Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (5 page)

When he turned, Myra Genest was standing by his elbow, smiling at him, a sharp face, beady eyes, fresh red lipstick on her mouth. The mouth that never stopped talking. His heart jolted and his mind went into crisis mode.

He’d met Gina in the parking lot. Separate cars. No kisses, no hugs, no signs of intimacy as they walked to the restaurant.
Damn it to hell!
He should have scanned the crowd to see if there was anyone they knew.

Now Myra was looking pointedly at Gina. He nudged Gina’s foot. “This is Myra, a friend of my wife.” Purposely omitting Myra’s last name. “Myra, say hello to Gina.”

“Hi, Gina,” Myra said, homing in on her like a hawk on a chicken. “Gee, your face looks familiar. I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere.”

“I cover the crime beat for the
Boston Herald,”
Gina said, maintaining a business-like expression. “I’m interviewing Detective Renzi about a murder.”

“Oh,” Myra said, pointedly looking at their wineglasses. “Nice to meet you. My husband’s pulling the car up to the door for me. Nice to see you, Frank. Be sure and tell Evelyn I said hello.” She turned and left.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

A stricken look appeared on Gina’s face. “Sorry, Franco. I didn’t know what to say. Damn. All these years and we’ve never run into anybody we know.”

“Yeah. Just our luck it was Motormouth Myra, the Gossip Queen.”

“You think she’ll tell Evelyn?”

“Are you kidding? Now that Mo’s gone, all Evelyn does is watch TV and talk to her women friends. She goes to Mass every day, comes home and watches Regis and Kathy Lee, who, in case you don’t know, is dealing with a philandering husband. Evelyn gives me the gory details every night at dinner.”

“Nothing better to talk about, huh?”

“You don’t think she wants to hear about the scary bad men that kill people, do you? Or talk about the Celtics. No. After she finishes gossiping with her girlfriends about Kathy Lee and her bad-boy husband, she tunes in the religious channel.”

Gina widened her eyes. “Not
The Young and the Restless
?”

As intended, it made him laugh. “That’d be rich, watch a bunch of sexy chicks bed-hopping like crazy. Living in sin. What bullshit.” He signaled for the tab and drained his wineglass. “Let’s get out of here.”

In the parking lot, he eyeballed every vehicle, fearing he’d recognize one, and walked Gina to her bright red Mazda 323. The one with the extra antenna so that she could monitor the police channel. The one with the
Boston Herald
bumper sticker. Damn.

“Go ahead to the beach house. I’ll follow you.”

And make sure no one else is following you
.

Gina squeezed his hand and gave him a tentative smile. “We’ll be okay, Franco.”

“Sure,” he said, unwilling to ruin the mood.

But if Myra checked the
Herald
, figured out Gina’s last name and told Evelyn, the shit would hit the fan.

For him, and for Gina, if Ryan got wind of it.

Saturday, April 29

Nigel stood in the wings of the Symphony Hall stage listening to the Pops musicians tune. The last few minutes were always pure hell. He’d played his first recital when he was six, but even now, hundreds of performances later, panic still seized him before a solo performance.

Thirty-five years of dread. His fingers felt like frozen sausages. Years ago at piano competitions he’d taken to soaking them in hot water before he went onstage. Otherwise his fingers locked up, unable to negotiate the treacherous leaps in the concertos.

The Pops format split the concert into thirds, with two intermissions for people in the balconies to have a go at the bar. Waitresses delivered drinks to listeners seated at tables on the floor. To open the concert he'd chosen Rimsky Korsakov’s
Russian Easter Overture
. The score was on the music stand, but he never used one. He knew the piece cold, saw every note in his mind’s eye. Bloody useful, that. Within eight bars he knew the orchestra was in good form. When he cued the trombone player for his solo, it was spot on. The other brass players shuffled their feet. Musicians’ applause. At the end of the piece, he’d given him a solo bow.

The Pops musicians played with spirit and verve, responding to his slightest gesture, strings, winds, brass and percussion blended as one. How marvelous it would be to lead them all the time. TV specials. Record contracts. Fabulous money. Best of all, he could live in Boston with Vicky.

But it wouldn’t happen, no matter what Vicky said. Where would he be in ten years, fifty-one and still a guest conductor? Lord knows why. His credentials were impeccable. Royal College of Music. Conducting studies with Colin Davis. Arranging and conducting the film scores hurt, of course, and so did the Las Vegas gigs, but bloody hell, he had to work somewhere, didn’t he?

He massaged his icy fingers. Now he had to play the Gershwin.
Rhapsody in Blue.
Vicky’s solo opened the piece, gorgeous Vicky and her sultry clarinet sound. But then it would be his turn. His heart bolted like a horse escaping a fire. Play the piano solo and conduct from the keyboard.

Double duty, double trouble. Eighteen minutes of hell. No hiding, no bollixed notes. Everyone in the hall knew the
Rhapsody in Blue
.

The stage manager tapped his arm. “They’re ready for you, Maestro.”

A moment of panic seized him, but he forced a cheerful smile and strode onstage. Threading his way down a narrow path between the musicians, he ascended the podium to thunderous applause. He bowed to the audience, sat down at the Steinway and turned to the musicians.

One hundred pairs of eyes regarded him.

He looked at Vicky. Their eyes met, but her expression didn’t change. On stage they were all business. She raised her clarinet and lapped the reed with her tongue, focused on the music, ready for her solo. He gave a nod and she began the seductive trill. Snaked through the ever-rising scale. Executed the glissando flawlessly and played the bluesy theme.

Her dark, sultry sound soared through the hall. His heart burst with pride. Bloody marvelous! He knew the hours of practice it took to perform at that level. Not only did Vicky have discipline and determination, she was fearless and confident as well, always in control.

Everything he was not.

After the bluesy trumpet solo, he brought in the orchestra. A wall of sound swept over him, a visceral jolt that filled him with joy. He made his entrance, muscle-memory took over, and his troubles fell away. His financial worries. His idiotic bet on Goldilocks. His despair when she lost. At the end of a solo passage, he glanced at Vicky. The clarinets had a rest and she was swabbing moisture out of her clarinet.

Duke Ellington had titled his autobiography,
Music Is My Mistress
. Vicky was his mistress and he loved her dearly, but music was his salvation, a soothing balm when his life crumbled to ashes. Incessant creditors. A vindictive ex-wife. Bad luck at the race track . . .

He plunged into the next solo passage, fingers flashing over the keys, reveling in the sound of the orchestra. Nothing fazed these musicians.

Bloody hell, he wanted this job!

At the end of the piece the audience brought him back for two bows, clapping and whistling, the musicians shuffling their feet. He bowed deeply and gave Vicky a solo bow.

On impulse he decided to play an encore. The worst part was over. Why not enjoy himself? Chatting up the audience was always fun. He did it all the time in Vegas. He went to the microphone and the audience quieted.

“Thank you so much. You are terribly kind and you shall have your reward.” He beamed a smile at the well-dressed patrons seated at tables below the stage and another to those in the balconies. “Gershwin composed many brilliant pieces. One of my favorites is
I Got Rhythm
.”

Amid more applause, he went to the Steinway. Thanks to the jazz gigs he used to play in Hollywood, the piece was right up his alley. His fingers flew over the keys, effortlessly playing the intricate variations. He improvised a jazz chorus, putting his own stamp on the Gershwin tune. God this was fun!

He finished to another burst of applause. Even the musicians were clapping. He nodded to the players, then bowed to the audience.
Take that, you bloody BSO bigwigs
. If they saw how he charmed the audience, maybe they’d hire him to do it permanently.

Then
his
name would be on the marquee outside Symphony Hall.

“Nigel Heath, Boston Pops Conductor.”

____

Westwood — 9:25 p.m.

“Hey Gina, what happened to my shirts?” Ryan yelled from their second-floor bedroom.

“Hold on, I’ll be up in a minute.” She finished loading the dishwasher, dumped in detergent and slammed the door shut. At noon she’d picked him up at Logan, and he’d been bitching at her ever since.
The yard looks like a weed garden. What’ll the neighbors think?
As if she gave a shit. He was the one who’d insisted on buying an expensive house in a snobby neighborhood.

She topped off her wineglass from the bottle of Shiraz she’d bought. Another bone of contention. Ryan never drank alcohol, and he didn’t want her drinking any either. She took a big swallow and glanced at the clock, wondering what Franco was doing. Almost 9:30. Was he watching a movie on TV with his uptight wife?

Her thoughts flitted to the sharp-faced woman who’d ambushed them in the bar. Franco was afraid she’d tell his wife. But why worry about something that probably wouldn’t happen? She had enough problems dealing with Ryan, gone all week and he comes home with a suitcase full of dirty clothes. She’d spent the afternoon in the laundry room, washing, drying and folding them.

All quiet upstairs. Ryan was packing for his trip back to Austin on Monday. She leaned against the marble countertop and sipped her wine, gazing at the stainless-steel refrigerator, dishwasher and stove. Her designer kitchen. Designed for a woman who wanted to stay home and cook all day.

Ryan thought it was great. He thought her life should revolve around his weekend visits.

Ten years into the marriage she couldn’t remember why she’d married him. Seemed like a good idea at the time? Whatever. In the beginning he doted on her, buying her expensive presents. But six months into the marriage the bloom left the rose. No more presents when Ryan came home from trips, just critical comments:
You better go on a diet, Gina, you’re getting fat.
And kinky sexual demands.
Do this, do that
.

But she didn’t want to do this or that.

She gulped some wine and tried not to think about what might happen later in bed. Two weeks after her first wedding anniversary, she’d met Franco. His intense dark eyes made her melt, and his bawdy sense of humor equaled hers. Simpatico from the start, they always had plenty to talk about, and the sex was great, even the first time. Franco didn’t roll over and fall asleep afterwards. She smiled, recalling that first night when she ran a finger over the scar on his chin and asked how he got it.

“Did something stupid when I was six,” he’d said. “The kid next door dared me to ride down a big hill on my new bike no-hands. So I did. Split my chin open when my bike hit the curb and threw me over the handlebars. My mother had to take me to the emergency room.”

She loved the story, especially his bashful confession. “It hurt like hell, but that wasn’t the worst part. The blood freaked me out. I thought I was gonna bleed to death.” Then he’d grinned and said, “So I choose a profession where I look at blood and gore almost every day. The weird thing is I can handle that, but even now if I cut myself shaving, part of me still freaks out.”

She sipped her wine, imagining a newsflash on TV:
American Airlines plane crashes in Texas.
And instantly felt guilty.

She didn’t want Ryan dead, she just wanted him out of her life. Maybe she’d leave him. She didn’t make big money like Ryan, but she didn’t need a house with a designer kitchen and a Jacuzzi in a bathroom bigger than most people’s bedrooms.

“Gina! I can’t take these shirts to Austin. They’re wrinkled!” Louder now and insistent.

“So take them in the laundry room and iron them,” she muttered.

But as she mounted the stairs her stomach got that familiar tight-queasy feeling. Their bedroom had mirrors on two walls and a king-sized bed. Last year Ryan had bought a big-screen TV and made her watch porn videos with him in bed.

When she entered the room, he looked at her accusingly.

“Gina, I told you not to use Prentiss Cleaners. Look at this.” He held up a white dress shirt. Telltale wrinkles showed where it had been folded.

“Hey, you’ve got plenty of money. Why don’t you just buy new ones and throw the dirty ones away?”

Momentarily speechless, he glowered at her, six-three and muscular as a boxer from his daily workouts. Ryan stayed at expensive hotels with indoor swimming pools and gym facilities. Most women considered him attractive, carefully styled dark hair, curly locks falling over his forehead. Lately he’d begun to obsess about losing his hair. In fact, his hairline
was
receding. His features were ordinary. His wide-set blue eyes were his most attractive feature, when he wasn’t glaring at her.

“Most wives want their husbands to look good when they go to work.”

“Ryan, give it a rest. You’ve got ten designer suits in the walk-in closet,
Armani
suits that cost an arm and a leg for God’s sake. Who sees the shirts? They’re under the suit.”

“Sometimes I like to take my jacket off. I’m not sitting in a board meeting with high-powered executives looking like a tramp in a wrinkled shirt.” He turned on the persuasive smile he used to cajole clients. “Come on, Gina, be a dear and touch them up for me.”

A haze of anger fuzzed her vision. “No. I picked you up at the airport, worked my ass off doing your laundry, cooked you a nice dinner and cleaned it up. I’m tired. I want to relax.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll buy new ones. If you ditched that stupid job at the
Herald
, you’d have more energy on the weekend. You think you’re some kind of hot-shot journalist like that chick on
Murphy Brown
.”

“It’s not a stupid job.”
Franco loves it. He calls me his Ace Reporter.

“You wouldn’t be living in a nice house in Westwood if I wasn’t paying the mortgage.”

“I’m a good journalist. How do you think I got a job writing for a big newspaper in one of the hottest media markets in the country?”

“Yeah, and it pays shit.”

The phone on the bedside table rang. Relieved by the interruption, she took the call and heard a familiar voice say, “Hey Gina, wait till you hear my news!”

Gina grinned. Orchid, her kooky roommate at Boston University, was still her best friend.

“Hey, Orchid, what’s going on?” she said, and saw Ryan frown.

“A national outfit that runs craft shows called me. They want me to do an exhibit at a big show in Phoenix. I am psyched! They already bought some of my designer pottery.”

“Wow! Congratulations! This will really put you in the big time.” Ryan rolled his eyes at her. She turned her back to him. “How are sales going at the studio?”

“
Comme si, comme ca
.” Orchid tossed French phrases around like a native, which in fact she was. Her mother had been living in Saint-Tropez on the French Riviera when Orchid was born.

“Gina,” Ryan said loudly, “get rid of your weirdo friend. We need to talk.”

“Uh-oh,” Orchid said, “who’s that? Mr. Important home from the business wars, wanting attention?”

“Yes. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Sure, but not before noon. I’m going out tonight and tie one on to celebrate. Wanna come?”

“I’d love to, but—”

“Don’t speak. Mr. Important is listening. Call me tomorrow,” Orchid said, and clicked off.

She replaced the receiver and said to Ryan, “You know, I don’t sit around all week while you're doing your big important business deals. I have friends.”