1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun

by Lois Winston

  "Either way he's the devil incarnate," Mama told Zack.

  "Right-wing reactionary!" accused Lucille.

  "Bolshevik!" shot back Mama.

  Zack winked at the boys. "I see what you mean"

  Lucille pushed her chair away from the table. She pointed a gnarled finger at Mama. "That woman is insufferable. And so is that mangy fur ball alley cat of hers."

  "Why you ... you ... Stalin lover!"

  "Fascist!"

  "Truce!" I screamed.

  Mama's mouth clamped shut.

  Pounding her cane, Lucille stalked from the kitchen. As soon as she was out of earshot, Mama's tongue once again loosened and she began batting her eyelashes at Zack. "I want to hear all about your exciting life, young man. Don't leave out any details."

  "Yeah, tell us about the guys who duct taped you," said Nick. "Were they Mafia?"

  "Or terrorists?" chimed in Alex. "Were you shooting in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

  "Nothing so exciting. Or dangerous. At least I didn't think so at the time. I try not to make a habit of winding up on the business end of an Uzi."

  "Good," said Mama. "We've had enough excitement in this family to last a lifetime."

  "But you did?" asked Alex, his eyes bugging out.

  "Unfortunately."

  Mama's hand fluttered to her heart. "My goodness! You must have been terrified."

  "No way," said Nick. "I'll bet he Rambo'd 'em." He turned to Zack for confirmation. "Didn't you?"

  "We could have used you here yesterday," said Alex. "Do you have a gun?"

  Zack held up both his hands. "Easy, guys. I think you're getting carried away. I'm no Stallone."

  No, you're more a Pierce Brosnan-George Clooney-Patrick Dempsey-Antonio Banderas hunk.

  Where the hell had that come from?

  I felt my face flush and glanced around to make sure the words had only popped into my head and not out of my mouth. Luckily, Mama and the boys were too fascinated by Zack to notice the inferno emanating from my cheeks.

  I gave myself a mental rap on the knuckles. Newly widowed women-even those whose husbands had turned out to be lying, cheating bastards-shouldn't have such thoughts for near strangers. I took a deep breath and focused back on the conversation flying across the kitchen table.

  "So where were you?" asked Nick.

  "Why'd someone want to kill you?" asked Alex.

  Zack leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "I was in rural Guatemala shooting a photo essay on Indian villages. There's little social or political unity among the Indian communities. They even have their own colorful styles of clothing. That's what I was focusing on for National Geographic."

  Nick screwed up his face. "Sounds boring."

  "Yeah," said Alex. "Who'd want to kill someone over native costumes?"

  "Probably no one," said Zack, "but unfortunately, while traveling from one village to the next, I stumbled across something I wasn't meant to see."

  "What?" asked Nick.

  I answered for Zack. "Drugs."

  "Exactly," he said. "Guatemala's major natural resource is its fertile soil. One of the villages had discovered they could make a lot more money growing marijuana instead of corn. The farmers mistook me for a drug enforcement officer. I was lucky they didn't shoot me on the spot."

  "How ever did you get out of there?" asked Mama.

  Zack flashed her a twinkling eye smile. "I used my immeasurable charm"

  Of that I had no doubt. In no time at all my new tenant had woven a spell around both Mama and my boys. I was contemplating asking him to work his magic on Lucille when the phone rang.

  "Quick! Turn on your television," said Cloris after I answered.

  "I can't."

  "What do you mean, you can't?"

  "Excuse me," I mumbled to Zack, the boys, and Mama as I carried the portable phone into the living room. They paid no attention to me as Zack regaled them with how he talked his way out of a deadly situation-once his captors had removed the duct tape covering his mouth. "We were robbed yesterday," I told Cloris.

  "Again?"

  "Luck of the Irish."

  "Since when are you Irish?"

  "Since Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg became Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O'Keefe."

  "That doesn't count."

  "I suppose not. Anyway, Seamus O'Keefe died trying to kiss the Blarney Stone, so how lucky can the Irish really be?"

  "Anastasia!"

  "What?"

  "Stop babbling and listen."

  "What's so important?"

  "Vittorio Versailles is dead."

  "OMIGOD! How?"

  Through the phone line I heard Cloris take a deep breath. "A bullet to the back of the head. One of his peacocked goons found him at his apartment when he failed to show for some luncheon today."

  Three slices of mushroom pizza flip-flopped in my stomach. "I'll call you right back." I clicked off, grabbed my cell phone, and headed for the back porch.

  "Anastasia! What's going on?" asked Mama as I raced through the kitchen.

  "Not now, Mama." I grabbed my coat off the hook in the mud room and slammed the back door behind me.

  "Execution style?" I asked Cloris when she answered on the first ring.

  "What was that all about?"

  "Batswin and Robbins tapped my phone."

  "Is that legal?"

  "I gave them permission."

  "Are you out of your friggin' mind? Why on earth would you do that? They're trying to pin Marlys's murder on you, in case you've forgotten."

  "Believe me, I haven't forgotten. They gave me no choice. Tell me about Vittorio."

  "The news mentioned the lawsuit he filed against Trimedia. And according to an unnamed source, the police are questioning several persons of interest at the magazine. The newscaster implied the police think someone at Trimedia took out a contract on Vittorio."

  "I suppose whoever paid to get rid of Vittorio figured a hit man was a heck of a lot cheaper than an extended court battle."

  "No guessing as to the outcome, either."

  "But who?"

  "Someone with balls. And connections."

  The mushroom pizza solidified into a two-ton cannonball. "Hugo?"

  "He fits on both accounts, doesn't he?"

  According to the rumor mill, Hugo grew up in the shadows of organized crime, his father having been an accountant for one of the five New York crime families. Years ago Hugo had changed his name from the ethnic sounding Herschel Rosenbaum to the aristocratic sounding Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp. However, those same rumors claimed he still maintained ties with many of his father's associates and his own old friends from back in the day.

  "We don't know that for certain," I said. "Besides, Hugo has no real power at Trimedia any more. He's nothing but a figurehead."

  "What about that argument you overheard?"

  I thought back to the angry voices coming from the other side of Naomi's office door. The out-of-character behavior exhibited by both Naomi and Hugo afterwards. Hugo's assurance that he'd handle everything. "If Hugo were leveraging a buyback of the company, Vittorio's lawsuit would put everything on hold."

  "Or kill the deal if Trimedia lost the court battle," added Cloris.

  "No Vittorio. No lawsuit. No problem."

  "Bingo!"

  "Now all I have to do is find out if Hugo was in negotiations with Trimedia."

  "Still think he and Naomi didn't have anything to do with Marlys's murder?" asked Cloris.

  "No, but I don't want to believe they did. Hugo maybe. He's got the connections. But Naomi? I just don't buy it."

  "Maybe she didn't know."

  "That would make more sense."

  "So what's your next move, Sherlock?"

  "I think I'd better keep that to myself. If my plan backfires, I don't want you getting hauled off to the slammer with me."

  "You're planning something illegal?"

  "Depends on your definition of i
llegal," I said.

  "Forget my definition. How would Batswin and Robbins define whatever it is you're planning?"

  "I think it would fall under one of those murky areas of the law."

  "Be careful, okay?"

  "I will."

  What I planned was a search of Hugo's office. I wasn't certain I'd find anything incriminating-part of me hoped I didn't-but a reconnoiter of the office was easier than finding a way into his apartment.

  The next day, after dropping Alex at the library and Nick at basketball practice, I headed for Trimedia. Even though I didn't expect anyone else to show up at the office on a Sunday afternoon, I decided to park my car across the road in the train station parking lot.

  After letting myself into the building, I first headed for my office. I slipped out of my coat and hung it on the hook to the side of the entrance. In case someone else did decide to catch up on work today, I flipped on my computer and arranged my cubicle to make it appear that I was working on a project.

  To add to the illusion, I slipped on my work smock and stuffed a few tools and supplies into the deep front pockets. In case the boys called, I grabbed my cell phone before storing my purse in the bottom drawer of my desk.

  Hugo's office was situated on the fourth floor, the top story of Trimedia. Although he shared the marble-tiled, mahogany-walled floor with the other corporate stuffed shirts, the size and location of his office-a windowless, out-of-the-way closet of a space-reflected his status as a corporate Bottom Feeder.

  However, power or no power, Hugo kept his office locked. I wasn't deterred. He shared a secretary with several lower level managers. I headed for her desk.

  In the top drawer I found a set of keys, each contained a DayGlo orange label with a letter of the alphabet hand-written in thick black marker. C, W, P, and H. Charles Zucker, Walter Montieth, Paul Horner, and Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp. I pocketed the keys and headed back to Hugo's office.

  For a man who had no real function at Trimedia, Hugo's desk was extremely cluttered. Several mounds of manila file folders covered the surface. Another precarious pile filled the visitor's chair off to the side. Old issues of American Woman and various other publications he had once directed lay on the carpet, stacked neatly by year and title against the walls. The glossy columns of long forgotten issues stood silent sentry to a deposed potentate.

  I glanced around the cramped office with its meager furnishings. Trimedia hadn't seen fit to supply Hugo with so much as a filing cabinet, let alone a computer. Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp had once controlled a publishing empire. Now he was exiled to a dismal hovel like an unwanted and unloved Cinderfellow. Was such a slap in the ego enough to make him turn to murder?

  Clearing a space in the center of his desk, I settled into his chair and began skimming the contents of the first stack of file folders.

  After two hours I'd found nothing to indicate Hugo was in negotiations to buy back the company and nothing that incriminated him or Naomi in the murders of either Marlys or Vittorio.

  What I did find filled me with profound sadness. Hugo spent his days at Trimedia surrounded by the minutia of days long past. The files contained all the meeting notes, all the hard copy, all the blue lines, all the artwork, and all the financial statements from each of the magazines lined up against his wall. Over thirty years of the history of the Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing Company, from the day the first issues rolled off the presses. Nothing more.

  Hugo was no murderer. He was nothing but an unhappy old man living in the past. Whatever his argument with Naomi had been about, it certainly wasn't anything that involved murder and mayhem. Or even the overthrow of the existing regime. Hugo had lost his publishing empire in a hostile takeover. He had neither the acumen nor the capital to reclaim his title and realm.

  I mulled over what I remembered of Naomi's and Hugo's angry conversation.

  "Don't be stupid. Everything will work out. I made a mistake. There. I admit it. Satisfied?"

  "A mistake?"

  "Yes, a mistake. Nothing more. It's over. Forget about it."

  The mistake Hugo referred to was probably his affair with Marlys. It was over because Marlys had dumped him for someone with more power and deeper pockets. Not to mention the fact that Marlys was dead.

  "Over? We're smack in the middle of a gargantuan dung heap."

  "Not if we play our hand right."

  "What are you suggesting?"

  "That you let me handle things. Okay? We have a chance to set things back on track."

  "Not with this new situation."

  "A minor wrinkle. Trust me."

  I filled in the blanks based on the clues spread out before me. Hugo had probably wheedled his way back into Naomi's good graces by convincing her he planned a buyback of the company. Naomi believed him because she needed to believe him. She hated the new ownership and feared Marlys had planned to sleep her way into Naomi's job. The dung heap and new situation referred to Marlys's death which Naomi feared would stall or obstruct Hugo's buyback plans. Naomi had no clue that those plans were a mere pipe dream.

  I left the office the way I found it, locked the door, and returned the set of keys to the secretary's desk. Shunning the elevator in hopes of shaving off a few of the donuts and brownies that had affixed themselves to my hips recently, I headed down the stairs.

  As I opened the fire door leading onto the floor American Woman shared with several other publications, I heard voices coming from the direction of the Models Room.

  The Models Room was actually a large walk-in closet at the northwest corner of the floor. We used it to store props and samples for past, current, and future issues. Since it's next to impossible to find plastic Jack-o-lanterns in April or ceramic leprechauns in September, we keep on hand a large supply of seasonal doodads and decorations for photo shoots. I also used the closet to store the various new products samples craft manufacturers constantly send me. Cloris gets samples of foie gras and Chambord-soaked pound cake; I get faux-fur felt squares and chenille stems.

  But why would anyone be in the Models Room on a Sunday afternoon?

  I crept closer.

  "There's nothing but junk in here, Dicky. I don't know what you find so fascinating."

  "Hey, one man's junk, yada-yada-yada."

  "I thought you wanted to see my new office"

  "I do, Sweet Cheeks. You're gonna give me the ten-dollar tour. Top to bottom. Every office."

  Sweet Cheeks? I froze. Only one other person I knew had a fondness for that particular appellation. Ricardo. An iceberg twice the size of the Titanic killer broadsided me. A shiver coursed from my in-desperate-need-of-a-touch-up roots down to my in-desperate-need-of-a-pedicure toes. Could Erica's new boyfriend and Ricardo be the same person?

  Dicky.

  Ricardo.

  The jigsaw pieces began to fit together. The resulting picture didn't paint Erica in such a sweet and innocent light. So much for following in the footsteps of Jessica Fletcher. Cloris had raised suspicions of Erica all along, but I'd pooh-poohed her.

  "What's in these boxes?" asked Dicky. I heard scraping, as if he were pulling down one of the cartons stored on the top of the metal shelving. It hit the floor with a thud.

  Erica winced. "Careful! You'll break something." The sound of tape ripping off cardboard echoed out into the hall. "Dicky, please. Don't open that. We shouldn't even be here. What if someone finds us?"

  "Would you shut up? Jeez, I can't stand it when you whine. Grow up! Who's gonna find us? It's Sunday. Everyone's home in the 'burbs, playing mommy and daddy to the rugrats."

  "I'm sorry." Erica's apology came out as a whimper. "What are you looking for? I'll help you. We'll get done much faster."

  "Something that don't belong here. You'll know it when you see it."

  "I don't understand."

  Dicky snorted. "You ain't gotta understand. Just open the boxes. I'll do the understanding for both of us, Sweet Cheeks. Capisce?"

  Even if Erica didn't have a clue, I had a pretty good
idea what Dicky was hunting for. Actually, I had fifty thousand ideas. He probably figured if I hadn't hidden the money at home, I might have stashed it somewhere at work where no one would stumble across it.

  No matter how much I protested to the contrary, Ricardo still believed I was pulling a fast one on him and had hidden the money somewhere. Probably because that's what he would have done.

  I had to get back to my cubicle and out of the building before Erica and Ricardo discovered me. The most direct path took me past the Models Room. With the door open, there was too much chance of their hearing or seeing me.

  My only other option was to slip downstairs, make my way across the length of the building to the stairwell at the opposite end, and come back up, approaching my cubicle from the other direction.

  I turned toward the fire door.

  "Anastasia?"

  Shit! I spun around, feigning surprise. "Oh, Erica! Hi. I didn't realize anyone else was here."

  "Neither did I. What are you doing here?"

  "Just catching up on some work."

  I didn't see your car in the parking lot."

  "I parked at the train station." I patted my stomach and laughed. "My new exercise regimen. Trying to walk off Cloris Cal ories since I can't resist those goodies she's constantly waving under my nose."

  She glanced at her own stomach and giggled. "I know what you mean.

  "What about you? Why are you here on a Sunday?"

  "I wanted to show Dicky my new office."

  At that moment, a man who looked like he could be in the cast of any number of Al Pacino gangster flicks stepped out of the Models Room.

  Neither Mama nor Lucille had done justice to Ricardo in their description of him to Fogarty and Harley, although Mama had come much closer. Lucille definitely needed her eyes examined. Think Sylvester Stallone meets Steven Seagal meets King Kong, and you begin to get an idea. Right down to the forest of thick black hair covering nearly every inch of his exposed flesh.

  Erica slipped her hand into Dicky's. "I'm glad we bumped into you. I've been wanting to introduce you to Dicky." She tilted her head back to catch his eye. "Dicky, this is my friend Anastasia. The one I've told you about."

  Then she turned her attention back to me. "And this is my boyfriend Dicky."