Author: Editor

ONE

 

Two Pittsburgh homicide detectives, Liz Jennings, an attractive, thirty-two year old brunette, and Herb Hobbs, a balding, pot-bellied, twenty-year veteran, parked their car in front of an antique shop on Carson Street on the city’s South Side. Before entering the shop both detectives paused in the cold and in the light snow to admire the variety of items on display in the large front window. They saw plates, clocks, dolls, and porcelain figurines brought from Eastern Europe over the years by immigrants. Etchings of sunflowers, the flower of the Ukraine, adorned blue paneling on a sliding back wall.

 

“What did you say this guy’s name is?” Hobbs grunted.

“Alec Korda. He’s from Lviv in the Ukraine.”

“The Ukraine is in Russia somewhere, right?”

”No. The Ukraine is a country all by itself.”

The detectives entered the shop where soft Ukrainian instrumental music played from a tape. Paintings for sale by Pittsburgh area Ukrainian and Russian artists decorated pale blue walls. The smell of sweet vanilla trailed through the shop. On a yellow floor a slender man with black hair, six feet tall, wearing dark slacks and a blue turtleneck wool sweater stood with his back to them. Being careful, as if her were handling glass, or hand grenades, he unloaded Ukrainian Easter eggs with symbolic designs, “pysanky”, from a small wooden box carpeted with straw.

 

When the man turned the detectives glimpsed a lean triangular face and piercing blue eyes. His age was early forties.

 

”Police,” Hobbs said. He flashed a badge. “Are you Alec Korda?”

 

The man, Alec Korda, nodded. His lips parted over even white teeth in a leer that proffered a message of contempt.

 

“A cop hater,” Hobbs mumbled.

 

Jennings frowned. She lifted her shoulders and shifted her weight, left foot to right foot. “We’re here about a woman we believe you know, Gloria Shay,” Jennings said.

 

Korda’s body tensed. He seemed like a spring coiling. A fluffy white cat with eyes like small orange pumpkins appeared all at once on a cherry-wood counter top. A dozen Icons, small religious paintings, adorned the wall behind the counter.

 

“When’s the last time you saw her?” Hobbs asked. He nearly knocked over an antique lamp on a spindly antique stand as he brashly pressed forward.

 

Korda glared at Hobbs. Jennings bit into her lower lip. From outside the grinding sound of a passing truck intruded.

“I last saw Mrs. Shay two nights ago,” Korda said in a firm yet soft voice. His English was clear and crisp. “We went to the ballet together.”

“You were her paid escort,” Hobbs said, his tone rough. “Isn’t that so? Her escort and who knows what else.”

 

As Korda scowled Jennings cleared here throat. Korda’s clear complexion reddened.

 

“What’s this about?”   His voice had sharpened. A vein throbbed in his neck.

 

“We’re homicide detectives,” Hobbs growled. “What do you think it’s about?”

 

Korda winced.

 

“A witness saw you loitering in front of Gloria Shay’s apartment building last evening,” Jennings said.

 

The corners of Korda’s lips twitched. “That can’t be so. I wasn’t there.”

 

“About that time, when the witness saw you, Gloria Shay went out for a jog,” Hobbs said.

 

“She never came back,” Jennings said.

 

Korda’s upper lip curled. “I wasn’t there,” Korda repeated.

 

“A dog walker found her body a few hours ago in a park near her apartment building,” Jennings snapped. “She’d been beaten, punched in the face, and strangled.”

 

Korda lowered his eyes. He formed his hands into fists.

 

“If you weren’t in front of that apartment building last evening,” Hobbs said, “say about six, where were you?”

 

Korda’s eyes flicked upward toward and through a yellow ceiling. The building had three floors. The top two held apartments. “In my room. Eating my supper. Alone.”

 

Jennings eyes narrowed. Hobbs shuffled his feet. “Maybe we should all just take a ride,” Hobbs threatened in a gruff voice.

 

Korda shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “All right. But let me have my sister or my brother- in-law come down to mind the shop.”

 

Hobbs made a sweeping motion with a big hand. “Who all lives up there?”

 

“My sister, her husband, and their two young daughters live on the second floor. I live on the third, ” he paused to arrange a thought, “with two friends.” Korda shoved the cat aside and picked up a phone resting on the counter top.

 

“Wait,” Jennings said, raising a hand. Korda crossed his arms and eyed her up and down. The touch of his eyes sent a warm current through Jennings.   She cleared her throat. “Why not help clear this up here by just telling us why you were waiting outside of Gloria Shay’s apartment building last evening.”

 

As Korda replaced the phone he continued to appraise Jennings with his all encompassing gaze. He obviously liked what he saw because he smiled vaguely. “I’ve already cleared it up. I wasn’t there.”

 

“We’re trying to cut you a break,” Hobbs said.

 

Korda sneered. “Either that or your witness, if there is a witness, isn’t very sure about seeing me. How do you know your witness didn’t follow Mrs. Shay into that park and murder her?”

 

Against Korda’s persistent admiring gaze Jennings blanched before her smooth features hardened. “We’re considering all of that but we’re starting our investigation with you.”

 

Hobbs pushed himself between Jennings and Korda. “That’s because we put you at the top of our list of suspects,” Hobbs snarled.

 

The cat seemed to float lightly, like a cloud or a ghost, from the counter top to the floor and glide   silently through pale blue curtains leading to a back room.

 

Jennings watched the cat disappear before focusing again on Korda. “Was Gloria Shay your only client?”

 

Korda’s lips stiffened against his straight teeth. “What difference does it make?”

 

“We want to know, that’s what difference it makes,” Hobbs snapped.

 

“I have a few others.”

 

“All good-looking and all with lots of dough I bet,” Hobbs said.

 

Korda glowered. “I’m selective. I’ll leave it at that.”

 

Hobbs leered. “Having one of the broads your escorting around getting murdered should be great for business,” Hobbs said.

 

“I didn’t murder Mrs. Shay.”

 

“Maybe we think differently,” Hobbs said, pressing forward. He tapped Korda roughly on the chest with a blunt forefinger forcing Korda back. “When you see us again it will be to put the cuffs on you.”

 

TWO

 

At noon Alec Korda and the day doorman, Gil Mesh, stood in the falling snow in front of the apartment building where the murdered Gloria Shay once lived.

 

“How do you know I’m the one who talked to the cops, Mr. Korda?” Gil asked. His eyes darted around as they refused to make contact with Korda’s.

 

“You being the one makes the most sense,” Korda said. “Anyone could have followed that lead.”

 

“I’m sorry about getting you in trouble, Mr. Korda,” Gil said. He was late twenties, thin, with light-colored hair cut short , and a pockmarked complexion. He rubbed his gloved hands together and locked and unlocked his fingers. “But you know how cops are. They kept pressuring me. Who did this guy look like? And I’d say, I’m not sure, and they’d say, take a guess, and I’d say it was dark and he was standing by those big trees way over there, and because he looked about your size and because he was wearing a dark overcoat like the one you wear I finally said, to get them off my back, it might have been Mrs. Shay’s friend, Mr. Korda. I feel bad for how this turned out because of all the people who go into this place you treat me the best.”

 

Lost in thought, Korda nodded. In front of him on the street a city bus hissed by, its big

tires spraying slush onto the sidewalk. Above, the gray sky loomed low and ominous. The frosted air smelled clean.

 

“And I’m not just talking about the tip, Mr. Korda,” Gil went on. “I’m talking about how you never act like you’re better than me, how you never treat me like I’m some flunky. You treat me with dignity. You’re the sharpest guy I ever met in my life but   I’ve only had this job for six weeks and I needed to get them cops off my back.”

 

At the corner the bus stopped and two women, one young, one old, and two small children, a boy and a girl, got off.

 

The sight of   the women and children brought a sudden deeply etched sadness to Korda’s expression. His legs buckled as if he’d been struck hard. With his body trembling he slumped against the cold wall of the building and muttered with bitterness, “How long in this unpadlocked prison shall I live out my life?”

 

Gil asked, “What did you say, Mr. Korda?”

 

“I said that there are times when I can’t stand being alive in this world. Times when I want to be dead.”

 

“You’re kidding, Mr. Korda, right?”

 

Korda quickly regained his composure. “It was a line from a poem by Taras Shevchenko. The women and those children who got off the bus made me think of people I once knew, of people I miss dearly” He stood erect. The toughness returned to his face.

“Did Mrs. Shay see the man you saw, the man you told the police about?”

 

“Yeah,” Gil exclaimed. ”I know she did because she looked at him for a long time and then started toward him. That’s when I went inside.”

 

“Did she seem glad to see him?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Can you think of anyone, other than yourself and me, who might have known Mrs. Shay’s routine?”

 

Gil sniffled and ran a gloved hand under his leaking nose. “I don’t understand.”

 

Korda grew impatient. “Someone who knew when she jogged and on what days. Someone who could have been waiting for her last night, with the intention of going into that park after her, to kill her?”

 

Gil shook his head. “Just you and me I guess. Or the doorman I replaced but he moved to Florida after he had that heart attack.”

 

Suddenly the crux of Korda’s question struck Gil. “You don’t think I murdered her, do you?”

 

Korda peered with hard eyes at Gil. “You lied about seeing me, that’s what I’m thinking.”

 

Korda shoved past Gil and entered the apartment building.

 

 

The fat-faced building manager gazed covetously at the stack of 100-dollar bills Korda had place on the desk top in front of him.

 

“Five hundred dollars is a lot of money, Mr. Korda,” the manager said. “But I don’t know if it’s right to reveal what’s in an employee’s personnel file.”

 

“You want this murder to go away, don’t you?”

 

“Of course I want the murder to go away. Everyone who lives in this building is scared silly. This is high rent and nothing bad is supposed to happen here.” He lifted his eyes away from the money and peered at Korda whose expression was harsh.

 

The building manager squirmed. He smoothed the sweat on his forehead with an unsteady hand. “But you’re a suspect so I shouldn’t even be talking to you.” he bleated. “In fact, and don’t take offense to this, but everyone thinks you killed her.”

 

Korda scowled in disgust. “Make up your mind. I can always find out about Gil Mesh without you. I’m trying to save time.”

 

The building manager licked at the beads of sweat glistening on his thick upper lip and greedily covered the money with a chubby hand. A cheap ring he wore flashed in the overhead light. “I’ll give you what I think you’d be most interested in. How’s that?

 

“All right, that’s a start.”

 

“Mesh’s girlfriend had him arrested once for domestic violence. Later she dropped the charges.”

 

“In the job interview, what did Mesh say about it?”

 

“He said he never hit her. He said he’d never get physical with a woman. He said she made the story up to get even with him for catching him cheating on her with another girl.”

 

“Did you believe him?”

 

“I guess I did. I hired him.”

 

Korda took a moment to reflect on what he had just heard.

 

The building manager sighed and said, “I could get fired over hiring Mesh, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Korda merely nodded.

 

“For all we know, maybe Mesh does get off beating up women,” the building manager said. “Maybe he killed Gloria Shay?”

 

“Maybe, but the police will be looking at you too.”

 

“Me?” His look blared astonishment.

 

A solemn Alec Korda went outside where the snow now fell in heavy sheets. He shoved his hands deep into his overcoat pockets and trudged away, head down.

 

THREE

 

At their desks in the precinct Jennings and Hobbs stared into space reflectively.

 

Hobbs slurped tepid coffee thick with cream and laced with sugar. “What I can’t figure out is how a sharp broad like Gloria Shay, and worth five million, thanks to her second husband who conveniently died in a car wreck, could have been such a lousy judge of men. Five months ago she ditches husband number three, a nice guy from what the old couple in the neighboring apartment said, and right away latches on to a   punk like Alec Korda. I want to nail that guy.”

 

Jennings smoothed her hair. “I think he’s sexy,” Jennings said.

 

“You said what?”

 

“You heard me. I think Alec Korda is sexy. I’d go to bed with him.”

 

Hobbs frowned. “Women. You’re all nuts.”

 

“Thanks for the insight.”

 

Hobbs stirred the coffee and cream with a pencil. “While you’ve been licking your chops I did some checking up on your Mr. Sexy.”

 

Jennings’s brown eyes widened. She leaned forward. “Well, let’s hear it.”

 

“First off, the two friends who live with him are girlfriends.”

 

“A mélange de trios,” Jennings purred. “How exciting.” For an instant her eyes became dreamy.

 

“A mélange de what?”

 

“I’ll explain later.”

 

“Here’s the skinny on these two mélange broads. The younger one calls herself an actress and a model. She bounces back and forth from here, New York City, and South Palm Beech. Korda has an apartment in the East Village and another one in Miami. His other broad runs an upscale dating service downtown for men with cash who want to meet and marry attractive Ukrainian and Russian dames.”

 

Jennings’s chin jutted out. “They’re women, not broads or dames.”

 

“Whatever. Both of Korda’s squeezes, I mean women, are knockouts.”

 

“As one would expect. The more beautiful the woman the more she’s drawn to a bad boy like Alec Korda.”

 

Hobbs bristled. “Korda’s worse than bad, he’s an frigging murderer.”

 

“Probably. But he sure is special looking.”

 

Hobbs shook his head in consternation. “You’re goofy.”

 

“Se la vie.”

 

“Stop it with that foreign language crap.” He ran a beefy backhand over his lips. “You need your estrogen changed girl.”

 

“I’m satisfied with it the way it is.”

 

Hobbs gritted his teeth. “And there should be a law against what Korda is doing.”

 

“If he’s a murderer there is a law against that, remember?”

 

”I’m talking about being an escort.”

 

Jennings grinned bemused. “I think you’re jealous because you aren’t doing it.”

 

Hobbs raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “Anyway, Korda came to America three years ago with lots of dough and his crew which includes the girlfriends, the sister and her family, the husband, get this, was once a priest, and two cousins and their wives and kids. Quite a load. The cousins are into that judo and weightlifting, real tough guys. They have a big grocery store in the Strip District. My guess is that the whole bunch of them is Russian Mafia.”

 

“If true,” Jennings corrected, “it would be Ukrainian Mafia.” She tapped her fingertips together. “Was Korda a gangster in Europe?”

 

Hobbs slurped more coffee and shook his head. “He coached tennis and taught poetry in a university in Lviv until the early nineties. Even had a book of his own stuff and some short stories, literary garbage, published.”

 

Jennings nodded. “What do you read?”

 

“The sports page.”

 

Jennings smirked. “I never would have guessed. After Lviv, what happened to Korda?” She stood and in a lazy motion stretched making her seem taller than her slim 5’ 9”.

 

“I don’t know yet. I contacted Interpol to get fill-in on his missing years.”

 

 

FOUR

 

Alec Korda’s cousins, Yeri and Nick Reszik, would have gone to an orphanage if Korda’s mother hadn’t raised them. They were her younger sister’s boys. Both were six feet plus and weighed close to 300 pounds. They’d die for Alec Korda, or kill, if he asked them to. The store, smelling of cheeses and spicy meats, was noisy and jammed with customers. The Resziks sold delicious ethnic food.

 

On a rough wood floor covered with sawdust Korda weaved through the crowd and went around the deli counter where the two cousins hugged him affectionately. Their wives came over and did the same. The older cousin, Yeri, wiped his hands on his white apron and went with Korda into a private back room. The conversation was terse.

 

Korda said simply, “I need a gun.”

 

 

FIVE

 

At her desk, Liz Jennings stared pensively at a photograph. “Gloria Shay’s third marriage lasted a little over a year,” Jennings said. “Her ex is a hair stylist and by all accounts a nice guy. By chance one day, after the divorce, Gloria wandered into Korda’s antique shop, took an instant liking to him, kept coming back, and ultimately hired him as her escort. Apparently Korda is well versed on cultural stuff: symphonies, the ballet, plays, the opera.”

 

Hobbs stood by a smudged window watching the snow falling. “Culture is out of my league. I’m more baseball, football, and beer.”

 

Jennings snickered. “How gauche. I kind of like reading poetry and literary short stories and going to a play once in a while.”

 

Hobbs grinned. “I’ve been telling you all along you’re nuts. Why’d you ever become a homicide cop?”

 

“I have a dark side.”

 

Hobbs pulled a box of cough drops from his suit jacket pocket. “While you been working that cultural angle I dug up some juicier tidbits on Alec Korda,” Hobbs coughed and spit into a wastebasket. “Gloria Shay isn’t the first person he’s killed.”

 

 

SIX

 

Korda entered “LARRY’S”, an upscale Shadyside hair styling salon, and told the pretty blond-haired receptionist he had a four o’clock appointment with Larry. The girl touched her hair and smiled.

 

“Would you like to take off your coat?” she offered.

 

Korda said, “No thanks.”

 

The girl led Korda to the back, past a line of three stylists, one man and two women, and customers, all women. The décor was rich. The air reeked stubbornly of scented mousse and expensive dye. Mellow jazz played from a sound system.

 

A good-looking man, Korda’s height and weight, but a few years younger, with long dark hair tied in a ponytail greeted Korda with a stiff handshake. He wore a black silk shirt and loose fitting black slacks. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, betrayed that he knew Korda who eased into a chair. Korda kept his right hand, it gripped a Marazov, a Russian made 9 mm handgun, in his overcoat pocket. Larry instinctively picked up a comb and sharp pointed scissors.

 

“You won’t need those,” Korda said, gesturing with his eyes to the comb and scissors. “A lady friend cuts my hair.” The ridge of muscle in his jaw line tightened. “I’m here to talk about you ex-wife.”

 

“Gloria.” He sounded confused. He blinked his eyes.

 

“Don’t waste time. You know who I am and you know she’s dead because you murdered her.”

 

“You’re crazy. I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

 

Activity in the salon ceased. Korda scraped the edge of his upper row of teeth over his lower lip. “You, better than anyone knew her jogging schedule. You waited for her and she unsuspectingly went into that park with you and you strangled her.”

 

Larry inhaled and exhaled with a loud heavy heave of his chest. He dropped the comb in front of a mirror on a cluttered counter but held tightly onto the scissors. His wild expression made Korda flinch.

 

“You couldn’t stand it any longer losing that five million, could you?” Korda pressed.

 

“Shut up or I’ll put these in your throat.” Larry raised the scissors.

 

The suddenly terrified-looking woman in the next chair made a gasping sound. The male stylist shouted in a high-pitched voice, “Larry, is everything okay?”

Korda kept his voice calm. “I have a gun in my pocket and trust me I’ll use it. Put the scissors down.”

 

Larry’s hand holding the scissors shook. He glared at Korda. The color drained from his face. His lips trembled. “I killed that skank and I’m glad. I deserved a share of her money for marrying her. If I can’t have any of it, now she can’t have it either.”

 

Keeping his hands in his pockets, Korda rose from the chair. “Put the scissors down.”

 

Larry’s shoulders sagged. Another woman in the salon made a slight shrieking noise. A plump middle-aged woman two chairs down started to sob.

 

Korda’s upper lip curled. “You won’t be the first person I’ve shot.” He smiled without mirth. “It doesn’t matter to me if you live or die. If I have to kill you I’ll do it.”

 

Larry groaned and his eyes rolled back.

 

Korda said,” If I figured it out that you murdered your ex-wife the police will too. Your smartest move is to turn yourself in.”

 

Larry turned as if to set the scissors on the counter and then wheeled and lunged at Korda, the point of the scissors aimed at Korda’s throat.

 

Korda’s hand holding the gun leaped from his coat pocket. He pulled the trigger once. The gun made a sharp cracking noise. The bullet went into Larry’s forehead between his eyes. Blood, bone, and brain splattered the mirror. One of the female customers fainted.

 

SEVEN

 

“Korda quit the university,” Hobbs said, “after the Commies blew up a church, killing his wife, his two small children, and his mother. Speculation is that he went to work for our C.I.A., as a hitman. He stayed on the job for something like ten years, his territory being Eastern Europe: Moscow, Odessa, Budapest, Vienna, Prague, and Warsaw. That’s how he earned all of his dough.”

 

Hobbs paused to catch his breath. Jennings tapped her fingertips together.

 

Hobbs continued. “Korda’s C.I.A. connections got him and those close to him into the United States. All of it might be true and it makes a terrific story, the kind you can make a movie out of, but I still want to nail his arse.”

 

Jennings grimaced. “I don’t. I think we’re trying to match all of that forensic evidence we gathered at the crime scene to the wrong guy.” Jennings handed Hobbs the photograph she’d been studying. “That’s Larry Shay, Gloria’s most recent ex. I think it’s time we focused on him. I have a gut feeling he’s our murderer.”

The End

Detective Tony Mallette carefully placed the piece of cake in a small brown paper bag. “This goes to the lab to see if there was anything else besides walnuts in the cake.” A good portion of the cake still remained in the box on the table.

 

“A birthday party gone bad,” Cory Philips, his assistant, said. “Modesta Martin, the star of the “I Love Lucy” show, poisoned.”

 

“Not exactly poisoned. She went into an anaphylactic shock after eating the cake.” Modesta had fallen off the chair and was lying on the floor, cake crumbs around her. “We need to find out who knew she was allergic to walnuts.”

 

Mallette scrutinized the paper plates and cups on the long table in the room off to the back of theater where the cast and crew had collected to have cake and sing “Happy Birthday” to her. Mallette and Philips then continued their investigation of the City Center Theater where the performance was to have taken place.

 

“Has the notice of the cancellation of tonight’s performance been posted outside?” Mallette asked the police officer who stood guard near the front entrance to the theater.”

 

“Yes. No one’s allowed to leave, so you can start questioning them.”

 

The detective talked to the husband first. “Mr. Martin, do you know if your wife had any enemies?”

 

“Of course, she had. She was beautiful and talented. Even her friends were jealous of her.” His hair was dishevelled and his eyes were red, but he spoke in a calm voice.

 

“We assume you were at the birthday party when it happened.”

 

“Yes. She went into a convulsion. She has medication that helps prevent going into shock but it was at home.” He shook his head. “Don’t understand it. I ordered the cake and told them no walnuts.”

 

“Where did you order it from?” Mallette said, pen poised over a small notepad.

 

“Shaker’s Bakery downtown, not far from here.”

 

“Did you pick it up, too?”

 

“No. Lily Bonini picked it up. She’s the one who plays ‘Viv’.”

 

“What did your wife do before the birthday party?”

 

“She was in her dressing room talking on the phone. We had over an hour before the show was to start.”

 

“Did she eat anything else that might have had walnuts?”

 

“Nothing. She watched her diet. After the birthday party she was planning on staying in her room. She liked to do that to get into the character she’s playing.”

 

“Were you at the theater all day?”

 

“No. I have an art gallery downtown. I was there.”

 

Mallette went off to look at the dressing rooms. The biggest one was Modesta’s and was brightly lit by bulbs framing a large mirror by a dressing table lined with jars of face cream and make-up. Hair brushes and tubes of opened lipstick lay scattered as if Modesta had been trying on different shades.

 

They went in search of the producer of the show. Mick Wentworth was in his room. “Any leads yet?” he asked.

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Modesta was a trooper, if a little temperamental. She had great talent. I had signed her on for two more productions.”

 

“Did you go on the road a lot?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What about Mr. Martin. Did he come along?”

 

“When he could.”

 

“What will you do now?” Philips asked.

 

“Modesta’s understudy, Teresa Gurdin, will take over. We’ll go on with the show as soon as we decently can,” he said. “If there’s nothing more, I have some things to do.” He waited a second and then strode off toward the lighting controls.

 

Mallette found Peter Landers, the actor who played ‘Fred’, and Lily helping a stage hand with props. “How was Modesta to work with?”

 

“Difficult,” Peter said. “She said I was too old to be in the show, and wanted a replacement.”

 

“Mr.Wentworth thinks highly of her,” Mallette said.

 

“Sure. She had a crush on him. Only a matter of time before she dumped poor Ted.”

 

“Did you know she was allergic to walnuts?”

 

Peter looked surprised. “No.”

 

Lily said she picked up the cake two hours before the party and set it on the table since she had errands to do. “And yes, I knew she was allergic to walnuts.”

 

They found Teresa in her dressing room near the area where the table had been set up. She also knew Modesta was allergic to walnuts.

 

“What did you do all day?”

“I stayed in, read my lines.”

 

“Was Modesta in her room?

 

“Yes. I heard her talking on the phone.”

 

The detectives finally talked to Marv Dix, the actor who played “Ricky.” He’d missed the party as he had an out-of-town engagement, and had to have permission to be let back into the theater.

 

The detectives scouted the outside to determine the access to the theater. Out back they found a dumpster and a homeless man holding what looked like a cakebox. He shuffled toward them and said, “Who’d throw away a whole cake? I ain’t complainin’ though. Want some?”

 

“Mind if we take a look?”

 

“Sure. Go ahead.”

 

The cake was an exact replica of the one at the party, except it had no walnuts. When Mallette called Shaker’s Bakery, they told him that someone called Amy had ordered and picked up a cake with walnuts.

 

Mallette asked for a description of the person. His mouth set in a thin line at what he heard. “There’s only one person who fits that description.”

 

“Teresa,” Philips said. “She ordered a cake with walnuts, picked it up much earlier and hid it in her room, waiting for a chance to substitute it. Then when Modesta was on the phone, Teresa replaced the one without walnuts with the one she’d picked up from Shaker’s. She then threw the cake that Ted had ordered in the dumpster.”

 

“That’s when we discovered the tramp.”

 

“Motive?” Philips mused. “Teresa was tired of being the understudy, and it didn’t look as if she’d get anywhere as long as Modesta was still around.”

The End

The lights from the pier pulled him closer to shore.  His legs grew numb, his arms heavy.  His ears rang from the wind and the slap of freezing waves.  He knew he had to stay focused, keep moving.  He heard a buoy clang in unison with the mournful sound of an offshore foghorn.  He pushed on, stroke by stroke.

 

It wouldn’t be long before the guards discovered his absence, sounded the alarms.  He’d seen it all before from his cell.  The Coastguard cutters streaming into the bay, their searchlights scanning the water, covering every inch of spray from “the Rock” to the mainland.  Thank God, tonight the fog was on his side.

 

His thoughts flashed to a day in early December, before he’d planned his escape through the metal shop and up into the air duct leading to the roof.  He sat on his bunk in freshly washed denims, the number AZ 714 stenciled in black on his shirt pocket.  As he read the letter, the scent of her perfume seeped into his books, his clothes, his soul.

 

“Darling,” she wrote, “may the new year bring you peace.  Please know I still love you.”

 

He glanced over his shoulder to the middle of the bay, to the place called Alcatraz, its yellow eyes blinking through the fog, then he turned back to the pier, his thoughts on Roe.  Her skin so white and pale even the slightest pressure left its mark. “The fair Rowena,” he’d call her, and then he’d touch her face and smile as the redness began a journey up her neck to the spot just below her jaw he loved most.

 

His fingers grew numb. He feared the advent of cramps, the death knell of hypothermia, but he kept on, his hands chopping through the foam, the pier moving toward him, its orange lights bobbing in the mist.

 

Out of breath, he aimed for a piling and slipped, unable to get a grip.  He tried again, this time he willed his arms up and around the post.  He stayed there hugging his lifeline.

 

The clock at the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory chimed eleven, the last hour of the old year, two hours since he’d made his escape.  With renewed strength, he pulled himself up the ladder, rung by rung, and onto the pier.  He lay there under the stars.  Exhausted.

 

Suddenly, there it was above him.  Their constellation, “the Jeweled Crown.”  Not an official formation noted in astronomy textbooks but their own made-up cluster.  “We’ll draw comfort from the stars,” Roe had said.  “At night, we’ll always be together.”

 

He imagined a ball of thread unwinding from the heavens.  He forced himself up, took hold of the celestial string and continued on.

 

A fog bank drifted in, and he thought he was lost, but only for a moment.  Coit Tower loomed above him, and he knew where he was, thankful for a beacon that focused his quest.

 

Climbing Telegraph Hill, he could almost hear the sound of her laughter, feel her joy.  He stopped, closed his eyes and envisioned her sitting in their breakfast nook overlooking the Embarcadero, the sun pouring in though the bay window.  She was writing him a letter.

 

“I’ve tried, darling, really I have, but you still have so long.  I’ve met someone new who is kind and gentle.  Isn’t that what you’d want for me?  I know you’ll understand. Someday.”

 

At her porch, he let go of the thread. It had done its work. He was home now.

 

He rang the bell.

 

“Coming,” Roe called, her voice competing with the grandfather clock striking twelve.

 

Who could she be expecting at this late hour, Mr. Kind and Gentle?  He laughed.

 

Roe opened the door. Her lips moved, yet he heard no sound.

 

He saw the blood rush up her neck as she stepped backward, and he followed her inside.

 

His icy fingers reached out for the spot he loved most, then they closed around her.

 

“Happy New Year, darling.”

The End

“I can’t believe you let old Edmund live in our converted barn. You knew he’s a murderer!” Natalie practically shouted.

 

“Calm down, now,” Frank said. “I wish to heavens you’d obeyed me and not researched the family history.” He should have known she’d do something like this.

 

“This is the nineteen-nineties, Dad,” Natalie told him, as if he didn’t know. “I’m twenty-four years old, and I can darn well do what I please, thank you very much.”

 

“Doing what you pleased has made us both unhappy, as you can see.” Frank got up from the breakfast table and looked out the window at the graveyard across the street. The sight of it usually calmed his nerves. A thick layer of Vermont autumn leaves covered the ground, making the cemetery look like a park. He remembered ruefully all the times he’d joked about their quiet neighbors. It seemed the dead could come back to haunt you. At least the memory of them could. “You should have left well enough alone,” he told his daughter.

 

“Mom had those papers. I thought it would be interesting to start a family history.   Someone could have told me,” she said, “that my great uncle, who I didn’t even know was my uncle and who lives not a hundred yards from us, had been in prison for murdering my grandfather. I am over twenty-one, you know.”

 

Not acting it, Frank thought. She’s overreacting, as usual. But maybe that was unfair. Anyone would get upset, under the circumstances.

 

Frank turned to face her. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted. “It’s difficult to find the right time to tell a child something like that.”

 

She calmed down a little. “So, tell me now.”

 

He sighed, sat back down and poured himself another cup of coffee. They’d be late opening the drugstore today. For the thousandth time since they’d buried Rowena in that graveyard across the street, he wished her back, alive to deal with their headstrong daughter.

 

At that moment, his mother came down the back stairs.   Both Frank and Natalie looked at each other guiltily.

 

“Good morning,” Ada said. “You’re running late this morning.” She gave Natalie a disapproving look, as if it were her fault.

 

Father and daughter rose from the table quickly and took their dishes to the sink, mumbling good mornings. Frank had never understood the animosity that had developed between his mother and daughter since Nat reached adolescence. Ada didn’t seem able to bear Natalie’s impulsiveness and excitability.

 

Outside, the wind snatched at their coats and scarves as they walked the four blocks to the drugstore. They passed the barn, their eyes drawn to it. The two-hundred-year-old shingled exterior blended into the landscape as though the barn had grown there. A stack of wood rose precariously against its side, almost reaching the roofline. With the money Edmund made collecting and selling wood, cans, and other items, he kept the place up with Frank’s occasional help. Edmund had done a nice job of dividing the interior into rooms, adding plumbing and wiring, all since he’d gotten out of prison eighteen years ago.

 

To Frank’s knowledge, Edmund had never once stepped inside the old family home since his return. Ada took him a hot dinner at noon and visited awhile, but he avoided Natalie and Frank. Frank didn’t think he’d ever spoken more than two words to Rowena the whole time she was alive.

 

“The funny thing is,” Frank told Natalie, “I like Edmund. I appreciate him for keeping his distance. Edmund watched you grow up without ever holding you, never speaking to you.”

 

“How can you like him? He murdered your father!” Natalie’s small face looked pinched, an expression Frank disliked.

 

“Nat, he killed my father because he couldn’t stand knowing he was hitting my mother.”

 

“Grandpa abused Grandma?” She sounded incredulous.

 

“Yes,” Frank said firmly. “Nowadays, lots of people would look on Edmund as a hero, a person who defended his sister against an evil man.”

 

Natalie, ever one to see everything in black and white, protested. “Hitting someone is not the same as murder. How could anyone think that?”

 

They were still discussing the issue while they opened the drugstore. “What was Grandpa like? What do you remember about him?” Natalie asked as she turned over the closed sign and went to get her smock from the back.

 

Frank walked with her towards the pharmacy section, passing the overpowering smell of perfumes and powders, to the, to him, pleasant smell of pills and syrups. He realized he’d never talked to Natalie about his father. Never talked much at all about the family. Maybe that was why she’d been so hot to research their history.

 

“When he was sober,” he began, “like a lot of men, he could be wonderful,” he said. “He’d play catch with me, tell corny jokes, take me out for ice cream.   When he drank, though, look out!   I stayed out of his way then.   Mother couldn’t. I never saw him hit her, but I saw the results. She always made up an excuse. Edmund must have put two and two together because he tended bar at Winchell’s and knew when Dad tied one on and when Mother, the next day, had a black eye or a broken wrist, or something.”

 

Frank put on his white jacket and began unlocking cabinets as he spoke. “One night Edmund followed Dad home and waited outside. When he heard a commotion, he busted in and hit him with an iron skillet. Drunk, Dad was an easy target, and the coroner said he probably died before he hit the floor.” Frank had gone over the events so many times in his mind since then that his voice could remain unemotional.

 

Natalie shuddered as she got the feather duster and began dusting shelves. “How old were you then?”

 

“Thirteen.”

 

“He confessed?”

 

“Yes, and the judge sent him up for the minimum time.   When he got out, he didn’t want to tend bar anymore.   Said he’d seen enough drunks to last a lifetime. So we all–my mother, your mother and I–decided to let him have the old barn. Prison made him quieter than he’d been before, so he never was any trouble.”

 

“But,” Natalie said as she moved some perfume jars to dust the glass shelf under them, “didn’t you worry at all about his becoming violent again if something set him off?”

 

“It never crossed my mind, Natalie,” he answered a bit testily. Of course it had, but as the years rolled by, he hardly ever thought about it anymore.

 

“Not even when I was born? What if he’d taken it into his head to hurt me? Or Mom? How would you have felt?”

 

“He had no reason to hurt anyone else,” Frank said, exasperated with his daughter’s overblown imagination and tired of the discussion.

 

Fortunately, their first customer entered, and for the rest of the day Frank and Natalie were too busy to discuss Edmund again.

 

At supper, Frank knew that Natalie wanted to talk about the situation to Ada. He prayed she wouldn’t. But by the time the Indian pudding was served, Natalie could no longer restrain herself.

 

“Grandma,” she began, “Dad told me about Edmund today.”

 

“He did?” Ada asked, arching her fine eyebrows slightly.

 

“Yes.” Natalie wiped her mouth with her linen napkin. “I know Edmund is your brother, but I don’t see how you can condone what he did. After all, he was convicted of . . .”

 

At least, Frank thought, she had the grace not to say the word. He watched his mother carefully. She wouldn’t take kindly to this conversation. After Frank’s father had died and Uncle Edmund gone to jail, Ada seemed to gain an inner strength. She’d had to. With no other relatives to lean on, she needed to make a living and raise a son.   Frank had never heard her say a bad word about either her husband or her brother.

 

Frank remembered the farm, before Ada sold off pieces of it to help them buy clothes and other things. She had taken in washing and ironing, had kept a large vegetable garden, some chickens and a cow. The town had grown up around them.

 

“It’s not wise to make hasty judgments,” Ada warned her granddaughter, pulling Frank’s thoughts back to the familiar kitchen.

 

“What do you mean? Dad told me the whole story. I don’t think Edmund should have come back here.”

 

“And where do you think he should have gone, miss?” Ada asked, her voice ominously low. Frank watched her fists clenching and unclenching on the table.

 

Natalie looked at Frank and didn’t notice. “Just somewhere else,” she said.

 

“We’re his family,” Ada said, her tone icy.   “This house has been in the family for generations.”

 

“He killed my grandfather,” Natalie shouted, jumping up from the table.

 

“No, he didn’t, actually,” Ada said, that teasing smile on her face that Frank knew so well. He and Natalie stared at her. “He just said he did to protect someone else.”

 

“What? Who?” Frank asked, his breath catching, heart pounding. “You?”

 

“You still don’t remember, do you?” Ada asked, her voice pitying.

 

“Remember? How could I remember? I wasn’t even there.” He felt confused, but scared.

 

“Yes, you were. I saw you come in. Your father had me pinned against the refrigerator. You took the pan from the kitchen table and you . . . you–”

 

“No!” Natalie screamed.

 

“Yes,” Ada said, her chin going up. She looked her granddaughter in the eye. “Your father did it.” She paused dramatically. “Now, do you think we should have your father move somewhere else, miss?”

 

The look of confusion on Natalie’s face mirrored Frank’s inner feelings.

 

“I feel for Edmund as you do for your father,” Ada continued.

“You must learn to see all sides of a story.”

 

“But, Mother,” Frank said, slowly. He seemed to be having some difficulty breathing.   “I don’t remember this at all.”

 

“Of course not,” Ada said, her tone weary.   She glared at Natalie. “I said that to make a point. You were right the first time, Frank.” She turned to look at him, the little smile back. “I did it.”

 

Natalie gasped and sank back down into her chair.   Frank couldn’t stop staring at his mother.

 

“Back then,” Ada went on, “the term battered women hadn’t been invented. They would have sent me to prison. After it happened, I called Edmund. He talked to the police first and told them he did it. I let him. I was weak, beaten physically and mentally. I let life happen to me, without thought. After Edmund went to prison, I realized I had to do something to make a life for us, for you and me. And so I did.”

 

Frank felt as if he had just run uphill. He stood at the top now, looking over the precipice. His mother, not Edmund, murdered his father. If she had, he immediately forgave and understood her actions of so many years ago. How could he do less? He had forgiven Edmund.

 

“Why are you so hard on Natalie?” he asked.   “Why did you let her think, for even a second, that I did it?”

 

“Because she’s so much like I was years ago. It frightens me how alike. I married your father against my parent’s wishes. If it hadn’t been for their leaving me and Edmund the farm after that terrible train wreck, you and I would have been in very bad straits.”

 

Frank looked at his daughter who wore a stunned expression, then turned to his mother. “You really did it? Not me?   Not Edmund?”

 

“Yes,” she said, getting up from the table, clearing dishes.

 

“Then,” Natalie said, “Edmund should move back into the family home instead of living in the barn.”

 

“Perhaps I should move out there?” Ada asked, her mouth twisting into an odd smile.

 

“No, oh, no,” Natalie said.

 

“Edmund made his choices years ago,” Ada said.   “I think we should respect those choices and leave things as they are.”

 

Frank watched his daughter’s eyes grow wide with understanding. He thought she’d be slow to judge from now on. He looked at Ada. Gratitude washed over him that she was his mother. Somehow she had transformed a terrible thing into a learning experience for Natalie.

 

His heart gave a little jump. When his mother had talked about his killing his father, it had seemed so possible. He had hated him, after all, for hitting his mother. By the age of thirteen, he had it figured out, and he could remember the long- ago feelings of impotent hate and rage. The same feelings aroused in Edmund, no doubt.

 

His mother had always liked to tease. With a start, he saw her watching him, and he realized she also liked secrets.

 

So, he wondered, who really murdered his father?

 

Then with startling clarity, he remembered.   As usual, his mother had told bits and pieces of the story. He had been there, in the kitchen doorway, unable to move, and seen his father beating his mother. When he was done, he turned away and Ada had taken the fry pan and smashed it over his father’s head.

 

Frank had run then, as he wanted to do now. He needed to get out of the kitchen, out of the house! He rose abruptly, making his chair rock on its back legs. He caught his mother’s eye, and he saw her realization that he had finally remembered everything. He knew it had been easier for him to believe it was Edmund who killed his father.

 

As he left the house and walked in the opposite direction of the barn, Frank ignored his daughter’s voice calling him back.

 

He put up his collar against the wind and walked away, knowing he would go back, but not for awhile. Not for awhile.

The End

In the dingy stairwell, Gold passed defendants waiting for their names to be called by the court officer behind the door, so that they could step into the courtroom and stand before the Judge with their lawyer, to either plead guilty or get a new date to return to court.

On the landing at the top of the stairs, Gold showed a correction officer, sitting at a desk, his attorney identification card. He passed through a door, down a walkway, past open holding cells filled with defendants waiting to be called to court. This walkway led to an open receiving area, where waiting prisoners, chained together, had been brought up in an elevator from the garage of the courthouse. Converted school busses with wire-meshed windows brought them there from Rikers Island.

 

“Who do you need counselor?” Another c.o. asked him.

“Sean Ferris.”

“Sign the book.”

In a ledger book Gold signed his name under the column for attorneys and printed the name of Sean Ferris under the column for defendants.

 

The c.o. called out in the maze of pens.

“Ferris, Sean.”

“Yo,”

“I’ll bring him to you.”

Gold went down another hall into the attorney conference area. The correction officer led Sean through the door on the opposite side.   Gold and Sean were separated by a plexi glass window.

Sean Ferris had black hair cut in a buzz with empty blue, blue eyes. He had a thick neck with an Adam’s apple that stuck out and went up and down when he swallowed. There was a deep scar under his chin and another one that you could see through the hair on his close-cropped head.

“You look good Sean.”

Right after he had been arrested, Sean was thin and unkempt from living in the street and smoking crack.

 

“Yeah I been eating pretty good and working out everyday.”

 

“I wanted to let you know that the clerk called to start the trial on Monday.”

 

“Am I going to see the Judge today?”

“No. I just brought you in for a counsel visit.”

“How does it look?”

Gold took Sean’s file out of his briefcase. “It doesn’t look good. Your fingerprints are all over that apartment.”

 

“That was ‘cause she used to let me sleep on her couch.”

 

“They have witnesses who saw you arguing with her before …”

 

“Sure we argued. Jenny and me knew each other since we were little kids. She’d always argue with me about the crack-to get into a program and stop ruining my life.”

 

“You had her credit cards on you Sean.”

“She was dead when I got there, an’ I took her wallet because I was going to sell the credit cards to buy crack.”

 

“I’d like to try and get you a plea.”

“I don’t want a plea.”

“You know the DA could ask the Judge to find special circumstances and you could get the death penalty.”

 

Sean’s Adam’s apple rose as he swallowed.

 

“I didn’t kill her. How could I kill Jenny? She fed me after my mother threw me out.”

 

Gold could see that he wasn’t getting anywhere. He saw the Judge’s order in the file.

 

“Did they take blood from you?”

“Yeah at Rikers.”

“It was a Court order.”

“Why do they want my blood? I didn’t bleed or anything like that.”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe they want to do a DNA comparison. They always do it in murder cases.”

“Please Gold, try for me.”

“I’m trying. I’m just not getting anywhere.” Gold rose and prepared to leave. “This weekend, when I’m preparing for trial, I’ll go over your whole file again, and I’ll go back to her apartment, the crime scene and see if there’s anything I missed.”

 

“Will you let me know if you come up with anything?”

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

Gold left the Courthouse with the crowd of attorneys, clerks, court officers, cops and defendants for the 1:00 o’clock lunch break. Most of the snow had melted. What remained had turned to brown slush and thick puddles around the curb. As he waited with the crowd to cross at the corner of 161^st and Grand Concourse, bone chilling wind gusts formed an arctic funnel shaped by the surrounding buildings. Gold hunched his shoulders and stepped back to avoid the wake of spraying slush from the gypsy cabs and buses. The light changed, and as he attempted to hurdle it, Gold misjudged the breadth of the ice puddle, and his left shoe landed in the water. The toes on his left foot became wet and cold. He muttered curses. There were rows of storefront law offices lining both sides of 161^st Street.   Clients shopped the block for the lawyer that gave them the best price. Gold rented a desk in a storefront on Sheridan. His landlord was Feldman, an old lawyer from Poland with tattooed blue numbers from Auschwitz, faded with age, inscribed on his arm. Through the courthouse grapevine, Gold learned that Feldman had hooks with hospitals, police stations and clinics throughout the Bronx. Runners on payroll steered big personal injury cases to Feldman who referred them out to the City’s richest plaintiffs’ attorneys for a percentage of the multi-million dollar recoveries. After his divorce, Gold moved into his parents’ apartment on Pelham Parkway. Nathan and Esther had retired to Boynton Beach.   On the weekends, Gold stayed with his girlfriend Celeste Santiago in her tiny one bedroom on the upper east side.

 

Gold reached the corner of Sheridan and 161^st. He made a left on Sheridan and headed towards the office. On the tinted front window the faded gold letters, which spelled ‘Law Office’ were nearly indiscernible. Sheila, the raspy voiced chain-smoking secretary, buzzed him in. She looked up from her newspaper and nodded. On her desk there was a smoke-eating machine next to her computer. The desk behind hers belonged to Gold. In the back was Feldman’s glass partitioned office. For lunch Feldman went to the Greek’s around the corner. In the back there was a large table where some of the Judges and other old timers from the court ate. The potpourri aroma from Feldman’s pipe tobacco lingered. From his desk, Gold looked over Sheila’s shoulder at the paper.

 

“Do you mind not breathing down my neck?” Sheila turned to him.

 

“If you want I’ll give you a quarter so you can buy your own Post.”

 

Reluctantly, Gold took Sean’s file from his briefcase. Again he went through the DD-5s prepared by the Detectives. The medical examiner’s report had the cause of death as manual asphyxiation. In the photos Jenny lay askew on her apartment floor with angry red marks and bruises around her neck. The blood vessels in and around her lifeless eyes had burst. She was a petite, pretty, strawberry blond.

 

The Super, a large, robust Irishman, let Gold into the lobby of the apartment building where Jenny Coughlin had lived.

 

“You’re the lawyer for Sean?” He asked Gold in his brogue.

 

“Yes I am.”

The Super had a beer gut that hung over the front of his workpants, and he towered over Gold. “I recognized you from the last time you came to look at the apartment.   It hasn’t changed.”

 

“Can I take one more look at it?”

“Why not? I guess you’re just trying to do your job and defend that good for nothing bastard.” The building was a walkup. The lobby, with its black and white tiled floor, had just been mopped and it smelled of ammonia. Gold followed the Super’s broad back up the three flights of spotless marble stairs. “Everybody deserves a defense, isn’t that what they say. Jenny was too nice, that was her problem. She should never have given Sean a thing. The first time she helped him, that was the end for her.   Sean kept coming around.   Sometimes, she wasn’t home, I would have to tell him to get lost.” The Super was winded and flushed when they reached the landing for the third floor.   There were four steel doors painted green leading to four apartments on each floor. The door that led to Jenny Coughlin’s apartment had yellow police tape crisscrossed in an ‘X’ across the front. He fumbled with his key ring, mumbling curses, as he tried a number of keys before one fit and he was able to turn the lock. The door stuck for an instant until he pushed against it, and it gave way. “Just shut the door behind you when you leave.”

 

“Thank you,” Gold told him.

The coat closet in the foyer was empty. Gold walked into the living room. Where pictures hung from the wall there remained only holes from the nails that held the frames. There were marks on the floor where her body had been found. The door to the bedroom was closed. Despite the frigid winter, the window in the living room, overlooking the alley below, was pulled wide open. The heat, a hiss of steam from the radiator grill below the window’s ledge, filled the apartment, and Gold removed his overcoat and entered the small eat in kitchen. Everything had been taken out. Why had he come here?

 

Then Gold heard it. It was sobbing coming from the bedroom. At first he thought he was imagining the sounds of the steam.   He was very quiet. Now he was sure it was coming from the bedroom. He walked over to the door that led to the bedroom. It was the muffled sound of a man weeping. Gold pushed open the door. There sitting on the floor of the empty room was Ron Silverman with his legs crossed, his elbows resting on his knees, and the palms of his hands on either side of his face, streaming with tears.

 

“Hey Dave,” Ron greeted him as if they were neighbors meeting in the hall. Ron Silverman was Gold’s supervisor when Gold worked for Legal Aid.

 

“How did you get in here?” Gold asked him.

“I have a key.” Silverman rose.

He reached into his pant’s pocket for a tissue to blow his nose.

 

“I still can’t believe she’s gone. You didn’t know her. She came to Legal Aid after you left. She was someone special.”

 

“No. I didn’t know her.” He wanted to leave, but Silverman continued.

 

“I come here every once in a while since it happened. . .” The tears began again. “I have my nice little supervisor job, my lovely wife, two beautiful girls and a little cape in Legrange. I wanted Jenny. Middle age made me think about what else. And there she was-pretty, radiant Jenny-ready to fight for the rights of the indigent and make a difference. It wasn’t hard to get her to fall for me. Her eyes would light up when I would tell her war stories of all the trials that I had done. One lunch followed another and another that led to an afternoon and then a weekend. I would tell my wife that I was going out of town to recruit at law schools. . .”

 

Why was Silverman telling him all of this?

“… I kept telling her that I was going to leave my wife. She wanted to end it, but I wouldn’t let her. I can’t help feeling that if I wasn’t so selfish this would never have happened.”

 

“It’s not your fault, Ron.” Gold began putting on his coat. “Are you going to be okay?”

 

“I’m fine.”

“I’ve got to get going.” Gold made his way to the front door.

 

“I know you’re defending that animal and I shouldn’t be talking to you, but somebody has to know.” Silverman watched him leave.

 

Celeste had just come from the shower. She smelled like flowers close and against him on the couch. He rubbed her back between the shoulder blades with the tips of his fingers against her soft skin. Gold loved her like this, when she wasn’t Ms. Assistant United States Attorney; too busy to have lunch because she was meeting with the F.B.I. or D.E.A. or A.T.F.; too busy to talk to him on the phone because she was on trial; too busy to see him because she was in a debriefing. It was his day with Celeste all to himself. Sections of the Sunday paper were spread across the coffee table and the remnants of their breakfast wafted from the small kitchen.

 

They went to the bedroom. In their time together each knew what the other liked and what they themselves liked the other to do, so that with passionate purpose their actions and movements were in unison, all in effort to achieve the greatest sustained pleasure, and afterwards satiated they held each other while they listened to the wind off the East River rush through the alleys and shake the window panes.

“Don’t you ever think?” Gold asked almost before he knew what he was saying. He wasn’t sure himself he wanted her this way.

Celeste knew from the way the words sounded, but she asked. “Do I ever think what?”

 

“You know,” he said gently.

It was heartless to continue to play dumb.

“Don’t you like it the way it is now?”

“I do,” he told her. “All week I look forward to it.”

“Me too,” she smiled. “When I’m having a particularly bad day, I think of Sundays with you.”

 

“What about the rest of the week?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think about that.”

“Why not?”

“It confuses me.”

“It makes me feel bad that it makes you feel that way. I just wondered if it crossed your mind.”

 

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for it. Some women just don’t have the maternal instinct.   Maybe because I was brought up surrounded with all these kids, brothers, sisters, cousins, nephews and me babysitting, mothering because I was the oldest that now I don’t want to. Maybe that’s me? I don’t know David. I know one thing, that you are dear to my heart and that I love you.”

 

“I don’t ever want to lose it.”

 

“Well then why can’t we leave it as things are.   You know what they say?”

 

“If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” Gold finished the sentence for her.

 

They lay quietly in the bed. The late winter sunlight in the west was blocked by all the buildings and it grew dark. Gold listened to her steady, even breathing as she napped against him. He thought about tomorrow and Sean’s trial.

 

In the morning Celeste hardly spoke as she dressed for work and Gold stood next to her in the bathroom sharing the mirror.   Celeste tried not to show that she was irritated. That was why he didn’t spend the night on Sunday because it interfered with Celeste’s transformation from her weekend romantic self to her weekday business self.

 

At the station she ran to the arriving subway on the downtown platform.

 

“I’ll speak to you later,” Gold called after her.

A little girl wedged against her mother in the throng met his gaze. With each stop the crowd in the car swelled. With her big brown eyes nearly covered by a woolen hat, she held her mother’s hand, unfazed; unabashed, as if she could read his thoughts, the little girl continued to catch Gold’s eye on the ride up to Yankee Stadium.

 

In the hall of the fifth floor of the Bronx Supreme Court building, David Gold watched the wide body of Frank Latella limp towards him. After Latella had played linebacker for Hofstra, he had had a tryout with the Giants, before blowing out his knee.

 

“I need to talk to you Dave,”

Latella’s arms stretched his suit jacket, and his neck was too thick for the top button of his shirt collar to close.

“Yeah, me too, “ Gold told him.

“You first,” Latella said.

They walked over to the area by the elevators, where there were windows that overlooked the alley below.

 

“Did you know about Ron Silverman and Jenny? There might be other suspects who had motive …”

 

“Dave don’t even go there because you’re wasting your time. I know about Ron and Jenny, and about Ron stepping out on his wife. We got the results on the DNA of the skin taken from underneath Jenny’s fingernails, and it matches Sean 100%. He’s going down on this.”

 

“Nobody mentioned any scratch marks on Sean when he was arrested.”

 

“Because he was arrested a couple of weeks after the murder, and the marks had healed by then.” Latella paused. “Dave I’m giving you a heads up that the bosses upstairs want to fry this kid. I’m saying they’re talking about this as a death penalty case. Jenny was the best and brightest of the Bronx and this animal snuffed her out for nothing.”

 

“I’ve tried talking to him about a plea, but it’s like in one ear out the other.”

 

“Talk to Sean and tell him he’s going to get the needle. Find out if he knows something. If he can give something that I can go back to the bosses with to convince them not to go special circumstances.”

 

“Like what?”

“Maybe he knows something about a body? You know what I’m saying Dave. You and me we know each other for a long time. Talk to this kid and get back to me. I’ll see you in court.”

 

Gold sat across from Sean Ferris, on the other side of the plexiglass window.

 

“What wrong Gold? You don’t look good.”

“I got bad news for you Sean.”

“What is it?”

“They’re going to try to give you the death penalty.”
Sean’s Adam’s apple went up and down.

“Why?”

“Because you killed that girl.”

“I told you I didn’t kill her.”

“Come on Sean, they found your skin underneath her nails. The reason they took blood from you was because they wanted to match your DNA to the DNA of the skin underneath her nails, and it matched 100%.”
“I didn’t have any scratches on my face when they arrested me.”

 

“Because they didn’t catch you until a couple of weeks after it happened, and the scratches healed.”
“DNA don’t mean shit. Maybe they made a mistake and mixed up my DNA with someone else’s.”

 

“Come on Sean, you know that didn’t happen.”

“If they give me the needle it’s going to kill my mother.”

“The DA wants to know if you have any other information that can help them in other cases.”

 

“Like what?”

“Like maybe, you know, about somebody getting murdered or robbed or something that the DA can go back to his boss with to make them not make this a death penalty case.”

 

“I don’t know anything like that. I’m just a crackhead.”

 

“Think Sean. Maybe you overheard someone talking about something, or you saw something happen?”

 

“I use to pitch vials for these Dominicans over on University. Maybe I could give them the spot?”

 

“Were was this?”

“Over on University and 175^th.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, a couple of months ago, a year ago. I’m really not sure. I only did it a couple of times. I use to come in the morning and get some cracks to sell for them on the street. Once I sold my supply they would give a vial or two for my head. The area was too hot and me being a big white boy I stood out like sore thumb. I got busted by the TNT. I didn’t go back. These people scared me-I heard they killed people and stuff. It was too freaky.”

 

“Did you ever see them kill anyone?”

“No.”

“It’s not enough Sean.”

The c.o. came and got them. The Judge wanted to call the case before lunch. In the empty courtroom, Latella and the Judge waited.   Sean sat at the table with the Court Officers sitting behind him while Gold and Latella talked with the Judge at the bench.

 

“Frank he has nothing to give.”

“If he pleads to the murder right now, I won’t object to the Judge giving him 25 to life. If he doesn’t, we’re going death penalty.”

 

“Let me talk to him.” Gold walked over to the table. “If you plead guilty right now they won’t go for the needle.”

 

“What will sentence be?”

“25 to life.”

“What the hell, let’s get it over with.”

“You Honor, my client has authorized me to enter a plea of guilty to Murder in the Second Degree,” Gold told the Judge.

 

The Judge went through the usual colloquy with Sean about how he didn’t have to plead guilty, and about how Sean didn’t have to prove his innocence, but the DA had to prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt before a Jury of 12 people or a Judge sitting alone, and was he pleading guilty because he was guilty, and by pleading guilty he was giving up all constitutional rights an accused has and on and on. Words Gold had heard many times. Then the Judge asked Sean to tell him what he did.

 

“I was very bad up for the crack, Judge, and I knew Jenny. Sometimes she would give me a couple of bucks. That night, I went to her house, and she let me in. I asked her to help me out and she said no, that she wasn’t going to help me support my habit anymore. That it was over, that she didn’t want me coming around anymore. I begged her to please help me out this one time, and she said no, to leave and that I was a crackhead, and to just leave her alone. That’s when I got real mad, and I choked her and took her purse.” Sean told the Judge in a matter of fact tone.

 

“Did you know what you were doing?” the Judge asked him.

 

“Yes.”

When they brought Sean up to the Pens, Gold turned to Latella as they left the courtroom.

 

“Was your office going to for the needle?”

“Probably not. Jenny’s mom asked us not to.”

“Why did you tell me that you were?”

“Because it helped save the tax payer’s money by not having to go through a 3 week trial to convict that animal. That’s why.”

 

They were back in the hall by the elevators and there was nothing Gold could think of to say.

The End

Alice sensed a presence before she heard the noise.     A soft tread followed by the squeak of floorboards. She sat up in bed and strained to listen.

 

Many of the locals believed the house was haunted.   She didn’t believe in the supernatural.   The house was two hundred years old and groaned and squeaked at all hours of the day or night.   Alice was sure this was the case now, and she tried to relax.

 

Then she heard it again. This time it seemed to come from the foot of the stairs. She pulled the blanket up around her neck and pushed her back against the headboard. Her heartbeat quickened.

 

She struggled to stay calm. It was only the old house groaning in the night. No need to panic. There was nothing to be afraid of out here in the country. People here never bothered to lock their doors at night, or so she was told. She relaxed, and lay back down.

 

The stair creaked. There were several squeaky treads on the old staircase. Alice could tell from the sound which tread was squeaking. The noise she heard was from the second step.   Someone was on the stairs!

 

She wanted to call out to Trent, but he was away.   And it was because of Trent .that she was here in this godforsaken place. Now, when she needed him most, he was nowhere around.

 

Staying in the old mansion was not Alice’s idea. She had not wanted to come to the country home where Trent had been born and raised. But she went because it meant so much to Trent. She had been raised in the city where there were people all around. And lights. And activity. The idea of being isolated in a Victorian mansion, long deserted, with no other houses around for at least a mile did not appeal to her in the slightest.

 

Trent had managed to find the owner of the house—a retired business tycoon who never lived in it—and convinced him to let him stay in the place for the summer.   The old man thought it odd, but relented when Trent had told him that he was from the Maynard family, who had owned it thirty years before.

 

“You’ll love it, Alice,” Trent said as they motored east on the Long Island freeway.

 

Alice made an attempt to reply with something approaching acceptance, but she could only manage a grunt. Trent was too busy thinking about the adventure to notice.

 

“God, it was a wonderful place for a boy to grow up.”

 

“But you’re not a boy anymore, Trent. You’re forty-five years old.”

 

“There’s still a boy in me. And he’s straining to get out and run through the meadow. And dip his toes in the lake. And climb the old oak tree at the edge of the woods.” Trent’s eyes had a faraway look in them.

 

“And remember. This will do you a world of good as well. The doctor said rest and relaxation is the best thing for your heart.”

.

Alice stiffened. She resented Trent’s remark. Yes, she had suffered from a heart attack three months ago. And she had to stay quiet for awhile to give her heart a chance to heal. But having Trent use it as an excuse to indulge his fantasy was not fair. She was still a young woman. She could recover without spending a summer in the country, away from friends.

 

“This isn’t about me,” she said.

 

“I know, Honey. I know.   But it will be good for you.”

 

Watching him carefully, Alice felt herself relaxing. This meant so much to him. How could she deny him? It would only be for a summer, and if she got too lonely, she could always take the train into the city for the weekend.   Besides, there was nothing she could do about it at this late date. She would make the best of it.   And, she thought, maybe it would be good for their marriage which had been a little rocky lately. The usual complaint—infidelity—and the usual contrition.   But the hurt remained and Alice needed a break from the routine to put it behind her. Trent assured her it was over, and coming out here to the country away from the temptation was in some measure his way of convincing her.   Irene, the “other woman”, would not be around to come between them. Alice leaned back, closed her eyes, and listened to the hum of the car as it sped along the highway.   Yes, she would make the best of it if it meant saving her marriage.

 

That was a month ago. Alice had slowly become used to the old creaky mansion with its ancient plumbing, inadequate electric wiring and a heating system that produced more noise than heat.

 

Still she hated it. The gloomy rooms with high ceilings and squeaking floors depressed her. The master bedroom at the head of the stairs was damp and dark, with a four poster bed that belonged in a horror movie. The cold wooden floors were worn and rough.   The tiny window was barely large enough to let in a few rays of morning sun.

 

It was here in the master bedroom where Alice was trying to sleep when the noises occurred. She was alone in the house. Trent had gone on a fishing trip and would be away overnight. She had objected to this, but Trent had gone anyway, indulging another boyhood activity.

 

Another creak on the stairway. Alice’s fright turned to panic. She wanted to run, to hide. But she couldn’t leave the bedroom without being seen by whoever was out there.     She tightened her grip on the blanket, a reassuring if futile gesture. It offered nothing in the way of protection.

 

The squeaking tread was the tenth one. There were eighteen steps on the old winding staircase. She waited for the thirteenth, a chirping, almost musical sound. Now it became the sound of impending doom

 

Who was there? And what did he want? She had very little money and no jewelry to offer. She had left all of her valuables in the city.

 

The creak of the thirteenth step sent a chill down her spine and she gasped for breath. Her heart, still weak from her attack, beat furiously. The pounding in her temples was almost unbearable. Frozen with fright, Alice pushed harder against the wall.   She looked frantically about the darkened room, hoping to find something she could use for a weapon. A few small perfume bottles on the dresser and a book on the nightstand were the closest things to weapons in the room.

 

The closet!   She could hide in the closet. Of course the intruder would be certain

to look there if he was searching for Alice. But in her state of mind any hiding place was better than the bed.

 

She threw the covers aside and ran to the closet. Closing the door silently, she cowered in the corner, hiding behind the clothes. She was certain the intruder could hear her beating heart. And she was afraid, too, that in its weakened condition her heart would fail.

 

She strained to listen. The sound of footsteps, heavy and slow, reached her through the closed door. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them to her with trembling hands.

 

The footsteps grew louder, a slow, ominous tread on the thin carpet. Alice pressed her trembling body harder against the rear wall, hiding as best she could behind the clothes. She wanted to cry out, to scream. But she forced herself to remain quiet, hoping that the intruder, whoever it was, would take what he came for and leave.

 

Suddenly the door to the closet swung open. A silhouette, large and indescribably threatening, loomed in the doorway.

 

Alice put a fist to her mouth, bit into her knuckles and screamed. She threw her legs out in front of her, landing a blow with her foot to the knee of her attacker. He grunted and reached out, holding her leg in a strong, hard grip that sent a wave of pain through her body. She flailed wildly. Her fingers raked the skin of the man’s arm. He stepped back, still holding her leg, and dragged her from the closet.   Her weakened heart was racing furiously, threatening to burst through her chest. She struck out once again and her fingers ripped through the flesh of her attacker’s left arm. He flinched, dropped her leg and took both of her arms in a fierce unyielding grip.   She screamed again, louder than before.   Then, her weakened heart unable to withstand the fright and rush of adrenaline, stopped beating.

 

The figure stood over her body for several seconds. The silence of the room was broken by the brush of a branch across the small window.

 

Finally, the figure knelt down and put his head against Alice’s chest, listening for a heartbeat. He cradled her lifeless body in his arms, lifted her from the floor and put her on the bed. No longer moving stealthily, the figure hurried to the bathroom, soaked a washcloth in hot water and returned to the bedroom. He scrubbed Alice’s right hand, making certain that any trace of blood from the scratching was removed from her hand and under her fingernails. He dabbed the washcloth on his arm where ugly scratches were oozing blood. Then, covering her with a blanket, her head on the pillow, her arms at her side, the figure stepped back and studied her carefully. She looked peacefully asleep.   Satisfied that everything was in order, he closed the closet door, took a final look around the room, and left.

 

Somewhere in the night an owl hooted.

 

*                                   *                                   *

 

“Heart attack, I’m certain,” the small man said. His sad eyes and downturned mouth were fitting characteristics for his profession—coroner of the township of Ardmore. He straightened up, mopped a bead of sweat from his forehead and turned to Trent. “We’ll perform an autopsy, of course. It’s the law in a situation like this. But given her history…” he paused, letting the sentence finish itself.

 

Trent was the picture of despair, sitting on the tattered sofa in the living room, his red rimmed eyes staring straight ahead. He gave no indication that he had heard the man. A uniformed officer stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a shock of gray hair protruding from under his cap. Only his eyes moved, silently surveying the room. Two white coated men appeared carrying a stretcher. They disappeared up the stairway while Trent watched with vacant eyes.

 

The coroner turned to the police officer. “As soon as my men deliver the body I’ll be out of here. No need to intrude on Mister Maynard any further.”     He mopped his forehead again, gave an almost imperceptible nod to Trent, and started for the door.

 

“Again, my condolences,” he said.

 

Trent stared at the floor. “It’s all my fault,” he said. “I never should have left her alone. I could have gotten her medical aid if only…”

 

“I think not,” the coroner said. “From all appearances she died peacefully in her sleep. She had made no effort to get up. You would have never been aware that she was having an attack.” He placed a hand on Trent’s shoulder and patted it sympathetically.

 

“Do you think so?” Trent said.   “I hope you’re right. I could never forgive myself otherwise.”

 

“Sir?” one of the white coated men called from the head of the stairs. “Would you come up here, please?”

 

The coroner looked from the stairway to Trent, shrugged and went upstairs.

 

Trent watched the little man with a worried frown. He paced back and forth in front of the sofa, stopping from time to time to glance at the stairway.

 

Finally the coroner emerged and descended the stairs. The sympathy that had filled his eyes was gone, replaced by a dark thoughtful look.

 

“Troubling,” he said.

 

“What do you mean?” Trent asked.   “What’s the matter?”

 

The coroner didn’t answer. He pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket and scribbled a few notes with the stub of a pencil. Putting it back in his pocket, he looked to Trent.

 

“Your wife apparently was in a sort of struggle recently. There are bruises on her   legs and arms, probably from being held forcibly.”

 

“Bruises?” Trent said dully. “I don’t understand. How can that be?”

 

“There’s more,” the coroner said. “Her right hand had been washed, but not her left. Isn’t that a bit odd? Who washes only one hand?”

 

Trent stared at the coroner, but said nothing.

 

“Her left hand has traces of fabric on it. I believe it is from the carpet in the bedroom. We’ll have to have it analyzed, of course.”

 

“But…” Trent started.

 

“And one more thing,” the coroner went on. “There are drops of blood on the sheet, but there are no cuts on the deceased.”   He jotted another note, then looked at Trent. “I decided to investigate a little further. I found a few more drops of blood on the floor in front of the closet.   New blood, not more than a few hours old.” He closed the notebook and slipped it in his back pocket. “It seems as though someone was here last night, in the bedroom, struggling with your wife. I’m certain of it.”

 

Trent sat down hard. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Who would want to kill her?

We don’t even know anyone around here.”

 

“Anyone from the city who might have followed you?”

 

Trent shook his head. “There has to be some mistake. She had a bad heart. Everyone who knew her was aware of that. She died in her sleep. I can’t believe she was murdered.”

 

The coroner studied Trent carefully, his fingers playing a tattoo on the coffee table. He shook his head and sighed. “Oh, the cause of death was heart failure, I’m sure. That will be substantiated by the autopsy. But the heart attack was brought about by a terrifying experience.   She was literally scared to death.”

 

Trent twisted in his chair. “There has to be some mistake.”

 

“No.   No mistake. She was attacked and the trauma killed her.” He watched while the two men carried the stretcher from the house, the body covered with a white sheet. Trent, standing next to the coroner, let a sob escape from his lips and put a hand to his forehead.

 

“Scared to death,” the coroner repeated, shaking his head. “No weapon. Just fear. The perfect crime. Unless, of course, the victim fights back.”

 

He looked at Trent intently, his eyes narrowed to slits.

 

“There will be an investigation, of course, since foul play is almost certainly involved.”   He turned away, a sardonic smile on his lips. “If I were you, Mister Maynard, I would hire a good lawyer.” He nodded in Trent’s direction. “You would want someone competent enough to explain the scratches on your arm.”

 

Trent’s eyes widened and he instinctively touched his left arm. “How do you know that?” he said. “I have a long sleeve shirt on.”

 

The coroner nodded. “Yes, you do. And in this heat.” He took out his handkerchief and mopped perspiration from his forehead.     “Besides,” he added, “there’s a trace of blood on the sleeve. Scratches often bleed for hours. You should probably get some medical attention. After you retain a lawyer, of course.”   He shook his head. “Naturally, the DNA from the blood we found will be pretty convincing. Modern forensics makes it difficult for the criminal these days. I’d get a good lawyer, a very good lawyer.” Placing his hand to his forehead in a mock salute, he stepped outside.

The End

Sharp edges of sawgrass raked my fingers as I parted the long

fronds. A brightness winked in the center of the clump. My breath

caught on the sudden lump in my throat as I reached for it. My

finger tip had almost touched the shiny thing when a half-second

burst of police siren split the humid air and I jerked back. I leaned back over the grass, but the glint of metal had disappeared. I leaped to my feet and shook my fist at the blue and white cruiser. The driver’s side door was open and Detective Sloan’s long frame unfolded as he stepped to the ground. He stood with arms folded across his chest.

 

“Find something, Cora?”

 

“Why’d you blow that damn siren? You made me lose it.” I didn’t

give him time to answer, just stooped back down, yanking at the

sawgrass.

 

“Give it up, Cora, you won’t find that key.”

 

“What else do I have to do? I’ll find it.” I kept pulling grass

clumps apart. Something in there had reflected the hot Florida

sunlight. But a dark bank of clouds had moved over the sun and a

stiff breeze was beginning to whip the grass and palmetto fronds.

Damn Sloan and his siren.

 

“Come on, Cora. I’ll give you a lift back to the trailer park. A

downpour’s coming.”

 

I looked up at the sky again. The stacked storm clouds in the

western sky bore out his words. I pulled a green painted dowel

from my backpack and stuck it in the sand next to the clump of

grass where I’d seen something shining. When I walked toward

the police car, Sloan was staring across the canal, like he

hadn’t seen me put the dowel in the ground. Illegal to put

anything in the median, but Sloan always looked the other way.

The downpour started before he dropped me at the Golden Years

Mobile Home Park, a tacky mid‑Florida retirement community. My

double‑wide occupied a narrow, noisy lot on the street side. The

place was a far cry from the neat frame bungalow I’d shared with

Duke back in Stonesboro, Tennessee. God, was it just over a year

ago Duke died? The truck motor he was working on fell and crushed

 

his chest when the hoist failed. Left me nothin but the bungalow,

a beat up Honda, and his antique ’57 Chevy.

 

I hung my wet clothes over the shower curtain in the bath room

and pulled on a blue flower print cotton muu muu. On the coffee

table in the living room, my unfinished Solitaire game waited. I

sat on the couch and turned over a card. Queen of Diamonds, yeah,

that’s me. Till I sold my five carat diamond ring to buy this

dump. Jack of Clubs. That’d be Kinny, stole my fortune, slitherin

snake in the grass. Shoulda been more careful. Shoulda suspected

he was up to something. Watchin, pretendin to be glad for me. I

coulda been sittin pretty if I used a little common sense.

 

It started in South Carolina, first time I entered the ’57 Chevy

in a show. I’d tracked down Kinny Loest, Duke’s old mechanic and

rollback driver, to transport the Chevy. Didn’t even place, but

it was fun. Leaving Columbia I stopped in a convenience store for

a beer. When I saw the lottery logo, I thought what the heck, why

not contribute a few bucks to South Carolina kids’ education.

Needed some more numbers, already done anniversaries, phone

numbers, birthdays. I happened to have the paper I wrote the

Chevy’s mileage on after the show, used those numbers.

 

Damn if that ticket didn’t win me two hundred grand a couple

nights later. I was sittin on the sofa back home when them

numbers come down and I about peed my pants. Next day I

hightailed it over the mountain on I‑26 and back down to Columbia

to pick up the check.

 

With that windfall I figured maybe I should enter the car in

another show or two. So I hired Kinny to take the ’57 to Little

Rock to the Razorback Road Show.

 

I followed the rollback west along I‑40, catching glimpses of

country roads between wide green horse pastures. The white paint

on their connecting fences glowed in the sunlight. Between

Nashville and Memphis, my Honda began running a little hot, so I

signaled Kinny and pulled off at the next exit. Paying for the

antifreeze, I picked up a few lottery tickets, using the same

odometer numbers I’d used before for one of them. That damn

ticket didn’t win a dime. Of course, none of the others I bought

at the same time did either.

 

The car placed 2nd in the Razorback though, with a $1000 prize,

so I got my expenses back. By now, I was kinda hooked on car

shows. So I signed up for the West Virginia Mountain Vintage Show

scheduled for the next month.

 

I used the next four weeks to clean and rub ten coats of high

gloss on that old car and polished the chrome till it gleamed

like lights was glowing through it. Even found an original rear

view mirror to replace the reproduction piece Duke had put on

her.

 

My Honda’s engine blew a gasket the day before the Mountain

Vintage so I rode up with Kinny in the cab of the rollback. US 23

took us through the mountainous corner of Kentucky this time,

then we hit the West Virginia Turnpike. Whoever dreamed up the

idea of running a freeway along the tops of mountains must’ve

been crazy. But the view over treetops and ridges folded against

each other was spectacular.

 

After we exited the turnpike it was a different story. The last

few miles was on a curving state road with some mean switchbacks.

I was scared the ’57 was gonna come right off that rollback.

 

“Just think, Kinny. That turnpike didn’t exist when the Chevy was

built and folks drove ’em in these mountains. Reckon it would

still do it?”

 

“Hell, yeah. You gonna let me drive her this time, Cora?”

 

“No way. In these shows I’m Cinderella and that sharp, black ’57

is my coach with silver triangles on the sides.”

 

“Antique cars is a man’s game.”

 

“Says who? This baby belongs to me now. I’m drivin her.”

 

Men. Duke Muler never let me even ride with him in the ’57. After all the mending and gluing I done, not to mention calling all over the country to find original parts.

 

Kinny scowled at the steering wheel and jerked us around a

vicious zigzag in the road. Was the damn fool trying to lose my

Chevy? He moped along for the next twenty miles without a word.

 

“Okay.” I finally told him. “You can ride with me down the

winner’s strip. If I win anything.”

 

“You will.” He brightened a little.

 

Next morning we settled in them original leather seats I’d

sweated over with special cleaners and softeners. I’d put a big

towel on the passenger side to make sure Kinny didn’t get no

 

grease stain on the leather. We tooled along that hilly

Parkersburg street after taking second place again. The judges

claimed the tires wasn’t just right. I wrote the specs down after

I collected my prize money and left the show office.

 

Noticing a State Lottery billboard, I remembered I hadn’t bought

any tickets. I walked across the street to where the rollback was

parked at a Shell service center/food shop. I climbed up to get

the mileage off the ’57’s odometer. Kinny came around the end of

the rollback bed as I stepped down to the asphalt.

 

“Just checkin the chains.” I waved and went on to the store

entrance and inside.

 

We didn’t plan on going back to Tennessee til next day, so I

watched the balls drop on the TV in my motel room. At midnight, I

became a millionairess. My ticket with the odometer numbers took

the three million dollar West Virginia State Lottery jackpot. I

beat my pillow and put my face in it and whooped and hollered. I

didn’t get much sleep.

 

After that win I had my sights set on some really big money, the

Southeast MultiCombo. Ten southern states participated in it and

the pot was up to 30 million dollars. If nobody hit it this week

or next it would probably hit 50 million. I’d just have to cross

my fingers and hope nobody took that pile of dough in the next

fourteen days. I’d entered the ’57 in the Suwanee River Classic

in Florida two weeks after the Mountain Vintage.

 

I was beginning to get an idea how this odometer deal worked.

When I used the numbers before a show, the ticket didn’t win. But

when I used the reading after I drove the ’57 in a winners’

rally, the ticket won. Only trouble was, the MultiCombo drawing

was the same day as the car show. And the show organizers didn’t

announce the show winners until late in the afternoon. I’d have

to hustle to buy my ticket before ticket sales were closed.

Assuming, of course, that my car would be in the winners’ parade

on that palm lined Suwanee Main Street.

 

Next morning, Sunday, we sailed through the clouds along the

Turnpike again, but I was flying even higher. Kinny looked over

at me. “Man, Cora. Taking second place again was good, but you’re

acting plumb intense. What’s going on?”

 

“Winning even second place excites me, Kinny.”

 

“You act like you won the lottery.” I could tell he didn’t

 

believe that, but his forehead was all screwed up like he was

trying to figure something out. “You did have a hand full of

tickets when you come out of the store last night.”

 

“Easy come, easy go.” I decided I better try to come down to

earth a little. Kinny’d probably claim he deserved a part of my

winnings since he brought me and the car to West Virginia.

 

Monday I rented a car, drove myself back to Parkersburg, and

presented my winning ticket. The TV and other reporters was

covering it, of course, so I knew Kinny would know about my

riches before long.

 

Afterward I went on a shopping spree. First stop was the best

jewelry store in town. Duke never even bought me a gold wedding

band when I married him. The owner pulled out an estate five

carat marquise diamond ring and I had to have it. Then to the

local BMW dealership. I bought a sporty red convertible on the

spot. Kinny’s rollback cruised across them Turnpike mountain

tops, but that little red car soared all the way back to

Tennessee.

 

Satellites beam electrons even faster and news of my good fortune

got home before I did. Cops, Kinny, and about half the population

of Stonesboro was in front of my house when I drove up.

 

Kinny and the cops helped me push through and get one of the

double garage doors up and the BMW inside. The ’57 Chevy, canvas

covered, occupied half of the garage, good thing the Honda was in

the shop. We went in the kitchen. I dropped in a chair, laid my

hands on the table, and tried to catch my breath.

 

Kinny leaned against the door, arms folded, glaring at me. “You

coulda told me.”

 

I ignored his tone. “There’s a bottle of Jack in the car. If

you’ll get it, we’ll celebrate.”

 

“Liquor, cars, and rings. You tryin to spend it all at once?”

 

“Mine to spend. Okay, I’ll get the Jack.” I started to get up,

but he pushed away from the door and opened it.

 

I hadn’t eat anything since breakfast and I don’t drink much plus

I’d just driven four hundred miles so the Jack hit me good.

Either Kinny could hold his liquor, or he wasn’t matching my

shots. He seemed cold sober as we toasted my luck and I gabbed

 

about what I could do with all that money.

 

“Gone win that Su‑Suwaneeeee car show in Florida.” I raised my

glass again.

 

“God, Cora. You must be drunk. Thinkin about enterin more car

shows.”

 

“Got ta win ‑ ” My words trailed off and my memory with them.

He must have guided me to the couch when I passed out. When I

woke up, fully clothed, thank God, he was gone and my head felt

like maybe my new convertible was sitting on top of it. What had

I told him? I knew I talked about the car show in Suwanee. Did I

tell him how I got the winning numbers? About the MultiCombo? Why

did I have to act like a damn fool?

 

I managed to get to the bathroom before my stomach decided it

didn’t want the Jack anymore. I laid on the bed for hours with a

wet washrag on my head. When the phone wouldn’t stop, I cut the

ringer off. Late in the afternoon as I was finally gettin some

tomato juice to stay down, somebody banged on the door.

 

“Cora? Cora? You all right?” Kinny hollered through the little

window.

 

I opened the door. People were still hanging around outside so I

pulled him inside and closed it. “Yeah. Am I supposed to thank

you for not taking advantage of me when I was drunk?”

 

The look on his face before he turned away didn’t flatter me, but

I let it pass. I needed to know what I’d told him last night.

 

I led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

 

“Sure.”

 

I got down a mug. “So what did I babble about while I was in my

cups?”

 

“Ah, you said something about you was still gonna drive the ’57

in the Suwanee show. I figured it was the Jack.”

 

“Nope. I am goin’ down for the show. Can’t let a little money

change my life.” I tried for a real serious look.

 

“Guess you’ll be gettin’ somebody with a fancy car hauler to take

the car down though.” He gave me a hard look, then seemed to

 

remember he ought to look disappointed and his expression

softened.

 

“I said I couldn’t let a little money change my life. Sure I

still want you to haul my car, Kinny.” If I’d been half smart I

would have done just what he said.

 

We touched up and polished every inch of the ’57, including

underneath, for the next couple of weeks. I held my breath each

time the MultiCombo numbers were drawn. Nobody won. The week of

the show, it had reached sixty‑six million dollars.

 

The day before the show, we left Stonesboro, cut across the

Carolinas and hit I‑95. I had the top down on my BMW, a silk

scarf holding my new frosted hair out of my eyes. I tried to

decide if I needed an Infiniti more than the most expensive

Winnebago. Ah, I’d just get both. Kinny was a few miles behind me

with the ’57 Chevy, my passport to any cars, condos, and cruises

I desired.

 

Signs beckoned as I passed exits to resort cities I’d never seen,

Charleston, Hilton Head, Kiowa Island. I could almost smell the

salt water breeze off the ocean and taste the shrimp cocktails. I

promised myself I’d return to sample all the delights each place

offered. Savannah I promised to come back to for a month or more.

Finally I crossed into Florida and then reached I‑10, turning

west. I checked with Kinny on the cell phone and he was still

close behind.

 

Traffic thickened as I‑10 approached the north‑south corridor of

I‑75. I hoped Kinny was taking no chances with the rollback and

my ’57. Finally reaching Suwanee I pulled into our motel parking

lot. The heat and humidity were fierce so I waited in the lobby

and watched the street.

 

Thirty minutes later, to my relief, Kinny pulled the rollback

through to the truck parking area. Several newer model trucks,

some with open rollback beds and some attached to closed

trailers, already occupied the lot.

 

I had to keep Kinny thinking the well‑being of the ’57 was my

main concern, so I walked out to check under its canvas cover.

“Any trouble?”

 

“We checked in yet? My damn air conditioner quit working a

hundred miles back.”

 

 

I handed him the key to his room. “I’m goin’ to the show office.

Call your room when I get back.”

 

I registered, signed the credit card slip for the entry fee, and

got the Chevy’s spot location for the show. For once I wished the

show was over so I could buy my MultiCombo ticket. Win, lose, or

draw in the car show, I knew I would soon possess more wealth

than I could ever have dreamed.

 

After we took the ’57 over to the show site, I took Kinny to

dinner in the motel restaurant, then both went to our rooms. A

long relaxing bath soaked out the muscle stiffness from my long

drive. I dried off, pulled on soft linen pajamas, and wandered to

the window. Kinny had moved the rollback to the space where he’d

first parked, right next to the exit. Another truck occupied it

when we came back from the show site and he swore. He must have

watched and when the other truck was moved, he went out and

shifted the rollback to the space again. Funny.

 

Fixated on the millions I already considered mine, I hardly heard

when the show MC announced my ’57 Chevy took the Suwanee Classic

Grand Prize next day. I drove it at the head of the parade of

winners and wondered why Kinny hadn’t insisted on being there.

Arriving back at the show grounds, the promoters posed with us

for pictures, then swept me into the office for more PR crap. A

little while later I caught sight of a clock, seven‑thirty.

MultiCombo ticket sales stopped at nine o’clock. I broke away and

hurried to my car’s show slot. It was empty.

 

“Where the hell is my car?” Participants and fans milling around

nearby cars jerked their heads up.

 

“I said, where the hell is my car?” I glared around the circle of

confused faces.

 

“Uh, uh. Your rollback driver just picked it up and drove off.” A

woman standing next to a purple ’49 Ford Coupe spoke up.

 

“Why didn’t somebody stop him?” I yelled.

 

“He was your driver. Figured you knew.” The woman seemed to be

the only one willing, or brave enough, to answer me.

 

By then more people were crowding around. A news photographer

came out of the office and started snapping more pictures.

Somebody drove me to the motel. Neither Kinny’s truck or my ’57

Chevy was in the parking lot. No one had seen him or the truck

 

leave.

 

“Guess you better call the police.” The young desk clerk didn’t

sound too happy about the prospect.

 

I looked at my watch. Nearly eight o’clock. What chance was there

the police could find my car before nine o’clock? Slim to none, I

figured. How could Kinny do this to me? Why? He couldn’t show the

car or sell it. Especially now, after it was the Grand Prize

winner in this show.

 

That fact also puzzled Police Detective Sloan, who had dark half

moons under his brown eyes. But he put out an APB on Kinny and

the car. “He won’t get far. Maybe he’s pulling a prank on you.”

 

I gave him a picture of Kinny, the rollback, and my ’57 Chevy,

then went up to my room and sat cross‑legged on my bed. Night

darkened the window, then sporadic lightning flashes lit it. When

my bladder insisted on a trip to the bathroom I turned on the

bedside lamp. I saw the time on my travel clock, nearly midnight.

Picking up the remote, I turned on the television set as the

MultiCombo balls started dropping into their slots. I jabbed the

TV off and threw the remote across the room.

 

After a sleepless night, I called the police at six am. There was

no word on my car. All day I paced my room and called down

tribulation and torment on Kinny. Around noon the desk clerk, an

older graying woman, brought coffee and a stale cinnamon roll on

a paper plate. She also brought management’s regrets and hoped I

wouldn’t blame them, since my car had not been stolen while on

motel property.

 

A long day and night later, and still no sleep, I tripped over

the covers trailing on the floor as I left my bed . A

complimentary newspaper was halfway under the door. The picture

on the front page told me all I needed to know. It showed Kinny

standing with the Florida Lottery Commission Chairman. Each held

one end of a blown up image of a check in the amount of forty

million dollars. The s.o.b. took the cash option, just like I had

intended to do.

 

“I’ll find you, Kinny. I will find you.”

 

But he dropped out of sight, along with my ’57 Chevy, after

making financial arrangements with the lottery commission. A year

passed and the police didn’t find him. Neither did the army of

private detectives I hired using my West Virginia lottery

 

winnings, the five thousand dollar grand prize money, and finally

funds from the sale of my Stonesboro house.

 

I still had my diamond ring and BMW. I decided to sell them and

buy this double wide and stay in Florida. I had nothing left back

in Tennessee anyway.

 

My doorbell rang one day, interrupting my Solitaire game as I

laid down the Ace of Spades. I went to open the door. Detective

Sloan stood on my front step.

 

“Good to see you, Cora.” He stooped as he came through the

doorway.

 

“Detective. Have you found my car? Chop shop?” I wasn’t about to

get my hopes up. I got over that sudden riches dream months ago.

Swore off buying lottery tickets forever.

 

“Not a chop shop.” He waited until I went back to the sofa before

he took a seat.

 

I picked up my Solitaire cards and shuffled. “Well?”

 

“We found Kinny. And your car.”

 

In spite of myself, my breathing quickened. “And?”

 

“He drove the ’57 down the Tamiani. Fast.”

 

“Fool. He knew it wasn’t built for turnpike speeds.” I slammed

the cards down on the table.

 

“Yes.” Sloan said. “He’s done other reckless things in the last

year, we learned. Bungee jumped into shark infested water. Drugs.

He lost control, crossed the median, car rolled several times.

Dead at the scene.”

 

I tried to find some regret, not much there. “My car?”

 

“Pretty much totaled. There was a letter to you in his pocket.”

 

He handed the envelope to me. It had a dark stain on one end. I

tried not to think what it might be. I pulled out a piece of

paper with Kinny’s all but illegible handwriting on one side.

With some effort I read it.

 

Cora, I’m sorry I took your car. The magic didn’t work for me.

 

I’ll give it back after this one ride down the Trail. I want you

to know I had a lawyer write me a will. There’s still a lot of

the money left. If anything happens to me, it goes to you. The

will and bank papers is in a safe deposit box. The box key will

be in the car. Kinny

 

My heart slammed against my chest wall. I raised my head and

looked a question at Sloan.

 

He shook his head. “We didn’t find the key.”

 

“You looked for it?” I could hardly get the words out.

 

“Yes. It must have fallen out of his pocket or the car when it

rolled. If it was really there. Probably never be found.”

 

“Tell me exactly where he rolled my car. I’ll find that key,

however long it takes.”

 

He told me it wasn’t possible, said the State Police would arrest

me if they caught me walking in the median. But I’ve been going

over that quarter mile of sand, sawgrass, and palmetto bushes for

two months now. In his spare time, Sloan checks out banks,

showing Kinny’s picture. I’ll find the key and Sloan will find

the right bank, then I’ll have the riches that Kinny stole from

me.

The End

I hate retirees. It’s not politically correct to say that, but they’re everywhere these days, with nothing better to do than stick their noses into your business. Their importance to the world waned after the party, the card signed by everyone at the office, and the gift certificate for dinner for two at Applebee’s. Now they’re way too interested in what other people are doing, and that’s a real pain if you’re the object of attention.

 

Tuesday was damp. It wasn’t raining when I got out of my car, but the pavement was puddled and the air felt soggy, like walking through a sponge. As I started up the steps of the impressive building where Carmon Verillon lived, a man in a wheelchair exited the building, taking a sharp right and heading for the federally required handicap accessible ramp. He stopped and turned rather bulgy eyes to me, a scowl letting me know that if I intended to pity him, there was no need to. I’d had no such intention.

 

After a few seconds he said in a bossy tone, “Don’t trust her. She’s incapable of telling the truth, and she won’t unless you trick her into it.” One doesn’t discuss business such as mine on the sidewalk, no matter how much one might want to know how this guy knew my purpose there. With no sign that I’d heard him, I walked on. The chair whirred down the ramp, trailing behind it a tall man and a pretty young woman, probably relatives. Stopping inside the entryway, I watched them cross the street and disappear around a corner, wondering what that had all been about.

 

It had to be mistaken identity, but it was odd that his comment could apply to my meeting with Carmon Verillon. Maybe she had lied to Farnman and Becker, but I had no way of knowing that. Yet.

 

“You’re the detective?” The woman’s face was incredulous as she stared through the two inch gap she’d opened the door. I’m used to being dismissed on first sight. Who pictures a private investigator almost as wide as she is tall with pale red hair that refuses anything like style and a face downright forgettable? Actually, that quick dismissal of my unassuming exterior causes people to underestimate me, which is good.

 

“You retained Farnman and Becker Investigations to look into your husband’s disappearance?” I could see little except her doubtful expression as she thought about it.

 

Okay, to repeat: I’m not impressive to look at. My idea of a balanced diet is what I call Fifty-Fifty. At times I live on celery and bottled water for days, even weeks. The other fifty percent of my life is devoted to candy bars, caramel corn, and Blizzards. The operating theory is that the days of celery will at some point balance the days of hedonism, and I’ll reach an ideal weight. So far the theory is still being tested, but when it works, I’ll make a gazillion dollars on the paperback sales.

The woman did that vertical mine-sweep thing with her eyes. “The agency sent a man out this morning.”

 

“Right. Mr. Becker sent me to do the follow up.” I waited while she chewed that over. I doubted very much that Bernie Becker would feel the need to inform his client of the specifics of his day-to-day operations. I went on in an encouraging tone, tossing in my best self-effacing smile. “I need some details for my part, which is the records search. The partners do the interesting stuff while I go through tons of records, but it’s necessary if we’re going to find out what happened to your husband.”

 

Mrs. Verillon made a decision and opened the door, revealing a well-kept forty-something woman who spent her days matching her clothes to her toe polish. The place could have been used to stage a revival of Hello, Dolly. The staircase was perfect for the star’s big entrance in the final scene and the room at the bottom big enough for plenty of boy dancers. Mrs. Verillon led me to a posh arrangement set off in a corner where I didn’t feel quite so overwhelmed, and we sat on matching white sofas that made me hope I hadn’t carried in remnants of the two candy bars I’d eaten in the car on the way over.

 

I refused her perfunctory offer of something to drink and got down to business, hoping to learn what I needed to know quickly and get out of there. Verillon had gone away on a business trip, saying he’d return on Tuesday the sixth. On the seventh she’d been mildly worried when he hadn’t called. Contact with his hotel in Atlanta had revealed that he’d checked out on schedule. From there he simply vanished from sight. He’d failed to make his return flight to Tampa, failed to contact his work, his home, or any of his friends. It had now been two weeks.

“The police down there made inquiries, of course,” she told me, running a slim hand along the couch back nervously as she spoke. “They found nothing. No cab or limo driver remembers picking him up at the hotel. The clerk noticed nothing unusual, and he was alone. It’s as if he walked out of the Marriott and into a black hole.”

 

“Interesting.” I watched the lady twist and untwist an honest-to-goodness cloth hanky. She was nervous, and it wasn’t simply worry about her husband. Remembering the man in the wheelchair on the street, I wondered if he’d made me paranoid or alerted me to a real attempt on Mrs. Verillon’s part to hide something. “Has your husband ever been missing before, maybe come back late with a fishy explanation?”

“Never. I have always been kept informed of Martin’s whereabouts. Always.” Her tone indicated that subject was not open for further discussion. After clearing up a few last points I rose to leave, noting that whereas my khaki, elastic-waist pants were hopelessly pleated in the front from sitting, Carmon looked fresh out of the bandbox. How do women like her do that?

 

“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Verillon,” I said, wondering whether to shake hands. I decided not. “We’ll contact you if there’s anything else we need.”

 

As I left the house and headed for my car, a man approached who was even more rumpled than I. His overcoat must have been stuffed in the trunk of his vehicle for a week to get it into that shape and condition. He waved an unlit cigar to hail me as I unlocked the door of my ‘96 Grand Am. “I really like your car.”

 

I snorted in disbelief. It’s been a while since anyone admired The Blue Beast, which has had a few altercations with lampposts and parking lot pillars. “Thanks.”

 

“You lookin’ into Mr. V’s disappearance?” He managed to insinuate himself between me and my car so that I would have had to shove him out of the way to get in. The guy was shorter than me, which is to say he was short, with a goofy-looking face. Not unfriendly, not homely, just different.

 

“And your right to know my business would come from where?” I said grumpily. I’d used up today’s ration of politeness on Carmon Verillon.

 

My new friend was instantaneously apologetic. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to interfere.” He shuffled back, bowing politely toward my car. I got in and reached for the handle, but suddenly the little geek was in the way again, between me and the door.

 

“Do you mind? I’ve got things to do.”

 

“Oh, right, right. You have to start looking for Mr. Verillon. I suppose you’ll be talking to Anita Botelli.”

 

“Who?” I immediately regretted it, because he smiled knowingly. “The mistress. Isn’t that what detectives do, cherchez la femme?” He chuckled, sending a gush of stale breath into my face. “Didn’t know about her, huh?”

 

“Look, who are you and what is your connection with this?” The man irritated me for no reason that I could pin down.

 

Once again he backed away, palms raised. “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business. I should just go and let you get on with your work. I’m sure you’re a very busy person.”

 

I stopped for a moment. “Anita Botelli?”

 

“Right,” he said, nodding like a bobble-head doll. “She lives in Plant City, but you probably already knew that. I’ll just get out of your way.” He made exaggerated movements that took him out of the path my car would take to exit the parking spot. Starting the engine with only two tries, I backed out.

 

Suddenly he was behind me, and I hit the brakes sharply. Opening the door (the window doesn’t roll down since I sideswiped the telephone pole), I glared at him. “Just one more thing,” he said, holding up a finger to reinforce his words. “Anita will say she never heard of Martin Verillon. Try the name Mark Vernon. Of course you would have found that out on your own. I’ll stop bothering you now.” This time he really did.

 

Anita Botelli was much less suspicious than Mrs. Verillon, opening her door before I even knocked. “I’m so glad to see you!” she gushed, pulling me inside like I might run the other way if she let go. I followed her inside an apartment decorated in I-have-money-but-no-taste style. She was very, very cute, and so was the dog on the couch that wagged pretty much all of itself to let her know he’d missed her for the last thirty seconds. “Please, sit.” She did as she indicated, and I’ve seldom seen someone do it better.

 

“Now, you do speak English, don’t you?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Her smile vanished. “Oh, damn. I specifically asked the agency to send someone with good English skills. When I saw that you aren’t Hispanic, I was hopeful.”

 

I got it. “Look, I’m not applying to be your maid, housekeeper, or nanny. I’m looking into the disappearance of Martin Verillon. You may know him as Mark Vernon.”

 

The woman bubbled like an uncapped soda for a few seconds. “What do you mean, Martin Whatever? Mark is Mark. He’s out of the country on business right now and unable to contact me, but when he’s saved up enough money we’re going to be married. He got this place, let me decorate it, and–” Anita ran out of carbonation as the enormity of my information penetrated. I handed her a photocopy of Verillon’s driver’s license, which she frowned at myopically. Too vain to wear glasses.

 

“I’m sorry, Miss Botelli, but you’ve been operating under a misapprehension.” Actually, I wasn’t that sorry for a bimbo who didn’t know enough to check up on a guy who had to have been absent for long, unexplained stretches. That should have sent up all sorts of warning flags, unless you couldn’t see the flags for the cash. I explained that Mark Vernon was really Martin Verillon, who’d gone missing.

 

She didn’t know whether to be worried or angry, but she settled on the latter. “That snake!” Chewing a fingernail savagely she asked, “So his wife hired you to find Mark, I mean Martin?”

 

“She hired my firm.”

 

Anita leaned toward me in a conspirator’s pose. “Tell you what. If you find him, I’ll give you a thousand dollars to call me first. All I need is an address.”

It was an interesting proposition, but I made no promises. I could see that Miss Botelli was angry enough to kill Martin/Mark. Was she aware of her man’s double life and acting surprised to appear innocent? I asked a few more questions and left a number to call if she remembered anything helpful.

 

I rode down in the elevator with a sweet-faced older woman, stylishly dressed with short, gray-blonde hair. She was apparently quite a traveler, mentioning New York, Lisbon, and Khartoum to the bespectacled young man beside her almost before the doors closed. As the car descended she turned to me and asked pointedly, “Was your visit successful?”

 

That seemed pretty nosy to me. “I guess so,” I muttered, gazing at the numbers as they lit up over the doorway. It’s how people in elevators avoid talking to other people in elevators, but it didn’t work this time.

 

“You really are wasting your time with Anita. She’s a dead end. You should speak with Martin’s business partner, Albert O’Reilly.”

 

Was “Looking for Martin Verillon” painted on my forehead? The woman smiled and patted my arm. “I’m sure you’ll figure things out. I was telling Gordie here only a few minutes ago that you seem like a very capable young woman.” As she exited the elevator I got a gentle but firm reminder. “Don’t forget, Albert O’Reilly!”

 

A little research located Verillon’s business partner at a sidewalk café in the trendy part of the city. O’Reilly sat with several other Garfield look-alikes, and eyebrows rose when I parked my rust-bucket across the street and approached their table. I couldn’t hold their reaction against them: probably involuntary for men wearing suits worth more than the car.

 

When I asked if I could speak to him about his partner’s disappearance, O’Reilly chuckled. “Disappearance is a bit strong to describe a couple weeks’ vacation, isn’t it?”

 

“You believe Mr. Verillon is just taking some time off?” O’Reilly exchanged knowing grins with his companions. “I don’t want to be harsh, but Mrs. Verillon can be a bit…wearing on a man’s nerves, if you get my drift.”

 

“He’s done this before?”

 

The guy considered how much truth to tell. “Not for this long, but he has done some little side-trips after business was completed, if you see where I’m going.”

 

“So his wife might think a trip was a week when it was really three days.”

 

O’Reilly chortled into his martini. “What the little lady doesn’t know can’t hurt him, if you see where I’m going.”

 

“But you always knew about it before this time?”

 

“I knew the generalities of the situation. Now Carmon is concerned, but she isn’t a patient woman, if you take my–”

 

“I take your meaning.” In fact I was sick to death of him, his meaning, his drift, et cetera, et cetera. I left the four men looking parched enough to expire if the waiter didn’t bring more martinis ASAP.

 

A man slouched casually against the building wall as I passed. “Not much help, huh?” Seldom addressed by good-looking strangers, even old ones, I gave the guy a once-over. Wearing dark slacks, a tie-less dark shirt, and a tweed blazer, he was just above medium height and slim with dark, slightly curly hair and a slightly fatigued but still impudent expression, as if everything bad that could happen to him had already. Like other old folks I’d met today, this one had advice. “Talk to Verillon’s secretary.”

 

“Why should I?” I couldn’t help the sarcasm in my tone.

 

His look said he was determined to try even if he was getting nowhere. “She knows more than she’s telling.”

 

“The secretary. Is she having an affair with Verillon too?”

 

His brown eyes turned humorous and his mouth twitched with a tiny smile. “She’s Martin’s illegitimate daughter. But he doesn’t know that.”

Emily Cummings was one of those girls with a face that screams wholesomeness: scrubbed, shiny, and pert–all the things I’m not. When confronted with the facts of her parentage, she tearfully told me the whole story: how she’d discovered her identity when her mother died, how she’d taken a job in her father’s office to find out what kind of a man he was, and how she’d finagled her way to Verillon’s personal assistant.   She’d used surprisingly sneaky maneuvers for a Sandra Dee look-alike, including bribing the former P.A. to take a job elsewhere.

 

“She wasn’t that hard to convince. Mr. Verillon is difficult to work for.”

 

“Mr. Verillon?” I asked skeptically.

 

Emily blushed. “I make myself think of him that way so I don’t slip up and say, ‘Dad’ or ‘my father’ by accident.” She sniffed. “I was going to tell him soon.”

 

“Does that mean you had decided he’s worthy?”

 

The sarcasm escaped her, and Emily considered the question seriously. “It has nothing to do with worthiness.” Neatly plucked eyebrows almost met in the frown that formed. “He has faults, lots of them, but he is my father. I wanted to be certain, and now I am.”

 

“You checked his DNA.”

 

She shrugged. “It’s the modern way. I couldn’t just approach him with the letter my mother left behind. I had to have proof.”

 

I saw where she was going. “He has no other heirs.”

 

“Well, no.” She had the grace to blush.

 

“So you’d inherit everything.”

 

“That wasn’t it, at least not all of it.” The girl was honest, even with herself. “He left my mother alone to raise me, and I never had the advantages I would have had if he’d taken responsibility. But I didn’t do it to punish him. I thought if he got to know me, he’d be happy to have a daughter. It’s not likely he’ll have another.”

 

I didn’t voice my thought that men like Verillon scatter their seed like blue jays at a bird feeder. “And now he’s gone missing.”

 

Emily looked frightened. “I wouldn’t do anything to him. If I were the type to plot, I’d have waited until it was out in the open that I’m his child, wouldn’t I?”

 

She was right that it would have been best if Verillon had acknowledged her, maybe even written her into his will. But what if she’d revealed her identity and he told her to get lost? The man was the type who might disinherit his own daughter, and if that had happened, she’d be better off with a dead Daddy and her DNA evidence to get her a share of the estate.

 

Just then an obvious throat-clearing made us turn, and in the doorway stood a man in the kind of white cotton suit you usually only see in ads for chicken franchises. He had soft, snowy-white hair, a stoop that minimized his lanky height, and a grin as wide as my–well, he was grinning.

 

“Ladies, I’m really sorry to horn in. I can see you’re having a good old heart-to-heart talk, but I wonder could you tell me where the men’s room is on this floor.”

 

Emily, one of those innately polite people who jump at the chance to be useful to strangers, said, “It’s down the hall and to the right.”

 

The old guy looked inordinately pleased to hear it, bringing to my mind commercials for enlarged prostate medications. With effusive thanks he shuffled off, white pants bagging in the rear in true old-man style.

 

I finished with Emily, whom I judged incapable of murder, physically or emotionally. She never said she’d loved her father, but she hadn’t done away with him.

 

As I left the office, the old guy came out of the rest room, an apparent coincidence that I didn’t believe for a minute. “Miss Cummings is innocent,” he said without preamble. “Now the police checked out the car rental agencies in Atlanta, and no one has a record of Verillon renting a car. But what if someone else did?”

 

I rolled my eyes in disgust. “I’m sure someone else rented a car at some point in the city of Atlanta over that three-day period, Genius.”

 

He took no offense, becoming breathless in his eagerness to explain and pointing an arthritic finger at me. “Yes, but what if you show pictures of the major suspects to the worker out in the car lot? It’s possible he saw Verillon get into a car with that person. I bet the killer hoped no one would ever do that. Wouldn’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” I admitted. The clerk at the desk had not seen Verillon, but the worker on the lot might have seen him getting into the car and recall who’d been driving. A call would have to be made to explore that possibility.

 

The old coot was still grinning maniacally, waiting for me to applaud his cleverness. I left him standing there, not about to admit he’d been helpful.

 

Outside the building was one of those lunch wagons that serve the greatest hot dogs in the world. I was hungry, having not eaten for two hours. Lunch first, then the call. I got my dog (with onions-believe me, nobody cares) and a large soda and located a bench where I could enjoy the experience.

 

Because I was focused, I failed to notice the woman until she stopped before me. The first thing I saw of her was the ridiculously high spike heels she wore, the sassiest red imaginable in a shoe. Still chewing the latest bite, I looked up and took in the rest. She was past her prime, but her slim frame could still turn a few heads. Blonde hair pouffed around her face in artful informality, and the red skirt and blazer she wore fit perfectly, although the skirt was too tight and too short for a grandmother.

 

“He left Atlanta with a woman,” she said without preamble. “Ask about women between twenty and thirty-five who paid cash and traveled south with a handsome older man.”

 

I’d had it with interference from the geriatric gallery. “Listen, lady. Move your ancient bones on down the street.” The look she threw me was meant to be steely, but she didn’t have the eyes for it. She did leave, though, and I finished lunch with a slurp. I’ve never liked skinny women much, and skinny old women are just too much to take.

My car had warmed in the hot sun, making it agony to touch anything plastic or metal, which was everything. I called the car rental desk at Atlanta’s William B. Hartsfield International Airport. A young woman recalled renting a late model Pontiac Bonneville SSE on the sixth of June to a youngish woman who paid in cash. I asked to speak to the person who would have actually handed the car over to her.

 

The guy was young judging from his voice and the slangy way he answered with “Yep” and “Nope”. He said the woman had driven off with a man who was either her father or her uncle. “Maybe they were lovers,” I suggested.

 

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “I mean, not to be harsh, but she wasn’t in his league at all. If a guy like that wanted to run around, he could have done a lot better.”

“Thanks for the information and the commentary.” As I replaced the phone, a couple came toward the car, peering in to see if it was inhabited. They were obviously man and wife of long standing, but physically they struck an odd note. He was very tall, and she fairly short, giving them a Mutt and Jeff look. They were both attractive, though. He stood straight despite his advanced age. She was much younger but still had forty years on me. Her eyes were large and luminous, and she gestured extravagantly as she spoke to her husband, who was much more serene: calm face, calm eyes under straight hair heavily salted with white.

 

The woman lunged toward me like a guided missile, reaching into the car, grabbing my hand, and leaning in earnestly. “I’m so glad we caught you before you left.” Her voice was clear and commanding. “We need to talk.”

 

“I don’t think so,” I sneered. If the window hadn’t been broken, I would have rolled it up in her face. More antique advice? Forget it.

 

“Listen,” the husband tried. “We can help you if you’ll just–”

“No, you listen,” I said, keeping my voice low but giving him no chance to finish. “I have things to do, and I don’t want help. So beat it, okay?” Pushing the woman’s hand away, I started the car and drove off, leaving her looking up at Hubby questioningly as he scowled after me.

 

I drove around for a while, wondering what to do next. My heart had started to pound in that way that tells you things aren’t right. The evidence was piling up, and although it was unlikely that Martin’s body would ever be found in that Florida swamp, what had happened to him would be reconstructed.

 

An hour later I parked my car in the long-term lot at Tampa International and took a small case out of the trunk. Walking quickly toward the terminal with my head down, I didn’t see them until it was too late. They stood before me like a bad remake: The Retired Magnificent Seven. The man in the wheelchair, the Sexy Senior in the red heels, the scruffy guy in the trench coat, the woman from the elevator, the cuddly husband and wife, and the Southern Fried Fogey. As I might have guessed, the old lady acted as spokesman. With a school-teacherish tightness to her lips she asked, “Did you really think you’d get away with it?” At least we were getting right to the point.

 

“He was dirt.”

 

“Doesn’t give you the right to kill him.” This was the guy with the Firebird, a real do-gooder, all black and white.

 

“He cheated on his wife. He cheated on all his women, including my mother. She died waiting for “Marty” to come back to her, to acknowledge me and make things right. She was so sure that it would happen. But I did my research and knew he was a louse. All I wanted was a start, a little money to help me with the debts Mom left. But when I told him I was his daughter, he couldn’t hide his disgust.”

 

“He rejected you.” This was Wifey, whose brown eyes showed pity that made me want to slap her. She was old, she was useless, and she felt sorry for me?

 

“Did he know about Emily, his other daughter?” Hubby asked.

 

“No. He didn’t want me,” I said bitterly, “but I figured he would feel differently about cute little Emily.”

 

“And she was about to reveal who she was.” The Southern Gentleman drawled. “You couldn’t afford to let him return from Atlanta.”

 

“So you killed him,” Trench Coat Man might have been looking at me; it was hard to tell.

 

“He was easy. I talked him into driving me to Tallahassee, told him I’d never bother him again if he did.”

 

“And he bought it?”

 

“People tend to underestimate me,” I said, defensive and yet proud, too.

 

“We almost did,” Red Suit admitted. “Only by putting everything we knew together did we figure it out. You weren’t investigating Verillon’s disappearance, you were making sure nobody knew anything that could trip you up.”

 

“And nobody important was,” I snarled. “Just an over-the-hill group of Centrum Psychics.”

 

Trench Coat gave me a crooked smile. “I can’t speak for the rest, and I’m kinda slow sometimes, but one thing I learned in my lifetime: you can’t stop exercising your brain, gotta keep it sharp.” He indicated the group with a wave of the still-unlit cigar. “We’re not spring chickens any more, but personally, I think we did okay.”

 

Evidently the presiding officer at my trial agreed with them. A curly-haired giant who should have retired years ago, Judge Hardcore (or something like that) showed no sign of mellowing with age when he declared me guilty and sentenced me to life in prison.

 

Like I said before, I hate retirees.

The End

He could feel their eyes studying him as he walked across the room. Clearing his throat nervously, he tightened his grip on his briefcase and made his way to his usual seat at the conference table.

 

Not one to enjoy scrutiny of any kind, Mark Walters knew he was the object of their pity.   They had obviously heard about Joe’s condition.

 

“Sorry to hear about your son, Mark,” his boss said in the deep, throaty voice Mark had come to despise.

 

He nodded his head in acknowledgement and wordlessly opened the folder sitting on the table in front of him.

 

“How’s the donor situation looking right now?” the annoying voice continued, making it painfully obvious that Mark was going to have to volunteer some information.

 

“Joe is top on the list for a heart,” Mark responded, looking slowly into the eyes of each of his co-workers before resting helplessly on his friend, Bob. “We just have to sit back and wait for a suitable donor.”

 

“What do they need for a match?” Bob Simon leaned forward in his chair.

 

“Unlike other organ transplants, all we need for a heart transplant is someone with the same blood type and body size as Joe.”

 

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

 

As he waited to see if there would be any further discussion, Mark found himself thinking back over his ten-year career with Bolster Advertising Agency. Having been the unfortunate victim of a layoff at his previous employer, Mark had been relieved at how quickly he had found a new job.   Joe had just been diagnosed with a rare heart condition. The image of standing in an unemployment line when his son needed medical coverage was daunting at best, so when he was offered the job at Bolster, he jumped at the opportunity.

 

Within a few short weeks, Mark became painfully aware of why there was such a high turnover at the ad agency. Tom Bolster, his boss, was a first class loser. The man seemed to take great pride in ridiculing his employees every chance he had. The more public the better. If it hadn’t been for the financial reality of Joe’s condition, Mark would have quit long ago. But he couldn’t. The hospital bills were mounting and his insurance coverage was nearing its cap.

 

His one saving grace at work each day was the quiet friendship he had developed with his co-worker, Bob Simon. Bob was the kind of friend who came along once in a lifetime…thoughtful, compassionate and loyal. They enjoyed the same activities and were built enough alike that they were sometimes mistaken for brothers.

 

“While you were out last week, I got some pamphlets for everyone on organ donation,” Bob said, watching his friend with concern. “I know it won’t help Joe, but I wanted you to know that several of us have signed donor cards so that maybe we can help someone like Joe one day.”

 

Mark could feel his eyes moisten. He looked up at the ceiling quickly as he fought to regain his composure.

 

“Not that I plan to kick the bucket anytime soon…” Tom Bolster chimed in.

 

Bob ignored their boss’s tasteless comment and continued.

 

“Joe is type A positive, isn’t he?”

“Yes he is.” Mark willed himself to stifle his anger toward his boss and concentrate on the touching gesture by his co-workers.

 

“Hell, maybe I shouldn’t have signed that card after all…I’m A positive too,” Tom interjected, slapping Mark on the back.

 

The feel of his boss’s hand caused every muscle in his body to tighten in rage.

 

Who the hell does he think he is?

 

“Okay men, enough of this sissy stuff…let’s get to work,” Tom Bolster said quickly, before launching the first of many embarrassing tirades on the newest employee sitting beside Mark.

 

He stared at the wall clock across from his chair and tried desperately to ignore the rantings of Tom Bolster. The pity Mark felt for the new co-worker was almost overpowering.

 

Get out while you still can, guy…

 

“…oh, and Mark?”

 

Realizing that the object of his anger was addressing him once again, he slowly moved his eyes in the direction of his boss.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I realized last night that I overpaid you on your last bonus check. You owe me two thousand dollars. You can write me a check after the meeting.”

 

*             *         *            *         *

 

Mark pulled the collar of his overcoat around his face and hurried into the parking garage. He was dreading the drive to the hospital. It was so hard to see Joe’s once-athletic body lying in that depressing hospital bed.

 

Irene was constantly at Joe’s side, caring for their son. Mark on the other hand, hated being there…hated the overwhelming helplessness that blanketed him every time he looked at his son.

 

“We’ve just got to find a heart before it’s too late,” Mark said aloud, his voice echoing through the concrete structure.

 

“Keep talking to yourself and people are really gonna think you’re a nut case.”

 

Mark whirled around in his tracks and came face to face with the arrogant, self-absorbed man he had grown to detest more and more with each passing day. The intense rage that enveloped him was overpowering, as he resisted every impulse he had to wipe the smirk off Tom Bolster’s face once and for all. He watched with pure hatred as his boss unlocked his red Porsche with the push of a button and sank into the black leather driver’s seat.

 

Medium size…A positive…

 

Embarrassed by the sinister thoughts that suddenly filled his mind, Mark shook his head quickly as he tried to dislodge the images that flashed before his eyes.

 

“Hey, why don’t you follow me and I’ll buy you a drink…I’m not ready to face another evening at the hospital just yet,” Mark said, surprised at the invitation he heard escaping his own lips. He really was losing it.

 

“You’re on.”

 

Mark slipped into his own four-door family sedan and took a deep breath as he backed out of his parking spot and headed for the exit.

 

Five minutes later, his mind reeling with contradictory emotions, Mark looked into his rearview mirror and waited impatiently for his boss’s car to emerge from the parking garage.

 

Where the hell is he? He was right behind me…

 

He thought about the look in Bob’s face just a moment ago, when he passed him in the parking garage on his way out. Was it his imagination or had the hood of Bob’s car really been propped open?

Damn it!

 

Mark rubbed the palm of his hand across his eyes and tried to relax. The one guy who had been by his side through everything with Joe, and he had blown him off to have a drink with a boss he hates? What the hell was wrong with him these days? He had to get a grip or he was going to be useless to Joe and Irene…

 

But Tom Bolster had pushed his last button. He could barely see straight, let alone think straight. And where the hell was Tom anyway? Surely that pricey piece of metal he was driving could make it around the curves in the parking garage faster then this…

 

Mark checked his rearview mirror again and noticed that the slick red sports car belonging to his boss had finally emerged from the garage.   The dreary cold day had turned into a treacherous night. The icy roads made driving difficult, and Mark grateful for the traction control feature in his car. A secondary look into his rearview mirror indicated that his boss was having difficulty maneuvering on the slippery streets.

 

“So much for those expensive cars,” he mumbled under his breath, adjusting his defroster.

 

Overwhelmed by the total lack of helplessness he felt in his life, coupled with the utter hatred in his heart for the pompous man behind him, Mark took the next curve much quicker that he normally would. As he would expect, his boss did the same.

 

“Not that I plan to kick the bucket anytime soon…maybe I shouldn’t have signed that donor card after all…people are really going to think you’re a nutcase…”

 

Like an old 45 with a skip in it, Mark’s mind replayed his boss’s comments over and over as his earlier rage came back even stronger. Ten years of ridicule, ten years of butt-kissing, ten years of misery was suddenly more than he could bear.

 

Knowing that Tom Bolster could never resist a challenge, Mark headed straight for the curviest road he could think of.

 

“Maybe this S.O.B. can be good for something after all,” Mark said in a near whisper. He stepped on the gas as he rounded a particularly tight curve. He could feel the car slip on the ice-covered roadway beneath him and the traction control kick in once again.

 

Mark watched in his rearview mirror with little emotion as he saw Tom Bolster’s car hit the same patch of ice just seconds later. The red Porsche spun out of control and plunged down a steep ravine.   Mark stopped on the gravel shoulder and climbed out of the car. He looked over the cliff at the mangled sports car below. There was no movement inside.

 

He turned slowly and walked back to his car. He reached for his car phone and calmly dialed 9-1-1.

 

“Yeah…I was just driving down Lake Ridge Drive and I noticed some tire tracks that appear to go down into a ditch…I didn’t see a car but I thought you might want to check it out.”

 

*             *           *             *           *

 

Two hours later, as Mark Walters stepped off the elevator onto the fourth floor he couldn’t help but feel hopeful.

 

Maybe, just maybe.

 

“Mr. Walters, we have been trying to reach you…”

 

“Is everything alright?” Mark searched the nurse’s face for any indication his plan had paid off.

 

“Everything is wonderful. A heart came in for Joe just a little while ago and he is up in surgery right now.”

 

“Thank God. Where’s my wife?”

 

“She’s down there”. The woman gestured toward the waiting room at the end of the hall.

 

Mark quickened his step as he headed toward the tiny room. When he approached the chair where his wife was sitting, he noticed Bob Simon’s wife beside her. He was instantly humbled by the ceaseless support the Simon family had shown them over the years.

 

Irene jumped to her feet when she saw him.

 

“Did you hear the news?”

 

“The nurse just told me.” Mark wrapped his arms around his diminutive wife and lifted her off the ground.   “What great news.”

 

“Shhhh.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Joe’s new heart…”

 

“What about it?”

 

“It came from Bob.”

 

“What are you talking about?” he asked as nausea racked his body.

 

“He was in a car accident after work this evening.   Tom Bolster was driving.”

The End

Alex Peterson swirled his brandy and stared up at the Barrington family portrait. In the portrait, Naomi Barrington sat beside her husband, Henry.   Both of them looked down their aquiline noses at a curly-haired blond girl, about eight years old, dressed in a froth of pink lace, grinning a gap-toothed grin.

 

A flesh-and-blood Naomi waved to Alex from across the room. She was at least ten years older than she had been in the portrait, and thirty pounds heavier. She broke away from a group of guests and took Alex’s arm. She looked up at the portrait. “Cynthia was such a lovely little girl, wasn’t she? I’ve often told Henry that I married him for his daughter. If ever a child needed a mother…” She shook her head. “But now…teenagers!”

 

Alex made a small sound of agreement. He’d never had children and hadn’t wanted them. “I think it’s time for me to leave, my dear. I have early appointments tomorrow morning.”

 

“Oh, already? I’m so glad you came.” She laughed, high and horse-like.

 

Alex set his brandy glass down and patted her plump hand. “Don’t leave your guests. I’ll see myself out.” He kissed Naomi’s powdered cheek and averted his eyes from the sparkling necklace that lay on her heavy bosom. Henry Barrington had been a jeweler by trade, so his skills and Naomi’s money had guaranteed a fabulous collection for the Barringtons. Just the sort of people Alex wanted to know well.

 

Alex moved to the quiet foyer and listened to the muffled voices coming from the ballroom. When he was sure no one had followed him, he slipped down the elegantly paneled hallway to the walk-in linen closet. This was his third party at the Barrington’s. At the first, he’d gotten Naomi’s grand tour of the house.

 

He glanced up and down the deserted hall, took a deep breath, and stepped inside the closet. He pushed himself under the lowest shelf and wrapped his arms around his knees.

 

Confident in his hiding place, Alex drifted into a light doze. He dreamed of the necklace Naomi had worn that night. A sparkling confection of square-cut emeralds and diamonds, it was called Queen’s Ransom. The story that the Barringtons loved to tell their guests was that Marie Antoinette had given it to Naomi’s ancestor in gratitude for a favor. But Alex knew a different version of the story–that Naomi’s ancestor had stolen the necklace from the French queen. Marie’s descendents had been searching for it ever since. And now he, a lowly criminal, had it within his grasp!

 

Alex had spent his earlier years in small-time pursuits–con man, pickpocket, purse-snatcher. He’d even once tried to earn a living honestly. But the life of a gentleman thief, who spent his evenings pandering to the wealthy and his nights plundering their riches, suited him better than any.

 

Hours later, Alex woke stiff and sore. He listened, but the house was quiet as a tomb.   Holding his breath, he opened the closet door and peered out. This was the riskiest part of his plan. If he had been caught going into the closet, he could always claim he was looking for the bathroom. To be caught creeping around a house in the middle of the night would be disastrous. He was trusting that the wine Naomi and Henry had been so free with would keep them soundly asleep.

 

Alex felt his way down the dark hall, his feet silent on the thick carpet. He counted doors and when he got to the fourth, he knew he was at the library.   He slipped inside.

 

Alex flipped on his tiny flashlight and blinked to adjust his eyes. He slid the beam across the room.   He gasped as the light caught the slight, dark figure of a girl standing beside the desk. Then the desk lamp flicked on, bathing the room in sudden light.   His heart trip-hammering in his chest, Alex squinted at the figure standing in front of him. The thin teenager’s hair stood up in tarry black spikes.   Gold hoops ringed one ear and a small skull dangled from her earlobe. A tiny golden barbell was stuck through her plucked eyebrow, and her lower lip boasted a large diamond stud. She wore black leggings on her stick-thin legs and a bulky black jacket swallowed her upper body. She grinned a gap-toothed grin.

 

“You’re Cynthia!” His voice was a surprised whisper.   He thought of the young girl in pink lace and compared her to the creature standing before him.

 

The girl took a step forward and put her hands on her narrow hips. “My friends call me Spike,” she said, her voice low and her head tipped at a cocky angle. When she spoke he thought he saw a gold spike pierced through her tongue. Her black-rimmed eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”

 

Alex gave a low chuckle and tried to sound rueful.   “Well, uh…Spike. I guess I had a little too much to drink. I came upstairs to get my coat after the party and fell asleep in one of the guest rooms.”

 

Spike raised her pierced eyebrow and gave him a withering stare. After a long moment, her hands went to her jacket pockets. “Bullshit!” she hissed.   She withdrew something long and black.

 

Alex’s knees turned to jelly. He didn’t believe in violence–he always made it a point to do his jobs unarmed. But now he pictured his death–or worse, his arrest. Before his heart stopped pounding against his ribs, he saw that what she held was not a gun, but a long black jewel case. She waved it at him. “I think this is what you’re here for. Right?” She opened the box and he stared at green fire and diamonds. This teenager had Queen’s Ransom!

 

Alex’s mind quickly ran through the possible scenarios. He could act innocent and stick with his story while Spike called her parents and then the police. But this girl had the necklace in her pocket, and he was sure her parents didn’t know about that. Some of his confidence came back. He said, “Why do you have it, Spike?” His eyes followed the black box as it went back into her pocket.

 

Spike shrugged. “It’ll be mine someday. Step-mommy-dearest doesn’t wear it very often. She won’t even think about it again for months.” Alex noticed she kept her hand possessively in her pocket. “I just like to borrow a little money on it.   Then I get it back in the safe before she knows it’s gone.”

 

Alex’s throat constricted. “You _pawn_ Queen’s Ransom!”

 

“What’s it to you?” She gave him a speculative look. “What were you going to do with it? You can’t exactly sell it on the open market. Do you have a collector who’s interested?”

 

After a long moment, Alex said, “There is a collector who’s interested. He’s always wanted that piece.”

 

Spike paced up and down the sculpted carpet.   “Tell you what. If your collector really wants it, I’ll sell it to you.”

 

Alex’s heart leaped. This child wanted to make a deal! He tried to remain calm. “But it’s not yours to sell.”

 

She shot him a withering look. “It’s not yours to steal, either. Ten grand.”

 

Ten thousand dollars! Alex’s mind raced. Did she know what this thing was really worth? At least a hundred thousand on the black market. But to a desperate collector, it was priceless.   He hadn’t planned to pay anything, of course, but he might do better to make a deal with the girl.

 

“All right. I need some time to get the money together.”

 

“We’ll meet in a public place in three days, then.   At the City Park, at noon.” She grinned at him. “In front of the monkey bars on the playground.”

 

* * *

 

At the park, Alex was sure that she wouldn’t be there. But as he rounded the corner, there she was, standing out in her spiky hair and bulky black jacket. He sat beside her on the bench and they both stared at people passing by–young lovers, families, workers taking lunch.   “Do you have it?” he asked.

 

Spike nodded. Her thin shoulders were hunched inside the big jacket and she looked small and vulnerable. “Naomi’s gonna suspect me, you know. I ought to charge you more.”

 

Alex looked at her sharply. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”

 

She scowled and shook her head. She slipped her black-tipped nails into the pocket of her jacket and came out with the familiar black box. She held it open so he could see the fiery play of sunlight on the jewels. Beautiful!   He took a jeweler’s monocle out and they hunched together over the box, trying to keep our prying eyes. Alex could smell peppermint and cigarettes on Spike’s breath. The girl kept the box firmly in her grasp while he examined the stones. The piece was perfect, stunning, a collector’s dream.

 

He sat back and reached for the box. “Not yet,” she said, sliding it into her pocket. “Show me the money.”

 

Feeling like a B-movie spy, Alex slid the envelope out of his own pocket and let her peer into it. She nodded and pulled the box from her pocket again, casually slipping it into his hand. To Alex’s right, a purposeful man in a suit approached. Alex put his arm around Spike, pulled her toward him, and hissed, “I think that’s a cop. Pretend you’re my girlfriend.”

 

They sat still for a moment, locked in an embrace. Through her heavy jacket, Alex could feel Spike’s heart beating like a frightened bird. The man passed without looking their way. Spike jerked away. She stood and straightened her clothes.

“Your girlfriend! More like your daughter! Pervert!”

 

Alex held up his hands. “Sorry. I was just being cautious.”

 

They parted and Alex drove to his small, secluded house. He disarmed the burglar alarm, let himself in the back door, and went down the steps to the basement. His house was inconspicuously plain on the outside, but his basement was a shrine to his obsessions. It was paneled in rich wood and carpeted with thick, expensive carpet. The only furnishings were glass cases shimmering with jewels and objets d’art.

 

He went to the display case he had prepared for Queen’s Ransom, fitted the jeweler’s monocle in his eye, and opened the jewel box. The necklace twinkled at him from its bed of black velvet. He examined it carefully through the jeweler’s glass. He stood motionless for a moment, hands shaking. Then he placed the necklace in the case and went to the telephone.

 

He dialed the Barrington’s number from memory.   “You sold me a fake,” he said when Spike answered. “How did you do that? What I saw was the real thing!”

 

Spike laughed. “I did a little switch when I put it back in my pocket. All’s fair, you know?   Besides, my dad worked hard on that copy! It’s worth at least three hundred dollars. Naomi isn’t very generous with her money, so Dad and I have to take care of ourselves. And we’ve only sold a few to interested collectors like you.”

 

Alex was silent. Finally he said, “Well, I can’t go to the police, can I? But Spike? You might find a few slips of green paper buried amongst the money I gave you. All’s fair, right?”

 

“You…” He heard her sputter as he hung up.

 

Alex walked back to the jewel case. “By the way, Spike,” he said to the empty room, “one of my early careers was pickpocket. When you put the real one in your pocket and gave me the fake, it was a piece of cake to switch them back when I grabbed you for a hug.” He admired the green fire for a moment. “My ancestor Marie Antoinette would be proud to have it back in the family!”

The End