A Quarter for a Kiss (8 page)

“I was afraid of that,” I said.

“Even if they don’t ask for ID,” she said, “you’ll have to sign the signature card, and it has to look just like the sig they already have on file.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I said, wishing I could be the one to do this instead of Tom. Eli and I had learned to write each other’s signatures years ago, a skill that had come in handy considering the flow of papers that came through our office. Of course, I couldn’t exactly march into the bank now and claim to be “Eli Gold”—even if I could make the signatures match.

“I mean, you can give it a shot,” Harriet said. “Ask for the box by number, and if they say ‘we need to see some ID,’ tell them you don’t have any with you but you’ll go get it and come back. Then hightail it out of there fast. Banks don’t look kindly on fraud. If they figure out you’re trying to get into a box that’s not your own, they just might call the police.”

“All right, Harriet,” I replied, looking out at the flat Florida landscape. I could hardly believe only three days ago I had been relaxing deep in the Smoky Mountains. “Thanks for the advice.”

“You okay, hon?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you when I have some time to talk.”

“I’ll be holdin’ my breath ’til then, you know.”

I disconnected the call and told Tom all that Harriet had said. The drive took nearly an hour, and we tossed out different options all the way there. Tom had some banking connections, of course, so there was always a chance he could pull some strings. But despite the influential names in his smartphone, he was doubtful any of them could give him access into another person’s safety deposit box—at least not without causing a big stir.

I knew we could always go the police route and do this legally, but that would take too long—not to mention that then the police would confiscate the contents of the box and I would never get to see them at all.

In the end we both decided that the quickest, easiest way to get into Eli’s safety deposit box was to take that ten percent chance the bank wouldn’t ask for ID. If our plan didn’t work, we would follow Harriet’s directive to “hightail” it out of there.

Then we would decide on a Plan B.

Once we reached downtown Orlando, the bank was easy to find. We parked on the street at a meter and then spent some time in the car with paper and pen as I tried to teach Tom how to write Eli’s signature. When he had the hang of it, we got out of the car and crossed the street to the bank.

“It’s showtime,” he whispered as he held the door open for me.

We walked across the lobby together, our footsteps clicking on the shiny marble floor. Shoulders high, Tom approached a bank representative confidently and announced that he would like to have box 1569 please. Then he glanced at his watch, insinuating he was in a hurry.

“Of course,” the woman replied, and she walked immediately to a filing cabinet. As she turned to go, I noticed the red blush along her hairline, a common response to Tom and his handsome presence.

I looked around the bank as we waited for her to pull the file, noting the beautiful ornate moldings that lined the ceiling. This was an older building, filled with elaborate architectural details, dignified whispers, and the distinctive smell of money.

“I just need for you to sign your name right here on this line,” she said softly, returning to place a card on the counter in front of him. Smoothly, he pulled a pen from his pocket. I was about to distract the woman by commenting on the lovely building when she spoke again.

“And, of course, I’ll need to see some ID, Mr. Gold.”

Tom hesitated and I stepped forward, my pulse surging.

“Oh, we were afraid of that,” I said. “He lost his wallet last night at the restaurant. Isn’t the signature enough?”

I could feel Tom’s foot pressing against mine, and I knew I wasn’t following our plan. But we were so close to getting to that box! I simply couldn’t help myself.

“It’s for your own protection,” the woman explained. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course we do,” Tom said, taking my arm. “We’ll just run over to the restaurant and see if they found the wallet yet. If so, we’ll come right back.”

I was about to try another plea when the woman picked up the card and tapped it on the table.

“Sorry about that,” she said, a flicker of suspicion crossing her features. “But that’s our policy, you know.”

“Wait!” I cried, gesturing toward the card though I could feel Tom’s fingers pressing my arm. “I still have
my
wallet.”

The woman and Tom both looked blankly at me. Then she gazed down at the card, turning it over to see what I had just glimpsed.

“Are you Mrs. Webber?” she asked.

“Yes, I am,” I replied, grinning foolishly as I reached into my purse for my driver’s license.
Good ol’ Eli
, I thought. He had put my name on his box as a backup, forging my signature just like the old days!

I signed on the back of the card next to my name. Within ten minutes, Tom and I were back at the car, a manila envelope weighing heavily in my hands.

“That envelope better be worth what we just risked to get it,” he said.

“It will be,” I replied, running my fingers across the front. “If I know Eli, it will be.”

Eight

We found a little restaurant on the way out of town and asked for a table off to ourselves. With a knowing smile, the hostess led us to a booth near the window, but there were still people within earshot. Tom gestured toward an empty dining room at the back, slipped the woman a twenty, and asked if we might sit there instead.

“Honey, for twenty bucks,” she said, pocketing the cash, “you can come home with me and sit at my kitchen table!”

As soon as we were seated in the back room and had placed our orders, I pulled out the envelope and opened the clasp. Inside I found two items: Eli’s old address book, falling to pieces but held together with several rubber bands, and a thick file with Eli’s familiar handwriting scribbled across the front. I carefully removed the file and set it down in front of me.

“Aw, shoot,” the waitress interrupted, bringing in two glasses of water. “You wanted privacy for a business meeting. I thought y’all was sweet on each other and just wanted a little solitude, if you know what I mean.”

She must have picked up on our mood because she left the room without much more chatter. Once she was gone, Tom moved over to sit next to me so we could go through the file together.

The word Eli had written across the front of the file was “Nadine.” My heart pounded. All of my hunches in finding and securing this file were about to pay off.

We opened it up to find Eli’s typed notes, the first entry dated December 28 of last year.

“He started this file four months ago,” Tom said, pointing to the date.

Though Eli used a shorthand way of writing, his notes were always thorough, containing impressions and observations that lesser detectives might have missed entirely. As he had taught me years ago, you never know what’s going to be important in a case. Better to write it all down as it happens so that you can refer back to it later if need be.

Now, Tom and I both read the entry silently to ourselves.

12/28 6
P.M
.—
Ferry St. Thomas to St. John on way to house. White female passenger on ferry looks familiar. Attractive brunette, age approx. late fifties. Expensive watch, well-cut clothes. Carries two shopping bags
—
one orange with big white sunflower, the other brown with big cursive signature logo. Based on time of day, I assume she’s been shopping in St. Thomas and is now headed back to St. John for the night. I puzzle over it the whole way; getting off the ferry, I realize what it is: She reminds me of Nadine Peters! Face is different, though
.

Think nothing more of it, must deal with my own luggage. Leaving the dock with porter, observe woman again, from behind; she is reaching up to unzip sunroof from car. Her movements raise the hem of her skirt, exposing ugly scar on thigh just above her knee. Coincidence? It has been many, many years. And Nadine is dead. I saw her die. Shot her myself. Still, that scar. Those movements. Something about that face…

I make note: Plate JAB 6944, Suzuki Vitara, gray
.

She drives away immediately; impossible to tail without being obvious or explaining to Stella. Distract Stella with the bags and then ask two cabdrivers; neither claims to know her. Vendor at dockside stand thinks woman is a local but that she doesn’t get out much or mingle in the community
.

That was the full entry for that date. Tom and I looked at each other, and he didn’t even have to ask the question for me to answer it.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, “I never heard of Nadine Peters. Have you?”

“No,” he echoed.

“I don’t get this about the ferry, though. Why is he on a ferry?”

“There’s no airport in St. John. To get there, you have to fly into St. Thomas. The islands are fairly close to each other. I think the ferries run all day long, and you can get from one to the other by boat in less than an hour.”

“So that’s what he was doing when he first saw her. Eli and Stella had flown to St. Thomas and they were taking the ferry over to St. John, where Stella has a house.”

“Yes. And while they were on that ferry, he thought he recognized someone from his past. Someone of significance.”

“But then he says, ‘Nadine is dead. I saw her die. Shot her myself.’ Now he thinks he sees her alive. He must’ve been stunned!”

Tom reread the notes.

“Has Eli shot many people in his lifetime?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “He’s been a detective and a cop, and he was in the military. I suppose in all of that, there might have been at least a few times he had to shoot at someone.”

We moved on to the next entry, both fascinated by the detailed notes.

12/29—Can’t get woman out of my mind. One screaming question: Could it be Nadine????? There is simply no way. Nadine is dead!!!

12/31—7
P.M.
—Bring bottle of good champagne to A. to toast the New Year; convince him to run plates; leave with name and address info from lic. plate. Plate JAB 6944, Suzuki Vitara, is registered to Earl Streep, Turtle Point, East End. Husband?

1/10 noon—Can’t stop obsessing, have to investigate just to rule this out. Locate Turtle Point out on the East End of St. John. Driveway to house is long, winding road up mountain with no way to approach without being seen. Posted as “Private Drive, No Trespassing.” Let it go, just coincidence
.

“Hmm,” I said. “Looks like he tried to forget about it, for a while at least. The next entry is about six weeks later.”

“February 28,” Tom said. “That was just two months ago.”

“I know. I guess he couldn’t let it rest forever.” We continued to read.

2/28—BIG SURPRISE! Go to St. Thomas to get bracelet for Stella for birthday. Spot same woman shopping in town. I purchase camera with zoom and tail on foot. Two hours of shopping, visit to private home 3344 Ketch Alley for approx. 45 minutes. Ferry back to St. John. Take chance of getting on ferry, afraid she will spot me. She sits front, right, so I go back left and get some photos. Not spotted. Stella picks me up. Decide I will set up surveillance near bottom of driveway to her house. Across the street is a small beach
.

3/1 10
A.M
.—First day of surveillance. Warm and sunny. Beach umbrella, ice chest, chair—I’m set. Camera at the ready, car parked not ten feet away. Let’s have some action
.

6
P.M
.—Time to pack it in. No one in or out all day. Local on beach says “big estate” at the top of that driveway. No comment from him on frequency of activity (or lack thereof) in and out of driveway
.

8
P.M
.—Back in Stella’s car for night surveill., park several blocks away. No easy night cover here, small restaurant but it’s closed tonight, no other activity
.

9
P.M
.—Police car passes twice, acting suspicious, so I hang it up for the night. Will try again tomorrow
.