Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery)

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  “How much weight have you lost so far?” I asked as we jogged up the steep trail.

  “Eight pounds.” She twirled, sending a breeze of some type of fruity fragrance my way. “I’ve gone down two sizes. I was hoping to lose more weight by now.” She pouted.

  “Don’t focus on the pounds as much because you’ve gained muscle.” I sat on the grass and patted a spot next to me.

  “Hey, did you go on any more dates from your ad?”

  “I haven’t had the time.” I got into the push-up position, but I rested my forearms flat on the ground. “This is called the plank. It’s good for your core.”

  “You need to make time, Syd.” Mac got into position for the plank.

  “I do make the time for the ad. I’ve talked to a couple of guys since what’s-his-name at Chili’s.”

  “What was his name?” She followed me to the park bench next.

  “Gary? Greg?” I couldn’t remember. I’d read so many emails and profiles I couldn’t keep them straight. I began to wonder if I was cut out for this serial dating stuff. “I got an email from him a few days after our almost-date. He asked how I was doing.”

  “Did you respond to the email?”

  “Of course I did. I’m not as rude as you think.”

  “And did he ask you out again?”

  “He didn’t. I told him I was okay and thanked him for his concern. Never heard from him again.”

  “Aww. That’s sweet that he emailed though. Do you have any other prospects?”

  “I’m meeting a guy named Randall at Starbucks.”

  “Good. I want to hear all about it. Anyhoo, what exercise are we doing now?”

  “Triceps.” I turned my back to the park bench. I placed my hands on the seat and slowly lowered my body and came back up, making my triceps do the work.

  Mac jiggled her bat-wing triceps. “I need this one the most!” She watched me do another.

  “You can do this at home with a sturdy chair.” I did a few more. “Now, you do it.”

  Mac managed to do a few.

  “Let’s move on to abs.” I showed her how to do crunches. She had to remove her precious fanny pack to do them. She kept her cell phone, health insurance card, and a couple of dollars in it. We did bicycle, reverse, and basic crunches. She did several, but started whining again. That was enough for the day. She’d be sore for a couple of days, hopefully. I smiled inside. Well, maybe a little on the outside too, but I didn’t let Mac see me. I guess that makes me sadistic. Oh, well.

  Later that day, I stood at Bernie's desk while he read a report I'd brought him. It was the DMV information on the red motorcycle parked in one of Tenley's assigned parking spaces. It was registered to Josephine Nelson. Josie. The address wasn’t Tenley’s. Maybe she hadn’t changed it.

  "What did Tenley call Josie when he talked about her, before she got there?"

  "Let me think." Bernie rubbed his temples. "Babe? Does that sound right?"

  "No. I meant when he said she called and was on her way there from work."

  Bernie leaned back in his chair and stared at me. "Syd, what are you thinking?"

  "A hunch. Josie might not be his wife."

  "Who is she then?"

  "I think he's cheating on his wife again. I bet Josie's his girlfriend."

  Bernie stood and paced. "He said he didn’t have a girlfriend, but..." He raked his fingers through his hair, giving him a frantic look. He needed a haircut.

  "Ha!" I banged on his desk. "Got it! He called her his girl. He never said wife except when he said he didn't want his wife to find out."

  Bernie nodded. "He said he was married to his girlfriend, but he didn't say Josie was his wife, or anything except babe."

  I shook my head. "Okay. A public records check for the marriage."

  "I'll take care of it," Bernie said.

  "We start by checking California. I don't see him as being the Vegas type," I said. I couldn't picture him as someone's husband at all.

  "Anyway, we need to talk to his wife, whoever she might be," Bernie said.

  "She'd have a motive for killing Menifee if she knew he was cheating," I said.

  "He said she didn't know about Menifee." Bernie doodled a chart with arrows pointing to and from Tenley, his wife, and the victims.

  "Tenley's wife might know, but didn't tell him she knew."

  "Where does Baker fit in?" Bernie asked.

  "We don't even know if either of them knew her." I could feel myself frowning and made myself stop. I rubbed my temples.

  "Remember, Smythe from County Social Services? She told us Baker had a child several years ago."

  "Right. We could pay a visit to HR. I wonder who's raising the child now." I stood up and stretched.

  "We could talk to Cynthia. She'd know."

  "Let's do that. Before or after we have another chat with Tenley?"

  "After. Let's go see Chucky Boy." I stopped at my desk and grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair. We were on our way.

  We parked at Tenley's apartment complex, walked to his assigned parking spaces and found both empty. We continued toward building twenty-five. Bernie rang the doorbell and banged on the door. No answer. We headed back down.

  "Let's check with the leasing office," I said. San Sansolita participates in the Crime Free Multi-Housing Program. One of the program’s goals is to reduce criminal activity in rental properties. The property owners’ cooperation with law enforcement is an important part of it. We ambled over to the leasing office. A sign with a clock on it claimed they'd return at one o'clock, an hour and a half from now. We left and decided to see Cynthia. I drove, heading for the 10 east. It took over an hour to get there.

  Bernie rang the doorbell and a different housekeeper answered the door this time. This one was an older white male. His nametag indicated his name was Franklin. He wore black slacks, a white long-sleeve shirt, and a black bow tie. I asked to speak to Mrs. Harrington. He requested ID and we handed them to him. He returned them, then excused himself, leaving us outside. Moments later, he ushered us inside. It smelled like cinnamon rolls. Gooey, buttery cinnamon rolls. Always something good cooking here. Franklin led us into the great room where we took our usual seats in the ugly, dainty chairs. Cynthia came in with two black Labrador Retriever puppies. The female pulled on a leash held by Cynthia and the male's leash trailed behind him.

  Cynthia rested on the sofa, breathing hard. She pushed stray strands of hair from her eyes. She wore stylish jeans and white sneakers and had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. This was the most casual we'd seen her, yet she still exuded elegance. Some people just did. No matter what they wore. "We're fostering Chester and Liz for a rescue organization." She patted their heads simultaneously, her face softening. She detached their leashes. "They were abandoned and we're caring for them until a permanent home can be found. Well, I should say I'm fostering and caring for them. Montgomery is indifferent." She watched us, expectantly. "Do you have anything new to tell me about Annie's case?" Her eyes glistened.

  I switched on the recorder. "I'm sorry. We don't. But, during the investigation we found out she'd had a child."

  "Mrs. Harrington, where is your sister's child?" Bernie took out his notepad.

  Cynthia viewed the photo of the girl in a silver braided frame. Tears streamed down her face. She'd clutched that photo when we notified her of Baker's death.

  "This is the child Annie gave birth to." She reached for the photo. "She was not prepared to be a mother. Ann was...carefree. Since I could not have children, I adopted Annabelle and loved her like my own." She stroked the photo, then looked up, a distant look in her moist eyes.

  "Where is Annabelle now?" I recalled the conversation in the room of presidents. Mrs. Johnson told me the Harrington's daughter had been killed a number of years ago.

  "She died in a car accident." She dabbed at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll never get over it. Never."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "Who was Annabelle's biological father?"
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  She looked me dead in the eyes. Her lips tightened. "Did you notice I said I adopted her?"

  Bernie and I nodded, elbows on our knees.

  "Montgomery was Annabelle's father." She replaced Annabelle's photo, ran her finger over the top of the frame.

  I shouldn't have been surprised. We'd seen it all and then some.

  "Mrs. Harrington—" Bernie said.

  "He committed adultery with my sister. She became pregnant." Her mouth formed a thin, pale line, but her chin quivered. "End of story."

  Not quite. “How did you manage to repair your marriage and your relationship with your sister after something like that?" I couldn't imagine the feeling of betrayal she must have felt. Mac would never do that to me, nor I to her.

  "I'm not sure I ever did." She looked around the room. Where did the pups go? "Excuse me." She swiped at her cheeks and eyes with both hands before standing. She grabbed the leashes and rushed around the corner, hurrying through the door from which she and the puppies had entered.

  "What do you think?" Bernie asked.

  "I knew he was a scumbag, but this..." I shook my head. "Unbelievable. His sister-in-law?"

  "Remember the phone call he got from Baker the night she died?" Bernie wrote in his notebook.

  "Yeah. The ME report didn't say she was pregnant. Did it?" I asked. "How many times have we seen someone killed because of a pregnancy? Lots."

  "That's true." Bernie continued to write. "Don't forget about Menifee. That doesn't fit. Not now, anyway." He looked up. "Where did Cynthia go?"

  I shrugged. "Good question." I stood and peeked around the corner. Cynthia was coming toward me. She carried her muddy sneakers. Flower petals and potting soil clung to her jeans. Oh, boy. I followed her.

  "We're still house-training them." She sighed, but I sensed it was a relaxed sigh, instead of an exasperated one. "They wanted out and Franklin obliged. Unfortunately, the irrigation system engaged shortly thereafter. They loved it. However, I must speak to the gardener about adjusting the timing." She dropped her shoes in the mudroom, sat on a cherry wood bench and began tugging off her socks, which had caked with mud around the ankles. She wiped her hands on her jeans. Bernie had come in and stood next to me. Cynthia glanced up. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Detectives?"

  "Not right now." I turned to Bernie. "You?"

  "Can't think of anything else." Bernie strolled to the door. "We'll be in touch if we have any news."

  "Good-bye, Mrs. Harrington. Good luck with Chester and Liz." I strolled toward the door thinking it was nice to see the rich get down and dirty, even if by accident. She didn't appear angry at all.

  She grinned and nodded. "Good-bye, Detectives." She turned and padded up the steps. We headed to our car, better informed, but more puzzled than when we'd arrived.

  Chapter Eleven

  That evening, I sat across the table from Randall, the second guy I'd met from the ad. We'd been conversing for a little while and I'd decided to meet him at the Starbucks on Third Street. Unlike Greg, Randall looked like his profile photo. He was a thirty-year-old Latino and worked as a systems analyst for a bank.

  "So, how long have you been dating online?" I asked.

  "Oh, I've had my ad for about two years." He stared at me, hands folded on the table over his cell phone.

  "How many women have you met?"

  "Maybe a couple hundred." He shrugged, then grinned.

  "I'm sorry. What? Two hundred?" This guy was a serious serial dater. Damnit! I can sure pick 'em.

  "Yeah. I'd say at least that many give or take fifty or so."

  "Seriously?" I was amazed beyond words. How did he find the time? I tried to do the math, but was too shocked to give it a go. I thought Randall was attractive, so I figured he was leaving a trail of broken hearts all over town. Hell, it could be all over the country, for all I knew. "Did you go out with any of them more than once?"

  "A few." His phone's ringtone sounded. "Excuse me." He picked it up, read a text, and chuckled. Then, he started texting back! I couldn't believe it. He finished and set the phone down. "How long have you been dating online?"

  "Less than a month for me," I said.

  "You're a virgin then." His ringtone went off again, but he didn't respond. I noticed he was staring at my breasts.

  "I'm up here."

  He raised his eyes to my face, totally unapologetic. "How many men have you met?"

  "You're the second person I've met in person."

  "Sleep with the first one?" He smiled.

  "Well...excuse me?" I leaned away from him. His phone vibrated. He lifted his shoulders, and turned his palms up. He picked up the phone and began texting. I stood, strode away from the table, and left him there. Jackass! Outside, a sliver of moon and a sprinkle of stars did little to illuminate the night sky. Not ready to go home, I gave Khrystal a call. We hadn't hung out as much since she and Bernie had gotten together. I sat in my car and dialed. "Hey, Khrystal. It's Sydney."

  "Hi, Syd. What's up?"

  "Just wondering if you were free to meet for a drink or a bite to eat." Dead air. Silence. Was she still there? I looked at the display. Still connected. "Khrystal? You there?"

  "Yeah. I'm here."

  "Is everything okay? If you can't, it's no big deal. I just had some unexpected free time."

  "I can’t. Can I have a rain check?"

  "Sure. Give me a buzz when you can."

  "I will. Sorry about that."

  "No problem. Talk to you later."

  "Bye."

  Well, that was weird. What was that all about? My phone chirped. It was Mac, checking in on my date, I bet. How did she know the date was over already? I think she's living vicariously through me. I gave her the details and she provided the appropriate commentary, such as 'oh boy', 'wow', and 'darn it.'

  I started my car and put it in reverse. A pounding on my passenger side window made me jump. I backed up, trying to shake the person. The door handle jiggled. What the hell? The person mumbled something and rapped on the glass. It was too damn dark to see who was there. I rolled from the space and turned my car around, shining the headlights at them. The person shielded his or her eyes. I hopped from the car as the figure staggered.

  "Police! Hands in the air!" I could tell it was a man now, but he wasn't a big man. Not much larger than me.

  He mumbled and swayed.

  "Why were you trying to get into my car?"

  "He said, 'Help. My keys.'" A woman spoke from behind me.

  "How do you know what he’s saying?"

  "My daughter's deaf. She speaks in muffled tones, like him."

  Deaf. Yeah. I should've figured that out, but focusing on his pounding on my window and the attempt to enter my car got in the way. Since my recent motorcycle attack, I wasn't taking any chances. "Do you know sign language?"

  "I do." She dropped her shopping bags and stepped closer to the man, who'd calmed down.

  "Can you ask him his name? And why he was trying to get into my car?"

  She signed and he responded in a flurry. "He said his name is Norman Jones and he locked his keys in his car. He needed to get to San Sansolita Memorial Hospital because his wife went into premature labor. He panicked. He thought you seemed friendly and tried to get you to help."

  "Tell him he looks like he's had too much to drink and he shouldn't be driving anyway."

  She signed it. He nodded and signed back.

  "He said that he's sorry."

  I nodded. "Okay, but you almost got yourself killed, buddy." He watched my lips, nodded, then slumped. A patrol car cruised through the parking lot and I flagged it down.

  "I'll have Officer Jenkins take you to the hospital, Mr. Jones. It's not far."

  "Thank you," he mumbled. I understood that.

  "You're welcome. I hope your wife and baby are okay." I sent him on his way with Jenkins and thanked the woman without getting her name. I went to my car, ready to call it a night. I just wanted to go home, put on my PJ's,
and watch a funny movie. I buckled up, leaned my head back on the headrest. I closed my eyes and sighed, feeling glad I had at least been able to help Mr. Jones. What a day.

  A thunderous crash came from the back of my car. What the? I ducked, pressed my face to the steering wheel and covered my head with my arms. Pieces of something bounced off my head, back, and arms. Stuff rattled on the back of my seat. My neck and ears stung from the debris. I heard a roar. Motorcycle! I lowered my arms, turned my head, and peeked out the window. Taillights raced away from me. I turned around. Glass covered the rear seat from the shattered window. I unbuckled and opened my door, gun drawn and glass shards fell from my hair and clothes. I didn't dare give chase. How could I on foot, anyway? Even if I used the car, he was long gone. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back and shook it.

  "Damnit! Not again." I asked the crowd of rubberneckers if they had seen anything. Nobody had, of course. I called in a BOLO for the motorcycle, then walked back to my car, assessing the extent of the damage. I had two flat tires I hadn't noticed before. Crap! Bits of glass crunched under my boots. The window was a rim of crumpled glass bits threaded with spidery fractures. Glass sprinkled the inside of my car all the way to the dashboard. As far as I could tell, the object responsible for this carnage remained with the rider of the motorcycle...again. I dug my flashlight from the glove compartment and shone it on the floor in the back, then on the seats until I found what I was looking for. More Scrabble letters; 'C' and 'T'. I called Bernie. No answer.

  "Bernie, it's me. Sydney. Call me back!" I went back to looking around the area. No note was included with the letters. I didn't need one. I got the message loud and clear. What set it off? Were we getting too close? To what or whom? Tenley? Monty? I didn't have a clue. Why me and not Bernie? That made me think it had to have something to do with Monty. He wasn't that stupid though. But maybe if he felt his world collapsing, he might work to defend what he'd made for himself. He'd built a lucrative career. He had prestige and respect amongst his peers. My phone rang and I glanced at the display. Bernie. "Hello?"

  "Syd, what's going on?" I heard music in the background, as if he was at a club. What the hell? I thought he was home with Khrystal. "Syd!" He jolted me from my reverie.