by M. M. Silva
Praise for
TWO OUT OF THREE,
A Meagan Maloney Mystery
Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2012.
“Silva sustains a solid mystery that manages to keep readers engaged throughout the many plot twists and turns.
A well-constructed story that lays a promising foundation for the rest of the series.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Two Out of Three is one of the best debut novels I have ever read…
just enough blend of mystery, suspense and a fun new main character in Meagan Maloney.”
—Deb Adams
“A fun, brilliant mystery that everyone should read…
the plot is clever and the writing witty.”
—Joanna Hinsey
“What a wonderful and suspenseful mystery!”
—Sarah Koletas
“I loved the book...the twists and turns of Meagan's case kept me reading for hours at a time.”
—Nancy Michelson
“I found this book to be very exciting, intriguing and a page-turner…
this is going to be a great series
and I wait with much anticipation for the next novel.”
—Patty Nowicki
“Meagan follows in the footsteps of hapless heroines such as Stephanie Plum!
I loved the twists and turns in this book and all the quirks!”
—K. April Holgate
“This is a good mystery that keeps you guessing right to the end
and surprises you with a twist in the plot. Easy to read but hard to put down.”
—Elaine Bush
“Thank you for writing a book with characters that are so "relatable”.
Meagan left me wanting to know more…”
—Amy Muscatell
“The development of the characters made me feel very close to them, like they were best friends or relatives.
From cover to cover, the suspense captured my attention…
for this to be a debut novel, it’s a first game home run!”
—Lee Smith
THE STAIRWELL
M. M. SILVA
© 2013 by M. M. Silva. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
The Stairwell is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: BEAUTeBOOK
Original Cover Photography: Artybrad at the English language Wikipedia and Eric Harrison
Author picture by John P. Silva ~ location was Pleasant Valley Country Club in Sutton, MA
To the victims, their families, and all
of the everyday heroes of the
Boston Marathon bombing on
April 15, 2013
PROLOGUE
Friday, November 1st ~ Present Year
JEFF GEIGER FELT LIKE A KID IN A CANDY STORE, and it wasn’t only because last night had been Halloween. This afternoon he was purchasing a vacation home, and he had a spring in his step as he approached the entrance to the glimmering skyscraper in downtown Boston. The John Hancock Tower was a glassed modern marvel, with its silver-blue tint reflecting the buildings all around it. His closing would be held at the law firm handling the estate of the late Ava McGraw, a woman he’d never known but with whom he would now have a common address.
Jeff entered through the revolving door of the massive building and checked in at security. The uniformed young woman squinted and studied his license thoroughly, which made him feel like he’d done something wrong when he absolutely hadn’t. She glanced up and scrutinized him, and Jeff gave her a tight smile. She looked back down at his ID and then, evidently satisfied, directed him to the turnstiles. He pushed through the metal arm of the first one he came to and made his way to the bank of elevators that would take him to the twenty-fifth floor. He smiled at the knowledge of the building’s elevators, how only certain cars went to certain floors above; efficacy was a wonderful thing.
He arrived at the plush suite of offices and checked in with the attractive receptionist. She picked up the phone, quietly announced his arrival, and seconds later, he was greeted by Jolene O’Hara, the attorney who would handle the transfer of the property. She escorted him to a large conference room, where a wall of windows showed off a spectacular view of the Boston skyline. The long mahogany table in the center of the room, polished to a beautiful sheen, held a gleaming silver tray with a glass pitcher of water and floating lemon slices, alongside four crystal tumblers. The massive table looked to seat about thirty, but today only three people were scheduled to be at the meeting.
Jolene took a seat at the far side of the table and removed assorted paperwork from her briefcase. Jeff sat across from her, appreciating that she’d given him the side of the table with the wonderful view of the city.
While they made small talk about the warm fall weather, the Patriots, and the latest political scandal, Jeff studied Jolene. She was probably in her late-fifties and wore a white, low-cut business suit that was one size too small for her stocky frame. Jeff wasn’t an expert on women’s fashion, but he thought there was some rule about not wearing white during certain times of the year. Silver bracelets dangled from her thick wrists, and a couple of silver chains disappeared into the tunnel of her cleavage. The makeup must have taken at least an hour, and talon-like fingernails almost perfectly matched her red hair-from-a-bottle. Her gravelly voice hinted at many years of smoking, and Jeff briefly wondered how many times a day she took the long elevator ride downstairs just to light up.
He was also beginning to wonder how much longer they would have to chit-chat when Bill McGuire entered the conference room. Leave it to Bill to saunter right past the receptionist and come in unannounced. Jeff swiveled in his chair to greet his real estate agent and friend. Bill was a typical Irishman, with light red hair, freckles, and pale skin. He was over six-feet tall with a quick wit and a twinkle in his bright, blue eyes. He was the type of guy who had a smile that mothers warned their daughters about, but the daughters never listened. And eventually he won over the mothers, but never the fathers.
Bill exchanged pleasantries with Jolene and took a seat beside her, across the table from Jeff, and they began. The meeting progressed without much fanfare, and forty minutes later, Jeff Geiger owned a home in Jamestown, Rhode Island, a small community just outside of scenic Newport. After some final small talk, Jeff gathered his things to leave. Jolene momentarily looked panicked and made a not-so-subtle attempt to stall his departure.
“So, Jeff, it’s not often we have people at such a young age paying cash for a home. That’s quite impressive.” She attempted what he assumed was meant to be a demure smile, but she really just wound up looking constipated. She stood and stretched across the large table to pat Jeff’s hand. Her palm lingered there, and Jeff’s right eyebrow shot up, looking to Bill for some help.
“It’s a second home, too,” Bill threw in, enjoying the spectacle way too much to not pile on. Jeff shot him a glare that spoke volumes, as he preferred to keep his personal life just that: personal. Now he had to say something.
“Uh, thank you, Jolene, it’s a great little property that has a few projects I can work on. I’m excited to get down there and get my hands dirty.” At the mention of his hands, Jeff pulled his out from under hers, leaving her half-sprawled across the massive table. He had to get out of there before they could delve any further into his second house, his age, his money, or especially his lack of a wedding ring.
After escaping Jolene and scampering out of the
building, Jeff hit the sidewalk with a renewed bounce in his step. “God bless you Ava McGraw, I’ll do you proud,” Jeff whispered, looking up at the fluffy white clouds. He briefly wondered about her life and hoped she had enjoyed her many years of living on the coast of Rhode Island. He jingled the new house keys in his hands and nearly skipped down the crowded street to the parking garage.
After walking down several flights to his vintage Porsche 911, he unlocked the door, started the engine, and spiraled up the parking garage loop. Digging in his pocket for his wallet, he was careful not to bump the car against the narrow cement walls as he circled around toward the ticket-taker. The man working the booth was probably in his mid-sixties, and he wore a light blue cardigan sweater and a gray, newsboy cap. A disgusting, unlit, chewed-up cigar hung out of his mouth. He held out his hand and didn’t even look up from his newspaper to acknowledge Jeff. Sticking the ticket in a little machine, the green neon numbers revealed what Jeff owed.
“Forty bucks, mac,” the man said, with a heavy Boston accent.
“Holy cow, I was only in there for about an hour.” Jeff was just messing with the guy, but he wanted to see if he could get him to glance up from the sports page. He wasn’t disappointed. The man looked up and narrowed his eyes as he pointed his slimy cigar at Jeff.
“Listen mac, it’s highway robbery, I agree. But I don’t set the rates; I just collect ‘em. And I don’t make no commission on it, either, so don’t bust my stones. Just gimme the forty, and you’ll be on your way. Or don’t gimme the forty, and we’ll getcha towed. Makes no difference to me.”
Jeff smiled. Only in Boston. He gave the man a fifty and told him to keep the change, which merited a small grunt and a barely audible thank you. That didn’t faze Jeff, though. Nothing was going to get to him today. It was Friday afternoon, the weather was beautiful, and he was heading to his new digs. Life was good.
The traffic getting out of Boston was slow going but steady, a small miracle on an early Friday afternoon, and Jeff had crossed into Rhode Island in no time. He had friends in the Midwest who could never understand how someone could zip through a portion of all six New England states in a matter of hours.
The drive through the Ocean State was effortless and beautiful, and the gold and orange leaves on the trees lining Interstate 95 made him feel like he was driving through a Thomas Kinkade painting. He made the trip in less than two hours, another great feat for a Friday. He pulled onto his new property and proceeded down the curvy, gravel lane to his house. His land had a huge, open meadow with grass that blew with the ocean breeze. Jeff pictured the wildflowers that undoubtedly grew here in the springtime and was once again thankful for the good fortune life had sent his way.
He took a moment to admire the view of the ocean and the Newport Bridge. Smelling the salt in the crisp fall air, he inhaled deeply and smiled. He was on cloud nine and tried to etch the moment in his brain, because everything was absolutely perfect.
Right up until the point when he opened his front door and saw the dead body at the bottom of the stairwell.
CHAPTER 1
Sunday, November 3rd
I WOULDN’T NECESSARILY SAY AUTUMN SUCKS; I actually wouldn’t say that at all. It’s simply knowing what comes next that sometimes makes your hair hurt if you think about it too hard. Opting to not think about it too hard, I made a conscious effort to focus on the fabulous whipped caramel concoction sitting on the table in front of me. I’d taken the lid off the lovely creation, in order to inhale the wonderful smell and watch the steam come off the magic liquid I love.
I have a thing for coffee, specifically the deliciousness just mentioned. My morning routine involves visiting a wonderful coffee house on Boylston Street in my home city of Boston, and I’m better acquainted with some of the shop employees than some people are with their own family members. I’m way beyond the stage of having to place an order. When they see me come in, they immediately start in on my beverage; it’s that easy.
“Are you thinking about winter, Meg?”
Doobie, my neighbor and best friend, had accompanied me on my coffee run, and I looked at him with surprise.
“Doob, I swear you’re a mind reader more often than I’d like you to be. That’s exactly what I was trying to not think about. How did you know?”
He shrugged. “You’re staring outside with that glazed, faraway look, and your bottom lip is protruding like one of those aging celebrities who just had ‘em done.”
“I do not!” I protested. Planting my upper row of teeth firmly over my lower lip, I eyed Doob with curiosity. “You’re an expert on celebrity collagen implants now?”
Doob nodded. “Yes, I am,” he said with no shame. “I almost always have a television on, and I like the shows about all of those movie stars making spectacles of themselves. I’ve picked up my vast plastic surgery knowledge from their shenanigans. And it’s gross, but some of them have their work done right on television; it makes me queasy, but there’s some type of sick fascination with it, too. Someone is always getting poked or prodded or having something sucked or tucked. Fluffed or buffed. Brightened or lightened. Chiseled or drizzled. Waxed or shellacked—”
“I got it, Doob,” I said, putting my hand up.
But he persisted. “I’m not kidding; it’s high pressure for these people, Meg. They gotta bring home the bacon, and it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. You think it’s easy.” He shook his head slowly.
Fortunately, I didn’t have anything in my mouth just then because I would have spit it out with laughter. “Doob! Like you know anything about a dog-eat-dog world. That’s classic.”
“True,” he quipped. “But if I had to get by on my looks…” He framed his face with his hands, “…I’d have me a nice ‘frigerator box and shopping cart with at least two bad wheels. So I see why they do what they do. I’m just grateful I’m not under that type of pressure.”
That was the understatement of the year. Doob was a trust fund baby and originally from Iowa. When Doob was a kid, his dad had developed some type of fertilizer or pesticide that he’d sold to a huge conglomerate and had made a fortune in the process. Doob’s parents love to travel and are usually off ziplining through jungles in various parts of the world, but Doob made a home in Boston after a kind-of-semester in college, and I was glad for it. He now spends his days computer hacking and feels no remorse about it whatsoever. His claim is that he’s done more good than harm with his questionable hobby, and I can’t argue the point. He’s been a tremendous help to me with many of my cases, but I often tell him to refrain from sharing the illegal help he’s given me. Denial is one of my shortcomings. Or talents. Whichever.
As for me, I’m a private investigator. My partner, Norman Switzer, and I have been in business for a while now. Our firm has been growing at a nice, steady pace. Norman brings the knowledge, experience, and the instincts of a cop with over twenty years on the force, and I have…well, I have some guts and just enough tenacity to get me into heap-loads of shit at times. It works for us. Norman won’t readily admit that, but please, just take my word for it.
Our little business presently has two open cases. One is the unsolved murder of my fiancé from a few years back; the other is to find and bring to justice a psychopath named Melanie who changed my life last March. She kidnapped me during a nor’easter and murdered a friend of mine that same night. She would have also killed me if I hadn’t escaped, and I’ve been living with the overwhelming guilt ever since.
Melanie sent me a postcard back in July, and it was postmarked Portugal. She’s on a mission to kill her biological father, Vic, who’s currently living with my uncle; they’re roommates with a group of old guys who live in a three-story over in Southie that I’ve dubbed the geriatric frat house. Their setup is a hoot, but Melanie’s wishes to bump off her father and me are far from funny. I’ve vowed to keep every hair on their gray heads safe as long as there is a breath left in me. Melanie is never far from my thoughts, and I’m confident I’ll see
her again someday.
Truth be told, I actually see her all the time. I see her at the supermarket, in line for a movie, at a baseball game, at the mall, at church, literally everywhere. I’m not confessing to being crazy, mind you. I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m not actually seeing her. But somewhere deep in me, I don’t completely forget her. I can’t. Even on my best day, there’s a simmering at the core of me that is always on the lookout for Melanie. It’s like she’s attached herself to a sliver of my soul.
But for now, Doob and I are at the coffee shop for a reason that has nothing to do with Melanie. Yesterday I received a call from an old friend from high school, Jeff Geiger. He’d discovered a dead body at his new vacation home and wanted to discuss how and why it got there. It was good to hear from him, and I told him I’d gladly meet him to see if I could help.
“So how much did this dude win again?” Doob asked with a mouthful of doughnut.
“Somewhere around six million dollars,” I responded, and Doob whistled lightly.
At age thirty-one, Jeff and two other lucky people hit the Massachusetts lottery. He’d been smart with the money and hadn’t gone crazy like a lot of winners do. After he’d won, Jeff hadn’t even told anyone about his windfall for two months, and he was still working at the security firm he opened before he won the lottery. I don’t know if I’d have that type of discipline if six million dropped in my lap, so good for him.
While speaking with him yesterday, I learned the first big purchase Jeff made was to gift his parents a home in Aruba; the second was a fancy sports car; the third was his vacation home in Jamestown where the dead body happened to be when he strolled in two days ago. He sounded pretty freaked out about it, and I wondered if he’d end up selling the place.
The door to the coffee shop opened, and Jeff and I exchanged waves as he walked toward the counter and studied the menu, which was really just a huge, long blackboard with all sorts of colored chalk listing out the delicious coffees. He approached our table a few minutes later, toting the largest coffee known to man, along with a massive cinnamon roll. Doob didn’t even wait for an introduction; rather he jumped out of his chair and bee-lined for the counter. He’d homed in on the cinnamon roll the minute it entered his nasal periphery, and he’d opted to go buy one for himself, rather than rip it from Jeff’s unsuspecting clutches. I hoped Doob would have the good sense to come back with two.
