A Widow in Paradise & Suburban Secrets

by Donna Birdsell

  “Well.”

  “Grace, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It was completely inappropriate.”

  “No. No problem. We should go.”

  Damn. He screwed up. “Grace—”

  “Pete, it’s okay. It wasn’t just you. It was me, too.” She pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Will you help me with my bag?”

  A big blue duffel sat near the door. He got a hernia just picking it up.

  “What the—What’s in this thing?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t know what to pack. I mean, what does one wear to cook rasstegai for a Russian mobster?”

  “You’re only going to be there a day. Maybe two.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s Three-hour Tour Syndrome.”

  “What?”

  “Like on Gilligan’s Island. Three-hour Tour Syndrome. They brought enough clothes for several months, even though they were only supposed to be going on a three-hour boat cruise.”

  “Yeah, but the Skipper and Gilligan only had one set of clothes.”

  “That’s why I never dated a sailor.”

  He hefted the duffel over his shoulder. “You’re an interesting woman, Grace Becker.”

  Chapter 14

  Sunday, 6:10 p.m.

  Channeling Nancy Drew

  As Pete’s Taurus sped toward Philadelphia, Grace couldn’t help but think about how different things were—how different she was—less than forty-eight hours ago.

  She’d been picked up by a Secret Service agent, had hung out at a strip club, had been recruited to cook for a Russian mobster and had kissed two different men—two very different men—all in two days’ time.

  If only Cecilia and Dannie and Roseanna could see her now. This was turning out to be an unbelievable game of truth or dare.

  In fact, she’d begun to look at it all like a test. A measure of her ability to change and adapt. She would definitely need it in the days and weeks to come, as she tried to put her life back together.

  She switched on the radio. The easy-listening station filtered out from the speakers. She gave Pete a sad, knowing look. “Mind if I change the station?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She flipped through until she heard Elvis Costello singing “Radio Radio.”

  Pete drummed on the steering wheel.

  He had nice hands. Long, straight fingers with just a few freckles. No knobby joints, hairy knuckles or chewed nails.

  The rest of him wasn’t bad, either. He had a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and the beginnings of a ginger-colored five o’clock shadow.

  While Nick was Death by Chocolate, Pete was a cinnamon bun.

  And she was developing quite an appetite.

  She rolled down the window and let the wind ruffle her new, short haircut. She hadn’t felt this wild, this free, since her college days. She, Grace Poleiski, was going to help the Secret Service crack a case.

  “Uh-oh,” Pete said.

  “What?”

  “I recognize that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That Nancy Drew, Girl Detective look.”

  She looked out the window. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was a Hardy Boys fan.”

  “When you get in there,” Pete said, “I want you to keep your mouth shut. You’re there to cook. This isn’t amateur night at the detective agency.”

  “I get it.”

  Pete switched off the radio. “I mean it, Grace. The best thing you can do for this case is to leave everything up to Nick.”

  “I can’t even believe you can say those words with a straight face.” She stared out the window.

  Pete took the next exit and pulled over onto the side of the road. “Look. I know Nick isn’t the most reliable informant, but he’s all I’ve got. You’re not going to help me by sticking your neck out, and possibly putting an already nervous perpetrator on alert. And I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

  He’d worry about her?

  She rolled this around in her mind for a moment, just to see how she felt about it. It had been a long time since anyone, including Tom, had worried about her. Besides her mother, that is.

  She smiled. “I’ll behave. I promise.”

  “Good.”

  They drove to a vacant lot on the border of West Philadelphia. Broken glass glittered under the streetlight like diamonds on black velvet, and plastic trash bags danced across the space, only to be trapped up against a sagging chain-link fence. Tufts of straggly weeds growing up through the cracks in the macadam offered proof that surviving in this part of town wasn’t impossible, it just took persistence.

  Pete put the car in Park but left it running for the heat. They sat listening to the radio in comfortable silence.

  A few minutes later, Lou and Nick pulled up in front of them in a baby-blue-and-white 1959 Buick LeSabre with miles of fin and chrome.

  “Wow,” Grace said. “Nice car.”

  Pete grunted and opened the car door. “Come on.”

  He swung around the back of the Taurus to get Grace’s duffel bag out of the trunk, while she went over to admire the LeSabre.

  Louis sat in the car talking on his cell phone, but Nick got out and came around, patting the roof of the Buick.

  Grace ran her hand over chrome on the massive fin in the back. “Beautiful.”

  “You like classic cars?” Nick asked.

  “I learned to appreciate them. I went to a lot of car shows with Tom. He has a ’76 Corvette.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Grace looked up at him. “I guess you would.”

  Nick stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and shrugged.

  “Did you ever show the car?” she asked.

  “A couple times. But I don’t like other people touching my girl.”

  Grace snatched her hand off the fin.

  Nick laughed. “It’s okay. I don’t mind if you do.”

  Louis got out of the car. “Okay. You ready?”

  Nick nodded. He looked at Grace. “How about you?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Pete came over to the car with Grace’s bag, and Nick opened the trunk.

  “Remember,” Pete said to Nick. “Try to get him to talk about his various business ventures, especially the identification fraud. And if anything goes wrong, you know the code word?”

  “Pineapple.”

  “Right. Just say pineapple and we’ll be there, with an army of cops. Don’t take any chances.” Pete looked at Grace. “No chances.”

  “Got it,” Nick said.

  “Don’t screw me over, Nick. This is your last chance.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Nick threw the bag in the trunk and slammed it shut with the kind of sonorous kathunk only a 1950s Buick could make.

  Grace sensed some tension beneath Nick’s bravado. She wondered how he’d gotten involved in all of this in the first place, and what his expectations had been.

  Then again, she was a fine one to talk when she didn’t even know what her own expectations should be.

  Sunday, 6:32 p.m.

  Feminine Protection

  A few minutes later, Grace and Nick drove up in front of an old, run-down brick building less than half a block from the railroad tracks. The place looked as if it might have housed some sort of manufacturing plant.

  “Feminine products,” Nick said.

  “What?”

  “It was a feminine products plant.” He got out and came around to open her door.

  “Like a tampon factory?”

  The tips of his ears turned red, and he shrugged. “I guess so. Jeez.”

  She almost laughed. Here was a man who wasn’t bothered by guns or Secret Service agents or crazy Russians, but the word tampon could kill him with embarrassment.

  Pete should have made that his secret word instead of pineapple.

  “What are we doing here?” she said.

  “You’ll see.” They walked toward a door beside a fenced-off parking lot littered with potholes
and pigeon droppings.

  Grace’s stomach fluttered. Not the good kind of flutter, like when you get the first three out of five numbers on lotto or when you see an old boyfriend at a class reunion. It was the bad kind of flutter, like when the phone rings at three in the morning or when the doctor leaves a message on your machine saying he wants to discuss the results of your STD test.

  “What about my stuff?” Grace said. “This doesn’t exactly seem like the safest of areas. I’d rather not leave it in the car. And come to think of it, you might not want to leave your car.”

  “Don’t worry. There are people watching.”

  She breathed deeply, and tried to calm herself with the thought that Pete was listening in on everything. She wondered what would happen if she shouted the word pineapple. Would Pete and Louis rush to her rescue, too? Or would she just look like a lunatic shouting “pineapple” at Nick’s chest?

  Nick took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m right here. I’ll protect you.”

  That wasn’t as comforting a thought as she’d have liked.

  He pressed a small, lit doorbell beside a big, glass door. A buzzer sounded, and Nick pushed open the door and led her into the lobby of the tampon plant.

  A brick wall with a handlebar mustache and a pit-bull scowl sat behind a semicircular receptionist’s desk, watching football on a small television. Behind him Grace could make out the shadow of the word Femm-Care where the letters had been removed from the wall.

  “Hey, Benny. Who’s winning?” Nick said.

  “Stinking Giants.”

  “Damn. I got a nickel on the Eagles.”

  Benny grunted and pressed a button on the desk. A dark brown elevator door opened on the other side of the lobby.

  Nick dragged Grace into the elevator and punched Four, the highest floor on the panel.

  “Why are we here?” she whispered. “It looks abandoned.”

  Nick shook his head and looked up at the corner of the elevator, where a security camera stared back at her.

  The elevator grunted and wheezed and finally ground to a halt on the fourth floor. The lit button went out with a ding that sounded like a bad note struck on a toddler’s xylophone.

  The door opened, and Grace stifled a gasp. Not a tampon in sight.

  Instead, she and Nick stepped off the elevator into a gorgeous entrance hall with a parquet floor and a lush fresh-flower arrangement on a marble credenza that stood taller than her.

  To the left were two white doors trimmed in gold. They reminded her of doors that might lead to a French courtier’s boudoir.

  “I get the feeling we’re not in Femm-Care anymore, Toto,” she said.

  Nick smiled. “The plant is pretty much empty, except for this. This is Skobelov’s apartment. It’s modeled after the Emperor’s Suite at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. Look.” He pointed to the ceiling.

  A reproduction of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam was painted on the ceiling.

  “What do you think?”

  “Unbelievable.”

  Nick slung his arm over her shoulders. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  He knocked on the door.

  A woman in black stretch pants and a leopard-skin tank top opened the door. Her strawberry-blond hair turned under just before it touched her shoulders, and spiky bangs brushed the tops of her penciled eyebrows.

  The arch of those eyebrows gave the woman an innocent expression, and if it weren’t for the cynical set of her lips, Grace might have thought she’d been kidnapped and stuffed into these clothes for some sort of bizarre episode of Candid Camera.

  “Hey, Tina. The Russian here?”

  “Where else would he be? He has a nickel on the Eagles, so he’s in a rotten mood.”

  “Hey, this is my girlfriend, Grace.”

  Tina’s gaze ran from Grace’s hair to her toes and back. “Oh, yeah? She looks a little uptight for you, Nicky.”

  “You think? She’s kind of a surprise for Viktor.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She put a hand on the curve of her hip.

  “Not that kind of surprise,” Grace said quickly.

  Tina shrugged. “He’s in the TV room.” She drifted away, her high heels clicking on the marble floor.

  Grace followed Nick into the apartment. The marble floor gave way to gold-and-black carpet in a living room dominated by a buttery leather sectional couch. Heavy gold drapes hid the functional factory windows, while a stunning crystal chandelier in the middle of the high ceiling gave the room a soft glow.

  A seventy-two-inch flat-screen plasma television hung on a distant wall, broadcasting the Eagles-Giants game in digital splendor. The players looked so crisp, so real, Grace felt as if she could reach out and pinch their butts while they huddled up.

  In contrast to the players, the man who watched the game hardly seemed real at all.

  Viktor Skobelov was a cross between Jabba the Hutt and Chewbacca. A fat, furry, noxious blob, spread out like molasses along the length of the sectional. Grace wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see Princess Leia in a gold bikini chained to the coffee table.

  The Russian let out a belch and hit the mute button on the TV. “You have something for me, Nicky? I am not in good mood.”

  His words seemed like an effort. Slurred. Yakov Smirnoff on Quaaludes.

  Grace might have laughed if she hadn’t been so terrified. She had to pee, but she knew it was an inopportune moment.

  “I don’t have the names just yet,” Nick said.

  The Russian shook his head. “I am not happy, Nicky. What we going to do?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You say that yesterday.”

  “I know, I know. I’m getting close. But in the meantime, I brought you something else. A gift. Something to keep you happy while I get the names.” Nick dragged Grace in front of him like a human shield. “This is my girlfriend, Grace.”

  The Russian’s tiny eyes raked over her like he was inspecting a side of beef. She gave an involuntary shiver.

  “What you do?” he said.

  She stared dumbly at him, mesmerized by the trembling of his jowls.

  “What you do?” he repeated. “You do leather? Rubber?” He looked at Nick. “She’s a little old.”

  Old?

  Grace opened her mouth to inform the fat bastard that she wouldn’t touch him with somebody else’s hands let alone her own. But Nick gave her arm a hard squeeze before she could get the words out.

  “No, no. She’s not that kind of gift,” Nick said quickly. “She cooks.”

  “She cooks? What? That freaking noodles and tomatoes you call food?”

  Nick grinned. “Nope. Eastern European cuisine.”

  The Russian’s eyebrows shot up. “Like what?”

  “Kulebiaka. Borscht. Kulich. Rasstegai. Okroshka,” Grace answered.

  The Russian leaned back on the couch and trained his gaze on her as if were so hungry he might devour her words. Or maybe her.

  Her toes curled, and not in a good way, but she met his gaze without blinking.

  “You better hope she good, Nicky,” Skobelov said. “Real good. If not, you are dead man.”

  Chapter 14.5

  Sunday, 7:02 p.m.

  Happy Noodle

  Pete checked his watch for the eightieth time. He picked up his cell phone and hit the speed dial for Lou’s number.

  “Yo.”

  “Any sign of Morton?”

  “Not yet. But lots of party girls walking around this part of town. Christ, who dresses these ladies?”

  “Lou, you’re so friggin’ interested in women’s clothes, you should be a designer. You could create a whole line of clothes just for hookers and strippers.”

  “Hmp.” Lou sounded as if he might actually consider that career change.

  “Let me know when Morton and the girl show up.”

  “Right.” Louis hung up.

  While Pete listened in on Nick and Grace, Louis was
staking out the hotel that matched the phone number Pete had found in the Dumpster in Boise. It had turned out to be a low-rent establishment in Northeast Philly that was one step away from renting rooms by the hour.

  The desk clerk confirmed that Morton had checked in the day before with a cute little brunette in tow but they hadn’t been around much.

  Pete figured the girl for the one Nick had groped in the bathroom of the Sleep-In.

  He wondered how the two had been spending their time. Checking out the Liberty Bell? Maybe the Betsy Ross House? He doubted it.

  He adjusted the frequency on the receivers for Balboa’s body wire.

  Damn. Balboa and Grace had separated. Grace had left the living room and Nick. Pete could hear only the football game—he had a nickel on the Eagles—and Balboa’s incessant humming, which Pete suspected was a calculated effort to make him crazy.

  He wondered if he shouldn’t have put a wire on Grace, too, just in case.

  The thought of her trapped in a room with Skobelov or that gorilla he called a bodyguard made Pete sick.

  His cell phone launched into Wild Cherry’s “Play That Funky Music,” and he flipped it open. “Yeah?”

  “Morton’s here with the girl. Just went upstairs with a bag of takeout from Happy Noodle.”

  “Good. Let’s try to get a bug in there. Let me know if he goes anywhere.”

  Pete flipped the phone shut and propped his feet up on the dash, just as the announcer signed off on the football game.

  Stinking Giants.

  Chapter 15

  Sunday, 8:18 p.m.

  Wild One

  The Russian’s kitchen was a cook’s nirvana, with a Viking stove, Sub-Zero refrigerator, granite countertops, Judge cookware and a spice rack that included obscure spices sold only by men in trench coats in the alleys of Chinatown.

  Unlike Pete’s bare refrigerator, Skobelov’s was stocked with everything imaginable, from Caviar to cottage cheese.

  The SieMatic cabinets held seven different kinds of rice, four kinds of flour, six kinds of honey and a bag of dried something called Hu-Hu that she suspected might be related to the insect family.

  And for her listening pleasure, there was even a Bose Wave system mounted beneath one of the cabinets. Grace located the remote and tuned it to an eighties station, mostly to serve as a reminder of how she ended up there in that kitchen. Madonna, asking the all-important question, “Who’s That Girl?”