Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

An image of Andrew’s angry face floated into her consciousness. She heard his sputtering damnations regarding her inability to keep a confidence. Had she said something to make the mayor’s killer, whoever it was, suspicious enough to track her down?

  I can’t say. I can’t tell you. I cannot jeopardize Windy’s defense.

  “You’re thinking of someone,” Horst announced. “You know who might want to hurt you. Tell me!”

  She looked away, not wanting them to read anything on her face.

  “Does this have something to do with the restaurants?” Nancy looked to Clay. “You know what I’m talking about. There’s always a certain level of lowlife who wants to take what’s not theirs.”

  Clay nodded. “Is that what happened, Syd? Is somebody demanding protection money from you?”

  Sydney shook her head.

  “Is there an angry lover?” Clay pressed. “Somebody you tried to break it off with?”

  “No! Nothing like that.”

  “Then what, Kitz?” Horst’s tone left no room for negotiation. “You have an answer to my question. I need to hear it.”

  Sydney ran through her options. She fully understood Andrew’s concept of the element of surprise. Reasonable doubt. Discredit the police and win an acquittal for Windy. And even though she’d never fully accepted the need for secrecy, she’d agreed to keep the information they’d gathered between the two of them. But now Ronnie was fighting for her life. Now Horst was convinced it was she who was the target.

  “It might have to do with Windy’s case.” She could almost feel Andrew’s disgust as she said the words.

  “Windy?” Horst repeated. “Are you saying Windy might want to hurt you?”

  “No! Horst, you know I don’t want to believe Windy killed the mayor.”

  Horst sighed. “Kitz, spend some time with that fancy attorney you hired for her. He’ll let you know the evidence we have. And unless he’s only interested in running up a big bill, he’s going to tell you there’s only one direction that evidence points. Straight toward Wanda Fields.”

  Sydney’s hands were trembling. It felt like two cold steel spikes were being pounded into her skull. She looked to Clay and found frightened, pleading eyes urging her to be safe. She looked at her mother and saw a variation on the same theme.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you. Andrew says it will ruin Windy’s defense.”

  “Kitz.” Horst’s voice held no trace of the beloved family friend. He was all business. All cop. “If you have information regarding this open investigation into Veronica Pernod’s shooting, you have a responsibility to inform me. You can leave Windy out of it if you’d like. But you’ve got to tell me who may have planted a tracking device on your car. Who followed you to Ronnie’s house? Who took those shots?”

  An image of Ronnie, pale and weak in the ICU, came to her.

  “The mayor had tapes.”

  Sydney gave them a recap of the contents of the two thumb drives Phoebe Millerman had given her. The three of them were disgusted as she described Brooks Janeworthy’s sexual abuse of Windy. When she told them about the recording of Melanie White selling her vote for upcoming development projects and agreeing to rig the mayoral election, they sat in stunned silence.

  “Are you certain that’s what you saw?” Horst asked.

  “Andrew contacted the FBI. He said Melanie and the two men would certainly be convicted once those tapes were released. They’d spend twenty years behind bars. One guy owns the company that oversees the voting machines. On the tape he discusses how easily they can be programmed to make whoever they want win any race they want.”

  “Do you have any indication either of them, Janeworthy or Melanie White…Could they have known you have the tapes?”

  “Certainly Janeworthy knows I know. He saw me and Windy together.” She turned to Clay. “That day outside the restaurant. Remember?”

  Clay nodded. “He was rattled, that’s for sure.”

  “And the new mayor?”

  “Phoebe mentioned Melanie made a beeline to the mayor’s office to clean things out. Maybe she was looking for them. Who knows? Phoebe could have told her she gave them to me.”

  “And you and Andrew were holding on to this until trial?” Horst asked. “Trying to suggest there are other possible killers? Is that the deal?”

  “You wanted to know who might want to hurt me. Now you do. Let’s leave Windy out of this.”

  “Damn it, Sydney!” Clay’s anger was new to her. “Tell Horst what he needs to know. Now! Somebody tried to kill you!”

  “You don’t know that! It could have been a drive-by.”

  “Drive-bys don’t track their targets. That’s why they’re called drive-bys!”

  Sydney stood and stepped out of the booth. “I’m not the criminal here! And I don’t appreciate being spoken to—or yelled at—by people I’d hoped would have my back. Horst, you know everything I know now. Do what you need to. Mom, I appreciate your mother-bear instincts, but I’m a grown woman. I can take care of myself. And Clay…” She didn’t know how to proceed. “I think we better call it a night.”

  “Sydney, wait.” Clay was on his feet, too. “You’re on your high horse, but—”

  “There’s no ‘but,’ ” Sydney interrupted. “I don’t let people speak to me that way.”

  She turned and left the Ten-Ten before any of them could say another word.

  Chapter 33

  NOW

  Sydney was at Hush Money before nine o’clock the next morning. She’d tried to sleep the night before, but memories of the miserable evening with Clay, her mother, and Horst kept her tossing in bed. She’d kept her phone under her pillow, desperate to hear from the ICU. But while her phone had vibrated five times, none of the calls was from the hospital. Four were from her mother. She let them go straight to voicemail. The fifth was from Clay.

  He left no message.

  Finally, as the first rays of dawn brightened her window, she gave up and ate two bowls of Cap’n Crunch, drank a pot of coffee, and watched the early-morning news. Since nothing had changed since Windy’s arrest, at least to the knowledge of local reporters, the mayor’s murder barely got a mention. She clicked off the television and went for a run. After she’d exhausted herself she came home, took a shower, and tried to block out the memories of the previous evening. Horst had never been so insistent with her. And the anger in Clay’s voice made her question all she thought she’d seen in him.

  There was nothing for her to do but go to work.

  —

  She heard stirring in the kitchen and left her office, eager to see if Roland had calmed down from his tirade. But it wasn’t her chef who greeted her.

  “Hi, Sydney.” Windy’s brown hair was damp, like she hadn’t taken the time to dry it before heading into the restaurant. “You’re here early. Is there something I can get you?”

  Perhaps it was for the best that she encountered Windy before Roland did.

  “Windy, come on back to my office, will you?”

  Sydney closed the door once Windy had settled into the chair across from her desk.

  “How are you and Chef getting along?”

  Windy smiled and suddenly looked like a teenager. “Like I said, you have to get past his bluster. He’s got a good heart. And he’s been real generous in training me. My knife skills are getting better every day. Chef says if I keep it up, he’ll show me how to start making some of the basic sauces. Nothing fancy, but it beats scrubbing pots.”

  “Do you enjoy it? Being in the kitchen, I mean.”

  “I do! I know I’m not making the tips I could make being in the front of the house, but I understand why you can’t have me out there.” Her nod was one of gratitude. “I love the creativity of the kitchen. Chef Roland’s the best. I can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be.”

  Sydney hesitated. This young woman had experienced so much heartbreak and disappointment in her life. And Sydney was about to deliver another blow.

  “We�
�ve got to talk about that. There was an incident last evening. One I’m afraid has left Chef determined never to work with you again.”

  Windy’s face lost its color. “What did I do?” She slumped back against the chair.

  Sydney told the story of the diner who’d complained about the shells in his crab. She tried to downplay her chef’s reaction, but Windy knew Roland well enough to understand he would have been ballistic.

  “He blew up, didn’t he?”

  “Something like that. I’m afraid he doesn’t want you in his kitchen.”

  “But it wasn’t me!”

  “Chef said he asked you to clean the crab.”

  “He did. He showed me exactly how to do it before he left. Remember? He had a dentist appointment yesterday. He was going to the farmers’ market before he headed off to get that cap of his fixed.”

  “I remember.”

  “My shift ended before he got back. I didn’t see him. And I didn’t clean those crabs.”

  “Who did?”

  “Ivy.”

  “The pastry chef?”

  “Yes. I was getting the crabs out of their crates. Ivy reached for a sack of flour. It was on the top shelf. I think she stumbled. Maybe she slipped. I don’t know; I wasn’t looking. Next thing I hear is a whole lot of cursing. From Ivy, I mean. The sous chefs were laughing. There was flour everywhere! And I mean everywhere! The kitchen looked like it had snowed. The dishes and glasses and cutlery had just come out of the machines. They were still a bit damp. Chef doesn’t like us to polish until later in the afternoon.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “But the flour? On the damp dishes? It turned into some kind of crust. It was a mess!”

  “What happened then?”

  “Ivy was pissed. The kind of pissed when you realize you did something stupid and you don’t want to admit it. Know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “She started blaming people. The flour shouldn’t have been up there. Who put the dishes in the way? Stuff like that. Then she tells the sous chefs they’re going to have to clean it all up. She says she’s got to make the desserts and doesn’t have time. The sous chefs stop laughing then. But they tell her they’re not cleaning it up. They’ve got their own marching orders from Chef. So Ivy turns to me. She knows it’s gonna take about an hour to clean the crab and about three hours to rewash all the dishes and scrape the floor clean. She tells me to get busy with the flour mess and she’ll take care of the crab.”

  “So you did?”

  “Everybody thinks I’m a killer. Ivy tells me I have to do what she says. Says I should be thankful for even having a job. So I took care of the mess. Ivy cleaned the crab. I was gone before Chef got back. I assumed Ivy let him know.”

  “She didn’t. But I will.” Sydney looked at her watch. “Chef will be coming in in a few minutes. Perhaps it’s best if you’re not here when he does. Take this deposit to the bank, will you?” She handed Windy the bags and a ten-dollar bill. “Then stop and have a leisurely cup of coffee somewhere. Come back in about an hour. We’ll get this all straightened out.”

  Windy picked up the deposit bags, staring at them in her hands.

  “You sure? There must be, like, a thousand bucks here.”

  Oh, Windy, you have a lot to learn about five-star restaurants.

  “I trust you, Windy. Now go on. This will all be fixed by the time you get back.”

  —

  Sydney’s cellphone vibrated. A glance at the screen brought disappointment. It was Andrew calling, not the hospital. Apprehension washed over her. She’d have to tell him about her conversation with Horst, and she didn’t need to stretch her imagination to conjure up how angry he would be. She closed her office door and answered his call.

  “Damn it all to hell, Sydney!” He didn’t even offer a greeting. “Two detectives just left my office. They have the tapes now. What the hell have you done?”

  “Horst was investigating the shooting Ronnie and I were involved in.”

  “What’s that got to do with the tapes?”

  “Horst thinks the shooting wasn’t random. He thinks I was the target. He wants to know who might have motive to hurt me.”

  “So you handed him our entire case?” Andrew’s disgust roared through the connection.

  “He’s investigating a crime! My best friend is fighting for her life! And he thinks the bullets that ripped her apart were meant for me! You bet your ass I told him what I knew. And when you get down to it, what’s the harm? If Melanie White or Brooks Janeworthy killed the mayor, isn’t it better to have the investigative ability of an entire police department looking into it?”

  “Sydney, you hired me to—”

  “I know why I hired you. But your goal’s shortsighted. You want to get Windy acquitted by whatever means necessary. Wouldn’t it be better to find out who really killed the mayor?”

  “First of all, that’s not my job. More importantly, in all likelihood Windy did kill the mayor.”

  Sydney had had enough of being yelled at. “Maybe it’s best if I find Windy another attorney.”

  Andrew was silent for a while. When he finally spoke, his tone was calmer.

  “Let’s not jump off any cliffs here. You’ll forgive me for not having the same trust in the police department you do. Maybe you’re right. Maybe they’ll see this through. I made copies of the tapes. I’ll send Melanie White’s off to my buddies at the FBI. If the police know the feds are looking into this, they’ll be sure to follow procedure.”

  “I have no doubt Horst will do the right thing no matter who you bring in.”

  “Says the restaurateur. I know how these guys work, Sydney.”

  “Yeah? Well not this guy. Horst follows his cases until he’s sure he’s got the right person behind bars.”

  “And may I remind you Horst is dead certain he’s found his killer in Windy?”

  Sydney would have liked to scream but didn’t want to alarm any staff who might be in the kitchen.

  “So what now?” she demanded.

  “Now we coordinate with your friends in the police department. They’ll do what they will with the tapes. Let’s see where this road leads.”

  “You’ll keep me posted?”

  “Only if you’ll do the same.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Sydney, if you talk any more about this case—to anyone, anywhere—will you please not let it catch me by surprise? Just once?”

  She hung up without answering his question.

  —

  A cursory rap on her office door was followed by Chef Roland Delmardo entering, clipboard in hand.

  “Sydney, wait till you see what I’m planning for tonight. I’ve acquired the most delicious ten-year-old cheddar. I’m offering it two ways. The first is exquisitely simple: a charcuterie board with sausages, pickled veggies, and breads. The second is a kale and cheddar soup. I can’t wait for you to taste it.”

  “Sounds delicious. Listen, we have a situation with Windy.”

  Instantly Chef Roland’s face lost its good humor. “We have no situation. She’s a saboteur. I’m her target. She’s out to destroy me.”

  “Let’s dial down the drama, shall we, Roland?”

  Her chef inhaled sharply, pressed his hand to his throat, and tumbled into the chair. “Drama? Sydney, I couldn’t sleep last night. Each time I closed my eyes I saw those four shards of crab shells glistening like daggers on the plate. Daggers that foolish girl plans to stab straight through my heart. And may I remind you she’s killed before? I made an appointment with my therapist. I need to make sure I’m not developing a PTSD reaction.”

  “First, you’re not having PTSD. The T is for trauma, and while last night was unfortunate, it hardly rises to that level. Second, we’re not certain Windy’s killed anyone. This is America, Roland. She’s been charged. That’s a long way from convicted. Third—and I need you to listen closely here—Windy didn’t clean the crab.”

  “That’s obvi
ous!”

  “No. I mean she didn’t have anything to do with the crab shells.” Sydney went on to explain Ivy’s flour mishap and how Windy had been left to clean up Ivy’s mess.

  “But I instructed Windy. She was to clean the crab.”

  “You weren’t here. Put yourself in her position. Everyone outranks her. The sous chefs were busy with the sauces. Ivy needed the time to prepare her desserts. It makes sense they’d gang up on the new girl. She was in no position to do anything but go along. Windy’s not the culprit here. She was simply doing her best to keep the kitchen humming.”

  “She should have informed me! When my orders are sidestepped, I should know.”

  “Windy’s shift was over before you got back. I’m sure she thought Ivy would explain what happened.”

  Chef Roland glowered, obviously not quite ready to give up his pique, yet aware he might have the wrong target.

  Sydney’s phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen.

  “Out!” She waved Roland out of the room. “You’ll have to solve this without me. I need to take this.”

  She answered as her chef strutted out of her office.

  “Ms. Richardson? This is Janet Garnicke. I’m a nurse in the ICU. Our orders show we’re to call you as soon as your sister regains consciousness.”

  “Oh, thank heavens! Is Ronnie okay?”

  “She’s awake. She’s in considerable pain, but we’re doing our best to manage that.”

  “I’ll be there. Right there. Tell her fifteen minutes, will you? And thank you, Nurse. Thank you. You’ve just made a terrible day wonderful.”

  —

  Sydney tiptoed into the room. The lights were low. The only sounds were the beeps and whirs of the machines connected to the body in the bed.

  “Ronnie?” she whispered.

  She got no response. Sydney walked to the bed and stared down at her lifelong friend. Ronnie’s eyes were closed. Her breathing was slow and raspy, her face drained of all color. Sydney reached out to touch her cheek.

  Ronnie’s eyes shot open.

  “Oh, thank God! It’s so good to see those eyes again.”

  Ronnie looked past Sydney, as though she was struggling to focus on something behind her. Then she grinned and turned her head right, then left.