by Jill Shure
Lisa might be right. Maybe I would be better off forgetting all about Courtney and her murderer. As long as the police and her killer forgot about me.
But just as I turned out my light and slipped beneath my comforter, something my caller had said earlier woke me. The voice was muffled like before. But this time my caller had used the expression, Watch out. An expression Courtney had often used. Like the time she saw me cram pizza in my mouth and said, Watch out or you&rsquoll get fat. Or, Watch out or you&rsquoll lose that guy. Or Watch out, or you&rsquoll never get anywhere in life. Watch out. It wasn&rsquot an unusual saying.
And yet ...
&ldquoOkay, this guy Duke is one of her creditors,&rdquo I told Jasper over the phone, as I poured cereal in a bowl for Sofia&rsquos breakfast the next morning. &ldquoShe owed him fifty grand. And he&rsquos a mean SOB. He even got tough with me.&rdquo
&ldquoOh, yeah? Want me to teach him a lesson?&rdquo
I could hear Jasper muscles flexing over the phone. &ldquoAbsolutely not. Your mother would kill me.&rdquo I pictured my Aunt Sarah sobbing to my mother on the phone, making her crazy.
&ldquoAnyway, this guy Duke better get in line for his dough. Because Courtney Farrow owed everyone from here to Tierra del Fuego from what I found out,&rdquo Jasper said.
&ldquoI don&rsquot understand. If she was so broke, why didn&rsquot she just sell her condo and the contents? That place has to be worth a million or two.&rdquo
&ldquoShe already had a second mortgage. And a personal loan of fifty thousand more. She probably owed money everywhere and was going under fast.&rdquo
&ldquoThen how did she qualify for a second mortgage?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoShe probably covered her butt by putting the fifty grand in her bank, before filling out the paperwork for the second mortgage.&rdquo
&ldquoBut banks and lending companies check. Wouldn&rsquot they find out about her outstanding debts, and her credit rating&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoMaybe. But don&rsquot forget your pal Courtney had a talent for making men do what she wanted. I met her loan officer, Stewart Glenn. Thick glasses, a receding hairline, and photos of a lumpy wife and an arthritic dog on his desk. He admitted that he bent a few rules for Miss Farrow. She probably wore a tight sweater and a short dress and got him steamed up. Then she split with the money and never looked back.&rdquo
&ldquoAll she had to do was uncross her legs and the guy fell for it,&rdquo I said, still blown away by Courtney&rsquos talent for persuasion. Whereas I couldn&rsquot persuade Ken to commit to a regular Saturday night date.
&ldquoOne more item,&rdquo Jasper said. &ldquoTurns out, Wild Bill is Andy&rsquos uncle. Seems Andy has been protecting his uncle and his own interests for some time. Let&rsquos hope Wild Bill surfaces soon. Alive.&rdquo
The following Friday evening, I parked my car across from Ken&rsquos small apartment building. Thanksgiving was a week away and the temperature inside my Prius hovered in the mid-fifties. But I needed to know what Ken was up to. After forty minutes, my feet felt like frozen juice bars. Plus, I was bored. I&rsquod already filed my nails, eaten a dozen breath mints, and typed a sales&rsquo forecast in my laptop. I was in the middle of an I Love Lucy episode on my phone when a dark shadow appeared outside my car. Before I could scream, I recognized Ken.
I lowered my window. &ldquoHi there. Hope you don&rsquot mind, but I had a late appointment nearby so I thought I&rsquod take a chance and see if you were home. I also picked up a double cheese with pineapple,&rdquo I babbled from nerves.
&ldquoOh, yeah?&rdquo He eyed the pizza box on my back seat with interest.
&ldquoExcept I got hungry and finished it.&rdquo
His face fell. &ldquoWanna come in anyway?&rdquo
&ldquoSure.&rdquo I&rsquod been driving by for weeks, expecting to catch Ken with another girl. So far, he&rsquod been a very good boy. Unless he was hiding my competition in his briefcase.
Inside, I dropped my jacket on the bar stool and casually scrutinized the place. Jeez he was neat. Not even an old newspaper spread out on the kitchen bar. But there had to be something incriminating. Like a cocktail glass with lipstick prints. An earring. A slip of paper with a female&rsquos name and number. But so far, not a darn thing.
&ldquoHow about Chinese?&rdquo he asked, dialing a number.
&ldquoGot any wine that goes with pizza and kung pao chicken?&rdquo I asked, heading into his tiny kitchen and peering into
his refrigerator. If Ken had another woman in his life, she didn&rsquot make casseroles. Unless he&rsquod eaten the evidence. But I did find two six packs of tiny wine bottles.
&ldquoRed or white?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoRed.&rdquo Holding onto the phone, Ken yanked off his shirt and tie. When he finished ordering food, he headed into the bathroom. Through the open door, I watched him scrub his face and armpits then brush his teeth. Two minutes later he emerged from his room in soft faded jeans. Shirtless, he pulled a sweatshirt over his head then dropped onto his sofa. Too bad I&rsquod already had a good look at his magnificent chest, muscled arms, and steel abs.
Cool it, I told myself. &ldquoMind if I use your bathroom?&rdquo
Ken paused from channel surfing. &ldquoGo ahead.&rdquo
Inside the bathroom, I used the facilities, flushed, then ran the sink water to blot out my digging through his medicine chest. Nothing. Not a lipstick or an extra toothbrush. Not even a lousy elastic hair band.
I emerged to find Ken engrossed in a football game. I slid beside him on the sofa and tried to ignore my inevitable amorous flutters.
Forty minutes later, after the walnut shrimp, kung pao chicken, and eggplant in plum sauce, Ken glanced over and said, &ldquoSo how&rsquove you been?&rdquo
&ldquoFine.&rdquo
&ldquoYou look good. Why&rsquore you sitting so far away?&rdquo
&ldquoAm I?&rdquo
He pulled me to him and planted a gentle one on my lips. It tasted sexy and hot. He began to fiddle with my blouse.
&ldquoWanna play Jack and the Beanstalk?&rdquo I said, undoing the top button to his jeans.
&ldquoWho am I? Jack?&rdquo
&ldquoThe giant. A very big giant. With a very big beanstalk.&rdquo
&ldquoHow big?&rdquo he asked.
&ldquoI don&rsquot know. How about I climb up first and see.&rdquo
Since Sofia was at Darcy&rsquos, I slept over.
&ldquoHow about bagels?&rdquo Ken offered the next morning.
I lay under the sheets. &ldquoSounds great.&rdquo
Minutes later, I heard his car pull away. Wrapping myself in his white terrycloth robe, I hurried to the window to make sure he was gone. Then I went to work.
Investigating Ken&rsquos desk seemed like the best place to start, since I didn&rsquot know the password on his computer. At first I dug up the usual canceled checks, tax information, and ticket stubs from a football game. But underneath a stack of bank statements, I found letters. Courtney Farrow&rsquos letters.
20
Why can&rsquot you see what you mean to me? Courtney had written in the first letter. We can work out whatever differences we have if we try hard enough. We&rsquove never given ourselves the chance to truly know each other.
The second letter included a picture of her posing in lingerie. It looked like a glamour shot she&rsquod paid for.
I know how you feel about me. How you see me. Why fight it? We aren&rsquot children. We have a right to do as we wish. Your friend never has to find out. Meet me at home Sunday night. I can order dinner. French or Italian? Anything you like. We won&rsquot focus on business. Let&rsquos just give ourselves permission to enjoy the time we&rsquore blessed with, she wrote in her last letter.
I heard a car door slam. I heard the crinkle of a shopping bag. I stuffed the letters back in the top drawer and shut it. Grabbing my clothes, I raced into the bathroom. After locking the door, I ran the shower. A gnawing fear filled my insides. Because Courtney had been a master at breaking down men, wearing out their defenses. I had yet to meet o
ne who hadn&rsquot succumbed to her seductive efforts. So how far had she gotten with Ken? What did those letters mean?
Minutes later, I slid onto a bar stool beside Ken at the kitchen counter.
&ldquoAren&rsquot you eating?&rdquo he asked, slathering cream cheese over a bagel, then taking a huge bite.
I shook my head and took a deep breath. &ldquoI have to ask you something. And I need you to be honest. Were you in love with Courtney Farrow?&rdquo
Ken stopped chewing and swallowed. He took a long swallow of orange juice from a plastic bottle. &ldquoWhat&rsquore you talking about?&rdquo
&ldquoI read your letters.&rdquo
&ldquoWhich letters?&rdquo
&ldquoThe ones from Ulysses S. Grant. Which letters do you think I&rsquom talking about?&rdquo
&ldquoI have no idea. Fill me in.&rdquo
First I handed him the one Tabitha had found in Courtney&rsquos purse.
He breezed through the officious letter. &ldquoSo?&rdquo
I studied him. &ldquoI also read the ones in your desk.&rdquo
He studied me, his expression unreadable. &ldquoFirst, I don&rsquot recall what her letters said. But they can&rsquot imply much. And I refuse to let your misconceptions turn into a big deal.&rdquo
&ldquoSo you don&rsquot deny&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoWait a sec. Let me explain something. She meant nothing to me. Zero.&rdquo
Apparently this was one number Courtney had right in her book. &ldquoSo, you mean&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoWhy can&rsquot you leave it alone?&rdquo
&ldquoBecause by my count, she went after three guys I dated, counting you. Because you told me months ago that you never had anything to do with her. That she was trash. And I believed you.&rdquo
&ldquoOkay, if it&rsquos the truth you want. Here goes.&rdquo
The air seemed trapped in my lungs. I couldn&rsquot breathe. I gripped the bar and waited for one hell of an ugly confession.
&ldquoI never wanted her or her business,&rdquo he said.
&ldquoHer business?&rdquo
&ldquoInsurance. You remember, life, health, and disability with a little homeowners thrown in.&rdquo
&ldquoBut you sold her a policy.&rdquo
&ldquoOnly because she hounded me. She started bugging me about it as soon as we met. First she wanted estate planning. Then when you and I ran into her again at&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoOur Christmas party.&rdquo
&ldquoShe wanted life insurance. I figured the insurance was a ruse, a way of seducing me. Her overtures weren&rsquot hard to read. So I told her I wasn&rsquot taking on any new clients. But she wouldn&rsquot back off. She called my assistant again and again. So, as your letter indicates, she applied for a life insurance policy with my firm. And the night she disappeared, we had an appointment to complete her application. I went there and waited. She never showed.&rdquo
&ldquoAnd that&rsquos everything? The whole truth?&rdquo
&ldquoLook, I never got involved with her. I couldn&rsquot.&rdquo
&ldquoCouldn&rsquot? Why? Because of me?&rdquo
&ldquoNo, because after you and I broke up, I started seeing someone else.&rdquo
21
As Ida would say: I plotzed. This explained so much. Five months of silence. Weekends without a phone call. I pictured her. Tall, slim, big tits, blonde hair down her back. And a generous hand with a mascara wand and lip gloss. Not to mention a double-jointed jaw.
&ldquoWhat&rsquos her name?&rdquo Dumb question. But at least I was breathing again.
&ldquoCynthia.&rdquo
&ldquoYoung, old, pretty, homely? What?&rdquo
&ldquoSmart, a good sense of humor, slightly older.&rdquo
&ldquoHow much older?&rdquo
&ldquoAbout six years.&rdquo
&ldquoAre you in love?&rdquo
He chuckled.
I could&rsquove wiped that smirk off his face with an axe.
&ldquoI met her after you and I broke up. We went out for about six weeks. Until she moved back east for her job. That was it.&rdquo
&ldquoDo you still email her? Or call?&rdquo
&ldquoShe got remarried.&rdquo
Thank you, God. &ldquoOkay, but what kept you from falling for Courtney?&rdquo
&ldquoCourtney never stood a chance with me.&rdquo
&ldquoIf that&rsquos true, why save her letters? And how come she acted so possessive at my party? She must&rsquove had a reason.&rdquo
&ldquoStill don&rsquot trust me, huh?&rdquo Sighing, he actually managed to look wounded.
&ldquoI want to but ...&rdquo
&ldquoShe was a snake. I had her number the first time she showed up at some event you and your friends had.&rdquo
&ldquoOur Halloween party.&rdquo
&ldquoShe had a cheap, obvious way of trying to seduce a man. Maybe the lonely guys, the ones desperate to get laid; or the married men looking for excitement found her enticing. Have I ever seemed stupid or desperate to you?&rdquo
&ldquoNo, but&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoShe was also dead jealous of you.&rdquo
&ldquoYou&rsquore crazy.&rdquo
&ldquoYou have friends, a nice family, a good job, an education, and a daughter you adore. You&rsquore naturally stunning. In short, you&rsquore everything she wasn&rsquot.&rdquo
Okay, he was deluded. But I liked his answer. In fact, his words made me feel like a lava lamp, all hot and molten inside. Not that his words came close to a marriage proposal. Or even a long-term commitment.
If I were selling an insurance policy and gave my clients a choice between a policy that might pay off based on the company&rsquos whim or a guaranteed policy that would leave them financially secure for life, nobody would choose the first one. But this was my predicament. And this wouldn&rsquot be my first time playing this kind of roulette, starting with Spencer, then Tommy, and now Ken. All of them handsome, selfish, and unwilling to be responsible for anyone but themselves.
And I still hadn&rsquot asked Ken why he hardly asked me out Saturday nights. But I did invite him over for Thanksgiving which was the following week. He gladly accepted and also called me before lunch to invite me to dinner. But three hours later, he called back to cancel.
&ldquoI&rsquom at the downtown police station. Detective Raines has questions for me about Courtney.&rdquo
Meaning the police also suspected Ken and Courtney of being more than bridge partners.
I made the mistake of letting Sofia hear my conversation with Ken over the phone, so that she hardly ate a thing at dinner. Instead, she glumly pushed her lamb chops and potatoes around her plate. &ldquoIs he still coming for Thanksgiving?&rdquo she asked.
&ldquoI hope so.&rdquo
&ldquoDid you really ask him? And tell him about all the good stuff we&rsquore having. Like turkey and mashed potatoes and&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoOf course I did.&rdquo
&ldquoOh. Well, when is he getting out? Or is he going to jail forever?&rdquo
&ldquoAbsolutely not. The police just want to ask him a few questions. They&rsquoll probably let him out later tonight.&rdquo I hoped. If only I could find Wild Bill McDade, the key to this thing.
&ldquoCan I go to my room?&rdquo Sofia asked.
&ldquoSure. But finish your homework before you watch TV or call Darcy.&rdquo
Sofia headed toward her bedroom. Before she got there, our doorbell rang, startling us.
I stared, startled. &ldquoWho is it?&rdquo I demanded.
&ldquoTommy.&rdquo
Sofia&rsquos least favorite person in the world. Ever since she saw him kiss me.
&ldquoHoney, why don&rsquot you start your homework, and I&rsquoll bring you milk and cookies later,&rdquo I said, hoping to mollify her.
Instead, Sofia glared at me and the door. &ldquoIt&rsquos that guy Tommy, isn&rsquot it. The one you kissed. I bet you love him. I bet that&rsquos why Ken and you aren&rsquot getting married.&rdquo
Which proves how innocent Sofia still is.
&ldquoJust a minute,&rdquo I yelled th
rough the door. &ldquoI had no idea he was stopping by,&rdquo I hissed to Sofia.
&ldquoThen how come you yelled at me yesterday for eating too many cookies? But it&rsquos okay now?&rdquo
The bell rang again. &ldquoYou&rsquore right. Forget the cookies.&rdquo I undid all four locks, wondering if I was letting in Hannibal Lecter. But there stood Tommy, handsome as ever.
&ldquoSorry I didn&rsquot call first. I was nearby and thought you wouldn&rsquot mind,&rdquo he said.
I waved him in, wishing I&rsquod at least had time to comb my hair and slap on lipstick. Or straighten up the mess.
&ldquoHoney, you remember Tommy,&rdquo I chirped to Sofia, forcing a grin.
&ldquoYou bet I do,&rdquo she snapped. With a haughty toss of her head, she marched to her room and slammed her door so hard, the whole building shook.
&ldquoShe&rsquos gonna be a real heartbreaker one day,&rdquo Tommy said, flashing an uncertain smile. Without an invitation, he strolled into my living room and settled on the sofa.
Ten minutes later, hanging onto a glass of cheap California brandy and a wad of tissues, he babbled on about Courtney. &ldquo... I can&rsquot stop thinking about her. I go to bed every night wishing ... wishing she was beside me.&rdquo
I could&rsquove slapped him. I was sick of everyone treating me like a mildewed rag while they waxed on about Courtney Farrow, Wonder Slut. But what I said was, &ldquoBeen keeping up with the Chargers lately?&rdquo
Confusion covered Tommy&rsquos face. &ldquoGuess I&rsquove been too upset to focus on football. The thing is ... and I wouldn&rsquot admit this to just anyone&mdashI&rsquom afraid the police suspect me. See, I wrote her this letter. And it might&rsquove sounded a little confusing.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat did it say?&rdquo Too bad I hadn&rsquot found his letter and read it.
&ldquoI wrote that Courtney wasn&rsquot dead. Not at first anyway.&rdquo
22
My heart pounded. &ldquoBut you&rsquore sure she&rsquos dead now?&rdquo