The Harem on the Hill (Part XCVIII)

 “I need to get home to take care of my pets.”

“I’m afraid we still have that messy double homicide to sort out.”  Petty stands and tucks the manila folder under his arm.  “One of which you confessed to.” 

“Justifiable homicide,” you say. 

“That may be, but you still need to get through your arraignment and bail hearing.  That could take a few days.”

“Maybe weeks,” Tucker says, rising from his chair.  “Hopefully, you put a lot of extra food in their bowls.” 

The senior officer’s smile is unsettling.

As the men file from the tiny room, the baby-faced Petty turns back. “Would you like me to check in on them for you?” 

“No,” you say.  “I’ll make other arrangements.”

***

After the interrogation, a guard escorts you to a simple holding cell with a sink and a cot.  It’s not exactly posh, but at least it’s quiet and clean—a far cry from the urine-tinged mess of humanity you were forced to spend time in back in Hollywood.

Locked alone with your thoughts, you consider the day’s events.  You wish the Q&A with Tucker and Petty had gone both ways.  You’d like to know what Petty was doing out in the sticks, ready to pounce after you intervened in Helen’s attack.  His response time was too impressive to have been a coincidence. 

You plan to mention it to your attorney, but not on the police landline you’re eventually given access to.  That call is direct and to the point.

“Tony,” you say.  “I’m in jail.  Get me out of here.”

Tony Richmond is a shrewd lawyer who’s bailed you out, literally, time and again, but the wheels of justice spin slowly in a small town and there’s only so much he can do to grease them.  You pass the time listening and learning.  Sound travels well in the single-celled station and so does gossip.  Some guards are eager to fill in the gaps in the goings-on with the celebrity in their midst. 

Ordinarily, a double homicide in such a tiny precinct would command law enforcement’s total attention, but apparently the murder scenes at 136 Vessel Lane and 125 Sycamore Lane were so perverse and grizzly that your incident was already an afterthought.  According to Matt Franklin, a particularly star-struck young officer, forensics backed your testimony as to who did what to whom, and, with you already in jail, the search was on for Tina Jordan.

All you can do is pray you get out before Tina is apprehended.  And at nearly 400 pounds, you don’t fancy her chances of evading capture.    

Miraculously, forty-eight hours later Tina still hasn’t been found and you’re being escorted from your cell.  You were granted bail and Tony posted it.  200K.  Not bad.  You expected seven figures.

What you don’t expect is the flurry of media outside the station.

“Did you kill Juan Garcia?”

 “Was it self-defense?”

 “Was it a crime of passion?”

 “Are you the Fayetteville Feeder?”

You push through news crews from all manner of media, from Dateline to TMZ, to your Escalade, which Officer Franklin delivers curbside from impound.  The goofy grin on his face informs you he’s relishing all the excitement; violent murders be damned.

Finally free to flee, you head for the hills--as does a fleet of news vans and other vehicles, including a squad car driven by Officer Petty, who no doubt wants to ensure your safe passage home.  Halfway to your hillside harem, you abandon the parade, accelerating around a switchback into a straightaway that only you know is coming.  Seconds later, your rearview mirror is clear of everything but pine trees.

As you round the final bend, however, your jaw goes slack.  A half-dozen trucks and vans line the fence of your estate, and a flurry of reporters clog the narrow artery to your gate.  It’s as if they took a shortcut you didn’t know about. 

A button on your visor activates the gate and sends the correspondents into a frenzy.  They shout questions through your tinted windows as your SUV pushes through. 

“Were you romantically involved with Helen Macintosh?”

“Was it a love triangle?”

"Did this have anything to do with Veronica Tate?”

And the question of the day…

“Are you the Fayetteville Feeder?”

To your pleasant surprise, no one follows you through the gate.  As the fleet of reporters becomes obscured by pines behind you, the silhouette of your estate emerges through them in front of you. You breathe a sigh of relief.  Neither the reporters nor your problems have gone away, but out of sight and mind will do for now.

Parking in the garage, you spring from your vehicle and race inside.  You’re eager to affect plans to cover your tracks and clear your name.  More than that, you want a hot cup of coffee and an even hotter shower.

Entering the kitchen from the garage, you’re greeted by the fresh-brewed aroma of Cornucupia’s house roast...

And the shiny silver barrel of your stolen Walther PPK pointed at your chest.

“Welcome home.”

It’s Tina.  She’s dressed all in black.  Black shirt.  Black pants.  Even black shoes.  The outfit isn’t slimming—Tina still looks to be about 350 pounds—but you suspect that isn’t why she chose it.

“Why don’t we sit and have a little chat?”

Tina escorts you down the hall into the living room.  You sit on the leather sofa overlooking the woods behind your property.  Tina sits across from you in a lounge chair that squeezes her hips like a vice.  The agile minx who once got the drop on you is long gone.  Too bad her trigger finger still looks in good enough shape to do the job. 

Tina rests her pistol-toting hand on the arm of her chair with the barrel even with your crotch.  “I understand you decided to drag me down with your sinking ship.”

Good news travels fast.  Of course, if Tina’s been hanging around your compound, she’s had access to all your police scanners and bugs.

“Should I let you frame me for murders I didn’t commit?”  You ask, crossing your legs.

“Maybe it would make up for the ones you did.”  Tina clicks off the safety of your Walther PPK.  “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“For what?”

“For house-sitting while you were away.  I even took care of your pets.”  You glance at the wooden door leading to your basement.  It must be a nervous glance, because Tina quickly adds, “Don’t worry; I didn’t give anyone the Bernadette treatment.” 

“Thanks,” you say, settling back on the sofa.  “I’ve heard the Fayetteville Feeder can be ruthless.”

Tina shakes her head.  “What a stupid name.”

“Tabloids love alliteration.”

“And serial killers.  Did you see all the barbarians at your gate?”

“I nearly got one caught in the grill of my SUV.”

“I’ve been stuck here since yesterday.  I figured by now I’d be on a beach somewhere, reading about your capture in a newspaper with that moronic nickname plastered across your face.”  

“Sorry to foil your plan.”

Your one-time concubine smiles derisively.  “It’s so stupid.  Why were you even at Helen’s in the first place?  She has cats.  I would’ve blown up like a balloon.” Tina shifts the aim of her pistol from your crotch to your smirking face.  “No wisecracks.”

“Never.”

“And then Juan and his shovel show up and provide the perfect alibi.  Some are even calling you a hero.”  Tina sticks an index finger in her mouth and makes a gagging sound. 

Tony must have leaked positive details of the case.  You’ll have to thank him later, assuming you get out of this.

“It wasn’t all dumb luck though, was it?” Tina continues.  “When did you figure out who I was?”

You flick a stray dust bunny off the edge of the sofa.  “Perhaps I’ve known all along.”

The obese brunette considers this, then nods.  “Maybe.  I’ve often wondered why, of all the girls in your journal, you picked me.  What were the odds?”

“You did everything you could to tip them in your favor.” 

“Even so.  I certainly wasn’t the prettiest or the most deserving of your…unique brand of attention.  There were pages and pages on each girl.  Likes.  Dislikes.  Family history.  Medical history.  Financials.  Social security numbers.  But there was next to nothing on me.  How do you explain that?  Willful ignorance?  Guilty conscience?”

“Maybe it was fate.” 

Tina's dimples deepen.  “You can’t spell fate without fat.”

“You have your sister’s smile.”

“That’s sweet.  Too bad I didn’t have her perfect tits and ass.”

“Hers weren’t so perfect by the end.”

Tina’s smile disappears. “I was always jealous of Veronica.  Her talent.  Her beauty.  When she started gaining weight, I was so excited.  Finally, she wasn’t perfect.  Then I found out she was only putting on weight because the richest, most eligible bachelor in America was fattening her up and I got jealous all over again.

“If it’s any consolation, we were together longer, and I made you fatter.”

“And you didn’t kill me.”

“Is that what you’re planning to do?” 

“Yes.”

“After five years?  Why the wait?”   

“I didn’t want to.  I still don’t.  But you’ve left me no choice.  Revenge was never my primary motive.  Veronica skulked off to Hollywood and left me holding Dad’s colostomy bag.”  Tina shakes her head.  “Even as kids, we were never close.  We were complete opposites.”

“Not completely.”

“I suppose you’re right.”  Tina runs a finger along the swell of her belly. “It’s a shame.  We could’ve been a helluva team.”

Then she aims the Walther PPK at the center of your forehead. 

Time to buy some time.  Be careful, your next words may be your last.