Sizzle (Buchanan-Renard #8)

“You stupid bitch. What were you thinking? Don’t you know what you’ve done? You’ve thrown away a gold mine. A gold mine worth millions of dollars.”

His gaze darted around the yard. He locked in on a pile of miscellaneous items and raced across the yard. “Maybe it’s still here … maybe it’s not too late.” He dropped to the ground and began to search frantically. “Maybe it’s buried on the bottom.” Throwing notebooks and ashtrays and picture frames in the air, he pleaded, “Please, please, God, don’t let it be gone. Don’t let it be gone.”

“That’s rich. You praying to God. You hypocrite,” Babs said scornfully.

Ignoring his wife, he continued the search until he was convinced what he was looking for wasn’t to be found. Still on his knees, he turned to her. “Why? Why did you do this to me? He’s going to come after me. He won’t just kill me. He’ll go after you, too. That’s right. He can’t take the chance I didn’t tell you about it. Why?” he repeated on a sob. “Why did you—”

“You wouldn’t take me to New York.”

His mouth dropped open. “New York?” he shouted. “You did all this because I wouldn’t take you to New York?”

Babs held up her left hand, looked at the diamond wedding ring, sighed loudly, then took the ring off and threw it at her husband. It landed in the grass next to him.

“What are you … are you nuts?” he gasped as he pawed the grass searching for it.

She shoved her hands back in her pockets and glared at him. “You knew how much I wanted to see the shows on Broadway. You told me you couldn’t spare the time, remember? I begged and begged you. It didn’t matter, though. Yet you did find the time to take another woman to New York. How many shows did you see with her?”

As though the wind had just been knocked out of him, Rooney slumped back on his haunches. “This is all because—”

“How could you think I wouldn’t find out? You cheated on me, but unlike you, I have loyal friends. Susan saw you on the plane. She told me the woman you were with was hanging all over you.”

He stumbled getting to his feet. “I’m going to kill you,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Babs pulled a gun from her pocket. “No, you’re not. I’m going to kill you.”

Milo was mesmerized by what he was witnessing and was afraid to blink for fear he’d miss something. Would she really do it? What kind of a gun was it? Looked like a .38 or a .45. Wish he could get closer to see. Maybe even steal it. He could always use another piece.

And that ring. He had to get it before anyone else did. His gaze bounced back and forth between the ring in the grass and the gun. Should he try to stop the crazy woman? Mr. Merriam needed to find out where Rooney had hidden whatever it was he’d taken. Was it the same thing that Rooney was desperate to find now? Milo’s boss should have told him what the mystery item was so he could look for it in all the junk in the yard.

Milo glanced back at Babs when she began to laugh. It was a weird sound, somewhere between a snort and a cough. She held her smile as she took aim and fired. She hit Rooney in the chest, took a couple of steps forward, and fired again.

Milo heard a woman scream, looked in his rearview mirror, and saw a couple standing in front of their car. The man held a phone up snapping a picture of the scene. Milo ducked down to be out of camera range. When he dared to raise his head to peek over the dashboard, Babs was standing over her husband, staring down at him, probably making sure he was dead. She must have been convinced because she lowered the gun and calmly walked into her house. Milo had hoped that she would drop the gun so he could snatch it, but she held on to it. He craned his neck to watch her close the door. A second later he heard another gunshot. It came from inside the house. Had she just killed herself, or was she shooting holes in another one of his treasures?

Men and women were cautiously making their way toward the body on the grass. Milo immediately jumped to the conclusion that they were all thinking about stealing the ring.

“Oh no you don’t,” he muttered as he jumped out of the car and sprinted over to Rooney’s side. He knew exactly where the ring had landed and knelt down next to it. With his right hand he pretended to check for a pulse while he lifted the ring with his left hand and tucked it into his pocket.

“Is he dead?” a woman called out.

Milo nodded. He didn’t look at the woman because he didn’t want anyone to get a good look at him.

“I called nine-one-one,” another shouted.

As the curious moved forward, Milo hurried back to his car. He kept his head down as he started the motor. He would wait until he could leave without being noticed, and since he didn’t want anyone recording his license plate, he would have to back up and turn around at the top of the hill. If he backed into the first drive, the trees would block the view.

Though he was dying to take the ring out of his pocket and look it over, he didn’t dare. Someone might walk by and notice what he was doing. He nearly jumped out of his skin when his cell phone rang.

“Yes?”

“You can go on home. Charlie Brody and Lou Stack will take care of the Rooneys.”

“There’s a new situation here …”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, the yard sale. Charlie and Stack will take them somewhere quiet. They’re experts. They’ll get Rooney to talk.”

“Sir, it’s going to take more than an expert. I’m looking at Rooney right now, and I’m telling you, he ain’t gonna be talking to anybody.”

FIVE

SOMETIMES THE WORRY ABOUT HER GRANDMOTHER WOULD become so intense, Lyra would get sick to her stomach and couldn’t eat. During the Dr. Timothy Freeman debacle, she’d lost seven pounds, but once the noted psychiatrist gave the court his findings regarding Gigi’s mental health, Lyra had quickly regained the weight.

Her grandmother’s son, Christopher Prescott, Jr., and his wife, Judith—who also happened to be Lyra’s parents, though she was loathe to admit it—initiated the shenanigans when one night at dinner Gigi announced that she was going to make an appointment with her attorney to tweak some of the conditions of her trust. Since Gigi was spending time with a widowed gentleman she spoke fondly of, her son, with his wife’s guidance, jumped to the conclusion that Gigi was going to include said gentleman in her will. God forbid, she might even decide to leave everything to him. The possibility that they could be bilked out of her fortune gave Lyra’s parents chills. They had become quite accustomed to the lifestyle her money provided, and they wanted nothing to change.

Christopher cunningly waited until Lyra’s two brothers, Owen and Cooper, were out of the country on business before taking action. Using Gigi’s advanced age as a matter of concern, he and his attorney filed papers requesting guardianship. The petition cited mental incapacity and asked the court to give Christopher power of attorney over all financial and medical decisions.

Dr. Freeman was called in to evaluate her grandmother. An efficient, no-nonsense physician, the doctor was also a kind man, and Gigi liked him. He administered a multitude of tests to determine her mental state, spending several two-hour sessions with her discussing everything from Christopher Columbus to the space shuttle. With her full cooperation, he admitted her to a nearby hospital for a complete physical examination including a CT scan.

The results of the tests were just as Lyra had expected and prayed for. Aside from some arthritis in her grandmother’s knees and hands, she was in excellent health, and mentally she was sharp as a tack. She wasn’t suffering from Alzheimer’s disease or any other form of dementia, and contrary to strong suggestions made by her daughter-in-law, Gigi wasn’t exhibiting any signs of senility.

The truly surprising moment came at the end of the hearing. The judge had been given a copy of Gigi’s trust, and just before he rendered his verdict, he asked Christopher Prescott if he had taken the time to read it.

“No, Your Honor, I haven’t,” Christopher admitted. “But my mother had my full approval when she made changes to her trust three or four years ago.”

The judge nodded. “And at that time, did you believe your mother was of sound mind?”

“Absolutely,” he answered. “It’s only lately that she has exhibited signs of … confusion.”

The judge held up the trust papers. “I see that you were given two hundred thousand at the time she had the trust rewritten.”

“Yes, I was given that amount, but I assure you, I wouldn’t have accepted it if I had thought she was unable to make sound judgments.”

“For the record, Mr. Prescott, the conditions of the trust state that if your mother should become incapacitated, her granddaughter, Lyra Decoursey Prescott, would become her guardian. She would have power of attorney over her medical and financial decisions.”

“But I am executor of the estate when my mother dies,” Christopher said.

The judge shook his head. “No, you are not.”

Christopher’s mouth dropped open. His expression was almost as comical as his wife’s. Judith looked as though she’d just stepped off a Tilt-a-Whirl.

The judge promptly dismissed the case, ruling that Gigi was quite able to handle her own finances.

Throughout the tiresome ordeal, Gigi remained unruffled. After the hearing, she’d patted her son’s arm, kissed her daughter-in-law on the cheek, then hooked her arm through Lyra’s and suggested she take all of them out to dinner at her favorite restaurant.

At an early age, Lyra had recognized what an amazing woman her grandmother was, but after the hearing she realized all over again she was a force to be reckoned with. What was the expression? Oh, yes, crazy like a fox. That was her Gigi, all right. She had so charmed the psychiatrist and the judge that, when the results of the tests came in, they seemed just as pleased as Lyra. Gigi always knew exactly what she was doing … and why.

Despite the victory in court, Lyra was sure that her despicable father wasn’t going to stop trying to get control of his mother’s money, which meant that he wouldn’t give up on his shameful attempts to prove her incompetent. Her grandmother had managed to win this round, but Lyra worried that next time might prove more difficult.

Gigi was certainly not helping her cause. Now and then she did things that might be construed as downright bizarre.

In the past nine months, she had remodeled her downstairs bathroom three times. Lyra’s stomach started hurting after the second complete remodel. First, Gigi had the bath expanded, eliminating a storage closet for space. A few weeks later, she wanted it changed again, so she had a shower and a new pedestal sink installed, new floor, too. Once that was finished, she decided she wanted to go modern. She had the fixtures, the shower, and the sink ripped out and donated to Habitat for Humanity. The contractor, a sweet, patient man named Harlan Fishwater, didn’t complain. He put in a travertine marble floor, a rich wood cabinet with a granite countertop, and a water bowl that sat on top. He also replaced the wallpaper for the third time.

Harlan was going to start building shelves in the attic next while Gigi talked to an architect about remodeling her brand-new kitchen. That was when Lyra started losing weight again, concerned that Christopher and Judith would find another excuse to pounce. Despite Gigi’s assurances that everything was just fine, Lyra couldn’t understand her behavior—that is, until she found out quite by chance that Harlan was struggling to support his five children and a wife who had been laid off from her job. Harlan did fine work, but with the downturn in the economy, there weren’t many people interested in remodeling their homes. Gigi’s generous response had been to keep him busy.

But this was hardly the only time Gigi’s actions might be considered peculiar. The weekend that she took off without telling anyone came to mind. By the time she returned home, Lyra was frantic, and her grandmother—though sorry she’d caused any worry—absolutely refused to say where she’d gone.

Disappearing for days on end … that’s what Lyra’s father would say as he once again built his case.

And then there was the holy water. What in heaven’s name was that all about?

Lyra was thankful the traffic on the I-5 was light as she headed south. A stress-free drive would give her some much-needed time to figure out what to do before Father Henry visited.

She sped up to merge into another lane. A car cut her off and she swerved sharply. Books and DVDs flew everywhere, reminding her that she needed to do something about them. She shook her head as she recalled her experience that afternoon.

The yard sale had grabbed her attention when she was taking a shortcut through the posh neighborhood. Ever since she was a child, Lyra had been fascinated by these rituals, where people displayed their personal belongings to the world in hopes of bringing in a little cash.

While other people saw the sales as occasions to pick up cheap items, Lyra saw them as stories. As she would browse among the articles the owners had chosen to discard, she would create a narrative about the people and their lives. It was a strange thing to do, but as long as no one else knew about it, she didn’t care. Lyra used the stories she made up as creative exercises.

She usually didn’t look at clothing, but in one sale she saw a beautiful white wedding dress, vintage 1970, the tags still on. Obviously no one had worn it. In a box filled with pieces of jewelry, Lyra found a bracelet inscribed “Love you forever, John.” Lyra’s imagination took over, and she envisioned a young couple madly in love and on their way to the altar. Had the woman changed her mind or had he? One dramatic story emerged and then another, all triggered by that little price tag and an inscription.

The sale that caught her attention today was particularly odd. Lyra couldn’t quite make out the story behind this one yet. The frantic woman throwing all of her treasures out had a noticeably strange look in her eyes. She seemed desperate to be rid of everything, shouting to people to just take whatever they wanted.

Lyra’s downfall was books. She couldn’t walk by one without looking at it, so naturally she had been drawn to the pile in the center of the yard. When she knelt and picked up a couple, she was amazed at what she found. Some of them were quite old. She opened a worn copy of The Grapes of Wrath and looked at the title page. Clearly inscribed on it was John Steinbeck’s signature. She carefully turned the page and looked at the copyright, realizing it had to be a first edition. Gently laying the book down, she reached for another, The Lord of the Rings. Inside was Tolkien’s signature. She went through a dozen other classic books and found four more signed copies. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. In this pile, haphazardly strewn across the grass, there had to be a fortune in first edition and inscribed volumes. Surely the hysterical woman rushing around the lawn had no idea what she was giving away.