Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (26 page)

“He wasn’t home. That’s when I left.”

“So when he came home, you were gone?”

“Yes.”

Her friend looked frightened. “That’s not good.”

“Why?”

“If he realizes he can’t have you, he may get angrier. They say the most dangerous time for a woman is when she leaves her man.”

Paloma froze. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She looked at a half-eaten chicken leg, and suddenly lost her appetite. “Maybe I’ll be needing that gun after all.”

***

Unable to sleep, Max left the hotel at five in the morning and went to the closest Walmart. There he purchased a pair of binoculars, a voice-activated tape recorder and a map of metropolitan Chicago. Hardly the hi-tech he was used to but enough to get started. In the parking lot he unwrapped his purchases then checked the map.

Shortly after daybreak, he was driving the rental down Sovereign, a street that abutted a park, looking for the home of Paloma’s widowed husband, Clay, and her motherless daughter, Madeleine. The homes, set far from the street, were either brick or stone, some Tudors, others Colonials, all classic and expensive. Edged, manicured lawns, the color and density of putting greens, surrounded each residence. English ivies climbed toward slate roofs. Circular drives led to columned porticos. Nothing was ostentatious or overdone. The little color came from potted annuals in urn-like planters or the occasional wreath on an arched wooden door. No doubt about it, this was an area of old money.

As the house numbers wound down, he decreased his speed. A brass number,
45
,
located on the header of a front entryway came into view. Max pulled to the curb. The house, like all the rest, had to be at least five thousand square feet. Louvered black shutters hung over distressed brick that at one time must have been whitewashed. On the red door hung a verdigris pineapple knocker, true to size. All very shi shi, but there was something even more impressive sitting in the drive – tucked between a VW Bug and a Lexus SUV was a white BMW with tinted windows. Life was twisted, but grand.

Max looked for a spot to settle into. The street itself had wide-open parking. But a man in a car with binoculars in this neighborhood was a certain 911 call. He’d bet money response time would be record time. He looked around. Not far away, a service road skimmed the park where cars were lined up. Joggers, doing stretches, hovered in the vicinity. Perfect. 

Five minutes later and a good hundred yards away, Max looked through the binoculars and focused on 45 Sovereign. He spoke and activated the recorder. “5:50 a.m. BMW is in the drive. License number confirmed. Date is Wednesday June 20
^th
. No activity.” He then stretched and settled in.

His night’s sleep had been interrupted by meandering thoughts. He still perseverated. Why would someone kill an already dead spouse? Nancy Abbott, aka Agnes, had drowned fifteen years earlier. End of story, one would think, but evidently not. Why? 

Perhaps, once finding out Nancy was alive, Clay decided to kill her for all the grief she’d caused; maybe parenting had been too much for him, maybe the resentment was so great he wanted her to pay. Not unheard of. But these conjectures lost their charm. The neighborhood was definitively upscale. Unless Clay was the live-in groundskeeper, the death of his wife did not throw him and his daughter into abject poverty. To the contrary, the guy must have done very well. Max shook his head. Finding motive was often a slippery slope. “Take one step at a time,” he mumbled to himself. 

At 6:05 a blond woman opened the red door and stepped out. She stalled and poked into her purse. Max zoomed in. 

From a distance she looked young, but close up she simply looked rich. A barely pink suit hugged her slim figure and showed off a deep tan. A single strand of pearls framed her neck. The corners of her mouth had a downward pull, and while her lips were full, they were unnaturally so. Attractive and well put together, he placed her at around thirty-five. 

She drew a pair of sunglasses from her purse. Lifting them to her face, Max saw a rock the size of Rhode Island on her fourth finger. The woman couldn’t possibly be Madeleine. And that left who? A wife? 

During Max’s visits to see Agnes, he got to know Clay as a tall, skinny, red-haired guy who spent an inordinate amount of time in the basement fiddling around with computers. The conversations between them had lasted as long as it took Clay to down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with chocolate milk. The guy was a geek of the tallest order. If this was the second Mrs. Abbott, Clay’s hours in the basement must have paid off in more ways than one.

The woman stepped down. In the quiet morning, Max heard the clicking of stiletto heels on concrete. With anticipation, he leaned forward. Which car was she headed for? “Let’s make a deal,” Max said. “What’s your pleasure, Blondie, car number one, number two, or number three?” She passed the yellow Bug and stopped at the BMW. She then pressed a key pad and the car’s lights blinked on. Showtime. Max revved the engine and got into position. Minutes later, they were on the expressway.

  After passing an exit, Max accelerated. With Blondie in his rearview mirror, he wondered how she played into the equation. If she were the wife, why get involved with her husband’s revenge? Why not let him do all the dirty work? But since Clay’s first wife was dead, killing her would be a freebie. Neither Clay, nor whoever this woman was, would serve time for murdering someone who was already dead. 

 Another exit approached. He slowed down and let Blondie move ahead. Leapfrog was an old surveillance trick when global positioning was science fiction.

They traveled for another two miles on the Kennedy Expressway, when her blinker went on. Swerving off the exit ramp, he followed. They ended up at an apartment complex – Rainoak. Rolling lawns, mature trees, and a private pond with a fountain in the center gave the place an idyllic feel. She parked on the wrong side of the road and beeped. Max gave his coordinates and time. 

Moments later, a man who looked like her clone – tall, blond, thin – barreled out with a carry-on bag. Before long, with Max in tow, they were back on the Expressway heading in the direction of the airport.

Not surprising that’s where they ended up. She dropped the man off at the entrance of O’Hare. Whatever send-off pretty boy got, Max wasn’t able to see. 

Max stayed with Blondie on the return trip. Through weaving traffic he wondered if these two were the ones after Agnes. But this guy wasn’t Clay, and it was only Clay who had a motive, however remote. Hell, maybe Blondie just used Clay’s car on this particular morning and drove some relative to the airport. In any event the car was the key. Stay with it. 

Before returning to Sovereign, Blondie turned into a small plaza with specialty shops for cards and flowers and liquor. But it was the shop at the north end that piqued his interest –
Natalie Abbott Interiors.
 

Max watched as Blondie got out of the car. Moments later she was inside, relocking the front door. 

Adjusting his binoculars Max checked when the shop would open –
9:30
. Vunderbar. He celebrated by going to breakfast.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Paloma lay on top of the bed waiting for Daisy. Her head ached. Daisy had stayed until two in the morning convincing Paloma not to leave until Brandon brought the gun. But under what circumstances would she use it? Maybe if Max cornered her in a dark alley. Maybe if, at that quintessential moment, she thought of everything he had done to her, she could take all the anger and resentment and… And what? She’d never shot a gun, never held one. She knew for a fact, even if her life depended on it, she could never aim it at anyone, let alone pull the trigger. Still, like Daisy had said, it could be used defensively, as a prop.

A faint knock tapped. “It’s me, Daisy.”

Paloma got up from the bed and went to the door.

Daisy had rallied from the night before. She appeared bright-eyed with a rosy blush and red lipstick. Wearing snug jeans and a tight V-neck top, she entered with her boyfriend in tow. Paloma stood behind the door and ushered the two in. 

Daisy’s boyfriend was a gangly, white guy with blond hair. He wore a lightweight khaki suit over a white T-shirt. The little flash said money, the no fat said younger. Daisy and Brandon didn’t fit.

Daisy made introductions. “Paloma this is my boyfriend, Brandon. Brandon, this is my best friend, Paloma.”

Brandon held out his hand. 

The weak handshake felt clammy. Paloma forced a smile. “Nice meeting you.”

His eyes seemed to linger on her. A pregnant pause followed. “Same here,” he finally sputtered.

Daisy pulled Brandon over to the table. “Show Paloma what you have.”

Brandon reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded handkerchief. He placed it on the table and unraveled the corners. Inside was a small pearl-handled gun. “It’s a snubbie. Only used for defense, close range stuff.”

“How did you get this on the plane?” Paloma asked.

“I didn’t. My cousin got a hold of one. He lives in Staten Island, buys and sells like the rest of us.”

“I see.”

He picked it up and held it in his palm. “Has a nice weight.” He then opened up the chamber. “Already loaded. But you’ll have to get more bullets if you need them.” He clicked it closed. “Here’s the safety. The trigger can’t be pulled and it won’t go off accidently as long as it’s on.”

“It’s cute.” Daisy said.

Paloma shrugged. “Cute?  Hard to say.”

“Have you ever shot a gun?” he asked.

“No.”

“Every gun has a recoil. The force of the bullet makes the gun jerk back. That’s why it’s good to hold it with two hands.”

“Like in the movies,” Daisy added.

“Here,” he said. “Take it.”

For such a small gun, it was heavy.   

“Okay. The safety’s on. Show me how you’d shoot it.”

Paloma held the gun with two hands and pointed it to the wall.

“You got it.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Two hundred should cover it.”

Paloma went for her bag. As she dug for a couple of hundreds, a phone chirped.

“Must be for you honey,” said Daisy.

He pulled a cell from his suit jacket and flipped it open. “Hello? Yes, George,” he said loudly. He nodded to Daisy and walked toward the bathroom. Cowering to the phone he said, “Slow down. Can you be more specific?”

Not wanting to eavesdrop, Paloma began talking to Daisy.” 

Daisy put her finger to her mouth. Clearly she wanted to hear Brandon’s conversation.  

  He said,  “As a matter of fact, I have. Too much to go into now… Real close to the mark…” He turned around, faced the two women and continued talking into the phone. “How about five hundred… Go as low as you can go –”

Daisy beamed. “He must be doing business. He works so hard.”

Paloma smiled. 

“Yes,” he said, “relax, there’s plenty of time.” His eyes flitted to Daisy. He gave her a thumbs up. “Listen, I got to get going… Right.” He then pulled the phone from his ear, pressed a button and folded it back into his jacket. “Darn phones. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Would you mind if I used the bathroom?”

“No, not at all,” said Paloma.

After the bathroom door closed, Daisy grabbed Paloma’s arm. “What do you think? Isn’t he handsome?”

“Yes.”

“God, I think he’s the one.”

Paloma wasn’t so sure. “Just promise me you won’t rush into anything.”

“What are you saying? It’s been six months.”

“Yes, but how much do you actually see him?”

“Paloma, it’s quality time.”

Before Paloma could respond, the bathroom door opened. “Daisy,” he said, “there’s some business I’ve got to take care of.”

“But you promised we’d go for a bite.”

“Listen, if you’re going to whine about it, I’ll cancel the appointment.”

Daisy looked defeated. “No, honey, I understand. We can meet at the apartment when you’re done.” Turning to Paloma, she said, “Sure you’ll be all right?”

Paloma nodded and handed Brandon the money for the gun. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He stuffed the cash into his pocket. “Daisy, we got to get going.”

Daisy hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow. He seemed to stiffen. “
Hija
,” she said to Paloma, “keep in touch.”

Paloma walked them to the door. “Yes, I will.”

Daisy leaned over and kissed Paloma good-bye.

“Nice meeting you,” Paloma said to Brandon.

His lips pulled into a tight smile. “Same here.”

Closing the door behind them, Paloma shook her head – like hell that guy had an appointment. 

***

At 9:35, Max walked into
Natalie Abbott Interiors
. Blondie, wearing half glasses and looking professional, was sitting behind a tall maple drawing desk that angled toward her.

 She looked up. “Welcome.”

“Good morning,” he said.

The place was a mix of coffee shop and upscale artsy fartsy. Except for the leather couch and a fancy Italian espresso machine, the place was minimalist. Oversized paintings with splashes of color hung on the palest gray walls. Style
sans
style, some would say. However, for Max it was simply
sans
, except for the classical music that filled the room from parts unknown.

The woman stood, walked around and reached out. “Hi, I’m Natalie. How can I help you today?”

He pumped her smooth, baby-bottom palm. “Name’s Max. Was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”

“Have a seat won’t you. Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks. Just had breakfast.”

She smiled pleasantly. “Come sit down.”  

Max followed her lead.

Settling into the couch, she crossed her legs. Everything about her said high maintenance – flawless, symmetrical features, perfectly tailored clothes, classic jewelry. She wound a strand of hair behind her ear. “Were you referred?”

He shook his head. “No. I recently bought a house and thought I could use some advice.”

“I see. Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m full service. Whether it’s a room or a house, a cabin or a condo, I can assist you with all your decorating needs.”