“It was days later after the case was wrapped up—Emmett wasn’t involved by the way—that I ran into him outside the movie theater. And he smiled and said, ‘I’ve missed seeing you.’ He asked me to watch The Shining with him, and that was that.” Her eyes shone with tears. “He loved telling that tale. He’d tell it to complete strangers if he got half the chance. He’d recount it with such pride too. I never knew if it was pride for his spunky wife who had such an unusual job or pride in himself for spotting me. Maybe it was both.”
I hugged her. “That’s an amazing story. I can see why it’s one of your favorites. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Thanks for listening. As I said, it’s nice to remember those things.”
I wondered how I’d ended up with so many incredible female role models. My mother, Etta, and now Connor’s mother as well.
No wonder I had self-esteem issues.
To enact our master plan of surveilling Bergström and proving Mr. Black’s innocence, we needed three things: disguises, a small fleet of different cars, and a whole lotta junk food. Etta set about purchasing the junk food part of the equation along with large sunglasses and wigs to conceal our features, while I met with Harper to see if I could secure vehicles. I would’ve asked Connor, except his company cars only came in one variety: black. I suspected Mr. Bergström was smarter than your average thug. Plus I had yet to see Connor since we’d taken down Scrawny Scientist yesterday—unless you counted when I was asleep.
Harper grinned at me after I finished explaining the whole story. “Sure. I can help with that. Just don’t crash them or get shot at or anything. And maybe don’t tell Connor I helped you either.”
I extended my hand. “You’ve got a deal.”
Connor’s family was turning out to be very useful for this case I’d never intended to take on. While Harper was loaning us the means of subtle surveillance, Mae had given us a high-zoom camera and was running background checks on Bergström and the victim to see if she could find any links between them. She was delighted to be involved in a way that even her overprotective son couldn’t consider dangerous.
Etta and I reconvened at our apartment building in Palms and loaded our supplies into the car Harper had loaned us. Etta had purchased a blond wig for herself and a black wig for me. With my pale skin, it made me look like I was a member of the Goth subculture. But at least I didn’t look like myself. Dudley was harder to disguise, but he was happy to lie down out of sight most of the time. Especially for a share of the junk food.
All revved up, we found Bergström leaving his office in Redondo Junction and followed him. He went to a coffee place, purchased a newspaper, and sat there for two hours. Then he went back to his office and sat there for three hours.
If the last two days had taught me anything, it was not to complain about boring surveillance. Boring was good. Boring was safe. Even so, boring was boring.
And if nothing happened, we were no closer to finding out why Bergström was framing Mr. Black or uncovering any proof beyond our own suspicions. Was it somehow related to the poisons Watts had been involved with? Was it personal? A debt that needed to be paid in blood? It didn’t make any sense. There were no connections between Mr. Black’s boss and the murder victim. They moved in utterly different circles. Where would they even chance upon each other?
Etta kept glancing at her bag, and I guessed it was for the pack of cigarettes inside. “I need the nicotine hit to keep me awake,” she said when she saw me watching her. “You’d think following a crook around would be more fun.”
Wordlessly, I passed her the pack of nicotine gum she’d left in the center console.
She snatched it from me with more force than necessary, popped one into her mouth, and proceeded to chew it viciously. “I can’t believe I canceled my New Year’s Eve plans for this.”
“Look, he’s moving,” I said, mostly to take her mind off it. Bergström was moving, but only toward the bathroom.
Never mind that I hadn’t had any New Year’s Eve plans to cancel.
Etta made a noise of disgust. “And you tried to talk me out of this surveillance stuff because it might be dangerous. This is even more boring than daytime television!”
“We did face down two thugs who were torturing someone forty-eight hours ago,” I reminded her.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Yes, but that was forty-eight hours ago.”
19
With just one day before the Scandalous Cause photo shoot, Vanessa had instructed me to be on the very top of my game. A challenge with everything else going on. So it was with some suspicion that I watched Emily approach me as I headed to the kitchen for more food.
“Do you ever stop to think that our clients are crazy?” she asked in a quiet undertone.
I snuck a glance. Her expression was friendly instead of snarky. Could we have finally found our common ground? Was she using the new year to make a fresh start?
“All the time,” I admitted.
“I don’t know that Miranda has a single person she can trust. Not even her husband or her own children.”
I hesitated but couldn’t see the harm in agreeing with her. “Vanessa’s the same. You’d think it would bring them together. In their position I’d love to have a group of women to talk to and find comfort in.”
“Ah, but that would require them to be vulnerable.” She pursed her lips as if she’d been sucking on a lemon and affected a posh tone. “They’re far too busy boasting about how wonderful their lives are.”
I shook my head. “What’s the point? Surely it’s obvious that none of them are happy. Miranda is lonely, Stephanie feels like she’s not good enough, Chloe is bored with her life, and Vanessa hates that open-marriage arrangement.”
We’d reached the kitchen. The one Emily had gotten me banned from. “Look,” she said, seeming embarrassed. “I’m sorry about… everything. I couldn’t believe it when you helped me out after all of that. What did you want next? I’ll grab it for you.”
I’d picked out each course earlier when I’d scoured the menu. Vanessa had warned me to stay away from anything fattening today, so I said, “The roasted squash and charred radicchio salad.”
She smiled like she was relieved and came back a minute later with the dish. “I won’t be offended if you taste it.”
“Thanks,” I said, balancing the plate on the rim of the floor vase I’d been using as a makeshift table to do exactly that. No matter how nice she was being, I wasn’t about to take any risks. I even tasted an extra couple of sections at random just to be certain. It was clear.
Maybe Emily really had changed her mind about me. We walked upstairs together, placed the salads in front of our clients, and resumed our positions.
Emily gave me the faintest of nods.
As Etta and I returned to surveilling Bergström, I reminded myself that there were some significant advantages over this versus working at the WECS Club. I could sit down. I didn’t have to wear heels. And I needn’t worry about poisons. But without the slightest suggestion of a lead so far, my apartment in ruins, and a sleep deficit to catch up on, it was hard to convince myself it was the best use of time.
Especially when the stupid wig Etta had picked out for me was so itchy. Even Dudley had decided to stay home and nap this round.
And we were doing it all for Mr. Black; the man I only knew because he’d been hired to beat me to a pulp.
The problem was, it wasn’t all for him. It was for Hallie and Joy too, and no matter how I felt about Mr. Black, he shouldn’t go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Plus the more I saw him around his family and Etta, the less I could see him as some kind of inhuman monster who deserved what he got.
He loved his family deeply. He’d never wanted to get into the debt collector business. Hell, a couple of weeks ago I’d even learned he was scared of blood. It was getting hard to hang on to my grudge faced with all of that.
Which made this surveillance more important and
the lack of anything happening more worrisome.
Bergström was sitting in a Lebanese restaurant, taking his sweet time over the menu. Since I was stuck eating junk food or the crappy remains of trail mix Etta and I had already picked over, it was infuriating to watch. Not that I didn’t love junk food, but I’d passed my limit hours earlier.
I scratched my scalp carefully, trying not to dishevel the wig. Could he turn those pages any slower?
A quarter of an hour later, Etta and I stared in shock as the lovely Principal Olivia Gibson made her way unhesitatingly over to Mr. Black’s former boss. Like she knew where he was sitting. Like they did this regularly. Bergström got to his feet and they embraced. Not a sexy embrace but certainly not a business one either. I glanced over at Etta. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Don’t be fooled by my recent old-lady acting, dear. My eyes work just fine.”
I rolled my own eyes before focusing back on the couple, who had sat down and were talking to the waitress. “This is our missing link. It’s got to be.”
“If you ever lose your job as a honeytrap, you could go into the business of stating the obvious since it seems you’re so great at it.”
Okay, apparently hours of surveillance were not good for our relationship.
“But what does it mean? Why would Principal Gibson possibly want Watts dead? Do you think he did something to her? Threaten her maybe? Or disagree with her plans for some new school development?”
“Could have,” Etta agreed. “Or they might’ve been lovers and it went wrong. Or perhaps one of the custom drugs he sold hurt someone close to her and she found out about it. But then where does Bergström come into it, and why frame Abe?”
“We should ask the Blacks. Maybe they’ll have a few ideas.”
Etta spat her gum into a tissue and looked at me. “And you should ask Mae to run a background check on Bergström and Gibson. If we find out how they know each other, the answer might become more clear.”
I hoped a background check would turn up something helpful this time. The single link Mae had found between Bergström and Michael Watts was their star sign; they were both Taurus.
I hadn’t bothered to consult their horoscope.
We watched Gibson and Bergström as they shared dinner, but we couldn’t overhear their conversation and they didn’t appear to exchange any packages. In other words, we didn’t learn anything.
It looked like a friendly meal between two friends. Yet it was too coincidental to be meaningless. Etta was busting to get a table so we could eavesdrop, but I vetoed the idea because our disguises wouldn’t have held up to that level of scrutiny. She had to content herself with making use of Mae’s high-zoom camera.
After she’d taken about twenty boring shots of the pair of them, she moved on to photographing bald spots, crotch scratchers, and nose pickers.
I called Mae as Etta snickered beside me and asked her to look into Gibson and Bergström’s backgrounds.
When our surveillance subjects eventually finished their meal, we tailed after Gibson. Perhaps for no other reason than we’d been following Bergström all day and were sick of the sight of his pale head.
Gibson drove to Los Feliz and pulled into the driveway of a neat single-story. The homes here were pleasantly middle class, sandwiched together with little room in between. The place our suspect was entering had a fenced yard, a rarity on this street where many of the houses were built inches from the sidewalk and tall shrubs to offer privacy from neighbors and passersby. Judging by the executive-looking satchel she carried inside, and the keys she procured from her bag, we figured it was where she called home.
“Should we wait and see if anything else happens tonight?” I asked, stretching my legs in the hope of preventing further butt cramps.
Etta shook her head. “She’s putting all the blinds down anyway. Let’s go and find out what the Blacks know about the principal of their fancy school.”
The Black residence looked even more shabby in comparison to Gibson’s well-maintained one. But it was filled with love and warmth, rather than potential murderers.
Only Hallie was home. Joy was at a friend’s for a sleepover. A friend from elementary school, not the Frederick Academy.
We’d just sat down around the dining table when Mr. Black came through the front door. I was glad to see him because it meant he wasn’t in prison yet. Perhaps it being New Year’s Eve had slowed down getting results on that ballistics test.
He took one look at us and moved to the freshly boiled kettle. “I’ll make tea.”
“Have you ever seen or heard of Principal Gibson involved in anything suspicious?” I asked them.
“Olivia?” Hallie said, incredulous. “No, she’s always been lovely to us. And I’m not saying that lightly. Some of the teachers at the Frederick Academy seem to think Joy doesn’t deserve to be there because we don’t have as much money as the other children’s parents, can you believe? I mean, in what distorted world does that make sense?”
The same world where it made sense to poison one another for the dubious honor of posing nude in the Scandalous Cause calendar, I supposed.
“But Olivia is super supportive and has forced them to treat Joy fairly. She’s even held information nights showing documentaries on kids who grew up in rough circumstances but got a scholarship and ended up having a huge positive impact on society. Of course, none of the parents who are against the idea bothered to attend, but she made it mandatory for the teachers.”
Dammit, I was starting to like the woman.
“And then, as I told you, when she heard Abe had been arrested, she visited us to talk with Joy about how to deal with the repercussions of the news at school.”
Mr. Black brought the steaming mugs over to us. His back stiff. No doubt blaming himself for those repercussions that would affect his daughter.
But was it genuine kindness that had brought the principal here to discuss them? Or a manufactured opportunity to plant the murder weapon? Gibson had opportunity, same as Bergström, but once again I was at a loss for a motive.
Mr. Black finished handing out mugs and sat down beside Hallie.
She sent him a look of gratitude before continuing. “The nastier kids have jumped on the news, calling Joy a murderer’s daughter and worse.” She sought out her husband’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s all over social media. Gibson knew it was going to happen and wanted to prepare us as best as she could. So you can see what I’m saying, right? She really cares about Joy. More than anyone else in the whole bloody school.”
I let Etta make the appropriate responses while my mind turned over the new puzzle piece. If Gibson’s care for Joy was part of some devious plan to get away with murder, then she’d been planning this crime for a very long time. Unlikely. But if she really did care for Joy, how could she justify framing Mr. Black?
I thought back to what she’d said about Joy that night at the bar. Something about her being intelligent but a born victim too. My stomach lurched. Surely not?
Mr. Black pushed the battered swear pig over to his wife. And I prayed that I was wrong.
20
Hallie offered us dinner, but the sick feeling in my stomach was getting worse. We had to get to the bottom of this. I phoned Mae as soon as we were in the car, explained my theory, and requested she focus her background search on historical events that might support it.
Etta cussed when she understood my reasoning. A subconscious part of me waited for the swear jar to materialize, but of course it didn’t.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess we should return this car to Harper’s garage while we wait for Mae to dig something up.”
She gave her assent, and we drove in silence. It was only as we were transferring the disguises and junk food wrappers to my Corvette that she spoke up again.
“These sunglasses reminded me of something. Do you remember how that nosy neighbor—”
“You mean
Mr. Nostril Hairs.” I interrupted, trying to lighten the mood.
“Hush, this could be important,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice. “Remember how he told us about a woman watching Watts the week before he was killed? He mentioned she was wearing big, buglike sunglasses, similar to these ones. And that she was a brunette in her thirties or forties. Do you think it might’ve been Gibson?”
I halted for a second, considering. “Good point. Didn’t he say she was driving a blue Honda Civic too? I can’t believe I didn’t think of it when we followed her home. Gibson’s car was blue. Well, I think it was blue.”
“Yes, hard to be a hundred percent sure in the dark, but I reckon you might be on the mark. There are a lot of Honda Civics in LA though.”
“Then why don’t we see if the star witness of the case recognizes Gibson from a photo?”
Etta checked the time. “Sure. No one’s asleep by nine on New Year’s Eve anyway. Mr. Nostril Hairs will probably be glad for the company.”
Etta was partially correct.
He was glad to see us, but he’d trimmed his nostril hairs since we’d last visited, so we were going to have to come up with a new nickname.
Eat, Pray, Die Mystery Box Set Page 59
