“And no electronics?”
“Electronics aren’t worth it these days,” Mendoza said. “Easier just to go to Best Buy and buy one.”
Maybe so. We sat in silence a moment.
“I’m going to go home and get some sleep,” Mendoza said.
“That sounds like a good idea,” I agreed. “Good night, Detective.”
“Good night,” Mendoza said, and hung up.
* * *
Sunday dawned same as Saturday, and for the first time in a while, I didn’t have to get up and get ready to follow Harold Newsome around. It was strange. Harold had only been part of my life in that way for half a week, but it had already become a habit.
Instead, I lingered over breakfast, and did my penance for last night’s dessert, and then I took Edwina to the park for a walk. She could run around in the yard, of course—it’s damn near as big as a park—but one of the charms of having a dog is taking it for walks, so I did.
We were meandering around the paths, with Edwina darting this way and that, when the phone rang.
My mind darted through the options as I dug it out of my pocket. Tara Cullinan, returning my call; Greg Newsome, to hear my voice; Mendoza, because I wanted to hear his…
It wasn’t either of them. “Hi, Rachel,” I said.
“How did it go?”
How did what…? Oh. “It went all right, I guess. Heidi mustn’t have told him what I do for a living, because he was shocked.” Or he’d feigned shocked very well. “He took me to Fidelio’s, where—”
“I know,” Rachel said, because of course she did. She’d been working for David at the time he died. She’d kept his calendar the way she now kept mine.
“Well, once we got over that, and the fact that David was murdered, and the fact that I’m a PI, things settled down a little. I asked him a few questions about Harold. He didn’t know much. And then Mendoza called.”
“In the middle of your date?”
“Toward the end of it,” I said. “We’d almost finished dinner.”
Rachel chucked. “Bet that went over well.”
“Greg had already asked about Mendoza before that. I mentioned him at some point, and Greg said we seemed…” I made air quotes with my free hand; not that she could see me, “friendly.”
“He likes you,” Rachel said.
“I guess. I assume he wouldn’t have asked me out if he didn’t.”
“Not Mr. Newsome,” Rachel said. “Although I’m sure he likes you, too. But I was talking about Detective Mendoza.”
Oh. “Yes, he likes me OK, I guess. As long as I don’t get too involved in his cases.”
“So what happens now? We’re without another client.”
“Well, we’re not giving the money back,” I said. “Not unless Heidi asks for it. I did the job. It isn’t my fault that Harold was murdered before I could figure out for sure whether he was cheating or not.”
“Do you think he was cheating?”
“I didn’t see any sign of it,” I said, as Edwina caught sight of a squirrel in the dry leaves fifteen feet away and came to a quivering stop. “No, sweetheart,” I told her. “You can’t chase that.”
She gave me a disdainful look over her shoulder.
“I mean it. You’re on a leash. If you try, you’ll strangle yourself.”
The squirrel hopped away, and Edwina gave an almost-human sounding sigh.
“Are you out in the yard?” Rached asked.
“Actually, we’re in the park. Taking a walk. Since I didn’t have anything else to do today.”
Which brought us back to the problem at hand. “No, I don’t think Harold was cheating. I didn’t see any evidence that he was. He never met with anyone who wasn’t a colleague or a client or a relative. And he went home to Heidi every evening. There was nothing to indicate he was getting some on the side.”
“So why did she hire you?” Rachel wanted to know.
“She said something was going on, and she wanted me to find out what. He’d been distracted and uninterested in sex.”
“That’s never a good sign,” Rachel said.
No, it wasn’t. “It’s not always a sign of infidelity, though. David was happy to sleep with both Jacquie and me, apparently, because our sex life never changed.”
“But Harold’s and Heidi’s did,” Rachel said. “So if he wasn’t cheating, what was it? Prostate issues? Impotence?”
Edwina and I had made the circuit of the lake, but the weather was nice and I wasn’t quite ready to get back in the car, so I headed for the nearest bench and took a seat. Edwina sniffed around my feet as I responded to Rachel. “I think he was probably distracted by this woman—Tara Cullinan—who was haunting him.”
“Haunting…?”
“Showing up where he was. Letting him see her. And then disappearing without saying anything. Every time he came running, she was always gone.”
“Who’d do something like that?” Rachel wanted to know.
“Here’s my thinking.” And I hadn’t quite worked all this out in my brain yet, but I’d been pondering it as Edwina and I had made our circuit around the lake. Maybe laying it all out for Rachel would help me get it more straight in my own head. “Yesterday, Greg told me that Harold’s second wife, Carly, was a Cullinan before they got married. She got pregnant, either before Harold married her or after, and she had a baby, and then she got post-partum depression and killed herself. Her mother took the baby. I’m not sure whether Carly’s mother thought that Harold killed Carly, or maybe just that Harold drove her to suicide. Or maybe Janice just wanted the baby. But either way, the girl—Cressida—grew up in Knoxville with her grandmother.”
And she’d be twelve or so by now.
“Janice died last winter, and this summer, Tara took Cressida and moved away. And came here, I guess, where she’s been following Harold around.”
“Why?” Rachel wanted to know.
“I don’t know. But it might be that Tara agrees with her mother—if Janice was her mother—that Harold had something to do with Carly’s death. That would explain why she’s walking around in front of him looking like she stepped out of 2007 or –08.”
“So what was she trying to accomplish?” Rachel asked. “Was she trying to drive Harold crazy? Was she warning him that she was coming for him, and it was because of Carly?”
“I don’t know. Could be either, or both. He must have been a little spooked, since he spent money on an investigator—on Mitch—to try to figure out what was going on.”
Rachel agreed.
“And she was in the vicinity of his house yesterday morning. I don’t know where, exactly, but she must have been close enough to shoot him.”
“Do you think she did it?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Mendoza said there’s no gun registered in her name. But she was there, and if she thought Harold killed Carly, she had something of a motive.”
“If she didn’t?”
“Greg showed up sooner than he should have, according to Mendoza. So he was in the area when Harold was shot. And he owns a rifle. He bought it in Wyoming, so it might still be there. But he owns one.”
“Hard to get something like that on a plane.”
Yes. “He could have driven, I guess.”
“But he’s on the suspect list,” Rachel said. “Who else?”
“Heidi said she was in the kitchen and Harold was outside on the patio when he was shot. There were coffee stains on the bottom of her negligee from where she dropped her cup. I don’t know whether that’s enough to take her out of suspicion. She doesn’t have a gun, either, although they used to own one. It was stolen in a burglary over the summer. And I don’t see how Harold being dead would benefit her.”
“Maybe she’d found someone else she’d rather marry,” Rachel said.
Maybe. “Did I tell you that Mendoza was there last night, when I got home from my date with Greg? At, like, ten o’clock?”
“Mendoza was there? With Heidi?”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded. “He called me in the middle of my date, and told me to let him know when I was safely home. So I did. And he didn’t respond. And then I called Heidi—just out of the goodness of my heart, to check on her, on the first evening she had to go bed alone in twelve years—and he was there.”
“With Heidi?”
I nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Weird,” Rachel said.
“I don’t think there’s anything weird about it. She’s just his type, isn’t she? Blond and sexy and probably in need of consolation.”
“I doubt Detective Mendoza consoled her on the evening of her husband’s murder,” Rachel said. “He wouldn’t get involved with a suspect.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. “She probably threw herself at him. You saw how she looked at him the other night. And you have to admit she’s beautiful.”
“Her lips are fake,” Rachel said. “So are her boobs. And probably her cheekbones.”
Maybe. But the whole package was still attractive. And it wasn’t like Mendoza was known for being ascetic.
“None of my business,” I said.
Rachel murmured something that was probably agreement. “What do you want to do now, Gina?”
I hesitated. It wasn’t our case anymore. My job had been to follow Harold around, and now that I couldn’t do that anymore, the job was over. “I guess we’ll start praying for another client to come find us. Maybe we should burn some incense tomorrow, or something. Until then, I guess you can just enjoy the weekend.”
“Nothing you’d like me to do?”
“If you can think of a way to figure out where Tara Cullinan lives, so I can talk to her, that would be nice. But otherwise, no.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Rachel said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Gina.”
We disconnected, and I sat for another minute and enjoyed the late morning sun before I gathered myself and Edwina and headed home to make lunch.
Chapter 10
By mid-afternoon I was feeling bad about Heidi—OK, I wanted to hear her side of last night’s time with Mendoza—so I called her and offered to come over to keep her company. She hesitated, and hesitated again, but finally agreed that maybe some company would be nice. So I put Edwina back in the kitchen and took myself back to Somerset. When I gave the guard my name, he waved me through.
Instead of stepping on the gas when the boom raised, I leaned out. “What happens when somebody shows up here and you don’t have their name on the list? There’s a list, right?”
He nodded.
“What happens when someone shows up who isn’t on the list?”
“They don’t get in,” the guard said.
“You don’t call up to the house and ask if this is someone they want to see?”
He shook his head. “If they wanted to see’em, they’d have let me know.”
“Do you remember letting in a blonde in a yellow car yesterday morning?”
“Wasn’t here yesterday morning,” the guard said, sounding regretful. “I work the three-to-ten shift. Missed all the excitement.”
“You heard what happened, right?”
He nodded. “Harold Newsome got shot, on his own patio. I let a detective through last night.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Wasn’t long. Thirty, forty minutes, maybe.”
Long enough. I thought about asking whether Mendoza had looked any more disheveled leaving than when he came—if maybe Heidi had had her fingers in his hair, or he’d gotten dressed, or re-dressed, in a hurry—but I told myself that it was none of my business. When that didn’t work, I decided that I didn’t want to look like a fool in front of the gate guard, and that did the trick.
“So you don’t know about the woman in the yellow car?”
He shook his head.
“Do you keep track of the people coming and going? By name or anything? Or by resident?” Was I notated somewhere as ‘friend of Heidi Newsome, 3:36 Sunday’?
“Just mentally,” the guard said. “Mrs. Newsome called down about thirty minutes ago and said she was expecting a friend. Described you—very well, too—and said to pass you through when you came.”
“So there isn’t a list anywhere that would tell me—or the police—about the woman in the yellow car who was here yesterday morning. Who she was here to see?”
He shook his head. “The detective already asked.”
Of course he had. “Thank you,” I said.
He touched his finger to his forehead, and I put the SUV in gear and rolled through the gate. It closed slowly behind me as I coaxed the car up the incline to Chatsworth.
* * *
Heidi was decked out in designer mourning—black wool slacks, black silk blouse, black mules—and was carrying a glass of something frosty and pink when she opened the door for me. “Come on in.” She tossed her hair. “Gwendolyn’s here. And Jackie.”
Jackie?
I only knew one Jackie, and that was Jackie-with-a-q, David’s mistress, the one he’d left me for. “I don’t think I know Jackie,” I said as I crossed the threshold.
Heidi smirked. “Sure you do.”
“Jacquie Demetros?” She was hanging out with my husband’s mistress? “I didn’t realize you were friends.”
“We’re not,” Heidi said, leading the way to a room in the back. Sunroom, I realized, when we got there. Lots of windows, terracotta tiled floors, plants.
“Here’s Gina,” she announced, unnecessarily, before plopping herself down on one of the chintz sofas and folding one mile-long leg over the other. “You know Jacquie and Gwendolyn.”
She waved her hand lazily.
“Of course.” I nodded to Gwendolyn as I unwrapped my scarf. “Good to see you. Jacquie.”
Jacquie gave me the kind of look that should have dropped me dead on the spot. Gwendolyn nodded politely, if unenthusiastically. “Strawberry margarita?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “I brought wine.” I handed it over before taking a seat on the sofa next to Heidi. “I’m not staying long. I just wanted to make sure Heidi was OK. But it looks like you’ve got it covered.”
They were well on their way to being tipsy, if I were any judge. And at three-thirty in the afternoon, too.
Then again, Heidi’s husband had died yesterday, so maybe she was entitled. And Jacquie had lost her meal-ticket with the death of my husband in September, so maybe she was living vicariously through Heidi. John Oliver, as far as I knew, was fine. But just in case I was wrong…
“How’s John?”
“He’s fine,” Gwendolyn said, making short process of opening the wine I’d brought. “Golfing.”
Of course. I turned to Jacquie. “And Nick?”
Nick Costanza, as Mendoza had pointed out during that conversation last night, had been Jacquie’s boyfriend before—and perhaps during and after—her relationship with David.
She gave me a look of absolute loathing. “Nick’s fine.”
He was, as I recalled. Almost as good-looking as Mendoza. “You two back together again?”
“He’s been a great comfort,” Jacquie intoned, “in my time of sorrow.”
Uh-huh. I turned to Heidi. “How are you holding up?”
She raised her glass in a toast. “The tequila’s helping.”
No doubt. “I hear Detective Mendoza stopped by again last night.”
She nodded, and the little smile that flitted around her (perfectly painted) lips was distinctly feline.
“Oooh!” Gwendolyn murmured appreciatively, handing me a glass of wine, while Jacquie said, “I remember him. He was hot.”
Yes, he was. “Did he have news about the case?”
“He said you were having dinner with Greg,” Heidi said.
“Oh.” I blinked. “Yes.” Although why Mendoza would stop by to tell Heidi that, I had no idea. Unless he suspected they were carrying on, the way he’d suggested as a possible motive. “He called and asked me out. Is that a problem?”
“Harold’s brother,” Heidi said, and turned back to me. “I don’t care. If you want Greg, you can have him.”
“It was just one date,” I said. “I don’t know if I want him yet. Although he seems like a nice guy. Successful, too.”
“Didn’t you inherit all of David’s money?” Jacquie wanted to know, waspishly. “Why do you need another rich husband?”
I arched my brows. “I don’t. Eighteen years of David’s company was enough. Next time, I’m marrying someone who loves me, and doesn’t just love what having me on his arm does for his ego.”
Neither of them responded to that, and I added, “And I didn’t inherit all of David’s money. I inherited a third of it. Kenny and Krystal got the rest.” David’s children. Both of them older than Jacquie.
“It should have been mine,” Jacquie said.
“Well, if he’d lived another month, so you had time to marry him, maybe it would have been. But he was still married to me when he died. That’s how it works.” I toasted her with my glass of wine and took a sip.
“He’d left you,” Jacquie said.
“I’m aware of that. But we were still married. The divorce hadn’t been finalized yet. So I was still his wife. Legally.”
“That was supposed to be my money!”
“Tough luck,” I told her. “It’s mine, and I’m keeping it.”
“That’s not fair!” Jacquie said.
“You should have thought of that before you decided to seduce someone else’s husband. Next time, go after a guy who’s already single.”
I turned back to Heidi and Gwendolyn. “So. Mendoza.”
“Hot,” Heidi said, and waved her hand in front of her face while she sipped from the (frozen) margarita.
Yeah, yeah. “What did he want, at ten o’clock at night?”
“He was just making sure I was OK,” Heidi said, and that same smile made a reappearance.
I pretended it didn’t bother me. “That was nice of him.”
He hadn’t done that when David died. Although I’d only been married to David in name at that point, so maybe I wasn’t the one he’d visited. I glanced at Jacquie. “I don’t suppose Detective Mendoza stopped by to make sure you were OK after David died?”
Haunting Harold Page 11
