Murder with Strings Attached

by Mark Reutlinger

  “Are you kidding? I might’ve been there all night, until Marge got home and found me, or what was left of me. No, I had my phone with me and called Sara for help; told her to come running and bring a hunk of meat with her.”

  “She must have thought that a bit strange.”

  “I guess, but she’s almost used to rescuing me from odd predicaments. Like the time I was hiding from a couple of killers in an outdoor privy…but that’s a whole other story.”

  “And did she arrive with the meat?”

  “Oh, yes. Turns out she’d been having a burger in some restaurant with a guy she’d just met there, in the service line—she picks ’em up wherever she goes—and when she got my panicky call, she wrapped up what was left of her sandwich, grabbed what was left of his, and ran out of the burger joint, promising to come back and buy him another one.”

  Aaron laughed. “Wish I’d been there to see it. So what happened then?”

  “Well, luckily I’d left the back door unlocked. When Sara arrived in the kitchen I shouted she should throw the meat to the far corner of the room. As soon as she did, Jules decided a burger in the corner was better than an ankle on the table and made for the corner. I jumped down and made for the door, grabbing Sara as I went by.”

  “While the little carnivore was devouring the burgers?”

  “While he was doing to them what he had tried to do to my ankles, yes.”

  Aaron was silent for a few seconds, just smiling and shaking his head slowly back and forth. Then he said, “And I take it the moral of this story is…”

  “…Is get all the information you can before you begin, don’t begin if you don’t have enough information, and never assume you have all the information.”

  “Lesson learned,” Aaron said. Then he looked down and said, “And by the way, with nice ankles like yours, I really can’t blame little Jules for going after them.”

  Never having been complimented on my ankles before, and not sure whether Aaron was serious, I didn’t reply.

  But I smiled, and I probably blushed. Right down to my ankles.

  ****

  After I finished my cautionary tale, we sat on the room’s two uncomfortable armchairs and watched TV for a while. Then a little after nine p.m., I stood up and said, “I think we’d better turn in. We have to be up very early to get ready. I have to make those calls to the maid service and Sanders, and we have to put on your little disguise and be at the Sanders house by just after eight in the morning.”

  Aaron nodded and stood up too. He seemed to be looking a bit wistfully at the king-size bed (it was all they had available), but he said nothing and began taking his toiletries and pajamas out of his overnight case. I did the same, thinking I was glad Aaron didn’t sleep in the buff, as that could have created a little embarrassment on someone’s part, though I wasn’t sure on whose. I myself often slept in a filmy nightie, but for this occasion I had brought along a more substantial flannel nightgown.

  Aaron must have been thinking similar thoughts. “Ever see ‘It Happened One Night’?” he asked.

  “Isn’t that the old Clark Gable movie where two strangers end up having to spend the night together in a motel room?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I hope you won’t mind that we don’t hang a blanket between us, like they did. Seems like an unnecessary precaution, doesn’t it?”

  “Hmm. I guess so, if you promise to behave.”

  “Scout’s honor,” Aaron said, holding up two fingers in a solemn gesture. I had a feeling he had never been a Boy Scout, but I let it pass.

  I washed in the small bathroom as Aaron got undressed in the bedroom, and then we changed places. When we were both ready for bed, Aaron held the covers open for me, then tucked me in and gave me a light kiss on the forehead.

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Levy,” he said with a smile. “Sleep well.”

  I didn’t mind. As I turned out the lights, I thought that it wouldn’t be so bad to be snuggling under the covers with the warm male body of a temporary husband; but I quickly dismissed the thought as both unprofessional and likely fatal to the success of our plan.

  There would be plenty of distractions to sort out the next morning, without adding that most distracting element of all: sex.

  ****

  The alarm clock was set for six, plenty of time to get up and do what had to be done before setting out for Chez Sanders.

  Okay, that was how it was supposed to happen. In fact, neither of us slept well, and about five a.m. we both found ourselves awake and unlikely to get back to sleep before six. I was just lying there thinking through our plans for the umpteenth time, when I felt a warm hand on my thigh. I reached down and found that my flannel nightie seemed to have ridden up as I tossed and turned during the night, and now it covered only the top half or so of my body. Taking advantage of this opening, Aaron had placed his hand where the nightie had been. He was obviously waiting to see whether I would quietly remove it, roughly remove it, or scream bloody murder.

  This called for some very quick calculations. On the one hand, as I had already observed, sex was probably the most distracting detour we could make on this journey. On the other hand, we had the time, Aaron apparently had the inclination, and God, could I use a good screwing to quiet my nerves, restore my confidence, and make me feel more like a woman than a burglar.

  I covered his hand with mine and slowly moved it higher.

  It would be corny to say Aaron played me like a fine violin, but I have to say that for a man who supposedly had had few opportunities for broad sexual experience, he did a damn good job of satisfying this woman, and from his expression as he withdrew and lay back on the bed, he was pretty satisfied as well.

  As a distraction, it was a virtuoso performance.

  Chapter 29

  Neither of us had any trouble falling asleep following our little distraction. Six o’clock a.m. therefore arrived earlier than either Aaron or I wished it to, but the alarm clock beside the bed was insistent.

  I yawned, looked over at a sleepy-but-satisfied-looking Aaron and said, “I’ll get washed first; you can stay there for a while longer.”

  Aaron accepted the offer and turned over, closing his eyes and trying to catch just a few more z’s. Meanwhile, I was humming softly as I discarded my nightgown in the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Once I’m up and functioning, I’m all business, and this was definitely a business day. High risk and high reward, just the kind of day that makes my adrenalin flow like a river at flood stage. Of course, I also needed a first cup of coffee to be truly human, but that would have to wait a while.

  Ablutions completed, I donned bra and panties and covered those with a robe kindly supplied by the inn. Thus attired I went over to Aaron’s side of the bed and sat down next to him. He seemed to have fallen asleep again, and I really hated to wake him, but time was of the essence and we didn’t have much of it. So I leaned over and put my hand, warm from the shower, on his brow and stroked his forehead lightly until he opened his eyes.

  “Wakey wakey,” I said playfully. “Your turn in the bathroom. I’ve even left you some hot water.”

  Aaron started to protest, but he quickly realized I was right. “Okay,” he said sleepily, “I know. There’s work to do. And I don’t want to be the reason we’re late to the office.”

  Soon both of us were washed and dressed. A “continental breakfast” (muffins, orange juice, and coffee—I always wondered what continent these skimpy breakfasts referred to) had been left on a tray outside our door, and having finished that we turned our attention to Aaron’s disguise, a false beard and moustache.

  “I wish I’d practiced putting these on,” he said, “because it seems to be a lot trickier than it looked.” After several attempts that came out crooked or cockeyed and made him look like a horribly disfigured Mr. Potato Head, he turned to me for assistance.

  “The trick is to line everything up and use plenty of that spirit gum stuff they gave you,” I said. Together we managed
to make Aaron’s imitation facial hair look real enough to pass at least cursory inspection. I stepped back to view the finished product.

  “Hmm, not bad,” I said. “As long as no one gets too up close and personal, you should pass muster. But be sure you don’t fiddle with them or they could come off, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

  Aaron laughed. “Just embarrassing? More like incriminating.” He held his hands up as if looking at a newspaper headline. “‘Famous violinist caught burgling house in lousy disguise.’”

  I cringed. That was exactly what I was afraid of.

  ****

  Finally ready for action, I packed all our accessories into the Chevy. On its door I mounted the TidyHome sign I had purchased. Stepping back to admire the effect, I felt it would fool even the TidyHome girls themselves, should that become necessary. I waited until a few minutes after eight to make the necessary phone calls to TidyHome and Sanders, both of which seemed to go well, with no suspicion detectable in the other parties’ voices.

  I was feeling energized and optimistic, as I usually did before a job. This was, after all, what I had chosen to do with my life, and I had no regrets. Aaron, on the other hand, appeared to be suffering some understandable stage fright, together perhaps with a bout of what could be called a form of buyer’s remorse: He had, in effect, purchased a burglary, complete with burglar, and he was about to find out whether it was a shrewd investment or a disastrous mistake. He was still game, however—and I’m sure his ego would never let him back out now after being so adamant about taking part. He presented a stiff, if recently redecorated, upper lip.

  With all preparations accounted for, Aaron and I were finally ready for action. We had had to sneak out the rear door of the inn to avoid being seen by the proprietor, who would presumably not recognize Aaron in disguise and wonder what kind of ménage a trois Aaron and I were engaged in. In truth, it would have been unclear which was the worse disaster, Aaron being taken for a stranger and having to explain himself, or his being recognized for who he was and having to explain his disguise and then go back and do a better job of concealment.

  As we drove, we talked about everything except the job ahead (and except what happened a few hours earlier). And regarding the job there wasn’t much to say—either we were ready or we weren’t.

  I told Aaron my theory about burgling in the daytime in the fog and how I thought it had an advantage over burgling at night. He laughed, then said, “You know, there’s another advantage, at least in Jewish law. You’ll find it in Exodus, to be exact.”

  “Exodus talks about burgling in the fog?” I was more than a little skeptical.

  “Absolutely. At least about burgling in the daytime. I learned this when I had my bar mitzvah, so it’s a bit hazy, but as I recall, there’s this long discussion of the punishments for various crimes, many of which were punishable by death.”

  “What kind of crimes?”

  “Well, murder, of course. But also things like kidnapping, and even striking your parents. Anyway, it was considered justified to kill a burglar who entered your house at night, but not if he entered in the daytime.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I think it was because it was assumed someone who entered the house at night intended to harm the homeowner, or at least the homeowner was justified in thinking so.”

  “And a daytime burglar?”

  “The daytime burglar, it was assumed, was just there to steal something. So the homeowner wasn’t allowed to kill him.”

  Sounded good to me. “I guess, then, we fall into the daytime category,” I said. “If we should get caught by Sanders, and it’s still daytime, I hope he’s up on his biblical studies.”

  And about then we arrived at our destination. Bible class over.

  ****

  We turned onto La Paloma Road about 8:15 a.m. and parked in the same space in Little Hyde Park as Sara and I had occupied during our reconnaissance mission. There wasn’t much fog in the air that morning, merely a light mist. I indicated the target and told Aaron how Sara and I had watched from that vantage point to see who went in and out, and when.

  “We not only have to wait for Sanders to leave before going in, but we also have to be out of there before he gets back. We can’t take a chance that he’ll notice missing what his staff might not.”

  “When did you say he gets back?” Aaron asked.

  “While we were watching, after four. But we can’t assume he’ll always be that late, so we have to be in and out as quickly as possible.”

  Aaron nodded agreement. But by 8:25 Sanders’ black Mercedes hadn’t made an appearance.

  “I think we’d better make our move now,” I said, “even if Sanders is still there. It’ll look suspicious if the cleaners don’t show up at about their usual time. And for all we know, Sanders isn’t leaving today at all. So let’s go.”

  Enter the faux cleaners, stage left.

  ****

  I was driving, as I wanted to be the one speaking to the guard at the gate. I pulled the car up to the barrier and stopped. Immediately a young man in tan livery strode forward. I saw that his breast pocket bore the embroidered name “Jerry.”

  “Where are the usual cleaning ladies?” Jerry asked in a very pleasant, non-threatening tone, having glanced at the familiar sign on the car. I explained about the emergency back at the ranch and how I and Andy (the name I had arbitrarily chosen for Aaron—I was afraid his real first name might possibly trigger a clue to his real identity) had been pressed into service.

  Jerry, apparently not the dimmest light in the marquee, maintained his pleasant tone but said, “I see. I hope you won’t mind if I call up to the house, just to make sure it’s okay. No one mentioned there’d be different ladies…I mean different people.” He glanced at Aaron apologetically.

  Uh oh, this might not be as simple as I hoped. Did whoever I spoke to forget to tell the rest of the staff? What if that person has left by now? But I just smiled and said, “Certainly, go ahead. I can understand your wanting to check.”

  “Thanks; just be a moment,” Jerry said as he took out his cell phone and pressed a few keys. He spoke into the phone and then listened. The conversation was very brief, but for the few seconds it lasted I was just slightly anxious, and Aaron was probably trying hard not to wet his pants.

  When Jerry hung up, however, he looked up and smiled at me to indicate all was well. “They said someone from the agency called earlier, but they forgot to tell me. Sorry for the delay. You can go right up.” He stepped back and pushed a button on a small transmitter attached to his belt. The big iron gate swung back and the Chevy proceeded up the drive. To myself, I said, I sure as hell hope every step along the way won’t be this dicey. But to Aaron I just smiled and said, “See? No problem. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  He looked like he wasn’t so sure. But at least he still seemed to be dry.

  ****

  We drove up to the big house, past tall rows of Japanese privet hedge on either side of the narrow road, then turned right at a circular driveway with lush plantings in the center that effectively hid the house behind it. I pulled the Chevy around to the side of the house, where it wouldn’t be in the way, but where it was close enough to be handy in case we had to make a quick, unplanned exit. Aaron and I got out. I handed Aaron the keys, which he put in his pocket—my uniform didn’t have pockets to speak of. We went around to the rear of the car and opened the trunk, from which we took the custom carrier, filled with cleaning products on top and concealing Aaron’s replica Guarneri in its lower compartment. Aaron carried it, as it was quite heavy and somewhat bulky.

  “What are you looking at?” Aaron asked. I had paused and was staring at the left side of the house, which consisted of a blank wall except for a single door in about the middle.

  “Nothing, I guess,” I said. “I was trying to compare my recollection of the floor plan Rafael sent us with what I’m actually seeing. Let’s go on in.”

  As we appr
oached the front door, we both stopped to stare up at the impressive façade, two stories high, a blend of orderly Edwardian and ornate Victorian architecture. The body color was white, with a pretty marine blue trim. The surrounding plantings were impeccable. Three wide steps led us up to a shallow wrap-around porch and a massive front door, in which was set an oval leaded-glass window.

  I took a deep breath and turned to Aaron.

  “This is it. Let’s go.”

  I rang the bell.

  Chapter 30

  Soon the door was opened by a very attractive, well-scrubbed young woman—well, young by my standards, but probably about thirty—with what you’d call a winning smile. She was wearing a maid’s uniform that was a bit less revealing than the one I had rented, though it was filled out quite nicely with ample breasts and a sculptured derriere. I noticed that Aaron’s eyes had wandered to both these features almost immediately. I couldn’t really blame him.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Marianne, Mr. Sanders’ housekeeper. C’mon in.” Her voice was soft and friendly, sounding as if she was glad to see us. She stepped aside and we entered. Passing through a small foyer, we stepped into a large and brightly lit living room.

  Aaron and I surveyed our surroundings. Through the tall front windows, we could see the garden we had passed through on our way in. Beyond the garden the narrow lane leading up from La Paloma Road was just visible, and beyond that the trees that mostly concealed Little Hyde Park.

  The room itself was quite revealing. If we hadn’t already known that Sanders was a very wealthy man, the size of the room, the quality of the furnishings, and the nature of the artwork on the walls and surfaces would have made that fact quite clear. This was the living room of a man who lived well, entertained in style, collected fine things, and liked to display what he collected.

  Possibly including Marianne.

  Speaking of whom, Marianne turned to me and said, “Mr. Sanders says you’re substituting for the regular gals. What happened?”