Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

glass, the door opened and Phyllis Martin stepped into the visitation room. She was clad in an orange jumpsuit. Either the lighting had dimmed since my last visit, or her jumpsuit was darker, almost blood orange. Her jumpsuit sleeves were short, showing off arms toned to the thickness of radiator pipes. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed and her head was buzzed on the sides, a crooked tattoo of a skull and crossbones etched on her right temple.

“My God, Phyllis,” I said out loud. “What have you done to yourself?”

The guard who had escorted her into the room pointed to my station. Phyllis turned to see me. She looked like she could have been in slow motion, for she didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle, just stared at me, her eyes expressionless and cold.

Usually, she was happy to see me.

The stare felt as if she were reaching through the glass and squeezing my heart until its valves were bulging between her knuckles.

Who was this person?

The guard said something, pointed at the glass more forcefully, and Phyllis finally shuffled over to my station and took a seat.

I cleared my throat and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Phyllis.”

She didn’t move. Then her nose twitched and she winced as if she had just gotten a whiff of her own armpits.

“It’s me. Rosie.”

“I got eyes, Dear. What do you want?”

“I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

She shrugged.

“Will you pick up the phone?”

With both hands, she took the phone off its cradle.

“How are you, Phyllis?”

“Who is Phyllis?” she said.

“What?”

“Phyllis is dead. You killed her.”

I had to force myself not to roll my eyes. “What should I call you then?”

“Goat.”

“Goat?”

“That’s what they call me in here. They’ve milked me dry.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I need to ask you about Peter Hardgrave.”

“What about him?”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“Goodness, Dear. Why in blue blazes are you askin me?”

I wasn’t sure anymore. This person barely resembled the Phyllis I used to know.

“I’m thinking about going into business with him.”

“You’d be better off licking your finger and sticking it in a socket,” Phyllis said. “Are we done here?”

“Why didn’t you two get married?”

The question caught her off guard. “Me?”

“You and Peter.”

“Why the hell would we get married?”

“You had a child together.”

“So?”

“So, that’s what people do. They seek stability.”

“Peter Hardgrave ain’t the marrying type. You of all people should know that.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Look in the mirror, Dear,” Phyllis said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She huffed. “You’ve spent all this time worrying about that fake sister of yours, when you didn’t care one hill of beans about your real sister.”

“My real sister? What are you talking about?”

Phyllis hung up.

I leaned into the glass. “Phyllis, wait. Please.”

“It’s Goat,” she mouthed.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Goat. I got a picture, Goat. A photo. Someone sent it to me. A woman. Tied up. I got it during Peter’s trial. I wanted to show it to you today, but the guards wouldn’t let me bring my phone inside.”

“So?”

“So I think it’s Chrissy.”

Phyllis was quiet. She just stared at me, her nose twitching as if she had inhaled something noxious and her nostrils were burning.

“Why would I care?” she mouthed.

“Peter claims he was helping her escape some very bad people. He was the last one to see her alive. I need to know if I can trust him. You know him better than anyone else in Dark Haven.”

Phyllis shook her head. “Hardly true.”

“How is that not true? You carried his baby for crying out loud.”

“But you are his baby,” Phyllis said.

6

I stared at the glass. My faint reflection was on top of hers, giving me a very butch and gray haircut.

It kind of made sense. I guess.

Still, I didn’t move. I stared so long my eyes stung. Ordinarily, my mind would have been making frantic connections, but not this time.

This time, it was blank.

“Blink, Dear. I only got a few minutes left.”

I forced my lips apart. “You? You’re my mother?”

Phyllis grabbed the phone. “No, you dolt.”

“But you just said—”

“The man knocked me up. Just like he knocked up your mother.”

I leaned back and put the receiver to my chest as if it were a defibrillator paddle.

“I got no idear about that hussy you seem to care so much about,” Phyllis said. “But your real sister lived only a few miles away.”

Lori. She had come to me that night for help. She had died right in front of me. And no one had told me the truth. “My half-sister,” I corrected.

Phyllis curled her bottom lip. “But still blood.”

From nowhere, the flood-gates in my head blew open. Peter Hardgrave in the pickup. Peter Hardgrave sticking his head into the courtroom during my testimony. Peter Hardgrave instructing Fitzgerald to send me “flowers” after the ordeal in the cave. Peter Hardgrave living in the bar beneath my apartment.

“He—he lived right below me,” I managed.

“He always wanted to stay close,” Phyllis said. “To keep an eye on you.”

Peter Hardgrave at trial. Peter Hardgrave standing behind the bar and watching me as if he were suddenly reunited with a limb he had lost in the war.

“The whole time I lived right above him,” I repeated quietly.

“Actually, he owned that apartment,” Phyllis said.

My cheeks flushed and my ears got hot. “Why didn’t he take me in? Why did he let me live with Robert Slate when I could have lived with him?”

“It wouldn’t have been safe,” Phyllis said. “He wanted to keep you safe.”

I practically shouted, “Just like he wanted to keep Chrissy safe?”

“Ayuh,” Phyllis said.

“From who?” I demanded.

“I believe the correct word is whom, Dear.”

I stood abruptly. “I have to go see him.”

“Siddown,” Phyllis said.

“I have to go.”

“Sit down,” she said forcefully.

“Why are you telling me this? Why now?”

“I promised your mother I wouldn’t say anything,” Phyllis said.

“Enough with the secrets!”

The guard looked over.

I put up a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

“Three minutes left,” he said gruffly.

I sat down again. “Why wouldn’t my mother want me to know who my father is?”

“Because your life is in danger.”

I blinked. “You used the