Sweet Paradise by Gene Desrochers (most read books in the world of all time .txt) 📕

“So that afternoon, you don’t remember seeing them or them seeing you?”

“No. You know, Boise-boy, if I didn’t know better I’d think you thought I did in my mama.”

“All the bases, Harold. All the bases. How long had she been gone before October first?”

“Junior freaks out too much. She’s a grown woman. She was out of touch for a few weeks or a month. I dunno, maybe more. Man, I ain’t got time to track my mama’s whereabouts. You track your mama around?”

Where was Francine during the weeks Junior hadn’t heard from her? She wasn’t dead until about a week ago. That left up to fifty days unaccounted for. All of September and maybe a chunk of August. No one seemed to know, and Junior was the only one who really cared.

My phone rang. Walter Pickering.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I need you here.”

“Mr. Pickering, I’m not an employee of The Daily News.” Heavy breathing into the phone. “Gimme an hour.”

Leaving Harold to his archery, I returned inside where Hillary whisked by in a kimono. She ignored me as she glided back up the stairs, the red silk tail flowing after her. She held a flute glass with orange liquid. I suspected a mimosa. Along with a bloody mary, an alcoholic’s go-to morning drink.

“Be bold,” I whispered into my fist before calling up the stairs. “Hillary?”

She stopped so abruptly, some of the mimosa sloshed on the back of her hand. “Damnit!” She turned to me with clenched teeth. “Must you make a habit of causing me to spill everything? What is it?”

“On October first, it was a Thursday, were you here?”

“Yes, we were all here all day.”

“Wilma wasn’t.”

“Wilma doesn’t count. I mean Herbie, me, and Harold. We were together here all day.”

“Harold’s not sure.”

“Harold’s always confused, but that’s from all the smoking. He loses track of the days. I do not. He was out there and we were in here most of the day. No one went anywhere.”

Herbie apparated at the top of the stairs. “Will you stop pestering my sister? We were all here on October first, as we told the police.”

With that, she stormed into her bedroom, Herbie went into his study. The doors slammed simultaneously. My affirmation to be bold only went so far. I didn’t have the guts to knock on their doors and further incur their displeasure. Dana would have done it. She would have pushed to make sure neither of them were lying. I wasn’t so persistent. I would accept them at their word.

In the kitchen Wilma was once again washing dishes. The islands had never been much for automatic dishwashers, but I figured rich folks like the Bacons bucked convention. However, I saw no dishwasher.

“Hi, Wilma.”

She didn’t turn around. She rubbed her eyes with a soapy hand and sniffled.

“Wilma. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I good. What I could do for you?”

“No, it’s okay. Never mind. Sorry for your loss.”

She grabbed a dish towel and dried her hands. “What? You trying find out what happen, right?”

I nodded.

“I wish to help.” Her mouth curled into a frown as she fought off tears. “I love Miss Francine. She was good to me da last few years. She in a betta place now. I should not be sad.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, really.” I paused.

She stared at me, then spread her hands and inclined her head.

“Were you here all day on October First?”

“Last week? No, that was Thursday, right? No, I was at the doctor that day. I have tests done.” She held up her cell phone calendar for me to see. “Den I had to go rest at me son’s house. I didn’t work that day.” She put her hand over her mouth as she realized the significance of my question. “That was the day?”

I nodded solemnly, then said, “When you don’t come, is there someone else?”

“No, because the odda woman who come also be sick. They on their own that day.” She opened the screen door and went out into the yard. She sat on a stone bench and put her face into her hands.

Everyone was dealing with the revelation in their own way. Hillary drank and isolated. Harold shot arrows. Wilma cried and worked. None of them were currently available for further questioning, so I took my leave.

AS MY TAXI MOTORED down the road, I spotted movement behind a tree.

“Stop,” I said. The driver halted in the middle of the hot pavement.

I held my breath. Nothing moved except a plump ground lizard that skittered across the road, its tail flinging pebbles as it went. A breeze kicked up and the flap of a shirt billowed from behind the tree then vanished again.

“Hey!” I hollered as I got out of the taxi. “Hey, man, I see you.”

The fat guy from the hospital and the Rav-4 darted out from his hiding spot and took off down the road, a newspaper flapping in one hand. I gave chase and after only about one-hundred yards, he was wheezing so heavily I started reviewing my CPR training. He pulled up as I was about to catch him and held his hands high, then leaned over, holding his knees.

My pepper spray was out as I limped up. Despite my aching knee, I was considerably faster.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, seeing the pepper spray. “I’m unarmed. Be cool.”

Sweat poured off his forehead. He wiped his beard with his left hand. He still held the newspaper in his right. He smelled like cheap cologne and dried sweat.

“What gives? Why are you snooping around this place?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I’ve done nothing.”

The taxi eased up next to me. The driver dead-panned. “Hey, da man. Da meter runnin’. You want me still.”

“I’m a little busy. Uh, yeah, keep it running. Just wait.”

“Irie.” He pulled to the shoulder and killed the engine.

“Unless you want your eyes to burn badly, tell me who you are.” I tried to sound threatening, but a spray bottle lacked the same cachet