3 Fat Chance

by Rhonda Pollero

  Steadman went inside with the other officers. Graves was expressionless as he took out his notepad and pen. He wore an ill-fitting white shirt. It wouldn’t have been ill-fitting if he’d (a) worked out less, or (b) gotten a decent tailor. He was so muscle-bound that the girth of his own lats hindered his movements.

  “Ladies,” he said, though there wasn’t much sincerity in the greeting. “Name of the deceased?”

  “Dead Girl,” I answered, proving my mother’s assertion that I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to be a smart-ass. In my defense, it’s a nervous condition. The more scared I am, the more sarcastic I get. Becky elbowed me in the rib cage.

  “The remains are skeletal,” Becky explained in a very lawyerly, reasonable tone. “There could be identification with the remains, but as soon as we discovered the body, we exited the house and called you.”

  Graves made a note, then looked at me again. “But you think the victim is female?”

  “Based on the hair,” I replied. “Then again, nobody’s seen Fabio for a while, so I guess—umph.” Again Becky slammed me with an elbow to the ribs.

  With a cock of her head, Becky took Graves and steered him a few feet away. Liv had one arm around Jane and was patting her hand with the other. “We can’t possibly be suspects,” I said, mostly for terrified Jane’s benefit. “It takes more than three hours for a human body to turn to bones.”

  “She’s right,” Liv told Jane, then gave her a gentle squeeze. “They’ll go after the previous owner—”

  “Who would be my mother,” I said. I was suddenly filled with conflicting emotions. My wounded inner child didn’t object to the idea of my mother being grilled like freshly caught tilapia, but my DNA demanded that I warn her. Or at the very least, let her know what was happening. Only problem? My cell was in my tote and my tote was on the kitchen counter. In addition to letting her know that she should expect a visit from the police, I also had a few questions of my own about the medallion. The last time I saw it was just after Jonathan died fifteen years ago. It was lying on top of his dresser in the bedroom of their Palm Beach home.

  Not this place, but a massive, twenty-five-thousand-square-foot house about a mile down the beach. After Jonathan’s death, my mother lived there for another five years, with husband number two. She sold it after marrying husband number three. He came with a thirty-thousand-square-foot house. It was a trade up.

  The sound of a car engine backfiring caused me to jump. Even knowing I was nothing more than the innocent bystander who happened upon a body, I was more spooked than I thought. I glanced over my right shoulder in the direction of the noise.

  Just behind the police cars, a familiar ’64 Mustang coughed another cloud of blue smoke before the engine was turned off. For an instant, as my last encounter with the owner of the Mustang replayed in my mind, I seriously considered running into the house and joining the skeleton in the closet. I look way better in Lilly Pulitzer than I do draped in the memory of one of my worst personal humiliation moments.

  As Liam McGarrity stepped from what I could only generously describe as his car, I donned the expression I normally save for the occasional drunk frat boy spewing a really bad pickup line. He’d told me he was in the process of restoring the thing. He’d also told me he wasn’t interested in having sex with me. Forget the car. The way he’d rejected me still stung.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been rejected. Mostly by credit card companies and my mother. You’d think I’d be able to let it go, but for some reason hearing Liam tell me to take a hike stuck in my craw. And I don’t think I even know what or where my craw is.

  “Now that is a thing of beauty,” Liv sighed softly as Liam walked toward us.

  “Beauty fades. Asshole is forever,” I muttered through my tight smile.

  As usual, Liam was dressed in jeans, a faded Tommy Bahama shirt that was at least three seasons old, Reef sandals, black hair mussed. I suspected the not-so-ex Mrs. McGarrity was the musser as I pretended not to be affected when his deep blue eyes locked on me.

  The fact that he looked like he had…might have…could have…probably…maybe just rolled out of his ex’s bed was as irritating to my ego as my own foolish desire to run my fingers through his hair. Hair, schmare. There wasn’t an inch of his six-foot-plus frame I didn’t want to run my fingers through, and I hated myself for being such a jerk. Worse yet, I didn’t know if my strong desire was real or if I just wanted to prove to him that he’d missed a great thing when he’d sent me on my way. How masochistic is that?

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, wishing it didn’t sound so pissy.

  “Heard your name on the scanner. Wondered what you’d gotten yourself into this time. Liv, Jane,” he added with a slight nod of his head, though his gaze never left my face. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Hold me? Kiss me? Get eaten by sharks? Biting my tongue first, I held out my hand. “Can I use your cell?”

  Unclipping it from his waistband, Liam handed me a cell phone that was big and bulky and I half expected to be rotary dial. It was a far cry from the sleek iPhone I’d just bought for myself—another breakup consolation gift. “Thanks,” I said, then turned my back and dialed my mother’s number.

  “You’ve reached 561-blah-blah-blah.” I sighed heavily as I waited for the answering machine to beep. “Mom, if you’re screening, pick up. There’s a major problem with the house and—”

  I heard a quick click of the receiver being picked up. “You own the house, Finley,” my mother said without preamble. “I am not your landlord, so any problems are yours to handle. It’s called being responsible and—”

  “I don’t think my responsibilities include the skeleton in the closet.”

  “All older homes have histories, Finley.”

  “I didn’t mean a metaphorical skeleton, Mom. A real one. Why did you really evict Melinda? Did you have any suspicions? Did she happen to mention—”

  “Suspicions about what? I only knew the woman through Jonathan. If she left the place in disarray, that’s your problem.”

  Through gritted teeth, I said, “A skeleton is not disarray. Like it or not, you need to tell me what you know so I can tell the police why there’s a Dead Girl in the closet of the house you sold me.”

  “I can assure you, I have no knowledge of any…dead person. The fact that you think I could be involved—”

  “I don’t. I just need you to tell me how to get in touch with Melinda. She’s the one the cops need to talk to.”

  “Since I haven’t spoken to her except through my lawyer, I have no idea how to reach her. Why are you assuming Melinda would know anything about a skeleton? It’s probably the work of one of those miscreant children she housed.”

  “She has to know something, since the Dead Girl is holding Dad’s—” I shut up the instant I saw the detectives at the front door. Cupping my hand over the mouthpiece, I said, “Call your lawyer. Now.”

  “Holding Jonathan’s what?” my mother asked. It was the first time I could remember hearing genuine fear in her tone.

  “The police are going to want to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You just sold me a house with a dead person in it. I may be wrong, but I’m thinking they’ll have a few questions for you.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic, Finley.”

  “I’m trying to be helpful by giving you a heads-up.”

  “And you think I had something to do with a crime? That’s absurd. I’m not the one with the criminal history in this family, so why would I need a lawyer?”

  Detective Graves was walking toward me. “Fine. Don’t call your lawyer. Call your travel agent.”

  “Why?”

  “Have her recommend a trip to a place where you can’t be extradited back to the U.S. to face murder charges.”

  “Murder char—” I snapped the antiquated cell phone closed. I’d done my daughterly duty.

  “Who were you calling?” Graves aske
d as the mobile crime scene unit drove onto the other side of the lawn, leaving more deep grooves in the freshly laid sod.

  “My mother,” I told him, meeting his narrowed gaze with one of my own.

  “You and your friends are going to have to go to the Palm Beach police station and give statements.”

  It was a relief hearing I wasn’t going to be dragged back to West Palm for interrogation. “My purse is in the house.”

  “It will be returned to you at the station. After the crime scene techs get finished. The cars, too.”

  “Can I at least have my shoes?”

  Graves frowned and jogged back inside, returning in a flash with my damp, expensive shoes dangling from his beefy forefinger.

  I looked at my brand-new BMW. Liam was leaning against it, his arms folded in front of his chest. I was curious when I saw him glare down one of the officers stationed in the driveway. Officer—I strained to read the nameplate pinned on his uniform shirt—Diaz was glaring right back. My heart fluttered a few times, touched that Liam was, albeit passively, showing support.

  In a matter of minutes, Jane, Liv, Becky, and I were driven to the station. It was a far cry from the dank, gray station in West Palm. It looked more like an office building, complete with art on the walls and the distinctive feel of a professional decorator’s hand.

  Not unexpectedly, we were separated, and I was instructed to follow a tall, lanky male officer through the door clearly marked NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT.

  With an authentic smile on his face, he politely held a padded chair out for me. If he hadn’t been dressed in a blue polyester uniform, I could easily have mistaken him for a well-trained server.

  “Can I get you anything, Miss Tanner? Coffee, a soft drink?”

  “Coffee would be great, thank you.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Intravenously.”

  He laughed. “I’ll be right back.”

  He also lied. My toes tapped nervously against the marble tiled floor as five, then ten, then thirty minutes ticked off the clock mounted between two avant-garde paintings with small cards taped just below the lower right-hand corner. Jumbled nerves and building irritation inspired me to walk over and inspect the artwork. The small cards indicated that the paintings were on loan from a tony gallery and available for sale. Only in Palm Beach.

  As casually as possible, I tugged at my bra strap, feeling the warmth of the secreted medallion against my skin. I kept trying to think of a reason for why and how the medal had found its way into the hand of a skeleton. For that matter, how had the skeleton gone undetected all these years?

  Hearing the click of the doorknob, I turned to see the officer carrying not the cup of Styrofoam tar I’d been dreading but a molded cardboard holder with an iced latte tucked into one of four compartments.

  “Sorry it took so long.”

  “Well worth the wait,” I said, greedily taking the latte from him. If you had to be trapped in a police station, Palm Beach was definitely the way to go.

  He had a clipboard tucked under his arm, and as soon as we settled into our assigned seats, he pulled out a pen and began asking me benign questions. Name, address—I gave him the one to my condo, unsure when I’d get the nerve to return to my dream/nightmare house on the beach.

  “Marital status?”

  “Single.”

  “Dating anyone?”

  I blinked. “How is that relevant to the investigation?”

  He grinned up at me. “It isn’t. I was trying to sneak it past you.”

  “You’re hitting on me?” I didn’t know whether to be flattered or furious.

  He shrugged. His shoulders were narrow and boney. His hair was blond and neatly cropped. His charm was marginal. Other than being thirtyish and bringing me a decent iced coffee, there wasn’t a single thing about this guy that landed him on my radar.

  “That would be a violation of departmental protocol,” he explained. Wink, wink, nod, nod. “No offense intended. But if you’re not doing anything on Friday night—”

  “I’m in the middle of a celibacy thing,” I cut in.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a business card and passed it across the carved cherrywood table. “Feel free to give me a call if you change your mind.”

  “Can we move this along?” I asked, pulling the card close and using it as a coaster.

  If he was disappointed, it didn’t show on his tanned face. For some idiotic reason, that stung. First Patrick, then Liam, and now Officer Kiss-ass. I was starting to wonder if I was destined to spend the rest of my life internet dating.

  His cell phone chirped, and he had a brief conversation that consisted of “Okay,” and “I’ll let her know.” Holding the phone away from his ear, he said, “Your friends have finished giving their statements. They want to know if you want them to wait for you.”

  Knowing that Jane was probably totally freaked, I shook my head. “I’m good.” I was irritated that my interview was taking so long, but I had learned the hard way not to annoy the police. Even when the police annoyed me. And this guy was in danger of leapfrogging over Graves and Steadman as my least-favorite law enforcement officer. The only thing preventing me from putting him at the top of the list was the latte, and I was almost finished with that.

  It took him another thirty-nine minutes to complete the questionnaire, then he went and got a tape recorder and listened as I recounted how we’d found the skeleton. I was left to trace the logo of the coffee shop with my fingernail while my statement was typed, then presented for my signature.

  I read it, signed it, and stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “Wish I could take credit for it,” he said unapologetically. “Some guy dropped them off for you and your friends.”

  As fast as possible, I left the police station. It was fully dark, but the parking lot had lights attached to tall poles. I looked around for my car, or at least for a familiar face to take me back to my car. Tucked into the half dozen cars in the parking lot, I spotted Liam leaning against my new car, one foot resting on the front bumper. His half-primer, half-putty car was in the spot next to mine. He brought a long-necked bottle of beer to his lips and, judging by the sharp angle of the bottle, took the last sip.

  “There are laws against having open containers of alcohol,” I said. “Why are you here?”

  He smiled and my stomach knotted. I was torn between wanting to slap the smile off his face and kissing him senseless. I hated him for making me feel like this.

  He flung the empty bottle into a Dumpster a good ten yards from where we stood. The sound of the glass breaking echoed in the still night.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Liam,” he teased. “That was a really decent thing for you to do, and I really appreciate it.”

  “I’m eternally grateful,” I said flatly. “You want to get off my car? I’d like to go home.”

  “Wanna tell me what you lifted off the deceased?”

  I felt my cheeks grow warm and was thrilled that it was too dark for him to see the guilty blush. “What makes you think I—”

  “I heard what you said to your mother.”

  “Eavesdropping is rude.”

  He shrugged and rose to his full height. I hated that I had to tilt my head back to compensate for his height. “Have it your way,” he said as he turned his back and moved toward his car.

  “Thanks for bringing me my car,” I said, finding it easier to talk to his back.

  “I didn’t. The cops towed it here. The bill’s on the passenger seat next to your purse.”

  The only place you find success before work is

  in the dictionary.

  three

  I WAS TIRED, ANNOYED, AND jonesing for coffee—three really good reasons why I should have done the smart thing and called it a night. It’s rarely a good idea to have a face-to-face with my mother when I’m not at my peak, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until she explained why my stepfather’s medallion
was clutched in the skeleton’s hand.

  As I merged onto I-95, I ran possibilities through my mind. After a twenty-minute drive to the swanky Singer Island high-rise, I still couldn’t come up with a single scenario that explained where I’d found the medallion.

  As usual, I parked right in front of the polished, deco-styled, twelve-story building. In the spot clearly marked DELIVERIES ONLY, ALL OTHERS TOWED, I felt a resurgence of irritation as I glanced down at the tow receipt on the passenger seat. Cutting the engine, I decided it was a statistical impossibility that I would get towed twice in the same night. Besides, I almost always used this spot. It was a convenience and an excuse not to have to walk all the way from the visitor’s lot. It was just to the right of the polished stone steps that encircled the beautiful, lighted fountain and led up to glass doors with heavy brass handles. A gentle breeze lifted a light spray of water into the air.

  When I reached the top step, a security guard glanced up, gave a little nod of recognition, then buzzed me in.

  “Hi, Ted,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t notice that I had to glance down at his nametag.

  “I’ll call your mother and let her know you’re on your way up,” he replied, reaching across the ornate desk.

  “Thanks.” I walked through the four-story atrium toward the dual elevators. Tucked between the elevators was a gigantic bouquet of freshly cut and professionally arranged flowers.

  As usual, my issues of being a failure as a daughter joined me in the elevator. In the amount of time it took to travel from the lobby to the penthouse, I made a lengthy mental list of some of the ways in which my mother considered me a failure. First and foremost, she couldn’t forgive me for not going to law school. Forget that I didn’t want to go to law school. That was immaterial. What made that decision such an unforgivable sin was her perception of how it reflected on her. Then there was the twenty-nine and not married thing. Given that she was prowling for hubby number six, she couldn’t understand why I didn’t marry someone—anyone—even if it didn’t work out. I felt myself smile at the skewed logic. My mother would rather see me divorced than perpetually single. If I was divorced, at least then—according to her—it meant I had tried.