by Molly Greene
“Better pray he’s not cooking.”
“That’s not funny. I think the police should know about the book, don’t you?”
“And how do we tell them without admitting we rifled Vonnegon’s trash? That won’t get you back in Garcia’s good graces. Actually, the receipt is dated a couple of weeks before the kid died. There may not have been enough time to find something local and use it to do the poor guy in.”
“Still, it’s suspicious.”
Gen sighed. “I’ll tell Garcia’s partner. Hackett might be more cooperative.”
“See what you can do. I’ve got to go home and get back to work.”
“Talk to you soon.”
* * *
A few days later Mack shared what he knew without any prodding. “Ducane’s folks hit town today. We interviewed them for possible leads, but the kid was their golden boy. They’re sure no one he knew would ever hurt him. Autopsy’s been done. Tox screen results should be complete in a week. We’ll release the body to the funeral home in a couple of days.”
“When’s the service?” Gen asked.
“Next week. They need to give relatives time to fly in. Oh, and I’ve been authorized to release a video clip of the burglar who broke into Elergene’s lab. We want to know if Bree saw the woman on the tape that night, maybe in one of the corridors or the elevator. You never know.”
“How do you know about the break-in?”
“I’d prefer you told me first how you know about the break-in.”
“Vonnegon. He invited us to lunch Saturday. Said he couldn’t tell investigators Friday night, but he agreed to tell you after we shared a meal.”
“That was quick work, meeting up the next day. Sure your client wasn’t coordinating her story with the CEO’s?”
“I’m sure. Vonnegon felt bad he incriminated Bree, and he wanted to make it right.”
“I’ll accept that for now. I have a DVD of the security video, and you can pick it up. That is, unless you and Miss Butler would like to come down to the station to watch it. We also need you to give us a description of the woman you saw on the boat at some point. But Miss Butler might be best advised to stay clear of Garcia for now. He’s bent out of shape.”
“Gotcha. Thanks, Mack.”
“No problem. One more thing. Here’s the deal. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. No holding back.”
Gen was quiet on her end, not sure how to answer.
“According to my police training, your silence indicates you know something and you’re trying to decide whether or not to tell. So why don’t you just go ahead and spill it.”
“Oh, all right.” Gen sighed. “We came across an invoice. Someone at Elergene bought a book about poisonous plants off the Internet. It was delivered to Vonnegon’s house in Tiburon.”
“I see. You don’t let any grass grow under your feet.”
“That’s right.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Trash cans out front.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks.”
“I want that invoice.”
“I’ll bring it when I come for the disc.”
Chapter Twelve
“You’ve reached the Stricklands, please leave a message.”
Bree’s heart swelled when she heard the happy timbre of her sister’s voice on the phone machine.
“Hey Coop, it’s me. We haven’t talked in a while, so I was just calling to catch up. Give me a ring when you have time. Love you.”
She replaced the handset and wondered what Sam and Cooper and the kids are up to right now. Spinning wool? Weaving cloth? Sewing backpacks out of a second-hand tent from the thrift shop?
Their dad said Cooper Ann Butler burst from the womb with a mass of dark ringlets, already an avowed granola eating tree-hugger.
As she grew up, Coop stuck fiercely by her eco-friendly values, maintaining her dedication to unprocessed food despite the temptations of Hostess Twinkies and chocolate birthday cake. At nine years old, she had already set up a recycling center in the garage, planted a year-round vegetable garden behind the house, and educated her parents about the merits of a meatless diet.
At ten years old, she sported permanent calluses from wielding the gardening trowel. By the time their mother died, she was a seasoned farmer who worked the plot relentlessly with a red bandana covering her shoulder-length curls.
Cooper graduated from high school a semester early and headed south in her classic Morris Miner, impatient to get started at UC Santa Cruz. She’d been sad to leave, but was eager for the kinship of green-loving hippies, whose conversations centered around organic food, composting, and high intensity gardening.
Bree was startled from her musings when the phone rang. Caller ID displayed her sister’s Santa Cruz number. “Were you screening calls?”
Cooper laughed. “No, my darling sister. I was up to my elbows in goat poop when the phone rang. I had to wash my hands before I could call back.”
“Oh, God, Cooper, I didn’t need a visual.”
“That manure is gold, girl. It’s going to make this year’s tomatoes the best ever. And what you need, Bree, is to come down here and spend time with us. We haven’t seen you since the holidays. I can’t hug you through the phone. The kids are begging for their aunt, and Dad says he hasn’t talked to you for way too long.”
Bree sighed. “I know, don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything, just extending an invitation. Come set up shop in our guest room and eat the best goat cheese you’ve ever had. And oh, my gosh, the beer. Sammy has a new obsession.”
“I can’t say no to that,” Bree replied. “I’ll come down in a couple weeks.”
“Please, Bree. You can use the UC pool, I’ll sneak you in.”
“Deal. I love you, Cooper Ann Butler Strickland.”
“I love you, too, punk.” Cooper’s laugh was a combination of melodious and taunting. “But don’t get all sentimental and wishy-washy on me. I miss the real you.”
Chapter Thirteen
Gen waited while Bree rapped on Oliver Weston’s fuchsia front door, then followed her in.
“Hey, Livvie. The troops are here.”
Liv was in the dining room, setting the table with antique Havilland plates and ornamented silver. “Tell the guys they’re in luck,” he replied. “We don’t practice ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ in this house.”
Gen was new at the whole decorating thing. She’d always appreciated the gift her friends had to create a compelling vignette, but it was only since she and Ryan had owned the condo that she, too, caught the bug.
Although still a novice lacking in natural talent, she could tell the Weston loft was a tribute to the ornate. Carved, gilded, textured, and heavily embellished were the keywords in this space. Even the opulent drapes created an ambience that made it feel like an emperor’s private quarters.
Or should she say empress?
“Genevieve Delacourt, this is my best friend, Oliver Weston,” Bree said.
Liv grinned. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
“Every time I walk in here,” Bree said, “I remind myself to never again question Liv’s abilities. I thought he was insane when he started but it’s breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“I’m blown away,” Gen replied. “Your place is divine.” She stuck out her palm. “I’m so happy to meet you, Oliver. Thanks for asking me up.”
“The pleasure is mine.”
“I brought you some wine, I hope it goes with what you’ve planned for dinner.”
“Hon, red wine is the perfect neutral. It goes with everything. What’s that in your other hand? Please don’t say porn. We just don’t know each other well enough yet.”
Gen laughed and showed Livvie the spine of the DVD. Elergene Enterprises, it read.
“It’s a video of the break-in I told you about,” Bree explained. “Our entertainment for tonight.”
“Good, that takes the pressure off me. I can just sit and dr
ink.”
“I thought you said your latest squeeze was joining us?”
“Oh, him.” Oliver’s smile sagged. “Turns out Roger is a magpie. He saw a sparkly thing at the club the other night and apparently decided he had to have it. Good riddance. I can’t abide anyone so easily distracted by a cheap man in sequins. And our names didn’t jive. Roger and Oliver. Sounds like an insurance firm, or a couple of aging lawyers. Or a has-been Vaudeville troupe.”
“I’m sorry, Liv.”
“Don’t be.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Dime a dozen. Let’s go open Genevieve’s wine and drink to his demise. Bring on the next lucky chap. Come on, into the kitchen with you.”
“Genny, Livvie’s a homosexual, did I tell you?”
“No kidding. How long have you been gay?”
“That’s hilarious.” Oliver laughed, then his expression changed into something not so upbeat. “I tried not to be, you know. My dad is the most macho man on the planet and I thought it would kill him. So I overcompensated in high school. Ran track, captain of the wrestling team, stuff like that.”
“What happened?”
“He cried when I told him, but he’s all right with it. He surprised me. Funny how we always think we know people.”
“What a good man,” Bree said.
Oliver nodded. “A really good man.” He retrieved three goblets and a wine opener. Gen extracted the cork from the cabernet, then poured them each a glass.
“So how long have you been a PI?”
“Not long. But I like to think I’m a natural snoop. I’ve been doing it all my life, so I decided to see if I could make money at it.”
Bree reached for the bottle. “You’ll go broke if you keep taking on clients like me.”
“Nah. Everything I work on just hones my incredible meddler skills.”
“You’re a funny girl, Genny.” Oliver smiled at her. “We like you.”
“What was funny about that? I was serious.”
Oliver made a face over the carrot sticks he was slicing, then turned back to the sink and put celery in a colander to dry. He gestured with his paring knife toward two bags of toasted rye crackers and a plate of sliced white cheddar.
“Bree tells me you have a live-in. Why didn’t you bring him?”
Gen checked the clock. “Ryan should be landing at Dulles about now. He got called back to the mother ship for a meeting. I’m single tonight.”
“How disappointing.” Oliver sighed. “I could’ve had someone to admire all evening.”
Bree clapped her hand over her mouth and offered Gen a cracker.
“Not that you two aren’t attractive, but you know what I mean.”
“I can tell I’m in for a good time,” Gen replied.
“Let’s go watch the tape before alcohol dulls my brain,” Bree said. “Oliver, do you mind?”
“Go make yourselves at home.” He made a shooing motion. “I’ll just be a minute.”
They ambled into the living room. Gen fetched the DVD and handed it to Bree, then took a seat on the gold brocade couch and ran her fingers through the foot-long, floor-length fringe that circled the base of the sofa and matching chairs.
Bree slid open the carved armoire and popped the disc into the player, then stepped back and thumbed buttons on the remote.
The tape sequence began with the view of an empty corridor. A time stamp at the bottom of the screen read nine thirty-five p.m. Sixty seconds passed before a door opened at the far end. A figure entered, carrying a lidded cardboard banker’s box and dressed in a lab coat and black pencil skirt.
Clothing and breasts indicated that the subject was a woman. Other than a glimpse of eyes that appeared to be makeup-enhanced, it was impossible to see enough to identify her. As she approached the camera, she picked up the box lid and held it vertically, effectively shielding her face.
“Vonnegon was right, Bree, it does look a little like you.”
The woman stopped at a door and turned her back to the lens, revealing a loose bun coiled at the back of her head. She lowered the box top and removed keys from her pocket, then entered the room and closed the door.
The tape had been edited to remove the static time she was inside, and jumped nine minutes ahead to show the burglar’s departure. Again, her back was to the video. She was carrying the box and left the way she’d entered.
Bree pointed with the remote. “It could be the woman from Richardson Bay. She was thin, too. But Catherine, or whatever her name is, had that short, shaggy hair. I got the impression she was letting it grow out.”
“She may have been wearing a wig on the boat,” Gen said. “Or this could be one.”
“I didn’t notice anything weird that day.” Bree hit replay and sat beside Gen to watch again. “I was too nervous about getting busted.”
Oliver walked in and placed a tray of hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table, then stood back, one hand on his hip, the other holding his wine glass. He brought it to his lips and sipped as he blinked at the screen. The woman appeared again, walking toward the camera, face obscured by the rectangular lid.
“I just can’t tell if it’s the same woman on the boat,” Bree said.
“It’s no good,” Gen agreed. “Neither can I.”
Oliver sniffed. “That’s no female.”
“What do you mean?”
“The person on the tape. It’s a guy in drag. That means ‘dressed as a woman,’ in case you didn’t know.”
“Are you sure?” Gen moved closer to the screen. “Bree, would you play it again, please?”
They watched in silence as the burglar walked purposefully down the hall for the third time.
“That person is male,” Oliver said. “He’s not a burly guy, of course. But look at the line of the shoulders, and how slim the hips are, even under that shapeless white coat. And there, see? Is that the hint of an Adam’s apple?”
“I’ll be darned,” Gen said. “I think you’re right. You’re good, Oliver.”
“I’ve been around long enough to recognize a man dressed to pass as the opposite sex. Gay men are accomplished at hiding the obvious.”
“Why would a thief dress in drag to rob Elergene of documents about mushroom research?” Bree asked.
Gen stared thoughtfully at the television. “It could be someone people at Elergene know, or a criminal who figures the police can ID him.”
“Or,” Oliver added, “it could be someone who always cross-dresses, so why would that day be different? Did you see how well he walked in those pumps?”
“I’ll tell Hackett,” Gen said. “They can use it.”
“Should I mention it to Vonnegon tomorrow night?”
“No,” Gen replied. “If you tell him you saw the tape, he might grill you about why the cops wanted you to watch it. You could accidentally tip him off we were in Tiburon.”
“I could just say the cops wanted me to check this out in case I saw the woman on the way to meet Ducane.”
“Just try to get him to talk without revealing anything yourself, will you? You need practice lying. You didn’t do so well with the detective.”
Bree leaned over the coffee table and poured Gen and Oliver another shot of wine. “You can say that again.”
Chapter Fourteen
The knock came five minutes early, startling Bree enough to make her hand jerk and apply the shimmering gloss in an arc outside her upper lip. She used a tissue to wipe away the excess and went to open the door.
Taylor Vonnegon stood in the corridor, wearing slacks, a dress shirt, and a leather jacket. He was holding a delicate bouquet of overblown white rosebuds. He looked just a tad unsure of himself, like a prom date in a baby blue tux. Unusual, considering he’d been the poster boy for confidence until tonight.
Surprised, she opened her mouth and reached for a humorous comment but couldn’t think of anything funny to say. They stood like awkward teenagers until Bree regained her voice.
“Come in,” she said. “You’re early.”
/>
“I apologize.” He followed her into the living room and offered the flowers. “These are for you.”
“Thanks.” She took the roses and held them close, breathing deeply. Their scent was rich to the point of overpowering. She nodded at the blooms. “How did you know they’re my favorite, did I write about it on my blog?”
He laughed. “No. You seem the type who would like white roses. Simple tastes. Old fashioned, in a good way.”
Bree watched him as he took in the room. Two eggshell slip-covered sofas with low arms and wide seat cushions sported deep ruffled flounces that brushed the floor. Thick off white carpet flowed through the room. Hand-distressed furniture showed off the high ceilings. A few unpainted primitive décor pieces were displayed in clever vignettes, forming a subtle contrast.
“And I see I was right,” he said. “How wonderful. Peaceful, comfortable. White.”
“This is my friend Oliver’s handiwork. I love this place almost as much as I love the decorator.”
He cut his eyes to her with a flash of his former self-assured grin. “I’ll assume Oliver is a gay man.”
“You’d be right.”
“Good. Then I’m still in the running.”
Bree turned toward the kitchen, flustered, and Vonnegon followed.
She pushed through the door and into a luscious sensory overload. Salvaged wood plank flooring dark with age anchored the ivory cabinetry and concrete counters. Rows of chrome restaurant shelving were piled in organized chaos with white dishes and old crockery.
A collection of antique pudding tins graced the top shelf. Battered, hand-lettered, food-related signage covered the racks and walls, calling out cheery suggestions like Breakfast served all day, come on in! and Fresh farm eggs, and We cook it the way you like it.
She chose a thick white crock just wide enough to hold the buds together, filled it halfway with cold water, then snipped an inch from the foot of each stem and arranged them, sleek and tight, in the vessel.
“Would you like a glass of water or something?” She looked over her shoulder while she worked. He was standing in the open doorway, smiling at the pastiche of carefully arranged clutter.
