An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  “Well,” I said, trying to sound as if we’d been friends for a while, “she seemed anxious about something last night. I’m worried about her.”

  “Oh. You’ve noticed?”

  “Yeah, well, she mentioned having problems with someone.”

  He nodded. “There’s a guy stalking her, but he keeps his distance.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Not exactly. It’s kind of an odd situation. She’s been getting gifts from some guy. He sends her flowers, chocolates, even a stuffed teddy bear. But the gifts are never accompanied by a card. She’s pretty freaked out by it.”

  “She has no idea who he is, or what he looks like?”

  “Well,” Armand crossed one leg over the other, “it’s likely someone from Lola’s. That’s why I’ve been hanging around there on the nights she works. I hope to help her figure out who this weirdo is.”

  It all made sense now. Armand was the guy Tiffany was talking to outside of her apartment the night before. I hadn’t recognized him with the baseball cap on. They’d been talking about the stalker. I wasn’t sure how to respond, but decided to come clean. I needed more information and he’d indulged me thus far. “Okay, I’m gonna to level with you. I work for a private investigator. We need to find out if Tiffany knows a guy named Lance Harding. He may have been involved in the death of someone she knew.”

  “Holy shit,” he whispered, and leaned in toward me. “Are you talking about that Marty guy she was seeing?”

  “Yes,” I said. “If there’s anything you can tell me about their relationship, it may prove instrumental in solving this case.”

  “I don’t really know much. They dated for about a month. She broke it off when she found out he was married.”

  “Was she angry when she found out?”

  “I guess she was a little hurt, but it wasn’t that big a deal.”

  “Did you ever meet Marty?”

  “I saw him a few times. He used to come to the club. That’s how the two of them met.”

  “Okay,” I said, slipping the photo of Harding out of my purse. “Does this guy look familiar? Maybe you’ve seen him at the club, too?”

  Armand studied the picture briefly and shook his head. “He’s an odd looking guy. I would have remembered him.”

  “This is the guy who hit Marty,” I explained.

  “And you think he hit Marty on purpose for some reason?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine.” I stuffed the photo back in my purse. “Now you’ve got me wondering if he could be Tiffany’s stalker. Do you suppose she knows who he is?”

  Armand sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well, why don’t you just ask Tiffany yourself?” Then his expression changed and his eyes lit up. “Oh, wow, I get it. I’m a complete idiot. You’re not friends with Tiffany at all. The reason you were at the club last night was to spy on her. You think she was involved in Marty’s death, am I right?”

  I raised both hands in defense. “I’ve never believed she was involved. I’ve just been following orders.”

  By the look on Armand’s face, I could tell the reality of the whole situation was beginning to sink in. Not only had he been duped: there would be no potential escort gig either.

  I bit my lip and shook my head. “I’m sorry about all of this.”

  He smiled weakly and downed the rest of his coffee. “Oh well, it figures. First call in two weeks and this happens.” Lips pursed, he closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. “What about your car? Was that part of your twisted agenda to try and get me to talk?”

  “No, my car really was stolen last night.”

  A cell phone chimed and Armand reached inside his jacket. “Excuse me,” he said, while looking at the tiny screen, “I have to take this.” He turned and mumbled something as I stuffed the remains of the cupcake into my mouth.

  When he’d finished with the call, Armand turned back and leaned on the table, looking at me. “If I can’t be of further service, I guess I’ll be on my way. Enjoy the desert?”

  “Yes,” I said, licking my fingers, “yummy. Thank you.”

  “Speaking of yummy,” he leaned further across the table and gently wiped a crumb from my lips, letting his finger brush my cheek, “if you ever change your mind about my offer, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks.” I knew I was blushing, and hoped he wouldn’t notice. “By the way, what’s Tiffany’s real name?”

  He paused. Just when I thought he was going to tell me to get screwed, he said “Stephanie Miller.” He scooted his chair back, stood up, and looked down at me. “She’s a good girl, and she’d never hurt a soul. If I find out this Harding guy is her stalker, I’ll give you a call. You can deal with what’s left of him at that point.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” As he started for the door, I called out, “Hey, wait. Do you mind if I ask what your real name is?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “It’s Armand.”

  I immediately called Carter and gave him a blow-by-blow description of my meeting with Stud Muffin. I was feeling pretty damn proud of myself.

  * * *

  Daniel was waiting outside the United Airlines terminal when I pulled up for the second time this evening, his briefcase in one hand, and suitcase in the other. His overcoat was wrinkled and he looked exhausted.

  “Stupid flight got delayed on the runway and I couldn’t call to let you know. Sorry you had to wait.” Daniel leaned over as he got in the car and kissed me on the cheek. His thinning hair was damp from the rain; his skin slightly tanned. “Still no word about your car?”

  “No, I haven’t heard a thing. It looks like you had time to get some sun between meetings.” As we drove away from the airport I could feel Daniel’s eyes on me.

  “I had time to play golf one afternoon because a meeting got postponed. What’s going on with you? How’s Sammy working out as your new receptionist?”

  For the briefest moment, I wanted to tell him everything: about Carter, about Marty, about Tiffany, even about Armand. But I knew Daniel too well. If he knew what I was involved in, he’d certainly find a way to put an end to it.

  “He’s great.” I glanced quickly over and smiled. “I love having him there.”

  “I’m glad you decided to continue doing massage therapy. You’re too old to start something new. I’m glad you came to your senses.”

  My hands clenched the steering wheel. “What do you mean I’m too old? I’m forty-two. You think that’s old?”

  “You know what I mean,” he said.

  I braced myself for another one of his patronizing speeches.

  “It’s a tough economy out there. You’re lucky to have a thriving business. You think it would be wise to give that up in search of something better? Let me tell you something. There is nothing better. Besides, we can’t afford for you to go back to school. We can barely afford college for Brian when the time comes.”

  I didn’t say a word. He had a point, of course, but I didn’t want to hear it. I’d heard it all before, more frequently than I cared to recall.

  “So are we in agreement on this?” he asked. I could feel his eyes on my cheek.

  “Sure,” I said, maintaining my focus on the road ahead. It was fruitless to argue with Daniel. He was entitled to his opinion, of which he had many. I maintained my silence as the unfortunate reality of our lives crashed down upon me like a crumbling brick wall. What would happen to us when Brian went off to college? Would we somehow rekindle our relationship, or drift further into the void.

  Monday, March 12

  I rose early, grabbed a quick workout at the gym, and returned home to find Daniel sitting at the kitchen table. He barely looked up from his coffee and newspaper as I came in. I immediately sensed some tension.

  “So,” he said, clearing his throat, “you were up and out early this morning.”

  “Sorry, did I wake you?” I set my gym bag on the chair.

  “That’s not the point.” He folded
the paper and tossed it aside.

  Was I supposed to know what he meant? “Okay, what is the point?”

  He shook his head, wearing an indignant smirk. “I’ve been gone almost two weeks. The first morning I’m back you scuttle off to the gym as if I wasn’t here.”

  “Did we have plans to do something this morning?”

  “No, I just figured we’d spend the morning in bed--”

  “You mean having sex?”

  He hesitated, obviously taken aback by my blunt nature. “Well, okay. Yeah, maybe--”

  “I’m not a mind reader,” I said, cutting him off a second time. “If you want something from me, please let me know verbally instead of telepathically, okay?”

  He stared at me, mouth agape. I couldn’t blame him for feeling insulted, but I’d had about enough of his games. Did he expect me to feel amorous toward him just by virtue of the fact that I was his wife?

  “I shouldn’t have to remind you that it’s been months since we did anything in our bed other than sleep.”

  “Actually, while you were away, I had a grand ole’ time all by myself in that bed.”

  Daniel’s face turned bright red. He stood up so abruptly the chair fell over backwards onto the floor. “Damn it, Sarah. What the hell’s come over you? How did you get to be such a bitch?”

  Arms crossed over my chest, I just stood there as he stormed down the hall and slammed the bedroom door. Had I gone too far? Daniel wasn’t used to me speaking my mind, and apparently had no idea what was really bothering me.

  I suppose I was partly to blame. I was the one keeping secrets. But Daniel was no dummy; it wouldn’t be long before he figured out what I was doing with Carter. What he’d do about it was entirely another matter.

  * * *

  Several hours after my little blow-out with Daniel, I met Carter at the Main Street Diner and recounted my conversation with Armand. Carter sat back in the booth and stared at his coffee mug, apparently processing the new information. The waitress came and went, leaving a couple plates of fettuccini Alfredo in front of us. Carter reached inside his pocket and produced a cream-colored, silk ribbon with lettering that read ‘Ambrosia Florists.’ “I went through Tiffany’s apartment last night and found this in her trash can.”

  “Looks like a ribbon used in floral arrangements. And Armand did mention that Stephanie received flowers from her stalker.”

  “I checked Harding’s bank transactions. If he had called in an order, there would likely be a credit card transaction for the purchase. But there’s nothing listed for Ambrosia Florists. If it was him, he must have gone in and paid cash.”

  “Maybe someone who works there would recognize him by the photo we’ve got.”

  Carter nodded. “Let’s go over after we eat. We might get lucky.”

  I twirled the thick pasta around my fork, took a bite, and looked up at Carter. Something was different; I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at first. Then it came to me. “Nice haircut,” I offered. “Did the barber have anything interesting to say about Marty?”

  Carter ran his hand through his hair. “Thanks, but it was a total bust. The guy had me in and out of his chair in less than five minutes. His scissors were flying so fast, I barely got one question out and he was done. There were a line of guys waiting. Not that it would’ve mattered. The guy didn’t speak much English. He didn’t seem to understand a thing I said. I told him I wanted my hair cut to look like George Clooney’s, but I left looking more like Andy Rooney.”

  I burst out laughing. Carter’s tormented expression was priceless.

  “Glad you’re able to have a good laugh at my expense,” he said, reaching into his back pocket. He tossed an envelope on the table in front of me. “Good job getting the information from Armand.”

  I slipped the envelope into my purse without looking inside. “Thanks,” I said. “I feel like I’m getting the hang of this business. I know I still have a lot to learn, but I’ve got a damn good teacher.”

  Carter smiled and looked down. He was either uncomfortable with compliments or had something else on his mind. In that moment, it occurred to me that I really didn’t know Carter very well at all. I wanted to ask about his life; about how he came to be a private eye, what his family was like, and if he’d ever been married? We had been so wrapped up in the Marty Quinn investigation, there was little time left over to talk about our personal situations. Maybe that’s how Carter liked it. But my curiosity wouldn’t rest.

  “Something seems to be bothering you, Carter.”

  He looked up from his plate. “Nah, I’m fine.”

  “Don’t worry. I know that behind the façade of sensitivity you’re a tough guy.” I waited for a smile, and didn’t get one. “Okay, I’m asking as a friend.”

  I immediately regretted taking that liberty. I had no idea if Carter ever thought of me in that light.

  “I appreciate your concern, Sarah, but it’s complicated. Besides, you have your own life to deal with.”

  “My life is as boring as shit. That’s why I’m here with you right now. I really want to understand this business better, so I feel I should try to understand you better, too.”

  Carter finally smiled. Was he letting his defenses down ever so slightly? “It’s my friend, Richard,” he said. We haven’t spoken for a while. Last night I got a call from his wife, Emily.”

  “About what?”

  “She’s worried about him. He left on a business trip yesterday and she hasn’t heard from him since.”

  “What does he do for work?”

  “He’s a financial consultant. Pretty boring job, considering he used to be an investigator, too.”

  “Why did he change careers?”

  “He got married. His wife wanted him to find something more stable.”

  “So he just disappeared? Does she think it could be related to his work?”

  “She has no idea. Nothing seemed odd that morning, according to her.”

  “Let me guess. She asked you to look into it.”

  Carter smiled and nodded. “She did, but they live in Los Angeles.”

  “That makes it a little difficult.”

  Carter took a sip of water and signaled the waitress for a check. “I’m sure the LAPD will do what they can. We need to focus on the case we’re working on.”

  I wasn’t convinced. His voice was edged with concern, and though I didn’t know Carter all that well, I knew when he was being evasive. There was something he was leaving out. But I also knew enough not to push him.

  After paying the check, Carter walked out ahead of me and paused next to my rental car. “Let’s head over to the flower shop together. I’ll do some research on my phone while you drive.”

  * * *

  Ambrosia Florists was a specialty shop that dealt in rare tropical flowers and plants, situated in Andover’s arts district. Carter pulled up an article about the shop on his phone.

  “The owners,” Carter read, “Andy and Clair Drummond, are a young couple from Iowa. Their dream of owning a flower shop came to fruition when Clair’s dad passed and left them an inheritance. They bought the store a little over a year ago, but they’re having a hard time, financially. They’re currently looking for investors to help bolster the business. Looks like the recession and some bad business decisions have left them pretty cash-poor.” Carter dropped the phone in his lap just as I pulled up in front of the place. “I have a feeling they’re hanging on to this shop by a thread. I could dig further, but it’s not necessary. We now know their weakness. Keep that in mind when you go in to ask about Harding. I’ll wait here in the car.”

  The interior of Ambrosia Florists seemed like a micro jungle, lush with exotic potted plants and tropical fauna.

  A lanky redhead, with freckles the size of dimes, greeted me. Good afternoon, he said, his friendly smile exposing a huge gap in his front teeth. He reminded me of the cartoon character, Alfred E. Newman, from the cover of Mad Magazine.

  “Your shop is gorgeou
s,” I gushed, my enthusiasm not an act. “I feel as if I’ve just walked into a tropical oasis. Are you the owner?”

  “Me, and my wife, Clair, own the shop. She’s out back watering some Bird-of-Paradise flowers that just came in this morning. I’m Andy,” he said as he offered his hand.

  “I’m Sarah. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  A petite woman with golden hair emerged carrying a vase of flowers. She stopped when she saw me standing next to her husband. “Oh my, I didn’t hear anyone come in.” She set the vase down on the desk and walked towards us. Andy introduced us.

  “So nice to see an actual customer,” she offered while shaking my hand. “We have to keep checking the door to make sure it’s not locked.” She laughed, but Andy looked down, evidently embarrassed.

  “Clair,” he said, patting his wife on the shoulder, “did you water the baby palms that came in yesterday? They looked a little dry.”

  “Okay, honey.” She waved pleasantly as she slipped behind the desk and back through the door. Andy shook his head.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m a small business owner, so I can empathize. People don’t seem to have extra money these days to splurge on life’s finer pleasures.”

  “That’s true, but we’re determined to make this work. I’m very thankful for our loyal customers.”

  “Well, I’m happy to have found your wonderful little shop.” I looked around, spotted a shelf occupied by several varieties of orchids, and chose one. “This little guy is telling me he wants to come home with me.”

  The smile that blossomed on Andy’s face nearly broke my heart. “You have great taste. That is a Coeliac Bella orchid, native to Mexico. Collectors consider it a semi-rare breed.”

  “Wow,” I said, shifting my arms to cradle it as if it were a priceless antique. The delicate purple, yellow, and white petals looked so fragile a stiff wind might blow them all off. “You certainly seem to know your orchids.”

  “It’s truly a passion of mine,” he replied.