The Daisy Dunlop Mystery Box Set: Lost Cause, Lost & Found, Lost Property

by JL Simpson

  “A nine millimeter and not a cannon, then.”

  Laughter bubbled out of him. “And there I was thinking you had good observation skills.”

  She followed him to the front door and waited until he pulled away in his car before locking up. The alarm pad was in the kitchen next to a screen that showed the view from the camera overlooking the front gate. She watched the Aston Martin flash past and disappear into the night. After punching in the code to arm the alarm she pondered checking the freezer for food but decided against it. She wasn’t hungry and would be eating for entertainment. What she needed was a drink, and something to take her mind off things. They both knew Solomon was walking into potential danger. She just hoped he came back in one piece. Funny, a week ago she couldn’t have cared less what happened to him.

  A search of the fridge revealed a bottle of expensive Australian Chardonnay. Solomon would be sucking on champagne all night so he could hardly begrudge her a bottle of wine. Once she’d found a glass she headed back to the living room. Flames danced in the wood heater, giving the room a safe and cozy feel. Daisy filled her glass, set the bottle on the coffee table, and curled up on the sofa with Solomon’s laptop.

  *

  Solomon sped through the forest toward the coast. He wasn’t a man for social events, but this was too good an opportunity to miss. Had the situation been different he would have loved to take Daisy with him. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm, provided she didn’t drop her dinner in her lap or spill red wine over another guest. He chuckled as he imagined her panic at having ruined some poor woman’s designer dress, and everyone else’s evening.

  He relaxed back in the seat, enjoying the feel of the vehicle as it purred beneath him and the miles flashed by. The function would be starting around now. He’d have to go looking for his phone after the dinner.

  The drive through Bournemouth to the hotel took some navigating but he eventually pulled into a parking space. As he climbed from the car he could hear the surf pounding the beach. He locked the doors and tugged his jacket straight. Should he check in on Daisy before he went inside? He decided against it. She was fine safely tucked up at his house.

  Solomon made his way to the front of the hotel, stepped into the foyer, and followed the directions to the function room. He was greeted by a wall of sound. A pretty blonde approached with a tray of drinks, and he snagged a glass of white wine before stepping into the throng of bodies. Everyone who was anyone was there. In between the round tables set for dinner, society types clinked glasses with entertainers, and local political movers and shakers schmoozed with business tycoons. On top of the price of dinner they were running a silent auction that included such delights as a week on a private island in the Caribbean, and a show by Phat Kitty for you and fifty of your best friends.

  The woman of the hour was the other side of the room. Her skimpy costume did a good job of hiding all evidence of Maureen beneath the façade of Phat Kitty. Jason was close to the stage chatting to a dumpy middle-aged couple.

  Solomon slipped between the huddles of social activity, intent on speaking to Maureen before she disappeared to prepare for her set. He’d booked his ticket under the name Ronan Liffey to hide his identity, but he wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.

  Her head turned as he approached. She made her apologies to the fawning young men who’d been hanging on her every word and moved to meet him. The smile she flashed never reached her eyes. Her hands fiddled nervously with the bottom of her red leather bustier, and he wondered if she should be in something so tight with a baby on board. Not that he could ask. He wasn’t supposed to know she was in the family way.

  “Solomon.”

  She offered a hand and he took it in his. “Maureen, or should I be calling you Phat Kitty?”

  “Maureen’s fine. I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I booked at the last minute. It seemed like a good cause.”

  “It is. Lots of charities are involved in caring for families, and women and children, but men are the forgotten homeless. Some of them are every bit as vulnerable. A lot of them have mental illnesses.”

  He let her hand go and sipped his wine. She spoke with passion. If the charity was a front for something else either she didn’t know or she was one hell of an actress.

  “So, what got you involved?”

  She shrugged and glanced across the room toward her manager, who was now deep in conversation with a man Solomon recognized as Clive Lewis. A third man who looked vaguely familiar joined them. He was probably only in his early twenties. His heavy jaw and sharp features were an odd combination.

  “The charity is Jason’s baby. My involvement started as a way to improve my public image, but I met someone who showed me how important the work was.”

  “Zut?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Did you find him?”

  Solomon shook his head, and then placed his half-empty glass on a tray as a waitress passed by. “Is there somewhere we can go and talk?”

  Maureen took his hand and led him toward the back of the room and out a side door. She’d ignored all the comments and well wishes. The door opened into a stark white corridor with a polished dark timber floor, but she didn’t stop there. Instead her heels tapped out a staccato rhythm as she marched the length of the hallway. A door at the end stood open, and she stepped inside, dragging Solomon with her before closing it behind them. He glanced around. A white sofa stood against one wall. The other side of the room housed a table, mirror and chair. They’d arrived in a dressing room of sorts.

  She leaned back against the door. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Why don’t you take a seat?”

  The color drained from her face. “Is he dead? Is that why you didn’t find him?”

  Solomon shook his head. “No. I just didn’t find him. Please, will you not take a seat?”

  She crossed to the sofa and perched on the edge, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  Solomon pulled the chair from the dressing table and sat in front of her. “Maureen. Why were you looking for Zut? And how do you know him? You told me you’d never met.”

  She lifted her head and stared at him. A tear trickled down her cheek leaving a dark mascara stained trail through her perfectly applied makeup. “I lied. I’ve known him for months. He filled in for my lead guitarist in the studio when I was recording my last album.”

  “What happened to your guitarist?”

  “He said he’d come into some money and was going to set out on his own solo career and that I was holding him back. Last I heard he was in rehab again.”

  Solomon raised an eyebrow. Perhaps the reason the cops had warned him off was because Zut was working undercover. In which case her original guitarist’s sudden fortune was probably government funded. A guy with a drug habit would be easy enough to manipulate. Even better if he had a big ego you could stroke.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this when I asked the other day?”

  “I was protecting Zut. He told me he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He joked he was an alien and he’d be locked up, like the ones they found in Roswell.”

  “Why didn’t Jason tell me about him?”

  “Zut’s been missing for a couple of days. Jason says he’s gone off on a drug bender, and it wouldn’t help my image to be seen to be looking for a man with a record for dealing.”

  “But you don’t do drugs, do you?”

  She shook her head. “Not for the last two years. I got off it.”

  “And your relationship with Zut? He clearly wasn’t your dealer.”

  Her smile was brittle and her voice shook. “He’s a brilliant guitarist.”

  “But that’s not it is it? Is he the father of your baby?”

  Maureen’s eyes opened wide and she grabbed his hand. “How did you find out? You can’t say anything. Jason thinks it’s his.”

  He took her hand in his and patted it. “Your secret’s safe with me, darlin’. Now, wh
y do you think Zut’s missing?”

  “He didn’t turn up for rehearsals for tonight’s show. Even if he was on a bender he would never let me down. I tried to call him, but he didn’t pick up.”

  “Why call me?”

  “I didn’t know who else to ask without Jason finding out. The police wouldn’t care less. Zut used to be homeless. He says he has episodes where normal everyday life is too much, and he has to escape to the simplicity of only worrying about surviving a day at a time and not thinking beyond a place to sleep and his next meal. Jason said to let him go. He was a loser, and we didn’t need him.”

  “Does Zut know about the baby?”

  Maureen nodded. “That’s why I’m worried. He said he would get his shit together and was ready to make a go of things and be all that we both needed.” She smiled through her tears. “He was so happy when I told him. He gave me a pull from a Coke can as an engagement ring. Got down on one knee in the hotel room in Paris stark naked and asked me to make him the happiest man in the world. It was dead romantic.”

  Solomon sighed. He was fairly sure Maureen wasn’t behind the attempt to blow them up, but someone knew he was going to be at the car park and had planted the tracking device he’d left on Zut’s car. Even the cops wouldn’t sink so low as to kill a man for digging into their business. “Did you tell anyone I was looking for Zut?”

  Maureen shrugged. “I might have mentioned it.”

  “To?”

  “Jason’s cousin’s wife. She’s lovely, nothing like her husband. She says she’ll help me sort things out, and tell Jason about the baby and that Zut and I plan to marry.”

  “Who are these people? Are they here tonight?”

  “Kylie couldn’t make it, but Adrian is around somewhere.”

  “Adrian?”

  “Adrian Maroni.”

  Solomon sucked in a breath. He’d never seen that coming. Jeysus. The weaselly-looking man with Jason was Adrian Maroni, eldest son of Manfred Maroni and seriously bad news. He’d started out with petty crime, but after getting off a burglary charge, rumor had it he was now in full training to take over from his dad.

  The door to the dressing room opened and a man with blonde dreadlocks hanging down to his waist stuck his head into the room. “Hey, Moor. Can I use Zut’s white Strat? Mine’s busted. I can’t get a fucking note out of it.”

  Maureen glanced toward the corner of the room, and Solomon’s focus followed. Bleedin’ hell. He got to his feet and took a closer look at the signature on the front of the obviously vintage guitar. He’d hit the feckin jackpot. A smile curled up his lips. Daisy would be really pissed off when she worked out who was who, and how she’d been well and truly fooled. However, if the guitar was sitting in Bournemouth without its owner, Solomon knew that Zut, aka Lord Tobias Wareham, was no longer missing of his own free will.

  “Can I, Moor?” the musician pleaded.

  “Sure, sweetie, but please be careful with it.”

  “Treat it like a baby. I know how much Zut loves it.”

  The door to the dressing room opened further, and Jason appeared behind the musician. “Isn’t this cozy?” He looked at Maureen. “Why don’t you sort out your makeup in the ladies’ room and go and get on stage ready to begin? I want a word with Solomon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Daisy stretched and yawned. She’d been on the Internet for hours. The vegetarian lasagna she’d heated up was long gone. A dirty plate in the middle of the coffee table was the only evidence she’d eaten anything.

  A saxophone wailed softly in the background. She’d found Solomon’s extensive library of tunes and even mastered his digital computerized sound system. Smoky jazz set the scene for Paul’s arrival which was, she glanced at the clock, another hour away. The fire was starting to die down. She got to her feet, opened the fire’s glass door and shoved in some logs from the basket before giving the embers a poke. The air filled with the sound of crackling as the flames leapt back to life.

  The whiteboard stood in the corner of the room. She crossed to look at it. She’d thought the link had to be the Somerset Club or Langdon College but, while she had no doubt they had something to do with it, all the evidence was pointing to Anthony the Abbot. Her online research had brought up a newspaper report of Frank Mayberry’s brother going missing back in the late eighties. Two out of three of the apparent deaths they were investigating having links to homeless people seemed a big coincidence. Without seeing Frank’s will she couldn’t be sure the charity benefited from his estate, but she’d put money on it. Giles Beckitt was connected through Maureen and probably left the charity a legacy as well.

  She’d wondered why a legitimate charity would be caught up in something as sordid as an insurance scam. A cursory look at their online financial reports showed some strange anomalies, including large payments to businesses that were owned by trustees. There was a singular lack of detail about the services those companies provided to the homeless on behalf of Anthony the Abbot. The charity also owned a large property in the Canary Islands, along with a salubrious yacht supposedly used for rehab. She added some notes to the white board. Until Solomon got home she was stuck. As far as she could tell she’d exhausted all the information she was going to get off the Internet.

  She took a seat on the sofa, lifted the mouse, and wondered how to pass the time. Maybe she’d do some research into Solomon. She made the assumption he had his mother’s surname not his father’s, as he was adamant he didn’t know the man. A quick search for his mam’s name brought up a death notice in the Belfast Telegraph. Her name, Etian Liffey, was unusual, and that had made it easy. She scanned the notice. Solomon was the only named relative. Daisy placed the laptop on the coffee table and went through to the kitchen to grab the notepad and pen Solomon kept on the counter. On her return she wrote down his mother’s address.

  She sat and chewed the end of the pen. Should she go any further? He must have read his own birth certificate. He would have needed it to do all sorts of things. She topped up her wine glass and took a sip. Solomon might know full well who’d fathered him but was afraid of rejection, in which case she could make the first move and see if the man was willing to recognize the child he’d created.

  After placing her glass back on the table she took a deep breath and opened the website that allowed you to order a Northern Irish birth certificate. She filled in all the details. The only question that gave her pause for thought was why she wanted a copy. She typed in that she was his spouse. They weren’t married, but they were partners of sorts, even if it had never, and would never, be anything more than in a business sense. Once the application was complete she hit the final button. The moment of truth arrived, but the message on the screen made her sigh with frustration. How could he not have a birth certificate? She went back to the beginning and started over. Same result. Apparently Solomon either wasn’t born in Northern Ireland, or his mother had moved over the years.

  A loud trill, and the buzz and clatter of her phone dancing across the coffee table, made her jump. “Shit.”

  She grabbed it and checked caller ID before hitting accept and holding it to her ear. “Paul.”

  “Hey, beautiful. What does a man have to do to get access to Fort Solomon?”

  Her heart raced at the sound of Paul’s voice. Daisy put the laptop next to her on the sofa and got to her feet. “I’ll let you in. You’re early.”

  “Got something for you.”

  “Oh. Will I like it?”

  “You’ve never complained before.”

  She ran to the kitchen and buzzed him in. Once his truck cleared the gate she reset the alarm and made her way to the front door. She flung it open as his headlights pierced the darkness and swung an arc coming to rest on the garage door as he killed the engine. The night swallowed the truck. Paul appeared from the gloom, and she ran into his arms. He swung her off her feet and kissed her neck. She wrapped her legs around his middle and grabbed his hair, pulling him into a long, passion
ate kiss.

  They came up for air and Paul groaned, “Man, I’ll have to deliver your mail more often. Do you get this horny when the postman slips the envelopes through our front door in the mornings?”

  She slid to the ground, grabbed his hand, and dragged him inside. He slammed the door behind them and tossed her letters on the hall table. “Where’s Solomon?”

  “Out.” She pulled Paul into the lounge.

  He smiled. “Oh, nice fire. When will he be back?”

  Daisy shoved Paul’s jacket off his shoulders. “Later.” She glanced at her watch. “Much later.”

  “You do know you’re starting to sound like him don’t you? Next you’ll become a clean and tidy freak.”

  Daisy frowned. There was a thought guaranteed to kill the mood.

  Paul ran a finger up her arm. “Want to defile his place and make out on his hearth rug?”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  *

  Solomon twitched. Something was tickling his nose. Molly. She loved to tickle. He raised an eyelid. Dark. He shifted on the cold, rough, hard surface and groaned. He was flat on his back. Sharp aching pain pierced his skull, and joined the rhythm section of pins and needles playing the tango up his arms. No wonder they were numb, he was lying on the fecking things. He struggled to sit but failed, rolling facedown instead. His head hit concrete, and he moaned as the pain ricocheted around his skull, like a hamster on speed.

  “Buddy. You awake?”

  He shuffled awkwardly, pulled his legs up under his body, and fought to a kneeling position. No amount of tugging could free his hands, which appeared to be tied behind his back. It took him a minute to get used to the gloom and for the pain in his head to subside from a volcanic eruption to a low grumble. A man sat with his back to the wall a few feet away. Knees pulled up, his hands dangled between his legs, and he twirled a feather in his fingers. The man peered at him. His long hair was matted, but he was still clad in his signature Lycra and leather.