Kill Smartie Breedlove (a mystery) (18 page)

“Who told you that? Ms. Fitch?”

“I don’t know any Ms. Fitch.”

“The woman who hired you. Indian, very beautiful, five-eleven, short black hair, little diamond right here.” Shep tapped the side of his nose, but Kara shook her head.

“I was hired by a guy I met at the gentlemen’s club.”

“Named?”

“Pirate Booty.”

“The name of the guy, Einstein.”

“Garth.”

“Could that be Barth?”

“Whatever.”

Shep steepled his fingers in front of his grim expression. Of course, Suri wouldn’t directly involve herself. The only ones directly involved were Barth, who made the arrangements, and Shep, who pulled the trigger.

“How did you find me?” Kara asked. “How’d you get my cell number?”

“It wasn’t hard,” Shep told her. “What you’re doing is stupid. It’s not safe.”

“Which is why I wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to earn three student loan payments in one night,” she said, and her chin recovered a little of its stubborn set. “Between the webcam and dancing at the club, I make five times what I could make as a science geek. All I have to do is stand there, and pathetic creeps like you give me money. Don’t pretend like that’s my fault. I didn’t make that Van Reuse guy do anything he didn’t want to do. If he’s screwing around on his wife, why shouldn’t he get nailed to the wall?”

Shep didn’t have a good answer for that. He took a card from his pocket and gave it to Kara. “If you discover you’re in over your head, give me a call.”

She studied the card. “Martin Shepard Hartigate: Porn Hound.”

Shep smiled at that. “Pretty funny for a science geek.”

“That wasn’t us having a moment,” Kara clarified.

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t call me.”

“Don’t worry.”

She pushed Shep’s card into a side pocket on her purse as she scootched out of the booth and flipped him off as she breezed out the door.

The waitress passed by with a fresh pot of coffee. “Warm up?”

“Hit me.” Shep nodded.

She topped up his coffee. He thanked her and sat studying the rising steam.

So.

It was a rock solid fact that Barth had set up Van Reuse, a reasonable assumption that Barth had destroyed the security video from the parking garage and a safe bet that he’d done at least some of the dirty work leading to the undoing of Charma Nicole Bovet. But Barth was middle management material with neither the motive nor the ’nads to do all that on his own. His orders had to be coming from Suri. Just like Evan’s orders. And Shep’s.

I don’t know how you wrangled it, Mr. Hartigate.

A cool million to the American Heart Association in Janny’s name. Previous sizeable deposits directly to Shep’s bank account. Shep’s voice on the Van Reuse video. His presence at the scenes of Charma’s death, Van Reuse’s entrapment, and Smartie’s home invasion. No doubt there was security cam footage of him mauling Suri under the mistletoe.

Shep could see it now, like a spider web illuminated by morning dew, spiraling back to the day he was hired at Salinger, Pringle, Fitch & Edloe. Standing by the glass wall, backdropped by blue sky and the rising Houston skyline, Suri had smiled and offered her elegant hand.

“Welcome, Mr. Hartigate. I think you’re going to come in quite handy.”

They spoke briefly about his departure from HPD. She offered a hypothesis about the Sugarland debacle. How his former partner may have been involved. Shep’s possible motives for taking a dive.

“Please don’t confirm or deny,” she said. “It’s better if I don’t know.”

But she did know. Suri had done a better job of reading the tea leaves than anyone in the DA’s office.

“Situations like this tend to show a person’s true colors, Mr. Hartigate. I’m impressed with your ingenious solution to the problem, but what I find most remarkable is the self-sacrifice.”

“Look,” said Shep. “I’m a dishonored cop. I’m getting used to having my shoulder tapped about it, but that doesn’t mean I’m no longer committed to following the law. The only antidote is to play everything by the book. Keep to the high road without compromise. That’s what I intend to do.”

“I’m counting on it,” Suri smiled.

But here in the lingering haze of coffee and Kara Lynn Sweets bubblegum perfume, Shep was no longer certain he had that option.

\\\ ///

20

“I
t wasn’t a super productive week,” Smartie told the Quilters the following Wednesday night. “But I did get this Polish edition of Smack Wilder #10:
Doggy Style
. That’s always kind of trippy.”

She passed around the paperback copy of
Lubia Psa: Smack Wilder Liczba Misterium Dziewięć
. It had a tiger on the cover. Smartie had no idea why.

She’d purposely put herself last to read, hoping home or children or an earthquake would drag the group out the door before she was forced to show her shabby chapter. She passed copies around the kitchen island, read it aloud, then sat in the heavy silence, while Temple and Phyllis stared at the pages as if they were written in Polish, and Yuki just shook her head.

“Hon,” she said, “seems like you’re flailing here.”

“Sugar, it’s all good writing,” Temple said gently, “but this entire ten pages is nothing but the cleverest way to take us absolutely nowhere.”

“For me, the major wrong turn is the dog,” Phyllis said, flipping through the notes she’d made while Smartie was reading. “First off, what’s the dog doing at the radio station? And beyond that—well, I can’t get beyond that.”

“Okay,” said Smartie. “What if her apartment is being bug-bombed, and she has to work late, right? So she takes the dog—”

“
Nyet
,” said Yuki. “You’re just slapping a tiger on the cover for no damn reason. Don’t add another tangent to the mix. People haven’t had patience for stuff like that since the Brontë sisters all got their period at the same time.”

“My mama used to make these wonderfully kitschy lamps,” Temple said. “Any time somebody broke a cup or a saucer or a flower pot, she’d hot glue the broken bits on these big wooden bases Daddy made. I asked her when I was a little girl, ‘How do you know which piece fits where?’ and she said, ‘Oh, sugar, I don’t. But the ones that don’t fit—those are easy to spot.’” She reached for Smartie’s hand across the island. “Smartie, honey, I can’t tell you what you should be writing, but this ain’t it.”

“It’s not part of the story,” Phyllis agreed, “and these POV changes are making my head spin.”

“Besides which,” said Temple, “remember when I killed that schnauzer in
Devil Take the Hindmost
? The hate mail! I’m here to tell you. My agent got gift-wrapped boxes of dog doody for a good eight months. I’m all for transmigration between life and art, but you don’t want to run afoul of those dog people unless it’s essential to the story.”

Phyllis squeezed Smartie’s hand and said, “We love you, girlfriend, and we know you’re hurting about Twinkie, but for the sake of this manuscript, you need to find another way to process that.”

“No offense, Smartie, but you look like hell, and this?” Yuki flattened her palm on the pages. “Not good. Have you gotten any sleep at all since Twinkie died?”

“No,” Smartie said miserably. “Every little noise, I’m wide awake with my heart in a car wreck, thinking someone’s breaking in. And I’m afraid to take a Lunesta because if somebody really does break in, I’ll be sleeping too soundly to hear it.”

“Tell you what let’s do,” said Yuki. “Let’s send out for pizza and have a slumber party like we did back when we were drinking buddies. The three of us will take turns staying awake while you drug yourself into a blissful stupor for a good ten or twelve hours. Tomorrow morning, get up, slap some cucumber slices on your eyes and write a damn book.”

“Oh, Yuki, I’d be so willing to try that,” Smartie said around the grateful swell in her throat. “I do feel like I’m closing in on it, I really do.”

“You are, Smartie,” Phyllis said. “Right now, it’s like you’ve got three different stories going on. You just need to commit to one and write it, that’s all.”

“Oh! Oh, Phyll. You are absolutely right,” said Smartie, astonished that she didn’t see it before. “I’ve been trying to figure this out like it’s all one thing. And it’s not. Not at all.” She gathered the sheaves of pages from around the tight circle. “Forget all this. Forget everything I said. I’m starting completely over.”

Smartie turned the pages face down and wrote on the back:
Smack Wilder #13: Swan Dive
. She drew three columns for the three separate plotlines: Dead diva. Dead dog. Her hand hesitated before she wrote the name of the next one to die.

Nash.

T
wo hours later, they were all in the living room, stocking feet on the coffee table, singing show tunes and polishing off the last of few slices of pizza.

“Lord. I’m gorged,” said Yuki. “When I’m on my period I have the self-control of…of what? Help me out, somebody.”

Temple pondered. “Cat in a fishbowl?”

“Spider monkey at a farmer’s market,” Phyllis suggested.

“Katherine Hepburn in a Taser demonstration,” Smartie said without opening her eyes.

“Oh!” cried Yuki. “Stoned out of her gourd and still slinging metaphors like a pro.”

Having taken twice the prescribed amount of her sleep medication, Smartie was tethered by a fading silver thread to the outer edge of consciousness, her head on Temple’s shoulder, but she tensed awake at a light tap on the front door.

“Coming,” Smartie murmured and slumped to the arm of the sofa.

“Shh. We’ll get it.” Temple stroked Smartie’s cheek and went to peek out through the lace curtain. “Now who is that at this hour?”

She opened the door. There was an exchange of low voices. Temple clapped the door shut, snapping her fingers at Yuki and Phyllis.

“Slumber party’s over. Everybody out.” She knelt beside Smartie, briskly spanking her on the wrist. “Smartie? Smartie, wake up. You got company, honey.”

“Company?” Smartie sat up, tipping the room sideways, swimming in her own head as if it were a giant bowl of soup. “Who is it?”

“A big handsome man with a sweet little puppy.”

“Serial killer,” Smartie smiled pastily. “If I’m not here next week, check the freezer.”

Temple made a quick effort to rearrange Smartie’s hair before she opened the front door, glowing like a neon cowgirl.

“Ladies,” she beamed, “Mr. Hartigate. From Smartie’s attorney’s office.”

Shep stepped into the foyer, bearing an ungainly Bullmastiff puppy in his arms.

“Oh, how adorable,” Phyllis exclaimed.

“And the puppy’s cute, too,” said Yuki because somebody had to.

“Shep?” Smartie unsteadily found her feet, straining the sight of him through a haze of sleeping pills and pepperoni. “Holy skirts. Everybody, this is Shep. Plus a puppy.”

Shep smiled. The puppy smiled. Rainbows shimmered out of their heads.

“This is Ozymandias,” said Shep. “I don’t mean to overstep, so there’s no obligation. He’s yours if you feel ready. If not, no worries. There’s a good home for him with—”

“
Boodle
,” Smartie blurted.

“Excuse me?”

“Winston Churchill. His gentlemen’s club in London? Boodle’s.”

She’d learned this fragmented factoid while researching Smack Wilder #5:
Orange Fool
, in which Smack solves the murder of the Yeomen Warder with whom she’s been sleeping. The moment Smartie laid eyes on the puppy, the name blossomed in her brain like a crocus.

“He’s not Ozymandias. He’s Boodle. Aren’t you, Mr. Boodle McNoodle?” She floated over to enfold Boodle and Shep in her arms, welling and spilling with Lunesta-colored love. “And I love my boodlish and noodlish li’l Cock-a-Boodle…
boop
?”

The next thing she knew, she was naked.

It was noon.

The phrase “do not exceed recommended dosage” had taken on new meaning, along with the phrase “kill me now.” Smartie fought her way out from under a pile of dead elephants, weaved an indirect route to the bathroom, and stood in a lukewarm shower until the fire alarm in her head settled down to an intermittent, pulsing chime.

She was hungry, she decided while she was drying off, and while she pulled on jeans and a muslin shirt, she imagined she smelled coffee and toast. At the top of the stairs, she knew she wasn’t imagining it.

“Temple?”

“Good morning.” Shep appeared below the floating staircase, hands in his pockets.

Smartie covered her face and whispered, “Yams.”

“Relax,” said Shep. “I slept on the couch. Temple put your clothes in the washer after Boodle peed on you.”

“Boodle.” Smartie wobbled down the stairs. “I need to go to the store. Poor baby, he must be famished.”

“He’s fine,” said Shep. “The breeders loaded me up with Puppy Chow and chew toys and everything else he needs to get started.”

“Shep, let me pay you back. He must have cost a fortune.”

“Nope. A gift from a former client. One good thing about not being a cop. When somebody feels like they owe you a favor, you actually get to collect.”

Sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, Smartie buried her face in Boodle’s fur, savoring a small oasis of unencumbered puppy love while Shep cracked eggs into a bowl and beat them with a whisk, a well-seasoned single man.

“Oh, Shep,” she said, “he could not be sweeter if he was carved out of marshmallows. How old is he?”

“Nine weeks.” He squatted to scratch Boodle behind the ears. “He won’t get as big as Twinkie. Breeder estimates one-ten max. Still a lotta dog for a runt.”

“Don’t say that in front of him.” Smartie covered the puppy’s ears with her hands. “He’s not a runt. He’s Mummy’s little coco-noggin.”

“Remember that when he eats your sofa.”

“Thank you, Shep.” Smartie squeezed his hand. “Don’t get killed.”

“You either.” He drew one knuckle along her jaw before he went back to cooking breakfast. “We need to talk about Charma’s murder.”

“You said murder.”

Shep pushed his hands in his pockets and nodded.

“Shep, you think Suri had something to do with it.”