Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (15 page)

I moved around the back of the gazebo, trying to stay hidden. There was a waist-high hedge growing in a maze-like pattern through the rose garden. I dropped to my knees behind it and crawled toward the oak tree. When I got to the end of the hedge I peeked out and noticed a child’s archery set on the lawn next to Paul. The bow couldn’t have been more than thirty-six inches long. Both the bow and the quiver looked like they were made of sturdy plastic, but I was willing to bet the arrows were steel-tipped. The skateboard chasing Paul’s car and the rubber snake found in the remains of Gordon Mayes’ SUV made sense to me now. Fragoso had been using his daughter’s toys to kill the people he judged as responsible for her death. She must have been a tomboy.

I took a deep breath, pulled the Glock from my pocket, and stood. I leveled the gun at Fragoso and shouted, “
Police, freeze!
” I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me from our interview at Best Buy.

The crowd scattered at the sight of the gun as Fragoso slowly turned to face me. His expression remained neutral, and I was terrified that he would kill Paul regardless of the threat to himself.

“Hands where I can see them!”
I shouted.
“Now!”

Fragoso just stood there. I started moving toward him.

“Charles Fragoso, you are under arrest for the murders of Gordon Mayes, James Flannery, and Shirley Jensen. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided for you.”

I was telling him his rights, hoping it would reinforce my character as a make-believe cop and convince him it was over and he might as well give up. It didn’t work. Fragoso pulled a large-frame revolver from behind his back and pressed the muzzle against Paul’s head.

“Drop the gun!”
I shouted, but before the words were even out of my mouth Fragoso’s head exploded and he slammed back against the oak. I automatically dropped to the ground, flattening myself in the dirt. I turned my head and saw a solid-looking woman with short blonde hair, feet spread in a shooting stance, gripping a matte-black Desert Eagle double-handed. Her face was frozen in a grimace. Standing behind her was Sam Pettigrew, also aiming his weapon at Fragoso.

I rose slowly, putting the Glock back in my jacket pocket. I looked over at Paul, who was now on his hands and knees, throwing up on the lawn.

“Quinn?” I said softly. I had never met the Lieutenant, but I’d recognized her instantly. She looked just like she sounded—tough and rangy.

“Are you okay?” I asked. She flinched. “I think he’s dead,” I said, knowing the sarcasm would get through to her.

She lowered the gun, holstered it, and turned to look at me. Her face was almost as white as Paul’s.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re an idiot,” she said. “Nobody freezes when you say ‘
Police, freeze!’”

“You ever fire your weapon in the line of duty before?”

“Nope.”

“Well, now you have.”

“Yep.”

Quinn secured the crime scene and dealt with the police, who were arriving in droves. Sam and I helped Paul onto a park bench. He was shaking uncontrollably, taking in great heaving breaths. His skin was clammy and his head and shoulders were covered with Fragoso’s blood, bone, and tissue. I sat next to him, putting my arm around him, trying to avoid the gray matter.

“Try to breathe slowly,” I told him, while gently pushing his head down between his knees. “You don’t want to hyperventilate. Everything’s okay now. You’re safe, Paul. You’re okay.”

Of course he wasn’t okay and he wouldn’t be for a long time. He’d almost been killed and he was wearing the remains of his would-be assassin. He was in shock, severely traumatized, and would need extensive therapy. When he was ready to talk about it, I’d send him to Loretta. Besides being my personal shrink, she’s the psychologist the RCPD uses for post-traumatic stress cases after officer involved shootings. I hoped Quinn would schedule herself an appointment with Loretta as well.

At least Paul was physically unharmed. That was something. I left him with Sam long enough to move my car to a legal parking space and retrieve the heavy beach towel, which I brought back and wrapped around Paul’s shoulders, greasepaint side out.

When the police had taken everyone’s statement, I drove Paul home. I’d considered taking him to the hospital, but I figured I could treat shock as well as most doctors, and he really wanted to go home.

I helped him out of his bloody clothes and stood him in a hot shower. I bagged the clothes for Quinn, in case they were needed as evidence. While Paul was in the shower, I called SFO and told them he wouldn’t be coming in to work that night. Then I heated chicken soup from a can and grilled a tuna sandwich with Tillamook cheddar.

When Paul came out of the shower, I put the soup and sandwich in front of him and insisted that he eat. He finished half of the sandwich and most of the soup. Then I gave him a double shot of brandy and poured one for myself.

We talked for three hours, about Fragoso and how he’d lost his mind to the grief and anger, about Paul’s co-workers who had died by Fragoso’s hand, and finally about Paul’s wife, who had left him.

I told him about Drew, my ex, and his triplets, and I told him about Cher getting a divorce. I had thought about setting the two of them up later when Cher’s divorce was final, but Paul needed something to cling to right now, so I took the risk and offered him Cher. He lit up like a Christmas tree. He stopped shaking for the first time since the shooting and said, “You think she would go out with me?”

“You’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

He looked at me with a mixture of hope and fear in his eyes. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Okay. I’ll ask her out after she’s divorced.”

“I’m not that patient. Besides, she’s going to need company
during
the divorce. She’ll need a friend she can lean on and who can help her deal with all her self-doubts. You’re good at that.”

I had their whole future planned out in my head.

Chapter 24

T
he weekend before Halloween I hosted a dock party to celebrate Elizabeth and Jack’s engagement. Much to my relief, while Elizabeth had accepted Jack’s proposal, she’d informed me that it would take at least a year to plan the wedding of her dreams, and in the meantime she intended to continue living on her trawler. My apprehension regarding her decision to marry Jack had melted when she told me how he’d proposed, in Gaelic. While down on one knee, holding the engagement ring nestled in a black velvet box, he’d said, “
Is breá liom tú
,
Elizabeth
.
Déan
dom an
fear
happiest
ar fud an domhain
,
agus a
aontú
a bheith ar mo
bhean chéile
.”

I didn’t understand Gaelic, but Elizabeth was happy to translate for me.

The dock party attendees included Cher, Paul, Elizabeth and Jack, of course, Lily (a marina neighbor who grew up with Elizabeth), Sam, Rebecca, and her boss David Ralston. They all arrived between 1:30 and 2:00. I’d borrowed a banquet table from the marina management office and set out a buffet on the wide cement dock.

Sam and I had a date to go sailing the following week and he spent some time looking over the boat, when he wasn’t busy chastising me for the risks I’d taken in the park.

Bill barbecued steak and salmon, and Jack had brought potato salad and pumpkin bread made by his cook and housekeeper, Ilsa Richter.

Elizabeth was wearing her engagement ring: a two-carat marquis-cut diamond flanked by a pair of half-carat emerald baguettes set in platinum. I couldn’t help staring at the ring, and at Elizabeth. She looked so happy.

Paul and Cher sat on the deck of my boat drinking wine coolers and talking about Paul’s recent ordeal. He’d been to see Loretta twice in the last week, and said she was helping him deal with the panic attacks. When I passed by carrying trays of food to the table I overheard Paul talking openly about how terrified he had been. Cher was holding his hand between both of hers, comforting him.

Back at the buffet table I watched Rebecca admiring Elizabeth’s engagement ring. David hovered behind her, his eyes filled with longing. Rebecca and I had bonded over surveillance videos of Wallace, the perv, watching her and taking snapshots of her with his telephoto lens. I had changed my mind about her friendship potential, even though she was ridiculously perfect.

“Rebecca,” I said, “would you help me carry the watermelon down from my car?”

She turned to look at me, shrugged, and said, “Sure.”

I think my desire to play matchmaker comes from watching too many romantic comedies when I was a kid. I put my arm around her shoulders as we walked up to shore and asked, “What’s the deal with David?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s clearly in love with you. How do you feel about him?”

“He’s not in love with me. He’s never even made a pass at me.”

“He’s shy. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m
crazy
about him!” She sounded angry.

“So what’s the problem?”

“You’ll laugh,” she said more quietly. I raised an eyebrow. “He’s so sweet and gentle,” she averted her eyes, too embarrassed to look at me when she said, “I’m afraid he might be a disappointment in bed.”

“I see. So, tell me how you feel when he plays the piano.”

She stared at me for a long moment, and I watched as recognition kicked in.

“Oh, my God,” she finally said. “I am such an idiot. I’ve been working for that man for two years and I’ve wanted him since the day I met him.”

Am I good or what?

Of course there was no watermelon in my car. When we arrived back at the party Rebecca walked right up to David and kissed him.

He blushed happily. “What was that for?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said, and winked at me.

I stood near the buffet table and peered up at Paul and Cher. Buddy had insinuated himself between them, lying on the bench seat with his forepaws in Paul’s lap. Cher was laughing at something Paul had said and they were both petting the dog. I’d decided to keep Buddy for myself and had taken down all the pictures of him that I’d posted around the marina.

Bill set a platter of steaming beef and salmon on the table and leaned in close to me. “I just got a call on that sex offender homicide,” he whispered. “I need to go into the office. Sorry.”

He gave me a quick kiss before removing his chef’s apron and striding up the dock. Little did I know how much that particular case was going to change my life in the coming months.

As I watched Bill hurry away I noticed one of my neighbors storming down the dock. Sarah is in her mid-fifties, about five-five and one-seventy, with short red hair and a tendency to be blunt. She looked upset as she moved toward me.

“Nikki,” she said. “I hate to interrupt the party, but I need your help.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Sarah has been known to cause a scene about parties on the docks when she’s not invited.

“What’s up?” I asked, escorting her aboard the boat and down into the galley so as not to disturb my guests.

“It’s Larry,” she said. “He’s
missing!”
And with that, she burst into tears.

Larry is Sarah’s prize-winning Persian cat. He’s also a well-known busybody. One day when I’d left my hatch and pilothouse doors open because of the heat, I came home and caught Larry snooping around my main salon. He flew past me and up the companionway so fast that by the time I made it up the steps he was already halfway down the dock. I’d heard similar stories from my neighbors.

I sat Sarah down at the galley counter, handed her a box of tissues, and poured her a shot of Jameson’s.

“When did you see him last?” I asked.

~THE END~

About the author

Nancy Skopin is a native of California, and currently lives on the Oregon coast with her husband and their dogs.

While researching her mystery series she spent two years working for a private investigator learning the intricacies of the business. She also worked closely with a police detective who became both a consultant and a friend. For thirteen years, she lived aboard her yacht in the San Francisco Bay Area, as does her central character, Nicoli Hunter.