He hung up. I put the phone down and looked at Viktor.
“Well that was pretty sad. The accent, that is,” Viktor said in his heavy accent. “Did you find out who he was?”
“No, but I have an idea how to. I need a computer.”
We drove back to Viktor's. I sat down on the overstuffed chair and took a sip of my warm white wine. I looked up a cell phone directory website and then entered the number. A window popped up saying it was a Minneapolis number and provided a place where I put in my credit card number. In a matter of minutes, I found out that Les was in contact with the John DeMire Agency Investigations LLC.
I keyed the agency into Viktor's laptop. It was a background investigative service, providing surveillance, information gathering, and research in the Twin Cities area. His slogan was, “If you have a hunch, we will find out the truth.” I raised my eyebrows.
I turned to Viktor and said, “Seems like Les must have thought he was on to something big. He hired a private eye.”
“Maybe it
was
about Nancy Reinhardt swindling old men.”
“Could be. Or maybe it was about something else. We need to find out what.”
* * * *
All the way home I thought of what I would do. Tomorrow morning I was going to pay Mr. DeMire a visit or should I say, Melissa Hollingsworth was.
Wednesday, December 31
New Years Eve
I finished signing a fake name to a release of information form I had just printed off the computer, folded the paper, and put it in my purse. Today's schedule was unreal. The boys were coming home for Phil's jazz group's debut tonight and Andrew's birthday was tomorrow. Deirdre's cocktail party was at seven o'clock, and she was counting on me to help her out beforehand. And Melissa Hollingsworth was due to come to Sudbury Falls in the next couple of days to pack Les' things. I took out the sheet of paper with John DeMire Agency Investigations address on it and entered it into my GPS.
When I started my car the engine light came on. I forgot to tell Phil about that. I didn't want to drive into the Cities, worrying about whether or not the car would make it. I called Elizabeth and asked if I could borrow her car, then walked across the street and was on the road a few minutes later.
It was an easy part of St. Paul to get to, just off of I-94. I was right in the Midway/Frogtown district at Snelling Avenue and University. The area looked a little rough around the edges, with pawn shops on every block and check cashing places. It was dotted with Asian restaurants. I parked my car around the corner from the agency and made my way to DeMire Investigations, sandwiched between The Golden Chow Mein restaurant and Price Rite Liquors.
The bell at the top of the door tinkled when I entered. A woman in her late thirties, with excessive makeup sat behind the desk. She sported a dodgy, low-cut coral lace top. Her long, bleached hair hung in huge curls. There was nothing about her that didn't look cheap. “Can I help you?” she said, looking down at her nails. She then did a second take at my hat.
I had asked Elizabeth if I could borrow her black wide-brimmed hat she had worn on occasion. Fluffy, black, chandelle feathers adorned the crown. It had a bit of a veil that came down in front. I didn't know if I felt it was a disguise or some sort of protection.
“I'm here to see John DeMire,” I said in my slight accent. “My name is Melissa Hollingsworth.”
Raising her head, she looked strangely at me, glanced at the inside door, then ran her long purple fingernails, with starbursts painted on them, over the appointment book.
“I don't have an appointment,” I started. “I thought I could...” Before completing my sentence the inner door opened. A man with his sleeves rolled up, sporting a five o'clock shadow, came out chatting with a familiar looking woman in a smart tailored suit. Where had I seen her before? The man had a tattoo of a mermaid with a snake coiled around her waist on his right forearm, and on his left, a Medusa head. He must of had a thing for snakes. They both fell silent and looked at me standing there.
“Mr. DeMire,” the receptionist said, nodding towards me with a smirk, “this is Melissa Hollingsworth.”
He looked over at me with a shocked expression which quickly fell back off his face. Must be surprised to have two clients in one day; the place looked tired. Or it could be the hat. The woman's mouth opened and shut a couple of times, but she remained silent. It must be the hat.
I went over to him, extended my hand, and looked closer at his forearm. “Mr. DeMire, I'm Melissa Hollingsworth,” I said with my accent. “I spoke with you on the phone yesterday. I'm Les Hollingsworth's sister. You asked me to come in.”
“What?” The woman exclaimed standing by his side. She looked particularly displeased by this announcement.
I looked over at the woman and frowned; what was up with her, and then looked back to Mr. DeMire. He hadn't extended his hand to shake mine. I looked at his yellow fingers and felt relief that I wouldn't have to touch them. “My dear brother died. I have a note from his executor authorizing the release of information.” I lowered my hand and started to take out the release form I had printed out on the computer from my purse.
Mr. DeMire coughed to interrupt me. I stopped rustling around in my purse and looked up. “May I introduce you to my client's sister. This,” he put his hand on the woman's arm. The woman glanced at his hand on her arm in disdain, “is... Melissa Hollingsworth, Les Hollingsworth's twin.”
Damn! My heart started to pound. No wonder she looked familiar. I could see the resemblance. The same eyes, nose, and mouth.
He sneered at me. “Would you like to explain yourself before I call the police?”
Muscles tensed in my back. My heart started to pound in my ears. A swish swish noise. It was as loud as their voices. For just a few moments, I could see their mouths move but the swish swish continued.
The woman crossed her arms, her eyes protruding. “Who are you and why are you saying you're me?” She deepened her tone. “And really, is that how you thought I'd sound and dress?” She glanced up at Elizabeth's hat. It looked like she was biting her lips to suppress a giggle.
I had this sinking feeling, looking back and forth between the two of them. I wasn't cut out for this. Then my thoughts went to Deirdre—Deirdre of all people—and her relaxation exercises. I took a deep breath. I pictured the stress flowing out of my fingertips. I looked down at my fingers expecting to see streams of light surging from them. My heart slowed. “I can,” I dropped my fake accent and my voice an octave, “explain.”
They both looked at me without smiles on their faces.
So far, so good. Now what? I heard a tapping noise on the desk. I knew, it was the receptionist tapping her fake nails. I couldn't say that I found out about Mr. DeMire from opening Les' mail...federal offense. Maybe Les could have opened it and left it on the table for Viktor to find. I don't even know if Viktor was supposed to be in Les' apartment, but he said he was helping the sister get a head start with the packing.
I spouted out the first thing that I could think of that wouldn't land me in jail. “I'm friends with Viktor.”
Melissa's face took on a look of recognition. “Viktor? Viktor Petruska?”
“Yes, Viktor Petruska.” Now I was getting somewhere. I rattled off, “I tried to save your brother at Hawthorne Hills. I did CPR on him when he stopped breathing.”
She paused for a few moments, then held out her hand to me. I extended mine. “Thank you. You're the one. Dr. Lee told me about you on the phone.”
“That doesn't explain what you are doing impersonating Ms. Hollingsworth,” DeMire said, with an edge in his voice.
I glanced over at the receptionist who was looking into her compact mirror, puckering up her botoxed mouth as she applied a liberal coat of bubblegum pink lipstick. “Could we go into your office?” I said.
Ms. Hollingworth led the way into DeMire's office. DeMire closed the door. We all sat down.
“Les must have told Viktor about your agency,” I lied. “I'm here to find out what he wanted you to investigate and what you learned.” I explained to them about the suspicions surrounding Les' death.
The phone rang. DeMire answered it, “Yes.” He sat and listened to the phone in silence. A minute later he said, “I have a client waiting. Ms. Hollingsworth, do you want to press any charges in regards to this woman impersonating you?” He turned to me. “I never did get your
real
name.”
I didn't say anything and looked at Ms. Hollingsworth.
“Of course I don't want to press charges. Well, I have all of the information,” Ms. Hollingsworth said, patting her briefcase messenger bag. “I'll take it from here. Thank you again for your help, Mr. DeMire.”
Melissa got up to leave. I had to act quickly; I had come here for that report that was in the messenger bag, and I wasn't going home without getting a look at it. I caught Melissa by the arm as she walked past my chair and nodded my head toward the door. Melissa looked at me with understanding in her eyes and gestured for me to follow. I got up and followed her out of the office.
When we got outside, I said, “Ms. Hollingsworth, my name is Kay Driscoll. I'm sorry about trying to impersonate you back there, but my intention is to have a look at that report you're carrying. I'm only trying to get to the bottom of what happened to your brother.”
Suggesting that we talk over tea next door at The Golden Chow Mein, I took off the distracting hat and walked around the corner to put it in the back seat of Elizabeth's car. As I walked back to the restaurant where Melissa was waiting for me, I noticed a car with dark windows that looked very much like Robert Peterson's, my new next door neighbor's, go around the corner. There was a bumper sticker on the right side of the back fender that had the colors blue and red. I couldn't make out more than that.
We sat at a table next to the window. I ordered a pot of jasmine tea and two desserts that I couldn't pronounce the name of, which ended up being deep fried glazed fruit.
I told Melissa about my friends at Hawthorne Hills and how I came to be investigating Les' death. Then I asked her, “How did you find out about Les employing Mr. DeMire?”
“Les sent me a letter that I opened a couple of days ago. It was delivered accidentally to a neighbor who was away for a week on vacation. He also sent a copy to DeMire. It told about his suspicions of the director at Hawthorne Hills. Les wrote that if anything happened to him, to contact the DeMire Agency.”
“Suspicions about her and some male residents?”
“Yes. Something like that. He asked for a background check on her.”
“Melissa, may I...could I please see that report?”
“I haven't read it all myself yet.”
“It would be helpful. Might even reveal the reason for Les' death,” I said.
She looked at her watch. “I have another appointment in a little while. I need to get going.” She stood up.
Shoot. I needed that report.
She looked at me. Perhaps she saw the desperation in my eyes. “Let's go back next door. I'll have them make a copy of it for you. I paid enough for it.”
“Oh, thank you. That would be great.”
“Don't get your hopes up. What I saw was just general stuff. A criminal check, work history, education, close relatives. She did have big credit card debt.”
Ooh, big credit card debt! “Interesting.”
“This afternoon, I need to get Les' things packed up. I'll be staying at his apartment, if you find out anything. Then I'm leaving the day after the funeral on holiday.”
After I got a copy of the report, Melissa and I exchanged phone numbers and went our separate ways. I drove back home, mortified at how disastrous things could have gone at DeMire's office, but satisfied that I had achieved my primary objective in obtaining the report.
Tomorrow was Andrew's birthday. I didn't have time to bake a cake. I could stop at Marissa's, pick up a carrot cake and spread the frosting around with a butter knife a little. Maybe he wouldn't notice I didn't make it. It was a shame: I had bought all the ingredients earlier in the week.
Phil was eating a late lunch when I walked into kitchen from the garage. “Phil, I'm glad you're home. Could you be a lifesaver and whip up a carrot cake for Andrew's birthday tomorrow?” I knew carrot cake wasn't a recipe that you could just “whip up.” It was time intensive. “I'm supposed to be help Deirdre this afternoon get ready for her party tonight.”
“Sure. We aren't meeting back at Dinesh's for another hour and a half. You may have to take it out of the oven for me.”
“Thanks, hon!” I gave him a quick kiss.
Phil leaned forward in his chair and put his arms around my waist pulling me towards him. “Andrew called. They're going to meet us at Gatsby's tonight. Something about going to the Timberwolves game this afternoon.” I kissed him again on top of his head.
I walked into the study, wishing I had time to at least look over the report about Nancy. But I had none. It would have to wait until later. I put the envelope in the bottom desk drawer and called Deirdre to find out what time she wanted me to come over to help. Hearing Phil clanging pans in the kitchen, I climbed the stairs to our bedroom to figure out what I could wear to both Deirdre's party and Gatsby's afterwards. I looked at Andrew's gifts sitting on my bed. I'd need to wrap those before I left.
Two hours later, after trying on at least ten different outfits, I finally decided on one. It was the first one I had tried on: a black cowl neck cap sleeved dress. I looked from the heap of clothing laying on the bed to Andrew's wrapped gifts and closed the bedroom door on my way out. I was already thirty minutes late.
After taking the carrot cake out of the oven, I headed over to Deirdre's. She answered the door looking gorgeous in a soft blue, floaty V-neck dress that gave her an ethereal sensibility. Deirdre said everything was under control as she poured me a glass of wine. I dropped back onto her sofa.
“You must have been working all day,” I said. “Everything, your house, the food, looks beautiful.”