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

by Nancy Skopin

  We got into the dinghy and I showed Elizabeth how the gun fit into the holster, reminding her not to put her finger inside the trigger guard unless she was ready to fire. I strapped on the fanny pack and we motored out to the slough.

  I am not by nature a violent person. Although I grew up target shooting with my dad, he only taught me how to use a long gun. I learned to shoot a handgun much later in life at the insistence of Sam Pettigrew. Sam used to take me to the range once a week. He also helped me get my concealed-carry permit. He knew the right people at the Sheriff’s Department. Sam doesn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks. Pepper spray just pisses some people off, Nicoli, he used to say. You need something with stopping power.

  At first, handling any type of pistol creeped me out. It seemed so much more personal than a rifle. If I ever had to shoot someone in self-defense, I wanted to be as far away from the part of the gun where the bullet came out as possible. But the more time I spent practicing at the range and at home cleaning my little Ruger, the more confident I became.

  Elizabeth had a good eye and, in spite of her concern about breaking a nail, she was comfortable with the Glock in about an hour. Her wrists were sore and the palm of her hand was red, but she had a self-satisfied smirk on her face. We took the dinghy back to the marina and I taught her how to clean the gun.

  At 10:30 I dug out my lock picks. Time for lesson number two. I keep several locksets stowed in my galley settee. I showed Elizabeth how the internal mechanism worked on each type of lock, and again she proved to be a quick study. After the first few tries she could open a standard lock in less than a minute. Sometimes it pays to have a high IQ.

  I called Fred and told him we were on for dinner and he asked what kind of food I liked. I said any place with a salad bar would be fine with me. He suggested the Chart House in Half Moon Bay. That would be about a thirty-minute drive.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Why don’t I meet you at your house at nine?”

  He agreed, saying nothing about the fact that San Mateo, where I had told him I lived, was between his house and Half Moon Bay.

  Elizabeth and I left the Glock on her trawler and walked up to The Diving Pelican, the marina restaurant. Over lunch we discussed the layout of Fred’s house. I drew her a diagram on a paper napkin and made notes of what to check in each room. I felt confident now that she had the skills and information necessary to conduct a successful search.

  Chapter 14

  After lunch I stopped by the office and called the Redwood City Police Department, hoping to get my hands on Laura’s criminal arrest records, but Detective Anderson wasn’t in. It was Saturday, after all.

  I went to the gym and spent half an hour on the treadmill and twenty minutes on the StairMaster, then used the Nautilus machines and the free weights. I pushed myself to lift more weight than usual and the endorphins did their job. I felt great.

  That afternoon I colored the white streaks in my hair with some temporary stuff that shampoos out, and painted my nails with clear polish. I considered shopping for a new outfit and realized I was behaving like this was a real date. I decided, instead, to take a power nap.

  When I got up I made coffee, and when it was ready I filled a thermal mug and walked up to the office. As I was unlocking the door I remembered I had Anderson’s cell number. I found his card in my wallet and dialed. He answered on the second ring. He’d been working an assault case and was now in his office. He said he’d been expecting my call.

  Ten minutes later Detective Anderson met me in the RCPD lobby. He was carrying a manila folder, and he smiled when he saw me.

  “You do something different with your hair?” he asked.

  “Just colored it,” I said, blushing.

  “Looks good.”

  My body responded to the compliment. My ears felt hot and my stomach growled.

  He escorted me into the same interview room we’d used before. This time we both sat down at the table. I opened the folder and looked at the file. Laura had been arrested for solicitation while working at the Fanny Pack. The next day the charges had been dropped.

  “What’s the story?” I asked, holding up the arrest report. “Do you know any of the details?”

  “Some. When I was assigned the homicide I pulled her criminal record and called McCarthy, the arresting officer. He said he’d been undercover at the club because there was a prostitution ring operating out of there. Laura did a table dance for him without being asked and whispered in his ear that she’d blow his mind for five hundred bucks. He Mirandized her and hauled her in. Which was stupid if you think about it, since he was supposed to be undercover. Later, when her attorney showed up, she told him that she’d known McCarthy was a Vice cop and that she wanted the customers to see her being arrested because it would increase her tips. Apparently she’d only been dancing there for a few weeks and hadn’t developed a following yet. She had no priors, so the charges were dropped.”

  “Sounds like another way to aggravate her parents,” I said. “It also sounds like she had a good attorney.”

  Anderson’s eyes shifted away from mine. He didn’t respond to my comment about the attorney.

  “I searched Laura’s room yesterday and I didn’t find any birth control,” I said. “No pills, no diaphragm, no condoms, no sponges. Did your people remove anything?”

  “We didn’t find anything related to birth control in her room. Her purse was found in her car. It had two condoms in it, but they weren’t Trojan Supras.”

  He stared at me with a furrowed brow, as though he was trying to figure something out. I started to feel uncomfortable, so I turned back to the file. I read everything on Laura’s arrest and took some notes, but nothing was sinking in. There was too much tension in the room.

  Eventually I handed the folder back to him, thanked him for his time, and asked if I could call if I had any more questions. He said he’d be happy to help any way he could, but he didn’t sound happy.

  Driving back to the office I thought about the encounter, trying to work out what had caused Anderson’s mood to change. He’d gotten chilly when I mentioned Laura’s attorney. I made a mental note to ask Kate for the lawyer’s name and contact info.

  So far my only real suspect was Frederick Marcus Wulf. Fred was bright, bored with his job, handsome, and charming. He seemed to have a sense of humor and didn’t intimidate easily. He was organized to the point of being anal, but didn’t mind leaving a snoop like me alone in his house. He might be one of those macho types who repress their emotions, causing everyone else to think they don’t have any. Motive? Maybe Laura was threatening to tell her father about their relationship. That would be consistent with her previous behavior – trying to embarrass her parents. I didn’t think Fred being a little older was the issue. The fact that Fred was using Laura for sex might annoy her father. It would be enough to upset most fathers, especially when added to the fact that Fred worked for him. Some parents would take that as a sign of disrespect.

  Fred, like Laura, seemed to be chasing an adrenaline rush. Was it possible he’d killed her for sport, or had they been experimenting with erotic oxygen deprivation and it just got out of control?

  I itemized my expenses and added my notes on the solicitation bust to Laura’s file. I remembered I hadn’t told Kate I would take the case, so I called her and gave her the news. She thanked me, sounding relieved.

  “Are you making any progress?” she asked.

  “It’s too soon to tell, but I’ll send you a report next week.”

  I stopped at Elizabeth’s boat on the way to my own. She was watching TV and ironing with the door open. K.C. was curled up on deck. He stretched and opened an eye at me as I climbed the dock steps, then closed it again.

  “Do you remember how to get to Fred’s house?” I asked Elizabeth.

  “Of course,” she said, s
etting the iron down. “I’m really nervous.”

  “If you have any trouble getting in, or if the neighbors look suspicious, just forget the whole thing, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Want me to stop by when I get home?”

  “Duh!”

  I continued down the dock to my boat, stopping briefly to scratch behind D’Artagnon’s ears and under his chin. He wagged his tail in a circular motion like a propeller, and licked my nose.

  Chapter 15

  At 8:15 I changed into black jeans, a black silk tank, tan leather boots, and my camel hair blazer. I tucked the Ruger into my small-of-the-back holster, checked the mirror, and added lip gloss and mascara.

  Elizabeth was sitting outside on her dock steps as I approached her trawler. She was looking very athletic, wearing spandex shorts, a tee shirt, running shoes, and a terrycloth headband. My fanny pack holster was strapped around her waist.

  “I was hoping I’d catch you on your way out,” she said. “What time do you want me to get there?”

  “Nine forty-five. We should be gone by nine-thirty. You’ll see my car out in front. If you see the Jag, just keep walking. Why don’t you take my cell phone so I can call you before we leave the restaurant?” I dug the Nokia out of my purse and handed it to her. “Are you okay with this?”

  “Yes. No. What if I get caught? I mean, if one of the neighbors sees me and calls the police, what should I say?”

  “Don’t say anything. Just ask for your phone call. Call my machine at the office. I’ll check my messages as soon as I get home. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.” Famous last words.

  “You think?”

  “Absolutely. Park a couple blocks away. Maybe in the Marsh Manor lot on Bay. Jog the last block as you’re approaching the house. Look around to make sure no one’s paying attention to you, run up to the side gate, and let yourself in. Once you’re through the gate you won’t be visible from the street.”

  “Okay.” She brightened a little. “I can do this. Be careful.”

  “You too.”

  As I walked to my car I thought again about calling the whole thing off, but then we might never know. I got in the BMW and drove to Menlo Park, arriving at Fred’s house ten minutes early. I sat there looking around the neighborhood. I didn’t see anyone peering out their front windows. Most of the drapes in the surrounding houses were closed.

  I got out of my car, slammed the door hard, and did a quick spin, checking to see if anyone responded to the noise. No one did. Not even Fred.

  I approached his door and knocked. The peephole went dark for a beat and then Fred slid back the deadbolt and opened the door. He wore a pair of navy-blue wool gabardine slacks with a crimson V-neck cashmere sweater, and he was holding an empty rocks glass.

  “Wow, you look great!” I said.

  His eyes glowed with satisfaction. “So do you,” he said. “Come in.”

  “Sorry I’m early. It’s a bad habit I picked up at birth.”

  He chuckled. I usually like men who laugh at my jokes.

  “You want a Guinness?” he asked.

  “Sure. What time is our reservation?”

  I followed him into the kitchen and he handed me a bottle of stout, which I opened myself.

  “Nine forty-five. We have plenty of time. I called the Chart House this afternoon and they’re socked in with fog, so I thought we’d go to the Garden Grill instead. They have a great salad bar.”

  The Garden Grill was in Menlo Park, five minutes from Fred’s house, and they didn’t have a salad bar. I knew the owner, Jessica James, and had been a regular since it opened. Also, the proximity increased the risk for Elizabeth.

  “I love the fog,” I said, “And I was really looking forward to a walk on the beach after dinner.” I hate people who wheedle, but I am not above doing it myself.

  “Really? Well if you’re sure, I’ll give them a call and see when they can seat us.”

  His phone was in the kitchen. I perched on the arm of the sofa so I could eavesdrop.

  He made the call, requested a table for two, and then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

  “They can seat us at nine fifteen,” he said. “We’d better get going.”

  “Great!” I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath.

  I ditched my half full Guinness bottle in the kitchen sink and headed for the front door, then glanced over my shoulder and saw Fred stride to the sink. He emptied and rinsed the bottle, then dried it and placed it in the recycling bin. More than a little compulsive. No matter what happened with the case, we wouldn’t be seeing each other for long.

  The winding road to Half Moon Bay makes me nervous under the best of circumstances and Fred took the turns at fifty-five miles an hour. Going around some of those curves at a high speed is just stupid. I thought he might be trying to scare me until I remembered that he and Laura shared a penchant for risk-taking. Maybe that was why they had been attracted to each other.

  When we arrived at the coast the first thing I noticed was the complete absence of fog.

  “It must have cleared up since this afternoon,” he said, reading my thoughts.

  We pulled into the Chart House parking lot at 9:17, and were lucky enough to find a vacant space. When we entered the restaurant we were seated immediately, although most of the tables in the dining area were occupied. If I didn’t do something to slow the evening down we’d be back at Fred’s cottage too early for Elizabeth to complete her search. I decided to have an appetizer, an entrée, and the salad bar, to give her enough time. So much for my diet.

  I ordered oysters on the half shell, and Fred ordered the same. Our waiter, Stephan, offered beverages, and I chose a mineral water while Fred ordered Glenlivit. Stephan gave us menus after listing the evening’s specials, and I took my time reading about each entree, trying to determine which items would take the longest to prepare. I decided on the lobster Thermidor, a spinach soufflé, and the salad bar.

  Stephan served our oysters and when he took my dinner order a polite smile spread over his face, no doubt envisioning a healthy tip. I’d have to insist on paying that myself. Fred ordered the poached salmon with wild rice.

  After Stephan left we both focused on our oysters. They were fresh, firm, plump, free of grit, and properly chilled. Very good. Anyone who enjoys oysters doesn’t want to be distracted while eating them. We were silent until all the shells were empty. Then I looked across the table at my dinner companion.

  “So, Marc … Do you want me to keep calling you Marc, or do you prefer Fred?”

  “I’m thinking of changing my first name to Marcus,” he said. “Fred sounds so banal.”

  “Okay, Marc,” I smiled, trying to be disarming. “Tell me about yourself. Where did you grow up?”

  No sense procrastinating. I wanted a full psychological profile on this guy and he would either cooperate or he wouldn’t.

  “Southern California,” he said. “My father was a minister and Mom taught high school English.”

  I felt a twinge of sympathy. I knew first hand how hard it was to live with a religious parent.

  “Are they both still alive?”

  “My mother is. My father passed away last year.”

  “I’m sorry. Was he ill?”

  “Adrenal insufficiency.”

  I considered for a moment what might cause someone’s adrenal glands to fail.

  “Does your mom still live in Southern California?”

  “Santa Barbara. What about you? Were you raised around here?”

  “Born and raised in San Jose,” I lied. I didn’t want this guy getting any ideas about paying my mom a visit. “I think I’ll go get my salad,” I said, putting an abrupt end to any conversation about my family.

  I managed t
o waste five minutes circling the salad bar, dishing up a small portion of each item. I like to try everything, even if I can’t tell what it is by looking at it. When I got back to the table Fred was on his second scotch.

  “I love a good salad bar,” I said. “So many choices.”

  “It looks like you chose everything.” He was smiling, but his tone was condescending.

  I picked at my salad, not wanting my reactions to become sluggish from overeating. I’d nibbled away a third of it when our entrees were served. The spinach soufflé was moist and light as a feather, and the lobster Thermidor was to die for.

  “Tell me about the skydiving,” I said.

  “We only did that together once. Laura said she liked the free-fall, but after the chute was open it became tedious because you had the same view all the way down. I think she just went along to introduce me to a new thrill. She’d become bored with it after her first solo jump.”

  “Solo jump?”

  “That’s when you jump out of the plane alone. Your first jump has to be in tandem with an instructor. You’re strapped into a double harness together.”

  “So that time on the video wasn’t your first jump?”

  “Oh no, it was my first.”

  “And they let you jump alone?”

  I could guess why, but I wanted to hear it anyway.

  “Laura paid them triple the usual rate for both of us so they would let me jump without an instructor. They could have lost their license, but she was very persuasive. She said she wanted me to fully experience the free-fall, so they rushed me through the beginners’ class, and up we went.”

  “How was it?” I asked.

  “It was exhilarating. If you’ve never tried it, you really should. But Laura was right, once your parachute opens and you’ve seen the view, the rest is monotonous.”