Lethal Seduction (10 page)

“You're being bitchy, sweetie.”

“Look,” she said, frantically waving. “There's a cab—grab it!”

On the way home they necked in the back of the taxi while the driver pretended not to watch them in his rearview mirror. Jamie was almost inclined to tell Peter that she'd been about to put a private detective on his tail. But then she thought he probably wouldn't appreciate it, so she managed to keep her mouth shut.

“What would you like to do tonight?” she asked when they reached their apartment. “We have no plans.”

“That's what I like,” Peter said with a great big grin. “No plans. My kind of evening.”

“We could send out for Chinese,” she suggested. “Rent a video.”

“Which one?”

“Anything with Brad Pitt.”

“And I'll watch anything with Charleze Theron.”

“Then we'll rent
two
videos, and order in
tons
of Chinese food. I'm starving. You do know we didn't even stop for lunch?”

“You wouldn't let us,” Peter pointed out. “You were too busy buying out the store!”

Jamie waited until Peter was in his den, then she snuck into her bathroom and called Madison. The answering machine picked up.

“Cancel the meeting on Monday,” Jamie whispered. “I'll call you later. Or phone
us
when you get this message. Whatever you do—
don't
mention anything to Peter.”

•

Madison arrived home an hour later and picked up Jamie's message. Goddamnit! Why had she volunteered to get involved in the first place? Jamie was like a yo-yo—up and down. One moment Peter was cheating, and the next he wasn't. Who gave a shit? Her life was falling to pieces, and all Jamie cared about was canceling some appointment with a private detective.

Slammer greeted her as though she'd been away for a year.
She sat on the floor next to him and rubbed his back. He immediately turned onto his side, legs akimbo, waiting for her to scratch his stomach—his favorite thing in the entire world.

“You're a funny old dog, aren't you?” she said.

Why hadn't Michael told her the truth when she was young?

Why had he forced Stella to live a lie?

Memories of the woman she'd thought was her mother kept flitting through her mind. Her first encounter with a boy—Stella hadn't wanted to discuss it. Her first bra—Stella had sent her out with the maid to buy one at Bloomingdale's. Her first crush when she was twelve—Stella had been totally uninterested.

Now it became clear why she'd had no real closeness with her mother, it was because Stella was
not
her mother, had no desire to
be
her mother, was probably jealous of Gloria and hated the connection.

Then there was Michael. So handsome and charming, always overcompensating, always ready to listen to anything she had to say and be on her side.

Now she knew why.

Guilt. Pure guilt.

She kept on going over the things he'd said.

They shot her.

Who were
they?
And why would anybody
want
to shoot Gloria?

Michael had said he was involved in something that wasn't so legitimate. What could that possibly be? Did he have more secrets she didn't know about?

Obviously. And obviously he was pretty good at keeping them, since she'd never suspected any of this. It was all a terrible shock.

Having an analytical mind was a help. She grabbed a yellow legal pad and pen and started making a list of all the questions she planned to ask him—Were he and Gloria ever married? Did she have relatives? Were the people who shot her ever caught? Prosecuted? And if not, why not?

Oh, jeez! There was so much she needed to know. This was
almost like preparing for an interview, only this interview would be the most important one she'd ever conducted.

She decided that when Michael called she'd ask him to come by her apartment. When he arrived, she'd sit him down and very calmly find out everything. Full disclosure. No more secrets.

The truth would set her free. Only then would she be able to get on with her life.

C
HAS' LATEST GIRLFRIEND
'
S
professional name was Varoomba. She'd called herself that because of the amazing contortions she was able to perform with her outrageous bosom. A big, buxom girly girl with a squeaky voice and cheerful disposition, she was Chas' preferred type.

That afternoon he'd sent her to Bloomingdale's to buy a respectable dress. “Not a tits-and-ass number,” he'd warned her sternly. “Somethin' that covers the goods. An' while you're there, pick out a bra that squashes everythin' down.”

“What's the matter?” she'd said, blinking her heavily mascaraed eyes. “You think I'm gonna disgrace you?”

“Naw, but I can't let my kids know I'm datin' a stripper.”

“Somethin' wrong with bein' a stripper?” she'd squeaked, quite insulted.

“It don't sit well,” Chas had growled. “Not with
my
daughters. An' another thing—you'd better be nice to 'em, 'cause they're very special girls.”

“How old are they?” Varoomba had asked, expecting him to say something like ten and twelve.

“Older than you,” he'd said.

Varoomba was smart enough to know that they would
probably hate her. Most women did, especially when they found out she was dating their father.

Chas was busy trying to figure out how he was going to explain to Venice and Rosarita that his date was only twenty-three. “If anybody asks,” he'd warned Varoomba, “tell 'em you're thirty.”

“Thirty!” she'd shrieked in horror. “You want my career to be over?”

“Nobody's gonna know who you are,” he'd said. “We'll tell 'em you're a friend a mine. A nurse.”

“A nurse?” she'd repeated, shocked. “You think I look like a nurse?”

“If ya wash off some of that goddamn makeup. An' drop the beehive—it don't suit you anyway.”

“What am I—auditioning for a soap opera?” she'd said, quite put out.

“Behave yourself, okay? If you behave, ya got a shot at stayin' around. An' if ya don't, well, y'know whatcha can do.”

“Thanks a lot,” she'd said huffily. “You're one big bossy man.”

“Yeah, an' y'like it, don'tcha?” he'd said, grabbing a handful of her nicely rounded ass.

“I like
you,
Chas,” she'd answered coyly. “I'd be good for you. I could be a mommy to your little girls.”

“Didn't I tell ya?” he said, irritated. “You're a coupla years younger than the youngest one.”

“No, I'm not,” she'd said, widening her eyes. “I'm thirty.”

One thing about Varoomba, she was a quick study.

•

Venice arrived first. Chas had named her for the romantic city in Italy where she'd been conceived.

Not exceptionally pretty, Venice had a look. Long, straight brown hair, nice eyes, nose slightly too long, lips too thin, but her husband, Eddie, thought she was a babe, and that's all that mattered.

Whereas Rosarita had changed everything about herself with plastic surgery, Venice was totally natural. She kissed her father on both cheeks. “Are we the first to arrive?” she asked.

“Ya sure are, kiddo. So come inside an' meet my uh . . . friend.”

“Friend?” Venice said, teasingly. “Don't you mean
girl
friend, Daddy?”

“It's this uh . . . nurse I bin seein',” Chas explained. “You're gonna get it in y'head that she's a bit younger than me. Forget it—she's older than she appears, so don't be shocked.”

“Daddy, I would
never
criticize anyone you're seeing,” Venice said. “I've told you before—if this woman makes you happy, that's all that matters to me.”

Eddie—a nondescript-looking man—hovered in the background. Chas shook his son-in-law's hand, and they all entered the living room, where Varoomba, rechristened Alice for the night, waited to greet them.

Chas threw a critical eye on her. She'd managed to squash her huge boobs into a high-necked orange dress. If she were smart, she would have chosen black, because, to his annoyance, he could spot her nipples straining the orange material.

At least she'd toned down the makeup. However, in no way, shape or form did she resemble a nurse. She looked like she was about to appear on the Howard Stern TV show and strip off for one of his bizarre evaluations.

“This is my kid Venice,” Chas said.

“Venice,” Varoomba repeated in her high, squeaky voice, which irritated Chas now that he had to listen to it. In bed he was able to tell her to shut up, and she did. In his living room he had no such luck.

“Hi,” Venice said. “What a pretty dress. That color suits you.”

This immediately put Varoomba at ease. She winked at Chas as if to say, “See, I've already charmed one of your daughters.”

Rosarita, completely lacking the ability to be on time, arrived twenty minutes later. She marched into her father's house, Dexter behind her, his parents trailing after him.

“Mr. Vincent,” Martha gushed, pushing her way in front of everyone. “What a magnificent home you have. I've never been in a town house in New York before. This is
such
a treat!”

Oh, for God's sake, calm down,
Rosarita thought.

“Thanks,” Chas said, gesturing to an overstuffed couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Name your poison.”

Rosarita stopped short when she saw her sister. She and Venice were not the best of friends. Rosarita did not care for competition of any kind, and as far as she was concerned, Venice competed for their father's attention—not to mention his money. And it particularly infuriated her that Venice had two brawling brats who would probably inherit plenty.

“Hello,” she said coolly. “Nobody mentioned
you
were coming.”

Venice was never quite sure why her sister was so hostile toward her, but over the years she'd learned to accept it. Eddie had taught her patience. “She's probably unhappy about something,” he'd told his wife when she got upset. “Try to be nice and refuse to let her affect you.”

So that's exactly what Venice did. She smiled at her sister and greeted Dexter with a big hug. To Rosarita's constant irritation they got along exceptionally well—not that they saw each other much, but when they did it was as if they were on exactly the same wavelength.

“How
are
you?” Dexter said, patting her on the shoulder.

“Fine,” Venice replied.

“And the kids? We haven't seen them lately.”

“You're always welcome to drop by any time.”

“I know,” he said. “Thing is I've been so busy working on my soap that I never have time to do anything.”

“I've watched the show; you're terrific in it,” Venice said.

“You think so?” he said, pleased.

“It would be dull without you. Although I must say the character Silver Anderson plays is quite something.”

Privately, Dexter often thought he'd married the wrong sister. Venice was the caring, sweet one. A stranger would never believe that she and Rosarita came from the same parents.

While Rosarita was busy checking out Varoomba, Venice was making sure that Matt and Martha Cockranger were made to feel totally comfortable.

“What a gorgeous scarf!” she said to Martha.

“Yes, isn't it lovely?” Martha said, beaming. “Rosarita bought it for me today.” She lowered her voice in awe. “Do you know it cost three hundred and fifty dollars. I didn't want her to spend her money on it, but she insisted.”

“It's quite beautiful,” Venice said. “Brings out the blue in your eyes.”

“Thank you,” Martha said, sparkling.

Rosarita veered back toward Venice. “Who the fuck is the tramp with Dad?” she hissed.

“That's Alice. She's a nurse,” Venice said.

“If she's a fucking nurse, then I'm a fucking nuclear scientist,” Rosarita muttered.

Venice moved away.

All during dinner, Rosarita vied for attention with her sister, which did not make for a pleasant evening for the rest of the guests. Every time Venice uttered a word, Rosarita contradicted her.

“Wassamatter with you tonight?” Chas finally said. “You gotta be on everybody's case?”

Not everybody's,
Rosarita wanted to say.
Just that sweet sister of mine who you think is such an angel. But I know the real truth. The only reason she had kids was so she could be sure of getting all your money.

Halfway through dinner, Venice began passing around pictures of her two brats, which made Rosarita want to throw up.

Martha studied the photos and oohed and aahed in all the right places. “What
adorable
children,” she raved. Then she looked straight at Chas and said, “Matt and I are hoping that your little Rosarita will get pregnant next.”

Chas chuckled. His
little
Rosarita. Obviously they didn't know the real girl—the girl who'd come to him demanding that he knock off her husband—their precious son. Boy, would that make interesting dinner conversation!

He was angry with Rosarita. Who did she think he was? Some kind of killer? She lived in a fantasy world, and he didn't appreciate it. Dexter seemed perfectly okay to him. Good-looking guy, didn't screw around. He hadn't even eyeballed Varoomba's mammoth tits, whereas most men would be drooling by this time. Chas noticed that Matt Cockranger had already managed a few surreptitious peeks. Jeez! The old guy probably hadn't gotten laid in years.

Varoomba was enjoying herself. She was not used to meeting her men friends' families, and after she'd gulped down a couple of glasses of wine, Chas was having a hard time shutting her up. Any moment she was likely to hand out cards inviting them all down to the Boom Boom Club for a private performance.