Murder By Design

by Erin McCarthy

  Ryan’s eyebrows shot up. “The mob? What is this, the seventies?”

  “What, there’s no mob anymore?”

  “I mean, organized crime is technically everywhere, but it’s kind of small potatoes in Cleveland.”

  “Don’t tell him that. He’s very impressed with himself. He does have the bank account that says he’s making money somehow. I was staging his lake house out east when I thought I found his body, shot in the chest. But it was really just his ghost.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Cezar Wozniak.” I said it quietly, afraid that somehow Cezar was listening. Which was stupid. He didn’t have an invisibility cloak. If he were there, I would see him.

  “Never heard of him.” Ryan sat down in the easy chair across from me, sinking back into the plush cushions. “I don’t think you should be running around looking for dead bodies.”

  Said the man who had insisted I look for his girlfriend Hannah’s body. Which had led me into the field where I had found a severed hand and become the target of Nick the Prick, your friendly neighborhood sociopath.

  “For whatever reason, since you showed up in August, I’ve become the chick that dead people come to. Specifically, murdered dead people. I don’t exactly have a choice, you know. But you need to tell me how to go about looking for his corpse. Marner said last night they found a body, but it was a guy with Wozniak’s wallet, not him. So now what do I do?”

  “Go to the places the guy is always at. Then branch out from say, his favorite restaurant, to the woods nearby. You have to find his haunts.” Ryan gave me a grin. “His haunts. Damn, that was a good one.”

  Hilarious. “That’s your advice? I’m just supposed to wander around town looking for his body? I feel if it’s out in the open, someone will stumble across it and that will be that. But if it’s hidden, I’m screwed. I can’t fan out in the woods solo and search for it. And why do you think some other guy had his wallet?”

  Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I sat up. “This was very helpful, thanks.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about the situation. Ask Marner.”

  Why was he getting attitude with me? In some ways, I felt like Ryan had opened up some weird portal that allowed ghosts to attach to me like starfish. There had never even been an inkling of the paranormal in my life before he showed up in my kitchen, acting like nothing had ever happened. “Is there a specific reason you’re here?” I asked after a long pause. “Because I need to jump in the shower.” I glanced at my cellphone on the end table. “It’s already ten to eight. Damn it. This day is going to suck.”

  “What, I can’t want to just hang out? I need a reason to be here?”

  Brushing my hair back off my shoulders I gave him a look.

  “Okay, fine, yes, I have a reason. I need you to vouch for me.”

  “What does that mean?” Vouch for him with who?

  He just pointed upward. “You need to sign an affidavit that I’m assisting you in solving your cases.”

  “Are you for real? You just tried to fob me off on Marner for this one. You’re not helping me at all.” I stumbled into the kitchen, knowing this was a three cup of coffee kind of day. Okay, four. Don’t judge. Coffee is all natural. I opened the cabinet for my pricey but oh-so-tasty coffee.

  “What kind of coffee is that?” Ryan asked, wrinkling his nose. “It smelled like chocolate.”

  “It’s fair trade. Some kind of coffee meets chocolate miracle blend. It’s basically heaven on drip.” Waxing enthusiastic about the subject now, I bent over and sniffed the ground beans deeply. “I would pay twice as much for this.”

  “Well, if you have money to burn.” Ryan leaned back against the countertop and crossed his ankles. “So you have access to this guy’s house, right? Did you look around the house at all? If it happened a couple of days ago, it’s going to smell by now.”

  There was a pleasant thought. “I was all over the house. Except the basement. And honestly, I didn’t look in the closets and the bathtub.” The police hadn’t even gone in the house at all, but had stayed in the yard. “That was just yesterday though. I don’t know if enough time has passed for, uh, odor to occur.”

  Ryan shrugged. “Depends on how much the air conditioning is cranked up. You might not have been able to tell. You might want to swing by the house again. Or have the guy tell you his passwords. Check his bank account and credit cards and see where he was last.”

  “That’s a good idea.” I could do that. It wasn’t sneaking around empty warehouses or stumbling across fields strewn with body parts.

  While my coffee brewed I answered Marner’s text from the night before informing me the body wasn’t Cezar.

  Okay, will do. Do you know who the dead man is?

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but it might help Cezar connect the dots if it was someone he knew.

  Jake didn’t answer me, so I went for coffee creamer and a mug, ready to go the second the coffee was ready. “Why do people kill?” I asked Ryan. I didn’t mean it rhetorically. I was searching for motivation, which could give me an angle to start. “Like what’s the standard motivation for murder?” I was pretty sure we had had this conversation before but I was exhausted and I needed a recap.

  “Love and money. Love covers the range of jealousy, love turned into hate, and wanting to impress someone. Money is simple. Just plain old greed.”

  “This is definitely about money. I don’t think Cezar is inspiring jealousy in anyone.” Something nailed me in the back of the head right as I was going lift the coffee pot up and pour. “Ow, what was that?” I whirled around and saw Cezar. I had no idea what he had hit me with, but if history was repeating itself, most likely a penny.

  “After everything I’ve done for you, you’re going to make fun of a dead guy? Geez, you don’t know who may or may not want to have a little Cezar love.”

  My cheeks flushed. I hadn’t meant for Cezar to overhear my not-so-nice words. “Sorry.”

  Cezar grunted and looked over at Ryan. “Who the hell are you?”

  Ryan had pushed off the countertop and was standing straight. “You can see me?”

  The best we had figured was if ghosts hadn’t known each other in life, they couldn’t see each other in death. It made me an annoying middleman. But this was interesting, because clearly Ryan and Cezar were staring each other down.

  “Yeah, I can see you. What am I, blind?”

  Ryan shot me a look like he understood now why I wanted to be rid of Cezar. “I’m Ryan. Who are you?”

  “Cezar Wozniak. Kid’s been staging my lake house. How do you know her?” He sounded territorial about me, which was somewhat amusing.

  Ryan didn’t look amused at all. He looked ticked off. “I’ve known her since she was nineteen. We’re very, very good friends.”

  Cezar’s bushy eyebrows shot up. He gave Ryan a once-over then looked over at me. “You get around, kid.”

  I rolled my eyes. “He really does mean just friends. We never dated.”

  “Doesn’t mean you didn’t—" he made a whistling sound “—you know what I’m saying.”

  “We didn’t,” I said flatly. Once my greatest regret (okay, that’s a lie, my Catholic guilt has caused me to regret many things in my life) the fact that Ryan and I had never been together was now a relief. That would have been an awkward history to have hanging around between us now, post-mortem.

  “She’s not my type,” Ryan said with a shrug.

  That wasn’t the first time he had said that, and I didn’t know why he felt the need to constantly beat a dead horse. He had also told me during an argument that I had a flat butt, and I have to admit, that got under my skin. Not everyone was J. Lo. Had he ever seen an Irish woman with a booty? No. It’s genetics. “He’s not my type either,” I said, just to drive home that it was a mutual choice.

  “Yeah, cops are your type.”

  Ryan snorted. “I’m a cop too.”

  Ce
zar laughed, amused. But then he seemed to realize that could have greater implications. “Do I know you?”

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “Do you know Big Eddie? Sammy the Salami?”

  “No.”

  Cezar ran through a list of about ten names. Ryan repeatedly shook his head.

  Meanwhile, I had zoned out, having had the pleasure of my first sip of coffee, followed by my second and third.

  “Hey, kid, pay attention!” Cezar yelled, snapping his fingers in front of my face.

  So much for the relaxing beauty of my morning java. “What?” I asked, irritable. “This has nothing to do with me. I don’t know those people.”

  “If you don’t remember where you were in the hours before you bit it,” Ryan said, “I told Bailey you should check your bank account and cellphone records. It might give you a clue as to your last location, and your body.”

  “Here’s the thing—don’t you think if I was at my house when I woke up or whatever the hell you want to call it, we can assume I was at my house when I bit it? I mean, look at my outfit. I was down by my dock at the lake drinking a beer.”

  “Then Bailey should check the woods around the house, assuming there are woods. Or the lake.”

  “How am I supposed to check the lake?” This was all ridiculous. “I told you, Cezar. You’re probably in the water. We just have to wait for you to pop back up like a pool floatie.”

  He looked morose. “You may be right. Damn it. I hate sitting around. If we can’t find my body, then you need to look into the money. We need to check the storage unit. But without my body, there’s no key, so you need to lift Eddie’s.”

  We were back to that. “At the Schvitz?”

  “Yeah.”

  I thought about Cezar lying in bed beside me. His repertoire of pop music, diva high notes, and the Rat Pack songs of seduction while I prayed for quiet and sleep. I couldn’t repeat the night before without losing my sanity.

  Weekend plans? One covert sweat bath infiltration operation, coming up.

  Chapter Five

  “I look terrible in this outfit,” I told Cezar on Saturday. “It’s really unflattering.” I stared at myself in the reflection of my car window, horrified at what a catering uniform did to my frame. “It’s so boxy.”

  Black pants, a white shirt, and a men’s black vest combined to make me look like a redheaded child pretending to be a waiter in her father’s clothes. I looked twelve. And pasty. White washes me out.

  “This is what you’re worried about?” Cezar asked. “Look at me. I’m doomed to eternity in a pair of freaking swim trunks. What I wouldn’t give for an expensive suit right now.”

  He had a point. “Yeah, you got a raw deal on that, I will admit.” I took a deep breath and put my cross-body bag over my shoulder and locked my car. I had parked down the street from the brick building that housed this mythical man-place. “I wonder if you’ll get cold come winter?”

  “I hope not. I’ll be walking around with tight nipples all the time.” He shot me a grin.

  There was a visual. “Okay, let’s do this, because I feel like I’m going to vomit. I am not exactly a rule breaker, you know. I like structure.” The thought of breaking and entering (which technically this would be, right?) was horrifying.

  “Don’t overthink it. Just in and out. No big deal. Like my wedding night.”

  Really? I shuddered. “That was inappropriate,” I chastised him.

  “You are such a priss. It’s surprising, given that they always say redheads are feisty. You are not feisty.”

  “I think feisty is a synonym for bitch. I don’t think that I’m a priss just because I want to follow the rules.” I wasn’t sure why I was defending my abhorrence of illegal activity to a dead criminal. I decided it was best to just stop speaking.

  Cezar pointed to a rusted door next to the dumpster. “You can go in through there.”

  “Here goes nothing.” I pulled gently on the door, afraid it would make noise. It didn’t move at all. I glanced around, feeling like there were eyes on me. There were. Cezar’s. Rolling back into his head.

  “You can pull a little harder, kid. Don’t act like you’re sneaking around. You have to move with confidence. Like you’re supposed to be there.”

  Sure. Easy. Not. But I straightened my back and pulled open the door, channeling my inner caterer. Fortunately, my fear of immediately encountering a person who knew I wasn’t supposed to be there wasn’t realized. I was in an empty hallway, filled with boxes and an industrial mop and bucket. The door slammed shut behind me, causing me to jump. “Oh geez.” I gave a sigh of relief when no one came storming around a corner, guns blazing. “Where to?” I asked, whispering.

  Cezar pointed. “Straight, then to the right. I’ll go first and make sure no one is in the locker room.” He started down the hall while I dutifully waited.

  But as a couple of seconds passed and the wait drew out, I started to fidget. Where the heck was he? I was about to go after him when I heard footsteps. Cezar didn’t make that sound when he walked. First of all, ghosts make no noise when they moved. Second of all, this was the sharp tap of dress shoes, not Cezar’s flip-flops. Freaking out, I yanked open the nearest door and stepped inside. It was the sauna.

  Six pairs of male eyes met mine, mostly curious.

  Oh no. It was so humid I couldn’t drag a breath and I tried to stammer an apology as I felt behind me for the doorknob. That was a whole lot of nakedness going on in one space. A few had towels wrapped around them, but two guys were just flat out naked. Legs spread. They ranged in age and size and levels of attractiveness, but I couldn’t allow my gaze to stay anywhere in particular. I just kept darting my eyes from one guy to the next as I said in a breathy voice, “I’m so sorry. My apologies. I’m new and I think I’m lost.”

  I found the doorknob and turned it as one guy, who looked like he spent more than his fair share of time in the gym with a broad chest and ripped abs and biceps, gave me a grin. “Likely story.”

  I was blushing. My eyes went to the floor. Cezar’s phrase “meat sweats” popped into my head. Yeah. This was not good. I turned and got out of there. But I came face-to-face with a guy who was six-five on a short day, had a nose that was broken at least once, and a scowl on his rugged features. He was wearing black dress pants and a white shirt and vest. We looked like we were colleagues at an eighties wedding reception.

  Except for the fact that he had a gun in his waistband. I swallowed hard and tried to find something to say. “Hi, I’m Nikki,” I said, blurting out the first name that popped into my head. “Are you who I’m supposed to be looking for? I can’t find the kitchen and I’m already five minutes late.”

  His frown didn’t alter. He said something in another language. Russian, maybe. I wasn’t sure if his lack of English was a good thing or a bad thing. Because if he was threatening to kill me, I had no warning.

  But he just pointed down the hallway, so like a little lamb blithely trotting off to slaughter, I dutifully went, cursing myself. This was stupid. He could be showing me to a torture chamber. He could shoot me in the back of the head right now. Which would suck. He didn’t though. He seemed to be following me, but I was too afraid to turn around and look. Mentally cursing Cezar and his obvious abandonment of me, I rounded the corner and found the kitchen. It wasn’t exactly enormous or glamorous, just efficient. There were a couple of guys in there cooking over an open flame and two young guys in their early twenties dressed like waiters.

  I beelined for them. Surely one of them spoke English. “Hey, guys!” I sounded insanely chipper. Like Minnie Mouse on steroids.

  The one who had been lifting a plate let it go slack and the steak slid toward the countertop as he gaped at me. Then he realized what he had done and tried to right the plate, saving the steak but pouring juices all over his hand and the counter. “Shit.”

  Yay, he spoke English. “Here let me help you.” I moved over and wiped the countertop w
ith a paper towel I grabbed from next to the sink. I saw the stack of clean plates and got him a new one. I handed it to him with a smile.

  His eyes widened. “Thanks,” he murmured.

  Oh no. He thought I was cute. Seriously? The only guy to find me attractive in this ugly fake uniform was all of twenty years old and weighed less than me. He was so skinny he looked like a stick figure in his clothes. But if he had a crush, he would help me, and that was great. I just had to be careful. “You’re welcome. I’m Nikki.”

  “I’m Tony.”

  “I’m new, obviously. What should I do?” I glanced around. “You look like you have your hands full.”

  “Here, you can serve with me.” He handed me a plate full of food. “I’ll show you around. But like, I’m shocked they have a girl here though. This is men only.”

  He sounded like he thought that was a good thing. But maybe I was just being overly sensitive. In my opinion, they could open it exclusively to women on their own night and no one would go. That’s what a spa was for. I mean, wine and paint night is officially open to both sexes, and yet I’ve never seen a man at one. I was pretty sure none of my female friends wanted to sweat together in an unmarked building with zero décor and staff armed with weaponry.

  Ryan had mentioned my acting abilities were less than stellar but I put in a valiant effort. “Yeah, I know, I think they sent me thinking I was a guy because of my name.” I shrugged, trying to giggle and pretend to be younger than I was. “Whatever.” I capped it off with a bright smile.

  Tony’s cheeks turned pink. He opened his mouth to say something, but one of the cooks yelled, “Tony, quit yapping and get your ass out there!”

  He startled. “Right.” He gestured for me to follow him.

  I grabbed a plate and dutifully fell in line, feeling like the most obvious fraud ever. I was not cut out for subterfuge. Yet somehow I had been thrust into this role in recent months and I was going to have to figure out how to own it, or spend my life surrounded by crying, yelling, lamenting dead people harassing the crap out of me.