Swift Justice: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Books)

by Laura Disilverio

  “And Seth bought that?”

  “Oh, yes. You wouldn’t believe the vile things he had me do to . . . to . . .”

  “Help him get it up?”

  Larissa’s face became a mask of sadness, and I knew what she’d look like when she was old. “I am still a virgin,” she stated simply. “Since being released from my covenant with Seth, I have discovered that my spirit expands only in the company of women.”

  I suspected I knew what she meant and didn’t ask her to translate. “So there’s no way Seth fathered Elizabeth’s baby.”

  “None.”

  “So why did he want to marry Elizabeth?” I didn’t realize I’d spoken the thought aloud until Larissa answered.

  “Hope. I think he chose very young women to marry because we were not quite grown into who we would become and he was able to mold us more easily. When we began to resist, he divorced us, threatened us.”

  “Why aren’t you scared of him?” I asked. “His other wife refused to talk to me.”

  “He can’t hurt me anymore,” she said. “I refuse to cede him that power. I have no husband or children he can threaten, and the type of people who shop at Twinkle”—she gestured around the tiny store—“have mostly never heard of Seth Johnson. I own the store outright—I bought it with the divorce settlement—so he can’t have me evicted.” A small smile of satisfaction curved her lips. “He is truly impotent here.”

  After my talk with Larissa, I was chomping at the bit to have another go at Seth Johnson. Even though it didn’t sound as if he could be Olivia’s father, his visit to Elizabeth at the apartment suggested he knew more than he was telling. I dialed his number from my cell phone, but Secretary Jean took great pleasure in telling me he had left instructions not to put me through or grant me another appointment.

  “I suppose he left orders to shoot me on sight if I just show up?”

  “Arrest you for trespassing,” Jean said with satisfaction.

  I hung up. Drumming my fingernails on the steering wheel as I fought rush hour traffic back to my office, I tried to think of a way to maneuver Johnson into talking to me, but came up empty.

  I was in a grumpy mood when I stalked into the office, and the sight of Gigi plugging in a lava lamp with turquoise blobs floating in garish pink ooze almost drove me around the bend.

  “No,” I said simply, marching to my desk.

  “But I got it on eBay,” she said. “Look, it really brightens the place up, don’t you think?” She stood back to admire the effect.

  “No.”

  “I suppose Kendall might like it,” she said, unplugging it and wrapping the cord around it. “It’s a bit too pink for Dexter, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely.” I grabbed a Pepsi and drank it absently, trying to shake my surly mood. If only I could think of a way to get to Johnson . . .

  “You look like you’ve had a hard day,” Gigi said. She leaned forward with her elbows on the desk, good hand cupping her chin. “What’s wrong?”

  I almost told her to mind her own business, but couldn’t stand hearing the answer I was sure I’d get: Swift Investigations was her business. So I told her about the meeting with Larissa and my frustrated attempts to talk to Johnson again, feeling some relief at venting.

  “Well, I know where Seth Johnson’ll be tonight,” she said when I finished.

  “What?” I spun my chair to face her directly.

  “At the Wild West Casino Night—it’s a benefit for the Fine Arts Center. He’s on the board of directors. So was Les.” Her happy smile dimmed. “I’ve got tickets, if you want to go. We bought them before Les . . .”

  “You do?” My grandpa always said it was better to be lucky than good, and right now I believed him. “We could both go.” She wasn’t the ideal date, but they were her tickets.

  “Thanks, Charlie, but I’ve got to help Dexter with his English term paper tonight. If he doesn’t turn it in tomorrow, he’s going to fail English.”

  I knew what “help Dexter” meant: She was going to write the damn thing for him. I felt a niggle of annoyance at the way her kids took advantage of her. “Well, thanks,” I said. “Maybe I can talk Jack into going. What’s the attire?”

  “Festive Western—”

  Whatever the hell that was.

  “—or period Western costume. You know, like dance hall girls or gunslingers. I was going as a madam—like Miss Kitty in Gunsmoke?—and Les had a marshal’s costume.” She sounded wistful. “You could borrow my costume, too,” she said helpfully. “The waist is elastic. I’ll run home and get it and the tickets.”

  Before I could tell her I was more a boots and jeans kind of cowgirl than a saloon hostess, she’d bolted. Oh, well. Maybe she’d bring Les’s costume, too, and Jack could play Marshal Dillon.

  Gigi wasn’t back yet when I wandered over to Albertine’s to keep my appointment with Jack Van Hoose half an hour later. I found him deep in conversation with my friend. The crowd was scarce on a Wednesday night, and New Orleans jazz playing over the speakers filled the silent spaces. Albertine, clad in a zebra-striped tunic that fell to her knees over black leggings, laughed as I walked in. “Get away with you,” she said, giving Jack a playful push on the shoulder. He grinned.

  “I’ll have whatever you guys are having,” I said. A martini glass with less than an inch of green slush remaining sat in front of each of them. I slid onto a bar stool beside Jack.

  “One margaritatini coming up,” Albertine said.

  “A what?”

  “It’s a margarita made with vodka,” Jack said as Albertine busied herself with bottles. “Without salt.” Wearing a red golf shirt with khaki shorts displaying his strongly muscled legs, he only needed a whistle strung around his neck to pass for a football coach.

  Skewering a wedge of lime and a cherry on a tiny plastic sword, Albertine set the drink in front of me. “Voilà!”

  I took a cautious sip. Strange, but somehow refreshing. I took two more swallows, then set the glass down on a bar napkin. Albertine wandered off to serve a couple in their sixties who settled in at the end of the bar, and Jack swiveled to face me, his knee brushing mine.

  “So, lady detective, how’s your case coming?” A smile tugged at his broad lips.

  “So-so,” I said. “I’ve got a couple of possibilities for the father, but no one’s owning up to it or handing over voluntary DNA samples. You told me Elizabeth’s stepdad came to see you once. What kind of vibe did you get from him?”

  Jack finished off the dregs of his drink. “Intense. He seemed jittery, edgy, like some of the kids get before a big game . . . on the brink. Only I got the feeling he was always like that. It was almost like he was high on something, PCP or meth, not a drug like marijuana that mellows you out.”

  “High on God.”

  “Frankly, the way he came off, I’m surprised Elizabeth wasn’t home-schooled.” He signaled Albertine for a glass of water. “Liberty was not much better than an opium den or bordello, to hear him tell it.”

  I ran my fingers up and down the stem of my martini glass, putting off the questions I didn’t want to ask. “Did you know Linnea helped deliver Elizabeth’s baby?”

  “You’re shitting me!” After a moment’s thought, he nodded. “I guess I can see it. That girl’s got one cool head.”

  “She told me she’s going to be an obstetrician. She also told me”—I took a deep breath—“that Elizabeth might have called you after the baby was born. Maybe to ask for advice?” I looked a question at him.

  “Me?” He looked genuinely surprised. “Why would she call me?”

  “Elizabeth thought you were ‘the bomb,’ according to Linnea. It would be natural for a young girl to turn to a counselor she trusted in a time of crisis,” I said, “especially if, like Elizabeth, she couldn’t count on her parents for help.”

  “I wish she had, but she didn’t,” Jack said, a tight look descending on his face. “I hope you’re not implying there was anything improper in my relations
hip with Elizabeth.”

  “I’m not implying anything,” I lied. “Just trying to do my job.”

  “Since your job is finding the baby’s father, forgive me if I get a little pissed off here!” He put his glass down with such force that water sloshed over the sides.

  Albertine sent us a sideways glance from her position near the cash register.

  I kept my voice low. “Look, Jack, I don’t think you’re Olivia’s dad, but I’ve got to cover all the bases. You knew Elizabeth before she became pregnant, and, as far as I can tell, you’re one of very few men she liked and spent time with.”

  “In my office with the door open! Jesus! Do you realize what you’re suggesting, what that kind of accusation would do to my career?” He tossed back the rest of his water as if wishing it were straight vodka.

  I held up my hands placatingly. “Okay, okay. I’m not making any accusations. I had to ask. My instincts have been wrong before.”

  “Oh, so your instincts told you I wasn’t a child molester? Is that supposed to make me feel better?” He stood, careful this time not to brush against me. Slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the bar, he stalked away.

  “Are we still on for Friday?” I called after him, already knowing the answer. He shoved the door open with a rigid arm. Sunlight poked into the dim room before the closing door strangled it.

  I pivoted on the stool to face the bar again. Glumly, I swallowed the last of my margaritatini.

  “Damn, girl, that was one mighty fine lookin’ man,” Albertine said. She stood in front of me, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “Mighty fine. Why’d you have to go and piss him off?”

  “It’s a gift,” I said.

  “More like a curse, I’d say. How long’s it been since you had a date?”

  “I suppose this doesn’t count?” I gestured at Jack’s abandoned glass.

  “Nuh-uh. Not even close.”

  I considered. “About an eon or two. Roughly since triceratops walked the earth.”

  “Well, I can see why, if you go around accusin’ all the potentials of being child molesters.” She placed our glasses in a tub filled with soapy water and swabbed at the bar’s polished surface with a damp rag.

  “His words, not mine. Wait, I paid Montgomery off for some info with dinner last night. Does that count as a date?” I looked up hopefully.

  “Gettin’ warmer,” Albertine admitted. “Did you let him get to first base?”

  “We didn’t even get into the ballpark.” I pushed away the thought of Montgomery’s hard kiss as he left.

  “Girl, there is no hope for you.” Responding to a signal from the pair at the end of the bar, Albertine rang up their tab and waved good-bye as they left. She drifted back to me. “Why did you accuse that gorgeous hunk o’ man-flesh of improprieties, anyway?”

  I filled her in on my search for Olivia’s father, toying with the plastic sword I’d filched from my drink.

  “So, did the baby look like her daddy was black?” Albertine asked when I finished.

  I sucked air in through my teeth and sheepishly admitted, “I didn’t look at her that closely. You know how I am with babies. I think her hair was dark.”

  Albertine rolled her eyes. “And you call yourself a detective. Girl, you are hopeless.” She flicked the bar rag at me.

  I was halfway tempted to agree with her and order another margaritatini when my phone rang. Albertine drifted over to the cash register as I answered.

  “Swift.”

  “Is this Charlotte Swift of Swift Investigations?” The voice was halting and female.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Mina Downey. I’m calling because you left your card in my door today with a note asking me to call?” Curiosity colored her voice, and I envisioned a UCCS coed happy to postpone studying by making a phone call.

  I straightened on the bar stool, plugging my left ear with a finger so I could hear better. “Yes, Ms. Downey, thanks for calling. It’s about your neighbor, Lizzy Jones. Did you know her?”

  “Yes?” She offered the word tentatively, as if afraid of answering wrong on a game show and losing out on the mega prize.

  “Great!” Now I sounded like Bob Barker. And our next prize package is . . . “I’ve been hired to assist with some issues related to her baby’s paternity, and I wondered if you could help me out.” Not giving her a chance to refuse or hang up, I continued, “Were you friendly with her?”

  “Uh . . . sorta. We did our laundry together sometimes, at the Laundromat. Once in a while we watched a little TV in the evenings. Survivor. It’s not like we were friends, though. I mean, I’ve got a job and everything, and a boyfriend.”

  As if possessing a job and a boyfriend meant one couldn’t have friends. Although I thought I knew what she meant: She and Lizzy were at different life stages and probably didn’t have much in common. “I know what you mean,” I said. “But when you got together, did she ever talk about the baby or the baby’s father?”

  Silence for a moment while Mina thought. “Well, she talked about the baby some. It was going to be a girl. I asked her if she had a name picked out, but she just kinda shrugged.”

  Because at that point she was still planning to hand the baby over to the Falstows.

  “She mentioned moving to Virginia and going to college after the baby was born, but she never said anything about a boyfriend. I figured he’d knocked her up and hit the highway, you know?”

  I felt a little let down, even though I hadn’t really expected her to be able to name the baby’s father. “Well, thanks anyway, Mina. Oh, did Lizzy ever have any friends over, any visitors that you noticed?”

  “Just her mom.”

  What? Patricia Sprouse had told me she hadn’t seen Elizabeth since the girl left home back in the spring. “Her mom? Are you sure?”

  “Well, she didn’t introduce me, if that’s what you mean—but she was an older woman, and she always brought Lizzy stuff when she visited. You know, maternity clothes and groceries and stuff like a mom would bring. Come to think of it, though, she didn’t look much like Lizzy. I mean, Lizzy’s hair was dark, and she was on the short side. This woman had red hair, and she was really tall, taller than me.”

  A tall redhead. Jacqueline Falstow. Who had lied to me about not knowing where Elizabeth lived.

  “Did you see her a lot?”

  “A couple of times, both in the evening when I was headed out to start my shift.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  Another pause. “Maybe two or three weeks before Lizzy . . . you know. She brought peanut butter cookies, and Lizzy offered me some the next day, but I’m allergic.”

  I started to make good-bye noises, but Mina stopped me. “Is the baby okay? I was worried . . .”

  “She’s doing great,” I said, warmed by Mina’s concern. I got her contact information, thanked her, and hung up.

  “Trouble?” Albertine asked, plonking a glass of water in front of me.

  Absently, I drank. “One of my witnesses has lied to me, not once but twice.” Falstow had lied about not knowing where Elizabeth lived, and again about Elizabeth calling to say she wasn’t going to give up the baby. Two strikes.

  “Say it isn’t so,” Albertine said, feigning astonishment.

  “Sad, isn’t it?”

  I dialed the Falstows’ number but got an answering machine. I didn’t leave a message. The element of surprise might serve me better, and I decided to make the Falstow house my first stop in the morning. It was time to meet Stefan, too. He was a strangely shadowy figure to me still, despite, I presumed, his equal partnership in the contract with Elizabeth. The Falstows and I were going to have a little come-to-Jesus meeting about the true nature of their dealings with Elizabeth Sprouse. Right now, though, I needed a date for the Wild West Casino Night.

  I explained about the fund-raiser to Albertine and invited her to go along, but she shook her head. “Can’t. I’ve got to close here tonight. My manager left early for his d
aughter’s choir recital. How ’bout that cute policeman? I’ll bet he’s already got a six-shooter.” Her lips curved in a wildly suggestive grin.

  I rolled my eyes at her but dialed the phone. Detective Montgomery was out at a crime scene, a polite officer told me. I hung up and, after a moment’s hesitation, dialed again.

  15

  The party was in full swing when Dan Allgood and I strolled through the doors of the Fine Arts Center. The huge Chihuly chandelier of topaz, orange, and gold glass squiggles glowed over an anachronistic crowd of saloon girls, cowboys, Indians, miners, and gamblers. Father Dan was the only priest in sight, fitting in with the Western atmosphere perfectly in an ankle-length black cassock and wire-rimmed spectacles, cowboy boots on his feet and a Bible tucked under one arm.

  “Don’t you think a priest with a saloon girl is a bit strange?” I’d asked when he came over to pick me up. I hitched up the fishnet hose I’d bought at Victoria’s Secret on my way home and slipped on simple black pumps, not having any turn-of-the century footwear. I’d cinched the red satin skirt Gigi had lent me with a couple of safety pins at the waist and used Grandy’s old cameo brooch to pin up a section of the skirt at midthigh to show the black netting underneath.

  Dan applauded as I tried out a cancan step. “I’m trying to save you, of course,” he said, thumping a hand on his Bible.

  “Well, you have saved me, and I’m grateful,” I said, tucking the tickets Gigi had given me into the low-scoop-necked black blouse I’d found at the back of a drawer. No way was Gigi’s blouse going to fit me. “I’d’ve looked conspicuous on my own.”

  “Like you don’t look conspicuous now?” His left brow flew up, and he grinned as his eyes ran from my modest cleavage to the not so modest length of fishnetted leg. My dark hair wisped around my forehead and neck despite my attempts to secure it atop my head and corral it with the feathered band Gigi had supplied. I’d layered on the mascara, used a bright red lipstick, and drawn a Cindy Crawfordesque beauty spot near the corner of my mouth with brown eyeliner. I felt like a cross between a saloon hooker and a flapper girl.