by Lois Winston
He parked the car, and we headed for the entrance. “Take it any way you want. If you’re going to insist I’m really a spy, I might as well play along.”
I stopped at the entrance and turned to him. “You’re not packing heat, are you?”
Zack laughed. “Packing heat?”
“Isn’t that what you spies call it?”
“Right. And here I thought you were way too busy to watch television. Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy these inquisitions of yours?” He grabbed the lapels of his sports jacket and spread them wide. “Care to do a pat down? Or maybe you’d prefer a strip search?”
“In the middle of downtown Westfield? I’ll save the strip search for later tonight.”
He smiled. “I can’t wait.”
We entered the restaurant and were shown to our table. As we perused the menu, Zack casually asked, “Speaking of killers, did you unmask any today?”
“Maybe.”
Both his eyebrows shot up over his menu, but before he could say anything, the sommelier appeared at our table. As soon as the sommelier left, the waiter appeared.
“Fun’s over,” said Zack after the waiter took our order and the sommelier had returned to pour glasses of champagne for us. The playful banter had disappeared, and his voice grew serious. “Define maybe.”
I caught him up on everything I’d discovered yesterday and today. “If you hadn’t been off saving the world, I would have told you last night.”
He scowled his I-am-not-a-spy scowl.
“Anyway, all four women in Human Resources have financial problems. Any one of them could have doctored the payroll to embezzle that money. Once Batswin and Robbins track down the guy who picked up the checks, we’ll know which one.”
“I see one slight problem.”
I sighed. “I know. The embezzlement might have no connection to the murder. As a matter of fact, the more I think about it, the more the two seem totally unrelated. In the unlikely chance that Philomena found out about the embezzlement, why would she care? She wasn’t exactly a poster child for living a law-abiding life.”
“Given her past, she’d more likely demand a cut of the action,” said Zack.
“Which a savvy embezzler would have given her to keep her quiet and allow the scam to continue. After all, killing Philomena killed the magazine. No magazine, no payroll. No payroll, no money to embezzle.”
“Perhaps a heated argument over the size of the cut got out of hand,” he said. “We won’t know if the two crimes are connected until the police figure out the embezzler’s identity.”
Come Monday morning would I arrive at work to find a vacancy in the Human Resources Department? At this very moment Batswin and Robbins might be at the Holzer McMansion, slapping handcuffs on Nita.
“You still uncovered a crime no one else other than the perpetrator knew about before yesterday,” said Zack.
That put a smile on my face. “I did, didn’t I? Maybe I’m not so bad at this sleuthing business after all.”
“Don’t get cocky. And don’t quit your day job.”
“Wouldn’t dream of either. Anyway, if the two crimes are unrelated, I’m no closer to uncovering any credible suspects than I was before I discovered the embezzlement.”
“For all you know, the police already have a prime suspect.”
“They do. Gruenwald.”
“Have you considered the possibility that Gruenwald paid you to keep you occupied on a wild goose chase?”
“Because he feared I’d figure out he killed Philomena? Yes. Especially since he’s certain I solved the other Trimedia murders. And I’m still not convinced he didn’t kill her, probably in a fit of uncontrollable rage. The last time I saw them together was during a heated argument. Philomena made some vicious threats. Gruenwald brushed it off as just a manifestation of her passionate personality, but something about his behavior doesn’t add up.”
“Like the killer bringing the body to Trimedia?”
“Exactly. Why not dump it in the Hudson? Or the Meadowlands swamps? I also don’t see Gruenwald rappelling down the side of the building to steal the surveillance cameras.”
“Because of his age?”
“The guy is pushing seventy.” Zack whipped his iPhone out of his pocket. “What are you doing?”
“Googling Gruenwald.” He spent a minute scrolling down his phone. “The man’s built like a brick outhouse.”
“Sheila said he reminds her of Ernest Borgnine back in his McHale’s Navy days.”
“I can see the resemblance. He’s certainly far from handsome.”
“That’s another thing I don’t understand. What did Philomena see in Gruenwald? She already had fame and plenty of her own money. All I can come up with is that she was so desperate to become a hip-hop Oprah, she prostituted herself to get that magazine.”
“Women have prostituted themselves for far less,” said Zack. “How much do you know about Gruenwald?”
“Other than him being the CEO of Trimedia?” I shrugged. “Nothing.”
He passed his phone across the table to me. “Read.”
I skimmed the bio Zack had pulled up from the Trimedia corporate website. My jaw dropped. “Oh. My. God.” Albert Gruenwald listed his hobbies as participating in marathons and triathlons. He’d even placed in several recent races in his age division.
The waiter arrived with our appetizers, and I returned Zack’s phone to him. As he slipped it into his pocket, he stated the obvious. “I’d say the man is quite capable of rappelling down the side of a four-story building.”
“Can’t argue with that. But assuming Gruenwald did kill Philomena, what would compel him to bring her body to Trimedia?” I wracked my brain as I nibbled on escargot. “I’m coming up blank. Nothing makes sense. Did he employ some twisted logic, thinking the cops wouldn’t expect him to be that stupid, so they’d discount him as a suspect?”
“Possibly. You’d need a degree in criminal psychology to understand a killer’s mind.”
“Yeah, all I’ve got is an art degree, which apparently qualifies me to paint condo walls.”
FOURTEEN
The next morning I woke to banging on the door. I opened my eyes to find Zack stretched out beside me, one of his legs looped over mine. Sunlight poured through his bedroom window; the clock flashed eight. Oops!
I hadn’t meant to spend the night. I always leave Zack’s apartment and return to my own bed before anyone else in the house wakes up. Not that they don’t know Zack and I have taken our relationship to the sex level. After all, Mama, Alex, and Nick practically pushed me into Zack’s bed, and Lucille calls me a harlot at every opportunity. Still, I did try to play the role of responsible parent.
I inched out from under Zack’s leg and searched the floor for my clothes. Once I tossed my dress over my head, foregoing bra and panties, I tiptoed barefoot from the room, closing the bedroom door behind me.
“Who is it?” I asked through the apartment door.
“It’s your mother. Who do you think it is?”
Discounting Lucille because she’d never make it up the steep steps, there were two other possibilities, but I refrained from saying so. “What is it, Mama?”
“I’m ready to leave. You obviously aren’t.”
I swung open the door, and Mama pushed her way inside. “It’s only eight o’clock.”
“And we have a lot to do today. You still haven’t even helped me decide on colors. Good morning, Zachary, dear.”
I spun around to find Zack, dressed in a pair of boxers and a rumpled T-shirt, standing in the bedroom doorway. He scrubbed his jaw and yawned. “Morning, Flora. Would you like some help today?”
“I’m sure Anastasia can handle it. You might distract her too much.”
I stared dumbfounded at my mother. “Carrying a bit of a grudge this morning, Mama?”
“I wasn’t asking you,” said Zack, coming up behind me and draping his arm across my shoulders. “I was asking your daughter.”
Mama and Zack e
ngaged in a stare-down for a few seconds. Finally, Mama broke eye contact and said, “Well, I suppose an extra pair of hands will make the job go quicker. Let’s get going. We have lots to do today.”
I saluted her retreating back as she descended the stairs.
“I’ll have to figure out a way to get back in her good graces,” said Zack after closing the door.
“She’ll get over it. Just don’t spill any paint on her carpets today.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the condo will have hardwoods and tile.”
“Are you that sloppy a painter?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve never painted a room before.”
“Great. You’ll be as big a help as Mama.”
“I’m a much quicker study.”
“Nice to know.” I dashed into the bedroom to retrieve the remainder of my clothes. “Breakfast in twenty minutes,” I said, heading out the door.
~*~
By the time I grabbed a quick shower, threw on a pair of old sweats, fed Ralph and changed his water, and set out fresh kibble and water for Mephisto, Zack was in the kitchen preparing a pot of coffee. I fired up my frying pan to scramble a dozen eggs.
Paint chips covered the kitchen table. As I cracked eggs, Mama cradled Catherine the Great in one arm while sticking one paint sample after another in front of my face. Ralph watched in rapt fascination from his perch atop the refrigerator.
“What do you think of this color? It’s called Silver Cloud. Maybe for the living room? But Mother of Pearl is also nice.” Mama shoved another chip so close to my nose that my eyes crossed. “That might work well in the powder room, though. And I thought an accent wall of Beaver Gray in the bedroom but can’t decide which color to choose for the remaining three walls. Ash or Dove?” More paint chips crowded my vision. “What do you think, dear?”
“You’re going to be the one living there. You should make the decision, not me.” I’m not a huge fan of gray walls, no matter the hue, tone, or shade, but Mama had spent the last several weeks camped out in front of HGTV and pronounced gray the wall color du jour according to all the TV decorators.
“But you know color.” She sounded like a whiney child in need of a nap.
“Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going,” squawked Ralph. “But bid farewell, and go. Antony and Cleopatra. Act One, Scene Three.”
Mama shot Ralph a vile look. “Filthy flying rat,” she muttered under her breath.
At that moment, the remainder of the Pollack menagerie arrived. With Mephisto close on her heels, Lucille shuffled into the kitchen, plopped herself down in a chair, and waited silently for her breakfast. She offered not so much as a grunt in place of a good morning. Mephisto waddled over to his doggie bowl and attacked his kibble. No good morning from him, either. I live to serve.
Alex and Nick entered the kitchen a moment later. “Morning,” they both mumbled, each planting a quick peck on my cheeks.
At least some members of my family have manners. “Good morning.” I poured the egg batter into the frying pan. Zack had moved on to making toast. “One of you needs to set the table; the other can pour juice.”
Nick glanced at the kitchen table. “I’ll have eggs and toast, but hold the paint chips on mine, Mom.”
“Very funny, Nick. If you become a stand-up comic you’ll save me a bundle on college tuition. Mama, sweep up your chips, please.”
“But we haven’t decided on colors yet!”
I set down my spatula and turned to the table. One by one I pointed to random colors of gray. “Living room and dining room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, powder room. Done.”
“What about the accent wall in the bedroom?”
I stabbed at a color three shades darker than the color I’d picked for the other bedroom walls. “This one.”
Mama hesitated. “You’re sure?”
“You asked for my help, didn’t you?”
“I suppose, but I thought Silver Cloud would look nice.”
“Then go with Silver Cloud.”
“But you chose Stratus.”
I sighed and moved back to the stove. “Nick needs to set the table, Mama.”
“All right. I’ll go with Stratus. After all, you’re the one with the art degree.”
I glanced at Zack. The poor man was trying desperately not to crack up laughing. If we made eye contact, he’d lose it. I turned back to Mama. “I think you’ll be very happy with those colors.”
“And if I’m not, that’s the nice thing about paint, dear. You can always change the color for me.”
~*~
Painting is mindless work, perfect for mulling over murder as I rolled color onto Mama’s living room walls. Except Mama kept interrupting my thoughts with a steady stream of nattering. “Are you sure about the Stratus for this room, dear?”
“I’m sure, Mama.”
“Well, if you’re sure, I’ll go check out Zack’s progress painting the bathroom.”
A moment latter I heard Zack yell, “Flora, look out!”
A loud crash followed, then a shrieking howl, and finally a stream of language far more fit for a longshoreman than the former social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution.
I dropped my paint roller and ran to the bathroom. Mama stood frozen in place in the middle of the room. A gallon of Mother of Pearl latex dripped from nearly every square inch of her body onto the tile floor. Rivers of paint flowed along the grout lines. A pattern of spatter covered the sink, toilet, and bathtub. Only the shower stall had been spared the latex baptism.
If my mother didn’t look totally mortified and about to burst out in tears, I’d probably double over in laughter. The scene looked like something out of a slapstick comedy.
I glanced up to where Zack stood on the ladder, a paint brush still in his hand. “What happened?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “Look at me!” She shook her arms and sent paint sailing across the room to land in my hair and on my sweats.
“But how?”
“She banged the door into the ladder, knocking off the can of paint,” said Zack.
“Don’t just stand there,” cried Mama. “Do something! I need help.”
I surveyed the situation. “Any suggestions?” I asked Zack.
“We should stick Flora in the shower.”
“Are you out of your mind?” asked Mama. I’m fully dressed.
“Your clothes are ruined. Zack’s right. The first thing we need to do is get you into the shower.
“Like this?”
“How else?”
“But that’s the one place without paint.”
“We have no other choice.”
Mama reluctantly stepped into the shower. I dodged paint puddles to make my way to the stall and adjust the water for her. “Stay there until the water runs clear. We’ll start cleaning up this mess.”
Zack descended the ladder. “How are we going to clean up the paint? We have exactly two rolls of paper towels, four rags and no towels.”
“Let’s start by sopping up the floor as best we can with the paper towels.” I dug in my pocket for my phone. Lawrence hadn’t arrived yet. I’d have him stop off at my house to pick up some clothes and towels for Mama and a pile of rags from the basement.
~*~
Thirty minutes later, Zack and I had mopped up the floor the best we could, using every single sheet of Bounty. So much paint had spilled on the white tile floor that the white grout was now Mother of Pearl. Much of the porous material had soaked up the latex from the initial spill, the rest as Zack and I attempted to wipe the tiles clean.
“Nothing we can do about that,” said Zack, noticing me frowning at the darkened grout.
I shrugged. “At least it’s a trendy color. According to the HGTV decorating mavens. Not to mention it will perfectly match the walls.”
I heard the front door open and called to Lawrence, “We’re in the bathroom.”
He arrived empty-handed. “Where are the rags, tow
els, and clothes for Mama?”
“I tried,” he said. “That mother-in-law of yours refused to let me in the house.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I tried to explain what happened, but she wouldn’t even open the door to me.”
“Great.”
“The commie pinko did that on purpose,” shouted Mama from the shower stall. “I’m freezing in here. The hot water ran out. I’m going to catch pneumonia!”
I sighed. “I’ll be back.”
“I’ll drive you,” offered Zack.
“You can’t leave,” said Mama. What about painting the rest of the apartment?”
“No one’s painting anymore today, Mama.”
“Why not? It’s early, not even lunchtime yet.”
“Really? It feels like midnight to me.”
“I don’t know what you’re so angry about, dear. I’m the one who was attacked by a can of paint.”
“This is what I get for being nice,” I complained to Zack as we left the apartment. “It’s like that song from Wicked says, ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’ No more. If Mama wants her apartment painted, she and Lawrence can do it themselves. Or she can accept Ira’s offer to hire someone.”
“And you get your weekend back.”
“Are you kidding? I’m about to kill Lucille. I’ll be spending the rest of the weekend behind bars.”
FIFTEEN
My impending night in lockup was postponed only because we arrived back at the house to find Lucille MIA.
“Looks like the old battle-axe lives to see another day,” said Zack.
“She’s probably off fomenting a government takeover. Now that she’s mostly recovered from her stroke and surgery, she’s back to her old tricks.”
Lately, Lucille stayed home as little as possible. I suspected she and her comrades-in-arms, the twelve other members of the Daughters of the October Revolution, were up to something. I just didn’t know what. However, as long as they didn’t commandeer my living room and dining room, not to mention my office supplies, they could plot to their octogenarian hearts’ content.
I began scurrying around the house, grabbing clothes and towels for Mama and an armload of rags from the basement. At the last minute I dashed into the bathroom for her hair dryer and a brush.
