“Get out of my house,” Laverna said, and pointed to the door. “I never want to see you again.”
At that, Red Mabel pulled Laverna into the bathroom. They shut the door, and she cried, and they both listened to the sounds of Rachel slamming drawers, the sounds of her leaving.
Wrinkles
In the flip-top ottoman, Jake found a stack of baby-blue T-shirts.
“Don’t know where they came from, dear,” Buley said, and the cat on her lap was just as quizzical. White and tan, and skinny as could be, Jake thought the cat had been one of Frank’s.
The T-shirts ranged in size from small to double XL, and they were in immaculate condition, fourteen of them, still carefully folded around cardboard and wrapped in cellophane.
“I think they’re a sign,” he said, and sat on the rug in front of Buley and examined them closely, designs taking shape in his head.
“ROCKY!” Buley was the kind of woman who yelled so much that it barely even changed her face. He appeared from one of the rows and deposited a bulging manila envelope into his nephew’s hands. Jake shook the contents into his lap: iron-on numbers, thirty or so.
“Vintage,” said Buley. “But I’m pretty sure the stick-’em still works.”
“They look brand-new,” said Jake. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, dear.” The cat yawned and nuzzled into Buley’s armpit. “There are some other things you are going to need, of course.” Jake’s head continued to swirl with ideas, and he removed his sketchpad, began to make a list. Once more, Buley called for Rocky, and he appeared silently, this time bearing the cordless phone, without being asked. Jake paid no attention to her conversation.
“Bucky will drive you,” announced Buley, and Rocky was there again, to take the phone.
“Where?”
“Ellis,” said Buley. “I suspect you’re going to need some supplies.”
* * *
Bucky waited outside the thrift store, honked twice. Jake thanked Buley and counted the cash in his pockets as he climbed into Bucky’s truck. Thankfully, Bucky had on the heater. The March wind stung, and the small truck trembled in the gusts.
Bucky did not need instructions. As they left Quinn, he chattered away, about the upcoming softball season and his new ride-on lawn mower. Jake feigned interest, but he waited for Bucky to pause, blabbing nervously, most likely because of his passenger.
The truck rounded the curve of the river, and the highway was freshly sanded. At last, Bucky stopped the softball talk, and concentrated on the icy road.
“I saw you next door,” said Jake. “Working on Frank’s house.”
“Yep,” said Bucky.
“Isn’t that weird? I mean, does your family care that you’re hanging out with Rachel?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, kid.”
“I don’t,” said Jake. “I’m pretty sure she never served time. I’ve read enough books to know what prison does to pretty women.”
At this, Bucky smiled wryly. “Yeah. I’ve seen some movies.”
In Ellis, Jake consulted with the owner of the fabric store before making his purchases, careful to heed her suggestions, even though he found her fashion to be deplorable. He ignored her crooked wig and sleeveless blouse made from layers of doilies. Her shirt was an arts-and-crafts disaster, but she was extremely helpful, enchanted by his twenty-dollar bill. Bucky said nothing as Jake piled the counter with spools of glittering thread, a bolt of satiny fabric. Jake suspected Bucky held his tongue, embarrassed at these purchases. In the truck, he had admitted to Jake that he needed the money, and Jake figured that Buley had paid him well.
* * *
Jake carefully knocked on Rachel’s front door. He was cautious, as there was no telling what a thieving murderess would do. He clung to the rumors, because Rachel Flood was the closest thing to Lucky Santangelo; his neighbor could exist in the universe of Jackie Collins. He knew that she was not a killer but believed she was probably a thief and a slut, and he had changed his outfit three times until he was satisfied. He finally chose black slacks and a silk black shirt, a golden ascot that matched his hair. His outfit was dashing and international. It was early evening, and even though her truck was parked outside, he assumed she would be gone, on a date with a married man.
He knocked one more time. Beside him was a laundry basket and an iron with a carefully wrapped cord weighing down the contents.
She answered the door, her eyes puffy and glazed. Jake thought that she seemed kind of drunk, but the word around town was that Rachel Flood was clean and sober.
“Sorry for bothering you,” he said. “I can come back at another time.” He reached down for his basket.
“No way, kid.” She studied him closely, and he tugged nervously at his ascot. “I was meditating. It’s something I try to do every day.” He smelled the incense, heard the tinkle of new age music.
“My friend Misty and I tried astral projection once,” admitted Jake.