The Stalker

1

Through the late afternoon she sat alone on the steps of the seawall, listening to the gulls’ cries and watching the boats bob and rock at their moorings; so she didn’t know about the murder.

The breeze from the Gulf, pungent with salt and shellfish, had fingered her hair as she tried to decide what to do about Mark and knowing she should be reading her class assignment in the English Lit book that lay open in her lap.

Jennifer Lee Wilcox was a sunbrowned seventeen—almost eighteen—in the senior class of Corpus Christi High School, and the future was as mysterious and blank as the cloudy bay water that rose and ruffled against the steps below her feet. She loved Mark—she was fairly sure that she did—but she didn’t want to go from a cap and gown to a wedding gown. Grannie kept saying she was lucky to find a nice boy like Mark; but Jennifer knew there ought to be something else in her life. There had to be more.

She was late getting home, and in her hurry she let the wind tug the screen door from her fingers, clapping it against the weathered wood siding.

That you, Jennifer Lee? Grannie shouted over the blaring voices in the television set.

Sorry I’m late, Grannie, Jennifer said. She pulled the door into place and latched it, hurrying through the small hallway into the living room, where Grannie stood before a rickety wooden ironing board. I’ll get supper started right away, she added.

Grannie pressed the remote control to flip off the set, then turned to stare at her, squinting over the cigarette that hung from her lower lip. Wisps of gray hair stuck out from the badly wrapped bun on top of her head, and she reminded Jennifer of a faded round pillow that was losing some of its stuffing. Where ya been? Grannie asked, adding before Jennifer could answer, You haven’t heard, have you?

Heard what? Jennifer put her books on the nearest table and picked up a stack of her father’s blue cotton work shirts. She was prepared to listen patiently to whatever new gossip Grannie had come up with, before she stacked the shirts on the shelf in her father’s closet.

That girl you spend so much time with, Grannie said. That Bobbie Krambo.

You always say that. Her brothers’ name is Krambo. Bobbie and her mother’s last name is Trax.

Makes no never mind. The poor thing got herself murdered.

Jennifer could see Grannie, yet at the same time couldn’t see her. There was a blue fog between them, and she could feel the shirts plopping against her feet.

What did you do that for, girl! I spent an hour ironing those things.

Grannie bent to pick up the shirts, fussing at them as she smoothed and folded again. Jennifer grabbed for the back of a nearby chair, anchoring herself, sliding into it, rubbing her eyes until the fog lifted.

Bobbie was murdered? she whispered.

You look awful, Grannie said. You want a glass of water or something?

No, Jennifer tried to say. She cleared her throat and began again. No, Grannie. Just tell me about Bobbie. What happened?

Grannie gave a last pat to the pile of shirts. First of all, you got it all mixed up, she said. That girl, Bobbie, didn’t get murdered. It was her mother.

But you said—

You didn’t give me a chance to finish. What I was going to tell you was that Bobbie’s the one who murdered her mother.

She couldn’t! Jennifer jumped to her feet. I don’t believe it.

Grannie shrugged. It’s what the TV said.

"Who said it? What did they say?"

Some bigwig in the police. They interviewed him, and he said she was a suspect.

Being a suspect is different from having done it, Jennifer said. I know Bobbie didn’t murder anyone. What about those awful stepbrothers?

What about them?

You know, Grannie. One of them was even in prison.

Don’t ask me, she said. I didn’t even know they still lived in these parts.

They don’t. But they come here often enough.

Jennifer shuddered, picturing Bobbie’s round, freckled face with its wide, ready smile. Easier to laugh than cry, Bobbie had once told her. And Fiddledeedee. Tomorrow is another day.

Scarlett O’Hara said that, Jennifer had reminded.

I know, and that’s the only thing she said or did that made sense. She was a big fool not to fall in love with Clark Gable.

Don’t scowl like that, Grannie was saying. She knocked a long ash from her cigarette into a saucer filled with twisted butts. I’m only telling you what the TV said.

Jennifer took a long breath. It’s just taking me time to figure this out, Grannie. I don’t know what to think except that Bobbie didn’t—she couldn’t do it.

Long as you’re up, take these and put them away. Grannie put the stack of shirts back into Jennifer’s arms.

Where is Bobbie? Did they say?

Good question. Police don’t know where she is. Looks like she up and run away. Nobody on God’s earth knows where that girl’s gone off to.

Jennifer clutched the shirts to her chest, ducking into the smell of starch and scorch so that Grannie couldn’t see her face. I’ll start supper, she mumbled, and hurried from the room.

Where was Bobbie? Suddenly, surely, Jennifer knew.

A few moments later Jennifer was leaning against the closet door, head pillowed on her arms, trying to sort out what Grannie had told her, when she heard Grannie yell, Doorbell don’t work, y’all. There was the sound of a muffled, deep answering voice, and Grannie’s loud Hold it. I’m coming.

In a matter of seconds Grannie shouted, "Jennifer! Come on in here! Po-lice want to talk to you."

Jennifer looked into the mirror over her father’s dresser at the pasty-faced, big-eyed stranger who stared back at her. She moved to the mirror, leaning into it, rubbing her cheeks until the color came back, smoothing down the flyaway ends of her long brown hair, breathing deep and hard until she felt she could face whomever she’d meet in the living room.

Jennifer Lee Wilcox! Where are you?

She hurried into the room, rubbing damp palms down the sides of her jeans, and came to a halt, standing tall and steady before the two men who were waiting for her.

They wore ties with their sports coats and slacks, and little beads of sweat glistened on their foreheads. They looked like detective characters looked in the movies, with broad shoulders and flat stomachs. The tallest one pulled out a handkerchief, mopped his forehead, and introduced himself and his partner, but the names slid through Jennifer’s mind like hot cooking grease through a sieve. She stood without moving, her eyes steadily meeting those of the man who had spoken.

Please sit down, he said. We’d like to sit down, too.

He dabbed at his forehead again, and Grannie said, We save the air conditioner for the summer heat. Don’t need to spend all that money in the fall when there’s a good breeze comes up.

Jennifer obediently squeezed around the ironing board, careful not to jolt the tip-tilted iron that wobbled in place, and perched on a nearby chair, sitting as straight as its ladder back. The two men lowered themselves heavily onto the lumpy sofa, squashing the upholstered bouquets of spring flowers that had faded years ago.

The shorter detective, whose brown hair was lighter than his partner’s, had the faint beginnings of jowls, and his sunglasses had dug creases in his cheeks. He pulled out a pad and pen and asked the first question: You’re Jennifer Lee Wilcox?

 ’Course she is, Grannie said. I told you so already.

The taller man nodded and seemed almost to smile. All this has to be official, he said, as confidentially as though Grannie were a third partner.

She leaned back in her chair, satisfied. Jennifer said, Yes, I am.

You’re one of Bobbie Trax’s friends?

Yes.

 ’Bout her closest friend, Grannie added.

You knew Estelle Trax?

Yes. Bobbie’s mother.

Nobody calls her ‘Estelle,’  Grannie said. They call her Stella.

You know that Stella Trax was murdered?

She knows. I told her when she got home a little while ago. Grannie sat upright, blinking against the cigarette smoke that drifted upward from the corner of her mouth. First she’d heard of it, too. She liked to have keeled over. Dropped all my fresh-ironed shirts.

The taller detective leaned toward Grannie. We’ll let them do the talking. You and I will just listen, he said.

Grannie smiled at him.

The men seemed to be waiting for her to say something, so Jennifer nodded. It’s the way Grannie said. She heard about it on the television news. She told me when I came in. Only they’re wrong. Bobbie couldn’t have killed her mother.

Where had you been?

Didn’t you hear me? I said Bobbie couldn’t have done it. She’s not the kind of person who would kill someone.

Jennifer, the taller detective said, it’s our job to get information. We’d appreciate it if you’d just answer our questions.

But I can tell you things about Bobbie that other people might not know. We’re good friends. She talks to me about things that bother her. She laughs away a lot of her problems. She doesn’t hold them inside and then blow up. She isn’t like that!

We’ll ask you about Bobbie Trax later.

What about her stepbrothers? Maybe they did it. Elton’s even been in prison, and Darryl is a real loser.

The detective who had been asking the questions put down his pen to mop his forehead again. We’d appreciate it if you’d just tell us where you were before you came home this afternoon. It would help us all if you’d cooperate.

Jennifer gulped back the words she would like to shout at this man and took a deep breath. I went to the seawall after school was out. I like to sit there and do my homework. A trickle of sweat rolled down her backbone. It’s cool there with the wind coming off the bay.

She expected a word of agreement, some response, but there was none, and she had to remind herself that this was an interrogation, not a conversation.

You said that you and Bobbie Trax are good friends.

Yes.

You’ve been to her house often?

Yes.

While her mother was there?

Yes.

Then could you tell us something about their relationship?

Relationship? Jennifer knew she must sound like an echo chamber. She stammered, I don’t know what you mean.

Did they get along with each other? Did they argue? How did Bobbie feel about her mother?

How did she feel? How would anyone feel? Stella Trax had made it clear that motherhood was a pain and a bore. But Jennifer was not about to tell these detectives anything that might make things more difficult for Bobbie. I don’t know, she said.

The questions went on, sometimes circling back to those that had been asked before. A fly batted and buzzed against the ceiling, and the air was stale with heat. There were questions she would have liked to ask them: How did Stella Trax die? How did they know she was murdered? What made them think that Bobbie committed the murder? But there was a formality about these men that frightened her, that kept her from asking. So she sat there, calmly repeating her answers.

When was the last time you saw Bobbie Trax?

Yesterday, at school.

You didn’t wonder why she wasn’t in class today?

Jennifer shrugged. I supposed she was sick. A lot of kids have that twenty-four-hour bug. I was going to call her after supper to find out.

The taller detective pulled a small package from his coat pocket. Carefully he unwrapped the brown paper and took out a wrinkled scarf. It was red, with a wild-patterned design of rock musicians and notes. Have you seen this before? he asked.

Yes, Jennifer said. I gave that to Bobbie a couple of years ago. It was a joke—kind of a private joke between us, because Bobbie liked the drummer in that group and—

Thank you, he said as he folded the scarf and put it back into his pocket.

Why did you ask me about the scarf? With a shock like a slam between her shoulder blades, Jennifer knew what they would answer. Gasping, hurting, she stammered, You haven’t told me. How was Bobbie’s mother murdered?

Grannie spoke