Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [62]
“I told you, I told you everything I can think of, oh my God, she’s going to kill me—she’s going to hurt my babies.” Peggy Jean wept, long streaks of black eyeliner staining her cheeks.
Sitting in the chair next to Peggy Jean’s, Tina placed her hand on her friend and neighbor’s arm. “She’s only trying to help. Why don’t you go through it again, maybe you’ll remember something new.”
Sniffling and thanking the officer for the tissue she was handed, Peggy Jean recounted the entire story, just like she had told it to Debby Boone, right up to the point where she opened the front door and saw what she saw.
What Peggy Jean saw had, at first glance, looked like hundreds and hundreds of yellow flowers had suddenly bloomed throughout her yard. But then she saw that they were not flowers, but rather plastic disposable razors with yellow handles. And they were everywhere—blanketing the grass, the brick walkway, sprinkled across the hedges beneath the living room window—everywhere. Hundreds upon hundreds of disposable razors, their sharp blades gleaming.
It was only after the police arrived that Peggy Jean saw the words hairy and bitch and cut cut sprayed across the front of her home with what the detectives tentatively said was Nair hair-removal foam. (But to make absolutely certain, laboratory tests would need to be performed.)
“No fingerprints so far, not one,” a police officer said as he passed through the living room to continue with the investigation outside.
“She knows where I live, she’s been to my home—I’ve got to call Debby Boone.” Peggy Jean’s central nervous system was collapsing. She felt at once overheated and freezing cold. She could not stop shaking and perspiring. The seven Valium she had taken immediately after calling 911 had done nothing. Neither had the schnapps. Her husband wouldn’t be home for another hour, and the boys were with him.
“What exactly is Debby Boone’s involvement with this crime? Are you saying you think she might be somehow connected to it?” the officer asked, pen and notebook poised.
“Yes, yes, Debby . . . I need Debby . . .” Peggy Jean was unable to focus her eyes on anything except the shiny silver badge on the officer’s uniform. She thought about taking out a ruler and measuring it.
“So, Debby Boone—you’re telling me that the singer Debby Boone—you’re saying that you believe she has something to do with this?”
“What?” Peggy Jean snapped out of her hypnotic gaze. “What? No, no, Debby Boone’s not involved with this, are you crazy? This is Zoe, I told you, it’s a crazy woman named Zoe. Debby is a friend, she was helping to calm me down.”
The officer and Tina exchanged a glance. “Ms. Smythe, I know that this is a very traumatic event and that you’re frightened and confused, but I’m gonna have to ask you to please, for your own sake, try and focus.”
“What?” Peggy Jean asked vaguely.
Tina leaned over. “Peggy Jean, you’ve got to pull yourself together. This lady is trying to help you.”
Shaking the fuzz out of her head, Peggy Jean regained her composure. “I apologize, I’m back, I’m here.”
The officer continued with her questioning and Peggy Jean did her best to answer and be helpful. But inside, she felt a dreadful sense of doom.
After two and a half hours, the police left without any fingerprints, suspects, or leads. As far as they were concerned, all that could be done was to wait and see. And hope that if the stalker struck again, he or she would make some sort of identifying mistake.
“Listen, Peggy, I’ve got to run home real quick. My tuna casserole must be in flames by now.”
“No, that’s okay, I’ll be okay, you go . . . you go . . . and . . . did you sprinkle crushed potato chips on top like I told you to?”
“Yes, I bought a bag of Lay’s and then crushed ’em all up.”
Peggy Jean looked at Tina and yet also through her.