I bundled up and went out the back door to the grill. It was frigid outside, but the threat of yesterday’s storm was gone. I’d preheated the grill, as it only took a few minutes to cook the steaks, and I was pretty sure that I’d done them right. I hoped so. I’d studied plenty of videos on how to cook the perfect ribeye. When I finished, I took them off the grill and went back inside. Harry had taken off his coat and tie, and had rolled up his sleeves. What is so enticing about a guy’s forearms in rolled-up sleeves? I had to focus back onto the task at hand.
“If you could bring our drinks,” I said.
He took them, and we went into the dining room. I didn’t have red roses on the table, but the places were set just as he’d done it Monday night.
“If you want to sit down,” I said. “I’ll get everything.”
I hurried back into the kitchen, got the potatoes out of the oven, then the broccoli, and a salad. In a couple of trips, I had everything in the dining room. Then I sat down across from Harry.
“Try your ribeye,” I smiled. “I do hope it’s good.”
He nodded and cut into it, then took a bite. He let out a little moan. “Sarah, it’s delicious. You did great.”
I tried mine too. It was good. He took another couple of bites and looked across the table at me. “Are you celebrating the end of your investigation?”
“Let’s not talk about that now. Tell me about your day.”
We chatted while we ate, and he filled me in on his work. We avoided my work, for once, and we talked about taking a trip to Belize in December. I’d talked to Rizzo about it, and cleared the time. By the time we finished dinner, we had a wonderful trip planned, and it was time for dessert.
“Stay here,” I said. “I baked brownies, and I have vanilla ice cream.”
“My favorite,” he said.
“I know. Give me a minute.”
I took our plates and hurried into the kitchen. I put them in the sink, then prepared two plates of brownies and ice cream. I put them on a tray, topped them with whipped cream, and then I pulled a simple gold band from my pocket. I’d bought it at a downtown jewelry store before I had come home. It was Harry’s style, nothing ostentatious. I placed it in the whipped cream. I’d ruined Harry’s proposal, and now I was going to make it up to him. I was, after all, a take-charge kind of woman. Then I took in a deep breath, appreciating how men must feel when they propose. I picked up the tray and went back into the dining room.
“Harry,” I said as I came around the corner. “I want to ask you –”
That’s as far as I got. Harry was near the dining room table, down on one knee, with a small black box in his hand. I stared at him, and he stared at me. Then he saw the ring atop the dessert. He paused for just a confused moment, then broke out into a big smile. I just stood there holding the tray, smiling but feeling tears in my eyes, too.
“Sarah, we’ve been together for a long time, and I love you with all my heart. I know that it’s not always easy with your job, and I’m not always happy about it. But I wouldn’t trade our lives together for anything. I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He opened the box to reveal a beautiful diamond ring. “Sarah, will you marry me?”
I was giddy and crying and not feeling quite so “take charge,” and I almost dropped the tray. I set it down and picked up his dessert plate.
“Harry, I love you too, and yes, yes, I’ll marry you.” I held out the plate. “You’ve put up with a woman who has to leave you to go help others, who constantly has to drop things, to put you second. And yet, you love me anyway. And I love you with all my heart and soul. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I blew your proposal from before. So, let me ask you: will you marry me?”
He beamed. “Yes, Sarah, I will marry you.”
He slipped the ring on my finger, and then he took his ring out of the whipped cream. He licked it and slipped it on, then scooped some cream from the brownie and put a little on the end of my nose. He stood up, leaned in, and licked it off. Then he kissed me hard.
“I think I’d like something else for dessert.”
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This Doesn’t Happen in the Movies
CHAPTER ONE
“I want you to find my dead husband.”
“Excuse me?” That was my first reaction.
“I want you to find my husband. He’s dead, and I need to know where he is.” She spoke in a voice one sexy note below middle C.
“Uh-huh.” That was my second reaction. Really slick.
Moments before, when I saw her standing in the outer room, waiting to come into my office, I had the feeling she’d be trouble. And now, with that intro, I knew it.
“He’s dead, and I need you to find him.” If she wasn’t tired of the repetition, I was, but I couldn’t seem to get my mouth working. She sat in the cushy black leather chair on the other side of my desk, exhaling money with every sultry breath. She had beautiful blond hair with just a hint of darker color at the roots, blue eyes like a cold mountain lake, and a smile that would slay Adonis. I’d like to say that a beautiful woman couldn’t influence me by her beauty alone. I’d like to say it, but I can’t.
“Why didn’t you come see me yesterday?” I asked. Her eyes widened in surprise. This detective misses nothing, I thought, mentally patting myself on the back. She didn’t know that I’d definitely noticed her yesterday eating at a deli across the street. I had been staring out the window, and there she was.
The shoulders of her red designer jacket went up a half-inch and back down, then her full lips curled into the trace of a smile. “I came here to see you, but you were leaving for lunch. I followed you, and then I lost my nerve.”
“I see you’ve regained it.” I’ve never been one to place too much importance on my looks, but I suddenly wished I could run a comb through my hair, put on a nicer shirt, and splash on a little cologne. And change my eye color – hazel – boring. It sounded like someone’s old, spinster aunt, not an eye color.
She nodded. “Yes. I have to find out about my husband. He’s dead, I know it. I just know it.” Her tone swayed as if in a cool breeze, with no hint of the desperation that should’ve been carried in the words.
“But he’s also missing,” I said in a tone bordering on flippant, as I leaned forward to unlock the desk drawer where I kept spare change, paper clips, and my favorite gold pen. Maybe writing things down would help me concentrate. But I caught a whiff of something elegant coming from her direction, and the key I was holding missed the lock by a good two inches. I hoped she didn’t see my blunder. I felt my face getting warm and assumed my cheeks were turning crimson. I hoped she didn’t see that either.
Perhaps I was being too glib because she glanced back toward the door as if she had mistaken my office for another. “This is the Ferguson Detective Agency? You are Reed Ferguson?”
“It is and I am.” I smiled in my most assured manner, then immediately question
ed what I was doing. This woman was making no sense and here I was, flirting with her like a high-school jock. I glanced behind her at the framed movie poster from the The Big Sleep, starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. It was one of my favorites, and I hung the poster in my office as a sort of inspiration. I wanted to be as cool as Bogie. I wondered what he would do right now.
She puckered pink lips at me. “I need your help.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” Now I sounded cocky.
The pucker turned into a fully developed frown. “I’m very serious, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Reed.” I furrowed my brow and looked at my potential first client with as serious an expression as I could muster. I noticed for the first time that she applied her makeup a bit heavy, in an attempt to cover blemishes.
“Reed,” she said. “Let me explain.” Now we were getting somewhere. I found the gold pen, popped the top off it and scrounged around another drawer for a notepad. “My name is Amanda Ghering.” She spoke in an even tone, bland, like she was reading a grocery list. “My husband, Peter, left on a business trip three weeks ago yesterday. He was supposed to return on Monday, but he didn’t.”
Today was Thursday. I wondered what she’d been doing since Monday. “Did you report this to the police?”
She raised a hand to stop me. “Please. I already have and they gave me the standard response, ‘Give it some time, he’ll show up.’ ”
That one puzzled me. The police wouldn’t file a missing persons case for twenty-four hours, but after that, I was certain they would do something more. “They didn’t do anything?”
“They asked me some questions, said they would make a few calls to the airlines.” Amanda paused. “They were more concerned about my relationship with Peter,” she said, gazing out the window behind me. The only thing she would see was an incredible view of a renovated warehouse across the street. For a brief moment, her face was flushed in as deep a sadness as I’d ever seen. Then it was gone, replaced by a foggy look when she turned back to me. “You see, Peter wasn’t exactly what you’d call a faithful husband.” She frowned, creating wrinkles on an otherwise perfect face. “Well, that’s not completely true. He was faithful, to his libido at least. But not to our marriage.” I paraphrased the last couple of sentences on the notepad. “He travels quite a bit with his company, computer consulting, so he has ample opportunity to dally. And he never tries hard to conceal what he’s doing.”
“Did you tell the police all of this?”
“Yes. I believe that’s why they’re not doing that much. That, and the fact that there appears to be no foul play, has kept them from doing little more than paperwork.”
“You’re afraid they’re not treating his disappearance seriously.”
“Exactly.”
I scratched my chin with the pen. “I’d have to disagree with you about that.” I didn’t have much experience – okay I didn’t have any experience – but in the tons of detective books I’d read and all the movies I’d seen the police would take someone of Amanda’s obvious wealth with some concern. At least until she gave them a reason not to.
“They don’t have the resources to track him down,” she countered. “That’s left up to me, which is what I’m here to do.”
“And this way you also keep any nasty details private.”
“Exactly.”
“Why come to me?”
Amanda glanced around the sparsely furnished office and the stark white walls decorated with nothing more than movie posters, as if she were second-guessing her choice of detectives. “You came recommended. I know you’re not licensed but…”
“You don’t have to be in the state of Colorado,” I interrupted. Anyone who wanted to could be a detective here, just hang up a sign. Hell, you didn’t even need a gun. I could testify to that. Never had one, never shot one.
She waved a hand at me. “I don’t care if you’re licensed or not. I know your background. You come from a well-to-do family; you know when to be discreet.”
I came recommended. Now that caught my curiosity. The only thing I’d done was to help a wealthy friend of my father track down an old business partner. It was slightly dangerous but not noteworthy, and at the time I didn’t have an office or a business. I had been between jobs, so I decided to pursue an old dream. I hung up a shingle to try my hand at detecting. I loved old detective novels, had read everything from Rex Stout and Dashiell Hammett to Raymond Chandler and James M. Cain. I’d watched Humphrey Bogart, William Powell, and all the classic film noir movies. I pictured myself just like those great detectives. Well, maybe not. But I was going to try.
“Who recommended me?” I asked. The list was surely small.
“A friend at my club.”
“Really? Who?”
“Paul Burrows. Do you know him?”
I shook my head. “Does he know my father?” I assumed he was someone who’d heard about me helping my father’s friend.
“I don’t know, but Paul said you were good, and that you could use the work.”
She was right about that. I lived comfortably off an inheritance from my obscenely rich grandparents, plus some smart investments I’d made over the years, so I’d never had a real career. I had always wanted to work in law enforcement, but my parents had talked me out of that. Instead, I got a law degree, flitted from job to job, and disappointed my father because I never stuck with anything. I hoped being a detective would change all that; it was something I’d always wanted to do, but my father still thought I was playing around. I needed to solve a real case to prove him wrong.
“Are you a fan of old movies?” Amanda asked, noticing the posters for the first time.
I nodded. “I like old movies, but especially detective film noir.”
“Film noir?”
I pointed to a different poster on another wall of The Maltese Falcon, one of Bogie’s most famous movies. “Movies with hard-boiled detectives, dark themes, and dark characters.”
“And dark women?” Amanda said.
I kept a straight face as I gazed at Lauren Bacall. “Yeah, that too.”
“I hope you’re as good as Sam Spade,” Amanda said.
I watched her cross one shapely leg over the other, her red wool skirt edging up her thigh. Trouble. Just like I’d thought before. I should have run out of my own office, but I didn’t. I know what you’re thinking, it’s her beauty. No, it was what she said next that complicated things immensely.
“I’m prepared to pay whatever it takes.” Saying that, she pulled a stack of bills from her purse. I crossed my arms and contemplated her. This sounded like I’d just be chasing after a philandering husband. Not exciting at all, even though I had little basis for making that assumption, other than what I’d read in books. But a voice inside my head said that making money meant it was a real job, right?
I named my daily wage, plus expenses. It was top dollar, but she didn’t blink. And I had my first real case. What would my father say to that?
“Let’s start with you clarifying a couple of things,” I said. Moments before Amanda had inked her name on a standard contract, officially making her my first client. “How do you know your husband’s dead and not just missing?”
Amanda sighed. “Because he would’ve called me, kept in touch, and I haven’t heard a word from him.”
“But if he was out with someone else?”
She shook her head. “No, he always calls. He pretends things are normal. We have our routine and he always follows it. Only this time he didn’t.”
“But he knew?”
“That I knew?”
I nodded. She nodded. “Yes, he knew.”
I resisted the urge to continue the Dr. Seuss rhyme. “So he hasn’t called you, but what makes you jump to the conclusion that his not calling means he’s dead?” I leaned back in my chair, tipping it up on two legs. “What if he wanted to disappear, or he’s fallen in love with someone else and has run off with her?”
Amanda emitted
a very unladylike snort. “Peter’s not capable of love, so it’s impossible for him to leave me. Not for that reason, anyway.”
“Have you given him another reason to leave?”
She hesitated. “I was going to kill him.”
We moved out of the realm of boring. The chair legs hit the floor hard. “Excuse me?”
“I was going to kill him,” she repeated. She stared down at her hands and ticked items off on an index finger. “For the insurance money and the inheritance. Well over five million. Besides that, I would get my freedom from the farce of our marriage.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she were detailing a cooking recipe. “I was trying to figure out a way to do it. I couldn’t make it look like a suicide, because I’d lose out on the insurance money. I couldn’t murder him, because I couldn’t guarantee getting away with it, and I might not get any money that way either. A domestic dispute gone bad was out of the question because Peter wouldn’t hit a rabid dog, let alone his wife. I was left with creating an accident. Only I never could figure out what to do. Help him lose control and drive off a snowy mountain road? Too much risk for me. Electric shock of some sort? But how could I pull that off? Poison? But with what, and how to keep it from being discovered?” Her breasts lifted and sank in a deep sigh. “I finally gave up,” she said and looked me straight in the eye. “I didn’t do anything.”
Blurting out her plans like that intrigued me. Bogie never had it this easy. “But he’s disappeared,” I came back to the original point. “How do I know that you didn’t have him killed?”
“Why would I hire you?”
“To make it look like you weren’t involved.”
She smiled. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. First of all, I wouldn’t know where to start. And as I said, I gave up the idea of killing him.”
“Then how do you know he’s dead? If he knew you wanted him dead, that’s a lot of motivation not to come home.”
Deadly Judgment (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 5) Page 25
