No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (41 page)

Sydney cranked up the radio and tapped around until she landed on a classic station, playing a song featuring The Who. How apropos. How FREAKING apropos. We guzzled our iced frappuccinos and turned onto I-Drive a little past five o’clock. We cruised in Willow’s Audi R8, purring twenty miles above the speed limit. I thought once about telling her to lose a few miles, but I wasn’t in the position to stand in judgment of what I considered misdemeanors anyway.

I had one Chuck Taylor in felony.

Once in the parking lot, Sydney took another call from a dejected and down in the dumps ex-boyfriend. Man, I really needed to ask what his name was.

“I’ll be back in a few,” I said to her.

She put her hand over her cell with a tender smile. “Take your time,” she purred breezily. I shoved my iPhone into my purse and shuffled out of the car.

I pulled open the tinted black doors and propped my sunglasses on my head. Once inside, Bank of America was your typical financial institution. Faux mahogany furniture decorated the lobby, including a navy leather couch on one wall, and four palm tree fabric covered chairs on the other. Glass end tables scattered both sides of the furniture, housing bank brochures. In the center sat a narrow island with deposit and withdrawal slips one could fill out before approaching the teller counter on the far wall.

To not look so obvious, I snagged a few and leaned up against the island making chicken scratch with an ink pen. Three people worked the reception with an empty slot for a fourth. So far, no sign of Polly Teasdale, and as far as I knew, Eleanor Talley could be gone for the day.

Right when I conceded defeat, the mahogany door opened to the middle office and out strode Polly Teasdale … surprisingly un-gothic.

Words alone could’ve knocked me over.

If she hadn’t worn a gold nametag that said “Polly,” I wouldn’t have recognized her. She was dressed conservatively in a navy pencil skirt and matching blazer. The jacket’s buttons hung unsnapped, allowing a tailored white blouse to peek through, accessorized by two-inch navy pumps. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun and pearl earrings draped modestly from both ears. Polly honestly looked like someone who could tell you a heckuvalot about banking.

Like kismet drew us together, we rubbed eyeballs.

After my heart stopped then resumed a beat, I gave her some teeth. Polly dispensed a customer-friendly smile as she confidently padded forward. I didn’t know whether to act surprised or admit we’d been introduced before. Frankly, I had the urge to blurt out that Elmer was a freak of nature who probably gave her fleas, but before I could do anything, she said, “Darcy?”

I considered acting blasé but knew panic was written all over my face. “Y-yyes?” I sputtered. How in the world did she know my name?

“Right this way,” she smiled. Polly stole a glance at the brass clock on the wall right when the corner office door marked “Bank Manager” cracked wide, spitting out who I assumed was Eleanor Talley herself.

Eleanor hit the rafters at basketball center tall, and if she ever got the urge to smash me, she could do it with a thumb. I took her to be well over seventy-two inches without her black heels. Her heather gray pants and menswear shirt were tailored to an athletic build and a nice contrast to her suntanned skin. Dark brown hair fell chin-length next to chestnut eyes, a button nose, and thin peachy-pink lips. Not exceptionally pretty but not ugly, either.

She took two long strides, our eyes locking. “Hello, you must be Darcy. I just spoke with Herbie, and I recognize you by his description.”

I sort of nodded; sort of peed my pants.

Still, I had no chance to respond because directly following after her was—
holy cow!
—Gertrude Burr. Fate threw me a curveball and smacked me right in the face. Yes, I knew Gertrude recommended Livingston & Associates (Howie’s employer) to help find Cisco, but shouldn’t she be home mourning Howie’s head? He held the title of her former boyfriend, but she was nothing but smiles … and new botox.

My mind played the events again. Howie had the word “Medina” in his mouth. Had he known something that he wanted to warn Gertrude about? Or did Gertrude have something to do with him losing his body? By the looks of things, she seemed awfully chummy with the woman holding Herbie’s and her money.

Maybe that meant nothing.

Maybe that meant everything.

“H-hhello,” I stammered again. My eyes bounced over to Polly who returned another smile, but something different lined the curve of her lips. Somebody help me; this felt like a setup with no backup available but Sydney … which was no backup really, if it meant interrupting her during a phone call.

Eleanor swung her black leather bag over her shoulder, sweeping her hand toward her office, a paragon of customer appreciation. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. I’m on my way out. I’m boating this weekend, but Polly will take care of you.”

Polly led the way and following like a well-trained dog trotted Gertrude. How in the world had I managed the VIP treatment? For all they knew, I’d give them a George Washington, not a few C-notes or bequeath all of my earthly possessions.

I slipped into one of the beige chairs in front of the mahogany desk, assessing the environment. Eleanor’s office exploded with business commendations: Branch of the Year, Best Consumer Internet Bank, a few sports awards from Dartmouth, and inspirational framed prints: the biggest saying “Let Me Help You Find Success.” Beige stock paper nestled underneath a paperweight, and next to it was sage-colored stationery with “ET” in the upper left quadrant.

Polly slipped into Eleanor’s chair too easily in my opinion. Like she had aspirations of taking over her job or a job of equal or greater importance.

“You look lovely,” Polly gushed to Gertrude as we settled in. As usual, Gertrude was impeccably dressed: white cotton sundress, with platinum jewelry flowing like a waterfall. By the small talk, I got the feeling they knew one another outside of a professional setting. “How do you two know one another?” I asked.

On the corner of Eleanor’s desk were foiled mints in a glass bowl. I tried to act nonchalant but nonetheless plunged my hand into the center and pilfered about six. Some girls couldn’t eat when they were nervous; unfortunately, I consumed enough trashy food for a fast food joint. Unwrapping one of the silver foils, I tossed the white candy in my mouth.

“Gertie and Eleanor rowed against one another in college,” Polly answered. “I rowed in high school. I guess we just have that in common.”

I found the whole rowing story surprising. Eleanor definitely had more testosterone than the norm, but Gertrude—in spite of her Victorian name—did not strike me as athletic. In truth, her stature was built so rail-thin, she’d snap in two during a rainstorm.

“Where’d you row?” I munched, unwrapping another mint, shoving it in the other side.

Gertrude lightly giggled, “I rowed at Yale and Eleanor rowed at Dartmouth. We had quite the rivalry. Neither of us liked to lose.”

Polly lifted a brow as she pecked on the keyboard with one hand, opening a ledger with the other. “Oh, yeah?” she laughed strangely. “I’ve played cards with both of you, and you seem to have the corner on that market. Last time we played, you flipped over a table when you lost at gin rummy.” I stifled a cough … all three enjoyed a card game … together. “My boyfriend and I are going to play again this weekend,” Polly continued. “Why don’t you join us?”

I coughed again, and when I didn’t have any water to wash the mint down, I swallowed real hard hoping the spit would do the job.

Gertrude’s face fell, genuinely disappointed. “I can’t Friday. Pooky and I have something already planned, but the rest of the weekend’s open.”

I suddenly felt like a third wheel as their two-way conversation left me virtually unnecessary. I ran scenarios, debating what each of these variables could mean. I came here thinking Polly more than likely was X. It made the most sense—she did have a relationship with Elmer—but now it appeared too easy. But, in contrast, why complicate what didn’t need complicated? Could Eleanor be the worst boss in the world, not having a clue what went down under her own nose? Even though all three enjoyed a card game, I still couldn’t catch a feel to the true identity of X. Gertrude, perhaps? She donated money to the trust and recommended that Livingston & Associates be hired. All I needed was a connection to Lola because Gertrude currently looked guiltier than sin.

Once I pulled out my wallet, Polly broke from the conversation and took the bill I extended. Gertrude offered an authentic smile, but someone needed to remind her that she didn’t work here. She had one of her Jimmy Choo shoes propped on the top of the desk, rearranging the diamond anklet around her long and slender leg.

“Looks like we might run in the negative this month,” Polly sighed, making a few scratches in the notebook. “That breaks my heart. Your money will be well spent, Darcy.”
How could that be?
I thought. Herbie gave $10K a month, and FX, Incorporated hadn’t billed for 60 days. In essence, there should be $20K sitting there from Herbie alone. Gertrude, as Herbie said, was probably good for a grand, so we were basically talking plus $20K in total.

“How much
is
there?” Gertrude asked, eyes aghast, suddenly upset.

“Less than fifteen hundred dollars,” Polly whispered.

They both stole worried glances at one another, eyebrows crumpled up in pain as though the end of the world neared. Trouble was, I didn’t know if any of their concern was heartfelt. The longer I sat there, the more I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong? Yeah … I just didn’t know how to make it right.

Before I could weigh the repercussions, I gazed into Gertrude’s big, brown eyes and leaned into her personal space. “So let’s get down to business, Gertrude,” I blurted out. “Did they ever find Howie’s body? And what about the dead guy in your pool? That’s an awful lot of dead boy, girl. What’s up?”

27. THE FIRING SQUAD

I
HAD A CROOK IN MY
neck and was pretty sure vertebrae C4 & C5 had fallen out of alignment. I rolled off the couch, thinking the hard tile might pop them back into place. Instead, I landed on top of Dylan with an “Ugh.”

“Good morning to you, too,” he chuckled.

Talk about a meeting of the minds. His practically swished inside of mine.

Feasting my eyes on my best friend, his amber eyes blinked sleepily and tender; his naked chest cut, rippled, and harder than bedrock. Dylan looked and smelled divine. By the sticky feeling in my t-shirt, I’d shot straight to rapid decomposition.

When he kneaded his fingertips into my lower back, I blanked out and buried my head in his neck. Welcome to Stressville, people … there was no exit sign.

“Are you okay?” he murmured groggily.

Not really, and the more he touched me, the less I could construct a sentence.

Dylan leaned forward and lightly kissed my hair, still massaging away my restless night. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You crawled in at 4AM, told me you had a bad dream, and wanted
again
,” he giggled with emphasis, “to snuggle up with me.”

Funny thing was, I had no recollection whatsoever of that conversation or what I might’ve done to him in the dark. I’d become a dirty girl … a dirty girl with no control whatsoever.

“Something is screwy with my pineal gland,” I mumbled. “I can’t sleep.”

“I know something’s screwy with your pineal gland,” he chuckled, “but you can’t keep sneaking into my room. The best I could offer was the floor. It might’ve been worth leaving my bed, Darc. Nice wake up, call. You feel
goooood
.”

I had to agree. This certainly qualified as a howdy-and-a-half, but the last thing he needed was for his massive ego to balloon even more. It barely made it through the door now. I leaned forward and headbutted him, immediately wishing I hadn’t … his head was as hard as a freaking coconut.

A frown ran across his temple, his black eyebrows knitting into one. “You’re mean, sweetheart, and you might want to lay off the late-night doughnuts.”

Low blow. I wasn’t fat—granted, I binged on the sweets—but the best I could tell I looked at least average … (well, close).

The conversation went from zero to neutron bomb in seconds flat. Dylan and I rolled and thrashed around on the floor, twisted together like a candy cane. My hands attempted to circle his throat; his doubled around mine as he intermittently attacked my ribs. The entire time I replayed the dream that paraded my night with Cisco.

I imagined him in the dark, hearing noises, and not knowing their origin. Crippled with fear, he couldn’t seek the comfort of someone’s arms because those sleeping near him weren’t people he could trust. As the night grew, my dreams grew even darker. Cisco happily played at the park, venturing down the slide. Segue to a warehouse, and the two of us frantically ran hand-in-hand for two doors in the distance. Choosing the door on the right, when we stumbled inside, we wound up in the “out of town business” room in Grizzly’s building. No meat cleavers were in sight, but dead bodies hung from the ceiling, with Howie’s head suspended in the air trying to pull one of them down.