Getting Sassy (21 page)

“No, thanks. Already had something.” But he followed me into my kitchen and leaned against the counter as I placed a handful of small carrots on a plate.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He wasn’t here to inquire as to my health. He either wanted to talk about the goat or he wanted to bed me. Stubborn, I was determined he would fail in both endeavors.

“Okay.” I plopped a generous spoonful of hummus on the plate. “And you?”

“Good,” he said. “Really good.” He seemed bemused, as though he were waiting for me to do something bizarre.

When I didn’t, he turned his attention from me to my plate. “What’s that?”

“Hummus,” I said, licked the spoon and dropped in into the stainless steel sink. And, because he looked perplexed, I added, “Made out of chick peas. With some garlic.” Maybe now he’d keep his distance.

Leaning his folded arms on the counter now, he looked up at me. “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”

“Half-assed. I don’t eat red meat, but I do eat fish and chicken.”

He nodded and then after a moment said, “What do you have against chickens?”

“They make me nervous.”

He smiled a little and turned again so his back was to the counter.

I waited a couple of beats and then said, “Aren’t you going to ask me about fish?”

He shook his head. “No, I get that part. There’s something sinister about a fish. Especially those flounders.”

I swallowed a smile. Didn’t want to encourage him.

When I poured myself some iced tea, I asked if he wanted some. He rejected the tea, but accepted a beer. With the aid of a hand towel, I twisted the cap off and handed him the bottle.

“Thanks,” he said, tipping it toward me as if toasting.

As I placed a few crackers on my plate, Mick and Bix went into the living room and Mick sat on the couch with the Tibetan singing bowl on the coffee table in front of him.

“What’s this?” He picked up the wooden stick.

I told him.

“Oh, yeah? How’s it work?”

Knowing how sensual an experience playing the bowl can be when done in tandem, I demonstrated by circling the stick in mid air, and then handed it to Mick, who began running the stick around the rim.

He proved better at it than I’d been on my first try. As the intensity increased, my scalp tightened; the sound built and Bix began to howl, backing off from Mick, and the bowl. Either Bix liked it or it made him crazy. Mick cut the noise off by placing his hand on the bowl and then placed the stick in it. “Hard to tell if he was singing with it or at it.”

I set out slate coasters for each of us and then settled into the purple chair with my plate.

Mick cocked his chin at me. Bix had hopped up beside him on the couch, and I swear the dog had cocked his head, too.

“You okay?” Mick asked. “Seem kind of...,” he shrugged, “edgy.”

And why would I be edgy, I asked myself. Let me count the ways. Instead of going with the entire truth—something getting rare these days—I went with a half-truth. “I just heard some disturbing news on
the TV.” And I told him about Mary Waltner’s visit to my mother.

He listened, and when I’d finished, he took a drink from his bottle and returned it to the coaster. “How d’you know it’s the same person?”

“I don’t. But I have a strong feeling she is. I’ve been checking—I don’t think my mom was entirely truthful about why she came to see her.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I wanted to talk to her.

” He nodded. “Can I do anything?”

That surprised me. “No. But thanks.”

Then I said, “I should call the police. Tell them what I know.”

“Can you wait until I leave?” he asked.

I guess.

We spent the next minute or so in silence, except for the sound of me chewing my carrot and Bix cleaning his privates.

“I’ve been doing some thinking,” Mick finally said, folding his hands as he leaned back into the couch. He crossed his bad ankle over his knee. Today’s boots were a soft-looking leather in a deep olive shade.

“Have you?”

“I think we could pull it off.”

I shook my head. “I think it’s crazy.”

“Kidnapping a goat
is
crazy.” He gave me an assured nod. “But it’s also a really good idea.”

“The goat has a name.”

“Sassy,” he said, flatly. “Kidnapping Sassy.”

“Listen to yourself. Let’s kidnap a goat and hold it for ransom.” I shoved a little hummus onto a cracker. “I’ll bet in the history of the English language those words have never before been strung together.”

“It’s not unheard of,” he said, and when I gave him my dubious look, he elaborated. “That’s where the expression ‘get your goat’ comes from. A guy would steal a companion goat before a race to put the horse off.”

“You’re joking?”

He shook his head, and I saw no suppressed humor in his eyes.

“Was ransom involved?”

“Not that I know of.” He smiled. “That may be an original touch.” He leaned forward. “Look, maybe you were only joking. Maybe you were a little drunk. But you came up with a great idea. We could do it.” He eyed me for several long moments, and I couldn’t read him to save my soul. “And the thing is, whether you meant to or not, you came up with the perfect way to take Bull down a notch or two. Blood is Bull’s ticket to the big time.”

“I saw his house. He has already arrived.”

“He’s not where he wants to be. Not in racing circles. Blood wins this race and he’ll be drawing top dollar stud fees. Folks will have to take Blood and Bull seriously. But if Blood gets scratched because he’s too whacked out to race, well, how much is his pedigree going to be worth? What’s Bull’s reputation as a horseman going to look like?”

I nodded as I finished chewing. But then I said, “No, Mick. I don’t think so.”

“How come?” His gaze intensified. “You know he deserves it.”

“What about his kids? Do they deserve it?”

“Bull ripped off a lot of people. You think he thought about their kids?”

Not as far as I knew.

“Besides,” he kept going, “you’re not going to break the man. His kids—who I’ve never seen by the way—will still go to their fancy schools, starting in preschool. What we’re going to do is embarrass Bull and show him and everyone else that he shouldn’t be in this business.”

When I didn’t respond, he gulped down some beer and added, “He deserves that.”

“I’m sure he does,” I said. “But, you should know this about me before you work too hard at convincing me.”

Mick waited and I continued, “I learned, after trial and error, that
the safest way to do something illegal or just plain wrong was to only think about it, and not follow through. The fun is in the planning. I’m one of those people who never gets away with anything. That’s probably why I’m so law-abiding. I cut class one day in middle school so I could get tickets to this concert I was dying to attend. I was with several friends, and who do we run into but my neighbor. She squealed on me and Wyman grounded me so I didn’t get to go to the concert.”

“Did you rat your friends out?”

“No,” I told him. “But that’s not the only time. I always get caught.”

He smiled a little. “But you wouldn’t rat me out.”

“True,” I sighed. “But that’s small comfort to me.”

“Stick with me,” he said. “I never get caught.”

“Stick with me and you will.”

“Wrong attitude,” he said. “We can pull this off.”

Then, as if that settled the matter, Mick eased himself back into the couch. He took a pull on his beer, then rested it on his thigh as he said, “Do you know what Bull did with the money from that real estate deal that tanked?”

I figured he didn’t need prompting, so I waited.

“After a little laundering, he bought himself that stable we were in yesterday, the exercise track, and then he bought Bull’s Blood.”

I digested this while I swallowed my cracker. “So, really, it’s my mother’s horse.”

“You could say that.”

I set the plate down and brushed a few crumbs off my hands, then washed the cracker down with some iced tea.

“How much would we be asking?”

Without hesitation, he said, “Half a million.”

“For a goat? You’re joking?”

He shook his head. “It’s not just the goat. It’s Blood’s reputation. Bull’s reputation.”

“Has he got that kind of money?”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

Maybe someone who could afford to shell out a half million dollars to get his goat back deserved to be separated from his money.

“Okay,” I said, “you know why I need the money. Why do you need it bad enough to do something ridiculous?”

He studied me for several moments before he sighed and said, “Let’s just say I’ve got some debts of my own that have come due. And I’m a little short.”

I set my glass down. “Listen,” I said. “You know exactly why I need the money. I don’t think I’m being out of line asking what you need it for.”

“What difference does it make? I’m not pushing drugs on little kids or selling virgins into slavery. Maybe I’m looking to buy my own horse.”

“If that were it, you’d have told me a long time ago.”

He stood and walked around the coffee table. Not wanting to relinquish the height advantage, I stood. In my bare feet, I still have a few inches on him. None of those inches seemed to bother Mick a bit as he looked up at me.

“I like you, Robyn. I do. But don’t go thinking I’m ready to cut you in on my life. Far as I’m concerned this is a business proposition. You want to go in with me on it, then say so. If you don’t, I think you know you’d better keep your mouth shut. You’ve heard rumors about me. You can figure that about eighty percent is crap. But then there’s the other twenty. So don’t think you’ve got me figured out. That’d be a mistake.”

My face grew hot, and I hoped it wasn’t changing colors. The tension between us tightened, ready to crack. But there was a flood of energy as well, and I folded my arms across my chest to keep from either slapping him or kissing him. Instead, I swallowed. “Is that a threat?”

He shook his head once. “I wouldn’t threaten you, Robyn.”

Stepping away from me, he said, “Tell you what. You think it over.
If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll find someone else.”

I was determined to get in the last word, but nothing came to me. Especially after he got to the door, turned toward me and said, “Don’t forget to call the police.”

I don’t handle confrontation well, and I sure as hell didn’t expect this from Mick. In a way, it made my decision easier. Why would I want to do dishonest business with a guy who threatened me? Okay, it hadn’t been overt, and there had been that undercurrent of sexual tension, which was, in a word, unsettling.

But I didn’t have the time or energy to contemplate my relationship with Mick. No matter how dire my situation, I was way better off than Mary Waltner. And maybe I could do some good there. So I called the police and asked to speak to whoever was working on her murder investigation. After being on hold for about thirty seconds, someone picked up the phone and a man said, “Hedges, Homicide.”

I told him my name and verified that he was handling the Waltner investigation. “I believe she visited my mother on Friday.” I went on to explain and added that I thought Waltner had called me later on Friday, and I told him about my calls to the Mary Waltners.

“You really wanted to talk to her.”

“Um, yes, I guess I did. I’m looking out for my mother.”

“You know why she saw your mother?” From his hoarse, rumbling voice, I placed him as middle-aged with thinning hair, a healthy paunch and a lopsided walk.

“Well, my mother told me that Mary had been a friend of my late father’s.” I didn’t mention the other story my mother had concocted, because that would have required a lot more explanation, not to mention an understanding of my mother. Let him talk to her.

“Where’s your mother?”

I told him, then he asked why I thought Mary Waltner had called me. “There was a call but no message from a cell phone number with the same area code as one of the Mary Waltners.”

“What’s the number that called you?”

“Hold on one minute.” Of course he would want to know this. I pushed the hold button and scrolled through my call log until I found that call on Friday.

When I got Hedges back on the line, I recited the number and said, “The call came in at 4:38.”

He grunted as though that were interesting to him. “That’s her number all right.”

“Do you know what time she died?”

“Not long after that.”

I wondered if my recorded greeting, which sounded as scripted as it was, had been the last voice she’d heard prior to her murderer’s.

Hedges thanked me and said he’d be in touch.

“Um, could I be there when you talk to my mom? Her memory isn’t so good, and I can sometimes help her out.”

“No, that’s okay,” he said after a moment. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

“Please be careful with her. She gets upset easily.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Then he thanked me and hung up.

“Good luck,” I muttered into the phone. As I pushed the disconnect button, it occurred to me that Hedges would probably tell my mother that Mary Waltner had been murdered. I wasn’t sure whether I was concerned about her getting upset or annoyed because now I wouldn’t be able to use the death to press my mother on the urgency of her telling me everything she knows. And, once again, the internal conflict left me feeling like a heel.

Attempting to regain my focus, I glanced around my apartment. A murder would certainly complicate kidnapping a goat. With a cop liable to show up at any time, I sure couldn’t keep Sassy in my bedroom.
Another excellent reason to pass on this caper. And why was I still discussing this with myself?

Reassured that I had made the right decision in telling Mick he’d have to find another cohort, I returned to the draft of the article I’d been writing. But I found my mind easily distracted, and it took longer than it should have.

When I was finished, I called my mother about the séance I’d arranged. I considered mentioning the cop to her, but knew that would just get her agitated. Best to let it unfold in its own time.