Jeff stuck his head through the beads.
“Ready? We need to get Bernie back.”
“Sure,” I said, sticking my phone in my bag.
We all went out the back, and Bernie gave me the keys to the white rental, which I saw now was one of those little Chevy Aveos that are no bigger than my kitchen table.
“Drive safe,” Bernie said nervously.
Jeff chuckled. “She’s the safest driver I know. No worries.” He began to steer Bernie toward the alley so they could go out front where the Pontiac was parked. “I’ll wait out front for you,” he tossed back at me before they disappeared.
The car was small, and my head almost hit the ceiling. It was almost as bad as Bitsy’s Mini Cooper. But not quite.
Sylvia’s yellow quilted bag sat on the passenger seat next to me. I picked it up and fingered the fabric, which was frayed around the edges. Why would she want this old thing? I opened it up and peered inside. Nothing, except a small piece of paper at the bottom.
I couldn’t help myself. I plucked it out and turned on the overhead light to read it.
It was a bank withdrawal receipt. Sylvia had withdrawn ten thousand dollars from her account.
Chapter 51
I let out a long breath and sat back in my seat, holding the receipt. Between the ten grand in Lucci’s locker, Dan Franklin’s ten grand, and now this, we were looking at thirty thousand dollars floating around. Unless, of course, Lucci’s money was from either Franklin or Sylvia.
I checked the date on the receipt.
The day before the wedding.
Had Sylvia given Lucci the money? Had she remembered about this receipt and asked Bernie to get it so no one would find out?
I tried to tell myself that Sylvia could’ve taken the money out for anything. It could’ve been to pay for their honeymoon. Although the Grand Canyon wouldn’t cost that much, and they were driving themselves. And I knew how little it cost to get married at one of those wedding chapels, so that wouldn’t cost much, either.
I stuffed the receipt back in the bag and resolved to ask her about it directly when I got to Rosalie’s.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to mention it to Jeff, in case I was way off base. He wouldn’t like it if I was interrogating Sylvia. At least without telling him why ahead of time.
I pulled out of the alley and turned the corner to see Jeff and Bernie sitting in the Pontiac, waiting for me. Jeff made a sort of gesture with his hands that made me realize I’d taken way too long ruminating about that bank receipt.
In a few minutes we were on Charleston Boulevard, heading toward Summerlin-and Red Rock Canyon.
I’d never been out there at night, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Because it was definitely night now, and the mountains blended in with the sky, so it looked like a black hole in the distance. It had gotten chillier, and I wished I’d thought to bring my jacket with me, but when I started out for Godiva, I had no idea where the journey would take me.
I shivered as I watched Jeff’s turn signal flash red.
We pulled into a condo complex that didn’t even attempt to look any different than any of the other condo complexes out here. In the dark I couldn’t tell whether the buildings were brown or beige, but I was willing to bet they were one or the other. The plantings were nicely done, adding to the desert theme of the complex. No fountains that I could see, which made me happy. At least they weren’t wasting water.
Jeff eased the Pontiac in front of one of the town houses. All the lights were on inside. Every room. Okay, so there was no water waste, but what about electricity? I parked the Chevy behind Jeff.
“Where were you?” he asked as I approached, my bag and Sylvia’s bag in hand.
Bernie grabbed Sylvia’s bag. “I’ll take that,” he said. As if he wanted to be the one to hand her the bag, since it had been his mission to go get it. I had no problem with that, even though I doubted it would make any difference to Sylvia.
Bernie led the way into the foyer, which was painted gray with a mauve trim. A wreath of dried flowers hung on the wall over a white table with three fat candles of varying heights that smelled like vanilla. A little precious for my taste.
“Where have you been?” Sylvia stepped out of the kitchen on our left, a dish towel wrapped around her waist, doubling as an apron. She wielded a wooden spoon.
I smelled it then, the distinct scent of tomato sauce. Homemade tomato sauce, not that stuff you get in a jar. My stomach growled. Loudly.
Jeff laughed. Sylvia merely patted my arm, then pulled me into the kitchen with her, the spoon leading the way.
“I’ve got a nice pot of sauce going. You make a salad.”
It was an order. But I wasn’t going to argue. I opened the refrigerator and started taking out lettuce, cucumbers, and carrots.
Sylvia had already put a bowl on the granite-top island for me. I dumped the salad makings next to it and began washing the lettuce while she stirred the sauce. I glanced around at the country kitchen, with its white French cabinets and sleek stainless steel appliances. Lou Marino must have done pretty well as an impersonator, or else Rosalie was making more money than I thought over at the university.
“So where did you find Bernie?” Sylvia asked as she produced a can of chickpeas and handed it to me.
I glanced around but didn’t see Bernie or Jeff. Or Rosalie, either.
“He was at Murder Ink,” I said.
“Why on earth was he over there?”
She had her back to me, so I couldn’t see her face.
“He went to pick up your bag for you.”
Sylvia didn’t say anything for a second, then, “Oh, oh, that’s right.”
Something was off. Either she really didn’t know why Bernie was at Murder Ink or she was having one of her all-too-frequent senior moments. I couldn’t tell.
Sylvia came over next to me, wiping her hands on a towel, and peered into the bowl, where I’d already assembled a pretty decent looking salad.
“You’ll find, dear, that men sometimes do the damndest things.” And then she was back to the stove, emptying a box of spaghetti into a pot of boiling water.
I rinsed the chickpeas in the sink before putting them in the salad. Sylvia was nodding, watching me.
I couldn’t help myself. No one else was in here with us, so it seemed as good a time as any.
“Do you know that Ray left a duffel bag with ten thousand dollars in his locker at That’s Amore?” I asked as casually as I could.
“Where did he get that kind of money?” she asked.
I studied her face for any sign of recognition that she knew about the money, but nothing. I took a stab in the dark.
“You didn’t give it to him, did you?”
Sylvia chuckled. “Do you think I did?”
“You withdrew ten grand from your bank account the day before your wedding,” I said. “I saw the receipt.”
No flicker in her eyes, no twitch of her cheek. She continued to smile at me.
“I think that’s my business, don’t you, dear?” And Sylvia went out into the living room to tell everyone dinner was on.
I nearly bumped into Bernie as I brought plates to the dining room.
“Don’t harass her,” he said softly.
“I’m not,” I assured him, although I really wanted to press the issue. I’d have to find another way around
