“What happened with Mrs. Dumont and Lois Thomas?” I asked to change the subject.
“What do you mean? Oh, nothing. We delivered food and dessert. They already had an open bottle of wine on the table they keep in their sitting room for meals. That temp helped me, what’s his name? Bill? He was still there when I left. Lois was flirting with him, believe it or not.”
“Seriously? How old is he? I haven’t met him yet. Better mark him off then.”
“He may be back by now. He must be my age. He said he just moved to Arizona. And the other one, Ginger, she’s in the kitchen. Let me go mingle to make sure all is proceeding as planned.”
The kitchen was quiet. Leta and two other women sat on some tall stools eating some of the extra food they had set aside.
“There you are, grab a chair, eat.”
Leta’s usual welcome. Eating together toward the end of a party had become a tradition, especially if the job was in a residence instead of a public place. I stood next to their stools.
“Is this a crazy party or what?” I asked.
Leta nodded. “Yeah, for a while there I thought maybe we would have to take back everything we cooked, then suddenly, bam! Food disappears like snow on a hot sidewalk. The Lord of the Manor paid us a visit to let us know how pleased he was with our cooking. Is he a nice piece of meat or what?” She winked.
“Tristan came to thank you?”
“Yes, and Sunny’s kid scampered along. How come you don’t go after him? He has to be a good catch.”
“Dear God, people. The man is married.”
“Nah, I don’t believe it. Where is his wife then?”
“Ask Bill, the new temp. Brenda said he helped her deliver the food to Mrs. Dumont.”
“That Bill is a piece of work. He wasn’t going to hand over his cell, no sirree. Get this, he wears one of those things, you know, around his waist, like runners do. He said he could keep his cell there with the rest of his personal stuff and I just had to trust him. I think I laughed for ten minutes and then I told him to hand over the phone or hit the road. Trust him? Ah, he’s a man.”
I returned to the main room where it was still very active. The traffic by the food stations had slowed and the largest concentration of people was now around the bar. The pool area, so lively only an hour or so ago, looked like a peaceful oasis. The wind had calmed down and turned into a breeze, swinging the string of colorful lights that reflected on the water. Except for a couple tucked away in a faraway corner, everyone was now inside.
The light swung a little harder and shone on the lonely couple. I noticed a glimpse of cream colored shirt. Was that Sunny? Who was she with? I tried to concentrate on the man. I would get a sight of him now and then, depending on where the light bounced. They seemed to be arguing. The man had his back to me, but from the hit or miss peek I got of Sunny, I had no doubt she was angry.
Maybe I should just march over there and see if she needed help. I walked to the sliding doors and as I put my hand on the handle the man moved, coming toward the same door. Something about him looked familiar. He was mature and wore a name tag, so he was probably Bill. How did he know Sunny? And how could he look familiar? I had never met Bill the temp. I stood, frozen to the spot. Bill suddenly changed direction and headed toward the side door. That was when I realized why he looked familiar. When I'd met him earlier, his name was O’Neill.
O’Neill, the Private Investigator and thief.
FOURTEEN
NO WAY. BILL and O’Neill were the same person? How could Brenda not know that? What about Sunny? What was that argument about? I looked around. Where did he disappear to? I just hated being so short, I couldn’t see a thing. I had to keep on moving and find him and Brenda too. Was she in cahoots with the investigator? She'd had his business card.
He wasn’t at the bar, but Tristan was, holding court.
Maybe O’Neill left. Wait. His phone was safely stored away. He would need to go ask Leta if he wanted it back. Bingo. All I had to do was post myself close to the kitchen and sooner or later he would have to come by. And that’s when I saw him. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry, strolling along the serving tables. He stopped by the first food table, Bland not Blonde, chatted with the hostess and grabbed some food from a platter. He stuffed it in his mouth. Good manners were obviously not part of his credentials. He munched and chatted, or so I assumed as I was too far away to hear what was going on.
At some point he must have had enough of the bland cuisine because he moved leisurely to the next table. If he kept the same pattern at some point he was bound to land feet from where I waited, trying very hard to blend in with the wall.
His second stop was at Allergy Alley and I found that rather ironic since he had been hired to work that very table. Instead he tried the same approach as at the first table, but Cathy wasn’t game. Even from the distance I could sense the frost hanging in the air. Dear old O’Neill must have missed it because he simply went on, carrying on a one way animated conversation while plucking finger food and stuffing it in his mouth.
What was he eating? He was either very hungry or not too choosy. At some point Cathy must have said something rather unfriendly to the guy who should have been working next to her, instead of showing up late and stuffing his belly. If only I could hear the conversation. He picked up a paper napkin and began to wipe his mouth, his hands, even the tip of his fingers, all while arguing with Cathy. Then abruptly he dropped the dirty napkin on the table and walked at a faster pace toward the last station, the one closest to the butler’s pantry and me.
My heartbeat went so crazy surely he would hear it. I was so totally focused on O’Neill, that he hadn’t noticed me was sort of a miracle. He stopped by the Anything Goes table and I knew something wasn’t quite the same as the first two stops. He lingered, taking time to check out every dish, every bowl. He finally picked up a small plate and piled some food on that.
I recognized my favorites, spinach balls and chocolate amaretti biscuits. The amaretti had been stacked like a giant upside cone at the center of the table. It was sort of a signature display, replacing the chocolate fountain so popular a few years back. Now O’Neill had his back to the table and chewed slowly as if savoring every morsel but I could tell he was surveying the surrounding scene and he wore that thing, like Leta told me, around his waist, a fanny pack. It looked so out of place.
At some point he rested his plate back on the table, without even turning. What did he find so fascinating? I tried to guess what he was staring at. The bar? Yes. Sunny was there talking to Tristan and Celine. For a moment I thought he would join them. His body tensed, then he seemed to change his mind and just like that he headed my way.
I trembled. I couldn’t help it and couldn’t stop it. Why? The element of surprise should play in my favor. I had been rehearsing the opening line in my head the whole time that he was busy tasting all that food on three tables. Maybe because of my black dress—the women minding the tables wore black and we all had a name tag — he walked right by me, without a second look. Show time, and stop shaking.
“Well, hello private investigator O’Neill.”
Did he not hear me? He kept on walking and crossed the threshold to the butler’s pantry. What? I had to move faster. I panicked and grabbed his sleeve.
“O’Neill.”
“Yes? What is it?” He sounded mainly annoyed.
“What do you mean, what is it? Are you here to spy on Brenda? How dare you? Impersonating someone else on top of everything else.”
“Who the hell… wait… I know you. You’re that screaming little bitch with the accent and the dog.” His eyes landed on my nametag. “And as misfortune would have it we are both with the same temp agency. Great.” He pushed me aside and moved ahead.
“What temp agency? You liar, you’re a private investigator.”
My voice rose pretty high. He stopped and turned, his angry face inches from mine.
“Was a private investigator, but thanks to yo
u I lost my job and had to take this. I applied for security and the idiots assigned me to hospitality. They must have gone to the same English school as you.”
He panted as he resumed his march into the main kitchen area.
“I don’t believe you. I saw you, talking to Sunny, she’s ––”
He gasped and his hand rose to his throat.
“Shut your mouth,” he said to me, drawing attention from the kitchen staff.
Then he seemed to lose his focus. Droplets of perspiration slid from his forehead. I was vaguely aware of Leta and the rest of the kitchen crew coming toward us while he kept on moving, with me on his tail, screaming.
“Where do you think you’re going? You said you were hired to work? To do what? Spy?”
He kicked or stumbled on one of the kitchen stools and I had to stop in a hurry, inches from him. His labored breathing shook his torso as he turned around, grabbed his nametag, ripped it from his shirt and threw it at me. He was out the kitchen door before I knew it. I felt Leta next to me. A minute later the second door, the one to the outside, closed with a loud bang.
“Wow.” That was all I could say.
“What’s going on here?” Brenda's presence surprised us all. “It’s loud enough to be heard in the main room. Did you break something?”
“It was him. Why didn’t you tell me?” I fought to keep my tone below the out of control level
Brenda shook her head. “Monica, what now? Who are you talking about? Leta?”
Leta said nothing. She went and sat down, then glanced at me, as if saying “It’s your show, make it good.”
“Bill, the man from the agency, is O’Neill. Maybe his first name is Bill, I’ll give you that, but he's a private investigator. The private investigator. How can you do this? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” I don't know why, but I felt betrayed. The man had scared me to death, and she'd hired him to work her party.
“I need a cigarette.” She patted her dress and the dress didn’t even have pockets. “You’re kidding me. How would I know that? I’ve never met the investigator. I went to the police to make sure no complaint was filed and he obviously wasn’t there. End of show. What was he doing here?”
“Brenda, don’t you check out the people you hire to work in your clients’ homes?” I asked with a bit of a snotty attitude.
“The agency takes care of that. We’ve used their personnel before and never had any trouble. Where is he? I want to talk to him.”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“How should I know?”
I tried to process Brenda’s version and wasn’t sure what to think. I’m not a great believer in coincidences. Could this be one?
Leta cleared her throat, rather loudly. “Phone,” she said.
“Leta, you’re a genius.”
“Care to explain why she is a genius and we should not be chasing after that O’Neill?” Brenda kept patting around for a cigarette.
I laughed. “Leta has O’Neill’s phone. He should be coming through that door any minute now. We can sit and wait. Right Leta?”
She winked, laid back on the chair and crossed her legs. “I give him two more minutes.”
“Damn, I need a cigarette bad.” Brenda headed to the spot where Leta kept the phones. She opened the drawer and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “I’ll step out for a smoke.”
“Wait, I’ll go with you.” I offered.
She smiled “Afraid big bad O’Neill will get me?”
“Maybe.”
We went to the windowless vestibule and I pushed the massive door. It wouldn’t budge. I hated that stupid door. Hated it.
“Here, let me do it. Monica, you should start going to a gym. I’m serious. All that office sitting is not good for you.”
Brenda tried the large doorknob, then impatiently anchored her shoulder against the door and pushed. The door flew open and we heard a muffled sound as we watched Bill O’Neill’s body roll down the three concrete steps. It landed at the bottom in a fetal position.
FIFTEEN
LA QUIETE DOPO la tempesta. Giacomo Leopardi’s well known poem burst into my mind and settled there. I hadn’t thought about his verses in years yet The calm after the storm fit the situation so perfectly it burst into my mind.
Gone the screeching of tires, screaming of sirens and the hurried steps of the EMTs. Thank God O’Neill was now in the capable hands of medical personnel, on his way to the nearest hospital. Hopefully he would recover.
It hadn’t been an easy task. With guests' cars parked in every possible spot, the main driveway was hard to navigate. Plus, the minute word of the incident spread, some of the guests seemed in a hurry to get out of there, complicating traffic even more. Between cars leaving and official vehicles arriving, the poor young men working valet were running in circles like a never ending merry-go-round.
The two policemen who showed up after our 911 call had set up shop in the kitchen and were filing a brief report based on Brenda’s account. The logical assumption seemed to be that O’Neill had come back to get his phone and was trying to get in at the same time as Brenda and I were trying to get out. Since the door opened to the outside, it was assumed that O’Neill had been hit by the swinging portal, lost his footing and fallen down the short but steep path. Concussion was mentioned. It all sounded rational.
While Brenda did her best to keep the mood light, Leta and her helpers began to pack up. Sunny came into the kitchen to announce she was leaving and Celine was going home also. She gave me a short “See you at the office,” and was gone. Not a single word about the man she was arguing with by the pool.
Lois Thomas shuffled in, dabbing her eyes and mumbling something about “Poor Bill, such a sad way to go.”
Leta responded by offering some left over pastries to her and to the two policemen. The men looked tempted but kindly refused. I felt obliged to point out to Lois that Bill O’Neill was very much alive if unconscious. Two minutes after Lois Thomas let out a thankful and relieved sigh, policeman number one answered his phone then announced that O’Neill died minutes after arriving at the ER. The kitchen went silent. Lois returned to dabbing her eyes.
Tristan Dumont picked that moment to make his grand entrance accompanied by Officer Clarke. Officer Clarke? He looked as tired as the last time we spoke, but not as friendly. His eyes bypassed me and seemed to land on the trio sitting around the kitchen table, Brenda and the two policemen.
“Here they are,” Tristan said to Officer Clarke.
They who? The juvenile part of my brain found Tristan’s black attire very appropriate for the occasion. While the grown up me hoped the whole O’Neill incident could be just a bad dream. But it wasn’t.
Officer Clarke nodded politely, walked over to the table and handed a sheet of paper to policeman number two. He said something about being off his shift and on his way home when he heard the dispatcher’s message.
I knew from watching all the Law and Order episodes what that meant, unfortunately he stopped there. So I guessed he was telling us he heard about O’Neill’s passing? What was on that sheet of paper he handed to his colleague? The kitchen that had felt so big when I first got there, grew smaller by the minute
Tristan lingered, why?
He offered, “Leta, if you’re shorthanded with the clean-up and packing, some of my friends are still here. We’d be happy to help.”
What? Was I hallucinating or did the Lord of the Manor just offer to help clean up the kitchen? On that surprising note, Lois Thomas made a quick and quiet exit.
The two policemen read the paper. One of them became a little animated and said, “Thanks Clarke. This changes everything.”
For an inexplicable reason the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. Something was wrong, very, very wrong and I didn’t like the way three pairs of cop’s eyes zoomed onto me almost in a choreographed way. Choreographed, not chummy, I may add.
“What?” Maledizione. I spoke first
. I read somewhere that that automatically makes you the culprit or maybe the weakest link, I couldn’t remember for sure. Either way, it wasn’t anything to celebrate. Too late now. “Why are you all looking at me?”
“Apparently you were the last one to speak to Bill O’Neill.” Said policeman number one.
“Apparently you’re wrong since I was with Brenda when he fell. Even so, what does it matter?”
Now so many more eyes were on me I wanted to go hide. I felt guilty. Why? I hadn't done anything wrong. No one argued my point, but everyone kept on staring. Had I been a man I would have felt compelled to check my fly. I settled for running my fingers through my hair and fiddling with the name tag still pinned to my dress. Big mistake. The tremor of my hand was hard to miss.
“My job here is done. I’m going home.” It came out a little louder than I'd wanted. I waited for the officers of the law trio to tell me I couldn’t go. But all I got was a cliche.
“We’ll be in touch,” said policeman number two.
Officer Clarke nodded meaningfully so I decided to make a fast exit before something else came up. I went to retrieve my purse with my phone and car keys from the pantry. I overheard one of the policemen ask Leta to produce O’Neill’s belongings, cell and all. I heard her explain about the fanny pack. Underneath all my pretended impertinence my soul bled sorrow. What if indeed it was my pushing that door that killed former Private Investigator Bill O’Neill? Dear God, I'd already cost him his job, did I also cost him his life?
I stepped out of the butler’s pantry into the reception room. No trace of the three food stations was left. Everything had been packed, folded, removed. However, the bar was still functioning and I could see a small group around it, mostly young men, some standing, others sitting and chatting. They must be the friends staying at the house. Perhaps some of them were the partners/investors here to shop for horse properties. At that point, I couldn’t care less. I quickened my pace. I felt eyes on my back. I was almost out the door when I heard Tristan.
“Fiat, hey, Fiat, let me walk you to your car.”
Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 9