A Secondhand Murder

by Lesley A. Diehl

  “What’s an ‘incendiary whatever’?” Madeleine asked, while sending a flirtatious finger wave over to Paco, who was standing near the kitchen door. He smiled and waggled his fingers in reply.

  “A bomb. Someone put a bomb under my sweet little car and Boom! Well, you heard it. Blammy. In a million charcoaled pieces.”

  “Lucky you weren’t in it.” Frida’s words poured over me like cold water. I was suddenly sober.

  “I want to go home.” I rose on shaky legs. I could have been crisped in that explosion. “Wait. First I have to go to the bathroom and throw up.”

  Frida drove me home in her cruiser. We left Madeleine sitting at the bar, waiting for Paco to get off work.

  “That’s twice now. Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  “There was something before the car?” Frida turned her head toward me, a look of concern on her face.

  I relayed Alex’s comment about how Valerie and I looked alike.

  “Your PI thinks you were the target?” Frida seemed to take his idea seriously. “I never thought about that possibility. When were you going to share this with me?”

  She turned the corner and started to pull over to the curb in front of my house.

  “No, no. Go! Go!” I tried to jerk the wheel out of her hands and turn the car back into the middle of the lane.

  “Let go of the wheel. What are you doing?”

  I would have stayed at the restaurant and watched Madeleine and Paco feed each other chips and salsa if I’d known Jerry would be sitting on my front steps. There it was, the answer to my demolished car and the nagging doubt about the killer missing his intended target.

  I jumped out of the car, grabbed him by the shirtfront, jerked him to his feet and began to shake him. “You creep. You sent a cheap hit man to do me in and when he bungled the job, you hired someone to blow me up in my car. Well, he got the car, but I’m still alive.” I balled my hand up into a fist and prepared to hit him.

  Frida grabbed my arm. “Whoa. Who is this?”

  “My husband and the guy who tried to kill me. Twice! Arrest him.”

  Chapter 9

  Okay. Maybe I was wrong about Jerry. Maybe he didn’t hire anyone to do me in. Maybe he did the work himself, but I had my doubts. Jerry might have been inspired to simplify his life by getting me out of it, but he didn’t have the cojones to get his hands dirty.

  I could tell that Frida was reluctant to arrest him. She didn’t draw her gun and her handcuffs remained on her belt.

  “So this is Jerry, your husband who lives in Connecticut, right? And you suspect him of long-distance attempted murder?”

  I looked down into Jerry’s cola-colored eyes. We were the same height when barefoot, but, you know me, I like my stilettos. From my birds-eye perspective, Jerry’s expensive haircut didn’t hide a growing bald spot. I still held onto his shirt. He struggled against my hands, trying to pry them off his lapels.

  “Look, Evie, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but if someone’s been trying to kill you, I need to know what’s going on. I’m worried. I tried to reach you several times today to let you know I’d be in the area.”

  I stuck my face closer to his and narrowed my eyes. His eyes did a little dance around their sockets, a sure sign he was keeping something from me.

  “See. He admits it. He was here. If he didn’t plant the bomb himself, he had someone else do it.” I grabbed more firmly onto the fabric.

  “Evie, honey, this is a four hundred dollar shirt. Could you back off a little?”

  “The car bomb was vintage Jerry, you idiot. You hired a real boob to do your work for you.”

  “Calm down. Why would I want to kill you?”

  “Because I won’t sign the divorce papers?” That couldn’t be the reason. Jerry wasn’t the type to worry about such legal status designations as married, separated, or divorced.

  Frida stood listening to our exchange, her hip cocked to one side, her right hand on the butt of her gun.

  “I don’t get it,” Frida said. “Why won’t you just divorce him? From what I’ve heard at our get-togethers, you certainly don’t love him and you moved all the way down here to get away from him. He cheats on you almost daily, gambles away huge chunks of money at the horse races and associates with known felons. I think the magic’s gone. Why not just sign on the dotted line?”

  Jerry looked shocked. “She said all that about me?”

  “And more, but I’ve got to get back to the office to file my report on the bombing and fire.” Frida continued to look at me with curiosity while I twisted Jerry’s shirt tighter in my hand.

  “Once I get on my feet financially, I’ll cut the jerk loose. Until then, I owe him money. He fronted me for the consignment shop.”

  “I’d forgive the loan, but …” Now he attempted to wriggle free of my hold by grabbing my hand in his and prying at my fingers.

  I held tight. “We signed a legal agreement for the money. I owe you the original amount with interest, and I intend to pay.”

  “I’ve got to run,” said Frida, “but here’s a thought. You don’t have to be married to pay back the money. You’re not making sense, Eve.”

  By now, Jerry and I were engaged in a tug of war with his shirt. I let go suddenly and he stumbled backwards, catching himself only a second before his butt hit my steps.

  “Fine. Here’s the thing,” I said. “I’m on his health insurance policy. I can’t afford to pay for my own insurance until I make a go of the store. I need you, Jerry.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in months.” He smoothed his shirt, pulled the front down and tucked the bottom into his pants.

  “I’m not trying to be nice. It’s just the way things are. I don’t want to need you, but I do.”

  Frida flapped her arms against her sides. “Well, there you are. That makes sense. When it appears the business is definitely a go, you get your divorce. What could be easier?” She turned to leave.

  “Yeah, but I need the papers signed now. My girlfriend’s pregnant. That’s why I was trying to reach you. I need to marry her.”

  “Oh, don’t be a drama queen. Lots of people wait until after the baby’s born to tie the knot. In a couple of months the shop should be in the black. You can wait until then.” I paused. I didn’t really believe that Jerry was behind the car bombing or Valerie’s death. In all fairness, I was the drama queen, but right now I saw both fear and desperation on his face.

  “What’s up? This can’t have anything to do with uh—”

  “Monica.”

  “Monica’s pregnancy. I don’t see you as the kind of man who could be pushed into a shotgun marriage. You’re just trying to get my sympathy.”

  Frida had turned toward her car, but she hesitated. “So you do have reason to want Eve out of your life?”

  “Yes, but not one good enough to kill her.”

  “What would be enough to kill for?” Certainly not the arrival of a stork. I suspected something else was going on with Jerry. He kept looking up and down the street, his feet restless on the sidewalk, as if he might need to put them to work suddenly and sprint out of there. He shook his head.

  “Jerry. Tell me.”

  “My girlfriend’s pregnant and she says it’s mine, but—”

  “So,” Frida broke in, “wait until the kid is born and have a DNA test.” Frida looked at Jerry as if he was the dumbest man she had ever met. Which, in my opinion, certainly could have been true.

  “Okay, there’s a baby on the way, and she told you it was yours. What else?” I knew there was something bigger than pregnancy bothering him

  “Her last name is Napolitani.” He wouldn’t look at me.

  Now I got it. “Her father is Nappi Napolitani, right?”

  Jerry nodded his head.

  “He wants you to marry his daughter regardless of the paternity issue.”

  Jerry nodded his head again.

  “I’m the only thing standing in the way of a nice,
big Italian wedding.”

  Jerry nodded his head.

  I stood there in the warm Florida night and stared off into the scrub palmetto fields beyond my house.

  “Give me the papers.” I held out my hand, and Jerry fished them out of his jacket pocket along with a pen. I signed and handed him the pen and the papers. “Frida, would you mind giving me a ride over to the Burnt Biscuit Bar?”

  Frida hesitated. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?”

  “I’m stone cold sober. By the way, Jerry, do you think Nappi keeps the work in the family or does he farm out his hits to independent operators? I mean, just so I know what to look for, in case you don’t get word to him in time.”

  “I don’t know. We’re not that close. I mean, aside from his daughter, all my dealings with him have been business.”

  “So there’s a contract out on you?” Frida asked as we made our way back to the cruiser. “Knowing that might make it easier for me to find out who planted that device in your car.”

  “Oh goody for you.” I opened the passenger door.

  “I really can’t drive you to a bar. I’ll drop you at headquarters. It’s down the street from the Burnt Biscuit.”

  “Wait, Evie!” yelled Jerry.

  I got into the car, slamming the door and locking it. Now I was out of his life, I longed for him to be out of mine. He banged on the window. I hit the button and let the glass descend an inch.

  “What?”

  “I thought you might put me up for the night.”

  “Your thinking is wildly delusionary. There are hotels, you know.”

  “Fine. I thought we could be friends, but you’re making yourself rather difficult to like.”

  “Boo hoo. What a loss for me.”

  “One last thing before you go get drunk.”

  “I’m not planning on getting drunk. I’m planning on rounding up as many cowboys as I can find to protect me from your bed-partner’s relatives. You’ve made my life very difficult and possibly very short.”

  “That money you owe me? Even if I call off Nappi with these divorce papers, he’s not gonna like an outstanding loan once I’m family.”

  Oh, crap! That hadn’t crossed my mind. “I’ll pay you. Just tell him that.”

  “Are we done here?” Frida tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “I wasn’t kidding. I’ve got paperwork to do.”

  “Punch it, sister.” She did, and I watched in the side view mirror as Jerry faded into the sweltering central Florida night. I hoped an errant alligator would invite Jerry along for an underwater swim.

  Frida drove for several blocks without a word. Then she slowed and turned to me.

  “You believe him? That some Mafioso is responsible for your destroyed car?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Despite the bungled job?”

  “It could have just been a warning.”

  She drove on in silence for a few blocks. “I’m gonna drop you here and go back to have a few words with your ex.”

  “Take him down to the station, feed him lots of coffee and deny him the bathroom. But I’ll bet he doesn’t know anything more than what he told us tonight. Feel free to make him uncomfortable for the sake of information.” I paused. “Nah, just do it … for me.”

  Nothing brings out a cowboy’s chivalry like a gal in danger, unless, maybe, there’s a calf that’s wandered off from its mama. In my case, letting all my dance partners at the Burnt Biscuit Bar know that my life was being threatened by the mob was like driving a chuck wagon into the midst of a cattle drive. I was three deep in Stetson protection. I only wanted one or two of them to provide backup for the evening—I assumed Jerry would deal with Papa Napolitani soon, thus ending the threat—but somehow, every one of them got involved in arranging my protection. They promised twenty-four-hour surveillance of my house, my store and my person. I assured them protection was only necessary for the night. They assured me I could have what I wanted, for as long as I needed it. Cowboys are real gentlemen that way.

  Rob Cassidy, owner of one of the largest cattle ranches in the area, insisted I borrow his extra pickup truck when he heard that my car now resembled a burned meat patty. A call on his cell, and several minutes later, one of his hands showed up with the keys to an old Ford Ranger. Upon inspection, I discovered that this generously loaned green truck had over a hundred thousand miles on her and the pungent smell of cow manure embedded in the fabric of the seats.

  “I know this isn’t your style,” Rob said, closing the driver-side door for me, “but it’s all I’ve got right now. My Escalade is in the shop. That old one-horned Brahma bull took offense when I drove it into the pasture. Protecting his ladies, I guess. He punched out the side panel. I’m driving the other one right now, but as soon as I get the first one back, it’s yours.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. This is fine for tonight. I’ve got rental on my insurance policy, so I’m sure I’ll have something to drive by tomorrow night.”

  I pulled out of the parking lot and drove off toward home. In my rearview mirror, I spotted my babysitter for the night, Cody Frenchot, in his Ford pickup. Another car followed behind him, too far back for me to identify either make, model, or driver. Another protector? Or the hit man?

  I chided myself for getting so worked up about Jerry’s future father-in-law. Daddy probably called off the hounds when Jerry phoned him, divorce papers in hand. Surely I’d seen the last of his handiwork in my charred car, and I was finally safe again. Unless he wanted to encourage me, using some equally unpleasant technique, to pay back the loan sooner than I had planned.

  My cell played “Cheap Sunglasses.” “Hello.”

  “We need to talk,” said PI Alex.

  “So talk.”

  “In person.”

  “You know where I live and you must know I’m heading there now. We can have this conversation on the front steps.”

  “What, no nightcap?”

  It was a tempting offer, but I’d had a long day. “I need sleep after the evening I’ve had. I’d rather not be bothered by some PI who thinks a couple of dances and a goodnight kiss make me an easy target.”

  “Ooh, we are testy tonight.”

  I flipped my phone shut and turned into my drive. Cody pulled over to the curb in front of the house, and our mysterious tail did the same. Not a hit man at all, Alex stepped out of the car. Before he could approach me, beefy Cody jumped out of his truck and positioned himself between Alex and me.

  “Looking for someone, buddy?”

  The two stood toe to toe, each well over six feet, Cody outweighing Alex by a good twenty steer-roping pounds.

  “It’s okay, Cody. He’s something like a friend.”

  “Well, you said some fella from up north was after you, and this guy sure don’t look like he belongs here.” In the light of the rising moon, Cody took in the polo shirt and khaki pants that were Alex’s signature wear.

  “He won’t be here for long. He’s harmless.” That was a lie. No one as yummy looking as Alex could be completely harmless.

  Cody continued to stand there and, for a moment, I thought he intended to plant himself permanently in that spot on my lawn. Finally, having made his point, he settled back on his boots and turned toward his truck.

  “I’ll be right here if you need me,” he said.

  “Make this quick,” I told Alex. “I’ve had a tough day.”

  “I thought you might like to know,” he said. “My client objects to my association with you, so I’m out of a job.”

  Chapter 10

  “Out of work, are you? And I’m supposed to do what?” I stood facing him, eye to eye, my hands on my hips. “Hire you?” Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. I wondered what the going rate was for a private investigator. I was even more curious about why he had sought me out to unload his troubles.

  “Could we go in and get comfortable?” He was pleading.

  Get comfortable. Could that be a euphemism for something else, somethin
g I shouldn’t be thinking about? I couldn’t help myself. A picture of his naked body in my bedroom appeared in high-def in my mind. I was only guessing, but it looked fine. My imagination was in overdrive after all the time spent alone.

  “Uh, sure.” I waved to my guardian angel Cody and unlocked the door.

  “Coffee?” I tossed my purse on the couch. He hesitated as though about to refuse, then nodded. I headed toward the kitchen.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, starting to follow me.

  I turned to face him. Big mistake. His damn azure eyes explored my face, then traveled down my body. “Sorry for the inspection, but I heard about your car.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  He walked toward me.

  “Sit.” I pointed at the couch. He sat.

  “I guess you must be a little nervous after tonight’s events.”

  He had no idea. I had sweated so much from anger and fear that my clothes felt wet as the Serengeti plains during rainy season.

  If I could just keep myself busy while he sat sprawled on my couch, I figured he had a fighting chance of not being jumped by a damp broad emanating tequila and estrogen. I fled into the kitchen to make coffee, but the task of activating my simple Mr. Coffee machine wouldn’t keep my hands off Alex for long. Why couldn’t I have a complicated device like an espresso maker? Those gadgets took too much time and concentration to allow for seduction.

  “Talk to me.” I was lurking, er, working, behind the kitchen island. “You can begin by telling me what happened with your client.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him start to rise from the couch. I yelled at him to sit again. He ignored me. “Don’t come in here. I can’t make coffee when somebody’s in my kitchen.”

  “Forget the coffee, then. Come here.”

  “In a minute.” I punched the brew button and looked at him. Damn, but my hormones were unruly tonight. He walked over to me and took my hand, leading me to the couch. He was doomed.

  “My client let me go because he said my relationship with you created problems. I find that odd, don’t you?”