My mind, not really in the sympathy mood, focused on Claudia’s split personality. Gracious at times and always while in the public eye, yet downright mean at other times as she exploded like a Molotov cocktail, Claudia paid scant attention to Seth’s well-behaved twin boys and snubbed his wife. Knowing that she abhorred Hunter’s now dead girlfriend, Angela Fine, to the point of getting into it with the woman in a brawl at a country club, I also remembered that Schlep told me she had no regard for Nick’s ex-wife. Maybe no woman was good enough for her sons, blood or not.
I didn’t see any misfits among the mourners. Certainly no one stood toward the back where I found my favored spot. No matter the means of death, killers have a tendency if not a need to witness their job well-done by observing the internment. They may also hang around the site of the kill, and that is especially true of arsonists, who have a burning need to watch their work. I’ve been told is so primal it’s almost sexual. No. The first responders didn’t see anyone unusual at the scene of the fire that stood out. They said only a few people gathered and that they were all in their pajamas, robes, and slippers.
While my disguise seemed to be foolproof with those I had met, I opted out of going to the reception. I’d seen enough and walked away with curiosity about the missing Stacie and Hunter. If Seth decided to stay in town for the weekend I would try to figure out a way to speak with him. Tacky, but true.
I decided it would be best to wait about a week before returning to the family plot just in case someone returned, or Stacie or Hunter showed up to show their respects. Or disrespect.
SCHLEP MET ME AT his favorite breakfast joint. The deck around my pool. He had learned to count on me for coffee and maybe some juice, but if he wanted food he was on his own. He arrived with a bag containing two slices of quiche and two fruit compotes. He tossed me the wrapped Eegee’s turkey grinder to save for Breecie as she would finally be returning from Phoenix that afternoon. I ran them over to her guest house and popped the package into her refrigerator.
“You know you should be the one buttering me up,” Schlep said as I joined him at the table. “From the last texts I received it looks like you have a long list for me.”
I laughed as Schlep had already stripped down to his swim trunks. Still, we sat and ate our breakfast over fresh coffees. I’m an expert at talking with my mouth full. I jumped in with the topics at hand.
“I suppose we’re looking for what might be a snake sneaking around in search of the family jewels. There may be someone in the Scorpion organization that thinks they’re entitled. Let’s just say I have a feeling that needs to be resolved. Please go back and look at the all of the staff and all of the players on the team. And those let go or those knowing they’ll but cut at the end of the pre-season. They may not be offspring but compromises could occur, even in an ironclad family trust.”
“You got it. I can tell you that an NFL team starts with ninety contenders for their spot on the team. There’s now only one cut, at the end of the pre-season the team has to be reduced to fifty-three players. Some of them will find spots with other teams. Some are SOL.”
“Wow, you’ve already done some homework. Also scrutinize a man in the organization. A Bill Michaels. Everything you can find on him. Make sure he trimmed his nose hairs.”
“What?” Schlep backed his shoulders away from me and wrinkled his nose.
“Just a joke. He’s the nasty GM dude that burst in here demanding we back off of our investigations.
“Good enough for me,” Schlep said.
Me? I had that bad feeling with only a hint of what might prove interesting or boring.
“Schlep, do you remember Hunter’s deceased girlfriend? The one that drowned,” I said.
“Sure. Angela Fine.”
“I need you to dig up everything you can on her, and especially the drowning incident. Police reports, coroner’s report. Whatever you can get. And don’t ask me why because I have no idea,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SCHLEP TOOK IT UPON himself to interview the loose cannon, as Stacie had described Taylor, the last born and another sibling feeling entitled.
She didn’t want to meet with Schlep at the office, and not the nearby coffee house. Stacie chose a cheesy restaurant on the far east side of town.
Schlep arrived early and took a seat in the corner of the small dining area. He pulled out his tablet so as not to waste a minute of his time.
Twenty minutes late, a young woman with bright red hair, a barely-there tee-shirt, torn jeans and stiletto heels approached the table.
With no apology for her tardiness she said, “You must be Mr. Brown.”
Schlep turned off his tablet and stood to greet her.
“Grab your things,” she said. “We’re going to the patio where I can have a smoke.” Taylor led the way through the kitchen out the back door.
Overwhelmed by the sillage of her strong perfume, Schlep dropped a couple steps behind.
With no umbrellas or shade trees, they scored one of the three empty tables.
“To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Brown?”
“It’s Schlep.”
Taylor, digging deep into her Prada handbag to retrieve a lighter, called out to the waitress and ordered a martini.
Schlep asked for herbal tea and both the waitress and Taylor started giggling.
“Okay. I’ll have a beer,” he acquiesced to the peer pressure.
“Your flavor, cutie?” the waitress asked.
“Anything local.”
“Now you’re talking. I have something with your name on it.” The waitress left for the drinks.
“What is this name of yours? Schlep?” Taylor asked.
“It was meant to be derogatory. Back on the force I became the department’s gopher. Schlepping things around. And my first name is Sheppard. They thought they were insulting me but I liked the name.”
“Okay then, Schlep. Why are we having drinks together?” Taylor said.
Schlep clasped his bony fingers together so as not to fidget. “My firm is aware of the terms of the family trust you are named in and as such, we want to gain a deeper understanding of the family dynamics.”
Taylor let out a belly roar, “Oh, my. We better line up a case of beer for you. Are you asking me to snitch on my siblings?”
“Not at all,” Schlep said as he reached for the beer before it even hit the table. He adjusted his posture in the wobbly chair. “I presume you’ve seen the trust. How do you feel about it? Where do you stand?”
“I’ll give you the low down. My step-brother, Hunter Childs is a fuck up. I don’t know how he graduated university but for Dad’s position and deep pockets. The kid has his own rap sheet. He’s had a DUI and a couple arrests for domestic abuse of his ex-girlfriend who’s now dead. He’s not going to be in the game, but he’s fighting with tooth and dagger.”
“The game?” Schlep played dumb. He also knew Taylor had racked up three DUI’s to her name.
“Dad drew up the damn trust. To say the least, it’s causing a bit of contention to arise to the surface. I guess wickedness might be a step behind.”
“What kind of wickedness?”
“Already, there are no more casual family dinners, as much as my mother has tried to put them together for us.”
“You mentioned wickedness. Do you think there’s trouble coming your way?” Schlep asked this as he studied his feet. Absentminded? No. Diverting tension.
“In a word, yes. Another step-brother, Nick, died in a hit and run. No witnesses. Nick had a love of the game and worked hard to get his masters degree in something meaningful. I don’t know what,” Taylor said, shrugging her shoulders and reaching for another cigarette.
“Nick loved and lived football and he attended almost every game, home or on the road that the Scorpions played. Maybe he should have won the grand prize, but now he’s dead.
“Manny would have been a top contender, too, as the heir apparent. He earned an MBA and he’s smart. Too s
mart, if you ask me. Maybe too much of a yes sir type of player rather than a top dog.” She blew out a large plume of smoke and reached for her martini.
“And how do you feel about this family trust?” Schlep wanted to dig a little deeper.
“Shit. I just told you I have two dead siblings, real or partly real if you go by blood. How do you think I feel?”
Schlep sipped on the beer and gulped down his water. His foot tapped as and he felt the trace of sweat forming on his forehead.
Taylor shrugged. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite. You want to know how I feel because I have no facts. Okay. I feel like I need to be on my best behavior for the next fucking year during this stupid evaluation period, and maybe suck a few cocks. I’m playing the game my way. I wish the football team could cast a vote but I may have a few tricks up my sleeve. That board of trustees consists of three men. Get it?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
MURATORE BECAME HIS street name, although he never knew why he decided he needed a street name. Why not call it a nickname?
He stood before his bathroom mirror, his hands and arms evenly placed to support his weakened stance. It had been days, or maybe weeks, before he could get to the bathroom sink. Where did he last brush his teeth? Wash his face? Of course, he knew a shower had been out of the question with his limited mobility and maybe not yet, today.
His eyes watered under the glare of the bathroom lights. He wiped them clean on a dirty shirt. He finally looked up. He was not the man in the mirror. It must have been a bad dream. The bad trip wasn’t over yet. That’s all.
The person that lurked around his windows the night before? Was that another bad dream or was it real? Paranoia came with drugs. He got that.
Then he farted. He thought it was a fart. It wasn’t even a shart. It was full-blown diarrhea streaming down the inside of his fleece pants. He had no idea how to stop it and no means to deal with the mess. Muratore wrapped a big towel around his bottoms and crawled back into bed.
With no idea of the time, Muratore stirred toward consciousness. He deduced he had been asleep for a few hours, only because he remembered the diarrhea that had now crusted against his legs and in a few spots had more power than super glue to attach his pants to his skin.
He had been chasing the high for some time now. Always wanting a bigger rush and taking more drugs and never getting that first high feeling back. The song by Sade consumed his brain. It’s never as good as the first time. He knew the song was about love and sex, but he couldn’t sort out his mind enough to know any difference because he wanted more.
The gentle tapping at his door came that morning as it did every morning at eight o’clock. That would be his housekeeper, chef, social organizer, and friend.
Muratore scrambled to pull up another blanket over him so that maybe she wouldn’t smell the dried feces.
She brought in the breakfast tray of an omelet, hash browns, fruit, and buttered toast. One large glass of milk. Too bad, Muratore thought. Her legs and sculpted butt lifted up to the skies, but he could do nothing about it in that way. He struggled to remember her name.
Oh, yes. “Umm, thank you. I won’t be needing anything else today.”
“Yes, but remember you have a late lunch today with your mother. I’ve pressed a shirt for you. And you might want to take a shower. You smell like shit.”
Muratore could do it. He ate some of the food on the tray. He would make it to the shower and find the crisp white shirt which would be pretty cool over jeans.
It took him two hours, but he pulled it off. He took a deep breath and glanced back at the mirror. He looked pretty cleaned up in spite of the disheveled hair. His mother might approve.
IT HADN’T OCCURRED to Breecie that her comings and goings would all be recorded on the cameras surrounding both Cassidy’s home and what was now her home, the guest house, until now, when she woke up fully sated from a night of untamed sex, the sun was rising and she was in the wrong bed.
Her lover grumbled and rolled on his other side, snagging the sheet to bring it up over his head. Breecie slipped into her clothes to skip out, somewhat ashamed of the early morning getaway. At six o’clock with a half-hour’s drive, Cassidy would be up and likely out at the pool which faced her front door.
She knew that Cassie checked the motion activated camera footage every morning but somehow she’d manage to space it. Her car had been rolling in during the wee hours with increasing regularity. Cassidy hadn’t mentioned it.
She’d suck it up. She was a widow with no children and she had nothing to defend. What the hell. She had sex. It felt good. She liked it. The black dog faded as her spirits soared.
STACIE’S ARMS FLEW UP above her head and into the dry desert air, Her hands cupped and her back curved, and with a gentle push off the side of the pool she dived into the deep end. It had been the first time in weeks that she got out of bed and hit the floor with a feeling of exhilaration.
Her New York City step-brother would be at her home at any minute. He flew in from La Guardia and only had two nights. Although he would see all of the family members, he asked if he could stay with her.
She wanted to love Seth as her real brother even though she really didn’t know him. She settled with the notion that he adored her. That was good enough. He could have chosen to stay with any other sibling, at the family estate, or any one of the resorts in town.
Seth insisted on renting a car at the airport. He showed up at her small acreage on the east side of town with a bottle of Merlot wine, a can of imported escargot, and fresh Italian bread.
Stacie knew how to crack open the wine but had no idea how to prepare escargot.
“I took a gamble that maybe you would have butter and garlic,” Seth said.
“Butter, yes. Fresh garlic, no, but I have the powdered stuff.”
“Parsley?”
“Not even dried,” Stacie laughed.
Seth manhandled her kitchen, using a mini muffin tin in lieu of any escargot plates. Stacie poured the wine and the kitchen soon filled with the smell of the garlicky butter and warming bread. Ottmar Liebert played in the background.
Stacie wanted to light some candles but that would be too intimate. She elected to go with all the incandescent lights she had in the kitchen, and she’d keep him in the kitchen. What families do. Hover around the island.
Seth had a way of smiling broadly, with a full set of white choppers and sparkling eyes.
“Based on the Saville Row suit you’re wearing, I’d say Wall Street has served you well,” Stacie said as they sat down on the barstools.
“I do okay but I earn it with some pretty intense hours, not to mention the hellacious work. It helps to come home to my wife and two toddlers. It’s hard for me to leave them, Stacie.
“Tell me about you. What are you doing these days?”
Stacie stalled on her words. Their dad had left them all with plenty of money, but Seth had made his own mark. She shifted the conversation back to the two twin toddlers and Seth, eager to show his fatherly pride, forgot about the question.
Stacie asked the obvious. “Why are you here, Seth? You didn’t make it to the service. You should have been here then.”
He swirled his glass of red wine. “This is my hometown. Dad was gone and I had my own little service for him on my balcony. A long one, by the way. To answer your question, I’m here to learn what’s going on with this estate.”
Stacie dumped her head into her hands to cradle it, extending her fingers outward to massage her temples as she slumped and laid her head down on the counter.
“Stacie?”
She lifted up, one vertebrae at a time. “Two of our siblings our dead, Seth.”
“Shit happens, Stacie. Are you going down the long road of a conspiracy theory?”
Stacie didn’t answer. She refilled the wine glasses and they ventured outside to her patio.
“You were never one to shy away from the animals, were you?” Seth said.
He found
himself overlooking the corrals on the acreage. The fainting goats were Stacie’s favorite, but she had enough land for her free-range chickens. One roaming pot bellied pig rubbed up against Seth’s trousers. He gently shooed her away. With the perfect weather, two caged exotic birds overlooked the activities.
Stacie repeated, “So why now?”
“Claudia is holding her annual fiesta and I plan to be back here for it, but it will be a charade, as always. I wanted to get down here before then to do a little due diligence on this bullshit trust.”
“Or, maybe you just want to get Mother Claudia’s party started early,” Stacie chided.
Seth said, “Stacie. I think this is serious.” He turned to head back into the house.
“I thought you didn’t like my conspiracy theory,” Stacie said as she reached for one last morsel of bread and dipped it into the remaining butter.
Seth opted to take a seat at her table rather than the island stool. After dabbing the butter off of her lips, Stacie grabbed the bottle of wine and joined him.
“Are you in the running, Seth?” Stacie asked as she plopped down on a rattan chair, already showing signs of wear due to the dry climate, she noticed with a scowl.
“The running?”
“Don’t act this way. You know I mean the team. Do you want to take ownership of the Scorpions?”
“I love my work and I love my family and my family and work are in New York. I’m not sure. Let’s just say my motto is never say never.”
Stacie kicked her sandals off and stretched her legs out under the table, careful not to touch Seth’s legs. She wanted no improprieties and took only a gentle sip of the wine.
“What about you, Stacie? Are you in the running?”
“Sure. I think a female owner of the team would be welcome, and that isn’t going to be Taylor, no matter how many times she spreads her legs.”
Seth laughed, “For as straight-laced as I am she is equally wild. My polar opposite. Don’t be too quick to write her off. Sex sells. Sex makes deals happen.”
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