by Lee Hollis
And with that, Sandra did an about-face and marched out of the office.
Maya spun around and glared at Frances, who was still chuckling and shaking her head. “You could have tried to be a little more sensitive.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” she said, clutching her big belly. “But when she offered to become a private eye with us, I almost went into labor for real from laughing so hard.”
Maya wished to herself that the meeting had gone better. But the outcome would have ultimately been the same. Frances may have been dismissive and tactless, but she was right. They had no time to break in a wide-eyed newbie with aspirations to be the next kick-ass female private eye.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Joel Metcalf breathed in the intoxicating aroma of the piping-hot portobello penne pasta casserole Sandra had wrapped in tin foil as she stood in the doorway.
“Sandra, you are too kind,” Joel said, placing a hand over his heart.
“It’s one of my favorites. I thought you and Kevin might like it,” she said, holding up the glass baking dish.
“Please, come in,” Joel said, stepping aside and ushering her in with a warm smile.
“Hey, Kevin, Mrs. Wallage brought us a casserole for dinner,” Joel called out.
Sandra could see Kevin in the living room, his long, lean body draped over the plush couch cushions, his eyes glued to a large-screen TV mounted to the wall. He ignored his father, too distracted by what he was watching or just not caring to engage with them.
“How’s he doing?” Sandra whispered to Joel.
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Lots of erratic mood swings, but nothing like the first few days after he got home from the hospital. I’ve been keeping a close eye on him to make sure he doesn’t get his hands on any more drugs, but I can’t be with him twenty-four-seven so it’s been a challenge to say the least.”
“He looks well,” Sandra offered encouragingly.
Joel nodded. “He’s definitely feeling better but not quite ready to go back to school just yet. Honestly I think it’s more about the humiliation from those nasty stories that Maisie Portman wrote about him on her website than anything else.”
It certainly didn’t take him long to bring up Maisie.
Sandra had been wrestling with the guilt of her true motivation for showing up on the Metcalf doorstep with a homemade casserole. Yes, she wanted to make sure Kevin got a few home-cooked meals, since his Dad was admittedly a disaster in the kitchen, but what she really wanted was to casually question Joel about his intense negative feelings about Maisie and if they were strong enough to cause him to take matters into his own hands and do something about her abhorrent actions.
“I’m just going to heat this up for you,” she said, slipping past him and parading into the kitchen.
He walked close behind her, and when she bent over to turn up the heat in the oven to 350 degrees, her butt bumped into him.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, standing upright and spinning around.
He had a strange, expectant look on his face, which startled her a moment before she decided to brush it off.
“Once the oven’s done preheating, just pop the casserole in for about thirty minutes, or until you see the cheese bubbling.”
“You’re not staying?” he asked.
“I have to go home and feed my own boys,” she said.
She hadn’t been sure how to approach the topic of Maisie Portman when she first arrived, but since he had already brought her name up, she felt she had an opening.
“Joel, you mentioned Maisie Portman, and I’ve been thinking about what you said—”
Before she managed to get another word out, Joel Metcalf’s lips were pressed over hers, and he was forcing his tongue inside her mouth. He planted his hands firmly on her butt and drew her close to him. Sandra gagged and squirmed in his grip and then used her hands to forcibly push herself off his chest and away from him.
The sudden move surprised Joel, and he quickly released her.
“I didn’t come here for that,” Sandra said.
“I’m so sorry . . . ,” he said softly, eyes downcast. “I thought when you showed up with dinner . . . I guess I misunderstood your intentions.”
“Joel, I’m a married woman.”
“Yes, I know. But I had the impression that you and Stephen were having troubles and . . .”
“What on earth would give you that impression?”
He knew he had stepped in it and was supremely embarrassed. “I read it on Dirty Laundry.”
“And you assumed that it must be true? Oh, Joel, you of all people . . .”
“You’re right. I’m a damn idiot. Here I was raging on about Maisie writing those awful things about Kevin, and then I buy right into her story about you.”
“Just to be clear, my marriage is fine.”
The words came out loud and confidently.
Even if they weren’t exactly true.
She was actually surprised by how quick she had been to dispel the notion that there might be trouble in paradise. It was probably the knee-jerk reaction of any politician’s wife. Always make sure to give the voters the picture of perfection.
Joel shrank back, suddenly flustered. “Please, Sandra, forgive me. I haven’t been thinking straight lately. It’s been really hard with Kevin these past few months, raising him on my own and everything . . .”
“I get it, Joel, I do, but—”
“And you’re such an attractive and sweet lady, so when you showed up on my doorstep tonight with a casserole, I guess I thought . . . ,” he muttered, shaking his head, disgusted with himself. “Well, I guess I didn’t think.”
She felt terrible about giving him the wrong impression. Perhaps it was her fault. Perhaps she had given off some kind of unintended vibe. Despite her protestations that when it came to her marriage, the ship was sailing along smoothly, there might have been something in her look or actions that suggested otherwise. Like the ship had already hit an iceberg.
Still, it was in her inherent nature to cover up any unpleasantness by pretending it didn’t exist.
“We’ve both been victims of lies and rumors, Joel, so I think we can both be given a little leeway for getting our signals crossed.”
“I appreciate you understanding, Sandra. Now where were we?”
“Maisie Portman.”
He grimaced as the oven beeped, indicating it had reached the desired temperature.
Sandra opened the oven door and slid the casserole dish onto the rack and closed it again. “It’s just that I’m not one hundred percent certain Maisie’s death was an accident.”
“Why do you say that?”
She set the timer on the oven for thirty minutes. “Well, there was some evidence at the scene that might suggest foul play, according to someone who would know, plus there were a lot of people who had a strong motive to see Maisie dead.”
“Including me,” Joel said matter-of-factly.
“Well, yes, I suppose,” Sandra stammered, pretending the thought had just crossed her mind in that moment. “And me. Along with plenty of others too, given all the nasty things she wrote about the teachers and students at the high school.”
“Do you want to ask me if I did it?”
“No, Joel. I don’t think you killed Maisie,” Sandra said, although not as convincingly as she had hoped.
Joel cocked his head and smiled at her. “I didn’t know Maisie was behind the Dirty Laundry website until after she was dead,” Joel said, folding his arms. “Anything else?”
“Right. Of course. It’s just that I noticed you were not at the PTA meeting at the school on the night Maisie was found hanging in her office. . . .”
“I know. I’m really not the PTA-meeting type. Just tell me how much to write the check for when it’s time to raise money for new football uniforms.”
“Where were you?” Sandra asked, trying to make the question sound offhanded and casual, but coming off more like Miss Marple in the drawing room a
t the end of an Agatha Christie novel.
“He was at a poker game.”
Sandra whirled around to see Kevin standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking withdrawn and spiritless.
“He’s right. Guilty as charged,” Joel said with a grin. “I play with the same group of buddies one night a week. I never miss it.”
“I remember that night because you were going to skip it because of me,” Kevin said.
“That’s right,” Joel said as he turned to Sandra. “Kevin was home from the hospital and I didn’t want to leave him alone, but he insisted I go.”
“I felt bad about all the stress I had caused Dad, and I wanted him to have a break and blow off a little steam, but he was worried I was going to relapse and overdose again, so he called Coach Cooper and some teammates to come by and check up on me. They never left my side all night, not until you got home, right?”
Joel patted his son on the back. “Right.”
“Do I know any of these poker buddies of yours?” Sandra asked, with an air of nonchalance.
“No, I don’t think so.”
She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“So they don’t have any kids who go to the high school who I might know?”
“No. Why?”
She knew she had just overplayed her hand.
“Just curious,” she said breezily, trying to brush it off.
He didn’t believe her. His face darkened, and his body stiffened, like he suddenly didn’t trust her. And he certainly had no intention of sharing any more information with her.
“Kevin, why don’t you set the table?” Joel said sharply.
Kevin eyed Sandra. “How many places?”
“Just two. Sandra’s not staying.”
Sandra knew she had worn out her welcome. She couldn’t very well insist on getting all the names and numbers of Joel’s poker buddies in order to corroborate his alibi. At least not right now after she had pressed him so hard and made him feel like he was a murder suspect.
But she just couldn’t understand why he was being so demonstrably vague. Most people would just volunteer the names without a second thought.
But Joel Metcalf, who not moments ago had kissed her aggressively on the mouth, was now acting guarded and distant.
She was convinced he was lying to her.
And she needed to know why.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sandra stared at her reflection in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. The curly red wig and matching lipstick, the black leather skirt and tight-fitting green halter top, the copious amount of makeup slapped on her face. She had purposely dabbed her cheeks with too much rouge and lined her eyes with a thick trail of mascara, and slipped on clanging cheap gold bracelets on her wrists, all to make herself look, well, cheap.
And it had worked.
She looked like a cheap hooker.
It was objectively an insane plan, and she still was debating with herself on whether she should actually go through with it. But after getting summarily dismissed by both the police and her new acquaintance Maya Kendrick, not to mention her patronizing partner, Frances, Sandra had decided to take matters into her own hands. And here she was about to go out on her first undercover assignment.
She had known in her gut that Joel Metcalf was lying to her when he told her about that weekly poker game. It was the way he had so quickly averted his eyes when she asked about the other attendees. He shifted them to the left as if he was trying to construct an answer in his head. He pulled his arms into the sides of his body, oftentimes a sign of being tense and nervous. But then there was the biggest telltale sign of all. He shook his head when he claimed to have been playing poker the night Maisie was killed, which was a big indicator that he was not telling her the truth and was subconsciously admitting it.
So where did he really go once a week?
Sandra had parked on the same street where Joel and Kevin lived, just a few houses down, and waited for him to leave the following evening, a Wednesday, the night of Joel’s alleged weekly poker game, and sure enough, just after dinner, around seven o’clock, Joel emerged from the house, got in his car, and drove away.
Sandra had pulled out behind him and followed him to a warehouse on the waterfront with lots of activity, people—mostly men, many in business suits—coming in and out. She had spotted a few women entering and leaving, and from their slinky and risqué attire, she guessed they were professional sex workers, although in this day and age it was definitely harder to tell. Sandra suspected this warehouse was some kind of bordello on the down low.
Joel remained inside for about an hour or so before coming out, nodding to the giant doorman guarding the entrance, and driving off. Sandra had found herself jumping out of her car and marching toward the warehouse. She figured if she could find whomever Joel met with every Wednesday night, then perhaps the woman could give Joel a solid alibi.
However, the doorman, a hulk of a man called Tiny by one of the johns who had been leaving as Sandra approached him, had put up a huge beefy hand to stop her from going inside. He knew just by taking one look at her that she did not belong there, and there was no way he was going to let her inside. Sandra had tried to explain that she just needed to speak to someone, and it would take only a few minutes, but he was having none of it. He had turned her away. It was unlikely that she would be able to force her way inside, since the doorman with the ironic name Tiny was roughly five times her size, so she had politely wished him a nice evening and walked back to her car.
Never one to easily give up, Sandra had come up with her bold undercover-as-a-prostitute idea on the drive home. She knew she had the perfect wig and outfit from a costume party she and Stephen had gone to several years ago, dressing up as a hooker and her pimp. At the time, she had convinced herself it was a cute idea, but then, of course, the press got hold of a picture from the party and had gone to town on Stephen for exploiting and making a joke of the illegal sex-worker industry in a series of political-attack ads during his reelection campaign.
And so here she was dressed in her lady-of-the-night outfit and ready for action. She took a deep breath, told herself she wasn’t being stupid, that this was a perfectly legitimate plan, and then got back into her car and returned to the warehouse, parking far enough away so as not to draw any attention. She slipped out and waited until she saw a gaggle of girls, their faces painted and their breasts spilling out of their tight tops, heading toward the warehouse, presumably ready to work the midnight-to-six shift. They were too busy gossiping and joking with each other to notice Sandra quietly falling in behind them, walking close enough to give the impression they were all together.
Tiny didn’t even look twice when he opened the door and greeted the ladies, and before she knew it, she was inside. The warehouse was large and cavernous, but toward the back there were a row of offices that Sandra assumed were rooms where the women held their private sessions with their clients. The girls clustered around an area with water and snacks, and Sandra awkwardly stood by, not sure how she should proceed.
Before she had time to come up with a plan, a pretty African American girl in a provocative pink bikini top and a sizable weave, turned to her and said, “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“I’m kind of new,” Sandra answered, trying her best to sound confident and tough. She had no idea if she was at all convincing.
“I’m Shania,” the woman said, giving her the once over.
“Sandy.”
“Like in Grease. I loved that movie. That’s smart. Playing the innocent type. The guys here will love that.”
Sandra forced a smile and nodded while trying to tamp down her nerves.
“You look a little jumpy, Sandy.”
Sandra tried to pull herself together, but she was incredibly nervous. “I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, but I really need the money.”
“You’re adorable and you seem sweet. That will definitely wo
rk in your favor. Just do as Aggie says and you’ll be fine.”
Sandra assumed Aggie must be the madam or the queen bee. It was good to know who she needed to avoid.
Well, now was as good a time as any to get started. Sandra looked around to make sure they were alone and then said to Shania, “I met a guy recently at a party who comes here a lot. He said he’d like to get together the next time he’s here.”
“Who’s that?”
Sandra grabbed her phone out of her bag and pulled up a picture of Joel she had taken last year at one of the football games at the high school after a rousing victory.
“Oh, yeah, Joel—I know him. You’re right. He comes here once a week like clockwork. Nice guy, and believe me, watch out, because there a few who are not.”
“I’ll be careful. Is there a specific girl he likes to see when he’s here? Because I certainly wouldn’t want to encroach on her territory.”
“He spends a lot of time with Nell. But don’t worry. She’s cool. She won’t give you any trouble if you get down with Joel. Nell’s very popular around here.”
“Where is she now? I’d like to introduce myself.”
Shania arched an eyebrow. “Um, probably working. But this ain’t some Sunday social after church services. We’re here to make a few bucks and then get the hell out of here and go home.”
“I understand. But can you point her out to me?”
Shania began eyeing her suspiciously. Sandra knew she was coming on too strong. She just wanted to talk to Nell and then be done with all this because her heart was pounding and she was so scared at the moment, she thought she might pass out.
Shania finally stopped staring, then looked around and shrugged. “I don’t see her. But you can’t miss her. Just look for the big blonde with the largest rack. Guys who have a thing for Dolly Parton always want Nell.”
“Got it. Thank you, Shania. It was nice to meet you,” Sandra said, scurrying away.
It took forty-five minutes to locate Nell because she was busy in one of the rooms with a client, but when she finally materialized she was a vision to behold. Everything about her was larger than life, her hair, her face, and yes, her breasts, everything except her itty-bitty waist.