I shook my head, thinking fast to do exactly that. “No. I just wanted to make sure you’d checked it wasn’t poison.” After meeting the WECS Club women, I guess I had a whole new appreciation for how much the rich and powerful liked sabotaging each other. Plus it was the one excuse for my presence here that he might deem acceptable.
His mustache bristled like it was getting ready to launch from his face and attack me. So much for my acceptable theory.
“He was shot. In the head.” He pointed to the center of his forehead, in case I didn’t get it.
He’d told me a detail I didn’t know. The papers had said Mr. Watts had been shot, but not in the head. That could be meaningful.
Hunt was expecting a response, so I stuck with my impromptu reason for being here. “But had he been drugged before that? Was he alive when the bullet went in?”
He sneered. “You know something I don’t, Avery?”
“Um.”
“You’re talking garbage, and you’re fishing. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you didn’t know I was leading the case. Now you do.”
He stepped another inch closer until I could smell what he’d had for breakfast—engine-grease coffee, beef jerky, and… was that marshmallow Pop-Tart?
“Stay the hell out of my investigation, you hear me?”
Using every ounce of will I possessed (and focusing on that whiff of marshmallow Pop-Tart), I managed not to step back. Rule number one when dealing with bullies: never show fear.
“Are you worried I’ll make you look bad by solving the case again?” I asked sweetly.
His face mottled with red, and his mustache bristled further.
“Get. Out.”
I gave him a perky salute to distract from my quaking knees. “Nice to see you, Commander.”
“You abandoned me!” I fumed when I found Etta leaning against the car, having a cigarette. “And I thought you were quitting.”
She’d taken up smoking a year ago for no other reason than that it felt good. But now she had Dudley whom she wanted to protect from secondhand smoke, standing outside made the tobacco hit more trouble than it was worth. Unfortunately, she was finding that quitting the habit was harder than taking it up in the first place.
“That was stressful,” she said. “Can you imagine if he saw me like this? I needed to calm my nerves.”
I threw myself into my seat. I needed to calm my nerves too, so I reached for the cookies. The container was empty.
I thrust it out the window at her. “Seriously?”
She extinguished her cigarette and climbed in beside me. “You should’ve brought more if you wanted some. Why are you so worked up anyway?”
Her question reminded me that Etta didn’t know my history with Hunt. She’d only met him once when he’d come to pick up a severed appendage that had been gifted to me. My annoyance faded. A bit.
“Well? Did you get any information out of him?”
“No. Except that Michael was shot in the head. I guess I need a harmless-old-lady outfit too.”
“You just work on improving your honeytrap act, dear. Harmless old lady is what you’ve got me for.” She started the engine. “Time for round two.”
Mr. Bergström’s office was a transportable building chocked up on cinder blocks next to a metal recycling place in Redondo Junction. It was far from glamorous, and I had an uneasy feeling his choice might have something to do with the convenient vicinity to those giant metal-crushing machines which could smash a human body into nice, hideable pieces.
Perhaps Etta had the same thought or saw the look on my face because she slipped her beloved Glock out of her bag and said, “Don’t stress, I’ve got your back.”
Dudley, who we’d brought with us out of the car this time, had no such qualms and was busy lifting a leg on one of those cinder blocks. I really hoped Mr. Bergström wasn’t watching us through the window. Or on those surveillance cameras. Ugh.
Etta put her Glock away and tapped on the door. A slim man with slicked back blond hair opened it. There was something odd about him, and it took me a minute to realize it was because his eyebrows were so pale they were almost invisible. He arched one of them when he took in our ragtag group. “Ladies, are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“Of course I’m sure, young man. I’m old but I’m not senile.” As if remembering her outfit, Etta softened the words with a smile.
“All right then. Please, come in. Do you need some help with the step?”
Due to the cinder blocks, the first and only step into the transportable was a foot and a half off the ground, with the floor of the building another foot and a half past that.
Subconsciously I expected Etta to hike up her skirt and step inside, but she accepted the man’s help and clambered up awkwardly. I followed close behind, scared to let her out of my sight.
Dudley was less keen on the idea.
He’d gotten a whole lot better at getting up and down stairs, but this was a long way from normal stairs. Etta and I looked at each other. Since Etta had eaten all the cookies, we didn’t have any treats to motivate him with. Failing food, we’d learned there was one other thing that motivated him: high-pitched voices. Embarrassingly high-pitched voices.
We patted our legs and noisily encouraged him the way a parent might exclaim over a kid taking their first steps. He hesitated, so we upped the pitch of our excitement. A second later, he’d eschewed the step altogether and leaped straight into the building.
I caught a glimpse of a smile on Mr. Bergström’s face as I turned around. It disappeared without a trace. The way I hoped we weren’t about to.
Still, he didn’t cut that much of an imposing figure. I was pretty sure between Etta’s Glock and my Taser and pepper spray, we could take him. Dudley wouldn’t be any help. He didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. I was starting to relax when a dark shape in the far rear of the room, a shape I’d assumed was an armchair, shifted. The armchair was a man who rivaled Mr. Black in size and bulk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him cross his arms.
Okay, if this went wrong, Etta and I were screwed. At least Dudley might have a chance of outrunning them.
I let out a nervous chuckle.
“What can I do for you?” asked Mr. Bergström, drawing our attention back to him.
“It’s about one of your employees, sir,” Etta said, clinging to her walking stick like she was afraid and the stick was a lifeline. “Abraham Black? He’s a big man and a smidge scary to look at, but he’s been real kind helping me out over the years. I don’t know if you heard, but he got arrested.”
Bergström folded his arms too. “Sure, I heard.”
“Ah, okay. You might’ve heard as well that it was because the police thought he murdered somebody. A gentleman you sent him after.”
“I heard that’s what he said.” Bergström’s tone was a warning.
One that Etta ignored. “Well, I was wondering if you might tell the police about that. Since he has a young daughter and a wife who’d be awfully upset if he went to jail.”
Armchair Man took a step toward us.
“I’m sorry, ladies. But I can’t help you.”
Etta rummaged in her purse and suddenly had two guns aimed in her direction.
“Don’t shoot!” I yelled, causing one of the ugly nozzles to veer my way.
Dudley whined.
“Goodness,” Etta said. “I was getting a picture to show you of Abe’s lovely wife and their daughter, Joy.”
“I’m not interested in seeing it,” Bergström said.
“All right. That’s all you needed to say.” Etta returned the picture to her bag and left her hand where it was. “There’s no need to draw weapons when a nice conversation would do. Those things are dangerous, you know.”
I held in a cough. Etta wasn’t one to lecture on gun restraint.
“I know,” said Bergström. “Now I suggest you ladies head on home, and take your dog with you.”
We followed
his suggestion.
What can I say? It seemed like a good one.
7
It hadn’t been the most promising start to our investigation, but Etta was undeterred. She pulled out the list Mr. Black had written down for us. The addresses Mr. Bergström had denied ever giving him. “Okay. Let’s visit the locations that Michael Watts frequented.”
“You don’t want to talk about how we almost got shot just now?” I asked.
“Oh, piffle. They were only trying to scare us. Besides, after I put that photo in my purse, I picked up my Glock and had it trained on Bergström ready to go.”
I’d been so caught up in her little-old-lady act that it hadn’t occurred to me. But that still left two guns against one. A fact I didn’t bother to point out, seeing as it would just lead to her making an unflattering comparison between me and a particular type of poultry.
“I need to go to work,” I said instead.
Who knew I’d be so pleased to be heading back to the WECS Club? Nothing like having a gun aimed at you to put small-minded politics into perspective.
“I know. I know.” Etta sounded annoyed. “But after that. You said you’ll be back in a few hours, didn’t you?”
Since Connor couldn’t make our date, she was regrettably correct. On the other hand, it might be a good thing. By the look of her, she’d be too impatient to wait longer.
“Right,” I agreed. “We’ll try again when I get back. Don’t do anything dangerous without me.”
She grunted. Like Connor would have.
What was he doing now? Something even more dangerous than us? He wouldn’t be happy to hear about our excursion this morning, especially the bit with the guns.
I checked the rearview mirror all the way home, but it was only when we pulled up to our apartment building without a single glimpse of Armchair Man that I started to feel safe.
“I can’t wait to get out of this old-lady outfit,” Etta said, her mind apparently on other matters. “It has its uses, but too many hours in this thing and I start to fool myself.”
I didn’t believe that for a second.
We got out of the car, let Dudley out, and climbed up the stairs together. Etta winked at me before disappearing into her apartment. “Have fun getting dolled up.”
Imagining how Etta might envisage my job as a honeytrap kept me entertained while I got dressed and drove to work.
The roses were a great deal more attractive than the metal crushers at my last stop. But like the WECS Club women, their beauty concealed their propensity to inflict harm. I walked through the garden and prepared myself to shield and protect.
There were four members at today’s luncheon. While the club was made up of over thirty women, the committee that steered it consisted of just a president, vice president, treasurer, and secretary.
And they despised each other.
Not that there were any overt signs of it in their charming smiles and honeyed tones. But a more experienced eye might notice that the president and vice president had hired Shades, the secretary was claiming morning sickness from a new pregnancy, and the treasurer had begged off eating after a large breakfast and was only pretending to sip her tea. These ladies had trust issues.
Vanessa had told me that all meetings would be held at the clubhouse. Apparently, it was an unspoken rule leading up to the Scandalous Cause photo shoot to never invite anyone home. Three years ago, there’d been some nasty incidents involving hair removal cream finding its way into shampoo and mascara bottles.
It was enough to give any person trust issues.
“How’s your open marriage going, Vanessa?” asked the vice president. Miranda, I’d learned her name was. She was dark, sleek, and sharp-clawed like a panther.
“Are you kidding? It’s great. I can be with anyone I take a fancy to.”
“That’s so admirable. I don’t know how you do it.” That was Stephanie: the blond secretary who looked as if she’d been a playgirl in a former life. She patted her perfectly flat stomach. “Tony is all the man I can handle.”
Vanessa cocked her head, making her hair spill over her shoulders in what I was starting to realize was her signature move. “That’s one of the best parts about it. I can turn Donald down guilt-free. But I’m glad Tony’s enough for you. And you’re looking great for being thirteen weeks along. I hope you don’t start to show before the shoot.”
Stephanie’s smile was strained. When the other women’s attention wandered, she peeked down at her still-perfectly-flat stomach and frowned.
“Well, I haven’t even seen Max for weeks,” Miranda said, despite the fact that no one had asked. “He’s in Hong Kong closing a multimillion-dollar deal as usual.”
“But at least you have the pool boy,” Chloe said with a snicker. She was blond as well but had the refined air that came with being born into money. Presumably, as the treasurer, she was good at handling it too.
“I love being my own woman. Not to rain on any of you gals’ parade, but freedom, no expectations or compromises, and a fat check from my company every week suits me just fine.”
It was an effort to keep my expression neutral. If this was what it meant to be rich and beautiful, I was starting to think being broke and ordinary wasn’t such a bad thing.
Vanessa polished off her entree with obvious relish—a dig at those who couldn’t eat. “In any case,” she said, “I suppose we should get down to business. How many seats do we have left for the Scandalous Cause charity gala?”
I served the next course—a poison-free white truffle risotto—and let my mind wander as they discussed upcoming WECS Club activities.
My eyes stayed pinned on Vanessa’s plate.
When she’d eaten, she beckoned me forward and sent me to find a cheese course to finish on. Miranda did the same, so Emily and I went down to the lower level together. I kept to the other side of the stairs in case she decided to give me a helpful shove. She wouldn’t, surely, but I felt uneasy all the same. The Mr. Black case must be getting to me.
I’d been hoping to hear gossip about the murder of Michael Watts, but there’d been zilch so far. As I’d feared, the husband of one of their own members being murdered was nothing more than a passing curiosity, and since it had happened days ago, it was old news.
Especially when they needed to one-up each other on their sex lives and plan the seating arrangements for the upcoming gala ball.
The self-absorption was incredible. Then again, until Etta had challenged me on it, I’d been quite happy to go on with my own little life and ignore Mr. Black’s plight. Who was I to judge?
We entered the kitchen, and the chef, who’d so far tolerated my intrusion into his domain by acting like I didn’t exist, stormed over. “Get out! Get the hell out. And stay out. You can pass your order on to one of my staff and wait in the hall from now on, got it?”
I stared in bewilderment at the outraged man and the knife he was pointing at my nose… until Emily piped up.
“Sorry. Chef Rogers was furious that the stove got turned up and ruined his Bordelaise sauce. He was threatening to fire his entire staff, so I had to tell him how I saw you leaning against it earlier. You must have accidentally bumped the control knob.”
She was flat out lying. I’d worked around kitchens long enough to never go near the cooking spaces. But Chef Rogers wasn’t going to believe me. I backed into the hall, brain reeling. Emily might not have pushed me down the stairs, but she’d made my job a whole lot harder. Rogers would make sure I had to wait ages for each course until he’d worked off his ill temper or forgotten about me.
Vanessa was not going to be pleased.
Sure enough, Emily waltzed out with her cheese platter before a member of the waitstaff had emerged to even take my order. But the best I could do was obey Chef Roger’s demands and hope that staying out of sight would rapidly transition to being out of mind as well.
Eventually a girl came out of the kitchen and grimaced at me sympathetically. “Nothing pisses Rogers o
ff more than a spoiled meal, I’m afraid. What would you like?”
I tested the cheeses, pâté, quince paste, and house-made wafers for poisons as usual but also to make sure Rogers hadn’t ruined the taste out of spite. Thankfully, his pride in his work was too great for that.
As I placed the plate in front of Vanessa, her gaze brushed over me. Only for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to read the message there.
Bad dog.
The winter sun was sinking toward the horizon when Etta and I pulled up to the first of four locations Michael Watts used to frequent before he was murdered.
We’d left Dudley snoozing at home and were in my car. A silver Corvette was less noticeable than a yellow Dodge Charger, and there was a possibility it would be best not to attract attention. Etta was back in her normal clothes, figuring anyone the wealthy Michael Watts hung out with would respond better to style than sweetness.
In front of us was an unremarkable-looking house on an upper-middle-class suburban street in Oakwood. It was late afternoon—hardly prime time for thugs or shady dealings—but I was apprehensive anyway.
Etta unbuckled her seat belt before I’d killed the engine and slipped out the door. “What are you waiting for?”
I wondered how she’d lived so long with such a penchant for risk taking.
“What if it’s an arms dealer?” I asked, then realized that might excite her further. “Or a grieving friend?”
“Hopefully, it’s the first of those options. That would be interesting.”
It seemed wrong that hanging out with a woman in her seventies made me feel old, but it did. I held back a sigh and followed her to the front door.
A lady about Etta’s age opened it. The pair of them seemed to be cut from the same cloth—both elegant and stylishly dressed. Her gaze swept dismissively over me but lingered on Etta. “Ooh. You look like you have spice. Who referred you?”
“Michael Watts,” Etta said.
“Well, all right then. Come on in. I’m Madam Devine in case my reputation has failed to precede me. For future visits, drive up to the garage and our security will let you in. There’s a private parking area out the back.”
Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set Page 50
