by Greta Boris
"Can I help you?" he said.
"I hope so." Art walked toward the bar. "My name is Art Bishop. My wife frequents your shop."
The man cocked his head to one side but didn't speak.
"Her name is Gwen. She works at Humboldt." Art gestured in the direction of the brokerage.
"Oh, Gwen. Yes, I know your wife. She stops in every so often for a bottle of Ravish."
"Right." Art brightened. The man knew who she was anyway. "Gwen is... I'm trying to find my wife. I thought maybe you could help me."
"How would I do that?"
"A friend told me she saw Gwen coming out of your shop on Thursday afternoon."
The goat man looked at the ceiling and stroked his beard. It was a theatrical gesture. Almost as if there was a director in the wings signaling him to strike a pose that would indicate "thinking" or "remembering."
"Maybe she was," he finally said. "She bought some wine last week. It might have been Thursday. I could check my records if you'd like?"
"There was someone with her," Art said. "A man named Lance Fairchild. He's also a Humboldt agent."
"Oh, yes. Yes. I remember now. Gwen, Mrs. Bishop, came in first. Lance, a few minutes later. They ended up sitting at that table over there." He pointed to a high top nearby. "They had a glass of wine and talked for a while."
"Did you hear what they were talking about?" As soon as Art asked he felt foolish. If the man had been eavesdropping it would be the last thing he'd want to admit. Just as Art guessed, a look of horror crossed the proprietor's face.
"No. I wouldn't dream of listening in on a private discussion. My patrons know their privacy is always respected." He turned away and reached for a case of wine sitting on the floor near the register. "I have a party coming in for a wedding shower in an hour. I have to set up. Is there anything else?"
"Listen, I didn't mean to offend you. I'm just at the end of my rope," Art said.
The man stood, holding the case of wine, and waited.
"Gwen is missing. I'm afraid something may have happened to her. I'm looking for information, anything...."
An odd look, a mix of unwholesome excitement, hunger and fear, flickered across the man's face. It happened so fast; Art wasn't sure he'd seen it when he thought about it later. But it was the moment everything changed.
"I'm sorry for you. Gwen seems like a lovely woman, but I don't know what I can tell you. She and Lance Fairchild had a glass of wine and left. That was the last time I saw either one of them."
Art knew he was lying. It wasn't anything he could take to the police, but he knew. Art was a professional when it came to spotting deflection, evasion, and fabrication. He'd been judge and jury at more juvenile crimes than he could count over the past fifteen years. This guy stank, from the top of his stupid ship captain's hat to the bottom of his superior attitude.
Art wanted to shake him. To push him up against a wall and demand the truth. The guy was hiding something, and Art wanted to know what.
"If you think of anything, maybe you'll give me a call?" Art said.
"Of course," the goat man smiled again. It was an unpleasant smile, more like a baring of teeth.
"Here's my card," Art said, placing it on the bar and walking out of the shop.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
I hustled from table to table filling wine glasses and refilling platters of chocolate bonbons. It was demeaning, waiting on a room full of women. I should be served, not serving. Soon, I comforted myself. I would come into my own soon.
I had my first wedding shower at the shop two years ago. Not only did I sell several cases of wine and sign thirteen women to my membership program, but the mother-of-the-bride purchased the wine for the wedding reception from me instead of serving the swill the venue provided.
Since that time I did showers whenever I could get them, but today was decidedly a bad day. I would have closed up the shop if it wasn't for the event. It forced me to open. I guess it was just as well. It would have been a mistake to do anything out of the ordinary, anything suspicious.
The bride sat at a high top table—princess for a day—opening gifts while another girl created a ribbon bouquet from a paper plate. I used to think it was an absurd ritual. As if catching a wad of trash could assure a marriage proposal.
At a shower I hosted a year ago, however, the most unattractive girl in the room rammed through a lineup of women and tackled the festooned plate like a football player. I didn't believe there was a bouquet with magic powerful enough to make a man want her, but she scheduled a wedding shower with me six months later.
I wondered who the poor slob was. What I wouldn't have given to be a fly on the wall the morning the spell was broken. The morning he saw her for what she was—a gargoyle. By then it would be too late. He'd be trapped.
I opened the last two bottles of the white I'd been serving and realized I'd forgotten to bring more from the back room. I was having a hard time concentrating. All I could think about was returning to my father's house.
"Oh, how cute." The bride waggled sheer white panties and a matching bra in the air and all the women cooed.
It was obscene. Why did women feel it was not only fine, but necessary to display their underclothes? If I waved my briefs around like that, I'd be arrested.
I was about to go get the other case of wine when the bell rang. A short, dark woman in khakis and a white blouse entered. She walked across the room with an economy of movement I found both fascinating and disturbing. There was something about her I associated with the male gender, but she wasn't masculine. Still, she was as out of place in this gaggle of giggling females as I was.
"Mr. Cotton?" She wasn't American, at least she hadn't grown up here. Her accent was continental.
"Yes. Can I help you?"
"Investigator Sylla, Orange County Sheriff's Department." She showed me her badge and the hair on the back of my neck rose. I tipped my head to one side and smiled as agreeably as I was able.
"I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?" British. She sounded British.
"I'm right in the middle of a party," I said, lacing my words with an apology.
"I'll only take a minute. Is there somewhere we could talk?"
I started toward my office, but stopped short. Gwen's clothes. They were still there in the wine crate. I hadn't had time to get rid of them. Even if the detective didn't see them, she'd smell them.
"On second thought," I said turning. "I'd better stay out here. Keep the party going."
Investigator Sylla narrowed her eyes. "Very well then. On Thursday, the twenty-fifth, Gwen Bishop met with Lance Fairchild here in your shop."
It was a statement, not a question, so I didn't respond.
"I understand they're both frequent patrons of yours?"
"Yes. They work at Humboldt." I pointed in the direction of the brokerage.
"What did they talk about?"
"I'm not in the habit of eavesdropping on my customers."
"Sometimes we can't help but overhear things," she said in a warm manner, as if we were old friends.
"I didn't," I said.
"What about the tone of the conversation then? Did it strike you as friendly? Angry? You're used to dealing with the public. What were your impressions?"
The more she tried to cozy up to me the warier I became. "What is this about?" I made my tone indignant.
"Mr. Fairchild is dead, and Ms. Bishop is missing." Her voice became flat. “Anything you can tell us would be most helpful."
I was saved from having to answer by the mother-of-the-bride to be. "Mo. More white, please. We're out." For once, I appreciated the high-need women I was waiting on.
"How terrible. What happened?" I attempted to look shocked and dismayed.
"That's what we're trying to discover." Her face was solemn.
I matched her expression. "Let me think about it. I'm a bit distracted at the moment."
"Right." She handed me a card. "Call me if something comes to you."<
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"Of course." I smiled sadly until the door banged shut behind her, then stumbled into my office. The smell hit me as soon as I entered. Thank God I'd remembered the clothes before I'd brought her here. I had hidden the wine crate with the soiled garments under the floor with the clothes from the other agents. If those had been found... I tasted bile.
I'd burn them as soon as I had the chance.
I pulled myself together, found the case of wine and returned to the front of the house. The bride was holding a black lace thing with dangling garters up to her chest and posing for the camera. I had to set the wine on the bar before I dropped it. The room whirled around me. I put my head in my hands and massaged my temples.
My mother had an outfit like that once. It was the first thing I'd taken. One night when I was about thirteen, she shooed me to my bed over the garage early because a friend was coming over. It had been a hot day, and I'd been out in the sun for hours. I was thirsty.
I knew I wasn't allowed into the house when she had visitors, but all I could think about was water. The more I tried to push it from my mind, the more I craved it. Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore.
I crept from the garage and peeked into the living room window to see if the coast was clear. It wasn't. A man sat on the couch. My mother stood by the mantel.
The black thing she wore fit her like a second skin. It accentuated rather than covered her naked curves. I was horrified to see her dressed like that, but I couldn't look away.
That was when I learned some women have a secret art. Not all women, but some. Those who do use cotton and lace and rayon and chiffon to weave spells that can break a man. I put them on sometimes, the clothing I take. They're like armor. They shield me from lust. The ancient Spartans believed warriors only gave into their more base nature to have children, never to satisfy themselves. It's a sentiment I respect.
I stole my mother's bustier the next day and hid it in an old toolbox under a workbench in the garage. She accused my sister at first and sent her to her room. But after several days of steady denials, my mother shifted the blame to Patty, Angela's only friend, and ended that relationship. My mother ruined most things for my poor little sister.
"Are you okay?" The mother-of-the-bride was at my elbow.
"Just a bit of a headache." I lied.
"Can we make an appointment to taste wines for the reception? I've had too much this afternoon to make a good decision." She giggled like a schoolgirl and touched my arm. I itched to slap her hand, but refrained. I can control myself, which is more than I can say for some women.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Art pulled his baseball cap lower. He'd parked under the shade of a crepe myrtle down the block from Humboldt Realty and The Leaky Barrel for an hour and a half. He'd run home and given Jason a frozen pizza and instructions to feed and care for his siblings. At four, he'd returned. The wine shop didn't close until five, but he didn't want to take any chances.
The owner was guilty of something. Art didn't know what, but he felt it in his bones. The last time he ignored this feeling he'd suspended Brian McKibben instead of Dwayne Pratt. He wasn't doing that again. Regardless of how ridiculous he felt, he had learned the hard way to follow his gut. Right now, his gut was telling him to follow the goat man.
While he waited outside the shop, he had plenty of time to research the art of tailing a person on his phone. The first thing he'd learned is that he shouldn't be viewing the building through his windshield. Instead, he should be watching it from a side or rear view mirror. He moved the car.
He also learned it was best to know as much as possible about the person you're following. There wasn't much information online about the goat man. His name was Mo Cotton. He was a level two sommelier. He lived in Laguna Hills in a condo, and he'd opened The Leaky Barrel three years ago.
Art sat up straighter. Five cars full of women pulled out of the parking lot, one right after another. The shop must have closed.
He waited, on alert. A minute stretched into fifteen. He began to wonder if Mo had been in one of the five cars, and somehow he'd missed him.
Just as he was about to get out of the car and wander in the direction of the store, another vehicle appeared in the lot's exit. Art saw a bearded profile in the driver's seat of a blue sedan. He turned the key in the van's ignition and idled the engine.
The sedan made a right onto Golden Lantern and blew through the first stoplight. Art drove in the opposite direction looking for a place to make a U-turn. It was a couple of blocks before he could do it safely. By the time he was going in the same direction as Mo, he could no longer see the man's car.
Art sped up as much as he dared, but didn't see the sedan. Frustration gripped him. Golden Lantern bisected the Coast Highway before it ended in the harbor. Which way should he go?
He breathed a prayer and went south. The Dana Point house was south on the highway; maybe Mo Cotton was returning to the crime scene? He'd always heard criminals did that. Of course, maybe he wasn't a criminal at all. Maybe he was just your friendly neighborhood pervert, and that was the guilty vibe Art had noticed.
His shoulders tightened as he wove through traffic. His hands felt sticky on the steering wheel. What the hell was he doing? He was a school principal. He drove a minivan. He wasn't James Bond. He came to an open stretch of highway and scanned the road ahead. He struck the dashboard with the heel of his hand. The goat man was gone.
#
Art drove to the Dana Point house only because he was out of ideas, not because he believed he'd find anything there. It was barricaded with crime scene tape, forlorn and empty looking. He sat staring at it for several minutes before heading out to the highway. He turned north, toward home.
In a few miles, he saw the sign for Strands Beach. On impulse, he pulled into the parking lot. He and Gwen used to come here often for sunset dinners.
He parked in a space overlooking the ocean and turned off the ignition. The sky was pale salmon, the nightly show only just beginning. He rested his forehead on his arms. She should be here—with him. But he'd lost her.
Not tonight in his inept attempt to tail Mo Cotton. He'd been losing her by inches for the past three years. He'd worked so hard to gain the approval of everyone in the world but the one person who meant the most to him. He'd neglected Gwen to romance people he didn't even like. An ass. He'd been an ass.
He sat, head down, empty and defeated until the salmon turned red, and was shot through with lavender clouds. He would stay until dark. He was putting off the inevitable—facing the kids with no news of their mother.
His phone vibrated on the passenger seat beside him. He looked at the screen. Mike McKibben. A spark of hope flickered to life.
"Mike. News?"
"Actually, yeah. I just heard from one of my guys. I asked him to keep me posted. They just got a lead."
"What?"
"Gwen's e-key was used at a house in Laguna Beach this morning, early. Somebody just got around to checking her account at the security company again.” Mike paused for a minute.
“I guess the local guys did a drive by. No action. They didn’t see her car. They're waiting for Sylla and a search warrant to check inside. Thought you'd want to know."
"The address, what's the address?" Art put his cell on speaker and opened a maps app.
"Listen, if it was her she's probably long gone."
"Come on, Mike. I'm close. I'm in Dana Point. I'll wait for the cops to show."
"I don't know..." he said.
"Mike, she's my wife."
"It's the same house, Art. The house she found the body in."
Thirty seconds later Art was dodging cars on Coast Highway—pedal to the metal in the minivan.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Gwen stiffened. She heard the thump of the front door again. This time it was followed by rapid footsteps that grew steadily louder. The door of her cell flew open. She shrank into her chair. Dim yellow light exploded like a solar flare in the blackness.
"Okay," Mo rubbed his hands together like a child. "Next on the agenda." His cheerfulness was as jarring as the light.
The pent-up tension that had built in the dark, burst from its cage. Gwen wept. She felt nothing but relief as he pulled the tape from her arms and chest. She was so happy to see another human being, to be loosed from her bonds, she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed on his shoulder.
"Hey. Hey." He untangled himself looking uncomfortable. "None of that. You're okay."
Gwen wiped at her eyes with her hands. "Sorry."
"Not a problem," he said, but he stood well away from her as if he was afraid she might touch him again.
He waited until she'd gained control of herself then said, "Let's go up and make that phone call, shall we? There's no reception here."
The memory of the past twenty-four hours hit her with unexpected force. For a moment, the joy of release had blotted out the knowledge of who had taken her and left her in the dark. Mo wasn't her savior; he was her captor. She wouldn't forget that again.
#
"I have to use the restroom," Gwen said.
Mo's mouth tightened in annoyance.
"You said to tell you." She'd been holding it for hours.
He pushed her into the basement hallway ahead of him. Her legs were weak and rubbery. Her thighs burned as she climbed the stairs. When she emerged from the narrow passage into the open air she almost wept again. The last rays of the sun lit the foyer and the living room beyond with a rosy glow. She couldn't remember ever seeing anything as beautiful
Mo walked with her to the guest bathroom. The candle she'd placed on the sink the morning of the open house was still there, like a relic of an earlier age. She hurried in, her bladder full to bursting, and tried to push the door shut behind her. Mo stuck his foot in the doorway.