Private Lies

by T. E. Woods

  “Some neighbor must have heard the shots. Called it in. I heard sirens a little earlier than I expected.” Lilac started right in after greeting Boss in the back room of the liquor store. Explaining screwups was the worst part of the job and Lilac wanted to get it out of the way.

  “I thought I was paying you to keep that from happening.”

  Lilac flinched. It was gut-gnawing to be reminded one was nothing more than an employee on Boss’s payroll. “They got just the body. We picked up the casings before clearing out.”

  “There’s no such thing as just the body,” Boss snarled. “This is sloppy.”

  “No witnesses. You know that.”

  “I don’t know jack shit. And neither do you. It’s thinking like that that brings this whole enterprise down.”

  Lilac studied the floor and decided this wasn’t the time to show appreciation for meeting on the South Side. Everybody knew better than to make small talk when Boss was in this kind of mood.

  “What do we know about this guy?” Boss asked. “You said his name was Billy?”

  “That’s right. Billy Shakes.”

  “How’d he steal my money?”

  Lilac shrugged. “We stopped him. That’s the important thing.”

  Boss slammed a fist against the wall. “If this Billy Shakes could do it, any flea-bitten crud off the street could, too! It’s not enough to stop one. We have to stop them all.”

  “I don’t see a connection between Billy Shakes and Vistole or MacDonald, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “And you see that as a good thing?” Boss took several noisy breaths. “Vistole and his sidekick got busted. Plain and simple. I know Vistole’s type. He wasn’t trying to screw us. This was his big chance to show me what he could do. Punks were probably talking big to someone they shouldn’t have. Again, sloppy. Find out what you can about dead Billy. Find the crack. Fill it in. Make sure this is something we don’t ever have to worry about again.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Boss locked eyes with his errant blossom. “I trust that. Because I’ll know who to visit if this happens again.”

  Chapter 9

  “This better be good.” Sydney Richardson strode straight toward where her mother stood in the middle of Hush Money’s empty dining room. “I was all snuggled in with my popcorn and iPad. Four episodes into season three. What’s so urgent that you’re bringing me in on a Sunday afternoon?”

  “What else?” Nancy answered. “Broken water pipes, late shipment of prime rib, even bartenders with their fingers in the till. All that I can handle. But this guy? When he launches into one of his rants? Sorry, kiddo. That’s above my pay grade.”

  Sydney knew her mother was referring to Roland Delmardo, the chef she’d lured away from California when she decided she wanted only the best for the restaurant she planned to open. She’d been warned about Roland’s enormous ego and penchant for drama, but her naïveté led her to assume those were clothes all successful chefs wore. She was confident she’d be able to handle him. Now, with more than a year of Hush Money’s operations under her belt, the weariness of dealing with her culinary prima donna often made her long for a simpler job…like defanging rattlesnakes or defusing IEDs in Kandahar.

  “In the kitchen?” she asked her mother.

  “Follow the sound of his broken heart. He’s making sure the folks two counties over can hear his pain.”

  Sydney headed into Hush Money’s gleaming kitchen. She’d promised Roland a free hand and a blank check in designing it, and he’d created a space that was as much culinary showroom as it was production facility. She found him standing behind the marble counter, using it as a pulpit for his despair while her pastry chef stood idle, unable to prepare the desserts that would top off eighty meals that evening. Seven kitchen staff, from dishwasher to sous-chef, stood around Roland, their faces signaling uncertainty as to what they were to do now that their leader was in such obvious desolation.

  They ought to be used to it by now, Sydney thought.

  “Good afternoon, all.” Sydney summoned a tone she hoped would inspire confidence. “Thought I’d drop by early to see what glorious plans you have for this evening.”

  Roland flung an arm up to cover his eyes. He was an imposing man. Several inches above six feet, with a barrel chest and arms like tree trunks. He shaved his head daily, polishing his skull until it shined like chocolate granite.

  “Sydney, Sydney,” he moaned. “What have you done? My world is crashing down and it’s all your fault.”

  She was used to being named responsible for every evil that befell Roland Delmardo, from hangnails to flat soufflés.

  “What have I done this time?” she asked.

  “That plan of yours! Don’t play coy with me. You’ve had my mental breakdown at the top of your agenda from the very beginning. Well, congratulations, girlfriend! Your dreams are coming true.” Roland segued from his practiced aristocratic tone to the down-home patois he grew up with. That was never a good sign.

  “And how did I undermine you this time?” she asked.

  “Your plan! To raise Hush Money’s reputation! To make it the belle of every food critic’s ball! You knew all along it would come to this.”

  Sydney recalled having to soothe Roland several months ago. He’d been approached by a quartet of hedge fund managers who decided to indulge their need to see and be seen by opening their own uber-exclusive restaurant in Manhattan. They’d come to Roland with an offer to build his brand in a market that would guarantee him a chance to shine among food-dom’s brightest stars. Roland had been torn. The offer seemed too good to refuse, yet, as surprising as the notion was to him, he told her Madison had grown on him. He said he’d finally found a home. Sydney had promised him she and her publicist would do their best to make Hush Money a destination must-go for gourmands everywhere. Together they would find a way for Roland to stay at Hush Money and earn him the right to have his name whispered among the epicurean elite.

  And they’d succeeded. Over the past seven months Hush Money had been featured in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and the San Francisco Chronicle. Roland enjoyed the network spotlight when he taught the crew of the TODAY show how to celebrate Valentine’s Day with oyster-stuffed standing rib roast. He was currently in discussion with a regional publisher with plans for his first cookbook.

  “I don’t see where the flaw is, Roland. Your reputation is growing every day. I thought you were pleased.”

  Roland pulled himself to his full height and threw back his shoulders. He drew upon his inner drag queen and tilted out a hip as he snapped his fingers and wiggled his bald head. “Do I look pleased, Miss Sydney? Is this what you think of when you think of someone who’s having a whiz-bang day?”

  Everyone in the kitchen turned their eyes to her.

  “What, Roland? Tell me what has you so pissed.”

  “It’s the end, Sydney! The end!”

  “Of what?” Her voice sounded more frustrated than she wanted it to. “What’s happened?”

  Roland fanned a hand in front of his face, a southern flower in danger of the vapors. He glanced toward his long-suffering sous-chef. “I can’t bring myself to say it. Tell her, Windy. Explain to Miss Thing what has come of her plan.”

  Wanda Fields, a pixie of a woman known to everyone as Windy, spoke. “It’s that TV show Cut. Do you know it?”

  Sydney nodded. “Four chefs competing. Basket of wild ingredients. They have to create a three-course meal for a panel of judges who eliminates them one by one.”

  “That’s it,” Windy said. “Each one is cut until there’s one champion standing.”

  “What’s that got to do with this?”

  Windy glanced toward Roland. “Chef got a call from their producer. Last night.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “Y
es. They called here. Luckily it was after we’d served the last round of patrons. Chef was pretty upset after he hung up.”

  Roland pushed past his elfin sous-chef and resumed the spotlight. “They want me, Sydney.”

  “As a contestant?”

  Her chef rolled his eyes in disgust. “Is that how you think of me? As someone who needs to compete with no-names trying to find a showcase for their special take on meatloaf? No! They want me on the panel of judges.”

  Sydney blinked away her surprise. “Of course they do! Who better? I’m just taken aback that they’d call so late on a Saturday.”

  “There was some kind of emergency,” Windy explained. “Two of their regular judges went down with food poisoning after a show featuring canned lamb tongues. They needed substitutes fast.”

  “And Roland is a backup?”

  “Roland Delmardo is nobody’s backup!” her chef roared. “Why wouldn’t they come to me? The producer’s assistant told me I was everyone’s first choice. They need me in New York first thing Wednesday morning.”

  Sydney clapped her hands together. “Go! Go, Roland! Be on television. Let the world see how terrific you are. Make sure to mention Hush Money as many times as they’ll allow you.”

  “Just like that?” Roland thundered. “Just like that you can send me off? What, pray tell, do you think will happen to your precious establishment if Roland Delmardo isn’t here to create for your customers?”

  “I think we can do without you for a day. We’ll muddle through somehow.”

  “Check your panties, honey. Your ignorance is showing. I suppose it’s to be expected given you’ve lived your entire life on the prairie. Cut doesn’t want me for a day, Sydney. They want me for two weeks’ worth of shows. Ten! They film two shows daily. Three days a week. I’ll be in New York for two weeks! And you know what will happen once my episodes air.”

  Sydney glanced at her crew, looking for a clue.

  “The public will be entranced with me! There will be calls from fans, from agents. I wouldn’t be surprised if the producers didn’t start framing an entirely new show built around me once they see how my charisma comes across on camera. It will be the end of Hush Money. The end of our dream here.”

  Sydney bit the inside of her cheek. “We’ll find a way, Roland. You leave big shoes to fill, but I’m sure we can struggle through for two weeks. We can discuss longer term plans once we know what we’re looking at.”

  “Is that what you want, Sydney? You want Hush Money to struggle?”

  Sydney crossed over to stand next to Windy. “You are an excellent teacher, Chef. You’ve taught your staff well.” She looked the young woman in the eyes, hoping to convey a go-along-with-me message. “Why, I’ve been impressed all these months with how Windy hangs on your words. Truth told, I’ve seen her here many nights, long after you’ve left, imitating every move she saw you make that night. Did you know Windy was so devoted?”

  Roland glared down at the woman. His tantrum seemed to ease a bit. “I would imagine she understands how lucky she is to be studying with me.”

  “I do, Chef.” Windy sounded sincere. “It’s an honor…a privilege…I don’t take it lightly.”

  Good job, Windy, Sydney thought. A year of managing Roland’s moods has taught you plenty.

  “Windy can step into your spot for a couple of weeks,” Sydney assured him. “And if any diner notices…”

  “If?” Roland rebutted.

  “When,” Sydney corrected herself and poured on the praise she knew would facilitate any conversation with this man. “When diners comment on something not being quite up to the splendor they’ve come to expect from Roland Delmardo, we’ll explain you’ve been called upon to share your greatness with a wider audience. After all, a talent such as yours cannot be contained.”

  Roland was silent for a moment. “And I’ll always come back.” He sounded as though he was talking as some unseen reporter who was recapping the chef’s history. “Roland Delmardo always came back to Madison. To the humble restaurant on the square that started it all. A talent as remarkable as his treasured the simple appreciation of the midwestern people.” He shook his head and refocused on Sydney. “And where are you going to find someone to take Windy’s place? Wednesday, Sydney. I’m expected in New York on Wednesday!”

  Sydney sighed long and loud. “Give me some time, Chef. I’ll find someone.”

  “Good luck, missy. Without me as a draw, why would anyone want to come work here?”

  * * *

  —

  Sydney stepped into room B6-413 of University Hospital a little past four o’clock. She wasn’t surprised to see three uniformed officers standing around the room. She nodded to each, then went straight to the bed where Rick Sheffield lay. Her stomach knotted at how pale he was; his typically sun-kissed skin barely discernible from the stark white sheets. His lips, in her memory so soft and somehow always smelling of coffee with cream, now were parched and cracked. His dark hair clung to his skull, as though he’d been sweating and forgot to brush it. She thought about the dark eyes that rested behind the now-closed lids. Eyes that could offer comfort or tease.

  Let me see them again, she thought. Open your eyes, Rick. Open them.

  She turned to the officers. “What’s the latest?”

  “No news,” Officer Katy Lorenzo replied. “Docs and nurses come in. Check on the machines. Sometimes turn a dial or two.”

  “They all say it’s early.” This pronouncement came from Luther Honney. Sydney knew him to be the most senior of the three, with department roots going back to when her own father was on the force. “Nothing to do at this point but wait.”

  “What about Jocko?” Sydney asked.

  “We’re taking shifts,” the third officer answered. Sydney didn’t know him, but his name tag read Connelly. “Sign-up sheets are down at the station: food, walks. We’re taking care of the old guy. Don’t you worry.”

  A memory flashed through Sydney’s mind. She and Rick out for a Saturday morning ride. Jocko in the backseat, sitting up and sticking his golden retriever head between them.

  On your right, buddy. Rick would warn his dog as he made a sharp turn. Jocko would shift his weight to keep himself in position. On your left now.

  “Jocko’s used to having Rick at home,” Sydney told them. “Let me see what I can do about having someone sleep over.”

  “Won’t be for long,” Luther said. “This guy’s gonna be out of here before you know it.”

  Sydney turned back toward the still figure in the bed. She reached out and laid her hand on his. She stared down at him for several long moments.

  “You guys need anything?” she asked the officers without taking her eyes off Rick.

  “We’re good.” Katy answered for them all. Sydney knew they were doing the same thing she was: watching Rick and hoping for a sign.

  C’mon, Rick. We’re all waiting for you. Come back to us. She drew a sharp breath at her next thought.

  Come back to me.

  Chapter 10

  Horst looked at his watch for the third time since arriving at the headquarters of Prairie Construction. He’d shown his badge to the receptionist at 8:30.

  Then why in hell am I cooling my heels at 9:05? he wondered.

  Before he could speculate on an answer, a tall blonde walked toward him. She was followed by two men: one wearing a suit, the other in an outfit more suitable for a construction site. Both looking like they were about to break into a trot to keep up with her.

  “Detective Welke.” Leslie Arbeit held out her hand in greeting. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I was an hour into a budget meeting when they told me you were here. I’m afraid it takes a while to disentangle myself even from something as dry as cost projections and revenue expectations.” The two men stopped about eighteen inches behind their boss. Neither of them
said a word, but each kept their eyes on Horst. “What can I do for you?”

  Horst looked around the cavernous reception area. Prairie Construction had recently moved into new headquarters, just west of the isthmus. While it was impressive with solid hardwood beams, iron fittings, and floor-to-ceiling glass offering a splendid view of Lake Monona, he wondered if it was conducive to the kind of interview he wanted to conduct.

  “You own this place, am I right?” Horst asked. “I didn’t mean for your receptionist to bother you. I’m looking to speak to whoever’s in charge of the construction going on over on Fordham.”

  Leslie Arbeit smiled. “If you know I own this place, then you know who my husband is, am I right?”

  Horst shrugged, unaccustomedly shy in front of this beautiful woman.

  “Charles told me there’d been a body found on one of our sites. Needless to say, I told everyone here to cooperate as fully as they’re able with any investigation. Perhaps my receptionist took me seriously enough to page me directly when you came. I’m glad she did.” She pointed to the man behind her, the one in the suit. “This is Findley Austin. He’s Prairie’s general counsel.” She nodded toward the fellow in the jeans. “And this is Doug Brenschwagger. He’s the manager of our Fordham site.”

  Horst shook hands with each man.

  “You got time for a few questions?” he asked Leslie. “Usually I got my partner with me. She’s a female. But I’m flying solo this week. Her sister’s getting married in Arizona. If you’d rather speak to a woman, we can arrange that.”

  “I didn’t build a career in construction being hesitant to speak around men,” Leslie replied. “And now’s as good as ever. We’ll make time. All of us. And by all, I mean every Prairie Construction employee. If anyone gives you less than their full and immediate attention, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know directly.”

  Horst nodded. He figured she’d want to stay by-the-letter on this from the get-go. Not only must it look bad for a corpse to show up at one of her builds, but she couldn’t let it be thought the wife of the chief of police was stonewalling any investigation.