Money To Burn (22 page)

“I said I’d like to hire you. Can you come see me this afternoon?”

Shit. What was I supposed to do now? “No,” I said. “I’m booked up. I’m on surveillance and I can’t leave the job.” I didn’t add that I was slurping down liquor on his dime with my feet up on his furniture.

“But I need you,” he said, and his voice had an oddly human quality to it. I was very nearly touched. Until I remembered that I was talking about Randolph Talbot. Human had nothing to do with it.

“My help in what?” I asked suspiciously.

“Proving that I’m innocent of these charges,” he thundered, returning to his old style. “Have you read the newspapers this morning? I’m accused of murder on the front page!”

“I have read them,” I admitted.

“It’s nonsense,” he sputtered. “Absolute nonsense. There’s no evidence. Someone is out to get me. I could give you a dozen men who might be behind this. I want you to prove my innocence and find out who is setting me up. I want you to do it quickly, before my name is dragged through the mud.”

His voice softened. “I have my daughter to consider,” he said. “It’s unthinkable that she be subjected to worrying about whether I had her fiancé killed or not. Can you imagine what her life will be like once it’s public knowledge they were engaged? We’ll be the laughing stock of the state. We’ll end up in Vanity Fair as one of their high society crime features.”

When the sheer horror of this last potential disaster brought him to a sputtering halt, I butted in. “Speaking of your daughter,” I said nervously. “I think it might be better if you hired someone else.”

“Why’s that?” he demanded. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Had this man ever, in his entire life, uttered the phrase, “Have a nice day?” I think not.

There was no other way to put it, other than being blunt right back. “Because I’m already working for her,” I said. “And finding out whether you did or did not kill Thomas Nash is at the top of my list of duties, so far as I’m concerned.

“Hello?” I said into the silence that followed.

I heard heavy breathing, and then the line went dead.

Well, too damn bad. At best, he was guilty of callous cruelty toward his own daughter. At worst, he was a murderer. It was about time he worried about what Lydia thought of him.

Wait a minute. Even if Randolph Talbot had been the one to kill Nash, what in the world could he possibly gain by making threatening phone calls to his own daughter? Maybe the old guy was being set up.

I sat there, thinking it through while I finished my Pimm’s cup. I could hear Lydia murmuring on the phone in the adjoining room. My fitting wouldn’t be for another half hour, so I searched my mind for something to do. Call for a box of bonbons? Have a manicure and pedicure? Demand a private session with the cabana boy?

I settled for calling in for my messages at home.

Burly Nash had phoned. A wave of heat washed over me when I heard his voice, a combination of dread and delight flooding my nervous system simultaneously. The flush traveled from my head down to my feet as I listened, turning my legs limp. It was just like the time my brakes locked on my old Chevy Impala and I steered around nine different cars in a single intersection, receiving the applause of people driving by as I sat, parked on the shoulder, numb and unable to breathe, once it was all over.

“Casey,” Burly was saying in a halting voice. “I know you don’t care, but—I didn’t know about the lawsuits. I’d have told you if I had known. I’m trying to reach my parents now. If I find out what’s going on, I’ll call you back.” He was silent for a moment. “Call me if you get a minute, okay?” He left his number. “I really need to talk to you.”

I replayed the message a couple of times just to hear his voice, then realized how ridiculous I was being. Next I’d be etching his initials into my notebook. Besides, I had a fitting to attend.

Lydia’s maid Mariela may have been able to work miracles with a needle and thread, but subtlety was not her strong suit.

“Big butt! Big butt!” she exclaimed over and over in a thick Mexican accent as she shook her head and measured me for a dress. “No can we use Miss Lydia’s dresses. No way. Big butt. Big butt. Flat like floor but wide like chair. Big butt.”

“Okay,” I told her. “We get the message.” I jumped down off the love seat. No sense being on display, what with my big butt and all. “What now?”

Lydia was sitting in a chair next to a table that held an untouched plate of fresh fruit. She’d eaten maybe half a grape. No wonder her clothes wouldn’t fit me. “What?” she asked, distracted.

“Big butt!” the maid insisted again, pointing at me.

“Will you knock it off?” I snapped at her. “You’ve got a rather grande coo-coo yourself.” My knowledge of Spanish, while small and on the vulgar side, is nonetheless useful at times.
C/spck it

“Order something from Dillard’s,” Lydia suggested wearily. “Call them and tell them what size. I have an account there and they’ll deliver.”

I was left to cope with the problem on my own. Discussing my fashion needs with the geriatric sales lady on the other end of the line turned out to be like trying to negotiate a peace settlement in a language I didn’t understand.

“Formal? Semi-formal? Black tie?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Try fancy ass to the max.”

“You want a…” she hesitated, “a fancy ass on the dress?”

I sighed. “Just send me something that disguises a big butt, okay?” I glared meaningfully at Mariela, but she just beamed from her spot at my elbow, pleased to have had some input, however indirect.

“I have a wonderful dress that might be perfect,” the old lady croaked. “It was ordered for a formal wedding but the bridesmaid gained too much weight. We had to put her in something a little more expansive. The underlines are clean and classic, but it has a flair that updates it for the nineties. Very fun and chic.”

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about so I agreed to take the dress. At least she wasn’t fixated on my big butt.

What I ended up with was a strapless evening gown colored a deep jade that was made out of some sort of fabric that gave you plenty of shine but no wrinkle. The thing cut straight to the floor, making me look taller than I was. And, of course, strong like a bull. Unfortunately, it had been “updated for the nineties” via two big bunches of fabric atop each hip. This was fun and chic? It looked like giant cabbages were sprouting from my hips.

“No way,” I announced firmly after a quick peek in the mirror. I grabbed the maid’s scissors and pulled one of the offending fabric goiters out as far as it would go. It was anchored at the base with heavy-duty thread but I hacked away until it detached. I repeated the process on the other side while Mariela watched, eyes wide. When I was done, I had a dress instead of an agricultural exhibit.

“Look good now,” Mariela told me, as she made a few adjustments in the waist. “Dress very good for—”

“I know,” I interrupted. “Very good for big butt.”

Damn. I did look good. Too bad it would be wasted on Bobby D.

would be wt color=“windowtext”>My triumph was short-lived. I looked nowhere near as good as Lydia Talbot. She was born to formal wear, and I was but an impostor cloaked in borrowed finery. It showed.

Lydia wore a dove-gray evening dress with a vaguely Chinese air about it, the top fitted tightly to her slender figure and the bottom hugging her curves to the floor. Her hair had been swept up and anchored with gardenias, one of the passing fads of the moment. She looked effortlessly elegant and totally unaware of it.

Actually, unaware was an understatement I think it’s more accurate to say that Lydia didn’t give a rat’s ass how she looked. She was too busy worrying. She alternated between staring at the window, distracted, and lunging for the phone to dial someone else and bark new orders.

“You look great,” I told her.

She stared at me with a dazed look, like a baby bird that has just fallen out of its nest.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“We may as well go,” she said, “and get it over with.”

The limousine sagged to the left when Bobby D. clambered on board, sending Lydia’s little brother Haydon sliding across the slick seat to crash into the side window. The kid stared at Bobby, open-mouthed. I guess he didn’t realize they’d not only freed Willy, they’d given him a tuxedo, too.

I had to give Bobby credit. He looked great. His tux fit perfectly. He was sans toupee and what remained of his hair was gelled back off his forehead, giving his scalp a healthy pink shine beneath the dome light.

“Dodd,” he told Lydia formally, offering his hand. “Bob Dodd.”

Oh, God. He really did think he was James Bond.

“I’m not calling you ‘Bob,’ ” I warned him. “People named ‘Bob’ are normal. No way you’re a ‘Bob.’ “

“You can call me anything you like,” he said cheerfully. “Just so long as you call me for supper.”

Lydia’s little brother thought this hilarious. I, who had heard it eight thousand times, did not.

Bobby squeezed his way onto the seat and, by some anatomical fluke, managed to wiggle his right hip violently until I was squished against the window and had given up my share of the seat. Yet not a muscle on his left hip had so much as twitched. Lydia sat on the other side of Bobby as cool and undisturbed as a nymph reflected in a pool of water.

“What’s that sticking out of your pocket?” Lydia’s little brother demanded, staring at a tiny wire that snaked out of Bobby’s right-hand pocket and led under the jacket into his pants.

“Yeah, what is that?” I chimed in. “Don’t tell me your tux has air conditioning?”

“It’s a recording device,” Bobby explained with dignity. “In case I overhear anything interesting.”

This immediately left me wondering if Bobby was dabbling in blackmail, but Haydon Talbot was clearly impressed. He and Bobby embarked on a long discussion of spying devices while Lydia and I sat, wedged beside them, each of us glum and lost in her own thoughts. I slipped a hand inside my borrowed evening bag and checked on my Colt .25. It was one of the smallest automatics ever made and very hard to find, especially on the black market I’d paid out the nose for it. But it fit into almost any tight space, including my waistband, and was perfect for undercover work—even if you did have to be standing on top of someone to gain any stopping power. I checked to make sure the safety was on. I did not want it to go off inadvertently and plug some old deb in the butt during her moment of relived glory. On the other hand, I did want it at the ready in case trouble reared its ugly head. I checked the clip. Still loaded. Look out bad guys, here I come.

We arrived at Memorial Auditorium in one piece and what a motley crew we made. The uniformed valet who opened the door for us must have thought he was welcoming a busload of clowns from the circus. First little Haydon climbed out looking alarmingly like Chuckie the Doll in a good suit thanks to his overflushed cheeks and slicked-back hair. Then Lydia stumbled out in a near-coma, followed by a huffing and puffing Bobby D. who, with his tux and pocket watch, looked exactly like a giant version of the Monopoly man. By the time I got my chance to escape, the attendant was peering anxiously over my shoulder wondering who the hell else the limo might hold. I don’t think Elvis himself would have surprised the guy.

“Thank you, my good man,” Bobby told the attendant before I could drag him away. “Always wanted to say that,” he confided in a whisper as we approached the blazing lights of the entrance hall.

Lydia swayed at the front doors and I steadied her with a hand on her spine. “Easy does it,” I told her. “You can do it. Think of all those underprivileged kids dying to wear Tommy Hilfiger.”
r-coma, >

She wasn’t really hearing my words, but she did read my reassuring tone. “I’m afraid of my father,” she whispered suddenly. “He’s going to be here.”

“I don’t think your father has anything to do with this,” I assured her and, in doing so, realized that somewhere during the long day I had made the decision that Randolph Talbot was every bit as much a victim in this mess as Lydia. Whoever was framing Talbot made a mistake in threatening Lydia. And that meant the killer was getting desperate. My job was to find out why.

Bobby D. stopped in the doorway, backing up traffic, while he hitched up his pants like Jethro getting a grip on his britches. When he was done, the waistband hung about an inch below his nipples, making him look like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

“Nice move,” I hissed. “Too bad you’re not wearing white socks.” I tugged his pants back down to the vicinity of his waist, which had technically disappeared several decades before.

“The microphone cord is too short,” he whispered to me. “It was pulling the micro-recorder out of my pocket.”

“I’m going to store that micro-recorder up your ass,” I threatened him as we plastered smiles on our faces and followed Lydia and her brother inside. “There is no reason to be walking around recording people tonight. It’s sheer prurient interest on your part.”

“What’s prurient interest?” Bobby D. asked, sidetracked.

“Prurient interest is more proof that you don’t need Viagra,” I told him as a distraction so I could confiscate the recorder and store it in my bag.

“Holy shit,” Bobby said with a low whistle. “We’re not in Kansas anymore.”