An Act of Deceit: Book 2 of the Sarah Woods Mysteries (9 page)

     “Thank you so much.” I tore a page out of my notebook, jotted down Harding’s name and my contact info, and handed it to her.

     She smiled, took the paper, and walked me to the door. As I turned to walk away, she said “I know you don’t work for a magazine.”

     I turned and looked at her with raised eyebrows, my heart suddenly pounding like crazy. “Pardon me?”

     “You can quit the act. I’m not stupid, you know. Janet hired you, didn’t she?”

     I was at a complete loss as how to respond.

     “You don’t have to answer that. But when you report back to Janet, tell her I never slept with her husband, okay. Then tell her to leave me alone.”

     “Leave you alone? Janet Quinn has been harassing you?”

     “She called me the night Marty died … woke me up around midnight. She rambled on to such a degree, I thought she was drunk at first. I was about to hang up on her when she explained how Marty had been killed. Then she started accusing me of sleeping with him, as if I’d had something to do with his death. I was in shock. She called me a tramp and hung up on me.”

     “Had she ever hit you with accusations before Marty’s death?”

     “No. I have no idea how she got it into her head that Marty and I . . . it’s just ridiculous!”

     “Maybe Marty spoke fondly of you and Janet read it wrong. Have you heard from her since?”

     “Not until I got the letter about selling the restaurant.”

     “Look,” I said, feeling more confident now that the truth was out. “There may be a way to get yourself off the hook with Janet. There’s an exotic dancer named Tiffany that Marty had dated recently. Did you know about her?”

     Abigail let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know that name. I overheard a conversation Marty had one night with someone at the bar. Most of the customers had gone home, and he’d probably had one too many cocktails. He was going on and on about this Tiffany chick. I didn’t stick around to listen to the whole conversation.”

     “Did he say anything specific about her?”

     “You mean other than that she was the best fucking lay he’d ever had? His words, not mine.”

     “I think I get the picture.”

     Abigail shrugged. “Do you? I don’t think you understand.”

     “Make me understand.”

     “Marty was a smart guy, but when he started drinking his brains went out the window. The way he described having sex with his floozies was disgusting. I may not have liked Janet, but I thought she was a saint for keeping him around. But then again, she’s a bit crazy, in my opinion. I guess they were perfect for each other.”

     “If Marty loved playing the field so much, why did he ever get married?”

     “Well, for one thing, Janet has money.”

     “I see.” I tried desperately to remain deadpan, hoping to conceal my surprise at the revelation.

     “You don’t know much about your client, do you? Don’t you people do background checks before you agree to work for someone? It was Janet’s money that set Marty up in this restaurant fifteen years ago.”

     I nodded, taken aback by Abigail’s patronizing demeanor. It wasn’t helping my self-confidence. “Well, thank you again, Abigail. I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll see myself out.” As I started down the hall, I heard her office door slam shut.

      I saw Carter leaning against a wall near the exit. “How’d it go with Chef Philippe?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

     “Nice guy, but not very helpful. You?”

     “Good and bad, I guess.” I walked past Carter and headed outside toward his Buick.

     “What the hell happened?” he asked as I got inside.

     “She figured out Janet hired us.”

     “Did you admit to it?”

     “No, but believe me, she knew. How well do you know Janet?” I asked. “Do you perform background checks on your clients before you agree to take their jobs?”

     Carter leaned back and cocked his head. “What?”

     “Abigail told me that on the day of Marty’s death, Janet called her around midnight and accused her of sleeping with him. Abigail said Janet sounded drunk.”

     “Look, Sarah, I appreciate the effort you’re putting into this assignment, but we can’t change the rules of the game. Janet’s our client. She’s paying the bills and we’re gonna continue working this case. We need to follow up on Tiffany, figure out the connection to Harding, and see what we end up with. That’s the extent of our involvement, got it?”

     I felt like a child being reprimanded. “Okay, I get it,” I said, swallowing my pride. Something still bothered me about the whole Janet thing, but I decided to keep my mouth shut.

     “Let’s go get your rental car.” Carter’s voice returned to the usual friendly tone I was accustomed to as if he’d never lost his cool. “I need to head back into town once I drop you off. I’ve got an appointment for a haircut with Marty’s old barber. I thought I could kill two birds with one stone.” We headed north to the turnpike. Few words were exchanged during the ride.

* * *

     Less than an hour later, I had a set of keys belonging to a shiny black Toyota Camry.

     “Don’t forget to call that guy today,” Carter shouted over his shoulder as he headed back to his vehicle.

     “What guy?”

     “The guy whose name Tiffany gave you last night on the napkin. Remember?”

     “I’ll call him right now.” I’d forgotten all about Armand.

     I slid behind the wheel, set my purse on the passenger seat, and started the engine. My stomach growled and I pondered where to get some food.

     My cell phone buzzed. It was another text from Daniel, reminding me to pick him up at the airport at seven.

     “Have I ever forgotten to pick you up, numb nuts?” I said out loud. A pang of guilt followed my callous reaction. Daniel was nothing, if not consistent and predictable. There was a certain level of comfort in that.

     I located the napkin Tiffany had handed to me the night before. Who was Armand and why would she give me his number? What kind of name was Armand, anyways? It sounded phony, and probably wasn’t even his real name, whoever the hell he was. I punched the number into my phone. A pleasant male voice answered after three rings. “Is this Armand?”

     “Yes it is. And who am I speaking with?”

     “Uh . . . my name is Sarah. A friend gave me your number.” I giggled nervously. “Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed. She didn’t really tell me who you are.”

     “Oh, I see,” he replied.

     “Maybe this was a mistake,” I said after an uncomfortable silence. “I’m really sorry to have bothered you.” I was about to hang up when he spoke.

     “Who gave you my number?”

     “Tiffany. You know her, right?”

     “Yes, of course. I apologize. Please … let me explain my services.”

     “Uh, what do you mean by services?” I asked, assuming the worst.

     “The kind of services you get when you hire a male escort.”

     “That’s what I … uh, I mean, of course.” I felt my cheeks flush.

     I heard him laugh on the other end. “I provide companionship to discriminating women for an evening, a day, and sometimes even an entire weekend.”

     “So you’re a male prostitute?” I blurted out.

     “That’s not the term we use.” He sounded a bit pissed-off. “Accepting money for sex is prostitution, which is illegal. A male escort is paid for his time and companionship. I offer women a no-strings-attached boyfriend experience, if you will.”

     His sexy, masculine voice, coupled with his little spiel, had images of a shirtless Adonis sporting a five o’clock shadow dancing through my mind.

     “That’s . . . very interesting.” I tried to sound respectful. “How much do you charge for your services?”

     “Three hundred an hour, an overnight stay is one thousand, and a weekend, three thousand,” he said matter-of-factly.

     My eyes practically popped out of my head. “Oh my, I suppose your clients are all very successful women. Unfortunately, I’m not. Uh, do you give discounts?” As soon as I said it, I realized how offensive it must have sounded.      

     “My, my, aren’t you charming?” he replied. He began to laugh again.

     “Listen, I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Even if I had the money, it’s … well, it’s just not my thing.”

     “Wait a minute,” he said quickly. “I’m wondering why Tiffany would have given you my number if you weren’t in the market, so to speak.”

     “Oh, she knew I was having boyfriend problems. I guess she thought you would take care of me, or something.” I touched my hand to my cheek. I was burning up.

     “I could, you know?”

     “You could what?” I asked.

     “Take care of you.”

     My mouth felt dry and I was at a loss for words. “Well, umm … that’s very nice, but like I said, it’s not really my thing.”

     “What if I gave you the first night for free?”

     I hesitated, not because I was considering it, but because I was completely taken off guard. “Look, I’m sure you’re a sweet guy, but I could never spend the night with a complete stranger.” No sooner had the words escaped my mouth when it occurred to me that perhaps I should set up a date with Armand. Maybe I could get him to tell me more about Tiffany. “Although,” I quickly added, “maybe we could meet for coffee to see if there’s a spark and take it from there?” This brought yet another wave of laughter to my ear.

     “Okay, that sounds reasonable,” he said. “I could meet you this afternoon. There’s a quiet little bakery on the corner of Whipple and Main. I’ll meet you at four and we’ll see about this so-called spark.”

     “Okay, I’ll meet you there. Wait. How will I know it’s you?”

     “I’ll be wearing a navy corduroy jacket.”

     As he hung up, I realized I was breathing heavily. I sat back and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to imagine what it would be like to have sex with a total stranger. After a moment, I decided this was not the time or the place for a sexual fantasy. There was work to be done. I decided to call Carter. He’d no doubt find it amusing that my mystery man was a male escort.

     “Hey there,” I said when Carter picked up. “Get this … Armand is a male escort.”

     “Sweet,” Carter said with a chuckle. “Did you book a date with him?”

     “Of course I did. By the way, can I borrow a thousand bucks?”

     When he managed to stop laughing, he asked, “Is that all? Wow, he’s cheap.”

     “I know. What a bargain, huh? I’m meeting with him this afternoon.”

     When Carter didn’t respond immediately, I could only imagine what he was thinking. I finally heard him clear his throat. Are you serious?” he asked.

     “Yes, but not to worry. This one’s a freebie.”

     “What . . . uh . . . okay. Look, I’m next in line at the barber shop. Can I call you back?”

     “I’d rather you continue to call me Sarah. Bye.”

* * *

     With time to kill, I stopped at an organic grocery store and got a bowl of leek soup. It was delicious. I washed it down with a bottle of Perrier and glanced at my watch. I was craving something more; something sweet. I decided to swing by the bakery where I was to meet Armand later on.

     Lena’s Italian Bakery
was easy to find. I pulled up and could smell the baked goods from clear across the street. It wasn’t lost on me as to what an interesting place it was to meet a stranger and discuss a casual weekend of pure, adulterated sex. I suspect Armand had chosen it by design.

     I think I gained ten pounds just walking through the door. Sugar, chocolate, butter, and vanilla permeated the air. I formed a list in my mind of all the goodies I’d be leaving with. Lavishly decorated cupcakes, cookies, and other titillating treats filled the glass display cases. I couldn’t imagine spending a thousand dollars a night to have sex with a stranger, but I could certainly spend all of that on the decadent treats before me.

     My gaze fell upon the man in front of me who was paying the cashier for his coffee. By the look of his strong, lean frame, my guess was he probably didn’t make a habit of sampling the deserts. When he turned to take a seat at one of the small tables nearby, I saw his face and shaved head.

     I gasped.

     “Hey, it’s you!” I stormed up to the table, pointer finger extended. “You’re the guy from last night.”

     He eyed me curiously, then stood and motioned for me to join him. “Well, well, what a coincidence.” He laughed softly. “You’re Sarah?”

     “What the hell is going on here?” I tried to keep my voice in check, but my anger and confusion induced a modicum of panic. Then I noticed the dark blue corduroy jacket. “Wait a minute. You’re Armand?”

     “At your service, my lady,” he said, winking.

     “You’ve got to be kidding. You . . . you’re the guy who took my keys and stole my car last night.” I leaned down and looked squarely into his eyes.

     “Excuse me? What is it you’re accusing me of?”

     “You bought me a drink at the club and then you stole my--”

     “Hold on,” he said, interrupting me with his pointer finger extended high above his head.
Yes, I bought you a drink, but I can assure you, I stole nothing from you. Not your keys and certainly not your car.”

     “Well how do you explain the fact that you disappeared right after you bought me that drink?”

      “I left the club because you snubbed me right after I bought you that drink.”

     “Okay, sure. Just tell me where my car is and maybe I won’t press charges.”

     For some reason that made him laugh. “Oh, please. You’re hilarious,” he said, eyes bright with amusement. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you have a seat, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, and we’ll try to figure out what happened to your car together, okay?”

     I was more confused than ever and unsure how to respond. Maybe he wasn’t the one who took my car after all. I sat and put my head in my hands. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . it’s upsetting to have--”

     “Just take a moment. How do you like your coffee, Sarah?”