An Affair to Dismember (17 page)

“Here?”

“Get out!”

“I know. I know. Or else, right?”

I got out and followed Peter to the front of the car.

“Look around,” he said. “This was my future. I was going to be a very rich man.”

“You were a miner?”

“No. My brother, Rob, and I were going to develop the whole area.”

We were in the middle of nowhere. There was no sign
of life, and the entire area was littered with rusty machinery and junk.

“You’re not seeing it the right way,” he said, reading my mind. “We were going to build hotels, restaurants, a strip mall. We were so close, but the EPA butted in, insisted we clean it up to their standards. Do you know what kind of money that takes? I’ll tell you. Shitloads. Our father wouldn’t give us the money. He said he didn’t have it, but he lied. I know he lied because he must have been rich from robbing banks and had money to burn.”

“Maybe he wanted to spend his money on something else,” I said.

“Like what? My mom and dad never went anywhere, never bought anything worth anything. Just junk. Have you seen their house? Their car? They never spent a dime. My father ruined us. Rob and I sank all our money into buying this land, and we can’t do a thing with it.” He kicked a metal barrel. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet that surrounded us. “Rob wasn’t always like he is now, sitting around and drinking beer all day. He used to be smart, quick. He used to have goals. He’s almost catatonic now, and that’s my father’s fault. He destroyed Rob. But we’re not finished. My father had more money than I thought. Bank robbery money, and that money is somewhere.”

“And you want to find that money,” I said.

“Damn right I want to find it.”

“And you want me to help you find it?”

Peter waved his hands from side to side, clearly frustrated with me. “No, I can find it on my own. I want you to look into the murder, grab the murderer before he kills again. My father was murdered for the money. It’s so clear, now. Don’t you see?”

I nodded. “You think one of his old gang members killed him.” It was my running theory.

“Gang members? What are you talking about? No! Don’t you see? It was Rob. Rob went around the bend because of this failed land deal. La-la land. Crazier than a bedbug. He must have found out about the bank robbery, just like me. Only he decided to kill Dad. Rob isn’t all there, you know.”

“You would rather believe your brother killed your father than believe your father simply slipped in the middle of the night and hit his head on the table?”

Peter blinked a few times and cocked his head to the side. “I thought we went over that. There was no blood on the table. He was hit from behind and fell face-first. Nobody believes he hit his head on the table. Somebody must have conked him on the head. Even Mom thinks he was murdered.”

That was news to me. Betty had told me over peach iced tea that her husband’s death was an accident.

“Did she tell you that? Did she say she thought your father was murdered?” I asked.

“She didn’t have to. She never washed the table. Trust me, if she thought anybody’s head even touched her precious kitchen table, she would have cleaned it with Clorox.”

A coyote howled, and the crickets chirped. The night had gotten louder. I tried to register what Peter was telling me. Betty Terns, the cleanest woman alive, hadn’t cleaned the table where her husband supposedly suffered a lethal blow. Obviously, Betty didn’t think he slipped in the middle of the night. So, who was she protecting? Someone in the family? Randy’s reputation? Perhaps she was scared.

“Are you going to help me or not?” Peter whined.

“Peter, I don’t think your family wants me involved in investigating your father’s death.” Like the knish-eating members, for instance.

“I just want you to help me with Rob. If you can prove
he killed my father, he will be out of my way. The guy’s a nut job. He’s not going to stop until he gets rid of everybody standing between him and the money. I’m probably next. Hell, you might be next,” Peter said. “I have a plan. You distract him while I look for the money. Wear something nice. That outfit you wore yesterday would be perfect. I bet you can get him to spill the beans. It’ll be easy. I’ll call you when it’s set up. Are you in?”

There were so many ways I wasn’t in. At least four hundred ways I wasn’t in. “I’m in,” I said. “Can I go home now?”

“Are you sure you’re in?”

“I’m in all the way, Peter. Can we go home, now?”

“Yeah, sure.”

We got in the Porsche. Peter made a U-turn, careful to navigate the junk in the dark.

“You know what? This isn’t going to work,” he said.

“What? About Rob? That’s fine. You can handle Rob on your own.” What a relief. And what a lunatic. My first ride in a Porsche was a total bust.

“I mean driving you back. I’ve got a real important meeting, and I’m already late. We’re going in opposite directions. So …”

Peter leaned over me and opened my car door.

“So what?” I slammed the door shut.

“Gladie, there’s a path to the left. It will cut three miles off your trip.”

“You can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to walk back to town. I don’t know where I am. We’re on a mountain in the middle of nowhere. It’s pitch-black outside. There’s coyotes!”

“I was going to give you a flashlight. Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, growing impatient.

“Peter, drive me home.”

He leaned over and opened the door again. I went to
close it, but he took advantage of the moment to shove me out of the car. I landed in the dirt, scraping my elbows. I was still clutching the door handle, and my legs were still in the Porsche. Peter grabbed hold of them and tried to push them out. I kicked back. “C’mon, Gladie. I’m in a hurry.”

“Peter, please. You cannot leave me here alone. It’s dangerous. I could get hurt. Oof!”

Peter managed to throw my legs out of the car, making me land with a thud on my rear. I gripped the car door with renewed strength and tried to get my footing. He inched the car forward, forcing me to scoot on my knees.

“Let go, Gladie. You don’t want me to drag you. It will hurt.”

I tried to maneuver my body to get on my feet, but I couldn’t find my balance. The car moved forward a little faster, and I fell flat, dragged on my belly. In a wise move of self-preservation, I let go of the door handle. A flashlight flew out of the car past my head.

“Don’t forget. I’ll call you when I need you to distract Rob,” Peter called out. He pulled closed the passenger door and drove away.

I rolled over on the ground and stared at the stars for a moment. I didn’t dare take stock of my situation or I would cry or have a panic attack. Instead, I sat up and found the flashlight. I shined it in the direction Peter had mentioned and found the path at once. It fell sharply down the mountain. Not the best for high heels, but still. I tried my cellphone, but there was no reception. No surprise there.

I watched Peter’s taillights recede down the hill.
Stiff upper lip, Gladie
, I told myself.
Just put one foot in front of the other, and you will be home in no time
. I aimed the light in front of me and walked toward the path. I would have to be careful. The trail was rocky,
and one false move would send me careening down. I plotted the course and took a step just as the path started to dim. I shook the flashlight, but instead of getting brighter, the light went out altogether. I smacked it against my hand, but nothing happened. Dark.

Somebody whimpered. I think it was me. I stood paralyzed on the spot, unable to move an inch. I looked up and tried to take solace in the starlight. No use. I was in trouble with a capital T. It took me a moment to recognize a noise. It was getting louder and coming closer. A car. Peter must have changed his mind. It was hard to believe, but he had come to his senses. The lights approached, illuminating the area. I relaxed, realizing that I had been holding my breath. I weighed my desires to alternately kiss Peter and to knock him unconscious with the flashlight, steal his car, and leave him to the coyotes. The flashlight scenario was winning by a landslide.

But something was wrong. The lights were big and too high up. After a minute, it became clear it wasn’t Peter’s Porsche driving up the mountain. It was a truck, and it was coming right at me.

I turned and ran, but my heel caught on a rock, and I went flying, scraping my hands and knees. I jumped up and ran again. The truck skidded to a halt and the door opened.

“Gladie! Gladie, it’s me, Holden. I’m here to help.”

I squinted, not daring to believe my eyes, but it was him. Gorgeous and strong and real. I hobbled to him, and he made up the distance, circling me with his arms when he reached me, letting me lean into him. He was warm and solid, and he took my weight easily. “I’m sorry I took so long,” he said. “I tried to stop him on the way out, but he was driving too fast, and I didn’t want to lose you.”

“How did you know?” I croaked.

“You missed our date. I saw you get taken by that creep, and I followed. I got turned around on the dirt road and went a couple of miles in the wrong direction. By the time I got my bearings, he was driving the other way down the mountain. He had the light on in the car, and I saw you weren’t in it. I put two and two together. Did he hurt you?”

“Not really. I made a lot of contact with the ground.”

“I saw. Here. Let me help.”

He lifted me in his arms like I was no heavier than a child and deposited me gently in the front seat of his truck. It was nice inside. Satellite radio and a moon roof.

We drove in silence. I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew he was lifting me out of the truck.

“I can walk,” I said. But my injuries said otherwise. I was scraped up pretty badly. Holden carried me to the door. Grandma had left it unlocked, and the house was dark. It was later than I thought.
Time sure flies when you’re kidnapped
, I thought.

“Where’s the hooch?” Holden asked.

“The parlor.”

He laid me down on a chaise longue and turned on a light. I pointed to a cabinet in the corner. Inside were bottles and crystal glasses.

“Two fingers of Dewar’s on the rocks,” he said.

“Four fingers and straight up,” I corrected.

Holden arched an eyebrow.

“My kind of woman,” he said. He poured us both drinks and sat down next to me, laying my legs on his lap. “Take a sip and tell me what happened.”

I told him everything. I told him about the Terns family, about Uncle Harry, about Randy as a bank robber and the money he’d probably hidden away. I told him about the gang members, two now dead and one somewhere nobody knew. I told him about the blondes who
wanted me to help solve the murder and the knish blonde who didn’t; Spencer, who wanted me to stay out of it altogether; and Rob, who I was supposed to distract with my red dress while Peter searched for his ill-gotten inheritance.

After I finished, I took a long gulp of my drink and let it relax my insides, warming as it slid down my throat. Holden inspected my legs. They were scraped and bloody and bruises were forming. He took off my shoes and gently rubbed my feet. His expression had turned sad. My pain had made him sad.

“I’m sorry I forgot our date. Things have been so crazy,” I said. My eyes filled and spilled over, and my nose ran. Long wrenching sobs tore at my body, and I was helpless to stop them. Holden pulled me onto his lap and held me until my crying jag ran its course. He handed me the box of tissues from the coffee table, and I blew my nose.

“The last thing you should worry about right now is our date. We’ll have many more dates in our future,” he said.

“We will?”

“Yes. Now, about this murder investigation you’ve found yourself in …”

“I know. I know. Stay out of it. It’s much too dangerous.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “I don’t think you have a choice. The sooner this is resolved, the better. It doesn’t look like the police are taking it too seriously. So I don’t think you can extricate yourself from the investigation of the deaths or murders, if that’s what they turn out to be. But from now on, you take me with you. If you’re looking for Chuck Costas, you take me. If you’re distracting Rob, you take me. If you visit Uncle Harry, you take me.” Holden pursed his lips. “Or you can take the cop, but I prefer you take me. Do we have a deal?”

We had more than a deal. I was ready to have his baby as well. Why couldn’t he have made that part of the deal?

“It sounds like you’ve done this before,” I said.

“Escorting Miss Marple as she investigates a murder?”

“Helping a damsel in distress,” I corrected.

Holden’s face dropped. “You do remind me of someone I once knew. I tried to be there for her, but it was a difficult situation.” I tucked that information away for later. I didn’t want to hear about anybody else at that moment.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “You barely know me.”

Holden’s mouth turned up into a smile. He was really handsome, like an advertisement for fresh air, muscles, and sex appeal. “I know you, Gladie,” he said, his voice thick and low. “I knew you the first moment I saw you.”

“I guess that makes me transparent and one-dimensional.”

“That makes you the Ferrari in a Toyota car lot, the Faulkner in a stack of Grisham novels.”

“The triple-layer chocolate cake in a bagel shop,” I continued.

“Triple-layer chocolate cake with chocolate mousse filling,” he said. “I’m a sucker for chocolate mousse filling.”

My mouth had fallen open, and I snapped it closed.

“I don’t like to see you hurt and in danger,” he explained. “I sort of rescued you once. I might need to do it again. Would you humor me?”

“I could do that,” I said. My body had grown warm and heavy, comfortable in the support and compassion he was offering. I yawned, and my eyes drooped.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Holden said.

He carried me up the stairs.

“Shower or bath?” he asked. “The shower you could do on your own. I would love to give you a bath, but you might want to hold off on that activity until our second date.”

I took a short, hot shower. I had reached the end of my stamina. I was scraped over much of my body, but none of it was life-threatening. I threw away my clothes, which were in tatters, and dressed in a terrycloth robe.