Murder for Bid (17 page)

“A
love
connection,” she said as if I were a lame brain. My mind flashed back to a 1980’s game show hosted by Chuck Worley. “Did you hit it off?” she reiterated.              

“Not really,” I answered reluctantly.

“Well, something must have gone right. He sent you these flowers.”

“I’m not sure why, Mom. It was a nice date, but I don’t really expect it to go any further.”

“Hmm.” She studied me. “You look horrible. What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

“Nothing.
I’m just tired. My head is starting to hurt.” It really was. Especially after she had made me relive my horrible, confusing, humiliated date with Greg and then told me how horrible I look.

She patted my head and stood to leave. “I should get my necklace back from you before I go.”

“Sure thing,” I said, wrapping up in my favorite quilt. “It’s just over there on my dresser.” I reclined back on the sofa, watching through heavy lids as she crossed the room to retrieve it.

“I’ll have your father make his chicken soup,” she was saying. “That’ll fix you up. In the meantime, give Greg a call and thank him. Maybe you’ve just misread him. A man only sends flowers for two reasons. He either wants to impress you, or he feels guilty about something that he’s done. You haven’t known him long enough for him to feel any guilt.”

I sank down in the cushions mulling over her words. Calling Greg was the last thing I wanted to do.

“Oh my, this is lovely,” she commented out of the blue. I lazily glanced her way then bolted straight up.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, struggling to free myself from the quilt. I crossed the room to where she was standing, dangling a diamond bracelet between her fingers.

“This can’t be one of your resale conquests; this looks real.” Then she gasped. “Did Greg give this to you?”

“What? No!” I snatched the bracelet from her grip and studied it. A strange feeling overcame me. I’d never seen the bracelet before in my life, but I had a feeling I knew who it belonged to, or more accurately, used to belong to. I also had an idea what that car was doing parked in the back alley. Someone had been watching me, waiting for me to leave so that they could plant Amanda Schmidt’s bracelet in my apartment.

I called Sean.

Chapter
Eleven

It was almost two in the morning before I was able to get back to thinking about sleep. Sean and the other officers didn’t leave until after one. Then, after they’d gone, I spent another half hour trying to assure my parents that it would be safe for me to sleep alone in my apartment. I ended up in their guest room, but when I’d finally got into bed, I couldn’t fall asleep. Sean, of course, had seen the flowers, but he didn’t even bother to ask who they were from. He was all business, barely bothering to speak to me. Instead, he had one of his guys ask all the questions why he poked around my apartment with a scowl on his face. All of which bothered me, but not as much as the fact that someone, probably Amanda’s murderer, was trying to set me up
for a crime I didn’t commit.  I thought back to what Greg had told me at dinner. Could it have been Madeline, the klepto? It was hard to tell, but one thing I knew for sure was that the murderer had been inside my apartment and just steps away from my parent’s house. What was I going to be next? How would I ever feel safe in my apartment again?

It took a lot of nerve to make my way back up those steps the next morning. As soon as I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was the flower arrangement hogging my kitchen counter, and then the digital time display on the microwave. It was already after ten. Half the morning was gone already and I had so much to do.

I did a quick visual once over of my apartment, just to make sure that no boogie men were hiding in wait, and noticed that the previous night’s activity had left my apartment disheveled … well, more disheveled than usual. Guess the cops didn’t care what type of mess they made when they searched a place. I could add cleaning to my list of things to do. Then, my eyes settled again on the flowers remembering that the first thing on the list was to call Greg and thank him. My mood quickly soured. I’d had enough of the guy the other night, calling him was the last thing I wanted to do.

Reluctantly, I dug out my cell and looked up the number for Davis Enterprises. “May I speak to Greg Davis, please?” My words sounded gravelly from lack of sleep.

“May I ask who’s calling?” The secretary had a sexy phone voice. I imagined her to be a voluptuous, long-legged, sex kitten who could easily take care of all Greg’s desires, while simultaneously typing out building permit requests and filing business correspondence. A real multi-tasker.

“Hello.” Greg’s voice came in loud and clear over the line. I realized I hadn’t thought about what I was going to say. My mind went blank.

“Hello,” he repeated.

“Uh, Greg … this is Phillipena … Phillipena O’Brien.” Why’d I say my last name? Like, how many
Phillipenas did he know? Did anyone know?

“Phillipena!
I’m so glad you called. Did you get the flowers?”

“The flowers?
Yes. Thank you. I’m calling to thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

“Just like you.”

What could I say to that?

“Do you have plans for lunch?” he asked.

“No. Yes. Today?”

“Yes,
let’s say at 12:30 at Hector’s. I’m on my way out the door now. I have to run some paperwork up to the Clerk’s Office, but I should be done by then. How’s that sound?”

My first thought was about my to-do list and all the work I hadn’t been doing lately. Certainly, I should get some new items posted or some packages mailed. Then, I thought back to the photo of Sean and Sarah Maloney. Sean sure seemed to have time for extracurricular activities. Although, he was genuinely hurt after discovering that I had been out with Greg. I should say “no,” but, on the other hand, it was just lunch. Lots of people have lunch together. It wasn’t like this would be a date or anything. “Fine,” I said, finally. After all, it was a free lunch and the way I was neglecting business these days, I would need all the free food I could get.

“Good. See you at 12:30 then.”

I clamped my phone shut, my mind a whirl. Considering travel time, I only had about forty-five minutes to get ready. I had nothing to wear. Of course, I never had anything to wear. Why didn’t I have one of those little black dresses that women are always talking about?

After a few moments of sheer panic, I hit the shower, splashed on some makeup, and turbo dried my hair, which sprang into action and took on a life of its own. My reflection showed what appeared to be a slightly smudged version of a circus clown.

I took a long, deep breath and resisted the temptation to take a pair of scissors to my unruly locks. After calming myself, I gathered a couple of rubber bands and a handful of goop and went back to work. A few minutes later, I had my mass of red of curls under control in a sleek looking bun at the nape of my neck.

Still breathing deeply, I sorted through the clothes piled on my recliner, and came up with an outfit solution. I pulled on the skirt from my mom’s borrowed suit, a V-neck black T-shirt, and the strappy sandals she had loaned me for my big night out. I studied my reflection. I looked good.

I had heard of Hector’s, but hadn’t been there. I finally found it hidden in a strip mall off Chicago Avenue in a trendy part of Naperville and pulled into the lot. I was running about ten minutes late. The place, probably a favorite quick lunch spot for city workers due to
its proximately to the courthouse, was packed to the brim. 

I weaved through a line of diners waiting to be seated and spied Greg standing at the bar talking to someone. His back was to me, so he didn’t see me approach.

As I neared, I caught the tail end of their conversation. “It needs to go through before the end of ...We’ll make sure it ...” They broke into laughter. Greg caught a glimpse of me and turned around. I saw that he was talking to Judge Reiner.

Greg reached out for my arm as the judge rose from his stool. “Phillipena, you made it!” He flashed a charming smile. “Let me introduce you to my friend. This is Judge Reiner. Judge, this is Phillipena O’Brien.”

I placed my hand inside the judge’s massive grip and managed to mumble some sort of greeting. He gave me a quick once over, sat back down, and tucked his napkin into his shirt. “Phillipena O’Brien. I hear you have connections at the precinct,” he said.

I swallowed hard. What was he talking about?

He smirked and continued, “You certainly don’t look like a homeless lady to me.”

He and Greg laughed. Suddenly, I felt like an extra foot on a tight-rope walker. So, the word was out that I was the one digging through Schmidt’s garbage the day Amanda was murdered. I wondered who leaked that information. Sheila? Schmidt?  

The judge turned his attention back to Greg. “Call me tomorrow on my cell. I’ll let you know then.” I marveled at their openness. A judge who presided over zoning disputes against the City Planning Commission and a real estate developer. What a convenient friendship.

Greg placed his hand on the small of my back as he led me to a table. Garnering several curious glances, we wound our way through the restaurant. High society tongues would be wagging this week.

“I’m so glad you could make it on such a short notice, Phillipena,” he said as soon as we were seated. He was wearing business casual: khakis and a crisp button-down shirt. It looked expensive. I couldn’t quite place the brand, but the tailoring was well done. The shade of blue accented his eyes.

“Thanks for inviting me. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Really, why not? I thought we enjoyed each other’s company the other night.”

I considered that for a minute. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I just misread his signals after our date. “It was a fun evening. Thank you again,” I finally said.

“My pleasure.” He reached over and grabbed my hand. The waitress came. I ordered soup and salad while Greg continued to hold my hand and make small talk. He was amazingly charming, gearing the conversation toward my interests. Although, I was having a difficult time contributing much as I was terribly distracted by his thumb which was tracing circles over my wrist bone. The movement was overtly sensual.

He was doing it again, getting me all worked up. This guy ran so hot and cold that it made my head spin.

I was trying to come up with enough self-control to retrieve my hand from Greg’s arduous grip when I caught something familiar out of the corner of my eye. It was Sean. He was staring at me from across the room. I jerked back and stiffened in my chair.

Even from across the room, I could see the dark expression in Sean’s eyes. He reached out and took an envelope from the judge and turned to leave. I quickly excused myself and stood to follow him.

Greg reached over the table and yanked me back down. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Phillipena.” His voice deepened, “He’s not worth it. Stay here with me.”

I’m not sure why, maybe it was the thumb tracing, or the intensity of his blue eyes, or the fact that a tiny bit of me felt glad that Sean, the two-timer, had seen me out with Greg,  or … well for whatever reason, I obeyed. Then, as fate would have it, the waitress placed our orders in front of us. I couldn’t leave then. It would be rude to leave just as lunch was being served.

I watched as Greg dove into his food with gusto. My food didn’t seem quite as appealing to me; probably because my mixed up emotions were causing my stomach to roll with nausea. To think that just a little over an hour ago I was tucked safely in my comfortable bed. I wished I could crawl back under my down comforter and channel surf all day.

“The food is delicious, you should try some,” he said as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

I managed to swallow a few bites. “Why did you ask me to lunch, Greg?”

“Because I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

“I like you,” he said between bites, as casually as if we were talking about the weather.

I began eating in silence, mulling over the fact that Sean just happened to be at the same restaurant, at the same time. Coincidence? I wondered.

Greg spoke up, cutting through my thoughts, “I also felt obligated to see you today so that I could tell you something that may have a bearing on Amanda’s murder.”

I put my fork down. “Really? Why call me and not the police?” I asked skeptically.

“Of course I would call the police if I had something concrete, but this is purely speculation. You’ve probably already heard about it from your boyfriend, anyway.”

“Heard what?”

“Well, why do you think he was here today talking to Judge Reiner?”

“I don’t know. Why?” I sighed, wishing he would get on with it. I wasn’t in the mood for a guessing game.

Greg drew a deep breath, pausing to enjoy the suspense. “
There’s been some rumors flying around. Some associates of mine told me that Schmidt’s law firm was going after the judge for some misappropriations.”

“Misappropriations?”