An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries (6 page)

     “Thanks for meeting with me,” I said, settling into a rolling, faux-leather chair.

     Before me was the strong, angular, pockmarked face of a man who appeared to be about Marty’s age. His eyebrows furrowed when he spoke. “I’m not really sure how I can help. What do you need to know about Marty?”

     I crossed my hands in my lap and tried to act as if I’d been interviewing people my entire life. “When did you hear about the accident?” I asked.

     “I read about it online a few days ago. I’m still in shock.”

     “How long had you known Marty?” I asked, crossing my legs and shifting in my seat.

     “Marty and I were college roommates. After graduation, we went our separate ways. I went to law school; he got into the restaurant business.”

     “But you remained friends after all those years?”

     “Sure, we kept in touch. Played golf together once every couple years, and had lunch at the country club once in a while. Marty’s other hobbies kept him pretty busy.” He smiled and looked down.

     “Are you referring to Marty’s female friends?”

     Wells paused then said “I guess it’s no big secret, is it? Do you plan to mention that in this article?”

     “I’m just trying to get a well-rounded snapshot of who Marty really was.”

     “Marty was a brilliant business man. Very detail oriented … smart as hell … knew all the right people.”

     “Did he have any enemies you were aware of? People sometimes become successful by stepping on other’s toes, right?”

     Wells laughed. “That’s true. But that was part and parcel of Marty’s genius. He didn’t piss people off. And if he did, he’d just buy them a cocktail. By the end of the first round, they’d be best friends.”

     I doodled on my notepad, pretending to write down his every word. “Does the name Lance Harding mean anything to you? Did Marty ever mention his name?”

     Wells looked up toward the ceiling. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That name doesn’t sound familiar. Who is he?”

     I produced the photo and slid it across the desk. “An acquaintance of Marty’s. I’m trying to track him down for an interview.”

     He looked at it quickly, then slid it back to me. “No, I don’t recognize him.”

     Harding, it seemed, was not a popular guy. I was beginning to feel discouraged. “Look,” I said, leaning across the desk, “could you help me out with something, strictly off the record?”

     Wells smiled. “Off the record, huh? In my experience, that means beware, I’m digging for darker secrets.”

     I cleared my throat and looked directly into his eyes. “To tell you the truth, Marty’s life seems to have been a bit of a cliché. Nobody has had anything very interesting to say about the guy. So what if he had a successful restaurant? All I really care about is getting a compelling article written.” I pushed the chair away from the desk, my exasperation partially genuine. I reached for my purse.

     “Whoa, hold on,” Wells said. “Hey, if that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you say so? To be honest, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Marty’s reputation. If you want the juicy, sordid details of his life, I’ll give ‘em to you.”

     I rolled my chair back up to the desk.

     Wells commenced to ratting out his dearly departed friend. “Marty was involved with an exotic dancer who works at a place called Lola’s.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “He described her as a brunette with legs that went on for miles. He used to go on and on in great detail about how good she was in the sack.”

     “Do you remember her name?”

     “All strippers use stage names,” he said matter-of-factly. “It was Taffy, or something foolish like that.”

     “Marty must have known her real name.”

     “Probably, but he liked to call her by her stage name. Turned him on, I guess.”

     “How long had he been seeing her?”

     “Just a few months. Marty was pushing fifty, but he was good looking, and charming enough to get the young hotties. He didn’t stay with any one of them for very long. He told me he broke it off with this one pretty recently.”

     “Did you ever meet her?”

     Wells looked at me and started to laugh. “Hell no … Marty wanted me to go with him to watch the dancers, but I never quite understood the whole deal with strip clubs. You can look, but you can’t touch? What’s the point in that?”

     “Was she upset when he broke it off?”

     “According to Marty, she went ballistic. She was probably looking for a marriage proposal.”

     “She didn’t know he was already married?”

     Wells shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

     “Did she ever threaten him in any way?”

     “Not that I’m aware of, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she had.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Those stripper types are generally pretty rough around the edges. Probably came from a broken home. They usually have drinking problems, and abusive boyfriends. Bad news, if you ask me. I warned Marty not to get involved with women like that.”

     “Did you often give him advice on women?”

     “Well,” he said as he raised his index finger, “Marty did heed my number one rule.”

     “What rule is that?”

     “Never get involved with married women. Eventually, one of them is bound to have a crazy husband who is more than willing to beat your head in. Marty was smart enough to realize that.”

     “So he stayed away from married women?”

     “That’s what I said.”

     “Are you married, Mr. Wells?” He raised his eyebrows and his expression changed. I immediately regretted the question.

     “My, aren’t we getting rather personal?”

     “Sorry,” I said. The temperature of the room seemed to go up ten degrees, “Forget I even asked.”

     “I thought you were interested in Marty’s love life, not mine.” A hint of a smile suggested he found my discomfort amusing.

     “You’re right. Let’s get back to Marty.” I took a quick breath. “Had he been seeing anyone else?”

     “He didn’t mention names, but he was fond of the one night stand. I would imagine there were others since.”

     “Did he ever tell you how he spent his Wednesday afternoons?”

     Wells laughed and shifted in his chair. “Sure, I knew about the Chestnut Inn.” He chuckled. “Marty bragged about his encounters all the time.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, sorry to break up this fascinating conversation, but I have another meeting to prepare for.”

     He didn’t bother to stand when I pushed my chair away from the desk and got up. “I appreciate your time.”

     He smiled and gave me a curt nod. “You might want to talk to the people over at his restaurant, if you haven’t already.”

     “Thanks,” I said, turning to leave. As I was closing the door behind me, I looked back and caught him staring at my ass. He looked away with a smile.

* * *

     Twenty minutes after my chat with Wells, I was sitting across from Carter at the diner, filling him in on the exotic dancer.

     “That’s a good lead,” he said. I could tell by the look in his eye he was formulating a plan.

     “Bitter ex-lover,” I added. “Maybe she knew Harding and hired him to kill Marty.”

     “It’s possible. Find a way to talk to her.”

     “What? How do you expect me to pull that one off?”

     Carter smiled. “Well, the Gourmet Magazine trick isn’t going to work this time. We’re gonna have to get creative.”

     “How?”

     “You’re gonna become her new best friend.”

     “Oh, that’s precious. How do you propose I do that? What do I have in common with a stripper?”

     “There’s one thing I’ve learned in this business over the years. It’s not what you have in common that’s important, it’s what you’re willing to share. If you confide something personal about yourself, she might feel compelled to do the same.”

     “Okay, that actually makes sense.”

     The corners of Carter’s mouth turned up in a wicked smile. “I have a plan, but promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”    

     “Oh, shit.”

* * *

     It was almost seven when I finally figured out what I would wear to Lola’s. My skintight black pants had been hidden deep in the walk-in for almost a decade. I prayed I’d be able to squeeze into them. As luck would have it, they had just enough give to make it over my hips. I added a silky blue tunic blouse, black satin belt, and high leather boots. Voila … one slutty ensemble. The final touches: sparkly gold eye shadow, bright red lipstick, and enough hairspray to be considered a fire hazard.  

     When I’d called Lola’s earlier in the day to inquire about a dancer named Taffy, I’d been told they had no dancer by that name and never had. There was, however, a Tiffany. She was scheduled to work this very evening.

     Brian was walking past my bedroom as I turned to leave. “Hey, mom … nice outfit. Are you going to a costume party or something?”

     “Oh, hi honey,” I said, trying not to take offense. “I’m just meeting a girlfriend for a drink. There’s a frozen pizza you can pop in the oven if you get hungry. I’ll be home late.” I planted a kiss on his cheek as I walked past him.

     “Gross,” he said, doing his best to wipe away the red smudge with the back of his hand.

     “See you later, gator. And no parties while I’m gone.”

     “Yeah, whatever,” he said, looking at me as if I were from another planet.

* * *

     My cell rang just as I pulled out of the driveway. It was my husband, Daniel.

     His employer had him traveling around the country three weeks a month. He called every few days to let me know where he was. At the moment, it was Austin.

     “Sarah, the connection’s bad. Are you driving?”

     “Yeah, just heading out.”

     “Okay, well I’m coming back tomorrow on the late flight. Can you pick me up at the airport at seven?”

     “That’s fine. I’ll be there.”

     After 16 years of marriage, my feelings toward Daniel had reached that proverbial plateau somewhere between love and apathy. He was absorbed in his work, and emotionally unavailable. When we did have a conversation, it was generally about one of two topics: our son, or household finances. The romance was long gone. What remained was ambivalence. Truth was I had gotten used to it.

* * *

     Lola’s was a lot classier than I had anticipated. Crisp white linens adorned the small tables. The lighting was subdued but tasteful, and the clientele, relatively sophisticated. Two poles, essential props of the trade, rose from the center of a stage, which was located off to the left.

     I approached the bar and slid the taught fabric of my black slacks onto a plush leather stool.

     “Good evening. What can I get for you?” The bartender wore a white, button-down shirt with a black, silk tie.

     “Patron margarita on the rocks,” I said, getting an instant nod of approval.

     “Want to start a tab?” he asked, while mixing my libation.

     “That’d be great. Thanks.”

     Just as I took my first sip the overhead lights dimmed and the room began to pulse with loud, rhythmic music. A redhead with colossal breasts—poor thing must have been top heavy, but she smiled as if she owned the place—sauntered on to the stage. The DJ announced her as Brandi, so I turned back towards the bartender; he was more my type.

     Two cocktail waitresses flitted about, taking orders from patrons seated at tables surrounding the stage. They wore dangerously short mini-skirts and tank tops that left little to the imagination. They must have been making a fortune in tips.

     As the first song ended, Brandi was joined on stage by a woman with long, chestnut hair and a body to die for. The DJ announced her as Tiffany. A red, flamenco dress with a plunging neckline accentuated her perfectly sculpted figure. A few minutes of dancing, and the dress came off. She exuded confidence and experience as she strutted and pranced around the stage in her lacey black negligee.

     I began to wonder how I was going to finagle an opportunity to talk to her. A number of scenarios ran through my mind as I sipped my drink. Before long, I decided it would be best to stop analyzing the situation and wing it. A little small talk with the bartender might be a good place to start.

     “You make one hell of a drink,” I said, saluting him with a raised glass. “Can I get another when you have a minute?”

     “Coming right up. By the way, I’m Zach.”

     “Hi Zach, I’m Sarah.”

     “Is this your first visit to the club?”

     I nodded.

     “Meeting someone?”

     I shook my head then realized that a woman hanging out alone at a strip club might come across as being a bit odd. “Actually,” I said, “I’m looking for a job … something part time, maybe a few nights a week.”

     “Well, if you want to write down your information, I’ll see that the manager gets it.”

     “Cool. Thank you.” I saw Zach look toward the stage and smile. As I turned my head out of curiosity, I found my view blocked by a man who stood staring at me.

     “Excuse me,” he said, gesturing at the stool on the other side of mine. “Is that taken?”

     “Yeah, sure, I mean, no . . .” I gestured awkwardly at the vacant stool. “Sorry, this margarita has gone straight to my head.” He was impossibly good looking, with tightly-shaven black hair and stubble on his chin and upper lip. His piercing blue eyes bore into me.

     “No apology necessary.” As he cozied up next to me I checked out his clothing. He wore a dark grey linen suit with a crisp, white, button-down shirt and burgundy tie.

     “I’ll have what she’s having,” he said, extending a hand towards me when Zach appeared. Can I buy you another margarita?”

     “No thanks. Well, actually, okay.” I was anxious. This guy was a total gentleman so far, but so damn good looking it was clouding my judgment. Was he flirting with me or just being polite? I thanked him as Zach set the margarita in front of me. I decided I’d better nurse this one. “Thank you.”