“He worked on his porch all day. I can’t sleep.” The strain in her voice threw me. I wondered if Sam had had to endure a long rant. Maybe she’d gone to the end of White Street Pier and yelled at Hawk Channel for a while. Marnie didn’t have the presence of mind to reach for the doorknob. Ibegan to open the door, but it wouldn’t swing until she stepped back. Limp with relief, I finally got her onto the porch, directed into the living room.
The drama had proved that my promised revenge against Bug and his boys needed to include a defense plan. For some stupid reason, I’d felt content that Teresa and Carmen both owned pistols, probably kept them in their purses. But my best weapon, if I could get to it, was a kitchen knife. The last time I’d kept a gun in the house, a loaner from Sam Wheeler, someone else had shot it to save my life. The man who had fired the gun now was an FBI agent. A pistol was part of his daily attire.
The scare was proof, too, of the power of focus. With Marnie inside the house, my world decompressed; the noises of the neighborhood—crickets, distant traffic—resumed. An air conditioner or two, though the night had a chill to it. I even smelled Bounce as I came in from the porch. Someone in the lane doing laundry.
Teresa exited the bedroom without questioning that I’d been upset. She carried her purse, casually dropped it on a table near the door. She greeted Marnie, expressed sympathy, and calmly insisted that she join us for supper. She gave me a strange, puzzled look, almost a pissed-off look. Then she went to the kitchen and resumed dinner preparations. The light in my brain finally glowed. She’d asked Carmen why she’d been ordered into another room, told to have her gun and the phone ready. Carmen had walked outside, identified the vehicle in front of the house, and explained my problem with the thugs. I’d forgotten to mention the thugs to Teresa. Stupid error.
Now the purse pistol was close at hand. The next vehicle in the lane might not be “friendly.”
Smart woman.
Marnie fell into the chair I’d been in. “I’m up shit’s creek for leaving the murder scene. The slick from the
Herald
showed up. Someone from their staff called to warn me. They’re going to use my name in the piece.”
I said, “Because he’s your brother?”
“Because a body was found at a controversial construction site.”
“That’s your fault?”
“They will wonder in print if I’ve soft-pedaled in the past two months. They’ll wonder if I’ve omitted facts about the permit process that might have given warning about strife, an advance warning that someone could be murdered.”
“That’s stretching,” I said. “No one believes the murder happened at the site.”
With a lost look on her face, Marnie yawned. “Words are powerful. So are attitudes. That prick lieutenant kept looking at me. Like, none of it—the costumed body, the construction site—would be there if I hadn’t brought my brother to town. As if I had control of my brother.”
“Any way to fight back? You getting heat at the paper?” I said.
“They’ve been great. They haven’t diverted assignments. But I want to smooth my boss with a story about the Stock Island thing. The media were not invited to that one. I need your help.”
“I’ve got it memorized,” I said.
“Can it wait till afterward?” Teresa offered two dinner trays: food, silverware, paper napkins.
In deference to Mamie’s battle with alcohol during the past year, Teresa had put away the Sauvignon Blanc. She offered decaffeinated iced tea and Perrier water. We thought as we ate that Marnie might fall asleep in her chair. Before we’d finished, I too wanted to call it a night.
But Teresa’s wonderful food energized Marnie. “I can’t do it,” she said softly. “I can’t bear this cross again. I did it through high school and part of college. I got to this town first. My name’s on my byline every day. I’ve got a reputation
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