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

by Nancy Skopin

  She said, “You’re kidding.”

  I flushed with embarrassment. It was ridiculous after all. I told her about the bug under the car, the red-haired man I’d seen outside my office, and the Volvo that had been following me.

  “Clearly, someone thinks you know something,” she said.

  “I just wish I knew what they think I know. Did you read the file?”

  “Of course. I think you should focus on Fred and Charles.”

  “I think so too. But tell me why.”

  “Because Laura had sex with whoever killed her. I know you think she was into risk taking, and she may have been kinky, but I don’t think she would willingly have sex with her own father no matter what happened when she was a kid.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Maybe she was conditioned by her childhood experiences to behave like a victim. You know some people become addicted to chemicals produced in the brain by recurring emotional trauma. Laura may have become addicted to the experience of being abused, or victimized.”

  “We don’t know Rod was telling the truth about Laura being molested.”

  “What about Rod?” I asked. “He really needs the money, and he’ll inherit a bundle now.”

  “Yeah, and he was only her half-brother, but you’ve described Rod to me. He doesn’t sound very attractive.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “If you were Laura and you were seeing someone who looked like Fred, would you meet your unattractive half-brother behind a dumpster to have sex with him?”

  “Probably not, but lust is in the eye of the beholder. What about Frank?” I asked.

  “You said Frank told you Laura wasn’t into sex, so I think we can assume that Laura wasn’t into sex with Frank,” Elizabeth answered. “No accounting for taste. I think he’s yummy.”

  “I noticed. Maybe he found a way to spice it up. What about Candy? Maybe Laura was bi.”

  “What are you thinking? That she used a strap-on or something?”

  “It would explain the absence of foreign pubic hair,” I said. “Some of those dancers shave everything. But if you used a strap-on, why would you also use a condom?”

  “I don’t know. To keep it clean?”

  You have to be really good friends with someone to have this kind of conversation.

  “I can see Charles had a motive,” I said. “He was jealous, and maybe afraid his wife would find out he’d been stalking Laura, but why would she have sex with a guy who was too tame for her in college?”

  Elizabeth thought for a minute. “Maybe she got interested again when he got married. It would increase the risk factor.”

  “For him, not for her. What would Fred’s motive be?” I asked.

  “Why does there have to be a motive? Maybe he and Laura were having kinky sex and he got a little carried away and accidentally killed her.”

  “And then he stabbed her three times to cover up his mistake?”

  “You are so sarcastic sometimes. You might be right, though. Fred is compulsively neat, and Laura’s murder was messy, wasn’t it?”

  “Very.” I grimaced, remembering the crime scene photos. “What about the other murders? There are similarities between Laura’s murder and the murders of Andrew the hairdresser and Barbara the librarian. Then somebody hired that PI Hearn to follow and assault me, and now he’s dead. And I’m convinced Kurt was killed because he could identify the man Andrew was dating.”

  “Maybe the question is, can we picture Charles or Fred dating Andrew.”

  I tried to imagine it. “I don’t know. They both seem straight to me.”

  “Fred could have an alter ego who isn’t compulsively neat,” she muttered, almost to herself.

  “Wait a minute. What if he isn’t compulsively neat? What if he’s just compulsive about having things in order, you know, because he likes to be in control. Even though the killings were messy, the crime scenes were controlled. There was almost no evidence. Just a few partial prints. Also, the rubber band holding the plastic bag over Laura’s head had the word organic printed on it. When I was in Fred’s house I searched his fridge. All his veggies are organic. And Bill told me they got an anonymous phone call after Barbara Herbert was murdered. Someone saw a man matching Fred’s description leaving the alley where she was killed.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “Oh my God. What are they doing about that?”

  “Nothing. Bill says there isn’t enough evidence to justify a search warrant.”

  “I guess that makes sense, if the tip was anonymous. Tell me about Charles’s office. What did his desk look like?”

  I tried to remember if everything on his desk had been lined up, but all I could think of was how his face had changed color.

  “I don’t remember. I guess I could pay him another visit, but I’m not sure he’d invite me back to his office again. We didn’t exactly hit it off.”

  “What about me? I could pretend I have some money to invest, ask him for advice, get a look at the office, and then tell him I’ll get back to him.”

  “What if he’s the killer?”

  “People ask for advice before investing all the time. I think a stock broker would be more than happy to meet with a potential client.”

  “But you work in Sunnyvale. He’s in Palo Alto. When would you have time?”

  “I don’t start work until nine. Didn’t you say he goes in early?”

  “He went in early the day I followed him. That doesn’t mean he’s there early every day.”

  “So I’ll drop by his office tomorrow morning and if he’s not there, he’s not there. If he is, I’ll tell him the Howards recommended him.”

  “I don’t know about that. What if he checks with them?”

  “He’s not going to call them while I’m waiting in the lobby. You worry too much.”

  “Okay. Just be careful.”

  I hugged Elizabeth goodnight and shuffled off to my boat.

  I undressed, leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor, and climbed into bed. As I was drifting off I heard a familiar scratching noise on the pilothouse door, followed by a high-pitched whine. D’Artagnon. I struggled out of bed, located the doggy bag with the leftover chicken, and climbed the steps. I opened the door and he wiggled inside, his nose elevated toward the bag. He must have smelled the chicken when I walked past his boat.

  I fed it to him one bite at a time and he swallowed each mouthful without chewing. When all the scraps had been devoured he licked my hands and gave a full body wag as he leaned against my legs. I scratched above his tail and around his ears, and then I sent him home.

  I sank back into bed with a smile on my face and was almost instantly asleep.

  Chapter 29

  The Dream Machine woke me at 6:00 on Friday morning, the acoustic guitar CD reminding me of Bill Anderson’s guitars. My wine headache wasn’t as bad as I’d expected it to be.

  While the coffee was brewing I dialed my office number and checked my messages. Fred had called to confirm our dinner date, saying he would meet me at my office at 7:45. He’d made a reservation at Castaway out at Coyote Point instead of the Garden Grill. He said he thought it would be more romantic. I love Castaway. They always have fresh salmon, and the view of the coast is spectacular. I was a little creeped out by the romance part. The evidence was pointing to him and, even if he wasn’t the killer, there was something disturbing about Frederick Marcus Wulf.

  I was in my office when Bill called at 9:00, asking if I’d contacted any of the bodyguards he’d recommended yet. I said I hadn’t, and he made me promise that I would do so by the end of the day.

  I spent my morning scheduling bar and restaurant surveys with my regular clients.

  At noon I got a call from Elizabeth.

  “Nikki, the guy has alm
ost nothing on his desk. Just a pen and pencil set, a picture of his wife, and two empty trays. There wasn’t a wrinkle in his suit, tie, or shirt, and every hair was gelled into place. I can’t believe you didn’t notice! I would have called you sooner, but I’ve been on a conference call all morning. Anyway, he is totally obsessive-compulsive, and he nearly broke my fingers when I shook his hand. What an asshole.”

  “Did he seem suspicious about your reason for being there?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Good. Thanks, Elizabeth. I owe you another pair of shoes.”

  I had a Cobb Salad at a client’s restaurant in Palo Alto, jotted down survey notes in the car, and then drove to Nordstrom where I bought Elizabeth a hundred-dollar gift card. I didn’t spot the blue Volvo until I was leaving the Nordstrom lot. It was parked in a remote corner, under a tree.

  Driving back to Redwood City, watching my rearview mirror, I figured out why I hadn’t spotted the Volvo earlier. It was nowhere in sight. There had to be another transmitter somewhere on my car. Why should that surprise me? He would have noticed the original bug was no longer tracking me, and simply attached a new one.

  Back at the office I left a voice-mail message for Bill, telling him there was another transmitter on my car, then I typed up an invoice for Kate. I edited out the molestation and prostitution details from the file, as well as the notes from my conversation with Frank regarding Laura’s apparent lack of sex drive, and then printed it. Since I couldn’t verify what Rod had told me about Derrick molesting Laura, I didn’t want to destroy Kate’s faith in her husband unnecessarily, much as I disliked him. I couldn’t see what difference it would make if Kate learned now of Laura’s arrest for propositioning a Vice cop, and she certainly didn’t need to know that Laura hadn’t enjoyed sex with Frank.

  I enclosed a note telling Kate I was getting close to something, and that I’d keep her posted. Hope springs eternal.

  I gave the package to the mail carrier when she delivered my mail, then I re-locked the office door behind her and called one of the numbers Bill had given me for a bodyguard.

  “Lieutenant Quinn,” said a husky female voice.

  “Lieutenant, my name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m thinking about hiring a bodyguard and Bill Anderson recommended you.”

  “Oh yeah, he said you might be calling.”

  “How much do you charge?”

  “Sixty an hour plus mileage.”

  I thought about it. I could afford this.

  “That sounds reasonable,” I said. “What hours are you available?”

  “From six p.m. until two a.m. I have to get some sleep to do this job, but not much.”

  I liked her instantly.

  “How much notice do you need?”

  “Twenty-four hours would be good, but if it’s an emergency I can make do with an hour’s notice.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  Before we hung up she gave me her cell phone and pager numbers. I felt better just having spoken with her. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea. Even if it didn’t keep me alive, I’d feel more secure and sleep better at night.

  At 6:00 p.m., I walked down to Elizabeth’s boat. She was on her dock steps sipping a cocktail and cuddling K.C.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said.

  I handed her the gift card.

  “Oooh, Nordstrom! Thank you.”

  “You earned it.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Fred,” she said. “How neat his house was. Even his garage was organized. Where would someone like that keep things he didn’t want anyone to find?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “What about a safe deposit box or a storage locker? Is there any way to find out about things like that?”

  “I could ask Michael to do a little hacking for me.”

  Michael Burke and I had been sweethearts from kindergarten through the second grade. I used to beat him up on the playground every day. He proposed to me, and I accepted, when we were five years old. We had the top two IQs in our first grade class. His was four points higher than mine. We don’t see much of each other anymore, but we stay in touch. He lives in the Santa Cruz mountains and is something of a recluse. He’s also a computer guru, earning his living as a white hat hacker, testing network security systems, and repairing computers that have been virus-damaged.

  “What do we do if he has a storage locker?” I asked. “Cut off the lock and search for evidence?”

  “Maybe. Where else would you hide a knife?”

  “I’d like to get a look in the trunk of his car.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “I don’t know yet. Can I have a glass of water?”

  “Help yourself,” said Elizabeth.

  I got up and went inside the trawler, took a glass from the rack, and located a jug of spring water in the fridge. I filled my glass and went back outside.

  “Maybe I can slip out during dinner and pick the lock on his trunk.”

  “Where are you going for dinner?”

  “Castaway.”

  “Valet parking,” she said. “You’d have to find the car first, in the dark.”

  “Shit, you’re right.”

  “I have an idea.” Elizabeth’s eyes danced. “Spend the night with him, and when he’s asleep get his keys and search his trunk.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You could slip the valet a twenty and ask him to bring it around.”

  “That would take too long. I need a shower.”

  I gave her the empty water glass, kissed her on the cheek, and trudged down the dock to my boat.

  After showering I put on a black western-style dress with a silver belt buckle. I decided to go the whole nine yards and pulled on a pair of black cowboy boots with silver tips on the toes. They hurt my feet, but they looked great. My image in the mirror looked amused.

  At 7:30 I was ready to go. As I approached the companionway I noticed Elizabeth’s door was open. I reached across the deck and knocked on a window. She came outside and whistled at me.

  “Wow! Why are you wasting this on Fred?” she asked.

  “You think it’s too much?”

  “No. You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Have you got your gun?” she whispered.

  I patted my purse. “You need to close and lock your door and windows until this case is resolved, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say. Have fun, Nikki, and be careful.” She shook her index finger at me.

  “I’m always careful. I’ll stop by after dinner if you’re still up.”

  “I’ll be up,” she said.

  I walked to the office and let myself in, locking the door behind me. I turned on my desk lamp, leaving the rest of the office dark. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Fred being in my office, so I planned to scoot him out as quickly as possible.

  While I was waiting I booted up the computer and sent Michael Burke an e-mail asking him to research Frederick Marcus Wulf. I included Fred’s social security number from the paycheck stub I’d lifted, and asked him to look for any information on banking, safe deposit boxes, and storage locker rentals. I also asked if he’d like to get together for dinner.

  I was turning off the computer when there was a knock on my door. I looked up and saw a tall masculine silhouette. As I approached the door I could see it was Fred, nicely dressed, as usual, in charcoal slacks, a dove gray shirt, and a slate gray cashmere pullover. His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light.

  I unlocked and opened the door, then went back to my desk to get my purse and switch off the lamp.

  “What time is our reservation?” I asked.

  “You look nice,” he said. “Eight-fifteen.”

&nb
sp; I turned back toward the door and saw that Fred was now halfway inside my dark office, blocking my path to the exit.

  “Thank you,” I said. I looked him in the eye and smiled. “Shall we go?”

  He hesitated for a moment and then stepped aside.

  Fred’s Jag was parked near my office and I wondered if he’d been here before. The car was unlocked and Fred opened the passenger side door for me, waited until my dress and I were safely inside, and closed it gently. During the drive to Castaway, he asked me how my week had been.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “First this PI from San Mateo who was following me got killed. Then I got my hair cut by a guy named Kurt who knew Andrew McConnell, that hairdresser who was murdered? You probably heard about it on the news. Anyway, I asked Kurt some questions about Andrew, and that night he was killed.”

  I watched his face for a reaction. There was none.

  “I was pressuring the PI to tell me who his client was, and I think he was going to, but someone killed him first. Kurt had seen the man Andrew was dating and might have been able to identify him. I was going to show him some pictures, but I never got the chance.”

  “Were you going to show him a picture of me?” Fred asked.

  My heart skipped a beat. “Of course,” I said.

  He turned his head away from the road long enough to make eye contact. He was smiling, but it wasn’t a happy, carefree kind of a smile. It was feral. I felt an involuntary shudder run the length of my body.

  When we arrived at Castaway a college age cutie dressed in black trousers, a white shirt, and a red vest opened my door and helped me out of the car, then accepted Fred’s keys and issued a receipt.

  As we walked to the front of the restaurant, Fred took my arm. I wanted to jerk away from him, but I steeled myself and went on with the charade.

  We were seated at a window table with a panoramic view of San Francisco Bay. A busboy served us ice water and warm French bread, and a few minutes later our waiter approached. He introduced himself as David and handed us menus. Fred ordered a double Glenlivet up, and I ordered coffee. David told us about the evening’s specials, and then left us alone to look over our menus.