Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  “What are you doin’, you goofball?”

  Ronnie tried to lean forward, then sagged back against her pillow. She waved an IV-laden hand and Sydney leaned in.

  “Bang!” Ronnie’s voice was slurred. “Shot down.”

  “I know, sweetie. I was there. But you’re okay now. At least you will be.”

  “Fixin’ me right up. Sewin’ me up like a rag doll that’s lost her stuffin’.” Ronnie giggled. “Bang!”

  “Honey, I think you’re a little punch-drunk.”

  “I feel good. Damned good.”

  “I’m glad. One of us should.”

  “Ah, poor Syd! Whazza matter? Is it that boy?”

  Now it was Sydney’s turn to laugh. “I think you and I left the boys far behind us. And no, it isn’t Clay. Well, part of it’s Clay. I don’t know. I seem to be making everybody mad at me lately.”

  “Not me! I’m not mad at you one bit.”

  Her friend’s loyal assertion stabbed at her soul.

  Would you feel that same way if you knew the bullets you took may very well have been meant for me?

  “Who’s mad at you? Tell me and let’s spit in their eye. Then we’ll go drink.”

  Sydney squeezed her hand. It had always been like this. Sydney and Ronnie, taking on the world. Whoever crosses one deals with two.

  “Let’s start with the easy one. My chef’s furious with me because I won’t fire someone he’s too embarrassed to admit he made a mistake with.”

  “He’ll have six other people to be mad at by the time you get back.”

  Sydney smiled. “You’re pretty wise for a drugged-up invalid.”

  “Who’s next?”

  “My mom’s pissed. I went nearly an entire day without telling her about the shooting. Made Horst promise not to tell.”

  “Whoa! You’re on your own. Nancy should be pissed. Does my mom know?”

  “Mom’s on the hunt. She’s left messages on Olivia’s cell. Called whoever it is who’s running the program. Apparently Olivia’s in the field. They’re sending someone out to let her know what’s happening. I’m sure she’ll hop the first flight back.”

  “Okeydoke.”

  “Okeydoke? What are you, twelve?”

  “Nope. I’m a drugged up-invalid.” Ronnie burst into giggles. “Who else are you making mad?”

  “Well, there’s perpetually pissed Andrew Conyer. It seems in his eyes I can’t do anything right. Things that seem so logical to me send him into orbit. He’s so secretive and guarded.”

  Ronnie snorted. “He’s a man with secrets, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Ronnie made an attempt to put a finger to her lips, but the tubes restricted her. “Maybe I should say his wife has secrets.”

  “Cynthia? The ice queen of Madison’s upper crust? Miss Perfect in Every Way? What’s she hiding?”

  Ronnie’s eyes twinkled like a journalist with a scoop she couldn’t wait to share. “No, no, no. Doctor’s rules. Never tell,” she chortled.

  “Oh no you don’t, lady. We’re sisters of the bullethood, remember? Spill it. I could use a little dish. Something I can savor the next time Andrew is cursing the day he ever met me.”

  “Andrew’s so mean to you.”

  “Yes, Ronnie, he is. He’s terribly mean to your best friend. Now give it up.”

  “Poor Syd.”

  “No ‘poor Syd.’ Give me the scoop. What’s she got? A sixth toe on her left foot? A Hells Angels tramp stamp?”

  “She’s got a bun in the oven.”

  “That’s it? I knew that. I saw her coming out of your office. Andrew says she’s having rotten morning sickness.”

  The twinkle was back in Ronnie’s eye. She waved Sydney closer. “The bun…is from the wrong baker.”

  “What? How can you know that? Did she tell you?”

  “Cynthia’s no spring chicken. When she turned up preggers I suggested prenatal testing. She was gung ho for it. Even wanted me to add one. GM2 gangliosidosis.”

  “Wow! That’s a pretty fancy word. Wouldn’t expect a woman in your condition to let that one trip off your lips.”

  “Hey, I’m a doctor.” Ronnie giggled again.

  “So what’s so special about GM2 gookalookadosido?”

  “Tay-Sachs. She wanted me to test her fetus for Tay-Sachs.”

  “But isn’t that…”

  “Yep.” Ronnie’s eyelids fluttered like a two-year-old fighting sleep. “Chromosimal…chromosiddle…”

  “Chromosomal?” Sydney offered.

  “That’s it. Deadly. Rare. Somethin’ we see mostly in Ashkenazi Jews.”

  Sydney stepped back, stunned. “But…”

  “Andrew Conyer is so WASPy I half expect him to sting.” Ronnie laughed at her own joke. “And how about his snow queen wife? She could be on a recruiting poster for the Aryan Nation. She look Ashkenazi to you?”

  Chapter 34

  NOW

  It was around three-thirty that afternoon when Nancy opened Hush Money’s door for Horst Welke. Sydney was on the opposite side of the dining room, reviewing the wine pairings Anita Saxon had chosen for the night. The day had gone smoothly since she had returned from her visit to the hospital. Windy had been in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and organizing ingredients to make the evening cooking easier. The girl’s smile held a hint of renewed confidence when Sydney came in and nodded toward Roland, who was huddled over a marble slab rolling caramel candies.

  “Our guests are in for a particular delight this evening,” he announced. “Every aspect of their meal, including dessert, will be made by a master chef.”

  In a hurried conversation, Sydney learned Roland had fired his pastry chef, Ivy.

  “Not because of her unforgivable clumsiness with the flour. Not because of her outrageous sloppiness with the crab. But because she lied to me. I cannot have that. I must trust everyone in this kitchen. We are a sacred band of creativity. We must rely and protect one another. It is the only way to climb to the summit of the culinary pantheon. Plus, there are too many sharp objects around.”

  He told Sydney how Ivy, when first asked about the crab, had feigned ignorance. When he told her Windy’s tale of swapping the crab cleaning for the flour cleanup, Ivy vigorously denied it. But the two sous chefs who’d witnessed the entire incident, despite Ivy’s cursing damnation of their betrayal, confirmed Windy’s version of events. Roland acted quickly. He fired Ivy and stepped in to create the evening’s desserts.

  “I have three interviews lined up tomorrow for the position. Would you like to sit in on them?”

  Sydney assured him it was his kitchen. He could staff it as he desired.

  Her mother had been a bit of a different story. As soon as Nancy came to the restaurant, she’d wanted to continue the conversation from the night before. Sydney had heard the mixture of concern and chastisement in her mother’s voice and cut her off.

  “Mom,” she’d said. “There are a lot of balls bouncing right now. Let’s concentrate on having a wonderful night, and we’ll worry about crimes and punishments another day. What do you say?”

  Fortunately, she hadn’t needed to be any firmer. Her mom asked about Ronnie and hugged her when Sydney passed on the news that she was awake, breathing on her own, and seemingly enjoying the pain-management program.

  “I finally reached Olivia,” her mother told her. “She should be in Madison tomorrow. Next day at the latest.”

  Andrew had been silent since their earlier conversation. That left Clay as the only loose end from the irritating previous evening.

  And he hadn’t called again.

  “Kitz!” Horst crossed the room to meet her. “Oh, how lovely you look. And you, Nancy. You two must have a whole closet full of party dresses.”

  “You didn’t come by to compliment me, Horst. Or my mother, gorgeous as she is.” Sydney pointed toward the bar. “Let’s go in there. No need to mess up a tablecloth.”

  They sat at the ba
r. Nancy joined them.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “This isn’t a social call.” The look on his face suggested she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “I’m coming to you first. You’re the one who told me about the tapes. That lawyer of yours…He was none too happy when we showed up with our warrant. Tried to pull a fast one on us. Claimed the tapes were privileged. Had to get a judge to rule that since Windy hadn’t provided them, and they certainly were evidence in an ongoing murder investigation, he had to turn them over or risk an obstruction charge. Mad as six wet hens, he was. I’m coming to you as a courtesy, Kitz. But if you want, I’ll wait till you call that Conyer fellow over. He can sputter at me all over again.”

  “I’ll let Andrew know whatever you tell me.”

  The detective nodded grimly. “The tapes are important. No doubt about that. They’ll paint the end for Melanie White, that’s for damned sure. We’ve forwarded them on to the Bureau.”

  “It’s my understanding Andrew was doing the same.”

  Horst quirked a bushy eyebrow. “He had copies, did he?”

  Sydney would endure another tirade for letting that bit of information slip.

  Horst continued. “There’s little doubt what’s on those tapes. White tried to fly too high. She may put up a fight, but that will only delay the inevitable. She’s going away for a long, long time. And as soon as the Common Council learns about the FBI’s investigation, they’ll vote her out.”

  “And Janeworthy?”

  “That’s not so cut-and-dried. What he did to Windy turns my stomach. But it would be tough to prove a crime was committed. If Janeworthy paid Millerman to set up the encounter, we might be able to drum up a prostitution charge. Unlikely, but maybe. That’s a misdemeanor at best. Millerman’s not around to tell us what happened and Janeworthy sure won’t talk. I’m sorry, Kitz. For that one we got nothing.”

  “But it could be Janeworthy’s motive for killing the mayor.”

  Horst looked over to Nancy, as though looking for reassurance that he could deliver more bad news.

  “We know the coroner’s estimated time of death. Both White and Janeworthy have alibis. Ironclad. Janeworthy was in Milwaukee that day. Bank meetings in the morning. Investors in the afternoon. Dinner and drinks with the head of a construction firm after that. Checked out of the Pfister Hotel Saturday morning. He was with no fewer than three people, eighty miles away, every moment of the day the mayor was murdered. Same with White. She was in town. Spent the morning in meetings. From one o’clock till three she was with her publicist. Can you believe it? A publicist? Then she had a hair appointment that lasted till five-thirty. From there she went straight to a dinner party in Maple Bluff. Dozens of people had their eyes on her the entire day. Neither one of them shot the mayor, Kitz.”

  “One of them could have hired someone.”

  Horst shook his head. “No forced entry. The mayor let his killer in. Besides, if it was a professional, the place wouldn’t have been left such a mess. Murder weapon right there. Blood smeared all over everything. Fingerprints everywhere. A pro would have been in and out. Leaving nothing a damp rag couldn’t clean up.”

  “And the 911 call.” Nancy looked at her daughter with sad eyes. “Don’t forget about that. The mayor whispered Windy’s name with his dying breath.”

  “His dying breath? Save the drama, Mom. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Yours, Sydney. Always and forever. I think what Horst is trying to tell you is it’s time to accept the fact you were wrong. Not about Windy being a wonderful girl. She certainly is that.” Her voice softened. “But even wonderful people can be driven over the edge. And from what I can imagine those tapes show, the mayor did all he could to push Windy into doing something she thought she’d never be capable of.”

  “What about the gash on her head? How many stitches did that take to close? A killer could have been in that room. Behind her.”

  “Then why is Windy still alive?” Horst asked. “Does it make any sense someone would kill Roger Millerman and leave a potential witness to tell the tale?”

  “You’ve been saving strays your entire life, honey,” Nancy said. “And I’m proud of you for it. But we can’t save people from themselves.”

  Sydney sat there, looking at two people she’d loved forever, knowing they’d each never had anything but the best of intentions toward her.

  “Lots of things that don’t feel right turn out to be true, Kitz.”

  Sydney sighed. “What do we do now?”

  “We go about our business,” Horst answered. “Windy’s free on bail. The prosecutor knows what she’s looking at with the Janeworthy tape. You tell Andrew Conyer the timing’s right. Madam Prosecutor will be more than willing to talk about a plea.”

  “Go home, honey.” Nancy rubbed her hand across Sydney’s back. “You look dead on your feet. Get some rest. Windy’s shift is over. She’s home with Gabby. Ronnie’s resting easy. Why not go home? You can call Andrew in the morning. This all can wait. Give yourself a good night’s sleep.”

  Sydney didn’t put up a fight. “I’ll have Mike call me a cab.”

  “Your car,” Nancy said. “I forgot. It’s still impounded.”

  “Come with me,” Horst said. “A police escort. Like the old days.”

  Chapter 35

  NOW

  Sydney clicked off her television. The steamy bath she’d taken after Horst dropped her off hadn’t been enough to make her drowsy. Neither had the turkey sub she’d had delivered after she’d changed into yoga pants, T-shirt, and fuzzy slippers. She’d even tried a glass of hot milk. Yet each time she leaned back on her sofa and closed her eyes, all she could see was Windy. In one scenario she envisioned her sobbing. Kneeling. Clinging to her crying daughter. Two uniformed officers standing behind Windy as social workers waited to take Gabby away. In another Windy was at the end of a long tunnel, calling out to Sydney to save her. In desperation, she clicked on her seldom-used TV, turned it to ESPN, and hoped the St. Louis Cardinals and Kansas City Royals, playing a game she had absolutely no interest in, would be enough to bore her to sleep.

  That was ninety minutes ago.

  She picked up her phone. 9:47. She checked her ringer and saw it was on. Then, just to be certain, she scrolled through her recent calls.

  Nothing from Clay.

  He’d been angry at her the night before. Thought she was being willful and careless with her safety.

  He yelled at me.

  A calmer part of her brain offered up the recollection of her own sharp words.

  Still. I’m the one with the shot-up friend. I’m the one on the losing end of a murder investigation. You’d think he’d at least call to check in.

  That still-reliable part of her consciousness reminded her he had called. She was the one who hadn’t answered.

  She tapped her phone against her cheek, pondering whether to change clothes and head over to the Low Down. It might help thaw the ice if she and Clay could see each other in the flesh.

  At that moment her phone rang. She was so startled she answered it without checking her screen.

  “Sydney. I haven’t heard from you all day.”

  When does this guy’s workday end?

  “Andrew.” She did her best to hide her disappointment. “What’s got you calling so late?”

  “Asks the woman who probably still has another hour of work.” He sounded relaxed. Almost kind.

  He must not know yet about Melanie’s and Janeworthy’s alibis. And he definitely doesn’t know I told Horst he has duplicates of the tapes.

  “How’s your friend? Dr. Pernod?”

  “She’s doing much better. Awake. Talking.”

  “Oh? That’s surprising, isn’t it? I mean, she was in surgery a long time. I thought she wasn’t expected to survive.”

  “Ronnie’s patients have nothing to worry about, Andrew. They’ll find coverage for her.”

  She heard his sigh. It was long and filled with r
egret. “I deserve that, don’t I? I’ve been so focused on this case and on Cynthia. Sorry.”

  Sydney shook her head at her own rudeness. “Listen, Andrew. I didn’t mean to snipe. It’s kind of you to ask about her.”

  “You’ve got to be exhausted. This profession has forced me to develop a tough hide about these things. I need to remember you’re a do-gooder. Naive to the cruelties this work can bring. Speaking of which, have you heard anything more from the cops?”

  She considered stalling him. Her mother was right. There really wasn’t anything they could do tonight. But she’d already offended him once this evening, and his trust in her was shaky enough.

  “Horst came by this afternoon.”

  “To speak to you? Why didn’t you call me?” Andrew’s ice-crystal lawyer voice was back.

  “Because he wanted to give a friend a heads-up. They’ve eliminated Melanie and Janeworthy as suspects. Both have solid alibis.” She relayed what Horst had told her about their schedules. “And he said we can forget any theory about somebody hiring a hit man.”

  “Crime scene too messy?” he asked. “Not the mark of a pro?”

  “Exactly. On the plus side, he said the prosecutor’s seen the tapes. Says she understands the humiliation and degradation the mayor was subjecting Windy to. He believes she’d be open to a very lenient bargain.”

  “That’s great! I know I suggested a plea early on, but I’m glad you forced me to set it aside. If we’d dealt with her then, the prosecutor wouldn’t have known what Millerman was putting Windy through. This timing is much better. But we’ve got to act fast. Nail down our best options while the disgust is still stuck in the back of the prosecutor’s throat. Let’s meet. We can plan how we present this to Windy. I’m still at my office. I can be at Hush Money in less than three minutes.”

  “I’m home. Sent to bed by a worried mother. Can it wait till morning?”

  “No. We should meet with Windy first thing tomorrow. Then I can get with the prosecutor the minute she walks in her office. We don’t want to let her revulsion at the mayor’s actions—which translates to sympathy for Windy—die down one degree. I can come by your house if you’d like. Tell me where.”