by Nic Saint
“Oh, absolutely,” he said. Demetria had already made sure Gertrude was the only person in the shop, and had actually blocked out two hours, so closing up made a lot of sense. He quickly locked the door and turned down the blinds. “We have a private room in the back, reserved for our very special customers.”
She grinned happily. “Are you telling me I’m one of those very special customers?”
“You are now,” he said, and led the way to the back of the salon.
“It’s just that I hate people gawking at me,” she said while she followed Bancroft. “It’s so much nicer when you don’t have to worry about being stared at, don’t you think?”
“Oh, totally,” he said. He could only imagine what it was like to be a celebrity like her. He himself had worked in Hollywood for a while, but that had been a bit of a bust.
Gertrude took a seat. “Maestro, let the magic begin,” she said, and settled back.
Bancroft found himself relaxed in her company, and the old self-confidence returned. She was actually a lot nicer than her mother, and more fun to be around. And as he inquired as to what she wanted done, he wasn’t aware of the blonde peering through the blinds in the other room. She looked like the spitting image of the woman in his chair. Only angrier.
Chapter 18
“Can’t you, I don’t know, figure out who’s behind this Instagram?” asked Rick.
Chief Whitehouse coughed up a laugh. At least that’s what Fee thought it was. His voluminous form quivered, and a booming sound emerged from his lips, then all was quiet once more. Like a volcano working up to an eruption.
“This is a small-town operation, son,” said the Chief. “We don’t have the resources to ‘hack Instagram.’” He was making exaggerated air quotes, to indicate the utter ridiculousness of what Rick was suggesting.
“I never said anything about ‘hacking Instagram,’” said Rick. “Just ask them who’s behind the account.”
“Oh, just ask them, huh?”
“Sure. You’re the Chief of Police.”
“Companies like that get asked about a million questions every day. Without a court order I’m nowhere. And even then this might take weeks. Time we don’t have.”
They were all seated in the Chief’s office: Fee, Alice, Rick, Reece and Virgil. The chief had let the blinds down, and locked the door, indicating this was the kind of meeting he did not want spied upon by his nosy officers.
“I really appreciate you doing this, Chief,” said Virgil, for what seemed like the umpteenth time.
The Chief held up a meaty paw. “I know why you did it, son. You simply wanted to repay a favor and got in way over your head. I just wish you’d come to me before you got involved with that woman.”
“You know Deanna Kohl?” asked Fee.
“Of course I know Deanna. I teach at the academy. We were colleagues.”
“So what happened? Why did she quit two years into the job?” asked Alice.
The Chief shrugged in a helpless gesture. “Beats me. They asked her to stay—begged her. She wouldn’t. And she never gave a reason either. Just up and left. Out of the blue.”
“Have you kept in touch, Virgil?” asked Rick.
“No, can’t say that I have,” he said with a wistful sigh that had Alice roll her eyes.
“Facebook friends? WhatsApp?” Reece suggested.
“Virgil is not allowed to have women friends on his Facebook, isn’t that right, Virgil?” asked the Chief.
Virgil looked sheepish. “I’m not sure that’s relevant, Chief.”
“Your mom keeps an eye on your Facebook, doesn’t she?”
Virgil nodded miserably. “She does.”
“How can Marjorie keep an eye on your Facebook?” asked Fee.
“She’s one of his friends,” said the Chief with a grin.
“So unfriend her.”
“I can’t,” said Virgil. “She uses an alias.”
“So unfriend the alias!”
“I would if I knew what name she uses, but I don’t want to unfriend my actual friends…”
“She’s cunning,” said the Chief, and there was a touch of admiration in his voice.
“So what’s next?” asked Rick, moving on from the topic of Marjorie’s control freakery.
“Frankly I’m at a loss here,” said the Chief. “A crime has been committed, but the body is missing. And when we find the body, most likely we’ll find it attached to Virgil’s badge, which makes things a little tricky for us.”
“You have to make sure that when that body turns up again, you’re the first to arrive, Chief,” said Fee.
“And how do you suppose I do that? I’m Chief of Police. I’m not supposed to run after a dead body that may or may not pop up again! My people will think I’m cuckoo!”
He had a point, Fee conceded. It wasn’t the Chief’s business to chase this body around town, and chances were he wouldn’t be first on the scene when it popped up again.
“Has his family reported Vic missing?” asked Alice.
“No, they haven’t. They’re not the kind of family who enjoy police involvement.”
“Maybe you should pay them a call. Or one of your officers could,” Fee said.
“Eddy Grabarski is not the kind of person who enjoys house calls from your friendly neighborhood cop. In fact he might downright resent it and make life difficult for us.”
Fee couldn’t believe her ears. It almost sounded as if...
“You’re afraid of this guy!” Alice cried.
“I’m not afraid of anyone,” said the Chief. “And definitely not some two-bit hood. But the guy is connected. He’s a personal friend of the governor, and has plenty of other prominent people in his pocket, many of whom have the mayor’s ear.”
“Still, I’m pretty sure he’ll want to know about his son being killed,” said Alice.
“Don’t kid yourself. He already does,” said Rick. “Men like that have eyes and ears everywhere. They know things before anyone else does.”
And to emphasize his words, he allowed his own eyes to drift across the room, clearly looking for those offending eyes and ears.
“He can’t hear us,” said the Chief, but he looked a little ill at ease himself.
“I think we have to track down Deanna first,” said Alice. “Someone is playing games with the body of the man she murdered, and she might be able to tell us who and why.”
“She’s disappeared,” said Virgil sadly.
“I would disappear if I just murdered the son of a mobster,” said Rick.
“We still need to find her,” said Alice. “Can’t you track her phone, Dad?”
The Chief raised his arms and let them drop on his desk. “No, honey. I mean, I could try to get a warrant, but that all takes time, and time is what we don’t have right now. That body could turn up any moment, exposing Virgil’s involvement.”
“But you are going to track down Deanna at some point, right? I mean, she killed a man. You have to arrest her.”
The Chief leveled a blank stare at her.
“You’re not going to arrest her? But that’s insane!”
The Chief didn’t respond.
“I mean, even mobsters have rights, Dad.”
“Look, we’ll find Deanna eventually, but frankly arresting her is not a priority.”
“Well, I know someone who can track her phone,” said Alice, mutinously lifting her chin. She then looked pointedly at her boyfriend.
Reece, who’d been making weird faces and checking himself in the mirror app of his phone, looked up. “Mh?”
“Your friend in the NSA? He must be able to figure out who’s behind that Instagram, right? And track down Deanna through her phone?”
Reece thought long and hard, then finally his face lit up. “Rufus!”
“Yeah, Rufus.”
“I have some bad news and some good news. What do you want to hear first?”
“Give me the bad news.”
“Turns out Rufus has been s
elling state secrets to the Russians for years and the NSA finally caught on to him. So Rufus is gone, I’m afraid.”
Alice uttered a groan of frustration. “So what’s the good news?”
“Rufus defected. He’s in Moscow right now, working for the Russian NSA. Do you want me to call him?”
“Ugh. No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” said Reece with a shrug, and went back to practicing his Hercule Poirot face.
“May I ask you what you’re doing, son?” asked Chief Whitehouse, who’d been studying him for a while.
“We’re filming Murder on the Orient Express next month and I’m trying to figure out how to do a great Poirot.” He pulled a posh face and said, “Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“That’s not Poirot,” said Rick. “That’s—”
“Or how about this one.” He pulled a tough guy face and said, “Screw you, Watson.”
“I’m telling you, that’s not Poirot, that’s—”
“Or I could go old school.” He looked at the Chief, and suddenly a tear slid down his cheek. “Oh, my dear Watson,” he said, sounding like a man who’d just lost the will to live.
“Oh, forget it,” Rick muttered.
“You would make a great Watson, by the way,” Reece told Rick.
“Hastings,” Rick said.
“Mh?”
“Poirot’s sidekick is called Captain Hastings, not Watson.”
“See? That’s exactly the kind of thing Dr. Watson would say. I’m going to suggest you for the role, Ricky.”
“But...”
Reece held up a hand. “Don’t thank me yet. You will still need to audition. I may have a lot of clout, but everybody auditions nowadays.”
“But I don’t—”
“Tut-tut. You can thank me when you get the part.”
“You know? I think I have an idea,” said Fee, interrupting Rick and Reece’s lovefest. “I know someone who might know where to find Deanna.” She’d intently been studying something on her phone. She then held it out. “Look at this, you guys.”
Alice was the first one to spot it. “I recognize that dog. That’s… your dad’s dog, Rick.”
Rick studied the picture. It was the original picture on the original Instagram page, the one depicting the dead man, his head sticking out of the sand. And in a corner of the picture, almost unnoticeable unless you blew it up, like Fee had just done, was a little dog.
“That could be any dog,” said Rick now.
Fee blew up the picture even more, and the dog’s collar came into view, now clear as day. It read: Spot 5.
Chapter 19
Mickey Whitehouse was pottering around his store, aptly called Mick’s Pick, and unpacking some of the boxes with khaki shirts and hanging them on the rack when the door opened and the doorbell merrily dinged. He looked up to find a statuesque blonde striding into the store, her gorgeous blond hair gently whipping in the breeze. He had to control his lower jaw from dropping to the floor at the sight of so much gorgeousness. He straightened so fast from his kneeling position on the floor that he practically threw out his back.
“How can I help you, Miss?” he asked, thanking his lucky stars his niece Alice had asked for the day off to do some ‘sleuthing’ as she called it. Something to do with these sightings of a dead body all over town. He didn’t mind. Especially with customers like this.
“Oh, um, this is awkward,” said the woman with a nervous little laugh as he took his position behind the counter and removed his reading glasses. He liked to think he still had what it took, in spite of the beer belly he’d developed. He tucked it in for good measure.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Awkward is my middle name.” And to prove that he wasn’t kidding, he barked out an awkward laugh, drawing a smile from the pretty lady.
“The thing is, my brother recently ordered a gun from you? Something very special for his birthday?” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Only he forgot that my mom already decided to gift him the same gun—she got it in Orlando at the gun show last month.”
“Oh, sure. I was there, actually,” he said.
“You were? I heard it was amazing.”
“It was pretty decent,” he admitted. What he didn’t mention was that he’d used the opportunity to get thoroughly wasted and had neglected his booth for two days straight, suffering from a severe hangover. He might still have what it took but apparently his body thought otherwise.
“So… could you be a sweetheart and cancel the order? I know this must be a terrible inconvenience for you, but…” She shrugged and laughed, and Mickey was in love.
“Oh, no, sure,” he said. “Not a problem at all, Miss, um…”
“Grabarski. Gertrude Grabarski, and my brother’s name is Heike.”
Mickey almost choked. “Grabarski, as in…”
“My dad is Erhard Grabarski, though everybody calls him Eddy.” She laughed again. “This is so embarrassing. I know you probably went to a great deal of trouble acquiring this gun.”
“Trouble? Get out of here,” he said with a throwaway gesture. “Anything for…” He swallowed. “Eddy Grabarski. So this gun would have been registered to…”
“Heike Grabarski. His birthday is coming up, so…”
“Heike Grabarski,” he repeated, checking his computer.
“My brother loves guns. And he’s turning twenty-one, so he’s been really looking forward to owning his own gun for the first time, so…” She did the cutest eyeroll.
He chuckled. “First-time gun owner, huh? Pretty exciting stuff.” He tapped the screen of his computer. “This would be the, ah, Heckler & Koch VP9SK?”
“Yep. That’s the one.”
“So, um… we need to talk license. It will take at least four months—”
“That’s all taken care of, Mr. Whitehouse.”
“Mickey,” he said with a crooked smile that had made many a woman’s heart go pitter-patter back in the day. From what he could tell, it didn’t do much for Gertrude.
“Fine,” he said. “I guess your dad will take care of all of that stuff.”
She gave him a wink. “Yes, he will.”
What was he thinking? Of course Eddy Grabarski would get his son the gun he wanted, paperwork or not. He was, after all, the kingpin of crime around these parts. Heck, he probably had politicians on both sides of the aisle eating out of his hand. He tapped a key. “There. Purchase canceled. And wish your brother a happy birthday from me.”
“Will do, Mickey,” she said. She then leaned in, and actually planted a quick peck on his cheek! She giggled like a schoolgirl and practically skipped out of his shop, a whirlwind of blond tresses and the faintest hint of a sweet, sweet perfume.
What a gal, Mickey thought, finally relaxing his belly muscles with a sigh of relief.
And then he picked up his phone to tell his supplier he wouldn’t be needing that HK VP9SK after all.
Petra Pearce, owner and proprietor of Petra’s Pet Parlor, was blow-drying a poodle when the doorbell clanked and a customer walked in.
She looked up and shouted over the noise, “What do you want?”
Petra was not known for her winning personality, or her sales pitch. The only reason customers kept coming back was because she genuinely loved pets—probably loved them more than their owners—and had the magic touch when it came to grooming the little balls of fur.
“My name is Gertrude Grabarski and I dropped off my Maltipoo Apple this morning? I’m here to pick him up.”
“Her, you mean,” said Petra gruffly. She regarded the woman sternly, and Gertrude stared back at her. Petra had something of the canine herself, with her jowly features and deep-set eyes.
“Her, yes,” said Gertrude, whipping her newly coiffed hair over her shoulder.
“Over there,” Petra said finally, and gestured with her head to the playpen.
Gertrude walked over to the pen and picked Apple up. The little doggie stiffened, as if she didn’t recognize her own
er, then finally gave Gertrude’s nose a lick and yapped softly.
“Ooh, she looks gorgeous!” said Gertrude. “You did a great job, Mrs. Pearce.”
“That’ll be eighty-five,” Petra snapped. “Put the money on the counter.”
“Oh, could you please send the bill to my dad? I didn’t bring cash.”
“Credit card is fine.”
Gertrude looked sheepish. “I’m so sorry, but I forgot my purse in my BMW. It’s parked all the way over on Dalton Street. Could you bill it to my dad? Erhard Grabarski.”
Petra’s eyes widened at the mention of the name. “Fine,” she said. “I know he’s good for it.”
“Oh, he is,” said Gertrude, hugging her little doggie to her chest and planting little kisses on top of her head. She then gave Petra a dazzling smile that did little to mollify the hardened pet shop owner, and said, “I’ll see myself out, shall I?”
Petra didn’t respond.
Iris Shoon, the young woman manning the desk at Hrodebert Bunker Powerhouse Gym on Hope Street, looked up when a stunning blonde walked in, carrying the cutest little doggie Iris had ever seen. She was as crazy about dogs as she was about fitness, and the sight of the toned woman, carrying the cutie-pie, symbolized the two things she loved most in this world: miniature dogs and fitness.
She was already smiling before the woman had arrived at the counter. “How may I help you?”
“My name is Gertrude Grabarski,” said the woman, glancing in the direction of the gym room where dozens of people were working out. “My brother Heike is supposed to compete in your annual bodybuilding competition this Saturday?”
“Oh, yes, I remember. He won last year, didn’t he?”
“He did! And we’re all so proud of him, especially my dad, Erhard Grabarski.”
Iris winced slightly at the mention of the dreaded name, even if she tried not to show it to the man’s daughter.
“Unfortunately he had a little accident last night and he won’t be able to compete.”
“Oh, no. Is it serious?” She kinda hoped it was. She wasn’t fond of Heike. He was something of a conceited jerk, and she had the impression he always made fun of her.
