A Widow in Paradise & Suburban Secrets

by Donna Birdsell

  “Now put the key in the ignition. And if you try anything funny…” He showed her the gun.

  “Gee, and I was just about to recite a limerick. Have you ever heard the one that starts ‘There once was a girl from Nantucket’?”

  He smiled. He couldn’t help it. “Listen, all I want is the memory key. You give it to me, we’re done. Understand?”

  She gave him a look that said she might not believe him.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, 1:22 p.m.

  Hefty Odds

  Okay. This was not a big deal.

  She was driving a stranger to the Goodwill. They’d get the thingie he wanted, and then she’d get her ring and her handbag.

  Her handbag, which contained the papers she’d forged for Tom.

  Oh, dear God.

  Her mouth went dry. This. This is what she got for being irresponsible.

  She eased the car out of the parking lot, heading up Broad Street toward the Schuylkill Expressway.

  Opie fiddled with the buttons on the radio. “What is this crap? Don’t you have any stations grown-ups listen to?”

  She punched the radio off. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to concentrate.”

  The traffic was crazy for a Saturday—the Flyers were playing the Rangers—taking her mind, for the moment, off the guy sitting next to her. By the time she pulled into the parking lot of the Goodwill, her hands had almost stopped shaking.

  For some reason, despite the fact that he had a gun strapped just inches from her right breast, she actually believed Mr. Sears and Roebuck would do her no harm.

  Unless, of course, she couldn’t produce that thing he wanted. Then all bets were off.

  She wasn’t even sure she’d ever had it. Maybe the thing in her pocket last night really had been just a lighter. Then what? What were the odds he’d just let her go if she handed him a lighter?

  She went woozy and put her head down on the steering wheel.

  It had been so stupid to get in the car with this guy. A guy who could be a serial rapist, or a serial killer or some other kind of serial something.

  And for what? For a diamond ring that could pay for a year of college? For a bunch of papers that would allow her and her children to keep their home?

  Okay. Maybe she could get all that stuff back and get away. It wasn’t too late.

  Think. Think.

  She could ram the car into the side of the Dumpster. Maybe the air bag would stun him for a few moments, and she could grab her purse from beside his feet and make a run for it.

  “Give me the keys,” he said as if he’d just read her mind.

  Okay. On to Plan B.

  They exited the car on the passenger side, Opie keeping a light hold on her arm as they walked across the empty parking lot.

  Putting a Goodwill in South Whitpain was like putting a Talbots in South Philly. Nobody from the neighborhood would be caught dead shopping there.

  She should have taken Opie down with a kick to the groin. A karate chop to the neck. An elbow to the ribs. Any one of the moves she’d mastered after watching the lady detectives in all those late seventies detective shows.

  But she didn’t.

  It was amazing how her inner Good Girl refused to step aside for her inner Charlie’s Angel. She wanted to kick ass. She really did.

  She just couldn’t do anything risky. She would not let her children grow up with Tom and Marlene. They were bound to see something scary in that house. Something that would put them off condiments for life.

  Right. On to Plan C.

  She allowed Opie to escort her, largely due to the protrusion under his trench coat, straight into the building. An old cowbell tied to the door handle jingled when they entered.

  She expected to see Martha behind the counter, but instead it was a guy she didn’t know, working over a pile of shirts with a pricing gun.

  Grace imagined grabbing the pricing gun.

  Freeze, sucker. Or I’ll mark you down so fast you won’t know what hit you.

  The clerk looked up from the shirts. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi. I, uh, put a jacket into one of the bags by mistake this morning, and I need it back. Can we look for it?”

  Grace attempted a psychic connection.

  Call 9–1-1. Call 9–1-1!

  The clerk didn’t seem to get it. He opened the cash register and took a key out of one of the slots. “Donations are in the back room. Follow me.”

  He led them to the storeroom and opened the door. “There you go.”

  The floor was a sea of green trash bags that all looked as if they’d been separated at birth.

  “We’ve had quite a few donations this weekend and nobody here to unpack them,” the clerk said apologetically.

  “Great. Thanks. We can take it from here,” Opie said.

  Grace caught the clerk’s eye, trying to communicate using her eyelids for Morse code. The clerk winked at her and left.

  Only a man could mistake desperation for flirting.

  “Recognize any of these bags?” Opie said.

  “Yeah. The green one.”

  He smiled. “What time did you bring the stuff in?”

  “I don’t know. I usually come at ten, but I was running late this morning.”

  “Too many margaritas last night?”

  Was that a snicker? Did she actually hear him snicker?

  “You sound like that dog on the cartoons. You know, the one who used to have orgasms over his dog treats?”

  His face clouded over. “Just find the jacket.”

  Grace glanced through the narrow window on the storeroom door and saw the clerk talking into the phone.

  Look over here. LOOK OVER HERE.

  “Get moving,” Opie demanded. “Find that jacket.”

  She bent over and opened a bag. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  She stood up. “Well, since you’ve been staring at my ass all afternoon, I figure the least you can do is tell me your name.”

  He grinned. “It’s Pete, all right? Now get down to business.”

  His eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled, and Grace realized that if she wasn’t afraid he’d cause her bodily harm she might actually find him attractive.

  She poked through several bags, hoping she looked productive, still optimistic she’d been able to convey her sense of urgency to the clerk. She was convinced if she just stalled long enough, help would arrive.

  Pete rustled through a bag. “Armani. Burberry. Moschino. I’ve gotta start shopping at this Goodwill.” He closed the bag and opened another.

  Grace stuck her hand in a bag. “Uh-h!”

  “What? Did you find it?”

  “No. But I could have sworn I felt something move in there.”

  Pete straightened, holding something red in his fist. “Is this it?”

  Crap, crap, crap! How did he find it so fast? Thirty-eight bags and he nailed it, second one out. She should let him pick her lottery numbers.

  She pretended to examine the jacket he held up. “No, I don’t think that’s mine?”

  Pete shook it out and held it open. “Sure it is. I remember this gold snake on the sleeve. And this glittery stuff.”

  “It’s a dragon. And those are called sequins.” She snatched it away.

  Sirens pealed in the distance. Her stomach did a little flip. It sounded as if they were heading up Monroe, about a mile or so away.

  Unfortunately, Pete heard them, too.

  He narrowed his eyes. She gave him her most innocent look.

  “Shit.” He grabbed the jacket from her and rooted through the pockets, pulling out a small, black rectangle from one of them.

  “Is that it?” she said.

  “Yep.” He stuck the memory key in his pocket. “Let’s go.”

  The sirens grew louder. Pete pushed her toward the emergency exit door at the back of the storeroom.

  She pushed back against him. If he managed to get her out
the door, who knew what would happen in that parking lot? Screw the ring and the papers. At this point, she just wanted to get out of this without an extra hole in her body.

  “You said you’d let me go when you had the key.”

  He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the door. “I can’t exactly sit around waiting for a bus back to the city now, can I? If you’d have played nice, you’d be on your way home.”

  “Then just take the car and leave me here. You have what you want.”

  “Sorry. I need you.”

  “For what?”

  He pushed open the lever on the emergency door. A bell, like one of those old-fashioned ball-and-hammer school bells, clanged above the door.

  “You really screwed up, Grace.” He shoved her through the door.

  Chapter 6.5

  Saturday, 1:35 p.m.

  Sticks and Stones

  Somehow she’d tipped off the clerk. It was the only explanation. She was smart, he had to give her that. And she had a great ass.

  But this was inconvenient. He did not have time to deal with cops right now. The meeting between Nick and the Russian was supposed to go down in ten and a half hours, and there was a lot of work to do between now and then.

  For one thing, he had to find Nick.

  Grace suddenly sat down in the middle of the parking lot. “I’m not going with you. You can shoot me right here, but I’m not getting in that car.”

  “Yes, you are.” He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, firefighter style. He grabbed the remote from her hand, bleeped the car door open, then shoved her into the driver’s side.

  “Why do I have to drive? Just take the car. I have kids.”

  Outside, the sirens got louder.

  He put a hand on the butt of his gun. “Look, Grace. I don’t want to hurt you. Just drive the damned car.”

  Her eyes widened. “You can’t drive a stick shift.”

  He could feel his face heating up, and he knew from experience that soon he’d look like a tomato with eyes. “Just drive. Get me back to the hotel.”

  The sirens grew louder.

  “Will you give me my stuff back and let me go?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m not involved in this! I don’t even know Nick. I just met him last night.”

  “If that’s true, then you have nothing to worry about. Now drive.”

  She gave him a defiant look.

  Flashing lights reflected off the side of the Goodwill building. A maroon-and-gold police car sped into view.

  And then passed.

  Pete smiled. “Guess they weren’t looking for us, after all.”

  Grace started the car. “The Baccus?”

  “Please.”

  Chapter 7

  Saturday, 2:02 p.m.

  Pigs

  “What the hell is this?” Pete rolled down the car window and stuck his head out. The slightly off-key strains of “Tusk” drifted in.

  “Looks like a parade.”

  “A parade?”

  “The Columbus Day Parade. It goes right up South Broad.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  A giant Porky Pig floated through Marconi Plaza in a sailor suit, curly tail flapping in the breeze.

  Sawhorses stretched across Bigler Street, guarded by four uniformed security officers. Although truth be told, there didn’t seem to be a danger that anyone would rush a giant, helium-filled pig. Or the float of dancing bananas that followed it.

  “What now?” Pete muttered under his breath.

  Grace rolled down the window. Pete looked at her.

  “What? I’m hot.”

  She dangled her arm out the window, and below Pete’s view waved frantically at one of the guards. He gave her a goofy smile and waved back.

  While Pete looked out his window, Grace mouthed the word help to the guard.

  He mouthed back, “Hello.”

  “Man!” She slapped the steering wheel.

  Pete looked at her.

  “I hate being stuck in traffic.”

  “Turn around,” he said.

  “You’re kidding, right? There are cops right in front of us.”

  “They’re rent-a-cops. They don’t have vehicles. And even if they did, I doubt they’d care that we’re breaking the U-turn law.”

  “There are cars behind us.”

  “So what? Make a K-turn.”

  “A K-turn? What the hell is a K-turn?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t you have a Pennsylvania driver’s license? You had to do a K-turn for the test.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember now. It was only twenty-two years ago. The K-turn. How could I forget?”

  He shook his head. “You do have a mouth on you, don’t you. You are definitely not Balboa’s type.”

  She gave him a stony look.

  “Just turn it around. Pull all the way forward. Turn the wheel to the right. Put it in Reverse. Turn the wheel again. See? You’re making an invisible K with the car’s wheels.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds.”

  “Who’s Mr. Reynolds?”

  “He was my driver’s ed instructor in high school. He used to try to peek into my blouse when I was backing up.”

  Pete grinned his Opie Taylor grin. “An opportunist.”

  “A pervert.”

  She made one last attempt to signal the rent-a-cop leaning against the sawhorse, but he just waved again.

  She stomped on the gas.

  Men were pigs.

  Saturday, 2:23 p.m.

  X’s and O’s

  Back at the Baccus, they parked next to a blue Ford Taurus. Pete took her keys from the ignition. “Wait here. And no funny business.”

  Like she was going to break out into a stand-up routine at any moment.

  Hey, did you hear the one about the woman who left her twenty-thousand-dollar diamond ring in the mouth of a “mimbo”?

  She rubbed her temples. She was actually getting hungry. Unlike normal people, she could eat in any situation.

  The bomb—the Big One—could be on its way. While everyone else would be using their last moments to say goodbye to friends and loved ones, she’d be stuffing her face with Tastykakes. She’d be taking full advantage of the fact that no matter what she ate, very soon she’d have the same BMI as a handful of cigarette ashes.

  Pete opened the trunk of the Taurus next to her car.

  A Taurus? A Taurus?

  None of the bad guys on crime shows had ever driven a Taurus.

  And she was sure none of them would have ever let her pee. How could you fear a guy who drove a Taurus and let you pee?

  She watched him for a little while before she realized he’d left her purse sitting on the floor, and she grabbed it. A quick search revealed two disheartening developments. One, her cell phone was dead. Two, the papers were missing.

  She wondered if Nick might have them. But why in the hell would he take those and leave her diamond ring? It didn’t make sense.

  She got out of the car and peered over Pete’s shoulder.

  The trunk was immaculate. There were four vinyl containers lined up along the back of the space, all tight and spiffy, held down by bungee cords. Grace wondered what was in them.

  Pete opened the second one from the left and retrieved a laptop computer from atop a neat pile of technical-looking equipment and cables.

  “This is your car?”

  He straightened, smacking his head on the trunk. “Hey, get back in the car.”

  “Relax. I’m not going anywhere. I want my ring back.”

  “And you shall have it, just as soon as I’m sure this little baby is what I’m looking for.” He held up the memory key.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you tampered with it.”

  “That’s right. I tampered with it. And then I put it in the pocket of a jacket I was going to give away, knowing full well that you would be in Nick’s room today and that you wo
uld take me hostage at gunpoint, make me drive you to the Goodwill and force me to look through twenty bags of other people’s castoffs before we eventually found it.”

  “Wiseass.”

  Pete powered up the laptop and plugged the memory key into a port in the side. He tapped a few keys. “What the hell?”

  “What?” She leaned closer, peering over his shoulder at the computer screen.

  It was filled with little X’s and O’s.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It means I’m screwed.”

  Chapter 7.5

  Saturday, 2:29 p.m.

  Shooting Blanks

  Friggin’ Balboa.

  Pete knew in his gut that Grace wasn’t lying. He knew it wasn’t her who’d tampered with the key. It was Nick.

  Either he’d never checked the memory key when he got it from Morton, or he’d replaced what was on it with crap. But if Balboa knew the key was essentially empty, why would he give it to Grace?

  Maybe Balboa had spotted him at the club last night and had put a fake in Grace’s pocket to throw him off.

  No. Balboa was the kind of guy who bought condoms from a men’s room vending machine. He never planned ahead.

  It was more likely Morton had given Balboa the bad key to begin with, and Balboa had just never bothered to check it.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Two years down the crapper. Two years, and he had nothing.

  He looked at Grace.

  Well, not exactly nothing. He had Balboa’s girlfriend. That had to be worth something.

  “Get in the car,” he said, deciding to take her BMW since Balboa would recognize the blue Taurus.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To find your moronic boyfriend.”

  Chapter 8

  Saturday, 2:47 p.m.

  Sugar Sugar

  Grace edged the BMW around a double-parked delivery truck.

  She’d given Pete only a halfhearted argument when he’d told her to get back in the car. She was hungry and hungover and really, if she refused to go and Pete called her bluff, she didn’t have much of a bargaining chip unless she was willing to get shot.