Goodnight, Sweet Mother Page 2

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Maggie said, then held her breath before she said anything more. She wanted to hit this cocky son of a bitch, and it had been a long time since she had wanted to hit somebody she didn’t know.

  “I was trying to pass, and she shoved right into me.”

  “That’s a lie,” Maggie’s mother yelled over the top of the car. Both men stared at her, as though only now realizing she was there.

  “Oh, good,” the boy trooper said. “We have a witness.”

  “My mom’s in the pickup,” the guy said, pointing a thumb back behind him. They all turned to see a skinny, white leg sticking out from the passenger door. But that was as far as the old woman had gotten. Her cane hung on the inside door handle. Her foot, encased in what looked like a thin bedroom slipper, dangled about eight inches from the running board of the pickup.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to just take a look and see what happened. See whose story’s most accurate,” he said with yet another grin.

  Maggie couldn’t help wondering where he had trained. No academy she knew of taught that smug, arrogant grin. Someone must have told him the look gave him an edge, disarmed his potential opponents; after all, it was tough to argue with someone who’d already made up his mind and was willing to humiliate you if you didn’t agree. It was a tactic of a much older, mature lawman, one who could afford to be cocky because he knew more than he ever cared to know about human nature, one who could back up that attitude if challenged or threatened. This boy trooper, in Maggie’s opinion, wasn’t deserving of such a tactic.

  As soon as she was close enough to see his badge and read his name tag, Maggie decided she knew a few tactics of her own. Three stripes to his patch meant he hadn’t even made first sergeant.

  “The skid marks should tell an accurate enough story, Sergeant Blake,” Maggie said, getting his attention with a sharp look and no grin this time. It was one thing to know his name, quite another to address him by his rank. Most people didn’t have a clue whether state troopers were officers or deputies, patrolmen or sergeants.

  “Sure, sure. That’s possible.” He nodded. “I need to see both your driver’s licenses before I check out skid marks.” And he put his hand out.

  Maggie resisted the urge to smile at what seemed a transparent attempt to gain control, to keep his edge. No problem. She already had her license ready and handed it to him. The pickup driver started digging in his shirt pocket then twisted and patted his back pants pockets, when suddenly there came a screech—something between a wail and a holler—from inside his vehicle. “Harold? Harrrold?”

  They stopped and turned, but nothing more had emerged from the pickup, nothing besides the white leg still dangling. Then Maggie, her mother and Sergeant Blake all stared at Harold, watching as a crimson tide washed up his neck, coloring his entire face, his ears such a brilliant red Maggie wondered if they actually burned. But just as he had paid her no attention in the diner, Harold made no attempt to acknowledge the old woman now. Instead, he pulled out a thick, bulging wad of leather that was his wallet and began to rummage through it.

  Maggie wasn’t sure when her mother had wandered away. She hadn’t been paying much attention to her. While Sergeant Blake took their driver’s licenses and headed back to his patrol car, Harold had stomped up to the highway to see what evidence had been marked in rubber. After surveying the damage to his pickup once more, Harold shook his head, making that annoying “tsk, tsk” sound Maggie’s mother had used earlier.

  Maggie stayed in her own territory, wanting to tell Harold that he should be grateful. His damage was minimal compared to her ripped-off bumper and smashed driver’s side. The gaping wound in her car’s front end now had protruding pieces of metal shards like daggers. What a mess! There was no way she was taking the blame for any of this. So it had been several minutes before Maggie noticed her mother now standing in front of the opened passenger door of the pickup, her hands on her hips, tilting her head and nodding as if concentrating on what the old woman inside the vehicle had to say. Just then her mother looked back, caught Maggie’s eyes and waved her over.

  Maggie’s first thought was that the poor woman was injured. Harold hadn’t even bothered to check on her. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She rushed to the pickup, glancing over her shoulder, but both men were focused elsewhere.

  The two women were whispering to each other. From what Maggie could see of the old woman, she didn’t look as if she was in pain. However, there were several old bruises on her arms—old because they were already turning a greenish yellow. Her arthritic fingers tapped the seat with an uncontrollable tremor. She seemed even smaller and more fragile inside the cab of the pickup, curled into a hunched-over position.

  “He does scare me sometimes,” the woman said to Kathleen O’Dell, although her eyes were looking over at Maggie.

  “It’s not right,” Maggie’s mother told her, and then, as if only realizing Maggie was by her side, she said, “Rita says he hits her sometimes.” She pointed to the woman’s bruises, and Rita folded her thin arms over her chest as if to hide the evidence.

  “The accident was his fault, Kathleen,” Rita said. “He slammed right into your car. But you know I can’t say that.” She rubbed her shoulders as if they, too, were sore and bruised underneath her cotton blouse.

  Maggie watched the two women, surprised that they spoke to each other as if they were old friends. Why was it that Kathleen O’Dell could so easily befriend a stranger but not have a clue about her own daughter?

  “Rita says that sometimes he comes after her with a hammer at night,” Maggie’s mother whispered while she glanced around. Feeling safe, she continued, “He tells her she might not wake up in the morning.”

  “He’s a wicked boy, my Harold,” the old woman said, shaking her head, her fingers drumming out of control now.

  “What’s going on?” Harold yelled, hurrying back from surveying the skid marks.

  “We’re just chatting with your mom,” Maggie told him. “That’s not a problem, is it?”

  “Not unless she’s telling you lies,” he said, a bit breathless. “She lies all the time.”

  Maggie thought it seemed a strange thing to say about one’s mother, but Harold said it as casually as if it were part of an introduction, just another one of his mother’s personality traits. He didn’t, however, look as casual when he noticed Sergeant Blake approaching.

  “Funny, she was just saying the same about you,” Kathleen O’Dell said. “That you’re the liar.”

  Maggie wanted to catch her mother’s attention long enough to shoot her a warning look. No such luck.

  “What’s going on?” This time it was Sergeant Blake’s question.

  “She says you beat her.” Kathleen didn’t back down from confronting Harold, probably feeling safe with Maggie standing between the two of them.

  “Kathleen, you promised,” Rita wailed at her, another panicked screech.

  Maggie met her mother’s eyes, again hoping to stop her, but she continued. “She said you’ve come after her with a hammer.”

  There was no grin on Sergeant Blake’s face now, and Harold’s had resumed a softer crimson color. This time Maggie knew it was anger, not embarrassment, and saw his hands at his sides, his fingers flexing and closing into fists.

  “For God’s sake,” he muttered with an attempted laugh. “She says that about everybody. The old lady’s crazy.”

  “Really?” Sergeant Blake asked and Maggie noticed that the young trooper’s hands were on his belt again, but now only inches from his weapon.

  “Two days ago she said the same thing about her mailman.” Harold wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “For God’s sake, she lies about everything.”

  Maggie looked back at Rita, who had pulled herself deeper inside the pickup. Now she had her cane in her shaking hands as if worried she might need a weapon of her own.

  Maggie wasn’t sure what happened next. It all seemed like a blur even to a trained l
aw officer like herself. She had seen it happen before. Words were exchanged. Tempers flared and suddenly there was no taking back any of it.

  She remembered Sergeant Blake telling Harold he’d need to go with him to the station to answer some questions. To which Harold said he had had enough of “this nonsense.” Harold started to walk away, going around to the driver’s side of the pickup as if to simply leave. Maybe a more experienced state trooper would have been more commanding with his voice or his presence, but Sergeant Blake felt it necessary to emphasize his request with a shove. Of course, Harold shoved back. Before Maggie could interfere, Harold lay on the ground, the back of his head cracked against the ripped metal of his own pickup. His wide eyes and that blank stare told Maggie O’Dell he was dead even before she bent over him to take his pulse.

  * * *

  Three hours later Maggie and her mother took Rita home, following the woman’s directions, despite those changing several times en route. Maggie recognized her behavior as shock, and patiently waited for the old woman to issue a new set of directions. Otherwise, the woman hadn’t said much. Back at the state police station, Kathleen O’Dell had asked her if there was someone they should call. Even after it was decided that Maggie would drive Rita home, Kathleen still kept asking if there was anyone who could come stay with her. But Rita only shook her head.

  Finally they pulled up to the curb of a quaint yellow bungalow at the end of a street lined with huge oaks and large green lawns.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do without that boy,” Rita said suddenly. “He was all I had.”

  There was silence. Maggie and her mother looked at each other. Was it simply the shock?

  “But you said he beat you?” Kathleen O’Dell reminded her.

  “Oh, no, no. Harold would never lay a hand on me.”

  “You said he came after you at night with a hammer.”

  This time both Maggie and her mother turned to look over the seat at the woman who sat up in the back, grabbing for the door handle.

  “My Harold would never hurt me,” she said quite confidently, and she swung open the car door. “It’s that wicked Mr. Sumpter, who brings the mail. I know he has a hammer in that mailbag. He’s threatened to hit me in the head with it,” she said without hesitation as she slammed the car door behind her.

  Maggie and her mother stared at each other, both paralyzed and speechless. It wasn’t until Harold’s mother was climbing up the yellow house’s front porch that Maggie noticed the woman no longer struggled. She was walking just fine, despite leaving her cane in Maggie’s back seat.

  * * * * *

  Author Biography

  Alex Kava is the New York Times bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Maggie O’Dell series and a new series featuring former marine Ryder Creed and his K9 dogs. Published in over thirty countries, her novels have appeared on the New York Times and USA TODAY bestseller lists, as well as making bestseller lists across the globe. Kava divides her time between Omaha, Nebraska, and Pensacola, Florida. Her website is alexkava.com.

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  ISBN-13: 9781488094552

  Goodnight, Sweet Mother

  Copyright © 2006 By S. M. Kava

  First published as part of an anthology of works entitled Thriller in 2006.

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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