Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (7 page)

Chapter 12

A
t 4:00 p.m. I forced myself up off the queen-size bunk, stripped off my clothes, and stepped into the shower.

After blow-drying and scrunching my curls, I dressed in black jeans and a black silk blouse. I tucked my Ruger into the holster at the small of my back and put on my camel hair blazer. I checked my image in the mirror to make sure the silhouette of the gun wasn’t visible.

I was hungry, but I knew if I ate anything now I’d be sorry later when I was trying to choke down my second entrée of the evening, so I pocketed half a dozen dog biscuits and headed out. D’Artagnon was no longer on the deck of Kirk’s yacht. I knocked on the window and waited, but there was no answer. By the time I reached the office I’d made up my mind that first thing Thursday morning I would adopt Buddy.

I brewed a pot of coffee and was sipping the first cup when the phone rang.

“Hunter Investigations,” I answered. There was cell phone static on the line.

“Nikki, it’s Kirk. I came home for a late lunch today and D’Artagnon couldn’t stand up, so I carried him to the truck and took him to this guy Lily told me about. His name is Bob Culver and he’s a chiropractor. I didn’t have an appointment, but he managed to squeeze us in. He adjusted D’Artagnon’s spine and then he asked me about his diet. He told me to cut out corn, wheat, red meat, sugar, and anything in the nightshade family, like potatoes. I carried D’Artagnon into his office but he walked out on his own. We have to go back a couple times a week, but I think he’s going to be okay. I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

“That’s incredible,” I said, fighting back tears of relief. “I’m so glad you called.”

I typed up some of the surveys I’d done recently and was just completing the invoices when Bill walked in the door at 6:10.

“Do we really have to go to Lyons?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m doing it for Sam because he’s helping me with Paul’s case.”

We took Bill’s Mustang and hit the freeway.

On the way to San Leandro he reached for my hand and said, “Nikki, I’ve been thinking.”

“That can’t be good,” I said, turning to him with a smile.

“Why don’t we try living together? See where this takes us. My house has lots of room, and we could still spend some weekends on the boat. Or, if that doesn’t appeal to you, maybe I could rent out the house and move aboard with you. We’d have more time together that way.”

The smile dropped from my face and I felt a knot form in my solar plexus. “Whoa,” I said, snatching my hand away. “Bill, we’ve only known each other for three months. I really enjoy spending time with you, but don’t you think this is rushing things a bit? I don’t want to live on land, and if you moved in with me where would you keep your guitars? Plus I only have one hanging locker. Where would we put all your clothes?” While my lips were offering logical arguments against cohabiting on my boat, my lizard brain was screaming,
Oh, hell no!

I was touched that Bill was willing to sacrifice his comfort in order to have more time with me, but I was not looking for this level of commitment. I preferred living alone. I needed my privacy and independence, and I treasured the freedom it gave me.

“I do like having all that space,” Bill said, “but I think I love you, Nikki.” He said it quietly, almost a whisper, then he reached over and gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

Oh
crap
. There it was. The dreaded L word. Were we already moving into that stage of our relationship? I had suspected it was coming eventually, and it made my stomach ache. After my last marriage failed I’d given up on the ‘happily ever after’ fantasy. Bill had slowly begun changing my mind about that, but this was too much too soon.

“I think I might be falling for you too,” I hedged. “But living together just doesn’t seem practical to me. I know it’s been hard to find time for each other, but I don’t think this is the solution. I’m sorry.”

There. I’d said it. I hoped my decision wouldn’t push Bill away.

“Okay,” he said. “No pressure.”

No pressure? What did
that
mean? Was he assuming I’d change my mind after I thought about it? I hadn’t said I wanted time to think about it, I’d said no. I hate it when men don’t listen to me. It’s as though they have pre-conceived ideas about what I need, feel, and think, so there’s no reason to actually pay attention to the words coming out of my mouth. No pressure my ass! Was I over reacting? I didn’t think so.

We were silent for the remainder of the drive.

At 7:20 we pulled into the Lyon’s parking lot. We entered the restaurant and waited for the hostess to approach the podium. She was a six-foot tall black woman with her hair pulled up into a bun, which made her look six-two. She was dressed in black slacks, a white blouse, and a red vest. Her nametag read Anna
.

“Table for two?” she asked, looking us over.

“Yes,” I answered. “We’d really like a window booth, if you have one available.”

Anna surveyed the restaurant and said, “Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

“No problem,” I said. “We’ll be in the bar.”

I could do the bar survey while we waited for a booth to free up. I gave Anna my name and she said she’d come and get us when our table was ready. She was surprisingly professional for a Lyon’s hostess.

The bar scene was pretty much what I’d expected. There were a few older couples who had probably lived in San Leandro since the seventies, and there were gang members out on dates with their significant others.

The bartender was Hispanic, about five-eight, with black hair combed straight back and a neatly trimmed mustache. He was dressed in the same uniform of dark slacks, white shirt, and red vest. He was filling a drink order for the cocktail waitress when we entered.

Bill and I took seats at the bar and the bartender approached less than a minute later, placed cocktail napkins in front of us, and nodded deferentially to Bill as though he recognized a cop when he saw one. It wasn’t the first time this had happened when I was out with Bill, and I’d learned that the individuals who were adept at spotting police were usually worth watching. His nametag read Hector. I looked at his hands and spotted the tattoos across his knuckles, telling me he’d probably been in prison at some point in his life. From a distance he’d looked maybe thirty-five or forty. Up close he looked fifty. His eyes were dark and revealed a combination of respect and defiance. Interesting mix.

“Two Dos Equis,” Bill said, in his tough-guy voice.

What the
hell?
Since when did Bill order for me? Especially when I was working. He hadn’t even asked me what I wanted. This was a new side to the considerate guy I’d spent the last three months dating. He must be one of those men who decide it’s time for a commitment and then try to take over your life. I couldn’t believe I’d misread him so completely. I mean, I know the balance between people changes when they get married, but prior to tonight we’d never even discussed whether or not we were exclusive. And even if we
were
in a committed relationship I wouldn’t want him making decisions for me. This is one of the reasons I choose to live, and work, alone. Nobody can tell me what to do.

Hector placed chilled pilsner glasses on our napkins, then took two bottles of Dos Equis out of the cooler and opened them above the bar. He set the bottles next to the glasses and said, “Twelve dollars.”

Bill paid him in cash. Hector recorded the sale and placed a cash register receipt on the bar along with the correct change. Bill left the change on the bar and I picked up the receipt.

The details of what I observed would go into my report but, as always, I would keep any unnecessary opinions to myself. I watched the way Hector cruised the bar, checking on his customers. He smiled and chatted with an elderly couple as he placed fresh napkins under their drinks and refilled the bowl of peanuts in front of them. He was a good bartender. He recorded two other transactions before Anna came and told us our table was ready, and they both looked legitimate to me. Sales were recorded on the register and receipts given to customers.

Anna escorted us to a window booth facing Davis Street. She offered us menus and told us our waitress, Maria, would be right with us. As she departed, Maria approached. She was Caucasian and appeared to be in her late teens, five-six, slender but not anorexic, with brown hair worn in a ponytail, minimal make-up, and a nose piercing. She recited the specials of the day, which included various combinations of protein, carbohydrates, and fat, none of which sounded appetizing. She offered to give us time to consider the menu, but I had another survey to do tonight, and didn’t want to wait for her to get back to us.

“What vegetarian entrées to you have?” I asked.

She had turned to walk away and my question caught her mid-stride. To her credit, she only grimaced slightly as she turned back to the table. “We have fettuccini Alfredo and a very nice vegetarian lasagna,” she said.

“I’ll have the veggie lasagna,” I said, turning to Bill.

“Chef Salad with ranch dressing.”

I smiled. Both entrées would take only minutes to plate and serve. We could be out of there in half an hour and in San Francisco by 9:00.

While we were waiting to be served I dug my cell phone out of my purse and called Elizabeth.

She answered on the second ring.

“Kirk called me,” I began. “He took D’Artagnon to a chiropractor this afternoon. Someone Lily recommended.” I told her about the spinal adjustment and dietary changes, and how D’Artagnon had been able to walk again after the adjustment. She was as thrilled as I had been. Everybody loves D’Artagnon.

I ended the call and dropped the phone back into my purse, took a sip of my beer, and looked up at Bill. “Why did you order me a Dos Equis?”

“Because the bartender was Mexican and it’s a Mexican beer. I was showing respect.”

I stared at him for a moment before I realized he was serious. “Must be a guy thing,” I said. “But please don’t do that again.” I tried to soften my request with a smile, but Bill simply nodded. The dynamics between us were definitely shifting. A relationship that I relied on to be casual and fun was suddenly strained.

Eleven minutes after we ordered, Maria served our entrées. The vegetarian lasagna was predictably bland, but it wasn’t over or undercooked and the side vegetables and garnish were fresh and nicely displayed. Five minutes after serving us, Maria returned to ask how everything was. This is one of the things I time. The most professional waiters and waitresses are back within two minutes, giving you just enough time to taste everything, but five minutes is acceptable.

We nibbled at our entrées for ten minutes, and I motioned for the check. At the cash register, Anna recorded the sale and issued a receipt and the correct change. All in all, it was a pretty good survey.

Bill and I were vigilant walking through the parking lot. It was after dark, and you can’t be too careful in a city where more than seventy thousand crimes are reported annually.

During the drive to San Francisco Bill appeared to be focused on traffic, but every once in a while he’d reach over and squeeze my hand. Maybe this was his way of apologizing for trying to oh-so-gently bulldoze me into living together, and for ordering the Dos Equis without consulting me first. It was kind of sweet, but I was still irked.

I’d always known that Bill had an authoritarian side. It was a regular source of friction between us, but considering the fact that he apprehends dirt bags for a living I’d accepted it as a necessary part of his persona. Maybe I
was
over reacting. I needed another talk with Elizabeth.

Scoma’s was packed. It’s a tourist attraction, but also draws the locals because it’s at the Wharf, the view is spectacular, the food is fantastic, and the service is usually good.

The hostess gave Bill a quick once-over and then focused on me. She was in her mid-thirties, had brown hair, a pretty face professionally adorned with cosmetics, and intelligent eyes. Her nametag read Shannon.

“Table for two?” she asked me.

“Yes. Is Glen working tonight? My friend told me he was the best.” I could only hope that Glen didn’t ask who my friend was or I’d be forced to come up with a creative lie. I hate lying, which is unfortunate for someone in my profession.

Shannon looked at a seating chart and asked us to wait a moment. She walked to the dining room entrance and scanned the tables. When she turned back to us she was smiling.

“You’re in luck,” she said. “There’s a table for two available in Glen’s section. Follow me, please.”

She led us to a small table just to the right of the dining room entrance. She held out my chair for me and then handed each of us a menu and placed a wine list on the table. “Glen will be right with you,” she said. “Can I get you something from the bar?”

“That’s okay,” I said. “We’ll wait.”

Sam had asked me to try to piss Glen off and I wasn’t sure I was up for it after the day I’d had.

“Listen,” I whispered to Bill. “I’m supposed to try to make this guy mad, but I really don’t feel like a confrontation tonight.”

“You want me to be an asshole and see how he reacts?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all. I might even enjoy it.”

“Thanks.”

We were looking at our menus when Glen approached. He was about five-ten, average build, with blond hair, brown eyebrows and mustache, and blue eyes. He appeared to have a slight sneer on his face. I wondered if he might have a cleft palate that caused his upper lip to curl on one side, or maybe a scar. The effect was undeniable. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight.