by Diane Kelly
“I stopped by to see Althea Nomikos, saw there was no progress on her roof.”
Perkins sighed. “I’m as upset about that as you are,” he said. “Trust me.”
“I’d like to,” I said, though when people told me to trust them I often found myself feeling doubly doubtful. Trust was something that was earned, not demanded. “What’s the holdup?” I didn’t tell him what Mrs. Nomikos had told me. I wanted to see if he’d remember his excuse, and offer the same one again.
“The crew chief told me that the guys who were supposed to start on her house today discovered a big patch of rotten wood at the house they’re currently working on. You can’t tell if the decking’s bad until you remove the shingles. It was a bad surprise for both the crew and the homeowner. The insulation underneath was damaged, too. Anyway, the crew had to go round up some plywood so they could replace the decking. It’ll add another day or two to the project, unfortunately.”
“Where’s this house with the bad decking?” If it was in the vicinity, I’d head over to speak to the homeowner, verify what Perkins was telling me.
“Up in Keller,” he said, naming a town that was approximately 45 minutes north of our current location and too far away for me to make a convenient drive-by. Before I could ask for more details, he apologized. “Can’t tell you how sorry I am about all of these delays. It makes the company look bad and it makes me look bad, too. I try to be a man of my word but sometimes it simply can’t be helped.”
“How about you give me the crew chief’s number so I can call him directly?”
“I’d be happy to,” he said. He retrieved his phone and pulled up a name and number in his contacts list. He held up his phone so that I could enter the information in mine.
When I finished, he leaned toward me, as if to share a secret. “Don’t tell Mrs. Nomikos this because I haven’t heard back yet, but I’ve e-mailed the boss to see if I can knock a few hundred dollars off her bill or upgrade her at no charge to those special gutters that keep the leaves out. I figure it’s the least we can do under the circumstances.”
Hmm. The situation wasn’t under his control, and the guy seemed to be trying to make things right. Police work often took longer than victims or suspects would like, too. I supposed I should cut him some slack. “All right,” I said. “I’ll hope to see a crew at her house very soon. For now, I’ll let you get back to the game. By the way, who are you rooting for?”
He offered me a grin. “The Mavericks, of course.”
I gave him a grin in return. “Right answer.” With a hand lifted in goodbye, I backed away from the door.
* * *
Saturday was my day off. I’d decided to go wedding dress shopping on my own this time. Well, on my own other than Brigit. She wouldn’t be much help picking a dress, but I liked having her around. Lest the bridal shops balk at letting Brigit inside, I wore a long-sleeved T-shirt with the Fort Worth PD logo on it. People tended not to challenge police officers when it came to their K-9s.
I felt like Goldilocks trying on the dresses. Each one was too something. Too gaudy. Too tight. Too hard to walk in. Too shapeless. But unlike Goldilocks, I never found one that felt just right.
When nothing struck my fancy, I pulled out my phone and called Beverly Rubinstein, a seamstress I’d met in an earlier investigation. If the right dress didn’t exist, maybe she could conjure it up for me. A custom design would likely cost far more than something off the rack, but you only get married once, right? Or at least that’s supposed to be the plan.
“I’ve been hoping you would call!” Beverly said. “Ollie told me Seth proposed on Valentine’s Day. I’m so happy for you two!”
Ollie was Seth’s grandfather. We’d introduced Ollie and Beverly a while back, and they’d been keeping regular company since. Beverly had been widowed quite some time, and Seth’s grandmother had been gone since Seth was young. It had been high time the two of them enjoyed the company of the opposite sex again.
“I need your help,” I said. “I can’t find a wedding dress that feels right.”
She tsked. “You should’ve come to me first.”
Though I hated to talk about money, I wanted to be honest. “I wasn’t sure a custom design would be doable on a cop’s budget.”
“Don’t be silly!” she said. “The dress is on the house. Consider it your wedding gift.”
“Wow! That’s incredibly generous of you.”
She tsked again. “You saved me from being robbed, Megan. Maybe even worse. I would never have felt safe in my home again if those young men had gotten inside. You can’t put a value on security.”
It was true I had helped her out on a case a while back, but still, I didn’t want to take advantage. “How about I cover the cost of the materials?”
“If you insist,” she said. “Come right on over. I’ll gather up some fabric samples and designs to show you.”
I pulled up to Beverly’s house shortly thereafter. She invited Brigit and me inside, and offered me a cup of chamomile tea. My partner, meanwhile, helped herself to the contents of Beverly’s Chihuahua’s food bowl.
“Brigit!” I snapped. “Bad girl.”
Beverly waved a hand. “She might as well enjoy it. Pumpernickel is persnickety. Sometimes he’ll eat that food, other times he turns up his nose at it.”
The persnickety, plump pup lay sleeping on his bed in the corner, his aged ears no longer picking up much sound. At this point, he was more doorstop than dog.
The kettle whistled and Beverly poured me a cup of tea in a dainty china cup before pouring one for herself, too. Tea in hand, she led me through a set of French doors into a study that had been turned into her sewing room. Garment racks filled with dance and theater costumes, matching bridesmaid dresses, and wedding gowns lined the walls. A sewing machine sat in the back. Spread across a central work-table were a number of bridal magazines, along with binders filled with patterns and photos of dresses Beverly had designed and produced.
She pulled out a chair for me and perched on the one next to it. “Now. Tell me your thoughts about your dress.”
“That’s the problem.” I raised my palms. “I have no idea what I want.”
“Well, then,” she said, undeterred, “we’ll just have to figure that out, won’t we?” She pulled a small pad of paper and a yellow number-two pencil toward her and launched into an interrogation not unlike a police inquiry. “When’s the wedding?”
“Late September.”
“Indoor or outdoor?”
“Indoor.”
She jotted a note or two and held her pencil aloft. “Afternoon or evening affair?”
“Evening.”
“Dancing?”
“Heck, yeah.”
She asked me a dozen other questions before telling me to stand so she could take my measurements.
I raised my arms over my head so she could measure my bust. “Do you have any ideas yet?” I asked as she wrapped the yellow tape around my back.
“I do.” She jotted my bust size down and moved her hands down to measure my waist. “I’m thinking ivory crepe, taffeta, or satin with a train. Nothing long that’ll be cumbersome, but just enough to be elegant. I’ll add a bustle so you’ll be able to dance without having to worry about tripping over the train. You’re not overly busty, so that gives us more options as far as the neckline. A soft cowl neck could be pretty. Or we could go with a sweetheart neckline or a halter style.” She made another note on the page before moving down to my hips. “You know what would look fabulous? Sheer bell sleeves with tiny polka dots in the fabric. Maybe in a champagne color? It would be feminine but fun, too, add a touch of whimsy. I could make the train and veil out of the same fabric.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
She smiled. “It will be. Especially with you in it.”
Her measuring done, she sat back down at the table and opened a sketchbook to a blank page. In minutes, she’d doodled simple mockups with the three different necklines. I kne
w the instant she finished that she’d designed the perfect dress for me.
“That’s the one.” I pointed to the design with the halter-style bodice. It was unique, unlike anything I’d seen in the stores, and it was the perfect combination of elegance and sensibility. It wouldn’t take a crew to get me in or out of the dress, and I’d be able to enjoy my big day in relative comfort without sacrificing style. I reached over and pulled her to me in a sideways hug. “You’re the best, Beverly.”
She beamed. “I’m thrilled to be part of your big event, Megan. You work so hard for the rest of us. You deserve every happiness.”
Once again I found myself fanning my eyes to dry the mist that had formed in them.
“Give me two months to get the bodice and skirt ready for fitting,” she said. “Then you can come try it on before I add the sleeves.”
The dress designed, we enjoyed a second cup of tea while Beverly updated me on her grandchildren’s activities and other sewing projects. When we finished, I gave her another hug and bade her goodbye.
I flitted down her steps, my load lightened by having crossed another major item off my wedding to-do list.
* * *
Since seeing the debit card payments at Thai restaurants on Greg and Shelby’s account earlier in the week, I’d been craving pad Thai. Seth obliged my need for noodles, and we had a nice, quiet dinner Saturday evening at a lovely Asian restaurant in the Cultural District.
Over a glass of white wine for me and a Singha beer for Seth, I told him that Beverly would be making my dress. “She came up with the perfect design.”
He raised his hands. “Say no more. We don’t want to jinx things. Just tell me what color tie and cummerbund I should get.”
“Champagne,” I said. The color would be a nice complement to both my dress and his blond hair.
He nodded and took a sip of his beer. “I had an idea for the honeymoon.”
Leave it to the groom to be more focused on the honeymoon than the wedding ceremony. “Oh, yeah? What are you thinking?”
“Utah. They’ve got several parks with great scenery and hiking. Zion. Bryce Canyon. Arches. They’ve even got the spot where the golden spike was driven in to commemorate the joining of the eastern and western sections of railroad.”
Two things joining seemed symbolic, perfect for a post-wedding vacation. Besides, long hikes together in remote wilderness would be both adventurous and romantic. “I’m game.”
“Great! September will be the perfect time to go. The weather will be good. Not too hot, not too cold. I know you’ve got your hands full right now with that murder case. I’ll take care of all the details.”
One less thing to stress about? Woo-hoo! “I could kiss you!”
“Oh, yeah?” He leaned over and puckered up. “Put your mouth where your mouth is.”
THIRTY
HAVING A BLAST WITH BLAST
Brigit
Megan and Seth had left Brigit and Blast behind at Megan’s house. That meant only one thing. Time to go wild!
Without Megan and Seth here to scold them for messing up the bed covers or stealing snacks from the kitchen cupboards, Brigit figured anything was fair game. First, she challenged Blast to a game of chase. She zoomed from the living room to the bedroom, leaping onto the bed and down the other side, with Blast hot on her heels. She zipped back to the living room and grabbed the corner of a throw pillow in her teeth, tossing it into the air before hopping down and running into the kitchen to circle the dinette. Zoe, who’d been lying on the rug in front of the sink, hissed and scampered away. ’Fraidy cat!
After three trips around the dinette, Brigit let Blast catch her. He licked at her mouth. What a romantic.
All that exercise had worked up her appetite. She ambled over to the cabinet where Megan kept her dog treats and crunchy human snacks. She put her nose to the door to nudge it open. It budged only an inch. What the—?
Blast cocked his head and looked at her.
Brigit tried again. Still the cabinet door didn’t open. Hmm. She tried one more time. Her nose detected the scent of plastic, and her eyes spotted some type of latch on the inside of the cabinet that hadn’t been there before. Looked like Seth and Megan had wanted to turn the dogs’ pantry raids into a game. Well, Brigit was up for it.
She backed away and this time put her paw to the door. When it opened the little bit, she pawed at the space until her claws connected with the white plastic piece that was holding the door shut. She pulled first and, when that didn’t work, pushed on it instead. The door came loose and she could nudge it open now. What an easy game. She hadn’t been first in her K-9 training class for nothing.
Once the door was open, she sat down and looked over at Blast, inviting him to choose their snack. He stepped over and sniffed the boxes and bags. He decided on a box of crackers, taking the box in his mouth and removing it from the cabinet.
Good choice. Megan had tossed a couple of the crackers to Brigit the last time she’d eaten some. They’d been quite yummy.
The two dogs returned to the couch and tore into the box together. We make a good team.
THIRTY-ONE
SECRET MESSAGE
The Slasher
On Sunday evening, he watched the television news and checked online. There were no reports of any new evidence in the murder case. With waters having calmed, divers had searched Lake Worth a second time this weekend, but found nothing. Footage showed two men in wetsuits climbing out of the lake empty handed. The investigation seemed to be at a standstill. But he knew not to take the news reports at face value. Sometimes the police held their cards close to their vest and didn’t reveal all of the evidence to the media. Were they on to him and his partner in crime? He couldn’t be certain, but he had to touch base. Late Wednesday evening would be a good time to meet up.
He opened his laptop, logged into the new e-mail account he’d set up, and sent a quick, cryptic message.
THIRTY-TWO
COURTING TROUBLE
Megan
The weekend had been two steps forward, one step back. I’d gotten my wedding dress taken care of, and Seth and I had decided on our honeymoon, but Brigit had found a way around the childproof latch Seth had installed on the kitchen cabinet. She and Blast had eaten an entire box of my favorite crackers. I’d been tempted to eat her treats in return to teach her a lesson, but one sniff of the hard, liver-flavored squares and my stomach had turned.
Seth, the dogs, and I had spent a good part of the day Sunday making our way around Lake Worth, looking for any evidence of Greg’s body. We’d even borrowed a canoe from one of Seth’s firefighter buddies and rowed out to Goat Island in the middle of the lake. We’d searched all through the brush for a bloated corpse, but all we’d come across were some turtles, a gray heron, and several tangles of fishing line with rusty hooks left behind by irresponsible fishermen. We’d even hiked our way down a mile or so of the Trinity, checking the banks and water for any sign of Greg Olsen. We’d gotten nothing for our efforts other than exercise.
I’d placed a call to the phone number for Stormchaser’s crew chief, but got only the standard automated voicemail greeting, inviting me to leave a message. I had, telling the man my call was urgent and asking him to call me back right away. Nevertheless, the crew chief had yet to return my call.
It was Monday now, and thankfully I was back on the day shift. Before I could even leave the station that morning, Captain Leone cornered me. “Remember that roofing outfit you mentioned?”
“Stormchaser?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved his hand impatiently. “We got another complaint about them on the non emergency line this morning. I told them I’d send an officer by. Get the caller’s contact information from Melinda and go see what you can find out. Report back to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stopped by the reception desk, which was staffed by a fortyish woman with blonde hair, blue eyes, and supreme power, as she controlled the key to the supply closet. Melin
da was speaking on the phone, but she looked my way, seemingly read my mind, and held up a pink phone-message slip. I took it from her. The slip indicated that a man named Barney Hashim had called and provided an address and phone number. I thanked her and she gave me a nod in acknowledgment.
Once Brigit and I were in our cruiser, I aimed it for Mr. Hashim’s house. Just after I pulled to the curb and parked, a teenaged girl in a Prius pulled into the driveway and honked her horn. Beep-beep! She glanced over as Brigit and I made our way to the porch. As her brows knit in concern at the presence of police, her mouth simultaneously spread in a smile on seeing my fluffy partner.
Mr. Hashim and his wife answered the door right away. They appeared to be in their late thirties or early forties. Mr. Hashim was in a business suit, ready to leave for work. His wife wore workout clothing and a headscarf, ready for Zumba or maybe a spin class.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Mr. Hashim said.
Maybe this job isn’t entirely thankless, after all. “I understand you’ve had a problem with your roofing company?”
“We signed a contract with them nearly two weeks ago but no one has come to replace the roof. The representative told us that our house would be the first one they would work on.”
This story sounds familiar. It was the same spiel Tommy Perkins had given to Mrs. Nomikos. Probably all of Stormchaser’s sales team performed the same song and dance.
Mr. Hashim continued. “He gave me some excuses at first, but now he is not answering my calls.”
A snarky, disembodied female voice came from behind the couple. “It’s called ghosting, Dad.” A dark-haired teenaged girl in a pink head scarf, jeans, a puffer jacket, and a cute pair of faux-fur-lined boots squeezed between Mr. and Mrs. Hashim, not once looking up from her phone as she slipped past Brigit and me and continued out to her friend’s car.
