Tribute

should do you any favors after the way you treated—”
    “Mom. Please. I could use some help.”
    There was a beat of silence. “All right. I’ll call her right now. Were you in an accident? Are you in the hospital? Are you hurt? I heard some crazy man thought you were Mama’s ghost and tried to run you over with his car. I heard—”
    “No, it’s not like that. I’m not hurt. I need Kim to help me straighten it out, get out a statement.”
    “I don’t want you to be hurt. I’m still mad at you,” Dilly said with a sniff that made Cilla smile. “But I don’t want you to be hurt.”
    “I know, and I’m not. Thanks for calling Kim.”
    “At least I know how to do a favor,” Dilly said, and hung up.
    Cilla couldn’t deny it as the publicist called within twenty minutes. In another twenty, they’d refined a statement between them. By the time Cilla hung up, she knew she’d done the best she could.
    “I’M NOT MAJOR JUICE,” Cilla said to Ford as they drove from the doctor’s office to the appointment with the realtor. “But there’s always some ripples when there’s any sort of violence or scandal. And the Hardy connection may give it a little more play. But the statement should cover most of it. There won’t be much interest.”
    “There will be locally. It’ll be big news around here, at least for a few days. And if it goes to trial. Did you get in touch with the cops?”
    “Let’s hope it doesn’t—and yes. I know Wilson thought I was the crazy one for asking if they’d consider Hennessy’s emotional and mental state.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Psych evals are already in the works. One from the defense, one from the prosecution.”
    “Dueling shrinks.”
    “It sounds like it.”
    “I’d say it’s going to be pretty clear to both that Hennessy downed a big bowl of crazy.”
    “Yeah. I guess the upshot depends on what the prosecution’s guy has to say as to whether or not the DA holds on the charges, makes a deal or recommends a psychiatric facility and treatment. The house is coming up on the left. The little Cape Cod there.”
    “Huh?”
    “Red compact out front. She’s already here. Vicky Fowley. It’s a rental—empty—the owner wants to unload. And Vicky’s anxious to get it off her list.”
    Ford looked at the overgrown, weedy front yard and the small brown box of a house sitting on it. “I can’t imagine why. Could it be the extreme uglies?”
    “Perfect attitude. Keep that up, seriously.” She gave his hand a bolstering pat. “And let me do the talking.”

TWENTY-TWO
    F ord knew he had a strong imagination. He considered himself to be a man of some vision. As far as Cilla’s "little Cape Cod” went, he couldn’t imagine how anyone could define it, however loosely, as a house, and could only visualize it being mercifully razed.
    Stains of a suspicious and undoubtedly unpleasant nature stamped and streaked the carpet in the pint-sized living room. He could only be grateful he’d let Spock play job dog again, otherwise Spock would’ve been honor bound to re-mark all the previously marked areas.
    Either an animal or an army of rodents had gnawed on the baseboard. The ceiling, also unpleasantly stained in one corner, was bumpy with what Cilla called popcorn.
    The kitchen was a truly ugly hodgepodge of mismatched appliances, torn linoleum and a rusted sink. The stingy counters carried the round burn marks of pans carelessly set on blue-speckled white Formica. Grime, and God knew what else, lived in the corners.
    In his mind’s eye he imagined cockroaches flooding out of that rusted sink, armed with automatic weapons, driving tanks and armored vehicles to wage war against spiders in combat gear firing bazookas.
    He found it easy to let Cilla do the talking. He was speechless.
    The second floor consisted of two bedrooms scattered with the debris of former tenants and a bathroom he wouldn’t have entered while wearing a hazmat suit.
    “As you can see, there’s work to be done!” Vicky showed white, white teeth in what could only be a pained, somewhat desperate smile. “But with some elbow grease and sweat equity, it could be a little dollhouse! Such a cute starter home for a young couple like yourselves.”
    “A couple of what?” Ford said and got the fish eye from Cilla.
    “Vicky, would you mind if we just looked around on our own for a few minutes? Talked about it?”
    “Of course not! Take all the time you want. I’ll just step outside and