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

by Nancy Skopin

  “You’ll have to talk to Administration about that,” he said.

  I thanked him again and walked out to my car. I managed to find my way out of the campus maze without getting lost this time, and drove north to the 1-Hour-Photo. I collected my pictures of Fred and looked them over before driving back to the office. He was very photogenic, and I had a good shot of his license plate from the InSight parking lot. Feeling pleased with myself, I took out my little notebook and wrote myself a reminder to have CIS run a criminal background on Fred. I should have done that already. I’d had his social security number since Friday night.

  All of a sudden I had suspects coming out of my ears. When I got back to the office I listed them all in Laura’s file, just in case I developed amnesia. When the list was complete I considered taking a drive to San Francisco and surprising Derrick’s son, Rod, but I didn’t feel like making the trip for nothing, so I called. The phone rang four times before the voice-mail kicked in.

  “You’ve reached the home of Rod Howard. If you leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”

  I waited for the beep, then left my name and number, not mentioning why I was calling. No sense tipping him off if Derrick hadn’t already done that.

  I was feeling tired, irritable, and hungry. I walked across the marina to The Diving Pelican and ordered the roast turkey special. I finished most of it, then went down to Elizabeth’s trawler to see if she was home. She wasn’t. I shuffled the rest of the way to my boat and collapsed. Turkey always makes me sleepy.

  An hour later I woke up, called my office machine, and retrieved my messages. Rod had returned my call. His father had told him who I was. He said he’d be home until 6:00 p.m. It was 2:00. He hadn’t left his phone number.

  I dug through my purse looking for my notebook, but after emptying everything out onto the bunk I remembered I’d left it on my desk. I put on sunglasses and made the trek back up to the office.

  All the marina dogs were inside hiding from the heat. As I passed Elizabeth’s boat I noticed her door was still closed. Probably shopping.

  When I reached the office I listened to Rod’s message again. He sounded impatient. A family trait? I located my notebook and found the number, dialed it, and waited while the phone rang four times.

  “Rod Howard.”

  “This is Nicoli Hunter,” I said. “I got your voice-mail message. If you’re going to be home for a while I’d like to speak with you in person. I can be there in about forty-five minutes.” If traffic was light I could make it in thirty.

  “You mean today? Can’t we just talk on the phone?”

  It’s easier to tell if someone is lying in person.

  “I have some pictures I need to show you.” I anticipated his next suggestion. “They’re too dark to fax.”

  “Oh, I suppose,” he sighed. “Do you know how to get to Diamond Heights?”

  “Two-eighty to San Jose Avenue, left on Dolores, and left on Twenty-ninth?”

  “Yes. Then turn right on Diamond and park. I’m at the corner of Twenty-eighth and Diamond, on the right. You have the address?”

  I read him the address Sylvia had given me and he confirmed that it was correct.

  “I’ll see you in forty-five minutes,” he huffed, and hung up.

  I could picture him glaring at the phone with his father’s eyes.

  Chapter 17

  The drive to San Francisco went swiftly and I was there by 2:40. Parking was something else altogether. I drove slowly around the block, and finally settled for a spot under a tree full of sparrows that my little Bimmer would just fit into. The car needed to be washed anyway.

  I squeezed into the space, locked the car, and walked the half block to Rod’s address. It was a two-story gray bungalow with white trim. The houses on either side of Rod’s were identical to his, except for the color. The one on the left was a pale peach, also with white trim, and the house on the right was white with green trim. There was a fence around his tiny front yard, and a locked gate at the entrance to a walkway that led into a small courtyard.

  I pressed Rod’s buzzer, looking up at the second-story windows. After a few moments the gate emitted a high-pitched whine and I pushed my way through. On the other side of the courtyard was a concrete stairway leading up to the front door. The door was red and the brass knocker was shaped like a bull’s head with a ring through its nose. I was halfway up the steps when the door opened.

  Rod Howard was indeed a younger version of his father, with slightly more delicate features. His nose was hooked, his lips were thin, and he was over six feet tall. His eyes were hawk-like and his pupils were dilated. I reached out to shake his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, he responded. His was cold and damp, his grip firm, but twitchy.

  “Nicoli Hunter,” I said. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “Come in,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Would you like coffee? I just made a pot.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  “Cream or sugar?”

  “Do you have any lactose-free milk?”

  “No.”

  “Then regular milk will be fine. No sugar, thanks.”

  My reaction to lactose in small doses is mild. I just get a little phlegmy. Unfortunately, this does nothing to diminish my craving for dairy.

  Rod went into the kitchen to get the coffee and I wandered into the living room. The furnishings were modern and sparse. Everything was neutral in color. The carpet was light beige, the leather sofa was cream-colored, and the lithographs on the walls were black and white with red accents.

  There was a fireplace against the rear wall that looked like it had never been used. There were no ashes, anywhere. A stereo system dominated the front wall under a plate glass window facing the street. To the right of the living room, also at the front of the house, was a dining alcove containing a large flat panel TV, a cherry wood table, and six matching chairs. The kitchen was between the dining alcove and the front hallway.

  Rod came out carrying a tray with two steaming mugs, napkins, and a small pitcher of milk. He set the tray on the dining room table. I chose a cup and added milk. I tried a tentative sip. The coffee was hot, fragrant, and robust.

  “Excellent.”

  “I grind the beans myself,” he said, and smiled briefly.

  “I can tell.”

  After I’d finished half the cup I reluctantly set it down on a napkin and took out the pictures I’d copied from the yearbook. I spread them on the table. Rod looked at them as he sipped his coffee and picked up the one of Laura and Charles together.

  “God she was beautiful. When was this taken?”

  “It’s from her last year in college. Do you recognize the man?”

  He looked more closely, then said, “No. Is this Charlie? I never met him.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s Charles Spencer. Did Laura talk to you about him?”

  “She mentioned him occasionally. We didn’t really see that much of each other. She’d mostly just call. Sometimes come up for the weekend when Dad and Kate were getting her down.”

  He set the picture back on the table and clenched his jaw, causing the muscles to bunch. Something was making this guy edgy. It could be my presence, or it could be whatever made his pupils remain dilated in the bright sunlight coming through the picture windows. Probably it was a combination of the two.

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea where Charles lives.”

  “No.”

  “What did Laura say about him?”

  “When they first got together she thought he was wonderful, but after a couple of years she told me he was rigid and controlling.” His right eye twitched, and he pressed a finger to his temple.

  “Did you talk to her after they split up?”

  “No mo
re than usual. Why?”

  “I’m curious about how Charles handled the breakup.”

  “Now that you mention it, she did say he wouldn’t let go. He kept showing up at the house, even when she wasn’t there. He asked Kate to try and talk some sense into her, as if that would do any good.”

  “Was she afraid of him?”

  “I don’t think so. Do you think he killed Laura?”

  “I haven’t even met him. Did you get the feeling from your talks with Laura that he was capable of violence?”

  “Well, she said he was a jock, and you know how they are.”

  I assumed Rod hadn’t done well in sports. Time to stop beating around the bush. “I understand you’ll be getting half of Laura’s inheritance.”

  “That’s right, and Dad and Aunt Sylvia will get the rest.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Oh my God, what a question! How would you feel if you lost a sibling and then inherited a few million dollars?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’d feel guilty.”

  “Well, that’s how I feel. I’ve got a load of laundry to put in the dryer. I’ll be right back.”

  He stalked down the hall toward the rear of the house and went out through a back door.

  I listened to his footsteps descending the stairs. When I couldn’t hear them anymore I made a quick tippy-toe tour of the house. Office, bedroom, and bathroom in the back. Nothing much of interest in the office. Art books on the bedroom shelves. The bathroom was pristine. Only prescription drugs in the medicine cabinet.

  On my way back to the living room I spotted a leather shoulder bag on the hall table opposite the front door. I held my breath, listening intently, and when I didn’t hear approaching footsteps I took a chance. Digging into the bag I quickly located his wallet, found his driver’s license, and memorized the number. I replaced the wallet and dashed back into the dining room just as Rod came up the stairs. I picked up my cup and tried to slow my breathing, repeating the license number in my head.

  He came out through the kitchen, looked into his cup and said, “You want more coffee?”

  “Please.”

  I made a note of his driver’s license number while he was getting the coffee.

  Rod seemed even twitchier now than he had before. I wondered if he might have supplied Laura with the crank Frank said she had used.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Laura out of the way?”

  “What makes you think it was someone she knew?”

  “I don’t know. Just a hunch, I guess. Any ideas?”

  It didn’t seem appropriate to discuss the absence of defensive wounds with Rod, or to mention the fact that Laura’d had sex just prior to her death. I hoped it had been someone she knew. If she’d turned to prostitution and had been killed by one of her clients, the odds against finding her murderer were even higher.

  “Laura was beautiful and smart,” he said, “and sometimes tactless. I suppose it could have been someone who was jealous of her. But if you really want my opinion, I think our father deserves a second look. He molested Laura when she was a child, you know. She told me about it one night when she’d had too much to drink. Maybe he couldn’t handle her displaying her beautiful body for all those strangers every night.”

  Holy shit!

  “What about you?” I asked, my mind racing in disgusting directions.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did your father molest you?” It was a reasonable question. I had read that pedophiles are often attracted to both male and female children.

  “Oh. No. Not that I recall anyway,” he said. “Although that would explain a lot.” He gazed out the window and his eyes lost focus.

  “Do you know if Laura told anyone else about this?”

  With an effort Rod pulled his attention back to me. “I don’t think she even remembered telling me,” he said, and sipped his coffee. “She’d recently started therapy with a woman she said was both a psychologist and a Shaman. During one of their sessions her childhood memories started to surface. Poor kid had no idea how to deal with it. That’s why she came up here for a visit. She needed to get out of the house and process the information. You know…that’s the last time I saw her.” He frowned, and sipped more coffee.

  “And you believed her?”

  “Yes. She was drunk, but she described what she’d remembered in detail, and the particulars convinced me.”

  I wanted to know about the particulars, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

  “Did you ever confront your father about it?”

  He coughed out a laugh. “You haven’t spent much time with Dad, have you? He’s not a man you casually confront. Besides, I wouldn’t want to risk being disinherited. That wife of his isn’t much better. She’s addicted to tranquilizers. I have no idea why Laura chose to live with them. What a misery that must have been for her.”

  It was time for me to go. I’d leave Rod to ponder whether or not he’d also repressed childhood memories too traumatic to cope with.

  I took out a business card. “Do you remember where you were the night Laura was killed?” I asked, holding out the card.

  Rod’s face flushed and the veins in his temples bulged. “I was here,” he said. “Alone.”

  I thanked him for his time and since he hadn’t taken my card from me, I placed it on the table. I asked him to call if he thought of anything else I should know, and I let myself out, the hair on the back of my neck prickling.

  Chapter 18

  Driving back to Redwood City I replayed the Rod Howard interview in my mind. I didn’t like Rod, but that was no reason to assume he’d kill his own sister for half of a measly five million dollar inheritance, plus interest. The way he’d casually brought up the issue of molestation, implicating his father, gave me something to think about. I half suspected he’d done that to divert attention away from himself. Maybe the combination of the money and his desire to point the finger at his dad made him a suspect, but I didn’t get a killer vibe from Rod. I would run financial and criminal backgrounds on him, and then decide if he was worth a closer look.

  I wanted to suspect Fred/Marc, but the only incriminating item in his house was the box of condoms.

  Derrick was annoying enough that I almost hoped he was guilty of something for which he could be incarcerated. I’d pay him a visit at his office tomorrow and see how worked-up he got discussing Laura’s solicitation arrest.

  Charles was looking good too. Rigid, uptight, not willing to let go after Laura ended the relationship, and a jock. Definitely in the running. I’d have to track him down.

  When I got back to the office I hauled out my Palo Alto phone book. It’s a little known fact that private investigators keep stacks of telephone directories in their offices for occasions such as this. Not everything can be found online. There were six Charles Spencers listed in the city of Palo Alto. I called the first one and got an answering machine. I left my name and number, and dialed the second. A man who sounded at least a hundred answered on the third ring.

  “Is this Charles Spencer?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Charles Senior or Charles Junior?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I must have the wrong number.”

  The next was answered by a cheerful woman who sounded like she was in her twenties.

  “Is this the home of Charles Spencer?” I asked.

  “Yes, it is,” she chirped.

  “Is he there?”

  “Not at the moment. May I take a message?”

  “Actually, I’m trying to organize a reunion and I’m not sure I have the right number. Did Charles go to Stanford?”

  “Why yes, he did! Who’s this?”

 
Oops. It hadn’t occurred to me she might have been in the same class. Now I was stuck.

  “My name is Nicoli Hunter.” When you’re stuck, you’re stuck.

  “Nicoli. I don’t remember any Nicoli, but it’s a big campus.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ashley. I used to be Ashley Drake. Now, of course, I’m Ashley Spencer.”

  “Ashley, why don’t you give me your address and I’ll send you all the information.”

  “Excellent! I love reunions.”

  She gave me an address on Emerson Street in Palo Alto.

  “When is it going to be?” she asked.

  “Sorry? Oh, the reunion. Not for a couple of months. I’ll get this information packet right out to you.”

  I hung up before she could ask any more questions. I’d get up early tomorrow and follow Charles to work.

  I typed an e-mail to CIS requesting a standard background check on Frederick Marcus Wulf, based on his social security number, and asking for DMV, financial, and criminal records on Rod Howard in San Mateo, San Francisco, and Santa Clara Counties.

  After sending the e-mail I checked my watch. I had time to do my grocery shopping before meeting up with Elizabeth. I drove to Whole Foods and loaded the basics into my cart; tuna, lettuce, avocado, broccoli, carrots, raw sunflower seeds, peanut butter, organic Kona coffee, spring water, and dog biscuits. I snacked on the sunflower seeds driving back to the marina.

  As I was walking down the companionway Elizabeth appeared in her open doorway, said, “Wait a minute,” and disappeared back inside.

  Because Elizabeth’s boat is at the bottom of the ramp, she has learned to recognize familiar footsteps. I reached her trawler and set my groceries on the dock steps.