Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  Memories of the Montana prairie floated to her. Mile after endless mile of wheat blowing in the summer breeze. She and Clay in that old red pickup his daddy let him drive. Off running errands. Buying tack or hay. Scouting fence lines for breaks. She didn’t care what, just as long as she was with him. Windows rolled down. Miranda with her bare feet on the dashboard. Clay with one arm bent out in the sun. Singing at the top of their lungs whatever bit of George Strait or Garth Brooks came across the radio. In the winter it was the same, except that truck flowed through an eternal sea of snow with the windows sealed tight.

  And I kept my damned shoes on.

  They had their own silo back then. Abandoned. Like the ones in front of her now. She’d heard the stories about how Old Man Franzlettler waged his own war against the government. Refused to pay taxes or let inspectors take a look at his crops. The feds finally stopped him from farming, but the Franzlettler kids coughed up the money for back taxes and let the land go wild. When she and Clay first stumbled into the ramshackle silo it was covered in vines and prairie dust. But to a couple of teenagers exploring the magic of fresh-blooming love, it was heaven.

  Is that what this is? Are you trying to remind me of what we had all those years ago?

  A smile crossed her face and for a moment she forgot the subzero temperature. She looked again at the silos. The snow was disturbed in front of the one to her left. Miranda took another survey of the area. A copse of thick-trunked trees stood a hundred yards north. She wondered if there might have been another road in.

  Are you waiting for me, Clay?

  She trudged her way through four-inch snow to the silo with the trampled mush.

  I loved you once. So very, very much. You loved me, too.

  She thought about the men who had passed through her life in the years since she left Montana. They’d served their purpose, but none of them had ever captured the piece of her heart that had always belonged to Clay. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d been celibate all these years. A man like Clay attracted women as easily as breathing in.

  Is it the same for you, Clay? Is there a part of you that was waiting for us? For our time to come again?

  Her boots were soaked by the time she was close enough to the silo to see the fresh footsteps in the snow. Her hand recoiled from the frozen door latch. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket low enough to cover her fingers and tried again. The door rasped across frigid concrete.

  “Clay?” she called out as she stepped into the dark interior. “Are you in here?”

  She heard a click, magnified in the cavernous space. One heart flutter later the familiar tempo of Chicago blues filled the air. A harmonica wailed and a guitar pounded the beat.

  “If you’ve got power for a boom box, you’ve got power for a lamp.” She stepped toward the music. “Or candles. Or better yet, how about a space heater?”

  She felt fingers trace a line on the back of her neck and spun around to see nothing but blackness.

  “It’s like that, is it? Hide-and-seek? That the game?”

  She heard a scraping across the floor. This time behind her. To her right.

  “No fair, Clay. You’ve got the lay of the land. You know where I am. Give a girl a helping hand, will you?”

  The song played on. Miranda hadn’t heard it before, but it was good. Just the kind of music she’d come to realize was now Clay’s favorite. A minute later there was another chafing against the concrete. The sound came toward her. Something bumped against her left leg. Her hands reached out, feeling its shape.

  “Is this for me? You want me to sit in this chair?”

  There was no response. She sat anyway.

  The tune ended, followed by one of her favorites. Juice Newton singing a sweet love song from Miranda’s teenage years. She let the memories of first love warm her in the dark.

  “You remember.”

  Again, no response. Miranda listened to the tender lyrics, oblivious now to the cold.

  “A light, please,” she requested when the song was finished. “I want to see you. I want to look into those gray eyes.”

  A dull thud sounded overhead. She looked up. The rusted roof let in enough light from the starless sky to permit a murky vision of shadow on shadow. Something was suspended above her. It appeared to sway before it stopped. Another shadow moved, this time behind her, reaching…connecting to the shadow above her.

  Another song pierced the air. Jarring. Loud. Ominous, head-banging roars.

  A gloved hand gripped her right shoulder. Squeezed. Pinched.

  “Stop!” Miranda twisted to her left, but the hand held her to the chair. Something was pulled over her head. It rested around her neck. Scratchy. Heavy. Another memory from her childhood leaped to the surface. She knew that smell.

  Rope.

  She pushed with her legs and scrambled free of the chair. She ran forward three steps, only to be stopped by the pull against her throat. She wrapped her fingers around the rope, desperate to wedge them between it and her skin. The heavy knot dug into the back of her neck, denying her fingers any room. She spun around, kicking and punching, grabbing at nothing but black space. She felt herself being lifted. Her legs joining her arms now, flailing at the same emptiness. Higher and higher she floated. Tighter and tighter the rope. Weaker and weaker her struggle.

  Long agonizing seconds later, her body relaxed and accepted the inevitable. Her arms and legs hung limp at her side. Her eyes closed, creating no greater a darkness than when they’d been opened. Her mind gave up one last thought before falling into the eternal abyss.

  When did Clay start liking heavy metal?

  Chapter 2

  SIX WEEKS EARLIER

  “You don’t have to do this, you know.” Nancy Richardson loaded yet another box of chafing dishes and serving platters into the trunk of her daughter’s Mustang. “There’s a couple of perfectly good restaurants decked out to the nines. I’m sure the owner…no, wait, aren’t you the owner? Why, Sydney? Why in the world are you insisting on serving Thanksgiving dinner at your place when Hush Money and the Ten-Ten are there at your disposal?”

  Sydney took one last inventory before lowering the trunk door. “Because, Mom. Thanksgiving’s all about hearth and home, right? Besides, we spend every night at those restaurants. Being there on Thanksgiving takes away the holiday feel.” She gave her mother a hug. “People are coming tomorrow around one. I figure dinner at two.”

  “I’ll be at your place no later than eleven. I’ll bring the pies, rolls, and my stuffing. Roland’s sending over the turkey and sides?”

  “I told him to be as traditional as he could. He gave me that look.”

  “The patented The Great Roland Delmardo doesn’t do traditional stare?”

  “That’s the one.” She opened the driver’s-side door. “I’m off. Bookings are solid tonight. I told the staff they’re on their own.”

  “They’re up to it. Besides, I’m meeting Horst for a burger at the Ten-Ten. I’ll swing through and make sure Hush Money’s running smooth.” She nodded toward the trunk. “You sure you can handle all this on your own?”

  “The doorman will load it onto a cart for me. See you tomorrow?”

  Nancy nodded. “I love you, baby girl. Remember, just set the serving pieces out. I’ll take care of filling them.”

  Sydney waved as she drove away. She knew better than to challenge her mother’s subtle insult to her culinary abilities. Twenty minutes later she pulled in front of her condo and tooted her horn.

  “So you drew the short straw?” she asked when Rick, the young man with the shy smile, trotted out to her car.

  “Holidays are all about seniority. Luckily I’ve got two weeks on Pablo. He’ll be working tomorrow while I’m chin-deep in pumpkin pie and football.” He stepped back when Sydney opened her trunk. “Whoa! Looks like you’re the hostess for turkey day. All this stuff go up?”

  “It does. There are some glass pieces in those boxes, so careful is the word.”

&
nbsp; Rick ran back into the building to get a cart. Sydney hopped from one leg to the other while she waited. She looked up at the sky. Low and gray. The air was damp. It wouldn’t be long before Madison had its first snowfall of the season.

  “I got this, Ms. Richardson,” the doorman said as he pushed the cart across the sidewalk. “Get back in your car. Warm yourself up. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  Sydney thanked him and scooted back into the front seat and dialed the heater up to max. When Rick closed her trunk, she pulled into the condo’s garage and parked. She took the elevator up eight floors and wasn’t surprised to see Rick already standing by her front door.

  “If you could load all this onto the kitchen counter, I can take it from there.”

  Rick made short work of her request. Sydney thanked him, handing him a ten-dollar bill for his trouble. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “You, too, Ms. Richardson. Looks like it’s going to be some kind of fancy feast.”

  “I have a lot to be thankful for this year.”

  —

  She allowed herself the luxury of sleeping in the next day and didn’t have to look out the window to know her weather prediction had come true. The morning light cast a comfortable, muted glow on her bedroom walls. She looked outside and saw a swirl of snowflakes dancing through frosty white air. From this high up she felt like she’d been transported to a snow globe all her own. Sydney snuggled deep into the covers and indulged in a few extra minutes of the magic feeling of being warm and safe while a storm raged outside. She hopped out of bed at 8:45. Her mother said she’d be there by 11:00, which, in Nancy Richardson time, meant 10:30. Sydney headed to the bathroom and was showered, dressed, and putting the final spritz of spray onto her jet-black hair by ten. She went into the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows added to the sanctuary-in-the-snow feeling.

  This is perfect, she thought. Let it snow, let it snow. My favorite people will be here, there’s plenty of food. Nothing to do but relax the day away.

  As expected, there was a knock on her front door at 10:40. Sydney opened it to see her mother and a frazzled-looking young man.

  “I’d have been here earlier, but this guy insisted on helping me.” Nancy Richardson stepped inside. “I told him I didn’t mind making a couple of trips, but he was pulling things out of my hands before I could stop him.”

  “You must be Pablo,” Sydney said to the doorman. “Rick told me you’d be working today. I hope you still get time with your family.”

  The thin young man nodded. He looked down at his overladen arms and Sydney pointed to the kitchen. He unburdened himself, and Nancy placed the two pies she carried next to what he stacked on the counter. Sydney walked him to the front door, stopping at an entryway table to pull another ten-dollar bill from a wooden box she kept there for just such purpose.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Pablo. It’s wonderful to meet you.”

  Pablo nodded again, this time with a smile. Sydney closed the door and went to take her mother’s coat.

  “It’s a blizzard out there. Luckily, I followed a salt truck all the way. Over the river, through the woods, and all that.”

  “Look at you!” Sydney stepped back to take in her mother’s ensemble. Black velvet trousers, silk blouse the color of aged pewter, and a wide-sleeved shrug bursting with reds, blues, purples, and gold against a black background. “Pretty la-di-da, lady.”

  Nancy couldn’t hide her smile as she twirled for a full inspection. “I think maybe rubbing elbows with all those folks at Hush Money every night is getting to me. When I had my own joint, dressy meant clean jeans. Now that I’m working with the swells, I figure I might as well amp things up.”

  “You’re glowing today, that’s for sure. You look terrific, Mom.”

  “You, too.” Nancy took in Sydney’s outfit of gold brocade slacks and black cashmere turtleneck. “Of course, with a shape like yours, you could wear a potato sack and still turn heads.” She stepped over to the dining room.

  Sydney had spent the previous afternoon dressing the round table with a pumpkin-colored damask cloth. A muted green circle of burlap formed the foundation for a low-rise centerpiece of squash, pussy willows, and dried corn arranged around a woven reed cornucopia overflowing with apples and pears. Five places were set with off-white china and gleaming flatware.

  “I was going to have candles, but I thought it would be too crowded.” Sydney watched her mother take in the tableau, well aware that at thirty-five she shouldn’t be so invested in her mother’s opinions.

  Nancy looked at her with a sheen of tears in her eyes. “It’s perfect, Syd. Perfect and beautiful. Just like you.”

  “You’re thinking about Dad, aren’t you?”

  “This is a day for thanks. I miss him like crazy. Even after all these years. Still, I’m thankful I had him in my life as long as I did. Maybe I’ll never get used to him not being here to carve the turkey.”

  How are you supposed to get used to it, Mom? You send your cop husband off to work and the next thing you know you’re in an emergency room. Some doctor telling you he never had the chance of recovering from the gunshot wounds.

  “C’mon,” Sydney said. “Let’s see what you brought.”

  They were halfway through arranging pies, cookies, and a coconut cake on various serving platters when the front doorbell rang. Sydney crossed the living room, clucking to her mother that she’d brought too much food as she opened the door.

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” Sabrina and Gail, two hostesses from Hush Money dripped snow as they called out their greetings. Behind them was Pablo, this time with a cart.

  “Right back at you.” Sydney waved them all inside. “I assume you come bearing gifts.”

  “Bounty from the mighty Roland Delmardo,” Sabrina sang out. “Whoa! Syd! Look at this place. It’s like you’re floating in the middle of heaven.”

  “It looks like a magazine layout,” Gail added. “If this is what working a restaurant gets you, sign me up for life!”

  —

  A flush of embarrassment washed over Sydney as the two young women made their way around the space, oohing over this and aahing over that. She knew she shouldn’t be ashamed of having the money to afford to live as comfortably as she did. But it’s not really my money, is it? All I did was get myself born to a couple of rich people who’d rather pay to have me out of their lives than make the effort to raise me.

  “So what did the chef send over?” Sydney hoped to bring the girls’ focus back to something other than her creature comforts.

  “I have no idea,” Gail said. “But it smells like heaven.”

  Pablo started unloading insulated boxes onto the already-crowded counter.

  “He included a listing of all he prepared,” Sabrina added. “It must be in one of the boxes. He was in a hurry when we went by to pick this up. I don’t know what his plans are for the day, but I got the impression they’re pretty big.”

  “Everything’s big to Roland,” Nancy commented. “The other day he got a paper cut and you’d have thought he sliced off his thumb. I’ve never heard such wailing. At least not since the last time something went amiss for Mr. Award-Winning Chef.”

  Sydney started taking lids off cartons. “Looks like some kind of potato masterpiece here. This one’s got, what? Green beans and, is that kale? Whatever it is, it looks great.” She looked to Sabrina and Gale. “Can I get you girls something? Tea? Maybe some cocoa? We have enough cookies to go with a cup, that’s for sure.”

  The girls thanked her, but begged off.

  “I’ve got to get to my mom’s,” Gail said. “We’re driving up to Westfield. Dinner’s at my aunt’s. Whole family will be there. That’s like thirty of us when you include all the cousins.”

  Sydney wondered what it must be like to be from such a large brood. It had always been just her, her mom, and her dad. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Guaranteed!” Gail assured her.

  “How about you, Sabrina? What are your plans?�
�� Sydney asked.

  “David and I are lying low,” Sabrina answered, referring to her boyfriend. “I told my folks I had to work. It’s wrong to lie, but if you had to spend a Thanksgiving in Whitefish Bay, with my mother insisting each and every second be orchestrated to reenact all the so-called family traditions, you’d do a lot worse than lie to get out of it. Besides, David doesn’t even own a suit…and my mother would fall over dead if he dared to show up at her table in anything less than full formal attire. This is our first holiday together. I don’t want to scare him off. So we’ll camp out at his place. He’s making a pot of spaghetti. We’ll watch football and a couple of movies. Maybe go out and build a snowman once the wind dies down.”

  “That sounds delightful.” Sydney envied her enthusiasm over freshly blossoming young love. “Can I send any food with you guys? I have enough to feed two armies.”

  Both girls thanked her again, assuring her they’d have their fill by the end of the day. They rewrapped their scarves, pulled their mittens back on, and headed to the door with promises to see one another at Hush Money the next day.

  “Look at this!” Sydney spread her arms to include the mountain of food in her kitchen. “What are we going to do with all this?”

  “Organize!” Nancy slipped off her shrug of many colors and marched into the kitchen. “Leave it to me. How about you get some music up in here. Something fun for this snowy day.”

  Mother and daughter puttered together, unboxing turkey and ham and side dishes. Putting some in the oven to keep warm, some in the fridge, and appetizers on the dining room’s credenza. Sydney had chosen a CD of American standards and the two women sang together when a favorite song filtered through ceiling-mounted speakers. Both stood stock-still when Frank Sinatra started singing “Time After Time.”

  “The first song you and Daddy ever danced to.”

  Nancy nodded. “I love that you remember that.”

  “It was at the department’s Christmas party. Your neighbor was dating a cop and she begged you to join her.”

  “You were listening all those times Dad and I told that old story.”