Mary, Mary

Chapter 91

SHE DIDN'T BOTHER to use the chain lock. I heard it rattle on the back of the front door as she opened it.

“Mary Wagner?”

“Yes?”

Her large feet were bare, but she still wore the pink maid's uniform from the Beverly Hills Hotel. She smiled engagingly before she knew who I was.

“I'm Agent Cross with the FBI.” I held up my ID, which included my shield. “May I come in and ask you a few questions? It's important.”

Her tired face sagged. “It's about the car, isn't it? Lord, I wish I could just paint that thing or trade it in or something. I've been getting all kinds of embarrassing looks - you wouldn't believe.”

Her manner was more outgoing than anything I'd seen at the hotel, but she had the beleaguered, animated quality of a public-school kindergarten teacher with way too many students.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. "It is about the car. Just a formality; we're following up on as many blue Suburbans as we can.

May I come in? It won't take long."

“Of course. I don't mean to be rude. Please, come on inside. Come.”

I waved to Baker on the curb.

“Five minutes,” I called out, mostly just to let Ms. Wagner know I wasn't alone at her house. Hopefully, the unmarked LAPD units up and down the street were more invisible to her eyes than mine.

I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me. Adrenaline shot through my body in an instant. Was this woman a killer, possibly an insane one? For some strange reason, I didn't feel threatened by her.

The neatness of the house made a strong first impression on me. The floors were recently swept, and I saw no signs of clutter anywhere.

A wooden cutout hung in the front hallway. It was in the shape of a curtsying farm girl with the word Welcome stenciled across her skirt. The relative disrepair outside, I suddenly realized, was the landlord's domain. This was hers.

“Please sit down,” she said.

Mary Wagner gestured me toward the living room through an archway to my right. A mismatched sofa and love seat took up most of the room.

Her television was on mute, and a can of Diet Pepsi and a half-eaten bowl of soup sat on the worn redwood coffee table. “Am I interrupting your dinner?” I asked. “I'm real sorry about that.” Not that I was going to leave.

“Oh, no, no, not at all. I'm not much of an eater.” She quickly turned off the TV and cleared the food away.

I stayed in the hail and glanced around while she put the dishes on the kitchen counter in the back. Nothing looked out of place. Just a regular house that was almost too neat, uncluttered, spick-and-span clean.

“Would you like something to drink?” she called out from the other room.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Water? Soda? Orange juice? It's no bother, Agent Cross.”

“I'm fine.”

Her journal was probably here in the house, but nowhere that I could see. She'd been watchingJeopardy! on TV “Actually, I'm out of orange juice, anyway,” she said genially, coming back toward me.

She was either completely comfortable or very good at faking it. Very odd. I followed her into the living room, and we both sat down.

“So, what can I do for you?” she asked in a kindly tone that was oddly unsettling. “I'd like to help, of course.”

I kept my own tone casual and nonthreatening. “First of all, are you the only driver for your car?”

“Just me.” She smiled as though the question was vaguely funny. I wondered why “Has it been outside of your supervision at any time in the past six weeks or so?”

“Well, when I sleep, of course. And when I'm at work. I do housekeeping at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“I see. So you need the car for transportation to work.” She fingered the collar of her uniform and eyeballed the pad in my hand as though she wanted me to write that part down. On an impulse, I went ahead and did it.

“So I guess the answer is yes,” she went on. "Technically, it has been outside of my. . .

whatever you said. Supervision.“ Her laugh was a tiny bit coy. ”My purview."

I scribbled a few more notes of my own. Eager to please? Busy hands. Wants inc to know she's intelligent.

As we continued, I watched her as much as I listened. Nothing she said was really out of the ordinary, though. What struck hardest was the way she concentrated on me. Her hands kept landing in different places, but her brown eyes didn't travel very far from my own. I got the impression she was glad I was there.

When I stood up at the end of the interview, as if to leave, her face dropped.

“Could I bother you for that glass of water?” I asked, and she brightened visibly.

“Coming right up.”

I followed her as far as the doorway Everything in the kitchen was neatly arranged, too.

The counters were mostly empty, except for a four-slice toaster and a set of country kitsch-style canisters.

The dish rack next to the sink was full, and there were two steak knives among the clean silverware.

She filled a glass at the tap and handed it to me. It tasted slightly soapy “Are you originally from California?” I asked conversationally “From around here?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Nowhere near as nice as this.” “Where'd you move from?”

“The North Pole.” Another coy laugh and a shake of the head. “At least, it might as well be.”

“Let me guess. Maine? You strike me as a New Englander.”

“Can I get you a refill?”

“No, thank you. Really, I'm fine.”

She took the water glass out of my hand, not yet half empty, and turned toward the sink.

That was when all hell broke loose.

First, I heard heavy footsteps and a loud shout coming from just outside.

Almost immediately, the back door burst open with a crash of splintering wood and glass.

I heard the front door crashing in as well.

Then police officers streamed into the kitchen from both sides, flak jackets on, their weapons drawn and pointed at Mary Wagner.