82 Desire

that.” She cackled. “Didn’t ax nothin ’ ’bout that.”
    “Fine. What did you hear?”
    “Oh, just some noise. Car stoppin’ and startin’ up. Break-in noise, and then throw-things-around noise.”
    “When was this?”
    “Two nights ago. Three, maybe.”
    “Two or three?”
    “Fo’. I don’t know.” For some reason, she wasn’t going to say. Skip wondered if she’d done something to rub the woman the wrong way.
    “Did you see anybody?”
    “Nooooo. I already tol’ you that.”
    “Tell me about Mr. Allred’s wife.”
    “Now, her I know too much about. He own this buildin’, but he useta rent out the other side to somebody like me—you unnerstan’?”
    Somebody poor and black. And probably a little bit desperate.
    “Well, the wife musta kicked his white ass right out on the street—’cause he kick out th’ other lady and he move in his own sorry self. Two, three years ago. I ain’ sure.
    “She a fool though. That woman ain’ got the sense God gave a earthworm.” She chuckled at her own metaphor. “Yes, Lord, some earthworms smarter.”
    Evidently, she had to be drawn out. “Why do you say that?”
    “ ‘Cause that crazy woman still aroun’! Got rid o’ his sorry ass, she still over here all the time, drinkin’ beer and runnin’ aroun’ in her slip. They fight all the time, yellin’, keepin’ everybody awake. Law, a bab y earthworm got more sense than that woman.”
    “What makes you think the woman you’ve seen is his wife?”
    “That what he call her. He say, ‘Verna’—tha’s my name, Verna—he say, ‘Verna, you see my wife aroun’ here yesterday? Verna, my wife comes, tell her I lef’ without her.’ Maybe she ain’t his wife, I don’ know. I know one thing—nice-lookin’ young lady come to see him, day or two ago. Young lady in her thirties. Pretty blond hair, all neat and everything—that wife of his, she always look like she just get out of bed. He treat this one bad, too. She wait nearly a hour for him, he don’t show up.”
    “Did you talk to her?”
    “Sho I talk to her. She come up on the porch and ax me to give him somethin’. I never got the chance, come to think of it—Mist’ Allred ain’ been home in a couple days.
    “Guess he been dead that long. How he die? Somebody shoot him or what?”
    Skip was startled. “Why do you ask that?”
    Verna shrugged. “So many people gettin’ shot these days—I had to ax.”
    Maybe it had been a lucky guess. “What did the lady leave for Mr. Allred?”
    She shrugged again, her face slightly uneasy. “Business card.”
    “Could I see it, please?”
    “I don’t see why not—Mist’ Allred’s not gon’ need it.”
    She left and returned with the card, again looking nervous. Skip looked at it and promptly lost her cool. It was Jane Storey’s card. “Jane Storey? You didn’t tell me the lady was a reporter.”
    Verna seemed to have grown a couple of inches. She spoke with utmost dignity, yet softly, barely above a whisper. “Well, I didn’t know.”
    She doesn’t read. Shit. What a dork I am. Skip stopped herself from apologizing, realizing that would make things worse.
    She pretended she hadn’t heard. “What’s the wife’s name?”
    “Miz Allred, I guess. She never bother to tell me nothin’ else.”
    “When was the last time you saw her?”
    “Week ago, maybe. Same ol’ thing. She come, she yell, she go.”
    “Well, thank you, Verna. You’ve really been a help.”
    “Did I say you could call me Verna? I’m Miz Smith to white po-lice.”
    “Sorry. I forgot your last name. Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”
    Skip couldn’t help chuckling as she descended the steps from the porch. Mrs. Smith hadn’t been all that hostile to white po-lice, fount of information that she was—you never knew what people were going to be touchy about.
    She checked out the other neighbors, learning nothing new except that someone had seen a second visitor in the last couple of days—a white man in his thirties or forties, perhaps; maybe medium height. Or maybe older or younger, or taller or shorter. He had knocked, apparently gotten no answer, and then walked to the back. Unfortunately, the informant couldn’t remember a thing about him except his race.
    Somebody else thought the wife’s name was Eloise.
    Reluctantly, Skip returned to the wrecked shotgun. She could at least play Allred’s messages. Sure enough, there was one from Eloise; also one from Jane Storey, saying that she’d come and