 
4th MUSKETELLE

Why knock off Hubby if he can do it himself?

by Brian Bakos

Cover: Fantasyart, graphic art: Othoniel Ortiz

Copyright 2015, Brian Bakos / revised 03 - 2019

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to anyone else. If you want to share this book, please buy an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and obtain your own copy. Thanks for respecting the author's hard work.

Table of Contents

One: The Tottering Empire

Two: Deal with the Devil

Three: Downward Spiral

Four: The Plop Thickens

Five: Machinations Continue

Six: Final Determination

Seven: It All Comes Together

Eight: Picking up Pieces

Nine: Absolution

Ten: Aftermath

Postscript

Connect with the Author

Brian's Other Books

#  One: The Tottering Empire

_Endowed with a rare genius for intrigue which rendered him the equal of the ablest intriguers, he remained an honest man. –_ _The Three Musketeers_ _, Alexandre Dumas_

## 1.Trouble In Rich-ville

Laila Armstrong was not beautiful. She was ravishing, and men sure as hell noticed.

At 31, she was a woman at the height of her powers, but she also was a person eager to step into a new phase of life – beyond the mere stroking of male egos.

She gazed into her vanity mirror at her husband standing by the door with hands in his pockets. Despite his casual stance, he radiated power and a degree of menace. Working on her makeup gave her an excuse to avoid looking directly into his eyes.

"Why don't we go to Las Vegas, Frank?" she said. "My friends have all been there. They loved it."

Frank's expression of impassive fortitude soured. "Your friends, huh?"

"Yes."

Laila brushed her cheek with a decisive motion, then she dabbed at a tiny scar indent beside her right eye. Frank removed his hands from his pockets and glanced at his Rolex.

"That's fine for them," he said, "but I can't see any reason to waste money on gambling."

Laila stiffened in her chair while her husband adjusted the silk necktie she'd picked out for him. It harmonized with his power suit, giving a touch of sophistication to his rugged demeanor. Without such refinements, he'd more closely resemble a retired prize fighter than a business mogul. The gray fabric of the suit complemented his aggressively styled hair.

Laila began to speak, but pounding noises intruded through the ceiling, cutting her off. Frank glanced up with annoyance, then looked back toward his wife's face in the mirror.

"Do you think I got where I am today by gambling?" he said.

"Well, no."

"You've got that right. Gambling is strictly for suckers."

"There's more than just gambling in Las Vegas," Laila said.

"Such as?"

"We could go see Hoover Dam. Then there's live entertainment, and shopping – and fine restaurants."

She turned toward Frank and gave an alluring smile. "We first met at a fine restaurant, remember?"

Frank ignored her charm attempt.

"It's all just a waste of time and money," he said. "I've got a hell of a lot of more important things to do than go traipsing off to the desert."

Laila turned back toward her mirror. "You don't have to come if you don't want. I could go without you."

Frank's eyes widened. He took a step toward her. His movement conveyed enough belligerence to make Laila flinch.

"I'll be _damned_ if any wife of mine is going to run around Las Vegas by herself!"

Laila recovered her composure. "I wouldn't be by myself. I could take a friend."

"Back to your friends, eh?"

"Well ... maybe Debbie would like to go. She could use a break from Henry and the boys."

"You know she wouldn't be interested in that sort of thing," Frank said. "What's gotten into you?"

"I could ask her."

Frank made a slashing gesture with his right hand – the one he used when decapitating a topic.

"The answer is no, and that's final!"

More pounding came through the ceiling, adding to Frank's irritation.

"How long are they going to keep up that infernal racket?" he said.

"As long as it takes, I suppose."

The life had gone out of her voice. Laila slumped, defeated, in her vanity chair.

"Well, I'm going to give those bums a piece of my mind," Frank said.

He turned abruptly and stalked out of the room. His decisive, take-no-crap footsteps moved down the hall and descended to the ground floor. Laila remained seated, fuming into her mirror.

"All right, whatever you say, _Mr. Big Shot_ ," she muttered.

Outrage filled Laila's heart, along with feelings of helplessness and a desire to hit back. But like most people, she was overawed by her husband. Standing up to him was out of the question. He'd never been violent to her during the eleven years of their marriage, nor even verbally hostile – except on the occasions when she really 'deserved it,' like now.

He didn't have to be violent. The world naturally twisted itself around to accommodate Frank Armstrong. Laila formed her hand into a mock pistol and turned it toward the open door. She pulled the trigger.

" _Pe-tuuu!"_

$ $ $

Frank strode purposefully from the staircase, determined to find out why the workers were still pounding on the roof when, by his estimation, they should have finished the job long ago.

"By God, they'll get a piece of my mind! I'm not paying them to jerk around."

His anger at Laila needed an outlet, and the hapless roofers would have to do. No ... he wasn't really _angry_ at her, he decided, just annoyed. Were he totally honest, he'd admit to feeling threatened. What had gotten into his previously docile wife – why this sudden dissatisfaction?

Hadn't he bought her everything she could possibly want? Luxury car, jewelry, clothes and shoes galore, a top end computer. Did he ever quibble about the expense?

Now she was talking about running off to Las Vegas with her friends. He knew what her friends were capable of, and he didn't like it one bit. The remark about Debbie was just a sop. His daughter-in-law was too much of a straight arrow for all that. Hell, she didn't even drink.

His cell phone rang, strong and assertive like Frank himself – the theme song from the old _Bonanza_ TV show. Ordinarily he enjoyed the aggressive sound, but now it added to his ill humor. He yanked the phone from his jacket pocket. It was his son.

"What do you need, Henry?" Frank barked into the phone.

At the hyper-masculine sound of the _Blow-nanza_ ringtone, as Frank called it, Laila stood up from her chair. She quietly left her room and took an eavesdropping position at the second floor railing. This was her customary spot for monitoring events on the ground floor.

"Everything's always important with you lawyer types, isn't it?" Frank was saying. "You can't leave things well enough alone."

_What does that mean?_ Laila wondered. _What things does Henry want to change?_

She had zero trust for her 'step son.' She was well aware of his animosity toward her, and that of his sister, too. Suspicion rose in Laila's mind, dark and threatening like a bogeyman jumping out of the closet in broad daylight. Her heart beat faster, and she felt hot, despite the air conditioning.

"Look, Henry," Frank said, "I don't have time to talk about this now. We'll discuss it later."

He terminated the call and strode out the back door, grumbling.

Laila descended the stairs. Everything about her spoke of understated class – from her elegantly casual clothes, to her manicure, to her tasteful makeup. She moved gracefully but with an odd tentativeness, as if insecure about her position in the world. She could not remove this timid aspect from her body language. In her mind, she was never far away from the cocktail waitress she'd once been.

## 2.Rooftop Follies

Up on the roof, under the glorious sunshine, two men blasted away with nail guns amid a large area of newly installed shingles. The older man, Gus the Roofer, was the owner of the company, and the younger one was a new hire learning the ropes.

The trainee spotted Frank Armstrong exiting the back door and striding aggressively their direction.

"Uh oh. Looks like we're going to have company, Boss."

Gus looked up from his work and felt his acid reflux kick in. The bright sun on the rooftop chilled.

"Not again," he groaned.

Frank approached the ladder against the house and glowered up at the men on the roof. Another worker, who was standing on the ground by the ladder, backed off.

"Are you guys going to take all day up there?" Frank yelled. "It sounds like a war going on inside the house."

He couldn't know just how accurate that bit of imagery was.

Gus moved toward the edge of the roof and peered at the angry man standing on the ground below him.

"Sorry, Mr. Armstrong," he said. "A lot of wood was rotted around the leak. We had to replace all of it."

"You didn't say anything about that before," Frank shot back.

"We didn't know how bad it was then," Gus said. "We had to tear the shingles off before we could see the full extent of the damage."

"Is that so?" Frank huffed. "Let me have a look."

He pushed past the workman and mounted the ladder.

After a surprised moment recovering from the rebuff, the workman seized the ladder and steadied it. _Jerk!_ he thought.

Unnoticed by everyone, Laila exited the back door. She began to say something but thought better of it. Anything she tried to say would be ignored, she knew from long experience. So, she just stood on the patio, arms folded, and observed the course of events.

Frank climbed to the upper rungs of the ladder and glowered at the repair work.

"You mean that little area?" he said scornfully. "How long would it take you guys to do a really big job?" He turned his gaze to the trainee. "You don't look old enough to be up here. Are you one of those illegal immigrants?"

The trainee wilted under Frank's ire and looked to Gus for direction, but the boss seemed equally cowed.

"I've got some important projects coming up," Frank said, "and I just might be calling somebody else. You guys aren't the only contractors, you know."

Gus swallowed hard. He badly needed the work on the estate and on other properties owned by Frank Armstrong, but he detested the abuse he'd had to endure from the man. Sure, Armstrong paid top dollar, but he seemed to think he owned the company, and everybody in it.

_You need a comeuppance, pal,_ Gus thought.

Acting on pique, he gave a surreptitious hand signal to his employee on the ground. The workman stepped away from the ladder, releasing his hold on it.

"Really, Mr. Armstrong," Gus said, "it was a lot worse than you think."

"Yeah?" Frank said. "Show me."

He took another step up. The unsupported ladder wobbled dangerously under him, and Frank struggled to recover.

"What the hell!"

Gus feigned alarm, but inside he was grinning. "Careful, Mr. Armstrong!"

Things spun out of control. The workman on the ground reached for the ladder, but was too late to stabilize it. Frank tumbled off, cursing violently. He hurtled through the air, silk tie fluttering.

During this moment of terror, Frank Armstrong seemed to vacate his body. He was hovering above it, observing the disaster from the heavens, like a powerless guardian angel. Then he hit the lawn with a resounding _thump!_ An agonizing reunion between body and soul, sharp pain in his wrist.

The onlookers gaped with shock. Then the trainee broke out in a grin.

"That was some trick, Boss," he said in a low voice.

"I was only trying to scare him a little," Gus said, "get him off our backs."

"Uh huh."

The trainee did not sound fully convinced. They both leaned over the edge and watched Frank writhing on the lawn amid a cloud of curses.

"I didn't think he'd take a nosedive," Gus said.

"Ah, he'll live ... unfortunately," the trainee said.

"Well, at least we've been chewed out for the last time, I suppose."

Gus experienced a sinking feeling at the thought of the lost revenue from the Armstrong contracts. Upgrades to his equipment would have to be put on hold – not to mention the fishing trip he'd been planning for Canada, the same place he'd seen on the _Wandering Willie Fishing Adventures_ TV program. But he also felt a sense of justice attained, even if the price was high.

_Serves the bastard right_.

Laila stood rooted to the patio, trying to recover from her astonishment. Finally, she overcame the paralysis. She rushed to her husband and sank to her knees beside him.

"Are you all right, Frank?"

"My wrist ... I think it's broken."

Laila raised her eyes from her stricken husband to the older of the two men gaping down at her from the roof. They exchanged a meaningful look.

Laila's glance said, _"I know what you did, and you know that I know. So don't play innocent."_

Gus shrank back. To his coming financial hit he added the threat of prosecution and jail – and who knew what else these rich people could do to him? The world turned suddenly dark and ominous. He considered taking a dive off the roof himself.

Laila stood up.

"What are you looking at?" she yelled. "Finish up and get out of here!"

"Yes, ma'am." Gus pulled back from the edge, not certain if he should be terrified or relieved.

The sound of blasting nail guns filled the morning air again. Bert Nagy, the grounds keeper, trotted up, winded from the exertion on his large, overweight frame.

"What happened?" he said.

"What's it look like, dumbbell?" Frank said. "I busted my ass falling off that ladder."

Nagy pushed back his _Bert's Landscaping Service_ cap and glanced at Laila. She looked back sympathetically.

"I'll call 911," Bert said.

He produced his cell phone and stabbed in the numbers. His manner was cool and calm, despite his being so disheveled. He seemed like a veteran football player collecting himself after a hard game.

Bert spoke into his phone: "We've had a man fall off the roof ... Yes, he's conscious and able to move ..."

"Hurry up, dammit," Frank said. "This hurts like hell!"

Bert ignored the abuse.

"We're in the back of the house," he said. "The address is ..."

Laila observed Bert with calculating interest, admired his efficiency and grace under pressure. He seemed a tower of strength amid all the chaos. She looked down coolly at her husband. Wheels began turning in her head, leading down shadowy corridors.

"Don't worry, Frank," she said. "Everything will be fine."

## 3.At the Hospital

Some hours later, Frank Armstrong was ensconced in his private hospital room, sitting up in bed with a cast on his right wrist.

He also wore silk pajamas and a thunderous frown. Laila occupied one of the room's two cushioned chairs. Even amid the drab, antiseptic decor with its _Positively No Smoking!_ sign, she looked elegant and poised, notwithstanding the fatigued expression on her face.

She'd never seen Frank in such a reduced state, didn't know what to make of it. He seemed to have shrunk to half his previous size. Always he'd been hale and hearty, a veritable Rock of Gibraltar among the lesser men. Even the cardiac incident last year had hardly dented his image. He'd simply brushed it off and continued on his way, dominating the world around him, as usual.

Her cell phone began playing the theme from _Gone with the Wind_. Frank scowled. He didn't like that movie much, with its romanticized depiction of the Old South.

"Bunch of damned slave holders, they deserved to get the hell kicked out of them," he'd once commented to Laila. "I wish I'd been there to see it."

He'd had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he truly regretted missing the burning of Atlanta If nothing else, the rebuilding contracts would have been lucrative.

Laila answered her phone. "Hi, Sharese!"

A bright smile spread over her face, and Frank gave her another irritated look. For some reason, he disliked Sharese. His antipathy was a recent phenomenon, just another of his many quirks, Laila reasoned, not worth discussing. She got out of her chair.

"Excuse me, Frank. I'll take this outside."

Her husband grunted approval. She left the room and walked toward the small lounge area at the end of the corridor.

"Who were you talking to?" Sharese asked. "Was it Frank?"

"Yes."

"Am I interrupting something hot?"

"Hardly. We're at the hospital."

Sharese's joking tone became abruptly serious. "What happened – are you all right?"

"It's Frank. He broke his wrist falling off the roof. He's okay."

"Falling off the roof!" Sharese said. "Let me guess, he was up there bawling out some workmen, right?"

"Something like that."

"Sounds just like him. Give him my get well wishes."

"Thanks, I will."

Laila was at the lounge entrance now. She glanced back down the hallway of 'Millionaire Row,' the wing of private rooms catering to the upper crust of the sick and injured. Laila figured that on any given day, the net worth of the occupants must be enough to buy the hospital many times over and all the people working in it, too.

Rumor had it a particular mogul kept a suite on permanent reservation, just in case he might need it some day. The cumulative rent must have been astronomical.

"Is Henry there?" Sharese asked.

"Oh, he'll probably show up soon," Laila said, "unless he's got some big case to handle."

"Yes, well ..."

Sharese seemed to want to talk more about Henry Armstrong, but she let the subject fade. A momentary silence ensued.

Laila glanced at the oil painting reproductions adorning the walls. Some were in dubious taste for a hospital setting. The desolate seascape hanging inside the lounge could not have cheered anyone's heart, and the opulent Thanksgiving dinner scene back toward the nurses' station would not be appreciated by people on restricted diets.

"I just called to remind you about the Musketelles' luncheon tomorrow at Gemrock," Sharese said. "You're still planning to come? I mean, Frank is doing ok, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Laila said. "I'll be there."

"Of course!" Sharese said. "Where would we be without our 4th Musketelle? All for one and the rest of that stuff."

"Right," Laila said. "How are the others?"

"We're all doing fine."

Laila gazed down the dreary corridor. It seemed to go on for a meaningless infinity.

_Just how 'fine' am I doing?_ she wondered.

"Nichole's husband opened another branch office," Sharese said. "I'm sure she'll tell you all about it."

"That's good."

"Well ... I'll let you go, then," Sharese said. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

Laila walked back toward Frank's room. The trip seemed to take much longer than necessary. She had the odd sensation of walking in place while the floor moved under her feet.

Back in the room, dark suspicion gnawed at Frank Armstrong. Perhaps his accident this morning had not been so accidental. He was not very experienced at scaling ladders, but the damn thing had seemed to be very unstable. Shouldn't it have been secured somehow – what about that dope on the ground, shouldn't he have been hanging on to it better?

During the time his wife was away blabbing with her friend, he felt increasing isolation and loneliness. He knew such feelings well. They'd often bedeviled him over the years, and he'd fought hard against them.

He'd been fighting his entire life. Against his worthless brothers and jerk of a step father, fighting at school and in the military where he'd served a brief period until he got discharged for belting an NCO. Then he'd fought in the business world where he'd struggled his way up from the absolute bottom.

Maybe it's time to quit fighting so much.

The thought struck him hard. Before he could consider its ramifications, his wife came back in.

The emotional boost she'd gotten from talking to Sharese vanished when Laila reentered the room. Frank looked even more testy and out of sorts than when she'd left.

"Sharese sends her get-well wishes."

Frank grunted.

Dr. Keating arrived soon afterwards looking rushed and frazzled, as per usual, and older than he actually was. The thinning gray hair, stooped shoulders, and pasty complexion made him look worn out.

_Here's a guy in need of some great sex,_ Laila thought.

"Hello, Mrs. Armstrong," he said.

"Hello, Doctor."

Dr. Keating gazed reluctantly at his patient from over his half-moon reading glasses, then shuffled through the papers on his clipboard. He appeared to be steeling himself for a difficult task. Finally, he presented his unwelcome advice.

"A man with your heart condition shouldn't be climbing around on roofs, Mr. Armstrong," he said.

"I was standing on a ladder, Doc," Frank snapped, "not climbing on the roof."

Dr. Keating flinched slightly, but soon recovered his professional demeanor. "Even so, after your cardiac episode last year – "

"It was only a bit of angina," Frank said.

Dr. Keating looked resignedly down at his clipboard. Years of battling with Frank Armstrong had left him weary. His stomach felt sour; maybe he was experiencing angina pains himself. He gathered his forces for one more approach.

"You need to slow down a bit, Mr. Armstrong," he said. "I'd like to keep you here another day for some tests."

"No!"

"Please, Frank, listen to Dr. Keating," Laila said. "It's for your own good."

Frank glowered at her, then back at Keating – resentful and distrusting – as if he expected better news from somebody he was paying so much.

"Oh, all right, Doc," he said, "but just one more day. At least I won't have to listen to any more complaints at home for a while."

Laila recoiled with embarrassment in her chair. She felt her cheeks flush. Dr. Keating gave her a knowing glance, then looked back toward Frank.

"Very well, Mr. Armstrong," he said. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."

"Yes, do that," Frank said. "It sounds like a fun time."

Dr. Keating left the room, rather hastily, as if he were escaping a den of big cats at the zoo.

"Damned money grubbers," Frank muttered. "They'd run tests on a dead man if they thought they'd get paid for it."

## 4.Prince Henry Demurs

Henry Armstrong twisted with irritation in the uncomfortable folding chair, struggling to keep the ennui from showing on his face.

He pushed aside his plate of rubbery chicken. Would the tortuous speech droning into his ears never end? He consulted his Rolex, then glanced about the erstwhile bingo parlor trying to gauge the reactions of others in the audience. They all wore expressions of rapt attention.

_Bunch of ass-kissers,_ he thought.

The Democratic Club president shot him a glance across the table. Henry parried with a polite little smile and nod.

_Why yes,_ Henry's gestures conveyed, _I'm enjoying the hell out of this._

Again, he was struck by what a nonentity the club president was. The man's droopy, plebian face, cheap clothes, and thinning hair hardly indicated a man of substance. Although, to admit the truth, Henry's hair was also beginning to take its leave these days.

Except for the retreating hairline, he looked a lot like his father. Before they got to know him better, people assumed he also possessed Frank's dynamism and strength. But it didn't take long before they concluded Henry wasn't quite the chip off the old block he'd seemed at first.

Not that Henry didn't have his own capabilities, but they were of a more devious sort than his father's. Frank Armstrong had all the subtlety of a bulldozer, while Henry believed in the undermining approach and the flank attack. He was also a very capable lawyer who, at age 32, was bucking for a full partnership at his firm.

Still, people regarded him as a much lesser man than his father. It was an impression he was working hard to dispel. His recent foray into local politics had been a move in that direction.

This Democratic Club luncheon was worse than usual with its bad food and keynote address by a labor union boss – a real mucky muck inside the Party who nobody dared to confront about his dreadful oratory.

Stirring exhortations issued nonstop from the speaker's platform:

"Ours is the only true party of the people!" the union boss declared.

_Screw the people, already,_ Henry thought. _I'm sick of hearing about them._

"The Democratic Party has never failed to promote the will of the average man."

_The average man is an idiot!_ Henry thought acidly, echoing one of his father's pet sentiments.

Henry knew how much the union boss earned in salary and perks, not to mention the generous pension he'd be collecting down the road. Despite this ample remuneration, the guy wore a cheap, off the rack suit and a polyester tie. He was trying to prove his solidarity with the 'average man,' no doubt. Then again, if the guy was better dressed, he'd look even more like a Mafia don than he already did.

Henry felt distinctly out of place in his tailored power suit. This was not the correct attire, even for the inner circle attending the luncheon. The real average men were out working for a living so their dues could pay the fat salary of the union boss.

Why the hell did I join the Democratic Party, anyway?

He'd had some vague idea of running for office, a judgeship maybe, becoming a mucky muck himself – be his own man and finally emerge from his father's shadow.

But the move had really pissed off Dad, which wasn't wise – even if tweaking the old bull's ear had been amusing at first. Dad was a thoroughgoing right winger who had not use for the Democrats.

But Frank Armstrong could astonish, too, acting in ways that seemed to belie his pugnacious demeanor. How much of it was show and how much genuine? There was still a lot to learn about the old man. At least Henry had learned something from his brief political experience.

He'd found out that money talked in the Democratic Party, as it did everyplace else, and that he didn't have enough. What he needed was a fast track into Dad's wealth and connections, not membership in a political party he loathed.

Well ... that could all change soon. If he could get the reorganization plan implemented and deal out that gold digger cocktail waitress, Henry's star would truly begin to rise. It would be the best thing for Dad, too, who was getting older and was not in the best of health. It was time father and son began pulling the load together.

One thing was certain – Henry's days with the Democratic Party were at an end. He needed to get on his father's good side, and ditching this socialistic gang would be a useful first step. Now, if he could just escape this damned luncheon without making a scene.

As if in answer to a prayer, Henry's phone began tickling his ribs. He'd set it on vibrate so as not disturb these 'important' proceedings, but now he was desperate for any diversion. He pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket. The call was from his older sister, Patricia.

The club president looked at him questioningly.

"Excuse me," Henry said, "I need to take this."

The president nodded and turned his attention back to the speaker.

"Hello, Sis," Henry said in a low voice.

"Hello, Henny," Patricia said. "Why so quiet – you at a funeral or something?"

He disliked the nickname _Henny_ she'd given him when they were kids. It made him feel diminished, but he'd been unable to dissuade her from using it. At least she didn't speak it often – just when she wanted to let him know who the real power sibling was.

"I just got a call from Debbie," Patricia said. "Dad's in the hospital."

_Heart attack!_ were the first words to enter Henry's mind. He sat bolt upright and spoke too loudly.

"How is he?"

The president and the other attendees turned their faces toward him with raised eyebrows. The union boss skipped a beat in his oration.

"Not too bad, apparently," Patricia said. "Just a broken wrist he got falling off a ladder."

"Ohhh ... Why didn't you say that in the first place? You scared the hell out of me."

He felt genuine concern for his father, and mixed in with this filial devotion was relief that Frank would not be checking out before the reorganization plan could be put in place.

"I'm on my way there now," Patricia said.

"Belmont Hospital?"

"Yeah. If you're going, can you give me a ride home?"

"Sure thing, Sis. I'll see you there."

Henry was on his feet now, taking leave of those at his table, making a perfunctory nod to the speaker. Then he was out the door and striding through the parking lot to his car.

He noticed he was still wearing a campaign button on his lapel for a local candidate. With one artful motion, he pulled the button off and flung it over his shoulder. On the way out, he ground it under a tire.

## 5.The Great Patricia Arrives

Patricia Armstrong terminated the call to her younger brother and dropped the phone into her purse with a decisive motion reminiscent of her father's abrupt gestures.

_This ought to be quite a family reunion at the hospital,_ she thought sourly.

Still, she could not help but smile at Henry's initial panic reaction. It had been fun to yank his chain a bit. He deserved it.

When people looked at Patricia, the words _power sex_ came to mind, and members of both genders desired to make her acquaintance. She'd inherited her mother's beauty along with her father's toughness. She blended the strong points of her heritage well, although the severe look her face often assumed in unguarded moments spoke to the fact that she favored Frank more than her mother. She was the true inheritor of the family _cojones_.

At 33, she was two years older than her despised 'step mother,' Laila. Patricia would probably have to confront her at the hospital today. That promised to be a real 'grin and bear it' situation. Dad was fond of his little bauble, and any overt hostility toward her wouldn't be smart.

Patricia cracked the passenger side window and lit a cigarette. Her rule of three cigarettes per day would have to be violated. The news of her father's accident had stressed her out badly. He'd seemed like a force of nature who would always be strong and towering. But fallibility was starting to undermine him, as it eventually did every other man.

She blew out a heavy puff of smoke, observing the airstream suck it out the window. She settled back in the leather seat, savoring its luxurious aroma, and contemplated the direction her life was going. Until today, it had seemed to be pretty good, but now she realized she'd been letting things slide too much. If she wasn't careful, they might slide away from her all together.

She'd taken the endowment Frank provided her upon graduation and parlayed it into a tidy little fortune through intelligent investments and shrewd backing of start up companies. She'd seemed on her way to becoming a real power player, but fast success lulled her into a life of ease. While her money worked for her, she indulged her artistic side as an amateur fashion designer – and her erotic side with numerous sexual adventures.

She looked across her car toward Kristen in the driver's seat. The girl was scrumptious with her masses of genuine blonde hair and innocent face, but she was really just another young, bi-curious tourist. The relationship wouldn't last much longer, Patricia knew from experience. In any case, she was starting to get bored with the girl. Time to move on to another one soon.

Not that she had anything against men. They were _wonderful_ diversions, but they were hard to dominate – and the ones she could dominate, she didn't respect.

"Is this where I turn?" Kristen asked.

"Yeah," Patricia said. "The hospital will be coming up on the right side."

Kristen made the requisite maneuvers. Patricia loved the way the girl's bracelets tinkled on her wrist as she turned the wheel. It made Patricia regret she was going to Belmont hospital rather than straight to her bedroom.

Kristen pulled the car up to the visitor entrance. "Would you like me to wait for you?"

"No, just go do your shopping. My brother's driving me back. See you at home."

"Okay, thanks."

Patricia wanted a kiss, but there were people hanging around the entrance, and who needed the judgmental stares? So, she just got out of her car and watched Kristen drive off with it. They'd been on their way to a clothes shopping date when the call from Debbie arrived.

This nasty surprise had ruined her day. What the hell was Dad doing up on a ladder like that?

Well, Kristen would have to get along without her. The credit card Patricia supplied would ease the pain of separation. And tonight, Kristen would express her gratitude. Patricia smiled in anticipation of the 'thank you sex' as she entered the hospital lobby.

She made a bee line for the gift shop – not that Dad would appreciate anything she bought for him. That was his style, and it was her style to buy him a gift, anyway. Despite his gruff demeanor, he'd be upset if she didn't bring him something. She understood this about Frank Armstrong, as she was a lot like him.

Patricia selected a beautiful arrangement of red roses from the display case and gave them to the shop girl for wrapping.

"We sell a lot of those, when they're available," the girl said. "We got in a fresh shipment this morning."

"Is that so?" Patricia said coldly. "How nice."

The curt, borderline sarcastic remark rather nonplussed the salesgirl.

"Yes, well ... I'll just get them ready," she said. "Would you like a card?"

"That won't be necessary."

Patricia hadn't meant to be so abrupt. She was just pissed off because the girl was beautiful and sexy – and totally straight. Patricia had developed a fine eye for such things and knew this girl was off limits. She'd have to look elsewhere for Kristen's replacement.

Even so, Patricia enjoyed watching the girl wrap the flowers and work the register keys for the cash purchase. She had truly beautiful hands.

"Have a nice day," the salesgirl said, handing Patricia the flowers.

"You, too," Patricia replied, less coldly now.

She turned away from the unobtainable girl and brought the flowers toward her face.

Lovely!

The fragrance brought serenity into the hectic day. Patricia closed her eyes and forgot about the looming departure of Kristen, about her grumpy, difficult father and his broken wrist – about the cocktail waitress lurking in the background like a spider waiting to seize the family wealth.

She didn't notice her brother walking into the gift shop.

## 6.The Plan Disclosed

Henry stood by the doorway and observed his older sister from across the gift shop's narrow expanse.

She had her face smothered in a bouquet of roses and was enjoying some kind of reverie. That was just like her, an artistic junkie always appreciating the 'beauty of the world' whether it was the scent of flowers or an attractive woman.

He knew of her lesbian relationships; hell, she'd phoned him more than once to commiserate when one of her affairs went south. Otherwise, they never discussed their peccadillos – especially not around their father. The old bull was very conservative and didn't take kindly to any hint of unseemliness. He'd stuck it out with Mom, hadn't he? That must have a tough row to hoe, with her drinking an all, until the discovery of her sexual transgressions allowed him to cut her loose.

Except for Patricia's supple moral code, she was lot like Dad. Henry had chafed under her domineering attitude when they were kids. He still felt it and resented it a great deal.

He began walking toward his sister with as much authoritativeness as he could muster. But despite the power suit covering his moderate paunch and the Rolex strapped to his wrist, he lacked any trace of his father's aggressive persona. He stopped beside her, still unnoticed.

"Hi, Patricia," he said, a bit too loudly.

She jerked her head up, startled, from the depths of the bouquet. "Oh ... hi, Henry. Is Debbie coming?"

"She'll be stopping by later with the boys. They're on their way to soccer practice."

"That's nice."

She primped the bouquet, closing the flowers' ranks where her face had pressed in. She looked irritated at herself for jumping the way she had. For a moment, Henry felt like the obnoxious little brother from years ago. He enjoyed exacting payback for the phone call.

"Nice roses," he said.

"Yeah, I hope Dad likes them."

"Good luck with that, Sis. Appreciation is not his strong point."

"Thanks for reminding me of that."

Henry pulled a sentimental _Get well soon, Dad_ card from the display. It was white and flowery with an attached ribbon. He shook his head and put the card back.

"We'll just say the flowers are from both of us," Patricia said.

"Good idea."

Henry reached for his wallet.

"It's all right," Patricia said, "I've got it."

Henry smiled. "Thanks, Sis, I'll owe you one."

"No problem."

They shared a brief moment of semi-intimacy. It almost seemed like 'old times' again, whatever that was supposed to mean. Then Henry's manner turned serious.

"I imagine the cocktail waitress is here, too," he said.

"No doubt. She's probably hoping Dad never gets out of this place, unless it's in a box."

"I'm just wondering if she didn't push him off that ladder," Henry said.

"I wouldn't put it past her."

They silently chewed their resentments. Patricia's was supercharged by the knowledge that Laila was younger and more attractive than herself – and unobtainable.

"That couldn't be it, though," Henry said. "Debbie told me there were witnesses. Laila was nowhere near the ladder when it happened. It was just Dad's bull-headedness again."

"To think he tossed over Mom for her," Patricia said.

"At least Mom's not around to see it, any more."

The painful memory of their mother's solo crash into a bridge abutment ten years ago barged into Henry's mind. It was her third drunk driving accident – three strikes and you're out.

They walked together toward the gift shop door. The sales clerk watched them go with a sigh of relief.

"You're a lawyer," Patricia said. "You know there isn't any justice in the world."

"Yes, well, maybe there is some justice," Henry replied.

"Oh?"

They were outside the gift shop now and heading for the elevator bank.

"There have been some changes in the law that could work to our favor – to Dad's favor," Henry said.

"So, tell me about them."

"It works like this . . ."

As they walked slowly across the lobby's expanse, Henry outlined the reorganization plan he'd developed for their dad's business. They had to move aside for somebody pushing a wheelchair. This interrupted Henry's train of thought, and he shot an annoyed glance at the people. Patricia looked on, unmoved.

They stopped briefly at the visitors' desk, then on to the elevators. Henry had completed his summarization by then.

"So, what do you think about it, Sis?" he asked, pushing the _Up_ button.

Warning signals were going off in Patricia's mind, but she played along. Henry would go ahead with his plans, anyway, and she might as well appear to be on his side. She'd find out more that way, and maybe the plan Henry was advocating would be the best thing. Now was not the time to object, in any case.

"You've got something there," she said. "Dad might go for it."

They got onto the empty elevator car. As the door began to close, two people rushed to get on. Henry and Patricia watched indifferently as the door slid shut, blotting out the nobodies.

They ran into Dr. Keating as they got off the elevator. The poor man was hustling down the corridor with his clipboard, like a frightened rabbit escaping a fox. Patricia couldn't resist the temptation.

"Hello, Doctor," she said, rather too loudly.

Keating flinched and looked up from his clipboard.

"Oh ... hello Patricia, Henry," he said.

Patricia smiled, somewhat malevolently. It was fun to watch somebody jump out of their skin.

"How's Dad doing?" she asked.

"The wrist fracture isn't too bad," Dr. Keating said. "I'm a lot more concerned about his blood pressure."

"Aren't we all?" Patricia said.

"Maybe you could talk to him about it?" Dr. Keating asked. "I'm afraid he takes my advice with a very large grain of salt."

"Okay," Henry said. "We'll pass on your concerns."

"Good luck with that, Bro," Patricia said.

"Yes, well ... good day, then," Dr. Keating said.

He hurried away down the hall.

"The doc looked scared of his own shadow," Henry said.

"Yeah, only Dad's no shadow," Patricia said.

## 7.Tense Visit

Frank's unrelenting grouchiness surprised even himself.

Pain and insecurity were taking him far outside his comfort zone. He was lashing out without understanding why. He'd had a bad scare, especially the 'out of body' experience part, and he didn't know how to handle it. All his defense mechanisms bristled.

Henry and Patricia arrived.

Frank looked up testily from his bed as his two offspring entered the room. Laila rose from her chair and smeared a pleasant smile across her face.

"Hello, everyone," Henry said with mock heartiness.

"Henry, Patricia," Laila said, "how good of you to come."

Patricia also pasted on a smile and gave Laila a perfunctory clasp with her free hand.

"Nice to see you again, Laila," she said. "You're well, I hope?"

Before Laila could answer, Patricia moved over to Frank and, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, kissed his leathery cheek.

"How are you feeling, Dad?"

"Like warmed over crap."

"Oh, things can't be all that bad," Patricia said. "Are those the pajamas I got you last Christmas?"

"Yep."

Frank wrinkled his nose and shied away from the flowers his daughter held in her other arm. His frown deepened.

"Jesus Christ, I'm not dead yet!"

Patricia placed the flower arrangement on the side table. Her face bore an annoyed, though resigned, expression.

"You're welcome, Dad."

She noticed a little tent card on the table. It sported a picture of a smiling woman in a blue-flowered top standing next to a machine that looked something like the R2D2 robot from _Star Wars_. A message accompanied the photo:

You have been admitted to a thoroughly disinfected room. This will reduce the possibility of getting a hospital acquired infection.

"It smells like a goddamn funeral parlor in here," Frank said. "Are you going to wheel in a coffin next?"

Patricia turned to her father and studied him with mock seriousness.

"Mmm ... no," she said. "You still seem plenty chipper."

"Not if the doctors get their way," Frank said. "They've already snagged me for another 24 hours in this lousy place."

"The rest will do you good, Dad," Henry said.

"Rest? They're going to run a bunch of tests on me – stick me full of needles like a voodoo doll."

Henry plopped into the extra chair and loosened his necktie. He always wanted to loosen his tie when his father was around. It was harder to breath at such times.

"So, how's the politician doing?" Frank inquired sarcastically. "Out canvassing for votes? You'd better make it quick, half the people in this joint will be dead by tomorrow."

Henry feigned a good-natured chuckle. "Nope. I'm all done with those Party people. You can't talk sense to them."

"Well, at least there's some good news today," Frank said. "Now I can die happy."

"Oh, Dad," Patricia said, "don't talk like that."

She sat at the foot of the bed while Laila resumed her chair. An awkward silence descended as Laila and her two 'step children' sized each other up like kids on a playground.

"Don't everybody talk at once," Frank said.

Henry's wife, Debbie, mercifully broke the stalemate by entering the room. Frank's face brightened, and a smile crossed his lips for the first time that day.

"Well, hi there," he said.

"Hello, Dad," Debbie replied.

She was quite pretty in a wholesome 'girl next door' way, and her casual, though expensive, soccer mom clothes complemented her appearance well. Only the harried look on her face presented a distraction.

Laila stood up and embraced her warmly. "I'm so glad you could make it, Debbie."

"You're looking great, as always," Debbie said.

The couple's two boys – Jeff and Ronny, ages 11 and 12 – bounded into the room wearing their soccer uniforms. The uniforms were bright yellow with black accents. One could get the impression that two large, venomous bees had forced their way in.

"Hi Grandpa! Hi Aunt Patricia!" they said in unison.

Debbie nudged them.

"Oh ... hi Laila," they said.

Debbie moved to the bed and gave Frank a hug. "How are you, Dad?"

"Not too bad, thanks." Frank patted Debbie's hand affectionately. "Wonderful to see you again."

Patricia and Henry shifted in their seats, irked by this obvious show of preference their father made for Debbie. Laila looked toward Henry, but he made no move to get up. She then gestured to her own vacated chair.

"Won't you sit down, Debbie?" she said.

"No thanks, we can only stay a minute."

Henry leaned around the obstruction of his wife and addressed Frank directly.

"The doctor's right, Dad," he said. "You've got to slow down a bit. Keep the old blood pressure in the ball park."

"Ach!" Frank replied.

"Yeah, no more taking on the whole world by yourself," Patricia said.

"Somebody needs to take on this lousy world," Frank said. "It may as well be me."

Henry and Patricia exchanged a weary glance. Henry soldiered on.

"You know, Dad," he said, "those roofers would have probably got on well enough without your input."

"Bunch of slackers!" Frank said.

"Sometimes I think you hire people just so you can give them a hard time," Patricia said. "I wouldn't want to be on your payroll."

Frank grunted, but he seemed to enjoy the remark.

"Who was that fat landscape guy you had the run in with last summer?" Henry asked. "You know, when he messed up the flower garden."

"I wish I could have seen that," Patricia said.

"Bert Nagy," Frank said. "I would have fired his ass long ago if it wasn't for my wife. She's got a soft spot for all losers."

Again, Laila was stunned and embarrassed by Frank's insensitivity. Debbie gave her a sympathetic look; nobody else did.

"Do you still carry that nine millimeter automatic in your pocket, Dad?" Henry asked. He turned toward Patricia. "Remember when we were kids and he pulled it on that snotty mechanic?"

"Yeah, the poor jerk turned white as a sheet!"

"Then he threatened to call the cops, remember?" Henry said.

Henry, Patricia, and the boys laughed. Frank sported a malicious grin. Debbie and Laila did not share the mirth.

"How much did you pay the guy to shut him up, Dad?" Henry asked.

"I don't remember, but it was worth it just to see the look on his face staring down that gun barrel." Frank mimed a gun with his fingers. "Pow!"

His various offspring roared with laughter. Debbie and Laila looked alarmed.

"How many people have you killed, Grandpa?" Jeff asked.

"Oh, not that many," Frank said, "only when I had to."

"Well – I think we really ought to be going now," Debbie said.

"I want to hear about Grandpa's killing spree!" Ronny protested. "Back before he got old and stuff."

"We're already late for soccer practice," Debbie said. "You want to be ready for the playoffs, don't you?"

"Listen to your mother, boys," Henry said.

"Okay, Dad," Ronny said with obvious disappointment.

"It'll have to be some other time, Ace," Frank said. He also sounded a bit disappointed.

Laila stood. "I think I'll be going, too."

"Not on our account, Laila," Patricia said with thinly veiled insincerity.

"It's been a long day for me," Laila said. "I'll just let you three catch up on things."

"Bye, Grandpa!" the boys yelled and took off into the hall.

Laila and Debbie bid farewell to Frank and his crew. Then they left together.

## 8.Revelation

The boys ran ahead of Laila and Debbie like a pair of obnoxious, high-spirited puppies, laughing and kicking a paper cup along the floor. Patients and staff members looked on with disapproval.

"Boys!" Debbie called after them, but her effort at control was ignored.

They passed a dour looking RN at the nurses' station and took the elevator down. In the lobby, they had to wait for a group of visitors to get through the exit doors ahead of them. The visitors accompanied a wheelchair bound patient hooked up to an oxygen tank.

Not to be delayed, the boys rushed onward, cutting rudely ahead of the other people and out the door.

"I'm so sorry," Debbie said. "They're a bit rambunctious today."

The visitors scowled; the patient snorted around his oxygen tube. The group proceeded through the door and took up station on the concrete expanse outside. Laila and Debbie followed them out and walked into the parking lot. The boys ran ahead.

"Watch out for cars!" Debbie yelled.

Laila inhaled the fresh air gratefully. Escaping the Armstrong clan was akin to exiting a pressure cooker. Thank God she'd gotten away before the knives really came out.

The boys arrived at a grassy median with trees shading the cars lucky enough to occupy the adjacent spaces. They ran about in it, playing rough-house tag. The two adults continued on toward the car. Debbie's face wore a tense and angry expression, she bit her lower lip.

"Honestly, Laila," she said. "I don't know how ... "

"Yes?"

"I'd better keep my mouth shut."

"Go ahead, please. Finish what you were saying."

Debbie glanced toward her kids, then back at Laila. "All right. I don't know how you put up with this family. You get no respect."

"You've noticed that, huh?"

"I could have strangled Henry back there," Debbie said. "And Frank – well, I don't think he appreciates what he has. It's all about money and power with him."

Laila kept her eyes fixed on the pavement.

"You can get mad at me for saying that, but it's true," Debbie said.

"I'm not mad."

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the car. Debbie fumbled out her keys, hesitated, looked off toward her kids again. She came to a decision.

"There's something going on between Henry and Frank," she said.

A cold finger of apprehension traced down Laila's spine. "Oh?"

"I don't know what it is," Debbie said, "but I think it concerns you."

The words hung dead and frightening in the afternoon air. Laila struggled to retain her poise.

"Thanks for telling me," she said.

Debbie's mouth was tight line. She embraced Laila. "You take care, now."

"I will."

Debbie turned toward her kids.

"Let's go, damn it!" The boys looked over, surprised. "You want me to leave you out here?"

Her bellicose tone silenced the two brats. They returned from the median and climbed into the back seat, ignoring Laila as they did so. Debbie fired up the engine and pulled out of the parking space. Laila watched them drive off, exchanging a slight wave with Debbie.

Then she hurried back toward the hospital. Outside the door, the visitors stood around smoking cigarettes and chatting with the wheelchair bound patient, who also smoked a cigarette between tokes off his oxygen tank. Laila walked quickly past them and entered the lobby.

"That lady's in a hurry," the patient rasped.

# Two: Deal with the Devil

## 9.At the Keyhole

Laila tried to slip past the nurses' station on Frank's floor but wasn't quick enough. The stern-looking RN looked up from her reports and fixed Laila with a withering gaze.

"May I help you?"

"Oh ... no thank you," Laila said. "I just forgot something in my husband's room."

The RN nodded. "Very well."

Laila felt oddly diminished as she made her way to the Millionaire's Row corridor with its private rooms gaping like crypts at a mausoleum. She was always insecure in her husband's world of wealth and privilege.

She approached the doorway to Frank's room, creeping the last few steps and glancing anxiously around for any observers. A patient walking by looked at her quizzically. Laila gave him a weak little smile. She took up position just outside Frank's open door.

Inside the room, Henry and Patricia leaned together conspiratorially as they conferred with their father, who was sitting up in his adjustable bed like some Eastern potentate. Henry was just finishing his presentation of legalistic gobbledygook.

"And that's how it works," he said. "It's pretty simple, really."

A heavy fog of quiet settled on the room. Laila fought the temptation to look inside to see the expressions on their faces. Then:

"This makes a lot of sense, Dad," Patricia said. "I think you should consider it."

Frank adjusted his position. "Let me get this straight. If I go through with this offshore, presto-chango reorganization thing, the tax benefits will be substantial?"

"Absolutely," Henry said.

"It's the smart move, Dad," Patricia said.

"It also looks like my wife will be cut out of the action," Frank said.

"Well, yeah – in a manner of speaking," Henry said.

Out in the corridor, Laila flinched and uttered a muffled gasp. Henry turned curiously toward the door. He was on the verge of getting up to investigate when Frank spoke again.

"So, when I'm gone, my wife gets nothing?" he asked.

Henry settled back into his chair. "Don't worry, Dad. The trustees will take care of her."

"And you'd be the head trustee, right?" Frank said.

"That would work best. Keep it in the family."

"Blood is thicker than water," Patricia chimed in.

Outside the room, powerful emotion assailed Laila. Her blood felt ice cold, and she gripped the wall for support.

"Why did you wait til I'm half dead to bring this up?" Frank asked.

"I called earlier today," Henry said, "before the accident."

"That's true. You've got a wonderful sense of timing, son." Frank shifted irritably. "Pain medication's wearing off. I feel like God-awful hell! We'll talk about this later."

"But – "

"Okay, Dad," Patricia interrupted her brother.

She stood and gave Frank a kiss on his cheek.

"You rest up a while." She stroked his bristling hair. "I'll come see you tomorrow."

"If I'm still kicking, you mean," Frank grumbled.

Henry opened his mouth, but a withering glance from Patricia silenced him.

"Shall we go, Henry?" she said.

Henry nodded reluctantly and got to his feet.

"Take care, Dad." He shook Frank's left hand awkwardly. "Good luck with the tests."

"Yeah, sure," Frank said. "They'll probably keep me here another month."

Laila beat a hasty retreat down the hall and ducked into a narrow janitor's closet just as Henry and Patricia exited their father's room.

"This place gives me the creeps," Henry said. "I feel like I'm being watched."

"Relax," Patricia said. "You've been looking at too many reality shows."

Inside the janitor's closet, Laila pressed herself against the wall, trying to avoid being spotted through the door window. Henry and Patricia walked past. If they'd turned their heads, they would have seen her.

"Why'd you stop me?" Henry said. "I almost had him convinced."

"You know how Dad is," Patricia said. "He'll resist any kind of pressure – especially when he's feeling bad."

"Yeah, well ... If he'd taken my call this morning, he'd have had something better to do than dive off the roof."

Patricia chuckled. "Don't worry, he'll come around soon enough."

She wanted Henry to think she was fully on his side. At least she'd heard the full story now – not a bad piece of work at first glance, but where did it leave her? The cocktail waitress might not be the only one cut out of the action.

Would Henry try to elbow his sister aside? Maybe, but then why did he let her in on the plot? Was there a method to his madness, was he trying to keep his enemies closer than his friends? Patricia had a lot to think over. She needed to consult her lawyers.

She already had her own plan for disposing of the gold digger, but, like everything else in her life, she'd been letting it slide. Maybe it was time to put it back on the front burner. She and Henry disappeared through the elevator doors and back into their self-absorbed worlds.

After an agonizing period of waiting, Laila emerged from the closet and scanned the hall furtively. An aide walking past her jerked with surprise.

"Are you looking for someone?" she asked.

"Uh ... no," Laila said. "I just took a wrong turn – thank you."

She made an embarrassed, fumbling exit, smiling awkwardly at the RN sitting at the desk. The nurse turned to watch Laila get on an elevator. She shook her head disdainfully.

"Rich people!"

## 10.Drive Through Memory Lane

Laila slumped behind the wheel of her big luxury car, stunned and distraught.

She was in the parking lot of a convenience store with no clear idea of how she'd got there. A throwaway lighter and a pack of cigarettes were in her hands. She'd apparently just purchased them, though she couldn't remember the transaction.

She ripped open the pack and lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, then coughed out the smoke. She examined the fiery tip.

"It's been eleven years since I had one of these." She brutally crushed out the cigarette. "And eleven years with _him_!"

She started the engine and lowered the window so as to expel the toxic miasma. She began driving toward the parking lot exit, but was going too fast and not paying adequate attention. As she started pulling out into traffic, a car honked and swerved out of her way. She slammed on the brakes.

"Watch it lady!" somebody shouted at her.

Laila covered her face with both hands and wept. Nobody else wanted to leave the parking lot, fortunately, so she had some time to regain her composure. When she pulled out again, there was sufficient room for her in the traffic stream.

She drove through the commercial area in medium-heavy traffic. Turbulent thoughts roiled through her mind, but she managed to reserve an adequate portion of her attention for the road. At the first red light, she glanced at the cars surrounding her.

The occupants all looked happy – chatting with each other, relaxed and smiling. One car held a young family with a baby in back. More than anything, Laila wanted to pick up that little child and cradle it in her arms. Instead, she sat alone in her bubble of misery. She riveted her eyes straight ahead to avoid the anguish of seeing others' contentment.

Traffic started moving again; more pavement slipped under the big magnum wheels. At the next stop light, an old beat-up car pulled into the left turn lane alongside Laila. Its brakes squealed and its exhaust pipe spewed pollution. Laila jabbed a button on the climate control cluster to recirculate the interior air.

She glanced at the junker car. A shabby young woman was driving it. Her hair looked greasy, and the expression on her face was tense and hopeless. Laila flinched, her eyes widening in alarm. The left turn arrow became green, and the beat-up car limped off. With trembling fingers, Laila pushed the button to circulate outside air, then she lit a fresh cigarette.

Her left hand – wedding ring, cigarette, immaculate manicure – squeezed the steering wheel in a death grip. In her mind, she journeyed back to the terrible period eleven and a half years ago.

$ $ $

She held a cigarette in her fingers, but there was no immaculate manicure; her nails were all bitten down. In her right hand, she clutched the divorce summons Keith had left on her vanity table when he'd walked out in the wee hours. She could scarcely see the writing on it through the tears rolling from her eyes.

A framed picture of a handsome, bearded young man stood off to the side. He was smiling, but his eyes held an arrogant cruelty Laila had never dared to acknowledge before. She brought the cigarette to her lips and dragged deeply, coughed.

"Damn you!"

She flung away the divorce papers. They fluttered across the room like a horrid moth. Then she grabbed the framed picture and hurled it against the wall. It smashed into a crystalline shower. A bit of glass flew back, striking Laila's face.

"Oh!"

She moved a hand to her face, beside her right eye. When she brought her fingers down, they had blood on them. She studied the small but deep laceration in the mirror, then clutched a handkerchief to the wound.

The bedroom sprawled tomblike around her. The bed was empty and grim, devoid of any echoing act of love. The closet gaped open. Half of it was empty. Keith had stripped it right under her nose. She'd drunk herself to sleep last night waiting for him to return from his latest tryst, and he could have probably set off a bomb without waking her.

Laila stood up. Her motions were stiff and slow, as if she'd aged drastically in a single morning. She walked to the living room and glanced mournfully around. Her large potted plant was tipped over with dirt spread along the carpet. The front door stood ajar. A cat poked its head inside, glimpsed Laila, and quickly retreated.

The nightmare continued at the bank where Laila sat in the trim, glass-framed cubicle of the bank officer. She wore a band aide on her facial cut and a sweatshirt sporting a logo from some university she had not attended. The bank officer was very prim and neat in an immaculate suit. The bright, smiling face of his wife beamed from a framed picture on his desk.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Frost," he said, "but your husband zeroed out your joint accounts. Your credit card has been canceled, too."

Laila shrank deeper into her chair. The black vinyl was cold and clammy against her skin.

"Perhaps you'd like to open new accounts in your own name?"

"No thank you," Laila said.

She got up to leave.

"Poor lady," she heard him mutter as she walked away.

The rent check bounced, and an eviction notice soon arrived. Laila registered at the state jobs program and interviewed with a counselor who stared at Laila across a pile of stale papers lying on her desk.

"I wish I had better news for you, Laila. Check in again to see if anything's come up."

"All right, thank you for your help," Laila said.

Another applicant quickly took her place.

The next humiliation occurred at the pawn shop where Laila went to cash in her wedding ring and a few other trinkets. An indifferent broker stood on the other side of barred window and shoved some cash at her.

"Is this all?"

"Take it or leave it, lady. The price of gold is down these days, and, frankly, this ain't the best quality stuff."

"I'll ... take it."

Laila walked out with her meagre booty. When she'd arrived, there had still been time on the meter out front, but now a parking ticket festooned the cracked windshield of her car.

"Oh, no!"

She grabbed the ticket from under the wiper. A bag lady shuffled past, looking quizzically at her, then moved off to poke through a trash bin. A female ticketing officer was two cars away placing another ticket. Laila dashed over to her.

"But I was only in there a minute!"

"Must have been a minute too long," the officer said. "Better get that windshield fixed, before the cops give you another ticket."

No one wanted to buy Laila's cheap furniture, so she abandoned it when the eviction men came.

She stopped her car in front of the apartment building, motivated by some strange curiosity to observe the latest act of the disaster. The front brakes ground, badly in need of repair, and the decaying exhaust system rumbled ominously.

The back seat overflowed with boxes and a suitcase. The big potted plant was belted into the front seat like some alien passenger. Keith had magnanimously left her this battered yellow vehicle when he'd driven off in his new truck.

Workmen, supervised by a sheriff's deputy, hauled her miserable furnishings out to the curb – including the vanity with its now cracked mirror. The deputy looked at her, his face cool and official. A neighbor lady observed Laila from her front step. She started to wave, but stopped herself so as not to add to the young woman's humiliation.

Laila began driving slowly, rotating her head as she passed. She would not have particularly minded getting hit by a semi-truck, but nothing came her way. The corner arrived. She sped up and escaped around it in a belch of exhaust fumes.

$ $ $

Laila returned from her nightmare trek down memory lane. She was in the big luxury car again, wedged in by a stream of traffic. The little scar beside her right eye throbbed.

"I'm _never_ going back to that," she said through gritted teeth.

But her words seemed hollow, even before they left her mouth. Never in her life had she felt so weak and vulnerable – a baby tossed from its crib onto a trash heap. The genuine love she'd felt for Frank was also being kicked onto that trash heap.

She was hemmed in by class origin, lack of formal education, and by the stingy prenuptial agreement she'd been compelled to sign. The ruthlessness, knowhow, and sharp lawyers were all on the other side.

Another stop light halted her progress. The red orb glared down through the windshield like the eye of some brutal god, mocking her helplessness. Laila withered under its gaze, half expecting a death ray to issue from it.

Then a radical idea popped into her mind, breathtaking in its audacity. Laila's expression changed from fear, to surprise, then to nascent triumph.

"Yes, that could be the answer!"

The light turned green. Laila stomped the gas, punching above the speed limit.

## 11.Sepulchral Home

By the time she got back, Laila was thinking more clearly.

The radical idea she'd churned over while driving home retreated before the soothing ministrations of a cocktail. Things started to take on a more balanced perspective. What could it matter how Frank arranged his business affairs? She was entitled to his personal fortune, right?

Unless divorce came into the picture. If Frank believed he had good cause to cast her aside, as Keith had done. Laila would never initiate one herself. Prenuptial agreement aside, she simply didn't believe in it. The evils of divorce had been pounded into her head from an early age by her religious fanatic mother, and she couldn't escape a terrifying sense she'd be damned to eternal hell if she ever tried it.

Besides, what grounds could she claim? Frank had never been one for chasing women. Laila did not doubt his reputation as a total straight arrow. Despite the bottomless pool of interested men, Laila was also sexually conservative. Her only lover, prior to Frank, had been Keith, who'd swept her off her 17-year-old feet straight into bed and then to the altar.

Only after the stars finally dimmed in her eyes did she realize what a dog Keith was – the verbal abuse, his constant womanizing, the drugs. Still, the marriage had limped on nearly two years before he bailed out.

Keith was an immature punk, or at least he had been. She'd bumped into him a few weeks ago at the mall, and he'd actually looked half-way decent.

Frank was a completely different type – a strong, confident man of the world. This confidence was reflected in his sexual performance which had given her innumerable orgasms. Bringing her to climax was one of the ways Frank exercised his mastery over her, as he'd mastered the world and those around him.

And she'd loved him, but his constant domination had become intolerable. It had drained her sense of self worth. Laila would have almost welcomed Frank having an extramarital affair so as to redirect some of the pressure of his overbearing personality.

Laila had never been at home in her life with Frank. She was the pretty face who didn't really belong at the country club. Frank's inscrutable aloofness added to her insecurities. She felt more like a bauble than a rational human being in his presence.

But everything, good and bad, was endangered now. Frank's kids planned to drive her away. They meant to impoverish her again. Laila's cocktail was becoming less soothing, and she mixed a more powerful one. She took a heavy swig.

How did a man as formidable as Frank end up with such offspring? Henry, weak and sleazy; Patricia, all wrapped up in lesbian affairs. Frank loved his kids, though, despite his annoyance with them. And, as Patricia said, "Blood is thicker than water."

Ah, Patricia. My dear step-daughter.

Laila jerked upright in her chair, nearly spilling the cocktail. In a burst of insight, she understood what was behind her 'chance encounter' with Keith.

$ $ $

She'd gone to the mall for some comfort shopping after a particularly ego bruising episode with Frank during which he'd laid down the law about some interior decorating she wanted to have done.

He said the decor she selected was tricked out in "fag colors," and was, therefore, unacceptable. That was the "end of the discussion," a phrase he often used.

She was still in an agitated state when the beardless, well-groomed man dressed in a business suit approached. At first, she had no idea who he was. He recognized her, though.

"How have you been, Laila?" he asked. "You look great."

"Excuse me, do I know you?"

"I think so."

He smiled then, the same boyish, dimpled smile that had won her heart so many years before. Laila was stunned.

Keith launched a charm offensive. He was very sorry for deserting her, he said, but that was the old him. He'd straightened out, been through drug rehab, and was working full-time. He hadn't realized what a "gem" she was. He was just a "stupid kid" back then.

Keith told her a lot of this over lunch at the hotel coffee shop adjacent to the mall. Why did she agreed to that?

Because she was lonely and bored, because she was curious. And Keith was still a hunk, despite his comfortable belly. She couldn't help but recall the sexual fireworks of years gone by. Laila even suffered some undeserved guilt.

Could I have been a better wife, helped Keith more with his addiction problems? What did I do to drive him away?

Then she slammed the door closed on such idiotic notions. Beneath the polite manners and fancy clothes, she detected the same shifty, insubstantial Keith. So, she thanked him for the lunch and said a _final_ good-bye, chalking up the experience to the vagaries of life. At least it had been good to obtain some closure.

But there had been more to the "chance meeting" than that. There was the guy reading a newspaper at a nearby table who glanced their direction now and then, and a van parked across from the hotel entrance when they were leaving. She'd had a subtle feeling of being watched that she dismissed as being part of the emotional roller coaster she was on that day.

They could have gone to one of the eateries inside the mall, but since Keith offered to pick up the tab, she agreed when he suggested the hotel café. Why not? It was a nice place.

If anyone had photographed their encounter, a damaging fake story could be constructed from the pictures.

"That's it!"

She'd been observed and photographed at a hotel with her ex, a still attractive man many years younger than her current husband! Why hadn't she seen through the skunk's act?

Because she was a fundamentally honest person who didn't think in terms of deception. Never could she have dreamed up trickery like that. Only _Patricia_ was clever enough to engineer such a diabolical scheme.

Laila realized a double-barreled assault had begun. The 'rightful heirs' were coming at her from different directions, like sharks in the water smelling blood. One way or another, they would turn Frank against her, and when they did . . .

She had to do something to prevent it. Something drastic.

## 12.Fear & Resolve

The super king-sized bed stretched on for infinity, white and cold as a marble slab at the morgue. Frank insisted on white saying, "colored sheets are for queers!"

Laila gathered herself to the extreme edge, lying on her back with a cigarette in her fingers. A full ashtray and a drink reposed on the side table. Light streaming through the window made for smoky, haunted moonbeams.

Grim realizations came to her in those moonbeams. She'd gone from home, to Mrs. Frost, to Mrs. Armstrong with hardly any breaks in between. She no longer knew who she was. Maybe she had never known.

Thoughts of the many humiliations she'd endured as Frank Armstrong's wife ran around her mind. Eleven years ago, she'd been swept away on a tide of love. Frank seemed to be everything she needed – father, protector, provider – not to mention a fantastic lover, but it had all been a mistake.

Laila yearned to have her own children. She cherished the idea of nurturing kids into healthy, confident adults – giving them a better start than she'd received from her abusive, then absent, father and her neurotic mother. Frank's vasectomy had settled the issue.

He hadn't even consulted her but had simply announced one day that he'd "got cut" and there was nothing further to talk about. But she had tried to talk about it, broaching the subject of adoption.

Frank dismissed the idea with a brusque, "What the hell for?"

Laila's biological clock was ticking, but maybe in the not too distant future, with the right man . . .

She was trapped in the Armstrong family jail and desperate for escape. But how? There seemed no way out of this dead-end maze. Except one, and it kept surfacing in her feverish thoughts like a corpse bobbing up from a lake bottom.

A dull thud sounded from somewhere downstairs. Laila stiffened.

"Who's there?"

She listened fearfully. Silence, except for her own thundering heart. Laila peered across the frozen wastes of the bed toward the other nightstand where Frank kept his automatic pistol – his "Sweet Thing." Laila had no idea how to use it, though.

She'd heard mysterious thumps in the night before, but with Frank and the 9mm lying beside her, she'd given them little thought. And the electronic security system was state of the art – wasn't it?

But now she writhed amid her insecurities. Was some malevolent creature stalking around the lower story? Had Patricia and Henry sent somebody to kill her? Laila waited, scarcely breathing, expecting any moment to hear footsteps ascending the stairs.

But nothing materialized out of her acute dread. She took a slug from her cocktail, the ice cubes rattling unnaturally loud. She lit another cigarette and settled down onto her back again.

"Just my imagination."

The smoke assumed weird, threatening shapes swirling above her. Laila became frightened again. She crushed out the cigarette – too late. The smoke had become a thick layer. It pressed down upon her like a coffin lid. She put up her hands, tried to cry out, but her voice was strangled in her throat.

The smoke formed itself into the face of the sheriff's deputy who had once evicted her. The face broke into a vicious grin. An arm reached out from the smoke toward her.

"Go away!" Laila gasped.

She tumbled out of bed, hitting the thick carpet. The smoke layer continued lowering toward her, a spider hand groping around from it. Laila fled the room, slamming the door behind her. She hurried down the stairs.

"You can't stop me!"

$ $ $

By early morning, Laila had decided on a final solution. She snatched her cell phone and punched in a number. The answer came after only one ring.

"Bert's Landscaping."

The voice sounded calm and sturdy, like that of a man who knew how to handle things with competence.

"Hello, Bert? This is Laila Armstrong."

"Well, good morning." Bert sounded surprised. "How's Mr. Armstrong doing?"

"He's fine. I need to talk to you."

"Sure thing, Mrs. Armstrong." The surprise had left Bert's voice, replaced by a certain wariness.

"When are you coming over again?" Laila asked.

"I was thinking of later this morning. With all the upset yesterday, I didn't get as much done as I'd planned."

"Uh huh," Laila said. "That'll be fine."

"Is this about the tree that has to come down? I was going to do that last week, but the weather didn't cooperate."

"It's not about that, _exactly_ ," Laila said. "We can talk more when you get here."

"All right, Mrs. Armstrong. See you then."

Laila hung up her phone. Her eyes were as bright and lifeless as a china doll's.

## 13.Backyard Man

Bert Nagy worked the flower garden soil with his hoe, being careful not to harm any of the precious blooms.

This was the type of job he really enjoyed. It gave him a chance to indulge his green thumb and get a feel for nature that he could not experience while piloting a roaring lawn mower or wielding a string cutter.

Bert loved nature. It was a big motivation for establishing his landscape company. He felt liberated in its embrace. It offered him refuge from the monotony of an assembly line job, and that had been a good thing when he'd first started. He wasn't so sure about now.

This garden had associations that curdled the 'back to nature' experience. It had been the site of a demeaning episode the previous summer. Bert had inadvertently ruined a few plants during an earlier visit and had brought some extras to repair the damage. But before he could replace the plants, Frank Armstrong had stormed up and confronted him with a barrage of insults.

"How the hell could you be such a clumsy oaf?" Frank raged. "Don't you know how much those exotic plants are worth?"

Bert showed him the replacements he'd brought.

"Those had damn well better be up to snuff!" Frank said.

He'd threatened to cancel Bert's contract, report him to the regulatory authorities.

Bert would have loved to deck the bastard, but two things restrained him: 1) the contract to maintain the 8-acre grounds was very lucrative, well above the going rate, and 2) Frank kept his hand in his jacket pocket, as if he was gripping a concealed weapon. So, Bert had swallowed the humiliation, but he'd never forgotten it.

He looked up from the flower bed to see Laila Armstrong approaching from the house. He set the hoe aside and straightened his clothes. Hopefully, she wasn't carrying a hatchet from her husband, but that seemed unlikely. She'd always been nice to him; too bad she was stuck with a jerk like Frank Armstrong.

As she crossed the final yards, Bert was struck by her haggard appearance, as if she hadn't slept in quite a while. She had dark circles under her eyes and carried a tall mixed drink with a straw in it.

Bert took off his cap. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Bert."

An awkward pause ensued. Bert looked off toward the little copse on the far reaches of the property. He'd have to cut the underbrush in there before long.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" he said.

"Quite."

Bert had no idea how to handle this situation. The accident yesterday must have really hit Mrs. Armstrong hard – though she'd seemed calm at the time. She stirred her drink coolly with the straw and fixed her eyes on him. Bert felt an eerie chill.

"Uh ... you wanted to speak with me about something?"

Mrs. Armstrong looked back toward the house, then she glanced around the property, then back at him.

"How long have you done our landscaping, Bert?"

"Oh, the better part of three years, I'd say."

"That's a long time to put up with Frank. He doesn't show you much respect, does he?"

Bert shrugged, extremely ill at ease with the direction of the conversation.

"He didn't even thank you for getting the ambulance out here so quickly yesterday," she said. "That was very ungrateful, don't you think?"

"Well, this is one of my major contracts," Bert replied lamely.

"Uh huh." She sipped the drink. "It must be difficult running a business like yours. All the overhead, working in hot weather, trying to find good help."

"That's not the half of it," Bert said. "If I knew then what I know now, I would have thought twice about setting up my own company."

"Of course, hindsight is 20/20. We've all learned that the hard way, haven't we?"

"Right, I mean . . ."

Bert felt acute embarrassment, having just included her among the ranks of those who had "learned the hard way."

"And you must have all sorts of problems with finances and taxes," she said.

Bert flinched. To cover his agitation, he grabbed the hoe and started working the ground again.

"You do such a marvelous job. Too bad Frank doesn't appreciate it. He doesn't appreciate anybody, you know."

Bert smiled awkwardly, trying to squirm out of the topic. "Well, that's the way of the world, isn't it?"

She wasn't letting him off so easily, though. "I think the world is the way we make it, don't you?"

Bert shrugged. Cold sweat started gathering under his shirt.

"I wonder sometimes if we all might be a lot happier if Frank wasn't around," she said.

Bert paused, then began hoeing faster.

"Haven't you ever wondered about that, Bert?"

He stopped gouging the soil and looked up – baffled and somewhat alarmed. "Well, uh, yeah, the thought's crossed my mind, I suppose. But really – "

"Let's say he should have another accident, like the one yesterday, only worse."

Mrs. Armstrong smiled, coyly sipping through the straw. Bert felt like a tiny pooch having its chain yanked. He could scarcely recognize the person standing before him. This was no longer the gracious lady he'd come to know, but someone hard and cold as the ice in her drink.

"I mean, a _lot_ worse." She pointed to the large dead tree near the flower garden. "That tree's got to come down soon, doesn't it?"

"R-right. I was going to do it last week, like I said, but it was too rainy."

"When you do get to it, you'll be using power saws, won't you? And ladders – and one of those machines that grind up branches."

"Yes ..."

"Then there should be lots of opportunities for another 'accident' to happen, right?"

Bert was too stunned to reply.

She took in the property with a sweeping gesture of her arm. "This is such a large, isolated place. No witnesses, and nobody ever comes over unannounced. There are security cameras at the house, but none out here."

Full realization dawned on Bert. "Mrs. Armstrong ... I-I couldn't."

"Would half a million dollars change your mind?"

Bert's eyes widened. His voice shot up an octave. "H-half a million?"

"Yes – say, fifty thousand up front, the balance in a secret Cayman Islands account."

"The Cayman Islands?"

Bert gulped. Despite the moderate weather, sweat trickled from his armpits. She looked at him quizzically, a little smile playing about her lips.

"Well?"

"Uh ... thanks for the offer, but I'm really not up for it. I-I mean – "

"I know this must have taken you by surprise, Bert. It's not every day such a wonderful opportunity comes up." She handed him the mixed drink. "If things go especially well, there'd be a bonus for you, too. Let's say, twenty five percent – that's another $125,000."

Bert wiped his brow and took a hefty swig from the drink. It was a powerful one, thank God.

"Think it over a while, Bert. You can do that much, can't you?"

"S-sure. I can do that."

She gave him a long, probing look, then nodded. "All right, I'll be in touch. Count on it."

She walked toward the house, giving Bert a single rearward glance. He watched her progress until she entered the back door. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. He took another slug from the mixed drink.

His deepest longings had been aroused. In his mind, he grasped for them.

"The Cayman Islands . . ."

## 14.Caribbean Paradise

Bert exits the gin-clear ocean water, scaling the ladder onto the boat. His diving instructor assists him aboard.

"Good work down there, Bert," the instructor says. "You're a certified scuba diver now."

Bert unzips his fashionable, cut-off wetsuit; warm tropical sun caresses his chest. "Thanks. I couldn't have done it without you."

"Ah, you're a natural," the dive instructor says. "Drinks at the hotel bar tonight, eight o'clock? I'll bring the paperwork."

"Sure thing. Wouldn't miss it."

"Good show!"

The dive instructor grips Bert's hand. They share a moment of macho camaraderie. Then the dive boat starts roaring back toward the coast from the outer reef. A cool breeze strokes Bert's face.

"I _finally_ did it," he murmurs.

The scuba diving went extraordinarily well. Bert passed every open water test with flying colors – if colors could fly under water. He handled himself with absolute confidence among the corals and the multihued reef fishes. Along the way, he observed a couple of sharks, some stingrays, and even a long, green moray eel slithering under the dive boat. It was so much better than on television!

At last, he is a certified scuba diver, attaining a dream he'd had since he was a young boy. Scratch one more item off the bucket list. Hang gliding would be next – soaring over the world in absolute freedom, looking down at all the poor slobs toiling below. But maybe he should drop a few more pounds first. He pats his still ample belly and grins.

He is strolling across the beach toward his hotel when a familiar, delightful voice beckons to him.

"Over here, Bertie!"

He does an abrupt right-face and approaches the gorgeous blonde spread out on a recliner in an almost nonexistent bathing suit. Her radiant smile reels him in. He sits down beside her.

"How'd it go today?" the girl asks.

"Wonderful. I've earned my diving certification. The instructor is bringing me the paperwork later."

"When?"

"Around eight."

The girl affects an adorable little pout. "Oh, Bertie, I thought we'd be doing something else then."

Bert pats her thigh. "Sorry, babe. We'll just have to get started a bit earlier. By eight o'clock, we'll both need a break."

"Oh, Bertie, you're so cute!"

She smiles wickedly and tickles his belly, prompting a delighted squirm from Bert.

"You'll see," he says, "this is all going away. I'll have washboard abs before long."

The girl feigns another childish pout. "There'll be less of you to love."

The local hottie on his left side starts giggling. Bert turns toward her. She is absolutely stunning with her dark complexion and long, braided hair. Her smile reveals perfect teeth. She's quite a contrast to the Nordic sex bomb on his other flank.

He stretches out in his recliner as the ocean laps the golden sands before him. Beautiful women caper about in scanty bathing suits, tossing a beach ball. Behind him, a luxury hotel gleams in the sun. He has a tall drink in his hand now – like the one Mrs. Armstrong gave him once.

The blonde takes the glass from him. "Let me warm this up for you, Bertie."

She takes a long sip, running her mouth along the straw in a fellatio simulation almost unbearable to watch. Then she moves toward him for a kiss, squirting the liquid into his mouth.

"Ohhh, yeah," Bert moans. "Gimme some more."

"Why don't you give _me_ some more, honey," the blonde says.

On Bert's other side, the local girl is laughing seductively and stroking his inner thigh.

"Is our little friend ready to come out and play?" she asks.

"Damn right." Bert wraps an arm over each girl's shoulders. "Come to papa!"

The roar of a chainsaw interrupts the hedonistic idyll. A torrent of blood splashes over them. Bert gags, the girls recoil.

"Euu, my hair!" the blonde cries.

The girls jump from their recliners and flee.

"What the hell!" Bert shouts.

Sprawled in front of him is the mangled corpse of Frank Armstrong. The head is hacked off, and blood spurts from the neck. A rumbling chainsaw lies in the sand near the carnage.

"Ohhh," Bert moans.

Panic seizes him. He has to get away. But he can't. He tumbles out of his chair and wallows around in the blood – screaming, screaming.

Bert crashed back from his fantasy to find himself in the Armstrong flower garden again, gripping the hoe handle tight enough to almost break it. His other hand trembled violently, rattling the cocktail ice cubes. He shook his head hard to drive out the terrifying images.

"Holy crap!"

He downed the remaining booze.

# Three: Downward Spiral

The false face must hide what the false heart doth know – Macbeth

## 15.Quarterly Luncheon

The three women sat in the Garden Room area of the Gemrock restaurant, a glazed-in annex meant to simulate the bright atmosphere of a conservatory, complete with large decorative plants. Their table was of cast iron filigree with a glass top – tasteful and understated.

Sharese presided over the table. Of the three, she was the best dressed, the best made up, and the most confident. She wasn't necessarily the best looking, though – all of them were extremely attractive women in their early 30's. Sharese was the hostess, but that didn't really matter. She would have dominated the gathering with her usual tacit power in any case.

Gemrock was not unlike the upscale Musketeers Lounge and Restaurant where they had first met as coworkers. They'd never forgotten their origins, and wait staff everywhere prized them as being among the best tippers.

Sharese, the only unmarried one of the three, was finishing a particularly risqué story. "... Well, you can just imagine how I felt about that."

Candy and Nichole giggled.

"What did you do next?" Candy asked.

Sharese held up a hand, took a drink of water.

"Come on, tell us," Nichole urged.

Sharese set the glass down dramatically. "What could I do? I told him to get dressed and clear out. You should have seen the look on his face!"

Everyone laughed raucously. At a nearby table, three older ladies looked on with acrid disapproval. Sharese caught their eyes and quit laughing abruptly.

_My gosh,_ she thought, _is that where I'm headed?_

She experienced an unsettling vision of herself decades down the road, alone and embittered, hanging out with an equally downer crowd.

A waitress approached. "Are you ready to order?"

Sharese shook off the nightmare image. "Oh, not yet. We're still waiting for one more."

The waitress started to leave, but Sharese stopped her.

"On second thought, bring us four strawberry daiquiris, please." She looked toward Nichole and Candy. "That should be good for starters, eh? And Laila can 'hit the ground running' when she gets here."

"Make mine a virgin, please," Candy said. "I'm driving."

"A virgin, eh? ..." Sharese let the teasing comment drift off.

The waitress left.

Nichole consulted her watch. "I wonder what the problem is. Laila knew about this luncheon, didn't she?"

"Of course," Sharese said. "I even called yesterday to remind her."

"Maybe it's that situation with Frank getting hurt," Candy said.

"Yes. It sounds kind of funny, him going off the roof like that, but it must have been quite a shock for her."

The others nodded agreement.

"What do you think is going on with her and Frank?" Candy asked.

"I have no idea," Sharese said. "I really don't talk to her much more than you do. If it wasn't for these luncheons, we'd probably lose touch all together."

"She's out of our league, all right," Candy said.

Sharese pulled a cell phone out of her purse. "I'm worried about her. Something's not right."

Then Laila herself appeared. She looked flustered, tired, and upset. Her usually impeccable clothing was a bit disheveled. An astonished silence descended on the table. They'd not seen Laila in such condition since the first time they'd met her. Sharese dropped her phone back into her purse.

"Sorry I'm late, everyone," Laila said.

Nichole tried to relieve the tension by applauding softly. The others joined in.

Sharese stood and tapped a spoon on her water glass. "I hereby declare this quarterly meeting of the Four Musketelles to be in order."

"Hear, hear!" Candy and Nichole seconded.

Laila sat down, apparently unmoved by the attempt at joviality.

Nichole leaned toward her. "You look a bit dragged out, honey. Is something wrong?"

"Well ..."

"Troubles with Frank?" Candy asked.

Laila nodded reluctantly.

"How's he doing with his wrist and all?" Nichole asked.

"Oh, he's better. The fracture isn't too bad."

Another awkward silence ensued. Clearly there was more to the story than just a broken wrist. Sharese tried to fill the gap with levity.

"So, what could possibly be the problem with that husband of yours? Let me see ... "

"He's rich," Nichole said.

"And devastatingly handsome," Candy said.

"The strong, take-charge type," Sharese added.

"Did I mention rich?" Nichole said.

Laila managed a weak smile.

"Tell you what," Candy said. "If you've got troubles with Frank, send him my way. I'll straighten him out."

"Fat chance of that," Nichole said. "He's as loyal as they come."

Sharese chuckled. "Don't think we didn't all make passes before you two got serious, Laila."

"Yeah," Candy agreed, "and we got shot down – in no uncertain terms."

"Face it, Laila, you hit the jackpot in the matrimonial game," Nichole said.

Sharese leaned back wistfully and glanced at herself in a nearby window. She looked older and less attractive in the reflection than she wanted to be.

I wonder how things would have turned out if I'd been tending bar that night instead of Laila?

The waitress arrived with the daiquiris. Sharese hoisted hers aloft.

"Here's to lost opportunities, as my second husband used to say."

Everyone took swigs from their drinks, including Laila who nearly drained her glass. The tension lessened a bit.

"Not that there's anything wrong with marrying a dentist," Nichole said. "I mean, take a look."

She displayed her perfect teeth.

"Or marrying an accountant," Candy added.

"You know what they say about accountants, don't you?" Sharese asked.

"What?"

"They do it by the numbers!" Sharese and Nichole chimed.

Later that afternoon, the women lingered over dessert and their final cocktails, luxuriating in the atmosphere of the fine restaurant. Everyone was nicely loosened up; even Laila had mellowed a bit. The Garden Room had largely emptied out, except for the three older ladies.

"Sure is good to enjoy a place like this from the customer side, isn't it?" Sharese observed.

"Amen to that." Candy and Nichole replied.

"No cranky patrons to deal with, no bosses breathing down your neck," Sharese said. "Remember Rick over at Musketeers?"

"Who could forget?" Candy said.

"I can't believe I actually ... well you know that story," Sharese said.

Candy and Nichole giggled; Laila smiled wanly. Sharese leaned toward her. "Feeling better, honey?"

Laila nodded and sipped her drink.

"Try to keep things in perspective," Candy said. "Everyone has problems – usually about money."

Laila stiffened, and a terrifying vision barged into her mind:

Clad only in nightgown and robe, she is being escorted out of her house by Sheriff's deputies. Henry exits the house behind her, smiling and rubbing his hands. Then Patricia comes out, giving Henry a high five.

" _We did it, Sis!"_

" _Good riddance, Laila!" Patricia shouts._

Men are dragging Laila's furnishings out of the house and dumping them at the curb. She tries to enter her car, but a tow truck grabs it first and hauls it away.

Laila shook her head to clear the horrible scenario. Sharese's voice faded in.

" . . . you've got the lifestyle of the rich and famous, Laila. The rest of us can only hover around the edges."

"You should see my 'step-son,' Henry," Laila said. "Now there's a man who 'hovers around the edges.'"

Candy, Nichole, and Sharese exchanged glances, shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.

"Well, I mean – don't we all admire your position?" Nichole said. "Not having any money problems and all."

Another ferocious vision assaulted Laila's mind:

She's a bag lady wandering the streets alone, bedraggled, prematurely old. She riffles through a trash container, finds nothing. A surly policeman approaches.

" _Move it along, you!" the cop snarls._

Laila shuffles away. She passes the front of the Gemrock restaurant where well-dressed people are going in and out. The patrons look askance at her.

" _Isn't she disgusting?" a woman says._

" _Just ignore the old hag," her male companion says._

A restaurant employee opens the door for the couple. They glance back at Laila with disdain, then enter the establishment with their noses held high.

"Excuse me, I'll be right back," Laila said.

She left the table quickly before anyone could offer to accompany her. She needed to get away from her friends for a while. They were, doubtless, trying to cheer her up, but Laila also detected a strong undercurrent of envy, and it put her on edge.

Well, why wouldn't they be envious? Laila had 'hit the jackpot,' in their opinion. If only they knew the real story! As she made her way across the big restaurant to the ladies' room, memories of her first encounter with the Musketelles came flooding back.

## 16.The Early Days

After watching the eviction men do their hateful job, Laila spent hours wandering aimlessly.

Her car was low on gas, so she got out and walked alone in the city streets. She passed through crowds on the sidewalk totally unnoticed, as if she were a mere ghost. People averted their eyes, sensing she was an outcast from everything good in the world. Darkness descended upon her meanderings.

All the while, her mind spun and twisted around the disaster her life had become – like a hamster on a wheel, going nowhere. She was broke, she had nobody to help her, and no place to live. Her only possession was an old car that burned oil and made hideous grinding noises every time she applied the brakes. She had no advanced education, job skills, or work experience. Her pretty face had always been enough to see her through, but it didn't help her now.

Or maybe it could.

She could be one of those strip girls who did 'lap dances' and other things to pleasure their male customers – pulling occasional tricks on the side to enhance her income. She could swing herself naked around a pole to the cheers of drunken men. How old did you need to be to do that? She'd turn twenty soon, so her age shouldn't be a problem.

But her flesh crawled at such prospects. It just wasn't something a self-respecting person did. Far be it from her to criticize anyone who was compelled to be in that game, but she'd have to be, literally, starving before she'd get down to that level herself.

Another possibility arose. Certain restaurants downtown catered to an elite clientele. Rich businessmen who enjoyed being served by beautiful women frequented such places, and the tips could be substantial, she'd heard. One establishment stood out as being the best: Musketeers Restaurant and Lounge.

Laila drove past the main entrance of Musketeers where uniformed valets handled the patrons' luxury vehicles. She turned down a side street and parked her jalopy amid a pall of exhaust fumes. Trash containers stood at the curb, so her car did not seem out of place.

She got out and headed for the employee entrance. Two busboys taking a cigarette break there watched her approach.

"Hey, you can't ..." one of them started to say, but a woeful glance from Laila silenced him.

"Man, she looks really down," Laila heard the other one say as she passed.

She hurried by the time clock, keeping her eyes fixed to the floor, and moved down a hallway until she reached the lounge. Nobody interfered with her, thank heaven.

Laila stood uncertainly off to the side of the bar area, acutely aware of her shabby clothes – a jarring contrast to the attire of the fashionable clientele. Music from a live combo played in the background.

A vulgar, though well-dressed, middle-aged woman sat at the corner of the bar – laughing and having a good time with a much younger man. The gigolo glanced at Laila and smiled, as if filing her away for future reference. Then he turned back to the older woman who had noticed his wandering eye and jabbed him with her elbow.

_What do I do now?_ Laila wondered desperately.

She'd never felt more vulnerable and exposed in her entire life. How long would it be before they threw her out? One of the cocktail waitresses – a tall blonde in a pert, low-cut uniform – approached. Her name tag read: _Sharese._

Panic gripped Laila. She wanted to turn tail and run, but where would she go? Against every instinct, she remained rooted to the spot.

"You don't look like you belong here, honey," Sharese said in a voice tinged with a Southern accent.

"I ... well, no I-I don't ..." Laila stammered.

Sharese's expression softened. "Hey, what's wrong?"

All of Laila's emotional props suddenly gave way, and she began crying. Sharese drew her off to the side and offered a tissue.

"My, aren't you like something the cat dragged in? What is it, do you need a job?"

Laila nodded. "My husband left me, and – "

Sharese held up her hand. "Say no more. Haven't we all been down that long, hard road?"

Two more waitresses appeared, _Nichole_ and _Candy_. Like Sharese and the other female wait staff, they were beautiful, young, and sexy.

"What's the matter, Sharese?" Nichole asked.

"Our friend here ..."

Sharese looked questioningly toward Laila.

"My name's Laila."

"Our friend, Laila, needs a job. She's been ditched by her jerk husband."

Candy put an arm over Laila's shoulders. "Ohhh, I'm so sorry to hear that."

"I'd say you've got what it takes to work here," Nichole said, "once you get cleaned up a little."

"Let's talk to Rick," Candy said. "He's been looking to hire a new girl."

"I'll bet he'll take you on, Laila," Nichole said.

"He'd damn well better," Sharese said. "Let me handle this."

Sharese walked off purposefully. A raucous cackle sounded from the woman at the bar. The gigolo must have said something humorous.

In the far regions of the restaurant, Rick was circulating among the diners checking to see if they were enjoying themselves. His charming, if rather overdone, demeanor and late 30's good looks served him well in this aspect of the manager's job.

Sharese tapped his arm. "Rick, can I speak to you for a minute?"

Rick smiled at the patrons he'd been small-talking. "Excuse me a moment, please."

He drew Sharese away.

"What's so damned important? I've told you not to interrupt me when I'm working the clientele."

"I've got a friend who needs a job. I want you to interview her tomorrow."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Rick said. "Now please get back to work."

"Why not? She's very well qualified."

Rick tried to disengage, but Sharese trailed after him.

"She's gorgeous, and she's got a great personality. She'll fit right in."

Rick turned back toward her with annoyance. "I'm thinking of somebody else for the position, if you must know."

Sharese gripped his arm hard but kept smiling for the benefit of the customers.

"Let's put it this way," she said in a low voice. "There are certain things you don't want your wife to know, right?"

Rick became suddenly nervous and pale; his big shot manager persona disappeared.

Sharese leaned in close. "I'll make sure you get screwed for this, Rick. Just how is up to you."

Rick adjusted his tie and assumed his best professional demeanor. "Come to think of it, I might be able to arrange an interview."

While this negotiation was going on, Laila, Nichole, and Candy remained on the periphery of the bar area.

"We all started working here about the same time," Candy said. "We call ourselves 'The Three Musketelles.'"

Laila gave a confused look.

"You know, because of the restaurant name."

"Oh, of course," Laila said.

"Do you have a place to stay?" Nichole asked

"No, I just got evicted."

"Me and Candy are looking for a roommate."

"That's very kind, but – "

Sharese returned, sporting a triumphant smile. "It's all set, Laila. You've got an interview tomorrow, twelve o'clock sharp."

A burst of joy shot through Laila.

"Great!" she practically shouted. "I don't know how to thank you, Sharese."

"Forget it. Just look pretty and you'll be fine." Sharese indicated Laila's scabbed over facial cut. "See if you can do something about that."

"We can restyle your hair a little to cover it up," Nichole said. "You spend the night with us, okay?"

"Sure, thanks."

"I'd better get back to work," Sharese said, "before Rick has a coronary. Good luck tomorrow, Laila."

She moved away. Candy and Nichole brought Laila to a table.

"We'll be getting off in a few hours," Nichole said. "Have something to eat – on the house."

"You could probably use a stiff drink, too," Candy added. "Harry makes a great strawberry daiquiri."

"Thank you, so much," Laila said.

She took her place at the elegant little table. She felt like a royal personage rescued from the gutter. Gratitude and relief nearly overwhelmed her. In all the time since her abandonment, the Musketelles were the only ones to show any real concern.

Another high pitched guffaw came from the woman at the bar. Laila looked over dubiously.

"We get all kinds in here," Candy said. "As long as they've got the money, we have to put up with them."

She handed Laila a menu. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Candy and Nichole departed. Laila relaxed into her chair and opened the menu. She'd eaten nothing all day and hadn't even noticed. But now she was ravenous.

"I'll never forget you three," she murmured.

## 17.Lust at First Sight

Sharese drained the last of her cocktail and set the glass down with authority.

"That was _very_ good. Almost as good as I used to make them myself, back in the day."

"Thanks for rubbing it into the designated driver," Candy said.

Sharese smiled, in a not entirely contrite manner.

"Sorry, Candy. I'll drive next time, don't worry." She glanced at her designer watch, a gift from two boyfriends back. "I wonder what's keeping Laila?"

"Maybe we should go check on her," Nichole said.

"No, let's wait a while. I think she needs some alone time."

"Not too much longer. I've got to pee."

While her friends were talking about her, Laila was studying her face in the ladies' room mirror.

God, I look a mess!

She worked on her makeup, trying to bring her face to its maximum beauty, as she'd done for Frank so many times, back in the day.

$ $ $

It was Laila's turn behind the bar that night, serving her apprenticeship with master bartender Harry – the "Boss of the Bottles," as he dubbed himself. She liked Harry and everybody else at Musketeers, except Rick. That oily creep always looked at her as if she were naked, and his intentions were pretty obvious.

Aside from that, everything was going fine. She was settled in with Candy and Nichole who, along with Sharese, were the best friends she'd ever had. Laila was well ensconced in their group now as the official 4th Musketelle.

She was making good money, too, and had already developed a following among the affluent men who frequented the lounge.

"You're the best looking girl in the whole place," more than one told her.

A bit of exaggeration maybe, but Laila understood her own assets. She had the fresh-faced wholesomeness and understated sexuality that a lot of men preferred, in contrast to the bolder eroticism of girls like Sharese.

"It's time for my cigarette break," Harry said. "Can you hold the fort for twenty minutes?"

"Yes, sure Harry," Laila said trying to sound confident.

"Shouldn't be too bad, it's slow tonight. And you've always got our little friend here."

He tapped one of his beefy fingers on the copy of _Professional Bartender's Guide_ resting on the shelf under the bar.

"If anyone wants something really exotic, come get me, okay?"

"Okay, Harry, thanks."

Laila experienced an irrational sense of abandonment when Harry departed. This feeling was never far beneath the surface. She'd been abandoned by her womanizing father at an early age and then rejected by her strict religious mother when she'd tied up with Keith who was "just like your father!" At least Mom was right about that.

She had no other family members who cared about her, and Keith had controlled her life so much she hadn't made any friends. Her whole world was here at Musketeers, and she liked it very much, except for the occasional rough spot.

Tonight's rough spot was the vulgar, middle-aged woman Laila had seen during her first visit. She was sitting at the bar corner again, yucking it up with a new gigolo. Laila felt distinctly uncomfortable in their presence, especially since Harry was no longer around.

Sharese approached with a drink order. Fortunately, it was only for a vodka martini on the rocks, something Laila could easily handle.

"Be careful, Laila," Sharese said in a low voice, "it looks like old Helen is tying one on again."

Laila risked a glance toward the middle-aged woman. "Thanks for the heads up."

"I'm just glad it's not me working the bar tonight. I've had my experiences with her before."

"That makes me feel a lot better," Laila said.

Sharese smiled. "Don't worry, girl. If anybody can handle things, you can."

Laila finished mixing the drink and passed it on to Sharese.

"Her new guy isn't bad." Sharese gave a slight nod in Helen's direction. "He can have my number if he wants some R&R."

Sharese left with the martini. Then Helen's male escort got up and walked off toward the men's room. Laila and Helen were now the only ones on this end of the vast bar. Earlier, Laila had been concerned that a rush of patrons would show up before Harry returned. Now she would have welcomed some company.

A boozy, envious glare stabbed at her from the older woman's eyes.

"You're new here, aren't you?" Helen said.

Laila attempted a smile. "Yes, I started last week."

"Another one!" Helen snorted. "You think you're going to snag a rich husband here, don't you?"

The raw malice behind these words rattled Laila, but she maintained her smile. "I'm just working to support myself, is all."

"Right!"

Helen sucked up some more contents from her cocktail, staring malevolently at Laila. She set the glass down and belched slightly.

"Take it from me, kid. They're all sons of bitches."

Thank God, a patron had just taken a stool farther down the bar. Laila looked off toward him as if he were the Savior himself. She turned back toward Helen.

"Excuse me I – "

Another man was nearing Helen with decisive steps. He was a rugged, aggressive looking sort – impeccably dressed and gray around the temples. He could have been a businessman or a retired, but still fit, professional boxer. He seized Helen's arm.

"Come on. We're going home," he said with barely controlled rage.

"Hey! I'm having a good time."

The man pulled her off the stool.

"Let go of me, Frank!"

Laila watched the disgraceful episode with alarm. She started to back off. Then the man's eyes turned away from Helen and locked onto hers. Laila stopped retreating as a bolt of raw sexual power struck her.

Frank's magnetism was irresistible. Time stopped dead for Laila; she scarcely heard Helen's final remonstration.

"Get away from me, you old poop!"

The gigolo exited the men's room, smiling and glancing at his watch. He starting walking toward the bar before he took in the situation. His smile vanished under a murderous glower from Frank, and he beat a hasty retreat.

Frank turned back toward Laila. "I'm sorry about this, young lady."

The voice did not project anger any longer, but it was no less forceful. He placed a hundred dollar bill on the bar.

"Here's something for your trouble."

"Th-thank you, sir," Laila said.

All the fight was out of Helen now, and she allowed her husband to lead her away without further objection. They passed Nichole and Candy in the main restaurant, both of whom gave Frank frightened, if rather seductive glances. He paid them no attention.

As the pair reached the door, Frank stopped and looked back toward Laila. She averted her eyes, flustered and unsure of herself. When she looked up again, he was gone.

$ $ $

Laila felt somewhat refreshed as she maneuvered across Gemrock's expanses from the ladies' room. Men's heads turned when she passed their tables amid her aura of freshly applied perfume. The glowers of their female companions bounced off Laila harmlessly. She was used to such reactions.

She was returning to her oldest and dearest friends, surrounding herself with their concern. Okay, so the green-eyed monster of envy had poked its way into their relationship, but who could blame them? Would Laila herself be any different in their place?

Of course she would. Laila knew in her heart that she would never envy somebody else's good fortune. It just wasn't in her psychological makeup. Besides, she knew first hand exactly what her 'good fortune' entailed.

She passed through the door of the Garden Room annex. The place was emptied out now except for the Musketelles and the three older ladies seated a couple tables away. This was the lull between the lunch and dinner crowds. Her friends were taken up with table chatter and didn't notice her arrival. The others looked her way with sullen curiosity.

_Very creepy,_ Laila thought.

A man was sitting in her chair. He had iron gray hair and wore a black suit that seemed to project all the darkness of the world. It was Frank.

What's he doing here? And that horrible suit!

Then he turned toward her. It wasn't Frank at all, not the living man, anyway. Laila could see the bloody slit running across his throat and the cascade of blood on his shirt front. He glowered at her with red, accusing eyes. Laila stumbled back, throwing a hand over her mouth and uttering a sharp gasp.

"Oh!"

Her friends were enjoying a laugh and didn't notice her distress. The three crones at the other table did, though. They regarded her with keen and malicious interest in their eyes. Laila turned toward them.

"Who did this?" she demanded.

They made no reply. The Musketelles' merriment ceased. They all stared at Laila, open mouthed.

"What's wrong?" Sharese left her chair and hurried to Laila. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Laila looked past her toward the haunted chair. Thank God, it was empty now.

"I ..."

"Come sit down," Sharese said.

She led Laila back to the table. Laila felt a queer chill as she resumed her seat.

Nichole pushed a drink toward her. "Here, finish this. You look like you need it."

"Thanks."

Unnoticed by the younger women, the three crones made a silent exit.

## 18.Sidewalk Encounter

The Musketelles exited the restaurant together and made their farewells on the sidewalk out front.

While the parting chitchat took place, Laila noticed a stooped figure shuffling along across the street. It was a bag lady, with a voluminous sack over her shoulder. People were giving her a wide berth. She halted at a public phone and checked it for any change, then moved on to rifle a trash bin.

"See you next time, Laila," Nichole said.

"Say hi to Frank for us," Candy added.

"Sure ... I will. See you then."

Candy and Nichole began to cross the street together.

"Coming, Sharese?" Nichole asked.

"I'll be along in a minute. Don't leave without me."

"Now there's a thought," Candy said.

She and Nichole walked off toward the parking lot. Sharese lingered with Laila.

"Call me if you need someone to talk to, okay?" Sharese said.

"All right, I will."

"I mean it. What are friends for?"

Laila nodded, keeping her eyes fixed to the sidewalk.

"You don't have to wait three months until our next luncheon. Call me, or else I can call you. There's no need to face everything alone."

Her manner was completely serious. All her third-cocktail banter had departed. She looked toward Nichole and Candy, then back at Laila.

"Really, don't make me worry about you. I don't want to interfere but ... you know what I'm trying to say."

"Sure," Laila said.

"Are you all right to drive?"

"I stayed within my limit."

"All right, then," Sharese said. "We'll see you."

She hugged Laila, then hurried across the street to the parking lot. After a final backward glance, she entered the car.

"Still trying to look out for me, huh?" Laila murmured.

She walked toward her own vehicle farther down the block. A parking ticket stared impudently at her from under a wiper blade.

"Damn!"

She snatched the ticket and got into the car. As she was pulling away from the curb, a grotesque vision appeared in her mirror. The bag lady had crossed from the other side of the street and was wandering down the sidewalk toward her with a rolling, unsteady gait, as if she were going to fall any moment. Her hunched shoulders and rounded back were the very epitome of despair.

Laila stamped her foot on the brake pedal and lowered the passenger side window. The bag lady was pawing through a trash receptacle now.

"Hey!" Laila called.

The bag lady looked up, startled and cowering like a dog expecting a kick. Laila could see the poor woman's face in every creased and forlorn detail.

Laila motioned to her. "Come over here!"

The bag lady shuffled to the passenger window. "Yes?" she said in a small, timorous voice.

Laila pulled all the cash out of her purse and thrust it toward the bag lady. "Take this."

The bag lady looked astonished and fearful.

"Take it, please."

The woman reached a quavering hand in the window and took the wad of bills.

"Why ... thank you, dear."

The bag lady brought her hand close to her face and studied its contents disbelievingly.

Laila sped away, badly shaken.

$ $ $

Three older women observed Laila and the bag lady from a table in the Gemrock bar, strategically located beside the semi-bay window with its accents of phony stained glass.

This was their destination after their retreat from the Garden Room. At first glance, they could be taken for three harmless old friends out for some afternoon refreshment, but a closer look revealed they were not quite so old or harmless. Their glistening eyes and spiteful expressions added years to their appearance.

"There's more to that beautiful Laila than she cares to let on," said Ilsa McIntyre, leader of the group. "She's scurrying about like a rat without a tail."

"Right," agreed Margaret, "she's got some guilty secret, I think."

"She seems familiar," Ilsa said. "I must look into that."

Pauline sipped her rum punch and grinned. A cocktail waitress approaching the table saw the evil expression and quickly diverted.

The three turned their attention outside the window again. Another car pulled into the space Laila had vacated and a well-dressed couple got out. The bag lady moved off with as much speed as she could muster.

"She's in a rush to spend her newly gained fortune," Ilsa observed.

"Maybe there's material here for your next book," Pauline said.

"I was just thinking that myself," Ilsa replied. "It's been a while since I've published anything – wouldn't want to get out of practice."

She glanced at her watch. "I must be off. Nothing else is doing here."

"When shall we three meet again?" Margaret asked.

"And where the place?" Pauline added.

"After I've done some researches, I'll get in touch with you," Ilsa said. "I want to get to the bottom of this drama."

The other ladies smiled.

"This promises to be interesting," Pauline said.

"Very interesting," Margaret said.

The three women clinked their glasses together.

"On to Eldorado!"

# Four: The Plop Thickens

_This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I believe they were sworn to secrecy. –_ _Heart of Darkness_ _, Joseph Conrad_

## 19.Eldorado Explorers Club

Ilsa McIntyre's sensational murder trial ten years before was the catalyst that brought the Eldorado Explorers Club into existence.

At first glance, the death of her late husband seemed a case of suicide. Ilsa had pulled into her usual parking space in their garage one late afternoon to find Alfred McIntyre hanging from a rope around his neck. The far recesses of the garage had been dark, and she'd not been aware of the corpse until it was dangling in front of her windshield.

Her screaming flight along the sidewalk became the stuff of neighborhood legend. The fact this gruesome event occurred on Halloween enhanced its mystique. The flashing police cars and wailing EMS vehicle added much to the ambiance that year.

Ilsa's adult step-children (This was her second marriage; her first husband had simply vanished.) did not accept appearances. They demanded that a highly detailed autopsy be performed.

The toxicology exam revealed traces of psychotropic substances in Alfred McIntyre's body. The prosecution contended Ilsa had introduced the drugs through poisoning her husband's tea or adulterating his snuff. She'd then "abetted his suicidal tendencies," during his "altered state of consciousness" until he decided to string himself up.

This seemed a fantastical hypothesis, but it had already been laid out in detail by a virtually unknown murder mystery writer, Carlita Blade, in her novel, _The Quandt Street Assassin_. 'Carlita Blade' was the pen name of Ilsa McIntyre.

Like her other novels, this one was noteworthy for its graphic violence and sex, plus its empathetic treatment of the murderer who managed to get away with the crime. The book never caught on – until Alfred's death. Ilsa's indictment and trial propelled _The Quandt Street Assassin_ onto the bestseller lists.

Day after day, Margaret and Pauline sat among the spectators in the packed courtroom to watch the 'Unfortunate Widow Trial.' The two always managed to find a way in, often by bribing people to hold their places.

They were financially well-off widows with enough money to indulge every perverse whim. Their husbands had succumbed to uninteresting natural causes, and both women had the feeling they may have missed out on something. One court session found them seated together. Pauline struck up a conversation.

"Isn't this positively thrilling?" she said. "I try not to miss a single day."

"Oh yes," Margaret agreed. "It's too bad we no longer have the death penalty. Wouldn't that make things even more exciting?"

Pauline smiled maliciously. "So, you think she did it?"

"Of course. I can't wait to see the expression on her face when the guilty verdict comes in."

The highlight of the trial was Ilsa McIntyre's tearful appearance on the stand. She denied any knowledge of the psychoactive drugs and bemoaned the "terrible coincidence" with events in _The Quandt Street Assassin_. And yes, her books were available at various retail outlets.

The bombshell disclosure that Alfred McIntyre was under investigation for statutory rape at the time of his death counted for and against Ilsa. It gave her a motive to kill him, yet it also gave him a motive to use drugs and take the 'easy' way out at the end of a rope.

The prosecution lacked enough hard evidence to convict beyond a reasonable doubt, so the jury – which included a crypto fan of the Carlita Blade novels – let Ilsa walk.

Margaret and Pauline overcame their disappointment and offered Ilsa their congratulations. The three hit it off and formed the Eldorado Explorers Club. The name was Ilsa's idea, from Joseph Conrad's novella, _Heart of Darkness_.

Ilsa may have been acquitted, but Pauline and Margaret were not convinced she was innocent. It didn't seem wise to mention their suspicions, though. Neither wanted to end up in a Carlita Blade novel.

They just enjoyed Ilsa's company and followed her lead for club activities. These included luncheons, gambling, and attendance at felony trials. Funerals were also a preferred activity, and the more noteworthy the corpse, the more likely they were to show up.

They were angry, frustrated, and spiteful – unfulfilled by their boring lives. They strove to "be there when the unspeakable happens."

## 20.Domestic Bliss

Late afternoon, after finishing his final job and grabbing a quick beer, Bert Nagy pulled his big, white pickup truck into his driveway and braked to a halt.

_Bert's Landscaping and Tree Removal_ was painted on the flanks of the vehicle in bold typeface, along with the business phone number. A logo of a muscular arm wielding a chainsaw like a rapier festooned the doors. Around it ran the slogan:

The bigger they come Better give us a call

Bert switched off the rumbling engine and sagged into the cracked vinyl seat. "Home at last."

The truck was a rather down-at-heel affair, probably not the best advertisement for his business, but what the hell, it was paid for. With more contracts like the one at the Armstrongs, he might be able to afford a new truck.

Yes, the Armstrongs . . .

Bert tried to blank out any thought of them. Did the events of this morning really happen, or had he just dreamed everything? All day he'd been agitated, struggling with bizarre ideas and emotions. He needed a long, hot shower and a few more cold ones before dinner to get feeling normal again.

He got out of the cab to a chorus of murderous barks and snarls from the next door neighbors' dog. Bert flinched. The damned brute looked ready to tear his leg off.

"Nice to see you, too, buddy," Bert said.

He hefted the razor sharp machete he used to trim underbrush, wondering what it would be like to whack the animal's skull in two. The dog quieted to a low, ominous growl. If the fence didn't restrain the thing, there'd be a blood bath for sure.

Bert glanced around the area with dismay, taking in his little frame house with its shabby roof crying out for replacement, the cracked walk – the neighbor's overgrown lawn. This was Home Sweet Home?

"Bunch of damned rednecks around here," he muttered.

He tossed the machete back into the cab and slammed the door. As he moved up the walkway, a piercing noise emerged from inside the house.

"What the f – " The lawn sprinkler suddenly came on, dousing him. "Damn!"

He ran the last stretch to the porch and burst in through the door. A choking haze filled the house, along with the screech of a smoke alarm. His children, Judy and Ted, paused in their latest fight and looked toward him.

Bert coughed furiously. "What's going on here?"

"It's just the microwave," Judy said, "but the fire's out now."

Bert yanked open the smoke alarm and pulled the battery. Blessed silence ensued, except for an occasional yap from the dog next door.

"Who turned on the damn lawn sprinkler?" he demanded.

"Nobody, Dad," Judy said. "You put it on the timer last week, remember?"

"Uh ... yeah, right," Bert said lamely.

He propped the front door and flung open the side windows to dispel the smoke.

"We could have used the sprinkler in here a few minutes ago," Judy said.

Bert threw his baseball style cap onto his chair with resigned disgust. "Where's your mother?"

"She took off hours ago," Judy said.

"Yeah, and she left directions to make dinner," Ted said, "but Dumbo here messed things up, as usual."

He threw a couch pillow at Judy.

She threw it back. "I did not! You're the one who put the microwave on too high."

"Enough already!" Bert roared. "Do I have to get out my belt?"

Ted whispered conspiratorially to his sister. "Yeah, and it's _plenty_ long."

Judy giggled.

"What was that?" Bert said.

"Oh, nothing, Dad," Judy said, "just Ted being a jerk again."

"Well, go clean up the kitchen!"

The kids ran off. Bert sank into his recliner, crushing the baseball cap he'd forgotten was there. A massive headache was taking hold, and he rubbed his temples.

From his position in his fake leather chair, he could see the kids rumbling around the kitchen, cleaning up the place between punch exchanges. He shuddered at the thought of the mates they would attract – if they didn't kill each other first.

There wasn't much here to instill fatherly pride. Judy had just turned 13, and she looked like a professional fighter with a personality to match – belligerent and loud. Ted was a male version, two years younger. Both were overweight, like their parents.

If only Bert could find some room to maneuver, get his bearings in the world without so many crushing responsibilities! Then he could put the various aspects of his life back into shape, including his own weight problem. He knew his extra pounds were a death sentence. Hadn't his dad, also morbidly obese, keeled over in his 40's?

Ah, the Cayman Islands . . .

Bert reached for the newspaper stuffed into the side pocket of his recliner. He'd not had time to read it this morning. A story on the front page bore the heading:

Big Tax Increase Coming for Small Businesses

"Crap!"

He tossed the paper aside. Through the open front door, he noticed his wife, Sally, coming up the walk to the accompaniment of friendly yips from the neighbor's dog. The damned brute was actually glad to see her.

_My God, it's true!_ Bert thought with sudden dismay. _People do start to look like each other when they've been married too long._

Though still fairly young and once an attractive woman, Sally had spread out over the years until she was nearly as obese as Bert himself. How the hell did things like this happen? How did that 'special girl' evolve from high school dreamboat to mid thirties ship wreck?

Sally came through the front door. She looked boozed up and disheveled. Her short, reddish hair was frowsy. Their eyes met, but before either of them could say anything, the kids bounded in from the kitchen.

"Hi, Mom," Ted called.

"Wait'll you hear what Teddy did!" Judy chimed in.

They stood before her like eager little troopers in a brat army. Sally gave them a mock, military style salute.

"At ease, kids!" She glanced around the house and sniffed the acrid air. "Didn't I tell you not to burn the house down?"

"It was all her fault," Ted whined.

"No it wasn't!" Judy shot back.

Sally laughed coarsely, as if this were the most hilarious situation imaginable. Then she turned toward Bert.

"You parked that wreck in the driveway again," she said.

"That 'wreck' pays our bills, in case you forgot," Bert replied.

"Oh – right," Sally said.

Bert got ponderously out of his chair.

"You 'wrecked' your hat, Dad," Judy said, pointing to the squashed _Bert's Landscape Service_ baseball cap.

Ignoring this latest jibe, Bert advanced on Sally. He took a whiff of her noxious breath.

"You smell like a distillery," he said.

"That's my man for you." Sally stifled a belch. "The original class act!"

The kids giggled. Bert turned furiously on them. "Go to your rooms!"

The kids started to offer some lip, but the angry look on Bert's face dissuaded them. They retreated to their respective rooms.

Bert turned on Sally. "You went to the casino again, didn't you?"

Sally gave a disdainful laugh. "What of it?"

"How much did you lose this time?"

"Maybe if you brought home a better income, you wouldn't have to worry so much about that."

Bert looked toward the kids' bedroom doors. Ted was peeking out, but quickly ducked his head back in.

"Come on," Bert said.

He took Sally's arm and brought her into their own bedroom, closing the door behind them.

"Keep your hands off me, Bert Nagy!"

Bert released her arm. "Just keep it down, okay? I don't want the kids to hear."

"I'd say the kids are the least of your worries."

"What does that mean?"

Sally flopped on the bed and stretched out on her back with mock luxuriousness. "Well ... The IRS, for instance."

Bert gulped, looked back toward to door.

"You think I don't know you've been hiding income?" Sally taunted. "And there're those two illegal aliens you've been paying under the table."

"How did you find out?"

"Who do you think keeps the books, you big dumb Polack?"

"Don't call me that!" Bert said. "I'm Hungarian American."

"Same difference, you big dumb Hunky."

Bert felt cold sweat rolling under his work clothes. His hands were clammy.

"Please, Sally, be reasonable."

She sat up on the bed and fixed Bert with a withering 'if looks could kill' glower.

"You'd better learn to appreciate me more. That's all I've got to say!"

"Yeah, okay, fine," Bert said.

He retreated from the room. Sally flopped back down on the bed and burped. She waved a despairing arm at the ceiling, addressing the water stains residing there.

"And to think I passed on Bill Holbrook – for this!"

## 21.Encounter with the Stove

It had been a long, trying day for Frank Armstrong.

Dr. Keating ran him through a full physical and every other conceivable kind of test – give blood, piss in a cup, get hooked up with wires. The prostrate exam had been the worst part. He'd have rather been jabbed fifty times with needles than undergo that humiliation.

It was impossible to maintain one's dignity in such circumstances. Then there was a visit from Patricia to further test his patience. Thank God she hadn't blathered about the reorganization plan again.

"Are you feeling better, Dad?" she'd asked.

"This isn't a day for _feeling better_ ," he'd snapped.

She left soon afterwards.

"Why don't you stay another night, Mr. Armstrong?" Dr. Keating had suggested. "You can go home tomorrow, all rested up."

To which Frank replied: "Screw that, Doc, I'm getting out of here – the sooner the better!"

And he was doing just that, striding down Millionaire's Row toward the elevators when a voice called to him from a doorway.

"If it ain't Frank Armstrong!"

Frank recognized the voice immediately. It was Ed "the Stove" Stoverman, real estate mogul and sometime business associate. He turned to see Ed beckoning to him from a chair inside a patient room.

"Well, hi, Ed," Frank replied.

He entered the room. It was actually a two room suite – three, if you counted the john. Ed was perched on a leather recliner in the main space with the bed lurking behind him. A smaller, lounge type area was set off to the side. Everything was pleasant and tastefully decorated, in marked contrast to the 'morgue chic' style of Frank's old room with its sepulchral walls and furnishings.

"This is quite a place you've got here," Frank said, shaking awkwardly with his left hand.

"It ought to be. I'm paying enough for it. The year's rent comes to a small fortune."

"You reserved this place for a whole _year_?" Frank asked, nonplussed. "But you're strong as a bull, Ed. What the hell do you need it for?"

"That may be, but you never know when the Big One's going to hit, right? Best to be prepared, that's what I always say." The Stove pulled a cigar out of his jacket pocket and clipped off the end with a little guillotine device. "Besides, I don't want anybody stinking up the place while I'm not here."

"Well, that's one way to do it," Frank said.

He was still trying to grasp the idea of somebody paying to reserve a hospital suite for a whole year, whether he needed it or not. Then again, Ed always had been the extravagant type.

"Close the door, would you?" the Stove said. "They don't like to see me doing this."

Frank closed the door. Ed lit up his cigar with a long, sensuous lighter flame. High on the wall, tucked in the angle with the ceiling, a large filtering machine rumbled into life. Ed blew out a stream of smoke which was immediately vacuumed up by the device.

"I'm impressed," Frank said.

"Well, you know, money talks as loud in this joint as anywhere else." The Stove gestured toward the cast on Frank's arm. "I can see why you've been in here."

"Yeah, I lost an argument with a ladder."

"Me, I've had another gout attack." Ed indicated his foot stretched out in front of him. "Treatment is just an outpatient type thing these days, but I thought I'd check in anyhow. Make sure they didn't move a leper colony here in my absence."

He chuckled nastily and took another drag on the cigar. Ed rather did resemble an old cast-iron stove with his comfortable pot belly, Frank thought, and now he was puffing smoke like one.

"Ahhh, top flight Havana!" the Stove said with deep satisfaction. "I'd offer you one, Frank, but I know you don't smoke."

"Maybe just this once, for old time's sake."

"Good boy!"

The Stove produced another big Havana and guillotined the tip. He handed it to Frank along with the lighter.

"President Kennedy was a big cigar man," the Stove said. "The night before he signed the Cuban trade embargo, he sent somebody out to buy all the Havanas he could find."

"He was a smart guy," Frank said, "for a Democrat."

"Damn right," Ed replied. "We could use a man like him now to tell those Ruskies and commie Chinese where to get off."

The two men shared some fellowship through the premium cigar smoke. Frank relaxed for the first time since he'd had the Las Vegas row with Laila.

Had that been only yesterday morning? In some ways, he felt like a different person, molded by recent experiences more than he could have imagined possible. He needed to think about that – soon, when this little reunion was over and Ed's voice wasn't echoing in his ears any longer.

The Stove projected a large presence, waxing eloquent on various subjects. "You know, Frank," he said, "we live in the 'too much information' age. I mean, I don't give a damn if somebody's gay or whatever; I just wish they'd keep it to themselves. The absolute, rock bottom, last thing I want to hear about is somebody's 'orientation' or bedroom shenanigans."

"I agree totally," Frank replied. He already knew far more about others' bedroom shenanigans than he cared to think about.

"The topic is even lower on my list than religion," the Stove continued. "Somebody says: 'Let me tell you about my encounter with the Lord.' And I say: 'So long, buddy, I'm going over there to encounter the bartender!'"

Frank took a long, pleasurable drag on his cigar. "Still the same old Ed, I see."

"Speaking of bartenders..." the Stove said.

He produced a fifth of bourbon from the side pocket of the recliner along with two glasses in a zipped plastic bag.

"Now, there's a topic I can get into," Frank said.

Their comradeship continued as they ruminated on some old times – fast deals made, rivals vanquished, government regulators outmaneuvered. Frank felt a warm glow issuing from these memories and from the bourbon, but a melancholy tone underpinned his pleasure.

He'd not seen Ed Stoverman for a year or two, and he was a bit depressed at the man's decline. The Stove had put on weight, and his complexion did not look good, though the lighting in the room might have something to do with that. The interior decorator had not bothered to replace the crappy fluorescents.

But Ed appeared a lot older, there was no denying that, and not particularly fit. Frank's earlier remark about him being "strong as a bull" was mere idle chitchat.

My God, we're the same age! Do I look that bad?

The conversation about the 'old days' started to get him down. Had all the battles and sharp trading been worth it? Was he really happy where it had gotten him, or was he just another older guy with a lot of money and a bad ticker? He felt a sudden need to get away from the Stove. He began paving the way for a graceful exit.

"You know something," he said, gesturing to the remodeled surroundings, "if you got sent to the slammer, I'll bet they'd have a luxury suite waiting for you there, too."

The Stove broke out into raucous laughter, snorting bourbon up the wrong passageway. He coughed heavily, then began to choke. His complexion turned green under the fluorescent light, right up through his bald head.

"Are you all right?" Frank asked, alarmed.

Clearly not. The Stove was gasping for air now. Frank threw the door open and dashed out.

"We've got a problem here!"

He stood watching fretfully in the corridor as medical staff poured into Ed's room. Then they were hauling him out on a gurney. The whole thing progressed with the efficiency of a military operation.

It was over so fast Frank could scarcely believe he'd been enjoying bourbon only moments earlier. The door to Ed's room was shut now, cutting off its opulent interior from view.

## 22.Unscheduled Layover

Frank was exhausted. The episode with Ed had rattled him, and the idea of leaving the hospital sanctuary to face the outside world became intolerable. He required some down time – alone.

He didn't want to see his wife just yet. He needed to think about her first; he needed to think about a lot of things. The press of business waiting for him at the office seemed unimportant now. The outside world could go screw itself for a while.

He began walking back toward his room. When he got there, the door was closed and a smiling woman in a blue-flowered top with an _Environmental Services_ name tag was loitering outside. A little orange barrier parked on the floor displayed a warning sign:

CAUTION

PULSE UV LIGHT

DO NOT ENTER

What the hell?

A similar sign was stuck to the door, and little flashes were shooting through the crack along the tile floor.

"What's going on in there?" Frank asked.

"Oh, that's just Little Snookums doing his job," replied the Environmental Services housekeeper.

"Little Snookums?"

"Yes, our germ-zapping robot. We call him 'Little Snookums.'"

"I see," Frank said.

"He uses a pulse xenon lamp that's thousands of times brighter than sunlight. This greatly reduces the ambient bio burden and decreases our transmission rate of infectious organisms."

"Is that so?"

Frank didn't understand what she was talking about but was not the sort to readily admit ignorance. The woman saw through his pose, however.

"In plain English," she said, "since we've been using these machines, the number of patients catching infections here has gone way down."

"Glad to hear that."

"He should be finished now," the woman said. "Let's go get him."

She opened the door to reveal a squat, R2D2 type machine with its domed head extended on a stalk more than a foot long. As Frank watched with a certain amount of trepidation, the glassy dome retracted against the main unit.

"We always zap these rooms after each patient discharge," the housekeeper said.

She yanked the electrical cord from the wall outlet and wheeled the machine out to the hall.

"Little Snookums was sick last week and had to go back to the factory for a cure," she said. "But he's all right now, aren't you Snookums?"

She stroked the machine affectionately, as if it were a living thing. Frank looked on, bemused.

"Sorry to put ... the two of you through this extra work," he said, "but I won't be checking out after all."

"Oh?"

Frank pulled out his cell phone and called Dr. Keating. As always, the man answered quickly. "Look, Doc. I've decided to take your advice and stay another night."

Keating said something about Frank being already "officially discharged."

"Just recharge me, then, Doc, or whatever it takes. Put it on my bill – along with the death ray service."

The woman gave him a hurt look, as if he'd insulted her favorite child. Frank terminated the call.

"Sorry, ma'am. I meant no disrespect."

She gazed at him, unconvinced.

"Now, if you'll excuse me. It's been nice chatting with you both." Frank patted the germ-zapping robot. "See you later, Little Snookums."

This brought a smile back to the housekeeper's face.

As he entered the room, Frank jabbed out a text message to his wife, then switched off the phone. He closed the door – after checking to see no other robots were lurking about.

Frank kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. Never had he been so tired in his whole life, not even when he was a hard-driving young buck putting in 18-hour workdays. He should be changing out of his street clothes but simply couldn't find the energy. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to his chin. It felt warm and comforting. Just a little nap, then he'd get something to eat.

Sleep approached quickly. Parting thoughts ran through his consciousness: _Laila ... something is up with her. I need to find out. Nothing can be taken for granted ..._ His final thought: _Am I capable of real love?_

$ $ $

Laila fired up her computer, keeping a sharp ear open for any sound of entry into the house. Frank could be coming home any time now. He wouldn't bother telling her when, much less ask her to pick him up at the hospital. That would be out of tune with his superman persona.

A romantic wallpaper appeared on the screen – a man and woman in passionate embrace, a la Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara. Laila glanced toward the door, then back to the computer. She pulled up Frank's e-mail account. Working rapidly, she typed in the passwords she'd purloined from Frank's home office across the hall.

Her husband was a 'belt and suspenders man' who believed in hardcopy backups, and he'd written the passwords down on a tablet in a desk drawer. If he found about her theft, there'd be the devil to pay.

The _Inbox_ folder contained a previously read message from Henry. Laila's heart pounded at the sight – as if it were a communication from the devil himself. She opened it:

Have you thought it over, Dad? Let me know.

"Oh, God!"

She wiped sweaty palms on a tissue and discovered her hands were trembling. She opened the _Sent_ folder ... it contained no answer to Henry's message. Laila let out a sigh of relief. Then the tension returned, gripping her skull like a steel band.

Just because Frank hadn't answered this message didn't mean much. He could have called Henry. Frank preferred speaking with people in person or on the phone. Her attempt at snooping was pathetic. She'd learned nothing other than Henry was still pressing his case. She went to the _Spam_ folder – the usual male enhancement ads, pornographic messages, and phishing scams. None of them had been opened. The latest message screamed in bold face capitals:

GET HARDER TONIGHT!

"No problem there, at least," Laila muttered.

She closed out of Frank's email account and sat back in her desk chair, calculating. It would be time for another drink soon, as her current one was getting near the bottom. In an attempt to divert her mind into less stressful realms, she surfed the gossip sites, reading of this or that celebrity divorce, infidelity, brush with the law ...

Murder?

She dismissed the ugly word and turned her attention to a story about some movie star who'd been arrested for bringing recreational drugs across the border from Canada. His wife had recently filed for divorce, he said, and he wasn't thinking clearly; the 'smuggling' was just an accident.

Laila's thoughts turned to the melancholy topic of divorce. It had become much too free and easy. People could bail out of a relationship at the drop of a hat these days. Only the property settlements caused problems, or custody battles over the children – if there were any. On the other hand, murder (there was that word again!) had a much more time-honored history. People of all religious backgrounds could respect it.

Murder had solved many problems over the centuries. History had been Laila's best subject at school. It abounded with examples of inconvenient people who had been dispatched at the proper time – Julius Caesar, Rasputin, Dutch Shultz ... What was one more in the big scheme of things?

Besides, we weren't talking about an actual _murder_ here. It was really more of a 'managed accident,' a logical outcome of character flaws. People who couldn't control their tempers properly came to grief one way or another, didn't they?

Her phone pinged a text message from Frank: _Staying tonite. Am fine. B home tomorrow._

"Fine, huh?"

## 23.Unsentimental Journey

It's night. Frank is walking up the path to his back door.

A thin mist hugs the ground, but the sky is clear, admitting bright moonlight to the world below. The lawn chairs on the patio cast harsh shadows, like those of tombstones. A heavy scent of roses hangs in the air. He enters the house and closes the door behind him. It slams with a resounding _Crash!_ that echoes to the basement where it rattles the bottles in the wine cabinet.

Damn! I don't know my own strength.

The house is dim, sepulchral; the lights don't work. Frank moves across the broad expanse of the ground floor toward the staircase lurking in the gloom. The staircase seems unnaturally wide and long. He could drive his big SUV up with room to spare, even a hearse turned sideways could make the journey.

He mounts the stairs, feeling the balustrade slither beneath his hand like a venomous snake. The ascent seems interminable, but finally the dim circle of light at the top gets larger and closer. He passes into it.

Frank is standing in the second floor hallway. He walks toward his home office. On his right, the closed door to Laila's private room is crisscrossed with yellow tape, like a crime scene. Letters waver on a placard:

CAUTION

PULSE UV LIGHT

DO NOT ENTER

What the hell?

Down the hall on his left, the door to the master bedroom gapes open, revealing its dark, tomb-like interior. Frank shudders at the sight. He enters his office and closes the door quietly behind him. After a moment's hesitation, he locks it.

He ensconces himself in the chair behind the massive oak desk. The leather feels clammy against his skin. The sight of his jacket hanging from a hook in a suspicious attitude gives him a start. On the wall, the monitor screen for the security system hangs dark and lifeless. It is apparently out of order.

"Damn security alarm company! I'll give them a piece of my mind."

Time drifts past in the eerie surroundings. Frank starts to feel uneasy. He realizes he is utterly alone in the house – utterly alone in his life. He gropes for the bottle of bourbon that must be under the chair but can't find it.

"I could sure use a cigar," he laments.

Suddenly, the monitoring screen flickers into life, revealing views from every security camera installed on the property. Frank does not look too closely at the screen for fear of what he might see. A piercing note begins shrieking. Then every noisemaker in the house starts up – doorbells, smoke alarms, the buzzer on the stove. The racket continues for nearly a minute before it abruptly halts.

Then, the clanking of a heavy chain issues from the basement. It drags over the cabinet of wine bottles, knocking it over to a chorus of shattering glass. The door to the basement booms open.

"I get it," Frank says. "This is only a dream – a bit of indigestion."

He takes comfort in this thought, but his composure begins to fray as he hears the chain dragging up the basement stairs, then across the ground floor and onto the second floor staircase. He considers getting his 9 mm pistol out of the nightstand, but can't tolerate the idea of entering the funereal master bedroom.

So he just waits as the steps draw nearer and nearer . . .

A ghastly figure enters the office, materializing in front of the closed door. It is tall and gaunt, with fiercely staring eyes. A heavy chain is wrapped around its waist and over its shoulders. An infernal atmosphere surrounds the intruder, tousling its hair with waves of heat.

"Who the hell are you?" Frank asks.

"Better to ask who I was," the figure replies in a hollow voice that seems to originate from far away.

"All right," Frank says. "Who the hell _were_ you?"

"Ahhh 'hell' – what an appropriate word to describe my plight," the apparition says. "In this world, I was known as Alfred McIntyre."

"Of course, I recognize you now!" Frank says, "I haven't seen you since the banquet..."

He gulps, there's a good reason he hasn't seen Alfred McIntyre for such a long time. The guy died ten years ago, under very suspicious circumstances.

"How have you been, Alfred?" he asks awkwardly.

The specter gives Frank an annoyed glower. "How do I look to you, Armstrong?"

"I must admit you truly look like crap ... no offense intended," Frank says.

He tries to make as light of the situation as possible, but terror is creeping up his spine.

"S-so, what business brings you here?" he asks.

"To warn you away from the mistakes I have made," the ghost of Alfred McIntyre says. "I did not value the important people in my life. I took their love for granted; money and power were all that mattered to me."

"I know what you're talking about," Frank murmurs.

"You will be haunted by three spirits tonight," intones the shade of Alfred McIntyre.

"I think I'd rather not."

"Ah, but they're coming ... coming," the shade says. "Without their visits you cannot hope to avoid taking the path of ruin that I have trod."

Alfred is backing toward the window now. It abruptly flies open, admitting chill night air along with the shrieks and wails of damned souls . . .

"No! No!"

Frank struggled against the blanket as if it were a burial shroud trying to strangle him. He flung it away and sat upright in the hospital bed, eyes wide and frightened. He was burning up and drenched with sweat.

"Ohhh ... thank God that's over!"

He'd become badly overheated by his street clothes and the blanket. This was always a recipe for nightmares, or 'heat dreams,' as Frank called them.

The room was dark and somber around him, with moonlight filtering through the window. The atmosphere was not unlike the phantom office of his nightmare. He headed into the bathroom and flicked on the bright overhead. He began splashing water onto his face and neck.

Get a grip, Frank, it was only a dream.

He studied his haggard face in the mirror. Behind him, blocking the bathroom doorway, he saw a tall figure shrouded in a deep, black robe concealing its face and form and leaving nothing visible except for a hand stretching toward him. Were it not for this ghastly, ivory pale hand, it would be difficult to detach the figure from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

It spoke in a sonorous voice: "I am the ghost of – "

"Enough already!" Frank growled. "I get the picture."

The specter vanished with a soft _pop!_ and never bothered Frank again.

## 24.Moral Dilemmas

Bert's feverish mind churned and throbbed with a force equaling the engine of the tractor mower he rode along the vast Armstrong estate lawns.

Words fluttered in and out of his consciousness: _rich ... Cayman Islands ... damned ... free ... guilty._ He'd been wrestling with his moral dilemma for two days and had not come to a decision.

Contrasting images blurred through his mind with bewildering speed – a tropical paradise then a burning hell, long-legged beauties followed by devils brandishing pitchforks. He saw luxurious houses and deep, mysterious caverns. A worried, conflicted expression distorted his face. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and took a long swig from a water bottle.

A harsh voice shocked him out of his ruminations. "Hey, Cream Puff!"

Bert flinched and looked toward his left. To his amazement, he saw an image of himself riding another lawnmower. But this Bert Nagy wore a dark cape and a black Lone Ranger type mask. The cape flowed behind him as if in a strong breeze, though there wasn't any wind today.

"Me?" Bert asked meekly.

"Yeah, you!"

This evil Bert's lawnmower was jet black with a garish flame motif painted along its sides. It rumbled ominously, smoke belching from the exhaust. Bert gulped and tried to keep his eyes fixed straight ahead. The manifestation on his left was too compelling to ignore, however.

"Don't tell me you can't think of anything to do with a half million bucks," Evil Bert said. "625,000 bucks if you do things right – for the first time in your sorry life."

"W-well, I..."

Another voice intruded, this one pleasant and mellow. "But it's wrong, Bert, however you might try to justify it."

Bert jerked his head to the right where a good version of himself piloted another lawnmower. Good Bert wore a white cape and mask. A halo-like glow attended him, and his cape billowed gracefully. His lawnmower was gleaming white and produced a melodious hum.

"Bullshit!" Evil Bert shouted. "You'd be doing everyone a favor."

"You're contemplating _murder_ here," Good Bert countered. "Nothing is worse than that."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Evil Bert said.

"It is always best to turn the other cheek," Good Bert said. "Do unto others ..."

While the good and evil versions of himself debated, Bert turned his head back and forth, as if watching a tennis match. He paid scant attention to his driving, and the neat swath he'd been cutting through the grass began to waver.

"You've seen how that s.o.b. treats Mrs. Armstrong," Evil Bert said. "And the way he treats you, too. Total disrespect."

"You've got that right," Bert muttered.

"Then man up and do the right thing!"

"Remember," Good Bert said, "two wrongs cannot make a right."

This last remark bore the compelling mark of truth. Bert was nearly won over to its side. Then Evil Bert said something that chilled him to the marrow:

"You don't want to be stuck with _Sally_ the rest of your life, do you, Cream Puff?"

Bert shuddered. His throat constricted so much he could scarcely make a sound. "No!" he croaked.

"Then get with the program," Evil Bert said. "You're only 33, shape up while you still can."

The two phantom machines shot ahead and closed with each other like a pair of angry stallions. Bert could hear the drivers shouting at each other but could no longer make out their words. They disappeared over the rise by the flower garden. Bert continued piloting his own mower, stunned and disoriented. The vision he'd witnessed was even more than vivid than the Cayman Island scenario.

Bert looked down with disgust at his belly jiggling under the engine's vibration. Okay, he tended toward obesity – he knew that – but things had really gotten bad in recent years.

Whatever calories he burned at work were surpassed by the mountains of comfort foods he consumed afterwards. The pizza, cheeseburgers, and pitchers of beer soothed his frustrations but added alarming inches to his waistline. Not to mention the artery-clogging meals Sally prepared when she wasn't out gambling or drinking. He cringed at the recollection of the four of them enjoying their only 'quality time' together, wolfing down food.

What the hell happened to you, Sally?

She was such a piece when he'd married her. But that was before the kids came along, and before he quit his factory job to make a go at a landscaping business that never took off. And the second mortgage, and all the other hassles.

Bert had forgotten what a handsome guy he was, lurking under the flab layers. Both fantasy versions of himself were slimmed down and looked very dramatic in their superhero outfits. He rather favored the dark version, though. It had more flair, and he liked the way the cape flowed in the wind.

$ $ $

Frank Armstrong wandered the acres of his estate, hands thrust into his pockets, deep in thought. It was a gorgeous day outside, but inside he was in turmoil. He scarcely noticed the lawnmower racket.

Since coming home earlier that morning, Frank had wanted to speak with his wife. She looked terribly worn. She was smoking and drinking on the sly. He wanted to find out the reasons for this. He wanted to comfort Laila and tell her he appreciated her staying with him all these years. But he didn't know how to do those things; it simply wasn't his style.

Until the last few days, he'd never considered changing his behavior. But his accident, the battery of medical tests, and the collapse of Ed Stoverman had rattled Frank to the core. Not to mention that horrific dream! The appointment with Dr. Keating to discuss the test results was coming soon, and he wasn't looking forward to that with much enthusiasm.

For the first time in his life, Frank Armstrong felt the bony hand of mortality resting on his shoulder. It was changing his outlook on everything.

All right, so I'm a domineering s.o.b. on the outside. How could I have made it in the world otherwise?

But there was more to him on the inside. It was high time to let it emerge ... if he could just figure out how. The Stove had suffered an embolism / stroke, or whatever the hell, and his prognosis couldn't be good. He was in the intensive care unit when Frank left the hospital and was not taking visitors.

Damn, we'd been having such a great time together!

But mortality got everybody sooner or later, even if you'd reserved a fancy hospital suite.

Frank needed to return to the office right away – that was the ticket. Get out of this melancholy rut, clear his head with some real work. Then he'd be able to straighten out what needed fixing in his personal life.

He was so absorbed in these thoughts, he didn't notice the lawnmower bearing down until it was almost too late –

$ $ $

Bert emerged from his broodings to discover Frank Armstrong dead ahead.

"Yow!"

He'd veered off the mowing pattern and was coming right at the man. Armstrong became aware of the danger at the same moment. He shifted his weight, uncertain which way to dodge.

Bert yanked the wheel hard left, missing Armstrong and nearly falling off the machine in the process.

"Watch out, you damn fool!"

"Uh, sorry, Mr. Armstrong."

Bert ratcheted the speed down and drove off, looking back apologetically. Frank scowled after him, raising his hand in a gun gesture and dropping the hammer. Bert turned his head forward, gulped.

" _Ha haaa!"_ Evil Bert's voice echoed inside his skull. _"You missed a golden opportunity, Cream Puff."_

His meek expression turned hard and cruel. Evil Bert had a good point.

## 25.Dreary Breakup

H _ere it is, at last,_ Patricia thought, _the final act of the drama._

"Can I drive you somewhere?" she asked.

Kristen looked up from her packing and offered a strained little smile. "No thank you. I'm getting a ride."

"Suit yourself."

Patricia lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke theatrically. This whole scene was theatrical. She felt suddenly old – or rather, it was a sense of having covered this same ground too often before.

"Would you mind telling me why?" she asked, against her better judgment.

Kristen looked up again, another bright, false smile. "We're just very different types, Pattie. I guess that's it in a nutshell."

Patricia noted the expensive shoes and handbag being included with the packed items, purchases from the last shopping trip. Kristen knew how to time the breakup. And her performance in bed the night before had possessed an almost violent, grand finale aspect. Patricia had not been blind to the implications.

So, Kristen had completed her little walk in the wild side garden and was returning to the world of boyfriends and straight sex. Some day, amid the alcohol buzz of a girls' night out, she might mention her fling with the rich dyke who had "such wonderful taste in clothes."

Kristen shoved the last items into the suitcase and zipped it shut. "No, there's more to it than that."

"What?"

"You use people. There doesn't seem to be anything genuine in your heart."

Damn, not this again!

"I don't mean any disrespect," Kristen said. "It's just the way you are. I knew it from the beginning. If you weren't so damned sexy, I'd have passed you up."

"Hmm." Patricia had no energy for disputation.

Kristen's cell phone pinged.

"My ride's here." She kissed Patricia on the cheek. "Bye, Pattie."

"Bye."

Already Patricia was going over the list of new prospects in her mind. Would that gift shop girl at the hospital be worth another visit? She could apologize for being so grouchy the last time – worried about Dad and all that – and how about lunch, someplace very upscale?

"I'll never forget you," Kristen said. "Your taste in clothes, and in sex toys, is absolutely amazing."

Then she was gone, leaving Patricia empty and alone, deserted once more. She gazed along the expanses of her huge apartment. A long series of meaningless affairs stretched into the past, and more of them reached toward the future.

Get over it, girl. It's not like this hasn't happened before.

She moved to the bar area in the corner of the living room and fixed herself a stiff vodka martini, dry with two olives. This was her favorite drink; though, when she was courting a new prospect, she usually went for something sweet and colorful. More exotic, you know.

Her father preferred vodka martinis, too, and she was a lot like him – much more so than Henry was.

Henry . . . by the time she was on the second drink, her brother began to rise favorably in her thoughts, a burnished version of him, more substantial than he really was. She needed somebody to talk to, and nobody else was available right now. She grabbed her phone.

"Hey, Sis!" Henry said the moment he picked up. "How's it hanging?"

Patricia recoiled. Of all the things he could have said to her in her current mood, this had to be the most jarring.

"I broke up with Kristen," she said, trying suppress the alcohol slur.

"Ohhh, sorry to hear that. So, have you talked with Dad lately?"

Patricia sipped her martini. The switch from commiseration to self interest had been abrupt, even for Henny. She'd been foolish to expect any emotional support.

"Sis?"

"I saw him at the hospital yesterday," Patricia said flatly.

"Did you talk to him about the reorganization plan?"

"I was only there a few minutes."

"You could have said _something_. Pique his interest a little."

Patricia banged her glass down on the coffee table. "Dad was in a terrible mood. What was I supposed to do, give him a big lecture? He practically threw me out as it was."

"Okay, Sis. Keep your shirt on."

"And cut the macho metaphors while you're at it," Patricia snapped.

"Alright, I get it. Sounds like this Kristen break-up struck home."

"Yes ..." Patricia murmured.

She didn't know if Henry heard or not, and she didn't care. He was too much like her to offer any genuine sympathy – another empty-hearted type who used people.

"I sent the papers to Dad's office," Henry said, "so he can give them a good look over."

"Uh huh."

"Then I sent an e-mail."

"That's wasn't smart," Patricia said. "Haven't you figured out by now he resists being pressured."

"Well, I suppose you're right. It was just a little reminder, though."

Patricia snatched an olive out of her drink and chewed it with resignation. Of course Henny sent the e-mail. How could it be otherwise? He had all the psychological subtlety of a belch. No wonder their father had so little patience with him.

Then again, maybe it was the best approach. Dad was smitten by the cocktail waitress – thinking with his dick, like most men. He wouldn't like the idea of cutting her out, however much business sense it made. In any case, Henny would follow his own course. She couldn't always look out for him, not like when they were kids.

As her brother droned on, Patricia recalled the time, back in their childhood, when a gang of bullies would ambush him on his way home from school. She'd decided to put an end to this, as it impacted her sense of family honor . . .

Patricia arranged her own ambush, lurking behind some high shrubs near the gang's meeting place. She was older than the four bullies, and she'd brought along a softball bat to improve the odds further.

She waited until her brother rounded the corner and was accosted by the gang. They pushed him and knocked his books to the ground, all the while shouting abuse. Henny was terrified and unable to offer any resistance.

Patricia snuck up behind the leader of the heroes. "Got something for you!"

The kid turned her direction as Patricia swung the bat. He went down hard. She beat him twice more as he writhed on the ground, screaming for mercy through his broken jaw.

The other bullies looked on, paralyzed with fear. When she finished re-educating their leader, Patricia glanced up coolly.

" _OK, who's next?"_

They ran off and never bothered Henny again. There was a bit of flap with the authorities, but Dad's money and influence smoothed things over. He even paid to fix the damned kid's jaw.

Since that day, Patricia had seen herself as the legitimate heir to her father's business empire. Sure, Henry could play a subordinate role, chief legal counsel or something, but she was the true inheritor of the family stones. The important thing was to get rid of the cocktail waitress. Everything else was secondary at this point.

"Listen, Henry. I've got a lot of stuff to do."

"Okay, Sis. Talk to you later."

"Thanks for being so sympathetic."

She hung up and drained the last of her martini in one gulp. The alcohol rush hit hard.

Enough of this, girl!

She needed to stay clear-headed so as to carry out her plan. Henry's scheming wouldn't get rid of the gold digger, only the suspicion of infidelity would enrage Dad enough to finally cut her off.

In a burst of activity a month ago, before she lapsed into the Kristen affair, Patricia hired a detective firm – of the less reputable sort – and had them track down Laila's ex.

Through her intermediaries, Patricia lined his pockets with enough cash to buy his cooperation. Keith Frost was chronically low on funds and was not inclined to ask many questions. Then came the ambush at the mall. Keith had even booked a hotel room if things got that far, but there was no dice, unfortunately.

Patricia retained the photographic 'evidence' while she plotted another chance encounter for her step mother with somebody more tempting than Keith. Laila was still young and incredibly attractive, why wouldn't she seek some recreational sex away from her aging husband?

If the absolute truth were told, Patricia had designs on Laila herself, but she kept a tight rein on her lusts. Laila was the enemy; she had to go – by any means necessary.

Dad would be receiving another delivery at his office today. Maybe the package was a bit thin, but there wasn't time to beef it up. Laila would be on her guard, now that the chips were starting to fall. But once Dad's volatile temper got the better of him, Laila would be history. Hadn't he unloaded Mom once his suspicions were aroused?

Yes ... Mom. She'd gotten a _very_ raw deal. Rejected, thrown out, hounded by ruthless lawyers. Patricia always wondered if Mom's alcohol-fueled car accident was really accidental, or had it been suicidal despair?

Maybe it was time for some payback.

## 26.Decision Time

Laila sat at her computer, idly surfing the internet. Nothing new on the celebrity gossip sites – just the same old scandal-mongering chit chat, innuendos, paparazzi sneak peaks.

There's got to be more to life than this.

She should be viewing things of substance – world events, economics, business affairs. Only she didn't have much interest in those things. Except for the brief, traumatic period between her marriages, she'd never had to concern herself much with the outside world. There had always been a 'take-charge type' man handling things. This had left a vacuum in her mind.

Yet she was quite smart. She'd always performed well at school, but she'd done little to develop her intellectual capabilities. Why was that? Because some foolish, self-destructive impulse told women like her that men felt threatened by intelligent females, that looking beautiful and acting dumb was the winning strategy.

Only she didn't feel like a winner. She was alone and trapped.

Frank had been very withdrawn and quiet since he'd returned from the hospital. Something happened he wasn't telling her about. Had Patricia dropped her bombshell; were the incriminating photographs in his possession? Had he decided to go ahead with Henry's plan?

She wanted urgently for him to talk to her, allay her fears, assure her a safe and prosperous future. She wanted a reason to pull back from the desperate plot she'd hatched, but she knew that wouldn't happen. People and events were set in their ways and could not be altered. She must harden her heart and keep to her plans.

Still ... if he'd just talk to her! Or maybe she could try to talk to him, when he got back from his walk around the grounds. Laila flinched at the noise of the back door slamming. She heard Frank stomping through the lower floor, fuming and cursing:

"That idiot landscaper!" and "Should have fired his ass long ago!" were the least profane of his utterances.

All thought of approaching him vanished. He'd humiliated her often enough when she'd tried to penetrate his angry moods. She smiled. Bert Nagy was getting to him. This would be important for the success of the plan.

Frank was calling for a driver now, speaking so loudly she could hear him fine without leaving her desk.

"I need a ride to my office, right away," Frank was saying. "Get here in less than ten minutes, and the rate goes up 20 percent."

Wasn't that just like him? Offer people extra money so he could lord over them better. Ordinarily, her husband enjoyed piloting his own massive vehicle, looking out from his privileged roost at the lesser humans in their inferior machines. But now he deigned to use a professional driving service until "this damned cast" came off his arm.

Minutes went by. Then a car horn beeped at the gate. Frank wrenched open the front door and shouted, "All right, I'm coming!"

He left the house, slamming the door behind him. Laila was ready for it this time and didn't flinch. She went downstairs and fixed herself a drink. After downing it, she mixed another.

Then she went outside.

$ $ $

Bert had finished cutting the grass and was packing up the lawn mower. A pestilential fever of anger and resentment burned within him. He felt unmanned and totally humiliated. He wanted to knock somebody down. The whole world was against him – Sally, his kids, the government – and worst of all, Frank Armstrong.

"That sonuvabitch!" he kept muttering.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted somebody walking toward him from the house. It was Mrs. Armstrong, carrying her usual tall drink. Her movements were languid and a bit tipsy, but also filled with determination. She seemed like an angel of deliverance coming his way. A death angel.

Bert turned from his work and awaited her arrival. She stopped before him and smiled up into his face.

"Good morning, Bert."

"Good morning."

She looked around the property, taking in the freshly trimmed grass, nodded approval. Then her head tilted in a questioning pose.

"Have you thought it over?"

Bert drew himself up to his full height and sucked in his breath, expanding his chest to impressive dimensions. "Yes, I have."

She sipped her drink and cocked an eyebrow. "Well?"

"You're on, Mrs. Armstrong. When?"

"Tomorrow morning, early. Let's make sure he's angry enough to come out here." She looked toward the flower garden with its myriad of exotic blooms and smiled vindictively. "I think another incident with these flowers should do it."

"I'll handle everything," Bert said.

# Five: Machinations Continue

## 27.Crucial Appointment

Henry glanced furtively toward the door of his home office and pressed the cell phone more closely against his face.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he uttered in a low voice. "Yes, I know what I said, but I just need a bit more time. Things have come up."

The petulant voice on the other end softened a bit, offering Henry forgiveness for the delay, but he would have to bring "something special" with him to smooth things over.

"OK, I will, see you soon."

Henry terminated the call and breathed a sigh of relief.

That was unpleasant.

He braced himself for the scene with Debbie and the boys, then decided to delay it a while by calling his sister first. He punched her number.

"Yes, Henry, what is it?"

"Hi, Sis. I was wondering if – "

"No, I haven't heard anything from Dad," Patricia finished the sentence. "What's the big rush? I told you it won't help to pressure him."

"I know, but – "

"Look, I'm busy now. If there isn't anything else, let's pack it in, all right? Enjoy the rest of the day. Go see a soccer game."

"Okay, I will ... bye Sis."

"Bye."

Henry straightened his power suit, seized his designer briefcase, and left his office. He ran smack into Debbie and the boys. She was dressed casually and his sons wore their bee-like soccer uniforms.

"My, don't you all look nice?" Henry observed.

"You're not going to the game dressed like that, are you, Henry?" Debbie asked. "We've got to leave in five minutes."

"Sorry, Hon, something's come up. I have to go to an important meeting."

"But it's the semi finals," Debbie said. "The boys will be so disappointed."

"Yeah, Dad," Ronny said, "all the other parents will be there."

"We're going to kill those guys!" Jeff said, emphasizing the statement with a resounding sock into an open palm.

"Are you sure you can't reschedule this meeting?" Debbie asked.

Henry glanced at his Rolex. "I'd love to see the game, you know that, but these big clients simply won't be put off."

"Money talks, doesn't it?" Debbie said.

"That's right," Henry said. "And the phone book's full of lawyers if I don't take the work."

"Come on, Dad!" Jeff whined. "You missed the quarter finals, too."

Henry tousled the kid's hair. "Just make it to the finals. I'll be there. That's a promise."

The kid moved away, disappointment etched on every feature. Henry kissed Debbie perfunctorily.

"I'll get back as soon as I can," he said. "Good luck, boys. Score a few for me."

"Yeah ... bye, Dad," the boys said.

Henry left, closing the door hurriedly behind him.

Thank God that's over!

Debbie stared at the closed front door, unhappy and unconvinced. The boys started to rough house; she did not attempt to restrain them.

## 28.Girls' Day Out

Befitting her status as _de facto_ group leader, Sharese occupied the center chair at the casino slot machines, flanked by Candy and Nichole.

All around them flashed the lights and chimed the sounds of the gambling Never Never Land. Tides of emotion swept through the place, rising and falling with the luck of the various gamers.

Several machines down the line from them to the right, Sally Nagy was also trying her luck. She wielded a drink in one hand and wore an intense, almost hypnotized, look on her face as the little pictures spun before her eyes.

The Musketelles did their best to ignore her. She'd arrived after they did. If she'd been there first, they would have chosen a different row. This was their first get together since the quarterly luncheon at Gemrock, and a certain strain attended them. Things needed to be said.

Finally, Sharese spoke up. "I'm worried about Laila."

"Yeah," Candy said, "she didn't look too good at the luncheon."

"Maybe the rich and famous lifestyle isn't all it's cracked up to be," Nichole said.

Candy punched the button on her machine. The symbols spun around, came up zilch again. "I'm certainly not getting rich today."

Down the row, Sally won a round. She raised a jubilant fist. "Woo Hoo!"

The Musketelles looked askance toward her, shaking their heads.

"I'm glad somebody's doing well," Candy said.

"Get a load of those three," Nichole said in a low voice.

Sharese followed Nichole's gaze toward the opposite end of the row. More newcomers had arrived – three elderly women in somber clothes grouped around a single machine, studying its glass face with grim intensity, as if they could divine the future from it.

A chill ran through Sharese. _Are those the same ones from Gemrock?_

"They look they're going to a funeral," Candy said.

An awkward silence fell over the Musketelles. Sharese broke the impasse. "Why don't we just admit it? We're all green with envy."

Candy and Nichole stared at the merciless trio of images on the screens before them, saying nothing.

"Laila could be in serious trouble," Sharese said, "and we made a joke out of the whole thing."

"Yes ... that's true," Nichole said.

"Hasn't she been good to us over the years?" Sharese said. "You'd have never met your husbands without her." Candy and Nichole nodded. "We'd all still be waiting tables if it wasn't for Laila, or else we'd be married to low class slobs."

"It sounds so terrible the way you put it," Candy said.

For a moment, Sharese glimpsed the dark hole of ennui at the center of all their lives. It was a frightening vision, and she quickly pushed it away.

"For Chrissake, Candy," she said, "your husband has his own accounting firm. And your husband is the 'King of Discount Dentistry,' Nichole. How many branch offices does he have now, three?"

"Four."

"Right," Candy said. "I saw the ad on TV."

"Laila's been very helpful to me, too," Sharese said. "Well ... maybe things didn't work out, but the divorce settlements have been good."

Nichole sighed and took a sip of her drink. "You're right, Sharese, but I always felt she didn't want to spend too much time with us. We're kind of below her league, aren't we?"

"Maybe she needs us more now," Sharese said. "Things might really be falling apart with her and Frank."

Down the row, Sally lost a round. She smacked the machine with her palm. "Crap!"

The Musketelles glanced toward her again.

"Let's not bring Laila here, for sure," Nichole said, "too many 'low class slobs' hanging around."

"Well, I'm going to get a hold of Laila and see if I can help somehow," Sharese said. "Are you with me?"

"Sure," Candy said.

"All for one, and the rest of that stuff," Nichole added.

"Okay, good," Sharese said. "I'll let you know what I find out."

They went back to their gaming, unaware that the three crones to their left had eavesdropped their conversation. Sally Nagy had distracted them from the creepy presence of the Eldorado Explorers Club.

Ilsa McIntyre turned to her two companions. "Wait here, ladies. I'll have a quick word with the blonde one."

Margaret and Pauline felt keen disappointment at being left out of the foray, but it did not occur to them to object. Ilsa was not a person one argued with.

Ilsa slipped off her chair and moved down the row toward the three sexy young women in their fashionable clothes. Ilsa had been a sexy young woman herself, once, and she hated them for it.

She was willing to overlook the affront because she wished to benefit their friend, the fairest one of all. Unobserved, she arrived behind the tall blonde with the Southern accent and tapped her on the shoulder.

Sharese jerked around, startled, to see a stooped, malevolent woman lurking behind her. The woman's flat gray eyes bored into hers, silencing any outcry.

"There's a plot afoot against the pretty one," the woman said.

"W-what? Who are you?"

Sharese looked desperately toward her friends, but they were too absorbed in the spinning images to notice the interloper.

"The rich man's daughter is behind it," the woman continued. "She lives at REX Apartments, in the ivory tower."

Before Sharese could say anything, the woman was gone, joining the other two ladies and disappearing around the corner with them. Sharese sat for a long moment gathering her wits, then she stood up.

"I think we should leave now," she said.

"I'm for that," Nichole said.

"Yeah," Candy agreed. "Let's go, while I've still got a few dollars left to my name."

She stood and began walking to the left, where the crones had been.

"No, this way," Sharese said, leading her the opposite direction.

They walked past Sally, who had resumed playing in mesmerized style, eyes wide and blank. They picked up the pace.

_There but for the grace of God..._ thought Sharese.

$ $ $

Sharese maneuvered her car through the midtown traffic. Candy occupied the passenger side, while Nichole leaned forward from the back seat in order to share the conversation.

"You should sit back, Nichole," Sharese said, "put on your seat belt."

"Why? So you can talk about me without being overheard?"

Sharese laughed. It felt great to be alone with her friends again, away from the jarring atmosphere in the casino. And what about that creepy woman with her talk of the 'rich man's daughter in the ivory tower'?

She wanted to dismiss the whole thing, but couldn't. It had been maximum weird, like a scene out of some low budget horror movie. Well, she could think about that later, no sense ruining a good time over it.

"So, what's next, girls?" she said. "A quick drink before the big event?"

"I'm for that," Nichole said.

Sharese reached over and squeezed Candy's arm. "Maybe you ought to have a couple, put you in the right mood."

"Sure," Candy said. "Hey, watch out!"

A young guy on a racing bicycle had veered into their lane. Sharese honked and swerved to avoid him, sending Nichole tumbling onto the floor.

"Ow!"

"You all right, Nichole?" Candy asked.

"Yeah ... I think so."

"Don't worry, girls," Sharese said, "everything's under control."

She lowered the passenger side window and yelled at the bicyclist. "Hang onto that sweet ass, honey! You might need it someday."

The bicyclist tipped his helmet. The Musketelles laughed.

## 29.Serendipity at the Bar

Back at the casino lounge, the Eldorado Explorers Club conferred over tumblers of what passed for rum punch.

Well, what could you expect from an establishment like this? Its sole purpose was to inebriate people so as to loosen their purse strings. They had this whole end of the bar to themselves, as nobody wished to sit near them. A video poker screen embedded in the bar's surface flashed seductively, but the three ladies ignored it.

"How did it go with the blonde one, Ilsa?" asked Margaret.

"Ach, I tried to put a bug in her ear. I don't know if it did any good, though." Ilsa fished through her purse and withdrew something. "Look what I have."

"Show me! Show me!" cried the other two.

Ilsa presented a photograph of several couples seated at a large, round banquet table. They were prosperous sorts, judging by their fine clothes and self-satisfied expressions.

"This was taken at a dinner for business hot shots."

The other two studied the picture intently. Margaret placed a bony finger beneath the image of a tight-lipped woman who was seated beside a smug middle-aged man.

"Why, that's you, Isla! And that must be Mr. McIntyre next to you."

"Right."

"When was this picture taken?"

"Ten years ago. Shortly before Alfred's ... unfortunate demise."

Margaret and Pauline traded furtive glances. Ilsa's tone of voice hardly conveyed the notion of 'unfortunate.' They went back to examining the photo.

"Why, it's the pretty one!" Pauline indicated an elegantly-dressed young woman sitting two couples away from Alfred and Ilsa.

"That it is," Ilsa said. "You're very perceptive, dear."

"She looks to be an absolute child. Who's that man next to her?"

"Frank Armstrong. They were newly married then. He did everything but pound his chest like a baboon showing her off."

"What sort of man is he?" Margaret asked.

"Just like my Alfred was – coarse, domineering, in love with himself and with power."

"I see."

"He and Alfred were business associates, real birds of a feather. The kind of men who deserve whatever misfortune befalls them."

"I see," Pauline repeated.

She and Margaret shifted uneasily on their bar stools. The conversation was getting perilously close to Alfred McIntyre's 'unfortunate demise.' Although they'd have loved to find out more, it was dangerous to broach that subject.

Ilsa stabbed a finger at the images of Frank and Laila Armstrong. "There's something up between those two, and it can't be pretty."

Margaret and Pauline sipped their rum punch, impressed with Ilsa's sleuthing. Hadn't she known to summon them here today just after the pretty one's friends had shown up? What else did she know, gathered in by her '6th sense' and by the shadowy investigators she was known to employ?

"Have you started your new book yet, Ilsa," Margaret asked, "or should I say, _Carlita_?"

"Soon, soon. And when I do, all the members of this drama will have their parts in it." Ilsa smiled, enjoying some private thought. "I'm interested to see how things turn out with them. In the meantime, there's no harm in throwing a monkey wrench now and then to push the story along, is there?"

"None at all," Margaret agreed.

"When can we read it?" Pauline asked.

Ilsa shrugged noncommittally. "Sometime after all this hurly-burly's done."

She put away the photograph and turned to her rum punch, indicating the topic was closed.

"How about a game of video poker, Pauline?" Margaret suggested.

"Certainly, let's give it a try."

While her cohorts played the bar-top video game, Ilsa concentrated on her own brooding thoughts. She wasn't the sort to admire anyone much, but she'd taken a shine to the one called Laila, seeing her as a kindred spirit – a woman who was journeying down a path she herself had once trod.

Where will it lead her, I wonder?

An overweight woman with bristly red hair entered the lounge, the one who'd been playing at the far end of the slot machine row. She took a place in the vacant area between the Eldorado Explorers Club and the normal patrons.

She smacked her hand on the bar. "Hey, can I get some service here?"

Margaret and Pauline were jarred out of their poker game. The other patrons looked askance at the newcomer.

"Bartender!" the woman cried.

A harassed-looking man appeared behind the bar. "Sorry about the delay."

"I was beginning to think you didn't know who I am." The woman extended her hand; the bartender reluctantly took it. "I'm Sally Nagy. I'll have you know that my husband cuts the grass of the great Frank Armstrong!"

"How interesting," the bartender said. "What can I get for you."

"Something cheap, I lost my shirt out there. Make it a beer – domestic."

"Coming right up," the bartender said, ducking away toward the cooler.

Ilsa leaned in toward her companions and spoke in a hushed voice. "Here's a rare bit of luck. She might know something useful."

Sally lit a cigarette. Except for the occasional cigar bar, this was the only drinking hole in the state where people could still smoke – a sop intended to keep tobacco users from patronizing the casinos across the border. The bartender placed a bottle of beer in front of her.

"Thanks," Sally said.

Ilsa eased over to the stool next to Sally. "Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear. It seems that good fortune has not smiled upon your efforts today?"

Sally turned a boozy glance on her. "You don't know the half of it..."

"Carlita," Ilsa said.

Farther down the bar, Margaret and Pauline stifled surprised gasps.

"Right," Sally said. "Let me tell you, Carlita, that old bitch Lady Luck busted me in the chops real good today."

"Then perhaps you'd care to join me and my friends for another try at the slots? My treat."

Ilsa turned to the bartender and gestured at Sally's beer. "Put this on my tab, please."

Sally studied the peculiar woman sitting next to her. Had she been fully sober, she might have cringed away, like the rest of the people in the lounge. But the woman had raised the possibility of continued gambling, and Sally couldn't resist.

A pro forma objection seemed in order, though. "Thanks for the beer, but I couldn't let you pay my way out there."

"Why not? I have plenty of money. It's interesting people who are in short supply. Besides, your luck might change."

Sally grinned and raised her beer. "All right, if you put it that way – lead on Carlita."

$ $ $

As they played the slot machines together, it wasn't hard for Carlita to dredge up interesting bits of information from Sally Nagy's wellspring of bitterness. Much of Sally's angst centered on one-time boyfriend, Bill Holbrook.

"Bill was crazy about me back in high school, but I just kind of blew him off – literally, if you catch my drift."

"Yes, I understand quite well," Carlita said.

"I had to go for Bert Nagy, the football jock. Worst mistake of my life!"

"How unfortunate."

"Ah, but you should've seen him back then – big, handsome, and he had a solid job, too. Imagine, his dad got him in at an auto plant right after senior year football season. Great pay and benefits. Why not take it? The only college interested in recruiting him was some Podunk little school. It's not like he was Big 10 material."

Sally rammed another token into the slot machine and watched the wheels spin up zilch again.

"I thought we had it made," she said. "Then he throws it all away to start this landscaping company that hasn't cleared a nickel."

_I can certainly understand why,_ Carlita thought as she watched the money flowing out of Sally's hands into the slot machine. The woman had the worst luck of anybody Carlita had ever met. Over time, she could have bankrupted General Motors.

Yes, there was a place for Sally Nagy in the new book. Carlita filed her away as the 'unlucky housewife' of the _dramatis personae_.

"And then there's his weight." Sally was saying. "I mean, he was always hefty – why else would they have put him on the defensive line? But the way he's ballooned over the years!"

Sally shook her head morosely and sipped her drink from its plastic cup. Clearly this was a case of the pot calling the kettle sooty. Carlita wanted to learn more about Bert's connection with Frank Armstrong, but Sally had one more resentment to wring out.

"I met Bill Holbrook at the class reunion, and the guy looks wonderful. Get this – he has his own accounting firm. And his wife, what a piece! Well, I wasn't so bad in my time, either."

She buried her face in her plastic cup and commiserated with the alcohol. "What was her name? Cindy ... Candy ... whatever."

"How did your husband get involved with Frank Armstrong?" Carlita asked.

"Frank Armstrong?" Sally replied with mock ignorance. "Oh, you mean 'that sonuvabitch,' as Bert calls him."

"I take it he doesn't regard Mr. Armstrong with much affection?"

"That's putting it mild. You know, I think Bert would like to kill the guy."

Carlita's ears perked up. "Is that so?"

For the next several minutes she pumped Sally Nagy for details on this very interesting subject. The dramatic possibilities seemed extensive.

Throughout, Margaret and Pauline watched awestruck at the transformation of Ilsa McIntyre into the Carlita persona. Their stodgy friend now seemed daring, risqué, and mysterious. She looked younger and more energetic. Her posture was more erect, and she moved with an almost feline grace.

Well, that must be how it is with those literary types.

## 30.Serious Deliberations

Bert settled into his big recliner in the corner of the basement – his truncated man cave amid the general clutter – and popped open another beer. A little refrigerator of 25 ouncers flanked him on one side, and a bag of Mexican take-out guarded the other.

He chomped into a super-sized burrito and flicked the remote to the _Wandering Willie's Fishing Adventures_ show. Bert wasn't much of a fisherman, but he liked the show because his wanderlust had never been satisfied in the real world. Hell, he'd scarcely ever gone beyond the state lines.

Today, the show was visiting Belize in Central America. It opened with an airplane-eye view of Willie coming in for a landing at San Pedro airport, then going out to charter a deep-sea fishing boat. This all seemed like great fun, but the best thing was the background information on the country.

Belize was in the same Caribbean ball park as the Cayman Islands, and the women were great. All kinds – honey brown ones, deep black ones, lily white tourists stuffed into bikinis.

"Right on!" Bert cheered, reaching for another burrito.

The introduction to Belize segment continued – the Blue Hole, the laid back beach lifestyle, dancing in the streets. To hell with the fish! Why would you catch those things, anyway, if not to impress the girls?

Girls . . . like the ones who came to watch him play football. The team had winning seasons both years he'd played in high school. He could still hear the crowd cheering them on.

Why didn't I take that football scholarship?

Sure, it was just a small liberal arts college, but it would have been a whole new world for him. He could have been somebody – if only as a big fish in a little pond.

But he'd have felt like an oaf among all those bright kids. He'd have had to take the easiest classes and struggle with tutors to keep from flunking out. And then what? It's not like the NFL was pounding at the door.

Still . . .

He'd had a well-paying job at an auto plant. How would Dad have felt after pulling all those strings to get him in only to have him quit? Sally didn't want him to take the scholarship, either. She was hot to get married and feared competition from the "college bimbos."

Yes ... Sally. What could be done about her? A divorce might not be so easy, with all the information she blab to the IRS. Could she be bought off somehow – let her have the house, the SUV?

No, the house was heavily mortgaged, and the SUV was pushing 100,000 miles. If he offered her cash, she'd be suspicious about where he'd gotten it.

Another murder, perhaps? Having made the moral leap to one act of homicide, a second leap didn't seem so radical. Perhaps committing murders was like eating pretzels – once you got started, it was hard to stop.

There was another possibility. He could try to patch up his life with her. A huge infusion of cash would help. No more worries about bills, get out of this crappy house. He'd help her overcome her gambling and drinking problems. They could rediscover their love, go on diets together.

Then he heard Sally barging through the front door above him, returning from her latest gambling foray. The floorboards groaned under her steps.

"Bert! Where the hell are you?" She belched massively. "Bert, I'm talking to you!"

He sank deeper into his chair and punched the remote. The _Notorious Crime Fugitives_ program appeared.

## 31.The Bombshell

It was great to be back at work. He was the big honcho again! Frank Armstrong sat behind his desk drinking a mug of Gallon Jug Estate coffee, specially imported from Belize. A sense of power and security was finally returning to his mauled ego.

Frank took another sip of coffee and thumbed to the next page of the business reorganization proposal Henry had sent him. He had to admit to being impressed. In general, his estimation of Henry was not the loftiest, but this piece of work showed that his son might be evolving into somebody worthwhile. He'd already quit the Democrat Socialist party, hadn't he?

Could it be Henry had gotten over his childish dalliances, too? The rumors about his son's sexual indiscretions had become so blatant that Frank had an investigator look into them. The rumors were all true, unfortunately. And when he found out whom Henry was dallying with, the knowledge had curdled his spirit.

But maybe this well-thought-out proposal marked a turning point in Henry's life, and in their relationship, too. Maybe it was time for father and son to pull together after so many years of frosty relations.

The plan was ruthless, aggressive, bold. And, as far as Frank could tell, it pushed hard at the legality envelope. These were all attributes he admired. The plan made a lot of economic sense, too, and it certainly put his young wife in her place if she ever tried to assert control of his business interests.

His wife . . .

Frank settled back in his chair and thought about Laila. He wasn't used to doing this. He'd regarded her as a given, somebody who would always be there. He was a highly successful alpha male, and such men attracted the most beautiful women. It was as simple as that.

Hadn't Helen been a beautiful woman before she turned into a lush? How odd that he discovered her infidelity and Laila's beauty all at the same time. He thought about the shallowness of his relationship with Laila. Yet, he had deeper feelings for her, too.

I need to express them before it's too late!

He'd never thought of his life as being in the 'before it's too late' phase, and it ran a chill up his spine. Recent events had shaken him badly. In a flash, he could be in the same boat as Ed Stoverman – or worse.

You ain't gonna live forever, pal.

Had he been treating his sensitive young wife as nothing more than a pretty bauble? Was business success more important than her feelings? Had he made a mistake about having kids?

Sure, the vasectomy had short-circuited the delivery system, but there was reversal surgery and artificial insemination procedures. Maybe he should look into that. What would be wrong with another child? It's not like he couldn't afford it. He'd never thought in such terms before, but he'd never sensed the Grim Reaper's presence so keenly, either – like that nightmare vision in the mirror.

He seized the coffee cup and drained it. Enough of the sentimental journey! He had business to handle. He leaned forward decisively and jabbed the com button for his secretary.

"Yes, sir?" Phyllis replied.

"Get a hold of John Hogan, will you? See if he can come by today and look at some papers."

"Right away, sir."

Frank sat back in his chair, very much the man in charge. He placed his fingers together in a steeple formation. His face was hard and inscrutable, the visage he displayed to the hostile world. But his facade soon began to fade, and doubts assailed him again.

He regretted losing his temper at the house that morning. He shouldn't have let that landscaper get to him, but the damn guy had almost run him over! Wouldn't anybody be furious about that?

To tell the truth, if Frank had been paying attention to where he was going in the yard, none of it would have happened. This was quite an admission for him; he simply wasn't used to accepting blame for anything. He didn't feel right about snapping at the driver, either. The poor guy was just doing his job.

Well, I can only change so much in one day.

He needed time to pull back from old habits – become a calmer person. He thought gloomily of the coming appointment with Dr. Keating. What had the tests revealed?

Why couldn't he get one of those 'germ-zapping robots' to eradicate his past mistakes? Why was he always such a bully? He was no coward. Over the years he'd stared down some very formidable opponents, but why this compulsion to push around men who were in an inferior position? Why did he feel so threatened by men who had capabilities he lacked – a roofer, for God's sake, or a car mechanic.

He suspected something was fishy about his accident, but it didn't seem very important somehow. Maybe it had been for the best. As he'd hurtled through the air, he'd undergone something like a 'near death' experience. It had been an illuminating moment.

He grabbed up some papers to occupy his mind. Phyllis knocked for admittance.

"Yeah, come on in."

She entered, carrying a white cardboard mailer. "Mr. Hogan says he can stop by in an hour or so."

"Good."

Frank studied her from over the top of his papers. She was an attractive middle-aged woman, highly competent and loyal. He valued her abilities and made sure her compensation topped the scale for executive secretaries. She'd been with him for years, but he knew almost nothing else about her. Why was that?

She presented him with the mailer. "This just came, by special courier."

Frank took it from her, rather nonplussed.

"Will there be anything else, Mr. Armstrong?" Phyllis asked in her cool, professional manner.

He wanted to reply, "Please just call me Frank," but thought better of it. That would have been awkward for both of them.

"Not right now, thanks," he said.

Phyllis left the office to resume her gate-keeper post. Frank hefted the cardboard envelope. It had an evil weight, somehow.

What the hell is this?

It was from a Michael Hamilton, whoever that was, and it had an unfamiliar return address. He ripped it open. A note dropped out:

Dear Mr. Armstrong,

I'm certain you would not want these photos published on the internet, and it is within your power to prevent that. Another courier will call on you tomorrow with payment instructions.

Needless to say, the address and name on this envelope are fictitious.

Have a nice day.

" _Mike"_

With trembling fingers, Frank withdrew a half dozen photographs. Pictures of his wife with a well-dressed young man, coming out of a hotel. Frank recognized him as Keith Frost. Volcanic rage seized his heart, then an overwhelming despair. He buried his face in his hands.

"Ohhh, Christ!"

Thank heaven no one was present to see him weeping.

## 32.The Lawn of Death

The red IBM Selectric typewriter, now faded to a pinkish hue, sat on the desk before Ilsa McIntyre.

Its motor hummed expectantly. She rolled in a piece of paper, twisting the platen knob until the sheet was near its midpoint. After a moment of hesitation during which she flexed her hand muscles, she began typing:

THE LAWN OF DEATH

by

Carlita Blade

"There!"

She pulled out the page and set it reverently aside. Her latest novel was underway.

The title came to her in a burst of inspiration, quite different from the laborious process by which she'd chosen the name for her previous best seller, _The Quandt Street Assassin_.

Ilsa had agonized over that title for a long time, finally settling on Quandt Street as the locale for the grisly murder tricked out as a suicide. _Quandt_ had the proper ring and was just hard enough to spell so that people would remember it. Also, it had been the name of Nazi propaganda minister Joseph Goebbels' wife, Magda, from an earlier marriage.

An association with this notorious woman, who'd murdered her own children as Nazi Germany crumbled around her, seemed just the thing for the novel. The reference was too obscure for the average reader, though. But what was the alternative? _Hitler Street_ would have been far too unsubtle.

Anyhow, this new book wouldn't be a murder mystery. It would be the inside story of two lovers and their journey to happiness along a homicidal route – the tale of a beautiful, exploited heroine struggling against her cold, calculating husband and trying to escape an existence of loveless bondage. She rolled in a fresh sheet of blank paper and typed:

CHAPTER

Ilsa paused, or rather, Carlita paused. Stogy old Ilsa McIntyre was dropping away and cunning, seductive Carlita Blade was taking her place. What chapter should this be? Carlita knew which scene she wanted to write, but it wouldn't be the opening scene. In what chapter did the most juicy part of the story usually begin?

_I'm a bit out of practice_.

She typed _3)_ as the chapter number. If this wasn't right, she could always change it later. She had plenty of correction tape.

The blank, white surface under the chapter heading gazed back at her seductively. This was always an exciting moment, full of possibilities. She was on the cusp where creative energy started to flow. She stroked the keys in rapid succession. The type ball battered its way across the paper, leaving immortal words in its wake.

When it came to literary writing, she much preferred this veteran typewriter to a soulless computer keyboard. The Selectric was an old friend; it had personality. The bold staccato of the type ball in its progress along the platen throbbed with life. The noise stimulated her imagination, and even better, it had irritated Alfred when he was still on the scene.

She'd purchased the used Selectric many years earlier with funds from her own stingy allowance. Alfred had mocked her "literary ambitions" and had refused to support them – not that he ever supported her in other ways, except for basic material things. The man was an unfeeling, manipulative, tightwad and . . .

Well, he wasn't in a position to criticize her "writing infatuation" any longer, was he?

The words flowed uninterrupted from Carlita's mind, through her fingertips to the keys and then onto the paper:

CHAPTER 3) First Meeting

The beautiful young woman fled through the door and onto the lush acreage of the back lawn. She simply couldn't remain in the house with Lord Albert another second! His coldness, his cruelty, his indifference were more than she could bear. And to think she had loved him so! Yes, loved him with a burning passion that was never acknowledged, never returned. She'd been his wife for three years now and had finally accepted the fact that he would never, ever change.

She turned toward the sound of a motor rumbling in the distance and ran desperately toward it. She ran and ran, down a slope and past a stand of trees until the house was no longer visible. She ran until she was alongside the strapping young landscaper riding the lawnmower like it was a magnificent stallion.

He was so intent on his work that he did not notice her at first. Then he looked over at her and a startled expression appeared on his breathtakingly handsome face. He took his foot off the gas pedal and the machine came to a halt. He shifted into Neutral.

"Hello, ma'am," he said in a deeply masculine voice, "what can I do for you?"

"You can do a lot for me," she panted.

He reached for the ignition key, so as to shut off the throbbing motor.

"No, leave it on," she said, "I like it better this way."

"Yes, ma'am."

A long, unbearable moment passed, one filled with desperate longings. He couldn't tear his eyes from hers. She had an hypnotic beauty, and her charm filled the whole world. Dared he hope?

"Um ... where is His Lordship?" he asked.

"Back in the house, with his dead pursuits," she replied.

She'd recovered from her sprint across the vast lawn, but she was panting for a different reason now. Suddenly, brutally, and without warning, she seized his manhood with a groping hand. It sprang to life, throbbing and pulsing along with the lawnmower engine. The landscaper groaned passionately, melting under her ardent caress.

Then she was atop the lawnmower, atop its rider – riding the rider! Discarded clothing littered the ground as they coupled madly. With each thrust she made, the landscaper's foot jerked against the gas pedal, retreated, jerked again. The engine responded with passion equal to that of the frenzied lovers.

ba-rooOOOOM! ba-rooOOOOM!

Carlita switched out the type ball to a larger font for the final **OOM!** She snapped the first one back in and continued writing.

Seated at his huge writing desk back at the mansion, Lord Albert wondered vaguely what the noise outside could be about. He chose not to bestir himself. It was just that young fool of a groundskeeper jerking around with some machine or other. Not worth bothering about.

Little did Lord Albert realize the danger he was in. He merely tamped the tobacco down in his pipe, relit it, and went back to writing the letter to his mistress.

Carlita paused, sweaty and agitated. "Damn, this has the makings of another best seller!"

She reinserted the first page and rolled it to the top line, whited out the _3_ , and typed a _1_ in its place. This scene was way too hot to delay. Her readers would never forgive her for making them wait. There would be plenty more scenes like it; her mind was full of them.

Then there were the inspirations to be gained from the real world drama of the Armstrong clan. Who could say what would happen there next? Would art would mirror reality, or the other way around?

## 33.Fantasies Real & Imagined

_She had the unsettling impression the world was closing in on her. –_ _The Quandt Street Assassin_ _, by Carlita Blade_

Laila sprawled on her couch, drinking from a tall glass. Fear thoughts which the alcohol could not banish squirmed inside her head.

What am I getting myself into?

How could she engineer paying Bert the blood money? It was one thing to talk about setting up an offshore account, but how could that be done without drawing undue attention? How could she provide even the down payment without pointing a guilty finger at herself?

Never had she felt more helpless and incompetent. But wasn't that what the whole thing was about – gaining her independence? She grimmed up. Whatever it took, she'd arrange the payouts. If big-time criminals could move money around undetected, then so could she.

There was always the nine millimeter solution. She'd toyed with the idea of dispatching Bert with the automatic pistol after he'd killed Frank. She'd claim self defense. Bert had just murdered her husband, hadn't he?

But Laila didn't have the stomach for a direct killing. If she did, she wouldn't be dealing with Bert at all and would not have to worry about being blackmailed.

She was extremely wary of Bert. There was deep anger in the man that could lash out any moment, and he was powerful enough to snap her in two with one hand. He was yet another domineering, oppressive male in her life – but how could she possibly do without Bert Nagy?

Laila stood and stretched herself, then crossed to the window overlooking the back yard. The big potted plant she'd brought from her old apartment rested on a stand next to the window, a specter from the past. Maybe she could jump out and end all her turmoil, as Lady Macbeth had done in the final act. The cause of death was never actually stated, but Laila had always liked the idea of a dramatic plunge off the castle battlements for the great lady.

English literature was another of Laila's good subjects in high school, and _Macbeth_ had been her favorite play. She identified with Lady Macbeth. There was another woman hemmed in by the ambitions of men, dependent on their actions, unable to turn the world her direction through her own efforts.

No, that wouldn't work.

The distance hadn't been sufficient to kill Frank, why should it work with her? And she could end up being paralyzed, sitting in a wheelchair for the next fifty years. As she looked over the empty back property, a vivid waking nightmare played out.

Bert Nagy is digging a pit in the flower garden – rectangular like a grave. Even from this distance, Laila can make out every detail of his face. He looks up and gives her an evil leer. Then he laughs maniacally. The horrid sound vibrates the glass.

He points his finger at her like a cocked gun and drops the hammer: "Bang, bang, you're dead!"

Laila steps back from the window in deep alarm. She wrings her hands, paces the room fretfully. A blood-curdling scream comes from outside.

Silence as deep as the grave sets in. Then somebody enters through the back door and slams it shut with enough force to rattle the wine bottles in the basement cabinet. He stalks the ground floor with a heavy tread.

Footsteps on the stairs. Laila freezes, her heart scarcely beating. The footsteps continue down the hall; they make a squishy noise. Bert enters the room, covered in blood. His shoes leave bloody tracks on the carpet.

" _It's done, Mrs. Armstrong. Just the way you wanted."_

Laila gasps, hanging onto her vanity for support. Bert approaches, she backs away.

" _Don't come near me!"_

" _I've decided a half million isn't enough."_

" _I offered you a bonus."_

" _Still not enough." Bert's voice is hollow and booming, as if rising from a tomb. "You're gonna have to pay forever."_

" _No way! A deal's a deal."_

" _And I want your body too, Laila. Is it okay if I call you Laila, or would you prefer 'Widow Armstrong?'"_

" _Stay back!"_

Bert lunges. Laila dodges away.

" _There's nowhere to hide, you tasty little morsel!"_

Laila pulls a gun out of a drawer and aims it at Bert with shaking hands. "I'll shoot if I have to."

" _Now isn't that a turn on!"_

Bert lunges again and Laila pulls the trigger. A deafening roar fills the world. Bert looks at the bullet hole in his chest, amazed; then he laughs maniacally.

" _So long, sweetheart!"_

He crashes to the floor, face down, a reeking pile of death. His wife enters the room.

" _Oh, Bertie!" She turns her wrath on Laila. "You shameless hussy!"_

" _Sorry you found out about this."_

Laila fires again, Sally falls on top of Bert with a gurgling scream.

Henry enters the room, dressed in a well-tailored lawyer suit. "Now you've done it, Mom! You'll be an old lady before you get out of jail."

" _At least you won't be there to see it, Junior."_

She shoots Henry in the middle of his forehead. He carefully adjusts his necktie before collapsing on top of Bert and Sally.

Patricia enters next, looking down at her brother on the pile of corpses. "What are you doing, Henry?" Realization dawns; she looks up at Laila. "I always said you were no good!"

" _And that's the last thing you'll ever say."_

Laila pulls the trigger. Patricia falls gracelessly on the pile, like a sack of cement. Laila looks at the carnage, appalled.

" _My God! What have I done?"_

She drops the pistol, flees.

Laila turned away from the window and confronted the real-world chamber with icy resolve.

She repeated her grim mantra. "You can't stop me!"

# Six: Final Determination

## 34.Indelicate Timing

Henry Armstrong was tangled up in a pile of living bodies – all of them female.

The "special something" he'd brought to the party vibrated in his hand, eliciting squeals of delight from his playmates. His cell phone lay on the side table beside a wicker hamper of bondage items – fluffy handcuffs, riding crop, the usual things.

The phone rang, projecting a sinister note into the merriment with its _Mack the Knife_ theme. Henry untangled himself from the heap and checked the caller ID.

It's Dad!

He had to answer. With so much hanging in the balance, he couldn't afford to tick off the old bull. Henry sat on the edge of the huge bed and picked up the call.

"Hi Dad," he said with as much bussinessfied dignity as he could muster. "What's up?"

The women behind him giggled. Henry tried frantically to shush them – too late.

On the other end of the connection, Frank Armstrong jerked the phone away and glowered at it, appalled. He put the phone back to his ear.

"Maybe you should tell _me_ 'what's up,' Ace."

"Sorry, Dad, I'm a bit, uh ... indisposed."

Henry crossed the hotel room, nearly tripping over the clothes piled on the floor. The girls suppressed their laughter this time.

"Daddy doesn't seem pleased," Sharese whispered.

"Yeah, and he's swinging the big stick," Nichole said.

"The _really_ big stick," Candy said.

The women choked back giggles. Henry spoke quietly into the phone.

"Is this about what we discussed at the hospital?"

"Yes, it is."

"What'd you decide, Dad?"

"You don't expect me to talk business in front of your ... friends, do you?" Frank exploded.

"W-well, I – "

"Check your email, Ace. Sometime when you've got your pants on."

The phone cut off.

"Bye, Dad ..."

Henry looked sheepishly toward the bed. A pillow smacked him in the face.

"Get back here, you naughty boy!" Sharese commanded.

## 35.Confrontations

Laila could stand it no longer. The house was squeezing in like a giant clam, crushing the life out of her.

She had to get away from it, retreat to the haven of her automobile and smoke some cigarettes to soothe her jangled nerves. If she remained in her room swilling booze much longer, she wouldn't be able to drive or do anything else.

Laila rushed out to her car. It was parked in its customary spot by the right hand wall of the garage. Next to it, holding pride of place in the center of the expansive building, stood Frank's SUV. At the far end sat the little sports car he bombed around in when he was "feeling frisky."

The interior of the garage was very dim, but Laila had no difficulty maneuvering its familiar spaces. She opened the door to her car and started to climb inside. Then she froze with horror. Something hung from the ceiling – watching her.

"Oh!"

The illusion lasted only a moment before vanishing back into the evil realm from which it had emerged. Laila jumped into her car, fired the engine, and backed out of the garage with tires squealing on the concrete.

She stomped the brakes at the security gate, pitching forward against her seat belt. Her fumbling operation of the remote control failed to get results. For a panicked moment, she thought she was locked in. She stabbed at the remote again.

"Come on, open up!"

Laila had the ghastly sensation something was creeping up behind her – a dead and horrible presence slithering out of the garage. At last the gate opened enough to permit her exit. Laila sped away, nearly scraping sheet metal against the partially opened gate, unaware she was being observed from across the road.

A shadowy radio call announced her departure, and another vehicle fell in discreetly behind her amid the traffic.

She pulled into her favorite shopping mall, the same one where she'd 'bumped into' Keith weeks before. Would the bastard be there again? She'd take that risk. The other malls were farther away, and she didn't trust herself behind the wheel.

Cars and pedestrians filled the sunny parking lot, everyone looked prosperous and content. Inside the mall, crowds of people bustled past her talking, laughing, munching ice cream cones. Teenagers obsessed over their mobile phone relationships. Little kids rolled by in strollers.

Laila was a wraith wandering among the living, unseen and unwelcome. She moved past glamorous shop windows, scarcely noticing the mannequins clad in expensive outfits. She thought of stopping for lunch but wasn't hungry, despite having eaten nothing all day.

She walked into the central court with its large fountain shooting multi-colored jets of water into the air like magic sprites. This area never failed to cheer her up, but today it was drab and lifeless. The people around the fountain seemed grim, like funeral attendees. Suddenly, an old woman was at her elbow.

Laila flinched. "Who ... what do you want?"

Then she recognized the cunning, malign expression on the face. Gemrock!

What's she doing here?

"I have tread the path you're on now," the woman said. "You must beware the perils – too much guilt and too much greed."

"W-what?"

The mysterious lady said nothing more. She moved off and joined two others waiting by the fountain. The trio disappeared behind the jets of water.

$ $ $

Patricia regarded Henry over her martini glass rim, savoring her brother's discomfort, along with the premium vodka.

"I really blew it with Dad today," Henry said, taking a dose from his own martini.

"How many times have you said that over the years? You sound like a broken record."

"I mean it this time. He was _totally_ pissed off!"

Patricia sighed. "So, what happened?"

"He called me at the worst possible moment. I was indisposed."

"With the ladies?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Patricia kept a serious expression on her face, but inwardly she was smiling. That was Henny for you, always getting into trouble with his pecker. She couldn't imagine how Debbie put up with it, unless she was on a world class denial trip.

And why had he come to her apartment just to talk about this? Did he really expect her to care? Then again, she'd been just as foolish herself, calling him after the breakup with Kristen. This seemed an intractable part of their sibling relationship – seeking approval and sympathy from each other when there wasn't any to give.

"I can't please him, no matter what I do," Henry whined. "I quit the Party because of him, didn't I? You'd think he'd pat me on the back a little, but ohhh no."

"Well, Dad never claimed to be _Mr. Cuddly_. If you're looking for affection, I'd suggest buying a dog."

$ $ $

John "Blackjack" Hogan sat at his desk pondering the items he'd received from Frank Armstrong. His calendar had been full, but he'd cancelled every other commitment in order to deal with this ugly matter.

When he'd visited Frank's office earlier today, the poor man had been distraught, showing him compromising photographs of his wife with her ex-husband, along with a blackmail note. Hogan had immediately smelled a rat and advised Frank to disregard the slander until it could be investigated. As if Frank, or any other man, could remain calm with something like this hanging over his head.

What a fabulous woman Laila is.

Hogan had met her once, years ago at a cocktail party, and had been immediately smitten. What man wouldn't be? In the photographs, she looked even better than he remembered – more mature, with a subtle, underlying sadness to her face. If this was the portrait of a woman on the prowl, he'd eat his law license.

How did a guy like Frank Armstrong snag such a beauty and hang on to her all this time? Hogan shook his head and contemplated his own solitary life. There really was no justice in the world. He looked wistfully at the photo of his spacious lot on Corozal Bay where he planned to build his retirement home.

Stick to business, John. Get to the bottom of this mess.

Hogan was a big, imposing man with a head shaved like an egg. Within it resided a sharp legal mind. He'd been Frank's personal attorney for many years, liked and admired the man. They understood each other well. He was one of the few people in Frank's hire who could not be bullied, despite the fat retainers and premium hourly rates. At the first hint of abuse, John Hogan would walk out and never return. Frank respected that.

Hogan also knew Frank's two children and despised them both – especially Patricia. In Hogan's mind, she was the lead suspect behind this whole matter. As the eldest offspring and next in line to Frank's power and money, she had a strong motivation to move her stepmother out of the way.

Then there was the reorganization plan Henry Armstrong was advocating. Hogan didn't like the looks of it, and not just for its rather dodgy legal foundations. The thought of Henry Armstrong gaining power in his father's business affairs riled him on a visceral level. He'd advised Frank to go slow until all the angles could be considered.

Well, his investigators were on the compromising photos case now – all of them top people in their field. Hogan also knew who the less reputable private investigators were, the ones likely to participate in a frame-up.

As for Keith Frost, Hogan planned to interview that 'gentleman' himself. He studied the card bearing the address his investigators had found, then tucked it into his wallet. Blackjack Hogan was a man who hated to lose, and he seldom did.

## 36.Mission to the REX

"This is a little rich for my blood!" Sharese exclaimed as she looked up the vertical expanse of the REX apartments.

Atop the six floors of the main building reposed a two-story penthouse. It appeared to be a later addition. Its austere, gleaming white surfaces and broad rectangular windows contrasted with the dark brick and modest casements of the lower building.

"That must be the _ivory tower_."

Sharese gathered her nerve and crossed the street to the REX. The doorman let her in with a polite tip of his cap. As she walked across the lobby toward the security station, she could feel his eyes roving over her, pulling off her clothes, bit by bit. Some of her self-assurance returned.

You've still got what it takes, girl!

The security guard looked up from his desk. "May I help you?"

Sharese felt suddenly awkward, intimidated. Her new-found confidence fled back out the door. Maybe she was wrong in her notions. That lady at the casino could just be a malicious old whack job, and the "rich man's daughter" a fiction.

Well, it's too late to back out now.

"Yes," she said. "I'm here to see Patricia Armstrong."

The name hung in the air. Sharese expected the security guard to say there was nobody by that name. Instead he said:

"Whom shall I say is here?"

"Sharese Lee ... I'm a friend of Laila Armstrong."

"Just a moment, please."

The guard picked up a phone and spoke into it with a low, professional voice. Sharese took a step backward.

Why had she set herself up to be humiliated this way – and in front of this absolute hunk of a security guard, too? Right this minute, Patricia must be telling him to throw her out. She turned her mind to more congenial thoughts.

I wonder if he's wearing a gun?

She couldn't tell, as the desk concealed his lower portions. If he did have one, she'd like to see him in his gun belt – and nothing else.

He put down the phone and smiled. "Miss Armstrong will be right down."

Sharese could hardly contain her surprise. "Oh, that's, fine. Thank you."

She tore her eyes off the sexy young security guard and looked toward the elevator doors. The lighted display over one of them indicated the progress of a car descending from the uppermost floor.

So, at last she was going to meet "The Great Patricia," as Laila called her. For years she'd heard about Patricia but had never laid eyes on her, had never even seen a photograph. Would she be a hulking, Amazon type woman – a Frank Armstrong with boobs? Would she come into the lobby snarling fire?

The elevator door glided open to reveal a stunning, black-haired woman dressed in white slacks and a flowing silk top. She had dark, piercing eyes and a rather severe look to her face, which softened to a smile when she beheld her visitor.

"Why, Sharese Lee," she said warmly, taking Sharese's hand. "I've heard so much about you."

"Hello, pleased to meet you," Sharese replied, struggling to contain her astonishment.

Patricia was almost as tall as her, but the spiked heels were exaggerating the effect. Everything about the woman spoke of class and money. Sharese felt rather shabby in her presence, despite her own expensive outfit.

"So, what can I do for you?" Patricia inquired.

"Uh, I was just hoping we could discuss a few things."

"Of course. Won't you come up to my place? I was just about to have a drink."

"Sure, thanks."

Sharese followed Patricia back to the elevator. A placard beside it read: _Penthouse use only_. Patricia waved her card over the reader and pushed the UP button.

Dang, she's got her own private elevator!

The door slid open and Patricia gestured for Sharese to go in first. She did so, retreating to the back of the car. Patricia entered next and pushed the button for the top floor.

"I'm glad you stopped by, Sharese. I've been wanting to meet you for some time."

Sharese managed an accommodating little smile and a nod. "Thank you for having me."

Somehow the words didn't seem right. Patricia shot her a knowing smile. Again, Sharese had the sense of being visually undressed.

They entered the most elegant apartment Sharese had ever set foot in. Everything about the main living area was perfect, from the expensive wood floor with its abstract-patterned throw rug to the skylight pyramid in the ceiling. Large paintings adorned the walls and sculptures occupied the side niches. A fireplace column stood in the middle of the room, and an open staircase of white steps led to the upper floor.

"Wow!" Sharese couldn't help saying. "This is beautiful."

"Glad you like it. I decorated it myself."

"I love it. You've got wonderful taste."

"Why, thank you, Sharese." Patricia's voice was just a shade to the masculine side, like honey with a touch of pepper thrown in.

The penthouse's ambiance also had a masculine air, as attested to by the black leather chairs and the nude female sculptures. One might think a sophisticated bachelor lived here – except for the L-shaped couch in pastel blue with a blood red pillow against the armrest on one end.

"Won't you sit down?" Patricia indicated the couch. "I'll make us some drinks."

Patricia headed for the bar area while Sharese took a place on the blue sofa midway between the pillow and the angle of the L. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, dusk was setting in and lights twinkled on in other buildings. A river was visible in the middle distance.

"Are strawberry daiquiris okay?" Patricia asked. "Or I could make pineapple."

"Strawberry is fine."

Patricia added ingredients to her blender. "I understand you were a professional bartender at one time."

"Yes, I was – back in the day."

Sharese's working-class North Carolina speech seemed out of place in such opulent surroundings. Since she'd come north in the Three Musketeers restaurant days, Sharese had lost much of her accent. But when she was nervous, like now, it always came back.

"Please don't be too critical of my humble efforts," Patricia said.

The blender whirred. Sharese settled back and tried to unwind. Things were certainly taking a different tack than expected. What had she expected, anyhow? The pronouncement of that creepy woman at the casino had weighed on her throughout the day's shenanigans. So, after dropping off Candy and Nichole, and against every ounce of better judgment, she'd come here to confront "the rich man's daughter" about some supposed "plot."

She felt distinctly foolish now, which increased her discomfort. Only her deep concern for Laila could have brought her into this situation.

Patricia approached and handed her a daiquiri. "I hope it's not too terrible."

Sharese sipped the drink, found it powerful and delicious. "It's wonderful."

"Glad to hear that."

Patricia sat on the couch to Sharese's left, quite close to her. Sharese sidled toward the pillow, increasing the distance between them.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about, Sharese?"

"Um..." Sharese took another swig. "It's about Laila, actually."

Patricia contemplated her own daiquiri a moment. "What about her?"

"Well, she's been acting kind of strange lately, she looks very dragged out. I was wondering if you knew anything."

Patricia was gazing steadily at her now. She gave a tiny shake of her head.

"No, I don't," she said. "I only saw her for a few minutes at the hospital. We were all a bit upset then."

"I'm sorry to bother you like this. Laila's been my friend a long time, though, and... well, I was just curious."

Patricia moved closer and crossed her legs. "Is there anything else you're 'curious' about, Sharese?"

Sharese's eyes widened, and she retreated farther toward the pillow. It was quite close now. "Uh, no, there isn't. I think I'd better drink up and go."

"But you just got here. Why so nervous?" Patricia set her drink on the coffee table beside an ornate little box. "I've got just the thing for that."

She withdrew a perfectly rolled joint from the box, along with a silver lighter. She lit the joint and inhaled. Sharese looked on, fascinated. Patricia's movements were flowing and sensuous, like a cat's. She was the sexiest woman Sharese had ever seen in her life, and . . .

What's going on here?

Patricia blew out the smoke languidly. "Mmm, _very_ nice!" She handed over the joint. "Go ahead. It has some 'special ingredients' I know you'll like."

"Okay, thanks."

Sharese was no stranger to doing a joint now and then, but this one looked dangerous. This whole situation seemed dangerous. She took a toke. Patricia watched her closely, her tongue running over her lips. Sharese returned the joint. Patricia flicked a remote control and soft, romantic music started playing.

The next time the joint returned, Patricia's arm came with it, wrapping around Sharese's shoulders like a python. Sharese tried to move away but was already up against the armrest and the blood-red pillow. She was in uncharted territory and feeling scared – but also tantalized.

What's in that joint?

"Uh, I really don't do that kind of thing."

"What 'kind of thing?'" Patricia asked innocently, pushing another remote button to dim the lights.

"You know... girl on girl type things."

"Girl on girl?" Patricia laughed seductively. "You make it sound like child's play. We're both mature women, aren't we?"

Sharese didn't answer. In all her extensive history, she'd never come upon a situation like this before. Patricia took the joint from her fingers and dragged on it. She pressed her mouth against Sharese's and blew in the smoke, then . . .

One thing led to another until the morning came.

## 37.Ordeal

Frank Armstrong did not leave his office the entire day, remaining at his desk long after everyone else, even the loyal Phyllis, had gone home.

He'd taken no appointments, seen no one except for John Hogan. He tried to busy himself with paperwork, anything to take his mind off the terrible photographs. Thank God Hogan had been available. The hour Frank spent waiting for him had been the worst in his life. Without Blackjack's calm reassurances, he would have lost his mind already.

Hogan could be wrong, though, anyone could be. And if he was, then life would have lost its meaning. Frank looked out the window behind his desk. What would a headlong charge through the glass be like?

It's not like I don't have experience with such things.

Where was the Sweet Thing when he needed it? A bullet through the temple would settle everything PDQ.

For a brief period, he gained control of his turbulent emotions. He'd phoned Henry then, hoping for rational discussion, maybe a little father-son camaraderie. Right!

Dusk was setting in when he left his bleak, deserted office building and headed for the restaurant across the street. It was an upscale place with a fine menu and beautiful young female servers – a lot like Three Musketeers used to be. He sat at his table, hardly tasting the food, watching glumly as the sexy, uniformed women scuttled past. The flirtatious glances they threw his way only increased his despair.

God, I could use a drink!

Dr. Keating had cautioned him against mixing alcohol with his pain medication, though. He had to content himself with nurturing a club soda. Finally, he called for a driver and went home.

He disliked the idea of entering the front door, preferring a more circuitous route. He wanted to avoid confronting his wife for as long as possible, so he directed his steps to the rear of the house and along the path to the back door.

A thin mist chilled the air at ground level, but the sky was clear, admitting bright moonlight to the world below. The lawn chairs on the patio cast harsh shadows, like those of tombstones. The heavy scent of roses hung in the air, drifting on a rank breeze from the flower garden. Frank hated the smell of those death flowers.

He entered the house and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible. The house was dim, sepulchral. He moved across the broad expanse of the ground floor toward the staircase lurking in the gloom. The staircase seemed wider and longer than he'd remembered – like in that _Gone with the Wind_ movie he disliked so much.

I'm back in the dream!

Only this was real ... wasn't it? He gripped the banister hard, felt its solidity – no snake-like texture this time. He mounted the stairs toward the dim glow at its top.

He was standing hesitantly in the second floor hallway now. He walked to the open door of Laila's room and peered in. She was reclining on her little sofa, eyes shut, in a pose of classical beauty.

It's not true, is it, my love?

Frank wanted to rush inside, take her precious face in his hands and cover it with kisses. He wanted to pour out his heart, take back every hurtful thing he'd ever said, and let her know how much he cared.

But he couldn't speak to her in his present state. He didn't want her to perceive his fear and doubt. John Hogan rose in his consciousness as a mighty, god-like being who had the power to end his suffering, or to make it absolute.

Let it all end, one way or the other.

Frank turned his shuffling steps toward the bathroom.

He stood for many minutes in the shower, his injured arm extended outside the stream, allowing the water to caress his neck and back. His muscles relaxed for a while under the hot spray, but soon tensed up again when he shut off the water. He dried himself and donned his bathrobe. He headed for the door through the steamy mist. If only he could open it into a world where all was well.

But nothing had changed. Laila still dozed on her couch like a delicate china figurine, unaware of his agonies. He did not disturb her. He moved to the master bedroom, took a heavy dose of pain medication, and climbed into bed. He felt very old. A troubled sleep descended upon him.

## 38.Turbulent Night

Laila heard Frank enter the house but remained on her sofa, feigning sleep.

She did not wish to see the face of the man she was going to kill ... to have killed. So, she'd remained in her deceitful doze as he looked in, using every ounce of will power to keep from opening her eyes and screaming.

She stood beside the huge marital bed now, watching Frank sleep. He was huddled on the far end looking very small and frail. Shuddering with revulsion, she pulled back the covers on her side and slid under them.

Why am I doing this – why don't I go back to my couch?

Because if Frank awoke and didn't see her, he would get suspicious. And suspicion could derail the whole plan for the morning. If his paranoia antennae were up, there was no telling what might happen. And there was another reason, too.

Laila felt a sense of duty, a need to acknowledge the man she'd spent the past eleven years with. It simply wasn't proper to reject him during his last night on earth. She sighed and pulled the covers up under her chin. She stared at the ceiling with blank, china doll eyes.

Frank began tossing and turning, verbalizing garble. He must have taken a lot of pain-killer. Dr. Keating had warned her about the drug's side effects. Frank's utterances turned coherent.

"Oh, yeah? . . . I'll get you!" He thrashed about fitfully. "Getaway fwum me ... sonuvabitch!"

Laila flung the covers aside.

Damn!

She got up and moved across the room to the window. Moonlight shimmered through her negligee, giving her an ethereal aspect. She gazed out toward the dead tree far across the lawn where the 'accident' would occur tomorrow. The atmosphere was misted and spooky, like in the old _Dark Shadows_ TV show. Wind rushed over the greenery with an menacing _Hissss_.

Laila chewed on a knuckle nervously, then glanced back toward her husband who continued to flail about on his end of the bed. She looked outside again. A bird bath and other masonry scattered about had taken on the aspect of grave markers. The whole property seemed a dark cemetery. A powerful shudder ran through her.

Laila hurried across the room, past the terror bed, and out the door. She rushed down the staircase; it seemed wider and steeper than usual. A dreadful scene from _Gone with the Wind_ played through her mind – when Scarlett tumbled down the stairs, dooming her unborn child.

She didn't turn on any lamps, relying on the dim glow of nightlights as she made her way to the bar area. She mixed a tall, powerful drink and headed across the funereal ground floor.

Urged on by some unknowable compulsion, Laila crept into the library and flicked on the desk lamp. She set her drink on the blotter and pulled a photo album off a shelf, moving on autopilot. She sat down and began leafing through pictures of happier days, drawing solace through the straw from her drink . . .

Laila stopped at a photo of her and Frank sitting at a table in Three Musketeers restaurant. A younger, more naive version of herself in her spiffy cocktail waitress uniform beamed at the camera. She rested a hand on Frank's shoulder. Sharese stood directly behind; Nichole and Candy flanked them. Everyone was bright and smiling, except for Frank who maintained his dignified 'take charge type' persona.

Frank told her he was divorcing Helen and would be "available soon." He'd arrived unannounced and insisted on having dinner with her. Rick objected, but was quickly won over by a roll of bills. Just before the picture was snapped, Frank distributed enormous tips to the other Musketelles to, "make up for your increased workload."

Laila had loved him so much that night. How could things have gone so horribly wrong? When had the domineering, grasping, selfish man appeared? He must have been there all along. She'd just been too blind and star-struck to see him. She took a swig of her drink.

Her face softened. The house was silent except for the deep ticking of a grandfather clock. She turned the page to a wedding photo of her and Frank, taken prior to the ceremony with all the benefits of professional lighting and a big studio camera. She looked radiantly happy in her designer gown. Frank was dramatic in all his manly power and custom-tailored outfit.

A tear rolled down Laila's cheek. Another album contained the rest of the wedding pictures, but she couldn't bear to look at it. Instead, she continued thumbing through the pages of this one.

Then an ugly, out of sequence photo leapt from the page before her. Laila gasped.

What's that doing here?

She'd never seen this awful picture before but knew the story behind it. It was taken in Belize, the year before she'd met Frank. He'd chartered a deep-sea fishing boat so he and his kids could enjoy reeling in marlin or some other prize game fish. Instead, they'd hooked a shark.

The hideous creature hung by its tail flanked by the Armstrong clan. The fish's head was pulled back to reveal razor teeth in a macabre grin. Frank, Henry, and Patricia displayed similar predatory smiles. Henry had puffed up his chest, in imitation of his father.

Beneath the civilized veneer, all of them were of the same carnivorous tribe as the shark, and she'd fallen into their trap. Laila slammed the album closed.

Yuk!

Every humiliation she'd ever suffered at the hands of the Armstrongs came flooding back – each snub, smirk, and whispered comment. Every time Frank declined to defend her against the barely submerged hostility of his children. Every time he'd ignored her needs and wishes, disparaged her opinions, diminished her worth.

Her heart turned to granite; her blood curdled with hot resentment. She stood abruptly and exited the room.

Laila crept through the darkened house, feeling her way along the wall. The booze had hit harder than she realized. Away from the confines of the library, the house had taken on a surreal aspect.

Wind battered the windows, bringing in the scent of roses. The floorboards creaked underfoot. The ticking of the grandfather clock had become unnaturally loud and sonorous. From outside came the insistent tinkling of wind chimes. What wind chimes?

Steady ... it's just my imagination.

She entered the spacious living room. The slats on the picture window blinds projected a prison-bar pattern onto the wall composed of moonlight and shadow. Laila's head threw its own shadow among the bars. Then the pattern morphed into a gallows with a gowned figure hanging from it.

Laila gasped with horror and stepped back from the apparition. Her foot tangled with the coffee table leg. Then she was going down, wrenching her knee and banging her shin painfully against the cast iron. Her drink flew away.

"Oh!"

She lay in agony on the deep plush carpet. She looked pleadingly toward the staircase. If only her true love would come down those stairs, comfort her, tell her that everything would change for the better. She wanted to be swept away on a tide of love and forgiveness.

But nothing happened. The second story remained silent as a crypt. No hero descended the stairs to her rescue. At last, the agony subsided, and Laila got to her feet. Pain darted through her knee with every step.

As she mounted the stairs, the atmosphere began to shimmer. She gripped the rail in a trembling hand. The shadows on the stairway wall wavered and formed into a new pattern – a pile of gold coins. The wind chimes became the sound of clinking money. Laila smiled and climbed the remaining stairs . . .

She stood looking at Frank, who had quieted down amid his drug-infested sleep. She trembled at the thought of joining him in the bed but could not shirk the dark and dreadful duty she had to perform in preparation for her crime.

She laid down on her end of the massive bed, as far away from Frank as possible, and pulled the covers up tight.

If only I could get some sleep.

Suddenly, Frank turned over, flailing his arms at some nightmare enemy. "Sonuvabitch! Get outta the mirror!"

His cast-covered arm struck Laila in the face, knocking her unconscious. She lay on her back, still as a corpse. Frank rolled away to the far side of the bed. He did not wake up.

# Seven: It All Comes Together

_It was not my strength that wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing. –_ _Heart of Darkness_ _, Joseph Conrad_

## 39.Liberation Day

Frank Armstrong sat in the big leather chair of his home office, grinning. His headache from last night's horrific sleep had vanished. Gripped in his hand was the cell phone which had brought him the most blessed news of his entire life.

He brought the phone to his lips and kissed it reverently. _Thank you! Thank you!_

The security camera monitor on the wall beeped, indicating someone was requesting entry to the front gate. Frank looked up to see the Bert's Landscaping truck on the screen.

_That guy's here early_.

Well, so what? On a morning like this, even a lowly landscaper truck was a beautiful sight. Frank buzzed open the gate and watched the truck enter the property. It was towing something – a wood chipper. Nagy must be planning to take down that dead tree. Another day of racket, but what of it? Frank returned his attention to his glorious phone.

"I'm gonna have you gold plated."

The first thing he'd heard over it today, after he'd dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into his office, was a curt voice message from John Hogan:

" _I was right Frank, it's all a scam. Call me."_

He sure as hell did! And every word that dropped from Hogan's lips was pure honey.

Blackjack had spoken to Keith Frost and learned about his part in the fraud. The damn guy didn't think much of it – all just a joke, according to him. Somebody, Frost didn't know who, paid him to approach Laila and engage in some small talk, then take her to lunch. Why not? He needed money.

Of course, Frost could have been caging in order to pocket a bribe, but he'd dropped a few details about the people who'd hired him. This led Blackjack's investigators to the disreputable Ace in the Hole detective agency where they got the rest of the frame-up story.

The whole 'tryst' had taken less than an hour, and Laila had stated bluntly (as verified by the long-distance mike in the surveillance van) that she never wanted to see Keith again.

"Now for some bad news," Hogan had said. "I'm afraid it was your daughter, Patricia, who set up the whole thing."

Bad news? Frank had been so overjoyed he'd scarcely heard it. But now, after the initial rush of joy and relief had abated somewhat, rage surged in his heart.

Damn her to hell!

How could Patricia have put him through this misery, after everything he'd done for her? She'd be living in some rent-controlled dump if it wasn't for his generosity. The exclusive residential high school, the elite university, the big allowances, vacations, cars . . .

She was an ungrateful child – a viper to his breast!

He forced himself to calm down. Dark rages were for the old Frank Armstrong, not for the new and better man he so fervently wished to become. As his anger lessened, he began to see the situation more clearly and almost pitied his daughter for her toxic resentments.

He confined himself to writing Patricia an email. Then he wrote another one to Henry. Finally he sent a message to Phyllis, directing her to take certain actions regarding the company's legal representation.

He was so intent on typing, he did not hear Laila walk past his closed door on the way toward her room. When he finished sending the emails, Frank shut off his computer and kicked back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

I could do with a cigar!

$ $ $

Out in the vast reaches of the Armstrong property, Bert Nagy drove his truck over the grass toward the dead tree. The wood chipper banged along behind. He turned sharply so as to run the trailer wheels over the flower garden. Expensive blooms churned under the treads.

"Take that, you little bastards!"

Bert felt energized, in control. All the planning and scheming had come to an end at last. Today was the _real deal_ – Liberation Day. He'd be free of Armstrong, free of Sally, everybody! The tyrants dominating his life were going under, like those lousy flowers.

Bert parked by the dead tree and got out of the truck, closing the door behind him with authority. He began to unload chain saws and other equipment. He looked off toward the house at Mrs. Armstrong's window, wiped his brow, drank from a bottle of water.

Jittery nerves tried to clutch at him again, but he shoved them aside. "Well, let's get down to it."

## 40.At the Abyss

Laila woke up in bed by herself with only a throbbing headache for company. She placed a hand on her banged-up face, felt the hot swelling near her eye.

"Ohhh ..."

She rolled over and looked at the clock.

Damn!

She should have been up much earlier.

Laila tried to get out of bed, but her knees failed, and she plopped back down on the mattress. Her injured leg ached; she stroked it cautiously. At last, she managed to get up and hobble to her room across the hall. She heard Frank in his office banging away on his computer keyboard. Good. She'd been afraid he might take off somewhere this morning and spoil all the plans.

She approached her vanity and sat down hard. Her black eye stared back at her from the mirror, next to the little scar. It was nasty, the sort of disfigurement she could never have imagined enduring. Black eyes were for other people, weren't they?

Laila picked up her brush and tried to neaten her hair, but no amount of prettying up could disguise her battered face. She moved to the window so as to view the 'accident scene' out in the yard. She saw Bert's truck and the damaged flower garden. A bolt of clammy fear ran through her.

So, this is it. No turning back now.

She moved away from the window in a state of high agitation and lurched back to her vanity where she opened a drawer and withdrew a bottle of aspirin. For a frantic moment, she considered downing the entire contents.

Then she thought better of it as the steel returned to her backbone. She gulped three tablets and tossed the bottle back into the drawer. She picked up her cell phone, noting there were two voice messages from Sharese. An odd mixture of gratitude and resentment rose in her heart.

Still trying to look out for me, huh?

Laila tossed the phone aside. This morning promised to be an absolute nightmare. She was resigned to it, but come what may, she was going to be free!

Before Frank could leave for his office, or wherever he planned to go, she would point out the damage to the flower garden. He'd fly into a rage and stomp out there to confront Bert. Then, _it_ would happen.

She couldn't stop this dreadful process. It would sear its way across her life however much she abhorred it. Today, her existence would break into two sharp halves – before and after the murder. She had to be brave and cold as ice.

Yet ... a single thought kept nagging at her mind.

Check the emails one more time, Laila.

She moved to her desk and fired up her computer. With a furtive glance toward the door, she pulled up Frank's email account. Again, the terrible message from Henry glared at her from the _Inbox_. With a trembling hand on her computer mouse, she opened the _Sent_ folder.

Frank's answer waited there like a cobra ready to sink its fangs into Laila's heart. She stiffened and her breath caught short. Her hand was a lead weight on the mouse. She clicked the message open.

Henry,

I've given your proposal thorough consideration and have a final answer for you.

_NO_ _, I will not go along with any of it. If you ever mention such plans again, I'll cut you off without a cent. Believe that._

Just so you take this seriously – I'm dropping your firm from handling any of my corporate legal work. Maybe now you'll have time to attend a few soccer games.

Dad

And quit screwing around with those girls, before Debbie finds out!

Laila sagged back in her chair. Relief washed over her smiling face; tears rolled down her cheeks. Her headache abruptly vanished.

"Thank God," she murmured.

But there was more – a message to Patricia in the _Sent_ box. It had been mailed only minutes earlier:

Dearest Patricia,

I would have expected more from you than those stupid photographs of my wife with her ex. Tell "Mike" to publish them anywhere he damn well pleases. He's easy to find, just look in the mirror.

What were you hoping to accomplish with this scam? Please spare me any lies or excuses, fess up and admit your role.

_On second thought,_ _don't_ _contact me. I need a vacation from you – a nice long one._

Your Loving Father

Laila felt reborn, as if she'd stepped back from a terrible abyss of damnation. She canceled out of Frank's email and shut down her computer. The world, which had taken such a demonic tilt, suddenly righted itself. The future glowed with holy brilliance.

Then realization dawned on her; she jerked upright.

Where's my phone?

She glanced desperately around the room, couldn't find it. Where had she tossed the thing?

Then she saw her phone reposing in the carpet beside her vanity. She lunged across the room, heedless of the pain in her leg, and retrieved the device. She plopped down in her vanity chair, punched in frantic numbers.

$ $ $

All was ready in the back yard. Bert had braced a ladder against the dead tree and set up the wood chipper nearby; he held a large chainsaw in his hands. The only thing necessary was for Frank Armstrong to come on the scene.

Frank would be looking out here soon enough, as he could never pass up an opportunity to 'supervise' the help. And if he didn't notice the flower garden damage himself, then, by prearrangement, Mrs. Armstrong would point it out to him. Bert had still not decided on the final scenario. He ran through the possible choices again.

"Please, Mr. Armstrong, right this way." The imaginary Frank Armstrong approached. Bert slashed the air with the chainsaw. "Gotcha!"

He shook his head with disapproval. _That'll never work. He'd get suspicious._

Bert prepared another scenario, wielding the chainsaw like a Wild West gunslinger.

"It's just you and me, Armstrong. Nobody out here cares how rich you are." He leaned forward pugnaciously. "Not such a tough guy now, are you? Take that!"

He shook his head again. Mrs. Armstrong had warned him Frank might be packing his 'Sweet Thing' 9mm pistol. There was no telling with that guy. Bert couldn't risk getting drilled before he could land the decisive blow.

He moved to the ladder. Perhaps Frank could be lured into climbing up. Then a convenient tumble – right onto the whirring chainsaw.

Nah, he won't fall for that one again.

Bert held the chainsaw in a low position, looking innocently up at the branches.

"I'm going to have to take some of those higher branches off first." He turned abruptly with the chainsaw. "Oh, excuse me, Mr. Armstrong!" He looked at the ground. "You should be careful around power tools, sir."

Bert nodded with approval. _That's it! The sneak approach._

He'd always known this was the best way. Let Armstrong come out yelling and raging about the flower garden, feign innocence, cut him down by "accident."

He heard himself speaking with the police: "I didn't even hear him coming, officer. I had the chain saw running ... he just sort of appeared. He snuck up behind me."

Mrs. Armstrong would back up everything he said. Of course she would; he knew too much to be cut loose by her. And Frank's temper outbursts were well known, the way he liked to mess with the hired help.

Bert's cell phone rang, pulling him away from his lethal scenarios. The caller ID showed Mrs. Armstrong.

He picked up. "Hello?"

The call abruptly terminated. Bert looked quizzically at the phone display.

What the hell was that about?

## 41.Reconciliation and More

Frank stood hesitantly outside Laila's door, the knuckles of his good hand poised in midair.

He'd never before sought entry to her private space, never entered unbidden. He'd always considered this room to be inviolate, as his home office was to him. But times had changed; barriers needed to come down. He'd even dressed for the occasion, doffing his robe and slipping into some business casual attire complete with sport coat.

He rapped softly on the wood.

Laila flinched and looked toward the door with panicky eyes. "W-what is it?"

"May I come in, Laila?"

Laila shut off her phone and set it down. She made a final, useless, effort to straighten her hair. "Yes, Frank, please do."

The door opened part way and Frank poked his head in shyly, like a school boy asking for a first date. He was smiling, and his face had a warm, kindly aspect she'd never seen before. The expression lasted only a moment, replaced by a look of alarm.

"My God!" he said. "What happened to you?"

Frank threw the door open and strode across the room. He took her chin in his hand, tilting her head gently upward. The hand was firm and strong, yet tender. He studied her injury, a deep frown creasing his face.

"How'd you hurt your eye?"

"I-I fell, Frank. I couldn't sleep last night, so I went downstairs for a drink. I tripped over the coffee table."

"We should have a doctor look at you."

"Sure, Frank."

He whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and jabbed in a number. She loved the way he did that – such manly forcefulness.

"We'll get Keating out here right away," he said.

"Does he make house calls?"

"He'd damn well better, as much as I'm paying him."

"All right, anything you say, Frank."

Laila felt a burst of love. An adoring expression attended her battered, upturned face. Frank's concern for her was deep and genuine. Could it be she'd almost lost him? He'd chosen her above all others – even his own children. She had gone through the dark valley and come out on a bright, sunny highland.

"Ohhh ..." she moaned, too softly for anyone else to hear.

"Hello Doc, this is Frank Armstrong," her husband was saying in his commanding, confident voice.

It was the type of voice lesser people automatically obeyed. Laila could almost see Dr. Keating jerk to attention on the other end.

"I need you to get to my house right away," Frank said. "We've had an accident . . . No, nothing too serious, I don't think . . . Good, just come right in, I'll leave the gate and front door open for you."

He terminated the call and returned the phone to his jacket pocket with an authoritative flourish, as if he were sheathing a rapier. Laila adored the motion. Then he moved across the hall to his office and pushed some buttons on the security console.

Moments later, he was back at her side. "Keating will be here in a few minutes. He just happened to be driving through the area."

"That's wonderful, Frank."

Laila melted before such a display of power and concern. All of it for her!

Frank felt suddenly awkward. Things weren't going the way he'd expected. What did he expect, anyway? He wanted the old Frank Armstrong to move out of the way and let things get better. That s.o.b. might leave grudgingly, but by God, he _would_ go!

"I had a lousy night myself," he said, massaging the back of his neck. "It feels like I've been sleeping on a torture rack."

"As long as I'm here, you won't be on any torture rack," Laila said with deep sincerity.

Frank smiled down at her. Then, uncertain how to capitalize on the tender moment, he turned away to hide his perplexity and crossed the room toward the window. He didn't notice Laila stiffen in her vanity chair.

He pulled back the curtain and gazed out the window onto his property – _their_ property. Never had it looked more beautiful than on this glorious morning. He did an astonished double take.

"Look what that idiot did!"

Alarm seized Laila's heart. "What happened?"

"He tore a hunk out of the flower garden with his truck. Just like last summer."

$ $ $

Out in the yard, Bert saw the curtain pull back on the second floor window. From this distance, he couldn't see clearly who did it, but it had to be Mrs. Armstrong. She told him she'd be observing from that window.

He waved his arms. "Okay, everything's ready."

$ $ $

At the window, Frank drew back, appalled. "Now the damn guy's waving at me. Has he gone nuts? Well, he's getting the ax this time, for sure."

He turned to see Laila standing with her arms outstretched across the doorway.

"Don't go out there, Frank!"

He looked at her, astonished. "What's gotten into you. Laila?"

"It's just that – I've had a really bad time. Stay with me until Dr. Keating arrives ... please."

"Of course I will."

Laila took Frank's hands and led him to the little sofa in the corner. "Don't upset yourself, dear. It's only a bunch of plants."

Frank sat down beside her, grateful for the opportunity to abandon his wrath. "Well, all right. Nagy's still going, though ... unless you _really_ want him to stay."

"Sure, Frank. Let's get rid of him." Laila turned her head so as to display the good side of her face. "This has been a difficult time for us, hasn't it?"

Frank nodded. "That it has."

"I think we need to get away for a while. How about a nice little trip? Just the two of us."

Frank unwound. His scowl softened into an agreeable expression as he settled back into the loveseat. "Well, things are a bit slow at the office right now. What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know, exactly. One of those sea cruises, or maybe a beach resort."

Frank nodded. "How long are those cruises? Maybe they'd get boring after a while."

"Well, if you want more action, there's Las Vegas."

Frank stiffened. The volcanic temper he so much wanted to slay flared back into life. He stood angrily, glowering down at Laila. She looked up at him, mouth hanging open.

"What's wrong, honey?"

"There you go again about Las Vegas! Didn't I tell you that subject was closed to discussion?"

"But I only thought – "

"Think about something else. The answer is still no. I thought you understood that."

He strode out of the room in a huff. Laila watched him go, stunned and frightened.

Frank paused at the top of the stairs.

What the hell am I doing? Stupid, arrogant fool!

If Laila wanted to see Las Vegas, he'd take her there, and he would enjoy doing it. He'd lavish her with love and every good thing.

He looked back toward Laila's open doorway; it beckoned like the gates of Paradise. He began taking a step toward it just as a massive blow struck him in the chest. Pain shot up his arm.

Laila slumped on her sofa, totally crushed. Every particle of relief and love had disappeared, replaced by dark, brooding hatred. Then:

"Laila!" Frank called.

"What now?"

"My heart ..."

"You don't have a heart, you old poop," Laila muttered.

A tremendous crash assaulted her ears. She leapt up, terrified. Her own heart thundered as she moved to the doorway and peered down the hall. Utter, dead, silence.

"Frank?"

She rushed to the staircase as quickly as possible on her injured leg and looked down at her husband sprawled at the bottom.

"My God!"

Laila crept fearfully down the steps, gripping the rail to keep from collapsing. Light coming through the window threw a tree limb shadow onto the stairway wall, approximating the money pile from last night.

Laila stood by her stricken husband, dazed and mute. The bell rang, followed by vigorous knocking. Laila looked toward the front door but could not respond. It opened, and Dr. Keating entered. He took in the scene with wide-mouthed shock, then rushed to Frank's side.

"Doctor, he ... I-I ..."

Keating knelt beside Frank, examining him. He looked up toward Laila. "'Nothing too serious' is it?"

# Eight: Picking Up Pieces

" _If your mother says she loves you, check it out." – Ace in the Hole detective agency mission statement_

## 42.The Dreadful News

Sharese sat alone in the dining area of Patricia's apartment, stirring sugar into her coffee.

Her surroundings were almost unbearably intense – the morning sun streaming through the glass wall, the white ceiling and counters, the beige colored floor and the glass tabletop. In its glaring brightness, this place could be mistaken for the anteroom to heaven.

Patricia had finished showering now and was in the bedroom getting dressed. Soon she would come out here for breakfast. What then?

Sharese sipped her coffee and munched toast, still unable to comprehend last night's events. How could she have come under Patricia's erotic spell so quickly? The power of the Armstrong clan was scary, overwhelming.

Well, too late to cry over spilt milk, or any other stray fluids. Only one thing was certain – Sharese had to put a stop to this. She needed to get out of here, the sooner the better! Then again, it would be nice to look upon Patricia once more, just for a minute, of course. Have another coffee, and maybe one of those joints . . .

The _Cherry Bomb_ ringtone of Patricia's phone sounded from the bedroom. Moments later, a piercing scream racked the morning.

Sharese leaped out of her chair. "What happened?"

Patricia ran, half naked, out of the bedroom. Wild grief contorted her face. "It's Father! He's dead!"

"Ohhh."

"She killed him!" Patricia shrieked. "I know it, that bitch killed him!"

She burst into hysterical sobs. Sharese looked on with horror. She wanted to offer comfort, but what could she do? Patricia's accusation shocked her to the core.

Laila!

Pausing only long enough to seize her handbag lying by the blood red pillow, Sharese made for the door, then out to the elevator. Thank God this floor didn't need a card. She stabbed the button and zoomed to the lobby.

$ $ $

Henry and Debbie Armstrong sat at their breakfast table, numbed and distraught. The world had become unhinged in a single moment. Henry lifted his coffee cup with a trembling hand. Debbie reached across the table and gripped her husband's other hand which lay cold as ice.

"Oh, my God..." Henry said. "I thought he'd live forever."

The children had not yet heard the news. Their mother rose stiffly from her chair and went to tell them.

$ $ $

Carlita Blade sat before her pink IBM Selectric, utterly devoid of ideas. Vapid music played over the radio, increasing the sense of time passing uselessly. She disliked the sound of it but lacked the energy to get up and change the station. She was alone and deserted in the midst of her writer's block.

_I must be too old for this game_.

Maybe it was time to get out of the way and let younger writers take over the romance / homicide genre.

She was bogged down in the _Lawn of Death_ script. After the torrid opening scene, she'd drifted into background information about the wealthy and remote Lord Albert and his ravishing young wife. She'd tried to set the stage for the murder plot between the wife and the handsome young landscaper, but it didn't work.

It was all boring. And if it bored her, what would the readers think? She looked idly out the window toward the bird feeder.

Rather than refill it this morning, she'd scattered seed other places. Little heaps dotted the driveway and the cover of a disused barbecue grill. The bounty had attracted numerous sparrows and a pair of cardinals – a greenish female and a bright red male – who watched the feeding frenzy from atop the garage.

A large blue jay appeared among the lesser birds on the drive, intent on eating its fill. The male cardinal swooped down and attacked. They battled furiously along the pavement. The blue jay was much larger, but was soon defeated and driven off. The cardinal resumed his perch alongside his lady atop the garage.

Carlita sipped her tea and observed the rout with keen interest. There seemed to be a message here – what was it, though? Soon the blue jay returned, attempting his luck on the grill top this time. Again the male cardinal drove him away.

"Bravo, my fine feathered friend!" Carlita cheered.

She felt uplifted by the scene, but that did not translate into writing inspiration. The typewriter still glared at her with the blank sheet of paper on its platen, its motor humming expectantly. The radio music became unbearable.

"Enough of that damned noise, already."

She left her chair and headed for the radio blaring on the bookshelf. Before she could reach it, the news report came on:

Noted venture capitalist and real estate developer, Frank Armstrong, died at his home this morning from an apparent heart attack. He was pronounced dead at . . .

"Oh!" Carlita halted in her tracks, eyes wide. A smile exploded across her face. "I've got it!"

She sprang back to work with fiery inspiration. The house reverberated with the Selectric's pounding rhythm.

$ $ $

High above the world of ordinary men, taking a break amid the clutter of his trade, Gus the Roofer heard the same radio broadcast.

"Well, I'll be damned."

## 43.Distressful Hours

The next hours passed in a nightmare blur for Laila – the death pronouncement, the removal of Frank's corpse, the summoning of the family, her own examination and treatment by the doctor.

She stumbled through these ordeals in numbed shock, barely able to react. Thank God, Sharese came to support her, and later, Debbie arrived.

Henry and Patricia took charge of the funeral arrangements, muttering darkly between themselves about the need for a highly detailed autopsy to determine the "true cause of death." They were suspicious of Laila's injuries, too. How did she really get them – had a physical confrontation preceded their father's demise?

In another conference, Sharese and Debbie concurred that Laila should not be left alone in the house. Debbie agreed to take the first shift, and Sharese promised that between her and the other Musketelles, Laila would not have to confront the coming days alone. A guest room on the first floor would provide accommodation for Laila's caretakers.

The terrible hours came to an end by late afternoon. Away from the intrusive presence of others, the emotional storm finally broke and Laila wept with wild abandon in Debbie's arms.

"You're the only one in the whole family who cares about me," Laila said after her sobbing abated.

Debbie wanted to disagree and utter soothing words, but she knew in her heart the statement was true. Laila dabbed her last tears away and sighed.

"I'd like to be alone for a while, now."

"All right," Debbie replied, not without some trepidation.

Laila ascended the stairs, now haunted by the nightmare vision of Frank's corpse sprawled at the base. Debbie walked with her to Laila's private room.

"Call out if you need anything," Debbie said. "I'll be nearby."

"Thank you."

Laila closed the door behind her and moved to the window, staring out at the flower garden and at the dead tree that could have been the site of foul crime – except for the intervention of fate.

What's become of Bert Nagy?

He must have taken off during all the chaos of... Frank's passing. She'd not given him a thought until now, and she excised him from her mind again. Laila flung open the window and settled into the love seat she had occupied with Frank that morning. Total exhaustion pressed into her body and soul.

The ugly face of guilt tried to encroach on her consciousness, but Laila pushed it away as much as possible. After all, she didn't go through with the murder. She'd tried to phone Bert to call it off, right?

Already she was forgetting she'd half decided to let the plot go through after Frank stomped out of the room. The thought of Dr. Keating's imminent arrival had been the main deterrent, not any moralistic qualms.

Frank's blow-up about Las Vegas had been the true, final straw. She realized that, even though he'd stuck up for her this time, the years ahead might have told a different story. She would still be under his thumb. Her deep yearning for freedom overrode all other considerations. She was sick to the depths of her soul of being a helpless pawn.

But what could any of that matter now? Frank was no longer here, and she remained.

Fresh, invigorating air entered the window, along with the songs of birds. A promise of new life blew into the room. Blue sky showed through the clouds. Laila sat with her head resting on the sofa back, motionless, except for the occasional aftershock sob that came to choke her.

Her gaze fixed upon the patch of blue sky. Something was coming to her through the sounds and scents that filled the air. She breathed more heavily. She recognized this thing that was approaching to possess her. A triumphant smile covered her face.

"I'm free!"

Liberated from Frank's domination, from her sense of social inferiority. Saved from committing a terrible crime. Free of Bert Nagy and his hungry chainsaw.

Laila knew she would weep again when she saw her husband lying in his casket, hands folded and his face set in its final, determined expression. But she peered beyond that gloomy moment and beheld the remainder of her life spread before her like a magic carpet. She opened her arms wide in welcome.

She would be fully in charge of her life for the first time! There would be no dominating male bending her to his will. She could go where she wanted, do what she wanted, spend money how she wished. And, after a period of exploring this new liberty on her own, there would be time for love again.

She was still young, and her dream of having children could yet materialize – but it would be with a man who treated her as an equal. It would be _true_ love, based on mutual respect.

Yes, she had loved Frank, however destructive that may have turned out. Yet she had often hated him, too. But did any of this matter now? It was all in the past, and a dazzling future beckoned.

"Free at last," she kept whispering. "Free at last!"

Outside, Debbie was knocking on the door with quiet urgency. "Laila, are you okay? What are you doing?"

"I'm fine. Please don't worry."

Something in her voice seemed to reassure Debbie, and the knocking ceased.

When she left the room several minutes later, Laila carried herself erect with a look of serene triumph in her eyes. Debbie noticed the look and understood. Laila clasped her waist, and together they descended the stairs.

"Maybe this isn't the best time to bring this up," Debbie said, "but do you have a good lawyer?"

Laila shifted mental gears. She was able to do so now that her mind was more lucid.

"Um, let me see..."

A name popped into her consciousness: John "Blackjack" Hogan, Frank's personal attorney for many years. Hogan was a real "ass-kicking, sonuvabitch lawyer" according to Frank. He was a man of great capability who could be trusted. She recalled meeting him once at a social event, and he certainly looked the part.

"Frank always said John Hogan was reliable," Laila said.

The name rang a bell in Debbie's mind. She recalled Henry making disparaging remarks about Hogan. Well, if Henry disliked the man, that must be a good recommendation.

"I think we should contact him, right now," Debbie said.

## 44.Preparations

The call from Frank Armstrong's daughter-in-law struck John Hogan an almost physical blow.

My God, I spoke to him half an hour before the heart attack!

Frank had sounded fine. More than fine, he'd been ecstatic. A shudder ran through Hogan's big frame. There truly was nothing certain in this brief and sad life.

At least he'd presented Frank some good news toward the end. The Frost punk was glad to cooperate in exposing the scam. Hogan had wanted to slug him, but instead handed over the promised cash. A judicious bribe and a threat to report their activities to the licensing authority had been enough to shake loose the truth at Ace in the Hole detective agency.

He arrived at the Armstrong residence early that evening to commence the work of protecting the young widow's interests.

"Please accept my deepest condolences," he told Mrs. Armstrong as he clasped her hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Hogan. My husband always spoke highly of you."

The soft tenderness of her hand in his uncouth paw was almost unbearable to him.

Mrs. Armstrong ushered him into Frank's home office and gave him free rein to examine everything. She provided Frank's email password, which also accessed his cell phone. The daughter-in-law accompanied them upstairs, then withdrew to a respectful distance.

Hogan relished the prospect of combating any further designs Frank's kids might have against their step mother. He knew what Henry had tried to pull with the reorganization plan. And that Patricia harpy. Ugh!

Aside from the legal issues involving Frank's business holdings and personal fortune, there was the matter of securing the physical estate against unauthorized persons, he told Laila. This meant changing locks, access codes, and updating the alarm system. A watch dog or two would be useful, and the 24/7 presence of security men would be a good idea, at least until things settled down.

Laila approved everything, and Hogan prepared to take his leave.

"I know this is a very difficult time for you, Mrs. Armstrong," he said, "but we'll have to see each other a lot over the coming days."

"I understand," Laila said.

Hogan bid good-night with an assurance that the security men and alarm system people would arrive "first thing in the morning."

"Well, that's an excellent start," Debbie said after the lawyer had gone.

"Thank you so much, Debbie. You can stay the night?"

"Of course." Debbie embraced Laila warmly. "Hang in there. Things will look better tomorrow."

## 45.Tomorrow Arrives

Laila awoke early much refreshed, as if the whole world had begun a new epoch. The post-Armstrong era of her life had _finally_ begun. She and Debbie were having breakfast around 7 a.m. when the front doorbell rang.

They both froze.

"Do you think that's the alarm people?" Debbie asked.

"No, they'd buzz at the gate."

The driveway gate was down outside, and the _No Admittance_ sign was on prominent display. Anyone could walk around the gate and approach the house, though.

They moved to the library and viewed the display panel there. Various security cameras around the house projected their images on different portions of the screen. The one for the front door showed a young, well-dressed man standing on the porch.

"Who's that?" Debbie asked.

Rage boiled up in Laila's heart, nearly choking her. "Keith!"

"Is he dangerous?"

Laila gave a disgusted snort. "Hardly."

"Should I talk to him, then?"

"Yes, please do," Laila said. "Tell him I'll be right down."

As Debbie went to answer the door, Laila headed upstairs to the master bedroom. She fished out Frank's 9 mm automatic pistol from the night table and headed downstairs with it. She came up behind Debbie who was standing in the open door speaking with her ex.

"Just thought I'd stop by to offer my condolences," Keith was saying. "I heard about Frank's passing on the news... very tragic..."

"Thanks, Debbie," Laila said, "I'll take over now."

Debbie stepped aside.

"Hi, Laila," Keith said. "I heard the news, so I thought I'd come right over and see if you needed anything."

"You got here in record time," Laila said. "Did the bitch send you?"

"Bitch?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

Keith shook his head, the very picture of wounded innocence. "No... it's nothing like that – "

"Listen, Buster," Laila said, "I'm taking out a personal protection court order against you."

Keith held up his hands in a mollifying gesture. "I know you must be upset, but you can't mean that. Not after all we've been through together."

Laila remained angrily silent.

"I just stopped by to see if you're OK, that's all. I was worried."

Laila brandished the 9 mm under Keith's chin. "And I'm getting a carry permit, too. If you ever approach me again, this will give you a blow job you'll never forget!"

Keith's eyes widened; he turned white and stumbled backwards. His mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

A large van pulled up by the gate, and a correspondingly huge man got out of it. He made to push the comm. button, but appeared to change his mind in view of the drama on the front porch. He walked around the gate and approached the house. Laila lowered the gun out of sight.

"Mrs. Armstrong?"

"Yes."

"John Hogan sent us." The man flashed his credentials. "He said you'd be expecting us today."

"Quite so. Please come in."

The bodyguard looked down at Keith and placed an enormous hand on his shoulder. "Is there a problem here?"

"No problem at all," Laila said. "I was just taking out some trash."

"Yes, ma'am."

The bodyguard removed his hand from Keith's shoulder and entered the house. Another man was exiting the van now with two dark, intelligent-looking watch dogs in tow.

"Get out of here, Keith." Laila's voice was measured and ominous. "Don't ever come back."

Keith turned and practically ran down the drive, giving the newcomers a wide berth.

Laila reentered the house. "I think we handled that fairly well."

"Quite well," Debbie agreed.

They looked toward the bodyguard who was standing in the living room, professionally studying the environs.

"God, what an absolute hunk," Debbie whispered. "Mind if I stay another night?"

A day of high activity commenced. Blackjack Hogan stopped by again with papers for Laila to sign. Locksmiths and alarm men updated the security systems. Late afternoon, a new pair of bodyguards relieved the original ones.

Debbie couldn't stay another night, as much as she wanted to, having her husband and children to look after. And if she had any hesitations, a blunt phone call from Henry reminded her of her wifely duties. She was pleased to learn that Laila's friends would be arriving to take over.

Beneath Debbie's concern resided strong feelings of admiration. Her sister-in-law, for lack of a more precise title, was escaping the Armstrong family.

Maybe I can follow her example some day.

Laila and the other Musketelles commiserated together as only long-time friends could, downing numerous cocktails while the day wore on into evening. This provided a measure of comfort to Laila that simply wasn't available from the tee-totaling Debbie.

The Musketelles brought a take-out dinner with them, and after enjoying it together, Candy and Nichole left. Sharese had planned from the start to remain with Laila to help her "weather the storm," but once she caught sight of the bodyguards, a hurricane couldn't have blasted her out of the house. She was particularly hot for the one called Lonnie.

"Adonis types like him don't come along every day," she confided to Laila.

Plus, she wanted to 'straighten out' after the torrid episode with Patricia. Lonnie parried her interest with cool, professional detachment.

## 46.Plotters at the Dead End

Bert Nagy occupied the remotest area of the pub with an extra large meat-lovers pizza and a bucket of brews.

The beer and comfort food brought little solace. Elsewhere in the room, people were socializing, watching sports on the various screens, and having a good time. Now and then, somebody would glance toward Bert's gloom corner, then quickly look another direction.

This was to have been "Decompression Day." After the upset of the killing and hassles with the police, this was to be the day Bert would relax, take stock, and plan his escape.

His idea was to proceed slow and cautious until things settled down. He'd continue with his landscaping business for a while, then sell it off, admitting he was not the entrepreneurial type, and go back to a regular job. Then after a year, eighteen months at most – off to the Caribbean and a life of adventure! Unload Sally and the kids and get out.

Why'd that s.o.b. have to spoil everything with a heart attack?

Bert had come to the house during the initial hubbub, seen Frank Armstrong sprawled on the floor with that egg-head doctor attending him and Mrs. Armstrong standing by, shell shocked. No one had noticed him, and he'd got out quick.

He'd hit the bars until late, trying to get his head around the baffling turn of events. Then came the fight with Sally when he got home. Imagine, she'd accused him of seeing another woman! If she only knew.

Damn!

He yanked another beer out of the bucket, wrenched off the cap, and drained most of it in one agonized gulp.

"Whoa there, honey," a feminine voice cautioned.

Bert looked up to see Angela standing nearby with her signature Piña Colada.

"You look like you need some company," she said. "Mind if I join you?"

"Mmm," Bert grunted.

Angela sat down beside him. She was past 40 now, though still fairly attractive. Her hooker days were in the past, she'd said, except for the occasional tumble with somebody she "really liked." She was a fixture in various establishments now, socializing away her days in idle gossip.

She lived by a simple philosophy. Bert once overheard her express it to a group of yowling, heavy-drinking women: "I'm telling you, girls, we've got the pussy, so we've got the power. And if we're willing to give blow jobs, we've got even more power!"

She was quieter and more sober today. "Drowning your sorrows, are you Bertie?"

He grunted again and gestured toward the pizza.

"Oh, no thanks," Angela said, "that looks way too macho for me. I'm more the Hawaiian pizza type, with lots of pineapple."

Bert flinched at the mention of another tropical paradise he would never visit. He drained the rest of the beer and opened another one. Angela might be poor company, but at least she created a bit of diversion in his vast wasteland of loneliness and frustration – if she'd just keep from blabbing too much.

She sat smiling at him, waiting for him to talk, but Bert had gone back to his poisonous musings.

His phone calls to Mrs. Armstrong had gone unanswered, and earlier today he'd been turned away from the gate by some goon with an attack dog and an automatic pistol bulge under his jacket. Hell, Bert had even brought fresh plants to repair the flower garden. This was the thanks he got!

He figured Mrs. Armstrong owed him – maybe not the whole $625,000, but something substantial. Hadn't he set everything up, overcome his moral scruples, put himself at great risk?

Hell, I did my part. I didn't tell the damn guy to have a heart attack.

And now he was being treated like a total stranger by the 'unfortunate widow.' But what could he do about it – try to blackmail Mrs. Armstrong, talk to the cops? There had to be some angle.

"You look like you've lost your best friend," Angela said. "Want to tell me about it?"

Bert gazed at her through his alcohol buzz. She was smiling at him warmly. Her hand rested on his forearm, and her leg pressed against his.

She's coming on to me!

The thought depressed him. With her blonde hair, long legs, and coquettish manner, Angela resembled the Nordic bombshell of his Cayman Island fantasy. Hell, she may have been the unconscious inspiration, but she was twenty years too late.

The waitress approached. "Can I get you folks anything else?"

Bert looked at the smiling black woman standing beside the table. He could tell by her face she had once been hot. She'd since spread out into comfortable middle age, though, and could be overheard talking about her grandchildren. Her presence completed the parody of his island dream. He had to get away.

"Uh, no thanks." Bert gestured toward the pizza. "If you could just box this up."

"Sure thing."

The waitress hauled away the metal stand with the leftovers. Bert scrambled to his feet, withdrawing himself from Angela's clutches.

"Leaving so soon?" Angela pouted.

"Yeah, I've got some things to take care of."

True enough. Bert was going to a funeral.

$ $ $

Across town, in far more upscale surroundings, Henry and Patricia Armstrong commiserated over drinks and appetizers.

"I'm telling you, Sis," Henry said, "we're going to have to settle with her, the quicker the better."

Patricia gazed icily over the rim of her vodka martini. "The cocktail waitress has won, then?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that, but Hogan's got things boxed up. The way I see it, the sooner we make a deal the more reasonable he's apt to be."

"Never underestimate the power of a cute ass," Patricia muttered.

"Or a good lawyer."

Henry didn't mention Frank's abrupt dismissal of his own law firm. Blackjack Hogan would mention this inconvenient fact during any legal proceedings, though. It served to weaken their position.

_Face it,_ Henry thought, _Laila's a lot smarter than we gave her credit for._

Hell, they couldn't even get into Dad's home office to see what might be stored there. Hogan had doubtless hauled off anything of importance, anyway.

And who could tell what other dirt Blackjack might have on him? There was plenty, God knows – the shady deals, the trysts. Hogan was a street brawler, and he'd use every weapon at his disposal if it came to a fight.

"That bastard!" Patricia said. "Why don't we go to court?"

"We can either drag it out for years to an uncertain outcome, or we can settle now and salvage as much as we can. Hogan understands this. I think he'll deal."

"As I said, there's no justice in this world."

"Look at it from Laila's viewpoint," Henry said.

Patricia snorted in a most un-lady like fashion. "Oh, please!"

"Laila's not really interested in taking over Dad's business interests," Henry said. "She wants to sell out and move on to the next rich sucker. She'll get rid of the house, too, I'd imagine. Why stick around with memories of Dad lying on the stairs?"

"She probably pushed him."

"Come on, Sis. How could she have timed something like that? Dr. Keating was on his way, he arrived only moments later."

Patricia knew her brother was right. There was no evidence of foul play. The toxicology report revealed nothing besides traces of prescription pain medication. The heart attack had been a bad one and might have killed their father outright, even if he hadn't broken his neck falling down the stairs.

But she couldn't shake the idea that everything was, somehow, Laila's doing. The thought that her blackmail attempt might have overstressed her father and contributed to his demise was much too frightening to entertain.

She redirected the conversation. "So, now you're thinking of somebody else's viewpoint besides your own? You're making progress."

Henry speared a raw oyster out its half shell and bathed it in horseradish sauce.

"Those will give you indigestion," Patricia said.

Henry swallowed the oyster, not bothering to reply.

Patricia was mortified about her failed plot and didn't dare breathe a word of it to her brother. Rest assured Hogan knew plenty, and he wouldn't hesitate to use it against her. Of all the stupid, amateurish things to pull! She'd foolishly assumed Dad would fly off the handle and ditch Laila – as he did with any unsatisfactory person he'd hired.

The woman's an obvious gold digger, anybody can see that. Why couldn't he?

Patricia thought she was doing Dad a favor, a kind of 'tough love.' And she'd wanted to hurt him because of how he'd treated Mom. As much as she tried to deny this fact, it was still true.

She should have done something to make sure Frost kept his mouth shut, told him she'd top any payment Blackjack Hogan offered. But she hadn't factored in Hogan. She'd botched everything. If only she could undo the whole damned mess! If only she could tell her father how much she really cared about him.

Too late. Dad was an emotional porcupine, always pushing her away. And now he was gone. The final email she'd received from him stabbed at her heart.

The waitress approached. "Are you ready to order?"

"I'll take the prime rib," Patricia said, "rare."

## 47.Hectic Day

The 9mm automatic bucked in Laila's hands as she fired off the last rounds. Then abrupt quiet. She relished her sense of power.

_No man is_ _ever_ _going to run my life again!_

"You're getting the hang of it, Mrs. Armstrong," her instructor said.

She lowered the gun and pulled off her noise reduction ear muffs. "Thanks for all your help."

They examined the human silhouette paper target. The final round had punctured the heart.

"Want to try another clip?"

"I think that's enough for now," Laila said. "Let's do the carry permit application."

Next stop after the gun range would be the death office. Propriety suggested that Laila visit there to check on things, even though Henry and Patricia were handling her husband's final arrangements. She packed up her automatic and headed out with Sharese.

Per usual, a security man came along to drive the car and hover in the background ready to brush aside any pests who might try to approach. Today it was Lonnie, Sharese's favorite.

"He can guard my body any time he wants," she told Laila.

They approached a bland one-story building constructed of reddish brick. A creek bubbled past it on one side. This office was a one-stop shopping affair since the funeral home and cemetery had the same ownership.

Lonnie moved ahead and opened the door for them. Laila paused. The confidence she'd experienced at the gun range deserted her.

"Are you okay to go in?" Sharese asked.

"Yes... let's get it over with."

They entered the lobby together and confronted the secretary.

"We're here to see Mr. Blanding," Laila said.

"Of course. He'll be right along." The secretary indicated a door down the hall. "You can wait for him in the display room."

"Thank you." Laila turned to Lonnie. "Please wait out here for us."

"Yes, ma'am."

He took a seat, to the evident approval of the receptionist who primped her hair and sat up straighter behind her computer monitor. She appeared ready to glide up next to him on the little sofa.

Laila and Sharese moved down the hall and peered into the display room. It was a fairly sizable place housing a desk with visitors' chairs beside it. Two tiers of open caskets festooned the walls – lids open, promising blissful rest for their occupants.

"Oh, my," Sharese exclaimed. "Doesn't that beat all?"

A smooth voice sidled up behind them. "Welcome ladies, please go on in."

Mr. Blanding led the way to the desk. He was a prim, immaculately dressed individual who would have looked right at home inside any of the caskets. Laila and Sharese occupied the visitor chairs.

"Can I interest you in a coffee or bottled water?" Mr. Blanding asked.

"Nothing for me, thanks," Sharese replied.

"No thank you," Laila said.

It was a mistake to come here!

Laila needed to get away, the sooner the better. Her thoughts turned to Lonnie, safely ensconced in the ante room to this horrid place. Why didn't she ask him to accompany them?

Mr. Blanding was mercifully brief. He ran over the funeral home visitation details and assured Laila that Frank's coffin was the "top-grade model" with "premium interior appointments." He assured her that the internment would be done in a tasteful, high end mausoleum.

"If you'll excuse me a moment, I can show you a photograph," he said.

"Certainly," Laila said.

Mr. Blanding left the room. Laila sagged back in her chair.

Sharese squeezed her hand. "Hang in there, it'll be over soon."

The man was so accommodating that Laila half expected him to indicate a pair of coffins on his way out and say: "Please make yourselves comfortable."

He didn't, of course. He maintained his polished demeanor throughout. He was an "oily bastard," in Frank's parlance.

Their next stop was to pick up a somber outfit for the funeral parlor visitation. Then they headed to Gemrock for lunch.

## 48.Frank's Last Hurrah

Since her Ace in the Hole investigator had abandoned his cover across the road from the Armstrong estate, Ilsa McIntyre had no way of telling who was coming and going from the house. The detective agency wanted nothing further to do with the case.

Weak as water!

Her mole inside the agency had been glad to sell confidential information on other clients, as when he'd tipped her off about the rich man's daughter. He'd been abruptly dismissed, though, and nobody else at Ace in the Hole would talk to her.

So, Ilsa trusted to luck that she could encounter Laila Armstrong again. She'd come to respect her, consider her a type of colleague, almost. Laila was a beautiful young woman, as Ilsa had once been before marriage to an inappropriate man had stolen her best years. She wanted to give the widow a final piece of advice. Gemrock or the shopping mall seemed the most likely places to make contact.

As much as the new widow might need some R&R, appearing at the gambling casino would not be wise. It would garner attention from the sharks who were circling around sniffing money. Ilsa knew about such things from her own battle to retain her late husband's assets. Thank God she'd had a sharp, reliable lawyer on her side.

She spent her time hanging around either Gemrock or the mall, hoping Laila would show up. Margaret and Pauline covered the other venue. Today, Ilsa was at the Gemrock bar, seated at a table with a view of the main restaurant. Or rather, Carlita Blade was there, sipping rum punch and jotting in her notebook, fine tuning the climax for _The Lawn of Death_ :

The lovers plot the murder of Lord Albert, in which he gets "accidentally" plowed under by a rotary tiller. But before this can happen, Lord Albert, in a fit of jealous rage, abuses the heroine, Lurline, as she's feeding the birds. The hero, Gaston, rushes to her defense and challenges Lord Albert to an "affair of honor."

Lord Albert is happy to oblige. Before Gaston can draw his sword, however, Lord Albert treacherously nicks the hero's arm with his blade. The tip of Lord Albert's sword contains a poison that will bring certain death unless it is promptly treated.

Carlita glanced about her surroundings. No sign of Laila Armstrong. She went back to her notes.

As the men duel on the back lawn, a parallel battle takes place between a large blue jay and a heroic, though seemingly overmatched, male cardinal. The cardinal is defending his lady love perched on the rooftop.

Gaston gains the upper hand, but the poison starts to take effect and he weakens. The heroine looks on, horrified. Lord Albert knocks Gaston's weapon away and is about to inflict the killing blow when he is suddenly seized by a heart attack. He drops his sword, stumbles up the steps to the back door, then collapses dramatically back down the stairs.

At the same moment, the cardinal triumphs, and the blue jay flies off, defeated.

Lurline, calls 911. A big ambulance arrives and hauls both men toward the hospital; Lurline rides along. Lord Albert expires, cursing his misfortune and expressing his forlorn love for the heroine – but it's all too late.

Gaston gets to the poison control center on time and survives. They live happily thereafter, carried along by great sex and Lord Albert's money.

The main problem was, Carlita couldn't decide when the story was taking place. The setting wavered between modern times and the old 'genteel' South with its self-righteous slave owning aristocrats.

The hero, Gaston, kept switching between a blue collar guy from the local lawn service and a crypto-abolitionist slave overseer with Northern sympathies. Sword duels and ante-bellum mansions existed side by side with automobiles and cell phones.

Did they even duel with swords back then, or were pistols the preferred method of slaughtering each other? Swords were so much more romantic, in Carlita's opinion.

Things would have to get smoothed out in the second draft. Or maybe the story could change back and forth between eras, adding a science fiction element to the drama. The main thing was she knew the novel's beginning and end. It was just a matter of populating the in-between spaces with sex and violence. Voila! Another best seller.

A lot depended on the publicity hype. She jotted down some blurbs:

Carlita Blade, literary alias of Ilsa McIntyre – a woman charged with one of the century's most sensational murders – has burst upon the scene with a new novel of lethal passion and forbidden love.

or:

There are times when the path to true love must lead through the dank wilderness of homicide. So says Carlita Blade, literary alter ego of Ilsa McIntyre – a woman accused of . . .

She spotted Laila Armstrong. The widow was accompanied by her blonde friend and a huge man, a bodyguard no doubt. They were walking past the bar area toward the Garden Room.

Carlita sipped her rum punch and bided her time.

$ $ $

As her cocktail took effect, Sharese began openly flirting with Lonnie. He remained his usual, impassive self, however – sipping fruit juice, eyes constantly roving about the Garden Room for potential hazards. It was filled with guests today, some of whom glanced curiously toward the man seated at the corner table with two bombshell women.

_Whatever that guy's got, I'd like some of it,_ more than one male patron was doubtlessly thinking.

Laila permitted herself a single drink to settle her nerves. Picking out the drab funeral outfit and shoes had taken a lot out of her. Thank God, society had moved beyond the veils and black dresses widows were once forced to wear, but this attire was bad enough.

Faced with Lonnie's granite aloofness, Sharese finally gave up her seduction attempts.

"Think I'll visit the ladies' room before the food gets here," she said. "Coming, Laila?"

Laila shook her head. "Not right now."

Sharese left, and Lonnie relaxed a bit.

"She's quite nice," Laila said. "Maybe sometime, when you're off duty..."

Lonnie replied with a reserved little smile.

_They'll be in each other's pants soon enough,_ Laila thought wickedly.

The idea brought a smile to her own lips. Then it disappeared abruptly. Right beside her, seated in Sharese's vacated chair, was her late husband.

He wore the same awful black suit as before. His face was ghastly pale, and his head was twisted at an odd angle from his broken neck. No anger nor accusation filled his eyes this time, just bleak, inconsolable sadness. A heavy odor of roses attended him.

Laila gaped. Fear, guilt, and loss contended within her.

"Ma'am?" Lonnie said.

She tore her eyes away from the apparition.

"I... uh." She glanced back. Sharese's chair was empty. "I-I'm fine, thank you, Lonnie."

She reached for her cocktail, but then another phantom was standing beside her.

"You've been granted a wonderful reprieve," the old woman said. "You must beware the perils – too much grief and too much joy."

"W-who are you?"

"A friend, perhaps, certainly not an enemy."

Lonnie was on his feet now, towering above the woman like a church steeple. He was powerful enough to flick her away with one finger, but there was an unmistakable hint of trepidation in his eyes.

The woman smiled up at him, then turned back to Laila. "I'll not interrupt you further. Maybe I'll see you again in happier times, or maybe not."

She moved away and disappeared into the crowd.

## 49.Farewell Preparations

Frank Armstrong had never believed in "useless flummery," and he preferred to exit this world with minimum fuss.

According to his final instructions, his body was to be displayed for a few hours of public visitation so that "everybody can see I'm finally dead," then cremated and interred without ceremony.

He didn't want some "religious windbag" praying over his corpse like it was some "God damn holy relic," and he was particularly opposed to a dismal procession of automobiles taking him to the final resting place.

"Save the gas money," he'd directed. "Reduce your carbon footprint like those left wing whack jobs are always telling you to do."

Laila was grateful for this simplicity. She processed it into a final gesture of loving concern from her dearly departed husband. He'd known things would be hard for her, and he'd wanted to ease the pain.

The funeral home visitation had been deferred to allow for the highly detailed post-mortem exams Henry and Patricia had insisted upon. Legal wrangling with Blackjack over the specifics delayed things further. So, necessary closure had remained in limbo.

Now the day of reckoning had arrived. Laila prepared to face the ordeal – the last of her wifely duties. She was at a physical and emotional low, yet she had to make a good impression on the attendees. For behind their sympathetic smiles, the knives would be out.

Things were going well, thanks to the efforts of John Hogan, but the guilt wouldn't let up. The horrifying appearance at Gemrock was taking its toll – and that crazy woman! It seemed she could read minds. Laila told herself repeatedly that, no, she had not gone through with the murder, that she'd called it off in time. Still, the nagging self-reproach remained.

There had to be a way out of this turmoil. She would find absolution at the funeral home. When she exited that grim place of death, all guilt, grief, and fear would be left behind. This, too, was a gift from Frank, she made herself believe.

Everything will be fine, just get through it.

All the running around during the past few days had aggravated her leg injuries. Her sprained knee began to swell and her shin hurt fiercely. Dr. Keating prescribed ice packs and pain medication. She wore a bandage around her knee and used a cane to take off some of the pressure. Rest was what she really needed to heal properly; that would come after the visitation catharsis.

She hated the cane, but saw the value of it, too. It was not just a medical device, but a plea for sympathy. When hobbling around with it, she looked much more the unfortunate widow than the young gold digger who'd finally struck it rich. This would prompt others to sympathize more – and to underestimate her.

Being underestimated was often an advantage. As her late husband put it, "A little camouflage always helps."

She was recalling more of Frank Armstrong's words of wisdom. This, too, was part of his legacy for her.

Laila studied her face in the vanity mirror. She looked haggard and older than she was. A good makeup job would help, but the grieving widow look would be preferable today. She added just a bit of concealment for her fading black eye.

# Nine: Absolution

_Where we are, there's daggers in men's smiles – Donalbain, speaking in_ _Macbeth_

## 50.At the Funeral Home

Laila arrived at the funeral home in her own car with Lonnie driving and Debbie sharing the back seat with her. She felt comfortable and secure with these people while, concurrently, yearning for a time when their support would no longer be needed.

The funeral home was a tasteful, dark brown building in a semi-Alpine architectural style. A place where one could imagine the well-heeled skiing off into eternity. It was set back from the street by a long driveway providing an oasis amid the suburban bustle.

Vast parking lots surrounded the facility, and a green belt with a creek running through bordered it on one side. Laila wondered if it was the same creek that passed by the death office. A small commercial plaza, including a medical clinic, abutted the other flank, so any patients who didn't survive had only a short jaunt to their next stop.

Laila entered the viewing room walking slowly on her cane while hanging onto Debbie's arm with her free hand. The place reeked of phony sentiment and dying flowers. Lonnie moved to an unobtrusive spot against the back wall. John Hogan rose from his seat to accompany the women.

"How good of you to come," Laila said.

Hogan nodded gravely. Genuine concern shown in his eyes – a rarity among the visitors.

The place was largely filled already. Laila's initial impression was that she'd entered the reptile house of the zoo. When she was a young girl, shortly after Dad walked out, she had visited the zoo on a class trip. She'd been disturbed by the heartless eyes of the reptiles staring at her – the lizards, crocodiles, snakes.

Especially the snakes. Like that malignant old man sitting near the back with his frowsy wife, one of Frank's less reputable business associates. The cruel look on his face could chill a person's blood.

And there were the slit eyes of others around the room, their owners trying to calculate the new balance of power in the Armstrong clan, wondering how they should hedge their bets. Were the offspring the major players now, or did the poor widow constitute a threat? The presence of Blackjack Hogan at the widow's side was a powerful argument in her favor.

The creepy woman she'd encountered at Gemrock and at the mall turned her head Laila's direction, nodding acknowledgement. She was sitting with two other women near the casket, left of the aisle. A chill tiptoed up Laila's spine.

_Who_ _are_ _those horrible creatures?_

She wished Lonnie could expel them, but that would elicit censure from the crowd, even make its way into the news media. Rest assured plenty of cell phone cameras would record the spectacle. She'd just have to endure the women's presence, along with that of the other vultures.

Patricia and Henry Armstrong approached, their animosity poorly submerged beneath solemn exteriors. It radiated off them like poisoned vapor. Laila exchanged _pro forma_ condolences and resumed her progress toward Frank's casket in the front of the parlor.

She felt the eyes of the whole room on her as she shambled toward it on her cane, Debbie still in attendance. Hogan dropped respectfully away and resumed his seat, having made his political statement to the crowd.

Laila stood before the coffin, gazing at its occupant. Frank Armstrong seemed to be at peace, though his face still bore its determined cast and his folded hands looked poised to make decisive gestures. He lay amid luxurious white satin as if he were floating on a cloud. Masses of flowers surrounded him, including a large arrangement of roses with a _Loving Father_ placard. Frank would have hated it.

Laila raised a handkerchief to her eye. An immense burden of grief and guilt crushed her down like the boot of some giant ogre. She struggled for the right approach. It came to her in a flash of insight.

_I forgive you, Frank,_ she thought with profound sincerity. _Can you forgive me?_

Moments passed during which the world hung in the balance. Laila knew if she did not receive absolution now, her entire future would be blighted. Debbie grasped her arm to keep her from failing.

Then, a wave of gentle kindness rose from the inert form in the casket. It caressed Laila with love and total understanding, soothing her tormented spirit. She experienced a dazzling moment of rightness, a burst of gratitude to Frank for providing her with so much prosperity, for teaching her so much, and for getting out of the way in such a timely manner.

Tears burst forth in a torrent, washing her soul clean, ushering in a new life. Every positive emotion she'd ever had for her husband tumbled out at once – intense love, devotion, awe. Forgotten were the humiliations, her crushing sense of inferiority, the fear she'd wasted her life with an ingrate possessing little more warmth than the body laid out in the coffin.

She was liberated.

Her show of tears impressed everybody in the room. People shifted in their chairs, glancing at each other. Several women brushed aside their own tears. Even John Hogan became misty eyed.

_Maybe the slut cared about Dad a little after all,_ Patricia reflected acidly.

She'd yet to confront her own, often toxic, emotions about her father, preferring to project them onto Laila. But the widow's outburst had nudged even her stony heart.

Henry was less charitable. _Well, she sure knows how to play a crowd._

Laila turned away from the coffin. John Hogan left his seat and rejoined her. He and Debbie led her slowly back to a chair near the other family members.

Ilsa McIntyre and her friends of the Eldorado Explorers Club sat together in their empty row near the casket. The other mourners preferred giving them a wide berth.

"My, doesn't the corpse look good?" Pauline observed in a hushed voice. "They did a marvelous job with him."

Margaret dabbed a handkerchief to her eye, mindful of the theatrical effect. "The poor widow seems to have been hit very hard."

"Quite so," Pauline agreed. "She may not be long for this world." She roved sharp little eyes over the widow's stooped figure moving down the aisle from the casket. "I've seen it before, one goes, and right afterward, the other one. They simply can't live without each other."

"She's feeling guilty," Margaret hissed. "She probably never appreciated him enough."

Ilsa remained silent. She knew far better than the others how Laila Armstrong was feeling.

Laila sat in her chair, exhausted and relieved. A dull ache emanated from her knee, but the band of tension across her face and neck had relaxed. Debbie sat beside her, and John Hogan's comforting presence occupied the chair directly behind. Patricia, Henry, and the two boys hovered on the edge of her vision, though she tried not to notice them.

Where are the Musketelles?

She badly needed their support in the midst of the shark tank. Doleful organ music piped into to the room. Frank would have _really_ hated that.

## 51.Unwelcome Visitor

Bert Nagy tugged at his collar, attempting to get more air moving through his windpipe.

It had been quite a while since he'd worn a suit and tie, and his restricted body cried out in protest. He was hot and awkward as he led his family across the asphalt parking lot to the funeral home door. Melted tar snatched at his shoes.

Then they were inside the building. All was silence and air-conditioned chill, like in a meat locker.

"Wow, this is really cool!" Teddy exclaimed.

Bert cuffed him. "One more word out of you and – "

Sally gave Bert a sharp look and took the children in tow. "Come on, kids."

Bert trailed behind as they entered the viewing room with the "Frank Armstrong" placard outside the door.

Why the hell did I bring the family along?

Well, it was only proper that he bring Sally so as to pay their respects, wasn't it? The Armstrong contract had been a big part of their family income, and it was only fitting they both acknowledged that. Besides, he still suffered from an irrational fear that people might connect him with Frank Armstrong's death. He knew this was only the aftershock of a guilty conscience, but he still wanted Sally along for appearance sake.

The kids were having one of their frequent wars. No sitter would watch them. Left to their own devices, they might succeed in burning the house down this time. They'd "never seen a corpse," as Teddy put it, and were eager to come.

Sally took the kids to an empty row near the back and sat down with them. Bert walked on alone down the center aisle toward the coffin. A lugubrious expression hung on his face, as if he'd just lost his best friend. He nodded toward Laila as he passed her; she nodded back.

Bert stopped before the coffin to gaze at the corpse within. Frank Armstrong's expression was solemn and stern, death had not softened it. He looked ready to chew somebody out.

Had to ruin everything, didn't you, Mr. Big Shot? I should have run you over when I had the chance.

Bert looked about furtively to make sure nobody had guessed his thoughts. Of course they couldn't, but there was one old woman off to the left gazing steadily at him with a knowing expression on her face. Well, to hell with her!

He turned back toward Frank. More bitter thoughts arose from his store of resentment:

What's it to you if I made it to the Cayman Islands? You wouldn't be any more dead than you are now. And you could have gone out like a man, instead of crumpled on the floor like a busted piece of furniture.

His eyes widened, and he took a step back. Frank's expression seemed to shift into a malicious little smile, as if he was pleased with Bert's predicament.

I've gotta get out of here. I'm losing my mind!

Bert made an clumsy obeisance and turned away from the casket. In the back row, Ted and Judy were pushing at each other. Bert shot them an angry look as their mother attempted to separate them. Heads turned to observe the disgraceful episode; whispered comments followed Bert as he moved down the center aisle from the casket.

He approached Laila and sat in the vacant chair beside her.

"How good of you to come, Bert," Laila said, "and your lovely family, too."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Armstrong." Bert glanced around, then continued in a low voice. "We need to talk about... well, you know."

Laila looked toward a large, completely bald man sitting behind them. The man stood and placed a hand on Bert's shoulder.

"May I have a word with you outside, Mr. Nagy?" he asked with politeness covering a firm command.

Bert sized up the situation. The guy looked strong, but with a 15 or 20 year disadvantage. Bert could overpower him if push came to shove. Then a huge goon detached himself from the back wall and started moving toward him. It was the same bastard who'd turned him away from the Armstrong gate. The odds were hopeless.

"Uh, sure," Bert said.

He got up reluctantly, glancing at Mrs. Armstrong. She'd turned her face away, as if he no longer existed. He followed the bald man out of the room. Sally looked up as they passed, but Bert waved her off.

Out in the corridor, the man got down to business. "I'm John Hogan, Mrs. Armstrong's personal attorney. She's asked me to inform you that your services are no longer required."

"What?"

"Please, not so loud, Mr. Nagy. Let's conduct ourselves like gentlemen." Hogan removed a check from his jacket pocket and handed it to Bert. "This as your severance payment. It buys out your contract more than adequately."

Bert looked at the check with disbelief. Sure, it was a nice chunk of change, if all you were talking about was landscape work – but nothing like the amount he deserved. A bitter sense of injustice rose in his throat like the aftershock of a cheap whiskey.

"We'll see about that!" he blustered.

"Please be reasonable," Hogan said.

Bert waved the check under Hogan's nose. "This is reasonable?"

The lawyer sighed and glanced toward the viewing room door. Bert knew what that glance meant. Hogan was considering a summons to the goon.

Well, bring him on! If they want a scene, they can have one.

Hogan turned his gaze back toward Bert and tried a different approach. "You should be aware that we know of certain tax irregularities in which you are involved, Mr. Nagy."

Bert flinched. He felt suddenly tiny and vulnerable. _How much does this guy know – who told him?_

He recalled Sally's threat as she'd lain on their bed staring vindictively at the ceiling. And what about the illegal immigrants – did somebody get to them?

Hogan smiled. "We've kept this information confidential until now. There's no need for the authorities to find out, is there?"

"Alright, I get it – Mr. Big Shot. Is it okay if I get my family, or is your man in there planning to shoot me first?"

"Of course, Mr. Nagy. And thank you for coming to pay your respects."

"Right."

Bert spun on his heel and stalked furiously back to the viewing room, brushing past Hogan as he did so. Hogan flicked off his sleeve and straightened his jacket.

"Peasant," he sniffed.

He returned to the viewing room to monitor the departure of the Nagy clan.

## 52.Departures and Arrivals

Bert hustled his family across the parking lot toward their battered old SUV. He'd parked in the nether regions so as to avoid rubbing elbows with the upscale mourners' vehicles.

"Why do we have to leave so soon?" Teddy protested.

"Yeah," Judy said, "I didn't even get a good look at the body."

"Shut up, everyone!" Bert snarled.

He shoved the kids into the back and flung himself into the driver's seat. Sally entered the front passenger side.

"Thanks for opening the door for me."

Bert shot her a venomous glance. He noted with dismay that he and Sally were so wide they completely filled the front of the vehicle. He twisted the ignition key hard enough to almost snap it, wrenched into gear, and roared across the lot toward the exit drive.

"Slow down!" Sally cried.

Bert withdrew his foot slightly from the gas pedal. Sally turned back toward the kids. "Get your seat belts on."

"Why? You're not wearing one," Teddy said.

Bert stopped abruptly, pitching everyone forward in their seats. He glowered back at the kids.

"Do what your mother says!"

The kids sullenly obeyed, buckling the seatbelts and muttering about the injustice under their breath. Bert started driving again, more slowly. He passed an elderly couple moving with great effort toward the funeral home door. The man was using a walker, while the woman assisted him.

"There's not much reason for those two to go back home, is there?" Bert said. "They should just find some coffins and lie down."

The kids laughed maliciously.

Sally gave them a sharp look, then turned back to her husband. "What's gotten into you, Bert?"

"Why, nothing at all. What could possibly be wrong on such a wonderful day?"

He was at the exit now, commencing a right turn.

"We're hungry!" Ted cried.

"Yeah, we want burgers," Judy said.

"Okay, fine!" Bert abruptly switched to a left turn.

"Look out!" Sally shrieked.

A car swerved, horn blasting, narrowly missing them. Someone yelled obscenities out the passenger window.

"Same to you, mister!" Bert yelled back.

"Wheee!" Judy cried. "Way to go, Dad!"

Bert drove off toward the fast food joint.

$ $ $

The Musketelles arrived at the correct funeral home, having first stopped at the wrong one. The other place was a subsidiary of the ski lodge establishment – a sort of bargain basement alternative for the less affluent on their way to eternity. Sharese, as designated driver-navigator, tried to cover her mistake with a joke.

"Guess I was _dead_ wrong about that, huh?"

Candy and Nichole responded with blank, unamused expressions.

The three entered the viewing room like a burst of sunshine invading a catacomb. Heads swiveled their direction, including those of the Eldorado crones. Laila waited eagerly for her friends to approach, but they only hovered near the back.

_What's the matter?_ she wondered.

Then she caught sight of Henry and Patricia farther down the row from her. Both seemed highly agitated. For some reason, they didn't want to be around the Musketelles. Well, that was fine.

Laila spoke into Debbie's ear. "Come meet my friends."

They stood and walked toward the door. Laila dearly wanted to keep moving, just grab onto the Musketelles and get out of this death house. Instead, she embraced her friends and introduced them to Debbie. They seemed reticent, covering their unease with solemn reserve.

All five women sat together in the back row abandoned by the Nagy crew. The Musketelles consoled Laila as only the best of old friends could, and Laila drew comfort from their familiar presence – Sharese's blonde hair which always looked so perfect, the perfume Nichole wore, Candy's warm smile.

The Musketelles made individual pilgrimages to the casket, and each returned with tears in her eyes.

"You've all meant so much to me over the years," Laila said when they were together again.

Her friends dabbed at their eyes with hankies and nodded. "You too, Laila."

"My whole life would have been different without you," Laila said. "None of this would have happened."

"Oh, Laila," Sharese said. "I was always so envious of you. I feel ashamed."

"Quit talking nonsense," Laila said. "You've been a wonderful friend. You were there for me when I was down and out, and you're still here for me now."

Sharese responded with a melancholy little smile.

"I want us to keep being friends," Nichole said.

"Me, too," Candy added.

"Of course," Laila said.

She basked in the warm glow emanating from her friends. Everyone was silent now, each entertaining her own private thoughts.

Laila looked out at the backs of men's heads, most of them bald or gray haired. She sensed the ill temper of their owners, their calculating self interest in 'paying respects' today. The room was populated by disagreeable types – business sharks and their drowsy wives with just-finished-at-the-beauty-shop hair, curled and sprayed into submission – the Armstrong clique, and the three peculiar old ladies huddled off by themselves.

She doubted anyone here, except John Hogan, had been a real friend to her husband. How sad it was. After a lifetime of struggle and success, all Frank had to send him off was this pack of hyenas. His brothers had not bothered to come, and he had no other family except his children and grandsons. How did Henry and Patricia really feel about their father?

I don't care how they feel!

Laila was finished with the Armstrong clan. Debbie was the only member she wished to maintain contact with, and she didn't seem like an Armstrong at all. Besides, Laila suspected Debbie was planning an exit from that crew. Good. She'd be there to help with the transition – financially and emotionally. Debbie was a true friend, and Laila was now in a position to benefit her friends.

She suddenly realized that, except for Henry's brats, she was the youngest person in the room.

What am I doing in this death chamber?

"I need to get away," she said. "This is too much for me."

"Let's all go," Sharese said.

The five women stood and walked toward the door. Before going out, Laila paused for a final backward look at Frank – just as he'd gazed at her from the door of Musketeers restaurant so long ago.

Farewell, my love.

A psychic cord which had connected her to that strange and compelling man snapped. The women exited together, Lonnie following behind.

John Hogan looked back from his chair curiously, as did the members of the Eldorado Explorers Club.

"She's acting very brave," Ilsa said.

"I wonder if we'll ever see her again?" Margaret said.

Pauline nodded. "I'd suspect there's a strong possibility of that."

## 53.Escape from the Clan

Out in the vast, half-filled parking lot, Laila, Debbie, and Lonnie watched the Musketelles drive away in Sharese's car.

Laila drew in a deep breath and let it out. Already she was feeling more vigorous, now that she was out of the suffocating funeral home miasma.

"They certainly are a nice group of friends," Debbie said.

"Yes they are," Laila agreed. "I hope to be seeing a lot more of them, now that I'm alone."

She paused to consider the importance of that last word – _Alone_. It sounded so final, so... exciting.

$ $ $

Inside Sharese's car, the Musketelles breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Thank God, that's over!" Nichole said.

"Amen to that," Sharese said.

She adjusted her position behind the wheel, shrugging off the day's tensions. "You know, I'm feeling a lot better about Laila now. I think she's going to pull through okay."

"Me too," Candy agreed, "but I thought I was going to drop dead myself when I found out who Debbie was."

"Imagine, she's Henry's wife," Nichole said. "How did he ever land somebody nice like her?"

"It was an awkward situation," Sharese said. "We're finished with Henry, though, aren't we?"

"Amen to that!" Nichole and Candy said.

"Ah, to be young is to be stupid," Sharese mused.

They remained silent, mourning the end of their relationship with Henry. It didn't take long.

"So, what did you think of the bodyguard, Lonnie?" Sharese asked.

"What a hunk!" Candy said.

"There might be some possibilities with him, if you girls are interested."

"Tell us more!"

$ $ $

The trio arrived at Laila's car parked under the shade on the edge of the asphalt lot.

"Thank you very much, Lonnie," said Laila. "I'd prefer to take it from here by myself."

"Ma'am?"

"Take a break," Laila said. "Go back inside."

"Mr. Hogan wouldn't like that."

"Mr. Hogan isn't paying your salary, I am. And I don't need your services right at the moment."

Lonnie looked down from his towering height, eyes wide. He seemed comically astonished, and Laila was tempted to rescind her order.

No. From this day forward, she would be the _only_ one calling the shots in her life. No man would ever overrule her wishes again.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to sound abrupt." She placed a hand on Lonnie's iron forearm. "But I'll be fine. Go on inside and take a break. Mr. Hogan can drop you back at my house later."

She almost added Frank's pet phrase "put it on my bill," but she held it back.

"All right, Mrs. Armstrong."

"Thank you. I'll see you later, then."

Lonnie walked reluctantly away, glancing at her a couple of times as if he expected to be called back.

"Does this apply to me, too?" Debbie asked.

Laila smiled and nodded. "Please don't worry about me."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. I just need some alone time – you know how I am."

"Well..."

Laila patted Debbie's arm. "It's so nice to have a concerned daughter-in-law like you."

Debbie smiled. She was almost a year older than her mother-in-law.

"All right." She embraced Laila. "Drive careful. Can I look in on you later?"

"Please do. Maybe I'll get you to drink a glass of wine."

"I might take you up on that."

Debbie walked off toward the funeral home. Near the door, she paused for a final glance back. Laila was a small figure standing beside her car – she looked vulnerable and yet strong at the same time. Debbie waved, and Laila returned it.

_She got out of this damned family, anyhow,_ Debbie thought. _Good for her!_

## 54.Family Dining

Bert rolled up to the speaker unit to place the order. Ted and Judy were fighting so loudly in the back seat he feared he wouldn't be heard over the mayhem. He turned toward his children.

"Cut that out!"

"He started it!" Judy cried.

"I did not!"

Sally turned back toward them and snarled. "Shut up, both of you!"

The kids shut up, surprised at her rage.

Bert's odd behavior at the funeral home had put Sally in a foul, insecure mood. _What was going on back there? You don't suppose he's having an affair with that Armstrong woman?_

A possessive jealousy toward Bert flamed in her heart. He was still quite a man, despite his weight problem, and these rich women had all kinds of lustful desires. Screwing another woman's husband came as easy to them as rolling off a log.

She glanced down at her own ample girth, then up at her reflection in the visor mirror. She was still young, why did she look so damned old?

What's happened to us?

Was there a way back from the joyless dead end their lives had become? Could she help to improve things, stop being such a nag all the time?

She had to make the effort! Starting today, as soon as they got home and shook off the chill of that ghastly funeral parlor, she would initiate change. They both needed to get their lives back on track, rediscover love and mutual respect.

For the first time, she could see the world from Bert's viewpoint, could understand his desire to be independent, to run his own company free from the tyranny of a regular job . . .

A tinny voice mumbled over the loudspeaker: "May I take your order?"

"Uh, yeah," Bert said. "We'll have a number 3, a number 4, and two number 6's. All of them super-sized."

"And to drink?" the speaker inquired.

"Cokes."

"We carry only Pepsi products."

"I don't like Pepsi!" Judy shouted.

Bert looked back toward her. "Do you think they care? _They_ decide what you like."

"That sucks," Judy said.

"Welcome to the real world, kid," Bert said. "The whole damn place sucks."

"Please don't use that kind of language," Sally admonished.

Her tone was softer, less blaming, but Bert didn't notice. He returned to the speaker.

"Okay, whatever. We'll take Pepsis, then."

"Thank you," the speaker said. "Please pull around to the second window."

Bert crept ahead, humiliated by the exchange. He couldn't even stand up to a hamburger joint speaker today. As he drove past the first window, the woman taking orders glanced his direction. She was large and tough-looking with tattoos covering her arms.

"Everybody's got an attitude these days," Bert grumbled.

Judy shouted out the window at the order taker: "I still don't like Pepsi!"

Bert stopped at the second window. Directly ahead, a young man dressed in a tight, colorful bicycling outfit exited the restaurant carrying a drink.

"Get a load of that guy," Bert said. "He looks like a real fag."

The kids giggled. "Yeah!"

Bert leaned out the window and addressed the cyclist. "Does your mommy know where you're at?"

"Bert... please," Sally said.

The cyclist glanced at the SUV driver, then looked away. This had been quite a week. First that lady downtown nearly running him over, and now this jerk giving him a hard time. He hopped on his racing style bike and pedaled off.

## 55.The Circle Completed

After watching Debbie vanish into the funeral home, Laila turned away from the awful building, hoping to block it from her consciousness forever.

She breathed a heavy sigh. "Frank is truly gone... after all these years."

She could still hardly believe what happened, but it was a truth that became more acceptable by the moment. And she'd gotten rid of the whole Armstrong family, too. Any future contact with her step children would be handled by John Hogan. She'd instructed him to settle quickly with those two and get them gone.

Bert Nagy was out of her life, as well. She'd considered paying him more in his 'severance package,' but decided that doing so could arouse suspicion. Besides, it would be admitting to herself that she'd initiated a murder plot. This was not in keeping with the mythology she was spinning around her last days with Frank Armstrong.

In her mind, the myth was far more important than the unvarnished truth. She must keep up appearances at all costs. When true love came into her life, not too far down the road, she needed to have a clean slate.

Of course, there was the off chance Bert might suddenly appear to confront her. She felt the reassuring weight of the 9mm in her handbag. Any discussion with that gentleman would quickly end in her favor. The pistol was yet another legacy from her loving husband, she believed.

Laila scanned the vast parking lot. Nobody else around – just empty vehicles amid the chirp of birds and the caress of a gentle breeze on her cheek. The haggard, stricken look which had been oppressing her visage departed. Radiant happiness took its place.

Joy rushed toward her from out of the perfect day. Laila opened her arms wide to receive it. She threw back her head and announced to the world:

"Yippee!"

She gripped her cane by the midsection and hoisted it above her shoulder like a javelin.

"That old guy was wearing me out!"

She hurled the cane with all her strength. It sailed away, an airborne scapegoat taking all of her misery with it. She turned back to her car, paying no attention as to where the missile might land.

The young man riding his bike on the sidewalk sipping a Pepsi had no such option. With perverse accuracy, the cane struck him in the head. He tumbled off his bike and lay sprawling in the funeral home driveway. He did not cry out.

Laila didn't notice anything, as she was too busy with her escape. She yanked open the door and hopped into her car. Her movements were smooth and youthful; she was no longer the debilitated person she'd been in the funeral home. She twisted the ignition key with authority. The big engine roared.

"Adios, everybody!"

She pulled out of the parking space, leaving her previous life behind on the oil-stained asphalt. A whole new world was opening up now. A wicked, lustful side of her personality barged to the fore. Laila hadn't known it existed, but now she reveled in it.

"Las Vegas first. If the high roller dudes are half as good as I've heard, it'll be quite a trip."

Driving fast and reckless, she hurtled across the parking lot and did a victory lap around the funeral home.

"Then on to the Caribbean for some tropical action!"

The future beckoned seductively. True love was her ultimate goal, but that would come later – after she'd indulged a lifetime of pent-up desires. And Sharese Lee was just the person to accompany her on a swath of conquest around the globe.

Workers were hauling a body into the side door of the funeral home. They dodged out of the way as she roared past them.

"Sorry, guys!"

Lonnie gestured to John Hogan. Blackjack left his chair and joined him at the viewing room door.

"Where's Mrs. Armstrong?" Hogan asked.

"She sent me away. Said she wanted to drive herself."

"Hmm." Blackjack stroked his chin. "That's not good."

"I tried to tell her that."

"Let's go," Blackjack said.

The two men hurried down the hallway toward the main door. Debbie Armstrong caught sight of them and followed in their wake.

Laila drove past the funeral home front entrance toward the exit driveway where the cyclist was lying. She didn't notice him there. Her mind was occupied with more immediate concerns.

Burn this outfit ... a stiff drink ... put the house up for sale ...

The cyclist crawled far enough away to avoid getting hit. Laila was too distracted to see the bike until her front tire crunched over a wheel.

"Oh, wow!"

She stopped and lowered her window. The injured man looked up at her from the pavement.

"Be careful," she cautioned. "Don't you know riding a bike can be dangerous?"

"@#$!!," the cyclist replied.

Laila closed the window. "My, such language. And he was kind of cute, too."

In her rear view mirror, she saw Lonnie, Hogan, and Debbie exiting the funeral home door. Let them deal with this ill-mannered young man.

"So long, folks!" She roared down the driveway toward the street. "Look out world, here I come!"

$ $ $

Bert fumbled with his bag of fast food as he manhandled the SUV through traffic. He ran a yellow light just as it was turning red.

"Watch it!" Sally cried.

Bert grinned maliciously, pleased that he had brought more upset into Sally's life.

"It took them long enough to get our order ready," he said.

"My burger's cold!" Judy complained.

Sally riffled through a bag and held up a little cardboard package of fries. "This is definitely _not_ a super sized container."

Bert held up another package of fries. "Mine's the same way. If this is a super sized container, I'll eat this Pepsi cup!"

He snatched his Pepsi from the cup holder and held it dramatically. For a moment, the car had to steer itself. The kids giggled and elbowed each other.

"Let's take all this stuff back," Sally said.

She immediately regretted her remark. Why make things worse than they already were? But her husband had made up his mind.

"Damn right!" he said. "I'll tell them what's what."

Bert relished the thought of laying down the law to the restaurant staff. How dare they shortchange the French fry order! He'd stick it to the manager, too. The fast food workers would have to stand in for all the people he was unable to strike back at – Laila Armstrong, Hogan, that bodyguard goon, the IRS. The funeral home was coming up on his right.

By God I'll never go into that place again!

He looked over his shoulder to check traffic, momentarily taking his attention from the road ahead. He began swerving into the left lane.

"Get me a Coke this time!" Judy shouted.

Laila Armstrong's car abruptly pulled out in front of them from the funeral home driveway.

"Bert!" Sally screamed.

He jerked his head back around, his eyes went wide with fear. They locked with Laila Armstrong's in an instant of dreadful clarity. Bert slammed on the brakes, his Pepsi and fries spilling out. A terrified chorus filled both vehicles.

" **AHHHH!"**

At the funeral home door, Hogan, Lonnie, and Debbie gaped with horror as the vehicles collided. From his place lying on the asphalt, the cyclist observed the spectacular event. Shattered glass sprayed over him, and a French fry container tumbled in the wind.

# Ten: Aftermath

_And so she departed this world of pain, clutching her Beloved to her breast. –_ _The Lawn of Death_ _, by Carlita Blade_

## 56.Grim Encore

The cyclist limped to the open casket, maneuvering with the identical cane which had knocked him off his bicycle.

His fractured shin ached inside its walking cast, and his bandaged skull testified to the injury it had received. The bruises on his face did little to improve his appearance. He gazed at the body lying in the coffin.

Such a beautiful woman. How tragic.

Pity stabbed at his heart. Another stab of pain in his leg reminded him of the suffering she'd inflicted with her thoughtless arrogance, and a tiny smile crept onto his face.

The chairs behind him were filled with the same crowd as was at Frank Armstrong's visitation – everyone in the same seats, wearing identical outfits and long expressions. The same shifty eyes calculated the new order of the Armstrong business empire.

Blackjack Hogan had also come, along with the deceased's former bodyguard, Lonnie. Both of them struggled with guilt for this horrible turn of events.

Henry Armstrong stood near the back of the viewing room surveying things. The atmosphere was like a bad dream, or maybe Act 2 of a poorly written play.

What a damned waste of money this whole thing is!

It was also good PR, so better just grin and bear it. He didn't want to come across like a cheap prick as he entered the battle for control of his father's business empire. So, he was showing respect to Dad's beloved.

Stepping into his father's shoes wasn't going to be easy. He knew Blackjack Hogan and others were out to get him. Right this minute, Hogan was sitting near the front with those three bimbos, wearing a long face. But soon he'd rally the forces against Henry. Then there was the formidable Patricia to consider.

Well, best to get the personal injury and wrongful death lawsuits out of the way first. Reduce the distractions. Henry was convinced he could settle them fairly cheap.

Patricia Armstrong sat by herself among the many official 'mourners,' pondering her own strategy. It wouldn't be easy to come out on top. Henry and his pals could be much tougher than she'd thought. The smart move was to make an opening to John Hogan, enlist his aid for a takeover.

Why wouldn't he agree to that? It would be extremely beneficial for him, and he'd end up with minority interests in several lucrative enterprises. But when she'd tried to approach the man, he bit her head off.

She almost envied Laila reposing in her casket, all put back together and looking beautiful. The reconstruction work had cost a fortune. Laila would never have to worry about getting old or suffering the indignity of men turning their eyes to other, more alluring sights.

What a morbid thought!

Patricia needed a new girlfriend to help her get through this trying period. She glanced toward Sharese and smiled. There was something to be said for one night stands, too.

Near the front of the parlor, left of the aisle, the three members of the Eldorado Explorers Club occupied the same chairs as they had when Frank Armstrong was the star attraction.

"My, doesn't she look good?" Margaret whispered. "They did a marvelous job, considering what she's been through."

She dabbed a handkerchief to her eye, conscious that people might be watching her.

"Didn't I say this would happen?" Pauline said.

"How right you were. They simply couldn't live without each other."

Ilsa McIntyre did not join the conversation. She wasn't even there, actually. In her place, Carlita Blade contemplated revisions for _The Lawn of Death_. Recent events had invalidated the earlier ending, and a new one was taking shape in her mind:

The ambulance crashes on the way to the hospital. The heroine flings herself over Gaston to protect him, but she is killed in the process.

He survives and establishes a love connection with the ambulance driver who, though injured herself, drags him to safety and gets him to the poison control center on time. They plan to marry as soon as they are recovered.

"I fell in love the moment I saw you pull up in your ambulance," Gaston said, "but I was in no position to tell you, being poisoned and all..."

His voice trailed off as he sadly recalled his former love who gave her life so that he might live.

"So did I," the driver answered. "When I saw them put you on that stretcher, I thought: 'some day he'll be lying in my bed.'"

He drew her close. They shared a passionate kiss. Then Gaston's eyes looked beyond her, out toward the future, focusing on their many happy years of togetherness.

Maybe his life wouldn't be as prosperous as he'd once hoped, but there would always be true love within it.

_There!_ Carlita thought triumphantly. _This ought to get my fans reaching for their handkerchiefs... and their vibrators._

Across the aisle, Sharese, Candy, and Nichole shared their grief.

"So, this really is the last meeting of the Four Musketelles," Sharese said.

The others nodded, wiping tears from their eyes with hankies.

"Who'd have thought it would end like this?" Candy said.

"Poor Laila," Nichole said. "It seems like only yesterday when we first met her, when we all took each other in."

Henry approached the cyclist at the casket and took his arm. He spoke in a low, confidential voice.

"I'm Henry Armstrong, attorney for the estate of the deceased."

This wasn't really the case, but Henry didn't want Blackjack Hogan involved any more than necessary with the civil litigants. For his part, Hogan seemed willing to let Henry tie up these loose ends and had granted him authority to negotiate – subject to Blackjack's final approval, of course.

The cyclist looked at Henry suspiciously.

"Concerning your personal injury claim..." Henry said.

"What about it?"

"I'm certain we can reach an amicable settlement out of court."

"Oh?"

"I'm an old bike racer myself, you know," Henry said, another lie. "I'll see you get a fair shake."

He led the cyclist smoothly away from the casket. His manner was cordial, almost avuncular, as he assisted the cyclist limping along on his cane. They conferred in low voices.

The Musketelles observed the episode with disapproval.

"We definitely need to find a new playmate," Sharese said.

The others nodded.

"What about Lonnie?" Candy asked.

"Still working on it," Sharese said.

"Mr. Hogan isn't bad," Nichole said, "for an older guy."

Sharese glanced at Hogan. "He sure looks like he could use a good screw."

## 57.Across Town

Later that day, on the other side of town at the affiliated funeral home, attendants wheeled two enormous coffins into a viewing parlor. The coffins held the remains of Bert and Sally Nagy. The corpses were so badly mangled the viewing would be a closed-casket affair.

Ted and Judy entered next, carrying flowers. They were uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. Their Uncle Archie and Aunt Molly followed them with long, stricken faces.

"I'm so glad you've agreed to take in my sister's children," Molly said. "I know they can be a handful sometimes."

"Of course," Archie said. "I wouldn't have it any other way. They're family, after all."

"You're so understanding."

Molly's grief and Archie's misgivings were eased by thoughts of a big insurance payoff and the potential proceeds from their lawsuit. Any reasonable juror would agree Laila Armstrong had caused the crash, right?

The inconvenient fact that Bert had been speeding and not wearing a seat belt tended to work against them, though. Also, the ancient airbags had malfunctioned, allowing Bert and Sally to encounter the windshield.

What a mess that had been!

Bert's last second acceleration and lane change was another cause for concern. If he'd stayed to the far right and maintained speed, he might have missed Laila's car altogether, or merely clipped the back end. An impartial observer might almost say he'd intended to hit her.

Still, it was only fair their anguish at the loss should be well compensated. They were taking in the orphans, weren't they? It took money to raise kids.

Another sour note was the massive cut the lawyer would be taking from any jury award. Archie entertained dark suspicions that things might not go too well with a lawsuit.

Maybe we'll have to unload those kids, after all.

Henry Armstrong maneuvered himself smoothly into the room, approaching Archie and Molly with utmost discretion.

"Please allow me to offer my condolences for your loss," he said.

"Thank you," Molly said.

Archie nodded. _Who's this jerk?_

"I'm Henry Armstrong, attorney for the Armstrong estate."

Archie brightened and shook Henry's hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Armstrong."

Henry offered a faint smile – just enough to suit the occasion. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to discuss a settlement of your claim – as soon you feel up to it, that is."

"Sure pal," Archie said eagerly. "I mean, my wife is very upset, but perhaps – "

"I think we should discuss this right away," Molly interrupted, "for the sake of the children, you know."

Henry nodded sympathetically. "Of course."

The adults moved to the side conferring in low voices, forgetting about Ted and Judy for the moment. The kids approached the big coffins on their own.

"Boom, just like that, Mom and Dad are gone," Teddy said. "I can't believe it."

"Me, neither," Judy said. "I wish we'd been nicer to them... sometimes."

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, offered one to Ted who blew his nose in it.

"Thanks, Sis."

"Well..." Judy sighed as she took in the impressive dimensions of the caskets. "At least they finally got their super-sized containers."

## Epilog: Blackjack's Office

John Hogan sat brooding behind his desk, sipping a cup of Belizean coffee. The rich flavor of the Gallon Jug Estate brew provided the only positive note in his bleak day.

Recent events had left him despondent and hollowed out – especially the death of Laila Armstrong. The horrific crash he'd witnessed was the stuff of life-long nightmares.

Dammit, I should have protected her!

What could he have done, though? He couldn't force her to take his advice. Still... He massaged his eyeballs with weary finger tips.

Admit it, you were in love with her.

Yes, maybe a little – a lot, actually. He'd even dared hope he might have a chance with her, despite the age difference. Hell, he was a year younger than Frank, wasn't he?

That was all over now. His dreary bachelor's existence would have to continue. Look at the bright side – he had plenty of money, just no one to spend it on.

A gnawing sense of injustice tormented him. It wasn't right that Patricia and Henry Armstrong would be cashing in on their father's wealth. Frank Armstrong had been a man of strong character who'd earned his place in the world, while those two were undeserving. And they'd both been enemies of Laila. He could never forgive them for that.

Imagine, Laila's worthless father had come out of the woodwork to demand a piece of the pie! Henry Armstrong could handle the creep. Hogan was washing his hands as far as the personal estate was concerned.

The business empire was another matter. Various factions were vying for power and soliciting his aid. So, which of the various sharks should he swim with? Only one answer made any sense:

It's time to retire. I'm getting too old for this.

He took another sip of coffee. Frank Armstrong had turned him on to this brand, presenting a souvenir bag from the fishing trip he'd taken to Belize. When the bag ran out, Hogan booked a vacation to Belize to purchase more and check out the country for himself.

While there, he'd bought a huge lot on Corozal Bay for a retirement home. He glanced longingly at the photo of his property on the wall. It was time to get down there and begin construction.

His secretary stuck her head in the door. "Mrs. McIntyre is here to see you."

"Please send her in."

Ilsa assumed her Carlita Blade persona as she walked across the reception area into John Hogan's office. A passage from the, as yet untitled, sequel to _The Lawn of Death_ played through her mind:

She entered the prosecuting attorney's office, her head proudly erect, wondering if he would also be erect upon seeing her again after all this time.

Everything seemed just the same – the thin blue carpet, the pictures and law degrees on the walls ...

"Good to see you again, Ilsa," Hogan said, getting to his feet.

She grasped the offered hand. "The pleasure is all mine."

"Please sit down," Hogan said. "Would you like some coffee... no, tea, right? With a touch of sugar."

"Ah, you remembered," Ilsa said. "Yes, tea would be fine, thank you."

Ilsa made herself comfortable in the visitor's chair. She'd always felt comfortable here.

John Hogan had been her attorney during the awful period after Alfred's death. He'd protected her financial interests and made sure she got everything she was entitled to from her late husband's estate. He'd also recommended the criminal lawyer who had defended her so ably during the murder trial.

Yes, he was a good man. She should have retained him over the years, but she'd wanted to start a new life after the trial and had abandoned her old friends and associates.

_She looks as tough and bitter as ever,_ Hogan thought.

Still, he rather liked her. Maybe it was because he'd been acquainted with her late husband and knew what a complete bastard the guy was. He also knew that Alfred McIntyre was under investigation for statutory rape when he hanged himself.

Hogan had always believed this was the motivation for the suicide, but the thought that Ilsa may have bumped him off was intriguing. Who could say? In any event, criminal law was not his bailiwick.

A tray arrived with a little pot of hot tea, sugar and a dainty china cup.

"This looks familiar," Ilsa said, hefting the cup.

"It was quite a surprise seeing you at the funeral home last week," Hogan said.

"Yes, the poor dear. Mrs. Armstrong was a protégé of mine, in a manner of speaking."

"Oh?"

Ilsa let Mr. Hogan's surprise hang in the air a few seconds while she poured tea and added sugar. "Actually, it's her that I came to see you about."

Hogan sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his chest. His eyes narrowed to little slits. "What is your interest in Laila Armstrong?"

"As I said, I regarded her as something of a protégé, even if I didn't really know her." Ilsa blew gently across the surface of the hot tea. "I'm certain you know what I'm referring to."

What was she referring to, Hogan wondered – was she implying Laila had plotted to get rid of Frank, somehow? Had Ilsa really knocked off her own husband?

Ilsa followed Hogan's gaze toward the pictures on the wall. They were of tropical areas with palm trees and sparkling ocean. One photo in particular caught her eye – a large cleared space on the ocean front, right beside a canal. A mansion stood some distance away on the other side of the canal, and farther down the coast, another big house was under construction.

Mr. Hogan is planning to leave us soon. We must do something about that.

"I hate to see injustice prevail," she said. "And, like you, I can't stand those two Armstrong kids."

Hogan did not reply.

"As you know, my late husband and Frank Armstrong were business associates," Ilsa continued. "Because of that, I've learned a few things nobody else knows about."

Hogan dropped his hands to his desk top.

"I've also discovered a few interesting facts more recently – through independent means," Ilsa continued. "Taken together, these things could influence the future of the Armstrong business interests."

"Like what?" Hogan asked.

Ilsa sipped the tea. "Ah, just the way I like it."

She decided to withhold her information a while longer. In the meantime, she would play her trump card.

"Please forgive me, Mr. Hogan, I can be such a bore about these things. But I just have to tell somebody." Ilsa put down her tea cup and riffled through her purse. "As you know, I don't have children myself, but my niece and her children have always been special to me."

She withdrew a photo and handed it to Blackjack. It showed three stunningly attractive people standing together: a beautiful, dark-haired woman; a handsome, athletic-looking teenaged boy; and a girl of around ten. The boy was holding a certificate and grinning.

"That's Jason." Ilsa indicated the boy. "He's just been inducted into the National Honor Society. The girl is Hailey, she's smart as a whip, too. And that's their mom with them."

"Very nice," Hogan said. "So, what's their mother's name?"

"Michelle." Ilsa paused for effect. "Imagine, only 36 and a widow."

"Oh?"

"Yes, her husband died suddenly last year – of natural causes."

Ilsa watched carefully for Hogan's reaction, saw an unmistakable flash of interest.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said.

"Yes, it was quite a blow, but she's moving on from it now. Some lucky man is going to snap her up before long, I think."

The insinuation lingered in the air. Hogan reluctantly handed back the photo, and Ilsa returned it to her purse.

"Would you like to hear more about what I've discovered?" she asked.

Hogan glanced toward the wall with the photo of his Belizean property. The mansion he'd been visualizing on the water faded, then disappeared.

"Yes, I would."

He leaned forward in his chair, listening intently while Ilsa spoke.

THE END

Thanks for reading! You must have liked the story if you got this far, so why not write a review? Just a few words, either at the online bookstore where you obtained this book or in any other medium you wish. May numerous blessings come your way.

# Postscript

It was fun borrowing bits and pieces from various literary works for this manuscript. I am pleased to list them here:

_A Christmas Carol_ , Charles Dickens

_Gone with the Wind_ , Margaret Mitchell

_Heart of Darkness_ , Joseph Conrad

_The Tragedy of Macbeth_ , William Shakespeare

_The Quandt Street Assassin_ , Carlita Blade

_Story of an Hour_ , Kate Chopin

# Connect with the Author

I hope you enjoyed the story.

Please visit my website and blog at: "The B2"

Also, my Smashwords author page and Goodreads author profile

# Brian's Other Books

Here are brief descriptions of my other adult books. They are available at all major online retailers in e-book format. To find the relevant links, please visit my website at "The B2"

Return to Mech City

Book one of the _Robot Horizon_ series

The end of the world as you've never seen it before. Life goes on in Mech City, but it is no longer human.

As mankind succumbs to its follies and exits the stage, scholar model robot, Winston Horvath, makes a perilous journey to Mech City where he was manufactured. He meets Star Power, the world's only functional female robot.

Things unravel when a Roboto Fascist dictatorship seizes power. Its leader has designs on Star. Winston flees with her to gather forces for a counter-coup and, perhaps, get himself upgraded so as to bring Star true satisfaction.

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Expedition Westward

Book two of the _Robot Horizon_ series

What is the cost of rediscovering true love in a shattered world? Whatever it might be, Star is willing to pay, or not survive the outcome. A trek along dangerous roads provides the answer. The dystopian adventure continues.

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Battle for Mech City

Book three of the _Robot Horizon_ series

Winston Horvath regains control of Mech City, but his success is soon threatened. Violent religious fanatics are approaching with a robotic army. A disgruntled Dr. Che is also coming to kidnap Star. Meanwhile, Star's out of control sexuality is causing difficulties with various robotic and human partners. The fun continues!

Science Fiction / Humor / Dystopian

Great Republic on Rye

When dissolute card sharp and ladies man, Eugene Walton, unexpectedly inherits a plantation, his life assumes new purpose. After freeing the slaves and narrowly escaping a lynch mob, Eugene moves into the wider world bearing a message of liberation.

Accompanied by dedicated friends and a shadowy former bondsman, he plans to found a "Great Republic" based upon the highest ideals. But things are not so simple in an unready world. Let no good deed go unpunished!

Adventure / Social-Political Satire / Dark Humor

Raptor Aces

The terrifying Zone of Destruction – ZOD, the absence of God. It has taken over the Raptor Aces, an elite Youth League air squadron.

Its leader, Dytran, is the cream of his totalitarian country. His world unravels when a poor decision goes horribly wrong, resulting in death and destruction. He grabs at a chance to volunteer for support aviation duty in the war. At the front, he and his comrades are swept up in violence and revenge until escape seems beyond reach.

New Adult / Action-Adventure / War

Strange Tales for Cozy Nights – 1

Nine offbeat tales to disturb your cozy nights. From strange voyages and baffling powers to dystopian athletic competitions and the in-laws from Hell, these stories are for you if you enjoy burning the midnight oil with a good yarn.

Horror-ish / Mystery / Whatever

DAS ROAD

A road novel with fascinating turns through exotic Asia, workaday America, and Iran caught up in revolution. Travel realms where anything is possible, wonderful, or horrible. And always on the road ahead, the mythical figure of Jon Glass who haunts the entire journey. A story imbued with meaning just below the level of articulating. A siren call to your wanderlust.

Travel / Mystery

Career Moves for Burnt Out Personifications

Santa, the Grim Reaper, and others scramble to find new careers and identities. Outrageous political and social satire. "A smorgasbord of paranoid ramblings ideally suited to today's sensibilities."

Humor / Political Satire
