Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2)

by Susan O'Brien

  “You’re not taking antibiotics,” Liz said, “and you haven’t been in a hospital.”

  No, I wasn’t taking antibiotics. But the website said they weren’t always at fault, and hospitalization wasn’t the only other risk factor. I’d just started my research, and while it didn’t scare me, it disturbed me on behalf of Lydia and anyone at risk.

  “Antibiotics can also be the cure,” I continued. “Sometimes they’re tried long term. When they don’t work, fecal transplants might be used.”

  “Mia says it’s a miracle cure, but some doctors are put off by the ‘ick’ factor.”

  “Ickiness aside, apparently it’s highly effective. There are tons of studies looking into it.”

  “I wonder why they aren’t testing more donors. Why just Bruce?” Lydia asked.

  “This article says insurance doesn’t always cover expenses, so it can be costly, and some patients prefer close relatives as donors. Plus, not everyone qualifies for testing. It depends on a lot of factors. It looks like they usually test one donor at a time.”

  We reached the sub shop, where Liz parked next to her rental and turned to me.

  “I can’t stay in Virginia, you know,” she said. “My flight leaves tonight.”

  “Would you consider staying with us for a few days?”

  “I’d love to, but the vestry meeting is tonight, and St. Francis is in the middle of its pledge drive.”

  “You wouldn’t want to miss that,” I teased. Encouraging pledges was a challenging necessity each year. Without enough parishioner donations, St. Francis couldn’t afford its mission work, youth group activities, and other critical programs.

  “Mia’s in good hands,” she said. “Her parents are fine people, and with Bruce’s dad involved, she probably won’t want for anything.”

  “So you don’t think there’s a chance her parents had anything to do with this?”

  “Oh, goodness, no! We’ve been close since the ’80s, and we’ve talked at length about Bruce many times, including this weekend. They thought he was a prince, although Mia’s dad is beside himself that her wedding day was ruined. He’s angry, and her mom is worried.”

  “Are they staying with her for now?”

  “Yes. For as long as she needs.”

  “What about Bruce’s relationship with his parents? Has Mia mentioned that?”

  “He’s close to both of them. Like Mia said, Bruce runs a company for Frank, and from what I hear, it’s doing well. Frank lives in Florida, but he visits Bruce in Virginia a lot.”

  “Does Mia like Frank?”

  “She says he’s self-made, and he expects the same from Bruce and everyone else. He can be brusque at times, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I think he cares.”

  “And what do you think of Lydia being a medium?”

  I held my breath for her response and realized that for some reason, I wanted her to believe in Lydia’s gift. Maybe I saw something “otherworldly” as the only way I’d ever understand parts of life, including what Jason had done to me, our kids, and himself.

  “I believe she believes it,” Liz said slowly. “And I want to be open-minded.”

  Darn. That wasn’t a real opinion.

  “So you don’t know what to think?”

  “I believe in eternal life, but I don’t know what to believe about mediums.”

  Okay. I’d have to decide for myself.

  I pulled into my garage, hoping no one would spot me until I called Dean without interruption. All the way home, I’d thought about what to tell him, but I still wasn’t sure. Could getting into business with each other ruin our chances of getting into a serious relationship? Because that wasn’t a risk worth taking. Or, more realistically, I wish you’d consulted me before taking this case.

  But I didn’t get to say much, because he apologized first.

  “I never expected things to go like that,” he said. “I wish I could have warned you beforehand.”

  “How did you even get involved with Frank?” I asked.

  “He called my office and said he got my name from the guest list. Mia had told him about us. He asked me to meet you at Bruce’s, and I thought you knew I was coming. But when I realized you had no idea, I texted you immediately.”

  “I was surprised you took the case.”

  Miffed was more accurate.

  “I’m really sorry about that. You know what? I aimed high with the fee to scare him off. I never thought he’d go for it. We can still back out. I don’t have a signed contract. Do you?”

  Heck no. I wasn’t even sure I had a blank contract for this kind of case, and Frank hadn’t given me his card.

  “No, I don’t, and I’m not sure what to do.”

  The selfish part of me wanted to quit before we started, even though I knew it would hurt Mia and Aunt Liz. I’d rather let them down immediately than fail them later.

  The selfish part of me also knew the paycheck would cover a mortgage payment, the kids’ winter sports fees, and repairs on my 100,000-mile minivan. But all of me wanted to do the right thing, whatever that was.

  “I could take the case on my own,” Dean said, “if that would help.”

  “Thank you, really. But it’s complicated because my family is involved.” On top of everything else, I knew my mom would want me to help Liz. It didn’t matter that they weren’t especially close; they were sisters.

  “I understand,” he said. “I want to pitch in, but I don’t want to overstep, either.”

  Maybe I should take the case alone, I thought. Maybe Dean was upset with me for dragging him into this whole thing.

  “Let’s take some time to think about it,” I suggested. “Not too long, though.” The first hours in a missing persons case are critical, and since Bruce had been missing at least overnight and half the day, we were way behind the police.

  “Right. I’ve got a meeting at the PI Academy at four, and it’s about which classes I can teach next session. Do you think you can call me before then? I don’t want to commit to anything I can’t make happen.”

  I appreciated that. Both professionally and personally, I was only interested in commitment that included follow-through.

  “I’ll call you,” I promised.

  I knew what I’d probably say, but I wanted to run it by Kenna first.

  “Hello?” I called out after turning my key in Kenna’s front door. She and my mom were the only ones with that kind of access to my home.

  “In Sky’s room,” Kenna called from down the hall.

  “How’d it go?” I asked when I reached Sky’s ladybug-themed bedroom, complete with polka dot curtains.

  “We’re fine,” Kenna said, looking up from diaper duty. “Jack and Sophie are in the playroom. Hear them on the monitor?”

  I heard giggling, which made me nervous.

  “They’re fine,” Kenna said, reading my mind. “Don’t go yet. I want to hear about you.”

  I updated her in the most kid-friendly terms possible (avoiding question-triggers like death, which no parent wants to discuss without preparation, in my experience).

  She finished, washed her hands, and led me to the basement while we debated the pros and cons of working with Dean. In the end, she recommended taking the case.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s a win-win-win. You’ll help your family, spend time with Dean, and pay your bills, all at once.”

  She set Sky down in the playroom.

  “Hmmm. That’s an interesting combination. Speaking of combos, what did the kids have for lunch?”

  “Apples and PB&F.”

  “F?”

  “Fluff.”

  I laughed. Fluff was a new one. I didn’t bother to ask if it was on whole wheat.

  “Jack? S
ophie?” I said, looking around.

  Silence. Even more fearsome than giggles.

  Sky called out to them too. “Jack? Thophie?”

  Finally, laughter from the playhouse.

  They jumped out wearing dress-up clothes, which were several sizes too small. Sophie was an overgrown Disney princess in full regalia, and, well, Jack was too. If their goal was “surprising,” they succeeded.

  “We had to wait forever for you,” Jack said. “This stuff is really itchy.” He scratched his sweetheart neckline and tottered toward me in blue, sparkly heels. “Can you get me out of this?”

  “Definitely,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to use scissors. “Right after I snap a picture.”

  I pulled out my phone and preserved the moment for posterity, and that’s when it hit me. Photos. Had anyone taken them at the bachelor party? And could I stomach seeing them? We needed everything, including images from the wedding and hotel, now—before they were deleted.

  Then I realized something even more daunting. Subconsciously, I’d taken the case. Fluff. I needed to get in touch with Dean. And my favorite babysitter: Netflix.

  People who visit my home with advance notice might call it clean, with vacuumed floors and shiny countertops. That’s because before they arrive, a massive effort takes place that involves staying up way too late and pushing through countless forgotten (okay, ignored) chores. It’s not that I don’t clean. It’s just that as soon as I do, we live all over it, and I’ve moved on to other priorities. Like starting a business and watching reality TV.

  Today was no exception. Jack and Sophie’s shoes, jackets, backpacks, and soccer equipment cluttered the foyer, which needed mopping. The dishwasher and dryer were full of clean necessities. The sink and hampers were overflowing with dirty ones.

  “Do you guys have homework?” I asked, hoping the answer was no. Homework for them was homework for me. When Jack won a “homework completion” award in first grade, I’d almost grabbed it and made an acceptance speech. “Let’s double check your homework folders while we’re standing here,” I instructed.

  The kids dutifully shucked their sneakers (my one consistent effort to keep the floors presentable) and dug into their schoolbags.

  “I have stuff for you to sign,” Jack said. He handed over a crinkled permission slip and a volunteer form for a Thanksgiving party. Would I make costumes, lead a craft, or provide a dessert? I asked him for a pencil and checked off “cookies,” which would not be homemade.

  The field trip permission form was another story. Would I a) let my child be monitored in D.C. by a randomly selected parent while I worried all day, b) travel to and from D.C., supervising other people’s sweeties/potential nightmares, c) provide everything short of Jack’s social security number in case my greatest fears were realized and he fell ill or disappeared, d) pay $20 ($40 if I chaperoned, $50 if I didn’t want my kid to feel left out in the gift shop), or e) forget a-d and embarrass my child, deny him educational fun, and try to live with myself? (Also, could I please pay for a needy child whose family couldn’t afford this trip?) I mentally scheduled half an hour for ethical debate and put “return form” on my unreliable, internal calendar.

  Sophie came up with nothing, thank goodness.

  “Okay, guys,” I said. “Can you build me a super Lego tower while I make I call?”

  “Yes,” Sophie said. “Then I’m gonna knock it down.”

  Great. I’d just set them up for an argument.

  “How about you both build towers and only knock down your own?”

  Problem solved. I hoped. They agreed and scrambled down to our playroom while I made a beeline for my home office, which was off-limits to kids unless they were reading or watching TV. Over several years, I’d slowly upgraded it to include framed, nature photographs that stood out against sunshine-yellow paint. Behind my antique desk were white, built-in bookshelves with texts on horrible, fascinating topics I hoped my kids would never notice, including crime scene investigation, homicide, and sex offenders. I kept those on the top shelf while tamer subjects, such as witness interviewing and surveillance, were at eye level.

  Below the shelves were cabinets and drawers stocked with files and supplies (a camera, laptop, digital recorder, and pair of binoculars). On my desk was the most expensive computer I could (sort of) afford, since so much of my work involved databases. I rarely bought extended warranties, but I’d purchased one for my desktop—along with various backup systems—in fear I could lose my most expensive and important resources.

  I turned it on and watched it hum to life. Then I pumped in my password and created a new folder for Mia’s case. After filling in a standard contract and adding a few details, I decided it was ready. So I took a deep breath and called Dean.

  “Hey,” he said. “Any thoughts on the case?”

  “Yes, but first I’d like to hear yours.”

  “I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it,” he said.

  “Same here.” That was kind of an exaggeration. More like, I’m terrified of it no matter how you feel.

  “Then we should go for it. It’ll be good for Sky Investigations, and most importantly, we can try to help your family.”

  Try being the key word.

  “I guess the next step is interviewing all the groomsmen,” I said. “I’m hoping they’ll have photos or video of the night.”

  “Definitely. Frank’s organizing a meeting, and he’s working on getting copies of the security camera footage, too. That guy’s on top of it. He’s doing everything he can.”

  So would most fathers, but Frank’s resources were unusual.

  “I hear that’s a lot, at least financially,” I said.

  “Yeah. Speaking of finances, he paid for the honeymoon, and he made sure it was canceled. So Bruce won’t be living it up in Hawaii somewhere. At least not on his father’s dime. Plus, he doesn’t think Bruce would leave unfinished business, especially since they have promising deals on the horizon. Obviously, it pales in comparison to leaving a wedding, but still, it’s a red flag. Anyway, Frank got all the groomsmen to stay another night and said he’d cover any costs. He wants us to see everyone tonight.”

  Tonight? That was great, but I didn’t know what to think about childcare. Thank goodness I’d mentioned that at our impromptu meeting.

  “What time?” I asked.

  “What time works for you?”

  Gee, I don’t know. Let me ask my imaginary nanny.

  “Let me make two quick calls and get back to you,” I said, preparing to call Kenna or my mom. That couldn’t become a habit. Really, it already was a habit; I just didn’t want to ask more of them. Evenings were going to be tough because of the kids. Maybe Dean and I could work in shifts? I thought. And go on lunch dates? Yuck. I’d never thought about it, but there’s a reason dates happen at night. It’s more romantic, and darkness hides wrinkles.

  “Got it,” Dean said. “I understand.”

  Maybe Kenna was right. Working together might be easier than planning dates.

  Dean gave me Frank’s contact info, and I promised to call back about timing. After pausing to check for Lego disasters, I called Mom, who said she’d come over whenever I needed her. Thank God. Then I emailed Frank a contract and called Dean again.

  “We can meet at the hotel whenever it’s convenient,” I said, hardly believing it myself. If only I could say that more often—and with totally different meaning.

  “Great. Frank organized dinner for the guys in a private room, and the hotel has a small conference room for us next door. They’re very accommodating due to the circumstances. It’s not ideal that the guys will be together, but at least we’ll have them all there, and we can talk to them one by one. Does six o’clock work for you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But would you mind emailing me any other detai
ls? Or calling back in half an hour? Things are a little hectic here.”

  Legos were crashing downstairs, followed by screams of glee or anger, which are strangely similar with kids.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll email you, and I can pick you up at five thirty. Is that okay?”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll be here.”

  Seven

  Five thirty came too soon, of course. But I’d supplied Mom with a dinner plan, an “In Case of Emergency” reference sheet (several sheets, if I’m being honest, including CPR instructions), and a movie to be used in case of extreme boredom (hers or the kids’). Yep, I’m that parent. The one who’s sorta creeped out by the Boy Scouts but lives by a similar motto: Be over prepared.

  As soon as Dean’s car pulled up, I called out, “He’s here, guys. Love you!” and scooted out the door to avoid reintroductions.

  Dean had left the Aston Martin at home and brought his nondescript, gray SUV instead. It was his surveillance car, chosen for its ability to blend in. He also had a blaring motorcycle I’d found offensive for two seconds until I realized how hot he looked on it. I’d appreciated his tattoos just as quickly, one of which honored his mom.

  Tonight he was all covered up in gray dress pants, a white button-down, and an understated gray and blue tie that set off his bright, blue eyes. As much as I loved his blond hair and brute strength, it was those eyes that mesmerized me. I was pretty sure they could get anyone to confess anything.

  “How do you want to do this tonight?” I asked. “Should we stick together and interview each guy in the conference room—and record everything?”

  “Yeah. That makes the most sense.”

  I’d brought a digital recorder, a notebook, pens, and a list of questions, which I ran by him, adding several he suggested. We decided he’d do most of the talking since his experience, while not extensive, was greater than mine. I’d take notes and jump in whenever it felt right.