Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery

by Judith Ivie

  He grimaced and shook his head. “Nothing definite, and I am weary of speculating about what might or might not come to pass. What is new with your ladies?” That was his term for my partners. “Has Margo’s tia been the victim of any more practical jokes?”

  Happy to have a new subject of conversation, I prattled away about the dog and the locksmith and May’s visit to Vista View the previous day while I toasted a bagel for him, then rinsed and stuffed the chicken for dinner and peeled potatoes and apples. As worn out as he was, Armando listened attentively, probably as happy for the distraction as I was to provide it.

  “These events do not seem to be the sort of thing an adult would choose as acts of revenge. They strike me more as the work of children,” he observed when I wound down. “Bats, pumpkins, a neighborhood dog are all things that ill-mannered, small boys might think of, do you not agree?”

  I saw what he meant. “But revenge for what? May hasn’t done anything to the neighborhood kids or anyone else. She doesn’t even know the people in the surrounding houses, unless you count our unfortunate introduction to her neighbor Carla Peterson on Thursday. Why would anyone, adult or child, be angry with her?”

  “That is indeed a mystery, but then, you and your ladies have become very clever about solving mysteries. I am sure you will uncover the reason.” He got up to pour himself more coffee and put the mug in the microwave. “Have you heard from Emma or Joey lately?” he asked while the machine hummed.

  “Joey, no, but then I rarely do.” My truck-driving son epitomized the old saying, a son is a son till he takes a wife, and I got a phone call only when he had something momentous—or calamitous—to report. “I had lunch with Emma the other day, though.”

  I paused to consider how much I should reveal about Emma’s long-distance love interest. The relationship was in its very early days, so attaching even potential importance to it seemed premature. Still, she was flying across the country to spend more time with the man. I chose my words with care.

  “Do you remember Ellen McDougal, Emma’s friend from high school who lives in California now?”

  “I do not, but then, Emma has so many friends, it is hard to keep track of the names.”

  “Well, anyway, Emma goes out there every year or so to visit Ellen and her family. She just got back, as a matter of fact, but she’s thinking about returning to the West Coast in a couple of weeks.” I swallowed hard and turned away to the sink to wash my hands and hide my face. Armando wasn’t deceived.

  “What is it, Cara?” he asked gently. “Has our princess decided to move to California?” Then after a moment’s consideration, “Has she met a man?”

  I dried my hands on a dish towel and turned back to face him. “Not yet, and yes. His name is Russell, and he’s an environmental engineer. He’s Ellen’s brother-in-law and was visiting the family while Emma was there this time, but he lives in Elkton, Oregon,” I finished lamely while I watched my husband’s face twist in dismay. He struggled to restore an unruffled expression, but he wasn’t fooling me.

  “That is wonderful news. I am happy for them both, but it is a little too soon to be planning a wedding, is it not? You know I want nothing but happiness for Emma, but if she should decide to make a life with this Russell, I would miss her very much.” He was quiet for a moment and stared out the kitchen window. “Life has many twists and turns, does it not?”

  It does indeed, I thought.

  The rest of the afternoon flew by. Armando showered and dragged himself back to TeleCom while I threw myself into an orgy of vacuuming, dusting and floor mopping. I badly needed to blow off some steam. My physical exertions weren’t quite enough to do it, so I did what I usually do when agitated. Around five o’clock I poured myself a glass of wine and phoned Emma to check in, but my call went directly to voice mail.

  By eight-thirty I had eaten a delayed dinner of overcooked chicken by myself and sat drumming my fingers on the kitchen table. Even Gracie, whose afternoon naptime had been disturbed by my noisy housework, had deserted me. I decided to assert my wifely prerogative and telephoned Armando at TeleCom. “That’s it,” I told him firmly. “Get your tail home. Now.” It was symptomatic of his bone weariness that he didn’t even protest.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” was all he said before disconnecting, and within half an hour he was slumped in the double recliner before our fireplace, nursing a cup of cinnamon tea at the end of yet another long day.

  “Any closer to knowing how this proposed acquisition is going to turn out?” I asked him once again, unable to squelch my curiosity as I brought him a plate of dinner. Gracie gazed at her man adoringly but was loath to leave her spot on the hearth, so I was able to ease into the seat next to Armando.

  “Yes and no, which I realize is not the answer you are looking for,” he answered. “Unfortunately, it is all I have to offer.” His eyes over the rim of his cup were apologetic.

  I wrestled with my annoyance. Dealing with uncertainty and indecision has never been one of my strengths, but it seemed that I had little choice. Part of me wanted to yell, “Then tell George Dunphy you quit, and start looking for another job,” but I knew that would be useless. Armando’s youth in South America had been fraught with insecurity. As a man of almost thirty, he had moved to the U.S., taught himself English, then clawed his way to an accounting degree and a top spot in the TeleCom hierarchy. Nothing would budge him out of there short of a pink slip and an escort to the exit.

  “Tell me about the yes part,” I urged him now.

  A smile teased at the corners of his mouth. “When I tell you what is in store for me on Tuesday and Wednesday of this week, you will be very glad you are no longer with the company.”

  Armando and I had met during my tenure as TeleCom’s marketing manager years ago.

  “I’ve been happy about that for a long time. What’s going on?”

  He considered for a moment. “Do you remember our having to endure a very long, rainy weekend at a golf resort on Long Island when George decided we must all be trained in team building?”

  I laughed out loud. “How could I forget? We were supposed to solve puzzles and climb ropes and fall backward into our team members’ arms with our eyes closed to show them our trust, along with a whole lot of other silly stuff that was all the rage in human resource circles back then. As I recall, just about everyone came home with killer colds and hangovers, but you and I did some team building, didn’t we, handsome?”

  I tweaked his nose gently and was rewarded with something more like a real smile.

  “I do remember one or two meetings which took place in your room very late at night.”

  “There wasn’t much conversation, but we did lots of bonding.”

  “You gave me your cold.”

  “Along with my heart,” I remembered. “That was the weekend that did it for me. Why all the reminiscing, enjoyable as it is?”

  He blew out a breath, and the smile vanished. “It has been decided by the acquisition team that the management employees of OmniFutures and TeleCom must spend two days and nights in each other’s company this coming week. We have been summoned to a conference center in Southbury on Monday afternoon for this purpose.”

  “What purpose?” I prodded. “The acquisition hasn’t even been approved yet.”

  “I believe OmniFutures wishes to see who among the TeleCom managers would fit well within their corporate culture, should the purchase go through.”

  “Corporate culture, huh. There’s some jargon I haven’t heard in years,” I sneered. “I haven’t missed it a bit.” I reached for Armando’s tea and took a sip. “What can George possibly be thinking? TeleCom was such a great little company when all the big decisions were made around the picnic table out behind the old factory building in East Hartford, remember? Then George was persuaded to move into that tricked-out building in Prestige Park and take TeleCom public, which was a bad decision, and now this. Well, at least you and the others at TeleCom may be able to get George to see the tar
get painted on his back, because there surely is one. He may walk away from this with a healthy bank account, but I hope he’s thinking about what to do with himself for the rest of his life.”

  I handed Armando his teacup and got up to retrieve his dinner plate from the side table and reheat it once again. The roast chicken, done to perfection several hours ago, looked pretty sad.

  “You know what?” I continued. “You should think of this ghastly little get-together as a two-way street. They may be checking you out, but you should do the same to them. Look them all over and decide whether this is a group you can enjoy being part of—or at least tolerate,” I amended more honestly as I headed back to the kitchen.

  “I will miss you, Cara,” he said to my retreating back.

  I turned around and wiggled my eyebrows. “Between now and Monday, I plan to make absolutely sure of that.”

  By the time I returned with his twice-reheated dinner, Gracie had assumed her rightful place in the seat next to him, and Armando was asleep, his head slumped forward on his chest. The cat lay tightly curled next to him with her eyes squeezed shut as if daring me to protest. I didn’t.

  Instead, I scratched the top of her head and made sure the TV remote was within Armando’s reach in case he awakened. Then I returned his dinner to the microwave and took myself to my bathroom for a long, thoughtful bubble bath.

  Sunday morning I looked forward to brunch with Strutter and Margo at the Town Line Diner, our regular haunt, and especially so since May and her visiting author Judy Holloway would be joining us. The conversation promised to be lively, as I’d noticed it generally was when May was a part of it.

  Judy proved to be a slightly built salt-and-pepper brunette with a penchant for earrings that were color coordinated to her outfit a la Lesley Stahl of 60 Minutes fame. Today’s yellow and rose hoops matched the autumn colors of her light sweater perfectly. Although dissimilar in appearance, she and May were clearly sisters under the skin. As they laughed and joked their way through the introductions, their comfort with each other was evident.

  After we settled ourselves in a big booth in a back corner of the diner and placed our orders for bodacious omelets, Margo asked Judy, who had driven in from her home in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, why her husband hadn’t joined her to enjoy our magnificent fall foliage, if nothing else.

  “Drag Bob away from his weekend golf games? You must not have been married very long,” Judy laughed. “That’s why I started writing—did May tell you that?—because Bob became addicted to chasing a little white ball around the course, and I turned into a golf widow. I started keeping a journal about the kind of retirement I’d always imagined we would have. Bob made a nice living over the years.”

  “What line of work was he in?” I prompted.

  “He was a salesman. You wouldn’t believe how much a good one can earn. When one commodity or company would fizzle, he’d just move along to something else, salaried, commissioned, whatever. It didn’t really matter, because he could sell anything. Not having kids, we didn’t have many expenses, and with my teaching salary, great health insurance and a very comfortable pension after thirty-five years, we were all set for a terrific retirement.”

  Her laugh was a bit hollow as she reached for her coffee. Margo exchanged glances with May and made a kind-hearted attempt to lighten the mood. “Talk about makin’ lemonade out of lemons, you’re positively an inspiration to golf widows everywhere.” She gave Judy a bawdy wink.

  “Speaking of inspiration,” Strutter chimed in, “dare I ask where you get yours? Margo shared one of your recent titles with me, and my goodness, I was blushing before the end of the first chapter.”

  I directed a puzzled look her way. “I didn’t think women of color blushed.”

  “Oh, yes, we do. You just have to pay attention. We sunburn, too, in case that was your next question.”

  Judy covered a smile with her napkin before replying. “To answer your question, inspiration for erotic romance can come from almost anywhere. Mine happens to come from my own love life, which I’m sure surprises you, considering my age and the fact that Bob and I have been married practically forever.”

  “Not at all,” I protested politely at the same time that Margo and Strutter murmured equally weak denials. May just grinned and popped a piece of toast into her mouth.

  Judy gave us her best grandmotherly smile and continued, unfazed. “Even mature women can have very healthy libidos, you know, and it doesn’t make us sluts. Before Bob discovered golf, I was his favorite hobby, as a matter of fact, but when his new mistress became the Midtown Country Club, I was forced to rechannel my energies, so to speak.”

  “Thank goodness she has an active imagination and an excellent grasp of the English language,” May beamed. “More importantly, I’m so thankful she found her way to my little publishin’ company.”

  I had a question I couldn’t help asking. “But if your only experience has been with your husband, how do you manage to come up with some of the more, uh, adventurous couplings—and even triplings—you describe in your books?” I blurted.

  Strutter looked shocked, and even Margo raised her eyebrows, but Judy remained unflustered.

  “Barbie dolls,” she told me serenely, “specifically Barbie, Ken and Midge. They’re not fully articulated, but you can move their arms and legs around enough to be able to tell if a position is plausible. You can also figure out if there’s any possibility of romance involved, or if it’s just gymnastics. May’s very strict about that,” she assured us. “Not too athletic and, above all, not laughable.”

  May nodded her approval. “We’re looking for romance in the bedroom, not comedy. I leave the jokes to Margo in that area.” She slapped her niece’s hand lightly.

  Margo stuck out her tongue. “I’m afraid May knows too much about my misspent youth. I’m a happily married woman now. So how did you two get together? Surely the bigger publishers would have been tickled to get your stuff, Judy. It’s exceptionally well written. Even I can tell that. Is Random House prudish about your chosen genre?”

  Judy accepted a mug of coffee from our waitress, as did the rest of us in turn. “I don’t know about Random House. I never sent them anything, but even if they were a bit strait-laced back then, I think Fifty Shades of Grey proves they ultimately updated their thinking, along with everyone else in the publishing industry. Things have changed so much, and not just in publishing. There’s a tolerance for open sexuality in the U.S. now that’s almost European. I mean, fifteen years ago, I would have been horrified at the notion of Viagra and Cialis being advertised on television, wouldn’t you? In fact, I would have been astounded to find such medications existed. Now I wish I owned stock in Lilly and Pfizer,” she admitted.

  “I’ll go you one better. I do own stock in Lilly and Pfizer,” May bragged, and we all hooted.

  “Now that’s foresight,” Strutter said with genuine admiration in her voice.

  “More like foreplay, wouldn’t you say?” Margo cracked, and we all dissolved into giggles, prompting curious stares from diners at surrounding tables.

  “But we’re digressin’,” said May, dabbing her eyes with a paper napkin. “Tell these gals how we joined forces—or should I say, hooked up?” Margo groaned and poked her in the ribs with an elbow.

  “Where was I?” Judy wondered aloud. “Oh, yes, big publishers. Well, back in the nineties, it was practically impossible for a fiction writer to get published without an agent, and it was incredibly tough to get one, the self-important little snots. Over the course of a year my first romance—which was pretty tame, by the way, lots of yearning glances and heavy breathing, but nothing explicit—visited more major cities in the U.S. than I ever did. Submissions were still mostly by snail mail, hard copy, double-spaced, and packaged up in manuscript boxes with return postage. I could have wallpapered my bedroom with the rejection letters I got from snarky agents.

  “Then one happy day the romance market really took off. Publishers were actu
ally conducting conferences around the country on how to write something that fit their romance requirements. I went to one of them and sold my revised manuscript to Avon… or was it Avalon? You’d think I’d remember, but at this moment I don’t. Anyway, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

  “You must have, after all that time and effort,” I said, awed by her perseverance.

  “For a while, probably,” May agreed, draining her coffee and signaling a passing waitress for a refill.

  “Then what happened?” Strutter prompted. We were totally engrossed by Judy’s story, imagining ourselves in her shoes.

  Judy continued, her eyes focused on something far away from our table in Rocky Hill. “I got an advance of a couple of thousand dollars, which was thrilling. It was the last thing about the process that was, though. From then on it was sheer drudgery. First, some pretentious young editor, probably fresh out of Bryn Mawr, sent me instructions for what amounted to a total rewrite.” She rolled her eyes, remembering. “By the time I slogged through that, and a couple more revisions after that, which seemed to be intended to make every romance novel read just like every other romance novel, the only question in my mind was, why had they bought my book in the first place? The final manuscript could have been written by anybody anywhere. They changed almost everything about it, or rather, they insisted that I change it. Even my original title didn’t make the cut.”

  “My goodness, you didn’t even get to name your own book?” Strutter’s eyes flashed as she bridled on Judy’s behalf.

  “Nope, and I didn’t have anything to say about the cover either. They graciously allowed me to write under my own name, but even that was a fight.”

  “Wow,” was all I could manage. “What did they want to call you?”

  “I don’t remember that either, but it was one of those one-from-column-A and one-from-column-B names that all sound alike. Victoria Ashford, Amber Crosby, Jillian Greystone, like that. Anyway, I dug in my heels, and they decided Judy Holloway was WASP-y enough for their purposes.”