1 Hot Scheming Mess (8 page)

Oh. She remembered. She thought of it as the almost-lucky t-shirt. The shirt had a picture of a baby zombie with a little fistful of brains and a caption that said Ready For Solid Food.

“What convention?” she demanded. She needed to wrap this up and make him leave fast.

“Zombie Prom. It’s a zombie convention.”

“Zombies don’t have conventions!”

“In this town they do.”

She called, “Damn it, ExBoy, I can return it to you later! You shouldn’t have left it here.”

Still in her bedroom, he said, “You’re in danger, Madison.”

“What?” Adrenaline hit her.

“Seriously. This room is going to get fed up with your neglect and attack you in your sleep.”

“Get
out!
”

He appeared at the doorway placing his forearm up on the doorframe. “I can’t find it.” Leaning there he studied her. “You’re dressed like a princess but all messed up. Did you get in a princess fight?”

“I’m not a princess,” she growled. “I’m a fairy godmother.”

“Oh. Magical throwdown. Did you utter incantations then drop your wand like a rap artist?”

Her teeth gritted, she said, “We’re about to have a throwdown right now.”

He tilted his head with a sly smile on his face. “Very seductive. But it’s not going to work. I’m leaving.”

“Good.”

“What are you hiding? What’s in that thing?”

“Go!”

“Fine. But we
have
to talk later.” His posture tightened up a bit. “I can’t put it off any more.” Heading for the door he added, “Oh, your grandpa called. I saw his name on your cell screen. I like that old guy.” ExBoy walked out and she heard the door close.

Damn it, I missed his call.
She rose to her hands and knees and scrambled over to the spot on the floor where she had left the phone. It said Missed Call on its screen. But it also said Voicemail.
Yes!
She punched in the numbers to retrieve her voicemail and listened as Grandpa’s soft mumble mixed with the key tones.

“Damned thing… (deet, doot) few days (deeeeeeeet) but don’t (doot, doot)…” There were sporadic words in the background that sounded like overhead announcements, the word “departure” grabbing her attention.
He’s leaving town?
Then one long part got through, “… he’ll handle our little friend till we can turn him over. You can trust him, sweetheart. He’s known about this (deeeet) him your number in case anything… (dooot)…” and the voicemail cut off.

She clutched the phone tight in her hand as she shut her eyes in frustration. She knew her grandfather was a pretty sharp cookie. So how the hell could an intelligent person screw that up so bad? She pictured him holding the phone out in front of his face while he talked, as if it were a walkie-talkie, his thumb accidentally pressing buttons. She tried calling him right back. He didn’t answer, and apparently he hadn’t set it up to receive voicemail, so she had no way to leave a message.

Next she called Phil.

She couldn’t tell Phil about her grandfather, and she was too exhausted to come up with a convincing story. She was ready to fall on her sword and get it over with. His outgoing message came on and her stomach twisted as she heard the beep. “Phil? It’s Madison. Look, I don’t know how to begin.” She hesitated. “You’ve probably been wondering what happened. It’s hard to explain, Phil, but you’ve got to believe me when I say how sorry I am for not showing up for the princess birthday party today, and if you…” (
beeep
) “Argh!”

She was about to call him back and finish her message, when her phone rang with Ethel Merman singing “There’s No Business Like Show Business,” meaning Phil had called her right back.

She hit the answer button. “Phil?”

In his signature street tough Boston accent, he said, “Chocolate Mint! How’s my gorgeous girl?”

This was a good sign. Phil was calling her by his pet name for her. Chocolate mint referred to her long black lashes surrounding her pale green eyes.

“Phil, you’re… you’re not mad?”

“Mad about what?”

“The gig. The princess birthday party that I no-showed. I’m so sorry, Phil. It’s been a hell of a day and—”

“Minty, you didn’t no-show. I put that message out to a bunch of you. Jen called back first, so I gave her the gig. Actually, you never called back at all.” Madison was confused.
He gave a children’s party to Jen? From the stripper unit?
Then she realized that she hadn’t completed the phone call to Phil last night because her grandfather had shown up at the door.
But still. Jen? Ew.

He continued, “But I heard about your wrestling debut last night. I’m dying to meet that Atomic guy. And seriously, girl, you should have let me negotiate that for you. I could have got you more money, even after my cut. And you know that’s a fact.”

He would have demanded more, all right. He would have priced me right out of the gig.

“Oh, my God, Phil, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I almost showed up at the birthday party, in my costume and everything. If I hadn’t gone to visit my grand—”
Shut up, Madison!

“Don’t worry about it. I made Jen promise no cleavage. I only put that message out because I needed someone fast. You, I prefer to save for the bigger gigs, you know?”

Don’t argue. Pretend you believe him.

He continued, “You know I like to keep you busy, girl.”

“Thanks, Phil. Have you heard back about the radio spot yet? They loved me at the audition.”

“Sorry, kid. They went with someone else.”

“Damn. I miss doing voiceover gigs. You used to get me so many.”

“I keep telling you, Minty, you’ve got to get yourself some audio gear. In-studio auditions, like that one, are hard to find now. Most of the auditions are done in the artist’s home, and sent as an audio attachment in an email.”

“That gear isn’t cheap, Phil. I can barely pay my rent. Maybe if you got me more work?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m looking out for you. You’re booked to do the Bumbling Waitress tomorrow at one o’clock, right?”

“Yeah. You already sent the gig sheet. It’s at Giovanni’s Restaurant.”

“Good. So, hey, I have… something… on my desk right now. Big pay. It’ll probably be tomorrow. A little unusual. The victim is a whole group of people this time. You’ll have to adapt to whatever the reaction is but you’re good at improv. If anyone could pull this off…”

She didn’t like the sound of this. He was stalling.

“What is it?”

“A singing telegram.”

“And?”

“You show up big and pregnant in front of this group. You look low class, dance for the client, shimmy…” she could hear him swallow, “… at him. And sing, ‘You Made Me Love You.’”

“Okay, it’s a comedy gig.”

He was silent for a moment. “It’s in front of the client’s family.” He was still stalling.

“Phil, you know I don’t do stripping. Call Jen if that’s what—”

“No, no, Minty, I know that. It’s just a little unusual, is all.”

“Spit it out.”

“The client is dead.”

“What?”

“Yeah… uh… he arranged this, just before he croaked.”

“Dead?!”

“He had a reputation for playing gags. Family always loved it. So he wanted to play a little joke to lighten things up at his funeral.”

“You want me to do a comic shimmy to a
dead guy?!”

“He pre-paid!”

She yelled, “Are you out of your mind?!”

“Ten minutes and you’re out of there, collect five hundred bucks! That’s three times the usual cut!”

“You’re the king of taste, you know that?”

“C’mon, Minty, you kind of owe me one.”

“For
what?
I’ve been loyal and—”

“You no-showed—”

“I did not!”

“Technically, no. But in spirit?”

“Phil!”

“You no-showed and you need a chance to make it up to me. You know, feel good about yourself again.”

“You know I hate you, right? You do know that?”

His Boston street voice softened. “Think of his poor family. He arranged this for them. To give them one last laugh. Help them get through a tough time.”

“Damn it, Phil!” she wailed. She felt herself caving in. And she knew that Phil knew.
Watch out.

“Minty, have a heart.”

“One thousand dollars.”

“What?!” he screamed.

“Think of his family, Phil.”

She heard something slamming down on his desk three times as he sputtered unintelligible words, and then went silent. She added, “The body is not getting any fresher.”

After a moment, he snarled, “You won’t back out?”

I need the money. “I’ll be there.”

He grumbled. “Fine. His name was Eddie Willet. I’ll send the details as soon as I have them.” He hung up on her.

She knew it. She figured the client must have offered to pay a hell of a lot for such an uncomfortable job. Otherwise, Phil never would have agreed to her demand of one thousand dollars. He would have growled and hung onto his cut like it was the last dog bone on earth. She let her phone drop into her lap and rubbed her temples.

All that was left to do, was to look in the box.

Chapter Nine

She got up and went to the window, looking down into the parking lot. Everything looked quiet. A few cars driving normal speed passed by on the street in front of the apartment building. Now that the time had finally come to face whatever was in the box, she delayed. She was afraid that something was about to change forever. She had grown up and stopped playing in the tool shed, but the secrets that were safely hidden in there were ready to come out. She closed the window and drew the blinds shut. Tearing off her sad and dirty fairy godmother costume, she threw it over to the couch where it landed on top of unpacked boxes. In bra and panties she went over to her sink and drank water from her faucet. She was dehydrated and starving and the water felt wonderful going down her throat. But food would have to wait. She didn’t know how upsetting the contents of the box were going to be, so she’d rather not have food in her stomach.

She sat on the floor next to the box, and opened it.

The hinges creaked and complained as she lifted the lid and looked inside. A big clump of folded up papers that were fastened together with large old rusty metal paper clips sat on top of what appeared to be a wad of folded up, light colored fabric, as if the fabric had been padding for the box. The papers seemed to be yellowed newspaper pages or clippings. With a delicate hand, Madison lifted out the papers, careful not to touch the rusty edges of the paper clips, and briefly wondered how long ago paper clips started being made with plastic. There were also folded pieces of cardboard tucked along the walls within the box. For extra padding maybe? Everything appeared to be dirty or stained.

Okay, she thought, so nothing here is obvious. No money, blueprints, or diamonds. Not even one body part. So far, so good. Perhaps the dreaded secret was something in the newspaper stories. She decided she would spread all the papers out on the floor, and one by one, inspect…

She heard steps outside in the hallway. Her heart rate sped up a tiny bit as she got up and looked out the peephole. She saw the backs of people walking past her door at a casual speed, their voices a low murmur with the occasional chuckle echoing in the hall as they continued walking. Sounded like a man and a woman. Just other residents. Everything was okay. Except for her nerves.

She returned to the box and the papers on the floor. Looking down at the seemingly harmless contents, she had to remind herself that her grandfather had fought like a man possessed, and it was somehow related to the contents of this box. He had said “These people are still very dangerous.” But to whom was he was referring? And who the hell was Ned? It hadn’t sounded like her grandfather’s voice which meant it had to be the stranger who’d been yelling it. But why would he be calling her grandfather Ned? His name was Vincent. Vincent Cruz.

And there was another thing that was really bugging her. Grandpa had said they hacked in and found him. But who would have the sophistication to hack into the UW archives? And why bother? Her grandfather lived an open life. He wouldn’t be hard to find.

A more disturbing memory strong-armed its way to the front of her mind. He had actually been putting duct tape on that man’s mouth! She had never seen that in real life. He probably wanted to keep him quiet so the neighbors didn’t alert the police. So if Grandpa needed time to go get help, and he said it would take days, then someone would have to feed and water the duct taped stranger while Grandpa was gone. That must be who he was referring to on the voicemail. But who would that be? Who would Grandpa trust?

Tears flooded her eyes. She was feeling that scared-little-girl moment again.
Damn it, Madison, not now. Fight it.
She roughly wiped away the tears and inhaled through her nose as hard as she could.
My job is to hide the box, but they must know now that I brought it into my apartment.
She had to go somewhere where it would be safe to look over those papers and try to figure out what was happening. And that meant getting dressed because fleeing in your bra and panties was never a good idea.

She hurried into her bedroom and threw on some jeans, a tank top, and athletic shoes. She didn’t know when she’d be back. She took a quick look around the room. ExBoy was right. The neglect in her bedroom, hell, in her whole apartment, would be turning into mutiny status soon. She had a hard time remembering what was dirty laundry and what was clean.
Laundry. Good thought.
Maybe she could hang out at Spenser’s house and get a load done there. Madison was quite skilled as a seamstress, having learned from her grandmother. The usual deal was Madison would fix hems, tears, buttons; anything Spenser might need in exchange for the use of Spenser’s washer, dryer, and laundry soap.

She pulled her pillowcase off of her pillow and stuffed it full of dirty laundry and some probably-dirty laundry. She kicked through some of the clothes on the floor. Good thing it was August. It was easy to get by in lightweight clothing in warm weather, making it easier to pack a lot of stuff.

As her toe pushed aside a spare blanket on the floor, a little baby zombie peeked out from underneath. The t-shirt that ExBoy had come looking for. She picked it up and noticed ExBoy’s scent still on it. She buried her face in it for a moment. There was something about his natural scent that reminded her of the forest and the deep shadows under heavy tree growth.