The Scent of Lies: A Paradise Valley Mystery (15 page)

She approached the small building and swung the glass door open, sauntering to the counter where a balding middle-aged man was eagerly waiting. “Hello, there,” Emily said in her sweetest voice, her eyes welling up.

“Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?” The man asked with a smile. Then he leaned forward on the counter and looked into her watery eyes. “Are you okay?”

“You must be the manager,” she said, using her hand to wipe away a tear that had trickled down her cheek. She lowered her eyes.

“Well, I’m the assistant manager. Is there something I can do to help you?”

“I really hope so. I have a problem...” She leaned on the counter and looked at him through a blur of tears.

“I’ll try, little lady. What is it?” he asked softly.

“My boss sent me over here to find something out, and if I come back without the information, well... he said he’s going to fire me.” She sniffled loudly for effect.

“What kind of information?” he asked, with great concern in his voice, handing her a box of tissue.

“I’m sorry I’m being such a blubbering baby, but I need your help to find a murderer.”

“What? A murderer?” His eyes grew wide.

“Oh, he’ll never know you helped me.” She wiped her nose with a tissue. “I just need some information.”

“What do you need me to do?” the man asked, his eyes riveted to hers.

“Well, I have a license plate number, sir,” she paused to dab her eyes with the tissue, “and I need you to tell me who rented it last Saturday.”

“And you’re sure the murderer won’t know I helped you?”

“Oh no, there’s no way he would know. Besides,” she sniffled again, “I don’t want to lose my job.” She began to sob on the word job.

“All right, all right,” he agreed. “Calm down, I can help you.” Typing something into the computer, he pulled up the rental log for that day. With a stubby finger, he went down the monitor searching for the license plate number. “Here it is. It was rented for three days by Harry Andropov, New York City. I have a copy of his driver’s license if you want it.”

“That would be wonderful,” she gushed. She was pulling it off.

The man hit the print button and the copy shot out of the machine. As soon as he handed it over to her, she took it and backed to the door.

“Thank you so much, you’re a life saver.” With that she turned and stepped outside. She was sure she heard him say something that sounded like he was asking what agency she was with. She hurried to her car and sped out of the parking lot before she had to answer any of his questions.

Exhilarated by having pulled off the damsel-in-distress act so successfully, she squealed with delight at herself. As she drove home, her phone began to ring and in her state of blissful euphoria, she didn’t even take a second to see who was calling.

“Hello,” she said in a sunny voice.

“Emily?”

She paused for a moment as she tumbled out of the clouds.

“Hello, Colin.” Emily was conflicted by the battle that raged inside her. Should she be wary of him as her adversary, working for the opposing side of Delia’s case, or should she be pleased that this handsome and intelligent man wanted to spend time with her?

She had become familiar with the sound of his disarming voice. It was like warm chocolate sauce flowing over a slice of rich moist pound cake. Smooth and delicious.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee with me this morning,” he said.

“Coffee?” She had heard him fine, but repeating gave her a second to consider it.

“Yes, you know that spendy dark liquid people drink?” he chuckled.

“Oh,
that
coffee,” she played along. She decided she might as well meet him, or he may give up trying before she could make up her mind if she wanted to go out to dinner with him or not. Alex probably wouldn’t approve, but as long as they didn’t talk about the case, what could it hurt? “I can meet you at ten.”

“Moxie Java?”

“My favorite.”

“Good to know.”

“See you at ten.” She smiled to herself.

* * *

Right on time, Emily strolled into Moxie Java, finding Colin already there waiting for her. He waved her over to the small table he was holding for them in the noisy, crowded coffee shop. She slung the strap of her leather handbag over the corner of the chair back and slid into her seat.

“Been waiting long?” she asked.

“No, not long,” he answered as one of the baristas set a couple of hot drinks down in front of them. “Thank you,” he said to the young woman.

“What’s this?” Emily inquired with surprise.

“Isabel told me you like soy Chai lattés, so that’s what I ordered for you. I hope that’s okay.”

“No, I do, I’m just a little surprised.” She wondered what else he and Isabel had discussed about her. “What did you get?”

“Black coffee.”

Manly, no frills. It suits him.

“I want to get to know you, Emily Parker, real estate agent turned private investigator.”

She bristled again at his comment and her smile fell. “Why do you say it like
that
?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re looking down your nose at me because you are the high and mighty police detective from San Francisco and I’m just a small town real estate agent starting a new career.”

“I’m sorry, Emily, I meant no offense. I find your change in careers—intriguing.” He paused and put emphasis on the last word. “You must be a very strong and interesting woman to want to be a private investigator, and I want to get to know
that
woman.”

Her hackles relaxed and she realized this time he meant it as a compliment. She would give him the benefit of the doubt and let him get to know her, a little at a time. Not ready to expose her innermost thoughts and feelings, she simply skimmed over the basics. She told him about her growing up in a small town in Virginia and going to college at Georgetown, describing how she met her late husband and their moving to Paradise Valley, where he’d continued his work as a private investigator and she’d become a real estate agent.

He told her about his growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area in some of the toughest neighborhoods, becoming a policeman right after college. After a few years, he’d moved up to becoming a detective.

“What brought you to Paradise Valley?” she asked.

“One of the officers here is an old friend of my dad’s. He told me they were looking for a new detective. I wanted out of San Francisco, so I interviewed for the job. I guess they liked what they saw and hired me.”

“Why did you want out of San Francisco? It’s beautiful there.”

“Yes, parts of it, but there are a lot of ugly things there too. I don’t want to go into it now, this has been nice just to sit and talk. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about some of the sordid stuff.” He looked blankly out the window like he was remembering something ugly that had happened back there. Then he turned his attention back to Emily. “So, tell me how your work is going on Delia McCall’s case.”

She stopped and stared at him. “Is that why you asked me to coffee? To interrogate me, find out what I’ve learned that might help you on Delia’s case?”

“No, Emily. I’m just trying to make small talk.”

“I’m not sure I should believe you.”

“My part of the investigation is pretty much over. Delia was caught with the murder weapon in her hand just as the husband died. Her fingerprints were on the murder weapon. She’s being very uncooperative.”

“So you think it’s all tied up in a neat little bow and all you have to do is just sit back and call it a day on this case?” She frowned at him, her voice riddled with an accusatory attitude. So much for not talking about the case.

“It does seem pretty cut and dried, don’t you think?” he fired back.

“No, I don’t.” Emily hated it when the police latched onto a suspect and refused to continue looking for any other. “What about the woman that the housekeeper said came to the house that night and was arguing with Ricardo while Delia was upstairs in the bathroom?”

“First, no one seems to know who the woman was. I’d like to find out, but it may not even matter because Marcela Montoya said the woman left, that she heard Ricardo walk her out the door and then she heard the front door shut. So how could that woman be the murderer? Ricardo was still alive when she left.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Secondly, Marcela said she overheard the woman scream at Ricardo that she was pregnant. So, if Marcela overheard it, Delia could have too.” His voice was no longer like warm chocolate—it was more like hot red chili sauce over a prickly pear.

Colin must have realized he was raising his voice because he paused and leaned forward with his arms folded on the table. He looked around the coffee shop then focused in on Emily’s eyes. He lowered his tone and spoke in a muted but intense voice. “So, if he was still alive when the mystery woman left, and Delia overheard the argument about his lover being pregnant, well, that gives the wife an overwhelmingly strong motive to kill him in a fit of rage, in anybody’s book.”

“Are you telling me you’re not even looking for the mystery woman?” Emily was getting more irritated with each statement he made, and was sure her facial expressions did nothing to conceal it.

“Of course I’ve done a little poking around, but no one seems to know who she is. There are no leads, it’s a dead end. But, like I said before, I don’t think it matters who she is—at least not to the prosecution. I can see how it would matter to the defense, though. Someone else to pin the murder on.”

“Well I for one don’t believe she’s guilty, Colin, and I’m going to prove it to you. I
will
find that woman.”

“Oh, Emily, I know you see Delia as a friend, but you’re letting that cloud your judgment. You just don’t have enough experience under your belt to recognize that she did it.”

“There you go again, looking down on me from your high and lofty perch.” She shot out of her seat and grabbed her purse off the chair. The folded-up photocopy of the driver’s license fell out of her bag and onto the floor at Colin’s feet. He reached down and picked it up.

“What’s this?”

“I can’t tell you.” She snatched it out of his hand.

“Does it have to do with the murder case?”

She looked at him but did not utter a word. She shoved the paper back in her purse.

“Does it have something to do with the case? You can’t be withholding evidence. I’m sure you know—”

“I know that,” she snapped. “I’m not withholding evidence, just holding onto something until I figure it out.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Please, Colin,” her voice softened as she sank back down in her chair. “If I don’t figure it out, Alex said he’d fire me and hire another investigator.”

“Then let me help you,” he offered.

“But the only way you can help me is if I spill what I know, and that might not be good for Delia. If I screw up this case, I could be sending my friend to prison, not to mention ruining my friendship with Alex and Isabel.”

“I would think you’d want to discover the truth.” Colin stared into her eyes.

“I do, but at what cost?” She put her head down into her hands, resting her elbows on the table. Her cascade of loose curls fell forward around her cheeks.

“If Delia did kill her husband, would you really want to protect her?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” she lifted her head, “but what if the information I give you only makes her
look
guilty? That doesn’t mean she
is
guilty.”

“At this point, in the District Attorney’s eyes she already looks guilty, and Allison is going to fight hard to get a conviction. I don’t think Ms. McCall could look any guiltier. So, the truth should either confirm her guilt or prove her innocence.”

Emily did not say a word. Fear and loyalty kept her from making the decision to tell Colin what she knew. As she considered the damage she could do to people she cared about, she stared blankly out the window, releasing a long sigh.

“What does your heart tell you, Emily?”

“I’m not sure I can trust my heart.” She thought about how much she’d loved and trusted Evan, only to find out he had been hiding things from her, maybe even his true identity.

“Then trust me.”

He gave her time to mull over what he said, patiently waiting for her reply. She studied his face, the angle of his jaw, the brooding eyebrows over his compassionate hazel eyes. She pulled the crumpled paper out of her purse and handed it over to him.

“Who is this?” he asked, smoothing the paper out on the table.

“His name is Harry Andropov. I believe he was sitting in his rental car outside of Ricardo and Delia’s house around the time of the murder.” There, she spilled the beans and now she had to wait to see if it meant trouble for her or not.

“What makes you say that?” Colin raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Delia’s neighbor, Albert Osterman, told me he saw the car at the same time he saw Ricardo fighting with a woman and he wrote the license number down.”

“Mr. Osterman? I remember interviewing him—the old guy with the little dog?”