by T. E. Woods
“Congratulations, by the way,” she told him. “On the pregnancy. This your first?”
Andrew blinked. “How do you know about that?”
Sydney smiled. “Oh dear. Is it too soon? Not going public yet? I’m sorry. I ran into Cynthia as she was coming out of Veronica Pernod’s office. I’m afraid the beans got spilled.”
“How do you know Dr. Pernod?” He glanced down at Sydney’s abdomen. “You’re not…”
“Pregnant? No. Ronnie’s been a friend since grade school. Kindergarten, actually. I swung by to have some time with her, saw Cynthia, and there you have it.”
Andrew seemed to relax. “That explains it then. Yes. This is our first. We’re quite excited. But it’s still early. So if you wouldn’t mind keeping it under wraps, I’d appreciate it.”
“Enough said. Is Cynthia feeling well?”
“Floating on a cloud. We both are. Your friend is an excellent doctor.”
“She is that. You’re in good hands.”
“I know that now. I have to tell you, when I first walked in and saw that hideous portrait, I wondered what we were getting ourselves into.”
Sydney laughed. “Old Iron Guts. Quite an imposing figure, wouldn’t you say?”
“I remember Cynthia saying if Dr. Pernod had half the steel of the woman in the portrait, we were exactly where we needed to be.”
The swarthy man in the food truck leaned out to call that their order was ready. Andrew handed him a twenty-dollar bill, told him to keep the change, and turned toward Hush Money. Sydney followed, then led the way back to her office. As they passed through the kitchen, they saw Windy standing at the butcher block. Her head was down as she focused on chopping a mound of carrots. Sydney bumped her office door closed with her hip and urged Andrew to use her desk as a table. She set her own food down, grabbed two bottles of water from a small side cooler, and settled into her chair.
“You have Windy back at work?” he asked.
“She isn’t comfortable with handouts. She was either going to work here or somewhere else. I figured the closer we kept her, the better.”
Andrew considered the options. “You’re right, of course. How’s she doing? Any new insights?”
“Says she still can’t remember much about that night.”
Andrew stabbed a plastic spoon into his pile of noodles but brought none to his mouth. “The police are sure they can piece together what happened.”
“I spoke to Phoebe yesterday.”
“Phoebe Millerman? When? Why?”
Sydney noted the surprise in his voice. “At the funeral. Mom and I went to pass along our condolences. Phoebe suggested we chat. She told me there were people who might not be so upset that the mayor was dead.”
“You? Of all the people to share her concerns or doubts with, she chose you? Do you know her well?”
Sydney took a bite of noodles, shook her head, and waited until she had swallowed to answer. “I met her on Hush Money’s opening night. She was more than a little drunk. Making a bit of a scene. I put her in a cab and sent her home. She told me yesterday she was grateful. She also led me to believe she had warm feelings for Windy.”
Andrew played with his food in silence for a moment. “Tell me about this scene she was making.”
“Now you’re sounding like Horst. He thought it was a little too convenient that Phoebe was here, on a big night, making sure everyone knew who and where she was.”
“She said her name?”
“In a don’t-you-know-who-I-am kind of way. She didn’t like the idea that it was last call for her.”
“Did she make a big deal out of the time?”
Sydney thought back. “She said she’d been waiting for her husband for several hours.”
“And of course, the bartender can verify that?”
“Along with perhaps fifty or sixty dinner guests.” She could almost see Andrew’s theories swirl across his face.
“It’s not like it would be the first time a wife offed her husband. After all, rumors have run rampant for years about the way Roger Millerman treats women. Particularly his wife. Maybe she’d had enough. Maybe she caught him red-handed. One humiliation too many. She kills him, cleans herself up, and heads out to Hush Money. Where dozens of folks will swear she was drinking her troubles away.”
Sydney recalled the look on Phoebe’s face when she discussed how she had once deeply loved the man who would become mayor. She shook her head. “That doesn’t feel right to me.”
“That’s not for us to decide, is it? Remember what I said? All we need is reasonable doubt. The prosecution’s going to mount an ironclad case that Windy’s the killer. It’s our job to put a crack in it. To offer the jury someone—anyone—who might have killed Millerman. Someone other than Windy.”
“But Phoebe?”
“You’re paying me to get Windy out of this jam. If you’re convinced she didn’t do it and you want to find the real killer, hire a detective. I’m the attorney. And I need a list of plausible alternatives to do my job. Which reminds me. Which of your servers turned in that medallion?”
Sydney shoved her plate away. “I have no idea. I’ve spoken to every server who worked Friday or Saturday. No one remembers picking up the medallion and putting it in the lost and found.”
“It’s a pretty distinct object. Surely someone recalls.”
“No one. I even checked with the cleaning crew. Kitchen staff, too. No one retrieved it.”
“Damn it! We need to know how it got there. We need to place it in somebody’s hands. Somebody other than Windy. Because if we can’t, the police are going to make the only conclusion they can.”
“Which is?”
“That Windy Fields is the one person with access to the mayor, the medallion, and Hush Money. We need to link that medallion to someone else.”
The tension in his voice alerted her. “You said there was something new.”
“There is. And it’s not good. I got a call from the state’s attorney. There was a 911 call the Friday afternoon the mayor was murdered. It slipped by them at first.”
“What do you mean ‘slipped by’?”
“It was from a cellphone. No corresponding landline address popped up. The call ended abruptly. Only one word spoken. The 911 folks could narrow the origin to a certain tower. Put it out over the air, and a couple of squad cars canvassed the area. They saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was only after the arrest was made that the 911 operator went back to relisten to the tape. Call came in synced with the coroner’s TOD. Cell number matches a private cellphone found at the mayor’s residence. The prosecutor’s making a case that it was the mayor naming his killer. Like I said, the call ended after the mayor said one word.”
“And that was?”
“Windy.”
Chapter 22
NOW
Got time for a walk?
The text came from Clay around three-thirty. After all the paperwork, the kitchen drama, and the latest setback with Windy’s case, Sydney thought a stroll with a handsome man was just the ticket. She texted back.
Meet you in front of the Low Down in five minutes. Work?
His reply came thirty seconds later. I’ll be the one standing there, smiling.
—
Clay leaned against the iron rails fronting the steps leading down to his place when she walked up. He opened his arms wide and Sydney walked into them, not caring that the streets were filled with people enjoying the lovely day. They embraced. Clay gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“How’s your day going so far?” he asked.
She pulled him away from the railing and steered him toward the square. “Better now. Tell me, does it get any easier? This restaurant business?”
“Want me to tell you about the day my cooler went dead? Cost me forty pounds of ground sirloin and about two hundred dollars’ worth of dairy products. I’m too much of a gentleman to talk about the night, deep in the middle of an August heat wave, when all the plumbing
backed up in the ladies’ toilet. Yessiree, that was one glamorous night for yours truly.”
“Well then, let’s pretend we don’t have a care. Ten-Ten’s humming like clockwork. Thank God for Roscoe Donovan. That man makes sure I don’t have a worry in the world.”
“Roscoe’s a pro, that’s for sure. And Hush Money? How go things there?”
Sydney slid her arm into his. It felt as natural as breathing. “I’ve got a bit more than an hour before it opens. I can pretend all is well, can’t I?”
“The greater the glitz, the greater the grind. Give me a good old-fashioned neighborhood joint any day of the week. Is it your chef?”
“Roland’s a big part of it. He runs at a higher throttle than I do. But we had a nice talk this morning. I think we’ve come to an understanding. Besides, he was awfully kind to Windy Fields today. He didn’t need to be, and I appreciate that.”
Clay stopped walking. “Windy’s out of jail? You have her working?”
“She was released Monday afternoon.” Sydney pulled him back into their stride without offering the fact that she had put up Windy’s bail. “She’s got a little one to care for. I’ve got her in the kitchen. Tucked away from any judging eyes.”
“You’re an all-in kind of gal, aren’t you?” She liked the appreciation in his voice. “I have a feeling having you in the corner is a very good thing. What are you like when someone disappoints you?”
“You planning on doing that, are you?”
“No, ma’am, I am not. But what’s it going to be like for you when your faith in Windy doesn’t prove warranted?”
They walked as she considered his question. They’d gone nearly a block before she answered.
“Windy’s not going to disappoint me. I suppose we’re all capable of doing things we never thought we could. If it turns out Windy murdered the mayor, I’m prepared to accept that.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’m not blind. I know it looks bad for her. Especially after this morning.”
“Now what?”
Sydney told him about the 911 call. “The prosecutor thinks it was the mayor using his last breath to identify his killer.”
“Pretty high drama, don’t you think?”
“Dramatic enough for a jury. At least that’s what Andrew’s thinking. He’s working hard. He says we need to come up with at least one other person who could have killed the mayor. But to tell you the truth, I think he’s convinced Windy did it. If she did, though, I know she had her reasons. Does that sound cruel?”
“In what way?”
“Can there ever be an understandable reason to kill someone?”
Now it was Clay’s turn to be silent. His voice had lost all its previous playfulness when he finally answered.
“Yes, Syd. I think there are some people who just need to be gone.”
They turned another corner and headed toward Hush Money’s glass facade.
“It may not make sense, but Windy needs someone. It’s going to be me.”
“Then I won’t press you on it again. How’s that?” He patted the hand she had tucked into his elbow. “We’ve got a new performer tonight. Slingshot Billy. Old-timer. Ever hear of him?”
“Plays blues on a steel guitar. Has that one song about trying to ride a bicycle with one bum leg. He’s a big name. How’d you get him?”
“I knew his kid back in college. Spent a couple of weeks over spring break one year traveling with his band. Slingshot’s finished a weekend in Chicago and is headed to Minneapolis for a four-day gig starting on Friday. He had the downtime. My place is on his way. I suggested he swing by for a couple of nights.”
She slowed as they approached her restaurant. “You’ve got quite the storied history, don’t you, Clay Hawthorne? I have so much to learn about you.”
“And I’m willing to tell as many boring stories as you’ll sit for. How about it? Swing by after the fancy folk leave your place? I’ll get Slingshot to save the bike song until you get there.”
“It’s a date. And speaking of fancy, I need to get home and change.” She looked down at the capris and T-shirt she was wearing. “Gotta take a turn toward the glam.”
He looked her up and down. “You look just right to me.”
She was about to thank him when a voice shrilled.
“Sydney! How delightful!”
She turned to see Brooks Janeworthy, walking stick tucked under his arm. He wore a peach-colored sport coat over creamy wool trousers.
“And who is this?” Janeworthy extended his hand to Clay. “Brooks Janeworthy. New friend, I hope, to your obviously old friend Sydney.”
Clay shook his hand and introduced himself.
“What’s your line, Hawthorne? I pride myself on knowing everyone who’s anyone in this town.”
“Clay owns the Low Down Blues. Over on Pinckney.”
Janeworthy nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. What a limestone jewel that building is. Did you know it was built on the site of the very first state legislature building? Quite historic. You’re in the basement, I believe.”
“We are. How do you know so much about the place?”
“Brooks is a developer,” Sydney offered. “Buildings are his thing.”
“Among other areas of interest.” Janeworthy appraised them as though they were a puzzle that needed solving. “So you two are a team? Just a couple of tavern keepers trying to make it in the crazy, cutthroat world of Madison’s social scene. Do I have it right?”
Sydney saw Clay’s spine stiffen. He was about to answer when the front door of Hush Money opened and three employees who had spent the day prepping the evening meal spilled out into the street.
“Hey, Syd,” said Artie, the freckle-faced kid who always followed Roland like a puppy dog. “We’re all set.”
“Yeah. And the sauces are to die for.” Monica, who Sydney knew had her eye on becoming Roland’s sous chef, winced at her wording. She turned to the young woman standing next to her. “Sorry, Windy. That didn’t come out right.”
Sydney looked to see if Windy had taken offense. But Windy didn’t seem to have even heard Monica’s clumsy remark. Her eyes were on Janeworthy. Her mouth moved wordlessly.
And her face was drained of color.
Sydney looked back to the foppish developer. There was no mistaking the look of panic on Janeworthy’s face.
“Enjoy your evening.” His words, directed to Sydney and Clay, were mechanical.
Janeworthy turned and scurried down the street. Sydney stepped over and draped an arm across Windy’s shoulder.
“Are you okay? Do you know that man?”
Windy’s eyes filled with tears. Sydney felt her quiver.
“I’ve got to go.” Windy pulled away.
“Windy, wait,” Sydney called after her.
“I’ve got to catch my bus. Tell Roland thanks for everything.”
The small group watched her disappear into the late-afternoon crowd.
“What got into her?” Monica asked, bewildered. “Was it what I said?”
Sydney looked at Clay, holding his gaze as she answered.
“No, Monica. I think it was something else altogether.”
Chapter 23
THREE WEEKS AGO
“Brooks!” Roger Millerman called his guest into his City Hall office. “Come on in here, man. Good to see you. Thanks for taking the time.”
Brooks Janeworthy hadn’t expected the hearty welcome. He wasn’t sure what the etiquette was when greeting someone who’d recently arranged for the kind of clandestine liaison he’d experienced a week earlier.
“I’ll always have time for you, Roger.” He tapped his walking stick twice for emphasis, then handed the mayor a bottle of Georges de Latour Private Reserve. “Cabernet sauvignon. A favorite of yours, I’m told.”
Millerman scanned the label and smiled. “It is, indeed. Never was one of those lighter wine types. Give me something with some heft to it.” He set the bottle on his desk before returning to his ch
air. “There’s no need for gifts. But I’m gonna enjoy it nonetheless. It’s very kind of you.”
“My only regret is that I have no English wine to offer. For all the glories that nation has given the world, I’m afraid wine isn’t one of them.”
The mayor kept his eyes on him. Brooks straightened his shoulders, allowing Millerman the opportunity to admire his herringbone sport coat and thin-striped tie, straight from Savile Row.
“With your love for all things British, I’m surprised you’ve never moved on over. Madison’s a lot of things, but highbrow isn’t one of them.”
“I make it across the pond at least four or five times a year. I keep a flat in Kensington, actually. Perhaps you and Mrs. Millerman will do me the honor of allowing me to host you sometime. You’ll find there’s no place like London.”
“You never got the itch to make those visits permanent?”
Janeworthy wondered where this conversation was headed. “One makes one’s way where there’s the least resistance. I’d have to have an entirely different pedigree to break into the old-school ties that are the calling card for the English development game. Either that or be a Russian oligarch. Madison has been very kind to me.”
“You’ve made a fortune here, that’s for sure.”
He squirmed at the mayor’s crass mention of money. “And I hope my contributions to the city have warranted whatever advantages I’ve received.”
The mayor waved to a chair opposite his desk. “They have, indeed. When I think of what this skyline looked like twenty years ago, well, let’s just say Madison was looking mighty prairie. You’ve put us on the map architecturally.”
“I’ve done my best.”
The mayor’s lack of response rekindled Janeworthy’s sense of discomfort. He glanced behind him to make sure the door to the mayor’s office was closed.
“I must say, I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to comment on our last interaction.”
Millerman’s face reflected confusion.
“At your home.” Janeworthy leaned forward and whispered, “With the young woman.”
“That? I don’t want you to give that a second thought. That was nothing more than one friend doing a solid for another. You seemed to me like a man who needed to get out of his own space. Blow the dust out of the pipes, if you know what I mean. Least I could do was hook you up with the right mechanic.”
