Gotcha Detective Agency Mystery Box Set

by Jamie Lee Scott

  “Do you think maybe you can skip the dinner?” Nick said.

  “Nope.”

  I could, but it wasn’t worth the wrath I’d get from Mom. Not that we didn’t speak to each other almost daily. I just didn’t want to disappoint my mom by cancelling our dinner plans.

  “Nope?” Nick said, his tone mocking.

  “Lunch tomorrow,” I said. I didn’t want to do that either, but I had to give an official statement. Lunch was better than the cop shop.

  “Lunch is good. Georgio’s?” Nick said.

  For an asshole, he had a good memory. Georgio’s is my favorite restaurant. I have other favorites, but Georgio’s is the best in town, and it’s been around forever. I felt a tug at my memory. Nick and I had only enough money to split meals back in the day. It would be weird to have a lunch I could actually afford, with Nick.

  “Georgio’s it is,” I said. “Eleven, so we beat the lunch crowd.”

  “How about one, after the crowd?” Nick said.

  “Fine.”

  And he walked out the door.

  “What’s with you two?” Charles said.

  “We used to be friends,” I said. I didn’t intend to elaborate, so I poured myself more coffee and headed to my office.

  Charles followed, like a gossipy school girl. “Oh, no. There’s more to it than that. Spill.”

  I had no intention of spilling anything, except maybe my coffee. I sat at my desk, and Lola put her head in my lap. I scrubbed her behind the ears, then wrapped my fingers around her snout and kissed her on the lips. “Hello, baby.” I let her settle her chin on my lap, and opened my laptop to type up my notes from the murder scene.

  Charles patted Lola on the head. “Come to papa,” he said. Lola, the disloyal floozy, sauntered over to rest her chin on Charles’s knee as he sat on the edge of my desk.

  “Get off.” I shoved him with my foot.

  Charles maintained his position on the desk. “You’ve slept with him.”

  I thought for a minute. Now, technically I had never slept with him. I could answer in all honesty. “No.”

  “Whatever. You’ve had sex with him.” He paused. “Wow, it must have been a long time ago.”

  “In another lifetime,” I murmured.

  “Huh?” Charles said.

  “Don’t you have a computer to crack?” I said. I started typing.

  Charles stood. “This isn’t the end of it. If I have to, I’ll ask Nick.”

  I wanted to protest, but it would only fuel his curiosity. I said, “You have his number.”

  5

  After a long day, I was ready to have someone else cook for me. Not that I cooked on any other days.

  My mom lived in an apartment on the north side of town. She moved there soon after the divorce. My dad, succumbing to a mid-life crisis at age thirty-six, maxed out the equity in our home and started an electronics store. About a year after opening the business, he took medical leave from his real job (a firefighter), closed the doors to his business, bought a Corvette, and drove to Florida. Other than the divorce papers and child support payments (which ended a long time ago), no one has heard from him.

  My mom had painted, re-carpeted, bug bombed, and air-freshened our house to get the smell of my dad and his cigarettes out. In the end, she sold it, invested the profits in a retirement fund, and was enjoying apartment life.

  I lived with Mom until I left for college. I have to agree, no plumbers to pay, no lawn to mow, just keep the place clean. It wasn’t too bad for a couple of single girls.

  I loved coming back to the apartment. Mom had painted the kitchen pale yellow to brighten the already bright room. We sat in the dining area, looking out at the street from the sliding glass doors. This was where most everyone entered and left the apartment. Otherwise, they had to go to the main entrance, ring the buzzer, and walk half a block to get to the front door.

  My mom started every morning by vacuuming the apartment, much the same as she’d done in our house. With her being a neat freak, I didn’t have to clean anything but my bedroom. I loved that.

  I’m not sure if my mom was born obsessive/compulsive about cleaning and grooming, or if my dad made her that way. I don’t think I’d ever seen my mom without her makeup and hair done before the divorce. Now she wore minimal makeup on her olive skin, and kept her black hair short, so she didn’t have to make weekly salon appointments.

  I sat and watched the traffic go by while my mom finished shaking the ingredients for her secret fried chicken recipe. Shake ‘N’ Bake could learn a thing or two from my mom.

  “Talk to Ann lately?” I said.

  “She’s coming home next month.”

  My sister, Ann, and her family had moved to Arizona five years ago. Her husband owned a construction company, and had wanted to take advantage of the influx of snowbirds moving to Lake Havasu City, Arizona. He’d done the right thing, they were getting rich. Ann was two years older than me and had two darling kids, Ashley, fourteen, and Ben, eight. Better than my hellion sister deserved. She’d been a handful as a teen, and now she was a Martha Stewart clone.

  “Too hot to work in July, I guess.” I went to the kitchen and pulled the chicken from the refrigerator.

  “Speaking of hot, remember Nick Christianson? I saw him at the grocery store last week,” she said.

  I dropped the pan of chicken on the floor. “Shit.”

  “Mimi, watch your mouth.”

  “Whatever.” She’d said a lot worse in her time. I picked up the pan. Only one piece of chicken landed on the floor.

  “Did you hear me? Nick. You remember Nick?”

  I composed myself, and began dredging the chicken in mom’s flour mixture. “Think I could ever forget Nick?”

  “I know he was a pompous ass, but he was a cute pompous ass.”

  I laughed.

  The grease was good and hot, and I placed several pieces of chicken in the skillet. As it sizzled, I said, “I saw him last night.”

  “Last night?” My mom stopped fussing with the chicken.

  “At a crime scene.”

  “A crime scene? What were you doing at a crime scene?” Mom was freaked.

  “You really don’t want to know.”

  “Oh, yes I do,” she snapped.

  “It wasn’t because of me.” I got defensive.

  “Then why were you there?”

  I told her about Lauren Silke and the book tour, and then gently, without so much detail, about Esme.

  She stood silent and still. “I really don’t think this PI thing is such a good idea.”

  How many times had I heard that one? “I wasn’t in danger.”

  “How do you know that?” She flipped a piece of chicken and it splattered grease. “Damn it.”

  “The crime wasn’t about me. It was about Lauren, or Esme, or vampires. Hell, I don’t know, but it wasn’t about me.” This wasn’t helping her calm down.

  “Some day it will be about you. And I’ll have to come identify your body.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Not this again,” I said. “Besides, on top of the dead body, it wasn’t pleasant to see Nick in that situation. I had barfed and everything.”

  “I’d think just looking at Nick would be pleasant. He’s aged very well.” She’d loosened up at the thought of Nick.

  Good God, Mom, take a cold shower already. But at least she wasn’t bitching at me about my job.

  “Yes, he has.” I admitted. “But Mom, the past is the past. Besides, he’s probably married.”

  “Nope,” she said. She rolled the chicken over, to brown it evenly. “I asked. He never did marry.”

  I took a bottle of chardonnay from the refrigerator, pulled the cork and drank straight from the bottle. I sighed. “It’s funny, I never expected to see his face again. I’d almost forgotten about him.”

  “Stop that.” She swiped the bottle from me and poured the wine into a glass. “We never forget the ones who broke our hearts.”

  “He didn�
�t break my heart. We were friends.”

  “Friends with benefits.”

  “Mom!”

  “Mimi, I’m not stupid. I know you had sex with that boy. Hell, if I was young enough, I’d have had sex with him. He oozed sex appeal, and he still does.”

  My mom and I were only twenty years apart, and since she’d been single for much of my teenage and adult life, we talked. Well, I talked. I didn’t want to know anything about my mother’s sex life. Eeeewwww! Even now that I’m an adult, I can’t even think about the subject. And my mom with a much younger man? Let’s not go there.

  “That was another lifetime,” I said.

  I put the fried chicken on a plate while my mom made gravy from the drippings and flour. And when I pulled the bowl of mashed potatoes from the oven, I could smell the butter she’d mixed in. Nothing was better than fried chicken and mashed potatoes with my mom.

  We ate the chicken with our fingers, and nearly licked the plates. I missed nights with my mom. But she had a steady boyfriend now, and it looked serious. I broached the subject while we ate our Jell-O pudding dessert.

  “So, speaking of sexy. How’s Luke?”

  My mom blushed. “He’s wonderful.”

  They’d been dating for more than a year and still acted like they’d just met. They held hands and touched each other constantly. If I wasn’t so happy for my mom, I’d be embarrassed. Now, my sister, on the other hand, hated change, and Luke was change, so she hated him.

  If my mom missed her weekly call to Ann, it was Luke’s fault. Actually, anything that took attention away from Ann was suddenly Luke’s fault. But Luke was good for Mom, and I loved him for that.

  “Why isn’t he eating with us?”

  “Oh, he thought we needed the girl time. He’s coming over later.”

  “When are you two going to move in together?” I prodded.

  “When are you going to go out on a date?” she retorted.

  “Fine.” I gave up, not wanting to have this discussion.

  “I have Nick’s card. Maybe I’ll invite him to dinner. Won’t he just die when he comes back here, after all these years?”

  I nearly spit Jell-O pudding all over my mom’s floor.

  * * *

  By the time I started home, the fog had rolled in on an otherwise sunny day. I punched buttons on my cell phone until I had it tuned to Pandora Radio, then I plugged the headset into the stereo of my Land Rover Discovery. John Mayer radio serenaded me all the way home.

  The best thing about dinner with Mom, other than the company, was leftovers. She always made too much and sent me home with gobs of food. Lola danced around at my feet as I put the Gladware containers in the refrigerator. She was hoping for a late night snack later. That wasn’t happening.

  I let Lola out in the small fenced yard behind my house and got in the shower. For a couple of hours I hadn’t thought about vampires, Esme, or death, but now I was overwhelmed by it. I wish I hadn’t met Esme before the murder. I kept thinking of the potential she’d never achieve. And in death, I’d probably learn more about her than I ever would have if she were still alive.

  I hadn’t heard from Lauren or Henry since last night. I hoped they’d gotten settled in the hotel before Lauren had to catch her plane.

  I put my head under the showerhead and let the water engulf me. I didn’t know anything, and the cops weren’t going to share. The cops. Nick. I didn’t think anyone could get under my skin after Dominic died, but suddenly there was Nick.

  And my mom hadn’t mentioned Nick in fifteen years, then whammy, she brings up his name. Surprisingly, I hadn’t choked on my food.

  I forced myself out of the shower when the water turned cold. I dried off and dressed in an old T-shirt. When I took the towel off my wet hair, I could see a good half inch of roots. The roots didn’t bother me so much as the gray. I didn’t want to have grey roots when I had lunch with Nick. I wanted to look my very best. Aren’t you supposed to color your hair before you wash it? So what, I was going to color my roots.

  I just happened to have a box of medium brown hair color stashed in my medicine cabinet. I blow dried the hair near my scalp only. It’d take another half hour to blow dry all of my hair, only to get it all wet again when I rinsed and conditioned. I applied the color, being careful to keep the goop only on the roots. I looked in the mirror. The hair near my scalp stuck straight out for about an inch, the rest hung like mangled spaghetti. I could just see Nick knocking on my door about now. I had to laugh.

  When I let Lola in she sniffed the air, trotted past me to her bed in the living room, and shoved her head under her blanket. I had to agree, I did stink.

  I sat in the kitchen and tried to read Lauren’s latest novel, Prey. I was careful not to rumple the dust jacket or crease any pages, as this was an autographed copy. With each page Esme’s corpse became more and more vivid, and I hadn’t even gotten to the slaying scene. It was the first time I’d ever put down one of Lauren’s books voluntarily. Maybe I’d do some cleaning instead.

  I have a small, 700-square-foot house, which is too big for me, and I have a hard time keeping up with the cleaning. I looked at the overflowing laundry hamper and decided to stuff the clothes inside rather than start a load. Besides, I’d used up all the hot water with my shower, and I needed some to rinse my hair. For once, I wished a part of my mom would rub off on me.

  Instead of cleaning, I tried to think of things I could do to get ready for tomorrow. I needed to get started on the investigation. I’d see who Nick had talked to and interviewed, and then I’d try to talk to them too.

  Then it hit me: look up Lauren’s website. I set the timer on the stove so I’d remember to wash out the coloring. I didn’t want to lose track of time, fry my hair, and be bald in the morning.

  I did a Google search, and found the official website. It opened to a black page graced with a large image of the cover of her newest novel and smaller images of her previous novels below. She even offered an excerpt from Prey to entice the readers to want more. The designs on the earlier jacket covers were sexy. Each cover had a detailed close up of a woman. The images were artist’s sketches, but they were so lifelike. They also became gradually more erotic as the Sophie Nolan vampire series continued. The Prey cover suggested violence and sex, showing a woman’s neck and chest. A corset barely covered the woman’s nipples, and long dark hair draped along her neck, slightly covering a dripping wound.

  She had all of the usual links, about the author, contact information, frequently asked questions, Twitter, Facebook, and a blog.

  The timer buzzed just as I finished reading her author page. She had been vague, telling only a little more than the jacket covers of her book. Lauren was born and raised in Ringling, Oklahoma, and moved to Santa Cruz just before high school. She went to college at the University of California at Santa Cruz. She was always fascinated with ghost and vampire stories surrounding Santa Cruz. She loved to walk the beach at night and imagine vampires on the periphery. She has worn a cross on her neck since she was fifteen. Blah, blah, blah. Not all that interesting.

  I tore my attention from the author page, rinsed and conditioned my hair, then planted myself back in the chair to read through her Facebook and Twitter feeds.

  I didn’t bother to dry my hair, since I knew I’d be up late, surfing Lauren’s site. My hair would be dry by the time my head hit the pillow. I wanted to check posts and comments on her blog and Facebook. Maybe there was something there that might be linked to Esme’s murder. Wow, Lauren had thousands of followers on Twitter and even more Facebook fans. I’d have to check out that Twitter thing someday.

  I started with the blog, reading the posts and comments, looking for something out of place. She shared her progress on her latest novels, and gave hints as to what her new series would entail. Her imagined world, in which Sophie lived, was very real to her.

  There was one very long rant, which seemed out of character for Lauren. In the rant, she chastised all the people who crit
icized her writing, and the world in which her characters lived. She wrote, “If you don’t like it, then don’t read it. But if you keep buying my books and reading them, then I must be doing something right.” Okay, so I paraphrased. I looked at the date on the post. Two weeks ago.

  In all fairness, if you aren’t into sex and violence in your reading, then she’s right, don’t read her books. The Sophie Nolan series is very violent and erotic, and Lauren made no apologies. As well she shouldn’t, since the book covers spoke volumes about the content.

  I thought I’d get through the blog in a hurry, and then move on to Lauren’s Facebook page, but there were thousands of comments to sift through. If I had any interest in becoming a writer, the site would have been interesting. Lauren presented a wealth of information about the publishing industry. She answered the emails in her blog, so others could comment, and ask more questions. I thought this time-consuming task was admirable. Then I wondered if maybe Esme was responsible for writing the blog and social media posts.

  I began feeling like I was on a stakeout. In other words, absolutely nothing was leading me anywhere, and my mind started to wander, and I had to pee. But then a photo on Facebook caught my eye.

  6

  I got to the office early the next morning and found Charles already at work, staring at the screen of the computer he was dissecting. I walked up behind him, taking small steps on my toes. I wanted to scare him. Lola made sure that didn’t happen. She raced past me and pushed her cold, wet nose at Charles’s arm.

  He scrubbed her behind the ears without looking away from the screen. “Hello, my lovely.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  He looked up. “Oh, hey, good morning. Don’t you look sharp?”

  I’ll admit I’d spent some extra time getting ready. I pulled my freshly colored hair into a high ponytail, and took extra care in applying my makeup. I wanted to wear my most form-fitting outfit, but since I had a few extra pounds gripping tightly to my ass, I chose a knee-grazing A-line dress in black, with large yellow rose cutouts. The top of the dress was fitted, so it showcased my boobs, and diverted attention from other parts.