Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) (5 page)

"Mom, I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now. I have a pan of biscuits that needs to
come out of the oven. Can I just run by your place later?"

No, that wouldn't do, I thought. I doubted I could fabricate as well in my own home.
I'd feel more confident on foreign ground. Okay, less trapped on foreign ground. I
really did dread a face-to-face confrontation with Wendy. I could leave her house
whenever I wanted to, but could hardly shove her out my own front door when I wanted
to end the conversation. I'd have to use at least a little tact and decorum, two admirable
traits that did not come naturally to me.

"How about if I just stop by your house in about an hour?" I asked her. "I have to
go to Wal-Mart anyway. I'm going out of town, and I need a few last minute items."
You know, I said to myself, a magnifying glass, DNA test strips, fingerprint kit,
and other must-have travel items.

"Where are you going?" Wendy asked.

"I'll explain when I get there. Don't let those biscuits burn," I cautioned, and quickly
replaced the handset.

Oh boy, here goes. Suddenly the urge to pop my knuckles was intense.

* * *

Wendy looked tired. Her long auburn hair looked stringy and unkempt. She was a few
inches taller than I, standing at about five feet, five inches or so, and she'd always
been extremely thin.

She's one of those women other women despise solely because of their metabolism—the
type you expect to whine that they have problem keeping weight on their frames. The
type who'd say, "I can eat eighteen thousand calories a day and not gain an ounce,"
while licking chocolate frosting off their fingers.

Actually, Wendy has never been one to boast about her ability to eat like a rhinoceros
and stay stick slim. She doesn't even nag me about my weight when I start building
on layers of insulation every winter. That's just one of the things I love so much
about her.

To be honest, however, as envious as I was of her metabolism, I was sure Wendy would
look more attractive with about ten extra pounds. When she's worn down, she looks
haggard, and the gauntness in her face is even more pronounced, as it had been recently.
She looked like she'd been under a lot of pressure, and I felt bad that I was about
to add to her worries.

"Hi, Mom. Come in and have a seat in the kitchen. I've just made a fresh pot of coffee.
You look like you could use a cup."

She must not have seen me doing cartwheels down her driveway. "Yes, dear, a cup of
coffee would be wonderful," I said.

"So, tell me, where are you going?"

"Myrtle Beach, South Carolina."

"Whatever for?" she asked, sipping her coffee.

"T-to—to meet a man."

"What? What did you say?" There was disbelief is her voice, as she spewed coffee across
the kitchen table.

As Wendy eyed me suspiciously, I popped several of my knuckles before I continued.
"I'm meeting a very nice gentleman who lives there."

"Whatever for?" Wendy asked again.

Couldn't you make it easy for me, dear, and just nod your head in acceptance? I'm
doing all this for you—to protect you.

So please don't drag me through the coals over annoying little details, I said under
my breath. My knuckles were already beginning to swell.

I checked each of my cuticles and began to ramble. "Well, dear, as you know, I've
been widowed for almost twenty years. I never felt you'd accept another man in my
life, either as a substitute father figure to you, or as an object of affection to
me. And I didn't particularly want to throw myself back into the dating scene anyway.
But now that you're grown up and married, I've met a man I'm interested in and would
like to get to know better. I can almost guarantee it won't go any further than friendship,
but I want to give it a chance so I won't regret it later. I'm not getting any younger,
you know. And it's kind of lonely for me these days."

I stopped to catch my breath, and to get an emery board out of my purse to smooth
out a jagged fingernail I'd just noticed.

Wendy's mouth was hanging open in shock and dismay. I could read the thoughts flashing
through her mind as if she'd spoken them out loud. My mother has taken leave of her
senses. Dementia has set in. And she's lying about something. That much is obvious.
Wendy turned her chair to face me and attempted to look me in the eye. I was too preoccupied
with that jagged nail.

"What's his name?" Wendy asked.

"St-st-tone Van Patten." Here we go, interrogation time. Wasn't this intense questioning
routine once part of my job description as her mother?

"Stone? Did you say Stone? What kind of name is Stone?"

Very much like Clay, if you really think about it, I wanted to say. What did it really
matter what the man's name was?

"He's a jeweler, honey, a highly respected jeweler, so I'm sure that Stone is just
a nickname. His real name is probably something too common like Bill or Bob," I said
defensively.

"Where'd you meet him?"

"On the Internet."

She slammed her hand down with a vivid expletive. I jumped back in my chair in surprise.
"You've got to be kidding," she shouted. "Are you totally nuts, Mom?"

"No, I, er, he just—"

"Mom, this world is full of weirdoes, whackos, and perverts. Are you aware of that?
How old is he?" Wendy spat out "he" like it was another word for pond scum.

I only knew Stone to be somewhere between puberty and social security, so I opted
for a generic answer. "Oh, you know, a b-b-baby-boomer like myself."

I gulped down half my coffee in one swallow and it burnt my throat badly. I choked,
I gagged, and after a prolonged coughing fit, I stood up to leave. "Listen, Wendy,
I'd love to stay and chat, but I really have a lot of things I need to get done. I'm
sure that once you get used to the idea you'll be okay with it."

Wendy snorted. She actually snorted in derision. "I doubt it, Mom," she said. "And
we're not through with this discussion by any means."

I was afraid of that. I loved my daughter more than life itself, but she was sorely
trying my patience.

Wendy continued, "And I expect you to stop by here to talk to me again before you
leave town. I want to know more about this Rock guy!"

"It's Stone."

"Rock, Stone, whatever..."

I walked out her front door with my chin resting against my chest, lower lip protruding
and quivering slightly. Exactly when had our roles become reversed? I wondered. I
felt like I'd just been chastised and sent to my room, my punishment to be meted out
at a later time. Oh well, at least I'd been granted a small reprieve.

* * *

Early Thursday morning I stopped by the dental clinic to have my teeth cleaned and
x-rayed. The dental hygienist used a new tool that employed a powerful and painful
jet of cold water to sandblast the plaque off my teeth. It was like a Waterpik on
steroids. I lay back in the chair, grasping, like a lifeline, the tube that was suctioning
gallons of water, blood, and saliva from the back of my throat. I was counting the
ceiling tiles in an attempt not to scream in agony and bolt from the room. It was
then I remembered why I subjected myself to this modern form of water torture only
every few years instead of biannually, as recommended. I felt immense relief when
the cleaning was completed even though my gums were throbbing, and, no doubt, red
and puffy.

I nodded absentmindedly as the hygienist chided me on my poor flossing habits and
warned me of my potential for gingivitis, due to the deep pockets between my teeth
and gums. My mind was already on the other tasks I needed to accomplish before the
day was over. It wasn't like I hadn't heard it all before anyway.

After leaving the dental clinic, I took my Jeep Wrangler to the Dodge dealer to have
it serviced. It'd been running a little rough and was due for an oil change anyway.
Kenny, the service manager, promised to give it a thorough checkup. He'd change the
oil and check the tires, brakes, fluid levels, spark plugs, filters, and belts. He
thought the carburetor sounded as if it was running a little rich and that the air
filter was probably clogged. The Jeep was only two years old and still had less than
15,000 miles on it, so Kenny didn't anticipate any major repairs. It was a slow day
at the garage, and he assured me he'd have it ready to pick up in a couple of hours.

During the long drive to New York from Kansas, I didn't want to experience any car
trouble. Breaking down on the interstate is a terrifying ordeal these days. Whenever
my vehicle breaks down, and somebody stops to assist me, I immediately question his
motives. Why would he want to help me? Is he really a molester, a carjacker, a drug
addict, or some other kind of dangerous thug? As I stand on the shoulder, hood up
on my car, looking helplessly down at a motor that is refusing to cooperate, I sense
that motorists are speeding by looking at me, wondering what kind of thug I am too.
It's a scary situation for both sides. I raise the hood and stare at the motor only
to make it obvious that the car has broken down, not because I can tell the difference
between a manifold and a shoebox.

So far this Jeep has never stranded me. It's the perfect low profile, inconspicuous
vehicle for a Sherlock Holmes wannabe to go amateur sleuthing in—canary yellow, with
lots of chrome and lights. I've always been big on accessories, so the Jeep is equipped
with a roof rack, running boards, taillight covers, chrome grip handles, brush guard
with lights, roll bar with lights, and of course, a spare tire cover with a painting
of Tweety Bird bending over and mooning the vehicle behind me. To complete the package,
it sports off-road tires the size of those you'd see on an earthmover or a Caterpillar
D9. This vehicle had never been off the pavement, nor did I expect it ever would be,
but a Jeep cries out for oversized tires just so it won't look wimpy like a Ford Taurus
or a Mercury Sable.

I sat down in the waiting room and sifted through fourteen issues of
Car and Driver
while I drank three cups of vending machine coffee that looked thicker than the motor
oil Kenny was draining out of my Jeep. I glanced at my watch and noticed that exactly
seven minutes had passed since I turned the keys over to the mechanic.

I walked to the pay phone and called Wendy to come pick me up. She wasn't scheduled
to begin her new job at the county coroner's office for two more weeks. I decided
to bite the bullet and get round two of the inquisition over.

Wendy was in high spirits when she picked me up. As we headed back toward her neighborhood,
she told me Clay had been offered a detective position with the KCK Homicide Division.
It was the position he'd most wanted to land when he'd distributed his resume and
applications, Wendy declared, with a great deal of pride evident in her voice.

"He's so glad he's going to work with the Kansas City Kansas Police Department," Wendy
said. She seemed unusually excited and bubbly. "Clay said that there are a lot more
murders in Kansas City than in Shawnee, Lenexa, or any of these smaller, suburban,
metropolitan areas."

"Yes," I agreed. "Lots of murders—I'm sure that's a wonderful thing. Nothing like
job security, right? I know Clay must be thrilled."

I wanted to tell Wendy that her new husband was a menace to society. If it took one
to know one, he'd probably be an expert at weeding out killers. "Oh, yes, Mom," Wendy
said. "We both are. He starts this Monday. I'll have over a week to myself—during
the days at least—before I start my job."

"That will be nice, I'm sure," I said, sincerely.

"So, Mom, you're still determined to go through with this, huh?"

"Yes, honey, I am."

"You're going to drive twelve hundred miles to go see some man you only know from
chatting with him over the Internet, and you don't think that's a bit insane, and
maybe just a touch impulsive and dangerous? Mom, you don't know this guy from Adam!"

Gosh, I don't even know Adam. I wasn't going to drive twelve hundred miles to see
Stone. I said I was going to get to know him better, not "see" him. I am not a liar.
I am not a liar, I repeated over and over to myself. "Wendy, that's just part of the
reason I'm going back East. I've always heard the fall colors back in that area are
fantastic, and I thought while I was back there enjoying the sights, I might as well
meet Stone somewhere for dinner and a drink. That's all I have in mind. I'll be staying
in a little bed and breakfast by myself, not at his place. There is absolutely nothing
for you to worry about. I'll be f-f-fine."

I looked over at Wendy as she drove, rather erratically, down Seventy-Fifth Street.
She looked unconvinced. "R-r-really," I added lamely.

Suddenly the thought of being tortured by the dental hygienist again seemed preferable
to conversing with my own child. My gums throbbed in an involuntary reaction to the
recollection of my hour from hell at the dental clinic.

I changed the subject then and began talking about a three-day sale at the JCPenney
outlet. The ploy worked. We even stopped at the outlet, and I picked up a Minolta
Maxxum camera outfit that had been marked down thirty percent. My old camera had become
unreliable, and I'd have to take pictures of the fall colors back East, if nothing
else. I, of course, would have to return to Kansas with an album full of tree photos
to validate my newly revised story.