Carol Clark - Fleeced

“Yes?” Regan said, her investigative antennae roused.

“This woman left her a lot of money.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It turns out she didn’t make too many friends after the woman died. She even stiffed the Connolly brothers, who had handled the funeral, when they held a charity drive. They said she was cheap and couldn’t get out of town fast enough.”

“Being cheap isn’t a crime,” Regan said, “though maybe it should be.”

“True. But it made them wonder whether there was any undue influence with the neighbor…”

And here I am in her apartment. Could Lydia have anything to do with any part of what had happened? “Maybe I should call them,” Regan said. “Do you have their number?”

“Yes,” Luke said and read it to Regan. “For what it’s worth.”

“Nothing would surprise me,” Regan said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Be careful. Really.”

Regan smiled. “Right, Dad.” When she hung up, she pulled on her robe and stepped out into the kitchen. Maldwin was just getting out the coffee cups.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring coffee to you, but I think we all slept in a bit today. It’s just ready now.”

“That’s okay,” Regan said. “I’m going to go back across the hall and take a shower. My things are all there.”

“Take a cup with you.”

“Thanks. Is Lydia up yet?”

“No. I will wake her momentarily. Her pedicurist is coming in to do her nails at ten o’clock.”

I wish I had someone coming to rub my feet, Regan thought. “Tell her thanks for me and I’ll talk to her later.”

Maldwin poured a cup of perfectly brewed coffee. “Milk and sugar?”

“Just some milk. I tell you, Maldwin, maybe you should start a butler school where I live in California.”

Maldwin dropped the pitcher on the counter. “Excuse me,” he said nervously.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like California?” Regan teased.

“Too much sunshine,” he said, pouring another cup and placing it on Lydia’s tray.

What’s he so worried about? Regan wondered as she walked across the hall, unlocked the padlock with the key the police had given her, and stepped back into what she now thought of as the abyss.

Dolly and Bah-Bah looked like two forlorn and forgotten figures in the corner of Jacques Harlow’s loft. Movie equipment was all over the place. Up in his bed, which you had to climb a ladder to get to, Jacques was snoring like a jackhammer. They had filmed very late the previous night. The cast and crew were due back at noon.

Gray light filtered its way through the large, dirty windows, and the clock on the stove read 9:59.

The strident honk of the buzzer, indicating a visitor downstairs on the sidewalk, cut through the air. Several long honks later it finally penetrated Jacques’s consciousness and woke him up. He jumped out of bed and pressed the intercom.

“What?” he growled.

“Good news, boss.” It was one of his assistants, a squirmy little guy named Stewie, who had ambitions of Hollywood greatness.

“It better be good news. You woke me up.”

“Buzz me in.”

Jacques leaned on the button, specially installed next to his bed, and then descended the ladder. He walked over to the door and opened it just as Stewie was coming up the steps, bags with coffee and bagels in one hand, the newspaper in the other.

“Extra, extra, read all about it,” Stewie sang as he walked through the door and handed the New York World to Jacques.

“Read all about what?”

“The Settlers’ Club’s problems. A side article talks about our flick and how the club was used as a location.”

“My flick.”

“Whatever.” Stewie put the bags on the coffee table.

Jacques read for a minute, then threw the paper down. “Since when are you the producer?”

“I told her I was in production.”

Jacques rolled his eyes and lifted the paper up again. “Ah, here I am!

“‘The unpredictable and innovative director Jacques Harlow has his actors improvise their way through the story. It has been reported that two stuffed sheep belonging to the deceased club member, Nat Pemrod, became a part of the plot and were taken out of the club to be used at the next location.

“‘Thomas Pilsner, president of the club, whose girlfriend retrieved food from the apartment of Ben Carney, another deceased member, was upset that the sheep were taken without his permission. Perhaps his girlfriend would like to make leg of lamb of them.’”

“Here’s your coffee.”

Jacques took a sip. “It’s a good thing we took those sheep from the club. Otherwise we might not have rated a mention in the story.”

“It’s a good thing I found the club,” Stewie said as he strutted around the loft. When he passed Dolly and Bah-Bah, he gave Bah-Bah a thump on the head. He didn’t notice that one of Bah-Bah’s eyes fell out and rolled away somewhere underneath the heater. “Boss, something tells me we should get through the shooting today and head up to that party tonight. Something tells me that’s going to be where the action is. We could get more publicity.” He paused. “Why are you staring off into space like that?”

“Something tells me we should do whatever we can to hang on to those sheep. They can be our logo for the company. It’ll be called Two Sheep Productions.”

“Should we try and buy them?”

“I think so.”

“What if they don’t want to sell them?”

Jacques looked at him harshly. “We’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

All over town, people were reading about the Settlers’ Club. Lydia’s ex-beau, Burkhard Whittlesey, was particularly enjoying the article as he rode a stationary bicycle at the cheapest, smelliest gym in New York City. It was all he could afford at the moment. But he was determined to get back in Lydia’s good graces, so he had to keep in shape. She was his best shot at a decent life. I should have treated her better, he thought. I got a little too cocky.

Of course, in the long run, he considered himself much better suited to an aristocratic type. After all, he was a good-looking guy with a certain amount of charm. That’s why he kept crashing all the high-class gatherings in town. He was always on the prowl for a bigger, better deal.

Since college, he’d managed to get himself on every party list going. He’d also mastered the art of dropping in at the cocktail hour of big benefits held in hotels, cruising around in his tux to see if there was anyone worthwhile, and then disappearing when it came time to take your seat. If he met anyone, he’d claim he had someplace else to go, but could they get together another time? But so far nothing had stuck. Every woman of means quickly figured out that he by no means had any means.

If Burkhard had put half the effort into working at a real job that he put into finding someone to take care of him, he might have been president of a Fortune 500 company. But every job he’d had started out with great promise and then imploded. Stocks he recommended tanked, deals he put together fell apart. Now at age thirty-five he was beginning to worry about his future. His roommate-whose name was on the lease of their dingy one-bedroom cockroach palace-had decided to join a commune in New Mexico. In a matter of weeks, Burkhard would be out on the street.

As he read the newspaper, he rode the bicycle faster and faster. That club certainly has its problems. It’s going to be quite a scene tonight, he thought. I don’t care what Lydia says. I’ll go and turn on the charm for her. Show her what an asset I can be. If she doesn’t take the bait, I’ll make a point of wandering over to any reporters who show up.