A Clause for Murder Page 7

  Tommy flashed his glossy smile. At thirty-six, his thick black mane had yet to see a gray hair. His eyes were as vivid as turquoise glass. And his dimpled smile still made my heart rev up. Here was Mr. Wrong in the flesh. Or more accurately, Mr. Wrong in an expensive charcoal wool suit that accented his tall muscular physique to perfection.

  &ldquoHow ya been, gorgeous?&rdquo he purred in a voice that broadcasted memories of me at the Aloss Christmas party three years ago. Me, dressed in a black merry widow, black lace undies, and five-inch heels, dancing on a conference table, thanks to two lethal cups of the most delicious eggnog. This was one reason I&rsquod been so relieved when Tommy changed companies after our affair fizzled. And a major factor in his name starting at the bottom of my suspect list then plummeting to Never Never Land.

  &ldquoHow long&rsquos it been?&rdquo he cooed, wrapping his arm around me and leading me to a corner table.

  &ldquoJust since our party&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoThink you could spare a few hours for an old friend?&rdquo

  I felt my face heat up. &ldquoSure, I guess.&rdquo I despised myself for responding like a typical woman just because he had movie star looks. After all, Ken was hardly ground chuck. Although technically both Tommy and Ken were inappropriate husband material.

  &ldquoHow about dinner tomorrow night?&rdquo He flashed me his trademark sexy look.

  &ldquoSorry. I&rsquom pretty booked up for the next couple of weeks.&rdquo The truth since Ken had made a comeback and might want to see me. And Sofia would be back home in a few days. &ldquoI have to get Sofia ready for school, and work has been ridiculously busy&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoHow is Sofia?&rdquo Tommy asked, winking at me.

  Another mortifying memory surfaced. I pictured Tommy and me on my living room floor struggling with zippers and hooks when Sofia surprised us by coming home early. She was supposed to be at a sleepover, but the poor thing had thrown up after dinner. Her friend&rsquos mother had dropped her off without calling first.

  Tommy flashed me a tragic look. &ldquoOf course you heard about Courtney.&rdquo

  &ldquoYes, I&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoIt would help me a lot if we could talk. You were her closest friend. Promise me you&rsquoll see me tomorrow night.&rdquo

  Her closest friend? A wave of guilt surged through me. &ldquoNot tomorrow night. But soon. I promise.&rdquo

  &ldquoI&rsquoll call you,&rdquo he said softly. Without warning, he pulled me to him and planted a wet one on my lips.

  Wiggling out of his arms, I stammered, &ldquoSss sorry, but I&rsquom late for an appointment.&rdquo

  Grinning, he brushed himself off, sent me a wicked grin, then strutted out the door.

  At home that afternoon, I forced myself to focus on paperwork. I&rsquod nearly finished when my doorbell rang. Tightening my robe sash, I trotted to the door and peered through the viewfinder. Two different policemen held up shields. My heart did a somersault.

  &ldquoSorry to bother you, Mrs. Ross. I&rsquom Detective Raines and this is Detective Williams from the San Diego homicide division. Would you mind joining us downtown,&rdquo Raines said, as he and his colleague stood in my living room and studied my new quadruple door locks, installed a half hour earlier by a local locksmith.

  Panic clutched my bowels. My legs shook. Tears filled my eyes. &ldquoI believe I have a right to a phone call,&rdquo I blubbered.

  &ldquoYou aren&rsquot under arrest. We hoped you could help us out and take a look at some things.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhy me?&rdquo

  &ldquoYou knew Courtney Farrow. And you may have insights that could help us.&rdquo

  &ldquoOh. Well, I&rsquoll need to get dressed first.&rdquo Their story seemed like a ruse to get me into a lonely room where I&rsquod be interrogated until I broke down and confessed. Providing I had something to confess.

  Downtown at the main police station, I insisted on two things: a visit to the ladies room and a phone call.

  In the ladies room, after wiping my sweaty face with a wet paper towel, a reaction to nerves and the August humidity, I took a good long pee. As I sat there studying the graffiti on the door, which read Just wait, Mutherfucker, depression overwhelmed me. How could this be happening to me, an innocent insurance salesperson? A loving mother? The worst I&rsquod ever done was give an alternate close for a good life insurance package. Would you prefer an automatic monthly bank deduction or an annual payment?

  Next, I called my cousin Jasper. Jasper is a private detective. In high school he&rsquod planned to be an actor. In college, he decided to attend law school. But after a year at Harvard Law, he changed his mind again and became a police officer. After six years of that, he decided to become a private investigator. And now he&rsquos an extremely capable detective who always has a friend willing to do him a favor. Unfortunately, he travels incessantly, loving exotic locales. So, as usual, I got his voice mail.

  &ldquoI need your help. It&rsquos me, Betsy. Call me ASAP.&rdquo

  Next Detective Williams led me to a small room where a pile of old clothes were tossed across a large table. I glanced from the dull brown table with the clothes to the glass wall mirror. I&rsquod watched too many cop shows not to know a two-way window when I saw one. No doubt a clever DA and several department specialists were observing me now, like an amoeba under a microscope.

  &ldquoRecognize anything?&rdquo Williams asked.

  &ldquoLooks like you raided the Salvation Army,&rdquo I quipped to cover my raging nerves as I noted the old dress, years out of style, an old flannel robe, some faded panties, and a pair of scuffed beige, low-heeled pumps.

  &ldquoWhat if I told you these belonged to Courtney Farrow?&rdquo

  &ldquoThese?&rdquo

  &ldquoWe found them in a suitcase in her car trunk the night she disappeared,&rdquo Williams said.

  &ldquoI&rsquod say she wouldn&rsquot be caught dead in this stuff. And that&rsquos no joke.&rdquo

  &ldquoThese other things were found near her body,&rdquo he said, spilling out a small bin of additional items, including a faux leopard jacket, a stretchy pair of jeans in a size zero, and a zebra-striped bracelet.

  &ldquoAnything look familiar?&rdquo Williams asked.

  I pointed to the jacket and bracelet. &ldquoThese might be hers. She was addicted to animal prints.&rdquo

  &ldquoFrom what I gathered, she was quite a highflier. Liked to dress sharp,&rdquo he added.

  &ldquoShe had a definite look.&rdquo For a caged resident of the San Diego Zoo.

  &ldquoWell, that about does it. Thanks for coming down.&rdquo

  I felt so relieved I actually managed a weak smile. &ldquoNo problem.&rdquo

  But as Williams opened the door for me to leave, he casually said, &ldquoThere is one more thing.&rdquo He held up something shiny.

  A hoop earring. &ldquoEver seen this before?&rdquo

  Horror gripped my intestines. I took the earring from him and studied it. &ldquoI don&rsquot understand. Are you saying you found this in her car, too?&rdquo

  &ldquoNo, it was clutched in her hand. When she died.&rdquo

  I felt dizzy. Because the silver hoop earring with the single black pearl was mine.

  8

  The earring had been missing since our party. Now the silver hoop was black and the bead misshapen. Probably from the fire. But the earring was mine. I wondered if something so thin, something which had survived the fires of hell, could still have fingerprints on it. Or my DNA. Also I wondered if I&rsquod ever get used to prison food and sex with large muscular women, if they traced the earring back to me.

  I debated about telling Detective Williams the truth, that Ken had given me the earrings as a gift. I opted to keep my mouth shut. After all, I hadn&rsquot killed Courtney and there was no point in getting in any deeper. No reason to get arrested and ruin my life. Which was how Jasper would&rsquove put it.

  I finally said, &ldquoLots of woman have these. They&rsquore popular right now.&rdquo

  &ldquoThank you, Ms. Ross.&rdquo

 
; My legs wobbled as I left. Did they already know the earring was mine? And why was Courtney clutching it in death? Unless her murderer had intended to pin her death on me.

  Exhausted and shaken, I considered calling Ken. But damn it, I wanted him to call me first.

  Instead I reached Arlene. After unloading my recent troubles on her, I said, &ldquoLet&rsquos drop by that club where Courtney worked and see what we can find out.&rdquo

  If I didn&rsquot want to end up as the police&rsquos main suspect, I&rsquod better help them find the real killer.

  So a little after nine, after a twenty-minute drive to the rougher end of El Cajon Boulevard, Arlene and I entered Dancin&rsquo Beauties, a topless bar. A club where the girls not only whipped off everything but a G-string, but where they also served drinks. I just hoped they washed their hands in between rubbing their crotches and dropping lime slices in the margaritas. Unfortunately, Arlene and I stood out like debutantes in a men&rsquos prison.

  Inside the club, a DJ played bump and grind music. A dancer humped a long pole one last time before the stage went dark and the music stopped. As she climbed off the stage, another cocktail waitress set down her tray and scampered up the short flight of stairs to take her place. Once there, the waitress dragged a black Stetson out of a box and stuck it on her head. In a flash, the lights changed from green to purple.

  The DJ, a Willy Nelson wannabe with a long stringy braid under a black cowboy hat, clutched the microphone. Leering at the muscular, bleached blonde, he said, &ldquoLet&rsquos give a warm welcome to our freshest beauty, Miss Samba Gray Evans.&rdquo

  &ldquoFresh&rdquo wouldn&rsquot have been my moniker for the aging blonde, who looked closer to forty-five than twenty-five.

  Samba chucked her head at the DJ. Then a slow country tune broke through the din. Moving in time to the beat, Samba strutted across the stage, chest out, ass out, mouth working a wad of pink gum. Without warning, she ripped the snaps off her western-style blouse to reveal a major network of stretchmarks and a pink beaded bra. After two turns and a dip, the beaded bra came off, too, exposing implants which stood up as hard and proud as glass decanters. Pierced nipples with small gold earrings completed her look.

  Behind the bar a three-hundred-pounder with the name Andy printed on his shirt poured drinks.

  &ldquoHi there,&rdquo I said. &ldquoCan you tell me if a girl named Courtney Farrow ever worked here?&rdquo

  &ldquoDon&rsquot know anyone by that name,&rdquo he said, polishing the bar. &ldquoYou girls want somethin&rsquo?&rdquo

  &ldquoTwo beers,&rdquo I said. After wiping the top of my beer bottle with a napkin, I took a fast sip and followed Andy down the bar as he squirted out liquor and dropped lemon slices in a glass. &ldquo... So you never even heard the name Courtney Farrow before?&rdquo I said.

  Andy frowned. &ldquoWho are you two, Charlie&rsquos Angels?&rdquo

  Arlene and I laughed self-consciously. &ldquoJust friends of hers. We heard she used to work here. You may have heard, she was just found murdered.&rdquo

  &ldquoLike I told the cops, I never knew any Courtney Farrow. Only a chick called Delilah.&rdquo

  &ldquoThe cops?&rdquo

  &ldquoSure, they&rsquove been around twice.&rdquo

  &ldquoWait,&rdquo I said, digging in my purse for an unflattering photo I&rsquod filched from Courtney&rsquos condo along with her lizard book. But since my purse is the size of a double-wide trailer, I was still digging when Andy produced a flier featuring Courtney dressed like Catwoman&mdashonly topless. The caption under her picture read, &ldquoDelilah. Her sins will pay for yours.&rdquo And her ensemble included a cap with ears, a black spiked collar, a garter belt, high boots, and a sneer which said she could deliver both pain and pleasure.

  &ldquoThat&rsquos her,&rdquo I gasped.

  &ldquoThat&rsquos Delilah,&rdquo Andy said. &ldquoShe did a good routine. When she showed up.&rdquo

  Arlene and I exchanged looks.

  &ldquoHold on, Andy,&rdquo I called, battling my way through the crowd to follow him down the bar. &ldquoYou mean Courtney&mdashthat is, Delilah&mdashserved drinks here?&rdquo

  &ldquoPlus she was a top stripper.&rdquo

  I could hardly believe it. Courtney Farrow, the girl with the fancy beach condo in La Jolla, the BMW, and the pedigree from Greenwich, Connecticut, was actually a stripper who called herself Delilah? I felt happy, even gleeful. This was too much to contemplate, too much to believe. &ldquoHow long did she work here?&rdquo I asked, following Andy as he took orders and cleared away empty glasses and bottles.

  &ldquoAbout six months off and on. She wasn&rsquot what you&rsquod call reliable. Sometimes she&rsquod take off a couple of weeks without telling anyone.&rdquo

  &ldquoYou mean she&rsquod just drop out?&rdquo

  &ldquoSometimes.&rdquo

  Being no detective, I&rsquod momentarily run out of questions. Finally, I said, &ldquoHow much can a girl around here make working full time?&rdquo

  &ldquoThree to four grand a week. Even more if the tips are right.&rdquo

  Wow. After seven years of hawking insurance, I didn&rsquot make that much.

  &ldquoIs this your place, Andy?&rdquo I asked. Even if we never found Courtney, every worker here was a potential candidate for life, health, and disability insurance. Plus homeowners and auto.

  &ldquoNah, Mr. McDade&rsquos the boss. He was pretty pissed off at Delilah. A girl who doesn&rsquot show up or call is through.&rdquo

  &ldquoCause you not only lose a dancer but a cocktail waitress, too,&rdquo I said.

  &ldquoInterested in the job?&rdquo he asked, running his eyes over me, making me wish I&rsquod ordered a Bromo Seltzer instead of a beer.

  &ldquoAfraid my implants aren&rsquot up to it.&rdquo

  He chuckled, as his bloated gaze slid to my breasts.

  &ldquoOne more thing, Andy. Any idea why Courtney, I mean, Delilah, left the way she did?&rdquo

  &ldquoPolice asked pretty much the same questions. I had nothin&rsquo to tell them either.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut climbing out that bathroom window.&rdquo I made a face, letting him know I&rsquod visited the ladies room. I&rsquod seen the stains and graffiti, and the one narrow window that led out to the back alley and garbage cans. A window so thick with hairy dust, you could&rsquove washed and set it. There were nicer ways to exit the place, like down the urinal drain in the men&rsquos room.

  Andy took two orders, promptly filled them, and returned. &ldquoIt coulda been that some customer hassled her. Though she always acted like she knew her way around that end of bar.&rdquo

  &ldquoAnyone you noticed or&mdash &rdquo

  &ldquoSometimes the girls have complicated lives.&rdquo He gave me a look.

  &ldquoYou mean she did more than dance and serve drinks?&rdquo

  &ldquoLet&rsquos just say she was popular with the customers. And McDade didn&rsquot bitch cause her fans kept coming back. Plenty of guys around here had her phone number. Some of them expected more than a drink when she got off at two. They could get pretty persistent. A few times I personally had to help &rsquoem out the door.&rdquo

  &ldquoAnyone familiar that you noticed that night? A boyfriend who showed up and gave her a rough time or&mdash &rdquo

  &ldquoHoney, it was a Sunday night. We&rsquore jumping on weekends, just like tonight. I wouldn&rsquot notice anyone, unless the guy made a scene. Can&rsquot remember anything like that. Maybe she owed someone bread. She was into McDade for a bundle, so she probably owed all around. She supposedly danced at some other club in town under another name when she was hard up for rent money.&rdquo

  Rent money? Was he talking about the same Courtney Farrow? Because his description of Courtney certainly didn&rsquot jive with her accounts of summers on Martha&rsquos Vineyard or sailing around Newport in the family yacht. So what was the truth? For almost two years, my friends and I had believed that Courtney had it all: the La Jolla condo, the clothes, the car, the vacations, and the fancy WASP pedigree from back east. We&rsquod accepted her stories about being
courted by rich, educated men who took her to glamorous parties, charity events, and famous restaurants. And Dancin&rsquo Beauties was a dive. Period.

  &ldquoAny idea what the other strip club place was called?&rdquo I asked, realizing Arlene had lost interest. Instead, she gaped at the stage where Samba was now doing a backbend.

  &ldquoNo idea.&rdquo

  I recalled the day Arlene and I had snuck into Courtney&rsquos place. And the guy who&rsquod left a message for Sydney Louise. A guy who claimed the boss was pissed because she hadn&rsquot shown up. Maybe she&rsquod given both strip clubs the runaround.

  &ldquoIs Mr. McDade in tonight?&rdquo I asked Andy.

  &ldquoNah. He&rsquos been missin&rsquo in action for three or four days.&rdquo

  &ldquoHe&rsquos missing, too? Have you called the police or&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoRelax. McDade disappears all the time. He likes to gamble. The ponies, casinos, football games. He loves the action. My guess is, he&rsquos in Laughlin or Vegas. He&rsquos got a place in Palm Springs, too.&rdquo

  Another dead end. &ldquoWell, if you think of anything,&rdquo I said, handing him my card. &ldquoMaybe I can help you get a better rate on your homeowners or car insurance.&rdquo

  He glanced at my card. &ldquoReally?&rdquo

  &ldquoSure. One more thing, we&rsquod like to meet Samba.&rdquo

  At the moment, Samba was on all fours, smacking her own ass.

  Andy tossed down his wash rag. Disgust covered his face down to his grossly large pores. &ldquoPersonally, I doubt you&rsquore her type.&rdquo

  &ldquoNo, you&rsquove got the wrong idea. We just need to talk to her.&rdquo But he&rsquod ambled down the bar to fill drinks.

  Discouraged, we fought our way through the crowd of roaring, whistling men, and found a small table off to the side and set down our beers. We&rsquod just gotten settled when a short guy in cowboy boots and a big hat sidled over.

  &ldquoI couldn&rsquot help overhearing your conversation. My name&rsquos Bart. I knew Courtney pretty well.&rdquo

  The very guy I&rsquod dug out of Courtney&rsquos lizard book the other night. I also recognized him from our party. He&rsquod stayed in a corner drinking by himself. And to my knowledge, he never went near Courtney. Unless I&rsquod missed their interaction, too, another possibility.