Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2)

by Susan O'Brien

  “So it could ruin the game?”

  “Exactly. The technology is incredibly expensive, too. My source says the league has a habit of buying rights to safety technologies, all with the goal of burying them instead of using them. He says Bruce and Todd’s invention had to be killed. Sorry about the choice of words, but that’s kind of the point.”

  “Are you honestly saying you think Bruce might have been killed over this? It’s not like killing him would get rid of the technology.”

  “I’m just saying you need to know what’s going on. My source can’t go public, since he could get sued for violating the league’s confidentiality clause, and his safety would be at risk. The powers that be like their money and prestige, and the quality of PreTechTion’s helmet is so good that it could blow their profits sky high. I don’t like that you’re mixed up in this.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks for giving me a heads up.” I hugged him and hoped he didn’t mind. He wasn’t a big hugger. “I won’t say a word, except to Dean.”

  “Thanks. There’s one more thing I want to tell you.”

  “What?” I said, not sure I could take any more.

  “I trust my source completely, but I need to get a second person inside the league to back up the story before I can run it. After that, my next step is to interview Todd. I’m not sure when exactly, but I’ll be reaching out to him soon.”

  “Okay. Well let me know if I can help with that. I’ll certainly vouch for you.” I thought for a moment. “Honestly, do you think his or Frank’s life could be in danger?”

  “I doubt it, but I don’t know. That’s for you to figure out. Or not, if you decide this case is too high profile or risky.”

  The weak part of me hoped Eli was guilty. Maybe it was time to bow out.

  “Did the Bandits win yesterday, by the way?” I asked. I hadn’t given it a second thought since Dean’s house. Games hadn’t mattered to me before, and now I didn’t know what to think.

  “In overtime.”

  Kenna poked her head in. I’d been so focused that I’d completely tuned her and Sky out.

  “Hey, Nicki,” she said. “Wanna stay and make blueberry muffins? I’ll throw in extra blueberries, just for you.” Clearly Andy hadn’t filled her in, and I wasn’t sure if he was going to.

  “I better not,” I said. “I have a lot to do, and I should get home and give Dean a call.”

  “I’m not gonna argue with that,” Kenna said. “Was Andy any help?”

  “Oh, huge,” I said, nodding at him. “Thanks again.”

  I checked in with Dean, who didn’t sound offended that I’d left before he woke up. Maybe he was relieved, too.

  He’d gotten word that Bruce’s preliminary cause of death was blunt force trauma, and it was suspected that after the murder, Bruce’s body was thrown over a bridge not far from the riverfront where it was found. I took this in and added what I’d learned from Andy.

  “You’d think if anyone was going to kill Bruce for business reasons, it wouldn’t look so personal,” I said. “Like a gunshot or something, not blunt force trauma and being thrown into a river. And would they really kill Bruce, just to kill his project?”

  “I agree. Andy must really trust you to give you any of this.”

  “He feels like he owes me,” I said. “But he doesn’t.”

  “Well thanks for trusting me, too.”

  I answered on the first ring when Mia called back as promised.

  “I’m at Bruce’s,” she said. “I found his passwords taped to the back of a picture frame. They’re for his laptop and everything else.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Are you going to turn them over to the police?”

  “Not yet. I might have syphilis, Nicki. I need to know what I’m dealing with—or who he’s been dealing with, and I’m not waiting for the police to tell me.”

  “I won’t argue with you,” I said, even though I was tempted. “But remember, you could be handling evidence. Ask yourself if you really want to risk tainting it.”

  “I feel tainted,” she said. “I’ll consider what you’re saying, but I’m making copies of all this, and I’m making sure you get them.” I wasn’t going to argue with that, either. “I’ll come by after visiting Lydia. Is that okay? You’ll have to talk with my parents later, though, because they’re not with me.”

  Errr…it totally depended on what time. I didn’t want the kids around for that. “Yes, especially if it’s before two thirty. Just call my cell so I know when to expect you. And give my best to Lydia.”

  There were countless chores I could do at home: laundry, dusting, mopping, toilet scrubbing. All were more appealing than getting in touch with Megan’s family. But something was telling me to do it. Now.

  Reluctantly, I reviewed her parents’ contact information, which I’d jotted down on a legal pad. Under it, I’d noted what I wanted to ask or tell them—beyond seeing how they were doing and if they were willing to talk with me. Five years ago, when Jason had died, Megan’s sister had called and told me everything they knew at the time, which was almost nothing. I didn’t have the energy to pursue it further, and when I did, her number had been disconnected. I took that as a sign.

  I picked up the phone and made the call I never thought I would. Megan’s mom answered, and she recognized my name before I explained myself.

  “I’m so glad it’s you,” she said. “I’ve always hoped we could talk. If you’re free now, please, I’d love for you to come over. Megan’s dad isn’t home, and I think that’s best.”

  She sounded so civil and calm that I said yes, and before I knew it, I was on my way to see Abby Jenner in McLean, a lovely town not too far away, but way out of my price range.

  I knew from Megan’s obituary that we were six years apart in age; I was 32 when she died, and she was 26. The only photo I’d seen of her was in the paper, and she was beautiful. Over time, I’d come to accept that looks, personality, and age weren’t the issue. Jason hadn’t been happy at home. Plus, if he’d cheated with a wrinkled old cougar, it might have hurt and confused me even more.

  Abby’s driveway was circular, and it was tempting to circle right out of there. I didn’t want to park in front of her Federal-style mansion, but there wasn’t an alternative, so I left my well-worn minivan front and center and wished I could photograph the contrast.

  I walked up cement steps to the home’s grand entrance, which was flanked by columns upholding a small, second-floor terrace where someone might sip morning coffee. Abby opened the door before I rang the bell, which made me wonder if they had some sort of motion sensor or camera mounted under the deck.

  “Nicki,” she said, apparently sure it was me, although we’d never met in person. “Please come in. Can I take your coat?” I handed it over and thanked heaven I’d gone with a presentable outfit today. As she trekked across the foyer to a closet, I noted her L.L.Bean-style clothes, gray-blond bun, comfy clogs, and light makeup, which instantly put me at ease. “I’ve waited so long for you to reach out,” she said. “Thank you for coming. Won’t you come into the sitting room?”

  The home was everything you’d expect and more. An expansive, wood-paneled office on one side of the foyer. A gracious sitting room on the other with a grand piano, marble fireplace, and stocked bookshelves. An open floor plan that offered peeks at a gourmet, eat-in kitchen with its own hearth. Other beautiful surprises were surely just out of sight.

  “Thank you for having me,” I said nervously while she poured tea into dainty china cups. I rarely talked about Jason’s passing, and I never talked about Megan.

  “After all this time, what prompted you to call today?” Abby asked with warmth that was even more comforting than the tea.

  “You may think I’m crazy,” I said. “But recently, I talked with a psychic. Or a medium, I guess, wh
o…” I stopped myself. “First, do you even believe in that sort of thing? Are you okay with me talking about it?” I knew some people were uncomfortable with the idea of communicating with spirits, and I wanted to respect that.

  “I don’t know what to think of it,” she said. “I’m wary, but I’m open to hearing what you have to say.”

  “Thank you,” I said, grateful on Lydia’s behalf too. Whether or not her skills were real, I believed Lydia’s intentions were good. “I didn’t hire a medium or anything, but I happened to meet one through work, and she asked me to pass a message on to you—to Megan’s family, really.” I watched her carefully, afraid the mention of Megan’s name would inflict too much pain. She winced and smiled at the same time.

  “I’m sorry my husband couldn’t be here. He isn’t able to talk about her much.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “And I’m sorry for yours.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and gathered myself.

  “The medium I spoke with asked me to tell you two things,” I said. “First, that when Megan was in a relationship with my husband Jason, she thought we were separated and getting a divorce. I hope that’s a comfort to you.”

  Abby’s hand flew to her chest.

  “That’s what I’ve always wanted to know. I never could accept that Megan was someone’s…mistress. She wanted a marriage like mine and her father’s. We’ve been together thirty-three years. I just couldn’t believe it. And you have children, which made it even worse.”

  “I don’t know if it helps, but I believe the medium. She seems genuine, and she knew at least one detail about me that almost no one knows. I can’t think of a reason she would trick me or lie.”

  “That means a lot. You said you met her through work. What kind of work do you do?”

  I explained my career choice and was intrigued when she told me her husband was a retired FBI agent, and she was a counselor. Under different circumstances, they were a couple with whom I’d enjoy a long conversation.

  “You said there was another detail you wanted to share?” Abby asked.

  “Yes. It’s that…” Tears threatened to spill, and I wasn’t sure words would make it out of my throat. “Megan is okay. Where she is. She’s okay and at peace.”

  “Oh.” She covered her eyes with her hands. To her credit, she rallied quickly and joked with emotion, “Can I get the name of that medium?”

  I laughed, but stopped at the thought of Lydia’s state. “Actually,” I said, “she could use some positive thoughts. She’s facing some serious health challenges.”

  “Oh. I’ll keep her in my prayers,” Abby said. She looked at me intently and touched my knee. “I’ve worried about you so much over the years. Please tell me how you’re doing.”

  “Thank you. I’ve worried about you too. I’m doing much better than I was back then.”

  We talked briefly about our lives, the toll that loss takes, and the healing power of time. The conversation relaxed enough for me to ask about things I’d always wondered. Had any of Megan’s relatives or friends met Jason? (No. Megan had told her sister she was dating him, but the details weren’t discussed.) How long had they been together? (A few months; she wasn’t sure how many.) Did she know anything that would explain, gulp, the reason Jason was unfaithful? (Megan had only told her sister she was dating someone “special,” and that his romantic history was complicated.) Had any evidence of their relationship been found, such as emails, letters, or mementos? (None except notations on Megan’s calendar about their dates. For better or worse, it hadn’t been saved.)

  I wondered to whom Jason had told the most lies. Had he wanted a divorce but been afraid to tell me? Was he planning one before he died? Or was he using Megan? Maybe pretending he was single—completely unencumbered—fulfilled a fantasy. I resisted asking Abby for her professional opinion.

  “I’m sorry for what Jason did and the lies he told,” I said. “I don’t understand his decisions, but deep down, he wasn’t a terrible person.” I swallowed hard.

  “No need to apologize,” Abby said. “Although I’m sorry, too. After the accident, when we found out he was married, I was so angry.” She wiped away a tear. “I blamed practically everyone, including myself, for what happened. So many ‘whys’ and ‘what ifs.’”

  “Me too. But how could you blame yourself?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. What if Megan and I had been closer? What if she’d confided in me?” She shrugged. “You try to make sense of something senseless, you know? And when you love someone, you desperately wish you could have saved them. Changed things. Eventually, I decided to honor Megan by trying to live fully instead of giving up. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do,” I said, wishing I could let go of anger, guilt, and distrust more easily. But I couldn’t turn this into a therapy session. “My kids help with that.”

  “I feel the same way about Megan’s sister. And my marriage. And my work. And any good part of any day, really.” She smiled.

  To lighten the mood, I asked about Megan’s sister, who I remembered lived in Texas. I was happy to hear she was expecting a baby. Surely that would bring joy to Abby and her husband.

  After the last drops of tea were poured and sipped, we hugged goodbye. I felt like I’d made a friend, although I couldn’t imagine seeing her again. More than ever, it felt like time to move on.

  Twenty-Four

  After leaving Abby’s mansion and driving a mile, I pulled into a garden center parking lot to touch base with Dean. Ostensibly, it was about the case, but really, I wanted to touch base with my present—and hopefully my future.

  “How’s it going?” he asked. “Any news with Mia or Lydia?”

  I filled him in and added that Lydia was trying to get into a C. diff study, avoiding the subject of where I’d been.

  “It’s maddening that there’s an easy solution for Lydia, but it’s so hard to accomplish. Heck, I told Frank I’ll be a donor if they need someone to step up.”

  “Are you serious?” I felt silly for not volunteering myself. In the early years, parenting is basically the equivalent of managing a poop factory. I shouldn’t be squeamish about sharing the wealth. Then again, donating to someone involved with a case would be a strange conflict of interest.

  “Yes, I’m serious. Nicki, I was in the Army. I’ve seen things in latrines that I’ll never speak of. This wouldn’t be a big deal. I get that Frank wants no part of it since they’re divorced, but Lydia’s got to have other people who can help.”

  “It must be awkward to ask, though, and there are certain criteria for donors. She thought she had Bruce and Mia. Meanwhile, she’s sick, and her son is gone.”

  “You’re right. Hey, you said Mia’s stopping by later. Do you want me there for that? I can swing by.”

  I visualized my house and realized that with Dean back in town, I’d have to improve my cleaning (or not-messing-things-up) habits.

  “She’s calling before she stops by,” I said. “If she gives me enough warning, I’ll let you know and see if you can make it.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Not knowing what the day would hold, I texted Mom about her babysitting availability. She offered to supervise dinner and bedtime for the kids, even if I didn’t end up going out, but she couldn’t stay late.

  I put the van in gear and hoped my home’s natural disasters were the only ones in store.

  I set my purse in the hallway and cleaned the only way I know how: by focusing on one small area at a time and cranking up the tunes. I stuck my phone in my pocket (with the ringer on high) and hoped no one came to the door, mainly because they might hear me belting out rap lyrics. I trusted the curtains would hide my dancing free-for-all.

  When the only evidence of first-floor chaos included stuffed trash ca
ns and the scent of cleanser, I took a lunch break and called Kenna.

  “So, any big Dicki news?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “You know. Like if you and Dean were a celebrity couple. You’d be Dicki.”

  I laughed. “That’s not right. What about…” I couldn’t come up with anything. “Nean?”

  “Nope. It’s Dicki. I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”

  “How about Deanki?”

  “No! That’s worse. You can keep trying, but I’ve got this covered.”

  “Okay. Fine then. You guys are Kandy.”

  “Ha. You got me. And it sounds like a pole dancer, too.”

  Between Sky’s frequent interruptions, I told Kenna I was feeling stronger than ever about Dean—and more at peace than usual about Jason. She was stunned by my visit with Abby, and she let Sky get away with a lot just to continue our conversation. Finally, she said Andy had confided in her about his article, but she wasn’t supposed to discuss it, either.

  We hung up when Mia called to say she was about ten minutes away. I texted Dean and then called when he didn’t answer.

  “Mia’s almost here,” I told him. “Is this a good time for you?”

  “Yeah. I was on my way to the PI Academy, but I can be at your place in fifteen minutes.”

  “Great. See you soon.”

  I took one last glance around the house—and one in the mirror—before starting the coffeemaker, boiling water, and setting out assorted tea bags and mugs. I wanted Mia and Dean to feel at home. While waiting for them, I straightened the kids’ photos and artwork on the fridge and checked the clock. An hour and thirteen minutes until bus stop time.