Stirred

March 31, 4:55 P.M.

Five Minutes Earlier

I huffed and puffed my way across the parking lot toward a townhouse set off from the others, surrounded by overgrown shrubs that came halfway up the windows.

There was no name on the mail slot, just the number I’d gotten from Cynthia Mathis—813.

“Try not to say anything stupid or offensive,” I said as I rang the doorbell. “Tell you what…just don’t say anything at all. If you have an idea for a question, write it on a piece of paper and I’ll consider it.”

“Sure thing, Mom. Want to hand me my crayons so I can play quietly in the corner?”

“Like I’d trust you with crayons.”

The doorbell didn’t work, so I banged hard on the glass door, almost said “This is the police” out of habit.

I heard a television set blaring on the other side of the door. The rain had begun to pick up again, and I was overcome with a sudden craving for Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream, and, incongruously, dill pickles.

I needed to write to Ben & Jerry and ask if they’d make a cookie dough pickle flavor.

“Did your stomach just say something?” McGlade asked.

“Pretend you’re still a cop. Act copish.”

The door creaked slowly open.

Even before I saw her face, I smelled the smoke and nicotine.

I smiled. “Violet King?”

I could only see a thin panel of the woman’s face through the four-inch crack between the door and the doorframe.

“Who’s asking?” Southern drawl—faint but unmistakable. The sour odor of beer mingled with the cigarette stench.

“I’m Jack Daniels. This is my partner, Harry McGlade. We’d like to ask you some questions about Andrew Z. Thomas.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.”

The woman started to close the door, but stopped. She glanced at my baby bump and then back up into my eyes. Her features softened. “Tell you what…you can come in for a minute.”

Violet opened the door, and for a brief moment, the bleak, gray light from outside flooded into the front room of her townhouse. A haze of smoke lay upon everything like mist on the surface of a lake. An old-school tube television droned on from the far side of the room—a soap opera, the characters yelling at each other in a hospital room, debating whether or not to pull the plug on someone.

Violet stood less than five feet tall, but she must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. Her housedress was faded and expansive, and it took Violet more effort to waddle back across the room than it did for me to follow her inside.

“Is this her?” McGlade said from the corner of his mouth. “Or the beast that ate her?”

“Be nice, McGlade.”

The living room was small and cramped and dark. Aside from the illumination of the television, there was only one other light source—a weak lamp on a marble-topped table next to the couch. A cigarette burning in an ashtray sent blue coils up into the dusky light.

Under the eye-watering reek of new and old tobacco smoke, I detected another, more offensive odor—rot. Spoiled vegetables or meat, or possibly both.

As my eyes adjusted to the lowlight, I saw the walls were covered in baby pictures—photographs of a cute little boy. In many of them, a gorgeous, young blonde held the baby, her smile radiating love and joy. Violet’s hair was still blond, but she no longer seemed to be the woman in those pictures. I wondered if it hurt her to look at them.

Violet backed up carefully to the couch, and as she settled her bulk down onto the cushions, the frame creaked.

“Sit down.” Violet motioned to a leather love seat. She lifted a remote control off the sofa cushion and muted the soap opera. The floor at her feet was littered with bags of potato chips and Chex Mix and enough Sam Adams Cherry Wheat bottles to make me wonder if she owned stock in the company. Something crunched under my Keds—mouse droppings.

“You have a lovely home, Miss King,” McGlade said.

“What is it you two want?”

My bare arm touched the couch, layered with so much smoke residue I could practically feel the nicotine buzz seeping in through my pores. I forced a pleasant smile.

“I understand you were a police officer back in North Carolina.”

“Homicide detective. But that was a long time ago.”

“Was there a reason you left?” I asked.

“I’m on disability.”

“Something weight-related?” McGlade chimed in.

Violet gave him a dismissive glance. “Injured on the job.”

On the table, amid the garbage, was a keychain with a Toyota fob.

“Tough to make do on a disability income,” I said. “But then, you have supplemental income as well.”

I kept silent, hoping she’d fill in the details.

She said nothing.

“How do you know Andrew Z. Thomas?” I asked.

“Well, it’s no secret I was involved in an investigation eight years ago.”

“Where he was the subject?”

“Correct.”

“And this investigation took you out to the North Carolina Outer Banks?” I asked, recalling the Wikipedia page.

“Yes.”

“How did that investigation end?”

Violet let out a long sigh. “There’s been a lot written about what happened on Ocracoke Island. I’m sure you can find books and Internet websites to answer all of your questions.”

“I’ve had quite a bit written about me as well.” I smiled. “It doesn’t always tell the whole story. Or even the truth.”

“I don’t talk about that anymore.”

“Have you been in touch with Andrew?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him.”

I noticed a photograph on the wall.

Grunting, I struggled onto my feet and walked around the couch as Violet tracked my movement with thinly veiled suspicion.

I reached up and lifted the framed photograph off the nail, studied it for a moment, and then showed it to Violet.

“When was this taken?” I asked.

The photograph was of a younger, much thi

“That was taken seven years ago,” Violet said. She heaved her bulk forward and snatched a partially full bottle of beer off the table, raising it to her lips.

“You had a relationship with Mr. Thomas.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You look like a couple here.”

“We were close for a little while. That was a long time ago.”

“But still close enough that his agent sends you his royalty checks. From what I understand, his books have become quite popular since the controversy. Lots of money, I hear.”

Violet shrugged. As a former cop, she knew how to play the game, to only offer information that I already knew. She’d be tough to crack.

I asked, “Where was this photograph taken?”

Violet gave the faintest smile. “Paradise.”

“Where’s paradise?”

She shifted her bulk on the couch. “You’re here about the murder, aren’t you? That woman killed on the bridge.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I saw you on the news. Not too many pregnant women go to crime scenes. The TV showed you collapse.” Violet’s eyes lit up. “I hope the baby is okay.”

“Do you know anything about that murder, Violet?”

She shook her head, reached over to the table, and lifted the cigarette which had nearly burned out. Violet brought it to her lips, took a long, hard draw until the ember flared back to life.

“Only what I saw on the news,” Violet said, letting the smoke out through her nose.