Nursing a Grudge is Murder (A Maternal Instincts Mystery) (8 page)

After a moment, Jill said, “A dust kit? You can do that? Pull prints off of a board like that?”

“Well, I can’t do that but Galigani can. Sure,” I said with a bit more confidence than I felt.

“Hmmm,” Jill said. “That would be great. How soon can he do it?”

I thought about it for a second. It was a rather steep hike and with Galigani's condition, only a few months post open-heart surgery, I didn't know if he be able to make it.

I’d figure something out.

“Well, we’ll need to do it as soon as possible. I left him a message before breakfast. I ate at
Philosophie
.”

Jill made an over-the-top retching sound. “Oh, sorry. How’d you like it?”

“You were right about the food. I was hoping to spy on Mr. Miles, but he wasn’t there.”

“No, of course not. He doesn’t get involved in any actual work.”

“Do you know him personally?” I asked.

“Yeah. I worked at his last restaurant,
Tartare
. The one that closed because of the kitchen fire. Do you remember that? It was in the news.”

“I do remember, vaguely,” I said.

“Guy was a giant a-hole to work for, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you think I can talk to him?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s not very accessible to the public.”

“Maybe I’ll just show up on his doorstep.”

She laughed nervously. “Oh my God, Kate. You can’t do that!”

“Why not? I already have his address.”

“He…well, he’s a VIP. A power player in SF. We can’t go around pissing those kinds of people off.”

But you already have.

“Are you scared that if I talk to him, he might get to your show sponsor and somehow intimidate them?”

“No. I…I don’t know. There are limits,” she said.

“Not when it comes to a murder investigation.”

Chapter Eight

On the drive to Miles’ place, the weather started to change. January in San Francisco could turn rainy at a moment’s notice. Dark clouds were blowing in and I had to put my headlights and windshield wipers on.

I ducked my head and sprinted up the gravel path to Brent’s mansion, feeling foolish. Certainly a house this size had staff. What were the odds I’d actually get to talk to him?

What would I even say if he was here? “Excuse me, did you kill Perry Welgan?”

Oh, ridiculous! I was wasting my time.

As I pressed the bell, I noticed the siding on the garage was badly scraped and dented. Before I could make sense of it the door opened and an elegant gentleman stood before me. He was at least six feet tall, wearing a light blue cashmere sweater, tan slacks and loafers. I recognized him from his photos online. This was definitely Brent Miles.

“Mr. Miles, I’m Kate Connolly. I’m a private investigator. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”

He nodded and swung the door open. “Come in, come in. Some weather starting to blow in, huh?”

As I stepped in the threshold of the doorway, he said, “Barramendi sent you?”

I froze. “Barramendi?”

He frowned, a slight crease between his eyes formed. “My attorney. He said he was assigning a P.I. to the case.”

I swallowed past the dry spot in my throat.

Barramendi had hired another P.I?

I’d only worked with him one time in the past, but somehow I’d hoped I’d get another shot to work with him. Obviously someone else had beaten me to it. Not that Barramendi owed me anything, but I couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal that stuck in my craw.

This was going to be awkward.

“I’ve worked with Barramendi before. But no, he didn’t send me.”

The crease between his eyes deepened. “I don’t understand, why are you here then?”

“I’m a friend of Jill Harrington.”

His eyes locked on mine. He seemed to silently calculate something in his head then motioned for me to enter.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the living room. “I’m going to make a quick call to my attorney.”

Why had he already hired an attorney?

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Miles. I just wanted to—”

“Are you working for Jill then?”

I nodded.

He took a deep breath. “Sit down. I’ll be right with you.”

He turned and strode out of the room. I gazed around but didn’t sit. I felt better standing, as if by sitting down I would give up something up. After all, this was his home. He already had control, but I wouldn’t let him tower over me.

Before I could snoop around the room, a loud engine rocked the windows and the gravel on the front path crunched and spattered between a vehicle’s tires. I peeked through the shades and saw a Harley-Davidson pull to a stop. It looked like a classic or vintage bike: really big, and shiny, and well taken care of.

A man dressed in a leather jacket, black jeans and boots dismounted from the bike. He pulled off his helmet to reveal a head full of dark hair, but his face was turned away from me. He crossed to the front stoop. The doorbell sounded throughout the house.

I heard footsteps approaching from the direction in which Brent had disappeared, so I took a seat on the couch and attempted to look casual, as though I hadn’t just been spying on his guest.

From my position in the living room I could see Brent open the door, but not the man on the doorstep that he was addressing with a curt, “Can I help you?”

I heard the man say through a thick Spanish accent, “Good afternoon, Mr. Miles. I’m Vicente Domingo. Mr. Barramendi sent me.”

What?

Vicente who? So this was who Barramendi had hired instead of me?

I watched Brent step aside and motion for the man who had just stuck a knife in my back to step in.

Vicente came into the foyer and smiled. He was strikingly handsome. His dark hair was offset with sparkling green eyes that creased a bit about the edges when he smiled. He brushed some drizzle off his leather jacket, then rubbed his hands together to dry them.

“You have great timing, Mr. Domingo,” Brent said, “as I’ve received a visit from Ms. Connolly. She’s been hired by Jill Harrington to,” he glanced at me and practically spit out his next line, “to investigate me, I think.”

Vicente gave me an appraising look as if he was a matador assessing the bull before a fight.

I felt a little unnerved, recalling that normally the bull is slaughtered in those fights, but only after being weakened by lances and spikes stabbed in its back.

I stood.

Who did this guy think he was, anyway?

Vicente Domingo? V.D. in my book.

He was sexy, that was for sure, but a P.I. and my competition? I couldn’t wait to run a check on him.

V.D. tapped his chin. “Connolly? I have heard very good things about you.”

I cleared my throat to interrupt him. The last thing I wanted was to hear about my reputation from this guy. “Excellent, then we should have no problem getting a few things cleared up. Mr. Miles, can you tell me about the phone calls you placed to Jill Harrington?"

Brett frowned. “What?”

“Jill has reported receiving threatening phone calls from you.”

Brent’s face reddened. “She did, did she? Who did she report that to? You? The police? What did she say I threatened her with? She doesn't work for me anymore so I couldn't very well fire her!”

I realized now that I hadn’t gotten any details from Jill on what she’d done at
Tartare
, so I asked, “In what capacity did Ms. Harrington work for you?

Brent looked taken aback and glanced at Vicente. Vicente shrugged, as if to say it was okay to answer my question, but he raised an eyebrow indicating to proceed with caution - aka don’t give too much detail.

Whatever, the guy was acting like a lawyer.

“I thought you people did background checks and such. Are we starting from scratch?” Brent said.

Vicente studied me.

I took a deep breath trying to remain calm.

“She was a goddamn hostess. What else would she be?”

“What about the threatening calls, sir, did you make them?” I asked.

Brent snorted. “Oh, back to that? Of course not. I’d already fired her—”

Jill had been fired? Why?

Before I could ask, Vicente stepped forward and said, “What is Ms. Harrington alleging?”

“That Mr. Miles was phoning and demanding she take down a negative review.”

Brent pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh that? Well, yes I did phone Ms. Harrington one time and asked her to give us another chance.”

I tried to contain my glee.

Brent Miles had just confessed to the phone calls.

“So, she declined to review the restaurant again and you had her followed,” I said.

“Followed? What? No!”

Vicente ran a hand through his hair. “Ms. Harrington claims my client had her followed? What else does she allege?”

“The fact that she was followed is not an allegation. It's a fact. I saw the man following her myself.”

Brent shook his head. “No, that's ridiculous. I admit to one call. I asked her to be my guest at the restaurant and to give me and my staff another shot. But she refused. She babbled something about integrity. Imagine that. She’s a stupid girl with a pen who’d like to cut down a hard-working entrepreneur. She thinks she has some sort of right to post negative reviews. As if that has anything to do with integrity."

The sound of gravel crunching came from the driveway again, a car’s headlights flashed along the front window. Suddenly there was a loud crash followed by shattering of glass.

Vicente jumped. “My bike!” he shouted.

Brent covered his eyes with his palm. “Shit. The wife's home and she just ran over your Harley. Thank God you weren't on it.”

The three of us immediately exited out the front door and joined Brent’s wife on the driveway.

She had a helmet of perfectly coiffed blonde hair. She was screaming in hysterics. But neither her screaming nor the drizzly wet weather had any effect on it; her hair didn’t budge at all.

“Holy night! What is a motorcycle doing parked there?” she demanded.

“It isn’t parked there anymore,” Brent said.

“I didn’t see it!” she screamed.

“Apparently not,” Brent replied.

V.D. knelt beside his bike as if in mourning.

I watched them silently. The dented siding on the garage making sense; this was not Mrs. Miles’ first fender bender.

Brent embraced his wife, and her hysterical shrieking subsided.

She asked, “When did you get a bike?”

“It isn’t mine, it’s—”

“Mine.” V.D. stood up cradling a bike part that fallen off in his hands.

Brent’s wife pulled away from Brent and stepped toward V.D. “What in the name of all that is holy is it doing parked in my driveway?” she yelled.

V.D. stepped back, suddenly looking surprised. “Oh. I—”

“Now honey. Let’s not get upset. What’s important is that you’re all right,” Brent said.

She took a deep breath and patted her helmet hair, which of course hadn't moved an inch.

“That's right, dear. Thank you.”

Brent wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist. “Let's go inside. I don’t want you to catch cold.”

We moved inside. First Brent ushered in his wife, then came me, followed by V.D. and finally Brent.

Brent thumped V.D. on the back and said, “Please don’t worry. We have insurance.”

We found our places back in the living room, where Brent properly introduced his wife, Lillian.

She seemed to recoil when Brent told her I was a private investigator and that I was here to ask questions about Jill and their relationship—although no greater than the displeasure she had demonstrated to V.D. about his parking in the driveway. After the introductions were complete, she capped everything by saying to Vicente, "If you're ever here again, don’t park in my driveway.”

With that she stormed out of the room.

Brett pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Sorry, folks, Lillian’s recently had some news that is distressing her greatly. Please don't be offended. Vicente, of course I’ll take care of the bike.”

Vicente nodded, but his jaw was clenched and I noticed his full lips were pursed slightly.

I stood. “Mr. Miles, I’m afraid I need to cut our meeting short. If you will kindly give me the name and number of the gentleman who was following Jill I'll be sure to speak with him.”

Brent stared at me. “I told you I had nothing to do with that.”

V.D. said, “Nice try.”

I feigned confusion. “Oh, right. Sorry. With all the excitement around here I forgot. So tell me, when is the last time you saw Jill?”

“I haven't seen her in ages. I wasn’t at the restaurant the night she was there,” Brent said.

I picked up my bag. “Thank you, sir. If I have any additional—”

“You can talk to my attorney, Ms. Connolly. I don't appreciate the unexpected visit to my home. Next time—”

“Right,” I said over my shoulder as I headed toward the door. “Next time I could end up run over.”

“Cheap shot,” Brent called after me.

I crossed the street toward my car. I was fuming. Barramendi had a P.I. on his staff and it wasn’t me.

And did the guy have to be so cocky?

I pulled on the handle of my car door and swung it open. V.D. appeared behind me.

“Wait,” V.D. said. “Which direction are you going?”

“What?”

“I need a ride,” he hissed at me.

“Pfft. Forget it. Call a cab.”

Like I was really going to help the enemy!

“No. I need to talk to you. Can you wait until I get his insurance information?”

While I said, “Oh for crying out loud,” he said, “Thanks,” and walked back into the house.

I debated whether or not to wait for him.

How presumptuous for him to assume that I would wait.

And yet…what could he want to speak to me about?

I was extremely annoyed with him, that much was true, but for what? For getting hired by Barramendi?

That was totally sour grapes on my part.

If I were a polished professional I’d give him a ride and pump for information. Even if it didn’t yield anything on the case, I might at least be able to figure out why Barramendi had hired him and not me.