As soon as Ned left, Granddad disappeared into his bedroom, and Val phoned Joe Westrin, Nadia’s ex. The voice on his answering machine reported that Jackie and Joe weren’t available. Apparently, Joe had a new wife or a live-in girlfriend. Val left a message for him, her usual request for help with the newsletter article on Nadia.
She cleaned up the kitchen, climbed into bed exhausted, and closed her eyes.
She was driving, elated that Nadia sat in the passenger seat. She wasn’t dead after all. The steering wheel came off in Val’s hands, and Nadia screamed. If only Val could force the steering wheel back on the post, she could keep them both alive. The car veered off a bridge and plummeted toward the water.
Val awoke in a sweat, her heart racing. She had recurring car-crash nightmares. A passenger always sat next to her, her former fiancé or Chef Henri or Granddad. Never before had a dead person sat in the doomed car. Maybe her subconscious was telling her she’d gone off the road in her pursuit of Nadia’s killer. How could she get back on track?
Wide-awake now, Val crept downstairs for crackers and warm milk, her mother’s remedy for sleeplessness. As she passed through the sitting room on her way to the kitchen, she heard bushes rustling under the side windows near the driveway. Maybe deer, though they usually didn’t come close to the house.
She looked out the dining room window and could barely see the shape of her car. The light over the side door was off. She went into the vestibule at the side entrance and flipped the switch. Still dark in the driveway. The bulb must have burned out.
Two nights ago, she would have fetched a flashlight and gone outside to investigate the noise and replace the bulb. But now, with a murderer at large, she was taking no chances. She could at least turn on the inside lights. She flipped all the switches from the study to the back porch. The glow from the windows should keep deer from coming close. It would also create the illusion of alert occupants to discourage any human prowlers.
She gave up on sleeping and went to the shelves flanking the fireplace in the sitting room. Some books stood upright, others lay piled sideways, their colorful spines creating a quilt pattern. No one had shifted the books in decades. When she wanted to reread a classic, she knew where to find it. She took down Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, nestled on the sofa, and read only a few pages of the first story, “Silver Blaze,” before her eyes closed.
At dawn on Thursday, Val abandoned the sofa where she’d spent most of the night and made coffee. After dressing, she went outside and walked all around the house. No sign of anything amiss. She didn’t need to change the lightbulb near the side door, only tighten it in the socket. Probably Granddad hadn’t screwed it in all the way, and vibration had worked it loose.
Val left the café at ten when Bethany arrived to relieve her. She drove to the Bayport Properties office in town to find out what she could about Nadia’s professional life and reputation.
The receptionist in the office greeted her. “Hello, I’m Mavis. How can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Val Deniston, a friend of Nadia’s from the Bayport Racket and Fitness Club. I’m writing an article about her for the club newsletter. I was hoping her colleagues here could give me some information or anecdotes about her that I can work into the article.”
Mavis frowned and chewed her lip. “Our agents are fairly busy this morning. I’ll let them know what you want and, if you leave your phone number, I’m sure one of them will call you.”
In other words, get lost. Val would have to convince Mavis that she wasn’t a snoopy reporter, but a pal—or better yet, a client—of Nadia’s. “Nadia called me from here Monday, and I didn’t get a chance to return the call. I have no idea why she phoned me. If I could talk to someone who works with her, we might figure out why she called, and I won’t feel so bad about not getting back to her.” A lame story, but at least it didn’t prompt the receptionist to escort her to the door.
“Are you interested in buying or selling a house? That’s probably why she called.”
“She knew I was fixing up my grandfather’s house, but it’s not ready for sale yet.”
Mavis smiled at the mention of a potential sale. “Nadia was mentoring a new agent, Kimberly. She might be able to help you. I’ll let her know you’re writing an article about Nadia.”
Thirty seconds later Kimberly met Val in the reception area. The real estate agent looked like a high school cheerleader in a business suit. “So you were like one of Nadia’s friends? We’re all totally bummed out by what happened to her. She was such an aggressive agent, and what a great body she had for a woman her age.”
The receptionist, a woman about Nadia’s age, rolled her eyes. “Aggressive isn’t the right word. She knew how to follow up with clients and close a deal. Maybe she found a client for the house you’re fixing up, Val, and that’s why she called you.”
“Maybe. Was she working with any new clients the last few days?”
“We can check the master schedule.” Kimberly led her from the reception area to a corridor with a huge whiteboard calendar on its wall. “Her appointments are in orange marker. We each have our own color.”
Val studied the orange entries on the board. “Why did she write ‘STONED’ under Friday?”
Kimberly giggled. “Stone is the last name. The ‘D’ is the person’s first initial. The squares on the calendar are so small you have to use abbreviations or else write real tiny.”
Val gave Kimberly a thumbs-up. “Got it. I see Nadia worked with D. Stone on Friday and with N. Singh on Saturday.”
Kimberly tapped the board with a long purple fingernail. “Mr. Singh was looking for waterfront property. She spent the whole day with him, and the next day she held an open house.”
“Thank you for taking the time to explain this to me, Kimberly.”
“No problem.” Her voice barely rose over a whisper. “I’m glad to talk to someone who’s like young. Most everyone here has gray hair.”
Fortunately, Val had recently plucked her three gray hairs. “Nadia didn’t list any names for Monday. Did she take the day off?”
“She was in the office most of the day Monday except right in the middle when she borrowed my car. Hers had a dead battery.”
“She borrowed your car to go meet a client?”
Kimberly shook her head. “She’d have put the client’s name on the schedule. She was gone a couple of hours, like eleven to one-thirty. After she returned my car keys, she went out to lunch. When she came back, she handled some drop-in clients. Then she asked me to run her by the club to pick up her car. A mechanic had gone out there and installed a new battery.”
“Would you say she had an ordinary day on Monday?”
“Not really.” Kimberly glanced at a nearby room where a man was on the phone. She leaned toward Val. “I didn’t mention this to anyone in the office. I went out for lunch around noon that day. Since Nadia took my car, I had to walk. On my way back, I saw my car on Main Street, driven by a woman with long black hair.”
Val scratched her head. “Nadia lent your car to someone else?”
“That’s what I thought at first. Then I saw the driver had on the same red top Nadia wore that day. It was her wearing a wig.”
Val felt her blood pumping faster. “Can we talk somewhere private?” She followed Kimberly to a miniscule office. “Did you see anyone in the car with Nadia?”
“She was alone. I asked her about the wig later. She said it was a joke. To see if an old friend would recognize her in disguise.”
If Nadia had told the truth, the police should find out who that old friend was. If she’d lied, they should investigate the reason for her disguise. “Did Nadia ever borrow a car or wear a wig before Monday?”
“Not that I know. Is it important? Should I tell the police?”
“Call Chief Yardley and tell him.”
“I’ll do that.” Kimberly reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a small spiral notebook. “I found this in my car this morning, stuck be
tween the two front seats. It must have slid down when Nadia drove my car. It’s her writing. Nothing to do with business, though. Backhands, serves, tennis stuff. Do you think I should give it to the police?”
“Can I see it?” Val opened the spiral and skimmed the first ten pages. They contained notes in Nadia’s printing style, back-slanted capital letters. “I doubt the police need this. Nadia was our tennis team captain. These are her records of our matches, who played for the opposing team, what their strengths and weaknesses were. She must have thought it would help us the next time we played against them.” Though that wouldn’t happen until next season, and Nadia wouldn’t be there to benefit from what she’d written.
“I get it. Scouting out the competition. You want to keep the notebook?”
“Sure. I’ll give it to whoever takes Nadia’s place as team captain.” Val tucked it in her bag. Nothing she’d heard yet supported Bethany’s claim that other agents resented Nadia’s tactics. Kimberly might need a push to talk about that subject. “Did Nadia ever complain about another agent or a developer?” Like Bigby O’Shay.
“Not to me.”
“A few months ago, I moved here from New York, where real estate agents are very ruthless. They’ll do anything for a sale. Is that the way it is here?”
“We hang on to our own clients, but that’s not like ruthless or anything.”
“You said earlier that Nadia was aggressive.”
“I meant it in a good way. Once she had a prospect, she never let go. But she wasn’t mean or anything. I’m going to miss her.” Kimberly slumped, her cheery demeanor gone. “She like helped me a lot, and she really didn’t have to.”
“How did she help you?”
“With sales tips and advice. Like a few weeks ago, she heard me calling a new client by his first name and told me to address everyone as Mr. or Ms. She said older people get turned off when younger people use their first names. I never thought of that. Everyone I know uses first names. It’s like friendlier, you know. She also said she’d help me get better at finding and keeping clients.”
Val knew of one client Nadia’s protégée might enlist. She asked Kimberly for a business card and wrote “Zacharnaroviak” on the back of it. “Here’s the name of a client Nadia never had a chance to see. If you contact her, maybe this woman will list her house with you. She lives on Maple Street and likes to be called Mrs. Z.”
“Wow. I really appreciate this.”
Not as much as Val appreciated what the agent had told her about Nadia’s actions on Monday. Wearing a wig on a sweltering day made no sense unless Nadia had to disguise herself. Had she ever done that before the day of the murder? If anyone could answer that, Chatty could.
Val looked forward to this afternoon’s facial-and-gossip session, though she’d have to stay on her guard. Chatty would want to get as much information as she gave.
Chapter 12
Chatty arrived twenty minutes after the café closed, toting a campstool and a black case for her products. Thanks to tinted contact lenses, her irises matched her violet smock and her eye shadow. Her lipstick matched her hot pink scarf. She pointed to an armless settee in the far corner of the café. “You can lie there while I give you a facial.”
Val tried to get comfortable on the narrow settee. She looked up at Chatty. “I feel like I’m at the dentist’s.”
“Trust me. You’ll love this.” Chatty unfolded the stool, extracted three bottles from her suitcase, and unscrewed the caps. “What’s your theory on who set the racket on fire?”
“I don’t have a theory.” Instead, Val knew the disturbing facts and wished she didn’t.
Chatty dotted pink lotion on Val’s forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. “Well, I think it was Bigby. I heard him talking about it at the club on Monday. He pretended to be outraged that someone would do that to Nadia. But how would he know about it unless he did it himself?”
“Maybe he heard it from Bethany. You told her and Monique.” But how much did she tell them? “Did you actually see the burned racket?”
“Uh-huh. Nadia showed it to me when I picked her up Monday morning. Her car was on the fritz, and she needed a ride to work.”
“Where was the racket when you saw it?”
“She pulled it from the trash bin outside her house.” Chatty spread liquid silk from Val’s jaw to her forehead. “She wanted me to sound out Monique and Bethany. She thought one of them burned it and might come clean with me.”
“But you think Bigby did it. Why?”
Chatty massaged Val’s cheekbones. “Because of what happened between him and Nadia. When she told me, I was speechless.”
“I hope you’ll make up for that now.”
Chatty tapped Val’s cheek in a mock slap. She looked toward the café entrance. “Here comes Irene Pritchard.”
A tall, pale woman with gray hair like corrugated metal approached them. Nadia’s next-door neighbor reminded Val of her fifth grade teacher, the aptly named Mrs. Stern, whose steely gaze could make even the schoolyard bully cringe.
Chatty took her hands off Val’s face and massaged her own fingers.
Irene looked down at Val. “I came in for a cup of tea, but there’s no one behind the counter.”
Val had never before seen Irene at the club, much less at the café they’d both applied to manage. “We’re closed now. The hours are posted at the entrance to the alcove.”
“Closed in the middle of the afternoon? What time do you reopen?”
“Not until tomorrow.” Val felt as if she’d missed a homework assignment. “We’re open every day from eight to two.”
“Hmm.” Irene squinted at the slacker, pivoted, and left.
Something besides tea must have brought her here. Val shrugged. Back to more important things. “You were about to tell me what happened between Nadia and Bigby.”
“They were all business when they started playing mixed doubles. They talked strategy and dissected their opponents’ games. Then Bigby got friendlier. He’d give Nadia a pat on the rump after a good point and a big hug after winning a set.”
“Was she okay with that?” Val closed her eyes, enjoying the gentle pressure of Chatty’s fingers.
“She tried to wiggle away, but he didn’t seem to notice. When he invited her out, Nadia had her excuses ready. She said she was busy, maybe they could do it some other time. She figured if she said ‘no’ often enough, Bigby would catch on.”
“That probably didn’t work. Bigby doesn’t do subtle.”
“No kidding.” Chatty’s palms pressed against Val’s forehead from her eyebrows to her hairline. “He showed up on her doorstep one night, a bouquet in his hand and a gleam in his eye. As soon as she let him in—and what else could she do?—he started pawing her.”
Val’s eyes flew open. “And then what?”
“When she backed away, he said, ‘Hey, Nadia, wouldn’t you like to be the agent for my new development? Get commissions on all those houses?’ Like she should sleep with him to get commissions? She threw him out of course.”
A new take on Nadia and the sales job at Bigby’s development. Bethany’s version of the story had obviously come from Bigby. “No wonder Nadia stopped playing tennis with him.”
“And, after that night, she would see Bigby now and again parked across the street, sitting there watching her house.”
Val bolted upright. “He stalked her? Did she tell the police?”
“No. She wasn’t positive it was him. The car looked like his, but it had tinted windows. She couldn’t see the driver.” Chatty wrung her greased hands. “Maybe Bigby went from harassing Nadia, to burning the racket, to . . . killing her.”
“You have to tell the police what Nadia said.” If Chief Yardley had known about a stalker, maybe he wouldn’t have been so hard on Monique.
“I hate to cross Bigby. He has a lot of influence in this town.”
“A stalker makes a damned good murder suspect, whether it was Bigby or not. In any case, the poli
ce won’t tell him where their information came from. Call Chief Yardley.”
“Later. Lie back down. The facial isn’t over.” She reached for a bottle of milky lotion.
“Good.” Val liked the massage more than she expected.
Chatty’s eyes half closed as she resumed the facial, a ghost of a smile and a look of contentment on her face. She obviously enjoyed her work. While Bethany needed to be needed, Chatty apparently needed to knead—bread and pasta dough, faces, fabrics, whatever she could get her fingers on. Sometimes she massaged her own muscles and even the air around her, her hands in constant motion. Did she also massage the truth?
Val didn’t know Chatty well enough to answer that question. “Tell me about Nadia’s divorce. When did she break up with Joe?”
“A year and a half ago.”
“Did she ever explain why they broke up?”
“I could never get anything out of her about that. It was a really private thing with her.” Chatty tapped even faster on Val’s skin as if the desire for privacy agitated her. “Nadia had a tendency to clam up about certain things. Like the day she exchanged cars with me. Not that I minded driving a Lexus instead of a Honda.”
Val opened her eyes. “When did you switch cars with her?”
“Wednesday of last week. My guess is she was going someplace she didn’t want to drive a flashy car.” Chatty’s thumbs traced circles around Val’s eyes. “After she climbed into my car, she tied a scarf around her head and put on huge sunglasses, even though it was cloudy.”
A scarf and sunglasses, not much of a disguise at close range, but from a distance in a moving car, they might do quite well. By Monday of this week, when she drove Kimberly’s car, she had a better disguise, a dark wig. Nadia owned the right vehicle for chauffeuring people looking at property, but not the right one for . . . what? Watching someone? Evading a stalker?
By Cook or by Crook Page 11
