Hammered

by Ruth Bainbridge

  Drugs.

  That’s what they can do. They’ll ruin you in ways you didn’t know you had.

  “Agreed,” Sam replied with a sigh. A tap on her bare leg with a paw was her cue. She hadn’t even noticed Mr. Cuddles had jumped down. She sprang to her feet and refilled Mr. Cuddles’ empty bowl and he handled the rest.

  “I stopped by and saw Eunice after I left.”

  “You didn’t—"

  “Mention you?” A dour expression of disgust passed over the sculpted features. “Hardly. She’s still under the impression we’re un-friended … which we are … but we did collude … for a brief moment that doesn’t really mean anything or make up for all your treachery.”

  The blue eyes narrowed, the long mascaraed eyelashes lowering and couching them in the fury of a woman scorned.

  “Why do you always veer into Drama Land?”

  “I’m pushed there,” Sam retorted. “That’s the reason for the trek, but none of this is why you’re here.”

  “Yeah, I know … I know! You want to find out where you know Jennings from. But what did Eunice say? And what about Swayzie? Does Detective Hot know he’s in Mountain Valley? Does he think it’s connected to Doris?”

  “Wait a minute … you know about Drossider’s? Over the phone, you—”

  “I do now. I forgot your mother mentioned it … and I do know how to use the web, doofus.”

  Sam inhaled deeply. Picking up her brownie, she chomped into it, chewing slowly and methodically.

  “I will explain all that to you in due course. But right now, we have to go through these pages and see if we can find Detective Death,” she said, banging her forefinger into the hardcover of the yearbook. “And don’t forget the memento pages. Now look!”

  Lyddie snapped to it. Grabbing the book, she shifted her chair next to Sam’s as the two scrutinized each and every face while eating themselves sick.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sweet dreams.

  It was what looking at memories brought on.

  Samantha was back in high school and talking with her friends. There came Lyddie in one of her high-fashion-and-vintage-mixing outfits, giggling and laughing. They looped arms around each other’s shoulders, indulging in a—

  A school bell rang, interrupting their conversation. They ignored it, continuing on with their afterschool plans, but it was persistent.

  It rang again and again, ruining the talk and the dream. It was so persistent that it—

  Forced her awake.

  Sam regained consciousnesses in stages until she wasn’t in school anymore. She was in her bedroom and that cognitive awareness made her groan out loud. She brushed her hand over her forehead, trying to figure things out. After all, if she were in bed, where was that sound coming from?

  She took a quick look around, finding the answer. It was her—

  Cell.

  Crap! The ringtone was set on old school landline.

  A glance out the window confirmed it was still dark and way too early for anyone but a farmer to be getting up. If this was Lyddie with some hare-brained scheme, she’d—

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “What’d you do with it?”

  Pinpricks of terror.

  The gravelly voice wasn’t Lyddie’s. Yeah, her ex-friend’s voice was deeper when sleepy, but it never veered into Creepy Land. Sam’s lissome body stiffened as she bolted upright and brushed her hair out of her face, trying to figure out what the cryptic question meant.

  “Do? Do with what? Who is this?” she demanded as fear tinged and mixed with anger.

  “If you recognize the beast, you can tame it.”

  That was a line in a book she’d read and it seemed to apply. She held her breath, waiting for that blasted name.

  “A name to a face … a name to a face …. a name to a face …” ran through her head.

  “You know what, Ms. Powell,” came the unpleasant reply, but the anonymous caller had skipped over her last question. She needed an identity. A name would defray the panic.

  “No, I do not know what! Now who is this?” she yelled, trying again.

  “You’ve got twenty-four hours, Ms. Powell. I want what’s mine.”

  “Hello? HELLO!”

  So many questions and no one to ask because whoever it was had gone.

  * * *

  “The number was blocked?”

  “I just told you it was!”

  This response was squeezed through clenched teeth. Lyddie had been summoned, and to her credit, met Sam at JUST ADD COFFEE when it opened. It was now seven o’clock and the place had more than a few customers. Not as many as on opening day, but enough to keep Katy busy filling orders and for Nellie to be rehired.

  Sam and Lyddie had sequestered themselves at their favorite corner table, but a lesson had been learned. This time, Sam no longer took her privacy for granted and looked up frequently, checking the area to make sure Detective Death wasn’t sneaking around. No way was his stealth going to make him privy to a conversation that was personal, private, and, further, none of his business.

  “You need to tell Jennings,” Lyddie repeated for the umpteenth time.

  “That’s the last thing I need,” the freaked-out coffee shop owner scoffed, dressed in a trendy sleeveless black jumpsuit. While inside there was turmoil, the outer appearance resonated implacable beauty with an edge.

  “But it was a threat … wasn’t it a threat?” Lyddie pestered as she picked at one of Clementine’s chocolate croissants that went so well with the Kenyan roast.

  “Of course it was a threat!” she growled before engaging in one more scan of her cafe.

  The coast was still clear.

  “Why would you even ask such a stupid question?”

  “It’s not stupid, Sam,” Lyddie blurted, keeping her voice down. “And it would be Jennings able to figure out what the caller meant and not me. I’m not a detective. You should have known that before waking me.”

  “Here … drink,” the café owner encouraged as she pushed the grande towards the girl fighting off a yawn. “You need more caffeine because—detective or not—anyone would know what it meant.” Leaning back, she indulged in a few sips her own.

  God bless Kenya.

  They did beans right.

  “Then you do know?” was the response. Sam nodded, flaunting superiority. “Well, I don’t!” her crotchety ex-friend blasted.

  The supple torso sprang forward.

  “The money, Lyddie! The money! Haven’t you been paying attention?”

  The mascaraed eyelashes batted as eyelids rapidly opened and closed.

  “You mean the heist money?” the blonde who looked exceptionally fetching today whispered as she leaned halfway across the table.

  Sam mirrored the movement until they were nose-to-nose.

  “Either the heist or the Ponzi scheme’s ill-begotten gains,” Sam mused. “That’s the part I don’t know. You’re leaving out Dengrove and shouldn’t. After all, Doris may have been working with him and—

  “Hid it in here?” her ex-friend finished. “Underneath the floor!”

  Eureka! She got it.

  “Exactly.”

  “Morning, Ms. Powell … Ms. Wexler.”

  “Detective Death,” Sam mouthed, cupping a hand over her lips. Goddamn him for creeping up. She’d been distracted for one second and this Bozo comes in and slips under the radar that should have been up and not down and—

  “You know my name?” Lyddie replied. Astonishment registered on the face that had sucked up some self-tanner applied before she went to bed. It gave her complexion a nice bronzy glow that looked more so against the barrage of peach she was strutting today.

  “Of course,” the know-it-all responded.

  Lyddie’s blue eyes molecularly rearranged to slits.

  “You’re right, Samantha. He does look familiar.”

  There was that smirk that drove Sam up the wall.

  Why did he find this ‘Guess who I am’ game so
amusing?

  “Then you two ladies were discussing me? I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be,” Sam retorted, rolling her eyes. “She only asked who the non-special, marginally attractive man stalking me was, and I happened to mention you looked familiar. No cause for you to get your ego in a wedgie.”

  “I see,” Jennings remarked, touching his chin. “Well, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. It isn’t often that people who aren’t on their honeymoon sit this close … so close that it appears to be conspiratorial, but that can’t be right … you two weren’t conspiring, were you? Plotting what your next move will be?”

  “Hey!” Lyddie shouted. “You lay off of her! She’s been threatened!”

  A rigor mortis set in as Sam’s body went rigid with anger. She flashed a look at her ebff that foretold of the violence that would be raining down upon the body draped in the color of a ripe melon as soon as they were alone.

  “Threatened?”

  Detective Death’s expression changed from insufferable arrogance to somber.

  “Is this true? Were you threatened, Ms. Powell?”

  “No, I was not threatened! Well, not threatened threatened. A creditor called me this morning and threatened no more deliveries until I paid a bill. I took care of it. Done. Done. And done,” she announced in clipped tones.

  Grasping Lyddie by her wrist, she yanked her to her feet.

  “That’s a rookie business mistake you made, Ms. Powell,” he remarked. “You should always have at least six-months’ money in reserve,” he pontificated, pivoting his head from side-to-side. “But it looks like business is picking up, so you might skate by.”

  As if Mr. Never-Personally-Owned-A-Business would know.

  “Thank you, Warren Buffet. Now if you’ll excuse us, I have to talk to Ms. Wexler. You know … girl-talk … about how some men are just such big hairy jerks!”

  Hauling Lyddie behind her, they made it to Sam’s office with no one tailing them. She slammed the door, pressing her back against it.

  Her prey would not escape.

  “You told him I was threatened? Are you out of your freakin’ mind?” she screeched.

  “It slipped out,” Lyddie remarked, remaining non-plussed. “You know,” she said, veering off topic. “I left half a croissant out there. I’ll just go out and get it if you don’t—”

  “You hush and sit! Sit, sit, sit! NOW!” Sam barked. “You can get it after I’m finished, you, you chocolate hound, you!”

  Lyddie meekly followed instructions. When perched on the chair, she dared meet the brown eyes shooting daggers.

  “You know,” Lyddie started. “You really are becoming more and more like that miserable cat of yours. I don’t think Taz is a very good influence on you.”

  “Enough about my cat! He’s not going anywhere, but you might end up in a shelter if you don’t learn to keep your mouth shut!”

  Pulling up a chair, she sat, getting in Lyddie’s face.

  “Okay, so now that we know it’s about the money, we’re going to have to figure out which loot to determine what crime is connected. Once we have that, we can figure out who killed Doris and I can go on selling coffee and being an entrepreneur and you can go back to learning to be a loser from Bailey.”

  “So you’re suggesting another dumpster dive?” Lyddie queried.

  “I am.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t want to let the police handle this?”

  “I don’t look good in orange. You said so yourself,” she reminded, taking a penny from the loose change on the desk. “Now heads you take Drossider; tails you get Dengrove.”

  As she held the coin between her thumb and forefinger, two sets of eyes watched the coppery circle flip in the air and land.

  CHAPTER 22

  “I appreciate you doing this, Mr. Connors.”

  “And I appreciate you paying next month’s rent ahead of time, Ms. Powell.”

  There she sat—all the result of the penny coming up tails.

  “It’s the least I could do. As I recall, there was some speculation on my being good for it,” she replied to the man rummaging through the files in the row of steel cabinets.

  “Yes, that,” he said as he pulled out a manila folder and closed the drawer. “I apologize for being hard on you, but I’m all about the money. That’s why it’s called business.”

  Bringing the file to his desk, he took a seat behind the desk that matched the rest of the no-nonsense furniture.

  Gray was the new black.

  Steel was the new wood.

  “Back when I started, I got taken advantage of quite a bit. I was trying to be a nice guy … you know, too nice. Got burned a few times before I decided that it wasn’t going to work. Ever since then, I keep the concept of charity separate from business.”

  What he said must be true. The amount of venom injected into his statement could fell an elephant.

  “And if a friend rents one of your properties?” she queried.

  “Business … just like I said. That’s what I’m trying to get across.”

  They both went silent as he skimmed through the paperwork. Finally, an answer to her question.

  “No. No, Doris did not have the floors replaced. She stipulated that they be refinished—which we do for all new tenants. But you know that because I gave you that option too. That’s where the problems started. It was during the refinishing that the faulty floorboard was noticed.”

  As if she’d forget.

  “So you sanded and varnished … for Doris … and nothing else?”

  “No, nothing else.” There were the grey eyes popping up to take a snapshot of her.

  “Then the plank was damaged between her tenancy and mine,” she murmured.

  His eyes held focus and then drifted away as his jaw slackened, but only a bit.

  “Had to be. That floor was entirely replaced for Mr. Falcone. He was the tenant before Ms. Cunningham. That’s why—”

  “Why—?“ she prompted.

  “Why the previous repair is perplexing,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “Previous? I’m confused. I thought you were referring to the one done by WE DO FLOORS, but you’re not, are you?”

  “No,” he stated as his foot began jiggling.

  “Sorry, I’m lost,” she remarked.

  “That’s because you’re not aware of the sequence of events. Looking through these files, well, it reminded me of how this entire matter came to be. You opt to have your floors refinished, I call our vendor and Marina Dubrovnic, an employee of CLEAN SWEEP, shows up. She notices that one of the floorboards is loose and reports it to you. You report it to me, and I call in Quentin Barrows of WE DO FLOORS. He confirms the problem and attributes it to an amateurish repair performed on the plank in question.”

  “He said that?”

  “He did.”

  “So what you’re saying is that you believe that Doris Cunningham performed—or caused to be performed—an unreported repair. And you believe this because: (1) there’s no record; and (2) the repair was not professionally executed. Am I getting this right?”

  “Yes. And because the process of elimination leads me to reach the same conclusion. Remember, Mr. Falcone got the new floor, and new floors have to pass building inspection—which they did. But then Doris moves in, and all of a sudden—one plank—that just happens to match the rest of the flooring—isn’t up to code.”

  “Barrows told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what does not being up to code mean?” she queried.

  “That wrong nails were used.”

  “Nails are specified?”

  “In building codes, everything is specified,” he replied with a sardonic laugh. Easing back, he clasped his hands over his flat stomach. “And the lousy job was why the floorboard came loose.”

  “So Barrows was sent to make the repairs—” she continued.

  “Which they made—and which you were supposed to inspect.”

&n
bsp; “Which I did,” she interjected quickly. Her forefinger tapped her chin as she went over what they knew. “And you suspect Doris Cunningham of either making, or directing someone to make, the faulty repair … and that’s why the wrong nails were used.”

  “Yes, that is what I’m saying. It wouldn’t be the first time a tenant hid damage from a landlord. And Doris wouldn’t know from nail sizes. In my dealings with her, I can unequivocally state that as a fact. Carpentry was not her thing.”

  “But why wouldn’t she report it? You’re responsible for repairs. You told me that and—”

  “If they’re not attributable to negligence. Ms. Powell. If they are, it’s the tenant’s dime. No, it wouldn’t be the first time a tenant tried to fix it on their own to save a few bucks.”

  He smoothed his sandy brown hair before his torso lengthened and leaned in. His thumbs cast in the air, his eyes blinked closed for a second too long before opening.

  “I can see where that might be the case,” she allowed, but her mind kept racing.

  Lyddie would categorize Connors’ explanation as “over designing.” Over designing is what bad fashion designers do when they throw a kitchen sink into their couture and ruin the initial inspiration. Sam’s landlord was doing that right now in relating irrelevant information that prevented Sam from homing in on exactly what went on in Doris’ world. No matter what Connors said, she wasn’t there and would never be privy to every single detail and conversation. But Lyddie would be wrong if she thought that was what was bothering Sam because it wasn’t.

  It was the money … the money referred to her in that late night call.

  So Connors was most likely right about most women not going around measuring nails, but they might if they found money from a hold-up underneath a plank or two. Yes, gossip could well have accounted for her tearing up that board in the first place. And once she found the rumor was true, she closed it back up to the best of her ability, which was best described as lousy. It gave Sam a lot to ponder, and speaking of pondering—

  The affair.

  The rumor raised its ugly head. Could it be a major impetus in why Connors was blaming the woman no longer able to defend herself? Had Doris ending the affair made him vindictive? Even after her murder?