Murder Served Hot

by Nancy Skopin

  When the coffee was ready, I poured myself a mug before returning Brooke’s call.

  The first thing I said was, “I’m so sorry, Brooke.” I’d lost count of how many times I’d told her that, but it seemed appropriate under the circumstances.

  “Thank you,” she said, and sniffled.

  “Your message said something about an attorney?”

  “That’s right. Stanley’s attorney called me. Apparently he had a will and he left everything to me. Can you believe it? I’d known him less than a year.”

  “What about his family?”

  “Stanley was estranged from his family. He hadn’t spoken with any of them since college.”

  “Why?” I can’t help myself. I’m nosy.

  “I don’t really know. Something about his childhood, I think.”

  I pictured a youngster afflicted with OCD trying to fit into a normal family dynamic. Based on what Brooke had just said, I hypothesized that the family environment might have contributed to whatever had caused Stanley’s OCD.

  “He left me everything,” Brooke repeated. “His house, his office. I didn’t even know he owned the property the office was on. And he had life insurance.”

  “Wow.”

  “And he left me his orchids.”

  “His what?”

  “Stanley bred orchids. It was his passion. He was a member of the American Orchid Society. He’d developed a new hybrid that he was going to show at the Santa Barbara International Orchid Show next weekend. He asked me to go with him.” She wept quietly into the phone.

  “I had no idea,” I said, taken aback by Brooke’s disclosure about Stanley’s creative side.

  She took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “He was so excited. His first bud is just opening. I’m supposed to meet Detective Faulkner at Stanley’s house this morning. Can you come with me, please?”

  “Sure. What time?”

  “I have to be there at ten.”

  I checked my watch. “I’ll pick you up at nine-forty-five.”

  I knew Faulkner wanted to talk to me about what I’d seen yesterday. Maybe this would save me a trip to the San Carlos PD. For some reason I don’t enjoy spending time in police stations. It might have something to do with being accused of murder last August.

  I typed up my dinner and bar surveys from the previous night, grabbed the Ruger from my gun drawer, made sure it was fully loaded, and called Bill on my way to the parking lot.

  “I have to go through Stanley’s house with Brooke,” I said. “We’re meeting Faulkner there. Can you stay with Buddy?”

  “You work too many weekends.”

  “I know. I’ll try to get back early so we can spend the afternoon together.”

  I unlocked my car and dug my fanny pack holster out of the glove box. I took the Ruger out of my purse and secured it in the Velcro compartment of the fanny pack, which I strapped around my waist.

  I arrived at Brooke’s condo complex at 9:40, and realized I didn’t know her apartment number. I fished in my purse for the case notes, even though I remembered leaving them in the office. Luckily I had her home number programmed into my smartphone. I selected the number and pressed send.

  She answered on the second ring, sounding subdued.

  “Brooke, it’s Nikki. I’m in the parking lot. What’s your apartment number?”

  “I’m in two-B. Come in the side entrance and you’ll see stairs on your left.”

  I locked my purse in the trunk of the 2002 and tucked my keys in the pocket of my cargo shorts. Whoever had killed Stanley was still out there, and since I didn’t know why he had been killed, I didn’t know that they weren’t going to be coming after Brooke next. I shifted the fanny pack holster to my left hip and unzipped the compartment, resting my right hand on the butt of the revolver as I walked up the steps to Brooke’s condo.

  I knocked, and the door immediately opened. Brooke invited me in, said she would be just a minute, and ducked into one of the bedrooms. The apartment was spacious and decorated with what appeared to be genuine antiques.

  “Nice furniture,” I said, when she came back into the living room.

  “Thank you. Most of it belonged to my parents. I still have some of their things in storage. They had wonderful taste.”

  The room was spotless. I wondered how long after Stanley’s death it would be before Brooke felt comfortable allowing some dust to accumulate, treating herself to a Danish on Sunday morning, or skipping a workout, as I had done today.

  Brooke hadn’t let her grief affect her sense of style. She was dressed in white shorts and a grass-green, silk tank top, with a pair of gold leather Manolo Blahnik sandals on her pedicured feet. She carried a matching gold clutch and withdrew her keys as we stepped outside. She pulled the door closed and used a key to secure the deadbolt.

  “I’m probably just being paranoid,” she said, apologetically. “But after what happened to Stanley…”

  “A little paranoia is a good thing,” I said.

  Neither of us said much as we drove to Belmont. When I made the turn onto Stanley’s street I immediately noticed the piece-of-shit Chevy parked in front of the house. I pulled into the driveway and hopped out of my car, placing myself between Brooke and the man who was getting out of the Chevy. I slipped my hand into my fanny pack and he caught the movement, holding out his hands to show me they were empty.

  “Detective Faulkner?” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m Faulkner. You must be Hunter. I’ve heard about you. Saw your picture in the paper once.”

  He was in his late thirties, almost six feet tall, with curly, dark brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His face was handsome, but it held no expression, as though he had trained himself not to betray any emotion. His eyes were dark and intelligent. I could see why Brooke had described him as ‘kind of intense’. She joined me on the sidewalk and said, “Good morning, Detective.”

  He nodded at her and said, “Ms. Evans.”

  “You mind showing me some ID?” I asked.

  Brooke apparently recognized this guy as the man who had interviewed her after Stanley’s death, so asking for ID felt like overkill, but you really can’t be too careful. Faulkner reached into his jacket and took out his badge wallet, flipped it open, and waited patiently while I examined it.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  We trooped up to the front door and Brooke turned to Faulkner expectantly. “Do you have the key?” she asked.

  “No. I assumed you had a key.”

  “Stanley never gave me one, but he kept a spare in the greenhouse.”

  Faulkner and I followed her around the side of the house, through a gate, and into the backyard. As I rounded the corner I spotted the greenhouse. It was the size of a small cottage and it was, of course, pristine. Each pane of glass was brilliant and spotless, except for the one just above the doorknob, which had been broken.

  “Oh, my God,” Brooke gasped.

  Faulkner stepped in front of her. “Don’t touch anything,” he said. “Was this door kept locked?”

  “Yes, but it has a combination lock. See?” She pointed to a small keypad to the left of the door.

  “You know the combination?”

  “Yes. It’s my birthday.”

  “Okay. Go ahead and unlock it, but you two need to stay out here while I go inside.”

  “But the key to the house is in there.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s in a secret drawer. Stanley had it installed in one of the tables.”

  Brooke entered some numbers on the pad and the door clicked. Faulkner dug a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, slipped them on, and used two fingers to turn the knob. He pulled the door open and stepped over the broken glass.

  Bro
oke and I stood in the doorway watching him move around the tables, all of which were covered with thriving orchids of different sizes and colors.

  After a minute Faulkner said, “Okay, you can come inside, but try not to touch anything.”

  I followed Brooke into the greenhouse. She moved around the table that filled the center aisle. When she reached the end of the table she stopped in her tracks. “Oh, no,” she moaned.

  “What?” I said. “What happened?”

  “The orchid,” she whispered. “Stanley’s hybrid. It’s gone.”

  Chapter 9

  “Poor Stanley,” Brooke said, fishing for a tissue in her purse. “This would have killed him, I mean, you know, if he wasn’t already dead. He’s been working on the development of that hybrid for years. He was going to name it after me. He was so excited. You remember I told you the first bud was just opening? Why would anyone steal it?”

  I looked around at maybe fifty potted orchid plants. “Are you sure he didn’t just move it? Maybe it’s one of these.” I gestured at the other plants.

  “No. He would never have moved it. ‘Everything has its place,’ he used to say. That orchid sat right here.” She pointed to the end of the table. “It was in a special pot that Stanley had made for it. It was yellow enameled clay with stars cut out so the roots could breathe.”

  Faulkner and I looked around for a yellow enamel pot, but we didn’t find one. All the orchids in the room were in unglazed clay pots.

  Finally Faulkner said, “This is a crime scene. We need to get out of here and let the technicians come in and do their thing. Where’s the house key?”

  Brooke reached under the table where the missing orchid had been positioned and fiddled with some kind of lever. A hidden drawer slid out from under the edge of the table. Very cloak and dagger. Inside the drawer were a brass house key and a book that looked like an old fashioned ledger. Brooke handed the key to Faulkner and took the book out of the drawer before closing it.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Stanley’s orchid journal. He documented everything.”

  The three of us stepped carefully out of the greenhouse and Faulkner called someone on his cell as we walked toward the back of the house. He gave Stanley’s address and directions, said he’d be waiting, and ended the call.

  Faulkner inserted the key in the lock and held up his gloved hand. “I’d better go in first.”

  Brooke and I backed away from the door as Faulkner opened it. Reaching under his jacket in a movement I recognized, he withdrew a Glock from his shoulder holster.

  “Wait here, please,” he said.

  Brooke looked alarmed, but said nothing as she hugged Stanley’s journal to her chest. I gently nudged her farther away from the open door, thinking that if someone came out in a hurry she might not have the common sense, or the reflexes, to get out of the way.

  Faulkner was inside for about five minutes before he returned to the door and said, “You can come in. It’s kind of a mess though.”

  “Uh oh,” Brooke murmured, and I knew what she was thinking. Stanley’s house would have been immaculate. If there was a mess, someone else had made it.

  We entered through the kitchen. It was immediately evident that the house had been searched. Drawers and cabinets had been pulled open and riffled through and canisters had been emptied on the countertop, leaving a mass of flour, sugar, and coffee grounds. Brooke reached out to close one of the drawers and I grabbed her wrist.

  “Best not to disturb any fingerprints,” I said.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  We moved through the kitchen into the living room. It was a sweet little house. Even though the couch cushions had been pushed onto the floor and books had been tossed from their shelves, I could still see the order with which Stanley Godard had lived his life.

  Faulkner stood in the middle of the room, his eyes on Brooke. She looked stricken as her gaze flicked around the room.

  “Can you to tell me if anything is missing?” he asked.

  She looked up and met his gaze. “It would be easier to tell if everything wasn’t all jumbled up like this.”

  She shuffled through the living room, taking everything in, then moved across the front hallway to a small office on the other side of the house. Faulkner and I followed. Brooke stopped in the doorway and said, “His computer is gone. Stanley had a Dell laptop.” She pointed at the desk.

  We spent about fifteen minutes going through each of the rooms in Stanley’s house. Everything had been searched, including the upstairs bedroom and bathroom. The lid had been left off the toilet tank and was leaning up against the wall. I glanced into the tank and noticed that there were no rust stains. Stanley even cleaned the tank behind his toilet. That was a little bit scary.

  By 10:30 we were back in the living room. Faulkner asked me to fill him in on everything I had seen the day before. I was just finishing my story when the crime scene van pulled up. It parked on the street in front of Faulkner’s unmarked car, blocking enough of the driveway that I wouldn’t be able to get the Bimmer out.

  “Tell them we’re leaving,” I said to Faulkner. “They can park in the driveway.”

  He opened the front door and shouted something to the driver of the van, who pulled forward on the street and waited.

  Faulkner turned to Brooke and I saw something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. It almost looked like compassion.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

  I ushered Brooke outside and we got in the 2002. I backed onto the street and the van pulled into the driveway.

  Brooke sat quietly, clutching Stanley’s journal as I drove her back to Redwood Shores. I found a vacant space in the complex lot and nosed the BMW in, shutting off the engine.

  “You want me to come inside with you?” I asked.

  “Would you mind? I don’t feel like being alone right now.”

  As we got out of the car I considered how difficult it might have been for a woman who looked like Brooke to find female friends. Jealousy would have driven away any but the most altruistic.

  “Is there anyone you can call to come stay with you for a few days?” I asked.

  “I have a cousin I’m close to,” she said. “But she lives in North Carolina.”

  “Is that where you grew up?”

  “Yes.”

  That explained the Southern accent.

  “Why don’t you invite her for a visit? What kind of work does she do?”

  “She’s a teacher, but she’s taking a semester off to recover from a recent divorce. Maybe I will give her a call.”

  She unlocked the apartment and we went inside.

  “You want coffee?” she asked, turning the deadbolt.

  “That sounds good.” I almost always want coffee.

  Brooke busied herself in the kitchen as I walked through each room, checking inside closets, under beds, and behind the shower curtain. No sign of an intruder.

  I went into the kitchen and seated myself on an elegant bar stool on one side of the island. Brooke set a porcelain cup and saucer in front of me.

  “Do you take cream?”

  “Do you have any low fat, lactose free milk?”

  She smiled. “I have low fat, but not lactose free.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Brooke perched on the stool across from me and gazed into her cup.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I guess. I was just thinking about the funeral arrangements. I’m meeting with Stanley’s attorney tomorrow. I’m sure there are specific instructions in his will about how he wanted it handled. Stanley was particular about everything, but when he looked at me with those puppy dog eyes of his, none of that mattered.”

  She dissolved into tears.<
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  I looked around and spotted a box of tissues on the kitchen counter. I hopped off my stool and fetched the box, setting it in front of Brooke and handing her a tissue.

  “Thank you.”

  Brooke needed someone to talk to, so I mentally took myself off the clock and said, “Tell me about your first date.”

  She blew her nose delicately and smiled. “Stanley was shy. I met with him a couple of times to go over my taxes. He was cute, sweet, and intelligent, but I knew he’d never ask me out, so I said I wanted to buy him lunch, you know, as a thank you. He seemed surprised and kind of flustered. Then I said I’d let him pick the restaurant and he looked so relieved.” She laughed quietly and brushed away a tear.

  “Where did you go?”

  “To the Garden Grill. Stanley insisted on making the reservation himself. He had a favorite waiter, Jaime, and he wanted to make sure he was working and that the table he liked was available.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “At first he was quiet and it was kind of awkward, so I told him about my childhood in North Carolina, my parents, my job. Finally he started to relax. That’s when he told me about his orchids. He was so passionate about them, he was like a different person.”

  “What else was Stanley passionate about?”

  Brooke got up and refilled our cups, considering the question. “Order,” she finally said, settling back onto her stool, “and balance. He loved being a CPA because accounting is all about order and balance.” Tears filled her eyes and she dabbed at them with a tissue. “Why would anyone want to kill Stanley?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll do my best to find out.”

  I sat with Brooke until a little after 1:00, and then said I had to go. I needed time with my dog and Bill, plus I was hungry.