Why couldn’t my stupid brain just let it go?
But the more I thought about it, the more puzzling the whole thing seemed.
Why would a guy who lived in a trailer in Omaha, Nebraska, come clear out to Santa Martina to stay at the Heavenly Hotel?
Was he doing business with someone at the Senior Highrise? But what kind of business? If it was legit, why take the fire escape? The fire escape was a total shortcut from the Heavenly, but you’d really only use it if you didn’t want to be seen.
And he sure had acted like he didn’t want to be seen—taking his time coming out…wearing a hat and dark clothes….
And then there was the fact that him seeing me seeing him gave him a heart attack!
But what sort of sneaky business would an old guy be involved in?
Insurance fraud?
Tax evasion?
Blackmail?
Or wait! Maybe he was an old-guy drug dealer. Not for cocaine or meth or heroin or…you know, junkie drugs. Maybe he sold medical marijuana or pain pills or…I don’t know…miracle joint juice!
And maybe he’d collected the money but hadn’t delivered the goods to some guy he’d been doing business with. So maybe that guy went to the Heavenly pretending to be Buck’s brother so he could get his…stuff.
But who was he? And what could possibly cost three thousand dollars? And why pay three thousand dollars for something that wasn’t already delivered?
I thought about it awhile, and since I couldn’t seem to get past that roadblock of questions, I started thinking about other possibilities.
What if the three thousand dollars was a down payment on something Buck had been working on?
Like…a piece of art?
Or maybe Buck had won a bunch of money gambling?
But…the only gambling you can do in town is bingo night at St. Mary’s Church, and you sure wouldn’t make off with three thousand dollars.
So…maybe he had robbed someone? Maybe he had pulled off some sort of old-guy heist!
Or maybe it really was blackmail.
But…who was getting blackmailed, and why?
Thinking about it was making me crazy. I wanted to just let it go, but I couldn’t.
Where had that jackpot of cash come from?
Whose money was stashed at the bottom of my backpack?
Whose money had I been spending?
EIGHT
Before I’d gone over to the Heavenly, I’d explained to Grams that André was letting me earn some money for cleaning the hotel lobby.
It had gone over like a bad joke.
Badda-boom.
And after fifteen minutes of arguing, she’d finally taken off the kid gloves and hit me with: “You are being so stubborn—just like your mother.”
It was a low blow, but I didn’t let it knock the wind out of me. And eventually she gave in, saying, “You’d better stick to cleaning the lobby—no going in anyone’s room!”
“They don’t do the maid thing there, Grams. Everyone’s on their own.”
“And don’t come crying to me when he cheats you! The man obviously doesn’t put much value in cleanliness.”
So slipping back into the apartment after my little “cleaning” adventure, I couldn’t help but wag André’s twenties in the air. “Hellooo, Grams. Check out how badly I’ve been cheated!”
She looked up from the kitchen table, where she was paying bills. “Forty dollars?” she gasped. “Why…you’ve only been gone a couple of hours!” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “At most!”
I sat down across from her. “I guess André thinks I’m a hardworking, valuable employee.”
She blinked at the money in my hand and shook her head. “When I was your age—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, heading off her train of thought. “But back then bread was thirty-five cents a loaf, and girls wore dresses.”
She hesitated. “Yes, of course.” Then her eyes popped a little and she said, “Oh! Marissa called. She was very worked up about something. She wants you to call her right away.”
I headed for the phone. “Did you tell her where I was?”
“Yes.” She glanced over at me. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not a bit,” I said, doing a mental arm pump. Now Marissa knew it was true—I had a job at the Heavenly.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked when Marissa answered the phone.
“You are not going to believe this! You are not even going to believe this!”
“What?”
“I’ve got no credit card, I’ve got no cell phone, I’ve got no cash!”
“Welcome to my world,” I laughed. Then I said, “What did you do?” because at no time in Marissa’s life has her mother cut her off from cash.
“I didn’t do anything! It must be the stock market or some bad investment or…I don’t know! They won’t tell me, but they’re both losing it like I’ve never seen. It’s been like a war zone here! Can you come over? Can you please come over?”
“Uh…how about we meet somewhere? A war zone sounds…you know…dangerous.”
“They left, but I can’t go anywhere because they fired Simone and put me in charge of Mikey!”
“They fired Simone? Wow.”
Simone had been a lifesaver. She’d kept Marissa and Mikey from killing each other while their parents were off working all the time. Shoot, she’d kept me from killing Mikey. He’s a won’t-shut-up, won’t-leave-you-alone, tattletaling beast of a little brother.
Only he’s a supersized tattletaling beast of a little brother.
Let’s just say Mikey McKenze sidled up to the candy bar and never walked away.
Anyway, Simone getting canned meant Marissa’s summer was officially a disaster. I did a quick check with Grams, then said, “I’m on my way.”
Trouble is, the phone rang right away after I’d hung up, and when I snatched it up thinking it was Marissa calling back about something she’d forgotten, I discovered that it wasn’t Marissa at all.
It was Mrs. Wedgewood.
“I’ve got a list, sugar,” she said.
I held back a groan.
“Some shoppin’ and a little laundry,” she said, and I could practically see her cat-ate-the-canary smile.
“Uh, I’m sorta tied up with helping my grandmother this morning.”
“Oh, it’s not much. I’m sure you can work it in. Come over now, won’t you?”
When I hung up, Grams frowned. “This has happened to you more than once—you’ve got to stop answering the phone!” Then she sighed and said, “So what does she want?”
“The usual,” I grumbled.
“I’ll do it,” Grams said. “I’ll just get her groceries when I get ours.” She shook her head at her checkbook. “But I have to reconcile this first! I’m missing a hundred and twenty dollars somehow.”
“Wow,” I said, because in the checks and balances of Grams’ finances, that was a lot of money.
But then it hit me that in the checks and balances of my secret stash, it was nothing, and in the back of my mind a little plan started forming.
“I’ll get the laundry and the list,” I said, heading for the door.
There was no one in the hallway, so I just scooted next door and let myself into Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment.
“How nice to see you, sugar!” she said.
The sweet-talking blackmailer.
She was sitting on a chair at her kitchen table, but with her size you couldn’t even see the chair. It was like she was just levitating there. “Here’s the grocery list, and the laundry’s in the basket by my bed. If you wouldn’t mind strippin’ the sheets and addin’ them to it?”
“Okay,” I said, trying not to show how ticked off I was.
I went into her bedroom, yanked off her sheets, and hurled them at the already overflowing laundry basket, and I was just picking the whole load up when I heard someone knocking at the door.
“Come in!” hollered the Wedge.
Now, I w
as expecting it to be Grams, and I think Mrs. Wedgewood was, too, but as I was starting to leave the bedroom, I heard a man’s voice say, “Hello? May I come in?” He had some kind of an accent. Maybe British?
I ducked back and held my breath.
“Why, hello…!” I heard Mrs. Wedgewood reply, and the tone of her voice was extra syrupy.
“Excuse this bold intrusion,” the man said. “My name is Rex Randolf, and I’m here to thank you for your valiant efforts Tuesday night.”
My mind’s going, Valiant efforts? What valiant efforts? Does getting out of a shower qualify as a valiant effort? And I’m also trying to figure out his accent. It’s not really British, it’s more a style of talking. It’s like a sophisticated accent.
So I take a sneaky peek out the bedroom doorway, and what do I see?
Some old guy wearing a red silk scarf, a beret, and tinted glasses. He’s tall, and bald on top but with slicked-back hair on the sides, and has a gray moustache. His shoes are like black mirrors, and he’s carrying a big ol’ bouquet of flowers.
He moves out of view, so I creep forward and watch as Mrs. Wedgewood accepts the flowers. “My!” she says, beaming away. “How very thoughtful of you.”
“Would you like me to put them in a vase?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you!” She points into the kitchen. “I believe there’s a pitcher in the cupboard, right there.”
After he gets the flowers taken care of, he says, “May I call you Rose?” And that’s when it finally hits me why this guy is here. Somehow he’d found out that the 911 call had come from Mrs. Wedgewood’s apartment—he thought she was the one who’d found Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, on the fire escape landing.
But…who was he? He didn’t look like anyone I’d ever seen in the Senior Highrise, and he sure didn’t look like a cop.
“Of course,” Mrs. Wedgewood was saying. “But…how did you hear about me?”
“Why…the whole building’s talking about you!”
“Really?”
“Of course! You’re our Highrise celebrity!” He adjusted the pitcher of flowers on the table. “It must’ve been awful for you! What do you suppose he was doing there?”
“Uh…I have no idea. It’s a complete mystery to me.”
“The police say he didn’t even live in this building! Did you get any clues from him? Did he say anything?”
“I, uh…I didn’t hear a word.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Carrying anything? Uh…not that I saw….”
“What about the police?”
“What about them? Mr. Randolf, honestly, all your questions are exhausting me!”
“Oh, how thoughtless of me. Of course. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.” He turned the pitcher this way and that. “I know. Why don’t you join us for Monte Carlo night tonight? It’s quite enjoyable, and I’m sure it would do wonders to lift your spirits.”
The wheels are still turning in Mrs. Wedgewood’s blackmailing little brain, and even though she has no clue what this Rex Randolf guy is talking about, she’s doing a great job of not letting on. “Well,” she says, “I’m really not much of a card player.”
He chuckles, “Not a problem. We play blackjack. It’s not hard. I’ll be more than happy to teach you.”
“Really?” she says, her eyebrows rising clear up behind her curly black bangs.
“Certainly. Why don’t I meet you in the rec room around seven-thirty. I’ll save you a seat.”
“It’s tonight?”
He nods. “That’s right.”
“Why…yes! I’d be delighted.”
“Very good. I’ll be looking for you.”
On his way out, he makes a showy old-world bow, and the minute he’s gone, Mrs. Wedgewood calls, “Sugar pie! Ooooh, sugar pie…!”
I know she’s talking to me, so I come out so she can see me.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t hear all that, ’cause I know you did.” She crosses her arms and drills me with her beady brown eyes. “What is goin’ on around here?”
Now, in my head I feel like I’m playing blackmailer chess. And I try to think several moves ahead, but after about four if-I-do-this-and-she-does-thats, I finally say, “You called 911 the other night, trying to save a man’s life.”
She blinks at me. “I did?”
I shrug and kind of look at the ceiling.
“They think I saved a man’s life?”
“Actually…” I pull a face. “You tried to, but he died.”
“He died?” Her face crinkles up. “How did I let that happen?”
“Uh…he had a massive heart attack? You couldn’t do much about it?”
“Oh,” she says, eyeing me. “But you’re saying I tried my best?”
“You certainly did.”
She thinks a minute. “Hmm. And where did I happen upon this dying man?”
I pinch my lips together and take a deep breath. “On the fourth-floor landing.”
“Of the stairs?”
“Actually…it was the fire escape.”
She gasps. “They think I went out on the fire escape to save a man’s life? I can barely get to the elevator!”
I scratch my eyebrow. “Look. Do you want to be the Highrise celebrity or not?”
And now we’re at the move where I’m hope-hope-hoping she’ll say yes, but really, I’m not sure. But my having any chance of winning this game—or at least not losing it—depends on her saying yes.
She blinks at me a minute, then says, “If you don’t mind, sugar, I don’t mind.”
I try not to act too relieved. “Actually, it wasn’t me. It was Grams.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, like a smarty-pants blackmailer.
“I’m serious. But I’m sure she won’t mind you being the Highrise’s celebrity.” I grin at her and add, “Although that Rex Randolf seems very classy.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” she says, blushing.
“And you know, now that I think about it, Grams might be interested in straightening everything out.”
“No, no! This is probably best all around.”
“Hmm,” I say, like I’m giving it some serious thought, “maybe so.”
“Then it’s settled.”
I take her shopping list. “So I guess I should give this to Grams and get your laundry started so you’ll have something to wear to Monte Carlo night, huh?”
She was all for that.
And I was all for finding out about Mr. Rex Randolf.
He was up to something.
But what?
NINE
My doing laundry at the Senior Highrise is ridiculously complicated. I have to sneak down the fire escape, go through the front door, make a big deal of saying hello to the manager, Mr. Garnucci, and letting him know why I’m there, go up the elevator and through the hallways, get the laundry, and haul it down to the basement.
All that so if any nosy old guy reports me, Mr. Garnucci can tell him I’ve got permission to be there.
And then, when I’m all done fluffing and folding and delivering the laundry, I have to make a big deal of leaving the building so Mr. Garnucci knows I’m not staying there.
Now, I wasn’t about to wait through the whole wash/dry/fluff-and-fold process. Marissa was waiting for me to save her from Mikey! So I just crammed Mrs. Wedgewood’s laundry into some washers and got out of there.
On my way out, I took a quick detour into the Highrise’s alcove of mailboxes. And I looked and I looked, but I couldn’t find a box for Rex Randolf or R. Randolf or any other kind of Randolf.
“Get that laundry going?” Mr. Garnucci boomed as I approached his desk. Mr. Garnucci is always shouting everything he says, probably from having to deal with old people all day. It’s like going past a gale force of words.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m doing Mrs. Wedgewood’s, too.”
“You,” he shouts, “are a rare and wonderful child!”
“Well, um, thank you, but um�
��hey…” I glance around. “Mrs. Wedgewood asked me to find out how she can get a message to Rex Randolf.”
“Who?” he bellows.
“Rex Randolf,” I whisper. “And could you please not shout? She doesn’t want people to know she’s…you know…enamored.”
“Oh,” he says. Then he whispers really loud, “Well, I’d like to help her out, but I don’t know of any Rex Randolf.”
“Mrs. Wedgewood says he lives in the building.” I shrug. “Apparently, he brought her flowers and invited her to Monte Carlo night.”
Mr. Garnucci’s eyes pop. “Someone brought Rose flowers?”
“Someone named Rex Randolf.”
He leans back and shakes his head. “Maybe,” he says, looking from side to side, “he’s an imaginary friend.”
Now, I know Rex Randolf is not imaginary, but I laugh and say, “Maybe! Although she gave a lot of detail—handsome, snazzy dresser, beret, neck scarf, moustache, sophisticated accent….”
“In this building?” He laughs. “Definitely imaginary.”
So I wave and head for the door, calling, “Oh, well. I’ll be back later to switch the laundry over.”
“See you then!” he booms.
By the time I got to Marissa’s, it was one o’clock and I was starving.
“What took you so long!” Marissa said when she threw open the door.
I pushed past her, out of the heat and into the coolness of the McKenze mansion. “Let’s see…sneaky old men with flowers, sweet-talking blackmailers with mountains of laundry, and…and you don’t exactly live next door!”
She shook her head like, Whatever, then closed the door behind me. “Well, Mikey’s in terror mode. And my mother keeps calling here looking for my dad! She’s driving me nuts!”
“So quit answering the phone, lock yourself in your room, and ignore Mikey.”
“I don’t want to lock myself in my room! I don’t want to be stuck in this house with Mikey, but I’m not allowed to leave without him!”
“So let’s take him to the mall and park him in front of the fish tanks.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying. I can’t just drag him around like I used to. He doesn’t listen to me. And he weighs more than I do!”
“How about—”
“And I’m sorry, but I don’t know when I’m going to be able to pay you back for the swimsuits!”
Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash Page 5