Richard got up, grabbed his drink, and headed for his half of the suite. “I’ll be back in a while.”
“Take your time.” There was someone I wanted to contact, as well.
Once the door closed behind him, I pulled my new cell phone out of my pocket and punched in a number. It wouldn’t be familiar, so I wasn’t sure if my call would be answered and was prepared to leave a message. I didn’t have to.
“Yeah?” Sam Nielsen asked warily.
“Hey, Sam, it’s me—Jeff, your paranoid friend.”
“Paranoid?” He sounded confused.
“Yeah. It turns out that someone is trying to kill me—at least, that’s what I think. And I’d be more than happy to share the details with you because if I’m murdered, I want you to follow through to catch the bitch behind it.”
“A woman wants to kill you?”
“Yeah. I’m hoping you’d like to hear the whole story. But more than that, I need your help to procure a gun.”
“What for?”
“Because there’s a woman out there who wants to kill me,” I reiterated.
“Why?”
“Because I work—I mean I worked—at The Whole Nine Yards.”
“I’m confused.”
“And I don’t blame you. I can’t explain it all now, but I’d be glad to tomorrow. And I really need to buy a gun for protection. I have a permit, but I need your help to snag the paperwork and take me somewhere to buy one.”
“Why?
“I can’t drive. I sort of got hit by a car and I’m on crutches.”
“You got hit by a car?” he asked, aghast.
“Hit and run. Except for a busted leg, I’m pretty much okay.”
“Why won’t your brother take you to buy protection?”
“Because he’s a doctor who got shot. He’s sort of prejudiced against them.”
“I can see why.”
“Yeah, but despite his qualms I need to protect us—and especially me. If you’re available tomorrow, I’d appreciate your help.”
“And what do I get out of the deal?”
“Besides helping a friend? One hell of a story—but only if you keep me out of it.”
Silence.
It lengthened.
“Well,” he began, “if nothing else, I’m willing to listen.”
“Great. The only thing is…I need a little subterfuge.”
“In what way?”
“Send me an email asking me out to lunch. I can’t let Richard know that I contacted you.”
“Why not?”
“Just because,” I said with the hint of an edge creeping into my voice.
“Oh, all right.”
“Do it as soon as we get off the phone, will you?”
“Okay, okay,” Sam said, sounding annoyed. “But if the story that comes out of this isn’t print worthy, you’ll owe me—big time.”
“I get that.”
“Anything else?” he asked
I eyed the still-closed door to Richard’s half of the suite. “I really need this to happen tomorrow. Is that a problem?”
“I’ll have to rearrange a few things but, yeah, it can happen.”
“Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate this.”
“Appreciation is one thing; paying forward is another.”
“Right. I’ll call or email you back in a while. Thanks.”
The connection was broken.
I put my phone away and guzzled my drink. I set the empty glass aside and leaned back against the couch trying to look like I’d been cooling my heels for the past five minutes. The door handle to Richard’s bedroom rattled and he emerged looking grim-faced.
“What’s wrong?”
He went straight to his make-shift bar, plunked more of the wet hotel ice cubes into his glass and poured himself a generous portion of the breath of the heather. “Brenda’s antsy. She wants to come home.”
“Did something happen?”
He sat back down on the computer chair. “Betsy had a bad afternoon. She was fussy; probably cutting a new tooth. Evelyn is tutoring a couple of high school students for their end-of-year finals and Brenda and the baby were banished to the backyard. It started to pour and Brenda ended up standing in the garage for twenty minutes during a thunderstorm. The baby howled the whole time.”
“Aw, crap.”
“Yeah.”
After hearing about Brenda’s day, suddenly I needed another drink, too, but I wasn’t about to ask Richard to make one. I’d just have to suffer. “Would Brenda be happier in a hotel?”
“I asked her that. Her relationship with her family is still rather tenuous. She doesn’t want to rock the boat.”
Yeah, I could understand that. I didn’t envy Brenda having to deal with that crap, and it was all my fault—just because some demented woman wanted to get rid of me. And at that point we were still only dealing in speculation. But I hadn’t bullshitted Sam; I wanted to get a gun pretty damn quick. And as I’d told Richard, I was prepared to use one to save myself or those I loved. That said, I hated the thought that I might actually take someone’s life. But when push came to shove, my goal was protection, not predator.
My phone pinged—a text message. I consulted it. Good old Sam. “Hey, I just got a text from my buddy Sam. He wants to have lunch tomorrow.”
Richard looked up. “Oh, yeah? Does he know about your leg?”
“Of course. I emailed him the other day.”
Richard accepted my lie without question. “I suppose he wants to involve you in another one of his stories.”
“There’s not much I can do like this,” I said, indicating my case. “I mentioned being home bound. Maybe this is a mercy lunch.”
“Maybe.” Richard still seemed distracted. The good thing about that was he might not give this sudden invitation much more than a passing thought. At least I hoped so, because it just occurred to me that Sam wouldn’t have known my new number unless I’d called to tell him. Luckily, Richard was too preoccupied to think of it, either.
I texted a reply, which took a few minutes since I don’t like to text and the cheap phone’s tiny keyboard made it doubly frustrating. We went back and forth a couple of times before I spoke to Richard again. “He’s going to pick me up here at the hotel tomorrow at eleven thirty. Are you okay to get lunch on your own?”
“Of course. I downloaded a book about Buffalo during Prohibition. I want to read it and maybe contact the author, so the timing is good. But we should think about changing hotels as of tomorrow or Friday.”
“I agree.”
“Will you tell Sam your troubles?”
“Of course. He may be able to help. He hasn’t disappointed me yet.”
Richard nodded thoughtfully, sipping his Scotch. My stomach growled. We needed to eat and Richard needed to stop drinking if he was going to drive us to Sophie’s bakery later that evening.
“So what’s for supper?”
He seemed to brighten at the mention of food. “I got everything you like.”
“Aw, you didn’t have to do that.”
“As Brenda likes to say, you don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. You’re looking kind of gaunt.”
“I am?”
He nodded. “You need to bulk up.”
“I hope you got something you like, too.”
“Definitely.” He got up to rustle up our makeshift meal. “Oh—” He turned back to face me. “Would you like a refill?”
Did I! “Yes, but just one. I want to be sharp when I speak to Sophie.”
His cheerful demeanor evaporated at the mention of my psychic mentor. Was it because he might not be welcome or that he’d have to curb his alcohol consumption to go there? I wasn’t about to ask.
Richard made me another drink and Herschel abandoned the window to come sit beside me on the couch. We didn’t talk much as Richard set Chinet plates and plastic cutlery next to my leg on the coffee table. He brought out plastic containers with transparent domed lids that would constitu
te our feast. Yeah, he’d gotten a couple of things I liked, but the majority of items on offer were what Brenda favored. I didn’t point that out. I only had to look at his forlorn expression to see how much he missed his wife and baby girl.
We doled out mashed potatoes, gravy, roast beef, and squash. Richard nuked mine first. We ate in silence with the still morose music playing in the background.
Eating off a coffee table sucked. I wanted to go home—even if it was temporarily in Richard’s house and Brenda’s craft room. I wanted my real life back. I still had at least four if not six, weeks left in the damn cast and brace, but I also had a feeling this situation would resolve itself pretty quickly.
The question was … would I live to see the cast removed?
21
As I suspected, the bakery was dark when Richard drove by at just past midnight. That wasn’t unusual. Often I’d have to ring the bell a couple of times before Sophie showed up. I just wasn’t sure she’d show up at all if I had Richard in tow.
I was nearly certain we hadn’t been followed from the hotel, which let at least part of me relax. Unfortunately, my stomach seemed to be tied in knots and I wasn’t sure why.
“You’d better drop me off.”
“We’ve talked about that,” Richard said.
“Yeah, and we have differing opinions on the subject. “
“Let’s just see if Sophie will show up before we discuss alternatives.”
“Fine.” But now that we’d arrived, I knew there’d be no welcome mat out for my brother.
Richard parked the van on the side street and got out, waiting for me to extricate myself. He appeared to be pretty confident as we approached the bakery’s entrance. He reached out and pressed the doorbell, which we heard ring inside.
We stood there in silence for at least thirty seconds before he pressed the bell again. Another thirty seconds went by—I counted—and still no light went on in the back of the shop.
I shifted position so I could lean against the building.
“How long do you usually have to wait before she shows up?” Richard asked.
“Not this long.”
He tried ringing the bell again, and again we waited.
“Didn’t you say that sometimes she doesn’t show at all?”
“Yeah, but she’ll know I got hurt. She’ll want to see me now.”
He rang the bell again.
I wasn’t going to suggest he leave.
We waited.
“Okay,” Richard said, conceding defeat. “I guess I can sit in the car for a couple of minutes and if you’re still standing outside the bakery in five minutes, we’ll go back to the hotel.”
“Right. And if I’m not?”
“Call me when you’re ready to be picked up.”
“Will do.”
He turned and, with slumped shoulders, headed back toward the minivan. No sooner was he out of sight when the light in the back of the shop flashed on. Sophie hurried forward, looking distraught. She unlocked the door.
“What have you done to yourself?” she demanded, taking in my scabby face and the cast that poked out of the end of my sweatpants.
“I didn’t do a damn thing; it was done to me.”
“Come inside,” she said, holding the door open for me. She usually led the way to the storeroom where she held court, but this time she followed me.
I let myself fall onto my usual folding chair next to an ancient, tippy card table and set my crutches aside.
“Is hot chocolate okay?” Sophie asked.
“It’s fine.”
She put a pan of water on the electric burner on the shelf above the sink, then bustled to put powdered cocoa into a couple of cracked mugs. She didn’t seem to want to face me until she could offer me a little comfort, even if it was only cocoa. I took that opportunity to check out my phone. As I suspected, it said no signal available. Was that because I was situated in a pocket where time stood still? I didn’t know and wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Finally Sophie determined the steaming pot was hot enough, poured the water, stirred the chocolate, and brought the cups to the table. She sat down. “Now, tell me what happened.”
I did, leaving out the scarier parts, but I could tell she knew I was holding back. She often seemed to know exactly what I was going to say even before I said it.
“So,” I said after finishing my recitation. “What’s new with you?”
“Fretting after you,” she said with disapproval, “and with cause, because you haven’t told me the worst of it.”
“I don’t want you to worry.”
Her glare was laser sharp.
I let out a breath. “My friend at the bar died.”
“Was killed,” she corrected, “and now the person who did it is after you.”
“It’s a possibility,” I admitted, trying to downplay the threat.
“And there’s more,” she accused.
“Oh?” I wasn’t sure what she meant.
“Your brother has plans. Big plans. Plans that will put the two of you in continual danger.”
I shook my head. “You’re exaggerating.”
Again with the laser glare.
“We’re going to concentrate on cold cases,” I explained. “Old unsolved cases. Cases where the possibility of running into trouble is extremely limited.”
“Is that what you believe?” Why the hell did she sound so angry?
“Yes.” For the most part.
She shook her head. “I know you want to please your brother—you feel you owe him a lot. But you do not owe him your life.”
Oh, yes I did—and several times over. “I’m taking steps to keep us safe.”
“Buying a gun?” she practically shrieked, getting angrier by the second. “And worst—the worst of all—you intend to charge people for using your gifts?”
I had a feeling that might be her biggest beef.
“I need to make a living,” I said calmly.
“Charlatans hang out a sign that says ‘psychic for hire!’”
“Who says I need to tell people about my—” I could barely stomach to say the words, “my gift.” I considered what I could do—could sense—to be a major pain in the ass. It wasn’t fun. It was often frightening. Employing it often gave me excruciating headaches. Doing it for a living—calling on that so-called gift on a regular basis—wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. It had taken me two years since the mugging to get where I was. If I was going to have to work at solving cold cases, I hoped the job would end sooner rather than later.
Sophie wouldn’t look at me. Her focus was fixed on the mug on the table before her. “I am so disappointed in you.”
How disappointed?
She looked up, as though hearing my unspoken question. “If you do this, I don’t know if I will be here for you anymore.”
A threat or a promise?
I said nothing.
I loved Sophie.
I loved Richard.
He was alive.
She wasn’t.
“I wouldn’t like that.”
It was her turn to say nothing.
I looked down at my cup. It was empty.
“You should go,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
I wanted to say more—to explain how I wasn’t keen on Richard’s business plan, but I also knew she wouldn’t listen.
I grabbed my crutches and got to my feet. She rose from her chair, too.
I hobbled out of the storeroom and into the shop, pausing at the door. “Can I kiss you good-bye?”
Sophie didn’t answer, and I stood there waiting for long seconds before she reluctantly offered me her cheek. I gave her a quick kiss. For the first time, she didn’t give me one in return.
“I love you, Sophie Levin.”
“And I love you, Jeffrey Resnick.”
“I’ll come by when all of this is over.”
She shrugged, again saying nothing.
“See you.”
I shoved my shoulder against the plate glass door and pushed. This time she didn’t hold it open for me. Once it swung shut behind me, I turned. The shop was dark, with no sign of Sophie, and no sign I’d ever been inside.
I leaned against the door, fished for my phone, saw that I could get a signal, and hit the call icon. Richard picked up immediately.
“I’m ready.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I hit the call end icon, stuffed the phone back in my pocket, and waited. Seconds later, Brenda’s minivan appeared. I shuffle-hopped around the front, opened the door, tossed the crutches over the top of the passenger seat, and maneuvered myself inside. Shutting the door, I reached for the seat belt.
“Well?” Richard asked.
“I’ve been disowned.”
“What?”
“Sophie doesn’t approve of our plans to go into business. She disowned me.”
“I hope you’re kidding.”
I shook my head. “I’m beat. Let’s go back to the hotel.”
“Sure,” Richard said quietly.
We didn’t talk any more that night.
22
The sky was overcast when I awoke the next morning, its gray nothingness reinforcing the way I felt. I tried not to think about my conversation with Sophie the night before, and instead concentrated on what I needed to do that day—which was pretty ambitious. I only hoped Sam could give me as much time as I needed to accomplish everything that had to be done. It was, after all, still a work day for him.
Richard was reading and I left him to it, making sure Herschel was shut up for the day before I left the room and headed for the elevator.
I planted myself on a bench just outside the hotel’s lobby which, considering Maria could literally be gunning for me may have been a dumb move, but being cooped up in the car or in the hotel had me feeling vaguely claustrophobic. I didn’t have long to wait as Sam was a couple of minutes early. I’ll admit that seeing his black SUV gave me a momentary scare as it pulled up beside me and the power window on the passenger side rolled open.
“I was about to say ‘hop in,’ but then I remembered you’re on crutches. Need help?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
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