Prepped to Kill (Ricky Steele Mysteries Book 1) Page 2

  “Ballsy and dangerous.”

  “I’ve survived divorce, breast cancer, and a bunch of other crap the past five years. I think I can handle this.”

  Vinnie’s gaze softened. My husband’s desertion predated our friendship, but he’d been through two mastectomies with me, bringing me hot soup and pasta, accompanying me on painfully slow walks, nary a flinch at the drains dangling below my sweatshirt like four turkey basters. “What if the suicide turns out to be murder?”

  “At Whitley School? No way.”

  “What? Murderers can’t get past the gates of Snotty High?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just, I looked up the incident online. The woman died in her car, in her garage. Of carbon monoxide poisoning. That’s classic suicide.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Be careful, Rick, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Al set a steaming plate of chorizo rolls in front of us and we dove into them, savoring every mouthful of spicy sausage, fat soaking through spongy rolls, the whole crusty mess a deep, warm orange.

  An hour later we strolled home, arm in arm, stuffed with greasy food and slightly buzzed after one too many drafts. If I were a wayward girl, I’d have invited Vinnie back to my place, but I value him too much as a friend. Besides, he’s not my type. Much too nice.

  CHAPTER 3

  Up early, I did my short yoga routine, skipped my morning walk and packed instead. By seven, I was sipping tea at my kitchen table, gazing out at the river wondering why I was so eager to return to adolescent hell. Five thousand dollars, that’s why.

  And it hadn’t all been hell. I had made three lifelong friends. After my call to Bunny, I phoned Katie Briarwood and Lolly Pruit, two of my three best friends at Whitley. Alice, the fourth musketeer, was in Thailand enjoying the sights while Daniel, her biologist husband, researched, or I would have called her as well. Without elaborating, I told them I had a sudden yearning to reune and didn’t want to do it without them. Since they both live less than an hour from the school, they agreed to come. Katie’s aunt lives in Westfield so she made arrangements to stay with her, and Lolly and I decided to share my room at the motel.

  Pouring out the dregs of my tea, I stooped to fuss and coo over Beaky until she scratched me, leaping out of reach. I shook my head, watching her retreat. There’d be hell to pay when I returned. I hoped the stress wouldn’t trigger another licking marathon. Last time I’d gone away, she’d nearly licked herself bald. I left a note for Vinnie on my kitchen counter and locked the door, waving to my neighbors on the other side. Maddie and Fulty were sitting on their front porch, wrapped in blankets, reading the morning papers. They are both in their eighties and stone deaf so I did not stop for conversation. I love to listen to Maddie and Fulty’s stories about the “old days” when they were both on stage, traveling and acting in regional theater. We have great neighborhood dinners together—Vinnie does the cooking, I’m in charge of cleanup and Maddie and Fulty supply the canapés and booze. Maddie and Fulty love three things in life—each other, cocktails and canapés.

  On the way out of town, I stopped at my local supermarket for some road snacks and bottled water. The market was practically deserted so I strolled unimpeded up and down the aisles, gathering my supplies. Trail mix, squirt cheese and Bugles—to make Bugle cones—peppermint patties, crackers, pretzels, and water. When I got to the check-out line, I realized I’d forgotten almonds, one of my main sources of protein along with the squirt cheese, so I parked my cart behind a man unloading his groceries and ran back to the baking aisle.

  When I returned thirty seconds later, my cart had been pushed aside and a pudgy, frizzle-haired woman had muscled in and was already unloading her groceries. Taking three deep abdominal breaths, I glared at her back to no effect. I was invisible. Since her cart was piled sky high, I had plenty of time to observe my new enemy as she filled the conveyor belt at a snail’s pace, behaving like this was her own private supermarket.

  She wore skin-tight, black, acid-washed jean shorts and a canary-yellow stretch top. Her fingers were encrusted with enough gold to pay my mortgage five times over. Long after the cashier hit the total button, she was still fishing around in her gargantuan Hermes bag for her checkbook, which she finally produced with a flourish. What did she think, we were waiting to give her a medal?

  She then proceeded to set the world’s record for slowness in writing out a check, only to discover that all that was required was her signature. Hadn’t she heard of debit cards? Where was her platinum credit card? I clenched my hands behind my back, thwarting the urge to grab the checkbook out of her meaty little paws and fill it out myself. Adding insult to injury, Mrs. Acidwash then proceeded to watch, belly up to the counter, while the clerk bagged every last item. What was she, crippled? One of my pet peeves is people who think they’re too good to bag groceries. Fortunately for her, I practice yoga and meditation.

  On the road at last, I popped open a bottle of water and munched on pretzels as I made my way toward the Mass. Pike. Fishing around in the back seat, I grabbed my book of CDs and pulled out Jimmy Buffett. As my Parrot Head serenade began, I thought back to my first drive through the Berkshires with Dad. The previous week, he had deposited my younger sister, Annie, at Fairlawn, and now it was my turn. Annie was twelve and Fairlawn had been the only school he could find that took boarders younger than fifteen. We had begged him to let us stay together, but our pleas fell on deaf ears. Miss Whitley’s was a better school for me and that was that.

  After we arrived in Westfield, Dad took me to dinner at White Horse Tavern, a historic inn downtown. Most students were due to arrive the following day. Except for a handful of foreign students and their parents, the restaurant and the school were deserted. Since Dad had business early the next morning, he dropped me on the front doorstep after supper with a quick peck on the cheek and the admonition to “behave and don’t cause nice Mrs. Petty any trouble.” Nice indeed. Talk about waving a red flag in front of a bull.

  As I turned off the Pike at the Westfield/Berkshires exit, I winced, recalling those early days at Miss Whitley’s. First there was Sissy, the roommate from hell, neurotic, bulimic and homesick. Then there was our housemother, Agnas Beagle, who was clearly demented. The dorm was a tinderbox with the kind of fire escapes that make burning to death look attractive, and my chest ached from missing Annie.

  Sissy arrived two days after me. I gasped at the sight of her short blond curls and overflowing makeup cases. Without a moment’s hesitation, I pushed my clothes aside to accommodate her vast wardrobe in the room’s one tiny closet. She didn’t like her bed. I gave her mine. Her dresser wasn’t big enough. I emptied two of my drawers. She wanted the desk by the window. I took the one by the door. I denied Sissy nothing until she took a fancy to my patchwork quilt, made by my mother the year before she died. I had already battled with my father and stepmother in order to be permitted to bring it with me. I was not about to give up my most prized possession, even to this worldly creature.

  My refusal to relinquish the quilt sparked the first of Sissy’s many tantrums. With red, polished claws, she grabbed at the quilt. Her mother stood by, silent as the Sphinx, appearing to be more frightened of Sissy than me. When this performance did not have the desired effect, Sissy retreated to her three quarters of the room and refused to speak to me. Sissy left Whitley after freshman year. As I drove through the outskirts of town, I wondered where life had taken the dear girl.

  I had no difficulty locating the Breeze Bye Motel, its huge neon sign a beacon to weary travelers in an ocean of strip malls. As I pulled into the circular drive, it was clear how the establishment had gotten its name. One glance and I yearned to “breeze by.” For those unfortunate enough to be “breezing in,” an oasis of Naugahyde and plastic flowers beckoned. As I passed by the sign proclaiming “no vacancy,” I wondered whether to feel fortunate or cursed that Bunny had gotten me in.

  Amanda Breeze (according to a brochure in the lobby, her name had been legally changed from Ortoni
to Breeze) was parked behind the desk, reading the latest issue of The Enquirer. I was momentarily diverted by the cover story about a cow that had given birth to an alien and was just getting to the good part, wondering how I’d get her to turn to page five, when Amanda looked up. “What can I do ya for? We’re full up, in case you missed the sign.”

  “I have a reservation.”

  “Well, then, you’re all set. Name?”

  “Steele, Ricky Steele. The reservation was made by—”

  “Yea, I remember, Mrs. Bunny Rabbit. Almost hung up on her. Thought it was a joke.”

  I nodded, forcing a grimace.

  She hefted her considerable bulk—three hundred pounds at least—off the stool and began processing my room card. “Got you in 101. A king-size bed.”

  “Uh-oh. I really need two beds.”

  “What, you gonna hop from one bed to the other in the middle of the night?”

  “No, I have a friend coming to stay for the weekend.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes, her name’s Lolly Pruit. She’ll be in late tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Well, I hope she’s a good friend ‘cause I don’t have a double room available. Miss Rabbit didn’t say nothin’ about a friend for the weekend and we’re booked solid for Reunion Weekend.”

  I smiled through clenched teeth. “Yes, I know. We’re going.”

  “Should’ve made your reservations sooner.”

  I began counting—one, two, three, four—determined not to lose my temper. “Would it be possible to check as people come in? See if anyone’s willing to switch?”

  “Not likely.”

  Four, five, six. “But could you try?”

  “Guess I could, if we don’t get too busy.”

  “Thank you.” I signed the slip, took my key and made my way out, breathing a sigh of relief as the door shut behind me. Civil and polite to the end. Good girl, Ricky.

  I threw my bag on the bed, then called Muriel Petty, who invited me to dinner. Six thirty. She gave me directions and rang off with, “Dinny and I are looking forward to seeing you, dear.”

  Dinny, at dinner? I wasn’t ready. I wouldn’t be ready if I spent a week at a spa and another at the beauty salon. Then I remembered that I had been a gangly, acne-covered eighteen-year-old last time he’d seen me, so his expectations wouldn’t be too high.

  CHAPTER 4

  Muriel Petty’s cottage looked to be a doll’s house replica of the Head’s House, the latter now home to the dashing Dinny. Ivy-covered brick glowed in the twilight; the white trim and green shutters appeared to be freshly painted. On either side of the front portico, snowy white clematis climbed delicate latticework. White deutzia and pale pink rhododendrons were in full bloom along the front walk.

  As I stepped from my car, the cottage’s side door swung open and a tall, lanky figure emerged. Dinny Petty. To my middle-aged eyes, he looked much the same. Forty years had, if anything, improved his craggy, good looks, his sharp, well-defined features now chiseled and etched. Brown hair, still thick, was now sprinkled with gray. He moved with the fluid grace of an athlete. Dressed in baggy khakis, a blue oxford shirt and beige wool vest, no tie or jacket, he looked every bit the academic he was.

  “Dorothy, hello.” He held my hand in a firm grip, eyes appraising every inch of me. “You’ve grown up.”

  “I hope so,” I sputtered. “And, please, it’s Ricky. No one calls me Dorothy, except your aunt.”

  “That’s right, I remember. In your school days, you took great exception to Dorothy, didn’t you?”

  I forced a smile. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Come in. Aunt awaits.” His hand touched the small of my back as he guided me toward the door. For an instant, my knees threatened to buckle. Get a grip, Steele, I told myself. You’re a professional, and you’re fifty-eight years old. I straightened my back, moving out of reach.

  After depositing my purse on the hall table, I followed him into the living room, where we found Muriel perched on a chair identical to one I remembered from her old office. Maybe the chair had retired with her? Her throne, we called it. From its depths, Muriel, as grand inquisitor, took pleasure in tormenting wayward girls.

  Dressed in mauve silk, she was still dainty and petite. Face saggier, hair a little thinner, but otherwise Muriel looked much as she had during my years at Whitley. The same dyed, copper-colored hair, lips tightly pursed, the bulbous nose powdered a blotchy, dusty pink. Clearly Muriel had found a look she liked and had stuck with it.

  I stepped forward, almost bowing as I stooped to shake her hand.

  “Dorothy, how nice to see you. Please sit.” She waved to a seat beside her. “You’re looking very well, my dear.”

  “She prefers to be called Ricky, Aunt.”

  “Of course, I remember. I always found that such a vulgar name for a schoolgirl.”

  I bit my tongue, smiling through gritted teeth. “Well, it’s been many decades since I was a schoolgirl.”

  “Of course it has. Dinny, get our Ricky a drink. What would you like, dear?”

  I requested red wine and he served me an excellent Chianti in a huge crystal goblet, pouring one for himself as well. Auntie appeared to be drinking straight Scotch.

  Dinny took his seat and waited for her to begin. After several minutes, he apparently decided Auntie was lost in la-la land. “Interesting career you’ve settled on.”

  “Yes.” I gulped my wine, marshaling my thoughts. On the drive up, I had decided to play the game, pretending to be the private investigator they thought I was. It was already too late to tell the truth. First there was the money. I needed it. Then there was my pride. What kind of an idiot drives two hours, checks into a sleazy motel and comes face-to-face with her old headmistress and says, “Tee-hee, by the way, that private eye business in your precious alumni news was all a joke” Not me, that’s who.

  “So, what kind of cases do you get?”

  I shrugged, hoping my body language screamed, Hey, I’m a pro. “All kinds of things. Mostly insurance claims, domestic surveillance. Routine kinds of stuff.” I was racking my brain, trying to dredge up some of V.I. Warshawski’s lingo, wishing like hell that I’d brought along the latest Sharon McCone mystery, lying at this very moment on my bedside table. No telling what tips I could pick up now that I needed them.

  “Oh, you mean spying on cheating spouses?” For an instant his eyes flashed fire, jaw working overtime to maintain a tight smile. Even when forced, the smile brought a sexy glimmer to his baby blues.

  “I really can’t discuss specifics. Client privilege, you know? It’s not the same as attorney-client privilege, of course, but it is a business arrangement and people hire me because they trust me to be discreet.” What a load of horse shit.

  “And that’s what we’re counting on, dear—discretion. For the good of our families, we want to keep Whitley’s business confidential. These are the kind of people who vigorously maintain their privacy and expect the same from us.”

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  “We knew we could count on you.”

  Hawk eyes bored through me, taking me back to my years at Whitley, when the scent of her perfume—eau de lilac—was enough to make one’s blood run cold. I sat up straighter.

  Stop beating around the bush, you old bat. Let’s hear it. “What exactly do you want me to do, Mrs. Petty?”

  “We’ve had some unpleasantries.” She leaned back, feigning a swoon. “Donald, dear, perhaps you’d better explain.”

  Dinny cleared his throat and set his empty glass on the table. “It all started last fall with a number of pranks. At first we thought it was just the usual silly things kids get into. The kinds of things you and your buddies used to do. Then things escalated to more serious acts of vandalism—slashed tires on faculty vehicles, a mysterious fire in the chemistry lab and a portrait in Alumni Hall defaced. Then, there’s the nasty mail.”

  Muriel looked stricken. “Oh, Dinny, do we really have to go into
all that?”

  “Yes, Aunt, we do. Remember, we agreed that if she’s going to help, we must tell her the whole story.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Din.” She shrugged, leaning back, taking a huge gulp of Scotch.

  “We’ve had a number of incidents involving a former faculty member, Jared Phelps. I had to fire him last June. It was very unpleasant.”

  He rose to refill our drinks. Cookie, our old dormitory cook, popped her head in to say dinner was ready, but Muriel waved her away.

  “Fifteen minutes, Cookie,” Dinny called to the closing door. “Jared was a gifted teacher. One of the finest history teachers I’ve ever seen. He truly inspired and challenged his students. Unfortunately, he was also a demigod who played with people’s emotions. Over the years, he developed a number of inappropriate relationships with students, often inciting them against the administration or other faculty to further his own agenda.

  “Jared has never liked our new Head of Upper School, Brooke Richards. Jared applied for the head’s job, you see, and was extremely angry at being passed over. In his heart, I think he knows that it was not administration but his fellow teachers on the search committee who blackballed him, but he needs a focus for his anger. Brooke and I are easier targets than his colleagues, whom the students love and respect. He’s written letters and gotten students to write, too. Whenever he has access, he disrupts Whitley meetings or community events.

  “His current girlfriend, Hope Seymour, still has two children at Whitley, and since Jared lives with Hope and the kids, he feels entitled to attend any parent gathering. It’s been very awkward. He’s spent a fortune on the mailings. All anonymous, of course, so there’s no legal action we can take. They’re nasty things. He’s sent them to parents and even some alumni. Have you received any?” I shook my head. “I thought not. We think he’s been targeting recent grads, the ones who knew him. Thank goodness our alumni’s email addresses are not publicly available to everyone on campus or he’d be blanketing the airwaves, too.”