Free One Foot In The Gravy by Delia Rosen Page A

said.
    There was a footnote that cited a confidentiality agreement signed by all parties, probably crafted so that Dryfoos could never spill the cocoa beans.
    Up came Battleship . I blew up, and put on my forensic accountancy hat while I rebooted.
    “So let’s say the shop is a break-even proposition, solid volume but high overhead,” I thought aloud. “The man was low on cash, needs to start another revenue stream. Maybe he went to his sister, maybe he didn’t. Maybe she came to Nashville to tell him no to his face. Maybe she knew he was a lying sack and didn’t trust him. So he puts the touch on Hildy to start another business, it flops—”
    On purpose? I wondered suddenly. Tell me, Mr. Bialystock. Did you build in failure so you could keep most of the money ? Did you tip McDonald’s off yourself so you could tell Hildy you spent all the money fighting their lawyers ?
    It was possible. But was it enough to make her want to kill him?
    I still didn’t know. Worse, among the other things I didn’t know was whether she was an isolated case or whether, as Jennifer had suggested, collecting checks and wooing available women were all part of the same scheme.
    There was only one way to find out.
    I saved my game, went to the online White Pages, grabbed the unfinished bagel from that morning, and went out.

Chapter 8
    My next person of interest—and I use that term loosely because I wasn’t the least bit interested in her as a person—saved me the trouble of figuring out a reason to talk to her. She found me.
    I had intended to go to the Confederate Hill home of Gary Gold, whose role in the entire matter had not yet been examined much less thought about by me. He was the local mystery author whom Lolo had commissioned to write the scenario for the party. I would get there—but not just yet.
    Rhonda Shays was driving her BMW along Korean Veterans Boulevard when she spotted me. It was more like an eagle catching sight of a field mouse, her head rotating as though her sternomastoids were made of putty. We were in the middle of the Cumberland River when it happened. Her reflective sunglasses fixed on me, followed me as I headed away from downtown, and a moment later my cell phone rang.
    “Wait for me on the other side,” she growled and hung up.
    Ordinarily, I don’t respond well to commands, unless they involve mustard or mayo or some other condiment. But, as I said, I did want to talk to Rhonda. I also had a real good idea why she was so angry, and saw this as a good opportunity to put that behind us. If it was possible to put anything behind an insane person.
    There are a series of parking lots on the other side of the river. They service LP Field, home of the football Titans. I know that because Thom’s a big, big fan. Me? I know nothing about sports. I pulled into one of them, got out of the car, and waited.
    I don’t know where and how Rhonda turned, but she arrived about a minute after I did. She parked diagonally across two spots—a habit born, no doubt, from years of selfishly protecting BMWs. There was most definitely a Cruella De Vil vibe happening. She was wearing a poufy white blouse, a dark black skirt, stiletto heels, and the smoke from a cigarette curled about her straight black hair. It had the definite aspect of a mushroom cap. But when she yanked off her sunglasses as though she were Clark Kent about to change, those eyes blazed through it as she stalked over.
    “Are you in love with my ex-husband?”
    If I’m ever asked that question again, I’ll have a better answer. Something like “Why, are his friends asking for me?” or “Yes, and they’re going to be twins!” All I said was, “What?”
    She stopped inches from my face. She’s only five-three, but the heels brought her eye level. “Are you. In love with. My ex. Husband?”
    “No,” I said. I wonder if she could see me shudder.
    “Liar!” she charged. It sounded more like a Katharine Hepburn “Li-ah!” I wondered if the rest