Nursing a Grudge is Murder (A Maternal Instincts Mystery) (17 page)

I crossed to the desk and set the lock pick set down. As I opened my bag to stuff it in, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out and read a text from Mom:

R
U IN
?

I texted her back.

I’
M IN
.

Mom fired back.

O
OH
. Y
OU ARE FAST
. H
AVE TO SAY
V
ICENTE IS SO HANDSOME
. H
E
’
S FLIRTING WITH ALL THE GIRLS
. E
VEN ME
!

I was tempted to text her back insisting that she was
not
a girl, but decided that I should probably focus on the task at hand. I slipped the phone into my pocket and opened the laptop. It was password protected. I sighed. I should have brought Kenny with me. He could hack into anything, but as it was I was out of luck.

I closed the laptop and picked up the folder, expecting some personal receipts or business to be in it, but instead a photograph of Sam Kafer stared up at me.

The sound of running water stopped. I actually heard a faucet knob squeak and the pipes rattle followed by a shower door.

An alarm went off in my head.

Holy Christ.

That wasn’t the neighbor’s shower…

I dropped the folder and hustled toward the door, fleeing into the hallway. I wasn’t exactly what you’d call stealth. The door slammed behind me and then bounced open again.

Darn!

Regardless, I raced down the staircase and out the foyer. Hopefully whoever had stepped out of the shower would be hustling to get clothes on and in the meantime, I’d be gone like the wind.

I sprinted toward my car and jumped in.

I thought back to the girl who’d let me in. Apparently, I don’t look like a typical criminal, so most likely no one would suspect me or stop me.

I revved up my car.

Why hadn’t I considered that V.D. would have a girl there? It made complete sense.

I texted Mom.

Busted. He had company...

Mom replied.

No doubt. Seems like he’s gotten three phone numbers in last five min.

I pulled out of the parking spot, relieved that no angry woman wearing a towel had fled out of the apartment looking to track down a burglar.

As I pushed my phone back into my bag a thought flashed into my head.

My lock pick set!

I’d left in on the desk.

Darn, darn, double-darn!

I repeatedly hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. It was all Mom’s fault; if she hadn’t kept texting me, then I wouldn’t have been so distracted…

No, I couldn’t blame it on her. It was my fault.

Now V.D. would know someone had been snooping around his apartment. Would he know it was me? Could he use the set to track me down, possibly pull my prints from it? Or maybe the person in the shower had seen me? She could be looking out the window right now at me.

As I rounded the corner of the block, I glanced out my driver’s side window toward the building. I couldn’t tell anything.

I cringed and hoped for the best, my thoughts turning to the folder on V.D.’s desk. Why hadn’t I taken it with me? Obviously, he suspected Sam. Why else would he have his photo in a folder?

Darn it! It burned me up that V.D. might have evidence against Sam and I didn’t know what it was. Part of me wanted to turn the car around and wait for whoever it was at V.D.’s apartment to leave. I could reenter after they vacated.

Oh, wait.

No, I couldn’t.

My stupid lock pick was sitting on his desk.

I banged my steering wheel in frustration. If he could figure this thing out so could I.

I headed directly to Melanie’s apartment.

It was time for some answers.

Chapter Eighteen

On the short drive to Noe Street, I ruminated over what I knew about the case. Melanie was Perry’s sister. She’d been beaten up at Perry’s apartment and I’d assumed her assault was related to Perry’s death. That had seemed a given, and yet…

Jill had said Melanie was a pathological liar.

Could it be that the bruises on her face were really from Sam? Perhaps Melanie was too embarrassed or even scared to admit that her boyfriend hit her.

If Perry had been defensive about his sister dating a guy who beat her—and what brother wouldn’t be?—then Perry could have confronted Sam. Maybe the confrontation had gone wrong. Perry beat Sam up, which would explain the bruise on Sam’s face, and then Sam had sent Perry over the edge of a cliff.

It could have happened that way.

One thing was clear, Vicente was definitely following Sam’s scent. I probably needed to look into him more carefully, too.

I was so aggravated with the case, my knuckles were turning white from my grip on the steering wheel. I turned onto Noe Street and compared the number displayed on my smartphone to that of a nearby house. I was still at least a block away. I began the
infernal search for parking. On the next block, there was a Victorian style building down the street that had scaffolding against it with a huge black tarp covering it. The tarp was presumably there to keep in debris and protect the new paint job from the weather. Granted, it was probably a bad time to paint, but the real estate market in San Francisco had begun a slight uptick and many owners were prepping for spring sales.

I pulled into a spot across the street from the Victorian with the scaffolding, which I now realized was Melanie’s place. My front bumper encroached on the driveway, but I crossed my fingers and hoped I’d be back before the neighbors called my infraction into the Department of Parking and Traffic.

Melanie’s flat was quiet. It looked like the work crew still hadn’t shown up for the day. I climbed the stairs, counting them as I went. The building most likely had at one time been a single family dwelling and then had been converted to three units.

I reached the top floor, huffing and puffing.

48 stairs.

Wow. Climbing to the top floor of this apartment building was almost as aerobically challenging as the Land’s End hike. I pressed the doorbell and waited, suddenly missing Galigani.

I felt guilty about his ankle. I’d have to pop in on him at the hospital, as soon as I finished here, and then…I glanced at my watch. Where did the time go?

I’d have to head home first and feed Laurie before going to visit Galigani.

I rang the doorbell again, this time pulling out my phone and dialing Melanie at the same time. Her voicemail clicked on. I left a message.

Where was she?

I rattled the door handle. Locked.

If I hadn’t left my lock pick at V.D.’s I could have used the opportunity to snoop around inside Melanie’s apartment.

I grimaced. Breaking and entering, twice in one day? What was I becoming?

The tarp covering the scaffolding flapped in the wind.

I grabbed hold of it and peeked underneath, examining the scaffolding. It looked pretty substantial…

Could I climb onto it and get a look inside her flat?

I gripped the cool black plastic and stretched for a foot hold.

A rumbling engine rounded the corner. I pulled my foot back onto the landing and pretended to be immersed in my phone. The rumbling engine belonged to a Ford pickup, which pulled right in front of the flat, blocking access to the driveway. Obviously, the driver was less concerned than I about San Francisco’s infamous DPT.

A tall man in denim and work boots got out. He began unloading paint cans from the bed of the truck onto a dolly.

Darn it!

My plan was definitely foiled, there was no way I could hop onto the scaffolding without him shooing me off.

Oh well, it wasn’t like I’d learn much by peeking in her windows. At the most, I’d find out if she was a tidy housekeeper.

I began my descent down the 48 stairs.

The man pulled his dolly, weighted down with cans of paint, under the tarp. He glanced my way. “Morning, lass.”

“Good morning,” I said.

I absently wondered if should question him. What could he tell me? Maybe Melanie’s comings and goings?

“I was looking for my friend. We’re supposed to get coffee…” I lied. “but she’s not answering her phone.”

He winked at me. “It’s too bad I have work to do, otherwise, I’d get a cuppa with you, love.”

I laughed. “Oh, I don’t know that my husband would like that.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Those husbands are a bother.”

“Do you know my friend, Melanie? She lives on the top flat.”

He shrugged as he grabbed a sanding tool and climbed onto the scaffolding. “Should I know her? Does she want to have coffee with me?”

I shrugged back at him. “Maybe.”

He ascended higher. “Does she have one of the pesky things…what did you call it…a husband?”

“No. Not a husband. A boyfriend.”

One that I think is extremely unfitting for her, frankly, but hey, what could I say?

He grunted. “I hate obstacles like that. She’d have to be cute. Is she cute?”

“Uh…yeah. She’s cute.”

What in the world had I gotten myself into? Now I was matchmaking?

He was at the top of the scaffolding. He peeled back the tarp and looked down at me. “Is she as cute as you?”

“Now you’re just flattering me,” I said, digging out my key fob and turning toward my car.

Suddenly, the painter let out a low string of cuss words, followed by a loud “Christ Almighty!” and a repeated rapping on the window.

A chill raced up my spine and I stopped in my tracks.

“What is it?” I yelled up at him.

The tarp thrashed about in the wind where he opened it and I could see him drop the sanding tool. He pawed madly at a window.

I raced up the flight of stairs. “What? What’s going on?”

“Call 9-1-1,” he yelled, as he yanked on the window frame. The glass suddenly took a nose dive and shattered at his feet. He cursed again.

“Is it Melanie? What do you see?” I asked frantically pulling my phone from a pocket. The phone slipped from my hand and skidded down the flight of steps.

Damn.

I chased after it.

“Stay down there, lass,” the painter bellowed in his Irish brogue.

I glanced up to see him climbing into Melanie’s apartment. “No! Don’t go in there!” I screamed, frantically waving up at him.

All that remained visible of him was one tan work boot, which soon disappeared. I raced up the stairs, ignoring my dropped phone. “Hey! Hey! No, no, no! Don’t go in there!”

Out of breath, I reached the top landing and scrambled onto the scaffolding. The scaffolding had an unexpected sway and give. A wave of dizziness and vertigo assaulted me. Spots formed before my eyes and my knees suddenly felt weak.

Oh! I was so high up and this…this scaffolding!

Why, I was practically suspended in mid air.

The scaffolding felt completely untethered and had a ceaseless rocking. A gust of wind rumbled and the tarp whipped across my face, stinging my cheeks in the cold. I yelped. All I could do to regain myself was grip the freezing metal of the scaffolding and try to breathe.

“Hey!” I called to the painter as I collapsed onto my knees, broken glass from the shattered window biting into my jeans. “Ah!”

A strong hand gripped my shoulder. “Lass! What are you doing?”

“Uh.” The scaffolding lurched forward. “Oh God, this was a mistake.” My stomach turned as I feared the scaffolding would give way.

The hand pulled me to my feet and toward the window.

“I shouldn’t go in there! No one should disturb the crime scene.”

And it had to be a crime scene, of that I was certain.

But even as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I found myself climbing in through the window. After all, I wasn’t going to stay on the God-forsaken scaffolding that felt like it would collapse at any moment.

I crumpled onto Melanie’s floor and tried to breathe. The only thing I registered about the room was that I was in a bedroom—that, and the fact that there was a pair of feet sticking out from a small space between the bed and the wall.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” he asked.

“Hyperventilating!” I answered.

“I told you to stay down there and call 9-1-1,” he chastised.

“Uh-huh,” I said with my head between my knees.

A small grey kitten meowed and pressed its wet nose into the back of my hand. I moved my hand to pet it, but the cat ran and hid.

Whiskers?

“Are you afraid of heights?” the painter asked.

“I didn’t think so—”

“You shouldn’t be climbing on a scaffolding if you’re scared of heights. We’re up three flights! What if you got dizzy—”

“I am dizzy,” I said, beginning to lift my head.

His hand pressed on the back of my head, pushing it down again between my knees. “Don’t look, lass. Did you call 9-1-1?”

“I dropped my phone.”

He groaned and removed his hand from the back of my head.

Without lifting my head, I shifted and glanced at the pair of feet. “Is she—”

“She’s dead. Sorry, love.” There was a rustling sound, then the telltale beeping of a cell phone. “I’m calling from 753 Noe Street,” the painter said. “I…er…I found the occupant dead.”

I chanced to raise my head while he was distracted, but he immediately pushed it back down.

“It’s okay. I’m okay now,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” he said.

“I am. I’m fine. I want to see her.”

“Don’t get up. You have blood all over your knees,” he said.

Until now I had ignored the pain that was emanating from my legs. I looked down and saw shards of glass sticking straight out from my jeans.

He finished the call with the 9-1-1 operator and stood up. “Let me check the bathroom for some first aid supplies.”

“We’re not supposed to touch anything. The cops will have my ass. I’ll wait for the paramedics,” I said.

“Paramedics? No, I don’t think they’re sending any. I’m sorry, but she’s dead.” He squeezed my arm. “Were you very close?”

“No. We’d only recently met. She asked me to look into some things for her.”