David Handler - The shimmering blond sister

Dex clucked at him reproachfully. “You don’t understand a thing.”

“No, sir, I understand perfectly. It’s like Mrs. Farrell just said-you’ve never hurt a soul. And she’s the one person in the world who’s in a position to know that for sure.”

“Because I love my husband,” Maddee said, gazing warmly across the table at him.

“I don’t doubt that for one second, Mrs. Farrell. Tell me, when did you first realize that you weren’t the only one who was following Dex around on his nightly excursions?”

Maddee shook her head at him. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“Did you know that it was Augie from the get-go?”

She didn’t answer him. Went back to clipping her coupons instead. Snip-snip-snip. Her entire being focused on the task at hand. Snip-snip-snip.

Mitch pushed harder. “I’m curious-how did Augie get onto him?”

Again, no reply. Just that same snip-snip-snip…

“Did Augie have the building staked out?” Snip-snip-snip. “Did he spot Dex sneaking home one night in his ski mask?” Snip-snip-snip. “Is that why you decided you had to kill him?”

Maddee halted, gazing up at Mitch. She seemed quite calm. Almost serenely so. She was smiling at him. A kindly, motherly smile. As Maddee sat there like that, smiling, a strange noise began to emanate from her. A low moan that seemed to originate way down deep in her diaphragm. As it traveled its way up her throat, the moan became a feline roar-a roar that erupted out of her mouth at the same moment she sprang to her feet, kicking over her chair. “You’ve been spying on us, too, haven’t you?” she snarled at him, clutching those sharp little scissors in her fist. Her eyes bulged with rage. “Yes, you have. You’re a nosy little spy, just like that awful, filthy man was. Lurking there in the darkness. Do you know what happens to nosy little spies?” Now she raised those scissors high over her head. “They get their eyes poked out!”

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Mrs. Farrell,” Mitch said quietly. “Not if you value your health and well-being.”

Her husband said nothing. Just sat there.

“Put those scissors down on the table right now, ma’am. You’re in a great deal of danger.”

Maddee gaped at him in disbelief. “From who? You?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“That would be from us, Mrs. Farrell.”

Maddee whirled-and discovered that Des and Yolie were standing shoulder to shoulder just outside of the screened-in porch with their SIGs aimed right at her.

“Drop those scissors,” Yolie ordered her. “Drop them right now.”

Maddee wouldn’t. Just continued to stand there brandishing them high overhead.

“Please put them down, Mrs. Farrell,” Des said.

Maddee refused. She even took a step toward the two of them, opening the screen door wide. This was when the awful words “officer-assisted suicide” jumped into Mitch’s head.

“Don’t do this, Mrs. Farrell,” Des pleaded. “We don’t want to hurt you. Just put those scissors down.”

Maddee hesitated, glancing fondly over at her husband, then she turned back to Des and Yolie, her jaw clenching.

“Put ’em down!” Yolie said once more.

Now Mitch heard it again-that same low moan coming out of Maddee. The one that would soon turn into a roar. She was going to charge them.

“Don’t do it,” Des warned as Maddee took another step toward them. “Please, Mrs. Farrell.”

This was when Mitch dove for her. He tackled Maddee to the wooden deck, her body under his. She went down hard-but not without a fight. She wrestled with him, snarling and gasping. His hand found her right fist, the one that was wrapped around those scissors. He pinned her fist to the floor. But she still wouldn’t let go of the damned things. She was amazingly strong.

By now Des and Yolie had charged inside. Des stomped on Maddee’s wrist with her shoe. Maddee’s hand immediately went dead, her fist opening like a clamshell. Yolie snatched the scissors away from her.

“You see, Des, this is why I’ve never gone in for coupon clipping,” Mitch explained. “It’s much too dangerous a hobby. What took you so long anyhow?”

“We had to search through two whole bins before we hit the jackpot,” responded Yolie, who was still wearing a pair of white latex crime-scene gloves.

“But I was right, wasn’t I?”

Yolie nodded at him. “You were right-about all of it. Dunno how.”

“I don’t either.” Des looked at him in amazement. “I swear, boyfriend, sometimes you scare me.”

Yolie went back outside for a pair of bulging, black plastic trash bags and dumped them on the floor.

Maddee’s eyes widened when she caught sight of them. And the last bit of resistance went out of her. Her body slackened. She was subdued now. And unhurt-aside from a bruised wrist. Mitch helped her back up onto her feet and into her chair.

Her husband continued to take all of this in with no expression. In fact, Dex Farrell barely seemed to notice the two large, gun-toting black women who were standing there on his porch.

“Happily, you ladies got here just in time,” Mitch informed them. “Mrs. Farrell was just about to tell me how and when she realized Augie was following Mr. Farrell around.”

“I knew about Dex’s activities from the beginning. That very first night he slipped out of our condo,” Maddee explained quietly. She sounded weary now. Utterly exhausted. “We retire early. By nine, nine-thirty at the latest. Always have. Wall Street men keep early hours. Dex thought I was asleep, but I don’t sleep very well. I haven’t in years. I heard him go into the bathroom and get dressed. I had no idea what he was up to but he was being so-so secretive that I became concerned. I threw on some dark clothes, put a scarf over my head and followed him. Not that I would have recognized him unless I’d seen him leave our unit with my own two eyes. He wasn’t dressed at all like his usual self. He had on a black nylon windbreaker, jeans, a pair of sneakers…”

“And don’t forget the ski mask,” Mitch said.

“He could have been anyone. Except he wasn’t anyone. He was the man I’ve loved for thirty-seven years.” Maddee reached across the table and put her hand over Dex’s, smiling at him.

“A real stunner, Mitch,” he said softly, his eyes blank and lusterless. “She would have taken your breath away.”

Yolie glanced down at the trash bags on the floor. “I’m not going to open up these bad boys again. Don’t want to compromise any evidence. But the Flasher’s whole outfit is bundled up in this one here,” she said, poking it with her foot. “Including a mud-caked pair of Chuckie T. All Stars and the ski mask, which will provide us with excellent samples of Mr. Farrell’s DNA-his saliva, nasal secretions, hairs from his head. A ski mask is what the forensics people call a target-rich environment. Your own outfit is in that other bag, Mrs. Farrell. Dark blue slacks, long-sleeved blouse, purple scarf. Your garden gloves, hiking shoes. Everything you were wearing on Saturday night when you were out there keeping watch over your husband. I have zero doubt that we’ll find traces of Augie Donatelli’s blood all over them. You’re bound to produce blood spray when you beat a man’s head in with a baseball bat.” She turned to Mitch. “Lay it on me, hon. How did you know where we’d find this stuff?”

“Basic human nature, Yolie. It’s all perfectly good clothing-including the ski mask. Mrs. Farrell couldn’t destroy it. Not when there are needy souls out there who could wear it. It’s just not in her nature to waste anything.” To Maddee he said, “You delivered a load of used clothing to the Nearly New shop at St. Anne’s yesterday morning. Kimberly told us she helped you load up your car before church. You’re a smart, careful person. You didn’t dare bring that ski mask and clothing to the Nearly New. We’re talking about incriminating evidence. But you could toss it in one of those Goodwill bins behind Christiansen’s Hardware, figuring it would get carted halfway across the country and no one would ever be the wiser. Clever move, ma’am.”