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

by Nancy Skopin

  I waited anxiously for Bill and the Atherton PD to locate the video camera. They finally found it wedged discreetly behind a planter box.

  I was eyeing the bottle of Cristal when Bill approached the table where I was huddled.

  “You okay?” he asked, stooping down.

  “No. I’m cold, I want a drink, and I want to go home. When can I go home?”

  “There’s a problem.” He looked over his shoulder at the other detectives, and lowered his voice. “We can’t find the knife.”

  I sat very still for a moment, letting what he’d said sink in. I couldn’t remember seeing the knife after I’d pulled the trigger. I had to grab hold of the table to keep myself from curling into a fetal position.

  “Look in the pool,” I said. “Can I borrow your jacket?”

  Bill took off his sport coat and wrapped it around my shoulders. I slid my arms into the sleeves.

  “We’re going to drain the pool,” he said, “but it doesn’t look like there’s anything down there.”

  “Well, it has to be somewhere. Jesus. Tell them to watch the fucking video.”

  Bill gently took my hand. “When we finish up here we have to go down to the Atherton PD. We’ll watch the tape and you’ll have to answer some questions. Okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay! What took you so long to get here anyway?”

  I had no right to be angry with Bill, but I was scared and I needed to lash out at someone.

  “I couldn’t find the house,” he said, quietly indignant. “Have you called Elizabeth to let her know you’re okay?”

  “No. I’d better do that. Maybe I should page Jack, too.”

  Bill’s eyebrows drew together, but he didn’t say anything. I picked up the phone and found I couldn’t remember Elizabeth’s number. I had to go through my contacts list and look it up. As I was dialing I remembered the tapes at Maggie’s house.

  “Bill!” I said, my voice cracking. “They need to search Maggie’s house. The videotapes.”

  “I gave them the address,” he said. “They’re waiting for the warrant.”

  “The what?”

  “The search warrant,” he said.

  “Why do they need a warrant?”

  “It seems there’s a brother listed at the same address.”

  “Oh. Maybe he lives in the guest house. Tell them to look in the family room of the main house. The black cabinet under the TV.”

  I finished dialing Elizabeth’s number, and it rang only once before she picked up.

  “Nikki?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, but I’m alive, which is more than I can say for Maggie.”

  “Holy shit. What happened?”

  “Bill lost us in traffic and Maggie took me to the house in Atherton. She pulled the knife before he could get here, and I had to shoot her.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, “Where are you, exactly? Give me the address. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Elizabeth to the rescue.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “We won’t be here much longer. We have to go to the police station. They can’t find the knife.”

  “You mean the scissor thing? What do you mean they can’t find it?”

  “When I shot her I didn’t see where it went. It’s pretty dark out here. They’re draining the pool, but they may not find it until daylight.”

  “I could meet you at the station.”

  “No. Get some sleep. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Call if you need me.”

  “I will. Is Jack with you by any chance?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him tonight. Why?”

  “I need to let him know what happened. Do you have his pager number?”

  “Yeah. You want me to call him?”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. And ask him if he’s ever seen a man on Maggie’s property. Evidently she has a brother.”

  Bill drove me to the Atherton PD and one of the uniformed officers took my BMW, so I would have it when we were done. We didn’t talk much in the car. Bill held onto me with his right hand and drove with his left, which isn’t easy when you’re driving a stick shift.

  The Atherton Police Department doesn’t look the way you’d expect a government office to look. It’s quite urbane and has the smell of money about it. Bill parked around the back and silently ushered me inside.

  For some reason I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d done something criminal. In my mind I knew that was silly, but I was having trouble persuading my emotions to follow reason. I was seriously afraid they were going to lock me up.

  I was allowed to rest in the break room while Bill and the officers involved in the investigation viewed the video. The room was carpeted and contained a couch, two round tables with chairs, three coffee makers, and a soda machine. The couch was overstuffed and comfortable. I put my feet up and fell asleep. Bill woke me around 11:00 with a Styrofoam cup of something hot, black, and oily looking.

  “Drink this,” he said.

  “No thanks.”

  “You’re gonna need it, Nikki.”

  I sat up and took the cup from him. I felt a rush of adrenaline, followed by a sense of dread.

  “Why?” I took a sip of the vile brew and managed to swallow, then I set the cup on the floor and fished out my cigarettes.

  “Because of the angle of the camera you can see a flash of light reflected from whatever Margaret had in her hand, but you can’t actually see that it’s a knife.”

  I stared at him with the unlit cigarette in my mouth, the lighter poised. I could not believe this was happening to me. I was the good guy. This kind of crap wasn’t supposed to happen to the good guys. Of course, this whole business of good guys and bad guys is complicated by the fact that everybody thinks they’re the good guy.

  “I need to see the tape,” I said dully.

  Bill escorted me into the conference room. There were six men in plain clothes seated at the table. They all looked up when I entered. They each looked me over, and then all but one of them looked away.

  “Do all these people have to be here?” I whispered to Bill.

  “Yes,” he said, pulling out a chair for me. “Ms. Hunter would like to view the videotape before answering any questions,” he said. “Anybody have a problem with that?”

  There was some nervous fidgeting, but no one objected. Bill rewound the tape to the point where Maggie got out of the pool and approached the table. The camera in the planter box had been behind where I was standing and slightly to my left. My face burned with embarrassment. It wasn’t bad enough that I was in a room full of men I didn’t know who were looking at my naked body on television, but all those years of working out and my butt still had dimples.

  On the screen Maggie was reaching into her bag. When she withdrew her hand there was a flash of light, perhaps the setting sun reflecting off the blade’s surface. She walked halfway around the patio table, drew back her arm, and lunged at me. On the tape Maggie’s right hand, the one holding the knife, was obscured by my head. I had the gun up, shouted “Stop,” and fired. Maggie flew back into the pool, but there was no indication of where the knife had gone.

  I suddenly felt nauseous. “Is there a bathroom?” I asked, standing up.

  “I’ll show you,” said the cop who hadn’t looked away when I’d entered the room.

  He was dark, either Hispanic or Italian, and he took hold of my arm as he escorted me from the conference room. I jerked away from him.

  “I’m fine,” I snapped. “Just tell me where it is.”

  He directed me down the hall to the left of the break room.

 
“Thank you,” I hissed.

  I managed to hold the salad, champagne, and coffee down until I reached the toilet. When my stomach was empty I sat down on the floor and put my head between my knees. I felt dizzy and clammy. This was a nightmare. I’d wake up in the morning and the knife would be there, on the tape. They would find it, and Maggie’s prints would be all over it. I took some slow, deep breaths and that seemed to help with the nausea.

  After a while I stood up and looked in the mirror. My mascara had made dark circles around my eyes. Other than that there was no color in my face at all. I washed up and then put on blush and lip gloss. I looked better, but a good night’s sleep was what I really needed. A good night’s sleep, the comfort of my own bed, and maybe some chocolate chip cookies. That was what I needed. If that didn’t do the trick I’d have to go shopping. Spending money gives most women an endorphin rush twice as powerful as eating chocolate or having an orgasm. Okay, maybe not twice as powerful as an orgasm, but definitely better than chocolate.

  When I re-entered the conference room all conversation stopped. Bill was standing at the head of the table, looking angry.

  “Sit down, Nikki,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” I asked wearily.

  “The officers searching the Sectio house in Woodside have been unable to locate any videotapes. They found the cabinet, but it was empty.”

  I sat down hard. “I don’t understand.”

  “Margaret may have destroyed the tapes,” Bill said.

  “Well, I still have copies of them at the office.”

  Six heads turned in my direction. I looked to Bill for help, but it was too late. Over the next two hours I told the story of my anonymous client who had called about the killer in Woodside, lying just enough to keep Jack out of it. I said he’d paid me in cash by mail, and that he’d dropped the videotape copies off in my mail slot at night. I told them he had always been the one to contact me. I could have given them his pager number, but I didn’t like these guys, so I kept it to myself. They made me tell the whole story four times.

  Finally Bill stood up. “If you’re not going to charge Ms. Hunter with anything tonight, I think she could use some sleep.”

  They gave me the usual warning about not leaving town, and Bill walked me to my car. “I’m going to stay here a while longer,” he said. “Are you okay to drive?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Come by the boat when you’re done?”

  “It’ll be late,” he said, handing me my car keys.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I need to know what’s happening and I’d really appreciate the company.”

  It’s hard for me to admit that I need anybody, but at the moment my pride was the least of my concerns.

  Bill gave me a long hug and waited until I was on my way before turning back to the building. I was halfway home when I realized I was still wearing his jacket. I felt in the pockets and located my bra and panties. I tried to think, but my mind wouldn’t function beyond steering the car.

  When I got to the marina I locked the 2002 and walked down the companionway on unsteady legs. It was after 1:00 a.m., but the lights in Elizabeth’s trawler were still on.

  Chapter 25

  Elizabeth opened the door before I could knock. She’d been waiting up for me, listening for my footsteps on the ramp.

  “Come in sweetie,” she said. “You look awful. Want something to drink? I have wine, vodka, Kahlua…”

  “Vodka and Kahlua, please.” I sank onto the settee and leaned my elbows on the galley counter. “Did you get ahold of Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  She filled a rocks glass with ice and poured me a double shot of Skyy, then added about an ounce of Kahlua.

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  She handed me the drink and I savored a generous mouthful. The chocolate was just what I needed.

  “He said he hasn’t seen a man on the property, apart from himself. He also said to tell you to watch your back.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe Jack doesn’t trust the police.”

  I almost laughed. “Neither do I. I need another favor. They’ll be coming to the office tomorrow to get the videotapes. I’m guessing they’ll also have search warrants for my office and the boat. Probably for my car too. I want you to take all my guns so they can’t seize them as evidence and hold them for the next six months.”

  “Sure. How many do you have?”

  “They’ve already got the Ruger. That leaves the Beretta, the Sig, and the Remington. The Glock is up in the office.” I counted on my fingers as I spoke. “Maybe you should take the ammo too.”

  “You want to do this tonight?” she asked.

  “If you don’t mind.” I stood slowly, feeling the vodka.

  “Just let me get dressed,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

  I shuffled past D’Artagnon’s boat, wishing he was outside to comfort me with sloppy kisses.

  Once I was home it was difficult to imagine going back out again. I wanted to burrow into my bunk and pull the covers over my head until all the bad stuff went away. Instead I put on jeans, a sweatshirt, and boat shoes. Then I poured myself a shot of whiskey and took it into the main salon.

  I keep the guns I’m not using wrapped in old socks in the bottom drawer of a cabinet attached to the bulkhead. My old Remington Pump Action I keep in a canvas carrying case, which is stowed under the settee. I took each gun out and gently placed the handguns in a large canvas bag. I drank some whiskey and packed up all the spare mags, speed loaders, and boxes of ammunition.

  My dad taught me about gun safety as soon as I was old enough to understand. When I was six he showed me how to disassemble and clean his rifle. My mom went shopping whenever Dad took out his rifle. I realize now that she objected to having a gun in the house, but chose not to interfere with one of the few activities my father shared with me.

  I was seven the first time he took me for a ride in his motorboat. We bundled up in flannel shirts, down jackets, and rubber boots, and went out at dawn to avoid other boaters. He made me wear a life vest, although he insisted he was a strong enough swimmer that he didn’t need one. We brought along a number of empty plastic water bottles, which we used as targets because they would float.

  The only conversation allowed on this and subsequent target shooting expeditions was about gun safety and how to position the gun and sight the shot more accurately. When we were done for the day we’d pick up what was left of the targets and putt to shore. Back at home we would set to work cleaning the gun over piles of newspaper on the kitchen table. I find the smell of gun oil and solvent soothing to this day.

  I don’t have a lot of good memories from my childhood, but the shooting expeditions with my father are among them. The gun cleaning sessions were punctuated by matter-of-fact comments from my dad like, “You missed a spot,” or, “Use some elbow grease.” I didn’t mind, because I enjoyed spending time with him.

  On my tenth birthday Dad presented me with my own Remington, a youth model-seven rifle that fit my size perfectly. I was thrilled. My mother went into the bedroom, shut the door, and cried for an hour. Apparently Dad had not consulted her before making the purchase. Later that day he asked me if I wanted to go hunting with him. I was stunned, flattered, and appalled all at the same time. I loved animals more than anything and I couldn’t imagine shooting one unless my life depended on it. I felt torn between wanting to please my dad, needing his approval, and knowing somewhere deep in my gut that what he was suggesting was morally wrong. Finally I told him that I’d rather shoot at targets. He looked disappointed, but I think he understood.

  I had finished packing up my guns and ammo by the time Elizabeth knocked on the pilothouse door. I met her at the hatch holding the canvas tote, th
e Remington, and my key ring.

  “We need to go up to the office,” I said.

  My voice sounded off to my own ears, like it was coming from inside a tunnel. Elizabeth took the bag and slung it over her shoulder, which was impressive since it weighed almost as much as she does. I carried the Remington as discreetly as possible. Even in its case it’s obviously a long gun.

  We left everything on Elizabeth’s boat, locked it, and walked up to the office complex. I fumbled with my keys, finally found the right one, and then dropped the key ring on the ground. I stooped down to pick them up, dropped them again, and started crying. Elizabeth squatted next to me. She picked up the keys, put her arms around me, and held me tight.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” she murmured. “I promise.”

  It really helps to have someone tell you that, even when you know it isn’t true. After a minute I got hold of myself, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and took back the keys. I inserted the correct one in the lock and opened the door. I turned on the lights and looked around my office. Maggie was dead, but I still didn’t feel safe.

  I pulled the Glock out of its holster under my lap drawer, pressed the mag release, and jacked the slide to eject the chambered round onto the desk blotter. I went to the kitchenette and got a couple of dishtowels, wrapped the Glock carefully in the towels, and placed it, the magazine, and the loose bullet in a plastic bag, which I gave to Elizabeth.

  I decided to check the safe before locking up for the night, just to make sure the tapes were still in there. They were.

  I walked Elizabeth back to her trawler and told her I’d call her tomorrow.

  Back on board my own boat I locked both the pilot house door and the hatch, even though I was expecting Bill. No telling when he’d show up, and I felt defenseless having just given Elizabeth all of my guns.