Girl in the Shadows (Cozy Mystery) (Diamond Files Mysteries Book 1)

by Angela Pepper

  I swayed and pulled my foot back. “You're not moving in,” I said. “Even if we do get back together, I need some time.”

  He looked surprised. “Back together? Abby, what are you talking about? We haven't been apart.”

  “Owen, don't pretend it didn't happen.”

  The sunburn on the tip of his nose flushed darker red. “Abby, you can't dump all this on me from out of nowhere. We didn't agree to breaking up. I didn't agree.” The bouquet of flowers quivered in his hand. “I didn't agree,” he repeated.

  “That's not how breakups work.” I stepped backward until my rear bumped into the wall across from my doorway. “We can still talk things over, if you want.”

  He snorted. “Talk. Sure.” He threw the flowers onto the floor.

  “Owen, I've had a long day. I'm temping now, so I had a new boss today, and it was pretty intense.”

  “Sure it was.” He eyed my shopping bags and my hair again. His anger receded, replaced by something else.

  “I've had a long day,” I repeated.

  Huskily, he said, “I see you've been shopping. Come inside and model your new clothes for me. What's in there? Something lacy?”

  Something in me reached its limit, and a tiny whistle blew in my head.

  I turned and began walking away briskly. “Be right back,” I called over my shoulder. “I forgot my purse in my car.”

  “Don't take too long,” he said. “You wouldn't want me to change my mind and send back your new table.”

  Under my breath, I muttered, “Idiot.”

  I was stepping into the elevator when he yelled down the hallway, “Abby! You don't have a car!”

  The elevator doors closed on his protests. Two of my neighbors gave me wary looks. I clenched my jaw, aware of the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. I silently cursed my tear ducts, or whatever stupid internal flaw it was that made me cry when I got so angry I could barely think straight.

  I just had to make it down seven floors and out of the elevator without bawling in front of strangers.

  To take my mind off my fury at Owen, I began recalling the lines of a movie. I had the dialog from a dozen movies memorized from top to bottom, but my favorite was The Wizard of Oz. I loved the film for its characters' unrelenting cheerfulness, even in the face of evil.

  And my ex, Owen, truly was the face of evil.

  Case in point, he'd nearly charmed me right into the trap he'd set in my apartment. If he hadn't insulted my furniture and brought up his deadbeat friends in the same breath, I might have been weak and taken him back. Thankfully, he'd shown his true colors and broken the spell.

  The elevator reached the lobby with a tired-sounding ding. I marched straight through the lobby and out the front doors, into the early-evening heat. It was six-thirty on a Monday. My nearest friend was only five blocks away. I would walk to her apartment and explain the situation in person rather than sob into my phone on the sidewalk like a loser.

  I turned at the corner and headed west. The Wizard of Oz played in the back of my mind on an imaginary movie screen that always flickered with the look of an old film that had been played a thousand times.

  At the edge of my building, movement in the alley caught my eye. Two people were moving a yellow-topped kitchen table.

  “Hey,” I said. “That's my table.”

  They were both guys in their twenties, with the smooth upper cheeks and scraggly beards most of the local artists wore. They immediately set down the table and gave me guilty looks.

  “It was just sitting here in the alley,” the darker-haired one of them said. “There was no sign, so we figured someone was throwing it out.”

  The other guy, with sandy hair and a red beard, gave me a charming grin. I'd seen him around the neighborhood before. He made paintings of nature scenes reflected on silver Airstream trailers.

  “It's a great vintage piece,” Red Beard said. “How much do you want for it?” He was already digging into his jeans, which were artfully covered in splashes of paint. “I have five dollars and a punch card for a free sandwich.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Consider the table a donation. Think of me as a patron of the arts. I love your Airstream pieces.”

  Red Beard looked down at the table and up at me. “Yeah?” He squinted against the setting sun.

  The other guy said, “Dude, the rich girl said we can take the table. Stop gaping at her and pick up your end.”

  “Thanks,” Red Beard said. He picked up his end of the table, and they shifted into the shadows of the alley. “See you around, rich girl,” he called out.

  Rich girl? I looked down at my bulging bags. If I'd known all it took to completely transform people's impression of me was to carry some high-end department store bags, I might have started hauling my dry cleaning around in fancy bags years ago.

  Meanwhile, on the flickering movie screen in the back of my mind, a tornado picked up Dorothy's modest farmhouse and lifted it into the sky. Away the house flew, away from Kansas and everything ordinary.

  Chapter 4

  TUESDAY

  8:55 a.m.

  Maggie's Diner

  “Somebody likes playing dress-up,” Derek Diamond said teasingly as I approached his table at the diner.

  “Don't be mean,” I said. “You're the one who wanted me to buy this stupid outfit. Don't mock me for it.”

  “I'm not mocking you,” he said. “Are you always this touchy?”

  Rather than admit the truth, I pursed my lips and put my hand on my hip.

  Derek said, “Anyway, you look like a million bucks.”

  I was wearing the new suit, which matched his specifications. It was a navy pinstripe in summer-weight wool, with a short skirt. I hadn't asked for the skirt to be hemmed so short. With my height of six feet, most skirts off the rack were mini on me. The jacket fit like a dream. I'd paired the suit with a rose-petal-pink blouse, plus the highest spike heels I'd dared to try on at the department store. The shoes forced me to straighten my shoulders and not slouch.

  “The heels are only two and a half inches,” I said. “Are they still okay?”

  Derek didn't answer. He was facing me, but staring through me, like I'd just reminded him of something more interesting inside his head.

  I took a seat across from him and picked up the menu, even though I'd already seen it once and had the diner's offerings memorized. My eerily good memory freaks people out, so I've learned not to be flashy with it.

  “No need,” Derek said, using one finger to pull the end of my menu down to the table. “I've ordered your breakfast already. The same thing you had yesterday.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  A moment later, my food arrived. It was french toast with a side of ham. The previous morning, I'd had an egg white omelet and a fruit cup.

  “Eat up,” Derek said, oblivious to my hesitation over the wrong breakfast. “We're going to see the Kensington widow today for some cheap and dirty sleuthing, and I don't need you fainting on me.”

  I ate up as requested. This “cheap and dirty” sleuthing sounded thrilling.

  When we'd finished eating and got up to leave, Chewie emerged from under the table. She'd been sleeping quietly on the floor throughout our meal. Even more surprisingly, the waitress gave Chewie a dog treat on the way out.

  We walked to the rental car, Derek tossed me the keys, and we got in, him mumbling about me knowing how to navigate the city best.

  “But this isn't your first time in Norfolk,” I said.

  “No,” he said slowly. “I was here for another case, seventeen years ago.”

  “You're not friends with the people who own that diner?”

  “Not yet, but I do like the pancakes.”

  “Why did they let Chewie sit under the table?”

  He adjusted her position on his lap and held her floppy ears up like airplane wings. “Because she's so cute. Isn't that right, Chewie? Who's a cute girl? Who?”

  Chewie responded by pointing her nos
e up and vocalizing with a loud howl.

  I fastened my seat belt, punched the address for the Kensington residence into the car's navigation, and started driving.

  Five minutes later, Derek said, “How'd you do that? I didn't give you the address yet.”

  “I read the case file yesterday,” I said, and didn't explain further. As much as I tried not to flaunt my memory, sometimes it was hard to resist.

  * * *

  The Kensington residence was a million-dollar waterfront estate in Larchmont.

  I parked the car on the cobblestone driveway and checked my hair and makeup. Being in the ritzy neighborhood made me doubt my wardrobe decision. The suit had looked luxurious compared to my regular clothes, but was it good enough for Larchmont? And was it good enough to make up for my complete lack of confidence in the cover story Derek had given me? Only time and trial by fire would tell.

  We walked up to the front door, where Derek said quietly, “Abby, will you please note that I'm bringing nothing into the house other than my assistant?”

  “Sure,” I said, though I wasn't sure which one of us was his assistant. In his left arm, he held Chewie snugly. She was small for a beagle, probably the runt of the litter, and looked comfortable in the crook of his arm.

  “Say it out loud,” he said.

  I nodded to show I understood. He was recording this visit with a device somewhere on his body. He'd disclosed that much, but he hadn't told me what he was after.

  “Derek Diamond, you're entering the residence with nothing but your clothes and both of your assistants.”

  He grinned and rang the front doorbell.

  A minute later, we were greeted by a woman with hair the exact same shades of blonde as my own. She was Mitzi Kensington, who, two months earlier, had turned fifty and also become a widow.

  A lilting male voice to the right of me said, “Aren't you a lovely creature! At last we meet, darling. Derek Diamond, in the flesh.”

  I nearly took a header off the front step. Back in the car, Derek had pulled on a crisp blazer and oversized sunglasses, but I hadn't anticipated a whole new showbiz personality.

  Derek reached out his right hand, flailing it like he couldn't remember how to shake hands. Mitzi squeezed his fingers, gave Chewie a tentative pat on the head, and then turned to me expectantly.

  In addition to gorgeous blonde hair, Mitzi had a perfectly round face and tiny blue eyes that were nearly buried in her face. It seemed her thick row of eyelashes were the only things keeping the upper folds of her eyelids from blinding her. Her eyelids sent me down a thought tangent. I wondered if she'd seen too many terrible things in her life and her body was trying to blind her by swallowing her eyes.

  Derek nudged me with his elbow.

  “Abby Silver,” I said quickly. “Derek's human assistant.”

  She clutched my fingers with an icy hand before inviting us inside. From what Derek had told me in the car, this meeting had been set up for a week. Mitzi Kensington didn't know we were investigating her for hiring a hit man to kill her abusive husband. She thought we were movie executives scouting for a waterfront estate to use for a feature film.

  Mitzi took us on a tour of the house. The widow wore black, but not a dress. I'd always imagined widows in black dresses, and Mitzi didn't fit my expectations. In her tailored black blouse and sleek trousers, she seemed agile and dangerous, like she might pull out a samurai sword at any moment and demand to know the true reason for our visit. I'd never been so close to a murder suspect. My senses were on high alert. I was thankful that the antiperspirant I'd borrowed from my friend that morning was the heavy-duty kind.

  We were halfway through the house, by my estimate, when Mitzi Kensington stopped walking and talking, and gave us a shy smile. “Is it true Reese Witherspoon is in the film?”

  Derek was distracted by something Chewie wanted to sniff up close, so it was up to me to answer.

  “I'm not at liberty to disclose that,” I said. “But between us girls, she's Derek's favorite actress. He's constantly talking about her.” I finished with a wink for good measure.

  “She's wonderful,” Mitzi said, glancing around to see where Derek was.

  A burst of adrenaline shot through me. Derek was doing his “cheap and dirty” sleuthing, and it was my job now to distract the widow. I couldn't stop breathing and choke up now.

  I pointed at the next room and asked excitedly, “Is that a corner bedroom? Does it get the ocean breezes?”

  Her small blue eyes squinted, nearly disappearing. “Why would you need breezes for a film?”

  “Reese loves the ocean,” I said.

  That satisfied Mitzi enough for her to lead me into the bedroom, where she opened the windows to demonstrate the cross-breeze. She didn't show any signs of concern that Derek had wandered off. I breathed deeply and tried to relax myself before I blew the job and destroyed my new suit by soaking it from the inside out.

  Derek met up with us again ten minutes later, reporting that he'd made use of “the lavatory.” Derek's showbiz persona had a vaguely British accent.

  The three of us—four if you included our beagle assistant—proceeded downstairs to the home's lower floor. We'd entered at what appeared to be ground level, but the home was set on a hillside, so the lower floor was a walk-out, and had the same spectacular view of the ocean as the upper floor.

  We stepped out onto a patio, where Derek held up both hands to frame the view. I pretended to be admiring the ocean as well, but I was checking out the site of the alleged break-in. The glass in the door had been replaced, but I could see scratches on the hardwood floor from where the shattered glass had fallen inward. The patio didn't hold any pebbles large enough to break a window, but across a stretch of manicured, new-looking grass was a rock garden.

  Mitzi waved at the outlook and said, “Megan and I love to have our morning coffee out here and watch the dolphins.” She let out a sigh. “That is, when she's not out with her boyfriend and too busy for her old mother.”

  Derek gave her a knowing look. “They grow up so fast.”

  From inside the house came a female voice. “Mom? Why's there a car blocking the driveway? Chad had to park on the street like a delivery boy!”

  Mitzi said, “Chad will figure something out. He's a smart boy.” She walked into the house and called out, “Darling, we're over here! I'm showing around these wonderful movie people.”

  We met up with Mitzi's daughter, Megan, in a chic entertainment room with a wet bar. Takeout coffee cups and soda cans were strewn about the room's countertop, and a pile of clothes and shopping bags—from stores fancier than Nordstrom—lay on a tightly upholstered sofa. This was apparently the area that twenty-two-year-old Megan Kensington used as her own apartment within the sprawling house. Must be nice, I thought.

  Megan Kensington was a younger version of her mother—round face, small blue eyes, and hair in shades of wheat and honey, but chin-length and asymmetrical. She wore silk pajamas the color of a robin's egg, and was rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  Before we could be introduced, a young man strolled into the room from a different direction. He had his gaze on his phone and didn't see us. “Megan, what's the deal with the car in the driveway? Has your mother finally gotten someone in to redecorate the master bedroom so she can—” He stopped talking when he saw us. We must have been quite the sight—a towering, skinny blonde and a fashionable older man in comically large sunglasses, carrying a beagle.

  The boyfriend recovered quickly and offered his hand. “Chad Harris. You must be the decorators.”

  Derek made a scoffing sound. “Not my department, honey.”

  Chad looked uncomfortable. He had dark hair, cut almost short enough to hide a natural curl. His mouth was wider than average, and the shape of his mouth, plus the way his head bobbed as he looked from Derek to me and back to Derek again, made me think of Muppets.

  “These are the movie people,” Mitzi said.

  Chad's Muppet head bobbed agai
n. He still had his hand extended before him, despite Derek's refusal.

  I stepped forward, mindful that I was towering over him in my high heels, and shook Chad's hand. His handshake wasn't even as firm as mine, and his palm was clammy. He immediately stuffed his hands into the pockets of his designer jeans.

  His round head bobbed as he turned to Megan. “You're not wearing those pajamas to brunch,” he said.

  She grabbed a tissue and sneezed into it. “Brunch isn't for another hour.”

  I glanced over at Derek. Brunch on a Tuesday? Must be nice.

  Derek remained in character, turning his head from side to side and framing imaginary movie shots with his hands.

  Mitzi cleared her throat and waved for us to follow her to the next spot on the tour.

  We followed her down a hallway. Behind us, Megan and Chad were speaking hurriedly, but in hushed voices, so I couldn't make out what they were saying.

  My head raced with theories. Was Megan in on her mother's murder plot? Had young Chad Harris been involved? Brock Kensington had been a large man, whereas Chad was barely taller than his girlfriend, and didn't even have the muscle tone to deliver a firm handshake.

  Chad Harris had an alibi, so even if he did have the strength to subdue a larger man, it didn't line up. The state medical examiner used temperatures taken at the scene to put the time of Brock's death, with a high degree of certainty, at eight p.m. That was the same time Chad Harris had been at the airport, waiting for Megan and Mitzi, whose return flight from their shopping vacation had been delayed. The police had checked Chad's alibi and found evidence of him being at the airport during that time.

  But could the police be covering something up? I'd always heard the very wealthy could get away with murder, but I hoped it was just something people say.

  Was our investigation part of a police inquiry? Derek wouldn't tell me who we were working for on this case. I'd asked, and he'd changed the topic. Our client certainly wasn't the widow, or she wouldn't be touring us around her home talking about which rooms would be perfect for our movie.

  “A workout scene is always nice,” Mitzi Kensington was saying.