Dead In Red (19 page)

He took the photo, squinting at it between
the flashing lights overhead. “Yow—that’s one ugly bitch. Never
seen her here. But then she’s kind of on the old side.”

“You’re positive? She wears sparkly red
stiletto heels. Maybe a red dress and boa?”

“Come on, man, you’re describing half the
queens in here—not to mention the straights playing dress-up.”

I thanked him and sucked on my beer until it
was gone. Then I went into automaton mode, flashing Cyn’s picture
at anyone who had two seconds to focus on it.

“Oy, God, he oughta get a closer shave,”
said what I guessed to be a woman at the bar.

“Not my type,” said a guy in a red velvet
Bolero vest, his hairy chest heaving from exuberant dancing.

“Just another wannabe,” said a guy in a bad
blonde wig and a baggy blue dress.

“Wanna dance?” a voice beside me asked.

I turned to find next to me a sweating,
shirtless male of indeterminate age bouncing to the music. Linking
arms with Richard, I answered, “Sorry, I’m already spoken for.”

Richard yanked his arm away and looked ready
to commit murder.

I spent another twenty minutes flashing
Cyn’s picture to the patrons, but no one claimed to know her.
Richard followed me to the closest exit. “That was a complete waste
of time,” he said.

“I’m not ready to give up yet. There’re
other, smaller clubs. And come to think of it, I probably should’ve
started at one of those. Walt was a loner. He’d probably go for
less flash and less notoriety.”

Richard glanced at his watch, his mouth
drooping. “The clubs are open until four. You intend to hang around
until then?”

I didn’t think I could. “Most of them have
Sunday shows. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.” I met his gaze. “You
game?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Liar. I had a feeling if I let him, Richard
would have himself surgically attached to me, at least until Walt’s
murder was solved—and/or his vacation plane took off.

We walked out of the club into the clear,
dark night. The thumping music faded as we walked farther away. Six
motorcycles were parked on the street near the club, none of them
looking flashy, hard to make out any distinguishing characteristics
in the dim light.

You’re being
paranoid,
something in me taunted. And no doubt would
be every time I saw a motorcycle until Walt Kaplan’s killer was
found.

I put it out of my head. The evening hadn’t
been a total loss. Richard and I were back on an even keel. It felt
good. It felt right.

Until something bad happened. But I wasn’t
prepared to think about it just then.

* * *

I got
up early
the next morning, went out for bagels and Danish, then made an
extra big pot of coffee. If we were going to have a serious talk,
caffeine would be a necessity.

When they finally showed up, I dragged
Richard and Brenda out to the deck for breakfast alfresco. The cool
morning air and bright sunshine were such a contrast to Club
Monticello’s gaudy interior that our adventure the night before
almost seemed like a surreal dream.

Richard plastered his bagel with cream
cheese as I told him about the visions of the sparkling shoes—both
red and silver—the knife, and Walt. He didn’t react when I told him
my suspicions about Cyn, either. I’d already decided not to mention
what happened at the ramp garage. It had no bearing on anything I
was investigating. At least I wanted to believe that.

“There is something else.” It must’ve been
the tone of my voice that caused both Richard and Brenda to look up
from their plates.

“This is the bad part,” Brenda muttered.

“It could be. I see these . . .
hands. They’re covered in blood.”

Richard leaned forward. “Whose blood?”

“That’s what I don’t know. And as far as I
know, that blood is still circulating inside somebody. Only I don’t
know for how much longer. I got the vision the day we went to the
mill and met Cyn, then again later when I touched something I found
in Walt’s closet: a little pillow that says ‘Veronica.’”

“So find Veronica.”

“Easier said than done.”

“How much detail do you see with these
hands?” Richard asked.

“Not much.”

He nodded, leaned back in his chair. “So
right now it’s a dead end.”

“Yeah, but it won’t be for long.” I poured a
coffee warm-up from the insulated carafe.

“Let’s get back to Buchanan,” Richard said.
“I can see why you don’t think he makes a viable suspect. But your
evidence against Cyn is pretty damned flimsy.”

“That’s why I need to keep showing her photo
around. I know she’s got something to do with this whole mess, I
just don’t know what. That’s where you can help.”

That stirred a response. “You can’t ask me
to implicate an old friend.”

“I’m not. I’m asking you to distract her
while I touch something that belongs to her. I was thinking her
car’s steering wheel. If I don’t get anything from it, I’ll know
she’s not the source of these visions. It would clear her.”

“In your mind, at least.”

“Yeah.”

Brenda had been silent during all this.
“What do you think?” I asked her.

She sighed. “Except when it comes to your
own health, I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you. I think.”

She pushed back her chair, picked up her
dish and silverware and put them back on the serving tray. “But how
do you expect Richard to get her away from her car, and then to
leave it unlocked?”

“Well, he could invite her here.”

Brenda flopped back into her chair and for a
second I thought she might lose her balance and fall off. “What
makes you think I want to meet one of his old girlfriends?”

“Basic curiosity. Besides, she’s at least
thirteen years older than you—and she looks it.”

That appeased her—a bit. “Be that as it may,
what’s his excuse for inviting her?”

“I don’t know. Drinks. Show her your old
yearbooks. Bore her with a talk on skin diseases of the Ecuadorian
rain forest.”

“Ecuador has no rain forest,” Richard piped
up.

“Then choose another country. Or you can use
me as an excuse. You want to apologize for my oafish behavior—”

“Yeah, while you jump in her car and soak up
her residual aura. Then I’m no better than you.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Richard shook his
head. “I don’t know. I still don’t like the idea. It’s like
entrapment.”

“How? I can’t prove anything without solid
evidence, but at least I’ll know for sure if I should continue to
annoy her.”

“Yeah, you’re like a pit bull. Once you get
your teeth into something, you don’t let go.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“But,” he continued, “you’re trying to get
her thrown in jail.”

“Only if she’s guilty. If she’s not
. . . I’ve eliminated her from suspicion and I try
something else."

“Couldn’t you try something else first?”

“I have no other starting point.”

“Then what happens if you eliminate
her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll get some other
insight from touching her car that will direct me somewhere
else.”

Richard drained his cup. “I still
don’t like it, but I’ll go along with you, because I happen to
think you
will
have to look
elsewhere for Kaplan’s murderer.”

“All well and fine,” Brenda said. “That is,
if you can lure her here and she doesn’t lock her car.”

“Yeah.”

Richard stared at his empty cup. “Why the
change of heart?”

“What?”

His gaze shifted to meet mine. “Why did you
decide to let me help? Just because you want to get to Cyn?”

I wasn’t ready for this question, but I
guess I knew he’d eventually ask it. “It’s against my better
judgment. But . . .” He didn’t know about Sophie. I’d
tried to tell him about her, even taken him to her bakery once, but
the owner said she didn’t live there. I couldn’t tell Richard that
a figment of my imagination had told me I needed him to help me
solve Walt’s death. It was all too complicated.

Then again, maybe it was time for truth.

“I need you, Rich.”

For a second he looked puzzled, then the
barest hint of a pleased smile appeared beneath his mustache. “Oh.
Okay.”

# # #

CHAPTER 16

Richard was blessed with something I’ll never
have: charm. I don’t know what he said, but Cyn Lennox agreed to
come by after the mill closed later that afternoon. Richard had to
promise her that I wouldn’t be around, and we’d jockeyed Brenda’s
car out of the garage and put mine in to reinforce the
deception.

The plan was for them to lure Cyn to the
other side of the house so she wouldn’t see me when I violated the
sanctity of her Mercedes.

At 5:47, Cyn pulled up Richard’s driveway.
The loft apartment’s living room window was the perfect vantage
point. I stood to the right side, peeking around the drape as she
stepped out of her car. I couldn’t see the driver’s side door,
didn’t know if she’d left the window down or the car unlocked. All
this could be for nothing. I watched as she stepped out of the car,
once again dressed in western garb. A cowgirl, Dana Watkins had
called her. Well, not quite; her denim jumper was embroidered with
multicolored flowers, and again she wore the silver-and-turquoise
squash-blossom necklace, reminding me of what Monticello’s
bartender had said about straights playing dress-up.

Cyn glanced around the drive, craned her
neck to see into the backyard—probably looking for me. I moved back
a step. No way did I want to scare her off.

The phone rang.

I looked back toward it, imploring it to
silence, but it rang again and again.

Another peek out the window and I saw Cyn
was at Richard’s back door, knocking.

Ring! Ring!

Thank God she couldn’t hear it.

The back door opened. Cyn stepped
inside.

Ring! Ring!

I charged across the room, snatched the
receiver. “What?”

“Jeff?” Maggie.

“Oh, hi.”

“Everything okay?” she asked, sounding
uncertain.

“Sorry about the greeting. It’s just—I’m
kind of in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”

“Well, not really. I’m supposed to be at my
parents’ for dinner in ten minutes, and they live all the way out
in Lackawanna, and I don’t like to use my cell phone when I’m
driving.”

Good old letter-of-the-law Maggie.

“When I didn’t hear from you yesterday or
today, I wondered . . . I mean, I just thought—”

The clock ticked overhead. “I had a
wonderful time Friday night. When can we see each other again?”
Talk about pushing.

“Oh. Well, when are you free?”

“Every night this week.” Speed it up, I need
to get outside, I wanted to bellow.

“Well, maybe we could talk about it later
tonight. Make some plans.”

“I may be going out tonight. With
Richard.”

“You’re not getting him involved in this
murder thing again are you?” The disapproval in her voice came
through loud and clear.

“Richard’s a big boy. He can take care of
himself.”

Dead silence. This was not the way I wanted
the conversation to go.

“What time do you think you’ll be home
later? I could call you—”

“That’s okay,” Maggie said. “Maybe we’ll
talk some other time.”

“Maggie, wait—”

Clunk!

The receiver felt sweaty in my hand as I
jammed it back into its cradle. For a moment, all I could do was
stand there, seething. If we were destined to be together, and I
honestly felt we were, then why the hell was it so fucking
hard?

The window beckoned. I crossed the room and
looked down on the empty car, then at my watch. Cyn had been inside
less than five minutes. Surely Richard would have enticed her into
the living room by now. Something inside me said Cyn wasn’t going
to stay long and I needed to get out there and in her car.

I trotted down the stairs and opened the
door, not letting it bang shut. This felt weird—sneaking around our
own driveway. Why couldn’t Cyn have backed up so I wouldn’t be seen
from the kitchen window? Yeah, didn’t everybody back into driveways
when coming for casual visits?

The driver’s window was rolled up tight,
like the others, but the handle lifted under my fingers. The door
opened and I slipped inside, pulled the door closed but not quite
shut, and sank into German leather-clad comfort. The air inside was
still cool from the air conditioning, but uneasiness threaded
through me. I was getting something, but it wasn’t the same
connection I had with the red shoe.

I leaned back in the leather seat, my hands
poised at four and eight o’clock, closed my eyes, and clutched
Cyn’s steering wheel.

An absurd thought flashed through my mind:
Jacob Marley. Yeah, Marley’s ghost, forever encumbered in death by
fathoms of chains and cash boxes. Cyn’s life revolved around her
spreadsheets and the numbers on them. Cash flow, income, expenses.
Money, money, money. And when she’d last held that steering wheel
she’d been worried sick. But that didn’t make sense. Ted Hanson
said her café was already in the black.

I shook those thoughts away. That
wasn’t what I’d wanted to get. I wanted to tap into what Dana had
called Cyn’s theatrical side. I tried another position on the
steering wheel. The image of the red shoes blasted my mind. Plural.
I’d never seen more than the one when I homed into what I perceived
as Walt’s psyche. And though they were the same style, these shoes
weren’t perfect—they’d seen some wear: scuffed, with sparkles
missing. These were the shoes made for Andrea Foxworth, the ones
Cyn had bought at auction. She’d danced with joy in them—and joy
had not been abundant since the death of her beloved Dennis. She’d
danced slow, and fast, with multiple partners. In those shoes she’d
felt sexy, beautiful. She’d had
fun
.