Not Quite Dead Yet, page 11
“Jet,” Billy scolded her.
“I’m dying,” she reminded him, a catch-all defense.
She skipped through more photos. A group shot: three witches, a skeleton, a werewolf, and Ghostface. The same kids from the doorbell cam, who stole all the Masons’ candy. That one witch was flipping off the camera, and Jet liked her even more now.
More photos.
“That kid’s wearing a red wig.” Billy pointed at the screen, a girl grinning with a creepy-doll smile, standing between two men, one of them dressed as a cop, because it was Lou Jankowski, Chief of Police. “Does actually look like the same wig.” Billy looked back and forth, from JJ to the kid.
“Yeah, it does,” Jet said, sucking her teeth. “But an eleven-year-old girl is probably the one person who isn’t taller than me. Rules her out. Off the suspect list.”
“Agreed.” Billy smiled.
Jet clicked on.
“Aw,” Billy said as a photo of Luke and Sophia popped up, Luke holding baby Cameron in his pumpkin costume.
A puff of air out of Jet’s nose, before she could hold it in.
Billy knew what that meant.
“You and Sophia used to be best friends,” he said, tentatively.
“You and I used to be best friends too, Billy.”
“We were kids. You and Sophia were really close. What happened?”
Jet snorted. “Not me. She’s the one who never replied to my texts when I went to college. Dropped me and made a beeline for my brother instead. Luke’s too stupid.”
Billy nudged her. “You were maid of honor at their wedding.”
“Yeah. Maybe Sophia thought that might make up for her abandoning me. It didn’t. Ugly dress too. Bet she did it on purpose.”
“Well. Cameron’s cute.”
Jet shrugged. “Kinda boring.”
“Jet, you can’t call babies boring.”
“Babies are boring, and people who’ve just had babies are even more boring.”
“Jet!” But he was laughing too.
“Wait,” Jet hissed, eyes drawing her back to the screen, pulling at something in her head. Not Sophia, something about her brother.
Luke was holding the baby up for the camera, hands gripped around the rotund pumpkin costume—both hands, knuckles out, ridges in the thin skin. Jet reached for the screen, swiped her finger across Luke’s clean hands.
“What?” Billy asked.
“Luke lied to me,” Jet said, her finger coming away, Luke’s knuckles still unmarked, not a trick of the light. “The fucker.”
“What?”
“His hands. They’re all cut up, grazes on his knuckles. They were like that when I woke up.” Jet stared into her brother’s eyes, her own reflected back in the dark screen. “I asked him about it, and he said it happened at a work site, Friday morning. That he tripped. But this is Friday evening and…”
“There’s nothing wrong with his hands.” Billy finished the thought for her.
“Something must have happened, after this,” Jet said. “Why would he lie to me about it?”
“Maybe he meant Saturday morning,” Billy offered.
“He was already with me at the hospital by then,” Jet countered.
“You’re not thinking that Luke could have anything to do with…” Billy trailed off, unable to finish.
“He and Sophia were together at the time of the attack.” So they said. But if Luke had already lied once…Jet couldn’t finish the thought either. “Well, he’s not wearing a red wig, so…”
Jet moved on, spooling through more photos, searching for any flash of red hair, the reason they’d come. They hadn’t come for Luke.
“Wait, stop!” Billy said.
Jet clicked one back.
A photo of Gerry Clay, with his human head now, grinning, bookended by two cops, his cat arms looped around Chief Lou and Jack Finney. All smiles for the camera.
In the background, in the far left, Jet could see herself, face frozen mid-frown as she looked up at Billy. But in the right side of the frame, behind Billy’s dad, was Andrew Smith, heading toward them, beer bottle paused on the way to his mouth. Blurred in the background, in motion, but still clear enough. A smear of red painted across his nose, black lines down his eyes, and on his head was a red wig. Billy was right: straight hairs, static almost, fluffy, the same length as JJ’s.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Billy watched as Jet dragged that photo to the second monitor too, lining the photos up side by side, zooming in. “They’re wearing the exact same wig, aren’t they?”
Same burnt-red color, same texture, same length. And both looked like a match for that singular hair dropped at the scene, by Jet’s killer.
Jet nodded. “Probably bought it from the same place.”
“Amazon,” they said, accidental unison.
“So.” Billy drew back to his full height. “JJ and Andrew Smith.”
“JJ or Andrew Smith,” Jet corrected.
“You really think Andrew is a suspect?”
“He was drunk that night. He was mad.” Jet stared at the screen, at the stumbling clown. “You heard what he said at the fair. That he hates all the Masons, death to all Masons—”
“—Not quite what he said,” Billy cut her off. “So what do we do?”
Jet stood up, stumbling, one leg still asleep. Billy held her arm, steadied her.
“Well, JJ isn’t here for us to talk to,” she said. “But Andrew is.”
Billy nodded, lips disappearing in a grim line. “I think I know where to find him.”
“Come on.”
Jet walked out of Owen’s bedroom and straight into Owen, who was hovering by the open door. He darted away with a yelp, pressing up against the wall, making himself as small as possible.
“Hey.” Jet’s eyes burned into him. “You better not have been eavesdropping.”
“I wasn’t, I swear!”
“Tell anyone, and I’ll let your dad know about your freaky little porn collection.”
Owen whimpered.
* * *
—
Outside, Jet marched across the street to where they’d parked her truck, powder-blue paint gleaming in the morning sun, not out of place on Pleasant Street. But something was out of place: a plastic sleeve, stuck to her windshield.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Jet said, ripping it off, holding it up so Billy could see. “A ticket? We were only here for like forty-five minutes. These new parking meters, I swear…”
But she didn’t have to swear, and she didn’t have to do anything. She’d be dead in five days, so this little ticket right here in her hands, it meant nothing. Not a thing. Jet pulled the paper out from the sleeve, ripped it in half—Billy’s mouth dropped—ripped it in half again—Billy’s mouth dropped farther, almost twitching into a smile.
Jet let go, the shredded pieces fluttering to the ground like fallen moths, sticking in the mud.
“I’m not fucking paying that.”
Twelve
“Told you he’d be in here.”
Billy held the door for her, up the steps into Dr. Mandrake’s Dive Bar. Jet always thought of it as Billy’s Bar instead, where he worked, his apartment right upstairs. Not that she ever came here.
Mahogany panels and striped navy walls, glass shelves full of bottles behind the wooden bar, an assortment of different lamps around the room, the stranger the better, lighting the darker corners. In the darkest one sat Andrew Smith, at a table, beer bottle in his cupped hands.
“It’s only noon,” Jet said, eyes circling the hunched-over man. No more red wig, just a stubby graying ponytail at the back of his head.
“He’s always down here when we open.”
Jet looked up at Billy. “And who thought it was a good idea for an alcoholic to live above a bar?”
“He did,” Billy answered. “It’s OK, that’s probably his first.”
“We should speak to him before he orders his second.”
Billy crossed to the bar to say hello to his boss, and Jet went the other way, past a pair of upside-down legs, black and white striped, bursting from the floor. A lightbulb balanced between its ruby slippers, cord running to the closest socket. Definitely not in Kansas anymore.
There was only one chair at Andrew’s table, and he was sitting in it. Jet picked up another, dragged it over, a squeal that made Andrew wince, cover his ears.
“You mind?” he said, gruffly.
“Yeah, I do.” Jet dropped into the chair, steepling her hands, elbows on the sticky table.
“I’m trying to drink here.” He finally looked up, eyes not too faraway, not enough that he wouldn’t recognize her.
“I can see that.”
Billy had come over too now, placing a chair next to Jet’s, facing the wrong way, straddling it.
Andrew sniffed in his direction, gaze returning to Jet.
“What happened to your head?” He pointed at the bandages with his beer bottle.
Jet glanced at Billy, and he glanced back.
“You haven’t heard?” Jet studied Andrew’s eyes, his puffy red hands. “I was attacked, on Halloween.”
Andrew grunted, shook his head. “No, I never touched you. I just yelled.”
“Not at the fair,” Jet said. “After. In my house. I didn’t see who it was.”
Andrew shrugged. “I don’t know nothing about that.”
Jet wasn’t convinced; of course the killer would say that, pretend to know nothing about it. Didn’t alcoholics have to get good at pretending? Until they stopped caring, that was, like this man in front of her.
Andrew picked up his beer, took a swig. Jet clocked which hand he’d used.
“You’re right-handed,” she said.
“So’s everyone.” A fair point.
“Sergeant Finney escorted you home from the fair, walked you back to your apartment upstairs.” Jet glanced up through the ceiling. “What time did he leave, after getting you home?”
Andrew sniffed. “I don’t think Jack Finney woulda done that to you. He’s a cop.”
Jet leaned forward, said in an almost-whisper: “I’m not asking about Jack Finney.”
“Me?” Andrew laughed, an uneasy wheezing sound. He looked at Billy. “She thinks it was me? I was passed out all night.”
“So you won’t mind answering what time my dad left you in your apartment?” Billy’s way was softer, but it seemed to work.
“You should ask him. I was drunk, don’t remember.” Andrew put his beer down with a thunk. “But I do remember texting a friend, right after he left. Hold on.” He reached behind him into his pocket, came back with a phone.
His face lit up with a silver under-glow, strange upward shadows playing on his forehead as he tapped at the screen.
“Yeah. I sent that text at 10:29. Mr. Finney must have left just before that.”
Seventeen minutes until the first strike hit Jet’s head. It only took ten minutes to walk to the Masons’ house from here, less if you ran—plenty of time for Andrew to make it through their back door. Jet memorized the time, would write it in her notebook later, fingers twitching in her lap.
“And then you were alone?” Jet pressed.
“Yes, sweetheart.” That eerie whistling laugh again. “Cop escorting me home is a pretty solid alibi, I’d say.”
“It’s not an alibi,” Jet corrected him, “if you were alone and have no witnesses to co-cor-co—back you up, by the way.”
“Why? What time were you attacked?”
“I’m asking the questions here,” she said. She didn’t want to tell him that they knew the exact time. It seemed smarter to keep that back. Also smart to hold on to the fact that Jet was dead, if he didn’t know that already, if he thought they were just talking about an assault. The word murder might make him panic, make him stop talking and start planning. Better to let him think he failed—if it was Andrew.
“Don’t know why you care so much,” he said, returning to his beer. “Number of times I’ve woken up with a bloody head and a black eye, and don’t know who did it.”
“Because someone tried to kill me.”
“But they didn’t.”
Jet caught Billy’s eye, gave him a tiny shake of her head. She looked around the room, searching her mind for another way in, eyes idling across the bar, skipping over beer tap logos and a pinned-up flyer with a picture of a guitar and a microphone. Live music tonight, it said.
“Why do you hate my family so much?” Jet turned back to Andrew, treading carefully around any accusation. “At the fair, you said we destroy everything. What did you mean?”
Andrew snorted, the sound echoing in his beer bottle, almost empty. He didn’t follow it up, didn’t speak.
“I thought our families used to be close,” Jet continued. “You and my parents have known each other forever. My sister—Emily—and Nina…”
Andrew winced at the sound of his daughter’s name.
“They were best friends. I was only young, but I remember Nina at our house all the time, in the pool, sleeping over. Your wife too, when she came to pick her up, used to get stuck chatting with my mom. Emily and Nina were inseparable, weren’t they?”
“And where are they both now?” Andrew spat, a flash of something darker in his eyes. “Don’t speak about my daughter to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Jet said. “I know it must have been really hard, when she—”
“—Shot herself in the head?” He laughed, empty and vicious, ripping a strip from the bottle’s label. “Yeah, it was really hard. Even harder knowing whose fault it was.”
Jet blinked. She knew she was close to something, didn’t want to push too hard, push him over the edge. “Who—” she began.
“—Dianne.” Not a name, but a rumble in the back of his throat.
“My mom?”
Andrew rubbed his hands through his hair, down his face. His movements erratic, unpredictable. The hairs rose up the back of Jet’s neck, her heart picking up, warning her.
“Even after everything we’ve been through, sh-she…”
“What are you talking about?” Jet pressed.
“She’s the reason Nina killed herself. The last straw. Got her fired from her job at the hotel. Nina loved that job. She was doing so well.”
Too many questions; Jet didn’t know which one to go for.
“How do you know—”
“—Because Nina told me. She said that Dianne had it out for her, that she just got fired and knew who was behind it. Your mom pulled some strings, and she’s got many strings, doesn’t she? With her seat on the trustee board, running this town. She did that, Nina knew, and then two days later Nina…”
Jet gripped the chair beneath her, her hand grazing Billy’s on the way. He grazed hers back, like she’d done it on purpose, like their hands had a secret conversation of their own.
“Why would my mom get Nina fired?”
Andrew coughed, a wet, gravelly sound. “I don’t know, ask her. Nina never got the chance to tell me.” His face cracked then, struggling against it, trying not to break, not to cry. He fought hard and only one tear managed to get through. “It wasn’t just the job. She’d had a hard life, Nina. Losing her best friend so suddenly like that, only sixteen. Then her mom getting sick and passing away, when Nina needed her most. She didn’t want me to sell the house, said she’d always imagined living there, raising kids of her own, that it had too many memories. But I did, and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have sold it. It broke her heart. But they were offering too much money.”
“Who?” Jet asked.
“You!” Andrew’s voice whistled. “Your family. Luke. Came to me with an offer. They already had the property next door, wanted mine too. It was way over what the asking price would have been. What was I going to say? No, Luke, you keep all that money. He knew exactly how to convince me to do it, made it seem like a favor almost, a kindness. Of course I sold it.” He hiccupped. “Though where all that money has gone, I couldn’t tell you.”
He glanced over at the bar, at the bottles behind, like he knew exactly where all that money had gone. Down the drain, down his throat.
“Said they were going to renovate and resell it. I used to walk by, see what they were doing to it, especially after Nina…” He sniffed. “There was some holdup in the construction, think they changed their mind. They’ve knocked it down now. My old house, and the one next door. Think they’re going to combine the lots, build one giant McMansion for some rich asshole. Nina would have been devastated, to know the house she grew up in is completely gone. It’s gone, all gone. I checked last week. Digging foundations where our home used to be.”
Jet nodded, because she had her answer now: Why do you hate my family so much? But none of that had been her. It was Luke, it was Mom. Or maybe that was why he chose Jet—taking Dianne’s daughter, like he thought she’d taken his?
“I’m sorry my brother knocked down your house, but—”
Andrew laughed over her, ripping his beer label clear off. “He’s not. I’m sure he’ll make a nice big profit off it. Show his daddy who the big man is now.” He laughed again, harder, almost frantic, like it hurt his ribs to do it. “You know what’s funny, though?”
Jet didn’t.
Andrew rubbed his nose. “Luke thinks it’s gonna be him next, doesn’t he? That he’s going to be the Mason, your dad retiring, leaving the company to him. Well, I know something you don’t. Man, I’d love to be the one to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” Jet said, losing track. “What do you know?”
“Your daddy’s not leaving the company to little Luke.” His breath whistled through his teeth. “He’s going to sell it. To Nell Jankowski.”
