Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (6 page)

“People change, Nikki. I’ll be home tonight if you want to get together. I’ll cook you dinner.”

“That sounds great. I need to talk to you about an investigation I’m working on.”

“Is it dangerous?”

Elizabeth loves danger, which accounts at least in part for her attraction to a retired cat burglar.

“Very dangerous. Multiple homicides.”

“Oh my
God!
What do you want for dinner?”

“Chocolate.”

“I’ll see you at six,” Elizabeth laughed. “Bring wine.”

On my way to the parking lot I stopped again to commune with the red-haired pup. I had a few dog biscuits in my pocket, so I squatted down and fed them to him. He licked my face between bites and when he’d finished the last biscuit he turned around and planted his big puppy butt in my lap, forcing me into a sitting position. When he had me where he wanted me, he scooted onto my belly, pushing me flat on my back. He felt like he weighed at least sixty pounds. His tail was wagging and whipping me in the face. I lay there for a minute, enjoying the absurdity of the situation, before pushing him off. He turned around and licked my face again as I got to my feet. This dog belonged on somebody’s sofa.

I cruised down El Camino to Beltramo’s Wines And Spirits in Atherton so I could buy something nice for my dinner with Elizabeth. One of Beltramo’s sommeliers assisted me in selecting a French wine called a Beaune Premier Cru. He told me it had an open and pleasant nose reminiscent of red current, humus, and undergrowth, which would evolve as the wine was allowed to breathe towards touches of spice and vanilla. Sounded good to me. The price was a bit steep, but I really wanted to show Elizabeth how much I appreciate her friendship.

I drove back to the office, deposited the Beltramo’s bag on my desk, and opened the Excel workbook where I log my survey schedule. I selected two restaurants, one of which was a new client, and a bar that had an employee I needed to check out, and went to work.

After nibbling on a crab salad at a seafood joint in Palo Alto, and sipping a Campari and soda at a trendy bistro in Los Altos, I went to a country-western steakhouse in Mountain View. There were peanut shells on the floor, and three couples were waiting to be seated when I arrived. I scoped out the staff and diners while I was waiting to be seated. The country music was so loud it was almost impossible to hear what anyone was saying, but the customers all appeared to be enjoying themselves.

After about fifteen minutes the host seated me in a booth near the jukebox and I was approached by a Latino Adonis in his mid-twenties. His name tag read Juan. He was dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a navy tee shirt, with a white apron tied around his waist. He placed a small bowl of peanuts on the table, handed me a laminated menu, and asked if I’d like something to drink. I requested a Sapphire martini with four olives, and told him to have the bartender put the vermouth in the glass, meaning I wanted to actually taste it.

While I waited for my drink, I perused the menu. This was the first time I’d surveyed this steakhouse, so I read each item on the menu before deciding on the braised shrimp with wild rice and a side salad.

Juan returned with my cocktail and took my order. When he’d moved on to another table I took a sip of the martini. Being a connoisseur of fine gin, I was able to determine that the bartender had used regular Bombay, and not the Bombay Sapphire I’d requested. Also, there were only three olives in the glass, and I’d requested four. I’d mention these details in my report, but I’d have to check out the bartender before leaving to see if he was neglectful, distracted by the crowd, or simply didn’t have Sapphire behind the bar, and was running low on olives.

Juan was charming, but extremely busy with all of his tables. When he served my entrée he removed a bundle of silverware wrapped in a single ply napkin from his apron pocket and placed it on the table next to my plate, but neglected to serve me ice water. He’d also forgotten to bring me the salad I’d ordered. I didn’t say anything about the missing salad, and a few minutes later he delivered it, along with an apology, but still no ice water.

By 5:00 I had a mild buzz from the few sips of martini I’d allowed myself. I’d eaten a little of the salad and a few of the braised shrimp. The food was good, if a bit salty for my taste, but I was saving my appetite for dinner with Elizabeth. I waved Juan over to the table and asked for the check. He withdrew two black leather folders from his apron pocket, checked to see which one was mine, and placed it on the table. A cash register receipt showed the items I’d ordered with the correct prices. I took out enough cash to cover the tab and Juan’s tip, placed the cash in the folder, and withdrew the receipt.

On my way out of the restaurant I made a brief stop in the bar. The bartender was Hispanic, in his late-thirties, and dressed as Juan had been. He looked harried as he tried to keep up with the number of customers and waitstaff who were anxious for their orders. This was another detail my new client would hear about from me. This poor guy shouldn’t have been the only bartender on duty.

They did not, in fact, have Bombay Sapphire available, and I made a mental note to suggest to the owner that it wouldn’t hurt to stock a bottle or two for their more discriminating clientele. Even though the restaurant was on the rustic side, they had a full bar, which should be well stocked. The condiment dispenser was filled with olives, so the missing one from my drink was an oversight, either by the bartender or by Juan. I suspected that a few additional staff members would take care of most of my new client’s problems.

When I arrived back at the marina I dropped off my survey notes at the office before grabbing the bottle of wine I’d purchased at Beltramo’s and walking down to the dock. It wasn’t yet time for my dinner with Elizabeth, and I needed to freshen up first anyway, so I headed for my boat. Once again D’Artagnon wasn’t on the bow of Kirk’s boat, and my heart did a painful clutch in my chest as I wondered why.

When I passed Frank’s boat I immediately noticed that the red-haired dog was gone and Rocky, Frank’s Chow mix, was moping on deck. Maybe Frank had already found Buddy’s family. For some reason the thought made me sad.

I showered onboard and dressed in jeans and a festive Hawaiian shirt. I stuffed a few dog biscuits into the pockets of my jacket, picked up the Beaune Cru, and walked back to Frank’s boat. I knocked on the hull and was feeding Rocky a biscuit when Frank came out on deck.

“Where’s Buddy?” I asked.

“The Humane Society came and got him,” he said.

“Oh,
no,
” I said. “I thought you were looking for his family!” I was unable to keep the accusation out of my voice.

“I couldn’t just leave him tied to the dock box twenty-four hours a day. You want him?
You
go get him out of jail. I have to go to work.” And with that he dropped back inside his boat.

Obviously Frank was feeling some guilt about turning Buddy over to the authorities. Frank always gets pissy when he feels guilty about something. We’ve been neighbors for a while now, and I’ve observed this behavior on more than one occasion.

There was a knot in my stomach as I approached D’Artagnon’s boat. He still wasn’t outside, and when I knocked on Kirk’s galley window there was no answer. I left my offering of dog biscuits on the bow, hoping they’d be gone by the time I passed by again.

Chapter 10

I
walked on down the dock to Elizabeth’s trawler and rapped on the deck outside her open door.

“Come on in, honey,” she called out.

I boarded the boat and gave her a hug, inhaling the aroma of garlic coming from a simmering pot of spaghetti sauce. “It smells wonderful in here.”

Her eyebrows shot up when I handed her the wine and she read the label. “Wow!” she said.

“Can I use your phone?” I asked, nudging K.C., Elizabeth’s cat, aside so I could sit down at the galley counter.

“Of course. What’s up?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

I dialed information, asked for the number of the Peninsula Humane Society, and wrote it on the pad Elizabeth keeps by her phone. I dialed, and was surprised when someone actually answered. It was almost 6:00 and I was afraid they’d be closed for the day.

“My name is Nicoli Hunter,” I began, “I live at a marina on Bair Island Road in Redwood City where you guys picked up a big red-haired puppy this afternoon. Do you know the one I mean?”

“Buddy? Yeah, he’s here. Are you the owner?”

“No, but I really like the dog, and if his family doesn’t claim him I’d like to adopt him.” My heart started pounding as I spoke the words. A pet is a commitment. What was I thinking? “Can I give you my phone number, you know, in case his time runs out?”

The woman took my name and number and just to be safe I asked for her name as well. It was Fiona. She wouldn’t give me her last name, but I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be more than one Fiona working at the Humane Society. I asked her if Buddy had one of those ID chips implanted in his neck and she said that he did not.

When I hung up the phone I felt anxious. I hated the idea of that sweet puppy being locked in a cage. I hated the idea of
any
dog being caged.

“What was that all about?” Elizabeth asked, handing me a glass of wine.

“Thanks,” I said. “This adorable red-haired dog followed Rocky home. Frank told me he was going to post his picture around the neighborhood to try and find his family, but then he called the Humane Society, and they picked Buddy up today.”

“Buddy?”

“That’s what Frank named him, because he followed Rocky home, so he was, you know, Rocky’s buddy.”

“And if nobody claims him you’re going to adopt him? Does Bill like dogs?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. It doesn’t matter anyway. It wouldn’t be practical for me to have a dog. I know there are a lot of dogs living on boats here, but I don’t think that would work for me. I could adopt him and then find him a home on shore. That way he won’t be put to sleep and I’ll be able to live with myself.”

“He must be some dog.”

“He is. He’s still a puppy, but his feet are huge so he’s going to be big. He has short hair and black markings around his eyes and muzzle, and he’s smart. He makes eye contact. Most dogs don’t make eye contact. Short hair is good, right?”

“Short hair is very good,” she said, smiling indulgently.

I took a sip of the Beaune Cru. Sometimes price does make a difference.

“You know how I feel about dogs,” I said. “Speaking of which, have you seen D’Artagnon lately?”

“I know his arthritis is getting worse, if that’s what you mean, but I haven’t seen him out on deck today.”

“Neither have I.”

I was wondering if Kirk had decided D’Artagnon was suffering too much, but I didn’t want to say it out loud.

Over dinner I filled Elizabeth in on my high school reunion, all the sordid details, including Steve’s phone call today. Then I told her about my new case, how I’d asked Sam to help me for the first time since I’d gotten my license, and how worried I was about Paul. She listened to everything I had to say in silence before responding, which is her way, and then told me I was stupid to feel guilty about being attracted to Steve at the reunion. Of course I was no longer attracted to Steve. Steve was pond scum.

“Caring for Bill doesn’t mean you’re dead, Nikki. It means that when you’re attracted to someone else, you don’t act on it. You think Bill’s never attracted to anyone else?”

That wasn’t something I was prepared to contemplate at the moment, what with my current state of nicotine withdrawal.

At the end of the evening I felt lighter, even though I’d eaten my weight in spaghetti and tiramisu. I promised that next time we got together I’d let Elizabeth unload and I would listen.

“I’ll look forward to
that
,” she said, with an eye roll.

I left around 9:00 and walked slowly past Kirk’s boat. D’Artagnon was nowhere in sight, but I was relieved to see that the dog biscuits I had left on the bow were gone.

When I got home I called Bill.

“Do you like dogs?” I asked.

Chapter 11

T
here was a moment during which I imagined Bill looking at the receiver in confusion.

“Why?” he finally asked.

“There’s this big shiny red-haired puppy that followed Rocky home today. He’s a shorthair and he has huge feet and big brown eyes and he’s adorable, but Frank called the Humane Society and now Buddy’s in jail.” I took a breath.

“Buddy?” Bill said.

“That’s what Frank named him. If nobody claims him and nobody adopts him, you know they’ll put him to sleep.”

“So, you want to adopt him?”

“Just until I can find him a good home.”

“You’re a soft touch when it comes to dogs. Why don’t you give it a couple of days, in case his owner is out there looking for him?”

“Sure. Of course. That sounds reasonable.” It did sound reasonable, but in the meantime Buddy would be in a cage.

The next morning I tucked my Cyber-shot mini digital camera into my purse, and drove to Burlingame, to the Peninsula Humane Society. I pulled into the parking lot, heard the barking, and instantly felt the pull of all those homeless pups.

I’ve never noticed that cats have a particular scent, but as I entered the lobby I inhaled the aroma of multiple dogs, and it instantly brought a smile to my face. I was still smiling when I introduced myself to the first employee I spotted, a perky blonde in jeans and a pink polo shirt. Her nametag read Cindy. I asked if Fiona was working today.

“Fiona works in the afternoons,” she said. “She’s a volunteer.”

“I spoke with her last night about a dog that was picked up at a marina in Redwood City yesterday. His name is Buddy. Fiona was going to make a note of my name and phone number in his file, in case no one claims him. I’d like to see him if that’s okay.”

“I know the dog you mean. Follow me.”

Cindy led me through a set of swinging double doors and out into the area where the dogs were penned. I felt a lump form in my throat as I looked into the eyes of each captive canine.

When we arrived at Buddy’s cage I dropped to my knees and put my hand up to the chain-link. He licked my hand through the wire mesh while his roommate, a pit bull terrier, barked and wagged at me. Cindy said she needed to get back to the front desk, and left us alone. Buddy kept licking my hand until I pulled it away and stood to take his picture. Then he sat down and gazed up at the camera lens as though he understood what I was doing. I snapped half a dozen shots through the crosshatching and then put my hand out for more kisses. I promised him that everything was going to be okay, but I could feel my heart breaking as I walked away.

I avoided looking at the other dogs as I moved back toward the office, where I asked Cindy to double check Buddy’s file to make sure my name and phone number were listed. They were.

I managed to make it to my car before I started hyperventilating. Bill was right. I am a sucker when it comes to dogs. If I owned a house with sufficient acreage I’d probably rescue every one of them. I drove to the marina fighting the impulse to speed back to the Humane Society and adopt Buddy on the spot.

When I unlocked the office my voicemail light was blinking. I opened the blinds and started a pot of coffee, turned on my computer, and downloaded the pictures I’d taken of Buddy, making enough color copies to post around the marina. Then I listened to my messages. One was from Sam, asking if I had the next of kin information on the accident victims. The other message was from Cher.

I called Cher back first and we made a lunch date for the following Saturday. I gave her directions to the marina and told her I’d meet her at The Diving Pelican.

I hung up the phone and glanced at the fax machine. I had received several pages from Paul. Snatching them up, I made sure they were in numerical sequence, and called Sam.

He picked up on the first ring. “What took you so long?” he said.

“You’ve got caller ID haven’t you, you sneaky bastard? I have the next-of-kin data. Do you want me to scan it to you, fax it to you, read it to you, or bring it to you in person?”

“Fax it to me. I’ll call you back when I’ve looked it over.”

I sent the fax, then sat down to read the pages myself, struggling to focus because the sense of urgency had me a bit rattled. The report included the names, phone numbers, and addresses for the relatives of the deceased accident victims, matched with the names of the family members who had been killed. I was sure this must be privileged information. I hoped Paul wasn’t putting his job in jeopardy, but I knew he understood that saving lives was more important than remaining employed.

I automatically focused on the men. I know first-hand that women are capable of killing, but there are fewer female multiple murderers than there are male, so it made sense to look at the men first. Because we’d narrowed the list to those who had lost more than one relative, only three of the names on my list were male. Two had lost a wife and a child, and the third had lost his wife and two children. I shuddered at the thought
.

Sam called me back five minutes later.

“Run background checks on the three males,” he said. “Regardless of what you find out, we should plan to interview all three of them right away. I need to clear my schedule. Can you do a couple of restaurants for me tonight?”

“Sure. Where do you need me?”

“At the San Leandro Lyons. Ask for a window booth and order a vegetarian entrée. Do a quick survey of the bar, not more than ten minutes. And make sure you’re armed.”

Sam was always protective, but in this case he was right. San Leandro is an enchanting little city on the California coast with an extremely high crime rate. Southeast Oakland is right next-door.

“Then what?” I asked.

“Scoma’s at Fisherman’s Wharf. Ask to be seated in Glen’s section. The manager got a complaint about his attitude. See if you can piss him off.”

“Okay. Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“What time do you want to get together tomorrow?”

“Meet me here at nine a.m. And bring tonight’s dinner surveys. We’ll take my SUV for the interviews.”

I said, “Great,” but I was thinking
oh
crap!
I hate driving anywhere with Sam. Unless he’s tailing someone he drives like an old woman. It’s fine to be cautious, but Sam takes defensive driving to the extreme.

I sent an e-mail to CIS, aka Criminal Investigative Services, requesting background checks on each of the three men. I didn’t have social security or driver’s license numbers, so there was no guarantee I’d get the information I was after. I submitted their names and addresses, including a note saying the backgrounds were urgent and offering a bonus for speed, and hoped for the best.

At 11:00 a.m., I collected my pictures of Buddy and a handful of thumbtacks. I locked up the office and went to The Diving Pelican where I posted one of the pictures on the restaurant’s bulletin board. I had added my office telephone number to each photo with a note that said “
Do you know this dog?”

I posted another picture above the marina mailboxes and then walked around to each of the six gates, tacking photos on all the bulletin boards outside each one. When I was finished I felt a little better, but I still wanted to spring Buddy as soon as possible. I could probably wait a day. Two days tops.

On my way back to the office I stopped at The Diving Pelican again and picked up a newspaper from one of the dispensers Bennet keeps outside for customers. As I walked I scanned the lost and found section of the classified ads. There were several ads for missing dogs, but there was nothing about a red shorthair.

Back at the office I called Bill.

“Anderson,” came the expected response.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than sit at your desk answering the phone all day?” I asked.

“Hi, Nikki,” he said, a smile in his voice.

“How would you feel about doing a couple of restaurant surveys with me tonight? I have to go to Lyons in San Leandro and Scoma’s at the Wharf.”

“Lyons I can do without, but I’ll join you at Scoma’s.”

“Come for both. Otherwise we’ll have to take separate cars. I need to catch the dinner rush at Lyons, so we should probably leave here by six.” I checked my watch and was surprised to discover it was already after 12:00.

“I’ll try,” Bill hedged. “If I’m not there by six, call my cell, and whatever you do don’t go to San Leandro without your defense spray.”

“Yes sir, Detective Anderson, sir.”

“That’s right, baby.”

As I hung up the phone I pictured myself in a house with a fenced yard and half a dozen dogs. I had to shake myself out of that compelling vision and back into the real world. I stood and walked to the plate glass window overlooking the marina. I could see D’Artagnon lying out on the deck of Kirk’s yacht. I had clients who were anxious for their weekly surveys, but I decided there was nothing more important at the moment than taking my friend for a walk, if he was up to it.

I locked the office and jogged down to the dock. I knocked, but no one answered. It was early afternoon on a weekday. Of course, Kirk would be at work. D’Artagnon turned and watched me from the bow. He wagged his tail slowly, but he didn’t stand up. My heart moved up into my throat as I approached. I leaned my forehead against his and gently stroked the back of his neck.

“Did you want to go for a walk?” I asked. The tail wagging picked up speed, but he remained lying down. I spent about ten minutes petting the sweet boy and wishing there was something I could do. I walked the short distance to my boat and took a grief-induced nap.