Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  “That I can’t guarantee. But I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, you’re good. Tease me just enough that I have to know. So what are these two things?”

  He fastened another bolt before speaking. “I think you’re kids are pretty cool, Anastasia Pollack. And your mother’s a hoot.” He turned to look at me. “Was she really coming on to me?”

  I laughed. “Can’t get anything past you.”

  “You’ll find I’m a very observant person.”

  “Mama somehow managed to be born without the Subtle Gene. She’s on the prowl for her next husband. Take that as a friendly warning.”

  “As flattered as I am, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint her.”

  “How surprising.”

  “Think she’ll be heartbroken?”

  “For at least forty-eight hours. That’s about as long as it should take her to set her sights on my next potential future stepfather.”

  SEVENTEEN

  After Zack left I headed for Alex and Nick’s room. The time had come for the family talk I’d put off since learning of Karl’s deceit. Both Lucille and Mama already knew what Karl had done. Sooner or later one of them was bound to let something slip.

  Better the boys heard the truth from me. Minus the Ricardo chapter. I figured one member of the family scared out of her wits was already one too many. Alex and Nick were still trying to come to terms with their father’s death. Dumping abject poverty on them was enough of an added whammy without them having to worry about some threat-hurling low-life scum stalking us.

  “How could Dad do this to us?” asked Nick. He pounded his fist so hard on his desk that his wireless keyboard went flying. Luckily, it landed on the bed.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “Try to control yourself. We can’t afford any repair bills right now. Or new computer equipment.”

  I placed my hand on his shoulder. His most recent growth spurt had added another two inches to his lanky frame, which now hovered just shy of the magic six-foot mark. Both boys had inherited their father’s good looks, but Nick, still suffering from the gawkiness of adolescence, had yet to grow into his.

  At first the boys greeted my pronouncement of destitution with stunned silence. It took awhile for the news to sink in. Then their silence transformed to anger, and Nick had taken his out with his fist.

  “What about college?” asked Alex.

  Time for me to harness a Scarlett O’Hara moment: As God is my witness, I’ll scrub floors if I have to. But floor scrubbers don’t make enough to pay Harvard tuition and neither do editors of second-rate women’s magazines. My salary would cover monthly bills, but there would be little left to dig us out of the debt Karl had plunged us into, let alone pay for college.

  Still, I couldn’t leave my kids without hope, no matter how slim. “Scholarships. Loans. Part-time jobs.”

  Who was I kidding? Harvard was over forty grand a year. Even the reasonably priced local community college now loomed out of reach, but somehow we’d manage. I just needed to figure out a game plan.

  “Goddamn fucking asshole!” yelled Alex. “That selfish bastard’s ruined my life!”

  I didn’t blame him for the outburst, and now was not the time to reprimand him about his language. I knew he loved his father, but he felt betrayed. He’d worked hard to achieve his dream. His grades proved that, but his parents hadn’t held up their end of the bargain.

  He turned his anger on me. “Damn it, Mom, how could you let this happen?”

  My eyes welled up with tears that I fought back with a loud snuffle. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  The damning truth was, I should have known. I’d been kicking myself twenty-four/seven since learning of Karl’s deception.

  With a full-time job, two kids’ schedules to juggle, and a mental block when it came to anything remotely mathematical, I had gratefully accepted Karl’s offer to handle the family finances. Hell, I never even bothered to glance at our 1040’s each year, just blinded signed my name to the bottom of the first page of the tax form and handed it back to him.

  Karl had handled our finances, all right. Manhandled them into nonexistence. Now we were all suffering because of my lamebrain idea that a wife should be able to trust her husband. What was I thinking?

  “Are we going to lose the house?” asked Nick in almost a whisper.

  “I don’t know. I hope not.”

  “How bad is it, really?” asked Alex.

  “Really bad.”

  “Fuck!”

  “But I have a few ideas. We’ll make it through this. Somehow. I promise.”

  Alex wrapped his arm around my shoulders. The hostility drained from his face. “Okay. I suppose this is one of those spilled milk times, right? Nothing’s going to change what’s been done, so we need to make the best of it and move on, yada-yada-yada?” He didn’t sound like he was all that convinced.

  “Trust me, if crying could solve our problems, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “So what can we do to help?”

  “Yeah, just say the word,” added Nick. “We’ll pitch in any way we can.”

  That’s what I’d been hoping to hear. I’d expected angry outbursts, blame placing, and sullenness that would last weeks, if not months, before they finally accepted this additional cataclysmic shift in our lives. Their maturity in light of the situation swelled my heart.

  “Will we have to give up cable?” asked Nick.

  So much for maturity. Maybe the reality hadn’t completely sunk in yet. “Definitely.”

  He frowned, then shrugged. “I suppose I can live without ESPN.” He cast a sideways glance at me, his eyes hopeful. “If I really have to.”

  Poor kid. A fate worse than death for a teenager who lived sports round the clock. “You really have to. The Internet connection goes, too.” Between the two, I’d save over a hundred and fifty dollars a month.

  “Mom!” They both jumped on me at once.

  “I’ll get a paper route. A job at McDonald’s,” said Nick. “I need the Internet.”

  “And when will you have time for school, homework, and sports?” I paused for a moment and eyed him. Nick spent far too much time online as it was, and he knew that I knew it. Maybe doing without some things wasn’t such a bad thing, at least not from this parent’s perspective.

  He tried another tact. “We need the Internet for homework.”

  “You can use the computers at school and the library when you have to go online.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “No buts. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I got through school without an Internet connection in my home, and you can, too.”

  “They didn’t have Internet in the Stone Age,” he said.

  “And I survived in spite of it.”

  “I suppose this means no car, huh?” asked Alex.

  Karl had promised him one for his seventeenth birthday. Karl’s company car was reclaimed from the airport parking garage the day after his death. We had one car and would have only one car for a very long time to come.

  “Definitely out of the question.” I didn’t add that he’d have to postpone getting his license because we couldn’t even afford the additional auto insurance. One whammy at a time was my new mantra.

  “What about Grandmother Lucille?” asked Nick.

  “What about her?”

  Nick scrunched up his face. “Does this mean she’s going to live with us forever?” He glanced at his brother. “No offense, bro, but sharing a room with you really sucks.”

  “You’re the slob,” said Alex, jabbing his brother in the shoulder.

  “You snore,” retaliated Nick.

  “She’s the only family we have,” I said, “and she has nowhere else to go.”

  “There’s no old age home for crotchety commies?” asked Alex.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “So we’re stuck with her?” asked Nick.

  “We’re stuck with her.”

&
nbsp; Both boys groaned. Of all the ugly truths of our new situation I’d just hit them with, I think that was the one hardest for them to accept.

  ~*~

  By eleven o’clock the next morning, I was on my fourth cup of coffee. Once again I had gotten far less than my suggested daily requirement of Z’s, thanks to Mama’s nocturnal aerobics and my eventual flight to the den sofa.

  It’s not that I didn’t have the courage of my convictions. I fully intended to lay down the law and make Lucille and Mama share Nick’s bedroom last night. However, Lucille threw a monkey wrench into my plans when she locked herself and Mephisto in—and Mama out—of the bedroom after Harley and Fogarty left.

  While we were all gone yesterday, that conniving commie hadn’t been “out all day” as she’d claimed to Fogarty. For part of the day she’d been home having a lock installed on Nick’s bedroom door. No wonder she got all defensive when Fogarty questioned her about her whereabouts.

  Anyway, repeated poundings on the door last night refused to budge the stubborn, sulking pinko. I figured she’d at least have to open up to let Mephisto do his doggy business at some point, but no such luck. The dog must have a bladder the size of Texas because neither Lucille nor Mephisto made an appearance until early this morning.

  As I headed for the break room and Caffeine Fix Number Five, I added one more item to my to-do list. As soon as I returned home this evening, I planned to remove the lock from Nick’s door. One more night on the den sofa and I’d wind up a crippled zombie.

  I groaned as I entered the break room. Some inconsiderate bozo—most likely one of the chauvinists in sales who looked on coffee-making as woman’s work—had finished the pot and hadn’t started a fresh one.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t know who it was because I refuse to accept responsibility for my actions when I’m dealing with PMS as well as sleep and caffeine deprivation. I started the coffee and waited impatiently until it had finished brewing.

  “Mrs. Pollack.”

  At the unwelcome sound of Detective Batswin’s voice, I froze mid-pour. Pasting a smile on my face and still holding the coffee pot, I spun around to find the dynamic detecting duo hovering in the break room doorway. Dressed head-to-toe in black, except for the splotches of yellow and red on the Dick Tracy tie knotted around Robbins’s neck, both looked as grim as twin Reapers.

  “Detectives. Making any headway in finding Marlys’s killer?”

  “Possibly,” said Batswin. “We’d like to take a look in your office if you don’t mind.”

  “Most of my office now resides at your headquarters,” I reminded her as I finished pouring my caffeine fix, “but be my guest.”

  A quick mental inventory of the contents of my cubicle revealed nothing that could be of interest to Batswin and Robbins. The police already had my computer and files. And my tools and supplies. Even my chair, since Marlys had been glued to it.

  Yesterday while I gallivanted around Manhattan, playing Jessica Fletcher, someone at Trimedia had removed the crime scene tape from the entrance to my cubicle, cleaned up the fingerprint powder, and installed a replacement computer and chair. The only other items in my cubicle were my coat and purse, a few family photos, a shelf of books, a spare sweater and an umbrella.

  All the same, I had to force my hands not to tremble. I couldn’t shake the feeling that these two were out to get me.

  Masking my nervousness with hospitality, I raised the pot toward them. “Java?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Robbins. He turned to Batswin. “Fred?”

  Did I hear him correctly? “Fred?”

  “Short for Winifred,” she said, her lips thinning to a tight line. “I’ll take a cup.”

  I poured two additional cups, passed them to the detectives, and waited while Robbins added two packets of sugar to his and Batswin lightened hers with a drop of half-and-half.

  After they had both taken a sip, I waved my hand for them to precede me into the hall. “After you.”

  When we arrived back at my cubicle, Batswin reached for a framed photograph of Karl and the boys. She studied it for a moment. “I knew I’d seen him before.” She passed the photo to Robbins.

  Robbins took one look at the photo and agreed. “That’s him, all right.”

  Batswin turned to me. “Mrs. Pollack, would you mind explaining why you failed to mention your husband was having an affair with Marlys Vandenburg?”

  EIGHTEEN

  And to think, only last night I’d wondered if there were more unsavory details I had yet to learn about my husband. Extramarital affairs had not been one of them. In the bedroom and out of it, Karl had given every indication that after eighteen years I continued to light his fire. Even if I did fake my own conflagration more often than not.

  Karl and Marlys? Even if he were cheating on me, the very notion of him with Marlys bordered on the absurd. Marlys wouldn’t give the time of day to a slightly overweight, middle-aged, folliclely challenged auto parts salesman. Even if he did bear a striking resemblance to a balding Harrison Ford.

  Come to think of it, given her track record, Marlys had probably spread her legs for the real Harrison Ford at some point. Or at least extended the offer.

  I laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  The dead-serious expressions on the detectives’ faces stated otherwise. “We don’t kid when it comes to murder,” said Batswin.

  “This morning we received an anonymous tip,” said Robbins. “The caller asked if we’d bothered to check out the photos in Ms. Vandenburg’s apartment.”

  “She had quite a collection of herself with all sorts of celebrities,” said Batswin.

  “Hanging on every wall and covering just about every horizontal surface,” added Robbins.

  “So? Marlys was a publicity junkie.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we figured at first,” he said. “We really didn’t pay much attention to them when we searched the place for clues Tuesday. Figured they were all press shots from fashion shows and premiers and stuff.”

  “So we went back this morning and took a closer look,” said Batswin. She pulled a framed photograph out of her briefcase and passed it to me. “And we discovered this on her night table.”

  My legs turned to overcooked rigatoni. I collapsed into my new chair and stared at the photograph. Karl and Marlys. Looking for all the world like lovers as they snuggled together for the camera. A row of slot machines and a neon casino sign filled the background.

  Every synapse in my brain backfired and sputtered to a halt at the sight of my husband making goo-goo eyes at Marlys Vandenburg.

  “You might want to consider hiring a lawyer, Mrs. Pollack,” said Robbins.

  My head shot up. “Are you arresting me?”

  “Not yet,” said Batswin.

  “I didn’t kill Marlys,” I said. “I had no idea she and my husband even knew each other.”

  Batswin cocked an eyebrow.

  “I mean, they met once or twice at our annual office Christmas party, but they never said more than two words to each other. Karl wasn’t Marlys’s type. She dated minor celebrities and players. Guys who came with big bucks and business managers and publicists.”

  For all I knew, she’d even dated Zachary Barnes. Maybe I should ask him.

  “Marlys wouldn’t recognize Karl if they passed on the street.”

  “Looks to me like they knew each other real well,” said Robbins.

  At the thought of looming arrest, my brain kicked back into action. Enough whining. I took a deep breath and challenged Batswin and Robbins. “This photo doesn’t prove Karl and Marlys were having an affair, and it certainly doesn’t prove I killed Marlys. If it did, you’d arrest me now.”

  Batswin tapped her index finger on the glass covering the photo. “We’ve already established you had the means and opportunity, Mrs. Pollack. Now we have the motive. We know your husband left you swimming in debt and at the mercy of a loan shark. Here’s why. He was living the high life with his mistress.”


  “You found out about the affair after his untimely death,” said Robbins, “and killed Marlys for the diamonds to get yourself out of hock.”

  The Dynamic Duo had me scared shitless, but they also had me angry, and I wasn’t going to let them railroad me. I thrust the photograph back at Batswin and jumped to my feet. “That’s a Swiss cheese theory. Full of holes and I think you both know it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I raised my own index finger and waved it under Batswin’s nose. “First, if I killed Marlys for the diamonds, which I didn’t, why—as I’ve pointed out to you from the very beginning—would I bother to inform you of their existence? You’re forgetting that I’m the one who gave you the killer’s probable motive. If I planned to pawn the diamonds, don’t you think I’d have enough intelligence to keep my mouth shut about them?”

  She said nothing. Neither did Robbins. Then I thought of something else. I plunged forward. “How tall are you, Detective Batswin?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Humor me.”

  “A tad shy of six feet,” she said.

  “And your weight?”

  “About one sixty.”

  I eyed her from head-to-toe. “Marlys Vandenburg was near your height but probably thirty-five or forty pounds lighter. I’m all of five feet, two inches.”

  I pushed up my sweater sleeve and jiggled the flab under my upper arm. “As you can see, I don’t work out. Do you seriously think I have the strength to lug six feet and a hundred twenty pounds of dead weight from Marlys’s office to mine, let alone haul her up into my desk chair?”

  “We’re thinking you probably had an accomplice,” suggested Robbins.

  “Have you found any evidence of an accomplice? Were there rug burns or carpet fibers imbedded in her skin from this fictitious co-conspirator and me dragging her halfway across the building?”

  When they glanced at each other, I knew I’d struck a nerve. Marlys hadn’t been dragged from her office, down the hall to my cubicle.

  I continued. “Or are you proposing that we carried her that distance? I’ve read my share of murder mysteries and watched enough cop shows to know you should have some evidence to indicate how she was moved, and I’m willing to bet she was carried by one person.”