Sisters On the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  Bianca was having trouble catching her breath. A chill had spread through her body at the memory of Marty’s number on Reznikov’s phone. ‘‘I don’t like the idea of them using you for bait,’’ she said, working to keep her voice steady. ‘‘Something awful could have happened.’’

  ‘‘I was perfectly safe. I was with the cops the whole time. We’d have been in his living room as soon as he hung up, and a second unit would have been on its way to the hit man’s place. I was never in danger.’’

  Not in danger of dying, Bianca thought, but definitelyin danger of watching your mother led off in handcuffs. In all her years as a professional, this was the first time she’d come even close to getting caught. ‘‘What happened?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘It was really weird. He put in a call, said he had a ‘job,’ and it looked like they were about to negotiate price when he hung up. We waited for him to call back. But he never did.’’

  ‘‘But if you had a trace, you must have gotten the number of the person he called,’’ Bianca said, knowing her daughter would ascribe her knowledge of such things to her fondness for reading and watching police procedurals.

  Sophia shook her head. ‘‘The call was too short to trace,’’ she said, ‘‘and it appears he threw the phone across the room and broke it. The cops think maybe he got cut off and smashed the phone in anger.’’

  Bianca laughed, more from relief than amusement. ‘‘I’ve felt like doing that after a dropped call,’’ she said.

  Sophia nodded and was silent for a few moments; then she said, ‘‘It doesn’t fit. I mean, why would he start to order the hit, then change his mind and commit suicide? I tried to get them to go in when the connection was cut. I knew there was something funny going on.’’

  Good lord, my own daughter would have brought them down on me, Bianca thought. ‘‘What do the police think?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘They’re not thinking,’’ Sophia said, her tone sharp with aggravation. ‘‘With the cell phone smashed, we have no leads on the hit man. There’s no evidence to suggest murder, and they want to close the case. If it’s suicide, they’re done.’’

  ‘‘It’s too bad you lost the hit man, but at least you’re safe now.’’ She studied Sophia’s face for signs of her intentions. ‘‘Are you going to pursue it, to investigate this man’s death?’’

  Sophia shook her head. ‘‘No, the case is closed. It’s over. I just wish I knew what happened in that house last night.’’

  No, you don’t, Bianca thought. You really don’t.

  Murder for Lunch

  by Carolyn Hart

  Madeleine Kruger held up the menu to hide her face. It would be embarrassing if Mike saw her, although surely his lunch with that gorgeous young woman was perfectly aboveboard and Meg knew all about it.

  Madeleine had a quick vision of Meg’s tight-drawn, slick face. Surgery makes a difference, no sags, no bumps, no lines, but plastic skin is as great a tip-off to age as wrinkles. Not that Meg was all that old. She was in her early thirties, but that’s old in Hollywood.

  Madeleine wriggled uncomfortably. Was she being unkind? Madeleine hated to be unkind. If she had a husband as young and appealing as Mike, perhaps she’d try to wipe away wrinkles too. Willy had been dead for years, but she knew he would love her just the way she was, with untidy gray hair and nearsighted blue eyes and a shapeless bosom and plump hips.

  Madeleine heard a thump in the next booth. Mike and his friend were right behind her. She’d stay quiet as a mouse until they left. She wouldn’t breathe a word about seeing them to Meg. Just in case. It seemed odd that Mike brought a guest to the Cosy Café. It was a modest little place away from Main Street, not the sort of restaurant young people preferred.

  The waitress brought Madeleine’s tomato soup, so cheerful and warming on a rainy February day. Even Southern California had its off season but this was nothing like the cold in Kansas. Sometimes Madeleine missed the crunch of snow underfoot and the frosty wreath of her breath—

  ‘‘. . . have to kill her. Otherwise we’re stuck.’’ Mike’s clear baritone was brusque.

  Madeleine’s plump hand wavered. Soup splashed onto the Formica tabletop. She hunched forward, struggling to hear over the roaring in her ears. Her blood pressure . . .

  The girl answered, but her voice was soft and low. Madeleine could make out only a few words. ‘‘. . . when a wife dies . . .’’

  Madeleine watched all the detective shows. A husband was always the prime suspect when a wife died.

  Mike sounded irritated. ‘‘. . . have to kill her. Murder’s the only solution. It ruins everything if . . .’’

  Madeleine put down her spoon. She used her napkin to swipe at the spilled soup, then grabbed the check. She struggled out of the booth and hurried to the cash register. Oh dear, oh dear. She hadn’t left a tip. At the register, she put down a bill, twice the total, and said breathlessly, ‘‘So sorry. Must leave. Please see that the waitress gets the tip.’’ She walked as fast as she could to the exit and didn’t stop until she was a block away, her legs aching and wobbly.

  She couldn’t escape the sound of Mike’s voice: ‘‘. . . have to kill her . . . Murder’s the only solution . . .’’

  Madeleine shuffled the deck of cards with practiced ease. She arched the cards in a high curve, caught them expertly. She’d played cards since she was a little girl and was adept at everything from bridge to Texas Hold’em. Faster than a croupier sorting chips, she slapped cards facedown, one after another. Solitaire helped her think.

  Dandelion’s orange paw flicked out and the first card slewed toward the edge of the table.

  Madeleine caught it in time. ‘‘Bad girl.’’ But her tone was loving.

  The orange cat hunched her shoulders, waiting for another card to be played.

  When the cards were down, Madeleine began to play, occasionally righting a card from Dandelion’s attack, but her thoughts darted like minnows. She should call the police. Would they listen? Mike would deny everything. Maybe she could warn Meg.

  She’d never really talked much with Meg. It was Mike who was friendly. He seemed like such a nice young man. And to think he and Meg had moved to Castle Point because of her. The block of flimsily built condos had been thrown up in the sixties. Each condo had three floors that had later been made into separate apartments. An exterior stair served each unit. Apartments were scarce in the Hollywood area. She’d told her best friend, Mia, that the apartment beneath her was empty and the ad hadn’t yet run. Mia’s nephew Mike was looking for a place. Mike and Meg moved in the next week. Both had jobs on the fringes of the business, but they wanted to write movies. Didn’t everyone in Hollywood have a script to sell? Everyone but her. She was a reader and hardly ever gave a thought to the fact that she lived in Hollywood, though occasionally she went to a show with Mia.

  Madeleine felt a pang of sorrow for Mia. She and Mia loved to play bridge. They made good partners, Mia bold and aggressive, Madeleine with an uncanny card sense. Their regular foursome ended with Betty Bailey’s heart attack and her husband’s move back to Texas after the funeral. Now Mia and Madeleine played bridge with Mike and Meg every Wednesday in Madeleine’s apartment.

  Mike and Meg were pretty good players. Madeleine suspected that the young couple agreed to play to keep on his aunt’s good side. Mia had no family other than her sister’s son. Mia wasn’t rich but her house, once a modest bungalow, had appreciated in worth to almost a million and someday would come to Mike.

  Madeleine didn’t find the evenings with Mike and Meg as cheerful as the old days with the Baileys. She had to put Dandelion in the bedroom because Meg didn’t like cats. Mia said Meg hated cats and she was sure it was because she was deathly afraid of them. ‘‘You’d think anyone would know a pet cat wouldn’t hurt them. But some people . . .’’ That was as near as Mia ever came to criticizing Meg, though Madeleine was sure that Mia and Meg didn’t like each other and were pleasant only because of Mike.

  Oh,
how awful that Mike would plan to murder—

  Dandelion reached out, snagged a card.

  Madeleine caught it before it fell. She drew her breath in sharply. The ace of spades. Here she was thinking about murder and she held the ace of spades in her hand. She had to do something, because she knew well enough what she’d heard and what it meant, but the police would think she was a silly old lady. It wouldn’t do any good to call Crime Stoppers. She had no proof.

  Madeleine gripped the ace so tight, it bowed under pressure and the edges hurt her fingers. If only there were some way to frighten Mike . . .

  She stared at the card. Tomorrow was Wednesday. They’d be coming here to play bridge.

  Slowly a plan took shape.

  Madeleine clutched the phone with a hand that shook. She hated to lie and especially to imperious Mia, a former Latin teacher with a clear-eyed view of human frailty. Madeleine tried to keep her voice casual, though she was afraid she sounded utterly false. ‘‘. . . running late. Could you be here at seven thirty instead of seven? That’s fine with Mike and Meg. I’ll have everything under control by then.’’ Oh dear, that wasn’t what she’d meant to say at all. It sounded absurd.

  There was the tiniest pause before Mia responded. ‘‘Seven thirty it is. Is there anything I can do to help?’’

  ‘‘Oh no, no, it’s a family thing. Thank you, Mia. I’ll see you then.’’ She hung up quickly.

  Madeleine added another swath of blush to her cheeks. Twin patches of red glowed like beacons. She smoothed and smudged and ended up looking as if she had a rash. That was all right. Young people never looked at old people, and anyway the red smears would hide a flush if her blood pressure soared. She must remember to focus on the cards and not think about Mike and Meg, not for an instant.

  At ten to seven, she made sure Dandelion was in the bedroom, the door closed. She patted the pocket of her loose blue smock, scanned the card table, checked the serving tray. Everything was ready.

  The bell pealed promptly at seven.

  Madeleine pulled a fluffy white handkerchief from her pocket and clutched it in her left hand as she pattered to the front door. She opened it, her welcome effusive. ‘‘Come in, come in. I have our drinks ready. A light beer for Mike and scotch and soda for Meg.’’ She offered them easy chairs on one side of the coffee table, brought the drinks.

  Mike looked around. ‘‘Mia usually beats us here.’’ He had a long scholarly face with bright blue eyes and an easy grin. His lanky frame made the chair look small.

  Meg’s expression was remote, although some of its blankness might have been caused by stretched skin that emphasized a heart-shaped face. She took the drink with a murmured thanks.

  Madeleine patted her face with the hanky, dropped onto the sofa. ‘‘Mia’s running a few minutes late. The traffic. But she’ll be here before we know it.’’ Madeleinetucked the handkerchief into the wristband of her smock and picked up a deck of cards. ‘‘We can have fun while we wait. I love to read the cards.’’ She looked coy. ‘‘I used to pick up some extra money telling fortunes, but I don’t do that anymore. I’ll do yours for free.’’ She lifted the deck, shuffled, shuffled again, shuffled a third time. ‘‘Have to start fresh to find out the truth.’’

  Suddenly her nose wrinkled. She sniffled and reached for the handkerchief. She sneezed into it, murmuring, ‘‘Oh, that Dandelion, sometimes she makes me sneeze.’’

  Meg’s head jerked around in search of the cat.

  As Madeleine fluttered the hanky and thrust it in her pocket, the shuffled deck disappeared, replaced by a deck that looked the same. But this deck had been very carefully arranged.

  Madeleine glanced at the clock. ‘‘We have time to do the magic square. We’ll do Mike first.’’

  She placed one card—the ten of spades—in the center of the coffee table and snapped, facedown, three cards in a top row, three in a center row, three in a bottom row.

  Mike grinned and casually draped one leg over the side of the chair. ‘‘How about this. We come for a game of bridge and instead we’re going to find out what the future holds.’’ His tone was genial, but his glance at Meg was amused.

  Meg smoothed back a lock of dark hair and bent forward in curiosity.

  Madeleine frowned at the card she turned faceup, spoke in a low hoarse voice. ‘‘There may be trouble ahead. Some barrier. Something will go wrong.’’ She took a deep breath, hesitantly began to turn over the cards, her voice deeper and deeper. ‘‘Disaster is ahead. The cards are dark, dark. Spades and clubs. A relationship may be ended.’’

  Mike’s smile slipped away. He frowned.

  Meg’s eyes narrowed. Her hands closed into claws.

  Madeleine gave a moan. ‘‘There’s a warning of danger and deceit. The nine of diamonds is light but it is the symbol for a coffin. I see a letter. I can’t quite make it out. Oh yes. It’s an M. M as in money? No, it’s a name. Some name begins with M. Death will touch an M. The jack of spades means someone here— No, surely not. Here’s a figure of authority. A judge? The police? The death is supposed to be an accident but it isn’t. The police will find out. Oh, here’s the four of clubs. It isn’t too late for everything to change. Oh.’’ A gasp. ‘‘The ace of spades.’’ Abruptly, she swept the cards together. She was breathing hard, her face shiny with sweat. ‘‘I’ll get us a snack. I don’t know what to think. . . .’’ Her words trailed off as she struggled up from the sofa and hurried to the kitchen.

  She stopped out of sight, but she could hear.

  Mike’s voice was uncertain. ‘‘Do you think she’s all right? She looked sick.’’

  Meg spoke lightly. ‘‘More silly than sick. Superstition’s absurd. Oh Lord, how long do you suppose we’ll have to stay tonight?’’

  The doorbell sounded.

  Madeleine bustled to answer, welcoming Mia. Within minutes, the bridge began. It might have been any Wednesday evening. Madeleine wished her head didn’t hurt. She didn’t win a single hand.

  Mike looked over his shoulder, punched in Cindy’s phone number. He was a third assistant to the executive assistant in a start-up development company. His boss snarled like a junkyard dog if you made personal calls on company time. Mike was relieved when Cindy picked it up on the first ring. He had to convince her . . . ‘‘Cindy—’’

  The soft voice interrupted. ‘‘I rewrote the scene last night. You’re right, Mike. We have to get rid of Kelly’s wife to increase the pressure on him. Now he’s backed into a corner . . .’’

  The tight muscles in the back of Mike’s neck eased. Cindy was a swell writing partner. They’d met in his script class at UCLA and been going like gangbusters ever since. He wished he didn’t have to sneak around to meet her, but Meg would flip if she found out. Cindy didn’t like things not being aboveboard but she understood when he explained that Meg wanted to co-write everything. He’d tried for a while, but he’d soon realized that Meg didn’t have the magic. He thought he did, especially with Cindy. A tiny thought darted in the back of his mind. Meg always acted like she knew so much about the business. He’d been excited when she assured him he was going to make it big someday. That’s why he’d married her. Even though she could be fun and exciting, sometimes he wondered if he’d done the right thing. But he’d made his choice. He’d thought she had more contacts than she really had. Still, she knew some people. Maybe when this script was finished, if she didn’t get mad, she’d help him sell it. Could he ever tell her about Cindy? Well, he’d worry about that later.

  ‘‘Great. Listen, we’re almost there. In the last scene . . .’’

  Meg was good at computers. She’d easily broken into Mike’s. The new script was almost finished. God, it was good. It should have been hers too. She’d teach him to double-cross her. That was the only reason she’d married him, a long-haired kid with about as much attraction for her as a missionary. But he could write, that was for sure. This script could hit it big, really big. She knew an A-list producer who’d kill for a script lik
e this.

  Just like she would.

  She clicked off Mike’s computer, rose and paced to the kitchen. She poured a drink, leaned against the counter. She’d had it all planned. As soon as the script was done, they’d go sailing. A crack with the tiller and off he’d go. The script would be hers and her fortune would be made.

  How did the old bitch upstairs know? How could she possibly know? Meg had a dim memory of her ancient aunt Ida, hunched over a table, reading cards and saying a death was coming—and the next day Meg’s mother was hit by a car as she crossed La Brea.

  Meg felt cold as ice. How could cards know anything? But Madeleine knew. Those cards and that shaky voice . . . Now if Mike died in an accident, Madeleine would run to the police.

  Meg looked up toward the floor above. Madeleine saw the letter M and somebody dead.

  Meg said it aloud. ‘‘M. M for Madeleine.’’

  Meg waited until the front door slammed, Mike hustling out for his morning run. What a Boy Scout.

  Meg slipped out of bed and glanced in the mirror. The red silk shorty nightgown emphasized her long slender legs. She was proud of her legs. She pulled on a T-shirt and jeans over the nightgown. It would take only a minute to return to the apartment, strip them off. She’d tell the police she heard a scream. She’d be distraught. She smiled in anticipation. The old bitch always went down and got her paper first thing in the morning. Out of those boring sterile nights of bridge, Madeleine had droned on and on about her breakfast, that hideous cat, the wonderful paperboy always coming early, the cost of milk, and on and on and on. More, Meg thought sourly, than she’d ever wanted to know, but now it was paying off.