Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t tell you to serve the shells.”

  Roland stomped over. Sydney had to push back an instinctive fear reaction as he towered over her.

  “But you provided the weapon that destroyed me. You pushed that…that killer woman into my kitchen and led me to believe she was worthy of the space. It was her responsibility to clean that crab and she failed me.” Roland bent down to level his eyes with Sydney’s. “I don’t give one rat’s ass if she gets away with shooting the mayor. But understand me, Sydney. She will not get away with killing my career!”

  —

  An hour later Sydney felt the vibration in her bra. She hurried back to her office, pulled her phone free, and answered.

  “How are things in your end of the universe?” Clay’s voice was as warm as a glass of Hennessy brandy.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  He laughed. “Yep. Just me. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “No, no. You’re not at all. In fact, I’m thrilled to hear from you.”

  “Things that bad?”

  She didn’t want to fill him in on the happenings of the last twenty-four hours until she was with him.

  “Let’s call it one of those days you never want to repeat. On top of that, Roland’s throwing a pout.”

  “That’s what happens when you adopt a purebred. Inbreeding makes ’em high-strung. Ask anybody. A pound puppy’s always the way to go.”

  “Well, I have what I have. At least for the moment.”

  “You sound exhausted.”

  “I am. It’s more than the day. I’d love to talk to you about it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” His steady voice hinted he was ready to hear whatever she had to say. “It’s Scotty Flatts on the stage tonight. Come hear a set or two?”

  She glanced out her office window. In the kitchen Nancy was going from one staff member to the next, resting a reassuring hand on each person’s shoulder in the wake of Hurricane Delmardo.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked Clay.

  “Three a.m. breakfasts are the main source of nourishment for men who chase the blues.”

  “Francie there?”

  “I wouldn’t open the doors without her. Why?”

  “How about you swing by the Ten-Ten? I’ll feed you the best burger you’ve ever put in your mouth.”

  “I could do that. It’s been too long since I’ve swapped lies with Roscoe Donovan.”

  “He’ll be there.”

  “Sometime around ten work for you? Francie can handle this place. I’ll run back for closing.”

  Sydney glanced at the clock. 9:44. Roland had left for the evening. What few diners remained at Hush Money would be finishing their desserts.

  “Ten o’clock would be perfect. See you here. Oh, and one more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My mom’s probably going to be here, too.”

  Clay was silent for several heartbeats.

  “We’re stepping across that threshold?” he finally asked.

  “Only if you’re ready to.”

  “One threshold leads to another.” She could almost see that slow grin of his.

  —

  She walked down the hallway joining her two places at 10:15 and saw Clay leaning against Ten-Ten’s long copper bar, laughing with Roscoe Donovan. He turned his attention toward her and waved her over.

  “Where’d you come from?” he asked. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the front door.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” She greeted Roscoe and asked for a glass of pinot grigio before turning back and impulsively kissing Clay on the cheek. “Last-minute-scheduling redo for tomorrow.” She pointed toward the door she had just entered. “And I always come in that way. It’s my secret passage between Hush Money and Ten-Ten.”

  “Clever. And I’m sure it’ll come in handy those long winter months. No need to wonder what kind of snow boots go with your gown.” He made a show of looking at her. “Which, as always, is rather fetching tonight. I’ll bet you loved playing dress-up as a little girl.”

  “I did. But I think I got it all out of my system. These days I’m far more comfortable in yoga pants and a T-shirt. But Hush Money’s got a certain clientele.”

  “And you have to give the customers what they want.” Clay laid a ten-dollar bill on the bar when Roscoe brought Sydney’s wine.

  “There’s no need for that,” Sydney protested. “This is my place.”

  His gray eyes twinkled in the bar’s soft lights. “Can’t have folks thinking I’m a kept man. Not on a night when I’m meeting the mom. I’ve been scouting the patrons. Trying to figure out which woman’s about to give me the third degree. So far I’m coming up blank.”

  “That’s because she’s not here. And she doesn’t know you’re here. She likes to come in for a nightcap after Hush Money closes. I figured a chance encounter would keep her from having questions prepared.”

  “She doesn’t know about me? That I…that we…”

  “Oh, she knows about you. And she knows we’re keeping company.”

  Clay leaned in and whispered in her ear, his cheek close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off his skin. “Is that what we’re doing?” He pulled back and held her gaze. After a long, sexy moment, the playfulness returned to his eyes. “And if you don’t think she’s been working on her list of questions ever since you announced I existed, well, you don’t know much about mothers. C’mon, let’s grab a table. You can tell me all about your awful day before your mother puts me under the lights.”

  They chose a vacant booth in a quiet corner. Sydney sat so that she could see her mother entering from the same corridor she used. Clay set her wineglass in front of her and settled across from her with his own glass of beer.

  “I’m all ears,” he said. “What had you sounding like a lost puppy who’d just walked ten miles to find her way home?”

  How many times would she have to retell the story?

  “You remember me telling you about my best friend?”

  “I do. Kindergarten. Inseparable growing up. College roommates. She’s a physician. You’re always on the hunt to find a guy for her. Do I have it?”

  “You do. I’m impressed you remember.”

  The sexy smile crossed his lips again. “I make it my business to remember everything about you, Sydney Richardson. What’s your friend got to do with your bad day?”

  She launched straight in, explaining how what had started as a casual glass of wine between friends ended with ambulances, police, and the ICU. Clay listened without interrupting, holding her hand until she finished and took another much-needed gulp of wine.

  “There you have it,” she said in summation. “Rotten night compounded by lack of sleep and extreme worry about my buddy tubed up at the hospital. The cherry on this crap-day sundae is Roland Delmardo blaming me for destroying his career.”

  Clay looked away for a moment before bringing his attention back to her.

  “Questions?” she asked. “Comments?”

  He hesitated. “I’ve been following the news reports on this story all day. I had no idea it was you.” She was unable to identify the emotion in his voice.

  “The police are withholding any identification until Ronnie’s mom knows. My mom’s been trying to reach her all evening.”

  “Have the cops made any arrests?”

  “Not that I know of. My guess is they won’t. It was probably some random kid playing tough. Madison’s not a quiet little burg anymore, you know.”

  “But they have evidence, right? Bullet casings. Statements from neighbors. Hell, somebody in your friend’s neighborhood had to have seen something. Maybe there’s even a security camera or two.”

  “I haven’t seen Horst since this morning.” She explained who Horst was to her and her family. “I’m sure he’ll let me know the minute they have anything.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend. And it kicks me in the gut to know it could have been you.”

  “I�
�m okay, Clay. Grass stains and bruises. That’s the brunt of it for me.”

  “You felt the bullet fly by. My God, Sydney. We’re talking millimeters. Don’t treat it so lightly. You could have been killed.”

  She thought of Ronnie lying in her hospital bed. Please, Ronnie. Don’t turn into someone who got killed. Please. Find your way back to us.

  “But I didn’t.” She saw the door from the corridor open. Several patrons did, too, eliciting a spontaneous chorus of “Nancy!” to greet her mother as she walked in.

  “Here we go.” Sydney was glad to have the attention shifted away from the shooting. “Prepare yourself for the force of nature that is my mother.”

  Clay and Sydney watched Nancy spend a few minutes with Roscoe before pouring herself a beer and heading over to a table filled with people obviously eager to see her. Sydney recognized several of the people sitting there. Horst had introduced her to them on the Ten-Ten’s opening night. Nancy appeared to be so focused on them that she didn’t notice her daughter was sitting across the room with a man she’d never met.

  “Your mom knows how to light up a room,” Clay remarked. “Like her daughter.”

  “These are my mom’s people. Cops. Paramedics.” She nodded toward the man Nancy had just sat next to. “That’s Rick. He’s with the canine unit. If there’s anything my mother likes more than first responders, it’s dogs. My hunch is it won’t be long before she’s lobbying me to allow Rick’s cop dog to hang out here.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  Sydney remembered the warmth of Rick’s arms as he held her at the hospital, letting her cry. “Not at all. The Ten-Ten welcomes every member of the force.” At that moment Sydney’s eyes caught Nancy’s. She saw her mother glance toward Clay. Without preamble, Nancy grabbed her glass of beer and made her way over. Rick looked up as well, his eyes following Nancy. His smile was broad when he noticed Sydney. It disappeared when he saw Clay sitting next to her. Sydney suddenly felt uncomfortable, as though she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t be. She pushed the feeling aside and raised her hand in greeting. Rick stood. He kept his eyes on her while he finished his beer in one gulp.

  Then he left the bar.

  Sydney forced her attention away from the uneasiness his departure brought and braced herself for her mother.

  “Hello, dearie.” Nancy slid into Sydney’s side of the booth. “Looks like we had the same idea. Relax a bit after a rough night. Who have we here?”

  “Mom, I’d like you to meet Clay Hawthorne. He’s the man I told you about.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Richardson.” Clay held out his hand. Nancy took it in both of hers.

  “It’s Nancy. Sydney tells me you own the Low Down Blues.”

  “That’s right. But you know how it is. It’s more like the place owns me.”

  Nancy’s gaze was steady as she looked him up and down. Sydney was reminded of the time her father had taken her to a dairy expo. She couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. She remembered the farmers sizing up each new cow or bull that was led into the ring. Her dad had told her they were trying to determine whether the animal was worth the investment.

  Nancy had that same look.

  “Where’d you go to school?”

  “University of Montana, ma’am. Missoula.”

  Nancy glanced over to Sydney. “A cowboy? Did you graduate?”

  “Clay’s an accomplished musician, Mom. Had a scholarship to Oberlin. You should hear him play the piano. It’s magic.”

  “A cowboy musician? Like Roy Rogers?”

  Clay leaned forward, smiling eyes locked on Nancy’s. “No. A businessman who’s a sucker for anything with a keyboard. I promise you, Nancy, I come in peace. And if I take your daughter out to the movies, I’m good for the popcorn.”

  Nancy kept her focus on him. Clay didn’t look away. In a few seconds Nancy beamed. “Nice to meet you, Clay Hawthorne.” She turned to Sydney. “He doesn’t run away. That’s a good thing.” She put her attention back on Clay. “I got some friends who’ve been to the Low Down. They say nice things about it.”

  “It would be my pleasure to have you come by anytime. We get some good headliners. You like the blues?”

  “You don’t get to be my age without appreciating a good song of woe. Hell, I probably could write one or two of my own.”

  Sydney took another sip of her wine. She felt a warm wash of relaxation spread through her. Her mother liked Clay. And she could tell he liked her mother.

  Maybe there could be something salvaged from this terrible day.

  The three of them settled into the kind of meaningless conversation that laid the foundation for future trust. Nancy wanted to know what it was like growing up on a ranch. Clay told a funny story about the first time he tried to milk a goat. He asked Nancy to tell him something embarrassing from Sydney’s childhood. Despite Sydney’s protests, Nancy told him about the time she and Ronnie decided to dye their hair green for St. Patrick’s Day.

  “Seventh grade, wasn’t it? Oh! They had it all planned, the two of them. Poured green food coloring all over their heads. What could I do? By the time I saw them, the damage was done. Off they went, strutting so proud. What they hadn’t planned for was the hard spring rain that drenched them both as they walked to school. Green streaks down their faces. Staining their white blouses. What a mess! Took at least a month of shampoos before they stopped looking like walking, talking moss infestations.”

  The front door opened. Nancy looked up.

  “Horst!” Nancy waved the detective over, then leaned across the table. “You think I’m tough? Wait till old Horst here finds out you’ve got your eye set on Syd. Buckle up, cowboy.”

  Sydney hoped Clay could read the appreciation in her smile. She stood, caught Roscoe’s attention, and pointed to Horst. Roscoe nodded, handed a mug of Ayinger Celebrator to the waitress, and pointed toward their table.

  “You look like six miles of bad road,” Nancy commented when Horst settled into the booth across from her. “You’re gonna look a lot worse when I’m done with you. My girl’s involved in a shooting and you don’t call me?”

  Horst didn’t respond to Nancy’s playful tease. His face was grim as he turned his attention to Sydney. Her heart sank.

  “Is it Ronnie? Did the hospital call?”

  Horst’s demeanor softened. “No, Kitz. It’s nothing like that. I checked on Ronnie about a half hour ago. She’s sleeping. Docs say that’s what’s best for her now.”

  Sydney leaned back against the booth and exhaled. “Thank God.”

  Horst turned toward the man sitting next to him. “I assume you’re Clay.”

  “Guilty.”

  “How long have you and Sydney been seeing one another?”

  “I’d say we’ve known each other a year or so.”

  Horst and Nancy exclaimed in unison. “A year!”

  Clay held out his hands in an effort to calm them. “That’s about how long Sydney’s been coming to my place. But as far as getting to know one another—dating, if you want to call it that—I’d say it’s been about a month.” He turned to Sydney. “Sound right to you?”

  “It does.”

  “You a jealous type?” Horst asked.

  Clay considered the question. “Sydney’s a beautiful woman. Intelligent. Strong. Ambitious. I figure she knows better than anyone what she wants. And if it’s not me, well then, no amount of convincing is going to pull her my way.”

  Sydney made no attempt to hide her irritation. “Clay’s a friend of mine. There’s no need to insult him.”

  Horst ignored her protest. “You know her friend? Veronica Pernod?”

  “I know she’s been shot. I know Syd was with her. But no, I’ve never met her.”

  “What’s this about, Horst?” Sydney asked.

  Nancy laid a quieting hand on her daughter’s arm.

  “I asked you at the hospital if Ronnie might have any enemies. Anybody who we might need to take a look at.
”

  “And I told you it would be inconceivable to me that anyone would want to hurt her. Ronnie’s a healer. A kind, warm soul.”

  Horst nodded. “How about you, Kitz?”

  “How about me what?”

  “You got somebody who might want to hurt you?”

  “Are you saying you think Sydney was the target?” Clay asked.

  “I know you, Horst.” Nancy’s voice was filled with fear. “You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t have something. Spill it.”

  “Kitz, you remember I told you your car was evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “That bang you heard when you opened your car door? The one you realized must have been the first shot?”

  “Yes. And another shot. I felt it whiz past me.”

  Horst nodded. “We dug one slug out of your driver’s-side door. We went over your car inch by inch. Evidence. Kitz, we found a tracking device clipped to the Mustang’s undercarriage. From the looks of things, it’s pretty sophisticated. Whoever put it there could track your every movement with the right receiver.”

  “What? How long has it been there? Who’d want to know where I was?”

  “No way of knowing. What we do know is the device is intact. Still beaming your location.”

  Sydney shook her head. “You think I was the target?” A realization hit her so hard she was grateful to be seated. “My God! Ronnie got shot because of me! It’s my fault she’s hurt!”

  Nancy reached an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “No, baby, no! None of this is your fault. Horst found a device, that’s all. It doesn’t tell us anything.”

  Sydney saw the looks exchanged by the three other people in the booth and realized none of them believed Nancy’s attempt at reassurance.

  “Think, Kitz. Who might want to hurt you? Who might want to keep track of your movements?”

  She began to shake.

  “What is it, Sydney?” Nancy asked. “Tell us.”