Page 18 of Dirty Looks

“Do you know when Mr. Lidle will be available?” Martinez asked her.

“He’s out of town,” she said. “He’s been gone since Sunday after church at a conference in San Francisco. He’s not due back until tomorrow night.”

“Is there a place where I can talk to Mrs. Lidle privately?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, looking somberly back and forth between me and Martinez, and then she nodded. “Go on into the family room,” she said, pointing to our left. “I’ve already cleaned up in there so you have a place to sit. I’ll go get Mrs. Lidle for you and send her down.”

She hesitated again as she started to make her way up the stairs, and then she looked back at us. “Should I,” she said, and then paused. “Should I call Mrs. Lidle’s mother and have her come over?”

Martinez’s eyes were filled with compassion when he nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I think that would be a good idea.”

She nodded again and then hurried up the stairs, and I followed Martinez into the family room.

“Not what I was expecting,” Martinez said, blowing out a breath. “This is a good house. Homey.”

The family room had a large sectional sofa and two oversized chairs in front of a big wood-burning fireplace. There was a large-screen television hanging above the mantel and built-in bookcases on either side that were filled to the brim with fiction and nonfiction alike. It was eclectic and unorganized, and stuck between two of the books was a half-dressed Barbie doll.

Neither of us sat, but stood in the center of a well-used and loved room, waiting for what was to come. We only had to wait a few minutes to hear footsteps coming rapidly down the stairs.

The Sunday-best Mrs. Lidle from the family portrait was long gone, and in her place was a regular mom dressed in gray sweats and thick athletic socks. Her hair was piled up in a disheveled ponytail, and she was makeup free. There was a piece of cracker stuck in her hair.

“Hi,” she said, coming into the room to greet us. “Marsha told me you needed to speak to me. But I’ll tell you it’s really not a good time. All the girls are down with the stomach flu. I can’tdecide if my husband is a psychic and knew leaving town was the wise decision, or if he’s really just that lucky.”

“We’re sorry to have to intrude,” Martinez said. “But this is truly urgent.”

Her smile faded and she said, “Is everything okay? Did something happen to Everett?”

“No, ma’am,” Martinez said. “Why don’t we sit down over here. Your home is lovely, by the way.”

Martinez took her elbow and led her to the couch, and she let him, sitting down hesitantly.

“Most days it feels like a demolition zone,” she said. “Thank God for Marsha. Y’all are making me nervous. If there’s bad news I’d prefer you just tell me.”

Martinez nodded. We both knew this was the best way, just straight out and to the point.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that we found your daughter Evelyn deceased early this morning. She was killed.”

She looked at us like we were both crazy before she shook her head. “Evie? That’s impossible. Evie’s not dead. She’s just been sick. She missed school yesterday. She went to a birthday party Saturday and brought home a virus. All the kids who were at the party got it. She went to spend the night at Everett’s mom and dad’s house so she wouldn’t spread it to the rest of us.” Her voice trailed off. “But that obviously didn’t work.”

“Mrs. Lidle,” Martinez said.

“Jenny,” she said, the color draining from her face and her motions panicked. “Let me call my mother-in-law. You’ll see this is a big misunderstanding. It’s not Evie. It’s some other girl.”

“Jenny,” I said softly. “My name is Dr. Graves.”

She nodded and said, “I know who you are.” By this time big fat tears were welling in her eyes.

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” I told her. “I confirmed her identity this morning through dental records. She broke her arm a couple of years ago?”

Jenny nodded slowly. “Everett got her a skateboard for her birthday after I told him not to. She fell off and broke her arm. I was so mad.” And then she buried her face in her hands and wept with the grief of a mother.

“Jenny,” Martinez said, touching her shoulder gently. “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now, but we need to ask you some very important questions. The sooner we can get information the faster we can find out who did this to Evie.”

“I need Everett,” she said. “How do I even tell him? He and Evie had a special bond. Of all the girls, the two of them were like peas in a pod.” Her breath caught on a sob and I handed her a tissue.

“Marsha called your mother,” I told her. “She’ll be here soon so someone can be with you and the girls.”

“Oh God,” she said, clapping her hands over her mouth. “The girls, the girls. This can’t be real. It can’t be real.”

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