by Wally Duff
“I presume you didn’t call the cops,” Eddie said, when I finished.
“We didn’t,” I admitted.
“What did you do with the body?”
“Frankie says it’s harder to get rid of a corpse than you would think,” I said. “He suggested using new construction.”
“You buried the guy you shot? Unbelievable.”
“I didn’t do it myself. Frankie’s boys did it. They put the body in David and Rick’s basement.”
“I feel like I’m in the middle of a TV reality show.”
“It is a little weird, but that’s why we need your help. We want to stop Mrs. Warren before she can try something else.”
“How do you know it was her guy?”
“I don’t for sure. I know he used to be employed by her, but I can’t be sure he was when I shot him.”
He formed his hands into a T. “Time out. You knew this guy who tried to blow you up?”
“Not exactly by name, but he confronted me in the parking lot at Costco and threatened me to keep us from working on the story about Fertig.”
“And how did that go?”
“He laughed at me.”
“A seriously bad move on his part. Did you slug him?”
“No, I pointed my gun at him and he left, but he said he would keep watching me.”
He shook his head. “All I do is pick noses. The real action is here in Chicago.”
“Several days after that, he accosted Linda and me in the parking garage of the MidAmerica Hospital.”
He sighed. “Let me guess. He laughed at you again.”
“No, it was a little more than that.”
I told him about the man and how he lost a few of his fingers.
“Is it possible he did this rocket thing on his own in retaliation for you blowing off his fingers?” he asked, when I finished.
“We discussed that, but David and Rick think otherwise.”
“The hairstylists?”
“They are. Diane Warren hates the Irregulars, and they think she might have been responsible for this last attack.”
“Sounds like you better get her first before you run out of bullets.”
79
“When are we going to discuss all this medical business?” Eddie asked.
“Tomorrow night,” I said. “Marcia Peebler, the newest Hamlin Park Irregular, is giving a dinner party so we can listen to what you have to say.”
“Is Marcia a stay-at-home mother too?”
I laughed. “Hardly. I have no idea how old she is but I would guess in her late sixties.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “A little long in the tooth for your group, isn’t she?”
“Truthfully, she kind of invited herself to join, but her husband, Alan, is a doctor and I felt like he might help us on this story.”
“What’s his specialty?”
“Internal medicine, but he doesn’t practice any more, at least not in the conventional sense.”
“Did you say his name is Alan? Alan Peebler? You know Dr. Alan Peebler?”
“I had a strange interview with him two days ago.”
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
“The husband of an extremely wealthy woman.”
“I’ll take your word on that, but Dr. Peebler is one of the most distinguished physicians in the United States. He’s the editor of the most prestigious textbook on internal medicine. He’s won every medical award there is except the Nobel Prize, and I read that he was being considered for that from his basic work on Alzheimer’s.”
“Boy, is that ironic.”
“How so?”
“He has it, or at least a form of it. He calls it mad cow disease.”
I told Eddie about the interview.
“I’ve heard other doctors talk about how eccentric he is. He never took the boards in internal medicine. He said there wasn’t anyone smart enough to test him.”
“There sure is now, at least when his brain is off-line. The weird part is that sometimes he seems totally normal and can carry on a sane conversation.”
“Write down the details of what he says when he’s like that. He still might be the smartest man you’ll ever meet.”
“Even smarter than you?”
“It doesn’t take a Mensa IQ level to pick noses.”
“But it pays well.”
“Not like it used to, which we’ll discuss tomorrow night.”
80
Saturday night, Carter drove my van to Marcia and Alan’s home. I was in the passenger seat. Eddie was in the third row of seats, since the second row held both kids’ car seats. Most people might take the seats out, but they’re so darn hard to put back in we always leave them in place.
“Dude, you think you brought enough wine?” Eddie asked Carter.
My husband’s passion in life — other than the kids, work, and his lovely and talented wife — is wine. Downstairs we have a full climate and humidity-controlled wine cellar, which is okay with me even if there are two vintage Chicago White Sox bleacher seats in the middle of the room next to an empty wine barrel that has an infrequently used candle on its lid.
Carter’s dream is for us to sit in candlelit bliss on those stupid seats and sip wine while classic opera plays in the background. Ain’t no way a true Cubs fan is going to plop her still-large pregnancy butt down in those seats in a fifty-four degree temperature while she drinks wine, even if it is with her hubby.
“For our group, I usually bring six bottles,” Carter said. “I don’t know if Mrs. Peebler will consume any wine, but Tina assures me that Dr. Peebler won’t drink, so I have enough.”
Carter pulled into the large curved driveway. There were four cars stopped in front of us. The first one was a black Bentley. A man wearing a red parka with the name of a car parking company on the back opened the Bentley’s driver’s door and handed a claim check to the exiting man.
Another man, wearing a matching red parka, assisted a lady out of the passenger seat. She was about Marcia’s age and wore a full-length, dark brown sable coat. After the two guests were clear of the car, another man in a red parka ran to the car and drove it away.
We watched as the well-choreographed process was repeated three more times before it was our turn. All the women wore expensive coats. So did the men.
“Tina?” Carter said.
“Yes, dear.”
“How many people did you say are attending Marcia’s party?”
“I thought it was the Irregulars and Marcia and Alan. I guess I was wrong.”
A large black Mercedes pulled in behind us.
“I think it might be prudent if we left the wine in the car,” he said. “I’ll bring in the Fourth Estate pinot as a gift.”
“Marcia won’t care if you bring in your wine.”
“I beg to differ. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s the mayor’s car behind us.”
81
There was a receiving line to the left of the front door. Five couples stood in front of us. Amber, Marcia’s maid, took our coats and handed them to another woman similarly attired in a maid’s outfit.
“Tina, so nice to see you again,” Amber said. “Do you have your invitation?”
“I didn’t know we were supposed to bring it, sorry,” I said.
Macy had spit up on it yesterday, but I never considered bringing it anyway, since it hadn’t occurred to me that we would need it.
“Not a problem, I’ll handle it.”
She pulled out a stack of cards from her white apron and put on reading glasses. She shuffled through them until she found the one she wanted. “This would be your husband, Carter Thomas, is that correct?” she asked, nodding toward Carter.
“It is,” I said.
Carter handed her his gift bottle of pinot.
“Thank you so much.” She turned to Eddie. “And this would be Dr. Edward Wallace.”
“It is,” I said.
The line inched forward. Two more couples came in behind us. Amber h
anded our cards to Amanda, Marcia’s secretary. She glanced at a card already in her hand and whispered in Marcia’s ear as the next couple advanced to her. Marcia greeted them by name and said something personal. The couple smiled and laughed as she made them feel like they were her best friends.
Amanda then handed the same cards behind Marcia’s back to Lori, Alan’s nurse. She repeated the process in Alan’s ear. His response wasn’t as smooth as Marcia’s. He shook hands and tried to smile, but it seemed more like a grimace.
Amanda glanced down at our cards and whispered to Marcia. It was our turn.
82
“Marcia, I had no idea there would be this many people here,” I said, as I shook her hand.
She wore a black Chanel pantsuit with matching low-heeled shoes, and a patterned, red silk Chanel blouse.
“Don’t worry. We’ll eat in a separate area from the rest of the crowd so we can talk.”
She extended her hand to Carter. “I enjoyed the article your reporters did on the iPad and its impact on newspapers. Well done.”
Carter blinked a couple of times. “Thank you. I’m thrilled to meet anyone who still reads a newspaper.”
“Newspapers have to survive for our nation to be strong,” she said. “I can’t begin the day without reading at least one.” She squeezed my arm. “I love your wife. She is handy to have around.”
Carter furrowed his brow, unsure as to what Marcia was talking about. I knew, so I leaned in and kissed her on the check, at the same time whispering in her ear. “He doesn’t know about my gun.”
“Got it,” she whispered. She then leaned back and winked at me.
We moved forward, and Lori said something into Alan’s ear. When he glanced up, his eyes quickly brightened. He wore a black tailcoat, a crisp, white, winged collar shirt, white vest, cargo pants, and black Converse tennis shoes. His bow tie was a white polar bear. The roll of toilet paper was attached to his suspenders.
“Welcome, Tina,” he said. “How are your headaches?”
“Fine, Dr. Peebler,” I said. “Your medicine is working beautifully.”
“As I knew it would. Is Molly Miller one of your friends?”
“She is.”
“Amazing breasts.”
Alan might be cuckoo, but he was still a man.
“She gets that a lot.”
“I presume they are implants.”
“Her fourth set, I believe.”
“She received her money’s worth.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“No need. I already did.”
He studied Carter. His eyes dulled, and he stiffly stuck out his hand. “Welcome.”
They shook, and we moved out of the line.
“Is there a problem with Dr. Peebler?” Carter asked.
“I forgot to tell you that he has what he calls mad cow disease. Marcia says his brains blew up.”
“It must be a trying time for her.”
I watched as Eddie stopped in front of Alan. His eyes brightened as Eddie leaned in and said something to him. Alan pulled a piece of toilet paper off of the roll and, with a flourish, wiped his nose. Eddie clapped his hands. Alan bowed and threw the used toilet over his head into a basket behind him. Eddie gave him a thumbs up and joined us.
A young man in a tuxedo came up with a tray full of drinks. “May I offer you a glass of champagne?” he asked. “It is a Crystal ‘01.”
We each took a flute and sipped it.
“Amazing,” Carter said.
“Looks like you owe Marcia and Alan a really nice dinner,” Eddie said.
“I’m not sure that will happen, with Alan’s problems, but I could be wrong,” I said. “Let’s find our group.”
83
One of the waiters ushered the three of us into the West Gallery. The people behind us walked in a different direction.
The Irregulars and their husbands were already there. Marcia had declared the theme for her party would be “business casual,” so we had all dressed in what we assumed that was.
Except for Molly, we wore our usual clothes of loose-fitting slacks, sweaters, and flats. Molly had on a tight black mini skirt, black tights, knee-high leather boots, and a black bustier that prominently displayed her implants.
Linda tipped her champagne flute to me. “Guess the rest of the guests have a different concept of business casual than I do,” she said.
“I agree,” Cas said. “I feel way underdressed.” And this from a woman who thought dressing up was wearing an exercise top with long sleeves.
Linda put her hand on my arm. “Tony is here.”
“David and Rick invited him,” I said. “What’s the big deal? I was through with him many, many years ago.”
“I know, but he has a date.”
“Linda, Tony has dated half the women in the greater Chicago area.”
She lowered her head.
“What?” I asked.
She raised her head and we made eye contact. “He brought Brittany Simon.”
Whoa.
Brittany is one of Carter’s best young reporters. She is smart and aggressive and will do anything to write a compelling story, a mirror image of what I was before I was fired by the Washington Post for pursuing the abortion bomber — despite being told by the FBI not to — and had two kids. She has long, straight, blond-streaked brown hair, way too cute dimples, flawless skin, and a ballet dancer’s lithe body and muscular legs.
And no cellulite.
Carter had previously assigned her to help me with a couple of stories. The way it turned out, she’d received the credit for them, and I’d gone home and changed diapers.
She is way too good a reporter to sit at dinner and listen to what we were going to talk about without becoming interested. Once again, I was going to be screwed out of a story.
Unless.
“Carter, Tony brought Brittany here tonight,” I said.
He knew Tony and I were lovers in a past life, and he didn’t like Tony. My hubby wouldn’t hear anything but Tony’s name and focus on that.
I smiled sweetly. “Do you think that she would want to help on the Zhukov story?”
His jaw muscles clenched. “She’s consumed by two complex assignments. She won’t have time. It’s your story.”
Yes!
“Good, but I’ve kind of become interested in Diane Warren again,” I said. “Brittany worked on that story. Do you think she‘ll have time to help me on it, if I need her?”
He arched his eyebrow. “Is that what this party is all about? Diane Warren?”
“Not exactly, but her name might come up. Why would you ask that?”
“She’s here.”
What?!
Suddenly, it was hard for me to breathe. “Diane Warren… is… here?” I gasped.
“I saw her talking to the mayor.”
I turned around. Marcia stood behind me listening to our conversation.
“Marcia, is this true?” I asked.
“It is,” she said. “I invited Diane. I thought we might need a little entertainment. Conflict is so invigorating and makes for fabulous after-dinner conversation.”
84
A long dining table had been placed in the Gallery. Marcia sat at the head next to David on one side and Rick on the other. Alan was at the other end. Lori, his nurse, was next to him. I was next to Alan on the other side. Carter was next to Lori. Eddie sat next to Carter. Alan stared straight ahead while we waited for the first course.
The rest of our group sat on the chairs in the middle of the table. There were two empty places until Tony and Brittany walked in as the waiters began serving. Marcia waved Tony over to her. She shook his hand as she eyed him up and down.
“David and Rick were right,” she said to Tony. “You are yummy.”
Most men would at least blush or be put off by a remark like that, but not Tony. He tugged at the hem of his black silk sport coat to smooth out any wrinkles, shot his French cuffs, and flashed his dazzling smile.
