by Judith Mehl
Nick bragged about the sensors tucked around the car that signals the silent driver in charge (some computer brain under the hood) to tighten the suspension and brake for you before you know you need it.
Her otherwise sensible husband boasted about the car’s ability to prepare for a crash. “If it’s imminent, this thing deploys the air bags, tightens the seat belts, and puts a roll bar into play within three seconds before the crash.” All of a sudden he sounded like a seasoned car buff. When he raved about the Doppler radar she almost tuned him out. Nothing could be that super, could it?
Before she completely blanked out, she heard him say with trepidation, “You did remember to bring your trench coat? And that new floppy rain hat?”
She squinted one eye and turned to look at him. Nick realized his error and tried for a quick recovery. She’d brought it, but hadn’t had time to ask why as he whisked her out to the car.
“It’s just that you look so cute in that hat, and besides, I kind of need you to go incognito. The coat’s because you didn’t want to wear your slinky red dress. Thank heavens you wore those sexy sandals.”
Kat’s brain signaled the warning signs just as they approached a hotel, its stone facade exuding old-time magnificence. The Dutch Colonial style building rose majestically on the edge of town with a background of forests, and lakes in the distance. This is not an airport motel. It is an edifice of a bygone era.
“Just what exactly am I masquerading as?”
Nick whipped around outside the car, and graciously helped her out of her seat. He dragged the trench coat from the back seat and placed it carefully around her shoulders before she realized he hadn’t answered. He was adjusting the tie to the hat, situating the front so low it flopped over her eyes.
“Come on in. I’ll explain it all to you in our sumptuous suite.”
Kat didn’t have much choice but to hang on to his elbow and cling tight. She couldn’t see where she was going and wondered where the Doppler radar was when you needed it.
She allowed only a second to ponder why he would leave the precious SL alone in front of the hotel when his friendly assistant, heretofore only seen in a grungy sweat suit, raced out as if on cue and snatched the slim electronic card held out by Nick.
“Glad you’re back,” the man said. “They want to meet again tonight. I’ll grab the cases from the back and as soon as I bed this baby down I’ll come up. We’ve got to talk.”
That’s the most Kat had heard from the shy Lewis Pinckney since he’d been hired two months before. She barely had time to flip him a hello before Nick pulled her forward and whispered. “We don’t use names around here. They’ve all changed.”
Three men at the lapis lazuli inlaid table hampered the romantic ambiance of the suite Kat entered, though their formal attire disguised their usual lumberjack appearance. Question marks bounced throughout her mind. Before she could settle on the first one, Nick pulled her into the exclusive bedroom with thick white carpeting and an enthralling view through the floral draped windows.
The room was magnificent in its ostentation. Kat removed the coat and hat, which were uncomfortably warm on this early summer evening, and twirled to hold Nick firmly in her grasp. She pinned him with her question. “What game are we playing?”
He attempted a simple explanation. “Well, I’m posing as the rich guy who may be willing to invest.”
There had to be more. After all, why the trench coat? Her steady glare elicited an answer.
“Okay, just remember, you wouldn’t have wanted me to bring a real hooker up here, would you?”
“I’m playing a hooker?” she screeched. “How could you?”
“Like I said, it was you or the real thing. This way we get to rollick in this marvelous room for two days, indulging our every whim, and it’s even legal. Nick eyed his wife’s stiletto heels. “Besides, you fit the part.”
He’d managed to free his arm and strolled over to the cherry dresser, leaning casually back to finish with his pièce-de-résistance. “And it’s still considered a business expense. What more could you want?”
Cooling her anger, Kat kicked off her shoes and wiggled her way to a comfortable spot against the twelve decorative pillows on the king size bed. Nick moved to the connecting room where two of his men waited. She could see through the partially open door that they were eager to begin. Nick held off their questions with his palm up. When Lewis returned he excused himself to his wife and met with the men after closing the door.
Kat grabbed the opportunity to call Agatha and reiterate her distress over leaving her alone. Agatha, on the other hand, seemed bent on another mental path, though she remembered to answer using the fake accent they’d practiced earlier in case anyone called hoping to find her there. “I’ll do fine. I won’t leave the house. Kat, you’ve met Fanny. What do you think of her?”
“She’s cute as a pixie and bright, too. Why?”
Agatha hesitated. “I only met Detective Hill once, when he came to talk about Margaret earlier. He seemed real sweet.”
Kat plumped her pillows, all of them, while keeping one eye on Nick as he paced across the doorway in the next room. She pondered the description of “sweet” for one of Chief Burrow’s top detective and wondered where Agatha was going with it. “Well, he’s rather nice. Yet he was born to be a detective, happy without expectations.” Kat remembered him as stalwart and strong, with quick responses and an insightful mind. She pictured his nondescript brown hair and chocolate eyes, perfect for fading into a crowd as long as you didn’t look too close.
“Okay, Agatha. Let’s say he’s sweet. What then?”
“Don’t you think he and Fanny would make a great couple? She’s so bubbly it would cheer him up. He’s too serious.”
Kat marveled that Agatha could think of something besides her own endangered situation. What did Agatha expect of a homicide detective? Humor? She decided it was safe to agree in theory.
Agatha babbled on a little longer and Kat knew poor Hill was in for an interesting afternoon the next day. She managed to close the conversation as Nick strode back into the room and quietly shut the door. He strode forward and leaned down to kiss her. She wanted to interrogate him about her role, but a discreet, firm knock interrupted.
Nick opened the door and motioned Lewis in. At least he’d had the sense to enter from the connecting room. No one from the outside would know he’d just barged in on an evening with Nick’s “mistress.” Lewis sounded serious and concerned earlier.
“What could have gone wrong now?” Nick said.
Kat delayed their dealings with a brief comment. “Lewis, I must say you look stunning in that suit? The new you?”
“It’s considered my break-in, kind of like a new pledge for the fraternity. If I survive this I can return to my sweats and my computers . . .” and seeing Nick’s scowl, finished lamely, “. . . and get to keep my job.”
Nick knew better than to withdraw to the work room they’d set up, away from Kat. She’d trained him well. They also held great respect for each other, which allowed her to get away with that attitude. He asked if she would like to accompany them while they talked, and delivered the speech with a gracious bow, then offered Lewis a drink.
He accepted, and spoke in bursts of short words. Before they were all seated, Lewis said, “They want to meet tonight. I told them you were busy. Like we planned. They became insistent. I think it was one of their men out front watching the hotel when I parked the car.” His face barely had the opportunity to light up at the thought of driving that stunning vehicle, before returning to his persistent frown.
Nick seemed to stay on track, but she saw signs of a suppressed smile. “That’s perfect. If they were watching, they saw me and my ‘mistress’ arrive for our weekend bacchanal.”
She gritted her teeth and restrained her remarks, knowing he tended to rile her. Instead, she asked, “Where’s G. L.? Isn’t he working this job?”
“From the sideline this time. He’s been i
n the area too long and we feared the developers may have recognized him. Lewis and Tom, being new, serve the purpose better,” Nick replied. He then proceeded to introduce her around. Pointing to himself, he said, “I’m Pete. You don’t need my last name because what piece of fluff ever knows last names?”
Before she could wrench his arm, he drew out Lewis. “This is Art Doufle. His created background establishes him as my personal assistant. He’s known as somewhat of a dandy.”
Lewis grinned sheepishly, his blond tousled hair flipped off the brow in a new refined style.
Kat rocked with laughter. “You did bury his sneakers where no one would find them, right?”
Tom poured a drink and sat back down. Nick continued, “Tom retained his first name and became Tommy O’Shea, the mechanic.”
Tommy’s face shriveled up like a weasel. His eyes glinted with Irish glee before the words rolled off his tongue. “The old man requires a mechanic full time you see, for that bloody dreamboat he speeds around in.”
Nick nodded his due, then added, “You know it’s part of the image. They need my money. I need to reek money.”
Kat began to piece the puzzle together.
Lewis—actually Art—she reminded herself, drew them all back to the developer’s current demands. “We have to get back to him before he comes pounding on the door.”
“No way are we meeting tonight,” Nick said as he rose, adding stature to his statement. He braced his legs apart in defiance, as if anyone there would challenge him.
Lewis broke the tension, throwing out some good news. “Lance at the office reported in late this afternoon. It appears that Farmer Jones finally agreed to some help. He has a long-lost son according to our records.”
Nick beamed. “Terrific. Tell pretty boy Lance he’s got a job. He just became the prodigal son.”
Lewis said, “You figure Lance should move in with Farmer Jones straightaway?”
“Isn’t Lance that slight man who controls the computers in your office? The one who smiles shyly only after knowing you a year?”
Tommy out-laughed Nick at Kat’s questions.
Lewis answered her first. “Lance may look easily intimidated, and mild mannered. Watch out. He’s a chameleon. You probably haven’t seen him in anything except those luau shirts.”
Kat leaned back and attempted nonchalance, wondering how she would be zinged this time. These guys treated her with sisterly love, at least the endless teasing part. “Okay, so what?”
“Beneath those shirts and horn-rimmed glasses is a finely-honed body. Lance may look like a nerd, but he could beat any one of these guys in hand combat,” Nick answered, hoping to save Kat more tormenting. “He’s the perfect one to protect Farmer Jones.”
They quickly worked up a list of things Lance should seek out and they reverted back to their concern about the meeting.
Kat walked around filling drinks. “What exactly do they want to meet about?”
Tommy answered. “They want Nick’s commitment on the money. Now. And we aren’t ready. We’re still looking for proof the developer swindled those people out of their homes.” He scowled. “And we still don’t have the money.”
Kat wasn’t sure if it was in concern over the duped victims or the team’s situation.
She looked around at the group. Not a smile anywhere. Then she frowned, thinking frowns became contagious quickly around Nick, or maybe it was just the circumstances. This was, after all, an expensive and high risk scam of the scammers. In reality, they weren’t committing any crimes, since they were just trying to trap the men at their own game, not scam them. She decided to leave her concerns about her role out of the discussion for the moment. Nick usually knew what he was doing.
Chapter 9
A person with even and consistent slant and letter size, whose letters decrease only slightly as the words are written, is stable and intelligent.
Detective Fulton Hill’s footsteps echoed on the sidewalk as he approached the Bittersweet Herbs Shop in a methodical search of the area. He studied the neighboring buildings and the nearby intersection. He looked for anything, odd, out of place. Things or people, or behavior. Years of experience taught him to investigate every case with an open mind, but this one confounded him. He sure couldn’t figure out how such a quaint shop on a cozy corner was embroiled in multiple murders.
The shop bordered a residential area where mothers wheeled strollers and pre-teens whisked by on skateboards. A neighborhood park peeked through the trees in the next block. He knew murder could happen anywhere. What would bring it to this idyllic setting?
After meeting with Agatha on Saturday, he suspected the recent deaths related to the shop or its employees in some way. He and Chief Burrows believed that his frequent visits to the shop to check it out and interview the staff might provide a clue. At the moment they had none. They’d already spoken with most of the employees in their homes and several policemen spent hours with local businessmen on Saturday, hoping to find information about the shop. They only heard kind words and no reports of suspicious characters hanging around.
Wind chimes jingled as he pushed open the door. For early morning, the place seemed busy. He stepped down the nearest aisle and eyed the herbal seasonings packages while reconnoitering. Hill picked out Fanny Endicott immediately from Agatha’s description. She was ringing up a purchase, all the while maintaining a friendly chatter. He studied her, and each customer who entered. The range varied widely from an elderly man seeking an herbal salve to teenage girls looking for one more place to hold a giggle fest. At least that’s all they seemed to be doing.
While he moved to the next aisle, the detective reviewed what he’d observed about Fanny: her hair cropped short like an elf or a fairy sprite, tiny glasses mirroring the sparkle of fevered devotion in her eyes, the animated hands speaking their tale. Was it natural enthusiasm? Or a way to distract the unsuspecting? Fanny Endicott was the name she used, though he couldn’t imagine anyone growing up with a name like Fanny. Maybe that’s why she reeked of the unreal, the absurd, and the slightly off-the-wall. Hippies out of place and time were fine by him. Was this woman more than that? Agatha had said she was in her early thirties. Sure looked younger.
He watched from behind the display case, feigning interest in the herbal shampoos.
“Hey mister. Need any help?”
Busted. She’s probably 14 years old. The group leader.
She grinned and waited.
“I’ve got it right here. Thanks.”
He grabbed the nearest bottle, moved on, and heard the giggles commence as soon as he turned the corner. What he knew about herbs wouldn’t fit on a lavender seed, or whatever else these bottles purported to contain that transformed them from soap to a healthy head massage. He peeked between the rows to see Miss Endicott work the front counter with assurance, despite the diversity in interests held by the customers and her own newness to the surroundings.
He found it difficult to think of her by her surname. She looked too friendly for that. He’d have to watch how he’d address her.
His long discussion with Agatha on Saturday prepared him only slightly for the reality of Fanny, who apparently lacked the finesse of a duchess, but not the aplomb. According to Agatha, she was known to discover an antique quilt in the trash, request permission to remove it, and then sell it on E-Bay for an even thousand.
“Can you believe Fanny gave half of it back to the original owner?” Agatha raved. “And she donates to the local youth group when they need food for the after-school kids: kids who more than likely would find no dinner when they wandered home later.”
In his job, Hill came across many parents who worked hard and still ran short on food at the end of the paycheck. Others just weren’t there when the kids returned and they had to fend on their own until mom or dad found their way back. Agatha interjected, “She donates time and money to help those kids every way she can.”
He and Agatha had briefly sidetracked into a discussion o
f the societal difficulties, which bothered them both, but he’d brought her back to the subject. They’d already discussed Margaret’s house and access, and he’d prompted her for any memories that may have eluded her earlier, when the police interviewed her after Margaret’s death. Agatha veered back to the topic of Fanny as quickly as she could. She had only recently hired her full time. She had known her well, from when the girl was a teenager, and worked there after school. She pointed out one more quality that endeared her to Fanny. “The store really relies on her right now.”
Kat strode in, glanced around and brought him back to the present. He needed to stop thinking about Fanny and start formulating a better plan. There was nothing suspicious about the shop products. The place was short on clues. He had one more employee to interview and then Fanny. The day Agatha received the bouquet, the department shifted into a more detailed review of the deaths and the relationship between the women. His boss hoped that the second interviews would provide more information now that they saw a possible connection between the two.
He watched Kat approach Fanny to gather some information, then saw Bertha McLeod enter the store on flat shoes resembling bedroom slippers and ponderously waddle to the rear of the counter. She’d found Ms. Bromfield’s body. She sure didn’t look suspicious, he thought. He’d have to find a way to present her with follow up questions. Apparently, the woman became flustered and turned so red at the scene that they let her go, practically in the arms of her doctor, who was called to revive her.
Kat had called the elderly woman earlier that day and begged Bertha to substitute for Agatha.
Hill followed Kat’s prearranged signal and met both women in the back room.
Since Ms. Hartman’s quasi-threat, Ms. Bromfield’s death took on darker overtones. A grumpy old lady in appearance, McLeod’s raisin-button eyes gathered a sparkle when she smiled that turned her into Mrs. Doughboy. Her laugh confirmed it. Her shuffle no longer looked ominous—more like an effort to stay balanced.