Deadly Dues by Linda Kupecek Page B

to.” He took a gulp of coffee and stared at me.
    â€œYou were kidding, right?”
    â€œI’m not kidding,” I said plaintively. “I went through hell tonight, even worse than in Stan’s office.”
    We both looked out the window, past the flowery, ruffled curtains that Sally had left behind, into the dark of the leaves outside his window, barely illuminated by faint streetlights.
    Pete and Sally had two great kids, one in hockey, the other studying violin, but he saw them only once a week since she left him. There had been no dramatics in their split. She had simply left with the kids, and now their lawyers were trying to resolve it. I guessed that perhaps the lies had sparked some other issues in their marriage, and that, in those mysterious ways of departures and breakups, living together was no longer possible for her. Their kids, Ryan and Lori, adored Pete and missed him. But Sally was now telling them that having an actor for a father was worse than no father at all.
    â€œDamn him,” said Pete quietly. I nodded, staring into my coffee. One didn’t like to bad-mouth the dead, but Stan had ruined Pete’s marriage. I had never seen him so desolate, not even after the lousy reviews for his one-man show. Because of Stan. And, damn him, where were my royalties?
    I sighed and took another sip of coffee. Pete watched me for a moment. My dimple is a dead giveaway to my friends. Sometimes it is a happy dimple. Sometimes it is a sad dimple. Open to interpretation. Only my best friends know for sure.
    â€œMaybe the union will be able to track your money now,” he said.
    â€œSure,” I said, trying to sound blasé and jaded. “Stan and Sherilyn probably stashed it in the Grand Caymans. Probably paid for their holidays—”
    Pete’s eyes widened. “Damn, I wondered where they got the money for those trips. Did you hear where they stayed the last time they went there? Some resort with waterfalls and personal servants and pedicures every day—”
    â€œStop!” I shouted. “I draw the line at pedicures!”
    I shoved myself out of my chair, grabbed my bag and started for the door. It had been a long day, and suddenly I couldn’t bear to hear about the pedicures that two totally vile people had taken on my money while I was dishing out chicken nuggets at McDonald’s. I had gone to Pete for comfort, hoping that together we could figure out who had killed Stan, but now I was in no state to carry on a civilized discussion.
    â€œLu!” said Pete, but I was already at my car door, hauling it open and hating the Sunfire, wishing I still had my BMW, but that was gone too. Long gone. Everything was gone. Including Horatio.
    â€œLu, you might want to change your clothes!” he shouted after me. A light switched on across the street. I sniffed at myself, cringed, churned up Mulgrave Street and turned left onto Central. It was now four in the morning, and the streets were deserted. The street lights, half of which were dimmed due to the city’s highly intelligent program of alternating lighting in order to save energy (while half the population of the city was mugged in the dark), glowed intermittently at me as I chugged along Central.
    What a life, I thought. Discover Dead Body Number One. Go for Drinks. Go Home. Get Assaulted. Discover Dead Body Number Two. Lose Dog. Seek Solace with Friends. Hear About Other People’s Beautiful Lives. Drive Home in Dark to Deserted Condo. What could be more appealing?
    For the second time in what was only a few hours (but what seemed like a lifetime), I pulled into my driveway and sat in my car. We suit each other, I thought. Tanked, rusted, without hope or prospects. And definitely the worse for wear. At least I had a bankable dimple. The old beater had lots, but none as cute as mine.
    For a moment, I worked on creative visualization and imagined dear old Horatio slumped up against the door,