Foxy Roxy (17 page)

Sage’s face contorted with tears. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“For crying out loud, I’m not blind! And I’m not stupid. You’re like a walking sex bomb. Maybe Loretta doesn’t see it, but God, Mom, I— Look, I just thought I could try it, too, you know?”

“No,” Roxy said. “You’re too young.”

“I’m the same age as you when you got pregnant.”

“That was different. You’re different! You’ve got a real future ahead of you, Sage.”

Sage burst into sobs. “Now I don’t have any future! Everything’s ruined. Yale, basketball—everything.”

“Have you taken a test?”

“How can I walk into a store and buy a p-pregnancy test? Everybody knows me!”

“Who’s the father?”

“Zack, of course.”

“Zack?” Roxy almost shouted. “Of course?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m dating anybody.”

“Except him!”

“We’re not dating.” Sage used the word as if it were something disgusting. “We just— We’re friends, that’s all. I didn’t want to go to college a virgin, for crying out loud. So we were fooling around. It was nothing serious.”

“It’s plenty serious now. Haven’t you heard of birth control?”

“Of course I have! I just never thought I’d need it.”

Another motherly shortcoming to add to her list. Roxy bit back a few more choice words on the subject of sexually transmitted horrors and nearly choked herself with the effort. Better to save that lecture for when the hysterics had passed. Then she thought of Zack’s smug grin. “Does your boyfriend know?”

“He’s not my—no! I can’t tell him.” Sage groaned again. “Not yet, anyway. Eventually I’ll have to. It’s not like I’ll be able to hide this for long.” She hiccupped. “I’ll be f-f-fat by Christmas. Huge at Easter.”

Roxy felt her anger crumble. “Easy, now.”

“It’s so awful!”

“It’s not awful until it’s official. What you need is a test.”

“I can’t just walk into a store and buy something like that!”

“I’ll get you one. There’s no sense panicking until you know for sure.”

“I’m sure.” Sage gave a miserable sniffle. “You’re going to be a grandmother!”

The word felt like a shard of hot glass stabbing Roxy through the heart.

“And me,” Sage said, starting to weep again. “I’ll have a kid to take care of. Oh, how could I be so dumb?” Sage buried her face in her arm and wailed.

Roxy should have patted her shoulder. Done the consoling mother thing. But all she could think of was how she could possibly murder Zack Cleary and get away with it.

The next thing she knew, Sage was lunging for the toilet and upchucking. Roxy held her hair and listened to the echo of her daughter’s first throes of pregnancy. It took her back. Not in a good way.

Her cell phone rang.

Sage waved her away, then went back to clutching the toilet.

Roxy grabbed her phone and went out into the hall, hoping against hope she could hear some good news for once.

Bug Duffy’s voice said, “Roxy? I need to talk to Nooch.”

“On the phone?”

“No,” Bug said. “The detectives want to see him. We have a few questions. Can you bring him down here?”

Oh, hell, Roxy thought. Why couldn’t disasters happen one at a time?

12

Henry walked into Fair Weather Village carrying a small potted calla lily and trying not to inhale the smell of old people getting older. A herd of codgers in wheelchairs clustered by the closed door of the dining room watched him pass by. Henry checked his watch. It was ten thirty, and they appeared to have nothing better to do than listen to Muzak and breathe the unappetizing scent of boiled sauerkraut.

As he hurried past the observant group, somebody muttered, “Nice flowers. Too cheap to get the big pot, huh?”

Henry hastened his step. Outside Dorothy Hyde’s room, Sharlane, the formidable nurse, sat at a desk, glowering like a gnome guarding a bridge.

“You can’t go in just now, slick.” Sharlane focused on her paperwork. “She’s on the phone with one of her daughters.”

“Which one?”

Without lifting her pen, Sharlane said, “The one who asks for money all the time.”

That could be any of Dorothy’s offspring, but Henry decided not to continue the subject. He lingered at the desk, though, and summoned some cheer for Sharlane. “How are we feeling today, Miss Oaks?”

Sharlane finally glanced up. “We’re just peachy. She’s constipated, and I’ve got cramps. Want more details?”

“Uh, no, thank you.”

She leaned her elbow on the desk and put her substantial chin in her hand. “How’s the funeral coming along? You gonna get Julius buried this week?”

“I don’t know about that,” Henry admitted. “We’re waiting to hear from the police.”

Sharlane picked up her ballpoint pen again and used it to scratch an itch under her earlobe. “The police aren’t known for hurrying up, are they? At least, not around here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She shrugged and went back to making tiny ink marks on her paperwork. “I got nuthin’ to say.”

Henry put the lily on Sharlane’s desk. “I get the impression you have an opinion you’d like to share.”

She shook her head.

“You have a problem, Sharlane? Something I can take care of? Something that concerns Mrs. Hyde?”

Sharlane held back for a full thirty seconds, clearly bursting to talk, but unwilling to admit anything of value to Henry. But finally, she said, “I called the police the last time Mr. Julius came to see her.” She nodded toward Dorothy’s closed door.

“Why?”

“I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I know when a man’s got ugly intentions.”

“Sharlane, you’re going to have to be more direct with me. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the time I told Mr. Julius that his mama was wandering at night. When she’s not in her coma, she sometimes gets out of bed and walks around in the dark, sometimes goes out on that balcony. In the pitch dark, she could fall right off, down onto the patio below. You know what I’m saying? It’s dangerous for a lady like her to be walking around by herself, especially when that balcony needs to be fixed.”

“What do you mean, it needs to be fixed?”

“I told him he needed to get a contractor out here. This whole wing, you know, belongs to the Hyde family. It’s not really part of Fair Weather Village. So he’s responsible for fixing stuff when it’s broke. Like the door to the balcony. And the balcony railing. But Mr. Julius says to me it’s too expensive to fix. Tells me she’ll be okay.”

“So you called the police?”

“I did. Of course, around here, you mention the Hydes, and the police get all twitchy. They don’t want any trouble, you know?”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Mr. Julius said not to bother you.” Sharlane brought her gaze up to meet his. “And anyway, I’m not too sure whose side you’re on.”

“I’m on the side of keeping my client safe,” Henry said.

“Well, I didn’t know who to trust. So I got my brother DeWayne to come fix the door and the balcony. Do I want Mrs. Hyde falling down in the middle of the night? Breaking her head? No way. I paid DeWayne myself for the materials, and he donated his time.”

“That was very generous of you, Sharlane. But I will reimburse both of you.”

Sulky again, she said, “I only want the best for my patient.”

Half to himself, Henry said, “Doesn’t sound as if Julius wanted the best for his mother, does it?”

Sharlane shook her head. “It most certainly does not. I can’t say as I’m sorry he’s gone.”

Henry considered Julius’s behavior. It was obvious that he’d wanted his inheritance sooner rather than later, but Henry hadn’t expected Julius to take action. Certainly not such clumsy action.

Henry nudged the flowerpot across Sharlane’s desk. “I can’t stay any longer, Sharlane. Will you give my regrets to Mrs. Hyde? And tell her I’ll telephone later? And perhaps you’d accept these flowers as a thank-you for telling me what happened.”

Sharlane poked her ballpoint into the lily’s soil. “Looks dry. Needs some water.”

“I trust you’ll take care of it. Meanwhile, if anyone else endangers Mrs. Hyde, I want you to call me immediately. Understand?”

Sharlane didn’t answer, but watched Henry depart.

He skipped out on his client, glad to avoid another lecture about finding her damn statue or losing his job. Yet somehow, hearing about Julius Hyde’s attempt to hasten his mother’s demise motivated Henry to return to his investigation. He visited a few more contacts on Monica’s list: An annoying guy with curry on his breath who bought and sold silver. A nervous pair of women who dressed like Gypsies and purchased a collection of bird prints from Monica to sell on eBay. Plus a loudmouth who sold huge slabs of stone, marble, and slate while screaming at his wife on his cell phone.

It was the loudmouth who gave Henry one tidbit of useful information.

“If you’re asking about artsy stuff from big houses, you need to see Roxy Abruzzo. She’s the damn expert in all that shit. Now, get outta here!”

So it was time to make another run at Roxy Abruzzo.

The next day, Henry waited across the street from her salvage yard all morning. The red Mustang sat parked on the gravel, looking abandoned. Henry went to a coffee shop for some revitalizing caffeine and returned in time to watch the arrival of a large black pickup truck. It had wheels that looked as if they’d been inflated by a giant, and an engine that sounded like a jetliner. The ugly guard dog ran out of the garage and barked a happy greeting. Roxy herself got out of the truck and proceeded to unload something wide, flat, and very heavy, wrapped in a tarpaulin. She used a winch on the back of the truck, and then rolled her treasure into the garage with a two-wheeled cart.

Her dog trotted circles around her, wagging his tail, and then they both disappeared into the garage.

Eventually, Roxy came out of the garage and rejiggered the winch on the truck. Then she stood back and took off her gloves. She slapped them against her shapely thigh.

Henry took a deep breath, stepped out of his car, and walked across the street. He handed her a cup of Starbucks cocoa.

“I figured you for plenty of whipped cream,” he said.

“If it isn’t my favorite flunky.” Roxy accepted the cup and sniffed it suspiciously. “You still doing legwork for the Hydes, Paxton?”

Today she looked coltish in snug jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and a fitted leather jacket that had seen better days. She tucked her work gloves into her hip pocket. She’d pulled her wild hair back in a plastic clip, but dark curls escaped around her face and tumbled down her creamy white neck. Botticelli with overtones of Harley-Davidson.

Her evil rhinoceros dog flashed out of the garage and lunged at Henry as if to take a chunk out of him. It took all of Henry’s self-control not to jump up onto the nearest fire hydrant.

“Can you call off Cujo?”

“Down, Rooney,” she said and the dog backed away. She took a tentative sip from the cup, looking at Henry with those dark, knowing eyes.

Henry cleared his throat. “I’m not always on the Hyde payroll. I do freelance flunky work from time to time.”

“I’ll remember that next time I need to flunk something.”

“Have you taken any more bullets since I saw you last?”

“Nope. But I found something of yours.”

“Oh?”

She walked around the truck, opened the door, and leaned into the cab, showing Henry a breathtaking view of her denim-clad bottom. He admired it while she rummaged in the glove compartment. When she stood back and slammed the door closed, she tossed something compact at him.

“I found your wallet in the car last night.”

He caught it one-handed. “What a relief. Now I won’t have to cancel my credit cards.”

“I should have taken your American Express out for exercise, but I’ve been busy. You must have dropped it in the car yesterday. Go ahead and count the money. It’s all there.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m some kind of criminal.”

Henry noted the arch in her brow, the twitch on one side of her delicious mouth. “Where would I get such an idea?”

“I could have returned it sooner, I guess. But I had a hunch you might turn up again.”

Henry figured she’d gone carefully through every detail of his wallet.

Roxy smiled, denying nothing, and leaned against the truck. If Ford Motors had used her in an ad campaign, they’d have put the other car companies out of business years ago.

She took a sip from her cup. “Thanks for the hot chocolate. You trying to make up for something?”

The dog made another circle of him, hackles bristling, but Henry managed to say calmly, “I can do better than chocolate. How about a late lunch? Early dinner?”

She sipped more coffee, eyeing Henry speculatively. “I have a better plan.”

“I’m listening.”

“Do you know Kaylee Falcone? The manicurist?”

“Julius Hyde’s girlfriend?”

“That’s the one. This is her car.” Roxy nodded at the red Mustang. “Somebody took a shot at her while she was in it. And an hour later, you and me nearly got ourselves killed, too.”

“Do the police know about either incident?” Henry asked.

“Did you call them, Counselor?”

“I hate to distract them while they’re so busy. Investigating Julius Hyde’s murder must be grueling work.”

Her smile developed an even more cynical twist. “Then, for whatever reason, we’re on the same page.”

“For whatever reason,” he agreed.

They smiled at each other, making a pact, of sorts.

Henry said, “Were you thinking of taking some kind of immediate action, Miss Abruzzo?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. The police are interested in somebody I care about.”

“Anybody I know?”

“The big guy who works for me. His name is Nooch. Despite a complete lack of evidence, the police took him in for questioning yesterday. They haven’t released him yet. They’re asking him about the Hyde murder.”

She kicked at a loose rock in the gravel, and it skittered a few dozen yards. Henry thought maybe she was more agitated than she let on.

“Does your friend know anything about the murder?”

“Nope. But that won’t stop the cops from putting the pressure on. I’d like to give them something else to think about. I know a couple guys. Guys hired to scare people every now and then. I’d like to ask them what they know.”