Expecting to Die

On my way, she typed and headed out, first calling in a to-go order at Wild
Wills, then driving to the lower section of town, where, already, banners
announcing Big Foot Daze had been strung across Main Street near the
courthouse. It was amazing how quickly the town had adopted the holiday and

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gotten it together. All propelled by Mayor Justison, who, it seemed, when she
was so inclined, could move mountains, and find a Sasquatch or two in the
process.
She parked in a no-parking zone as the lot and streets were full. If she actually
got a ticket, she’d deal with it, and she wouldn’t be inside long enough to get her
Jeep towed.
Heading into the restaurant, she passed Grizz, who, it appeared, had also
gotten into the spirit of Big Foot Daze as he’d given up his bikini to don an ape
mask, just as if he were pretending to be Sasquatch. In her current mood, Pescoli
actually missed the swim attire.
The whole town had gone nuts, she thought, embracing the newfound holiday
celebration and the damned reality show somehow while conveniently pushing
the tragedies of the two girls’ deaths to the background. The doors to the
restaurant opened, and Terri Tufts, Wilda Wyze, and Billie O’Hara walked in.
They started for the bar when Wilda caught sight of Pescoli.
“Just a minute,” she said to her friends. Then she turned to loom over Pescoli.
She wasn’t a short woman, but Wilda, the ex-bodybuilder, currently in black
skinny jeans and a bat-wing T-shirt, had to be over six feet. With a hawkish nose,
and eyes glinting with suppressed fury, she reminded Pescoli of a huge crow. “I
heard you and your partner have been harassing my sons.”
“Just asking questions.”
“I know about you cops. It’s because of their damned father.” As she
mentioned Franklin Bell, her entire face puckered, as if she’d just sucked on a
lemon. “But they’re not like that worthless piece of crap. And they look out for
each other. Have each other’s back. They’re good boys.”
How many times had she heard that phrase during this investigation? Every
parent wanting to impress upon her that their kids were “good.”
“They knew the victim,” she said. “Both of your sons. Two girls are dead and
each of them contacted Kywin.”
“Along with others.”
“Who live with an ex-con.”
“My boys are practically adults.” Again, the tightlipped expression. “I’d have
them live with me, but I’ve got Greg and the girls—” She caught herself making
excuses and said, “You can’t blame my sons for their father’s sins. I know that
you busted Franklin a couple of times and that you hate him, well, fine. That’s . .
. that’s your job, and the son of a bitch deserved it.”
“You pressed charges,” Pescoli reminded her.
“And I would again! He beat the crap out of me, wanted to kill me. I said he
deserved it, didn’t I? He should be locked up for life!” Her color had risen. She

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was really working herself up, and Pescoli thought, with her size and
musculature, she could still probably give her ex a run for his money when they
got into it. “But Kip and Kywin, they’re not Frank.”
“Hey!” Billie O’Hara touched her friend on the arm. “Let it go. She’s been at
my boys, too. Regan’s just doing her job.”
Wilda sent a withering glance at her shorter friend. “But she’s zeroed in on
mine.”
“Don’t think that’s true,” Billie argued, gold hoop earrings catching the light
as she shook her head. “I just don’t get why you aren’t all over Donny Justison.
He was the boyfriend, right? And she broke up with him, I heard. He’s got a
temper, that one.”
“But he’s the mayor’s son.” Terri Tufts joined the party. Added her two cents.
“And she’s involved with Bernard Reece, so Donny, like Austin, has got a built-
in attorney.”
“We’re looking at everyone,” Pescoli said.
“Well, just look at everyone equally,” Wilda advised, agitated. “My kids are
innocent!”
Wilda seemed particularly upset, and Pescoli wondered if she knew something
she wasn’t telling, too. She decided to press her. “Kip and Kywin know
something, Wilda. I intend to find out what it is, and if they’re involved in the
death of Destiny Rose Montclaire or Lindsay Cronin, I’m going to nail them.”
Her lips tightened. “I’m warning you. Back off, Regan. They each proved they
weren’t the father of that girl’s baby, so leave them the hell alone.”
“I’m going where this investigation takes me, and if it takes me to Kip and
Kywin, and I find out they’re complicit—”
“Did you hear me? You’re barking up the wrong damned tree. My sons are
innocent!”
“Maybe if they stopped hiding things, we’d get to the truth.”
“You miserable—”
“Hey—” Billie cut Wilda off. “Let’s go into the bar. Get a drink. Forget this.”
Pescoli said, “Good idea. You don’t want to get in the way of a homicide
investigation.” She was looking pointedly at the Bell brothers’ mother, and
Wilda got the message.
“You’ve always been a bitch, Pescoli.”
Pescoli’s ire rose. “But a convenient bitch, right? When you needed me?
When Frank was beating the living crap out of you in front of your boys?”
Wilda threw off Billie’s grip and hurled herself at Pescoli, grabbing her by her
neck.
Despite her bulk, Pescoli moved quickly, took hold of the woman’s right

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wrist, and turned it back on itself.
Wilda shrieked and, with her free hand, slashed at Pescoli’s cheek, raking her
nails across the skin, drawing blood.
Pescoli pushed a little harder on the arm and Wilda’s knees buckled as she fell
against Grizz, her cheek pressed into his hairy belly, the heavy bear rocking
unsteadily.
Pescoli didn’t let go.
“Stop!” Wilda cried. “Stop! Stop!”
“Hey!” a sharp voice yelled.
From the corner of her eye, Pescoli saw Sandy, the owner, carrying two large
bags as she and the hostess raced into the entryway.
“What the hell’s going on here!” Sandy demanded, dropping the bags. “For
the love of God, Detective!”
Wilda whimpered and Pescoli yanked on her arm a little harder, tweaking
those ripped muscles. “You don’t really want to attack a police officer,” she
advised into the other woman’s ear. “Especially a pregnant one whose hormones
are way out of sync.”
The big woman howled in pain.
“Stop it!” Billie cried.
“That’s right. Enough!” Sandy said, and Pescoli, breathing hard, released her
grip and took a step back, allowing Wilda to climb unsteadily to her feet.
“You’re crazy!” Wilda cried, rubbing her arm and glaring at Pescoli. “Fucking
Looney Toons. I’ll have you up on charges.”
“Good thinking,” Pescoli snapped. “Use that excuse after you attack a