Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (9 page)

Sam parked the Range Rover in the Best Buy lot and said, “You’re buying me lunch after this.”

“Great. I’m starved. How about The Diving Pelican at the marina?”

“Fine with me.”

We entered the store and looked around for home entertainment, Fragoso’s department. We located a customer service kiosk and an elderly woman dressed in a royal blue smock gave us directions.

Chuck Fragoso was thirty-eight, six-one, lean, and wiry. He had dark hair and eyes, a mustache and goatee, and a small silver hoop in his left earlobe. He was wearing brown slacks with a white short-sleeve shirt and a purple paisley tie.

As we approached, he was discussing the merits of a plasma screen TV with a young couple. I wondered how anyone who wasn’t at work on a Wednesday afternoon could afford a plasma screen. Maybe they were on their lunch break. The couple decided to think about the purchase and wandered off, whispering to each other.

I hung back as I had with the other two subjects while Sam approached Fragoso, introduced himself, and asked if there was some place we could speak privately.

“I guess I could take a break,” Fragoso said.

He excused himself and walked over to an adjacent department, apparently asking someone to cover for him while he was gone. Then we all trooped outside to the parking lot. Fragoso led us around the side of the building to a picnic table. He lit a cigarette and sat down.

“So you’re still investigating the crash?” he asked. “How long does it usually take to sort these things out?”

“Depends on the circumstances,” Sam answered equitably.

“How can I help?” Fragoso asked.

Sam began the same litany of questions, but I noticed he was making more eye contact with Fragoso than he had with the other two men. When he asked about why Mindy and their daughter, Samantha, had been traveling on that fateful day, I saw Fragoso flinch.

After a moment, he quietly said, “They were coming back to me.”

“Coming back?” Sam pressed.

“Mindy took Samantha and left me nine months ago. She moved to Seattle to stay with her folks. We were talking a couple of times a week and we were working things out. They were coming back to me.” His face flushed and his eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said.

Fragoso rested his forehead in his hands for a minute and then swiped at the tears. “What else do you need to know?” he asked.

“I think we’ve taken enough of your time for today,” Sam said. “Can we call you if we think of any other questions?”

“Sure.” Fragoso produced his business card and Sam accepted it.

We left the Best Buy lot and Sam drove to the marina without asking for directions. I raised a mental eyebrow. I wondered if he’d been there before, maybe checking up on me.

“You come here often?” I asked.

“Been out this way once or twice,” he said.

He parked in the side lot nearest the restaurant and we entered The Diving Pelican, both of us automatically turning toward the specials posted on a chalkboard. I decided on the Chinese chicken salad and approached the counter to place my order. Sam followed me and requested the meatloaf. Anyone who’s spent time at The Pelican knows the meatloaf is sublime.

After I’d paid for our meals, we poured ourselves ice water, grabbed napkins and flatware, and chose a table on the outdoor deck facing the water. Sam took an ashtray from one of the other tables, lit a cigar, and leaned back in his chair, looking out at the boats.

“This is where you live?” he asked, casually.

I suddenly felt guilty as hell that I’d never invited Sam to my home or even to my office. I pointed out my boat and said, “That one is mine. I’ll give you a tour after lunch.”

I was suddenly apprehensive. I was sure there were piles of clothes on the stateroom floor and I couldn’t remember if I’d washed the morning dishes.
Shit!

“No need for that,” Sam said, shifting his gaze to the right, looking directly at my office.

“I’ll show you my office while we’re at it,” I said. “It’s on the way to the boat.”

I
knew
the office was a mess. The real question was, why did I care? Sam’s office was sloppy too. He probably wouldn’t even notice. Maybe on some level I wanted to impress him.

I was thoroughly confused about what I should be feeling by the time Bennett delivered our lunch.

“Well, Ms. Hunter,” he said. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“I’m here at least twice a week. I’ve just been missing you. Bennett, this is my friend and mentor Sam Pettigrew. Bennett is the owner of this fine establishment,” I said to Sam.

They shook hands and I thought I saw recognition in Bennett’s expression. Why would Sam come to the marina for lunch and not drop in to see me? Maybe he was waiting for an invitation. But that would mean he was insecure and vulnerable, like a normal person. Sam Pettigrew is
not
a normal person.

We talked about the case over lunch. All three subjects had reason to seek revenge, having lost their wives and children. What we needed to figure out was if any of them had enough rage and was amoral enough to kill. We would have to interview their friends and neighbors as well as conducting surveillance on our three subjects. Not an easy task, considering there were only two of us and we both had other clients. Time was an issue. Sam suggested we each take one of the three, and share the third.

I drew the short straw and ended up with Wallace, the attorney. Of the three, he bothered me the most. Sam chose Fragoso, the manager at Best Buy, and we would work on Boscalo, the accountant, together.

“If we don’t get anything useful from watching these three and interviewing their friends and neighbors,” said Sam, “we’ll take a look at the other families of the deceased passengers and flight crew members.”

After lunch we crossed the marina to my office. I took a deep breath as I unlocked the door. There were stacks of file folders all over the desk. I knew what was in each of the piles but they looked disorderly and I didn’t like Sam seeing them. I proudly showed him my kitchenette, my closet, and my bathroom.

As we walked through each room Sam murmured, “Very nice.” He was being polite, which was totally out of character for him.

While Sam was using my restroom I took the Glock out of my purse and put it back in its holster under my desk.

The office tour had gone surprisingly well, but I didn’t know how Sam would react to the boat. It’s been my experience that a lot of people don’t understand the concept of living aboard. The quarters are cramped and the movement of the boat can feel unstable if you don’t have sea legs, but for me it’s all about freedom. Knowing I can untie the lines and take off anytime I want.

I locked up the office and we walked down to the dock. When we reached my slip I stopped and announced, “This is
Turning Point
.” The Cheoy Lee’s cockpit pilothouse doubles as my enclosed front porch up on deck. It’s where I enter and also where the steering console is housed. From the pilothouse you descend a companionway which takes you down into the galley, which, in turn, exits aft into the stateroom, and forward into the main salon where I spend most of my time—it’s my living room. The aft stateroom is my bedroom. It has built-in drawers surrounding the queen-size bunk, and a single hanging locker or closet. Like I said—close quarters.

Sam ran his hand almost affectionately over the Cheoy Lee’s mahogany brightwork, then climbed aboard without hesitation. When he entered the pilothouse, he rested his hand on the wheel, and I could tell he was imagining what it would be like to take her out.

“Have you ever been sailing?” I asked.

“Not in a long time,” he said wistfully.

“Jeez, Sam. I didn’t know you liked to sail. We should go out sometime. After we crack this case why don’t we take her out for a spin?”

He turned and looked at me quizzically. “I’m a little old for sailing,” he said.

“No you’re not. You’re healthy and your balance is good. Of course, if you don’t want to go.”

“I’d like to go sailing, Nicoli. But it’s been a while.”

“It’ll come back to you,” I said.

I felt myself mellowing toward Sam. If we went sailing together I’d probably never look at him the same way again. He would no longer be the great and powerful Oz. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

Sam backed down the companionway and his gaze fell on the miniature maple tree in the antique pot sitting on my galley counter. He had given it to me when I got my PI license and left his employ.

“I don’t know what possessed me to give you that plant,” he said. “I guess I thought it would do you good to have something to take care of. I never expected it to live this long.”

“I didn’t think it would either,” I said. “But I’m glad it did.”

That was a half-truth. I resented the time I spent trimming, watering, and turning the thing so it got even light. I’d tried to palm it off on my mom, my ex-husband, and a few of my friends and neighbors, but all my neighbors live aboard and plants get banged up when you’re underway.

After touring my boat, we drove back to Sam’s office and plotted out the afternoon. I’d start by interviewing Wallace’s neighbors. Sam would spend his afternoon canvassing the apartment complex where Fragoso lived. He’d speak with the building manager first and then move on to the neighbors nearest Fragoso’s unit, working his way around the complex. We would get together tomorrow at noon to discuss what we had learned and move on to Boscalo. Sam had regular customers he needed to take care of tomorrow, and first thing in the morning I was going for Buddy. I didn’t want the pup to be stuck in the car all day, so I’d have to arrange for someone at the marina to spend the afternoon with him.

Chapter 14

A
s I left Sam’s office I pulled out my cell and called Elizabeth. She answered after one ring, her voice cheerful.

“I need a huge favor,” I began.

“What’s up?”

“I’m adopting Buddy tomorrow morning and I have to work all afternoon. I don’t want to leave him alone in my car or on the boat after he’s been locked in a cage for three days, so I was wondering,” I took a breath and rushed on, “Could you possibly take tomorrow afternoon off and walk him around the marina, you know, introduce him to the place and make him feel welcome while I pursue the evil forces of the universe and try to save our fragile planet from harm?”

“Okay, that last part was over the top, but I’d be happy to help out. I’ll take a personal day. In fact I can leave work now if you want to pick him up this afternoon. I’d like to be there with you when you adopt him.”

“That would be great
.
But I can’t do it today. I have a bunch of interviews to conduct on Paul’s case.”

“What time are you leaving?”

“You mean what time am I starting the interviews? Um, now.”

“I’ll be at your office in fifteen minutes,” and she hung up.

I looked at my cell phone wondering what had just happened, but not unhappy about it.

I made it back to the office five minutes before Elizabeth breezed in at 1:15. I gave her a quick hug, grabbed my shoulder bag, and escorted her back outside and into my BMW.

Wallace lived in the Belmont Hills. Most of the lots there were large, so neighbors could potentially be separated by an acre or two, but you never knew what people might see or hear, and it was important to check everything.

“I’m glad you’re coming with me,” I said. “These interviews will go faster with you along.”

Elizabeth is an expert at wheedling information out of people.

As we drove to Wallace’s address I told her that Bill had suggested we try living together.

“How do you feel about that?”

“I think it’s a bad idea. I’m crazy about Bill, most of the time, but I’m not looking for a commitment. Not that big of a commitment anyway. Living together usually leads to marriage, and I don’t want to be married. I like things the way they are.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Pretty much.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he thinks he loves me.”

“Oh. Well, love is good. Do you love him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Do you think this is a deal breaker for him?”

“I hope not. He really is a great guy. A little controlling sometimes, but he’s a cop, so I guess that’s to be expected. I’m afraid that moving in together would make him feel like he had a right to, I don’t know, dominate the relationship. Anyway, he asked, and I said no. I guess I’ll have to wait and see what happens next.”

We put our conversation on hold as I pulled to the curb across the street from Wallace’s house. He lived in a peach-colored, two-story Mediterranean that looked freshly painted. The landscaping was pristine. I grabbed my Cyber-shot, and snapped a few quick pictures of the house. I checked to make sure the tape recorder in my purse was set on voice activate and pulled a clipboard out of the trunk, along with a short stack of generic forms which allow me to look official regardless of what I’m doing.

What I always hope for when I’m conducting neighbor interviews is a housekeeper who is home alone, bored, and nosey. Some of my best sources have been domestics.

Elizabeth and I stood on the sidewalk, scoping out the neighborhood. There was an old, faded yellow VW Bug parked in front of the house to the left of Wallace’s. Either it was an employee’s vehicle or someone’s teenager was home from school on a weekday. We spotted it at the same time, looked at each other, and headed down the long driveway.

Elizabeth rang the doorbell and then stepped back. I reached inside my purse and positioned the tape recorder with the microphone facing the top of the bag. After a few moments the door was opened by a woman in her late forties. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was solid-looking, her posture was perfect, and her brown eyes were assessing. She wore a cream-colored sweat-suit, white Reeboks, and coral lipstick. 

“Good afternoon,” I began. “Sorry to bother you. Are you the owner of the house?”

“No,” She replied. “She’s at work.”

“We were hoping to speak with someone who spends a lot of time here in the neighborhood.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s this about?”

“We’re conducting an investigation,” I said. “We have some questions about the family next door.”

I didn’t mention the name, but she leaned out the door and glanced to her left, at Wallace’s house. “You’d better come inside,” she said.

We stepped into the foyer and introduced ourselves. Her name was Gina Cirone. Once the introductions were out of the way, Gina asked if we wanted coffee.

“Please,” I said.

“I’d love some,” Elizabeth chirped. Elizabeth doesn’t normally drink coffee, but she is always gracious.

I was hoping Gina would offer something more substantial since I was presently missing nicotine more than usual and needed a substitute vice. I was in luck. She produced a plate of fresh baked cheese scones and blueberry muffins. As we sat companionably around the cozy kitchen table, looking out on the lavish backyard, drinking French roast coffee and eating scones and muffins, Gina told us she had been Carmen Murillo’s housekeeper for the last four years. She was comfortable with the routine, but it wasn’t very stimulating. Perfect.

“So, Gina,” I began. “We need to know anything you can tell us about the Wallace family.”

I let the statement hang. Usually a subject will start talking just to fill the silence. Most people are uncomfortable with silence. Gina was no exception.

“They were quiet,” she said. “The wife and kids, I mean. Kept to themselves. Carmen invited them to her Christmas party every year. The wife was pretty, but timid. She almost never spoke. I think she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. The children were very well behaved and very well dressed. They were quiet too. Mr. Wallace was the most talkative one in that family.”

“Did you ever see Mrs. Wallace apart from Mr. Wallace?” Elizabeth asked.

“Just in the driveway. She would drive the kids to school, and when she came home she’d park the SUV in the driveway instead of putting it in the garage. Sometimes I’d see her when she came home with the groceries.”

“Did they have live-in help?” I asked.

“No, but someone comes in to clean twice a week.”

We talked with Gina for twenty minutes. The most relevant piece of information she had to offer was that she didn’t like Wallace. I didn’t like Wallace either. That didn’t make him a killer, but I would look extra hard at him because of it.

Before we left, I asked if she could introduce us to any of the other employees in the neighborhood. She walked us next door to a stately two-story brick house, took us to a side door, and entered the kitchen without knocking.

“Ethel?” she called out, as she entered.

A pink-faced, silver-haired woman in a crisp white uniform popped up from behind a granite center island. “Gina! What a nice surprise. Who are your friends?”

Gina introduced us to Ethel MacDougall, cook and housekeeper to Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy. The four of us sat down at the kitchen table and Ethel served everyone coffee cake. I accepted a small piece, but I’d already eaten two of Gina’s cheese scones and I knew the carbs were going to give me a headache. Everything has a price.

Ethel insisted she knew less about the Wallaces than Gina did, being one house further removed, however she did say she had observed the mister in the driveway one night slapping the missus. She didn’t know what had provoked the attack, only that the missus was crying at the time. Ethel said she had barely controlled her desire to take a frying pan to his skull.

Both Elizabeth and I used the bathroom off Ethel’s kitchen before moving on. We asked if either of them could introduce us to anyone else in the neighborhood, and Ethel picked up the phone.

Our next stop was the house across the street from Wallace’s. The driveways were long, but if you stood in the middle of the street between the two houses you could see in both front windows, which were directly across from each other. This house was a Tudor with beautifully manicured grounds and a fire engine red front door. The brass knocker was in the shape of a boar’s head. I couldn’t resist using it. After about thirty seconds the door was answered by a young woman wearing white shorts and a powder-blue tank top. Her skin was the color of cappuccino and her smile displayed a perfect set of brilliant white teeth. In fact, everything about her appeared to be perfect. She was at least five-ten in her Nikes, and maybe a hundred and forty-five pounds of lean body mass.

“Hi,” I said. “We’re looking for Rebecca.”

“I’m Rebecca,” said the young goddess. “You must be Nicoli and Elizabeth. Ethel said you’d be right over. Come on in.”

We entered the house and I looked around, hoping to find a layer of dust on the furniture, a smudge on a mirror, dirt on the carpet or scratches on the hardwood floor, but there was nothing. She was beautiful
and
efficient. Not much potential for likeability.

Rebecca ushered us into the living room. Willow trees framed the floor-to-ceiling windows and an ebony baby grand piano sat in the corner, surrounded by bookshelves filled with sheet music. I wondered if the owner of the house was a concert pianist.

“Did Ethel tell you why we’re here?” Elizabeth asked.

“She said you were asking about Wallace.” I thought I detected a slight shudder when she said his name.

“That’s right,” I said. “We’re doing background research on the victims of the accident that killed his wife and children.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Why are you researching the victims’ backgrounds?”

I looked into her shrewd brown eyes and wondered why she was working as a domestic. “What’s your major?” I asked, taking a shot.

“Political Science at the moment. I’m pre-law,” she said.

Of course
. “Night classes?”

“Some day classes too. I live in, so I can work whenever I’m not in class.”

“That must be nice,” I said. I was thinking maybe Rebecca took care of more than the house and mentally slapped myself for the assumption.

“Are you going to answer my question?” she asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “You’re the first person who’s asked. We’re researching the background of each passenger to determine their life insurance value for any potential law suits. Not everyone buys preflight insurance.”  

It was a good lie. One I’d spent a lot of time thinking up. I was proud of it, and thought I had delivered it convincingly.

“I guess that makes sense. Mind if I look at your credentials?”

“Not at all.”

I took out my wallet, showed her my PI license, and handed her one of my business cards. She accepted the card and read the license carefully. Then she looked at Elizabeth expectantly.

“Elizabeth is my associate,” I said. “If you’d rather not talk to us, that’s okay.”

“I don’t mind talking to you. I just wanted to be sure you weren’t working for that asshole across the street.” She waved her hand in the direction of Wallace’s house. Now we were getting somewhere.

“That’s reassuring,” I said. “I was wondering if it was just me.”

“You’ve met him?” she asked, looking suspicious again.

“Yesterday,” I said. “Totally anal.”

“He’s a peeping-Tom,” she said. “You want coffee or something?”

“No, thanks. We’re pretty much coffeed out,” said Elizabeth. “So Wallace has been watching you? Like, with binoculars?”

She shook her head. “Camera. He’s got a telephoto lens.”

“What can you tell us about his wife?” I asked. “Did she seem to be afraid of him?”

“Any rational person would be afraid of him. I don’t like to judge people,” she said, with a self-deprecating smile. “I know it sounds like I’m really into putting him down, but that’s not my style. I almost quit my job because of that man.”

“How did he treat his wife and kids?” Elizabeth asked, trying to steer her back to the reason for our visit.

“I saw him hit her a couple of times, and he used to yell at her a lot. I’ve read about people like him. They feel threatened by anything they can’t control.”

“You’re very observant,” I said. “What else have you seen him doing?”

“You mean besides watching me with his camera?” I nodded. “My boss, David, and I went to Carmen’s Christmas party together the last two years, and at both parties Wallace stared at me the whole time he was there, even though his wife was standing right next to him. I could feel his eyes on me the minute he walked in. It’s creepy. Almost like being stalked. When he’s watching me with the camera I can feel it. I turn around and there he is. And he doesn’t stop when he knows I see what he’s doing. Can you believe that?”

“Maybe he wants you to know,” Elizabeth ventured.

“I thought voyeurism was about being sneaky. You think it turns him on that I know he’s watching me?” She covered her throat with her hand and looked like she might be sick.

“It might,” I said. “He may want you to feel that he can exert power over you, even from a distance.”

“That’s disgusting,” Rebecca said. “So what can I tell you that will get him out of my life?”