Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [56]
“Just get me out of here,” Louise responded.
Mitzi got behind the wheel. “The keys,” she said to Jeanine. “Give me the keys.”
Jeanine fumbled in the little purse she carried, found the keys, and handed them to her friend. “My father will kill me,” she said.
“He doesn’t have to know,” Mitzi said.
“But the police,” Jeanine said.
“Forget any police,” Louise said from the backseat. “Come on, get movin’.”
As they left the parking lot they passed a couple walking in the direction of where Allan’s body lay.
“Oh my God,” Jeanine said, sinking down in the seat and wrapping her arms tightly about herself.
“Got to get rid of this knife,” Louise said.
“Your blouse,” Mitzi said.
Jeanine loosened her arms, looked down, and emitted a tight whine.
“Take a right there,” Louise said as they approached an intersection. A minute later they came to a narrow bridge over a tributary from the sea. “Stop!” Louise said. Mitzi hit the brakes. Louise opened her door and tossed the knife over the low concrete railing. A second later a splash was heard.
“Take off your blouse,” Mitzi said as she hit the accelerator. Jeanine absently did as instructed. “Give it to Louise,” Mitzi said. Jeanine obeyed. “Where can we get rid of it?” Mitzi asked Louise.
Louise gave Mitzi directions. They arrived at a Dumpster behind a department store. Louise got out and dropped the blouse into the Dumpster, leaning into it to scatter garbage over the bloody garment.
“Where are you going?” Mitzi asked Louise.
She gave her the address of a run-down two-story apartment building on the edge of downtown.
“You live here?” Mitzi asked.
“Sometimes,” Louise said. “You got any money?”
“Yes, I—” Mitzi handed Louise all the cash she had. “Jeanine, money,” she said. Jeanine fished cash from her purse and handed it into the back.
“You just forget everything,” Louise said. “Just forget it, you heah?”
“Yes,” Mitzi and Jeanine affirmed.
They watched Louise get out of the Caddy and go into the building.
Jeanine started to cry. “I’m freezing,” she said, her teeth chattering.
Mitzi ignored her and drove to the Montgomery house, where she parked the car where it had been earlier in the evening. Jeanine, wearing her bra, sat shivering. “Come on,” Mitzi said. “Get out before anyone sees you.”
They went inside. Jeanine got out of her clothes and took a shower. Mitzi followed. Wearing bathrobes, they put what washable clothing there was in the washing machine and sprayed other items with air freshener in an attempt to rid them of the odor of cigarette and marijuana smoke.
“What are we going to do?” Jeanine asked as they sat in her bedroom.
“I don’t know,” Mitzi said. “Nothing, I guess. Nobody knows what happened. I mean, nobody knows it was you and him.”
“Somebody knows,” said Jeanine. “That girl, whatever her name is—”
“Louise Watkins.”
“She knows. You think she’s going to say anything?”
“Don’t be silly. She’s a drug pusher, probably a prostitute. She doesn’t want anything to do with the police.”
“But other people in the bar. The bartender. People sitting near us.”
“Look,” Mitzi said, grabbing Jeanine’s wrist and looking her in the eye, “nothing will happen if we just stay calm. Try to forget about it. You said he tried to rape you. He’s was a bum, trash. Good riddance.”
They stayed up talking for most of the night. Mitzi left at noon on Sunday; Jeanine’s parents returned at six that evening.
“Had a good time with Mitzi?” Mrs. Montgomery asked.
“Oh, sure,” Jeanine said. “We just hung out.”
Her father had settled in his favorite reading chair in the living room and started to go through the Sunday paper. “Look at this,” he said, referring to a short article on the slaying at Augie’s the night before. “It was bound to happen. That place should have been shut down months ago.”
Mrs. Montgomery took the paper from him and read. The reporter had little to report—a man, Allan Resta, twenty-five years old, a resident of Atlanta,