The Wife of Riley Page 3

  “Angela’s the mother?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Oz’s aunt sipped her wine and gazed at me over the crystal rim. “And I want you to find her for me.”

  “Is she lost?” I asked.

  “She’s supposed to be dead.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “That’s what we were led to believe six years ago.”

  “This is a pretty cold case,” I said.

  “It was. One week ago, Angela’s sister saw her in Paris.”

  I leaned forward and poured her some more wine. This was going to be interesting.

  When Calpurnia finished her story, she excused herself to go check on her pizziola. I sat back and watched the shadows extend across the lawn to where Oz was playing fetch with a pair of black Labradors. I ran over the facts in my mind while trying to figure out how in the world I was going to find Angela Riley without anyone knowing I was looking for her—in Paris, of all places. I loved Paris, the city of lights, of love, of art and passion. But why there? Why couldn’t Angela Riley show up in someplace convenient like Jeff City or Hannibal? Of course, she wouldn’t do that. That would be too easy and finding Phillip Riley’s wife wasn’t going to be easy.

  Phillip Riley was the long-time accountant of the Fibonacci family as his father was before him and his grandfather before that. Six years ago, he’d been a happily married man and father of three. His wife, Angela, was pretty and, in Calpurnia’s estimation, unremarkable. She was a stay-at-home mother, belonged to two book clubs, volunteered at her kids’ schools, and coached soccer until October six years ago. Angela took a weekend trip to Chicago with her sister, Gina. They went to museums, saw a Broadway show, and went to bars. That’s where Angela got into trouble. It turns out that Phillip Riley wasn’t so happily married. While getting drunk on Long Island iced teas with Gina, Angela met a man. After about ten minutes, she was making out with him in a corner. The description was vague—five foot ten, brown hair, square jaw. Angela called him Tom. No last name.

  The bar was hopping that night. Some sports team had won something and the party was raging. Around one in the morning Angela said she was going to dance with Tom. She left Gina at the table and was never seen again. The cops couldn’t even figure out what exit she left by or if she actually left with Tom. She stepped away from the table and vanished. There was no body and no trace other than her stiletto. One shoe had been found in the alley behind the bar. She never came back to the hotel and she left her purse with Gina. The cops concluded that she left with Tom. He forced her into a car and he killed her, although they had no concrete proof of that. Of course, what woman would run off in the middle of the night with one shoe and no money?

  Phillip hired a private investigator, Harvey Spoon. According to Calpurnia, he tried to hire my dad, but Dad turned him down flat. Instead, he hired Spoon, a man I’d heard of and Dad respected. Spoon found nothing. Angela hadn’t used her social security number or accessed any accounts. Lots of leads turned up, thanks to the reward Phillip and the Fibonaccis offered, but none of the leads panned out.

  After two years of fruitless searching, Phillip gave up, accepted that Angela was most likely dead, and began the long wait until he could have her officially declared so.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. Two weeks before Oz showed up in my apartment, Gina, Angela’s sister, was in Paris having lunch with her third husband on Rue Cler when she saw Angela. Or she thought she saw Angela walk by with a man. Gina was sitting in Tribeca, saw the woman, but was unable to get out of the restaurant in time to catch her. Calpurnia clearly didn’t believe that. She thought that if she saw her long-dead sister, she’d find a way. She hadn’t been to Tribeca. I had. Tribeca’s tables were tightly wedged together and the place was usually packed at lunchtime. It takes time and agility to get out and Gina didn’t have time. She did manage to run down the street and take some pictures with her phone as the woman got in a cab.

  I compared the phone shots with the family pictures. Angela had curly hair in the family pictures, but the woman in the phone shot had straight hair with a reddish tinge. Gina only got a couple of profile shots and the profile worked, but it wasn’t distinctive. The woman’s build was similar, five foot five, small breasted with wide hips. But I realized that the phone shot could be a photo of Angela Riley or one of a million other women.

  The French doors opened and Calpurnia came back out. This time, she was accompanied by a man. He was her age with the same silky brown hair and wide mouth. He smiled when he saw me and lots of laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. He had to be Calpurnia’s twin, Cosmo. He was supposed to be the head of the family, but, for whatever reason, a woman had taken the mantle from him.

  “Miss Watts,” he said with a deeper accent than his sister. “How nice to finally meet you.”

  I stood up and shook his offered hand. It was warm and surprisingly callused. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

  We sat down and Cosmo took a drink of Calpurnia’s wine before saying, “Do you know who I am?”

  “I assume you’re Cosmo Fibonacci, Calpurnia’s twin,” I said.

  “Correct. I hear you’re handling the Riley matter for us.”

  “I guess so.”

  He frowned a tiny bit and then quickly covered the disapproval. “You’re not enthusiastic about the favor my sister has asked of you?”

  “It’s not that. I’ll do it. I just…I don’t know how I’m going to prove this one way or the other.”

  Cosmos laughed the same musical laugh as his sister. “I don’t know either, but I’m sure you’ll do your best.”

  “I will. I always do. But I have some questions.”

  “Go ahead,” said Calpurnia, taking her glass from Cosmo.

  “How come Phillip isn’t here? He’s the husband.”

  Calpurnia and Cosmo exchanged a look.

  “Very perceptive,” said Calpurnia. “Phillip doesn’t believe Gina.”

  “You don’t seem convinced either, but here I am.”

  “Gina came to me after trying to get Phillip involved. She asked me a favor. I’m granting it.”

  “Phillip doesn’t want Angela back?” I asked.

  She swirled her wine. “Angela will be declared dead in nine months. He has another woman and he will marry her when that happens. Phillip made his peace with this years ago.”

  Cosmo shook his head. “He made his peace with what the cops say happened. Angela got murdered by the man that she was fooling around with. That was bad enough.”

  I drained my glass and Cosmo poured me the rest of the bottle. “I see. If Angela is alive, she left him and abandoned her three children.”

  “Exactly,” said Cosmo. “He’s done with her, one way or another.”

  “Do you think she would’ve abandoned her children?” I asked.

  They both shook their heads and Calpurnia said, “Not for a minute. She was a devoted mother.”

  “You should know that Gina is bi-polar,” said Cosmo. “She’s been medicated for years for that and for depression since Angela’s disappearance.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s wrong,” I said.

  “No,” said Calpurnia. “But it’s a factor.”

  “It is. How thoroughly did the cops and Harvey go through Angela’s finances?”

  “With a fine-toothed comb,” said Cosmo. “If she’s alive, she took nothing with her. Not a cent.”

  “There were no rumors of an affair, someone who might’ve financed an escape?”

  “No,” said Calpurnia. “She and Gina were extremely close. She would’ve known.”

  I rolled my glass between my palms. “You know she’s most likely dead.”

  “I understand that. When can you leave?”

  “I have a week left in my current job. After that. I’m thinking next Friday or Saturday, if I can figure out how to swing this last-minute trip.”

  Cosmo took a fat envelope and a cellphone out of his b
reast pocket. “This should help.” He slid them across the table. The envelope was filled with hundreds. Several thousand dollars were in there, money I could definitely use, but couldn’t accept.

  “I can’t take that,” I said.

  “I thought you’d say that,” said Calpurnia.

  Cosmo shrugged and tucked the envelope back in his pocket.

  Goodbye, sweet cash.

  Calpurnia pushed the cellphone closer to me. “You need this and don’t say no. It’s non-negotiable.”

  “Untraceable?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s loaded with my private number and Cosmo’s. I expect frequent updates.”

  I took the cellphone, finished my wine, and looked at the pictures again. A nondescript woman wearing a flowered sundress in Paris. Great. That’s not hard at all. On the other hand, the man she was with, he wasn’t so bland. Tall, silver-haired with a large, hawkish nose. He wore white linen cropped trousers, a silky grey polo shirt with a light navy sweater over it and a pair of pointy loafers with no socks. He couldn’t be an American. No way.

  “Miss Watts?” asked Calpurnia. “You look like a girl with a plan.”

  “I’m not going to look for Angela in Paris,” I said.

  “No?”

  I held up the cab picture. “I’m going to look for him.”

  Chapter Four

  I didn’t even make it through my front door before I smelled it. Stank onion pizza. It was in my apartment. I banged my head on the door, eliciting a yell.

  Uncle Morty whipped open the door. “What’re you doing?”

  “I was coming home. Now I’m rethinking my position.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Why aren’t you at Mom and Dad’s?” I asked.

  Morty grimaced. “Your cousins are there, planning that gawd awful wedding. Bridget asked my damn opinion on the groom’s cake. What the hell do I care?”

  I walked in and saw not one but two pizzas on my coffee table, along with two beer bottles, cheesy puffs, pork rinds, and his laptop. Uncle Morty had settled in. I’d have to use a cattle prod to get the man out.

  “So how’d you get in? You couldn’t pick the lock earlier,” I said, opening the window and waving the stink out.

  “Chuck let me in.”

  “He’s here?” I headed for the bedroom.

  “Nah. He was dropping something off for you. I could’ve picked that wimpy lock of yours given enough time,” he said.

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “Wait. Did you say he dropped something off?”

  “Some contraption. Claims it makes coffee.”

  I groaned. Not another so-called present. Chuck and I hadn’t been dating that long, but he’d proved to be what my mother called generous. I called it bothersome at best. Who needed an ice cream maker and a gelato maker? Not me. I, also, didn’t need an espresso maker, a Keurig, and a Mr. Coffee.

  “What’re you making that face for?” asked Uncle Morty. “The sap loves you. He brings you stuff.”

  The stuff Chuck brought me reminded me of Mom’s evil Siamese bringing her dead mice. She appreciated the gesture, but then she had to do something with the tiny corpses.

  “I don’t have the space,” I said. “My apartment isn’t that big.”

  Especially with you in it.

  Uncle Morty dropped onto the sofa, making it creak. “You should be grateful.”

  “He brought me a tap and die set.”

  “What’re you going to do with that?”

  “I don’t even know what tap and dies are for. I put it with my shoes. Where’d he go?” I asked.

  “Ferguson. Another riot is shaping up.”

  I gave him a look. “You mean protest.”

  “Whatever,” he said.

  “But it’s pouring.”

  “Won’t last long then,” he said with a snort. He didn’t have much respect for protesters who couldn’t face a summer shower. Of course, I couldn’t imagine Uncle Morty caring about anything enough to carry a sign in the rain or even fog. He wasn’t a fan of moisture or causes, for that matter.

  I marched into the kitchen, hoping Chuck didn’t bring me another Keurig. He didn’t. Sitting next to my new pasta maker was a Rocket espresso machine. Contraption was right. Compared to the other espresso machine, a normal looking De’Longhi, the Rocket looked like it was imagined by a steam punk author, all chrome with knobs, nozzles, and gauges.

  Uncle Morty heaved himself off the sofa and came over to take a look. “Does it make coffee?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know how.”

  “Figure it out before morning. I could use a good espresso to start work.”

  “So you’re staying?”

  He scowled at me and returned to the sofa. I attempted to find a place for the Rocket, but it stayed on the counter with all the other stuff. I was going to make dinner, but I couldn’t find a spot to do it in.

  “I give up,” I told Morty, grabbing my purse. “I’m going to Kronos.”

  Uncle Morty raised a bushy eyebrow at me. “You gonna call Chuck?”

  “You said he was working.”

  “That damn riot is probably over.”

  I stopped with my hand on the doorknob. “I can call him. Since when are you so interested in us?”

  “I ain’t interested.” He didn’t look at me but focused on his disgusting pizza. “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s right. Nothing.”

  “Huh?”

  He pointed toward the bedroom. “Where’s Chuck’s stuff? My wizard had stuff here.”

  My last boyfriend was formerly Uncle Morty’s wizard in his Dungeons and Dragons crew. He hadn’t quite gotten over our breakup. I’d rather not think about Pete and the terrible way I handled the end of our relationship. Must change focus.

  “Did you search my apartment? Seriously?” I asked.

  “I was looking for some mouthwash.”

  Really? Good.

  “I’ve got to go.” I opened the door.

  “Where’s Chuck’s stuff?”

  I shrugged. “His place, I assume.” I left with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I didn’t think anyone else would notice, certainly not Uncle Morty. There was no stuff and I wanted there to be stuff. Chuck avoided the topic and he’d never even spent the night. If I was being honest, he’d barely touched me since the day we decided we were together. Chuck had been everything I wanted in a boyfriend—if I ignored all the appliances—except that he was somehow distant. I’d sunk so low as to try and seduce him with fancy lingerie. The minute I attempted to model it for him, he suddenly had an emergency at work and practically ran out the door. I’d never encountered such a thing before. I didn’t have to seduce men. They had to seduce me and since they were usually bad at it, I wasn’t nearly as wild as people assumed.

  I would’ve thought he was old-fashioned or just plain odd, but practically every friend I had had dated Chuck. No one ever said he was a prude or distant. He was popular even after the inevitable breakup. He remained friends with his exes. Chuck’s hot body and sexual prowess was the stuff of legend. I’d only gotten to experience it once. With the way things were headed, it was going to stay that way.

  Kronos was Aaron’s restaurant, a Star Trek-themed magnet for cops and firefighters. It was packed as usual. I squeezed in the door and found that Chuck wasn’t in Ferguson. He was there, singing. He stood in the center of the restaurant with the rest of Cop-A-Pella, the police a cappella group, singing G.R.L.’s “Ugly Heart.” They switched the gender, but I still didn’t see that coming.

  I made it to the bar and accepted a metaphysical malt from Rodney, the other Kronos owner. The malt was chocolate and sent an icy chill down my throat as I watched Chuck belting out his solo in his damp uniform. I hardly ever got to see him in blues, but it was good to be identifiable in Ferguson.

  Chuck winked at me and I couldn’t stop smiling. Maybe he was just old-fashioned when it came to me. It was kind of sw
eet. I was special. I could handle that.

  As soon as I thought I was special, I discovered someone who didn’t agree at all. Pete sat at a booth with some other doctors. His handsome, intelligent face twisted as Chuck sang about a woman stamped with a beauty mark. The smile fell off my face and he saw me. The other docs followed his gaze, saw me, and started eating like burgers were a new invention. Pete stood up and went for the door. Without thinking about it, I tried to head him off.

  I snagged his lab coat as he went through the door. “You don’t have to leave.”

  “Yes, I do.” Pete went out. I started to follow, but someone grabbed my arm.

  “Don’t,” said Aaron, turning me around and pushing me toward the bar.

  “I want to apologize,” I said.

  “Don’t.” He gave me a menu and went into the kitchen.

  I sighed and opened the menu, not that I needed to. I’d memorized it long ago, except for Aaron’s off-the-wall daily specials, which I never ordered. That Friday was mini crab soufflés with a lemon thyme drizzle. That’s a hard pass.

  The song ended in thunderous applause and I was quickly surrounded by breathless cops. Chuck put a big hand on my back, not my butt as the old Chuck would’ve. I gave him a huge grin and went for a kiss, which he avoided by kissing my cheek. What the hell? I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right and it wasn’t me. It was Chuck. The other guys didn’t seem to notice, thankfully.

  “What did you think?” asked Nazir, another detective.

  “You were excellent,” I said. “That’s a new one, isn’t it?”

  Sidney Wick, a detective that I always seemed to annoy, took a strawberry margarita from Rodney and said, “We’re doing it for the benefit.”

  “Benefit?”

  Chuck rubbed my back. “You remember, Cops for Kids. It’s for the Children’s Hospital.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Chuck says you’re considering singing for it,” said Nazir.

  I snorted. “I am not.”

  “You should,” said Wick. “You’d bring down the house. Gotta go. The wife needs her medicine.”

  Nazir elbowed me. “Come on, Mercy. You can sing. Think of the children.”