by Nancy Skopin
That got a laugh out of her. She blew her nose, then punched me in the arm.
“Thanks for being my friend, Nikki. I can always count on you to put things in perspective. The truth is, I invited her because I felt it was the right thing to do. I never imagined she’d accept.”
“When is she arriving?”
“Next Friday.”
“She’s not staying with you, is she?”
“Oh, God no! I booked her a room at the airport Hilton.”
“You could always call and tell her you and Jack decided to elope.”
She chuckled softly. “That’s not a bad idea. Let me talk to Jack about it.”
Elizabeth and her mother had never been close. She was a daddy’s girl all the way, and her father had died due to a massive heart attack when she was only twelve. Her mother immediately remarried and had no time to comfort her grieving daughter. Elizabeth’s new stepfather was a strict disciplinarian and was verbally abusive to Elizabeth, while her mother looked the other way.
Elizabeth had applied herself to her studies and received multiple scholarship offers before graduating high school. She’d chosen to go to Stanford and her best friend, Lily, had tagged along. Lily had been a guy at that time. Long story. Anyway, since moving to California, Elizabeth’s only communication with her mother has been on holidays and the occasional birthday, if her mom even remembered to call. Just thinking about the woman makes my blood boil.
“Is her husband coming with her? What’s his name again?”
“Randolph, and yes,” she sighed.
“It’s not too late to elope. Ask Jack to take you to Ireland. Does he still have family there?”
“An uncle, Seamus, and couple of cousins. We’re going there on our honeymoon.”
“That’s right. So... what do you think about eloping?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But then I wouldn’t get to wear my gorgeous wedding dress, or have wedding pictures to look back on years from now. And Lily is really looking forward to being my maid of honor. I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“You can’t please everyone. I’m sure Lily would understand. Maybe take her with you when you elope. You could go to Reno or Las Vegas. Have Elvis preform the ceremony! I think Lily would love that.”
“Would you come to Las Vegas to be Jack’s best man?”
“Absolutely. I’ll just need to let Jim know a little in advance so he can cover my regular clients while I’m gone.”
We arrived at Michelino’s a few minutes after 8:00 and were immediately seated at a window table. Michelino’s is one of my favorite clients because I rarely find anything negative to report. The employees are professional and friendly, the atmosphere is warm, and the food is excellent.
We both ordered the Chopped Antipasto, which is kind of like an Italian Cobb salad with iceberg lettuce, salami, mozzarella, kalamatas, pepperoncini, tomatoes, garbanzo beans and red onions dressed with a tangy balsamic vinaigrette. I also ordered a diced poached chicken breast to-go for you know who.
Even though we’d already eaten at Abner Bailee’s we both practically inhaled our salads. They were that good. I paid the check with cash and left a healthy tip, and we adjourned to the bar where Al, my favorite bartender, was working.
Al is in his sixties and has a full head of wavy white hair and a lazy, Dean Martin smile. The restaurant owner has me do regular bar surveys to count how many drinks Al consumes during his shift. His drink is Gordon’s vodka with fresh-squeezed orange juice. The first time I observed him on the job he consumed four screwdrivers in just over an hour, but was still articulate, attentive, and recording drinks correctly.
The owner isn’t concerned about lost revenue due to Al’s drinking. The customers love him, and many come in just to visit with him. It’s a matter of making sure he isn’t impaired by his drinking. Tonight was no exception. Al was his usual, charming self.
We were on the road by 10:00 and Elizabeth seemed more relaxed, if a wee bit tipsy. I wanted to press her to either rescind her mother’s invitation or cancel her wedding and elope, but it wasn’t my decision to make. I hoped Jack could convince her to do whatever would make her happy.
Since she’d had three cocktails, in spite of the two meals, I offered to drop her at Jack’s estate in Hillsborough. Tomorrow was Saturday and he could drive her to the marina to pick up her car.
“That’s probably a good idea,” she said. “I’m kind of sleepy.”
I called Jack on my cell to let him know we’d be there shortly, as Hillsborough is just north of San Mateo. He said he’d open the gate so I could pull in without keying in the security code.
As promised, the gate was open when we arrived, and Jack was waiting for us at the portico.
Jack “The Cat” McGuire is five feet ten inches of tan, sinewy feline grace topped with wavy red hair sun-streaked with gold, and has mesmerizing green eyes. He and I met two years ago when he burgled the home of a serial killer and discovered evidence of her crimes. Because the evidence had been obtained during the commission of a felony, Jack hired me to catch the killer in the act. It had not ended well for that psychotic bitch. It had, however, worked out well for Jack and Elizabeth. Their mutual attraction when I introduced them had been instantaneous.
Jack has since retired from his life of crime and seems content to manage his very healthy stock portfolio and assist me with the occasional B & E, when one of my cases requires his skill with locks and security systems. Tonight he was looking casually elegant in khaki shorts and a green polo shirt. He opened Elizabeth’s door and gave her a kiss before helping her out of the car.
“Good evening, Nicoli,” he said.
“Hey, Jack.”
Elizabeth picked up K.C., her huge orange tabby, and was cooing to him about what a sweet kitty he was. Just for the record, K.C. is short for Killer Cat, and he is not always sweet. I took the opportunity to motion Jack closer to my open window. He raised an eyebrow and leaned down.
“You need to talk to her about her mother,” I said, sotto voce. “That woman cannot be allowed to attend your wedding. It will spoil the entire experience for Elizabeth. I don’t care what you have to do to stop her. Cancel the wedding plans and elope if you have to. Whatever it takes. Please. You need to fix this, Jack.”
“How much has she had to drink?” he asked.
“Two double shots of Bombay Sapphire and a tall mudslide. She’s pretty lit.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
I didn’t ask what he had in mind. I knew he was head-over-heels in love with Elizabeth and would do anything to ensure her happiness.
“Thank you, Jack. Ask her to call me sometime tomorrow?”
“Will do. Drive safely, Nicoli.”
CHAPTER 7
I arrived home at 10:45 and decided to type up my reports in the morning. I’d spotted Bill’s Mustang in the parking lot, and I wanted some quality time with my dog and my man. Yes, in that order. I ambled down the companionway, taking a moment to give D’Artagnon a few bites of chicken breast, then continued down the dock to my own little patch of paradise.
Turning Point is a forty-two-foot Cheoy Lee Motorsailer, an ideal live-aboard vessel for someone like me. She was built in 1980 and customized by the former owner who passed away leaving her to his wife, a client of mine, who sold her to me for far less than she’s worth. It seems he died in the company of another woman.
I found Bill seated at the galley counter poring over a large three-ring binder, which I assumed contained the details of the case he’d caught this morning. The detectives of the RCPD call these binders “murder books.” All records are digitized, of course, but hard copies and handwritten notes are still kept in binders.
He looked up as I descended the companionway. Buddy stood on his hind legs, putting himself at nose level with the to-go box in my hand.
“He’s already had his last walk of the day,” Bill said.
“Has he brushed his teeth?” I asked, a
nd Bill nodded.
I wasn’t joking. Taking care of a dog’s teeth and gums is critical. I actually brush my boy’s teeth once a week with organic coconut oil. It keeps his gums healthy and he loves the taste. He also has either a Greenie or a Dentastix after every meal. Both reduce tartar and plaque buildup. I doled out the chicken breast one bite at a time and when it was gone, Buddy got another Greenie.
“How’s the bride-to-be doing?” Bill asked.
“Not great. Turns out she invited her witch of a mother to the big event.”
“Why?”
“She thought it was the right thing to do, and she didn’t expect her to accept.”
“What little you’ve told me about that woman is not good. She could ruin the wedding.”
“I know. I talked to Jack about it. He says he’ll take care of it.”
“How?”
“No idea. I told Elizabeth I thought she should cancel the wedding, elope to Vegas, and get married in one of those Elvis impersonator chapels.”
Bill’s hazel eyes twinkled with humor. “What did she say to that?” he asked.
“She said she’d talk to Jack about it, but she doesn’t want to disappoint Lily. So tell me about your new homicide case.”
“It actually looks like a suicide, but we still have to conduct a thorough investigation.”
“What happened?” I grabbed an IPA out of the fridge and popped it open, seating myself across from Bill at the galley counter.
“The guy apparently shot himself. He was on board his yacht, the Wet Spot, anchored out beyond Westpoint Slough.”
I carefully set my beer on the galley counter and grabbed Bill’s hand. “Did you say Wet Spot?”
“Yeah. Crazy name for a boat. Why?”
“Bill, this was not a suicide. Chet Fortune hired me yesterday to find out who was trying to kill him.”
“What?”
“Who found him?” I asked.
“The Coast Guard got a radio call from a couple sailing past his yacht. They said it was anchored in the same spot when they went out on Thursday night and when they came back in on Friday morning. They didn’t see any signs of life, so the Coasties went to check it out. When they saw that Chet had been shot they didn’t want to contaminate a possible crime scene, so they towed the boat to the marine terminal on Seaport Boulevard. That’s where it is now.”
“I want to see it.”
“You know the rules, Nikki. It’s considered an active crime scene, at least until the M.E.’s findings are in.”
“Have you got photos of the boat?”
Bill opened the binder and lifted out the few photos he was willing to share with me. They were external shots of the mega-yacht. After examining each one I asked, “Where’s his dinghy?”
Bill glanced at the photos in my hand and raised an eyebrow.
“Chet had a Zodiac Cadet stowed on his foredeck. It’s not there.” I handed the photos back to him. “Is there any way you could justify showing me the photos of the crime scene itself?”
Bill shook his head, sighed, and said, “You know, after all that chicken breast, I think Buddy needs another walk.”
He grabbed the boy’s leash, hooked it to his collar and, without another word, escorted Buddy up the companionway. As soon as I felt the boat rock, indicating they’d stepped onto the dock, I spun the binder around to face me and flipped through the pages. This reminded me of the first time I’d met Bill, when he’d left me alone in an interrogation room with a murder book and I’d photographed everything in the binder with my cell phone.
I grabbed the iPhone out of my purse and set to work. I had photos of every page in less than two minutes. Since Bill and Buddy wouldn’t be back for at least another ten minutes, I took my time examining the crime scene photos. The picture of Chet with his brains blown out the side of his head made me woozy, but as soon as the vertigo passed I noticed the gun in his hand was the Colt M1911 he’d been carrying yesterday in my office. Then it struck me. In the photos, the gun was in his right hand. Chet had been left handed.
I quickly flipped through the rest of the pages and had the binder back on the other side of the table when Bill returned from his walk with Buddy. He unhooked the boy from his leash, got a Corona out of the fridge, and asked if I’d like another IPA.
“Yes, please.”
I handed him my empty and he placed it in the recycling bin under the sink, then opened both bottles and sat down across from me. After reinserting the external photos of Chet’s yacht in the binder he closed the cover and moved it to the galley settee next to him. He was waiting for me to make the first move. This was tricky. I needed to tell him Chet was left handed, but he needed that information to come from me in a way that didn’t relate to the photos in the binder.
“Can we talk about my meeting with Chet yesterday?” I asked, taking a sip of my beer.
“Sure. I’d like to hear what he had to say.”
I recounted the entire conversation, including the fact that Chet had been carrying a holstered Colt M1911 when he’d been in my office. I gave Bill the list of possible suspects Chet and I had discussed, and he started taking notes. I told him that Chet and Vanessa’s divorce had been finalized only six months ago and that Chet had yet to change his will or the beneficiary on his million dollar life insurance policy, although he was planning to take care of that as soon as possible.
I mentioned that Chet owned oil wells in Texas as well as “Dr. Feelgood,” and that he was worth roughly five hundred million dollars. Because the company wasn’t listed in his will, I told Bill that Chet didn’t know if Vanessa would inherit that. I included the fact that Chet had been planning to sell off forty-nine percent of the company to an equity group, and that, while the sale hadn’t been announced yet, Vanessa, as his CFO, was preparing for an audit which was required prior to a partial sale.
Finally, I told Bill that Chet had given me a five-thousand dollar retainer and the two of us had signed duplicate copies of my standard contract.
“That’s when I noticed he was left handed,” I said, draining my beer. “Well, I’m beat. Think I’ll take a quick shower before bed.” I leaned over and kissed Bill before ducking into the stateroom.
CHAPTER 8
Saturday morning the alarm went off at 7:00 and I assaulted the snooze button. Bill didn’t even stir, so I snuggled up to his back in the spoon position, hoping he didn’t have to go to work too early today. I knew he’d be working all weekend now that he had an active homicide case. Bill is a dedicated and thorough cop, and I admire that about him, though I wish he had a little more down-time to spend with me and Buddy.
Ten minutes later the alarm sounded again and Bill groaned softly and turned to face me. “What time is it?”
“Ten after seven.”
“What day is it?”
I laughed. “Saturday.” I reached behind me and smacked the snooze button again. “Go back to sleep.”
Bill wrapped his arms around me and it was immediately apparent that he was not going back to sleep. So much better than an alarm clock.
I was up and making coffee by 7:45 while Bill walked Buddy. Once the Kona was brewing I hit the shower. Just as I turned off the water and grabbed a towel, Bill came into the head and handed me a steaming mug. The aroma of bacon and eggs drifted in from the galley.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. “I assume you’re going to work today?”
“I’m expecting the report from the medical examiner, so yeah. Once we have time of death I can start interviewing your list of suspects regarding their alibis.”
“You should also contact Chet’s attorney,” I said, setting down my coffee and wrapping myself in the towel. “Find out if he changed his will. And call his insurance agent. He was thinking about leaving everything to the Humane Society. Oh, and you should check his cell phone records to see if he called Vanessa. He’d planned to call her when the changes had been made to let her know, you know, in case she was the one who drilled his brak
e line, so she’d no longer have a motive.”
“I know how to do my job, Nikki.”
“Will you let me know what you find out?”
“Nikki...”
“I know the rules, but he was my client, Bill, and an acquaintance, what with his yacht being docked here. Plus, he gave me a five-thousand dollar retainer which I cannot return. I’m invested.”
Bill didn’t respond. I pulled on a pair of workout shorts and a tank top and joined him at the galley counter for breakfast. I’d work off the bacon later.
Bill left for work at 8:15. I cleaned up the breakfast dishes then dropped Buddy off with D’Artagnon and drove to the gym, where I made good on my promise to work off the fatty, but delicious, breakfast.
When I returned to the marina and was freshly showered and dressed for work, I picked Buddy up, walked him around the grounds, and unlocked the office.
I turned on the computer and started a pot of Kona brewing, then sat down to check my schedule. I had two lunch surveys today, plus a dinner and two bar surveys tonight. It’s a good thing I spend so much time at the gym.
I uploaded the murder book photos from my phone and enlarged them, scanning for details I hadn’t had time to absorb last night. Bill had said the autopsy was being performed today, but the coroner at the scene had estimated time of death between midnight and 5:00 a.m. That was a pretty big window and, being the middle of the night, an unlikely time for any single person to have an alibi. Hopefully the M.E. would be able to narrow it down some.
The coffee finished brewing and I was just taking my first sip when the office phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID and noted that the caller’s name and number were “not provided.” I answered anyway.
“Hunter Investigations.”
No one responded to my greeting, but I could hear breathing on the line, so I thought I’d try again.
“This is Nicoli Hunter. May I help you?”
“Oh. Sorry. I thought I got your voicemail. I was waiting for the beep.”