Stand By Your Man

Chapter Eight

My little cottage sits on a small side street between two college campuses. It is over a hundred years old, drafty as your granny's drawers in a hurricane, and totally mine. I parked my ancient Beetle a good two blocks away, behind the YMCA parking lot, and snuck up on my own house.

I looked up and down the street for a motorcycle and saw none, but that didn't mean I wasn't cautious. I slipped down the alley, looked both ways before I crossed my dot of a backyard, then darted up the stairs to the door that opened into my converted sleeping porch-bedroom. I had the door open and was inside the house in seconds, the thrill of victory quickly shattered by the reality of defeat. My bed had been slept in and my house smelled like coffee. Freshly brewed coffee.

"Sheila?" I called softly.

The Shadow stepped into the doorway of my bedroom, one of my coffee mugs in hand, and a huge grin on his face.

"Just like I thought," he said. "Those eyes blackened right up." He sipped his coffee, all the while studying me. "It's not bad, though, what you did with the makeup. From the stage they might not even be able to tell. Guess it's the sunlight, huh? Kind of shows up everything."

I spun around and grabbed the doorknob. My heart thudded against my chest and my palms were sweating.

He didn't move from the doorway. "Have a nice day," he said slowly. "When Sheila gets in I'll tell her you were by."

That got me. I turned back and glared at him. "Get out of my house. I'm calling the police!"

He shook his head. His dark black hair reflected the sunlight that streamed in through my bedroom windows. His eyes twinkled. He was getting just the reaction he wanted. He slouched against the doorjamb, studying me over the rim of his coffee mug. He stopped smiling and the light went out of his eyes.

"Call them," he said. "But if you do, Vernell's a dead man."

"How do I know he isn't dead already?" I said. "Where is he?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just telling you what the others will do if they find him, especially with the police in on it. You get them all wrapped up in this and I'll guaran-damn-tee you that they'll kill him first and ask questions later. You don't want to go calling the police or raising a bunch of senseless hell. You need my help."

"I need your help? I do not need help from you. What I need is to call the cops and get you out of my house!" I tried to look like I meant business, like I wasn't terrified, but he didn't seem to take me seriously.

He half-turned away from me, heading back into my kitchen. "You need all the help you can get. Now, come on," he said, "the coffee's fresh and I was about to rustle up some breakfast. You hungry?"

"No," I lied, sounding for all the world like a surly teenager. I hung back, trying to make up my mind. For some reason, I didn't think he was going to hurt me. You don't cook breakfast for someone you intend to kill-at least that's how I saw it.

"I want you out of my house," I said, moving reluctantly toward the kitchen. "This is breaking and entering, you know."

He chuckled. "As easy to pop as your house is, it oughta be called trick or treat." He laughed again, highly amused with his own cleverness. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Black."

"Figures," he said. "Wouldn't want any cream and sugar to lighten you up."

"Now listen here," I said, "I'm about over this act of yours. You cannot break into someone's house, eat their food, and threaten them without repercussions."

He spun back around and smirked. "Didn't figure you for the type to use uptown, big words. Repercussions, huh? Well, let me tell you something, Vernell's the one facing repercussions. You're just lucky I'm helping you out. I know more about him and the trouble he's in than the cops will ever know."

"You are not helping me out!" I crossed the kitchen floor, took my skillet out of his hand, and shoved him aside. "Move! If anyone cooks here, it's me." He took a step backward and frowned. "And another thing," I said. "I don't break bread with strangers. Who are you? I think you at least owe me that much."

I crossed my arms, holding the skillet against my side. I hadn't ruled out using it for knocking some sense into him, but if he was telling the truth and could help me find Vernell, then I'd be a fool to run him off. I stared at him, trying not to look at his mouth, trying not to remember the way he'd kissed me and the way I'd reacted.

He reached one hand back into his jeans pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open for me to see. Inside was a picture and a card identifying him as Anthony Carlucci, licensed private investigator.

I looked at the picture and then I looked at him. The picture didn't do his dark eyes any justice, but it was him. His hair was longer now, and he had a serious case of five o'clock shadow, but it was definitely him.

"You can call me Tony," he said, and stood there, staring me down in my own home.

I looked away at the carton of eggs sitting on the counter-top. He had really been intent on cooking breakfast in my kitchen. Next to the stove sat my coffeepot, full of strong, black liquid. I inhaled and half-closed my eyes, then sighed and turned my attention back to Carlucci. Well, at least he was somewhat domesticated.

"You didn't start the grits water?" I said, pulling out another pot.

"Hashbrowns," he answered.

"Grits," I said. "My house, my food, my rules."

He smiled and stepped over to the coffeepot, grabbing a new mug as he went. "Here," he said, pouring the steaming coffee into the cup. "You haven't had enough to be thinking straight."

I slammed the skillet down on the stove and cut the fire on underneath it. "Who hired you?" I asked. I reached past him, pulled open the refrigerator door, and grabbed the bacon. Mama always said, "If you fill a man's stomach, you'll dull his senses." Mama never argued with Daddy when he was hungry, and Daddy never won an argument.

"I can't say. It's confidential."

Tony was leaning against the counter, uncomfortably close. He was slightly taller than Marshall Weathers, and larger, but without an ounce of flesh that wasn't muscle. Even without looking at him, I could feel him there. It was as if he radiated heat and something else that I couldn't quite put a name to.

"Man or woman?" I asked.

"Can't say," he answered.

I threw four strips of bacon into the hot skillet and listened to it sizzle against the burning surface.

"Why are you looking for Vernell?"

" 'Cause I got paid to look for him."

"By who? You can tell me that," I said. "What harm can that do?"

He shrugged. "I don't like to violate my code of ethics."

The bacon hissed and popped. "Yeah," I said, "like you have one. You work for the Redneck Mafia, don't you?"

That stopped him cold. He reached out, grabbed my arm and turned me toward him. "What do you know about that?" he asked. His eyes darkened and the look in them frightened me, but I wasn't going to let him know that.

"Nosmo King a friend of yours?" I said, letting my voice drop down to a near whisper. His grip on my arm tightened and I winced.

"How do you know about them?" he growled.

"The bacon's burning," I said, and jerked my arm away. I turned my attention back to the stove, knowing he wouldn't let it drop.

"Maggie, answer me. You can't drop a name like that and then stop talking. It's too dangerous."

"Who do you work for?" I shot back.

It was a standoff. I pulled the bacon out of the pan and slipped in the eggs. Over easy. I wouldn't look at him and he wasn't volunteering a thing. I poured grits into the boiling water and stirred them. The words Redneck Mafia and Nosmo King sure seemed to hit a nerve.

By the time the eggs were ready and the grits almost done, I had a plan. Mama always said, "A critter'll always come to sugar, long before he'll lick salt."

"Breakfast is on," I said. I pasted a stupid smile on my face and gestured toward my dining room. "You go sit down, let me tend to things."

Apparently he'd taken lessons in the same school of common sense. "Let me help you."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I purred. "You're a guest." Like hell, I thought, but swallowed it.

Tony picked up the coffeepot, filled our mugs, and then carried them into the dining room. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.

I set his plate of food down in front of him, then added a huge bowl of grits. I just couldn't help myself. Then I went back for my plate.

"Umm, umm," I heard him moan from the dining room.

"You know, Maggie, where I come from, we don't eat grits, but these are delicious!"

I know a liar when I hear one. I stuck my head around the corner and stared at him. He was shoveling plain grits into his mouth as fast as possible, ignoring the bowl of red eye gravy, and ignoring the pepper. What was wrong with him? It could only be one thing. He had Yankee written all over him.

"Glad you like 'em," I said, breezing past him to my seat. "Where I come from, grits just ain't no good without gravy and pepper, but I'm so happy to see you love them plain. What a tribute!"

Tony shot a longing glance at the redeye gravy, realizing his error, and knowing he couldn't switch over now.

We would've continued like this for I don't know how long, but Sheila saved me. The front door latch clicked, the door swung open, and my teenaged daughter faced down Tony Carlucci with a haughty glare.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Mama, that's him! That's the guy that was watching Daddy's house!"

Sheila marched through the living room and straight up to the dining-room table. She was wearing a little plaid miniskirt, black knee-highs, and pigtails. She looked like a Catholic schoolgirl.

"Baby, this is Mr. Carlucci," I said. "He's a private investigator looking for your dad."

"No you're not," Sheila sneered. "Private investigators don't wear black leather jackets and ride motorcycles."

"Sheila, where are your manners? And why aren't you in school?"

Sheila gave me a pitying look. "Mama, I am trying to save your life!"

"Cutting school again, huh?" Carlucci said, grinning.

"Shut up!"

"Sheila!" I swung back to face Carlucci. "How do you know she cuts school?"

"Doesn't everybody?" he answered.

"Well, I didn't."

Now Tony and Sheila both favored me with a pitying glance.

"I just stopped by to pick up a book I forgot," Sheila said, taking my side. "I do not cut school!"

"Stand by it if you want," Carlucci said, still smirking. "But I bet you wouldn't want your mama to check up on you." Sheila's face said all I needed to hear. I'd deal with her later.

Carlucci's plate was nearly clean. "I guess you'll be going now, huh?" I said, snatching the plate away. "I know you're busy with your investigation."

Sheila had stalked off to her room and was rooting around in search of something. I doubted it was a textbook. In this one instance, I figured Tony was right: Sheila had planned on cutting school and not getting caught.

"I'm not so busy that I can't help you do the dishes," he said. "My mother raised me right and I've got all day." He leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of me. When he smiled, as he was doing now, without the smirk, he seemed almost human.

"You're not from around here, are you?" I asked.

"Philadelphia," he said. "South Philly." He shifted in his chair and I stared at his shoes. He wore motorcycle boots, rounded toe, black, scuffed leather. His arms were crossed, the muscles cording like thick bundles of wire. I thought I caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from his shirtsleeve, but when he moved, it vanished.

"Mama!" Sheila said, sticking her head into the dining room. "I'm leaving." Her backpack was slung across her shoulder and she was moving fast toward the front door.

"You are going straight to school?" I asked, ignoring the smirk that had returned to Carlucci's face.

"Bye, Mama!"

"I'll be talking to the attendance officer later," I warned.

Sheila spun around, glowered at Carlucci, and took a deep breath. "You see what you've done?" she asked him. "Making my mama doubt me!" She straightened her shoulders and looked right at me. "Mama, in psychology class they say that if you let someone come between you, it's called splitting. Mr. Carlucci is trying to split us. He should know better than to try and corrupt our relationship!"

She was gone without another word, stomping off down the front porch steps. I went to the living-room window and watched her hop into a car full of her girlfriends. She was gesturing wildly, obviously filling them in on the ruination of her day and the realization that now she had to report to school. Carlucci was right. I kept my eyes on the street in front of the house, not wanting to turn around and face him.

I heard him get up and take the dishes out to the kitchen. Then the water started in the sink. The domesticated biker-private eye was cleaning up. First he threatened my family, then he invaded my home, and now he was doing my dishes. What in the hell was going on?

I stayed there for a few minutes, just staring out the window at the college students walking by and the cars that jockeyed for a parking place within a mile of the campus. It all looked so normal, but my world was going crazy a piece at a time.

I didn't hear the water cut off. I was lost in thought, figuring out how I was going to get to the bottom of things, when I heard Carlucci's voice behind me.

"I said it was a woman."

I didn't turn around. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"A woman what?" I said finally.

"That hired me. That's all I'm gonna tell you. I shouldn't even have told you that much, but I'm starting to feel sorry for you. You got a teenager out running the streets, a husband leading a life you don't even know the half of-"

"Ex-husband," I snapped.

Carlucci ignored me and went on. "-no money and two black eyes. Somebody oughta take pity on you."

That got me to turn around, but he was watching the street, his eyes narrowed to wary slits. I opened my mouth to tell him he didn't need to feel sorry for me, but how could I? Everything he'd said was apparently true.

"I don't need your pity," I said. "What I need is something to go on. How can I help you or Vernell or my family if no one will tell me anything? Why don't you just shoot straight? Tell me what it is you're trying to say about Vernell."

Carlucci stared at me until I felt myself go cold with worry. His eyes flickered past me, out onto the street, and then back.

"Don't you ever wonder how Vernell can just start up a new business? Don't you ever ask him where the money comes from?"

"He started up the satellite dish company with the money he got from the mobile home business. It was going well."

Carlucci shook his head. "A mobile home business, a satellite dish company, a mansion, three vehicles, money, money, money. It don't grow on trees."

Carlucci was looking back out at the street. "I'm gonna tell you one thing, and I shouldn't probably, but it's time you grew up. There's a motel on Battleground Avenue, the Twilight Motel. It's been there for years, next to the Your House Diner. Why don't you go there sometime and drive around the back of the place?" He glanced over at me. "You might take it into your pretty little head to wonder how come it's so full of Volvos and Mercedes in the middle of the day."

Carlucci smiled softly. "Of course, you wouldn't be that type, would you?"

"What type?"

He didn't answer. Instead his shoulders tightened and he was frowning at something outside.

"Looks like your bad day's about to take a downward turn," he said.

I looked to see what he meant and found Marshall Weathers climbing out of his unmarked car. If anyone would get the straight facts out of Carlucci, it would be Weathers. I moved to the door, turned the lock, and swung the door wide open.

"We'll see who knows what now," I said, looking back at Carlucci. But he was gone, and the slamming of the back door was my only answer.