Obstacle Course

by Yvonne Montgomery

  "She calls you every time some little hassle comes up. Why can't her husband take care of that stuff?"

  "He's gone again—Washington, I think, and she doesn't have anybody else to call."

  Finny blew an exaggerated sigh through her lips. "Why the hell not? I could see it if it was something about the kids—they're your kids, too—but why hasn't she developed other backups, Chris, in two years? Why do you keep letting her use you?"

  Barelli let his head fall back against the sofa. "She's not like you—she was never independent enough to stand on her own two feet. That was what finally caused the split, because I wasn't around all the times she needed me."

  "And you feel guilty."

  He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

  "I just don't like—screw it." She put down the glass and got up. "I hate sounding like a jealous bitch, Chris. It isn't just that."

  "I know." He got to his feet. "I have to go this time, babe."

  "Yeah. See you." She walked out of the room. Hell and damn. She was acting like a child. What really bugged her was the hold Monica still had on him. Dammit, she'd dumped him for a lawyer—what kind of thing did this woman have for officers of the court?—but she wouldn't take her grasping little claws out of him. Besides, said the jealous little voice inside her, you need him, too. Especially now.

  "Finny?"

  She turned around and was enveloped in a warm hug. "We'll talk about it when I get back. Okay?"

  "Sure."

  He gave her a hard kiss. " 'Bye."

  She heard the door slam. The hell with it. It wasn't as if she couldn't keep herself entertained. There was a lot more in her life besides Twee's adventures with the criminal justice system. She still had a job to worry about. She'd have time to get caught up on some of her paperwork. Yeah. It was nearly time for the old quarterly income estimate. When all else fails, send off that errant little love letter to the IRS. That and the judicious use of a laxative would make for a regular life, in every sense of the word.

  When the telephone rang a few minutes later, Finny was relieved: anything beat the way her thoughts were going, which was straight down the toilet, no puns intended.

  "Miss Aletter?" It was Les Trethalwyn.

  "Hi, I tried to call you back."

  "The phone's been ringing like church bells on Easter Sunday," he said. "It's reached my ears that you're trying to help Twee Garrett in this time of trouble."

  Finny smiled at the cadence of his words. "If stumbling around, getting people mad at me constitutes helping, then you've heard right."

  "Twee's been very generous with the Consortium. I don't like thinking that someone who supports the arts could be a murderer."

  She couldn't tell if he was joking. If her ears were serving her well, a thread of humor underlay the solemnity of what he was saying. She had a sudden image of him, of the twinkle the dark eyes had held when she'd said goodbye to him at the party. He'd seemed interested in her, and this call might be his way of following up on that interest. Nevertheless, he was the only person she'd talked to today who hadn't automatically acquiesced to the idea of Twee's guilt, including Twee herself. It was downright refreshing.

  "I suppose a person can kill and still have some esthetic sense," she said. "Isn't that one of the old philosophical arguments?"

  "When it comes to philosophy, I'm thinking there's little but arguments."

  Finny laughed.

  His warm laughter joined with hers, then died. "I am serious, you know. It's difficult for me to believe that Twee could have stabbed the good judge. It doesn't at all seem her style."

  There's a way to view human nature, Finny thought. How one would kill would probably be as distinctive as one's perfume. What a field day Madison Avenue could have with that. "I'm finding that not very many people share your view," she said dryly. "Nobody I've talked to was working too hard to deny Twee's guilt." She didn't think it necessary to tell him she'd talked to Twee.

  "Well, perhaps the two of us have more discernment than most, especially considering the competition. It hasn't been that long ago that I heard someone using the rough side of his tongue when talking about the judge."

  "Really. Who was it?"

  "Now, if I were to tell you that, it might get the person in trouble." His voice was cooling.

  "It might also help in figuring out who beside Twee could have killed Sarandon."

  Trethalwyn paused. "Ah, you're right. Confession or no, it would take an eight-by-ten photograph of Twee doing the deed to make me believe she would be so crass as to dispatch one of her party guests." The warm thread of humor was back in his voice. "Hell of a hostess, Twee is."

  Finny's hand tightened on the receiver. "Yes, she's always been that." A photograph. Damn, why hadn't she remembered before?

  "Well, for what it's worth, the person I heard talking about the judge was Ty Engelman. Very adamant he was. I doubt it has anything to do with current circumstances, more's the pity. I won't keep you. I wanted you to know that I, for one, am appreciative of your efforts, and if there's anything I can do, please call upon me."

  She barely heard him. "Thank you."

  "Good night."

  "Yes." Finny replaced the receiver. The photographer. As clearly as if he were standing in front of the fireplace she could see his face, and the longish black hair brushing the collar of his white shirt. Dark eyes, filled with disdain for the people he photographed. She'd forgotten he even existed. He must have been taking pictures the whole evening. What if he'd snapped something that could help Twee, some shot that could prove she hadn't killed William Sarandon? Or, better yet, a moment that could implicate someone else? But surely the police had talked to him. Chris hadn't said anything about any photographs.

  Finny glanced at her watch. Ten till nine. She was at the telephone directory in the next instant, searching through the Hs, on the lookout for Abigail Hunter's number, more than half convinced she wouldn't find it. And there it was. She snatched up the receiver and rapidly punched in the number. Her personal run of luck held true: it was busy.

  And then the rest of what Les had said sunk in. Ty Engelman. The name had been on the breeze today, what with Cuffy's disclosure about him and Paige and now the information Les had given her.

  She'd known that Ty was off-center, but murder? Then she remembered the way he'd looked at Paige the night of the party: he was parched and she was water.

  A chill worked its way down the back of her neck.

  TRIP WIRE

  She waited for Miguel to finish in the bathroom. The sound of the shower mocked the hot, heavy air in the bedroom.

  Bianca pulled back the blue chenille bedspread from the pillows and plumped the two pillows into fat cushions. She smoothed invisible wrinkles on the cases, trying to decide whether she should say anything.

  He came out of the bathroom on a sigh of steam. Naked, he padded by, resting his hand for an instant on her hip, moving past her to the dresser where he rummaged for shorts and socks.

  "Miguel?"

  "Yeah?" He stepped into shorts, pulled them up his brown legs.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Getting dressed." He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes avoiding hers. "Didn't I tell you? Another wedding. I won't be too late."

  She played with the top button of her uniform, careful not to look at him.

  He chafed at the weight of her silence. "What is it, jita?"

  She hesitated, then, "What are you doing?"

  He looked away. "I told you—"

  "No, Miguel. You have been different." She put one hand over her heart. "I feel it here."

  He pulled on jeans, zipped them, walked over to her. "Hey, what you doin'?" He held her, letting one hand curve over her belly. "It's the baby—it makes you imagine things."

  Bianca closed her eyes. If she could stay right here in his arms forever, everything would be all right. The fear inside her was as alive as the child in her womb. She pulled away from him slowly and looked up into h
is eyes. "No."

  Miguel let his arms drop and he turned away. "You don't need to worry. I'm just working on something."

  "What is it?" She watched him as he tugged on his socks impatiently. "Tell me."

  "Nothin' important." Sullenly. "Nothin' you need to worry about."

  She pressed her hands together. "Miguel, te amo."

  "I love you, too."

  "Then tell me. You started out to punish him, that judge, for Elena. Now, I don't know. I'm afraid."

  He looked over his shoulder at her. His eyes, the deep brown eyes that drew her into his heart, watched her with a coolness that made her muscles tense. "I found a way to make some extra money. That's all, just some extra money for when the baby comes."

  She shook her head. "It has to do with the murder, si? Tell me, Miguel!"

  His lips twisted. "Mas vale matar dos pajaros de un tiro."

  "What do you mean?" Her mouth was cotton dry.

  "Two birds, jita. The stone I'm using will kill two birds."

  "Miguel—"

  He finished tying his shoes and stood up. "A little justice is all I want, chica. A little equality." The sneer was heavy in his voice. "And the only way to get it is to take it. I finally got something to help me."

  Chapter 12

  "What photographer?" The impatience in Abigail Hunter's voice came over the line as clearly as piped-in music in a K-mart. "I covered Twee's party alone. It wasn't a big enough deal to warrant a photog."

  Finny grimaced at her coffee cup. She was a subtle little thing. "Then who was the guy taking pictures that night? I know he was there not too long before Sarandon was killed."

  "I wouldn't know. Maybe a free-lancer. Lots of people hire them and then try to peddle their stuff to us."

  "Damn." Finny doodled on the notepad by the phone, cubes and triangles. "I'd forgotten all about him until last night. Where would I find out about him?"

  "You're asking me?" Abigail's voice was desert dry. "I'd suggest you ask Twee. She's used publicists before; she may have gone through one this time."

  "Publicists?" Her pencil lead moved into the curve of a flying bird—maybe a gull?

  "How do you think we find out about all these soirees? Can you see Twee typing up the information about any of her little dos?"

  "I see your point. Do you know who she's used in the past?"

  "No. Why not ask Twee herself?" Sweetly.

  The pencil was shading the blade of a knife, a sharp knife. Gee, if only she'd thought of that yesterday. "Thanks a lot."

  "Think nothing of it." The delicacy with which she hung up was in itself a comment.

  Finny slammed her pencil onto the counter. Sure, she could ask Twee. She'd walk right up to her door and be welcomed with open arms. And a million-dollar check from Publisher's Clearing House would be landing on her doorstep any day now.

  Barelli hadn't seen the photographer either. She'd waited impatiently last night for him to get home from playing domestic hero. He was interested in what Les Trethalwyn had said about Ty, but when she'd mentioned the man with the camera, he'd drawn a blank. "I didn't talk to any photographer."

  "You had to. I saw him. He looked as though Twee's crowd was the worst thing since receding gumlines. He was near that huge painting—the roadshow Picasso."

  Barelli had only shaken his head. "Sorry, babe, I didn't see him."

  Finny looked at him, her mind racing. "Doesn't that seem odd to you? You ended up talking to everybody at that party."

  Barelli ran a hand over his jaw. "I thought we had. But he could have left early, or he might have ducked out before we got everybody rounded up."

  "But why would somebody do that if he didn't commit the crime?"

  Barelli's expression was cynical. "You'd be amazed at how many people don't like talking to cops."

  "Oh, I don't know." She ignored his feint to her chin, her eyes narrowing. "What if he killed William Sarandon? He could have walked straight out the back yard with nobody the wiser."

  He raised a brow. "There's a problem with that."

  "You said yourself that a lot of people had reason to want Sarandon dead."

  "Yeah, but why the hell would Twee lie to cover the photographer's ass? It doesn't make sense."

  "Shit." Finny stared sightlessly at a hole in her sock. "Maybe he's a friend of Twee's, the way I am, and she was trying to give him a break and—"

  "And to help him out she copped to murder? Come on, Finny. When you start out with a theory, you have to fight like hell to keep from twisting everything to fit it. If Twee's covering up for anybody, she has to have a damned good reason for it. Prison is a long way from the country club. Protecting a photographer is a piss-poor reason to change her residence from one to the other—unless he's her long-lost son, or something."

  "Sure, her long-lost homicidal son. It's all the possible connections among all these people that make me crazy. Dammit, Chris, if I just could have gotten Twee to see sense!"

  He put one arm around her shoulders. "Let's go to bed. Maybe she'll change her story."

  But day had dawned and she hadn't.

  That left Ty Engelman as an avenue for information about Paige. Finny had called him first thing, figuring to beard the lion before she left for Corinne's, only to get a cutsy message tape. Was there anybody who didn't have an answering machine anymore?

  "Hi, this is Ty and I'm dying to talk to you. Give me a break and leave your number, hmmmm? I promise I'll call." His purr left Finny feeling as though she should be holding the receiver with a tissue. She left her name in a brusque voice. How the hell did male callers respond to that, Finny wondered as she punched in Corinne's phone number for call-forwarding.

  Finny drummed her fingers on the kitchen counter, itching to be at work, hammering, sawing, doing something. The morning was ticking right along and all she had to show for it was an elevated frustration level. She searched among the fat volumes of the telephone directories for the memorandum book she'd carried in her broker days.

  The gray leather cover was smooth and cool to the touch. She leafed through its pages, glancing quickly over the names—other brokers, contacts, customers. It was as close to a précis of her former life as she could find. Somebody she'd known in the business might be able to give her some leads.

  Woody Jordan. He'd be the one to call. He'd worked on Seventeenth Street for nearly thirty years, and what he didn't know about the rest of the inmates flat out didn't count.

  His secretary had a low, sultry voice, and Finny recalled the gossip about Woody's emphasis on well-packaged competence. Nobody'd ever known for sure that he slept with the help, but that hadn't prevented strong assumptions to that effect.

  There was a short pause after Finny identified herself, then the gravelly roar she remembered so well. "Finny, you sweet young thang. Where the hell you been hidin' yo'self?"

  "Jesus, Woody, what've you been doing, taking Texan injections?"

  "Hush, now, you know I'm a Suthun gentleman."

  Finny grinned. "Southern New Jersey, you fake. What're you up to now?"

  His raspy chuckle tickled her ear and she had a vivid image of him: burly, gray hair tousled, bulbous nose red from sun and drink, baby blues twinkling from fleshy folds. "You wouldn't believe how many people eat this stuff up. Makes 'em figure I'm trustworthy, I guess. A hoot, ain't it?"

  "Who do you have to convince you're trustworthy, Woody? The only way you ever lost a client was if he died."

  He laughed again. "I'm bored, honey-chile, gotta think of new ways to amuse myself. Speakin' of which, what's this I hear about you swingin' a hammer?"

  "Yep, I'm out of the business, Woody. It was starting to get to me. Had to do something to pay the rent and work off the hostilities."

  "You gotta job here any time you want it, if you ever get tired of honest work."

  Finny chuckled. "Thanks. I'm doing okay with the hammer, but I appreciate the thought."

  "Anytime, honey."

  "What I called abo
ut, Woody, is Ty Engelman. Did you ever know him?"

  "Hell, yes. Engelman." She heard a voice in the background and Woody rumbled something about papers. "He's the one that Templeton booted out."

  Finny frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Four or five years ago—you were on the Street then, weren't you?"

  "Yeah, but I don't remember—"

  "Engelman had a thing with one of his clients—a lady who remained nameless, believe it or not. He couldn't keep his pants zipped. Or his head screwed on right. He was never officially charged, but word had it he'd fudged his figures—strictly in the lady's favor, of course."

  "You're kidding. I never heard a thing about it."

  Woody snorted. "You stopped paying attention to gossip when you got your house and started makin' with the sawdust."

  "Yeah, but, my God—"

  "Anyway, Engelman got handed his head and was told never to darken Templeton's door again. I haven't heard much about him since then. Tony Spurvey, remember him? Oil shale? Anyway, he mentioned Engelman a year, maybe two ago. Said he was peddling insurance."

  "Insurance? You mean like life insurance?"

  "Guess so." There were sounds of agitation in the background. "What's the beef, Giselle?"

  Finny suppressed a giggle. Giselle?

  "Got a couple of clients waiting," Woody grumbled into the phone. "Gotta go."

  "Thanks, Woody. I appreciate the help."

  "It's gonna cost ya, darlin'." He was putting his accent back on like an extra piece of clothing. "Y'all gonna have to come downtown 'n have a drink with me."

  "I'm buying. Don't get too mushmouthed, Woody, you'll trip on your tongue."

  "Damn sight better'n tripping on somethin' else, sugah." His deep laugh boomed over the wire. "Y'all take care now."

  Finny replaced the receiver, her smile dying as she thought about what Woody had told her. Ty had slipped a fair piece down the ladder professionally. There was always the possibility that the slide had evinced itself in other ways as well. How close was he to Paige Dexter? And what would he be willing to do to stay close to her? So far Ty hadn't deigned to return her call and enlighten her.