Lucky Stiff (11 page)

I see Hurley scribble down some notes and suspect it’s a reminder to check out Jack’s phone records and e-mails.

“The whole thing made Jack pretty mad,” Serena continues, “because some of the people who asked were people he hadn’t seen or heard from in years.”

Nothing like winning a ton of cash to enhance your following on Facebook
.

“Jack told me he didn’t mind giving money to—” She stops abruptly and looks away again. Her fingers are shredding a napkin she is holding. Hurley and I both stare at her, waiting for her to finish. After a few seconds, she obliges. “He said he wouldn’t mind giving money to someone who really needed and deserved it.”

“Did you personally witness anyone asking him for money?” Hurley asks.

Serena nods. “A neighbor of his—a Mr. Gatling, I think it was—wanted to know if Jack would front him the money to open up an auto repair shop in exchange for being made a partner in the business. And Jack’s nephew stopped by and asked for more money recently, but that one is different because Jack is paying for his schooling. Also, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Catherine Albright showed up when she did. I hope she doesn’t get any of Jack’s money.”

“Why do you say that?” Hurley asks.

“I don’t like that woman. There is something very sneaky about her. I don’t trust her.”

“Gut instinct, or did she do or say something to make you not trust her?” I ask.

“Both,” Serena says. “She’s always snooping around, and she’s dropped some not-so-subtle hints to Jack about how he should spend some of his money.”

“Such as?” Hurley prompts.

“Such as frequent discussions about what a nice car a Jaguar is.” She gives us a look of disgust. “Can you think of a more inappropriate car for a man in a wheelchair?” She answers her own question with a little
pfft
and a can-you-believe-it look. When neither of us says anything, her eyes narrow, and it’s as if I can see the lights turn on inside her head. “Wait a minute,” she says. “Why are you asking so many questions about Jack? His death
was
an accident, wasn’t it? And the fire? That was an accident?”

I decide to let Hurley field this one. Not only because I don’t want to get in trouble for revealing more than I should to a potential suspect—something I’ve had issues with in the past—but also because my mouth is so crammed full of a snickerdoodle, I couldn’t talk if I wanted.

“It appears Mr. Allen’s death is a homicide,” Hurley says.

Serena’s dark complexion pales. She clamps a hand over her mouth and tears well in her eyes. “Who would do such a thing?” she says through her hand. “Jack never hurt a soul. This is so . . . wrong, so . . . unfair.”

Hurley takes out one of his business cards and slides it across the table to Serena. I know this is our cue to leave, so I grab my coffee and take a big swig to wash down the sugary mass in my mouth. I relish the cinnamon flavor of the cookies as it mixes with the coffee. When I’ve swallowed, I get up from the table and follow Hurley, who is nearly to the door already. Seeing the kids again, I pause and look at Serena, who has followed me.

“Are they all yours?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “The twins are mine,” she says, with a sparkle in her eye. “But the girl is my neighbor’s daughter. We trade off babysitting duties whenever we can. She is a single mother, like me.”

“That must be tough,” I tell her. “Is the boys’ father in the picture? Do you get any child support to help you out?”

Serena’s color, which had returned to near normal, fades again. She shoots a quick, wary look toward the kids, who are fully engrossed in
SpongeBob SquarePants.
“He is not around,” she says just above a whisper.

Something in my gut tells me she is lying. But I also sense that if I try to push the issue, I won’t get anything. So all I say is “I’m sorry,” before I turn to follow Hurley out the door.

Chapter 9

When we’re back outside in the car, Hurley dials a number on his cell and gives whoever is on the other end a laundry list of tasks: track down Jack’s phone and Internet provider, pull a record of Jack’s calls and e-mails for the past six months, look into the neighbor named Gatling, and check to see what company Jack’s mortgage was with and if it is paid off, as Serena said.

As he disconnects the call and starts the car, he says, “If what Serena said about the mortgage is true, that would explain some of Jack’s missing money.”

“Not enough of it. Even at full price, I don’t think his house would be worth more than two hundred grand.”

“Still, it’s a start. So what’s your take on Serena Vasquez?”

“I’m on the fence. She wasn’t being totally honest with us; and I suppose that as a housekeeper, she was in a good position to discover the speaker safe. But I’m having a hard time seeing her as a killer.”

Hurley shakes his head. “You fall for those sob routines every time.”

“I’m not falling for anything. Serena’s emotions seemed genuine to me. I think she was upset by the knowledge that Jack was cruelly murdered.”

Hurley looks at me like I’m an ignorant child he’s placating, someone whose wild but clearly uninformed ideas amuse him.

“What?” I snap, irritated. “Do you think Serena did it?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not going to rule her out simply because she shed a real tear or two when we told her Allen was murdered. Those tears might have been triggered by something other than sadness,” he says, still with the condescending tone.

“Like what?” I almost add “smarty-pants” to the question, but bite it back at the last second.

“How about shock or fear, triggered by the realization that her attempts to make Allen’s murder look like an accident weren’t successful?”

“No way. Those were sad tears.”

“You might be right. Serena’s realization that she might not get away with the murder she just committed would be enough to make her sad.”

I roll my eyes at him. “God, you are a stubborn man.”

“Pot, kettle,” he says. “Which reminds me, I’m starving. We have an hour before our appointment with the nursing agency. Want to grab some lunch?”

Despite having a handful of snickerdoodle cookies in my stomach, I am hungry, not that hunger is a prerequisite for eating for me. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

“How about Pesto Change-o? That way we can verify Catherine’s pizza story while we eat.”

My stomach gurgles happily at the suggestion, making Hurley smirk. “Sounds good to me,” I say with stunning redundancy.

Ten minutes later, we settle into a booth with red seats, which remind me of how a high-school classmate, Cindy Clarkson, once launched a “Save the Naugas” campaign after Jimmy Nelson and Mark Hol-stadt convinced her that the creatures were being slaughtered into near extinction for their hides. Apparently, the campaign was unsuccessful, because I know dozens of Naugas in a variety of colors that have been sacrificed for this place in the years since.

In addition to their eat-in dining, Pesto Change-o does a thriving take-out and delivery business between the hours of eleven
A
.
M
.
and midnight every day, except Christmas. I know this because I took advantage of their take-out service dozens of times in the months after I left David and moved into the cottage behind Izzy’s house. If I’d had phone service in the place, I’m sure all of Pesto’s delivery drivers would have had my address on autopilot after the first week.

Opting for delivery from Pesto means that you miss out on the full experience of the place, however, and it’s worth the trip. The owner and founder, Georgio Conti, is not only an Italian immigrant and chef, he’s an amateur magician. Ever since opening the restaurant, he has combined his passions for cooking and magic, providing a truly unique and entertaining dining experience. Georgio performs two kinds of magic. The first is with the foods he prepares: sauces that burst in your mouth with the flavors of garlic and spices, pasta cooked to al dente perfection, and pizzas with cheese that will stretch across a room when you try to take a slice.

The second kind of magic is the more traditional type. Each evening Georgio entertains his diners with a variety of illusions: everything from card tricks and vanishing coins to sawing waitresses in half.

For our lunchtime meal, the show would be a bit more sedate than the evening performance, but Georgio never disappoints. As soon as we are seated, he magically produces a beautiful bouquet of paper flowers from out of thin air and places them in a vase on our table. Then he lights our candle with a flame that seems to alight from his fingers.

Before Georgio can pull a rabbit out of his hat, Hurley halts the show with a question.

“Georgio, I need you to help me out with an investigation, a murder investigation.”

“Murdah!” Georgio says with his Italian accent. “What an awful ting.” He manages to look appalled and aghast, but I’m pretty sure I detect a bit of excitement in his voice. Hurley relays the specifics of the information we want, and Georgio provides an answer right away.

“I remember this order for Mr. Allen,” he says. “I remember because he is a regular customer and usually orders himself, but the other night that new hussy staying with him ordered, instead. My driver say his tip from the hussy was only one dollar, and on Christmas Eve, too.” He shakes his head and clucks his tongue in dismay. “Mr. Allen, he always tip five or ten dollars.”

Hearing that Catherine is a cheapskate doesn’t surprise me in the least.

Hurley says, “Do you remember what the order was for, what time it was called in, and when it was delivered?”

Georgio thinks a moment. “It was a pepperoni pizza, a large. I don’t know the exact time of the order or the delivery, but I can check if you like.”

“I like,” says Hurley. “And I like even better if you can give me a copy of the slips with the times on them.”

“That I can do,” Georgio says with a smile. “Now, may I suggest a grilled portabella mushroom stuffed with feta and spinach for an appetizer, followed by some antipasto?”

I nod . . . vigorously.

“And for today’s special, I fix fettuccini Parmesan with browned butter. Yes?”

Hurley says, “Sounds good, make it two.” Then his cell phone rings.

Georgio heads off to work his gastronomic magic and I sit back, watching Hurley’s face as he listens to whoever is on the phone. I wonder if antipasto and pasta work like antimatter and matter. Maybe if I eat both, they will cancel each other out.

Aside from a grunt or two, and one “Hmm, isn’t that interesting,” Hurley doesn’t give me a clue as to who’s on the other end.

When he’s done, he hangs up, leans back, and looks at me with a self-satisfied grin. “Guess who just called the Sorenson police station to inquire about a local resident?” he says, looking annoyingly smug.

“Really? You’re going to make me play twenty questions?”

“It was an immigration officer down in Texas. Want to guess who he was calling about?”

“Pancho Villa?”

“Very funny. It seems the officials down there pulled over a truck filled with illegals, and while several of them got away on foot, one of the ones they caught is a man by the name of Hector Vasquez. And Hector claims to be the husband of a legal immigrant by the name of Serena Vasquez. He gave the officials her address here in Sorenson.”

I digest this info, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why Hurley is looking so pleased with himself. “So?” I say, shrugging.

“Well, Hector also told the officials that he paid a coyote fifty grand to ensure his safe crossing and some papers once he got here. And he is insisting that he get them or get his money back. Want to guess where he says the money came from?”

Now I see the light. “Serena Vasquez?” I offer, hoping it’s the wrong answer but knowing it isn’t.

“Bingo,” Hurley says. “Now, where do you suppose a single mother and housekeeper like Serena gets fifty grand in cash to send to Mexico?”

The damning info about Serena, coupled with Hurley’s grating attitude, might be enough to ruin some people’s appetites, but it doesn’t faze mine in the least. To be honest, I can’t think of much that has ever ruined my appetite—except for a bout or two of the stomach flu, and even that didn’t kill it for long. And since I can never remember if you’re supposed to feed a cold and starve a fever, or the other way around, I always just feed them both. Some people eat when they’re depressed; others eat when they’re happy. I eat for both. All my life, I’ve had this love-hate relationship with food.

I blame it on genetics, though clearly I didn’t inherit my build from my mother, who is tiny in stature and has been fashionably thin all her life. No, I’m fairly certain my physique, along with my love of food, came from my father. He left us when I was five—something my mother never forgave him for. And if she has any pictures of him, she’s never shared them with me. She never talks about him, either. So my only knowledge of him comes from my memories: vague images of a large man with brown hair, blue eyes, a deep, rumbling voice, and the underlying scent of apple-flavored tobacco for his pipe.