Chesapeake Crimes: This Job Is Murder!

KEEP IT SIMPLE, by Shari Randall

“Well, happy birthday to me,” Serena muttered as she pulled into the parking lot of the Dutch Maid Motor Inn. It was her thirty-fifth birthday, but given her current surroundings, it wasn’t going to be her best one.

She cut the headlights and drove slowly to the rear of the shabby, one-story building. In a few months the lot would be jammed with the minivans and compact cars of budget travelers eager to hit nearby Mistucket Beach. But it was off season now, and just a smattering of old sedans and pickup trucks sat in the near-empty lot. Oh yeah, you blend, she thought, staring at the special edition Jag she’d followed into the lot. It stood out from these sullen old cars like a Vegas showgirl at a church picnic.

Serena chewed her bottom lip and scanned the building. A few moments later light outlined a flimsy curtain in a ground-floor unit. She sighed and reached for a cigarette. A decrepit Volvo and a slow-moving police cruiser had gotten between her and the Jag. She’d seen her targets pull into the motel but missed them walking from the car into the building. She’d have to see what opportunities the window offered.

Serena climbed out of her BMW, pulled a black canvas bag from the back seat, and cautiously circled the Jag. She scurried behind a Dumpster, crouched, and deftly assembled her equipment by the erratic light of the neighboring restaurant, its Waffles 24 Hours sign winking like a lecherous old man.

The curtains to room 112 jerked open. Serena froze. Just twenty feet and a sheet of dirty floor-to-ceiling glass separated her from her targets. Jeez, they must get a thrill out of doing it with the curtains open, Serena thought. Well, it makes the job a piece of cake.

Cheesecake, she amended, expertly focusing a tiny video camera on the zaftig blonde in the motel room.

Serena panned the interior of room 112. “Yup, I’m the Cecil B. DeMille of adultery,” she muttered around a smoldering Marlboro, capturing head shots as she had been taught. Establishing identity was the most important thing, her boss, Morty Acerman, said; otherwise it could be any two (or three or four) wandering spouses in there, see? And you need to get the Act Itself, also known as Zero Deniability in Morty-speak.

In the year she had worked for Morty, Serena had learned that it was the details rather than the Act Itself that steamed the spouses who hired Acerman Security to follow their wandering mates. When the husband dropped big money on jewelry and trips and flowers for the Other Woman, that’s what got them mad. Morty said that he hadn’t met the wife in this case but figured she had money; she had sent a hefty retainer through an intermediary.

Serena considered enlivening things with a shot of the voluptuous moon wrapped in a gauzy stole of clouds (traditional romantic imagery juxtaposed with the tawdry reality of the squat cinderblock love nest-once a film major, always a film major), but she came to her senses. Morty had warned her more than once about getting artsy. Keep it simple was Morty’s mantra. She appreciated that he left out the “stupid” for her. At least lighting wouldn’t be a problem. Every lamp in the room was burning; even the television was on. You guys are making this too easy, Serena thought. Amateurs.

They were both pretty new to the adultery thing, in her opinion. Serena had followed Krystle, a thirtyish elementary school guidance counselor, and Artie, the sixtyish president of Millard Department Stores, from Krystle’s townhouse to the Camelot Steak House, the neighboring town’s swankiest restaurant and club (if you liked large slabs of red meat and highballs with your senior discount), and finally to the Dutch Maid. They had both worn sunglasses, but Artie left the car’s top down. They had been pretty easy to keep in view, especially since Artie observed speed limits and Serena had a lead foot. Even Serena had to admit that tailing wasn’t her strong suit. She had been practically on their bumper the whole time, until the Volvo and police cruiser cut her off.

The bed was against the motel room’s right wall. Artie and Krystle perched on it like two kids waiting to see the principal. Behind them was a closet, its door ajar. Serena could see that Artie had taken the time to hang up his expensive gray suit jacket, shirt, and slacks. Krystle’s silky blue dress hung next to Artie’s jacket. Serena noted Artie’s shoes and Krystle’s blue pumps lined up next to each other in front of the bed. She hummed “Devil with a Blue Dress” while dragging on her Marlboro.

Krystle stood up abruptly and starting shimmying with Artie’s tie, then flung it away. She was in pretty good shape, kind of jiggly through the bust and hips, but not bad, Serena thought. Krystle quickly shed a polyester, industrial-strength bra and lace g-string. “Red and black! Tacky, tacky,” Serena scolded. She zoomed in on Artie’s face. Even through the telephoto lens, the sweat crowning his balding head and the purple flush of his complexion were evident. Hope he lives long enough to enjoy this, Serena thought. Jeez, if a guy ever looked that miserable about doing a mattress mambo with me, I’d hang up my thong.

Serena spat out the cigarette, ground it with the toe of her black, high-top sneaker, and returned her attention to the scene on camera. Krystle pushed Artie back on the bed, then coyly pulled up a sheet. Serena yawned. Evidently, Krystle felt that the best way to finish a disagreeable task was to get it over with quickly. Artie’s head was wedged between two pillows and was hard to see. After awhile, they both sat back against the tattered vinyl headboard, sheet tucked in under their chins, and shared a cigarette. It was the most intimate and loving gesture of the evening.

Serena glanced at her watch, mentally begging the hands to move faster. 10:30 p.m. Morty had told her to get as much as she could, so Serena leaned against the Dumpster, camcorder at the ready, although she had a feeling she’d seen all the action, such as it was, that would be happening in room 112.

She tried to get the motel room television in the shot, hoping the lovers were tuned in to Operating Theater. Monday night stakeouts made her miss her favorite television show. Serena carefully scanned the rutted parking lot. Artie’s Jag gleamed like a dull gold wedding band in the darkness. She scrambled to it, careful not to step into the pool of light from the lovers’ window, and draped herself comfortably on the hood of the car. She focused on the television screen and paused. CNN? Stock quotes? Weird and kinky.

Serena resumed filming the couple on the bed. Artie had poured himself a generous splash of… She zoomed in on the bottle of Chivas on the bedside table. Krystle sipped from a can of Diet Coke. Only the best for Krystle.

Serena yawned again and stretched as Artie worked on the Chivas and Krystle channel surfed. More than once Serena’s head nodded to the cool metal hood of the Jag. She hadn’t expected the sheer monotony of the private detective-in-training’s life. Following people and filming their most intimate moments had seemed an exciting way to make a living, but after only a few months, Serena had been amazed at how dull watching other people have sex could be.

The late spring air was warm and soft; the murmur of the ocean, only two blocks away, an irresistible lullaby. Serena carefully placed the camera on a mini pod, slid off the car, ran in place, and did jumping jacks. Feeling minimally refreshed, she resumed her place on the hood of the Jag and played Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Herbert Lom was in The Ladykillers with Sir Alec Guinness…hmm…who was in Star Wars with Harrison Ford, who was in The Fugitive with Tommy Lee Jones, who was in Men in Black with Will Smith, who was in Independence Day with Bill Paxton, who was in Apollo 13 with Kevin Bacon! Too easy. Esther Williams-

Movement from the room snapped her back to alertness. Artie was stumbling from the bed to the bathroom. Not surprising after all that booze. Krystle sat at the edge of the bed, glanced at her watch, then rose and yanked the curtain closed. Shadows spattered the flimsy gray fabric as lights in the room were turned off.

“Hallelujah,” Serena whispered. The camcorder’s date/time icon read one a.m. She broke down her equipment and stowed it in the duffel.

Serena started up her BMW and drove slowly from the parking lot. Once out of the lot, she flicked on the headlights and floored it. The Dutch Maid receded in the rear-view mirror as she sped past darkened T-shirt and souvenir shops and into the drive through of the twenty-four-hour Crusty’s Crab Shack. She hadn’t eaten anything except some breath mints since she began tailing Krystle and Artie. She shouted her order into Crusty’s shell-shaped mike, then picked up a Double Dynamite burger and-since it was her birthday-a large chocolate milkshake from a glassy-eyed teenager at the window. She needed a pick-me-up. Krystle and Artie’s encounter at the Dutch Maid was the most depressing assignment of her short career.

It was almost noon when Serena parked in front of Acerman Security. The company shared a graffiti-tattooed brick storefront with AAA Pest Control and New U! Weight Loss Clinic.

“So you decided to come to work today, Mata Hari.” Estelle Rein, Morty’s secretary, barely glanced away from her computer screen as Serena entered.

“Good morning to you too, Estelle.”

Morty poked his head out of his office.

Serena smiled at Morty. “Rhett and Scarlett kept me up.” So did the Crusty burger and milkshake, she added silently.

Serena handed Morty the canvas bag. It held the camera equipment plus some stills she had printed.

Although he wore his belt a little too high for her comfort, Serena had to admit that Morty still carried himself with the confidence of someone who had once been a G-man. She liked Morty. He had given her a chance when she really needed one. Though he did a tough job for some pretty crummy people, Morty still hustled. Serena didn’t want to hustle herself, but she admired it in Morty. And she liked the way he called her “kid.”

“Get in here.” Morty waved her into the office. “Hold the calls, Estelle.”

Serena could feel Estelle’s disapproving eyes follow her as Morty shut the door.

Morty shuffled behind the desk in the cramped office, and then sat down heavily on his squeaky office chair. “Heard the news this morning?”

Serena shook her head.

“I taped it. Watch.” Morty pressed a button on the TV remote, then clasped his hands as if in prayer, and leaned his forehead against them. Serena sank onto the brown vinyl couch opposite Morty’s desk.

A newswoman spoke urgently as wind whipped her hair about her face. She stood before a huge white clapboard house. The ocean visible behind it was a glossy postcard blue.

“Prominent Wavecrest Hill socialite Beatrice ‘Bunny’ Millard Stanley was found dead early this morning at Millard Hall, her seaside mansion. When the well-known community leader missed a breakfast meeting where she was scheduled to speak, family members and police were called to the home. Police are investigating the death, and sources confirm that an antique handgun from her family collection was found at her side. An apparent suicide note also was found and made available exclusively to the RIN news team by a source close to the family. The note was addressed to her husband, Millard Department Stores President Arthur Stanley. The note reads, ‘I can’t go on, Arthur. I can’t stand to see you unhappy. Once, the gift of love belonged to you and I. Now, I love you enough to set you free.’”

The reporter looked up from her clipboard. “For news team RIN, this is Becca Morecci.”

Serena’s eyes met Morty’s.

“Yeah, that’s right, the wife of the guy you tailed.”

Serena groaned.

“This thing feels dirty, well, dirtier than usual.” Morty opened the canvas bag. “Let’s look at that tape.”

The intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Estelle?”

“Mr. Acerman.” Estelle spoke loudly, distinctly, and nasally. Serena’s eyes met Morty’s again. Usually Estelle mumbled. This could only mean two things: trouble, or that a good-looking man was in the waiting room.

“Mr. Acerman,” Estelle continued with a wounded, maddening slowness. “Detectives Ritter and Falcone from the Oceanview Police Department are here to see you about a matter which they won’t discuss with me.”

Morty zipped the bag and handed it back to Serena. He pressed the intercom button. “Very well, Estelle. I’m almost finished here. Why don’t you get the two detectives some coffee?”

“Now I know it’s dirty,” Morty said. “Keep everything with you, get out of town, and turn off your phone. I want to look at everything before the police do. Rendezvous at the Sand Dollar at 1800.”

Serena resisted the urge to salute. She shouldered the bag and walked slowly and casually out of Morty’s office. She approved of Estelle’s taste; one of the detectives was a very good-looking blond (wedding band) and the other was even better looking, with dangerous dark eyes and tousled black curls (no wedding band). Serena smiled slightly at them both and then hustled into the parking lot as Morty invited the detectives into his office. She popped into her car and decided to treat herself to some shopping. No reason a girl couldn’t enjoy eluding the police.

That evening, after lobster rolls at the Sand Dollar, Serena and Morty drove to her oceanfront condo.

Serena handed Morty a bottle of beer and booted up her PC. They watched in uncomfortable silence, which amused Serena, since as a former film student she found the technical aspects of filming sexier than she found her subjects, and Morty had probably seen more sex acts than a projectionist in an X-rated movie house. She found his discomfort endearing. Morty studiously kept his eyes on the screen, as if making eye contact would embarrass her.

“I called one of my contacts at the department,” he said. “The detectives showed up because an anonymous caller tipped them off that Mrs. Stanley had hired Acerman Security to follow her husband. I told the detectives that you’d be returning from out of town early tomorrow morning and you’d give them everything you had.”

Morty sipped. Serena nodded. Krystle shimmied on the screen.

“The Stanleys had only daytime help,” Morty continued. “The housekeeper left Mrs. Stanley last night around five. She was eating a left-over seafood casserole since her husband was”-he made air quotes-“‘at a meeting.’ The housekeeper says that Mrs. Stanley believed in a quiet evening and early bedtime on days before she made her public appearances. She began a tutoring program for inner-city kids and was in demand as a speaker to community groups. The housekeeper knew about the affair. She insists that Mrs. Stanley did not. The housekeeper’s the one who leaked the note to the TV station. The autopsy is tonight.”

As they watched, Serena pointed out several things that had puzzled her.

“With me, Morty?”

“Yeah, kid, we were set up.”

“Nobody’s using me as their alibi.” Serena shook her head. “I still don’t know how they noticed me.”

“I should have put Lenny on this one. You’re the type a man notices, especially a guy with a wandering eye. And more importantly, definitely the type a jealous woman notices.” He sipped his beer. “And you gotta work on your tailing. Remember-”

Serena chanted along with him. “Stay back, relax, keep subject in view. And above all, keep it simple.” Serena smiled at him sweetly.

Morty’s ears turned pink.

Serena struggled out of bed at seven a.m. and blearily opened her closet door. Those detectives were cute. She toyed with the idea of meeting them at the door in her bathrobe. Down girl! She sagged against the door jamb. Was it her fault that she hadn’t had a date in over a year?

Serena virtuously chose a pair of slim-cut linen slacks and a silk blouse, then showered and dressed. Her years as a model made her movements efficient and quick, and she frowned only slightly at her rear view in the mirror. She took her breakfast (orange juice, multivitamin, cigarette) onto the patio and unfolded the newspaper.

A photo of Bunny, a heavy-set woman with the bull-dog sternness of a maximum-security prison matron, glowered from the front page. The text of the suicide note was included, the exclusive scoop to the TV station notwithstanding. The story offered no new developments, except for the difficulty of locating Mr. Stanley the morning after the death. The paper reported that Mr. Stanley had been “on an overnight business trip.” Serena guffawed, then turned to the obituaries. “Beatrice ‘Bunny’ Millard Stanley…only child of the founder of the Millard Department Stores chain…degree from Wellesley, cum laude…president of the Oceanview Library Circle…taught English literature at the Stonehaven School for Girls…started an innovative program to tutor at-risk inner-city students.”

Serena lifted her thick raven curls, letting the breeze dry the shower-damp tresses. In her work with Morty she’d seen her fill of older men taking up with young hootchies, tossing the wife on the dust heap of his mid-life crisis.

Serena rose and grasped the balcony railing. “I can’t go on Arthur. I can’t stand to see you unhappy. Once the gift of love belonged to you and I. Now I love you enough to set you free.” She shook her head and laughed. “Puhleeze, Bunny! Talk about B-movie dialogue!”

The breeze lifted the newspaper, and Serena scrambled to gather the wind-borne papers. She flattened them, reread the text of the suicide note, then flipped back to Bunny Stanley’s obituary. She slowly refolded the paper. “Bunny, they’re not getting away with it,” she muttered as the doorbell rang.

Serena arrived at work disappointed. Two female detectives had picked up everything from Monday night and had questioned her, their disdain for her and her profession barely veiled. Hers was equally strong. She had never seen such badly put together outfits. She had given simple, minimal, entirely truthful answers to their questions. She kept her observations and suspicions to herself.

Serena asked Estelle for the Stanley file, pressed some numbers into her cell phone, then took a meeting with Morty over a box of Dunkin Donuts. When she left, she stopped at Estelle’s desk.

“Estelle, I have a favor to ask you.”

Estelle’s green-shadowed eyes narrowed.

“Thanks for squeezing me in today,” Serena murmured as the middle-aged beautician deftly painted a coat of passion fruit lacquer on her nails.

“Not at all, hon. We’re not too busy this early in the week.”

“I have a job interview at Millard Department Store, and I want to look nice,” Serena lied.

“Oh, really, dear.” Anne Marie Curran, owner of Hair Today and Nails Too!, regarded her with watery blue eyes. “Worked there myself many years ago. In Foundations. My first husband is president of it now. And I just heard on the news that his wife killed herself. What a terrible thing.” She shook her head, setting dangle earrings swaying. Her heavily mascaraed eyes grew glossy with tears. “I wonder if I should call Artie?”

“Uh-”

“You’re right.” Anne Marie shrugged off the thought and briskly resumed her work. “I mean, it’s been years. We’re in the same town, but might as well be in different countries. Artie moved up in the world pretty quick with his second marriage.” She tsk-tsked. “What a thing, what a thing.”

“Were you and uh, Artie, married long?”

“No, just a couple of years. Artie, he liked expensive things. And she could give him those things.” She looked up briefly and stabbed the air with the orange-tipped brush as she said, “Bunny. That was her nickname. Her real name was Beatrice. Her father owned the department stores. Big girl, pushy if you ask me. God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead.”

She paused, cupping her chin in a ring-laden hand. “Don’t know what she saw in Artie. Well, he was kind of cuddly and old fashioned. What’s that word? Like the knights and ladies? Chiv something.”

“Chivalrous?”

“That’s it. But I like what I got.”

“Your family?” Serena nodded to a dozen framed photos.

“My grandbabies. My husband now, Jimmy, we had five of our own. Artie and I didn’t have any. Let’s just say that my Jimmy has more energy in the romance department.” She winked.

Serena laughed. “I like a little energy in the romance department myself.”

“Artie, well, things were fine, but truth be told he was kind of shy”-Anne Marie lowered her voice conspiratorially-“in the romance department, if you get my meaning.”

Serena nodded encouragingly.

“I kind of liked that about Artie. He was never pushy or anything.” Anne Marie paused wistfully. “Not too adventurous. He even liked the lights off. Didn’t undress in the light either. But that Bunny didn’t look too spicy herself, so they probably worked out fine.”

Serena pulled into the visitors’ parking lot of Oceanview Elementary School and slipped on sunglasses and a hat. After scanning Estelle’s files, she had called the office at Oceanview and asked for an interview with Miss Krystle Kawicki. She explained that she was a student at the university hoping to follow a fellow alumna’s footsteps into the guidance-counseling field and had a few questions. Fortuitously, Miss Kawicki had a few free minutes that afternoon.

A secretary directed Serena to the guidance counselor’s office. As Serena knocked, a pigtailed girl left while Krystle distractedly filed papers and waved her to a couch lined with worn teddy bears. Serena perched on the edge of the couch as Krystle resumed her seat. THE HUGS START HERE read a wooden sign on Krystle’s desk. “So what can I do for you, Miss DeMille?”

Serena took off the glasses and hat. “It’s about Artie.”

Krystle’s face remained frozen in mid-smile, but her eyes went blank and wary. “Artie who?” she asked brightly.

Serena pulled a still photo of Artie and Krystle at the Dutch Maid from her bag. She held it just out of Krystle’s reach.

Krystle bolted from her chair and yanked down the venetian blinds on her window to the hallway.

“What are you up to?” she hissed, her back pressed to the window.

Serena returned the photo to her bag, careful to keep her movements slow and smooth. Krystle panted with the tightly coiled energy of a cornered animal. Serena casually crossed her slim, long legs.

“Artie’s gonna rat you out,” Serena said. She could hear the surging murmur and muffled shouts of students changing classes in the hall outside Krystle’s office. “Let’s face it. You’re getting a little soft. Artie’s just using you to get all that wonderful money to himself. Sure he has a great job, but Bunny held the purse strings to the real money. And he’s gonna tell the cops that you did it, because…” She watched warily as Krystle picked up an oversized teddy bear, her fingernails digging into its soft, stuffed belly. “Because you’re the one who arranged the hit. Not Artie.”

Bull’s-eye, she thought, watching Krystle’s eyes narrow.

Krystle’s glossy red lips twisted. “You’re lying. Go ahead and show that picture to anybody. Artie loves me. An affair’s no big deal.”

Serena smiled comfortably. “Artie’s not your only problem. The guy you hired is. Not Acerman,” she explained quickly. “The hired gun. He’s a talker. You’d better take care of him. And in the meantime, you might want to give me some cash to keep quiet about your part in it.”

Krystle hurled the bear. “What I’m going to give you is a-”

Both women jumped when a little boy jerked the door open. “Isn’t it my Teddy Time, Miss Kawicki?”

“Just sit in the waiting chair, Timmy. I’ll be right with you.”

Serena was impressed by the cheerfully calm sing-song with which Krystle had addressed the little boy. Krystle was a good actress. Dangerously good.

“Let’s not hold up Timmy any longer.” Serena grabbed her bag. “I’ll see you here next week, Miss Kawicki.” Serena smiled slowly. “Thanks for the teddy time.”

Twenty minutes later, Serena chuckled as she watched Krystle race into the parking lot. Like a kid after an ice cream truck, she thought. Serena sank behind the wheel of Estelle’s maroon Yugo as Krystle’s Jetta screeched into the traffic on Cliffside Avenue. It hadn’t been hard to convince Estelle to switch cars for the day. Morty said never tail the same subject in the same car. Serena let a couple of cars slip between the Yugo and Krystle’s Jetta. “Stay back, relax, keep subject in view. And above all, keep it simple,” she chanted. Her cell chimed. A text message from Morty: Founders Park. Serena smiled; she hadn’t known where Krystle would go, but she was pretty sure what she would do.

She followed Krystle to Founders Park and was gratified to note that Krystle had parked her car directly next to Artie’s Jag. Krystle scurried down the path to the lakefront. Serena scanned the parking lot. Minivans occupied the slots nearby. A minivan would be great cover, Serena thought. But the guy she was looking for would drive a-bingo! Serena pulled Estelle’s Yugo next to a hyper-masculine, custom Suburban. It was parked near the exit, out of the mainstream, ready for a hasty exit. Like a pro. She snapped a photo of the license plate and then strolled onto the path Krystle had taken.

“Kid,” called a voice from behind a newspaper. Serena joined Morty on a park bench overlooking the lake.

“Well?”

“By the paddle boats.”

Morty flipped casually through the sports pages of the Oceanview Observer as Serena pretended to snap photos of the ornate Victorian boathouse.

Through her powerful zoom lens, Serena focused on two men leaning on the railing overlooking the boat basin. One was Artie, holding a large, plastic Romantic Antics shopping bag.

“The bag’s a nice comic touch.” Serena focused on the man to Artie’s right. She whistled. “Big biceps.”

“Yeah.” The Oceanview Observer curled down. “The hit man. Name’s Donnie Urbanski. Works for State and National Transport. They’re a front for the DiNuzzo family. He’s Krystle Kawicki’s cousin.”

Serena watched events unfold through her camera like a silent movie. Urbanski leaned casually on the low railing, watching the paddle boats churn the calm lake waters. Like King Kong in a philosophical moment. Artie inched nervously to Urbanski’s side and pressed the bag into his hand. Irritation ruffled Urbanski’s bland facade.

A blond blur moved into Serena’s view. “Here comes Krystle. I think we’re gonna have a Jerry Springer moment.”

The Oceanview Observer and Morty stood to get a better look.

Krystle strode with tight control toward Artie, then whirled and sucker punched Urbanski. The big man’s arms windmilled as he bounced off the railing and staggered to regain his balance. Urbanski rearranged his sunglasses and smoothed his hair, then walked away as unobtrusively as a burly man carrying a lavender shopping bag could. Artie pulled Krystle toward him, stroking her towering blond hair. She slapped away his hand. She was too involved in her tirade to notice that two joggers had stopped Urbanski. Neatly bundled stacks of currency tumbled to the ground as Urbanski dropped the shopping bag and attempted to run, but was efficiently subdued. Two women sitting on a nearby bench then rose and flashed badges at Artie and Krystle. A police van and two cruisers screeched into the parking lot. Serena felt a fleeting stab of sympathy as Artie cringed. Krystle flailed at Artie and then at the women who attempted to peel her off him. Serena wasn’t surprised to see Krystle clawing and pulling the undercover policewomen’s hair as they struggled to cuff her.

“I knew she’d fight dirty. Time to roll the credits on this little comedy.” Serena slipped the camera strap over her shoulder and pointed to a hot dog cart. “Hey, they’ve got Grote and Weigels.”

Morty insisted on paying. “Wasn’t it your birthday Monday?” he asked. Serena beamed. They sat at a picnic table by the parking lot, watching along with a crowd of curious mothers, children, and senior citizens as the cruisers and van pulled away.

“So the police were watching Artie anyway.” Serena shook a mustard packet and bit it open.

“Yeah. You always think about the spouse first. Glad you got Kawicki here in time to incriminate herself. Urbanski may have given her up, but Artie’s definitely the type to try to protect a woman. Even if she doesn’t deserve it.”

“Chivalrous,” Serena said.

“Krystle’d be on the first plane to the Bahamas.” Morty chewed appreciatively. “Then when Artie’s-well, Bunny’s-money ran out, she’d probably find herself another sap. But it all worked out. Just a couple phone calls and presto. Sting operation. Kawicki and Stanley caught red-handed paying off the hit man. Cops more than willing to take the credit.” Morty’s eyebrows rose. “Speaking of which…”

“Hey, Morty.” The two undercover joggers joined them. Falcone and Ritter from the office. They looked even more devastatingly handsome in jogging gear. To her horror, Serena felt a large gob of mustard drip from her hot dog onto her shirt.

“Good to see it worked out.” Morty nodded toward two empty spots at the table.

“Thanks, Morty. Serena, right?” Falcone said.

Serena nodded and wiped the mustard furiously. Her mind went momentarily blank as the men settled their sweaty, athletic frames onto the benches.

“Grateful for your help, Morty, but you’ve got to tell me, how’d you put it together?” Ritter asked.

Morty grinned at Serena. The men turned to Serena, Serena’s eyes met Falcone’s, and she forgot about the mustard.

“Because we had nothing solid,” Ritter continued. “No forensics from the house. Side door left conveniently unlocked, so no break in. Autopy showed Mrs. Stanley slightly sedated, just enough to make it easy for a hit man and not enough to seem suspicious.”

“Easy enough for hubby to put something in her dinner before he left for the night.” Morty nodded. “Could even be seen as part of the suicide attempt.”

Serena tore her gaze away. “I can see Artie doing something non-confrontational and sneaky like that, especially if under orders from Krystle.”

“Miss Kawicki.” Ritter frowned. “My kids go to Oceanview.”

“Kawicki’s Donnie Urbanski’s cousin,” Morty added.

“Nice family,” Serena and Falcone said at the same time.

“Owe me a coke.” Serena smiled at Falcone. His ears turned pink.

Morty cleared his throat.

“The big problem was your surveillance,” Falcone said. “Talk about a rock-solid alibi for Kawicki and Stanley. The medical examiner put the time of death between seven and midnight.”

“And I tailed them from six until one in the morning. Alibis Are Us.” Serena sipped a Pepsi thoughtfully. “Still, seems like a pretty embarrassing plan for him. I mean, he’s off with his girlfriend while his wife’s committing suicide.”

“Yeah, but what an alibi. Not only witnessed, but recorded,” Morty said.

“What made you think it wasn’t suicide?” Falcone’s deep brown eyes turned shrewd.

Serena took the last bite of her hot dog, and chewed slowly, savoring.

“It was the shoes and the ‘you and I’,” she said.

Ritter looked blank. “The shoes and the you and me?”

“Exactly. At the Dutch Maid, their shoes were lined up together, just like little soldiers. Their clothes were hung up. Let’s just say that keeping the room tidy is not the first thing two people in a motel room have on their minds. Plus the curtains were open-on the first floor-and every light was on.” She licked mustard and relish from her fingers. “They made it too easy.”

“They could have been, what, exhibitionists.” Morty dabbed his lips with a napkin.

Serena nodded. “That’s the first thing you think of. Remember the first job you sent me on, with the retired trapeze artist and the state senator?”

“Heh, heh, heh.” Morty chuckled.

Falcone’s eyebrows shot up. Ritter laughed.

“But I talked to the first Mrs. Artie. She said he liked the lights off. Sure lots of guys change with a new woman, but then there was the ‘you and I’ from a former English teacher.”

“I don’t understand,” Falcone said.

Morty grinned.

“The suicide note said, ‘Once the gift of love belonged to you and I.’ Bunny was an English teacher. She never would have written ‘the gift of love belonged to you and I.’ It should have read, ‘the gift of love belonged to you and me.’ When I heard it on TV, I figured it was the reporter making a mistake. Then I read the text of the suicide note in the paper. The pronoun should have been in the objective case.”

Morty raised his can of soda in tribute. “Smart girl.”

“So you two cooked up this sting based on some shoes and two little words.” Falcone smiled.

“Freakin’ awesome,” Ritter said. His cell buzzed. Ritter glanced at the screen. “We gotta go.”

“Morty.” The detectives shook hands with Morty, then Serena, with Falcone’s hand lingering a second too long.

“Serena, I’ll have to give you a rain check on that coke.” Falcone grinned and walked up the path.

Morty and Serena tossed their trash. “You know, Morty, they didn’t even need that flowery suicide note. They should have kept it simple.”

“There isn’t too much simpler than greed, kid.”

Serena watched the detectives. Falcone threw not one but two glances back her way.

Or men, she thought.

Shari Randall works in children’s services in a public library. She lives in Virginia with a wonderful husband and has occasional visits from two globe-trotting children. She enjoys dance from ballet to ballroom, antiques, and mystery fiction.