Sarah Woods Mystery Series (1-6) Boxed Set Page 17

  Carter shook his head, still laughing. “So, what the hell happened to your keys? Someone steal them from your purse?”

  In that moment it dawned on me. My purse was hanging from the stool when the smug prick in the fancy clothes bought me a drink. He could have lifted them when my back was turned. Carter must have read the look on my face.

  “What’s up, Sarah?”

  “Damn it. I think I know who took my keys. Well, I don’t actually know him.”

  “Who?”

  “Some guy with a shaved head and a fancy suit. He bought me a drink at the bar. I’m an idiot.”

  Carter touched my arm. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. Scam artists aren’t called ‘artists’ for nothing. They’re clever, and far more polished than you might think. You’re just learning this business. You’ll catch on. Actually, you already have,” he added.

  “At least he left my wallet. It could have been--”

  Carter held up a finger to silence me. There was movement across the street

  “That’s her,” I whispered, as Tiffany exited the club and climbed into a red Volkswagen Jetta. Carter waited about ten seconds before pulling out behind her, following at a safe distance. She drove a few miles before pulling up in front of a three-story apartment building. Carter pulled over and cut his engine.

  “Write this down,” he said, tapping my arm. “125 Wilson Road.”

  I pulled out my notebook and jotted down the address. Meanwhile, Carter had rolled the windows down a few inches. When I looked up, Tiffany was about to enter the building when a man came out of nowhere and grabbed her from behind. She screamed.

  I reached over and clutched Carters arm, but Tiffany’s screaming ceased. She was now laughing. She slapped the guy playfully on the chest. From our vantage point, all we could see was that he had an athletic build and was wearing a black baseball cap, black jacket, and jeans.

  “Holy shit,” I whispered, “I thought she was about to get mugged.”

  Carter dropped the windows a few more inches to try to make out their conversation.

  “You ass hat, I nearly peed my pants,” Tiffany said to the guy. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just making sure you got home okay.”

  “Well, that’s sweet of you, but it’s late. You must be exhausted.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you see anyone suspicious at the club tonight?” Tiffany asked.

  “No, but I’ll continue to keep an eye out.”

  “Okay, great. Listen, I need to take a shower and get some sleep, but I’ll call you if anything happens.”

  “Fine, but watch your back. Okay?” The guy turned and walked away as Tiffany opened the front door.

  “Goodnight,” she said, turning to wave before she stepped inside and pulled the door closed. The guy headed down the street and disappeared into the darkness.

  I looked at Carter. “What was that all about?”

  “No idea.”

  “I couldn’t see the guy’s face. Should we follow him?”

  “We’re done for tonight. Besides, he’s on foot. Are you suggesting that we drive five miles an hour behind him? That shouldn’t be too obvious,” Carter teased. “Maybe I’ll get some idea who he is when I search her apartment tomorrow.”

  I bit my lower lip and leaned my head back against the headrest. “I didn’t know breaking and entering was part of the job description. What do you expect to find?”

  “If I’m lucky, maybe some sort of connection to Lance Harding.”

  We pulled up to my house a half hour later, after filing a stolen vehicle report at the police station.

  “I’ll be here at eight o’clock sharp to pick you up,” Carter said. “We’ll go get you a rental car.” As I reached for the door handle, Carter gently grasped my other arm. “You did a great job tonight, Sarah. Thank you.”

  I smiled and climbed out. Exhausted, I willed my legs to carry me the short distance to the front steps.

  Chapter 20

  Sunday, March 11

  A loud knock on my bedroom door woke me from a sound sleep. I opened my eyes and looked over at the clock on the nightstand: eight fifteen.

  “Mom, are you awake?”

  I sat up just as Brian opened the door, a look of concern on his face.

  “There’s a guy sitting in a brown car across the street. He keeps looking over at our house and it’s freaking me out. Maybe we should call the cops?”

  “Damn it,” I gasped, grabbing my cell from the nightstand. There were three texts from Carter. “It’s okay, honey, he’s my ride.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “It was stolen last night. I’m getting a rental today.”

  “Why don’t you just drive dad’s car?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Who’s the guy waiting for you out in the rust-bucket?”

  “Just a friend,” I said while rifling through my closet.

  Brian shrugged and left the room. I threw on some clothes, grabbed my makeup bag, purse, and jacket, and out the door I went.

  “What the hell?” Carter inquired when I got into his car.

  “Sorry, overslept,” I said, smoothing my hair; there hadn’t been time for even a brief look in the mirror.

  “We have a busy day, and you look like shit,” he said with a smile.

  “Well, you’re not going to win any friggin’ beauty contests, either,” I shot back, studying his bloodshot eyes. “I need coffee.”

  “No time. A lot to accomplish this morning. First stop, Marty’s restaurant. Then we’ll go see about your rental car.”

  I commenced to putting on my face as Carter drove.

  * * *

  Marty’s was a fat wallet type of establishment. The plush furnishings and swanky décor indicated no expense had been spared in outfitting the joint. Marty had been a restaurateur with good taste. The smell of fresh herbs and onions hung heavily in the air. My stomach began to growl.

  An attractive woman in a navy blue outfit strolled toward us. Her black hair was slicked back into a tight bun. She looked all business as she extended her hand and smiled.

  “Abigail Rodrigues,” she said. “You must be Carter and Sarah.” She escorted us to a nearby table. The place was empty at this early hour. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

  “No thanks,” Carter said.

  “Actually, I’d love some coffee,” I said. “Black, please.”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  Carter gave me an impatient glance.

  “What? I need caffeine.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  Abigail soon returned and handed me a steaming cup.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “It’s my pleasure, of course. Well, this place has been a real handful since Marty’s accident,” Abigail said, glancing at her watch. “But I have a few minutes to talk with you. Also, Chef Philippe is busy in the kitchen prepping for lunch.”

  “Great, I’ll go have a quick chat with him,” Carter said, turning and heading off in the direction of the clanking pots.

  “Shall we go inside my office?” Abigail suggested, indicating a hallway to our left.

  “Perfect,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. I followed her down the hall and into a small, windowless room. Her desk was piled high with file folders and loose papers. She pulled out a chair for me.

  “As you know, we’re writing an article about your late boss for Gourmet Magazine,” I said while taking a seat. “The article will focus on Marty, the man behind the restaurant, as it were.”

  “Okay.” Abigail sat and smoothed out the wrinkles in her slacks. “I don’t know a great deal about Marty’s personal life. He was my boss.”

  “How long have you worked here, Abigail?”

  “Close to three years now.”

  “What was it like working for Marty Quinn?”

  Abigail took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Marty was p
assionate about his work. As a boss, he was professional, yet personable. I respected him for that, and admired his conviction and devotion to this place.”

  I scribbled in my notebook mostly for show, thinking that Abigail’s answers seemed to come from a memorized script.

  “And what are your responsibilities here, Abigail?”

  “I deal with employees, scheduling, vendors, advertising, and keeping our customers happy.”

  “I see. And what happens now? Will Marty’s wife take over the business?”

  Abigail sucked her lips in as she looked down at her lap. “Well, I just found out his wife wants to sell the business. I opened the letter shortly before you arrived. She’s already looking for a buyer.”

  “Wow,” I said, dropping the notebook to my lap. “How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know how to feel about it. Hopefully, the new buyers will keep me on as general manager.”

  “Was Janet Quinn involved with the restaurant before Marty’s death?”

  “Not really. She’d come to meetings once in a while, but didn’t have much to say.”

  My hope was that Abigail would continue down this avenue, but she seemed to reach a stop sign. I decided not to push it, opting instead to redirect the questions toward Marty Quinn’s personal life. “What did Marty do when he wasn’t at the restaurant? Did he have any hobbies?”

  Abigail appeared uncomfortable with the question, stalling and shifting in her chair. “Like I said, I really didn’t know Marty outside of work. I do know he played golf several times a week during the good weather.”

  “Did he have a lot of friends? Ever talk about the other women in his life?” I knew I’d gone too far upon seeing Abigail’s furrowed brows.

  “Excuse me? What other women are you referring to?” She crossed her arms and waited for an answer.

  “Well,” I said, as if this were a perfectly acceptable journalistic tack, “it is common knowledge that Marty had a wandering eye. Perhaps you knew some of his lady friends?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable talking about Marty’s ... I had nothing to do with him outside of work. Our relationship was strictly professional.”

  I decided in that moment to go for broke. “I understand,” I said, then leaned in close and lowered my voice. “He liked to go to strip clubs, didn’t he?”

  Abigail looked bewildered. Her eyes darted around the room as if she were watching a Ping-Pong tournament. “How would I know?”

  There was a good chance I’d blown my Gourmet Magazine writer cover. I decided it was time to cut and run before she threw me out. “Well, thank you, Abigail. I appreciate your time this morning.” I closed my notebook, slipped it into my purse, and withdrew the photo of Harding. “One last question, if you don’t mind. Do you recognize this man?” I handed her the photo. “Perhaps he was a customer, a vendor, or maybe a friend of Marty’s?”

  Abigail took the photo and examined it for a few seconds. “He doesn’t look familiar,” she said, a blank expression on her face. “What’s his name?”

  “His name is Lance Harding. Perhaps you could check your computer files to see if his name comes up. Marty may have had business dealings with him.” I held my breath as she pondered the suggestion.

  “How is this relevant to the article you’re writing?” she asked.

  “Well, my editor is extremely anal. He requires that we research every last detail, though much of it will be cut from the final article. I realize it may seem a bit excessive.”

  Her features relaxed a bit and she smiled sympathetically. “I understand how that is. Marty was very meticulous about how he wanted things done around here, too. But, as you can see, that’s what it takes to run a successful business.”

  I nodded appreciatively.

  Abigail stood up. “I can check the computer files later today if you want to write down that guy’s name for me. I’ll give you a call if anything turns up. I really must get back to work.”

  “Thank you so much.” I tore a page out of my notebook, jotted down Harding’s name and my contact info, and handed it to her.

  She smiled, took the paper, and walked me to the door. As I turned to walk away, she said “I know you don’t work for a magazine.”

  I turned and looked at her with raised eyebrows, my heart suddenly pounding like crazy. “Pardon me?”

  “You can quit the act. I’m not stupid, you know. Janet hired you, didn’t she?”

  I was at a complete loss as how to respond.

  “You don’t have to answer that. But when you report back to Janet, tell her I never slept with her husband, okay. Then tell her to leave me alone.”

  “Leave you alone? Janet Quinn has been harassing you?”

  “She called me the night Marty died … woke me up around midnight. She rambled on to such a degree, I thought she was drunk at first. I was about to hang up on her when she explained how Marty had been killed. Then she started accusing me of sleeping with him, as if I’d had something to do with his death. I was in shock. She called me a tramp and hung up on me.”

  “Had she ever hit you with accusations before Marty’s death?”

  “No. I have no idea how she got it into her head that Marty and I ... it’s just ridiculous!”

  “Maybe Marty spoke fondly of you and Janet read it wrong. Have you heard from her since?”

  “Not until I got the letter about selling the restaurant.”

  “Look,” I said, feeling more confident now that the truth was out. “There may be a way to get yourself off the hook with Janet. There’s an exotic dancer named Tiffany that Marty had dated recently. Did you know about her?”

  Abigail let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know that name. I overheard a conversation Marty had one night with someone at the bar. Most of the customers had gone home, and he’d probably had one too many cocktails. He was going on and on about this Tiffany chick. I didn’t stick around to listen to the whole conversation.”

  “Did he say anything specific about her?”

  “You mean other than that she was the best fucking lay he’d ever had? His words, not mine.”

  “I think I get the picture.”

  Abigail shrugged. “Do you? I don’t think you understand.”

  “Make me understand.”

  “Marty was a smart guy, but when he started drinking his brains went out the window. The way he described having sex with his floozies was disgusting. I may not have liked Janet, but I thought she was a saint for keeping him around. But then again, she’s a bit crazy, in my opinion. I guess they were perfect for each other.”

  “If Marty loved playing the field so much, why did he ever get married?”

  “Well, for one thing, Janet has money.”

  “I see.” I tried desperately to remain deadpan, hoping to conceal my surprise at the revelation.

  “You don’t know much about your client, do you? Don’t you people do background checks before you agree to work for someone? It was Janet’s money that set Marty up in this restaurant fifteen years ago.”

  I nodded, taken aback by Abigail’s patronizing demeanor. It wasn’t helping my self-confidence. “Well, thank you again, Abigail. I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll see myself out.” As I started down the hall, I heard her office door slam shut.

  I saw Carter leaning against a wall near the exit. “How’d it go with Chef Philippe?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

  “Nice guy, but not very helpful. You?”

  “Good and bad, I guess.” I walked past Carter and headed outside toward his Buick.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked as I got inside.

  “She figured out Janet hired us.”

  “Did you admit to it?”

  “No, but believe me, she knew. How well do you know Janet?” I asked. “Do you perform background checks on your clients before you agree to take their jobs?”

  Carter leaned back and cocked his head. “What?”

  “Abigail told me
that on the day of Marty’s death, Janet called her around midnight and accused her of sleeping with him. Abigail said Janet sounded drunk.”

  “Look, Sarah, I appreciate the effort you’re putting into this assignment, but we can’t change the rules of the game. Janet’s our client. She’s paying the bills and we’re gonna continue working this case. We need to follow up on Tiffany, figure out the connection to Harding, and see what we end up with. That’s the extent of our involvement, got it?”

  I felt like a child being reprimanded. “Okay, I get it,” I said, swallowing my pride. Something still bothered me about the whole Janet thing, but I decided to keep my mouth shut.

  “Let’s go get your rental car.” Carter’s voice returned to the usual friendly tone I was accustomed to as if he’d never lost his cool. “I need to head back into town once I drop you off. I’ve got an appointment for a haircut with Marty’s old barber. I thought I could kill two birds with one stone.” We headed north to the turnpike. Few words were exchanged during the ride.

  Chapter 21

  Less than an hour later, I had a set of keys belonging to a shiny black Toyota Camry.

  “Don’t forget to call that guy today,” Carter shouted over his shoulder as he headed back to his vehicle.

  “What guy?”

  “The guy whose name Tiffany gave you last night on the napkin. Remember?”

  “I’ll call him right now.” I’d forgotten all about Armand.

  I slid behind the wheel, set my purse on the passenger seat, and started the engine. My stomach growled and I pondered where to get some food.

  My cell phone buzzed. It was another text from Daniel, reminding me to pick him up at the airport at seven.

  “Have I ever forgotten to pick you up, numb nuts?” I said out loud. A pang of guilt followed my callous reaction. Daniel was nothing, if not consistent and predictable. There was a certain level of comfort in that.

  I located the napkin Tiffany had handed to me the night before. Who was Armand and why would she give me his number? What kind of name was Armand, anyways? It sounded phony, and probably wasn’t even his real name, whoever the hell he was. I punched the number into my phone. A pleasant male voice answered after three rings. “Is this Armand?”