A Few Good Women (Lexi Graves Mysteries, 9)

by Camilla Chafer

  "Where could he be now?" I wondered, thinking aloud. "Where would he hide?" I ruled out his mother and sisters immediately. then I decided they would definitely harbor him and play along. Yes, they never hesitated to ask for my help when they thought he was being threatened, but I hadn't heard from them since he was purportedly killed. Why hadn't they contacted me? I doubted very much if my refusal was so verboten that they would not reach out and demand my help in apprehending his killer. Could that mean he wasn't dead and they knew of his location? Or was he really dead and they were too devastated to do anything but wait for the police to conclude their investigation? Whichever answer it was, I had to speak with them. They had to be aware of his business here. They had to know if he were planning something.

  That left me only one option: talk to the Steadmans. But first, I had to accompany Taylor on several hours of walk-throughs in empty houses. That pastime didn't exactly fill me with joy. A career in PI often looks like a sexy job on television; but there were definitely some bits that I could happily skip if they weren't essential. However, these walk-throughs couldn't be avoided.

  I arranged to meet Taylor at her home, figuring it made better sense to take one car rather than following each other in two vehicles. By the time I was in front of Taylor's building, she was already waiting for me, wearing her Booth Realty uniform.

  "I feel so nervous about this," said Taylor. I leaned over to open the door and she got in and reached around to pull the seatbelt across her upper body. I couldn't help noticing her tired eyes and pinched mouth.

  "Why?"

  "I was only minutes away from being murdered too! I can't stop thinking about that. What if I had stayed a little longer at that house? Or opened the door to the murderer? Or what if the killer was inside there the whole time, waiting?"

  "You can't think like that."

  "I have to sleep with my lights on now. I even check under the bed."

  "I know you're scared but it won't last," I told her, knowing exactly how she felt. I survived a home invasion that gave me a few sleepless nights afterwards but now I slept soundly. Although what I went through would have been considered much worse, I chose not to tell her that. If anything, it would just scare her more about what could happen.

  "It feels like it will."

  "Do you remember the last time you were scared of anything?"

  "Giving presentations in front of my boss used to scare me."

  "How did you overcome that?" I asked. Checking the mirrors, I pulled out, heading back to Century Street and our route to get out of town.

  "I said yes to every presentation I could and I practiced and practiced until I didn't fluff my lines. One day, it was easy."

  "Great! And that's what you're going to do here," I told her, hoping I sounded like the ultimate authority on the matter. "You're going to walk around every house today like you own the place and are selling them to me. You’re filled with confidence because you just know you're going to make the sale. Your self-assurance will be evident because you already know these houses. You know everything about them and all you need to sell them, and you have no problem with that."

  Taylor gave me a skeptical look. "Do you think so?"

  "I know."

  "Okay," she said, relaxing into the seat. "Okay."

  I had to get Taylor's mind off the subject before she lapsed from her buoyed state to one of nervousness again, so I prattled our way to the first destination, a house named Hillside. When we turned into the driveway, I had to restrain a gasp at the sight of the mansion hidden behind a row of tall trees. "This is huge!" I huffed as we turned between two pillars that marked the entrance past a fork that Taylor pointed out as a service entrance. We rounded a fountain and parked in front of the house. "I never knew houses like this even existed around here."

  "It has seven bedrooms, seven baths, a tennis court and a double garage with its own apartment. The owner is a businessman who often vacations here with his family. They only use it six weeks out of the year."

  "Only six weeks! What do they do with it the rest of the time?"

  "They lease it out to photographers and as a vacation home. We once leased it for six months. A couple from Australia wanted to escape their winter down under."

  Along with the size, I did not fail to notice the isolation. There wasn’t another property for at least a mile, and the tall trees hid the mansion from view. Cars could come and go with ease, totally unnoticed by anyone. It would have been hard for anyone uninvited to stumble onto this place.

  Having read the file, I thought it would be interesting to hear Taylor's take on the break-ins. "When did you notice this house was accessed?"

  "I was showing it to a film company and I noticed a couple of things out of place. Dust covers on all the furniture were moved. The bathtub was still wet and there were champagne glasses on the rim of it. I checked at the office in case someone else had recently shown the house but no one had. And no one's been here since, officially, until now."

  "Did you notify the owners?"

  "No, they pay us to take care of anything and everything. Besides, nothing was stolen. I checked." We got out and I stared up at the house before walking around the grounds. Although everything was tidy and a gardener had clearly visited and cut the lawn recently, there was a sad air of emptiness about the property. I spotted a muddy tire track that scored the corner of the lawn on the way to the double garage. They would have to fix it to make Hillside a hundred percent perfect again.

  "I don't know what you think you'll find," said Taylor. She was waiting for me at the first step so I beeped the car locked and crossed over the driveway, joining her as she took a key from her purse and unlocked the door. It swung back on well-oiled hinges, allowing us to cross the lobby of polished parquet and a sweeping staircase.

  "I'm not sure but I need to look anyway," I told her. "Take me on the tour."

  Taylor's nerves remained on edge as she walked me around the house, starting at the first floor before moving up to the second. The elegant opulence was impressive, reminding me of the term, “conspicuous consumption.” The interior designer had a keen eye for polish and detail. Huge picture windows framed breathtaking views of the lawns and woods beyond, while the kitchen overlooked a small patio garden. Every convenience was included from the intercom to a sound system that could be activated from any room. It was plush, yet strangely, homey too. I had no idea what Anthony could possibly want with a place like this.

  "Take me to the bathroom where you spotted the champagne glasses," I told Taylor as she concluded our second floor tour.

  "This way to the guest bath." She turned, walking away from the staircase and selecting the door at the end of the corridor. We passed through a bedroom decorated in soft greens and creams before entering a glittering, white bathroom with his and hers sinks and a huge bath right in the middle. "Why would you break in just to take a bath?"

  My intuition gave way to the obvious. "I can tell you this: they weren't homeless."

  "Well, sure, it's too remote for a homeless person."

  "They had a car or car service and the money for luxuries like champagne. These aren't your average burglars." I stepped around the bath, taking in all the features. Just when I thought I’d seen everything, something dark caught my eye. I stooped down and reached under the counter, pulling out a small disc.

  "What is it?"

  I held up the small piece of plastic that looked so completely out of place against the startlingly white tiles. "It's a poker chip for a hundred dollars."

  "I don't remember ever seeing a pack of cards in the house. Maybe there's a set of poker chips in the games room?"

  "I don't think this was from a store-bought game. It's not like the average poker set and there's a funny little insignia on it. I think someone was celebrating a big win."

  "In a bath?" Taylor frowned.

  "Depends on whom you're celebrating with," I pointed out with a wink.

  She frowned harder, then he
r eyes widened. "Oh! Oh! Ew! Really?"

  "Big win, fancy house, champagne, rooms just waiting to be occupied for a celebration... sure. Sounds like a good way to celebrate to me."

  Taylor stared at me in astonishment and for a moment, I thought I said too much. Then her face softened and she giggled. "Me too."

  "Let's see if there is anything else that ties in with card games or gambling," I said, "and then we can go to the next house."

  Despite our diligent searching, we didn't find anything more and had to concede defeat, moving on to the next dream home. It was another bust. Despite Taylor's assertion that it was also broken into, we didn't find any evidence to support that. There was nothing to suggest it had been used for anything nefarious. The same happened at the third and fourth houses, which were located on the outskirts of town. The fifth house, however, was set on a couple of acres in Bedford Hills, and very different.

  "Look at this," I said as Taylor opened the front door. I was pointing to a tiny flutter of fabric, wedged against the lock.

  "What? I don't see anything."

  "It looks like green baize."

  "From a jacket?"

  "No, it's the kind of fabric used to cover a card table."

  "How do you know that stuff?"

  "My brother used to host Friday night poker. He had one of those little green tables in his apartment and a set of chips and we played often. We were all terrible but it was fun." Memories flooded back to me even though it was many years since we last played a game. I recalled the distinct taste of nachos and the smell of beer combined with our laughter as we teased and won and lost. Now that I thought about it, Anthony participated in a few of those games. I flashed on the hundred-dollar chip. Had he graduated to higher stakes?

  "I never learned."

  "You should. It's fun."

  "My dad is in Gamblers Anonymous. He gambled away my mom's savings."

  I winced inwardly. "I am so sorry."

  "He would bet on anything. He's a lot nicer now that he doesn't gamble."

  "How's your mom?"

  "Happily married to someone who is not a gambler. I don't know if she's still angry at my dad for losing all their money, or maybe she feels sorry for him. I think it's a bit of both. That’s why I never learned to play cards. I worried I would end up like him."

  "You picked a different path. You're much smarter."

  "I don't know about that; but it's nice not to be threatened if I don't pay up. Anyway," Taylor said, giving herself a little shake, "the family room is this way. This house is for sale since the owners relocated across country for work. They also wanted to be closer to family. All the furniture is included with the sale if the new owner wants it. It would be great for any family..."

  I followed Taylor around, keenly looking for any little detail that would indicate Anthony’s presence while I reflected on Taylor's comments. Did Anthony get caught up in something far bigger than he could handle? The poker chip and the scrap of fabric suggested games were being played in these homes. Given their huge size and remote locations, discretion and wealth seemed very important to the host. I wondered if that was just to attract the kind of high rollers who would bring large amounts of cash to the games, or to convince the gamers that the host, himself, was a high roller.

  Taylor's comments about her father hung in my mind. Could Anthony have crossed someone that called in their marker, perhaps a marker he couldn't afford? Did they kill him for crossing them? And what kind of person would murder someone over a debt? How much could he owe to even get himself in that situation? As I thought about it, my worry grew. Anthony could very easily have crossed some nasty people and paid for it with his own life. But when I thought that, I instantly remembered how sneaky and self-serving he was. If someone were after him, I would not put it past him to stage his own murder just so he could get far away. He would not hesitate to leave everything behind. The wife/business arrangement, the two girlfriends, the overbearing family, the debts, the threats and general danger. He could start all over again, somewhere new, where no one was looking for him. And he could do it all in style, thanks to Olivia Steadman's two million in cash.

  The more I thought about it, the more it made sense.

  All I had to do now was wait for Lucas to come through for me. If he could put Anthony in the vicinity of any of these houses at the times they broken into and unlawfully occupied, I had proof. Once I knew Anthony was definitely the perpetrator of the break-ins, I could track him down and change the whole game.

  I was no longer looking for Anthony Steadman, deceased. I was looking for Anthony Steadman, on the lam.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After I left Taylor at her apartment, I headed back to the office to deposit the latest evidence in my growing file. One poker chip. One scrap of green baize. It wasn't much, but added together, it could be something. Something was a lot more than I had earlier.

  Since the evidence couldn't tell me anymore at present, I turned my attention to Cynthia Steadman. It took me less than an hour to track her down because, unlike her son, she was a lot more open about her life.

  I assumed, for reasons I could no longer remember, that they sold their house several years ago but Cynthia Steadman was still registered as living there, but as the sole occupant now. Deciding not to call ahead, I drove there, hoping to surprise her and possibly, her daughters if they were visiting.

  The Steadman house was easily one of the larger homes in the area and I recalled Cynthia once telling me she and her late husband had purchased it when their children were young, before Mr. Steadman passed away, which was a few years later. The younger Steadmans grew up in an entirely different world from me despite the few miles between us. Mine had been a loving, chaotic house, packed with children and lots of noise. There's, in contrast, was spacious and silent, offering them every opportunity money could buy and all the nannies they needed to enable them. We biked on the sidewalks while they skied in Vail and took horseback-riding lessons. We sang along to the opening credits around our living room television sit-coms while they played their own instruments and attended concertos. We vacationed in lakeside cabins; they took European tours. We rode the school bus; they got brand new BMWs on their sweet sixteen birthdays.

  Theirs was a privileged upbringing that I admired and at times, envied; but in reality, I wouldn't have swapped a single thing. One common asset we both shared was the unconditional abundance of love. Just like my parents, Cynthia adored her children. Most of us became productive adults, but poor Anthony deviated from the chosen path somewhere along the way. Whenever he drifted off, or did something wrong, Cynthia only showered him with more love, and tried harder to help him. Whatever he wanted, Cynthia managed to get for him. When he got into trouble, she made it “go away.” Cynthia’s fatal flaw was her inability to say no to Anthony.

  Cynthia answered the door and smiled down at me from where she perched on the threshold. Taking a casual once-over of my clothes, she didn't comment, but invited me in, leaving me to follow her as she click-clacked ahead of me in high heels and a pencil skirt. "Lexi, this is a surprise," Cynthia said, extending one hand before ushering me into the study. What she studied in there, I had no idea. It was still the same warm, welcoming space from my memories, almost entirely decorated in neutrals except for the wall of leather-bound books behind her desk and a large fireplace mantel topped with photos of her family. I was fairly certain the classical books were more for show than actual reading. I had a faint recollection they were once her husband's hobby. "If you changed your mind and want to help me now, I'm afraid you're too late. I told you something bad was going to happen. No doubt you've heard? My darling Anthony may be lost forever."

  "I am so sorry," I told her, knowing the best way to get her to talk to me was to be as effusive as possible. Perhaps I could even look slightly distressed, I decided. I widened my eyes, fluttered my eyelashes, and pouted a little bit. "I should have listened to you when you first came to see me. You were o
bviously worried with good reason."

  "I understand. I surprised you. Things ended badly between you and my son. You had every right to be angry. He's always been such a mixed-up boy."

  "And he's mixed up in something now? When you came to the agency, you said someone wanted to kill him. Do you know who or why?"

  "All I know is that a tall and very angry man knocked on my door late one night and asked for Anthony. When I said I didn't know where he was, he got even angrier. He said Anthony owed him money and he came here to collect it. I asked him how much and he said two hundred. I told him I'd give him the two hundred dollars if he never came here again. He had no business showing his face at my house!"

  "Did he leave after that?"

  "Oh, no! He laughed and said it wasn't two hundred dollars, it was two hundred thousand. I said there had to be some kind of mistake. My Anthony didn't have that kind of money and the man said that was exactly the problem and why he planned to collect it from his rich family! I told him Anthony didn't live here and I would call the police."

  "What happened next?"

  "He said that was a very bad idea and I should tell Anthony he had one week to get the money or expect trouble. He even mimed using a gun! I was terrified!"

  I reacted by making soothing, sympathetic noises. I could easily believe her tale. Similar things had happened to me with his credit card theft, except the bailiffs were chasing me down, not angry men who shouted at me. "When was this?"

  "Two weeks ago."

  "Did you get the man's name?"

  "'O' something. An Irish name, but he had a New York accent. Brooklyn if memory serves me well. Do you think he might have something to do with this?"

  "I don't know," I answered honestly, making a mental note to ask if anyone else had heard of or noticed such a man. Being Irish probably didn't help. Montgomery had a large Irish population, including my own family, but an angry man shooting his mouth off about someone owing him two hundred large bills would probably stand out. I had no reason to believe Cynthia would lie to me... yet. Based on my knowledge of Anthony, and given the circumstances we were now in, it sounded plausible. "Where does Anthony live?"