“I wouldn’t—”
She walked past me and shrugged into her navy peacoat.
“Where are you going?”
“To find someone to drive me to Wyoming, and to visit Mr. ‘My Pecs Are Bigger than Your Boobs’ Brodnax to find out what else he wasn’t telling me.”
21
Charlie headed for Brodnax’s Wolf Ranch house, keeping one eye on the sky. The snow had stopped for the moment, but steel-wool clouds obscured the top of Pikes Peak and the Front Range. The forecast predicted the bulk of the snow for tomorrow, and Charlie wanted to be out of Cheyenne well before the first snowflakes fell. She called Albertine as she drove, but the woman turned down the opportunity to drive to Wyoming in the face of an approaching blizzard.
“Can’t, Charlie,” she said. “I’ve got a private party booked tonight—rehearsal dinner—and I’ve got to be here to oversee things. Otherwise, there’s nothing I’d like better than trying to outdrive a monster snowstorm. Mother Nature doesn’t like it when you taunt her, sugar. Just look at what happened to those poor folks in New Orleans who didn’t evacuate for Hurricane Katrina. Now, if you ever want to drive to Vegas, I’m your woman.”
Charlie hung up and tried Dan. He surprised her by accepting immediately. “I need a break,” he said. “We’re having renovations done in the office spaces, and it’s so noisy I can’t hear myself think. I don’t have anything scheduled until Friday morning. Mel can handle whatever comes up while I’m gone.”
“We’ll be back by tomorrow evening at the latest,” Charlie assured him. “I’ll swing by in an hour and a half to pick you up.”
She flipped the phone shut as she pulled up to the curb in front of Brodnax’s house. Getting out, she surveyed it grimly. She’d printed off the photo of Wilfred Cheney and thought she’d start by showing it to Brodnax to gauge his reaction. Marching to the front door, she stabbed the doorbell. No response. She listened for a moment but heard nothing. The wind gusted, raking branches against metal gutters at the house next door, but no sign of life came from within Brodnax’s house. Standing on the front stoop, Charlie got the feeling the house was deserted.
She walked to the garage, which sat perpendicular to the house, stood on tiptoe, and cupped her hands around her eyes to see into the window. The dark, cavernous space was empty. Not just no-cars empty—totally empty. Not a half-full paint can, not a rake, not a bicycle or lawn mower or bag of deicing salt. Brodnax was gone; he’d cleared out. Charlie could feel it.
She held her windblown hair off her face with one hand while evaluating her options. She could go home and pack and hit the road for Wyoming. She could canvass the neighbors to see what they might know about Brodnax and/or Heather-Anne. Neighbors were inherently nosy and tended to know a lot more than people thought they did about what went on next door or across the street. Or she could gain entry to the house with the picklocks Gigi had bought on eBay, which Charlie had been practicing with while she convalesced, and see what she could learn. The thought brought a spurt of adrenaline. With the latter plan in mind, Charlie traipsed around to the back of the house. The drapes were drawn as before, and she could see nothing. However, a child jumping on a trampoline in the next yard, and the lack of concealment in the form of fences or shrubs, discouraged her from using the picklocks. She consoled herself with the thought that if Brodnax had cleaned out the garage so thoroughly, he certainly hadn’t left anything in the house.
Glancing at her watch, Charlie decided she had time to chat with the neighbors on either side, if they were home, before meeting Father Dan. She crunched across the rock bed that separated Brodnax’s house from the house with the trampolining child. The sound of a vacuum drifted through the front door as she rang the bell. The vacuum cut off, and footsteps approached. Charlie stepped back and pasted a nonthreatening smile on her face.
The wooden door opened and a young woman appeared, holding the storm door firmly shut. In her late teens or early twenties, she had flax-colored hair and equally pale brows that made her appear to have none at all. “Yes?” she called through the glass.
Charlie approved of the girl’s caution. “Hi. I’m a Realtor, and I was supposed to meet with your neighbor, Mr. Brodnax, about selling his house, but he’s late for our appointment. I don’t suppose you know when he left or how I can get hold of him?”
“I’m the au pair,” the girl said, and Charlie noticed a faint trace of Dutch or German accent. “I just take care of Evie. I only arrived last month, and I don’t know any of the neighbors except the lady two doors down whose daughter plays with Evie. Sorry.” She closed the door before Charlie could ask anything else.
One down. Charlie surveyed the nearby houses, trying to decide which looked most promising. She finally decided on the one across the street because someone had pulled up the blinds since she’d arrived, probably to scope her out. Promisingly snoopy behavior. She crossed the street. Before she could ring the bell, the door swung open.
“I’ve been watching you,” the thin, midforties woman announced, arms akimbo. She wore a USAFA sweatshirt and jeans and had thick brown hair cut in something perilously like a Dorothy Hamill wedge. She looked like the prototypical soccer mom, able to shuttle four kids to a variety of sports practices and games, plus run the PTA and hold down a full-time job. “The covenants don’t allow door-to-door sales.”
“I’m a Realtor,” Charlie said, smiling until her cheeks ached. “I had an appointment to talk to Mr. Brodnax across the street about selling his house, but he’s not there.”
“Oh, really?” The woman narrowed her eyes.
Nodding, Charlie said, “Did you see him go? Did he maybe leave a change of address with you?”
“You’re lying.”
The woman didn’t pull her punches. “I’m—”
“I know you’re lying because we own that house and Alan was renting it from us. It isn’t his to sell.”
Oops.
“I’m going to call the cops. You’re probably— What do they call it? Casing the place. You’re looking to see who’s home and who’s not and what kind of alarm systems we have so you can rob us. For your information, we have a very active Neighborhood Watch and you’re not going to get away with it.” Give her some tights and a cape and she could have been Subdivision Savior Woman who vanquishes petty thieves, teenaged vandals, and HOA scofflaws with her prying eyes and dialing finger.
Charlie would have cut her losses and left except the soccer mom had been Brodnax’s landlady and undoubtedly had lease paperwork or rent checks with addresses, employment, or next-of-kin information that might prove important.
“Wait,” Charlie said, holding up her hands in an “I surrender” gesture. “You’re right. I’m not a Realtor.” She handed the woman one of her cards. “I’m a private investigator, and it’s vital that I find Mr. Brodnax. Look, Mrs.—?”
“Carrie Barbiero. How do I know you’re not lying now?”
“I guess you don’t,” Charlie admitted. She nodded at the woman’s sweatshirt. “Are you stationed at the Academy? I was in the air force for seven years.”
“My husband teaches in the math department.” She studied Charlie for a long moment. “Oh, come on in. I’m an excellent judge of character, and you don’t really strike me as a thief. Frankly, I’d be happier than a pig in shit if you’d locate Alan Brodnax. He stiffed us on two months’ rent and sold the appliances.”
She led the way through a foyer littered with volleyballs, hockey sticks and skates, and snow gear in sizes ranging from tot to teen. Charlie appreciated that she made no apology for the clutter as she stepped over a skateboard and into a family room that looked lived in. Others might say it looked like Visigoths had rampaged through overnight, but Charlie was feeling charitable since she had high hopes for the interview. Gallon-sized plastic Baggies filled with rectangular strips of cardboard dotted the floor and puzzled Charlie.
Carrie noted her look. “I’m in charge of the box tops collection committee at Ranch Cr
eek,” she said, sinking cross-legged to the floor with the ease of a woman half her age. “I can count while you talk. What’s Alan done to set someone else on his tail?”
Charlie pushed aside a flotilla of Star Wars spacecraft and sat on a denim-covered ottoman. She told her about Heather-Anne’s death and the woman’s connection to Brodnax. “She used to live in your rental house. Did you know her?”
Looking up from the stack of box tops in her hand, Carrie said, “Oh, my God, yes. We were shocked when we read about her death. We thought she was living the high life in some tropical paradise.” Her eyes widened, and Charlie noticed they were a rich brown with hazel flecks. “You don’t think Alan killed her, do you?”
“I don’t really know,” Charlie said. “How would you describe their relationship?”
“That’s a damned good question.” Carrie leaned back, bracing her palms on the floor behind her. “At first, I assumed they were lovers; I mean, they’re both so damned gorgeous it’s hard to imagine them keeping their hands off each other. But I saw Heather-Anne go out with a couple different men during the months she lived here, and as for Alan … my God, he went through women the way my kids go through Cheerios. Not that I’m spying on them or anything,” she added self-consciously. “It was hard to miss. Every time I drove out or walked to the mailbox in the evening, there’d be another car pulling up or leaving. So I guess they were just housemates, friends. We didn’t have any complaints with him as a renter until we discovered he’d taken off in the middle of the night and sold off our appliances to boot.”
“Do you have a rental application or a canceled check—anything that might have Brodnax’s former address or employer’s information on it?”
Carrie crinkled her brow. “I’m pretty sure he worked for himself. At least, that’s what his application said: self-employed. My husband chatted with him once when he went over to fix the garbage disposal and said he really seems to know his way around computers, that he’s some kind of analyst or researcher. Maybe he’s a day trader? Anyway, we don’t have anything about an employer. All we have”—she rose in one fluid movement and crossed to a cluttered desk tucked between a treadmill and a recliner—“is this.”
She came back and handed Charlie a rental application form. Charlie immediately noted a Social Security number and a former address. Cha-ching!
“He paid the rent through an automatic deposit, so we don’t have any bank information. It’s not illegal to give you that, is it?” She looked like she might snatch the form back.
“Not at all,” Charlie said, folding the form and tucking it in her purse. “I promise to let you know if I locate Brodnax. You can start legal proceedings against him even without knowing where he is,” she added to distract the woman, who still seemed inclined to ask for the form back. “That will speed the process of getting a judgment against him. You can also file a police report about the theft of the appliances.”
“We don’t even know when he left,” Carrie said. “We’ve been gone for about ten days. My father-in-law died, and we were in Missouri for the funeral and to deal with estate stuff. He could’ve left more than a week ago and be God knows where by now.”
“I talked to him yesterday,” Charlie told her, “so he hasn’t been gone long.”
Eyeing her suspiciously, Carrie said, “Sounds like you made him leave. What did you say to him?”
“I asked about Heather-Anne, that’s all. The appliances were already gone, though, so he may have been planning to disappear for a while.”
Carrie’s eyes lit with interest. “It sounds like he has something to hide, doesn’t it?”
Indeed, Charlie thought, taking her leave of Carrie Barbieri. But what?
* * *
Forty minutes later, Charlie tooted the Subaru’s horn outside Dan Allgood’s rectory. She had scooted back across town, tossed a few necessaries in a gym bag, and faxed Gigi Alan Brodnax’s rental application with directions to run his Social Security number and see what she could find out about the man.
Dan emerged from the house toting a bag even smaller than Charlie’s. His six-foot-five frame filled the doorway, and his blond hair riffled in the slight breeze. A down-filled vest and rugged work boots made him look less priestly than usual. Charlie was relieved that he wasn’t wearing his clerical collar. He said something, and Charlie rolled down the window. “What?”
“I said, if I’m doing the driving, we’re taking my truck.”
“Fine,” Charlie said. “I’ll pay for the gas. It’s a business expense.”
Dan nodded and disappeared into his garage while Charlie returned the Subaru to her driveway and walked back. Dan’s blue Ram 2500 idled at the curb. It had a topper over the bed and, Charlie was happy to see, snow tires. She opened the door and tossed her overnight bag behind the seat. “Nice.”
“It’s been too long since I’ve been on a road trip.” Dan put the truck in gear, and it rumbled toward I-25 with a powerful growl.
Charlie made a blade of her hand and chopped it forward. “Cheyenne, ho.”
22
As soon as Charlie left, I set about trying to find Hollis Sloan. I know it was chicken of me, but I was less nervous about talking to him than to Patrick Dreiser, so I hunted up his phone number. Before I became a PI, I assumed they had super-secret databases or sources for finding people. Really, though, the phone book works best. I found a home number for Hollis Sloan and an office number. Apparently, he was an orthodontist. No wonder he could afford to toss money and gifts at Heather-Anne, I thought, remembering how much we’d paid to have Dexter and Kendall’s teeth straightened. Kendall still had six months or so to go on her braces, and I’d be over the moon when she got them off and I could stop sending a monthly check to Dr. George. That money was enough for a couple of facials, which I’d mostly given up since Les left, or weekly manicures, or … or the utility bill, I told myself, trying to focus on my new budget resolutions.
I figured I’d be more likely to catch Hollis Sloan at the office than at home on a Tuesday morning, so I dialed his office for directions and set off in the Hummer. His office was off of Galley Road, not too far from Mitchell High School. Convenient. He probably put braces on half the freshman class and they could walk to his office for monthly wire tightening. Three or four teens and tweens, all with their mothers, sat in the waiting room when I walked in. Everyone in the room was texting or talking on a cell except for one mother flipping through a Good Housekeeping magazine. A male receptionist greeted me with a look and a little smile.
“My name’s Georgia Goldman,” I said, approaching the counter. “I was hoping I could speak to Dr. Sloan for a few minutes.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
I shook my head, conscious that the waiting moms and teens could hear every word. “No. I was hoping he could maybe squeeze me in between appointments. I only need a few minutes.”
Shuffling through some file folders, the receptionist said, “We only do exams by appointment, Ms. Goldman. If you’re thinking about braces—”
“Braces! I’m—”
“—for your overbite, then—”
I didn’t have an overbite! Did I? My tongue pushed against my top teeth. “I’m not here about braces,” I said thickly.
“Oh.” He studied me, taking in my plum-colored mohair jacket and my gold Bob Mackie tank top. “A sales rep. Dr. Sloan only meets with salespeople on—”
“I’m not in sales, either. I’m a private investigator.” I like telling people that. The hum of conversation behind me quit, and I glanced over my shoulder to see everyone in the waiting room staring at me. I handed the receptionist my card and lowered my voice. “It’s a private matter.”
The receptionist looked uncertain. A smocked assistant emerged from the back and called a couple of names off a clipboard. Two of the kids in the waiting room followed her back. Then an older, silver-haired man I knew at once must be Dr. Sloan approached the counter, laid a file on it, and scribbled something o
n a sticky note. Tanned and a little thick around the waist, he looked to be in his early sixties.
“Dr. Sloan,” the receptionist said, “this woman—”
I held out my hand and gave him my friendliest smile. “Georgia Goldman. Gigi. I just need—”
He peered at me, head cocked. “Hm, something for your overbite?”
I was about to inform everyone in the office once and for all that I did not have an overbite when the doctor added, “I can squeeze you in now. Come on back.”
I shut my mouth and followed him to an exam room with a wallpaper border that had galloping horses. He gestured me to the full-length, loungelike padded chair with the powerful light suspended over it. I perched on it and swung my legs up, making sure my skirt didn’t slide too high. “I’m really—”
“Open, please.” He pressed at the corner of my jaw and I opened.
“Aw weelly ere oo ahsk ahout Hedder-Anng.”
“Um-hm.” Inserting an angled mirror, he inspected my molars. After a second, he pulled it out and rolled his chair toward the counter to make notes.
Seizing my chance, I sat up straight, banging my forehead on the light fixture he’d pulled low to examine my teeth. “Ow.” I put a hand to my head but continued, “Dr. Sloan, I’m here to ask you about Heather-Anne Pawlusik.”
He jolted and the pen slipped from his hand, clinking to the floor. He swiveled. “What? Who are you? You’re not here about braces.”
“I tried to tell you I’m not,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Oh, my God.” He dropped his face into his hands. “Did my wife send you? Is this—”
“Your wife? Heavens, no. We don’t do divorce work. Well, not unless we really, really need the money.”
“Divorce? She wants a divorce?” He looked up, panic in his eyes.
“Dr. Sloan! Hollis. I don’t know your wife. She didn’t hire us. Heather-Anne did.”
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