Egrets, I've Had a Few (Deluded Detective Book 2) Read online

  I reminded myself that just because I had delusions of tiger scratches two months ago, spotting a Tustin Tigers bumper sticker probably had nothing to do with my accident. Coincidences often were just random events.

  I opened the Tustin Tigers peewee baseball team website for the one hundred and thirty-second time. I checked newly posted photos for anything I might recognize. Nothing.

  Maybe I should attend a game. Although I could not imagine anything more horrible than watching small children flailing at balls and fumbling grounders, I looked at their calendar. Saturday’s schedule startled me. They were playing the East Placentia Egrets.

  Did locked memories about the Placentia team cause me to hallucinate egrets? I accessed the East Placentia Egrets’ site. Again I didn’t recognize anyone from the posted photographs. I checked their history file and scrolled through past game calendars.

  My heart hammered double-time when I reached the day of my accident twenty months ago. The Tustin Tigers had played the East Placentia Egrets.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A lesson in French

  Two months of lurking on the Tustin Tigers website almost put me on a predators’ list, so I decided to wait till Saturday to continue my research. I wished I could talk to Aunt Ivy about the coincidence of the two peewee teams playing on the day of my accident. When I asked her about the Tustin Tigers two months ago, she said she’d never heard of them.

  Even I knew that I shouldn’t call her now about the East Placentia Egrets. As pastor of a small church in Whittier, she’d be with the grieving family. I’d call tomorrow.

  Since they’d appeared, I’d noticed a correlation between thinking about the accident and the number of egrets in my home. My psychiatrist, the one I didn’t talk to about the delusions, encouraged me to not think about the accident that I couldn’t remember. The accident that caused hallucinations, odd impulsive behaviors, headaches and occasional blackouts, all of which led to losing my teaching job at the high school. So here I was now playing detective with occasional forays into crime initiated by Dante.

  Don’t think about it? Uh huh.

  I counted six egrets milling in the living room and dining room, three on the stairs, and two in the kitchen. That included the one standing at my elbow, flicking glances at the computer screen and at me.

  More than usual. Okay. No more thinking about the accident.

  I had nothing to do and no distractions. Maybe I should climb the power pole near the freeway. I checked my email and office voicemail to ease that itch. No new queries about my investigation services. No requests for fortunetelling sessions to redirect irksome youths.

  My attention strayed to the case file. I sighed. I would hate it, but looking for a teenager might distract me and chase away a few egrets.

  After I located the uncle’s phone number, I told him I’d take the case and to drop off the deposit at my office. He countered with an offer to take me to lunch and hand me the check then. For the free meal and the opportunity to learn more about Tyler, I agreed. The fact that Rick Jarrell had brilliant green eyes and no wedding ring was immaterial.

  After reviewing my notes, I made phone calls and scheduled three face-to-face meetings with witnesses and family. I also called Devlin for transport to the meetings. Our late afternoon session wouldn’t interfere with football practice, but he was disappointed he wouldn’t miss any classes.

  An hour later, I called for a taxi to the restaurant. I wore a silk blouse Ivy’d given me last Christmas and wool trousers carefully brushed clean of her ugly cat’s hair. I made a stylish entrance into the French country café.

  “Miss Graff?”

  “Please call me Pam, Mr. Jarrell.” Inhaling his earthy scent and feeling my hand warm in a handshake that lingered, I slid into the chair opposite him and tried not to stare. Sleek with Slavic features, his sultry eyes assessed me as well before dropping to the menus the hostess provided.

  “I go by Rick. Shall we order first?”

  I nodded, picked the daily special off the first page and closed the menu. My quick selection gave me time to appreciate the charming bistro tables, the wide windows bordered with bougainvillea, the subtle scent of sweet butter and crusty bread… and time to study Rick. He read the menu from beginning to end before he loitered over the seasonal entrées.

  Richard Jarrell was an Analytical.

  To perfect my skills at spotting and fleecing victims, Dante had me study personality types. Classes for my teaching credential had included the same exercises, although the university substituted the word “student” for victim and “instruct” for con.

  Analytical personality types responded best to facts and figures, an easy approach for me: a former Physics instructor. I relaxed in my well-cushioned chair.

  When Rick closed his menu, the waitress appeared at the table. I ordered a mushroom artichoke quiche with pear compote. Rick ordered ratatouille with a garden salad.

  The waitress snapped her fingers at the busboy for my iced tea and Rick’s glass of house wine, and then we were alone again.

  He handed me the advance, which I, being a classy dame, pocketed without examining. He assessed me with those eyes again.

  “When will you start working the case?”

  “Already did.” I played with the butter knife, thinking it made me look more dangerous, which might have worked with an Expressive personality but failed to impress Jarrell.

  “I’ve read the police case file and …”

  He interrupted. “How’d you get the police file?”

  I waved my hand. “Private investigators know how to work the system. This afternoon and evening, I’ll be seeing the parents, a person-of-interest the police interrogated, and a former friend of your nephew’s.”

  His heavy brows twitched when I said nephew. Interesting. I didn’t know what it meant, but the reaction indicated something.

  “Don’t mention me when you talk to his folks, okay?” He spoke in an abrupt way, full lips pressed in a grim line.

  Interesting again. “May I ask why?” I delicately twirled the butter knife.

  “I don’t get on well with my brother-in-law, and my sister takes his part. If you tell them I hired you, they’ll shut down.”

  Good thing I hadn’t said anything to Mrs. Hinshaw when I made the appointment.

  “Tell them…”

  This time I interrupted. “I have my own cover stories, Mr. Jarrell.”

  He flashed me that charming smile again. “It’s Rick.”

  With a flourish, the waitress waved her trainee to deliver our lunch, circled the table to top off our drinks, and vanished after we assured her of our complete delight with the presentation.

  “Tell me about Tyler’s relationship with his family.” I tucked into my quiche, and its layered flavors so beguiled me that I had to suppress whimpers of joy.

  “I wasn’t around that much.” Since he stared at his lunch, I couldn’t tell if his wariness was directed at me or at the ratatouille.

  “I’m interested in your observations. Any anecdotes you’d care to share? It’d help me not to go in cold.”

  Case files can be comprehensive, but Jarrell wouldn’t know that. According to the record, the police hadn’t interviewed him. As extended family, his viewpoint might be more objective than Tyler’s parents. That he had a mellow voice that did curious things to my bones was an added bonus.

  He toyed with his garden salad. “As I said, he seemed like an outsider. His parents seemed more interested in his sisters. He did geek stuff and played lacrosse which they didn’t understand. The girls enjoyed dolls and dance classes, which bored him. From what I could tell, what little time he was at home, he stayed in his room.”

  As an observer, Mr. Jarrell wasn’t very keen. He just described 98% of all teenaged boys. Time to appeal to his analytical nature.

  “Did you ever see bruises on your nephew? Did his sisters seem afraid of him?”

  Instead of looking shocked, Rick stared at me shrew
dly. “His parents didn’t beat him. That’d take too much energy. And he didn’t molest the girls. He may have been troubled and mostly absent, but he was an ordinary kid.”

  That’s what most people say until they find mutilated rodents in the trash. I returned Rick’s look with an assessing one of my own. He hadn’t told any family stories or something specific to explain his comments. He also hadn’t called his nephew by name. From a teacher’s experience, that usually signaled one of two things.

  “How many times had you seen Tyler in the months before he disappeared?” I asked.

  His gaze dropped to the ratatouille. “None. I told you that I wasn’t close to the family.”

  I thought of the check he’d given me and the checks he’d written for his nephew’s birthdays. Some people used money to pretend they cared when they weren’t capable of actual relationships.

  Or … perhaps he stayed remote from the family for another reason. “Were you ever close to your nephew, Rick?”

  Avoiding the eggplant, he dipped into the rest of the ratatouille. “Can’t say I knew him well. I work long hours and, like I said before, I don’t get along with my brother-in-law.”

  Why would anyone order ratatouille if they didn’t like eggplant?

  I concentrated on the reasons for the rift with his sister’s family. Uncles who molest are big on detective shows and can be child predators in real life too.

  “Were you closer to him when he was younger?”

  “My job requires a lot of overtime. I barely knew the kid.” Interesting that he now wouldn’t meet my gaze. Also that he’d abandoned his entrée and attacked the salad like a starving man.

  “Care to explain why you don’t get along with your brother-in-law?”

  He shrugged. “My sister could have done better than him, and I told him so when they were dating. He still holds that against me.”

  Strike one for Jarrell in the relationship department. Not that it bothered me. Since the accident, I often spoke out of turn.

  He waved his fork. “I thought of something. A story about the boy. His mother told me about it.”

  Again, weird that he didn’t say “my sister” or call her by name. The man had really distanced himself from the family.

  My mouth being full, I nodded encouragingly.

  “At a company picnic, his littlest sister stepped into the street and the kid, Tyler, jumped in front of a car to save her. Hurt his shoulder doing it but the girl was fine.”

  “A heroic type then? Doesn’t sound like a troubled kid to me.”

  “He stepped up when it mattered.” Jarrell’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. He kept it turned from me so I didn’t see who called. Yeah, I looked. I always did.

  “We should wrap this up,” Jarrell said. He waved at the waitress and handed her a credit card. “Need anything else from me?”

  I dropped my napkin on my clean plate and shook my head. I’d wrung the man dry and knew little more about Tyler than when the meal started. What I’d learned about Jarrell bothered me for a couple of reasons.

  Even if he’d hired me to find his nephew, he’d remain on my suspect list. He could have killed the boy. Even though Rick Jarrell had hired me to find Tyler, that didn’t exonerate him. Killers grow impatient if the body isn’t found and sometimes hired a professional to hurry up the process. He hadn’t offered any hints where the body could be, but that might come later if he thought I took too long.

  The second thing that bothered me about Jarrell lay on his plate. Why had he ordered something he didn’t like? I might date a murder suspect, but the wasted eggplant killed the prospect for me. By the waitress’s expression as she surveyed the uneaten pile, I knew the French would agree.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Between figs and pizza

  I waited in a fig tree across the street from my condo till I sighted Devlin’s black Mustang convertible cruise down the street. I pocketed a few ripe brown Turkey figs that I would dust with feta cheese for a snack tonight, and then I used the Unsafe to Climb sign to drop from the low branch.

  I approached his car from the rear. He tapped impatiently on the horn just as I reached the passenger door. At my “Hello,” he yelped and slewed around in his seat.

  “Geez, Ms. Graff. Don’t sneak up on a guy like that.”

  I had several comebacks. For example: If you’d turned off your engine, you would have both heard me and saved gas. Or, I was testing your personal safety skills and you failed. Instead I entered Chris Dutton’s address in the Mustang’s navigation system. Why waste my time?

  I offered Devlin a fig. Preferring protein bars and pop tarts, he declined.

  I decided to interview Tyler’s buddy from middle school first mainly because he was the only one home before 5 p.m. Our other two stops, including the cops’ person of interest, had to be after five.

  The Duttons moved to Diamond Bar in the summer after the boys graduated from junior high. Tyler had no close friends after that. According to his parents, Tyler lost touch with Chris by the time they started their sophomore year. The case file corroborated their last contact after a short conversation with Chris and his mother. Chris’s statements seemed forced and deflective. I wanted to watch his face when I asked the questions.

  As we parked in front of an aging ranch house off Brea Canyon Road, I saw a kid on the front lawn moodily roll a football between his large hands.

  “Chris Dutton?” I stepped from the Mustang.

  “Miss Graff?” He guessed, but then his gaze skated past me. He sized up Devlin as my sometimes-chauffeur shut the driver’s door.

  I nodded, but I’d lost Chris’s attention.

  “Chris Dutton?” Devlin sounded incredulous. “No way. You play for Carbon Canyon Tech, right?”

  Chris straightened shyly. “Can’t believe you know me, man. You’re a legend.”

  I shifted impatiently. Though I recognized the benefits of being part of Team Devlin in getting Chris to talk about Tyler, first I had to get them to stop talking about football.

  I opened my mouth, but I’d lost control of the interview. “Hey, let’s toss the ball around,” Devlin said. “You don’t mind, Ms. Graff, right?”

  I started to say that I did mind, but as Devlin passed me, he dropped me a wink. So I sat on the porch step while the boys “tossed the ball around,” trading stories and insults. Such displays invariably bore me, did so even before the accident that considerably shortened my attention span. Instead I surveyed the neighborhood, and then I studied the sky. I saw a line of large white birds skimming through the hills to the east. Huh. If I only saw egrets when thinking about my accident, why had they appeared now? Was a neurological event imminent?

  I might have slipped into a funk, but the boys called a halt to their ball throwing. As they trooped past me and into the house, they stank of sweat and male pride.

  Chris yelled over his shoulder, “Come on in, Miss Graff. We have lemonade.”

  Ten minutes of exercise seemed to also necessitate food. Chris levered an extra large frozen pizza into the oven. The kitchen sported brand new appliances and a large tiled island in the center of the kitchen. Apparently Chris’s parents followed the same philosophy I did. Why spend money to improve the curb appeal of your house when you could improve the most important room in the house.

  Hydrated and still flushed, Chris said affably, “So you want to talk about Tyler Hinshaw.”

  It wasn’t a question. We settled on stools around the kitchen island with a pitcher of heavily iced lemonade. From the oven, a sausage and onion pizza scented the air. Chris glanced at Devlin who only grinned at him and pilfered peanuts from a jar on the counter.

  I pulled a notebook from my tote bag. “You told the police that you hadn’t talked to him in about three years. Is that right?”

  “That’s what I told them.” He’d gone unreadable as he picked up his glass of lemonade and took a long draft.

  Interesting. “So you stayed in contact?” I asked.r />
  He glanced at Devlin. My driver nodded encouragingly. “You can tell her. She’s cool.”

  High praise and it worked. “My parents didn’t want me talking to Ty after he started getting into fights. So I told them I quit calling him, but we still talked.”

  “When did you two last have contact?” I asked.

  “He came to a game a few months ago.” Chris skated a glance at Devlin. “East Chino. We lost.”

  Devlin shrugged. “They got a tackle I seen take down six guys.”

  Heartened, Chris turned to me. “Ty told me he’d gotten into trouble …”

  I sat up alertly at both the word “trouble” and Chris’s sudden silence. If Chris saw Tyler a few months ago, then Tyler hadn’t entirely disappeared twenty months ago as reported.

  “Where has he been for all these months?” Hearing the amplified volume of the words, I cringed at what Kirsten called “my teacher voice,” but didn’t bother to soften it.

  Chris didn’t look at Devlin this time. His gaze remained steady on me. “He crashes at a couple of places. At least he did a few months ago. One of them was behind an El Salvadoran restaurant in Santa Ana.”

  “I know the place,” I said. My office was only a few blocks from there.

  “Yeah? Well, there’s like a shed in a backyard across the alley. Chris would stay there when things got rough at the apartment he rented with four other guys.”

  “Why didn’t he go home? You said he’d gotten into trouble?”

  Chris started to say something when the oven timer buzzed. Devlin jumped, then grinned sheepishly as Chris removed the charred pizza. He laid it on a wooden platter, efficiently sliced it with a meat cleaver, and dealt out paper plates and paper towels like a croupier.

  I waited till the boys loaded their plates, and took a single toxic slice for myself.

  “Did Tyler leave home because of a problem there?” I surgically removed the charred edges, the sausage, and most of the greasy onions. “Did he say anything about his uncle bothering him?”

  Devlin shot me a surprised look. Chris’s sudden attention was more worrisome.