Hush Money

by T. E. Woods

  “He’s gone, too.” Sydney washed down the last of her sandwich with a long sip of iced tea. “Hush Money may be closed, but gossip finds its way. Word is he’s headed off to London. Told his vice president he planned to spend at least a year there, drumming up the international side to their development business.”

  “Sounds more like a duck and run, if you ask me,” Nancy said.

  “Probably. It’s unlikely the tape of him abusing Windy would ever see the light of day, but I’m sure he wants to put as much space between him and her as possible.”

  “Poor Windy,” Nancy sighed. “What she’s been through.”

  Sydney pushed her chair away from the table. “Windy Fields is the last person in need of a pity party, Mom. She’s strong stuff. All she wants is a chance to take care of her little girl.” She turned to Horst. “All charges against her are dropped, I assume.”

  “You assume correctly. And my sources tell me the State Journal’s planning on running an in-depth article on Sunday outlining the police department’s rush to judgment. We’ll end up with a bit of mud on our faces, but there’ll be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Windy was innocent from the start.”

  “Good.” She leaned over to kiss her mother’s cheek. “Thanks for lunch. Marvelous as always. But it’s back to work for me.”

  —

  Sydney didn’t get to the hospital until nearly eight-thirty. She walked into the ICU, headed to Ronnie’s pod, and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the empty room.

  “What are you doing here?” The nurse she’d come to like best came up behind her.

  Sydney couldn’t bring herself to ask the question.

  “Your sister’s gone.”

  Sydney pressed her right arm against the wall to keep from falling over.

  “What…what happened?”

  “Didn’t they call you?”

  “No.” Her voice was a fragile whisper. “No one called.”

  “Damn it. It’s always the little details that get overlooked. There’s no excuse for it.”

  Little details? My best friend’s death is not a little detail.

  “Dr. Pernod’s up on F6/4.”

  “What?”

  “This afternoon. They moved her around six o’clock, I think. She’s passed all her benchmarks. No need for ICU.” The nurse swiped her finger over the electronic tablet in her hand. “F6/418. Do you know how to get there?”

  Sydney breathed in the sweetest, freshest breath of her life. “I’ll find it.”

  —

  “What the hell?” Sydney walked into Ronnie’s new hospital room.

  “Look at you! All dressed to the nines. I’ll bet they don’t get many folks dressed like you visiting up here.”

  “And you’re not going to have anybody visiting you anywhere if you don’t explain why you didn’t let me know you got transferred. My God, Ronnie! I thought you were dead!”

  “Mom didn’t call you? She said she would. I was just lying here wondering why I hadn’t heard from you.”

  “Olivia’s here?”

  “Yep. Got here this morning. Clucked around me for about forty-five minutes, then went for a massage. By the time she got back, I’d gotten word I was being transferred. She said she’d let you and Nancy know, then said something about how long it’d been since she had a Village burger. I sent her on her way.”

  “Well, no one told me.”

  Ronnie turned her head one way and then the other. “Notice anything?”

  “The feeding tube’s gone!”

  “Look out, Jell-O and beef broth. Here I come.” Ronnie’s voice was thin and reedy.

  “Don’t overdo it.”

  “Said the pot to the kettle.” She raised a shaky arm laden with IVs toward the television. “I see everything worked out okay with your murder project.”

  “It wasn’t a project.”

  “Crusade?”

  Sydney pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat. She leaned her head over and let Ronnie lay a heavy hand on her hair.

  “I was so scared,” she whispered.

  “Me, too.” Ronnie patted her one more time before withdrawing her hand. “So it was Andrew Conyer? He shot me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn. Couldn’t he have settled for a bad Yelp review?”

  Sydney laughed through her tears and sat up.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked.

  “Rehab starts in the morning. Docs say I ought to be out of here in three or four days.”

  “I love it. No slouching. Whatever they tell you to do, you do.”

  “Yes, dear. Now you. What’s your plan?”

  “Keep those restaurants afloat.”

  “Not that.” Ronnie’s voice was fading. “The other plan.”

  Sydney leaned back in her chair. She held on to her friend’s hand as she spoke.

  “You’re talking about Clay?”

  “Spill it.”

  “Nothing to spill. Things were going well. At least I thought they were. We got into a bit of a fight….”

  “About what?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does if I’m going to figure out if it’s a legit fight or just you running away from commitment again.”

  “He thought I wasn’t taking this whole shooting thing—the one where you got shot, that is—he thought I wasn’t taking it seriously enough. That I was too wrapped up in the drama of solving the mystery.”

  “What happened then?”

  “He yelled. I walked away.”

  “The typical Sydney Richardson move. Then what? Oh, wait. Let me guess. He called, probably to apologize, and you didn’t take the call.”

  Sydney let go of her friend’s hand.

  “And you still haven’t called him back? How long has it been?”

  “Four days. And I might add he hasn’t called me, either.”

  “So maybe that means he’s a guy who respects your wishes. Honestly, Sydney. When are you going to stop being so damned defensive? Not everyone’s your birth parents, you know. Not everyone’s out to hurt or abandon you.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “The hell it isn’t. You like this guy, Syd. From everything you’ve told me, he feels the same. Stop pushing away people who love you.”

  “Do I do that?”

  “Oh, God!” Ronnie moaned. “If I were to start down the list, I’d drain what little energy I have left. And I need every ounce of it to get better so I can keep an eye on you!”

  Sydney said nothing as she let her eyes drink in the beauty of her lifelong friend. “You really are going to be okay?” she finally asked.

  “Trust me,” Ronnie said, smiling. “I’m a doctor.”

  Chapter 37

  NOW

  “Don’t worry about a thing.” Roland Delmardo opened Hush Money’s door and stepped out into the summer night. “The publicity around our reopening is huge. I’ve planned a menu that will make everyone forget all about the tacky yellow tape that hung on our door. By this time tomorrow evening, a lucky group of patrons will be celebrating another spectacular creation by yours truly.”

  “I have no doubt about your food, Roland,” Sydney said. “But will our guests be able to focus on it? Or will they be distracted by the sideshow?”

  Roland looked at her as if she’d just suggested the moon had lost its orbit. “Honey, nothing distracts from my genius. Nothing. Just make sure you dress like a lady. It’s all over the news how you took your batting practice on that cracker’s skull. Folks gonna be lookin’ for a glimpse of your biceps. Or maybe patched-up bullet holes.”

  Sydney flinched at his prediction. Her phone had been clogged with interview requests from every local news affiliate. Two network stations had called. One call had even come in from a bat manufacturer in competition with Louisville Slugger. They wanted to know if she’d be interested in being their spokesperson for a new ad campaign.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Roland. Sleep well.” She locked the
door behind him and walked back into the empty restaurant. For what might have been the hundredth time, she traced the path of her death match with Andrew. She started in her office, where she scanned the walls and floors. Then she moved into the bar, again letting her eyes survey where his stray bullets had landed. She touched the shelves damaged in their struggle. She ran her hands across the bar. The construction firm she’d hired once the police were finished gathering evidence had done an excellent job. She’d told them she needed the repairs to be finished quickly, as she planned to reopen Hush Money as soon as she could. Her employees needed the money and she needed Madison to see the business continue. She demanded a full restoration. There could be no lingering trace of the horror of that night. They told her they could have it done in one day if she was willing to pay extra for a round-the-clock crew. She had, and they were true to their word. The elegant rooms had been returned to their full glory.

  No one would have guessed she had almost died there.

  She went behind the bar, poured herself a glass of pinot grigio, and carried it into the dimly lit dining room. She took a seat in the banquette in the corner. She considered it the best seat in the house. From that spot she could take in the entire room, as well as the entrance.

  This is it. Hush Money in all its…all its what? Glamour? Glory?

  For the first time since she had conceived the two restaurants, she wondered what exactly her goal was for Hush Money.

  Ten-Ten I get. I want a place for Madison’s best. The cops. The paramedics. The firefighters. It’s become the place I hoped it would. A place my dad would be proud of.

  Rick Sheffield’s handsome face floated into her consciousness. She made a mental note to call him and let him know Jocko was welcome anytime he wanted to bring him.

  But what was I thinking with Hush Money?

  Several options came to her. Was she trying to shake off her working-class roots by owning a place only the elite could frequent?

  No. I’m proud of my background—honest parents who taught me the value of earning what you have. I’m more than proud. I’m grateful.

  Was she somehow trying to atone for her inability to boil an egg by overseeing an institution of culinary excellence? She chuckled.

  Hell if that’s it. I’m not fooling anybody into thinking I’m the cook around here.

  Another thought came to her, this one accompanied by the sting of truth.

  Fifteen million dollars. Payoff for allowing my biological parents to avoid the scandal of my birth. Hush Money’s nothing more than me tap dancing. Trying to prove to some unseen mother and father that I was worthy. That they didn’t need to abandon me. That I could have been good enough to breathe whatever rarefied air sustained them.

  She thought of the elegantly dressed couple on opening night. Were they her birth parents, come to take in her achievement? And what about Elaina, the refined older woman who had dined alone at least twice. She said she had ties that kept her linked to Madison.

  Am I that tie? Do you come to see the daughter you rejected? Does it help you sleep at night to see I’m doing okay?

  Sydney took a long sip of her wine and, as she was so used to doing, pushed the thought of her birth parents out of her mind. It wouldn’t be long before they intruded again.

  It never was.

  Be grateful for what you have. Mom. Ronnie. Horst. Friends. Hush Money. Ten-Ten.

  She was thankful for all she had. Still, she felt alone.

  This time it was Clay’s face that came to her. She let her mind dwell on the shine in his gray eyes. The way his kisses tasted. The heat she felt in her spine whenever his voice rumbled that way it did.

  She looked at her half-empty wineglass, decided she’d had enough introspection for one night, and slid out of the banquette. It was time to go home.

  A rapping on the front door instantly jolted her into defense mode. She glanced across the darkened room. That Louisville Slugger was back behind the bar. Would her trembling legs get her there in time?

  The rapping came again. She fought against her internal instinct to dive for cover and looked toward the front. Her heart continued to race when she recognized who was there, but her fear subsided. She crossed the room and unlocked the heavy glass door. She and her surprise guest stared at each other for several moments.

  “I’ve been up north.” Clay’s eyes were filled with concern as he scanned her head to toe. “Didn’t catch the news until I was an hour from Madison. I drove as fast as I could, first to your apartment. When you weren’t there, I came here. My God, are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Listen, Sydney. I’m sorry. You needed me. I wasn’t there.”

  “No. You weren’t.”

  “I tried to call.”

  “I know.”

  “Ronnie? How is she?”

  “It’ll take time. She’ll heal.”

  Clay held her gaze. “How about us, Syd? Will we heal?”

  Sydney exhaled long and slow. The tension left her body.

  He looks sad. Tired. It would be easy to reach out to him and promise everything will be okay.

  “It’s late, Clay. Hush Money’s back in business tomorrow night. Time for me to get some rest. You, too.”

  “Walk you home? It’s late, after all.”

  She allowed herself a weary smile. “You said you heard the news. I can take care of myself.”

  He took a moment before he nodded his agreement.

  “We’ll see each other soon?” he asked.

  How different my life is from just a week ago. Everything changes.

  “Good night, Clay.” She closed the door, double-checked the lock, and headed back to her office.

  As with everything I do, this book is dedicated to LGW.

  Acknowledgments

  Beginning a new series is more frightening than I had anticipated. New characters to meet. New surroundings. And a totally different context for murder. Many, many thanks to Victoria Skurnick, my agent, and Kate Miciak, my editor. This literary super-duo has come to mean so much more to me than our professional collaborations might merit on their own. They give me the push and the prod to move ahead and trust all will be well. If the scale of appreciation is 1–10, you two are triple digits to anyone asking me. Here’s a shout-out to the entire Random House/Alibi team. Your eyes are focused on detail and your hearts are dedicated to craft. Whether copyediting or marketing, hand-holding or anxiety-qualming, you are the best. You make my work better and I’m thrilled to be part of this amazing team.

  Many thanks to The Fictionistas for monthly readings, sharing, and uncommonly insightful critique. Long may we meet, sip tea, and dissect each other’s work. Never-ending thanks to my loyal circle of friends who stick with me even when I don’t have time for dinner parties, kayak trips, or general hanging out. Please don’t think my time spent behind the keyboard instead of enjoying your fabulous company is any reflection on the amount of appreciation I have for the joy you bring to my life.

  A generous dose of gratitude goes to my readers! Thank you for your reviews, your comments, and especially for the time you take to contact me personally with your thoughts about my characters and their goings-on. Please keep it up! I love learning what you think about these little worlds I’ve created.

  And, as always, there’s that guy. The one who brings me tea, listens to my readings as I try to figure out what’s wrong with a certain sentence, and never flags in his unquestioning support of any whim I dare to follow. I love you. I love you. I love you.

  BY T. E. WOODS

  The Fixer

  The Red Hot Fix

  The Unforgivable Fix

  Fixed in Blood

  Fixed in Fear

  Dead End Fix

  Hush Money

  About the Author

  T. E. WOODS is a clinical psychologist and author living in Madison, Wisconsin. For random insight into how her strange mind works, follow her at:

  tewoodswrites.com

 
Facebook.com/​TEWoodsWrites

  Twitter: @tewoodswrites

  teriwoods2014@gmail.com

  If you enjoyed Hush Money

  by T. E. Woods, read on for a thrilling excerpt from

  Bad Girl

  Available from Alibi in 2018

  Chapter 1

  JANUARY 3

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Miranda Greer double-checked the locator app on her smartphone. Sure enough, she was at the address she’d agreed to for the meet-up.

  I should have asked for an earlier time.

  It was just past four o’clock. The sun sat low on the horizon, casting deep purple shadows across the snow-covered fields.

  It’ll be dark soon and here I am in the middle of a Wisconsin nowhere.

  She looked back at her parked car. The rented Volvo sat isolated at the end of a long, ice-covered lane. It dawned on her she didn’t know what kind of car he drove.

  Doesn’t matter. No one would be coming down this deserted stretch of cow pasture unless they had a reason.

  She didn’t like waiting. Never had. She especially didn’t like waiting for men and swore to herself more than twenty years ago that she’d cooled her heels killing time until Clay Hawthorne threw her some attention for the very last time.

  Yet here I am. That guy says jump and I’m willing to leap as high as what pleases him.

  The temperature dropped as the sky darkened. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms.

  I should have worn that damned parka.

  She glanced down at the high-heeled, over-the-knee, suede Manolo Blahnik boots and realized her choice of footwear was as ill-suited to the surroundings as her brocade waistcoat.

  How was I supposed to know he wanted to play in the snow? I figured cocktails. Maybe an early dinner. We’re both a little old for this.

  Two large silos loomed twenty yards in front of her. Rusted walls and half-decayed roofs suggested it had been decades since they’d stored anything more valuable than bird droppings and coyote shit.

  Still, the snow makes them pretty.