Still Mr. & Mrs.

by Mary McBride

  Mrs. Riordan turned, ignoring the wrinkles in her jacket to fix her gaze almost fiercely on Angela. “I don't cry, myself,” she said.

  Just as fiercely, Angela looked back at her. God help her, she was about to commit professional suicide by telling the president's mother that maybe she should cry, that maybe it would do her good, when the cell phone in her apron pocket started its insistent ring.

  The big red paper heart wasn't hanging in the window of the Tattoo Parlor anymore, Bobby noticed as he walked in, making him wonder if it had only been a figment of his imagination the week before.

  “Hey. Look who's back,” enormous Tiny said, looking up from his magazine. “You're not having any problems, I hope.”

  “Not with the tattoo,” Bobby said.

  “So, did your lady like it?”

  Not enough, Bobby almost said. “Yeah. She's crazy about it.”

  “Great.” Tiny closed his magazine and leaned forward across his counter. “So, what can I do for you? You ready to work your way up to a dragon? I can give you a repeat customer discount.”

  Bobby did his best to work up a good-ol’-boy chuckle. “Maybe next time. Hey, Tiny, I wanted to ask—”

  It was the way that Tiny cocked his head that warned Bobby to go slow. A good interrogator was a patient one. First he won his suspect's confidence, then he asked the easy questions before the tough ones. Bobby was hardly a good interrogator. When it came to playing good cop/bad cop, he was always nominated for the bad guy. But he couldn't afford to screw this up. And he was pretty certain he wasn't going to be able to intimidate big Tiny into telling him what he wanted to know.

  He fell back on his Wishbone drawl. “Well, hell. You know, I just might do it after all. That dragon. I've got another arm, right? Got any pictures I can look at?”

  Tiny's grin was about the size of a slice of watermelon as he reached down behind his counter and came up with one book, then another. “I'll go on back and check my equipment. You just yell out when you see something you like. Twenty percent off, man. Can't beat that.”

  “Can't beat that,” Bobby murmured, opening the first book to a skull with ivy twining through its empty eye sockets. Then he glanced over and saw the name of the magazine Tiny had been reading while he waited for his next victim to come through the door. Mercenary. The same rag Bobby had seen at the bottom of the pile on Bootsie's desk.

  Okay. Slow was fine when you had nothing but time. But it was time to quit dancing around now. The orchestra was already playing “Goodnight, Ladies.”

  “Hey, Tiny,” he called. “I could use your advice out here.”

  The big man lumbered from the back room and settled on his stool behind the counter again. “What's up?”

  Bobby started to point to a dagger swagged with orange flames, then drew back his hand. “Hey, I nearly forgot. I've been meaning to ask you. Didn't somebody tell me you're related to Muriel Rand?”

  “Aunt Bootsie?” He grinned. “Hey, I tattooed her a couple years ago. You'd never believe where.”

  Bobby didn't want to know where and prayed that Tiny wasn't going to volunteer that particular information.

  “What's the old bat done now?” Tiny chuckled. “Excuse me, I mean Aunt Bootsie.”

  “She's been threatening the president's mother,” Bobby said, trying hard not to sound threatening himself.

  “Daisy Riordan?” The man didn't look surprised. “That's nothing to get bent out of shape about. Those two have been going at each other for decades. For as long as I can remember.”

  If he looked bent out of shape, Bobby thought, that's because he was. One rib, at least. The Percocet, if it was kicking in at all, was just making him drowsy. “You know anything about vandalizing Cadillacs or some local kids who might be available for a little arson?”

  The big man's mouth twitched tellingly, and his gaze slid sideways for a second. “Hey, man. She goes over the top once in a while, okay, but essentially she's harmless. Hell, she's about a hundred and twenty years old. What kind of trouble can the old bat make?”

  “Enough.” Bobby took his creds from his pocket, making sure his jacket flared open just enough for Tiny to get a glimpse of his gun. “I've got just a few more questions.”

  With his gaze lingering on Bobby's badge, Tiny swallowed hard, then muttered, “I hate like hell to get on that old lady's bad side.”

  “Afraid of getting cut out of her will?”

  “What will? Aunt Bootsie gave most of her money to the college this summer.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know Hassenfeld College? Just south of town?”

  Bobby nodded patiently. Come on. Come on. Spit it out. He glanced at his watch. The president would be landing in Springfield in half an hour. It would take him all of ten minutes to chopper here.

  “Aunt Bootsie, she sold off a couple thousand acres of prime real estate this summer in order to set up that whatchamacallit. That endowed chair.” Tiny gave a snort. “Man, I've seen that professor, the one whose ass is in that chair, and he doesn't look like he's worth any half a million dollars to me.”

  “Gerald Gerrard?”

  “Yeah. Gerald Gerrard.” He rolled his eyes and bent one wrist. “He sounds like a real stand-up guy to me.”

  Bootsie brought the professor to town! Bobby didn't know what he'd just heard, but it felt like somebody had just struck a match across his brain.

  “Are you going to be around here for a while in case I have any more questions?” he asked, already heading for the door.

  “Yeah. Sure,” Tiny answered almost sadly. “So, you didn't really come in because you wanted another tattoo, huh?”

  Bobby waved his hand. Shit. He didn't even want the first one anymore.

  When the doorbell rang, Daisy was sitting at her dressing table, debating whether to wear her freshwater pearls or the lovely strand of cultured pearls Charles had given her for their silver wedding anniversary. If that was Gerald at the door downstairs, he was early. She didn't know whether that annoyed or pleased her. But when she looked into the mirror and saw the bright, almost girlish glint in her eyes and the hint of color on her cheeks, she dared to say that it pleased her enormously that her beau had come a-courting early.

  His strong, clear baritone wafted up the staircase when Angela let him in, making Daisy's heart perform an extra beat or two. A week ago she might have suspected an incipient coronary, but now she recognized the irregular beats for what they were—the inner somersault of joy, the delightful drumming of anticipation, the cadence of falling in love.

  She put on her anniversary pearls, settling them against the bodice of her jacket, knowing that Charles would approve and be glad for her newfound, wholly unexpected happiness.

  “I'll be right down, Gerald,” she called.

  Now, if William behaved properly and if she could somehow straighten things out between Robert and Angela, her day would be complete.

  Outside the Tattoo Parlor, Bobby angled a hip onto the hood of the Taurus while he punched in Angela's cell phone number. With a little luck and the lack of trees or wires overhead, they'd have a decent connection.

  Bootsie had brought the professor to town. She'd spent a fortune to do it. Bobby kept turning that little nugget of information over in his brain while he waited for his wife to pick up.

  “Hey, babe,” he said when she finally did.

  “Bobby! Where are you?”

  “In beautiful downtown Hassenfeld,” he said.

  “But I thought you—”

  “Never mind,” he said. “Tell me about the day the professor first came to Mrs. Riordan's house, Ange.” He recalled it was the day he'd gotten his tattoo. He remembered that Angela had failed to follow procedure and had left the president's mother alone with a stranger. What he couldn't remember, if he'd ever known, was just how Gerrard had shown up in the first place.

  She was silent for a moment. “This really isn't a good time, Bobby. I've got chicken and—”

&n
bsp; The reception went blank. Bobby leaned to his left. “Ange?”

  “—lemon seeds in the stupid carrots.”

  “Ange, tell me how the professor arrived for the bridge game that day. How did that shake out? Was he—”

  “Oh, wait, Bobby,” she said suddenly, cutting him off. “Somebody called you a while ago from the Boston P.D. A Lieutenant Cargill. Something like that. He said you wanted details from a medical examiner's report on a headless corpse. I thought he had the wrong number.”

  “Please don't tell me you hung up on the guy,” Bobby said.

  “No. I wrote down exactly what he told me. Now wait. Just a minute. I put—”

  He was suddenly listening to white noise until he leaned back to his right. Christ. Trying to find a clear connection was worse than a needle in a haystack.

  “—other pocket of my apron.”

  “What did he say about the corpse, Ange?”

  “Okay. Here. The medical examiner estimated its height to be about six feet and the weight approximately a hundred-seventy-five. Cargill said the age was a tougher call because of the condition—”

  Shit.

  “—so long, maybe two, three weeks in the water, but the ME put the age at sixty years, plus or minus ten. Why in the world are you making inquiries about a headless corpse in Boston, Bobby?”

  “I'll tell you later. Now tell me about the professor.” Who, he thought, was also and maybe not so coincidentally six feet tall, about a hundred-seventy-five pounds, and sixty plus ten years.

  “The day of the bridge game?” She made a strangling sound. “Wait a minute. These damned lemon seeds—”

  “Angela,” he shouted. “Listen to me. Did Bootsie bring him? Did Bootsie bring the professor?”

  “Yes. I thought you knew that, Bobby. She practically shoved him in Mrs. Riordan's face.”

  Dammit. That's what he thought. This wasn't good.

  “Bootsie claimed he was substituting for one of the other women, who had taken ill unexpectedly,” she said, “but, you know, now that I think about it… ”

  Her voice drifted off.

  “What, Ange?”

  “Well, the woman who canceled … Norma. She called the other day to see how Mrs. Riordan was. It was confusing, but apparently, according to her anyway, Bootsie had told her that the bridge game was canceled because Mrs. Riordan was ill.”

  Jesus. Bobby didn't know what that meant, but he damn well knew it meant something. He couldn't keep the urgency out of his voice. “What time is he due this evening? Gerrard, I mean. What time is he supposed to show up?”

  “He's here now. He came with a huge bouquet and—” The phone went blank and Bobby cursed. He looked toward the pharmacy and considered commandeering that phone again, but there wasn't time. There was hardly time to think.

  And why hadn't he thought about it before? Why the hell would Bootsie, who'd spent the better part of her life stalking Daisy Riordan for taking one man away from her, suddenly arrange to shove a second man right in her enemy's face? And not just any man, but one she'd gone to great expense to bring to Hassenfeld, presumably for herself?

  Bobby's brain felt like an engine whose spark plugs kept misfiring. Things just didn't connect, didn't make sense. It was all too bizarre. Even unbelievable.

  Maybe the professor just didn't find Bootsie attractive once he'd arrived in town. Maybe he'd threatened to leave, so she'd introduced him to somebody he did find attractive. Maybe the pill Bobby'd swallowed a little while ago was sending him on a wild, psychedelic goose chase.

  Hell, even if he assumed the worst, that the headless corpse in Boston was the real Gerald Gerrard, and Bootsie had somehow hired a guy—maybe through that Mercenary magazine of hers—to kill both the real Gerrard and Daisy, why the hell hadn't the guy done it? Why hadn't he popped her yet? He'd had all the time and opportunity in the world.

  “Ange? Ange?” Bobby shook the phone.

  “Yes. Can you hear me, Bobby? This is a horrible connection.”

  “I hear you. Stay on the line, Ange. Who's standing post outside? Did they frisk the professor before he came in?”

  “I don't know. I was here in the kitchen. But if I had to guess, I'd say probably not. Nobody's supposed to do anything that might upset Mrs. Riordan. They didn't even do a—”

  “Do a what, Ange?” He wanted to slam the cell phone down on the pavement. “What didn't they do, Angela?”

  “Bobby?”

  “What did you say? They didn't do something?”

  “Right. The usual sweep. They didn't do it. No dogs. No metal detectors. Nothing. It was decided that since we'd been inside the house for a week that—”

  While he waited for the connection to cut back in, Bobby tilted his head back, grappling with a headache, the drug-induced confusion, and all the things that just didn't make sense to him. He gazed at the cloudless blue sky, wishing his head were half that clear. Maybe a cup of coffee would counteract the painkiller that was keeping him from putting this all together. Because it fit. It fit like a damned warped puzzle. He knew it did. He just couldn't…

  The faint whirr of chopper blades droned overhead, a little to the northwest. Bobby blinked and checked his watch. He was early. The president was at least twenty minutes early.

  And then it hit him. Like a bolt of lightning from the same sky where the chopper appeared like a dark green speck that grew larger and larger as he watched. The warped pieces suddenly smoothed out and moved perfectly into place. Everything fit.

  It wasn't Daisy Riordan. The professor or whoever the hell he was could have taken her out any time, but the reason he didn't was because she was never the target at all.

  It was the president, who was about to walk into a meagerly secured house that hadn't been swept.

  Jesus. And Bobby was pretty sure he knew just where the assassination weapon was.

  “Angela,” he shouted into the phone, barely able to hear his own voice for the noise of the chopper's blades directly over his head right now.

  “Bobby, I've got to go. I think I hear the helicopter. The president's almost here.”

  “Angela!” he screamed again.

  She hung up.

  19

  Angela looked out the front door just in time to see the dark green military chopper descend to its final few feet, then land with two small bounces on the street, where all traffic had been stopped for the past half hour. While the huge rotors slowly came to a halt, people stood by their cars and gawked at the unexpected sight.

  Wait'll they get a look at the guy who exits the chopper, Angela thought. She was even a little excited herself. Unlike so many of her fellow agents, she wasn't the least bit jaded about the pomp and circumstance of the presidency.

  Mrs. Riordan and Professor Gerrard walked arm in arm from the living room, where they'd been sipping Manhattans and quietly chatting in anticipation of the president's arrival. Daisy Riordan looked so happy. She very nearly glowed, and the pink suit that had seemed so severe on the hanger fit her beautifully. She'd made the perfect choice, too, in wearing the single strand of creamy pearls. The woman looked fantastic, nearly twenty years younger than she had a mere half an hour ago. Angela wished Bobby could see her.

  The thought sent a sharp pang straight to her heart. She always believed, when she was Daisy Riordan's age, that she'd be walking hand in hand with Bobby, and that they'd eventually be buried side by side, just like Rose and Angelo were planning their interment under their well-tended maple tree. That wasn't going to happen now, and for a moment Angela felt so completely abandoned and bereft that she was ready to lie down in that grave, wherever it was, and pull a thick carpet of sod over her head.

  Outside, the four agents who'd accompanied the president from Washington trotted down the helicopter's short flight of stairs. Familiar faces, all of them, behind dark glasses. Cavanaugh, Sweet, McDermott, and Schuetz. Now that Mrs. Riordan knew she was an agent, Angela was wearing her radio clipped to her belt, and through her ear
piece she could hear agents checking in from the trailer and various points around the property, giving the all-clear for Honcho, as the president was called, to exit. Then a muted cheer went up from all the surprised bystanders, when William Riordan appeared in the doorway of the chopper.

  Beside her, Mrs. Riordan said, “William looks well.”

  “He looks well surrounded,” the professor said rather glumly. Then he sighed as he brought Daisy's hand to his lips for a soft kiss. “Must we share our special moment with a gang of gun-toting strangers, Margaret?”

  “No. Of course not,” the president's mother replied. “Angela will be the only one inside the house. I've made myself quite clear about that.” She turned to Angela as she spoke. “You will see to that, won't you?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Gun-toting strangers, Angela thought. Give me a break. She thought about Bobby's urgent tone on the phone earlier and his recurring suspicions about the professor despite the fact that the guy kept checking out fine. She wondered if her husband's personal feelings about Daisy Riordan hadn't somehow skewed his professional judgment.

  She glanced at Gerald Gerrard's face now, and his expression struck her as genuine and utterly sincere. The man's blue eyes shone with such warmth and affection that Angela found it almost impossible to believe he was anything but an aged suitor or that he had any motive other than wanting to preserve the intimacy of this special evening as best he could.

  Angela lifted her arm and spoke in her wrist mike. “Doug, Mrs. Riordan only wants Honcho to come in. Nobody else. Do you copy?”

  There followed a rumbling of disagreement, a ripple of oaths and objections from assorted agents, before Doug's disembodied voice spoke firmly and quite clearly in her ear. “Roger that, Agent Holland. You've got the inside post. What's for dinner?”