Foxy Roxy

by Nancy Martin

  Sharlane finally glanced up. “We’re just peachy. She’s constipated, and I’ve got cramps. Want more details?”

  “Uh, no, thank you.”

  She leaned her elbow on the desk and put her substantial chin in her hand. “How’s the funeral coming along? You gonna get Julius buried this week?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Henry admitted. “We’re waiting to hear from the police.”

  Sharlane picked up her ballpoint pen again and used it to scratch an itch under her earlobe. “The police aren’t known for hurrying up, are they? At least, not around here.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She shrugged and went back to making tiny ink marks on her paperwork. “I got nuthin’ to say.”

  Henry put the lily on Sharlane’s desk. “I get the impression you have an opinion you’d like to share.”

  She shook her head.

  “You have a problem, Sharlane? Something I can take care of? Something that concerns Mrs. Hyde?”

  Sharlane held back for a full thirty seconds, clearly bursting to talk, but unwilling to admit anything of value to Henry. But finally, she said, “I called the police the last time Mr. Julius came to see her.” She nodded toward Dorothy’s closed door.

  “Why?”

  “I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I know when a man’s got ugly intentions.”

  “Sharlane, you’re going to have to be more direct with me. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the time I told Mr. Julius that his mama was wandering at night. When she’s not in her coma, she sometimes gets out of bed and walks around in the dark, sometimes goes out on that balcony. In the pitch dark, she could fall right off, down onto the patio below. You know what I’m saying? It’s dangerous for a lady like her to be walking around by herself, especially when that balcony needs to be fixed.”

  “What do you mean, it needs to be fixed?”

  “I told him he needed to get a contractor out here. This whole wing, you know, belongs to the Hyde family. It’s not really part of Fair Weather Village. So he’s responsible for fixing stuff when it’s broke. Like the door to the balcony. And the balcony railing. But Mr. Julius says to me it’s too expensive to fix. Tells me she’ll be okay.”

  “So you called the police?”

  “I did. Of course, around here, you mention the Hydes, and the police get all twitchy. They don’t want any trouble, you know?”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Mr. Julius said not to bother you.” Sharlane brought her gaze up to meet his. “And anyway, I’m not too sure whose side you’re on.”

  “I’m on the side of keeping my client safe,” Henry said.

  “Well, I didn’t know who to trust. So I got my brother DeWayne to come fix the door and the balcony. Do I want Mrs. Hyde falling down in the middle of the night? Breaking her head? No way. I paid DeWayne myself for the materials, and he donated his time.”

  “That was very generous of you, Sharlane. But I will reimburse both of you.”

  Sulky again, she said, “I only want the best for my patient.”

  Half to himself, Henry said, “Doesn’t sound as if Julius wanted the best for his mother, does it?”

  Sharlane shook her head. “It most certainly does not. I can’t say as I’m sorry he’s gone.”

  Henry considered Julius’s behavior. It was obvious that he’d wanted his inheritance sooner rather than later, but Henry hadn’t expected Julius to take action. Certainly not such clumsy action.

  Henry nudged the flowerpot across Sharlane’s desk. “I can’t stay any longer, Sharlane. Will you give my regrets to Mrs. Hyde? And tell her I’ll telephone later? And perhaps you’d accept these flowers as a thank-you for telling me what happened.”

  Sharlane poked her ballpoint into the lily’s soil. “Looks dry. Needs some water.”

  “I trust you’ll take care of it. Meanwhile, if anyone else endangers Mrs. Hyde, I want you to call me immediately. Understand?”

  Sharlane didn’t answer, but watched Henry depart.

  He skipped out on his client, glad to avoid another lecture about finding her damn statue or losing his job. Yet somehow, hearing about Julius Hyde’s attempt to hasten his mother’s demise motivated Henry to return to his investigation. He visited a few more contacts on Monica’s list: An annoying guy with curry on his breath who bought and sold silver. A nervous pair of women who dressed like Gypsies and purchased a collection of bird prints from Monica to sell on eBay. Plus a loudmouth who sold huge slabs of stone, marble, and slate while screaming at his wife on his cell phone.

  It was the loudmouth who gave Henry one tidbit of useful information.

  “If you’re asking about artsy stuff from big houses, you need to see Roxy Abruzzo. She’s the damn expert in all that shit. Now, get outta here!”

  So it was time to make another run at Roxy Abruzzo.

  The next day, Henry waited across the street from her salvage yard all morning. The red Mustang sat parked on the gravel, looking abandoned. Henry went to a coffee shop for some revitalizing caffeine and returned in time to watch the arrival of a large black pickup truck. It had wheels that looked as if they’d been inflated by a giant, and an engine that sounded like a jetliner. The ugly guard dog ran out of the garage and barked a happy greeting. Roxy herself got out of the truck and proceeded to unload something wide, flat, and very heavy, wrapped in a tarpaulin. She used a winch on the back of the truck, and then rolled her treasure into the garage with a two-wheeled cart.

  Her dog trotted circles around her, wagging his tail, and then they both disappeared into the garage.

  Eventually, Roxy came out of the garage and rejiggered the winch on the truck. Then she stood back and took off her gloves. She slapped them against her shapely thigh.

  Henry took a deep breath, stepped out of his car, and walked across the street. He handed her a cup of Starbucks cocoa.

  “I figured you for plenty of whipped cream,” he said.

  “If it isn’t my favorite flunky.” Roxy accepted the cup and sniffed it suspiciously. “You still doing legwork for the Hydes, Paxton?”

  Today she looked coltish in snug jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a fitted leather jacket that had seen better days. She tucked her work gloves into her hip pocket. She’d pulled her wild hair back in a plastic clip, but dark curls escaped around her face and tumbled down her creamy white neck. Botticelli with overtones of Harley-Davidson.

  Her evil rhinoceros dog flashed out of the garage and lunged at Henry as if to take a chunk out of him. It took all of Henry’s self-control not to jump up onto the nearest fire hydrant.

  “Can you call off Cujo?”

  “Down, Rooney,” she said and the dog backed away. She took a tentative sip from the cup, looking at Henry with those dark, knowing eyes.

  Henry cleared his throat. “I’m not always on the Hyde payroll. I do freelance flunky work from time to time.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I need to flunk something.”

  “Have you taken any more bullets since I saw you last?”

  “Nope. But I found something of yours.”

  “Oh?”

  She walked around the truck, opened the door, and leaned into the cab, showing Henry a breathtaking view of her denim-clad bottom. He admired it while she rummaged in the glove compartment. When she stood back and slammed the door closed, she tossed something compact at him.

  “I found your wallet in the car last night.”

  He caught it one-handed. “What a relief. Now I won’t have to cancel my credit cards.”

  “I should have taken your American Express out for exercise, but I’ve been busy. You must have dropped it in the car yesterday. Go ahead and count the money. It’s all there.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m some kind of criminal.”

  Henry noted the arch in her brow, the twitch on one side of her delicious mouth. “Where would I get such an idea?”

&
nbsp; “I could have returned it sooner, I guess. But I had a hunch you might turn up again.”

  Henry figured she’d gone carefully through every detail of his wallet.

  Roxy smiled, denying nothing, and leaned against the truck. If Ford Motors had used her in an ad campaign, they’d have put the other car companies out of business years ago.

  She took a sip from her cup. “Thanks for the hot chocolate. You trying to make up for something?”

  The dog made another circle of him, hackles bristling, but Henry managed to say calmly, “I can do better than chocolate. How about a late lunch? Early dinner?”

  She sipped more coffee, eyeing Henry speculatively. “I have a better plan.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Do you know Kaylee Falcone? The manicurist?”

  “Julius Hyde’s girlfriend?”

  “That’s the one. This is her car.” Roxy nodded at the red Mustang. “Somebody took a shot at her while she was in it. And an hour later, you and me nearly got ourselves killed, too.”

  “Do the police know about either incident?” Henry asked.

  “Did you call them, Counselor?”

  “I hate to distract them while they’re so busy. Investigating Julius Hyde’s murder must be grueling work.”

  Her smile developed an even more cynical twist. “Then, for whatever reason, we’re on the same page.”

  “For whatever reason,” he agreed.

  They smiled at each other, making a pact, of sorts.

  Henry said, “Were you thinking of taking some kind of immediate action, Miss Abruzzo?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. The police are interested in somebody I care about.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “The big guy who works for me. His name is Nooch. Despite a complete lack of evidence, the police took him in for questioning yesterday. They haven’t released him yet. They’re asking him about the Hyde murder.”

  She kicked at a loose rock in the gravel, and it skittered a few dozen yards. Henry thought maybe she was more agitated than she let on.

  “Does your friend know anything about the murder?”

  “Nope. But that won’t stop the cops from putting the pressure on. I’d like to give them something else to think about. I know a couple guys. Guys hired to scare people every now and then. I’d like to ask them what they know.”

  “They scare people? Or do they shoot people?”

  “Both.”

  “You mean … hit men?”

  She grinned. “More like intimidation. They haven’t actually killed anyone yet.”

  “It’s only a matter of time?”

  “My money’s on one of them killing the other, probably by accident, probably when they’re drunk as skunks.” She pulled the Mustang’s keys from her pocket and dangled them in the air. “Until then, they’re free agents. I thought I’d go see them and ask a few questions. You game?”

  “Depends. What are the chances these gentlemen are drunk as skunks today?”

  “Pretty good, as a matter of fact.”

  A moment later they were climbing into the Mustang. The dog sat down on the gravel, looking unhappy to be left behind. Henry enjoyed a moment of relief before he took the precaution of fastening his seat belt.

  She drove fast, humming along with the radio. Within minutes, Henry’s faulty internal compass was thoroughly confused. He had no clue what part of the city they were in. But the farther she drove, the more dilapidated houses flashed by his window.

  To make conversation, he said, “Did you take care of that problem you had yesterday?”

  She stopped humming, which had been almost an unconscious accompaniment to the blaring radio. She turned down the volume. “Which one? Right now, I have a shitload.”

  “The pizza delivery.”

  “Oh, that.” She slipped through a red light to make a right turn, but a mail truck blew through the intersection, blasting his horn at her. Unruffled by the near-death collision, she put her foot down hard on the accelerator. She said, “Actually, that problem turned out to be a big one. One that could last a long time.”

  “Anything requiring legal advice?”

  “As long as it’s free. Can I kill the kid who got my daughter pregnant?”

  Henry couldn’t hold his surprise. “You have a daughter?”

  “Yep, seventeen years old. Yesterday she announced she thinks she’s going to make me a grandma.”

  “Wow.” Henry tried to calculate Roxy’s age. “That news must have been a shock.”

  “Yeah, a humdinger. I was having sex when I was fourteen, but the fact that she even talks to boys at her age makes me crazy. So, can I kill him? Maybe slow dismemberment? Starting with his dick?”

  “You might get off if you draw a grandmother for a judge.”

  “Those odds aren’t good.” She cracked her window and let the cool air rush into the car. “Of course, I was a pregnant teenager, too, but I figured her for smarter than me.”

  “There’s nothing like hormones to lower SAT scores.”

  “Exactly. But it’s not like the sex is even good at that age.”

  “Sex is good at any age.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Then you haven’t learned enough, Paxton. Not nearly enough.”

  The traffic thinned out, and she whipped down a street pocked with potholes the size of craters. She slowed down and began peering through the windshield at the house numbers.

  “In general,” Henry said, “I think women who talk about sex are trying to decide if I’m worth going to bed with. They’re flirting, but they’re also making up their mind. Picturing the outcome. Will I pull on my pants and leave or want to spend the night? Make stupid small talk afterward or turn on the game? Fall madly in love and become an annoying stalker? Or leave them with nothing but good memories? But with you, I get the feeling that you’ve already decided what we’re going to do.”

  A bigger laugh this time, very throaty. “Which way do you think I’ve decided to go?”

  He was saved from answering when Roxy made a life-endangering right turn in front of some oncoming traffic. She seemed unfazed by the horns blown by other drivers and continued to concentrate on reading house numbers.

  Henry said, “What about the big guy the police are interested in? What did you call him? Nooch?”

  “What about him?”

  “You seem to care what happens to him. What’s the relationship?”

  “Relationship?” She seemed amused by the word. “A while back, he got into some trouble on my behalf, and I’d like to be sure he’s okay. He works for me. I keep him employed and out of trouble.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Ten years.”

  “That must have been some trouble he got into.”

  “Bad enough,” she acknowledged. “I was with a man, and it got out of hand. Nooch came to my rescue, I guess you could say. And he got into a lot of trouble for it. So I owe him.”

  “And you want to keep him away from the police?”

  “Far away,” she said.

  Expertly, she squeezed the little Mustang into a tiny parking spot between a rusted car on cinder blocks and a van that looked as if it had been entered in a demolition derby and lost. Across the street sat a late-model Monte Carlo with a shredded roof.

  Roxy cut the engine.

  “Now what?” Henry asked.

  She popped her door open. “Follow my lead.”

  Henry climbed out of the car. “You have a plan?”

  “It’s a little hazy at this point. How are you at improvising?”

  “I’ve learned a few tricks over the years.”

  “Then let’s see what you’ve got, champ.”

  She led the way to the front door of a two-story frame house that should have been condemned long ago. The paint had blistered off. The roof was missing shingles. The concrete steps looked as if they’d been broken by a madman with a sledgehammer.

  The yard was a
mound of weeds. Henry looked closer and thought he recognized marijuana plants among the desiccated stalks.

  A skinny cat bolted off the porch, leaving behind a lot of junk. An overturned plastic garbage can, a broken chair, and a baseball bat.

  Roxy picked up the bat. She didn’t bother knocking. She reached through a broken pane on the front door and released the lock, then barged into the house, shouting, “Hey, Delaneys! Anybody awake in here?”

  Two thugs were sprawled side by side on a lumpy sofa in the living room, watching ESPN on a brand-new television with the WalMart stickers still pasted on the side. It was balanced on top of another, ancient television, presumably broken. In a large, filthy aquarium next to the TV coiled a gigantic sleeping snake.

  The door crashing back on its hinges made both men jump.

  One thug had been eating SpaghettiOs from the can. He was a skinny, weasel-eyed man with a pulsating sore on his upper lip.

  He dropped his spoon and reached under the sofa cushions.

  Roxy pointed the tip of her baseball bat at his nose. “Don’t do it, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy swallowed his mouthful of SpaghettiOs and eased his hand out from inside the cushion.

  His brother—swinelike down to the stubble on his double chin—sat still on the sofa. He had a guttural whine. “Did you have to bust down my door?”

  “It was already busted, Vincent.” She jerked her head at Henry. “This is a guy from the DA’s office, Henry Whatsit. He wants to know about the bribe you paid me.”

  Henry endeavored to look official and tried to remember if state statutes included a mandatory sentence for such an offense.

  Vincent sat up straight, and the bulge of his hairy belly popped out from under the bottom of his sweatshirt. “That wasn’t no bribe,” he said to Henry. “She tricked me. She pretended she worked for the city, that’s all.”

  Roxy said, “And you’re in the habit of bribing city officials?”

  “In the habit—? Hey, no, man, that’s not what I meant. She’s doing it again, see?”

  “Take it easy,” Henry said. “Nobody’s accusing anybody.”

  “The hell I’m not,” Roxy said. “I want him arrested.”