the parking lot. Minivans occupied the slots nearby. A minivan would be great cover, Serena thought. But the guy she was looking for would drive a—bingo! Serena pulled Estelle’s Yugo next to a hyper-masculine, custom Suburban. It was parked near the exit, out of the mainstream, ready for a hasty exit. Like a pro. She snapped a photo of the license plate and then strolled onto the path Krystle had taken.
“Kid,” called a voice from behind a newspaper. Serena joined Morty on a park bench overlooking the lake.
“Well?”
“By the paddle boats.”
Morty flipped casually through the sports pages of the Oceanview Observer as Serena pretended to snap photos of the ornate Victorian boathouse.
Through her powerful zoom lens, Serena focused on two men leaning on the railing overlooking the boat basin. One was Artie, holding a large, plastic Romantic Antics shopping bag.
“The bag’s a nice comic touch.” Serena focused on the man to Artie’s right. She whistled. “Big biceps.”
“Yeah.” The Oceanview Observer curled down. “The hit man. Name’s Donnie Urbanski. Works for State and National Transport. They’re a front for the DiNuzzo family. He’s Krystle Kawicki’s cousin.”
Serena watched events unfold through her camera like a silent movie. Urbanski leaned casually on the low railing, watching the paddle boats churn the calm lake waters. Like King Kong in a philosophical moment. Artie inched nervously to Urbanski’s side and pressed the bag into his hand. Irritation ruffled Urbanski’s bland facade.
A blond blur moved into Serena’s view. “Here comes Krystle. I think we’re gonna have a Jerry Springer moment.”
The Oceanview Observer and Morty stood to get a better look.
Krystle strode with tight control toward Artie, then whirled and sucker punched Urbanski. The big man’s arms windmilled as he bounced off the railing and staggered to regain his balance. Urbanski rearranged his sunglasses and smoothed his hair, then walked away as unobtrusively as a burly man carrying a lavender shopping bag could. Artie pulled Krystle toward him, stroking her towering blond hair. She slapped away his hand. She was too involved in her tirade to notice that two joggers had stopped Urbanski. Neatly bundled stacks of currency tumbled to the ground as Urbanski dropped the shopping bag and attempted to run, but was efficiently subdued. Two women sitting on a nearby bench then rose and flashed badges at Artie and Krystle. A police van and two cruisers screeched into the parking lot. Serena felt a fleeting stab of sympathy as Artie cringed. Krystle flailed at Artie and then at the women who attempted to peel her off him. Serena wasn’t surprised to see Krystle clawing and pulling the undercover policewomen’s hair as they struggled to cuff her.
“I knew she’d fight dirty. Time to roll the credits on this little comedy.” Serena slipped the camera strap over her shoulder and pointed to a hot dog cart. “Hey, they’ve got Grote and Weigels.”
Morty insisted on paying. “Wasn’t it your birthday Monday?” he asked. Serena beamed. They sat at a picnic table by the parking lot, watching along with a crowd of curious mothers, children, and senior citizens as the cruisers and van pulled away.
“So the police were watching Artie anyway.” Serena shook a mustard packet and bit it open.
“Yeah. You always think about the spouse first. Glad you got Kawicki here in time to incriminate herself. Urbanski may have given her up, but Artie’s definitely the type to try to protect a woman. Even if she doesn’t deserve it.”
“Chivalrous,” Serena said.
“Krystle’d be on the first plane to the Bahamas.” Morty chewed appreciatively. “Then when Artie’s—well, Bunny’s—money ran out, she’d probably find herself another sap. But it all worked out. Just a couple phone calls and presto. Sting operation. Kawicki and Stanley caught red-handed paying off the hit man. Cops more than willing to take the credit.” Morty’s eyebrows rose. “Speaking of which…”
“Hey, Morty.” The two undercover joggers joined them. Falcone and Ritter from the office. They looked even more devastatingly handsome in jogging gear. To her horror, Serena felt a large gob of mustard drip from her hot dog onto her shirt.
“Good to see it worked out.” Morty nodded toward two empty spots at the table.
“Thanks, Morty. Serena, right?” Falcone said.
Serena nodded and wiped the mustard furiously. Her mind went momentarily blank as the men settled their sweaty, athletic frames onto the benches.
“Grateful for your help, Morty, but you’ve got to tell me, how’d you put it together?” Ritter asked.
Morty grinned at Serena. The men turned to Serena, Serena’s eyes met Falcone’s, and she forgot about the mustard.
“Because we had nothing solid,” Ritter continued. “No forensics from the house. Side door left conveniently unlocked, so no break in. Autopy showed Mrs. Stanley slightly sedated, just enough to make it easy for a hit man and not enough to seem suspicious.”
“Easy enough for hubby to put something in her dinner before he left for the night.” Morty nodded. “Could even be seen as part of the suicide attempt.”
Serena tore her gaze away. “I can see Artie doing something non-confrontational and sneaky like that, especially if under orders from Krystle.”
“Miss Kawicki.” Ritter frowned. “My kids go to Oceanview.”
“Kawicki’s Donnie Urbanski’s cousin,” Morty added.
“Nice family,” Serena and Falcone said at the same time.
“Owe me a coke.” Serena smiled at Falcone. His ears turned pink.
Morty cleared his throat.
“The big problem was your surveillance,” Falcone said. “Talk about a rock-solid alibi for Kawicki and Stanley. The medical examiner put the time of death between seven and midnight.”
“And I tailed them from six until one in the morning. Alibis Are Us.” Serena sipped a Pepsi thoughtfully. “Still, seems like a pretty embarrassing plan for him. I mean, he’s off with his girlfriend while his wife’s committing suicide.”
“Yeah, but what an alibi. Not only witnessed, but recorded,” Morty said.
“What made you think it wasn’t suicide?” Falcone’s deep brown eyes turned shrewd.
Serena took the last bite of her hot dog, and chewed slowly, savoring.
“It was the shoes and the ‘you and I’,” she said.
Ritter looked blank. “The shoes and the you and me?”
“Exactly. At the Dutch Maid, their shoes were lined up together, just like little soldiers. Their clothes were hung up. Let’s just say that keeping the room tidy is not the first thing two people in a motel room have on their minds. Plus the curtains were open—on the first floor—and every light was on.” She licked mustard and relish from her fingers. “They made it too easy.”
“They could have been, what, exhibitionists.” Morty dabbed his
