Whose Number Is Up, Anyway?

by Stevi Mittman

  They both want to know if the squirrel survived.

  Dave seems relieved when I say it got away and wants to know if I was delivering pizzas when it happened.

  Mama B’s gaze goes from me to the box in my hands and back to my face again. Her eyes narrow. Like a mother tiger, she suddenly senses danger to her six-foot, one-hundred-and-eighty-pound cub. But does she think that I’m the murderer or that I know her son is?

  Not, of course, that I know that. I’m not even sure I suspect that.

  I explain how I was in the shop, yadda, yadda, yadda, and hope they enjoyed the joke and the pizza.

  His mother opens the door to usher me out.

  “Oh,” I say, very Columbo-like as I’m about to walk out the door. “Dave, about the lottery tickets The Slices went in on…?”

  “Dave doesn’t gamble on the lottery,” Mrs. B says, which I think reminds Dave that I didn’t give him away before and that he owes me.

  He repays me by inviting me to join them for lunch.

  “I am starving,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket and heading for the kitchen.

  Mama B is not thrilled to have me join them. Since I know I’m not the killer, I’m the one with my life on the line, so tough on her. In fact, I decide to add her to my list of suspects.

  Except I think she really, truly believes he doesn’t play the lottery.

  Oh, my head aches and it’s not from the bruise alone.

  “So, Dave,” I say after I’ve polished off a slice because I wasn’t kidding about being starving. “Do you know if The Slices still go in on lottery tickets? I mean, other than you, of course?”

  He tells me that the gang has pretty much split up since they don’t have enough bowlers to field a team. Besides, with Miles afraid to go out and Russ in the hospital…

  “So then, no,” I say. “How did that work, anyway?”

  Mama B doesn’t want to hear about gambling, even when it doesn’t involve her son, and she excuses herself to go iron—a lame excuse if ever I heard one, since I’ve never seen Dave in anything but polyester wash-and-wear.

  Dave wants to know how come I care so much about the lottery tickets. I tell him the truth, because nothing else comes to mind and I just don’t think he’s smart enough to pull off a scheme as complicated as this one is turning out to be.

  He says it’s impossible. For one thing, they all are good guys and they trust each other. I’m treated to a recitation of every nicety each of them ever performed before I remind him that he probably had a second thing in mind.

  He does. Every week the person who bought tickets would show the losing tickets to everyone else.

  “And you all took turns buying the tickets,” I say, like that’s a fact. “Except you,” I amend when I sense Mama B standing in the doorway behind me.

  Dave scrunches up his face in deep thought. “Not Russ,” he says, “’cause the stationery store near him had a winner two years ago and everyone figured they wouldn’t get another one for a long time.”

  “But everyone else?” I ask.

  He thinks hard again. You can actually see it happening. And while he thinks, so do I. Like, although he was putting in his share, it isn’t likely he was buying the tickets because he’d be more certain about who else was in the schedule, wouldn’t he?

  “What about Max?” I ask. “Did he ever buy?”

  Dave is pretty sure he did. Along with Joey and with Milt. “Just about everyone,” he says.

  “Except you,” his mother reminds him.

  “Yeah,” he agrees.

  “Miles?” I ask.

  He worries the corner of his mouth with his tongue. Six-foot tall, not bad looking, tongue on the edge of lips and I’m not the least bit turned on.

  “Nope, not Miles,” he says.

  And now I’m turned on, but good.

  When I go to leave, both mother and son make a production out of my going out the door, like we’re living in a war zone. Mama tells me that even though they’ve pulled out of the league, all The Slices are potentially in danger.

  Dave says he’ll walk me to my car, but Mama isn’t happy with the idea.

  Turns out we all go, they push me into the driver’s seat and scurry back into the house before I’ve got the key in the ignition.

  Which is very different from the reception I get when I return to the alley. I don’t know who is more furious—Vito and company, Mark, or my dad. Seems Raymond brought the pizza over himself and spilled the tomato sauce, so to speak.

  I am reminded by each of them of what my investigating led to last night. My father reminds me I have an ex-husband who’d get custody of my children if something should happen to me. A very sobering thought.

  Vito reminds me I’m under house arrest and adds, “Sort of.” I notice that his jogging suit has green paint on it and that his pal’s hair is full of dust.

  “Put ’em to work,” Mark says. “Looks like we’re gonna make it, thanks to your dad.”

  I can’t quite believe it.

  “I think you can go home and get a little rest,” he says. “Or I’m gonna have to start calling you something other than gorgeous.”

  “Like what?” I ask him.

  He steps back and looks me over, tilting his head one way and then the other. “How about shit on a stick?” he says.

  “Nice, and not only does it describe how I look, but also how I feel.”

  He says he much prefers gorgeous, but at the moment I’m teetering on the edge. If I don’t go home and lie down, he might have to go with door number two.

  Vito appears and offers to drive me home. I tell him I’d like to just sit in the car for a few minutes before I decide if I’ve really got to go home or not, and I climb into the back seat and dial up Drew.

  “Not all The Slices bought the tickets,” I tell him when he answers.

  “How’s your head?” he asks.

  I tell him it stings when I touch it, which I only do accidentally, that it itches a little where it’s cut and that the three men who are still alive didn’t buy tickets, but the two who are dead, and Max, did.

  “And you know this how?” he asks me.

  Before I answer that, I ask just how serious he was about that house-arrest business.

  “Where are you now?” he wants to know.

  “At the alley,” I say honestly. When he says it’s too quiet for that I add, “in the parking lot. In Carmine’s car.”

  He urges me to go home.

  “So the way I figure it,” I say, “is that four of them were in cahoots to cut out the other two. Dave’s not all that bright, but I don’t think he’d have told me who bought tickets for the group and who didn’t if that pointed to him as the killer, right?”

  “I’ll look into all of this if you promise to go home,” he says.

  “Which means that it’s got to be either Miles or Russ, right?”

  “And I’ll let Hal bring you in on the DUI charge if you don’t.”

  “Are you really going to check out the rest of The Slices?” I ask.

  He swears he’ll check out the whole damn sandwich if I will go home. And I want to believe him, I really, really do.

  “Today?” I press.

  “Tonight.” There’s a funny tone in his voice. Something he’s not telling me.

  “Why not today?” I ask.

  “I’m on something else today,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate.

  “Is she blond?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Blond, blue-eyed and built. Just my type.”

  “Dead?”

  He doesn’t answer me. I decide that it’s best to drop it and I ask him again if he’ll look into Miles and Russ tonight.

  “I said I would,” he says, then hedges. “If I can.”

  CHAPTER 21

  There is an order to the way you make decisions when redecorating and it’s based on availability. Because there is no limit to the variety of paint colors, the walls come last. Because sofas come in more fabric
and pattern choices than area rugs, the rugs must be selected first. Unless you are doing carpeting or hardwood floors. Then the order is reversed, since, like paint, the choices are nearly infinite for carpet and wood. That said, the decision to go with carpet or wood has to be made before a single stick of furniture is chosen. Remember the rule: order is based on availability.

  —TipsFromTeddi.com

  I’m sitting in the car, stewing, contemplating my next move when my cell phone rings. It’s Jerry Kroll and I wish I had more news for him than I do. And that what I do know didn’t implicate his brother-in-law. And that I didn’t suspect his poor son.

  “Hi Mr. Kroll,” I say. “How are you?”

  “How are you, maydela?” he asks me. “We heard about your terrible accident. They aren’t going to charge you, are they? I know a very good lawyer if you need.”

  I tell him I think everything will be fine.

  “You’re hurt, sweetheart?” he asks me and I assure him that it’s nothing that won’t mend. “And you’ll give up this wild goose chase and let poor Joey rest in peace? And let my Ritzala live in peace?”

  I tell him that I know she’ll feel better once she can put his death and her suspicions behind her. But that, between him and me, I can’t help wondering, since two other Slices have had attempts made on their lives, if one of the remaining Slices isn’t somehow involved.

  Jerry assures me that The Slices were all Joey’s friends. They’d never hurt him. “Besides. Joey had a heart attack. How could they make that happen?”

  He’s got a point. Everyone has a point. That’s what makes this case so prickly.

  “Still,” I say, as much to myself as to Jerry. “I’d like to check out Miles and Russ.”

  “What would you ask them?” Jerry says. “If they killed anybody lately?”

  I say that I’d mention lottery tickets and see if that raised any eyebrows. He wants to know why it would. Instead of saying that I think Joey was trying to cheat his teammates out of their share of the money, which, for all I know, doesn’t even exist, I just say I think they’re involved, somehow.

  Jerry offers to talk to them both. He implies it will be exciting for him, but I think it’s more likely he’s trying to protect me. When I refuse, he offers to interrogate one while I “put the screws” to the other.

  Still I refuse. He tells me he doesn’t want to be a nag, but maybe could I possibly drop by and show Rita some sketches, anything to take her mind off Joey?

  I tell him that of course I can and offer to come straight away.

  But right now Rita, despite her grief, is at the beauty parlor. “And I have to go out in a little while and do the food shopping before I pick her up.”

  An empty house. Can I resist nosing around in it? Of course not, so I offer to come anyway, do some preliminary measuring and figuring and lay out some sketches to go over with Rita when he gets back with her.

  “Such a good idea,” he says. “I love it.”

  I tell myself how this proves that Robby has nothing to do with any of these murders—would they let me in their house if they had anything to hide?

  I think not.

  You know, when my mother first suggested I work with one of her friends I thought I’d be better off slitting my own throat rather than having someone else do it for me. But working with Jerry and Rita has turned into an oasis of sweetness in a world where people aren’t very nice, where they don’t praise your ideas or effort, because they’re too busy making sure you aren’t taking advantage of them.

  I ASK VITO to take me to the Krolls’ instead of home. He doesn’t like the idea much and has to clear it first with Carmine. He’s a little hard of hearing, so he has the volume turned way up on the phone and I can clearly hear Carmine ask my mother if these Krolls’ are “on the level.”

  He should ask my mother if she is. While my father has been busting his butt to help me, she’s been seeing an awful lot of him. Maybe too much. Which is one more thing I’ll deal with after Friday.

  I’ve been putting off my whole life until Friday, and now it’s less than twenty-four hours away.

  I tell Vito he can take me to the Krolls and wait outside, or I can give him the slip and let him explain that to Carmine. When he tells me he ain’t that easy, I cross my hands over my chest and say, “Pizza, pizza,” like I’m a commercial on TV.

  “And remind me to charge my cell phone,” I tell him, because, like me, it’s running on empty.

  And ten minutes later I’m at the foot of the Krolls’ driveway and Jerry is getting into his car. “Door’s open,” he yells to me before he takes off, giving me a “you must be doing quite well” look at me and the limo I arrive in.

  As an interior designer I spend a good deal of time in other people’s houses. It’s something I should be used to, but I always feel suspect in them.

  I sit in the living room for a few minutes, trying to get the feel, the vibe of the house. Maybe it’s because of the shrine to Joey in the corner, but the house feels incredibly sad.

  I wander the rooms. Jerry and Rita’s, their nightstands covered with pill bottles and liniment, tissues and glasses of both the drinking and seeing variety, magazines, a bottle of antacid. I make a mental note to replace their nightstands with a headboard that incorporates shelves and cabinets. I think Rita would like that.

  I pass Robby’s room. Posters of ninjas cover the walls. Little warriors line the shelves.

  “Why are you in my room?” a husky voice asks and I jump high enough to nearly bang my head on the ceiling.

  Robby is probably close to six feet tall. I’m guessing he weighs around two hundred pounds. He fills the doorway, not menacingly, just physically.

  “Hi, Robby,” I say, and I can hear the fear in my voice. Can he?

  He repeats his question with no emotion.

  I explain that I’m helping his mom and dad redecorate their house. I babble a little, but he seems oblivious.

  “They aren’t here,” he tells me.

  Calmly, which is a joke considering what’s going on inside me, I ask if he’d like to help me come up with some ideas for how to redecorate? What kind of furniture should we use in his room? What color does he like? Where the hell are his parents?

  He says his favorite color is black. He would like black on the walls, black on the ceiling, black sheets and black carpet. “Do they make black carpet?” He is blocking the doorway, but he seems content to talk about decorating his room, which takes a good deal of the menace out of his presence.

  I assure him that they do, but that an all black room might be depressing. It might make him sad.

  Feeling cornered, I tell him I have some sample carpet in the living room, but he doesn’t move. “Would you like to see it?” I ask him.

  “Is there black?” he wants to know.

  I lie and tell him I’m not sure and suggest we go and check. I don’t breathe until he heads down the hall and gallops down the steps to the living room.

  I open my satchel and tell him I’m sorry that I don’t have black and that I’ll go get some.

  “Don’t go,” he tells me. I’m not sure if it’s a request or an order.

  “Your mom and dad will be home soon,” I respond. I don’t know if I mean that as reassurance or a threat, either. Depends on what he meant, I guess.

  “Can you wait for them?” he asks me. He’s pretzeled on the floor like a child, the ends of his shirt not meeting his pants and revealing the hairy lower back of a middle-aged man. And he is intent on rearranging the squares of carpet on the floor into a giant checkerboard.

  My heart breaks and I feel all the worse for suspecting him. And even worse, for still suspecting him.

  But because he’s close to Alyssa in mental age, I tell him that of course, I can. “Wanna help me do my work?” I offer chipperly.

  He ignores me as he exchanges small carpet squares, sits back, looks at them, arranges them differently and repeats the process again.

  “Do you min
d if I work?” I ask.

  I think there is a slight shake of his head. Gingerly, because my hand still hurts, I reach into my bag and dig around for a measuring tape, some graph paper, a pen and my Mace, because a girl can’t be too careful. And then I head off for the kitchen and Jerry’s office beyond it to put some space between Robby and me.

  In the stillness of Jerry’s office I pull myself together and corral my imagination, which tends to get the best of me.

  So, unless Jerry and Rita have left Robby home to finish me off and he’s forgotten that’s what he’s supposed to do…stop, imagination, stop… I think I’d better come up with some suggestions for the house so that when they do get home—and find me alive and standing in Jerry’s office—I’ll have something to offer.

  My first suggestion is easy. We should move the office into the basement now that Jerry no longer sees clients. I mean, why take up prime real estate that could be put to better use? I can feel myself relax as I start envisioning the changes. How great would it be to put in a pass-through or knock down the wall between the kitchen and office entirely?

  The space would make a lovely reading room and if their nightstands are any indication, Jerry and Rita like to read. I decide to do what I always advise my clients to do. Clear the room of as much furniture as possible and then just sit in the room and get the feel for it. See which way your body naturally orients itself. Facing the doorway? The window? Kitty-corner to the closet? I nudge the couch away from the wall. No dead bodies. No rat poison. No photocopied death threats…

  I look through the desk drawers. Accounting is terribly boring, I think, though Jerry has lots of nifty little notepads and a million different colored pens.

  There’s no way I’m moving all the stuff out of Jerry’s office. The furniture is heavy. I’m injured. I decide to settle for just taking a thing or two down from the walls, which will make it look like I’ve at least been considering what I’m supposed to be here for.

  I start with the big painting behind Jerry’s desk, which would actually be exquisite in the upper hallway after we expand the stairs.