“Was his friend Camilla Law, the woman who was murdered?’’ I asked.
“Couldn’t tell. When I saw the lady, she was carrying a whip and wearing nothing but black stockings with garters and some kind of hood. I couldn’t see her face, not that I was looking there.’’
He leered, showing a mouthful of decayed and broken teeth. Must be all that soda.
“How did you come to see her?’’ Marty asked.
“Another guest complained to the maid about the racket they were making in that room.’’
“Do you get many complaints like that?’’ she asked.
“Not usually. Our guests tend to be … uhmm … tolerant.” He took a long swallow from his bucket o’ beverage. “That night, though, there was the sound of screaming and furniture banging. I think the other guest was scared someone was getting murdered.’’
That word seemed to jolt both Marty and me. The clerk clarified. “Nobody was. They were into role-playing, not bloodshed.’’ He sucked on his straw; drew in air. Pulling a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew from under his counter, he refilled the empty plastic cup. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, I saw the superhero was the Hulk.
“Anyway, the maid went up and knocked at the door. His Honor yelled ‘C’mon in.’ She did, and got an eyeful. There he was, spread eagled on the bed. He was naked as a baby, except for a dog collar around his neck. Black fur handcuffs held his wrists at the headboard. His ankles were trussed up with black leather straps, tied to the footboard.’’
Timothy’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID, and sent it straight to voice mail.
“The maid said he wiggled his tongue at her like a snake, pumped his pelvis up and down, and begged her to join their little party.’’
“Ewww,’’ Marty said.
“Exactly!’’ He chuckled, his laughter trailing off to a smoker’s wheeze. “The maid came running into the office in tears. I don’t have too many rules here, but nobody harasses my staff. Especially the ones who aren’t eighteen yet.’’
“So,’’ I said, “chivalry isn’t dead after all.’’
“Absolutely. When I marched over to their room, the woman answered the door. Like I told you, she was wearing this hood deal. She said they were sorry; things had gotten a little out of hand.’’
“Did the mayor say anything?’’ I asked.
“Not a peep. His head was turned to the wall. When he left, he asked me to apologize to the maid for him, and left her an envelope with fifty bucks. He slipped me a Benjamin …”
Marty cocked her head in a question.
“A hundred-dollar bill,’’ I said. “Ben Franklin.’’
“Right. He gave me the dough, and said he’d appreciate my discretion.’’
“Misspent money, huh?’’ I said.
“I told you, I don’t like people messing with my staff. I don’t owe him a thing. Besides, I voted for the other guy.’’
“Me too,’’ Marty said.
“All that sanctimonious stuff he was spouting during the campaign about family values? It really turned me off. Turns out it was all bullshit anyway. Typical hypocritical politician.’’
He inhaled more soda. “Hey, would you girls like to join me for dinner? I get off in about twenty minutes.’’
“Naw, but thanks,’’ I said. “My sister has to get home to her husband and I’m engaged.’’ I held up my left hand, remembering too late I’d removed the ring after Carlos and I argued. The lack of lobby light worked in my favor. Timothy didn’t seem to notice my finger was bare.
While we said our goodbyes, I dug into my pocket, my fingers touching the ring. It felt hot, somehow, like it was going to burn my skin. Why hadn’t Carlos said anything about the mayor while he was lambasting me for withholding information about Kenny? Who didn’t trust whom?
Marty and I were almost to the door when I stopped and turned around.
“What did the woman in the mayor’s room sound like?’’
Timothy thought for a moment. “Classy. Like the ladies on public TV.’’
“Like Masterpiece Thea-tuh?’’ Marty asked, doing her best Downton Abbey impression.
“Exactly.’’ He drained the Hulk cup; wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She had an English accent.’’
forty-seven
The Friday morning air smelled of bacon frying and coffee brewing. Marty and I stood outside Maddie’s door, waiting for her to let us in.
“Maybe she’s feeling better,’’ Marty said, sniffing at the cooking smells. “I wonder if she’ll have pancakes, too?’’
That would be the old Maddie. She placed pancakes at the very apex of her food pyramid.
Mama parked, and hurried up the walkway to wait with us at the closed door. The kitten heels on her persimmon-colored sandals click-clicked all the way.
“Poor Maddie. She’s probably not even able to drag herself out of bed. Hang on, girls. I think I’ve got one of her front door keys in here somewhere.’’
She’d barely begun pawing through her purse, in a matching persimmon, when the door swung open. A smiling Maddie stood on the other side—hair done up neatly in a French twist; lips colored a becoming shade of pink. She quickly waved us in.
“Bacon’s about to burn. Help yourselves to some coffee.’’
She surely did look better. She was wearing her doing-battle-as-principal clothes—a dark, knee-length skirt paired with a powder-blue blouse in polished cotton. On her feet: No-nonsense pumps. Over her shoulder, Maddie spoke to Marty: “I haven’t forgotten you, sister. Instead of bacon, I’m making you eggs for protein. The pancakes are just because we like them.’’
In the kitchen, Marty and I filled our favorite coffee mugs and took our seats. Mama flitted about behind Maddie, peering first over one shoulder and then the next.
“Hadn’t you better turn that flapjack now, honey?’’ Flutter, flit. “Don’t scramble the eggs so hard.’’ Flit, flutter. “They’ll be as tough as an old saddle.’’
Maddie glanced at Marty and me and rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve got it covered, Mama. Why don’t you put out some plates and have a seat?’’ She turned again to the stove.
“You seem pretty chipper this morning,’’ I said to her back.
I didn’t add that this good mood was the last thing I expected. Maybe she hadn’t seen the late news last night, which led off with her cheating husband’s perp walk through shouting protestors. Maybe she hadn’t talked to Henry, who’d told me Kenny had spent the night at the Himmarshee County jail. Mama, Marty and I had schemed to meet at Maddie’s first thing in the morning. I’d expected us to be propping up an emotionally devastated woman. At the very least, I thought we’d be providing her with the support of her loving family.
Instead, she calmly poured batter onto a flat griddle to start another pancake. It sizzled when it met the hot pan.
“You seem surprised I seem chipper.’’ She flattened one of the flapjacks with a spatula. “Did you expect to find me with my head in the oven?’’
Mama stirred her coffee, spoon pinging against the cup.
Marty removed and re-straightened the napkins in a holder.
I contributed to the silence, my hands clasped on my lap under the table.
“Well?’’ Maddie prodded. “Did you think I’d keep moping around here forever? I talked to Henry last night. I know y’all are trying to prove Kenny had nothing to do with this awful murder.’’
She slid the scrambled eggs into a serving bowl and covered it so they wouldn’t get cold. The plated bacon went into a toaster oven. Maddie turned the temperature dial to warm. When we still hadn’t spoken, she cleared her throat.
“I want everybody to stop tiptoeing around me. I’m not dying of some terrible disease. I’m a wife who’s been cheated on. I wasn’t the first; I won’t be the last. I know in my bones my husband is no murderer. He’s only guilty of one thing, and that’s thinking with the wrong head.’’
Mama
nodded. “Been there, got the T-shirt. Kenny can get in line with all the other husbands guilty of that.’’
“I appreciate everything you’ve already done to find another suspect. I’m ready to pitch in, too.’’ Maddie pointed to the answering machine on the counter. “We can start right here, right now. Listen to this.’’
She pressed play.
Beep. How does it feel to be married to a killer?
Beep. No Mercy for Murderers!
“Not that nonsense,’’ she said. “This next one.’’
After the beep, there was a long pause. Then a muffled voice spoke: The police have the wrong person in jail. Your husband didn’t kill Camilla Law. I might know who did.
Mama started to interrupt. Maddie held up a single finger, like a teacher warning an over-eager kindergartner.
The message continued.
I’m afraid to come forward. If I speak out, I could be a victim next. Tell your sister to keep hunting for the real killer. The swingers’ club holds the key.
The message ended. “Did you punch in star-69 to see the number that called you?’’ I asked.
“Of course I did: ‘Unknown.’ It was probably one of those disposable cell phones like the criminals use on TV.’’
“It sounded like they were talking through a mouthful of cotton. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, could you?’’ Marty raised her eyebrows at us.
We all shook our heads.
“Play it again,’’ Mama said.
Maddie skipped ahead to the right call.
“Wait!’’ I said, listening closely. “That’s definitely the sound of music; maybe some glasses clinking in the background.’’
“Could be a bar,’’ Maddie said.
“Great,’’ Mama said. “There are almost as many bars in this county
as there are churches.’’
“Could you hear what song was playing?’’ Marty asked me.
I shook my head.
“You need to tell Carlos about this, Mace. The police will be able to figure out a lot more than we can from the phone message,’’ Mama said. “When are you going to see him next?’’
I took a sip of coffee. Blew on it, and then sipped again.
“Oh, no!’’ Mama grabbed my left hand and dragged it out from under the table, where I was hiding it in my lap. She waved the ring-free digit at my sisters. “I knew it!’’
I didn’t want my sorry romantic saga to distract us from helping Maddie. “We have not broken up, Mama. Things are just a little tense between us. It might be better if Sal tells Carlos about the phone call.’’
Mama dug in her heels, looked like she was ready to argue. “But—”
“—Enough!’’ Maddie slapped the table between us, startling Mama and me. “As fascinated as we are by Mace’s on-again-off-again engagement, my husband is being slandered as a murderer. Is it too much to ask that we focus on finding out who really killed Camilla, so we can clear Kenny’s name and bring him home?’’
Marty raised her coffee cup in a salute. “Hear, hear.’’
Maddie rested her hand on her belly for an instant. I doubted that Marty or Mama caught the protective gesture. They didn’t know her secret yet. She got out syrup and butter for the table; and served our pancakes from the griddle.
“By the way,’’ Maddie said, “the party is still on for tomorrow night. I’m going to hold my head high and call it ‘Free Kenny Wilson Night.’ Maybe we can force the real murderer to show his hand.’’
She doused her pancake with syrup, scooped up a mess of eggs, and passed the bowl to me.
As I helped myself, the pieces of a plan to unmask Camilla’s killer began to take shape.
forty-eight
“Have you spotted anybody yet? Tell me what you see, Mace.’’
“Thanks for the spit shower.’’ I dried the inside of my ear, and returned Mama’s whisper. “And, no, I haven’t spotted anybody. It’s the middle of the night, and cloudy. I can barely see.’’
“Are you sure this is the right spot for the swingers’ soiree?’’ She spritzed my ear with each shushed S.
“You can speak up. It’s clear we’re all alone.’’
We’d driven to a secret location at the country club, stashed her car behind the closed restaurant, and took cover in the shadows of the golf cart barn. Jason had called while I was at work to invite me to the gathering.
I’d groaned into the phone. “You start at three o’clock in the morning? Are your pals vampires as well as swingers?’’
“You asked me to let you know when the next party was. Well, this is it. I’m sure you’ll find it worth your while.’’
He’d revealed the closely guarded details: On arrival, guests were to knock four times, pause, and knock once more. The code word for the night was Dandelion. The group would meet in a large apartment kept for visiting golf pros, located beside the shed where electric carts were charged and stored.
“We have to make sure we’re not accidentally discovered. As you can imagine, these kind of parties call for absolute discretion.’’
“As discreet as you can be stark naked,’’ I said. “By the way, if I do come, I won’t be taking off my clothes. I’ll only be there as an observer.’’
He laughed. “That’s what they all say.’’
My Jeep was still being processed by the cops. It hadn’t taken much effort to persuade Mama to drive me to the golf course, especially after the message on Maddie’s machine implied the swingers were the key to everything. I wanted to find out more about them, especially the mayor. I had a hunch he was involved in Camilla’s murder. I needed to know how.
I stood now at the front of the cart shed, watching the entrance to the vacant parking lot. Mama was half-concealed behind a boxy silver machine that dispensed practice balls for the driving range. I had no intention of showing my hand—or anything else—until we’d staked out the situation.
Mama reminded me—again—of her ground rules for our reconnaissance mission: “I am not taking part in any of that funny business.’’
“And you think I am?’’ I said.
“I don’t know what you’re up to now that you’ve broken things off with Carlos. Maybe you’re in the market for a little excitement.’’
“First of all, I haven’t broken it off. I told you we’re taking a rest. And second, I’m not interested in that kind of excitement.’’
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, Mace.’’
Once I finished sputtering, I planned to pursue that line of inquiry with Mama. Just then, though, I heard a car approach. I raised my hand to signal her to hush. “Head’s up. Here’s our first guest.’’
Stepping out from behind the ball dispenser, she craned her neck to peek around me.
A second car followed close behind the first. In the flash of its headlights, I saw the mayor’s shapely “aide” climb from the front seat of the first car. Another young woman, the one who’d been interviewing for a job in his office, got out of the back. When the driver exited, I was not surprised to see it was Angel. She caressed the cheek of the mayor’s aide, and gave the job-seeker’s bottom a friendly pat. The aide—Ruby? Diamond?—adjusted a halter top, hefting first one breast, and then the other. Her already considerable cleavage was now pumped up to its most flattering display. Licking her lips, Angel grazed her fingers across the aide’s chest.
“I knew there was something fishy about that barmaid!’’ Mama hissed.
The trio teetered toward the apartment in tight tops, micro-minis, and impossibly high heels. Angel unlocked the door and stepped in first. Light flooded out through the windows.
Five guys piled out of the second vehicle, a red SUV. The smell of men’s cologne and cigar smoke wafted our way as they made their way to the apartment. The SUV was familiar. I’d bet it was the same one that terrorized us and several other drivers along the stretch of highway near Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow. I also recognized the tallest man in the group as the d
eveloper with the gold watch who had visited Himmarshee Park with the mayor. I’d wondered that day about his smirking innuendoes about threesomes and foursomes. Now they made sense.
I scanned the cluster of men, recognizing a couple more from the day at the park. The mayor was not with them. Jason hadn’t shown yet, either. The tallest man counted out the requisite five knocks. “Dandelion,’’ he said, and the door opened.
Next, a convertible sports car roared up. I thought it might have been a Porsche; a car not often seen among the pickups and dilapidated beaters driving the local roads. A well-preserved, silver-haired couple extricated themselves from the low-slung seats. The man’s ample stomach made me wonder how he could fit behind the wheel to drive. The woman wore something short, tight, and golden. It shimmered in the light from the windows as they approached the porch.
“Do you know them?’’ I asked in a low voice.
Mama shook her head. “Probably drove up from Palm Beach. With that hair, she’d look better in silver sequins than gold.’’
“I’m sure she’d appreciate the fashion tip. Maybe you can write a column for the newspaper: What to wear to a sex party.’’
A sharp poke on the arm made me shut my mouth.
The man from the sports car rapped five times, and whispered the code word. Angel answered the door. She draped a hand over each of their shoulders, welcoming them. Her fingers slid down their chests, giving each what looked like a nipple tweak. The woman tittered; her date returned Angel’s pinch, goosing her in the rear end.
“How many are in there now?’’ Mama asked.
I tallied up the swingers: the mayor’s gals, Angel, and the granny from the Porsche made four women. The old broad’s beau and the five guys from the SUV made six men. I held up both hands, ten fingers outstretched.
“Quite a get-together,’’ Mama said.
“No Mr. or Mrs. Mayor, though. I expected to see them.’’
She stepped around me, her eyes searching the dark parking lot. “Maybe they’re still on their way.’’
I glanced at my watch: Three-twenty-five.
Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery) Page 23
