Your Cheatin Heart

Chapter Seven

The house was dark when I pulled up in the backyard. I would be cutting it close to get my things, change, and still arrive at the Golden Stallion on time. I ran up the stairs to the back door and into my bedroom, ducking under a piece of yellow tape that identified my house as a crime scene. If I'd gone in the front door, it would've taken no time at all for nosy neighbors to come rushing over, wanting to know every detail of Jimmy's demise. And if Jimmy's killer was out there looking for me, then coming in through the front door would've been an advertisement for target practice. At least this way I could sneak in and get out.

I pushed the door shut behind me. I stood still in the darkness, getting my bearings before I moved toward the bedside table and reached for the lamp. My bedroom looked just as I'd left it, with a few exceptions. There was black fingerprint powder over almost all of the surfaces, the door, the phone, the dresser. Little things were out of place, a figurine moved, a chair slightly off-kilter with the rest of the room, pictures hanging at a half-tipsy angle.

I made myself go through the house, turning on as few lights as possible, looking for the spot where Jimmy died. I found it in the living room. Jimmy died on my grandma's rag rug. An ugly, brick red stain covered the center of the cheerfully colored rug, destroying it forever with blood and memory. I would throw it out when I came back to stay.

I stood still for a moment, staring down at the rug, saying a silent prayer for poor Jimmy. I started to kneel down, my fingers reaching out to touch the spot. As I bent forward, the front door exploded open with a resounding crack, like gunfire.

I jumped backward. Jimmy's widow, Roxanne, stood framed in the doorway. Even at only five feet, her two hundred-pound body blocked out all but a thin halo from the outside streetlight. She looked like a darkened angel, but the sounds emanating from her mouth were anything but angelic.

"You!" she gasped. "Why aren't you in jail?" She staggered forward into the living room, her terry-cloth slippered feet squarely planted in the middle of the dark blood stain. She wore a wrinkled pink floral housedress and a green plaid coat that might have been her bathrobe.

I wasn't sure what to do. Roxanne's brown eyes glowed with a feverish intensity, her fat fish lips were drawn together like purse strings, and her mousy brown hair stood out from her head like a fright wig. She looked more dangerous than usual.

"You are responsible for my Jimmy's death," she pronounced in a raspy voice that seemed to originate from deep within her chest. "He wouldn't have had to die like a sorry yard dog if he'd been able to stay away from you! I warned him time and again, but no, he had to keep sniffing around you!"

I didn't move, but I didn't look away either. If she sprang at me, I'd run back through the house and out my bedroom into the backyard.

Roxanne looked down just then and gasped, jumping quicker than I would've thought her mighty frame could move. "Agggh!" she squawked. She had realized where she was standing.

"Roxanne," I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice, "why don't you…"

"Shut up," Roxanne snarled. She took a step closer to me and I tensed up, preparing to make a run for it. "Now you know how it feels," she said, a slight smile crossing her crazed face.

"What are you saying, Roxanne?"

"Years," she said slowly. "For years I watched you two. Neither one of you knowing I was there." Her voice drifted off and her eyes glazed over. I took a tiny step sideways, toward the dining room archway.

"Now you won't have him, ever!" she said, her eyes focusing on my face. "But I'll have him!"

"Roxanne, I don't know what you're talking about," I said slowly.

"Shut up!" she screamed, startling me into jumping. Roxanne may have looked like two hundred pounds of couch potato, but I knew from Jimmy that she was as strong as a bull. Roxanne harbored a secret desire to be a pro wrestler on the newly created women's circuit.

"You think I didn't know about you and him?" she said. I started to speak, but she rushed on, ignoring me. "You were planning to run off with him, weren't you? You done lost one rich Spivey brother, now you was aiming for the other. Well, it didn't happen, did it?"

I gave up. Roxanne was out of her mind with grief and nothing I did or said would change how she felt about me. I took a small step toward the dining room, but she grabbed me, whipping my arm behind me and pushing me off balance against the edge of the mantelpiece.

"I ain't done with you," she said. She was bending my arm painfully up behind my back. Her breath reeked of stale liquor.

I brought my foot up sharply, biting into Roxanne's fleshy shin. She shrieked and dropped my arm. I slipped away from her, leaving her moaning and massaging pink skin that was rapidly turning purple.

"Jimmy's dead," I said, and Roxanne's attention returned to me. "And yes, I loved him, but not in the twisted, sick way you think. He was like a brother to me!" I was breathing hard, my heart pounding against my chest.

"He didn't love me!" Roxanne yelled. "He never had the chance, not with you and his mother always there to tell him how wrong I was!" Roxanne had it all twisted to suit herself. "The two of you must've had a high old time, thinking dumb Roxanne didn't know, thinking you could just run off and leave me in the lurch!"

A dangerous glint came into Roxanne's eyes and I knew she was seconds from attacking me again.

"Mrs. Reid?" a voice said, and Roxanne whipped around, instantly on alert to the intruder standing in the open front doorway.

"Keith," I said, pushing past Roxanne and walking over to the door. Sheila's wanna-be boyfriend, the one I'd prayed thousands of times would somehow be banished from this earth, was staring from Roxanne to me, disbelief written all over his twenty-year-old, acne-pocked face. Maybe he was shocked by the scene he'd come upon, but more likely he was shocked by my warm reception.

"Is this a bad time?" he squeaked, looking for all the world like a tall, scrawny rat.

"No, son," I said loudly, "Sheila's aunt was just leaving." I glared at Roxanne, trying to look like I wasn't afraid when in reality, I knew Keith and I rolled into one couldn't have taken her.

Roxanne was making up her mind. She eyed Keith up and down, taking in the saggy, ripped blue jeans, the metal dog collar around his neck, and the tattoo of a dragon that sprawled up and down his forearm.

"I've done all I needed to do here," she said, lowering her head and charging toward Keith and the open front door like an angry bull.

Keith scampered out of the way, letting her pass and fade off into the night.

"She looked upset, huh?" he said, dodging me as I rushed up to slam the door. I had hoped he would've stayed on the outside, but he jumped into my tiny living room like a dog avoiding a lick with a broom.

"No flies on you, son," I said. "It was her husband that was killed here."

"Oh." He nodded, his eyes following the floor to the blood stain. He had to have known about Jimmy. He only lived three doors down. But maybe he was stupider than I gave him credit for.

"I heard that woman yelling at you," he said finally. "I was just walking by, you know, and I, er, thought you might be in trouble or something. So I just came on up." He looked at me expectantly, like maybe I was going to tip him, or worse yet, decide to like him.

"Thank you," I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "I'm fine." Did he really think that coming to my rescue with Roxanne would make me suddenly decide that a twenty-year-old unemployed skater/musician/dope dealer was a suitable boyfriend for my seventeen-year-old daughter?

Keith was walking around the living room, his eyes rooted to the floor, as if maybe he'd lost something. Always his attention returned to the blood stain. I didn't have time for this. I was going to be even later for work if I didn't get my clothes and get out of here.

"Keith," I said, "if you don't mind, Fin kind of in a hurry. I've gotta go to work." I moved toward the door, but for some reason, Keith moved toward the dining room.

"Keith? The door's this way." Mama would've hated my manners, but then, I think if the situation had been reversed, she might've taken the same course.

"Oh," he said absently, still wandering into the dining room. "You know, Mrs. Reid, I believe you've changed the furniture around in here."

"No, Keith, I…" But Keith was suddenly overtaken by a fit of coughing.

"Water," he gasped, collapsing into one of my dining room chairs.

"Oh, for pity's sake," I muttered. "Come on."

I swept by him and on into the kitchen. He followed me, coughing up a storm, his face reddening. I ran the tap, filled a glass with water, and shoved it into his outstretched hand. His fingernails were too long and they were dirty. What had Sheila seen in him?

I ducked into the walk-in closet that was just off the tiny galley kitchen. Maybe if I emerged with my outfit and started turning off the lights, he would take the hint and leave, He followed me, sipping on his water, his eyes darting around the room like a nervous cat.

"So, Mrs. Reid," he said quickly, "Sheila says you're the lead singer down at the Golden Stallion."

"That's right," I said, my face buried in the clothes rack.

"Well, that gives us something in common."

"How's that, Keith?" I said. I'd grabbed the purple denim outfit and was heading out into the kitchen when I stopped, staring at Keith. He had moved past the kitchen and the closet and was in Sheila's bedroom, down on his hands and knees, peering under her bed.

"Did you lose something?" I asked. He jumped, startled by my sudden presence, banging his head against the iron bedpost.

He jumped to his feet, his face beet-red. "I, uh, um, well, to be honest, Mrs. Reid…" I went on triple-guard when I heard that phrase. Mama used to say, sure as shooting, when a fella said "to be honest", whatever followed was sure to be a lie.

"To be honest?" I prompted, as Keith seemed at a loss for words.

"Oh, yes, ma'am. To be honest, I was just trying to check around. You know, just to make sure you're all right and there's no intruders of nothing like that."

"Keith, don't try and bullshit me. You and I have never gotten along. So why are you here?"

"Well, I…" Keith's head dropped down to his chest. "Well, to be honest, Sheila asked me to."

I might have known. Sheila was worried about me. A wave of emotion swept over me and for a brief moment I found myself wanning to the scruffy kid. He was looking out for Sheila by looking after her mom. Just as quickly, I remembered that this was the same boy who was on probation for drug dealing.

"Keith," I said, moving through my room and opening up the back door, "I am fine. There are no bad guys in my house. Whoever shot Jimmy is long gone, and you need to leave because I'm late for work."

Keith finally took the hint, reluctantly. He wandered through my bedroom and out onto my back stoop. I practically slammed the door behind him. I turned and ran back through the kitchen and into the bathroom. I just had time to apply another coat of makeup and hit the trail, if I wanted to make the first set on time.

In the bathroom, I found the real reason for Keith's frenetic search, at least that's what I found myself assuming. The little garnet and diamond chip ring that Sheila wore on her left hand was lying by the side of the sink. It had been a present from me to her on her fifteenth birthday and it hadn't been lying on my sink two days ago. As far as I knew, Sheila hadn't been to my house in over three weeks.

I picked up the little ring and slipped it into my pocket. An icy finger of fear and worry prodded at the base of my throat. When had Sheila been inside my house? And had she sent Keith over to look for her ring?

The doorbell rang as I stepped out of the tiny bathroom, startling me. Now what? As I made my way toward the living room, it became apparent that the nightmare was continuing. Red and blue lights moved like strobes across the wall, reflections of the two police cars that lined the narrow street in front of my house.

"Oh, great!" I sighed. "Now what?"

I pulled open the door and found myself face-to-face with Heckle and Jeckle, the two officers who had been sent to escort me downtown the night before.

"Ms. Reid?" the younger one said. It was more of a statement than a question.

"Officer."

"Detective Weathers wanted to speak with you," he said.

"Well, why didn't he pick up the phone?" I asked.

The older officer decided to take over. "I think he tried, ma'am. He just wanted us to stop by, make sure you were in. He's on his way over."

I peered around him at the two patrol cars, their lights flashing.

"Where's the SWAT team?" I asked.

He never answered my question. In fact, he didn't speak until Weathers's brown Taurus pulled up behind the patrol car. The officers left the porch and walked to meet him, probably relieved to be away from me.

There was no smart-aleck grin this time. Weathers looked angry. I watched the officers confer with him, speaking in low tones, gesturing back toward the porch where I waited. The neighbors had begun to gather, standing out on their porches craning their necks, or flat-out wandering to the edge of their walkways.

Detective Weathers left the two officers and started walking toward me. I felt a shiver run through me, like somebody walking across my grave.

"Where have you been and why didn't you call me back?" he demanded. He was wearing faded jeans.

They could've been the same tight jeans he'd worn the first night I'd seen him. The denim shirt he wore made his eyes sparkle, even in the near total darkness.

"I am right where I'm supposed to be," I answered. "And I can't call somebody back if I don't know they called."

"You don't check your messages?"

"Well, you know, with all that's gone on, I just plumb forgot." No apology from me.

"From now on," he said, "I don't want you to sneeze without letting me know."

He was wearing a new pair of cowboy boots, lizard skin, Tony Lamas if I didn't miss my guess. His belt buckle was large and silver. He caught me staring at it and arched an eyebrow. My stomach did its little flip, and I found myself responding to the man behind the badge.

"Listen," I said, "I am not your property. I have a life and I intend to lead it. Now, you and I both know that I've got a job and I work regular hours. If you want to haunt me, come right on down to the club. Looks like you were headed there anyway. As for my personal life, and where I go and with whom, well, buddy, I ain't never punched a clock for nobody and I won't start with you."

We were off to a good start. He took two long strides and was up the steps and by my side in a heartbeat, his jaw twitching and his eyes glowing with anger.

"Now see here, Ms. Reid," he said, "I cut you some slack when I let you go last night and-"

I interrupted. "You did no such thing." Let me

go! If he'd held me, I would've known it. I would've felt it. I would've… Stop it, I argued with myself, he's just a cop.

"I could've held you, don't let's be mistaken about that. If you want to play games, I'll make your life a living hell, lady. This is a murder we're dealing with, not some little dating game charade. I want to know where you are and with whom, at all times."

I turned and started to walk back inside. I'd had all I could take of this bozo. I was going to work.

He followed me. I could smell him. I could almost feel him breathing down my neck. "I want to talk to you," he said, "downtown."

I whirled around to face him. "Look, Detective, I told you I'd go over this all again and I will… tomorrow. Right now, I'm going to work."

I didn't give him a chance to say anything. I marched off into the kitchen, into the walk-in closet, grabbed my purple denim outfit off its hanger, and started back to my bedroom. I needed space. I needed to keep my head before my body got involved and I lost my cool and started acting like a damn woman. But he was right behind me.

"If you don't mind?" I said, waiting for him to move. He didn't budge. I took another step closer, until I was inches from his flint-hard face. "I'm going in that room," I said, gesturing toward my bedroom, "and I'm going to change. I think it would be carrying things a little far for you to accompany me." How long has it been? When was the last time a man… Stop it!

"I'm thinking we're going to have that talk tonight," he said, clearly angry. For a second I wondered if he really could hold me. I decided it wasn't worth testing him.

"All right," I said, "let's make a deal. I'll get changed and we'll talk for a little while." He said nothing, which I took for an okay, so I closed the bedroom door and started changing.

I intended to honor my end of the bargain, I really did. But that was before I looked at the clock and saw what time it was. Sparks had called an early practice and now it was five minutes 'til eight. If I had to stick around and talk to the detective, I'd miss practice, and maybe even be late for the first set. I couldn't do that. My band, the Drivin' Wheel, was my job, my dream.

I pulled off my jeans and slipped on my skirt. There was only one thing I could do. I picked up my purple suede boots, tiptoed to the backdoor, and quietly twisted the handle. I let myself out into the chilly fall night and eased down the stairs, sneaking out of my own house, just like a rebellious teenager.

For the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt good. I allowed a small giggle of triumph as I gripped the door handle of my car and started to open the door.

"Not this time," Weathers said, a strong hand clamping down on my shoulder. He seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.

I gasped, jumped about six inches, and felt his strong hands twisting me around to face him. I was pinned against the VW, Weathers's strong arms on either side of me, his face inches from my own.

"Maggie, why do you keep lying to me?" he asked, his voice menacingly soft.

"I just have to get to work and it's late," I answered.

"Nice try, but I don't think that's it." He wasn't moving. He had me trapped, and the only way to move would've been to try and wriggle out under his arms. Something he knew I'd considered, because he brought his elbows down and moved in still closer.

To anyone passing by, we would've appeared to be lovers, embracing. He was so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek and smell his cologne. It felt intoxicating, the smells, the sensations, my fear, all snowballing into a reaction I felt powerless to control.

"Trust me, Maggie," he breathed. "Talk to me." His voice was hypnotic. "Trust me."

I snapped out of it, jerking my head forward. "There's nothing to tell," I said. "I have to go to work. You can follow me, or ride with me, but I have to go!"

"What did Jimmy do to hurt you, Maggie?" he asked softly.

"Nothing, I'm telling you!"

Weathers was staring at me, his eyes burning into mine. He wasn't ready to let me go, not just yet.

"Maggie, I know he did something to you. People like you, they don't just take a life unprovoked. Let me help you, Maggie."

"Damn it! No!" I cried, stamping my stockinged foot on the cold ground. "I didn't shoot Jimmy!"

"Shhh," he whispered, his voice a warm caress, "Where's the gun, Maggie?"

"Listen to me," I said, "if I was gonna kill someone, I sure wouldn't do as sloppy a job as this. Believe me, if I were to kill you, there wouldn't be a trace left behind. And right now, I'm giving homicide some serious consideration. If you don't clear away from me and let me go, I'm liable to take matters into my own hands. Trust me, you won't like that, Detective."

He pushed back slowly, dropping his arms to his sides. "I'm not through with you, Maggie. I know you've got something you're not saying. You don't lie well." Well, he was right on that count. I wasn't one to go long without talking, but he was dead wrong about everything else.

"You can trust me, Maggie," he said softly. "I want to help you."

For one split instant I let his voice get to me, reaching deep inside, starting up a bank of feelings I hadn't let out in years, but just as quickly I boxed it back up. I could trust him, sure I could. Like Mama always said, if you put your faith in a bucket but let someone else do all the toting, you'll come up empty-handed every time.

The only person who could help me was me. I would have to find Jimmy's killer on my own. The police didn't believe a word I said. My daughter was living in the midst of a nest of vipers. And I was the number one suspect in a murder investigation. The way I saw it, it certainly fell to me to put things to rights.

Now I knew two other things that I hadn't known an hour ago. One was that Detective Marshall Weathers was dangerous. If I didn't watch him, he'd lull me into admitting all kinds of things, only half of them true. The second thing I'd learned frightened me even more: Sheila was involved somehow in this whole situation. No matter what else happened, I had to help her, even if it meant that the police thought I was guilty of a crime I didn't commit.