precise in karate class, and managed the apartments quite efficiently. I was pretty sure that meant I was guilty of stereotyping, something I had good reason to hate when people applied it to me.
“This is my brother, Anthony,” Becca said proudly.
I looked up at him. He had small, mild blue eyes. I wondered if Becca’s would be that color without her contact lenses. Anthony smiled at me like a benevolent giant. I tried to focus on my manners, but I was still thinking of Jack. I shook hands with Becca’s brother and approved of the effort he made to keep his grip gentle.
“Are you visiting Shakespeare long, Anthony?” I asked.
“Just a week or so,” he said. “Then Becca and I might go on a trip together. We haven’t seen some of my dad’s relations in years.”
“What kind of work do you do?” I asked, trying to show a polite interest.
“I’m a counselor at a prison in Texas,” he said, his white teeth showing in a big smile. He knew he’d get a reaction from that statement.
“Tough job,” I said.
“Tough guys,” he said, shaking his head. “But they deserve a second chance after they’ve served their sentence. I’m hoping I can get them back outside in better shape than when they came in.”
“I don’t believe in rehabilitation,” I said bluntly.
“But look at that boy who just got arrested,” he said reasonably. “The boy who vandalized Miss Dean’s car last year. Now he’s back in. Don’t you think an eighteen-year-old needs all the help he can get?”
I looked to Becca for enlightenment.
“That boy who works over at the building supply,” she explained. “The sheriff matched his voice to the one who made those phone calls to Deedra, the nasty ones. Deedra had saved the little tapes from her answering machine. They were in her night-table drawer.”
Then Deedra had taken the calls seriously. And their source was a real nobody of a person, a man everyone seemed to call a boy.
I told Anthony Whitley, “See how much he learned in jail?”
Anthony Whitley seemed to consider trying to persuade me that saving the boy through counseling was worthwhile, but he abandoned the attempt before he began the task. That was wise.
“I wanted to thank you for rescuing Great-grandfather,” he said a little stiffly, after an uneasy pause. “Becca and I owe you a lot.”
I flicked my right hand, palm up; it was nothing. I glanced down the block, wondering how far Jack had gotten.
“Oh, Lily, if you could come by the apartment later, I need to talk to you about something,” Becca said, so I guess I looked liked I was ready to go. I murmured a good-bye, turned in the other direction-maybe I’d follow Jack after all-rendering the two Whitleys out of sight and out of mind.
Jack was coming back. We met in the middle of the next block. We gave each other a curt nod. We wouldn’t repeat the same quarrel. It was a closed subject now.
“Who was that?” he asked, looking past me. I glanced back over my shoulder.
“That’s Becca Whitley, you know her,” I said. “And her brother, Anthony. I just met him. Big guy.”
“Hmm. Brother?”
“Yep. Anthony. Brother.”
Jack put his arm around me and we strolled off as if he’d never been angry.
“They don’t look much alike,” he said after a moment.
“Not much, no,” I agreed, wondering if I’d missed something. “Do you look like your sister?”
“No, not anything,” Jack said. “She’s got lots more pink in her complexion, and she’s got lighter hair than I have.”
We didn’t talk much on our way back to my place. The fact that we loved each other seemed enough to contemplate for the moment. Jack decided he wanted to go work his abs while Body Time was open, but I was awfully sore after wrestling Joe C through his bedroom window.
“I’ll start your laundry if you want to go on,” I said.
“You don’t have to do that,” Jack protested.
“It’s no trouble.” I knew Jack hated doing laundry.
“I’ll make supper,” he offered.
“Okay, as long as it’s not red meat.”
“Chicken fajitas?”
“Okay.”
“Then I’ll go by the Superette on my way home.”
As Jack pulled out of my driveway, I reflected on how domestic that little exchange had been. I didn’t exactly smile, but it hovered around my heart somewhere as I opened Jack’s suitcase, which was really a glorified duffel bag. Jack didn’t look as though he’d be neat, but he was. He had several days’ worth of clothes compactly folded in the bag, and they all needed washing. In the side pockets Jack kept his time-fillers: a crossword puzzle book, a paperback thriller, and a
He always carried his own when he traveled because it saved him some aggravation. This week’s was new and smooth; the one for the week just past was crumpled and dog-eared.
I was about to pitch the older one in the garbage until I realized that this was the same edition as the one missing from Deedra’s coffee table. I flipped through the pages of Jack’s magazine as if it could tell me something. Once more, I almost tossed it into the trash, but I reconsidered and put it on my kitchen table. It would serve as a reminder to tell Jack the odd little story of the only thing missing from Deedra’s apartment.
As I sorted Jack’s laundry, my thoughts drifted from Deedra’s apartment to Becca’s. She’d wanted to talk to me. I glanced down at my watch. Jack wouldn’t be home for another hour, easy. I started a load of his jeans and shirts and put my keys in my pocket, locking my door behind me as I went to the apartments. It was a cooler evening after a cool day, and I wished I had thrown on a jacket. Taking the driveway to the rear of the apartment building, I strolled through the parking lot with its numbered shed-one stall for every apartment. Because it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and because two of the apartments in the building were temporarily vacant, there were only two vehicles parked in the shed, Becca’s blue Dodge and Claude’s new pickup.
Looking at Deedra’s empty stall, I was seized by a sudden idea. I don’t like loose ends. I went into the open wood structure-really a glorified shed-and began examining the items hanging from nails pounded into the unfinished walls. Some long-ago tenant had hung tools there. Deedra had left an umbrella, and on a shelf there was a container of windshield-wiper fluid, a rag for checking the oil, an ice scraper, and some glass cleaner. I unhooked the umbrella from its nail, upended it, and out fell… nothing. Deedra’s spare key was no longer in its usual hiding place.
I found that even more peculiar than her purse being missing from the crime scene. Her killer had known even this about Deedra, the small secret of where she kept her extra key. Now the killer could have in his possession
There didn’t seem to be anything to do about this missing key. I’d tell the sheriff when I saw her next. I shrugged, all to myself.
I went to the rear door of the apartment building and stepped in. Becca’s was the rear door to my left; Claude Friedrich lived in the front apartment next to it. Claude and Carrie were due to return from their mini-honeymoon this evening, and I assumed they’d go to Carrie’s house permanently. Three apartments empty, then; I hoped Becca would be too busy to clean them for the next tenants. I could use some extra money.
I rapped on Becca’s door. She answered almost instantly, as if she’d been standing right inside. She looked surprised.
“You said you needed to talk to me,” I prompted her.
“Oh, yes, I did! I just didn’t think… Never mind. It’s good to see you.” Becca stood aside to let me come in.
I tried to remember if I’d ever been in her apartment before. Becca had left it much the same as it had been in her Uncle Pardon’s day. She’d just rearranged the furniture, added a small table or two, and bought a new television (Pardon had had a small, old model).
“Let me get you something to drink?”
