Death of a Six-Foot Teddy Bear (18 page)

Xabier was Xabier.
He had called her from a pay phone and said he wanted to meet her in the park two blocks from the Wind-Up. He stood by the swings, dressed in sweatpants and a baggy shirt. No wig, no colored contacts. Just handsome, dark-haired Xabier.

She walked toward him. He grabbed a swing and pushed off.

She rested a hand on the metal leg of the swing set. “No disguise?” The park bordered the lake. Beyond the park, a golf course hummed with late-afternoon activity.

“Kind of out of ideas. All I got is my portable makeup kit. I think I’m safe here. They seem to hang around the hotels mostly.” He slowed his pumping. “Did you find out the name of the business?”

“We couldn’t find anything. Your mom is looking through his private office. I gave her my cell number.” She gripped the chain of the swing next to Xabier. “Your mom really wants to see you.”

He skidded to a stop. “Whatever for? I’m just starting to get good at this hiding out.” He gazed at some unseen object in the distance while he dug a foot through the wood chips, making deep furrows.

Kindra plopped into the swing beside him. He needed cheering up. “There’s got to be a bright side.” She stepped sideways toward him, resting her cheek on the chain. “You like coming up with the costumes and disguises.”

“Okay, that part was fun.” He slipped out of his own swing and stood behind her.

“How much money did Dustin owe the Eternal or Infinite guys, whatever they were called?” She duck-walked backward, gripping the chains of the swing. His palms pressed against her back, and he pushed. She arced upward, enjoying the dizzy sensation.

“I just glanced at it. There were either six or seven numbers in front of the decimal point.”

“What would cost that much? It can’t be a legitimate business.” She swung back, closing her eyes and concentrating on the rush of wind around her. “Otherwise, wouldn’t they go to Dustin’s lawyer and make him pay up through the estate?”

“I guess.” His hands pushed against her back. “All Dad’s assets are tied up. Maybe they need the money right away.”

“Speaking of estates, what are you going to do about the hotel if it is yours?”

“Ever the practical one, aren’t you?” He grabbed the swing and stopped it with a jerk. He fingered the chain and leaned toward her. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about running a hotel. I know theater. Maybe I’ll sell it and start my own theater company.”

Xabier didn’t have a plan. What a foreign concept. How could he operate that way? “You can’t remember anything else about these guys?” She liked looking into his dark chocolate eyes.

He yanked on the chain until she laughed. “One is bald and overweight, and he smells like a smoker. The other is tall with square shoulders.”

“Definitely the same guys we saw chasing your dad through the underground outlet mall. One of them looks kind of like Frankenstein in a suit?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He stepped away from the swing with a dance move that looked like the grapevine she did in aerobics.

“They probably didn’t kill him. Can’t get money from a dead guy. Unless they were trying to get the money and their method of persuasion got out of control.” She kicked at wood chips while a plan formed in her head.

Xabier twirled on the heel of his shoe. “The impression they gave me was that they were capable of murder … tough guys.”

“You said they seem to find you when you’re at the hotel?” Kindra jumped out of the swing to face Xabier.

“I don’t know their names.”

“We don’t need to know their names. Maybe we should set some kind of trap for them. Where have they spotted you?”

“The first time was outside my hotel room.” He pounded a fist on the metal leg of the swing set. “That’s when they showed me the paper with Dad’s. signature on it. The other times it was in the lobby or one of the restaurants.”

“So they’re waiting for you in public places. I bet they’re staking out the lobby.” She touched his hand. “Xabier, what if we stalked the stalkers? We could follow them and find out where they’re staying, find out the name of the business.” She plumped back into the swing. “That invoice has to be in their stuff.”

“It might work.” He pulled back on the swing, holding her so her feet dangled. “It would be like an acting job.”

She fingered the swing chain. “‘Course, we would let the police take over once we found out the name of the business.”

“Why?” he barked. He let go of her, pushing hard on her back before she swung away.

Kindra pumped her legs. She had tried. Xabier wasn’t going to overcome his distrust of the police any time soon. “’Cause it would be safer that way.”

Xabier pushed her even harder, probably working out some flare of frustration. Clouds filled her vision and then grew distant. She closed her eyes and relished the sensation of speed. The sun warmed her skin. The force of his pushing decreased until he stopped altogether. She giggled, held her legs out, and leaned back. The arc of the swing decreased.

Xabier pulled her to a stop. He stood over her. “Safe, who wants to be safe?” His hand swept over her cheek.

An electric tingle enveloped her. Xabier leaned toward her, his face inches from hers. He brushed butterfly-soft fingers along her jaw and under her chin, then leaned in and kissed her.

The warmth of his touch made any thought of her checklist fall completely from her mind.

Ginger slammed the empty drink on the counter. “Thanks for the recharge.” She pushed off on the bike and placed her feet on the pedals. The street had been closed to through traffic for the garage sales, so there were no cars to block her view. Simpson rounded a curve as he rode away from the buildings that bordered the lake.

She pumped harder. The bike was old, the kind without gears. So far, the road was level. She breathed a little heavier. Pain flared in her leg muscles. What would she do if she had to climb a hill? Biking at high speeds was maybe not on the list of recommended activities for a fifty-seven-year-old woman.

She pedaled through the curve. Mr. Simpson was maybe a hundred yards in front of her and in full view.

He glanced behind, then angled the bike and slipped onto a side street. Ginger turned as well. She sped past a minimart and into a residential neighborhood where most of the lawns were brown from lack of care. Simpson zigzagged through the streets. The bad news was that she was a fifty-seven-year-old who rode like a fifty-seven-year-old. The good news was that Mr. Simpson wasn’t much younger and was even more out of shape. She closed in on him. Thirty yards. Her lungs felt like they’d been scraped with an X-Acto knife. Twenty yards.

Her breathing became labored.
Push the pedal down, Ginger
. She stood up on the bike and straightened her leg.

Simpson pedaled toward a long, unpaved alley. The residential neighborhood transformed into taller buildings. She followed him, working even harder when the tires hit the rocky dirt of the alley.

He got to the end of the alley and turned left.

When she rounded the corner, Mr. Simpson’s bike rested on its side, not too far from a door. The back wheel spun. She stared up at the tall brick building, probably the backside of an older hotel.

Ginger glanced up and down the street. Nothing. The street was long enough that she should have seen Simpson running if he had decided to hoof it. He’d ditched the bike. He must have gone into the hotel. She pulled the black door open.

Applause floated down the long corridor. She had stumbled onto some late-afternoon show. She walked past a door that said Drake the Magnificent. Drake’s door was locked. She trotted down the hallway, peeking into the only open door, which was an empty dressing room whose central feature was a cage with a yellow and black snake having his noontime nap.

Stage noises grew louder. Circus music? Through side curtains, she had a view of the performance. The stage contained two rings. One featured two jugglers who kept dropping their bowling pins. In the other, a man in a leg cast dragged himself across the stage. A sparkling vest accentuated his chest hair and potbelly. Three feet away, a tiger lay on its side. At the snap of the tamers whip, the tiger flipped his tail and yawned. In a box above the stage, a ringmaster announced, “See Drake the Magnificent bring the fierce tiger under his control.” Two overweight trapeze artists took turns twirling on the swing and standing on the platform with the ringmaster.

Ginger placed a hand on her hip. She couldn’t just walk across the stage. She pivoted and pushed another curtain aside. Ah, four stairs that led to a polished wood floor. Glasses tinkled, and low-level murmurs filled the air. This had to be the way out to the audience, the most likely place to find Mr. Simpson.

Ginger waited for her eyes to adjust to the subdued lighting. Odd, considering the sun blazed outside. In this place, it was night all the time. Twelve to fifteen people were spread out among about thirty tables and a bar. Ginger squinted. Half the tables were empty. If Simpson was here, he would be easy enough to find.

She surveyed the room for possible exits Simpson might have taken while the circus continued behind her. Two double doors on the right side of the bar seemed likely to lead to the rest of the hotel. First, though, she would figure out if he had settled into the audience. If he had gone out into the hotel, it would be almost impossible to find him.
Please, God, let him be here
.

The doors that led to the rest of the hotel burst open, and a woman weighted down by at least six shopping bags wandered over to the bar and chose a stool.

“Give me something strong.” The woman rested her forehead against her palm.

It took Ginger a moment to realize that the woman was Fiona Truman, the Shopping Channel lady. Earl had said something about her being interested in their invention. Ginger had stopped pushing for the success of the invention, and God had opened this door. Ginger offered her a smile. Fiona turned her back and slumped protectively over her drink. So much for open doors. There would be no chitchat with Fiona Truman today.

Ginger stepped toward the center of the floor, hoping that being in plain view would jar Simpson out of hiding. Talk about eye strain. The lighting was so bad, it was hard to discern if people were men or women. Near as she could tell, nobody jerked or rose from his seat. Onstage, the intensity of the music increased. A second lethargic tiger had been brought out into the ring. The jugglers had switched to dropping oranges.

No one in the audience so much as glanced in her direction. All eyes were on Drake as he fanned his blue satin cape like wings and demonstrated his ability to subdue heavily medicated tigers.

Ginger slipped up onto a va can’t stool three down from where Fiona sent out her antisocial signals. The Shopping Channel hostess remained slumped over her drink and stared at the bar. Ginger scanned audience heads, eliminating them one by one.

“Can I get you anything?” The bartender wiped down the counter by Ginger.

“Oh … umm.” The ICEE hadn’t done much to quench her thirst. “I just had quite a workout. I don’t suppose you have a glass of water?”

He pulled a bottled water out from underneath the counter. “That’ll be two dollars.”