Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  He’s taking me to the master bedroom. He’s going to make a secret for himself. His wife will never know he fucked the help in her own bed. That’s worth five hundred dollars to him.

  But he stopped at a door before they reached the master. She knew this room. It was the smallest of the upstairs quarters. Room enough for a queen-size bed and two nightstands. Mrs. Millerman had decorated it all in white. To make it look bigger, she’d said. White walls, white night stands, white chenille bedspread. It gave the feel of a little girl’s room. Small and pure.

  It was Windy’s favorite room in the entire house.

  The mayor opened the door and waved her in.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “On the bed.”

  She did as she was told, keeping her eyes on him as he moved about the tight space. He pulled the shades on the two windows, leaving the room cast in intimate shadows.

  “Take off your blouse.”

  He didn’t approach her. He leaned against the closed bedroom door and waited for her to follow his instructions.

  “Your hands are shaking. Are you frightened?”

  I’ll die before I allow you to add that bit of flavor to your sick stew.

  “No,” she answered. “Chilly perhaps.”

  He nodded. “It’ll warm up quickly, I promise.” He took her blouse from the bed. She was surprised to see him fold it neatly and lay it on the floor in the corner. “Now your slacks. Take them off.”

  She again did as she was told.

  It’s just a different room. It will be over soon. I can fill our freezer with food. Summer’s coming. Gabby will need new sandals. That little monkey grows so fast.

  “I’d hoped you’d be wearing nicer lingerie.” He took her slacks, folded them, and laid them on top of her blouse. “Still, I guess those white cotton granny things appeal to some people. Crawl up toward the top of the bed. Lean against the pillows. Farther. There. Now tuck your legs to one side.” He paused, examining how he’s posed her.

  Let’s get started. Let’s get this done.

  “Take off your bra. The cotton panties may be a bit of whimsy, but that industrial bra has got to go.”

  Her hands moved of their own accord. He took her bra and added it to the corner stack of clothing.

  The mayor walked to the right side of the foot of the bed and paused, looking at Windy and saying nothing. Then he stepped to the left side and did the same thing. Finally he reached again into his pocket and pulled out the money clip he’d offered her before. He tucked it under her trousers.

  “No need for anyone to see that, is there?”

  Then he turned toward the bedroom door.

  “You’re leaving?” Windy asked.

  He gave her one last appraisal, long and slow. Then he opened the bedroom door. A man walked in. Short. Wiry. Dark-blond hair slicked straight back. He seemed hesitant. A nervous smile tugged at his thin lips. His eyes locked onto Windy, leaning back against the headboard. She watched his caution transform into something lustier as he untied the belt to his white cotton bathrobe.

  Windy’s breathing was short and rapid. Her heart pounded in her chest. She glanced away from the stranger when he sat at the foot of the bed. Windy’s wide eyes flared toward the mayor.

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  He nodded toward the small man before answering her.

  “Anything he wants you to.”

  The mayor left the room as the now-naked man began his crawl up the bed.

  Chapter 20

  NOW

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  Nancy Richardson chuckled into the phone. “Syd, it’s almost eight-thirty. Name a day you saw me sleep past five.”

  Sydney looked across the rumpled blankets of her own bed and assumed her love of lingering under the covers must be something she’d inherited from her MIA birth parents. Neither Nancy nor Joe Richardson was one to slowly greet the morning.

  “You have plans for today?”

  “I got pansies I need to deadhead out back,” her mother answered. “Porch could use a good sweeping.”

  “It’s your day off, Mom. Surely you can think of something more dazzling than gardening and house chores.”

  “Don’t you worry about my plans. There’ll come a time when even you, Miss Doesn’t Want to Miss a Thing, will welcome the quiet calm of a day spent at home. I’ll probably swing by the Ten-Ten after dinner, see if there’s anything Roscoe needs.”

  “I thought we agreed, Mom. You’re retired.” The first thing Sydney had done when that lawyer dumped fifteen million dollars in her lap was pay off the mortgage on the home she grew up in. Nancy fought her on it, saying the money was Syd’s and she should enjoy it. It took awhile to convince her mother that seeing her learn to stop pinching pennies would be the best kick she could get out of the unexpected windfall. Another wrestling match ensued when Sydney suggested it was time for Nancy to step away from the daily grind of running a neighborhood restaurant. But when Syd lined up a buyer willing to pay cash for the building and fixtures, Nancy warmed to the idea.

  “I had plenty of that out-of-work stuff. While you were out seeing the world, I was home twiddling my thumbs. There’s only so many times you can rearrange a pantry, you know. You let me do my part with your restaurants. Gives this old lady a sense that she’s needed.”

  Sydney smiled into her phone. Old lady. Nancy Richardson was the youngest sixty-four-year-old she’d ever encountered. “Then by all means, scoot on down to the Ten-Ten.”

  “Maybe you could join me. Later, I mean. Swing by for a burger.”

  She recognized her mother’s tone. “What?”

  “What what? You have to eat. An innocent burger at the Ten-Ten with your mother makes sense.”

  “Innocent, huh? What’s your plan?”

  “Sydney Richardson! How you got so suspicious is beyond me. Would it be so terrible? Sharing a meal with your mother? Maybe spend some time with the good folks who like to hang out down there?”

  “And there it is. What’s his name, Mom?”

  “What’s whose name?”

  “The man you want me to meet. The one this innocent burger is all about.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I could tell you that nice cop from the K-9 unit asked me about you. Rick Sheffield. The handsome one. Remember?”

  Sydney recalled how kind he’d been when she was down at the jail to see Windy. She also remembered broad shoulders and a slow, teasing smile. “I do. He wanted you to tell him all about Dad.”

  “And now he wants me to tell him all about you. Like, are you seeing anyone? Do you have a thing against dating cops?”

  “And I have no doubt you matched him question for question.”

  “I might know he’s got three brothers and a sister. None of them live in Madison. He was raised in Cincinnati. Parents are gone. He graduated from the University of Chicago. How’s that for smarts? Got accepted into Loyola Law but decided he’d rather be a cop.”

  An image of Clay flashed in her mind. “Let’s table this, okay? I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I want to go to the mayor’s funeral. You up for that?”

  It took so long for Nancy to respond that Sydney wondered if the connection had been dropped.

  “Think this through, Sydney.”

  She knew that tone. Her mother used it whenever she thought her daughter’s impulsivity was about to land her in a heap of hurt.

  “Hush Money’s part of the Madison scene now, Mom. The mayor’s wife was there on opening night. While her husband lay dead at home. The least we can do is go pay our respects.”

  “Nice try. I know what you’re up to. You’ve got a bee in your bonnet to help Windy Fields and you think nosing around the funeral is going to give you some kind of clue about what to do next. Leave it be. Horst and I have talked about this. They’ve got more than enough to prove Windy killed the mayor. Get that fancy lawyer you hired to cut her some
kind of deal. Look, Horst knows it’s you paying the lawyer. He knows it’s you who bailed her out. So you can bet the keys to your condo half of Madison knows it was you, too. Which means the other half will know in another forty-five minutes. You showing up at the funeral, being the woman who’s bankrolling the defense of his killer? That’s not showing respect. That’s something else altogether.”

  “Windy needs my help.”

  “Did she ask you for it?” She could tell her mother was struggling to keep her voice calm. “Honey, you can’t spend your whole life picking up strays.”

  “You picked me up. You and Dad spent your life caring for this particular stray.”

  “Is that what this is? You see yourself as some tossed-away little kitten who needs to pay it forward?” Her mother’s sigh relayed a heart full of sorrow. “Sydney, I wonder if you’ll ever see things the way I do. They way your father did. The day we learned you were born and would be ours…That was the greatest day of our lives. Every moment with you has been a gift. Well, except for those teen years. Your father and I were about ten minutes away from setting you out on the curb with a ‘free to a good home’ sign hanging around your neck.”

  Sydney chuckled. “How did you guys put up with me?”

  “We just held on to each other, buckled up, and rode out the storm. We knew we’d get our girl back.”

  A wave of regret washed over Sydney. She knew intellectually it was every teenager’s birthright to wage war with their parents. It was all part of breaking free. But still, the memory of causing heartache to two such dear people was difficult to chalk up to a developmental stage.

  “You think Dad would be proud of me?” Tears stung her eyes.

  “I don’t have to think. I remember how his chest puffed out whenever anyone asked how you were doing. He’d take every compliment folks showered on you and wrap himself up in it like it was a toga made just for him. And I’ll tell you another thing. He’s proud of you still. The woman you’ve become. The success you’re making. Even the way you’re handling this whole legacy thing. You know, a lot of young women would have blown through that money on trips to Gay Paree or fancy baubles to show off to their friends. But you’re creating jobs. Helping other people. Dad’s as proud of you as I am. I know it.”

  She wanted to believe it. And even a small part of her could accept the possibility that she was turning out okay. But deep in her gut she knew she had been, and still was, an inconvenience that needed to be removed. One whose very existence, according to her birth mother’s own words, threatened to destroy multiple lives. The one easiest to throw away.

  Like yesterday’s garbage.

  Yes, Mom. I’m that kitten who got thrown over the bridge. Only I was lucky enough to be saved by you and Dad. Windy wasn’t so lucky.

  “Syd, don’t go to that funeral. I don’t want people whispering about my girl behind her back.”

  “Then they can whisper to my face. I’m going. I could use a wingmom.”

  She heard another noisy sigh through the phone. Nancy knew her daughter had made up her mind.

  “I read the visitation’s at one o’clock. Funeral starts at three. You picking me up?”

  “I’ll be at your house at one-thirty. That work for you?”

  “Sure. Gives me time to do my chores. I just hope my pansies are the only thing getting their heads chopped off today.”

  —

  They walked into the Frank Lloyd Wright masterpiece that was the First Unitarian Society church a few minutes before two. Cars filled the parking lot and lined most of University Bay Drive. Sydney and her mother parked on a residential street three blocks away. Nancy used the walk as one last attempt to talk her daughter into spending the warm spring afternoon doing anything other than attending the mayor’s funeral. Within ten minutes of arriving, Sydney was sure her mother was wishing she’d taken that advice.

  The mayor’s casket, draped with white roses, sat in the front of the sanctuary, centered against a wall of windows streaming in sunshine. The entire area was banked with blooming baskets, potted ferns, and standing arbors of flowers. A receiving line wound down one side of the elegant hall, past the casket, and out the side door to a reception room. Phoebe Millerman, the mayor’s widow, stood at the foot of the bier, greeting guests. A hum of soft voices drifted from various groups seated throughout the space. Nancy and Sydney took their place in line, and as they inched forward, Sydney was aware of a break in conversation whenever anyone’s eyes drifted their way. A meaningless smile would flash across the person’s face. Sometimes a small wave would be directed her way. But as soon as Sydney returned the greeting, the hushed talking would resume.

  “Take it easy, Syd,” her mother whispered behind her. “Don’t let them get to you.”

  Sydney wasn’t bothered at all. If she wanted to help Windy, she needed to see who was here. The next step would reveal itself.

  She surveyed the crowd and recognized many as patrons of Hush Money. In the third pew Melanie White, her flaming red hair competing with her somber black suit, chatted with several people while her three-man entourage stood behind her.

  What had Horst called them? Wynken, Blynken, and Nod?

  The new mayor leaned in as those around her spoke. She occasionally pulled her attention away, scanned the room, and nodded her recognition to newcomers. When her eyes caught Sydney’s, the two women held each other’s gaze. Sydney got the distinct impression Mayor White was calculating how best to react. Should she be warm and gracious to a member of the downtown chamber and newest contributor to the city’s tax base? Or should she telegraph her disappointment that Sydney was obviously supporting the woman everyone believed was the mayor’s murderer? Sydney decided to give her a cue by offering a slight smile. The mayor responded in kind, then returned her focus to those seated around her.

  She felt a hand on her elbow and turned, surprised to see a man asking the person behind her to step back.

  “I saw you from across the room.” Brooks Janeworthy stepped into the now-available space. “I just had to come over to apologize for my abrupt departure the other day.” The little man was as overdressed as he’d been when he came by Hush Money looking for his lost sunglasses. He wore a navy three-piece suit with a white-on-white shirt so heavily starched Sydney wondered if the collar would slice a ring around his throat. His tie was silver and blue, matching the kerchief in his breast pocket. He wore his hair combed back and slicked, as he had when she first met him, and he carried the same walking stick he’d used to wedge his way past Nancy. “Perhaps I was experiencing a touch of whatever bug is going around.”

  “Maybe you were overcome with grief,” Nancy offered. “What with the mayor getting killed and all.”

  Janeworthy winced at the intrusion. Sydney could see it took a few seconds for him to make the connection that Nancy had been there when he came to the restaurant.

  “Do you often bring employees to community gatherings?” he asked Sydney. “How very egalitarian.”

  “This is my mother, Mr. Janeworthy. Her name is Nancy Richardson.” Sydney laid a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Mom, you remember Mr. Janeworthy. He’s the fellow who was looking through the lost and found.”

  Nancy huffed out a greeting, turned on her heel, and focused on the snail-paced line.

  “Oh my. It seems I’ve offended Mummy. I do hope she’ll forgive me.” Janeworthy’s cavalier tone suggested he had no such hope at all.

  Sydney didn’t comment on the slight. “You knew the mayor well?”

  Janeworthy tapped his cane twice against the slate floor. “My dear, are you new to Madison?”

  “Lived here my entire life. Why?”

  “Then I’ll assume you’re new to the commerce and industry that keep our beloved city running. Allow me to introduce myself as someone you’ll want to know better. I’m a developer. There are those who describe me as the most important developer in the city, but I’ll leave those assessments to the whims of others.”
>
  Then why did you mention it?

  “The renaissance along East Washington Avenue? Those are my buildings, my dear. The high-rise apartment cluster on the North Side? Mine as well. In fact, you could look at any building—any quality building, that is—erected in the past fifteen years. Make a twenty-dollar wager that it’s a Janeworthy. Odds are high you’ll win that bet.”

  “So you and the mayor had business dealings.”

  Janeworthy squirmed at her casual description of their association. “The mayor was an ambitious man, Sydney. I trust you take no offense in my calling you by your first name. You, of course, must call me Brooks.”

  Sydney said nothing.

  “Millerman had ambitions for this city. Big ambitions. But he needed cash. First to fill his campaign coffers each time he stood for election. Once the voters had their say, he needed even more money to implement his vision. Revenue from property taxes, sales taxes, visitor tax. That takes development. I build. People come. Millerman taxes. It’s far more than mere business dealing. The mayor understood he could do nothing without me.”

  “Are you the only developer in the city?”

  She enjoyed watching him squirm. Another small man trying to make himself larger by standing on what he thought were his monumental accomplishments.

  Dad used to tell me if you ever meet someone blowing their own horn, it’s because no one else will do it for them.

  “Of course there are other developers,” Janeworthy replied. “None as large as my operation. None so locally connected. Nor committed.”

  “You must be devastated at the loss of such a partner.” Sydney moved ahead in line.

  Janeworthy shrugged a thin shoulder. “Mayors come and go. Each election brings the possibility that voters will change leadership. They’re not unlike shoes or cars in that regard. They wear out. Need to be replaced. Or sometimes people just tire of their looks. We mustn’t get too attached. My buildings stay. My contribution grows. It doesn’t really matter who sits at the head of the table. I can work with anyone.”