Sung to Death

SUNG TO DEATH

Roseann Woodward

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CHAPTER ONE

This is the most beautiful dildo we’ve ever produced. Callie Sullivan didn’t add that as the largest producer of sex toys in the world that included a lot of dildos. She stared at the artificial penis, transfixed as minute bursts of colored lights twinkled through the transparent rubber. Can we make it look like diamonds?

Elmer Watson, production manager for Sensuous, pointed at the top of the dildo with a shortened forefinger. He’d lost the fingertip in a dildo mold press shortly after beginning work at the factory thirty years ago. Just remove the colored disk and you’ve got white lights.

The hum of machinery and the thumping of dildos plopping into cooling water baths didn’t register through her excitement. Will it sell?

Elmer’s eyes gleamed. Like bottled water to Lawrence of Arabia.

Callie laughed, shifted her coffee to her other hand, and put a notebook under the same arm.

You can fire me if it doesn’t, he said.

Elmer, we wouldn’t fire you if you were caught playing with company products on company time. Callie took the dildo out of his hand and held it up. It appeared perfect in the bright lights. She flipped on the tiny switch. Battery life?

Two triple A’s. It’ll last for almost two hours. Standard battery—available everywhere—already in the average person’s emergency cache.

Show me a woman who doesn’t like glitz and I’ll show you a woman who doesn’t like sex. Callie tucked it under her available arm. I’ll show it to Dad this weekend. He’ll love it.

How’s his retirement?

About like I expected. This place was his life. It’s hard to quit.

But he stays involved.

This company’s still his baby. I like to think he pulls the strings and Michael and I do the puppet stuff. This staff is so well trained I’m not sure either of us is necessary. She took a long drink of the cooled coffee and turned toward the steps to her office, indicating the meeting was over. She needed to make the break or Elmer would talk all day. She stared into the empty cup. Coffee got her started in the morning and spiked her energy until three o’clock when she began to fade. This afternoon kicker would keep her going until midnight.

Before she could get to the stairs, the side door of the plant opened. Her brother Michael appeared—a silhouette against the light. Even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was upset.

Callie took in a deep breath. Mint-laden air, created by the morning lubricant run, filled her lungs. Soothing, but she prepared for trouble. Perhaps whatever riled him would cease when he saw the new dildo.

If Elmer noticed her distraction, it didn’t show. Should we go ahead and schedule production? He had to raise his voice to be heard over the machines.

Absolutely. She started up steps that led to her glass-walled office overlooking the production floor. If Michael wanted a confrontation, her staff wasn’t going to see it.

By the time she reached the top she could almost feel the heat of his mood warming her back. The clanking sounds of his steps on the metal stairway echoed through the factory reflecting his mental state.

I need to talk to you. Anger was evident in his voice.

She turned toward him to study his face. In the office, please. You’re miffed about something. No need to share.

A large conference room comprised the front part of the area and led to her office at the far end of the room. The walls were lined with pegboard hung with samples of all the toys produced by the company. A long conference table, piled with more samples, dominated the room. Amanda, a newly produced sex doll sprawled across the table. She was the sex toy of the decade, designed with all the bells and whistles and computers needed for any fantasy. She could do anything short of texting.

Callie stepped behind the table and began to pack her old red satchel with the new and redesigned toys she wanted to show her father over the weekend. In went male and female nude playing cards, a black teddy, and new flavored lubricants along with a host of other items.

For all his need to talk, Michael remained quiet.

She glanced at her watch. She needed to leave for Key Largo where she worked weekends helping her sister, Nancy. Her sister’s grouchy husband ran an old neighborhood dive bar and was too cheap to hire extra help. Until Nancy had baby number five, Callie did waiter duty to help take some of the burden off her sister. She waited for Michael to explain himself and kept her hands busy.

He seemed reluctant to begin.

What’s on your mind had better be good. You missed this morning’s meeting.

I’ve got big problems.

Michael, this is your job. I hope you have a good reason for missing the meeting—like you were busy taking care of the Johnson account. They need their catalogues by next Friday and so far the proofs haven’t made their way to the printer. They also have two hundred sex toy parties scheduled and they need brochures.

They’ll get their proofs by Monday, right on schedule.

Callie placed a seventeen-pound artificial vagina into the bag and put the dildo on top.

So what’s going on?

He hesitated.

Just tell me it has to do with work.

It has everything and nothing to do with work.

She snapped the satchel shut. Well that explains everything. If I was in the dark before, now I’m in a black hole. You’re the one who wanted to talk. Spill it.

Where to start. His voice trailed off. This wasn’t his usual rant behavior.

I hate to be cliché but how about starting at the beginning?

Silence.

I don’t have time for this, Michael. Make my day. Tell me the part that doesn’t include work.

It’s Melody.

Your girlfriend du jour? She moved the satchel to the door and set it down.

Yes. We broke up.

Michael, you break up with a different woman every week. What makes Melody so special?

When I told you about her, I left a lot of things out.

Like?

We were serious. Talking marriage.

Callie felt the blood drain from her face. Michael didn’t do serious.

He slumped into a chair. She screwed me over for her father.

Callie’s eyebrow arched. Her father? Literally or figuratively?

Don’t get cute. He forbade the relationship.

Michael, I’m sure there’s some mistake. You’re the best catch in Miami. You’re handsome. You’ve got money. Everyone knows you’re a socialite’s dream catch. In spite of your temper, you clean up well.

She wasn’t changing his mood. Okay, give me the details.

Her father said no daughter of his would marry a sex toy exec. Didn’t matter how much money I made.

He has that much power over her?

Obviously. Power over her and over everything she does, apparently. I told her money wasn’t an issue. That I had enough for several families, but she had to think about it.

But that’s positive. If she’s thinking about it, she hasn’t made a decision yet.

She shouldn’t have had to think. She should have known without thinking.

Michael, aren’t you being a bit unreasonable? It’s a big decision to go against your family wishes. Give her time.

If you love someone, that’s not what you do.

He stood up and began to pace.

Callie walked into her office and took her purse out of the desk drawer. So the family has money and social position. You know that those kinds of people often feel they’re above people in our business.

An über-understatement. He’s a former U.S. senator. That’s part of the story I left out when I told you about her. Her last name’s Willingham.

Callie froze in place. The daughter of Senator Willingham? You didn’t say she was related to the senator. Callie continued her trek across the room and leaned on the edge of the table in shock.

I could kill that bastard.

Please don’t get rash. Don’t resort to threats. Did you talk to him? Explain the situation?

Happened this morning. I stopped by their house to pick up any stuff I’d left behind and he was there. I didn’t think he and the bitch were coming in until this evening, and there he was in all his glorious splendor. I tried to reason with him. He kicked me out. That’s why I was late.

He took a deep breath. Then there’s the real reason I wanted to talk to you. It was supposed to be a happy announcement. Don’t get mad, but I’ve decided to quit.

Callie’s breath sucked in like she’d been hit in the stomach. Repeat, please.

I’m quitting. I’m out of here. I’m done.

She stood straight, shocked beyond speech. It took a second to gather the moxie to speak, and when she did her voice rose to an uncharacteristic level. Are you crazy? You don’t have enough money to quit. You live like a king. You party like an animal and you spend like a trust-fund baby. You have the taste of a Kennedy. Even your pots and pans have class. How do you think you’ll support your playboy habits? Pressure pushed inside her chest. Tension elevated her pitch.

I’ve given it a lot of thought. There are things I want to do. I can’t give them and this job the justice they deserve.

She moved behind the table putting some distance between them. She put her hands on the table, pressed against the oak, and breathed deeply. Have you forgotten the business? Your family? I can’t run this place by myself. You’re part of the plan.

Sorry, can’t do it anymore.

Dad will be pissed. You can’t do this to him. You took a pledge to continue with this business when Dad quit. She knew her red cheeks matched the color of her hair. She’d been blindsided. He was her right hand, her sympathetic ear. They could disagree and always come to a conclusion that suited both of them. They were an ideal team.

His tone mellowed a bit. If I were you, I’d quit too. You’re thirty-three and not getting any younger. Dad can find people to run this place. You belong on the stage playing with the symphony. Isn’t that where your heart lives?

That’s not the point. This is a family business and we need to keep it going until we can sell or turn it over to someone who won’t run it into the ground.

We could do that now if you weren’t so damned nice and could say no. You’re doing this for everyone except yourself. Get over it. Take the money and run. Follow my lead. No need for further discussion.

She mellowed a bit, resigned that she wasn’t going to change his mind. Where will you go? What will you do?

I have a plan. I’m following my bliss.

Which is?

Can’t say just yet. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll jinx it. Michael took keys from his pocket. Sorry. He walked around the table and kissed her on the top of the head. I love you. He turned and walked out the door.

Callie had the urge to follow but suppressed it. She took deep breaths to stop the butterflies in her stomach and bring down what she imagined was elevated blood pressure. The melody line of Beethoven’s Fifth slipped into her thoughts. Flooding her mind with music was a technique she used when she needed time to think, to reorganize, to gain perspective. She went to the window and watched Michael walk out the back door and cross their seldom-used back parking lot. He opened the door of his Corvette, climbed in, and peeled out like a man on fire.

She looked at her watch. Her job in Key Largo started at four thirty and it would take over an hour to get to the bar. The drive would give her time to settle.

Only three more months of this madness and she wouldn’t have to help her sister any longer. She could enjoy her wonderful hometown and her nieces. Who was she kidding? Except for her crabby brother-in-law, she liked working at the Hard Bottom. With a suckie social life, it was the only fun she had.

She tried to put Michael out of her mind and picked up her satchel. The walk down the steps toward her car seemed to take forever. Without thinking she pressed the door’s open button and hit the alarm instead. She pushed the button again to shut off the awful noise. When would she learn to look? Half the time she left the car unlocked because of her failure to pay attention.

With thirty miles of road to travel from the edge of Miami to the bar, she’d cool down. Music would help.

Callie reached over and turned on the radio. WKPC was delivering a special report interrupting their usually uninterrupted classical musical selections.

. . . the murder was the first in Key Largo since 1959, the announcer said.

Callie turned the volume up. The senator held office from 1983 to 1989 when he quit the office to run a foundation supporting the arts.

The only senator fitting that description was Senator Willingham, Melody Willingham’s father. He was murdered. And Michael had just seen him before coming to work this morning? Callie didn’t like where this was leading.

She pulled out of the driveway onto Highway 1 toward Key Largo. The traffic would be awful, but not as bad as the anger and sadness that had morphed into a fear she’d never felt before.

CHAPTER TWO

The credit card Detective Ted Hunter slipped into the crack of the door easily pushed aside the latch telling him exactly what he wanted to know. With the alarm turned off, anyone could enter this luxury beach house. He shook his head at the stupidity. A multimillion-dollar house and cheap locks—what were these people thinking?

He opened one of the double doors leading into the foyer and stepped around the senator’s body. Key Largo’s forensic specialist examined the red marks around the victim’s throat. With rubber-gloved hands, she gently lifted the man’s head, removed a white opera scarf from around his neck, and handed it to Hunter. Hunter examined the silky satin with a short fringe and handed it back to her. Strangulation, he theorized. Not much of a leap.

Hunter studied the man’s face. Late sixties, he guessed. Stephanie Willingham, the senator’s trophy wife, stood several feet from the body. She was quiet for now, but by the impatient expression on her face, Hunter didn’t think she’d stay that way.

He watched the forensic specialist put the scarf in a plastic bag before he approached Mrs. Willingham. Hunter had only been on the job for a week and already a senator had been murdered. Not the quiet life he’d expected in this remote burg.

Do you know if that scarf belonged to your husband?

"I don’t think so. He has one like that, but it’s packed with our other things coming down from New York. He’d have no reason to bring it with him. We’re moving—we were moving– here on a more permanent basis."

Mrs. Willingham began to sob a bit too dramatically. Hunter noted her behavior.

Would someone get Mrs. Willingham a glass of water? He’d found in his years of being a detective, a glass of water sometimes distracted drama queens. Hunter visually inspected the room. The entrance to this house could have served as a stand-in for a grand ballroom and probably did for big parties. Expensive artwork lined the walls. He was not an expert, but the paintings had to be worth a lot of money. If robbery was the motive, the perps missed the boat. He couldn’t rule robbery out, however. Art was hard to fence. Jewelry not so much. Did you check his pockets? he asked the forensic specialist.

His billfold. About two hundred dollars, she said.

Mrs. Willingham followed on his heels. He would have made her go outside if the vic hadn’t been her husband.

The door opened. A young man, looking like the stereotypical pool boy, stood on the threshold with a large dog on a leash. The dog made a rush for the senator’s body.

Get that dog out of here, Hunter yelled

It’s okay, Mrs. Willingham said, rushing toward the over-sized golden retriever, her grief forgotten for a moment. He’s ours. He just arrived from the airport. She hugged the dog. At least she had sense enough to keep away from the body in her race across the floor.

It’s not okay, get him out of here. Hunter glared at the stunned man holding the animal.

But he’s a nice dog. He wouldn’t hurt anything, she said, tears flooding her eyes.

For a brief second, Hunter almost felt sorry for her. If that canine beauty was anything like the dogs he’d had in his life, it could be a great comfort to someone at a time like this. He can’t come in until we’ve removed the crime scene tapes.

What happen . . . , the young guy started to say.

She stopped him with apparent reluctance while continuing to scratch the dog’s ears. Take him around back. Let him play by the pool.

The man shut the door and disappeared.

Thanks, Hunter told her. A dog could compromise any evidence.

Stephanie Willingham eyes had softened a little. She liked the dog. Maybe she had a side that didn’t involve what he guessed was her major interest—money. She didn’t stay soft for long.

Who did this? Do something. My jewelry is gone and my husband is dead.

Ah, yes, there it was. Right again. Missing jewelry trumped dead husband. He didn’t respond right away, but walked back to a tech gathering evidence. Tears filled her pretty brown eyes. Murder did that to rookies, he guessed. Still got to Hunter as well, even though as a former veteran of the Miami Police Department where murder was the mode of the day, he’d seen more violent deaths than he could count.

Mrs. Willingham’s artificial breasts, protruding from her skinny chest like burial mounds, bumped into him and he whirled around. Ma’am, please. We’re trying to gather evidence and all your walking around could cause us to miss something.

That jewelry has been in our family for over a hundred years. It’s gone.

What kind of person–her husband dead in the foyer–was concerned with diamonds?

Once again he tried to estimate her age. Hard to tell with skin stretched tight over her implanted cheek bones. His instincts told him she was in her forties, old for a trophy, but a lot younger than the senator. He slipped on a glove, carefully examined a sales slip the forensic tech handed him, and handed the slip back.

What will this do to my property values? Mrs. Willingham asked.

Interesting use of pronouns. Her husband not yet dead for twenty-four hours and the property was classified as my. Like many of the trophies he’d seen, this woman needed to be boxed up and put in a storage cellar.

Tell me again what time you came home.

Five o’clock. She sighed and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. I flew into Miami about two. The traffic was terrible. I didn’t get here until five. I don’t want to tell you this again. Why aren’t you taking notes? Cops are supposed to take notes.

Were her nerves taking over or was this her MO? So you found your husband as soon as you arrived?

Yes. George came in two days ago to get things settled. We’re planning to move back here year round. He could have been dead all that time. She reared back, holding her nose. I think I can smell him. I’m sure I can smell him. Please get him out of here before he attracts bugs.

Bugs? Smell? There was nothing to smell. The body was in rigor mortis meaning the murder had probably happened earlier in the day. Do you have your boarding pass?

You don’t think I did this? The ice pick pitch of her voice pierced the silence of the room.

No, ma’am. But I have to establish everyone’s alibis.

What motive would I have for killing my own husband? I couldn’t kill a fly. Her chest rose and fell with audible breaths. Do I look like the kind of person who could kill a fly?

He reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes before remembering he’d quit. It’s hard to tell with flies, ma’am. He studied the woman’s tense face. You said you came in through the garage and noticed the body when you went upstairs?

That’s right.

You called the police immediately? He pulled a notebook from his pocket.

Yes, of course.

What did you do next?

While I waited I went upstairs and checked the jewelry. I didn’t know if we’d been robbed. I had reason for concern.

Did you go into the kitchen or stay upstairs until the police arrived?

No, I came downstairs and I put the vacuum in the closet. It was sitting right there. She pointed to the archway that led into a sitting room and then to a closet by the front door.

He repressed his urge to swear. Holding his breath, he walked to the closet and opened the door. Empty except for a vacuum cleaner. Anything else?

No.

I commend you for keeping your cool with your husband lying dead in your foyer. He muttered the statement without thinking. Hopefully, the new widow hadn’t heard him. He squeezed the vacuum bag. No liner. There’s no bag. Do you usually keep it that way? The killer probably sucked up all trace evidence up before he left.

She made a face at it. "I