“Don’t light that in here,” I said.
She got out a small box of kitchen matches.
“I can’t stand smoke,” I said.
She pulled a match from the box and struck it on her pants leg and lit up, puffed, studied the ceiling.
“Put it out, Martha. This is my place.”
She blew smoke at the ceiling. “I think Jasmine’s right,” she said. “If we could divert him. Get him out of the trailer so we could have a look inside, find some evidence, then maybe that small town idiot cop friend of yours would even be convinced.”
“Waldo’s not going to keep a human head in there,” I said.
“He might,” Martha said. “It’s been known to happen. Or maybe something a victim owned. Guys like that keep souvenirs of their murders. That way they can fantasize, relive it all.”
“We could watch his place tomorrow,” Jasmine said, “then if he goes out, we could slip in and look around. We find something incriminating, something definite, there’s a way to cue the police in on it, even one as stubborn and stupid as Sam.”
“I’m sure Waldo locks his doors,” I said.
“That’s no trouble,” Martha said. “I can pick the lock on Heaven’s door.”
“You’re just a basket of fine skills,” I said.
“I used to work for a repo company, years back,” Martha said. “I learned to use lock jocks and keys and picks on car doors and garage doors. You name it, I can get in it, and in a matter of moments.”
“Listen, you two,” I said, “leave it be. We don’t know this guy’s done anything, and if he is a murderer, you damn sure don’t need to be snooping around there, or you may end up on the victim list. Let’s get on with our lives.”
“Such as yours and mine is,” Martha said. “What have I got to look forward to? Selling a few books? Meeting the right man? Me, a gargoyle with a golf club?”
“Martha, don’t say that,” Jasmine said.
“No, let’s call a spade a spade here,” Martha said. She snatched off her wool cap and showed us her bald head. I had seen a glimpse of it a time or two before I went to work there, when she was taking off and adjusting her cap or scratching her head, but this was the first time I’d seen it in all its sweaty, pink glory for more than a few moments. “What’s gonna pull a mate in for me? My glorious head of hair. I started losing it when I was in my twenties. No man would look twice at me. Besides that, I’m ugly and have a mustache.”
“A mate isn’t everything,” I said.
“It’s something,” Martha said. “And I think about it. I won’t kid you. But I know it isn’t possible. I’ve been around, seen some things, had some interesting jobs. But I haven’t really made any life for myself. Not so it feels like one. And you know what? After all these years, Jasmine and you are my only real friends, and in your case, Plebin, I don’t know that amounts to much.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You could get a wig,” Jasmine said.
“I could have these whiskers removed,” Martha said. “But I’d still be a blimp with a bum leg. No. There’s nothing for me in the looks department. Not unless I could change bodies with some blonde bimbo. Since that isn’t going to happen, all I got is what I make out of life. Like this mystery. A real mystery, I think. And if Waldo is a murderer, do we let him go on to the next town and find a victim? Or for that matter, a victim here, before he leaves?
“We catch this guy. Prove he’s responsible for murders, then we’ve actually done something important with our lives. There’s more to my life than the bookstore. More to yours, Plebin, than a bad name and unemployment checks. And…well, in your case Jasmine, there is more to your life. You’re beautiful, smart, and you’re going places. But for all of us, wouldn’t it be worthwhile to catch a killer?”
“If he is a killer,” I said. “Maybe he just hates mannequins because they look better in their clothes than he does.”
“Women’s clothes?” Jasmine said.
“Maybe it’s women’s clothes he likes to wear,” I said. “Thing is, we could end up making fools of ourselves, spend some time in jail, even.”
“I’ll chance it,” Jasmine said.
“No you won’t,” I said. “It’s over for you, Jasmine. Martha can do what she wants. But you and me, we’re out of it.”
Martha left.
Jasmine got out her sleeping bag and unrolled it, went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. I tried to stay awake and await my turn in there, but couldn’t. Too tired. I lay down on the bed, noted vaguely that rain had stopped pounding on the apartment roof, and I fell immediately asleep.
I awoke later that night, early morning really, to the smell of more oncoming rain, and when I rolled over I could see flashes of lightning in the west.
The west. The direction of the dump. It was as if a storm was originating there, moving toward the town.
Melodrama. I loved it.
I rolled over and turned my head to the end table beside the bed, and when the lightning flashed I could see the mannequin head setting there, its face turned toward me, its strange, false eyes alight with the fire of the western lightning. The paint around the manikin’s neck appeared very damp in that light, like blood.
I threw my legs from beneath the covers and took hold of the head. The paint on its neck was wet in my hands. The humidity had caused it to run. I sat the head on the floor where I wouldn’t have to look at it, got up to go to the bathroom and wash my hands.
Jasmine’s sleeping bag was on the floor, but Jasmine wasn’t in it. I went on to the bathroom, but she wasn’t in there either. I turned on the light and washed my hands and felt a little weak. There was no place else to be in the apartment. I looked to see if she had taken her stuff and gone home, but she hadn’t. The door that led out to the stairway was closed, but unlocked.
No question now. She had gone out.
I had an idea where, and the thought of it gave me a chill. I got dressed and went downstairs and beat on the bookstore, pressed my face against the windows, but there was no light or movement. I went around to the rear of the building to beat on the backdoor, to try and wake Martha up in her living quarters, but when I got there I didn’t bother. I saw that Martha’s van was gone from the carport and Jasmine’s car was still in place.
I went back to my apartment and found Jasmine’s car keys on the dresser and thought about calling the police, then thought better of it. Their memory of my body in the trunk stunt was a long one, and they might delay. Blow off the whole thing, in fact, mark it up to another aggravation from the boy who cried wolf. If I called Sam it wouldn’t be any better. Twice in one night he’d be more likely to kill me than to help me. He was more worried about his pecker than a would-be killer, and he might not do anything at all.
Then I reminded myself it was a game of “What If” and that there wasn’t anything to do, nothing to fear. I told myself the worst that could happen would be that Jasmine and Martha would annoy Waldo and make fools of themselves, and then it would all be over for good.
But those thoughts didn’t help much, no matter how hard I tried to be convinced. I realized then that it hadn’t been just the rain and the humidity that had awakened me. I had been thinking about what Martha said. About Waldo picking a victim later on if we didn’t stop him. About the mannequins being a sort of warm-up for what he really wanted to do and would do.
It wasn’t just a game anymore. Though I had no real evidence for it, I believed then what Jasmine and Martha believed.
Waldo the Great was a murderer.
I drove Jasmine’s car out to the trailer park and pulled around where we had parked before, and sure enough, there was Martha’s van. I pulled in behind it and parked.
I got out, mad as hell, went over to the van and pulled the driver’s door open. There wasn’t anyone inside. I turned then and looked through the bushes toward the trailer park. Lightning moved to the west and flicked and flared as if it were fireworks on a vibrating string. It lit up the trailer park, made what was obvious momentarily bright and harsh.
