A cabbie dressed in black from head to toe hopped out and opened my door. He had a clean-shaven oversized head and a moustache that trailed down on both sides into a goatee. He gave my bandage a good long look, but he didn’t say a word about it.
“Where to lady?”
“University Avenue, across from the Riverdale Shopping Plaza.”
He nodded and started to drive.
The cabbie took the back way through Provo Canyon. In the fall the amber and burnt orange shades of the leaves lit up the mountainside with an incandescent array of color. We wound on down past the double cataract waterfalls at Bridal Veil Falls. Most of the year they offered a magnificent display of cascading water that showered down into the Provo River. But it was winter, and the water had turned to spiky tentacles of ice.
The office of Marc Benjamin, PI looked a lot more like a renovated old house. It was small but functional. The walls were white and without a stitch of adornment.
“Like it?”
A man approached me from behind.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“I painted yesterday, it’s called Navajo White.”
He said Navajo like nav-ee-hoe. It looked like plain, ordinary white to me.
“Are you Sloane?”
I nodded.
He wiped his soiled hand on his oil-stained jeans and then offered it to me. I wasn’t inclined to take it, but for the sake of his gesture, I shook it in a loose manner.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “I just loaded some hay into my truck.”
“You are Marc Benjamin, right?” I said.
He tipped his hat toward me and said, “At your service, ma’am.”
We walked toward the back of the room toward a solitary desk that had two metal folding chairs, one on each side. He took his cowboy hat off and set it on the side of the desk.
“What can I do you for?”
“Have you been in the business long?” I said.
“Not really, this is just something I do on the side.”
I suspected as much. His eyes fixed on the main attraction around my head.
“What happened, if you don’t mind me askin?”
“Bull fight,” I said. “The bull won.”
He laughed.
“I wondered if you could give me some information about one of your clients,” I said.
“That’s preeve-il-eged information. I can’t give out stuff like that out.”
“I would like to ask you a few questions about Charlotte Halliwell,” I said.
His crooked smile dematerialized.
“Why are you asking about her?”
“You do know she’s dead?” I said.
The revelation startled him.
“No ma’am, can’t say as I did. When did it happen?”
“A little over a week ago.”
“Charlotte sold my dad some horse property over in Heber Valley last year. That’s how we met. After that we sort of became friends. She planned to buy one of our mares this year. A few months back she came out to the ranch. She said she rode as a kid and she wanted to get back to the simple things in life.”
“I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but I believe she was murdered.”
He sighed.
“How did it happen?”
I told him.
“Who in their right mind would do that to such a nice person?”
“That’s what I hoped you could tell me. I need to know why she hired you.”
He scratched the back of his head.
“I’m a PI myself so I understand your loyalty. In our business it helps when we can pool information together. And in this case, we all want the same thing, right?”
It wasn’t the best pep talk I ever gave, but it wasn’t the worst either. He pondered it for a moment.
“Truth be told the kind of research I usually do is of the genealogical kind. I only took this on as a favor to Charlotte.”
He stood up from his chair and walked over to a plastic bin in the corner of the room and dug through some files.
“Charlotte came to me about three months ago. She thought her fiancé had another lady friend in his life.”
“And did he?” I said.
He pulled out the same photos that I came across at Charlotte’s house.
“There were others alright. That man bamboozled every woman in town from the looks of it.”
“How did she react when you told her?” I said.
“That’s the interesting part. She thanked me for the information, but she didn’t cry or even act like it bothered her much. I got the feeling she’d suspected it for some time and had already come to terms with it.”
“Did you witness Parker abuse the women in any way?” I said.
He shook his head.
“I only tailed him for two days. Once I gave Charlotte the news she didn’t want me to go any farther.”
“Did you speak to her again?”
He nodded.
“We talked a few weeks after that.”
“What about?” I said.
“She called and said she cancelled the wedding.”
“Did she say how Parker reacted to the news?” I said.
“He denied it at first, the women I mean, but then she showed him a copy of the photos. There wasn’t much he could say after that.”
“Could I get a copy of the file?”
“I can scan the pages if you like.”
He went into another room and a few minutes later he returned and handed me a manila envelope.
“You know, I planned to ask Charlotte on a date, but I thought she needed a little time first, you know to heal and everything. Now I wished I had. If I can do anything else, just holler, and I hope you catch the jerk that did this.”
He placed his hat back on his head and tipped it toward me and said, “You have a good day now.”
CHAPTER 30
Nick stood at the bar when I walked in and gave me the I’m-not-very-happy-with-you face.
“I thought we agreed you needed to stay home and rest,” he said.
“You agreed, I didn’t.”
He frowned.
“I’m sorry; I needed to visit with someone. It was important.”
“I called your cell,” he said, “several times.”
Lord Berkeley bolted around the corner and I knelt down to greet him.
“I bet I lost service in the canyon,” I said. “My phone doesn’t show you called.”
“You need rest,” he said.
“I’ll go straight to bed if that will make you happy.”
“I’m being serious. You’re in no condition. And besides that, we don’t know who’s after you.”
“We don’t know someone is after me. Maybe it was the files they wanted. And I’m not a child; I don’t need to be parented by you or anyone else.”
He wasn’t amused, but I recognized now was not the time for a debate.
“Alright,” I said, “I got the message. Pajama time it is.”
I changed into a tank top and flannel bottoms. It wasn’t the sexiest outfit in the world, but I was comfortable. When I walked back into the kitchen, Nick emerged from the pantry with one can in each hand.
“What will it be then,” he said, “chicken noodle or creamy chicken with rice.”
“Neither.”
He shook his head.
“Don’t turn your nose up at me, woman.”
He reached into a brown paper sack that rested on a shelf next to the fridge.
“Well then, how about some sweet and sour chicken,” he said.
“I thought I smelled something good.”
Nick dangled a container in front of my face.
“I will give you this entire box of chicken and throw in a side of sumptuous cream-filled wontons if you agree not to run off without telling me first. At least until we catch whoever hurt you,” he said.