An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries

  An Act Of Deceit

  by

  Jennifer L. Jennings

  Copyright 2012 by Query Publishing, LLC

  An Act Of Deceit is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products

  of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,

  living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced,

  or transmitted, in any form, or by any means,

  electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from

  Query Publishing, LLC.

  3:15 p.m., Wednesday, March 7

  I noticed him scoping me out from clear across the room. Time to finish the glass of Pinot Noir I’d been nursing; my intuition told me he’d soon make his move. I reached inside my purse for a compact to check my lipstick. When I looked back up, he loomed large in my peripheral vision.

  “Buy you another?” a deep voice asked. Mr. Heavy Cologne wasted no time laying claim to the barstool next to mine.

  I turned to face the stranger. His blue eyes and stunning smile were enough to make most women melt. “Uh, that would be lovely.”

  “What was that you were drinking?” he asked.

  “Pinot Noir.”

  “A fine choice,” he replied, and turned to the bartender. “Bring us your best bottle of Pinot Noir.”

  I tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind my ear. “Wow. You sure know how to spoil a girl.”

  “Ha! You look like you’re all woman to me.”

  Apparently, no one had taught this guy the importance of first impressions. “I’m Joyce,” I said, my true identity none of his business.

  “I’m Marty … very nice to meet you, Joyce.”

  The bartender returned with a bottle of ‘05 Goldeneye. A moment later, Marty proposed a toast.

  “May we love as long as we live, and live as long as we love.”

  “Cheers.” I took a sip. “Thank you, Marty. This is a vast improvement over the glass of Pinot I just finished. It’s very generous of you.” I casually glanced around the Chestnut Inn’s fancy wine bar to ensure we were alone.

  “I come in here every Wednesday afternoon,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. Are you from out of town?”

  “Yes,” I replied, savoring the wine far more than the moment. “I’m here on business for a few days.” Lie number two.

  “What do you do?” he asked while swirling the wine in his glass. “Wait, let me guess. You’re a model.”

  How to respond to that? Did he think I was a complete airhead? “Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid. I work for an accounting firm out west. I flew in for a meeting with a big client. And what do you do, Marty?” I asked, eager to change the focus of the conversation. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d rather talk about himself, anyway.

  “Well, Joyce,” he said while leaning in close to me, “I could tell you what I do, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  Did men really still use that line? The serious expression on his face turned to apparent amusement when he encountered my blank stare. He threw his head back and erupted in raucous laughter. “Oh, that was precious. You should’ve seen the look on your face.” He continued to laugh until he was nearly out of breath.

  “You really had me going there for a second,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “I’m sorry, I . . . I just couldn’t resist. Actually, I own a restaurant here in town called Marty’s. You’ve probably heard of it.”

  He’d named the restaurant after himself. What a shock. “Actually, I haven’t.”

  “Well, you really have to check it out sometime.”

  “What kind of restaurant?”

  “Fine seafood, but we serve a heck of a steak, too. Chef Philippe is world renowned.”

  “Sounds lovely,” I said.

  Marty’s eyes washed over me. “So, an attractive woman like you must be married. Am I right?”

  “I used to be.” I hid my left hand so the indentation caused by my missing wedding band wouldn’t give me away. “I’ve been single for several years now. And you?”

  Marty shrugged. “Separated. It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with it.”

  I had to sink my hooks into this guy. I took another sip then slowly massaged my temples. “Wow, this wine is really going to my head. I’m such a lightweight. I should probably eat something.”

  “They make a fantastic fruit and cheese plate,” he offered. “I’ll order one for us.”

  “Actually, I’m staying here and have some fruit up in my room. And I should probably lie down for a bit.” I placed my hand on his shoulder and his eyes grew wide. “Would you mind walking me up, Marty?”

  He polished off his wine and was on his feet before I could finish speaking.

  Minutes later, I fumbled with the key card, my heart racing. If this encounter didn’t go as planned, I wasn’t quite sure what I’d do.

  “Let me help you with that.” He took the card and inserted it in the slot: a beep and a click. He opened the door and motioned for me to enter.

  The small, inviting space I had reserved was a tasteful blend of old Victorian coupled with modern chic. The walls were papered in dark burgundy; rich eggplant drapes adorned the windows. The décor gave the room a romantic feel. I kicked off my shoes, took a few steps toward the four-poster bed, and positioned myself atop the plush, ivory duvet. “Get comfortable if you’d like.” I propped myself up on my elbows and gazed at Marty with a smile. My palms were sweating like crazy.

  “Thank you. I most certainly will.” Our eyes met as he loosened his tie and approached the bed. He started to unbutton his shirt. “You seem a little nervous, Joyce … everything OK?”

  Suddenly, a muffled noise from inside the bathroom drew his attention away. He snapped his head back toward me. “What is this?” he demanded. “Is someone else here?”

  I froze.

  Marty spun back around just as the bathroom door swung wide. A woman with dark, curly hair and a deep scowl emerged. A wave of relief immediately washed over me.

  “You son of a bitch,” the woman hissed, pointing her index finger at Marty as she marched right up in his face.

  “Honey? What . . . what are you doing here? Look, baby, this isn’t what you--”

  A hard slap across the face abruptly ended his feeble attempt at an excuse. He winced and slowly shook his head.

  “Why?” she bellowed. “Why do you keep doing this? A divorce? Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not, baby.” He extended his hand.

  She smacked it away. “What’s it gonna take for you to stop screwing around on me? I’m sick of this shit!”

  “Please calm down,” he said. “Let’s go home and we’ll work this out.”

  “You have some kind of nerve telling me to calm down,” she shot back.

  The confrontation escalated. I decided there was no reason to linger, my obligation fulfilled. I grabbed my shoes and tiptoed across the room. As I pulled the door closed, I watched Marty’s wife drive her knee sharply into his groin. He yelped and lurched forward, hands between his legs. I almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  * * *

  A feeling of relief washed over me as I exited the Chestnut Inn. A cold, hard winter rain fell as I darted across the street to a waiting, brown Buick. I opened the passenger door, sank into well-worn bucket seat, and let out a long sigh of relief.

  “So how’d it go?”

/>   “Just as you planned it,” I replied.

  “Good. How’d Janet handle it?”

  “Oh, is that Marty’s wife’s name? She was pissed to say the least.”

  Carter nodded. The silvery bristles on his chin sparkled as a smile formed on his weathered face. “Well … now she has proof her husband is a cheat, which is why she hired me. Congratulations, Sarah. You passed your first real assignment with flying colors. So tell me … do you think you’re cut out for this kind of work?”

  I pondered the question as he started the car and pulled out onto the main road. I’d met him a few months earlier through a mutual acquaintance. Carter, a private eye, had convinced me I might be useful in helping him with certain jobs. And private investigation gigs were plentiful in his area of specialization: infidelity.

  “I think I could get used to it just as long as your clients’ angry spouses don’t come after me,” I replied.

  “That’s only happened once in the last ten years. But then again I used to take unnecessary risks. I’m smarter these days. You can’t learn this business by taking a class or reading a book, Sarah. You gain experience by doing, and common sense goes a long way. If you trust me and follow my instructions, I think you’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence.” Carter’s words brought forth a realization: I was taking a leap of faith, uncertain what I was getting myself into. I found myself inexplicably drawn to the work. It made me feel alive knowing that what I was doing was a little dangerous.

  “So … what does your family know about me?” Carter asked.

  “Actually, I haven’t gotten around to telling them yet.”

  He shot me a look of surprise. “When do you think you’ll get around to it?”

  “I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity. Daniel will probably send me to the loony bin when he finds out.”

  “You should clue him in soon. The last thing I need is an awkward confrontation with your husband.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Daniel. He’s away on business most of the time. My sixteen year old son is rarely around either. He has a girlfriend now, so I’m lucky if I see him at all these days.” I lost myself in thought for a moment then added “I’m only doing massage therapy part time now. The extra money I make working with you will come in mighty handy.”

  Carter chuckled. “I think your experience in the massage business is gonna benefit us.”

  “Really? How so?”

  He scratched his chin and hesitated. “Well, you’re already comfortable around naked men, for starters.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Okay, that didn’t come out right. What I meant to say is that you’re comfortable around men in intimate settings. Like today in that hotel room with Marty. Not everyone could’ve pulled that off.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I never really thought of it that way.”

  A moment later, Carter wheeled into the local Home Depot where I’d parked, pulled up next to my car, and shifted into park.

  “So tell me … why don’t you have an office somewhere?” I asked. “I know renting space is expensive, but how do you meet with prospective clients? Do you invite them into your car for a meeting?”

  Carter sniffed and chuckled under his breath. “My work comes through referrals, so I don’t need an office. That’s what coffee shops are for.”

  “I get it. It’s all part of your mysterious, secret agent persona.”

  Carter laughed as he extended a hand and placed a cell phone in my lap. “That’s so I can get in touch with you for the next job.”

  “Damn. I was hoping we could send coded messages through the mail. This seems way too conventional.”

  “It has a pretty decent camera in case you need it.”

  “Will it self-destruct if it falls into the wrong hands?”

  “I’m sure you’d like to get paid,” he said, apparently dismissing my attempt at levity. He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a plain white envelope, and handed it to me.

  I opened the flap and took note of the two crisp one hundred dollar bills. I folded the envelope and slipped it into my purse. “Thanks,” I said. “When can I expect to hear from you again?”

  “Soon.”

  * * *

  I found my son Brian and his first real girlfriend Allie snuggled on the couch when I got home. It seemed as though I had suddenly ceased to exist in Brian’s eyes.

  “You two had anything to eat yet?” I asked, interrupting up their quiet chatter.

  “Yeah, Mom. We had dinner at Allie’s.”

  “Guess I’m on my own tonight,” I said, fully aware my comment would be ignored. I passed through the kitchen, took an apple from the counter, devoured it, and threw the core in the trash. I continued on to my bedroom, peeled off my clothes, and took a quick shower. The hot water felt cathartic, washing away a nasty pall the hotel encounter left me with. I got into a comfy pair of PJs and slid under the covers, remote in hand. I switched on the TV, tuned in the local news channel, and let my head sink back into the pillow.

  Adventure and exhaustion weighed my eyelids down as I listened to the weather forecast. They were predicting freezing rain changing over to snow; possibly a foot of the white stuff. I wondered what had led me to settle in Bridgeport, New Hampshire as I drifted off.

  Thursday, March 8

  It was around seven when I got out of bed, threw on a robe, and made my way toward the kitchen to make coffee. Brian walked in just as I tipped some heavenly ground coffee and hot water into my French press.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Morning,” I said, handing him a banana. “Off to school?”

  “Yup.” He peeled the fruit and ingested a third of it in one bite. “Okay if I have dinner at Allie’s again tonight?”

  “That’s the second time this week. Why don’t you invite her to have dinner here instead?”

  Brian’s big blues studied me as he swallowed. “Cuz.”

  “Cuz why?”

  “Cuz you’re not the best cook, Mom. No offense.”

  I crossed my arms and glared at him. “What about my meatloaf? You love that.”

  “Allie’s a vegetarian.”

  “Well, I can make something without meat. How about my homemade macaroni and cheese?”

  “She doesn’t eat cheese or dairy products, either. Her parents are animal rights activists.”

  I raised my hands in defeat. “Well, excuse me.”

  “So, is it okay if I eat at her house?”

  I sighed. “By all means.”

  “Thanks, Mom. See ya later.” The outside door banged shut and I was left alone in the kitchen with my French roast. The reality that my one and only son was growing up resolved into crystal clarity. There’d be no more cozy weekends cuddled on the couch watching movies together. The fact that he was now into girls changed everything.

  I swallowed the rest of my coffee, on the verge of tears. I needed to snap out of it and get a new perspective. This didn’t need to be a depressing moment. It was the beginning of a new life for me. And with Daniel gone most of the time, I didn’t have to answer to anyone. I could call my own shots and be spontaneous.

  This gig with Carter gave me the renewed sense of purpose I so desperately needed. He’d given me a chance to prove to myself that I was more than just a mother, wife, and massage therapist. I had an opportunity to reinvent myself and take risks I never would have, otherwise.

  I set my empty mug in the sink, let go a deep sigh, and headed toward the bathroom. I took a shower, dressed, fixed my hair, and put on some makeup.

  I felt a small pang of guilt as I left my house: I was actually looking forward to my new life.

  * * *

  I arrived at my massage studio with all the enthusiasm of a high school janitor on his way to fetch a plunger. I checked my appointment book: three, sixty-minute sessions, all with regular clients. I should have been thankful; I loved my clients, but the work was wearing on me. My temporary recept
ionist Sam would be in soon. Sam was my surrogate uncle; a widower, retired mailman, and undefeated bowling champion. He‘d been a close friend of my mom’s prior to her death. Sammy, as I preferred to call him, was closer to me than most of my extended family. He had taken it upon himself to be my protector. Not particularly fond of Daniel, he seemed to put up with him for my sake, but never missed an opportunity to inform me that I could have done better. Sometimes I agreed with him.

  I looked up as he walked in. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you, my dear.” He strode directly over to me. His groomed goatee tickled my face as he kissed both my cheeks. “You’re here bright and early.” He set his computer bag on the desk then removed his hat and coat and hung them in the closet.

  “Yeah, well, I was starting to feel sorry for myself because my son has basically disowned me. He’d rather spend time at his girlfriend’s house … eating vegan, no less. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Hey,” he said, resting a hand on my shoulder, “Brian will always need you, no matter how old he is or who he spends time with. Your husband, on the other hand, well--”

  “I’ve decided to take it all in stride,” I said, cutting off any discussion about Daniel. “I won’t waste another minute of my life on self-pity. What good would it do, anyway?”

  “That’s my girl. By the way”—he withdrew a newspaper from his computer bag—“thought you might like to read this article in the morning paper.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s about a local woman who decided to change careers. At fifty-three, she went back to school and got her PhD. Can you believe that? I thought it might inspire you.”

  “To do what? Become a doctor?”

  “No,” he said, laughing. “You mentioned recently that you were thinking of making a career change. This might encourage you to find your passion and act upon it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think you missed your calling, Sammy. You should have been a motivational speaker.”