Sophia had stopped at the bakery to pick up Bianca’s favorite pastries, and she brought flowers, a sure sign that she was feeling the need to make up for some misdeed. As they sat over steaming mugs of coffee in the sunny kitchen, Sophia said, ‘‘I wanted you to know that you don’t have to worry about the Russian. He killed himself last night.’’
‘‘Really?’’ Bianca said; then remembering that she was not supposed to know of Reznikov’s release, she added, ‘‘In jail?’’
‘‘Actually, he was at home,’’ Sophia said, looking a bit abashed. ‘‘After I talked with you, the judge set bail, and we had to let him out.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ Bianca said. ‘‘Well, good riddance. It’ll save the taxpayers the cost of a trial.’’
Sophia laughed. ‘‘That’s what my boss said.’’
‘‘I imagine it’s a relief to you all,’’ Bianca said. Sophia hesitated just long enough to tell her mother that she was holding back. ‘‘There’s something you aren’t telling me, isn’t there, dear?’’
Sophia gave her tight little caught-out laugh. ‘‘Boy, I could never keep anything from you. Okay, it’s over now, so I guess there’s no harm in telling. This was a sting, and the Russian was the bait. Losing him cost us the target.’’
Bianca was getting a bad feeling about this. ‘‘The bait? I don’t understand, dear.’’
‘‘I wasn’t really honest with you about Reznikov’s threat. I knew he was serious, and so did the police. We let him out so he could order a hit. With traces on his phones, we’d have a straight line back to the hit man, or maybe if we got really lucky, to an even bigger fish, a guy who arranges hits. As soon as he made the call, we…’’ Sophia stopped midsentence. ‘‘Mom, is something wrong? You’re really pale.’’
Bianca was having trouble catching her breath. A chill had spread through her body at the memory of Marty’s number on Reznikov’s phone. ‘‘I don’t like the idea of them using you for bait,’’ she said, working to keep her voice steady. ‘‘Something awful could have happened.’’
‘‘I was perfectly safe. I was with the cops the whole time. We’d have been in his living room as soon as he hung up, and a second unit would have been on its way to the hit man’s place. I was never in danger.’’
Not in danger of dying, Bianca thought, but definitelyin danger of watching your mother led off in handcuffs. In all her years as a professional, this was the first time she’d come even close to getting caught. ‘‘What happened?’’ she asked.
‘‘It was really weird. He put in a call, said he had a ‘job,’ and it looked like they were about to negotiate price when he hung up. We waited for him to call back. But he never did.’’
‘‘But if you had a trace, you must have gotten the number of the person he called,’’ Bianca said, knowing her daughter would ascribe her knowledge of such things to her fondness for reading and watching police procedurals.
Sophia shook her head. ‘‘The call was too short to trace,’’ she said, ‘‘and it appears he threw the phone across the room and broke it. The cops think maybe he got cut off and smashed the phone in anger.’’
Bianca laughed, more from relief than amusement. ‘‘I’ve felt like doing that after a dropped call,’’ she said.
Sophia nodded and was silent for a few moments; then she said, ‘‘It doesn’t fit. I mean, why would he start to order the hit, then change his mind and commit suicide? I tried to get them to go in when the connection was cut. I knew there was something funny going on.’’
Good lord, my own daughter would have brought them down on me, Bianca thought. ‘‘What do the police think?’’ she asked.
‘‘They’re not thinking,’’ Sophia said, her tone sharp with aggravation. ‘‘With the cell phone smashed, we have no leads on the hit man. There’s no evidence to suggest murder, and they want to close the case. If it’s suicide, they’re done.’’
‘‘It’s too bad you lost the hit man, but at least you’re safe now.’’ She studied Sophia’s face for signs of her intentions. ‘‘Are you going to pursue it, to investigate this man’s death?’’
Sophia shook her head. ‘‘No, the case is closed. It’s over. I just wish I knew what happened in that house last night.’’
No, you don’t, Bianca thought. You really don’t.
Murder for Lunch by Carolyn Hart
Madeleine Kruger held up the menu to hide her face. It would be embarrassing if Mike saw her, although surely his lunch with that gorgeous young woman was perfectly aboveboard and Meg knew all about it.
Madeleine had a quick vision of Meg’s tight-drawn, slick face. Surgery makes a difference, no sags, no bumps, no lines, but plastic skin is as great a tip-off to age as wrinkles. Not that Meg was all that old. She was in her early thirties, but that’s old in Hollywood.
Madeleine wriggled uncomfortably. Was she being unkind? Madeleine hated to be unkind. If she had a husband as young and appealing as Mike, perhaps she’d try to wipe away wrinkles too. Willy had been dead for years, but she knew he would love her just the way she was, with untidy gray hair and nearsighted blue eyes and a shapeless bosom and plump hips.
Madeleine heard a thump in the next booth. Mike and his friend were right behind her. She’d stay quiet as a mouse until they left. She wouldn’t breathe a word about seeing them to Meg. Just in case. It seemed odd that Mike brought a guest to the Cosy Café. It was a modest little place away from Main Street, not the sort of restaurant young people preferred.
The waitress brought Madeleine’s tomato soup, so cheerful and warming on a rainy February day. Even Southern California had its off season but this was nothing like the cold in Kansas. Sometimes Madeleine missed the crunch of snow underfoot and the frosty wreath of her breath-
‘‘… have to kill her. Otherwise we’re stuck.’’ Mike’s clear baritone was brusque.
Madeleine’s plump hand wavered. Soup splashed onto the Formica tabletop. She hunched forward, struggling to hear over the roaring in her ears. Her blood pressure…
The girl answered, but her voice was soft and low. Madeleine could make out only a few words. ‘‘… when a wife dies…’’
Madeleine watched all the detective shows. A husband was always the prime suspect when a wife died.
Mike sounded irritated. ‘‘… have to kill her. Murder’s the only solution. It ruins everything if…’’
Madeleine put down her spoon. She used her napkin to swipe at the spilled soup, then grabbed the check. She struggled out of the booth and hurried to the cash register. Oh dear, oh dear. She hadn’t left a tip. At the register, she put down a bill, twice the total, and said breathlessly, ‘‘So sorry. Must leave. Please see that the waitress gets the tip.’’ She walked as fast as she could to the exit and didn’t stop until she was a block away, her legs aching and wobbly.
She couldn’t escape the sound of Mike’s voice: ‘‘… have to kill her… Murder’s the only solution…’’
Madeleine shuffled the deck of cards with practiced ease. She arched the cards in a high curve, caught them expertly. She’d played cards since she was a little girl and was adept at everything from bridge to Texas Hold’em. Faster than a croupier sorting chips, she slapped cards facedown, one after another. Solitaire helped her think.
Dandelion’s orange paw flicked out and the first card slewed toward the edge of the table.
Madeleine caught it in time. ‘‘Bad girl.’’ But her tone was loving.
The orange cat hunched her shoulders, waiting for another card to be played.
When the cards were down, Madeleine began to play, occasionally righting a card from Dandelion’s attack, but her thoughts darted like minnows. She should call the police. Would they listen? Mike would deny everything. Maybe she could warn Meg.