This Doesn't Happen In The Movies (The Reed Ferguson Mystery Series) Read online

  “But you just said that he might not come home because he knew you were trying to kill him.”

  She emitted an exasperated sigh. “Peter never knew anything,” she said again.

  “How do you know?”

  She spoke to me like I was the class dunce. “All Peter knew was that our marriage, and his money, were in jeopardy. When I was considering what I might do to him, I was less,” she struggled to find the right words, “less than kind to him. Cold. Indifferent. He sensed that. Then I decided I was being foolish, so I resumed the game. Things were back to normal, whatever that was. He didn’t have any reason not to come home.”

  I sat back again, feeling like I’d missed the answer to a test question. “So I’m supposed to find your presumably dead husband, whom you wanted to kill, but deny that you did, and now that he’s gone, you want him back.”

  “Yes,” she said, exasperated.

  “Fine,” I said.

  I should’ve run, right then. I should’ve, but I didn’t.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “This is quite a house,” I said as Amanda walked out of her huge three-car garage. I noticed a black Porsche parked in the far space, and a blue Mercedes in the middle spot, next to Amanda’s sleek gray Lexus.

  I had just followed Amanda to her house in Castle Pines, an exclusive gated community of huge, custom-built homes resting in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains near Castle Rock. The continuing sprawl of suburban Denver threatened smaller towns, but in areas like Castle Pines, between Castle Rock and south Denver, the neighborhoods were still quiet and you had breathtaking views of the mountains thrown in. I could smell fresh pine carried in an early winter breeze that whipped up dead leaves in the lawn.

  “Come on inside,” she said, looking around nervously. I didn’t know what she had to worry about; the nearest house was at least a hundred feet away and I hadn’t seen anybody out on the meandering road that led to her place.

  I suppressed a whistle as we walked across creamy red flagstone steps to a long front porch. Having grown up in the cradle of wealth, I was not easily impressed, but this came close. The Ghering house, with its opulent Victorian design, certainly challenged my childhood home in size. It was painted eggshell white, complemented by black trim and decorative ironwork on the windows, with a huge red brick chimney jutting out from the south side of the house. Unlit Christmas lights hung from the eave, and from the branches of two large pine trees in the front yard.

  “Why did you give up the idea of killing Peter?” I asked as we stepped inside. A spacious foyer branched off in three directions, to the right a cozy sitting room, to the left a large living room, lavishly decorated, and straight ahead stairs leading to the second floor. It didn’t take a detective to know that a lot of money had gone into the decor.

  “Let me take your coat,” Amanda said, hanging both hers and mine in a closet under the staircase. “Would you like a drink?”

  I hesitated because it was barely lunchtime. “It’s a bit early for me. A glass of water would be fine. And how about an answer to my question.”

  She beckoned me to follow her into the living room, where she crossed to a minibar and began preparing drinks, water and ice for me, vodka and a splash of Rose’s lime juice for her. I curled an eyebrow at her as she swallowed half her drink. “This whole thing’s got me tied up in knots,” she said, justifying her actions.

  I sat down on an expensive leather sofa near a towering Christmas tree adorned with gold ribbons and red lights. I sipped my glass of water and said nothing, but wondered if she’d already thrown back a drink or two before coming to my office. It could explain her willingness to talk.

  Amanda stared at me as she finished her drink. “I decided not to kill Peter because he may be unfaithful, but he’s not worth killing.” She set the empty glass back on the bar and pushed an imaginary hair away from her eyes. As she talked, I was riveted by those eyes, how piercing they were. “I assumed the role of the spoiled rich wife, a country club woman,” she continued, toying with an enormous diamond on her left ring finger that reflected the light from a huge bay window. “I use his money like he uses me. I’m a side attraction, there when he wants me; I fade into the woodwork when he doesn’t.”

  Dressed as she was in another expensive designer outfit, every piece from her earrings to the matching leather heels, she clearly used his money well. “Tell me about this business trip,” I said, sinking further into the sofa.

  “Peter started out in Florida. He stayed there for a week, then a week in New York, and he was supposed to be in Philadelphia this last week.”

  “Supposed to be? Did he not make it to Philadelphia?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Amanda frowned. “Of course I'm sure. The last time I heard from Peter was his last night in New York. He was leaving for Philly the next morning. The police told me that his ticket from New York to Philly wasn’t used.”

  “Could he have changed his mind? Taken the train instead?”

  “I suppose that’s possible. But it isn’t like Peter. He’s meticulous to a fault and tied to his routines. I can’t see him changing his plans like that and not telling me.”

  “Okay, so he didn’t use the airline ticket, and you didn’t hear from him this past week.” I cocked my head to the side. “But that doesn’t mean he never made it to Philadelphia. Or that he’s dead.”

  “True.” She thrust a finger in my direction. “That’s why I hired you, to find out what happened. I think he’s dead. Maybe he had an accident, met an angry husband of one of his lovers. I don’t know, but I’m preparing myself for the worst.” She was doing a fine job of it, I thought, eyeing the empty glass behind her.

  “Then you’d inherit the money and all your problems would be solved.”

  Her face twisted into a quick mixture of emotions – sadness, pleasure, fear, then blank. “I suppose. Boy, would that make Peter’s parents angry.”

  “Why?”

  Amanda contemplated the question for a moment, then said, “Peter’s parents never really liked me. I think they resent the fact that Peter has done well for himself, that we live so well now. They don’t live as well, but money from Peter’s estate would go a long way for them.”

  “You’re sure you would inherit and not his parents?”

  “Yes. I saw a copy of the will after Peter came from the attorney’s office. His parents have their own money. Not as much as us, but they have some. He didn’t see any need to give them any more.”

  I pondered her last revelation. “I can see why you hope he’s dead.”

  If it angered her, she didn’t show it. She stood a bit straighter and gazed at me, unflappable. We stayed in speculative silence long enough for me to sing the chorus of The Police’s “Murder by Numbers” in my head.

  “So,” I finally said. I set my empty glass on the coffee table and leaned my elbows on my knees. “Do you have a copy of Peter’s itinerary and who he was working for?”

  “Sure.”

  “Plane reservations, hotel reservations, any car rental information?”

  She nodded. “All of that should be upstairs in his office. Peter was self-employed, so everything would be there.”

  “Let’s have a look,” I said.

  “Right now?”

  “Is that okay?” I asked. I wondered about the slight resistance, but dismissed it.

  “No, that’s fine.” I stood up and followed Amanda as she headed for the stairs, passing a picture in a gold frame sitting on a teak wood end table. “Is this Peter?” I asked, picking up the photo.

  Amanda stopped and turned. “Yes. As you can see, he’s easy to fall for. Tall, six-two; dark brown eyes, quite good-looking,” Amanda said. I examined the picture and agreed. Peter Ghering, dressed in white shorts and a dark blue Oxford shirt, stood in front of a long white sailboat, a cocky half-smile on his tanned face. He kept his hair short, the curls neatly slicked into place. He pointed at the camera with his sungl
asses, seeming relaxed, a man without a care in the world.

  “How recent is this?” I asked.

  “Taken last summer, but he still looks the same.”

  “Six to eight months probably wouldn’t change him much,” I said, memorizing the picture before I put the photo back. “What kind of a man is Peter?” I chose my words with care, speaking of him in the present. No reason to think otherwise.

  “A control freak, driven to succeed. Highly successful, but emotionally he has nothing to give. He’s charming, at least at times, devastatingly handsome, and great in bed. That alone kept me going for a long time.”

  A Harlequin hero. “How long have you been married?”

  “Fifteen years.” Amanda gazed out the window, as if she could see her wedding day in the sunshine outside. “We were young, right out of college. Peter was going places and I wanted to be right there with him. He liked the high life, and so did I. We were going to be Mr. and Mrs. Perfect.” Her eyes turned back to me. “But the monotony of marriage set in. He spent more time on business trips; I spent more time at the country club. He began to play around.”

  “Did you?”

  “Have an affair?”

  I nodded.

  “No,” she said. “Tempted, once, but I didn’t. When I wanted great sex, I had Peter. As for an affair, I never met anyone that I thought could be a suitable companion.”

  That made sense, at least at the moment. “Was he always unfaithful?”

  “I didn’t think so, but looking back on it, he probably was. A few of my sorority sisters were awfully close with him. At the time I was in love, so I didn’t see anything bad in their behavior. I assumed he was being friendly.”

  “Any children?”

  “None. I wanted to, but he didn’t.”

  “Any financial troubles? Business troubles?”

  “No,” she said. “Everything was great. We were playing the game like we always did, no questions asked. Then Peter didn’t call. It doesn’t fit. He should’ve come home.”

  I wondered why a man with no problems would disappear. Unless she was the problem. The threat of a violent end at the hands of one’s wife seemed like a problem to me. If he knew about it.

  Amanda turned to head upstairs to Peter’s office. “I know you don’t believe Peter’s dead. Please, find out what happened to him. I need to know.”

  With five million hanging in the balance, I could see why.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Peter’s office took up the whole north side of the house. The room was painted a light, creamy brown, with large windows east and west. A mahogany desk the size of a compact car sat directly across from the door, taking up a sizable portion of the room. On one side of it was a two-drawer file cabinet, on the other a computer printer sitting on a small stand. Three-foot shelves spanned the entire wall behind the desk, and a huge painting of a sailboat on calm waters hung centered on the wall over the desk. In the remainder of the room were a small table with a reading chair in one corner and a glass display case with a few model boats in the other corner.

  “This is where he works,” Amanda said. “When he’s in town,” she said as an afterthought.

  I moved around the desk and sat in the leather executive chair. Definitely more comfortable than the one in my office; it cushioned my underside like a pillow. I ran my hands across the mahogany desktop, then checked out the computer monitor. It was the very latest model, practically paper thin, taking up very little room on the desk. I lightly tapped the keyboard, then switched on a small antique Tiffany desk lamp. The room reeked of expensive taste.

  “He also has a laptop for travel,” Amanda said. “It’s with him.”

  That made sense, since he was on a business trip, but I didn’t point out the obvious. “I guess we have to start here. Do you mind if I look at what he’s got on the computer?”

  “I could care less what’s on that thing.” I glanced at her as I turned it on. Did she despise the technology or the man who used it?

  “Let’s see what we have here.” I waited for the computer to think its way through initial setup; when it finished, the desktop appeared with a variety of files on it. I examined them, humming the catchy opening notes from a tune by The Smiths. I double-clicked on one file after another. Most of the files were documents related to Peter’s work, details of program modifications, suggestions for improvements, and a lot of computer lingo that I didn’t understand. A few documents prompted me for a password, which raised my curiosity. Not that they contained anything more than contracts or something he wouldn’t want just anybody, like me, to have access to, but a detective didn’t like not knowing.

  “Anything interesting?” Amanda asked after a bit of fidgeting from the reading chair.

  “Nope.” I continued perusing files and humming The Smiths song.

  “Is that How Soon Is Now?” she asked.

  I looked up in surprise. “Sure is.” Not too many people recognized that alternative '80s band, or one of their greatest hits.

  “I think we’re about the same age,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “You’re what? Thirty? Thirty-five?”

  “Thirty-four,” I said.

  “Class of eighty-two.” Amanda smiled. “I like a lot of the groups from the eighties.”

  “The Smiths were great,” I said, feeling like the schoolboy again. She likes the same music as I do! Get a grip, Reed. She’s a client. But I kept humming.

  “Well, well. What have we here?”

  Amanda bolted up from the chair and came around the desk. “What?”

  I was checking Peter’s emails. I couldn't believe he hadn't password protected them, but it made my job easier. The Inbox contained only a few, but one of those was from a lady named Sheila. The email was dated six months ago, and was brief but to the point.

  “Dear Peter,” it read. “So glad to hear from you. Call me when you get in and we can have dinner and then… :-)”. Below that: “Love Sheila”. Underneath that was an auto signature, standard with most company emails, and this conveniently listed her full name as Sheila Banks. It also had the company address, phone and fax numbers, and web site address. Sheila obviously had little concern about being caught. Either that, or she was incredibly stupid. I’d recently heard about a couple who had spent the night together, and the unfortunate woman wrote her lover a steamy email about their night of passion, only to see him send it on to his friends, who send it on to their friends, and so on. In a nanosecond the email passed through cyberspace, ending up in Inboxes all over the world, turning into a lover’s nightmare. I saw the story on the news. I’ll bet Sheila didn’t count on Peter keeping her email around, which wasn’t a very smart assumption on her part.

  “That bastard,” Amanda said, smacking a delicate palm on the desk. “Keeping an email like that. I knew they were contacting him, but to keep the evidence...” I knew exactly who “they” were. And it sounded like there were a lot of “them.”

  “Where did you expect them to contact him?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know. I guess when he got to whatever city they were in. Not here.”

  “Maybe Peter didn’t consider his computer part of your home.” I pulled out a pad and pen from my coat pocket while I talked. “However, I would’ve thought he’d at least keep the correspondence on his laptop and not here.” I printed the email, complete with Sheila’s business information and email address.

  “Why?” Amanda asked. “I never use this computer. As a matter of fact, I hardly use the computer Peter bought me, except for occasional emails to keep up with friends.”

  “But you could’ve looked here.”

  Amanda shook her head. “No, it’s like I told you. Peter and I kept up the pretense of a good marriage. I had no need to spy on him. Besides, I knew what was going on. There wouldn’t be any need for me to look here at all.”

  The other emails were business correspondence, but I jotted down names and addresses just in case. I didn’t find anything else o
n the computer that seemed significant, so I shut it down and rummaged around in the desk drawers. “Where’s his itinerary?”

  “Right here.” Amanda opened the file cabinet drawer and pulled out a manila folder marked “airline info”, and handed it to me.

  I leaned back in the chair and thumbed through the papers. Each was a travel printout either from a travel agent or an airline, organized chronologically, with the latest trip in the back. On his apparent last trip, Peter flew United Airlines, starting out twenty-six days ago. The printout detailed flight information and times from Miami, Florida, to New York City, and then Philadelphia.

  “Three weeks. That’s a long business trip.”

  She shrugged. “That was where the work was, so he took it. He made great money by consulting.”

  I closed the file. “Can I take this with me?” Amanda nodded, so I set the file aside and examined the rest of the folders in the cabinet.

  “Here’s his hotel information,” I said, pulling out another folder neatly labeled like the others. I shuffled through it. The last sheet was an email printout from a travel agent showing which hotels Peter was booked in and for how many nights, the last in Philadelphia. I put that aside as well.

  I looked further, admiring the neat and organized manner in which Peter kept his business files. I did not have nearly the talent. I found folders for each trip he had taken from the beginning of the year, ten months worth, with receipts and an itemized printout recording each expense in detail. Planes, hotels, taxis, parking, car rental, all paper clipped to the printout. The last folder had a label with the dates of this trip, but it was empty, the receipts Peter would have collected presumably still with him, wherever he was.

  “Too bad,” I said. “But at least I’ve got names of hotels where he planned to stay. That’s a starting point.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the police check with any of them?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I talked to them yesterday, and they didn’t tell me anything.”