Trouble in a Big Box (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) Page 10

  “Not if you had training. I’ll make some compromises with you but this isn’t one of them. I can’t quite see arming you with a knife. I’m afraid then you would get hurt worse than the other…uh…person.”

  We both knew who we were talking about and that she was probably proficient with a knife, her weapon of choice.

  “As for Joe, bully for him for taking on the Garza family. But Kelly, remember that’s not your fight. You have me and the girls to take care of, and now I’m sure you’ve taken on this Otto Martin. You simply can’t save the world.”

  “I can try.”

  He smiled and held out his arms, and I walked into them, sitting carefully on his lap for fear of hurting him.

  Maggie bounded into the room then stopped short. “I caught you smooching!”

  I laughed, “Yes, you did. Is that so bad?”

  “No, it’s kinda nice. Mom, did you ask Mike if we could go to the YMCA Halloween party?”

  “Maggie Spencer, how did you know about that? Were you listening in on my conversation with Joe?”

  “Only that part of it,” she said, hanging her head.

  Mike was stern. “I should say no, you can’t go because you did what you know you’re not supposed to. You listened in on someone else’s phone call. That’s eavesdropping, and it’s wrong. I’m tempted to let Em go and keep you at home.”

  Tears puddled in her eyes, but she was determined not to cry, big as she was. Mike gently pushed me aside and pulled Maggie into his arms. “Promise never to do that again?”

  She nodded.

  “You can go, only if Theresa takes you.”

  She threw her arms around him and hugged tight. That made me teary.

  After the girls were tucked in bed that night, Mike and I sat close together on the couch, not talking about much, just enjoying being together. But we both decided we were really tired.

  As I turned out the light in the front window, I saw the green Nova across the street. Doesn’t that child ever sleep? I left the porch light on and checked the alarm but didn’t mention the car to Mike, just snuggled a little closer to him in bed.

  As I drifted off, I made a note of another chore for the next day—call Tanya, the young single mother whose yoga studio was threatened by Lattimore’s commercial development. I should have started yoga two months ago. Okay, I should have been doing it all along—I needed exercise, and I hadn’t been getting it. Claire was kind to offer but I wanted to support Tanya, and I would feel guilty taking charity from Claire.

  Noises in the driveway wakened me in the early morning hours. The motion-sensing lights came on and the driveway was flooded with light. And someone was yelling, something that sounded like, “Yippee!” over and over. I sat up in bed but Mike was already up and out of bed, this time using his walker for speed, his service revolver in his hand. If I hadn’t been so scared, I’d have realized he made a ridiculous image wearing only boxer shorts.

  I heard the front light switch click off and then the front door open. Good for Mike—he left the alarm system on. Within seconds, its sirens began blaring outside and inside.

  The girls were in our bed before I could blink. They had heard too many things go bump in the night during their young lifetimes, and they were easily scared. Now they both had their hands over their ears.

  “Mom, what is happening?” Maggie whispered.

  “I don’t know, but Mike will tell us,” I whispered back. Then aloud, “We don’t have to whisper. No one can hear us, and whispering just makes us more afraid.”

  “But I am afraid,” Em wailed.

  “Mike will keep us safe,” I said.

  Flashing lights filtered through the blinds, and I knew the police were here. Mike clumped down the hall to get a pair of pants and commanded, “You three stay right here. Go to sleep.”

  As if we could!

  He was gone forever, or so it seemed. Finally I heard him click on the porch light, set the alarm, lock the door, and come haltingly down the hall, without the speed he’d shown getting out. Dispiritedly, he sat on the edge of the bed, commanded the girls to look the other way, and then slid out of his shoes and pants and crawled into the bed.

  “Girls, you may sleep with us, but you best sleep on the other side of your mother. I need her as a barrier between me and your kicks.”

  They didn’t say a word but settled down quietly.

  “Mike?”

  “She slashed the tires on both cars. Conroy’s sending someone to get me in the morning. Can you get Keisha to get the girls to school while you call Triple A about getting the tires changed and Dave Summers about insurance?”

  “Sure.” So our girl did have a knife. Guns weren’t her style. Probably smart of her. And probably something she learned fighting in the streets. I wondered if she had scars I hadn’t noticed.

  Mike fell asleep instantly—how I envied him that ability—and on the other side of me the girls slept, comfortably curled about each other. I lay awake, dreading the future.

  ****

  When I called Keisha early the next morning, she reminded me—as she had twice for the last week—that the zoning commission would hold an open hearing that morning on Tom Lattimore’s petition for a variance. There went Triple A—I’d have to deal with the tires in the afternoon. Mike protested that since it was his first day back at work, sort of, he couldn’t attend the meeting, and I understood.

  Keisha and I delivered the girls to school, went to Starbucks, ran by the office, and were in the zoning commission hearing by nine o’clock. I’d been in zoning commission hearings before, though never over a huge commercial property. My interests had been for remodeling houses, preserving the neighborhood, small stuff. But I knew that the men and women who sat impassively behind that long table were just people like everyone else, albeit with more knowledge of the zoning laws and regulations. Zoning variation requests looked like they were written in a foreign language until you understood the code. In this case I understood only too well: Tom wanted a change from light commercial to heavy. Accordingly the commission had sent notices to property owners within 300 yards of the property to be affected, and these property owners were invited to be present at the hearing and to speak in an orderly and brief fashion. It would, I knew, be a long morning.

  Tom presented his case, stressing economic benefits to the area, increased availability of affordable goods in the satellite stores as well as fresh and healthy food in the new anchor store, and surprisingly, neighborhood support for the project. He brought forth a string of witnesses—the taco shop owner testified that he supported the development because it promised him better quarters for his business; one or two other small businesses near the site echoed that sentiment. Had Tom “forgotten” to tell them about the new plan calling for adaptive re-use? Or was he simply hoping to push the original plan through with this commission and deal with John Henry later? A couple of owners of residential properties behind the site testified that they would welcome the convenience of nearby shopping, and several residents welcomed the idea of a gourmet shopping center in the neighborhood. With a final sweeping gesture, Tom laid his petitions before the commission members.

  When testimony from the opposition was allowed, pandemonium broke loose with people clamoring to testify—including me. I glanced at Tom and saw his face pale.

  The chair of the commission announced that ten people, chosen at random, would be allowed to speak and requested all who wanted to testify to stand. I stood, and I prayed that Otto Martin would be chosen. He wasn’t—in retrospect that was a good thing. He might have repeated his threat on Tom’s life. Keisha was chosen, and so was I, along with Tanya who owned the yoga studio, and Christian. I didn’t recognize the others. Keisha gave the same impassioned plea she had at the meeting in our office; Christian spoke in business terms about the impact of the neighborhood, especially traffic congestion, which would affect not only the immediate area but almost the whole of Magnolia; Tanya told her own personal story in a mo
st effective way; and I began with Otto Martin’s story then moved into the real estate implications. I talked so long that the chair cut me off with a curt, “That will do. Thank you.”

  The other testimonies were along the same lines, dwelling upon preserving the neighborhood ambiance, the friendly familiar comfort of Fairmount as a neighborhood. There was no reading the commissioners’ faces, but I noticed Tom running a nervous finger around his collar.

  Jim Price was offered a chance to speak as chair of the neighborhood association, and he rose to say affirmatively, “Ladies and gentleman, I am firmly opposed to this project. I do feel, in addition, that the neighborhood has been blindsided. The petitioner had much more advance knowledge than the opposition, and we respectfully request a postponement to give us time for a neighborhood meeting and to circulate petitions.”

  Tom tried to be flippant. “Don’t bother. Everyone’s already signed my petition.”

  Jim matched him in tone. “Oh, I imagine we can find one or two folks who haven’t signed yet.”

  The chair of the commission asked, “Mr. Price, would a month be sufficient?”

  “Yes, sir. I imagine we can get a lot done in a month.”

  “So granted,” and he banged his gavel on the table. “Next item.”

  Tom left as soon as the chair announced the delay, but his face looked ashen.

  It took me the rest of the day to get all the tires changed on our cars. Keisha picked up the girls, gave me a few messages from the office, and left us. By then, I was anxious about Mike and his day. I knew better than to call, and I knew doubly sure he wouldn’t want me picking him up. So I set the girls to doing their homework and put myself to making a cheeseburger meatloaf, one of Mike’s favorites.

  He came in a little after five, followed by Conroy, whose first words were, “Can I please have a beer?”

  “Not before I kiss Mike,” I said.

  “Oh, sheesh! Newlyweds.”

  Mike wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight to keep his balance, and gave me a sound kiss.

  “How was it?” I asked.

  His smile was rueful. “Even sitting at a desk, I missed my naps. I’m really out of shape.”

  “I made him get up frequently,” Conroy said, “and I made him do some of his stretches and exercises.”

  “In the station headquarters?” I was incredulous, and Mike just hung his head. I knew it had embarrassed him.

  “Yep. Now about that beer. I got other news.”

  I fetched a beer, feeling like a barmaid. Mike had shaken his head “No” when I asked him.

  Settling himself on the couch, with the girls as a spellbound audience, Conroy came close to putting his feet on the coffee table, thought better of it, and said, “We picked up your girl today.”

  My girl?

  “We picked up Bella Garza.” His tone was impatient, as though I should have known instantly.

  “Where?”

  “Dump of a bar on Hemphill. Took her in and fingerprinted her, booked her, the whole works. Suspicion of vandalism. Underage drinking—she’s nineteen as you know. Then we let her go. Any judge would throw the case out of course, but we wanted her to know we have our eye on her.”

  “She seem impressed?” I asked.

  Mike joined in. “Not the way I heard it. That girl’s got a dirty mouth, and she let loose on them.”

  “All talk and no show,” Conroy said, taking a deep pull at his beer.

  “I don’t trust that,” Mike said. “It’s my family whose safety is at stake.”

  “We’re watching her, Mike. I told you that. Kelly, can you keep a record of when and where you see her? Sort of a log.”

  “Sure.”

  “Mom?” Maggie interrupted, and I started to shush her, until she said, “That old green car is outside again, right in front of our house.”

  Conroy jumped to his feet and ran to the window, only to exclaim, “The little bitch has a lot of nerve!”

  I wanted to cover the girls’ ears, but it was too late.

  When Conroy came back to the couch, he looked disturbed. “There were two people in that car. She was driving, wearing her damned baseball cap, but there was a guy in the passenger seat. She’s got help. I don’t like it.” He picked up his beer.

  “Girls, don’t you need to finish your homework in your rooms?” I asked.

  Maggie stood firm. “No way I’m missing this.”

  Mike looked at her, considered his options, and said nothing. We were all baffled, trying to figure out what new dimension Bella’s accomplice brought to the situation.

  Finally Mike said, “I’d like to rush out there and grab both of them.”

  “Fine,” I retorted, “and break your good leg?”

  He grunted. “There was a time when I could have done it.”

  I put my hand over his.

  Conroy was on the phone, muttering and mumbling. When he clicked off his cell phone, he said, “Patrol car’ll be here in a minute. Check them out for loitering. He can tell us about the passenger.” Sometimes I underestimated Buck Conroy.

  Sure enough, a police car pulled up almost instantly, did that little squawk that tells someone they’re there but doesn’t warn them blocks away. Conroy went strutting out the door, and the girls and I rushed to the window.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Mike said. “Don’t let them see that you’re interested.”

  “But I am interested,” Em wailed. “I don’t like that girl.”

  Mike appealed to me with his eyes, and I said, “Girls, stand away from the window, to the side where you can’t be seen.” I peeked out the window in the door. We all saw the officers drag the girl and a boy out of the car, make them spread their arms and legs against the car, and pat them down.

  “Oh, for gosh sake,” I cried. “Surely they don’t have weapons.”

  Mike gave me one of those looks. “You a seasoned officer by now?” and I subsided. They probably did have knives of one sort of another.

  They actually took those kids away, leaving the car in front of our house. That made it hard for me to sleep—or I thought it would. But cuddled next to Mike, I slept soundly. Next morning the green car was gone, and Mike said they had booked Bella and a twenty-year-old male named Ben Smith (really?) on charges of loitering and suspicion of vandalism. Then they let them go on their recognizance. It was the best they could do, he said.

  “That’s her brother,” I said. “Ben Garza.”

  I was back to worrying about Bella Garza.

  Chapter Ten

  Dinner at Lili’s was hardly the quiet, only-the-two-of-us evening that I had envisioned. Everyone from the owner to half the customers stopped to greet Mike, tell him how glad they were to see him, and ask how he was doing. In between, we managed to order house salads with that good blue cheese dressing and our favorite entrée, the veal piccata. We lingered over a second glass of wine but turned down dessert and coffee and hurried home to the girls. In the car, Mike confessed, “It makes me a little nervous to leave the girls with your mom. The three of them seem pretty defenseless.”

  “Don’t underestimate the new Nana,” I replied, but I too was glad to be back home. We’d had our date night for the foreseeable future.

  Sunday night supper with Otto Martin was a delight. I had decided to balance things out by inviting Mom, ignoring Mike’s gibes about matchmaking for her. Mom was far too sophisticated for Otto Martin, especially since she’d rebuilt her life these days. She was always well groomed, sort of like Claire, in outfits instead of the haphazardly thrown together things I wore. She kept her hair just lightly blonde and well cut. She was at the church all the time, but she also dined out at nice restaurants—Lili’s, Nonna Tata, Ellerbe, The Tavern, Patrizio’s. She had done what I prayed for—gotten a life for herself. We didn’t see her much, which was and wasn’t okay.

  Mom brought an Italian cream cake—an elaborate affair of whipped cream, rum flavoring, coconut, and cream cheese that made Mike whisp
er to me, “She’s trying to make an impression on Otto.”

  In truth, she wasn’t. These days I marveled at my mom. She had changed so much from the timid woman I’d moved out of her longtime home in Chicago. She was self-confident and an interesting conversationalist—both of which had been missing before.

  I had warned Mike that José was taking over his neighborhood patrol, so he was prepared and appropriately gratified when José asked for advice, places and people he should know about, places he should particularly keep an eye on. They went off in a corner and talked quietly, though I heard Mike tell him about a couple of supposed crack houses he should keep an eye on and one house where he suspected there were too many unattached women who might just be running an illicit business. It made me wonder again about the neighborhood I was bringing my girls up in, but my corner of Fairmount seemed so safe and secure.

  When Buck and Joanie arrived, Buck quickly took over the professional conversation, giving José all kinds of complicated advice about the neighborhood. The only sensible thing I heard was, “Watch for a battered green Nova and call me when you see it. Drive by here often.”

  “I plan to walk a lot,” José said.

  “You can’t walk this entire neighborhood.”

  “No, but I can walk sections of it and keep my mike on.” José stood up for himself with surprising independence, and I silently cheered. Keisha poked me in the ribs and winked.

  Joanie was Joanie, wrapped up in McKenzie, though she was sweet about letting the girls play with her and letting Maggie give her a sippie cup of milk and hold her on her lap. Then Joanie dropped her bombshell.

  “I’m pregnant again, and this one is Buck’s baby.”

  Buck smiled triumphantly and bragged, “This one’s gonna be a boy. You watch and see.” I was glad McKenzie wasn’t old enough to understand. She’d feel like a second-class citizen, and I hoped this new baby, boy or girl, wouldn’t overshadow her. We all congratulated them. Privately I thought Joanie was about to have her hands full with babies little more than two years apart.

  While Keisha and I put out the buffet on the kitchen counter—another ham because the last one had actually been such a hit there was hardly any left for sandwiches, potato salad, cheese grits, and a relish platter for fresh vegetables—Mom and Otto were off in a corner. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Mom was laughing and Otto was talking, using his hands freely to illustrate whatever he was saying. So much for Otto being shy around women! Later Mom told me it was stories about clocks from the Black Forest in Germany. I couldn’t imagine what was funny about that, but I didn’t ask.