“Hell no, didn’t have the patience for it. But I had friends who were—enough to know what they liked to complain about. Quickest way to mutual ground is having a common enemy.”
“Or a common appreciation,” I said, thinking of the first time we’d met. “Like cookies.”
“Cookies and Connor,” Etta corrected me. She’d appreciated the eye candy Connor had provided at least as much as the cookies.
I wondered whether I could use either concept to befriend Emily. Unfortunately, the one thing we seemed to have in common was the job she was determined to beat me at. Oh, and our mutual dislike of each other. Nope, I’d have to go with plan A.
Etta fixed her lipstick, removed the coke-bottle glasses, and left the walking stick in the car. There was nothing she could do about her clothes.
The Black family was too polite to comment on her change of attire. We gathered around the dining table like the first time I’d met Hallie and Joy. It was a lot more crowded with Abraham’s bulk added to the group.
“You need to tell us the truth,” I said to him. “We know how protective you are of Joy.” It was hard to say the words with her sitting right there, but we had to get to the bottom of this, and it was her parents’ decision to involve her, not mine. “What happened? Did Watts fight back? Did he threaten her?”
“No, nothing like that. I didn’t do it.” His voice was pleading. “I avoided mentioning the bullying thing because I know how it looks, and Joy told me how hard it was to convince you to help.”
Great, so now it was my fault.
Judging by my guilt levels, part of me agreed with him. The other part of me was convinced he’d done it and was stringing me along in an effort to get free. Although why he thought I could help, I’d never know. Etta must have greatly overexaggerated my skill set and connections.
“I’ll admit it. I kind of enjoyed beating him up for Joy’s sake.” Mr. Black glanced at his daughter. “Sorry, honey, but I did.” He rubbed a hand over his head as he often did when he was agitated or deep in thought. “If I’d been more sensible, I might have asked for a different assignment, but I figured the bastard would be too proud to tell anyone what happened and that it might teach him a lesson.”
He absentmindedly slipped a dollar bill into the battered pig on the table. The swear jar, I remembered.
“But Watts was alive when I left. Honest. And I’m sorry. I should’ve told you anyway, but I was scared you wouldn’t help, and then I’d have to leave Joy and Hallie.”
His daughter shifted in her chair. “Why are you so quick to think Dad did it? The victim was an asshole!”
“Joy!” Hallie admonished.
“What? It’s true. You know he beat up his son? Where do you think his son learned to be a nasty-ass bully from, huh? I bet there were loads of people who wanted him dead.”
“Swear jar. Now.”
“Principal Gibson did insinuate that Michael beat up his son,” Etta said thoughtfully. “But then it kind of sounded like she thought Abe beat you up as well, Joy. Probably because of your parkour injuries.”
Joy turned white. “Sorry, Dad. I never thought—”
“It’s fine, love. What the principal thinks is the least of our problems.”
“I guess so. But next time she asks me about how I got an injury, I’ll tell her the truth. I’ve always avoided it in case she thought it seemed dumb or uncouth or something. But I’d prefer she think I’m a silly little girl than think you… well, you know. You’re an awesome father, and I love you.” She wrapped her spindly arms around his giant trunk of a waist.
I noticed through blurry eyes that her arms couldn’t reach all the way around.
But it didn’t put my fear that Mr. Black killed Michael to rest. It was because he was such a great father that made me think he might have.
12
In the movies, surveillance is exciting. The surveillance partners sit in the car, and then the scene cuts to the person they’re spying on doing something that initiates an action sequence. On the few occasions the sitting in the car scene goes longer, the partners have snacks and deep and meaningful conversations.
Etta and I had run out of both snacks and deep and meaningful conversation, and our target had yet to leave the house. We’d been sitting here for five hours. The car was cold without the engine and heater running. I had a recurring cramp in my left butt cheek, and Etta needed to pee.
“Seriously,” I said, “even if she did murder her husband, what would she possibly get up to almost a week later that would help us prove she did it?”
Etta sat with her legs crossed to convince her bladder to wait a while longer and pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s got a boyfriend who’s about to drop around. Maybe she needs to find a better hiding place for the murder weapon. Maybe she’ll start a fire in the backyard, burn their wedding photos, and urinate on the ashes.”
“Got peeing on the brain, do you?”
“Shut up.” She crossed her legs tighter.
I smirked before the evil butt cramp struck again. Then it was Etta’s turn to smirk as I twisted and contorted in the tight confines of my Corvette to ease it.
“All right,” she said a while later. “We’ll give it ten more minutes, then we’ll go have lunch and a bathroom break.”
I was trying to come up with a way of suggesting we not come back. Or that we at least come back in separate shifts to halve the amount of time I’d waste, when a black sedan parked across the street. A handsome man got out.
“Ha. I told you she had a boyfriend!” Etta crowed.
A second man exited the vehicle. This one had a remarkably round head with just a tuft of hair on top. It reminded me of an onion. “Not unless she’s into threesomes.”
“Could be.”
Onion Head opened the trunk and grabbed a leather tool roll.
“Kinky threesomes with tools,” I amended.
“Well her husband was into weird stuff. She might be too.”
I shook my head. “The earth must be a more interesting place in your mind than mine.”
“Undoubtedly.”
I resisted enquiring how come she was bored so often then.
See? Always diplomatic.
The men had walked up to the front door, their broad backs blocking our view of Nicole’s face, and disappeared inside.
“Come on,” Etta said. “We need to get closer.”
My desire to stretch my aching butt fought with my desire to stay safe. My aching butt won. I didn’t want to consider what that said about me.
We walked casually to the neighboring home and ducked down behind the hedge that divided the two properties. If Etta was hoping we’d be able to see through it, her hopes were about to be dashed. It was thick, healthy foliage two feet wide. I was just hoping the Watts’ neighbors weren’t home. We’d seen two cars leave this morning, but it was no guarantee the house was empty.
“Now what?” I hissed.
Music started blaring from the Watts’ residence. Stealers Wheel “Stuck in the Middle with You.” Too loud for normal conversation inside and too loud for this quiet residential street.
“I don’t think they’re having a dance party,” Etta said. “Nobody would want to dance to that garbage. We need to risk getting closer.” She prodded the hedge experimentally. “I’m going around.”
Returning the way we came, we saw that the front curtains on the left side of the house had been drawn. What the heck was going on? Had Etta been right about the weird sex thing?
Weird loud sex might explain the music.
Since the privacy afforded by the curtains went both ways, we figured it was safe to approach. We crossed the garden and slipped down the left side of the house. The curtains facing the neighboring hedge were still open. I guess Mrs. Watts knew exactly how spy-proof that foliage was. We crouched underneath the window and tried to hear anything past the music.
Someone screamed.
Etta risked poking her head past t
he windowsill for half a second. “She’s tied up. There’s blood. Those rotten bastards are torturing her.” She met my gaze, her eyes steely. “Have you got your pepper spray?”
I patted my pocket. These days, I usually kept it in my bag, but I’d put it in my pocket in honor of our surveillance—before I’d learned how boring the reality version was. Or had been. But my pocket was empty. “Damn! It must’ve fallen out in the car when I was stretching to get the cramp out.”
Etta rolled her eyes. “Well for goodness’ sake. Run back and get it, then go and ring the doorbell. We’ll divide and conquer. You take out whoever answers the door, and I’ll deal with whoever stays here.”
“What about the police?”
“I’ll call them while you’re getting the pepper spray, but they’ll take too long to get here. Do you really want to sit and do nothing while she’s tortured?”
Another scream tore through the music and galvanized me into action. I sprinted for the car. Found the pepper spray in the footwell under a crisps packet. Raced to the front door. Readied the safety tab on the spray before tucking it behind me and rang the doorbell. My heart drummed in my chest. What if they didn’t bother to come? What if they both came? What if—
Handsome opened the door with a friendly smile. “Hey, girl. What can I do for you?”
Crap. I was too close. Close enough that he might disarm me before I had a chance to aim. “Um.” I looked down, as if shy, and took a step back. Then I whipped the canister out and started spraying. In my terror, I depressed the nozzle too soon and sprayed a foot of the wall before any of it hit his face. But at least it hit his face.
He cursed and spluttered and made a blind grab for me. I fled around the side of the house. Maybe my subconscious wanted to give Etta backup, or maybe I was running to her for protection. She was the one with the Glock, after all. I heard a shot as I ran and the shattering of glass. By the time I reached the window, it was gone and so was Etta.
I peeked over the sill. Etta was standing over Mrs. Watts, her Glock angled at the nearest doorway. The black sedan burned rubber as it took off up the street. I hoisted myself gingerly through the window and switched off the blasted music. Nicole Watts was crying, and two of her toenails were missing. The sight turned my stomach and made me wish that I’d had something more damaging than pepper spray on hand.
“They’re gone now,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”
With the music off, I could hear the wailing of sirens in the distance. Police and an ambulance. Etta and I started working on the ropes that bound Nicole.
“Th-thank you.” She wept.
In the face of her distress, it didn’t seem right to ask the questions gnawing at us. Who were those men? What did they want? Could they have killed her husband?
As the last of the authorities drove away, Etta crossed her arms. “Well, hell. All of that and we still didn’t find out anything concrete to help Abe.”
13
Connor hadn’t reached out since our conversation about him needing to open up yesterday. Not a phone call, message, or suggestion of a time to catch up. While my instinct was to seek him out and try to work things through, possibly to the point of rocking up on his doorstep, I’d decided to give him space.
From my observations and what Harper had said, this was a big step for him. I’d told him how important this was to me. For us. Now he needed to think it over and come to his own conclusion.
You can’t force someone to be vulnerable, to bare their soul, to trust. So if Connor didn’t choose to open up, that was that. I couldn’t do anything about it. My lungs constricted at the thought.
The one positive from this whole crappy situation was that I still hadn’t had the opportunity to tell Connor about taking on Mr. Black’s case. Even apart from the fact that I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news, I was starting to think it was a good thing. Showing him what it was like to be in my shoes in this relationship could be a useful illustration. A convincing one.
He’d be furious about it. Especially given the danger of this afternoon’s events. But perhaps he needed to be furious to take the two-way communication thing seriously.
Yep. It was for the best, I decided as I stuck a Band-Aid over a cut I’d gotten climbing through the broken window.
But I missed him. All of me missed him.
On the subject of teaching people lessons, I was almost looking forward to giving Emily a taste of her own medicine. Maybe she’d realize how petty she was being and call a truce.
And maybe my ex-husband could fly.
Vanessa had informed me that this evening would be a “friendly” social gathering of eight of the WECS Club women. In other words, poison would be as common as table salt. Of course, I’d banned Vanessa from using the table salt in case it had been spiked.
My bag was fuller than usual as I made the trek from the parking lot. I’d brought along a few accessories, as well as a tote bag scrunched up down the bottom to hide everything in once I reached the storage closet—to make it harder for Emily to tamper with my stuff. If I’d been clever enough to set up some kind of booby trap, I would’ve done that instead. Perhaps I’d Google it later.
I slipped a carefully chosen bottle into my pocket. Its contents weren’t going to be ingested, and they weren’t going to hurt anyone. They were just going to teach Emily Lin that I wasn’t the doormat she thought I was.
I put my handbag into the tote bag and shoved them into the back of a cubbyhole I hadn’t used before. It wouldn’t stand up to a thorough search, but hopefully if she went to the trouble of finding it, someone would spot her rummaging through everyone’s bags.
Vanessa and her merry band of backstabbing conspirers were in full swing. Didn’t they have anything better to do with their lives? I supposed the answer must have been no, or they wouldn’t have joined the WECS Club in the first place.
The current topic of conversation was advice for Stephanie and her unborn child.
“Whatever you do, don’t breastfeed, darling, or those assets of yours will depreciate faster than you’d believe possible.”
“Nonsense, she can breastfeed if she wants. I can’t imagine why anyone would, but we all know you can get those assets perked up with the help of a good surgeon. It’s the natural birth you need to avoid at all costs. That particular asset is harder to fix.”
Stephanie’s naturally wide-eyed look was teetering toward bug-eyed. Two of the talkers exchanged a smirk.
I’d been wondering how Stephanie had gotten into the inner circle of the club members. She didn’t seem to have the sophisticated cruelty the others had perfected. Now I had my answer. They’d let her in for sport.
“Have you looked into potential night nurses yet? The good ones need to be headhunted in advance, or you don’t know what kind of creature you’ll end up with. They might steal your valuables.”
“Or your husband,” another woman chimed in.
“And make sure you put your child on the Frederick Academy waiting list as soon as you decide on a name.”
I swooped in to save Vanessa from a dose of laxatives in her celery root soup appetizer that would have seen her keeping an all-night vigil on the porcelain throne. Then I tuned them out. These were not people I wanted to take advice from.
Forty minutes later, the moment I’d been waiting for arrived. Emily and I went downstairs at the same time. My chance to get even.
I patted the pocket containing the bottle and suppressed my glee so it wouldn’t give me away. While she went into the kitchen, forcing me to wait outside, I would put my plan into action.
However, when she swung open the kitchen door, instead of disappearing inside, she halted. From where I was standing, I could see her profile. She was holding on to the doorframe, as if to steady herself, and swallowed hard.
“Are you okay?” I asked, not sure what I wanted her answer to be.
“Fine,” she said.
Perspiration beaded on her upper lip, and she wip
ed it away.
Oh great, just when I was finally going to get her back, she fell ill. “Was something you tasted poisoned?” I tried again.
She gave a sharp nod. “I’m fine, only nauseous. I was okay until I smelled all this food cooking.”
If she couldn’t bear to smell it, how was she going to taste it? A large part of me wanted to smile and suggest she try the tempura eel. Maybe I should. She’d given me every reason to. But as I watched her throat bob again, trying to keep back the rising gorge, I knew I couldn’t do it. I was a sucker that way. Blame my endlessly kindhearted mother.
Dammit. I was looking forward to seeing her hands glued to a plate.
“All right. I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I said. “But I’d like to help you. Can we start over?”
She was staring at the pots and pans of food in the kitchen as if they were a pack of zombies getting ready to swarm, putrid flesh hanging from their bones. Maybe she hadn’t heard me.
I pulled her away from the door. “You need to get out of there. Tell me what you want, and I’ll taste it for you.”
Her distrust of me warred with necessity. “Miranda can have whatever Vanessa’s having,” she bit out, then retreated from the hall.
When someone eventually came out to take my order, I requested the geranium and Meyer lemon gelato with crumble. It was an almost carnal pleasure to sample them both. Patching up the presentation was more of a chore, but I managed that too.
Emily was standing outside, where I’d escaped to the first night, drawing in lungfuls of air. She looked a bit better for it. I offered her a plate.
“Give me the other one,” she said. Her tone was a challenge. As if she genuinely thought I might have poisoned it.
It was a line even she hadn’t crossed. Probably for no reason other than the Taste Society would boot her out if she did.
I gave her the one she requested, and we climbed up the stairs, served our clients, and returned to our stations. For a moment there, I’d hoped it might be a chance for a new start between us, but she refused to meet my gaze for the next hour.
Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set Page 54
