Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery (7 page)

“I’m not really that good with advice,” I said.

“Sure you are.” She smiled a little, certain she had me. The same way Frank would smile on the rare occasions when I didn’t have a comeback. It was a victory smile. Before I had a chance to think of a sarcastic remark, she walked away. “See you at seven tomorrow night,” she said, as she disappeared into the restaurant.

H
ere’s something about myself I don’t understand. I have no problem lying to grieving widows to get a good interview, but at seven o’clock the next night, I parked my car in front of Vera’s Gold Coast brownstone, even though I didn’t want to, and headed up the front stairs, a bottle of wine in my hand. I could have called her and canceled. I could have not shown up. But here I was. I can be a real jerk when I want to be, but for some reason I don’t like being impolite.

I knew at that very minute Ellen was calling my house and getting my voice mail, picturing me on the couch with an empty bottle of sleeping pills dropping out of my dead hand; she would be filled with panic and dread. So at least there was an upside to seeing Vera.

“Pinot noir, my favorite,” Vera said when she answered the door. Her two greyhounds, rescued from a life of racing, nudged at me as I walked inside. She took the bottle from me and we walked back toward her kitchen. “I made pasta,” she said. “I wanted to keep it casual.”

“Is pasta casual?”

She laughed. “You don’t let anything go without challenging it, do you?” She motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table. “I won’t ask how you’ve been because you probably wouldn’t tell me, but I hope you’re okay and not, you know, missing Frank too much.”

“I’m fine.”

“Of course you are,” she said. “You’re so strong. You can handle anything.”

It wasn’t true, but with all the concern coming toward me lately, from Ellen, Andres, and Victor, it was good to hear. Even if I had to hear it from Vera. “You seem to have moved on nicely,” I said.

“Doug sent me those.” She pointed toward a vase on the kitchen table, with a dozen long-stem red roses displayed in it. They were nice. Cliché, but nice. Next to the vase was a card. Vera turned toward the
stove and started plating the pasta, so I took a peek. It read, “I’m crossing out #42.” I dropped the note back in its spot just as Vera turned around.

“He’s so sweet,” she said. “And we agree on just about everything.”

“Is he single?” I asked.

She blushed. “Divorced.”

“As long as you don’t get yourself hurt.” The words escaped my mouth before my brain had a chance to stop them.

Vera smiled a little, but she had the grace not to pounce on my temporary interest. She put the pasta, a large platter of mushroom ravioli, on the table. She’d laid out quite a spread. Aside from the ravioli, there was a salad, garlic bread, and a bottle of expensive-looking red wine. Vera moved that bottle off the table and replaced it with the one I’d brought, pouring each of us a large glass. I dug into the ravioli and searched for conversation that did not include a discussion of how I might be feeling these days.

“Did you make this?” I asked. “It’s really good.”

“Yeah, thanks.” She brightened. “I took a pasta-making class about a month ago. I called you to see if you might be interested but…”

“I’ve been working a lot.”

She picked up a piece of ravioli but let it sit on her fork. “It’s all a little weird, us having dinner. I’d understand if you felt awkward.”

“I don’t feel awkward,” I lied.

“Well, I know how hesitant you’ve been to stay in touch. In your position I would probably be the same, I guess. But I like you. I don’t have a lot of friends, and I consider you a friend,” she said. “If it hurts too much to be around me, though…”

This was my out. Anyone could understand why I wouldn’t want to be the BFF of my dead husband’s girlfriend. It was chatting with her over pasta that was a little hard to explain. And yet, instead of bolting for the door I took it as a challenge. My leaving would be tantamount to admitting Vera’s role in Frank’s life still bothered me. Which, of course, it did. But that was my business.

“I really think you’re giving yourself a greater role in the demise of my marriage than you deserve,” I said.

Vera sank a little in her chair and spent the next few minutes chewing quietly on her salad. “I just can’t forgive myself for having hurt you.”

I finished off my glass of pinot noir and poured myself another, nearly finishing off the bottle. “We seem to be running low on wine.”

She jumped up and grabbed the expensive bottle, setting it on the table in front of me, just in case I needed it. Which I would. Soon. She was quiet again for a while, but when she did speak, thankfully she’d found a new subject. “Andres said you’re working on something at Dugan Correctional. That’s very brave of you.”

“It’s not like I’m spending the night there.”

“But you have to listen to all those sad stories,” she said. “And get to know people who’ve wasted their lives, hurt so many others. It’s such a dreary place to spend your time.”

“I’ve only met one of them and he’s pretty hard-core, but I think he has an interesting story to tell.”

“You enjoy talking to him?”

“Well, he doesn’t have Armani suits, or Rolex watches, or cater to the in crowd.”

She rolled her eyes. “That was awful. Erik’s interview was just embarrassing. That’s why I was so glad you were free to work on the show.”

“I wasn’t exactly free. You got those guys at the Business Channel to pay me more than my usual rate.”

“The people at the network obviously felt you were worth it.”

“After you convinced them that without me they couldn’t get access to the top Chicago investors they wanted.”

Vera’s blush told me I was right.

“Why are you doing this, anyway?” I asked. “If you want to open a restaurant, you don’t need a TV show to film it. We’ll just exploit you. You do know that?”

“It was Ilena’s idea. She talked with someone at the Business Channel, some friend of a friend, and they worked out a deal. She thought it would make the restaurant look really important, bring it tons of publicity and get things off to a good start. I didn’t really want to be on TV, but once I knew it was going to happen, I insisted on you.”

“
And, of course, Doug went along, since he’s so…agreeable.”

She smiled. “I knew he would. And the others thought it might be helpful to have a friend doing the story.”

“Why do they need a friend? It’s just another high-end restaurant opening. It’s a formula. First act, excited investors with big plans, putting everything on the line—their houses, their marriages, everything. But it’s okay because they have confidence in their dream. Second act, problems start.”

“Like?”

“Like the pastry chef quits, or the bathroom tile that had been special-ordered from Italy doesn’t show up on time.”

“Minor stuff.”

“Yeah, but we play it up big, like it’s going to ruin them. That gets us all the way through act three, with things getting worse and worse. Usually we get footage of the owners fighting, one of them walking out, looking as if he’s on the verge of collapse.”

“But you just said it’s minor stuff. Why would he be on the verge of collapse?”

“We stage it,” I said, wondering if anyone could be that naive. “Then after the last commercial break, when it looks as if the whole venture’s about to collapse, everything works out. The restaurant opens. There are lots of satisfied customers, great food, tired but happy investors. And then we put a slate at the end to say whether the place is still in business. Any half-assed, doesn’t-give-a-damn producer could do that show in his sleep. So I ask again, why do you and your investors need a friend?”

Vera bit the inside of her cheek as if to keep herself from saying something. When she did speak, it was careful and slow. “I’m worried we’ll come off looking like a bunch of rich brats trying to keep nice people from our exclusive place.”

“You will.” Before she could protest, I went on. “And there’s nothing I can do about that. But keep your people from saying the ridiculous things Ilena and Erik were saying this afternoon and you’ll be fine.”

“They don’t have to make it into the final piece, do they?”

Though I still had half a glass of wine, Vera topped me off.

“Vera,” I said, “I’m a hired hand. I don’t have the final say in what gets on TV and what doesn’t. I’m not the only one who sees the raw footage, so I’m not the only one who’s going to know what happened. If you, or one of those snotty investor friends, say something stupid on tape, I can’t protect you. Assuming I even want to.” I got up to bring my plate to the sink, and as I did, I felt the effects of the wine. “I should probably get going.”

“But—”

“Look, you’ve made your pitch about the show, and…” I sighed. “I’ll do what I can, if you tell them to cut down on the elitist crap.”

“No,” she said. “You should do your job. It’s not fair of me to ask you not to, and maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Ilena and Erik and the others had to see themselves on television acting like that.”

“At least you’ll know to say all the right things.”

I grabbed my purse and took a step out of the kitchen, but Vera didn’t follow. She just sat in her chair, moving bread crumbs around the table and generally avoiding my eyes.

“Vera, is there something else?”

She didn’t say anything.

“If you didn’t want to talk to me about protecting your friends,” I said, “then why am I here?”

She tapped her fingers across the bread crumbs for what felt like a long time before she looked up at me. “Someone has been threatening to kill me, and I thought you might know what to do.”

S
he said it so matter-of-factly I thought I’d misheard her.

“Threatening to do
what
?” I sat back down at the table. “Have you called the police?”

“No,” she said. “I called you. You’re so good at this stuff. You helped that family with the missing daughter. You figured out what happened with Frank.”

“I got lucky. I’m not Sherlock Holmes.” Vera looked on the verge of tears. Crap. I gave in. “Who is threatening you?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I got involved in the restaurant after I met Doug. They were getting a little cash poor and they needed a new investor. Doug thought I might be interested.”

“And you’re a sucker for being needed.”

She smiled. “He really believed in the place, and I…well, I thought it might be fun to do something together, so I invested two hundred and fifty.”

“Thousand?”

“Yes. Two hundred and fifty thousand. Doug was really sweet about it. He’s very protective of me. You should get to know him better—”

“When did you start getting threats?” I interrupted.

“A couple of weeks ago. Telling me that I would end up dead unless I stayed away from Doug.”

“Man or woman?”

“It sounded like one of those computerized voices, like when you call customer service for just about anything and you have to press zero half a dozen times to get an operator.”

“What did Doug say when you told him?”

“He said he had an ex-girlfriend who was still hung up on him and I shouldn’t worry. She’s just trying to make him miserable, but she’s not really dangerous.”

“But you don’t believe him.”

“I—”
Something caught in her throat. “It’s not that I don’t believe him. It’s just that he sounded like he was…”

“Lying,” I finished for her. “Was it Doug who suggested you invest?”

“But he doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“How did he know you had that kind of money? I assume you don’t go around introducing yourself as the heiress to Knutson Foods, the biggest chain of grocery stores east of the Mississippi.”

“Of course not, but I don’t lie about it either.”

“Did he know when he met you?” I asked.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“It might explain why he’s so agreeable. Con men usually are.”

“If he were going to take my money, then why is he still around? Why is he still dating me? Wouldn’t he drop me once the check cleared the bank?”

The answer was obvious. There were millions more where that came from. I had, for a time, even convinced myself that Frank had left me for Vera’s money. But despite his many faults, Frank was too nice for that. And unfortunately, Vera was too nice for that to be his only reason for liking her. But Doug was another story.

I leaned back in my chair. I was stuffed from two helpings of the ravioli, a salad, and three slices of garlic bread. I’d lost track of the amount of wine I’d drunk. I needed coffee, a good night’s sleep, and some distance from Vera. What I didn’t need was to get any more involved. “I think you should call the police.”

“And say what? I don’t have any proof of anything.”

“Where did the calls come from?”

“It was a blocked number.”

“But you’re sure it’s someone from the restaurant?”

“The voice mentioned the name of the restaurant. Club Car. We haven’t told that name to anyone.”

“You haven’t. Can you be sure Erik or one of the others hasn’t said anything?”

“It supposed to be a big reveal,” she said. “And besides, the caller said I should forget about the two hundred and fifty thousand. Only
the other investors know the exact amount. Certainly Doug’s ex-girlfriend wouldn’t. Would she?” She looked to me for answers I didn’t have.

“But they have your money, Vera. So why threaten you?”

“I started asking about the costs. I’m a silent investor, but I’m not a stupid one.”

“You only started asking about the costs after you handed over the money. That doesn’t exactly make you Warren Buffett.”

She laughed, sounding almost relaxed. “Fair point. But the whole thing was weird right from the beginning. I wrote the check out to some venture capital group and when I tried to trace them, I couldn’t find any of the partners.”

“Did you ask Doug about that?”

“Yeah. He said that there were some IRS issues and that the group had formed offshore.” She saw the alarm in my eyes. “You would be surprised how often businesses do things like that.”