bitch didn’t even trust her own son to control Acme. She gave a ten percent share to Glenys instead, which means I have no control and can’t burn the place down. Can we run away to the South Pacific now that I’m a gazillionaire?”
“We were just discussing possibilities, Senator,” I said politely. “I’m sure the mansion can be donated to a worthy cause or sold to developers. Your lawyers will be happy to advise you. You really need to talk to your father about the other. Closing Acme is not advisable under the circumstances.” Not if pink particles might cure cancer or whatever Paddy was implying.
“Who’s there, Justy?” Dane/Max demanded.
“Witnesses,” I said snidely, aware that I had a riveted audience. Andre gripped his chair arms and looked as if he’d rocket into orbit any minute.
“You need to come over here and talk in private?” he asked. Brilliant man, my Max. I liked having him back, as long as I didn’t have to see him in Dane’s disguise.
“Not when the news breaks. Acme and I don’t have a good rapport, and you don’t want their goons suspicious of you. I seriously suggest that you not allow the MacNeills to have control of the plant. Do you understand?”
Michael MacNeill, Max’s ethically challenged father, was also Glenys’s father. Now that Glenys had a share, they’d probably control Acme, unless Grandma Ida bothered to resume her authority. Dane really needed to keep his paws out of that mess if he wanted to keep his senate seat.
Max was silent for a moment. He had been investigating Acme before he died, so he had to know his father had supported whatever went on over there.
“Snodgrass says I need to put the shares into the trust,” he said cautiously. “He’s one of the executors.”
“There should be more than one executor. Don’t let MacNeill be another.”
“You want me to make
“Other than the wonderful scene that creates in my head as he consults with Snodgrass, yeah, that guarantees a better balance,” I agreed, trying not to reveal too much to my audience in case Max didn’t heed my advice. “You really need Zone input.”
“You’re crazy,” he said after a moment’s silence. “You’ve gone around the bend. You want Nutzoid Paddy and the Zone to stand up against my . . . MacNeill?”
“Or make Grandmother Ida smack his hands,” I agreed, not arguing with the crazy bit. I figured we were all a bit crazy.
“It has a warped sort of justice. I’ll take it under consideration. I want to see you again, Justy.”
“Blackmail, Senator, very bad business. You know where to find me.”
I carefully closed the phone and met the gazes of my friends. “I did what I could, boys.” I turned to Paddy. “Get your hair cut, put on a suit, and go see Snodgrass if you really want to keep Acme out of MacNeill’s hands.”
28
I collapsed in my own bed that night, knowing Andre was back to reality and do-gooder Dane/Max had inherited part of the Bane of Our Existence. That ought to put Gloria in her place—or the world had better stay away from gas lines.
I let Milo snore on the pillow next to mine to make up for not having a man beside me. I was starting to think that sane, safe Leo the Lieutenant was my best bet. He would never own mansions that opened on hell or chemical companies that gassed the helpless. He wouldn’t turn gray and pass out and dream about soldiers storming the house. Or take drugs that caused those nightmares.
I tossed and turned, disturbing Milo until he stalked off to the foot of the bed. One of the burrs under my collar was my first murder case. I was nervous about the court date next week. I’d never stood before a judge except when I’d been sentenced to jail. Not a reassuring memory. It had taken years to expunge my record and overcome the obstacles that minor conviction had created. I hated for Andre to suffer through worse.
Just before bed, I’d checked my tablet, but there hadn’t been any pertinent messages waiting. I’d left a note on Fat Chick’s page saying
I couldn’t sleep. If I counted midnight as the beginning of the day, I’d damned Bergdorff to hell in the wee hours of the morning. It had been nearly twenty hours since then, and I hadn’t seen any sign of reward or punishment. If my theory was correct about midnight being the witching hour when rewards were handed out, I wanted to be awake to argue with whoever did the handing out.
I was deathly afraid I’d be punished for damning Bergdorff, and that I’d be crippled for life or sent to the outer rings of hell instead of rewarded. Worse yet, I was stupidly hoping that if I deserved a reward, I could ask for the zombies to come back to life.
That was plenty enough to keep me awake despite my exhaustion. I heard church chimes in the distance and checked my clock. Midnight. Nothing happened. I waited. No mysterious entities appeared. I was afraid to look in a mirror. I patted my hair. It was still there. My leg was still whole. I felt normal.
Nothing. Maybe I was only entitled to so many rewards and after that, I was expected to know the routine? But how could I know if I’d judged Bergdorff correctly?
I couldn’t. No judge could. I’d have to live with his execution for the rest of my life. Wincing over that realization, I turned over and collapsed in complete exhaustion.
The next morning, I got up, gulped coffee and a Nutribar, and went in to shower and brush my teeth. I hated facing the mirror and waited until it was good and foggy before I’d stand in front of it.
I opened my mouth to insert the toothbrush . . . and froze.
The crooked gap between my two front teeth was gone.
Shit. I didn’t want any more physical rewards to remind me that I’d sent a man to hell. Every time I looked in the mirror, I could count the number of souls I’d sent to Satan, wittingly or not. And now I knew I’d sent another. Satan was probably smirking.
Dammit, I’d wanted to argue with the tooth fairy, ask that s/he free the zombies instead of rewarding me. I’d wished for it at the time Bergdorff went out the window. What more could I do?
The devil worked in mysterious ways. Or Saturn. Whatever.
Cursing, wondering why I didn’t at least get something useful like a bigger brain for sending souls to their just reward, I got dressed in reasonably professional attire and headed across the street to my office.
I started to use my new brass key to open the door but realized it was unlocked. Frowning, I glanced through the glass but didn’t see anything except my empty desk and scattered furniture. I needed to set up a file room and move the file drawers out of sight.
And get new locks, evidently. Bracing myself, I entered.
One of the black suits sat on a desk chair in a far dark corner. I contemplated hurriedly backing out, but this was
“Who let you in?” I demanded rudely.
He rose, and, to my utter amazement, I saw he wore a red rosebud in his lapel buttonhole. A red
He was relatively young, maybe even younger than me, but male-model handsome, complete with cleft chin and thick head of styled hair. Not my type. I’m not into pretty. I think I would have recognized the rose or the handkerchief if I’d seen them before, but the square face and broad shoulders? Nah, all the goons had them. Why did I have an ugly feeling that he was one of Acme’s security guards? Weren’t they all frogs just yesterday?
