by Lois Winston
At ten-thirty on a Friday night, most people had better things to do than push a shopping cart up and down the aisles of Shop-rite. Once upon a time when I led a predictably normal suburban, middle-class life, I was one of them. No more. I sailed up one aisle and down the next of the near-empty supermarket, filling my cart with low-priced store brands. Cheap was good. Cheap on sale was even better.
As I stood in front of the spaghetti aisle, studying the little shelf labels to figure out which brand was the best bargain per pound, my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my purse and looked at the display. Private Call. Not a good sign. I pushed the button. "Hello?"
"You set me up, bitch."
Even though I was prepared to hear it, I nearly dropped the phone at the sound of Ricardo's menacing voice. "No! I went to the mall. I did everything like you said. I waited. You never called."
"The mall was crawling with cops. I warned you not to tell anyone.
"I didn't!"
"So they just happened to be hanging around for the hell of it, huh?"
"I have your money."
"In marked bills, no doubt. I wasn't born yesterday, Sweet Cheeks. I've been keeping an eye on you. I know what you've been up to."
"You've got it all wrong."
"Oh yeah? How many other people in Westfield have their phones bugged and cops watching their houses?"
"How do you know that?"
"I told you. I've been keeping an eye on you. I even know where you are right now. No food in the house, huh?"
I gasped, spinning around to check up and down the aisle. I saw no one except a bored-looking teenage clerk stocking cans of tomato sauce, and he wasn't talking on a phone.
Even though I suspected Ricardo had broken into my house, assaulted my family, drugged the pets, and robbed us blind, hearing him confirm it was like getting flattened by a Hummer. I leaned against the shelf of spaghetti for support. "You've taken everything I have. There's nothing left. Leave me alone."
"What I took doesn't even make a dent in what Karl owed me. I want my money."
"I don't have it!"
"Look, Sweet Cheeks, I know Karl had the money. I helped him get it."
"What do you mean?"
"Your husband was one mean son of a bitch. I really admired him for that. Balls of steel. Lousy gambler, though. Too bad he had to die. I was racking up a nice piece of change from all those sucker bets he placed. The sap couldn't pick a winner if it sat on his head."
"What are you saying?"
"You know that accident his mother had? The hit-and-run on Queens Boulevard?"
"What about it?"
"That was no accident. It was a set-up to knock her off so Karl could get his hands on the money she had stashed in her apartment."
My brain went numb. A sickening feeling settled in my stomach. "Karl tried to kill his mother?"
"His idea but I drove. So's he wouldn't chicken out at the last minute. Amateurs. You never know if you can trust 'em or not.
"That broad's one tough bitch, though. And lucky. I woulda nailed her good except some SOB in a pick-up cut me off at the last minute. So's I only wound up winging her.
"Then Karl, he comes up with another plan. While she's in the hospital, he helps himself to the dough, then torches the place to cover up the theft."
"I don't believe you. Karl wouldn't do something like that. You're lying."
He snickered. "They always say the wife's the last to know."
My legs gave way, and I slumped to the floor. A wave of nausea swept over me. Eighteen years of marriage and no clues I'd shared a bed with a lying, cheating, murdering Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. "Three people died in that fire."
"We all gotta go sometime, Sweet Cheeks" He paused for a moment, then continued, "Some sooner than later, if you get my drift."
I got it all right. And it set my heart pounding into my throat.
"So's you see, I know Karl had the money."
"Why didn't he give it to you right away? Karl died weeks after that fire."
"The cops picked me up on some bogus warrant. Took a while to get sprung. Good for nothing shit lawyers. When I got out, I contacted Karl. We made arrangements for him to hand over the dough. Only he never showed."
No, instead Karl had hopped a plane to Las Vegas. I suppose all that money sitting around for weeks had been too much of a temptation for him. Then, after he gambled away Ricardo's money, Karl dropped dead, leaving me to deal with Lucille, the debt, the bills, and Ricardo.
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"So's you know I mean business, Sweet Cheeks. You want to keep your kids healthy, you come up with the money."
"How? I'm broke. Karl left me destitute. There's no insurance money. He drained our bank accounts. Maxed out the credit cards." "
"Not my problem, Sweet Cheeks. Sell the house if you have to."
"The bank will take the profit to pay off the home equity loan."
"There is another way," he said.
"What?"
I have some friends you could go work for. Evenings. Weekends. Easy money." He sniggered. "They run a service-type business. Classy looking broad like you could work off that debt in no time."
I shuddered at the suggestion. "Tempting as the offer sounds, thanks but no thanks. I'll find some other way to raise the money."
"I ain't got forever, Sweet Cheeks, and I'm still not convinced you ain't got the dough stashed someplace. But hey, I got a soft spot for brunettes. Since you're new to all this, I'll cut you a break. You got one more week. But this time you keep your trap shut. I find you working with the cops again, and the deal's off. Capisce?"
He hung up before I could answer.
DINNER THAT NIGHT CONSISTED of store-brand peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on day-old, half-priced bread. Carrot sticks on the side with a milk chaser. Quick, cheap, and covering all of the major food groups. So I didn't feel too guilty, especially since I'd bought whole wheat bread instead of white.
Something Ricardo had said kept niggling at the edges of my exhausted brain cells. As I munched on my sandwich, I replayed the conversation in my head. "He knew too much!" I said, slapping my hand on the table.
"Who knew too much?" asked Alex.
"Dad?" asked Nick.
Lucille leaned forward on her tree trunk arms and leveled one of her trademark narrow-eyed glowers at him. "Don't you dare blame my son for anything, young man. If your father were still alive-"
"He'd be making even more of a mess than the one he left behind." Mama rose from the table and carried her empty plate and glass to the sink. "God forbid we blame the saintly Karl Marx Pollack for anything."
"Mama..."
She spun around. "Why pussyfoot around the subject, Anastasia? Karl hoodwinked you. But what can you expect, considering he was raised by a traitor?" She jabbed a finger toward Lucille. "No Christian values. Total disregard for the law. A lack of respect for this wonderful country of ours. Under the circumstances, the man didn't stand a chance of developing proper morals."
Lucille's face darkened to an extremely unbecoming shade of magenta. "Traitor? I'll have you know that as a communist, I fight for democracy!"
Alex and Nick traded uncomprehending glances. "That doesn't make sense," said Alex. "How can-?"
"Enough!" I jumped to my feet. "I wasn't talking about Karl."
Puzzlement settled over Mama's face. "Then who?"
"Never mind." I snatched my purse off the kitchen counter, fished inside for my cell phone and Batswin's card, then headed for the back door. "I have to make a call."
The furrows of bafflement on Mama's forehead deepened. "Outside?"
"Definitely outside" There were only two ways Ricardo could have known as much as he did. Either he'd planted a bug in my house, or he had inside help.
Under the yellow glow of the back porch light, I punched in Detective Batswin's number. "Not only did your great plan fail," I said when she answered, "but now I'm in worse shape financially than I was befor
e I let you talk me into playing a bag lady."
"Calm down, Mrs. Pollack. There could be any number of reasons why he didn't show tonight," she said. "He'll contact you to set up another drop. We'll nab him then."
"He's on to you, Detective"
"What do you mean?"
I began to recount the evening's events from when I left the mall. "By the way, I had to borrow two hundred dollars from the money you gave me to buy food for my family."
She groaned. "Those were counterfeit bills."
"Counterfeit?" Angry cloud puffs of breath hung in the air as I shouted into the phone. "You told me they were marked! Even I know the difference."
"It wouldn't have made a difference if you'd followed orders."
"You're out to get me one way or the other, aren't you? If you can't pin Marlys's murder on me, you'll arrest me for passing bogus bills. What gives, Batswin? You down a few arrests on your monthly collaring quota? Bucking for a promotion?"
"This has nothing to do with me. The counterfeit bills were available."
"Available? You just happened to have fifty grand in counterfeit bills lying around the station?"
"It's evidence from another case. We borrowed it. It was quicker and easier than getting our hands on marked bills. You have any idea what kind of red tape that involves? Besides, you weren't supposed to spend any of that money."
"I had no choice! Ricardo stole every crumb of food in my house. Even the pet food."
"You don't know Ricardo was the thief. According to the Westfield police, there've been a rash of burglaries in your area lately."
"He called me."
"Ricardo?"
"No, Antonio Banderas."
"When? We didn't pick anything up on your phone."
"That's because he knows my phone is bugged"
"Impossible"
"Really? He called on my cell a little while ago. Bragged about knowing everything-including your sting. I'm lucky he only robbed me blind tonight instead of killing my kids and mother." I rubbed my arms and stamped my feet to ward off the cold from both the winter night and the sickening dread infiltrating my body.
Batswin grew defensive and accusatory, probably because she was now up to her eyeballs in shit with her job on the line. I didn't know much about police procedures, but I suspected "borrowing" evidence from one case to use in another was a humongous no-no.
"He couldn't have found out about the sting unless you mentioned it to someone," she said. "We warned you not to say anything."
"I didn't."
"Then how the hell did he find out?"
"You tell me, Detective. The way I see it, either he bugged the Trimedia conference room, or you've got a corrupt cop on the force."
When she didn't respond, I thought the connection had gone dead, but finally she said, "I'll have Trimedia swept for bugs and contact the Union County police to do a sweep of your property. If he's planted any sort of spying devices, we'll find them."
"And if there aren't any bugs?"
"We'll get to the source of this one way or another."
"Before or after he harms my family?"
"We won't let it come to that."
And she expected me to believe her? "You've got police in several jurisdictions working together, and Ricardo managed to outsmart all of you. What makes you think you'll even get another shot at nabbing him?"
"He's greedy. He wants his money, and he's made it clear he'll stop at nothing to get it."
"Oh, that makes me feel so much better. Good night, Detective. I'm off to have a nightmare or two or twelve." I hung up the phone and headed for bed, but sleep-nightmare-filled or otherwiseproved elusive.
At six-thirty the next morning, the doorbell rang. Dragging my sleep-deprived body out of bed, I tossed on a robe, pulled on a pair of thick socks, and padded to the front door. Batswin and Robbins stood on the porch. "A little early for a house call, isn't it, Detectives?"
"We came for the money," said Batswin.
I motioned them inside. "I wanted to give it back last night. Why now?"
"We were in the neighborhood," said Robbins.
I got the impression he and Batswin had rehearsed this encounter before ringing my doorbell. They had screwed up bigtime. Their visit to retrieve the money was Step One in their Cover Our Tushes cover-up.
Robbins unzipped his bomber jacket. The brown leather looked like it had seen combat back in Vietnam-if not Korea. Underneath, he wore an equally worn pair of jeans, a denim button-down shirt, and an Inspector Gadget tie. A Yankees baseball cap covered his balding head; brown leather gloves covered his hands.
Batswin wore a turquoise and emerald ski jacket, complete with a Hunter Mountain lift tag hanging from the zipper pull, over a pair of acid-washed jeans. No hat. No gloves. Silver and black onyx fetish bears dangled from her ears. She kept her jacket zipped.
I doubted Robbins' explanation. Westfield was out of their jurisdiction. Besides, they certainly didn't look dressed for duty. The detectives didn't want me handing the money over last night because they feared the Essex County cops would discover the phony Franklins used as bait.
Most likely, they'd taken the fifty grand without even signing for it. They probably planned to slip the money back into the evidence room this morning and not say a word about the missing two hundred dollars. After all, what were the odds of someone actually counting every counterfeit bill in each counterfeit stack?
"Where's the money?" asked Batswin.
"In the kitchen."
I headed down the hall. They followed. "I'd offer you a cup of coffee," I said, opening the freezer and pulling out the Burberry bag, "but Ricardo stole my coffeepot." Besides, I wanted them gone before anyone else woke. Explaining Batswin's and Robbins's presence held as much appeal as a day at the endodontist.
Neither commented on my hiding place. Robbins took the bag from me.
"What about the receipt?" asked Batswin.
I pointed to the tote. "Inside. Along with a signed I.O.U. for the money I borrowed."
She grimaced.
Without another word, they both headed back toward the living room.
I followed. "What happens now?"
"We'll wait for Ricardo to make the next move," said Batswin.
"What about the murder investigation? Am I still a suspect?"
They both paused at the front door and turned toward me. Robbins, his free hand poised on the doorknob, cleared his throat. "We're not at liberty to discuss that."
I glanced at the bag of counterfeit money dangling from his hand. I knew something that could plunge Batswin and Robbins into deep doo-doo. They knew I knew. Maybe that would give them incentive to get off my back and concentrate their investigation elsewhere.
I closed the door behind them and headed back to bed. Five minutes later the phone rang. "Hello?"
"Mrs. Pollack?"
"Yes?"
"This is Angie at the We Care Animal Clinic. You can pick up your pets this morning."
"They're okay?"
"Fine. Doc ran a few tests to be sure, but it looks like they were only doped with Dimetapp."
"Cold syrup?"
"It's got the same ingredient they put in over-the-counter sleeping pills. Apparently, your robber didn't intend to kill your pets, just put them to sleep for awhile."
"A real animal lover," I muttered.
Too bad Ricardo didn't extend the same consideration to higher order primates. I doubted he merely intended to slip my kids a Mickey and tuck them into bed. Not after trussing them up like a pair of Christmas turkeys and dumping them in the bathtub last night.
"By the way," said the receptionist, "the bill comes to three hundred twenty-seven dollars."
More good news. "Why so much?"
"Tests, boarding, and flea dip for all."
"They had fleas?"
"The dog did. We dipped the cat and parrot as a precautionary measure.
"Fleas in the middle of winter?"
"It happens from
time to time. You'd better check your house, especially any of Manifesto's favorite curling-up places."
Just what I needed. I don't know why I should have been surprised, considering the current state of my Karma, or lack of it.
Have I mentioned that Lucille believes flea collars are a capitalist conspiracy to force hard-earned dollars from the hands of animal lovers throughout the country? When the dear Lord was handing out the Rational Gene, my mother-in-law must have been off protesting the use of In God We Trust on our currency.
So now her skewed sense of righteousness had cost me more of my hard-earned-not to mention bordering on nonexistent-dollars. Thanks to Ricardo's pilfering fingers, I could count on neither Mama nor Lucille to kick in anything toward the vet bill. I had a few piddling dollars left to my name. I hung up, hoping I could spring the beasties with a post-dated check.
I also hoped that if there were any fleas residing in my house, they'd all hitched a ride on Ricardo as he helped himself to our possessions.
Mama and Lucille insisted on accompanying me to the animal hospital. I wanted to sneak off without telling them, but the dog and cat carriers were stored in the closet in their room. So the three of us, along with the feline and canine transporters and Ralph's birdcage, bundled up and shoehorned ourselves into the Hyundai for the fifteen-minute drive to the We Care Animal Clinic.
The car coughed and sputtered as I turned the ignition key and depressed the gas pedal. As the Hyundai chugged to life, the needle on the gauge dipped toward the red pump icon. I detoured into the first gas station we came to, pulling out two minutes later with five gallons of gas in the tank and less than two dollars left in my wallet.
When we arrived at the animal hospital, Lucille refused to place Mephisto in his doggie transport. "He hates the carrier, and he's traumatized enough after last night"
She clasped him to her chest and nuzzled the top of his head. The Devil Dog squirmed and whined. "See? Poor baby. Don't worry. Mother's here," she sang, clutching him even tighter.
