“My detective’s name is Maxine. Give her whatever help she needs. Answer whatever questions she asks. The sooner we find him the sooner this is over and we can get back to whatever passes for normal in this madhouse.”
One of the wait staff stood and got another cup of coffee. She asked, “How’s your mom doing?”
Blue’s heart expanded. “Better, but she’s still shaky. Truthfully, her recovery is going slower than the doctors had hoped.”
“So you still need to travel?”
Blue hesitated, then nodded. “This is really crappy timing. I’m the only kid available to help my parents, and I know some of you understand that. I’ve thought about bringing them here to make it easier for me, but that would probably drive me crazy in the end. I know some of you understand that, too.”
The staff relaxed a bit, and several others refilled their plates and glasses. A tall young man with glasses, new to the kitchen, asked, “Is the cookbook still on track?”
Blue smiled then. It was the first genuine smile to cross her lips that morning and it felt wonderful. “It is. Again, it’s bad timing given everything that’s going on with Bret, but the editor and publisher are so excited that I hate to slow the process down.”
“It’ll be great publicity for the wines and the winery, Blue,” Chef said. He looked around the room. “You’ll probably have to make a few more trips to New York to finalize everything, but we can hold the fort while you’re there and in Florida. Don’t worry about us.”
A pair of hands clapped, then another joined in, and soon the room was awash in applause and Blue felt tears sting her eyes. “Thank you,” she said when the applause slowed. “I can’t tell you what your support means. Will’s bringing in a few people who might be interested in working as wait staff. Any other questions?”
The winery’s front door opened and Kado poked his head inside. “Is now okay?”
Blue motioned him in. “Everyone, this is Forney County’s forensic person, Tom Kado.” She glanced at the young man with him. “And this is Officer Truman. Everybody’s here and they’re all okay with having their fingerprints taken for elimination purposes. I’ll go first.”
Will spread butcher paper over a small table and Kado and Truman took white cards and black ink pads from a case. The staff stood and stretched while Blue was fingerprinted. Some wandered into the kitchen to finish lunch preparations after they were printed, and a few came by and hugged Blue, telling her how glad they were it was Blue and not Bret who would run the winery.
Chef cleared his throat. “Do you think you could find it in your heart to forgive Annie?”
Blue looked at him, a question in her eyes.
He squirmed. “She told me how guilty she felt and I told her the last thing she needed to do was sleep with the boss.” He bit his lip. “She said she didn’t have a choice, she was falling in love with him.”
Blue’s eyelids slid closed. “What a guy.”
“She was devastated when he dumped her. I don’t think she has much experience with this kind of stuff.”
“And you want her back?”
“She’s the best expediter I’ve ever worked with.”
Blue nodded slowly. “I guess we’ve all been screwed by Bret, one way or another. I’ll go check on Annie and see if I can get her back in the kitchen.”
EMPTY HANDED
“NOTHING? AGAIN NOTHING? DID you trash the place?”
The small man breathed heavily into the phone. His accent grew thicker when he was irritated and the blond could barely understand him. He tried to hand the phone to the dark-haired man who was driving, but he refused. The blond pulled at his nose and spoke. “Um, we trashed the music room like you said. Smashed everything up.”
“The rest of the place?”
“We searched it.”
“And you’re sure it’s not there?”
“Yeah. We’re sure.” The phone went silent. “Are you there?”
“There’s at least one more woman, but I don’t know how to find her.”
“Another chick from the winery?”
“No. Frannie. He talks to her on the phone.”
“We can follow him,” the blond said, and the dark-haired man shot him a look.
“Where is he now?” the small man asked.
“Um, we don’t know.”
“Then how will you follow him?”
“He has to go back to the Dallas house.”
“Why?”
“He and the woman left their luggage there when they came home.”
“You’re watching the house?”
The blond nodded and then realized the short man couldn’t see through the phone. “Yeah.”
“Fine. Follow him. But keep in touch.”
The line went dead and the blond looked at the dark-haired man. “He said to follow BB.”
“You offered to follow BB.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
“That’s a good idea, huh?” the blond asked with a smile.
“If we could keep up with him, yeah, it might be a good idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re in a beat up truck, you loser. He’s in a Corvette. How are we going to follow him?”
The blond pulled at his nose. “Yeah, right. Um, could you find a gas station?”
“Don’t tell me.”
“I’ve gotta pee again.”
ON THE TRAIL
CINDY WAS THE MOST frustrating woman I’d ever shopped with, until I realized she was digging through the sale bin of panties for the third time only so she could watch Bret and the bimbo. They stepped out of the bakery and headed straight for the wall display of nighties, holding hands and oblivious to everything around them. I watched from the corner of my eye, changing position as they moved around the shop. The bimbo was a big-haired blonde, heavily made up, with a bottom wide enough to comfortably seat two, a tiny waist, and a hefty shelf of boobs, no doubt a 38DD.
Cindy drifted deeper into the shop and I followed, stopping to finger an orange silk pajama set. She selected a bra and met me at the PJ display. “I’ll take the lead. You follow.”
“What are you talking about?”
She rolled her eyes. “When I see them headed for the cash register, I’ll get in line in front. You hold off until there are a couple of customers between you.”
“You want me to buy something? Here?”
“You can afford it.”
“That’s not the point. I wear La Perla.”
“Your panty preference is not the point,” Cindy said. “We can return the stuff if you don’t want it. The point is to get something in our hands so we look like we’re here for a purpose. And we can stop and look at what we’ve purchased if they head into a shop we don’t want to go into.”
“Like what shop?”
“I don’t know, Maxine. A fancy jewelry shop? Somewhere with not many people or displays. Where we might be noticed.”
I checked the size on the pajama set and put it over my arm.
Cindy tsked. “Not your color.”
I held it up and looked in a mirror. Score one for the cousin. I picked out a pale blue set and then looked for Bret and the bimbo again. My heart jumped. “They’re gone.”
“They’re in the third dressing room on the left.”
“What?”
“Bret was looking eager. We might hear banging in a minute. Keep shopping until they come out.”
I’d read that tailing people was a boring job, but tailing Bret and Bimbo was anything but boring. We followed at a very safe distance, and often didn’t even go into the shops they did. Sometimes we followed them into a store; other times, we split up and took positions on opposite sides of their shop so we’d have an easy way to tail them if they left. Let me tell you, cell phones are a necessity in these situations. For calling your partner, for one thing, but also for gazing at the screen, pretending to be absorbed. That kind of behavior renders you invisible. You can wat
ch discreetly and your target will ignore you.
Bimbo clocked us as they were coming out of Mont Blanc and I thought we were blown. Cindy backed us off and over a three hour period, Bimbo only glared at us once more. Bret never noticed us, or if he did, gave no indication. The happy couple made their way through the mall to Nordstrom’s. They ordered coffee at Ebar and sat at a little table where they took out their phones. Cindy pulled me into a mall restroom and popped her tote bag open. She thrust a pair of dark leggings and matching top at me, and dug out a pair of sandals.
“Change,” she ordered.
“Why?”
She pulled the baseball cap off my head and put it in her bag. “Bimbo’s seen us. We need to look different for the next phase of this operation.” She took her ball cap off and fluffed her hair, then pulled a pair of skinny jeans on under her sun dress, peeled off the dress and replaced it with a black t-shirt. She put on a pair of ballet slippers and slid sunshades onto her head. Then she turned the tote inside out to reveal a black interior, and stuffed everything back inside. “We’ve been in light colored dresses with hats on. Now we’re in dark pants, hatless. People they haven’t seen before.”
She took my lingerie bag and put it in a shopping bag from Williams Sonoma she took from her tote. Again, score one for the cuz. She looked totally different.
“That’s pretty good,” I told her.
“Yes, it is. We’ve been happy and smiling, it’s time for dark and brooding. Let’s get coffee and see what they’re up to.”
ROCK PAPER SCISSORS
WHEN KADO AND TRUMAN finished taking fingerprints, Kado found Blue in the kitchen. “Would you show me the damaged vines?”
The sun was climbing in the clear sky, the heat near searing. Sweat popped out on Blue’s forehead as they stepped off the porch and she pointed when they rounded the workshop’s side. The vines looked even worse than they had earlier this morning.
“You’re sure it’s not the drought?” Kado asked.
“I’m sure I smelled weed killer this morning. Can you take a sample from the leaves and see if there’s a chemical on them? I can show you the stuff we use. It’s in the workshop.”
Blue unlocked the padlock on the door and flipped a switch once they were inside. Fluorescent lights stuttered to life, revealing a high-ceilinged building that was already sweltering in the morning sun. Equipment, tools, and supplies were neatly organized.
“Is the workshop always locked?” Truman asked.
“No,” Blue answered. “All our keys hang inside the winery’s kitchen door. Whoever needs to get in the shop first each day unlocks it. Someone is always assigned lock up duties at night and returns the keys to their hooks.” She lifted her chin at a row of metal shelves. “The first set contains weed killers. The second holds fertilizers.”
Truman studied the plastic containers. “Some of this stuff is powerful. We use Sahara on the farm under our electric fences.”
“That’s where we use it, too. We use the brushy weed killer out in the woods to keep the elm and Chinese tallow down. It works, but you have to keep spraying it.”
“That stuff is hard to kill. Do you use any of these chemicals around your vines, or see anything out of place?”
Blue reached out to turn a container but Kado stopped her. “Fingerprints.”
She pointed at a jug on the top shelf. “That’s undiluted glyphosate. And that,” she pointed at a container on a middle shelf, “is brushy wood killer. Both should be on the bottom shelf. We keep the most potent stuff on the lower shelves in case there’s a leak. None of the weaker chemicals gets contaminated.”
“Is it possible someone put it in the wrong place?” Kado asked.
“Of course. But it’s unlikely. The guys who work the vines and the wider property have been with us for several years. They all know the system.”
“That stuff would kill your vines?”
“Definitely. It’s absorbed by the leaves and travels through the plant’s system to its roots.”
“How do you apply it?”
“Usually with a backpack sprayer.” Blue pointed to several hanging on a wall. “For bigger jobs, we use a big sprayer we carry in a utility vehicle.” She pointed to a bucket resting on its side near the shelves. “Technically, you could mix it up in a bucket and throw the stuff around.”
“You think a member of your staff did this?”
Blue hesitated. “I fired one of our wait staff last night, and she was very angry.”
“Why did you fire her?”
“For tardiness and attitude, but you might as well know that she’d had an affair with my husband. I understand he broke up with her.”
“So she had reason to be mad at both of you.”
Blue nodded.
“Revenge is a great motive.”
“It could be an accident,” Blue clarified. “But after the break-in, I’m worried enough that I’d like to know for sure if it wasn’t.” She checked her watch. “I need to run. Are you okay on your own?”
Kado looked at Truman. “It’s hot in here. It’s hot out there. Rock, paper, scissors. Winner calls vines or jugs.”
MONEY LIKE THIS
BY THE TIME BRET and Bimbo finished their coffee, I’d picked out a new Furla handbag and Cindy was cooing over a pair of Cole Haan driving moccasins that were way out of her price range. Bret and his woman strolled through the department store and just like Cindy said, never noticed us.
I hooked up with her in the shoe department. “Do we follow at a safe distance?”
“What?” she asked, giving the moccasins a longing look as she returned them to the display.
“Never mind. I hope they’re in the Corvette. It’ll be easier to spot in traffic. Let’s go.”
Bret must’ve missed out on his morning nooky in Victoria’s Secret because he had his arm around Bimbo’s back and was reaching for a breast as they hurried across the blistering parking lot to that bright yellow Corvette.
“Lordy,” Cindy muttered as we ducked into the Lexus and surrendered our shaded space to a Mercedes. “They need to get a room.”
“I have a feeling they’re headed straight to bed. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Although Bimbo might be a hooker, it looks like she’s giving it to Bret at no charge.”
We spotted them pulling onto Park Lane and followed as they turned south on Central Expressway. Traffic was heavy enough that I stayed close, allowing only one or two cars to come between us. They exited on Lemmon Avenue and nipped down to Turtle Creek Boulevard, then turned onto Hall Street and pulled into a circular drive in front of a sweet little cottage.
“Holy cow,” I said. “This is where the money’s going.”
“What do you mean?”
I cruised past and stopped farther down the street. “This is Turtle Creek.” I swiveled to watch Bret walk around the Corvette and open Bimbo’s door. “Or maybe it’s Uptown.”
Cindy snapped photos with her phone. “So?”
“This is a pricey part of Dallas. That little cottage goes for a million, easy.”
“Get out.”
“Probably a tad more.”
“For that?”
“It’s small,” I agreed, watching Bret stroke Bimbo’s bottom as she unlocked the front door. “But property around here is worth a fortune.” I slipped the Lexus into gear. “Get the house number.”
“Why don’t we park here?” Cindy asked. She dug in her purse and jotted a note.
“Money like this doesn’t miss a beat.”
“I guess you’d know all about that.”
“Let it go, Cindy. Let’s find somewhere to eat. We can decide what to do from there.”
__________
AFTER CIRCLING BACK TO Lemmon and waiting for a parking spot to open, we settled into a Starbucks. The place was overrun with afternoon shoppers, but Cindy snagged a table and fired up a small laptop. By the time I delivered paninis and iced coffee, she had the property owner’s name: Nicole Ivy
. She spelled it for me. “He spells his with an ‘e’, doesn’t he?” she asked.
I nodded, swallowed. “Coincidence?”
“I think not.”
Cindy finished her sandwich, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and went to work. Within ten minutes we had Nicole’s life story, including her marriage certificate to a Bretton Baxter Ivy from 2002, but no divorce decree. A warning bell went off in my brain. Nicole’s social media pages showed the big bottomed bimbo we’d followed through Northpark, and the occasional photograph with a man that could be Blue’s Bret. In the few shots that included him, he rarely looked directly into the camera, and usually had a hat tipped to shade his eyes or his head turned, hiding most of his face.
“It’s got to be him,” I said. “But why would he spell his name differently?”
“And be married to two women at the same time?” She went back to work on the computer. “Give me another ten minutes and an espresso. And you need a muffin. You’re too thin.”
I cocked an eyebrow at my assertive cousin, but did as she bid. I returned with coffees for us both but sans muffin, and scooted my chair closer. The stuff these databases house is amazing. Instead of searching for more information about Nicole Ivy, Cindy was focusing on the man we knew as Bret Ivey. The deeper she dug, the less we found about him.
“Interesting,” she muttered.
“What?”
“He’s legit. But barely.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he has a semblance of a life out there. Stuff that’s verifiable, but doesn’t reveal too much.”
“For example?”
Cindy twisted the laptop so I could see better. The open website showed a photograph of grapes on a vine. A gorgeous view of mountains slideshowed onto the screen, followed by a shot of a rustic front porch. A man sat alone at a table, toasting the photographer, his face mostly obscured by shadows.
“That’s not Cedar Bend Winery,” I said.
“Nope. It’s out in California. A place called Stony Pike Winery. Owned by Bret Ivey and his lovely wife Imelda Sanchez Ivey, until they divorced in 2006.”
A Case of Sour Grapes Page 11