A Cup of Jo Page 18

  Lovely. But the writer had me hooked.

  'Them shake-shits can blow theyselves to kingdom come and back,' an inmate serving time for running a traditional meth lab and dealing its product told me. 'They ain't even making no real ice. My clientele, now, they wouldn't touch that crap.'

  Pride in product, even amongst drug dealers. Good to know.

  I guess.

  Next, I clicked on a link to what the interviewee had called 'real'. A photo, center-page, showed what looked like a pile of rock candy or small, irregular ice cubes, flecked with black. Another showed pink, so-called 'strawberry', meth. Fittingly, 'pink' was one of a hundred additional slang labels listed, along with 'rocks' and 'sugar', 'cookies' and 'glass'. And, lo and behold, 'cristy'. I didn't think I'd be mentioning that one to our piano-teaching neighbor anytime soon.

  I was sitting back to think when Frank traipsed in.

  'Did you close it behind you?' I asked.

  No answer. My sheepdog was too busy trying to get the peanut butter off the roof of his mouth.

  I filled his water bowl and went to secure the door.

  When I returned to my desk, I opened a drawer and pulled out a yellow legal pad. Some pieces of the puzzle that was JoLynne Penn-William's murder were starting to fall into place, but it's a lot easier to solve the jigsaw when you've already seen the picture on the box.

  Which is an elaborate way of saying I didn't know what the hell to do next. From my bouquet of gel pens in a tall mug, I selected a red one, let it hover for thirty seconds over the pad and then wrote: 1.

  Writer's block is nothing. I was suffering from thinker's block, and a bad case of same.

  I put my red pen back in the mug and took out a black one. Time to get serious.

  Next to the numeral, I put Kevin Williams' name. Christy said he had been visiting Ronny's 'room-mate' this morning. And that Ronny's roomie, Chef, was a convicted drug dealer who was being shipped to Chicago on charges dealing with 'shake-and-bake'.

  Since shake-and-bake was a short cut method of making meth, and Chef was a druggie, it made some sense. We knew Kevin Williams had been in rehab because, according to Rebecca, that's where he first met JoLynne. More sense.

  And, when Rebecca accused Michael of sleeping with her sister, the accusation that JoLynne was addicted to drugs and alcohol, as well as sex, reared its ugly head. No indication, though, of any addiction on Kevin's side. Or, for that matter, whether one or both spouses were still using.

  I swiveled back to the computer and typed in 'meth symptoms'.

  A ton of hits came back and I chose one that looked reputable. Symptoms seemed to differ based on a.) severity, b.) length, and c.) depth of addiction. The early-use signs were characteristics like 'energetic', 'excessively happy', and 'needing less sleep'. Symptoms that would be tough to pinpoint, much less prove they were caused by meth and not bipolar disorder, other drugs or even an unbearably cheery disposition.

  In contrast, the final stage included teeth and hair falling out, plus a bunch more awful things, any of which I certainly would have noticed in the people around me. 'Excuse me, but is that your bicuspid on the floor?'

  I ran my finger down the list for a mid-stage addiction. Meaning, I surmised, when you were no longer 'energetic', but before you were reduced to scalp and gums. The middle-ground symptoms: weight loss; dry, itchy skin; mood swings; acne . . .

  Geez, change weight 'loss' to weight 'gain' and you had menopause.

  The list continued: '. . . or sores caused by picking at imagined acne or bugs or lice.'

  Bugs or lice? What a horrible, horrible drug. Why would anyone ever do this to themselves? But neither JoLynne or Kevin appeared to match even the mid-stage picture painted.

  However, someone else I knew sure did.

  Anita Hampton, skinny as a rail, picking at the supposed 'pimple' on her face. The skin, dry and blotchy, probably from scratching. Mood swings, such as storming into the house like a rabid wraith and then coming back out with lemonade on a tray like Mrs Cleaver in Leave it to Beaver. Even the early-use symptoms fit Anita. All that energy she'd had when I worked for her at the bank. The tirelessness. The nothing-is-ever-good-enough perfectionist attitude.

  Anita hadn't been just a pain in the butt as a boss. She was then – and continued to be now – a certifiable meth-head.

  I abandoned my numbering system and wrote down thoughts as they came to me.

  OK, so if Anita was hooked on meth, shake-and-bake or traditional, did her husband Brewster know?

  Was Kevin Williams involved? That would explain his jail visit with Chef, as well as the twenty minutes between the Hamptons arriving together to take the train to the Milwaukee dedication and Anita's tardy boarding. Maybe Kevin was her drug connection and they were . . . connecting.

  But how did all this tie into JoLynne's murder? Pure coincidence seemed unlikely.

  What if JoLynne, unlike Kevin, had given up the drugs? When she found out her husband was dealing again, she might have threatened to blow the whistle on him. JoLynne worked for Brookhills County, so it would have been easy enough for her to make an appointment with someone in the sheriff's department, even Pavlik himself. Maybe that's why she was killed: JoLynne told someone she was . . .

  I stopped, my black gel pen trembling over the pad.

  '. . . JoLynne Penn-Williams was,' I wrote unsteadily, 'seeing Pavlik.'

  Chapter Nineteen

  'Seeing' Pavlik.

  Rebecca had said JoLynne was banging Pavlik 'like a drum'. I knew I wasn't wrong about that. The phrase was immediately and permanently burned into my brain. But had JoLynne also used those exact words in talking to her younger sister?

  Or had Rebecca, blinded by jealousy, misinterpreted JoLynne's admittedly ambiguous – and far more innocent – expression: 'seeing Pavlik.'

  Perhaps JoLynne was killed, not because she was having an affair with Pavlik, but because she had threatened to report husband Kevin for dealing.

  Assuming he had, indeed, been dealing. Right now, all this was based on his visit to a jailed drug dealer and the fact that Chef was from Chicago, like JoLynne, Kevin ….

  And, of course, a couple million other people.

  I didn't know why Kevin had visited Chef. Not to buy drugs, certainly. Even though I hadn't gotten very far into the jail's labyrinth, I was fairly certain drug exchanges would be vigorously discouraged.

  It was possible, I supposed, that Kevin was getting instructions from Chef. I had no way of finding out, though, without asking the recent widower. And I sure wasn't going to do that.

  While I tried to think of something I could do, Frank padded across the kitchen, put one hairy paw on his water bowl and flipped it.

  'That trick's getting mighty old,' I told him. 'Besides, have you noticed we do nothing but eat and drink around here? Go catch a movie or take up a sport. It'll make you a more well-rounded companion for me. Give us something new to talk about.'

  Frank padded back out of the kitchen.

  I slipped my cellphone into my handbag. I hoped that I'd hear from Pavlik or Bernie soon, but, in the meantime, I could be productive.

  Levering myself out of the desk chair, I picked up my car keys. I couldn't interrogate Kevin, but it should be harmless enough to ask Rebecca if she remembered her sister's exact words about Pavlik. I also wanted to find out in what context she and JoLynne had spoken and, importantly – maybe even most importantly – who else had been there.

  As I rumbled across the railroad tracks to Uncommon Grounds, I saw Christy, wearing a gardening apron and centering mums and their roots in ceramic pots on the front deck of her piano studio. She waved a yellow-gloved hand and I gave her a thumbs-up for the large clay planter she'd already apparently finished.

  Continuing down Junction Drive, I passed Art Jenada's catering operation and parked in front of Penn and Ink. Unlike Christy, Rebecca and Michael didn't live behind their storefront – or above it, as in Art's case – so I wasn't sure I'd catch either of
them there.

  Since I had no idea where they did live or even if they cohabited, I was relieved when Michael answered my knock.

  'Hi,' I said. 'Is Rebecca here?'

  A shadow crossed his face. 'Why?'

  'I just wanted to talk to her.'

  'Why?'

  Ahh. Stonewalling, because Michael was worried I'd tell Rebecca that he'd admitted to a fling with her sister.

  'Nothing to do with you,' I said, thinking the reply would merely sound like I was being abrupt if Rebecca was nearby.

  Michael, though, read between the lines. 'Sure, Maggy. OK.'

  He stood aside, the relief in his voice evident on his face as well. The walls of the front foyer of their converted house were lined with framed ads the duo had produced, as well as watercolors I knew to be Rebecca's own. If I was any judge, the woman displayed genuine talent.

  And, speak of the devil, Rebecca careened around a corner. 'Michael, have you seen our —'

  She stopped. 'What are you doing here?'

  Talented, maybe, but rude. Genuinely rude.

  'I need to talk with you.' I looked at Michael apologetically. 'Alone, though.'

  I didn't, necessarily, but I wanted to convey the appropriate gravitas.

  But gravitas, shmavitas, Rebecca was having none of it. 'Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of Michael.' She linked her arm with his, flashing a large, pear-shaped diamond on her left ring-finger in the process.

  Explained the change from 'you bastard, Michael, you're shtupping my sister.'

  I decided not to comment on either the ring or the Hyde-to-Jekyll personality switch. 'Rebecca, you told me that JoLynne and Pavlik had a relationship, correct?'

  'Yes.' But wary.

  'And that your sister told you . . . how did she put it?'

  That earned a roll of the eyes. 'Are you asking if she said he was "banging her like a drum"? No. Even my sister had more class than that.'

  More than her surviving sibling, certainly. 'So, not quite the slut you thought?'

  'JoLynne did the best she could.' Rebecca's eyes filled with tears. Maybe I'd misjudged the artist. Or maybe she was willing to let bygones-be-bygones now that JoLynne was no longer a threat to her own romantic relationship.

  'My sister conquered a lot of demons,' Rebecca continued. 'The drugs, the alcohol.'

  'So, she was clean?' I asked. 'I mean, as far as you know?'

  'Absolutely.'

  Such a positive assertion was a little much for me, considering the way Rebecca had bad-mouthed JoLynne both before and after her death.

  Rebecca must have seen my eyebrows rise, because she flushed. 'I know. I was awful about my sister that morning we found her. I had this idea that JoLynne had seduced my Michael.'

  She threw a smile at 'her' Michael.

  He had the smarts to say, 'Sorry, ladies, I have to make a phone call,' and then to leave us before the bullshit got too deep for him to wade through.

  When Michael was out of earshot, I said, 'Enough beating around the bush, Rebecca. There are a couple of things I need to know. Now.'

  Rebecca seemed surprised, but just nodded.

  'Number one.' I held up my index finger. 'Do you know without a doubt that JoLynne was not using or dealing?'

  'Drugs?'

  No, playing cards, you twit. 'Yes, drugs.'

  'Absolutely,' she repeated. 'And the police told me there were no drugs – or alcohol – in her system when she died.'

  Nothing like sisterly 'faith' confirmed by lab tests. 'What about Anita Hampton?'

  More wary now. 'What about Anita?'

  'Does she do drugs? Maybe uppers of some sort?'

  'How should I know?' Rebecca asked. 'The only time I see her is at the monthly WoPro meetings.'

  'You're a member of WoPro?'

  Rebecca's face flushed again at my reaction. 'Why wouldn't I be? I'm a female entrepreneur, too. A mover-and-shaker.'

  Shaker-and-baker came to mind. 'Did JoLynne sponsor you?'

  The flush that had started to slowly recede came roaring back a third time. 'Yes, but I would have qualified for membership regardless.'

  Right. Like I would have long ago, if Anita hadn't required that I apply and then sponsored me to boot.

  'In fact,' Rebecca continued, 'I'm surprised being JoLynne's sister didn't work against me.'

  'Are you saying she wasn't well liked? Why? Too pretty?'

  Rebecca ignored the bait. 'Too straight. I thought it was an act. She didn't drink, didn't smoke, or . . .' Rebecca stopped herself. 'Listen, I don't have time for—'

  My turn to interrupt. 'Spill it. Or I'll call out the drug-sniffing dogs.'

  'It wasn't that.' She looked around to make sure Michael hadn't returned. 'Just things like super-energy drinks. Caffeine.'

  I looked at her.

  'OK, OK. Cold tablets, too,' Rebecca admitted. 'And – but only occasionally – Ritalin.'

  Good God almighty. 'What do you do? Get your kid diagnosed with a sinus infection or attention deficit disorder, then pilfer from the prescriptions?'

  'I don't have kids,' Rebecca protested, 'so I tried not to judge. Remember, I was new to the group.'

  'But JoLynne did . . . judge?'

  'Not really even that.' Rebecca squirmed. 'JoLynne would leave when talk turned to those kinds of things. In fact, she seemed more upset that Kevin was getting so many jobs from WoPro.'

  'Did JoLynne feel it was a conflict of interest?' I asked, hoping for something more.

  'Maybe.' The artist looked uncertain. 'But I also thought she might be jealous because a lot of the women liked Kevin. Sort of cozied up to him.'

  I bet they did. 'Especially Anita Hampton?'

  'Yes.' Now Rebecca's eyes narrowed. 'But how could you know that?'

  I shrugged. 'Just a guess. Did your sister talk with you about it?'

  'No. We . . . uh, didn't have that kind of relationship.'

  Meaning, to me, that their sibling conversations had run more along the 'I hate your guts, you slut' line.

  'But,' Rebecca continued, 'JoLynne had it out with Kevin in the parking lot after the WoPro meeting Tuesday night. I heard her say she was getting him back. That she was seeing Pavlik.'

  Thank you, Lord! 'This is really important, Rebecca. Is that what your sister said, exactly?'

  A blink, followed by another. 'I think so. Why?'

  Why? JoLynne discovers Kevin is not only using again, but apparently dealing. And, to make matters worse, his best customers are her professional contacts at WoPro. She'd be 'seeing' Pavlik to blow the criminal whistle on her husband.

  Rebecca might have misinterpreted her sister's comment, but Kevin would know just what his wife had in mind.

  It was no coincidence that JoLynne died the next morning.

  'Do you remember what your sister was wearing at the WoPro meeting?'

  'What she . . .? Of course.'

  I waited. But not for long. 'Well? Are you going to tell me?'

  Rebecca shrugged. 'A pencil skirt and silk blouse, but then you already knew that.'

  I did? And then I realized she was right. I did. 'You mean the same outfit we found on her corpse?'

  God forgive me, I was trying to hurt Rebecca. She swallowed hard, before a weak, 'Yes.'

  'Did you tell the police?'

  'No. I didn't think—'

  'I guess you didn't,' I said, sounding exactly like my mother.

  'Listen,' Rebecca said. 'I was trying to be sensitive. I thought you, of all people, would appreciate that. My sister's clothes could have dragged your sheriff into a scandal.'

  'Oh, I see.' Slowly, now, Maggy. 'You figured JoLynne spent Tuesday night with Pavlik and hadn't gone home to change. But didn't you say she was railing at Kevin in the parking lot following WoPro's Tuesday meeting?'

  'Of course. He picked her up. But believe me, JoLynne wouldn't have had any problem with dumping him for the evening.'

  I had a feeling it was Kevin who dumped JoLynne that
night.

  And right into my coffee cup.

  The problem with formulating theories, I thought as I thanked Rebecca and walked outside, is knowing where to take them.

  My theory, that JoLynne threatened to turn Kevin and his jailhouse connection in to the authorities and had been killed for it, seemed pretty darned good. Problem was, I had no actual, physical proof. And even if I did, who would listen to me?

  My only law enforcement connection was in the slammer and I'd gotten little cooperation from anyone else at Pavlik's office. I checked my phone. No return call from Bernie.

  Nor any word from Pavlik himself.

  I slipped the cell back into my handbag and took out the car keys. As I walked toward myEscape, I saw Christy awkwardly hefting a potted mum on to the wide railing of her deck.

  As she struggled under the weight of the dirt-filled planter, I pocketed my keys and climbed her steps to help.

  'Thanks,' she said as we finally positioned the first plant on a corner over its post, where the ceramic would be more stable.

  'They're awfully heavy,' I said, as we picked up a second pot for the opposite corner. 'Maybe you should lift the planters up here empty, then fill them with soil.'

  'But the dirt would fly all over,' Christy objected as we set the second one down. The index finger of her glove got stuck under the pot and she was struggling to ease it out. 'However, if I pour the top soil over my newspaper-strewn planking, I can control the mess.'

  Mess? I looked at Christy's 'newspaper-strewn planking' and didn't see a speck of dirt. What had she done, drib-drabbed the soil into the pots through a funnel? The fact that on one front page rested both a soup spoon and a toothbrush, supported the spirit, if not the letter of my . . .

  I picked up the toothbrush. While the bristles were pristine, the handle end was black with top soil and . . . sharpened? 'What's this?' I held the brush out to Christy.

  'Oh, that?' She took the thing from me. 'It's a shiv, Maggy.'

  'But do you know what a "shiv" is?' I asked, aghast. 'Prisoners take an everyday object like this and file it into a blade with a point. Then they use it to stab people. To death.'