Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  “How about six? That’ll give me time to check in with the new mama and her twins.”

  “You got it. Table for two?”

  “You wish. Seat me at the bar. I’ll have a glass of wine and an appetizer. Then I’ll head over to Ten-Ten and grab a burger.”

  Sydney was about to launch into yet another lecture on how Ronnie needed to develop a social life when her phone pinged.

  “I’ll see you around six,” she said instead. “I got another call. Fingers crossed the place hasn’t burned down. Get some rest!”

  Sydney clicked free of her friend’s call and answered the one on hold.

  “You’ll have to forget sleeping in, Syd. Running a restaurant’s an up-with-the-roosters kind of thing.”

  “Morning, Mom.”

  “I’m at Hush Money. I know I wasn’t supposed to be here till after noon, but something told me to get here early. Good thing I did.”

  Sydney’s heart skipped at the concern in her mother’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

  “Three guesses. And you’ll only need one.”

  “What’s Roland upset about?”

  “He’s got at least a half dozen boxes of produce he picked up at the market. The seafood guy just pulled up with his crates. Roland’s shouting about how he can’t do everything himself. If you want, I can hold up the phone and you can listen. Right now he’s halfway through reciting his list of awards as proof he shouldn’t have to work under such primitive conditions.”

  “Can he be more specific?” Sydney could hear her chef yelling in the background.

  “From what I can gather between shrieks, Bobby got here around nine-thirty. Started right in cleaning and chopping the vegetables. Pence and Jack strolled in about two minutes ago. I threw aprons at them and warned ’em we’d talk about punctuality.”

  Sydney envisioned her early kitchen staff working around the giant wood-and-marble counters Roland had designed. “Who’s prepping the seafood?”

  “No one. Windy was scheduled to be here at nine-thirty, just like the rest of ’em.”

  “Did you call her house?”

  “Twice already. Same as last night when she no-showed. No answer.”

  “Did you try her cell?” The curiosity Sydney had felt the night before when Windy didn’t report for work grew into concern. “I hope everything’s okay with Gabby.”

  “I don’t have her cell number. But if you give it to me I’ll gladly call and remind her of the basics of employment.”

  She knew that tone. Six years ago her mother had given her ankle a bad sprain when she slipped on the ice while dragging a trash can to the curb during a particularly bitter February blizzard. She had been taken by ambulance and spent five hours in the ER. Still she had been at work the next morning, turning the OPEN sign over at six o’clock sharp and greeting her breakfast customers at the diner she had run for more than thirty years.

  “That’s okay, Mom. I’ll call Windy. But can you do me a favor?”

  “Already got my glove on, Syd. I’ll get those oysters shucked and cleaned while Roland warms up for his next performance.”

  She could picture her mother going toe to toe with the master chef. Nancy Richardson was a five-foot-three, 175-pound fireball who never let anyone distract her from whatever mission she set herself to. This woman who had the gumption and grit to raise an abandoned infant as her own wouldn’t let anything as trivial as a high-strung chef interfere with that now fully grown child’s dream of running a first-class restaurant.

  “I love you, Mom. I’ll call Windy. Hold down the fort till I get there?”

  “You got doubts?”

  Sydney smiled at the voice of the woman who’d taught her how to love. “Not a one. See you soon.”

  She rubbed her eyes and readied herself for what might be a tough conversation. She’d seen a lot of potential in Windy. And even carrying more responsibility than anyone her age should be asked to shoulder, Windy had never disappointed her. Nancy hadn’t wanted to hire someone who’d never served before, but Windy had pleaded for the opportunity to show she was up to the task. Despite having no prior restaurant experience, Windy learned quickly and well. She showed her gratitude for the chance she’d been given by staying aloof from the gossiping cliques that always formed in the hospitality industry. Windy had bigger things on her mind, and Sydney admired Windy’s determination to raise her daughter on her own. Still, Sydney had an enterprise to run. If she couldn’t count on Windy, she’d have to make some changes.

  She scrolled through her contact list and tapped the number she needed. The phone rang four times. The line opened, but no one spoke.

  “Windy?” Sydney asked. “Are you there?”

  A male voice responded. “Who’s this?” Stern.

  Sydney was surprised. Windy had led her to believe she was single. “This is Sydney Richardson. I’m Windy’s employer. May I speak with her, please?”

  The male voice softened. “Well, good morning, Kitz!”

  There was only one person who called her Kitz. The man who had first met her when she was a gangly twelve-year-old. He’d said she reminded him of a baby deer and called her by the German word for “fawn” from that day to this.

  “Horst? What’s going on? I’m calling one of my employees. What are you doing with her phone?”

  “It’s sitting on a table while the doc examines her in the next room. It rang; I picked it up.”

  “Doctor?” Sydney’s concern morphed into alarm. “Why are you with her? Has she been hurt? Is she okay?”

  Detective Horst Welke’s voice was stern again. “That remains to be seen.”

  Chapter 10

  NOW

  Sydney abandoned her plans for a run and called her mother.

  “Windy’s in the hospital,” she explained. “I don’t know anything more than that right now. Horst is with her.”

  “Horst? The police are involved?” Nancy asked. “Does this have anything to do with why she didn’t show up for work last night?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going down there.”

  “Of course you are. Don’t worry about anything here.”

  Sydney hung up, took a quick shower, and grabbed a granola bar on her way out the door. Traffic was light as she drove her Mustang convertible out of her condominium’s garage and headed toward the hospital. She found a parking spot on the fourth floor of the parking structure and followed the sidewalks winding around the gigantic institution. As she walked in the bright June sunshine, the memory of another visit to the same emergency room came to her. Years ago. A few weeks before her sixteenth birthday. Dark, starless night. August heat, like a heavy, rusty-zippered parka, weighing down every step. She and her mother. Holding hands. Rushing into the lobby. A cluster of uniformed police officers standing by the doors. Their faces telegraphing the answer to an unasked question. Horst, his shirt soaked with Joe Richardson’s blood, stepping toward them with grieving eyes and open arms.

  Sydney bit her lower lip and pushed away the painful recollection. She focused her attention on the people walking around her. Doctors, nurses, students…so many individuals dedicating their lives to saving others.

  But no one could save Joe Richardson that August night nineteen years ago. She sent a silent wish to the universe that fate would bring Windy Fields’s ER visit a happier ending.

  The waiting room held fewer than a dozen people. They sat in three distinct clusters, each pod of worried faces there to support one particular patient behind the double doors leading to the treatment area. A woman called out to her from the check-in desk. She was large, with upper arms straining the fabric of her neon-pink scrubs and a fleshy neck that seemed to have eaten her chin.

  “Can I help you?” The woman’s hair was bright yellow and her lips were electric red. Sea-green earrings dangled above her hefty shoulders. A purple fabric lily was secured to her shirt by an oversize golden pin, the kind that might be used to hold a kilt closed. Sydney thought she looked like a box of crayon
s.

  “I’m here to see someone. Windy Fields.” Sydney spelled the last name even though the woman didn’t ask.

  “Do you have a medical emergency of your own?”

  “No. No, I’m Windy’s employer. I understand she’s here.”

  The colorful woman said nothing.

  “Wanda. Wanda Fields. I’m sorry, I gave you her nickname. I’m here to see Wanda Fields.”

  “Can’t help you.”

  “Has she been released?” Sydney did a fast calculation. It couldn’t have been more than forty-five minutes since she hung up from Horst. “I was told she was with the doctor.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Horst Welke. He’s the detective who’s with her.”

  The woman’s wide face betrayed no emotion. “Can’t help you.”

  Frustration yanked on Sydney’s nerves. “Is Windy all right?” She glanced down at the name tag hanging from the woman’s rainbow lanyard. “Please, Camille…can you let Windy know I’m out here?”

  “Lady, I can’t tell you up from down. Don’t matter who told you what about who.” Camille looked past her. “Please step aside so I can take care of the people behind you.”

  Sydney turned to see a worried woman standing with her hands on the shoulders of a boy who looked to be around ten years old. He wore a grass-stained soccer uniform. His cheeks were streaked with tears and he held his left arm close to his chest. She gave them both an encouraging smile.

  “Sydney!” A woman’s voice pulled her attention to the opposite side of the room. Sydney recognized her as one of the people Horst had introduced the night before. The woman was coming from the treatment area and waved her over.

  “Jillian Kohler,” she reminded. “I work with Horst.”

  Sydney shook Jillian’s hand. “Are you here with him? With Windy? Excuse me, with Wanda?”

  Jillian pointed to a bank of empty chairs. When they were seated, the detective pulled out a notebook. “How do you know Windy?”

  “She works for me. Is she okay? She didn’t show up for work last night. Or again this morning. I called her cell and Horst answered. What’s going on? Is it Gabby?”

  “Gabby’s fine. Cute little thing. She’s staying with a neighbor while we figure out what’s doing with Windy.”

  “What do you mean ‘figure out’? Is she hurt?”

  “What is it that Windy does for you? At work, I mean.”

  “She’s a server. Prep, too.” Sydney watched Jillian write in her notebook. She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Has Windy been hurt? Raped?”

  “She’s with the doctors now. It looks like she’s fine. Couple of stitches on her head is all.”

  “If you and Horst are involved, it’s more than a bump on the head.”

  “How long has Windy worked for you?”

  “About six weeks or so.”

  Jillian smiled. “I love the Ten-Ten. You’ll probably be seeing me there more than you’d like. What time was Windy due to work yesterday?”

  “Four o’clock. We do a run-through of the menu and wine list before opening the doors. She wasn’t there.”

  “That like her?”

  “No. I figured something might have come up with Gabby. But when she didn’t show this morning, I got worried.”

  “Worried? Has Windy done things in the past that would lead you to worry about her behavior?”

  “No, but you are. What’s going on?”

  “Are you and Windy close?”

  “Not really. I know she’s a single mom. No family to speak of. I may not know her well, but I like her.”

  “Based on?”

  Sydney hesitated at Jillian’s question. She’d known Windy less than two months. Certainly she’d been impressed with her work ethic and eagerness to learn, but what was it that had Sydney thinking she liked her?

  “There’s a gentleness about her. The way she interacts with others. The way she speaks. I like that.”

  “Gentle. Interesting word. You ever see her get angry? Ever hear of her having a rough temper or anything like that?”

  “You’re suspecting her of something. You and Horst aren’t here because something was done to Windy. You’re thinking she’s done something.”

  “Just getting a feel for her is all. You know anything about who she dates?”

  “I get the impression she doesn’t have a social life. She works two jobs and she raises her kid. I think life’s pretty small for Windy right now.”

  “She talk to you about her other job?”

  “She cleans houses. Is one of her clients telling you she did something?”

  “Would you be surprised if someone had?”

  Sydney saw Jillian’s pen poised above her notepad. “I’d be stunned.”

  “And what do you base that on?”

  Sydney stood. “Look, if you aren’t going to tell me what’s going on, I’m not going to answer any more of your cryptic questions. I came down here to see if Windy’s all right. No one seems willing or able to tell me that, so I’m going to leave. I’d appreciate it if you’d tell Windy I was here and that she can call me if she needs anything.”

  Sydney turned and ran straight into Horst Welke.

  “Kitz!” He pulled her into a quick, welcoming hug. “You and Jillian having a chat?”

  “I don’t know if you’d call it that.” Sydney laid her hand on Horst’s arm. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Nurse Camille isn’t talking and, no offense, Jillian could medal if evading direct questions ever becomes an Olympic sport.”

  Horst grinned. “We train ’em that way. Dogs after bones. That’s how we like ’em.” He urged Sydney to sit, but she told him she preferred to stand.

  “Look,” Horst continued. “Windy’s fine. She needed a few stitches. But the docs have given her a thorough going-over, and other than a knot on the head, she looks to be dandy. One last exam and she should be ready to get out of here. She’s with the doctor now.”

  “How’d she get the head injury?”

  Horst shrugged. “Says she can’t remember.”

  “Is she in shock?”

  “She’s in something.” Horst nodded toward Jillian, who still sat with her notebook at the ready. “Sydney able to provide you with any information on Windy’s relationship with the mayor?”

  “The mayor?!” Sydney looked back over the room when she heard the volume of her own voice. She forced herself into a near whisper. “The dead mayor? That mayor?”

  “City’s only got one, Kitz.”

  “Oh my God! Poor Windy. What? Did she find his body or something? Was it a heart attack?”

  “No, Sydney. It wasn’t a heart attack. The press is going to get this in about an hour, so I’ll ask you to keep it quiet until somebody makes an official statement.” He lowered his voice. “The mayor was murdered. Shot. And Windy’s sitting back there covered in his blood.”

  Chapter 11

  NOW

  “At last!” Roland Delmardo stood with his hands on his hips and his face as red as the bowl of pomegranate seeds sitting on the counter beside where he stood. “Sydney, I’m going to need a lot more cooperation than I’m getting from you right now. Every champion needs his second.”

  “I’ll be right with you, Chef.” She looked to the butcher block where her mother stood, slicing a beef tenderloin into six-ounce servings. She nodded toward her office and Nancy rinsed off her hands and followed her.

  “This about Windy?” Nancy asked after closing the door behind her. “Your eyes aren’t giving me good news. What’s up?”

  Sydney took a deep breath. “Windy was somehow involved with the mayor’s death.”

  Confusion clouded Nancy’s face. “Involved? What does that mean? She’s not a nurse.”

  “You can’t say a thing.”

  “Hey! I’m a cop’s wife more than twenty years. A cop who never did find out how that upholstery in the backseat of his beloved Buick got ripped, I might add.” Nancy raised a stern eyebrow. “I kn
ow how to keep things quiet, young lady.”

  Sydney stepped back. “How’d you know about that?”

  “I warned you a dozen times not to carry that rat-tail comb in your hip pocket. The day after Daddy found that rip you started keeping it in your backpack. I don’t have to be Stephen Hawking to add two and two.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “Would yelling at you fix the car? You learned your lesson. Fair enough.”

  Sydney felt a flush of shame for her twelve-year-old self, who had never stepped up to take responsibility for her crime.

  “You were a kid.” Her mother cupped a warm hand next to Sydney’s cheek. “Let it go.”

  “The mayor was killed. Shot.”

  “What?” Nancy stepped back in disbelief. “Where?”

  “I don’t know. But Horst and his partner were at the hospital with Windy. He told me Windy had the mayor’s blood all over her.”

  “The mayor’s blood? How do they know that?”

  “They have tests, Mom.”

  “What about Windy? Is she hurt?”

  “She needed stitches. On her head, I think he said. I’ve got a very bad feeling about this. I asked if I could speak to Windy, and Jillian—that’s Horst’s detective partner—told me that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “Who cares what she thinks?”

  “She’s the police! We all care what she thinks!”

  “I don’t. You sleep with a cop as many years as I did, you find out they’re all just a bunch of humans. Not one superpower among the bunch. What’s Horst say?”

  “He said they were waiting for the doctors to give Windy the medical all-clear so they could take her down to the station and question her some more.”

  “Some more? What’s that mean?”

  “He said Windy’s been cooperative. Says she claims she doesn’t remember anything about what happened.”

  Nancy walked over and perched a wide hip on the side of Sydney’s desk. “I’ll call Heather. She’s always looking for more hours. She can take Windy’s shift tonight. I’ll cover for her with the prep today. Then I’ll rework the week’s roster to make sure we’re fully staffed. We’ll be okay.”