Hammered

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Hammered Page 12

by Ruth Bainbridge


  “That’s the way Dengrove made it sound … as if the money evaporated.”

  “He did, didn’t he?” Leticia said with a laugh. “So the question is where he hid it. I suppose the obvious choice would be in an offshore account. If you wire the money in small enough increments, it wouldn’t show up as traceable.”

  “Flew the money under the radar … and if Doris knew where it was—”

  “She could have waited until things cooled down,” Leticia surmised.

  “But what about the restaurant? She worked her butt off,” Sam countered.

  The elegant librarian adjusted her chignon by giving it a pat.

  As if it were going anywhere.

  She’d had the style for the past twenty years and the dark hair strewn with gray was pretty well trained to stay in place. And even if it got ideas, a strong pelting of hairspray in the morning kept it looking divine.

  “That’s easily explainable,” Leticia commented.

  “It is?”

  “Yes. There were enormous legal bills.”

  That was what Doris’ mother Patricia Cunningham had said. It must have been common knowledge.

  “She was included in the early investigation, you know,” the librarian added.

  “I do now,” Sam replied, nodding towards the monitor. “And what you’re saying is that she couldn’t just dig into the stolen funds without raising suspicion, so she started a business and used that to pay off the debt,” Sam said as she read Leticia’s mind. As she rested her chin on her palm, her elbow dug into the workstation. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

  “It’s ‘yes’ … not ‘yeah’. It’s one letter less to pronounce, and infinitely more appropriate. Don’t get sloppy now that you’re a successful businesswoman. You’re one of the role models in this town, and I’d hate to think of the entirety of the next generation of girls using vulgarities because of you.”

  “It’s hardly a vulgarity, Mrs. Hundle, but I do get … understand … what you mean.”

  “It includes posture, Sam.”

  Ah, posture!

  She snapped to attention, wishing she could appropriate the regal bearing of the woman before her. Although in her sixties, Leticia exemplified the concept. Her shoulders wide, the spine erect, she had a military bearing that was enviable, but not duplicatable.

  Not without a stint in boot camp.

  Leticia’s hand stroked Sam’s chin.

  “Better,” she remarked with a smile. “You’re such a special person, Sam. Smart, kind, and so beautiful … you’re like a young Audrey Hepburn. You do know who Audrey Hepburn is, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know! Funny Face, Roman Holiday, Masquerade … loved her in that. Was there anything better than her scenes with Cary Grant?”

  “Only the ones with George Peppard!”

  “Breakfast at Tiffany’s … LOVED!” Sam blurted.

  “Or Fred Astaire,” Leticia replied with light-hearted laughter. “Somehow I knew you would know who she was, Samantha. You have an active mind and one I speculated would lead you in interesting directions. And here you are, all grown-up and proving my prediction true by becoming an entrepreneur. I can’t tell you how proud I am. I feel this wonderful center of knowledge with its hallowed halls,” she said, looking around, “had something to do with it.”

  “The Mountain Valley Public Library had everything to do with it. I’ve always loved this place, but—”

  “But what, oh, rapacious reader?”

  “But do you really think those things about me?” Sam inquired. “I mean, they’re wonderful compliments, but I’m hardly worthy of those laudatory words. I’m just a girl struggling to get by. I don’t think someone hanging on by their thumbs deserves special accolades.”

  Leticia paused, giving a tug to the gray cotton skirt that covered her knees. Classic summed up her style.

  The African-American unleashed another smile.

  “You’re hardly that. You set a goal, worked tremendously hard, and achieved what you desired. But what I think is just as important is that you never stopped learning … growing. And you also didn’t throw away your beginnings. You held true to the honesty and humbleness of your parents and incorporated those qualities into the life you’re creating for yourself.”

  A deep blush tinted Sam’s olive complexion with the color of a morning rose. Shaking her head, she muttered a nearly inaudible, “No.”

  “Yes,” was the emphatic reply. “Who is the teen that started the clothing drive when she learned that families were struggling with buying winter clothes for their children? Who is the girl that volunteered at the soup kitchen? Who is the young lady that worked at Tabby’s Animal Shelter walking dogs and cleaning out litter boxes? And in between all that, you went to school, got your business degree, and a real estate license, before launching your coffee shop—”

  “That is no more,” she said as she exhaled.

  “What? You lost the shop? How? Why?”

  Sam’s hand went to her braids, pulling the end of one over her shoulder.

  “I haven’t lost it yet, but the writing’s on the wall. No one is coming, Mrs. Hundle. It’s like a ghost shop. All that work—”

  The sigh heavy, she didn’t bother finishing the sentence. The tears threatening to spill prevented her from continuing.

  She took a quick hit of water, collecting her composure.

  “Ghost shop? My, I am so very sorry to hear this. People do not behave correctly sometimes. They have no idea the hurt they cause by letting gossip and innuendo guide their actions. I will be sure to stop by each and every day. Maybe if someone with common sense takes the lead, it will help.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hundle.”

  “And my husband is a veteran. He can rally the troops to stop by. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to help you get back on your feet. And we do have meetings. Not often, but the vendors we’ve used have not been up to Mountain Valley Public Library’s standards. In other words,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone, “the staff complained about the coffee tasting like bilge water and I agree,” she added with a wrinkle of her nose.

  “Nothing worse than bad coffee,” she responded ‘Take that, Mr. Connors!’ she internally blasted. She didn’t care what he said, all coffee did not taste alike. “I wonder if he died?” Sam segued, mumbling under her breath as her eyes scanned the monitor.

  “Who?” Leticia queried, peering over her shoulder and at the screen.

  “Alfred Langford … the guard at Drossider’s Finance and Loan. My mom said she remembers the place being robbed but doesn’t remember if he survived the shot. But if he did, he might still be in Mountain Valley.”

  “I don’t see why he wouldn’t. We have very little attrition.”

  “Until now.”

  The hazel eyes snapped shut.

  “That’s a gross exaggeration. No one I know is moving away from the crime wave that consists of one homicide that you suspect may have been financially motivated.”

  “Yes, well, my theories are all that exist.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m doing our crack police force’s job for them.”

  “Why would you say that, Samantha? Do you have information that they’re not?”

  Sam’s hand dug into her pocket and made contact with a protein bar. She could use it right now, but dared not test Leticia’s resolve, but she pressed too hard, and the wrapper crackled.

  “Hope that isn’t more contraband you’re smuggling in,” Leticia cautioned. “I save a portion of my available drawer space for a certain young lady with a sweet tooth who never seems to learn.”

  “Oh, I have!” she said with a giggle. “It’s for later … to keep me from falling over. Investigation is hard work …. not that Detective Death would know.”

  The last part of the statement was hidden in a breath.

  “What? What about death?” Leticia queried.

  “Sorry … was just think
ing out loud about Doris’ death,” she bluffed while burrowing into the sweater she took along to ward off overly aggressive air conditioning.

  Her fingers clicked on the keyboard as she typed in a new search.

  “Well, Samantha, if you need to do more research, we are always available—within the confines of business hours, of course. And I would like to add a warning. If you’re right about the police taking a lackadaisical approach, I don’t believe it would be prudent for you to do more than look through our archival records. I’m mentioning this because by that look in your eye, I’m sensing you plan on doing more and I would strongly advise you not to get involved.”

  Bingo! Man, did Leticia have her number.

  “Absolutely, Mrs. Hundle. Don’t know where you’d get an idea like that,” she said before clicking on the top result and perusing the copy.

  Mrs. Hundle glanced down at her nails, appraising the state of her cuticles. Rubbing the nail beds together for a moment to increase circulation, she fanned her fingers out before responding.

  “You know, Samantha. I could always tell when you were fibbing.”

  Sam looked up as one eyebrow stroked with pencil lifted, and the pair of small, sparkling hazel eyes met Sam’s. The girl detective kept silent. No use denying the obvious.

  “He did survive,” Sam whispered.

  “Who? The guard you mentioned?” Leticia responded as she peered at the screen.

  “Yes … Alfred Langford.”

  “My! You really are quite the bloodhound in uncovering Mountain Valley’s secrets.”

  “Thank you,” Sam responded. “I’m just happy he was shot in the next building and not at my location.”

  “But he wasn’t.”

  Sam’s eyes snapped open and riveted on Leticia’s symmetrical features. There was a sense of order to them, which made gazing upon them most pleasant, even in the most trying of circumstances.

  “Whoa! What did you just say?”

  “I said that Mr. Langford was shot in your coffee shop and not at Drossiders. I do remember that.”

  “So much for my mother and the Mountain Valley Tribune getting the news right. Do you know how they ended up there?”

  “Yes … yes, I do know. The two bandits tried to escape, but Mr. Langford pursued on foot. Your building was a gourmet deli back then and the guard spotted them entering. They’d chosen to hide out instead of outrun him, so he went around back and—”

  “Oh, wait! Here’s an article. ‘Noting the back door was broken into,’” she began reading, “‘Mr. Alfred Langford confronted the two suspects. Lee Swayzie drew his gun and fired, hitting the guard in his left shoulder.’ Is that how you remember it?” Sam said before swigging more water.

  “It is,” Leticia affirmed, going back to studying her nails. “But about this inquiry … I take it that you’re trying to find out anything you can about Doris? I mean, the Drossider robbery isn’t connected to her husband, but it is to her … in location anyway. Am I understanding correctly, Samantha?” she asked, looking up into the shop owner’s warm dark eyes.

  “You are, Mrs. Hundle. If it relates to Doris—even tangentially—I want to know. There’s no telling what will help because we don’t know what got her murdered. ”

  Leticia fiddled with her waistband and then her collar. An uncomfortable pause passed between them, allowing them to hear a bibliophile in the reading room in the middle of a coughing fit.

  The librarian waited until it subsided to speak.

  “Well, then, there might be something I know. It’s just that I don’t usually go in for gossip and wouldn’t normally mention something this unsavory. But since you’re so adamant—”

  Unsavory?

  Sam was more than curious.

  “I am, Mrs. Hundle … so please, please just say it.”

  “All right, Samantha, but I’m only doing this because you asked me to,” she said, touching the corner of one eye. “Doris Cunningham was involved in a flagrante delicto.”

  It only took a second for Sam to complete the translation.

  “An affair? Are you sure?” she blurted.

  “Yes.”

  A million questions filled Sam’s mind, but she settled on one.

  “Do you know with whom, Mrs. Hundle?”

  The librarian shifted uncomfortably, fingering the fabric of her skirt before meeting her eye.

  “I do, Sam.”

  “Who?”

  “Rudy Connors, your landlord.”

  Boing!

  CHAPTER 15

  “You look like a parfait. Sweet, tempting, and cool to my tongue …”

  Self edit!

  That was what Lyddie did in holding back in expressing her opinion of this old jerk’s description. But it was useless. Even if she chastised the old geezer, there wasn’t a chance in the world that he’d pick up on the times they were a’changing. Some men were destined to not understand that women didn’t like being relegated to dessert trays.

  The mission.

  The mission was why she was here and not to give a crash course in Sexism 101. Wexler got her head back in the game, even though she no longer could stand the egotistical shrew named Sam. But she had promised that scarecrow she’d do this, and she would.

  But it was positively the last favor.

  Ever!

  She was so done with that ungrateful wench, and besides, there was Bailey. She had to concentrate on creating her own happiness. She’d take a page out of Sam’s book entitled ULTIMATE EGOTISM and run with it. So instead of telling off the lech sitting across from her, she reached for another breadstick, patting the hand that had tried to take liberties.

  “That’s so nice of you to say, Mr. Harper, but we were talking about Dengrove. You know, the man who bilked you out of money?”

  “No, no, you’ve got it wrong, honey,” he said, relaxing back and straightening his tie. She knew men’s clothing like she knew how to draw a cat eye with liquid liner. The one he had on was silk and had to have set him back a few thou, but who was counting? If you’re megarich, you go with what you like—and to impress women who remind you of unctuous treats in patisserie windows.

  “Peter Dengrove bilked the others out of their money. He only used me to get to them. He set me up good,” he muttered before reciting the details she already knew.

  The art of interrogation involved playing dumb, something she was good at. She’d rehearsed enough with Bailey and here it was coming in handy in getting the old gent back on discussing the subject at hand.

  “For a long while, his victims actually thought I had something to do with it,” he added.

  “And did you?”

  The glass he’d picked up hovered in the air, right in front of the lips pursing in anticipation of a sip of cool water. His eyes darted and narrowed. It wasn’t the metallic dress in the liquid gold material she was rocking that he was focused on. Nor was it the curvaceous body that spilled over like molten lava. It was her brain.

  He finally noticed she had one.

  “No,” he answered quietly before resuming the quenching of his thirst. One sip turned into a few deep gulps, and before anyone knew it, the tumbler was drained.

  Refill time.

  The ever-attentive waiter performed that duty. But then L’Bebe was noted for its excellent service.

  “But suspicions take time to get over. Like I said, Peter Dengrove set me up but good,” he grumbled.

  He dug into the pan-seared trout, shutting out the conversation and concentrating on the food. It wasn’t a good sign. She needed him wide open and blabbing, but the question had needed to be asked, as did getting this investigative train back on track.

  “I can’t imagine anyone not trusting you, Mr. Harper,” she purred, her blue eyes giving a come hither look over her glass of wine and those cultivated lashes batting away. Of course, she was being a total hypocrite in complaining about him treating her like a sex object when she was acting like one. After all, she was the one who purposely dr
essed for hunting bear. The dress cut down to reveal an inappropriate amount of cleavage and the hemline crept up to well beyond decency.

  The knife and fork were abandoned as another round of tie-straightening ensued. His stalwart shoulders no longer rigidly held, his fit body loosened and crumpled over the table. It was a gravitational pull towards the feminine form that all horn dogs succumbed to if shown the right bait.

  “So tell me about you. Do you have a boyfriend, honey?”

  Honey?

  “I’m on hiatus,” Lyddie whispered. “For how long? To be determined.”

  A raspy laugh gurgled up from Elliot Harper’s firm throat. He kept himself in great shape or perhaps it was the pulchritude of the company he kept.

  Elliot dated young, but then so did his ex-wife Bliss. They were a matched pair except for an important difference: Elliot formed steady relationships with the twentyish women he bedded. He was decidedly old school in adhering to monogamy while Bliss held no such standards. His ex-wife treated her stallions like tissues. Once used, they were thrown away.

  “You giving me wiggle room, honey?”

  NO! She was not, but she wasn’t in the position of being totally honest.

  “I’ll tell you later … after you tell me all about Dengrove,” she replied in a seductive tone. Cutting off a piece of chicken, she chewed it slowly, never taking her eyes off the man mesmerized by her considerable charms.

  He grabbed the napkin off his lap and threw it to the side of his plate. Spreading his legs, he settled back before beginning the story.

  “So you want to know about Dengrove. Well, most people don’t know that it was his wife Doris who got the ball rolling.”

  “How so?”

  “By introducing me. She threw a dinner party and invited me—and Bliss. We were married at the time, and the Dengroves bought a house from her, so we were sort of obligated in attending. Don’t know if you know, but I do anything for my women, honey. And I do mean anything.” he said, topping the remark with a salacious wink.

  It was the maraschino cherry she never intended to eat.

  She wrung out a smile.

  “Once he had my attention,” he continued, “he took full advantage. Why wouldn’t he? He said all the right things to make me beg to get in on the deal.”

 

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