A Side Order Of Murder

by Nancy Skopin

  As surveys go, this one was a disaster. When I sent in my report I would encourage the owner to background check any future new hires.

  Aaron was still talking with the pretty blonde bartender when I left, and I didn’t want to interrupt their flirting, so I made no move in his direction. The owner hadn’t requested a bar survey anyway.

  CHAPTER 7

  I WAS IN THE OFFICE WAITING for Cliff’s call by 7:00 p.m. The call came at 7:25.

  “It’s Cliff,” he said, as soon as I answered. “They’re gone.”

  “Did you tell them you hired a decorator?” I asked.

  “I mentioned it to Mom,” he said.

  “Great. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

  I parked on the street in front of the Montgomery estate, hoping Mrs. Peterson wouldn’t bother to walk down the long driveway to get a better look at the van. I grabbed my shopping bags and approached the house. Cliff was waiting for me at the front door. I handed him one of the bags and he looked askance at the van.

  “What?” I said. “It was the best I could do on short notice.”

  When we entered the foyer a woman I assumed to be Mrs. Peterson was waiting for us. Cliff flushed crimson and I knew we were in trouble. I tucked the blueprints under my left arm and thrust my right hand out aggressively. “You must be Mrs. Peterson,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I’m Nicoli.”

  She raised an eyebrow and accepted my hand. Her grip was like iron. I knew in an instant that Mrs. Peterson was born to snoop. I could see it in her steel-blue, self-righteous eyes. Her hair was gray and appeared to have been set using old-fashioned rollers. She wore a black skirt, a gray blouse with a bow at the neck, and sensible shoes. She tilted her chin up so she could peer down her long nose at me. Her mouth looked as if it was perpetually pursed. I was reminded of my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Azevedo. I felt an urge to explain, in detail, what I was doing there, but I resisted. Instead I released her hand and turned to Cliff, with a smile.

  “Shall we go up, Mr. Montgomery?”

  “Yes,” Cliff stammered, and bolted for the elevator, which was located under the stairs.

  I considered the wisdom of installing an elevator in a two-story house, and deduced that at some point in the house’s history there must have either been an elderly or disabled person in residence, or someone who was really lazy. The ride to the second floor took only a few moments. As the elevator doors opened I glanced over at Cliff. He looked nervous.

  “Relax, Cliff,” I said. “She’s an employee, not the Gestapo.”

  He glanced at me sheepishly. “Sometimes I think my father hired her just to spy on me,” he whispered.

  We walked down a long hallway and Cliff used a key to unlock a door.

  “You lock your rooms?” I asked.

  He held the door open for me. “Only for the last month,” he said matter-of-factly. He locked the door again behind us.

  Cliff’s suite of rooms was at the rear of the house facing the backyard and the wooded area beyond. He had a small sitting room, a kitchenette, a large bedroom, and a luxurious bathroom. I settled in the bedroom, since that was where he’d described the disturbances.

  I set my bags and the blueprints on the bed and walked over to the windows. I pulled the cord to open the blinds and looked over the hedges into Jack’s backyard. Then I quickly closed them again, in case someone was watching from the woods.

  I pulled a chair over to the first window, climbed up, and ran my fingers all the way around the frame. I did the same with the other window and found nothing. I looked up at the ceiling and noted that there was no visible entrance to the spacious attic.

  Cliff sat on the bed, watching me in silence.

  I spotted his phone console on a bedside table, so I dug out my all-purpose Leatherman tool. I unscrewed the plate under the base unit and took the receiver apart, then put everything back together and checked the outlet where it was plugged into the wall. I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.

  I retrieved my new Anti-Spy Detector from my bag and had started going over the room when it dawned on me that the gadget might need batteries. I quickly read the package and discovered that the unit required two. Shit!

  “Do you have any nine volt batteries?” I asked Cliff.

  He shook his head. Since the bug detector wouldn’t function without batteries, I used the time to look over every inch of Cliff’s suite of rooms. I checked lamps and light fixtures, but didn’t see anything obvious. When I got to the walk-in closet I discovered the entrance to the attic.

  “I’ll have to do this again tomorrow with the bug detector,” I said, stepping out of the closet.

  I visually scanned the entire bedroom, taking in the furniture and closet space. They make micro-transmitters so small now that you can toss one onto a carpet and it’s virtually undetectable. Micro-projectors are larger, however. Something like that would have to be hidden.

  “Do you close the closet doors before you go to sleep?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Why of course?”

  “Well, because it would be untidy to leave them open.”

  “Okay.” God forbid he should ever see the unkempt condition of my boat. “Every night?”

  “Yes.”

  So much for the projector-hidden-in-the-closet theory. I unrolled the blueprints on the bed and looked around for something to hold down the corners. I put my Leatherman tool on one corner, my purse on another, and grabbed a few hardbound books for the remaining corners. I made a mental note to go through all the books on Cliff’s shelves later, in case any of them had been hollowed out and used to house electronics.

  We looked at the blueprints together and determined that the hidden staircase leading up to the second floor ended in the general vicinity of Cliff’s sitting room. It was hard to tell exactly where, because the kitchenette which now abutted the sitting room was an add-on, and wasn’t shown on the original blueprints. I picked up the page and carried it with me as I crossed from the bedroom into the sitting room.

  As near as I could tell, the door to the staircase should have been in the corner between the kitchen and the sitting room. There was enough room for a landing between the kitchen wall behind the refrigerator and the outer wall of the house, but there was no visible door. The walls in the sitting room were wood-paneled with walnut. I tried pressing all the knots in the wood and the seams between the panels. Finally, in frustration, I kicked the molding above the floor. This elicited a gasp from Cliff, but no secret door swung open. As a last resort I turned the corner into the kitchen, reached behind the refrigerator, and pushed against the wall. I felt it give.

  I stepped back and looked down at the kitchen floor. It was black tile. I got down on my hands and knees and ran my fingers over the tile in front of the refrigerator. I could feel the scratches. The refrigerator had been moved.

  “Cliff,” I said, my heart picking up speed, “How often do you let Mrs. Peterson in here to clean?”

  “I clean these rooms myself,” he said.

  “When was the last time you cleaned behind the refrigerator?” I asked.

  “I haven’t gotten around to it yet,” he said, a trifle defensively. “Why?”

  “There are scratches on the tile. Help me move this,” I said, stepping to one side of the refrigerator.

  Cliff hesitated for a moment, and then moved to the other side. Between us we inched it forward a few feet. I stepped behind the fridge and thumped on the wall. It sounded hollow. I know, just like in the movies. I ran my fingers over the wood, trying to find a pressure point.

  “Give me a knife,” I said.

  I’d left my Leatherman tool in the bedroom and I was too excited to take the extra thirty seconds to run and get it.

  “What?” Cliff sounded alarmed.

  “A butter knife or a steak knife. I need something flat.”

  “What are you going to do?” Cliff asked as he opened a drawer and withdrew a black handl
ed steak knife.

  “I don’t know yet,” I said, taking the knife from him.

  I carefully poked and prodded at the seams between the wood panels. It was tight, but I found I could insert the blade of the knife along the edge of one of the far right-hand panels. I moved it slowly down the seam. At hip level I felt it catch. I gently wiggled the knife around, pressing in and to the left as I leaned against the wall. A latch clicked, and the invisible door opened inward.

  CHAPTER 8

  I WAS ROLLING NOW. Earning my advance. The adrenaline coursing through my system felt good.

  It also felt good to know there was the possibility of an actual case here, and not just some neurotic rich boy’s fantasies.

  “I need a flashlight or a candle,” I whispered.

  Cliff just stood there gaping at the hidden door.

  “Flashlight?” I repeated.

  “Huh? Oh, yes,” he said. “I keep one in the bedroom in case the power goes out at night.” He didn’t move.

  “Could you get it for me, please?”

  Cliff finally ambled off in the direction of his bedroom. He returned with a Brinkman Maxstar, a huge flashlight with a handle on top. I hoped he was better about batteries than I was. I flipped the switch. The landing behind the doorway and the top of the stairs were instantly illuminated. There was no dust. Anywhere.

  “Holy shit,” I muttered, slipping off my sandals. “C’mon Cliff. Let’s go exploring.”

  He hung back for a moment, then reluctantly followed me down the secret stairs. I shone the light directly on the steps as we descended. No dust. No footprints. No cobwebs. Either someone had used these stairs recently and tidied up afterwards or someone was using and cleaning them regularly. I remembered what Cliff had said about Mrs. Peterson spying on him for his father.

  I turned to face Cliff and put a finger to my lips as we approached the first floor, indicating that he should make as little noise as possible. At the bottom of the stairs there was a light switch, the old-fashioned kind with push buttons. Using my knuckle I depressed the upper button, and the stairwell was brilliantly lit by an overhead bulb. At least a hundred watts. I switched off the flashlight. The door in front of me had a brass grip and finger latch. The brass was polished to a brilliant shine. I untucked my tank top and used the hem to silently compress the latch.

  I eased the door open and gazed in astonishment at the inside of a huge, very well stocked pantry. The other side of the door was covered with the same wallpaper as the rest of the pantry. It would be invisible when closed. There was no door handle on the inside, so there had to be some kind of pressure point to release the latch. I gently closed the door again and motioned Cliff back toward the stairs. I switched on the flashlight, handed it to him, and turned off the overhead light. We tiptoed up the steps. When we were back in Cliff’s kitchenette I eased the panel closed, using the steak knife to pull it into place until I heard it latch. Then we both stood for a moment, just staring at the wall.

  I turned to Cliff. “Do you have any tape?” I asked, tucking my tank back into my slacks and stepping into my shoes.

  He opened a kitchen drawer and handed me a roll of Scotch Magic Tape. I placed three pieces of the tape at various levels across the closed door panel. If someone opened it, the tape would detach, and it would be impossible to reattach it from the other side. We would know the panel had been opened.

  Cliff and I pushed the refrigerator back into place and I bent over to check the floor. There were two fresh scratches on the tile, only instead of arcing to the left they went in a more-or-less straight line away from the wall. While I was down there I noticed that the casters under the fridge were almost perfectly lined up with the caulk between the tiles. That gave me an idea. I stood up and nudged the refrigerator a tiny bit further to the right. Perfect.

  “Cliff, I need some long nails and a hammer,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “Do you have any nails?” I was becoming impatient. It happens a lot.

  “There might be some in the garage.”

  I went back into the bedroom, grabbed the keys to Lily’s van, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

  I took the stairs down to the foyer, leaving the front door open behind me. I found what I needed in the back of Lily’s van. Three inch-long, slightly rusty nails and a carpenter’s hammer. They would do the trick. When I got back to the front door Mrs. Peterson was standing there, arms crossed over her chest, blocking the entrance, and glaring at me with open hostility. I felt the impact of the look she was giving me, but I didn’t let it slow me down. I have my father, the Cossack, to thank for this ability. Cossacks don’t back away from confrontation. Ever. Maybe that’s why there are so few of the bloodline still alive.

  “We don’t leave the front door open here, Nicoli,” she barked.

  “Sorry,” I said, scooting around her and jostling her slightly in the process. I smiled sweetly. “We’re re-hanging some pictures.” I held up the hammer as I trotted back up the stairs.

  “Mister Clifford doesn’t have any pictures hanging in his rooms.”

  How does she know that? I wondered.

  “Yes he does,” I chirped. “It must have been a while since you were last in his suite.” I turned on the stairs and looked down at her as I said that, hoping for a reaction. I wasn’t disappointed. She almost contradicted me. Her mouth opened, worked for a moment, and then snapped shut again. Her eyes glinted venomously.

  “Hmph,” she said, closing the front door more forcefully than was necessary.

  When I returned to Cliff’s suite I was both surprised and relieved that he hadn’t locked me out. I headed straight for the kitchenette.

  “What are you going to do with that?” he asked, pointing at the hammer.

  “Trust me,” I said.

  I nudged the refrigerator back a little so it was flush with the wall and hammered two nails into the caulk directly in front of the casters, leaving about half an inch of nail above the floor on both sides. Then I pulled the fridge forward ever so slightly, so that the casters were almost, but not quite wedged up against the nails. I hammered another nail in behind each of the casters.

  “At least now you won’t have any unexpected visitors from this approach,” I said with satisfaction.

  When I looked up, Cliff was smiling. It was the first time I’d seen him smile and it changed his face completely. He was actually quite handsome. I think he was so relieved that there was finally some evidence his sanity was being messed with that, for the moment, he wasn’t considering what this meant about the individuals who lived in the house with him. I wondered again if he’d had any dental work. His teeth were pretty perfect.

  I wanted to set up the video equipment and get the hell out of the Montgomery mansion as quickly as possible. Something about the place made me feel confined. I looked at my watch. It was 8:45. Jim would be arriving in fifteen minutes. I went back into the bedroom and looked at the bed from all angles. I decided one of the bookshelves would be the best location for the camera. I rolled up the blueprints and set them on the dresser, then emptied the Radio Shack bag onto the bed and got to work. Twenty-eight minutes later the surveillance equipment was installed. I stood back and eyed the bookshelf. It was visible, but only if you knew what you were looking for.

  “You’ll have to change the DVD-R tomorrow,” I said. “Or I can do it. I want you to tell your parents that either my associate Jim or I will be here every day until we’re finished redecorating. Tell them the job will take at least two weeks. What time do you get up in the morning?”

  “Usually around eight,” he said.

  “Okay. Look over these samples.” I spread out the paint books, wallpaper, and carpet samples on the bed. “Pick out the ones you like. We might as well improve your environment while we’re waiting for something to happen.” I stood in front of the bookshelf where I’d mounted the camera and looked around the room. “The camera’s only going to pick up what happens in this room
and what’s visible through the bedroom door.” I took a quick glance toward the kitchen and realized it would also pick up the front of the refrigerator. A bonus I hadn’t even planned on. “Try to stay within that radius as much as possible. I’ll be back at nine a.m., and Jim will be outside all night.”

  “Thank you, Nicoli,” he said, giving me a softer version of his dazzling smile.

  I scanned the room one more time, then hit record on the video camera before leaving Cliff alone. After I stepped out into the hallway, I heard him lock and deadbolt the door behind me. I managed to exit the house without encountering Mrs. Peterson again, but the hair on the back of my neck told me she was nearby, watching my every move. No wonder Cliff was so neurotic. This house and his existence in it were a Stephen King novel waiting to be written.

  Jim was across the street sitting in one of his many nondescript sedans. The windows were tinted, but I could make out his silhouette in the driver’s seat. I drove the van around the corner and parked, then crept back through someone’s side yard with the blueprints, and tapped on his passenger window.

  The white Volvo S60 wouldn’t be noticed in this neighborhood and the tinted windows made it a perfect surveillance vehicle. Jim unlocked the door and I climbed inside. After a quick hello hug, I described the case and told him my thoughts and what I’d done so far. He listened attentively, saying nothing. When I’d finished my story about Cliff and his dilemma, Jim stared out the windshield for a moment before turning to face me.

  “What have you found out about his father?” he asked.

  “I just took the case yesterday, so nothing yet.”

  “Might be important,” he commented. “Do you know anything about microwave transmission?”

  “Wha...?”

  “There was a study back in the sixties,” he said. “It’s possible to bounce microwaves off a satellite and direct the beam pretty much anywhere with the use of a dish and a transmitter. Or you can aim it directly at the target if you have a clear shot at whomever you want to influence. According to this study the results are unpredictable, but microwaves have been proven to alter brain wave activity, sometimes resulting in seizures. During the testing, two of the subjects were able to make out words that were being transmitted. Microwaves also change the viscosity of blood, which can increase the potency of any drugs the subject might be taking. There’s another possibility, but it’s pretty farfetched.”