A Clause for Murder Read online

  &ldquoWhy don&rsquot we just change the dates of our monthly dinners and not tell her,&rdquo Arlene suggested. Arlene, Lisa, Tabitha and I had been having these dinners since our Kappa days at San Diego State.

  &ldquoShe&rsquod find out somehow,&rdquo I said. &ldquoShe seems intent on ruining my life.&rdquo

  An hour later, Ken followed me home to make sure I got there safely. It was an obvious ploy to get back inside my apartment and back inside my jeans. But at one in the morning, after a lot of wine and tequila, my resistance had sunk to a new low. So when Ken insisted on making sure there weren&rsquot any space aliens hiding in my pantry, I offered him a drink. Maybe if his ass wasn&rsquot so cute, his teeth weren&rsquot so white, and his eyes weren&rsquot so gentle, I could&rsquove resisted him. But when he suddenly appeared behind me in the kitchen and pressed me against the refrigerator door, he felt so deliciously familiar and sexy that I half-expected my refrigerator to groan with desire. And though my mind screamed, Don&rsquot be an idiot! My body shrieked, Give it to me hard!

  I was already in sexual overdrive as his tongue probed mine and his hands probed me. Except I knew we couldn&rsquot do it on the kitchen floor, since I knew I hadn&rsquot washed the floor since Sofia left for camp. So, still groping each other, we stumbled toward my bedroom where we collapsed on the blessedly soft comforter. Even then a vague idea about resisting him floated through my sex-fogged brain.

  &ldquoYou&rsquore so beautiful,&rdquo Ken murmured, kissing my throat, nibbling on my shoulders and that spot right behind my ear. &ldquoGod, I missed you,&rdquo he added, pulling down my jean&rsquos zipper.

  Then my pants were off and so were his. My halter top already lay somewhere between the dishwasher and my Schwinn bike parked by my bedroom door. Until Ken was poised above me, shoulders wider and more muscled than ever, his equipment like heavy artillery. We clinched the deal with a bold thrust by Ken and a grateful sigh by me. Of course, a part of me stood back and watched&mdashthe part that resembled my mother, Mrs. Ida Ross, who shook her head in disgust at my being misled by Ken yet again.

  Then, like the fantasy I&rsquod been indulging in for months, Ken said the magic words, &ldquoI love you.&rdquo Okay, it was right before his eyes rolled back and his body shuddered. But still....

  Afterward, curled up together, we fell asleep.

  In the morning I found myself making him eggs, toast, and bacon while he read the sports page in the Sunday paper. Clearly, Ken felt at home in my home. On his way out he gave me a healing kiss, the kind that almost wiped out the five months of pain I&rsquod endured following our breakup. I could tell he&rsquod missed my two eggs over light with wheat toast. In fact, things looked very promising when he left. Or so I thought.

  Afterward, I drove to a sales appointment. Sometimes, Sundays are the only day people can see me. It was almost three when I dragged myself through my front door. After dropping my stuff on the floor, I staggered to my room where I fell face down on my bed and sighed with relief. I felt like I&rsquod just finished third in the Iron Man competition where you have to bike so many miles, run so many miles, and end up with a lengthy rough water swim. I&rsquod just dozed off when my phone rang.

  Wondering if I had enough strength to see Ken again, I answered with a soft, &ldquoHello.&rdquo

  &ldquoMom? It&rsquos me. You sound funny.&rdquo

  Sofia. &ldquoSo do you. Why are you whispering? What&rsquos wrong? Why aren&rsquot you at dinner?&rdquo

  &ldquoRelax, Mom, I already ate. I&rsquom just calling to remind you to send my sleeping bag and an extra blanket for the camping trip.&rdquo She sounded annoyed.

  &ldquoI just sent it. Call me when you get it ...&rdquo I began, but she&rsquod already hung up. Sitting up, I stared at my face in the mirror across the floor above my bureau. I expected to see my mother, shoulders hunched under her flower print robe, sweat on her upper lip, and lines of martyrdom on her face. Thank heavens my own face stared back at me, because I certainly sounded like my mother, Mrs. Ida Ross, president of the Temple Israel sisterhood, former head of the PTA, and pie maker extraordinaire.

  Hanging up, I peeled off my shoes and clothes while listening to my answering machine. I expected a message from Ken. Instead, Courtney&rsquos voice sent me an unpleasant jolt.

  &ldquoBetsy, this is Courtney Farrow. Call me. I have something you might be interested in seeing.&rdquo

  She sounded as if she had something ugly to show me. Something ugly enough to ruin my good mood. Like Ken&rsquos BVDs with her lipstick prints emblazoned on the crotch. Or a love letter from him. Ever curious, I punched out her number and waited for her to pick up.

  Six rings later, Courtney&rsquos machine answered. &ldquoHi, I&rsquom very anxious to hear from you, so please leave a message, and I&rsquoll be happy to call you back.&rdquo

  Even a recorded version of her breathy, pretentious voice made me want to reach for an antacid. &ldquoIt&rsquos Betsy Ross returning your call Sunday evening,&rdquo I said flatly. Hanging up, I surveyed my room, the scene of my surrender last night.

  The sheets were twisted and torn from the mattress. Pillows lay on the floor. A shoe peaked out from under the bed while another rested on my night table. All evidence of Ken&rsquos return. As I stripped off the sheets eager to douse them in harsh detergent and bleach, I speculated about what Courtney meant to show me. Like a photo of Ken and her porking away like two stray dogs. Well, this time Ken wasn&rsquot going to take me for granted. If and when he called, I&rsquod demand to know where we stood. Because Ken and I had done this routine more times than the Rockettes had done theirs at Radio City. And the very idea of him succumbing to Courtney&rsquos oily, psychotic charms infuriated me. Of course I only had myself to blame. A few drinks, a little hand-holding, and bingo, Ken had me singing his tune again.

  My shrink, Dr. Howard, would&rsquove had plenty to say about that. I could still hear him. I was also still paying him.

  Dr. Howard: Is Ken open to talking about a relationship leading to marriage?

  Me: There wasn&rsquot much time for ... talking. I was too busy tearing off my jeans and top.

  Here I was, the mother of a ten-year-old daughter, a member of the insurance board, a responsible tax payer. Yet I had this weakness for Ken.

  Picking Sofia&rsquos framed picture off my night stand, I studied her face. Taken last year at the beach, she&rsquos holding onto a popsicle and laughing. At least I hadn&rsquot mentioned Ken to her, because she&rsquos more set on my marrying him than I am.

  So that night, Sunday night, as I said before, I tried to bury my demons with ice cream and an old movie as I waited for Ken&rsquos phone call. But I never heard from him. Not that night or the next night. Meaning things were exactly as they had been before we broke up five months ago.

  Nowhere.

  Tuesday morning my phone woke me, wrenching me from a sexual dream where I was entertaining several handsome football players.

  &ldquoIt&rsquos me,&rdquo Arlene said. &ldquoWake up. I&rsquove got some heavy news for you.&rdquo

  I sat up, heart racing. &ldquoWhat time is it?&rdquo I moaned, squinting at the piercing sun slipping under my drapes.

  &ldquoSeven. Are you alone?&rdquo

  I glanced at the empty spot beside me. &ldquoNo, I&rsquom entertaining the Chargers.&rdquo

  &ldquoOffense or defense?&rdquo

  &ldquoNever mind. What&rsquos so urgent that you&rsquore up this early?&rdquo

  &ldquoCourtney Farrow disappeared,&rdquo Arlene said.

  &ldquoI heard. Someone threw water at her.&rdquo

  &ldquoWho told you?&rdquo Arlene asked.

  &ldquoLisa called. Plus it was on the news last night.&rdquo

  &ldquoI&rsquoll be over in twenty minutes.&rdquo She hung up.

  In the midst of pulling myself together, Arlene let herself in. I&rsquod already showered and was blow drying my hair when she plodded into my bedroom, side-stepped my ancient Schwinn bike, and presented me with a fat-free muffin, coffee, vitamins, and the newspaper.

&
nbsp; Sometimes I feel like thanking her ex-husband for giving her alimony so she doesn&rsquot have to work and is almost always available to be my friend.

  &ldquoCheck out page three,&rdquo she said, handing me the newspaper then plopping down on my bed. I dropped down beside her.

  The headline read: Local Heiress Disappears.

  Courtney Farrow, thoroughbred Greenwich, Connecticut heiress, has abruptly disappeared from her La Jolla condo leaving friends, family, and work associates baffled. According to her longtime sweetheart, Mr. Tommy Sims, she had no reason to take off suddenly. Employed at a local night club, Dancin&rsquo Beauties on El Cajon Blvd., no one there could determine her whereabouts either. So far, police have notified federal authorities, but until new evidence is found, the police have adopted a wait-and-see policy.

  &ldquoShe had a job at a night club? What did she do, check coats?&rdquo I said.

  Arlene shrugged. &ldquoBeats me. She never mentioned anything about it.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut why would a rich girl like her work in a night club?&rdquo

  &ldquoMaybe she found it exciting. Feel like going over to her place and looking around?&rdquo

  &ldquoAre you crazy? What if the police are there watching?&rdquo I said, slipping into a denim skirt and a white cotton shirt. &ldquoBesides, I&rsquove got a ton of appointments today.&rdquo

  &ldquoChances are, the police just filed a report. And we can be in and out of there in fifteen minutes.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhy file a report if they aren&rsquot suspicious? I thought there was a time thing, like you have to be missing for seventy-two hours and some family member has to sign a complaint.&rdquo

  Arlene shrugged. &ldquoI&rsquom no lawyer. But I think Tommy Sims did file a report.&rdquo

  &ldquoIt figures. Courtney&rsquos probably left town for Rio or Madrid and wants to dump Tommy, but he&rsquos too conceited to believe it.&rdquo

  Arlene frowned. &ldquoDid you know that the police supposedly found her car by that tricky road, Del Dios? And her suitcase was still in the trunk.&rdquo

  &ldquoNo. But I also didn&rsquot know she was a professional dancer. That&rsquos what the newscaster last night said.&rdquo

  &ldquoWell, if she doesn&rsquot surface soon, I bet the police contact us.&rdquo

  I put down my hairbrush and stared at Arlene. &ldquoWhat?&rdquo

  &ldquoWe were probably the last ones to see her before she disappeared.&rdquo

  &ldquoArlene, this is no good. Everybody at the party probably heard about my fight with her. I have a daughter to raise. I can&rsquot afford to be implicated in her disappearance.&rdquo

  &ldquoWell, call me if the police contact you. I know a good lawyer.&rdquo

  A lawyer? Was she kidding?

  During my twelve-minute drive to the office at the eastern edge of Mission Valley, formerly farmland but now a conglomeration of freeways, malls, office buildings, and condos, I mulled over Courtney&rsquos disappearance. Why was everyone so worried? After all, Courtney was past twenty-one. She was also rich as a Rockefeller and the wet dream of dozens of horny, drooling slobs. She could easily have dashed off to some exotic locale like Cancun or Tahiti just to break up the tedium of being rich, beautiful, and sought after.

  At the office, another odd thing happened. While collecting my mail, which included phone messages, flyers on new products, leads, and policies I needed to deliver; I also found two lapse notices for Courtney&rsquos insurance polices. For her life and health. They were initial notices and Courtney still had a grace period before the company cancelled either policy. But why, with all her money, would she let this happen? Unless she&rsquod been too busy to pay bills. Or she&rsquod found another insurance agent. Some stud with broad shoulders, a fancy car, and brilliant moves with his tongue.

  I&rsquod sold Courtney insurance right after she moved down from Los Angeles, which was how we met. After she bought a health policy, I talked her into a sizeable life insurance program. When my appointment with her ran late, I apologized for having to rush off to meet friends. But she&rsquod looked so lonely that I made the mistake of inviting her along. That night, she acted grateful, anxious to please, and humble. Later on, when my friends and I arranged to meet the following month, no one objected when someone included Courtney. A huge mistake, as it turned out. Because after that, Courtney had shown up for everything. And she&rsquod gone from being Snow White to the Wicked Queen in the time it takes to open a soda can.

  After making calls at the office, looking up information on the office computer, and delivering a life insurance policy to Roberto Rodriguez, owner of three Mexican restaurants, I met my boss and pal Lisa for lunch. She&rsquod been out all morning having her hair streaked and wanted to show me the results. But when we met at the Fashion Valley Cheesecake Factory, where I seemed to eat most of my meals lately, Lisa wasn&rsquot interested in discussing her hair.

  Instead she launched into her latest news about Courtney.

  &ldquo... because she wasn&rsquot found in her BMW. Her car was abandoned late Sunday night,&rdquo Lisa said.

  &ldquoMaybe her engine conked out, so she called AAA, fell for the tow-truck driver, and decided to spend a month in a sleazy motel, drinking malt liquor and having wild sex,&rdquo I offered.

  &ldquoThe car was in perfect condition. Not even a dead moth on the windshield. She also left her undies, her purse, and several other items at some sleazy strip bar off El Cajon Blvd.&rdquo

  &ldquoAt the bar?&rdquo

  &ldquoNo, stupid, in the bathroom.&rdquo

  &ldquoThat&rsquos crazy. I&rsquom fairly sure she doesn&rsquot wear undies. &rdquo

  &ldquoHer purse was found with ID in a private stall. And from what I heard, she was in the middle of changing her tampon when some pervert broke in and grabbed her.&rdquo

  &ldquoHow embarrassing.&rdquo

  Lisa sighed. &ldquoYeah, if it was anybody but her, I&rsquod be real upset. Anyway, you&rsquore probably gonna be contacted by the cops. The police think she might&rsquove been kidnapped. And the story is, you slapped the crap out of her Saturday night. I was sick when I heard about it. I would&rsquove hired a movie crew to film that scene, so I could watch it weekends with buckets of buttered popcorn and diet soda.&rdquo

  &ldquoThat&rsquos total BS. I never touched her.&rdquo

  &ldquoBetsy, I&rsquom one of your oldest friends. You can trust me. I don&rsquot care if you knocked the Botox out of her.&rdquo

  &ldquoIt never happened. She threw a drink in my face when Ken didn&rsquot melt to the floor over her. Who told you all this bull?&rdquo

  &ldquoTabitha.&rdquo

  Tabitha works for a local newspaper with the circulation of about thirty. Still, she often gets the lowdown first. But this time her slant on things was not only wrong, it might put me at the top of the police&rsquos suspect list, providing Courtney really had met with a major misfortune. I&rsquod never been anyone&rsquos suspect before, unless you counted the time in sixth grade back in Toledo when I was accused of sending a paper airplane to David Nussbaum in the boys&rsquo bathroom. Okay I&rsquod drawn the heart and written our names. But my best friend Becky had built the plane and launched it.

  That afternoon at the Aloss Life Insurance office, I raced through a mound of annoying paperwork, then headed home. There, in the privacy of my condo, I did what I always do during stressful times. First, I took a leisurely shower. Then I changed into my oldest nightshirt, opened a fresh container of chocolate almond ice cream, slipped in the video of Uncle Buck, and vegged out like a zombie. Ten minutes later, Courtney, Ken, and the San Diego police could&rsquove been an old Perry Mason rerun for all I cared.

  But thirty minutes into the movie, a little after eight, my doorbell rang. Thinking it might be Ken, I dragged out my newest robe&mdashwhich looks like silk but is actually polyester, ran a comb through my hair, dabbed on lip gloss, then reluctantly answered my door. For once, I didn&rsquot have the energy to see Ken.

  &ldquoWho is it?&rdquo I yelled, shocked to spy two ugly men in suits through
my peephole.

  &ldquoPolice.&rdquo They flashed two gold shields through my viewer as if I&rsquod know the difference between a real police badge and an annual pass to Sea World. Leaving the chain on, I gave them three inches. They introduced themselves as Detectives Sorensen and Garcia. Sorensen was tall and geeky with an Adam&rsquos apple the size of a kiwi. Garcia looked as if he stayed up nights and worried about terrorism.

  &ldquoIf you don&rsquot mind, we just have a few questions to ask about Courtney Farrow, Miss Ross,&rdquo Garcia explained.

  &ldquoBetsy Ross,&rdquo I said, letting them in.

  &ldquoLike in the one who sewed the first American flag?&rdquo Garcia asked.

  Once again, I cursed my parents for giving me such an annoying name. &ldquoThat&rsquos me. Daughter of the American Revolution,&rdquo I said, trying to be pleasant.

  Garcia grunted, then dropped onto my new leather sofa. &ldquoMind telling us where you were Sunday night between six and ten?&rdquo

  &ldquoHere alone.&rdquo

  Sorenson scribbled on a note pad.

  &ldquoBut you saw Miss Farrow Saturday night,&rdquo Garcia said.

  &ldquoYes, my girl friends and I hosted a party. We invited friends and&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoMostly male friends, right?&rdquo

  &ldquoYeah, a boy&ndashgirl kind of thing. You know, pizza, soft drinks, spin-the-bottle.&rdquo I laughed. They didn&rsquot.

  &ldquoDuring the party, did you notice her focusing on any one man?&rdquo

  Other than Ken, who else could he mean? &ldquoNot really.&rdquo Maybe I should&rsquove paid more attention to Courtney&rsquos social antics that night. Although if I had, she and I would be dating now. &ldquoWell, there was this blond guy. I think his name&rsquos Duke. But after I went swimming, I lost track of her.&rdquo

  &ldquoDidn&rsquot you both date the same guy for a while?&rdquo

  Uh, oh. Who had they been talking to? &ldquoWe might&rsquove overlapped once or twice. In fact, that was the party&rsquos theme. We were trying to recycle old beaus,&rdquo I said, attempting to put a positive spin on the party and myself.