Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (5 page)

Chapter 7

W
e started the evening at Chez Jacques, which is located on the southern-most tip of Redwood City, where it borders Atherton. One of the few French restaurants on the Peninsula, Chez Jacques rates a full five stars in the Silicon Valley Restaurant Guide. Luckily the portions are typically French, which means tiny. We ordered entrées, but no appetizers, no salad, and no wine. When you’re going to have three dinners in one night you need to eat light and stay sober.

Our waiter, Francois, sounded authentically French and looked disdainfully down his aquiline nose as he took our orders. That would go in my report. Many French restaurants encourage their serving staff to be aloof with patrons, but Chez Jacques is not among them. The owner, Jessica James, maintains a very high standard of customer service. Jessica and I got to know each other when I was working department store security. She managed the restaurant in the Millbrae store. Now she owns Chez Jacques in Atherton and the Garden Grill in Menlo Park. I’ve been doing one survey a week at each of her restaurants since I got my license. The food is so good I almost feel guilty charging for my services.

Francois was new. I hadn’t seen him before at either of Jessica’s restaurants. I was surprised she had hired a new food server without having me do a pre-employment background check. He might be a relative of one of the cooks or one of the other food servers. Maybe he was temporarily filling in for someone who was out sick.

The conversation among the diners was subdued, as was the lighting, but the scents wafting from passing trays were not and made my mouth water.

I kept an eye on Francois as he served other tables and attempted to make eye contact when he delivered our entrées. He never met my gaze. He set the plates on the table, serving first me and then Bill, nodded curtly, and muttered, “Bon appétit,” before sauntering away.

The food was exquisite, as always. The cuisine is never an issue at Jessica’s restaurants. I had ordered the Loup de Mer, a lightly grilled Mediterranean seabass filet, which was nestled atop a pool of buttery lemon sauce, crème fraiche, and steamed spinach, and crowned with a single sprig of rosemary. It was a struggle for me not to lick the plate clean, but I managed.

After Chez Jacques, Bill and I drove north to Burlingame. On the way, I told him about my visit with Sam Pettigrew. He raised an eyebrow when I told him I’d asked Sam for help, but didn’t comment.

We covered two more restaurants and two bars that night. The last stop was in San Francisco. When we were driving back to Redwood City on Highway 101, I glanced over at SFO and wondered where the air traffic control tower was. Was it really a tower? All that was required was a room full of radar equipment and a group of highly skilled, very intelligent, and calm-in-a-crisis people, right?

We arrived back at the marina at 1:23 a.m., gathered up our leftovers, and walked down to the docks. It was low tide and the companionway was steep. I filled my lungs with the pungent fragrance of seaweed. Unlike some boat dwellers, I love the marina smells.

We stopped at Kirk’s Bluewater 42, because D’Artagnon was sprawled on the bow, and offered him a sampling of what we had in our doggie bags. D’Artagnon is always hungry, but tonight he seemed unenthusiastic about the table scraps. In fact, he remained lying down on the deck.

I reached out to pet him while Bill fed him a few bites of steak. “What’s wrong, boy? I asked, stroking his ears. “I hope he’s okay,” I said to Bill. “I’ve noticed his limp is getting worse. I think I’ll drop in on Kirk tomorrow.”

I felt a tightness in my chest as we walked the remaining distance to my boat.

Chapter 8

S
unday morning I let Bill sleep in while I filled my thermal mug with coffee and walked down the dock to Kirk’s yacht. I knocked on the starboard window and waited. Kirk is a marketing analyst and a sensitive, if slightly macho, guy. His son, Jonathan, lived with him until he went away to college, but he comes home during the summer months. Kirk’s father also makes frequent visits to the marina, but I’ve never seen Kirk in the company of a woman. My impression is that his divorce from Jonathan’s mom left him emotionally scarred.

I could smell bacon cooking, so I knew he was home. D’Artagnon was nowhere in sight, but it was early yet. After a moment the blinds went up and Kirk slid the window open. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Is D’Artagnon okay?” I asked. “I’ve noticed the limp is getting worse and when we stopped to feed him treats last night he didn’t seem to have much of an appetite.”

“It’s his arthritis. The vet gave me some steroidal anti-inflammatories to feed him, but they ruin his appetite. I’m worried about his quality of life. Eating’s the most important thing in the world to D’Artagnon. I hate spoiling that for him.”

“What does the vet say about taking him for walks?”

“He’s having trouble getting on and off the boat, but he still loves going for walks. The vet said walking is good for him, but to take it slow. I’ve gotta go,” he said, blinking away tears. “Bacon’s burning.” He closed the window and lowered the blinds.

I put on my sunglasses and walked back to my boat. Bill was in the galley drinking coffee when I came down the companionway. I told him what Kirk had said. I’m overly sentimental about dogs and D’Artagnon is my favorite canine. I knew what Kirk was going through.

I planned a trip to the gym, followed by a couple of lunch surveys and, later, a dinner survey and three bars. Maybe if I was focused on employee performance I wouldn’t worry so much about D’Artagnon.

I put on shorts and a tee shirt, and drove around the corner to the Athletic Center. I jogged on the treadmill, climbed on the Stairmaster, and hoisted free weights until my arms trembled. Then I did a hundred crunches and fifty military pushups. I showered and changed at the gym before going to work.

I spent the afternoon and early evening driving, eating, drinking, and scribbling notes about how well other people were doing their jobs. No one appeared to be stealing from my clients, so the reports would focus on the quality of service and cuisine, the ambiance and cleanliness of the restaurants and bars, and the disposition of the patrons.

I checked my office fax machine when I got back, but Paul hadn’t sent the accident reports yet. I walked down to the boat, stopping to pet D’Artagnon along the way. He seemed a little more energetic than he had the night before. I knocked on Kirk’s window and asked if he could help D’Artagnon off the boat so I could to take him for a walk. Then I went home to change clothes again, and found Bill in the main salon playing his guitar.

“I’m taking D’Artagnon to the wildlife refuge for a walk,” I said, as I pulled on an old pair of jeans and my Ecco Track II boots.

“Want some company?”

I thought about it for a minute and decided that I wanted to be alone with D’Artagnon. “Not this time,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”

I grabbed a bottle of water in case one of us got thirsty, stuffed some small dog biscuits into my pockets, and hustled back to Kirk’s boat. D’Artagnon was standing on the bow wagging his tail, as though he was expecting me.

“Did you want to go for a walk?” I asked.

The wagging increased in velocity until his tail was spinning like a propeller.

Kirk was waiting for him on the swim platform. D’Artagnon padded to the stern of the boat, and Kirk lifted him, setting him gently on the dock. I snagged the leash Kirk keeps on a hook and attached it to his collar. The pup moved slowly, but his tail kept spinning so I figured he was okay.

We walked across the street to the Bair Island wildlife refuge. This was D’Artagnon’s favorite place because there were so many wonderful smells: other dogs, rabbits, rats, squirrels, herons, and who knows what else. There’s a three-mile path that winds around the refuge. It gets muddy in the fall and winter, but wasn’t too bad tonight.

As we walked, D’Artagnon sniffed the air, the ground, and the bushes. I stroked his back whenever he stopped walking, and fed him the dog biscuits one at a time.

After half an hour he started to tire, panting and moving more slowly. I knelt down and poured some water from the bottle into my hand, and he drank. Then he licked my face and allowed me to hug him, wagging serenely.

When we got back to the marina I rinsed his feet and my boots with the hose, and returned him to Kirk. I received another lick on the nose from the grateful pup, and retreated to my office.

The fax tray was still empty, so I occupied myself typing up the surveys I’d conducted earlier in the day. I called down to the boat to let Bill know where I was. I felt guilty that I’d been neglecting him in favor of work and D’artagnon, and the weekend was almost over. While we were on the phone my fax started ringing.

Chapter 9

T
wo hundred and twenty-two pages rolled out of my fax machine that night. I had to reload the paper tray twice.

Bill joined me in the office and we scanned the reports as they came in. There were four airline accident reports, but only one with fatalities. Each began with an identification number and the date on which the accident had occurred. They included flight numbers, a chronological history of each flight, the type of aircraft involved, location of the accident, aids to navigation, and meteorological data collected from the national weather service. There were also lists of injured persons and, in the one case, fatalities. 

I didn’t understand a lot of what I was reading, but I felt certain the answer lay in the fatalities, so that’s what I focused on. I copied the whole thing, flagging the pages with lists of names on them. I would take the original to Sam in the morning.

Bill hadn’t had dinner, so at 10:30 he went out. Forty minutes later he was back with an extra large pizza. He ate, and I drank coffee, and we both read the pages about the accident that had included fatalities. I opened a blank Excel spreadsheet, and as Bill read me the names of the deceased passengers and employees I entered the data.

Around midnight my vision started blurring. We left everything on my desk except the leftover pizza, which we broke into bite-sized pieces and delivered to the bow of Kirk’s boat. The scent would probably wake D’Artagnon and he’d have a nice surprise.

First thing Monday morning I called Sam. He’s not a morning person, but he is a creature of habit and always arrives at the office early.

“Pettigrew Investigations,” he grumbled.

“Good morning. I’ve got those accident reports for you.”

“Finally! Bring ‘em on down.”

“Is now a good time?” I asked.

“No, but it can’t wait. You’ll have to do a couple surveys for me today so I’ll have time to look ’em over. Hit the road, Nicoli. There’s work to be done.” And he hung up.

I looked at my watch. It was 8:02. Sam always did donut shop surveys on Monday mornings. Oh my
God
, he was going to ask me to survey the House of Donuts. I hated doing the donut shops. My will power weakens around just about anything covered with chocolate.

I arrived at Sam’s office in less than twenty minutes, handed him the two hundred and twenty-two pages plus a copy of my Excel spreadsheet, and poured myself a cup of coffee.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he said. “I need you to go right back out.”

“Not the House of Donuts,” I whined.

“Hey, they pay on time. What, are you too good to survey donut shops now that you’re investigating murders all the damn time?”

“I do bar and restaurant surveys every week, Sam. It’s just the frickin’
chocolate.
”

“So don’t buy the chocolate. Suck it up, Nicoli. I need you to do the Sunnyvale, Mountain View, and Redwood City stores before ten.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before I drove all the way down here from Redwood City?”

“Because I wanted to get my hands on these reports so I can help you save your friend’s life. Or have you forgotten I’m doing you a favor?”

I flinched at the rebuke. “Sorry. I’ll go quietly.”

Leaving Sam with the accident reports I drove from Sunnyvale to Redwood City and back, purchasing chocolate and glazed donuts, bagels and cream cheese, large cups of coffee, and House of Donuts designer mugs, all with cash.

When the cashier in the Redwood City store failed to record my sale on the register, I thought I might have caught myself a till-tapper, but she politely explained that the register was broken and asked if I wanted her to hand-write a receipt for me. I said yes, since I was buying for everyone at the office and needed them to pay me back. She itemized the hand-written receipt, and by the time she’d finished there were five people waiting in line behind me. I felt bad about that until the following week, when Sam told me he’d submitted my report to the owner, who said the register in the Redwood City store was new and had never malfunctioned.  

When I arrived back at Sam’s office he was surrounded by the accident report pages. I started to say something, but he held up his hand to stop me, so I clamped my mouth shut, remembering that I owed him big for helping me with the investigation.

I went to the desk in the outer office where I had sat for the two years I’d worked for Sam whenever I had surveillance reports to compose, and typed up the three donut shop surveys on his old Macintosh computer. As I was printing the reports, Sam came out of his office and said, “Did you bring me anything?”

I pointed to the coffee table where I’d left all the donuts, bagels, coffee, and mugs I had purchased. I hadn’t eaten a thing and was extremely proud of myself.

“So what do you think?” I asked, eager to hear what he had to say.

Sam selected one of the chocolate glazed donuts, which is among my favorite poisons, and took a huge bite. My mouth started watering and I fished in my purse for a pack of the sugarless gum I started chewing when I quit smoking. I found the pack and stuffed two pieces into my mouth. He took another bite of his donut, opened one of the coffees, and motioned me back to his office. I grabbed a coffee and followed.

I sat across from him and looked at the piles of fax paper spread across his desk. I started to comment on the mess, and then remembered that my desk was no better. I closed my mouth before the words could escape.

Sam swallowed the last bite of donut, licked his fingers, took a sip of coffee, and pointed to the stack on his left. Beneath his finger was the spreadsheet I had created. I looked closer and noticed that Sam had highlighted several of the names.

“One of these people is most likely related to your killer. In each case two or more family members were killed and the cause of this accident was never determined, at least not yet. If you were a person prone to placing blame, and you lost your whole family in a plane crash, and then the airline told you they didn’t know why the plane had crashed, you might go a little bit postal.”

Sam sipped more coffee and I picked up the spreadsheet and looked more closely at the names he had highlighted. “Okay,” I said. “So we need to research the surviving members of each of these families.”

“We can’t do actual background checks without some information to start with, but your friend can probably get you the next of kin information. They’d need that for the notification process. Then we can casually drop in on them, maybe pretend we’re with the NATCA investigative committee or something like that, and scope ’em out.”

“NATCA?”

“National Air Traffic Controllers Association.”

“I’ll call Paul. Thank you, Sam.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he repeated.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I said. “I’ll call you when I have more information.”

“Don’t go off on your own with this, Nicoli. I don’t want you knocking on the killer’s door without backup.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

I drove back to Redwood City thinking about my relationship with Sam and wondering if I’d assigned him the role of substitute father. My dad had also been gruff, and hadn’t expressed affection easily. I knew Sam cared about me, but I’d never stopped by just to visit. Maybe I was subconsciously punishing my father for his disappearance from my life by staying away from Sam. Sometimes I’m too complex for my own good.

I called Paul at home while I was driving back to Redwood City. It was 11:15, and his shift didn’t start until 7:00 p.m. He was probably still asleep. His voicemail picked up and I pulled to the side of the road so I could read the list. I left a message, including the names Sam had highlighted, saying I needed information on their next of kin as soon as possible. When I disconnected I felt a wave of fear slide through my stomach. What if Paul hadn’t answered because the killer had already struck again? Or what if he was home but he had company? Maybe I shouldn’t have left such explicit information on his machine.
Crap!

I arrived at the marina thinking I wanted a snack. Lately, when I crave nicotine and gum isn’t doing the trick, I’ve been using food as an antidote for anxiety. I stopped to see if Kirk was home, but he didn’t respond to my knock, and D’Artagnon wasn’t out on deck.

I walked down the dock, and as I approached Frank and Rocky’s boat—that would be Frank the human and Rocky the Chow mix—I spotted a big red-haired puppy tied to Frank’s dock box. I knew he was a puppy because his feet were too big for the rest of him. He was wagging his tail and whining softly at the same time. Naturally I stopped to say hello. I hadn’t met this dog before, but Frank often rescues strays. I squatted down and he licked my face.

“Hey, Frank!” I shouted. “Who’s
this
?”

Frank popped his head out of the hatch, and said, “That’s Buddy. He followed Rocky home like they were friends, so I named him Buddy. No collar. Probably abandoned. He was hungry. I can’t bring him aboard because he isn’t neutered and neither is Rocky. Whenever I let him on the boat Rocky tries to mount him. I’m afraid they’ll get into a fight.”

While we were talking, Rocky was leaning as far as he could over the net that kept him on the deck of Frank’s sailboat, trying to get closer to the other dog.

“What are you going to do with him?” I asked.

“I thought I’d put up pictures of him around the neighborhood and see if anyone claims him. If they don’t, I’ll have to take him to the pound.”

“Oh
no
. He’s so sweet. I’m sure his people must be worried sick.”

I scratched Buddy’s ears some more, told him everything would be okay, and then walked the remaining distance to my boat. I could feel the puppy’s eyes on my back all the way down the dock. I turned and looked back as I stepped aboard, and sure enough, he was looking right at me. Making eye contact is intimidating for most dogs, but not this guy, and he had that sad hound look nailed. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to end up with a roommate.

I had cottage cheese and rice cakes for lunch, but I didn’t feel any better, so I tried calling Paul again. This time he answered on the second ring and relief washed over me.

“I got your message,” he said. “Sorry I missed your call. I was outside working in the garden.”

“You shouldn’t expose yourself like that. What if you’re next on the killer’s list?”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and then Paul said, “I think I can get you the next of kin information tonight. It might take a little digging, but I should be able to fax it to you by morning.”

“Thanks. You have to be more careful, Paul. Try to think defensively. Have you called Quinn yet?”

“No.”

“You need to do that.”

As soon as we hung up my phone rang. It was Steve Saxon.

“You’re not serious about that cop you brought to the reunion, are you?” he said without preamble. “Come to Maine. I’ll fly you out first class.”

“How did you get my number?” I asked, offended by how easily he had dismissed Bill.

“Bella gave it to me.”

I’d have to speak with Bella about giving out personal information without asking first.

“I’m flattered, Steve, but I
am
serious about Bill and, even if I wasn’t, I’m not into casual sex.”

“Really,” he said, a hint of smug self-satisfaction in his voice. “I remember you being a lot more relaxed in high school.”

“Will you do me a favor?” I asked, sweetly. “Will you take my phone number and shove it up your ass?” And I hung up.

Now I really needed to talk to Elizabeth. I hadn’t seen her since before the reunion. I dialed her work number and she picked up on the first ring.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Hi, honey. I spent the weekend with Jack. I guess I should have called you so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Are you moving in?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Of course not. It’s just such a nice house and I’m totally in love with him, but I’m not sure he’s ready for a commitment.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because if Jack McGuire was ready for a commitment I’d have a rock the size of a bowling ball on my left hand.”

“Maybe he hasn’t found a ring he likes. Has he asked you to move in?”

“A couple of times, but I don’t want to move in with him unless he intends to marry me. Is that ridiculous?”

“I think it’s intelligent, if marriage is what you really want.”

“Have you and Bill talked about marriage?”

“You know I suck at being married.”