Getting Sassy

by D. C. Brod

  “I saw his house. He has already arrived.”

  “He’s not where he wants to be. Not in racing circles. Blood wins this race and he’ll be drawing top dollar stud fees. Folks will have to take Blood and Bull seriously. But if Blood gets scratched because he’s too whacked out to race, well, how much is his pedigree going to be worth? What’s Bull’s reputation as a horseman going to look like?”

  I nodded as I finished chewing. But then I said, “No, Mick. I don’t think so.”

  “How come?” His gaze intensified. “You know he deserves it.”

  “What about his kids? Do they deserve it?”

  “Bull ripped off a lot of people. You think he thought about their kids?”

  Not as far as I knew.

  “Besides,” he kept going, “you’re not going to break the man. His kids—who I’ve never seen by the way—will still go to their fancy schools, starting in preschool. What we’re going to do is embarrass Bull and show him and everyone else that he shouldn’t be in this business.”

  When I didn’t respond, he gulped down some beer and added, “He deserves that.”

  “I’m sure he does,” I said. “But, you should know this about me before you work too hard at convincing me.”

  Mick waited and I continued, “I learned, after trial and error, that the safest way to do something illegal or just plain wrong was to only think about it, and not follow through. The fun is in the planning. I’m one of those people who never gets away with anything. That’s probably why I’m so law-abiding. I cut class one day in middle school so I could get tickets to this concert I was dying to attend. I was with several friends, and who do we run into but my neighbor. She squealed on me and Wyman grounded me so I didn’t get to go to the concert.”

  “Did you rat your friends out?”

  “No,” I told him. “But that’s not the only time. I always get caught.”

  He smiled a little. “But you wouldn’t rat me out.”

  “True,” I sighed. “But that’s small comfort to me.”

  “Stick with me,” he said. “I never get caught.”

  “Stick with me and you will.”

  “Wrong attitude,” he said. “We can pull this off.”

  Then, as if that settled the matter, Mick eased himself back into the couch. He took a pull on his beer, then rested it on his thigh as he said, “Do you know what Bull did with the money from that real estate deal that tanked?”

  I figured he didn’t need prompting, so I waited.

  “After a little laundering, he bought himself that stable we were in yesterday, the exercise track, and then he bought Bull’s Blood.”

  I digested this while I swallowed my cracker. “So, really, it’s my mother’s horse.”

  “You could say that.”

  I set the plate down and brushed a few crumbs off my hands, then washed the cracker down with some iced tea.

  “How much would we be asking?”

  Without hesitation, he said, “Half a million.”

  “For a goat? You’re joking?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not just the goat. It’s Blood’s reputation. Bull’s reputation.”

  “Has he got that kind of money?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

  Maybe someone who could afford to shell out a half million dollars to get his goat back deserved to be separated from his money.

  “Okay,” I said, “you know why I need the money. Why do you need it bad enough to do something ridiculous?”

  He studied me for several moments before he sighed and said, “Let’s just say I’ve got some debts of my own that have come due. And I’m a little short.”

  I set my glass down. “Listen,” I said. “You know exactly why I need the money. I don’t think I’m being out of line asking what you need it for.”

  “What difference does it make? I’m not pushing drugs on little kids or selling virgins into slavery. Maybe I’m looking to buy my own horse.”

  “If that were it, you’d have told me a long time ago.”

  He stood and walked around the coffee table. Not wanting to relinquish the height advantage, I stood. In my bare feet, I still have a few inches on him. None of those inches seemed to bother Mick a bit as he looked up at me.

  “I like you, Robyn. I do. But don’t go thinking I’m ready to cut you in on my life. Far as I’m concerned this is a business proposition. You want to go in with me on it, then say so. If you don’t, I think you know you’d better keep your mouth shut. You’ve heard rumors about me. You can figure that about eighty percent is crap. But then there’s the other twenty. So don’t think you’ve got me figured out. That’d be a mistake.”

  My face grew hot, and I hoped it wasn’t changing colors. The tension between us tightened, ready to crack. But there was a flood of energy as well, and I folded my arms across my chest to keep from either slapping him or kissing him. Instead, I swallowed. “Is that a threat?”

  He shook his head once. “I wouldn’t threaten you, Robyn.”

  Stepping away from me, he said, “Tell you what. You think it over. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll find someone else.”

  I was determined to get in the last word, but nothing came to me. Especially after he got to the door, turned toward me and said, “Don’t forget to call the police.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I don’t handle confrontation well, and I sure as hell didn’t expect this from Mick. In a way, it made my decision easier. Why would I want to do dishonest business with a guy who threatened me? Okay, it hadn’t been overt, and there had been that undercurrent of sexual tension, which was, in a word, unsettling.

  But I didn’t have the time or energy to contemplate my relationship with Mick. No matter how dire my situation, I was way better off than Mary Waltner. And maybe I could do some good there. So I called the police and asked to speak to whoever was working on her murder investigation. After being on hold for about thirty seconds, someone picked up the phone and a man said, “Hedges, Homicide.”

  I told him my name and verified that he was handling the Waltner investigation. “I believe she visited my mother on Friday.” I went on to explain and added that I thought Waltner had called me later on Friday, and I told him about my calls to the Mary Waltners.

  “You really wanted to talk to her.”

  “Um, yes, I guess I did. I’m looking out for my mother.”

  “You know why she saw your mother?” From his hoarse, rumbling voice, I placed him as middle-aged with thinning hair, a healthy paunch and a lopsided walk.

  “Well, my mother told me that Mary had been a friend of my late father’s.” I didn’t mention the other story my mother had concocted, because that would have required a lot more explanation, not to mention an understanding of my mother. Let him talk to her.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  I told him, then he asked why I thought Mary Waltner had called me. “There was a call but no message from a cell phone number with the same area code as one of the Mary Waltners.”

  “What’s the number that called you?”

  “Hold on one minute.” Of course he would want to know this. I pushed the hold button and scrolled through my call log until I found that call on Friday.

  When I got Hedges back on the line, I recited the number and said, “The call came in at 4:38.”

  He grunted as though that were interesting to him. “That’s her number all right.”

  “Do you know what time she died?”

  “Not long after that.”

  I wondered if my recorded greeting, which sounded as scripted as it was, had been the last voice she’d heard prior to her murderer’s.

  Hedges thanked me and said he’d be in touch.

  “Um, could I be there when you talk to my mom? Her memory isn’t so good, and I can sometimes help her out.”

  “No, that’s okay,” he said after a moment. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  “Please be carefu
l with her. She gets upset easily.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  Then he thanked me and hung up.

  “Good luck,” I muttered into the phone. As I pushed the disconnect button, it occurred to me that Hedges would probably tell my mother that Mary Waltner had been murdered. I wasn’t sure whether I was concerned about her getting upset or annoyed because now I wouldn’t be able to use the death to press my mother on the urgency of her telling me everything she knows. And, once again, the internal conflict left me feeling like a heel.

  Attempting to regain my focus, I glanced around my apartment. A murder would certainly complicate kidnapping a goat. With a cop liable to show up at any time, I sure couldn’t keep Sassy in my bedroom. Another excellent reason to pass on this caper. And why was I still discussing this with myself?

  Reassured that I had made the right decision in telling Mick he’d have to find another cohort, I returned to the draft of the article I’d been writing. But I found my mind easily distracted, and it took longer than it should have.

  When I was finished, I called my mother about the séance I’d arranged. I considered mentioning the cop to her, but knew that would just get her agitated. Best to let it unfold in its own time.

  Skipping the pleasantries, I went right to the point. “Wanted to let you know I’ve arranged for the séance, and I’ll come by to get you on Thursday morning at ten fifteen.”

  Séance?

  “That’s right. Yesterday you said you wanted to talk to my father.” I shouldn’t have been so blunt about it—I knew her short-term memory was terrible—but she had coerced me into this séance and now she had no memory of it.

  “Oh.” A long pause. “And who was it again, dear? That woman?”

  “Erika. Erika Starwise.”

  “Of course.”

  I guess it paid to have a distinctive name.

  “Do I need to get dressed up for this?” she asked.

  “No, Mom. Just come as you are.”

  “Will he be able to see me?”

  All I could say was, “What?”

  “Will Robert be able to see me?”

  “I don’t know, Mom.” But it was a good question. “Why?”

  When she didn’t answer, I prompted her again.

  Finally, with a sigh, she said, “I’ve gotten so old.”

  I put a lid on my surliness, resisting the impulse to come back with: He’s dead. How much worse can you look?

  Instead, I said, “Mom, he knows how old you are. He was old, too, when he died. And, besides, you’re gorgeous. You’d win the Dryden beauty pageant hands down.”

  “Oh, Rob—”

  “I am serious.”

  “Do you think I would?”

  “Absolutely.” Vanity—the last thing to go.

  “Well, all right.”

  Before we hung up, I said, “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Wear that washed silk blouse I got you. The one with the flowers. Blues and greens. You look real nice in that.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  As I dressed for dinner with Jack, I marveled at the turn my social life had taken in the past week. Since I’d moved to Fowler, I’d been something of a recluse, occupying myself with my work and my mother. I assumed there was a social scene to this town, but I hadn’t made much effort to find it. Most of my friends were in Oak Park or the city, and to tell the truth, there weren’t a whole lot of them. I’ve never been one of those people who can juggle a bunch of people in her life. I suppose it came from growing up an only child. Back then I had a few friends, but kept to myself a lot. Even my mother and I didn’t hang out together very much. And it wasn’t the teen angst thing that kept us distant. She was a beautiful, vivacious woman. A little overwhelming. I guess I always felt invisible in her presence, and she must have thought so too, because she didn’t usually ask me to tag along with her. The one thing we did do together was go out and buy me new clothing at the start of the school year. To see her today in her mismatched outfits that seem to attract food stains was hard; she’d always been so well dressed. Everything matched. And she had flair. Actually, I thought her taste in clothing bordered on the bizarre, and I think to this day I dress conservatively because of that. But I could remember more than once when she’d goad me into trying on an outfit I wouldn’t have given a second thought to on my own. And I’d find—to my surprise—that the short purple skirt really did make me look taller and my legs weren’t all that bad. She’d rag me about wearing baggy clothing—come to think of it, she still rags me about that—and tell me there’d come a day when my figure would either sag or turn thick, and I’d be sorry I didn’t show it off when I could.

  These shopping excursions invariably included lunch, where she would indulge in a martini. Or two. She knew I’d never squeal to Wyman, and she had the whole afternoon to sleep it off. And I was easily bought off with a blouse or a pair of earrings. I was also someone who listened to her. She loved to talk about her childhood and the scholarship she received to college. But she was a little foggy about why she dropped out and downright evasive about the year or so before she met my father, but I guess I figured everyone was entitled to a few secrets in her past. So I nodded and listened, even when I’d heard the stories before, because I think I knew that Wyman wasn’t interested—or wouldn’t have approved. And my mother’s small circle of friends wasn’t as tolerant of the repetition. I guess I was her favorite audience.

  Today I wore a fitted red jacket over a white shell and a khaki skirt. Yesterday’s storm had taken the humidity with it, and I was able to let my hair fall over my shoulders.

  It was a short walk to Phinny’s Pub, a place I felt comfortable going by myself. Occasionally, I’d bring my laptop there and do a little work while listening to the juke box selections. In a way, I was a little uneasy introducing the place to Jack. What if he liked it and I didn’t like him? I’d hate to lose a good place because I was trying to avoid someone.

  As I walked past the Psychic Place, I wondered what Erika would think of her little brother going to dinner with me. Probably wouldn’t care much. She was odd, but I didn’t recognize anything weird in that way. Then I wondered what Mick would think if he knew I was out on a date. Not that it mattered. Our relationship was over. If you could call one dinner and one makeout session a relationship. Whatever, it had to be over. For one thing, when I refused to go in with him on the goat heist, that’d be it for us. Even if I were to lose my mind and agree to it, I wouldn’t want to be romantically involved with my partner in crime. I knew little about the criminal world, but that was a no-brainer. So either way, Mick Hughes was history. And that made me a little sad. I hadn’t started out interested in him at all. Never thought he was my type. But he’d surprised me. Sort of like one of those outrageous outfits my mother would pull off the rack.

  Stepping into Phinny’s was always a pleasant experience. It was cool in the summer, cozy in the winter and smelled of rich, frothy beer and French fries. I waved to the bartender—Kathy was working tonight— and then saw Jack rising from one of the booths along the back wall.

  He smiled as I approached and let me slide into the bench across from him before taking his seat. In front of him was a mostly full dark beer.

  “Glad you could make it,” he said. “Short notice and all.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not so busy that my Mondays are booked.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure,” I said. The waitress, Danny, was on her way over. She said hi and instead of saying “I’ll have the usual,” I hesitated, as though considering my options, and then said, “I’ll have a Famous Grouse on the rocks with a twist.”

  Danny bobbed her eyebrows at me, then glanced at Jack, who was occupied with the menu.

  He looked up as she walked away, and said, “I like this place. It’s got a good feel to it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s comfortable.”

  “Food good?”

  “U
ncomplicated, but good.”

  “I’m starved,” he said, returning to the menu, and I took the opportunity to marvel at the way not a strand of his close-cropped silver-threaded hair dared go astray. “Had a late breakfast and haven’t eaten since.” He looked up at me again and his gray-green eyes lit up as he smiled. “Want to share some nachos?”

  “Sure.” My mother would love this man. And I might not be far behind. But I quickly admonished myself—I had stopped being impressed with looks when my soon-to-be-ex husband back-handed me into the stereo.

  When Danny returned with my drink, Jack placed the order and then said we’d graze a while before ordering dinner.

  “So,” I said, taking a sip. “What brings you to Fowler?” I figured it had to be Erika, but wanted to hear it from him.

  “I’m in Chicago for a few days for a sales meeting. Meeting’s not until Wednesday so I took Monday and Tuesday off and decided to go visit my sister.”

  “What do you sell?”

  “I work for a pharmaceutical company,” he said, and named one of the big ones.

  “Miracle drugs?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  He smiled when he asked a question.

  “Where do you live?”

  “West coast. Oregon. Suburb of Portland.”

  “I hear that’s a nice area.”

  He nodded. “It is. If you like rain.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “You’ll have to visit some time.”

  I really wasn’t fishing for an invitation. But I was reminded of how awkward first dates are. You need to get all the information out of the way before you can cut to the important stuff. When Mick and I had dinner the other night, conversation hadn’t been much of an effort. Maybe because he’d been doing my taxes for a couple of years, I figured he already knew way too much about me. Still, I hadn’t been at all bored that night. I mentally kicked myself. Here I was sitting across from a handsome man, with a legitimate job, and I was thinking about the average-looking, dicey one I was cutting loose.

  Gradually, the conversation crept away from the mundane. And by the time we started in on our meals—a cheeseburger for him and a teriyaki chicken sandwich for me—I was feeling pretty comfortable. I guess it had been so long since I’d had a first date that I hadn’t known what to expect.