Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

by Christine Arness

  The sigh of a man forced into a corner whooshed in Keely’s ear. “No, Ma’am.”

  “Jackson stole something which could prove embarrassing to the Postwaites. I’m trying to get it back. Do you have any idea where he could have gone?”

  Max signalled for attention. Keely put her hand over the mouthpiece. “What?”

  “Ask him if Jackson had a favorite hang-out.”

  Keely repeated the question.

  A long silence. “We weren’t bosom companions,” Ives said stiffly. “What he did during his time off was his affair.”

  “Ives, think! This is important! If what Jackson took is made public, the Postwaites will suffer.”

  “Very well.” A cough. “Jackson liked to play pool. Boasted of his prowess with a stick at every opportunity.”

  “Where did he play? A bar, friend’s house, pool hall?”

  “I didn’t pay attention to his bragging,” the butler retorted peevishly, discarding his haughty manner and cultured tone. “The man had the class of a sewer rat and the mouth of a refuse container. He was always irate when his services were required on Saturday nights because he was involved in a standing tournament at some smoke-filled dive in town…”

  “The name! I need a name!”

  Silence. Then, Ives said triumphantly, “Cue & Brew! That was the name of the dive!”

  She thanked him, cut the connection, and relayed the news to Max. “Shall we call it a date?”

  “Saturday night, Cue & Brew.” Max sighed. “I imagine the most exotic item on the menu will be a greasy cheeseburger.”

  “I love greasy cheeseburgers. They’re one of the house specialties at my place,” Keely said, giddy with relief. The lead to Jackson’s possible whereabouts was the first chink in the curtain of darkness which surrounded them. “You’re a food snob.”

  “Guilty, but I prefer the term ‘gourmand’.” Max put his glass in the sink. “Tell me something, Keely. If we’re keeping things on a strictly business basis, why did you kiss me?”

  The question caught her off guard and she stared at him, open mouthed, her glass positioned in mid-air.

  “Come on. Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten about that little episode in your store room.” Max grinned wickedly. “Kissing is like tangoing—it takes two.”

  She sprang off the stool and retreated to the French doors. “That kiss was just a kiss.”

  “And a smile is just a smile. I know the song.” Max sauntered into the living room. “I told you before, Keely, I’m attracted to you. The moment you waltzed into my life with your cinnamon hair, cameras clicking and gorgeous eyes flashing…”

  “I think you’ve got my eyes mixed up with my flash unit.” Keely’s fingers itched and she held an imaginary camera to her eye, surveyed the room. “I’d like to do a photographic essay in here.”

  She pretended to zoom in on a black loafer lying mateless near the front door. “I’d call it ‘Study of a Solitary Man.’”

  Max’s voice roughened. “This place isn’t a home. I hadn’t planned on staying in Lake Hope.”

  “Speaking of home, could you take me there? I’ve still got to finish cleaning up the store room—”

  “I’m divorced, Keely.” He studied her with a challenging glint in his eyes. “Since you seem to be uncomfortable with personal subjects, I’ll save you the embarrassment of asking. When my marriage dissolved, I also forfeited ownership of my restaurant. I’m not currently involved with anyone.”

  “That makes two of us.” Keely gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, that sounded snippy. I just want to keep things on a strictly business basis between us.”

  “But I don’t. Your words say one thing but your eyes and lips say another. How are you going to handle the fact that I want to put my arms around you and feel your heart beat against mine? That I want to kiss you until we’re both in need of CPR?” Max moved a step closer. “I’ll prepare an intimate dinner for two, Keely. We’ll talk, get to know each other.”

  “And end up in bed. The best way to avoid becoming a hit and run victim is not to lie down in the road.”

  “Is that what you think I want? A romp in the sack?” Max frowned. “I’m not a guy who grabs something that feels good and then moves on. Lying awake at night, I paint imaginary murals on the ceiling of my bedroom. I often draw the woman of my dreams.

  “Since I met you, Keely, that woman on the ceiling has your face, your smile. Trust me, Keely.”

  “I trust you, Max. It’s me I don’t trust.”

  His face split in an exultant grin and he moved toward her eagerly.

  The doorbell rang. Keely felt a surge of relief, followed immediately by an unexpected sense of loss.

  Max was thrown off stride. “I didn’t buzz anyone in,” he muttered, moving to the door. “Who’s there?”

  “Detectives Gifford and Dawson.”

  Keely and Max exchanged glances. “Tell them about the protection ring,” he mouthed silently.

  Keely shook her head. She couldn’t live with herself if anything happened to Jess and her girls, or to Mimi.

  Detective Gifford entered with the purposeful swing of her hips that marked her as a woman on a mission, her partner lumbering at her heels like a trained bear. She didn’t seem surprised to see Keely in Max’s apartment.

  “Have either of you read today’s paper?”

  “No.” Max exchanged puzzled glances with Keely. “Why?”

  Gifford was here for answers, not to supply them. “Flo’s final column makes interesting reading. I’m glad you’re here, Ms. O’Brien. In going through Flo’s office, we discovered that the lady had a penchant for recording private conversations.”

  Keely had the dizzying sensation of standing at a cliff’s edge.

  Gifford gestured to her companion, who flipped open his notebook. “I know some very unpleasant people. Choose to be difficult and you’ll find there are more painful things than being flayed alive in the press.”

  Keely recognized Flo’s words spoken—was it as recently as Wednesday afternoon? She remembered looking into the other woman’s eyes and seeing an unrelenting enemy.

  Detective Dawson continued, unperturbed by the interruption. “I think we understand each other. Friday. Noon.”

  “We believe that was the last tape Ms. Netherton recorded,” Detective Gifford remarked in a matter-of-fact voice. “Fortunately, she marked each with the date and time before locking them in her desk drawer.”

  Max looked bewildered and Keely recalled he’d left the office before her final exchange with Flo.

  She chose her words with care. “I don’t deny she said those things to me. If you have a tape of the conversation, you know I spoke the truth about Flo trying to buy the videotape.”

  Gayla put brown hands on narrow hips. Her cotton dress was the color of the lime Max had sliced for the sun tea. “Do you recall what you said to her in response, Ms. O’Brien?”

  Keely only remembered feeling powerless in the face of Flo’s contempt.

  Gayla nodded at her partner. “Refresh her memory.”

  The bulky detective consulted his notebook. “Compassion’s an alien concept to you, isn’t it? Someday, you’ll be hurt the way you’ve hurt others. I hope you’re shown no mercy.”

  “Someone didn’t show mercy, did they, Ms. O’Brien? You should be happy. Your prophesy of doom came true last night—”

  “No!” Keely’s denial was vehement. “I didn’t want anyone to hurt her—I, I…”

  “Do you have a lawyer, Ms. O’Brien?”

  Max intervened. “Don’t say anything, Keely. Gifford, there’s another angle that we uncovered this morning—”

  Keely interrupted. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Give me a reason why you shouldn’t be.”

  Keely closed her eyes, visualizing Jessica’s fear-ravaged face. Max was on the verge of revealing the protection racket, but she wanted to hold that disclosure until she’d thought of a way to keep Jessica’s
family clear of danger.

  “I’ll do better than give you a reason, I’ll give you a suspect: Jackson. He was at my studio Thursday night—the serial number on the broken camera proves it was mine.”

  The two police officers exchanged glances. Dawson shrugged, his heavy features inscrutable. Gifford arched her brows and smiled brightly. “I suggest you get an attorney, Ms. O’Brien. Next time, we might want to do a little more than talk. For the record.”

  After their departure, Max drove Keely home. He refused to let her go in alone, insisted on checking each room of the house and studio for signs of intrusion. Keely leaned against the kitchen wall and let him search without protest.

  A worried frown creasing his brow, Max re-entered the room. “I don’t like the idea of you staying here alone.”

  “I’m not crazy about it myself, but I survived last night.” Keely made an apathetic gesture toward the refrigerator. “Perhaps you should check inside. Maybe the food’s gone bad.”

  He didn’t smile. “How about going to a hotel?”

  Keely shrugged, feeling numb. “I’d rather toss and turn in my own bed, thank you.” Fatigue fought a winning battle with dread.

  Max gave her shoulder a comforting pat. “Call me if you need anything. You’re welcome to stay at my place, but I’ve only got one bed.”

  “A gentleman would offer me the bed and take the couch.” They exchanged tired smiles.

  Keely remained propped against the kitchen wall until the door closed behind Max. The flashing light on the message unit caught her eye. Crossing the room on leaden feet, she punched the button and listened to shrill demands from the media for interviews. The vultures were gathering.

  Then came a message which jarred her to attention. “Keely! I want you to get me out of this place and I mean today! I’ve got no money, no car, nothing to drink!”

  Keely shuddered at her mother’s strident voice. The anger driving Moira had the whip hand again.

  Beep. Click. “Keely, this is Jess. I’m begging you, don’t tell anyone what I told you! Please, please, promise me you won’t!” Jessica ended the message with a gulping, hopeless sob that bound Keely tighter than any vow ever could.

  The final straw on the camel’s breaking back came in a monotone, menace lurking under each unstressed syllable. “You aren’t listening, O’Brien. I want that tape by tomorrow night or else you’re going to hear from me. You’ll do what I want. Sooner or later, everybody does what I want.”

  Beep. Click. The answering machine hummed softly as the tape rewound.

  Chapter 20

  Keely decided that the jukebox at the Cue & Brew never stopped its wailing, even after closing time. She pictured neon lights flickering over empty tables and unracked balls in the predawn hours, country times belting out to an invisible audience.

  The atmosphere would make Smoky the Bear hyperventilate. In the gloom of inadequate lighting, cigarette tips glowed, sparks for a dozen baby forest fires.

  Keely and Max occupied a booth beside the sunken floor supporting the pool tables. The seats were covered with brittle red vinyl which crackled maliciously whenever she shifted position. In the crowded pool room, the air clogged with tension as honor was upheld and lost on miniature jousting arenas of green felt. Cues were favored over lances; warriors refreshed themselves from beer cans instead of flagons.

  Keely’s feet ached, as did her head. So far she’d danced with three guys who’d never heard of Arthur Murray and a fellow possessing the rhthym of a fence post. She’d also fended off several who tried to get up close and personal.

  Keely adjusted the spaghetti straps of the red silk blouse she’d purchased for tonight’s foray into the seamy side of Lake Hope. It required an astonishing amount of money to look cheap.

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “Either we’re not adequately describing Jackson or Ives sent us to the wrong dive.”

  “I hardly think he could have mistook the name of this quaint little place.” Max gingerly poked at the cheeseburger huddled in a plastic basket in front of him.

  “Relax, it won’t bite. It’s dead.” Keely searched the smoky room for Jackson among the throng.

  “This sandwich has definitely given up the ghost,” Max agreed, fastidiously wiping his hands on a scrawny paper napkin pried from the clamped jaws of a metal dispenser. “Keely, when I suggested an intimate dinner, I was thinking more along the lines of a succulent parslied rack of lamb and Potatoes Anna. For dessert, perhaps the richness of Coeur à la Crème Fraîche…”

  “Stop torturing me!” Keely picked up a limp french fry. Unpalatable without ketchup, but the vivid memory of Flo’s battered head had caused her to forego her usual crimson pool. “What will we do if Jackson doesn’t show up tonight? The creep on the phone wasn’t kidding when he said, ‘Sooner or later, everyone does what I want.’ I’m sure he was speaking from personal experience.”

  “At least the police have a recording of his threats. Gifford promised you protection when you turned over the answering machine tape, didn’t she?”

  Keely raised her voice to be heard over the argument breaking out at a nearby booth. “Her actual words were she’d be keeping an eye on me. More of a warning than reassurance. You still haven’t answered my question. What’s our next step if Jackson doesn’t show?”

  Max’s brows were drawn in a troubled frown. “We’ll have to tell Gifford about the protection racket. The police are under too much pressure to sit on their hands any longer.”

  Sickened, Keely dropped the french fry back on her plate. “We can’t reveal what we know about the protection racket without betraying Jessica and her girls—”

  “I agree. But you’ve got to start thinking about yourself.” Max shoved away the basket containing his sandwich. “Flo’s final masterpiece of spite in yesterday’s paper might force Gifford into making a premature arrest. Anyone reading that column will assume Flo’s vicious reference to your mother’s problems gave you a motive for murder.”

  “I’m not going to risk the safety of Jessica’s girls.”

  Max traced the ring of condensation left by his glass of beer. “You’ve got to untie that millstone that’s hanging around your neck, Keely.”

  “Millstone?” She shuddered, the vinyl beneath her creaking in protest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Answer this question truthfully. Is it possible that by protecting Rose Postwaite, you’re trying to atone for whatever you couldn’t or didn’t do for your mother?”

  “Leave my mother out of this!” Keely glared at Max. In black chinos and wine dark shirt, he looked out of place among the jean clad characters who inhabited the pool hall, a polished gemstone glittering in a bowl of gravel.

  “Flo didn’t, Keely.” Max lowered his voice until she had to strain to hear. “I know your mother’s an alcoholic, and she’s in rehab for the fourth time. You’ve been footing the bills, which is why you haven’t had the capital to expand Key Shot.”

  “That information certainly wasn’t in Flo’s gossip column. How did you—” The truth struck Keely just as the opening chords of “Take It Back” blared from the juke box. “Your Uncle Tony who compiled the report on Flo—you had him do one on me, too!”

  “I had to know who I was dealing with, Keely. Anna Marie’s business, not to mention my neck, is on the line.”

  “So you hired someone to dig up dirt in my back yard!” Keely shot back. The thought infuriated her. “I should have you arrested for trespassing,” she muttered.

  Max’s gaze was compassionate. Keely switched her gaze to her plate, but couldn’t pretend an interest in the unappetizing meal. In the background, Reba sang, “You said I stole your heart away by looking in your eyes—”

  Keely sang along softly with the chorus. “Take it back, Take it back.”

  “I did what I had to do, Keely. This town’s turned into a war zone and I believe in being well armed.”

  “As long as there’s war, there’ll be spies
and traitors.” Despite the ache in her heart, Keely felt unnaturally calm. “You must also know I was married eight years ago but it didn’t work out. Did your ‘spy’ tell you why?”

  “Keely, you don’t have to explain—”

  “Eric couldn’t shake the fear that I was going to end up like my mother. He regulated every sip I took, every bite of food that went into my mouth. He was my monitor, not my husband, and after three years, we called it quits.”

  Max’s expression was now more exasperated than compassionate. “At the moment, I’m concerned that your overdeveloped sense of responsibility might land us in jail.”

  Keely’s fingers felt greasy. She glanced down and saw that she’d strangled a french fry.

  Grabbing a napkin, she wiped off her hands. “Overdeveloped sense of responsibility?”

  “As witnessed by your compulsion to keep bailing out your mother despite evidence that she’s not falling off the wagon, but diving off, head first.”

  Keely looked away from the concern in his eyes and down at the shredded pieces of napkin on the table. She unclenched her hands; more pieces drifted down like snowflakes. The sense of being crammed into a box overwhelmed her. First her mother, then Eric, demands and dependency to control her…

  The harsh, arid atmosphere caught at Keely’s throat and tears from the cigarette smoke—she wanted to believe it was the smoke—pricked her eyes, blurring her vision. On the juke box, Reba continued to sing about betrayal and dismissal.

  “Keely, I’m sorry. My intention never was to pry into your personal life.”

  “But you did, Max. Before you kissed me, you told me your faith in me was a matter of trust. All the time you had a detailed report on my personal life in your hands. Your brand of trust is just a matter of thorough detective work.”

  Caught up in the exchange, Keely forgot to keep an eye peeled for Jackson. Earlier, however, she had noticed a heavy-set man seated three tables away staring at Max. Now, catching sudden movement in her peripheral vision, she turned in time to see the man lurch to his feet and stumble toward them.