Sleuthing for a Living (Mackenzie & Mackenzie PI Mysteries Book 1)

by Jennifer L. Hart

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Always expect the unexpected. And then some.

  From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI

  I buzzed the intercom on Len's office building at six twenty-three. "Len? It's Mackenzie. Sorry I'm late. Something came up."

  Something like my mother dropping a big old H-bomb and detonating my life. I'd lingered at the apartment as long as I could, trying to pump her for information.

  The door unlocked with a low droning hum, and I made my way down the hall into Len's office.

  Len was waiting in front of the reception desk. "Is everything all right?"

  I nodded, not wanting to get into it. "Yeah. Is Ms. Granger here?"

  "In my office. I was just getting her some water." He indicated the bottle in his hand. "Would you care for anything?"

  I shook my head. "I'm fine, thanks." It was an outrageous lie, but he was asking about my physical comfort, not my mental state, so I figured I could get away with it.

  Jessica Granger was a svelte, stern-looking woman with every professionally highlighted hair in place. She nodded in acknowledgement when I apologized for my tardiness but didn't comment.

  My first thought was that she did look capable of murder. She was so calm and composed, not the hot mess I'd been expecting. If I'd been arraigned on murder charges, I would have been a total basket case. So what if, over the course of my investigation, I found out that she had been behind her husband's shooting? Would I still get paid?

  It was a crummy thought considering the father of her children had just been gunned down, but my mother had moved into my apartment building, and I owed her money. Loan sharks were more forgiving.

  Len shuffled to his desk and sat behind it. "Dr. Granger was just telling me she thinks she knows who killed her husband."

  "Ex-husband," Jessica Granger corrected in a smooth, carefully accent-less voice. "Yes, I believe it was his mistress."

  "His mistress," I repeated. "And do you know who that is?"

  She blinked at me, eyelashes fluttering like Morse code. "Why yes, of course. Her name is Rose, Rose Fox."

  I cast a sidelong look at Len, but he was keeping his own counsel. "Did you tell the police about Ms. Fox?"

  "Mrs. Fox. And yes, her name came up."

  "A widow?" I asked. She was so matter-of-fact about her husband's mistress. Maybe aloofness was her particular defense mechanism. Maybe she had huge crying rages in the privacy of her own home. Somehow I doubted it.

  The good doctor shook her head. "No, she's married too. In fact, we met both Mr. and Mrs. Fox during one of our retreats."

  There was a small notebook in my jacket pocket along with a pen. I uncapped the sucker, flipped opened the notebook and wrote Mr. and Mrs. Fox on retreat. It looked like the intro to a children's book. "What kind of a retreat?"

  "It was for…people like us." She shifted in her chair, looking discomfited for the first time.

  I shot an imploring glance at Len, but he just smiled. Okeydokey then.

  "Mrs. Granger, may I call you Jessica?"

  When she nodded I continued, "I'm here to help you, and I need a place to start. You say you knew Mr. and Mrs. Fox well? What was the nature of your relationship?"

  "We…swapped."

  "Swapped what?"

  "Spouses. We traded spouses during the retreat. I was with Mr. Fox, and Paul was with Rose."

  I shot another furtive look at Len. He raised his spidery eyebrows as if asking what I was going to do about it.

  Nothing. I was going to do nothing except hopefully provide Hunter Black with enough evidence to arrest Rose Fox for murder and entice the DA to drop all charges on Dr. Granger.

  "I'm going to need a little more to go on," I said slowly. "You met Mr. and Mrs. Fox on a spouse-swapping retreat. Did you know your husband was going to get romantically involved with Mrs. Fox?"

  "We knew what we were signing up for, if that's what you're asking," Mrs. Granger said. "We'd done it before, swapped, for a weekend."

  "Why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. It really wasn't any of my business, and curiosity aside, I wasn't sure how it could pertain to the case.

  She leveled a challenging stare on me. "Have you ever been married, Ms. Taylor?"

  "No." I swallowed and tried not to squirm under her assessing gaze.

  "Well let me tell you, marriages can turn stale if you let them. Len and I had decided to have an open marriage, to liven things up, but we had rules. I wanted full blood panels and a financial background check. And we only swapped with couples and only for a limited amount of time. It was supposed to be organized and contained, something apart from our day-to-day life."

  "But that changed," I said softly.

  Her hands, which had been folded primly in her lap, squeezed into fists. "Yes. Rose and Paul wanted more. They fell in love."

  "And what did Mr. Fox think about this?"

  "Robert was devastated, just like I was. It was such a shock to both of us."

  I drew an arrow down and wrote Robert Fox beneath his wife's name. "Do you know what sort of car Robert drives?"

  Her brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. "The police asked me the same question. Is that relevant?"

  Len piped up for the first time. "A witness saw a Black Escalade speeding away moments after the shooting." I was grateful he hadn't identified me as being the witness.

  "An Escalade? No, Robert drives a Prius. He wouldn't be caught dead in a gas guzzler."

  Maybe not. Or maybe Robert Fox knew that and had borrowed one from a friend or a relative just to throw any investigators off the scent. I doodled a little picture of a car on my pad and asked, "Is there anyone else you can think of, anyone at all who had a grudge against your husband? Maybe someone at work?"

  She actually rolled her eyes at that. "If anyone should hold a grudge it should have been Paul. They hadn't paid him in months."

  "Why not?"

  "He wouldn't say. We weren't on the best of speaking terms during the divorce."

  Understandable. I scanned the notebook, wondering if there was anything else I should ask. Nothing sprang to mind so I looked up, forcing a smile. "I think that's enough for now. May I call you if I have any questions?"

  She opened her small purse and extracted a crisp white business card. I almost didn't want to touch it for fear of leaving smudgy fingerprints. Gingerly I clasped it around the edges.

  "I'll see you out," Len gestured for her to go first then held up one finger in my direction, indicating he had something more to say to me.

  I waited only until the door closed behind Jessica Granger to return to the outer office.

  "You did very well, Mackenzie." Len offered me a smile. "Both with the police and Dr. Granger."

  My shoulders sagged in relief. "I'm doing my best to make my uncle proud."

  "Your uncle?" Len raised an eyebrow.

  "My Uncle Albert Taylor. He was a private investigator."

  "I see. So he gave you the bug?"

  "In a roundabout way. What can I do to help?"

  "Exactly what you've started to do. Dig into Mr. Granger's past and come to me with any suspects who have an alternative motive for murder."

  "Like the swinger husband who was devastated that his wife was leaving him?" I probed.

  He pointed at me, squinting one eye. "Exactly."

  I eyed him shrewdly. "You didn't really think the police were going to arrest me, did you?"

  He worked his dentures a minute, and then smiled. "No, you're right on the money. I wanted to see what you were made of. Private investigation isn't for the faint of heart. And a smart PI knows how to work with the police, not against them."

  "So I passed the test?" I asked him with a grin.

  "With flying colors," he assured me. "Now let's leave it for the day. I'm all done in."

  I waited on the front steps as Len shut the lights off and locked the office. "I'm surprised you're handling Dr. Granger's case.
I thought you were a divorce attorney."

  He let out a wheezy chuckle. "I'm whatever sort of attorney I need to be, at least in the private sector. Divorce, personal injury, wrongful termination, and even on the rare occasion criminal defense. I don't go in for all that highly specialized bunk. It pays to be well rounded."

  "What do you think her chances are? Dr. Granger's I mean?"

  Len paused by a white Cadillac that was larger than Helga and Fillmore combined. I decided to refer to the great white beast as Moby Dick, even if Len had already picked out a name, because nothing could be more picture perfect. "Well, that depends."

  "On?" I raised my eyebrows.

  "On whatever you find, Miz Mackenzie."

  * * *

  "Is it safe?" I poked my head from my bedroom into Mac's.

  "When did you get home?" My daughter looked up from her open tablet and popped out one of her earbuds. How she could read and listen to music was beyond me. She lay on her stomach, feet crossed at the ankles, slime-green toenail polish clashing with her Celtics pajama pants and fair skin. Snickers sprawled across the bottom of the mattress and box spring I'd bought her when she turned eleven. The bed frame was stacked in a disassembled heap in the corner beside her dresser.

  "Just now. Is the apartment clear?" Not wanting to run into my mother, I'd come through the back way, climbing over the small picket fence designed to keep Snickers in and through the dormant rhododendron bushes and into the small backyard. Thankfully the sliding glass door off of my bedroom was unlocked from when Mac had let the dog out earlier.

  "Grams is upstairs talking to Nona, if that's what you mean."

  I plopped down on the narrow bed beside her, ignoring the growling furball. Snickers, I was learning, talked a good game, but I doubted she would bite. Not that I planned to challenge her honor or anything. "I cannot live with my mother."

  "Sing it, sister."

  "Babe, I'm a freaking pushover compared to my mother, and you know it."

  "It's only until the furniture she orders arrives." Mac spoke as if that horrific idea was somehow supposed to make things better. "Then she'll take the empty apartment upstairs."

  "But she'll be under the same roof as us. She'll know all of our comings and goings. And what about The Captain? She can't seriously mean to abandon him. Did she tell you anything? Like if they had a fight? Maybe he told her she was a horrible cook or something. It doesn't take much to set her off."

  Mac shook her head, worrying her lower lip. "Do you think they're getting a divorce?"

  "No, absolutely not." I shook my head so hard I could almost hear my brain sloshing around with vehement denial. "They've been married for thirty-three years, for the love of java."

  Mac still looked worried, her blue eyes big.

  "Trust me. Grams is just making a point. Once he apologizes, she'll move out of here faster than you can say guilt trip."

  "But she bought furniture," Mac pointed out. "That isn't the kind of thing you do on a whim. She seems organized."

  She did, and that scared me. But I had a murder to investigate and a teenager to raise. I had enough grim reality on my plate. "I'll talk to The Captain and see if maybe I can expedite her departure."

  It would be uncomfortable, like all conversations I had with my father. Beyond "how's Mac?" he didn't seem to know what to say to me or I to him. And over every encounter, the fog of disappointment seemed to pervade until I beat a hasty retreat. The Captain didn't retreat so much as make strategic withdrawals to more defensible positions. But this was a full-fledged five-alarm emergency.

  "We should try to be supportive of Grams." Mac rolled to her side, propping her head on one arm. "This is major for her. Did you know she's never lived on her own?"

  I mimicked her pose. "No, I didn't. She told you that?"

  "Yup, went right from her parents' house to living with Grandpa and being a Navy wife. She has to be scared."

  I burst out laughing.

  "Mom!" She smacked at me, her cheeks colored bright pink. "It's not funny!"

  "I'm sorry," I wheezed. "But that woman hasn't been scared a day in her life. Angry? Passive-aggressive, hell yes. But actual fear? Nope, I'm not buying it."

  "Well, you've got a blind spot when it comes to her."

  More like I saw clearly. I didn't want to argue with her though, so instead I rolled off the bed and onto my feet. "I've got some more work to do. I'll let you get back to it."

  "Wait." Mac leapt up, and Snickers bounded off the bed, not to be left out. "How did the meeting go?"

  I thought about the uptight Dr. Granger admitting that she and her husband were habitual swingers. "It went. Len's impressed, which is a good sign since he'll be paying me. Now, I just need to come up with something worth paying for and I'll be all set."

  "Are you keeping track of your expenses? Hanging on to your receipts?"

  I offered her an exaggerated eye roll as I headed into the kitchen. "Yes, Mother. This isn't my first rodeo."

  "What about your tax situation?" She folded her arms over her Girl on Fire logo. "Did you fill out paperwork for a W2, or is the lawyer cutting you a 1099?"

  Our cupboards were sad, only the expired Pop Tarts and a bag of marshmallows the consistency of granite. Not wanting to chip a tooth, I left both selections there. "I should go to the store."

  "What about health insurance?" Mac was like a dog with a bone. No wonder Snickers had taken to her. "Do you have eye care? Dental?"

  "For the love of grief, kid. Would you let me worry about all this crap? Who's the adult here?"

  "That's what I was wondering," my mother said from the doorway.

  "Here we go," I muttered.

  Agnes turned to her granddaughter. "Mac, would you please give the two of us a moment of privacy?"

  Mac opened her mouth, took one look at her grandmother's stern expression, and then snapped it shut. "I'll be in my room."

  As irritated as I'd been about the conversation we'd been having, I was sorry to see her go. Mac I could put off, distract, and redirect. I'd have to trap my mother in a closet somewhere to get her to leave off.

  "Look, I know what you're going to say."

  She raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and lifted her chin. "I'll bet you don't."

  I cleared my throat and then raised the pitch of my voice to match her normal alto, and spoke in rapid succession. "You're always so concerned with how that girl perceives you. You have to be the cool mom, the anti-me. Well, it's time to grow up, Mackenzie."

  She blinked and wouldn't hold my gaze. "You always have to think the worst of me. What I was going to say was that I can help you, if you won't be so proud."

  I put my hands on my hips "I don't need a handout, Mom. I've been supporting Mac since before she was born. And besides, you have enough to worry about. What happened with you and The Captain?"

  "Nothing," She broke eye contact, obviously lying.

  We were on shaky ground. How closely did I want to look at my parents' marriage? As close as I needed to if I couldn't get her to relent. "Mom, go home. You don't belong here."

  A flash of hurt crossed her face. It was gone so fast I wasn't even sure I'd seen it to begin with, especially when she straightened up to her full five-foot-two and somehow managed to stare down at my seven inches taller self. "Well, my furniture will be here tomorrow. I'll be out of your hair then."

  "What furniture? When did you get it, how did you pay for it, and when exactly did you leave The Captain?"

  She crossed her thin arms over her sweater set. "That's nothing for you to worry about. Now, did you say something about groceries? I'll give you a little money if you pick up the few things I need. The small refrigerator upstairs doesn't work so I'll have to store my things in yours. There's certainly plenty of room. You really should eat better. You're setting a bad example for Mac."

  "Make me a list," I said, my smile tight. If she didn't want to tell me what the deal was with her and The Captain, I'd have to ferret out the inf
ormation on my own. Good thing I knew a PI who worked on the cheap.

  My mother pulled a silver pen from her wallet and looked around for a piece of paper. The small spiral bound notepad was still in my jacket, and I retrieved it for her. I checked the fridge again just to make sure—yup, we needed everything.

  "What on earth are swingers?" Agnes Taylor asked. "Like trapeze artists or something?

  Oops. I whirled around and grabbed for the notebook. "It's just a case I'm working on."

  My mother held it aloft, a frown creasing her brow. "Rose and Robert Fox are not circus people."

  My grabbing hand fell to my side as I stared at her. "You know them?"

  "Only in passing. But they're a very elegant couple, not the trapeze artist sort. Your information must be wrong."

  I looked at her in a new light. Of course she would be connected with a large part of Boston's elite. She'd always encouraged The Captain to pursue politics, though he'd never seemed interested. But that didn't stop her from hobnobbing with potential political supporters. "If you say so. Any idea where they live?"

  "Beacon Hill area. Hold on, I have their address here somewhere." She rummaged through her purse and pulled out her phone. She handed it to me and then, almost as an afterthought, asked, "Why do you need it?"

  I memorized the number and then offered her a wan smile and handed the phone back. "No reason. I have to go out now. To the store."

  "But my list," she said.

  "Text it to me," I called over my shoulder and shut the door in her startled face.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "When opportunity knocks, answer the door. But don't let it in until you see some ID."

  From the Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living by Albert Taylor, PI

  I'd turned around in my seat, ready to back Helga out of the driveway, when a blue sedan pulled to the curb behind me. The passenger door opened, and Hunter Black stepped out onto the curb. It was too dark to see who was driving the sedan, but he bent at the waist and spoke to the driver before slamming the door. The sedan pulled out, pausing at a streetlight, and I got the brief impression of a young blonde woman before the car merged into traffic. Hunter watched it go and then turned and headed for the front door.