No Gun Intended (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Mom and Dad went home while Mickey, Luis, and I proceeded to The Nines Hotel to see the Bigelows—all three of them.

When Nancy greeted us in the lobby, she was alone. “We have a suite upstairs. Why don't we go up and wait for Phil and Claudia? They should be back soon. I think they just went for a walk.”

We followed her into the elevator and into a spacious suite with living room and dining room areas, and a spectacular view of the city. It occurred to me that ball bearings must be a fruitful industry. Either that or this family had money that actually did grow on trees.

“This is very beautiful,” commented Luis.

“The Jacuzzi bathtub is my favorite pleasure!” exclaimed Nancy, clapping her hands together like a seven-year-old who just got a puppy for Christmas. She seemed to be pushing her happiness button a little too hard.

“Please, sit.” She motioned to the sectional couch. “Can I get you all something to drink?”

“No thanks,” responded Mickey. “How's Claudia doing?”

Nancy sat up straight, pressing her hands against her knees, big smile on her face. “She's great. Really really great. I'm so proud of her, the way she has pulled through this horrible mess.”

“Did she tell you any more about the gun, and why she wanted it?” I asked.

The big smile got littler. “No, but whatever that was all about, it seems like it's behind her now.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Bigelow, but I would suggest that you be worried about your daughter. It is a serious thing when a young person is planning to shoot someone.” Luis tilted his head. “You might want to get her some counseling, yes?”

Nancy emitted a nervous giggle a la Jennifer Lawrence. “Oh, I don't think she'll need counseling, really. She has us, and her friends, and she'll come out of this just fine, I'm sure of it, really.”

When someone says “really” over and over again, I start thinking that what they're saying is anything but real.

“Mind if I use a bathroom?” I stood up, and Nancy pointed to a side door. “The half bath is right in there, dear.”

“Oh,” I tried a little giggle myself. “Would it be all right if I use the full bathroom, so that I can see the Jacuzzi?”

“Of course! Right down the hall, off the bedroom.”

I didn't care one bubble about the Jacuzzi, but Nancy was acting so jittery that I thought I would make sure Claudia wasn't lying in bed. If Nancy had stopped me from going to the full bathroom, I would have known something was up. Anyway, there I was, scouting the super fancy hotel digs, making my way to the toilet. I flushed it and then ran some water in the sink, like I was washing my hands. I peeked into a vanity bag—makeup, toothpaste, a couple of pill bottles, etc.—and turned off the faucet. On my way back out, I saw Phillip's briefcase open and noticed a bunch of papers and file folders.

I was about to return to the living room when I halted and backed up.

There was a piece of paper I recognized.

A crumpled note.

It was the one that had been left in Claudia's hospital room.

I picked it up, shoved it in my pocket, and collected my wits before rejoining the others.

It turns out that I'm not so good at collecting my wits.

“Nancy! What is going on?” I demanded.

Mickey and Luis jolted. Nancy put her palm to her chest. “Why, whatever do you mean, dear?”

I pulled the note out and shook it out in front of her. “This note!”

She froze momentarily and then grabbed it out of my hands.

“Babe, what is that?”

“Mickey, I just found this in Phillip's briefcase! It's the one that was in…”

“It was in Claudia's hospital bedside table,” interrupted Nancy. “I know. I'm the one who took it.”

“You didn't say a word about it when I asked Claudia about it at the hospital. You were standing right there!”

“I was hoping she would explain who gave it to her, but as you remember, she wasn't explaining anything at all!” Nancy's cheerful mask had given way to a pained and angry expression. She was practically baring her teeth at me.

“Why was it in Phillip's briefcase?” Mickey asked, calmly, trying to talk me down with his eyes.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, I don't know. I tossed it in there, I guess.” She walked to the picture window and gazed out over Portland.

“Except,” I said quietly, locking my eyes on Mickey's, “Phillip just got here from Miami. Are you saying you held on to this note for the past however many days, took it to Seattle with you, and then just plopped it in his briefcase, um, today? Yesterday? When, exactly?”

Nancy was quiet. Luis joined her at the window. “Mrs. Bigelow, we want to help. Do you know who wrote the note? Are you trying to protect someone?”

She burst into tears and flung herself on Luis, sobbing into his shoulder. He patted her gently on the back and muttered “
díos mio
” just loud enough for us to hear.

She wailed better than Sally Fields in
Steel Magnolias,
only I wasn't feeling much of the love. I brought her a tissue, and she soon disengaged from Luis and blew her nose. I wasn't buying her distress performance any more than I bought her sunshine act.

We all sat down again. Nancy sat close to Luis on the couch; Mickey and I faced them. “Are you ready to tell us?” asked Mickey.

“Oh, yes, yes, I think so, I really do,” she gushed.

There was that word again. Really.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Nancy relayed a story to us that is a common, horrible nightmare, one that happens way too much in too many families all over the globe. About three months ago, she had started suspecting that her husband had been abusing Claudia. She noticed that Claudia was avoiding him, and given his propensity for young women (her words, not mine), she began to worry about her daughter's safety. But, she said, Claudia would not talk to her about any of it and insisted that her father wasn't doing anything wrong.

“And then
this
disaster”—she flung her arms out on the word “this” and practically took Luis' nose off with her megadiamond ring—“and if it's true that Wesley is not to blame, well, then I simply have to think it's my Phillip!” This brought her to tears again. She rushed out of the room to the bathroom.

Now, I am disgusted by any father who would treat his daughter with anything but love and respect. I have the greatest father in the world. I can't imagine being afraid of him causing me any kind of bodily harm. And I already thought that Phillip Bigelow was a sleazemonger. But Nancy seemed so fake. My gut was churning with doubt.

I shook my head at Luis and Mickey. “I don't know,” I whispered. “This doesn't feel right to me, this story.”

“We have to follow up, no matter what,” Mickey whispered back.

Luis and I both nodded. “Do we wait here, or go see if we can find them?”

Nancy returned, pressing a damp washcloth to her forehead. “I need a drink. Can I get you all something?” Her voice was surprisingly steady.

“No, thank you, Nancy. Look, do you know where Claudia and Phil went? Are you worried that she's in danger right now?” asked Mickey.

Nancy turned her back to fix a drink at the small bar. “Oh, I doubt he would try anything out in the big, wide, world, if you know what I mean. Phil does things behind closed doors.” She poured what sounded like a generous amount of scotch into a glass and faced us. She took a swallow. “Anyway, I don't know where they are.” She took another swallow. “It's a relief to get this off my chest, I can tell you that.” Another swallow.

“What's your plan, Nancy? Are you going to confront Phillip?” I asked.

She sat back down next to Luis. “He'll just deny it, and Claudia won't turn on him, so I think I should get Claudia out of the house, away from him. I think she likes it here. Maybe I can set her up down here. Have her transfer to Portland State. That would get her away from both Phil and that Wesley moron.” Another swallow.

For all of the things one might be able to call Wesley, he didn't strike me as a moron. I wondered what the hell Claudia's parents had against him. Maybe Wesley really did hit Claudia once? I didn't think so. Maybe Nancy was wishing she was Mrs. Robinson, able to seduce the young Wesley a la Dustin Hoffman in
The Graduate,
only Wesley wouldn't have her. And why did people stay married who were so unhappy with each other? And why would a mother stay with a husband who was abusing their child?

Mickey interrupted my reverie. “Nancy, it turns out that Loren Scranton was supposed to retrieve the backpack with the gun. Are you sure you've never heard of him? Is it possible that Claudia knows him?”

Nancy brushed a wayward lock of hair away from her face and leaned back against the couch. “I don't know everyone she knows. I have never heard of this guy, I can promise you that.” She jabbed her finger in the air at Mickey.

She was drunk. I now understood that she had started in on the scotch well before we arrived.

Luis stood up. “I suggest we wait for Mr. Bigelow and Claudia in the lobby, and let Mrs. Bigelow get some rest.”

Mickey and I couldn't stand up too quickly. “Good idea,” we responded in unison.

“Really? You can stay here if you'd like. Have a drink. We'll toast our miseries together.” She held up her glass to us.

We all made our way to the door. “We'll be in the lobby, and we'll keep you posted. Call Annabelle on her cell if you hear from them. You take care of yourself.” Mickey gave her a little smile, and we were outta there.

“Yuck,” I sputtered, as we got on the elevator. “I feel like I need a bath.”

“Jacuzzi?” Mickey joked.

“Anything but. Did you buy any of that? Or all of it? Or…?”

“Hard to discount it, but mostly, I think it was bullmarkey.”

Luis grinned.

I elbowed Mickey. “I'm never going to hear the end of that, I bet.”

Mickey took my hand as the elevator doors opened. “It's my new favorite word.”

***

We wanted to have a drink in the lobby—in fact, even Luis said, “We need a drink”—but we immediately realized that Phillip and Claudia could take the elevator from the street level straight up to the room, the lobby being on the eighth floor. I also espied the billiards room, part of the super cool lobby, and had a yen to see if I still had my recent magic touch, but all of this was out of the question if we were to apprehend Phillip. So we got on the elevator again and disembarked at street level.

It was chilly and windy. The doormen greeted us like lost friends (it became clearer and clearer to me each day in Portland that they must have a law about providing the friendliest customer service in the world), but it was awkward to loiter on the street.

“I wish I had my sock-monkey hat.”

“Oh, gosh, yes, we so wish you had it too,” Mickey quipped.

“
Amiga
, call Claudia on her phone, why don't you?”

“I was just about to do that,
mi bueno cómplice
.”

Luis cracked up. “I am your accomplice? I believe that means we are partners in crime, no?”

Mickey laughed. “Not far off.”

I found Claudia's number on my incoming call log and punched it. The three of us were mulling around in small circles, trying to stay warm. The phone rang four times before she answered. “Hello?”

“Claudia, it's Annabelle. Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you with your father?”

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is he treating you all right?”

“OH GOD. WHAT DID SHE TELL YOU?” Claudia screamed into the phone. “I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS!”

“It's okay, calm down. We want to help you. Where's your father right now?”

“He's in the men's room. We just got out from the movies. God!”

“Where are you?”

“I'm not telling, Annabelle. You are not going to do anything, okay? I don't need your help anymore!”

“Claudia, did you want the gun to kill your father?”

A pause. “You have no idea.” She hung up.

I threw my hands up in the air. “Jeez Louise, what are supposed to do now?” I told them what she said.

Mickey ran his hands through his hair. “I'm starting to be very sick of the sicko Bigelows. If she doesn't want our help, maybe we should go back upstairs and have that drink.”

“But Mickey, if she's really in trouble…”

“I know, I know.”

Luis looked around, held out his finger signaling us to wait a second, and approached a doorman. He came back to us and pointed up the street. “The closest movie theater is that way a couple of blocks. I say we go there.”

We set off in a jog toward the marquee lit up with
Dumb and Dumber To, A Most Violent Year, Sex Tape,
and
Gone Girl.
I didn't want to think about father and daughter Bigelow seeing any of those together.

Chapter Thirty

There's a lyric in a Mumford and Sons song that asks what the fault is in giving one's whole heart. There's another lyric on the same album where the singer confesses that he really fucked things up.

Well, both applied to me as we approached the crowd spilling out of the movie theater complex. I was determined, with all my heart, to save Claudia from her disgusting father, in spite of her denials. Then I really fucked things up.

Mickey, Luis, and I all saw Claudia and Phillip at the same time, and we dodged and darted between the movie-goers, trying to get to them. It looked to me like Claudia was crying, and that Phillip had a firm grip on her arm.

So I shouted her name as loud as I could, along with “STOP!”

The crowd, as though choreographed, came to a dead stop, looking around for whoever Claudia was. She didn't stop, however. She and Phillip sped up, in fact, heading across the street for what looked like an elevator shaft. Mickey, Luis, and I ran toward them, but they reached the elevator doors before us and got on just before they closed. They were headed to an underground parking garage.

Mickey tossed me a look of frustration. “Annabelle, why did you yell? We could have gotten to them!”

Luis kept punching the down arrow, but said nothing.

“Well, gee, Mickey, I didn't know they were going underground!”

“Babe, it's like bad movies, when the cops need to bust into an apartment to arrest a drug dealer and they show up with ten squad cars and sirens blazing. And then the drug dealer gets away. Right?”

“You want me to be stealthier.”

“Please.”

“Roger that.”

Mickey sighed. “It's okay. We'll find them.”

When the elevator door opened, we all stood there, realizing we had no idea what floor Phillip and Claudia had descended to.

Luis led the charge back across the street and around a corner to the exit for the garage. We stood watching cars coming out, and I, for one, didn't know what we were to do should we see father and daughter. Jump on the car's hood? Throw ourselves in front of the car? Shoot the tires? “Mickey, what are we supposed to do?”

“We'll see if we can stop them,” was his vague reply. Then he motioned to Luis, pointing into the garage. “Annabelle, you stay here, we'll go inside.”

I was thinking, okay, this is right, I should hang back and let the two ex-cop PIs handle the situation, but I was feeling a bit patronized. I mean, Mickey was right, I shouldn't have shouted, but it was a little mistake, and I've gotten myself and Mickey out of lots of tricky situations.

So when I saw a black Range Rover with Washington plates emerging, with Phillip and Claudia sitting in front, I stopped thinking. As the car slowed down before entering the street, I threw the first thing I grabbed out of my purse.

It was my Katharine Hepburn biography.

It thudded and bounced off the windshield.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” The man driving roared out the window.

The man who wasn't Phillip.

I rushed to pick up my book, apologizing like crazy. “So sorry. I thought you were someone else. Your windshield looks fine. No damage done. So so sorry.” I smiled meekly.

He huffed and drove off.

I repositioned myself by the door and saw a Portland police officer walking toward me.

Oh, great.

“You having a problem, miss?”

I shook my head energetically. “No, sir, no, I simply was attempting to get the attention of someone, but it turned out to be the wrong someone. No harm done, just an unfortunate incident, that's all.” I smiled broadly.

He didn't. “You're lucky he didn't stick around to press charges.”

“I am indeed, very lucky, yes sir.” Still smiling.

He wasn't impressed. “I'd like to see your identification.”

I stopped smiling and pulled out my wallet and license. He studied it and handed it back to me. “How long are you in town?”

“I promise I'll leave as soon as possible, probably another couple of days.”

“No more book-throwing, okay?”

“Ten four.”

The officer returned to his patrol car down the street, and I peered around the corner into the garage, hoping to espy Mickey or Luis. Where the hell were they? At least they hadn't witnessed that latest screw-up of mine. I seemed to be on a roll.

That's when a dark blue Mercedes came screeching out with Mickey and Luis running behind it.

I still had the book in my hand, so I threw it again. This time it flew in through the open window on the driver's side and hit him in the head.

Phillip.

It surprised him enough that he slammed on the brakes and stopped long enough for Mickey to run up to the door, reach in and grab his shoulder and yell, “Cut the engine, now!”

Luis was on the other side but couldn't open the locked door.

Phillip put the Mercedes in park and turned off the engine.

Drivers behind him started honking.

Mickey yelled again. “Get out. I'll pull the car over.”

Mickey can be very convincing. Phillip got out.

Luis came around and took Phillip by the arm, while Mickey parked the car on a block away. Luis, Phillip, and I walked up to meet him.

I neglected to tell you…Claudia was not in the car.

Phillip was silent. I wasn't. “Where is she, Phillip? Where's Claudia? She was with you just a few minutes ago! Did you hurt her?”

This last question made him wince, but he didn't answer me.

Mickey stuck the Mercedes keys in his pocket and came up close to Phillip's face. “You want to talk to us first, or do you want us to take you right to the police?”

“There happens to be a cop nearby. I happened to, um, meet him earlier.”

Mickey frowned at me. “What?”

“Never mind. Phillip, listen to Mickey. You should talk to us first.”

Phillip tried to wrest his arm away from Luis. “Not yet,
señor
. We need answers first. We believe you know why your daughter needed that gun.”

Bigelow sneered. “I don't give a rat's ass what you believe. You've got no right invading my family's privacy. Let me go, and I won't press charges for assault.”

“In your dreams, dirtwad,” I assured him.

“Us, or the police, Phil? I'm waiting for your answer.” Luis was firm.

“You,” he finally answered.

“At the hotel suite?”

“Sure. Why the fuck not? Let's go.”

We walked the few blocks to The Nines. I called Claudia on the way, but she wasn't answering.

My Hepburn biography was back in my purse, dented and dirtied, but intact and as sturdy as she was. I think she would have liked to know that her book had more than one story to its name. Then I recalled Drew's story about Sal being attacked with a book by a homophobe. Maybe that was my unconscious inspiration. I'd have to tell him.

We got back to the hotel and rode the elevator up to the suite. Phillip had a key and let us in.

The lights were all off.

On turning one on and surveying the bedroom and bathrooms it was clear to all of us.

Nancy was gone.