Regan Reilly Boxed Set 1

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “I know there’s one more apartment building down the block,” Regan said. “Let’s give it a whirl.”

  Abigail pulled up and parked at the curb. “I’ve given up hope,” she said.

  Regan patted her arm. “It only takes one.” She got out and walked to the entrance. A smiling, uniformed young man started to push the revolving door for her.

  He looks like he’s about twelve, Regan thought. “Thank you,” she said pleasantly. “But I’d just like to ask you a question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly.”

  Regan showed the doorman Cody’s picture. “Have you seen this guy anywhere?”

  “No, I haven’t,” he responded too quickly.

  Regan knew he was lying. He was so young and didn’t have his poker face down yet. She made sure he saw the twenty-dollar bill she was holding behind Cody’s picture.

  “But let me think…” he said, scrunching up his face.

  Regan slipped the twenty into his hand, then produced another out of her pocket.

  “Okay, but please. I could get in trouble.”

  “I understand,” Regan said softly. “But this is very important.”

  The doorman looked around. “He doesn’t live here, but he was staying in one of the tenant’s apartments for the last couple of days.”

  “Did he leave?”

  “I don’t know whether he’s gone for good. Last night I was working a double shift. At about eleven o’clock he brought a gorgeous blonde home with him. She looked like she might be an actress. But they left a couple of hours after the earthquake. She was freaked out.”

  Abigail is going to kill herself, Regan thought. “Where did they go?”

  “I have no idea. They came down, and I called them a cab. They had their suitcases with them.”

  Regan started to reach inside her purse.

  “Don’t waste your money. That’s all I know. And believe me, I could use the cash.”

  “Thank you,” Regan said gratefully. “You’ve been a big help.” She returned to the car. Abigail looked at her expectantly.

  “Why don’t I buy you a birthday drink before we go to the airport?” Regan asked.

  “Regan, tell me. How bad is it?”

  “He was there for a couple of days. He brought in a blonde last night. They left after the earthquake because she was scared.”

  Abigail pounded the steering wheel with her good hand.

  “You cry on your birthday…” Regan began.

  “That jerk!”

  “Come on,” Regan said. “One glass of wine. Then you face Grandma.”

  Abigail put the car into drive. “That’s it. It’s over now, Regan.”

  “No it’s not, Abigail. We’ll resume our search after dinner. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

  “You know something, Regan? I have the feeling you’re going to get along very well with my grandmother.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s another one of her expressions.”

  49

  Ethel Feeney’s flight had taken off from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, but not before she’d tried to change her seat assignment. First she’d asked the gate agent for an upgrade, but was told the flight was full. Then she’d asked for an aisle seat but was informed that there were no aisle or window seats left.

  “But I’m an old lady,” Ethel had said, her expression fierce.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing I can do. Maybe when you get on the plane, you’ll find someone willing to switch seats.”

  “Who in their right mind would switch to a middle seat? You’re cramped and don’t even have one armrest to yourself.”

  The agent had shrugged, then picked up a microphone to make the boarding announcement.

  They were now two hours into the flight. Ethel had on the fancy headphones her grandson had lent her for the trip. She was listening to an opera with her eyes closed, happy as a clam in her aisle seat. In the first hour of the flight she’d driven the burly young man next to her crazy, getting up to go to the bathroom three times. Finally he’d thrown in the towel and offered to switch seats. She’d gratefully accepted and hadn’t gotten out of her chair since.

  Every minute or two, Grandma Feeney’s seatmate glared at her. I know her type, he thought—pretends to be so helpless. I fall for it, and now I’m crammed in like a sardine. He stuffed his newspaper into the seat pocket in front of him, folded his arms, and closed his eyes.

  Ethel was thinking about all the fun she’d have with Mugs and Abigail. When she got bored listening to music, she took a calculator out of her purse, along with the list of imperfections to look out for in Mugs’s apartment, with dollar amounts written next to each entry. Anything that would bring the price down.

  Just you wait, Abigail, honey, Ethel thought excitedly. Together we’re going to make every penny count.

  50

  Detectives Vormbrock and Nelson had been surprised by the turn of events with Abigail Feeney.

  “That girl does have some very bad luck,” Vormbrock declared as they sat at their desks. “There’s no way she had anything to do with that stalker.”

  “She’s lucky she’s not dead. We’re lucky the stalker is off the streets and that Regan Reilly knew how to protect herself.”

  “She is a private investigator,” Vormbrock said.

  “And seems like a good one. She certainly kept calm and in control. Maybe she’ll find the ex-boyfriend for us.”

  An officer came to the door. “I’ve got a preliminary report from the lab,” he said as he walked over and handed it to Nelson, who started to read.

  “What have we got?” Vormbrock asked.

  “Hairs that matched the victim’s, hair from at least three other people…and twelve-to fifteen-inch strands of red hair from a synthetic wig.” Nelson looked at Vormbrock. “I don’t think this guy was into wigs, do you?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  The phone on Nelson’s desk rang, and he quickly answered it. “Detective Nelson.”

  “Hello, Detective Nelson, this is Walter Young from the senior citizens center. You questioned us yesterday about Nicky Tendril.”

  “Yes, Walter. What can I do for you?”

  “I got a bunch of folks together today to talk about Nicky and see if we could come up with any clues for you.”

  “That’s very thoughtful. We’re very grateful for any assistance from the public.”

  “There were a couple things I thought you might be interested in.”

  “Such as?”

  “There seems to be some disagreement as to whether he had a cleaning lady or not.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the other interesting thing someone brought up is that Nicky cared deeply about keeping his wife’s memory alive. Apparently it’s what he cared about most. One of the women here said that he brought fresh flowers to her grave every Sunday. I never knew that, and I was the one who spent the most time with him. Truth be told, I feel a little hurt that he didn’t share that with me.”

  “He visited his wife’s grave every Sunday?”

  “Rain or shine,” Walter answered.

  “She died a long time ago.”

  “She did. At least fifty years.”

  “Where is she buried?”

  “At the big cemetery in the Valley—Pearly Gates.”

  “Thank you, Walter. Keep us posted. We do appreciate your help.”

  “I’ll keep my thinking cap on.”

  “Don’t ever take it off, Walter. So long now.” Nelson hung up the phone and looked over at Vormbrock. “Let’s take a ride over to Pearly Gates Cemetery. It’s high time we paid our respects to Nicky’s dead wife.”

  51

  Well, look who’s back,” the chatty waiter from the night before called out when Regan and Abigail walked into Jimbo’s. “I still haven’t seen your friend.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Regan said. “We’re here to have a quick glass of wine.” She pointed. “It’s A
bigail’s birthday.”

  “Well, Happy Birthday! You’re a Capricorn.”

  “Yes, and I was born on Friday the thirteenth.”

  “Bummer! Do you two want to sit at one of my tables by the window? I’ll bring you a complimentary tray of birthday hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Are you sure?” Abigail asked. “We don’t want to take a table when we’re not ordering a meal.”

  “Yes! We won’t get busy until after 5:00.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Would you like to sit at the table where your friend with the gloves spent the night torturing me?”

  “Why not?” Abigail laughed.

  As he led them to the table, Abigail and Regan glanced at each other. They were both thinking the same thing—this is where Lois saw Cody.

  “My name is Jonathan,” the waiter told them as they sat down. “What can I get you to drink?”

  They both ordered red wine.

  “Two glasses of vin rouge, coming right up!” Jonathan sang out as he hurried off.

  Abigail smiled, then turned to Regan. “I have to call Kaitlyn and Lois. But first I’d better figure out where we’re going to eat tonight and make a reservation. I should have done that earlier.”

  Regan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had a busy day.”

  “I’d say you have, too.” Abigail scratched her head. “I’m trying to think of a restaurant that my grandmother and her friend will enjoy—nothing too noisy or expensive.”

  “There’s a low-key Italian restaurant on Little Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills. I used to go there with my parents…”

  “Ta-dah!”

  They both turned. Jonathan was putting their glasses of wine down on the table. “I’ll be right back.”

  Regan lifted her glass. “Happy Birthday, Abigail. I’m sorry about Cody. It’s lousy you had to hear that news on your birthday.”

  “Regan, after what happened to you today, I could care less about Cody. I am just so grateful that you’re okay.” She paused. “But I do want my money back!”

  They laughed and clicked glasses.

  “Happy Birthday…” their waiter was singing playfully as he approached, then placed a tray of pigs in a blanket, cut-up vegetables, and tiny grilled-cheese sandwiches in front of them.

  “Thank you,” Abigail said. “You’re so kind.”

  “I love making my customers feel good,” he replied. “It makes work so much more fun. Of course, when I get someone like your friend with the gloves…” He rolled his eyes.

  Abigail smiled. “She couldn’t have been that bad.”

  “Excuse me? That poor guy she was with. I think he escaped to the bathroom three times. I don’t blame him one bit. You say he was a hand model, too?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Well, then let me tell you something. His hands must be the most attractive part of his body. I mean, please!”

  “Regan,” Abigail said, “remind me to never come here with Lois.”

  Jonathan waved his hand. “I’m just having fun. So, did you ever find your other friend? The hunky one?”

  “No.”

  “Now there’s a handsome devil.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Abigail said. “And ‘devil’ is the operative word.”

  “Love, ain’t it grand?” Jonathan sighed. “What about you?” he asked Regan. “Is that a wedding band I see on your ring finger?”

  “Yes, it is. I’m happy to say that I’m married to a great guy.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “Believe me,” Regan said. “He wasn’t easy to find.”

  “The good ones never are,” Jonathan replied.

  “My ex isn’t easy to find, and he’s not good either,” Abigail moaned.

  “Oh dear,” Jonathan said. “Your friend with the gloves seemed to like the guy she was with.”

  “Really?” Abigail asked. “She didn’t mention anything about him except that they had dinner.”

  “I don’t know. They seemed comfortable with each other, which says something. Any normal human being would have been freaked out with all her complaining.”

  “They’d worked together all day,” Abigail told him. “People get to know each other fast on those commercial shoots.”

  Two customers were walking through the door. “Excuse me,” Jonathan said, turning away.

  Regan and Abigail sipped their wine and ate their hors d’oeuvres, keeping an eye on the clock.

  “We should get out of here soon,” Regan finally said, signaling for the check. “Have you thought about whether we should make a reservation at that Italian restaurant?”

  “Yes, but I decided we’d better wait to ask my grandmother what she wants to do. Believe me, if she’s paying, she’ll want to decide. She’ll probably want a place that might provide her with a celebrity sighting.”

  “How about a place that might provide a Cody Castle sighting?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a nice birthday present?” Abigail asked. “But something tells me they don’t have the same taste in restaurants.”

  52

  Vormbrock and Nelson drove through the entrance of Pearly Gates Cemetery, passing rows and rows of tombstones on their way to the administration building.

  “Look at all the different names,” Nelson said. “Whenever I go to a burial, I keep an eye out to see if there are any Nelsons in the cemetery. I always spot one. It’s a weird feeling.”

  “With a name like Vormbrock, I don’t have that problem.”

  They parked near the office building, got out of the car, and paused for a moment. There was no one in sight. Flowers planted in front of headstones were blowing gently in the breeze.

  “So this is where Nicky would visit his wife every Sunday,” Nelson observed. “I wonder where her grave is.”

  “Let’s go find out,” Vormbrock said as they walked up the steps of the building.

  Inside the door there was a small hallway that led to a large high-ceilinged room with four desks positioned closely together. Enormous windows overlooked the cemetery. Paperwork was piled everywhere. It appeared obvious that the two men and two women in the room worked as a group. That, or they didn’t need much privacy.

  A sweet-faced matronly woman greeted them. “Hello,” she said, getting up from her desk. She looked to be in her sixties and was obviously in charge. “My name is Beatrice. May I help you?” she asked, probably assuming they were interested in a plot.

  Detective Nelson showed her his badge. “We wanted to ask a few questions about a man named Nicky Tendril. His wife is buried here…”

  The three other employees looked up from their work.

  “That poor man!” Beatrice exclaimed.

  “Our sentiments exactly.”

  “We just heard the terrible news from his niece. Nicky will be buried right beside his wife, Abigail. He bought a plot for two when she died all those years ago. His death is such a shame. We’re all in shock.”

  “You knew him then?”

  “Everyone here knew Nicky,” one of the men said, with a be-mused expression but not being unkind.

  “We understand he came here every Sunday to visit his wife’s grave,” Nelson said.

  Beatrice nodded solemnly. “Yes, he did. Because so many people visit their loved ones on Sunday, our office is open half a day. We like to be here if the relatives need us. Only one of us works and we take turns. We started this policy a few years ago and it’s worked out beautifully. Especially for someone like Nicky.”

  “Especially for someone like Nicky,” the other male employee repeated. “He always had something to complain about. Like if a blade of grass didn’t look green enough.”

  “Aw,” Beatrice said. “Nicky was a dear. And sometimes he had a right to complain. When he was here two days ago—”

  “He was here two days ago?” Nelson asked.

  “Sure. Two days ago was Sunday, wasn’t it?”

  Nelson nodded.

  “Anywa
y, he came in to talk to me about the tree that stands behind his wife’s tombstone. Sap from the tree was dripping onto the tombstone and getting it all messy. He wanted to get the tombstone cleaned immediately.”

  “Did he talk about anything else?”

  “He said that maybe he should upgrade the headstone. Abigail’s name was fading. Fifty years being exposed to the elements will do that.” Beatrice shook her head. “He was sitting right here two days ago. Who’d have believed that the next time he came back would be for all of eternity?” she asked, staring up at Nelson.

  “Yes, that is unbelievable,” Nelson agreed. “Did Nicky ever have anybody with him when he came for his visits?”

  “Never used to,” Beatrice answered. “But the last two or three times I saw him he had a companion.”

  “Do you know who that was?

  “I have no idea. She was a woman with red hair.”

  “Red hair?” Vormbrock asked calmly.

  Beatrice lowered her voice, pretending to whisper. “I think it was a wig.”

  “Did you ever talk to her?”

  “No. When Nicky came into the office he was always alone. I think his friend was trying to be respectful. The woman drove him to the cemetery and usually walked around while he visited his wife. She was obviously sensitive to his continuing heart-ache. This past Sunday when he was in here talking about the sap, she ducked in to use the ladies’ room way over there.” She pointed to the far wall.

  “You weren’t introduced?”

  “No. We waved at each other when she walked in. She used the ladies’ room and went right back outside. Of course I had to ask Nicky who she was. He joked that she was his Gal Friday. I know it wasn’t a girlfriend. How could it be? He was madly in love with his wife. It’s so sad, I tell you. But at least they’re together now.”

  “If you only saw her from a distance, how did you know she was wearing a wig?” Vormbrock asked.

  “A little while after Nicky left the office, it was time to close up. When I drove out, I passed them. They’d gone back to his wife’s gravesite. It was so windy. They were standing by the stone. Nicky was pointing at all the sap stains. I saw her wig start to blow off. She grabbed it just in time. I don’t think Nicky even noticed.”