Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries)

by Nancy Skopin

The man who answered had a Middle Eastern accent and was difficult to understand. I asked if he kept records of his guests and what information was required before a room could be rented. He said everyone filled out a registration card with the usual information. I assumed that would include a name, address, telephone number, make and model of car, and vehicle license plate number. I asked him very politely to check his file for April 18, saying I’d gotten a bill from American Express for my daughter’s Platinum card, with a charge for his motel on that date. I insisted that she had not been out of town that weekend. He was uncooperative.

  It was beginning to look like I’d have to drive to Lompoc after all. I called the Sky Ranch again and asked for Big Al. He came on the line after a minute and told me he’d found three photos dated April 18. He hadn’t mailed them yet, so I told him to hold onto them and asked for directions.

  I stopped at the bank and deposited Kate’s retainer, then I gassed up the 2002. I noted the mileage on the odometer so I could bill Kate for the trip, and hit the road.

  As a rule I don’t like long drives, but it was a clear day and the coast highway is scenic. While I was driving it occurred to me what a convoluted path I’d followed to get to where I was today. I grew up in South San Francisco and spent my formative years in the company of my cousin Aaron, an unruly kid with a talent for making mischief. Aaron was two years older than I was, and apparently this gave him a certain credibility with adults because he always convinced my parents that I was responsible for his crimes. I was often the recipient of punishments that should have been his, usually a spanking or being locked in my room without TV privileges.

  Everyone’s family is dysfunctional to some extent, but I like to think mine is unique. There was no physical expression of affection in our house. My parents did not hold hands, kiss each other, or embrace in my presence. They also didn’t kiss or hug me. I would watch my friends interact with their families and wonder what was wrong with me. Everyone else was getting hugs and kisses. The only physical contact I remember is the regular spankings I received when I took the blame for Aaron’s transgressions.

  Although my dad spent time teaching me about guns and how to shoot, he did not play with me. He played, instead, with my cousin. He and Aaron used to run foot races in the back yard, but I was never invited to participate. I resented Aaron for this, but on some level I thought it was my fault, that because I was a girl I was unworthy.

  Mom had been playing the piano since childhood, so when she was excommunicated and married my dad, she hung out her shingle and started taking in students. This allowed her to be at home so she could care for me while earning an income. Both of Aaron’s parents worked, so Mom allowed her brother and his wife to park their devil child at our house.

  I now understand that children are slaves to their survival instincts. When we feel threatened, we do whatever we think is necessary to protect ourselves. For Aaron, that meant blaming me for anything he’d done that turned out to be a punishable offense. At the age of four I received a particularly severe beating for one of Aaron’s peccadilloes. I remember thinking at the time that I would never forgive him, or my parents.

  Because of this ongoing torment, I developed a profound need to see that justice is done – a hunger for the bad guys to get what they have coming to them. On the other hand, as a distorted consequence of my obsession with justice, I began shoplifting when I was six. If my parents thought I was bad, I might as well be bad. My life is full of this kind of paradox.

  Later, when I sold cosmetics, I graduated to stealing from my employer, till-tapping and taking merchandise home that I hadn’t paid for. After a few years, my retail career segued into security. I was surprisingly good at spotting shoplifters and till tappers, and management decided that talent was more valuable to them than making a sales quota. Eventually I was promoted to a security management position for the chain of department stores.

  When I accepted the management position I decided it was time to turn my life around. The fact that I’d had a miserable childhood didn’t mean the world owed me anything. I mailed in anonymous cashier’s checks until everything I’d stolen was paid for, or paid back. This took a while. I liked the security job, but I didn’t find my true calling until I became a PI.

  I believe the larcenous phase of my life contributes substantially to my ability to identify dishonest individuals today. It really does take a thief to catch a thief. In spite of the fact that I no longer rob anyone to satisfy my inner child, I have continued to live my life as though there is always something wrong and it’s my job to fix it. Knowing this allows me to use the compulsion rather than allowing it to use me, most of the time, and it makes me very good at what I do.

  Aaron became a criminal defense attorney. No doubt his childhood experiences also contribute to his success. We have an ambivalent relationship at best. I can’t forget what a little shit he was as a child, and all he can remember of our time together is that when I was old enough to defend myself I started kicking his ass.

  Almost three hours after leaving Redwood City I was on a dirt road leading to a vast field encircling two hangers and a number of small airplanes. I pulled into the unpaved parking area and looked around for signs of life. There were a few people smoking outside the hanger on my left, so I headed in that direction.

  Inside, the hanger was partitioned into room-sized spaces. To the left of the entrance was an open dressing area where jumpsuits, helmets, and goggles were hung. Beyond this was a counter with a cash register and a few skydiving brochures scattered in asymmetrical piles. To the right was a seating area where several young people had gathered on hassocks and couches.

  Behind the seating area was a small retail shop that appeared to stock all the paraphernalia associated with skydiving, and an office.

  I spoke to a young woman positioned behind the cash register and she pointed out Big Al, who was giving a class to beginners. He was indeed big. I’d say about six-five and three hundred pounds, in his early thirties, Caucasian, brown hair, mustache and beard, brown eyes.

  When Al inserted a disk into a DVD player and instructed his pupils to, “Pay attention and take notes,” I approached and introduced myself.

  Al gave me a warm, if slightly distracted smile, and shook my hand. His was calloused, warm, and dry. He asked me to wait a minute and went into the office, returning almost immediately with three Polaroid snapshots. I took a fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet and he gave me the photos. I fanned them out in my hands like playing cards and looked closely at each one.

  The third picture took my breath away. Standing next to Laura, dressed in a brown jumpsuit similar to hers, was the man I’d seen in the glass-walled computer lab at InSight. I flipped the picture over. Only the date was on the back.

  I looked up at Al, who said, “You okay? You look a little pale.”

  “This is really important. Do you have any records that would have this man’s name?” I held up the photo.

  Al scratched the back of his head and said, “There’s the consent forms.”

  “Consent forms?”

  “Yeah. Anybody goes up in a plane has to sign a waiver, you know, in case something happens, saying we’re not responsible.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  The office was a disaster, with stacks of paperwork and file folders covering two desks, but Al knew right where to look. He approached one of two large file cabinets against the rear wall and opened the bottom drawer. Consent forms were grouped according to month and year. Finding April was a breeze. I decided to photocopy all the forms from the eighteenth, just to be safe. Al went back to his class, leaving me alone in the office while I did this. I tucked the copies and the photographs into my purse, and discreetly passed Al another fifty on my way out.

  My knees felt weak as I crossed the
field to the parking lot. Since this was my first murder investigation any little clue was likely to cause an adrenaline rush. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, feeling the nicotine kick in. I was given my first cigarette when I was fourteen by my best friend in high school, Cher Costanza. It was a Salem. Now I smoke American Spirit Organics. I tell myself the lack of pesticides and additives makes them healthier than conventional cigarettes, but I know it’s a rationalization. I smoke to dull down my feelings. I understand nicotine is an extremely addictive, user-friendly drug, and I’m equally aware that I need to quit depending on it. But not today.

  I was too excited to drive, so I sat in my car and read the consent forms. Third from the bottom of the stack was a form signed by Laura, and directly beneath it was the consent form of Frederick Wulf, who lived in Menlo Park roughly two miles from the location where Laura had been killed. The hell with the Motel 6. I had what I needed.

  Chapter 10

  I called InSight on my cell and Tanya answered after three rings. Counting the number of times a telephone rings is a habit I picked up working for my mentor, Sam Pettigrew. In the PI business you have to document everything – the number of times a phone rings, the name and gender of the person who answers, the time, the date, everything they say, and everything you say – it all goes in the report.

  I said, “Frederick Wulf, please.”

  “One moment, I’ll see if he’s in.”

  I quickly disconnected, my heart racing. I took some deep breaths and checked my rearview mirrors to make sure no one had been listening. I knew I was overreacting. Laura had gone skydiving with a good-looking guy who had an unnerving stare, and who worked for her father. That didn’t mean anything. The fact that he lived within walking distance of where she was killed might mean something. My solar plexus was doing the samba. Sam taught me never to ignore my instincts. Your body knows things your mind is clueless about, Nicoli.

  I lead-footed it back to Redwood City.

  I arrived at the marina just after 5:00 and let myself into the office. I dropped my purse on the desk and rummaged through the office refrigerator looking for something to eat. All I found was a jar of dill pickles, some stale rice cakes, two bottles of mineral water, and a low-fat lactose free yogurt that I should have thrown out the previous week. I tossed the yogurt and ate one of the rice cakes at my desk.

  I took the snapshots and consent form copies out of my purse. I needed to learn more about Frederick Wulf. The obvious source would be Derrick, but he might tell Fred I’d asked about him. I decided to return to InSight and follow him when he got off work. I washed down the rice cake with some water, then locked up the office and drove to Palo Alto.

  I arrived at InSight at 5:23 and managed to find a parking space that gave me an angled view of both the front and side doors. I rolled down the windows, emptied the ashtray into a garbage bag, and began filling it up again.

  At 5:35 Fred came out the side door. I slid down in my seat, trying to be invisible, and picked up my camera. I have the mini digital camera for quick jobs, like Anderson’s binder, and a beautiful old Nikon with all the attachments that my mom gave me. I used the Nikon with a telephoto lens, allowing me to get a close-up of Fred’s profile. He walked around the side of the building to a silver-blue Jaguar XJS convertible. As he was putting the top down I snapped a few more pictures, including one of his license plate.

  I followed him as he slowly left the parking lot, staying about forty yards behind. On Highway 101 I closed the gap, but drove in the third lane while he took the first. Traffic was dense, making it easy for me to follow him without being obvious.

  Fred took the Marsh Road/Atherton exit, made a left on Marsh, and a right on Bay, then another right onto a residential street. He pulled into the driveway of a small cottage. I parked at the end of the block and discreetly snapped a few more photos as he climbed out of the Jag and entered the cottage.

  Laura had been killed on Bay Road in Redwood City and Fred lived in a cottage less than a block from Bay Road in Menlo Park. I don’t believe in coincidence. I sat there thinking for a few minutes before digging my cell phone out of my purse and calling Elizabeth. She answered on the second ring.

  “This is Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth is always professional, even when answering her home phone.

  “Are you doing anything tonight?”

  “Hi, honey. Why do you ask?”

  “I need you to watch someone for a couple of hours. I don’t want to risk having him recognize my car, in case he sees it again later. If he goes out, I need you to follow him. Call me if he stops somewhere and I’ll take over. Can you do it?”

  “Is he dangerous?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe.”

  “What’s the address?”

  I read the address off the consent form, and gave her directions.

  Elizabeth Gaultier is my best friend for many reasons, among them the fact that she seldom asks for favors, doesn’t gossip, much, and she’s always there when I need her. She’s five feet and one half inch tall and about a hundred pounds. Her strawberry blonde hair, hazel eyes, and the scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose make her look like an innocent but sexy waif. Her IQ would place her among the elite in Mensa if she were interested, which she isn’t. Nobody calls her Liz or Betsy, at least not more than once. She manages a small scientific software firm in Sunnyvale. She’s thirty-three years old, divorced, and has no children. Elizabeth collects acquaintances like crazy, but has only a few close friends. I consider myself fortunate to be one of them.

  Nine minutes later her green VW Beetle pulled up behind me. I climbed over the 2002’s gearshift and got out on the passenger side. I strolled casually back to her car, keeping my face turned away from Fred’s cottage. The drapes in his front window were drawn, but there was no sense taking chances.

  I got into the Beetle’s front seat and slid down. I pointed out the cottage and the Jaguar, and gave her the digital camera and my cell phone. Elizabeth doesn’t own a cell phone. She thinks they’re a needless expense. I told her I’d be in my office waiting for her call. This wasn’t the first time she’d covered for me on a surveillance, so there was no need for further instructions.

  The shortest route to the marina took me past the parking lot where Laura had been killed. Making a last minute decision I pulled into the lot. A shiny new dumpster had replaced the one confiscated by the police. I got out of my car and walked around the dumpster. There was a rust-colored stain on the pavement. As I looked down at it I felt my eyes begin to fill. It could have been the frustration of working on a case that might be too much for me, or maybe compassion for a young woman whose life had ended tragically, despite the advantages she’d had since birth.

  On the way home I made a quick stop at a Taco Bell for a low-fat Burrito Supreme, which I wolfed down while driving. I parked near the gated dock and hustled down to my boat where I changed into jeans, a tank top, and a windbreaker to cover the Ruger holstered at the small of my back. I washed my face and put on fresh lip gloss, then trotted up to my office to wait for Elizabeth’s call.

  The answering machine light was blinking when I got there. I pressed the play button. The message was from Kate, saying I could pick up a copy of Laura’s criminal record at the RCPD any time, and that I should, once again, ask for Detective Anderson. Anderson was Crimes Against Persons, but he would have pulled all of Laura’s records during the course of his investigation. I was not upset by the prospect of seeing him again.

  As I sat at my desk waiting for Elizabeth to call, I thought about the case. What would I do if I discovered who had taken Laura’s life, but couldn’t prove it to the DA’s satisfaction? My thoughts about Laura’s death drifted to thoughts about death in general, and my family. These are subjects that are often on my mind.

  Apart from the time we spent shooting
at targets, the only happy memory I carry around about my dad is his view of superstition. When I was seven he told me our family was special because all bad luck was reversed for us. It was good luck to have a black cat cross our path, or to walk under a ladder. A broken mirror meant you could look forward to the next seven years. Because I believed him, Friday the thirteenth has always been a very good day for me.

  My father was born in St Petersburg. His father, a Cossack, taught him how to kill with a miniature saber at the age of three. To hear him tell it, the Cossacks were more than just a band of Slavic horsemen, they were a bloodline of noble warriors. He once told me he’d changed his name when he arrived in the U.S. in order to avoid a Bolshevik hit squad. I didn’t find this out until my early twenties, when I finally asked him why our name didn’t sound Russian. He said he’d looked in his Russian/English dictionary and chosen Hunter because it was the closest word he could find to the translation of his family name, which he confided to me in hushed tones. He made me promise never to repeat it to anyone.

  A few months later Dad disappeared, and I found myself hungry for the details of his life that I’d failed to ask about while he was around. I did some research on Cossacks and Bolsheviks, and it seemed to me that anyone on this so-called hit squad would have to be in his nineties, unless they were descendents of the original group.

  I Googled the family name Dad had revealed to me and discovered a sixteenth-century Russian statesman and military leader with the same last name, who was also a cousin of the Tsar. I dug out Dad’s old address book and wrote to his brother in Australia, but he never responded. Finally I called the director of the Russian Choir in Pebble Beach and said I was interested in learning more about my father’s family. I told him my dad’s full name, and he gasped, then went ballistic, shouting, “One of them is still alive?” I dropped the receiver in the cradle and jumped back, afraid he might come after me through the phone lines.