Do Wah Diddy Die

by Pauline Baird Jones

  Mickey looked at the file, then tossed it aside with a snort of disgust. They’d exhausted their leads and themselves. It was a waiting game now, with the ball in Arthur Maxwell’s court. Mickey hated waiting games and the noise he’d missed while doing time at the Seymour’s was now giving his headache a chance to do a return show. He dug out his mega bottle of aspirin and tossed back two, then two more. He’d get over it, he told himself. He’d been orbiting the Seymour planet for nearly five days. That long in what amounted to a loony bin would leave its mark, but he had to admit, if only to himself, that the real problem was distance from Luci.

  Would the people they’d left as watchers know how to deal with her? How to keep her safe from Maxwell and herself? And, like a rat following a maze, his thoughts went back to the big why. Why did Maxwell want her dead? Mickey pulled the chain letter out of the file and studied it, but none of the addresses were in Wyoming, let alone Butt Had. That didn’t mean Maxwell had never been to Butt Had, of course. Be stupid of him to leave a trail to his home base.

  “I’m going to fax Maxwell’s mug shot to Butt Had. The connection has to be there. Luci said she doesn’t travel much.” Something teased at the edges of his mind. Something Luci had said. Problem was, she’d said too much and he was too tired to recall half of it, let alone sort out the important stuff. Always supposing she’d said anything important. “Should have thought of it sooner.”

  “We’re both tired.” Delaney looked up, shaking off his blues long enough to say, “Send it to the local Post Office, too. Whole town passes through the PO. Then go lie down. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

  It was Artie’s knowledge of the old ladies’ habits that formed the basis of his plan. It took some heavy thinking and some careful circuits through the neighborhood before he located the cemetery he’d escorted them to a couple of months ago. He walked down the rows until he found the Seymour crypt. He was early, so he scored some flowers off another grave and sat down out of sight of the street.

  There were too many people looking for him. He had to finish this and get out of town. Max had made sure Artie knew Dante was gunning for him, just in case he hadn’t figured it out. If Cloris could get Dante to call off the dogs long enough for him to get clear...he could soothe her down, spin her a tale, promise her what she wanted to hear and then disappear.

  It was risky. He didn’t know how much power Cloris had, but he had to try. If he’d just left her, not taken the money, would Dante be looking so hard? He was so close, so very close.

  “Such a lovely day,” he heard Miss Weena say in that breathless way of hers. He peered around the crypt and saw, with satisfaction, that all three of the old ladies were walking into his trap. All he had to do was close the door.

  Mickey didn’t get to lie down. He faxed the mug shot and was heading down the hall to the lounge when Delaney intercepted him, his face grim. Cold fear started a slow creep through his body.

  “The old ladies took a walk this afternoon and haven’t been seen since. Louise got worried and gave a note to one of our watchers.”

  Mickey cursed and rubbed his face in hopes it would clear his head and not just his vision. “Well, we wanted Maxwell to make his move. He smelled the trap and decided to have the money come to him.”

  Delaney looked frustrated. “We should have told them what we were planning. Warned them—”

  Not to tell them had been the captain’s decision. He’d be sweating this one out, big time, Mickey decided, but they’d all be in the hot seat if the old ladies got hurt.

  Fear quit creeping and started a stampede. “We should go over there—”

  Delaney shook his head. “Captain wants us to stay here for now and keep working.”

  “APB?” Mickey asked, following him down the hall.

  “Being treated as a kidnapping.” Delaney dropped into his chair. “Be interesting to see how Maxwell makes contact, since there’s no phone.”

  “Did he say how Luci was taking it?” Mickey asked.

  “She’s not home yet. Old ladies sent her out to run some errands—”

  “What? Is she—”

  “With a uniform,” Delaney said, a faint grin lightening his expression. “She’ll be back soon. I understand it was a long list.”

  Dante knew the police were tailing him, but he wasn’t worried. They could follow him home if they wanted to waste their time and the taxpayers’ money. He missed Max but was too annoyed about Artie smoking him to do anything about it. He brooded all the way to his Garden District mansion. He’d do something about Artie when he found him. And Luci, who he was sure had set him up. It made the trip seem fast, despite the rush hour traffic slowing everything to a crawl.

  When the limo swept around the curving drive in front of his house, he saw Cloris peering out the window, watching for him. It was enough out of character to stir up a mild interest.

  Inside, she waited until the butler had taken his briefcase and handed him a drink before pulling him into the parlor and shutting the door. She was wringing her hands like a heroine in a melodrama and there was wildness to her eyes that sharpened his suspicions to a needlepoint.

  “What’s going on?” He stopped her from turning away from him. “What’s happened?”

  “He called me.”

  This was just what he wanted to hear. Dante let her go and smiled. “Really? And what did he say?”

  “He wants to meet—”

  Dante grabbed her again. “Where?”

  “Promise you won’t hurt him!”

  “Of course.” The promise came easy. He could work out a story later.

  “I mean it. He wants to come back to me. He misses me.” Pink flushed her cheeks. Dante wasn’t surprised she couldn’t look at him. He could hardly look at her. Did she believe him? Did it matter? Not really, he decided. He smiled more and patted her shoulder. “Of course he does. He was a fool to leave you.” He hesitated. “Did he mention your money?”

  The pink turned red in her sallow cheeks. “He’s giving it all back. He only meant to borrow it until a deal came through for him.”

  Sure he did. It was going to be a pleasure popping the bastard.

  “What time is the meet?” Dante asked.

  “At eleven tomorrow night,” she said. “In the Metairie cemetery. It was his idea,” she added, as if she expected Dante to object. “And I’m going.”

  Dante gave a mental snort. It was a perfect meeting place. He made a mental note to put Cain and Abel on alert. They could quit watching the Seymour house, which was, of course, what Maxwell wanted. Get them in place at the cemetery well before Maxwell would be watching. Might as well let Maxwell have a clear field to move the money. When it was over, he’d tell them where he took it. He’d tell them everything before he died. When they were through, Cloris would pull the trigger herself.

  22

  The sound of a big truck accelerating away brought Mickey out of a sleep plagued with nightmares of being tortured on the rack. When he opened his eyes, he realized why. He’d fallen asleep in a chair. Now it felt like a drill was boring its way up his spine to the base of his head. When the Captain had sent them back to the Seymour house, he’d picked the chair for its discomfort factor, hoping it would keep him awake. He’d over-estimated the chair and under-estimated how tired he was.

  Inch by painful inch, Mickey straightened out his spine, then took a breather before trying to stand. He heard a snore and discovered Delaney sprawled on a Victorian sofa across from him, his head bent at an angle that would soon make him wish he’d never been born. Another gentle snore issued from his slack jaw. Mickey rubbed his face and discovered a deep sleep crease running the length of one side that would probably take all day to fade.

  “Delaney.” When Delaney didn’t move, Mickey kicked him, then wished he hadn’t moved, let alone kicked.

  “Huh?” With some snorts and groans, Delaney came awake, revealing an interesting paisley pattern adorning one whole side of his face from the pillow h
e’d been resting on.

  It was going to be a long day.

  When they’d sorted themselves out, shaved bristling jaw lines and tried without success to rub away the creases, they joined Luci in the dining room.

  She was sitting in Miss Theo’s place at the head of the table with an almost queenly aura about her. So might Queen Elizabeth had looked when she summoned her advisors to plan for war. It didn’t matter that she was wearing shorts and a tank top in deference to the muggy warmth of the room. Her eyes, so like their captain’s, followed him as he sat down on one side of her.

  “What?” Mickey asked, as his instincts went from dormant to full alert. “What’s happened?”

  Her gaze pinned him in his chair, her search for words playing out in her eyes. “I got a note from Arthur Maxwell this morning.”

  Mickey straightened, looked at Delaney, then back at Luci. “Let’s see it—”

  Luci shook her head, the movement sharp and regal.

  “What?” Mickey almost shouted the single word as rage did a quick crawl up his throat.

  “What’s going on, Luci?” Delaney cut in.

  Luci leaned back in the chair, her hands relaxed against the carved wood. “We need to agree on a few things first.”

  Mickey choked twice before he gritted out, “The only thing we’re going to agree on— “

  “If you don’t, then I’ll handle it myself. He says no cops. By talking to you I put my aunts at risk.”

  “Really?” Mickey leaned back. “You’ll handle it yourself?” Luci nodded, her eyes calm in the face of his glare. “You may have the note, but we have the money— “

  The gentle shake of her head, the apology that softened the determination in her eyes, were the first warnings that she controlled the board.

  “I’m afraid you don’t,” she said. “I took the liberty of moving it while you were asleep.”

  “How— “ then he remembered the truck that woke him earlier.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up, looking first at Delaney, then at Mickey, showing them her resolve. “I would be grateful for your assistance, but only on my terms. They’re my aunts and we’re going to do this my way.”

  It was, Mickey realized, probably the most frustrating moment of his existence. And there were a lot to choose from, most of them revolving around her in some way. An earthquake, at least an eight on the Richter scale, shook him from the inside out. His fingers curled as he visualized them around her neck—

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her sudden smile a mixed package of sorry and entreaty, “but I’ve thought this through. This is the best way.”

  “Why can’t you trust us to do our job?” he burst out.

  “I do trust you.” She looked down, one hand tracing a pattern in the lacy tablecloth. After a long moment, she looked up, her gaze slamming into his. “It’s you who can’t trust, Mickey. I may not see the world the way you do, but that doesn’t make me an idiot. Or wrong. Will you, can you, trust me?”

  Mickey stared at her, his thoughts churning with protests, with defenses, with reasons why he couldn’t...

  Except for one small thing. He did. He did trust her. It was insane. It was madness. But looking at her, looking into her calm and steady gaze, he found he did trust her. Of course, it was far worse than that. Like a wave breaking over his bachelor head, he realized that the reason he trusted her was because the worst had happened.

  He loved her.

  He’d done the unthinkable. He’d fallen for a Seymour woman.

  He looked away, took a steadying breath and sat back down, more worried about Luci and Delaney finding out his awful secret than about being right.

  “Sure. Fine.” What did it matter anyway? If she got him killed, it would be a mercy. “I’m in.”

  He felt Delaney looking at him as he, too, sat down. Mickey kept his gaze fixed on the tablecloth and after a pause heard him say, “Okay. I’m in, too.” The chair creaked a protest, then subsided. “What’s the plan? What do you want us to do?”

  Mickey had thought the Seymour house was quiet before, but he discovered it was worse without the old ladies. It had lost its heart and its soul. It didn’t help that Louise glared at him and ran her fingernail down her chalkboard every time she saw him. And the seconds of the old grandfather clocked ticked away the time like a Chinese water torture. It was a day with too much time to reflect on the insanity of his promise to trust Luci’s plan and his feelings for her, neither of which inspired hope, joy or optimism. That she’d also extracted a promise to keep their bargain from Pryce also upped the temperature in his personal hell. Mickey felt singed after a short session with his captain.

  Delaney looked as shaken when their captain’s gimlet gaze had lighted on him, but he had also stood firm, then sought out Gracie to cool off. He was sitting in the corner with her, the heat of his passion and her cooling draft almost creating their own weather system.

  At least Delaney knew where he stood with his lady. The only thing that kept him from assuming the coyote position in front of Luci was his dissipating pride and the fact that he still couldn’t bend from his night in the chair. Besides, what girl wanted to be proposed to by a guy with a sleep crevasse running like a scar from hair to chin line?

  Luci sighed as Mickey paced by her for the hundredth time in a quarter hour. If he kept up the pace he’d be through to China before it was time to go. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him about the note until closer to the hour. Though it seemed like more was bothering him than the Plan. He kept throwing brooding glances her way, like a sleep-creased Heathcliff. What was going on inside his cute head?

  She felt like her brain was playing ping-pong. There were too many things to think about. Pryce, her aunts, Mickey, Delaney and Gracie, and, of course, her Plan. If it didn’t work and she survived, Mickey would never let her hear the end of it. It seemed that coming here and discovering her past had triggered more than her capacity to pace. She didn’t know she had pride until it was on the line. The grandfather clock announced the noon hour, making her jump. Too many more hours. Would it work? She jumped up, but Mickey was using all available pacing space, so she slipped out and found an empty room. She was still there, pacing its ancient and rather ugly rug, when Gracie drifted in.

  “The house seems so empty without them,” she said, surrounding Luci in a layer of cool as she settled onto a nearby couch. “Do you think they are all right?”

  “He has to keep them alive until the meeting, but I’ll bet he’s feeling the strain. I just hope he can keep it together.”

  “He’s spent time with them,” Gracie pointed out. “Surely he has some immunity.”

  “But how much? From what I can tell, he mostly came and went. Now he’s doing serious time in the Seymour Zone.”

  Gracie chuckled. “I wondered why you weren’t worried about how long it would take. Trying to soften him first, I see.” She hesitated, then added, “I thought that maybe...”

  Luci looked up in surprise. “What?”

  “Well, he does seem to want you dead. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  Luci shrugged. “Why should I worry with you here to put death into perspective for me?”

  “Don’t!” Gracie’s cohesion wavered like a rock dropped into a pool. “Don’t let someone take your life without a fight!”

  It was, Luci realized, so much easier when you didn’t care. When people didn’t have the power to touch your heart, to delight or hurt you. Maybe that was the secret, the true curse of the Seymours: this inability to feel anything deeply, the failure to live fully. Life, she was only now beginning to realize, was meant to be lived courageously, to be faced bravely. There was no virtue in merely surviving and even less virtue in spending your life observing the ones who were living. In being so afraid, you never got started with life.

  The Seymour Zone was a dead zone and she was moving out.

  If Maxwell did succeed in killing her at least she’d know she went out having lived more in the last
few days than in her whole life. She just hoped Maxwell wasn’t counting his chickens before they hatched. The Seymours may not be great at living, but when they put their minds to it, things happened. Amazing things. Scary things. And when five Seymour women put their minds to something, look out.

  Artie had a twitch in his right eye. He hadn’t always had a twitch. This was the first time it had happened to him. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he did know it wasn’t long after he grabbed the old ladies. He knew they were kind of loony, but this was beyond loony. If he didn’t need them to get the money, he’d have held a pillow over their faces just to shut them up.

  Listening to them was like the damn chalk on Louise’s blackboard, only without the pauses. Their voices rose, they fell, they blended. One sister would start a sentence, another would pick it up and the last would finish it, then start a new one. Their ideas flowed together and away, shifting from one thing to another with no rhyme or reason for the change.

  It was a torturous form of insanity. If he hadn’t had Helen, the idea of Helen to cling to, he’d have popped them all, then put the gun to his own head.

  Maybe he should just pop them? Once she was there, what could they do? She’d hand over the money hoping the old broads were all right. And then he’d pop her because she was sure to recognize him. Then all he had to do was take the money and head home.

  Home. Closest he’d had to a home was his cell in stir. Been his most permanent address until Helen. He’d even hung a few pictures and bought a plant to brighten their cell. Course Reggie’d watered the life out of it. Guy was poison. A loser with a capital “L.” But in a nice way. If he hadn’t threatened to tell Helen...

  It was his first kill. Munn was easier. He’d heard it was that way. First blood was always hardest. He didn’t expect Luci to be hard. Or the old ladies. He checked his chamber. Six bullets. Two to spare.