Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)
Elle Cosimano
For the 2002 June Bug Moms
CHAPTER 1
Christopher was dead. They’d found him bobbing on the water’s surface, his eyes bulging and empty, just after dawn. While I couldn’t honestly say I’d ever killed anyone before, this time, there was no denying I was one hundred percent responsible.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Vero gave my arm an encouraging squeeze through the sleeve of my long black sweater. I hadn’t had anything else appropriate to wear; it’s not like I’d woken up expecting to attend a funeral. And yet somehow, my children’s young and ultra-hip nanny had managed to pull off a pair of formfitting slacks, a killer updo, and a designer blouse. She offered me a wan smile. “It’s not like you meant to do it.”
My daughter’s hand was frail in mine, her body tucked close to my other side, her eyes red from crying.
“In your defense,” Vero whispered, “the instructions were in very small print. And at your age—”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Exactly. No one would expect you to be able to read those tiny letters clearly. You just gave him too much. That’s all.”
“He looked hungry.” The excuse sounded weak, even to me. But every time I’d stepped foot in my daughter’s room, Christopher had looked up from his bowl with those round, pleading eyes.
“I know.” Vero’s glossy lips pursed as she patted my shoulder. “You did your best, Finn.”
My daughter’s goldfish drifted in the cloudy water, his bloated belly pointing at me like an accusatory finger. Christopher had been a gift to Delia from her father, though I was certain Steven had bought the fish just to spite me. To pile one more responsibility onto my overflowing plate, just so he could watch me fail and then rub it in my face as he challenged me for custody. Ever since he’d left me for our real estate agent and they’d gotten engaged, he was determined to demonstrate that I was incompetent. It had become a competition for him, one that only became worse after he and Theresa split. I’d been bent on keeping the damn fish alive, to prove to my ex I was capable of providing for our children—and their pet—on my meager writing income without him. That I could feed and care for Delia, Zach, and Christopher on my own. Or at least, with Vero’s help.
Christopher had survived in my care for less than a month. And while Zach wasn’t old enough to rat me out to their father, Delia couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. There’d be no keeping the news of Christopher’s death from Steven. He’d gloat about it to Guy, his sleazy divorce attorney, and probably bring it up in court. Your Honor, I’d like to call your attention to the fish in the evidence bag marked Exhibit A. The deceased went belly-up after a mere three weeks in my ex-wife’s care. Clearly, she’s unfit to parent our children.
If Steven had any clue about the human who’d died while in my care over the last month (or where Vero and I had disposed of the body), he’d probably have a coronary—a possibility Vero had gleefully considered until she’d calculated the narrow odds of the news actually killing him. A month ago, after a woman named Patricia Mickler had overheard me plotting a novel with my literary agent in a crowded sandwich shop, she’d offered to pay me fifty thousand dollars to murder her husband, a horrible man who happened to launder money for the Russian mob. How Harris had come to be drugged in my minivan had been an accident, and though I wasn’t the one who’d actually murdered him, his wife had been certain I had. She’d passed on my name to her friend Irina, whose husband was an enforcer for said very scary mob. Irina’s husband’s death had also been an accident. Regardless, both women had expressed their gratitude by giving me copious amounts of cash. And a tip: that someone had posted an ad online, searching for a willing party to murder my ex-husband for money.
Vero held the green plastic net out in front of me. “Care to say a few words?”
Zach toddled toward the fishbowl on pudgy legs, the frilly ends of his diaper poking out from under his black shirt. His sticky fingers clamped around the edge of the dresser as he pulled himself onto his toes to see. He touched a finger to the glass, drool spooling from his chin. Delia’s breath hitched, her upper lip shiny with snot as she looked up at me expectantly. I took the net from Vero. “What am I supposed to say?” I whispered.
She nudged me toward the bowl. “Just say something nice about him.”
I held the net to my chest, struggling to find the words that would calm my grieving five-year-old, who’d been hysterical since she’d awoken and found her pet floating in his bowl like a Cheerio. I was a writer, for crying out loud. I strung words together for a living. This should’ve been easy. But every time I looked at Christopher, all I could picture was my ex-husband’s face. Not because I wanted to kill Steven. I mean, I did, I guess. Some days. Most days. Definitely whenever he opened his mouth. But no matter how contentious our relationship had become since he’d left me for our real estate agent, Steven loved our children, and they loved him. And I would never do anything to hurt Delia or Zach.
Someone wanted Steven dead. And it wasn’t me.
“What can I say about Christopher?” I glanced back at Vero for inspiration. The corner of her mouth twitched as she gestured for me to go on. “He was a good fish. A loyal and steadfast friend to all of us, he…”