Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

Maggie strode out of the surf shop, looked up into a cloudless sky. She blinked against the sun as she made her way along the sidewalk. It had been several years since she’d had been on the island. The unique boutiques were out of her price range then. Now, she supposed, she could buy whatever she wanted. Back then she wanted it all. Now, all she wanted was to be left alone, so she could have her baby and raise Jasmine. Material things, she didn’t need them, didn’t want them.

A chill rippled through her, a strange feeling, like she was being watched. She spun around. The sidewalk was crowded with tourists scurrying from store to store, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. She was being paranoid, she told herself, imagining ghosts where there were none, like she did when she was a little girl and wanted her dad to come into her room and chase away the monsters. There were no monsters then, there was nobody following her now. After all, she’d jumped onto the bus at the last possible instant and it wasn’t planned. It would be impossible for anybody to have followed her.

She took a deep breath, studied faces as people passed by. Nobody was interested in her. Nobody knew where she was. She was perfectly safe. She took a deep breath, sighed, then started on her way.

Horace now thought of her as the Twin. And he felt a little bad about what he was going to do. She hadn’t seen him blow away Fujimori in the stop-and-rob and she wasn’t the one who stuck the switchblade in Virge’s belly. But she’d got a good look at him in that Safeway and that wasn’t good. For that reason alone, she had to go.

He saw her stop in the middle of the sidewalk, turn and inspect faces, as if she knew she was being watched, but she never looked to the parked cars. She was an amateur, but why wouldn’t she be?

All of a sudden, she spun around, took off at a brisk walk, moving away from where he was parked. Horace watched till she turned a corner, then he nosed the Toyota into the traffic. He made the turn just in time to see her make a left a few blocks up. She wasn’t quite jogging, but she was walking real fast, swinging her arms as if she didn’t have a care in the world. He pushed the accelerator, made the left and passed her. Cars lined the curb, there was no place to park, so he doubled parked with the engine running next to a yellow pickup. Now all he had to was wait, like a spider for a fly.

A quick check in the rearview as she approached. He pulled Virge’s switchblade out of his hip pocket. All he had to do was open the door, jump out, pull her between the pickup and the Corvette parked in front of it and do her. It was broad daylight, but he’d be gone before anybody noticed. He had his hand on the door handle when she stopped and stared up at a big white house. She was studying the address. Then all of a sudden she started up the walkway.

“Damn,” he muttered as he pulled away from the yellow pickup. No way could he stay where he was. This wasn’t New York. You didn’t double park in California, not for more than a few seconds anyway, not unless you wanted some old biddy calling the cops.

Maggie stood in front of a large white house, sandwiched between similar homes. The front yard was ringed with a three foot hedge, not a leaf out of place. The lawn looked painted on. There was a “For Sale by Owner” sign in the middle of it. A house like this on an island where small homes were the norm was more then expensive, Maggie knew. This was a million dollar home, maybe more.

If Margo’s mother lived here and it was a new address, why the for sale sign? Had she just moved in and not taken it down yet? That didn’t make sense. She put the question out of her mind, went up the walk, took the steps up the porch, pushed the doorbell. Chimes rang inside. “Rich people.” She shook her head.

The door opened, a little girl rushed out, bumped into her.

“Whoa,” Maggie said. The child was younger than Jasmine, four or five years old. She had Orphan Annie red curls and a wide smile.

“Sorry! Oh, Margo, I didn’t recognize you.”

“That’s okay,” Maggie said.

“I gotta go check on the sitters.” The girl giggled, then scooted past and ran down the walkway.

“Margo, what did you do to your hair?” The speaker was a striking woman, who appeared younger than she was. She was tall, almost six feet, and she looked like a model. Maggie looked at her neck, the backs of her hands-even they looked young, but the eyes gave her away.

“I’m not her,” Maggie said.

“My, God!”

“Can I come in?”

The woman stepped aside and made way for her to enter. She had shoulder length blond hair, like Maggie’s till she’d cut it and dyed it dark. She was dressed in a silk blouse and skirt, as if she were going out.

Inside the house, Maggie saw a plush white carpet, modern furniture-steel and glass, cold and sterile. The walls were white, there were no paintings or anything on them, no wood grain anywhere. It was as if Margo’s mother lived in an antiseptic future where people didn’t age.

“It’s all new,” the woman said. “And it’s only temporary.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Maggie said.

“I wasn’t. I was explaining, because you looked shocked.”

“Maybe I was, a little. This place looks so cold. Is this the kind of atmosphere Margo grew up in?”

“My name’s Debra Murrant,” the woman said, ignoring the question.

The furniture was different-Margo had beachy rattan stuff, whereas here the sofa and chairs here were made out of soft white leather, the same color as the carpet-but the arrangement was the same. Two chairs opposite a sofa with a coffee table between. It was set up as if conversation were expected. Maggie didn’t see a television.

“There’s no easy way to say this,” Maggie said. “Margo’s dead.”

“Oh!” Debra’s hands went to her face. She staggered, as if she were going to fall.

In an instant Maggie was at her side. “I’ve got you.” She helped her into one of the chairs. “Can I get you anything?”

“Water. Kitchen. That way.” She pointed.

Maggie found a glass, filled it with water from the tap. Back in the living, room she gave it to Debra Murrant, who wrapped both hands around the glass with laced fingers and held it tight without drinking.

“How?”

“I think it was the man who killed Frankie Fujimori. She saw him, she could identify him.”

“I told her to leave it alone, but she wouldn’t listen.” Debra took a sip of her water, fingers white on the glass. “She was like a dog with bone about him and now it’s gotten her killed.” She sighed. “I suppose that means Jasmine will wind up with her horrible father.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Maggie said.

“How can you stop it?”

“They meant to kill Margo, but they killed me instead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a long story.”

Debra wiped the tears away from her eyes. “I have time.”

“But before we talk about that, I have some questions.”

“Of course,” Debra said.

“I need to know how she came to live with you and I wound up with my father?”

Debra’s eyes were moist, full of sadness. That and something else, a kind of fire. “Like your father, my husband Gil was in Viet Nam when it happened.” She stood up. “I’m gonna make some tea. How do you take yours?”

“Milk,” Maggie said. “Not cream.”

Horace drove around the block for the third time. Who the fuck was she talking to? How long was she gonna be? Another time around and people were gonna notice. The old lady neighborhood watch types would be on the phone to the cops.

Up ahead the yellow pickup he’d parked next to earlier started to pull away from the curb. Opportunity knocked and Horace answered. He was behind the truck, easing into the spot, even as it was vacating it.