by Arlene Kay
“Too bad about Roy,” Alf said later as we shared a drink at Steady Eddie. “He’s a little rough around the edges but basically a good guy.”
Babette launched into an impassioned defense of Vesco and a stinging indictment of Sergeant Watts and the authorities in general. “I’m so disappointed in Roar,” she said. “He must be afraid of that partner of his.”
“Could you blame him?” Alf asked. “Woman’s a menace if you ask me.”
Pruett grinned but said very little. He probably had sworn a blood oath with his buddy Sergeant Jansen—fealty to the bitter end.
No one mentioned Yael, but I knew that she held the key to solving the entire puzzle. While murder, blackmail, and intrigue made great fodder for Pruett’s article, they also formed a solid link leading squarely to the dowager queen of the Big E. Without access to police sources, I had no idea whether or not Yael’s bank records had been checked for a hefty payout to a possible assassin. Maybe it didn’t matter anyway. Soon some other tragedy would come along and sweep the seamy details of these crimes from public notice. That didn’t mean I had to give up, of course. In the next twenty-four hours, I might be able to tie up a few loose ends.
“What did Roar say about the string tie?” I asked Pruett.
“Not much. There’s no proof that it wasn’t Roy’s. The silk tie, I mean.”
Babette laughed. To be accurate, she guffawed. “Men! Don’t know diddly about clothing. I recognized the tie in that crime scene photo. Bought one like it for my nephew only last month.”
“So?” I knew she was leading up to something big. Even Pruett went on alert.
“It wasn’t just any silk tie. That was Tom Ford, baby. Two hundred and fifty big ones at Neiman’s.” She gave us an evil grin. “Do you seriously believe that Roy Vesco would lay down that kind of money for a tie he’d never wear?”
Alf gulped. “Do ties really cost that much? I wouldn’t spend that much on a suit.” He seemed scandalized at the very thought.
Babette pinched his cheek. “Make Guinnie a Silver Grand Champion, and I’ll get one especially for you. A good luck show tie.”
Pruett furrowed his brow, a look that enhanced his already sexy self. Leave it to Babette to ferret out a vital clue. That gore-soaked tie, steeped in Bethany’s blood, belonged elsewhere, certainly not in the closet of fashion-challenged Roy Vesco. On the other hand, it was no big deal for the likes of Yael Lindsay. The closet of her late, unlamented husband was probably filled with designer duds, including high-end ties.
“Think you could watch Ella for a while?” Pruett asked Babette. “I’d be grateful. Perri and I have something to do. Shouldn’t take long.”
Babette faced us with hands on hips. “You two are up to something. What is it?”
Pruett’s move mystified me as well. Was it related to the case or something personal between the two of us? I planned to confront Yael tomorrow at the show, not now. Frankly, I had no clue where the doyenne of dogs housed herself in West Springfield, unless a nearby palace was vacant.
“We need some alone time,” Pruett said, squeezing my hand. “You understand.”
His appeal to her love of romance scored a home run. Babette wagged her finger at us and smiled. “Okay. Just don’t do something crazy like elope. I want to catch the bouquet.”
Pruett flashed a rakish grin her way but stayed silent. I was too overcome to even comment. “See you soon,” he said, herding me toward the door. “We’ll leave the dogs here too.”
As soon as we climbed into his Porsche, I demanded an explanation. “What was that all about?”
“Time to confront Mrs. Lindsay,” Pruett said. He sounded determined, ready to resolve things immediately—or, as Babette would say, ready to rumble.
“I don’t even know where she’s staying,” I said. “Springfield’s a big place.”
Pruett looked smug, way too sure of himself. “I know,” he said. “She’s at the same hotel where I’ve been staying. Got a penthouse suite.” He winked. “Of course, if you prefer, we can follow Babette’s suggestion and elope.”
I skipped right over that remark. The issue was unsettling and way too delicate to discuss so casually. “Down boy,” I said. “Focus on the mission.”
He turned the heater up full blast. “You’re no fun at all, spoilsport. With Ella as our flower girl and Babette playing matron of honor, we’d be all set.”
I saw the humor of the situation. “Keats and Poe could give me away, but who would be your best man?”
“Roar, of course. He’d do nicely.”
I shook my head and returned to the matter at hand. “How do you want to play this with Yael? Guaranteed she’ll blow up big-time.”
Pruett programmed the GPS for downtown Springfield. “You go first. After all, you figured out that tie business. I plan to study her reaction.” He shrugged. “She won’t admit anything, but guaranteed she’ll react. They always do.”
I believed in planning and strategy, but Pruett was more prone to spontaneous action. Maybe that explained the difference between us. Was it an unbridgeable gap or a felicitous mix? Only time would tell. Meanwhile, Yael Lindsay, entitled patrician, would rail at anyone who accused her. She’d probably toss us out or have some minion do it. Anything was possible.
Pruett tossed the car keys to the valet and hustled me into the lobby. “Change of plans,” he said. “I’ll tell Yael I’m winding up my article and want to do some fact checking. Maybe ask for some on-the-record quotes.”
“What about me? Do I sit there like the proverbial potted plant?”
“Clever girl. You play observer. If I drop the ball, jump in. Okay?”
It wasn’t perfect, but Pruett’s plan was far superior to anything I could dream up. Yael might actually answer the questions of a reputable journalist like Pruett. I had no official standing whatsoever.
Fortune favored us. I fumbled in my purse, pretending to search for the key card to the penthouse floor, while Pruett folded his arms and fumed. Another couple in the crowded elevator used their passkey without ever questioning our cover story. Pruett thanked them and rolled his eyes, while I feigned embarrassment. In everyday life, I was an orderly soul who never lost keys, cards, or anything else. For undercover work, I could play any part needed. Babette was another story entirely. She lost anything that wasn’t tied down and a few things that were.
We hesitated after leaving the elevator and might have been stymied if a familiar face had not exited a nearby suite. Rafa Ramos had never looked so good, dressed to the nines in a handsome pinstriped suit. I elbowed Pruett and whispered. “Check out his tie.”
We exchanged greetings, using Pruett’s article as our excuse for being there. Rafa frowned. “Yael didn’t mention an appointment with you,” he said. “Rather late, isn’t it?”
Pruett leapt into the breach with a careless shrug. “I’m on deadline, and she was kind enough to help me out.”
I stepped closer to Rafa and fingered his tie. “Boy, do you look sharp! That tie is fantastic. Tom Ford, right?”
The fuss about his appearance disconcerted Rafa. “I don’t know much about ties,” he said sheepishly. “It was a gift.” He exchanged men-of-the-world grins with Pruett. Normally, that would have set my teeth on edge, but in this instance, it was a lifesaver.
“We won’t keep you,” Pruett said. “Don’t want to presume on Mrs. Lindsay’s time any more than I already have.” They shook hands and parted ways. Meanwhile, I sprinted toward suite 10-D, the one Rafa had just exited. Pruett was close on my heels. He knocked on the door while I stood out of the way. Yael Lindsay, wrapped in a kimono of scarlet silk, responded immediately.
Her eyes widened when she saw the two of us. “Oh. I thought you were someone else. What do you want?”
Pruett immediately turned on the charm machine and launched into a string of lies that were so plausible even I believed them.
Mr. Mendacious, aka Wing Pruett.
Yael was female enough to appreciate the attention of a handsome male, no matter how dubious his story was. Unfortunately, her good humor didn’t extend to me.
“What’s she doing here?” Yael asked. “She’s no journalist.” Her tone was unfriendly, bordering on hostile. Naturally, that didn’t faze Pruett one bit. He patted my shoulder and chuckled.
“Perri’s my fact checker. You know how cautious the press has to be these days. So much fake news being spread all over the place. My publisher hired her to help with this story. Keeps me on the straight and narrow, I can tell you.”
Yael curled her lip but waved us in and offered refreshments. Both of us declined. In novels and mysteries on the big and small screens, every time someone accepted food or drink from a suspect, bad things happened. Not tonight.
Pruett consulted his notes and asked a few perfunctory questions about her husband. The widow Lindsay answered them directly, with very little emotion and even less embellishment. Finally, Pruett eased into the main event. His technique was understated and soothing, designed to lull the widow into complacency.
“Were you surprised when Roy Vesco was arrested?”
She shook her head. “Not really. His kind can be violent, and I understand he’s got a criminal record.”
Pruett pulled out his iPad and frowned. “Just one thing puzzles me. I want to get it right for the article.”
Yael stayed silent but nodded.
“The tie. Sergeant Jansen said it was soaked in Ms. Zahn’s blood.” He grimaced. “Ugh. I saw the crime scene photo, and that thing was full of gore.”
I scrutinized every move that Yael made. Beneath her carefully applied makeup, she grew very pale. That was not surprising, in view of the subject matter, but interesting nevertheless.
“I don’t know anything about these things,” Pruett lied. “But Perri tells me it was a very expensive article. Well over two hundred bucks.”
Jump in, I told myself. Keep her guessing. “It was a Tom Ford tie, Mrs. Lindsay, the kind your husband wore.” I painted a sympathetic smile on my face. “We just saw Rafa Ramos wearing the same brand. That’s a very generous gift.”
I had to admire Yael’s composure. She neither quaked nor faltered. “Indeed,” she said, reaching for her drink. “Are you sure you won’t join me? I adore champagne, and Veuve Clicquot is my favorite indulgence.”
Pruett has expertise in all things French. He picked up an empty glass and raised it in a toast to Yael. “Ah, Veuve Clicquot—the Widow. How appropriate. Your taste is impeccable, Yael, and the Grande Dame is the best of the best.”
I don’t know champagne from cola, but Yael was clearly pleased by Pruett’s compliment. She sipped daintily at the pricey brew as he continued the conversation.
“Here’s the part that puzzled me,” he said. “According to my notes, the police found that tie hidden in Roy’s pickup.”
Yael didn’t move a muscle. She’d make a heck of a poker player.
“Thing is,” Pruett continued, “Roy wore a string tie that night. Supposedly the only one he owns. He’s all over Facebook wearing it. How do you suppose the fancy tie full of Bethany’s blood got into his truck?”
Full marks to the widow. She stayed as cold as ice. “I have no idea, Mr. Pruett. Ask the police.” She handed him her cell phone. “Here. Call them. Then we’ll both know.”
Pruett never shrinks from a challenge. He pulled his iPhone from his pocket and dialed Roar’s number. “No problem,” he said. “Sergeant Jansen’s on my speed dial.” Unfortunately, the call went straight to voice mail. When Pruett looked up, Yael had replaced her drink with something more potent—a shiny Glock sub-compact pistol.
I’m no gun nut, but like most military vets, I know weapons. This was a Glock 42, top of the line, billed as the smallest, most easily concealed product that company had ever made. The media buzz touted how suited the 42 was for “smaller hands,” a subtle but obvious pitch to women. Yael looked comfortable enough handling it, so perhaps the hype was accurate for once. Either way, I knew just how deadly and accurate that pistol was.
I slid slowly to the edge of my seat, poised to spring at her. Yael surprised me by swiveling to the right and pointing that lethal weapon straight at my heart. “Don’t move,” she said. “I thought you might be trouble. Not the simple tradesman that you pretend to be. Luckily, I am an excellent judge of character and an even better shot.”
Pruett eased back into his seat. “What’s this all about? We’ll leave if we upset you.”
Yael’s laughter rang out in the cavernous room. “Nice try. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Tomorrow the show ends, and we’ll all go home. At least some of us will.”
Her superior airs were starting to annoy me. That leavened any fear I felt with anger. “Why resort to murder? I presume you paid someone to do your dirty work.”
She cautiously reached for her phone and dialed a number. “Come right over. We have some visitors who need taking care of.”
I knew immediately whom she had called. Genna Watts, Jill of all trades and hired assassin. Genna would dispatch us coolly and professionally and enjoy doing it. Suddenly, I felt the first quiver of panic. Nothing crippling, just mildly disquieting.
Even with his life imperiled, Pruett remained a journalist on the hunt for a big story. “Why risk killing two people? Divorce seems simpler.”
“Really? That leech stole enough of my money. My money. He contributed nothing but heartache. Do you think I’d pay alimony to him too?”
I congratulated myself for having great deductive powers that rivaled those of Sherlock Holmes. Problem was, my genius would die unappreciated, along with me and Pruett. Not quite the outcome I had envisioned.
“Okay,” I said. “But answer me this. Why murder Bethany? She was harmless.”
Yael fixed her patrician glare on me. “It’s none of your business, but since we have some time, I’ll tell you. I had nothing to do with Bethany’s death. Not that it bothered me. She was a slut, just as I told you before. No. Bethany saw something and tried to blackmail my partner. A big mistake.”
“Pretty smart to have a cop do your dirty work,” Pruett said. “Tie up all the loose ends and plant suspicion on a poor slob like Roy Vesco.”
Yael smirked. “You’re right. It was worth the price. Always get the best, I say.”
A rap on the door startled us. Yael answered it, all the while covering both of us with her Glock. “About time,” she said. “We have to deal with two of them now.”
Sergeant Roar Jansen sauntered into the room, wearing his trademark smile and lugging a bulging carryall.
Chapter 25
At first, I felt relieved. Finally, someone would save us from this homicidal hag. Then I saw Pruett’s face. Yael hadn’t bothered him much, but clearly the situation had changed. Both of us had made a mistake that might well cost us our lives.
“Give me that before you shoot yourself,” Roar said, grabbing the gun from Yael’s hand. “We’ve got ourselves a real situation here.” He turned toward Pruett and me and shook his head. “Sorry it came to this. I’ve gotten to really like you two.” He pointed his gun toward me as he threw Pruett his handcuffs. “Help me out, Pruett. Truss her up good and tight. Then it’ll be your turn.”
He used plastic ties, or flex cuff restraints, as the purists call them. They were more comfortable than metal cuffs, but that was no relief to someone awaiting death. Roar restrained Pruett himself, an action I considered somewhat sexist but largely irrelevant under the circumstances. He pushed us down on the sofa and poured himself a flute of champagne.
“Sorry I can’t serve you,” he said. Funny. Those dreamy eyes held the same twinkle they had in happier moments.
“Stop wasting time,” Yael growled. “Get rid of them.”
He didn’t like that. Roar pressed
his lips into a tight line and ignored her. “I guess you have some questions, don’t you? Too bad that article won’t get finished, Wing. I was looking forward to reading it.”
“Why?” I asked. “Was it all about the money—or something else?”
For once, Pruett had no questions. He locked eyes with Roar as if he already knew the answers.
“Sorry, Perri,” Roar said. “I could invent some high-flying excuses, but I have none.” He swallowed his drink and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Truth. The oldest motive in the world is money. Filthy lucre. I plead guilty to coveting it.” He crossed those long legs and leaned his head back on the chair. “Never have enough of it. Not on a cop’s salary, so I got a second job.”
Finally, Pruett spoke. “How much does a hit job pay these days, Roar?”
The response was matter of fact. “Mrs. Lindsay here paid one hundred grand. Oh, she was cagey about it. Set up a dummy corporation, all nice and legal.” He smiled once more. “Course I took a loss on Bethany. Had to do that one for free.”
“Cost of doing business, I guess.” Pruett’s reaction was tinged with bitterness and a bit of sadness. His affection for Roar had been real.
Now I knew where that cashmere sweater and Roar’s other toys came from. Blood money. “Why kill Bethany? She was harmless enough.” Maybe if we kept him talking, some miracle would occur.
“Bethany, sweet sexy Bethany. Unfortunately, she saw me do Lee that night. What were the chances? Anyway, she wanted more than I could pay.”
“Asked for money, did she?” Pruett almost seemed to enjoy the exchange.
“Hell no. The dumb broad wanted to marry me. Can you believe it? I couldn’t let that happen. She would have stuck to me forever.”
Yael’s store of patience had been exhausted. Her voice rose to screech level. “Stop this chatter and finish them off. Use the service elevator if you have to, but get rid of them.”
“No problem.” Roar drew his own gun and attached a silencer on it. The correct term was noise suppressor, but why quibble when it’s pointed your way. “Nope. Too risky. I got a better idea.” He turned to Yael and shot a neat hole in the middle of her forehead. The pop of the silencer sounded more like the slamming of a door than a gunshot. Nobody noticed.