Death by Discount, page 2
She rushed to me and hugged me hard. I started crying. We broke our embrace, but grasped each other’s hands, needing to hang onto something. She looked vulnerable without her glasses, her brown eyes dull and rimmed with red. Her oversize T-shirt made her look shorter and heavier than usual.
Winker eased himself from the couch, and Hortie fluffed its pillows until it was her turn to hug me.
“I’m ten kinds of sorry.” As she wrapped her arms around me, I smelled cigarette smoke and French fries. She’d come straight from the Chat ’n Chew—hadn’t even bothered to remove her frilly apron.
Winker lumbered over and placed one of his huge hands on my shoulder. As editor of the Aldoburg Times, he made his living with words, but he didn’t have any in his arsenal now. He squeezed my shoulder, his eyes glistening.
Call me sexist, but I can’t stand to see a man cry. “You remember my friend, Vince?” I said.
Winker nodded, and Hortie managed a smile in Vince’s direction. She had a gold crown on one of her front teeth, and her short curly hair was dyed raven-black. Had been for as long as I could remember. “We should get going,” she said, “and let you be alone. I’m sure you all have a lot to talk about.” She and Winker headed for the door. “I’ll bring by some food, but call me if you need anything else—anything at all.”
“That goes for me too,” Winker said.
Vince followed them. “I’ll unload the car.”
Zee sank back to the couch and slipped on her glasses. They were silver like the braid that fell almost to her hips. She wore gray sweat pants and a lavender T-shirt that advertised STUFF, a consignment shop that bought a lot of airtime from KGEE.
I sat next to her. There was nothing I could do that would ease her pain, so I did what came naturally. I went for the facts. “Tell me what happened. Why was Glad at the station on a Sunday night? Where was Parker?”
“Oh Mara,” Zee said, “I tried calling you earlier tonight.” Her lip trembled.
I panicked. “What? What happened to Parker?”
She rested her hand on my arm. “His dad passed away yesterday afternoon.”
I was speechless. Parker’s father, Bill Honig, was Zee and Glad’s next-door neighbor—one of the sweetest men I knew. He and his wife Barb had been so kind after I moved in with my aunts. They often had us over for homemade ice cream, but they never once asked me about my parents or why I wasn’t living with them. Whenever I babysat Parker, Barb always made my favorite kind of chocolate chip cookies, and Bill always watched until I made it safely back home.
“It was a heart attack,” Zee said.
I couldn’t believe it. Glad and Bill both dead.
“He was only 56,” Zee said, “but he had heart trouble.”
I wanted to comfort Zee, but all I could think about was the unfairness—the unpredictability—of it all. He and Barb were both so active. When Bill wasn’t working at his hardware store, he was loading his truck for a hunting or fishing trip. And Barb was even more energetic. She taught aerobics at the Y, and rumor had it that her routines made women 20 years her junior whimper in pain. She was the shortstop for the co-ed softball team that Honig’s Hardware sponsored, she played doubles with my dad in the town’s tennis league, and she never missed RAGBRAI—biking across Iowa in 90% humidity was her idea of a dream vacation. Barb also sewed most of her own clothes and made homemade cakes that were to die for. When her kids were in school, she was the PTO president, the leader of countless scouting troops, and the winningest little league coach in Aldoburg history. If I aspired to motherhood, domesticity, or athleticism, I’d hate her.
Thinking about Barb and Bill was a lot easier than thinking about Glad.
“Was Barb with him?” I asked.
“She was at the store,” Zee said. “Your dad had to prescribe her a sedative, but she’s been resting pretty well since then.”
Zee could surely use something too, but I’d have to convince her of it first.
“It’s a blessing that Parker is home for the summer,” she said.
I nodded. Poor Parker—not even out of college, and his father dead.
“Glad was real torn up about Bill’s death.” Zee’s voice caught. “I’ve never seen her so upset. We didn’t find out about it until late last night. Now tonight, Glad…”
I rested my hand on Zee’s back. “So Glad was taking Parker’s shift,” I prompted.
Zee nodded, her face a mass of worry lines. “Jack couldn’t work because his mother is in the hospital in Des Moines again.”
Jack was the evening announcer Monday through Friday. His mother has lung cancer.
“I should have taken the shift. But I had a headache.” Zee clenched her hands in her lap. “A measly little headache.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Zee unclenched her hands.
“How did you know something was wrong?” I asked.
“Dead air.” Zee practically choked on the words. “Glad was playing Garth Brooks’ newest CD. The last song faded away, and then there was nothing. I knew something was wrong right away.”
I took Zee’s hands in mine.
“I called 911 and got in the car.” Zee squeezed her eyes and mouth shut for a moment. Her entire body shook as she fought against her tears. “When I got to the station, there was a boy who looked to be about twelve dressed in a police uniform. I didn’t know him.” Zee removed her hands from mine. “He told me that someone was dead in back of the station. It looked like murder, he said, and I wasn’t allowed on the crime scene. Crime scene. I couldn’t believe it. I thought Glad had gone outside to smoke, that she’d fainted or fallen. I never dreamed that…” Zee couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
I put my arm around her. “Then what?”
“I had to see for myself. I ignored the youngster and ran to the back of the station.” Zee fell silent.
I saw what I knew she was seeing—Glad’s body crumpled on the ground.
“I didn’t want to believe it. I was reaching down to touch Glad—to see if she was really dead—but Chuck Conover yanked my hand back.”
Chuck Conover. Aldoburg Chief of Police. I’d gone to school with him. A thick-necked, thick-headed creep who stole my first girlfriend and told everyone I was a “lezzie” like my aunts. The perfect man to investigate a potential hate crime.
“He ordered the youngster to take me home. He said no one could do anything until the medical examiner gave the OK.” Zee shook her head indignantly. “The examiner wasn’t even there yet. He was coming from Des Moines.”
Zee must have felt so powerless. “Who could have done it?” I asked.
“It must have been strangers passing through. No one who knows Glad could have killed her.”
“But how would strangers know that she was a lesbian? How would they know that she’d be in back of the station smoking?”
Zee frowned.
“Have you received any threatening notes or phone calls?”
“No. Not really. None that have anything to do with Glad’s—”
“Someone’s threatened you?” My heart started racing.
“No one’s threatened anyone, Mara. Glad and I just got a few angry calls about our campaign against Wal-Mart. That’s all. A few folks didn’t like the noon shows we did,” Zee said, “especially the one with a former Wal-Mart manager.”
“Who complained?” I asked.
“Stuart Peterson.”
“The mayor? How angry was he? What did he say?”
Zee massaged her temples. “I don’t remember.”
“Who else called? Did they use the word dyke?”
“Mara,” Zee snapped, “Glad’s death had nothing to do with any phone calls. Or with anyone in this town.”
“But maybe—”
“No buts,” Zee said. “You can’t suspect everyone who disagrees with you of murder. Are you going to suspect Winker? He called about Wal-Mart too.”
The front door banged shut. “I’ve got everything out of the car,” Vince said.
Zee held her arms out to him. “It was so good of you to come.”
After they quit hugging, we stood in silence.
“You both look exhausted,” Zee said. “How about some coffee?”
“Why don’t you just let me tuck you in? It’s nearly 3:00.”
“Don’t be silly. I need to leave for the station at 5:00.”
“What?” My voice shot up an octave. “You’re not setting foot out there until we know what happened.”
“That’s what Chuck said, but you’re both mistaken.”
She knew I wouldn’t like being linked with him, but I wasn’t falling for her ploy. “He’s right,” I said. “It’s dangerous.”
Vince sat down, wisely refraining from our argument.
“The City Council votes on a zoning ordinance for Wal-Mart next Monday night,” Zee said. “That’s a week from today. This Friday there’s a public forum. Glad and I planned to barrage our listeners with anti-Wal-Mart information.” Zee took a deep breath and kept her tears at bay. “I have to honor her memory by finishing our plans.”
“Do you really think she would want you to risk your life?”
Zee didn’t respond. We both knew the answer.
“The closest Wal-Mart is eighty-five miles away,” she said, “and I intend to keep it that way.”
“But the station is so isolated.”
“This is none of your business.” Zee would sooner vote Republican than admit fear.
“I could take a shift,” Vince said.
So much for wisdom. “I don’t want to lose either of you.” I glared at Vince. “Besides, you don’t know how to run the board.”
“You could teach me,” he said, “or I could be your body guard.”
“Right. And you’ll protect us how, with your feather boa?”
“Temper, temper,” Vince said. “We could all three go and protect each other.”
“Zee needs some sleep.”
“I need to go to the station,” Zee said. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
Working had always been her lifeblood. It had to be. KGEE was a small operation—just Zee, Glad, Jack, Parker, and Charlene, their long-time business and ad manager. When Zee wasn’t DJing, she was selling ads or covering some civic event. And when she wasn’t doing station work, she was gardening and producing various and sundry craft items for various and sundry church bazaars even though she herself hadn’t set foot in a church since I’d been confirmed.
“I’ll keep the doors locked,” Zee said, “and I’ll stay inside. And of course, we’ll close early for the visitation and the whole day of the funeral. If you or Vince must accompany me to the station, so be it.”
“Who will relieve us?” I asked. Zee usually opened KGEE Monday through Friday. Then Glad came in at 11:30, and they did a noon news show together. Glad worked until 6:00, and Jack took over until the station closed at 11:00. He and Parker also covered the weekends. “Jack and Parker are out of the picture for now,” I said, “are you going to ask Charlene to fill in?”
“Of course not. She’s far too busy with the books.”
I knew that Zee was more concerned about her old friend’s safety, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Besides,” Zee said, “I don’t need any relief.”
Vince raised his eyebrows, but I wasn’t surprised by my aunt’s bravado. “I don’t want you there when it’s dark.” I fought to keep my voice calm. “I’ll open the station and work until one. Then you and Vince come in and work until seven. Then we close.”
“I don’t like the idea of you being out there by yourself,” Zee said.
“I’ll keep the doors locked, and I’ll stay inside.” I smiled at her. “That was your plan, wasn’t it?”
Zee narrowed her eyes. “What about when you’re walking from your car to the station?”
“It will be pretty dark when you open.” Vince fingered his goatee.
They were spooking me, but I’d be damned if I let them know. “I’ve got Mace,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether this was true. Orchid had given some to every woman at the station in honor of Take Back the Night, but I wasn’t 100% certain that mine was in my backpack. I locked eyes with Zee. “If Glad was really killed by strangers who were just passing through, then we have nothing to worry about.”
Zee headed toward the kitchen again. “8:00,” she said. “I’ll work until 8:00. It’s still plenty light out then.” She yanked open the fridge and pulled out a box of eggs.
I almost told her not to bother, but I knew that cooking comforted her. We would all need a lot of that.
Chapter Three
After persuading Zee to get some rest and Vince to stay with her, I couldn’t sleep, so I left early for the station. At 4:00 a.m. there were no other cars on the road. I drove through town past several darkened houses and an abandoned gas station. Then, for a couple miles, there was nothing but corn. I rolled down my window and let the muggy breeze blow through my hair.
Aldoburg’s new baseball/softball complex came up on my right, and KGEE was about a mile further on my left. A floodlight shone on white call letters, but I could barely see the brick building behind them. I had told my aunts that they needed more light.
My car rattled as I turned it off. I rifled through my backpack, looking for the Mace Orchid had given me. Of course, it wasn’t there. I closed my eyes, trying to remember where I’d seen it last. Next to my sunscreen on my dresser in Iowa City. Ah well, no use crying over forgotten Mace. I made a fist with my keys jutting out between my fingers, opened my door, and scurried toward the station. Gravel crunched under my feet. A dog barked in the distance, and the wind rustled through the corn stalks. Glad’s killers could have easily hidden in one of the fields that surrounded the station, waiting for her to leave the building—even daring to watch as the police arrived.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered the station. Its front room was the domain of Charlene Conover, the station’s 60-something business and ad manager. She was also Chuck’s mother, but I didn’t hold that against her. You can’t help who you spawn. Her desk sported three coffee mugs. One said A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part. Her desk calendar was encircled with photos of children and grandchildren. Taped to the front of her desk were several crayon masterpieces. Most featured dinosaurs. One was devouring an unfortunate stick figure.
I forced myself to the back of the station, turning on lights as I went. A lump formed in my throat as I passed the studio. Glad had spoken her last words into that microphone. Unless she’d tried to reason with her killer. Or killers. Hate crimes usually involve groups of young men trying to out-macho each other. I tried to recall what else I knew about hate crimes. I didn’t want to picture Glad surrounded by a band of name-calling brutes.
Crime scene tape spanned the back door. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was.
Next to the door hung a flashlight for checking the rain gauge at night. I flipped the light on to make sure that it worked. I couldn’t cross the tape. I didn’t want to ruin any chance the police had of catching Glad’s killers, so I went back out the front door and walked around the building. I’d told Zee that I wouldn’t go outside, but I hadn’t exactly promised. I hoped she was right, that strangers had done it and they were miles away. The corn stalks whispered, and dew chilled my sandaled feet. The first time I walked into a cornfield I was five or six. Rain-soaked soil tugged at my feet, and leaves scratched my skin. Corn stalks had always seemed tiny from the backseat of my parents’ car, but they loomed above me once I was in the midst of them.
I rounded the back corner of the station and found more crime tape. Carefully stopping a couple feet behind it, I let the beam of my flashlight fall to the ground, and I studied the tiny light that shone on one side of the back door. The light was rigged so that it always came on after dark, but its dull glow hadn’t kept Glad safe. Beneath it was a lawn chair and a Folger’s can, Glad’s makeshift ashtray. I raised my flashlight and moved it toward the other side of the door. There it was. White spray paint on brick: DYKE. The cramped letters slanted to the right, and they were a lot smaller than I expected, more like a lesson on a chalkboard than a hateful scrawl. Such tiny letters.
I moved the beam down to the cement patio.
Nothing.
I’d expected a chalk or tape outline where Glad had lain. I’d expected blood.
I thought about Matthew Shepard. Pistol-whipped, tortured, lashed to a fence, and left to die. I hoped that Glad died right away, that she hadn’t been tormented first. Still, it was strange that there was little evidence of struggle or violence.
A twig snapped. Someone was behind me.
I clutched the flashlight. If there was only one of them, I could whirl around and hit him with it. I cursed myself for forgetting the Mace, for not listening to Orchid when she urged me to take a self-defense class at the Women’s Center. I grasped the flashlight with both hands.
Another twig snapped. Whoever it was sounded huge.
“Mar-Bar, could you shine that light over here? I can’t see a thing.”
I shone the light right at Vince’s face to get back at him for scaring me.
“Hey!” He shaded his eyes. “I come out here to check on you, and you try to Ray-Charles me?”
“You scared the crap out of me.”
As usual, he avoided the issue. “You said you’d stay inside. The gay bashers could still be around.”
I flashed my light on the spray painted letters. “I don’t think they were ever here.”
* * *
Mr. Coffee gasped and chugged in Zee and Glad’s office. I sat at Glad’s desk and picked at the crumbs of the chocolate donut Vince had brought me. “Chuck Conover must not know much about hate crimes,” I said. “Most are committed by strangers. White males under twenty.”
“Plenty of those in small-town Iowa.” Vince’s Hawaiian-print shirt featured hot-pink parrots. He sat at Zee’s desk, peeling away the outer layer of a cinnamon roll.
“How would strangers know that Glad was a lesbian?” I said. “It’s not like she and Zee did lesbian radio shows. No one in Aldoburg even uses the word lesbian. It was a don’t-ask-don’t-tell kind of place long before Clinton and the U.S. military.” I nibbled my donut. Most Aldoburgians referred to my aunts’ relationship as different—a catchall euphemism that conveyed a tinge of disapproval. It was different when Kelly Skelley got her tongue pierced. It was different when Parker Honig graduated high school a year early. Different when Hortie Riley’s second oldest adopted two Korean girls.
