Murder with a Twist (4 page)

nine

The scene that met
us when we returned to our hotel room was utter bedlam. Chairs were upended, cushions were ripped, and covering it all was a fine layer of potting soil. The origin for the latter—a large ficus tree—lay across our bed, its branches limp and torn.

Our first thought—that we’d been robbed—was quickly discounted once we saw Skippy. Poised on the loveseat opposite the bed, his fur smeared with potting soil, Skippy warily eyed the ficus tree as if he feared it might attack. Seeing us, he leapt up and barked excitedly, his tail thumping against the couch cushions.

“Um … good boy?” Nigel ventured.

I folded my arms across my chest. “I know we’re supposed to be a united front with him,” I said. “But I don’t see this as a good boy moment.”

Skippy jumped off the couch and pranced happily over to us. Nigel patted his head. “He was just trying to protect us,” he said.

“From a ficus tree?”

“I’m sure he meant well.”

“I’d hate to see what he’d do if he didn’t like us so much.”

I stared down at Skippy. His tail thumping happily, his tongue hanging out to one side, his eyes returned my gaze with an undeniably proud gleam. I sighed and scratched him behind his ears. Skippy: 45; Me: 0. “Fine, but you are explaining this mess to the front desk,” I told Nigel.

An hour later, Nigel, Skippy, and I were settled in our new room. One without a ficus tree. Or any kind of shrubbery for that matter. I didn’t know how Nigel explained everything to the hotel staff, but based on a few overheard words and the pitying smiles sent my way, I once again suspected that epileptic seizures played a role.

We opted to stay in for the evening and order room service and
watch Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney in
White Christmas
. “Did
you
know that he was twenty-six years older than her?” Nigel asked me as he
snuck a hand out to steal one of my fries. I smacked it away.

“Yes, I do. You tell me every year when we watch it. Why would anyone want to wash their hair and face in snow?” I asked, listening to the peppy lyrics.

“I don’t know. Although you ask me
that
every year.”

“Touché,” I said, pushing my plate of fries toward him.

Nigel took one and then raised his glass of wine to mine. “Here’s to the hobgoblin of little minds, for we are its poster children.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said, clinking my glass against his.

“I know,” he replied with a smile. “You always do.”

_____

The next morning, Nigel and I went to pay Frank Little a visit. Skippy came as well, the end result of a mutual agreement between Nigel and the entire hotel staff. According to the address Marcy had given me, Frank lived in an old brownstone on the Lower East Side. The neighborhood had seen better days, but then it probably had seen worse, too.

I climbed the worn steps, knocked on the front door, and waited. After a moment, it swung open. Frank Little stood in the doorway. I knew him to be about forty, but he appeared older. Broad through the waist and narrow between the ears, he had a reputation for family loyalty and stupidity, although it could be argued that this was a redundant description. A limp strand of black hair hung down over his pockmarked forehead. He gazed at me from watery, bloodshot eyes and blinked. His right eye was slightly swollen and bruised. Glancing down at Skippy, he blinked again.

“Hi, Frank,” I said. “Remember me? Nic Landis; except now it’s Nic Martini.”

Frank pulled his gaze away from Skippy and focused on me. “Yeah, I heard you were back in town,” he said.

“Did you now?” I said. “And yet, none of the old gang has called or written. Oh, well. I guess that’s how it goes.”

“I heard you moved out to California and got married,” said Frank.
“So, who’s the lucky lady?”

“Ah, you always were a quick one with the wit, Frank. Can we come in for a minute?”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We want to come in, Frank,” I said. “Come on, now. Pay attention.”

Frank looked dully at Nigel. “Who’s he?”

Nigel produced a cheerful smile and held out his hand, “Nigel Martini.”

Frank ignored Nigel’s hand. He narrowed his eyes and pushed the errant strand of hair back up with the rest. “Why do you want to talk to me? I didn’t do nothing,” he asked.

“I need to talk to you about your pal Leo Blackwell,” I answered.

Frank’s eyes came into focus. The wheels in his head creaked back to life, and he appeared to come to a decision. Taking a step back, he swung the door open wide. “You got ten minutes,” he said.

We followed Frank down a dingy hallway toward the kitchen, where we could hear voices. The décor of the kitchen consisted of battered wood cabinets, stained yellow appliances, and faded wallpaper depicting oversized slices of citrus. At a sticky wooden table, sat three men. On the table was a half-empty bottle of whisky and four glasses. From their large frames and dull eyes, I guessed the men to be associates of Frank.

“Jesus,” the largest of the three said when he saw Skippy. His head was shaved and resembled a dented bullet. “You buy a horse, Frank?”

“Shut up, Vic. Don’t be a moron,” Frank said, pronouncing the word as a color rather than an insult. “This ain’t a horse. It’s one of those fancy English dogs.”

Vic took a sip of his whisky. “Oh. Well, why the hell did you buy one of those?”

“Shut up, Vic,” said Frank. “This here’s Detective Landis,” he added, jerking his thumb in my direction. “Except that she don’t do that anymore, seeing that she’s retired.”

The smallest of the men stood up, yanked a rickety chair out from the table, and offered it to me. He had dull blond hair, pencil-thin lips, and a left eye that drooped. “Have a seat, Ex-Detective Landis,” he said, his voice almost a drawl.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the offered seat. Nigel pulled out his own chair and sat down next to me. Skippy sat down on my other side. He rested his head on the table and stared at the men.
“And you are?”
I asked the man who had pulled out the chair for me.

“Pete,” he said, sitting back down. He didn’t offer a last name, and I didn’t ask for one. “You don’t look like any detective I ever saw,” he continued with an admiring glance. “You want a drink?” he asked, indicating the bottle.

“No, thanks.”

“Why are you here?” asked the third man. His eyes were hard and his black hair was cut short enough so that the tattoo on his head was visible. It looked like something with talons was perched on his skull.

“I’m looking for Leo Blackwell,” I answered. “Do you know him?”

Talons curled his lip in disgust. “Yeah. I know him.”

“He’s a no-good piece of shit,” Vic added.

“Shut up, Vic,” said Frank. “She’s here to see me, not you.” Frank sat down at the last empty seat and poured himself another drink.

“It’s been awhile, Frank,” I said. “How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“I hear that you’re working for Fat Saul these days.”

Frank stared at me, unsure how to answer. Finally, he said, “Yeah, we do some business together. Why?”

“I just wondered what Danny thought of that arrangement?”

Frank shrugged. “He was fine with it.”

“How about now that he’s out of jail? Is he still fine with it?”

“Who told you he was out?” Frank asked.

“I still have friends in the department. So, what did Danny make of your working for Fat Saul?”

Frank paused before answering. “He’s fine with it,” he said finally. “Danny’s a big boy. Business is business. Even he knows that.”

“I think you might be giving him more credit than he deserves,” I said.

Frank gave a harsh laugh. “I don’t believe in credit anymore,” he said, touching his eye.

“Who gave you the black eye?” I asked.

“None of your damn business,” Frank grumbled, just as Vic said,
“Fat Saul.”

“Shut up, Vic,” Frank, Pete, and Talons said in unison.

“Well, I won’t mention it then,” I said. “But it does bring me back
to the main reason I’m here. Our mutual friend Leo. Any idea where
he might be?”

Frank pulled his lips into a semblance of a smile. “You sure ask a lot of questions. I’d be careful if I were you. Remember, curiosity killed the cat.”

“There are some who would argue that’s a noble way to go,” I said.

“And besides, everyone knows that was a frame-up. Ignorance killed the cat,” Nigel said.

Frank stared at Nigel. “And what’s your story again?”

Nigel cleared his throat. “Where should I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery
…
”

Next to me, Pete laughed. “Hey! I like this guy!” he said.

Frank didn’t share Pete’s opinion. “Is he for real?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward Nigel.

“We’re not sure,” I replied. “We’re still waiting for the test results. When did you last hear from Leo?’

Frank shifted in his chair. “A few days ago, why?”

“Well, he’s disappeared,” I said. “Surely, you know that.”

Frank nodded warily. “I may have heard something about it.”

“I hear he owes you money,” I said.

Frank nodded again. “Yeah. He owes me money.”

“I told you he was a bad bet, Frank,” said Vic. “Leo’s nothing but a worm.”

“Shut up, Vic,” said Talons.

“A lot of money?” I asked.

“Yeah. A lot of money,” answered Frank.

I sighed. “Look, Frank. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. So, why don’t you just tell me what happened without me having to prompt you for every single detail, and then you can get back to your business?”

Frank thought this over for a moment. He gave a curt nod. “Fine. Saul got sick of Leo paying off his debt in installments and decided to call in the full loan. Saul told me to take care of it.”

“How much did Leo owe?”

The figure Frank named was well north of the amount that Audrey could withdraw without Max and Olive’s approval.

“What did Leo say to this?” I asked.

“He took it pretty well, I thought,” Frank said. “He promised that he’d get me the money, but said he needed a few days first. Said he had some angle he was working on. He’d never stiffed me before, so I took him at his word. Next thing I know, he’s nowhere to be found.”

“How did that go over with Fat Saul?”

Frank pressed his lips together. Unconsciously, his fingers reached
up to touch his bruised eye. “He was pissed. He blamed me for letting Leo go. He’s out for blood. I told him that I could handle it, but Saul wouldn’t listen. He says our reputation is on the line and that we have to make an example out of Leo’s face.”

Next to me Pete nodded. “We’re ready to go, too, if you know what
I mean. Some jobs you don’t mind doing. Bashing in Leo’s face
is one
of them.”

Frank glanced at his watch. “Your ten minutes are almost up,” he said. “But tell me. Why are you so interested in finding Leo?”

“His wife is worried about him. She wants him home,” I said.

“Christ. His
wife,
” Frank said. “She’s a piece of work. I mean, I know she’s loaded and all, but it would take a hell of a lot more than that to make me crawl into bed with her.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know that,” said Nigel. “I imagine it will come as quite a relief.”

Frank stopped and glanced at Nigel in some confusion. “Wait. What did you say your name was again?”

“Martini.”

“Ain’t that Leo’s wife’s maiden name?” asked Frank.

“Ah, the proverbial penny has dropped, I think,” said Nigel with a proud smile. “Yes, indeed it did. Audrey is my cousin. I’ll send her your best.”

ten

Before we left Frank’s
house, Pete patted Skippy on the head and offered me his sincere hope that I found Leo before he and his crew did and “smashed Leo’s face in.” Vic started to say something, but Talons told him to shut up. Nigel and I said polite good-byes all around and left.

Daphne then called, inviting us to stop over for a visit. She lived only a few blocks from her parents, in a smaller, less toile-inspired version of their apartment. Her décor leaned more toward clean lines and monochromatic colors. She greeted us at the door, but was immediately drowned out by Olive’s voice shouting from the other room.

“Is that them?” Olive called. “Ask Nicole if she’s learned anything.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “For goodness sake, Mother. Let me take their coats first.”

Olive appeared from the other room. “Nigel’s coat
is
off,” she protested.

“Yes, but Nic’s is not,” Daphne said.

I handed Daphne the article of clothing in question, and Olive resumed her questioning. “So, what have you found out?”

“You have all the finesse of a bull in a china shop, Mother,” Daphne observed as she hung up our coats in the hall closet. Turning back to us, she asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

Nigel and I said we would and followed her into the living room. Along the back wall was a fireplace. On either side of it were two leather sofas; one in black, the other in gray. A rectangular glass and chrome coffee table separated them. Olive took a seat on the black sofa. Nigel and I chose the gray. Daphne excused herself and went into the kitchen. “Well?” Olive prompted as she smoothed out her red wool skirt. “What have you found out about Leopold?”

“He owes a great deal of money to a man called Fat Saul,” I replied.

Daphne poked her head out from the kitchen. “Did you say
Fat Saul
? You’re kidding, right? There is actually a man named Fat Saul?”

I nodded. “Yes. His name is actually Saul Washington, but that didn’t inspire the kind of fear that his business requires. I’m not really sure if Fat Saul does the trick, but it’s what he went with.”

Olive crinkled her forehead; or at least tried to. “But I thought Audrey said that Leopold owed money to a man named Frank Little. Does he owe money to him as well?”

“No. Frank works for Fat Saul.”

“I see. And how much money does Leopold owe this … this Fat person?” Olive asked, her voice sharp.

I told her. She moaned and covered her mouth with her hand. Daphne came out of the kitchen with the coffee tray. She placed it on the table. Looking at her mother askance, she turned to me. “What did I miss?” she asked.

I told her. She, too, looked stricken. “Dear God! That’s … that’s obscene!” With shaking hands, she poured coffee into a gray and white cup and handed it to me. She repeated this process for Olive and Nigel. I added cream and sugar to my cup and stirred it. I took a sip and waited for Olive to find her voice.

She stared at her cup for a moment and then stood up and marched into the front hall. “Where are you going?” Daphne called after her.

“To get my purse,” she said. “I need a Valium. I feel one of my anxiety attacks coming on.” We listened to the sound of her rummaging through her purse. The rummaging stopped, and we heard her mutter, “Goddamnit!”

“Problem?” inquired Daphne, her voice bland.

“I left them in my other purse,” Olive replied. She reappeared seconds later and headed for the kitchen.

“Now where are you going?” Daphne asked.

“To find the whisky,” Olive replied. “Where the hell do you keep it?”

Daphne stirred her own coffee. “Top shelf over the stove,” she answered.

Olive returned and added a healthy splash to her cup. She offered the bottle to the rest of us, but we deferred. Banging the bottle down on the table, she then took a restorative sip of her coffee and closed her eyes. No one spoke. After a moment, Olive opened her eyes again. “I won’t do it,” she said.

“Do what?” Daphne asked, as if she really didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Allow Audrey to pay that money. I simply won’t allow it!”

“Imagine my surprise,” Daphne murmured as she took a sip of coffee. “But I think you are forgetting something, Mother. After
Audrey turns twenty-five, she won’t need you or Dad to co-sign any
thing. The money will be hers outright.”

“Nonsense!” snapped Olive. “There must be a way we can stop her!”

Daphne shook her head. “I understand you
think
that, but you
can’t
. I know the terms of the trust. It’s very simple. Once she turns twenty-five, she controls her money. End of story. There are no loopholes that allow you, Dad, or anyone else to wrest it away from her.”

“Do you think that’s why Leo went missing?” Nigel asked. “Could
he be waiting until Audrey’s birthday, knowing that once she has control of her fortune she’ll probably pay it off ?”

Daphne considered this. “It’s a possibility, but I can’t imagine
if that really were the case that Leo wouldn’t have told her his plan beforehand. I mean, to leave her alone and worried hardly seems like a good lead plan before hitting her up for a ton of money.”

“That’s it,” said Olive, rising from the couch. “I’m calling your father.”

We sat in silence as Olive marched across the room and rummaged through her purse. Finding her phone, she angrily punched in Max’s number. “Hello? Betty? I need to talk to Max. What? Oh. I see. Well, this is Mrs. Beasley. I need to speak to my husband. I see. When do you expect him back? I see. Well, please have him call me when he returns.
Immediately
.” She ended the call with a frustrated click and rejoined us in the living room.

“Dad not in?” Daphne asked, her voice mild.

“No. He’s not. And what happened to his secretary, Betty?” Olive asked.

“She was let go about a month ago,” answered Daphne.

“Why?” Olive demanded.

Daphne’s face wrinkled in repugnance. “She was sleeping with a few of our clients. It was disgusting, really. We have our firm’s reputation to consider. Can you imagine what it would do to business were it to get out that we employed a slut for a secretary?”

Nigel opened his mouth to answer. I quickly stepped on his foot before he could answer. “That’s a rhetorical question,” I explained to him.

“Well, why wasn’t I told of this?” demanded Olive.

Daphne looked at her mother in confusion. “Why would you be told of this? Had you ever met Betty?”

“Well, no, but if it concerns Max, it concerns me. What did this Betty look like?”

“Blonde, pretty in an obvious kind of way. Wore short skirts, high heels, and if I remember correctly, chewed a lot of gum,” Daphne answered.

“And who is his new secretary?” Olive asked.

Daphne laughed. “You just got off the phone with her not two minutes ago, and you’ve already forgotten her name? Now do you see why no one told you about Betty? The new secretary is named Mary. Mary Crenshaw.”

“And what does
she
look like?” Olive asked.

“Gray hair, badly permed,” Daphne said. “She wears sensible shoes, support hose, and, I think, dentures.”

“Excellent,” said Nigel. “No need to worry about any nasty gum-chewing habit.”

Daphne grinned. “
Exactly
,” she said.

“I don’t see anything funny about this,” Olive snapped. “Frankly, I think the three of you are being very unsupportive, sitting here and making jokes.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Nigel came to my defense. “That’s not fair, Aunt Olive,” he said. “Nic has been doing exactly what you’ve asked—which is to find Leo. It’s not her fault that he hasn’t turned up yet.”

Olive ducked her head a bit. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Nicole. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t helping.”

“You didn’t imply it,” Nigel corrected. “You said it. And besides, Nic doesn’t make jokes. She just laughs at mine.”

I smiled at Olive and squeezed Nigel’s arm. “Who says chivalry is dead?”

“Shut up, woman,” Nigel said. “I wasn’t done talking.”

Daphne and I laughed. Olive didn’t. She seemed out of sorts for the remainder of our visit, which was mercifully cut short after Skippy got into the trash. After fishing several candy wrappers, receipts, and a partially completed ledger out of his mouth, Nigel and I made our excuses and left.

On the way back to the hotel, I bought Skippy a large rawhide toy as reward. He really was becoming one of the family.