Murder Over Cocktails: The 2nd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (11 page)

Chapter 23

A
fter Bill left for work I dozed for a while, still too anxious to sleep deeply. The sun forcing its way through my stateroom portlights eventually got me up. I staggered into the galley and started a pot of coffee, extra thick. After two cups I still felt like crap. I put on sweat pants and a tee shirt, and slogged down the dock toward the showers.

Elizabeth and Lily were walking up the companionway together as I approached. I told Lily I was having her Jil Sander dry-cleaned and that I’d bring it back in a few days.

She said, “No hurry,” and continued up the ramp.

Elizabeth stopped, and said, “You look terrible, honey. Go back to bed.”

“I would, but I don’t think I’d be able to sleep.”

After showering I dressed in spandex shorts and a tank top and drove to the gym. I pushed myself to do my usual workout, forcing my muscles to perform when what they really needed was rest. I did an hour on the treadmill, used all the lower body Nautilus equipment, did a hundred abdominal crunches and fifty military pushups, then showered again and drove home to change clothes.

I unlocked the office around 11:00.

Realizing that I was entering into a life-or-death situation with Maggie, I wanted to put my affairs in order. I typed and printed letters to my mom, to Bill, to Elizabeth, to Lily, to my grade-school sweetheart and oldest friend Michael Burke, to my friend and fellow PI Jim Sutherland, and to my cousin Aaron. For good measure, I wrote one to my dad, who had disappeared when I was twenty-four.

In my letters I said all the things I hadn’t previously, but had wanted to, the good and the bad, and I told each of them how much they meant to me. It felt a little bit maudlin, but also surprisingly liberating. I carefully folded each letter, sealed them in addressed envelopes, except the one to my dad, and left them in my out-basket.

I called my insurance agent, Chuck Tewksbury, and asked if he could come by the office with life insurance forms. My mom has an IRA, but I wanted to make sure she would be comfortable when she was ready to retire.

While I was waiting for Chuck to arrive I typed up a will, indicating that Bill was to be my executor. I hadn’t known him that long, but I didn’t think Elizabeth would be up to the task if anything happened to me. I left what little jewelry I owned to my mom, left the boat to Bill, and the BMW to Elizabeth. I volunteered to donate my organs to whoever might need them at the time of my death. I requested that my body be cremated and the ashes scattered at sea. I mentioned the letters in the will, asking Bill to mail them and, should my dad ever surface, to hand-deliver his.

I printed a single copy of the will and took it to the advertising agency next door. After getting two of my neighbors to sign as witnesses, I marched back to my office and placed the will in an envelope with Bill’s name on it. I set it on top of the stack in my out-basket.

Chuck arrived at noon. I had met him years earlier at a
Yes
concert at the Shoreline Amphitheater, where he was selling tee shirts for the band. I’d asked him how he got into that line of work. He said it was just something he did just for fun, and gave me his business card. I bought two tee shirts and called him the following week to discuss my auto insurance. He’s been my agent ever since. He’s from Louisiana and has that Southern gentleman thing going for him.

Chuck and I decided on a $250,000.00 whole life policy. He asked me at least a hundred questions about my medical history, diet, and alcohol and cigarette consumption, then requested a check for $83.00. That was it. He said the policy would go into effect immediately. When he left I felt ten pounds lighter, just knowing Mom would be taken care of.

At 1:30 I started feeling nauseous. Panic does that to me. I walked over to The Diving Pelican and ordered a Swiss cheese omelet. I ate half and had the rest boxed up. I walked down to my boat, stopping along the way to give D’Artagnon a few bites. I told him how frightened I was about what I was planning to do that evening. He listened attentively, his gaze focused on the to-go box.

I napped fitfully, dreaming horrible things I didn’t want to remember when I woke up. My eyes felt like they had sand in them. I looked through my clothes and decided I would have to make another trip to the mall.

I put on make-up, scrunched up my curls, checked to make sure the Ruger was fully loaded, and tucked a speed loader into my purse, in case five rounds weren’t enough. I also confirmed that my smartphone battery was fully charged.

Macy’s had a nice selection of dresses, but dresses make me feel vulnerable, and I hate that feeling. I ended up at Nordstrom again and settled on a pair of black wool gabardine pleated shorts and a double-breasted bolero jacket with a Mandarin collar. The jacket was $350.00 and the shorts were $129.95 on sale. What did I care? Jack could afford it. Besides, I was risking my life so he could sleep better at night.

I decided to stick with the black Stuart Weitzman pumps. They were comfortable and I have a hard time finding shoes that don’t hurt my feet. The women in my family have big, wide feet. Good for balance, but tough for shoe shopping.

I arrived at the Crowne Plaza at 6:55 and parked in the front lot, so Bill wouldn’t have to search for my car. I didn’t see Maggie’s Lincoln anywhere. My chest felt tight and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I
really
didn’t want to do this. I lit a cigarette with trembling hands and smoked it down to the filter.

As I sat there in my car, trying to summon the nerve to take the next step, I couldn’t help looking back over my life. I’d had a miserable childhood and an anguished adolescence. My parents did their best, but the truth is neither of them had what it took to raise an emotionally well adjusted child. Being the daughter of a Cossack and a former nun has its downside, believe me.

They frequently argued about religion. Mom was obsessed with God and Dad was afraid of the Devil. I did well enough in school, and worked my way through college by managing a sizeable cosmetics department. When my ability to spot shoplifting customers came to the attention of my employer I was moved into security, where I excelled and was quickly promoted. Not too long after that, I decided I didn’t want to work for someone else anymore and found my way to Sam Pettigrew, the PI who mentored me until I got my license.

In recent years my life has significantly improved. I enjoy my work and I make a comfortable living, I love my friends, and I think I might be falling for Bill, even though I’ve never told him that. It was as good a time as any to die, but I would not go willingly.

I put out my cigarette and got out of the car before too much thinking could weaken my resolve.

When I entered the restaurant I spotted Maggie seated in the lobby. She rose gracefully, smiled, and strolled over to greet me. She was dressed in navy slacks and a cream colored, translucent blouse. We shook hands. Hers was warm and slightly moist tonight, her grip solid, as always. Mine was a bit clammy.

The hostess seated us at a table near the window and took our drink orders. Once we were alone with our menus, Maggie reached across the table and draped her fingers over my wrist.

“The owners of the Hillsborough property have accepted our offer. The house is as good as yours. I’ll just need a deposit.”

She squeezed my wrist before letting go, and I forced a smile. I picked up my water glass and clinked it against hers.

“Thank you so much, Maggie,” I said. “You’ve made my dreams come true.” I was shooting for enthusiasm, but the words sounded hollow, even to me.

A waiter approached, delivered Maggie’s wine and my Calistoga water, and proceeded to tell us about the specials. Maggie ordered the braised chicken with asparagus and I requested the salad bar.

Over dinner, Maggie asked me about my life. She wanted to know what I had done before I married Bernie, my fictitious deceased husband. I told her I’d been a sculptor. It was something I had fooled around with in high school, so I knew enough about the topic to bullshit my way through casual conversation. I also told her that Bernie had been my third husband, but the only one I had buried.

I asked Maggie if she’d ever been married, and she laughed a little too loudly, then covered my hand with hers and said, “I’ve never met a man I could tolerate for that long.” A definitive statement.

The salad bar at the 4290 Bistro is exceptional, but I didn’t taste a thing that night. Maggie had two glasses of wine with dinner, but I stayed with bottled water. After dinner we both had coffee, and I gave her a check for nine hundred thousand dollars. This is what’s called earnest money. I would ask Jack to cover the check if it came to that, but I figured by the time the check was returned the case would be resolved, one way or the other. Maggie glanced at my check casually, saying nothing about the last name, and tucked it in her briefcase. She probably assumed Hunter had been Bernie’s name, and that I’d gone back to using my maiden name when he died.

“I have champagne chilling at my house,” she said. “I thought you might want to celebrate.”  

No mention of the paperwork she had said we’d need to complete. That was a relief, but also disturbing. I didn’t think she could make a formal offer without a contract, and she still didn’t have any financial information about me. The chill down my spine was even colder this time. I could no longer avoid the obvious. She didn’t need the information because there wasn’t going to be a sale.

“I’d love to,” I said, with what I hoped would pass for anticipation. “I’m not sure I can find the turn-off by myself, so I’ll follow you.”

Maggie paid the check. We walked out to the parking lot together, and I stopped beside my Bimmer.

“Where are you parked?” I asked. “I didn’t see your car.”

“It’s over by the Hertz office.” She nodded at my 2002. “Is that your BMW?”

“It is,” I said, unlocking the Bimmer’s driver’s side door.

As soon as I was in my car, I called Bill’s cell. He answered before the second ring.

“Anderson.” He sounded tense.

“We’re going to Maggie’s house in Woodside. Do you still have the address? Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“You’re not supposed to. Yeah, I have the address.”

“If you lose us, it’s the second driveway on the right after you pass the high school. Go to the large house at the bottom of the hill. The master bedroom is on the second floor.”

“
Jesus Christ
. Be careful, Nikki.”

“I will.”

I spotted Bill’s Mustang pulling out of the lot not far behind me.

As I followed Maggie on El Camino, I stayed focused on the promise I’d made to the five murdered women on the videotapes.

At the intersection of Ravenswood and El Camino Maggie drove through a yellow light and I barely made it through behind her. Bill was two cars back and got stuck. Four blocks later Maggie caught me by surprise and made a left off of El Camino. We were in Atherton. I recognized the street. She pulled into the driveway of the two-story Mediterranean. I pulled in behind her and got out of my car.

“What are we doing here?” I asked as casually as I could manage.

“I left some paperwork here earlier today,” she said. “I just need to pick it up. Why don’t you come in with me? Take a last look at what you’re passing on.”

“Okay,” I said. “Just let me get my purse.” I wasn’t going anywhere without the Ruger.

I got my bag out of the 2002, while Maggie opened the lockbox on the front door and went into the house. When I stepped into the foyer she grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside. She gave the door a swift kick, and before it swung all the way shut she had me pinned against the wall in a lip-lock and was groping under my jacket. My reaction was reflexive. I pushed her away. She looked shocked, and then hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said backing up. “I thought…”

“Wait,” I gasped. “You just took me by surprise. It’s not that I’m not interested.” I reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Why don’t we get your paperwork and go back to your place, have some of that champagne?” I made my voice sound seductive. I hoped the Academy was watching.

Maggie seemed to relax. She took my hand and walked toward the back of the house. “The champagne is here,” she said. “I thought it would be more romantic out by the pool. My house is so ordinary, and I want tonight to be memorable.” She gave my hand a squeeze, and my solar plexus convulsed.

Having lost us on El Camino, Bill would now go to the house in Woodside. I was on my own. Just me, the Ruger, and a shit-load of adrenaline. ‘
More romantic by the pool.’
I wondered if she planned to dispose of my body in the backyard.

Maggie led me out to the poolside table. “I’ll get the champagne,” she said. “Sit.”

I lit a cigarette and scanned the area, looking for the camera. If it was there I couldn’t see it. Maggie returned with a bottle of Cristal in an ice bucket. She held two champagne flutes and had a pair of bath towels draped over one arm. She set everything on the table and uncorked the champagne. She filled both glasses, handed one to me, and we touched them together.