I thought back to what she’d said about Joy that night at the bar. Something about her being intelligent but a born victim too. My stomach lurched. Surely not?
Mr. Black pushed the battered swear pig over to his wife. And I prayed that I was wrong.
20
Hallie offered us dinner, but the sick feeling in my stomach was getting worse. We had to get to the bottom of this. I phoned Mae as soon as we were in the car, explained my theory, and requested she focus her background search on historical events that might support it.
Etta cussed when she understood my reasoning. A subconscious part of me waited for the swear jar to materialize, but of course it didn’t.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess we should return this car to Harper’s garage while we wait for Mae to dig something up.”
She gave her assent, and we drove in silence. It was only as we were transferring the disguises and junk food wrappers to my Corvette that she spoke up again.
“These sunglasses reminded me of something. Do you remember how that nosy neighbor—”
“You mean Mr. Nostril Hairs.” I interrupted, trying to lighten the mood.
“Hush, this could be important,” she said, but there was a smile in her voice. “Remember how he told us about a woman watching Watts the week before he was killed? He mentioned she was wearing big, buglike sunglasses, similar to these ones. And that she was a brunette in her thirties or forties. Do you think it might’ve been Gibson?”
I halted for a second, considering. “Good point. Didn’t he say she was driving a blue Honda Civic too? I can’t believe I didn’t think of it when we followed her home. Gibson’s car was blue. Well, I think it was blue.”
“Yes, hard to be a hundred percent sure in the dark, but I reckon you might be on the mark. There are a lot of Honda Civics in LA though.”
“Then why don’t we see if the star witness of the case recognizes Gibson from a photo?”
Etta checked the time. “Sure. No one’s asleep by nine on New Year’s Eve anyway. Mr. Nostril Hairs will probably be glad for the company.”
Etta was partially correct.
He was glad to see us, but he’d trimmed his nostril hairs since we’d last visited, so we were going to have to come up with a new nickname.
“I must’ve died and gone to heaven to have two beautiful angels return to my doorstep on New Year’s Eve,” he said. “Did you come back to take me up on my offer of a date? I’ve got a lot of money, and I sure know how to spoil a lady.”
He was spoiling the Cheese Puffs and Snickers bar I’d eaten on the way over. It turned out I should’ve taken Hallie up on her offer of dinner after all.
“Really?” Etta purred. “I might have to experience that for myself, you old player. But first we were wondering if you could help us again. Do you think you’d recognize that lady you saw watching the Watts’ home a week and a half ago?”
“Sure I would. I’ve got a mind like a steel trap. She was loitering on the street, same as you two were on Thursday before those emergency vehicles showed up. I don’t know why you didn’t come and see me then.”
He was referring to the day we’d saved Nicole from the thugs.
“Ah, we were going to,” Etta claimed, “but after what happened with Mrs. Watts, we were so traumatized that it fell out of our heads. I guess we don’t have such a great memory as you.”
“Sure, I can understand that. Not everyone can stay calm and detail oriented in the face of danger,” he said modestly.
Etta thrust her phone at him, displaying Gibson’s school portrait photo. “Could this be the lady you saw?”
He peered at it, then checked his pockets for his glasses. The longer he searched, the less hope I had of a positive ID. Finally he found them, swinging from his neck on a lanyard-style strap. He put them on the bridge of his nose and peered at the photo again. “Hmm. Yep, it was definitely her. She never got out of the car like you two did, but when Michael drove off, she followed. I didn’t see her again after that.”
“Not even on the day Mr. Watts was killed?”
“No, I would’ve told the police if I did. The one stranger I saw was the person they have pegged as the murderer.”
It didn’t mean much. The shooter could have just as easily accessed the property from the back via the Riviera Country Club. Come to think of it, a set of golf clubs would be the perfect vehicle for carting a gun past security and other curious eyes. And since our murderer had successfully framed Mr. Black, I figured they were good at planning.
“But it’s not as if I spend every moment of every day staring out my window,” he continued. “I’m a busy man.”
“Of course you are,” I said. “I guess we better not take up any more of your time.”
“Hey now, I’ve always got time for angels.”
Etta smiled. “Well, aren’t you sweet. Don’t worry, my memory might not be as great as yours, but I won’t forget where you live.”
We turned tail and fled down the paver stone path to the car.
“Are you sure you weren’t an actress?” I asked.
“Course I’m sure.”
“Then what were you?” I realized I didn’t know. I was positive I must have asked her before, but somehow I’d never gotten a straight answer.
“Oh, all sorts of things. I’ve lived a long time. But I won’t bore you with the details.”
She was saved from further prying by Mae calling me back.
“I think I’ve found what you were looking for,” she said. “I have a friend who works in Child Protective Services, and she searched the database for me. Olivia Gibson and Leo Bergström lived in the same foster family for six years. My friend dug up why they were both put into the system too. Gibson’s biological parents physically abused her, and Bergström’s mother was a junkie, father unknown.”
It was the confirmation I’d been looking for, and now it all made a horrible kind of sense.
That just left the teensy-weensy matter of proving it.
Neither Etta, Mae, nor I were in the mood for celebrating New Year’s Eve, and Connor was working late. Still trying to catch up on the work he’d put off on my behalf two days ago. I was in bed before the fireworks began.
21
Each woman had been waxed, tanned, exercised, and starved to perfection. And all I could think as I looked at their bodies was how much I needed a donut.
A donut, shapeless flannel pajamas, and bed. It was too early to be awake, and certainly too early to be surrounded by women in string bikinis. Of course, the string bikinis disappeared during each woman’s photo session, and that was worse. The Taste Society had done well in choosing female Shades for the role, as most males would have a difficult time concentrating.
Then again, I was having difficulty staying awake. Connor had woken me ten minutes before midnight and told me he wanted to bring in the new year the right way. He’d kept me up in a most pleasant fashion, then disappeared for work again before my alarm went off.
To add insult to injury, my hard-won presence here was superfluous. Vanessa wasn’t eating until after her shoot. She had a bottle of water she’d brought along but hadn’t even cracked the seal on it yet.
It was a terrible start to the new year. Aside from the Connor part.
I supposed I should take an odd sort of pride in Vanessa’s unmarred skin, unbloated figure, and healthy digestive system, but that felt too weird, so I went back to listening to the gossip. The hot topic of the morning was thinly veiled gloating. “What a shame that Julie couldn’t be here. It’s a terrible time for her face to break out.”
“Yes and poor Tiff still has that awful rash. I checked in on her before coming here, and her skin looks like she fell on a porcupine.”
“Sure, zits or a rash is one thing, but Nadine’s husband told me she’d spent all night on the toilet.”
And on it went. I zoned out and focused on the star photographer. The one they’d delayed
the whole shoot until New Year’s Day to work his personal brand of magic.
He was a middle-aged gentleman with a large nose and a ponytail and black leather jacket that were too young for him. From what I could tell, his personality seemed to be that of an oily rag, and I had the growing suspicion that he was so good at taking sensual photographs because he was as lecherous as his nose was long.
“That’s right, darling,” he drawled, “give me a sexy little pout, show me some desire in those eyes, that’s it, gorgeous, now pull your left shoulder back, oh yeah that’s good.”
I zoned him out too. Stephanie was having her shoot done at the moment. The theme was the Amazon rainforest, so she was posed in front of a green screen with vivid blue butterflies artfully arranged to preserve a modicum of modesty. The butterflies were fake, but there were plenty of living props here, including a sloth, a python, and a jaguar. Their handlers waited with them. Welcome to Hollywood. I was almost looking forward to finding out which woman would be chosen to have the python draped over her naked body.
Vanessa was scheduled next.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some water?” I asked her as a makeup artist went over the highlights on her face and collarbones one more time.
“I’m fine,” she said. The photographer beckoned, and she removed her bikini. “Wish me luck.”
As she walked over to the makeshift studio space, Miranda’s voice rose over the gossip. “Vanessa and her food adviser sure are close, considering I heard her husband’s been bonking the food adviser’s brains out.”
Vanessa’s head jerked back to me. I shook my head frantically, but a blush rose to my cheeks.
“Well they do have an open marriage,” one of the other women replied, also louder than necessary.
Vanessa seemed to take my heated cheeks as a sign of guilt rather than innocence. Fury tightened every line of her perfect, naked body.
The oblivious photographer piped up. “All right then. Let me have a look at you.” He rubbed his nose as he studied her and then leered. “Hank, we’ve got a live one. Bring out the jaguar.”
I could see Vanessa trying to block it out and focus on the shoot, but even with a jaguar to keep her attention, her eyes kept flicking in my direction.
The photographer snapped a few shots and paused. “You’ve got this fiery look going that could really work, but you need to soften it a bit so it makes me think you’ll be dynamite in the sack rather than wanting to cut off my sack. You got me?”
Unable to watch anymore, I slunk away. Which was how I spotted Miranda slipping Emily a wad of cash. Emily noticed me watching and gave me a familiar smile. The one that told me she despised me and suggested I go screw myself. And suddenly I understood the reason behind her apparent change of heart and friendly conversation about our clients.
I might’ve protected Vanessa’s body from the machinations of the WECS Club, but in liaising with another Shade the way I wasn’t supposed to, I’d unwittingly exposed her vulnerability. I was in serious trouble. And suspected I wouldn’t be getting that $500 bonus anymore either.
Even worse, if I couldn’t outsmart Emily, how was I going to outsmart the real murderer of Michael Watts? The killer who’d led the expert detectives down the precise path of her choosing and was looking like she’d get away with it scot-free.
“No way,” I told Etta. “No flippin’ way. Are you going senile?”
“Course not. I just want to save Abe from being thrown into prison for a murder he didn’t commit more than I want to save my own ass.”
Ouch.
“If you’ve got a better idea, throw it at me, but otherwise I’m doing it. We need evidence, and that’s our best shot.”
“It’s illegal.”
“So is gay marriage in a bunch of states. Doesn’t mean it’s the wrong thing to do.”
Ugh. Etta had an answer to everything. Except how to find evidence incriminating Gibson by legal means.
“What if she comes home and finds you? She’ll be able to shoot you and claim it was self-defense.”
“Guess I’ll have to shoot first then.”
I stared at the stubborn old woman, sure she must be made of different stuff than me. But as much as she liked to act like she was invincible, she wasn’t. And I was worried about her.
“So are you coming or not?” she asked, oblivious to my train of thought.
“I want the record to show that I absolutely do not condone what you’re about to do, and I want no part of it. But I’m coming to stand guard. Not to assist you. I’m there strictly for damage control.”
She smirked at me. “Whatever eases your conscience.”
I reminded myself that since she thought she was invincible, it probably never occurred to her that I might be doing it to protect her.
“Maybe for damage control you could ask that mechanic friend of yours to temporarily disable Principal Gibson’s car. If she can’t come home, she can’t find me in her house and be upset about it.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “So you’re just going to go and break into her home in the middle of the day? In broad daylight?”
“I’ll wear my harmless-old-lady outfit so no one looks twice. It’s the one good thing about gettin’ old. It’s almost as effective as having an invisibility cloak like in those Harry Potter movies. Besides, there’s no such crime as breaking and entering. If I don’t damage or steal anything, the worst they can ping me for is trespassing. I’ll just pick the lock—”
“Wait, you can pick locks?”
“Of course. Good skill to have. For self-defense, obviously. What if someone locked you up? Anyway, I’ll pick the lock and take some photos of the evidence. That should be enough to convince the police to get a warrant—I don’t need to tell them where I got the photos. And the warrant will make sure any evidence they find is admissible in the court of law. Then Bob’s your uncle. Simple as that.”
Somehow I didn’t think it would be so simple.
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
She flashed me a smile. “I called Mae, and she gave me tips on the best way to go about it so the evidence is admissible in court and there’s minimal risk of going to prison.”
Oh boy. I’d had a bad feeling that introducing them could be a mistake. Though to be fair to Mae, Etta would have plunged ahead with this regardless, so it was best she did it with strategy.
“Did she teach you how to pick locks too?” I asked, starting to feel better about Etta’s unexplainable skill set.
“Nope. That I knew already. For self-defense, like I said.”
Her explanation was thin, but I didn’t pry further. It wasn’t even close to the top of my list of things to worry about right now.
And while most of me thought Etta was crazy, a small part of me whispered that maybe she was brave and I was a coward.
22
The day of the break-in arrived.
Etta had driven past the Frederick Academy parking lot to confirm that Gibson was still working despite the holidays, and we had Harper to ensure Gibson didn’t pop home for a visit. My conversation with Harper had gone something like this:
“You want me to what?” she’d asked.
“To temporarily disable Olivia Gibson’s car.”
“You know that’s illegal, right?”
I’d let out a sigh. “Right.”
“Good, so long as we’re clear.”
The more Etta and I had plotted and planned, the more I felt as if I was involved in some kind of elaborate heist, like in Ocean’s Eleven. Except I suspected we were doing a piss-poor job of it.
Unfortunately, it was too late to back out. I held my breath as Etta shuffled up to the door, her loose-knit shawl and the garden shrubbery hiding her nimble hands working the lock from observers. She’d wanted to use walkie-talkies so she could say things like “over and out” but had compromised with earphones.
Sixty agonizingly slow seconds passed. Then another thirty. Even with a quick remembe
red breath in the middle, I was lightheaded from lack of oxygen by the time the door opened. She moseyed inside as if she had every right to be there.
“Settle down,” she crooned. “I can’t be worried about you having a stroke when I’m trying to concentrate.”
She had a point. No matter how nervous I was, I had to breathe if I was going to be any sort of useful lookout or damage control.
“Nice place,” she informed me a few seconds later. “Though she needs a decorator to help liven it up. It has potential but looks a bit too much like a principal’s office for my taste. Ooh, except she has a big jar of those licorice stick things. The red ones.”
I heard the sound of chewing.
“Etta! You weren’t supposed to take anything. Now you can get charged with burglary!”
“Oh hush. I’m eating the evidence so there’s nothing to stress about. They won’t be able to prove I stole anything without a stool sample, and let me tell you, no policeman’s gonna wanna do that.”
I choked on the water I’d been in the middle of swallowing.
“She’s very tidy and organized. I bet she’s one of those people who have a to-do list they actually stick to.”
Had she written kill Michael Watts and frame Abraham Black on that list? If so, that would be a useful bit of evidence.
Etta giggled. “You should see her eighties hair and glasses combo in this school photo. Must’ve been when she first started teaching, but even then she would’ve been a decade behind the times.”
“You’re supposed to be looking for evidence. Shouldn’t you start on a more likely room? A home office maybe?”
“All right. Don’t get your panties in a twist. We have plenty of time. Tell me, are other Australians as chicken-livered as you? I always thought with those dangerous critters you have that it would be a continent full of like-minded people as me. But congratulations on single-handedly putting me off from ever going there.”
Poison is the New Black: (Bonus story: Taste of Christmas) (An Eat, Pray, Die Humorous Mystery Book 3) Page 17
