Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  “Or, more likely, Windy hurts her head during a struggle. Or maybe she bangs her head herself to build a case for self-defense. Think like a prosecutor, Sydney. The only blood at the scene is the mayor’s and Windy’s.”

  “But I’m remembering something. At least I think I am!” Windy cried.

  “I believe her,” Sydney insisted.

  “What you believe doesn’t matter,” Andrew said curtly. “What matters is what a jury believes. And if I go to the prosecutor right now with Windy’s newfound ‘memory,’ I can tell you exactly what she’s going to believe.”

  “Listen to me, Andrew. Just for a minute.” Sydney stood away from Windy and went back to her own chair. “I went to the mayor’s funeral.” She told him what Phoebe had offered about her husband’s ruthless hold on power and about the many people he’d offended along the way. She included the widow’s remarks that some people might have attended the mayor’s funeral just to make sure he was dead.

  Andrew brushed her off. “Politics is a rough game. People who play know that.”

  “But Phoebe herself said maybe there was someone there who wanted to make sure no one was thinking that they did it. That’s how cruel she said her husband had become. She called him a predator. Certainly Windy can testify to that.”

  Andrew shook his head. “ ‘Maybe’ doesn’t cut it. Especially the ‘maybe’ of a spiteful widow.”

  “You said it yourself,” Sydney persisted. “All we have to do is offer a plausible alternative to Windy as the murderer.”

  “That was before the 911 tape.”

  “But now we might have an explanation for that.”

  Andrew threw up his hands in exasperation. “What we have is a desperate countermove. That’s how the jury is going to read her sudden recollection.”

  “So find a psychologist who can testify the recording was enough to jog her out of her traumatic haze. Listen.” Sydney again turned to Windy. When she spoke she kept her voice gentle. “I haven’t had time to talk about this with you, Windy. But I think there’s something Andrew needs to know.”

  Andrew was furious. “For the love of God, Sydney! If it’s something that will help us out of this mess, speak.”

  “Yesterday, Windy. Outside Hush Money.” Sydney looked at Andrew. “Do you know Brooks Janeworthy?”

  “The developer? I’ve met him a few times. Bit of an oddball. Does good work, though. What’s he got to do with this?”

  “I was outside Hush Money late yesterday afternoon. He came up and started chatting. Windy came out with some other employees. When Windy saw Janeworthy, she went white as a sheet. Ran off. Janeworthy did the same.”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with—”

  “The mayor made me!” Windy interrupted. “Well, maybe he didn’t make me. But he paid me five hundred dollars.”

  “To do what?” Andrew demanded.

  Windy’s tears began again. It took her several long minutes, but she was able to choke out the tale of the mayor leading her to the upstairs bedroom, ordering her to strip, and posing her on the bed. Telling her to do whatever the little man wanted.

  “I saw that man yesterday. He’s the one the mayor brought into the room.”

  “You’re saying the mayor pimped you out to one of the biggest developers in the city?” Andrew exclaimed. “Why would he do that?”

  Windy shook her head. “I don’t know,” she whimpered through red eyes. “But he did.” She paused, gasping for air. “I got the impression it was taped.”

  Andrew stared at Sydney, speechless.

  “How do you know Janeworthy?” he asked finally.

  Sydney told him how Janeworthy had come into Hush Money looking for his sunglasses. She reminded him about the faulty lost-and-found drawer and how the sunglasses had been on the floor. “That’s when I found the medallion, too. Janeworthy knew what it was. And when he flipped it over and saw it was the mayor’s, he beat feet out of there.”

  Andrew was silent. Sydney could see how deeply he doubted the story he’d just heard.

  “Now what?” Sydney asked.

  “Who the hell knows?” he muttered. Then he shrugged. “We’ve got one hope.”

  “And that is?”

  “We find that tape.”

  Chapter 25

  NOW

  Sydney stood in the doorway of her office and watched Windy mimic Roland Delmardo’s moves.

  “You lay the knife here.” He positioned the utensil next to the gill of a seven-pound wild-caught salmon. “Angle it just so. Do you see?”

  Windy nodded.

  “Catch underneath the first bone, then shimmy the blade straight on back.” The master chef deboned the fish in less than five seconds. “Now you try.”

  Windy’s hand was steady. Sydney marveled at her focus. Could this be the same young woman who, less than two hours earlier, had been a shivering, crying puddle pleading her innocence of murder?

  She’s never had the luxury of collapsing, Sydney realized. She’s always had to keep on going.

  “Almost!” Chef Delmardo said when Windy was finished. “It is unlikely you’ll ever reach my level of expertise. None have. Never expect to be as great as I am.” He handed her a pair of slender tweezers. “Now, until you find your own mastery, search for stray bones. Get every one! If you don’t, and a patron pulls a sliver from their mouth, it’s my name they’ll remember. But rest assured, I will know it was you who failed me.”

  Sydney went back into her office, grateful that Roland’s tutorials gave Windy a break from her troubles.

  We need to find that tape.

  Andrew had said he’d get his investigators tracking down leads. Until then, he didn’t want either of them speaking of this.

  “We don’t want to warn anyone off. Put this tape thing out of your minds,” he’d said.

  Windy and Sydney had returned to Hush Money after the meeting. Windy had immersed herself in kitchen prep. Despite Andrew’s warnings, Sydney could think of little else other than finding that tape. She tried distracting herself with receipts and invoices, schedules and deliveries, publicity and wine lists. But it was no use. She was determined to give Andrew the evidence he needed to help Windy.

  And her musings always suggested the same starting point.

  She reached for the phone. She was surprised when Phoebe Millerman picked up after the third ring.

  “Mrs. Millerman. This is Sydney Richardson. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “You might be surprised how welcome a disturbance is right about now. Call me Phoebe, will you?”

  “Of course.” Sydney wasn’t sure how to proceed. An image of her mother, shaking her head in disappointment at her impulsivity, flashed into her consciousness. “Phoebe, do you recall our conversation a couple of days ago?”

  “A couple of days ago I was burying my husband. Is that when you mean?”

  Sydney winced. “Yes. We spoke of your fondness for Windy Fields.”

  “And you told me you had a hunch the cops had it wrong. That Windy didn’t shoot Roger. What’s on your mind today, Sydney?”

  “I’d like to speak to you in confidence.”

  It was several moments before there was a reply.

  “At least someone would be talking to me about something other than how sorry they are for my loss. I don’t think I ever realized how mechanical that sentiment sounds. Maybe it takes hearing it a few thousand times before its triviality clicks in. But that’s all people say to me these days. And even that’s getting less and less. Roger got buried and everyone wants to be done with it. Except for the cops, of course. At least I can get back into my house now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “This your first murder?” Phoebe’s voice had a challenging tone that sounded more defensive than defiant. “That night I found Roger was the last one I spent at home. My place became a crime scene. Nobody but cops going in or out. Neighbors tell me they saw ’em haul out rolls of carpet. Bags of stuff. Brig
ht lights flashing inside from all the photos being taken. They finally called me about a half hour ago. Said the scene’s been released, whatever the hell that means. I can finally kiss this hotel goodbye. Although maybe I should wait and see what kind of a mess they left before I check out.”

  “I had no idea. I hope you know you’re always welcome here. The very least I can offer is a well-cooked meal.”

  Phoebe managed one shrill laugh. “At this point, honey, I’d be more interested in your bar than your dining room. Still, it’s a nice gesture. Why the call?”

  “I’d prefer not to discuss it over the phone. Would it be possible for us to meet?”

  “You really don’t think Windy killed Roger, do you?”

  “I don’t know. I sure hope not.”

  Another period of silence lingered. Phoebe’s voice was more vulnerable when she finally spoke. “He was a good man once. I loved him. He deserves to have the right person held responsible.”

  “Can I meet you? Anywhere. Anytime you’d like.”

  Phoebe sighed. “I’ve got two meetings downtown this afternoon. And I gotta pack up and check out of this place. I could be home around five-thirty. Does that work for you?”

  “Of course. If you want, I’ll be there a little before and we can walk in together. There’s no need for you to be alone the first time you step back into your house.”

  She heard a choke in Phoebe’s voice. “That’s very kind of you. I appreciate that. We’re on Gregory Street.” She gave Sydney the address. “And I wouldn’t mind if you brought a bottle of your best.”

  —

  “You look cute behind that desk.” Clay leaned against the doorframe.

  Sydney wiped the last smear of her egg salad sandwich from her lips. “How’d you get in here?”

  “Well, that’s a fine welcome. Should I leave?” The tease in his eyes told her he knew she’d have none of that.

  “Of course not. Come in. It’s just that our doors don’t open for another four hours.”

  “Ah, but your staff comes and goes. I followed one in.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Is your kitchen always this loud? I had the impression high-end joints like this operated in reverent silence. Maybe with a violin concerto always playing in the background.”

  “Are you nuts? It’s utter chaos in the back of the house. All the elegance gets saved for the front.” She liked the way he looked. Faded jeans and a T-shirt so well worn it looked as soft as a cloud. “What brings you by?”

  He stepped into her office and closed the door. “You left early last night. Didn’t even get a chance to hear Slingshot sing that song you like so much.”

  “I was beat. I loved what I heard, though. And he sure packed them in.”

  “He always does.” Clay’s smile hinted at a casual intimacy. “You all rested up now?”

  “I suppose so. What do you have in mind?”

  “You got a bike?”

  Sydney leaned back. “You mean a bicycle? Yes, I have one.”

  “You got a couple of hours?”

  “What in the world is on your mind?”

  He walked behind her desk, reached for her hands, and pulled her up.

  “The day is beautiful, Sydney. What do you say you and I take a little ride.”

  “Right now?”

  “You and me. Down the path, by the lake, through town. Get out of this place for a bit and let the breeze blow through that beautiful black hair of yours.”

  “You’re crazy. I can’t just go for a bike ride.”

  “Why not? No trust in your staff?”

  “Of course I trust them.”

  “Then it must be an overly inflated sense of your own importance.”

  She smiled. “Maybe that’s it.”

  He took her hand. “C’mon. Grab your purse or whatever you need. My bike’s outside. Hop on the handlebars. I’ll ride you to your condo. You grab your bike. We’ll go for a pedal and I’ll have you home in plenty of time to get gussied up to meet your first customer.”

  “I’ve never ridden on a set of handlebars in my life.”

  His eyes were raw magnetism. “If we’re lucky, that’ll be one of many firsts we share.”

  —

  Thirty minutes later she was pedaling west on a paved path. Lake Monona was on her left, and the magnificent convention center, designed as Frank Lloyd Wright’s gift to Madison, was on her right. The sun warmed her skin. The water glistened silver. Gulls called overhead and the wind caressed her face. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw Clay biking two lengths behind her.

  Perfection, she thought. Sheer perfection.

  They biked westward down State Street, then followed the path until it intersected with several others in front of Camp Randall Stadium. She stopped and waited for Clay to meet her.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  He pointed farther west. “It’s a bit of a hill. Got it in you?”

  She adjusted her helmet and gave her best iron-man stare. “Bring it.”

  Traffic on the bike path was light. A few mothers pushing strollers and the occasional dog walker were all they encountered as they made their way across town. The path was elevated here and Sydney looked down into the neatly tended back lawns of bungalows and foursquares. She realized the path ran behind Gregory Street and wondered which one of the houses belonged to Phoebe Millerman. She pushed the thought away and refocused on the ride. She’d meet Phoebe that evening. Now it was time to enjoy this found moment of pleasure.

  Sydney’s legs were burning by the time they crossed Odana. Clay had been right. While the hill wasn’t steep, the climb was long and steady. By the time they got to Midvale, she was grateful the traffic was heavy enough to stop them.

  “How much farther?” she asked when Clay pulled alongside her.

  He pointed to his left. “That’s Yuma. We’ll cut to the right there.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He nodded toward the clearing in traffic. “Follow me.”

  They entered a tucked-away neighborhood of cozy homes with well-tended yards. Giant maples canopied overhead. Clay slowed and signaled a right turn into the driveway of a house situated directly across from a triangular park. He stopped.

  “Who lives here?” Sydney asked, bringing her bike alongside his.

  “I do. How’s a glass of iced tea sound?”

  “You live here?”

  “I do. Surprised?”

  Sydney took another look at the wholesome quaintness of the house. “I guess I am. I would have figured you for a place downtown. This is a family neighborhood.”

  He walked his bike and parked it at the top of the drive. “I told you you didn’t know any of my secrets. C’mon.”

  She followed him through a side door that led directly into a well-appointed kitchen.

  “Here’s another surprise,” she said. “What self-respecting bachelor keeps his place this neat?”

  “One who’s smart enough to bring in a cleaning lady once a week. I eat most of my meals out. It’s easy to toss an occasional coffee mug into the dishwasher. Want a tour? It’ll take all of two minutes.”

  “Lead on.”

  A small office was to the right of the kitchen. The desk and cabinet were piled with papers and files. A digital piano stood against one wall and two guitars rested on stands in the middle of the room.

  “Let me guess,” Sydney said. “Your cleaning lady doesn’t touch this room.”

  “There’s a method here, I swear. It may look chaotic, but I can find anything I need in less than an hour or two.”

  He led her into the living room. Sunlight streamed through a wide picture window, bouncing off polished maple floors. A classic Danish modern sofa and two chairs were clustered on one side of the room. A sleek ebony baby grand piano atop a thick gray rug anchored the other. Several original paintings, modern, with bold strokes of color and shapes, accented white walls.

  “Impeccable taste, Mr. Hawthorne. I’m impressed.”

&nb
sp; A short hallway led to a guest bath. Functional and tidy, with no sense of femininity.

  “In case you want to freshen up,” Clay said before pointing to a small guest room. “And in case you want a nap.”

  He passed one closed door and went into the master bedroom. “Here’s where I bunk. There’s another bathroom in the corner there.”

  Sydney liked the simplicity of the room. A queen-size bed covered in a dark gray duvet. Two nightstands. Another guitar on a stand next to a teak bureau.

  “You’re never far from your music, are you?”

  He shrugged. “Never know when the mood is going to strike.” A hesitant look came over his face. Sydney sensed a vulnerability in him she’d never noticed before.

  “So what’s next?” he asked. “That iced tea or another one of my secrets?”

  She touched his arm, hoping he’d feel the trust she was willing to offer.

  “Iced tea can wait.”

  He walked back down the hall and stood in front of the closed door he’d passed earlier.

  “Here’s the reason I live in a family neighborhood.”

  He opened the door. The furnishings inside weren’t as sophisticated as those in the master but were still decidedly male. A double bed was centered on the far wall, covered with a corduroy spread the color of oak leaves in autumn. Shelves were filled with trophies, ribbons, and photos of a young man with hair as dark as Clay’s in various sports uniforms. An electric guitar and amp stood in one corner.

  “You don’t live alone! Clay Hawthorne, if you’re about to tell me you’re married, I’ll let you in on one of my secrets. I have a killer right hook. And I’m not afraid to use it.”

  He rested a warm hand on her shoulder. “Easy, there, slugger. I’ve never been married. This room belongs to my son.”

  It took a few moments before she responded.

  “I’ll take that iced tea now.”

  They went back into the kitchen. Sydney sat at a glass-topped breakfast table while Clay poured their drinks. He settled in across from her.

  “Maybe it’ll be easier if you ask questions and I answer,” he suggested.

  She nodded. “What’s your son’s name? How old is he?”