Read Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) for Free Online Page A

dollars.”
    He leaned over and whispered, “How much would it take?”
    “To get me to—oh. You mean to…”
    He nodded.
    I laughed, trying to recover my equilibrium. “The going rate’s a hundred dollars,” I said, as if I were used to saying it. “But this isn’t that kind of party.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean it’s just a party. Music, dancing, champagne. That’s it. Didn’t you bring a date?”
    “No.”
    “Too bad. Some other time then.” I picked up my glass and sauntered back to the piano, perhaps swinging my hips the least bit more than strictly necessary.
    It was getting late, and I thought something moderately quiet might be nice. I played “Sentimental Journey,” then “Cry Me a River.” But somehow a romantic mood didn’t fall like a mantle over the party, so I gave in and tried some livelier tunes. It was the right thing to do; those FDOs were in a mood to boogie.
    Since Elena had told me the place was soundproofed, I packed up my inhibitions and played “Rock Around the Clock.” That was such a hit, I let loose with a spate of oldies-but-goodies that had every foot in the house tapping and most of them dancing. I was giving them a rest with “Blueberry Hill,” when I saw Parker come in the door. He looked strained and a bit unsteady. I was afraid he was ill.
    The foyer was crowded with dancing couples, among them a rotund FDO and Kandi, entwined drunken-sailor-style. Kandi had her head on the fat chap’s shoulder, and her eyes may have been closed. I don’t know if she saw Parker or not.
    Parker sunk a hand into the folds of Fatty’s neck and came up with Kandi’s wrist. She looked up, and he said something to her, but I couldn’t hear what it was. I heard her, though. She said, “Parker. What are you doing here?” She disentangled herself from Fatty as if he were a stuffed animal she was bored with, and led Parker out of my line of vision.
    I heard both their voices, angry and getting angrier. I couldn’t distinguish the words, but I imagined the dancers could, so I stopped in the middle of “Blueberry Hill” and again swung into “Rock Around the Clock,” which is the loudest song I know.
    And that’s when those fun-loving FDOs staged their adorable phony raid. You know what happened after that—I rescued one of California’s most prestigious perverts and wound up in the slammer.

Chapter Seven
     
    Elena turned up to get me out just before 2 a.m., proved she was actually Elena Mooney, Mustang owner, paid the $200, and I was a free woman.
    She’d kept her taxi waiting. I was home in about seven minutes. A red Volkswagen was parked in my space, and Elena said it was Kandi’s. No one was inside it.
    “She must have gone inside,” said Elena. “It’s been about an hour and a half since I sent her. Call me in the morning, and I’ll come get you and drive you back to get your car. It’s the least I can do.”
    I gave her the keys to the Mustang and told her where to find it.
    Stuck halfway into my mailbox slot, so that it could be easily extracted, was a folded piece of lined paper from a pocket notebook. I unfolded it and read: “R—US w/p. K.” I took it to mean “upstairs with purse” and mentally applauded Kandi for being so cryptic. This is always wise, I think, when leaving notes practically in public. The only thing was, if I hadn’t talked to Elena first, I wouldn’t have known who “K” was. But this was a quibble: she’d have identified herself through the intercom as soon as I rang the doorbell. I pressed the button to prove it.
    No one answered, so I figured she was asleep. Since there’s a little overhang in the entryway where the mailboxes are, I wasn’t getting wet, but it was two-thirty and I wanted to go to bed. I rang a lot more times—more than I needed to, because I was getting damned impatient. But still nobody answered.
    There was nothing to do but ring the other doorbells until someone answered. I’d probably wake someone