Grave Misgivings

by Kristen Houghton

  “Now?” he looks surprised. He has just sat down and has the cruller halfway to his mouth.

  “Yes, now,” I say getting up, grabbing his hand and practically pulling him with me to the door. “I’m concerned about what it could be.” He stuffs the cruller in his mouth.

  Down the stairs and outside I tell Will that something’s not right in the life of Myrtle Goldberg Tuttle and that I think it has something to do with Harry.

  “Financial problems? One of them sick?” Will runs through the possibilities.

  “Well, not sick anyway. I never thought about money troubles but I doubt it. They’re pretty well off.”

  “Stop being a detective with friends,” says Will dismissing my concerns. “It only destroys friendships. Remember Phil Hayes, my buddy down at the precinct?” I remember. He and Will had a solid friendship but I haven’t heard Will mention him in quite awhile.

  “He and his girlfriend were going through some serious shit; she was a selfish little tart and I asked him one too many times why he didn’t break it off with her. Phil felt I was sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted; he was crazy about her. We almost came to blows over it. Now, unless it’s work-related at the precinct, we don’t talk. He’s still with her, she still drives him nuts, so go figure.” He stops. “Hell, didn’t you tell me that Myrtle and Harry are married over forty years? People married that long, they have problems, they work through them. Let it go.” He sounds firm and positive and walks over to my Edge.

  “Now what’s the problem with your car?”

  “Nothing. It’s fine. I just wanted to talk to you away from Myrtle.”

  He nods casually toward the building. “You might want to pretend we’re checking it out. Myrtle is looking out the window.”

  “Oh, sure.” I walk over to where Will is standing and for fifteen minutes we pretend to check my perfectly performing Edge.

  After saying good-bye to Will, I run up the stairs to my office. Myrtle is still standing there at the window watching Will walk back to his unmarked police car.

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 25

  “Car’s fine,” I say as I settle at my desk. “Will got a call from the precinct so he didn’t have a chance to come back up here. He says he’ll see you soon.”

  Myrtle continues looking out the window. “You know, Cate, maybe you were right to divorce him.” I’m shocked; Myrtle loves Will. She turns and looks at me. “A cheating man doesn’t deserve a good woman.”

  ๕๕๕

  The first day of cold calling yields nothing. We are at it from ten in the morning until eight at night. The second day I work through lunch and so does Myrtle. We call number after number of any business that has the word bath in its name. It’s tedious and frustrating. To make it less so I play a little game with Myrtle. For every call that does not produce results we put a mark on a sheet of paper; each mark represents a quarter. By two-thirty we take a break and count the make-believe money. Thirty-five calls and no mystery woman brings our total to eight dollars and seventy-five cents. Woo-hoo!

  I take a break while Myrtle continues her calls. Walking to the fridge for some water I practice my tennis backhand swinging at an imaginary ball. This is going to take longer than I had hoped.

  “Cate!” Myrtle stage-whispers my name while holding her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “We’ve got something.” I hurry to her desk just as she puts the person on the other end of the line on loudspeaker.

  “Yes,” Myrtle says reading from the description on her computer screen. “Very slender woman, dark brown or black hair. She used to wear it very short a couple of years ago. About five three in height. In her thirties. Works out a lot? Uh-huh.”

  “That sounds like Moira,” says the squeaky voice on the other end, “the owner. She’s out today at a crafts bazaar. I can give her your number and she’ll call you back.”

  Myrtle shows me the name of the shop, Hollis Bath Boutique. It’s located in Rosslyn, Virginia. The owner’s name is Moira Michelle Hollis.

  The speaker sounds as if she’s a teenager and I step forward with an idea. “Hi, my name’s Cate. Moira and I went to school together. My mom? The woman to whom you were speaking? Well, she was helping me contact Moira. See, I’m getting married in a couple of months and would so love to have Moira in my wedding party. The thing is that I wanted to surprise her and come down for a girls-only weekend, sort of a bachelorette fun thing. You know, reliving our girl days from school. We were kind of close in college, but I haven’t seen her in person for about three years, you know how that is.”

  “Oh, so you’re one of the boss lady’s Kappa Alpha Theta Sorority sisters.”

  “Yes, I am,” I say, grateful that young adults who grew up on the social networks have no reservations about giving out personal info to strangers. They don’t realize how dangerous it can be. “Kappa Alpha Theta all the way!” I say.

  “Moira keeps telling me to pledge that sorority next year when I go to college, but I don’t know. I’m not really into all that. She says it’s a wonderful group, though.”

  “Oh seriously, you should pledge,” I say wanting to keep her talking. “We’re a great sorority. Moira’s right about that.”

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 26

  “Yeah, maybe.” I hear her yawn; short attention span. “Anyway, I won’t tell Moira you’re coming if it’s a surprise. You’re going to love her new condo.”

  “Oh? You mean she’s not at the…wait I have her address in my cell phone..,damn, where is my phone? Mom, do you know if I left my phone in the living room?” I stall for time hoping the woman on the other end will give me the address. “Can you hold for a sec?” I say trying to sound rattled and frustrated. I hear her sigh.

  “Well, I’m supposed to be working so I really can’t stay on too long. Look, don’t go crazy looking for your phone, okay? Um, listen, you probably have her down at the Regent Street address, her father’s old house, right? But she lives at Barron Court now, I forgot the number but she bought a luxury condo there eight months ago. She was on a waiting list. Did you know her father died a couple of years ago? Real tragedy.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I murmur. “So sad.”

  “Yeah, I guess. He left her the house but she said it had too many memories. Anyway, between you and me, she certainly can afford the condo; her father was pretty well-off, so I hear.” The gods are looking out for me today; this is too easy.

  “Yes, fairly well-to-do. But thank you so much for giving me her new address! I’ll find her. I know where Barron Court is.”

  There’s a pause on the other end. “You do? You said you hadn’t been down here for awhile. They just built the place eleven months ago. It wasn’t even named. Are you sure you know where to go?”

  Shit! I should have just said thank you! Come on, Cate, think fast! A good PI is able to think on her feet and come up with a good lie when she’s caught making a mistake.

  “Oh, I’m so silly.” I giggle as if I’m a sorority airhead. “I was thinking of Brandon Court near our sorority house.” I sigh heavily. “This wedding has gotten me all giddy, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. Sorry!”

  There’s another pause then she says, “I know how that can be. My sister went totally insane during the two months before her wedding. She was forgetting details left and right.”

  “Oh that is so true! Anyway, I’m sure I can find it once I’m down there.”

  We girl-talk for a few more minutes and then I hear a bell ring as if a door had been opened.

  “I gotta go now; customer came in. Nice talking.”

  “Oh yes, me too. Bye.”

  And with that out of the way I head to my computer to check out the whereabouts of Hollis Bath Boutique in Rosslyn, Virginia and calculate how long it will take me to drive there.

  Chapter 6

  IT’S TWO HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE miles to Rosslyn, which is near Arlington, Virginia. I left my home at 5 a.m. and am wide awake thanks to a large thermos of Timothy’s coffee
and a breakfast sandwich of Taylor Ham, egg, and cheese. You need fuel when you drive.

  Truthfully I don’t mind driving by myself. I play my music, make sure that I have snacks and water in the car, and just drive. I feel relatively safe in my Edge and don’t fear the eighteen-wheelers roaring down the interstate next to me.

  There’s been no word from my trusty hacker TRUST about the hit man Duchovny, but I’m not too worried. TRUST takes her time and is very thorough in her hacking. This will more than likely cost me close to a couple of grand which I will gladly pay and then add to the bill I’ll present to Jennifer Brooks-Warren when the case is finished. I don’t pad my expenses but I do expect my clients to understand that I work on promised pay and that I want them to be fair. Most of the time, I’ve had no problems with any bills I’ve presented to my clients. There was only one time when the client, a not-so-legit businessman with a cheating wife, nit-picked every expense I encountered following his wife and her lover. He was pissed at me for actually providing proof that she was cheating! I was after him for months to pay me. The bill was only grudgingly paid off after Myrtle informed him that if he didn’t pay within seven working days she would personally bring his bill to the DA’s office and have them check up on his rather shady business practices.

  It’s eight o’clock when I pull off I 95 south in search of a restroom, more coffee, and something hot to eat. I calculate that, barring any unforeseen traffic delays, I should be in Rosslyn, Virginia by nine-thirty. After a quick trip to the ladies room where I change my hoodie for a soft crème-colored cashmere top, I fill my thermos with coffee and half and half, grab a toasted bagel, and head back to the car. Virginia and a woman named Moira Hollis await me. Hopefully this Moira can give me the info I need to find the mysterious hit man.

  ๕๕๕

  Moira Michelle Hollis awoke and listened to the sound of nothing. It was a pleasant sound for her. It meant that she was alone and in complete charge of her life. Running on her treadmill, which was placed in front of the large bedroom window with a lovely view of an expanse of manicured condo property lawn, she made the decision to go to her boutique earlier than usual. Truthfully she could do whatever she wanted to do in life...now.

  The freedom she had felt for the last two years had made her a different woman. Getting up early to run on the treadmill was something she never would have thought of, or wanted to do, when he was alive. No, back in those horrible days when his anger controlled her every move all she wanted to do was lie in bed until she heard him slam the front door around ten in the morning to go to his firm. Him, her hated, horrible father. She was glad he was dead.

  She never allowed herself to think about “the incident” during the day but sometimes at night she relived the reason for her freedom and thanked a God who hadn’t known she existed until she took matters into her own hands. “God helps those who help themselves” was certainly proven to be true when she had hired a stranger to eliminate her father. Then and only then, had

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 28

  God noticed her. Moira had bought her freedom for twenty-five thousand dollars and it had been worth every lousy cent.

  She took a light jacket from the closet and cheerfully went out to meet the day, one of the many free, happy ones ahead of her.

  ๕๕๕

  Hollis Bath Boutique is in the middle of a nice little square filled with other specialty shops in the town of Rosslyn, Virginia. There’s a park in the middle of the square with park benches and carefully-tended flower beds. The boutique looks pretty and upscale. Sitting on a park bench, drinking coffee, I have to say that I’m impressed by the look of the place. Ms. Hollis must be doing well.

  It’s two o’clock and there are a lot of people on the street for a weekday. It seems as if nobody has a job but then I look around at the square and smile to myself. It’s an affluent area, which means that the usual grind I see in New York City with workers rushing all over the place doesn’t apply here. More money means a more leisurely attitude toward life and work.

  The address for the Hollis condo is 842-12 Barron Court. It wasn’t all that hard to find once I went into a real estate office in Rosslyn and made inquiries about wanting to look over the Barron Court property before committing to buying a condo.

  “I’d like to just drive around myself,” I told the overeager salesperson. “Trust me, if I like it I’ll be back here today.”

  With my insistence on checking out the property and the area by myself, the salesperson directed me to the road that led directly from the town proper to the Barron Court condos. My luck held at the condo rental office. When the rental agent went to get me a map of the area, I leafed through the property manifest left on the main desk and found Moira’s condo address: Hollis, M., 842-12 Barron Court South. Simple.

  I don’t want to approach Moira Hollis in the shop she owns. That’s certainly not the place to ask very secretive questions about her hiring a hit man to kill her father or how she went about doing it. No. I’ll wait until closing time, which the sign says is six pm. When she leaves I’ll follow her back to number 842-12 Barron Court, allow her time to get inside her condo and then ring her bell. Whether she lets me in or not is another story; maybe I can get away with saying I’m a sorority sister from a different year.

  I get up, toss my coffee cup in a trash can and make the most of a pretty spring day by walking along the square. There’s a charming Federal-style bed and breakfast near a pond at the end of the square and I go in hoping that there’s a room available. There is; a sunny room with expensive lace curtains framing double windows is available and I plunk down the one seventy- five charge, which includes a hot breakfast, for one night. I wash my face, refresh my make up, and change my sneakers for shoes. Then I go outside to wait for Ms. Hollis to appear.

  ๕๕๕

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 29

  Moira Hollis closes her boutique at six o’clock on the dot and leaves the building around six-thirty but she doesn’t go home. Instead she walks to a local wine and tapas bar on the opposite side of the square. I follow discreetly, glad that I changed my top to something classier at the rest stop. I’m wearing designer jeans and so, it seems, are most of the women sitting at the outside tables. Fitting in is always good. No need to look as if I’m not from around here.

  I study Moira; she’s exactly as Jennifer Brooks-Warren described her: very thin with short black hair, and about five three in height. Her outfit, consisting of a black sweater and grey slacks, looks well tailored; and she’s wearing designer wire-rimmed glasses. Her handbag is a discreet red Hermés Kelly bag, which Melissa once told me costs upward of $35,000. Moira, it seems, likes nice things.

  Walking into the bar I hear her greet several patrons already there, as well as the young man behind the bar. “Hey, Moira. Joey is just setting up your table. The usual?” The bartender greets her in a way that lets me know she’s a regular.

  “Yes, please,” Moira Hollis smiles at the man and walks toward a server beckoning her to a small table.

  Scanning the room I see that it’s one long, curved bar with backless stools and that at the end of the bar there are six raised tables with high-backed chairs. Moira Hollis is seated alone at one of the tables. There’s a couple at another table but they are just paying their bill. I lean on the bar allowing my cleavage to show and smile at the bartender. He comes over quickly.

  “Help you, miss?”

  “Yes, I’d like a Mondavi merlot with one ice cube. And please fill the glass to the top.”

  “Ah-ha, a lady who knows what she wants. Coming right up.”

  I smile and lean closer over the bar. My “girls” are being rather lewdly eyed by another customer and I shoot him a death glance. He lowers his eyes. I know how to take care of myself.

  Talking to the bartender I ask, “Can I get a table in the back? I need some privacy for a business call.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure thing, miss.” He turns and calls to the server. “Hey, Joey! Come here a
sec.”

  He hands me my drink as Joey walks over. “Set a table for this very nice lady.”

  I follow Joey toward the tables in the back and tell him which table I want. Of course it’s next to Moira Hollis. Two businesswomen alone: a little polite conversation may be just the ice-breaker I need.

  Moira is checking text messages on her phone and I pretend to do the same all the while watching her and waiting for an opportunity to talk to her. She fiddles and frowns over one message, sighs and texts back. I see my opening.

  “Damn!” I say just loudly enough to get her attention. “This stupid phone!” Moira looks over at me and I catch her eye. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Oh, no, you didn’t. These ridiculous phones.” She smiles pleasantly. “Everyone says that technology is wonderful. Supposed to make our lives easier but it doesn’t, really.”

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 30

  “I know! Mine just dropped a business call. Now when I try to re-connect, it won’t even go through.”

  She nods and smiles. “My phone accidentally deleted a text message from one of my most important buyers and I couldn’t get it back.” She raises her almost empty glass. “Here’s to technology!”

  “Oh well,” I sigh, “I think I’ll just have another glass of wine and look at the menu. I’m starving.” I pick up the menu and gesture to the server. “Another Mondavi merlot for me,” I say.

  Then nodding at Moira Hollis I add, “And another one of what she’s having.”

  “Well, thank you. That’s very nice of you.” Moira smiles pleasantly the way we all do when a stranger is nice to us.