Deadly Dues (5 page)

“Hot date?” she called down.

Geoff groaned.

“Far from it,” I said. “And might never be hot again. Good night, Mrs. Lauterman.”

“Nighty-night,” she warbled, turned off her light, and slammed her window shut with a bang that brought on more lights in the Mortons', across the street. The Corellis' light turned off at the same time. I gave a vague little wave in the direction of the Mortons' window and turned away, wishing I were invisible.

I left Geoff lying on the lawn and retrieved my keys from where I had dropped them. The garden gnome could rot in the gully, as far as I was concerned. I jammed the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Horatio should have greeted me with warm slurps and batty ears. Instead, he kept woofing at me, while backing himself into the space between the sofa and a bookcase. He barely fit, and he looked extremely silly. This was my security system: mucho macho barks from a big pussycat of a lousy watchdog.

I threw my bag on the floor by the closet and started turning on lights. I heard Geoff lurch in through the door behind me.

“Close the door, please,” I said, taking off my Ralph Lauren jacket, the one I had snagged for fifteen dollars at a consignment store, the one which now had Chardonnay and garden gnome yuck on it.

I started toward the kitchen and then ducked, as an airbound mass of white fur crossed my line of vision. The gust of wind in the backdraft nearly knocked me over. Horatio, the ungrateful mutt. When I turned around, Geoff was lying on one of my Aubusson carpets (bought back in the days of Doggie Doggie Bow Wow) and Horatio was spread on top of him like a giant mound of tapioca on a toothpick, licking his face.

“Stop that, you obnoxious hairy mess” said Geoff. “I'm going to be sick.”

I poured myself a Chardonnay and a glass of Scotch for Geoff, which I balanced on the carpet beside him, and wandered back to the living room. Let him suffer under the ministrations of Horatio. He deserved it, after sneaking up on me like that.

I threw myself onto the couch and breathed in the upper layer of the Chardonnay. Geoff reached out for the Scotch I had put beside him, and finally his clawing fingers found it. Horatio was still sprawled on top of him. Geoff raised his head weakly and inhaled the glass. Then he breathed into Horatio's face. Darned dog has always been a teetotaler. He shook his whiskers in disgust, backed off and headed towards me. I braced myself.

Horatio zoomed up to me and ploughed his head into my stomach. After I caught my breath, I scratched his ear, and he got happy and collapsed on the floor beside the couch. He was so adorable, even though he was ten times the size of the usual puppy and was going to end up being a bag dog to my bag lady if he kept eating me out of house and home, without any dog food residuals to back us up.

Geoff, across the room, continued to rest quietly on the floor, while he downloaded the rest of his Scotch.

For a few moments, the room was quiet, except for Horatio's slurping, mushing noises, the usual gee-I'm-cute sounds from an oversized animal who looks like a huge hairy marshmallow.

“I know you did it, Lu,” said Geoff quietly.

I froze. My wine glass almost slipped from my hand. Luckily, I caught it in time, since I couldn't afford to clean the couch or take Horatio to the dogwash.

“What?” I said.

“You did it. I know,” sighed Geoff.

I was appalled. So Geoff, my pal of twenty years, was putting me on a suspect list. Surely he knew I wasn't into murder.

“Out!” I shouted. I didn't get up, but pointed my arm dramatically toward the door, which should have given him a hint.

“Aw, Lu,” he said.

“Out!” I said, and I meant it. Sure, I might have been prone on the sofa, but my arm had a lot of energy in it.

“Out!” I said.

Finally
duh
Geoff picked up on the fact that I was not happy with him and hauled himself to his feet.

“I'm your friend, Lu,” he said lamely.

“Sure,” I said. “A friend who thinks I could kill somebody.”

“Well, okay, maybe you just hired somebody. And I could understand that, you know? I'm so on your side.”

“Out! Out!” How bright do you have to be to get this message?

Geoff ambled to the door, opened it, then turned and said to me, frowning. “This lock is loose. I'll come by and fix it for you, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Out!”

Then I realized he shouldn't be driving. I pushed Horatio away, heaved myself out of the couch cushions and stomped to the door. I grabbed my purse on the way, and reluctantly rummaged inside.

“Here's twenty for a cab,” I said, stuffing a bill in his hand. “Don't drive, you rat.”

He looked at me reproachfully.

“Could you call me a cab?”

“Out!” I said, still in fine form. “You can hail a cab on Ryerson. Just get out of here. And don't forget that you owe me twenty.”

He gave me one of those reproachful looks (from that soap he did years ago), but I wasn't falling for it.

He fell out the door, and I kicked it shut after him. All this turmoil, and he lands on my carpet and accuses me of murder? I reached for the deadbolt, then was distracted by Horatio gnawing on my loafers. This dog was so hard on my wardrobe.

I was pulled back into the room by Horatio's slobbery ministrations and fell back onto the sofa, allowing myself to be comforted by Horatio's heavy head vibrating slowly on my foot, as he breathed the deep and comfortable sighs of a large dog who knows nobody is going to push him around. I wondered what really went on in dogs' heads as they zoned out and drooled and dreamt, while cutting off circulation to their owner's appendages.

What a life. A dead body. Loads of suspects. Geoff showing up with accusations. And, ironically, this after I had defended him to Gretchen, who had simply ignored my aria about friends and loyalty and wandered up to her door.

I idly wondered if Geoff had a drug problem. Not that I had noticed. But then, I wasn't the best judge of character. Just look at my cast list of former boyfriends, and one could see in a flash that I didn't have a clue about spotting addictions, mental conditions or closets.

Horatio reached up and smooched my face, which felt like a large wet washcloth (quite smelly) moving across my cheek, but I wasn't in a position to get choosy.

Suddenly, he stopped. His ears went up like large fluffy slippers. He slowly turned his head toward the door, and a rumble started in his throat. Maybe those vocal exercises I had tried to teach him, in the hope of increasing our income, had finally caught on.

Something hit the door hard enough to make it shake. (And this was a good-quality door, bought in the Bow Wow days). Horatio proceeded to try to squeeze himself under the sofa, while I tried to keep my balance.

Great. Geoff wanted reassurance. I knew him. He had come back and wanted to know that I wasn't really, really mad at him. Well, of course, I wasn't really, really mad at him. I was just mad at him. I would get over it. But it would have been nice if he could have given me a day or two to carry on before he came back to beg for forgiveness.

The door shook again. Wow. Geoff was in fine form. Horatio emitted a little squeak and gave up on hiding under the sofa. He scuttled around behind it. So now he was scared of Geoff? Puh-leeze . . .

I walked to the door and wrenched it open, saying with magnificent outrage, “Geoff, you wimp! You couldn't wait 'til tomorrow?”

This was wasted. The doorway was black. Why was this? This was because a very large person of muscular persuasion was blocking my view of the moon and the streetlights. What made his large appearance even more disturbing was that he was wearing a black ski mask over his face. Nice people do not make visits so garbed.

“Lu Malone?” he said. His voice sounded like a tuba in terrorist mode.

“Never heard of him,” I said coolly, and closed the door. Well, I would have closed the door if his size twenty foot hadn't been in the way. In the background, I heard Horatio whimper, which was embarrassing, considering his size and fame. But I couldn't address self-empowerment issues with Horatio right now. I was more concerned with my uninvited visitor.

He pushed his way in. I told my feet to stand their ground, but the rest of me backed up, and my feet followed. He looked at me slowly for a moment. Uh-oh. All I could see were his eyes. I was suddenly reminded of a borderline porn film I had turned down years ago. Too much sex and violence. Speaking of violence . . .

He put his hand on my chest (I was amazed to discover that one of his hands covered both of my key areas) and pushed. I fell backwards onto my peach loveseat and struggled to get up again. No luck.

Loverboy put a foot on my stomach. I thought I was going to be sick. But how could I? His size twenty was blocking my breath.

Then—finally—Horatio got into it. I knew there was a reason I was paying more for his dog food than for my own meals. He whooshed past me, and I knew he was going to make Mr. Size Twenty Black Mask sorry he had ever pushed me around. I closed my eyes and waited for the mayhem.

When I looked up, Horatio had plastered himself to Mr. Size Twenty, and was slobbering all over him.

“Hi, big guy,” said Mr. Size Twenty to Horatio, his foot still planted on my stomach. I was amazed he could keep his balance, what with Horatio hanging on to his neck. “What's your name, big boy?” Horatio didn't answer, of course. He was mooshing all over the guy, and the creep looked as if nobody had ever shown him a kind word or slobber before. I felt increasingly ill—partly because Horatio, that big bum of a dog, had shown himself to be a turncoat, willing to fling himself at anybody, but mostly because this wasn't promising.

I tried anyway. I had faith in the loyalty of dogs. “Horatio, attack! Attack!”

Mr. Size Twenty and Horatio just ignored me. They had found each other.

I couldn't breathe. The foot was getting heavier on my stomach. Maybe because Mr. Twenty was having trouble keeping his balance, I thought hopefully.

Mr. Size Twenty pulled his eyes away from Horatio and looked at me.

“Just tell me where it is, ma'am.”

Ma'am??? Ma'am??? This monster was calling me ma'am? It had been a long day, but I didn't look that old.

He took my silence for reticence, not righteous offense. The shoe got heavier on my stomach.

“Ouch!” I said.

He released a bit of pressure.

“Where is it?”

“What? Where is what?”
What was he talking about? Did he think I had diamonds in a wall safe? Ha ha ha. Everything decent was pawned months ago
.

“Look, sister—”
That was better. He sounded like something out of an old gangster movie, but at least I was in a marginally better age group.

“I don't have any good jewellery, just costume,” I squeaked.
I wasn't going to tell him about my vintage Kenneth Jay Lane and Eisenberg Ice. Most crooks know zilch about the value of costume rhinestones.

“Very funny,” he said.

“I have an old Elvis album that's worth five hundred,” I squeaked. “It books at eight hundred, but you could maybe get five hundred. Mint.”

“I hate Elvis.”

“Where do you stand on vintage clothing? I have an original Elton John—”

“Oh, shut up!” he shouted. He released his foot, pushed Horatio away (the darned dog looked hurt), grabbed me by my shoulders and hauled me to my feet. He shook me so hard that I was sure a filling moved from one suburb to another.

“Pope gave it to you,” he said. “I know he did.”

What was he talking about? Stan had never given me anything but grief. And maybe a hint of a cold last week, when he had sneezed on me at the reception for the Actors' Relief Fund. I had considered fumigating the ratty handkerchief he had offered after spewing germs on my face.

My teeth were doing a breakdance in my mouth. This guy was terrifying. Just as I thought I was going to upchuck all over him, he threw me back on the loveseat.

He leaned over, grabbed me by the throat with one hand and squeezed. I felt even closer to the morgue than before. I rolled my eyes around, looking for Horatio, and all I could see was a white blob rubbing itself against Mr. Size Twenty's leg. Mr. Size Twenty shoved him aside again to concentrate on me, and Horatio emitted a you-hurt-my-feelings whimper and ran to the door. Damn, this guy had left the door open. Manners. Nobody has them any more. I tried to shout after Horatio, but speech was getting more and more unlikely.

I couldn't see clearly now. Everything was getting blurry. And it wasn't the Chardonnay. I was pretty sure it was related to the lack of air reaching my lungs.

Then, Mr. Size Twenty grunted and fell on me. He had eaten lots of garlic for dinner, which was very inconsiderate. And which also explained Horatio's crush on him. Horatio adored garlic, and would eat it by the bowl if I let him. Mr. Size Twenty's hand relaxed its grip on my throat, but now I couldn't breathe because his weight was smothering me. He wasn't moving around in any meaningful way, so at least (thank goodness) he hadn't turned amorous. In fact, he wasn't moving at all. He was a dead weight on me, inconveniently blocking my breath. Geez Louise, he was heavy. I put my hands on his chest and pushed until my head pounded.
Note to self: check blood pressure.