Chapter Thirty-Nine Mildred Maddox
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mildred Maddox
Mildred stepped into the club and breathed in the too cool, artificial air. Even in November, businesses kept the AC on too
low. But she’d always liked Sal’s club with the rich, dark colors, classy decor, scent of good whiskey permeating the leather
seats. It was a place she could relax, where no one knew her but knew she was important to Sal, so treated her like royalty.
She smoothed out Roger’s black bow tie and suggested he enjoy a Scotch at the bar while she spoke with Sal. He brightened
in that slow, satisfied way he had when someone let him off the hook. He gave her a sweet kiss and sat in one of the leather
chairs near the bar, relieved to be released from any pretense of business. She watched him chat with the cocktail waitress.
He was still an attractive man even at the age of seventy-two. He looked over at her, as if sensing her watching him, and
gave her a smile that still made her feel as if it were just Roger and Mildred against the world. They’d had a very good,
very successful life together.
She didn’t plan on having incompetent people make their retirement years difficult.
One of Sal’s men—not Carter, she noted with interest—escorted her to the back?room bar.
The light here was lower, amber and forgiving around the edges while brighter lights burned over two of the four poker tables.
The soft slap of cards and the dry rattle of chips reminded her how much she detested gambling of all kinds.
Sometimes Roger indulged, and he always lost, but she never gave him more than ten thousand.
It made him happy, and that made her happy.
Compromise had kept their forty?four years steady as a metronome.
Sal sat at a corner table with two other men who weren’t playing, men who were watching the games, the room, and the security
cameras visible only from that corner. He nodded to each and they quickly left as she approached. Sal rose, took her hands,
kissed her cheek. He was two inches shorter than she, but his posture and broad chest always made him seem larger than life.
“Wine?” he asked, tilting his chin toward the bartender. “Or something stronger?”
“I can’t stay. Roger is out front.” Behind her, the bar hummed, filling the orders of the poker players and the few men and
women who sat at the bar watching the games or waiting for their turn to lose their savings.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you. We were at a charity dinner, but left as soon as it was acceptable to do so. I really detest the small talk, and
Roger and I have an early tee time.” The words were light, a pretense of normalcy. But her damp palms betrayed her nerves.
Sal would understand, but she would prefer to keep her worries casual, lest he think less of her.
“I never understood the allure of golf,” Sal said with a smile.
“And I never understood the allure of poker,” she replied, matching him. Then she leaned in and lowered her voice. “Sal, Peter
has become a liability.”
“He has kept me apprised of the situation this week.”
“I wish you had told me how you planned on taking care of the nosy nurse. I think an accident would have been a far better
disposal method.”
Sal’s face tightened. “Perhaps, but Peter said sooner, not later. An accident takes time to set up. Peter was worried that
the nurse would reach out to the Angelharts—and he was right about that, once we cracked her phone.”
Mildred frowned. “Jack and Margo Angelhart came to see me.”
“And you’re just now telling me?”
“I handled them.” She smiled darkly, blinked and smoothed her hair away from her face. Then in her best old woman voice said,
“Oh, I’m happy to help, but I don’t see how I can, I’m retired.”
“You haven’t changed,” Sal said with a nostalgic grin.
“What happened with Cooper Angelhart?”
“Someone got wind of the planned hit and he was transferred out of state where we don’t have any connections.”
“Good,” she said.
“Good? I thought you wanted him dead.”
“In hindsight, if he remembered anything, he would have said something by now,” Mildred said. “Peter is the issue. He is reckless, volatile, and panics at the drop of a hat.”
“I can, of course, take care of him,” Sal said. “But would that be wise so close to the sale next week?”
“Do you think he has evidence that could damage us?”
She watched Sal consider the question. When you worked with unreliable people, worry was a constant.
She had hired Peter many years ago at Hollander & Wyck, one of the companies she and Roger had founded.
Peter had been brilliant in how they could expand their businesses.
He understood not only the grant process, but also had keen insight into how to make problematic trials work for them.
Mildred had always been irritated that one negative reaction could tank an entire project.
Peter had smart ways around those problems that she greatly admired.
Of course, she knew he had a few mishaps along the way, poor judgments like his gambling habit and the way he panicked at
the first sign of trouble. Still, his shrewdness seemed to outshine his misjudgments. Now? She felt his mistakes like a bruise
that never went away.
“Well,” Sal said finally, “I can look into that. It’s a risk, either way we go. I think he’s better off dead, but perhaps
we need to clean him out first, ensure nothing can bite us if he has a safe-deposit box. I’ll put Carter on it as soon as
possible. But we have one other problem to take care of.”
“Is that why Carter isn’t here?” Her question was casual, but her eyes searched the room automatically, in case she had missed
him the first time. She hadn’t.
He nodded once.
“Those same two Angelharts who spoke to you confronted Tim Miller in the VA parking lot this afternoon. Peter sent me the
security recording. Visual only, from a distance, but the conversation went on too long for it to be a casual passing.”
“He doesn’t know about either of us.”
“No, but he knows about Peter, and Peter asked that we take care of him. I swear, all these free . . . jobs . . . Peter has asked me to handle simply because I have a stake in the Neurovantix sale? I’m getting tired of it. Anyway, Carter
already went through Miller’s apartment and tablet. There’s nothing that ties to us, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have
evidence elsewhere.”
“He only knows about Peter’s role,” Mildred said, folding her hands on the table’s cool surface. “Which confirms my initial
suspicion. Peter is the problem.”
Sal leaned back. “It’ll have to be tomorrow. I can send someone else, but I feel only the best will get the job done.”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed.
“We also run the risk that he really does have evidence against us.”
“We both have a good escape plan. Fire destroys,” she reminded him.
He nodded, then asked, “Are the Angelharts going to be a problem?”
“I don’t know,” Mildred admitted. “They may think they know things, but they can’t prove anything. It could be uncomfortable,
but even if Tim Miller kept files of everything he did for us, it doesn’t fall back on me. Willa and Peter, yes, but I’ve
always kept my hands clean.”
“Still, you might want to visit our dear niece in Australia while things die down.”
She smiled widely. “I was thinking the same thing. Would you like to join us? Willa always had a soft spot for you,” she teased.
He laughed softly. She appreciated the ease between them, their shared business, shared humor, shared history. Willa had never
liked Sal, but Mildred loved them both.
Sal took her hand then, and for a moment his fingers squeezed just a little too tight for comfort. “Please, Mildred, be careful.
I’ll take care of Peter, but I’ve never trusted him. He is far more devious than he seems at first glance.”
“It’s his vindictiveness we need to be concerned with.” She rose. “I’ll make arrangements to leave as soon as possible,” she
said. Saying it put a bad taste in her mouth. She didn’t want to leave town, but it would probably be best.
Sal walked her to the door that led to the main club. He gave her a hug, another kiss on the cheek. The air by the doorway
was colder, and she shivered.
“I repeat, dear sister, be careful. If you need anything, call.”
“I will. Thank you, Sal.”
Mildred joined her husband and had a glass of champagne while he enjoyed his second Scotch.
They didn’t talk much, but they never felt the need to fill the silence with words.
The ambience of the bar, which usually relaxed her, made her tense tonight.
Roger, as if he could sense her discomfort and busy mind, drained his drink and suggested they leave.
They walked out, the air crisp. She pulled her thin shawl around herself, but that did nothing to warm her. Roger opened the
passenger door, she sat, and he firmly closed the door then walked around to the driver’s side.
He got in, turned the ignition, and switched on the heater without her having to ask. He was such a good man.
“You are worried,” he said.
“A bit.”
He nodded, pulled away from the curb.
“We’ll survive,” he said momentarily. “We always do.”
She rested her hand on his leg as he drove them home, grateful for his constant support.
Peter Stockman would take the fall. Once he was dead, she would make sure every crime pointed back to his corpse.