Great. I let out a puff of steam and rolled my eyes. You know, one of these days, someone is going to stop in to see me and I’m going to look drop dead gorgeous. This wasn’t that day. Again.
Marysville’s finest would be seeing me at my less than finest – dirty shorts and a sweaty plaid shirt, topped off with a baseball cap and a smattering of paint drips. Not only did I look like a slob, I looked like an incompetent one. We were at the tail end of the task of painting the siding and, as everyone knows, the paint that goes on last always goes on less carefully than the paint that goes on at the start of the job, and my appearance was a testament to that fact.
Sort-of-handsome police officer number one from the other day, I had forgotten his name, used his hand to shield the sun from his eyes as he walked toward us. The gravel crunched under his lug-soled shoes and, as he got closer, I picked up the scent of the soap he’d used that morning. With a wanton disregard for hygiene, he extended a hand in my direction. “Good morning, Miss Michaels.”
“Hello,” I said sheepishly and smiled, hoping he’d concentrate his gaze on my face and not the paint stain on my shirt.
“Could I have a word with you, please?” he asked in a friendly sort of way that made me think he wasn’t there to haul me off to jail for the B and E at Bugsy’s.
“Certainly.” We walked to a set of table and chairs in front of Aggie’s where I cranked on the umbrella until it opened like a flower. “You always catch me at my most glamorous, Officer Hagen,” I said, happy to have caught the name on his uniform while I was sizing him up.
Hagen was dressed in a dark blue uniform, short sleeve with a crisp white tee beneath. His jet-black hair was perfectly parted to the side, and the preppy style he wore it in was secured by some product that made it shine. I couldn’t keep my gaze from drifting up from his green eyes to look at his hair, a gesture he may have seen as shifty, though all I really wanted to do was touch it and see if it was hard. His hair, I mean.
His best features were his toned arms and bright white smile of perfectly even teeth. I’d bet money he wore braces as a kid. To be honest, he wasn’t really my type, but he’d do in a pinch. Like when you’re desperate for chocolate but the only semblance of it in the house is baking chips and they’re not even the milk chocolate variety, they’re the semi-sweet kind you bought by mistake. Hagen was just too pristine for me, and I was reluctant to position myself too close to him for fear that some of my paint grime might actually leap onto his spotless uniform.
“I wanted to let you know in person that the search in the bay for Mr. Grant has been called off,” he said as he flipped up the top of his notepad to a blank page.
I paused and swallowed hard, looking him in the eye. “Why’s that?”
“It’s a big area. They’ve searched for five days now near where the rug was pulled up and they just haven’t found anything.”
“So, what does that mean exactly?”
“Well, if Mr. Grant were out there, by now the current may have taken him away, or possibly other environmental factors are at play…” His voice trailed off as he looked to find dejection in my expression.
“Sharks, you mean?” I asked plainly. There was no sense in pussyfooting around it. Life is short and unpredictable, and those facts had not escaped my notice. The more loss I encountered, the more I was apt to cut to the chase and get on with processing bad news. I’m the first to admit that three and a half losses, counting my mother ditching my father and me, has made me a little jaded, which can read as unfeeling.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to upset you.” Hagen seemed genuine.
“I know,” I sighed and looked down at the table top, concentrating on picking the paint out from under my fingernails. My eyes were getting glossy and I blinked over and over to keep my stoicism in check. “Do you think you’ll ever find out what happened to him?”
“Possibly. Holden’s heading up the case, and he’s top notch. But I hear there’s not a lot to go on,” he said in his most officious but conciliatory tone.
“What about financial activity? Anyone using his credit cards? Any clues on his cell phone? Any decent tips come in?” I asked as I ran through my armchair detective checklist. “What about the ex-wife?” I asked, recalling the personification of conspicuous consumerism, Cynthia MacGregor-Grant. “Maybe she still had a life insurance policy on her husband.”
“All good points, but I can’t comment on them, unfortunately,” he said. “I did hear that you’ve been made the caretaker of Mr. Grant’s boat. Is that true?”
“Yes. It’s true. It was news to me, but Nat’s my friend and I know boats, so I guess it shouldn’t have really been a surprise,” I said and noticed Hagen jotting down notes on his pad.
“Also, we’ve been informed that you’re the primary beneficiary in his will when that settles.”
I bit my lip and, with my eyes, I searched the top of the table as I processed the thought that Bugsy had probably provided the Marysville PD with this information and possibly more, though I couldn’t imagine why. I looked back to Hagen. “Yes, that’s true. I met with Nat’s lawyer and he told me I’d been provided for in the will.”
I watched as Hagen scrawled something on his notepad. I had expected him to.
I looked the officer dead in the eye. “Let me ask you something. Am I a suspect?”
“We’re looking at everyone. You just happen to have the misfortune of being the last person to be seen with him and first to discover him missing
I nodded. I wasn’t too surprised. I’ve seen enough crime shows to know that I’d be considered a person of interest. “Well, you can look into my history as much as you want. I’ve got nothing to hide.” I shrugged, wondering if Bugsy’d ratted me out for the break and enter yet, but I wasn’t about to bring it up.
“We’ve done a thorough background check on you already.” Hagen smiled in a friendly way. “It’s a matter of procedure. We check out everyone,” he continued, and I wasn’t sure if I felt less special or not.
“Well, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know,” I said.
Hagen made a note on the pad for some reason. I didn’t think my last few comments were noteworthy, but he must have. When he put down his pencil, I looked at his hands. Some women look at abs and butts, I’m a fan of men with big hands and long fingers. It was then that I noticed Hagen’s right index finger didn’t look quite right. Like it had been broken and not healed properly. For some reason, the fact that he wasn’t as perfect as I’d first thought made him suddenly more appealing.
With the crush of gravel to my right, Hagen and I looked up to see Bugsy steam past us and head into Aggie’s store. He avoided eye contact with the two of us, and his gait conveyed a certain irritability in the way he spun the gravel under his boots. I shook my head subtly. I couldn’t figure that man out for the life of me.
“I think the only thing to do at this point is to carry on,” Officer Hagen said. “Let me know if anything out of the ordinary happens or if anyone contacts you regarding this. Here’s my card again,” he said and pulled his contact card from his left chest pocket. I couldn’t tell you what happened to the first one he gave me.
“Contacts me? Like for a ransom or something?”
“Like I said, we’re looking at all possibilities now. That’s really all I can say.” Hagen smiled sympathetically and got up from his place at the table. He pointed to where Aggie was painting and pretending not to watch us. “It’s good you’re keeping busy, even if it is painting.” As I walked with him toward his cruiser, we made some awkward small talk. “Maybe I’ll see you at the festivities on the Fourth,” he said, nodding in the direction of the hill that led to the main drag.
“Maybe. We’re going ahead with the annual barbeque here that day. You’re welcome to join us, of course.”
“I may do that. I’m working the evening shift that day, so it’d be more of a social visit.” The radio on his shoulder babbled unintelligibly as we said our
goodbyes and, when the cruiser pulled out of sight, I felt some relief, realizing Hagen wouldn’t have accepted an invitation to the July Fourth party with someone he thought was a danger to society. Or would he?
✽✽✽
I walked back to where Aggie was painting and recounted the Officer Hagen conversation with her.
“You are an idiot!” she said.
“Me? Why?”
“Girl, that tall drinka water was flirtin’ with you and you start telling him what you learned on Dateline for God’s sake.” She scoffed. “It’s no wonder you’re single.”
“I’m single because I choose to be,” I said and flicked my paintbrush in her direction before I helped put the last swipes of Water Blue on her store.
“Ok, ok. Well, if you’re not too busy being single, I’ll treat you to lunch up at 211, the new place on Market,” she said, taking a few steps back and nodding with approval as she looked at the paint job.
“Sounds good,” I said and helped Ags carry the paint and brushes into the store.
I made my way back to the Alex M., worked on a few work emails and phone calls, and got most of the paint off me — a task I was happy I’d attended to because just as Ags and I were entering 211 for our lunch, Officer Hagen was leaving the restaurant.
“Hi again,” he said and flashed his pearly whites at me.
“Oh, hi,” I said, startled. I don’t know why, but it surprised me to see him. It always takes me a minute to recognize people out of context. Sure, Hagen was in uniform, but I wasn’t expecting to see him and he didn’t quite look the same without that notepad in his hand. As it turned out, seeing Hagen wasn’t the last of my surprising run-ins for the day.
Ags and I were seated at a table inside, which owing to the heat of the day, was a wise choice.
211 is the name of and the address to the latest Marysville restaurant. It’s situated in one of a series of units in a tall brick building on Market Street, the second most popular street in town, and it is nestled right between a women’s trendy clothing boutique and a place that specializes in teaching you how to distress your furniture with complicated paint techniques that I’m sure only Mensa members can duplicate.
The restaurant walls are exposed brick, the ceiling is high and reveals ductwork that is painted a very dark charcoal grey, and the light fixtures are large wooden chandeliers. When we were seated, I put my bag on the ultra-modern lucite chair beside me that sat in stark contrast to our rusticated walnut table for four. The place had a nice flavour, and I was hoping the food would as well.
I was perusing the menu when I noticed Ags looking in the direction of the door. Didn’t surprise me: she knows a lot of people and she’s always open to meeting new ones, a skill I need to hone. It did, however, surprise me when she waved to someone and called them over.
“Over here,” she said, and when I turned to see, I was stupefied when I saw Cynthia McGregor-Grant walking our way.
“Ags, what are you doing?” I leaned across the table and whispered not so inconspicuously.
“Shhh, I asked her to join us,” Aggie said through the smile on her face.
“You what?”
Cynthia’s stilettos clicked up to our table in a manner straight out of the Bunny Hopper playbook, and she waited for a nearby member of the staff to pull out the chair for her. Why she chose to sit on my side of the table was just my bad luck, and to make room for her I removed my red and blue canvas, no name, all-purpose tote bag which also doubles as a purse.
“Hello,” I said, nodding at Cyn who looked back at me with absolutely no sense of recognition.
“Hello, pleasure to meet you,” she said and offered me the cold, puny, bony little hand she’d extended to me a few days earlier. “I’m Cynthia McGregor-Grant,” she said, and I locked eyes with Aggie, who finally gave me the apologetic look I was owed.
“Alex Michaels,” I said, noticing that the name didn’t register with her. I guess I’m more forgettable than I thought. After giving me the limpest, nothingest of a handshake I’d ever received, Cynthia immediately dove into her handbag and retrieved a compact. Her face must have been melting out in the June sun and emergency repairs were in order – apparently the kind that take priority over table etiquette. I couldn’t help myself from glancing down at her bag.
“Gucci,” she said, as if I wanted to know the make. I didn’t, but I played along and tried to look impressed.
What caught my eye wasn’t the bag itself, it was the paper statement poking out the top of it. The Vine St. Inn. It only made me notice because, not to be disparaging about the Vine, but I didn’t think it was the kind of place Cynthia would like. It is, to be polite, budget-friendly. The amenities are few and the cockroaches are plentiful. That’s not their tagline, and obviously I’d never be called on to do their marketing, but you get my point.
After a glance at the menu — wings and specialty pizzas seemed to be their thing — a young man arrived to take our order. “Ladies, what may I get for you?”
“I’d like a vodka martini,” Cynthia piped up with urgency and added, “Is there any bread for the table?”
“Certainly. I’ll bring some for you, ma’am. And what may I get for you, miss?”
Thrilled beyond belief that I hadn’t been given the dreaded ma’am treatment, I ordered a club soda and Cobb salad and made a mental note to leave the waiter a nice tip. Ags ordered wings.
“Not hungry, Cynthia?” Aggie asked our thirsty guest.
“Oh, not much. I’m sure Shawn’s going to be hungry when he’s done working out so I might grab something then.”
“Shawn?” I asked, wondering if that was the name of the man who drove her around and tried to fit into cars too small for him.
“Yes. Would you like to see a picture?”
“Sure,” I said half-heartedly, and Cynthia shook hands with her Gucci again, digging for her phone.
She put on her cheaters and opened the photo app like a proud mother and held onto her phone while she showed me a picture of a man, much younger than she, wearing shorts while lounging on the beach.
“Nice,” I said, figuring that’s what she wanted to hear. What was so special about some half-naked guy lying on a beach? Didn’t he have anything better to do?
She angled the phone toward Aggie who oohed and awed more than I ever possibly could.
“He’s twenty-five,” she bragged. The man’s age was a badge of honor for her, and from her tone, I gathered he was not her son, though he’d be about the right age for it.
“Where’d you meet him?” Aggie asked, making small talk and taking a sip of her diet soda that had arrived. I rather wondered as well. Did Cynthia have some sort of recruitment desk she set up at colleges for this sort of thing?
Cyn took a gulp of her martini. “At a Christmas party.” She cackled. “It was the last Christmas party my ex and I had. Shawn’s his nephew.”
I flitted my eyelids as I processed what I’d just been told and, had Cynthia not been so self-absorbed in rambling on about the rest of the story, she may have seen me. Nat’s nephew? The one Tranmer said he no longer spoke to? Is he Cynthia’s boyfriend/driver/whatever? Hmph. Interesting.
“Did you know Nat?” Cynthia’s words jolted me from the mental vacation I was taking from the insanity sitting beside me.
“Oh… yeah. In a way,” I said. Sort of lying, sort of not.
“Bastard,” she said, shaking her head, and when she did, her dangly earrings clinked and reminded me of wind chimes. “At least I don’t have to see his face again,” she continued, and were it not for my curiosity, I’d have belted her right then and there.
She took another drink of her martini; this one polished it off. She held the glass daintily aloft, getting the attention of our waiter and signaling for another drink. “Course I notified the insurance company and I’ve contacted his lawyer. Now there’s a good-looking guy... for an older man.” She must have seen me nodding. “You haven’t seen him around, have you? I t
hink he’s screening my calls.”
“Who me? No, I haven’t seen him at the marina. Sorry,” I said. Totally not lying this time.
Cynthia was handed her next drink and she took a sip of it before placing it on the table. “Marathon runner. Nice legs.”
I nodded.
The best way to describe our lunch was “interesting”. While she guzzled three martinis and gobbled up all the sourdough bread and whipped butter in sight, Cyn told us the typical ex-wife victim stories about Nat, and then she divulged way too much information about her lover.
During her third martini, she revealed that she and her paramour had made a sex tape that had somehow made its way into Nat’s hands, and that event triggered the end of her marriage. The waiter brought the bill and Cyn went on the search for her pocketbook somewhere in Gucciville. After watching a feigned and protracted effort, Ags spoke up.
“I’ll get this, Cynthia. I invited you, remember?”
“Thanks so much, dear,” Cynthia slurred.
“Are you ok to get back to your hotel?” Ags asked.
“Oh, sure. I think I’ll just walk back and take a nap,” she said through a yawn.
Good idea, I thought, and after Aggie paid for lunch and I left a nice tip for our very patient waiter, Ags and I walked Cynthia to the sidewalk and mercifully headed in the opposite direction.
“Well, that was fun,” I said dryly.
“Like I always say, disgruntled people will tell you anything and, if they’re drunk, all bets are off.” Aggie smiled. She was right.
“Do you think Cynthia had something to do with what’s happened to Nat?” I asked, more to myself than to Aggie. “I mean, she seems to have a motive. And then there’s the vodka bottle,” I went on.
“What vodka bottle?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? The night I was on Nat’s boat with Bugsy, there was a vodka bottle and a glass beside it.”
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