The Real Mrs. Price (3 page)

Ed's shortcoming had been greed, pure and simple. Greed for money, of course, but also greed for a woman. It never failed to amaze Plato how dumb a dick could make a man. A month before leaving Colorado, Price up and married one of his mistakes. Marlowe Brown. The man had been greedy enough to take money that didn't belong to him and to take a wife, a second wife, while he still had the first one. Price might as well have put a bull's-eye on his back, and for now, it seemed that someone might've hit that target dead center. Not far from where wife number two lived, a body had turned up in his car, burned to a crisp. Authorities went ahead and started jumping to conclusions. The right one? Plato wasn't convinced. Hence his reason for traipsing through Kansas in the middle of the night, singing at the top of his lungs until he was hoarse, on his way to Blink (And Fucking Miss It), Texas.

He'd been in Europe when he got the call.

“How'd you find me?” he'd asked over the phone.

“A friend gave me your number,” the man on the other end said.

“Which friend?”

“The one at the bookstore, on Main Street.”

“What was he reading?”

“A scene from Ellison's
Invisible Man,
” he'd stated and continued with the passage, “‘“Old woman, what is this freedom you love so well?” I asked around a corner of my mind.'”

A man in Plato's line of work needed his reassurances, his checks and balances. The book never changed but passages changed often, and God help you if you called him and got it wrong.

“What do you need?” was his next question, if you got it right.

Edward Price was the name he'd been given. Edward Price was a businessman who'd made the wrong kind of deal with the wrong kinds of people, and he'd failed to deliver on his promise, whatever that was. Plato didn't weigh himself down with the details.

“Where does he live?” he'd asked.

“Boulder, Colorado.” The person on the phone had texted Plato the address.

“Where does he work?”

“He's a stockbroker at a company called E&L Investments, also in Boulder.”

“Photograph?”

“You can get it off his website. It's the most recent. I'll text you the company link.”

“You know my rates?”

“Of course.”

“I'll forward you the account information. You're to deposit half now and half when the job is finished.”

“Yes. How will we know it's finished?”

Plato had made a mental note. The caller had said “we” and not “I.” This person was calling on behalf of someone else.

“You'll see it on the news,” he'd said before hanging up.

Plato had initially flown into the Denver International Airport after accepting the job, starting at the beginning of Price's trail—at his home—but there was nothing there except for a distraught and flustered wife, concerned parents, and gossiping neighbors. Edward Price was in the wind. According to the person who'd called Plato about the job, Price had been missing for almost six months, undoubtedly on the run from what he knew was coming for him.

Plato had done his homework. A few weeks before Price's disappearance, a man named Charles Harris was found dead in a cabin he owned in the mountains just outside a town called Cripple Creek. He'd died from a gunshot wound in an apparent hunting accident, they thought, then changed their findings from “accident” to “homicide.” Charles Harris was one of Ed's colleagues and apparently was a close friend. Price had given the eulogy at Harris's funeral. Coincidence that Harris was dead and that Ed had taken flight? Plato wasn't buying it. The two were connected. He didn't care how. Harris had conveniently died at a time when shit was just starting to hit the fan. And that's what sent Price's ass hightailing out of town.

Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything.
His namesake, the philosopher Plato, had said that, and it was true. That Plato was a smart dude. Enlightened. And enlightenment was everything.

*   *   *

The next morning, Plato arrived in Blink, Texas, and even before checking into a hotel room, Plato searched for and found the house of the infamous Mrs. Marlowe Price live and in living color. One side of the house was marred with the words
Killer-Niger-Witch
in red spray paint. Plato pulled up and parked on the street opposite the house and watched as a reporter, followed by a cameraman, emerged from a van with the 10 News logo painted on the side of it and rushed toward her porch as the shapely woman emerged from the house with her hand raised, stopping them all dead in their tracks. She believed she had the power to do so, and she made them believe it, too. Plato was mesmerized. The golden, full-moon afro caught him by surprise. The short, black dress, low cut and revealing mouthwatering cleavage, filled him with awe, and thick thighs and shapely calves made him smile. Silver bangles dangled from her wrists, and she was barefoot. And she stared at each one of them, daring all to cross the invisible force field she'd created around herself and her property. Marlowe Price never said a word. She held a small black bowl in her hands, walked out onto her porch and down the stairs, then poured out the granular contents in a half circle at the base of the steps. And another one around the flower bed.

She moved like spirit and smoke. She was regal and determined, unwavering and proud.

Even from across the street, he could see the conviction in her eyes, the smirk on her full, pretty mouth. A mischievous, almost dangerous look in her eyes persuaded some to take a step back, fearful of the rumors circling this woman. Stories about her were all over the Internet, mostly told by the locals who claimed to know her personally, or who knew of her. He studied her sexy fluidity from a distance and wondered if she really could put a hex on you if you pissed her off or on someone else if you paid her enough. Were her love potions as powerful as people claimed they were? Was it true that she'd once sprinkled dust on a woman's belly and changed the sex of the child from a girl to a boy?

Marlowe Price had a reputation in this town, and it wasn't necessarily a good one. It certainly did feed the rumor mill, though, and very few Blink residents doubted that a poor burned-up white man, her husband, had fallen victim to her magic because she'd found out about his other woman. It was the stuff that the best horror movies were made of, and he would be disappointed on some level if none of it were true.

She was delicious-looking, even from where he stood. Whether or not she really was a witch or hoodoo priestess or any number of other names they called her was neither here nor there. The essence of her was potent enough to stir his interest and not just as a lead to finding Ed Price.

“Mrs. Price,” the reporter said, talking into the microphone, “would you mind answering a few questions?”

She ignored him and slowly ascended the steps to her porch, then abruptly stopped, turned, and looked across the road to where Plato was parked and stared, momentarily and directly, back at him. She looked at him like she recognized him, or maybe she looked as if she'd been expecting him. Whatever the case, an uneasy feeling rose up in him, and if he didn't believe in black magic before, he was starting to believe in it now.

“Mrs. Price? Please. If we could just have a moment. Have you retained a lawyer yet, Mrs. Price? Do you feel you need one?”

Moments later, the pretty, caramel-colored woman went inside and closed the door behind her, leaving the reporter no choice but to giddyup and go back to the news station. If there really was such a thing as falling in love at first sight, it had just happened to Plato. His heart gave one curious and resonating thump as she disappeared, almost like it was broken. But before declaring his brand-new love for this Mrs. Price, he needed a shower, to brush his teeth, a nap, and something to eat. In that order.

 

Shaking This Tree

“P
EOPLE STARTED ASKING ABOUT HIM,
and at first I lied and said that he was out of town. It bought me some time,” Lucy admitted. “A few weeks after he'd left, I had no choice but to report him missing,” Lucy explained to the private investigator she'd found online. “I knew that if I didn't, the truth would catch up with me, and then I'd look like I had something to do with his disappearance.”

Her husband had loosened several of her teeth and lacerated the inside of her jaw when he'd hit her. Ed's reaction to her confronting him about Chuck drove the point home of what he was truly capable of. He could've killed her. He would've if it hadn't been for Bruce showing up when he did.

Roman Medlock looked polished and poised, wearing a lightly starched, pale-blue button-down tucked into narrow, navy-blue, European-cut slacks, and brown leather cap-toe oxfords. Lucy guessed him to be about six feet tall. He had a lean, athletic build and waves of chestnut-brown hair that he wore cut short and brushed back. She found his eyes most striking, piercing green eyes that bored into Lucy like lasers.

“What made you suspicious of your husband, Mrs. Price?” he asked, locking his gaze onto hers. “You said that you'd felt uneasy around him for a while,” he reminded her. “Why is that?”

“A few weeks before Chuck Harris died, he called me at the university,” she reluctantly explained. Lucy was careful with what information she shared with Roman. In fact, she'd been selective with what she'd told everyone, including Ed's parents, and most certainly with what she'd told the police. “Chuck was Ed's friend, not mine, so I was surprised to hear from him.”

“Why'd he call you?”

“At first, I thought that maybe something had happened to Ed. They worked together and were good friends, so … he assured me that Ed was fine. Then he explained that he'd been assigned to do random audits on some of the client investment accounts and that he'd audited several of Ed's. Chuck was concerned that he'd discovered some things that alarmed him.” She shrugged. “Senior brokers like Chuck are trained to notice certain red flags when it comes to those accounts. Things that most people might take for granted.”

“What did he find?”

She hadn't told this to anyone else. Not even Ed knew what Chuck had told her, but she needed Roman Medlock's help, so she had to tell him the truth. “He believed that Ed was laundering money,” she reluctantly admitted.

Roman seemed to let her revelation linger for a moment. “Did he tell you how much money was involved?”

“Chuck tallied accounts totaling forty-seven million.”

Roman nodded calmly and kept his eyes fixed on Lucy. He acted as if people threw figures like that at him every day. “Why would he tell you about this?” he probed. “Why not tell upper management or report it to the Federal Trade Commission?”

“I asked him the same thing,” she said, nearly faltering. Lucy quickly recovered. “He said that he wanted to talk to Ed first before taking it any further, but he was worried about how Ed might respond when he confronted him about it. I guess he just wanted someone else to know. He made me promise not to tell Ed that he'd called or tell anybody unless … unless something happened to him.”

“He was afraid of Ed?” Medlock probed.

Lucy slowly shook her head. “Chuck sounded concerned about approaching Ed, but I think that he was hoping that it was just a mistake on Ed's part. He did mention how people behind money laundering could be anyone from terrorists to drug cartels. So maybe he was more afraid that it could be something like that. I don't know.”

The expression on the detective's face began to worry Lucy.

“You look like you don't believe me, Mr. Medlock,” she said, challenging him.

“You didn't tell the police about the conversation?”

“I was hoping that Chuck was wrong and that Ed would explain that to him after they spoke.”

“And you didn't tell the police about the phone call from Chuck?”

Reluctantly, she shook her head. “The night Ed left, he didn't exactly come out and say verbatim that he'd killed Chuck, but he strongly implied it.” Lucy's eyes started to water. “He was going to kill me, too, but our neighbor showed up at the door. He said he'd heard something. Ed and I were fighting.”

“About the money?”

She glanced sheepishly at him. “He hit me. He'd never done that before. I was afraid he'd kill me.” Lucy swallowed. “Ed told me that if I told anybody about what he'd done, that he'd come back for me. If I'd told the police that I thought…” Lucy paused. “That I believed Ed killed Chuck, he'd kill me.”

Roman was silent for several moments before continuing. He looked as dumbfounded as she felt. “When did you find out about Ed's other wife?”

“I got a call from the police telling me that they'd found Ed's car just outside a town in Texas. They said that they also had found out that he'd married another woman, Marlowe Brown, a month before he left here. That's when they told me about the body they'd found.” Lucy wiped away a rogue tear.

“So I don't understand, Mrs. Price,” he said as sincerely as he could. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

Lucy pursed her lips together to keep from breaking down. “I need for you to make sure it's him.”

“The police can do that.”

She shook her head. “They haven't been able to identify the body.”

“I'm not a forensics guy, Mrs. Price. What makes you think I can?”

“I can't live like this,” Lucy said with resolve. “Looking over my shoulder all the time, afraid that he'll come back and finish what he started.”