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Wait till they got a load of—literally—Harriet’s monster, dark-stained pine cannonball bed. And the matching hutch-top dresser and highboy they’d have to finesse the mattress and box springs past without disturbing a jillion dusty knicknacks and framed photographs.
Harriet whipped back the sheet. Pushing upright, she grabbed her cane and hobbled off down the hall. Dina guessed she wanted to hide the personal, even intimate items that age and illness remanded to plain sight on the nightstand.
Dina continued, “The coffee table, end tables, bookcases—crap in general—we’ll dump in Mom’s room.” To herself, she added, And when Mom isn’t looking, I’ll sneak Randy’s crap out of the second bedroom in there, too.
Thumps in the hall preceded Harriet’s reappearance. Clutched in a quaking, blue-veined fist was Earl Wexler’s long-barreled revolver. “You boys lay one hand on my things and I’ll blow it clean off.” Her glare and the gun wobbled to Dina. “That goes for you, too, missy. I’m not an invalid like your daddy was. I’ll be damned if you’ll make me into one.”
Having lost the argument about pawning the gun, Dina had removed the bullets on the sly. The garbage seemed the obvious disposal method, until she pictured city sanitary landfill workers running from a hail of exploding shells. Safer, she decided, to bury them in the backyard.
A subtle head shake informed the Bobs that the revolver wasn’t loaded. Evidently aware of the number of people who die every year from “unloaded” guns, both men faded back behind the TV stand.
“Of course you aren’t an invalid, Mom.” Dina eased toward her. “Far from it. But if the TV has to stay where it is, it only makes sense to bring you to it.”
“Loll around where everybody that comes to the door can see me.” Harriet snorted in disgust. “Why, I’d sooner plunk myself in Penney’s front window at the mall.”
Dina removed the heavy revolver from her mother’s hand before she dropped it and broke a foot. Staring down at it, she remembered her father making the same Penney’s window remark to a hospice volunteer. She should have known that for his widow, setting up a bed of any kind in the living room was a death knell. A small, terrifying step away from the hospital type brought in for Earl Wexler’s final months.
That time would inevitably come again. A year from now, two, five—the doctors were continually astonished by Harriet’s resiliency. When they remarked on it, she always said, “The secret to livin’s being too mean to die. God don’t want you and the devil’s scared of what you’ll do if he gets ya.”
Dina laid the gun on the dining room table, then faced her mother. “I understand about the bed. I don’t have the money to put cable in your room. Dr. Greenspan wanted you on oxygen weeks ago, but you had to get sicker before Medicare would pay for it. Telling me you won’t do this and I can’t do that isn’t getting the machine in here, where you can use it.”
She turned to Bob and Bob. “Which these very patient, very kind men will put wherever they think best.” She smiled at them, adding, “I’m not passing the buck.” A shrug, then, “Okay, I am, but now that I’ve royally screwed up and pissed off Bonnie Parker in the process, you’re in charge.”
Harriet grunted. “They should’ve been in the first place.”
“I know.” Dina cupped her elbow to guide her back to the throne. “I ought to be horsewhipped for trying too hard to make you happy.”
“You’re nothing but a bully, Dina Jeanne.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you’re gonna be sorry when I’m gone. I’m changing my will. Randy gets everything. Lock, stock and barrel.”
Dina steadied her for the awkward, off-balance descent into the chair. Her mother’s shallow, raspy breathing scared her. A glance over her shoulder at Taller Bob telegraphed, “Hurry. Please.”
3
Jack McPhee eyed the redhead striding into Ruby Tuesday’s dining area. So did every man at the bar and seated at tables. Their female companions’ heads turned, following their gazes, curious why conversations halted in midsentence or lunch dates suddenly forgot how to chew. To a woman, the object of such dumbstruck attention fostered death-ray glares.
Belle deHaven always had that effect on people. A teal silk, hourglass-tailored sheath contributed to it. So did an impeccable pair of mile-long legs, a flawless complexion and green sloe eyes. But it was the inner, indescribable something she projected that deeded the room to her.
Jack stood and pulled out the adjacent chair. “You’re late, as usual.” Belle kissed his cheek, then scrubbed off the evidence with her thumb. “After all these years, you’d be crushed if I was on time.”
“The shock might be fatal.”
Laughing, she sank into the chair and laid her clutch purse on the table. “Careful, McPhee. I know CPR, and it might be fun getting you in a lip lock again.” Belle hoisted the cosmopolitan he’d ordered for her and took a sip. “You were a lousy husband, but a world-class kisser.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds like my replacement could use a couple of pointers.”
“Dream on, hon. Carleton is everything I ever wanted. Smart, handsome, respectable—”
“Rich.”
Belle shrugged. “That, too, but money really doesn’t buy happiness.”
You’re just now figuring that out? Jack thought.
She drank again and sighed. “Poverty wasn’t as romantic as it’s cracked up to be, either.”
“It’s not like we starved. It just took me a while to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up.”
“As if…” Four tapered, manicured fingers grazed his jacket sleeve. A squinted visual inspection elicited a gasp. “Armani? Good God, Jack. Are you robbing banks on the side?”
Hard as he tried, he couldn’t tamp the blush creeping up his neck. A former girlfriend who managed an upscale resale shop introduced him to the concept of gently used clothing. Fleeting thoughts of recycling dead men’s wardrobes gave him the willies for a while. So did the chance of acquiring Carleton deHaven’s castoffs, until Jack realized his ex-wife’s hotshot husband was about twice his size.
Across the shoulders and trouser inseams, he allowed. Where it really mattered…well, he had no complaints and damn sure hadn’t received any.
“It’s been a good year and there’s a lot of it left.” If you’re gonna lie, sport, lie big. “Make that a great year. Business slowed down a little last month, but all in all, I thought I was due a few new threads to celebrate.”
“Threads?” Belle chuckled and leaned back as the server settled a plate of Dover sole garnished with squash and broccoli in front of her. Jack had ordered it for her, as well, timing the arrival perfectly.
“You are such a dweeb,” she said. “Fortunately, it’s one of your charms.”
“Thanks.” Jack snorted. “I think.”
After assuring the server that he wasn’t the dweeb to whom she referred and that nothing else was needed, Belle picked up her fork, then frowned at the still empty place between Jack’s elbows. “You’re not eating?”
“Can’t.” He glanced at his watch. “Got to meet Gerry Abramson at his office in about fifteen minutes.”
She forked in a bite of fish. Her expression inferred it was tasty, but nothing special. “You should’ve told me when I invited you to lunch.”
“If you hadn’t been forty-five minutes late, it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“I’m punctual in my own way.” She waved at her drink and plate. “You could have eaten something while you were waiting. Grazed at the salad bar, at least.”
Jack shook his head. “Mama raised me better than that.” He added, “And I scarfed a stack of flapjacks at the diner, before you called.”
Actually, before Gerry Abramson had called. If Belle had called earlier, Jack wouldn’t have gone next door for breakfast. The food at Al’s 24/7 Eats could torture Jack’s gut, even when it didn’t feel like a pretzel that slipped under a couch cushion last New Year’s Eve.
Jack took a drink of ice water and wished it were Chivas. A slug of liquid relaxation would take the edge off his premeeting jitters. He couldn’t care less what type of work the independent insurance agent offered. The domestic Jack expected to collect on Monday night had run sobbing from the restaurant. The heartbroken client stuck him with the dinner check, in lieu of a personal one.
By Wednesday afternoon, the office’s quietude had him clicking on the desk phone’s handset, hoping the line was dead. It wasn’t. In fact, the dial tone had an increasingly mirthful quality, as though Ma Bell were having a few laughs at his expense.
“Jack,” said the gorgeous, similarly named redhead dissecting her entrée. “Are you okay?”
He hesitated. When someone asks if you’re okay without making eye contact, it’s probable that he or she is anything but. Misery not only loves company, but it also graciously cedes the floor to yours, so his or her own appears empathetic.
Except the woman who’d been his wife for eight years and his best friend for twice that was a straight shooter. It had attracted him at the outset. After Belle dumped him for being an immature moron, her brand of honesty was what he’d missed most in subsequent relationships.
Maybe hanging with the country club set was finally wearing off on her. You can’t fake going with the flow forever. Eventually the current sucks you in, or you say “Screw this bullshit” and wade to shore.
“This year hasn’t been that good, and the suit’s secondhand,” Jack confessed. “This and a couple of Brooks Brothers set me back a friggin’ fortune. Not counting alterations.”
“I guessed as much.”
Frowning, he reached under his arm, thinking he’d pulled a shrewd move like forgetting to clip off the price tag. Nope, and nothing up his sleeves but shirt cuffs, either. “So how’d you know?”
“Guys who can afford designer clothes don’t wear them with Kmart shirts. Or ties. Or twenty-dollar watches.” Instead of smug, Belle looked concerned. She pushed away her plate and fingered the stem of the martini glass. “How bad is business?”
“Flat.” Jack smiled. “And about an hour from an uptick with Abramson’s retainer.”
“For what? A slip-and-fall? Workman’s comp case?”
Both were a P.I.’s bread and butter. Insurers and attorneys hired investigators to expose phony personal-injury claims and employees pocketing compensation pay for job-related accidents. It was astonishing and pretty sad how often paid leaves for, say, a ruptured disc inspired a claimant’s urge to reshingle his house.
Jack said, “Abramson mentioned taking a hit from a string of residential burglaries.” He stifled an impulse to check the time. Belle, of course, wasn’t wearing a watch. “So, how’s life treating you?”
Meaning, Carleton better be treating her well, or Jack would cheerfully break him in half. Too cheerfully, he admitted, but protectiveness fueled it, not jealousy.
“Just between us, I’m a teensy bit bored. Nothing a baby wouldn’t fix, if my ovaries would cooperate.”
Belle signaled the server for the tab, then pointed at her plate, requesting a go box for it. “You have no idea how many times I prayed to my crotch to get with it when my period was a little late. Now I’m hollering up there, ‘Swim, boys. Swim.’”
Jack was supposed to laugh. He said, “I didn’t think you wanted kids.” Pride bit off, With me.
“Woman’s prerogative. One baby would be okay. Wonderful, actually.” Belle drained her glass and blew out a breath. “Carleton isn’t the paternal type, but I’ll be damned if Abdullah Whatthefuckever will be our sole heir.”
“Abdu—oh. The dog.”
“How dare you call a champion afghan hound a dog. The old biddies at Westminster would have your head. So would the harem he’s servicing in Florida.” Belle autographed the credit card chit. “That hairball on stilts is higher maintenance than I am.”
Jack chuckled. “That’s saying somethin’, kid.”
Motion outside the window caught his eye. Vaguely attuned to Belle’s continued slander against man’s best friend, Jack leaned over the table, expanding his view of the restaurant’s parking lot.
The lunch crowd had pretty well winnowed to vacationers as logy as over-the-road truckers who were seventeen hours into a ten-hour day. Jack’s Taurus was baking in the mid-July sun. Belle’s café-au-lait Mercedes coupe was parked a half-dozen rows east and farther from the restaurant’s entrance.
Here and there, customers prolonged goodbyes, nodding and talking over the roofs of their vehicles. No familiar faces among them—no white-and-Bondo-colored subcompacts in the vicinity.
Still scanning the lot, Jack said, “You haven’t noticed anybody, um, hanging around outside your house lately, have you? A strange car cruising by, anything like that?”
When Belle didn’t answer, he looked at her. “Hey, no cause for the big eyes. Just curious, that’s all.”
Belle extracted a pair of sunglasses from her bag and slipped them on. Swiveling in her chair, she said, “I knew you were in trouble. What is it this time? Another pissed-off husband swinging single? Somebody pink-slipped after your background check?”
“I’m not in trouble.”
She pulled down the shades an inch and peered over the frames.
“I’m not,” Jack insisted, then groaned. “There’s this mope—twenty-something, big as an upright freezer. He tagged me for a job, I turned him down, gave him some excellent career counseling and sent him on his way.”
Belle’s stare narrowed, but remained as steady as twin-beam halogens. Her fingers waggled, Keep going.
Jack peeled back his suit coat sleeve for a look at his watch. If he didn’t haul asphalt in three minutes, he’d be late for the appointment with Gerry Abramson. “The kid thought he’d impress me with my own résumé, financials and an activities report.”
“You mean he tailed you?”
Jack scowled at her apparent amusement. “If I hadn’t been working a domestic, I’d have spotted his crap-mobile—” he snapped his fingers “—like that.”
“Uh-huh.” A fingernail clicked a riff on the tabletop. “You think he’s stalking you.”
“Not really.” Saying it didn’t make it true, but Jack liked the sound of it. “Trust me. He’s about as built for covert surveillance as Sasquatch.”
Belle pondered a moment. “Then you’re afraid he’ll use info from the dossier on you to stalk me.” It wasn’t a question. And there wasn’t a molecule of fear in her tone.
“It occurred to me.” Jack stood and held the back of her chair to steady it. The scenery below provoked a mental wolf whistle. Belle McPhee deHaven had an unquestionably fine set of legs, but it was the peek at her cleavage that brought back many a fond memory.
She and Jack epitomized a couple who should never have parlayed friendship into matrimony. He was damn lucky he’d escaped the latter without destroying the former.
He walked her out, saying, “Okay, I’ll admit, this dude gave me the heebie-jeebies. You know the type. A schlump, except the eye contact’s too long and a touch too intense.”
“Does this schlump have a name?”
“Brett Dean Blankenship.” Taking Belle’s keys, he pressed the fob’s remote button to unlock the Mercedes’s door. “About six-three and four hundred pounds of solid flab. How he packs it into a Chevy Cavalier defies physics.”
Belle scanned the parking lot, as if daring Moby Dick to surface. “Thanks for the warning.”
“At most, it’s a heads-up.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Sorry I have to run.”
“I’m used to it.” She flashed a no-insult-intended smile.
Jack couldn’t tell through her sunglasses, but bet it didn’t reach her eyes. Something was bothering her. He could feel it. “How about meeting me for a drink later? If Abramson’s retainer is over a couple of grand, I’ll even buy.”
“I wish I could.” Belle sighed as though she meant it. “Carleton and I are meeting some people for dinner at the club.”
Bars kicked off happy hour at four, but Jack gave her a rain check. “If you, uh, want to shoot the breeze some more, you know the numbers.”
She nodded and pulled the car door shut.
By the time Jack reached the Taurus, he decided his imagination was working double overtime. An occupational hazard for a semi-underemployed snoop. Belle’s admitted boredom wasn’t a crisis, even if the rival for your husband’s affections was a trophy dog. And he hadn’t seen Blankenship as much as sensed him.
He dawdled a moment beside his car to let the blast-furnace heat escape the open door. Belle was right about his being a lousy husband and provider, he thought. But for all the things she’d ripped him for, boredom had never been one of them.
The National Federated Insurers’ office was housed in a remodeled Asian restaurant. The mud-brown exterior and pagoda roof reclad in cedar shakes evoked Jackie Chan Does Sante Fe, but the parking area was large enough for employees, visitors and a bank’s repossessed-vehicles sales lot.
Jack perused a sweet electric-blue speedboat marooned on its trailer. Babe magnet. Babe-in-a-bikini magnet. He could be the Captain and she, his Tennille. The fantasy shimmied and vanished, like a cartoon genie into a bottle. Babes young enough to wear bikinis probably wouldn’t know the Captain and Tennille from Captain Kangaroo.
On that depressing note, Jack entered the insurance agency’s reception area and gave his name to the blonde behind the counter. Without missing a beat of her cell phone conversation, she pointed over her shoulder at Gerry Abramson’s private office.
