Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (9 page)

Chapter 11

T
he Wall
is a rock club. On weekends they have live music and it’s wall-to-wall people, hence the name. Since it was Friday night I had to fight my way to the bar and wedge myself between patrons to get the bartender’s attention. It’s illegal to carry concealed, even with a permit, while drinking alcohol in a public place. I’d been reluctant to leave my gun in the car but I didn’t want to stand out, so soda water or coffee wouldn’t do the trick. Taking my chances, I ordered a bottle of Guinness Stout, paid for it, and turned to see if I could locate Fred. It didn’t take long. He was standing near the hallway leading to the restrooms, and he was watching me. So much for covert surveillance.

Fred was strikingly handsome. He was smiling and his gaze, once again, made me feel exposed. I fought the urge to check all my buttons and zippers. I smiled back at him and he began moving through the crowd in my direction. I quickly thought up a story about why he’d seen me with Derrick that morning.

When he reached the bar, he asked the expected question. “Didn’t I see you at InSight
earlier?” He had to shout to be heard over the music.

“I thought you looked familiar,” I yelled. “The computer lab right?”

“Research and development. You come here often?”

Oh, please.
“Just when I don’t feel like being alone.” Not that far from the truth. I’d been in the club once before, and I usually like being alone.

“You live around here?” he asked.

That was a tough one. Did I really want this guy to know where I lived? “San Mateo,” I lied. “Off Hillsdale Boulevard. What about you?”

“Menlo Park. Buy you a drink?”

“Thanks, I’m still working on this one.” I raised my bottle.

Fred was drinking something golden from a rocks glass. He ordered another from the bartender and we stood watching the band for a few minutes. I spotted a couple getting up to leave, and made a dash for their table. The band was going on a break. Fred joined me at the table, carrying his drink and two cocktail napkins. I don’t normally like men who are compulsively neat, but I forced a smile as he sat down. The jukebox kicked in at a lower volume.

“My teeth were starting to vibrate,” I said. “My name’s Jennifer.” I held out a hand. “My friends call me Jen.”

His grip was firm and his hand was cool and dry. He’d been holding his glass in the other one. “Hello, Jen,” he said. “You can call me Marc.”

Okay, so I wasn’t the only one obscuring my identity.

“What is it that you do at InSight?”

“It’s boring,” he said, making it sound like a warning. “I write software programs.”

“If you find it boring, why don’t you do something else?”

“They pay me very well, and the benefits are good. Besides I have stock options to look after. There’s something to be said for financial security, even if it doesn’t make you happy. You ready for another Guinness?”

I looked down at my almost empty bottle. “Sure.”

As I watched him weave his way to the bar I leaned back in my chair, comforted by the feel of the Ruger.

Fred returned with a fresh drink for himself and an open bottle of Guinness for me. I listen to the news and I know all about date rape drugs
– odorless, colorless, tasteless, and incapacitating.
Never accept a drink you didn’t watch being prepared or a bottle that is already open.
Fred raised his glass as if toasting something and the band resumed playing. I picked up the empty Guinness bottle, and as I was setting it aside I brushed my arm against the full one, knocking it into his lap. He jumped up and gave me a look that unmistakably conveyed his displeasure. I shrugged apologetically.

Fred cut a path to the men’s restroom. I set my purse in a dry patch on top of the table, took the two Guinness bottles to the bar, and asked for a towel. After I’d mopped up the spill I ordered myself another.

Fred was back a few minutes later, with a huge wet spot on his trousers. He downed his drink in one swallow and told me he was going home to change clothes. He invited me to join him.

I let my jaw drop and he quickly assured me that once he had changed we would find someplace quiet to have a drink. That sounded good to me.

When we were outside I told Fred I’d follow him and asked where he was parked and what he was driving. He pointed out the Jaguar. I told him I was driving a green BMW. He waited in his car until I pulled up behind him and then took off at lightspeed. I managed to keep up.

We arrived at Fred’s front door in less than five minutes. I quickly locked my car and followed him inside.

The cottage was charming. It had an open-beam redwood ceiling, a fireplace in the living room, and a spacious kitchen. Fred didn’t offer me a tour, but went directly to the bedroom saying he’d be right back. I really couldn’t blame him. His pants were soaked.

While he was in the bedroom I scanned the living room and then went into the kitchen. I found some junk mail in the kitchen wastebasket and a phone bill addressed to Frederick M. Wulf. Maybe his middle name was Marc.

I was going through his refrigerator when he came out of the bedroom.

“Thirsty?” he asked.

“No, just nosy. You can learn a lot about a person from the contents of their refrigerator.” I smiled sweetly, but my heart was pounding. I
hate
getting caught in the act.

“And what have you discovered about me?”

“You’re a victim of organized thinking,” I said. “All your labels are facing forward.” I pointed into the open refrigerator. “You probably don’t procrastinate. None of your dairy is expired. You eat organic vegetables, and you like hot mustard.” I closed the door. “I haven’t checked the freezer yet.”

He laughed. It was a nice laugh, but it made me feel endangered, like a mouse cornered by a hungry cat.

“Where to now?” I asked.

“We can go to the Brass Rail in Palo Alto. It’s usually pretty quiet. Or we can stay here and have a drink.”

I thought about that for a minute. I really wanted a chance to search the place, but I wasn’t likely to have the opportunity unless he left me alone in the house. “I didn’t see any beer in the fridge,” I said, opening the door to double check.

“No beer. I have single malt scotch, Kettle One vodka, and a very nice French Bordeaux.”

“Hard liquor puts me to sleep and wine gives me a headache.”

It’s true. My body doesn’t tolerate most sugars. Whenever I eat sweets or drink wine or whiskey, I get a headache and stiff joints the next day. If I’m feeling self-destructive I drink Jose Cuervo Especial or Bombay Sapphire. When I’m really down on myself I eat chocolate.

“The market’s only a block away,” he said. “Guinness Stout?”

“That would be great, but I hate for you to go to so much trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. I’ll be back before you have time to inventory the freezer. Would you like anything else? Maybe some cheese and crackers?”

“That would be great,” I said. The more time he spent shopping, the longer I’d have to search his house.

I followed him into the living room and before he could get out the door I asked how he felt about cigarette smoke.

“I have no feelings about it whatsoever,” he said. “There’s an ashtray in the kitchen cabinet to the left of the sink.”

As soon as he was out the door I popped back into the kitchen and found the ashtray. I lit a cigarette, leaving it in the ashtray on the coffee table.

I looked out a crack in the living room drapes to make sure the Jag was gone, and then dashed into the bedroom. There was no window, so I flipped on the overhead light and started going through drawers.

Fred preferred dark-colored Dolce & Gabbana cotton briefs, and wore a medium. His socks were neatly paired, the blacks and colors separated from the whites. Sweaters were in the bottom drawers, all neatly folded. I slid my hand into and under each drawer, feeling around for anything out of place. There was nothing.

In the closet I found shirts on the left, trousers in the middle, and jackets on the right. On the floor the dress shoes were on the left and the athletic shoes on the right, all lined up, toes pointing toward the back. It reminded me of Laura’s closet. I wondered if she had ever visited Fred at home.

There was a file box on the overhead shelf. I stood on my tiptoes and took it down. The box contained bank statements, PG&E bills, phone bills, water bills, a copy of his lease for the cottage, and yes, his middle name was Marcus. There was also an envelope from an Alice Wulf in Santa Barbara. I read the one page letter. Alice was apparently Fred’s mother and she was requesting a visit, or at least a phone call, from her son. Fred didn’t strike me as the dutiful son type, so Alice was probably out of luck.

In the back of the box was a folder containing his paycheck stubs from InSight
.
He was doing pretty well for himself. I pocketed one from early in the year. I could use his social security number to run a background check.

I was about to put the box back on the shelf when I spotted a videocassette behind where the box had been sitting. I pulled over a straight-backed chair and climbed up to retrieve it. It was a Fuji cassette and the case wasn’t labeled, just like the one I’d found in Laura’s bedroom. I put the tape back where I’d found it and replaced the box on the shelf.

I took a quick look in the bathroom. There was a twelve-pack of Trojans in the medicine cabinet. I picked up the box and read the label. They were Supra spermicidal prelubricated condoms.
Holy shit!
I had read about these in Laura’s pathology report.

I ran to the living room and peeked outside. No Jag. I grabbed the Cyber-shot out of my purse, returned to the bathroom, and snapped a few shots of the medicine chest contents. In addition to the condoms there was a bottle of Tylenol, Pearl Drops tooth polish, and Scope mouthwash, all with their labels facing forward. I resisted the urge to turn one of them sideways. Before leaving the room I lifted the toilet tank lid, and checked the tub and shower, but found nothing else incriminating.

I stepped back into the living room and dropped the camera into my purse. I puffed on my cigarette, scattered the ashes around in the ashtray, and stubbed out the butt.

On to the freezer. Nothing notable there except Fred’s obvious compulsion for order. There were two packages of organic peas and two of organic corn. They were neatly stacked with the labels aligned, corn on top of corn, and peas on top of peas. This guy was too tightly wrapped to be emotionally stable and should seek professional help.

There was a knife rack next to the gas range with each knife in its slot, and there was a long whetstone with a handle, also in a slot. None of the knives in the rack had sharp little spikes soldered to the hilt.

Under the sink I found carefully organized cleaning supplies, a lined trash receptacle, and two recycling bins, one for glass and one for plastic.

I figured my time was about up, so I returned to the living room and peeked out the window just as Fred/Marc drove up. I plunked myself down on the sofa, picked up a copy of Fortune magazine, and tried to look relaxed. I sat there while Fred unlocked the door and let himself in, hoping the extra few seconds would give my heart time to slow.

“Sorry to take so long,” he said. “There was only one cashier.” He pulled a bottle of Guinness out of the six-pack and handed it to me as he walked into the kitchen. “Would you like a glass?”

“Sure,” I said, following him.

He set the bag on the counter and took a pilsner glass out of an overhead cabinet. Then he went to the freezer, scooped up some ice cubes, dropped them into the glass, and added a splash of tap water, swirling it around until the glass was frosty. He emptied the glass into the sink, dried it carefully, and set it on the counter. I found a bottle opener in the silverware drawer, popped the top, and half filled the glass.

“I hope you like Brie,” he said, taking a box of water crackers out of his shopping bag.

Brie always makes me feel a little lightheaded. Probably a mold allergy. I said nothing. He placed the Brie on a dinner plate, removed a carving knife from the rack, and sliced the wheel so that each piece of cheese would fit on top of a cracker. Then he neatly surrounded the cheese with the bland little disks of wheat.

“You’ve done this before,” I said.

“Once or twice.” He smiled. “Let’s go into the living room. Do you like jazz?”

“Generally. What have you got in mind?”

“How about Miles Davis?”

“Great,” I said. “There are so many definitions of jazz. One can never be too careful.”

Fred chuckled softly. He chose a CD and slipped it into the system. The volume was low. He disappeared into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a rocks glass containing three fingers of light golden liquid - probably the single malt. He positioned himself a few feet from me on the couch, turned to face me, took a sip of his drink, and said, “So, how long have you been a PI?”

I almost horked Guinness out my nose.

“Two years next month,” I sputtered. “How did you know?”