Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  “None taken. Now I understand why Eagleton didn’t call today after he got my report. Carla’s theory puts me on a list of potential witnesses,” Nick said. “Tomorrow I’m meeting with a devil worshiper in Silver Lake who can tell me if the Schelz symbol was adopted by a local sect. Dave, can you tap someone at the Indiana State Prison for a list of Herrick Schelz’s visitors? As far back as you can get them.”

  “Sure,” Dave said.

  Since my brother appeared to be in a cooperative mood, I added, “Let’s not assume anything. Can you find out if Carla has the time of death and/or found the murder weapon yet?”

  Dave shook his head. “Carla hears I’m helping you and her next call is to Internal Affairs.”

  “I still know some people in the Field Investigation Unit and in the coroner’s office,” Dad said. “I’ll ask around.”

  “One more thing, and I guess this one’s on me,” I said. “I promised Oliver I would get him the name of Jarret’s lawyer.”

  “I’ll get the lawyer’s name.” Mom narrowed her eyes. “Jarret can’t avoid me forever. I want to see if that lying, cheating dog is man enough to talk to me.”

  I set my napkin on my plate, my heart swelling with parental love. “What do you say? Shall we adjourn to the Sportsmen’s Lodge for a nightcap?”

  Mom sprung out of her chair. “I need a minute to freshen up.”

  Dad blasted a two-finger whistle as Robin, Nick, Dave, and I stood. “Sit down. We are not going to the Sportsmen’s Lodge together. When I’m ready, I’ll go alone.”

  “There’s no time, Dad. The longer we wait, the more details the bartender will forget. We’ll act like we don’t know you and watch from the side. I want to see his reaction.” Before he argued, I gave him my sweetest grin. “I want to see you at work.”

  Robin snuggled under Dave’s arm. “We’ll stay here to help Viv with the dishes.”

  I did a double take at Dave’s agreeable nod. Prior to dating Robin, my brother’s idea of doing the dishes was throwing his empty pizza box into the trash. What next? Sushi? Foreign movies?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nick parked under the palm trees near the small, stone waterfall in the lot outside the Sportsmen’s Lodge. The bell captain opened the door. Nick and I filed down the tiled steps into the hotel, turning right toward the mahogany bar in the lounge at the west end of the lobby. A lone couple sipped cocktails at a table in the corner. Nick pulled out a stool near the end of the bar. I slid onto the seat beside him.

  The barrel-shaped bartender, late sixties with a white handlebar mustache and a red bulbous nose, strolled toward us from the cash register. He winked at me then smiled. “What can I get for you folks tonight?”

  “Two dry martinis, shaken to waltz time,” Nick said.

  I turned, confused. “Waltz time?”

  “Nick Charles, The Thin Man, 1934. The bartender knows.”

  “Sure do, bud.” He looked at me and said, “Switching poison, eh?”

  The bartender turned around and pulled bottles of gin and vermouth off the shelf. He set two martini glasses and poured the alcohol into a shaker. He shook slowly, gently—waltz time.

  “I can’t remember the last time I had a martini.” I took a sip from the stemmed glass he set in front of me, then winced. Maybe I couldn’t remember when, but I remembered why I didn’t drink martinis. Blech.

  Nick glanced over his shoulder then whispered, “Walter just came in. Here we go.”

  Dad crossed the lobby and sauntered into the lounge. He stopped four stools away from us and leaned his elbows on the bar. “Hey, Nozzle, what does a guy have to do to get a drink in this dive?”

  The bartender broke into a wide smile. “Walter Gordon, you old gumshoe. I thought you were dead. Where the hell have you been?”

  “On the golf course, lowering my handicap. How’ve you been?”

  “You know, keeping busy. Tending bar keeps me off the streets and out of jail. What can I get you tonight? Your regular?”

  “Sure,” Dad said, slapping a twenty on the bar. “With a bowl of those stale peanuts and some information.”

  Nozzle poured out a shot of whiskey and set it on the bar. “Information, eh? I thought you were retired.”

  “I am. I’m doing some work on the side, for a pal.” Dad downed his drink and slid the shot glass across the bar. He reached into his sport coat, took out his phone, and showed Nozzle the screen. “Have you seen this woman?”

  “Sure. She’s sitting at the end of the bar.”

  Dad casually glanced at me, then said, “You’re slipping, Noz. That’s not her. Study the photo with your glasses on.”

  Nozzle pulled specs from his pocket, took another look at the photo, gawked brazenly at me and then at the photo again. “Huh. You’re right. The one down the bar is missing the—” He curved his hands out in front of his chest.

  I cupped my fingers over my face.

  “They’re perfect,” Nick whispered in my ear. “Pay attention.”

  “The girl in the photo has a Southern drawl, sweet as honey,” Nozzle said. “She checked in late Monday and came back down here dressed like a call girl. Skirt up to here.” He sliced his fingers across the top of his thigh. “A guy showed up for her around ten. They left together.”

  “What did the man look like?” Dad said.

  “Mid- to late thirties, good looking, athletic, about six feet tall, maybe one-eighty, light brown hair. He checked into the hotel yesterday.”

  Jarret. My gut twisted. He had lied when he claimed he didn’t know Laycee was in town Monday night. Why be surprised? The lie wasn’t his first, certainly not his last.

  “Are you sure she checked in on Monday?” Dad said.

  “The legs, Walter, I never forget a great set of legs. I watched her strut to the check-in desk with her suitcase at the start of my shift. On Tuesday while I set up the bar, a different guy—bodybuilder type—met her in the lobby and they took off together. Didn’t see her for the rest of the night. An older gent came down to the bar around ten, asking if I seen a brunette with a Southern accent around.”

  “A big guy? Sixties? Similar Southern accent to the girl?” Dad said, repeating my description of Forrest.

  “Yeah, that’s him. A guest here, too. Popular broad. Is she a hooker?”

  “She’s dead,” Dad said.

  “Christ. I thought she checked out.”

  I whispered in Nick’s ear, “I’ve heard enough. Let’s get out of here.” I made a wobbly slide off the barstool. Damn martini. Hate those things.

  Nick steadied me then left a few bills on the bar. “Are you going to make it?”

  “I think I’ll splash some water on my face. I’ll be right back.” I zigzagged through the lobby, up the steps, and into the ladies’ room in the hallway leading to the restaurant and pool.

  I looked in the mirror. Good grief, everything about me had wilted in the heat—hair, dress, makeup. Not a pretty sight. I turned on the cold water and cupped my hands under the faucet. As I bent over the sink splashing water on my face, I heard the bathroom door open. I peeked up and saw Gloria, the blonde-with-an-attitude from the gym, come in.

  She posed at the mirror in three-inch platforms, tight white shorts, and a hot pink tube top then opened her clutch and began applying nude pink lipstick to her lips.

  “It seems like you and I are running in the same social circle this week,” I said, reaching for a paper towel.

  She glanced over at me then added another layer of lipstick to her bottom lip. With that kind of makeup mileage, she qualified for frequent flyer privileges at Sephora. “I don’t remember your name,” she said.

  “Liz. Come here often?” Bad joke. No response. “You’re Gloria, right?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She snapped the lipstick tube shut and dropped it in her purse. “I’m meeting someone at the pool for drinks. What about you?”

  “I’m on my way out. The martini I drank at the lobby bar did me in.” I picked up my purse. “Se
e you at the gym in the morning?”

  “Hope so.” Gloria studied herself in the mirror and wiggled her tube top up. “Depends on how many martinis I can hold.”

  I tossed my paper towel into the trash and left. Nick met me in the lobby and with his arm wrapped around my shoulder, we wandered out to the parking lot to wait for Dad.

  At the car, Nick moved a strand of hair off my face then stroked my cheek. “Feel better? You’ve had a rough day.”

  “I’m tired. I need sleep and a hot shower, not necessarily in that order. Let’s talk about something else. I forgot to ask how your lunch with Izzy went today. Did you solve all her little problems?” I bit the side of my lip. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Isabella is your friend. I want to get to know her.”

  He hesitated, thoughtful, then said, “Let’s talk about her another time.”

  “Why not now?”

  “There’s too much going on. After you’re out of the predicament Jarret put you in, I’ll tell you all about Izzy. Right now, clearing you is the priority.”

  I squeezed his hand. “Thanks. I can’t believe Jarret shifted suspicion onto me.”

  “I think Jarret would do anything to save his own skin. He must be at the top of Carla’s suspect list. But you know what?” Nick leaned his forehead to mine. “We’re going to save your skin.”

  I laughed. “You like my skin.”

  “I like your skin a lot.”

  “Do you think we’re doing the right thing, Nick? Oliver is bringing in his own private investigator.”

  “Let him. Doubling and tripling up can only help you. Dave and Walter are the best and they’re motivated. They love you.”

  “What if we’re on the wrong track? What if Laycee’s killing was random?”

  “Without forced entry or robbery? I don’t buy it,” Nick said. “We need to learn more about the symbol. I don’t believe it was random or meant to mislead. I still consider the symbol our best clue. And I’m going to find out what it means.”

  “Then we’ll find out. I’m going with you to talk to the devil worshiper.”

  Nick rubbed his neck. “I don’t know. Horus is odd.”

  “Perfect. Odd people are my specialty. Does Horus have horns?”

  “You can judge for yourself. I’ll confirm with Horus in the morning and text you a time.”

  Dad came out of the hotel checking over his shoulder, and stopped beside Nick’s car. “Christ, I almost ran into Jarret in the lobby.”

  “Did he see you?” Nick said.

  “I doubt if Jarret noticed anything around him. If he did, he saw multiples. He was drunk. But I ducked back in the bar and pointed him out to Nozzle.”

  “And?” I said.

  “He confirmed Jarret met Laycee on Monday night. Go home, kids. Tomorrow I’ll reach out to my buddies downtown then check in with you after.” Dad took out his keys and started to walk away.

  “Dad?”

  He stopped and turned. “What Lizzie?”

  “Thanks. I love you.”

  “I love you too, baby girl. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  After a night of restless tossing under my light cotton sheet, my eyes opened to the dark sky outside my bedroom windows. I glanced at the clock: 4:55. Didn’t matter. I was done battling for sleep. Erzulie snoozed at my side, curled into a ball. Feeling sticky and grimy again, I sniffed under an arm and winced.

  I canceled the alarm before it went off, threw on some shorts, a T-shirt, and my gym shoes, and then wandered bleary-eyed into the kitchen. At the first gurgle of hot water through the coffee filter, I perked up and remembered Stan and Angel wouldn’t be working on my bathroom today.

  “We’ve got the house to ourselves, kiddo,” I said to Erzulie at my feet. She twitched her whiskers. “Yep, no Stan. This calls for a celebration. How about a nice yellow can of cat food this morning?”

  Erzulie blinked in total agreement. Yellow was her favorite. She hopped on the counter and watched me take the can out of the cupboard then scoop the glop into her dish. While she inhaled her meal, I went upstairs to pack clean clothes and my wallet into my backpack. For once, I didn’t have to rush out and rush home. I even had time to stop to pick up cash for the weekend.

  When I arrived at the gym, I spotted Kyle and Earl in the weight room with clients. I parked my bag on an empty shelf and climbed onto my favorite treadmill in the deserted cardio room. With Sir Mix-A-Lot rapping “Baby Got Back” in my headphones, I set the speed and cranked the elevation to three. Thirty minutes later, I dropped the elevation back to one, gulping in air. I hopped off the treadmill and stopped for a towel at the front desk. Billy Miles walked in.

  “Feels good to work out early, doesn’t it?” I said, wiping my face.

  “I’ll get back to you on that in an hour.” Billy tossed his wallet and keys in an open cubbyhole. “You’re kind of new around here. Did you just become a member?”

  “Ages ago, but I just started coming in again this week. I usually run outside and stretch at home. I use my membership for rainy days and emergencies.”

  Billy took off his sweatshirt and tossed it in a slot. “It never rains here. What’s a gym emergency?”

  “Heat waves and broken plumbing. I saw you train with Kyle the other day. How long have you been his client?”

  “Since the gym opened. I can’t get in here as much as I’d like to. I spend half of my time in Atlanta, on the set for my show. Kyle’s great. He’s become a friend. In fact, I helped him get into acting class. The guy has natural talent and he’s an excellent trainer.”

  “Sad news about Laycee Huber, isn’t it?” I said.

  Billy’s face went blank.

  “The woman Kyle brought to your suite at the game Tuesday night?”

  “Do you mean the Southern chick with the Star Trek ears?” he said.

  “She was murdered Wednesday morning.”

  “No kidding? I don’t pay attention to the news. What happened?”

  “Someone attacked her at a home in Encino.”

  He stepped back, mouth open. “No kidding. Wow. I mean, no disrespect but I thought she was obnoxious. Wow.”

  “Obnoxious?” I said as Tess joined us.

  “Relentless, actually. Laycee pitched for an audition for my show Atlanta Wife Life and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Relentless and annoying,” Billy said.

  “You weren’t interested in hiring her?”

  “Honey, she wasn’t interesting,” Billy said. “No disrespect again, but her dull face, big ears, and cliché body came with a boring backstory. Married to a lawyer? Yawn. Not ratings material. The other stars on the show would have demolished her, and no one would have cared. Not even if she got a divorce. But wow—murdered? Man, that sucks. I’m sorry to hear she died.”

  Tess tossed her keys on a shelf. She swept her tight blonde curls off her face with a headband and said, “Are you talking about the murder in Encino? I saw the woman’s photo on the news yesterday. Kyle’s friend, right?”

  I nodded. “Laycee Huber.”

  “You won’t believe this—you and she were in my dream last night. You, Laycee, and a cheerleader got into a fistfight over Charlie Sheen on a lifeboat.”

  Billy threw her a cynical glare and bolted to the cardio room, leaving me trapped.

  “My psychic visions are never wrong,” Tess said.

  “Gee, I hope I didn’t win the fight.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tess cornered me, preventing an escape to the weight room. “I’m serious,” she said. “I think my dream was a prediction.”

  “Okay,” I said with patience I reserved for paying clients. “Lay it out for me. Tell me what you think the dream meant. Why Charlie Sheen?”

  “Not him. His initials. C.S.? Crime scene? I think you were in the dream because you knew Laycee. And she was murdered at your ex-husband’s house. I didn’t get the cheerleader part until I heard Billy say she wanted to audition for his show. Competition, get it? A lifeboat is o
n water. Escaping a leaking ship, right? I think a plumber killed her.”

  Gretchen walked up and stuffed her purse in a cubbyhole. Over her shoulder she said, “A plumber killed who?”

  “Didn’t you hear the news?” Tess said. “The woman here with Kyle on Tuesday was the one who got stabbed to death at Jarret Cooper’s house.”

  “You knew her?” Gretchen said.

  Tess gestured at me. “Liz did. I had a psychic vision about the killer’s identity in my dream last night.”

  “What did you see?” Gretchen listened as Tess recapped her dream, then said, “I don’t pay attention to dreams. It was probably something you ate.”

  “Trust me, I’m right.”

  I bit back sarcasm. I didn’t doubt Tess’s dream meant something—I’ve heard stranger stories from my clients—but a psychic vision from the beyond?

  “There are many ways to interpret your dream,” I said. “Freud might argue wish fulfillment. Carl Jung suggested every character in a dream represents you, the dreamer. The lifeboat may symbolize a facet of your personality. Water is sexual, the fighting is conflict, cheerleading is self-confidence. The subconscious layers multiple images in dreams, none of them literal. Instead of taking the dream at face value, see if you can relate the elements to your feelings.”

  “That’s what I said. I have a feeling the dream provides a clue to Laycee’s murder,” Tess said.

  Gretchen raised a brow. She turned to me. “You read dreams?”

  “I can quote a few universal interpretations for fun, but I view dreams as personal messages from the psyche to the dreamer, especially if the theme recurs.” I turned to Tess. “Do you write out your dreams after you wake up? The practice makes an enlightening trip into your subconscious.”

  “You bet I keep a journal. That’s how I’m sure my visions are right. I go back and check.”

  Gloria bounced toward us in a T-shirt, sweats, and sneakers, looking like she had twelve hours of sleep and a facial though I knew she was out drinking the night before. She threw her keys onto a shelf. “Good morning. Nice day, isn’t it? Guess who I met loaded out of his mind at the Sportsmen’s Lodge pool bar last night.”