Deal With the Devil: and 13 short stories

  Deal with the Devil

  Photo by Cristiana Pecheanu. Hair and makeup by Mario Ortega.

  Copyright © 2004, 2006, 2017, 2009, 2010, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017 by Elaine Viets.

  Copyright © 2018 by Elaine Viets

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact: Crippen & Landru, Publishers P. O. Box 532057

  Cincinnati, OH 45253 USA

  Web: www.crippenlandru.com

  E-mail: Info@crippenlandru.com

  ISBN (signed numbered cloth edition) 978-1-936363-27-8 ISBN (trade softcover) 978-1-936363-28-5

  First Edition: April 2018

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  A Deal With the Devil

  The Seven

  His Funkalicious Majesty

  Sex and Bingo

  The Bride Wore Blood

  Gotta Go

  The Bedroom Door

  Vampire Hours

  Death of a Condo Commando

  After the Fall

  Blonde Moment

  Wedding Knife

  Good and Dead

  Red Meat

  Elaine Viets Bibliography

  Recent Publications

  Subscriptions

  Introduction

  Weird things happen to me. A cigar chomper in a red Mercedes convertible really did try to buy my car – and my house – and maybe me – when I was in a bank drive-in line in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I should have told him to buzz off. But then I wouldn’t have written “A Deal With the Devil.”

  That incident bedeviled my brain for more than two years, before I finally turned it into a story. That’s how many of my stories start – something offbeat sticks in my mind until it turns into a story.

  My grandmother, Frances Vierling, believed she had second sight, and people she loved stopped by to see her before they left on their final journey. Grandma hid this strange secret, because she feared her unwelcome ability would get her “locked up in Arsenal Street.” That’s where the home for the mentally ill was in Saint Louis. Grandma told me she had second sight shortly before she died. Her unwanted gift triggered “The Bedroom Door.”

  I wrote “Red Meat” after my husband got a stunning blonde trainer. Don was the envy of every man on the beach when he jogged by with his golden goddess. Then he discovered one man’s dream is another’s nightmare.

  “Vampire Hours” was inspired by the condo across the way. Our condo is on the Intracoastal Waterway, and there’s a little canal that runs along the side of the building. I can see right into the condos across the canal – it’s like looking into a dollhouse. One condo had elegant midnight parties: handsome men in black tie and beautiful women in long black gowns swirled through candlelit rooms. Then, one night, they were all gone.

  Does our condo have a condo commando? Of course not. “Death of a Condo Commando” is pure fiction, and as of this writing the annoying snoop is alive and well.

  If you read my mystery series, you’ll recognize some of my characters. “Gotta Go” introduces Death Investigator Angela Richman, who works in mythical Chouteau County, which is a lot like the richer parts of Saint Louis County. Angela debuted in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Thank you, editor Linda Landrigan.

  Helen Hawthorne makes two appearances outside the Dead End Job series. “Sex and Bingo” was written right after Shop Till You Drop, the first mystery in that series. Helen is still on the run from Rob, her unfaithful ex, and she takes a job on a cruise ship, where she gets an advanced education in cheating.

  “Good and Dead” was written after my last Dead-End Job mystery, The Art of Murder. Helen has changed after fifteen mysteries: Now she’s married Phil Sagemont. They’ve opened their private eye agency, Coronado Investigations, on the second floor of Coronado Tropic Apartments, where they live. In “Good and Dead,” Helen and Margery Flax, her seventy-six-year-old landlady, take a case in New Orleans. This story was inspired by a scruffy French Quarter convention hotel where my friend Doris Ann Norris and I shared a room. Doris Ann, like Margery, is a serious smoker, and she encountered a young drug dealer using the outside smokers to camouflage his business.

  “His Funkalicous Majesty,” featuring newspaper reporter Francesca Vierling from my first mystery series, is also based on a nugget of truth. I was a Saint Louis newspaper columnist, and early in my career I had to cover a black gala, a sly protest against a local institution for the one-percent, the Veiled Prophet Ball. The details of the VP Ball are real. So was the protest party, under a different name.

  “Wedding Knife” was my first short story. Every woman has had to wear an ugly bridesmaid dress in the name of friendship. I actually wore the pink monstrosity in the story. I didn’t kill the bride. But I wanted to.

  I hope you’ll enjoy reading these short stories as much as I did writing them.

  Elaine Viets December 13, 2017

  A Deal With the Devil

  Do you believe in the devil? Who else would drive a convertible on a sweltering July afternoon in South Florida? The real question is, can you outwit him?

  I met the devil in the bank drive-in lane. I’m not talking about Satan himself – I don’t flatter myself I’m so important the big guy Down There would be interested. But I’m pretty sure I met one of his minions. A devil, not the devil. There are lots of them, sort of like infernal interns. This one was wearing a pink polo and driving a 1986 Mercedes two-seater convertible.

  Wednesday was payday at Fort Lauderdale College. Blackie and I stopped at the bank on the way home. The middle lane had no cars. My paycheck was sucked through the vacuum tube to the clerk behind the bulletproof glass.

  “Nice car,” said the man in the drive-in lane on my left.

  Nice? Blackie, my ’86 Jaguar, is flat-out gorgeous. Sleekly curved, Black Beauty’s ebony body is so well polished I can see my face in it. A fiery pinstripe streaks down his slim body, the same color as his leather seats.

  “Thank you.” My tone was cold and unfriendly. I was used to gushing compliments about Blackie. This man had denigrated my car – and by extension – me.

  “How much?” he asked.

  “What?” Now I turned to look at the man. He was a beef-faced fifty with a cigar stuck in his mouth at an angry angle. His face was flame red, nearly the same color as his Mercedes convertible. His round bald head gushed sweat. Why would anyone drive with the July sun beating down on him? How could he stand that hellish heat? I had my window down for my bank dealings, but even with Blackie’s air-conditioner blasting icy air, I was sweltering.

  “I said, how much?” His tone was aggressive, demanding, a little frightening. I couldn’t quite place his accent.

  “He’s not for sale.” Sell Blackie! I’d sooner sell my right hand. “You live around here?” The Mercedes man’s voice was thrusting, intrusive, rough. I should have driven away right then, but I wanted my bank receipt.

  “Yes.” Why was I answering him? He was a stranger, yet I felt compelled to talk to him. What was wrong with me?

  “You have a house? How much you want for it?” “It’s not for sale, either.”

  His teeth were white and cruel. Who did this o
verfed businessman think he was, asking to buy my car and my house?

  “You’re nice, too.” His smile around the cigar was obscenely suggestive.

  Me? Did he want to buy me, too? I am a forty-year-old instructor at a third-tier college, good-looking enough that sophomore boys sometimes crushed on me. You’d never guess to look at me, but I have stage four metastatic liver cancer. No, Mercedes man wouldn’t be interested in me. Men like him wanted brainless blonde babes. And I definitely wasn’t interested in him. He was no match for Jess, my husband of twenty years.

  Whooosh. Thump! I jumped at the sound of the vacuum tube. My deposit slip had arrived. My fingers shook when I retrieved it from the canister. I wanted out of there, but for some odd reason I didn’t want to offend Mercedes man.

  “I like your car,” I said, eyeing his vintage red beauty. Why did I compliment this man? I should leave. Now.

  I had to force myself to put the car in gear. It took extra effort to shift from park to drive, as if some force was holding back my hand. Please don’t let there be a problem with Blackie’s transmission, I thought. Finally, I did it. Before I could escape, Mercedes man stuck a business card in my face.

  “Here, take this.” He’d handed me his card without seeming to leave his car. “If you’re interested in a deal, meet me for lunch at the Flames at twelve noon tomorrow.”

  The card was expensively engraved in an antique font on thick cream stock. HL Acheron, it said. The last name was vaguely familiar. Was he a real estate agent?

  Blackie and I raced out of the bank lane like a bat out of hell, nearly sideswiping an innocent white Soul. Once I was away from the bank, I felt like some sort of spell was broken. I was a fool, an idiot . . . I was intrigued.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Jess about my strange encounter with Acheron the real estate agent. As I drove past the multimillion-dollar homes in my neighborhood, I kept thinking about what he’d said: “You have a house? How much you want for it?”

  Jess and I have a seventh-floor condo in Sky House, where the glass apartments float in the sky above the Intracoastal Waterway. If Acheron was in real estate, he’d be interested in Sky House. Our condos were underpriced and rarely on the market. We were one of the few condo buildings that allowed pets.

  I parked Blackie in the Sky House garage and waited impatiently for the elevator, then hurried along the hallway and unlocked our door. Our copper-eyed Chartreux, Mystery, met me by the door. I picked her up and stroked her soft smoky-gray fur, reassured by her familiar purr.

  And stopped a second to admire the stunning view. We can see the ocean from our living room. The water was a restless, molten silver this afternoon. Straight down, in the wide swath of the Intracoastal, a millionaire’s yacht plowed haughtily toward the drawbridge over Commercial Boulevard.

  Our condo was deliciously scented with coffee, so I knew my husband was working.

  “Jess?” I called, setting our cat back on the floor.

  “In the kitchen. I’m testing Ethiopians.” Jess ran his fingers through his shaggy dirty-blond hair when he was working, and it stuck up all over. His kind blue eyes were shrewdly studying the color of the coffee samples in little glass cups. His arm muscles bulged and his stomach was flat. Regular workouts in the condo gym helped prevent writer’s paunch.

  Overindulging was a danger with Jess’ current book contract. He was writing his “Jess’s Best” series: the best vodka, the best mailorder steak, the best sixty-inch TV. He was currently working on the best coffee book. He saw me and smiled.

  “Come taste this. I think it has the richest flavor, and no hint of bitterness.” He handed me a small, clear cup of a dark steaming brew.

  I inhaled it, then took a sip. “It is rich. And strong. Too bad coffee doesn’t taste as good as it smells.”

  “Spoken like a true tea drinker,” he said. “How are you feeling?” “I’m fine.” I saw the worry shadow his eyes. “Really. No symptoms at all.”

  I wanted to change the subject – fast. “I had a strange encounter in the bank line.” I told him about Acheron. I left out that the man scared me – that was my imagination.

  “He gave me his card. He wants to meet at the Flames tomorrow at noon,” I said.

  “You aren’t going, are you?”

  “I might,” I said. “I don’t have class on Thursday. Acheron’s name is familiar. I think he’s in real estate.”

  “What do you think this Acheron can do for you? Do you want to sell Blackie?”

  “Of course not. But what if Acheron made us a good deal for this condo?”

  “How good?”

  “If we got double what it’s worth, we could pay off my medical bills, so you wouldn’t be stuck with a huge debt when we run out of chemo options.” And I run out of chances.

  He took me in his arms and kissed me. “That’s not going to happen.”

  I loved his warmth and reassurance. But I had to make him see the grim reality.

  “I’m stage four, Jess. I see Dr. Sullivan next week. If the latest blood tests aren’t good, he’s going to switch to the next option, that awful IV stuff, and I might have some bad reactions. I could lose my hair. I’ve managed to keep it so far.”

  He held me again and ran his fingers through my thick blonde hair. There was nothing to say. Dr. Sullivan had said there were at least forty different kinds of chemo he could try to keep me going, but this next option signaled serious changes. I was desperate. We both knew it.

  “This Acheron could prove to be a blessing, Jess.”

  “Maybe. I don’t like you going alone, Selena. You don’t know this man.”

  “The Flames is a steakhouse. At noon, it’s packed with business people.”

  Jess kissed me and went back to his coffee research. I went into my home office and Googled Acheron’s name. No mention of a real estate company, or any indication that he was a Realtor. The local Realtors and real estate associations had never heard of him. I wondered if he had one of those small, exclusive companies that only dealt with the richest of the rich. I hoped not. If he was in that league, he wouldn’t be interested in our condo. That deal would be too small for a major player.

  I must be doing something wrong, I decided. I widened my search and found one more mention: Acheron was one of the rivers of Hades – the River of Woe.

  That night, I slept restlessly, and finally got up about three in the morning to avoid waking Jess. I watched the silvered moon on the restless ocean, and the go-fast boats skimming down the Intracoastal with their running lights off. What was their illegal cargo: smuggled people, drugs, weapons? Dawn was breaking when I finally fell asleep. I felt safe once I saw the morning light on the horizon, promising a new day. I woke at ten-thirty to the smell of fresh coffee: Arabica, Jess told me. His research continued.

  I had a cup of Dragonwell green tea in the kitchen, watching my husband fuss over his coffee samples, all the while wondering: Who was Acheron? What was he? What did he want? And why did he choose me? As I scrambled eggs for my breakfast, I asked Jess, “What if Acheron made a good offer for the condo?”

  “How good?” He was wary. “A million dollars.”

  “Whew!” He blew out his lips. “That’s twice what it’s worth. If we took his offer, where would we live? I don’t want to leave Sky House.”

  “At the last barbecue night, Ellie and Martin in 9173 said they were thinking about selling their two bedroom. We could afford their smaller unit and still pay my medical bills.”

  “It would sure solve a lot of problems,” Jess said, as he held a clear cup of Arabica up to the light.

  Then he turned to look at me. “But I’m still worried about this meeting, Selena. Call me when you get there and call me when you leave. Promise? If you’re not home by four o’clock, I’m going over there.”

  “I’ll be home long before that,” I said. “Lunch is over by three and we live ten minutes away.”

  I dressed conservatively in a crisp white blouse, tailored black pants, black
heels and the pearl earrings Jess gave me for our wedding, then patted the cat and promised Jess I’d call as soon as I got to the restaurant. He followed me to the door and kissed me on the lips. He was a world-class kisser, and I wanted to forget all about lunch with Acheron. But I was afraid to lose this opportunity. I reluctantly said goodbye, then got in Blackie and drove to the Flames.

  The Flames was dark as a cave, with a roaring fire in the center of the restaurant, and booths extending from the fire pit like spokes in a wheel. Acheron was in the black lobby. He wasn’t waiting, or looking at his watch. He expected me to show up at noon and I did. He wore a shining dark suit that I suspected was a Brioni – I’d seen one like it when Jess was researching the best men’s fashion – and a black shirt that fitted like a second skin. His red tie was a slash of designer silk. For all the expense, the effect was oddly cheap and slightly clownish. Suits, especially dark suits with black shirts, are

  rare in a South Florida summer.

  “Good to see you, Selena,” he said. “I have a booth near the fire.” All around us businessmen – and a few women – in light summer-weight suits were talking on cell phones, taking notes on iPads, talking to each other, opening briefcases, shaking hands. The Flame was where deals got done.

  We settled into the comfortable black leather booth. I was close enough to touch the fire, but the air conditioning was so frosty I was glad I wore a high-necked blouse with long sleeves. Sweat was streaming off Acheron’s naked head and the front of his black shirt was soaked.

  When the server arrived – a pale young man in black with spiked hair – we knew what we wanted. Acheron ordered a twenty-four-ounce steak blood rare.

  Really? I thought. That much meat for lunch?

  “Tear it off the cow and walk it through the kitchen,” he said. “I hate overdone meat.” He glared at the server, who seemed to go even paler. I asked for a shrimp salad. We ignored the Flame’s extensive wine list. Acheron ordered a Coke and I wanted a club soda.