by Camy Tang
“Why the rush?”
“We have to get back to your car. We have to go to Papillon.”
“Where?”
“The restaurant the Paiges were eating the night you were almost run down.”
“Why?”
“I just remembered I was going to speak to the manager—he’s a friend of my father’s—about what he remembers about the Paiges that night. About who they might have talked to, who might have stolen Marissa’s keys.”
They drove to the French restaurant in only a few minutes, and within a few more, the manager had seated them at an empty table near the back with coffee and some delectable French pastries. Naomi dug into her napoleon with relish even as she listened to the manager talking about the Paiges.
“Such good customers,” Adrien was saying. “They always come in once or twice when they visit Sonoma. Mr. Paige always has beef. Mrs. Paige orders whatever special is on the menu.”
“I know it’s hard to notice when the restaurant is busy, but did you see if the Paiges talked to anyone that night?” Naomi asked.
“Actually…” Adrien’s neck had turned the color of cherries flambé. “There was a young woman Mrs. Paige argued with during dinner. It caused quite a stir.”
“A woman?” Why hadn’t Marissa mentioned that when they’d called on her? Although Devon supposed it wouldn’t be something she’d want to confess to her massage therapist and a stranger.
“Long, straight blond hair, very slender.” Adrien paused and rubbed the side of his nose. “She did not carry herself very elegantly.”
Naomi’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean?”
Adrien sighed. “I try not to judge my customers. In fact, one of my best patrons always arrives in jeans and work boots—he owns a large vineyard in Geyserville. But this woman…” Adrien’s eyes rolled, ever so slightly. “She chewed gum the entire time, except when she stuck it on the tablecloth in order to eat. She bellowed for a waiter whenever she wanted something—more water, or another drink, or to complain about her food. She said the salmon was undercooked.” Adrien sighed. “Her dinner companion was an older gentleman who never attempted to check her behavior.”
“What happened with the woman and Mrs. Paige? Did Mrs. Paige approach her, or the other way around?” Devon asked.
“The woman was waiting for her dessert when she got up and approached the Paiges. Her behavior was actually quite familiar with Mrs. Paige. Mrs. Paige tried to ignore her, but the woman became more belligerent. Then they started a heated argument.”
“Argument? About what?”
“I couldn’t hear—thank goodness they weren’t talking too loudly—but Mrs. Paige seemed to be accusing the woman of something.”
“Accusing her? Did she know her?”
“It seemed like it. Eventually, the younger woman huffed back to her table, and she and her dinner companion left a few minutes later.”
Had this been the woman who had stolen Marissa’s car keys? Devon wondered.
“When did this happen—at the end of the Paiges’ dinner?”
“No, they’d just ordered.”
The timing was about right. The woman would have had time to steal the keys and their car and head to Devon’s hotel to lie in wait for him. His hotel didn’t have its own restaurant, so most patrons walked next door to Alexander’s Steak House—it would have been natural to assume Devon would walk across the parking lot to eat.
“Did anyone else speak to the Paiges that night?”
“If anyone did, I did not see it,” Adrien replied.
“Did you get a name from the young woman’s check when they paid?” Naomi asked.
Adrien thought a moment. “Perhaps. Wait here a moment.”
Naomi sat fidgeting. “The timing fits.”
“But one thing bothers me.”
“What?”
“If she intended to steal the Paiges’ car, why draw attention to herself by arguing with them?”
“She could have stolen the keys during the argument out of spite for Marissa Paige.”
“And then ditched her boyfriend and used the car to try to run me over? She was a busy girl that night.”
Naomi shrugged. “We don’t have any other ideas about who stole the Paiges’ car.”
Adrien returned with a shake of his head. “The gentleman paid cash.”
Devon looked in surprise at Naomi, whose eyebrows were also raised.
“Cash?” she said. “At Papillon?”
Adrien nodded. “It happens more often than you would think.”
They gave Adrien heartfelt thanks and were about to leave when Naomi halted in her tracks and rummaged through her purse. “I almost forgot. Adrien, have you seen this man sometime this week?”
Adrien studied the picture of the stranger, but shook his head.
“Jessica Ortiz didn’t come in this past week?” Devon asked.
“Who? I don’t think I know her. At least, she’s not a regular at Papillon.”
“Well, thanks, Adrien.”
They continued on their way out of the restaurant, which was already starting to fill with patrons for the busy lunch hour, when a voice hailed him. “Devon!”
Dr. Amir Dehlavi and his wife were sitting at a corner table. Devon veered to the side and shook his hand. “Good to see you, Amir. On vacation?”
“Yes, finally!” Mrs. Dehlavi stood to give him a hug. “You’d think he was the only one working in his office, the way he was going.”
Devon smiled. “I’m glad he finally gave you a vacation, Mumtaz.”
“The receptionist is always overlooked.” She gave him a wink as she sat back down.
“This is Naomi Grant. She’s head massage therapist at Joy Luck Life Spa, owned by her father, Augustus Grant.”
“Nice to meet you, Naomi.” Mumtaz’s warmth radiated from her as strongly as her rampant curiosity. Her bright dark eyes flitted from Naomi to Devon and back again.
“Naomi, this is Amir and Mumtaz Dehlavi. Amir is a general practitioner—he and I know each other from medical school. Mumtaz is his receptionist.”
“In case you hadn’t gathered that already,” Mumtaz said with a smile. “And he’s finally taking me for a well-deserved vacation to Sonoma wine country.”
“How long are you staying?”
“A week.”
“Did you just finish lunch?” Amir asked.
“No, we were talking to the manager.”
Amir’s brow furrowed. “There’s nothing to worry about, is there?”
“Oh, no,” Naomi assured him. “He’s a friend of my father’s.” She glanced down and seemed to realize she was still holding the stranger’s picture, so she moved to slide it back into her purse.
But Mumtaz started when she saw the photo. “Amir, is that Bill?”
The photo was almost back in her purse, but Naomi whipped it out again. “Do you recognize this man?”
Amir and Mumtaz studied it. “That’s Bill Avers,” they said at the same time.
“You know him? Who is he? Where is he?” Naomi eagerly asked.
Amir hesitated, but Mumtaz plunged forward. “He’s Amir’s patient. He comes in for checkups regularly.”
“Mumtaz, he’s a patient.” Amir glanced at Devon apologetically. “We can’t say anything about him because of patient-client privilege.”
But Mumtaz skewered him with a hard look and a sassy smile. “You can’t say anything because you’re his doctor. But I’m only a receptionist—I’m not even your nurse-assistant—so I’m free to say whatever I like about what he’s told me in passing.”
Naomi’s eyes glittered. “What do you know about him?”
Mumtaz leaned toward them. “He always seems to have very wealthy girlfriends who buy him lots of very nice watches.”
The muscle in Devon’s jaw clenched. He’d wondered about the men’s watches that showed up on Jessica’s astronomical credit card statements when they’d still been married but having problems. Had she been
dating Bill Avers even then?
“Do you know anything about his current girlfriend? When was the last time you saw him?”
Mumtaz thought a moment. “I think it was three months ago. Now stop frowning at me, Amir.” She stabbed a finger at him. “He’s obviously in trouble. You wouldn’t want to harbor a criminal, would you?”
“You don’t even know what he’s done,” Amir protested. He turned to Devon. “Before my wife says anything more—why are you looking for Bill?”
He explained about Jessica Ortiz’s murder and Bill showing up that evening.
“You see?” Mumtaz told her husband. “He’s in some sort of trouble. We should go straight to the police.”
“Well, um…” Naomi’s neck turned a rosy shade. “We’re not actually supposed to have this picture.”
Mumtaz waved the problem away with a beringed hand. “I’ll tell the police you talked to us about the terrible events at your spa, and we thought we recognized your description of the man as Amir’s patient.”
Hope blossomed in Devon’s chest. Finally, something the police could go on, rather than suspecting himself and Naomi. He handed them Detective Carter’s business card. “This is the man you should call. We’d appreciate it if you’d talk to him.”
“Naomi, you mentioned that you found Jessica in your massage room. Do the police suspect that you did it?” Mumtaz asked.
Naomi blinked at Mumtaz’s blunt question, but she answered readily. “Much of the evidence is a bit pointed.”
“Then, Amir, we definitely should talk to the police as soon as possible.” She touched her husband’s hand where it rested on the table. “Especially if the police have no leads except this poor girl.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll call him today.” Amir gave his wife an exasperated but indulgent smile.
“Thank you so much,” Naomi said.
“Don’t you worry.” Mumtaz reached out to touch Naomi’s arm.
“I only hope we can help,” Amir said.
“I’m sure you will,” Naomi replied. “This might be the lead the police have been waiting for.” She gave a smile wider than any he’d seen on her since Jessica’s murder. “Then my life can go back to normal.”
How she wanted normal.
Normal meant peaceful days at the spa. No stress, no worry. No blood, no bodies. No feelings of failure, no weight of responsibilities.
Just Naomi, doing what she loved best—making people relax and feel better. Just Naomi, being who she loved being—a massage therapist, not the spa owner’s daughter, who was smack dab in the middle of this horrible mess.
She finished escorting a client to the main women’s lounge and passed Rachel chatting with Eloise Fischer in a hallway. Eloise must have just arrived, because she was clothed in a glorious red suit that matched the large ruby pendant at the hollow of her throat. A spa staff member, who had probably been escorting Eloise to the Tamarind Lounge, stood a few feet away, waiting patiently for them to finish their conversation.
Rachel had that exceptionally glazed look in her eyes—more spacey even than normal—which meant Eloise was again complaining about the skin products or whatever new mask she’d tried during a previous visit.
Naomi felt a bit guilty to be relieved that Eloise enjoyed going straight to the source—Rachel, dermatologist-in-residence. Naomi would have had a hard time just smiling politely, as Rachel did now, and ignoring Eloise’s outrageous demands and complaints.
She passed them quickly, before Eloise could pause for breath and decide to accost Naomi as well.
Naomi needed to double-check her schedule for the rest of the day. She could do it on her computer in her office, but the entrance foyer was closer.
Sarah and Iona straightened in their seats as they saw her, but not guiltily. They’d been chatting with each other while manning the desk. “Iona, I need to borrow your computer. I want to see my schedule for the rest of today.”
“No problem, Miss Grant.” Iona stood and vacated her chair for Naomi. “We were actually about to try to find you. Did Eloise Fischer talk to you?”
“No.”
“She wanted to change her massage therapist later this afternoon. She wanted you, but we told her you’re booked solid.”
Sarah motioned her head toward the door that led to the therapy rooms. “She said she would find you and talk to you.” Both receptionists looked a bit pained.
Naomi sighed. “Let’s look at the schedule.”
She worried, at first, that she might have to schedule Eloise for her lunchtime break, but instead she switched Eloise with the client scheduled with Naomi at four o’clock, who hadn’t asked specifically for her as her therapist.
Things ran smoothly until one o’clock, when Naomi was about to eat a hurried lunch at her desk. Iona called, sounding frantic.
“Miss Grant, Moya Hillman is here.”
Naomi could hear Aunt Becca’s gentle tones in the background, then a loud outburst from the acclaimed starlet. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s insisting we schedule her for a massage right now.” Iona’s voice was a trembling whisper. “What should we do?”
One-third of the spa staff was scheduled to be out at lunch right now, which limited her choices. Naomi set her sandwich down. “I’ll take her. Tell Ms. Itoh to escort her to the Anise Lounge.” Hollywood star Moya Hillman didn’t often come to Joy Luck Life, but when she did, it was always last minute.
As Naomi emptied her pockets, she let out a sigh of relief that few of the exclusive Saffron members had been at the spa in the past week. Moya was the first since the day of Jessica’s murder, and no other Saffron members were scheduled until tomorrow. Since they paid the exorbitant membership fee and had access to the private lounges—more luxurious than the Tamarind Lounge—they required much more pampering and attention. And accommodation, which Moya always took advantage of.
Several hours later, Naomi was heading down a corridor toward the Tamarind Lounge to collect Eloise Fischer for her appointment when she smelled something metallic.
Hydrochloric acid ate a basketball-sized hole in her stomach. She thrust a hand against the wall to steady herself and clenched her belly.
No. It couldn’t be blood.
She followed the horrifyingly familiar scent down another hallway, this one with the private lounges. Past the Anise Lounge, its door closed, where Moya still sat. Past the Lemongrass and Sorrel Lounges, with their doors wide open.
The door to the Ginger Lounge was only cracked open.
Her breath came fast and shallow, making the edges of her vision blur. She was going to faint. She wanted Devon here with her.
She took a step forward, then another one.
She reached a hand out to ease the door open.
The smell wafted out at her, strong and sickening.
No. No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
She caught a glimpse of a figure on the floor, then saw the blood.
She started screaming, and couldn’t stop.
TWELVE
“Miss Grant.”
Naomi turned to face Detective Carter, who had just finished questioning the staff while she pulled herself together. “I saw who it was. Eloise Fischer,” she said.
The detective nodded, but his eyes seemed to be avoiding hers. Yet his demeanor didn’t seem hard or accusing. Just determined to find the truth.
“Did you have an appointment with Ms. Fischer today?”
“At four.”
“And when was the last time you spoke to her?”
“I was with her a few days ago, the day the spa reopened. I was in the Anise Lounge with her, personally apologizing for the, uh…incident with Jessica.”
“Did you do that with all your clients?”
“Only the Tamarind members and Saffron members who were there that day. I spoke to some of them at their hotels the day after the…”
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t speak to Eloise—she wasn’t at her hotel. S
o I talked to her when she came in for her rescheduled appointment.”
“Did you speak to Ms. Fischer today?”
“No.”
The detective’s eyebrows—very light against his tanned skin—almost disappeared when he raised them. “One of your staff mentioned seeing you talking to her earlier today.”
“No, that wasn’t me. Well, the receptionists said Eloise had wanted to speak to me about rescheduling her massage therapist but when I saw her, she was speaking to Rachel. She never stopped me to talk to me.”
“Ah.” The detective scribbled in his notebook.
“And, Detective…” She paused. “I don’t know if any of the staff told you, but Eloise Fischer had on a ruby pendant when she came into the spa.”
He gave her a sharp look.
“And when I found her, I noticed that it was gone.”
Just like Jessica.
Why would someone have killed Eloise for that pendant when Moya Hillman had been dripping in diamonds?
But Eloise had been in the Tamarind Lounge, and while that wasn’t as populated as the main lounge, there were still women in it. Whereas Moya had been alone in the Anise Lounge, and the only people who would have seen her would have happened to be in the hallways. The Anise Lounge had its own locker room facilities attached, so she wouldn’t even have gone to the women’s restroom.
An officer exited the Ginger Lounge with a box of bagged items. Detective Carter stopped him. He pulled out a large clear plastic bag with a lamp base—heavy stone, smeared with blood.
She gagged and squeezed her eyes shut. After a moment, she could breathe again.
“I’m sorry, Miss Grant, but I have to ask you—is this lamp yours?”
She forced herself to look at it. “I’ve never seen it before. It doesn’t belong to the spa. It’s not the right decoration. It doesn’t fit with the other pieces we bought for the lounges.” Where had it come from? How could the killer have snuck it into the spa?
Well, it wasn’t large. The lamp base was actually small enough for a client or a spa staff member to have brought it in, hidden in a large purse, she supposed.
As the officer dropped the lamp base back into the box, Naomi caught a glimpse of something pink. A very familiar pink.