Whiskey and Tonic, page 7
“Give me Paladino’s address. And Tammi’s and Wee Sweeney’s too. I know where Rico lives. That’s four garages I’m going to check out.”
“Not a good idea, Whiskey."
“Not for you, maybe. You need a warrant. I don’t.”
“True,” Brady said, “but you could still get shot for trespassing.”
I put the pen down. “Somebody could shoot me for snooping and get away with it?”
“Maybe not, but you’d be dead."
“You might as well give her the addresses cuz she’s going to get them and go snoop anyhow,” Jenx said. So Brady did. Actually, he let me see the addresses in his file while his back was turned. Giving them to me would have been a breach of protocol.
“Brandi’s dating a guy my age?" I cringed as I copied Dock’s address.
“Not quite,” Jenx said. “You just had a birthday. You’re a year older now.”
“He’s fifteen years older than she is,” I pointed out.
“And Leo was fifteen years older than you.”
“But when we met, we were all grown up and divorced already! Brandi’s only eighteen.”
“Legally an adult,” Jenx said. To Brady she announced, “I’m going to interview Vito Botafogo about what he saw when Abra knocked him down.”
I’d forgotten about the sausage vendor. “He’s not in the hospital, is he? I really don’t want to make another trip out there today."
“He’s recuperating at home, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to see you, either. But flowers would be nice.”
I intended to send some.
“Is his address in this file, too?" I flipped pages until I found what I needed. Jenx wished me good luck, unofficially, and left. From the kitchenette Brady asked if it was safe for him to come back to his desk.
“Do you think Vito would prefer roses or carnations?” I said.
“Roses, definitely. But they have to be red."
“Of course!" Since my cell phone battery was running low, I borrowed Brady’s phone to place the order through our local florist. I debated about how to word the card. By now I’d issued enough apologies that I ought to be good at it, but saying you’re sorry without encouraging a lawsuit is always tricky. I did the best I could and hung up.
“When do you expect an update on Abra?” I asked Brady.
“If there was good news, Deely would have called." He glanced out the window at the darkening sky. “They’ll have to come in soon.”
All the more reason for me to get out of there and embark on my own quest. If I couldn’t recover my dog or, more important, the loot she’d stolen, then I could at least do my part to nail a killer. We all serve in our own ways.
“Just don’t get caught,” Brady advised. Unofficially.
Chapter eleven
It was almost 8:30 when I headed for the evening’s first destination. I had decided to make discreet visits to two black vehicles: Tammi LePadanni’s and Dock Paladino’s. Attorney Kevin Sweeney lived all the way over in Grand Rapids, too far for a house call—or rather, garage call—that night. Plus, I was due at his office Monday morning; I could check out his car in the parking lot before I went in. How hard would it be to spot a Hummer? As for Rico Anuncio, I didn’t have sufficient motive to consider him a suspect. True, I intensely disliked the man and would have dearly loved to prove him guilty of murder. But he’d been out of town for months, returning just in time to judge the Miss Blossom contest. I couldn’t for the life of me connect him to Crystal Crossman’s death. Nonetheless, I reserved the right to remain suspicious.
Tammi LePadanni’s lavish home was my first stop. Her husband was an orthopedic surgeon in a region that attracted both sports enthusiasts and retirees. No wonder they were rolling in it. Unlike most orthopods I had known, however, Dr. LePadanni didn’t look like a former jock. He looked like an overstuffed wild boar. Like the kind of guy who ate whatever he wanted whenever he wanted and never exercised. In other words, like a hypocrite. I wasn’t sure how he could motivate his patients to diet and work out when he obviously did neither. Maybe he’d already replaced his joints with mechanical ones, and his sales pitch was “Live large, lazy and bionic."
Before consulting Brady’s file, I knew Tammi’s neighborhood but not her exact address. The LePadannis lived at Pasco Point, arguably the best four-digit zip-code suffix in Magnet Springs. Perched high on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, the subdivision boasted a baker’s dozen multi-million-dollar estates, each with its own ostentatious name and brigade of servants. The LePadannis’ mansion was called Providence, no doubt an allusion to the surgeon’s self-image. As I approached, the setting sun’s last rays were staining the estate blood red.
I braked at a sufficient distance to appreciate the architect’s Mediterranean-inspired design; it featured a tile roof, stucco exterior, arched doorways, leaded windows, two walled courtyards and an elaborate spewing fountain that reminded me it had been too long since I’d had sex. From my vantage point, I could glimpse part of the large garage, a separate Mediterranean-style structure tucked behind the house. Luckily, there was no security gate. But I wasn’t likely to find the garage unlocked. And breaking a window, even if I could do it quietly, would surely set off an alarm.
I turned around on Scarletta Road, heading east. In about a quarter-mile, I came to a dirt lane curving into a pear orchard. I pulled in far enough to conceal my car from the main road, grabbed a flashlight and work gloves from my realtor kit and hiked back to Pasco Point. The sun’s fleeting afterglow was all that illuminated the sky. I inhaled deeply. Even Lake Michigan smelled like spring, its humid freshness invigorating. I arrived at Providence just as darkness settled over the subdivision.
Keeping my head down, I traced the perimeter of the house. It seemed to go on forever. Of course there was the obligatory exterior lighting. Oddly, though, it was ornamental only; nothing functional in terms of security. And nothing I couldn’t stay clear of. I was almost appalled by how easy it was to approach the LePadannis’ four-car garage.
As I’d expected, the overhead doors were closed, and the side door was locked. But the side door had a window, and someone had left a light on inside. I peered in, careful not to touch the glass in case it was wired. The two bays closest to me were empty. In the third bay sat a small, sleek sports car. The fourth bay held a large van. Neither vehicle was Tammi’s Lincoln Navigator. But both were black. It must have been the family color.
A muffled cry shattered my concentration. I looked toward the back of the house. An enormous room was lit as if for surgery, its whiteness spilling out through floor-to-ceiling windows onto the lawn. Inside that room stood an apparently hysterical Brandi LePadanni. She was still wearing the form-fitting strapless gown in which she had earned the title of First Runner-up. But her blue-black hair had come loose and now streamed over her shoulders and into her face. She gestured wildly, her scarlet mouth shaping words I couldn’t read although I was quite sure they were questions. Furious questions. Watching her, I thought of Sophia Loren fuming at Marcello Mastroianni in some old movie with subtitles. Brandi was fuming at her father, who sat very still in an oversized leather chair. To prove how upset she was, she picked up her Miss Blossom First Runner-up bouquet in both hands and smashed it repeatedly against the library table. The roses exploded like spattering blood. Still Dr. LePadanni didn’t react. Then I heard an approaching vehicle and, before I could think, twin headlight beams swept the back yard. I dropped low and bolted for the rear of the garage, desperately hoping I hadn’t been spotted.
Ducking around the corner, I stumbled over something I couldn’t see. There wasn’t so much as feeble ornamental lighting back here. As I went down, I knew by its rattling roughness that the obstacle I had tripped over was a pile of firewood, remnants of a long winter. I lay very still on the musty earth, straining to hear anything besides my own amplified heartbeat. The newly arrived vehicle rumbled. But no overhead garage door activated; no horn honked. The driver was waiting.
I heard what happened next: the finality of a heavy wood door closing hard followed by heels clicking rapidly across pavement. A car door opened and shut; an engine gunned; tires squealed. Whoever had come was now in a big hurry to go. And they had a passenger. I didn’t need Odette’s quasi-clairvoyance to guess who.
How hard was it to gracefully climb in and out of a vehicle while wearing a skintight formal gown? Not a question I could answer, but I was willing to bet that Brandi LePadanni could.
Who had come to take her away? Her boyfriend? Her mother? A friend? And what were they driving? It didn’t sound like a small car. But I couldn’t aurally differentiate between a pickup and an SUV.
Just in case the good doctor decided to follow his daughter, I waited a full three minutes, which felt like thirty. The early spring evening at Pasco Point was strangely silent. No other cars, no voices. Birds twittered faintly as they settled in their nests. A light breeze stirred new leaves. Somewhere a dog barked aggressively; a second joined in the chorus. As I listened, I realized they were close by, just muffled. Their deep barks grew increasingly frenzied. I hoped they were secured behind very strong doors.
Then I remembered something I should never have forgotten: the LePadannis kept pit bulls. In a kennel inside their house. Tammi had mentioned it several times. She enjoyed horrifying others with her canine preference.
“They’re the best protection money can buy,” she bragged. “Better than the best electronic alarm system. One look at them and the would-be burglar runs for his life!"
I wanted to run for mine. The mental image of two unleashed pit bulls was all it took for me to break out in a fresh dew of sweat.
Cautiously I started along the side of the garage, keeping as low a profile as a person my height can. The dogs sounded more and more agitated. What was happening inside Providence?
When I stepped out into the driveway, I wavered. The mansion stood in total blackness, not a single window illuminated. I had the eerie sense that someone had pulled the plug. Even the ornamental exterior lighting was out. Had Dr. LePadanni forgotten to pay the electric bill? Or was he so cheap that he turned everything off by—I checked my illuminated watch dial—9:18? The pit bulls sounded crazed. Apparently they didn’t like the dark any better than I did. I shivered. Something about Providence just wasn’t right.
Chapter twelve
I sprinted most of the way down Scarletta Road, slowing only when I could no longer hear the pit bulls.
The LePadanni dogs brought to mind my own missing canine. Where was she? How was she? Leo would wonder at my complete inability to handle her. With Odette and Tina’s help, I could manage the real estate business he’d started. But even with Chester and Deely on my side, I couldn’t contain Abra.
“I’m trying, Darling,” I panted. Yes, I still spoke out loud to my dearly departed. Probably more often than I should. “Forgive me, Leo. And don’t ask what I’m up to next."
My car was so well hidden in the darkened pear orchard that I couldn’t easily find it. Now that the sky was black, the dirt road seemed longer, curvier, and spookier than I remembered. Disoriented, I swung my flashlight beam in ever widening arcs. Since the orchard backed up to Pasco Point, I worried that some rich resident might glance out a third-floor bedroom window, spot the bouncing light, and call the cops.
But I found my car before that happened. I was almost too tired and hungry to think about Dock Paladino’s Dodge Ram . . . until I remembered the peanut-butter crackers I kept in my realtor kit. Intended to get me through the Open House from Hell, they would work just fine in this emergency, especially when paired with my reserve can of Red Bull. Yessir, I soon felt focused enough to go hunt dents.
Driving toward Dock’s place, I thought about Brandi’s temper tantrum and wished I could have heard the soundtrack. Why would she rant at her father, and why would he take it? More important, where was the non-winner’s mother and her black Lincoln Navigator? And what was up with the dogs in the dark? Had the doctor gone to bed without feeding them?
Dock Paladino lived near his work, in an apartment overlooking the Magnet Springs Marina. That sounded like an attractive address, but Dock’s flat was above the bait shop. I smelled fish at a hundred and fifty paces—which was the distance at which I parked so he wouldn’t see or hear me coming. The expansive marina lot was well-lighted but empty, save my SUV and Dock’s black truck, which he had conveniently stationed under a security lamp. Fleetingly I wondered if he’d just come from Providence with the First Runner-up. If so, and if Dock was in a mood to celebrate, I doubted she’d still be wearing her formal gown.
Staying out of the light at this location was impossible. I skirted the lot, taking an indirect approach to Dock’s truck as I kept an eye on the wide lighted window above it. Ruffled pink curtains fluttered there, revealing a missing screen. Dock must have inherited someone else’s decorating choices. Music floated down—and not the romantic kind. I recognized Hole’s “Celebrity Skin” cranked way too loud to make Dock a good neighbor. But then he had no neighbors, only a bait shop that was closed for the night, some empty boats, and an intruder (me), who was grateful for the cover of sound. Even though I hated singer Courtney Love.
I laid a gloved hand on the hood of Dock’s truck. Warm. He’d just arrived. The security lighting revealed a hood that wouldn’t latch because it was slightly askew; also, a broken right headlight and a dent in the undercarriage just below the truck’s elevated bumper. I leaned down and clicked on my flashlight. My heart jumped. Blue paint.
Before I could straighten, a prolonged shriek cut the night. It came again. And again—from Dock’s apartment. I needed a moment, but then I was sure. Not a cry of terror. Oh no. This was the scream of a woman in ecstasy. Presumably Brandi LePadanni. According to Officer Brady Swancott, she was Dock’s current squeeze; the boat repairman had dumped Crystal for her. As the shrieks continued, I wondered if Dock could really be that good. Or was she just that loud? It made sense that a girl who couldn’t utter declarative sentences would register extreme pleasure by screaming.
I’d seen what I needed to see and heard way more than I cared to, so I dashed across the lot toward my car. Then I slowed, laughing. Given what was going on upstairs, there was no chance in hell anyone would see me leave.
Mid-afternoon the next day, Sunday, I was at the Goh Cup, reviewing my notes and enjoying a steaming double-mocha-super-latte. In a few minutes, I planned to cross the street to the police station. Jenx was about to be very impressed by my unofficial sleuthing.
“Here." Odette dropped a brown paper package on the table in front of me. “You can repay me later. On second thought, you can repay me by opening this and using it now."
“Did I . . . place an order?” I asked warily. Last I knew, Odette was one of the few women in Magnet Springs not involved in multi-level marketing.
“You issued a public cry for help."
She sat down across from me and signaled owner Peg Goh to bring her her usual. “I don’t suppose you’ve had time to get yourself a back-up.”
“A back-up?" I was genuinely mystified.
My top sales agent leaned across the table, her ebony face a mask of patience for the impaired. “A back-up black camisole.”
“Uh—no. See, after we—”
Odette kept talking. “I was so appalled by what I saw yesterday I couldn’t possibly wait ’til Monday to handle this."
“But Martha’s Town and Gown is closed on Sunday—”
“You’re telling me? I drove all the way to Pioneer Mall in Grand Rapids for this. It had better fit." She snarled the last part.
“Thanks,” I lied. Then a new thought struck. “Don’t you have an Open House this afternoon?”
With a flick of her scarlet manicure, Odette waved my question away.
“I brought the sellers an outstanding offer last night, which I expect they’ll accept."
She tapped the paper bag with the long oval nail of her index finger. “This was a priority, so I instructed Tina to find another agent to baby-sit the Open House. Just in case a back-up offer comes in. My work there—and here—is done."
When I didn’t comment, Odette said, “Well?"
I figured she was fishing for a compliment in addition to her commission.
“Well what?” I snapped.
“Go put it on!”
I regarded the bag in my hand. “Now? I want to drink my coffee while it’s hot—”
Odette sank her nails into my wrist. “Whiskey, I gave up half my Sunday and drove eighty miles to save Mattimoe Realty’s public image. Good God, woman, do you have any idea how many people in this town are talking about your tatty brassiere?!”
I didn’t. And I didn’t want to.
“Put the bad press to bed by wearing this now.”
“But I’ve got jeans on—”
Odette sighed like a mother pressed beyond endurance by a recalcitrant child. “How many times do I have to tell you? A black camisole works with anything and on anyone. That’s the beauty of it! That’s why you can do this!"
She dangled the paper bag in front of me like a bone before a dog. It reminded me of Deely luring Abra into the house. I blinked away the image and snatched back the bag.
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m taking my coffee with me."
Odette didn’t object. Peg arrived at that moment with her espresso.
“What’s in the bag?” asked our acting mayor.
“Uh—. Nothing. I just—um—have to go to the bathroom. . . .”
“Oh! Okay then. You get right in there!”
The way Peg looked at me I could tell she thought I needed an adult diaper.
“It’s not about that!” I said loudly.
Peg frowned. “Okey-dokey. I thought maybe Odette had bought you an emergency camisole. I’ll get you one tomorrow."
