeteria," she said. "You should've heard her. It was nauseating. Why do women feel like they have to subjugate their intellect to their sexuality?"
I asked myself that question all the time. "I'm not sure Brody Amherst qualifies as a man," I said, "but let's go with that. Can't we work on Petal first, before we start hiring contract killers?"
"We could," Maizy said, "but gigglers are tricky. She might be smarter than she sounds. We might have to try something radical with her. Maybe the direct approach." She went back to gnawing on her lip while she considered. "I'll come up with something," she said finally. "Now we have to get moving. We don't want Uncle Curt coming home and stopping us from meeting P.T."
No, we wouldn't want that.
"This way he doesn't have to know," she said cheerfully. "Now hurry up and change, will you? And roll down your window. Maybe this hideous smell will blow away."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It didn't.
I let Maizy drive, mostly because my eyes were watering too badly to see the lane markers. Turns out it takes more than rocketing down the interstate at seventy-two miles an hour with the windows wide open to purge the stench of mothballs. I wound up sticking my head out the window like a St. Bernard to suck in some fresh New Jersey air.
By the time we pulled into a parking spot at the mall, I was lightheaded from the fumes. And the mothballs weren't helping.
I rolled up my window with great reluctance, since I was still inside the car. "This is the place you agreed on?" The mall, with lots of witnesses and tempting stealable things, was not where I expected to hold this meet and greet.
She shut off the engine. "He said he had to pick up a few things. And I could use a new belly ring. I feel that my unique individuality is crying out for expression." She glanced at me, and her eyes went wide. "You might want to do something about your hair."
I'd been thinking that for years. I hacked up a fly before checking myself out in the mirror. She was right. The ride hadn't given me windblown glamour. It had given me Albert Einstein.
"Here." She pushed a bright purple headband into my hand. "Use this."
I had nothing left to lose, including my pride. I was pretty sure the people at McDonald's were still buzzing about the groovy chick they'd seen coming out of the restroom. I opened the door and tried to get out, but I couldn't feel the ground with two balance beams strapped to my feet.
"I was thinking." Maizy locked her door and came around to haul me to my feet. "We probably should've gone to Honest Aaron. What if P.T. walks us to our car like a gentleman?"
Pretty sure that wasn't going to happen.
"I bet I could've gotten a good deal with Honest Aaron," she said. "I think he's running a two-for-one special this week."
"Two cars?" I grabbed a handful of her jacket, but my hand slid off the leather, so I froze in place, my legs wobbling and my arms out for balance.
She locked my door and took my arm. "Two seats. Can you move any faster?"
"Yes," I said. "If I take these shoes off. And I think I'm going to. I look ridiculous."
"You do not," Maizy said. "You make an awesome hippie."
Swell.
I tried to look casual while I clunked away from the car. Not going to happen. Vintage platform shoes were surprisingly heavy, and I wasn't exactly a ballerina. I could only hope no one was watching. Maizy looked like a criminal, and I looked like a refugee from Woodstock.
She glanced at her watch. "We've been here five minutes, and we've only gone two feet. Let me help you." She opened the trunk of the Escort and pulled out a walker.
My mouth fell open. "How did that get there?"
She shrugged. "I stowed it here like two months ago. I knew it'd come in handy someday."
Two months ago?
"I got it from the nursing home," she said. "They've got plenty of them. They won't even miss it. Here." She opened it with a flourish.
I shook my head. "I'm not using a walker, Maize."
"There's no shame in it," she assured me. "Lots of old people use them. You've gotta admit, you're not doing so good on your own." She pushed it closer. "We haven't got all night. Give it a try."
I gave it a try, only because I was afraid of breaking an ankle, and bare feet weren't allowed in the mall. I'd never touched a walker before. It was a short learning curve. Push-roll and shuffle, push-roll and shuffle, and we were inside sitting on one of the benches circling a gurgling water fountain filled with loose change discarded by wasteful shoppers. I did a quick calculation. Probably around twenty dollars was in easy reach. I could use twenty dollars.
Maizy took a look around. "Remember the last time we came to the mall?"
Yes. Too well. We'd ended up chasing a skinny green man who was pickpocketing shoppers. And no, I wasn't high from mothball fumes. It had really happened.
She examined her nails. "I wonder if the jewelry store is having a sale."
That had happened last time we were at the mall too. Going to the mall with Maizy was starting to feel like being dumped by a blind date. "Don't you dare leave me here alone," I hissed.
"You'll be fine," she said. "If you see P. T. Warrington, don't start without me."
"I don't know what he looks like," I told her.
She stuck her cell phone in my face. "He looks like this."
I took a look. Shaved head, no whiskers, no eyebrows. No eyebrows? "What's with the hairless thing?" I asked.
Maizy glanced at the screen. "I know. It looks a little freaky, but it's actually pretty smart. He doesn't want to leave behind hair evidence."
"He told you that?"
"He told me lots of things," she said. "He's a very helpful guy."
"Well, don't go getting any ideas," I told her.
She grinned. "Don't worry. No hair doesn't work for me. My hair is my je ne sais quoi. Besides, where would you put an eyebrow ring when you don't have eyebrows?"
Well, that made me feel better. Better than knowing P.T. had shaved off every follicle of hair to build a better criminal.
"I'm not sure this is smart," I said. "He looks a little scary."
Maizy glanced over at a two-hundred-year-old man dozing on the next bench. "I've got an idea," she said.
"I told you not to do that," I said.
She took hold of the man's shoulder and shook him. Nothing.
She looked over at me and shrugged. "Guess he's dead."
"Maybe we should find a security guard," I told her, alarmed.
The man snorted, smacked his lips some, and settled back into sleep.
"That's a relief," Maizy said brightly. "He'll keep an eye on you."
He started to snore.
"I'll be back in a minute." And she took off in the opposite direction.
I went back to counting the change in the fountain. If I got to forty bucks, I was going in. I'd reached twenty-seven when a voice next to me said "Is this seat taken?"
I looked up and there was P. T. Warrington. Up close, the no-eyebrows thing was more than freaky. It was maniacal. But once you got past that, he seemed normal enough. Regulation jeans, loose-fitting long-sleeved tee that seemed oddly lumpy, a bright white pair of sneakers. He was holding a big Macy's bag and wearing leather gloves.
I glanced past him. No sign of Maizy. Naturally.
"Are you P.T.?" I asked him. Not much chance he wasn't.
He gave me a delighted smile. "You're Annabelle!"
Alright.
He stuck out his hand. I shook it. Even with the gloves, his fingers felt strangely light. "That is some kinda outfit," he told me. "I seen you from practically the other end of the mall."
Wish I could've said the same. It would've given me time to push-roll and shuffle away.
He gestured at the walker. "Looks like your flower-power days are behind you, huh?"
I didn't have to take that from him. If I could have stood up, I would have shown him flower power right on his stupid shaved head.
"Mind if I sit down?"
"Help yourself," I told him through gritted teeth.
He moved one of the bumps around and sat.
The price tag was still attached to his sneakers. I was getting a bad feeling. "New shoes?"
He nodded. "I just got them."
I gestured toward the bag. "So you've been shopping?"
"Picking up some things for my friends." He smiled. "I haven't seen them for awhile. I thought it'd be nice."
"How long has it been?"
He kept smiling. I'd heard that maniacs did that sometimes. "Twelve to eighteen months."
Another home run. I couldn't wait for Maizy to plow through this meeting. I didn't want to be near P. T. Warrington that long. "I know you got out of prison recently," I began.
"It was a setup," he said immediately. "I was innocent." His face pooched up into a pout. "But I'm not allowed to vote anyway."
"That happens," I said. "Have you ever been involved in, say, a felony?"
He didn't even flinch. "Oh, sure. Lots of them." His eyes narrowed. "But you can't prove nothing."
"I don't even want to try," I assured him. "So you're not averse to breaking the law, then?"
He shrugged. "It's a job."
Disturbing, but productive. Now I was getting somewhere. "Say someone wanted to hire you to bump off a person. Would you be willing to do that?"
He stared down into his bag and didn't answer.
"P.T.?" I asked.
He pulled out a green decorative pillow. "Here. For you."
"Sorry, I have all the pillows I need."
"Oh. That's too bad." He produced a T-fal frying pan. "You need one of these?"
I might, if things got any weirder.
"Would you be willing to do that?" I asked.
"I'm sure I have something you can use in here." He stuck his head inside the Macy's bag.
Maizy appeared out of nowhere holding a tiny silver shopping bag and an Orange Julius. She glanced at the two-hundred-year-old man, who did not glance back. "Good job, dude," she told him.
She stuck out her hand. "You must be P.T. I'm Annabelle."
His eyebrows scrunched together. "You're Annabelle too?"
Maizy's eyes flicked to me. I made a what do you want from me, you should've been here, it's all your fault face. Which wasn't easy.
"Yep," she said brightly. "My mom here named all of us girls after her. Like George Foreman."
"That must get confusing at Christmas," P.T. said.
Maizy blinked. "Why do you say that?"
P.T. looked at me.
I shrugged. "I took a lot of drugs back in the day."
"No kidding," he said. "I got you something," he told Maizy and held out a blender.
Maizy lit up. "Sweet! This'll come in handy for my smoothies."
"Annabelle," I said tightly, "I was just asking P.T. what he'd be willing to do for money."
There was something going on down the mall to our left. Some blue uniforms were moving among the crowd.
P.T. had noticed them too. "Yeah," he said. "About that. Can we maybe speed this up a little bit? If you wouldn't mind. I mean, if you can't, that's cool. I just might have to leave early."
I slid to my left, away from him and his Macy's bag and his sneakers with the tags still on them.
"We want you to kill my husband," Maizy told him.
That's what I got for being circumspect.
P.T. didn't miss a beat. "I'd like to help you out, but that's kind of a do-it-yourself job. Just run him over with the car a few times." He took another look to the left. The uniforms had been held up by an elderly couple probably complaining about the ambient temperature inside the mall. Which, come to think of it, was a little chilly. Probably due to the proximity of the walker. Next thing, I'd be wearing a wool sweater in July and drinking Metamucil.
"That's too good for her husband," I said. "He won't even change Annabelle's diaper. He's a beast. And that's not the drugs talking."
P.T. scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You use a diaper, huh? That might come in handy for when nature calls, but you're not quite done shopping, if you know what I mean."
Maizy shook her head. "She means my daughter."
"Your daughter is named Annabelle too?"
"What else was I going to name her?" Maizy asked. "Petal? And have to listen to her giggle all day long? What kind of life is that?"
P.T.'s mouth fell open.
"So is it yes or no?" she asked him. "'Cause I've got to move on to the next nutjob if you're not interested."
"Not so fast," he said, "Give me a second to think about this. Here, have a hand towel." He draped a dark green towel over the walker. It was thick and soft and totally the wrong color for my blue bathroom. I waited until he turned back to Maizy before tossing it back into his shopping bag.
"So you're not DIY gals," he said. "I respect that. Why get your hands dirty when there are plenty of entrepreneurs out there? What you're asking for is outside my area of expertise, so here's what I'm gonna do. I got a contact looking for work."
"What's his name?" Maizy asked.
"Everyone calls him Z," P.T. said. "You know, like the end of the line."
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Everyone was a tough guy.
P.T. glanced to the left. The uniforms were trying to break away from the complainers but not having much luck. "Only thing is," he said, "Z likes to take souvenirs from his jobs. So, you know, if there's something you wanna keep, you might wanna cut it off now."
Oh, gross. We'd found ourselves another winner. Probably P.T. hadn't shaved all his hair off. Probably it had fled on its own.
Maizy waggled her eyebrows at me as if trying to tell me something.
The uniforms had managed to extricate themselves from the complainers and were heading toward us. P.T. caught sight of them and stood up abruptly. "You know what? I just remembered someplace I have to be. Let's do lunch." And he took off, leaving his Macy's bag on the floor next to us.
"What were you trying to tell me there?" I asked Maizy.
She put the blender back in the Macy's bag. "Z keeps souvenirs? Sound familiar?"
I shook my head.
She rolled her eyes. "Hello? Millard's photo gallery?"
"If Millard was Z," I said, "I doubt he'd keep photos of his victims in his office."
"Your working premise is flawed," Maizy said. "People are not very smart. Come on. I have no interest in talking to those rent-a-cops down there."
I grabbed hold of the walker. "Is it my imagination, or was that whole thing with P.T. really bizarre?"
"It was really bizarre." Maizy calmly picked up the Macy's bag and dropped it on the bench next to the two-hundred-year-old man as we push-roll-and shuffled away. "Everyone knows Cuisinart is the way to go in blenders."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
My cell phone rang when we were halfway home to my apartment. I glanced at the screen. "It's Curt."
Maizy swerved over to the curb and stopped. "Better take it."
"Are you anywhere near the Silver Star Gym?" Curt asked me.
