by Amie Denman
“Our accountant is working on it. Quietly. He has to be careful.”
“Whose side is he on?” I was probably shocking the good chief with my language and attitude, but this ticked me off. Perhaps it was the worn-off margaritas mixed with paralyzing fear, but I just couldn’t see how the embezzlement had gone on for over a year without being obvious to everyone.
“It takes time,” Balcheski said. He didn’t seem perturbed by my attitude at all. He had the air of a man who’d seen the worst of human nature and wasn’t surprised by much. “Another person who stumbled on information is…uh…no longer able to help us.”
“Why not?”
“She had an accident.”
I breathed deeply and concentrated on not throwing up. We were silent a moment. What if I left Bluegill and moved in with my parents? They’d let me work in their flower shop. Harry could teach me some of his floral secrets. I would probably live to collect the few years of teacher’s retirement I’d built up. Though with my luck I’d have to arrange the flowers for the wedding of hottie fireman and the Virgin Mary. Maybe I should try to see this through.
“So, the accountant is working with you and the FBI?”
“Sort of.”
“Then why do you need me?”
“Evidence. These two are slick and we need something solid before we can blow this thing wide open.”
“And what is it that you want me to do? Write out a confession and get him to sign it?”
“I was hoping you’d take the job he’s offering you.”
“You want me to be a boat ho,” I said flatly.
Balcheski winced at the ho reference. I was sure he still thought of me, at least on some level, as his daughter’s kindergarten teacher. He didn’t say anything.
“So, what kind of evidence do you think I’m going to find? A secret diary hidden on his boat in which he documents his role in his wife’s death? A Polaroid picture of him pushing her off the deck while the mayor raises a toast. An IOU for the money and the secret plan to bankrupt the city and then run off to Jamaica?”
“We’d like you to wear a wire.”
“We?”
“The FBI and me. We think you might get something hard on him.”
Of all the awkward sentences on earth, this ranked close to the top.
“Evidence,” Balcheski said, turning red and looking mighty uncomfortable, “hard evidence.”
Maybe Marlena didn’t have to worry about me becoming suicidal over my disastrous affairs. I probably wasn’t going to live long enough to embarrass myself or my gender any more.
“You think he’ll just confess to the embezzlement and tell me the secret combination to the safe?”
“No, but you might get him talking about his late wife. If we could at least get something on him there, we could reopen the investigation, pin him with the murder and get the mayor for perjury. Then we could figure out what the hell else they’ve got going on.”
Something, okay everything, didn’t sound good about this. I was silent for a moment. Then I had to ask.
“The girl who died in the fiery crash…the one who worked for the mayor…”
Balcheski nodded.
“You think that wasn’t an accident?”
The chief looked deep into his coffee mug. “I think I’m glad that you don’t have a car,” he said.
“But Ballard wouldn’t take a chance on hurting his own daughter. I heard the Virgin Mary was in the car too.”
Balcheski coughed. “I don’t think she’s a virgin. Or a friend. And, despite her account of the accident, I don’t believe she was ever in the car in the first place.”
I refilled my coffee and sat in the only other chair in the office. My shoulders slumped and I clutched my cup both for the sense of security it offered and the warmth I needed. My fingers had turned colder with every word of our conversation. Was I really willing to wear a wire and get on a boat with a man who killed his wife? Why did anyone think I’d be able to force some sort of confession or information out of a guy who was so obviously a criminal mind in action?
Balcheski was looking at me eagerly as if trying to coach me past a hurdle or over a fear of snakes. “I know you’re probably scared, and I feel rotten even asking you to do this, but you’re really in a position to help out the cause.”
Whether I liked it or not, I was already involved. For all I knew, Cerberus or the mayor could have got wind of my late night visits from the police chief.
Still, if I could get Cerberus put away for killing his wife, it would be a favor to women everywhere. And getting the mayor convicted for helping cover up a murder and stealing tons of money from the city would be a public service. Since I was being self-sacrificing and all, at least in my mind, I would not allow myself to consider how the mayor’s comeuppance might possibly free up Kurt from any obligations to the Virgin Mary.
“Where do I get this wire?” I asked.
“John Johnson will be on a boat in this marina tomorrow.”
I looked at the chief doubtfully. “You think that’s his real name?”
Balcheski laughed, some of the tension from our conversation starting to ease.
“Hell if I know. I just hope he leaves the wiener dog outfit at home.”
Chapter Nineteen
Peanut stuck his nose in my ear, rubbed his head against my cheek and purred like a powerboat. I opened one eye and focused on the clock. 7:00 a.m. Time to get up for early mass.
Amazing how cottonmouth and a hangover can set in with only five minutes of sleep. After a quick shower, I found a pair of capris and a summery top that didn’t hurt my eyes too much and then eyed myself in the mirror. I might fool a few people at church into thinking I was not actually a walking corpse—the ones still wearing their cataract sunglasses indoors.
I made myself go downstairs because I knew Harry had already been to the doughnut shop. I’d heard his truck leave right before I stepped into the shower, and I sure as heck didn’t think Harry was going to church on a Sunday morning. Sure enough, he was dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a Yankees T-shirt, sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table reading the sports section and eating doughnuts. I liked the masculine persona Harry had going on this morning and imagined him protecting me in true cousinly fashion from the dangerous advances of Damien Cerberus. I reached into the doughnut bag without even saying “Good morning.”
“Doughnut slut,” Harry commented without even lifting his eyes from the paper.
“Can’t help it. If you loved me, you wouldn’t point it out.”
My voice was desperate, and he glanced up. He looked like he wanted to say something clever, but just lifted an eyebrow instead.
“There’s coffee too,” he said.
I tried to steady my hand enough to pour the coffee without staining the kitchen counter and then sat in the other chair. I picked at my doughnut. Its sugary splendor had historically been a good thing for me, but I wasn’t feeling very brave about putting anything in my stomach this morning.
“Want part of the paper?”
I shook my head. I focused on deep breathing, coffee and the first delicious bite of sprinkled cake doughnut. I could already feel the rush of happiness entering my veins as I chewed. The old magic was still there. The doughnut cure had never failed me before, and it was nice to know I could still count on it.
Harry finished the sports section and picked up his coffee mug. He eyed me over the rim.
“Going to church?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s summer, you know. You could probably get away with skipping it.”
“Hmm.”
“And it’s Memorial Day weekend.”
My cousin, the voice of temptation. I almost protested out of habit. But good Jazz Shepherd, who dutifully went to work, church and dinner with her parents, had recently descended to morally ambiguous Jazz Shepherd, who got a lot more action but was potentially on the primrose path. Which one was I going to be today?
“You look like living hell. As your nearest available relative, I could write you an excuse note claiming you’re sick.”
Doughnuts and coffee had started to make me feel a little more human, but Harry’s assessment of my deathlike pallor did not encourage me to make a sunny appearance at church. My five minutes of sleep were not going to get me through a day of working at the marina and meeting with FBI agents to plan risky missions. I needed to stay sharp or I might just be meeting my maker soon. Maybe God wanted me to skip church to rest up and Harry was his messenger.
The temptation was irresistible. I risked damnation and climbed back into bed for a blessed two hours. This time, I slept so soundly that I didn’t even dream about hottie firemen or FBI agents or the creative use of safety scissors.
I was feeling a whole lot better when I descended the steps into Harry’s kitchen the second time. My cousin had all his houseplants lined up on the kitchen counter, methodically washing their leaves, putting fertilizer sticks in their dirt and giving a haircut to a massively overgrown fern that shed leaves if you even looked at it. I didn’t see the appeal, but he had taken quite a liking to it and even named it after himself: Hairy Shepherd.
Harry had been making my life a lot easier for a long time. He seemed to understand the swift flowing undercurrents of disaster that threatened to drag me under just about all the time since I’d turned twelve and sprouted a set of breasts I could barely manage. It was Harry, not my mother, who had hooked me up with my first real bra and taught me how to walk in high heels. When I came into his kitchen with a little bit of bed hair, but a lot more color in my cheeks, he grinned and picked up the keys to his truck.
“I’ll drive ya.”
“I was hoping you’d finally let me drive that kick-ass truck.”
“You need a penis to drive a truck like that.”
I couldn’t argue with logic like that, especially coming from Harry, so I climbed in the passenger side and focused on being grateful for a ride. I wondered if I’d live long enough to collect any money from the boat ho job and if it would pay enough for a down payment on something nice. I leaned against the leather headrest and fantasized about a trip to the new car lot, where I’d test-drive fifteen awesome cars and then plunk down the cold cash for the hottest ride they had. A hell of a fantasy and just what I needed to psych myself up for meeting the FBI guy to plan what could be my last boat ride.
“That must be some daydream you’re having,” Harry observed. “If it’s about a hot man, you should give me my share of it.”
“I’m giving up on hot men.”
“Moving on to the balding, paunchy ones with lots of sun damage?”
“Tempting.”
“Hottie fireman leaving you cold?”
“Long story.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
I loved my cousin, but I was happy that we were pulling up to the back door of the marina office. I would tell him the whole sad tale of Kurt one of these days, but I was still trying to walk down the sunny side of the street with a little help from doughnuts, a nap and some vehicular fantasies.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said as I bailed out my door. “Talk to you tonight.”
“Only if I don’t get a better offer.” Harry blew me a kiss and then squealed the tires as he peeled out of the parking lot.
When I walked into the store, Marlena was leaning on the counter flipping through the Sunday paper.
“Still can’t believe a man who drives a truck like that is gay,” was her only comment.
“Believe it,” I said. “How was your date?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Seafood buffet was good.”
“How about the Marlena buffet?”
“Guess Sherman was a little too full from dinner. He wasn’t biting.”
“Man, and you looked awesome in those jeans and heels. Are you sure his one good eye was working?”
“If I didn’t know better, and if he wasn’t about the same age as me, I’d say he’s getting old.”
“Nah, he’s probably just conserving his energy for a belated dessert tonight.”
“Hope so,” Marlena said. “Here, not much action in the marina this morning. Take part of the paper.”
I didn’t feel much like reading on account of the lingering headache settled somewhere behind my left eye, but the paper was a good excuse to sit down and maybe even have another cup of coffee. Marlena gave me the lifestyle section, the sports section and the classifieds. Since I knew about as much about sports as I did about men, I didn’t think today was the day to challenge myself. No way was I reading the garage-sale ads. I had enough trash of my own, and I didn’t need to carry someone else’s burden as we all lurched toward the great landfill in the sky.
I picked up the lifestyle section through the process of elimination. Lucky for me, it was in color this week. The better to enjoy a huge, striking wedding photograph of Kurt and the Virgin Mary. He looked unfairly handsome in the tuxedo I’d helped him put on after we had sex. Right before he jumped into the bridal limo with his surprise substitute bride. Smiling at the camera, she looked virginal and sweet with her hand on his shoulder. Almost as if she didn’t know he’d been rolling around in bed with a stupid but—I flattered myself—hot other woman just hours before their pretend wedding. I was pretty sure her smile was actually directed to me. She was firing a warning shot with those perfect teeth and manicured nails.
This was the punishment I deserved for the sin of skipping church. But instead of feeling morose, I started to get pissed off. Maybe I needed to go after Kurt with a pair of safety scissors. It might not scare him much, but I would sure enjoy the hell out of it. I could picture Mary carefully cutting out their “wedding” picture and taping it on her bathroom mirror. Those two deserved each other.
What the hell had I been thinking? I’d been warned that they were practically married by a good—okay, Marlena—authority. This photo, although clearly captioned as a bridal show where the models strutted their stuff for charity, certainly confirmed my blinding insecurity about Kurt and Mary. Pictures don’t lie.
Maybe I was rushing to judgment. There was, of course, a good chance that he was blameless. But he sure didn’t look innocent in that picture. I also had to consider that I was a woman with responsibilities. Some very important people were counting on me to dock boats, be a slutty boat hostess, and catch bad guys who killed their wives and stole millions from small-town treasuries. I didn’t need Kurt’s distraction, and it was in my best interest to lay off the hottie fireman thing.
I didn’t trust myself around him, so my next course of action would be to pretend he didn’t exist and that yesterday hadn’t happened. Four years of teaching kindergarten had sharpened my ability to ignore things. Much like the odiferous gas problems of twenty-three kids or the perpetual sticky residue that settled over objects touched by millions of classroom germs. Pretending not to notice helped me get through the day. I might as well put this professional skill to work in my personal life. Sadly, the last time I exercised this personal strength it turned out I was the last person to realize my ex-husband was one of the reasons for sticky surfaces in my classroom. Maybe directly confronting this Kurt-astrophe was a way better idea. Maybe next week.
“Nice picture,” Marlena commented.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Looks like they were made for each other.”
“One thing in your favor, though, Jazz.” She grinned and pointed at the perfect updo gracing the lovely head of the Virgin Mary. “No sex hair there.”
I wanted to take some consolation from that observation, but being flippant was a far better defense. “I guess that picture was taken before the honeymoon.”
C
hapter Twenty
The bright early afternoon sun shone on an almost empty marina. Anyone who owned a pleasure boat was out on the lake enjoying some fishing or just boating around. There weren’t many arrivals, so I had plenty of time to mull over hideous and disfiguring things I could do to the newspaper wedding picture.
I sent a few evil glances in the general direction of the fireboat from time to time, and was surprised to notice someone moving around on it. If I had to bet money, I’d say it was Kurt. He appeared to be the only firefighter who could man that boat. Maybe the Bluegill Fire Department ought to invest in some training for the other guys. They were missing out on all the fun.
The general absence of arrivals made the conspicuous appearance of two boats particularly notable. Greenback sidled into her dock around one o’clock, but I was spared the indignity of going out and helping her tie up. I didn’t think I could do a whole lot worse than last time, but it was just as well that Marlena happened to be checking on Sherman when Cerberus radioed in. The two of them tied up Greenback while I got my nerve up to go and work out the details of the boat ho job with Cerberus. I’d get out there sometime this afternoon for sure. Maybe after a now-famous Marlena margarita.
The other conspicuous arrival was a boat I had never seen before. A thirty-two-foot speedboat with custom metallic red paint and too much gleaming chrome. The name Bling emblazoned in metallic letters on the back said it all. Polished metal everywhere, custom seats, fancy covering on the steering wheel and a kick-ass stereo. The only thing more outrageous than the boat was its driver. A tall black man wearing no shirt, a massive gold necklace, shiny white basketball shorts and red flip-flops was behind the wheel. He looked like a rap star millionaire. Or, rather, like a man trying to look like a rap star millionaire.
He was oddly familiar, as if I’d met him before. But I’d lived in Bluegill since last August, and hadn’t seen anyone matching his description in this town of rather unimaginatively dressed white, lower-middle class folks. Maybe I’d seen him on TV.
