Haunting Harold

by Jenna Bennett

  “She was there,” Mendoza said, “according to you. She’s been stalking Harold, also according to you. She had opportunity, and it sounds like she might have had motive. And means is also pretty easy to find. I’ll check for a gun permit in her name, but even if she doesn’t have a legal gun, an illegal one isn’t hard to come by. Not if you know where to look.”

  Perhaps not. “Maybe I should get a gun.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” Mendoza said.

  “Maybe I should ask Greg to teach me how to shoot it.”

  “His experience there might be all on paper, too,” Mendoza said, but he didn’t offer to take me to the gun range himself. “Anything else you want to tell me about Tara Cullinan?”

  “I don’t know anything more about her. But Harold knew she was following him. He hired a private investigator of his own to look into it.”

  He looked up. “A PI?”

  “Mitch McKetchum,” I said. “Although as of yesterday, he had no idea this woman existed. He thought Harold was talking about me.”

  Mendoza leaned back. “Explain this to me.”

  “Harold left the office for lunch yesterday. I followed him to a building near downtown. He went inside. I waited in the car. After a few minutes a guy came out. I’ve seen him a couple of times before. He’s been following Harold, too.”

  Mendoza arched his brows, but didn’t interrupt.

  “He came over to the car and asked me to follow him inside. I figured I might as well. And then he presented me to Harold as the woman who’d been following Harold around this week.”

  Mendoza looked like he was starting to enjoy this conversation. “How did Harold take that?”

  “Not well,” I said. “He was unhappy with me, and of course he figured out that Heidi had hired me, so he was unhappy with her, too. He went back home and they had an argument about it. One that apparently ended in the bedroom.”

  “Heidi tell you that?”

  I shook my head. “Zachary was following Harold. I called him when I realized I might have to divide my attention between Harold and the PI.”

  “I’m going to need to talk to Zachary,” Mendoza said.

  “Feel free. He doesn’t live here anymore, though. He moved in with a friend last week. You can call him.”

  “Don’t think I won’t,” Mendoza said. “So Zachary followed Harold home. You stayed with Mitch?”

  “For a few minutes. Then I drove to Knoxville, since I figured Zachary had Harold covered, and I wanted to talk to Heidi anyway before I went back to following him. Just in case she wanted me to stop.”

  Mendoza nodded. “So you met Mitch.”

  “Officially. Like I said, I’d seen him around. He held the door for me at Olive Garden a couple of days ago, too.”

  “I don’t imagine he was happy about the fact that he fingered the wrong woman.”

  “Not noticeably,” I admitted. “And then I mentioned you, and that didn’t go over so well, either.”

  He grinned. “No kidding?”

  I shook my head. “He wanted to know how I knew you. I told him you’d investigated my husband’s murder. And then I left. I haven’t seen him—or his truck—since.”

  Mendoza nodded. “Guess I’ll have to have a word with him.”

  Guess so. “How do you get along? Just out of curiosity.”

  “About as well as can be expected,” Mendoza said. “He’s my son’s stepfather, and he’s sleeping with my wife. And he was at the soccer game today.”

  He sounded frustrated.

  “Sorry,” I said, although it was certainly not my fault that someone had decided to shoot Harold Newsome before Mendoza could make it to his kid’s soccer game.

  “It’s the job. It just doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “You could take another job.”

  He looked at me, and I added, “Or not.”

  He nodded. “Anything else you need to tell me before I go back to work?”

  “I have a picture of the blonde. It’s not a very good picture—I took it on the run—but I’ll forward it to you. That way, you might recognize her if you see her. Other than that, just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  He pushed up from the table and headed for the foyer. Edwina looked up from where she was chewing on a dog toy on the carpet, and wagged her tail hopefully.

  “What do you think I should do about Heidi?” I wanted to know, as I followed. “Give her the retainer back? I don’t feel like I earned it.”

  In fact, I felt more like I had let her down. Harold had died on my watch.

  “She won’t miss it,” Mendoza said, walking past me and out. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “You too, Detective,” I told him, and stood and watched as he fitted himself behind the wheel of the nondescript sedan and rolled down the hill toward the road. Edwina had joined me at the door, but she didn’t show any indication of wanting to go out, so when Mendoza’s car was out of sight, I closed the door. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go get a treat.”

  She pranced ahead of me down the hallway to the kitchen, stubby tail high.

  Chapter 8

  Greg Newsome rang the doorbell at seven sharp. I had put Edwina in the kitchen, where she wouldn’t growl at him and put him off, and when he rang, I stepped out and shut the door behind me.

  He gave an approving look to my dress and boots, but didn’t comment. Instead he just offered his arm. “Ready?”

  “Yes, thank you.” I took it, and let him escort me over to the car and tuck me safely inside.

  He took the driveway sedately, and didn’t let the car go until we reached the main road. We headed toward downtown and the university district. It wasn’t until we took a left on Murphy Road that I started having misgivings.

  I didn’t say anything, though. Not even when he signaled the turn into the parking lot beside Fidelio’s Restaurant.

  He must have noticed my expression, however, because as he pulled up next to the valet, he said, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who don’t eat carbs.”

  “I eat carbs.” And then I do an extra twenty minutes on the elliptical machine the next morning as penance. Not that my maintenance routine was any of his business.

  “Good.” He got out and came around to my door to open it. “You’ll enjoy this place. Best pasta in Nashville.”

  I was aware of that. It was hardly my first time at Fidelio’s. David had taken me here, and not for the first time, for our anniversary dinner last summer. That was less of a problem, though, than the fact that he’d also eaten here on the night he died. His car had been tampered with in this very parking lot.

  I didn’t say anything about it, though, just let Greg pull me out of the car. He accepted the ticket from the valet and then put his hand, familiarly, at the small of my back. “Ready?”

  I nodded, and he swept me up the stairs and inside. “Newsome,” he told the maitre d’. “Reservation for two.”

  The maitre d’ nodded. “If you’ll follow me, sir.” He made his way through the restaurant, slowly and majestically, while we plodded behind. “Madam.” He pulled out my chair and then whipped the napkin out and draped it across my lap.

  “Thank you,” I told him demurely, while Greg seated himself across the table.

  The maitre d’ lowered his voice discreetly. “My condolences, Mrs. Kelly. For what happened with Mr. Kelly.”

  “Thank you,” I said again, “but it’s been a couple of months.” I was over David’s death. Besides, we’d been in the process of getting divorced.

  He gave me an austere little smile. “I wasn’t referring to Mr. Kelly’s death, madam. But to the other matter.”

  Ah. The fact that he’d cheated. “Thank you,” I said, more genuinely this time. “But they deserved each other.”

  The maitre d’ nodded. “We would tend to agree, madam. A poor choice on Mr. Kelly’s part.”

  He straightened, and addressed us both in his official voice. “Trev
or will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you,” Greg said, and the maitre d’ took his leave, proceeding majestically back toward the podium by the front door. Greg turned to me and arched his brows. “I would guess it isn’t your first time here.”

  “I used to come here with David,” I said.

  “Your husband?”

  I nodded. “After he took up with Jacquie, he started bringing her here, too. This was where he had his last meal. Before he got in the car and died.”

  Greg stared at me.

  “Sorry,” I added. I guess it wasn’t polite dinner conversation, but he’d opened this can of worms.

  Greg shook his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You should have let me know being here made you uncomfortable.”

  I glanced around at the full dining room. “It doesn’t. What happened to David had nothing to do with what he ate. Or with being here, aside from the fact that his car was tampered with in the parking lot behind the restaurant.”

  Greg’s mouth dropped open. For a second, until he hiked up his jaw. His very nice, strong jaw. “Your husband was murdered?”

  I nodded. “I guess you didn’t hear about it at the time. Maybe it didn’t get as much press as I felt like it did. Although I would have expected Harold to have told you. He was one of David’s closest friends.”

  “Harold and I weren’t close,” Greg said. “I’m younger than he is—was—and we don’t have much in common. Besides, I don’t spend a lot of time in Nashville. Half the year, I stay at my house in Wyoming. And I do a lot of traveling.”

  “Mendoza told me you’re an author,” I said.

  Greg nodded. “You and Detective Mendoza seem friendly.”

  Friendly? “I guess we are. He was the detective assigned to David’s case. He caught David’s killer.” With a little help from me. “He’s good at his job. He’ll figure out what happened to Harold.”

  “I don’t get the feeling there’s much doubt what happened to Harold,” Greg said dryly. “He was shot. The only question is who had reason to want him dead.”

  That was, indeed, the question. “Do you know him well enough to have the answer to that?”

  The answer, if there was one, was put on hold by the arrival of Trevor the waiter, bringing a basket of bread and a small dish of olive oil with herbs. He and Greg discussed wines for several minutes, and then Trevor departed to fetch the vintage they’d decided on.

  “I’m sorry,” Greg told me, when Trevor was on his way. “I appreciate a good wine.”

  “That’s nothing you need to apologize for. I do, too.” Although while I prefer it to taste good, I don’t care enough to be a connoisseur. Greg obviously did.

  “As for the answer to your question,” he added, “I have no idea who’d want my brother dead. As I said, we weren’t close. I don’t know much about what goes on in his life.”

  That was too bad. “I don’t suppose you’d have any idea who Tara Cullinan is?”

  Greg opened his mouth. But before he could respond, Trevor was back, blandishing the bottle, and the two of them got busy drawing the cork and sniffing it and then sampling the wine. Greg pronounced it acceptable, and Trevor poured about two fingers into the bottom of my glass before putting both his hands behind his back. There were no vulgar order pads at Fidelio’s. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

  We hadn’t, but Greg seemed to know what he wanted. “We’ll start with the Insalata Caprese,” he said, in passable Italian, “followed by the Frutti di Mare fra Diavolo for me and a Piccata di Pollo for the lady…”

  I arched my brows. I have no problem eating Chicken Piccata—there are no carbs, for one thing, or at least not enough to warrant any extra exercise—but I wasn’t sure how I felt about him ordering for me. Not even David had been that high-handed. At least not usually.

  I refrained from complaining, though. I wanted to know what Greg had to say about Tara Cullinan, and I didn’t want to start alienating him before he told me. Besides, he might just be trying to impress me with his grasp of Italian, and if so, I wasn’t going to slap him down for it. It was nice to have a handsome gentleman trying to impress me. That doesn’t happen much, at my age.

  “… and then we’ll end with an Espresso each, and a Semifreddo al Frutto della Passione.”

  “No espresso for me,” I said, not bothering to give it its proper Italian pronunciation. “I’ll never sleep tonight if I have espresso with dinner.”

  Trevor nodded. Greg looked like he might be thinking about making a comment about sleep or lack thereof. If he did, he must have thought better of it, because eventually he just nodded, too. Trevor withdrew and Greg turned his attention back to me.

  “So you speak Italian,” I said.

  “Not well. But I’ve had an apartment in Tuscany for the past couple of years, and I’m getting better.”

  He owned a house in Wyoming and an apartment in Tuscany?

  So what if he wasn’t Jaime Mendoza? I’d never get Mendoza anyway. And if I played my cards right, I might end up owning half a house in Wyoming and half an apartment in Tuscany.

  I smiled. “Tell me about Tuscany. Or Wyoming. Or both.”

  * * *

  By the time Trevor came back with the cheese and tomato tower—Greg’s Insalata Caprese—Greg was still talking about Italy. The weather, the landscape, the food. We hadn’t touched on Wyoming—there’d be weather and landscape there too, no doubt, if perhaps less food—and we certainly hadn’t gone back to the question of Tara Cullinan. But as Greg cut into the tower and transferred slices of mozzarella and ripe tomato to my plate, he smiled at me across the table. “That’s enough about me. I want to know about you. What do you do, Gina?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said.

  The knife slipped and slid across the plate with a screech, and Greg shot me a shocked look. It might have been prompted by the faux pas, but more likely it was my profession.

  “I guess Heidi didn’t tell you,” I added, since part of me had expected her to. If they were in cahoots, and Greg had asked me out to figure out what I knew, then Heidi would have filled him in.

  Then again, maybe he was just pretending to be shocked and he already knew, but was just giving me the reaction he thought he’d give if he hadn’t known.

  Either way, he pulled it together and completed the transfer to my plate. “That seems an unusual profession for someone like you.”

  Eh. There are plenty of middle-aged, female, private investigators. The benefit of being middle-aged and female is that nobody much notices us.

  “I got into it after David died,” I explained, picking up my knife and fork to shave a piece of cheese and tomato off the portion on my plate. “When he told me he’d met someone else and wanted a divorce, I was curious, so I started following him around, to figure out who she was. After he died, I kept doing it, to see if Jacquie had killed him. It seemed like a good idea to get a license so I could do it officially.”

  Greg didn’t say anything, but his look at me was eloquent. Although of what, I’m not entirely sure. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “Not noticeably,” I said, even though Zachary had been beaten up and Rachel concussed and I had been kidnapped and locked in a basement during our most recent case. “Most of the time, it’s just following cheating spouses around. They’re not usually desperate enough to shoot the messenger.”

  Greg thought for a moment, while I nibbled daintily. “Did Heidi hire you?” he asked eventually.

  Point to the man in the blue shirt.

  “I can’t tell you that. Client confidentiality.”

  Greg smiled. “So she was a client.”

  I made a face. “For what it’s worth, Harold had a PI of his own. And that brings us back to the question I asked earlier. Do you know Tara Cullinan?”

  “No,” Greg said.

  “Earlier, it looked like the name might be familiar to you.”

  “Harold’s second wife was Carly Cullinan. But I don
’t know Tara.”

  She had to be related, though. The name is unusual enough that the idea of it being random was ridiculous.

  “Did Carly have a sister?” I asked. The woman I’d seen was too young to be Carly’s mother, and too old to be her daughter. Sister made sense.

  “Maybe,” Greg said. “I didn’t know her well. Back then, I was still reporting. Traveling a lot, to all sorts of places. Not always easy to get to. And they weren’t married long.”

  “She was his second wife, Heidi said?”

  Greg nodded. “Harold married Lorraine after college. They were together fifteen or sixteen years, and then he met Carly. He divorced Lorraine and married Carly, and she died within the next year. Then he married Heidi. That must be ten or twelve years ago now.”

  Twelve, according to Heidi. “What happened to Carly?”

  Greg shook his head. “I wasn’t here. I was in… maybe Baghdad or Hong Kong. Or Somalia. Somewhere overseas.”

  “For research?” He was throwing the exotic names around like they were confetti.

  “I hadn’t started writing yet,” Greg said. “I was a reporter. Foreign correspondent.”

  Sounded exciting. But not as exciting as what we were talking about. “Did you fly home for the funeral?”

  “Carly’s funeral?” He sounded genuinely surprised that I’d ask. “No, of course not. I barely knew her. Had only met her once or twice. And I was busy.”

  “What was she like, the two times you met her?”

  “Quiet,” Greg said. “Pretty, although all of Harold’s wives have been.”

  “She can’t have been very old when she died.”

  Lorraine would have been Harold’s oldest wife, I assumed. His first, who had most likely been in her early- or mid-twenties when he married her. She had aged along with him, the same way David’s first wife, Sandra, had done. Then David met me, and dumped Sandra, who was in her early thirties by then. I’d been twenty-two when he married me. How old had Carly been?

  “She was in her late twenties,” Greg said.

  That’s no age for someone to die. “Was it an accident? Was she ill?” Cancer, or something horrible like that?