Guilt Trip

by Donna Huston Murray

  “Yeah?”

  “Toby stepped into the first empty one and refused to leave. Must have paid for about a hundred and twenty pitches and hit most of them. Beat up his hands so bad they swelled up like catcher’s mitts.”

  “That’s it? That’s your reason?”

  “Not quite.”

  “When he got tired, he started missing pitches. When he whiffed four in a row, he smashed the aluminum bat into a metal post so hard he broke his wrist.”

  I thought I understood, but I wanted to be sure. “And this means…?”

  “Toby was not a quitter. Suicide would never occur to him.”

  Was I convinced? Not really. Didn’t I know first-hand that ambitious overachievers are perfectly capable of hurting themselves?

  Mike caught my expression and smacked the steering wheel again.

  “Dammit. Do you need more examples?”

  “No. No, I get it. Type A personality, tenacious as all get out.”

  “Right. Right!” he said, calming down somewhat. “When I explained that to Mary, she practically packed my bag and kicked me out the door. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Find out what really happened. You’ll never get another chance.’”

  “Wow,” I remarked. “Special woman.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. I told her I didn’t want to risk missing our baby being born—she’s due next month.”

  “Yikes!”

  “Guess what Mary said to that.”

  “What?”

  “She said, ‘You have to go because in six months or six years or six decades when Toby’s suicide is still haunting you like a missing limb, I don’t want you telling me I was right, that you should’ve gone on this trip.’”

  “Wow! Hard arguing with that.”

  “You got that right. Plus it’s Toby, you know? I loved my brother more than I love myself,” a short laugh, “and my friends will tell you that’s pretty much.”

  I took in his mischievous eyes and long curly lashes and dismissed my first impression altogether. “You’re alright, Mike Stoddard. Aren’t you?” I decided.

  “Are you kidding? I’m awesome!” he quipped, and this time we laughed together.

  A mile later I asked him how he’d planned to proceed.

  His brow knit and his lips tightened. “Just keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. Why? What would you do?”

  “Oh, keep my eyes open and my mouth shut…”

  He chuckled. “So much more professional. Glad you’re here.”

  According to all the signs, we were approaching the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, or officially the William Preston Lane Jr. Memorial Bridge. As we funneled into an EZ Pass lane along with about twenty other vehicles, Mike inquired, “You up for this?”

  “Sure. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason.”

  The span we entered consisted of three westbound lanes supported by towers with square openings. To our left lay its eastbound partner suspended on picturesque fans of wire. With no breakdown space the two oncoming lanes looked unnervingly narrow, and our three were plenty skinny enough. The guardrails seemed to be about chest high, and a steep incline lowered the choppy steel-gray bay water further and further away. To sample the briny air, I opened the window another notch, but the wind blew my hair against my cheek with enough force to sting. Even the seagulls had more sense than to venture this high.

  “Swell place to be in a storm,” I remarked.

  “No,” Mike asserted. “Oh, no.”

  “Exactly how high is it?”

  “Hundred and eighty-six feet,” he replied as if wasting energy on one more syllable might pitch us into the drink.

  As a cop, I’d learned how to compartmentalize my fear, but combine the flimsy sensation of a Ferris wheel with being propelled at more than forty miles an hour and, caught unaware, I realized an ordinary civilian might suffer a panic attack or worse. The bridge should have warning signs like the ones for Space Mountain at Disney World.

  Which made me worry just a tad about Mike’s bravery. Right now his red-head pallor shone with sweat and his hands gripped the wheel as if they were the ropes of a descending parachute.

  My next thought was that Mike loved his brother so much that he was willing to infiltrate the family that might have had something to do with his brother’s death. Not the smartest move for an amateur, but emotions often overrule the brain. Wasn’t I more than a little guilty of that myself?

  After the tollbooth and a wide dogleg turn, Mike jockeyed us up into the center lane. Traffic aiming for Washington, DC, was thick, and naturally some impatient yahoo began to dog our rear end. Mike endured the dangerous aerial tailgating as long as he could but eventually signaled us into the right lane. Without thinking, I glanced down at the water and the sudden vertigo made my stomach roil.

  “And how long is this thing?” I inquired, clearly meaning, “How soon will we be off?” Land appeared to be very, very far away.

  “Four point three miles.”

  When we finally made it to the shoreline, Mike exhaled with a lengthy “Pshewww.” If we hadn’t been on the way to catch a plane, I think he’d have pulled over for a breather.

  Glancing my way, he said, “Now you can say you’ve been on the scariest bridge in the world.”

  “Seriously?”

  “That’s its reputation. For twenty-five bucks you can get somebody else to drive your car across for you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. It’s an actual business.”

  “Wow. I guess I owe you twenty-five bucks.”

  Based on our surroundings and the traffic, Washington congestion was imminent. Rather than deal with the Beltway, Mike chose to stay on Route 50 and thread the interior streets of the city. Somewhere in the middle we joined Route 66 West toward our destination.

  He and I spent the time getting acquainted in the typical impersonal way. It was much too early to explain how I’d come to be down on my luck; that much candor could wait. Instead I sketched out my background, how I’d studied criminology at Temple University then became a Landis, PA, cop. “If you don’t count bartending,” I told him, “my most recent job was investigating insurance fraud for AIA,” Amalgamated Insurance Association of North America.

  “Oh, yeah?” Mike seemed pleased. “I sell insurance.”

  I’d never have guessed. “Then we have something in common,” I replied, unless he actually enjoyed the insurance industry.

  “Beside Karen.”

  “Beside Karen,” I agreed.

  We chatted a while about her and Ron and the kids, then I got up the nerve to ask more about him. I was caught up on his Catholic upbringing and just beginning to hear about his University of Virginia education—the reason he’d settled in Charlottesville—when his cell phone rang.

  “Mary!” he exclaimed after lifting the instrument to his ear. “Everything okay?” Never mind the lanes of traffic, or the speed, or the need to watch for his turn-off; Mike Stoddard was home with his wife.

  I watched his eyes long enough to assure myself he could handle it all. Then I allowed the passing scene to blur and focused on the problem that had been weaving in and out of my head since we left the farm. With Mike totally enclosed in his personal love-bubble, maybe I’d be able to devise a solution before we got to the airport. I hoped so, because the more I thought about it the more worried I became.

  Passing myself off as Karen’s substitute might literally get me off the ground with the Roitmans, but it probably would not hold up over a week-long, undercover investigation. If one—or more—of Toby’s in-laws happened to be involved in a staged suicide, the slightest slipup, such as accidentally asking the right question, could put both Mike and me in mortal danger.

  “Pull into the next gas station,” I urged the oblivious father-to-be as soon as he ended his call. “We need to talk.”

  Chapter 6

  The city’s congested asterisk pattern finally gave way to commercialized suburbs that, judging by
the hectic traffic, still reflected the fervor of our federal government. No doubt the boutique airport would be farther out in the countryside where convenience stores would be scarce. I would have to find what I needed soon after we exited Route 66.

  “There,” I pointed. The establishment offered a dozen gas pumps on six sheltered islands and nose-in parking facing a bustling mini-mart.

  As soon as Mike pulled in, I said, “Buy gas or something. I’ll be right out.”

  He stopped under the island overhang; but when he opened his mouth to speak, I shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Right out. Park anywhere. I’ll find you. First, please pop the trunk.”

  I took some things out of my suitcase concealed them in my big straw purse.

  “Hurry up, okay?” Mike called after me as I trotted toward the building.

  The doors were burping people left and right. I jostled myself through the nearest, narrowly missing a blue snow cone held by a very little boy.

  Inside, I quickly chose three packs of sugar-free gum and popped the first piece into my mouth before my change had a chance to rattle down that little metal chute.

  In the rest room I rolled my short denim skirt even higher and covered the lumpy waistline with my V-neck sweater. Change my footwear, fluff up my hair, rub on some peachy lip gloss, and I became someone else altogether.

  Mike had parked the Mustang just around the corner and was anxiously watching for me through the windshield. Shame on me, but seeing that aging, high-school-jock face stare at me through the Mustang’s window made me want to toy with him. In those high-heeled sandals it was easy, inevitable almost. I put a little extra sway in my hips and tossed a bit of blonde hair over my shoulder.

  Mike’s eyes widened as if he couldn’t quite wrap his head around my new persona, so of course I sidled in beside him and planted a wet one on his cheek.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he scolded, cringing away as if I were a Labrador retriever. “Stop that, will you?” He even slapped my hands.

  Smirking, I’m pretty sure my amusement came off as a smirk, I settled back in my seat.

  “Geesh, Lauren. Are you out of your mind? I’m…”

  “Married. Yes, I know. And I’m trying to find out what happened to your brother.”

  “Yeah, I guess, but what’s this,” he wiped his cheek again, “got to do with…?”

  “It’s to keep us safe. If there’s a murderer anywhere in the picture, neither of us can afford to let on that we suspect that. It would be like poking a rattlesnake with a short stick.”

  “But…”

  “Please let me finish. You can’t change being you,” I conceded, “but I’m an ex-cop, and I have a connection to Toby’s family. All I’ll get from the Roitman’s is the fit-for-publication version of everything, probably right down to whatever they ate for lunch. However, they don’t know what Lauren Beck looks like, and, if I’m lucky, they may not even know I exist.” I spread my hands. “That means I can go undercover as your girlfriend. Do you think you can deal with that for a week?”

  Mike’s cheeks scrunched up toward his eyes until he was peering at me through slits. “Do you have to be a bimbo?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted, “but being underestimated adds another layer of protection. I won’t mean a thing to them.”

  “But Toby’s in-laws? You can’t possibly suspect…?”

  “They’re just our starting point, Mike. But if they find out we’re not sure about the suicide, do you think they’ll keep quiet about it?”

  His eyes widened.

  “Right,” I confirmed. “They could accidentally share our doubts with the killer. Trust me, we can’t be too careful.

  “You’re a lucky man,” I reminded him. “You have a woman who wants you to be happy today, tomorrow, and the rest of your life. Let’s just make sure that life isn’t any shorter than it’s supposed to be.”

  He finally nodded. Then a rueful smile. “I’ll look like scum to Toby’s in-laws.”

  “And I won’t?”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “They’ll really hate you.”

  “I know. You up for this, or what?”

  Another moment of thought, then his salesman swagger finally kicked in. He dropped his right hand onto my leg.

  “Hey!” I said. “Save it for the Roitmans.”

  “Gotcha,” he replied with a laugh.

  Oh. Payback for the wet kiss.

  “By the way,” I cracked my gum as we rolled onto the road. “My name is Lori. Lori…”

  “Ruggles,” he finished. “My high-school crush was on Denise Ruggles. She was, uh,” a furtive glance, “blonde, too.”

  Chapter 7

  The Van Pelt Airport tucked into the Virginia countryside as anonymously as runways for private jets possibly could. Probably worried that we were late, Mike roared into the parking lot and snagged the last spot in the first row. As the dust wisped away in the breeze, I saw that we were surrounded by the same cars you’d find adjacent to a golf club’s clubhouse, just fewer of them. Blazing brighter than the early afternoon sun, the Mustang labeled us just as surely as Mike’s missing sleeve button and my shortened denim skirt. I figured I didn’t need the chewing gum, so I threw it out.

  Off to the right three long, low hangars sheltered the planes while front and center a trendy stone building protected waiting passengers from the elements. Dangling from the high ceiling inside was a small, yellow single-propeller plane, which coordinated nicely with the comfortable leather chairs grouped on the floor below. I estimated that the cost of the buttery furniture would cover the apartment deposit I needed and then some.

  Mike had mentioned that the Roitmans had a fairly young daughter who wouldn’t be with us because of school, but all four adults were present and accounted for. Judging by the debris on the short round table in front of them, they’d finished lunch from the adjacent café some time ago. Father Frank held a watery bloody Mary with a tassel of celery while the missus—Marsha was her given name—sipped at her remaining iced tea through a straw. Whether that was out of consideration for the dishwasher—her true-red lipstick could have greased a bicycle—or whether she was simply disinclined to reapply, too early to tell.

  Looking rather awestruck, Mike mumbled, “Hope we didn’t hold you up.”

  The Roitmans rustled, except for the son, who gazed out the wall of spotless windows with disinterest. I guessed him to be approaching thirty, my own age, although his body appeared to have been shaped on a squash court rather than an ordinary gym. His clothes—tailored to perfection. His nearly black hair had been brushed back, except one loose strand curled strategically over his left eye. The glance he spared me considered his chances then dismissed my indifference practiced ease. Could he be a murderer? Sure. Why not?

  “No problem,” the father addressed Mike. “Traffic through the city a bitch, was it?”

  “Yes,” Mike replied with relief.

  To suggest that I wasn’t exactly Mike’s sister I had grasped his elbow as soon as he released the suitcase handles. Then I realized the Roitmans must have met Mary at the Cleveland funeral. Also, they knew perfectly well I wasn’t Karen.

  The moment was ripe for Mike to introduce me, but he seemed to be fascinated by his shoes.

  “Hi!” I breathed into the silence. “I’m Lori, Lori Ruggles. Mike’s, uh friend. Karen couldn’t make it, so Mikey hoped you wouldn’t mind if he brought me along. Please say it’s okay. I promise I won’t eat much.”

  The Roitman patriarch closed his eyes and drew in air. His buxom wife, with her stiff upswept honey-blonde hair and heavy gold chains, pressed those red lips into a line and dropped her shoulders. Forget that she was vain and a couple powder puffs past polished; the intensity in her eyes warned me to beware. Marsha Roitman was a woman and therefore complex.

  An airport staffer sidled up and asked if he might clear the table.

  When Frank indicated his permission with the toss of his hand, the authority he exhibited reminded me of a
thug I’d arrested back on the job. Just bringing him in had required extra backup, and it took a District Attorney with the ego of Donald Trump to make the case stick. My spine stiffened just remembering the guy.

  “They have internet there, right?” Mike asked out of the blue, and Toby’s widow, Chantal, twisted around in her chair to check if he was serious.

  I patted Mike’s arm and whispered, “Yes, of course,” into his ear.

  Then Chantal addressed him with a question of her own. “Why couldn’t Karen come?”

  No response.

  “Mike?” I prompted, but judging by the roll of his jaw muscles and the tightened flesh around his eyes, this was more than a momentary distraction.

  From the outset I knew I was a varsity coach with a JV team, but it never occurred to me that my team might not show up. It appeared that my one and only ally had already left the building.

  Time for an emergency adjustment.

  Lori, the expendable, tell-her-anything, store-clerk/bimbo had to go. Like it or not, somebody from the Stoddard camp needed to exhibit enough intelligence and tact to elicit useful information from our hosts. Since Mike seemed incapable of forming a sentence right now, that left me.

  Say hello to the much more suspicious, certain to be closely scrutinized Lori Ruggles. If she were to break concentration even once and allow the Roitmans to guess her intentions, Lauren Beck just might get stranded in a strange country—or worse. I didn’t know if I was up to this new challenge, but it probably wouldn’t take long to find out.

  “Okay,” I told the waiting audience as if with resignation. “This is what’s going on. Karen opted out. Something about the Cleveland funeral being hard enough for her. Also, I think one of the kids has a cold or something.

  “And Mike,” I gestured toward him as if he were on display, “is obviously a mess over losing his brother, especially how he lost his brother, and since I care about him…” I sighed to give myself an extra second to think. “To tell you the truth, this funk he’s in scares the hell out of me, and a week in a strange place with a bunch of people who don’t really know him, no offense, didn’t seem like a real good idea, if you know what I mean. So I talked him into bringing me along, and here I am. I hope you don’t mind.”