A Clause for Murder Read online

  A Clause for Murder

  by

  Jill Shure

  1348 Cassins Street

  Carlsbad, CA 92011

  [email protected]

  Prologue

  On the night Courtney Farrow vanished, I had no alibi. Unless receipts for a double cheese with pepperoni, a pint of rocky road, and a movie rental could prove that I&rsquod been home alone waiting for a phone call that never came. I&rsquod even closed my windows to blot out the fragrant Southern California air. Air which had contributed to my undoing the night before when Ken Blanchard had slipped back into my life and back inside me. Ken Blanchard, the man who&rsquod ruined me for every other man.

  So here I was, a bloated single woman of thirty-two. A castoff cloaked in self-loathing and an old San Diego State T-shirt. My only company was a Barbara Stanwyck classic called Lady of Burlesque. A movie about a murderer who haunts an old theater by strangling the female performers with their own G-strings.

  And at least Stanwyck finally triumphed. By ten that night, she&rsquod not only helped the police capture the murderer, but she and her leading man were about to pick out wedding rings. While I, Betsy Ross, was still willing my phone to ring. Still beating myself up for succumbing to Ken&rsquos bad-boy good looks and seductive charm. So that half of me longed to erase the previous night&rsquos events. While my other half, the area beneath my thong, had a destructive craving to repeat it.

  Ken and I had already shared two years of passion, mistrust, and heartache. Until five months and ten days ago when we&rsquod called it quits. When Ken and I had subdivided our lives forever. Or at least until last night.

  Our breakup had sent me reeling. I&rsquod done everything but join an ashram to erase the pain. I burned Ken&rsquos pictures, returned his gifts&mdashthe cheaper ones&mdashand told my daughter Sofia to never mention his name again. Ever.

  I also saw a shrink, met men on the Internet, and eventually joined a dating service where I met guys so pathetic, so surreal, I considered giving up sex permanently for a large vibrating dildo with music and lights.

  Eventually, I sought out Madame Zadora, aka Lola Vankowski, of Bismarck, Mississippi. She swore&mdashfor twenty bucks&mdashthat she could see my future in my eyes, my palms, and possibly the dirty cabinets beneath my kitchen sink. But in the end she tapped her long red nail on the table where a maze of Tarot cards rested, clamped her brilliant blue eyes on my face, and drawled, &ldquoHoney, I hate to tell you this. But that young man of yours ain&rsquot never gonna marry you.&rdquo Which was pretty much what my mother Ida Ross had been saying for three years.

  Deep down I hoped they were both wrong. But here I was, alone on a Sunday evening, using food for comfort and still hoping my prince would call. Or at least whistle.

  Around the same time I was home pining for Ken, Courtney Farrow, the woman who&rsquod made it her mission in life to seduce every man I&rsquod ever looked at, was supposedly changing a tampon in the john of a sleazy topless bar when someone or something interrupted her. And she disappeared without a trace like some gorgeous but evil apparition. Nobody found her body. Not even her breast implants. Her new BMW was discovered in another part of San Diego County, leaving the police to conclude that something foul had happened to Courtney Farrow.

  But that Sunday night Courtney Farrow&rsquos disappearance hadn&rsquot been discovered yet. It would be days before the facts were released to the public and my life really went to hell.

  1

  It was late August, one of those sticky summer days that makes you despise your hair. If it&rsquos straight, it hangs like limp linguini. If it frizzes, heaven help you. I, Betsy Ross, have combination hair. It&rsquos long and blonde. Some days it frizzes. Others, it hugs my head, flat and lifeless, like today.

  Since my downtown appointment to insure a dental office had ended at noon sharp, I ordered a Reuben sandwich at a nearby deli and found a shady bench. But in minutes the shriek of sirens and the rumble of a growing crowd drew me off that bench. Until I found myself in the middle of a mob staring up at the top of the Westgate Hotel.

  &ldquoLooks like we got another jumper,&rdquo a tough-looking guy in a suit barked into a cell phone. &ldquoSo far, nobody knows who this nutcase is.&rdquo

  Standing behind police barricades with the rest of the curious hordes, I did a double take of the guy hugging a drain pipe. I swallowed a bite of my greasy sandwich and prayed the poor slob didn&rsquot jump.

  First, I like the hotel. The inside is full of tapestries, antique tables, and crystal chandeliers. Plus, my parents Abe and Ida Ross stayed there last fall when they visited me from Toledo. And the hotel has a fabulous Friday night seafood buffet. Mostly, I hoped the guy didn&rsquot jump because he was a client of mine. A new one as of last week. I recognized his balding head, basketball stomach, and scraggly mustache from ten floors down. Dr. Richie Kluger happened to be a leading bio-tech scientist. Not your garden-variety lunatic.

  Without thinking, I tapped the arm of the closest policeman. Turning, the young man in uniform glared down at me. &ldquoBack up, lady.&rdquo

  &ldquoLook, is there any way I can talk to the officer in charge? &rsquoCause I know that guy.&rdquo I pointed to the ledge where Kluger seemed to be inching closer to oblivion.

  The young officer gave me and my conservative gray suit a once-over, then muttered, &ldquoFollow me.&rdquo

  &ldquoSo you know this guy?&rdquo the negotiator with the megaphone said two minutes later, a permanent scowl on his fifty-something mug.

  &ldquoI actually only met him last week. I sold him a big life insurance policy.&rdquo

  His eyes narrowed. &ldquoThink he planned this?&rdquo

  &ldquoI couldn&rsquot say. Fiduciary relationship and all that.&rdquo

  &ldquoHow about family? Someone to call. Like a wife, a sister, or a mother?&rdquo

  &ldquoAn ex-wife he hates. I believe his mom&rsquos dead. He never mentioned a sister. But he does have two sons. One lives in Miami and the other one&rsquos in Kansas.&rdquo

  &ldquoWell, lady, it looks like you&rsquore it.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut I&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoYou wanna save this guy or what? Miss ...&rdquo

  &ldquoRoss. Betsy Ross.&rdquo

  He almost cracked a smile. &ldquoLike the one who sewed the first American flag?&rdquo

  Cringing inwardly, I nodded. &ldquoUh, huh.&rdquo

  &ldquoWell, Betsy, let&rsquos go.&rdquo

  &ldquoNot up there. I hate heights. And Richard Kluger and I aren&rsquot exactly close friends. I just sold him a little insurance&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoHey, Miss Ross, I don&rsquot give damn if you sold him a Milky Way bar. You&rsquore the best we&rsquove got.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut what about his sons or a priest or&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoThey aren&rsquot here and you are. So do everyone a favor and see if you can talk this guy down. It&rsquoll be your good deed for the day. Does he go by any nickname?&rdquo

  &ldquoRichie, I think. But the truth is, I just stopped at the deli around the corner for lunch, and I have this appointment to sell disability insurance to&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoAll you gotta do is ride up an elevator, stick your nose out a window, and talk to the guy. You know, calm him down. Try to relate.&rdquo

  So there I was, hanging out a hotel window, praying the news teams below couldn&rsquot see up my skirt which kept puffing out like a parachute as I inched down the ledge to get closer to Richie Kluger, Ph.D., Ivy Leaguer, nut case, and a client of less than a week. A man who&rsquod seemed pretty unplugged during our appointment but had written me a hefty check for an annual premium on a two million dollar life insurance policy.

  &ldquo... you don&rsquot really want to die,&rdquo I told Kluger a few minutes later. &ldquoThink of your f
amily. Think of your work. Think about how you beat colon cancer.&rdquo

  &ldquoSure. They rebuilt my entire rectum. Reconstructed it from titanium. The operation took seven hours.&rdquo

  I pictured glistening steel, the Chrysler Building.

  &ldquoI hate crowds,&rdquo he abruptly muttered, scowling at the burgeoning humanity below.

  &ldquoI remember. Crowds, women, and wild squirrels,&rdquo I said.

  &ldquoAnd drivers who fall asleep at red lights.&rdquo

  My cell phone rang. &ldquoCan you hang on a sec?&rdquo I asked Kluger, who frowned in response.

  Climbing back through the hotel room window, ignoring the chief negotiator&rsquos scowl, I answered with a discreet, &ldquoHello?&rdquo

  &ldquoHold onto your briefcase,&rdquo my boss and close friend Lisa Marks said dramatically. &ldquoThe police just called. And guess who disappeared last night under really bizarre circumstances.&rdquo

  &ldquoLook, I can&rsquot really&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoCourtney Farrow. And the police think she might be dead.&rdquo

  &ldquoLisa, this isn&rsquot&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoAnd guess who reported her missing. Tommy Sims. Your ex-boyfriend. Mr. Big Dick himself. According to the police, they had a date last night but she never showed. Can you believe she was dating Tommy Sims? I mean, which boyfriend of yours hasn&rsquot she gone after?&rdquo

  &ldquoLisa,&rdquo I finally cut in sharply, noticing how Kluger was an inch or two closer to the edge and peering down as if he planned to take flight. &ldquoI can&rsquot talk now. I&rsquom busy with ...&rdquo

  Kluger&rsquos toes were now over the edge. He fluttered his fingers at me, his expression determined.

  Which was when I shrieked, &ldquoDon&rsquot! Wait!&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat&rsquos wrong? What happened?&rdquo Lisa demanded.

  &ldquoI&rsquom about to lose a client.&rdquo

  &ldquoShit!&rdquo Lisa hung up.

  I scrambled back outside onto the ledge and faced Kluger again. &ldquoDon&rsquot do it, please. Whatever&rsquos wrong, this is no way to&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoThanks for everything, Miss Ross. You&rsquove been really decent. But I&rsquove made up my mind.&rdquo

  &ldquoLook, Mr. Kluger, maybe I should explain something first. You know that policy I sold you the other day? Well, if you jump, your sons won&rsquot collect a nickel.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat?&rdquo

  &ldquoThere&rsquos a clause. You have to wait two years to kill yourself or my company won&rsquot pay.&rdquo

  &ldquoTwo years? Jesus fucking Christ.&rdquo

  &ldquoYes, and I&rsquod hate to see you go through all this for nothing.&rdquo

  He chuckled bitterly, stared into the great beyond, and muttered to himself. Then, without a word, he turned and started inching down the ledge toward me. I backed up in case he intended to punish me for ruining his plans, as in taking me over the edge with him. He looked angry enough. Instead, I escaped back through the window seconds before a half-dozen hands reached out and dragged Kluger back in, too.

  Moments later, down on the street, a reporter asked me why Kluger had wanted to die.

  I thought hard then said, &ldquoI don&rsquot know. Maybe his love life stinks.&rdquo

  But a half-hour later, on my drive home in miserable summer traffic, heading to my two-bedroom, two-bathroom condo in Fashion Valley, I wasn&rsquot thinking about Richie Kluger. I was thinking about Courtney Farrow and what Lisa had said.

  Because I could still picture Courtney frolicking in the pool Saturday night, practically topless, her perfect breasts bobbing up and down in the water while every guy in the place gaped, his tongue dragging down around his erection. Now, less than seventy-two hours later, she was missing. She might even be dead. And I doubted I could shed a single tear over the prospect. Which might be because Courtney Farrow and I had never been friends. Or even liked each other. Still, the idea of her being dead did make me feel as if I&rsquod digested an uncooked egg rife with salmonella. I even found myself checking my rearview mirror and door locks. And I suddenly felt anxious about dashing into my favorite liquor store /market for a half-gallon of ice cream. And I could practically taste their chocolate peanut fudge. I didn&rsquot even stop for a double-double with fries at In-N-Out Burger. Because I couldn&rsquot help wondering who&rsquod want Courtney dead. Though that seemed fairly obvious. Every woman who&rsquod ever known her.

  2

  My daughter Sofia and I live in a condo built in the early 1980s. It&rsquos a four-story structure with elevators, a pool, a workout room, a tiny lobby, and inadequate parking. It&rsquos like a cement village. The good news is, it&rsquos two doors down from the Fashion Valley Mall with stores like Victoria&rsquos Secret, Saks, Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom, and Bloomingdale&rsquos. Not to mention the usual food court and big chain restaurants. That&rsquos the thing about San Diego. Other than Route 101, downtown, and a few old neighborhoods, everything was built yesterday. And it&rsquos a consumer&rsquos paradise. So that even though most of the county is blanketed in strip malls, housing developments, and freeways, it still beats Toledo, Ohio, where I spent the first seventeen years of my life. A place with dark winter skies and cold, snowy days.

  Whereas San Diego weather is predictably perfect. The mountains running into the sea are magnificent. And being a transplant is totally normal. Half the locals are from somewhere else.

  In spite of all this, my mother still regards Toledo as the garden spot of the universe and California as a mecca for moral destruction.

  &ldquoYou could be dead six months in that town and no one would notice until you started to stink,&rdquo she reminded me yesterday on the phone.

  &ldquoWell, if I were dead, I wouldn&rsquot know it,&rdquo I said.

  &ldquoSmart mouth. This is exactly how you got hooked up with that loser.&rdquo

  Meaning Spencer Heller, my ex. The boy I married at twenty-one after graduating from San Diego State. In truth, Spence had talents I didn&rsquot dare describe to Ida. She wouldn&rsquot understand the lure of multiple orgasms. Or the glorious perfection of Spence&rsquos naked butt. Too bad Spence spent his days watching TV in between drug deals and surfing. Until the night he dashed out for beer and never came back. Or sent a check for our daughter Sofia.

  That night, I couldn&rsquot sleep. I gave up trying around midnight. Between Ken not calling, Richie Kluger&rsquos attempted suicide, and Courtney&rsquos disappearance, my brain was fried. So I settled into watching Richard Heath, late night&rsquos answer to insomniacs. He had on the usual glossy blonde guest with melon-sized breasts and a dress so short that if she moved wrong, the viewing public would spot more than they&rsquod bargained for.

  &ldquoSo tell us, Delanna,&rdquo Richard said. &ldquoWhat do you believe is the most important basis for marriage today?&rdquo

  Delanna flashed a six-carat rock on her fourth finger and regaled Richard with a rapturous smile. &ldquoPassion. Definitely passion. Is there anything more worthwhile on earth?&rdquo she cooed in her little girl voice.

  &ldquoBut does passion last? Isn&rsquot there a price to pay?&rdquo asked Richard, a man with thick glasses and a paunch. A man who looked as if his idea of passion might be the study of morbidity tables.

  Platinum blonde Delanna puckered her luscious lips, stuck the tip of her pink tongue out, and thought hard. I could imagine the wheels of her brain struggling with an IQ normally found in a Rhesus monkey, as she fought for an intelligent answer.

  &ldquoWell, Richard, I&rsquod say that passion is worth everything. The consequences don&rsquot matter a bit. Love is life and life is love. I mean, what else is there?&rdquo

  Whoa Delanna, I thought. Didn&rsquot marriage number three just end up on the cover of every tabloid in America? Wasn&rsquot hubby Henry Vinker found in some sleazy motel with your babysitter? Too bad this wasn&rsquot a call-in show. Because I had plenty to say about the pitfalls of passion. Wasn&rsquot I, Betsy Ross, living proof that passion can leave you lonely, discouraged, and eternally single?

  I
changed channels. And gaped, dumbfounded. Because Courtney Farrow herself filled my TV screen.

  &ldquoIt seems dancer-heiress Courtney Farrow has disappeared, worrying friends, family, and police,&rdquo the newscaster announced soberly. &ldquoMiss Farrow was reported missing Sunday evening when her boyfriend contacted the police with news that she failed to keep an appointment or return his phone calls. Miss Farrow&rsquos La Jolla residence seems to have been vacated abruptly and her whereabouts unknown. So far, police are treating this as a missing persons case and not an abduction.&rdquo

  I noticed that on TV, Courtney&rsquos flawless complexion looked as if she&rsquod had a nasty run-in with poison ivy. And her hair, normally red, had turned the color of cooked vomit. Which probably had more to do with my fifteen-year-old TV than the truth. And whoever said Courtney could dance? Unless those pelvic thrusts she&rsquod tried on Ken Saturday night could be considered dancing. And how come everyone was so worried? So what if Courtney had stood up a date or disappeared for a few hours. She was rich, rich, rich, and over twenty-one. Maybe she&rsquod gone to some expensive getaway for a week of mud baths and sadistic pummeling. Or maybe she&rsquod found a new lover and wanted to break him in properly.

  I studied my clock. A little after one. Too late to call friends.

  Zapping off my TV, I tried to settle down. But I couldn&rsquot stop thinking about the party my friends and I held Saturday night. Our leftover party. An event where everyone invites over her last great love and a few lesser loves, so these losers can be recycled. Like one woman&rsquos poison is another woman&rsquos future. To me it had seemed like a brilliant excuse to see Ken again.

  With only one major rub: I knew Courtney would be there, too.

  3

  My best friend and sorority sister Arlene Silvers held the party at her house. A house built around the same time John Travolta danced the hustle in a white polyester suit. The house was part of Arlene&rsquos divorce settlement. A settlement which put my friend on Easy Street, the street where I longed to live.