Murder Over Cocktails: The 2nd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries)

by Nancy Skopin

“Ah,” he sighed.

  I located the bottle of Jameson under the sink and poured Jack a double shot. Then I grabbed myself a Stout and set out some paper plates. I sat across from him at the galley table and inhaled the aroma of the pizza. I love pizza, but salty greasy foods are not on my diet, so I require an excuse to eat them.

  “Nice boat,” Jack said, downing the whiskey.

  “Thanks. You want another?”

  “No, thank you. So what did you learn today?”

  I took a bite of pizza before answering, chewed, savored, and swallowed.

  “I learned that Maggie Sectio is a very intense individual, she has an extremely firm dry handshake, and she’s a low pressure salesperson, in spite of her forceful personality.”

  “You judge people by their handshakes?”

  “I pay attention to the handshake.” Handshake, eye contact, body language, all the subtle nuances of nonverbal communication.

  “What makes you think she’s low pressure?”

  “I told her I liked the Los Altos house and she still insisted on showing me the one in Atherton tomorrow.”

  I got up to grab some more paper towels.

  “She insisted?”

  The alarm in Jack’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Yeah, kind of. She said I shouldn’t make a decision after seeing only one property. We stopped for drinks and she showed me pictures of some other houses. I asked her which one she would choose, and she said the one in Atherton. It wasn’t much to look at, so I asked her why. She said the grounds and the interior were outstanding and that the price was ridiculously low. It’s only a million two.” I snorted. I couldn’t help it. “I guess that’s a good price for any property in Atherton. I agreed to look at it tomorrow and she suggested we have lunch afterward.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?” I asked. “Where lunch?”

  Jack nodded.

  “I don’t know. What’s the problem?”

  “Maybe nothing,” he said.

  “You sure you don’t want anything else to drink?”

  He shook his head. “So you said you liked the house in Los Altos. Did you talk price?”

  “I asked her what she thought the owners would accept.”

  “And?”

  “And she said they’d gotten themselves in the hole building it, and they’d probably take five million five hundred thousand.”

  “But she steered you toward another property, for a lot less money.”

  “I told you she was low pressure. Maybe this is part of her strategy. Maybe the house in Atherton is a dog and she thinks after looking at it I’ll be thrilled to pay five and a half million for the one in Los Altos. I don’t know.”

  Even I wasn’t convinced by my explanation, but I pushed the anxiety aside.

  Jack was silent. I drank some Guinness and returned my attention to the pizza.

  “You don’t want to be alone with her, Nicoli. Maybe I should follow you, just to be safe.”

  “Please call me Nikki,” I said. I actually reserve that privilege for friends, but I was growing fond of Jack, in spite of his profession.

  “You can’t be in two places at once,” I said. “I need you to copy those tapes. There’s a high speed dubbing service on Middlefield.”

  I wiped my hands on a paper towel and fished the card for the dubbing service out of my Rolodex. I have an old fashioned Rolodex on board the boat, an address book on my smartphone, an application on my computer with the same address book and calendar features as the smartphone, and yes, I have control issues. I wrote the dubbing service address and phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Jack.

  “If you call them in advance they can probably schedule the job and copy the tapes while you wait.”

  “Fine,” he said grudgingly. “Will you let your friend the cop know what you’re doing?”

  I nodded. “I’ll take my own car tomorrow, and when I know where we’re going for lunch I’ll give Bill a call and tell him. Will that make you feel better?”

  “It will,” he said. “When you see the videos you’ll understand why this makes me nervous. Page me when you get to the restaurant tomorrow, so I’ll know how much time I have.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  We ate more pizza, but the conversation lagged and finally Jack set his napkin on top of his plate and said, “I should go.”

  As he walked toward the steps I caught a glimpse of the logo on his pager. I followed him up on deck and when we were outside he turned and put his hands on my shoulders.

  “Please be careful, Nikki,” he said softly, looking into my eyes, and then he stepped off the boat.

  My heart fluttered in my chest. I thought of Bill and how well we were getting along. I almost never date more than one guy at a time. Besides, I didn’t want to get involved with a professional criminal, but holy cow this guy had sex appeal. I went back inside and bit into another slice of pizza. While I was pondering what I was getting myself into with Maggie, the phone rang. I swallowed before answering.

  “His name is Jack McGuire and he’s a client,” I said, without preamble.

  “What?” said Bill.

  Shit. “Sorry. I was expecting a call from Elizabeth.”

  “So who’s Jack McGuire and why are you telling Elizabeth about him?”

  “He’s just a client she saw me with today. You know how nosy she is.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m just getting off work and I thought you might want to have dinner. I could pick up a pizza.”

  “Pizza sounds great,” I said, casting a guilty glance at the half empty box on my galley counter. “But I have to work. Sorry.”

  “Sausage and mushroom?”

  “You know that’s my favorite, but seriously, I need to do a couple of restaurant and bar surveys.”

  “Okay. Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”

  We disconnected moments later, and as I dressed to go out I thought about my relationship with Bill. I haven’t had the best of luck with men—just ask my three ex-husbands—but Bill was intelligent, funny, kindhearted, and easy on the eyes, plus I really enjoyed spending time with him. Who was I trying to convince, anyway?

  I snatched up the pizza box and stuffed it in a garbage bag along with my empty Guinness bottle, grabbed my shoulder bag and made a dash for the dumpster. The phone started ringing again as I was sprinting away from my boat. I stopped to give D’Artagnon a few bites of sausage and cheese, and then continued toward the gate. I heard Elizabeth calling my name before I made it halfway up the ramp.

  Elizabeth and I met not long after I moved aboard my boat. I was doing laundry one night and saw her sitting out on her dock steps with her cat, K.C., which is short for “Killer Cat.” He’s a beautiful big ball of orange fluff. I was immediately enchanted with the kitty and introduced myself to Elizabeth, because it would have been rude to ignore her while I was mooning over her cat. Elizabeth is just over five feet tall and weighs about a hundred pounds. She’s thirty-three years old, but looks closer to twenty-three, with strawberry blonde hair, a dusting of freckles over her nose, hazel eyes, and dimples. She’s divorced and childless, as am I. We’d bonded quickly, which was uncommon for both of us.

  “Hey, I was just calling you!” she shouted at my retreating posterior.

  “Be right back,” I yelled, holding up an index finger in the universal one minute sign.

  I slammed out the gate and power-walked to the dumpster. When I came back down the companionway, Elizabeth was perched on her dock steps, sipping her customary Kahlua, vodka, and milk through a straw. She twinkled at me.

  “What?” I asked, sitting down next to her.

  “Who’s the hunk?” she said.
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br />   “Which one?” I asked, knowing perfectly well who she meant.

  “Red hair, mirrored sunglasses, muscular physique, pizza box. Who is he? Spill!”

  “Oh, you mean Jack. He’s a client.”

  “Since when do you entertain clients on your boat?”

  She had me there.

  “He wanted to talk over the case and neither of us had eaten.”

  “What’s the case about? Lily told me you borrowed her black Chanel and her red Jil Sander.”

  Elizabeth and Lily have been friends since high school. They’re so close, in fact, that when Elizabeth decided to move from Louisiana to California for college, Lily followed.

  “There are no secrets in this marina,” I complained half-heartedly. “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

  Elizabeth made a face that translated to who do you think you’re kidding? In truth, I discuss all my interesting cases with her. She’s my sounding board.

  “Okay,” I said. “But you can’t say anything to anybody.”

  “No problem.” She held up her right hand in a pseudo pledge.

  “Jack has stumbled onto some tapes of a woman killing her lovers,” I whispered.

  Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my God. What does he expect you to do?”

  “Find a way to get the evidence to the police, so she can be stopped before she kills again.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “How did Jack stumble onto these tapes? Videotapes, I assume?”

  “Yes. He was in her house without her knowledge.”

  “I see. And how are you supposed to arrange for the police to find them?”

  “That’s kind of the problem.”

  Elizabeth took a sip of her drink and tilted her head to one side. “What if the police pursued a criminal onto her property? Would that constitute probable cause for a search of the house?”

  This is why I discuss my cases with Elizabeth.

  “A search of the premises maybe, but not of the locked cabinet that contains the videotapes, unless the criminal they were pursuing was two feet tall.”

  “What if she was accused of stealing something? Where does she work?”

  “She’s a real estate agent. Not a popular profession for embezzlers, as far as I know.”

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “You do that. I’ve gotta go do a couple of surveys.”

  “Okay, sweetie. How’s Bill, by the way?”

  “Bill is excellent,” I said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

  I stopped at the office to pick up some blank survey forms, which I sometimes use when I’m working. I like to make note of any significant details while they’re still fresh in my mind.

  Chapter 12

  My first stop was a seafood restaurant on University Avenue in Palo Alto. Since it was a weeknight, the place wasn’t quite as packed as it might have been. Still, there was a short line at the hostess desk, so after leaving my name I said I’d wait in the bar. This would give me a chance to complete the bar survey before dining. I found an empty stool and cast my glance around at the other patrons before checking out the two bartenders on duty.

  My heart skipped a beat when I spotted the man just two stools down on my right. His name was Blake Curtis, and I’d been instrumental in his termination from one of my clients’ restaurants, plus I’d been paid to participate in the termination interview. Even though the authorities hadn’t been involved, it had only been a few weeks ago, and I have a memorable face, especially with the gunshot stippling on my temple.

  Since I was working, and my work requires a high degree of anonymity, now would not be a good time for a confrontation. I turned away from Blake, which caused me to face the man sitting on my left instead. He was a decent looking guy in his fifties, dressed in what I like to call gangster chic. He wore a black sharkskin suit, a red shirt unbuttoned halfway down his somewhat hairy chest, and two heavy gold chains. His shoes were highly-shined black leather loafers. As he noticed my attention to his wardrobe a smarmy smile spread over his face. Luckily one of the bartenders chose that moment to intervene.

  “What can I get you?” he asked, placing a cocktail napkin in front of me.

  “I’d like a Campari and soda and a menu, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  The guy on my left leaned a little closer and whispered, “On the wagon?” his Scotch-infused breath making my eyes water.

  “Nope,” I said, “On a diet.” I gave him a dim version of my fuck off smile, and glanced in the mirror behind the bar. The hostess was standing behind Blake, her hand resting on his shoulder. She said something, and he turned to face her, then hopped off his stool. She placed his drink on a tray and escorted him to a table in the back of the restaurant. I breathed a sigh of relief. I could do the dinner survey at the bar and be out the door before Blake finished his entrée.

  The bartender returned and served my drink, then handed me a dinner menu.

  “Can I order from you?” I asked, glancing at the salads listed. I’d need something that didn’t take long to prepare.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Excellent. I’ll have the spinach and oyster salad. Dressing on the side.”

  “Good choice.” He smiled, collected the menu, and walked to the end of the bar, where a waitress was loading her drink tray. Leaning over the bar he got her attention, pointed at me, and then at the selection I’d made on the menu. She nodded and sped away with her loaded tray.

  The hostess approached the man seated on my left, and he spun on his stool, giving me a head-to-toe once over. “Why don’t you join me at my table, honey?”

  I cringed inwardly, smiled outwardly, and said, “That’s awfully sweet of you, but I think I’ll pass.”

  “Your loss.” He shrugged and sauntered away.

  As he followed the hostess out of the bar I muttered, “Enjoy your dinner, asshole.”

  The guy directly to my right, who I’d failed to notice before, burst out laughing. I blushed, realizing he’d overheard my snide comment.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it. He did seem like kind of a prick.” He held out his hand. “I’m Aaron.”

  I shook his hand and found myself looking into an amused pair of gorgeous brown eyes. “Nicoli,” I said.

  His handshake was firm, and slightly damp from the beer bottle he’d been holding.

  Aaron was not what you’d call classically handsome. His nose appeared to have been broken at some time in the past, his hair was dark, well cut, and artfully tousled. He was about five-ten and maybe a hundred and seventy pounds. Not muscular, but not soft either. He was dressed in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt with a design of toucans on the front.

  “Nice shirt,” I said.

  “Thanks. I got it at Hilo Hattie’s on Maui.”

  The bartender delivered my salad with a proper place setting and put a small pitcher of dressing on the bar. I settled in to enjoy the sautéed oysters before even tasting the greens. They were just hot enough, and melted in my mouth. I groaned softly with the first bite and Aaron turned to watch me. I sensed the motion, even though my eyes were closed with pleasure.

  “That must be some salad,” he commented, his voice slightly husky.

  I opened my eyes and smiled. “Oysters,” I said. “I love oysters.”

  The salad was divine, the bartender professional, and Aaron’s flirtations innocuous. As surveys went, this was a pretty good one. The customers were a jovial bunch, for the most part, and the employees were both competent and friendly.

  After paying my tab and leaving a tip for both the bartender and the waitress, I slipped off my stool and glanced around, making sure Blake wasn’t in the immediate v
icinity. I didn’t see him anywhere, so I slung my bag over my shoulder and moved toward the door.

  Aaron hopped off his stool and reached for my arm, stopping just before making physical contact. “Walk you to your car?”

  “No thanks, but it was nice meeting you, Aaron.”

  “Likewise, Nicoli. I hope I see you here again sometime. Next oyster salad is on me.” And he winked. What a charmer.

  I was walking to my car, planning to jot down some notes before moving down the block to my next survey, when I heard someone running up behind me. As I turned I felt a large hand grip my shoulder, and then I was face to face with Blake Curtis.

  “You bitch!” he hissed, spraying my head and chest with saliva. His face was red and his breathing was heavy from the run. He increased the pressure on my shoulder, and I winced.

  “Let go, Blake. You’re hurting me.”

  “I’m hurting you? You fucking got me fired!” he raged.

  Clearly more than a little drunk, Blake must have seen me leaving the restaurant and decided there was no time like the present for revenge. I lifted my keychain canister of defense spray to get his attention, then grabbed his right thumb with my other hand, and twisted it backwards toward his wrist, effectively releasing his grip from my shoulder.

  “You were stealing from your employer,” I said. “You got yourself fired.”

  “Everything okay here?” Blake and I spun around simultaneously and found Aaron a few yards away, approaching rapidly. “You all right, Nicoli?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, watching Blake to see how he would respond to the interruption.

  Blake shrugged his shoulders, took two steps back, still cradling his wounded thumb, and said, “My mistake. Thought she was someone else.” He nodded at Aaron and shuffled away.

  Aaron and I both watched until he’d returned to the restaurant. Obviously he’d been in such a hurry to catch up with me that he’d neglected to pay his tab. The hostess was waiting outside the restaurant, watching the three of us suspiciously, but seemed satisfied with Blake’s return, because she followed him back inside.