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

by Nancy Skopin

  The man approached the front of the store with a set of keys in his hand, unlocked the door and turned the sign around. He opened the door and peered out at me and Buddy.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in heavily accented English.

  He was about six-two and muscular without being bulky. His hair and beard were brown, turning to gray. His eyes were steel blue. I guessed he was in his late forties. He was dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Buddy growled deep in his throat and I shortened the leash.

  “I hope so,” I began. “I’m interested in anything you can tell me about your neighbor.” I tilted my head to the right, indicating Wallace’s office.

  The man stepped outside and looked at the law office as though he’d never seen it before. Then he stepped back inside and said, “Why don’t you come in?”

  “Okay to bring my dog?”

  “Sure. I like dogs.” Buddy was still growling softly. “I don’t think he likes me, though.”

  “He’s a little shy,” I said. “My name is Nicoli Hunter.” I extended my hand.

  “Aleksei Sidorov,” he said, and shook my hand firmly. “Oops,” he said, wiping his hand on his jeans. “I think I got some gun oil on you. Let me get you a rag.”

  I smelled my hand and recognized the familiar scent of Hoppes. He handed me a rag and I wiped off most of the oil, but the scent would be with me all day. It reminded me of target practice with my dad. We’d always cleaned his rifle after firing it.

  “Sidorov,” I said, handing back the rag. “Is that Russian?”

  “I’m from Siberia,” he said. “Weather’s better here. So why are you investigating Wallace?”

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “We don’t socialize, but I know who he is. You a cop?” he asked, as he smoothly lowered the assault rifle below the display case.

  “I’m a PI,” I said, smiling, hoping to put him at ease. “My dad grew up in Irkutsk.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Hunter? Doesn’t sound Russian to me. You speak the language?”

  “I know a couple of tongue twisters, but Dad didn’t speak much Russian at home.” I repeated the two tongue twisters my father had taught me when I was a kid and Aleksei laughed at my accent. I’m not good with foreign languages.

  “Okay, Nicoli,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know if you’ve observed anything unusual in Wallace’s behavior lately, and if you ever saw him with his wife and kids. And I don’t want you to tell him I was asking.”

  Aleksei squinted at me from under his bushy brows, his eyes measuring me. I stared boldly back at him like I used to do with my dad. More often than not glaring at my father got me cuffed on the side of the head, but I knew it would earn me respect. After a minute Aleksei sat down on his stool.

  “I’ve seen him with his wife a couple of times,” he said. “I step outside to smoke, so the customers don’t get offended. One time I was outside smoking and Wallace and his wife came out the front door of his office. I knew it was his wife because she was cowering. A mistress wouldn’t cower. She had parked her car on the street and he was yelling at her for not parking in the lot. I don’t like him much.”

  “What about the other time?” I asked.

  He looked at me.

  “You said you’d seen him with his wife a couple of times,” I reminded him.

  “You’re kind of pushy,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  “I guess that depends on your point of view.”

  He grinned at that, and his eyes sparkled without warmth. “The other time I was walking over to the restaurant,” he said. “Business was slow, so I was going to get some lunch. I glanced in the window as I was walking by and I saw him down the hall, fucking his wife on the desk.”

  I let the image sink in before asking, “Are you kidding me?”

  He shook his head.

  “How did you know it was his wife?”

  “Because of the angle of the desk. I could see her face.”

  “They were on the desk in the back office, but you could see them through the front window?”

  “Look, you don’t have to believe me, but that’s what I saw.”

  “I’m asking because I was in his office the other day and I couldn’t see a desk down that hallway.”

  “So maybe he moved the desk.”

  Huh. “Anything else unusual going on?”

  He shook his head. I could tell I’d worn out my welcome, so I gave Aleksei my business card.

  “If you think of anything else I’d appreciate a call.”

  He nodded, but I didn’t imagine he’d be calling. I thought about Wallace having sex with his wife on the desk and wondered how that played into the voyeur personality type. Maybe someone who liked watching would also like being watched. Maybe he’d moved the desk specifically so that they could be seen from the street, and then moved it back again later. Interesting guy. Disgusting, but interesting.

  I put Buddy in the car, leaving the windows cracked, and walked across the alley to the bank. I entered the lobby and scanned the interior. After a quick analysis of each employee seated at a desk I spotted the one I was looking for. She was in her late thirties and had an open box of Godiva chocolates in front of her. Brown hair professionally streaked with blonde, a little overweight, carefully applied make-up, pretty, but not beautiful, and no wedding ring. I approached the bank manager with a smile.

  “Hi there,” I said. “I wonder if you might have a few minutes to speak with me.”

  She smiled sweetly, pushed the box of Godivas forward, and said, “Have a seat. I’m Sharon Stamper.”

  I held out my hand and she shook it. Hers was warm and soft, and her grip was gentle.

  “Nicoli Hunter,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”

  I watched her eyes widen with excitement.

  “I’m conducting background investigations on the victims of a recent accident,” I continued, “and I need your help.”

  Her mouth formed an O, and I knew I had her. “Of course,” she said. “Anything I can do.”

  “You’ll have to keep everything we discuss to yourself,” I countered.

  I knew that was going to be challenging for Sharon. Unless I missed my guess she was an enthusiastic gossip.

  Her eyes skittered around the bank for a minute before she said, “No problem.”

  “Great. You have a neighbor on the other side of the alley.” I pointed out the back window.

  Sharon leaned forward in her chair, peering at Wallace’s building. “Yes,” she said. “I know Mr. Wallace.”

  “Have you ever seen him interacting with his wife or his children?”

  Sharon looked out the window again, as if that would give her better access to her memories. Maybe it would. Some memories are visually triggered, some audibly, and others by a familiar scent.

  She turned back to me. “He killed her didn’t he?”

  She’d phrased it like a question, but her tone was certain. She’d given this some thought.

  “What makes you think that?” I asked. My purse was in my lap, so I slipped my hand inside and turned on the mini-recorder.

  “The way he was always yelling at her and pushing her around. That man isn’t happy unless he’s making someone else miserable. He came in here when he first opened his office and said he was thinking about changing banks. I talked to him because Gretchen was busy helping someone else. He wanted unlimited transactions for free with no minimum balance in checking or savings. Can you believe that? We don’t do that for anybody. But mister high-and-mighty seemed to think that because we were going to be neighbors he should have special privileges. I tried to be nice ab
out it, but he just wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was extremely rude.” Her face flushed at the memory.

  “How long ago was this?” I asked.

  “About three years, I guess. I finally had to ask him to leave. I said I was sorry that I couldn’t offer him what he wanted, and he glared at me with so much rage I was afraid he was going to hit me or something. I almost pressed the panic button. I have this button under my desk that causes Charlie’s pager to vibrate.” She pointed to the front of the bank where a uniformed security guard stood. He was at least eighty and wasn’t a smidge over five feet tall. I didn’t see a gun on Charlie’s belt, but he probably had a taser or some pepper spray.

  “Then what happened?”

  “He took one of my chocolates and left. My heart didn’t stop pounding for an hour.”

  “Scary guy, huh?”

  “He really is.”

  “Has he come into the bank since that day?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. At least not when I was working.”

  “Did you ever see him strike his wife?”

  The information I was gathering would help with character profiling, but it wouldn’t be worth anything in court. If Wallace was the killer we would need to find some physical evidence linking him to the ATC murders in order to get him arrested and convicted.

  “Not strike her exactly,” Sharon was saying. “But I saw him shove her a couple of times, and he always seemed to be yelling at her about something, poor woman.”

  “Thank you, Sharon.” I gave her my card. “If you notice him doing anything that seems unusual, I’d really appreciate a call.”

  She promised she would call, and her eyes were bright with anticipation when I left.

  I took a quick walk through the Thai restaurant before going back to my car. You couldn’t see into Wallace’s office from the restaurant windows, but nothing ventured and all that. I approached the teenager behind the counter, whose nametag read Rose, introduced myself, and asked her if she knew who Wallace was. She said she’d seen him coming and going, but that he’d never come into the restaurant when she was working. And, no, she hadn’t noticed him interacting with his wife and kids.

  I called Sam on my way back to the marina, putting the smartphone on speaker.

  “What have you got for me, Nicoli?” he asked by way of greeting.

  “Remember when we were in Wallace’s office?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you happen to notice the position of his desk?”

  “You mean the reception desk?”

  “No, I mean his desk. Did you look down the hall into his private office?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t see any desk. Why?”

  “Because his neighbor, the pawnbroker, says he was walking by on his way to the Thai restaurant one day and saw Wallace having sex with his wife on the desk. He says he glanced in the front window and the desk in the back office was visible from the street. Also, a young woman who lives across the street from Wallace says he spies on her with his camera, using a telephoto lens. Three different people have witnessed him striking or shoving his wife on more than one occasion.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “I know none of this makes Wallace a killer,” I went on, “but it does make him the kind of person who would seek revenge. He has a temper.” I paused. “What did you find out about Fragoso?”

  “There may be more to that man than meets the eye,” he said. “At least I hope there is, because what meets the eye is pretty sad. His neighbors say he keeps to himself. Drinks more beer than is good for him. Generally gets a little friendly when he’s drinking, however, rumor has it that when his wife was alive she would nag him about it and he’d get pretty angry. No reports of domestic violence, but he’d yell at her loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

  “According to the apartment complex manager he pays his rent late three or four times a year, but he always pays. Only one neighbor actually knew his name. I kept having to describe him, or say the guy in 2B. That’s what I meant by sad. No money, no friends, that I met anyway, and now his wife and eight-year-old daughter are dead.

  “When I asked his neighbors if they’d heard him go out early in the morning or late at night, I got mixed responses. The guy across the hall said he’s heard Fragoso’s apartment door close in the middle of the night, but he never noticed the time. The old lady who lives next door says he’s quiet as a mouse, but I think she’s mostly deaf. The next door neighbor on the other side says he sometimes hears voices coming from Fragoso’s apartment at night. He recently heard what sounded like an argument, which got pretty heated, but the only voice he heard was Fragoso’s and he couldn’t make out what was said. The guy could have been ranting alone in his apartment.

  “The same neighbor said he once saw smoke coming from under Fragoso’s door. He was going to call the fire department, but decided he’d knock on the door first and get Fragoso out. He knocked, but there was no answer, so he knocked louder, and after a minute Fragoso came to the door. The guy said he looked like a fucking zombie, his exact words. His eyes were unfocused, his mouth was hanging open, there was even a little drool dripping down his chin. The neighbor asked what was burning and Fragoso said, “Oh shit,” and just walked away. Left the door open. So the neighbor went into the kitchen where he found an empty frying pan sitting on a lit burner. The range is electric, but the burner was on high so the pan was smoking like crazy. He turned off the stove and set the pan in the sink, then went looking for Fragoso. Found him in the living room, curled up asleep on the couch.”

  “Sleepwalking?” I asked.

  “Probably.”

  “People who sleepwalk are usually dealing with a subconscious conflict. Could be he’s tortured over the loss of his wife and daughter,” I said. “You saw how emotional he was.”

  “Yeah. That’s probably what it is. So what is your gut telling you, Nicoli?”

  “I don’t know if it’s my gut, but I really like Wallace for this.”

  When I got back to the marina I took Buddy for a quick walk, then I grabbed the kibble and toys out of my trunk and loaded them into a dock cart. It was a juggling act, dealing with the cart and the puppy on a leash, but I managed.

  We stopped by D’Artagnon’s boat, and Kirk was home. He held open the aft gate so D’Artagnon could step onto the dock. I breathed a sigh of relief at the ease with which he was moving. He really was going to be fine. The two dogs touched noses, then did the traditional ID check with a lot of butt sniffing and tail wagging. It looked like the boys were going to be great friends.

  Before Buddy and I continued down the dock to my Cheoy Lee I gave Kirk a quick hug and said, “I’m so glad he’s okay. Thank you for calling to let me know.”

  Kirk nodded and turned away quickly.

  As I lugged my bundle of puppy supplies onto the boat Buddy jumped from my dock steps onto the deck, but hesitated at the top of the companionway leading down into the galley. I backed down the steps and offered him a dog biscuit from my pocket. Problem solved. He put one paw on the top step, then leaped the rest of the way down, landing at my feet. He wolfed down the biscuit, licked my hand, and wagged happily.

  I filled his new water and kibble dishes, and stifled a yawn, realizing I was exhausted. After he’d finished eating I pulled a spare blanket out of the hanging locker and got Buddy settled on the blanket next to the bed, then curled up on top of the bunk and sank into a contented sleep.

  When I woke up someone was snoring softly on the pillow beside me. I flipped on a lamp and looked at the bedside clock. It was 6:11. I rolled over and found myself face to face with a big, wet nose. Buddy was curled up on the bunk next to me. I reached out to stroke his face and he woke with a start, scrambled backward, and slid off the edge of the bunk onto the floor.

 
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to calm him. “It’s just me.”

  He looked a little embarrassed, but promptly jumped back up on the bed and licked my face. I ruffled his ears and got to my feet. “You want to go for a walk?”

  His big brown eyes signaled recognition of that word. I grabbed his leash and an empty plastic grocery bag, and led him outside. We walked across the street to the wildlife refuge. I didn’t want to go too far in the twilight since I’d forgotten to bring a flashlight, so at the one-mile marker we turned and walked back. When we arrived at the boat I heard TV sounds. Buddy leaped down the companionway into the galley and growled low in his throat.

  Bill appeared in the main salon doorway and said, “What the ...?”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when Buddy’s hackles sprang up all the way from his neck to the base of his tail. He crouched, bared his teeth, and roared out a big-dog bark.

  “It’s okay, Buddy,” I said, grabbing his collar. “Good boy. Good watch dog.”

  I held his collar with one hand, leaned over to Bill, and touched his arm with the other.

  “Put your hand out for him to sniff, palm down below his muzzle, slowly.”

  Bill gave me a sideways glance and slowly lowered his hand. Buddy tentatively sniffed the back of Bill’s hand, but his hackles remained up and his tail was between his legs.

  “Okay, now slowly squat down,” I said.

  I squatted too so we were both at Buddy’s eye level. His tail started wagging. Buddy sniffed Bill’s breath tentatively and then gave his nose a lick of approval. Bill reached out to scratch behind his ears, and the pup turned around. I knew what was coming and I didn’t say a word. Bill scratched Buddy’s rump above his tail and Buddy backed up, knocking Bill on his ass, then sat down on his belly, forcing Bill onto his back on the floor. I grabbed my smartphone and snapped a couple of pictures while Bill laughed quietly, causing Buddy to bounce up and down as he wagged his tail in Bill’s face.