“You don’t need to stop by.” I glanced at Matt, who was smiling. “I’ll take the bus home. I don’t need you driving me around all the time.”
Beth was going to say something in protest, but she stopped herself in time and turned around to follow Matt over to the break room. I knew she’d be annoyed at me, but I couldn’t help feeling that I’d done a good thing. Perhaps I could pursue a career as a matchmaker, after all.
When I turned around, Ethan was typing out a message on his smartphone.
“So,” he said. “If you’re not here for a social visit, what did you want to discuss?”
Ethan’s eyes were dark and watchful, and I smiled. “It can’t always be social. You know I’m a working gal.”
Ethan smiled, his eyes melting like soft puddles of chocolate sauce. “I’m aware of that. And Beth?”
“She’s working too. But she needed a break.”
“From you meddling with her love life?”
I smirked. “I wouldn’t call it meddling. More like—helping.”
“Of course.”
“Anyway.” I grew serious again and found the notebook where I’d jotted down some reminders on the drive over to the station. “I wonder if you could pull up the records of a Sally Smith?”
“Who’s that?” said Ethan, punching some keys on his keyboard. “Someone steal your lunch money?”
“She had a fight with Vanessa before the poisoning. I Googled her after I talked to her, but nothing came up online. She’s got no social media profiles, nothing. It’s like she’s a ghost.”
Ethan punched a few buttons, scrolled through a few screens, and then he shook his head. “Nothing in the system,” he said. “She’s never been arrested, no priors, no records. Not even a parking ticket. You’re right, the woman is a ghost.”
Chapter Eighteen
I glanced at my watch, not having expected the files on Sally Smith to be near-nonexistent. “Well, at least I didn’t waste too much of your time,” I said nervously.
“Are you really going to take off before Beth gets back?” Ethan said.
I nodded. “Yeah. I feel bad making her drive me everywhere.”
“I’m sure she’s happy to,” Ethan said. “But I was just leaving. How ’bout I drive you home—or better, we go have dinner somewhere?”
I smiled. If the case wasn’t going anywhere, maybe Ethan and I could. “Okay. That works well.”
Ethan and I headed out, and I sent Beth a text saying that I’d gotten a lift from Ethan.
“Where are we going?” I asked Ethan.
“I know a nice place a few blocks north of the pier,” he said. “Just off Main Street.”
I nodded. Far away enough from the main tourist drag to be a tad less busy, but still close enough to the action to be popular.
Deco’s turned out to be a small diner with dark wood tables and exposed brick walls. It was early enough to get a table without a reservation, but quite a few of the tables had “Reserved” signs on them. The place was small and intimate without being stuffy, and after ordering our food (steak and red wine for me, and beer and mushroom risotto for Ethan) we started chatting about our lives.
“So Neve’s still bothering you?” said Ethan. “You know she’s gotten fired from her gig at the DA’s office.”
“I know,” I said. I wondered if I should say anything about Liam, my ex-boyfriend whom Neve was currently dating. However, I didn’t want to be one of those girls who babbled on about their exes, even if it was just to complain. I wondered briefly who Ethan had dated since I’d moved away from Santa Verona. But if I didn’t want to talk about my exes, surely Ethan didn’t want to talk about his. So instead, I said, “She’s trying to ‘help’ with my current investigation. She got herself hired—for free—as a singer at the Black Cat.”
“She’s got initiative,” said Ethan.
“I wish she had a little less of it.” My wine arrived and I took a sip of it. “I think she just enjoys needling me and showing off about how great a singer she is. But I don’t want to spend all night talking about Neve—what’re you working on these days?”
Ethan smiled. “The usual. Spate of home invasions. Should be cleared up within a few days. There’s a new gang in town, but we can shut them down.”
“And how about your family?” I asked tentatively. It had been a while since I’d seen them. In fact, the last time I’d seen them, I’d still been Ethan’s girlfriend.
“They’re okay,” said Ethan, grinning. “You know, they were heartbroken when you left Santa Verona. They liked you.”
I felt my face flushing red, and I stared at the dark wooden table. Finally, I said, “I liked them too. But I had to leave. I couldn’t just not go to college.”
“I know,” said Ethan lightly. “You had dreams. Not everyone just goes to the academy and becomes a cop.”
I looked at him and smiled gratefully. I remembered what Aunt Kira had said, that Ethan had been single for a long time after I’d moved away, and I wondered why tonight was turning out to be so particularly uncomfortable. I said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know,” said Ethan, his tone not changing. “And you clearly loved college.”
I laughed. “I wanted to follow my dreams. You’re only young once.”
Ethan nodded, his expression serious. It reminded me that while I was young and carefree, pursuing my dreams of being a big screenwriting success, Ethan had been here in Santa Verona. Fighting the dark underbelly of the city, keeping citizens safe. I wrote about fake crimes, but Ethan dealt with the real thing.
“That worked out well for you,” said Ethan.
I shrugged. “Working on the TV show was fun for a while. But I got tired of it all after a while. The fakeness, the constant obsession with image. It’s so unreal.”
“And so you came back here?” Ethan smiled. “Because you love a place with warts.”
“I do love warts,” I said, smiling back. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”
“Until you want to run off again.”
I shook my head and was about to protest, when Aunt Kira materialized by our table. I froze mid-headshake.
Long earrings framed her face, and she wore a cream blouse and a dark, calf-length pencil skirt. I was pretty sure she was also wearing heels.
“Mindy,” said Aunt Kira, leaning over to give me a peck on the cheek. “What a surprise, seeing you here. And Ethan.”
Ethan kissed her cheek dutifully. “How are you, Aunt Kira?”
“Well,” she said, straightening up again. She gave me a sharp-eyed look and said, “What’re you two up to tonight?”
“We’re just catching up on a case,” I fibbed. “We both needed to eat and thought we’d talk and work.”
Aunt Kira nodded, her expression relaxing a little. “That’s good to hear. I thought maybe you two were dating again.”
“No,” I said. “We’re not.”
“And thank goodness for that,” said Aunt Kira. “You two dating again would be the worst idea ever. Remember how upset you were to have to leave Ethan for college? You moped and moped. And Ethan was single forever. Of course, he dated Patty Schumer and Livia Michaels afterward. Too bad those didn’t last. And you—” She turned to me again. “You’re used to dating the Hollywood celebrity types. All those actors we see in the movies.”
“I haven’t dated any actors, Aunt Kira. They’re not much fun.”
“Oh, pshaw.” She waved one hand dismissively. “I know you have to say that because of privacy issues. But we all know. You’ve dated those cute actors and now you don’t like any of the nice young men your mother and I are trying to introduce you to.”
I glanced at Ethan, and the corners of his mouth had gone up suspiciously. He took a long sip of his beer, hiding his expression.
“I’m not—” I said. “I don’t want to—I mean, I never have—never mind.”
“Well, you’re not seeing anyone, so why not meet someone new?” said Aunt
Kira. “Unless this here’s a date. Though I don’t really get a date-like vibe from you two. This vibe here seems kind of awkward. And uncomfortable. You’re not seeing each other, are you?”
“We’re not,” I said. I glanced at Ethan. His face was unreadable, and he took a small bite of his risotto.
“Well, that’s good,” said Aunt Kira. “It would be pointless to go through that whole drama again. I mean, I love the both of you, but not together. And when Mindy gets tired and moves back to Hollywood, or to New York or the Antarctic or wherever she goes next time, there’s no need to have the same upsets.”
“I’m not moving anywhere, Aunt Kira.”
“Sure, sure,” she said. “You say that now. And maybe you’ll stay here if you like one of those nice young men your mother’s trying to set you up with.”
“I’m not sure I want to be set up. The last man my mother introduced me to was buck-toothed and potbellied.”
“There you go, being superficial. What’s wrong with a bit of a belly?”
“He said he had three Big Macs for every meal.”
“Okay,” Aunt Kira admitted. “Maybe that one wasn’t right. But we’ll keep looking.”
“Yay,” I deadpanned.
“I should go now,” said Aunt Kira. “My date’s waiting. Good luck with your case.”
She disappeared behind a few tables, and I craned my neck, trying to see who her date was. But my view was blocked by the people at the tables between us, and I leaned back, unsatisfied.
“I’d love to show up at her dinner,” I grumbled. “And talk about how they’re all wrong for each other.”
Ethan smiled politely, his eyes unreadable, and chewed his risotto. I wondered if what I’d told Aunt Kira was right—that we weren’t together. Maybe we were just old friends being polite, now that we knew we might have to work together in the future. Burying the hatchet.
“She thinks you’ll take off again,” Ethan pointed out.
“Unless I settle down with a nice man. Preferably, a fat one who likes three fast-food burgers for every meal.”
“It’ll save you the cooking. And the cleaning up afterward.”
I smiled at Ethan. “Know anyone like that?”
“Nah. All my friends like their home-cooked meals.”
“And you?”
“I guess I prefer risotto to Happy Meals.” He glanced at his food and took another sip of beer, watching me.
I tried to joke about food, but an awkwardness hung in the air. Was it really such a bad idea to see each other again? Sure, the last time hadn’t ended well, but this time was different. Or was it?
Chapter Nineteen
After a dinner almost as awkward as any first date, Ethan dropped me home.
I texted Beth, who came over to play with Pixie and fill me in on her coffee with Matt. She was in such a good mood that she didn’t even berate me for running off without her.
“And how was your dinner with Ethan?” she said.
“I refuse to talk about it.” I sighed melodramatically. “Aunt Kira showed up.”
Beth looked aghast. “She didn’t join you, did she?”
“No. But she might as well have.” I told Beth all about the awkwardness, feeling like I’d regressed to being a teenager who giggled over boys, and not at all a fully grown woman who’d once been asked out by a D-list celebrity. “At least now I know that Sally Smith’s a model citizen. She doesn’t even have any parking tickets.”
“Who doesn’t get parking tickets?” said Beth. “Unless you’ve only been driving a few months.”
I stared at Beth, an idea forming in my mind. “Maybe that’s it,” I said slowly. “Maybe she’s only been driving for a few months.”
I flipped open my laptop and logged into my federal PI database. It contained names, histories, addresses—all kinds of details that I just needed to look up. I typed in Sally Smith’s name and brought up her address in Santa Verona. And then I brought up her residential history. Before this, she’d stayed in Phoenix, Arizona, for two weeks. I headed over to the database for Phoenix and looked up recent name changes. There it was—Sally Smith. She had requested a name change in Phoenix; before becoming Sally Smith, she’d been Patricia Soutre.
I looked up the address for Patricia, and it turned out that she used to live in Venus, Texas. She’d even copped a couple of speeding fines, and a black-and-white speed-camera photo revealed that Patricia Soutre was, indeed, Sally Smith.
Beth watched over my shoulder while I worked. When we’d gone through all the information, we looked at each and wondered what Sally was really up to. Why move to Phoenix, change her name, and then move to Santa Verona?
“Maybe she committed the perfect crime as Patricia,” said Beth. “Maybe she changed her name before she could get charged. She’s probably on the run from her past.”
I shook my head. “There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for the name change. Maybe she just got sick of the name.”
We decided to call it a night, and the next morning, Beth and I headed over to the Black Cat for some breakfast and some answers.
Neve was onstage, singing her heart out, and I had to admire her performance. The place was quite packed; most of the customers seemed to be either locals on their way to work, or hard-playing tourists gearing up for a day on the beaches.
Melissa was busy behind the bar again, but there was a barista making coffees. This early in the morning, Melissa wasn’t the one making the drinks.
“Are you here to talk to Sally?” she asked when she saw us.
I nodded. “Is she here yet?”
“Should be here in an hour. Why don’t you have something to eat while you wait?”
“That sounds like a plan,” I said. “We left before we could have breakfast at home.”
Sally showed up before Beth and I could finish our eggs and coffee, and we watched her scurry around, taking orders and serving meals, before we approached her again.
She didn’t seem pleased to see us approaching. “I’m busy,” she said when I asked how she was. “I don’t really have time to talk.”
Melissa strolled past us just then, and she overheard Sally’s remark. “You can have a fifteen-minute break,” she told Sally. “I’ll have someone cover your tables.”
Sally looked at us, her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she followed us to the bar. “What do you want?” she said.
There were no patrons near the bar, so we grabbed a barstool each. I said, “We’re still looking into Vanessa’s poisoning. I thought she was your friend.”
“She was,” said Sally. “But I’m not sure how I can help.”
“Why don’t you tell us what you fought about?” I suggested.
Sally shook her head. “I told you, it doesn’t concern you. It wasn’t important.”
“Someone overheard you saying it was life and death,” I told her. “That sounds important to me.”
Sally rolled her eyes. “It was a figure of speech. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about? Otherwise, I’d rather just go back to work.”
“Actually,” I said, “there is. Your real name’s not Sally Smith, is it?”
She froze, not moving a muscle. And then she said, “What do you mean?”
“You changed your name. It used to be Patricia Soutre.”
The muscles on the back of her neck stiffened, and she sat up a tad straighter. “So what?” she said finally. “So what if it was?”
“That’s your secret, isn’t it?” I said. “That’s why you two argued.”
Sally shook her head. “Whatever.”
“So it is a secret?”
“That my name was Patricia Soutre? Sure. I guess it’s a secret. I don’t go around advertising the fact.”
“Why’d you change your name?”
“It’s none of your business,” said Sally.
“Perhaps it could be.”
Sally shook her head. “I don’t like talking about it.”
&nb
sp; “Perhaps,” said Beth slowly, “you should tell us even if you don’t like talking about it. We can keep secrets really well.”
Sally laughed shortly. “No, thanks.”
“Maybe it had something to do with Vanessa’s poisoning,” Beth suggested.
“No,” said Sally. “It didn’t.”
“How can you be so sure?” I said.
“I just am,” said Sally. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, my break’s over. I need to get back to my tables.”
We watched her silently for a few minutes, as she hurried around, doing her job. Onstage, Neve finished her song, and there was a smattering of applause.
So far, no good. Neve was out there, watching us as we worked, and Sally wouldn’t cooperate. Behind us, Melissa moved around, putting clean glasses away.
“Did you learn anything new?” said Melissa.
“Not really,” I said, turning around to face her. “How well do you know Sally Smith?”
“Not that well,” said Melissa. “But I’m the manager. It’s not like the waitresses are going to make me their best friend.”
I was about to ask if she knew that Sally’s name used to be Patricia Soutre, but something made me stop myself. Perhaps Sally was harmless, and perhaps she didn’t want her former name, and any rumors that went with it, spreading around.
So I made small talk with Melissa and told her to let us know if she noticed anything unusual around the place, and we headed back home. We’d made an appointment to talk to Owen in a few hours’ time, and I hoped he’d tell us about the insurance he’d taken out—both on the building that had almost burned down, and on the girl who’d almost died.
Chapter Twenty
Owen had asked us to meet him at a diner on the north side of town, about a forty-five-minute drive from our apartment. The north side of town was the less popular side, farther away from the beach. There were fewer Spanish Colonial-style mansions here and more bland, boxy apartment buildings. Rents were cheaper on this side of town, and many locals preferred the trade-off: lower housing costs; greater distance from the beach and tourist attractions.
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