Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (6 page)

“Orchid’s no friend. She’s a bad influence on you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His face turned as dark as a thundercloud. “What I said. She puts on airs like she’s some artsy-fartsy artist, but she’s going nowhere because she’s got no talent.”

“What do you know about talent? All you do is manipulate numbers on a spreadsheet.”

His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned, that dangerous look she knew so well. He took a step toward her, fists clenched. Her heart pounded and she backed away. Sometimes the intensity of his fury scared her. Damned if she’d let him know it, though. If he touched her, she’d scratch his eyes out.

“Is that what you think I do?” he yelled. “Push numbers around? Try explaining to twenty people why you need to lay them off so they don’t wind up sabotaging the company—”

“Jesus! You fire people and expect them to like it? Six weeks later you walk away and forget them.”

“Hey, my obligation is to the stockholders.” He came closer and sniffed. “You’ve been drinking. Don’t deny it, I can smell it on your breath. You smell like a cheap barroom whore.”

Her fingers tingled, icy with fear.
And you’re a dry drunk, just like your father.

“Ryan, I’m tired. I’m going to go lie down in the TV room and watch a movie and fall asleep.”
No kinky sex tonight, bubba.

His eyes morphed into blue steel, as cold and hard as the stainless-steel appliances in their kitchen. “Things better be different tomorrow, Gina. You’re my wife. You better start acting like it.”

Sunday, April 30

Vicky heard Nigel shut off the shower and peered nearsightedly at the clock radio beside her bed. Almost noon. Feeling delightfully decadent and not the least bit guilty, she snuggled into her pillow with a contented sigh. Nigel was a wonderful lover.

After last night’s concert she’d come straight home to her North End apartment, glowing from the compliments she’d gotten for her solo. Nigel had made his obligatory stop at his hotel and hadn’t arrived until midnight. As her busybody Italian landlady no doubt noticed. The nosy old bat sat by the window in her first-floor apartment every night, checking up on her.

She sat up as Nigel entered the room, slim and trim, a white bath towel wrapped around his waist. He said conducting kept him fit. Damp curlicues of ginger-brown hair swirled over his chest. He didn’t look forty-one, she decided, even if he did have a bald spot on top.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “That was a lovely farewell nudge this morning.”

She giggled. “Nudge? Is that the Brit word for it?”

His face lit up in a smile, displaying even, white teeth. He’d had the front ones capped when he was living in Hollywood with his wife, ex-wife now.

“No, but it suits us.” He took his suitcase out of her closet and set it atop the rumpled bed. “Okay to leave my suitcase here till next Sunday? Baggage claim is a bloody nuisance.”

“Sure,” she said, smiling mischievously. “Then you’ll be sure to hurry back and see me.”

“No doubt about that, luv. The
Rhapsody
is a great showpiece for you. Your solo was superb.”

“Think it’ll land me the second clarinet chair with the BSO?”

“Should do. You deserve it.”

“But three hundred clarinet players will show up for the audition. What if they pick somebody else?”

“I thought you liked freelancing.”

“Nigel, I’m thirty-three. I’m sick of living in the North End and paying rent. I want to buy a condo.”

“And I’m sick of traveling. This Iowa gig Hale booked is absurd. Rehearse all week, do four performances of
Music Man
and fly back for next Sunday’s Pops concert.”

“Why did you take it?”

He opened his suitcase, frowning, then flashed her a grin. “It’s not
Music Man
I’m worried about, it’s the bloody Gershwin. Conducting
Rhapsody in Blue
and
Concerto in F
from the keyboard is no cake walk.”

“No kidding. I don’t know how you do it.”

He shrugged. “I’ve done it before, but not in Boston. That’s why they hired me. Why pony up big bucks for a soloist when they can pay me ten percent more and get a soloist
and
a conductor.”

“Have you conducted
Music Man
before?”

“No, but Hale sent me the score. Piece of cake. But I hate these bloody road trips. If I got the Pops job, I’d be in Boston with you.” He shrugged. “Time will tell. Should know in a couple of weeks.”

He took a stack of clean underwear and socks out of the suitcase. “I’ll sling these in my suit bag, but I need something to take them to the hotel.”

“Use that.” She pointed to a shopping bag with a Lord & Taylor logo beside her bureau. “Can you start the coffee while I take a quick shower?”

He kissed her forehead. “Will do.”

She got in the shower, luxuriating in the steamy spray. The building was old and sometimes when other people took showers, the water pressure in her second-floor apartment slowed to a trickle. But not now.

When she emerged, ringlets of damp, dark hair curled around her face. She put on her glasses and stepped on the scales: 140 pounds. She wished she were tall and slim like her sister, but she had inherited her father’s stocky build. Nigel didn’t seem to mind though.

She put on a bathrobe and went out to the kitchen, a tiny alcove with a stove, refrigerator and a sink. The only counter space, a Formica-topped breakfast bar, separated the alcove from the living room. Dressed in gray-tweed slacks and a blue shirt, Nigel stood at the stove pouring coffee into two mugs. The first time he stayed over, she had offered him tea for breakfast. Didn’t all Englishmen drink tea? But he’d said, “Never touch the stuff. Just coffee, the stronger the better.”

She opened the refrigerator. “Want some eggs? I could make an omelet.”

“No time, luv. Got to check out of the hotel and go to the airport.” He fished in his pocket. “Blast! I’m out of cigarettes.”

“You can get some at the store on the corner. Want me to drive you to the hotel?”

“I’ll take a cab. Wouldn’t want anybody to see us. Besides, you’ve got a gig this afternoon.”

She glanced at the clock. “That reminds me. I better tape my show.”

“Right-o. Can’t miss Wanda the workout woman, can we?”

Teasing her. He knew she watched Wanda’s Workouts every Sunday. If she had a gig, she taped it and watched it later. She went in the living room, stuck a disc in the DVD and set the timer.

On the way back to the kitchen, she noticed a crumpled scrap of paper on the floor. When she picked it up, her heart sank.

Faint red letters at the top said:
SUFFOLK DOWNS
.

She went in the kitchen and waved the ticket at Nigel. “What’s this?”

He plucked it from her fingers and put it in his pocket, avoiding her eyes.

“You said you didn’t bet on that race.”

“That’s an old ticket, probably been in my pocket for months.”

She almost asked to see the date on the ticket, but she didn’t want him to think she didn’t trust him.

He kissed her, picked up the Lord & Taylor bag and went to the door. “I’ll call you from Iowa. Wish me luck with
Music Man
.”

“Okay. But don’t you dare go to any race tracks out in Iowa!”

“You can count on
that
, luv.”

____

He dashed down the front steps. Intent on buying cigarettes, he didn’t notice the elderly woman seated by the first-floor window watching him hurry down the street. He stopped outside Marie’s Variety and studied the array of lottery slips taped to the door.

A sign block printed on them in red crayon said:
NO MEGABUCKS winner last night!!! WEDNESDAY prize . . . $12 MILLION!!!

Wouldn’t
that
be a lark, he thought as he opened the door. The store was dark and cramped, with iron bars over the grimy windows. Two aisles of groceries led to a cooler for milk, juice and soft drinks. A stack of Sunday newspapers sat on the floor beside the counter. Behind it, an elderly woman with gray hair perched on a wooden stool.

“Two packs of Winstons please,” he said, eyeing the betting slips on the counter as she rang up the cigarettes. “Big Megabucks prize this week?”

“No winner for two months. Everybody gonna buy tickets now.” Her brown eyes regarded him steadily.

He put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “P’rhaps I’ll try my luck.”

“Quick picks?”

“Whatever works.”

She punched the computer and he waited impatiently as twenty tickets spewed out the top. She handed him the slips. “Time somebody hit the jackpot. Maybe it will be you.”

“Right-o,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

Outside the shop he stopped to cram the tickets in his pocket. An errant slip fluttered to the sidewalk. Caught by a faint breeze, it blew into the gutter. He dashed over and grabbed it before it could fly off down the street. Just his luck to leave the winner on a street corner. He shoved the slip into his pocket, mulling over the woman’s comment.

No one had won the Megabucks for two months. A winner was due.

Twelve million bean. Wouldn’t
that
solve his money problems!

Bloody hell! Why hadn’t he bought more tickets?

When he reached North Station, a lone cab stood at the curb. A dark-skinned man in a fuchsia shirt sat behind the wheel, eyes closed. Nigel leaned down to the open window. “Hallo there! Anybody home?”

The driver woke with a start and opened his eyes. “Where to?”

“The Back Bay Inn on Huntington, but I’ve got a few errands to run. Make it worth your while.”

“No problem, mon,” the driver said in a lilting West Indian accent.

“I need to pop into the station first. Start the meter. Only be a minute.”

He found an ATM, punched in a three-hundred-dollar withdrawal and waited anxiously, praying his credit card would give it to him. To his relief, twenty-dollar bills poured into the slot. He put them in his billfold, dashed back to the cab, jumped in and said, “Any grocery shops ’round here?”

“Be some over on Charles Street.”

“Good show.” He sank back in his seat as they drove up Cambridge Street, went over Beacon Hill and turned onto Charles. The cabby stopped at a red light and pointed at a store on the far corner. “That one okay?”

He saw a sign in the window for lottery tickets. “Perfect.”

But there was a line at the register. By the time he reached the counter, several people were behind him. He didn’t dare ask for two hundred tickets. It would take forever for the machine to spit them out. He got fifty quick-picks, went out and told the cabby he hadn’t found what he needed. They made three more stops: another corner store, a Store-24 and a 7-Eleven. Now he had two hundred tickets. Should he buy more? No. He had to pay the cabbie, and he’d need cash when he got to Iowa, no telling if his maxed-out credit card would give him more. He told the cabbie he had what he needed.

On the way to his hotel they passed Symphony Hall. He eyed the current Pops conductor’s photograph on posters. Who would the next conductor be? Nigel Heath? Or that young flashy bloke?

Would his luck ever change? God knows what he’d do if it didn’t.

Two hundred lottery tickets. He knew the odds were against him, but bloody hell, someone had to win, didn’t they?

____

Sandwich, MA

He wheeled his mother up the handicapped ramp along the front of the Seaside Diner. A breeze fluttered the red canvas awning that shielded the windows from the afternoon sun.

The Sandwich police chief came out the door and held it open for them. “Afternoon, Mrs. Kay. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

His mother smoothed her wavy blonde hair, simpering at him. “Every Sunday is beautiful! It’s the Lord’s day.”

Stringy cords stood out in her forearms as she maneuvered the wheelchair inside. It was almost 2:00 so the dinner rush was over. The booths near the door were occupied, but they never sat in that section. His mother said it was too noisy. He pushed her past eight chrome counter stools with padded red seats. Another Sandwich cop sat on one, eating blueberry pie and ice cream. Two stools down an old-timer townie was eating his solitary Sunday dinner, a fried clam plate with French fries and cole slaw.

The odor of fried fish permeated the diner. There was meat on the menu, but most people came to the Seaside Diner for its fish dinners, clam cakes and clam chowder. Conscious of curious stares from other diners, he pushed his mother toward her favorite table at the far end. Her wheelchair bumped a chair, and two teenagers looked up from their apple pie and ice cream, smirking at him. The pimply-faced one whispered to his buddy, then moved his chair to let them by. The little shit.

A rail-thin waitress came out of the kitchen with a full tray and delivered fish dinners to a table of four. Her carrot-red hair was cropped in a crew cut, and looped earrings dangled from her ears. She waved and called to them, “Hi Mrs. Kay! Hi Billy! I’ll be right over with coffee!”

He settled his mother into her usual spot in the corner, facing out so she could see the other diners. She loved watching people. Especially him. He took the chair facing the window. He didn’t want to look at her during dinner. He did that enough at home. From here he could keep an eye on the cop at the counter. All the Sandwich cops ate here. The Seaside Diner was a local hangout. The tourists stayed at Sandwich’s historic bed-and-breakfast inns and ate at restaurants overlooking the ocean or the Cape Cod Canal.

Arlene arrived with their coffee and a basket of dinner rolls.

“Gee, Mrs. Kay, your hair looks pretty today. How do you get those waves to fall so nice?”

“I found a hairdresser that comes to the house.” She patted her dyed-blonde hair. “Billy’s tired when he gets home from work. I don’t like to ask him to take me.”

“I don’t mind, Mom. It’s no trouble.”

“Well, it looks real nice.” Arlene tilted her head, and her hoop earrings swayed back and forth. “What’ll it be today? Wanna hear the specials?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll have the usual,” his mother said.

Arlene nodded, scribbling on a pad. “How about you, Billy?”

“I don’t know. What’s good today?”

“The meatloaf special’s your best bet. Home-made, fresh green beans, glazed carrots, mashed potatoes and gravy.”