Reed Ferguson Mystery Box Set 5 Page 7

  “That’s very helpful of you.”

  “I have nothing to hide.” Denise downed the last of her latte and stood up. “This has been fun,” she said, the wicked tone back, “but I have to be going.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  She eyed me carefully. “Marlowe, huh? Why does that name sound familiar?”

  I shrugged. “Beats me.”

  She threw me one last, sly smile and strode out the door. A moment later, I saw her gold Lexus pass by the window. I sat for a minute and mulled over our conversation.

  Denise had been up-front about things with her ex. To throw me off? Did she want him dead? She wasn’t the right build to be the person outside her ex’s house, but she could’ve hired someone. Or it could’ve been her boyfriend, depending on what he looked like. I made a mental note to check that when I met LeBlanc.

  My mind turned to Hinton. I was again finding discrepancies in what he’d said to me. Was everything that he told me a lie? Was Marshall Vanderkamp after him, or was it someone else, or was it anybody at all? I tried Hinton’s number again, but again he didn’t answer. Anger brewed up in me. I’d told him to be sure he answered when I called. Yeah, he paid me, but I still didn’t like wasting my time. Then a flash of worry shot through me. Had something happened to him? I hoped he would call soon. And another thought occurred to me. If Hinton was as volatile as Denise had said, I’d need to be very careful when dealing with him.

  With those things on my mind, I finally got up and left the Starbucks.

  Chapter Ten

  It was now almost four o’clock. I figured that on the days Marshall Vanderkamp went to The Ridge, he would have to leave work around five or so and arrive at the club by six. The problem was how to get into the club to talk to anyone. I wasn’t a member. I sat in the 4-Runner for a few minutes, thinking about my options.

  Storm the castle, so to speak? No, I’d never be able to sneak past the front desk before someone called the police. And wouldn’t that be a fun phone call to Willie? “Hi, my new wife. Guess what? I’m in jail.” I shook my head. Nope. Disguise myself as someone else? But who? Sam Spade? I still wouldn’t get past the front desk. Then I thought about someone who might have the connections to get me into the club. However, I’d have to get past my Kryptonite first. I pulled out my phone, dialed a number, and waited.

  “Why, hello, dear,” my mother said a moment later. “This is a pleasant surprise.” I’d just called Mom a few days ago when we got home from the honeymoon. “Oh, wait, is something wrong? Or, wait, is Willie pregnant?”

  I put a hand to my forehead. Good Lord, she was off and running, her high-pitched voice screeching through the phone. For years, she’d worried that I was doing drugs, then that I wouldn’t marry or give her grandchildren. It was a burden for this only child. I had her drug fears at bay, but now it seemed she was doubling down on the grandchildren issue.

  “Hi, Mother. And how are you?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, dear. So, is Willie pregnant?”

  “We just got married, Mother. We’re not ready for kids yet.”

  “Well, don’t wait too long.”

  I bit my tongue. “Okay. Is Dad around?”

  “Yes. Are you in some kind of trouble? You just called the other day,” she repeated. “What’s wrong? Paul,” she called out, “I think your son may have gotten himself arrested.”

  How did asking for Dad mean I was “in trouble,” and how did that turn into “gotten arrested”?

  “Mother, it’s nothing like that,” I said loudly, but she wasn’t listening.

  “He’s probably worrying Willie to death,” I heard her say to my father, “and they haven’t even been married a month.”

  A gruff cough sounded in the background, and then my father said, “Son, you’ve gone and upset your mother again.”

  “I’m not in any trouble and I’m not in jail, Dad,” I protested. “She’s not listening to me.”

  He sighed a knowing sigh. “I know, but did you call just to get her upset?”

  “No, of course not, but I have a question for you.”

  I’m sure he was sitting in shorts and polo shirt on the deck of their ritzy Palm Beach condo, enjoying a drink while he gazed at the ocean. My dad was a wealthy, respected man, with his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, always gelled into place, and his quiet personality a welcome antidote to my mother’s hyper-anxious flutterings. He also still had many connections here in Denver, where they used to live.

  “I’ll see if I can help,” he said.

  “You used to go to The Ridge, right?”

  “Yes, I went with some friends a few times now and then. Why?”

  “I need to get into the club. Is there any way I can without being a member?”

  “Is this a new case?”

  “Right. A potential suspect is a member there, and I want to talk to people who know him. And, if I happen to run into him there, I might be able to ask him a few questions.”

  “That doesn’t sound too dangerous.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Hmm, I guess I could ask Fred – I’ve been to the club with him – if he could pull a few strings and get you cleared to go in. But…”

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, son, you need to promise me you won’t get into any trouble while you’re there. You can’t start anything with the members, if you know what I mean.”

  “I promise I won’t get into any fights, or do anything to get myself kicked out or land myself in jail, or embarrass you or your friend.”

  “Okay.” His tone was audibly more relaxed.

  “I really don’t get in jams that often.”

  “Try telling that to your mother,” he grumbled. “Let me make a phone call and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  “How is everything else going?”

  “It really is good,” I said.

  We talked for a few minutes about mundane things, and then I ended the call and watched people come and go while I waited for him to call me back. In exactly five minutes, Humphrey Bogart’s voice let me know I had a call on my phone.

  “Okay, I was able to work something out,” Dad said. “When you go to the club, tell them that Fred Day said you’re his guest. They’ll admit you, and you won’t have to pay anything. But don’t go crazy because it’s his bill.”

  “I’ll pay him back.”

  “That’s not necessary, but be aware of it. Oh, and you’ll have to sign in. Fred is pulling a few strings to get you in, so don’t do anything rash.” There was humor in the last statement. I think in some small way my father was actually warming to my chosen career.

  I ignored the jab. “That’s great, Dad, thanks.”

  “Just be careful. And you’ll need to wear a suit.”

  “Good to know.”

  We talked for a few minutes about the club’s layout and then he said, “All right, your mother’s dying to know what’s going on, so I better tell her. Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  I thanked him, ended the call, and drove out of the parking lot.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Ridge was located off Fourteenth and Franklin Streets, a short distance from downtown, in an old two-story mansion. A parking lot to the north of the house was labeled for members only, so I found a space two blocks down and walked back to the club.

  After I talked to my father, I’d gone back to the condo and wolfed down some leftover spaghetti, then changed into a navy suit, white shirt, and striped tie, and headed back out. It was now almost six o’clock. The evening air was pleasantly warm as I pushed through a wrought-iron gate and up to a long front porch with white balustrades. The front door was heavy oak, and I hesitated. Did I knock? Walk on in? I decided on the second, and tried the antique doorknob. It turned, and I opened the door and stepped into a large foyer. To the left was a doorway that led to a side porch. In front of me a wide oak staircase led upstair
s. A long counter was to my right, and past that was a doorway. A man in his fifties wearing a tux stood behind the counter.

  “May I help you, sir?” he asked in a cultured tone.

  “I’m a guest of Fred Day,” I said as I approached him.

  “Ah, yes.” He put on bifocals, opened a leather-bound register, and ran a hand down the page, his lips pursed. “Ah, yes,” he repeated. He looked up at me over the glasses. “Have you been here before?”

  “No, but I’ve heard a lot about it.”

  “Ah.” His face remained deadpan. “Let me show you around.”

  “Thank you.”

  Fred Day definitely had some influence here, I thought.

  The host – I didn’t know what else to call him – showed me around the club. There were several smoking rooms upstairs, a reading room with shelves full of books that looked as if they’d never been opened, and a couple of rooms I wasn’t shown. On the main level were a billiards room, a dining room, and a large sitting room with a bar. The entire house was all dark wood tones and dim lighting. The chairs and couches were leather, and most of the walls were forest green. In each room men dressed in expensive suits lounged about, talking in low tones. I was sure I saw the governor in one of the rooms. When we arrived back at the foyer, the host turned to me.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I think I’ll have a drink.”

  He bowed slightly and gestured to the sitting room. I nodded and moved past him.

  The sitting room had a number of small, round tables with wingback chairs around them, and a long bar and barstools against one wall. Everything was luxurious. Two older men sat at a table in the corner, drinking from sherry glasses. Otherwise it was quiet, except for a bartender in a white shirt and black bow tie who was cleaning glasses, oblivious of me. I stepped up to the bar and waved a hand at him. He sidled over.

  “Yes, sir,” he said in a bored voice. “What would you like?”

  He was in his mid-twenties, with curly blond hair neatly trimmed, and a thin goatee I could barely see.

  “A Fat Tire,” I said. Then I wondered if that was a hoity-toity enough beer for the club.

  The bartender only nodded, reached into a refrigerator and pulled out a bottle. He got a glass and poured the beer into it, then set the glass down in front of me.

  “Enjoy.”

  He went back down the bar and started cleaning glasses again.

  “Not too busy right now,” I said to him.

  He barely nodded. “No, sir. It’ll fill up later.”

  “You here all evening?”

  “Until eight. Someone else comes in to cover the late-night shift.”

  “How late is the club open?”

  “Until three.”

  I sipped my beer and waited for him to move closer to me. He began to wipe the bar top with a clean white cloth, and he eventually made his way over to me. I chatted with him for a few minutes about the weather and how the Rockies baseball team was doing, and then I led into why I’d come.

  “I’ll bet you see a lot of interesting people here,” I said.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Do you know Doctor Vanderkamp?”

  The cloth slowed down. His eyes darted up to me, then back to the cloth in his hand. “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s he like?”

  He glanced over to the two men at the table, then looked me in the eye. “He’s a fine gentleman.”

  “I hear he comes in here every Thursday.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’ll be in tomorrow, then?”

  “Every Thursday, er, well…” He hesitated.

  He knew something about tomorrow. “What?” I said.

  He wouldn’t look at me. “May I get you another beer?” he asked.

  I pulled two twenties from my pocket, careful that the two men at the table couldn’t see me. I laid the bills on the bar with my hand covering them.

  “I need some information on Vanderkamp,” I said.

  He stared at the bills and then me. “I…can’t say anything, sir.”

  “It’s important,” I said.

  He shook his head and moseyed to the other end of the bar.

  So much for that. I slowly sipped my beer and hoped he would come over to me again, but he didn’t. More men entered the room, and he busied himself serving them. When I finished my beer, he hurried over, now suddenly attentive.

  “Would you like another?”

  I shook my head, but before I could open my mouth, he’d already moved away. Well, that hadn’t worked. I’d spooked him. I slid off the barstool and walked out to the foyer.

  “Have a good evening, sir,” the host said when I passed by.

  “Thank you.”

  I ambled outside and started back to the 4-Runner. Then I noticed a parking place kitty-corner from the club, and I had an idea. I dashed back to my car and drove around the block to the empty parking space. I parallel-parked the 4-Runner, then shut off the car. I was a couple of spaces down from the corner, with a perfect view of the club entrance. I turned on the radio, listened to my favorite ’80s music station, and waited. The night grew cool and dark, and I grew chilly.

  Finally, at 8:10, the blond-haired bartender emerged from the club entrance. He loosened his tie, lit a cigarette, and then strolled through the wrought-iron gate and crossed the street. I hopped out of the 4-Runner and followed him down the sidewalk. He walked two more blocks to a gray Honda Civic. I quickened my pace and caught up with him just as he pulled out his car keys.

  “Hey,” I said as I approached him.

  He whirled around, saw me and swore. “What do you want?” Much less polite than at the club.

  “Vanderkamp,” I said. “What do you know about him?”

  “Man.” His voice came out in a whine. “I can’t talk about club members.”

  I waved a hand around us. “C’mon. No one knows we’re talking.”

  “Get lost,” he said, emphasizing his anger with profanity.

  He started to open his car door. Without thinking, I stepped up to him and shoved him into the car, not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to get his attention. I put my face close to his.

  “Hey!” he said.

  “Listen,” I growled. “I don’t have time for games. You know something about Vanderkamp. What?”

  “All right!” He was soft, like a wet noodle, and he gave me no fight. “Vanderkamp’s a jerk. He thinks he’s better than everyone. I have to put up with him every Thursday night, acting so superior. But I can’t say anything or I’ll lose my job, and I need it. I’m putting myself through grad school with the money. And it’s good money.”

  “I get that,” I said. “But what about tomorrow? Why didn’t you want to talk about it?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that he’s not coming in tomorrow.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Every week, when he leaves, I say ‘I’ll see you next week.’ Only last week, when I said that, he shook his head and said he didn’t know if he’d be here this week. I asked him why and he got kind of quiet, and mumbled something about some trouble. Then he seemed to brush it off, and joked that he’d much rather be at the club.”

  I let him go. He spun around and glared at me.

  “You didn’t have to push me like that,” he snarled.

  “You weren’t talking.” I pulled the twenties from my pocket. “For your troubles.”

  He scowled at me, then finally reached out and took the money. “Leave me alone, okay?”

  “As long as you’re not lying to me.”

  “I’m not.” Back to the whine.

  He got in the Honda and slammed the door. A second later, he revved the engine, but since he was parallel-parked, he couldn’t exactly speed away. He carefully maneuvered the car out into the street. Then he flipped me the bird and peeled away. Somehow, I didn’t feel that threatened by him.

  I smiled as I walked ba
ck to the 4-Runner. At least I hadn’t smacked him around, like Bogie would have. Then I thought about tomorrow. What kind of trouble was Vanderkamp in? And what was he doing tomorrow night? I had no idea, which meant I’d need to follow him from his work. I dreaded the idea of another stakeout, and I hoped this one would lead me somewhere.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thursday morning Willie and I slept late, then enjoyed breakfast together. She had some errands to run, and I had some time before I left for my visit with Denise Hinton’s boyfriend, so I called Pete Hinton again. This time he answered.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked when he answered. “I’ve called, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear the phone.”

  “But you’re all right?”

  “Yes, but I have to go.”

  “Go where?” I said. “Wait, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Is Marshall coming after me?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but –”

  “Keep working,” he interrupted, “and I’ll call you back later.” And then the call ended.

  I swore, stared at the phone, then almost threw it at the wall. What was it with this guy?

  I sucked in a breath and let it out slowly to calm myself. I had never been more frustrated with a case – or a client – but he had paid me, so I would continue. But when I talked to Hinton, I was going to let him have it. With that on my mind, I left the condo.

  Glenn LeBlanc lived in a two-story brick home on a modest lot on Tenth and Steele Street in Congress Park. The houses here were older, but had become increasingly more valuable in Denver’s booming real estate market. Most people were at work now, so I was able to find a parking place in front of LeBlanc’s house.

  The street was quiet as I got out and headed up the walk. Then I noticed movement and saw a man with a wide-brimmed hat and work gloves tending a flower bed at the side of the house. I cut through the grass and over to him. He was planting geraniums with a small shovel, and he looked up when my shadow hit the ground in front of him.