by Jill Shure
&ldquoI am serious. But the man I love has been dragged downtown for questioning, which is a complete miscarriage of justice&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoI mean your job, Sofia, and your friends. You hardly work anymore. Sofia spends half her life with a babysitter she hates. And you&rsquore willing to risk your life and everyone else&rsquos to dig into this mess? Well, the other night was the end for me. From now on, either show up prepared to give one hundred percent to your job or don&rsquot bother coming in.&rdquo
I blinked, feeling shocked again by Lisa&rsquos harsh words. A deadly silence filled the moment. Was I neglecting Sofia? Part of me wanted to argue. To say: Hey, I just turned in five policies. Small ones, yes, but they were real business. But Lisa was right. If I hadn&rsquot pursued Courtney&rsquos killer, no one would be threatening me. And my income would be three times better.
So even if Courtney was alive, lurking in the wings, waiting to steal Ken and ruin my life, I intended to stay on track and support Sofia.
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&ldquoTake your pick. A bath or a shower?&rdquo I told Sofia that evening, as I changed into my robe. &ldquoI&rsquoll be happy to read to you in the tub.&rdquo
&ldquoMother, I don&rsquot smell.&rdquo
&ldquoYou will tomorrow if you don&rsquot bathe tonight.&rdquo
Minutes later, while Sofia played in the tub, I sat on the toilet to keep her company.
&ldquoMrs. Odetts has hemorrhoids,&rdquo Sofia said, playing with bubbles. &ldquoShe told me all about them.&rdquo
I laughed. &ldquoShe did, huh.&rdquo
Sofia giggled. &ldquoThen she told me about her son who finally got a job but got fired.&rdquo
&ldquoThe poor woman has problems. What do you want for lunch tomorrow?&rdquo
&ldquoDon&rsquot bother. They&rsquore having pizza at school. Now, tell me about Ken?&rdquo
&ldquoHe should be out of jail by now. But if you&rsquore expecting a marriage proposal, forget it. It still hasn&rsquot come up.&rdquo
She sighed. &ldquoGuess I&rsquoll get out now.&rdquo She sounded glum. I usually had to use threats and bribes to get her out of the water.
Helping her dry off, I said, &ldquoHoney, we&rsquore fine the way we are. It would be nice to have Ken in the family. But we don&rsquot need him or any man to make us happy. We have each other.&rdquo
&ldquoBut I won&rsquot always be with you. And then you&rsquoll be alone like Mrs. Odetts.&rdquo
&ldquoThat&rsquos years away. Don&rsquot rush this growing up stuff either. We have time. I plan to keep you around until you&rsquore at least forty.&rdquo
&ldquoMother!&rdquo
&ldquoSure, they just passed a new law.&rdquo She put on her robe then sat on my lap. &ldquoFirst, you&rsquoll go to college and make friends. And then you&rsquoll come back to live with me.&rdquo
&ldquoFat chance.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat do you mean, fat chance?&rdquo
&ldquoI&rsquom going to be a famous plastic surgeon and make tons of money.&rdquo
&ldquoGood. I hope you&rsquoll help poor people, too.&rdquo
&ldquoYeah, I&rsquoll fly around the world and help deformed kids and stuff.&rdquo
I kissed her and she hugged me back.
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The next morning, I watched Arlene get from her kitchen to her family room sofa by using crutches. Soap opera music filled the house. Cookies, salsa, corn chips, diet soda, and a bowl of melted cheese rested on the coffee table.
&ldquoToo many things don&rsquot add up,&rdquo I said, munching on a salty corn chip.
&ldquoSo if Courtney didn&rsquot die, who did? And where is she now?&rdquo Arlene asked.
&ldquoWish I knew.&rdquo
&ldquoIt&rsquos like a fucking movie. It Walks Among Us.&rdquo
&ldquoOr The Slut that Wouldn&rsquot Die,&rdquo I added.
And suddenly we were cackling like crazy and it was exactly like old times.
That afternoon I waited for Ken outside the police station. Minutes later, Ken trudged out a side door. When he spotted me waiting, his step quickened and relief flooded his face.
&ldquoYou&rsquore coming home with me,&rdquo I said. &ldquoWe have the place to ourselves. Sofia&rsquos at her friend&rsquos for the night.&rdquo
In the car, Ken leaned over and kissed my cheek. &ldquoI don&rsquot know what you told them in there, but thanks.&rdquo
&ldquo... According to Jasper, they can&rsquot have any real proof or you&rsquod have been charged by now,&rdquo I told Ken that evening as I cleared dinner dishes off the dining room table. &ldquoI also showed them this.&rdquo I held out Jasper&rsquos list of companies that had insured Courtney. &ldquoSee, here&rsquos your name. I insisted you went over to Courtney&rsquos that Sunday night for a signature, nothing more. I told Raines I&rsquod testify that you had an unfinished policy application.&rdquo
Standing, he crossed to me, took me in his arms, and gently kissed me on the lips. &ldquoI owe you for this one. Feel like playing doctor?&rdquo he said.
&ldquoOkay. But tonight I&rsquom a back patient convalescing from surgery. And you&rsquore my hunky physical therapist.&rdquo
&ldquoDo I get to oil you up?&rdquo he asked, nibbling on my ear.
&ldquoDoes Exxon pump gas?&rdquo
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&ldquoCall you later. Let&rsquos plan something for this weekend,&rdquo Ken said the next morning, just before he shoved the last piece of toast in his mouth and stood poised to dash out the door.
&ldquoWait just a second. You&rsquore coming for Thanksgiving tonight, remember?&rdquo
His face lit up. &ldquoI almost forgot.&rdquo
&ldquoWell, make sure you don&rsquot forget. Sofia won&rsquot be as forgiving as I am.&rdquo
Thanksgiving was so much fun, Ken&rsquos arrest and Courtney&rsquos murder faded behind football games, singing, TV, and way too much food.
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&ldquoBut I thought we couldn&rsquot pay off the beneficiary because Courtney lied on her application,&rdquo I told Suzie over the phone at the office the following Monday. &ldquoBecause of her felony conviction for blackmailing that old guy. And&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoBetsy, honey, I&rsquom just doin&rsquo what I been told to,&rdquo Suzie said. &ldquoWhich is whatever Mr. Evans wants. He says Aloss hasn&rsquot seen any evidence that Courtney Farrow is alive. And the police are only speculating. Besides, that guy McDade, her beneficiary, has been callin&rsquo nonstop for a week. Anyway, I got the paperwork today.&rdquo
&ldquoBut Aloss can&rsquot pay off. Courtney Farrow is probably here in San Diego this very minute screwing the eyeballs out of somebody else&rsquos husband.&rdquo
&ldquoHoney, it ain&rsquot my idea. They got their own ways of figuring things out around here. Evans said we don&rsquot want a lawsuit every time someone meets the Almighty. Cause it hurts the company&rsquos image.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat does Evans know about insurance? He&rsquos only been president of Aloss for six weeks, and he came from an electronics firm.&rdquo
&ldquoBut no one has proven otherwise,&rdquo Suzie said softly.
&ldquoBut in a few days, maybe even a few hours, the truth will come out. How can Evans be willing to make such a huge mistake? Does he even have a death certificate?&rdquo
&ldquoI only know what I been told. I&rsquom guessing Evans has what he needs. Or he&rsquos expecting to get it later today.&rdquo
&ldquoCan&rsquot you hold things up a little?&rdquo
She sighed. &ldquoHow little?&rdquo
&ldquoA few days. A week.&rdquo
&ldquoNo.&rdquo
&ldquoOkay then a few hours, a few measly hours,&rdquo I argued. I heard Suzie moving around. I pictured her studying a calendar.
&ldquoToday&rsquos Monday,&rdquo she said. &ldquoThat check&rsquos supposed to go out tomorrow at the latest.&rdquo
&ldquoCan&rsquot you lose it? Misplace it? Or flush it?&rdquo
&ldquoNot if I want to keep my job.&rdquo
&ldquoLook, I know this isn&rsquot your doing b
ut&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoHold on a sec. I gotta make sure Big Ears, the guy in the next cubicle, ain&rsquot listening.&rdquo
I waited.
&ldquoBest I can do,&rdquo she said softly, &ldquois put it on the bottom of the pile. Postpone it a day or two.&rdquo
&ldquoThanks. You&rsquore the best. One more thing: Where&rsquos the benefit check going?&rdquo
&ldquoA San Ysidro address.&rdquo
&ldquoMcDade&rsquos?&rdquo
&ldquoI guess so.&rdquo
&ldquoNever mind holding onto it. Just send me the check. I sold Courtney the policy. And no one can squawk if I deliver the check myself.&rdquo
&ldquoHoney, you and I go way back. But you can&rsquot mess around with this stuff. This guy McDade needs to endorse that check and deposit it.&rdquo
&ldquoNo problem. I swear.&rdquo
&ldquoYou&rsquoll deliver it right away?&rdquo
&ldquoOn my oath as an agent.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat oath? All right, you&rsquoll get the check. Just don&rsquot make me look bad.&rdquo
McDade&rsquos check for half a million showed up on Friday. Since McDade still hadn&rsquot made an appearance, Ken and I got up early the next morning, loaded McDade&rsquos supposed address into my GPS, and headed south. On the way, we stopped for breakfast burritos then continued down to San Ysidro, which is within spitting distance of Mexico.
&ldquoI&rsquod just like to meet McDade once,&rdquo I said. &ldquoBy the way, thanks for coming today.&rdquo
Ken gave me a sexy look. &ldquoMy pleasure. I wouldn&rsquot mind meeting McDade myself. He has a lot of explaining to do. Like where he&rsquos been.&rdquo
The apartment complex turned out to be large, new, and attractive. We parked on the street nearby and slipped inside the gated community when another tenant exited. Several minutes later, we located unit 12H on the first floor. McDade&rsquos place.
Ken rang the bell. We waited for an answer. Ken rang again with the same result. Finally, Ken hammered loudly enough to cause several tenants to peer out their doors before bolting their locks.
&ldquoFollow me,&rdquo Ken said.
We circled around back to a tiny terrace that didn&rsquot have a single plant or chair. Using a plastic credit card, Ken opened the sliding glass door.
&ldquoI don&rsquot like this,&rdquo I said, as we slipped inside.
At least Arlene and I had used Courtney&rsquos key when we broke into her place.
Plus the apartment smelled bad. A lot like Courtney&rsquos place had when I found Tranquillo&rsquos corpse. Maybe this place really did have a backed up sewer. Otherwise, the apartment was empty. No furniture, no paintings, no dishes, no cornflakes, no salt and pepper. The unit had the typical built-ins in the kitchen and the usual cheap chandelier in the dining room. Brochures sat on the floor by the front door. One for a cleaning service and the other for storage rentals nearby. There was a box of plastic bags on the counter and a new roll of paper towels. Period.
&ldquoA bogus address,&rdquo Ken said.
&ldquoJust like we thought. Besides, who&rsquod a rent a place that smelled this bad? The place reeks like&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoA backed up septic tank,&rdquo Ken said, heading down a short hall. &ldquoLet&rsquos check out the bedrooms in case he&rsquos back there snoring and didn&rsquot hear us.&rdquo
There were two bedrooms. The first stood empty.
Ken headed into the master bedroom. A second later he shouted, &ldquoDon&rsquot come back here, Betsy. Call the police.&rdquo
Did I listen? Of course not. &ldquoWhat is it?&rdquo I shouted, charging into the master bedroom. Ken stood in the doorway to the bathroom, blocking me. The smell was unimaginable. Too bad he couldn&rsquot prevent me from peering over his shoulder at the tub where a large garbage bag filled to capacity had been stuffed. &ldquoJeez, what is that? It stinks.&rdquo
&ldquoI&rsquom guessing it&rsquos the late William McDade,&rdquo Ken said.
Only then did I notice a finger sticking out. As if the body in that black plastic bag was about to rip the plastic apart and take a peek at us. Ken barely hesitated before taking two steps inside, then reaching over to peel back the plastic shroud. Until I could see hair and a bloated profile. Clasping my hand over my mouth, I spun around and raced back to the patio doors. Outside I leaned against a low wall and got sick.
Ken followed. &ldquoBetsy? Honey? You okay?&rdquo
I nodded, wiping my mouth and eyes with a tissue from my purse. &ldquoThe body ... it&rsquos not McDade. It&rsquos his bartender, Andy. His nephew.&rdquo
Thirty minutes later, the place was crawling with cops.
Outside, seated by the ubiquitous swimming pool, Ken and I talked to Detective Raines who was cooperating with the Chula Vista police.
&ldquoWe came down to drop off William McDade&rsquos benefits check,&rdquo I explained to Raines. &ldquoMy company told me he lived here.&rdquo
&ldquoInstead you found his nephew,&rdquo Raines said.
&ldquoYes.&rdquo
&ldquoYou recognized him having met him before?&rdquo
I nodded, still dizzy over what I&rsquod witnessed and smelled.
&ldquoWhere?&rdquo he asked.
&ldquoDancin&rsquo Beauties.&rdquo
&ldquoDo you go there regularly?&rdquo
&ldquoOf course not. But when Courtney disappeared&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoYou decided to butt in.&rdquo
I stared down at the carpet. &ldquoYou seemed ready to arrest me for her murder. So I went down there to get information. I never meant to meddle&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoWell, from now on leave this stuff to the police.&rdquo
&ldquoOkay. Sure. Absolutely.&rdquo
&ldquoThink you could identify McDade if you saw him?&rdquo Raines asked.
&ldquoMaybe. I never actually met him. But I&rsquove seen his picture.&rdquo
&ldquoThen how would you have identified him today?&rdquo
&ldquoHis driver&rsquos license. My company Aloss Life wanted to settle Courtney Farrow&rsquos insurance claim as soon as possible.&rdquo
&ldquoWithout a death certificate?&rdquo Raines asked.
&ldquoThe home office is in charge of the legalities.&rdquo
&ldquoWell, I&rsquom afraid we&rsquove got another problem, Ms. Ross.&rdquo
&ldquoYou can&rsquot locate McDade?&rdquo
&ldquoThat and the fact that the murder victim we found in that garage wasn&rsquot Courtney Farrow. The dental and DNA records don&rsquot match.&rdquo
Bingo. I&rsquod been right. Ken and I exchanged looks.
&ldquoI thought the police couldn&rsquot find her dental records.&rdquo
&ldquoWe found them under her real name: Gertie Perdith. Meaning, another woman&rsquos body was in that garage. We don&rsquot have an ID yet but we&rsquore working on it,&rdquo Raines added.
&ldquoBut it was still a homicide?&rdquo
&ldquoI don&rsquot know many people who can bang themselves on the head and light themselves on fire afterward. Do you?&rdquo
I presumed the sarcastic remark didn&rsquot require an answer.
&ldquoAt any rate, if I were your boss, I wouldn&rsquot pay off that claim,&rdquo Raines added.
By seven that evening, Ken, Sofia, and I had finished off most of the Chinese takeout and were settled on the sofa by the TV. You&rsquod think that the horrors we&rsquod faced would&rsquove cooled my desires for Ken. But you&rsquod be wrong. I&rsquod actually started counting the minutes until Sofia, who sat between us, would have to trot off to bed. We waited until eight-thirty, when Sofia sluggishly fell into bed and drifted off before I had time to tuck her in or turn off her lights.
Minutes later, Ken sent my bra sailing over the side of
my bed. My thong followed. In minutes, Ken&rsquos taut muscled body erased the image of that bloated mass formerly known as Andy the bartender. Ken made me forget my problems once more before creeping out the door at three, when I finally passed out.
The next day I left messages on every answering machine I could think
of from Sirhan Spector&rsquos to Davy Spunkhoffer&rsquos. I hoped to entice the guilty parties out of hiding. Because if Courtney hadn&rsquot gone up in flames, who the hell had? A cleaning lady who hadn&rsquot dusted enough? A jealous wife?
And I still didn&rsquot know how my earring had ended up in the victim&rsquos hand. Or where Courtney was now.
I broke down and called Mrs. Tranquillo again, hoping she&rsquod open up to me. But as soon as I introduced myself, she started shrieking &ldquoMurderer! Filthy puta&mdashslut! I going to kill you deader than mi esposo. I going to hound you like thee dog you are&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoNo, Mrs. Tranquillo. You don&rsquot understand. I&rsquom just an insurance agent. My name is Betsy Ross, like in Daughter of the American Revolution. The patriot who sewed the first American flag.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat kind of sheet you think I buying here? You think I born yesterday? I going to get you Betsy Ross. I make you wish you never been born.&rdquo
No wonder I hated cold calling.
Thank heavens Sirhan answered the phone himself, saving me from dealing with his mother and sister.
&ldquoHello, Mr. Spector? This is Betsy Ross. Look, I have a few questions ... no, lunch this week would be impossible. Well, at least very difficult. Next Monday? Well, maybe but ... a great little French restaurant? Great chocolate mousse? Yes, but I&rsquom sort of in a crisis. And you can help me out.&rdquo I could almost hear his ego get hard. Then I explained my predicament.
Then Sirhan said, &ldquoI insist we meet again, Miss Ross. I do not wish to discuss this over my phone.&rdquo
So there we were in Rancho Santa Fe again. Only this time we met at the famed Mille Fleur Restaurant, a charming spot you entered by crossing a courtyard filled with plants and outside tables. Although Sirhan insisted on a dark, secluded inside booth. Maybe the same spot he once rendezvoused with Courtney.
&ldquo... but you must tell me where your wife is, Mr. Spector,&rdquo I said.
He frowned. &ldquoSirhan. Please, you must call me Sirhan.&rdquo
&ldquoVery well. Sirhan, this is very important.&rdquo
&ldquoI do not understand what my wife has to do with your problem.&rdquo
&ldquoJust tell me where she is. Lebanon? Syria? Afghanistan? Tibet?&rdquo