Hide and Snoop (The Odelia Grey Mysteries)

by Jaffarian, Sue Ann

  Returning to my office, I closed my door and got to work protecting the evidence. No one would think it odd that my door was closed. I often closed it during lunchtime for privacy. Using a tissue, I transferred the comb and the Speed Stick into their own separate baggies and sealed them. Then I put in a call to my big brother on my cell phone.

  “Hey, Clark,” I said as soon as he answered. “It’s Odelia.”

  “Hi, sis. Nice to hear from you.” From the upswing in his voice, I knew he meant it.

  “How’s Mom?” I called my mother every week. They were trying calls. She’d never been warm and fuzzy, and old age had made her even more cantankerous. “When I called her last Saturday, she said she was ready to die. Said something about if she was still alive come winter, she was stepping in front of a snow plow.”

  “Humph,” my brother snorted. “She’s fine. So fine she’s planning a bus trip to Branson, Missouri, with a bunch of other geezers. That old bird will outlive both of us.”

  “I sincerely hope not,” I said, then quickly added, “not that I want her dead, but considering the age difference, it would be nice for us to go after her, don’t ya think?”

  “Affirmative.”

  I paused before jumping into the reason for my call. Taking a deep breath, I forged ahead. “I was wondering if you could give me some help, Clark.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Clark groaned. “What are you up to your neck in now?”

  “It’s for work,” I added quickly. I gave my big bro a rundown of what was happening at the office and how I’d been given the task of saving my own job.

  “So what can I do to help?” The groaning was gone, replaced by sincere concern.

  “I need to find out if the other paralegal has been spending time at Erica’s. I…,” I hesitated, searching for the right word. “I appropriated some personal items from her guest bath that I think might belong to him.”

  “You mean you stole them, don’t you, sis?”

  “Po-tay-toe. Po-tah-toe.”

  Clark chuckled, the snarky phrase going over better with him than it did with Carl Yates. “Uh-huh. Continue.”

  “I have hair on a comb and possibly fingerprints on the deodorant. Can you ID those for me?”

  “Tests like that don’t grow on trees, Odelia.”

  “But I’ve seen ads online for quick DNA testing.”

  “True, and those can run you anywhere from a few hundred to a couple of thousand, and the results can take time. Plus you would need a sample from the suspect and a good sample to match it against,” Clark clarified. “Does the hair in the comb contain follicles?”

  “Beats me.” Through the baggie, I checked out the comb. For the first time, I noticed the few short hairs caught in the comb were fair. Mark’s hair was dark.

  Crap. That meant someone else was a possibility.

  “Without the follicles, that hair will probably not help. The best DNA samples come from a swab of the mouth. Is that other paralegal going to let you swab his mouth?”

  The sarcasm in Clark’s question made me wiggle my nose with annoyance. “Then how about the fingerprints?” Even though the hair wasn’t a match, I wasn’t ready to give up on nailing Mark.

  “We might be able to lift a set off, but I’m not sure how clear it would be. This stuff isn’t as easy-peasy as they make it look on TV, you know.”

  “Between your law background and Willie’s connections, I thought this might be fairly simple.” My shoulders were starting to droop with disappointment.

  “Willie has a lot of information at his disposal, but I’m not sure access to a national fingerprint bank is one of them. But with him, you never know.” He paused. I hoped it was to come up with a solution and not the beginning of a goodbye.

  “Tell you what, sis. Can you get that guy’s fingerprints? Then we can try to match them against the ones you might have stolen. That would be easier than trying to find a way to match them against unknowns.”

  I wrinkled my nose at his second suggestion that I was a thief but sat up straight, ready to grab at the assistance Clark was offering. “I can certainly try.” As I said the words, I wondered how in the hell I was going to accomplish my mission. I’d already made one uncharacteristic visit to Mark’s office, and I’d left with flair. At least I thought I’d left with flair. Going back so soon would ruin the effect.

  “As soon as you get the prints,” Clark continued, “overnight them to me at my Phoenix office. I’m actually at the airport on my way there now. And send it for Saturday delivery. Someone will be there to receive it.”

  “How long will you be in Phoenix?”

  “Not sure, but at least a few days. Maybe I can pop over to see you and Greg when I’m done.”

  “We’d like that, Clark,” I said with encouragement. “Please try to make it.”

  twelve

  For the most part, during lunchtime our office empties out. Secretaries and other staff members congregate in the kitchen or go out to eat. Attorneys do the same or, like me, eat in their office with the door closed. Sometimes folks work through lunch when there is a court filing or rush projects. But today was Friday, and we’d just been paid. A lot of folks went out for lunch together on Fridays.

  Almost everyone was gone from their posts as I made my way down the hallway. I hoped Mark would be, too. He’d come in late, so he might be working through his lunch hour. It was a chance I’d have to take. Before leaving my office, I grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen just to look like I was on official business in case anyone saw me. I also had an expandable file tucked under the yellow pad. If I did find anything worth pinching, I could open the file and slip it in.

  When I reached Mark’s office, I glanced around. Every nearby secretarial bay in the area was empty. The attorney office on his left was empty, the one on the right had its door closed. Mark’s office was vacant.

  Before stepping inside, I took a quick glance around to pick my target before I plunged inside. If Mark came back unexpectedly, I sure didn’t want him to find me inside his office rummaging around. I would identify an item from the doorway, then make a quick snatch. I believe in jewelry holdups they call this smash and grab, but I didn’t have any intention of smashing anything, not that I didn’t feel like it at the moment. This was simply a grab job, and I didn’t plan on taking anything of value.

  Mark’s coffee mug was on his desk, just to the right of his phone. It was one of the generic ones the firm supplied, not a personal one like mine. I had two mugs I kept on my desk and rotated. One was a double-size mug from one of our attorney services. The other, which I used less often, was a gift from Steele. On its white porcelain side, emblazoned in red block letters, were the words paralegal diva. I was glad Mark didn’t have a personal mug. If one of the firm’s went missing, I doubt he’d kick up a fuss. He’d probably just think he’d put it in the kitchen and forgot.

  With one last glance both ways down the hallway, I ducked into Mark’s office and carefully grabbed the mug by its handle, using a tissue to keep my own prints off of it. It still had some coffee in it, and I nearly splashed it on his desk but managed to corral the coffee into behaving. I opened the file and stuck it inside, careful not to tip it. Then I tucked the file under my arm to hold it steady during my getaway. At the last minute, I spied his chewed pen and snagged that, too.

  Back in my office, I emptied the coffee dregs into my own mug and dropped Mark’s mug into one of the extra baggies. The pen went into another. The whole operation from start to finish took just over four minutes, and I was a wreck.

  After scooting into the mail room to find a suitable box, I packed and taped the whole shebang and shipped it via Federal Express to Clark in care of Willie’s company in Phoenix. Clark hadn’t given me much hope of a speedy or accurate match, but at least it was something.

  I spent the next thirty minutes munching on a sandwich and soup I’d grabbed from the café on the first floor of our office building. While I waited for my food, I noticed Mark
Baker seated at one of the tables against the wall. He was alone, reading the newspaper while he ate. It looked like he was almost done. I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d taken care of collecting evidence when I did.

  After lunch, I called Zee to check on Lily. Zee said she was fine, though still a little stuffy, and was taking a nap to be rested up for cookie baking that afternoon. I thanked Zee for the hundredth time for looking after Lily.

  “Clark may be coming to town next week,” I said into the phone. “If you and Seth are free, maybe Greg and I could take you all out to dinner.”

  “It would be lovely to see Clark again,” Zee answered with enthusiasm. She and Seth liked Clark as much as Greg and I did. “Have you found out anything yet on Erica?”

  “Not much, except that no one has seen her since Thursday. I swung by her house but didn’t learn much.”

  “Maybe,” Zee suggested, “Mark isn’t her boyfriend, and she went away with whomever she is really seeing?”

  “Could be. I threw out Mark’s name to Racel, Erica’s cleaning lady, and she gave no sign of recognition at all. And I mean none, as not even recognizing the name as being one of Erica’s coworkers at the firm.”

  I hesitated about telling Zee about the mug and other stuff I’d sent off to Clark. Zee, while being closer to me than my own skin, could be a real stickler for law and order. She wouldn’t be happy knowing I’d lifted a few items from Erica’s house. When I’d done similar stuff before, she’d scolded me. Thinking back on a few of my investigations, I guess I did have a history of sticky fingers.

  “Too bad you couldn’t pick up anything at Erica’s to test for prints,” Zee said.

  Huh?

  I shook my head to clear my brain and my hearing.

  “Are you suggesting, Mrs. Washington, pillar of church and community, that I should have stolen something?”

  “Well, it’s not like you’ve never done it before, Odelia.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “You did, didn’t you?” my friend accused. “You took something from Erica’s house.”

  “Just some men’s antiperspirant and a comb,” I admitted, leaving out the mug and pen from Mark’s office. “Clark’s going to see if he can get some prints and whatever off of it.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Geez, Zee. One day you’re crabbing at me for … um … collecting evidence, and the next you’re giving me a gold star for the same thing. Make up your mind, will ya?”

  “I’m not judging you, Odelia. I just know you. And I doubt you’re going to go to hell for deodorant and a few hairs on a comb.” I detected a smile in her voice during the last sentence. I’m not very religious and neither is Greg. If there is a God and a hereafter, I’m banking on getting in on a glowing reference from Zee.

  After my chat with Zee, I called Greg and caught him up on the latest, including my plan to visit the Holt home.

  “Good thinking, sweetheart, asking Clark about prints and all.” There was a long silence before my husband added, “But I’m not sure I want you going out to the Holt house by yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine, Greg,” I assured him. “I’m just going to take a run out there and see if anyone’s home. Who knows, maybe Connie Holt dropped Lily off with Erica because she needed some ‘me’ time. Just being around Lily for a few days has been exhausting, so I can imagine how bedraggled a full-time mom would feel.”

  “Why don’t you call the number you found on the firm’s emergency list?”

  “I did and there was no answer, just voice mail. If I was supposed to be out of town but was staying home, I’d wouldn’t answer my phone either.” A thought nipped my brain. “You know, Greg, if I left my young daughter somewhere, I wouldn’t be totally out of touch. I’d want to be reachable in case of some type of emergency. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m going to call again. The first time I just hung up. This time I’ll leave a message and my phone number and tell her it’s about Lily. I’ll bet that will get a call back quick enough.”

  “Just make sure,” Greg cautioned, “you don’t make it sound like Lily’s in some sort of serious condition, like an accident or something. You don’t want the woman to panic needlessly.”

  “Good point, honey. I want Lily’s mom to call, not have a heart attack.” I paused. “And you know, maybe Zee’s right. Maybe Erica went off for the weekend with some secret boyfriend who is not Mark Baker. It could have been planned before Lily arrived, and she wasn’t about to change her plans for her niece.”

  “It still wasn’t right for Erica to drop the kid in our laps, even if it has been fun, but it does make sense. Erica does sound like the type of person who only thinks of herself.”

  Before telling my husband I loved him and giving him a quick phone smooch, I rattled off the Holt address just in case. Greg then extracted a promise from me to call him right after my trip to Irvine.

  I again called the number listed as Erica’s emergency contact and once more got voice mail. It was a basic message letting me know I’d reached the cell phone for “Connie” and instructing me to leave a message. I quickly came up with something that was urgent but not life threatening.

  “Hi,” I said after the beep. “This is Odelia Grey, a paralegal working with your sister. I’m taking care of Lily and was wondering about any allergies she might have. She has a little cold, and I didn’t want to give her anything without checking with you first.” I left my cell phone number and the firm’s.

  After leaving a note on Alyce’s desk saying I had to leave the office and didn’t know when I’d be back, I took off for Irvine.

  It took me about forty minutes to get to the Holt home from my office, with a quick pit stop along the way. They lived on a street called Mallard in an upscale residential section reminiscent of the neighborhood where Erica lived. When I’d Googled the address and did a closeup on the street, it looked like a collection of large houses crammed on too-small lots. I wasn’t wrong. The homes were very large, with very little space between them.

  I parked a few doors down from the Holt residence and made my way to the front door. If I found Connie at home, my plan was to grill her on her sister’s whereabouts. Or maybe I’d run into another chatty cleaning lady.

  The Holt home was a split-level the color of light brown suede, with river rock accents on the small porch and around the support pillars by the front door, which was painted a dark chocolate brown. The front door, window casings, and garage were painted white. The garage faced the street at the end of a stubby driveway, along with the front door and one downstairs window. Upstairs, three windows faced the street. The roof was tile. In front of the house was a postage stamp–sized patch of grass. It appeared well tended, as did the young shrubs and trees around the house.

  Overhead, dark clouds scooted by on an important errand. The rain had stopped, taking a short breather, but the weather report said it would last most of the day and could be quite heavy in the afternoon.

  Thanks to TV, the rest of the nation seems to think those of us who live in Southern California all wear sunglasses and spend our days lounging on pool chaises next to movie stars. Or that we all surf. Or that we endure drive-by shootings from warring gangs and drug lords on a daily basis. Today was a dreary, rainy Friday, like any you’d find in most suburbs across the nation during March.

  I made my way down the sidewalk to the Holt house. An SUV drove by and turned into a driveway a few houses down. Its back doors cracked open and two children spilled out like stuffing from a sofa. They took off for the front door while engaged in high-pitched chatter. A woman got out of the driver’s side and scurried after them, pausing only long enough to aim her key fob at the vehicle until she heard the beep of the set alarm. Another car drove down the street and turned left at the intersection. A US Postal truck was parked farther up the street. I scanned the neighborhood until I located its driver—a man bundled against the dampness, with a large bag over his shou
lder, going from house to house with the mail, moving away from me. Otherwise the street seemed quiet.

  I approached the Holt house casually, as if I did it every day, just in case the street had a neighborhood watch or nosy occupants. When I reached the door, I rang the doorbell and waited. Nothing. I rang it again and waited. Again, nothing. Something was sticking out of the mail slot in the center of the front door. After a quick glance up the street in the direction of the postman, I tugged on the protruding piece of mail.

  It was actually two pieces of mail stuck together. One was a power bill, the other a postcard from a local boutique. I shoved the power bill back through the slot and studied the advertisement. It came from a women’s clothing store that, according to the copy, specialized in “artisan clothing and vintage wear.” The store was called Golden Quail. Below the printed text, someone had handwritten: Connie, we miss you! Stop by for lunch. A & J. The ink on the words “miss you” was partially smudged. I stuck the postcard in my tote bag.

  The downstairs window that faced the street was off the small porch. For that, I was grateful. It enabled me to peek inside without crawling over shrubs and attracting undue attention. Horizontal mini blinds covered it but were half open. Cupping my hand around my eyes and the glass, I peeked in. Dim light streamed into the house from the other side of the house, possibly from patio doors, which made it possible for me to get a good, albeit squinty, look.

  On the other side of the window appeared to be a small breakfast nook. Beyond it, a good-sized kitchen led into a larger dining area with large windows. There appeared to be no sign of life inside. Something was off, though I wasn’t sure what it was.

  I leaned back from the window to readjust my eyes, then put them back to work, trying to focus on details in the room beyond. On my second pass, I thought I could make out open drawers and stuff on the floor, like it had been ransacked or maybe someone had been looking for something in a hurry.