In Sickness And In Death Part 25

I decided to call Leslie. I didn't know what all was implied by "fresh chicken," but it was thoughtful of her to think of us. Ray and Danny had enjoyed the eggs.

I checked my cell phone log and found her phone number. She answered on the fourth ring.

"Leslie, it's Jolene. I was just in Talbots. The a.s.sistant manager said you were looking for me."

"Hey, Jolene. I've got fresh chickens in a cooler for you. I realized the other day that I hadn't done enough to thank you and Celeste. I knew you were interested in the eggs, so I figured most of your chickens had come from the grocery store in the past, too. I know the store labels often say 'fresh' but fresh really means killed and plucked today."

"Killed" brought all sorts of undesirable pictures to mind. I liked the sound of "plucked," though. I wondered about all the chicken's innards, but was too afraid to ask.

Leslie continued, "I have two whole roasters for you and Ray and one for Celeste. I can bring them back into town tomorrow, or you and Ray can stop by today and pick yours up if you have time."

I didn't want to admit that I had nothing but time, or that Ray wasn't allowed to visit her farm anymore. "Ray's working, but I can stop by this morning, if that works for you."

"Good. I'll put a pot of coffee on."

As I drove toward the Flynn farm, it occurred to me that no one had ever given me a gift like this before. Candy and baked goods, yes. Ca.s.seroles when my parents died. But never an uncooked chicken. I supposed amongst farming families this type of gift was more common and appreciated, even welcomed if they didn't raise chickens of their own. I wondered if it would taste better than the ones from the grocery store. With any luck, Ray would cook the chicken for me. It would taste better if he did. Of course, I wouldn't be inviting Erica and Maury over to dine with us, not with the way Erica felt about chickens.

The thin gray dog the size of a miniature horse greeted me in Leslie's driveway as I stepped out of the Lexus. I took a step away from the car. The dog positioned itself between me and the house. I waited, never one to brave an unknown dog.

The thought flashed through my mind that maybe I shouldn't have come out here. But that was silly. Leslie had invited both Ray and me. She was a friend. But her grumpy dog was another story.

I avoided eye contact with it and tried to stay calm. I didn't want it to sense my fear.

Leslie appeared in the side doorway seconds later. Once again, she wasn't wearing her wig. She had on her old Carhartt overalls and a green plaid shirt. "Come on in, Jolene."

I stepped around the dog. It growled.

I glanced at Leslie for support.

"Rufus. Quiet. Go in the barn."

The dog slinked off, tail between its legs.

Leslie hugged me and offered to hang up my coat. I watched as she threw it on a wall hook next to her Carhartt jacket. I hoped my coat wouldn't smell like manure when I put it on later.

I stepped over the piles of dirty and worn boots in the hall beyond the entryway and followed her into a sunlit kitchen with a picture window overlooking the barn and fields.

"I was putting a fresh pot of coffee on. Sit down." Leslie gestured to the oval oak table in the middle of the kitchen.

I hadn't planned on staying long, but the kitchen seemed welcoming enough with its blue and white tiled floor and bright yellow walls. Spotless, too. I took a seat at the table.

She pulled a couple of coffee cups from the cupboard. "We can take our coffee in the sunroom when it's ready."

I could see a wide doorway and hints of foliage beyond it at the far end of the cheerful kitchen. Something smelled earthy and warm. I also smelled apple pie.

"I've got a pie in the oven to go with the coffee." She opened a white foam cooler that sat on the counter, a cooler very much like the one we'd found Jessica James' arm inside days ago. "Wait 'til you see what I've got in here."

I cringed, fearing she'd pull out a severed limb. Ridiculous since these coolers were common everywhere and used for food, fishing, and ...

Leslie pulled out a naked, headless chicken.

"O-o-o-h." My heart started beating again. I tried to smile appreciatively.

Leslie squinted at me. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm just used to buying chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

"Not a roaster?"

I shook my head. "Are you sure that's a chicken? It's huge."

Leslie fluffed up with pride. "We don't even give them growth hormones."

Yet another side to farming that I knew nothing about. I decided not to ask.

She slapped the chicken down on the cutting board. "I can chop it into pieces. You can use the b.r.e.a.s.t.s now and freeze the rest. Just make sure you eat some of it fresh today."

"Okay." I could bake a chicken breast. That was not beyond me.

Leslie pulled open a kitchen drawer. She took out a cleaver with a blade approximately four inches by eight inches. She started to sharpen it.

The blade zipped in and out of the sharpener, making a slight grated noise. For some reason, my hands started to sweat. "Is that what you use to chop chickens?"

Leslie continued to sharpen it. "It's a Chinese cleaver. It can chop anything. Chicken, beef, vegetables. It can go right through bone."

A visual of this cleaver hacking Jessica James into pieces flashed through my head.

Perspiration broke out in my armpits. I thought I might be sick. I fumbled for my purse, trying to think of an excuse to leave.

Leslie ran her finger over the blade. "There. It's ready." She held it out to show me, twisting the blade from side to side. It caught the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window and blinded me.

I closed my eyes and tensed.

The cleaver dropped with a whack. I opened my eyes to see Leslie push the right wing of the chicken to the side of the cutting board. She raised the cleaver again.

I looked away, chiding myself. I had no reason to fear this woman. She had offered me a fresh chicken in friendship, for Pete's sake.

A check secured with a magnet to the stainless steel refrigerator caught my eye.

I glanced at Leslie, who continued to whack away at the poor defenseless chicken.

I stood up and leaned to get a better look at the check.

It was made out to The Cat's Meow and dated for the Sat.u.r.day of Jessica James' disappearance. Peter Flynn was scrawled in bold letters on the signature line.

"He still owes me."

I turned to find Leslie gesturing to the check with the meat cleaver. She missed my chest by inches.

Alarmed, I dropped in my chair.

"Ooops. Sorry." Leslie resumed chopping the chicken. "Peter hasn't paid me back yet for covering that check. He and I keep the farm funds separate from our personal accounts. His personal account is drained, according to him."

"Is he home? I still haven't met him." Not that I was sure I wanted to.

"No, he's at the grocery store, buying chew. I swear he goes there once a day. If he's not spending his money on drinks, it's chew."

She chopped off the final piece, a drumstick, and took plastic freezer bags out of the drawer. "I'll put the b.r.e.a.s.t.s in one bag and the thighs, drumsticks, and wings in another. How's that sound?"

"Fine." My voice was a croak. Peter went to the grocery store once a day? Had he in fact been there the day I got shot at?

Leslie turned and studied me. "You have a weak stomach, don't you?"

I half-nodded, thinking of Erica's words earlier today regarding the redheaded man: "He used to visit another psychiatrist in the building on Wednesdays."

Erica couldn't have been referring to Leslie. Leslie saw Dr. Albert, not another psychiatrist. Erica had to have met Leslie's brother, Peter, in the elevator. The brother I'd never met. The brother who lived here on this farm with access to meat cleavers. The brother who frequented The Cat's Meow and had no money. Could he have spent it all on alcohol and chew? Maybe he'd spent it on some of the girls, maybe even the ones willing to meet him outside the club. Maybe one like Jessica James, who was driving a new Cadillac Escalade.

Leslie was speaking to me. "I'll keep the innards. You probably don't know what to do with them. We'll boil them up for the dog."

I watched as she loaded the dark purplish heart and a.s.sorted organs into a pot and filled it with water. She turned it on to boil. My nose twitched. My stomach rolled.

Leslie walked over to the refrigerator with the plastic bags in hand. "I'll put these in here for now and put them back in the cooler for you when it's time to go home."

She closed the door. "Come on out in the sunroom and see the flowers. They'll perk ya right up."

I knew I should make excuses and leave, but I didn't want to offend her.

I followed her obediently across the kitchen and out the door. Instantly, the temperature rose twenty degrees. I found it more difficult to breathe.

The sunroom was actually a greenhouse filled with potted plants on shelving. Flowering plants and ferns, tall and short, all sucking the oxygen out of the air in the room. It was a heady experience, especially to someone p.r.o.ne to allergies like me.

A wicker furniture set occupied the middle of the floor: a couch, two chairs, and a coffee table. The cushions were blue with sunflowers. They looked home sewn. I wondered if Leslie or her brother had the decorating and floral talents.

Leslie pointed to one of the chairs. "Sit down, Jolene. Make yourself comfortable. I'll serve the coffee and pie out here as soon as it's ready."

"Great, thank you." I dropped into the chair facing the doorway. Then I spotted them. I tried not to let my distress show.

I took a deep breath. I needed to know if Leslie really was a friend-or the enemy. "So, Leslie, are you the gardener in the family?"

She laughed. "Not me. My brother grows all these. He also makes those cute planters over there by the door."

The cute planters shaped like wishing wells. The ones that held African violets, prayer plants and other florals I couldn't identify. I swallowed the bile that rose in the back of my throat.

"Does he sell them?"

"Sure does. One of the florists in town stocks them. We also sell them here, along with the fresh eggs, if you know someone who might like one."

My mouth felt dry. I shivered, even though the greenhouse had to be eighty degrees. I didn't know if I was sitting in the house of a killer-or just the florist to a killer. Either way, it spelled a funeral for me.

Could Leslie's brother be the killer? If so, I wasn't safe here. I slid to the edge of the chair cushion, ready to make my excuses. I needed to call Ray.

Leslie chattered on, clearly not sensing anything amiss. "The last one we sold was to that man who liked the Caterhams, the man I told you about."

I blinked. "You never told me his name, Leslie."

"It's Maury. Maury Boor."

I slumped in the chair. Maury Boor. My sister had married an axe murderer, and I would get to be the one to tell her. "It's a little warm in here, Leslie. Could I trouble you for a gla.s.s of water?"

"Sure." She lumbered to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen.

I wanted to weep, but after all my perspiring, I didn't have any fluids left. Besides, how would I explain my breakdown to poor, sweet Leslie? I certainly didn't want to be the one to tell her that the love of her life had married my sister-and killed a woman just days before that.

Leslie reappeared, holding a gla.s.s of water in her hands. The gray dog trotted in at her heels. She held the gla.s.s out to me without a word.

"Thank you." I drank it down.

She continued to stand over me. The dog had settled at her feet, watching me.

I set the empty gla.s.s on the coffee table and studied her. Something was different. Had her shirt been blue earlier or was it just a trick of the lighting? "Is everything okay, Leslie?"

"Here's the pie. Peter, now that you've introduced yourself, go get the coffee, will you? I couldn't fit it all on the tray."

The person standing over me who I thought was Leslie took a few steps back and smiled. His teeth were crooked, not the pretty veneers Leslie had gotten. "Sure, Les."

He turned and went through the door, pa.s.sing his sister, who balanced a tray as she crossed the room to me. My purse dangled from her arm.

She smiled and set the tray down. "I hope Peter introduced himself. I told him you were in here, admiring his planters."

My lips parted, but no sound came out. The resemblance was uncanny. Without the veneers, I'd never have known the difference between the two. Although something about Peter's smile had made me uncomfortable, creeped out actually.

Leslie held out my purse. "Your cell phone was ringing. You might have a message."

"Thank you." I set the purse next to me on the chair, still reeling. Was Peter the killer? Or was Maury? Maury's initials didn't match the key chain in the Camry. Peter's did.

Leslie busied herself with slicing the pie. She used a ten-inch knife.

I couldn't take my eyes off it. This house was well-armed with cutlery.

Leslie set a piece of pie in front of me. "Here you go, Jolene."

"Thanks, Leslie." I pulled out my cell phone and noticed the message announcement. "Do you mind if I get my message? It might be the school calling about Da ... our foster child."

Or it might be Ray with an update on Jessica James' killer. Please don't let him say I was sitting down to coffee with a killer.

Leslie's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "I didn't know you and Ray had a child. By all means, go ahead."

As I dialed the number and waited for my message, Peter carried in a tray with two cups of coffee on it. The dog was still at his heels.