The Best Laid Plans

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  “Married!” Then I remembered my manners. “I wish you every happiness, Trudy. When’s the big day?”

  “Friday.”

  “This Friday?”

  “We’re not getting any younger, so there’s no point in waiting. We’ll go down to city hall with Jim’s friend, Kenneth, and his wife. Then we’ll all go out for lunch.”

  “The girls won’t be at your wedding?”

  “We thought we’d surprise Beth and Mary Lou afterwards.”

  Red flags went up in my mind. It sounded like Jim was pressuring her into a hasty marriage. Not giving her time for second thoughts. And by not telling her daughters until after the wedding, they couldn’t talk her out of it.

  I was about to ask whether she and Jim had drawn up a marriage contract, but she told me she was off to visit her hairdresser and hung up.

  Once again, I thought of contacting her daughters, but my professional ethics prevented me. And there was a possibility I was mistaken. I’d never met Jim. He might be just the man to brighten Trudy’s golden years. Then I thought of the will she was changing. Had that been her idea—or Jim’s? And what were the changes?

  After work that day, I dropped by Trudy’s home with a bottle of champagne. The For Sale sign on the front lawn put me into full alert.

  If Trudy was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. She was perfectly turned out in a plum-colored dress and a pearl necklace. As I handed her the champagne, a white-haired man hobbled into the hall with the help of a cane.

  “My fiancé, Jim,” Trudy said. “Honey, this is Pat Tierney, my financial advisor.”

  She took my coat, and Jim led me into the living room, where he poured glasses of sherry. He handed me a glass, and clinked his against Trudy’s.

  I raised my glass to them. “To the happy couple. May you have years of health and happiness together, although I see it won’t be here. You’re selling the house.”

  “Yes,” Trudy said. “We’re looking at condos downtown.”

  I wondered if Jim had a home of his own to sell, but I decided that this was a social call. I’d arrange a meeting with Trudy after the wedding to go over the financial implications of her new situation. I’d suggest that Jim attend as well. But there was one question I couldn’t resist asking.

  “Do you have a family, Mr.—”

  “Call me Jim,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “No family, unfortunately. My late wife Rita and I weren’t blessed with children.”

  I settled into an armchair with my sherry. They took seats on the sofa across from me.

  “How did you two meet?” I asked.

  “On an Alaskan cruise in June.” Trudy held up a hand. “Don’t worry, Pat. It didn’t cost me a penny. Beth and her husband, Steve, wanted me to see my new grandson. They paid for my flight to Vancouver, and I stayed with them a week. Then they put me on the cruise.”

  Jim took her hand and looked at me. “We were seated at the same table at the captain’s dinner. We chatted, found we had common interests. I don’t think either of us realized until then how lonely we were, Trudy without Ernie and me without Rita. We began seeing each other when we got back to Toronto, and…well, here we are.” He gave Trudy a peck on the cheek.

  I pasted a smile on my face, and they told me more about their wedding plans. Trudy said she’d made a reservation for a late lunch at La Madeleine, an upscale restaurant in trendy Yorkville, that they planned to spend the weekend at the Four Seasons Hotel down the street. They seemed to be looking forward to their life together.

  I tried to find out more about their living arrangements. “When will you move downtown?”

  “We’ll stay here until the house sells,” Trudy said.

  Jim tapped his left hip with his cane. “I avoid stairs whenever I can, so a home without them makes sense. Fortunately, this house has a main-floor bedroom with an ensuite.”

  “Then why not stay here?” I asked.

  “We thought we should make a fresh start,” Trudy said. “In a home of our own.”

  It sounded like the sale of her house would finance the condo. With money left over for two to live on.

  Trudy gave Jim a sunny smile. “Honey, I have a surprise for you.” She glanced at me. “I’ve booked us on a cruise for our honeymoon. A ten-day Mediterranean vacation.”

  So that was what she wanted the money for. The cruise seemed to be her idea, but I wondered if Jim had planted it in her mind.

  “Sweetheart.” He took both her hands in his and chuckled. “And I thought you had your heart set on Niagara Falls.”

  I could see the lovebirds wanted to be alone, so I finished my sherry and wished them happiness again.

  “I’ll see you to your car,” Trudy said.

  Outside the house, she turned to look at me. “Well?” Her blue eyes were shining.

  “I think he’s landed quite a catch.” I paused. “There are financial implications to marriage, Trudy. Jim will own half your home.”

  She put a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.” She gave me a little wave as I drove off.

  Jim was charming, I mused on the way home. But was he too charming? And did he really need that cane? I still knew nothing about the man my client would marry in a few days.

  The next week, I received a copy of Trudy’s will. She had made Jim her sole beneficiary; her daughters weren’t even mentioned. I learned Jim’s full name, however. James Reynolds. Why did that sound familiar?

  I needed to talk to Trudy about her will. Her daughters would be hurt when they learned she hadn’t even left them her jewelry. I wrote a note on my calendar to call her in two weeks. I figured she’d be back from her honeymoon by then.

  The following Monday, Stéphane blew into the office suite just before ten. “Bonjour, ma chère.” He placed a Starbucks latte on my desk and copy of The Toronto World. He pointed to the front page of the newspaper. “Take a look.”

  He had circled an article in blue ink. “Wealthy industrialist James Reynolds dead at 78,” the headline read.

  * * *

  James Reynolds, founder and former chief executive of The Reynolds Group, which dominated Canada’s automotive sector in the 1970s and 1980s, died this weekend on a honeymoon cruise off the coast of Spain.

  Early Sunday morning Mr. Reynolds was found crumpled at the foot of a staircase on the deck of Robertson Cruises’ Princess Maria. His wife, the former Gertrude Sullivan, said he had stumbled coming down the stairs. According to her statement to Spanish police, she called for help when she was unable to revive him.

  An autopsy revealed a small amount of the tranquilizer benzodiazepine in Mr. Reynolds’ blood.

  The couple married in Toronto nine days before the accident.

  * * *

  I thought of Ernie’s accident three years before. He and Trudy had been on holiday in Greece when he’d stumbled on a footpath along the top of a cliff and fell to his death below.

  I looked up at Stéphane. “My God. It was Trudy who wanted to tie the knot quickly so Jim wouldn’t have time for second thoughts. She must have slipped him some of Ernie’s medication.”

  Stéphane looked puzzled.

  “She gave him just enough to disorient him and cause him to fall—or be pushed—down that staircase. Jim told me he avoided stairs.

  “I thought she was lonely after Ernie died,” I went on. “But being alone doesn’t necessarily mean being lonely.”

  A few days later, I received a letter from Trudy’s lawyer saying that she was transferring her account to another investment firm. I thought of going to the police, but what could I tell them? That she’d married a wealthy man who had died soon after the wedding? That he was her second husband to die in a fall?

  I thought of her last words to me. I know what I’m doing.

  She certainly did.

  Lisa Lieberman

  Lisa Lieberman, a historian of postwar Europe, abandoned a perfectly respectable academic career for the life of a vicarious adventure
r through dangerous times and places. She writes a historical noir mystery series based on old movies featuring blacklisted Hollywood people on the lam in exotic international locales. Lisa is a member of Mystery Writers of America, the Short Mystery Fiction Society, Sisters in Crime National, and the New England chapter of Sisters in Crime, where she serves as Vice President. She has published essays, translations, and short stories in Noir City, Mystery Scene, Gettysburg Review, Raritan, Michigan Quarterly, and elsewhere. Find her at DeathlessProse.com.

  Better Dead Than Redhead

  Lisa Lieberman

  I leaned over the body. “Nobody kills herself over a bad hairstyle.”

  “You didn’t know Mimi Courvoisier.”

  I glanced down at her and quickly turned away. The esthetician lay sprawled across the black leather sofa in the Hospitality Lounge of the Rhode Island Convention Center, her face contorted in agony. The room was dimly lit, but I’d seen enough. Mimi had swallowed the contents of a bottle of hair dye. The empty bottle stood on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Beneath it was a note: I can’t live with this color.

  “Couldn’t she have just worn a wig until it grew out?”

  “She hated wigs. Said you could always tell and believe me, appearances matter. In this business you’ve got to look authentic.”

  I gave my sister Alex a slow once-over, starting at her vermillion polished toenails peeking through the cut-out sandals with four-inch heels, working my way up the spray-tanned legs, past the tight skirt with strategic side slit, the shimmery V-neck top that showed off her cleavage. My eyes took in the gold necklace with a diamond pendant that nearly disappeared into said cleavage, moving past her flawlessly made-up face, the lips outlined in a darker shade, then filled in with a creamy gloss that complemented her nail polish, the expertly lined eyes, taupe-shadowed lids, mascaraed lashes, and shaped brows, coming to rest, at last, on the cascading blonde curls—a far cry from my own lank brown hair. You’d never have guessed we were twins.

  “Authentic,” I said, deadpan. I spoke out loud, but of course Alex had taken my point eons before I opened my mouth. Different as we were, we still knew each other’s minds inside out, communing in a kind of nonverbal shorthand we’d perfected well before we entered kindergarten. Now, for example, I was aware of her annoyance with me in the way that you might pick out the top note in a complex perfume. It was noticeable, but it wasn’t the essence of Alex’s vibe at that moment. Nor did the sight of Mimi Courvoisier’s dead body upset her, per se, although she felt badly about the dye job.

  “Poor Mimi.” Alex dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, careful not to blot away too much concealer. “Red was not her color, I see that now.”

  I couldn’t imagine that lurid shade being anyone’s color, apart from Raggedy Ann’s, but managed to keep the thought to myself. Alex’s career was going down the drain. Her big break, making it through the semi-finals in the cut and color competition at New England’s annual hair show. She’d worked so hard to get to this point. One round away from winning and now her model was dead.

  “They’ll say I drove her to it,” Alex wailed. “Nobody will let me come near their hair after this. I’ll have to move to another country.”

  I went to comfort her, but she was too jittery for a hug, pacing the room, planning her future career in South America.

  “You know, Ashley. It might not be so bad. Have you seen the women’s hair in Brazil? They go in for straightening in a big way down there. I could make good money and it wouldn’t be too hard to learn the language. I had Spanish in high school.”

  “They speak Portuguese,” I said. “And wasn’t it you who told me that the chemicals in those Brazilian hair treatments will kill you? Formaldehyde is like signing your own death warrant. Those were your exact words.”

  Too late, I realized that I’d put my foot in it. Alex gave a hysterical shriek and collapsed into tears. She was sobbing in my arms when the Convention Center security guard burst in.

  “Everybody okay in here?” He froze as he took in the scene.

  “Call an ambulance,” I shouted over my shoulder. I knew it was too late for Mimi, but the flurry of getting the paramedics in to work on her would buy us time—time we sorely needed. The note and the bottle of hair dye had distracted me. I hadn’t noticed the blood against the black sofa, the growing pool of blood that was beginning to seep from the cushions onto the floor. I wasn’t about to touch the body, but it didn’t look like suicide to me. Protective as a mother bear, I led Alex away from the gory scene.

  An emergency team from Roger Williams Medical Center arrived in a matter of minutes. Two medics rolled the body onto a backboard before placing her on the stretcher, revealing the true cause of the esthetician’s death. The handle of a pair of scissors protruded from Mimi’s back, the blades sunk deep into her flesh.

  I’d been getting dressed for work when Alex called, slurping coffee from my commuter cup as I fumbled with the buttons of my zoo uniform. The Roger Williams Park Zoo opened at ten and we needed to have the animals fed and watered, habitats cleaned and ready, before the public arrived. I liked getting in early, to spend time with the chimps, before the other trainers showed up. Mornings were their best time.

  “Ashley?” The panic I heard in my sister’s voice when I answered the phone explained the sick feeling I’d noticed in the pit of my stomach earlier, while I was in the shower.

  “What is it?” I asked, alarmed. “Talk to me.”

  After twenty-six years, the bond between us was still as strong as when we’d shared a womb. Our mother likes to tell the story of how I waited for my sister to be born. I came out first, and it was another hour before Mom delivered Alex. Throughout that time, I was inconsolable, squalling in the nurse’s arms until she arrived. We were small enough to share a bassinet, and the moment they laid us down, side-by-side, we fell asleep. I wasn’t surprised that she’d called me before she called 911. I’d always been there for her.

  Alex was blubbering into the phone and I couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. “Dye job. Killed her. She’s dead, Ashley.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Mimi.”

  “Who’s Mimi?”

  “My new partner. It’s too awful,” she sobbed.

  “Where are you?”

  “The Convention Center on Sabin Street.”

  “Hang on,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

  Fortunately, my apartment is in Federal Hill. It’s not even a mile down Broadway to the corner of Sabin, faster to run the distance than to get the car and deal with parking on the other end. I made it in a matter of minutes, even in my clunky work boots.

  Alex was peeking out anxiously from the rotunda entrance as I approached the vast building at a jog. She’d flung herself at me and led me inside, clinging to my hand all the way down the carpeted corridor to the Hospitality Lounge.

  Now she clung to me again as the security guard led us back along the corridor to an empty meeting room. Belatedly, he realized that we were in need of attention. He was a young guy with a weightlifter’s physique, an adrenaline junkie eager to get back to the excitement at the crime scene, but he knew how to do his job.

  “Will you two ladies be okay for now?” he asked, handing Alex and me each a bottle of water and edging toward the door.

  I figured we had five minutes before the cops showed up. “We’ll be fine, thank you,” I assured him.

  Alex opened her bottle of water, tipped her head back and poured a thin stream into her open mouth. I saw her swallow, so I know that some water was getting in, but not a drop escaped to mar the smooth foundation on her chin.

  “You know, Ashley,” she said, capping the bottle. “I’m inclined to agree with you. Mimi totally overreacted. I could have toned down the color, put on a semi-permanent gloss. Suicide is pretty extreme…”

  “She didn’t commit suicide. She was stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” My sister gasped.

  I pushed on. Five minutes
didn’t allow time for beating around the bush. “You need to tell me everything that happened, from the moment you entered the Hospitality Lounge.”

  “She was like that when I found her,” Alex said.

  “Like what?”

  “Dead.”

  “When did you find her?”

  “Like, a second before I called you.” My sister picked up her phone and tapped the screen with a varnished nail. “The call log says 6:02.”

  “Did you see anyone in the corridor?”

  She shook her pretty blonde head. “The building was deserted. There’s supposed to be a security guard in the lobby, checking people’s I.D., but I guess it was too early.”

  “What were you doing at the Convention Center at this hour of the morning?” Anyone listening would have thought I was heartless, but Alex and I were alike in one way. Beneath her polished surface and the soft layer of femininity was a core of steel. And she was savvy, my twin, instantly perceiving the reason I was grilling her.

  “I know it looks suspicious, but I had a good reason for being in the building this early in the morning. I’m missing a pair of shears. I thought I’d brought them home last night—they’re really expensive—but they weren’t in my bag. I thought I’d left them in my traveling kit. The organizers let us keep our supplies in the Hospitality Lounge overnight, those of us who were going on to the final round today.” A note of pride crept into her voice.

  “Did you find them?” Please, I was thinking. Tell me they were where you left them.

  “No, I didn’t, and I’m going to have a word with those organizers. They promised the room would be locked. Only the stylists and our models would have key cards to get in. Well, the door wasn’t locked when I got there. It was partly open, and my traveling kit was unzipped. Ashley, I never leave it unzipped. I’ve got hundreds of dollars of equipment in there.”