A Clause for Murder Page 6

  I arrived home to find Ken seated in the carpeted hallway outside my door.

  6

  &ldquoVery good. I&rsquoll call you in the morning,&rdquo Ken said into his cell phone, while his fingers breezed across his laptop.

  My heart revved up. Tonight, stubble covered Ken&rsquos checks and chin. His dark hair was mussed. And his jeans had holes in them. He looked good. Clean or scruffy, the guy turned my insides into yogurt, which was the reason I became sarcastic.

  &ldquoWho invited you over?&rdquo I said.

  He held up a finger then whispered, &ldquoOne more sec. I just did a corporate Keyman for twenty million, and I need to make some notes.&rdquo

  If I&rsquod had a dick, it would&rsquove shriveled up in shame. Ken always outsells me even though I&rsquom a wunderkind at insurance sales. He&rsquos just a lot more connected in the business world. Plus, he owns his own agency.

  I only got into selling insurance because I needed a job after Spence took off. Lisa told me how well I could do. She called it estate planning. And with a daughter to raise, I needed to make decent money.

  &ldquoYou&rsquoll have to excuse me but I&rsquom dying for a hot shower,&rdquo I said, stepping around Ken and unlocking my door. Inside, I dropped my packages on the dining room table and headed into my bedroom. An instant later, Ken followed.

  &ldquoI could use a shower, too,&rdquo he said, like we bathed together regularly.

  Which we didn&rsquot. Not even when we were deeply involved. We had to be careful for Sofia&rsquos sake. However, tonight Sofia was away at camp ...

  Ken joined me in my room and instantly pulled off his shirt. I couldn&rsquot help noticing how handsome he was. Dazzling white teeth contrasted dramatically against his rugged face. His broad, muscular shoulders and arms narrowed to his stomach which was like forged steel.

  However, I hadn&rsquot received so much as a lousy email since he kissed me goodbye Sunday morning, four days ago. So I tried to figure out how I felt. Outraged? Hurt? Ecstatic to see him?

  Lisa would be outraged. Arlene would be, too. Tabitha would already have his pants off and be asking him what he wanted. Me, I kept picturing the zero beside his name in Courtney&rsquos little book.

  Even as these confusing thoughts whirled through my head, Ken was kicking his jeans across the floor. By the time he&rsquod stripped down to his underwear, he had a familiar gleam in his eyes. He moved toward me. But as he reached for me, I casually mentioned my trip to Courtney&rsquos place. And her little coded book.

  He frowned. &ldquoYou broke into her place?&rdquo

  &ldquoNo, we found her key.&rdquo

  &ldquoAre you insane? You&rsquore a mother, for heaven&rsquos sake. What if some lunatic had been there? You could&rsquove been hurt.&rdquo

  &ldquoI have a better question. What&rsquos your name doing in her little black book?&rdquo

  Sighing, he dropped onto the edge of my bed. &ldquoI have no idea. She called me a few times last year.&rdquo

  My stomach plunged. My mouth dried up. Last year? Last year when Ken and I were practically living together?

  He must&rsquove seen my sick expression, because he gently pulled me down beside him and gazed into my face. &ldquoWhat you and I had was good. Maybe we don&rsquot agree on everything. But that doesn&rsquot mean I&rsquod chase after trash like that.&rdquo

  I liked the sound of that. Courtney Farrow was trash. Extremely good-looking trash. Even rich trash. But she was still trash. &ldquoSo you never ...&rdquo

  &ldquoShe meant nothing to me. Ever.&rdquo

  &ldquoDid you ... did you and she ever go out? I mean, did you ever date?&rdquo Or fuck?

  &ldquoAbsolutely not.&rdquo

  I could breathe again.

  &ldquoWhich is why I don&rsquot want you digging into this mess,&rdquo he added. &ldquoLet the police find her.&rdquo

  &ldquoThe police think I had something to do with her disappearance.&rdquo

  &ldquoI don&rsquot want you taking any risks. There&rsquos Sofia to consider. So drop it now.&rdquo

  &ldquoJeez, you&rsquore so powerful and dominating when my life&rsquos in danger. I should do this stuff more often.&rdquo Gazing at him, I noticed that his chest hair was in all the right places like a Himalayan cat.

  He chuckled. &ldquoIt means, I&rsquom writing a policy on your life and naming myself as the beneficiary,&rdquo he added, leaning in for a kiss.

  &ldquoThose words are like foreplay to me,&rdquo I murmured, kissing him back, before I found myself nibbling on his neck and running my hands down his exquisite chest and abs.

  Drawing back, he gazed into my face. &ldquoYou have a dirty mind.&rdquo

  &ldquoAnd you, sir, have a very big policy.&rdquo

  Crushing me to him, he pushed me down flat as his lips sought mine. In the time it takes to inhale and exhale, my panties were sailing to the floor and my reservations were hot on their tail. Within minutes, the deed was done. And Courtney&rsquos little book had as much importance as a missing paper clip.

  &ldquoI got Sofia a gold locket and had it engraved,&rdquo Ken announced minutes later, scrubbing my back with a loofah.

  &ldquoWhat&rsquos the inscription say?&rdquo I asked, as warm water rushed down his face and body and those old primitive desires of mine kicked in again.

  &ldquoI haven&rsquot put one on yet.&rdquo

  Call me a fool, but we fell into our old routine. We ordered pizza, watched a movie, and talked about life&mdashexcluding anything about marriage, fidelity, or relationships. Eventually we got back to the missing Miss Farrow.

  &ldquoThe police questioned you because that&rsquos their job.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut they seemed so suspicious. First because she threw a drink in my face at the party. But also because we dated a few of the same guys.&rdquo I watched for Ken&rsquos reaction. A little curiosity would&rsquove been nice about which guys. But he didn&rsquot bite.

  &ldquoYou haven&rsquot committed any crimes, so relax,&rdquo Ken said. &ldquoAnd stay out of it.&rdquo

  I liked his attitude so much, we had sex again. But when I woke at five, saw his rumpled head on my pillow, and tripped over his jeans on my way to the bathroom, regret hit me hard. I didn&rsquot want this. I wanted a husband, a family, a ring on my finger, and a lawnmower. The thing is, if I had to state my feelings under oath, I&rsquod swear Ken loves me. That he&rsquos struggling with his feelings because he&rsquos already been divorced and doesn&rsquot want to make any more mistakes. So for the time being, we avoid the &ldquom&rdquo word for marriage and the &ldquoc&rdquo word for commitment. Instead we have sex, which in the short run is much easier, but in the long run makes me feel insecure and lonely.

  &ldquoSorry I didn&rsquot call you sooner,&rdquo Ken mumbled the next morning as he dug into his cornflakes and read the sports section. &ldquoAnother one of those estate planning schools had me registered. I got caught up in work and completely forgot.&rdquo

  With my feet up on another dining room chair, I continued reading an advice to the lovelorn column and abstained from a bitchy retort like, Is your phone broken, too? At least he&rsquod attempted to excuse his behavior, a step in the right direction.

  He drank the dregs from his cereal bowl then asked, &ldquoMind if I show up when Sofia gets back and take you both to dinner?&rdquo

  &ldquoSure, she&rsquod love it.&rdquo

  Minutes later, in the parking lot, he pecked me on the lips then sped off to his office. Which was when my old resentments returned. I mean, why did my happiness, my future, reside in his hands? At thirty-two I had no more time to waste on Ken if he refused to get serious about me. On the other hand, my track record without him had been darn pathetic. These thoughts rumbled through my head as I slugged it out on the stagnant freeway, heading to an appointment.

  I finished writing two hefty disability policies on two female plastic surgeons a little after noon. Feeling faint from hunger, I picked up a latte and a cinnamon bun at the coffee kiosk outside their building. Back in my car drinking coffee, nibbling on worthless cal
ories, I was thumbing through a Nordstrom catalogue when my phone rang.

  &ldquoThey found her,&rdquo Arlene announced, sounding out of breath.

  &ldquoFound who?&rdquo

  &ldquoCourtney fucking Farrow, that&rsquos who.&rdquo

  My heart raced. I swallowed hard. &ldquoWhere? When? What happened?&rdquo

  &ldquoThe police found her&mdashget this&mdashin her neighbors&rsquo garage. And she was fried like a chicken.&rdquo

  &ldquoShit.&rdquo I slowly digested this grotesque news trying to comprehend it. &ldquoHow the hell did they identify her?&rdquo

  &ldquoHer wallet was nearby.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhere&rsquos the garage?&rdquo

  &ldquoOut back by the dumpsters. Apparently, there was a rotten smell.&rdquo

  That was Courtney. &ldquoWhich means, she was there the whole time we were in her place,&rdquo I said.

  &ldquoPractically under our noses.&rdquo

  The image was gruesome. &ldquoAt least they won&rsquot find our fingerprints,&rdquo I reasoned, relieved we&rsquod worn gloves.

  &ldquoFrom what Tabitha told me, the police found prints from hundreds of people in her condo. Mostly guys. I think they&rsquore tracking down the few men in the county who didn&rsquot know her. It&rsquos a smaller group. Turns out, she had an aunt who lives in Omaha. She&rsquos flying in next week for a memorial luncheon. I figured we can drive over together.&rdquo

  &ldquoOmaha? I thought she was from Greenwich or Long Island.&rdquo

  &ldquoI&rsquom just repeating what Tabitha told me.&rdquo

  &ldquoWell, why do we have to go?&rdquo

  &ldquoIt&rsquos the least we can do. Besides, it&rsquoll look strange to the

  police if we don&rsquot go. I mean, she was part of our group.&rdquo

  &ldquoOne more thing. Was she burned alive or was it done ... after?&rdquo

  &ldquoWho knows? How did they usually burn witches?&rdquo Arlene asked.

  We began to cackle. It took us several minutes to calm down, probably because laughing was a release, a way to deal with death. Courtney was my first contemporary to die. But even in death, I couldn&rsquot call her a friend. No, we&rsquod never been friends. But a murder, anyone&rsquos murder, upset me. Courtney&rsquos death made me feel vulnerable, mortal. I suddenly felt desperate to hear Sofia&rsquos voice. But I didn&rsquot dare call her and interrupt her at camp.

  &infin&infin&infin

  That afternoon, I kept my appointment with Mrs. Edgar Walton. A widow, the eighty-year-old billionaire lived alone in a house as large as a resort hotel in ritzy Rancho Santa Fe.

  &ldquoPetey must be taken care of,&rdquo Mrs. Walton insisted, pouring me tea. &ldquoHe should not be penalized just because I&rsquove passed on.&rdquo

  Scratching my leg from a flea bite, I studied the dogs and cats languishing across every piece of furniture in the living room. &ldquoSounds good. As I told you before, we have to leave the money to a trustee for your dogs and cats.&rdquo

  Jesus, which one was Petey? And why didn&rsquot she ever bomb the place for fleas? I could feel them jumping all over me as I perched on the edge of a peach-colored settee.

  &ldquoAs long as all my darlings are loved and cared for,&rdquo she added.

  Many of her darlings had already been stuffed and were now mixed in with the living pets.

  &ldquoI&rsquod love to say hello to Petey,&rdquo I said, hoping I hadn&rsquot insulted the little dog humping my leg, in case he was Petey.

  &ldquoOh, he&rsquos out playing golf.&rdquo

  &ldquoGolf?&rdquo I pictured one of the dogs with his own set of clubs.

  &ldquoYes, he&rsquos crazy about the sport. You know, golf is a very healthy pastime.&rdquo

  I studied the Persian cat beside me. The Great Dane snoozing on the floor by his mistress. And the stuffed bird perched behind Mrs. Walton. Had I met Petey? The name was a dead zone in my brain.

  &ldquoHow old is Petey?&rdquo I finally asked.

  The white-haired dowager leaned forward on her cane and smiled. &ldquoWell, he is quite a bit younger. But so good looking. And pure hell in the sack. A far cry from my last husband.&rdquo She grimaced.

  Mrs. Walton was talking about sex. With her dog. Or her cat. Or possibly one of her thoroughbred stallions. &ldquoWhat kind of ... what kind of dog is Petey?&rdquo

  &ldquoWell, he hasn&rsquot shown us yet. So far he&rsquos been a very good boy. Though most men are dogs, aren&rsquot they?&rdquo She winked wickedly, threw back her head and laughed.

  &ldquoSo Petey is ... your friend.&rdquo

  &ldquoMuch more than just a friend. Take a look out back. You can see Petey practicing on my putting green.&rdquo I glanced out the huge window past the grand pool and tennis courts to a putting green, where a handsome blond man with a bucket of balls and a putter prepared to swing.

  &ldquoHow much would you like to leave Petey?&rdquo I asked, relieved.

  &ldquoNot much for starters. Not until he&rsquos been around for a while. How about five hundred thousand to start?&rdquo

  I got home around ten, eager to fall in bed and sleep. Talking about premature death benefits to strangers always relaxes me and tonight proved no exception. I&rsquod almost forgotten about Courtney&rsquos brutal murder. But one foot inside my apartment and I froze. Cigarette smoke! Someone had been here. Someone who smoked. Recently, too, based on the gray haze hovering over my living room.

  In a flash, I surveyed my living room/dining room/kitchen. Mail was strewn across my dining room table. An open magazine had been tossed on the floor. Pillows lay haphazardly across my sofa and area rug. A can of diet soda rested on my coffee table. In my bedroom, drawers sat half open. Clothes littered the floor. My bed looked as if it had been torn apart in a major battle. In other words, everything looked normal, exactly as I&rsquod left it.

  But back in the living room/dining room/kitchen, a sudden gust of wind sent my drapes flapping. I froze, heart pounding. Had I forgotten to shut my terrace door this morning? My breathing grew shallow. Straining to hear anything unusual, I stared at those billowing drapes. No heavy breathing or men&rsquos shoes peaking out. Just a neighbor&rsquos TV blaring and the normal street noise from Friars Road. Slowly, quietly, I crept toward those swaying curtains. But once I swept them apart, the scariest things on my terrace were a collection of dead plants and two dirty plastic chairs covered in spider webs. Was it possible that I&rsquod been so distracted this morning by Ken that I left my screen door open? Considering how paranoid I was about mosquito bites and the West Nile virus, I doubted it. Unless, Ken had stepped outside and forgotten to lock up afterward.

  Chilled in spite of the warm summer breeze, I locked my terrace door then checked every inch of my apartment from my closets to the space under Sofia&rsquos bed. With nothing askew, I headed into my kitchen for a bottle of cold water from the refrigerator. That&rsquos when I saw it. A note stuck under a magnet on the door.

  7

  Return the book, or you&rsquoll be sorry. While you&rsquore at it, why don&rsquot you clean up this pig sty?

  My spine tingled. A rush of blood warmed my face. My heart pounded. My throat felt dry. This wasn&rsquot about an overdue library book. No doubt my intruder had run his grubby hands through my things, hunting for the sinister little book. But I&rsquod taken it with me. Even now, it resided in my purse with my sunglasses.

  Scared, I reached for the phone. I suddenly needed to hear my mother&rsquos voice. But it was almost ten here. Meaning it would be close to one in Toledo. Ida would be asleep. I didn&rsquot relish waking her. So after rechecking the apartment and sticking two chairs against my front door, I took a light sleeping pill and fell into a deep slumber.

  The next morning, groggy from the pill, I headed toward my car&mdashand almost collided with Una Stanley, our building maintenance person. She had on her usual ratty sweats and combat boots.

  &ldquoMorning, Una,&rdquo I said.

  &ldquoMorning,&rdquo Una grunted, running her grease-stained hand through her long dirty hair.

  Un
a wasn&rsquot ugly, just desperate for a makeover. She had bright green eyes and a decent figure. I often imagined what she&rsquod look like if I dragged her over to my beauty salon so they could fix her hair, strip the grime from her pores, and apply makeup, after surgically removing the toilet plunger from her hand.

  &ldquoCould you do me a huge favor?&rdquo I asked. &ldquoI need a couple of extra door locks. Sturdy ones.&rdquo

  &ldquoYou already have standard door locks.&rdquo

  I chose not to mention my heavy smoker&rsquos visit last night. &ldquoGuess I&rsquom just a nervous mom. I&rsquod be happy to pay you&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoLook, I&rsquom only here to work in the public areas. I don&rsquot like fixing stuff in the units, in case something goes wrong. I&rsquod rather not be accused of stealing anything.&rdquo

  &ldquoOh ... sure.&rdquo

  Stomping off, Una unlocked the side door to the building and slammed it shut.

  I stared after her, shocked.

  Okay, so Tommy had called her a &ldquolesbo&rdquo during our brief affair. Being Mr. Sensitive, he&rsquod dismissed Una with this trite characterization. Whereas I&rsquod always been friendly to her. For three years, she&rsquod been fixing my garbage disposal and backed-up pipes. Until today. What had happened to make her so nasty? Certainly not my generous Christmas check last year.

  It wasn&rsquot even nine, and my head seemed ready to spin off my neck. Between Una, my heavy smoker, and Courtney, I decided work could wait. I needed a caffeine fix.

  Fifteen minutes later, I&rsquod just picked up my nonfat latte at my favorite Starbucks, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  A deep voice boomed, &ldquoHello, gorgeous.&rdquo

  Tommy Sims. There was no mistaking the heavy Brooklyn accent and megatons of attitude. After wiping foam off my upper lip, I reluctantly faced him. &ldquoTommy,&rdquo I said, cursing my decision to stop here instead of heading straight to my appointment at a biotech firm. &ldquoGood to see you.&rdquo