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

by Nancy Skopin

  “I can’t let you risk your life trying to stop this maniac.”

  “I don’t want to fight,” I said quietly. “Life is too short.”

  “Maybe shorter than you think,” he said. “Please, Nikki. I’ve gotten used to you.”

  Clearly not a romantic man, but the sentiment was there just the same.

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  Chapter 16

  I finally drifted off around 6:00 a.m., and was rudely awakened by the ringing phone at 8:00. I picked up the extension by the bed, expecting Elizabeth.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Did I wake you?” It was Jack.

  “No,” I grumbled, “I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said, unperturbed by my snarky attitude. “I’m not sure you should be alone with her today.”

  “I won’t be. Elizabeth is coming with me.”

  “The pixie with the red hair?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Does she know?”

  “What?”

  “You need coffee.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “You’re meeting her at noon?”

  “One o’clock, in Hillsborough.”

  “Can I buy you and Elizabeth dinner tonight?”

  “Sure. I’ll page you this afternoon to discuss logistics. And bring money, I’ve used up your advance.”

  I hung up the phone, washed my face, and made coffee, squinting at the sunlight streaming through the portholes while I waited for it to brew. I was drinking my first cup when the phone rang again.

  “Good morning,” Elizabeth said cheerfully. “Interesting movies you loaned me last night. Are you ready to go shopping?”

  “The stores don’t open until ten and I need to shower. Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Nordstrom is having a sale,” she said. “When will you be ready?”

  “Nine forty-five.”

  “Okay, honey. I’ll see you then.”

  I finished my coffee, showered, and dressed in my usual summer uniform of cargo shorts and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. I tucked the two videotapes and my Stuart Weitzman pumps into a shopping bag and filled my pockets with dog biscuits. On my way down the dock I inhaled the pungent fragrance of low tide. Some people think low tide smells like dead barnacles and seaweed. To me it smells like home.

  After communing with D’Artagnon and feeding him some of the biscuits, for which I received multiple kisses, I walked the rest of the way to Elizabeth’s trawler. She was sitting on her dock steps. As I approached, she reached inside the boat and brought out the bag of videotapes. I added my two tapes to the bag and we walked up to my office, where I locked them in the wall safe.

  I glanced at the schedule on my desktop and grimaced. I was getting behind on my bar and restaurant surveys. I needed more hours in the day, or maybe a quantum formula for expanding time.

  Nordstrom was indeed having a sale. I purchased a pair of rust-colored wool gabardine slacks and a cream-colored silk tank. I also bought a pair of Amalfi sandals and a matching briefcase tote. All of this would be on Jack’s tab, of course.

  Elizabeth selected a yellow and lavender sundress and a pair of size four-and-a-half plum-colored espadrilles. She insisted on paying for these items herself. Sometimes her ethics confound me. I explained to her that because we were buying the clothes for a job, the client should pay. She insisted that since she intended to keep the outfit after the job was finished, and she would have bought them even if we weren’t doing this particular job together, then she should pay. She did, however, agree to let me pay her for her time that afternoon.

  We went to the cosmetics department and I used the testers to put on eye shadow, mascara, blush, and lip gloss. I know it isn’t sanitary, but after a sleepless night I really needed some color. Elizabeth doesn’t wear make-up, so she just watched.

  We were finished shopping by 12:40 and made the drive to Hillsborough in plenty of time for our appointment. When we arrived I realized I’d found the estate without even thinking about how to get there. In my early twenties, I’d rented an apartment in San Mateo and worked in Millbrae. Hillsborough was the shortest route between the two locations. I’d probably driven past this address hundreds of times without ever noticing it.

  The gates were already open and Maggie’s Lincoln was parked in front of the house. Elizabeth’s jaw dropped as we cruised down the long driveway.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  “I know,” I said.

  We parked behind Maggie’s car and sat for a moment.

  “Are you ready to do this?” I asked.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  We got out of the car and approached the threshold. I knocked on the door, waited a few moments, and tried the knob. It was unlocked. We went inside and heard a grinding noise coming from the direction of the kitchen, so we followed the sound. When we entered the room Maggie was standing over one of the sinks. She flipped a switch and the grinding stopped.

  “Hi, Maggie,” I said.

  Her head snapped up and for an instant she looked like a trapped animal, positively feral. Then her face resumed its normal composure. It reminded me of the day before, in Maggie’s kitchen, when I’d witnessed a similar psycho moment.

  “Hello, Nicoli. I was just checking the garbage disposal. Everything seems to be working.” She turned off the running water.

  “This is my friend Elizabeth,” I said, “I wanted to get her opinion before making a decision about the property.”

  They looked each other over and shook hands.

  Elizabeth said, “Hi.”

  “A pleasure,” said Maggie, and returned her attention to me. “I’ve got some of the information you requested.”

  She moved to the massive granite center island and unrolled a set of blueprints.

  “The house was built in 1955. The original owners lived here until ten years ago, when the husband passed away. The wife died three months later in an assisted living facility. They left the house to their children, both of whom live out of state with their families. They just put it on the market last month.”

  As she spoke she removed cooking utensils from a drawer and weighed down the corners of the documents, so they wouldn’t curl.

  “The children retained the couple who took care of the house and grounds for their parents. They live in the little cottage attached to the south wing, and they’re prepared for visitors, so we can look that over today as well.”

  I studied the blueprints. Seven thousand square feet of luxurious living space. I counted nine rooms on the second floor and seven on the first. There was also a finished basement and a wine cellar, a pool in the backyard, an outdoor spa, and a three-car garage. The previous day we had walked quickly through the kitchen, living room, and master suite. Today we would take our time.

  The kitchen was extravagant, and had obviously been remodeled since the house was built. It was a chef’s dream, but the varnished natural wood cabinets and the mahogany-colored tile floor added an inviting warmth. Above the center island, where the blueprints were currently displayed, was a hanging rack filled with an array of copper-bottom pots and pans. Two walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets. I love glass-fronted cabinets. Near the windows facing the front yard was a maple breakfast bar with four matching high-backed stools. I wanted to have my morning coffee sitting on one of those stools, gazing out at the lush grounds. I wanted to open the windows and listen to the birds singing outside. God help me, I wanted to live in this house.

  After touring the first floor we took the stairs to the second and entered the master suite. Elizabeth reached for my hand. Maggie was looking through a pair of French doors that opened onto a deck, her
back to us.

  “Do you like it?” I asked Elizabeth.

  “Honey, I love it.” She stood on tiptoe and gave me a quick kiss on the lips just as Maggie turned to face us. The timing was perfect. I blushed and released Elizabeth’s hand, and Maggie smiled benevolently.

  “Wait till you see the master bath,” Maggie said.

  Like the house we’d toured in Los Altos, the master bathroom was enormous, and, yes, it also had a bidet. We gathered around the oversized green marble tub, with jets of course, which was mounted in a lustrous teak frame nestled in a bay window alcove overlooking the backyard. You could take a leisurely bubble bath while sipping a glass of wine and admiring the spectacular grounds. I couldn’t help envisioning myself in that fantasy. There was a spacious shower stall on the other side of the room, a skylight overhead, and the requisite two sinks. You get the picture… undisguised yet comfortable opulence.

  Elizabeth bent over to examine something. “Heated towel bars?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Maggie. “The tile flooring is also heated.”

  We walked back through the bedroom and out onto the deck. Elizabeth leaned up against me and I slid my arm around her waist as we stood facing the yard. I caught sight of a tree fort that had been built in one of the majestic old oaks and pointed it out to her. She gasped and clapped her hands in delight.

  “This is the most amazing house I’ve ever seen,” she said, turning to face me, her eyes twinkling. “I think you should buy it, Nikki,” she whispered, and rested her head on my shoulder. I stifled a nervous laugh.

  We toured the other upstairs rooms, and then the attached three-car garage, the basement, and the wine cellar. We strolled outside and circled the house, walking clockwise through the front, side, and back yards and spent some time in the pool area, before continuing around to the front of the house.

  According to the blueprints, the caretakers’ cottage was joined to the main house by a door located in the kitchen, but we approached from the outside and knocked.

  The door was answered by a round, rosy-cheeked, white-haired woman with a ready smile. She greeted us like family, ushering us into her home, which was filled with the aroma of baking bread.

  Maggie introduced us. The woman’s name was Ilsa Richter. Her husband, Joachim, was seated at the kitchen table. He stood as we entered. He was not as robust as his wife, but he looked sturdy enough, and his posture was perfect.

  Maggie explained to the Richters that I might be interested in acquiring the property.

  “You would love it here,” Ilsa burbled happily, as she checked her oven. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Maggie smiled thinly and shook her head, saying we just wanted a quick look at the cottage, and Ilsa’s face fell.

  “I’d love a cup,” I said, turning to Elizabeth who normally doesn’t drink coffee.

  “Just half a cup for me,” Elizabeth said, seating herself next to Joachim. “Did you build that tree fort in the backyard?” she asked him.

  He nodded proudly. “For the children. When they were young.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  Joachim nodded again and gave her a soft smile, and Ilsa beamed.

  Maggie grudgingly joined Elizabeth at the table. I couldn’t resist going over to the oven and peaking in at the bread Ilsa was baking. The aroma was intoxicating.

  “It’s almost done,” she said, handing me a cup. “Would you like a slice?”

  I hadn’t had breakfast, but it was obvious Maggie was impatient with this little ritual, so I compromised. “I’d really appreciate a piece to take with me, if that’s all right.”

  Ilsa had automatically added heavy cream and sugar to everyone’s coffee. It was rich and wonderfully strong with just a hint of nutmeg. Coffee with cream and sugar always reminds me of my dad. When I was a kid he’d advised me to learn to drink my coffee black. When he made this suggestion I was too young to drink coffee, but he told me a time would come when I wouldn’t be able to afford cream and sugar. It was his way of preparing me for life’s disappointments. Comments like that instilled a profound fear of poverty in me, which I haven’t quite outgrown. I think it’s one of the reasons I take restaurant and bar employee surveillance jobs that bore me most of the time, but pay the rent. When I was old enough to begin drinking coffee, I loaded it with sugar and half & half. More recently I’ve begun using lactose-free reduced-fat milk and no sweetener.

  After we finished our coffee, Ilsa took us through each immaculate room of her home. It was a lovely cottage, surrounded, like the rest of the structure, with flowerbeds. Before we left, she sliced and wrapped half of the fresh loaf of bread, squeezing my hand affectionately as she gave it to me.

  “I hope you do buy the estate,” she whispered. “You are a good person.”

  It made me feel warm all over and guilty at the same time. “Thank you, Ilsa,” I said. “You’re a wonderful hostess.”

  Outside in the driveway I asked Elizabeth to wait in the car, saying I wanted a minute to talk business. I stood a little closer to Maggie than was comfortable for me and asked, “What’s the bottom line on this property?”

  “They’re asking eight million two and they’re in no hurry to sell,” she said. “Why don’t we offer seven nine and see what they say? They probably won’t go that low, but it gives us a starting point. You don’t want to seem too anxious.”

  “Okay. Let’s do it,” I said. “When should I check back with you?” Even though this was all a charade, I felt the thrill of anticipation.

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” she said.

  We shook hands and, once again, I was impressed by Maggie’s strength. She held onto my hand for a moment, and I didn’t pull away.

  Chapter 17

  Elizabeth and I were silent until we’d made the turn onto Crystal Springs Road. I think we were both afraid that from a lesser distance Maggie might overhear us.

  “Wow,” said Elizabeth. “She’s intense. What happens now?”

  “We call Jack and find out where we’re having dinner. Did I tell you Jack’s taking us to dinner tonight? I hope you’re free. I got the feeling the invitation was intended more for you than for me.”

  “Really?” She bounced in her seat. “He’s single, right?”

  “I haven’t asked. No ring, though. No jewelry of any kind, unless you count the money clip.”

  “Money clips aren’t jewelry. I’d love to have dinner with you and Jack. How old is he, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Early thirties?”

  “As long as he’s a consenting adult.”

  Elizabeth doesn’t date much, not because she doesn’t get offers, but because she’s extremely discriminating. Even though she found Jack attractive, I knew from past observation that he would have to jump through a number of hoops before being allowed near her bed.

  “Has Maggie asked you for any credit information?”

  “Not yet. I was wondering about that.”

  “Have you given her any of your phone numbers, an address, your driver’s license number, anything she could use to run a credit report?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe her judgment is clouded by your overwhelming sexual magnetism.”

  “That’s probably it,” I said, but my gut told me Elizabeth was right. How could Maggie take me seriously as a client if she didn’t even bother to validate my qualifications?

  I rolled down my window and lit a cigarette, hoping the smoke wouldn’t bother Elizabeth.

  When we arrived back at the office I paged Jack while Elizabeth used the bathroom. My phone rang almost as soon as I’d replaced the hand set. The display told me the number was unknown.

  “Hunter Investigations,” I answered.

  “It’s Jack.”

  “Hi. What
time is dinner? I’m starving already.”

  “You like Italian?”

  I looked over at Elizabeth, who had just come out of the bathroom. “Italian okay?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” she said.

  “Italian’s good. What time?”

  “Six. I’ll pick you up at your office.”

  Holy shit, he was going to let me see his car. I wondered if he’d rent one just for tonight so I wouldn’t be able to trace his plates.

  “We’ll be ready,” I said.

  “Are you going to tell me how it went today?”

  “I’ll tell you over dinner.” I hung up the phone and looked at Elizabeth, who was grinning impishly. “Six o’clock,” I said. “He’ll pick us up here.”

  She looked at her watch. “That gives me almost three hours to get ready. Perfect. What are you going to do?”

  “I have to type up a report for Jack, then I’m going to take a nap. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Good idea. You look tired. I’ll meet you back here a little before six.”

  I turned on the computer and gathered up all my receipts. When I’d finished detailing the expense report, I printed two copies, photocopied the receipts, and stapled everything together, then began the task of chronicling my recent activities and conclusions. Of course the only actual evidence against Maggie had been supplied by Jack himself.

  I wondered idly as I was typing, just what he had to gain from this. Professional burglars are seldom altruistic. There had to be something. The possibility remained that the videotapes had been altered. Having sex with Maggie was still the only way I could think of to find out, with any level of certainty, if she was a killer. I shuddered and finished the report. I printed two copies, locked one in my Pendaflex drawer, and shut down the computer.