Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  “I want to talk to Windy.”

  “Sydney, you’ve just opened two restaurants. Horst told you Windy’s cooperating, right? Still, he’s bringing her downtown. He’s smelling something. I think the best move for you is to stay as far away as you can from Windy and the bad press that’s gonna follow her. We don’t need to be giving folks a reason not to come here.”

  “One visit, Mom. I promise. I don’t want Windy to feel like everyone’s abandoning her.”

  Nancy’s eyebrow arched again. “Maybe somebody covered in a dead man’s blood deserves just that.”

  Chapter 12

  NOW

  Hush Money was packed that Saturday night. Every dinner seat was reserved and the bar was filled with people willing to forgo a liveried table in order to experience Madison’s newest culinary gem. Chef Delmardo continued to draw raves for his inspired creations. Anita Saxon paired each course with the perfect wine to elevate his genius. The servers wended their way through the space, meeting patrons’ needs with silent maneuvers that, if set to music, would have matched any ballet composition’s fluid grace. Despite the glories of the food, wine, service, and decor, however, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation at every table.

  Mayor Roger Millerman was dead. Murdered in the office of his Gregory Street home.

  Sydney didn’t have to strain to overhear the gossip as she walked through the room.

  “I heard his head was nearly severed from his neck.”

  “Really? I got the impression he was shot.”

  “I thought His Honor would be more likely to go out choking on tear gas while marching in one of those god-awful protests he was always leading.”

  “Honestly, every time I’d read he was organizing another march, my first thought was Is it Saturday again?”

  “Poor Phoebe! I can’t imagine what she’ll do without him.”

  “From all I’ve heard it was always a major puzzlement what exactly she did with him.”

  At nine o’clock the murmurs simultaneously stopped for several long seconds. Heads swiveled toward Hush Money’s tall glass doors. Sydney turned to see what had captured everyone’s attention. She saw a woman by the hostess stand. Tall. Shoulder-length hair the color of an award-winning Irish setter. Wearing a high-necked black lace sheath that clung to her athletic body. Three men in dark suits stood with her, but there was no doubt she was the leader of the pack.

  The woman took her time surveying the room, her weary expression doing little to detract from her classic beauty.

  Sydney recognized her at the exact moment the murmurs began again.

  “She’s not wasting any time, is she?”

  “I’ll bet she’s already been to L’Etoile and Harvest. Maybe even the Madison Club. She’ll want everyone to see her tonight.”

  “Did you catch her news conference?”

  “I did. How would you rate her on the sincere-o-meter?”

  Sydney crossed the room to greet her newest guest.

  “Good evening. I’m Sydney Richardson. Welcome to Hush Money.” She reached out to the woman and smiled to the men. “I was unaware you’d be dining with us this evening. It may take us a moment to find you a table.” She hesitated. “Forgive me, but what does one call the president of the Common Council? Madam President?”

  “A spot at the bar will be fine.” The woman shook Sydney’s hand with a determined grip. “And technically, tragically, I’m the mayor now. But let’s not stand on ceremony. I’m Melanie. Mel to my friends. It’s been quite a day. If you’ll have us, we’d love a drink.”

  “Of course.” Sydney turned to the hostess. “Sabrina, find a quiet spot for Mayor White and her party. Ask Chef to send a few appetizers over.” She smiled at the newly sworn-in mayor. “With my compliments. As you said, it’s been quite a day.”

  Melanie White took one long last look around the dining room crowd, then led her entourage into the bar. She offered two-handed handshakes and serious nods to the men and women who stopped her as she passed. Sydney kept her eyes on them until they’d been seated and served. When Sabrina made her way back to the hostess stand, Sydney told her she was going to check on things at the Ten-Ten.

  “What was that I saw when you seated the mayor and her party?” she asked before leaving.

  “You mean when she yanked the wine list out of her guy’s hand?”

  “Was there a problem?”

  “He suggested a bottle of champagne.” Sabrina’s tone was discreet, but her eyes registered disapproval. “One of Anita’s most expensive selections.”

  “And the mayor told him not to take advantage of our hospitality?”

  “No. She told him the optics weren’t right.”

  —

  Roscoe Donovan waved a welcome from his spot behind the bar when she entered the Ten-Ten. While most of the tables and all of the barstools were filled, the atmosphere wasn’t as rowdy as it had been the night before. Sydney scanned the room, hoping to find Horst Welke. Instead she was surprised to see her mother sitting with one of the men Horst had introduced her to the night before.

  “Didn’t I send you home two hours ago?” Sydney laid a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “You have to be exhausted after the day you put in.”

  Nancy Richardson scoffed and pushed a stray strand of gray back into her chignon. “Have you forgotten the long hours I used to put in back when I had my own place? Compared to that, Hush Money’s a day off. Do you know Rick Sheffield?”

  “I do.” Sydney shook his hand. “Canine unit, right?”

  “You remembered.” His easy smile brought a light to his dark eyes. “Jocko’s the best damned partner a cop could ever want. But when he’s off the job, that dog’s nothing but a ninety-pound lump on the couch. So I left him at home and brought myself back for one of those burgers. Happy to say it was as good as I remembered.”

  “How do you know my mom?”

  “Forgive her, Rick,” Nancy interjected. “Gotta be some of Joe’s interrogating ways that’s rubbed off on her. My hunch is she’s wondering what a fine-looking hunk of manhood such as yourself is doing with somebody old enough to forget what handsome men are good for. Always needing to put the pieces together, this one.”

  Rick’s eyes registered his appreciation of Nancy’s humor as he answered Sydney’s question. “I saw your mom walk in and called her over. Recognized her from a couple of times she came to the station to see Horst. Told her if she was looking for him, he wasn’t here. That’s when I find out the two of you are related. I told her I’ve heard so much about Joe. Wished I’d had a chance to meet him.”

  Nancy raised an eyebrow and smiled at her daughter, her nonverbal shorthand for single and available man. Sydney pursed her lips and hoped her mother would read it as her own signal for I can do my own shopping, Mom.

  “So I sat down, ordered a beer, and started to tell him stories about your dad.” Nancy shook her head. “I didn’t mean to bend your ear, Rick. It felt so good talking about my man I guess I couldn’t stop.”

  “No problem. Like I told Sydney, Joe Richardson is legend at the MPD.”

  Sydney pulled out a chair and sat. “No sign of Horst, then?”

  “He and Jillian pulled the mayor,” Rick replied. “They’ve been on it all day.”

  “What’s the latest?” Sydney asked.

  Rick shrugged. “Jocko and I aren’t on the case. You knew him?”

  “Not really. I met his wife last night.”

  “My heart breaks for her,” Nancy said. “Syd and I know what it’s like to get a call like that. Nothing prepares you for it.”

  Horst Welke entered the restaurant before Sydney needed to comment. She stood and caught his attention immediately.

  “How are things with the swells?” he asked before bending to kiss Nancy’s cheek.

  “Business is great. In fact, the new mayor’s there right now.”

  Horst grimaced. “Of course she is. She got Wynken, Blynken, and Nod with her?”

&n
bsp; “If you mean three silent guys who walk one step behind, yes.”

  “Fancy suits? Cellphones glued to their hands?”

  “They fit the description.”

  “Never could figure out what a city council member needed with a posse. But, knowing Melanie White, there’ll be a couple more Men in Black added before the week’s out.”

  Rick Sheffield nodded. “What I could never figure is how in the world she got elected president of the Common Council in the first place. She’s what, twenty-nine years old?”

  “Twenty-eight,” Nancy corrected. “I read it in the paper this morning. Pretty young to be so involved in politics. And now she’s mayor.”

  “Ambition knows no age,” Horst said. “This a private party, or can a working man take a load off?”

  Sydney caught Roscoe’s attention and pointed toward Horst. Less than a minute later a frosted mug of Ayinger Celebrator was in Horst’s hands.

  “Kitz, you know just the thing to erase the dirt of the day. Thank you.”

  “How’s Windy?” Sydney asked.

  Horst took a long pull on his beer. “You know her well?”

  “Are you going to ask me all the same questions your partner did? Don’t treat me like someone off the streets, Horst. Just tell me straight. I know Windy’s in a fix. I want to know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  Horst stared at Nancy for several seconds, as though he were looking for guidance in breaking difficult news to her only child. Then he sighed, took another drink of beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You want to help Windy? Get her a lawyer. A good one.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Again Horst hesitated before answering. “It means she’s been arrested for the mayor’s murder.”

  —

  Murder.

  The word drummed in Sydney’s head with each step. Her father. The mayor.

  Two people needlessly murdered. One I loved. It’s not right.

  Sydney snapped herself alert. What makes you so special? she asked herself. Murder happens. You think there’s a quota on tragedy? Or maybe abandoned foundlings ought to get a pass on dark experiences, given their tragic beginnings. Grow up.

  She opened the door at the hallway’s end and stepped into Chef Roland’s kitchen a few minutes past ten o’clock. It was surprisingly quiet. Four support cooks moved around the space. Two were cleaning up, and two were plating the desserts for the last few customers of the evening.

  “He’s out front,” Charlie, Roland’s sous chef, explained. “Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m good.” Sydney thanked them all for another great night and headed to the dining room. Only four tables were still occupied, and she could see they were finishing up. A glance toward the bar revealed it was still nearly full, but Melanie White and her three muscular escorts were gone. Roland Delmardo stood with one couple by the front door, puffing his chest out against his starched white coat as he accepted their adoration.

  Sydney turned toward the bar and crossed paths with a familiar face.

  “We meet again,” said the handsome man with an expensive Chicago haircut.

  She forced herself into hostess mode. “Andrew. How nice to see you. Don’t tell me you and your wife…Cynthia, right?”

  “That’s her.” His smile was warm, like he was greeting an old friend.

  “You came back a second night in a row? That’s a high compliment, indeed.”

  Andrew Conyer shook his head and held up a yellow satin evening bag. “Cynthia couldn’t find her car keys. We searched high and low. Then she remembered she brought them with her last night. That’s when she discovered she couldn’t find her bag. Another search ensued, and out of desperation we called here to see if she might have left it. Sure enough. I guess I’ll have to get used to her absentmindedness for a while.” He used the purse to point toward the door. “She’s waiting. But we’ll be back. You can count on that.”

  Sydney wished him a good night and made a half turn back toward the bar before spinning back around on impulse. “Andrew! One more moment, please.”

  “What is it?”

  “I need you.”

  Andrew blinked. Confused, he glanced around the room as if to see if anyone else had heard Sydney’s odd statement.

  “I need a lawyer. Can you help me?”

  He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Of course. Thelma Musgrove heads our corporate group. I’ll have her call you first thing Monday morning—”

  “No!” Sydney heard the urgency in her voice and dialed it back. “I need a criminal lawyer. Who heads that group?”

  Andrew’s confusion returned. “I do.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Would you prefer to go someplace less public to discuss why?”

  “Oh! It’s not for me. One of my servers has been arrested.”

  “For what?”

  Sydney hesitated. She pulled him a few steps away from the departing dinner guests.

  “Murder,” she told him. “The mayor.”

  Andrew studied her and Sydney watched him transform from a tired husband doing his wife’s fetching to the polished professional whose name was etched in granite on the front wall of the massive building next door.

  “Arrested? When?”

  Sydney nodded. “A couple of hours ago, as I understand. Wanda Fields. Everybody calls her Windy.”

  “A waitress?”

  She heard the hesitation in his voice. “I’ll pay your fee. One hundred percent.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Part of Sydney’s mind was asking her that same question. “Because she’s alone. She needs someone. I’ll do what I can, which is pay you to do what you can. How’s that?”

  Andrew shifted his wife’s bag to his left hand and held out his right. They shook hands to seal the deal.

  “Looks like we’ll get to know one another faster than we may have thought,” he said.

  Chapter 13

  NOW

  It was nearly midnight when Sydney walked into the Low Down Blues. Clay Hawthorne was onstage and the room was filled with customers mesmerized by the passion and heartbreak his nimble fingers teased from the Steinway. She recognized some of his patrons as people who had just been to her place and made a mental note to suggest her publicist craft a press release suggesting that dinner at Hush Money followed by a nightcap and smooth live music at the Low Down Blues would make for a sophisticated Madison night out. She found an open stool at the bar and thanked Francie when she brought her a perfectly chilled glass of pinot grigio.

  “What’s this say about me?” she asked Clay’s best bartender. “That I don’t even have to order my drink?”

  Francie shrugged. “It tells me you have the good taste to drink in the best damn bar in the state.”

  “Ah, but you haven’t tried my places yet. Could be we’ll give you a run for your money.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

  “First drink’s on me.”

  “Now I’ll definitely stop by.” Francie stepped away to tend to a waitress with a tray of empty glasses and new drink orders.

  Clay finished his performance and bowed to the prolonged applause from the audience. “Enough of the backup piano player, huh? Sit back, relax, and Slow Kick will be up in a minute or two and you’ll hear some real music. Right now”—Clay pointed toward Sydney—“I’m going to see if that pretty lady back there has a few minutes she can spare to let me spin my tales of derring-do.”

  Some patrons called out good-natured support and Sydney felt a flush of heat as Clay approached her. He grabbed her glass of wine and nodded to his left. “C’mon. Join me.” Francie handed him a tall glass of ice water and he carried both to a table left of the stage. When they were seated, he leaned back. Sydney felt another wave of warmth as he took a long, slow look at her.

  “How was night two?” he asked.

  “Good. Full. Lots of compliments. Chef Roland’s worth every
migraine he brings.”

  “How about the Ten-Ten? Second night as good as the opening?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that. Roscoe assures me sales were up, but it was…I don’t know…It felt different. More subdued.”

  “That’s to be expected, don’t you think? I mean, opening nights are filled with excitement. You’re always going to have a high level of festivity at Hush Money. It’s a special-occasion establishment. Folks walk in with their celebrations in full swing. But Ten-Ten’s more of a neighborhood joint. On the one hand, that means you’re going to develop regulars. Keeps business steady. But it also means they bring their day-to-day lives with them. Warts and all.”

  Sydney thought about her target customer. “And since Ten-Ten’s meant to be a cops’ bar, my hunch is their ups and downs are a bit wartier than most.”

  “There you go. Can’t be Christmas every day, can it?”

  Sydney sipped her wine and listened as Slow Kick opened his next set with a slamming Memphis blues number about music being the only love that lasts. She was aware of Clay’s eyes on her and struggled to keep her attention on the performance. The second song was something about a trip back to Alabama, but she couldn’t have given anyone the details. She could, however, have spoken at great lengths of how Clay’s fingers looked as they held his glass. How his masculinity heated the small space between them. How close his knee was to hers underneath the marble-topped bistro table.

  Slow Kick was accepting the applause after his third song when Clay put a hand on the back of her chair, leaned in, and whispered so close she felt his breath on her cheek.

  “Let’s go for a walk.” He stood and pulled out her chair. Sydney followed him as he walked to the bar, told Francie he’d be back, and then stepped aside to allow Sydney to lead the way out the door and up the steps to the street.

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “Let’s stroll.” He held out his hand. She took it and they fell in step with each other, turning right and making their way around Capitol Square. The dramatically lit legislative building dominated the dark sky. Elms and maples and oaks older than the city itself rustled in the late-spring breeze. Sydney relaxed into the peaceful silence between them. They’d walked less than three blocks when they passed Hush Money’s grand facade.