An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries (8 page)

     “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 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 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?”

     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.”