A Side Order Of Murder

by Nancy Skopin

  “Anderson,” he answered.

  “Why do you always sound angry when you answer the phone?” I asked.

  “Hi, Nikki.” His voice softened considerably. “Because I hate being interrupted when I’m working. Except when it’s you. How’re you doing?”

  “You mean since this morning?”

  “Smart-ass,” he said.

  “I need to borrow your bug detector.”

  “Okay. You got a hot case?”

  “Maybe. Will it work on all types of electronic gismos, or just transmitters, telephone taps, and spy-cams?”

  “What are you hoping to detect?” he asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. Will it pick up micro-projectors?”

  “No. The wand I have is a frequency detector. It detects radio signals. Any radio frequency. It would react if you got close enough to a Burger King drive-through. It also displays the frequency detected, so you can tune your VHF radio to that frequency and listen in to confirm that your client, or whoever, is being recorded. Of course some bugs are sound activated, so you’d only be able to find them if you were talking or making some kind of noise while you were scanning the area. Transmitters can also be wired directly into light fixtures, in which case they’re only operational when the lights are turned on. I hope that answers your question.”

  “Huh?” I think I might have dozed off for a minute.

  “When do you need it?” he asked.

  “Soon. I have to pick up some video equipment, then I can stop by your office, maybe buy you lunch?”

  “Why don’t you get some take-out and meet me at my house at one-thirty? The wand is somewhere in the garage. It may take some digging.”

  “Okay. What are you in the mood for?”

  “One of Bennett’s roast beef sandwiches. With extra pickles.”

  The Diving Pelican Café, aka Bennett’s, to those of us who know the owner, is a marina landmark.

  I checked my watch after we hung up and realized I’d have to hurry if I was going to drive to Radio Shack for the surveillance equipment, then back to the marina for sandwiches, and still make it to Bill’s house by 1:30.

  I shut down my computer and photocopied Cliff’s check, then closed the sliding windows and locked up the office. Buddy and I jumped into my little green BMW 2002, (that’s the model, not the year it was built), and sped to the Radio Shack on Woodside Road. I made a shopping list in my head as I drove.

  The video surveillance system for Cliff’s bedroom came to just over $1,500.00. At the last minute I grabbed an anti-spy detector that would ferret out wireless cameras, recording devices, and radio frequencies. I’d been meaning to buy one for months. The unit was only a little bigger than a cell phone and could be set on vibrate, so it would be silent.

  On my way back to the marina I called Jim Sutherland, another PI and a good friend. We met last July when he was hired by the serial killer I was hunting at the time, but that’s another story.

  I got his voicemail and left a message telling him I needed someone to alternate shifts with me on a long-term round-the-clock surveillance. I left all three of my numbers, even though I knew he had them memorized. We work together a lot.

  I was back at the marina a little before 1:00. Plenty of time. I ordered and paid for two roast beef sandwiches at Bennett’s counter and took Buddy for another walk while they were being prepared. The wind was up to about fifteen knots, so it felt cooler outside, but my office would still be like a sauna. The sandwiches were ready and packaged to-go when Buddy and I returned.

  We arrived at Bill’s house and found his Mustang in the driveway. I parked on the street, grabbed Buddy’s leash and the bag of sandwiches, and walked back. Even though Bill was expecting me, I knew better than to take him by surprise, so as I neared the open door of the garage I called out his name.

  “In here,” he shouted.

  I leaned inside. Bill was rummaging through items on the tool bench. I find it interesting that a man who keeps his house and office in pristine order has a garage piled floor-to-ceiling with junk. He even had to build a carport behind the house so he’d have someplace to park his Mustang on the odd rainy days. I guess we all need balance. With so much organization in his life, the chaos has to show up somewhere. Buddy strained at his leash, trying to get closer to Bill.

  “Aha!” he declared triumphantly, reaching behind a pile of tangled extension cords. He held up the wand. “You might want to put new batteries in this. Hasn’t been used in a while.”

  I remembered exactly when it had last been used. When Bill and I first met I’d asked him to check my car for tracking devices. I still get a little thrill every time I think about the early stages of our relationship. I’m a romantic at heart, even though I’m reluctant to commit.

  “Actually, I won’t be needing it after all. I finally bought my own. Sorry for the hassle. But I brought lunch.” I held up the Diving Pelican bag and batted my eyelashes, hoping he wouldn’t be too pissed.

  “Not a problem,” he said, leaning in for a kiss and stroking Buddy’s ears at the same time. I love a man who can multitask. “Let’s eat.”

  We entered Bill’s kitchen through the laundry room at the back of the house, and I set the sandwich bag on the counter while Bill removed plates and glasses from an overhead cabinet.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “Got any Perrier?”

  He checked the fridge. “Yup. There’s a bottle left from the last time you were here.” He handed me the water and fixed me with a look.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Why is it we never spend the night here?”

  “You know how I feel about sleeping on land,” I said, instantly defensive. “Besides, I can’t smoke in your house.”

  “So quit smoking. Come on Nikki. Why don’t we try staying here every other weekend?”

  I felt my gut clench. I didn’t want to spend time in Bill’s house. I loved living aboard my sailboat, and I loved the marina, plus my office was only a hundred and fifty yards away.

  “Maybe every third weekend,” I hedged.

  When the time came I knew I’d back out. Ever since I moved onto the boat I don’t like sleeping anywhere else. Being on my Cheoy Lee gives me a sense of liberation and one of security at the same time. It’s my happy place. Besides, this is California and a boat is safe during an earthquake. You just have to cut the lines and get out of your slip in case the docks go down. Sleeping in my own bed makes me feel like I’m in control. Sleeping in Bill’s bed would make me feel vulnerable and dependent. I don’t like those feelings.

  I love Bill, but we still have a few issues to work out. Not long ago, he suggested we try living together, either in his house or onboard my boat. I said I wasn’t ready for that level of commitment, but as soon as he’d made the suggestion his behavior changed and he became more controlling. That didn’t go over very well with me. One of the reasons I choose to work and live alone is my need for independence. While Bill hasn’t broached the subject again, he now spends several nights a week onboard the boat. That works out pretty well for me, since it means I have someone who can stay with Buddy when I need to work nights. Buddy hates being alone.

  Bill grabbed a Pepsi out of the fridge for himself, and we put our sandwiches on plates and took them into the living room. Bill has a dining room, but it’s at the back of the house and the windows face the carport, which is neither scenic nor appetite-inducing.

  After lunch we walked out to the backyard and sat down on an oak loveseat underneath a sycamore tree. I leaned my head against Bill’s shoulder and wished for a moment that I was capable of being more flexible. When it was time for him to go back to work, he walked me to my car, kissed me with a lot of tongue, and held me for a moment while Buddy tried to snuggle in between us.

  “Is this new case going to be dangerous?” he asked, nuzzling the top of my head.

  “Only to my sanity,” I said, leaning back enough to make eye contact.

>   Bill look intrigued, but I didn’t volunteer anything further. If I told him about Cliff, I’d end up telling him that Jack had made the referral, and Bill doesn’t care much for Jack. It’s a cops and robbers thing.

  CHAPTER 3

  FROM BILL’S HOUSE I drove to the bank and deposited all but a thousand dollars of Cliff’s check, then headed back to the marina and my office. I considered running a preliminary background check on Cliff, but decided to wait until I had more information, like his social security number, driver’s license number, the license plate number on his car, or at least his date of birth. You have to have more than a name to run a thorough background check, although the service I use could probably have done something with his checking account number, address, and phone numbers.

  When I unlocked the office it was like an oven inside. I quickly propped the doors open, switched the fan to high, and slid open all the windows, securing the documents on my desk with paperweights. Then I took Buddy out onto the lawn in front of the office. He plopped down on the grass and groaned. I think his Rhodesian Ridgeback half enjoys the heat, but the Golden Retriever half not so much.

  After about fifteen minutes we strolled back inside. The breeze and fan were doing their job, cooling things off, so I tossed some ice cubes in Buddy’s water dish then turned on the computer and started a file on my new client. I entered what little information Cliff had given me and noted the possibilities I’d listed that morning. I made a second list of the things I would ask Cliff to do if I couldn’t find any evidence his sanity was actually being tampered with:

  1. See a neurologist and request an EEG

  2. Have an ophthalmic exam

  3. Visit a psychologist—I knew a good one

  If he refused to agree to my terms I’d have no choice but to remove myself from the case. No point wasting my time or his money. When I’d finished the lists, I looked up Jack’s number in my smartphone.

  Ilsa Richter, Jack’s housekeeper, picked up after two rings. “McGuire residence,” she answered in her lilting German accent.

  “Hi, Ilsa. It’s Nicoli Hunter. How are you?”

  “Oh, Ms. Hunter. I am well, thank you. And you?”

  I’d fallen in love with Ilsa and her husband Joachim the first time I met them, while I was conducting an investigation for Jack. They take care of his estate and live in an adorable cottage attached to the main house. They’ve been married for forty-one years, and they’re as different as night and day. Ilsa is bright, warm, voluptuous, and energetic, and Joachim is lean, stiff, quiet, and brooding by nature. They seem very happy together.

  “I’m fine, Ilsa. Is the lord of the manor at home?”

  “Mr. Jack is outside in the swimming pool,” Ilsa said. “If you can hold on just a moment, I’ll bring the phone to him.”

  I waited while she set down the kitchen receiver and walked to the back of the house, where she picked up a cordless extension. While I was waiting I took the opportunity to enter Cliff’s numbers in my smartphone.

  “Mr. Jack, Ms. Hunter is on the telephone,” Ilsa called out.

  I heard splashing, then wet footsteps slapping the tile deck.

  “Thank you, Ilsa,” he said. “Hello, Nicoli.”

  He sounded a little breathless. Probably swimming laps. Since he retired, Jack spends his days tending to his already perfect musculature and cultivating his extensive stock portfolio. He’d amassed a fortune stealing other people’s money and investing it, on top of which he recently inherited another five or six million from a deceased family member. Despite my fondness for him, I sometimes resent how easy things appear to be for Jack. Then I remember he lost his parents when he was a child and recently his only sibling as well.

  “Hi, Jack,” I said. “Sorry to get you out of the pool. I had an interesting meeting with one of your neighbors this morning.”

  “I assume you mean Cliff Montgomery,” he said. “Unusual fellow.”

  “You can say that again. What can you tell me about him?”

  We heard Ilsa hang up the kitchen extension.

  “Well, I’m pretty sure Cliff’s father is a retired federal official of some kind. He has a very black-ops feel about him.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Intuition,” he said, and laughed.

  “Are you sure you didn’t case the joint one night when they were out?”

  “They have live-in help,” he said.

  “I see. What else?”

  “We don’t actually socialize. Cliff’s on the skittish side and his parents are ultra-conservative. Cliff was driving by when I pulled up to the gate yesterday and he stopped to ask me if I knew a good PI, so I told him about you.”

  “Well I think he might be a few cards short of a deck, but it’s possible he really is in some kind of trouble. Either way, you owe me a loaf of Ilsa’s pumpkin bread.”

  “Why don’t you come for dinner tonight? Elizabeth will be here at seven. I’ll ask Ilsa to start baking now. While you’re here you can take a look at the outside of the Montgomery mansion.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” I said. “Can I bring Buddy?”

  “Of course. K.C. will be happy to see him.”

  K.C. is Elizabeth’s cat. He and Buddy had an encounter a few months ago, after which Buddy decided chasing the big, orange tabby was not in his best interest. Now they’re friends.

  I hung up the phone and pondered what Jack had said about Cliff’s father working for the government. It made my stomach hurt. I have long-standing issues with authority figures stemming from my childhood and involving my cousin, who always managed to get me punished for things that he had done. On the upside, my history with him is one of the reasons I believe so strongly in justice and protecting the innocent. Both traits that get me in trouble, but make me good at my job.

  If Cliff’s father was, in fact, a retired federal official of some kind, that might explain why Cliff had become a target. Maybe he knew too much, or maybe someone was trying to get at his father through him.

  My office phone rang, startling me out of my shadow-government fantasy.

  “Hunter Investigations,” I answered, without looking at the display.

  “Nikki, it’s Jim. How the heck are you?”

  “I’m doing well. What about you? How’s business?”

  Jim has a deep, booming voice to go with his six-foot frame. He’s a redhead, as are Jack and Elizabeth. I seem to be surrounded by them. Jim and I met during my first murder investigation. Even though we’ve known each other less than a year, he’s the closest thing I have to a brother. He has a brilliant mind and a huge, soft heart. He’s been a PI for eight years now, licensed for six, and he’s the real deal. A real shamus. He has a stable of agents working for him at Superior Investigations, and leases a fleet of anonymous looking cars which are used for surveillance.

  “I’m paying the rent on time,” he said. “Why are you asking? Are things slowing down for you? If you need more work I’d be happy to …”

  “No, no,” I cut him off mid-thought. “I’ve got a case that’s going to require round-the-clock surveillance for up to two weeks and I need backup. I’ll pay your usual rate if you can spare the time?”

  “When does the job start?” he asked.

  “Probably tomorrow night. I’ll call you as soon as I know for sure.”

  I gave Jim the rundown on Cliff’s case, then we chatted for a minute, bringing each other up to date about what was new in our lives. Something about Jim always makes me feel safe. I had that feeling now, knowing he was going to be working with me on this case. I realize the perception of safety is an illusion, that every choice we make involves an element of risk, but I like the feeling just the same.

  CHAPTER 4

  AFTER ENDING THE CALL with Jim I closed up the office and Buddy and I walked down to the boat. I was hoping for a short nap before dinner with Jack and Elizabeth. I’m a chronic insomniac, so I catch afternoon naps whenever I can. It was still ov
er eighty degrees outside and my Cheoy Lee doesn’t have air conditioning or much air flow below deck, so I opened all the portholes, stripped down to my underwear, and dropped on top of the bunk.

  I got up when the alarm sounded at 6:00, threw on a terrycloth robe, and stepped into my boat shoes. I grabbed my shower bag and a few dog biscuits, and walked up to the marina showers. On the way I stopped and fed the biscuits to D’Artagnon, a black Labrador retriever who is the self-appointed marina watchdog and my own, personal guardian angel. D’Artagnon lives with his human, Kirk, on a Bluewater 42 motor yacht at the end of my dock, so we see a lot of each other.

  I took a long, cool shower and bundled back into my robe. As I was walking down the companionway to the docks I heard someone fumbling with their magnetic key at the locked gate. I turned around and discovered Elizabeth juggling two large paper grocery bags, a bundle of yellow freesias, and her purse.

  Elizabeth lives aboard her trawler at the base of the gate 5 companionway. We met when I moved aboard my boat almost three years ago. I fell hard for her cat, K.C., so I was forced to get to know Elizabeth as well. She’s just over five feet tall and weighs about a hundred pounds. She’s thirty-four years old but looks closer to twenty-four and is a natural strawberry blonde with freckles and mischievous hazel eyes. She manages a medical software company in Sunnyvale. She’s divorced and childless, like me, and lives alone with K.C. the cat, but has been spending a lot of time at Jack’s estate since they became engaged.

  I hustled back up the ramp and opened the gate for her.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I hear you’re joining us for dinner tonight.”

  I took one of the grocery bags. “Is that okay with you?” I asked, thinking she might prefer private time with Jack.

  She looked at me sideways. “That’s a stupid question. Of course it’s okay.” Elizabeth doesn’t mince words.

  “Are the flowers for Jack?” I asked.