Hammered

by Ruth Bainbridge

  Time to walk on tippy-toes.

  “What kind of tenant was Ms. Cunningham?”

  The eyes bounced from the papers being slid back into the folder to hers.

  “Where’d that come from?” he retorted.

  “I don’t know. I,I guess it came from people mentioning that you two were … friends. I mean, you must have been. You always call me ‘Ms. Powell,’ but you refer to her by her first name.”

  Yes, that was a better approach than accusing him of adultery.

  “Friends?” he sniffed dismissively. “I call a lot of people by their first names and I just got through telling you—”

  “That you don’t mix business and friendship. I was listening, Mr. Connors. It’s just that some acquaintances said you were close … that’s all.”

  “Wait a minute … wait a minute!” he cried, showing his palms. A nerve had been struck. “Close has all sorts of implications—none of which I appreciate, Ms. Powell.”

  “Mr. Connors, I meant no offense.”

  “I don’t know where these people you mentioned got this idea in their head, but she was only a business associate. That was the extent of our relationship.”

  “Then the conversations you had—”

  “Were business related.” His jaw clenched. Maybe she was pushing this too far, but she was here and so was he.

  Then again—

  Just because people jump to wrong conclusions doesn’t mean they’re right.

  “I can’t believe that people are still talking about ancient history. So what if I had conversations with Ms. Cunningham?” he added with a shake of his head.

  “I’m sorry I brought this up,” she apologized.

  “I’ll accept your apology, but really! If you’d asked these people you spoke to, you’d have found out that the conversations took place in the last year she was here. I mean, is it so unusual for me to be having discussions about her lease?”

  “Her lease?” she repeated. It confirmed what both Elliot Harper and Eunice had said. But the problem was that private discussions in the evening about her lease sounded uber suspicious to her, but she was loathe to bring that up.

  “Yes, her lease,” he stated emphatically. “The city passed new rent guidelines, so I wanted to apprise her of the increase. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that she was going to renew. Her business seemed to be viable and pulling in good money, but she surprised me by asking for a reduction due to business losses.”

  “So this is what you were alluding to earlier? About mixing friendship with business?”

  “Exactly. It is a perfect example. Back in the beginnings of my real estate business, I’d been hemorrhaging money at one point, and almost went under, so I reacted sympathetically to her plight. Instead of ending things there, my heart got the better of me. She seemed nice, and she’d been a good client. Add what she’d been through to that and … well … there I went! But I did ask her for proof. That’s what led to me meeting her. It should have been taken care of in one meeting, but she kept dragging things out by promising to show tally sheets, but the numbers she did present were incomplete. They proved nothing and certainly didn’t back her claims. Oh, she did a soft shuffle, but it turned out that she was a lot like that guy she married.”

  “Dengrove?”

  “One in the same. At the end of many negotiations, all her evidence proved was that she was fully capable of paying the increase, but she wouldn’t budge, and neither would I. Like I said, I don’t play that game.”

  “And that’s why she closed her restaurant?”

  “Evidently.”

  “But it makes no sense if she were making money.”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t know why she took it that far. All the numbers indicated a nice six-figure profit, so it makes no sense to me either. But … it didn’t have to make sense to me because it did to her.”

  Good point.

  “Unless—” Sam muttered.

  “Unless what?”

  Unless Doris didn’t have to work anymore.

  CHAPTER 23

  “I knew you’d be back for more.”

  Elliot “Paws” Harper’s totally lecherous greeting had creeped Lyddie out.

  “Couldn’t stay away,” had been her equally questionable rejoinder, but what the hell?

  She had people and questions to get through, and Paws, as she now called him, had been at the top of her list. She’d fired off the new round of queries for him to answer, but they led nowhere. It meant enduring the half-hour session of switching chairs to avoid groping for naught.

  Sam had better appreciate this.

  But she wouldn’t.

  At this stage of the game, Lyddie well knew that Samantha Powell was in it for herself. The selfish egotist only cared about keeping her enterprise in the black and lavishing affection on that vicious feline she’d cozied up to. It didn’t matter to her that certain friends were going out of their way and being touched in a way that made every self-protective cell shiver and shout, “Ew!”

  But she survived … sort of.

  After Elliot, Lyddie had buzzed through three more of Dengrove’s victims: Gerard Zeiterling, Cedric Waters, and Kye-Lung Loo. If those men weren’t the textbook examples of turning lemon into lemonade, no one was. They’d absorbed the business loss and learned from the hard life lesson, amassing wealth without looking back. It left Hugh Champion and Keith Lepperman to interview, but Champion better be a short interview.

  She had a hair appointment to get to.

  Lyddie touching base with her genie of a “tresster” was a communion—a meeting of mind and souls that she was unwilling to sacrifice. It kept her whole—and plugged into the gossip pool of who was doing what to whom and for how much. It also kept her looking sensational, which was why she was saving visiting bad boy “Hawaiian Vacation” Lepperman until after the appointment.

  She made the fourth right onto Morning Glory Drive and proceeded up the driveway of the gated estate. The mini-mansion was impressive, but then Champion’s credentials were as well. He was a completely self-made man who now offered motivational speeches designed to teach others how to blaze their own trails and turn nebulous ideas into fortunes.

  “Ms. Wexler?”

  There was Champion, looking the part of what he was selling. And what a perfect moniker for someone in his line of work. What made it so astonishing was that he’d been born with it.

  Kismet.

  “Yes, so nice to meet you, Mr. Champion,” she replied to the man who answered his own doors. The other interviewees had relegated the task to their respective housekeepers, but not Hugh Champion. He undertook the menial and elevated the mundane into what he could turn into a twelve-week course.

  There was an aura about him—no doubt. But whether it was the polished glow that made her have second thoughts or her squirrelly friend’s request to revisit these men and waste their time, she didn’t know. All she knew was that the curated list of new questions had yielded zilch results. If they failed to uncover anything she and Nancy Drew didn’t already know, what was the point of continuing?

  Lepperman.

  Yeah, that hottie made it compulsory to march on and so she enthusiastically shook the outstretched hand.

  “Like I said before, it’s Hugh,” he responded. Calling a zillionaire by his first name wasn’t something she did every day, but it was like her first alternative down comforter. In other words, it was something she could get used to it. “And pardon me, there’s something I forgot to do,” he added quickly. “Felicity!” he called out. We need to get that plumber in. The wet bar faucet is acting crazy again and—”

  A stunning milk-chocolate-skinned woman wafted in from around the corner, stopping in her fluid tracks upon seeing the lemon-souffle-encased stranger in the entranceway.

  “Darling, this is Ms. Lydia Wexler. She’s the indie journalist who came to interview me about Dengrove.”

  “Dengrove? Old news,” she sniffed. “More qu
estions?”

  “Apparently,” he said, giving her a sweet hug. “This is my wife Felicity, Ms. Wexler.”

  “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Champion,” Lyddie responded, noting that the two made an elegant pair. That was what she wanted for herself. A mate that completed her and made for great couplies, the equivalent of selfies, but with two people. Bailey had a great smile—

  But Lepperman looked good all the way down to his toes.

  “If you’ll follow me,” Hugh stated as he performed a heel pivot.

  “Just don’t be too long. You have that speech across town at two,” the woman in the slides reminded as she clipped her way up the curved staircase.

  The movement was catwalk ready. Put that together with the long, lean body and it screamed, “Former supermodel!” Lyddie was well-acquainted with the women gracing the pages of her favorite magazines, but try as she might, she couldn’t place the face.

  But she would.

  They eventually settled in Champion’s office. It was a formal affair constructed out of teak and stainless steel fittings. It made for a sort of a reconstructed industrial feel that covered chic in a decidedly new way.

  “Would you like anything to drink?” he offered.

  “No, I’m good,” she said, sinking into one of the deeply cushioned black leather chairs. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with me, again, Mr. Champion … I mean, Hugh. It is exceedingly kind of you.”

  “Not kind … cathartic.”

  She cocked her head, examining the features of the tall, thickly built fifty-two-year-old before her. His body toned, he was the prototype of taking care of the temple and the rest will follow.

  “In what way?” she queried as she unleashed her notepad from her kitchen-sink-holding satchel.

  A deep booming laugh followed a scratch on his neatly trimmed eyebrows.

  A product of facescaping.

  “Well, for starters, I couldn’t have even talked about this when the scandal broke. I was out millions … as I’m sure you know.”

  I do now.

  “Yes, Mr. Champion. It’s understandable you were upset.”

  “Upset? I wanted to kill him! Wanted to take him and tear him apart with my bare hands… but then, I’ve already said as much.”

  The genial face didn’t change while expressing the harsh sentiment. Had he changed? Or was he harboring those feelings of resentment that could explode into violence?

  Only one way to find out for sure and so she dug in, keeping one eye on her watch.

  * * *

  The restaurant on the lake had a great view of the water. The boats circling lent to the atmosphere so conducive to eating and relaxing.

  The wiry 5’10” man approached. Dressed in a designer sport shirt and trousers, he cast an eye in her direction.

  “Ms. Powell?”

  “Yes, Mr. Langford.”

  Kwani Langford, the son of the security guard who was shot during the commission of the hold-up, shook her hand before sitting down. Picking up a menu, he perused the daily specials.

  “Did you order yet?” he queried.

  “No, I was waiting for you, and like I mentioned on the phone, this is on me.”

  The brown eyes locked on her for a second, deriving what they could from her presence before a waitress interrupted the assessment process. With the ordering taken care of, the conversation turned serious.

  “What makes you interested in my father?” Kwani asked out of the gate as he spread a linen napkin across his lap. At the brusque manner exhibited, she wondered if he was like this under different circumstances.

  “Because I own the coffee shop where a woman was murdered.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s at 711 Maple Road … the location where—”

  “My father was shot. I get it.”

  Taking a sip of water, he gently smacked his lips before exhaling deeply. His mocha skin smooth and clear, his torso leaned forward.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “This might sound strange, but I don’t know what I want to know. By that, I mean, I ideally would like to find something that connects the murder of Doris Cunningham to—”

  “Something that happened twenty years ago? Good luck on that,” he scoffed as he indulged in more water.

  “Then you think—”

  “You’re wasting your time? Of course. What could Cunningham possibly have to do with karma paying a loan shark a visit?”

  “Then Drossider was—”

  “A loan shark? Yes. I don’t know why everybody’s so afraid to state the obvious.”

  “But you had the inside track. Your father must have mentioned it, no?”

  “True enough,” he said.

  “And is that why you wrote that book?”

  “You know about it?” he asked with a laugh, sipping more water and relaxing. The amiable side of the deceased guard’s son emerged.

  “Absolutely. I know about the speaking engagements also.”

  He winked.

  “I like a woman who does her homework. There were only a few, but they were fun. Plus, they brought in a little extra money to the household. Got a family to feed, but you probably know that also.”

  “I do. A wife and two children,” she stated.

  The appearance of their waitress delayed the list of questions, as did the two plates of fresh halibut.

  The fish looked delish.

  Sam would have preferred to let Kwani eat in peace. He was on his lunch hour and she didn’t relish ruining his chance to chow down, but she couldn’t afford to run out the clock either. Put another way, it was—

  Fourth down and five minutes to go.

  “Well, now that I know what kind of business it was, I guess the next question is whether Drossider really had a large amount of money tucked away,” she continued. “From what I’ve heard, it was the impetus for the robbery.”

  The man in the dark green shirt ceased and desisted in sawing off a piece of the fish and chose instead to level those intense eyes with hers.

  “The money is all it was ever about,” he stated with authority. “It’s all in my book,” he added.

  “That I didn’t have time to read.”

  “Shame,” he retorted before indulging in another quick hit of water. It was all it took for him to launch into the entire story. It was a side that Sam would bet her Pegasus Airs on that Eunice didn’t know.

  CHAPTER 24

  “So Hugh Champion and Kirk Lepperman said the same thing? That they were mad enough to kill Dengrove?”

  “Yes, they both admitted it, but—”

  “But toned it down by alleging they were over it,” Sam said, filling in the rest of Lyddie’s answer.

  The two girls shared their fav corner table. Dusk was settling in, and they’d been running around all day. Exhaustion gobsmacked both. It wasn’t easy chasing down the truth of what got Doris killed.

  The sound of Matt cleaning up was the constant that assured Sam her business was still standing and that it’d remain that way if she could solve this mystery.

  “What about Mrs. Cunningham? How’d that go?” Sam probed.

  Lyddie took time out for a few quick gulps of the strawberry crush before her. Fresh strawberries were put though a blender along with a concoction of ice, tea, and a dollop of Greek yogurt.

  Just the thing to revive energy and take the edge off hunger.

  “She pretty much repeated what she told you,” Lyddie responded.

  “Which was?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Yes, I know,” Sam fired back. “Just want to hear it in your words.”

  “Okay, here it is in my own words! She said that Doris didn’t know anything about what her husband was doing and that she had no contact with him while he was in prison. Happy?”

  She punctuated the question with a loud slurp.

  “Hmmmm …” Sam said, rubbing her temples. The beginnings of a headache were setting in.

  What
else was new?

  But perspective was everything, and when she juxtapositioned a headache vs. twenty years to life in a maximum-security prison, she’d take the pain.

  “Are you thinking again?” Lyddie queried.

  “Sounds like an accusation.”

  “Given your diabolical cerebrum, it is. There’s always trouble when you generate brain waves … always.”

  “I see … and the rest of the world doing it is fine. It’s just me that’s going to cause disaster. That about it?”

  “Pretty much. And before you say anything,” her ex-friend said, tapping on her watch, “I have exactly forty-five minutes to wrap this up.”

  Sam eyed the girl looking exceptionally smug.

  “Plans, have we?” she quipped.

  “Jealous much?”

  There went that eyebrow. Another suction sound emitted from the ebff mixing air with the frothy concoction. She was deliberately getting on her nerves, but Sam restrained herself from committing the second homicide to occur in her shop since opening. Lyddie kept it up, causing Sam to wonder if two in under a month would be such a bad record.

  Debatable.

  “Ha-hardly.”

  The snark was back.

  Lyddie’s eyes compressed.

  “I’m not going to blow the chance to get back with Bailey!” the angelic-faced blonde responded, keeping her voice low given the circumstances. A few customers dropping in to snag some caffeine before leaving for parts unknown were what prompted her to keep the conversation private, as in none of their business.

  “I’m not like you,” the freshly-coiffed temptress continued in an even quieter whisper. “I need my sex.”

  “Lyddie, you’ve had enough sex for twelve people! And just because someone craves water is not an excuse to head to a sewage tank when they could wait to use a faucet!”

  Good one.

  “Oh, oh, oh! You are so going to get it! Bailey is a remarkable individual and a unique artist who is struggling to find his place in the world while fighting oppressive forces that are conspiring against him to—”

  “Yeah, it’s that spiel that allows him to soak you for even more money. Why you’re funding this futility in journeydom is beyond comprehension, but then, you backed Gollum in believing he’d destroy that ring. But he failed just like Mr. Nachos will—and I should be the one to comprehend master plans since I have such an evil brain.”