“Fine.” I’d wanted to be out of the store when Jake got back. Now I had a good reason. “What time?”
“Can you leave in half an hour?”
“Sure. Dad’s coming into take over at two, so that’s perfect.”
“I’ll pick you up.” Boone paused, then added, “Put on some lipstick.”
“Why?” I frowned. I’d just gotten rid of one extra boyfriend and didn’t need a replacement. “It better not be that kind of proposition.”
“I don’t think you’re his type.” Boone chuckled. “Riyad likes his women tiny and blond.”
With that reassurance, I hung up. As usual, Dad was a few minutes early, so I had time to comb my hair and put on a little mascara and lip gloss. Boone was pulling into a space out front when I walked out the door, and when I slid inside his car, he instantly reversed out onto the street.
We chatted about the upcoming holiday events as he drove to Riyad’s office. I didn’t want to tell him about my breakup with Noah until I’d talked to Jake. It had just dawned on me that it wouldn’t be fair to tell my BFFs before him, which meant, if Poppy ever did telephone, I’d have to avoid her call. If I picked up, she’d get the whole story out of me before I could stop myself.
As I was thinking, Boone pulled into the large lot behind the building that housed Riyad’s law practice. It was in one of the newer structures a few streets over from the town square, and although the tan brick and boxy construction lacked charm, it did have plenty of parking.
We left Boone’s Mercedes safely ensconced in the rear of the lot, away from any possible dings. As we entered the lobby, Riyad’s name was on a door to the left. Boone opened it, gesturing for me to precede him. The petite blond secretary knew Boone and immediately showed us into the attorney’s office.
Riyad Oberkircher was sitting behind his desk, busily typing on his keyboard. A large photo of a beautiful saluki was encased in an elaborate silver frame and held pride of place on the desktop. When we stepped into the room, the lawyer looked up, smiled, and straightened the picture.
“Good afternoon, Boone, Dev.” Riyad’s slight Southern accent always threw me for a loop.
The attorney was a curious mixture. His mother had been from Saudi Arabia and his father was German. How the couple ended up together, let alone living in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, was a story that Riyad had never shared. But the combination of cultures resulted in his exotic appearance and his unusual drawl.
Boone and I returned the lawyer’s greeting, then sat in the two chairs facing him.
After a bit of chitchat, Boone said, “I really need to know how to contact the owner of the Malone house.” He crossed his legs, straightening the crease on his gray suit pants. “Dev’s here, so what do you need from her to in order to tell me who owns the place?”
“Here’s the deal.” Riyad shoved his fingers through his short black hair. “The owner of the Malone house has always insisted on strict anonymity. Boy howdy, did she insist.” He grimaced. “However, when I took over as her attorney a few years back, I was given an envelope with the instructions to open it if she didn’t communicate with me at least every four months. Generally, I get a note and a check every quarter, but when it didn’t arrive on the first of the month, I waited a few days, then opened the letter this morning.”
“I see,” Boone said, seeming as confused as I was about my presence.
“Coincidently, you called as I was reading the note.” Riyad grinned. “Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, I asked you to bring Dev. You said you were on retainer as her attorney, right?”
“I am.” Boone nodded.
“You both agree to keep what I’m about to reveal confidential?”
“Sure.” I shrugged, then winked at Boone. “I’m pretty good at keeping secrets, and Boone is if he has to. What’s my involvement?”
“The letter stated that I was to contact Devereaux Sinclair, give her the key to the house, and ask her to check the place out,” Riyad explained.
“Check it out for what?” I asked. Every word Riyad spoke left me more confused.
“I don’t know.” The tall, spare man shrugged. “But considering the owner is Roberta Malone, I’m guessing she may have passed away.”
“I thought Roberta Malone died in the first fire,” Boone said, wrinkling his brow. “That was over ten years ago. If she was still alive, why hasn’t anyone seen her since then?”
“My understanding from her previous attorney is that Roberta was a vain woman, and when her face was scarred in that fire she became a hermit,” Riyad explained. “She got more and more paranoid as the years passed and has been living almost entirely off the grid.”
“How old would she be?” I asked. She’d seemed ancient to me as a teenager, but thinking back, she’d probably only been in her fifties.
Riyad consulted the folder in front of him and said, “Sixty-six.”
“But why me?” I shook my head. “The police should be the ones to search the house.”
My stomach clenched and I tasted bile. I wasn’t eager to find a body. Especially one that might have been there a long time.
“The problem is”—Riyad grimaced—“ethically, I can only turn over the key to you. I don’t know for a fact Roberta is dead, so her instructions take precedence over my own inclinations.”
“I don’t want to do it.” I scooted my chair back. “I barely knew Ms. Malone. Why would she choose me, of all people, to find her?”
“Her letter said you were dependable and had grit.” Riyad shrugged again. “She didn’t think many other people around here did.”
“What if I refuse?” I asked.
“I am to wait another three months, then ask the next person on her list.”
“Which means there would be no hope of using the house for the ghost tour,” Boone whined.
Riyad pointed a finger at Boone and said, “Bingo.”
“If we find her body, you won’t be able to use the house anyhow,” I grumbled. “And if we don’t, you still won’t have permission for the second inspector, so this whole thing is an exercise in futility.”
“Still”—Boone’s expression became more somber—“you can’t in good conscience ignore the fact that if you don’t do as Roberta asked in her letter, she might be lying there dead for over half a year.”
“And although it’s highly unlikely,” Riyad said, joining in the conversation, “Ms. Malone could be ill or injured and waiting for help.”
“Highly unlikely, my butt,” I snapped. “Try bloody miraculous.”
“I’ll go with you,” Boone offered. “We can do it right now and be done with it.”
“Fine.” I crossed my arms. “But let me go on record as saying this is a bad idea.”
The men were right. There was no way I could sleep at night if I didn’t go check out that house. Best-case scenario, we’d discover that Roberta was fine and had just forgotten to contact her lawyer. Which meant we’d probably be greeted with a shotgun. Worst-case scenario, we’d find her body. Even worse, she’d turned into a vampire.
Okay, that last probably wouldn’t happen, but it was almost Halloween, so you never know. Maybe we should stop somewhere and pick up some garlic or a cross. And a nice solid wooden stake might be good, too.
While my mind wandered, Boone and Riyad had stood and were shaking hands. The men were now looking at me as if I’d missed something.
Boone poked my shoulder and Riyad said, “Here’s the key. Please let me know after you’ve finished at the house.”
“Of course,” I murmured, biting my tongue to stop any of the hundred snarky comments in my brain from spilling out of my mouth.
Once Boone and I were back in his car and he was driving toward the Malone house, I said, “You know there isn’t a chance in hell the chamber of commerce will be able to use Roberta’s place on the ghost t
our.”
“I guess.” Boone sighed, then after a long moment of thoughtful silence, he brightened. “We can use the library. We just got the reward money a few weeks ago and renovations haven’t been started yet.”
“Perfect.”
Just a few months ago, Boone, Poppy, Noah, and I had uncovered a fortune in hidden Civil War treasure. The federal government had claimed it, but given Shadow Bend a hefty reward. A good chunk of it was being used to reopen our town library, which had been sitting empty for many years. The old building was pretty spooky and would be a good stop on the ghost tour. Especially the creepy basement.
“I hope no one has cleared out all the cobwebs,” Boone mumbled.
Ignoring his muttering, I said, “Now that we have the key and Riyad is off the hook, why don’t we just call Chief Kincaid and ask him to send an officer for a wellness check?”
“Oberkircher may have fulfilled his ethical duties, but we haven’t.” Boone frowned at me, then grinned. “Besides, this will be an adventure.”
“Famous last words,” I sneered. “This is a bad decision.”
“Bad decisions make good stories,” Boone teased as he pulled into Roberta Malone’s dandelion-covered driveway.
Pointing to the tire tracks in the weeds, I said, “Someone else has been here.”
“Probably just teenagers looking for a good spot to drink or make out.”
“Uh-huh.” I twisted my lips. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“Then let’s get this show on the road before you chicken out.” Boone parked the car.
As I made my way up the cracked sidewalk, I noticed a well and the generator hooked up to the huge propane tank that Vivian had mentioned. It was a lot easier living off the grid when you could avoid utility bills by producing your own electricity and water.
When I approached the front entrance, I saw that it looked brand-new and realized that it must have been replaced after the latest fire. The firefighters would have needed to break into the house to put out the flames.
Inserting the key, I closed my eyes and turned the knob. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and we crossed the threshold. We stood in the French Colonial’s large vestibule, and I gazed at the mural on the staircase wall. It was peeling and so faded I couldn’t decipher its original image. There was a thin layer of dust everywhere, but no indication of the recent fire.
“I don’t smell any decomposition,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”
“Maybe.” Boone shrugged. “We’ve had a pretty dry summer. If she’s been dead awhile, she could be nearly mummified.”
“Oh.” I swallowed the bile rising in my throat from that thought, then said, “It just occurred to me, wouldn’t the firefighters have found Roberta when they put out the fire in the basement?”
“Unless she was okay at the time of the fire and hid.”
“True,” I agreed, then asked, “Where should we start looking?”
“Let’s clear this floor first,” Boone said. “Then check the second story.”
Boone was a big fan of the various Law & Order television shows and viewed himself as attorney Jack McCoy or Detective Nick Amaro, depending on the day.
There was nothing amiss in the dining room or parlor, but as we moved past the staircase and into the study, it was evident that someone had recently been living in the place. Crumpled potato chip bags were strewn around the old leather couch, and the nineteenth-century Regency-style library table was littered with abandoned beer cans and wine bottles. Liquid had leaked out of the containers, marring the tabletop’s finish.
I cringed at the mistreatment of the beautiful antique. The mahogany with satinwood banding and gorgeous down-swept legs that ended in brass casters made me drool. It would bring close to three thousand dollars if the owner could bear to part with it.
The room across the hall probably had been originally designed for another use, but someone had transformed it into a makeshift boudoir. A queen-size air mattress, featuring a built-in air pump, and even an attached headboard took up most of the floor.
Stepping closer, I rubbed the sheet between my fingers. It was Egyptian cotton and had to have at least a four hundred thread count. I examined the pillows. They were goose down and enclosed in satin cases. I had never seen such a luxurious inflatable bed.
Turning to Boone, who had been conducting his own investigation, I said, “Whoever has been sleeping here has expensive tastes.”
Boone handed me a bottle of cologne and winked. “I would say so—this is Virgin Island Water by Creed, and it runs close to two hundred bucks an ounce.”
“Wow.” I looked at the label, sniffed the cap, and asked, “Is this a men’s or a women’s fragrance?”
“Both.” Boone shook his head. “I just read an article about it, and it’s unisex.” He grinned and pulled a suitcase into view. “But these are definitely men’s clothes.”
“Was Roberta seeing someone?” I frowned, then shook my head. “That sure doesn’t seem like the recluse that Riyad described.”
I led Boone back to the hallway and into the kitchen. It, too, showed signs of recent occupancy. There was a half-full carafe in the Mr. Coffee, dirty dishes were piled in the sink, and foam take-out containers overflowed the trash.
I felt a slight breeze and glanced toward the back door. A corner of the cardboard taped over its broken window had come loose. Why would Roberta need to break into her own house?
As I thought about it, something caught my eye, and I looked down. A tennis shoe–clad foot was sticking out from behind the kitchen table.
I moved slightly forward for a better view, then recoiled. We had found a body, all right. But it wasn’t Roberta Malone. Instead, lying there with the bullet hole in his chest and a gun beside him was Mac McGowan.
Evidently, Boone and I had discovered where Gabriella had been held during her kidnapping. And it seemed clear that she had killed her captor. Did that mean the ransom money was somewhere in the house, too?
CHAPTER 23
“Can you repeat that?” Jake asked, certain he’d heard Deveraux wrong. “I think we must have a bad connection or something.”
“Boone and I found Mac McGowan’s body at the Malone house.” Dev’s voice sounded shaky. “Chief Kincaid is on the way, but I thought you might want to come here as well.” She paused, and her voice was steadier when she said, “You know, as Elliot Winston’s representative.”
“Not as your boyfriend?” Jake teased. He loved Dev’s independence, but he sure as hell wished she’d lean on him a little more.
“That would be good, too.” Dev’s exhale was audible. “I am sort of freaked out, and Boone is nearly catatonic. Evidently, playing detective isn’t as fun as he expected it to be.”
“Where did you say you were?” Jake asked. He’d never heard of the Malone house. After Dev described the place and gave him directions, he recalled seeing it on the road behind the Sinclair property. Grabbing his hat, he said, “I’m on my way.”
Jake had just gotten to his office when Deveraux had called. He hadn’t had any luck finding where Gabriella had been held. A lot of the country roads looked alike and were unmarked, so he could understand how she’d gotten turned around, but he’d hoped that if he drove up and down them, he’d spot something.
Now, as he returned to his pickup, hopped inside, and headed toward the crime scene, he realized that Devereaux had solved the mystery for him. She hadn’t said if the ransom had been found, but if it had, the police already had it, and Winston couldn’t blame him that the cops had the money in custody.
Jake rubbed his chin. He still wasn’t entirely clear about why Deveraux and Boone had been the ones checking on the owner rather than law enforcement or Roberta Malone’s attorney.
Maybe he should have one of his friends from the marshal service run Riyad Oberkircher’s name thro
ugh the system and see if anything popped on him. Jake was furious that the man had sent Deveraux into what could have been a dangerous situation. Had Oberkircher even considered that she might need more backup than Boone?
A long ten minutes later, Jake slowed as he approached the driveway. There wasn’t a house number on the rickety mailbox, but the multitude of police vehicles was a damn good indication that he was at the right place.
Pulling his truck onto the side of the road, Jake jumped out of the cab and hurried toward the door. Although Dev had said she was fine, she’d sounded rattled. He was anxious to see for himself that she was okay.
Before Jake reached the front step, an officer with a prominent paunch blocked his path and ordered, “You need to return to your pickup, sir. This is a crime scene and no one is allowed inside.”
“Is Chief Kincaid here?” Jake asked. No way was this guy keeping him from Devereaux.
“The chief is busy.” The officer puffed out his chest, which was hard to do, considering the size of his belly. “I’m in charge.”
“I understand that.” Jake had run into men like this guy before. Full of their own importance and on the downward slide to retirement. He glanced at the man’s name tag and said, “Officer Krefeld, I’ve been consulting with Chief Kincaid on this case. Please tell him that Jake Del Vecchio would like to speak to him.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo, cowboy,” Krefeld sneered, cocking an eyebrow at Jake’s Stetson. “The chief told me not to let anyone inside, and that’s what I’m doin’.” He fingered his gun. “You march your ass off this property before I accidently discharge my weapon.”
The longer Jake stood arguing with this dickwad, the more he felt the need to see Devereaux. He could doubtlessly disarm this jerk before the idiot knew what had hit him, but Chief Kincaid wouldn’t be happy if Jake made one of his officers look like an incompetent buffoon.
Holding up his hands, Jake backed away and headed for his truck. Behind the wheel, he sent Dev, Boone, and the chief a text, hoping one of them would get him inside. After several minutes with no responses, he turned on the engine, slammed the gearshift into drive, and pulled onto the road.
Lions and Tigers and Murder, Oh My Page 21