The Ticket Out by Helen Knode Page A

nearly gagged on the smell of his cologne.
    He said, “You Greta Stenholm?”
    I tried to ease past him. “Yes, I mean, no—”
    He grabbed my arm and pushed me into the utility room. He pinned me to the wall, pulled an envelope out of his waistband, and laid it alongside my cheek. My mind said to kick him, but I couldn’t. My legs froze—I froze.
    He said,
“Take it.”
    I couldn’t lift my arm. He jammed the envelope into my coat pocket. I heard the pocket rip.
    â€œMy client says to forget the second part. It isn’t doable.”
    He gave me a shove and let go. That unfroze me. I kicked out and caught his shin. The guy didn’t blink: he raised a fist and slugged me right in the face. My head hit the wall, my knees hit the floor, and the room went black.

CHAPTER SIX

    I WAS UNCONSCIOUS for a solid half hour. I’d been punched before, and I took a pretty good one, but I’d never been hit that hard ever. When I came to, I couldn’t even sit up. My head spun and I felt hot all over. All I could do was lie there and stare at the brooms.
    I felt a lump pressing my hip and remembered the envelope. I reached for it, bit open the flap, and counted the separate bundles. I handled everything as best I could by the edges. It was slow work, lying on my side. I counted twice to make myself believe it.
    The envelope contained twenty thousand dollars. The money was still in its original bank wrappers. Twenty thousand-dollar bundles in new hundred-dollar bills.
    Twenty thousand bucks in cash.
    I managed eventually to stand up. Using the broom rack for support, I stuffed the money in my jeans. My head hurt so bad that my eyes watered. I felt my way out of the utility room, wiping the tears off as I went. How I found the car I couldn’t say. How I got home I couldn’t say. Los Feliz wasn’t far from Hollywood but the trip was a blur. I remembered stopping a couple of times to rest.
    Three reporters had staked out the mansion. As I pulled into the drive, they surrounded my car and started asking questions. I told them no comment, go away. They kept at me. I lost my temper and told them to fuck off. The tone turned ugly. One guy threatened to ram my car. I locked the doors and prepared to wait them out. Feeling hot and dizzy, I lay back on the seat and fainted again.
    When I woke up at midnight the reporters were gone.
    Â 
    I ROLLED OVER in bed and slowly opened my eyes. I was looking at French doors, a balcony, and bright blue sky. The light hurt. I covered my eyes and tried to think where I was. What did I do after I parked...
    It came back to me. I was upstairs in the mansion. I had crashed on the foldaway couch when I realized I couldn’t face the pool house at night. I’d decided not to sleep there until they caught the killer. Or I stopped feeling weird about living where someone had died—if I ever did.
    I uncovered my eyes and checked the time. Early. I wanted more sleep, but I knew I couldn’t.
    I sat up.
    The movement jarred my head. It started to ache. It made my teeth and jaw ache.
    I had dumped my clothes beside the bed. Reaching down, I felt around and grabbed the envelope. I smoothed the blankets and emptied the money out in a pile. I arranged the bundles into two rows of ten. Then I rearranged them to make a G and an S.
    The money proved two things. It proved that she
did
blackmail someone; it wasn’t just a logical leap based on the spanking picture and her empty wallet. And it proved that the blackmail wasn’t related to her death. You wouldn’t pay her off a day after you’d murdered her.
    But I still had questions. Why would she blackmail someone when she’d sold her script? Why didn’t the goon in the Hawaiian shirt know what Stenholm looked like? What about the last thing he said? What was the second part that wasn’t doable?
    I fiddled with the S and reviewed my options.
    The money put me in concrete