A Grand Seduction Page 20

  She snorted. “Oh they owe me, all right.”

  “Then you’ll want to set up a meeting, so you can collect.”

  Damn right, only somehow she was guessing that money would never grease her palms. “Then what?”

  He shrugged. “If you’re telling the truth, don’t leave town. We’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ridelle made her twelfth pacing round of the day around the living room, now not even noticing the half step here, the slight veer there as she navigated the narrow space. “It’s gone wrong. I know it has.”

  “Would you stop that and sit down?” Twyla rubbed her hands against tan slacks. “You’re making me nervous.

  “Good! You should be, considering something must be wrong.”

  “You don’t know that.” Still, the blonde’s hand trembled slightly as she reached over to pluck a cup of green tea off the coffee table.

  “Why didn’t she call?”

  “She will.”

  “You know, sometimes your positive attitude really pisses me off. Can’t I get a little support for my paranoia here?” She swore under her breath. “I knew we shouldn’t have hired an outsider.”

  Twyla’s snicker was anything but kind. “Oh, you knew that, did you? I seem to recall you jumping at the chance. I was the one against it.”

  Ridelle stopped pacing long enough to make a face and fold her arms in front of her. “Well, I just don’t like sitting here waiting.”

  “I’m sitting. You’re obsessing. Just give her some time.”

  As if in response, the cell phone twittered and began a wild shimmy across the table. Both women froze. A stab of fear shot up the back of Twyla’s neck. She nodded to the phone. “You do it.”

  Ridelle grabbed it and clicked a button. “Yes?”

  She turned away from Twyla, now perched on the edge of the couch. Annoyed, she jumped up and followed Ridelle on an over-the-shoulder pacing tour of the room. The effort rewarded her with nothing but vague bits.

  “Why? Uh-huh. Okay. You’re sure? Great.”

  Twyla let out a breath at that last, one she’d held so long she felt slightly dizzy. She waited as Ridelle listened for a minute.

  “No need to meet,” she went on. “Check your pillowcase. The tooth fairy dropped by your room. Yeah, I know, but we had faith in you. Nope, I’m sure we don’t have to meet again. Thanks again, and good luck. You know, starting over and everything.”

  She clicked off the call and dropped the phone on the table with a clatter. A wide grin banished the frown that had threatened to dig a permanent groove just moments earlier. “Mission accomplished.”

  Twyla’s expression softened. “It went okay?”

  “Yep. Said she didn’t call sooner because they were, you know, busy. Guess the asswipe really liked banging her. Won’t the wife be thrilled? She wanted to meet up to collect. Glad Dominique already took care of it. That neighborhood isn’t exactly someplace I want season passes for.”

  Twyla bent over to pluck a bit of unauthorized fuzz from the shaggy rug beneath them. “And what did we learn from all this?”

  Brown eyes rolled. “I know, I know. You were right. I shouldn’t have gotten so panicky.”

  “Not that. I meant the part where involving other people isn’t the right thing to do.”

  Ridelle rounded the coffee table and plopped herself onto the couch. “Everything worked out. And I’m not personally sleeping with every dick that comes along.”

  “I’m not saying you should. I think we should just stop the whole thing.”

  Ridelle crossed her legs, ankle over knee. “And I’m supposed to go back to my illustrious career doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing?”

  Twyla joined her on the couch with a sigh. “Why not help Fran with her business?”

  “That’s just it. It’s her business. One I couldn’t be more clueless about.” Ridelle shifted to face her. “I’m happy for her and all, but I don’t want to help someone else’s business. I want to build my own. Doing this let me figure out that I want my own show. Sure, this gig isn’t entirely mine. But I’m a full partner. I help make decisions, and reap the benefits.”

  “Great, so you’ve discovered you want to be an entrepreneur. There are safer, more legal ways to do it.”

  “And I’ll find one. But meanwhile, I have to pay the bills somehow.”

  “We have to stop this while we can. I have a bad feeling that the more we take chances, the more that what you’ll reap won’t be benefits.”

  “It won’t be forever. With the money we’re making and the portion Dominique is investing for us, I’ll be able to start up something of my own. Something legit. I’ll have done it by my own hand on my own terms. Without Daddy having to foot the bill.”

  “I hope it’s soon, Ridelle.” She stood, tugging her ponytail tight. “I should get going, pick up the kids from school.”

  “Me too. I’m gonna check on these latest photos.”

  They walked in silence to the door, where Ridelle grabbed both their jackets off the hook. “If you want out, Twyla, no one will think bad of you. You’ve got security with Andy. I’ve only got myself, so I need to hang on for just a while longer with this. I hope you understand.”

  As they parted ways, Twyla wondered how she ever did.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dominique pressed a few more buttons, then hit Send. A sigh of mixed relief and anxiety escaped her lips as she sat back in her chair, staring at the laptop in front of her.

  The money was out of her hands for now. This was the part she hated most. Temporarily remanding control to someone else who could make or break ones’ financial stability was a real nail-biter. But it was the only feasible way, barring a global jaunt. An offshore account in the Caymans could have been done without middle-manning, but carried the inconvenience of having to prove the money was clean. So while it was annoyingly cliché, nothing said sure-fire, secure access to seedy money like the good old Bank of Switzerland. Her contact would make the deposit, no questions asked, freeing her from any prying eyes that might swivel their way. Always best to be prepared, right?

  Of course, a decent amount was still tied up in foreign and domestic investments, hopefully gaining mad amounts of interest while buried under enough phony corporation mumbo jumbo to make trace-back a chore and a half. She hadn’t spent a decade in the Hard Knocks school of investing for nothing.

  Pandora brushed against her leg, then rubbed a furry cheek against the leather pump she’d kicked onto the floor nearby. “Laying claim to Mommy’s Michael Kors shoes, are you?” Dominique’s stocking toes scratched the feline between the ears. “You have quite expensive tastes, my dear. Can’t imagine where you get it.”

  A bottle of Chardonnay in the kitchen called out to her, and Dominique glanced at her watch. Three in the afternoon was a bit early for anyone other than alcoholics to begin their drinking work day. Still, white wine barely counted. She could cut it with soda water, make it a spritzer.

  The phone interrupted part way to the kitchen.

  Fran’s hello was enough to tell that something was wrong. Possibly everything.

  “What is it?” Dominique said.

  The room fell away as the words came. Fran’s voice crashed over the line in waves of panic. The louder and more desperate they grew, the quieter Dominique became.

  “Yes, Frannie. I know. I’ll be there.”

  She hung up, staring into nothing. So, the unraveling had begun in earnest. She’d known it would, of course. All good things, and all that. But not this fast.

  An odd laugh jumped out at the thought, bouncing against the vaulted ceiling. Glancing over at the laptop again, she allowed herself a tight smile. If nothing else, there would be no evidence of the money involved in their past year of giving men what they deserved. They’d all be protected. She’d seen to that.

  Her trademark calm demeanor swept over her as she slipped back into her pumps and grabbed her handbag. All that was needed n
ow was to put on a game face, lay low, and ride this out.

  *

  “I don’t see how we can just ride this out,” Ridelle said, this time pacing a hole in Fran’s carpet instead of her own. “Shouldn’t we get out of town?”

  Twyla leaned her weight against the back of a velvet wingback chair. “I’m supposed to pack up and leave Andy and the kids? We weren’t responsible for this!”

  The girl shrugged. “Maybe not, but the news said they had Lanie in custody. Who’s to say she didn’t tell them everything? They could be knocking on our door any minute.”

  Fran, legs tucked beneath her on the divan, ran a hand through a wild frizz of hair. “Who’s to say she did? I mean, she’s got big enough problems without admitting her conspiracy to trap him into a phony affair, right?”

  “Why do you suppose the wife killed him?” Twyla turned to the beveled mirror over the fireplace, which reflected several pairs of glazed, haunted eyes. “She wanted him to have the affair. It was her way out.”

  “Maybe she flipped out at the last minute,” Fran’s voice was flat, drained. “Couldn’t handle it. It’s not easy to sit by while you know your husband’s off doing someone else. That’s why I recommended that she get away for the night, so she wouldn’t be alone and torturing herself.”

  Ridelle’s eyes slid over to hers. “Maybe she didn’t do it.”

  “The papers say she did, right?” Dominique said, perched upright in the mate to Twyla’s abandoned chair. “The police must have had good reason for arresting her.”

  Brown eyes slid back to Fran’s again. “Don’t trust what you read in print. You don’t suppose Lanie could have done it?”

  Twyla raised a brow. “Why would she?”

  Ridelle shrugged. “She’s damaged goods, recruited from a shelter. Maybe he pushed the wrong button.”

  Dominique shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  Fran shook her head. “Well, the police couldn’t hold her. She was released. Must have been why she was late calling you.”

  “Yeah, failing to mention anything about what happened,” Ridelle added. “I think that’s a bit suspicious, myself. If she’s innocent, why didn’t she tell us he got killed?”

  “Oh, I can answer that,” Dominique said. “She was afraid she wouldn’t get the money.”

  “Fuck the money,” Ridelle resumed pacing. “She should have said something.”

  Dominique shrugged. “Money makes people do all sorts of crazy things. I’m sure you can relate.”

  “Funny. I’m just sorry you paid the bitch off for nothing.”

  “She did her part,” Fran said. “The pictures I got prove it.”

  “Too bad you didn’t stick around for the rest of the show,” Twyla said. “You could have gotten a photo of the killer.”

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t get out of there fast enough once I snapped a few pics. I was terrified of getting caught.” She gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth for a moment. “What if someone saw me? They might think I was the killer.”

  “You were disguised and it was dark,” Ridelle said. “Who could pick you out of a lineup? Besides, it happened in another state. They’d have no reason to come looking here, even if Lanie mentioned our arrangement. She didn’t know squat about us.”

  “Let’s just hope Mrs. Harrison keeps her trap shut about our little alliance,” Twyla said.

  “She will.” Dominique sounded far away. “She’s still got more to lose by telling.”

  “Seems like she’s lost a lot already,” Twyla said. “And so have we. I think more than ever this proves why we need to close up shop.”

  “Definitely,” Fran said. “That goes without saying. We stay under radar, at least for a while.”

  “Guess that means job hunting again,” Ridelle said, shaking her head. “Fucking great.”

  “It could be worse,” Twyla said. “Surely you weren’t still thinking about continuing on? A man’s been murdered!”

  “Look, sorry the bastard got shot and all, but is it completely selfish of me to shake a fist at the blizzard on my parade? I mean, it’s not like any of you guys were relying on that money to survive. It’s easier for you to walk away.”

  “Surely there’s enough left for you to get by on for a while.” Fran shot a look at the woman across from her. “Right, Dom?”

  “Most of it is tied up right now, but I can liquidate some funds for her if she needs it.”

  “See? You’ll be fine.” Fran rose and walked over to where Ridelle’s pacing had halted. “We just need to stick together and keep our eyes and ears open.”

  “Absolutely,” Dominique added. “The wife can’t afford to talk, whether she’s guilty or not. Lanie, either.”

  “Even if she tried,” Fran said, “she doesn’t know who we are or where we live. We made sure of that at the start. I’m doubly glad now that we did.”

  Ridelle unclenched the fists at her sides. “You’re right. There’s no way they can trace any of this back to us.”

  “So let’s just relax,” Fran said, looking around the room at each in turn. “Why panic if we don’t need to?”

  “I always like to panic first,” Ridelle said. “Saves time later.”

  “Panic means mistakes,” Dominique clicked two nails together. “Mistakes we can’t afford.”

  Fran put her hand on Ridelle’s tense shoulder. “Right. So if we stay calm and stay together, everything will be fine.”

  “Yeah, until it isn’t fine. Then what?”

  Dominique shrugged. “Then we’ll do whatever we have to.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Darkness had taken unyielding hold of the night by the time Warren turned off the 309, heading down Broad Street into Quakertown for a few miles until his aching back and stomach announced that it was time for a break. He spotted a neon sign for what looked to be a popular bar and grill and pulled the unmarked sedan in for dinner and perhaps a pint.

  With the car in park but still running on idle, he thumbed through a stack of papers lying on the seat beside him. The day’s efforts had netted him nothing up to this point. After nosing around town, his partner had balked at the idea of coming back. The long trip down from the city notwithstanding, Warren saw nothing wrong with diligence. Nothing except the hour had grown late, and he’d neglected to eat dinner. Diligence could wait until morning. He’d eat, drink, and be not quite merry, then see about a cheapie motel nearby. Tomorrow, he’d be up with the roosters to dredge this town for information on the Harrison murder.

  It was possible that whoever had answered Lanie’s cell phone call had merely been passing through on the road to Anywhere Else. That seemed most likely. Still, it made sense to do his blood hound thing, see if anyone had seen, heard, or hell, felt anything. Every hour that went by found the murder scene colder and the trail more muddied. A man had to eat, though.

  On a legal pad at the top of the pile, he’d jotted a series of notes to himself—questions that needed asking, puzzles that needed unpuzzling. With the overhead interior light flipped on, he browsed the list one more time.

  Acting alone?

  Cell phone, the killer’s or another’s? What’s the relation?

  Set up? Why?—Motive: jealousy vs. money/life insurance, the usuals.

  Quakertown—driving on the way out of state? Or resident?

  The list went on to detail a series of public establishments, moving out in concentric circles from the point of origin where Lanie’s call hit the nearest cell tower. The highway ran through this, so it was possible that the recipient was just passing through. Some on the list were checked off—places he and Liebowitz had already checked out.

  Reaching over to flip off the ignition, he abandoned the list for now and pocketed the keys as he slid out of his seat. When his brain went this fuzzy, it was time to take off the detective hat and get some sustenance.

  *

  Ridelle sat at the counter of the neighborhood brew-and-stew, smashing a breaded zucchini spear int
o a cup of Ranch dressing with little attention. Halfway to her mouth, a crumble of batter fell, dressing and all, into the lap she’d neglected to cover.

  “Fuckin’ brilliant.”

  Grabbing a napkin, she shoved the offending batter onto the floor and swabbed at the greasy white goop left behind. Luckily, her cheap bar attire didn’t include anything dry clean only. Tan, fitted slacks and a white sleeveless shell could survive the mishap. Considering Ridelle was in a crappy mood, however, she wasn’t one to take such mishaps gracefully. Too much thinking about too many things topped off with alcohol—or, perhaps, not enough of it—made her rather cranky.

  The nice thing about moods like this was the automatic “Don’t Fuck With Me” shield they erected around her. No guys hit on her, and no boozed-up women tried to make inane girl talk. Even the bartender steered clear after dumping a tall beer and the basket-o-grease. The message was clear, and patrons gave Ridelle a two-stool distance on either side so she could brood in peace.

  Then someone had the nerve to enter the ‘no fly’ zone and sit down on her left. “Man, haven’t I been there before.”

  She glanced sideways enough to fix him with a get-lost stare. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you from your troubles,” the man said. “I just recognize that look intimately. Weight of the world.”

  Her intent to shoot a stream of acid his way evaporated at his blue-eyed gaze, which pierced the shield around her resolve to sit alone and brood. Square shoulders spanned beneath an equally square chin nicked in the center. Close-cropped hair was peppered with shades of brown and rust, as if it couldn’t quite decide which to be. Still, it was the smile in the midst of this handsome melee that undid her. Smoky, knowing, and sincere all rolled into one skirt-raising package.

  Despite herself, her mood lifted into a half smile. “Just call me Atlas.”

  He held a hand out to her for a firm, yet supple shake. “Pleased to meet you, Atlas. I’m Warren. Warren Ross.”