Sprayed Stiff

by Laura Bradley

“Tears and sneers.”

  “Sounds like a rap song.”

  “Wilma was a fund-raising icon who was universally respected and just as universally hated. Your list of potential suspects could probably include everyone attending the party in there. Except I did hear one woman say Wilma deserved to be killed, although I’m skeptical she had anything to do with something that could lead to a broken fingernail.”

  Scythe whipped out his notebook. “What’s her name?”

  “Charis. I didn’t hear her last name, but how many Charises could there be?”

  As Scythe scribbled, I watched a car ease up next to where his Crown Vic was parked a few cars from mine.

  “You know you’re being followed?” I cocked my head toward the dark sedan, where a man at the wheel was studying me intently.

  “Yes.” Scythe looked sheepish, then waved his hand in the air. “It’s one of our guys. My boss ordered it. Apparently there’s some buzz around the jailhouse that my life’s been threatened.”

  “Oh, really?” I said casually, praying that the pounding in my chest would not vibrate the raccoon hairs enough for him to notice. I strove to hold a convincing look of innocent interest. “A perp you locked up?”

  “No. Someone I have some, ah, personal history with.”

  Personal history? Leave it to a guy to come up with that euphemism for doing the nasty.

  “I see,” I said with a little too much knowledge in my voice, because he narrowed his eyes.

  “What do you see?”

  “That it’s something you can’t really talk about.”

  “Exactly,” he answered, relieved to be rid of the subject. Hmmm.

  I really should’ve been feeling guilty for framing Zena for my crime-of-the-big-mouth, but I wasn’t. If life were fair, she would be locked up purely for giving Scythe that bad haircut. My gaze must have lingered a little too long on his sideburns, because his right hand flew to his hair. “What?”

  “Oh, I’m just thinking.”

  “About what?” Defensive. Down, boy.

  I was really thinking about all the “hims” and “hers” the Carricaleses had mentioned. That still didn’t make sense. “Do you think Wilma had a boyfriend?”

  “No, but Alexandra does. And Wilma hated him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The Carricaleses told me. They don’t know his name, just that he’s pale, skinny, wears black, and slinks around like he’s crawled out from under a rock. They did add that he’s polite. I guess you didn’t know this?” he asked skeptically.

  “No.” On one hand, I was pleased that Lexa had a boyfriend; on the other, I was worried because he sounded a little weird.

  “You were good enough friends that she’d call you to come help with her dead mom, but not good enough to tell about her boyfriend? Doesn’t sound like any woman I know.”

  “Maybe you should keep less stereotypical female company.”

  “Hey, I’m standing here talking to you, aren’t I? I couldn’t find a less stereotypical female.” He raised that right eyebrow in direct challenge. I refused to bite. “As for your friend, she may not be a stereotypical female, but she may be a stereotypical murderer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lots of women have been known to team up with loverboy to off Mommy Dearest, then frame someone else for the murder, especially a sappy, gullible pal.”

  “Oh, get creative, Scythe. Not every murder is a domestic conspiracy.”

  “This one is shaping up to be. Did your friend call to see if you’d gotten out of jail? Or to apologize for getting you in this pickle? No?” He reached over and plucked the barrette out of my hair and stuck it in his pocket. I was so distracted by his inference that I didn’t react. “Since I can’t snap a photo of your toes, I need some souvenir of my visit to Reyn in the Land of the League.” Scythe strode away, pausing as he reached his car to throw over his shoulder, “Maybe your friend Alexandra planned for you to take the fall from the get-go.”

  I knew what he was trying to do. He wanted to raise suspicions between Lexa and me so he’d wriggle all the secrets out of both of us. Maybe he wanted me to get so mad or scared I’d rat on Lexa. He ought to know me better than that.

  Scythe said something to his bodyguard as he reached for his door handle. Well, he wasn’t the only one who could play head games. “Scythe, watch your back.”

  He froze. The bodyguard drew his sunglasses down his nose and stared at me. I smiled apologetically. “Considering the threat, that is. Just be careful. I’m worried about you. Of course, the smell of the evidence in your pocket is enough to ward away predators for miles.”

  The bodyguard winked at me. Scythe shook his head and got in the car.

  It nearly took an act of God to extract Trudy and Daffy from the party. Trudy was deep in conversation with a woman who’d grown up in the projects and was now in her second year in the League. Trudy had mentored her in the pregnancy prevention program, had helped her get into community college, and now was her sponsor in an advanced-degree fashion design program. She and Trudy were planning on presenting an idea for a mentoring program to reach more girls in the projects. I had to admit, Trudy was right. Not all the members were hypocritical airheads. I remembered Charis and her buddies and Ostrich Feather. Well, partly right, anyway.

  I left Trudy to wrap things up and went, application in hand, in search of Daffy. Charlotte found me first. She had a salmon taquito half in her mouth. She bit into it and offered me the other half. I shook my head and tried not to gag as she waxed poetic about the chow. “Isn’t the food the best? I love the Brie. Have you tried the Brie? I had to have about a pound of it and I just want more. Oh, there’s Berry Wiendsterger. She is the coolest. You know In Style magazine came to her house to see her jewelry collection and did a whole spread that’s going to be in the next issue? Oh, and the chocolate mousse cheesecake is the bomb. I mean, it is so good I feel like I died and went to heaven.”

  We were just passing a group of sixtysomething women huddled together, speaking in low tones. They stopped and glared at us.

  Charlotte flushed and stammered. I apologized for her. “It was just a figure of speech. I know, probably ill-timed, considering the Barrister murder.”

  “Wilma,” one woman wailed, blowing her nose into a silk handkerchief. “She was a saint.”

  Saint of hell, maybe.

  “With all she had to deal with at home. She certainly is sitting at the right hand of God.”

  Huh? “Oh? I thought she had a nice family life.”

  “That son of hers, he was always her favorite, and always such a perfect angel as a child. To have him be what he is now…well, it’s just sacrilegious. Wilma doesn’t deserve this. And that girl. She breaks her mother’s heart. She won’t do anything she was raised to do. You know, she even refuses to…” She paused for dramatic effect. I leaned in for the great sin, which I was sure would be not wearing underwear or something like that. “Refuses to join the League.”

  “No!” I shuddered in mock horror. They all nodded solemnly.

  “Poor Wilma. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d killed herself, with all the burdens she had to shoulder.”

  I couldn’t even conjure an image of dictatorial Wilma as a pitiful victim of circumstance. The only way that woman would have killed herself would be to get someone else in trouble. Hmm. I hadn’t considered that.

  “And that husband of hers.”

  I perked up, temporarily abandoning the suicide theory. “Percy?”

  “He’s a flirt. After he hit middle age, he became quite the ladies’ man, that one.”

  For what kind of ladies was the unibrowed, garlic-scented troll a flirt? Blind ones born without olfactory nerves?

  “So he had girlfriends,” I offered.

  All their hands went to their chests. They did a silent vote, and the one who’d spoken first shook her head. “No, but his roving eye, well, that did weigh on poor Wilma’s heart.”

 
I was just glad to hear Wilma had one. “Did she ever do anything about it?” Maybe the eye candy got even when Percy couldn’t do any more roving.

  “Oh, no,” said Silk Hanky with a sniff. “She just suffered in silence.”

  Apparently not too silently, because these old gals knew all about it. I suppose everyone’s character was automatically elevated upon death by those feeling guilty about not treating her well enough in life. I reviewed the assembled matrons. Hmmm.

  “Thank Gucci, Reyn! I thought you’d never get back with the ever-important documento,” Daffy sang in my ear. I noticed the matrons had recoiled. I’d guess Daffy wasn’t their sort of woman, since from a distance she could pass for Trudy’s younger sister instead of her mom. Besides which, she wasn’t wearing support hose or carrying a Coach bag. For an instant I was proud of Daffy for being different. It only lasted a moment. “Look at you,” she fussed. “You lost your barrette. Your fur is ruffled and I daresay you’ve scuffed my Manolos.” Heavy, ominous sigh. “You’re going to need a lot more work than I thought before we can take you anywhere and claim you.”

  Snatching the paper out of my hand, she hooked her three-inch nails in my raccoon cuff and dragged me away from the gaggle of grannies. “Excusez-mois,” Daffy called back. “I’ve got to make this provision-al offici-al.”

  Oh, dear. This was worse than that year my friends dared me to try out for a part in the school production of National Velvet and I didn’t make it, which was probably a good thing because Midge Cassidy who got the part of Velvet tripped on her cardboard horse and broke her leg in four places. Had it been me, I probably would’ve broken both legs. I hadn’t wanted the part then, and didn’t want to be in the Junior League now, but I have this irrational fear of rejection. Even when it involves things I don’t want. I took a deep breath and reminded myself how all usually works out for the best.

  Except maybe for Wilma.

  The membership chair took the application with a fake smile that made me want to yank it back out of her hands. I resisted the impulse and left Daffy to talk me up. “Reyn is world-renowned for her creativity as a beauty consultant…”

  Hey, Daff, I just dye, cut, and curl hair.

  “…and is incredibly eloquent…”

  Especially with those four-letter words.

  Thankfully, I got out of earshot before I could elaborate eloquently about my worldwide renown. I’d negotiated through the maze of fiberglass nails, David Yerman jewelry, and Chanel No. 5 and was almost to the front door when Charlotte caught me. Damn.

  “Reyn, you can’t leave yet!” She was holding a cup of cappuccino and nibbling a biscotto. “The party’s not over. There’s some pâté left.”

  “Charlotte, I have to go see a friend of mine.”

  “What friend could be more important than this?”

  I hated to burst her bubble and give her just a glimmer of painful life perspective, but, hey, I was in a hurry. “Alexandra Barrister is the friend I have to go see.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte swallowed the biscotto whole. I wondered if it would travel down her throat like a snake’s dinner, but I couldn’t see a thing. And I looked. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, Charlotte, that won’t be necessary.”

  “I refuse to let you go alone.”

  Swell. I wish I were meaner and tougher, but the truth is, when it comes to hurting someone’s feelings, I am an absolute wuss. Sighing, I opened the door and let her bounce along next to me, talking a mile a minute about everything and nothing.

  I was sure Lexa wouldn’t open up to me with Motormouth around. Oh, well, I’d go by and see how she was doing, and then maybe drop Charlotte off and go back to the House of Horrors.

  We pulled out past the limestone barrier that rivaled the Great Wall of China, and I negotiated the twenty thousand stop signs in the one-point-three miles between the two homes. We were almost to Guaraty Road when I heard Charlotte say, “…works for Percy Barrister.”

  “Who works for Percy Barrister?”

  Charlotte looked slightly miffed, her expression telling me I’d missed a lot of the conversation. “One of my friends from high school, Annette Hastings. She took a year off before law school and is working as his paralegal–slash–executive assistant to make sure she wants to specialize in tax law when she graduates. And to ensure she gets a scholarship. Mr. Barrister is a big alum at St. Mary’s Law.”

  “She’s smart,” I said, and Charlotte brightened with the knowledge that I’d actually started to listen to her again.

  “She says Mr. Barrister has been so edgy lately, and he’s overtired, falling asleep in his office.”

  I thought about his arrival time that morning. All those late nights. Hmm.

  “And then he started getting weird packages.”

  “What kind of weird packages?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  Even if Charlotte had asked, she probably wouldn’t have shut up long enough for poor Annette to answer. She must have seen the look on my face, because she rushed to trivialize it.

  “Come on, it’s a tax law office. After all, anything not shaped like an eight-by-fourteen-by-three legal document is probably considered weird.”

  “Probably, but you really should tell Annette to talk to the police about the packages.”

  Charlotte whipped out her phone and dialed while I negotiated the Barristers’ intercom. Maria Carricales had doubts about letting the woman she’d last seen being led out by the cops back into the compound, but her husband prevailed on her to have mercy on me. Meanwhile, Charlotte held her finger over the receiver, her smooth, guileless face rumpled in worry.

  “Annette says she can’t talk to the police. Mr. Barrister ordered her not to tell the cops anything or else she’ll lose her job and her chance to get back into law school. And, worst of all, her scholarship.”

  Percy, not a smooth move.

  “But she says she’s worried enough about what’s gone on that she’ll tell you what she knows.”

  Enough to worry Percy.

  “You have to swear not to tell anyone where you found out. I told her you were the most loyal person I knew, that if you made her a promise, you’d keep it to the death.”

  I repressed a shiver as I noticed Wilma’s luxury sedan parked in front of the house. How odd. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

  Charlotte had the grace to look embarrassed that her runaway mouth had added that tidbit.

  “Tell her to meet me at the salon in an hour.”

  As we pulled even with the Jaguar, the front door flew open. Lexa skipped down past the bloodthirsty lions, waved at us, flashing a diamond-studded Rolex, and hopped into the front seat.

  She was wearing Chanel.

  She was carrying a Prada purse.

  And in her hair was a jeweled barrette.

  Ten

  I’D HAD TO NEARLY THROW MYSELF in front of the silver Jag to keep Lexa from driving off. Now she refused to get out of the damned car.

  “Come on, Alexandra. Let’s go inside and have scones.” Charlotte almost licked her lips. “And a cup of Earl Grey.”

  “Or a brandy,” I offered, figuring that’s the type of thing they likely had in this Scottish barbarian knockoff. With the white-knuckled way Lexa was gripping the steering wheel, it looked like she needed something stronger than tea, too. “Or a shot of tequila,” I added, ever helpful.

  Lexa shook her head. “I’m not hungry or thirsty. I’m fine. Just fine.”

  Uh-huh.

  “Well, I need something. Something strong,” I emphasized, and, after the last twenty-four hours I’d had, that was no lie.

  “Make yourselves at home, please,” Lexa said, turning the key in the ignition, staring hard out the windshield. “The bar is fully stocked. Dad’s out, but the Carricaleses are in.”

  I wondered where Percy could be during what my gran calls “dark-thirty,” the night after he came home to find his wife had been murdered. Hmm.

 
; “Lexa,” I said, putting my hand on her forearm. She jumped like I’d scalded her. She’d never been a touchy-feely person, but that reaction was extreme. “You need to talk, to cry, to grieve and be around people who care about you.”

  “Actually, I think I need to let loose on the road. Alone. That should clear my head well enough.”

  “Your head doesn’t need clearing. Your emotions do.”

  “How would you know what I need?” she snapped, still staring straight ahead. I was glad to hear it. I hoped she unleashed a whole lot more.

  I prodded her. “I suppose I would venture to know what you need after I helped you fix up your dead mother and then spent all night at the jailhouse, thanks to you.”

  “I’m sorry for what happened,” Lexa whispered. A single tear trailed from the outside corner of her eye. “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

  “No,” I jumped in, even though I knew I should let her keep talking. Her face just broke my heart. “I could have said no when you called for help.”

  “You don’t understand. It is all my fault that Mother died.”

  Charlotte’s eyebrows rose so high that, if they could have levitated above her head, they would have. For once she remained speechless. My heart caught in my throat for a moment, and I couldn’t even grunt. Was Scythe right after all? My tongue finally came alive. “Did you kill her?”

  “I might as well have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I should have been here with her that evening.” Lexa paused. A tear leaked out the other eye. “But I wasn’t.”

  “Why weren’t you?” I asked carefully.

  She just shook her head.

  “Were you with your boyfriend?”

  She stiffened. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  I sighed. “Lexa, the police know you have a boyfriend.”

  “A lot of people who live in this freakland are going to say a lot of things about me,” Lexa said, defensiveness dripping from each word. “Some of it true and some of it false. The cops are just going to have to sift through it on their own.”

  “That’s the problem, Lex,” I put in gently. “The cops around here probably aren’t real good at the sifting process. No practice.”