by Molly Greene
She could hear him pulling hangers from the rod. “Let’s just say the sequence of events that began Friday night has been noteworthy.”
“Damn. Now I’m really curious.” Oliver emerged, glanced at the clock on Bree’s nightstand and gasped, then snatched up half a dozen handbags and race-walked back. “I don’t have time, though.”
“Leave the rest. I’ll tidy up.”
“I owe you. Dinner this week?”
“If you’re cooking.”
“Deal. Love you, gotta go.” He waved an arm above his head and hurried from the room.
“Have fun.”
Bree shrugged out of her jeans and pulled on a pair of flannel pants, then scooped up a pretty Coach knock-off discarded on the bed. Liv had given her the purse. It made her think of all the skills he’d taught her, like how to put together an outfit. And how to make a room feel like home on a budget.
Like her bedroom, which she loved.
The space was decorated in shades of white. The king bed was dressed in high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and draped in layers of quilts and coverlets.
The bedskirts were tiers of lace, created from old tablecloths arranged over a ruffled linen base. Textured European shams and pillows three rows deep were propped against the headboard.
A mahogany armoire had been painted with layers of off-white paint, then sanded to reveal the stratums beneath. Recessed lighting and floor lamps combined to create a soft, sensual glow. A Queen Anne chair upholstered in antique linen stood beside the shuttered walk-in doors.
Lovely. Helpful that Livvie had such a knack for cheap; bargain was his middle name. And hers, of course, out of necessity.
She returned the purse to its niche, pulled her favorite sweatshirt over her head, and headed for the kitchen. It was time for a glass of wine.
As she passed through the living room, the blinking light on the answering machine drew her attention. She detoured toward a vintage roll-top desk placed against the wall.
Two messages. She pulled pad and pencil from a drawer and depressed the replay button.
“Hey Bree, Gen here. Why don’t you come down for breakfast tomorrow to compare notes? Six twenty, sixth floor, eight o’clock? If that doesn’t work, call my cell. Otherwise, just come on down and I’ll see you then. Bye.”
The machine beeped again. The sound of Taylor Vonnegon’s voice surprised her. She felt the uneasy crawl of nerves, wondering if he was somehow aware of today’s perusal of his Tiburon rubbish.
“Hello, Cambria. This is Taylor Vonnegon. I’m still feeling guilty about the way I treated you the other evening. Perhaps I could do a better job of making it right by buying you dinner Friday night. Please call me at my office.”
Before saying goodbye, Vonnegon left his number and once again asked her to call.
Her social life was picking up.
Chapter Ten
Gen heard the tap on the door just before eight o’clock. It was a weekday morning, and Ryan wasn’t scheduled to be at work until ten. It was nice to have the time together; one of the benefits of no longer being a ninety-hour-a-week attorney trying to make partner. Her old life was a thing of the past.
“Watch the bacon, will you Ry? I’ll let Bree in.”
When she opened the door, Bree was grasping a pan of muffins with a well-worn Hello Kitty oven mitt. Her hair was straight and shiny, fresh from the shower. She must have been picking at a crumb-topped edge of one of the pastries, because she dropped her hand and wiped it discreetly on the back of her yoga pants.
“Perfect timing,” Gen said. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Good. Breakfast is almost ready and we have plenty.” Gen beckoned her inside. “What did you bring?”
“Whole-wheat raspberry muffins.”
“You must have been up at dawn.”
“Hey Gen, you know what? Your condo is right below mine. If I knew Morse code, you could tap out a message on the ceiling.”
“What an investigator,” Gen replied. “All these months you’ve been walking overhead and I had no idea.”
Bree grimaced. “I’ve been a headache, all right.”
“Knock it off. I’ve missed having friends close, Bree.”
“Thanks. Hey, I like your place.”
“This is Ryan’s man cave. I got to do the rest of the house, so it only seemed fair.”
The living room was definitely masculine, with heavy studded leather couches and a La-Z-Boy upholstered with luxurious hides. Gen’s only request was that the big screen TV be hidden, so they’d had it mounted inside a custom-built walnut cabinet that took up three quarters of the massive wall. She wanted to be able to close the doors when the thing wasn’t in use, but it seemed to be constantly on, broadcasting sports at every opportunity.
They used to go out more, to museums and plays and clubs. She missed that, too, but Ryan seemed to have lost interest, so she let it slide. This felt like her first real home. She had dedicated a lot of time and energy to making the place feel that way. It got easier and easier to stick around and enjoy it, but at the same time she worried they weren’t keeping things fresh. They were spending too much time at the old homestead.
Gen led Bree through the dining area into the kitchen, which was fitted with dark cabinetry around the periphery. The stainless steel appliances were all the same high-end brand. Ryan was standing at the granite-topped island, whisking a bowl of eggs.
The smell of bacon hung in the air. Gen caught the sound of sizzling butter and its mouth-watering aroma rising from the commercial Viking stove behind him. “Ryan, this Bree Butler. She brought homemade muffins.”
“Hello Bree, Ryan Cavanaugh.” He offered his palm. “More commonly known as Boyfriend.”
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you. I’d say Genny has told me a lot about you, but I’ve been monopolizing the conversations.”
“Not a problem, there’s not much to tell.” He gave her his hundred-watt smile, then turned to pour the beaten eggs into an omelet pan.
“I’ll finish that up.”
Ryan moved aside to give Gen room in front of the stove and passed Bree a large plate and a knife. “Will you do the honors?”
“Bree, how do you stay so thin?” Gen asked. “No offense, but you don’t look like you know your way around a kitchen.”
“I keep hungry friends around me and give away most of what I make.”
Gen smacked the counter. “That’s what I’m doing wrong.”
Ryan laughed. “I’ll set the table.” He hugged Gen from the side and left.
Gen worked over the stove, lifting the edges of the eggs. “Seriously, what prompts you to cook if you end up handing it out?”
“Food prep is a kind of therapy. I mean, you pull out a recipe and nothing else matters. I try to do stuff that distracts me.” Bree circled her hand beside her head, signifying a spinning wheel. “Too much thinking. Sometimes I drive, sometimes I bake. Writing works, too. And I swim.”
“Upstairs? Our pool?”
“A few mornings a week.”
“No wonder you’re in such good shape. Hanging out with you will be good for me.”
Bree laughed. “Probably not if more digging in trash cans is involved.”
“I was doing that before you came along.” Gen moved to the center island and plated the omelet. “Hey, I hope you don’t mind, but I brought Ryan up to speed about what’s going on.”
“Not at all.” Bree pulled out a stool and tucked herself onto the padded seat, then used the knife to loosen the browned edges of each muffin. She placed the plate atop the pan and turned them upside down, then eased the muffins out and made a pretty stack.
Ryan returned and retrieved the bacon from the warming oven, then pulled a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge. “Everything ready?”
“Let’s go,” Gen replied.
Bree followed them out to the table and sat.
Gen divided the eggs into three and served them before slipping in
to her own chair. She split and buttered a muffin, said, “Thank you Jesus for my food,” then popped a piece into her mouth and rolled her eyes. “Delicious.”
“The eggs are wonderful, Gen. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Our pleasure. Ryan usually cooks, but I keep my hand in, too. I like to think I know how to stir a pot.”
“What do you do for a living, Ryan?” Bree asked.
“I’m with the Secret Service, based in San Francisco.”
“No kidding? I thought all Secret Service agents worked with the President.”
“Some do, but the rest of us have other duties. Politician and currency protection. I’m usually with foreign heads of state and diplomats who visit the West Coast, but sometimes I’m lucky enough to catch an offsite detail. I met Genny while I was trying to track down a counterfeiter.”
“Who turned out to be the woman that built Madison’s place,” Gen added. “The house I told you about in Healdsburg.”
Bree’s eyes went wide. “Scary.”
“At times,” Gen said. “But it reminded me how much I like a whodunit. Taught me a lot. Like how easy it is for people to pose as something other than who they are.”
“As in wear a disguise?”
“Fake clothes and pretend personalities and hidden agendas and liars. All of it.”
They ate in silence for a few beats before Ryan cleared his throat. “Sometimes people have to live a bit of a lie.” He fiddled with his fork. “Sometimes we mislead others even when we don’t intend to.”
“Ry was undercover as a priest when we met.”
“And you pulled it off?” Bree angled her head and contemplated him.
Gen laughed. “He’s had lots of training in the art of deception.” She glanced aside and caught a flicker of emotion flash across Ryan’s face. Was he sorry he’d chosen a career that required him to pretend?
“It’s freeing to change identities,” Ryan said. “It’s a kick to put on different clothes and get a new haircut and become someone else.”
Gen was staring at him now. “You might need a new driver’s license, too.”
“Easy enough to get if you know how.”
“If you have to,” Gen said. “If you need to hide.”
“Everybody hides something,” Ryan replied. “Everyone has secrets. No one tells anyone everything.”
“I like to think,” Gen said, “that in time we share what is most important to us with the people we love. But we can only understand others if they choose to share.”
Gen wasn’t sorry when Bree jumped in.
“Maybe that’s how Andrew Ducane felt about his life,” Bree said. “It could have been a thrill for him to be different away from work.”
“If that’s the kind of thing that thrills you.” Gen dropped her eyes to the table and forked food around the plate. She wondered what she and Ryan were really talking about. “I guess we should assume everyone has secrets.”
“I’m betting Ducane had a doozy,” Bree replied. “What do you think it was?”
“Speaking of which.” Gen cut her eyes to Ryan one last time, then regarded Bree. “We have news about Elergene.”
“What is it?”
“Ryan made a few calls. Turns out they do have a high level government contract. He didn’t get stonewalled when he asked about it, but no one would tell him exactly what they were doing. Pretty top secret, whatever it is.”
“My fed buddies say that the folks at Elergene Enterprises are developing a product based on mycelium hyper-production.”
“Once again?” Bree said. “In English?”
Ryan chuckled. “Mycelium is the mushroom’s root system. It forms a fibrous mat that scientists have studied for years. Now they’ve figured out how to use it.”
“For real?” Bree looked from Gen to Ryan.
Ryan nodded. “The underlying technology was discovered by a couple of college students who found a way to make packing foam from mycelium. They went on to use it as a bio-based alternative to fiberglass. The surfing community is hoping it can be adapted for boards. The military is turning it into an advanced type of armament-deflecting insulation. The government wants to see if it has any value in bulletproof vests or body armor.”
“Sounds like Star Trek stuff.”
“It is, in a way.”
“But how could research like that get Andrew Ducane killed?”
“Too soon to guess,” Gen replied. “It may not even be related. Bottom line, we have no idea what Elergene’s project really is.”
“How can we find out?”
“Make friends with someone at the company, for starters.”
“Vonnegon left a message and asked me to dinner Friday night.”
“Perfect.” Ryan reached for the butter.
“You think he’ll talk about it?”
Gen shook her head. “But he might give something away by accident. So he asked you out, huh?”
“It’s not a date. More like pity duty. Trying to apologize for throwing me to the wolves that night.”
“You think?” Gen put down her fork and stared at Bree. “Too bad he’s not a drinker. You could have gotten him liquored up and pressured him for info.”
“Wait a minute, that’s right. He told us he didn’t drink alcohol. Then who belonged to the champagne bottle?”
“What he actually said was that he didn’t drink much alcohol,” Gen replied. “Doesn’t rule him out for the occasional glass of bubbly. Hey, Bree, do you have time to come down to my office after breakfast? Let’s start a case map and make notes about what we know.”
“Sure. Is it close? I have your business card but I didn’t notice the address.”
“I took one of the shops facing the street on the ground floor of this building. Makes for an easy commute. For me, anyway. Ryan still has a ways to drive. But that’s how we got interested in the condo.”
“Even better,” Bree said.
“It’ll take less than an hour.” Gen saluted Bree with a glass of juice. “Let’s toast. So far, your Nosy Nell skills are outstanding.”
“Thanks. I just wish we’d been able to get a little more out of our trip.”
“There’s always the funeral,” Gen said.
“Are we going?”
“But of course.” Gen’s grin was downright wicked. “Everyone who knew the deceased in one place at the same time? We couldn’t pass up that opportunity.”
* * *
Gen’s workplace was small but sophisticated, with tasteful art and furnishings set against the backdrop of the red brick walls. A row of curtained windows ran across the street side, lending light to the space. The waiting room held the requisite magazine-laden table, a French-inspired receptionist’s desk, plants, pictures, and a quartet of upholstered wing chairs. The feel was old money. The ambience delivered a sense of trust and satisfaction, as if clients seeking her help would be in good hands.
Gen liked to think they were.
Bree followed her in, through a hallway with a bathroom tucked discreetly into an alcove and on into the back office. This room held a small sofa and chairs, as well as tall wooden bookshelves, file cabinets, and a desk that was a larger version of the one in the entry.
“Great office, Genny.”
“Thanks. Madison came down and helped me. She has the decorating gene. I didn’t sign the lease until she’d had a look at it.”
“I remember Maddy’s room at Berkeley. Who knew a few cheap Indian bedspreads could turn a dorm room into an exotic oasis?” Bree laughed. “Hey, where’s your receptionist?”
“Don’t have one. Smoke and mirrors. What I do have is the best answering service ever.”
Gen walked to a side wall and removed a sepia photograph of the Eiffel Tower, then placed it on the floor. She grabbed the two inset handles behind it and slid the panels open to reveal a large whiteboard.
With a marker, Gen wrote Friday’s date, the name Andrew Ducane, and the word deceased. “Okay, what do we know? Who’s hiding
something, and who has something to hide?”
“Taylor Vonnegon is hiding Ducane’s private research.”
Gen wrote that on the board. “He’s also hiding the true nature of Elergene’s government project.” She noted that with a question mark.
“They might be hiding the identity of the intruder. They may know who it was and just don’t want to share.”
“Good.” She wrote the word burglar with a question mark beside it. “Looks like Ducane was hiding his true personality from his co-workers.”
“Yes,” Bree agreed. “And maybe Vonnegon and Ducane are concealing a deeper connection, since their second homes, so to speak, are so close together.”
“Another good point.” Gen made more notes. “And we can be damn sure Hackett and Garcia will withhold lots of details. We can’t even guess at what that might be right now. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“It’s a good start,” Gen said. “We’ll try to answer these questions and fill in more as we go forward.”
“What’s the plan?”
Gen turned away from the board and took a seat at her desk. “Well, it seems a shame to pass up the opportunity to get better acquainted with Elergene’s CEO. Can you do it?”
“Sure.”
“Never know what you might learn if you spend time with the guy.”
“What I’ve seen so far hasn’t been impressive.”
“Oh, come on. He’s a good-looking man. You didn’t meet him under the best of circumstances. Give him the chance to show his real stripes.”
“I’ll just be doing it to see what I can find out.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Genny, what’s in it for you?”
“Practice, my dear. Just practice. And contacts. One of my goals will be to cultivate a friendly acquaintance with Detectives Mackenzie Hackett and Eric Garcia. It might help on future cases. You never know.”
* * *
That afternoon, Bree dialed the number at Elergene and requested Taylor Vonnegon’s office. The operator asked for her name and put her through.
