Stalking Steven

by Jenna Bennett

  My heart started beating faster. “Do you have a copy of it?”

  “Of course, dear.” She shoved a hand under the sofa pillows and pulled out a couple of pieces of paper. “I have the original.”

  I kept myself from snatching it out of her hand, but it wasn’t easy. But I was rewarded when she handed the papers over and I was able to flip to page two and look at the signature. In big, bold letters, nicely rounded and girlish: the name Anastasia Sokolov.

  Chapter 8

  I let Ms. Tucker keep the rental contract, and promised her I’d tell Detective Mendoza all about it. And encourage him to take a look for himself, so Araminta Tucker could get a good look at him, up close. She waved me off with all good cheer. I had barely cleared the door before the hockey game came back on, at the same teeth-rattling decibels.

  I waited until I was in the car to pull out my phone. And while I was tempted to contact Mendoza first thing, I convinced myself that my first duty was to my client.

  She picked up on the first ring. “Gina. Have you heard anything?”

  I was actually calling to ask her the same thing. Now I didn’t have to. “From Steven? Sorry, no. I guess you haven’t, either?”

  She hadn’t. No surprise there.

  “How about we go grab some dinner?” I suggested. It was getting on for that time, or close to it, and I didn’t want to tell her about Anastasia Sokolov over the phone.

  She hesitated.

  “It wouldn’t have to be anything fancy. Just a quick bite and a little time to brainstorm in person rather than over the phone.”

  “I suppose that would be OK…” After a second, she added, “I don’t want to stay out too long, though. Just in case Steven comes back.”

  Which he might. He might show up just as usual, as if nothing was wrong.

  And for that matter, nothing might be wrong. Sure, he hadn’t been at work today, and he hadn’t been answering his phone. Nobody in his life knew where he was, or if they did, they weren’t talking. But there was no reason we knew why he might not walk through the door, just like he did every other day, this evening.

  “I could pick up some takeout and meet you there,” I suggested. It would give me another chance to look around. And to see whether Steven had been home since we’d been through the house earlier today.

  “Yes.” She sounded like she was thinking about it. Then she came back with a stronger, “Yes, that would be good. Just in case.”

  I didn’t ask in case of what. “What would you like?”

  “I’ll get it,” Diana said and hung up. She probably wanted the line open in case Steven called.

  * * *

  I thought for sure I’d be eating lettuce—we ladies of a certain age have to watch what we eat to keep our girlish figures, especially when we’re competing with women half our age for the men in our lives—but Diana must have wanted comfort food. When I walked into the kitchen in Richland, there were four different cartons of Chinese food on the counter.

  I saw her car pull into the alley when I turned onto the street. By the time I’d parked in front and made my way up between the topiaries, she had the door open. “Come on in.”

  I stepped across the threshold and looked around. “Steven isn’t here?”

  “I haven’t looked,” Diana said. “But the garage was empty. And his car isn’t parked out front.”

  No, it wasn’t.

  “I’ll run upstairs and change. And see if he’s come and gone. The food’s on the kitchen counter. Make yourself at home.” She waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. I headed that way while she started up the stairs to the second floor and the master bedroom closet.

  The rooms I passed on my way to the kitchen were empty. No surprise there. The house had an empty feel to it, and looked exactly the same as it had when we left it this afternoon. Even the stack of mail on the island didn’t look as if anyone had rifled through it. And if Steven had come home while we’d been gone, wouldn’t he have been tempted to check what had arrived in the mail today?

  I took a quick glance myself, too. It looked like a couple of bills, an insurance statement, something from the state, a request for money for wounded veterans, and some sort of invitation to something. That’s judging from the logos up in the corners of the envelopes, and the nice, heavy stationary the invitation came on.

  The four food containers were lined up on the counter, and held, in descending order, shrimp and broccoli, chicken lo mein, fried rice, and dumplings. I was opening cabinets looking for plates when Diana walked back into the kitchen, barefoot and in a pair of leggings and a tunic.

  “Over here.” She opened a cabinet and handed me three plates.

  I took them. “Are we expecting company?”

  “Jaime Mendoza called while I was on my way home,” Diana said. “I ordered enough food for an army, so I figured we’d be all right if I told him to stop by.”

  Sure. I wasn’t planning to eat much. Fried rice and dumplings go straight to my hips.

  “Then we’d better talk fast, before he gets here.”

  I’d realized, after I hung up the phone with Diana earlier, that I couldn’t just arbitrarily call Mendoza and tell him about Araminta Tucker and what she’d told me. Diana was my client. My responsibility—and loyalty—was to her. If she told me not to share what I knew with Mendoza, I couldn’t share it.

  “About what?” Diana wanted to know. She was forking shrimp and broccoli onto her plate.

  “I went to see the woman who owns the house next to Mrs. Grimshaw. The house where Steven met with the blonde yesterday.”

  Was it only yesterday? It felt a lot longer ago.

  “Her name is Araminta Tucker. She moved to an assisted living facility in Franklin after her husband died. He was Mrs. Grimshaw’s brother. She and Griselda Grimshaw didn’t get along, so when Patton died, Araminta moved out of the house next door and started renting it out.”

  Diana nodded. She had moved onto the dumplings, and was fishing them out of the box with her fork.

  “Before she retired, she used to work at the university.”

  Diana glanced up. “Where Steven works?”

  “The same one. She posts the house for rent on the bulletin boards there. Steven must have seen it, because he contacted her.”

  “About renting her house?”

  “That’s what he told her. Or what she said he told her. He wanted to rent the house,” I took a breath, “for his daughter.”

  There was a beat of silence. “Steven doesn’t have a daughter,” Diana said.

  I nodded. “That’s what you told me. And what I told her. For what it’s worth, Araminta didn’t think she was Steven’s daughter, either.”

  Diana arched a brow. “Why not?”

  “Different last names, different nationalities.” She looked blank, and I added, “Apparently the girl’s Russian. Or from somewhere in what used to be the Soviet Union. I’m not up on the various Slavic variations of names. But her last name is Sokolov. First name Anastasia. Araminta Tucker let me see the lease. The girl signed it along with Steven.”

  “Do you have a copy?”

  I shook my head. “I left it with Ms. Tucker. It’s hers. I need to know whether you’ll agree to let me tell Mendoza about it, so he can go take a look at it.”

  She looked surprised.

  “I work for you,” I said. “If you don’t want me to share it with him, I won’t.”

  It would be difficult, since I didn’t really want to keep anything from him that might help him solve Mrs. Grimshaw’s murder. She might not have been a nice woman, but nobody had the right to kill her, no matter how unpleasant she might have been.

  Diana nodded. “Of course I want you to share it with him. Any chance the girl did it?”

  It was hard to blame her for sounding hopeful. I’d been hoping for the same thing—that I would be able to send Jacquie to prison for the rest of her natural life—after David died. Anastasia Sokolov was even younger than Jacquie. S
he could look forward to even more years behind bars.

  However, I felt I owed it to Diana to point out the truth.

  “She might just be a witness. If she was next door last night, she couldn’t really have avoided hearing the shot.”

  Diana made a face.

  “Either way, having her name will hopefully help Mendoza find her. Or at least make it easier. And Araminta Tucker saw her, so she can probably help him flesh out the description Zachary gave.”

  “That’s why he’s coming here,” Diana said. “He set Zachary up with a police artist. They have a sketch. Jaime wants me to look at it, to see if I recognize her.”

  Good for Zachary.

  “Sounds like he’s arrived.” She tilted her head toward the front of the house.

  I sharpened my ears, and heard the sound of a car door slamming. She must have heard the car pull up to the curb outside. “Do you want me to go let him in?” She’d filled her plate; she should probably start eating before the food got cold.

  “That’s kind of you,” Diana said, “but I’ve got it.” She put her plate down on the counter. “Help yourself.”

  She nodded to the food on her way out into the hallway. I started picking up and putting down containers while I kept an ear on the proceedings. The soft scuffs of Diana’s bare feet on the wood in the hallway. The sound of the front door opening. A soft greeting. The sound of—maybe—a kiss on the cheek?

  Whose kiss on whose cheek was harder to determine. But either way, there were no squeals of happiness or cries of recrimination, so it wasn’t the wayward husband who had returned. I heard the sound of Mendoza’s hard shoes coming down the hallways, and then he appeared in the doorway.

  “Evening, Detective,” I said.

  He arched his brows. “Mrs. Kelly.”

  “Sorry,” Diana said behind him. “I forgot to tell you that Gina would be here.” She moved past him toward her plate. “Help yourself to food.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Mendoza gave me a nod as he faced me across the island. “And how was your afternoon?”

  “Busy,” I said, and watched as he ladled Lo Mein onto his plate. “Yours?”

  “The same. I didn’t get any lunch.”

  Good thing I wasn’t that hungry. “Is that an occupational hazard?”

  “It happens. Not like you can interrupt a murder investigation to fill your stomach.”

  I guess not. Or that you’d be very hungry in the middle of what you had to deal with, either. “Diana told me you found Zachary and had him work with a police artist.”

  He nodded. “Just let me shovel some of this in, and I’ll show you the image we came up with.”

  “I’m not likely to be any help there,” I said, “but I’d be happy to take a look. You’ll probably have more luck at the university, though. Or with the neighbors. And on that note…”

  “After I eat,” Mendoza said.

  Fine. I made a face, but carried my plate over to the little table in the alcove, where Diana was sitting. She was trying to keep back a smile, somewhat unsuccessfully. I figured she was laughing at me, but since it was the first time I’d seen her smile today, I didn’t give her a hard time about it.

  Mendoza sat down a few seconds later, and for the next couple of minutes, we all focused on eating. Mendoza wasn’t kidding about being hungry. He ate tidily, but fast. Diana mostly picked at her food. I guess it must have sounded good at the time, but when it came to actually chewing and swallowing, she probably felt like there was a big obstacle in her throat. I remembered that feeling. It was only a few months since I’d found out that my husband was cheating on me.

  “So how’s the dog?” Mendoza asked after a few minutes, and tore me out of my increasingly angry thoughts about cheating spouses.

  I looked at him blankly for a second before I hiked my jaw up. “Oh, my God. I forgot the dog!”

  I dove into my purse for my phone.

  “Dog?” Diana asked while I scrambled.

  “Mrs. Grimshaw,” Mendoza said, “had a small Boston Terrier.”

  “The woman who was killed in the house next to the one where Steven was yesterday?”

  He nodded, while I was frantically pushing buttons. “I had to do something with the dog while the CSI crew went over the house, so I gave it to Mrs. Kelly.”

  Diana turned her attention to me, her eyebrows winging up her forehead. I flapped a hand at her but didn’t speak, since Rachel was just picking up. “It’s Gina. I’m so sorry. I totally forgot the dog!”

  “That’s all right,” Rachel said. “I left her with Zachary. He said he’d take care of her.”

  “Will his mother be OK with that?” Zachary lived with his mother. I hadn’t met her, and he never said much about her, but there was at least a chance she wouldn’t be thrilled about having a dog dumped on her without warning.

  “I didn’t ask,” Rachel said. “Maybe he’s planning to sleep on the sofa in the office tonight.”

  Maybe he was. “I’ll swing by on my way home. I’m having dinner with Diana and Detective Mendoza.”

  “Good for you,” Rachel said. “Anything I need to know about?”

  Nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. “No,” I said. “What about me?”

  Rachel said there was nothing she hadn’t already told me. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I told her I’d be there, and hung up. “The dog’s fine. Zachary’s got it.”

  “Her,” Mendoza said. “I spoke to the lawyer. Next of kin is a sister-in-law in a retirement community in Franklin.”

  “Araminta Tucker. The widow of Patton Grimshaw, Griselda’s younger brother.”

  Mendoza arched his brows. “Can I ask you how you know this?”

  “I was going to tell you,” I said, with a glance at Diana. “I had Rachel look up the ownership of the house next door. The one where Steven and the blonde were yesterday. Araminta was listed as owner, with an address in Franklin. I drove down there.”

  “Of course you did.” He sounded resigned but not surprised.

  “She already knew what had happened. She saw it on the news. And she was quite disappointed when I showed up and you didn’t. She wants to see you.”

  “Why?” Mendoza asked suspiciously.

  “Mostly because she thinks you’re nice to look at.” I grinned at him across the table. “Partly, I think, because she thinks the whole thing is interesting. She’s pretty interesting herself, actually.”

  Mendoza muttered something. I didn’t ask him to repeat it. “She says that Steven contacted her a few days ago, about renting her house.”

  I explained about the university connection and the girl and the lease and all the rest of it.

  “And she showed you a copy of the lease?”

  I nodded. “The girl’s name is Anastasia Sokolov. Or at least that’s what she goes by. Her handwriting looks like she’s around twelve, so it was easy to make out the name”

  He arched his brows. So did Diana.

  “She’s not,” I said. “Zachary got a good look at her, and he said she was in her early twenties. But I guess she writes like someone who doesn’t write a lot. Or maybe it’s a Russian thing. The point is, the name was easy to read.”

  “And it’s Anastasia Sokolov?”

  I nodded. And spelled it, for good measure, so there’d be no question.

  “That’s helpful information,” Mendoza said.

  I smiled sweetly. “You’re welcome.”

  He opened his mouth and closed it again. Not just handsome, but smart. “Anything else?”

  I shrugged. “She didn’t like her sister-in-law. Didn’t make any bones about it. After her husband died—Patton, Griselda’s brother—she, Araminta, moved out and into the retirement place in Franklin so she wouldn’t have to be next door to Griselda anymore. She says she hasn’t seen her sister-in-law in two years. Griselda hasn’t visited her and she hasn’t visited Griselda. She didn’t mention any other family members.”

  �
�So bad blood between them,” Mendoza said. He didn’t write anything down, but I got the distinct feeling he made a mental note.

  “That’s my impression. Or maybe not bad blood, but not a lot of love lost. She said Griselda was an unpleasant person, and that she was always sticking her nose in other people’s business. Araminta didn’t seem surprised that Mrs. Grimshaw had been murdered.”

  Mendoza didn’t say anything. His silence said a lot. Or maybe I was just getting better at reading it.

  “Surely you’re not thinking that Araminta killed Griselda?” I asked. “Why would she? I mean, I know she didn’t like her. Or they didn’t like each other. But they hadn’t seen each other in two years. Why would she kill a woman she hadn’t seen in so long? When she could just keep on not seeing her?”

  “She’s the next of kin,” Mendoza said.

  “So?”

  “So she inherits,” Mendoza said. “I checked with the lawyer. There are no other relatives. The elder Grimshaws are gone. Patton Grimshaw died a few years ago. Neither sibling had children. And Griselda didn’t make a will in favor of anyone else. Araminta Tucker-Grimshaw is the sole surviving relative. She gets it all.”

  I blinked. “Is there anything to get? Enough to commit murder over?”

  “People have committed murder over a handful of change and a pair of sneakers,” Mendoza said. “In this case, there’s the house, a few hundred thousand in investments, a life insurance policy of a million dollars, and the dog.”

  The dog?

  “I’m not sure she can keep Edwina where she lives.” Are residents in assisted living allowed to have dogs?

  “Then she’ll have to make other arrangements,” Mendoza said. “In either case, depending on her own financial situation, it might be plenty to commit murder over.”

  I thought about it. And realized he might be right.

  Motive aside—and yes, a million dollar life insurance policy, a couple hundred thousand in investments, plus a house, might be plenty of motive for murder—Araminta might have a car. I had no reason to think she didn’t. From what I’d seen of her, she would have been capable of driving it. Her eyesight seemed fine, and she had all her faculties. And it’s not like it takes a lot of strength to point a gun and pull the trigger. Araminta Tucker was small, sure, but she wasn’t too small for that. So motive aside, she might have both means and opportunity.