by Nancy Skopin
As we got out of the car Maggie removed a set of keys from her purse. “What do you think?” she asked.
“It’s lovely,” I said, trying not to sound awestruck. The estate reminded me of a European villa, which appealed to my romantic nature.
Maggie unlocked the front door and pushed it open, allowing me to enter first. The foyer had quarter-sawn white oak flooring polished to a high gloss. The walls were painted ecru with a glaze that created the illusion of antiquing. The vaulted ceiling was about thirty feet overhead. In the center hung a wrought iron and crystal chandelier. A broad spiral staircase wound up from the foyer to the second floor, and the steps appeared to be made of marble.
To the left of the entryway was a library with built-in floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves. There was even a rolling library ladder. A pair of French doors faced the front yard and the little brook with the footbridge. I could probably stand to live here.
To our right was a sunken living room. We started our tour there. Light streamed in through the expansive windows. There was a huge flagstone fireplace on the far wall and the carpet was spotless cream-colored Berber. I appreciated the low pile, since I tend to trip over my own feet easily enough without the assistance of more dense carpeting.
As we moved from room to room I could feel the tension radiating from Maggie, but couldn’t for the life of me figure out what she had to be nervous about. I was sure there was no reason for her to suspect I was anything other than a potential client.
We strolled through the living room and into the kitchen, which featured a seafoam-green granite center island equipped with two sinks and a dishwasher. A doublewide stainless steel subzero refrigerator was discreetly inset into the wall. The overhead lighting was recessed, casting a golden glow over the exquisite room. There were two additional sinks under a bay window facing the pond. Directly off the kitchen was a dining alcove surrounded by windows on three sides. If I had a kitchen like this, I might even learn to cook.
The house I grew up in was a modest two-bedroom one-bath in South San Francisco. My parents considered themselves lucky to be able to own a home, and, for the most part, I’m happy with my simple lifestyle. If you live aboard, you just haul the boat out of the water every couple of years and have the bottom scraped, painted, and repaired if necessary, keep your through-hulls clean, maintain the engine, deck, and brightwork, and you’re in business. If you decide it’s time to move, you just untie the lines and shove off. This knowledge allows me a treasured sense of freedom.
After touring the first floor we climbed the marble stairs and entered the enormous master suite. Across the expansive room sliding glass doors opened onto a wide deck overlooking the side yard and the pond. To their left was a fireplace surrounded by emerald green tile and crowned by a huge ornate mirror. There were two, count them, two walk-in closets. On board my boat I make do with a single hanging locker in the stateroom.
The master bath was mind-boggling. The Jacuzzi tub was large enough for a party of six. The glass-enclosed shower had four showerheads directed at the center of the stall. Beside an elegant rose-colored porcelain toilet was an equally elegant rose-colored bidet. I suddenly found myself wishing I had the six million to buy this place. There’s no room for a bidet on my boat.
Throughout our tour Maggie said very little. She pointed out a feature here and there, but primarily just escorted me from one room to the next. After we’d walked through two smaller bedrooms, each with its own bath, she led me across the breezeway into the loft above the garage.
The apartment had a small bathroom with a stall shower and a kitchenette, but there were no windows. I never feel claustrophobic onboard my sailboat, but being in this enclosed space with Maggie made me more than a little anxious. She was, after all, murderously insane, according to Jack.
After touring the loft we exited down a flight of stairs that led to the interior of the four-car garage, and came out through a side door under the breezeway where we had parked.
“Any questions?” Maggie asked.
“No questions,” I said, in a noncommittal tone. “I like it.”
“But you don’t want to make a decision after viewing only one property. I have some other listings I’d like you to see. I’m done for the day. Why don’t I buy you a drink and we can look at some pictures?”
“That sounds like a fine idea,” I said, smiling demurely.
I could hardly believe she was buying my act. It had to be the Chanel suit.
“There’s a quaint little pub on Main Street,” she went on. “It’s quiet and relatively private.”
“Perfect.”
Maggie locked up the house and we got back into her car. As we were driving down El Monte Road I asked if she thought the price of the property was firm.
“In real estate nothing is ever firm.” She said. “They’ll probably take a reasonable offer. The builders invested more than expected in construction and landscaping. The pond is man-made, of course, and all the land around the house had to be cleared. They have to make a profit, but you could probably pick it up for five million five hundred thousand.”
“The house has never been lived in? It’s brand new?”
“Positively virginal,” she said, with a sly smile.
We were delayed at an intersection on San Antonio Road by an elderly crossing guard wearing a fluorescent orange vest and carrying a stop sign. Two preteen girls in Catholic school uniforms crossed in front of Maggie’s car, holding hands. They reached the other side of the intersection and the crossing guard returned to her corner. Maggie sat frozen behind the wheel, watching the girls as they skipped away down a side street. Her lips were compressed into a hard line, but I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses. Eventually the car behind us honked. Maggie jerked her gaze to the rearview mirror and proceeded down San Antonio to Main Street.
Oh great, I mused to myself. The goose bumps are back again.
We parked in front of the pub and Maggie popped the trunk and retrieved a black Gucci briefcase. I peered through the plate glass windows of the establishment. From what I could see, it was beautifully decorated, a classic Irish pub. Lots of gleaming dark wood, a scattering of little round tables, and half a dozen booths with leather upholstery. There were two unoccupied patio tables out in front.
“Do you mind if we sit out here so I can smoke?” I asked.
“Of course not. I quit two years ago and I still miss it.”
A barmaid came outside and placed cocktail napkins on our table. I ordered a Guinness Stout and Maggie ordered a Stoli on the rocks with a twist. I lit a cigarette and inhaled hungrily. Maggie set her briefcase on her lap and took out a small stack of pictures which she placed in front of me.
“See if there’s anything here that you like,” she said. “If not, I have more at the office.”
The waitress brought our drinks and I glanced at my watch. It was 5:40, and I had told Bill I would call him by 6:00.
I stubbed out my cigarette and looked up at the waitress. “Where’s the ladies room?”
She pointed through the window to a hallway beyond the bar and said, “I’ll show you.”
“Be right back,” I said to Maggie.
As soon as I was locked safely in a stall, I took out my cell phone and dialed.
“Detective Anderson,” he answered after a partial ring.
“You know if you sit on the phone like that you’re going to hatch a litter of something that wants to reach out and touch someone.”
“Very funny. Where are you?”
“I’m at a bar on Main Street in Los Altos. I can’t talk, but I wanted you to know I’m okay.”
“Are you still with Sectio?” he asked.
“Yes. We’re looking at pictures of houses.”
“Call me when you get home,” he commanded.<
br />
“Yes sir.” I saluted the phone.
Dating a cop is great if you don’t mind being ordered around some of the time. Bill is sensitive, creative, and has a great sense of humor, but he’s seen what the underbelly of humanity is capable of, and he takes that knowledge very seriously. Even though he wasn’t convinced the videotapes actually existed, he was concerned. So was I.
I came out of the stall, washed my hands, and scrunched up my curls. I looked at Lily’s suit in the mirror. After more than four hours of wear there wasn’t a single wrinkle. Amazing.
I arrived back at the table just as Maggie was ordering a second drink. I took a sip of my Guinness and picked up the stack of photos. After slowly looking through the pictures I set the stack on the table and looked up. Our eyes locked and my heart stuttered in my chest. This lady was disturbingly intense.
“If you were in the market,” I said casually, “which one of these would you select?”
She lifted the pictures and fanned them out in her hands, withdrew one, and placed it in front of me.
“This one,” she said.
The picture she’d chosen was of a two-story Spanish style home in Atherton. I noticed another agent’s name at the bottom of the page. The house was pale peach stucco with a terracotta roof. The photo only showed the front view, and the grounds were in shadow. It was a nice enough house, but there was nothing special about it that I could see.
“Why?” I asked.
“I know it doesn’t look like much in the photo, but you have to see the interior and the grounds. It’s an absolute steal for a million two. You could flip it in a year and double your investment.”
“Wow. When can we look at it?”
“How about tomorrow?”
I wondered if Lily had any more Chanels up her sleeve.
“That works for me,” I said. “What time?”
Maggie opened her briefcase and took out her iPhone. “I’m free at noon,” she said. “We can tour the house and then discuss it over lunch.”
After we finished our drinks Maggie drove me back to Millennium and we shook hands again before parting. Her grip was even more aggressive that it had been earlier in the day, and she showed me some teeth when she smiled. She leaned in a little, still holding onto my hand, and said she was looking forward to seeing me tomorrow. Maybe she was feeling the vodka.
I ducked around the corner and watched her cross the parking lot to the office. Then I went back and checked her license plate. It was personalized. S CROW. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before.
I hiked the block to my BMW, locked myself in the car, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. I wasn’t used to dealing with killers one-on-one. In fact I’d only had one prior investigation that compared, when I’d unmasked a multiple murderer while interviewing the victim’s friends and family members. I was almost a statistic before I even knew what was happening.
When I arrived home I slipped out of Lily’s suit and carefully hung it in the stateroom locker. Then I grabbed a Guinness Stout from the fridge and called Bill. I caught him still at work. I told him I had an appointment to look at another house and have lunch with Maggie the next day. Although he didn’t approve, as a concession he said it sounded harmless enough. We talked about getting together over the weekend, unless he caught a case. That meant I’d need to get more of my regular restaurant and bar surveys done during the week.
I paged Jack, and finished my Guinness while I waited for him to call me back. I was just dozing off on the settee when the phone rang.
“Hunter Investigations,” I answered automatically.
“How’d it go? Did she sell you anything?”
“Hi, Jack.” I pulled myself into a sitting position. “Not yet, but we’re looking at a property in Atherton tomorrow, then we’re having lunch. Is there any chance you could sneak those videotapes out of the house and copy them while I keep her occupied?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday,” he said. “What time are you meeting her?”
“At noon.”
“So you’ll be through with lunch no earlier than what, two? That should give me enough time. Her cleaning woman comes in on Wednesday mornings, but she’s usually gone by twelve.”
“You really do your homework don’t you?”
“Let’s not talk about this on the phone. Have you had dinner?”
“No. But I need to take care of some of my regular clients tonight,” I sighed.
“I’ll get take-out. Do you like pizza?”
“Sausage and mushrooms. But I can’t. I have to work.”
“See you in an hour.”
“Wait. When you get here you’ll have to call me to come let you in. The gates are locked.”
Jack chuckled and hung up without saying goodbye. I wondered what was so funny, and then I remembered that he was a professional burglar. It probably wouldn’t take him more than a minute to figure out that the marina gates are accessed with magnetic key cards. He wouldn’t be able to pick that lock. I smiled.
I grabbed a towel, my shower bag, and the Chanel suit.
Chapter 10
Maggie had avoided taking a lover close to home since Holly, the first woman she had seduced, when she was in college. Holly had never been with a woman before. Destroying someone else’s innocence, as hers had been destroyed, was incredibly arousing for Maggie. She had reveled in Holly’s astonishment at being taken forcefully by another woman.
Afterwards the rage had taken hold of her and she had grabbed the first weapon she could find, a pair of scissors. She hadn’t been prepared for her reaction, or for the bloodbath, but she had gotten herself under control and cleaned up the mess. The difficult part was remembering everything she’d touched.
She had placed Holly’s body in a bathtub filled with hot water and added bleach, which she also used to clean every surface in the apartment, not finishing until after 4:00 a.m. The cleaning had calmed her. It was like doing penance. The police never even questioned her. She hadn’t been a friend of Holly’s, only a classmate.
Maggie found herself fiercely attracted to Nicoli Sinclair. The botched liaison in Atlanta had left her feeling unfulfilled, and eager for relief. She wondered if Nicoli had resented her late husband’s ‘libido’ because she preferred the touch of a woman. She had definitely felt a spark between them. She hoped it hadn’t been her imagination, her own desperation transmitting a message to her brain.
Tomorrow they would tour the Atherton property and Maggie would suggest lunch at her home in Woodside. A bottle of wine later, she would know more.
Chapter 11
D’Artagnon was out on deck when I passed his boat on my way to Lily’s. I stopped to scratch behind his ears and reminded him what a good dog he was. Though I was fond of all the marina dogs and considered them my personal friends, D’Artagnon had a special place in my heart, even before he saved my life. He’d recently developed a limp, and although he was only six years old I suspected arthritis. At least that’s what I told myself. It worried me some. Hip dysplasia is also common in large dogs, but I knew Kirk, his owner, was conscientious about taking care of the boy. I ruffled his ears one last time and moved on.
When Lily answered my knock, I held the suit aloft with a smile and she invited me aboard.
“You want me to have this dry cleaned?”
“Did you sweat a lot?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I was pretty nervous.” I sniffed the suit and handed it to her. “Could I possibly borrow something else for tomorrow?”
Lily replaced the Chanel in its garment bag, and we looked over the contents of her closet together. We decided on a sleeveless, red Jil Sander dress with simple lines. I tried it on. It fit well enough and I could probably wear the black Stuart Weitzman pumps with it.
&n
bsp; After showering I dressed in a clean pair of cargo shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt. I know white doesn’t go well with pizza, but for some reason, after spending time with Maggie, I needed to wear something that made me feel virtuous. The white shirt was the closest I could come to that objective.
I tidied up the boat, opened a few portholes to air the place out, and sat back to wait for Jack. After a few minutes I felt the boat rock gently and there was a knock on the pilothouse door.
“How did you get in the gate?” I asked, as I pushed the door open. “How did you know which boat was mine, and why didn’t D’Artagnon bark at you?”
Jack smiled behind his sunglasses and handed me the pizza box before walking past me and backing down the steps into the galley.
“I asked a red-headed pixie which boat was yours,” he said. “And the answers to your other two questions are trade secrets.”
“You met Elizabeth?”
“Is that her name? She’s charming.”
“The trawler on the right at the bottom of the companionway?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Elizabeth.” I’d be getting a call later. “Sit down,” I said, gesturing toward the galley settee. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Absolutely.”
Jack took off his sunglasses and surveyed the interior of my home while I checked the fridge.
“I have Guinness Stout, spring water, diet root beer, and I think I’ve got some Irish whiskey around here somewhere.”
“What was that last thing you said?”
“Irish whiskey?”
