Dead In Red (16 page)

“I’m not.”

She ushered me inside, closed and locked the
door. “So come in and tell all.”

I shuffled along behind her. “Nothing much
to tell.”

We sat down at the wobbly card table.
Tonight, oblivious of the outside temperature, she had hot
chocolate steaming in mugs with hairline cracks crazing them.

“It’s this murder, isn’t it?” she asked. I
nodded. “Things aren’t going fast enough for you, eh?”

I took a sip of my cocoa and shrugged. “The
police arrested the wrong man.”

“What else?”

Again I shrugged. “You ever connect with
someone who knew what you were thinking, feeling?”

“Your Maggie?”

“She’s not exactly mine. But she says she
can feel what I feel. I guess she’s never done that with anyone
else.”

“Mmm.”

“That a yes or a no?”

Sophie tilted her head to one side,
considering. “I wish I could say yes. Sometimes these gifts we have
isolate us from others. We both know how frightening it can be to
know things we’d rather not know. Is Maggie afraid?”

“She’s freaked. So am I.”

Sophie leaned back in her chair, folded her
hands over her ample stomach. “This murder—Maggie—that’s not really
why you came here tonight.”

I met her gaze. “I guess not.”

“Tell me.”

She was right. I had come there to talk
about something else, only now I wasn’t sure I could.

She reached across the little table and
patted my hand. “Guilt is a terrible thing to live with. I know
about it firsthand.”

I stared down at the circle of tiny bubbles
rimming my cocoa.

“When Richard got shot, I actually prayed to
God, ‘Don’t let him die.’ I thought that would be enough. I thought
everything would be all right if he made it and was okay. But I
can’t get away from the fact it’s my fault he almost died, and
makes me one helluva shit as a brother.”

Sophie frowned. “That’s not true. You love
him and you need each other. And who’s filling your head with this
nonsense, anyway?”

Maggie. Myself. “Nobody important.”

“Then why do you listen?” she scolded. “Does
your brother blame you?”

“No. He worries about me like, like—” I
laughed. “An old yenta.”

Sophie reared back as though offended. “I’m
not a yenta, but I do worry about you. I worry about all my,” she
hesitated, “friends.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “And you’re not
old, either.”

“Oh, you lie so well.” She grinned and
reached across to pat my hand again. Then her smile faded and it
was her turn to inspect the depths of her mug. “Your brother has
reason to worry. Like what happened to you yesterday.”

My head jerked up. Sophie’s expression was
reproachful.

“You think that was deliberate?” I didn’t
have to clarify what I meant. She already knew what had happened to
me in the ramp garage.

“You need to be careful. More careful than
you’ve been.”

“
That only proves me right. Getting
Richard involved would only endanger him.”

“You
need
him. And maybe somebody else will need him,
too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Drink your cocoa,” she ordered, and took a
sip of her own.

“What is it you aren’t telling me?”

“I don’t know the whys of everything,
either. I just know.” She leaned closer. “There’s a reason you two
were brought back together after so many years. It’s best not to
tempt fate by staying apart.”

I sipped my hot chocolate, its warmth
spreading through me, making me sweat. Sophie’s logic didn’t make a
whole helluva lot of sense to me, but in only the short time I’d
known her I’d learned to trust her advice. Still . . .
“What if something happens to Rich again and it’s my fault?”

“Didn’t you tell me he pushed you out of the
way of that bullet?”

My hands tightened around my mug. “Yes,
but—”

“Then how was it your fault?”

“Because the killer came after me.”

“Would you rather be dead?”

Sometimes—like right then—I wasn’t sure
about the answer to that question.

“I don’t want anyone’s death—particularly
Richard’s—on my conscience.”

Sophie scowled, sat back in her chair and
exhaled through her nose. “Didn’t you hear what I told you just
now?”

“Yeah—and didn’t you hear what I told
you?”

Sophie grabbed her mug of cocoa, chugged it,
and smacked it down on the table. She pushed back her chair and
stood. “Time for you to go.”

I stayed put.

“Come on, I need my beauty sleep,” she said
and grasped my arm, pulling me up.

Her abrupt dismissal annoyed me, but I
wasn’t going to be obstinate about it. Then again, she probably
thought I
was
being
obstinate.

I followed her to the front of the shop. “Am
I going to be welcome next time I come?”

Sophie stopped abruptly and I nearly fell
over her. She stared up at me, looking at once puzzled and
distressed. “Why wouldn’t you be welcome?”

“Oh, I dunno—the fact you’re kicking me out
right now.”

“I told you. I need my beauty sleep.”
She grasped my shoulders, pulled me down and gave my cheek a wet
kiss. “Next time I’ll make
placek
. You’ll feel better about things by
then.”

“Okay.”

She patted my back before leading me to the
door. I passed through it and she locked it behind me. I crossed
the parking lot and paused, turned back to wave but Sophie had
already retreated.

You won’t solve this
without him,
she’d said.

I could take that two ways, I thought as I
made my way to the corner to cross at the light. Either I just gave
up and let the visions of a red stiletto high heel torture me for
the rest of my life, or I caved in and put my brother’s life at
risk by letting him help me solve Walt Kaplan’s murder.

I wasn’t sure which was the worse form of
purgatory.

* * *

Sleep didn’t
want to come to me. Tired as I was, there were too many
thoughts, too many scenarios swirling around in my brain. In the
early days of my marriage to Shelley, I’d often lie awake in the
middle of the night. Sometimes during the torment of sleeplessness
Shelley would wake and we’d make love. Those way-too-early
couplings were the sweetest memories of our time together. We were
in sync back then. Somehow she always seemed to sense when I needed
her most, and she’d be there for me. That was, of course, before
cocaine became her lover of choice.

I rolled over onto my side and tried to
blank out my thoughts, but an image of Maggie flashed across my
mind’s eye. She seemed to want me, and God knows I’d wanted her
from the first time I’d met her. And yet . . . I didn’t
want our first time together to be cheap or tawdry.

I closed my eyes and once again saw her
sitting at Richard’s kitchen table days before, her lashes long and
the hunger in her eyes reaching out for me. I couldn’t handle it
then, but right about now . . .

A myriad of sensations swept through me and
I allowed myself to enjoy them, letting it build inside me
until—

My eyes snapped open, every muscle in my
body tensing as I made a grab for the bedside phone. “Maggie?”

“Jeff?” She sounded startled. “It didn’t
even ring.”

I exhaled and rolled onto my back. “I didn’t
want it to wake Richard and Brenda.”

“You knew it was me?”

“Yeah.”

She was quiet for a few moments. “I was
lying awake and had this irresistible urge to call you. I didn’t
even think that I might wake Brenda and Richard. Oh, God, what if
you hadn’t picked up? I would’ve looked like such an idiot.”

“But I did pick up.”

“Yes.” Her voice relaxed, and I could
envision her smile. “You did.”

“I meant to thank you for the flowers. They
were very pretty.”

“I hope they didn’t make you feel
uncomfortable. Brenda said you liked flowers. She showed me your
garden. You’ve done a beautiful job.”

“Thanks.”

I closed my eyes, concentrated until I could
hear Maggie’s soft breaths against the receiver. I was content to
lie there and just listen, but eventually she broke the quiet.

“How long are we going to wait?”

I wanted to laugh. In my own mind, we’d
already— “Are you in a hurry?”

“I . . . might be. It’s been a
long time since I even wanted—Since I . . .” Her words
trailed off.

I remembered what she’d told me months
before. A husband who’d preferred men to Maggie, and had been too
chickenshit to admit it to her until they’d been married eight
years. She knew my tale of marital woe, too. I thought we’d get
together back then, but the timing hadn’t been right.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked.

“Working.”

“All day?”

“What did you have in mind?”

A stupid grin creased my lips. “You ever
hear of afternoon delight?”

She hesitated. “Your place or mine?”

“I haven’t got a place . . .
yet.”

“Then mine it is.”

“I get out of work at four.”

“I could get out a bit early. Do you know
where I live?”

“No, but I bet I could find you.”

“I bet you could.” Still, she gave me the
address. I didn’t bother to write it down. I wasn’t likely to
forget it.

“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it is.”

Long seconds turned into a minute, then two
before Maggie finally hung up the phone.

Minutes later I drifted off to sleep, and
dreamed of Maggie Brennan.

# # #

CHAPTER 13

My second Friday at the bar was pretty much a
repeat of the week before, except this time the customers had
accepted Walt’s departure from this world and the talk was back to
sports.

I’m not the world’s biggest sports nut. I
can hold my own in conversations about basketball and football, but
baseball and golf leave me yawning. I didn’t want to dwell on my
upcoming evening with Maggie, either, so I had a lot of time to
think about Walt’s death and what I did and didn’t know about
it.

If I hadn’t been working, I might’ve
accomplished more with my half-assed investigation. Like taking a
look at Cyn Lennox’s home, not that it would tell me anything more
about her. I realized I knew virtually nothing about little
workaholic Eugene Higgins other than he was Cyn’s nephew. And how
was I going to find out anything about him? I could tail him after
we both got out of work, but I wasn’t sure I had the stamina that a
stakeout would require.

It bugged me that Walt hadn’t fought against
his attacker. Could he have been unconscious at the time? The
newspaper reports hadn’t mentioned any kind of head injury. Had he
been drugged or even drunk? How long would it take for the crime
lab to come back with a blood and tissue workup? They’d already
closed the books on Walt’s murder and weren’t likely to prosecute
Buchanan for months, so what was the hurry anyway—at least from the
cops’ or prosecutor’s perspective?

Walt had been re-dressed and dumped behind
the mill. If Cyn had been involved in his death, it would be pure
stupidity to dump the body behind her place of work, and Cyn didn’t
strike me as brainless. And yet, the flash of insight I’d had of
Walt in her office was really the only evidence I had against
her—pretty insubstantial at best. The two pairs of shoes were
somehow connected . . . but how? It couldn’t have been a
coincidence that Cyn owned the shoes Walt had copied. For one
thing, I didn’t believe in coincidences despite the fact Cyn’s
vacation home’s address and the storage locker number had been the
same.

I could go back to Walt’s apartment and soak
myself in whatever was left of him, but I didn’t think that would
yield any results, either.

A dull pounding in my skull told me I needed
to take a break from this train of thought—especially if I wanted
to be in any shape to socialize later in the day. But suddenly
something else occurred to me. That flash of insight I’d
experienced in Cyn’s office hadn’t been from Walt’s perspective.
Someone had been looking at him, had experienced seeing Walt’s
smile of pleasure. I tried to refocus on the image but it wouldn’t
come. I’d been so obnoxious that there was no way Cyn was ever
going to let me back in to soak up any leftover vibes, and I could
kick myself for not thinking of it when I’d gone back to the mill
to talk to Dana Watkins.

Had I been picking up on Cyn? Would she be
attracted to an introverted loner who could no longer perform
sexually? Or had she and Walt been casual acquaintances who shared
a love of women’s footwear?

Maybe if I could touch Cyn, I’d know, but
that wasn’t going to happen, either.

“Give it up!”

Startled by this piece of advice, I glanced
up to see one of the customers shaking his fist at the TV.

“God, what a bunch of losers,” he
groused.

Give it up. Yeah, I ought to, at least for
the day. The prospect of an evening with Maggie was far more
appealing than beating myself over the head with circuitous
arguments and half-baked theories.

I wanted to do something nice for Maggie,
something she wouldn’t expect. Flowers or candy seemed too clichéd.
Something unexpected—but something that showed her a facet of my
personality she might not have considered. A glance around the bar
didn’t fill me with creative ideas. Then again . . .

* * *

At four
fifty-three, I pulled into the driveway of Maggie’s rather
average looking duplex in Clarence. She stood behind the screen
door in a white tank top, pink shorts, and flip-flops, waiting for
me. No sexy dress, no heels—looking the antithesis of
tawdry.