Death Turns A Trick (Rebecca Schwartz #1) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

the other fern, stuck the nozzle in, and looked down to make sure I had it aimed correctly. A good thing, too, because if I hadn’t, I’d have defaced a bundle of United States currency, which is a crime. The nozzle was resting right on the bundle, which was snuggled down in the ceramic pot, nicely hidden when the foliage was in place.

Chapter Thirteen
     
    I was so excited my hand jerked and I nearly drenched the bundle after all, but I deflected the flow in time, and it splashed harmlessly on the floor—harmlessly because I wiped it up right away, even before I took the money out and counted it. I did another thing before I handled the money: I put on gloves. Here, clearly, was the key to Parker’s release and possibly to the identity of the murderer. I didn’t want to risk smearing any fingerprints.
    There was $25,000 in that bundle. People had killed for a lot less. I was sitting there with the money in my lap, trying to put things together in my head, when I became aware of a petty annoyance somewhere outside—the persistent honking of a horn. I didn’t know how long it had gone on, but I knew what it meant. Mickey.
    Brought abruptly back to the real world, I practically panicked. For a few minutes I’d completely forgotten I was all dressed up and expected somewhere special. But when I thought about it, there was only one thing to do. There are few matters so pressing they could divert me from calling the cops immediately when I’ve just found a suspicious small fortune hidden in a flowerpot, but my parents’ thirtieth anniversary was one of them.
    In retrospect, I realize I could have just taken the money to the cops and driven my own serviceable Volvo to the party, arriving not more than an hour late. But at the time it seemed an either-or decision—the cops or the party. It had to be the party. I am nothing if not a good and dutiful daughter.
    I waved at Mickey to stop her infernal leaning on her horn. Then I realized I still had a problem. To take the money or leave it? The solution presented itself almost at once. No one with any sense walks around with $25,000 in her purse. For three days now, the bundle had eluded the murderer, the police, and me just by hunkering down in a flowerpot. There was no reason why it shouldn’t spend a few hours more there.
    My coat and purse were already lying across the back of one of the sofas, so I had only to replace the money and gather them up. I was in Mickey’s car not thirty seconds after making the decision.
    “About time,” she said. “There’s a creepy guy in that car.” She pointed to an undistinguished car parked on the curb in front of her ’66 Valiant. All I could see was the back of someone’s head.
    “How do you know?” I asked, fumbling with the seatbelt. “You can’t see him.”
    “Well, he’s just sitting there for no reason at all. And I did see him when I drove up. He looked around.”
    She started the car, and as we drove around the vehicle, I looked over. The man had put his hand to the side of his face, ever so casually, blocking it from view. But I did see something interesting: a hook on the visor above the passenger seat.
    I burst out laughing. “My dear girl, I’m under surveillance. That’s a police undercover car. Look at the hook.” But Mickey was concentrating on her driving. “What hook? I didn’t see anything.”
    “The hook on the visor; it’s to hang a red light on, in case there’s an emergency and the cop has to blow his cover to get through traffic. Now what the hell do the cops think I’m up to?”
    But I was feeling too giddy to care. I vaguely noticed the other car swing into motion behind us, and then I forgot about it. Let them follow me to Timbuktu, I thought, if that’s in their jurisdiction. It couldn’t do any harm.
    I gave Mickey an approving once-over. She had on a midnight blue dress with long sleeves, a sharp-pointed collar, and tailoring that made it cling like a natural integument. Her hair was gathered into a decorous coil on top of her head, an effect that conspired with prim pearl earrings to make a lady out of her.
    “Last Living Hippie Burns Jeans, Joins Military-Industrial Complex,” I said. “Tell me, Miss Schwartz, where have all the flowers gone?”
    She giggled. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
    “After you, Alphonse. Listen, I’ve got $25,000.”
    “Mazel tov
. Been to the track?”
    “You’re as bad as your boyfriend. I just found it. In my asparagus