Sylvie's Cowboy (2 page)

“You absolutely sure Harry was on that boat?”
said the man in Ostrich boots. His voice held amazingly little
emotion.

Leslye kept her eyes on the burning, sinking,
unrecognizable mass of wood and Fiberglas. She nodded.

The man looked back toward his parked car
then glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex watch. “Okay. We’re done
here, then. I need to get back to work.”

Miami –Tuesday evening—Four Days After the
Explosion

Lithgow Funeral Home was an elegant building
with white marble columns facing a hedge-bordered circular
driveway. The front entrance mimicked the Academy Awards as wealthy
mourners arrived in their chauffeur-driven gas guzzlers. Everyone
who was anyone simply must be seen at the viewing of the late Harry
Pace, and they must be seen at their best. The jewelry had come out
of the safe deposit boxes for this one. The glittering ladies and
their silk-penguin escorts craved the flash of the cameras, and the
local media did not disappoint.

Inside a crowded reception room lined with
ostentatious floral arrangements (sizes large, huge, and mammoth),
spiraling sterling candelabra flanked a closed casket. An exquisite
oil painting of Harry Pace rested on an easel at one end of the
casket. A few of the attendees amused themselves speculating as to
how many inches, or ounces, of Harry were actually inside the
casket, which must have cost as much as a Space Shuttle.

Sylvie Pace, young, blonde and beautiful (in
a cover-of-Vogue sort of way) in a thousand-dollar simple black
dress, graciously shook the hands of whatever mourners stopped by
her chair to pay respects.

Dan Stern sat attentively on Sylvie’s right.
He was a little older, a lot taller and darker, and a little less
beautiful than Sylvie. But Dan always cut a fine figure in his
expensive suits and hand-made Ostrich-skin boots.

Together Sylvie and Dan were the South
Florida equivalent of royalty on glorious display.

Leslye Larrimore, looking strained despite
her professionally applied makeup, caught Dan’s eye from somewhere
in the crowd. He gave her a “come hither” gesture. After a few
moments of careful maneuvering, Les arrived at Dan’s chair. He rose
to whisper to her.

“Stay with Sylvie a minute, will you?” said
Dan. “I’ve gotta go outside for a smoke.”

“Nasty habit,” Leslye told him before taking
her seat in the chair he had vacated.

“Yeah, so’s Valium,” was his snarky
reply.

Leslye sent him an overly sweet smile, and
Dan headed for the nearest exit.

Walt McGurk’s red pickup with yellow doors
rolled into the funeral home parking lot just as Dan emerged with
an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Dan must have recognized the
truck, because Walt stepped out of the driver’s side door to find
his path blocked by Dan Stern, casually lighting a cigarette.

“Thought you had quit,” Walt said. “Smart
folks have.”

Dan scowled at Walt’s black western shirt,
black jeans, black Stetson hat, and black boots. “You’ve got no
business here, Dogpatch,” said Dan. “Why don’t you save Sylvie and
the rest of us some embarrassment and just mosey on back to the
ranch.” He blew a smoke ring directly into Walt’s face.

Walt dismissed Dan with a look and walked
past him toward the funeral home entrance.

Dan tossed his freshly lit cigarette to the
ground and followed. At the door, Dan grabbed Walt’s shoulder and
pulled him aside. “What are you trying to do?”

“Just tryin’ to pay my respects,” said
Walt.

“Respect! You and Harry fought like alley
cats. Neither one of you ever showed any ‘respect’ to the other
one.”

“I didn’t come to see Harry. I came to see
Sylvie.”

Walt shook off Dan’s grip and entered the
building. Once inside, he worked his way through the throng toward
Sylvie’s chair. The high-society, glammed-to-the-max crowd scorned
his horse-ranch attire with looks and whispered comments. Walt
ignored them and presented himself before Sylvie’s chair. He
removed his hat, took her hand, and pulled her up to walk with him
to the closed casket.

They gave no greetings to one another but
stood together in silence beside the easel displaying Harry’s
portrait. Sylvie unconsciously leaned against Walt. When she
sniffled, he folded her against him in a brotherly hug.

Gently, Walt told her, “Whatever’s in that
box, it ain’t Harry. Y’hear me? Harry ain’t here. You need to
remember that.”

“I know,” replied Sylvie between weepy
hiccups. “The preacher said the same thing. I guess Daddy’s with
Mama now. In heaven.”

Walt smiled to himself. “Well, I don’t know
if I’d give Harry quite that much credit.”

Across the room, Dan Stern joined Les
Larrimore in watching Walt comfort Sylvie over the casket. Leslye
whispered, “I thought you said she hated him.”

Dan shrugged. “That’s what she says. Avoids
him and his place like the plague.”

“Well, Danny boy, you better be sure she’s
had her shots. That plague looks contagious to me,” said
Leslye.

Dan’s expression turned anxious. He moved
toward Sylvie and Walt. Coming to Sylvie’s side a moment later, Dan
gently extricated her from Walt’s arms and tenderly ushered her
away. “Come sit down, sweetheart,” Dan told her. “You look a little
woozy.”

Dan lovingly helped Sylvie into her chair.
Leslye sat in the adjacent seat. Dan said to Sylvie, “Les will get
you something to drink.” He glanced at the lady lawyer
meaningfully. “Right, Les?”

Leslye stood and found herself staring into
the shirtfront of Walt McGurk, who had followed Sylvie and Dan.
“I’ll be right back; you just rest, dear,” Leslye told Sylvie.
Looking up at Walt towering over them, she said, “Good night,
Mister McGurk. Thank you for coming.” She stepped around him and
left in search of a beverage.

Walt scanned the room. Sylvie was surrounded
by elegant strangers and watchdogged by Dan Stern. Walt shoved his
Stetson onto his head and ambled toward the exit.

Halfway there he stopped, decided he was not
leaving, and marched briskly back to Sylvie’s chair. He elbowed his
way to her and, when Dan refused to yield a place to sit, Walt
squatted on the floor in front of her. This put Walt on Sylvie’s
eye level, and he pinned her with his gaze the way a lepidopterist
skewers a butterfly.

“Sylvie, you know half of my ranch is yours
now. Harry’s half,” Walt said.

“I guess so.”

“Well, if you’re in a bind, I’ll buy you out
fair and square. Cash on the barrelhead.”

Dan said, “Really, McGurk! I don’t think this
is the time—”

“I’m talkin’ to Sylvie,” Walt said, cutting
Dan short.

Sylvie didn’t feel like discussing business
at all, and certainly not while Walt and Dan were going at each
other in front of the jet set. “Can’t we discuss this later?”
Sylvie said to Walt. “I mean, it’s not like I need the money.”

Walt’s mouth moved as if he would argue with
her, but he realized the room had gone silent. The mourners all
seemed to be staring at him. He stood abruptly, withered the room
with a look, and strode for the door.

Leslye arrived with a cup of water for
Sylvie. Dan gave Les his chair, and he left to follow Walt, saying
to the ladies, “I’ll just make sure he finds his way out.”

Les urged Sylvie to drink, but Sylvie merely
held the cup and watched the door through which Walt and Dan had
gone. Leslye patted Sylvie’s shoulder and said, “It’s all right,
darling. Don’t let Harry’s pet jailbird upset you.”

“Harry’s what?”

“Jailbird,” said Les. “Everybody knows Harry
got him out of jail and set him up in that horse-breeding
business.” Bitterness tainted her voice as she continued, “One of
your mother’s charity cases, I expect. Harry never learned to tell
her no.”

Sylvie looked at Les in absolute
confusion.

“Honey, they say McGurk killed a man,” Les
told her. “After all these years, I can’t believe you never knew. I
thought Harry would’ve told you all about it.”

Stunned, Sylvie gulped the water from the cup
like an android. Without looking at Leslye, Sylvie handed her the
empty cup. “I guess Harry and I never really talked much,” Sylvie
said.

Out in the parking lot, Walt was reaching to
open the door of his truck when Dan Stern wedged himself between
Walt and his goal. “Who do you think you are?” Dan sneered from six
inches away.

“Harry’s partner, Slick Face. Who do you
think you are?” Walt responded.

“Les and I were Harry’s partners, Dogpatch.
Real partners, in multi-million-dollar joint ventures, not some
two-bit horse farm in Podunk Holler. You’re not a business partner,
you’re a joke.”

Without raising his voice, Walt responded,
“And you’re a brass-plated thief.”

Dan took a good Ivy League swing at Walt, but
Walt sidestepped it and landed a solid back-alley uppercut to Dan’s
jaw. Dan went down on one knee and stayed there, wiping blood from
a split lip.

Standing over Dan with his fists poised for
more, Walt said, “Harry never had to worry about finding my hands
in his pockets. Tell me, did Harry kill himself when he learned you
two had stole him broke, or did you blow him away because he caught
you at it?”

“It was a gas leak,” Dan insisted, favoring
his swollen, bleeding lip. “An accident. Happens every day. You can
ask the police, the Marine Patrol, the coroner, anybody.” A new
gleam entered Dan’s eyes, and he smiled wickedly. “But you won’t.
You don’t think I murdered Harry. This,” he gestured at the two of
them, “is all a smoke screen to hide how you tried to get Harry’s
half of the ranch from Sylvie before Harry’s body was even in the
grave. Y’know, if I were going to be suspicious of anybody,
Dogpatch, I’d be suspicious of you. We both know you’re capable of
murder, don’t we?”

Walt moved as if he wanted to kick Dan’s
perfectly capped teeth down his throat, but he decided against it.
He swung into his truck instead.

As the truck roared out of the lot, Dan stood
and wiped his face with his Hermes handkerchief. Then he dusted the
knees of his trousers and re-entered the funeral home.

Wednesday Morning

Outside the front doors of Harry Pace’s
former offices, black crepe would have to be re-hung later because
maintenance workers had removed it to install new brass lettering.
The name of the firm now read “Pace-Larrimore-Stern” instead of
merely “Pace-Larrimore.”

Inside the firm, Les Larrimore’s secretary,
Diane, looked up from her desk at the sound of a door closing. She
recognized Dan Stern and nodded a polite greeting.

“Go right in, sir,” the secretary told him.
“Ms. Larrimore is waiting for you.”

Stern gave a quick knock then entered Les’s
luxurious domain and took a seat in a high-backed leather chair
that creaked as it took his weight. He propped his Ostrich-skin
boots on the edge of her desk. Les put down her pen and turned the
papers in front of her face down. If Stern took offense at this
evidence of mistrust, he gave no sign of it.

“You’ll be glad to know the final official
reports are in,” Leslye announced. “Investigation closed. Faulty
propane valve filled the bilges with gas, something made a
spark—maybe Harry, maybe the telephone, who knows—and boom. Lucky.
You couldn’t have arranged it better if you’d tried—and I, for one,
am glad you didn’t have to try.”

Stern gave an amused grunt.

Les rose from her chair and made her way
around to the front of the desk, where she sat on the edge and
crossed her shapely legs. Stern handed her a cigarette and lit it
for her. It’s not a smoke-free building if the boss wants a smoke,
right?

Putting away his gold lighter, he said only,
“Keys?”

Les enjoyed a slow exhale of smoke toward the
ceiling. “Not so fast,” she answered. “The timetable still stands.
I’ll get her out of the penthouse, but nobody goes near it until
I’ve run it through the Tropigale books and then through the
Danmore partnership. Got it?”

“No!”

Les leaned forward and speared her partner’s
tie with her long-nailed index finger. “Look,” she told him, “you
can go ahead and set up a deal on the cars, but keep it quiet.
Harry was getting suspicious, and he may have told someone else.
They may be watching us. We have to act like nothing’s changed.
We’ll have it all soon enough, and without going to prison, if we
just take our time. Okay?”

Dan Stern didn’t respond. Leslye said again,
punching with the index finger for emphasis, “I said we take our
time, okay?”

“Okay,” said the man. The chair creaked again
as he left it. Leslye followed him to her office door.

At the door she said, “One thing has changed,
though.” She made eye contact with him and smiled a cat-with-canary
smile. “Without Harry snooping around, the money’s as good as ours
already. I don’t have to marry Harry for it. You don’t have to
marry Sylvie for it.”

“Hmmph.”

The door opened and closed, and he was gone.
Leslye looked at the door for a long time.

…

Thursday Morning

Leslye Larrimore scoured the penthouse
apartment’s kitchen for some suitable intoxicant with which to fill
her empty glass. From the bedroom, clothes hangers rattled, a
mattress creaked, fabrics rustled, shoes thudded and rolled.
Someone was packing. Someone in a hurry.

Leslye opened the refrigerator and wagged her
hundred-dollar haircut at a wilted flower, one overripe avocado,
three bottles of Perrier, and a half-inch of flat wine in an open
carafe. She emptied the wine into her glass without relish.

Packing noises resounded from the bedroom.
Leslye paced the kitchen carrying the empty wine carafe until she
discovered a refuse chute and dropped the bottle down it. Then she
meandered from the kitchen.