by Kathy Krevat
“His name is Marco Anderson and lots of residents have complained that he’s a little overzealous.”
“Aren’t all HOA presidents overzealous?” In my opinion, anyone who had the time and energy to be HOA president had control issues. Or was a sociopath. Or maybe ran to keep the sociopaths off the board.
“I’m sending you his contact information,” Tod said. “Even if he didn’t do it, he might know another piece of the puzzle.”
* * * *
I buried myself in cooking for a few hours, but couldn’t stop thinking about what Tod had said. Should I have my house checked for bugs? What if his guy found one? My dad’s house had become Elliott’s and my true home. The thought of someone invading that sanctuary made my stomach ache.
Quincy came down and asked Zoey and I to join him upstairs once we were done with what we were working on. We finished shoving the finalized product into plastic bags, took them to the freezer, and stripped off our rubber gloves.
“What do you think he wants?” Zoey asked.
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed that it’s good news for a change,” I said as we climbed the stairs.
“Come in, come in,” Quincy said. “Anyone want a soda?” He opened the small refrigerator behind him. “Or an iced tea or kombucha?”
Zoey made a face at the last one. I totally agreed. “What’s going on?” I asked.
Quincy turned his eyes to Zoey. “I want to help you.”
She jutted out her jaw and looked at me. “You told him?” Her eyes were wide with betrayal.
“I had to,” I said. “This is too much for you to take on yourself.”
“That’s not your decision to make.” She stopped, too furious to talk.
Quincy raised his hand. “I have an idea. Maybe we can convince Red that he’s not the father. Why don’t you tell me if you think this plan will work?”
* * * *
Zoey hadn’t forgiven me by the time we made it downstairs, but Quincy’s plan had her intrigued enough that she didn’t yell at me anymore. I was debating starting a new batch of Chicken Sauté when I received a text from Tod. I clicked on it.
Did you see Yollie’s SDHelp review of the oboe teacher? He’d included the link and I clicked on it.
It was so over-the-top glowing that I had to stand up and walk around the kitchen, I was so angry. Why would she encourage other parents to have their children go through that abuse?
After letting Zoey know that I had to leave, and receiving a grunt in reply, I drove straight to Yollie’s hair salon.
Yollie rented a spot at the Grateful Head Salon right on Main Street in Sunnyside. Luckily, she was waiting at the reception desk for her next client, beside the small mural of a Grateful Dead album cover that had a skeleton wearing a crown of roses. An unexpected look for a hair place.
Yollie didn’t look happy to see me. “I’m waiting for a client,” she hissed.
The receptionist pretended not to hear her.
“I can’t believe you gave”—I looked at the receptionist—“you-know-who a five star rating on SDHelp.”
“Why don’t you come back to my station?” she said. It wasn’t a suggestion.
I followed her and she muttered through gritted teeth, “This couldn’t wait until after work?”
“It seemed pretty important,” I said. I leaned against her counter, resisting the urge to sit in the salon chair.
“Look. I could barely afford him. He offered me a ten percent discount to do that,” she said with a huff. “It added up to a lot of money.”
“He doesn’t have very many reviews,” I said. “And they’re all positive. How is that possible given his teaching methods?”
“It’s like everything in the arts,” she said. “Do parents complain about anything in Elliott’s theater groups? No, because they don’t want to risk their kid not getting chosen in the future.”
That was totally true. Parents put up with a lot and sometimes the people running the show took advantage of that. Which reminded me that I needed to focus some of my time on Benson’s students. “Steven was going to look into students who weren’t happy with Benson. How’s that going?”
She narrowed her eyes. “He’s been a bit busy. And there’s probably a bunch of them.”
I didn’t have time for “a bunch.” “Maybe we can bring them all together and make it seem like it’s for another reason.”
“You want Steven to lie to his friends?” She sounded horrified. “That’s so not happening.”
“If he gets me a list, I’ll handle it myself and he doesn’t have to be involved,” I explained.
One of the stylists recognized me. “Hey, if it isn’t Sunnyside’s Sherlock Holmes.” She laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.
“You looking into that flute player’s murder?” another one piped up.
I didn’t bother to correct her.
“He played the oboe, you uncultured fool,” the sole male stylist at the shop said before turning toward me. “Have you looked into his exes?”
I just smiled.
An older woman client was examining the back of her razor cut hair in a mirror. “I bet it was the Deep State.”
Her stylist rolled her eyes at me and pursed her lips like she was thinking hard. “You know, one of my Richie Rich kids clients said her dad paid someone a lot of money to help her get into college.”
“Yeah, it’s really expensive,” I said.
“No, like he paid someone to write her essays, fill out her application, like, everything,” she said. “It’s not fair. The rich get richer, right? And they make sure their kids do too.”
The male stylist nodded knowingly. “That’s why there’s so much income inequality. It’s like the American caste system.”
“Maybe someone was affected by chem trails,” the client said. “And they just went a little crazy. You should check it out online. Our government is trying to kill us.”
That’s all I needed, to start going down conspiracy theory rabbit holes.
“I’ll have to check that,” I said, proud of myself for keeping a straight face.
The receptionist popped her head around the wall. “Yollie, your one o’clock is here.”
Yollie pointed to the door. “Out.”
Chapter 14
Coffee? I texted Norma and she texted back, Yes. Twenty min.
I’d skipped lunch so I added ricotta pistachio toast with honey drizzled all over it—my favorite food at Philz—to our coffee order.
Norma arrived exactly twenty minutes later while I was happily eating my food, the sweet and salty combination exactly what I needed. “That looks good,” she said as she sat down. She took a long sip of her coffee before asking, “What ya got?”
“It’s quite a mess,” I warned her. “And it’s not making much sense right now.”
She leaned forward. “Really.” She said it with anticipation, not as a question.
“Really,” I said and then told her everything I’d uncovered. The pothead PTA president made her smile even though she knew all about it, but the We Hate Benson Tadworth Facebook group made her pull out her notebook. And my conversation with Opal Volker about her posting about going after Benson’s boss had her shaking her head while she wrote.
To avoid being yelled at, I brought up Tod’s suggestion that I have my house checked for electronic surveillance. She stopped writing and rubbed her eyes. “That might not be a bad idea.”
I blew out a little breath. “Why?”
“We didn’t get anything from the GPS tracker,” she said. “No fingerprints. No serial numbers. Nothing to ID who put it there or where the info was going.”
Holy cow. “When can I get my car back?” My voice sounded far away.
“Someone will return it tonight,” she said. “You’ve been very help
ful but I’d like you to take a step back from this thing. Now.”
My heart was pounding and I didn’t respond.
“I mean it, Colbie. I have a bad feeling about this. This investigation is sliding sideways, and I’m not sure where it’s going.”
I’d never heard her admit something like this before and found myself agreeing before I thought it through. “Okay.”
She sat back in her chair, and then narrowed her eyes as if she didn’t believe me.
“Can you tell me any status on Quincy?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “If that will help you make the right decision.”
I nodded.
“We found Quincy’s yogi, but he’s at a no-speaking retreat,” she said. “And apparently, he takes that vow very seriously.”
I laughed. “What about writing down his damn answers to your questions?”
She smiled. “That seems to be a no-go for him as well.”
“Well, that sucks,” I said.
“Yes, it does.”
* * * *
My car was delivered that night by a young officer who insisted on handing me the keys himself. Someone had even washed it and found a decaying catnip mouse toy of Trouble’s wedged under a seat.
I had really good intentions to take a break from the investigation, just like I told Norma. Especially after a wonderful evening with Joss that made me realize that I had it made.
Even though I’d made Joss laugh with the story of the pot smoking PTA moms, he’d become visibly upset when I told him about the GPS tracker. His reaction made me so nervous that I painted a much rosier picture of Norma’s ability to find out who put it there than she’d told me.
It was the first time I hadn’t told Joss the truth. Ever. So then I overcompensated by telling him that I was taking a step back, just like Norma asked me. That Quincy was about to be cleared as soon as his yogi started talking again, so there was no reason for me to continue.
And I meant it. The case was freaking me out. The fact that it was freaking out Norma and freaking out my friends and family was freaking me out even more.
And really, why was I running around risking so much when I could go about my wonderful life with my son, my dad, my boyfriend, my friends, and my business?
But the next morning something happened that really got me going.
Someone from A&D College Consulting texted me to say that the president, Ian Luther, was unexpectedly called out of town and they needed to reschedule my appointment with him.
Two hours before the meeting.
Sure, I’d forgotten all about the meeting. But that didn’t matter. I was insulted. I called them immediately and no one answered the phone, so I left a barely polite message requesting a call back as soon as possible.
It occurred to me that Mr. Luther might be dodging me. Did he look me up? Maybe I should’ve used a different name. Instead of a call back, I received a text inviting me to meet in two weeks.
Whoa. They really were trying to avoid me.
What could I do? Drive there and see if the owner actually was out of town?
Then I remembered that Quincy had convinced me that Meowio was big enough to put on LinkedIn. It was just one of the ways I could put out good news for free, and a way to network with the other companies that were under his benevolent wing.
It also provided a way to search for people who used to work for A&D College Consulting. Perhaps an ex-employee would be willing to dish on them. I found a dozen people who no longer worked there, which seemed like a high turnover rate for such a small company, and decided to contact Jaxon Mason, a graduate of University of California Los Angeles who had left A&D four months before. She was now working at a private high school in Del Mar.
The school’s website had everyone’s extension listed which was a surprise, and Jaxon answered her own phone.
“Hi Jaxon,” I said. “My name is Colbie and I was wondering if you had some time to answer a few questions about A&D College Consulting.”
Her voice changed from friendly to wary. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“I’m afraid I can’t over the phone,” I said.
She was quiet for a moment. “Then I’m afraid I can’t meet you.” She hung up.
I’d been hung up way too many times lately. I printed out her photo from the LinkedIn page, grabbed a backpack filled with books and a water bottle, and headed out to the school. It was much smaller than Sunnyside High School and seemed to be trying to look like an East Coast school, with red brick buildings and ivy climbing the walls.
The school had a very helpful website, which showed that the counseling office was in the administration building. And the administration building was on the square in the middle of the property. I waited on a park bench with a clear view of the door marked Counseling pretending to read a book.
I was about to give up when I saw Jaxon come out. She had the jaunty step of a young person leaving work and heading out for something fun.
“Ms. Mason?” I called out.
She turned toward me and looked like she was trying to place me. “Yes?”
“I’m Colbie,” I said. “I called you earlier. I just need to ask you a couple of questions and then you never need to see me again.”
Her eyes grew nervous and she looked around. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”
“With who?” I asked. The idyllic private school setting looked about as safe as the world could get.
She seemed to decide the same thing. “Are you with the police?”
“No,” I said. “I’m a mom. I’m trying to help a friend who’s in trouble. It’s about Benson Tadworth.”
She shook her head, as if at her own stupidity in helping me, and sat down beside me on the bench. “You have three minutes.”
“What was Benson’s connection to A&D College Consulting?” I began.
“The owner sent some of his clients to Benson, but I assumed it was because he was a great oboe teacher. The oboe is such an unusual instrument that it helped students get into college.”
“But you don’t assume it now.”
She shook his head.
“Because he was murdered?” I asked.
She nodded slowly.
“Was there something funny going on at A&D?” I asked. “They cancelled a meeting with me at the last minute, and it feels fishy.”
She grimaced and looked over her shoulder again. “That’s one of the reasons I left, but they don’t know that I know.”
I moved a little closer. “What is it?”
“Ian, the owner, would meet this guy outside sometimes. He’d get a phone call, and then he’d go outside to meet him. And then he’d be all nervous before and after. It got me curious, so one time I followed him and saw him talking to a guy inside a luxury car, like a Mercedes or something. They talked for a really short time, like the guy just barked out an order to my boss. Then he drove off. It took Ian a few minutes to come back inside. Neither of them saw me.”
“Who was the guy in the car?” I asked. “What did he look like?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “He had a military haircut, like a buzz cut, and wore sunglasses. He seemed like he was in really good shape, but I’m not sure why I thought that. He stayed in the car. It was just all so secretive that it scared me.”
“Any chance you saw a license plate?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I was too far away.”
I thought for a minute. “And you have no idea who he is.”
She bit her lip, and then made the decision to say what she was thinking. “I don’t know if this is true or not, or just some stupid rumor, okay?”
I nodded.
“I’ve been hearing people in the business talk about a college ‘fixer.’” She used her fingers to make quotation marks.
>
“A fixer?”
“Yeah, like that Ray Donovan TV show, but for rich kids trying to get into college,” she explained.
Whoa. My dad loved that show with its high drama and Boston accents. On the show, zillionaire Hollywood types paid Ray Donovan loads of money to kill, con, and threaten people.
“How could that be a real job?” I asked. “Who would pay someone to do illegal things to help their kid get into college?”
She looked at me as if I didn’t get it. “Rich people pay an absolute ton of money—from preschool tuition to college prep—all for their children to be admitted to the ‘right’ school,” she said.
I must have looked like I didn’t believe her, because she added, “Look at this school. We’re a couple of miles from two amazing public high schools, like tops in the whole freakin’ country, but these kids’ parents pay thirty thousand dollars a year for the fantasy that it prepares them better than those public schools.”
“Thirty thousand a year?” I suddenly had the urge to double my PTA donation.
“Yes,” she said. “And every single one of the parents, even if their kid doesn’t have good grades and spends all their time playing video games, expects their child to go to Yale.”
I was still stuck on the money. “Thirty thousand? Every year?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she said. “It’s well-known in the industry that it’s worth about a million and half dollars to get a kid into an Ivy League school. Someone who can guarantee that will make a heck of a lot of money.”
Suddenly, this investigation opened up a lot more avenues. And about a million and a half reasons to commit murder.
* * * *
Quincy called me in the afternoon. “Zoey wants to go ahead with our plan.”
“Oh that’s great,” I said. “When’s the first step?”
“Little Red will get his summons tomorrow,” he said. “Want to watch it with me?”
“Absolutely!” I said. “But how? He might recognize me if he sees me.”
“I’m borrowing my niece’s van that she uses for her flower warehouse business,” he said. “It’s one of those big white vans with no windows and nothing printed on the side.”
