3 Fat Chance

by Rhonda Pollero

  Sam patted my shoulder. “Even with the structural repairs, we aren’t going to need that much. But God,” he said, “what I could do with this place if we used the whole four hundred grand.”

  I shrugged away from him. “Don’t even dream. Christ, Sam, this place is a frigging money pit. Think that’s why my mother gave it to me?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. But we can do this, Finley. It’ll be a little tight while you’re paying for the condo and the mortgage, but as soon as we can get you moved in here, you’ll actually be paying less per month than you’ve been paying in rent.”

  Somehow, that knowledge wasn’t much of a comfort. Not when I glanced back at the unlivable shell of a cottage. My shoulders slumped. “It will take months and a few small miracles to make this place livable.”

  Sam kissed my forehead. “Look on the bright side. We’ve already gotten rid of the skeleton, and Harold is a fast worker. I’m betting we can get you in before the end of the month.”

  It was my turn to do the kissing. Pinching Sam’s cheeks, I planted one right on his mouth. “I love you.”

  “You’ll love me even more when you see the plans.” Scooting two plastic chairs together, he excitedly sat me down and started tapping buttons until suddenly a three-dimensional replica of my house filled the screen. Using the touchpad, he spun the image, then zoomed out and focused on the deep coral-colored front door.

  Much too slowly for my liking, he moved toward the entrance.

  “Ready?” he asked, his brows teasingly raising and lowering.

  “Open the virtual door already!”

  The door opened, and I swear I heard the sound of a choir singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” My breath caught and tears welled in my eyes as I sat forward to get a better look at the wide entry hall, with its pale, coral-colored tiled floor and walls. A narrow, whitewashed table against the right-hand wall held a spray of sea grasses in a clear glass vase, which were reflected in the enormous mirror. Beyond the hallway was a large room, a great room I presumed, that had a wall of windows overlooking the beach and the ocean beyond. One could stand at the front door and see the beach. So frigging cool.

  “Loving it,” I murmured. “Gimme more.”

  Sam did whatever was necessary to move me forward. Before I could take in the great room, I looked at that entire wall of windows and the view. “Oh, Sam.” My view. My living room. I wanted to move in right that second. Sam had given me pale teal walls, the floors the same peachy-coral tile as the entry hall. The big, squishy, invite-all-my-friends-over furniture was covered in white slipcovers, and a teal and deep coral area rug looked soft under bare feet. Bless his heart, Sam had even tossed deep teal throw pillows covered with branch coral all over the sofas. Sam was all in the details.

  “Kitchen?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t cook, but who knew? I might develop new habits when I—“Wow!” The cabinets could house the entire Calphalon collection.

  “Lots of storage,” Sam murmured as he moved the view so I could see what he’d done. Stainless steel, whitewashed wood, and a hunk of black granite one could see light reflected in, on the center island. Sleek, modern, and warm. I could easily see myself hanging out with the girls, sitting on the chrome bar stools sipping a glass of wine.

  “You’re amazing,” I told him, not taking my eyes off his monitor.

  “Ready for bedroom one?”

  I loved the two guest bedrooms done in various shades of his chosen palette of white, coral, and teal. One bedroom had a bit of lime green in the bedspread; the other he’d made into an office done in a pinker shade of coral and a deeper green with just a few touches of teal. Very Lilly Pulitzer. Without tearing my attention away from my fabulously decorated house, I asked, “I need an office why?”

  “So you have somewhere divine to sit while you write all the checks you’ll need to write. Master bedroom?” he asked after he’d shown me the guest bathroom, which was gorgeous, with ocean-colored glass tiles and a square, contemporary-style opaque glass sink perched on top of a minimalist floating counter.

  The master bedroom was every master bedroom fantasy I’d never had, come to 3-D life. “Holy shit…” The room was plush, luxurious, and looked like an expensive, high-end hotel room. The only color in the room was the deep teal walls. Everything else was white. The white-draped bed looked big enough to entertain on.

  Sam showed me the remodeled master bathroom, with its expanse of glass looking out over the water and a steam shower. It was all drop-dead gorgeous.

  “Let’s go check out outside.”

  “Let’s…Jesus, Sam,” I said on a half laugh, my eyes practically eating what I was seeing. “Do you think I won the lottery?” The patio was tiled and looked wet. I swear I could hear water lapping. An infinity lap pool overlooked the beach, and, set a bit closer to the house, a hot tub steamed. Sam had even tossed a couple of white toweling robes over the wrought-iron chairs, and he’d added two wineglasses on the deck of the tub.

  “Who am I having over?”

  “I can lead you to water, but I can’t make you drink,” he said dryly. “You like?”

  I made him show me the house three more times before I managed to tear myself away. I averted my gaze from the messy reality of it all. I had to keep Sam’s vision in my head at all times. Especially as I wrote checks and basically signed my life away.

  I rose off the plastic seat with a small sucking sound and kissed Sam my savior on top of his head. “You’re a genius.”

  He grinned. “So true.”

  “I’ll treat you to Chinese.”

  Sam shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve still got some things to talk over with Harold.”

  “How about I have something delivered? Or I could stay here and keep you company?”

  “Eating is a distraction. Having you looking over my shoulder is a bigger distraction. Thanks, but I’ll get something. You just move along and let me create some magic.”

  Sam stayed behind, because who could argue against magic? I didn’t understand most of what Sam and Harold discussed—well, except for the part where I was paying for everything. After a quick stop at China Moon for some take-out moo shu, I fantasized about the day I could take my food back to my polished black granite counter. Somehow I just knew it would taste better if I was sitting on a sleek bar stool with the sound of the ocean keeping me company. Pushing my premature fantasy aside, I went back to my condo.

  A huge spray of pale pink roses studded with baby’s breath stood guard at my front door. Normally flowers thrilled me to no end, but I knew before I got out of the car that these particular flowers would do nothing more than piss me off.

  Again.

  With my moo shu in one hand, I snatched up the envelope from the forked plastic holder and ripped the card out.

  I miss you. Love, Patrick.

  “Well,” I said, gathering up the vase and carting it across the parking lot before lobbing it into the trash bin. “I don’t miss you.”

  I didn’t miss him. Well, maybe I did miss him a little. Well, maybe not him so much as being in a relationship. Intellectually, I knew I’d done the right thing dumping him, but truth be told, I was lonely. Okay, so maybe desperate was more accurate. I probably only had a few weeks left before I’d have to make a discreet trip to one of those places that sold battery-operated boyfriends in a box. Not a pleasant thought. Neither was a life of celibacy.

  Walking into my apartment with lukewarm Chinese as my date made me feel pretty damned pathetic. It was Saturday night, and the high point of my evening was destined to be breaking open my fortune cookie. Which, I discovered as I placed the bag on the counter, was going to be a problem, since I heard the cookie crush under the weight of the container.

  I thought about changing my clothes, but my rumbling stomach convinced me food was a higher priority. I pulled the carton out of the bag. Using my teeth, I tore the paper off the single-use chopsticks and went over to the couch. Kicking off my shoes, I tucked my
legs up and jabbed the chopsticks in the box while I reached for the television remote control.

  Feeling comfy, I debated a few seconds before going back to the kitchen for a drink. I poured a generous amount of wine into a glass and told myself it wasn’t completely lame that I was alone on a Saturday night.

  My mind conjured a picture of Tony Caprelli. Weird that I’d think about my boss on a weekend. Well, not so weird given those dimples. They were some fine dimples. I wasn’t sure if lusting after Tony was better than lusting after Liam. I decided not to lust at all.

  Thinking about my conversation with my mother, I decided I could check into the robbery of her home. Palm Beach wasn’t exactly a hotbed of criminal activity—unless you counted tax fraud disguised as creative accounting. There was just something off about a robbery more than a decade ago with the medallion ending up in the hand of Dead Girl. Couldn’t hurt to watch reruns of Law & Order and do a little investigating.

  Wine in hand, I retrieved my laptop from the bedroom. I could see a slice of light beneath the closed closet door and silently berated myself for leaving the light on. I flicked the switch off; I couldn’t afford to waste money by leaving lights on all day. I went back to the living room. The network news was ending, and my computer—which I’d scored at less than half its retail price on an eBay auction—powered up. Well, it started to power up, but then the screen went blank. Obviously I’d left a light burning but had forgotten to charge my computer—a minor annoyance that felt magnified given the sad-ass way my evening was unfolding.

  I called Jane but got her machine. Then I remembered she had a date. I thanked her for all the budget stuff, trying to sound breezy when I was well on my way to a serious pity fest. I tried Becky next, but her line went directly to voice mail. I was fairly sure she didn’t have a date; she was probably at the office, trying to keep up with estrogen-less Ellen.

  Calling Liv would have been a waste. Her company was handling the big Hospice fund-raiser. Nope, it was just me, moo shu, Chris Noth, and some mildly erotic thoughts. That man could zip me into a body bag any day.

  I went into my bedroom to retrieve the power cord for my computer, when a sudden, strong breeze whipped up the curtain. Glancing to the right, my whole body froze when I noticed the open window. I knew I hadn’t left it open.

  Standing very still, only my eyes darted around the room. Nothing was out of place. The bed was made…well, the comforter was pulled up and the throw pillows were just where I’d tossed them.

  The more normal it seemed, the more my heart raced. Taking a calming breath, I searched again. Nothing was out of place. Maybe I had opened the window and just forgot.

  Grabbing the phone off the nightstand, I crept slowly into the bathroom. I flooded the small room with light. With the shower curtain pulled back, I knew there wasn’t anyone hiding in my shower. I began to relax, letting out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “I’m not only lame, I’m scaring myself shitless,” I muttered as I went back into the bedroom.

  Then I focused on the closed closet door. I don’t normally close that door. I swallowed a lump of fear and reached for the knob. The shape of the outline was unmistakable.

  A noose hung from the light fixture. It swayed slightly under the weight of a skeleton dangling from the loop.

  I needed to be calm, muster some bravado.

  Screw bravado. I screamed and ran for the front door.

  I think crime pays—the hours are good,

  and there are often opportunities for travel.

  eight

  I WAS OUTSIDE, SUCKING IN deep, calming breaths of heavy, humid air. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it might crack a few ribs. I was bent over, hyperventilating and shaking as if I’d been in the final stages of some neuromuscular disease. I needed to get a grip.

  I heard the shuffle of footsteps and smelled Bengay, witch hazel, and vanilla extract. I didn’t have to be psychic to know it was my upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Hemshaw. The Bengay and witch hazel were for her arthritis. The vanilla extract was her version of perfume. I turned to find the eighty-three-year-old coming toward me with a very big gun clutched in one crepey, arthritic hand. The other hand held the edges of her housecoat closed.

  Bracing my hands on my knees, I said, “Don’t think we need the gun.”

  “I heard you scream,” she said, waving the barrel around as she spoke.

  “There was a break-in at my apartment,” I explained, standing, taking my hand, and guiding the gun so it pointed down and away from me.

  Given the fact that Mrs. Hemshaw was eighty-three and her glasses were as thick as muffin tops, I didn’t think a weapon was a good idea. Besides, there was nothing to shoot. Besides me.

  My neighbor made a tsk-tsk sound. “Pretty young thing like you shouldn’t live in a garden unit. Crime just waiting to happen.”

  We’d been over this before. “I need to call the police.”

  “Already done,” she assured me. “And I’ll give them a good long piece of my mind, too. Called earlier when I heard noises and knew you weren’t home.”

  “Earlier when?” I asked.

  “Lunchtime. Saw a patrol car cruise through the parking lot, but no one bothered to get out and take a look around.”

  There were two possible explanations for the police blowing her off. Possibility one was Mrs. Hemshaw had the local sheriff’s office on speed dial. She reported everything from cars running the corner Stop sign to stray dogs walking across the common areas. She often did this after downing a fifth of Jim Beam. Once a month, on the day she received her Social Security checks, she liked to sing show tunes on the balcony in her undies.

  Possibility two was that they’d recognized the address. I wasn’t much more popular with the West Palm police than Mrs. Hemshaw was. Maybe I would be more popular if I stood outside in my undies.

  Faint sirens grew closer, and in a matter of minutes, two patrol cars, lights strobing, careened into the parking lot. I was relieved to see they were uniformed officers. The last thing I wanted or needed was another confrontation with Graves or Steadman.

  The officers opened their doors, then crouched behind them, weapons drawn. “Put the gun down slowly,” one of the officers said over the speaker.

  Mrs. Hemshaw planted a hand on her hip. “Do you believe this? They think I’m a criminal.”

  I smiled at her and held one hand up to the officers while I gently tugged the gun free from Mrs. Hemshaw. Well, maybe not all that gently. The old girl didn’t want to give it up. “We’ll just put it here on the ground,” I told her.

  As soon as I’d disarmed Mrs. Magoo, four officers ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties crowded around. I noticed they’d all holstered their weapons, but none of them had snapped the leather strap. There was still a slim chance I could get shot.

  The youngest officer used his toe to kick Mrs. Hemshaw’s gun well out of her reach. In a this-will-be-funny-later moment, I had a vision of Mrs. Hemshaw making a dive for her gun.

  “I’m Sergeant Jennings,” the oldest officer said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “I had a break-in,” I explained.

  He grabbed the radio clipped to his shoulder and called for crime scene techs and someone from robbery-homicide. “You ladies wait with Officer Stevens while we check the apartment.”

  “He’s long gone,” I said, though the three officers ignored me. “And nothing was stolen.”

  Officer Stevens grabbed up Mrs. Hemshaw’s gun, clicked a few things, and the cylinder opened. “It isn’t loaded.”

  “It isn’t?” Mrs. Hemshaw asked, confused. “I wonder where I put those bullets.” She started shuffling back toward the staircase.

  Officer Stevens started to grab for her, but I caught his shirt-sleeve and did my best pleading-pouty face. “You’ve got her gun. If you need to talk to her, she’s right upstairs.”

  He shrugged. “I guess she can’t get far.”

  Since
my neighbor was racing away at the speed of snail, I guessed not.

  The three other officers came out of my apartment. “All clear,” the eldest said. His eyes met mine. “I’m assuming the skeleton in the closet started all this?”

  I nodded.

  “Hey,” he began, rubbing his chin, “are you the same Finley Tanner who reported a different skeleton in a different closet a few days ago?”

  His question made me sound like a serial victim. Again I nodded. “Different closet. Is there any way to identify the body inside?”

  The sergeant’s lips twitched, then surrendered to a smile. “Yes. It’s from Florida Party. The price tag is still connected to the wrist bone.”

  I blinked a couple of times and then asked Jennings, “It isn’t real?”

  “Resin,” he explained. “Popular at Halloween.”

  I went from scared to pissed in record time. “Why would someone do that?”

  The officer shrugged. “Just a prank.”

  Crossing my arms, I felt my blood simmering. “Not funny. Can we go back inside?”

  “I’ll have the forensics people dust the bedroom window, and we should do a walk-thru to see if anything is missing. But don’t get your hopes up, Ms. Tanner. Even if we find prints, I’m betting they belong to some fraternity punk and we won’t have them on file.”

  Ignoring the moo shu, I went into the small kitchen and made a pot of coffee. The scent of a Southern pecan roast filled the air and blanketed me with some measure of comfort. Before my DeLonghi pot finished brewing, a team of CSIs wearing little booties and carrying matching metal tackle boxes and computer gear arrived and went to work in my bedroom. A creepy sense of déjà vu danced along my spine as I pulled coffee mugs down from a cabinet.

  Stevens declined, but the other three officers gladly accepted my offer of coffee. From the fridge, I grabbed a small container of cream and set it on the counter, then found the sugar and set it next to the cream. Pulling the last clean teaspoon from my flat-ware drawer, I figured they could share.