by MJ O'Neill
“I’m old. I’m not an idiot.”
“Of course not. And this is an important discovery in another case I’m working on that will be very helpful. It’s just not tied to Dad.”
“I can take it, you know. Everyone walks around here on damned eggshells. Even the pig. But I’m not feeble or fragile. If you find something about Clarke, I want to know. Do you understand me?” She pretended to smoke one of her fake cigarettes. I knew her nerves were shot, and we still had a whole ball to get through.
“I promise,” I said, lying. “Now let’s get to that ball before Mom kills both of us.”
I COULD BARELY CONCENTRATE on the road as my mind raced, trying to figure out what the codes meant and where they could have come from. There was no way around wondering whether this meant my dad really was mixed up with the mob. That led to a whole other set of questions, like “For how long?” and “How in the world did it happen?” Gillian’s paper had clearly said “mob money.”
I refused to believe it. Clarke Waters was not part of the mob. Period. It had to be some weird coincidence. I needed to pull myself together and find a way to get through this event.
The annual fundraiser for local charities was sponsored by many of the mayors in the county who’d pooled forces and dubbed it the Mayors’ Event. Several of the mayors openly disliked each other, making Mom chief negotiator for weeks leading up to tonight. They didn’t agree on anything, from entertainment to flowers to food.
I was originally supposed to attend with Martin. We had planned to fly in from Boston to help Mom and Dad work the room. Martin’s family always appreciated being associated with these kinds of events, even ones in what they considered an inferior city like St. Louis. Martin had already backed out when everything with Dad came up. The reality was that I was now a single girl.
My logical brain knew that if I was involved with someone who wouldn’t stand by me through something like this, the relationship wasn’t meant to be. Still, Martin and I had been together for a while, time that felt like a big investment.
The local casino hosted the event. In Missouri, casinos could operate only on riverboats, as if it were any less sinful to gamble over water. I drove to the pier.
We made our way through the casino entrance, past the clinking and clanging of the slot machines, to the ballroom. It was a beautiful room, with its crystal chandeliers and modern architecture, but Mom had outdone herself with decorations that would put David Tutera to shame. The “All That Jazz” theme was everywhere. The room sparkled in red, black, white, and silver. The cello from the jazz band made the room thump. Grand left me standing in the middle of the room, taking it all in, while she went to find Claude and Mom.
MY DAD WAS A PRO AT people watching. He could absorb a room, remembering people, faces, couples, and outfits, even across a broad room like this one. Over the years, I’d picked up the habit, if not some of his skill. That was why I knew I was being watched. I felt the gaze on me from across the room. I looked all around but didn’t see anyone watching me.
What I did see, standing near a wall and trying to look invisible while taking in everything around him, was Burns McPhee. Beautiful Burns McPhee, who couldn’t look invisible even when trying. At least, not to me.
I wondered what he was doing here. His eyes locked on mine from across the room. He didn’t smile or wave hello. He stood there staring. The ballroom suddenly felt small. A crowd moved in between us. When I looked back, he was gone.
Finding Mom and Grand was easy. All I had to do was look for the peacock feathers. Mom stood with another woman who seemed almost glued to her. When Mom moved, the woman moved too. The woman wore a diamond tiara in her shoulder-length gray bob. The tiara matched the ostentatious red-sequined gown that clung to her curves. While it did flatter her figure, the low-cut sparkles seemed out of place among the formality.
“Aren’t you lovely, Katherine,” Mom said. She looked stunning as always in a long silver dress. Her hair was in an updo, fitting for the occasion. No one would ever have guessed my mom was in her late fifties. She had beautiful skin and thin auburn hair, peppered with small streaks of gray that only made it look fuller and her younger. The current Hamburger Helper diet had helped her lose several pounds.
“What took you so long?” Grand swooshed at her feathers. “Let’s go, Claude. We’ve got a rug to cut.” Grand grabbed Claude’s hand and pulled him through the ballroom and toward the dance floor. Feathers flew up over the heads of the crowd.
“My, look how grown-up you are, Katherine,” the woman in red said. “The last time I saw you was at your DAR initiation.”
Our membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution had always been a point of pride for Mom. We had a pirate on her side of the family who had been in the Navy. The events always felt stuffy and political, but I went because I did support the troops. I didn’t, however, recognize the lady in red.
“Oh, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Greta Scott.”
“Mayor Scott’s wife,” Mother added.
“Oh, a pleasure to see you. Your tiara is divine.”
Mrs. Scott patted her bob and flashed the staged smile of a tiara model. “Thank you. It cost Richard a small fortune, but I rewarded him appropriately.” She let out a loud cackle and, apparently realizing no one else had laughed with her, took a drink of her champagne. “I trust you’re settling in well since your move back home.”
“I’ve been practicing Master Tahkaswami’s advice on managing change, but it hasn’t been easy without access to his herb blend. I do think I’m starting to get a rhythm.”
“Oh, isn’t he splendid? I can’t help but want to run my fingers all over that beautiful bald head. I’m sure all of the unpleasantness at the hospital hasn’t helped you, though.”
Mother’s jaw clinched as a look of horror came over her face at the mention of the morgue.
“It’s all just another misunderstanding,” Mother said on cue.
“Honestly, I hadn’t realized anyone knew much about that.” I had been shocked that the body snatching and my involvement in it weren’t front-page news. Apparently Grand had managed to charm Fletcher Reid into not printing the story. Or maybe it had been our body-tangling collision. Either way, I had been more than happy when my picture wasn’t on page one. It was odd that Mrs. Scott had picked up on the incident.
“Richard and I are hospital trustees. The news has made the rounds with the board. You’re lucky you weren’t hurt. Do the police have any leads?” She took another big swallow, eyeing me intently over her glass.
“I’m really not at liberty to talk about an ongoing investigation. The detectives get cranky.”
“I just want you to know that Richard and I have made it abundantly clear that our donations will not continue if you are fired over this whole nasty business.”
“That’s quite generous of you,” I said, contemplating. Maybe Mrs. Scott could help push the makeover plan through the administration.
“Really, it’s all just a big misunderstanding that I’m sure will be worked out in no time. Like with Richard and those donations.” Mom smiled brightly at Mrs. Scott. Richard Scott had owned several successful businesses before becoming mayor of an affluent city. Even before his election, talk had swirled about the legality of some of his political donations. I always found it fascinating how smoothly rich people could throw insults at each other and still seem so polite.
Mrs. Scott let out another big cackle. “He’s lucky his wife is so persuasive with the police commissioner.”
“Well, it was so lovely catching up with you, Greta, but if you’ll excuse us, now that Katherine is here, I might be able to squeeze some more donations out of these men.” Mom pushed me in the opposite direction of Mrs. Scott.
With another loud chortle, Mrs. Scott downed the last of her champagne. “I’ll call you for lunch soon.”
For the next half hour, we shook hands, smiled, and made mindless small talk, managing to stay away from emba
rrassing subjects such as stolen bodies and fathers in prison. We met four mayors, three company presidents, and a congressman.
It was on the introduction of the congressman that I came face-to-face with Burns. He stood just off the shoulder of the man who was enthralling my mother with some story about Washington politics.
His eyes moved over me from head to toe as if he wanted to take in every inch of me. “You look beautiful.”
What I looked was surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Because riffraff like me don’t belong in a place like this?” he asked with an easy smile.
“First, I’m pretty sure your bank account trumps mine in spades, but second, I’d think you would be more prone to throwing these types of events for Ingenisys than attending them.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said, nodding at the congressman. “We run his security for events like this.”
“McPhee, how can you look so unhappy when you’re in the company of such a beautiful woman?” the congressman asked, turning toward us. “I’m getting a drink. Flynn’s at the bar, so I’ll be fine. Ask Katherine to dance. That’s an order.” We watched as he disappeared into the crowd.
“You heard the man,” Burns said, offering his arm.
“We can pretend we did,” I replied.
“You’re afraid to dance with me.” He grinned. “I’ll stay off your feet, I promise. Besides, you wouldn’t want to get me in trouble with my employer, now would you?”
Before I could answer, he was pulling me through the crowd, onto the floor. His hand went up my back, and he pulled me to him. I shivered at the caress of his thumb as he traced the scoop back of my dress.
Boy, the man could dance. We glided through the crowd, and he twirled me like a pro.
“See, we’re naturals.”
The warm air of his whisper in my ear made my already-racing pulse surge. I let my head rest lightly against him and tried to decide if that was his heart beating fast or mine.
“You’re good. Where did you learn?” I asked.
“My Bohemian poetry-loving mother was also very fond of dance and determined to make sure her son could hold his own on a dance floor,” he said.
“So thanks to a great mom, you’re as cultured as you are well traveled.”
“I have to give all the credit for travel to the United States Army, but Mom is great and was determined to make sure I had broad exposure to all the good things in life.”
Skillfully, he spun us through the crowded floor to a spot where we had more privacy. I caught Flynn watching us from the bar across the room, scratching at his collar as if he were allergic to the tie. “There’s a sight I never thought I’d see, Flynn in a bow tie.”
Burns laughed. “He comes off a bit gruff, but I owe him my life a couple of times over.”
“Afghanistan?” I asked.
“Yes, but not just then. My dad died when I was in middle school. Car crash. I didn’t take it well. I was angry and lashing out at anyone I could. Flynn found me behind school one day, surrounded by a bunch of older guys I’d pissed off. After he took care of the situation, he hit me in the head and told me to stop being an idiot. From then on, he was just always there. Got me through Gillian’s death too.”
The song changed, and Burns spun me with the tempo. We both laughed.
When I was in the tenth grade, my school had performed My Fair Lady. As I felt the rhythm of the music move through us, and the warmth of him next to me, all I could think was that this must be how Eliza Doolittle had felt. At that moment, I could have danced all night.
Until I felt the cold shiver up my spine again.
Burns noticed instantly when I lifted my head. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s nothing. I’m being silly.”
He kept his eyes locked on mine. He wasn’t going to give it up.
“I think we’re being watched.”
He spun me around, not in the rhythmic, romantic sway from earlier but in a practiced, deliberate move. His body changed from soft and enveloping to charged and rigid. His eyes darted about the room. “All units, report,” he said.
That was when I noticed that the flag on his tie was really a microphone. Great. My ramblings were now on tape. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said.
“Of course it’s not nothing. Between what you’ve been through the past couple of days and those great people instincts of yours, we’d be foolish not to pay attention to that feeling. I’m going to do a perimeter check.”
He dropped me back with Mom and Grand and made me promise I’d stay with them the rest of the night. Before I knew what had happened, he was gone. I suddenly felt even colder.
“Rule number four. I need chocolate,” Grand said, approaching with Claude. “All that booty shaking left me with a hankering. As expensive as this thing is, they should have good chocolate. Let’s go check out the dessert table while Claude gets some drinks.”
Mom frowned. “Katherine?”
She didn’t need to say anything else for me to know I was on Grand-sitting duty. “Okay. I’ll go.”
Before I could object—not that I wanted to, since chocolate sounded like a good plan— Grand had disappeared into the crowd. I turned to follow her and, instead, ended up with a drink all down the front of me.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, miss,” a tall man said and then began laughing. “Kat? We have to stop meeting like this. How can I help you?”
Fletcher Reid stood in front of me with that same casual smile that he’d worn the other morning. Only he was wearing a tux this time. I’d seen a lot of men in tuxes in my life, and he was the only one I’d known who could make a tux look comfortable and lived in while not appearing informal.
“I’ll figure it out. Back away slowly. I didn’t think reporters made enough money to come to these society things.” I flagged down one of the servers to get me a towel. I looked up from my drying. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that as rude as it sounded.”
“My date is covering it for the paper.”
“Date?”
“Yeah, she writes for the society pages. Why? You jealous, Stretch?”
“No, I’m not. Isn’t she, like, sixty?”
“Ask your grandmother. I have a thing for older women, ya know.”
“And my name isn’t Stretch.”
“Those long, gorgeous legs of yours seem to keep getting us tangled up.”
With all my current problems with men, I didn’t need Fletcher Reid thinking my legs were gorgeous.
“Any luck finding your missing body?” he asked.
“No. Not yet. But I’m working on it.” I tried to wipe the drink off my dress with my hands. I grabbed some cocktail napkins from a nearby table, but they just pilled white balls onto the dress.
“With Burns McPhee?”
“How did you know that?” I asked, now less interested in cleaning up than in Fletcher Reid’s conversation. Maybe he had seen us dancing.
“I’m a reporter. I know things.”
“Do you know him?”
“We have a history.”
“Because of Gillian Mathers?” Maybe Fletcher knew what she had been working on. Maybe his reports in the paper about Dad and the mob actually came from information she had passed him. Maybe he knew more about those poor dead girls.
“She and I were friends, yes.”
“Were you working on the prostitute story with her?”
“No. She was working a story on her own. Said it was big.”
“But you’re covering it now?” The waiter was taking forever. I started to get cold. I opened my bag and searched for something more substantial to clean up with.
“Officially, there is no story. The cops keep saying Gillian was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But you don’t believe the cops have it right?” I started taking things out of my bag so I could find my packet of handy wipes. I’d forgotten how much stuff I’d put in there yesterday before I went looking for Bu
rns.
“I know Burns doesn’t.”
“You’re evading. Is he right?” I asked.
“I know he feels guilty.” Fletcher glanced at the growing pile I was removing from my purse. “Can I help you with that?”
“Yes, thanks.” I handed him half the stuff I’d taken from my purse. “Because Gillian asked him for help, but he didn’t help her?”
“Burns helps everyone, which you should know, since I believe he’s now helping you.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, pausing my search. “Never mind. After the day I’ve had, I don’t want to know.”
“He wasn’t just helping her. The night of her murder, she’d planned to meet him to tell him that she had uncovered something connecting him to her story.”
“Him and the prostitute murders? That doesn’t make any sense.” I found the wipes packet and took some out. I began to reload the bag, taking things from Fletcher.
“Since her murder, I haven’t been able to put the pieces together. She had a file name in her notes on the prostitute murders with an arrow drawn to Burns’s name and circled. Covana.”
I searched my memory of the photos of the crime scene. I didn’t remember seeing that. “What’s Covana?”
“That is the ten-thousand-dollar question. I haven’t been able to turn up anything on it. I’d guess Burns hasn’t either. Your body is the first lead any of us have had in months.”
“Is that the only connection you’ve made? Have you made progress on the prostitute murders?” This, I knew, was dangerous territory. I didn’t want to directly bring up the mob and a possible connection to my dad. That would trigger Fletcher Reid’s alarm bells. His champagne was soaking through my two thousand dollars’ worth of designer silk that I really couldn’t afford to dry-clean, much less replace, but I needed answers. I stopped drying myself to study his reaction.
“No. After Gillian’s death, there hadn’t been any other deaths. Until your body.”
