Private Lies

by T. E. Woods

  The three of them mumbled their agreement.

  “And I’m ordering you to stand down from any further involvement in this issue.” Charles hefted the evidence box on his hip, stepped over to his wife, and kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Leslie reached up to hug her husband. “Me, too. And I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Go home, okay?” Charles kissed her again. “I’ll go down to the station, see what the guys got from around here. Then I’ll be home.”

  Horst waited until Charles had left before speaking. “C’mon, Rick.” He took a slow look around at the shards of glass, splinters of wood, broken furniture that now littered the apartment. “I’ll help you clean up the place.”

  “Leave it,” Rick said. “It’s after two. Jocko and I will grab a room somewhere. There’s plenty of time to tidy up tomorrow.”

  “There’ll be no hotel room for this guy.” Leslie bent to hug Jocko. “Thanks for saving my life, you fuzzy Galahad.” She looked up at Rick. “Come stay at my place. The two of you. We have more rooms than we can use. Who knows? Maybe you and Charles can make nice over a glass of scotch.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I think the chief and I need a few days apart from each other.” Rick’s smile was genuine.

  “Then you’ll stay at my place,” Sydney decided. “Leslie’s right. It’s late. Jocko’s gotta be keyed-up. I know I am. The two of you can sack out in my guest room.”

  Rick gave her a long look before nodding. “I’ll throw some stuff in a bag. Jocko doesn’t go anywhere without his beauty treatment.” He disappeared into the bedroom, his golden retriever following right behind.

  Leslie stepped through the mess of shattered wood, glass, and plaster. She stopped to right a toppled side table and put a couch cushion back where it belonged. “I’ll send a cleaning crew over first thing tomorrow morning. Wait…it is tomorrow morning. I’ll have them here at nine.” She set two books that had been slammed to the floor during the melee on the breakfast nook table. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the refrigerator.

  Sydney didn’t know why, but she was embarrassed to answer. “That’s some doodling we did.”

  “What’s it mean?” Leslie asked.

  “It’s a reproduction of something my dad had scribbled in one of his notebooks. We think they’re initials of people my dad had an interest in.”

  “And these lines? I assume they represent some sort of connection?” She stepped closer to study the diagram. “SMF and BMF.”

  “We think they represent Susalynne and Bridget McFeeney.”

  Leslie nodded. “There’s a line between FM and both of them. Do you know who FM is?”

  “Not yet,” Sydney answered. “We don’t even know if they’re initials. But it makes sense.”

  Leslie kept looking at the diagram.

  Horst stepped closer. “Any of these initials look familiar to you?”

  “Why would they? I didn’t know the McFeeneys. You could ask any ten people and they’d come up with ten different interpretations of the initials. For example”—Leslie pointed to PC—“for me that would mean Prairie Construction.” She shifted her hand to indicate DG. “And that would mean Draggond Group.”

  “Draggond Group?” Sydney asked.

  “My family’s attorneys. The Draggond Group has taken care of our affairs since Mother and Father were married,” Leslie said. “See what I mean? These initials are going to chime differently in the minds of people who read them. In my case, PC and DG weren’t even people.” She chuckled when she pointed to the F in the middle of the diagram. It stood alone in the center of the circle and was the only letter that Joe Richardson had drawn connecting lines to every other letter. “And in my world, that F could only mean one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Sydney wanted to know.

  “Fitzgerald, of course. In my world all roads lead to Father.”

  Chapter 51

  Sydney brought a roasting pan filled with water and set it on the floor next to the bed in her guest room. “You think that’s enough? How much does Jocko drink in a night?”

  “It’s good.” Rick gave a hand signal and the dog came over to lie by his feet. “And don’t worry. I won’t let him up on the bed.”

  “That there pooch can sleep wherever he’d like.”

  “Careful, Syd. You start feeding strays and the next thing you know, you can’t get rid of them.”

  Her eyes caught his. She held his gaze and watched his playful teasing morph into something deeper.

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” His voice was low and thick.

  “Someone tried to kill you tonight.”

  “Looks like. Almost got a roomful of good people for their effort.”

  “But they came to your apartment,” she insisted. “Whoever it was wanted you dead.”

  “Looks like.”

  “You think it’s tied to this money stuff?”

  “Looks like.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Rick.”

  “I’ve had too many bullets coming my way these past couple of weeks. Whaddya say you, me, and Jocko grab the next flight to Playa del Carmen? Nothing but sand, surf, and tequila.”

  “That’s not funny, either. There’s one blanket on the bed. More in the closet if you need them. Air conditioner control is in the hallway.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I’ve pulled the drapes. Blackout shades. You can sleep as late as you want.”

  Rick took two steps toward her.

  Sydney felt a heat rumbling deep inside. “If you’re awake before me, knock on my door. I’ll fix you breakfast.”

  “Is this going to cause any trouble? Me being here?”

  “With who? My dorm mother?”

  “I was thinking more about Clay. Is my staying here going to ruffle Clay’s feathers?”

  “This is my home.” Sydney hoped she sounded less shaky than she felt. “I decide who comes and who goes.”

  “And Clay’s not coming tonight?” He took another step closer.

  “No. Clay won’t be here.”

  Rick tilted his head, like a dog trying to figure out the meaning behind the sounds he just heard. “Is there trouble between you two?”

  “No trouble. In fact, there’s nothing at all. He’s cast me loose, as Elizabethan writers used to say.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She looked up at him. “No. You’re not.”

  He hesitated, holding her gaze. Then he reached for her. She allowed herself to be pulled into the warm strength of his arms. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered into her hair. Rick tightened his embrace and she felt the primal fear that had been simmering inside her since she heard the night’s first gunshot melt away. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said again.

  Neither of them moved. She wanted nothing beyond the fortress of protection his arms offered. He made no move to suggest more.

  In time she felt her own strength return to her. She stepped away from him and smiled.

  “Good night.” She looked down to Jocko. “Same to you, you brave, brave soldier.”

  Chapter 52

  Sydney glanced at her bedside clock. 8:47. She threw off the covers and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Then she fluffed her hair, grabbed a robe from the hook, and went into her living room.

  No one was there.

  She went to the guest room and quietly opened the door. The bed was made as crisply as though no one had occupied it. She glanced to where she’d left Jocko’s pan of water. It was gone. She pushed away her disappointment and headed to the kitchen, where she found the roasting pan in the sink. A fresh pot of coffee awaited her. So did a note.

  Thanks for the bed. These bones appreciate it. Jocko says your place smells much better than mine. Have a
good one.

  She read the note again before tossing it in the recycle bin. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee and plopped into a breakfast-nook chair.

  * * *

  —

  Four hours later she was at Hush Money, having run three miles, showered, and checked her phone for messages at least six times. Windy Fields and Sands Cortell were in the kitchen, hunched over a large notebook. She assumed they were putting the final touches on the evening’s offerings and she didn’t want to disturb them. She tossed her purse on a chair in her office and continued down the corridor until she reached the door that opened into The Ten-Ten. Half the tables were already filled with a clamoring lunch crowd. She nodded to Roscoe and went straight to the end of the bar where her mother sat with a cup of coffee and the morning paper.

  “There was a shooting last night,” Nancy Richardson said when her daughter leaned in to kiss her cheek. “What’s happening to my Madison?”

  “What? Where?” Sydney hoped Charles was as good as he promised in keeping names out of any reporting. While the chief of police might have been worried about tipping his hand to whatever dirty cops littered his department, at the moment Sydney was more concerned about having to explain why she and Horst found themselves the target of a late-night shooter.

  “Off Willy Street.” Nancy looked up. “Paper says details were few. What the hell does that mean?”

  Sydney shrugged and pulled a French fry off her mother’s plate. “Is he back yet?”

  “Plane landed forty minutes ago. Why do you think I’m in here?”

  “It’s not like you to eat lunch,” Sydney observed. “Girding your loins, are you?”

  Nancy swallowed the last bite of her hamburger. “Something like that. It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?”

  Before she could answer, the door to the hallway connecting her two restaurants swung open and there stood Roland Delmardo, six-foot-three, two hundred thirty pounds, and head freshly shaved. He scanned the crowd with both hands on his hips and a grimace of determination. When he saw Sydney and Nancy, he marched over.

  “I’m back.”

  Sydney opened her arms wide, hoping he’d step into them. When he didn’t, she took a seat next to her mother.

  “How was New York?” she asked. “Are they still applauding?”

  “What have you heard?” he demanded. “And why is it after noon and I caught not one aroma coming from my kitchen?”

  “Windy and Sands start a little later than you did,” Nancy offered serenely. “It all seems to get done by the time we open the doors, though.”

  Sydney was grateful Nancy hadn’t added any commentary about the kitchen staff not needing to allow time for the exercises in dramatic attention seeking that Roland seemed to have penciled into his daily calendar.

  “Than I did?” He took a step back. “It’s like that? I’ve been replaced?”

  “What?” Sydney asked. “No! Windy did an excellent job in your absence. You’ve trained her superbly. But you have to know no one could ever replace you, Roland. That kitchen is yours. As long as you want it.”

  The defiance slipped from her chef’s face as he pulled out a barstool and slumped into it. He heaved out a mournful sigh. Then he reached for the glass of water in front of Nancy and took a long sip.

  Nancy and Sydney exchanged you-go-first looks. Nancy’s shake of the head was nearly imperceptible. Sydney turned toward the plaintive blob of chocolate need beside her.

  “Things didn’t go well, I take it.”

  Roland leaned an elbow on the bar and covered his face with one hand. “I was brilliant, of course.”

  “Of course,” Nancy echoed.

  “I was witty, urbane. Spot-on-the-money with my critique of each competing chef’s offering.” He sat up straight and glared at the two women. “The production assistants embarrassed themselves with the praise they heaped upon me at every break in filming.”

  “Well deserved, I’m sure,” Sydney said. “So why so glum?”

  Roland stared off into the distance, as though he was looking for a way to describe the most devastating tragedy of the twenty-first century to innocent ears.

  “I lost it,” he said. “I blame that arrogant Umberto Flatuso.”

  “I love him!” Nancy leaned forward. “I watch his show all the time. Oh! He’s the sexiest chef on TV. What’s he like? I’ll bet he’s a hoot.”

  Roland glowered at her.

  “What happened?” Sydney intervened.

  “It was our last day of shooting,” Roland explained. “Perhaps I was exhausted from the grueling pace of filming show after show.” He stared off again. Sydney realized that if she waited for Roland to spin the entire tale, they’d be there all week.

  “I’d love to hear what happened,” she prompted.

  Roland shrugged in submission. “I lost it, that’s all I can say. Dropped my basket. Went off the deep end.” He squeezed his eyes shut and thrust out a hand. When Sydney clasped it in hers, he opened his eyes and choked out an explanation. “It was the dessert round of the last show we were shooting. The mystery ingredients were cream soda, cinnamon Gummi bears, and an ostrich egg.”

  “Ew!” Nancy groaned.

  Roland ignored her. “The contestants did their best, I suppose. Though to me, the basket cried out for a cinnamon flan. Don’t you agree?”

  Sydney looked at her mother. They both nodded at the obvious nature of their chef’s assessment.

  “Well, no one made a custard at all,” Roland mourned. “I mean, the world’s biggest egg is sitting in front of you and you don’t think flan? Come on!”

  “Indeed,” Nancy murmured.

  “Get to the losing-it part,” Sydney urged.

  Roland’s eyes narrowed. “It was Umberto’s turn to comment on one particular contestant’s offering. She had made an inventive sponge cake with sweet hollandaise. She accented it with fresh berries and lime.”

  “Never pegged hollandaise as a dessert sauce,” Nancy offered. “But I don’t see why not.”

  “I know, right? But Umberto said he felt she hadn’t utilized the cinnamon Gummi bears to full advantage. That’s when I lost it.”

  Nancy and Sydney sat in mesmerized silence.

  “Utilized, Sydney!” Roland stood and pulled himself to his full imposing height. “You know I can’t stand that. The word is used, Umberto Flatuso. Used. Used. Used. Don’t try to make yourself into some sort of intellectual.”

  “You said that to him?” Sydney gasped.

  “Not exactly. I told him his stupid was showing. He said something about me trying to rattle him ever since he’d gotten on the set. That led to me saying I’d never stoop so low as to rattle a Botoxed, girdle-wearing, combed-over used-to-be like Umberto Flatuso.”

  “Oh my,” Nancy whispered.

  “And this was all caught on tape?” Sydney inquired.

  “It was. As was my yanking the dish away from him and dumping it over his head.”

  The three of them were silent for several long moments.

  “So, no offers for your own show, huh?” Nancy asked.

  Roland hung his head in response.

  “What great news!” Sydney stood from her stool and embraced her chef. “I’ve been worried sick about what would happen to Hush Money once New York glimpsed your talent. It’s all I could talk about while you were gone. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

  Nancy nodded. “Nonstop moaning from this one,” she improvised.

  Roland lifted his head and looked at Sydney. “Really?”

  “Damn straight. Why do you think Mom and I are in The Ten-Ten right now? We couldn’t bear the thought of hearing that phone ring. You on the other end of the line telling us you weren’t coming home.”

  “I’d never do that! Roland Delmardo never forgets the little people.”


  Sydney made an exaggerated show of her relief. “You’re back. That’s all that counts. Now, how about you get back to work?”

  “Windy needs me, doesn’t she?”

  “Like a flower needs sunshine.” Sydney stood on her toes to give him another, longer hug.

  Roland rose and practically floated out of the room.

  Sydney turned to her mother, happy with the way she’d handled things. She was surprised to see the questioning look on Nancy’s face.

  “Poor Windy,” she said. “What have you done to her?”

  * * *

  —

  It was almost ten o’clock when Gail waved Sydney over to the hostess stand to take a phone call. The evening had progressed without major incident, despite Roland’s return. Sydney was impressed with the grace both Windy and Sands had shown when Roland announced he was reclaiming his role as lord and master of the Hush Money kitchen. She’d made a note to sit with Nancy and come up with ways to give Windy more responsibility, as well as to let Sands know he had a permanent job at Hush Money, should he want it. Now she took the phone from Gail’s hand and smiled her thanks.

  “This is Sydney Richardson.”

  “Sydney, this is Charles Arbeit.” His words were clipped. “Can you move to a place where you won’t be overheard?”

  Sydney glanced around Hush Money. Most of the night’s remaining diners were lingering over desserts. “Of course,” she said as she walked back to her office. She closed the door behind her. “I’m alone, Charles. What’s happening?” An icy ribbon of urgency curled up her spine.

  “Have you spoken to anyone about what happened last night?”

  “Of course not. I was glad to see there were no names mentioned in the article covering the shooting.” She paused. “Have you learned something?”

  “I may have. I’m not sure. Are you available?”