What She Gave Away (Santa Barbara Suspense Book 1)

by Catharine Riggs

  “Not always.” He tilts his head in such a way that I’m swept up in a memory of a long-ago crush. I slug down some beer to clear my throat.

  “So if your life was working out, why change it?” Marco asks. “Why move to Santa Barbara?”

  I tuck the memory away. “I could ask you the same thing.” I reach for the last calamari, but Marco snatches it away. He tosses it into his mouth and chews it up.

  “So your new job’s a good one?” he asks.

  “As good as it can be.” I finish off my beer.

  “How about your last job?”

  “In Bakersfield?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was okay.”

  “So why’d you leave?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Just interested.”

  Out on the boardwalk a bunch of kids toss bread to the seagulls, and hundreds of squabbling birds have appeared. They dip and dive, wings flapping, beaks flashing. Soon the kids run off screaming, their parents following behind.

  “I guess I wanted to start over,” I say. “You of all people should know that my life in Bakersfield wasn’t exactly peaches and cream.”

  “I know that.” He leans back and folds his thick arms against his chest. “I thought you might’ve been upset by the death of Mike Simms. He was your boss, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve taken an interest in the case.”

  My body goes hard, and my breathing slows. I need to be careful. Very careful. “I was upset. Mike was a mentor to me.”

  “He was?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s a surprise.”

  “Is it?” I push my beer away.

  “I’ve done some checking around. Some of your former coworkers say that Mike wasn’t the nicest of guys. He could be mean. Liked to tell the kind of jokes that put people down.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Racist jokes. Jokes about the elderly and the disabled. He could be especially harsh about a woman’s looks. Any of this ring a bell?”

  “I don’t know. I just worked for him. We didn’t socialize after hours.”

  “They mentioned he seemed to enjoy harassing you.”

  “I never noticed.”

  “They say he was relentless. You became the center of his daily comedy routine.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Once he left a scale on your chair along with a box of day-old doughnuts.”

  “It was a joke.”

  “So it didn’t hurt your feelings?”

  “No.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “You can believe whatever you want. I just went to work every day and did my job. I didn’t get involved in the office gossip.”

  “But Mike was your mentor?”

  “He was.”

  “Were you shocked when kiddie porn was discovered on his work computer?”

  “Of course.”

  “And disappointed?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Well, you weren’t the only one. It shocked everyone who knew him. They seem to agree that he was a jerk but not a perv.”

  “So?”

  “So this is one of those cases that I can’t get out of my head. Guy downloads kiddie porn at work. Guy gets caught. Guy kills himself.”

  “I thought he died in a car accident.”

  “That’s what the investigators thought at first, but things just didn’t add up. So here you have a college-educated banker with a squeaky-clean background. Granted, he could be mean, but he was clean. Not even a single speeding ticket to his name. And he’s a senior vice president at a bank. He would’ve known that his work computer, like all bank computers, was under constant scrutiny. So why download porn? Why not view it at home or on his cell, where there’s less chance of getting caught?”

  “Maybe he did.”

  “The police searched his phone. And his home computer. They searched his entire house. All they found was a box of old Playboy magazines. Don’t you find that odd?”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “I just wish I could’ve interviewed Mike before he drove into that wall.”

  “So you’re saying it wasn’t an accident?”

  “There was no sign he tried to step on the brake. In fact, witnesses say he sped up.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Marco shrugs. “He’d lost his job. His friends. He must’ve known any court case would drain his savings. Guilty or innocent, it didn’t matter. Life was over as he knew it. And desperate men are known to take desperate measures. It appears he staged his death as an accident hoping his family would collect on his life insurance. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. Kelly lost her home and had to take the kids and move in with her parents.”

  “Kelly?”

  “Mike’s wife.”

  “You know her?”

  “We dated a little in high school.” Marco finishes off his beer, his eyes leveled on mine. “We went our separate ways after graduation, but since the tragedy we’ve reconnected. Not in a romantic way. I don’t have the temperament to take on Mike’s kids. But Kelly’s a nice woman in a very tough situation. I admire her. She’s handled these terrible events with grace. But she’s like a bulldog. Unrelenting. She just won’t let this thing go. She calls me at least once a month asking for help to solve Mike’s murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “It’s a stretch, but in a roundabout way you could call it murder. If someone planted the porn on Mike’s computer with the intent to destroy him, at the very least that person would be charged with manslaughter.”

  I swallow. I’d been careful. So very careful. “So what do you want from me?”

  “Funny you should ask.” He leans forward. “I was having drinks with a group of friends the other night. I suppose they’re more like acquaintances than friends. Anyway, I met up with a bunch of guys from my evening workout class, and one of them tells this story about how a young guy got fired at your bank. Seems he sent a porn photo to everyone at work. You hear about that?”

  “Of course. I worked with him.”

  “His name was Tyler, right?”

  “Yes, Tyler.”

  “What department was he in?”

  “Mine.”

  “Wow. Well, it seems this Tyler swears he never sent the photo, and he can’t figure out how it happened.”

  “He probably drunk dialed.”

  Marco nods. “See. I knew you could help me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the second time you’ve been involved in something like this. You’re something of an expert.”

  “I wasn’t involved.”

  “Sorry. Poor choice of words. What I mean is it’s the second time a coworker of yours has been fired for questionable online activity. And both of them claim they didn’t do it. So I’m just trying to understand how something like this could happen. Assuming they weren’t lying—and I’ll admit that’s a stretch of an assumption—how easy is it to get ahold of a coworker’s password?”

  “Very.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Almost everyone writes them down.”

  “But wouldn’t that be against bank policy?”

  “Yeah. But we have so many passwords they’re hard to remember.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t write yours down.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I knew it. You’re far too bright for that.” His eyes narrow the tiniest bit. “How about you and Tyler? You two get along?”

  “We got along fine.”

  “Was he a mentor?”

  “I wouldn’t call him that.”

  “He ever tease you?”

  I rustle in my purse and pull out my cell. “Sorry. I have to get going. I’m meeting up with a friend.”

  Marco stands, like the gentleman he pretends to be. “That’s too bad. I’d hoped we could spend more time together. I thought you might have s
ome additional insight into Mike’s case.”

  “I don’t know what more I could tell you.” I drop a twenty on the table.

  “Next time it’s on me,” he calls out as I rumble away.

  I hurry to my car and fumble for my keys. I’m about to drive off when a knock on the window startles me.

  “You left these.” Marco holds up my sunglasses. I roll down the window and reach for them, but he doesn’t let go at first.

  “I would like to talk to you a little more. I’m sure you’d be happy to help the wife of your former mentor.”

  “Sure. Anytime. Just call me.”

  “How about we set a time next week?”

  “I’m busy next week.”

  “How about the week after that?”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “You do that.” He smiles. “And by the way, do you still play that game of yours? The one you played with your grandma?”

  “Of course not.” I grab my glasses, roll up the window, and floor the accelerator, almost colliding with a waiting car. I zoom out of the parking lot, my heart banging in my chest, sweat dripping down my back.

  What is the worst? The very worst that can happen to Marco? I know the answer. He’d better stay away.

  Kathi

  July 16, 2016

  I’m scared! I’m excited! Arthur is coming to dinner tonight. At my house. My house. He called yesterday to say he just had to see me but couldn’t afford to trigger the local gossip machine. So I invited him over for a home-cooked meal. Well, almost home-cooked. I’ve never been a good cook. Expensive takeout is as close as I get.

  Was I too forward? I don’t think so. I’m a widow, and he’s separated. It makes perfect sense. Not that I think it’s a date. We’re just friends, of course. At least for now. But who knows where the night might lead?

  I’ve almost used up my $3,000, but I’ve used the money very well. Eight hours of housecleaning including windows, inside and out; two days of gardening; a mani-pedi; a cut and color; a stunning tropical bouquet; a fully stocked refrigerator and cupboard; and a mini Saks shopping spree. Of course, I can’t be expected to slave over a meal, so my favorite caterer has supplied our dinner: a portabella and Gruyère quiche paired with pistachio-endive salad. Add a couple of bottles of fine wine into the mix, and I’m nearly broke again.

  And then there was the full Brazilian wax—painful and embarrassing, but I’ve heard it’s all the rage. It seems crazy and gross, but who am I to say? Not that I plan to take off my clothes. No plans for that at all. But what if something should happen? What if we get carried away? It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, does it?

  Arthur had to spend the day in LA, so he suggested we dine at nine. I was disappointed at first, as I’d imagined us lounging on the terrace watching the sun melt into the sea. The sunset is so beautiful this time of year, a mix of rosy orange and gold. But now I realize the timing couldn’t be better. A near-full moon brightens the sky. A warm breeze ruffles the leaves. Crickets chirp, frogs croak, and the distant lights of Santa Barbara twinkle in lovely shades of pink and blue.

  It takes everything in me to delay my first glass of wine. I don’t want to look flushed or sound slurred, so I force myself to wait until eight before I pour a half glass of Pinot. I sip it slowly and don’t allow myself to gulp. I put on some nice classical music and spin around a few times. Coming to a stop in front of the living room mirror, I take a good look at myself. I spent half the day choosing the perfect outfit and settled on a sleeveless pink top with white jeans and gold sandals. My look says casual yet chic. Artless yet sophisticated. Self-confident yet innocent. It’s perfect in every way.

  I may not be stunning like Eileen or even beautiful. I’m short and a little stubby. No one would ever suggest I modeled in my youth. But I’m still pretty, in that fresh-faced farm-girl sort of way. I can understand why Arthur might like me. I really can. I finish off my wine and pour another half glass. Less than eight ounces total. I can handle that.

  Shortly after nine, Arthur roars into the garage. I left a space for him like he asked. The doorbell rings, and I rush to greet him.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says, stepping inside. “Do you mind if I shut the garage door?”

  “Not at all.” It seems impossible, but he’s even more handsome than I remember. His smile is brighter. His eyes kinder. His lavender polo shirt is fitted tight enough that a surprising six-pack shows through. He laughs when he notices my glance.

  “Believe me: they don’t come naturally. That’s a lot of years spent in the gym.”

  I swallow and nod like a fool, searching for a witty response.

  He sets down a slim bottle of port. “I’ve brought you a hostess gift.”

  “Thank you,” I say, pinching my wrist.

  “You’re welcome. Do you mind if I have a glass of whatever you’re drinking?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. I should’ve offered.”

  “No worries. I’ll get it.” He pours himself a glass, and we settle on the couch.

  “So how was your day?” I ask. “Did the producer like your script?” Arthur has just completed his first screenplay and made a pitch today to some Hollywood insiders. We have so much in common it’s breathtaking. He’s a writer, just like me.

  “I think so,” he says with a modest grin. “They’re supposed to get back to me next week.” He looks around the room with interest. “I like your sleek, contemporary look.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you always leave your pocket doors open?”

  “On nice evenings like this.”

  “They must be a bear to clean.”

  “They are.”

  “I’ve always liked the look, but Eileen wouldn’t allow them. She worries about intruders and bugs.” He chuckles. “She also thinks a mountain lion might wander in, even though we live at the beach. I suppose you have a security service to keep tabs?”

  “We do—or at least, we did.” I picture the unopened bills. “I haven’t seen them around lately. It could be I’m not a client anymore.”

  “Then you should be careful. I worry about a single woman living alone.”

  “It’s very safe here. I have lots of neighbors.”

  “Good to hear. Now, tell me about that painting above the fireplace. Is that an original?”

  I focus on the oversized square canvas splattered with purple-and-orange splotches. “I believe it is. Rich had an interest in midcentury modern art.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Not really. Do you?”

  “I prefer the French impressionists. Renoir, for example.”

  “Exactly.” I almost clap my hands. “The impressionists are my favorite. So soft and soothing. I would’ve loved to have lived in one of those old Victorian homes near the mission. You know the ones, with gabled roofs and wide lawns? I adore the old wood floors and high ceilings with those beautifully intricate moldings. I would’ve filled my home with all kinds of French art.”

  “You would have missed out on the Montecito address.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “But Rich did?”

  “Very much so.”

  “We have a lot in common, don’t we?” Arthur leans back and sips his wine. “This Pinot is quite good. Just the right hint of pepper and spice. Perfect for a summer evening.” He crosses his legs. He’s wearing black designer jeans and Teva sandals. His toenails are nicely manicured; his fingernails perfectly buffed. I’ve never spent time with a man who looked and acted so hip.

  Arthur sets down his glass. “Our Montecito home is also contemporary, but the design was never my choice. Eileen decided where we lived and how we decorated. It was important to her that we follow the trends. I just went along for the ride.”

  I nod until my neck hurts.

  His gaze washes over my face. “Please tell me if I’m getting too personal, but did you ever feel boxed in by your marriage? Like you’d been handed a set of plans that never
belonged to you? Like you wanted to escape to a life filled with art and beauty, but you were imprisoned by your past choices?”

  “Yes,” I say breathlessly.

  “Me too.” He looks despondent. “In many ways I’ve been living someone else’s dream. I’ve been living the life of a coward.”

  “But that’s not true! You’re not a coward. You’re a wonderful and sensitive man.”

  “How can you know that, Kathi? We’ve only just met.”

  “I can tell the kind of person you are. You’re, like, well, this may seem silly, but you remind me of the hero of my novel. You’re a good man caught in circumstances beyond your control.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “I started writing again after Rich passed away.”

  Arthur nods. “It wasn’t until my marriage fell apart that I began to work on my screenplay. I’ve been wanting to write for years.” He sets his hand on my knee, and it lingers there for a moment. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to be with a woman who has interests outside of shopping and parties.”

  A shiver runs up my spine. I picture Arthur pushing me back onto the couch. Unbuttoning my shirt. Covering my body with kisses. I want him so much it’s an ache, a yearning. I look deep in his eyes and see passion there, but he doesn’t make a move. I’m guessing he’s too much of a gentleman. Should I help guide the way? I purse my lips and slouch forward, but Arthur picks up his wine glass and returns his attention to the artwork.

  “I think I recognize the artist. It’s possible your painting could be worth upward of fifty thousand.”

  “Really?” I ask, my face steaming with shame.

  “I believe so.” He gazes at the random splotches with ongoing interest. “A friend of mine deals in these sorts of things. He could appraise the work, if you’d like.”

  “That might be helpful.”

  “So how about that dinner?” he asks with a smile. “I’m starved. It’s been a long day.”

  “Well, yes, of course.” I’m relieved to be moving on. “I thought we’d eat out on the terrace, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Perfect. Now, if you’ll direct me to the bathroom, I’ll wash up.”

  I head out onto the terrace, beating myself up. I’m an idiot. Why would a man like Arthur Van Meter ever be interested in me?