Death By High Heels (The Kim Murphy PI Series Book 1) (9 page)

“You’re evil.”

“Back at ya.”

“I’ll take it before you change your mind.”

Charmaine laughed. “I figured that out before you even saw it.”

“So, how was your date last night?”

“It was okay.”

“Just okay?”

“We went to dinner. It was nice.”

“So what was the problem?”

“Nothing, let’s just drop it.”

“Oh, you know I can’t drop it. Spill.”

“Fine, he spent half an hour telling me about his stuffed animal collection.”

“His what?”

“Don’t you dare laugh,” she ordered.

“I’m not.” I bit my lower lip to prevent the giggles from escaping.

“Tell me what man in his right mind collects stuffed animals and dresses them up in clothes.”

“He dresses them up? Oh jeez.” I tried but couldn’t fight the giggles. I kept my purse close in case I had to toss it at Charmaine in an attempt to escape. In high school she’d taken martial arts classes and there was no way I was going to stand around while she used some freaky moves on me. I was rather partial to my face just the way it was.

“Damn it, Kim!”

“Sorry,” I said before Charmaine burst out laughing. It wasn’t long before tears streamed down our faces.

“Ah hell, I haven’t laughed that hard in weeks,” Charmaine said, wiping away the tears.

“Me either,” I admitted.

“That dude was crazy. He names them. I got outta there so fast I left half my food on the plate and didn’t even get a doggie bag.”

“The next time you meet a guy at the gas station, maybe you’ll find out a bit more about him before you give him your phone number.”

“Relax, it’s not like he was a gang banger or something.”

“Okay, but I just think you need to be a bit more selective next time.”

“Maybe I should just hire you to do a background check on every guy I go out with.”

“Then when would I have time to take on any other clients?” I laughed.

“That’s true. Besides, you’re probably too busy lookin’ for who killed that dude in your apartment.”

“It wasn’t in my apartment!”

“Okay, sorry. You don’t have to bite my head off.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just getting old. Why does everyone keep assuming I’m guilty?”

“Kim, nobody’s assumin’ anything.”

“Ha!”

“Okay, you’re right, they are, but you gotta admit it makes sense.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“That don’t mean you gotta like it.”

I laughed. “Well, I don’t.”

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing for now.” I glanced at a grandfather clock in the corner. “Ooh, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a meeting.”

“Meetings suck.”

I couldn’t argue with that. We went up front, and thankfully Maria was gone. Charmaine wrapped the gift while I paid the cashier. I left, promising to call her if I needed to talk.

Chapter Six

I drove south until I reached Willowhurst. A busy intersection unless it was the middle of the night, I waited through three turns at the light before making a left.

At the diner, I parked in the lot and headed inside. Brandon had claimed a table with a window overlooking the parking lot and his precious Ford pickup truck. I slid into the booth across from him. Max’s Diner was the place everyone went for comfort food. If you liked your food cooked in grease and covered in gravy, Max’s was for you. The décor left something to be desired, but just one bite of the food and you wouldn’t care if you were sitting in your pajamas on the roof. The white Formica tables had paper placemats and paper napkins. The booths and chairs were a black vinyl while the floor was black-and-white checked linoleum. He motioned for a waitress. When she arrived at the table she flashed her pearly whites at him.

“Could we get another coffee?” Brandon asked.

“Sure thing.” She glanced at me, the smile replaced with a frown. She left and returned a minute later, plopping the mug down in front of me.

“Just let me know when you want something.” She winked at Brandon and walked away, swinging her hips as she went.

“Switch cups.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Switch.”

“You’re crazy.” He laughed.

“The little blonde was into you. She wanted me gone.”

“So?” he asked.

“She probably spit in that one.” I dumped sugar and cream into the cup I snatched from him before he could ask for it back. All the men in the Murphy family never drank their coffee any other way than extra strong and black.

“That’s disgusting and illegal.”

“Like that’s ever stopped anyone.”

He stared down at the mug then pushed it aside. “So, did Brenna track you down?”

“Oh yes, we had a lovely chat.”

Brandon raised his brows.

“Why does she always have to treat me like I don’t have a brain?”

“She’s just trying to be helpful.”

“I know, and I love her, but sometimes it drives me crazy.”

“At least it’s a short drive to Crazyville for you.” He smirked.

“Ha, ha, ha.”

Brandon chuckled. “So, would it be rude if we went ahead and ordered? I’m starving.”

“Yeah, it’s rude, but I’m hungry too. Let’s order and maybe she’ll show up by the time our food gets here.”

He waved his hand again and our waitress bustled over.

“Hi, we’re ready to order. I’d like the Big Platter with the eggs sunny side up and my sister’ll have…”

“Banana pancakes, please. Oh, and could you get him a new cup of coffee? Mine tasted funny and he was sweet enough to give me his,” I said, pointing to the aforementioned mug.

She looked down at the mug and back up at me. “Uh, yes, sure.” She grabbed the cup and headed for the back.

“So, do you think my food will be safe?” I asked.

“It better be!”

I laughed. My brothers had always been protective of Brenna and me, unless of course they were the ones harassing us.

“So, have you talked to Dad?” Brandon asked.

“Not since the other night. Why?”

“Man, is he pissed off.”

“At me?” I asked, worried I had pushed my dad too far this time.

“No, he’s ticked you were there and had to see all that. He’s also frustrated you’re involved in another mess.”

“Great.”

“Don’t feel too bad. He’s also not happy with Tompkins’s progress, or rather the lack of progress.”

“I’m sure Grant is doing everything he can.”

“Grant, is it?” He smirked. He stared at me, his right eyebrow lifting so high I feared it would detach from his face and fly away.

“What? That’s his name.”

“Uh-huh. So, learned who the killer is yet?” Brandon asked.

“Sure, but I figured I’d wait to tell Grant until after I had breakfast. Jeez.”

“Come on, you’ve been working on this for two whole days. I bet you’ve got something.”

“It’s been a day and a half. So far I’ve talked with some of the victim’s friends and family. I didn’t get much out of them. Although, one friend figured it had something to do with drugs and Angie,” I said.

“Drugs? Buying or selling?”

“Not sure. The tox screen won’t be ready for another week,” I replied.

“What else?”

“Cause of death was exsanguination. Doc figured it took several minutes for him to bleed out. Can you imagine just sitting there with several feet of intestines in your lap?”

I took the mug shots from my purse and placed them on the table for Brandon to see.

“What a bunch of losers,” he said, pointing to Brian and Adam.

I felt the same way but I had an urge to goad him. “Wow, how enlightened for a police officer.”

“Sorry, but I’m being honest.”

“I was just messing with you. Most of them are. Only this guy seems to have turned his life around.” I pointed to Kevin’s picture. “He’s got a steady job, an apartment, and he’s been clean since his arrest.

“Or he just hasn’t been caught.”

“Cynical much?”

“Yup. That’s what keeps me sharp at work.”

I couldn’t blame him. I’d never forget the night he’d ended up with a scar across his shoulder from a particularly nasty domestic disturbance call. Brandon had stopped the woman’s husband from stabbing her with a kitchen knife. She repaid my brother by smashing a punch bowl into his shoulder because he was arresting her knife-toting husband. The violent couple got matching handcuffs and carted off to jail.

“Some people change.”

“You’re right, Kim. Some do, but most of them don’t.”

I picked up Brian’s picture and wondered what he could have possibly done to deserve something so awful.

Crash.
The steady hum of the filled restaurant stopped. Everyone turned to stare. Deep in conversation, neither Brandon nor I had noticed the waitress had arrived with our food. Food that now covered the floor.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll clean this up and get you new plates.”

“No problem. No one was hurt. That’s what matters.” He smiled.

Ever the gentleman, he helped our red-faced waitress clean up the mess. She muttered her thanks and rushed off. While we waited for our food, the other customers returned to their own conversations.

“What the heck was that about?” I asked.

“Don’t know. Maybe she was intimidated by me. I’m hot.”

“Oh, gross. Please don’t say that again. Ever.”

He chuckled, then glanced at his watch. “Angie’s not coming.”

“She’s just late.”

“Bet ya twenty she’s a no-show.”

“She said she’d be here.”

“She’ll show all right, when the Reds win the series.”

“Don’t start.”

Before he could make another snarky remark, a different waitress arrived with our order. We thanked her before diving into our food. Fifteen minutes later our plates were empty, our bellies full, and Angie was indeed a no-show. Well, hell.

“So, Kim, what’s next?”

“I’m not sure. I do know I need to talk to Angie.”

“Good luck with that. It doesn’t look like she wants to talk to you.” Brandon stood up and grabbed the bill, placing five dollars on the table.

“Hey, this was a business meeting. I can put it on my bill for expenses.”

“My treat. Call me later and let me know what you find out.”

I stayed in the booth for a few minutes longer, hoping Angie would walk in. Finally, I got up and left. In my car I flipped through my notes. According to Mapquest, Angie lived only a few blocks from The Spitting Parrot. How convenient. I cranked the volume, blasting a Kelly Clarkson CD, and drove toward the bar. When I got close, I turned down the volume and followed the directions to Angie’s. I pulled up in front of a two-story home built in the fifties. Somewhere along the way someone had converted the large building into apartments. On the front porch, an older woman sat in a rocking chair. Wearing a pale blue nightgown, her gray hair in curlers, she watched me climb the crumbling stairs to the front porch.

“Hello, I’m looking for my friend, Angie.”

“Upstairs on the left.”

“Thanks.”

I opened the door and gagged. The smell of sauerkraut slapped me in the face. Jeez, I hated sauerkraut. My paternal grandmother made it once a week when I was growing up. I tried everything I could to avoid going to her house. One time my grandfather told me I couldn’t leave the table until I’d eaten every bite of the snot-looking goo. When my grandparents weren’t looking, my dad scooped the stuff up in a napkin and slipped it into his pocket. Now that was a hero.

I took the stairs two at a time. Upstairs, the smell no longer set off my gag reflex. I knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened so I tried again, hoping for a different result, but not surprised when, again, there was nothing. I did a quick look around to be sure I wasn’t being watched, then placed my ear to Angie’s door. I could have heard a mouse, it was so quiet. Either Angie wasn’t home or she wasn’t moving. I shivered even though it must have been eighty degrees in the hall.

This was stupid. I’d been hanging around too many dead bodies lately. She probably bailed on the meeting and left, figuring when she was a no-show I’d pay her a visit. I grabbed a pen and a business card from my purse. On the back of the card I scribbled a note, then slid it under the door. I turned to leave but stopped, unable to get the image out of my head of Angie, lifeless in her apartment.

“What the hell?” I grabbed the doorknob and turned it. “Oh, this is so not good,” I muttered when the door opened. This was wrong, very wrong, but maybe it was a sign. No one left their door open. Maybe this was a sign I was meant to go inside and snoop around. Before I could chicken out, I hurried in, closing the door behind me.

Angie’s apartment was small, which for searching purposes was convenient. There was a small eat-in kitchen, a living room, a bedroom, and one bathroom. The place was spotless. Angie took good care of her tiny living space. It was way too neat for a junkie. Most of them were too busy getting money for their next fix. Not knowing how long it would be before she returned, I made a quick search of the place. In a shoebox under the bed I found an empty prescription bottle with part of the label torn off and a crumpled up picture. The label was from Mr. Prescription and I could only make out the first three letters of the name, Ire. Not helpful at all, plus what odd things for someone to keep together in a box.

A car horn startled me, a reminder I had to get out before someone spotted me. I slipped the pill bottle and picture into my purse then locked Angie’s front door behind me. Going down the stairs, I held my breath until I made it outside.

“Angie ain’t home.” The old lady rocked back and forth.

Boy, would that have been some helpful information a minute ago. “Oh, did she say where she was going?”

“Nope.”

“Was she with anyone?”

“Not as far as I could tell.”

“Okay, well, thanks.”

“I did see some feller tear outta here when she took off.”

It could be a coincidence. It could also explain why Angie never showed up at the restaurant. “Did you see what kind of car he had?”

“Yup.”

“Well?” I asked.

“What?”

I sighed. “What kind of car was the guy driving?”

“White.”

Oh my God, this was actually painful. “Great, it was white. Do you know what
kind
it was?”

“It was one of them SVUs.”

“You mean an SUV?”

“Yup, that’s it, SUV,” she replied.

“Okay, so do you remember anything else about the car?”

“You mean like stickers or a license plate?”

“Yes. Did you see any of that?”

“Nope.”

My head began to throb. “Well, okay, thanks.”

I gave her my card and asked her to call me if she thought of anything else.

Out of ideas and with nothing else planned, I drove past The Spitting Parrot. None of the half dozen or so cars in the lot matched the description of Angie’s car. The only SUV was navy blue with Michigan plates.

With a couple of hours to kill before I was due to follow a client’s husband, I drove back to the office. Lucky me, I had one message on the machine. Maybe it was the killer calling to confess. Wouldn’t that be nice? I pressed play and cringed at the voice on the machine—Lindsay. Evidently she had spoken with her boyfriend and I could meet with him tomorrow afternoon.

Something besides the adultery bugged me about the all too helpful lawyer. I just couldn’t figure out what it was. I Googled his name and up popped dozens of articles about him, his successful law firm, and his donations to local charities. Several of the articles included pictures of him and his wife, dressed to the hilt for some fancy function or another. His wife appeared to be close to his age—late forties. She was attractive and took good care of herself. I was impressed with the flat stomach after she’d had three kids.