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

by Nancy Skopin

  She returned a moment later, brandishing two new pairs of size four-and-a-half shoes. The first looked like tiny black combat boots, but stylish, and the second were teal and purple reef runners.

  “Very nice,” I said.

  “What should I wear tonight?”

  I was relieved that she’d remembered.

  “Whatever you’re comfortable in. It’s a dive. The employees dress in spandex or nothing at all.”

  “Okay, casual. Sevenish?”

  “Perfect.”

  I walked to my boat and put away the groceries, then sat down in the main salon, put my feet up on the settee, and drank one of the bottles of water. That’s when I remembered I was meeting Detective Anderson after Elizabeth and I got back from the Fanny Pack. It was almost 6:00. Crap! I grabbed a towel and my shower bag, and sprinted up to the marina facilities.

  When I was squeaky clean I took a long appraising look in the mirror and decided I needed to get more sleep. I’m one of those unfortunate individuals who need at least eight hours a night in order to be at my best. I gelled, scrunched, and dried my curls, then hurried back down to my boat.

  I put on the same outfit I’d worn the night before, minus the high healed boots. I slipped on my Eccos instead. People who live aboard learn to minimize, particularly in the area of wardrobe. There isn’t room for duplication, so we generally have only the essentials. Otherwise we end up with boxes of clothes we don’t even remember we own in storage.

  I checked the Glock’s magazine and pulled the slide back to make sure a round was chambered. I slipped it back into my purse holster, noting with satisfaction its compact profile.

  I applied some ruby-red lip gloss and just a dab of Must de Cartier, my signature scent. Then I loaded my pockets with dog biscuits and strolled over to Elizabeth’s. I stopped along the way to feed D’Artagnon the biscuits, reminding him what a good dog he was. When he’d swallowed the last bite, he leaned his forehead up against mine, sighed, and wagged his tail.

  As I continued down the dock, I noticed a petite brunette perched on the steps of Elizabeth’s trawler. She was wearing a floral print mini-dress and a pair of tiny black combat boots. I did a double take.

  “What do you think?” she said.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s the idea?”

  “In case any of the people we talk to tonight is a psycho-killer, I don’t want them to be able to recognize me. I borrowed this from Lily. Does it look real?” she asked, patting her head.

  “Yes. You look great, but I like you better as a strawberry blonde.”

  “Thank you, sweetie. Are we ready to go?”

  “In a minute. I want to brief you on what we’re looking for.”

  “Can’t we do that in the car?” she asked.

  “I guess so.”

  We arrived at the Fanny Pack at 7:13. I’d forgotten to call and ask if Frank and Candy worked on Sundays. Too late now. I pulled into the last available space in the parking lot.

  Elizabeth stopped just inside the door, the way I had on my first visit.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  I gave her a gentle shove and we walked toward the bar. Frank was on duty.

  “Hi, Frank,” I said, as we sat down.

  He squinted at me through the cigarette smoke, smiled, pointed at me, and said, “The PI, right?”

  “Right. This is my friend, Lisa.”

  Elizabeth reached across the bar and shook his hand. Unbelievable. He gave her a big smile.

  “Coffee?” he asked, glancing in my direction. Before I could answer he’d filled a cup and was concentrating on Elizabeth again. “And what can I get for you?” he said, leaning forward.

  Apparently Frank thought this was a social visit. Elizabeth ordered a tall Mudslide. Frank prepared the drink with a flourish, filled a tall rocks glass, placed two straws in it, and set the chocolaty concoction in front of Elizabeth expectantly. He had made a rapid recovery since our last conversation.

  She took a sip. “Wow!” she exclaimed.

  “Too strong?” Frank asked.

  “Oh no. It’s perfect,” she giggled.

  I decided to break up the party. “Frank, I need to show you some pictures.”

  He turned to me, looking a little surprised that I was still there. I pulled the yearbook photocopies of Charles out of my bag, along with the Polaroid shot of Fred and Laura from the Sky Ranch, and one of the pictures I’d taken of Fred at InSight. I placed them on the bar and he looked at each one.

  “Well, he looks kind of familiar,” he said, pointing to the photo of Fred next to his Jaguar, “But I see so many people in here, and it’s always dark. I’m not sure.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Were you working the night Laura was arrested?”

  “No, but I sure heard about it. It was all anybody could talk about. Candy was royally pissed off, but she’s always pissed about something.”

  “What about Alfred?” I asked.

  “He thought Laura was cool for not telling the cops about the rooms upstairs when she got busted.” He realized what he’d said, blanched, and started washing glasses.

  “It’s okay Frank. I’m a PI, not the police.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess everybody knows what goes on up there anyway. Laura was never part of that, though.”

  “So she knew the guy was a cop?” I asked.

  “That’s what she said.”

  “How?”

  He thought about it for a minute. “I’m not sure.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Frank. You’ve been great.”

  I put a twenty on the bar as Frank made his rounds, checking on the other customers. Elizabeth was watching a lap dance.

  “Elizabeth,” I said. She didn’t seem to hear me. “Elizabeth,” I said, louder this time. I finally had to grab her arm and give her a shake to get her attention.

  She was so startled she almost fell off her barstool. “What!”

  “Let’s go talk to the dancers.” I pointed to the hallway.

  “What?” she repeated.

  The music wasn’t that loud. I think she was in shock. As we moved away from the bar Frank told Elizabeth he’d keep her drink cold for her and she grinned like an idiot.

  Alfred’s door was closed, but I could smell the cigar smoke. If he was watching his monitors he already knew we were there. We continued down the hall and I knocked on the dressing room door. Almost a minute passed before it was opened a crack. Buffy peered out at us. I reminded her who I was and asked if we could come in. She looked puzzled, but stepped back, allowing us to enter.

  Candy was seated at her dressing table, putting on make-up. She gave us a sideways glance, and then looked back into the mirror. There was one woman present whom I hadn’t met before, a tall willowy brunette. I decided to try the group interview thing again. I pulled the pictures out of my bag.

  “Does anyone recognize either of these guys?” I asked, as I spread the pictures across an unoccupied vanity table.

  Buffy and the woman I hadn’t met before came over. They both looked stoned, and I spotted a tiny charred wad of aluminum foil on Buffy’s make-up table.

  Neither of them recognized Charles or Fred. I walked the pictures over to Candy.

  “How you doin’, Candy?”

  “Fine. You?” She made eye contact with me in the mirror.

  “Not so good. I need your help.”

  When in doubt, ask for help, that’s my motto. It got her attention. She selected the picture of Charles and Laura, and placed a long red fingernail on the image of Charles.

  “If this is him he’s older now, less hair, but he’s still built nice. He used to come in once or twice a week. Stayed in the back, in the shadows.”

  Shazam!
>
  “Was this when Laura was working?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me about Laura’s arrest. I understand she propositioned a Vice cop.”

  “Yeah, the bitch. With all my regulars watchin’ too.”

  “How did she know he was Vice?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s the funny thing. I was on stage when it happened. She walked right up to this guy’s table like she knew him. He didn’t request a table dance. I checked.”

  “So it looked like she’d met him before?”

  “Sort of.” She gave me back the photocopy. “I gotta go on.”

  “Thanks,” I said to her back as she sashayed toward the door.

  I turned to the other dancers and handed out business cards again. I asked if any of them knew how Laura had found out the officer who’d arrested her was Vice. No one said a word. They just looked at each other and shook their heads.

  I collected Elizabeth, who was hovering near the door, and we went down the hall to Alfred’s office. His door was open now, but he wasn’t inside. We were turning back toward the bar when we heard a toilet flush and Alfred sauntered out of the men’s room, puffing on a stogy.

  “Hey, Alfred,” I said.

  He looked me up and down, making my skin crawl, then turned his attention to Elizabeth. A lecherous smile spread over his face. “You lookin’ for work?”

  Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open and she looked at me, a stunned expression on her face.

  “She’s with me,” I said. “Nicoli Hunter, PI, remember?”

  Alfred tore his eyes away from Elizabeth. “Oh, yeah. What do you want?”

  “I just need to show you a couple of pictures. Won’t take a minute.”

  “Okay,” he grumbled. “Come on in.”

  We sat, even though he hadn’t offered. Elizabeth seemed mesmerized by the closed-circuit video monitors. I handed Alfred the pictures of Charles and Fred. He looked them over, and said, “So?”

  “Have you seen either man before?”

  “Nope. But that don’t mean they ain’t customers. I spend most of my time in the office and you can’t really make out faces on these things.” He gestured toward the monitors.

  “Okay. Tell me what happened when Laura was arrested.”

  “You heard about that, huh? It was no big deal. She was new, and she propositioned this guy from Vice. When she got arrested I was sure she’d blow the whistle on my little operation, but she kept her mouth shut like a good girl. After that I asked her if she wanted to work upstairs between sets, but she wasn’t interested. You sure you aren’t lookin’ for work?” he asked Elizabeth.

  “No, but thank you for asking.”

  Elizabeth is polite under the most unusual circumstances.

  I gathered up the pictures and we went back to the bar. Elizabeth wanted to finish her drink. It was 8:02 and I was meeting Anderson at 8:30. I toyed with the idea of leaving her there, but decided that wouldn’t be kosher, even if Frank was more than capable of watching out for her.

  I let them flirt with each other for another ten minutes while I watched Candy make love to a pole on stage. When I finally pointed to my watch, indicating it was time to go, Elizabeth looked disappointed. We said goodnight to Frank and he told Elizabeth what days and hours he worked, and asked her to come back. She giggled again.

  When we were outside and the door had closed behind us I said, “Cradle robber.”

  “He’s not that young,” she countered. “Besides, it’s flattering when a younger man is attracted to you.”

  We were in the parking lot walking toward my car when I heard the crunch of gravel behind us. I cast a casual glance over my shoulder as a stocky man wielding a knife stepped out from behind an SUV. He was dressed all in black and wearing a ski mask. It was much too hot for a ski mask. I reached for the Glock, but before I could draw the gun Elizabeth kicked him in the balls and then slammed him in the face with her shoulder bag. He dropped the knife and fell to his knees, and we ran like hell.

  We made it to the BMW and turned to look back. The man was still doubled over, but he was on his feet limping in our direction, and he’d retrieved his knife. We jumped in the Bimmer and I almost ran the guy over trying to get out of the parking lot.

  Later, when the adrenaline wore off, I kicked myself for not yanking up his mask before running away. In fact, I could have held him at gunpoint while Elizabeth called the police. You know what they say about hindsight. Besides, would I have shot him if he’d tried to get away before the police arrived? Probably not. It wasn’t worth it.

  “Jesus Christ,” Elizabeth said, pulling off her wig and scratching her scalp.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. That’s never happened to me before. It was kind of exciting.” She checked the toe of her new boot for scuff marks.

  “Almost getting mugged, and who knows what else, is not exciting. It’s life threatening!”

  She was enjoying this far too much. I was still trembling.

  I’ve had one or two close calls in my career as a PI. The most frightening incident involved an unfaithful husband I was tailing, who was six-four and over three hundred pounds. This was back when I worked for Sam Pettigrew. We were double-tailing the guy because we had the time and it’s safer that way. One car stays close to the subject for a while and then drops back when the other car comes forward. We stayed in communication by cell phone. I was driving the green 2002, which I have to admit is easy to spot. These days I rent a Toyota or a Honda when I want to be inconspicuous.

  The subject pulled into a strip mall and I parked nearby. He got out of his car and I got out of mine and walked over to a pay phone so I could watch him without looking out of place. He lit a cigarette and walked right up to me. I pretended to be talking on the phone and turned my back to him. He tapped me on the shoulder and I half turned, saying I’d be done with the phone in a minute. He jerked the receiver out of my hand, slammed it down in the cradle, and placed one hand on either side of the booth, trapping me between his huge arms.

  “Why are you following me?” he bellowed.

  I turned to face him and felt a surge of anger I was about to unleash with a fist to his windpipe when Sam appeared on his right. Sam is black and just under six feet tall. He was in his early sixties at the time, and weighed about two-fifty. I held myself in check long enough to see what he was going to do. What he did was yell at me.

  “There you are!” he shouted. “Where the hell have you been? ’Scuse me fella.” He nudged the subject out of the way. “I’ve been waiting here for two hours!”

  “I was just trying to call you,” I whined.

  “Well, come on then,” he said, reaching around King Kong and taking my arm. “That’s the last time I trust you to be on time.”

  Sam escorted me into the nearest bar, bought me a Guinness, and talked me down.

  “It happens, Nicoli,” he said. “If someone has a guilty conscience they expect to be followed. Sometimes they spot you. Can’t be helped.”

  It’s the only time I remember Sam being gentle. He’s gruff and abrasive by nature.

  “You think he wanted our purses?” Elizabeth asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I don’t know.”

  I rolled down my window and lit a cigarette. I hoped it was just a random mugging. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of being attacked by someone who knew me.

  I checked the rearview mirror. No one appeared to be following us, but I got on the freeway just in case. I took the Whipple Avenue exit and pulled into a car dealership on Bair Island Road, turned off my lights, and waited to see who passed by.

  Less than a minute after we parked a jeep drove by, turning in at the marina. About thirty seconds later a VW Rabbit passed, followed by a Mercedes sedan.
The Mercedes pulled into the car dealership and the VW passed the marina, apparently going someplace farther down the road. Bair Island is a dead end. Anyone going back to town or to the freeway would have to drive past us.

  The car dealership was still open and one of the salesmen approached the 2002. I leaned out my open window and told him we were having an argument about whether or not we could afford a new car, and he left us alone.

  The next car to go by was Bill Anderson’s red Mustang. I pointed it out to Elizabeth. “My date,” I said.

  After that, we sat in silence, trying not to jump out of our skin.

  Five minutes later the jeep came back out. The windows were slightly tinted so I didn’t get a good look at the driver, but I could see enough to know it was a man. I wrote down the license plate number.

  Chapter 19

  Detective Anderson was waiting outside my office when I arrived. He sniffed the air around me and said, “You smell a little smoky, but nice.”

  “Thank you, I think. Sorry I’m late.” I fumbled with my keys. “My friend and I got mugged coming out of the Fanny Pack.”

  He took hold of my shoulders, spun me around so I was facing him, and looked me over.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “I told you to be careful! What happened? Did you call the station?”

  “One question at a time, please.”

  I found the right key and unlocked the office. We went inside and I flipped on the lights.

  “We’re both fine. Unbeknownst to me, my friend Elizabeth is an expert kick-boxer and purse-wielder. She knocked the guy down and we ran for the car. I think he followed us though. Can you check a license plate number for me?”

  He hesitated, probably wondering if I knew the RCPD could lose access to the DMV network if it was discovered civilians were being given confidential information.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  Close enough. I dug my notebook out of my purse and read him the plate number I’d copied off the jeep. He grimaced slightly as he wrote it down.