Willow’s face split into a charmingly sweet smile, so tender and unassuming that I was momentarily stunned by its glory. She scooted off the chair and whispered, “I told you,” as she brushed past me.
“You have quite a lot of explaining to do, young lady,” Bettina said sternly, but she sidled out from behind the desk, took my arm, and guided me to the kitchen.
I dumped the story—sans Cal’s role—before my marshmallows had melted. Then I briefly outlined how a Ponzi scheme works. It just felt so good to let it all out, and Bettina was bearing it remarkably well, if quietly.
“I thought I heard a splash,” she murmured. “Good heavens, you must have been chilled to the bone.”
I pulled the audio recorder out of my pocket and laid it on the counter, but Bettina impatiently waved a manicured hand. “I know what I said. And I remember very clearly what Norman said. Pushy bastard.”
Attagirl. Nothing heals a broken heart like a healthy dose of righteous indignation. Willow and I shared tentative but hopeful grins from behind our mugs.
Bettina scowled and traced the fleur-de-lis design on her mug with a fingernail. “If he doesn’t get the money from me, then he’ll go after someone else, won’t he? Someone like me—a widow with a trusting heart and too much time on her hands. Maybe even someone desperate who couldn’t afford that kind of loss.” Her brows pitched up into peaks, and she studied my face. “I’m not sure I could survive that kind of loss. My investments—well, you know retirement isn’t what it used to be. I have to be careful.”
I nodded. “We all do.”
“Bastard,” she muttered again, with more venom this time. “What made you suspect?”
“When you told me he wanted to review your financial situation.” I shrugged. “That’s about the same as a dentist insisting on examining your fillings on a first date. Reeks of ulterior motives.”
Bettina’s palm smacked down hard on the counter. “He’s not going to get away with it. Not if I can help it.” She turned and rustled through a stack of miscellaneous papers—the kind that accumulate in the hub of a house—and produced a small black address book. In a flash, she was dialing her phone with her other hand, her thumb punching the buttons with a speed that rivaled any teenage gamer’s.
“Karleen,” she said into the receiver. “Bettina here. I have a doozy of a fraud case for you. Time sensitive. But the info comes as a straight trade. You have to let me in on the fun if you want to pursue it. And you will. Call me.” She hung up.
“Detective Jett?” Willow asked, her voice hushed as though she was in awe.
“You betcha.” Bettina’s orange bob swished vigorously with her nodding. “Can’t tell Vaughn. And Karleen will slap cuffs on old Norman before he has time to think crossways. She doesn’t take guff from anybody.”
“A female detective? With the Fidelity Police Department?” I asked, hoping for some clarity in the rapidly changing emotional landscape.
Willow just grinned at me, but Bettina answered. “Yep. Karleen Jett. First—and so far, only—to break the detective gender barrier in the department. She and Arthur went through the academy together; we go way back, since the late ‘60s. She works non-violent cases now, as a sort of concession before being put entirely out to pasture. Her knees aren’t what they used to be—can’t hoof it after punks anymore. I happen to know Vaughn thinks the world of her, and she keeps that chief of his in line, that’s for sure.” Bettina nodded. “I’ll be in good hands.”
“Wait a minute,” I said slowly. “What are you planning?”
“A sting, of course. Tuesday night. During my next date with Norman. I’ll wear a wire, catch him in the act.” Bettina had shoved the magnifying glasses to the top of her head and stood with her tiny fists planted on her narrow hips beneath the billowing makeshift smock. The palm fronds were aquiver with her unbridled rancor.
I thought she’d watched too much true-crime television. There was no way Vaughn would let his mother get into a sticky scenario like that—if he knew.
I hadn’t met Detective Jett at or after the press conference, and I couldn’t announce that I’d met Chief Monk without being probed about the details surrounding that event. I clamped my mouth shut. Bettina was a grown woman, and she was showing considerable pluck. Who was I to stifle her initiative, especially since it had only reached the bravado stage at the moment?
I still couldn’t help myself. Horrible scenes of Norman hollering, red-faced, and wine glasses smashed on the floor flooded my mind. What if he went further, assaulted Bettina physically? She’d already had enough of that for one lifetime. “What if he figures it out?” I blurted. “Who will protect you? He’s tall, and much bigger than you are, and if he gets angry…”
“You’re not the only one who can go undercover.” Bettina’s eyes narrowed into an expression that would brook no further argument. “I’ll pull it off. You just watch.”
I sighed and returned to chewing my lip. It would be up to the prudence and discretion of Detective Jett to dissuade Bettina at this point. At least I could be sure Bettina wasn’t going to go all gooey over Norman and risk her nest egg.
My duty was completed, but, boy, had I ever opened up a whole new can of worms.
CHAPTER 17
There is no peace for the busybody. My phone rang as Willow and I were retracing our steps along the floating walkways.
“Did you give my card to a seventeen-year-old kid named Cyrus Watson at a party last night?” Vaughn said.
“I did.”
There were several seconds of contemplative breathing on the other end of the line, then Vaughn said, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Only to find that Vaughn hadn’t hung around for the usual social niceties as my answer hit the dead white noise of a disconnected call. But his cursory manner couldn’t dampen my exultant chuckle.
“What?” Willow asked, peering up at me.
“Your friend Cy just proved himself to be an honorable man.”
She snorted.
“I’m serious.” I poked her in the shoulder with a stiff forefinger. “Pay attention. These little details—they matter big time in the real world. Mark my words.”
The blue hair shielded her face, but I’m pretty sure she graced my admonishment with an eye-roll. But no matter—unsolicited advice was the price of admission if she wanted to hang out with me. There was plenty more to come.
And then I remembered. I inhaled sharply and halted on the walkway. “I’m so sorry. I’m keeping you from your writing group this morning.”
Willow shrugged. “It’s the same old same old all the time, anyway.”
I was certain she was downplaying her disappointment. Roxy had portrayed this Sunday morning ritual as something Willow insisted upon.
“You mean you’d rather plan a covert sting operation than sip coffee with your fellow wordsmiths?” I asked playfully.
She nodded with a sly peek at me. “Pretty much. Life sure has spiced up around here since you moved in.”
“Terrific,” I muttered. “But maybe I can make it up to you. How would you like a day of slaving over the stove?”
I was exaggerating, of course, but she took on the challenge with a spritely, “Sure!”
When we got to my house, we ransacked my fridge and pantry. And that activity was a delight in and of itself since I had a wealth of potential ingredients from our trip to the farmers’ market.
Finally, we settled on a menu, and while I brewed our first coffee of the day, I dispatched Willow to try knocking on the Ecclesiastes’ hull again.
“Invitation issued,” she announced upon her return. She slid the clean pan that had previously contained lasagna onto the counter. “Although I can report for a fact that Cal’s not gaining weight. I caught him doing laundry.”
“Not yet,” I countered. “Give me a month, and he’ll look healthier.”
Then we commenced leisurely cooking lessons intermixed with actual preparation, technique tips, sampling, sniffing, and general expl
oring of the sensual wonders that are fresh foods recently plucked from their native habitat. Willow proved to be a ready convert.
After the chicken pieces had been seared and handfuls of trimmed and chopped veggies had been coated in a thickening roux and doused with white wine in the Dutch oven along with a bouquet garni, Willow set to hand-lettering a menu card for Cal’s benefit while I applied artistic touches to my house’s new sign.
I finished more quickly than she did because “Tin Can” is much easier to spell than all the French words she kept asking me how to pronounce.
“There,” she finally said with satisfaction, sliding the card across for me to see. With typical Willow flair, it was a fait accompli, the lack of correctly-placed accent marks notwithstanding:
Gremolata butter on rustic artisan bread
Light-deprived, milder inner leaves of chicorée frisée(also known as curly endive—we’d had a long discussion about this, along with significant sampling of the leaves in their various shades of green),radish, and Tuscan cantaloupe salad dressed with lemon-mustard vinaigrette
White coq au vin à la Eva (because I’d modified the recipe to suit the seasonal vegetables and to make it more summery)
Orange-rind infused local blackberry honey (instead of the traditional hard, thin caramel that usually tops true crème brûlée because how could I resist that amazing honey at the farmers’ market?)drizzled over vanilla custard
“Perfect,” I said. “Lots of citrus, but that’s okay.”
Willow tore a chunk out of the bread and swiped it through the herbed butter before I could smack her hand away.
“It’s better if you wait,” I said. “Your own cooking tastes best with company.”
Cal arrived a few minutes early and hung up the house’s nameplate for me while Willow and I dressed the salad and sliced the bread.
It was a Sunday dinner for the ages. We laughed, told stories, shared anecdotes, and Cal even revealed tidbits of his past. Not enough for me to string together a rough time line, but clues nonetheless, and intimations of possible reasons for some of his oddities.
Watching Willow scoop another serving of coq au vin from the tureen and sop up the juice with a hunk of bread made me realize how much I’d missed during the hectic pace of my Washington D.C. life. No one relaxed there; no one lingered over dessert there; no one revealed their true selves there. I savored the deliciousness of the occasion that went far beyond food.
We were sipping coffee and dipping into a bowl of after-harvest muscat grapes which were so tiny and sweet that they were even better than the raisins they would have become if they’d been left on the vines another week when Vaughn found us on the rear deck. With a wry pitch to his brows and his hands stuffed in his pockets, he took in the scene—Cal and me sprawled in rather ungainly fashion on the two rough and splintery Adirondack chairs the previous owner had left behind instead of hauling to the dump and Willow flat on her stomach on the decking with one hand dangling in the water. Who could blame us? Our bellies were full and we were steeped in a sort of lethargic contentment, soaking in the day’s last warm rays of sunshine.
“Welcome to the Tin Can,” I said with a lazy flourish.
“Uh-huh,” Vaughn grunted, either not impressed or not willing to participate in the languid mood.
Cal straightened and nudged Willow with his toe. “Dish duty. You and me, kiddo.” After he’d levered himself to his feet, he fished a handful of black wires and crunched plastic shards from the side cargo pocket of his shorts. He shoved the handful toward Vaughn. “This one is damaged. Hit by floating debris, most likely. I found several others intact and left them in place. I’ll draw you a diagram of their locations if you want.”
By this time, I’d sat up straighter too, my curiosity radar on full alert. But Cal and Willow hurried inside, and I was left with a detective who was displaying his signature potent grouchiness.
He eased into the chair Cal had vacated, stretched out his long legs, and fixed his stare on the river.
As I have noted before, I can out-silence just about anyone—I’ve found it to be an extremely useful skill. I mirrored Vaughn’s posture and let the tense gulf build.
“Thanks again,” Vaughn finally said.
I risked a tiny sidelong glance at him but kept my mouth shut.
“For urging Cy to come forward,” he continued. “The kid had no absolutely no idea of the value of his information. I’ve submitted an expedited request to the regional computer forensics lab. They’ll be at their desks tomorrow, and they should give my case priority since it’s possibly murder-related.”
“Does that mean Frank Cox has jumped to the top of your suspect list?” I asked.
Vaughn just grunted again and clinked together the pieces of broken gadget in his hand. “Know what this is?” he asked, opening his palm a little so I could see.
“I’m going to guess it’s one of Ian’s sensors.”
Another grunt. “Cal and his legendary kayaking skills. If anyone could find the sensors now that Ian’s gone, I knew it would be him.” Vaughn sighed audibly, a long, drawn-out exhale. “Without the lab results, I can’t pin the hacking-for-hire on Cox just now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t bring him in for more questioning. See if he squirms when I start talking about fudged mercury readings. And we’ll keep a closer eye on him now—see if he makes any revealing moves. Put the screws on him without arresting him—yet.” Vaughn seemed to be thinking out loud, plotting the scope of his investigation. I didn’t dare interrupt him.
But he was ready to change the subject. His tone of voice lightened. “Mainly, I stopped by to let you know I found your stalker. And you were right. It’s a woman.”
I turned to find his brown eyes gazing at me thoughtfully. “Really?” I couldn’t help grinning.
“Stephanie Moreno, who decided that now was a propitious time to fly home and visit her parents in Ames, Iowa. Left her navy-blue, dented Honda Accord in the airport long-term parking lot. But she was fairly forthcoming when I finally got her on the phone. Reiterated that she never meant to scare you.”
I wanted to assert that I had never been scared, but that wasn’t quite true. Unnerved would have been a better description, maybe. “Let me guess,” I said instead, “she had an affair with Ian.”
The forceful sound Vaughn made this time was a cross between a snort and a grunt. “It appears that Ian used an army of women to collect data, to infiltrate enemy positions, so to speak. He cultivated whistle-blowers within businesses he thought were polluting, and they were usually women. In his world, very often the romantic was tangled up with the activism, the personal with the political.” Vaughn sighed again. “Messy.”
It was my turn to grunt. “But she didn’t work for Cox and Associates.”
Vaughn shook his head. “She was an office manager at some outfit called Rocket Shredding which does metal recycling. But she went kayaking with Ian sometimes, and would help him check the sensors. Initially, she thought his obsession with mercury readings was just a hobby. Claims she didn’t realize the extent of his motives until after he turned up dead. And then when his death was announced as a murder, she got scared.”
“But why didn’t she deliver the reports directly to you?” I asked.
“Ahh.” Vaughn’s mood was improving. He tilted his lopsided grin at me. “She’d helped herself to items of a personal nature at a Walgreens and at the Fred Meyer store in Scappoose on at least five different occasions. She thought—and rightly so—that that string of misdemeanors would affect her credibility.”
I had no pithy comment to offer. But I was beginning to feel guilty about the monumental task facing Cal and Willow in the kitchen, so I pushed to my feet. I also wanted to make sure the majority of the leftovers were packed properly and sent home with Cal.
Vaughn followed me inside through the French doors, and we passed through my bedroom without speaking. I hadn’t had a chance to do any tidying, so it still appeared as though there’d been a
gas main explosion in a Salvation Army thrift store. I tried to pretend it didn’t bother me as I tripped on the attached belt of a peach-colored silk shift dress. Vaughn’s hand closed quickly around my elbow, and my dignity reasserted itself.
I plunged into helping with kitchen cleanup, turning the tight galley space into sardine-level companionship. Which also left Vaughn standing awkwardly on the other side of the peninsula counter as an observer. But Willow and Cal had been remarkably efficient, and I soon produced a stack of airtight containers laden with food—my meager thank-you offerings for Cal’s rescue. For that incident which could not be mentioned in present company.
Cal grinned at my discomfiture and juggled the containers into an easy armload. Shocking me out of all sensibility, he leaned in and pecked me on the cheek. “It’s been a pleasure, mon chéri,” he whispered, affecting both a perfect French accent and a wink. “I’d say we’re even now.”
Behind me, Willow giggled, followed by one of her snorts. A really loud, dubious snort meant largely for dramatic effect, and probably a commentary on my kayaking ineptitude, not to mention my nosiness. I cringed and flushed heat spread up my cheeks all the way to my hairline. I fired a warning glance at her. We were like a pantomime troupe for revealing secrets.
Vaughn took it all in stride with that little tilted smile of his. But he spared me further embarrassment by not asking any questions. He just gave me a slight nod and followed Cal out. Willow scooted around me and let herself out too, leaving me alone with the dishwasher whooshing quietly in the background.
CHAPTER 18
I called Sloane and vented my recent woes—and reliefs, especially regarding the harmless stalker. As usual, she was the voice of reason and good cheer. We made plans.
The next morning, I trundled garbage bags full of my worst offenders on the stiff-and-stuffy-suit-esque sliding clothing scale up to the parking lot and loaded them into the back of her minivan. Three trips’ worth.
I’d brutally followed the 80/20 rule in my selections, keeping only the twenty percent of all my clothes that I would actually wear in my new situation.
Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1) Page 16