Killers of a Feather, page 4
“Okay.” He turned to leave and I reached out and touched his arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
“Ira,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “You can call me Ira.”
He walked swiftly away, and I closed the door again and locked it. Purrday came over, rubbed against my legs. I bent down and chucked him under his chin. “What do you think, Purrday? I hope he changes his mind. He’s got a great voice. I think if we could get some sort of mic hookup to pipe his voice out so he could stay indoors, he’d do just fine.”
Purrday turned his head as if he were bored with the conversation. I looked down at my phone and gasped. Ira’s face stared back at me. “Look,” I said, brandishing the phone in front of Purrday. “I must have accidentally clicked on the camera app and taken his picture when I opened the door.”
Purrday looked at the photo, then let out a soft growl and turned his face away. I slid the phone back into my purse. I’d show it to the others at dinner. He’d said he lived here a while ago. Maybe one of them might remember the mysterious Ira.
Three
My Siamese cat, Kahlua, greeted me as I let myself in the back door of my Victorian mansion a few minutes after five. I bent down and gave the chocolate brown Siamese a pat on the head. “Hello, girl. Miss us?”
Kahlua let out the high-pitched yowl typical of the breed. She danced around my feet until I set Purrday’s carrier down and opened the wire door to set him free. She immediately began licking the Persian’s flat face. Purrday gave a rumbling purr and lay down to accept her ministrations.
I regarded the two of them with a sly smile. “And here I thought the two of you wouldn’t get along.” Actually, they hadn’t at first, but Purrday had worn the fussy Siamese down. He had that way about him. A charmer, just like Gary. I tossed my jacket and purse over one of the kitchen chairs. There was a note pinned to the bulletin board I’d set up over the area where the cats’ bowls were located. I walked over and plucked the note from the board and read it:
You’re late! See you at Bottoms Up! G.
PS: Don’t forget to feed the children.
“Hah,” I said. “Like you guys would let me forget to feed you.” I crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash, then I opened the cabinet where the cat food was kept and selected a can. Purrday and Kahlua both cocked their heads, looking at me expectantly.
“I know Gary’s cooking has spoiled the two of you rotten, but you both used to like this brand’s chicken and tuna.” I opened the can and started to spoon it into their bowls. They immediately hunkered down, and a few minutes later the sound of contented slurping reached my ears. I chuckled and headed upstairs to change. I could feel a few butterflies flying around in my stomach, and wasn’t sure if it was because I was nervous about Ira, or because I couldn’t wait to see Gary’s reaction to the news that he’d be sharing the house with—and cooking for, most likely—my mother this weekend. In the end I decided it was probably a bit of both.
• • •
A hour later I was lucky enough to find a parking spot directly across the street from the tavern. Formerly an Italian pizzeria known as Guido’s, Guido DiPiazza, the owner, had opted to retire to sunny Orlando and had sold the business to a young married couple who were originally from Detroit. The new owners had redesigned the entire interior, modeling it after an English pub they’d visited, then giving it a cheeky American name.
Gone were the stark white walls and framed artwork depicting Italy and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. In its place were dark pine walls on which were trendy posters of movie stars, both vintage and current, singing groups, and the like, and pine-plank floors that were covered most nights in peanut shells from the complimentary bowls of shelled peanuts that graced the bar and all of the tables. The tables themselves were also carved out of dark pine. An old-time jukebox, loaded with both current tunes and oldies, was positioned near a postage-stamp-sized dance floor. Probably the tavern’s most arresting feature, though, was its large cherrywood bar, which took up one entire side of the room. I’d only been in the new place once, and it was to pick up a take-out cheeseburger, which had been quite good, if memory served. I’d yet to try anything else on the menu, but both Gary and Olivia seemed to think it deserved to be on Zagat’s best restaurant list, so who was I to argue?
I stepped inside and stood in the doorway for a moment to get my bearings. I swung my gaze first in the direction of the bar. A man in a suit sat at the very end, sipping a mug of beer. A bit further down, two rough-looking guys in sweats also sat with frosty mugs in front of them, their eyes glued to the baseball game unfolding on the forty-two-inch flatscreen behind the bar. I turned toward the tables and saw a hand waving to me from the very back of the room. I headed in that direction and saw that the hand did indeed belong to Gary. Olivia sat right next to him, and they weren’t alone. Also squeezed into the booth were Rita Sakowski and Ron Webb. Ron rose as I approached the table.
“Shell,” he boomed out. He waited until I was seated and then leaned back, stroking his brown beard shot with flecks of gray. His eyes, peering out from behind his large tortoiseshell glasses, twinkled merrily. “Good to see you. I hear you’ve had rather a rough time of it today?”
I shot Gary a look. He spread his hands. “Hey, they asked.”
I reached over, grabbed Gary’s mug of Coors, and took a long sip before setting it back down. I wiped at my lips with the back of my hand. “You don’t know the half of it,” I said. “There was a bright spot, though. I took Gary’s recommendation and hired an assistant manager.”
“You hired Robbie!” Rita clapped both hands. “That’s great, Shell. He’s a good kid and a hard worker. You could do much worse.”
I pulled a face. “Tell me about it. I’d like to wring Elvin Scraggs’s neck.”
“Well, I can believe Elvin Scraggs would back out at the last minute to go fishing. He’s a tool!” Rita slapped her pudgy hand down on the black-and-white checked tablecloth for emphasis, causing the candle in the middle of the table to flicker. Short and stout with flame-colored hair that rivaled Raggedy Anne’s, Rita had a temper. She tugged at the sides of her overflowing pink and orange caftan as she added, “It’s not the first time that worm has backed out of a deal, believe me. He did it to Sissy Arnold, too, last year. Was supposed to sing at her wedding, canceled a week before. Told her some story about a relative dying in Florida. I tell you, that man has more imaginary relatives in Florida than Carter has pills.”
“Not all of ’em are imaginary,” Ron said with a chuckle. “Granny Viola’s still going strong. He tries to act indifferent, but Elvin does really care about her.”
“More like her money,” Rita said with a snort. “I tell you, the man’s a tool. He’s lucky no one’s cared enough so far to sue the pants off him. But someday, mark my words, he’ll meet his match.”
“Elvin is a bit of a louse, but his cancellation might have been a blessing in disguise,” I began, but then was interrupted as a perky brunette wearing a white dress, pink apron, and bearing a gold name tag that said Cecily bounded over to our table.
“Good evening, everyone,” she said. I noticed her gaze lingered a bit longer on Gary. “We’ve got some great specials tonight, in addition to our regular fare. Would you care to hear them?”
Gary leaned back and flashed the girl his patented, super-colossal charming smile. “Sure. Let ’er rip.”
Cecily colored prettily and then began rattling off the list of specials: the Broadway Babe Burger, an eight-ounce Angus burger smothered in jalapeños and barbecue sauce, accompanied by homemade slaw and sweet potato fries, a shepherd’s pie, and fish and chips. Gary and Ron both opted for the Broadway Babe Burger, while Rita and Olivia ordered the shepherd’s pie. “I’ll have the Old English Macaroni Cheese,” I said, pointing to it on the menu. I looked right at Gary as I added, “It comes highly recommended.”
The waitress’s head bobbed up and down. “It is very good,” she agreed. “They use only three ingredients, add a sprinkle of Parmesan, and bake it in the oven till it’s nice and bubbly.” She licked her lips as she gathered up the menus. “I’ll be right back with your refills, and a Coors for you,” she added, but her bright smile was aimed at Gary, not me.
Olivia waited until Cecily had disappeared and then gave Gary a playful poke in the ribs. “The Presser charm has made another convert,” she said.
“Yep. I’m still not sure whether it’s a blessing or a curse.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You know which one I’d choose.”
“Of course. Blessing.” He laughed when I made a motion of throwing something at him. “Or was that Elvin’s cancellation?”
“Don’t laugh. It could very well be. A man came by the shop just as I was about to close. We got to talking and I told him my singer punked out. He has some sort of device that plays all sorts of instruments, and he’s a regular one-man band. He’s got an excellent voice, too. He seemed a bit on the reluctant side, but I think I convinced him to come back tomorrow so you could hear him. I’d really like to hire him.”
“Wow, he sounds perfect,” Olivia remarked.
“Indeed.” Gary crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t think it was just a little too fortuitous, this singer just dropping around out of the blue?”
“It wasn’t exactly out of the blue,” I protested. “He was looking for Aunt Tillie. He wasn’t aware she’d passed.” I turned to Rita. “Funny thing, he asked about you, too.”
Rita’s hand turned inward so that she pointed at her chest. “Me?”
“Yep. He wanted to know if you still owned Sweet Perks. And you’re not the only one. He also asked about Stanley Sheer and Quentin Watson. Asked specifically if Quentin was still the editor of the Fox Hollow Gazette.”
“That is odd,” Rita mused. “Why would a stranger ask about all of us?”
“I don’t think he’s a complete stranger. He said he lived here a long time ago.”
Rita’s perfectly penciled red eyebrows drew together. “What’s his name?”
“Ira. He didn’t offer a last name.”
“You didn’t push him for it?” Gary let out a moan. “Geez, Shell.”
“Ira, you say?” Rita leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “What did he look like?”
“Hm, in his forties, I’d say, solidly built. He had on a hoodie and sunglasses—oh, wait, I can show you. I accidentally snapped his picture.”
I retrieved my phone and passed it to Gary. “He doesn’t look much like a singer,” he said after studying the picture. “That can’t possibly be his natural hair color.”
“Let us see,” Olivia demanded, holding out her hand. Gary passed her the phone and she held it out so Rita and Ron could see. “Something about him seems familiar,” Olivia said after a moment. “I can’t quite place him but—”
“I can.” Rita’s lips drew into a straight line, and her eyes flashed sparks. Her hand shot out, and a long nail tapped at the phone. “That’s Johnny Draco. He’s put on some pounds, and dyed his hair, but . . . it’s him. I’d know him anywhere.”
“Johnny Draco? The Johnny Draco everyone thinks swindled people?” I asked.
Everyone turned to look at me. “How do you know about that?” Rita demanded. “You weren’t living here when this all went down.”
“Robbie told me something about it,” I confessed. “I asked if he knew anyone who could sing, and he mentioned this Johnny Draco.”
“Johnny did have a nice voice,” said Rita, “but that was the only nice thing about him.” She raised her head and fixed me with a steely gaze. “If you hire him, Shell McMillan, you’ll be asking for trouble.” She leaned back in her seat and started to fan herself with her hand. “Oh my gosh, I bet my blood pressure has gone up a mile.”
“Calm down, Rita.” Olivia handed Rita her glass of water and watched as the other woman took a sip. “This can’t be Draco. Shell said his name was Ira.”
“Oh, it’s him, all right. Y’all forget that Ira was his middle name,” Rita said. “I’ll never forget that face as long as I live. If he were here right now, why, it would be all I could do to keep from strangling him with my bare hands.” She flexed her hands in front of her, and for a brief moment the expression on her face morphed into one of pure hatred. I shivered as a chill nicked up my spine.
“Now, now.” Ron reached out and covered Rita’s hands with his own. “You know what the doctor told you about your blood pressure, Rita. Besides, you’ve no conclusive proof this Ira is Johnny Draco. Why get so upset?”
“Ron’s right, Rita,” Olivia chimed in. “Your health is more important.”
“Easy for you two to say,” Rita burst out. “You guys weren’t taken in by that silver-tongued devil.” Her voice choked up and she reached for the voluminous orange striped tote bag that lay on the bench beside her. She reached inside, fished out a twenty and slapped it on the table. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she murmured. “If you can’t cancel my dinner, this should cover it, as well as my drink.”
Olivia reached for the bill. “We’ll get your food to go, hon,” she said.
“Don’t bother. I’ve lost my appetite.” She made a shooing motion with her hand at Ron. He slid obligingly out of the booth so she could exit.
As she started to walk past me, I put out my hand to stop her. “Wait, Rita. I didn’t mean to ruin your evening. Please sit back down.”
Rita’s eyes were overbright, and I could see tears start to form. She reached out and gave my hand a pat. “It’s not you, dear. It’s the idea that man is back and running around scot-free that’s got my knickers all up in a twist. After what he did . . . I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”
She hurried out of the restaurant and narrowly missed bumping right into a waitress carrying a large pitcher of ice water. I looked at Olivia and Ron. “Okay, Robbie told me that this Draco was suspected of swindling people out of money. I’m guessing Rita was one of them?”
“Yep,” Ron said. “Draco used to be an investment counselor, and a darn good one, by all accounts. He seemed to be a model, upstanding citizen. Anyway, about five years ago Draco was looking for investors. He had a sure thing, he said, and anyone who participated was certain to double, maybe even triple their investment.”
“Sounds a bit risky to me,” Gary commented.
“It was a gamble. Draco was up front about that right from the start. Despite that warning, though, quite a few people gave Draco money to invest, including Wesley Sakowski. He withdrew his entire pension fund, and Rita’s retirement savings account.”
“Ouch,” I said. “I can guess how this ends.”
“Yep. Long story short, the investment went belly up and they lost their entire retirement savings. At first everyone just thought it was an investment gone horribly wrong. After all, Draco did warn everyone before he took their money that it was a huge risk, and he even put in some of his own money. What made everyone suspicious was what happened afterward. Draco just up and quit the firm he was working for without giving any notice, and moved out of his apartment overnight. It made everyone have second thoughts, and everyone became convinced he’d run off with their money.”
“Wow,” I said. “I can see why Rita reacted the way she did.”
“Yep.” Ron scrubbed his hand along the side of his jaw. “Rita hired a PI to try and find him but it was like the guy vanished into thin air. He’s stayed under the radar and away from Fox Hollow, until now, I guess.”
“That does pose an interesting question. Why on earth did he come back after all this time?” mused Olivia. “To see how his marks were making out? He asked about practically all of them: Rita, Stanley, Quentin.”
“Oh my God,” I cried. “He asked about Aunt Tillie. He called her Matilda and seemed very upset at her passing. He called her indestructible. Did he cheat her too?”
Olivia let out a shaky laugh. “Your aunt never invested any money with him, dear. Tillie took care of her own investments. But they met at some charity function, and she took a liking to him.”
“They were friends?”
“I wouldn’t say friends exactly. But Tillie was fond of him. She never believed Johnny was guilty, although if I had to hazard a guess I’d say she second-guessed that opinion after he took off without so much as a goodbye to anyone.”
“Maybe his reason for leaving had nothing to do with money,” suggested Gary. “Maybe he was having woman troubles or something.”
“He had a steady girl,” Ron volunteered. “Krissa Tidwell. They weren’t having any problems, though, at least as far as I know.”
“Krissa Tidwell? You mean the woman who owns that lovely boutique, Ages Past?” Krissa was a pleasant woman who I judged to be somewhere in her early fifties. I’d pegged her as the spinster type. Apparently I was wrong.
“Yep. She gave Johnny a good deal of money to invest as well.”
“Just how much are we talking here?” I asked.
“The amounts from each person varied, but my best guess is it was somewhere in the neighborhood of a quarter of a million—maybe a bit more. I know Quentin lost the most.”
“Ouch,” said Gary. “That had to hurt, especially Quentin. Was it birthday or communion money?” It was a well-known fact that the newspaper owner was a tightwad.
“This guy seemed to be a bit down on his luck,” I said. “As an investment counselor, you’d think he’d know how to hold on to money. Let’s assume, though, for the sake of argument, that Ira is Johnny and he’s blown through all the cash. I agree with Olivia. Why return to the scene of his crime, a place where he’s hated, and ask about his victims? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe he came back to make amends,” suggested Gary. “Or maybe he’s missed Krissa all these years and come back for her.”
