Toolbox of Secrets

Chapter 1

If I were human, I’d write a book. Change the names to protect the innocent, not that me and Mavis Brown encountered many of those. Mavis is a hard one, keeps her emotions padlocked away, loyal to a fault to those in her inner circle and she keeps that circle small. Don’t get me wrong, I like Mavis well enough, known her since she was a kid. Bashed many a thumb before she learned how to swing me proper like, and brother, did she learn. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Point is, I know Mavis’ secrets. At least the ones that count.

I was hanging, all inconspicuous like, from pegboard hooks on the garage wall the day the detective came. Heard the conversation passed back and forth between Mavis and the man too stupid to take off his jacket in the Florida heat. Had a clear view since Stannis had taken the van out that morning. Stannis Oberon, one of Mavis’ crew, an odd one and a story for another day.

There stood my Mavis, cool as frost on a polar bear’s ass. Yeah, I know from polar bears. Caught lots of wildlife shows when her papa was too drunk to put me away properly. Now I’ve gone too far back. Anyway, the conversation went something like this.

“Detective Moore. Miami Dade PD,” the man introduced himself, handing Mavis a card he’d pulled from his breast pocket.

Mavis didn’t glance at the card. “What can I do for you, Detective Moore?”  

“Weren’t you married to a Jonny Cochran?” Moore flipped a notebook open, edging his way toward the circle of shade offered by a live oak at the corner of the garage.

Mavis sauntered forward, following Moore under the leafy canopy. “I was until seven years ago when he went out for cigarettes and never came back. Don’t tell me you found him.”

Couldn’t help but notice how the Detective stared at her legs, pretending to take notes while peering around the edge of that little notepad. “Gator hunter found part of him. The rest is still missing. Care to add to your original statement?”

“Can’t say I’m sorry the prick’s dead, but I got nothing new to give you.” Mavis crossed her arms beneath her breasts, pushing up a bit so they plumped into nice mounds under her tank top.

Work it, girl. The man’s already sweating.

Moore didn’t take the bait, fixing his gaze above her chin. “You didn’t keep his name?”

“Didn’t want anything that was his. Left it all, including the bank account. It’s all in the reports. His daddy had the insurance policy. Maybe you should be talking to him.”

“Already have,” Moore grunted, thumbing through more pages. “I understand it was a rocky marriage.”

Mavis raised one shoulder in the barest of shrugs. “You could say that.”

“Hospital records prove that,” Moore countered. “I’ve seen men killed for less than what Cochran did to you.”

“Well, maybe I wasn’t the only one he used as a punching bag. Maybe he picked on the wrong person. He never was too smart. You know the type. High school jock, swinging cock and more between his legs than his ears. Like I said, I'm not sorry."

Moore flipped the notepad closed. “Mind if I take a look around?”

“Not without a warrant.” Mavis flicked the corner of his business card. “Got one of those in your pocket?”

Moore cocked his head. “You got something to hide?”

“We’ve all got something to hide, Detective.”

“That we do, Miz Brown. I’ll be in touch.”

Moore strode past Mavis, craning his neck to peek inside the garage. Not much to see but a rack full of tools, a workbench with a gutted vacuum on top, and an oil spot in the middle of the concrete floor.

Just as he reached his car, Mavis called out, “You said you found part of him?”

Moore propped his arms on the top of the open door while heat waves undulated from the inside. “Part of the lower mandible. Dental records confirmed his ID. Doubt we’ll ever find the rest.”

“The swamp doesn’t give up its dead easily,” Mavis mumbled under her breath as he drove away. “Or its secrets.”

At least now I knew for sure what Mavis had done with Cochran, may he roast in hell forever.

Chapter 2

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the toolbox, hell I wasn’t a knife at all, but I got more action than the rest of the tools I hung out with, and that made them all a bit salty. Well, that and the sea air as evidenced by the rust spots on plier’s clenched jaws. Wrench never was a buddy and the screwdriver brothers were pencil-dicked assholes who couldn’t find a good screw if they tried. Either way, we all served a purpose, mine just happened to include activities outside the purview of my original design.  

Mavis and I had history, from the treehouse, to the picture hooks, to the night her husband walked in high as a kite with nothing good on his mind. He’d knocked her around plenty before, but Mavis had an ax to grind or a point to hammer home, pardon the pun.

Jonny Cochran was a real piece of work. Beat the life out of Mavis one afternoon, stuffed her into his car and dropped her by the emergency room door, or so I’d heard. She’d been round-bellied, ready to pop, but came home, belly flat and empty as a shucked walnut. Mavis was never the same.

Jonny’d let her be for a few days. Then one night he’d gone out early, got a snootful and staggered in late, demanding his due. Wanted another piece of her in one way or another, I suppose. Mavis hit back, and Jonny lost it.

“I’ll kill you this time, you worthless bitch,” Jonny growled, his voice not quite human.

“You already did. It didn’t take,” Mavis shot back, her tone as vacant as the crib she’d never disassembled.

“It will this time,” Jonny promised. Mavis took the dare.

The sounds of scuffling moved from room to room. Thudding fists, stomping feet, frantic panting and muffled curses had nothing on shattering glass, and the crash of heavy things.

They stumbled into the kitchen, locked together like two cats in a burlap bag. Next thing I knew, Jonny had her down on the linoleum, close by where she’d left me lying up against the baseboard. His hands clutched at her throat, eyes bulging in a face gone crimson with rage.

I damn near blew my wad when Mavis’ fingers curled around my handle and slammed my claws into the side of Jonny’s skull. How she managed to shove him off I couldn’t tell you. I do know she reared back and whacked him again, leaving my claws buried in his brain.

Any sane woman would have caved his head in, beaten him to a bloody pulp, but not Mavis. No, she sank into an insane sort of calm, holding her shit together when she should have dissolved into a shaking, screaming mess. Cold, deliberate, she stood, stepped over his still twitching body and left the room. Jonny’d gone still by the time she returned with the shower curtain; plastic liner included. Kicking the body to the side, she spread out the curtain, plastic side up. She wiggled me free of bone and rolled him onto the curtain, snugging him in like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

She left me there that night, soaking in a bucket of bleach while she wrestled the bundle around the cabinets and out of sight. The last thing I heard of Jonny Cochran was the thump of his corpse down the back steps. 

Mavis returned at dawn, swamp mud on her tennis shoes and Spanish Moss caught in her hair. A sort of controlled frenzy radiated from her as she went about her chores. Couldn’t begin to say how many bottles of chemicals or pairs of gloves she used to clean up Jonny’s mess. The cops showed up days later when Cochran’s daddy reported him missing. All I know is that the forensic results were inconclusive. Not exactly taking Mavis off the suspect list, but enough to keep her out of jail until the case went cold.

Something had clicked in Mavis that night, a switch flipped on or off, depending on how well you knew her. She’d found the better part of herself in an act of desperation flavored with a touch of revenge. I’d say she’d found her calling.  

By day, Mavis works her jobs, pays her taxes, and keeps the crew together. By night, Mavis listens to a different voice and abides by her own set of rules.

She’s coming for me now with that glint in her eye and a waist pouch full of ten-penny nails. Every carpenter has their work, and I’m just the tool she needs. The secrets keep piling up one name at a time, and I’d damn sure write that book if I was human.