An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries Page 6

  “Zach seems like a nice guy,” I said as she slid a glass of wine in my direction. “And cute, too.”

  “Yeah, Zach’s much nicer than the last bartender we had, who was a total prick. He eventually got fired for stealing a bottle of Maker’s Mark.”

  “I do some bartending on the side. It would be fun to work here.”

  “That would be great. We really should have female bartenders here, too.”

  “By the way, I really enjoyed your performance, tonight.” As soon as I said it, I realized she might interpret the comment differently than I had intended. But it was time to take this conversation to the next level, as I only had a few minutes.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking down at her lap. “I don’t plan on doing this forever. Just until I have a decent amount of money saved. I make a lot more doing this than I would waiting tables forty hours a week.”

  I felt a little sorry for her. She was a beautiful girl. Why was she stripping, I wondered? She could have been a Victoria’s Secret model. “Hey, we do what we have to do, right?”

  “I guess so. But I’m not getting any younger. I’ll be thirty next month. Believe it or not, that’s considered old in this business.”

  “Have you thought of modeling.”

  She laughed. “You’re far too kind.” She massaged the back of her neck and gave me a curious look. “So, you came here alone tonight. Does that mean you’re into women?”

  I almost choked on my wine. I set the glass down and dabbed my lower lip with a napkin. “No, I’m not gay,” I said. “But I can see how you might think that.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that . . . well . . . never mind.” She shook her head.

  “Actually,” I said, tapping my fingers on the wine glass, “I had a boyfriend up until a few days ago.”

  She swiveled her stool around to face me. “What happened?”

  “He cheated on me.”

  “That totally sucks. How’d you find out?”

  I paused, in order to fabricate a believable sob story. “I found a condom wrapper in the pocket of his jeans. We never used them.” I rested my chin on my hand and sighed.

  After a brief silence, Tiffany muttered under her breath. “Asshole. Men really suck, sometimes.”

  “You’re not kidding. When I confronted him about it, he had the nerve to tell me I was a lousy lay. Can you believe that?” The lies were suddenly flowing.

  “You’re kidding. What’d you say?”

  “I told him to go to hell. But he just laughed at me, you know, like he didn’t believe I’d ever leave his sorry ass.”

  “I hope you walked out and didn’t look back.” Tiffany crossed her arms, her eyes narrowed.

  “I tried to leave, but he shoved me against the wall.” I was beginning to wonder if I was overdoing it. “I can’t believe I ever fell for that jerk to begin with.”

  “You call the cops? Please tell me you had him arrested.”

  “I didn’t have a chance. He split, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.” I stared into my drink and pondered my story. Had she bought it? “Sorry,” I said. “I’m sure the last thing you needed tonight was someone bending your ear about an abusive boyfriend. Thanks for letting me vent.”

  “Talk all you want. I’m a good listener.” She shifted on her stool. “My friends tell me I should’ve been a therapist.” She giggled and took a sip of her wine.

  We sat in silence for a long moment. I finally got up the nerve to ask the question I had come to find an answer for. “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

  Tiffany looked at her glass, downed the remainder of her wine then immediately refilled it. “Not anymore,” she said.

  I waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, I asked, “What happened?”

  She lowered her eyes. “It’s the same old story. I always want the ones I can’t have.”

  “He was married?”

  She nodded. “He was. Not that it stopped him from running around. He had others, too.”

  “Were you in love with him?”

  “That’s the funny thing. I don’t think I was. But he made me laugh, you know? He was fun and carefree. My dancing didn’t seem to bother him at all.”

  “How’d you find out he was married?”

  “He got a call one night while he was at my place. He left the room, but I overheard him talking.”

  “You must have been hurt.”

  “You know, I think I felt worse for him. It must be awful to be stuck in a marriage with someone you don’t want to be with. Anyways, I ended it and told him he should try to work things out with his wife.”

  If she was referring to Marty, and I had to assume she was, I detected no bitterness whatsoever. “Did you meet him here?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I did. I suppose I should have known better than to get involved with a customer. But he was so sweet. It was hard to say no to that man.”

  “I wish I could find a sweet, honest man to fall in love with. I seem to be attracted only to the bad boys.”

  “You’re not alone. But I know someone who might be able to help you deal with that asshole ex-boyfriend of yours.” She reached across the bar, grabbed a pen, and scribbled something on a napkin.

  “Who’s this?” I asked. She had written the name Armand and included a phone number.

  “Just call him. You can thank me later.”

  I was at a complete loss. I slipped the napkin into my purse just as Zach returned.

  “Hello, ladies. I see you’ve helped yourself to my wine stock.”

  “Yes, and we’re doing a grand job of drowning our sorrows.” Tiffany smiled discretely behind her wine glass.

  A buzzing sound inside my purse told me I had an incoming text message. I checked: it was from Carter. It read: Five minutes away. Meet me outside.

  “Well,” I said, “my ride’s here. I’m grateful to you both for letting me hang out. If I’d waited outside, I’d be a human popsicle by now.”

  “No problem. Take care, Sarah. I hope we’ll see you again.” She and Zach both waved as I turned and walked toward the exit.

  Outside, Carter was just pulling up to the curb.

  “Sorry you had to come get me, but I didn’t know who else to call.” As I settled in, a sinking feeling came over me. “I think someone stole my car. Guess I’d better report it.”

  “We can stop at the police station on the way back.”

  “Thanks.” I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle a yawn. “Otherwise, it all worked out. I was able to talk to Tiffany.”

  “Did you get anything we can use?” he asked.

  “I gave her a sob story about my cheating boyfriend, and she mentioned being involved with a married man. She didn’t offer a name and I didn’t push.”

  “Do you think she was referring to Marty?”

  “I think so, but oddly enough, she didn’t seem the least bit angry or resentful. Wells said Marty told him Tiffany was livid when he broke it off with her. But Tiffany claims she was the one who ended her relationship with the married guy.”

  “Maybe she was talking about some other guy?”

  “Or maybe Marty’s lofty ego was bruised and he told Wells a different story to save face. He seemed like the type who wouldn’t admit to being dumped, especially by a stripper.”

  “We need to find out for sure.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “We follow her home.”

  “Tonight?” I asked. Carter’s sudden U-turn provided the answer. We returned to the club and parked across the street. He shut off the engine and killed the lights.

  “I hope you’re not in any hurry to get home,” he said.

  I shrugged. “No one will miss me.” I remembered the napkin. “I got a phone number,” I said, digging in my purse.

  Carter produced a small flashlight he kept in the center console. He took the napkin and clicked the light on. “Who’s Armand?”

  “No idea. All she said
was that he’d take care of the asshole boyfriend I told her about.”

  Carter gave me a quizzical look. “Okay, give him a call in the morning.” He switched the light off, returned it to the console, and looked across the street.

  “You know,” I said, after a brief silence, “I was thinking if things don’t work out with you, maybe I’ll get a part-time job bartending at Lola’s.”

  “What do you know about bartending?”

  “A lot. I worked my way through massage school by bartending.”

  “Ever work at a strip club?”

  “No, but so what? If I can make drinks at Applebee’s, I can certainly make them at Lola’s.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” Carter threw his head back in laughter.

  “What’s so damn funny? You got something against Applebee’s?”

  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.

  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 m
y 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 passionate 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?”