Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  She hadn’t said much about herself. He hadn’t thought to ask if she had a family. She might be married, might even have children. Calling her on a Friday night would be inconsiderate.

  Maybe he’d call her tomorrow.

  Visions of Vicky swam before his eyes.

  How would he live without her?

  He poured more scotch into the glass.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sunday, May 21 — Sandwich

  “There you go, Billy, pot roast special,” Arlene said, setting his plate down. Beaded earrings dangled from her ears almost down to her shoulders. “Here’s your roast beef, Mrs. Kay. Well done. Enjoy!”

  He looked at the gravy puddling over his mother’s mashed potatoes and thought: Uh-oh. Trouble ahead.

  His mother’s lips tightened. “Arlene, didn’t I tell you no gravy? I’m sure I did.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! I put it on the order, but we’re so busy today. I’ll take it back.”

  “No, that’s all right.” His mother sighed, one of her long-suffering-victim sighs.

  Arlene’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

  “It’s fine, Arlene.” Smiling her sanctimonious smile.

  Driving rain spattered the window beside their table. It was no day for the beach so the Seaside Diner was more crowded than usual. He glanced at the two cops sitting at the counter, wondering what they were talking about.

  Soon they’d be talking about him.

  He speared a piece of pot roast, dipped it in the gravy and ate it. Delicious. His mother was toying with her food. He knew she’d never eat any, not with that gravy all over it.

  “Preacher Everdon gave a marvelous sermon today,” she said. “Honor thy father and thy mother. He said families should look after each other.”

  His thumb started to itch. He forced himself to ignore it and took a roll out of the basket.

  “I’ve always looked after you, isn’t that right, Billy?”

  “Yes, Mom.” He buttered the roll and took a bite.

  “I feel bad for Arlene, poor thing, losing her husband, and four boys to bring up. That’s why I didn’t make her take my dinner back.” His mother scraped gravy off her roast beef, cut a tiny piece and chewed, her teeth clicking. “She forgot to tell them about the gravy, but I’m not going to blame her for it. Preacher Everdon says if parents teach their children the proper respect . . .”

  He tuned her out and studied the pattern the raindrops made on the window, thinking about his girls.

  “Billy! Are you listening to me? I said remember how your pa used to take you and John to Little League games?”

  Remember? He clenched his fists. How could he forget? Pa whacking him in the head when he struck out, telling him to keep his eye on the ball, and why couldn’t he be more like John. Big brother John, making fun of him when he fell and hurt his knee and started crying.

  Arlene came to the table with a mug of coffee and ran a hand over her close-cropped carrot-colored hair. “Gee, it’s so busy today I haven’t had time to visit with you.” She pulled out the chair opposite his mother and sat down. “I love your dress, Mrs. Kay. That color blue goes great with your eyes.”

  “Thank you, Arlene. I was just saying to Billy it’s too bad his pa and his brother aren’t with us. John would be thirty-five now.”

  Arlene nodded sympathetically, the freckles on her cheeks standing out on her pale skin like little red-orange gnats.

  “John was five years older than Billy, a big strapping boy. Sometimes I wonder what he’d look like now. John took after his father. So athletic.”

  He hid his hands under the table and scratched.

  “John was the star pitcher for his Pony League team. He’d have been a success no matter what he did, just like his Pa. Silas was a liquor salesman. We had plenty of money then.” His mother shrugged. “Billy’s job at the cable company barely keeps us in groceries.”

  But it lets me find people. Addresses. Phone numbers. His mother didn’t know about that.

  “Can you believe that woman up in Boston?” Arlene said. “She hits the lottery, collects twelve million bucks and a week later she gets murdered!”

  “She shouldn’t have been gambling. I saw her picture on television. Victoria, her name was. A cute little thing, but so chubby! There’s something weird about the man who found her. That conductor. Billy, what’s his name? I forgot.”

  He set down his fork and put his hands in his lap.

  “Nigel Heath,” Arlene said. “I saw him on TV once. My son Timmy plays trombone and we watched him conduct a Pops concert—”

  “Mark my words, Arlene. He killed that girl!”

  He scratched his hand. Stupid, stupid, stupid! His mother was an idiot.

  She didn’t know about his skill and the power it gave him. Neither did the cops, yet. But he’d show them.

  “I was watching Geraldo Rivera last night,” Arlene said. “He said there might be a serial killer on the loose.” She nodded, and her beaded earrings swayed. “Murdering lottery winners. He said there were other cases, before that girl up in Boston. It’s scary! One of them was in Chatham!”

  “Really?” his mother said. Her pale blue eyes regarded him thoughtfully.

  Why was she looking at him like that? Did she suspect? No. She was stupid. He was smarter than she was. Smarter than the cops, too, especially that cop on the news, hinting that Nigel Heath killed Victoria.

  “What do you think, Billy?” Arlene said, gazing at him with an earnest expression. “You think the conductor killed that girl?”

  “I don’t know. Mom’s probably right. She usually is.”

  “We should be going, Billy.” His mother smirked at Arlene. “He’s taking me to Morrow’s so we can buy a box of their low-fat chocolates.”

  “Oh, Billy, you’re so sweet.”

  “Then we’re going to the pet store. Billy wants to buy a new goldfish.” His mother frowned. “What did you name the last one? Wasn’t it—”

  “Janice,” he said quickly.

  “I thought you named it Vic—”

  “No, Mom. Janice.” He gave Arlene his sad look. “Janice died, so I have to buy a new one.”

  “You sure do love those goldfish,” Arlene said.

  He nodded. “I’ve already got a name for the new one.”

  ____

  Westwood

  Gina pushed stalks of asparagus and broiled scallops around her plate. She had no interest in food. She wanted a cigarette, but Ryan would flip out if she smoked. When she'd talked to Nigel at her beach house after Vicky's wake, she’d given him her card, but four days later he still hadn’t called. It was maddening. An exclusive interview with Nigel would be a key element in the feature article she planned to write.

  “How come you’re not eating?” Ryan said. “You seem distracted.”

  “I’m writing an article about a young jazz trumpeter. He grew up in Roxbury surrounded by gangs. Now he’s playing the Living Room in New York.” A total fabrication, of course, but Ryan would never know. He was a country-western fan, and he never read her articles, he just ridiculed them.

  “Busy week for me, too. There’s a company up in Chicago, grossing eight or ten mil a year, that’s about to fold. Might be my next project. I talked to the CEO.”

  “Mmmm. That’s nice.” She stifled a yawn.

  “Yeah, it went really well.” He pushed back his chair and gave her one of his seductive looks. “Let’s go upstairs, babe. I’m ready for some loving.”

  Last night she’d endured one of his disgusting love sessions. She had no intention of doing it again tonight. She carried their plates in the kitchen, put them in the sink and opened the drawer with her hidden stash of Marlboros. She took one out and lighted it.

  Ryan came in the kitchen and looked at her, clearly annoyed. “What’s with the smoking? You know I hate the smell.”

  She took a bottle of Chardonnay out of the refrigerator and poured herself a glass.
/>   His face set in a frown. “What’s up, Gina? Worried about something?”

  As if he gave a shit. You bet, Ryan. Worried about how to tell you I’m leaving.

  She rubbed her forehead. She really was getting a headache. “I’ve got a migraine. I need to take a nap.”

  His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned in a line. “Sorry, honey, I’ve got a headache?”

  Her cell phone rang. Saved by the bell. She grabbed her cell off the counter and answered it.

  “Hello, Gina? Nigel Heath here. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” she said, turning away so Ryan wouldn’t see her jubilant expression. “How are you doing?”

  “The coppers raked me over the coals again on Friday. So I took your advice, told them I wanted to call a solicitor.”

  “Good for you,” she said.

  “Gina,” Ryan said, in the warning tone he used when he was angry. “I’m waiting.”

  She ignored him and puffed her cigarette, heard Nigel say: “Could we meet some night this week? So we could talk again?”

  “That sounds excellent,” she said. “Call me tomorrow around five and we’ll set it up.”

  “Thanks ever so much,” Nigel said. “Talk to you soon.”

  She closed her phone and put it in her purse. When she turned, Ryan was holding her wineglass. He poured the wine down the sink. “We need to talk and you need to be sober.”

  She puffed her cigarette, her stomach churning like a cement mixer.

  “Put the cigarette out. It stinks up the house.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not your slave.”

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  “None of your business.”

  His face turned crimson. “Gina, I’m your husband. You get a phone call eight-thirty on a Sunday night, have this cryptic conversation, and tell me it’s none of my business?”

  He reached for her arm, but she pulled away. “Don’t touch me, Ryan. I warned you, remember?”

  He ground his teeth the way he always did when he was angry, his chest rising and falling, breathing hard like he’d just finished a workout at the gym.

  She put out the cigarette and picked up her purse. Her car keys were in it. If he tried anything—

  In one swift motion, he grabbed her, his hands gripping her biceps, and shoved her against the wall. Then he leaned down and kissed her, forcing her lips open with his tongue, sticking it into her mouth. She wrenched her head away, but his fingers dug into her arms, holding her in place.

  “Gina, I’m done begging you for sex. You’re a pathetic excuse for a wife. It’s time we had a baby. Then you can stay home and take care of it. I’ll give you a week to quit your job.”

  She stared at him, incredulous. The sight of him made her skin crawl. She realized she was holding her breath. She sucked air into her lungs and tried to speak calmly. “Let go of me, Ryan. You’re hurting me.”

  His blue eyes narrowed. “I'll hurt you a lot worse if you don’t quit that stupid job at the Herald. When I come home from Austin next weekend, you better tell me you did.” He released her arms and stood there, glaring at her.

  She grabbed her purse, hurried out of the house and got in her car. Her heart thumped her ribs and her hands were shaking. Should she call Franco and tell him what happened? No. Ryan had a temper, but so did Franco, and Franco despised men who abused women.

  Still, she’d never seen Ryan this angry. He was out of control. She had to find somewhere else to live. Permanently.

  She got on the Expressway and headed for her beach house. She could stay there for now, but not in the winter. Her brothers had installed an electric heat pump to prevent the pipes in the kitchen and the bathroom from freezing, but the cottage was freezing in the winter, especially upstairs. During cold spells, she and Franco made love on the futon in the living room.

  She’d have to rent an apartment. But she was still paying for the Mazda and apartments in Boston were expensive. One month’s rent would eat her entire paycheck. She’d never admit it to Ryan, but her job at the Herald didn’t pay that well. Maybe her boss would give her a raise if her feature article about Vicky and Nigel attracted a lot of readers. She had already planned it.

  Start with rescuing Vicky after she claimed the lottery prize, detail their conversation at Mama Leone’s, then hit the emotional core of the story: Nigel’s devotion to Vicky, his grief after her murder, and his feelings of guilt.

  But would a feature article warrant a big raise? Probably not.

  She got off the Expressway and set out for Squantum, thoughts swirling in her mind. She was positive Nigel didn't kill Vicky, but someone had. Maybe it was the Jackpot Killer. She still felt bad about not warning Vicky.

  Then it hit her. Forget a feature article, she’d write a book!

  Why didn’t she think of it before? Plenty of reporters wrote books about serial killers: Helter Skelter, about Charles Manson and his followers, Ann Rule’s book about Ted Bundy. Why not a book about the Jackpot Killer?

  What a story that would make! She already had an inside track. This week Franco was investigating some new suspects. He and his FBI agent colleague were closing in on the Jackpot Killer. Once they captured him, she’d be in a perfect position to write a book.

  The Lottery Winner Murders. That had a nice ring to it.

  She’d already done some preliminary research on gambling and the problems it caused. She’d had a brief meeting with Vicky after she collected the lottery prize, and Nigel was dying to talk to her.

  After she put together a book proposal, she’d discuss it with her editor. If she signed with the right agent, she might get a big advance to write the book. The Herald might even run a series of excerpts.

  Her euphoria fizzled like a punctured balloon.

  That all sounded great, but cold hard reality was different. She didn't have an agent, didn't have a book contract, and the Jackpot Killer was still at large. She couldn’t even write the book, much less pitch it to an agent.

  And cold hard reality was equally certain. Ryan would never change. What was he doing now? Working off his fury at the gym? Watching a porn movie on the big-screen television in their bedroom?

  She had no idea how any of this would eventually play out, but one fact was crystal clear in her mind.

  No more porn videos and no more sex with Ryan.

  CHAPTER 22

  Tuesday, May 23 — Nashua, NH

  He took his toolbox out of the van and studied Ruthie’s dilapidated bungalow. The trim needed painting, the front steps sagged, and the railing looked like it was about to fall down. Ruthie must have been hard up for money. Until last week.

  His heart fluttered anxiously and his hands itched like wildfire inside the latex gloves. He didn’t know what she looked like. Her picture hadn’t made the paper. Prizes under a million were no big deal these days.

  The article in the Nashua paper said Ruthie was a fifty-nine-year-old widow. She worked at a nursing home, but he’d called her early this morning in case she hadn’t quit her job yet. He checked his watch. 10:35. Later than he’d planned, but the traffic had been horrendous.

  It was risky, sneaking out of work. After he finished, he’d better call his customers so they wouldn’t contact his boss and complain that he was late.

  He went up the walk and set his toolbox down by the front door. This time he’d brought a heavier wrench, in case Ruthie didn’t do what he said. In case she fought back, like Victoria.

  This time he’d leave his autograph so the cops would know it was him.

  He got his clipboard ready and rang the bell.

  A dog began to bark.

  His heart jolted in a spasm of fear. A dog! Why didn’t he think of that?

  The yapping grew louder and he heard a voice on the other side of the door. “Squeaky! Stop that barking right now.”

  His hands grew sweaty inside the gloves.

  The door opened and a stout gray-haired woman in navy sl
acks and a polka-dot blouse said, “Goodness, you got here fast. Come in.”

  “Thank you, Ruth.” He smiled as hard as he could. “Mind if I call you Ruth? My boss says it’s friendlier. We like to keep our customers happy.”

  “Isn’t that nice!” She peered at the name on his shirt. “Come in, Billy.”

  But when she started to open the door, the dog snarled. He shrank back.

  “Could you put the dog in another room? Dogs scare me.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Squeaky’s very friendly. Fox terriers are all bark and no bite!” She smiled broadly, displaying yellowed dentures. An upper tooth was missing on the left side.

  “Please, could you put him in another room?”

  “Her. Squeaky’s a girl. That’s why she makes so much noise,” Ruthie chortled. “But I can tell you’re not a dog lover. Wait here while I put her in the kitchen. Come on, Squeaky, be a good girl. Behave yourself.”

  He mopped sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. The dog was messing up his plan, and he had no time to waste. He glanced at the house next door. What if Ruthie’s neighbors were home and saw him?

  She came back and opened the door. “You can come in now. I put Squeaky in the kitchen so she can’t bother you.”

  In the living room a lumpy brown sofa faced the television set. He set his toolbox down on the oval braided rug that covered the floor.

  “I hope this won’t take long,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, Ruth. Ten minutes, tops.”

  “That’s good. I called and told them I’d be late for work. They know I’m wild about my cable TV. Not much else to do at night when you live alone.”

  He stared at her. How dare she tell them he was coming! He opened the toolbox, took out a screwdriver and knelt down beside the television. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his hands itched like crazy.

  The dog yapped furiously. He could see the stupid little mutt in the kitchen, scampering back and forth behind the low wooden gate that blocked the doorway.