Read Online Hearse of a Different Color (Hitchcock Sewell Mysteries) by Tim Cockey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tim Cockey
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either.” This time the smile was a little braver. “There was a game we used to play when we were kids, where we’d pretend that different men in the neighborhood were our fathers.
My
father is the man in the grocery store who keeps winking at Mom.
My
father is the man who drives the M-6 bus.
Mine
is the ice cream man. It was a game, but it was also longing. That’s obvious enough. For awhile, Helen was convinced that she had actually figured out who her true father was. It wasn’t a game this time.”
Vickie shifted in her chair so that she was looking out the window. The sunlight split her face in two. She continued, “Our mother was seeing a guy at the time. He bartended at one of the clubs where she worked. He was sort of rugged looking, a pretty good-looking guy. Especially to a twelve-year-old, which is how old Helen was at the time. This one was hanging on longer than most of them and Helen got herself convinced that it was because he was her real daddy and that he wanted to be with his family.” Her gaze followed after something out the window. I couldn’t see what it was. “He came over one night. This guy. When our mother was working. He had the night off I guess. He knew she wouldn’t be there. He tried to force himself on Helen. Who knows, maybe he was picking up on her daddy vibes, and he took it the wrong way.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“No. I’m not excusing him. Anyway, our mother had already given both of us the talk about how to defend ourselves if we ever got into trouble. Especially that kind of trouble. Helen was a tough little scrapper. I happened to come home just a few minutes after she had kicked him and he was still on the floor, doubled over. Helen was fighting mad. She was standing over him screaming at him.
“You’re not my daddy! You’re not my daddy!”
She waited until the guy got himself out of there before she burst into tears. Oh my God, she just turned to water in my arms. I think that’s probably the closest we ever were. In fact, I know it was.”
Vickie stared off at the memory. My phone rang. I immediately hit a button that flipped the call to my answering machine. It was Bonnie. I turned the volume down.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well. That was the end of the game, that’s for sure. Helen refused to tell our mother about what had happened, and she made me promise not to tell either. Of course, the guy dumped our mother right after that. She was pretty upset. That’s when she and Helen really started in on their fighting with each other. They were at each other’s throats all the time. It was fire and gasoline, I swear. But like I said, they were basically the same person. Underneath it all, Helen wanted so much for that damn woman to love her. That’s probably why she fought so hard.”
Vickie broke off her story and looked over again at the Magritte.
“What is that?” she asked.
“It’s a Magritte.”
It was Magritte’s
Fiddle
. A woman seated on a verandah by the shore of a lake with a violin bow in her hand and a fish tucked under her chin. It was a gift from Julia. Vickie squinted at it, as if maybe that would make more sense of it. I could have told her. It wouldn’t.
She turned back to me.
“I brought you something.”
She unsnapped her purse and reached in and pulled out a photograph. She leaned forward and slid it onto the desk. I picked it up. The photograph was, of course, of Helen Waggoner. It was of Helen and her son, Bo. It appeared to have been a recent photograph, for the boy looked pretty much as when I met him the previous day. The two had their faces pressed together. Helen was giving her son a big bear hug. This was when I was able to make my assessment. The dead waitress had beautiful eyes. Large, chocolate and lovely.
“It was just taken in October,” Vickie said. “Bo’s third birthday.”
The pair in the photograph looked like the happiest, healthiest, most wholesome pair of people on the planet.
My
father is the man in the grocery store who keeps winking at Mom.
My
father is the man who drives the M-6 bus.
Mine
is the ice cream man. It was a game, but it was also longing. That’s obvious enough. For awhile, Helen was convinced that she had actually figured out who her true father was. It wasn’t a game this time.”
Vickie shifted in her chair so that she was looking out the window. The sunlight split her face in two. She continued, “Our mother was seeing a guy at the time. He bartended at one of the clubs where she worked. He was sort of rugged looking, a pretty good-looking guy. Especially to a twelve-year-old, which is how old Helen was at the time. This one was hanging on longer than most of them and Helen got herself convinced that it was because he was her real daddy and that he wanted to be with his family.” Her gaze followed after something out the window. I couldn’t see what it was. “He came over one night. This guy. When our mother was working. He had the night off I guess. He knew she wouldn’t be there. He tried to force himself on Helen. Who knows, maybe he was picking up on her daddy vibes, and he took it the wrong way.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“No. I’m not excusing him. Anyway, our mother had already given both of us the talk about how to defend ourselves if we ever got into trouble. Especially that kind of trouble. Helen was a tough little scrapper. I happened to come home just a few minutes after she had kicked him and he was still on the floor, doubled over. Helen was fighting mad. She was standing over him screaming at him.
“You’re not my daddy! You’re not my daddy!”
She waited until the guy got himself out of there before she burst into tears. Oh my God, she just turned to water in my arms. I think that’s probably the closest we ever were. In fact, I know it was.”
Vickie stared off at the memory. My phone rang. I immediately hit a button that flipped the call to my answering machine. It was Bonnie. I turned the volume down.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well. That was the end of the game, that’s for sure. Helen refused to tell our mother about what had happened, and she made me promise not to tell either. Of course, the guy dumped our mother right after that. She was pretty upset. That’s when she and Helen really started in on their fighting with each other. They were at each other’s throats all the time. It was fire and gasoline, I swear. But like I said, they were basically the same person. Underneath it all, Helen wanted so much for that damn woman to love her. That’s probably why she fought so hard.”
Vickie broke off her story and looked over again at the Magritte.
“What is that?” she asked.
“It’s a Magritte.”
It was Magritte’s
Fiddle
. A woman seated on a verandah by the shore of a lake with a violin bow in her hand and a fish tucked under her chin. It was a gift from Julia. Vickie squinted at it, as if maybe that would make more sense of it. I could have told her. It wouldn’t.
She turned back to me.
“I brought you something.”
She unsnapped her purse and reached in and pulled out a photograph. She leaned forward and slid it onto the desk. I picked it up. The photograph was, of course, of Helen Waggoner. It was of Helen and her son, Bo. It appeared to have been a recent photograph, for the boy looked pretty much as when I met him the previous day. The two had their faces pressed together. Helen was giving her son a big bear hug. This was when I was able to make my assessment. The dead waitress had beautiful eyes. Large, chocolate and lovely.
“It was just taken in October,” Vickie said. “Bo’s third birthday.”
The pair in the photograph looked like the happiest, healthiest, most wholesome pair of people on the planet.
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