Deadly Dues (7 page)

“Hey, Pete,” I said.

There was a short silence. Then he managed a cheerful, “Oh, hi, Lu. What's up?”

Another silence. How could I phrase this?

“I thought I should let you and the gang know that some guy the size of a grizzly bear tried to kill me tonight, and mysteriously died on top of me, and the police just might think I did it,” I said.

“Not funny,” he said.

“Definitely not funny,” I said.

There was another pause, punctuated by static as I drove through an underpass, where two people of the opposite sex (or maybe the same, hard to tell) were engaging in a drunken rendezvous. They both looked young enough to be tucked into beds by their mothers at this hour.

“You're kidding, right?” he said tentatively.

I let that one sit for an effective minute.

“You're not kidding,” he said.

Twenty minutes later, after aimless circling of several blocks in search of Horatio, I was in Pete's kitchen, sitting at his pine table, surrounded by mixing bowls and empty egg cartons, with Etta James moaning softly on the stereo. Some people drink when they are upset. Others gamble. Pete bakes. His saskatoon berry pie is a work of art.

“Get out,” he said, peeking into the oven. “I don't believe it.” It was three in the morning, and he was wearing a dark green T-shirt that had seen better days, flour-dusted jeans and a long apron that said “Actors Do It Twice and On the Mark.” He had a night shadow. His greying hair was rumpled into chicken feathers, and his bleary eyes made me wonder if he had been crying or just reading the small print in too many recipes.

Pete's bungalow was like a doll's house, small and compact, sort of like him, although he had a nice heterosexual, muscled presence that made the house seem very . . . well . . . masculine. Sally's touches were everywhere. The Fiestaware plates that she had left behind, the vintage dishtowels embroidered with cozy little sayings like “Home Is Where the Heart Is.” Pete still lived there, but it was if he were living with Sally's ghost. I wondered how she was, and how she could have left a sweet, macho hunk like Pete. Stan had poisoned their relationship with his hints of Pete's infidelity (and why, I wondered, would Stan do that?) and Sally had believed him. My heart gave a little twinge as I wondered once again why Sally had believed Stan instead of Pete. Anybody who knew Pete understood that he was loyal and trustworthy, and totally devoted to Sally. Yet another reason for not wearing a tasteful black veil in memory of Stan.

I glanced into one of Pete's shining pots and shuddered at my reflection. I looked like hell. Who wouldn't, after drinking all night, being scared once, terrified once, discovering not one but two dead bodies, hefting a garden gnome, throwing up into a jardinière and knowing all your neighbours had watched a body bag being carted out of your home? And worse, my very best friend was out on the streets, alone. Oh, Horatio, you disloyal mutt. Please remember to look both ways before you cross the street. And don't slurp on strangers.

I moped into my coffee, which was one of Pete's consistent talents— delivering dark, rich, not-for-pipsqueaks coffee at all hours. The oven door groaned as Pete closed it.

He ran a hand through his hair, which gave him a nice little flour dusting of white, and collapsed into the chair opposite me.

He flexed his fingers and winced.

“Damn it,” he said quietly. “My hands have never been the same since that Alaska shoot. Too many hours in the snow. Just can't get a grip on the dough the way I used to.” He took a gulp of coffee and stared at me.

“You were kidding, right?”

“I'm not kidding,” I said plaintively. “I went through hell tonight, even worse than in Stan's office.”

We both looked out the window, past the flowery, ruffled curtains that Sally had left behind, into the dark of the leaves outside his window, barely illuminated by faint streetlights.

Pete and Sally had two great kids, one in hockey, the other studying violin, but he saw them only once a week since she left him. There had been no dramatics in their split. She had simply left with the kids, and now their lawyers were trying to resolve it. I guessed that perhaps the lies had sparked some other issues in their marriage, and that, in those mysterious ways of departures and breakups, living together was no longer possible for her. Their kids, Ryan and Lori, adored Pete and missed him. But Sally was now telling them that having an actor for a father was worse than no father at all.

“Damn him,” said Pete quietly. I nodded, staring into my coffee. One didn't like to bad-mouth the dead, but Stan had ruined Pete's marriage. I had never seen him so desolate, not even after the lousy reviews for his one-man show. Because of Stan. And, damn him, where were my royalties?

I sighed and took another sip of coffee. Pete watched me for a moment. My dimple is a dead giveaway to my friends. Sometimes it is a happy dimple. Sometimes it is a sad dimple. Open to interpretation. Only my best friends know for sure.

“Maybe the union will be able to track your money now,” he said.

“Sure,” I said, trying to sound blasé and jaded. “Stan and Sherilyn probably stashed it in the Grand Caymans. Probably paid for their holidays—”

Pete's eyes widened. “Damn, I wondered where they got the money for those trips. Did you hear where they stayed the last time they went there? Some resort with waterfalls and personal servants and pedicures every day—”

“Stop!” I shouted. “I draw the line at pedicures!”

I shoved myself out of my chair, grabbed my bag and started for the door. It had been a long day, and suddenly I couldn't bear to hear about the pedicures that two totally vile people had taken on my money while I was dishing out chicken nuggets at McDonald's. I had gone to Pete for comfort, hoping that together we could figure out who had killed Stan, but now I was in no state to carry on a civilized discussion.

“Lu!” said Pete, but I was already at my car door, hauling it open and hating the Sunfire, wishing I still had my BMW, but that was gone too. Long gone. Everything was gone. Including Horatio.

“Lu, you might want to change your clothes!” he shouted after me. A light switched on across the street. I sniffed at myself, cringed, churned up Mulgrave Street and turned left onto Central. It was now four in the morning, and the streets were deserted. The street lights, half of which were dimmed due to the city's highly intelligent program of alternating lighting in order to save energy (while half the population of the city was mugged in the dark), glowed intermittently at me as I chugged along Central.

What a life,
I thought.
Discover Dead Body Number One. Go for Drinks. Go Home. Get Assaulted. Discover Dead Body Number Two. Lose Dog. Seek Solace with Friends. Hear About Other People's Beautiful Lives. Drive Home in Dark to Deserted Condo. What could be more appealing?

For the second time in what was only a few hours (but what seemed like a lifetime), I pulled into my driveway and sat in my car. We suit each other, I thought. Tanked, rusted, without hope or prospects. And definitely the worse for wear. At least I had a bankable dimple. The old beater had lots, but none as cute as mine.

For a moment, I worked on creative visualization and imagined dear old Horatio slumped up against the door, waiting for me, a repentant look in his big brown eyes. The last I had seen of Horatio was his extremely plump behind as he headed to the door while I was being choked by Mister Size Twenty. I am not a bitter sort of gal, but I did contemplate the disloyalty of this. I was slinging hamburgers to serve up Horatio's daily caloric intake, and he disappears in my hour of need? That notwithstanding, he was my best friend, and I really, really wanted him back home.

But when I peered over the steering wheel and squinted at the front door, it was devoid of white hairy masses.

The police vehicles were long gone. So was the cleanup van.

Finally, I had to face facts. I was sitting in my car because I dreaded going into the condo. Maybe I could just sleep in my car. Maybe I could find an all-night supermarket and climb into a freezer for a nice numbing nap. Instead, I pulled out my cell and called Mitzi. Maybe I could crash at her luxury condo tonight. The hour was outrageous, but so was Mitzi. She sometimes went for days without a wink of sleep, then zonked out in a marathon nap to make up for it.

Her recorded message cut in with admonishments to leave a name and number. I didn't want to say much for the posterity of an answering machine recording, so left a tasteful minimalist message.

“Hi, Mitzi. It's Lu.” I hung up before my long, shuddering breath turned into a blubber or a blabber.

Where could I go? My old friend Jerome had given me his house keys so I could collect his mail while he was in Alaska, working on his thesis, but the keys were in my condo. If I had to go back into my condo to get the keys, I might as well stay there.

I stared at the phone and thought about the nearest Holiday Inn. Oh, how lovely it would be to go to a nice hotel room, with clean sheets and no unhappy murder scenes in its immediate history. Unfortunately, this would require a credit card, and I was pretty sure I had just maxed mine out with the cleanup crew.

Come on, Lulu. Some day you will be cast in a murder mystery and give a brilliant performance because you have been there, honey. So open the car door and use this for life experience. Just what they used to tell you back in acting school. Way back when, in the days when you thought about art, not royalties.

I forced myself and the car into the garage, then went up the walk by my little lonesome, my head turning constantly like a certain character in
The Exorcist
. I forced myself to stand for a moment and scan the adjoining yards and walkways, praying for the sighting of a large white mass. Nothing. I let myself in, and stood for a moment in the darkness.

“Anybody there?” I said sweetly. Merciful silence.

I turned on the dim entrance light. The skinny kid and the fire hydrant had done a pretty good job, although the loveseat was still damp. They had left a note on it:
This is what you get at discount prices, cheapskate
. As soon as possible, that loveseat was going to be history, out in the lane behind the condo complex for some undiscriminating dumpster diver. I took a few moments to wonder how many of my carefully acquired items might have a distasteful provenance, then decided against exploring that topic any further.

I avoided looking at the area of the loveseat and the jardinière (which smelled slightly of disinfectant), deadbolted the door, and went to my den.

I turned on my iMac and checked my e-mail, first deleting all the invitations to try out Viagra. I then spent another few moments chucking the invitations to invest in business plans from around the world. I saved two solicitations from charities (just in case I won the lotto in the next month), deleted five annoying inspirational e-mails from acquaintances so dumb they thought I might be interested in spending half an hour reading lame-brained clichés on improving your life and becoming a perfect and wonderful person. Finally I got down to the few useful and interesting e-mails. Mitzi had sent me the agency account update (depressing), my mother had sent me a picture of my nephew (cute) and Jerome had compiled a newsy e-mail about his times in the great north, which I enjoyed thoroughly. Well, at least somebody cares enough to send e-mails that are interesting, I thought, reminding myself to e-mail Jerome and tell him his garden gnome had saved my life. I shut down the computer, checked my cell phone again (nada) and headed for the bathroom.

I ran a hot bath and poured in every aromatherapy oil I had, then added some baking soda and sea salt for good measure. I am a great believer in the therapeutic qualities of the bath, whether it is a utilitarian plunge and soak for one minute and leap out, or the more decadent lounge with books and candlelight. Forget the magazine and the candles tonight, I thought, just hit me with the herbs and the smelly stuff.

But this bath extravaganza was nothing like the glowing violet visions in lifestyle magazines. No. Not at all. Lu, the beloved shill of Bow Wow Dog Food, revered by dog lovers across the continent, sat in her bath and wept. The tears rolled down my face and into the tastefully perfumed water, as I lamented death, betrayal, violence, lack of sleep, lack of dog, and most of all, the money that was owed me that I might never see again, which would lead—inevitably, I felt, in my weakened state— to a career as a bag lady.

Oh God
, I thought, wiping the tears from my eyes with a discount washcloth.
Maybe I should have gone to law school after all
. I also took a few moments to wonder if it was too late to look up Mitch Dupree, the ex-boyfriend I hadn't laid eyes on in ten years, and accept his proposal. I wisely decided against that. Impractical, undignified and sort of idiotic.

And then I embarked on a review of my lousy business decisions, sometimes aided and abetted by Mitzi's advice, which tended to be more cash-register than soul-appropriate. I wouldn't even be blubbering over these kitsch dilemmas, I decided, if I had more of a business brain.