Murder Over Cocktails: The 2nd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (4 page)

Chapter 7

R
egardless of how precocious she was, Margaret Sullivan was still only eight, and easy prey for the older girls at the Juvenile Hall. A pair of teen-age lesbians took a particular interest in her. The girls, who were extremely well behaved in front of authority figures, successfully petitioned to have Margaret transferred to their room, where they forced their attentions on her with some regularity. Margaret was terrified of being held captive and repulsed by the hungry way they looked at and touched her, but the real hell began when she recovered from the initial shock of the assaults and realized that she enjoyed them.

Being raised by Irish Catholic parents, coupled with the teachings of the holy sisters at St. Theresa’s, had a predictable impact on Margaret’s psyche. The pleasure she took from being caressed by other girls was impossible for her to reconcile.

By the time her two weeks at juvenile hall were up and she returned home, she had become quiet and withdrawn. Although she no longer argued with her parents, she would never forgive them for what they had done to her, and she loathed herself for her own weakness.

When Margaret stopped acting out, her parents assumed their tough love approach to discipline had been a success, but they felt guilty for sending her away. The more she withdrew and suppressed her anger, the more money they spent rewarding her behavior. The message was clear—if she wanted to be valued she had to hide her feelings. Unfortunately, Margaret soon discovered that her rage could only be repressed for limited periods of time before she was forced to find an outlet.

After her time in juvenile hall Margaret no longer sought the company of her childhood friends, instead channeling all of her energy into her studies.

When she was twenty-one her parents were killed in a plane crash on their way to visit family in Ireland. Margaret experienced a flood of emotional relief at their death, which amplified the guilt she already felt, plunging her further into darkness.

A few months after her parents’ passing Margaret received a check for their life insurance benefits, and was informed by their attorney that she was the sole beneficiary of their estate. Shortly thereafter she made an appointment with a prominent plastic surgeon and acquired a pair of double D-cup breasts. After the surgery, she had her name changed from Sullivan to Sectio. She dropped out of college, put her old life behind her, and went looking for a career.

Maggie, as she now called herself, chose real estate because of the freedom and mobility it allowed. She took the necessary classes, passed the exam, and obtained her license, having isolated the firms in Northern California which handled multinational listings. She targeted the largest of these, Millennium Real Estate, and quickly became their most successful agent.

Maggie roamed the world, always toting an old-fashioned camcorder which recorded onto VHS cassettes, as well as a high definition digital video camera with which she could film each property for potential buyers to view without the inconvenience of travel. She preferred the VHS tapes for personal use because there was less likelihood someone else would have the equipment required to view them.

In addition to her impressive sales record, Maggie also left behind a litter of unsolved homicides. Each victim was found in her own home, missing a few body parts, most of which Maggie destroyed using the garbage disposals in the houses she was showing.

By the time her videotapes were discovered by Jack McGuire she had killed and dismembered sixteen women. The FBI and Interpol had lengthy files on her victims and a character profile of the killer that couldn’t have been further from the truth. They were hunting for a white male between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five who hated his mother and was impotent.

Now someone had broken into her home. She was unconcerned about what had been stolen. Money wasn’t an issue for Maggie, but privacy was crucial. She felt exposed and vulnerable. The rage was building up again, and she knew she was running out of time.

Chapter 8

I
t took me less than five minutes to realize that I didn’t own an outfit suitable for touring multi-million dollar properties. Not only am I self employed, but I live on a sailboat. When I moved aboard I gave a ton of business suits and dresses to Goodwill, along with most of my high-heeled shoes. Not that you couldn’t go real estate shopping in something casual, but it had to be expensive causal. My clothes were mid-range casual.

I mentally scanned the marina for a neighbor about my size who would also be home on a weekday. My friend Lily came to mind. She’s a little taller than I am and broader in the shoulders, but she has great taste in clothes. I walked to her slip, one dock over from mine. Lily is a hardware engineer. She used to be a man, but after years of living with the incongruity of a body that didn’t match her internal gender, she finally had the surgery.

I knocked on a porthole and heard some shuffling below deck. In a moment the hatch slid open and Lily’s head popped out.

“Hey, Nikki. What’s up?”

“I need something to wear to a fancy real estate office. Do you have anything that looks expensive that might fit me?”

“Come aboard and see for yourself.”

Lily lives on a forty-foot Cascade with an aft cockpit. I was greeted at the hatch by Diego and Gloria, her two Siamese cats. I stepped over them and followed her into the stateroom.

After looking through most of Lily’s wardrobe, which is extensive for a boat dweller, I found myself attracted to a black Chanel knit suit. I held it up in front of me and looked in the mirror.

“What did this cost you?” I asked.

“It’s vintage, from their 1965 collection. I bought it on eBay, and it still cost me two week’s pay,” she said, with a shrug. “Try it on.”

The suit might be vintage, but it looked brand new to me. I self-consciously shucked off my shorts, tennis shoes, and tank top, and shimmied into the skirt and jacket. The luxurious knit slid over my skin like a caress.

“Are you supposed to wear a blouse with this?”

“No,” Lily said. “The buttons are just for show.” 

“What’s it made of?”

“It’s silk”

I checked the mirror. I looked incredible, even with my white gym socks still on.

“Do you mind lending it to me?”  

“Of course not. Just don’t spill anything on it. You look great.”

I put my own clothes back on and draped the Chanel over my arm.

“Thanks, Lily. I’ll bring it back tonight.”

“No problem,” she said. “So what’s the new case about? You want something to drink?”

“What have you got?” I asked, glancing at my watch.

Lily rattled off an assortment of beverages, and I chose a Canfield’s Diet Chocolate Soda.

“Thanks,” I said, holding the can against my neck to counteract the heat of the day. “I can’t go into too much detail. You know, client confidentiality. But let me ask you something. What would motivate a woman to kill someone she just had sex with?”

Lily’s eyebrows shot up. “Any number of things could contribute to that scenario,” she said. “The first thing that comes to mind is the classic victim/predator syndrome.”

I’d read about this stuff, but I wanted Lily’s take on it. She was intelligent and well read, and we’d spent many pleasurable hours talking about our shared interest in psychology. Lily spent two years in therapy before having the gender change surgery, so she has a perspective that is totally different from mine. I’ve been studying psychology on my own since I was a teenager, but I’ve never been to a shrink.

“Maybe,” I said. “But in that situation the predator attacks because they believe their survival depends on it. Kill or be killed. Why would anyone believe they have to kill their lover in order to survive?”

“It might have something to do with a childhood trauma involving one or both parents, a teacher, or even a sibling. Hard to say without knowing the individual in question. But that kind of violent response to intimacy usually comes from a profound conviction that the lover is a threat. We haven’t evolved that far from cavemen, you know, so when we feel threatened emotionally we still react as though our lives are literally in danger.” She finished her soda and tossed the can in a recycling bin. “Sadly, the person with the psychosis is usually the only one who perceives the danger.”

I thought about what she had said as I walked back to my boat, a number of possible scenarios involving a younger Margaret Sectio playing out in my head.

I put on Lily’s suit, and rummaged through my shoes. I had athletic shoes, boat shoes, boots, a pair of burgundy ankle-strap sandals, and my Ecco Track IIs. I hadn’t been to the bank, so I still had Jack’s cash retainer in my purse. I headed for the mall, wearing the suit with my sneakers.

At Nordstrom I picked out a pair of black Stuart Weitzman low-heeled pumps that I thought I could run in, if I had to. It took me another hour to find a Prada crossbody shoulder bag in the same shade of black as the shoes that was large enough to hold the Ruger without showing a bulge. It’s not safe to carry the Glock in a regular purse because it has no external safety.

The sales people helping me were patient, which may have had something to do with Lily’s suit, but this had been a lengthy shopping trip for me, and I was exhausted. I can usually make it in and out of any store in fifteen minutes. Not that I don’t like shopping. In fact, I love spending money. I just don’t enjoy drawing it out.

Between the shoes and the purse I’d spent almost all of Jack’s retainer. I toyed with the idea of covering the soles of the shoes with masking tape so I could return them later, but decided to bill Jack for everything instead. After all, my new look was essential to the job he’d hired me to do.

Chapter 9

B
y the time I pulled up outside Millennium Real Estate it was 1:00, and I realized that I was starving. I decided to get the listings from the receptionist and go over them at the nearest fast food joint.

I entered the elegant lobby sporting Lily’s suit and my new pumps, the expensive bag draped over my shoulder. I looked and felt like a million bucks. I approached the marble horseshoe-shaped reception counter with absolute confidence. An attractive blonde woman was seated behind the desk. She was in her late twenties, about thirty pounds overweight, very nicely dressed and coifed, and had a smile glued to her face. She was speaking into a Bluetooth headset. When she looked up, indicating she was finished with the call, I asked if I could have copies of some of the local listings.

“Do you have something specific in mind?” she asked.

Uh-oh. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Something upscale,” was all I could think to say.

“Any particular area?”

“Los Altos, Woodside Hills, and Atherton.” That should cover the more expensive neighborhoods.

“How many bedrooms?”

My stomach growled. “At least three.”

Her smile became condescending, or maybe I imagined it. I was on unfamiliar turf here. While we were talking she had been arranging glossy color photos in a stack, which she now handed to me. It was substantial. I glanced at the one on top. The agent’s name was listed under the Millennium logo. Perfect.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “When I find one I want to see, should I call you to make an appointment?”

“Absolutely.”

She handed me her card. Her name was Courtney Nash.

I left the real estate office feeling optimistic, found a Taco Bell two blocks away, and ordered a low-fat Fresco Burrito Supreme. I sat in my car looking through the listings and dripping hot sauce on the pictures, but not on the suit.

Halfway through the pile I found one with Maggie Sectio noted as the listing agent. It was a two-story Mediterranean villa in Los Altos Hills with a long winding driveway, a footbridge spanning a brook in the front yard, and a pond in the side yard in which two swans were swimming. The asking price was just under six million. I set that one aside and continued leafing through the pile. I found three more with Maggie’s name on them, one in Hillsborough and two in Atherton. I’d start with the one in Los Altos. Gotta love those swans.

I dug my smartphone out of my new purse and dialed the number on Courtney’s business card.

“Millennium Properties.”

“Courtney, this is Nicoli Sinclair. I was in a little while ago?”

“Oh yes, Ms. Sinclair,” she cooed. “The Chanel suit, right?”

“You’re very observant. I’ve found a house I’d like to see in Los Altos Hills. The agent’s name is Maggie Sectio. Any chance she’s available to show the property today?”

“Maggie’s in this afternoon. Let me see if I can get her on the line. Can you hold a moment?”

“Of course.”

I held for about thirty seconds.

“This is Maggie Sectio, Ms. Sinclair. I understand you’re interested in the Los Altos Hills property.”

Margaret’s voice was deep, almost husky. I imagined she sold a lot of houses to men.

“Yes, that’s right,” I replied. “Any chance of seeing it today?”

“I think I can rearrange some things. Can you meet me here at four?”

“Certainly,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

It was only 2:30, so I drove back to the office. I slipped off my new shoes and started a report of what little I knew about Margaret so far and everything I had done. Then I entered the shoes and handbag on an expense spreadsheet and tucked the receipts in Jack’s file. That took me all of ten minutes.

I decided to let Jack know what I was doing and remembered I’d left his pager number on the boat. I stepped back into my chic new shoes and strode down to the dock, stopping along the way to scratch behind D’Artagnon’s ears. D’Artagnon is a black Lab who lives with two humans aboard a Blue Water forty-six. He’s a very good watchdog. In fact he recently saved me from a crazed psycho-killer I’d been hired to apprehend.

Aboard my boat I found the crumpled slip of paper in the pocket of my shorts. I walked back up to the office and dialed Jack’s pager. After entering my office phone number and hearing the requisite beeps, I hung up. Less than a minute later my phone rang.

“Hunter Investigations.”

“You rang?”

“Hi, Jack. I’m meeting with Margaret today at four. She’s going to show me a house in Los Altos.”

“Are you bringing anyone along?” he asked.

“Are you volunteering?”

“Not a chance. Please be careful, Nicoli.”

“I will. But I don’t think there’s much likelihood she’ll want to bump off a potential client.”

“You never know. Page me when you get back to the office?”

“Sure.”

It was nice to know he cared, but disquieting that he thought there was reason for concern.

Next I called Bill and told him what I was doing. I didn’t really need the subsequent lecture. I just wanted him to know where I was, in case something went wrong. I told him I’d call him by 6:00, and gave him the address of the property in Los Altos.

To pass the time until my meeting with Maggie, I looked over the bar and restaurant surveys on my schedule. I hoped I would be able to squeeze a few in tonight. Some of my regular clients expect weekly reports, and I hate to let them down.

At 3:40 I drove back to Menlo Park. I left the 2002 on a side street and walked the rest of the way. When I entered the Millennium offices, Courtney remembered me, and Lily’s suit, instantly. She made a call on the intercom and then offered me coffee, tea, or spring water. I passed on all three.

After a few minutes Margaret, aka Maggie, stepped into the lobby. I was immediately struck by her presence. There were noticeable undercurrents of strength and sexuality. Her dark hair fell a few inches below her shoulders, perfectly framing her oval face and delicate features. Her nose was aquiline, her mouth a little wide, and her gray eyes were framed by dark lashes but no visible make-up. She was a trim five-foot-six in low-heeled sandals, and her bust was generous. She wore a navy blue business suit with a cream-colored blouse, all very understated, with a single strand of pearls around her neck. She smiled at me without showing any teeth, and her eye contact was riveting. When she shook my hand her grip was forceful, warm, and dry.

“I’m Maggie Sectio,” she purred. She turned to Courtney and passed her a folder. “This is the Parker file. Will you give it to Claude when he comes in?”

“Of course,” said Courtney.

Maggie turned back to me and I caught the fleeting look of adoration on Courtney’s face. She saw me watching and quickly returned her attention to the folder.

“I’m parked right out front,” Maggie said to me. “Why don’t we take my car.” It was not a question.

Maggie was driving a dark blue Lincoln Town Car. She opened the passenger door for me and the new car smell wafted out.

“How long have you been house hunting?” she asked as she started the engine.

“Just today,” I said. Since I’m a terrible liar, whenever possible I tell the truth.

She pulled out of the parking lot onto the street.

“You live alone?” she asked.

“I do now,” I said. “I’m a widow.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

That got her attention. She glanced at me briefly and raised an eyebrow.

“That was tactless, wasn’t it?” I said. “But I married Bernie for his money. He knew that, and it was fine with him. Besides, it was an even trade. He was a son of a bitch and I had to put up with his libido for four years before he finally kicked off.” I had rehearsed this little speech in my head so many times it actually came out sounding natural.

Maggie’s lips curled into a half smile. “So you’ve decided to move.”

“Yes. I’m selling the condo. I hate condos. I’m looking for something secluded, where the neighbors are far enough away not to bother me or care what I’m up to.”

“I think you’ll like the Los Altos property,” Maggie said. “The house is a hundred yards from the street and it sits on seven acres.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I sighed.

We made the rest of the drive in silence. Maggie took Sand Hill Road up to Highway 280 south, exited on El Monte, and made a left on Davis Court.

When we pulled off the road onto the private drive the first thing I noticed was the footbridge. Like something out of a fairy tale, it spanned a twinkling brook which was shaded by a willow tree. It was enchanting.

The driveway ended in front of a four-car garage connected to the house by a breezeway. Above the garage was a loft apartment, which could be approached from the outside by external stairs. The manmade pond was set back to the right of the house. No swans were in residence today, and I was disappointed, but the overall effect was still charming. The house itself was a slightly modern version of traditional Mediterranean style architecture.

As we got out of the car Maggie removed a set of keys from her purse. “What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s lovely,” I said, trying not to sound awestruck. The estate reminded me of a European villa, which appealed to my romantic nature.

Maggie unlocked the front door and pushed it open, allowing me to enter first. The foyer had quarter-sawn white oak flooring polished to a high gloss. The walls were painted ecru with a glaze that created the illusion of antiquing. The vaulted ceiling was about thirty feet overhead. In the center hung a wrought iron and crystal chandelier. A broad spiral staircase wound up from the foyer to the second floor, and the steps appeared to be made of marble.

To the left of the entryway was a library with built-in floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves. There was even a rolling library ladder. A pair of French doors faced the front yard and the little brook with the footbridge. I could probably stand to live here.

To our right was a sunken living room. We started our tour there. Light streamed in through the expansive windows. There was a huge flagstone fireplace on the far wall and the carpet was spotless cream-colored Berber. I appreciated the low pile, since I tend to trip over my own feet easily enough without the assistance of more dense carpeting.

As we moved from room to room I could feel the tension radiating from Maggie, but couldn’t for the life of me figure out what she had to be nervous about. I was sure there was no reason for her to suspect I was anything other than a potential client.

We strolled through the living room and into the kitchen, which featured a seafoam-green granite center island equipped with two sinks and a dishwasher. A doublewide stainless steel subzero refrigerator was discreetly inset into the wall. The overhead lighting was recessed, casting a golden glow over the exquisite room. There were two additional sinks under a bay window facing the pond. Directly off the kitchen was a dining alcove surrounded by windows on three sides. If I had a kitchen like this, I might even learn to cook.

The house I grew up in was a modest two-bedroom one-bath in South San Francisco. My parents considered themselves lucky to be able to own a home, and, for the most part, I’m happy with my simple lifestyle. If you live aboard, you just haul the boat out of the water every couple of years and have the bottom scraped, painted, and repaired if necessary, keep your through-hulls clean, maintain the engine, deck, and brightwork, and you’re in business. If you decide it’s time to move, you just untie the lines and shove off. This knowledge allows me a treasured sense of freedom.

After touring the first floor we climbed the marble stairs and entered the enormous master suite. Across the expansive room sliding glass doors opened onto a wide deck overlooking the side yard and the pond. To their left was a fireplace surrounded by emerald green tile and crowned by a huge ornate mirror. There were two, count them, two walk-in closets. On board my boat I make do with a single hanging locker in the stateroom.

The master bath was mind-boggling. The Jacuzzi tub was large enough for a party of six. The glass-enclosed shower had four showerheads directed at the center of the stall. Beside an elegant rose-colored porcelain toilet was an equally elegant rose-colored bidet. I suddenly found myself wishing I had the six million to buy this place. There’s no room for a bidet on my boat.

Throughout our tour Maggie said very little. She pointed out a feature here and there, but primarily just escorted me from one room to the next. After we’d walked through two smaller bedrooms, each with its own bath, she led me across the breezeway into the loft above the garage.

The apartment had a small bathroom with a stall shower and a kitchenette, but there were no windows. I never feel claustrophobic onboard my sailboat, but being in this enclosed space with Maggie made me more than a little anxious. She was, after all, murderously insane, according to Jack.

After touring the loft we exited down a flight of stairs that led to the interior of the four-car garage, and came out through a side door under the breezeway where we had parked.