Murder for Bid (9 page)

“What’s wrong with Greg Davis? He seems like a nice guy.”

“He’s a player. He’s been around.”

I felt some vindication. “So, you
are
jealous?”

Sean sighed. “All I’m saying is that you wouldn’t want to be with a guy like him. Besides, you’re not his type.”

“Not his type? What is his type then?”

“Not you.”

That hurt. I guess I was starting to understand where our relationship stood. He wasn’t even willing to put up a fight for me. It would serve him right if I ended up going out with Greg Davis.

“We’ll see,” I retorted, sneaking in the words right before hanging up. I could hear him backtracking as I replaced the receiver.

Furious, I shoveled in the rest of the ice cream. Each bite was accompanied with a curse word aimed at Sean. By the time the container was empty, the air was practically blue.

Sean hadn’t listened to even one of my ideas about the case. I was dumping leads in his lap and he refused to acknowledge them. What was with his attitude about Greg Davis anyway? Was he jealous, or what? Then saying that I’m not Greg’s type? What did
that
mean? I’m not good enough for a guy like Greg Davis? Well, maybe I’m not the hottest chic around, but I’ve got a lot going for me. At that moment I couldn’t quite think of what, but Greg did seem interested in something about me. I wasn’t just imagining his flirtatious remarks, was I? I think the whole problem was that Sean just didn’t appreciate me. It would serve him right if I did end up going out with Greg.

Beside myself with anger, and at the beginning of a serious stomach ache, I paced back and forth across my apartment trying to formulate a new plan of action. Eventually, I settled down and collected my thoughts. If my theories were correct, and how could they not be, with so much evidence already, all I had to do was prove that Schmidt was having an affair. It wouldn’t be easy; being in the public eye, I was sure that Schmidt had been careful to cover his tracks. Then again, there’s always someone willing to spread gossip. 

I cleared off a spot on my coffee table, found some paper and began making a list of strategies. I was almost a hundred percent sure that Madeline was his mistress, but in the depths of my mind lurked the possibility that Sheila could also be involved with Richard. She was an attractive woman and she seemed to know Schmidt well. Plus, it did seem a little weird how quickly she came to his defense when she recognized me at the funeral service. Who could blame her if she was involved with Schmidt? Her own hubby was as exciting as a bag of rocks.

Just to be thorough, I included the possibility of a mystery woman to my list, in case it was neither Madeline nor Sheila, but some other vixen outside Schmidt’s usual crowd.
Perhaps a co-worker? I needed to check out his law firm. Certainly, there could be a sexy intern or two lurking in the shadows, eager to dig her red lacquered nails into a man like Schmidt or maybe kiss away his sorrows with crimson colored lips, I thought, remembering the lipstick-stained shirt. 

First, I planned to take a closer look at the woman at the top of my list, Madeline Reiner. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out if she’s the femme fatal. Women like Madeline loved to be in the spotlight. All I had to do was figure out a way to put her there and she’d become putty in my hands.

Before getting into bed, I had it all worked out.

*

My alarm buzzed at 5:00 A.M. A few fuzzy moments later, I remembered why I had set it for so early. Groaning, I rolled out from under the covers, threw on my sweats, and headed down the back stairs. I ducked under the swing set and cut across the yard. By the time I reached my parent’s back door, the bottom of my sweats was soaked and I could feel water leaking through my sneakers. There was a heavy breeze and rolling thunder that promised another day of rain.

I knocked quietly, hoping to attract my dad’s attention without waking mom.

“Phillipena! What brings you down so early?” My father was always an early riser. Now, even in retirement, he still couldn’t sleep past 5:00. “I have coffee on,” he said, opening the door all the way.

“Is Mom up?”

“Are you kidding?”

We sat at the kitchen island, Dad pouring me a generous cup of brew. He slid it across the counter along with some powdered creamer and pulled a loaf of bread from the pantry.

“If that’s for me, don’t bother, Dad. I’m only staying for a minute. I’ve got a full day.”

“Sit down and have some breakfast,” he ordered. I obeyed, pulling up one of the bar stools. I watched him pop a couple slices of multi-grain into the toaster. We made small talk, discussing my sister Maggie’s impending visit. She was coming into town at the end of the
week for the library fundraiser. She’d be bringing her two kids, which would be the highlight of my dad’s week. He loved spending time with his grandkids. He already had plans for all the things he was going to do with my nephew and niece for the three days they were going to be here.

“So, what’s on your agenda today? Restocking inventory?” He refilled my mug.

“No, actually...” I hesitated for a moment. I hated to lie to my father, but I knew he wouldn’t approve of my scheme. “I have an interview and … well, do you remember when I quit the firm and went a little nuts?”

“You mean when you went up to the woods and lived like a hermit?”

“No, I was referring to the large bonfire I made in the back alley. You remember. I threw all my business clothes into it and declared that I was shedding the corporate life for a new identity.”

My dad drew in a long breath. “Yes, I remember. It was quite dramatic. Why, are you planning to do that again?”

“Oh no, of course not,” I reassured him. Especially since now I know how much I could have made selling those clothes on-line. “I was having a major breakdown at that time. I’m past that now.” I waved off the rest of the explanation. He’d heard it a thousand times anyway. “The thing is, I threw all my work clothes into that fire and ...”

He calmly buttered two more pieces of toast while waiting for me to elaborate.

“Well, I have an important meeting today, and I need to borrow one of Mom’s suits. Preferably her dark gray one, and if it’s not too much trouble I could sure use her red blouse, the one with the French cuffs.”

Dad eyed me suspiciously. “What type of meeting?”

“An interview.” It wasn’t really a lie. I did plan to interview someone.

“You have an interview? That’s great, honey! I knew you’d tire of this vagabond lifestyle. Where’s this interview at?” He slid a piece of toast my way.

I took a big bite and pointed to my mouth. Chewing bought me a few seconds to come up with a good lie.

I swallowed and picked up my coffee mug, speaking between sips. “Well, did I say interview? Actually, that may be exaggerating. Do you remember Rebecca? Of course you don’t … well, she was pretty high up the chain at Global Investments and, well … she called and said that there may be an opening ...” I put down my mug and took another bite of toast.

Dad watched me suspiciously over the brim of his cup as I chewed.

“Anyway,” I continued. “What I’m doing is sort of a power lunch. You know what that is right, Dad?”

“Power lunch.” He mulled the term over.

“It’s just a bunch of execs getting together for lunch and Rebecca did say that they’re looking for new hires. I’d hate to miss this opportunity. Not that I’m planning on taking a position back at the firm. I’m really happy with my new … um … career … and ...”

“Phillipena?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure your mother won’t mind if you borrow her suit. Just return it in good condition, alright?”

“Absolutely.”
I took a final gulp of coffee and headed for the hallway.

“Be careful not to wake her up,” he whispered. “You know how cranky she is when she doesn’t get enough sleep.”

I quietly shuffled past my slumbering mother and slid into her closet, which was a large walk-in that smelled faintly of mothballs and floral cologne. I inhaled deeply, letting the smell conjure up memories. I had once spent over an hour hunched under her dresses, hiding from my sisters during a competitive game of hide and seek. After all these years, the smell was still the same.

It wasn’t hard to locate the suit I wanted; Mom was methodical about her closet. Everything was hung neatly on padded hangers, all facing the same direction, with suits sorted by color and weight, starting with her white spring suit and ending with a heavy grey
herringbone wool suit that I rarely see her wear because she thinks the pattern makes her hips look big. The suit I wanted was in the middle. I then helped myself to the red blouse as well as a pair of sensible black pumps. I glanced at her jewelry armoire, but quickly decided against it. Mom is generous, but I didn’t want to push it.

I felt a small twinge of guilt when, on the way out the door, Dad wished me luck on my interview. He even gave me an extra-long hug and slipped me a twenty, just in case. I guess the prospect of his daughter finally coming to her senses loosened his purse strings.

Back in my apartment, I began the transformation. I showered and went directly to work on my hair. After about thirty minutes of serious blow drying, I finally managed to straighten every single curl. Then I began teasing and smoothing until I achieved a perfect French twist. By the time I’d secured the last bobby pin, my arms were shaking from exhaustion, which made applying mascara treacherous. Nonetheless, after a few botched attempts, I came up with a face that would put even the best cosmetic-counter-girl to shame.              

As I pulled on Mom’s suit, I could feel the final conversion take place. It was as if I had morphed into a whole new woman. One that was powerful, strong, and ready to do business. All I needed were a few more accessories.

I dug out my old briefcase—thankfully I hadn’t burned it, too—and put on the same CZ earrings I had worn to the country club. The open collared shirt screamed for a set of pearls, but not being a pearl girl, I settled for a brightly patterned scarf. It was actually a poor attempt at a knock-off designer label, but I figured with it tied around my neck and tucked into my collar, no one would notice.

*

Traffic was light, so I made good time to the Reiner’s residence. By eight-fifty I was pushing the doorbell next to an impressive oak paneled door, which was attached to an equally impressive home. Even the chime rang in rich, opulent tones.

A middle-aged woman in uniform answered the door. “Yes?”

I reached out and offered my hand, “Patricia Owens,
Tribune
. I have a 9:00 appointment with Mrs. Reiner.”

The woman looked a little dazed. “Come in.” She motioned with uncertainty toward a small room off the foyer. It was a sunny French provincial style room with white furniture and a bounty of fresh cut flowers arranged in white bisque vases. “Please sit down. I wasn’t aware of any appointments this morning, but I’ll let Mrs. Reiner know you’re here.” She scurried up a wide circular staircase, glancing over her shoulder a couple of times to make sure I was staying where she’d parked me.

I took a few moments to check out my surroundings. It was one of those rooms that you could tell was done by a professional decorator. Everything was perfectly coordinated, from the custom draperies to the hand woven rug below my feet. Even the accessories looked as if they were hand-picked for the room. I slid down the high-back floral chintz sofa to where I could study the cluster of framed photos on the end table. A Reiner family portrait showed the judge and his wife along with three husky teenage boys who obviously inherited their stature from their father.

I had read once that family portraits often portray little clues to the personalities and relationship dynamics of the subjects. For instance, if the wife’s head is tilted toward her husband it might indicate a close relationship. If she was tilted away it indicated that he was dominating or even abusive. With children, sometimes it was evident which child was closer to which parent by their stance or a wayward gaze. However, in the Reiner family portrait, none of this was apparent. The whole family was equally positioned from one another, all looking straight ahead, all with captivating, if not phony, smiles plastered on their face. The whole picture struck me as odd. It was as if someone had photo-shopped each person into the photo. I was just trying to figure what so much neutrality could say about a family when a voice interrupted my thoughts.

“Can I help you?”

I looked up to see Madeline Reiner standing before me in a tightly cinched robe. My highly tuned detection skills must have been slipping, because I didn’t even hear her come down the steps.
Although, her slippers wouldn’t have made much sound on the highly polished wood floor.

“Mrs. Reiner.” I stood and offered my hand. “Patricia Owens, from the
Sun
, I mean the
Tribune
. Sorry, I just recently changed jobs,” I said trying to cover my tracks. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me today.”

“I don’t understand.” Mrs. Reiner nervously adjusted the belt on her robe. “Should I be expecting you?”

I pretended to look shocked. “The assistant editor said that she had phoned ahead and set up an appointment with you for this morning.” I fumbled around in my briefcase. “Shoot! I left my planner in the car. I’m just positive that she said 9:00. Am I too early?”