Crazy for You (12 page)

By the time I was finished, it was too late to go back to bed. I gave Muffin his breakfast, took him for his walk, then left him with Magenta, who would puppysit him in his shop while I was gone. Paranoia in full bloom, I drove to work, checking my rearview mirror about every five seconds.

It was still early when I arrived at Hottie Latte, and the Doyennes hadn’t yet shown up. I couldn’t blame them. It was a good day to sleep in: cold, dark, and drizzly. The sidewalks were already coated with a glaze of soot-speckled ice. Inside, my coworkers were clustered around Heidi, who was holding the morning newspaper. Weaseling my way between everyone, I scanned the lead article:
Local Man Sought as
Cougar Killer
. The gist of the piece was that Benjamin Labeck, a cameraman at Milwaukee’s WPAK television station, was the chief suspect in the strangulation death of Rhonda Cromwell.

“They got his name wrong,” I said. “His real name is Bonaparte.”

“You
know
him?” Giselle asked.

Five pairs of eyes swiveled to me.

“We’re just sort of friends,” I mumbled.

“I wouldn’t settle for being ‘just friends’ with that man,” breathed Carleen, who was not letting the fact that she was the grandmother of four keep her from salivating over the photo of Labeck in hockey gear that appeared with the story.

“God, he’s hot,” breathed Heidi. “Check out that glint in his eyes.”

“Yeah,” said Samantha. “Those eyes are saying, ‘I’m betting you’re wearing your Friday-night-get-lucky underpants, but I’m going to find out for myself.’ ”

I skimmed the rest of the article. According to a police spokesperson, Labeck had admitted to being with Rhonda Cromwell the night she was murdered, and was believed to be the last person to have seen her alive. Physical evidence found at the murder scene linked Labeck to the victim. Pretty heavy-handed hinting there. This guy is guilty as sin, was the unsubtle message.

The other Hotties wanted to pump me for the down and dirty on Labeck, but the café got busy just then, the door constantly opening and closing, letting in cold air. I thought wistfully of how good a pair of long underwear would feel, and wondered whether Labeck was dry and warm or out walking the streets, soaked and freezing. His plan had been to hunt down leads on Rhonda’s murder, but I had no idea how he was going to accomplish that with his face all over the news and every eager-beaver citizen in town poised with fingers on the police-hotline speed dial.

I had some ideas of my own on hunting down leads, and during the late afternoon lull I approached Juju.

“Could I take off a little early? Like
now
?”

Juju was concocting her Starbucks-would-send-out-assassination-squads-to-get-this-recipe cocoa and looked up distractedly. “You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

Pneumonia from exposure to the elements, maybe. I was wearing a black lace teddy and high-cut bikini briefs from my personal lingerie collection, a special from K d’ Marte. “No, I’m fine. I just …”

“You’re worried about Mister Macho Man,” Juju said, eyeing me shrewdly. “You want to go out and track down leads, don’t you? In your place, I’d do the same thing, except
my
boyfriend is such a lowlife I’d turn him in and use the reward for a day at the spa. So what are you planning to do?”

“Talk to Rhonda’s ex-husband.”

“What if he’s the strangler? He might try to strangle you.” She wrapped her hands around her neck and made a grotesque face.

“You’re creeping me out.”

But she had a point. Recalling the way Freddy Cromwell had threatened me with spray paint in the CRS parking lot, I scanned Hottie Latte’s tiny kitchen for a weapon. A knife? The large serrated knife we used to slice bagels would never fit in my purse. Maybe I could squirt him into submission with a can of high-pressure whipping cream? Finally I concluded weapons were too much trouble and decided to just go with my usual arsenal—my ability to fudge, flatter, and fib.

As I left the café, the Doyennes of Decency, who’d been huddled in a dispirited clump over a heat grating, suddenly sprang into action and swooped in to attack.

“Hussy!”

“Harlot!”

“Floozy!”

A large woman with permed red hair frizzing around the edges of her parka hood stepped in front of me. “You should be ’shamed of yourself,” she said, breathing schnapps fumes in my face. “You’re a shameless schlut!” Spit sprayed with every
S
. “God is gonna send you to the hot place!”

“Don’t have time for this today,” I said cheerfully, attempting to weave around her. “Maybe we could make an appointment for you to harangue me tomorrow.”

“You little snotface!” She thrust herself in front of me, blocking my way, but suddenly lost her footing on the icy sidewalk. Panicked, she shot out a hand and clutched at me. I grabbed her arm, trying to keep her upright, then we both toppled to the
sidewalk, the schnapps woman falling on top of me. Something tore in my back.

The Doyennes hurried over and helped Schnapps Lady to her feet.

“She pushed me,” the woman shrilled, pointing at me.

“Exactly what I would expect from one of
them
,” hissed Uncle Sam.

“They hate us because we tell the truth,” another Doyenne chimed in.

Juju burst out of the café, Samantha and Heidi on her heels, a trio of fire-breathing, teddy-clad Valkyries. “I saw it all,” Juju barked. “Mazie saved that woman from breaking her stupid neck. You okay, Mazie?”

“Yeah,” I said.

No. My back was killing me. I’d pulled something. Demons were ripping up and down my back, jabbing pitchforks into my spine.

“I’m gonna sue,” yelled the Schnapps Lady.

“I’m gonna sue
you
,” Juju shot back. She sniffed. “You’ve been drinking!”

“Have not!”

I rose to an elbow. Big mistake.

Juju bent over me and whispered in my ear. “Lay down. Play along.”

I played along. It was cold, but the hard sidewalk felt good against my back. Maybe I could just stay here, not moving, the rest of the day. Customers could step over me. I could stick out my tongue and drink sleet when I got thirsty. People might fling spare change to me.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” Juju said. “Then I’m going to call the cops and tell them how this drunk woman assaulted my employee.”

The protestors stared uneasily at Juju. “We got a right to be here,” a man quavered.

“You don’t have the right to knock people down,” Heidi snarled.

“I videotaped the whole thing!” Samantha held up her cellphone. “I’m uploading it to the Internet. I’m sending it to all the TV stations.”

All the steam leaked out of the demonstrators. Their signs drooped, their voices trailed off, and when the schnapps woman slunk away, the others followed.

“I didn’t really have my camera turned on,” Samantha confessed when they were
gone.

Juju held a hand out to me. “Good acting, girl.”

“I wasn’t acting,” I said.

Chapter Fifteen

People only say “Not to speak ill of the dead” when they’re about to speak ill of the dead.

—Maguire’s Maxims

Juju allowed me to leave only after making me solemnly promise to drive myself straight to the nearest emergency room.

I promised, crossing my fingers behind my back.

I wasn’t going anywhere near an emergency room. I knew how it would go:

Me: I think I sprained my back.

Doctor: Do you have insurance?

Me: No.

Doctor: Do you have 750 dollars in cash?

Me: No.

Doctor: Go home and put a package of frozen peas on your back.

Forget it. I was going to handle things the Maguire way, which of course was also the deny-reality way—by toughing it out.

I drove north through rush hour traffic and pulled in to the CRS lot about twenty minutes later. I found a parking spot, turned off the ignition, and just sat there. My back had stiffened while I’d been driving, the demons upgrading from pitchforks to jackhammers.

On the count of three I will get out of the car, I told myself.

I was still sitting there on three.

On the count of ten.

It took me a full five minutes before I worked up the courage to wrench myself out of the car. “Ow ow ow ow ow,” I whimpered. Why bother being stoic when there’s no one around to witness it? Using the key I’d kept when I was fired from CRS—because, as any inmate will agree, you never know when a key is going to come in
handy—I let myself in to the office. I’d wanted to talk to Belinda Wernke, to see if I could wheedle Rhonda’s ex-husband’s address out of her, but the office was empty and eerily quiet. Had they all gone home early? Then I heard the clunk of a closing file drawer in Rhonda’s office.

Rhonda! My heart went into spasms.

But Rhonda was dead. Or was she? Nothing she did would surprise me, including her rising from the dead as a vengeance-seeking zombie.

I tiptoed to Rhonda’s office door, which was ajar. Poking my head around the corner, I peeked inside. The man going through Rhonda’s files looked up, startled. I twitched in shock, and the devils gleefully started up with the jackhammers.

The man was large and barrel-chested. He had a swirl of salt-and-pepper hair, beetling black brows, and a butt chin. He looked the way Beethoven would have looked if he’d lived in a century when guys wore aqua fleece shirts over gray gym pants. This was Rhonda’s ex-husband, Frederick Cromwell. Last time I’d seen him, he’d been threatening to spray-paint me back to the Stone Age. Now I was alone with him in an empty office.

I experienced the same sensation as when a stairway ends before you’re expecting it and you klutz-stumble down the last step. This was the guy I’d wanted to see. Only not just this instant.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled.

“I’m—where
is
everyone?”

“Gave ’em the day off.”

“
You
did?”

“This used to be
my
company, until my ex-wife stole it from me. Now I’m getting it back. I’m Frederick Cromwell.”

“That was fast.” Under the circumstances, pretty nervy of me.

He grinned, suddenly a bit sheepish, and the scariness got toned down a notch. “Yeah, I know, I’m jumping the gun. It’ll all have to go through the courts. But that’ll take months, and in the meantime the business will go down the tubes. So I’m performing an illegal lifesaving operation.”

I noted that Frederick had discovered Rhonda’s stash of Chivas Regal, the stuff
she brought out when she was wooing new clients. Judging from the ice melting in his tumbler, Chivas had been keeping Frederick company for a while.

“Hey, I know you.” He pointed at me with his glass. “You’re the one who yelled at me in the parking lot the other day.”

I nodded. “I wanted to call the cops on you. But everybody just stood there giggling and cheering you on.”

It suddenly occurred to me that this man might still harbor deep feelings for his ex-wife, that I was whipping the scar off an emotional wound, exhibiting all the sensitivity of someone waving a Krispy Kreme in front of a dieter. “I’m sorry,” I muttered, “I didn’t mean—”

Frederick snorted. “You think I didn’t know Rhonda’s employees hated her guts? She treated people like floor mats. That’s what we were arguing about that day—her employee turnover rate was affecting the company’s bottom line. Not to mention the fact that she was cheating on her taxes so outrageously even a blind accountant could have spotted it.” He slugged down the last of his drink, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. “You look like a smart cookie. Why are you still around?”

“I’m not. Rhonda fired me on Monday.”

“Don’t tell me. She said your work wasn’t up to snuff so she didn’t have to pay you.”

I stared at him, surprised. “Something like that.”

“Typical.” Opening Rhonda’s middle drawer, he took out a CRS company checkbook. “How about if I write you out a check? How much did she owe you?”

“I worked here six weeks.”

“So we’ll throw in two weeks extra for pain and suffering. What’s your name?”

“Mazie Maguire.” I was starting to like Frederick. But he still wasn’t off the hook as far as I was concerned. A guy can be a mensch but still be a monster.

“How much was Rhonda paying you?”

I told him and he chuckled. “You could make more money shoveling sidewalks. I used to give bonuses, raises—I made my employees feel valued.” He gestured around the office. “This used to be mine.
I’m
the Cromwell in Cromwell Research. I built up the company myself. I worked ninety-hour weeks. I didn’t have time for dating. I would have
loved kids, but I never had time to find the right woman. Then Rhonda came along, applying for a job here. Boy, was she good at selling herself. ‘I have a great work ethic, I like challenges, I’m a self-starter.’ She really knew how to shovel the shit. So I hired her as an assistant. She turned out to be terrific. She was a whiz at the computer stuff, the clients loved her, and she always looked great. I think she spent everything I paid her on shoes and clothes.”

He picked up the bottle of Chivas, raised his eyebrows at me.

I nodded a yes. People drink more if they drink in company, and when they drink, they blab. Frederick found a glass in Rhonda’s credenza and splashed in enough whiskey to get me looped for a week. I took a wimpy little hummingbird sip.

Frederick slugged his down like painkiller. “You know, Mazie, not to speak ill of the dead, but …”

My ears positively writhed in delight. I love that phrase! People utter it as a sort of curse breaker, then they go ahead and spill the most slanderous things about the deceased person.

Frederick didn’t disappoint me. “Rhonda did her best work out of her clothes. Her third day here, we both stayed late, then she seduced me right on top of my desk. God, it was hot! After that, we were going at it every chance we got. The supply closet, the men’s room, any empty office we found—it was fabulous. Until I went and spoiled everything by asking her to marry me.”