by Jill Shure
&ldquoOh, yeah.&rdquo
Staring down at my carpet, which needed shampooing, I wondered why he was opening his soul to me. Unless he meant to make sure I never shared his story with anyone else. I combed the area for a weapon. But the clay dish Sofia made at summer camp would break. The lamp was plugged into an extension cord and buried behind the sofa. And my taser was across the room in my purse. And I couldn&rsquot think of a single excuse to go get it.
&ldquoMaybe I should explain a few things,&rdquo he said. &ldquoSee, Sunday night, the night after your party, after Courtney stood me up, I drove over to her place. When I got there, Ken was hanging around outside. I guess I got jealous.&rdquo
&ldquoJealous? Why?&rdquo Maybe Tommy had seen Courtney and Ken through the window doing something interesting. And I didn&rsquot mean baking bread.
&ldquoGuess I got jealous. I mean, I suspected she saw other guys.&rdquo
&ldquoBut what about Ken and her?&rdquo I persisted, trying not to levitate off the floor.
&ldquoHe was just hanging outside her door. I hid in the shadows across the street and watched him. He stuck around for about twenty minutes then took off. Guess I fell asleep. When I woke around midnight, she still wasn&rsquot home.&rdquo
She was probably still at work, bleeding one of her other backers dry. Or squeezing through the filthy bathroom window. &ldquoAnd you were jealous about seeing Ken there?&rdquo
&ldquoOf course. I intended to propose.&rdquo
&ldquoGee, it seems everyone but my Great Aunt Rhea was there,&rdquo I quipped to cover my turbulent emotions. Fear in case Tommy had put an end to Courtney&rsquos philandering by lighting her on fire. Confirmation about where Ken had been that Sunday night. And finally, fear.
&ldquoHow about some coffee?&rdquo I suggested, rising. This way, if I couldn&rsquot get my taser, I could toss scalding decaf at him. Or defend myself with a steak knife.
&ldquoWait.&rdquo He grabbed my wrist. &ldquoJust hear me out. The truth is, we&rsquod broken up recently&mdasha temporary thing. A stupid misunderstanding.&rdquo
&ldquoThese things happen,&rdquo I said, forcing myself to sound calm as I plastered a sympathetic look on my face, peeled his fingers off my wrist, and escaped to my kitchen. Too bad he followed me.
While filling my coffee maker, I stared longingly at the dining room table where my taser was hidden in my purse. And at my wall phone on the other side of the kitchen bar. But I couldn&rsquot think of a reasonable excuse to use my phone or hunt through my purse. Not without arousing Tommy&rsquos suspicions. But I did manage to bury a carving knife under a dish towel, in case Tommy decided I&rsquod be less trouble as a pot roast.
&ldquoWhat was your fight about?&rdquo I asked, pulling out mugs.
Tommy&rsquos expression became wary. &ldquoThis is pretty personal stuff. Can I trust you?&rdquo
&ldquoTommy, you and I go way back. We&rsquove been friends for years. And I wouldn&rsquot dream of betraying you,&rdquo I said, surreptitiously running my fingers over the twelve-inch serrated blade, while gazing innocently into his sparkling blue eyes. &ldquoIt&rsquos time you trusted someone.&rdquo
&ldquoIt had to do with some money she needed. I told her I couldn&rsquot give her anymore,&rdquo he said.
I widened my eyes. &ldquoMoney?&rdquo
&ldquoShe never told you?&rdquo
&ldquoNever,&rdquo I said, placing the milk and sugar by the coffee mugs.
&ldquoJust before your party she told me she was broke. She was always dressed like a million bucks. But she was always short, too. She&rsquod claim her check from home was late. Or her trust fund was screwed up, because interest rates were down and her investments weren&rsquot doing well. And she&rsquod ask me to pitch in. But I&rsquod already spent a small fortune on her. Gifts, trips, jewelry. So I turned her down. And the next thing I know, she&rsquos avoiding me. She tells me we should cool it. I tried to reason with her. But she refused to see me or even take my calls. So I finally wrote her this letter. I never wrote a girl that kind of thing before.&rdquo
Too bad I&rsquod missed this mighty tome. It probably had more twists and turns than Great Expectations.
&ldquoBut she still didn&rsquot respond,&rdquo he said. &ldquoSo one night I got desperate. I waited outside her place and followed her to this club. Turned out she worked there as a stripper. I didn&rsquot even know she had a job.&rdquo
Join the club.
He stared at my kitchen floor. &ldquoI pleaded with her. Told her we needed to see each other, figure things out. I mean, nobody else looked good to me anymore. But she put me off.&rdquo
Probably the only girl who&rsquod ever put Tommy off. &ldquoWhy didn&rsquot you tell anyone this before?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoGuess I was embarrassed. I thought it made me look ... guilty.&rdquo
&ldquoBut you must&rsquove made up at our party that Saturday night. Because you planned to propose the next night.&rdquo
&ldquoYeah, well, everything seemed fine after the party. We went to her place and spent the night.&rdquo
&ldquoDid you offer to help her out with more money?&rdquo
His face turned red.
&ldquoHow much?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoJust a few thousand. Guess I could&rsquove managed more, but I&rsquod just given her almost four grand.&rdquo
The figure in the lizard book had been 3800. Courtney&rsquos accounting methods sucked.
&ldquoThat Sunday morning, we made plans for dinner,&rdquo he said.
&ldquoWhich was when you planned to propose and give her the money, right?&rdquo
He nodded. &ldquoI needed to withdraw some of my savings first.&rdquo
By now, a laundry list of questions plagued me. Did Courtney take Tommy home Saturday night because Ken didn&rsquot bite? Had she ever really cared for Tommy? Were her motives strictly mercenary? And if she needed his dough so desperately, why stand him up Sunday night? Unless she had bigger problems to deal with at work. Like Duke and his pals. But why had she arranged for so many things on the same evening? Tommy, Ken, and pole dancing?
I poured Tommy coffee and offered him a cookie. &ldquoDid Courtney say anything to indicate she was in danger Saturday night at my party?&rdquo
&ldquoNot a word. Anyway, I never heard from her Sunday night or the next day. I was a wreck. So that Monday night I drove over to the club where she worked. The bartender said she&rsquod been in the night before, but she wasn&rsquot booked that evening. I asked around but no one seemed to know or care where she was. I panicked.
I knew she needed money. And I was suddenly afraid. So I called the police again. I felt like someone had cut off a part of me.&rdquo
Everything below his waist.
&ldquoBut a few days after she disappeared, she called me. She made me swear not to tell anyone I&rsquod heard from her. Especially the police. She said something awful had happened. She was hiding out and needed my help. It had to do with this Mexican man. She planned to meet him at her place, so she could end things quietly. Without anyone else interfering.&rdquo
&ldquoLike his wife?&rdquo I said
Tommy nodded. &ldquoCourtney was terrified of her. Said the woman had threatened to kill her. Several times. She needed the husband to back off, too. Apparently, he&rsquod been stalking her for months.&rdquo
&ldquoWhy didn&rsquot she go to the police?&rdquo
&ldquoWith her looks and that job, who&rsquod help her out?&rdquo
Not to mention a prison term for blackmail. &ldquoGo on.&rdquo
&ldquoShe needed my help to convince the guy to go home to his wife.&rdquo
&ldquoBy any chance, was this guy&rsquos name Tranquillo?&rdquo I asked.
His eyes briefly widened. &ldquoI asked her why she&rsquod never mentioned him before. She said she was afraid I wouldn&rsquot want her. I promised I&rsquod talk to the guy. We agreed to meet in the morning to plan how we&rsquod work it. But she never showed. I was frantic. She&rsquod totally disappeared again. Then a day or two later the police found her body in that garage, burned beyond reco
gnition. I went crazy. I thought ...&rdquo He covered his constricted face with his hands. &ldquo... I could&rsquove saved her. I&rsquom sure it was the Mexican&rsquos wife. Especially after the police found the guy&rsquos body in Courtney&rsquos condo.&rdquo
Tommy&rsquos emotional breakdown was annoying but informative. Mrs. Tranquillo had a strong motive for punishing Courtney and her philandering husband Miguel. But why kill him at Courtney&rsquos place? Unless she&rsquod discovered him there and gone into some sort of rage. But why? After all, Courtney had been dead for quite a while before I stumbled onto Miguel Tranquillo&rsquos corpse.
&ldquoAfter they found Courtney,&rdquo Tommy added, &ldquoI got scared about my love letter. I knew the police would find it. And they&rsquod think I did something to her.&rdquo He stared into space. &ldquoKnow what keeps running through my mind&mdashand I wouldn&rsquot admit this to just anyone. I keep wondering if she just wanted me for my money.&rdquo
I patted his hand, thinking, You poor schmuck. You never had enough. &ldquoI&rsquom sure she loved you for yourself.&rdquo I glanced at my watch. &ldquoForgive me, but it&rsquos a school night. I need to get Sofia ready for bed. Call me if you think of something else.&rdquo
He abruptly stared into my face. &ldquoThanks for listening.&rdquo In a flash, he grabbed me and covered my mouth with his, as he crushed me against my microwave. His sudden move caught me off guard. I tried to pull away, but he was strong. Capable of bench pressing an ox. At last, I wrenched free. Breathing hard, I pointed to the door. &ldquoYou need to leave. Now.&rdquo
Hanging his head, Tommy headed out my door with a final, &ldquoSorry.&rdquo
Later on, alone in bed, I thought about him. Maybe he really did miss Courtney. But he certainly hadn&rsquot been transformed by love.
&infin&infin&infin
&ldquoYou mean you haven&rsquot found William McDade either?&rdquo I said to Suzie over the phone the next morning.
&ldquoSomeone claiming to be McDade calls constantly. But when we call him back, he&rsquos gone. No voice mail, no answering machine. Then there&rsquos the death shit,&rdquo Suzie added, wetting my appetite for something really horrific.
&ldquoWhat death shit?&rdquo
&ldquoWe still don&rsquot know whose burnt ass that was. Not for sure. Coulda been Courtney Farrow&rsquos, or some old bitch from down the hall. I mean, there&rsquos nothing concrete yet. No DNA, no available dental records. Just a few personal mementos. Like her underwear, driver&rsquos license, and jewelry.&rdquo
Which included my earrings.
By late morning, I&rsquod left Ken several phone messages and a couple of urgent emails. When he didn&rsquot respond, I decided to skip lunch and head down to the police station to see if I could help.
The main police station sits near the new ballpark in a growing part of downtown where new construction has exploded.
At the front desk, I asked for Detective Raines.
&ldquoBack on your left,&rdquo the officer behind the information desk said.
Hearing me, Raines glanced up from his computer.
&ldquoMs. Ross.&rdquo
Before I even took a seat, I dove into my story. &ldquo... so you have to believe me. Ken Blanchard did not hurt Courtney Farrow. He couldn&rsquot have. He&rsquos incapable of&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoMiss Ross &mdash&rdquo
&ldquoHe tried to sell her insurance. She already applied for at least six policies over the past six months and&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoWe have a witness.&rdquo
I sank into the chair opposite Raines&rsquo desk. &ldquoA witness?&rdquo
&ldquoA witness who saw Blanchard at Miss Farrow&rsquos place right before she turned up missing.&rdquo
Tommy? &ldquoOkay, but Ken was there about insurance. And how do you know this witness is reliable? How do you know that he or she didn&rsquot kill Courtney? Because Ken Blanchard could never hurt a woman. His biggest problem is that he adores them. Believe me, he prefers them simmering to barbecued.&rdquo
&ldquoYou admitted yourself that he wasn&rsquot with you that Sunday night.&rdquo
&ldquoFor heaven&rsquos sake, didn&rsquot you ever see Double Indemnity or Body Heat? Can&rsquot you see that Courtney Farrow staged this?&rdquo
&ldquoFred McMurray and Barbara Stanwyck. A good film. Who was in the other one?&rdquo
&ldquoKathleen Turner and William Hurt. Look, my company just told me your own police department isn&rsquot sure the body in that garage was Courtney Farrow,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoI respect your desire to protect a friend, Miss Ross. But if Courtney Farrow didn&rsquot die in that garage, who did?&rdquo
&ldquoRonald MacDonald for all I know. But I can tell you this: You&rsquove got a trunk full of clothes Courtney wouldn&rsquot be caught dead in. Not if she was destined for a Mississippi chain gang. They were too dated, too old, too out of style. She fooled you just like she fooled every other chump who loved her. She batted her eyelashes and lured them in. Then she plunged her greedy hands in their pockets. Look, right before she disappeared she bought a fortune in insurance. Why? Because she loved her aunt? Hell no. They hated each other. No, Courtney expected to share the money with her boss, William McDade, aka Wild Bill McDade, a compulsive gambler. A guy up to his Adam&rsquos apple in debts and about to lose everything but his toothbrush. Which included his topless club Dancin&rsquo Beauties, where Courtney worked as a stripper. And I don&rsquot know who died in that garage. And I don&rsquot know how Courtney rigged all this. I&rsquom just an insurance salesperson. But I do know when something isn&rsquot kosher.&rdquo Having said it, I suddenly felt it was true. That Courtney Farrow really had faked her own death. And secured enough appointments that Sunday night to complicate her disappearance.
Raines seemed to be listening.
&ldquoI&rsquove met a few of her victims,&rdquo I said. &ldquoMen who fell for her. Men who had their insides kicked out when she threatened to expose them. Unless they paid.&rdquo
&ldquoWhich might very well be your friend Ken&rsquos motive.&rdquo
&ldquoRidiculous. First, Ken&rsquos a single man. So who would Courtney expose him to? His mother? Second, he makes a damn good living. And third, he never loved her. He saw through the plastic surgery and artificial exterior. To him, she was strictly business.&rdquo I hoped.
&ldquoPoint taken. Then who do you believe died in that garage?&rdquo
&ldquoIf I knew, I&rsquod tell you. But one thing I do know: Wild Bill McDade is missing. He has yet to show up to claim his insurance benefits.&rdquo
Raines studied me. &ldquoMs. Ross, you&rsquove been interfering with police business from the start.&rdquo Raines opened his desk and pulled out the lizard book. &ldquoI got this in the mail. Care to explain it?&rdquo
Heart racing, I stared down at that little book, hoping Raines couldn&rsquot read faces. Or I&rsquod soon be getting an internal from some matron with a heavy beard and hangnails. &ldquoWhat is it?&rdquo
He studied me. &ldquoA phonebook. With codes. Someone sent it to me.&rdquo
I stayed quiet. Let him think what he wanted.
&ldquoWhat makes you so fired up to intercede for Blanchard?&rdquo he asked, changing the subject.
&ldquoBecause you&rsquore pointing a finger at the wrong guy. Because I plan to marry Ken Blanchard. As soon as I can persuade him to ask me. Also, my company isn&rsquot wild about paying off a five-hundred-thousand-dollar insurance claim for Courtney Farrow. A woman who took out over two million bucks worth of insurance coverage a year before she supposedly met her maker. And then left every cent of it to her boss. A man with no insurable interest in her. A man who seems to have vanished.&rdquo
Raines suddenly sighed. &ldquoWell ... Blanchard should be released soon. He was just being questioned for now. But you better get him a good lawyer&mdashin case.&rdquo
Minutes later, outside the police station, I called Arlene at home. She&rsquod been released from the hospital yesterday. But she didn&rsquot answer her landline or cell phone. And I desperately wanted to talk to her. Now.
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&ldquoYou&rsquore onto something,&rdquo Jasper said over the phone later that day. &ldquoI&rsquove spoken to the police twice. Reading between the lines, that wasn&rsquot Courtney&rsquos body in the garage.&rdquo
&ldquoIs this definite?&rdquo
&ldquoNothing&rsquos definite yet. I already notified the other companies who insured Courtney that they should wait to pay off. They&rsquove all been getting frantic calls from someone who claims to be William McDade.&rdquo
&ldquoHe&rsquos been all over my company, too,&rdquo I said.
I couldn&rsquot help congratulating myself on being right. Of course, dozens of people would be disappointed to find out Courtney wasn&rsquot dead. Everyone from Arlene to Davy Spunkhoffer. Because after people got past her looks, Courtney was pure misery. No one liked her. Not her friends, lovers, bosses, or her own aunt. Only Tommy seemed heartbroken. But his heart would mend. Quickly, too.
&ldquoEven Jasper thinks I&rsquom onto something,&rdquo I explained to Lisa, seated in her office in an effort to keep her up to date on my findings. &ldquoWhat&rsquos more, my threatening caller used the expression watch out. That&rsquos Courtney&rsquos expression.&rdquo
&ldquoIt&rsquos not exactly Sanskrit. Everybody uses that expression,&rdquo Lisa said. &ldquoEspecially when they&rsquore making a threat.&rdquo
&ldquoBut what if she orchestrated this whole thing?&rdquo
&ldquoBetsy, there was a body. Remember? Fried like a pork chop.&rdquo
&ldquoBut the notes, the phone calls. Only Courtney would&rsquove known Arlene and I took her stuff&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoWhy fake her own death?&rdquo Lisa asked.
&ldquoMoney. What else? We now know she wasn&rsquot born dripping in diamonds. And she would&rsquove sold her soul to be rich.&rdquo
Lisa sighed. &ldquoThen who died in that garage?&rdquo
&ldquoI have no idea.&rdquo
&ldquoGet help, Betsy. I mean it. This has gone entirely too far&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoBut what if I&rsquom right? What if that&rsquos why Duke doesn&rsquot buy her death?&rdquo
&ldquoYou&rsquore taking the ravings of a steroid-abusing asshole to mean something? Exactly when do you plan to get serious about your life?&rdquo