Act it Out (A Hailey Webb Mystery, Volume 2)

by Deany Ray

  So far, this was disappointing. It sounded a lot like Vicente’s story—and that had gotten us nowhere except cramped up in a stairwell with this red-faced, whiny man.

  Mike, though, had his pen poised over his notebook. “What can you tell us about this other person?”

  “It could have been a man.” Ferguson wrinkled his forehead and thought hard. “Or it could have been a woman.”

  Gee, that narrows it down to . . . everybody in the world. I tried to listen patiently.

  “He . . . or she was wearing a dark hoodie.” He paused. “Oh! I do remember something else. Something was embroidered on the back of the hoodie. A tiger . . . or a lion of some sort.”

  “Anything else?” Mike asked.

  Ferguson shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. As you can understand, my mind was on my own problems and, well, to be honest with you, with finding another drink.”

  I exchanged glances with Mike. We both realized Ferguson told us everything he knew.

  “We appreciate you sharing what you know,” Mike told him with a smile.

  “So, I can go?” He looked at us anxiously.

  I nodded.

  Ferguson let out the biggest breath ever.

  Mike opened the door out of the stairwell, and I had begun to pass through when Ferguson said, “Wait.”

  Both of us turned to face him.

  He looked at us, confused. “Who are you again?”

  I looked at Mike.

  He looked at me.

  “Sir, you have a good day,” Mike said to Ferguson. Then he closed the door—and we were off.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The bizarre conversation from the stairwell replayed in my head as we wound through the parking garage and made our way toward the exit. “Just when you think it doesn’t get any weirder,” I said to Mike. “What do we make of Ferguson?”

  “Hard to say.” He seemed to mull it over. “It could well be the truth—all that stuff he was saying.” He adjusted his seat belt. “Or this character could have been lying to us through his teeth.”

  “So one way or the other, huh?”

  He laughed. “That’s about the sum of it, I guess.”

  We were each lost in our own thoughts as I merged into traffic and drove toward the Gazette. “He didn’t strike me as a villain,” I mused to Mike after a while. “Just a real sad dude.” The thing about it was that I could relate to being broke and all. At least in my case, there were no scary goons after me to pay some impossibly high sum.

  “Definitely sad,” Mike agreed.

  “One thing’s for sure,” I said. “Either Ferguson or Vicente is not painting a true picture of the way things went down. To hear Vicente tell it, this guy we just met was on a rampage, and on Fitzgerald’s case every chance he got.”

  To me, that seemed unlikely. I bet Ferguson could throw a lot of heated words at someone like Fitzgerald. But I had the feeling it would be mostly bluster and hot air. And lots of sweat and wheezes.

  “I’m thinking about what he told us and the mention of that hoodie with the tiger or whatever.” Mike’s voice broke into my thoughts. “I’d consider that a new lead.”

  “I know. That could be a great clue or not related in the slightest to why Victoria is dead.” I was not sure what to think.

  Mike grinned. “So one way or the other?”

  I responded with a mock pout. “Solving crimes is hard.”

  “That’s why more of them go unsolved than most people would think.” He paused. “With this Fitzgerald thing, the experts can’t seem to get any closer than we have, at least that I can tell.”

  “It’s a tricky one for sure.”

  With still miles to go before we got to the Gazette, an awkward silence filled the car, and I wondered if I should turn on some music. I mentally ran through my list of songs on Spotify, wondering which one was the least romantic. Maybe I should crank up some heavy metal. The silence between us just felt weird, which was new for me and Mike. Could you kiss someone like that and never mention it again? Was it on his mind as well?

  “We should look into it,” he said. “That thing with the hoodie.”

  Okay, that answered that. Making out with me at the elevator was not on the man’s mind.

  “Sometimes small things like that can break a case wide open,” he continued. “The thing is to be thorough, and to leave no stone unturned.”

  “How would we even start?” I asked, wrestling my thoughts away from the memory of his body pressed up warm against me. “How exactly do you find a person with a certain kind of hoodie? I mean, I could keep my eye out for that kind of thing while I’m on the set. I imagine a hoodie with a tiger or a lion would stand out.”

  “Hotel security could be a great place for us to start. I’ll look into that for sure, see if there are any cameras pointed at that employee lot.” Mike was in full-on reporter mode. “I’ll check with my sources at the station; they should know what kind of footage the cops have already seen. If we’re lucky and that film exists, maybe they can zero in on that specific spot, and see if the cameras have caught the confrontation that our friend described.”

  He glanced down at his phone, which had begun to buzz. “Let me take this. It’s Jerry calling me.”

  “Sure.” I watched as he picked up. I could hear the excitement in my boss’s voice, although I couldn’t understand the words.

  “Slow down, Jerry! What?” Mike was sitting up straighter now, a new alertness in his eyes. “You’re kidding,” he said while he let a breath out.

  In my boss’s ramblings, I could make out a name: Vicente Torres.

  “On my way,” Mike said. He hung up, then turned to me. “Okay, step on the gas. We need to get to the Gazette ASAP.”

  “What, what, what?” I asked, passing the car in front of me and zooming ahead of the traffic.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Mike said. “Supposedly, your nemesis is gay. And Torres as well. Somebody from the station seems to have leaked the information.”

  I reined in my emotions just in time not to slam into the Honda Civic just ahead. “What? You’re serious?”

  “Jerry just confirmed it,” Mike said.

  “Both of them? Are gay? No way.” I hoped that was convincing.

  “This day just keeps getting better.” Mike grinned, and I saw him shake his head. “I gotta be honest; I didn’t see this one coming.”

  “Oh wow, neither did I,” I added.

  Mike laughed. “I can only imagine how disappointed you are now.”

  I stuck out my tongue at him. “I can hold it in.”

  “I guess now we know a bit more about why they hauled Torres in,” Mike said. “Still, how does all of this fit into the bigger puzzle?” I could tell he was thinking hard as he stared out the window. “This could open up a whole range of new theories,” he concluded. He ran his hand through his hair. “I guess we’ll wait and see.”

  I parked the Jeep at the Gazette, and Mike practically ran into the building. As soon as I walked into the office, I could feel the energy of a newsroom in the wake of a big break in a major story. The Gazette was its normal whirlwind of activity turned up to high speed. Reporters and photographers hurried through the aisles at a more frantic pace than normal, and I noticed Mike darting in and out of Jerry’s office as he worked.

  A new task came in for me, but my mind was far away from retail stats for the second quarter and consumer spending habits according to age group. Between phone calls and online research, I kept my ears tuned for news about the story. Thirty minutes later, unable to contain myself any longer, I grabbed one of the reporters as she hurried past. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Vicente Torres.” She breathed out. “You know, the really hot one? Well, he was hiding Amery Fitzgerald in his room at the hotel! They were . . . well, those two were supposedly an item. At one time they were, at least. Sorry. Got to run!”

  That sneaky Vicente. I made a mental note to talk to hi
m again on set.

  Not before long, those of us whose jobs put us out of the eye of the storm gave up any pretense of doing ho-hum work. We huddled to compare our theories and our notes.

  Apparently, officials at the Palm Shores Heritage, alerted by room service, had grown suspicious about some goings-on in Vicente’s room. Food orders were coming in, it seemed, at hours when the occupant should have been on set. There were instructions that the food should be left outside the door, which also seemed suspicious. No contact, the caller specified, was to be initiated ever with the “guest.”

  “That’s like telegraphing, ‘I’m hiding something here.’ How dumb can you get?” I rolled my eyes at the small group who’d gathered in the break room over coffee.

  One of the food writers laughed. “Abs and sexy eyes don’t make these guys immune from stupid.”

  The cops, it seemed, had raided Vicente’s room, brought him in, and under questioning, he cracked, admitting that he and Fitzgerald had dated in the past. He confessed to offering a hiding place to the fugitive after his big escape, an offer that Fitzgerald had gladly seized upon.

  What the cops didn’t find was Amery Fitzgerald, who had apparently moved on to find another place to stay. Vicente, not surprisingly, had claimed he had no idea where Fitzgerald could have gone.

  It felt so frustrating that the guy had escaped yet again. How lucky can anyone get? I poured myself a refill.

  Amid these new revelations, I did at least find the answer to one of my zillion questions. The incident at the stadium had happened in the wake of the discovery of Fitzgerald’s hiding place. Continuing his streak of audacity, or genius, he had done what he did best—escape without a trace—while every cop in town was distracted at the stadium.

  As the day wore on, I managed to pull some stats together to send them to the city-life reporter. The latest news about Fitzgerald was posted on our site, and Mike was nowhere to be seen. I fought the urge to send him a barrage of texts pleading for updates ASAP.

  A little after five, I strolled through the parking lot heading to my Jeep. With time off from the set, I’d come to a decision: tonight, I would take a break from all things Amery Fitzgerald. My head felt like it would explode from an overload of clues and theories that could be the golden key to everything—or simply useless chatter.

  As I fastened my seat belt and headed for the exit, I reveled in my freedom. TV, wine, good takeout, slipping into my pj’s before nine? No responsibilities at all!

  Something was nagging at me, though, as I reached the edge of the parking lot. It was that flash of disappointment that had crossed my mother’s face when I’d said no to dinner. Sure, she could be annoying, but there was a great big heart beneath that tasteful but sophisticated statement jewelry paired with those Chanel suits. Plus, she loved nothing better than spending time with me, for which I should be thankful.

  At the entrance to the street, I paused. Left or right? I wasn’t sure. My mother’s place or mine?

  Fine. So be it. I closed my eyes and sighed, mentally letting go of my planned extravaganza: stuffing egg foo yong into my mouth while laying back to some good stand-up comedy show.

  I was heading to my mother’s house when the sound of “Darth Vader’s Theme” blasted through the car. For real? Could she read minds? She had always been the queen of timing. I glanced at the phone and smiled. There was no need for theatrics, I was a step ahead of her.

  I hit “accept” and braced myself for an incoming stream of drama.

  She didn’t disappoint. “I am at such a low point, Hailey. I have tried to be so brave during this ordeal, and to keep a cheerful disposition. You know me, darling. I’m not one to complain.”

  I almost veered into the Mazda in the lane beside me. “Hey, Mom, listen. I was . . .”

  “But I will admit to you, I’ve been terrified. This involved my eyes. My eyes! I had images of a surgery going bad this week.” She sighed. “Now, I know you’re probably running off to be with friends and too busy for your mother.” Her voice took on a weak tone as if she could hardly speak. “What I wouldn’t give for a dinner with my daughter. Maria prepared some lamb chops, and there’s something just so sad about eating lamb chops all alone.”

  “On my way right now.”

  “Even if you don’t believe me, I know a night with one’s mother probably doesn’t hold the appeal of . . . Wait. What did you say?”

  “See you in fifteen. Pour me a glass of wine,” I said, hanging up.

  ***

  I was sitting with my mother, enjoying French cheese and good red wine on the patio as the setting sun painted swaths of pink and yellow over her backyard. I’d respectfully turned down the caviar because . . . well . . . just yuck.

  Next, we moved on to the lamb chops—the lamb chops were to die for—and potatoes that were the perfect mix of crispy on the outside and tender in the middle. Normally, my mother loved to go out and be fawned over by waiters, but Maria, it turned out, could produce a gourmet meal to equal what I’ve eaten at my mother’s favorite places.

  “This is amazing,” I said as I speared a potato.

  “I suppose it’s fine. Maria could have seasoned the potatoes a bit more to suit my taste, but the meal is passable.” My mother’s phone buzzed, and she glanced at it before sliding it away from her toward the edge of the table.

  “Maria is a keeper.” I cut into the lamb chop.

  “She seems to miss some things when she runs the vacuum lately. I’ll have to speak to her about that. You have to go deep into the corners, or it’s just not clean.”

  “Mom, just admit it,” I said. “Maria does a great job.”

  My mom sighed. “Fine. You’re right. She does.”

  I smiled. “There you go. It didn’t hurt to say that, did it?”

  Mom laughed. “I guess it didn’t.” Her phone begun to buzz again, and she glanced down toward it.

  “Don’t you want to know who it is? If you need to take the call, it’s fine.”

  “We’re having dinner now and it would be rude,” she said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  She batted her eyelashes. “Nothing is going on. Why would something be going on?”

  “I just have a feeling.”

  My mom waved that thought away. “Nonsense. I just want to have dinner with my daughter and not be interrupted. Whoever this is will have to wait.”

  As the night went on, and we both grew more relaxed, less of her conversation was made up of complaints. She even went so far as to praise a new alterations shop she’d found. “Do you know how rare it is, how fine it is, to encounter service people who actually know what they’re doing? Not everyone in this city is incompetent. Who knew?”

  Her phone buzzed again.

  “Mom! Just answer them. Or at least make sure it’s not an emergency or something.”

  She took the phone and glanced at the screen. “Okay, it’s just work. They need a decision on something but I can’t babysit them all the time.” She put her phone away.

  Okay, something was up. My mom never reacted this relaxed when it came to her company.

  “How do you like the wine?” she asked.

  “I think the wine is perfect.” As I finished a second glass, it dawned on me that I had not even once thought of Amery Fitzgerald after leaving work. Guess I’ll have to thank my mom for that.

  Following some more talk about her job and some new restaurants she’d found, I kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye, promising to visit soon.

  “That would be great. I know that you young people have your own lives to live, and you’re always so busy, but I’m always happy when you visit.”

  I caught another tiny smile forming on her lips.

  Back at my place, I couldn’t wait to settle in on the couch, turn on the TV and drift away in my long-awaited sleep. But as I stepped into the apartment, I sensed right away that something wasn’t right. The living room looked untouched. However, as I walk
ed through, turning on a light and heading to the kitchen, were . . . holy Cuisinart. This was my house, right? But this was not my kitchen.

  A fruit basket was sitting on the counter, overflowing with green apples, pears, tangerines, and nuts. My eyes moved next to a set of expensive knives standing at attention like culinary soldiers in a wooden block. A digital air fryer sat beside them, along with a cookbook tied up with a ribbon.

  Stunned, I opened a cabinet to find stacks of sage-green plates with navy stripes around the edges. On a shelf above them, a line of crystal glasses shimmered in light blue. This was the really good stuff, stuff I could not afford. As I explored some more, I found new cutting boards and muffin pans beneath the sink. There was a juicer by the fridge and new mixing bowls in one of the lower cabinets.

  My mind was completely blown. This was like a burglary—but a burglary in reverse. This was . . . the work of Sheryl Selway.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I ran my finger over the largest of the heavy mixing bowls with their subtle yellow pattern. The mixing bowls all matched. I had a power juicer; power juicers were a thing. I felt, ridiculously, almost like someone new, someone who’d grab a pear from a basket in the afternoon while she contemplated dinner: a meal with exotic spices involving more than three ingredients put together quickly.

  I was touched by the great effort my mom had made to pamper me this way—and I was frustrated with her too. She knew how much I wanted to be self-sufficient and pay for things myself. But Sheryl Selway was going to do, of course, what she was going to do.

  I picked up my phone, and I could hear her smiling when she sang out, “Hello!”

  “Mom, I know this was you.”

  “How do you like the dishes? I think the dishes are exquisite.”

  “You know you shouldn’t have,” I said.