“Good idea,” Gigi said. “I’ll put one together tonight.”
I was pretty sure the bag—probably Louis Vuitton—would weigh fifty pounds by the time she chucked in some designer shoes, a five-hundred-dollar sweatsuit, enough makeup to last the Rockettes a year, and moisturizing lotion made from rare sea snails and the petals of an exotic flower only found in the Andes (or something equally expensive). Still, she was trying; I had to give her that. I didn’t want to burst her bubble by telling her Padgett was effectually served when she opened the door. Maybe tomorrow I’d let her know she could’ve just said “You’re served” and dropped the papers in the foyer.
As Gigi walked out, I flipped a quarter to determine whether my next call should be to Montgomery or Jack Van Hoose. Heads—Montgomery, tails—Van Hoose. It came up tails. I called Montgomery.
“We got a complaint about you today, Swift,” he said when he heard my voice.
Seth Johnson moved quickly. “Look, Johnson’s a—”
“You must have pissed off a lot of people. It wasn’t someone named Johnson. It was Zachary Sprouse. He said you assaulted him. He wants a restraining order.”
That dickhead. My ears itched ferociously. “I assaulted him? Did he tell you he was trespassing on my property? Did he tell you—”
“Calm down, Charlie,” Montgomery cut off my sputtering. I could tell he found the situation humorous. “I talked him out of filing charges.”
“Big of you,” I said grudgingly. This was what I got for giving into a compassionate impulse. “I owe you a beer.”
“You owe me dinner. Your place. Six o’clock.”
“Nice try. Margarita at Pine Creek.” I named the restaurant a stone’s throw from my house. “Six thirty. I need to change. And we’re doing the bar menu on the patio.” The restaurant also offered a five-course meal inside its quirky, multiroomed dining area for a set price, and I didn’t want Montgomery thinking he’d done me that big a favor.
“Done.”
He hung up. It was already almost five thirty. My conversation with Jack Van Hoose would have to wait until tomorrow. Feeling equal parts relief and guilt about not confronting him today, I locked up and headed home for a hot shower and a dress designed to make Montgomery regret that I was completely unobtainable.
“So, this Fenn girl says she heard Sprouse tell the Falstows she was keeping the baby?” Montgomery asked. “Damn, this is good.” He spooned the last bit of lime panna cotta from the dish.
I leaned back in my chair, enjoying the twinkling lights strung in the trees over the patio, the cool night air against my shoulders bared by a halter-top sundress, the quiet conversations of other diners, and the crisp sauvingon blanc I’d ordered with my ahi tuna. The sight of Montgomery across the table, his dark eyes sweeping over me appreciatively, added to my enjoyment. “Yep. Sounds like a darn good motive, to me.”
“Killing her didn’t get them the baby,” Montgomery pointed out.
“Well, you said her death could’ve been an accident. Maybe they didn’t mean to kill her. Maybe they didn’t know she’d already stashed the baby with Melissa Lloyd.”
“Or maybe they had nothing to do with it.”
I shook my head, feeling my hair swish against my neck. “You didn’t see how obsessed this woman was with getting hold of Olivia. She even followed me, hoping I’d lead her to the baby.”
“Which you almost did.” Montgomery’s grin gleamed white in the gathering darkness. He’d liked that part of my story. He stretched his long legs to the side of the table and crossed them at the ankles.
“Elizabeth had a pseudo-boyfriend, too, at least at one time. A high schooler named Wes Emmerling. I’m talking to him tomorrow. He’s a possible. And Seth Johnson . . . there’s something weird about him,” I said. I swirled the wine in my glass, took a sip. “He stopped short of actually threatening me, but I could see him terrorizing Elizabeth.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But Linnea said Elizabeth told her he almost raped her in a classroom at the church.”
“Hearsay.”
“I’m not suggesting you throw him in jail, damn it, just that he’s worth talking to. He keeps trading in his wives for younger models, and one of them died in a hiking ‘accident’ where he was the only witness.” I’d looked up newspaper accounts of the death on my home computer. “Also, he called me a third-rate investigator.”
“Ah-hah. Now I know why you want me to roust him. Not going to happen. He may be everything you’ve said, but he’s also the governor’s buddy, and we have no evidence whatsoever that he committed any crime or that he even had any contact with the Sprouse girl after she left home.”
“Contact . . . what do her phone records tell you?”
“Her cell phone—if she had one it must have been one of those pay-as-you-go deals—is missing, and the only calls on her landline are to the punk managing her apartment complex—”
“She probably wanted him to do something about the rodent infestation.”
“—and Melissa Lloyd’s numbers, and since she worked for Lloyd, there’s nothing to follow up on there. The most recent call was the Friday before she had the baby.”
“Okay, then who do you like for it?” I challenged him. The server unobtrusively removed our dishes and left the check at Montgomery’s elbow. Sexist. I slid it over and put my credit card on it.
“I’m leaning toward the stepfather,” he said. “I think the girl went to her mother after the baby was born, looking for help, and her dad lost it. But, unless the mother cracks, we’re not likely to put him away for it. And, frankly, I’ve got other cases that are higher priority than what may just be illegal dumping of a body. My team’ll be burning the midnight oil on the body that turned up in the trunk of that car on Constitution. We haven’t even ID’d the vic yet.”
“You’d better get back to work, then,” I said, rising.
“Everyone’s got to eat.” He stood, too, draping his arm casually across my shoulders as we walked to the exit. His warmth and closeness made me stumble on the uneven flagstones of the patio. He’d shed his sport coat, draping it over his arm, so there was nothing between me and his skin but the fine cotton of his shirt. The realization made every inch of me supersensitive, and I tried to squirm out from under his arm. His grip tightened.
“I’ll drive you home,” he said, his breath warm against my ear.
“That’s okay. I walked,” I said, fighting to keep my voice level. “And you’ve got to get back to work.”
“It’s only eight thirty. Midnight oil-burning doesn’t start for almost four hours.” From the way he smiled, I knew he knew the effect his closeness was having on me. Damn the man. I did not want to ruin an extremely useful professional relationship, or get emotionally entangled with a man five years younger (who reminded me way too much of my ex-husband), to satisfy a temporary physical urge. Summoning all my resolve, I pulled away.
“Really, it’s a short walk.”
“A gentleman always escorts—” His cell phone rang, and he looked at the number before cursing and answering it. “Montgomery.”
He listened for a moment, his body language segueing from seductive to alert. “Fifteen minutes.” He snapped the phone closed and gave me a rueful look.
“Duty calls?”
“Exactly. Otherwise . . .” He leaned over and pressed a hard kiss against my lips before I could back away. “Dinner’s on me next time.”
“What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” I called after him as he strode to his car. My voice lacked conviction, and he just laughed, lifting a hand in farewell as he put his car in gear.
I set out to walk the two blocks home, heading north on Pine Creek Road past the large carrot sculptures at the entrance to Margarita. By the time I made the turn onto Tudor Road, the clanking and conversation from the restaurant had faded, and I listened to the whisper of the wind in the grass and the scurryings of night creatures in the underbrush. Passing St. Paul�
�s, I noticed a dark form moving on the far side of the parking lot. A metallic clang sounded loud in the stillness, and I jumped. Was someone breaking into the church? A car approached from behind me, and its headlights swept the parking lot, illuminating the ursine figure snuffling at the Dumpster. My bear! I paused, something about seeing the huge predator in this semiurban environment catching at me. Another car passed, and the bear turned his head toward me, eyes gleaming red, long muzzle working the air as he sniffed. I kept walking, hoping he was too engrossed in the treasures to be found in the trash to follow. The rectory was dark as I passed, and I wondered if Dan was out on another date. Not wanting to analyze my annoyance at the thought, I marched up the steps to my porch and unlocked the door. Safe inside, I might have shut the door more firmly than necessary, but there was only the bear to hear.
(Wednesday)
Melissa Lloyd hovered outside my office when I drove up the next morning. Dressed for work in a peach skirt and coordinating blouse, she was babyless this time and shifted from foot to foot as I got out of my car. I scanned the parking lot but didn’t see Gigi’s Hummer. Maybe she’d slept in.
“Good morning,” I greeted Melissa.
“Hi. Look, Ian said you stopped by. Then the cops came. Olivia’s on antibiotics for an ear infection, I’ve got a huge design order pending, and I’m at my wit’s end.”
One look at her had told me that. Her skirt hung from her hipbones as if she’d lost weight, and her skin had a sallow cast that spoke of too many sleepless nights and not enough exercise. Or maybe peach just wasn’t her color.
“Are you any closer to finding her father? Ian says I should just give her to Child Protective Services, but I can’t bring myself to do that because . . .”
“You haven’t told him about your relationship with the baby?” I unlocked the door and actually missed the smell of the coffee Gigi usually had perking by now. I offered my client a Pepsi and helped myself to one when she refused.
She wandered to the window and looked out into the parking lot. “I just can’t. When he came home unexpectedly because he thought I sounded stressed—so sweet of him!—I was going to, but then Olivia got sick, and he’s so fed up with the time I spend with her that I just . . . I did tell him the baby was Lizzy’s and that since Lizzy had died unexpectedly I felt responsible for her.”
I handed her a note with Patricia Sprouse’s and Jacqueline Falstow’s phone numbers. “Both these women would kill”—unfortunate turn of phrase—“to get hold of that baby. If you can’t cope with her, give one of them a call. Or do like your husband suggested and turn her over to the authorities. I’ll keep looking for the father, and the legal outcome will likely be the same no matter whose custody the baby is in.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” she said, turning to accept the slip of paper. She massaged her temple with two fingers wearily. “Caring for a baby is so hard,” she said. “I don’t know how single parents do it, especially teen mothers. This—having Olivia—confirms for me that I made the right decision in giving Lizzy up. It’s been good that way.” She nodded decisively, but her eyes slid to the window again, and her fingers plucked at the fabric of her skirt.
I wondered if she continued caring for Olivia as a kind of punishment for the guilt she still felt about giving up Elizabeth. I’m no psychologist, but she seemed to wear the burden of the baby like a hair shirt, accepting the itch of sleepless nights and the irritation of having no time for herself and her husband as a retribution she deserved. It seemed kind of hard on Ian since he had to share in the punishment without understanding why.
As if she’d heard my thoughts, Melissa said, “Ian’s headed back to Arizona today—he’s got to get back to his customer. He said the baby has to be out of the house by the time he gets back for good.”
“When—”
“This weekend.”
I couldn’t tell if the look she sent me was a plea or an ultimatum. I told her the case was my top priority and saw her to the door just as Gigi descended from her Hummer, wearing a floral wrap dress that displayed a lot of pillowy bosom and matched her cast.
“Good morning,” she trilled.
I introduced her and Melissa, and Gigi’s eyes filled with sympathetic tears. “I am so sorry for your loss,” she consoled Melissa with a pat on her hand. “Your daughter’s passing—”
Melissa jerked her hand back. “I don’t have a— She wasn’t my— Please.”
She directed the last word at me, and I knew it was a plea to find the baby’s father quickly. I watched her rigid back as she returned to her car, ignored Gigi’s “I didn’t mean to upset her,” and dialed Jack Van Hoose’s number. He was booked up all day but agreed to meet me at Albertine’s for a drink after work. I held out small hope that a beer would help my questions go down any easier. When I hedged about telling him what I wanted to talk about, his rich voice carried a grin through the phone line as he said, “Just couldn’t wait until Friday to see me, huh?”
“Something like that,” I replied and hung up. I so hoped he wasn’t the father of Elizabeth’s baby and that my questioning him about it wouldn’t doom our fledgling relationship from the start.
I needed to track down the Emmerling kid. It made more sense to think of Elizabeth getting it on with a fellow student than with the counselor, right? Flipping open the Yellow Pages, I zeroed in on Landscapers, quickly locating Emmerling Landscape Installation and Maintenance. A phone call netted me the address of the house where Wes was installing a sprinkler system. No time like the present. Telling Gigi I’d be back in an hour or so, I headed east on Woodmen, out past Powers, aiming for the Meridian area, where Wes was supposed to be working. I couldn’t believe how many buildings had sprung up since I last drove out this way. What used to be pronghorn terrain was now a mélange of housing and shopping areas. I shook my head as I drove, lamenting the loss of the open prairie. My mind turned to work, however, when I rounded a corner and saw a pickup truck with EMMERLING stenciled in green on the doors and an open trailer filled with yard equipment hitched to the rear. Several men were digging trenches and unloading sod in front of a nondescript two-story house.
“Wes Emmerling?” I asked the first person I came to after exiting my car, a barrel-chested Hispanic man with a thick mustache.
“ ’Round back.” Without a hint of curiosity, he returned to digging a hole for the young spruce sprawled on the sidewalk, its roots bound in a ball.
I hadn’t realized I had a preconceived notion of what Wes Emmerling would be like until I pushed through the gate and saw him laying PVC pipe in the trenches crisscrossing the backyard. Based on Linnea’s comments and his job as a landscaper, I’d imagined he’d be bare-chested, rippling with muscles, bronzed by the sun. I saw him with a strut and the cocky attitude that kissed and told. As he turned to face me, brushing mud off his hands, I saw a slender kid of medium height, not quite filled out yet, with soft brown hair that fell into his eyes. He wore an emerald Emmerling Landscape T-shirt and jeans, both crusted with dirt and grass.
“We’ll be another couple of hours, Mrs. Denton,” he said with a shy smile, “but it’s going great.”
“Huh?” I looked behind me. No one.
His brows drew together in confusion. “Don’t you live here?” He nodded toward the house. “Aren’t you Mrs. Denton?”
“No. I’m a private investigator, Charlotte Swift. Call me Charlie.” I passed him one of my cards. “I’d like to talk to you if you’re Wes Emmerling.”
“That’s me.” He shook my hand, his grip firm, a puzzled look on his face. “Why—”
“It’s about Elizabeth Sprouse.”
To his credit, his eyes didn’t drop from mine. He heaved a sigh that seemed combined of resignation and sadness. “What about her? She died.”
“Look, is there someplace more comfortable we could talk? I’d be happy to buy you a coffee or a soda.”
He looked around the empty backyard, at the rutted earth and the pile of sprinkler piping a
nd heads. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of work . . .”
“Twenty minutes,” I promised. “We’ll zip up to that Mickey D’s on the corner.”
“All right.” He tramped to a hose coiled near the deck and rinsed off his hands and boots before following me out of the yard. “I’ll be back in twenty, Manny,” he told the man out front.
He was silent as he climbed into my Subaru, and I didn’t try to get him to open up until we were seated at a sticky table at the McDonald’s with our sodas.
“So, tell me about Elizabeth,” I suggested.
“She was okay.” He pleated the paper casing from his straw.
“Okay? I heard you guys were pretty close.” That wasn’t exactly what Linnea had said, but it sounded less confrontational than “I heard you screwed her a couple times.”
“I was sad to hear she’d died,” he offered, swiping his bangs out of his eyes. They were a warm brown, and I could see how a troubled girl like Elizabeth might find his sensitivity appealing. “I wanted to go to her funeral, but . . . My dad’s pretty strict, and he didn’t know . . . I had to work.”
Wes looked defensive, but an underlying sadness made me like him. He pulled the straw from his soda and began to bend it into a triangle.
“You were really into her, weren’t you?” I asked gently.
“She was smart and beautiful,” he said.
I liked that he put “smart” first.
“But she . . . she had issues, I guess you’d say.”
“Like?”
“Like she was really hung up on finding her birth mom, but in a weird sort of way.”
“How so?”
He shrugged, seeming more like fifteen than eighteen. “I dunno. It was like she was mad at her or something. But she’d never met her, so that doesn’t make sense, does it? And she hated her stepdad.”
“Did he abuse her?” My pulse quickened, but I kept my voice even.
“She didn’t say so, not in so many words. But I wondered. After we . . .”
Swift Justice: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Books) Page 17