“Do you remember her name?”
“All strippers use stage names,” he said matter-of-factly. “It was Taffy, or something foolish like that.”
“Marty must have known her real name.”
“Probably, but he liked to call her by her stage name. Turned him on, I guess.”
“How long had he been seeing her?”
“Just a few months. Marty was pushing fifty, but he was good looking, and charming enough to get the young hotties. He didn’t stay with any one of them for very long. He told me he broke it off with this one pretty recently.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
Wells looked at me and started to laugh. “Hell no … Marty wanted me to go with him to watch the dancers, but I never quite understood the whole deal with strip clubs. You can look, but you can’t touch? What’s the point in that?”
“Was she upset when he broke it off?”
“According to Marty, she went ballistic. She was probably looking for a marriage proposal.”
“She didn’t know he was already married?”
Wells shrugged and raised his eyebrows.
“Did she ever threaten him in any way?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she had.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those stripper types are generally pretty rough around the edges. Probably came from a broken home. They usually have drinking problems, and abusive boyfriends. Bad news, if you ask me. I warned Marty not to get involved with women like that.”
“Did you often give him advice on women?”
“Well,” he said as he raised his index finger, “Marty did heed my number one rule.”
“What rule is that?”
“Never get involved with married women. Eventually, one of them is bound to have a crazy husband who is more than willing to beat your head in. Marty was smart enough to realize that.”
“So he stayed away from married women?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Are you married, Mr. Wells?” He raised his eyebrows and his expression changed. I immediately regretted the question.
“My, aren’t we getting rather personal?”
“Sorry,” I said. The temperature of the room seemed to go up ten degrees, “Forget I even asked.”
“I thought you were interested in Marty’s love life, not mine.” A hint of a smile suggested he found my discomfort amusing.
“You’re right. Let’s get back to Marty.” I took a quick breath. “Had he been seeing anyone else?”
“He didn’t mention names, but he was fond of the one night stand. I would imagine there were others since.”
“Did he ever tell you how he spent his Wednesday afternoons?”
Wells laughed and shifted in his chair. “Sure, I knew about the Chestnut Inn.” He chuckled. “Marty bragged about his encounters all the time.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, sorry to break up this fascinating conversation, but I have another meeting to prepare for.”
He didn’t bother to stand when I pushed my chair away from the desk and got up. “I appreciate your time.”
He smiled and gave me a curt nod. “You might want to talk to the people over at his restaurant, if you haven’t already.”
“Thanks,” I said, turning to leave. As I was closing the door behind me, I looked back and caught him staring at my ass. He looked away with a smile.
* * *
Twenty minutes after my chat with Wells, I was sitting across from Carter at the diner, filling him in on the exotic dancer.
“That’s a good lead,” he said. I could tell by the look in his eye he was formulating a plan.
“Bitter ex-lover,” I added. “Maybe she knew Harding and hired him to kill Marty.”
“It’s possible. Find a way to talk to her.”
“What? How do you expect me to pull that one off?”
Carter smiled. “Well, the Gourmet Magazine trick isn’t going to work this time. We’re gonna have to get creative.”
“How?”
“You’re gonna become her new best friend.”
“Oh, that’s precious. How do you propose I do that? What do I have in common with a stripper?”
“There’s one thing I’ve learned in this business over the years. It’s not what you have in common that’s important, it’s what you’re willing to share. If you confide something personal about yourself, she might feel compelled to do the same.”
“Okay, that actually makes sense.”
The corners of Carter’s mouth turned up in a wicked smile. “I have a plan, but promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”
“Oh, shit.”
* * *
It was almost seven when I finally figured out what I would wear to Lola’s. My skintight black pants had been hidden deep in the walk-in for almost a decade. I prayed I’d be able to squeeze into them. As luck would have it, they had just enough give to make it over my hips. I added a silky blue tunic blouse, black satin belt, and high leather boots. Voila … one slutty ensemble. The final touches: sparkly gold eye shadow, bright red lipstick, and enough hairspray to be considered a fire hazard.
When I’d called Lola’s earlier in the day to inquire about a dancer named Taffy, I’d been told they had no dancer by that name and never had. There was, however, a Tiffany. She was scheduled to work this very evening.
Brian was walking past my bedroom as I turned to leave. “Hey, mom … nice outfit. Are you going to a costume party or something?”
“Oh, hi honey,” I said, trying not to take offense. “I’m just meeting a girlfriend for a drink. There’s a frozen pizza you can pop in the oven if you get hungry. I’ll be home late.” I planted a kiss on his cheek as I walked past him.
“Gross,” he said, doing his best to wipe away the red smudge with the back of his hand.
“See you later, gator. And no parties while I’m gone.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he said, looking at me as if I were from another planet.
* * *
My cell rang just as I pulled out of the driveway. It was my husband, Daniel.
His employer had him traveling around the country three weeks a month. He called every few days to let me know where he was. At the moment, it was Austin.
“Sarah, the connection’s bad. Are you driving?”
“Yeah, just heading out.”
“Okay, well I’m coming back tomorrow on the late flight. Can you pick me up at the airport at seven?”
“That’s fine. I’ll be there.”
After 16 years of marriage, my feelings toward Daniel had reached that proverbial plateau somewhere between love and apathy. He was absorbed in his work, and emotionally unavailable. When we did have a conversation, it was generally about one of two topics: our son, or household finances. The romance was long gone. What remained was ambivalence. Truth was I had gotten used to it.
* * *
Lola’s was a lot classier than I had anticipated. Crisp white linens adorned the small tables. The lighting was subdued but tasteful, and the clientele, relatively sophisticated. Two poles, essential props of the trade, rose from the center of a stage, which was located off to the left.
I approached the bar and slid the taught fabric of my black slacks onto a plush leather stool.
“Good evening. What can I get for you?” The bartender wore a white, button-down shirt with a black, silk tie.
“Patron margarita on the rocks,” I said, getting an instant nod of approval.
“Want to start a tab?” he asked, while mixing my libation.
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
Just as I took my first sip the overhead lights dimmed and the room began to pulse with loud, rhythmic music. A redhead with colossal breasts—poor thing must have been top heavy, but she smiled as if she owned the place—sauntered on to the stage. The DJ announced her as Brandi, so I turned back towards the bartender; he was more my type.
Two cocktail waitresses flitted a
bout, taking orders from patrons seated at tables surrounding the stage. They wore dangerously short mini-skirts and tank tops that left little to the imagination. They must have been making a fortune in tips.
As the first song ended, Brandi was joined on stage by a woman with long, chestnut hair and a body to die for. The DJ announced her as Tiffany. A red, flamenco dress with a plunging neckline accentuated her perfectly sculpted figure. A few minutes of dancing, and the dress came off. She exuded confidence and experience as she strutted and pranced around the stage in her lacey black negligee.
I began to wonder how I was going to finagle an opportunity to talk to her. A number of scenarios ran through my mind as I sipped my drink. Before long, I decided it would be best to stop analyzing the situation and wing it. A little small talk with the bartender might be a good place to start.
“You make one hell of a drink,” I said, saluting him with a raised glass. “Can I get another when you have a minute?”
“Coming right up. By the way, I’m Zach.”
“Hi Zach, I’m Sarah.”
“Is this your first visit to the club?”
I nodded.
“Meeting someone?”
I shook my head then realized that a woman hanging out alone at a strip club might come across as being a bit odd. “Actually,” I said, “I’m looking for a job … something part time, maybe a few nights a week.”
“Well, if you want to write down your information, I’ll see that the manager gets it.”
“Cool. Thank you.” I saw Zach look toward the stage and smile. As I turned my head out of curiosity, I found my view blocked by a man who stood staring at me.
“Excuse me,” he said, gesturing at the stool on the other side of mine. “Is that taken?”
“Yeah, sure, I mean, no . . .” I gestured awkwardly at the vacant stool. “Sorry, this margarita has gone straight to my head.” He was impossibly good looking, with tightly-shaven black hair and stubble on his chin and upper lip. His piercing blue eyes bore into me.
“No apology necessary.” As he cozied up next to me I checked out his clothing. He wore a dark grey linen suit with a crisp, white, button-down shirt and burgundy tie.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said, extending a hand towards me when Zach appeared. Can I buy you another margarita?”
“No thanks. Well, actually, okay.” I was anxious. This guy was a total gentleman so far, but so damn good looking it was clouding my judgment. Was he flirting with me or just being polite? I thanked him as Zach set the margarita in front of me. I decided I’d better nurse this one. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “It’s the least I could do.”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
“Well, you were kind enough to let me sit here while you wait for your boyfriend.”
“Oh, I’m not expecting anyone. The seat’s all yours. I’m here solo looking for a bartending job.” I wasn’t sure why I’d just explained myself to a total stranger. What did it matter? I was there for one reason: to get whatever information I could from Tiffany.
“I see. Well, lucky for me then.” He cocked his head as he spoke which seemed to suggest I should be grateful that a stud like him would talk to someone like me. At that moment he no longer seemed quite so handsome. Be it my imagination or insecurity, I had a sense he was just amusing himself with me while waiting for someone better to come along. As a result, I ignored whatever it was he said next and turned back toward the stage. Besides, the last time I let a guy buy me a drink he ended up dead.
When I turned back around a few minutes later, he was gone.
* * *
A few hours passed, and I could barely keep myself upright any longer. Not so much because I was drunk. It was just way past my bedtime: almost midnight. My legs had grown numb, remaining stationary for far too long.
The club had to be closing soon. I asked Zach if he knew the dancers, but he’d only been working there a few weeks and couldn’t tell me much.
When the music finally stopped and the lights came on, I found my mind utterly devoid of any clever ideas for getting to Tiffany. Within ten minutes, the place was nearly empty. Zach set the bar tab in front of me. I cringed to think how much it would be. Fortunately, Carter would reimburse me. Four twenty dollar bills later, I stood up, put on my jacket, and waved good-bye to Zach.
I made my way toward the exit as slowly as I dared. Where was the dancers’ changing room? Had Tiffany already left? I paused near the exit doors, pretending to look for something inside my purse. The look on the bouncer’s face told me I’d overstayed my welcome.
I stepped outside and inhaled sharply. I snugged my collar around my neck as the cold air struck my face. Where had I parked my car? I scanned the whole parking lot to no avail. I fished in my purse for the keys, figuring I’d press the lock button to flash the lights.
After a moment, I came to a grim realization: the keys were gone and so was my vehicle.
Panic began to set in. I pawed frantically through my purse a second time. No keys. Had I left them on the bar?
I ran back toward the building. The door was locked. I banged and banged until someone showed. A stocky guy with a tattoo on his neck opened the door a crack. He looked quite annoyed.
“Please,” I gasped, nearly out of breath, “I think I left my car keys on the bar. I need to get back in.”
“Sorry. Club’s closed,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.
“But I can’t get home without my keys?”
“Not my problem.”
“Give me a break, will ya? Could you at least go check for me? I’ll wait out here in the freezing cold.” I wrapped my arms around my chest and tucked my chin for emphasis. I thought he was going to ignore me when the door swung wide. He stepped aside to let me in.
“Thank you very much,” I said, maneuvering around his bulky frame. I headed straight for Zach, who was cleaning up behind the bar. “Excuse me, Zach,” I said, still out of breath. “Did you find a set of keys?”
“Sorry, I didn’t. Did you check the ladies room?”
“I haven’t, but I’m going to right now.” I remembered that I’d visited the restroom after my second margarita.
I opened the door, stepped inside, and turned on the light. I immediately jumped back and let out an involuntary scream. A man was standing directly in front of me with his back against the wall. A blonde woman knelt before him, her face buried in his crotch.
“Holy shit,” I gasped, stumbling backwards and slipping on the tile. I grabbed the edge of a nearby trash can to prevent myself from hitting the floor. “You scared the crap out of me.”
The young woman stood up, wiping her mouth as she whirled around. She glared at me while the man awkwardly fumbled with his zipper.
“Do you fucking mind?” she said in a thick Boston accent. I recognized her as one of the cocktail waitresses.
“I’m really sorry,” I blurted out. “I lost my car keys. I thought I might have dropped them in here.” I backed away, searching for the door handle. I hurried back toward the bar.
“No luck?” Zach asked.
I shook my head, fighting back tears of frustration. “I’ll figure something out. Unfortunately, my car seems to be gone, too.”
“Are you serious? That really sucks. Look, I’ll give you a ride home if you don’t mind waiting.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind, but I’m going to call a friend to give me a lift.” I dialed Carter’s number and prayed he would answer. Fortunately, he picked up after three rings.
“Thank god, Carter. I think my car was stolen. I’m stuck here at the strip club.”
“Slow down. You woke me from a dead sleep. Now, what’s going on?”
“I’m still at the club and I need a ride. Can you please come get me.”
“It’s . . . after midnight.”
“No kidding,” I replied, nearly at my wits end. I heard a sigh at the other end of the line.
> “Fine, I’m on my way.”
I took a deep breath and did my best to calm down when I noticed the bouncer walking towards me. I glanced around the room. Zach was nowhere in sight.
“Ma’am, we’re closed. You’ve got to get out of here,” he said, grabbing my arm.
“I’m waiting for a friend to pick me up,” I replied, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.
“Well, you’ll have to wait outside.” The bouncer tightened his grip around my bicep.
“You’re hurting me,” I said, raising my voice.
“Tony, let go of her,” a female’s voice commanded. The bouncer and I both turned.
“Tiff, you’re still here?” The brute released my arm.
“Sure looks that way, doesn’t it?” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
“Friend of yours?” he asked, jabbing my arm with his fat thumb.
“It doesn’t matter who she is. You don’t manhandle women, understand?”
The bouncer raised both his hands in mock surrender then walked away. Tiffany gave me a tired smile.
“Sorry about that. Tony can be a real pain in the ass. You okay?”
“That remains to be seen,” I said with a smile. “I lost my keys and I think someone may have stolen my car, so it’s been quite an evening. I’m waiting for a friend to pick me up. He should be here in twenty minutes or so.”
“Oh, I would be so pissed if that happened to me,” Tiffany said. “Listen, I’m going to wind down with a glass of wine. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Thanks. I’d like that very much. By the way, I’m Sarah.”
“Tiffany,” she said, taking my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I followed her to the bar and watched as she reached across the counter and retrieved two wine glasses and a bottle of red. She’d changed out of her dancing clothes into faded blue jeans and a pink t-shirt. She looked ten years younger with her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the heavy make-up gone.
“Zach won’t mind. We’re allowed one drink after the show. He must be out back doing inventory.” She opened the bottle and poured a glass for each of us.
An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries Page 5