Murder Over Cocktails: The 2nd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries)

by Nancy Skopin

  As Aaron turned to face me, I pulled out a pack of American Spirit Organics and lit up. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. I waited him out.

  “I saw that guy charge out the door right after you left,” he said. “Seemed kind of odd, so I decided to follow him to see what he was up to. Do you know him?”

  “Not really.” It’s best to keep your explanations to yourself when you make your living doing covert surveillance. “I appreciate your concern, Aaron, but I really am fine.”

  “You certainly are,” he said, giving me an appraising look. He backed up a few steps, an amused half-smile on his face. “Take care of yourself, Nicoli.”

  I made it the rest of the way to my car without incident, locked myself inside, and summarized the bar and dinner survey on one of my short forms. I’d type the full report for my client in the morning.

  By the time I’d finished my last survey of the night it was almost eleven. I was exhausted when I got home, but I decided to give Bill a call. I knew he’d still be up. The man is a night-owl.

  I dialed his home number and turned on the speaker so I could talk and wash dishes at the same time. I was washing Jack’s whiskey glass when Bill picked up. Too late I realized that I’d just removed any fingerprints he might have left behind. Jack wasn’t the person I was investigating, but I was curious about him.

  “Shit,” I said, setting the glass in the dish drainer.

  “Hello to you too,” said Bill.

  “Sorry about that. Paper cut.”

  “Uh-huh. How’s the new case going?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If the videotapes turn out to be real, how am I going to arrange for the Sheriff’s Department to find them without causing the evidence to be inadmissible?”

  “Technically we shouldn’t even be discussing it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t bust my chops, Nikki. I’m a cop. If I don’t follow the rules the case gets thrown out of court and the bad guy goes free.”

  “Bad girl,” I reminded him.

  “Whatever,” he grumbled.

  “So I can’t even talk to you about it?”

  “Only in terms of what you’re doing. We can’t discuss the alleged videotapes.”

  “Fine. I’m going to look at a house in Atherton tomorrow and then I’m having lunch with the real estate agent. I’ll call you when I know where we’re going to eat. Can you check a license plate number for me?”

  He groaned.

  I told him the letters of Maggie’s personalized plates, and he silently copied them down.

  “Hey, Bill?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I really appreciate your help.”

  “Be careful, Nikki,” he said brusquely, and disconnected without another word.

  I knew Bill was pissed about the license plate thing, but I needed Maggie’s drivers license or social security number. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but the DMV was the shortest route to that data. It seemed like my work was always coming between us one way or another.

  Chapter 13

  On Wednesday morning I was up before the alarm went off. I made coffee and filled a 20-ounce thermal mug, then headed for the gym. I’ve been a member of the Redwood City Athletic Club since I moved aboard the boat. It’s right around the corner from the marina. They open at 5:00 a.m. and close at 9:00 p.m. I’d rather belong to a gym that’s open twenty-four hours, but I’m hooked by the location. Besides, I like the people who workout there.

  I hit the treadmill for thirty minutes, used all the Nautilus equipment, and finally the free weights. When I was done most of the previous night’s indulgence had been exorcised, but I spent an additional thirty minutes on the StairMaster anyway, as atonement for the pizza. I showered at the gym and drove home, where I changed into Lily’s red Jil Sander.

  I was at the office by 8:30. I called the local PageNet store and asked if they had a pager registered to a Jack McGuire. The receptionist put me on hold, then came back on the line and said she had twelve McGuires listed, but no Jack. I told her the pager had been rented yesterday morning between 9:00 and 10:00, and asked who would have handled the transaction.

  “That would be me,” she said.

  I described Jack to her and she recalled him at once.

  “He is hot. But his name isn’t McGuire. Hold on a minute, I’ve still got the paperwork. Here it is. His name is Mel Overton.”

  I made a note. “Can you give me the mailing address on the form?”

  “No, I can’t,” she said. “Client confidentiality and all that, but I can tell you it’s a P.O. box.”

  I thanked her and hung up. Mel Overton. I looked at the name for a minute and wondered if the initials were significant. M.O. He had probably known I’d check with the pager company. I wrote Jack McGuire on the same page, and then Margaret Sectio. There was something odd about Maggie’s last name. What nationality would that be? She looked English, or maybe Irish with her creamy white skin, gray eyes, and dark hair.

  I turned on my new laptop and navigated the Windows program, which I had equipped with a multilingual dictionary and thesaurus. I typed Sectio and selected tools and thesaurus. It was Latin. Sectio: the action of cutting or severing as in surgery; dissection; division; separation; castration. Yikes!

  I spent the rest of the morning typing restaurant and bar surveys for my regular clients. I printed the reports along with invoices and envelopes, and walked across the street to the mailbox. While I was doing all this my mind kept returning to the Maggie Sectio dilemma. I was apprehensive about spending time alone with her in a deserted house again, but equally anxious to see the tapes Jack would have copied for me by the end of the day.

  Bill called just as I was leaving for Millennium. He’d run Maggie’s plates, and the real estate office was listed as the owner of her Lincoln. Not surprising. I already knew that Maggie had no criminal history, but I still wanted to run a full background on her. Maybe her financial history would tell me something useful. I could just ask Bill for her driver’s license number. I knew he’d have it after checking her for priors, but I felt that would be pushing the boundaries of our friendship too far. I didn’t want him to feel used. I thanked Bill for the info and reminded him I’d be calling when I knew where Maggie and I were having lunch.

  I took El Camino Real through Atherton into Menlo Park. It was about eighty degrees outside, and the sky was dappled with fluffy white clouds. There was a hint that fall was on its way in the changing color of the leaves.

  I parked in the Millennium lot, and Maggie met me in the lobby. Today she looked elegant in a sleeveless Saint John Colorblock dress in navy, pearl gray, white, and black. I’d priced them on a recent visit to Neiman Marcus. They were a little out of my range.

  I told Maggie I’d be following her in my own car today because I had a hair appointment in the afternoon. We drove north on El Camino and made a left turn just past Menlo College.

  The neighborhood wasn’t what I’d expected, considering Atherton’s reputation. For one thing it seemed dark. There were massive oak trees lining the street on both sides, effectively blocking out the sun, and there were no sidewalks. Almost all of the houses had gated fences or walls shielding them from the public.

  Halfway down the block Maggie slowed, and I recognized the house in the photo. It was set back from the street and protected only by a four-foot-high chain link fence. The gate across the driveway was open. This property clearly did not afford the privacy I had told Maggie I was looking for in a home, which seemed to confirm that she had an ulterior motive for bringing me here. I went on alert, reaching into my bag to make sure the Ruger was easily accessible.

  I followed her down the driveway and we parked in front of the two-car garage. She had been right about the grounds. They were beautifully landscaped. The
path from the driveway to the front porch was bordered by tree roses, and the side yard contained a vast bed of irises and peonies that had probably been grown in a hothouse and recently transplanted. Still, it was a nice touch.

  Maggie opened the lockbox, secured the key, and pushed the front door open. The foyer was unremarkable, but you could see straight through to the back of the house where sliding glass doors offered a view of the backyard and an Olympic-size swimming pool. I walked directly back.

  The yard was mid-sized, simply but tastefully landscaped, and enclosed by a solid wall of cypress at least ten feet tall. Absolute privacy. I had mixed feelings about that.

  Maggie showed me around the interior of the house. It was devoid of furniture, although in the living room and library the hardwood floors were covered with what appeared to be authentic Persian rugs. I wondered if they were included in the asking price. Probably not.

  The kitchen floor was blond ceramic tile and the room looked like it had been designed for a professional chef. It had every modern convenience and a lot of preparation space, but it lacked the warmth of the kitchen in the Los Altos house. Upstairs we explored three bedrooms and three bathrooms, including the master suite. We ended our tour in the backyard, poolside. Overall it didn’t hold a candle to the Los Altos property, unless you liked to swim, which I don’t.

  “It’s nice,” I began, “and I’m sure it’s a bargain, but I’m still leaning toward the house in Los Altos.”

  “I can understand that,” she said. “I just couldn’t let you make a decision without seeing this place. Do you swim?”

  “Not often.”

  I lit a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray. Maggie went back into the house, returning with a lead crystal ashtray that looked more like a piece of art than a nicotine repository.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It’s almost too pretty to soil.”

  “It’s just an ashtray.” She shrugged. “I have more pictures to show you at home. I was thinking I’d make us lunch and you can look over the other listings while I’m cooking.”

  I tried to ignore the clenching sensation in my gut. Always a mistake.

  “Sounds great,” I said. “Where do you live?”

  “Woodside. It’s not far.”

  I remembered Jack’s warning about being alone with Maggie, but I’d been alone with her yesterday, and I was alone with her now. I stubbed out my cigarette and reached into my purse for my keys, brushing my fingers over the Ruger again to reassure myself.

  On the way to Woodside I called Bill and got his voicemail. As I was leaving a message an alarm went off in my head as I remembered Jack was going back for the tapes. Crap! I glanced at my watch. It was 1:30. He was probably at the dubbing service by now. I’d have to think of a way to get Maggie back out of the house after lunch. I disconnected after leaving Bill a message, and my phone immediately rang.

  “Sorry. I was reaching for the receiver when you bounced into my voicemail,” said Bill.

  “I’m having lunch with Maggie at her home in Woodside. We’re on our way there now, so it’s too late to give me a lecture about taking unnecessary risks. Do you still have the address?”

  “Yes. Are you armed?”

  “I’ve got the Ruger and my defense spray.”

  “Call me when you leave. If I’m not at my desk, call my cell.”

  He sounded worried, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled myself. Maggie could just as easily have put the pictures she wanted to show me in her briefcase and brought them to a restaurant. I wondered what she had in mind. I felt my stomach clench again and thought about paging Jack, but I couldn’t risk having him call me while I was with Maggie.

  When we arrived at the Woodside estate I followed her down the dirt road and parked behind her Lincoln, making sure my car was visible from the driveway. I hoped Jack hadn’t left any evidence that he’d been here.

  As we approached the front of the house, I casually commented on the lack of a garage. I couldn’t help being curious.

  “When the house was originally built, it had a detached garage,” she said, pointing over her shoulder at the smaller of the two cottages. “The original owners decided to convert it into a guest cottage.”

  We entered through the front door and Maggie escorted me into the living room. She placed a pile of photo listings on the coffee table in front of me. There was already an ashtray on the table.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked. “Or maybe a cocktail?”

  “No thanks.”

  Her face registered disappointment, but she recovered quickly. “I won’t be long,” she said. “Feel free to smoke if you want to.”

  She was doing her best to make me feel relaxed. Instead I felt like I might end up as the main course. I lit a cigarette and picked up the stack of listings. Maybe I could rush lunch in order to check out another property, but it would have to be something comparable to the house in Los Altos. Toward the bottom of the pile I found an estate occupying 2.6 acres in Hillsborough. My eyes dropped to the price: $8,200,000.00. That oughta do it.

  I put out my cigarette and went looking for Maggie. I found the kitchen by way of the family room. On my way through I spotted the cabinet under the entertainment center. It was closed and appeared to be locked.

  When I entered the kitchen, Maggie was arranging jumbo prawns on beds of butter lettuce. She looked up and smiled. “Find something you like?”

  “This estate in Hillsborough looks heavenly,” I said, holding up the picture. “And I’ve always wanted to live in Hillsborough. Any chance we can look at it after lunch?”

  “I have another appointment at four,” she said.

  “Just a quick look. Please.”

  Maggie’s expression transformed to that of an indulgent parent. “Okay,” she said. “Just a quick tour. You want wine with lunch?”

  I asked for water and saw the look of disappointment cross her face again. Was she hoping to get me drunk?

  We ate at the kitchen island. The greens were crisp and the salad dressing was delicious. She’s placed a crystal dish of spicy cocktail sauce in the center of each plate. I finished mine off in no time, but Maggie ate slowly and deliberately. I watched her lick the sauce off one of her prawns, her eyes fixed on mine. I’d seen that look before, but usually on a more masculine face. I fumbled my water glass, accidentally splashing some onto my lap.

  “Oops,” I said, jumping up.

  Maggie grabbed a dishtowel and started dabbing at the area where I’d spilled the water. I stepped back. I didn’t want to offend her, but I was unprepared for the experience of having a homicidal maniac pat at my crotch with a towel.

  “Have you got a hair dryer?” I asked.

  “Upstairs in the master bath. I’ll show you.” Her cheeks were flushed.

  “That’s okay. You finish your lunch. I’ll be right back.”

  “Top of the stairs and straight ahead,” she murmured, sounding a little breathless.

  I grabbed my purse and found my way back to the front hall, where the stairs led up to the second story. I took the steps two at a time, located the master suite, proceeded into the bathroom, and locked the door behind me. The hair dryer was in a cabinet under the sink. I turned it on and directed it at the wet spot on Lily’s Jil Sander while I riffled the medicine cabinet and the drawers. There was nothing surprising anywhere in the bathroom, but I did note the absence of anything related to birth control. When my dress was dry I rejoined Maggie in the kitchen.

  “Ready to go?” I asked.

  Maggie was standing at the sink with both the water and the garbage disposal running. Her head was bowed, her chin resting on her chest. She didn’t respond. Maybe she hadn’t heard me. She almost looked like she was dozing.

  “Maggie?”

  When she didn’t
respond I walked to the counter. As I was reaching out to touch her shoulder her head jerked up, and I almost jumped out of my shoes.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” she said.

  Okay, now I was in a Hitchcock movie. I remembered reading in one of my psych magazines that people with dissociative identity disorder sometimes experience fugue states. It’s a coping mechanism. The mind takes a vacation and the body sort of goes along, leaving gaps of minutes or even hours where the subject can’t remember what took place. I took a deep, calming breath.

  Maggie put the plates in the dishwasher and turned to face me.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until tomorrow to see the estate, when we can take our time?”

  “Let’s just take a quick look around,” I said. “If I like it, we can go back tomorrow.”

  When we were on the road again, in our separate cars, I called Jack’s pager, hoping he would call me back before we got to Hillsborough. We took the Highway 92 exit off 280 and drove down to Alameda de las Pulgas, where we made a left. At the end of Alameda we took a right on Crystal Springs Road. After a couple of blocks we turned left again. Just as we were pulling up to a private driveway my smartphone rang.

  “Great timing,” I answered.

  Maggie was entering a combination on a digital panel at the security gates.

  “Where are you?” Jack sounded agitated.

  “We’re at a house in Hillsborough. Did you get the tapes?” I whispered. Even though Maggie was two car-lengths away with her back to me, I was afraid she’d hear me.

  “Yes, but when I came back…”

  “I know,” I interrupted. “There wasn’t time to warn you. Did you have them copied?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. We’ll be here at least thirty minutes. Does that give you enough time to return the originals?”