Sarah Woods Mystery Series (Volume 3) (13 page)

Chapter 2

Bridgeport, New Hampshire tends to have varied weather in May, and today just happened to be of the pouring rain variety. I didn't mind so much because the air was dense with the smell of lilacs and bark mulch as I drove to Mercy Hospital with my windows opened.

When I pulled under the portico, Carter was sitting on the bench waiting, one arm stretched out and resting on the seat back and one leg crossed over the other knee. Dressed in his usual attire of jeans, black boots, black t-shirt and worn leather jacket, he always seemed to exude a relaxed confidence. His thick, grey hair was combed back from his face, his eyebrows a shade darker. Ruggedly handsome, he reminded me of a cross between Richard Gere and Sam Eliot.

“I could’ve driven myself home,” he said as he got into my car.

“I know, Mr. Tough Guy, but the doc says no driving for eight hours after the colonoscopy.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not like it’s open heart surgery.”

There was no point in debating with Carter, a fifty-five-year-old bachelor who’d never been sick a day in his life. Not even a knife wound could keep him down.

“At least you didn’t cancel the appointment this time,” I said.

As he shifted in his seat, I saw a faint wince, but he recovered quickly. “Tell me about the meeting.”

“Kathy Woodward is a divorce attorney with major trust issues.” I handed him the manila envelope. “These are the three guys she wants us to look into.”

He held the sheets of paper close to his face, squinting. It was time for him to get some reading glasses, but I knew it would be a fruitless effort to mention that again. However, I understood Carter’s stubbornness, not giving in to the inevitable aging and all that came with it.

At forty-four years old, I take great pains to stay in shape, body and mind. It took me almost two years of squinting and headaches before I’d finally broken down and bought a pair of readers. At some point I figured Carter would do the same.

Carter chuckled as he placed the file in his lap. “So, she wants us to sift through their dirty laundry?”

I nodded with apprehension. “I have to admit, I don’t think it’s right. What ever happened to just getting to know someone the old-fashioned way? Why would you want to know everything about someone in the beginning? Takes all the fun out of dating.”

Carter raised an eyebrow. “Who ever said dating was fun?”

“Well, it
can
be. But how would you know? You haven’t been on a date in … how long has it been?”

He ignored the question. “Just because
you’re
in relationship bliss, doesn’t mean the rest of us are. Speaking of Max, where is he working these days?”

“He's in Santa Fe this week, and next week, somewhere in California. By the way, what gives you the idea that we’re in relationship bliss?”

He shrugged. “I noticed the flowers on your kitchen table.”

“They were for Mother's Day,” I replied.

“A thoughtful gesture, considering you’re not even his mother.”

I shrugged it off. “Well, I think he sent them because he felt bad that my own son forgot about Mother's Day.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Carter said. “Once Brian is done with college, he'll start to grow up.”

“It’s fine,” I said, trying to convince myself it was true. Brian was a good kid, but he'd broken my heart on many occasions. His father was always the one to plan birthday parties and make a big deal out of Mother's Day. But since our divorce over a year ago, that all changed. I figured – or at least dearly hoped – that Brian would not have to have daddy remind him anymore.

Ten minutes later I pulled into Carter’s driveway. He lived in a modest house close to downtown Bridgeport. I had only been to his house once before, odd considering we’d been working together for over a year. But maybe it wasn’t so odd considering his guarded tendencies. He liked to keep his personal and professional lives separate, although I liked to think that he was beginning to change his ways. The fact that he’d allow me the pleasure of driving him to and from the hospital was a big step.

“I’ll make some coffee and we can discuss the case,” he said. “Want a sandwich or something? I'm starved.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He invited me to have a seat at the kitchen table. “How does salami and cheese on sourdough sound to you?”

“Anything is fine.”  

I arranged the profiles on the table in front of me, side by side. “We have three days to find out as much as we can about these guys,” I said.

“What are their names?”

“Richard Mackenzie, Bob Owens and Travis Miller. They all live locally, or at least within half an hour of here. It's hard to tell by the thumbnail-sized photo in each profile, but they all appear to be in their late thirties to mid forties.”

When Carter joined me at the table with lunch and mugs of coffee, we examined the first profile while I scribbled down notes.

“Richard Mackenzie is forty-one and has never been married,” I said. “He’s a realtor and lives in Hampton. He likes traveling, reading, fine dining, movies, going to the theater, opera and art galleries.”

“Sounds like a world-class, cultured guy,” Carter said, a hint of condescension in his voice. “And I'll bet he's never been to an opera in his life.”

I laughed. “You're probably right, but it sure sounds good on paper.” I continued to read the profile, “No kids. Non-smoker. No religion. Personality traits include: sensitive, trustworthy, artistic, passionate. He’s looking for a confident and understanding woman who appreciates art, movies and walks on the beach.”
 

“Walks on the beach?” he said, rolling his eyes. “Couldn't he come up with something more original than that?”

“Women fall for that shit,” I said. “They eat it up with a spoon.”

“Why can't guys just be honest,” Carter said, “and admit they like to sit around the house all weekend in their underwear and watch sports while guzzling a case of beer.”

“Sports and porn,” I said.

“Depending on what game is on,” he replied.

“Anyway,” I said, getting back to Richard Mackenzie. “He's not bad looking, although the dark-rimmed glasses give him a geeky, Clark Kent sort of vibe.”

“If he's a realtor, then he's probably a social media whore. He'll be an easy target.”

Carter devoured his sandwich in a few bites and went to make another one. I had barely nibbled mine.

“The next guy is Bob Owens,” I said. “He's the manager at a sporting goods store, and he certainly looks like an all-American jock. Reminds me of a young Robert Redford.”

When he returned with another sandwich, Carter glanced at the photo. “How old his he?”

“My age exactly – forty-four. He's divorced and has a teenage daughter.”

“Forty-four? That picture must have been taken when he was in college,” he said.

“Yeah, probably. Anyway, as you can expect, his hobbies include: hiking, kayaking, mountain climbing, surfing and skiing. He's looking for a woman who's fit and enjoys the outdoors.”

“Who's the last guy?” Carter waved an impatient hand, as if he were bored already.

“Travis Miller.”

“He sounds like a country singer,” Carter said.

“Says here, he's thirty-nine with no kids – moved to the New Hampshire seacoast from Texas about eight years ago. He works for J.P. Construction Company in Boston and enjoys woodworking, hunting, fishing and camping. He looks like a lumberjack or mountain man with his scruffy beard. You'd think he'd have chosen a more flattering picture for his profile.”

“First thing's first.” Carter cracked his knuckles, opened his laptop and went to work. “Let's see if our new friends have criminal records. Meanwhile, you can go on Facebook and other social media sites. Find out what clubs they belong to, where they hang out and so on.”

“Okay, just as long as we can make another pot of coffee. This could take a while.”

* * *

Two hours later, I'd filled two pages with notes and was going cross-eyed from staring at the computer screen for so long. I leaned back in the chair and stretched my arms over my head to loosen the knots in my back.

Carter glanced at my notes on the table. “How'd you make out with the social media?”

“Bob Owens and Dick Mackenzie are on Facebook, Twitter and Linked In, but mostly to promote their businesses. Travis Miller doesn't even have a Facebook account. How about you, did you find anything?”

Carter nodded. “According to my research, none of them have any felonies except for a DWI that Travis got when he was in his twenties. Bob Owens was a defendant in a civil suit a few years ago, but it looks like the issue was settled out of court. I can't seem to find any information online about it, so I doubt it was anything serious.”

“Great. On paper these guys check out. What's our next step?”

“Call employers, co-workers, ex-girlfriends and even ex-wives if at all possible.”

“What reason will we give them? They'll be suspicious if we start asking personal questions. Obviously, we're not going to tell them the truth.”

“I've been thinking that maybe there's an easier way to get some dirt on these guys, if there is any, but it will involve a little extra work on your part. Are you willing to hear me out?”

Knowing how Carter's mind worked, I was afraid to hear his plan. “I'm not giving them a free massage.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “No, but you're on the right track. What if we made up some flyers, offering a free house cleaning to drum up business, and the offer is only good for this week? References provided.”

I rolled my eyes. “Hilarious, Carter. You've been to my apartment. You know what a sub-par housekeeper I am.”

“Who cares? It's not like you want to impress them with your cunning vacuuming skills. It's the perfect opportunity to look through their stuff, and maybe you could do a little dusting and mopping along the way.”

“What if they already have a cleaning lady?”

“Won't matter.” Carter drummed his fingers on the table and stared into his coffee cup as if it held all the answers to his questions. Finally, he looked up at me. “Keep in mind, these guys are single and looking. So if we put your picture on the flyer, believe me, they're gonna call.”

I was flattered that Carter thought of me as attractive, but he was assuming the other men would, too. “Is a picture really necessary?”

“It'll be easy. I can get some flyers printed out in ten minutes.” Carter grabbed his cell phone and pointed at me. “Smile, Sarah. Don't look so glum. This isn’t a mug shot.”

It felt so awkward posing in front of Carter. I tried to relax, but then I started giggling nervously.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“This is weird. I'm not very comfortable in front of the camera.”

He ignored my remark and continued taking shots. When he was done, he scrolled through the photos he took. “This one's cute.” He held out his phone to show me.

I gasped. “You've got to be kidding me. I look like a buffoon.”

“No, it's perfect. You look great.”

Wow. Another compliment from Carter. I felt my face get hot and hoped he wouldn't notice my slight embarrassment.

While he made up the phony flyers on his computer, I discreetly looked around Carter's kitchen and noticed not one picture or magnet affixed to his refrigerator. In fact, there were no personal touches or knickknacks around anywhere. It occurred to me that I had never seen a picture of his daughter, who had died of a drug overdose many years ago. If he had any photos of her, they must be tucked away in a bedroom or shoebox somewhere.

While Carter disappeared into another room to print out the flyers, I got up to stretch my legs and wandered into the living area. The bookshelves were lined with hardcover spy novels of John LeCarre, Robert Ludlum and Vince Flynn. To my surprise and amusement, I also noticed a complete set of The Hardy Boys, over fifty books in all. This was proof; Carter has always been a sucker for a good mystery.

I heard the printer at work, and a minute later, he found me by the bookshelf. He handed me one of the flyers. “Take a look. What do you think?” he asked.

I inspected it. “Nice job. You even have
me
convinced that I could clean a house.”

“Now all you have to do is deliver them. Then we wait for a call.”

“What about these so-called references?” I asked.

“Don't worry about that. I have a feeling they won't bother asking for references, but if they do, I'll think of something. As you can see, I used the burner phone number so you won't have to use your real number.”

I sat there for a good minute, musing quietly to myself. I had to admit, I liked the idea better than breaking into houses.

I glanced at my watch. 2:15. “Well, I should probably head out to deliver these flyers. Did you write down their addresses?”

He ripped a sheet out of his notebook and gave it to me.