“God, I’ve created a monster.”
She slammed the door on his snort, and, careful of her high heels, picked her way through the pockmarked parking lot. Some brilliant marketing type, in order to keep up with the superstore craze, had tacked on the word pharmacy at the end of Alfred’s Family Grocery. It gave the storefront a decidedly lopsided appearance and hadn’t improved the clientele. Chewing gum dotted the sidewalk as she stepped up on the curb. The trash can nearest the door overflowed. Beside it lay a flattened pizza box with two leftover slices. The odor of rotting garbage followed her through the automatic door, and the smell was little better inside. Years of recirculated air permeated the store, the scent close to that of unwashed human bodies.
She wondered how Witt could let his mother shop at a place like this. She wondered how Virginia Spring had kept herself from slashing her wrists when faced with Alfred’s Family Grocery/Pharmacy. Maybe she drove to a better part of town.
Max started at the right side of the store, peering down the aisles in search of Bethany’s boy. She passed the coffee aisle, the baking aisle, canned goods, soda, freezer section ... ah, there he was, the end of the sundries aisle at the pharmacy window.
Max made a beeline for him, slowed three feet away when she heard him arguing with the fuzzy-haired pharmacist, took another two steps, then stopped as if she were waiting in line. Slightly to the right and close enough to see the teen’s surprisingly clear complexion, she eavesdropped shamelessly.
“Look, you know I come in here every three weeks to pick up this stuff,” Freddy whined.
His backpack had slid down his arm and flopped to the floor beside him, his fingers still in contact with one nylon tag. He wore the usual oversized pants, baggy once-white shirt, and hi-top tennis shoes. At least she thought they’d be hi-tops, his frayed pant leg hems actually obscuring everything except the very tips of his tennies. He was going to be tall. His fingers were long and his hands too big for the rest of body, like the paws of a Malamute puppy. Beneath the ill-fitting clothes, the lank hair, and the still-growing body, Max realized the kid was pretty damn good-looking. No, not good enough. Freddy was beautiful.
Gray Hair squinted, tipped his head back and stared down at Freddy through the bifocal half of his smudged glasses. “I don’t remember you, boy, and Ms. Spring called like clockwork when she had a pick up. She hasn’t called today.”
Freddy brushed back a lock of his too-long brown hair. “I told you. She was murdered. Day before yesterday.”
The man didn’t even flinch as Freddy said the word murder. “Then what the hell do you need to pick up this medication for?”
“Because I worked for Bethany and the medicine isn’t for her, it’s for Mrs. Pratt, and she needs it. Her doctor always called it in, Bethany always called you to say I was coming, and I always picked it up.” The kid’s voice broke on the last word, though he looked seventeen or so and too old for the pubescent voice-change thing.
“Well, I don’t like you kids coming in here trying to steal cough medicines, condoms, and airplane glue. Get your kicks somewhere else.”
“Come on, man, you know who I am.”
Gray Hair flapped a hand. “Go on. I told you to get.”
“Why don’t you call Mrs. Pratt and settle the matter?” Max interjected.
Freddy and the pharmacist both turned to stare at her, eyes wide as if they were viewing an alien species. Max had the strange notion to sniff her armpits to make sure she didn’t smell bad.
Then the old guy harrumphed. She took it to mean no. Freddy took it that way, too, his mouth set in a mutinous line. No one reached for the old-fashioned rotary phone sitting on the counter behind the man.
Max opened her voluminous purse and pulled out Witt’s cell phone. She neither analyzed why she had it with her instead of leaving it in the glovebox nor why it was on as if, like a lovesick puppy-dog, she expected a call from him.
“Here. Why don’t you call Mrs. Pratt? Then you can hand the phone over to—” She leaned close to read the man’s nametag. “Ah yes, you can hand it over to Mr. Carbuncle, and he can verify that she wants you to pick it up for her.”
“It’s Kerbinkle,” the man corrected with the accent on the binkle.
“Sorry for the mispronunciation, Mr. Carbuncle.” Max smiled sweetly, then ignored him.
Freddy stared at the phone for a full ten seconds.
“Do you remember her number?”
“How do I know he’s not calling one of his gang buddies?”