Maid of Murder

Chapter Thirty-One

The cell block’s outer walls were smooth and steel-plated. The room held three cells. The first was empty; the other two were occupied, one by an intoxicated man and the other by my brother.

The drunk clung to the bars of his cell. “Well, well, if it ain’t Mister Big Time Detective Mains. And who do you got there?” He leered at me, making me wish I was wearing thick snow pants, a heavy parka, and stout working boots. “Is she your girlfriend?” To me he added, “Looking real fine today.”

Mains wrapped the metal bars with the flashlight in his hand. “Shut up, Phillip, and sleep it off.”

“Now, how am I supposed to sleep in the same room with a murderer? What if he goes ape shit and attacks me in the night?” Phillip slurred.

“I said, shut up,” Mains growled.

Mark cowered on the bottom half of a metal bunk bed, behind silvery bars, each an inch in diameter. Mains set a folding chair in front of Mark’s cell.

A thin gray blanket wrapped around Mark’s head and shoulders. His cell contained a relatively clean sink and a toilet, though I didn’t inspect them at length, and the cell’s two walls were painted a redundant gray.

Mains rapped on the bars of Mark’s cell with his knuckles. “Hayes, you have a visitor.”

Mark jolted and peered out of his cotton cocoon. His glasses sat precariously at the tip of his nose. “India?”

He jumped up and banged his head on the bunk above him. Catching his foot in the blanket, he toppled onto the floor. “Ow,” the crumpled heap moaned.

“How’s anybody able to sleep with that racket,” Phillip complained.

I stood up from my chair. “Mark, are you hurt?”

Mains stood alert, his back pressed up against the bars of the opposing cell.

Mark stumbled up. “I’m all right.” He rubbed the back of his head.

I swallowed a hysterical chuckle. I slid the books through the bars. “I brought you something to read.”

He took the books from my hands. “Thank you,” he whispered. He lovingly placed the books on the bottom bunk.

Mark still wore the same T-shirt and shorts that he’d had on when he’d popped out of the bushes that morning. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah. Maybe I can sue the police for damages,” he joked mirthlessly.

Mains remained silent.

“Not a good idea under the circumstances,” I said.

“I suppose you’re right.” Mark walked up to the cell’s bar with the blanket wrapped around his shoulder like a wizard’s cloak. “It’s freezing down here, though.” He rubbed his hands together.

“Could he get another blanket?” I asked Mains.

“Hey! I want another blanket too.” Phillip remarked.

Mains replied a noncommittal, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Mark rubbed the knot on his head. “Lew said I should get out on bail tomorrow morning. It’s only for one night, right? And now I have something to read.”

I bit the inside of my lip, afraid to tell Mark of my parents’ no-bail policy and, until I had the bail money in my hand, I didn’t want to tell him about my plan to get him out of jail. Luckily, Mark changed the subject himself. He dropped his voice. “The police showed me the scarf they found in my apartment. I’ve never seen it before.” He lowered his voice further, and I leaned my ear to the bars. “It’s like the you-know-what.”

Mains cleared his throat, and I jerked back. Subtlety is not a tradition of high regard in my family, and Mark was particularly bad at it. He gave me an exaggerated nod and look.

“Time’s up,” Mains said.

“Right, I’ll bring it up with Lew. Well, if there’s anything else you need, tell Lew, and we’ll try to get it to you,” I told my brother.

“A teaspoon and a file would be nice.”

Phillip gripped the bars of his cell. “There’s a few things that you can get me, honey.”

I spun around and faced the drunk for the first time. “Like what?”

“India,” Mains said, as he stepped between us. “Let’s—”

“Mr. Rosengard?” I squeaked.

The drunk blinked. “How—”

“You were my third-grade teacher at Eleanor Elementary.”

Phillip blanched.

Once upstairs, Mains insisted on walking me to my car. “Go back inside,” I said. “This isn’t exactly the ’hood.”

“Not a chance. If anything happens to you between here and your car, your parents will have my head on a platter.”

My car rusted under a lamppost, quietly forlorn. I unlocked the door. “See? Perfectly safe.”

“I’m sorry about Phillip’s behavior in there,” Mains said.

“It’s not your fault, but I’m in serious need of a shower. My entire perspective of third grade has changed.”

Mains laughed that awful laugh again, but it didn’t seem as awful as before. Like a Byzantine bas relief, half of his face hid in the shadows, the other half was overexposed in the garish yellow light. I wished I had paper and charcoal pencils to capture it.

I was reluctant to leave and oddly torn. Mains wasn’t playing for my team; he was on the other side.

“I remember you, you know,” he said when I was about to say goodnight.

“What?”

“From the time Carmen and I dated in high school. You must have been twelve or thirteen then. And I came over to your house to see Carmen. You were sitting in the front yard, plopped right in the middle of the lawn, scratching away in a sketchbook. You wore a peace T-shirt and your glasses were about to fall off your nose. I had to repeat your name five times before I finally got your attention. And when you did look up, you said, ‘Carmen’s not here,’ and went right back to sketching.” He paused. “Do you remember that?”

“No,” I answered.

But I did remember.