An Affair to Dismember (35 page)

“I guess you could see it that way,” I said. “Or maybe you wanted to make your husband’s life a living hell. When your husband died, Jane asked me for help. She wanted me to follow the path of infidelity because she knew it would lead to Lulu and eventually lead to you.
She wanted it to lead to you, Betty. She knew what you were capable of.”

“Where are you going with this, Gladie?” Betty asked. “Are you talking about Randy?”

“I’m talking about Cindy,” I said. “The night I first met you in your kitchen, Jane explained that Cindy had suffered brain damage in a playground accident. But later Rob let it slip that Cindy had had an accident in the kitchen with you. Jane knew all about that accident, didn’t she, Betty? She knew it wasn’t really an accident. You have a temper, and you were responsible for Cindy’s injury, and Jane covered for you. From then on out, she did whatever she could to prevent you from getting angry. She tried to warn me, to stop you before you made her cover for you again. She didn’t want you to hurt anyone else, and when you get angry, Betty, you like to hurt people.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, talking to me like that, saying I’m a bad mother, a bad person. You’ve been a pain in my side, sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

“But you wanted me in your business,” I said. “You wanted to talk to me about Randy and your kids.”

“And you turned your back on me! You had the letters. You knew about the whore. But instead of tracking her down and indicting her for murder, you came back to me and attacked me.”

“So it was you who slipped the letters in my purse. It wasn’t Cindy,” I said. “You wanted to frame Lulu, but it backfired.”

“I told you not to mention her name.”

“What did you do with the money?” I asked.

“What money?”

“The blackmail money,” I said. “You blackmailed your husband in Lulu’s name. What did you do with that and with the bank money, Randy’s big heist?”

Betty choked out a loud cackling noise, which turned into a coughing fit. She lit another cigarette and took a long drag.

“There wasn’t any big bank heist,” she said, catching her breath. “Are you kidding me? That idiot never could bring in a good living. Did you hear about the time he dressed up as a tree? What an idiot. I had a good laugh when Peter broke through all the walls looking for money. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, believe me.”

“You sent Randy’s blackmail money to his old gang,” I said. “Jimmy the Fink and Chuck Costas thought the money was coming from him, that Randy was paying them every month from his stash of bank heist money.” Betty’s expression confirmed my theory. She was proud as punch.

“You sent them the money as revenge against Randy,” I continued. “He was already strapped for cash and you forced him to give away the rest. You let them enjoy the money instead of him. As an added bonus, you could frame them for blackmail if you ever needed to. But when Randy died, you couldn’t frame Jimmy and Chuck because he had already gone to them about the blackmail. He complained to them about Lulu blackmailing him, and Jimmy the Fink put two and two together.

“You were the architect of the whole thing. So you had to kill Jimmy and Chuck. You couldn’t leave behind any loose ends,” I said. I knew I was right. I was so right I expected fireworks, a parade, or a Corn Flakes Junior Detective Badge.

“What are you saying, Gladie?” she asked. “Are you saying I got angry at my husband because he no longer loved me, no longer cared if I found out about his affair? So, what? So I waited until he went downstairs for a midnight snack, and then I snuck up on him and hit him over the head with the egg pan?”

“Well, I could be saying that,” I said.

“And then what? Jimmy the Fink had suspicions and tried to blackmail me, so maybe I slipped something in his beer to give him a stroke? Are you saying that?”

I raised my hand. “Oh! Oh! I guessed that.”

“And that phony priest,” Betty went on, ignoring me. “Are you saying he tried to hide from me, but I managed to track him down and shoot him in the head?”

“Uh,” I said, “I guess I’m saying that.”

Betty stubbed out her cigarette under her shoe. Her eyes flicked to Spencer’s car before she looked back at me and leaned in close. “Well, look at you. Little Miss Matchmaker thinks she’s a big, important detective. You did a pretty good job, actually. Heck, you are cleverer than I thought.”

The hair stood up on the back of my neck, and I had a pins-and-needles feeling in my arms and legs. I wondered if I was having an allergic reaction to whatever medication I was on. No, it was probably a reaction to crazy Betty. “Betty, are you being almost nice to me?” I asked.

“Smart Gladys Burger, playing the police chief and the new neighbor boy for fools,” she said, lighting up another cigarette. “Not easy to play that police chief. I’ve seen him lurking around town, bedding every whore he could get his hands on. But you’re his special whore. You snap your fingers, and off he runs toward you.”

“I wouldn’t say he runs,” I said.

“I’m the victim in this whole thing, you know. When Randy got the first blackmail letter, that son of a bitch told me he got demoted at work, and that was the end of movies, restaurants, and clothes. I had to live hand to mouth. I had to make a roast last a week.”

Her logic was dizzying. “Yeah, that sucks,” I said. “A decent man would have gotten a second job to pay
blackmail to his wife, who was making their daughter write letters to him supposedly from his former mistress.”

Betty sneered. “I like you knowing I did it. It feels good. Hey, look at that. We’re bonding. There’s no way you can prove I did it, Miss Matchmaker. That will have to be our little secret, just between you and me.”

“I don’t know if I can keep that particular secret, Betty.” Did I say that? Did that come out of my mouth? How fast could Spencer run? Could he get to me before Betty shot me or hit me with an egg pan?

“They think Jane did it all. She confessed. You were right. She always was my favorite child. You can’t pin it on me. I’m a poor, downtrodden housewife. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re either with me or against me. If you’re against me, then you’re responsible for the deaths. You’re the guilty one. You have anything more to say?”

“Crazy serial killer says what?” I blurted out.

“This conversation is over,” she said.

I heard Spencer walk up behind me. “Not quite,” he said.

“She has a point about you lurking around town with the whores,” I told him.

“Are you happy? Was that what you came for?” he asked.

“Yes. Jane didn’t kill anyone. She wrote the letters, but she didn’t know anything about Jimmy the Fink and Chuck Costas when I mentioned them to her. Betty’s guilty. Are you happy? Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice thick and sultry. He leaned down and stared into my eyes. “You give me what I want.” He slipped his hand under my shirt and let his fingers travel up. My breath hitched as he reached between my breasts and tugged. His hand popped out of
my shirt, a tiny microphone between his fingers. “We got every word.”

Betty gasped and threw her cigarette, hitting Spencer between the eyes. He swatted at his face as Betty ran for all she was worth toward the hearse. She jumped in, started it up, and burned rubber as she pulled away from the curb.

“She’s getting away! She’s getting away!” I shouted, waving my hands.

“She can’t get far. I’ve got men all over this place,” said Spencer, more concerned with his face than with Betty’s escape.

I watched the hearse peel out. It was closing in on the exit fast. I was sure Betty was going to escape justice.

Before the hearse could reach the cemetery gates, a cement truck came out of nowhere at full speed and careened into the hearse near the back tire on the driver’s side. Miraculously, the hearse remained intact, but it spun out of control, jumped the curb, and crashed into a tree. Spencer ran toward the scene, already calling the paramedics on his cellphone.

The funeral director appeared out of nowhere and ran toward the crash, understandably horrified by the sight of his totaled hearse. Betty’s son Rob was on his heels, spurred into action. I had never seen him move so fast. The funeral director opened the driver’s door of the hearse, stopped short, and then stumbled backward. “Help,” he said. “Help. Coffin. Head.”

Spencer and Rob stared in horrible silence. I couldn’t take it another second. I threw the blanket off me, got out of the wheelchair, and walked to the hearse to see for myself.

Betty sat in her seat, slumped forward, her head knocked clean off her body. Deader than a doornail. The coffin had lurched forward during the crash and decapitated her.

“Holy crap,” I said. “Randy got her.”

“She’s gone,” Spencer told Rob. Talk about stating the obvious.

Rob sighed. “About time,” he said.

I stumbled back to my wheelchair and took deep breaths through my nose in an effort not to faint. Cindy floated by, seemingly clueless about her mother’s death. She noticed me, however, and ran toward me. She held a large bag, which she threw onto my lap. “Pennies,” she announced with joy. She motioned to the bag, and I opened it.

“Pennies,” I agreed.

There were more pennies than I had ever seen. Pennies in the form of hundred-dollar bills, that is. Cindy had found Randy’s bank heist money.

Spencer made his way back to me, and I gave him the bag of money. I felt sick to my stomach. I was officially wound up. I took Spencer’s hand and leaned against his arm. “Now I’m ready to leave,” I said.

I BEGGED Spencer to stop off at Tea Time to get me a latte, and much to my surprise, he agreed. He parked right in front.

“Stay,” he ordered. “I mean it, Pinkie. Stay.”

He had to be kidding. I never wanted to move again.

After a couple of minutes, I heard a siren blaring, coming in my direction. A police car skidded to a halt, and Fred jumped out. At the same time, Julie ran out of Tea Time.

“He’s over there,” she screamed. She was panicked, and tears streamed down her face. “Where’s the paramedics?”

“They’re at the scene of an accident,” said Fred. “Don’t worry. I’m trained.”

He ran two feet past her and dropped to the ground.
I craned my neck to see what on earth he was doing. And then I rubbed my eyes. Fred was poised over what looked like a dead possum. He took a deep breath and leaned down.

“Oh, God,” I muttered.

Fred blew into the possum’s mouth for all he was worth. CPR on roadkill. I needed more than coffee. I needed my morphine drip back.

After two breaths, the possum miraculously revived. It bit Fred on the nose and scampered off. Julie was rapturous. “My hero! My dreamboat!” And with that, she ran into Fred’s arms.

Spencer came out with my latte. “What’s going on there?” he asked.

“Love. Romance. The start of my career,” I answered.

“Oh, good,” Spencer said. “You’re a success. I guess that means you’re sticking around for a while.”

Our eyes locked for a moment, and then I let my eyes slip to a spot on the car floor. “I guess. Grandma needs me.”

Spencer sat in the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition. “Sure she does. I’m glad you’re an official matchmaker now. It will take your mind off trying to fight crime.”

“I didn’t do so bad with Betty Terns.”

“Not so bad? Four dead bodies, a shot-up church, and a crashed hearse, not to mention some other obvious damage,” he said, gesturing to my body.

“Well, Lulu Finkelstein doesn’t have to hide anymore. Jane will get the psychiatric help she needs, and Betty has met with justice. That counts for something, doesn’t it?” I said.

Spencer smiled and caressed my cheek. “Sure it does, Pinkie. You did good.”

“And don’t worry about my future crime fighting,” I said. “You know nothing happens in Cannes.”

“That’s true. It’s a very dull town, or it was until you got here.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not. Give me my latte.” I took a sip. Ruth made the best coffee. How could I ever leave her coffee? Spencer drove the car toward the hospital.

“By the way,” I said, “Fred’s going to need a rabies shot.”

The author gratefully acknowledges the following people for their assistance: Junessa Viloria, editor extraordinaire and gorgeous, skinny bride; the editors of Ballantine and their superior knowledge of commas and Mallomars, among other things; Alex Glass, my favorite agent in the whole wide world, who I would fix up with my beautiful cousin if he was available; Trident Media, my favorite literary agency in the whole wide world; my friendly, loving, and extremely patient beta readers, Maria Sanminiatelli, Maureen Cavanaugh, and Kristen Reid; my beta readers/editors, Avery Aames and Janet Bolin, whose generosity I will never forget; all the women from RWA and Sisters in Crime; my sons, Max and Sam, who have to eat way too much takeout while I write; Lorenzo Canizales, who saved my life; Ruth Aguilar; and my mother, who made me believe in myself and told me to keep going. And a special acknowledgment to Stephanie Newton, who shared every step of the process with me. I called you first.