“Last summer,” I began, “Stiletto and I came across a dead body in the park. It was the victim of a hit and run, and the body was later identified as having once been Chester Zug.”
The women murmured to one another. Vilnia sat down.
“The person in the car that ran over Chester was a young woman named Merry Metzger. She was the wife of Henry Metzger, the former chairman of Lehigh Steel and undoubtedly the most powerful person Lehigh has ever known. Shortly after that accident, Henry Metzger fled the country. His plane crashed and burned on a Central American runway. He and his wife were presumed dead.”
“I know of Henry Metzger,” Vilnia said. “Of course, Lehigh Steel had working relationships with all the coal companies up here. Steel needs coal and coal needs steel.”
“The Lehigh Valley Railroad connects the two,” offered Roxanne.
“You’re right. And I was thinking of that just the other day.” Now I was the one who was pacing. “I should have put it together sooner. The fact that Steve Stiletto’s imposter knew all about Stiletto and that he had access to his house. That’s because Stiletto’s imposter once owned his house.” I paused, unable to verbalize the horrible truth that had held Stiletto back from freely committing himself to me, or any woman. “Henry Metzger was—is—Steve Stiletto’s stepfather.”
The women exchanged glances, confused.
“You guys,” I said, resting my hands on the table, “the person who you fear will buy the Dead Zone from Chrissy Price, the person who hired Zeke Allen to stalk me and who put pressure on Hugh McMullen to get that fire extinguisher finished is Henry Metzger.”
“But I thought he was dead,” Vilnia said.
“My assumption is that he faked his death,” I said. “And that doesn’t surprise me. Henry Metzger can influence even the most responsible people to lie, steal and murder for him—especially a corrupt Central American coroner. I bet he’s been pulling strings like a puppeteer from his home in the Cayman Islands.”
“She’s right. Henry Metzger is alive.”
We all turned around to find Chrissy Price in the doorway, her hair rumpled from sleep and the oversized sweatshirt she was wearing wrinkled.
“Chrissy!” Vilnia hopped up. “Go back to bed.”
Chrissy yawned. “I’m not tired. I just had a nap. So what’s this about Henry Metzger, Bubbles?”
I stepped back and leaned against the sink. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Okay. Now that you’ve asked.” She turned to the women. “Is it all right if I enter your precious inner sanctum or are you going to banish me to the living room to watch Bugs Bunny?”
Vilnia stood and offered her a seat. Chrissy sat while Vilnia brewed up another pot of coffee.
“Before I met Bud, I used to work as a hostess in a casino in Atlantic City. For the record,” she held up her hand like she was volunteering in class, “I was the one who suggested putting a casino on the Dead Zone, thank you very much.”
“Thank you,” Roxanne said sincerely.
“Anyway, as hostess my job was to cater to the executives, often Lehigh Steel executives, when they came to our casino on junkets. For example, I found out what each man drank—and, yes, ladies, we’re talking men only—so I had their brands in the minibar when they arrived in their rooms. If they wanted to play golf in the morning, I had the limo ready at eight to take them. If they wanted to gamble, I reserved a spot for them at the baccarat table.”
“I’m sure that wasn’t all they wanted, was it, Chrissy?” I said.
Her eyes glinted. “No, Bubbles, it wasn’t. And I will personally come to your house and sock you in the mouth if you let this get out to Sasha, but I was Henry Metzger’s favorite. I knew what he liked, I knew when he liked it, how often and where. I was an extremely attentive hostess.”
“Bully for you,” said Roxanne. “Hostessing is a lost art these days.”
I lightly kicked her ankle.
“I also became extremely familiar with his voice. It was convenient, as you may imagine, for clients not to have to identify themselves to me when calling. Henry would telephone my office and reserve the following Friday and I’d know who it was.” She smoothed the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “After I married Bud, I quit my job and moved to Lehigh. Sometimes Bud and I would be at the country club and I’d hear Henry talking in the hallway or out of sight and it was like being in Atlantic City all over again. It made me feel cheap and worthless, that voice of his.”
Vilnia handed her a glass of water. Chrissy took a few sips and put it down. “I heard that voice again Wednesday evening.”
She cleared her throat and Tammy gripped her hand. “Go on, Chrissy,” Tammy said. “It’ll help.”
“We had just sat down for dinner, Bud and me because he didn’t like Sasha to eat with us. But that’s another story. Anyway, the phone rang. Wednesday evening is the maid’s night off, so I got it. I can still hear him crystal clear. He said, ‘Is Bud Price there, please?’ I can’t tell you how freaked I was. It was like hearing a ghost.”
She began to cry and Roxanne passed her the box of tissues. Chrissy continued. “I said, ‘Henry? Is it you?’ And he said, ‘I need to talk to Bud.’ So I handed Bud the phone.”
“Then what happened?” I asked.
She blew her nose. “I’m not sure, exactly. Bud took the phone into the library and shut the door. When he came out he was fuming. I mean about to explode. He said, ‘I’ve got to go to Slagville and talk to Koolball right now.’ And he left. His Cornish game hens sat there on the plate, untouched. That was the last I saw of him. That’s why I had to come here, to Slagville. To try and make sense of it all.”
Chrissy was now in full weep. When she had recovered somewhat, I asked her if she had told the police that story.
“Partly. I told them that Bud had gone to meet Koolball, but I didn’t tell them that the voice on the phone belonged to Henry Metzger. I mean, they would have thought I was a lunatic. Henry Metzger’s dead.” She let her hands fall on her thin little thighs. “Or so I thought.”
“Or so we all thought.” I studied my nails and tried to find the right words. “Chrissy, if Henry Metzger is alive, he may have been in Slagville today.”
“Yeah?” She dabbed mascara off her cheeks.
“This afternoon a police car picked up Sasha.”
Chrissy stopped dabbing. “Where?”
“She was in the car with my daughter’s boyfriend. He was giving her a ride back to the inn.”
Chrissy’s whole body started to shake. “That kid. I told her to stay in the hotel until Donatello came on Sunday to take her to school.”
“Listen to me, Chrissy.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Chief Donohue says that no cops in Columbia County picked up a seventeen-year-old girl today. My daughter’s boyfriend described the bogus cop who took Sasha as white haired, older. I think he may have been Henry Metzger.”
The look that passed over Chrissy’s face is not one that I ever want to see again. It was pure, raw maternal horror. Horror turned to bewilderment and bewilderment turned to anger.
“I’ll kill him,” she said, leaping out of her seat. “Where is the bastard?”
“Grab her, girls,” Vilnia ordered.
The women immediately pounced on Chrissy, their strong, coal-cracker bodies easily overtaking Chrissy’s slender casino-hostess build. All I could see were her pretty painted red toes kicking in the air.
“Go, Bubbles!” Vilnia shouted. “We’ll take care of it here. Go do what you have to do.”
I dropped Roxanne off at the Main Mane where I changed into my black miniskirt, white T-shirt and orange cardigan. Carrying my suitcase down the stairs, I found Roxanne by the phone holding the cord.
“Look,” she said, waving it in the air. “What if someone’s broken into my house and disconnected all the phones? What if he’s lying in wait until you leave to attack me?”
I slapped my forehead. “I am such a dufus. I’m sorry, Roxanne, I unplugged it.”
She snapped the cord back in. “Why?”
“Nothing. It was stupid. Here, give me a hug good-bye.” I dropped the suitcase and put out my arms.
Roxanne fell into them and hugged me tightly. “Thank you so much, Bubbles. You have saved Stinky and me and, who knows? Maybe you saved Slagville from being blown to smithereens, too.”
“It’ll all work out, Roxanne.”
“I know. I pray the same for you, Bubbles.” She let go. “I don’t like you going to Stiletto’s house by yourself. Why don’t you call the police?”
“I will,” I said. “First I’m going to wake up Zeke. He’s got to help me. I don’t want to do this alone.”
“Smart idea.”
She waved at me as I threw my suitcase in the back of the Camaro and got in. The streets of Slagville were wet, dead and silent after the evening’s rain shower. The clock in my car said it was close to two A.M. Three more hours and I’d have to be at a waste hauler’s meeting anyway. For a second, I thought I saw St. Christopher shake his head, as though he could not ensure protection if I decided to drive to Lehigh on rain-slicked roads while battling exhaustion.
I don’t know why it took me so long to see his face in the rearview mirror, but it did. When our eyes met, he said, “Where are you going, Bubbles?”
I swerved to stay in my lane. “Oh, my God, Zeke. You just gave me a heart attack. I am so glad to see you. You’ve got to come with me to Stiletto’s house in Saucon Valley. Something’s happened to him, Zeke, and I think his stepfather, Henry Metzger, is behind it.”
“You can’t go home,” Zeke said evenly. “I won’t let you.”
“What?” I pulled over, wrenched up the parking brake and turned around. “What’s wrong with you?”
And that’s when I noticed the gun in his hand.
“Let’s go, Bubbles,” he said. “Mother’s waiting.”