by Nancy Bush
I smiled at the employees who were about the business office and large foyer. They smiled back. They didn’t know me, but I was dressed the part, so I sailed right in.
I walked directly to the dining room and traded more smiles with a young woman at a podium. “Emmett Popparockskill?” I said, on a question.
She glanced down at her reservations. “Mr. Popparockskill canceled his reservation,” she said in a worried voice, darting me a look.
I looked stricken. “Oh…I wonder if he left a message on my phone….” I pulled out my cell phone and stared at the lighted screen.
“I’m sorry. Cell phones aren’t allowed inside the club.”
I shot her a look of despair. I was really going to have to work on those tears. I could tell she felt terrible for me. “We had a golf date,” I pressed. “I couldn’t make it and he knew that, but…I guess we got our wires crossed.”
“He might be at the remodel,” she offered hopefully.
“The golf shop,” I said, as if I’d been hit with a bong. “Maybe he thought lunch was off, too. It’s just down the street…?” I waved a hand vaguely to indicate “somewhere else.”
“Down the drive and take a left. You can’t miss it. It’s in that cute, new little center with the bell tower.”
“Of course. I’ll catch him there. Thanks.”
I’d seen the bell tower strip center when I’d driven past. Now I found it without difficulty and, as there was only one business in the throes of a remodel, I assumed it was the golf shop. I parked the Volvo and walked toward the open door. Inside I could see sheet-rocked walls which were being changed from a vanilla shade to forest green. Cans of paint sat on a dropcloth that was splattered with a rainbow of colors. Emmett was surveying the area as I approached. The whole place was a narrow rectangle. Plans were laid out on the floor and I could see where a counter would be built and a store room across the back.
Emmett glanced at me and frowned. “What are you doing here?” Then, “I talked to my mother,” he said, almost like a warning.
“She’s a pleasant person,” I responded.
“And Gigi told me you saw Daniel Wu,” he swept on. “Sounds like you’re just trying to stir up trouble.”
“Until I’m off the case, I’ll keep looking into Roland’s death.”
“I know Wu told you Gigi and her dad weren’t getting along because of this investment. Well, that’s an out-and-out lie. Did you ask him about the clinics? He got a huge chunk of Roland’s business. I don’t know why he’s bad-mouthing Gigi and Sean.”
“Dr. Wu is the clinics’ main plastic surgeon,” I pointed out. It seemed to me the Hatchmere clan kept conveniently forgetting that rather salient point.
“He always acted like he liked Gigi and Sean. I guess true colors show when there’s money involved.”
“How did you get along with Roland?”
Emmett gave me a hard look. “Did Wu say something about me, too?”
“He said Roland didn’t get along with your family.”
“Well, that’s just not true. Roland and I were good friends. We knew each other before I even met Gigi.” He started to say something else, then changed to, “He might have thought my parents were…not at his economic level.”
“Roland had won and lost a couple of fortunes. Are you saying he was a snob?”
“God, no. He was just pathological about being ‘taken’. Uncle Mike said something negative about my father that Roland never forgot, even though it wasn’t true, strictly speaking.”
Strictly speaking…“What was it?”
“Just a throwaway comment. Something about Dad living off him. Uncle Mike didn’t mean it, but I don’t think Roland ever saw it that way. I always kind of felt like I had to make excuses for my parents.”
“Roland knew your uncle?”
“They met a couple of times.” Emmett turned away from me, bending down to check a pallet of tile that seemed to suddenly need serious attention.
“At CMC? The Columbia Millionaires’ Club?”
Emmett jerked as if he’d touched a hot wire. He didn’t immediately answer. I got the impression lightning thoughts were sizzling across his brain. He opened his mouth and shut it. I waited, but he opted for silence.
I said, “Someone called Roland from CMC’s business office the day of the wedding. Afterward, Roland was upset and that’s when he and Violet got in a fight. I thought maybe your uncle called him.”
“No.”
“You sound pretty sure.”
“What the hell do you want?” he suddenly snapped, his face darkening to a brick red. “Why are you asking about Uncle Mike? He’s got nothing to do with this!”
“Maybe it was someone else from the club,” I allowed. “But what makes you so certain it wasn’t your uncle? Is there some specific reason?”
“No.”
“So if I talk to him, he’ll confirm that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I glanced at my watch. “Then, I guess I’ll head on back down to Miller-Kennedy and ask him myself.”
I made as if to leave and Emmett practically raced me to the door. His hand thrust out, blocking my way. I gave him a sidelong look.
“My uncle’s a family man. He loves his wife. Would never cheat on her.”
“That’s kind of what the club’s all about, isn’t it? Meeting other women?”
“He doesn’t belong to it.”
“According to the club’s records, he does.”
“My uncle’s not the member. I am.” Emmett’s expression grew serious. “I used my uncle’s name and credit report to join. I wasn’t a millionaire, but he was. I told the members I went by my middle name, Emmett.”
“When was this?” I asked, trying to fit this into the puzzle.
“A few years ago. I was involved with my ex-girlfriend, and it wasn’t working.”
“Junie-Marie.”
“Oh, you met her,” he said, nodding. “She got the job at the dealership and just took over my life. I joined the club and told her I was at meetings. I went to some of the parties, just to get away, y’know? I met Roland through the club.”
“But you met Gigi through work?”
“Roland told me his daughter was going to buy a car. He sent her to the dealership.”
“So, you’re Michael Miller at CMC? Your uncle must know.”
“I had the club paperwork sent to my home address. It wasn’t that big of a deception.”
“So, he doesn’t know.”
“He found out a couple of weeks ago,” Emmett admitted after a moment.
I thought about it. “And that’s why you quit…”
“More or less,” Emmett said with a grimace. “Anyway, I didn’t call Roland from the club that day and neither did my uncle.”
I absorbed this news. “Do you know anyone else from the club who was a friend of Roland’s?”
“Neither one of us has really been around the club much lately.”
“Did you meet Roland before he was married to Melinda? She said he basically quit the club when they got married.” I thought about Daniel Wu’s cryptic comment about Violet being “one of them”, meaning women Roland was seeing, and asked on sudden inspiration, “Had Roland started going again?”
“I don’t know. I’m really not in that loop.”
“How did your uncle find out you were using his name?”
“I don’t know that, either. He just called me into his office and asked me how come he was a member of a club he’d never joined.”
It sounded to me like someone from CMC had figured out Emmett was impersonating his uncle and had made it a point to alert Mike Miller. “Was there anyone at the club that Roland didn’t like?”
“Oh. Sure. Dante.”
“Dante who?”
“Just Dante.”
“What’s Dante’s story?”
“He’s got a bunch of businesses and the women like him, but the men avoid him. I talked to him once, but he wasn�
�t interested in anything I had to say. He just kept talking about the girl he was with. Wanted to know what I thought of her.”
“What did you think of her?”
Emmett glanced out the window at an approaching beat-up blue truck with ladders strapped across the top. The painters were returning. “I was more interested in not being with Junie-Marie than being with someone else. She seemed okay. A little hard, maybe.”
I couldn’t think of anything more to ask him. He hadn’t given me the answers I’d expected, but I sensed what he’d told me was the truth.
My upcoming trip to the Columbia Millionaires’ Club was getting more interesting by the minute.
Violet was on her way with sandwiches from Dottie’s. When I got back I found the garage sale was still in full swing. I kept a sharp eye on the customers as I waited for Violet to arrive. I couldn’t escape the fear that hordes of wild-eyed bargain hunters would descend on my cottage and clean out my personal belongings like a swarm of locusts.
“What’s going on?” Violet asked as she breezed through my door and dropped the sandwiches on the counter.
“Don’t ask,” I said wearily. I debated on whether to bring her up to speed about Emmett. She was paying Durbin Investigations to clear her name, but I felt no compunction to blab everything I learned to her whenever I learned it. Sometimes it’s good to let things percolate. Until I had time to assess what I’d learned from Emmett, I decided to stay mum.
I pulled out a couple of plates and helped Violet serve up the food. Binkster danced and danced at this activity. She even propped herself against Violet’s knee, but neither of us fell for her tricks. Well, apart from some crust-nibbles. And a small piece of cheese. Or two. It’s probably a good thing I rarely have food around my house, or Binkster would spend most of her time in a food coma.
Violet dusted crumbs from her palms onto her plate. She looked great in a long, dark green corduroy skirt and a white top that hugged her curves just enough to make her seem young without trying for “too young.” Her blond, shoulder-length hair curved in at her chin. Her makeup appeared light and fresh. She was damn near twenty years older than I was and yet I felt like the ugly stepsister.
She must have thought much the same thing because she gazed at me critically, her blue eyes scouring me from head to toe, and then she said, “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
“Now?”
“I’m going to put you together, then you can touch up tonight.”
I trudged to my bathroom like a prisoner to the proverbial firing squad while Violet dragged in one of my kitchen chairs. She plopped me down, plugged in my hot curler and started digging through her extensive makeup kit. I viewed the hot curler with a jaundiced eye. Not so long ago the damn thing had left a mark on my neck that caused me no end of grief. Operator error. I’d touched the wand to my skin and in that brief moment cooked myself but good, leaving a burn that everyone seemed to think was a hickey. Like, oh, sure. My life’s that interesting.
Binkster sat in the doorway, watching us, wondering if there was food involved somehow. I stayed quiet, letting Violet work on me, and she remarked on how surprised she was by my passivity. “I thought you’d fight and bellow and generally raise a ruckus,” she said, wrapping a tress of my brown hair around the hot curler. I tensed up as the thing got close to my skin, but Violet was deft with all things cosmetic.
“Yeah…well…”
“I’m so glad to be doing something positive,” she said. “Roland’s only been gone a few weeks, barely over a month, and it feels like forever. I’ve had this weight hanging over me, and it’s been no fun. I didn’t kill him. I think, well, it seems anyway, that the police know that?”
“I’m not sure what they think.” Violet seemed happy enough at the moment, and I’d already decided not to give her specifics unless she absolutely forced me to bring her up to date. Curiously, she seemed to like to keep her head in the sand.
“Anyway, it’s past time I got out and did something.”
“So, back to the escort and/or dating service arena.”
“Try it. You’ll like it.”
“You, Roland and Melinda seem to live by it,” I remarked. “And Renee.”
“You know what I predict? I predict you meet a really great wealthy guy tonight who’ll make you fish or cut bait with Dwayne.”
“How many times do I have to say it? Dwayne and I are merely business part—Ouch!” I reached up to where she’d pulled on my hair, practically yanking it from my scalp.
“Sorry,” Violet said with a smile.
Violet was given the address to the night’s floating party by e-mail. The super, secret way they worked made it seem like we were meeting for a sex party, but as the evening progressed it became clear this was merely someone’s idea of how to make it all more fun! and exciting!
Tonight’s destination was a home on the east side, one of those large, rambling houses that seems to push right to the edge of its lot. Maple trees flanked the walkway and modern outdoor lighting left little pools of illumination marching toward the porch. We’d driven ourselves in Violet’s Mercedes, but there were limos sliding along and waiting nearby.
I called Dwayne as we walked toward the front door. When he answered, I said in a low voice, “Operative Kellogg about to enter hostile environment.”
“Be careful,” he said.
Was it my imagination or had Dwayne started worrying about me a little more? I wasn’t certain whether this was a positive development business-wise, but it made my romantic heart skip a proverbial beat.
“You missed some action with Tab A and Slot B last night,” he informed me. “They bought a new saltwater fish tank. Lots of backlighting.”
“Sorry I missed that.” I took the plunge and asked, “Anything new at Do Not Enter?”
“All quiet last night. Our friend’s probably waiting for your call.”
“He’s going to have to wait.”
“Good.”
There was a lot left unsaid. I sensed he would have liked to forbid me from going back to Do Not Enter, but there was no way to do that without redefining our relationship.
“Operative Kellogg would like to know if you have any particular advice on this mission,” I said lightly, into the loaded moment.
“Get in. Get out. Come back alive.”
“Roger.”
“And don’t take unnecessary risks,” he added quickly, as if he couldn’t help himself.
“Keep this up, and I might think you actually care about me.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“What’s Do Not Enter?” Violet asked curiously as I hung up. “And wipe that smile off your face. Can’t be thinking about one man when you’re meeting another.”
“I’m not smiling.”
She snorted.
The house had oriel windows bowing out on either side of a massive front door. As we entered I looked out one of them, toward the front yard. I could see the glow from the mushroom-shaped ground lights lining the walk. Inside, the place had been redone in tones of tan, brown and gold with touches of bright orange in the scattered silk pillows, candles and lampshades. A huge fireplace, flames licking and fluttering around a large chunk of oak, was the gathering point.
The interior was grander than I’d first thought, with a full floor above that hid the bedrooms. I was amazed at how crowded it was. Lots of people attended these parties apparently. The women were all lavishly dressed and draped in jewelry. The amethyst gown and pushup bra I’d strapped myself into helped me look like I belonged. I watched Violet get handed a discreet guest book from a serious-faced young man in a tuxedo. Most of the male members wore tuxes as well. It was not an event for “casual chic.”
Violet signed us in and we squeezed through the throng, past a rather sweeping staircase with a carved mahogany rail to a larger room that ran along the back of the house. Who were the people who owned houses like this one? It had been opulent when it was built, it was restored to
even greater opulence now. I examined the light fixtures and determined they were either the originals brought back to former luster, or amazing replicas. Probably originals.
“Come on,” Violet said, squeezing my arm. She threaded her way to a group of older gentlemen who seemed more interested in talking with each other than actually meeting any eligible women.
But Violet was in her element. She caught the eye of one of the men who looked to be somewhere in his sixties. I marveled silently as they were drawn to each other like magnets.
“Who is she?” a guy closer to my age asked at my elbow. “George never stops talking about the stock market.”
“George…?”
“Tertian. The club’s president. Hi, I’m Martin,” he said, sticking out his hand. He was a geek’s geek, his tie askew, his Adam’s apple jumping up and down.
“Veronica Kellogg.”
“Could I get you a drink, Ms. Kellogg?”
“That would be great. A glass of Chardonnay?”
“I’ll be right back,” he said eagerly, hurrying off to do my bidding.
Martin, at least, seemed harmless enough. I wondered how he’d made his million, or if he’d lied like Emmett. I had a belated moment of worry when I thought about how Keegan Lendenhal had doctored the beers, so I followed after Martin into another room where a bartending staff was mixing up drinks. One bartender opened a bottle of white wine in my sight and poured a glass for Martin, who turned back my way. I scooted around to where we’d been standing, scolding myself for being paranoid. This was no teen party presided over by an egomaniac demigod.
Martin brought me my drink and I learned he was twenty-nine and into computers. I flat out asked him if that was how he’d made his million. “Millions,” he corrected, flushing. “No, actually, I inherited from my father and grandfather.”
“Ah, the old fashioned way.”
“You’re funny,” he said admiringly.
“Yeah…”
We had next to nothing to talk about, so I pretended a fascination with computers and let him ramble on for a while. I hated to be one of “those people”, the ones who talk to you but keep their eyes on the door, but I confess that’s exactly what I was doing. Martin didn’t seem to mind.