by Lois Winston
In the top drawer I found a set of keys, each contained a Day-Glo orange label with a letter of the alphabet hand-written in thick black marker. C, W, P, and H. Charles Zucker, Walter Montieth, Paul Horner, and Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp. I pocketed the keys and headed back to Hugo’s office.
For a man who had no real function at Trimedia, Hugo’s desk was extremely cluttered. Several mounds of manila file folders covered the surface. Another precarious pile filled the visitor’s chair off to the side. Old issues of American Woman and various other publications he once directed lay on the carpet, stacked neatly by year and title, against the walls. The glossy columns of long forgotten issues stood silent sentry to a deposed potentate.
I glanced around the cramped office with its meager furnishings. Trimedia hadn’t seen fit to supply Hugo with so much as a filing cabinet, let alone a computer. Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp had once controlled a publishing empire. Now he was exiled to a dismal hovel like an unwanted and unloved Cinderfellow. Was such a slap in the ego enough to make him turn to murder?
Clearing a space in the center of his desk, I settled into his chair and began skimming the contents of the first stack of file folders.
After two hours I’d found nothing to indicate Hugo was in negotiations to buy back the company and nothing that incriminated him or Naomi in the murders of either Marlys or Vittorio.
What I did find filled me with profound sadness. Hugo spent his days at Trimedia surrounded by the minutia of days long past. The files contained all the meeting notes, all the hard copy, all the blue lines, all the artwork, and all the financial statements from each of the magazines lined up against his wall. Over thirty years of the history of the Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing Company, from the day the first issues rolled off the presses. Nothing more.
Hugo was no murderer. He was nothing but an unhappy old man living in the past. Whatever his argument with Naomi had been about, it certainly wasn’t anything that involved murder and mayhem. Or even the overthrow of the existing regime. Hugo had lost his publishing empire in a hostile takeover. He had neither the acumen nor the capital to reclaim his title and realm.
I mulled over what I remembered of Naomi’s and Hugo’s angry conversation.
“Don’t be stupid. Everything will work out. I made a mistake. There. I admit it. Satisfied?”
“A mistake?”
“Yes, a mistake. Nothing more. It’s over. Forget about it.”
The mistake Hugo referred to was probably his affair with Marlys. It was over because Marlys had dumped him for someone with more power and deeper pockets. Not to mention the fact that Marlys was dead.
“Over? We’re smack in the middle of a gargantuan dung heap.”
“Not if we play our hand right.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That you let me handle things. Okay? We have a chance to set things back on track.”
“Not with this new situation.”
“A minor wrinkle. Trust me.”
I filled in the blanks based on the clues spread out before me. Hugo had probably wheedled his way back into Naomi’s good graces by convincing her he planned a buyback of the company. Naomi believed him because she needed to believe him. She hated the new ownership and feared Marlys had planned to sleep her way into Naomi’s job. The dung heap and new situation referred to Marlys’s death, which Naomi feared would stall or obstruct Hugo’s buyback plans. Naomi had no clue that those plans were a mere pipe dream.
I left the office the way I found it, locked the door, and returned the set of keys to the secretary’s desk. Shunning the elevator in hopes of shaving off a few of the donuts and brownies that had affixed themselves to my hips recently, I headed down the stairs.
As I opened the fire door leading onto the floor American Woman shared with several other publications, I heard voices coming from the direction of the Models Room.
The Models Room was actually a large walk-in closet at the northwest corner of the floor. We used it to store props and samples for past, current, and future issues. Since it’s next to impossible to find plastic Jack-o-lanterns in April or ceramic leprechauns in September, we keep on hand a large supply of seasonal doodads and decorations for photo shoots. I also used the closet to store the various new products samples craft manufacturers constantly send me. Cloris gets samples of fois gras and Chambord-soaked pound cake; I get faux fur felt squares and chenille stems.
But why would anyone be in the Models Room on a Sunday afternoon?
I crept closer.
“There’s nothing but junk in here, Dicky. I don’t know what you find so fascinating.”
“Hey, one man’s junk, yada-yada-yada.”
“I thought you wanted to see my new office.”
“I do, Sweet Cheeks. You’re gonna give me the ten dollar tour. Top to bottom. Every office.”
Sweet Cheeks? I froze. Only one other person I knew had a fondness for that particular appellation. Ricardo. An iceberg twice the size of the Titanic killer broadsided me. A shiver coursed from my in-desperate-need-of-a-touch-up roots down to my in-desperate-need-of-a-pedicure toes. Could Erica’s new boyfriend and Ricardo be the same person?
Dicky.
Ricardo.
The jigsaw pieces began to fit together. The resulting picture didn’t paint Erica in such a sweet and innocent light. So much for following in the footsteps of Jessica Fletcher. Cloris had raised suspicions of Erica all along, but I’d pooh-poohed her.
“What’s in these boxes?” asked Dicky. I heard scraping, as if he were pulling down one of the cartons stored on the top of the metal shelving. It hit the floor with a thud.
Erica winced. “Careful! You’ll break something.” The sound of tape ripping off cardboard echoed out into the hall. “Dicky, please. Don’t open that. We shouldn’t even be here. What if someone finds us?”
“Would you shut up? Jeez, I can’t stand it when you whine. Grow up! Who’s gonna find us? It’s Sunday. Everyone’s home in the ‘burbs playing mommy and daddy to the rugrats.”
“I’m sorry.” Erica’s apology came out as a whimper. “What are you looking for? I’ll help you. We’ll get done much faster.”
“Something that don’t belong here. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Dicky snorted. “You ain’t gotta understand. Just open the boxes. I’ll do the understanding for both of us, Sweet Cheeks. Capisce?”
Even if Erica didn’t have a clue, I had a pretty good idea what Dicky was hunting for. Actually, I had fifty thousand ideas. He probably figured if I hadn’t hidden the money at home, I might have stashed it somewhere at work where no one would stumble across it.
No matter how much I protested to the contrary, Ricardo still believed I was pulling a fast one on him and had hidden the money somewhere. Probably because that’s what he would have done.
I had to get back to my cubicle and out of the building before Erica and Ricardo discovered me. The most direct path took me past the Models Room. With the door open, there was too much of chance of them hearing or seeing me.
My only other option was to slip downstairs, make my way across the length of the building to the stairwell at the opposite end, and come back up, approaching my cubicle from the other direction.
I turned toward the fire door.
“Anastasia?”
Shit! I spun around, feigning surprise. “Oh, Erica! Hi. I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”
“Neither did I. What are you doing here?”
“Just catching up on some work.”
“I didn’t see your car in the parking lot.”
“I parked at the train station.” I patted my stomach and laughed. “My new exercise regimen. Trying to walk off Cloris Calories since I can’t resist those goodies she’s constantly waving under my nose.”
She glanced at her own stomach and giggled. “I know what you mean.”
“What about you? Why are you here on a Sunday?”
&nbs
p; “I wanted to show Dicky my new office.”
At that moment, a man who looked like he could be in the cast of any number of Al Pacino gangster flicks stepped out of the Models Room.
Neither Mama nor Lucille had done justice to Ricardo in their description of him to Fogarty and Harley, although Mama had come much closer. Lucille definitely needed her eyes examined. Think Sylvester Stallone meets Steven Segal meets King Kong, and you begin to get an idea. Right down to the forest of thick black hair covering nearly every inch of his exposed flesh.
Erica slipped her hand into Dicky’s. “I’m glad we bumped into you. I’ve been wanting to introduce you to Dicky.” She tilted her head back to catch his eye. “Dicky, this is my friend Anastasia. The one I’ve told you about.”
Then she turned her attention back to me. “And this is my boyfriend Dicky.”
I wondered how much Erica had told Dicky about me—not to mention everything else that had recently transpired at Trimedia. Had she told him about Vittorio’s pending lawsuit? How scared she was of losing her job? She’d previously admitted having told him about Marlys.
My Jessica Fletcher mode kicked in. I now knew who had killed Marlys. And Vittorio. Motive? To help his girlfriend get rid of her Simon Legree boss and move from Bottom Feeder to the higher echelons of American Woman. Vittorio bought it because his lawsuit threatened to destroy Erica’s newfound success. Talk about a supportive boyfriend!
I kept my hands shoved deep in my smock pockets and offered Dicky or Ricardo or whatever-his-name what I hoped came across as a friendly—and innocent—smile. “Nice to meet you, Dicky.”
He stared at me without saying anything, only cocked his head in a semi-nod, his features remaining as vacant as the motels on the Jersey shore during a blizzard. Was he trying to figure out what I had overheard? Wondering if I suspected he was Ricardo?
His silence unnerved me. “Erica tells me you’re an independent financial consultant?”
“You could say that.”
I stretched my smile broader. “Well, I’d better get back to work and finish up my project. Have to pick my kids up in a little while. See you Monday, Erica.” I waved as I started to head for my cubicle.
“I don’t think so,” said Dicky.
I turned around to find myself face-to-face with a very nasty looking gun.
TWENTY-NINE
Dicky clamped one of his hairy paws over my forearm and jabbed the nose of the gun into my ribs.
“My God, Dicky! What are you doing?” cried Erica.
“Shut up, Sweet Cheeks. Your friend here knows too much. I’m gonna have to take care of her.”
“Knows too much about what? What do you mean take care of her?”
“Your boyfriend isn’t a financial consultant, Erica. He’s a loan shark and a murderer.”
“No!” Tears swam in Erica’s eyes. “She’s wrong, isn’t she, Dicky? Tell her she’s wrong.”
“Erica! For God’s sake. Look at the gun! That’s no Super Soaker he’s poking into me.”
“I don’t understand,” she whimpered.
“You don’t need to understand nothing. Just do as I say,” said Ricardo. “Unless you want to wind up just like your friend.”
“But, Dicky—”
He spun around, jerking me with him. I tripped over his feet and fell to the floor. My knees slammed against the rock-hard Terrazzo. When he yanked me up, he nearly ripping my arm from its socket. I cried out from the pain.
“You’re hurting her,” said Erica.
Dicky waved the gun in her face. “So help me, you’re really pissing me off, Erica. I’m gonna smack you good if you don’t shut up!”
She sniveled as she backed up against the wall. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry, Dicky. Please don’t yell at me.”
He studied her for a moment, then grunted. “Okay. I forgive you. Go get that purple cord stuff that was on the shelf in there.” He motioned toward the Models Room with his chin.
Erica stepped inside and came out a moment later with a spool of macramé cord. “This?”
“Yeah, that. Now we’re gonna take your friend here out to the car. Nice and quiet.” He poked the gun deeper into my side. “Got it, Sweet Cheeks?”
“Got it.”
“Where are we going?” asked Erica.
“Never you mind.” He jerked me toward the stairs. “You see anyone, you don’t say a word.”
I nodded.
He dragged me down the stairs. Erica followed.
My mind raced. If Ricardo had killed Marlys and Vittorio, he’d have no qualms about snuffing out my lights, as well. My only hope was that his greed overpowered his murderous tendencies. “If you kill me, you won’t get your fifty grand,” I said.
“Remember those friends I told you about, Sweet Cheeks? You’re gonna work for them full time.” He dragged the barrel of the gun down my torso. “Twenty-four/seven. No vacations. No benefits.”
“What money?” asked Erica. “What friends?”
“None of your concern,” he said.
If I was going to get out of this situation alive, I needed Erica’s help. And the only way to gain that was to make her realize how high Dicky rated on the Creep-O-Meter. “I guess you didn’t know your boyfriend helped my husband steal fifty thousand dollars from my mother-in-law, did you?”
“No, that can’t be true. Dicky? Tell her it’s not true.” Erica’s voice was a high-pitched whispery plea.
Ricardo squeezed my arm so tight it went numb. “That money belonged to me,” he said. “Karl owed me. We had a business arrangement.”
“Don’t believe him, Erica. He tried to kill my mother-in-law,” I said as he dragged me out the side door. A black sedan with New York plates was parked directly in front of the door, it’s massive trunk facing us. Scenes from The Sopranos flashed before my eyes.
“Grab my keys outa my left pants pocket,” Ricardo ordered Erica.
“Erica, please! You have to help me!”
Refusing to make eye contact with me, she stared at the blacktop and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Anastasia.” Then she reached into Ricardo’s pocket and pulled out a set of car keys. “Here.” She held them out to him.
“Do I look like I got a third hand? Open the goddamn trunk.”
Erica pressed the remote. The trunk popped open. No way was I going in there without the fight of my life. I jerked and squirmed, flailing my one free arm and kicking Ricardo in both shins. “Erica, help me! He killed Marlys.”
“Shut up!” He swung down with his gun hand, and everything went black.
~*~
I awoke in a nightmare, my body slamming and banging and bouncing back and forth, up and down, against the hard, rough sides of a small, cold, pitch-black prison. My head throbbed. I couldn’t see, couldn’t move. My arms were pinned to my sides, my legs bound together, my mouth taped. In the distance I heard voices. Shouting. Crying. I strained to listen.
“I gave you your big break, for crying out loud. Act a little grateful, why dontcha?”
“But, Dicky, you killed Marlys?”
“So? Everyone hated her, right?”
“Y...yes.”
“So stop sniveling. She made your life miserable. I took care of it. Did you a huge favor. You should be thanking me, Sweet Cheeks, not bitchin’ about the bitch.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothin’. It’s not like you ain’t seen stuff like this before, being who’s kid you are an’ all. Watcha think I do for your old man, anyways?”
“But you tried to make the police think Anastasia killed Marlys. Why? She’s my friend.”
“Some friend. She tried to steal from us. Her husband was into me for fifty G’s. So’s now I owe your old man, and that ain’t no good thing, Sweet Cheeks. Joey Milano don’t like excuses. From anyone. Besides, that’s fifty G’s less you inherit some day. You wanna be friends with a bitch who’d steal from you?”
“N...no.”
“So’s now you understand the gravity of the situation, right?”
“What are you going to do with Anastasia?”
“She’s more trouble than she’s worth. I’m gonna get rid of her.”
Erica started sobbing. “Please, Dicky, please don’t kill Anastasia.”
“Would you stop with the blubbering!”
I heard a smack.
Followed by a gasp.
Then silence.
Erica couldn’t take care of herself, let alone help me. She had stepped from a controlling abusive father, right into the arms of a controlling abusive boyfriend. And not just any father or boyfriend.
Erica Milano. From The Bronx. Home territory of the Milano crime syndicate, one of the Big Five New York crime families. Talk about a duh moment. She certainly pulled the polyester over our eyes, acting like the poster child for Naïveté Incorporated while hiding her true identity—the daughter of Murder Incorporated.
If I’d had a free hand, I’d have slapped my clueless forehead.
I was on my own, and the first order of business was freeing my hands. Ricardo had wrapped me like a macramé mummy. I rolled onto my stomach and felt the contents of my smock pockets jab me in the thighs. Shifting my weight, I discovered my cell phone still attached at my waist.
Dumb thug. He hadn’t even frisked me before tying me up. Big mistake on his part. One I intended to make sure he’d live to regret.
Contorting my body, I squirmed around until I had dumped the contents of my smock pockets into the trunk bed. Then I scooted around in the dark, searching with my fingertips. Pencils. Markers. Assorted google eyes, sequins, and beads. A bottle of tacky glue. A spool of quilting thread. A roll of fusible webbing.
Bingo! My fingers curled around my trusty X-Acto knife. No girl should be without one. With the knife pinched between my fingers, I flipped off the protective plastic cap and set to work on the macramé cord.
As the car sped toward whatever spot Ricardo had designated as my final resting place, I hacked at my bindings. I also wound up slicing off half my skin in the process, thanks to Ricardo’s breakneck speed, which sent me hurling around the trunk like a pinball on amphetamines. Figuring I couldn’t bleed to death from cuts made by a three-quarter-inch blade, I forced myself to ignore the pain and kept chopping away at my restraints.