The Smart Money

by Lia Matera

  Hal stepped up behind me. “Looking for your boyfriend?”

  “He’s not my—” I realized that he was. “He must still be upstairs.”

  Hal shook his head. “Not unless he came back inside.”

  “Back inside?”

  “He climbed out your bedroom window. I saw him start out before I followed you downstairs.” My cousin sounded pleased. “In fact, unless my night vision deceives me, your boyfriend pretty well demolished those geraniums.”

  Hal walked over the a mashed bush beside the back porch. “What the—?” He bent down and picked up a squarish object.

  “What is it? What do you have?” My Uncle Henry sounded apprehensive.

  Hal held up the object. “A telephone.”

  I glanced up at the windowsill. Sure enough, Sandy had knocked the phone down when he made his departure. I wondered whether he’d seen it before he sent it toppling into the shrubbery.

  I took it out of Hal’s hands and put it on the porch. “I believe in talking to my flowers, Hal.”

  Hal looked from the bushes to the window above. “If you’d been listening in on someone’s phone call, and you didn’t want him to know it was you on the extension, I guess the smart thing would be to unplug your phone and throw it out the window.”

  My uncle murmured something about how the phone company makes you pay to repair your phone if it thinks you’ve been careless with it.

  In the light from the kitchen window, I could see Hal grinning down at me. He looked young and happy, the way he’d looked as a kid, tagging me in kick-the-can.

  Seeing him that way stirred up a lot of feelings that definitely were not the smart thing.

  22

  My house was a disaster. All the unpacking I’d paid three movers fourteen dollars an hour apiece to do, the cops had undone in a couple of hours.

  My uncle and I stood in the kitchen surveying the damage. Hal scrutinized me.

  “I’m not going to burst into tears, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I snapped, pushing damp hair off my face.

  “I didn’t think you were, Mowgli. But tell me, what would it take to make you cry?”

  “A court order.’’ I kicked aside what had formerly been the contents of my kitchen drawers.

  Uncle Henry was growing indignant. “They can’t do this to a lawyer! You sue them, Laura. Teach them a lesson.”

  “Have some more whiskey, Uncle Henry.”

  Hal found the bottle and handed it to his father. We left him sitting at the kitchen table while we went to survey the damage in the rest of the house.

  At least, that’s where I thought we were going.

  Once we’d closed the kitchen door behind us, Hal grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the front door.

  “What are you doing?” I looked around the living room, at the heaps of cushions the police had pulled off the couch and chairs, at the drawers they’d pulled out of the hutch and desk, at the felt bottoms they’d torn off the lamps.

  “We’re going to the airport,” Hal informed me.

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. My mind was too much on the mess. I tried to jerk free, but he pulled me across the room and into the hall. He yanked my handbag off the banister, “Car keys in here?”

  “Hey!” I protested, examining the purse’s delicate strap for damage.

  Hal opened the front door, pushing me through the yammering wall of reporters. I paused long enough to tell them, no, I didn’t know what the police had expected to find in my house, but no, they hadn’t found it, whatever it was. The aspiring weather person asked, “I don’t suppose you’d let us in for a quick peek?” I told her she didn’t suppose right. I looked around for Judy Britt, but she wasn’t there. Probably home cooking dinner for a reactionary husband.

  I ended up driving myself and Hal to the airport, without a clue why we were going there. Hal would only say, “I want to talk to someone.”

  That someone turned out to be the young woman at the rental car concession, the one who’d bestowed the dazzling smile on Sandy Arkelett that morning. She was locking up for the night. The evening flight had come and gone, and the airport was deserted, except for a janitor wearing headphones and crooning “Oooo, baby” under his breath.

  The woman, a chubby, short-waisted blonde, told us the airport was closed. Then she took a good look at us. Her jaw sagged and she shook her head.

  Hal’s voice was soothing. “You remember us from this morning, don’t you? We came to pick up our friend.”

  “I hope I didn’t get him in trouble,” she blurted out. “I felt like I had to answer the policeman’s questions.” She leaned back, as though flinching from us.

  Hal shook his head. “No, it’s okay. You did the right thing. He’d not mad at you, not at all.”

  She looked relieved. “He isn’t? Because I didn’t mean to get him into trouble, but I felt like—”

  “I know.” Hal leaned across the counter. “But listen, can you tell us exactly what happened?”

  “This man came, a policeman, you know, wearing a regular suit.” She added defensively, “I made him show me his badge, though, before I’d—”

  “Do you remember the policeman’s name?”

  The blonde shook her head. “Gee, I don’t know. I was kind of shook up, but I don’t think he ever said. He was older, with gray hair. Older than you,” she added, as though that were scarcely possible.

  “What did he ask you?”

  “He asked me about one of our cars, the black Mustang. He wanted to know who had it last night.”

  Hal brushed eraser dust off the counter. “So you looked it up for him?”

  “I didn’t have to.” She blushed, looking down at her vermilion nails. “I mean, I remembered. I didn’t get him into any trouble, though? You’re sure? ‘Cause he seemed really nice.”

  My cousin smirked with self-satisfaction all the way back to the car.

  I waited until we’d climbed in before further gratifying his ego. “Okay, how did you know?”

  “The way she smiled at him this morning. This isn’t the big city; women here don’t usually smile that way at men they haven’t met.” He sounded like he thought it was a shame.

  As I put the Mercedes into gear, he continued, “The interesting thing is, why were the cops asking about that car?”

  “I suppose they check rental places routinely, after a murder. To see what strangers were in town.” As far as I was concerned, the greater mystery was why my lover and colleague had sneaked into town a day early, then lied to me about it.

  I did an effortless ninety on the flat stretch along the dunes.

  “Tell me what you and Sandy are really here for, Laura.”

  “And you’ll tell me why you take Thorazine?”

  “I don’t take it.”

  “What was it prescribed for?”

  I glanced at my cousin. The green dashboard lights caught the harsh angles of his face, leaving his eyes in shadow. “None of your fucking business,” he said quietly.

  I downshifted. The silence was total and strained.

  When we got back to my house, we found camera lights flooding the porch. A smartly dressed woman I didn’t recognize gripped a microphone and gestured toward the door.

  I pulled over half a block shy of my house, squinting at the logo on her microphone. “Christ. A D.C. station. I hate to abandon your father, but I’m not up for a coast-to-coast appearance. Not tonight.”

  “There’s always my place.”

  “That icebox?” I pulled away and took us to the Trade Winds Motel. Call me sentimental.

  23

  I recognized the proprietor. He was the same obese, slippered man from whom I’d rented a room fourteen years earlier. That night, I’d done so timidly, fearing that my papa would find me before Lennart arrived. My papa had ph
ysically dragged me out of my senior prom because he’d seen couples kissing on the dance floor. I’d eloped with Gary Gleason because there had been no other way to date him. If my papa had discovered me waiting for a man at a motel … I’d begged the proprietor not to tell any “older men” I’d checked in, and he’d warned me not to “do business” in his motel.

  Tonight, I calmly handed the man my Gold Card and told him I wanted his best room. I glanced out the glass door at my cousin’s hulking silhouette. I was better at hiding my trepidation, these days. If not my affection.

  “Gosh, my other customer’s got the best view. But if you don’t mind facing the road, I’ve got a real nice—”

  “I don’t mind facing the road.” The “view” he referred to was of commercial fishing boats floating in black oil and fish guts.

  It wasn’t a bad room. It had what I needed: a double bed.

  Hal frowned down at it, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “One bed?” There was a stubborn set to his mouth, a contentious gleam in his eye.

  “Not in the mood, cousin?” I said lightly. “Now that my boyfriend’s not at the door?”

  His lips curled into a sour excuse for a smile. “Sandy put you in the mood, up there in your room?”

  I pulled off my sweater. “I guess so.”

  A little color crept into his cheeks. But he kept his distance.

  “You said you like your women easy, Hal. How much easier can it get?”

  “You call yourself easy? You’re the most snooping, secretive—”

  “Do you really want your own bed?”

  His eyes strayed from my face. And I knew I had him. At least for the night.

  24

  The cold woke me. It was light outside, just barely, and the fog from the bay had seeped through the motel walls, chilling the sheets. Hal was sprawled on his stomach, and showed no sign of waking.

  I warmed up under a hot shower, turning the tiny bathroom into a steambath. I opened the bathroom window a crack to let out a little steam, and I noticed that the parking lot behind the motel had a solitary car in it: a black Mustang.

  I remembered the girl at the airport saying Sandy had rented a black Mustang. I didn’t remember her saying he’d returned it.

  I told myself it would be too great a coincidence, ending up at the same motel as Sandy. I told myself there must se dozens of black Mustangs in town.

  And yet … I had mentioned the Trade Winds to Sandy myself. He’d tried to get records of the motel’s phone calls for the night of Lennart’s death, tried to trace the call I’d gotten there that night. He might easily have taken a room it the Trade Winds; he’d been here before and knew how to find it.

  I looked down at the Mustang and thought of my Mercedes, parked on the other side of the motel, not far from the office. Sandy would drive right by it on his way out to the street. And the last thing in the world I wanted was to lave Sandy Arkelett spot my car and come looking for me. The last thing in the world I wanted was to have him walk in on me and Hal.

  Hal was still asleep, and I dressed quickly. I was on my way out to move my car down the street when it occurred to me that Hal might wake up while I was gone. I didn’t want him to misinterpret my absence.

  I rummaged through the drawers until I found some motel stationery and a cheap pen. I wrote: There’s a black Mustang out back—you can see it from the bathroom window. I’m moving the Mercedes in case it’s Sandy’s. I don’t want him to intrude. Then I added, before I could reason myself out of it, Hal, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I stared at the sentence. It was true. And a hell of a shock.

  I walked out to my car, tiny stipples of fog clinging to my sweater, my hair, my eyelashes. I drove the Mercedes down the block, to the parking lot of another motel.

  I thought I’d solved the problem. It turned out I didn’t know how big the problem was.

  I pulled the keys out of the ignition and the damned things fell to the floor. I was groping for them when my fingers encountered something cold, protruding slightly onto the mat. I yanked on it, but it was hung up on the springs of the bucket seat. I slumped to see what it was.

  There was no mistaking it: it was the grip of a gun. I tugged until it came free.

  It was a long-barreled revolver. It was Wallace Bean’s, or one just like it. I left it on the mat and stared at it, feeling nauseous.

  Two matched guns. One ended up at Kirsten Strindberg’s house and the other in my car. One of them had probably killed poor, stupid Wally. Which, I didn’t know.

  For the moment, I was more concerned with how the gun had found its way into my car.

  Only three people had set foot in the Mercedes in the last two days: me, Hal, and Sandy.

  Hal I eliminated because he’d never been in the car alone, that I knew of.

  That left Sander Arkelett, who’d come to town a day early and lied to me about it; who’d arrived at Hal’s house shortly after an armed intruder had left it; who’d been carrying a wet anorak not unlike the hooded affair the intruder had worn; who’d jumped out a second-story window to avoid meeting the police at my house.

  I pushed the gun back under my seat, found my keys, and got out of the car. My first priority was to rouse Hal and get the hell away from the motel, away from that black Mustang.

  I thought about Sandy as I walked back to the Trade Winds. I’d told him about Lennart Strindberg one night when we’d been doing some serious drinking. Not long afterward, he claimed to be going to my hometown on a case. He offered to find out what had become of Lennart. I was surprised when he didn’t stop at a few simple inquiries, when he went to the trouble of going through old obituaries.

  He even looked up Lennart’s will, even looked up the leases on the property described in the will, including the building that housed White, Sayres & Speck.

  I thought he’d done it to impress me. But now—

  My great plan—to return to my hometown and wreak havoc on Gary’s and Kirsten’s lives—began to look less my own, and more like something into which I’d been manipulated. I was beginning to think I’d been set up.

  I was beginning to think Sandy Arkelett was a hell of a lot smarter than me, and a lot more dangerous.

  I walked up the driveway of the Trade Winds, and there he was: driving toward me in the black Mustang.

  Sandy looked surprised at first, then suspicious—a state I did not wish to encourage in him. Not until I figured out what he was up to.

  Taking a determined breath, I strode up to the car. As he rolled down the window, I complained, “This is the third motel I’ve been to, looking for you.”

  Sandy stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “Without your car?”

  “My car’s down the block at the last motel I tried. Where the hell were you last night? And where did you get this car?”

  Sandy reached out and slipped his hand behind my neck, pulling me down for a kiss.

  If Sandy Arkelett was a killer, I didn’t want to find out the hard way. I kissed him back. “Why did you leave my house last night?”

  “I don’t much enjoy parties once cops crash them.” Sandy’s smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. “I checked back later, but no one was around.”

  “I took my uncle home, and I stayed there a while. After the cops left, the reporters were like sharks in bloody water!”

  Sandy nodded. “Yeah, I’ll bet. I rented myself this car, and turned in here for a night’s sleep.” He reached across to the passenger side and unlocked the door. “Get in.”

  I walked around the back of the car, glancing at the room I’d shared with Hal. The curtains were still closed. I climbed into the Mustang.

  But instead of driving out to the street, Sandy backed up and turned around, heading for the bay side of the motel.

  “What are you doing?” I managed to keep the alarm out of my voice.

/>   He smiled dreamily. “I’ve still got my key, and checkout time isn’t until noon.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I said firmly. “And a hell of a mess to clean up at home.”

  He stopped the car, rubbing his thumb over the galloping horse on the steering wheel. “All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll help you clean up.”

  If I could have thought of an excuse to leave him, however preposterous, I’d have used it. But I couldn’t. I said, “Okay.”

  25

  I spent the day barricaded inside my house with Sandy, putting things back into cupboards and drawers. We kept the curtains closed (cameras were poised like buzzards on the shoulders of reporters outside), so it was gloomy work. Vodka would have helped, but I was too leery of my companion to risk dulling my wits.

  It was nearly evening when my Aunt Diana phoned to ask me what I was wearing to the “fête.”

  “Oh, no!” I’d forgotten about her damned party. “I can’t come. I’d seem heartless, going to a party the day after my client gets killed. Plus Kirsten, who used to be a friend of mine.”

  I could hear the irritation in her short, controlled breaths. “This party is in your honor,” my aunt reminded me. “The arrangements have been made for weeks.”

  Weeks ago, a party at the Mayor’s Residence had seemed an excellent way to ally myself with the pillars of society Gary Gleason had alienated over the years—the ones who Kiwanised and Elked with superior court judges. But now?

  A voice in my head said, Do it anyway. Pull his damned career out from under him.

  My aunt began a shrill recital of the trouble she’d taken on my account. She’d been trying to acquire me for one of her parties ever since I’d made national news representing Bean. She had no intention of letting me wriggle off the hook.

  I held the receiver away from my ear. I had wanted to tear Gary away from Kirsten as painfully as possible, and that end had been achieved, though not according to my plan. Since I had no intention of becoming a small town public defender, the game was over. So why did I still want to score off Gary Gleason?