Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I met Ned Manchester again at the same spot
in the Columbia Gorge. He played with his glasses nervously before
saying: “Sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you sooner. But,
uh, you know how it is—”

Yes, I knew. I was too hot of a potato right
now for cops to be associated with, if they valued their own lives
and careers. Ned was no exception.

“Thanks for coming,” I told him sincerely.
“What did you find out?”

I noted the bag in his hand, then the frown
on his face.

“I’m afraid the news isn’t good, D.J.” Ned
removed the glass from the bag. “There were solid prints, but when
I ran them through the computer, I only came up with a positive
match on your prints.”

I was shocked. Had she wiped her prints from
the glass?
Was this all part of blondie
’
s scheme?

I suddenly realized that it all made perfect
sense. She obviously planned this from the very start. Making sure
I had no way of tracking her down by her fingerprints, or
otherwise, was all part of the grand scheme to frame me and me
alone for the brutal murder of Catherine Ashley Sinclair. And I
fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

Ned coughed. “There were some partials,” he
indicated, “but nothing we could do anything with. Sorry.”

“It was a long shot at best,” I said, trying
to sound convincing.

It appeared as if the blonde Lolita had
anticipated my every move. She had cleverly wormed her way into my
bed and head while setting me up piece by piece as the fall guy in
a murder scheme.

“What now?” Ned peered at me.

“I keep looking till I find out what rock
she’s crawled under,” I answered tautly.

He planted a sympathetic hand on my shoulder.
“Good luck, D.J. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, while thinking that there
probably wasn’t enough luck out there to cover all the bases.

I had greatly underestimated the imposter
Catherine Ashley Sinclair. Whoever she really was, she had no
intention of sharing it with me. If she had a record, which I
doubted, I was on too shaky ground with the police to uncover it
through conventional means. The best thing I had going for me at
the moment was sheer determination.

* * *

Catherine Ashley Sinclair’s estate was worth
about two million dollars. And with no offspring, Gregory Sinclair
stood to walk away with every cent—unless he could be implicated in
his wife’s murder. Then he wouldn’t see a penny. I intended to be
the one to hand him a blank check in the purest sense.

It was two-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon when
Sinclair drove away from his house. I slipped onto the property
before the gate closed. If anyone knew more than Sinclair was
willing to part with, it was the housekeeper.

She opened the door absentmindedly after one
ring, and then tried to close it once she realized who the visitor
was.

“Wait!” I yelled. I stuck my foot in the door
as an added measure of my desire not to be denied.

“Mr. Sinclair isn’t here now,” she stammered,
her black eyes betraying alarm.

No kidding
.
“It’s you I want to
talk to.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” she insisted,
applying pressure to my foot.

“Oh, I think you do—” I glared at her,
inching the door open against her resistance. “I don’t want to hurt
you, regardless of what you may think you know about me. But I do
intend to have this discussion.” My strident tone let her know I
meant business. “Why don’t you make it easy on both of us?”

We stared each other down for a long moment
before she relented, easing the door open as if blocked by a ton of
bricks. She began to mumble something in Spanish. Since I didn’t
speak the language, I could only guess what she was saying.

Frankly, I wasn’t in the mood to even
speculate. There were more important things on my mind. I broke
through the language barrier once inside by overriding her voice
with my own. “In spite of Sinclair’s insinuations, I didn’t kill
Catherine Sinclair! I never even knew her, except from a
distance—”

The housekeeper stared at me fearfully. “Why
do you tell me this?”

“Because I need your help to prove who really
is behind Catherine Sinclair’s death.”

Trepidation and uncertainty swept across her
face like a shadow. “I don’t know anything—” she insisted.

“You knew enough to identify her body at the
morgue, didn’t you?” I stared down at her with a mean gaze. “Where
were you the night she was murdered?” I wasn’t above using my
six-five, muscular frame to intimidate her into cooperating.

“It was my off day,” she uttered hastily. “I
spend it with my daughter.”

“Who gave you the day off?”

She sighed pensively. “Mr. Sinclair.”

“How nice of him,” I said cynically, “and
convenient—”

“He would never hurt Mrs. Sinclair,” she
said, obediently defending him. “He loved her.”

“What about the other woman?” The housekeeper
looked at me as if I’d struck a sore spot. I wanted to build on the
momentum. “There was an attractive blonde woman, late twenties to
early thirties. She told me she was Catherine Sinclair. She hired
me to prove that Sinclair was having an affair, if that makes any
sense. This woman phoned me the night Catherine was murdered,
supposedly from this house, and said that Sinclair was going to
kill her. Only the victim turned out to be the real Catherine
Sinclair.” I sucked in a deep breath. “So who is this woman
pretending to be Sinclair’s wife? His lover—?”

The housekeeper turned her back to me, as if
to hide from the truth.

“It’s going to come out sooner or later,” I
told her. Adding with bite: “By then you could find yourself an
accessory to murder—”

This seemed to inject a dose of
self-preservation in her as she faced me. “I never saw the woman
you talk of,” she mumbled unconvincingly. “But Mr. and Mrs.
Sinclair were having problems.”

“You mean marital problems?”

She winced. “They had separate bedrooms.”

I
’
ll bet they did
.
“But
did they sleep together?” I asked bluntly.

She colored, and after a moment or two said
almost humorously: “Every once in a while.”

“What about in between once in a while?” I
eased up to her, realizing she was but a pawn herself in this
deadly web of deceit and murder. “Was Catherine having an
affair?”

It occurred to me that it could have worked
both ways. Maybe the woman who gave me the hard luck tale in my bed
was mirroring the real Catherine Ashley Sinclair’s life. Finding
out his wife was cheating on him may have motivated Sinclair to
plot her murder.

“I’m j-just housekeeper,” she stuttered in
broken English. “I don’t spy on my employers’ private lives.” She
paused thoughtfully, adding shakily: “I can’t afford to lose my
job—”

I was sympathetic to a point, but more
realistic. “There may not be a job left for you to lose,” I warned
her, “once this all comes out in the open. Maybe you know someone
else who can give me some answers.”

She hesitated before saying: “I know Mrs.
Sinclair was pretty close to Mrs. Mackenzie.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The health spa was filled to capacity with
women who didn’t look like they needed to get in shape. I watched
anyway as they moved their lean thighs and tight asses in harmony
to the beat of a disco song. Then I remembered, with lament, the
reason I was there. I was told that Nancy Mackenzie was the
instructor. I had hoped this might be the alias for the buxom
blonde who seduced me into playing a patsy for sex, lies, and
murder. But it was not to be.

Nancy was at the front of the class and
seemed to have no trouble masterfully leading the women who were
following her every move to perfection. I recognized Nancy
Mackenzie as the emotionally stricken redhead at Catherine
Sinclair’s funeral.

I liked her better today. She looked to be in
her late thirties and was petite, at no more than five-two in
height. Tight black leotards accentuated taut buttocks and shapely
legs. Her short, curly, crimson locks were tucked behind her ears
and her small, green eyes offered a steady gaze.

I hated to interrupt this sweat session, but
they probably needed a break anyway. The instructor gave it to them
when I approached her.

“This is an exercise class,” she said,
panting, as if I couldn’t tell. “Whatever you’re selling, I hope
it’s worth the intrusion on their time.”

“It’s worth it to me,” I assured her. “And
probably you as well.” I eyed her intently. You are Nancy
Mackenzie, aren’t you?”

She seemed to think about it for a moment.
“Yes.”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said, as if
that in itself was enough to stop the collective hearts from
pumping vigorously.

She wiped her face and hair with a towel, and
waited for the punch line.

I gave it. “I’m looking into the death of
Catherine Sinclair—”

A note of sorrow swept over her. Or was it
nervousness? Apprehension?

She stood mute a moment or two while the
class continued to disperse and distance themselves from us. When
she did speak, her voice was shaky. “I don’t know how I can help
you.”

“I understand that you and Catherine were
best friends.”

She fluttered her curly lashes. “I don’t know
where you got your information, Mr.—”

“Drake. Dean Drake. Her housekeeper told me,”
I said succinctly as if that was the gospel. In fact, the
housekeeper had said they were pretty close. Which, in my book, was
basically the same as close enough to be best friends.

“Well she was mistaken,” Nancy said without
hesitation.

Perhaps, I conceded. Or maybe she was right
on target. “But you were her friend?”

She paused. “Yes, we were friends, but only
casually.”

I studied her overly detached expression. “Do
you know if Catherine was having an affair when she died?”

A nervous twitch came from her neck. “How
would I know that?”

“She could have told you,” I stated flatly.
“Even casual friends share intimate information.”

“She didn’t,” Nancy countered testily. Her
tone changed when she said: “From what I’ve read, she was having an
affair with the man accused of murdering her—” She suddenly gave me
a strange look, as though it was just beginning to register who I
was.

“Don’t believe everything you read,” I said
defensively, while at the same time trying to make clear that I was
not the bad guy. Or at least not the one who battered, raped, and
strangled Catherine Sinclair. “I think Catherine was seeing
someone,” I offered speculatively. “Possibly the
real
person
who killed her or someone who may have caused a jealous Gregory
Sinclair to murder his wife.”

Nancy Mackenzie was definitely on edge. “Like
I said, I didn’t know Catherine all that well. I have no idea who
would want to kill her.”

I could think of two people without blinking
an eye.

I studied the aerobics instructor’s
well-toned body as I said: “I’ve been told that Catherine Sinclair
and her husband had separate bedrooms.” Our eyes met. “Tell me,
Mrs. Mackenzie,” I said, “do you and your husband share the same
bed?”

She colored apple red. “That’s none of your
damned business!”

“I hope it wasn’t Catherine Sinclair’s
business either—” I let that sink in for a moment before saying
tartly: “Thanks for your time.”

I had a feeling Nancy Mackenzie had something
to hide. Like maybe guilt and a cheating husband.

Was Catherine Sinclair her husband’s lover?
If so, did Gregory Sinclair know about it? Or even Nancy for that
matter? Could this have led to any of the three plotting separately
or together to murder Catherine?

I realized I was grasping at straws now. At
the same time, cheating spouses and friends could make for strange
and deadly bedfellows. And I couldn’t afford to rule out
anything—or anyone—at this point.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was Thursday evening and that meant it was
time for my weekly grocery shopping. I stood in a long checkout
line for maybe fifteen minutes at Safeway. It gave me ample time to
catch up on the latest gossip in Hollywood, at least according to
People
magazine.

With a cart filled with four plastic bags, I
was out the door, salivating at the thought of some shake and bake
chicken thighs, rice with gravy, and cornbread patties.

A woman’s stifled scream caught my attention.
Darting my eyes about the parking lot, I spotted a young Asian man
snatch a woman’s purse, knock her down, and sprint away like a
track star.

It was only upon second glance that I
realized the victim of the assault was Vanessa King. She was on the
ground and appeared dazed.

Abandoning my cart, I raced to her aid. “Are
you all right?”

“Yes, I think so,” she muttered.

I helped my ideal woman to her feet. It was
our first encounter since she offered to help me after I got out of
the hospital. Even now, the notion of her assistance in any
capacity gave me goose bumps. Now it was my turn to help her. I
felt the ire, as if I had been attacked, that the son of a bitch
had accosted
her
of all people
.

“Good,” I said, steaming. “Wait here—”

Thinking more like a pissed off detective
than a man awash with gallantry, I took off after the assailant. He
darted through heavy pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk, aware he
was being pursued. Being a jogger had its advantages, as I dodged
curious onlookers and narrowed the gap.

The man dipped into an alley where I cornered
him, still clutching Vanessa King’s purse tightly like it contained
gold bullion. The closer I came to him, the more at ease he seemed
to become.