Oil & Vinegar Read online

  Oil & Vinegar

  By Mairsile

  Oil & Vinegar

  © 2018 by Mairsile. All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, without written permission.

  Editor: Tracy Seybold

  Cover Design: Mairsile

  Other books by Mairsile

  www.Mairsile.com

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  Dedication

  I couldn’t write without the wonderful support of my family and friends. Joyce, Fox, thank you! Love you!

  And as always, may the glory go to God.

  Chapter One

  Connie Yarbrough-Morrison

  I leaned over and plucked a blade of grass from the ground. I was about to toss it away when a ladybug landed on my hand, its small orange shell with black polka-dots gleaming in the sunlight. Spring was my favorite time of year. The earth in renewal always lightened my soul. No place was more beautiful than April in Roanoke, Virginia.

  The ladybug flapped its wings as if to say hello, and I slowly held my hand up and smiled at it. The tiny bug crawled up my hand and down my index finger. “Look, honey. The ladybug is bringing us good luck.”

  My mother always told me when I was a little girl that if a ladybug landed on my hand I would have good luck. Placing my hand on the top of the cold stone, I waited patiently as the bug crawled off and onto the surface of the granite tombstone. The ladybug crawl down the face of the upright headstone and came to rest on the words, Died April 28, 2016. My wife, Meredith Morrison, had been killed two years ago at age twenty-three in a violent bank robbery shooting. I was the dispatcher who took her call.

  “911, where is your emergency?”

  “Help us! –garbled– Someone’s shooting at us!”

  “What is your location, ma’am?”

  “Green Market Trust downtown. Hurry, please!”

  “Officers have been dispatched, ma’am. Can you get to safety?”

  “Connie! Is that you? He’s got a gun, Connie.”

  “Meredith? Oh, my God! I thought you had the day off? Get out of there!”

  “He’s right in front of us. No, please don’t shoot!”

  “Meredith? Hold on, Meredith, help is on the way! —pop, pop, pop, static— Meredith!”

  The police said that the killer, who used a semi-automatic rifle, didn’t know what he was doing. Apparently, all he wanted was his fifteen minutes of fame. The cops had killed him. How famous can you be in hell?

  Listening to the cries for help as a 911 dispatcher, I knew firsthand how fragile life could be. At my insistence, Meredith and I had filled out living wills, last will and testaments, and life insurance to be sure our last wishes were on record. I really didn’t think we’d have to use them so soon in our marriage. Meredith was a bank teller, and I was a 911 dispatcher, so we didn’t have much. Just a cat named Bubbles and two student loans between us, which Meredith’s life insurance paid off. My wife’s last will and testament was more of a love letter than a list of items to distribute. In her will, she asked two things of me.

  Connie, take care of Bubbles for me and find love again.

  One I would gratefully do, the other would never be allowed to happen.

  Bubbles was Meredith’s twelve-year-old Ragdoll cat. A color-point, semi-longhaired breed with the most gorgeous blue eyes. Bubbles was very laid back and never met a stranger, much like Meredith, who’d raised her from a kitten. If you didn’t like Meredith’s cat, Meredith didn’t like you. Luckily for me, I love cats. Once a week, I would put the harness and leash on Bubbles and take her to the cemetery so Meredith could visit with her. I knew how silly that sounded, but it was a comfort to me, and I could feel that it comforted Meredith, also.

  The cat sniffed at the ladybug. Finding it not very interesting, she curled up on Meredith’s grave and began grooming herself. Bubbles always had a thing about lying on my wife’s face, and I guess she still did. That was also a comforting feeling. Something normal in an abnormal world.

  “It’s been two years, honey, and I’m so lonely for you.” What I couldn’t admit to her, even in death, was that caring for her cat was all that kept me from crawling inside that grave and joining her. It would be so easy. “I spoke with your mother yesterday, and she’s coping as best she can. My mom even got on the phone and spoke with her. I think they have a bond, you know, between mothers-in-law, and I am very thankful for that. My parents have been wonderful to me since I moved back in with them, but I think they’re getting tired of my indecision. I can’t say that I blame them. I’ve been mooching off them for two years. I just can’t seem to find the courage to go back to work.”

  Before Meredith was murdered, I was confident, focused, unwavering in my job. Now, I was a shell of the person I used to be; unsure, afraid, and even timid. I had reverted back to my childhood where I would hide inside myself and hope no one found me. As a child, it was the stuttering that made me unintentionally standout. I went to a Special Ed class for my stuttering, and learned to control it, but the shyness still lingered. Then I met Meredith.

  I watched as the ladybug climbed to the top of the tombstone and lifted off. It was as if the beetle took all the happiness with it and my eyes welled up.

  “Hey, Connie. Is that you?”

  I twirled around. Wayne Rivera, my old boss from dispatch, walked up to me.

  ‘I thought that was you,” he said, holding out his hand.

  His hand was warm, friendly, and I was taken back three years to when he’d told me that I was hired. He had grilled me hard, had me take a competency test and finally, after a background check, hired me. I was a newlywed, just back from my honeymoon, and it was the first job I held after graduating college. During training, I was told about the pressure, about how to handle a panicky caller, and about the possible PTSD. I had that one in spades. Survivor’s guilt, the shrink called it. But putting a label on it didn’t stop the sounds of Meredith screaming over the phone in my dreams.

  “Do you, um, have family here?” I asked, releasing his hand.

  “Yes, my parents are buried just over there,” he replied, pointing down the path. He looked down at Bubbles, then back at me again. “So, where are you working now?”

  I adjusted Bubbles leash in my hand and said, “I haven’t gone back to work yet.”

  “You were damn good at your job. You saved people, you do know that, don’t you?”

  Maybe, except I couldn’t save my own wife.

  He looked down again. “I didn’t know Meredith well. Only spoke with her a time or two when she came to see you. She was so proud of you.”

  I thought I had cried all the tears I could cry over the last two years, but they welled up inside me again and I turned my head to catch them before they fell. I turned back to him and nodded. Meredith was always telling me how proud she was of me. How my work mattered. What would she think of me now?

  “So, I’ve got an opening if you’re interested?”

  *

  “Mom, Dad, I’m home,” I called as I walked in the back door from the garage.

  “In the kitchen, honey,” Mom called back.

  I knelt and took off Bubbles’ harness, hanging it and the leash on the coat rack beside the door. Bubbles scurried off toward the kitchen, knowing that Mom would give her a treat. Sure enough, by the time I walked in, Bubbles was on the small table in the breakfast nook, scarfing down tuna from her bowl.

  “You’re back early. Did you have a nice
walk, dear?” Mom asked as she chopped celery for the tuna salad she was making for lunch.

  “I did. Spring has always been my favorite time of year.”

  She stopped what she was doing and looked at me, an onion-provoked tear running down her cheek. She wiped it away and said, “You look… different. Happy. Determined, even. Has something happened?”

  My mother not only had eyes in the back of her head, but she could always read my mind as well.

  “I’ve decided to go back to work.”

  She dropped the knife and grabbed my shoulders. “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful.”

  “What’s wonderful?” Dad asked as he walked in from the backyard.

  “She’s decided to go back to work,” Mom explained, releasing her hold on me.

  “It’s about damn time,” Dad said gruffly. In spite of his pretend gruffness, he kissed me on the cheek as he walked by.

  Dad liked to come across as hard and aloof, but he was the most loving, supportive father a girl could ask for. I was truly blessed with parents who loved and accepted me for who I was. I was also aware of the fact that they were unique in their support. When I brought Meredith home that first time to meet them, they welcomed her with open arms. She talked about them nonstop for a week. Her parents were divorced and while her mother accepted her, her father did not.

  “I ran into Mr. Rivera at the cemetery. He said he had an opening if I didn’t mind the night shift. So… I accepted.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful,” Mom said.

  “Wayne’s a good fella,” Dad said. “He asks about you every time I see him at the lodge.”

  “He was always good to me, and I am so grateful he had a place for me,” I said, reaching for a piece of celery.

  Mom smacked my hand away. “Wash your hands first, young lady.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mommy. I’m going to empty the cat litter first. Then I will.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she replied, chopping the celery stick into small bits.

  I walked into my bedroom and then to the bathroom and picked up the litter pan and carried it out to the backyard where the trash cans were kept. Bubbles was an indoor cat unless she was on a leash, so I wouldn’t even let her do her business in the garage for fear someone might let her out accidently. If anything happened to Meredith’s cat, our cat, I would never forgive myself.

  “Remember to take the trash to the curb,” Dad called after me. “Tomorrow’s trash day.

  “Yes, Daddy,” I replied sarcastically. I loved my parents dearly, but I had definitely overstayed my welcome.

  I dumped the litter in the can and washed the tray out before putting a new liner over it and pouring in fresh litter. I left it there and grabbed the handle on the large green trash can and pulled it out around the house and down the driveway.

  “Connie, how are you?” Betty Cobbs, our neighbor, asked from her driveway. She probably had just returned from church. She went to church every Sunday.

  “Doing very well, Mrs. Cobbs. How are you?” I parked the trash can on the curb next to the Cobbs’ and walked over to talk with her.

  “Any idea whose car that is?” she asked, pointing at a blue sports car parked across the street at the Granger’s house.

  I hadn’t noticed it until she pointed it out. “No, I don’t.”

  We live on a cul-de-sac with six houses in the circle. Our neighbors had lived here for years, and we knew all of them.

  “Probably just someone visiting the Grangers’ daughter. She is dating now, I’ll bet—”

  Suddenly, a man came running out of my parents’ house, wearing a ski-mask and a dark windbreaker.

  “Who are you?” I yelled, frozen in place by a wave of unimaginable fear. He was in our house. Why?

  “Oh, my God! Mom! Dad!” I screamed, running for the house.

  “I’ll call 911,” Mrs. Cobbs shouted as I ran into the garage.

  “Mom? Dad?” I looked in the living room and saw Dad sitting in his recliner watching television. Thank God. “Dad, is everything all right?” The TV was unusually loud, so I walked over and turned it down. “Who was that guy?” I asked, turning to face him. There was a cherry red stain on his shirt and I started to make a joke about what a slob he had become when I realized it wasn’t a food stain. His eyes were cold and seemed to look right through me. “Dad? Dad! Oh, my God! Mom?” I ran into the kitchen, screaming for my mother. She was on the floor with a halo of red under her head. “Mom!”

  Chapter Two

  U.S. Marshal Hettie Quinn

  “Hey, Quinn, you look like shit.”

  I stopped and glared at my partner. It was not what I wanted to hear first thing in the morning, but considering he didn’t give compliments, it wasn’t surprising. “And good morning to you, too, ya dick.”

  “Have a wild night last night?” he asked expectantly.

  My partner, Peter Bowers, was mostly a good guy, but he had an insatiable curiosity about lesbians. He was always trolling for a threesome, and it annoyed the hell out of me. He was my age, thirty-two, medium height, bald by choice, and beefy. He loved nothing more than to brag about his exploits with the women he dated and wanted me to do the same. I don’t really date so much as have one-night stands when I need some relief.

  “Yeah, an orgasmic party that left them begging for more, as usual,” I wisecracked, tired of the same old conversation every morning. I threw my empty paper cup in the trash and picked up my handleless WWII Navy coffee mug from my desk. “Who made coffee this morning?”

  Our small office in Roanoke was state-of-the-art when it came to electronics but less than high-tech when it came to the coffeemaker. Certain people, like my supervisor, were unable to use the ten-year-old machine properly, and his coffee always came out looking and tasting like crude oil.

  “I don’t know. I don’t drink that crap, remember?” Bowers protested.

  I rolled my eyes. Dumb prick. In truth, I actually liked my partner. I trusted him with my life. He was my brother-in-arms, but I wouldn’t say he was my friend. He was an extravert, and I was an introvert, and it got tiresome at times, listening to him bounce from one subject to the next.

  “By the way, you’ve got a new book to read this weekend,” he stated. “I bought my sister’s latest book and downloaded it to your eReader.”

  Okay, not such a prick. “Thanks, can’t wait to read it.”

  As I walked to the small kitchen against the wall across from my desk, I was smiling. I always looked forward to his sister’s romance novels. It afforded me a quiet weekend away from the hate and violence that was my day-to-day job.

  Bowers was a good brother, who always bought his lesbian sister’s books to be supportive of her, although she never knew it. He gave them to me, because A, I’m a lesbian, and B, he actually didn’t want to read her books, fearing he would see his sister in every character. I had no problem with that. The author’s picture on the back cover was quite beautiful.

  Bowers and I worked for the Sex Offender Investigations Branch (SOIB) of the U.S. Marshals Services. We were hot on the trail of a fugitive sex offender who didn’t register with local authorities last week when he moved from Maryland to Virginia. It was my job, my absolute conviction, to catch that bastard and make sure he didn’t hurt any more children. The frustrating part was that this guy was vapor. He’d gone off the grid, vanished. Bowers and I had been chasing clue after clue only to come up empty.

  “Okay, back to business,” I suggested, sipping on my coffee. Finger combing my bangs from my face, I made a mental note to go to the barber and get a haircut. I preferred my hair short, manageable, and out of my face. I’m starting to look like Howard Stern, for Pete’s sake. “Any hits on the website this morning?”

  A couple of agencies had different websites to lure sexual predators in with photos and supposed privately owned discussion boards by other sex offenders. The Marshals had one dedicated to catching child molesters. Most offenders were adult males, but twenty-
three percent of the cases reported were of children under the age of eighteen, molesting younger children. Our perp was a white male, eighteen years old, who molested his neighbor’s ten-year old son while babysitting him. We’d gotten electronic surveillance on all of his known accounts and his parents were being watched. He was a loner and kept to himself in high school. I believed he’d left Maryland to establish himself in a new community here in Virginia where he could molest again.

  “Not a damn thing, Quinn,” Bowers replied. “Well, at least not anyone fitting our perversion.”

  Nathan Gossett, Supervisory Deputy and my immediate boss, walked up with a frown on his face, but then, he always frowned, which made it harder to see his condescending eyes.

  “How’s the case going?” he asked.

  “Fucking nowhere,” I replied.

  His frown deepened into a scowl. “Then I suggest you get your heads out of your collective asses and find the guy.”

  He was looking right at me when he said that, and I knew he wasn’t talking to my partner. As he walked away, I mumbled loud enough for him to hear me, “It was leadership like that that sank the Titanic.”

  ***

  By the end of the day, I was so frustrated that I couldn’t think straight. Some of the guys took their frustration out on punching bags, or drowned it in a whisky bottle. I preferred to give my body over to the hands of a professional. The only commitment required was cash up front, handcuffs, and fifteen to thirty minutes of my time. It was my passive-aggressive way of accepting something that I couldn’t change. I couldn’t wave a wand and magically produce the pervert. When a fugitive was on the run, it took time and patience to wait for him to surface and make a mistake. I didn’t have the patience, especially with my boss riding my ass.

  “How do you want it, baby?” the prostitute asked.