Meanwhile, I was free to go. Agent Lanagan thanked me for all my help and turned off the recording device. I kind of expected him to apologize for how badly he’d botched my security detail. But he didn’t. Maybe for the sake of liability and the ATF’s reputation, he couldn’t admit to his mistake. And I was so relieved to no longer be on the wrong side of the law that I didn’t bring it up. But I felt it unspoken in the air between us when he said, “Good luck with your comedy and your titty dancing and everything.”
“We don’t actually call it ‘titty dancing’ anymore, Agent Lanagan,” I said.
“Then what the hell am I supposed to call it?” But he was smiling at me in a way I interpreted as fondly.
“Just call it ‘pole,’” I said.
“Will do,” he said. I had my hand on the door when he called, “And Ms.Turner?”
“Yes?”
“In the future, try to keep the phones of missing federal informants from pinging at your house, how ’bout it?”
“Copy that,” I said.
With the interview concluded, I fled to the women’s restroom. Knees shaking, I collapsed onto the toilet in the farthest stall. I’d barely started to pee when the bathroom door swung open and two people entered.
“Did you hear about those meth heads up in Spokane?” a woman said. She had a high, breathy voice. Think Kristin Chenoweth on the tiniest sip of helium.
“No, ma’am. Spill the tea,” the second replied.
“They killed some random civilian deader than disco—then broke into the crematorium to incinerate his body. Would’ve been the perfect crime if the dipshits hadn’t triggered the alarm.”
My scalp tingled with a Hercule Poirot–level flash of insight—I still didn’t know how Connor had ended up full of Botox, but I suddenly knew what’d happened to his body.
Fifty-One
My kids finally asleep, I knocked on Emmylou’s door, heart in my throat, bouquet of orange Gerbera daisies in one hand, baby monitor in the other. She opened it, her hair up in her cotton after-shower hair turban. The mellow sounds of Khruangbin filled the duplex (which must have been Oat Willimena’s Texas influence, since Emmylou’s playlist usually ranged from Linda Ronstadt to ABBA). Through the doorway to the kitchen, I spotted Oat Willimena herself, grating purple cabbage. Instead of one of her usual embroidered huipiles, she wore a Santana T-shirt.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I began, feeling awkward.
“Oh, come in,” Emmylou said, clearly not willing to stand on formality.
Before I could think twice, I threw my arms around her.
“Thank you for saving my life,” I said. I’d believed she couldn’t be trusted with a secret. I’d treated her like she hadn’t earned the right to give me input into my life, to speak hard truths to me when no one else would. It felt humbling and good to understand how wrong I’d been.
She rubbed my back, soothing me like a magical bonus auntie. “Anytime, toots. When those guys hustled you off-stage, I went and grabbed my crossbow out of my trunk.”
“You just happened to have it in there?” I asked.
Emmylou ignored my question. “Are you okay? You were bleeding so bad. It scared me.”
“I only needed butterfly stitches,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Your set was so funny,mija!” Oat Willimena called.
“Agreed!” Emmylou said. “Physical comedy, my favorite!”
I followed her into the kitchen where Oat Willimena was packing great handfuls of juicy shredded cabbage, ginger, apples, and carrots into a large ceramic crock. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’m just embarking on a little kitchen witchery. What I loved about your set was the light excavation of our cultural obsession with strippers, along with a dollop of righteous glorification.”
“Thank you!” I beamed, feeling seen.
“A real shame those assholes interrupted you by setting fire to the face-painting tent,” Emmylou said.
“I’m just glad no kids were hurt.” I paused, apprehensive about what I needed to say next. I forced myself to ask the rather awkward question that might clear up the mystery of how Connor’s body disappeared. “It wasn’t a raccoon in the kiln, was it?”
Emmylou and Oat Willimena looked at each other. Oat Willimena gave a little nod, then began mashing the contents of her crock with a wooden sauerkraut tamper.
