Chapter
eight
Two days later, Britt evaluated her most recent attempt at the peppermint truffle.
Better. Though still not quite right. Something was lacking. Its finish was bland. Not complex nor interesting enough. Yet.
How to fix it? How to fix it?
She sat cross-legged atop the chair at the desk located in Sweet Art’s kitchen. Though she wasn’t currently looking at Zander, she could feel his presence as if he were a heater and she a freezing person.
He’d taken up his usual position at the central island, empty at this point in the afternoon. She finished work at two o’clock each day, and the clock read 2:10. She’d already put her kitchen to bed.
She carefully arranged the papers Zander had brought with him when he’d arrived. Just in case they were wrong about Frank’s involvement in the Triple Play, they’d divided up their list of Seattle-area shootings that had occurred in 1985. Then they’d each chased down as much information on those shootings as they could.
So far, none of the research they’d gathered was leaping out at her.
She looked toward Zander.
He motioned to the peppermint truffle she’d given him to sample. He’d eaten half. “Have you considered adding rosemary to this recipe?”
“Interesting suggestion. Sophisticated suggestion. But, no. That’s not the direction I’m wanting to go with this one. I’m thinking butterscotch.”
“In that case, almond extract, perhaps?”
“Excellent, Daniel-son. But expected.”
He smiled at the Karate Kid reference, popped the rest of his truffle into his mouth, and regarded her solemnly as he chewed. He’d gotten his hair trimmed since she’d seen him yesterday. The edges of it were perfectly straight now but the top was still the way she liked it best—longer and in a mild state of disarray.
His soft brown long-sleeved shirt suited his austere looks. His worn-in jeans fit him as if they’d been tailor-made. When he’d entered Sweet Art a few minutes ago, he’d brought with him the luxurious scent of his cologne. The fragrance always made Britt think of leather and cognac and handmade suits and rich, exotic spices—
She fought to return her focus to the pages in front of her before her wayward thoughts cobbled together a mutiny. “I don’t see anything promising here.”
“I don’t either.”
“In that case, it’s a good thing that we made an appointment with Nora. She’s our best hope at finding information on Ricardo Serra.”
She and Zander had talked at length about the potential avenues they could explore next with their investigation. They’d decided to research Ricardo, the friend of Frank’s who’d helped him rob a Chicago gas station when they were both in their twenties.
“It’s certainly possible that Ricardo and Frank committed other crimes together before and after robbing the gas station,” Britt said. “Imagine that I’m Frank—”
“You look nothing like Frank—”
“—and that I’m released from prison around the same time as my buddy Ricardo. It’s not like employers will be lining up to hire either of us. We’re only experienced at stealing stuff, and we’re in need of money.”
“It’s also possible that Frank left prison, decided to clean up his act, and never stole so much as a pack of gum again. The way he lived the past thirty years supports that theory.”
“Point taken. But maybe Frank and Ricardo cooked up one final scheme before they retired? One so big that they’d be able to live on the income for a very long time.”
“Three robbers carried out the Triple Play.”
“So somewhere between Chicago and Seattle, Frank and Ricardo recruited one more. Maybe another friend from high school?”
He tapped his fingers lightly against her work station. “Maybe.”
Britt slipped out of her chef’s coat and lobbed it into the shop’s laundry hamper, then straightened the royal blue exercise top she’d been wearing underneath.
He held the back door open for her. She preferred to arrive and exit through Sweet Art’s back door since she was likely to either a) see someone she knew inside Sweet Art’s shop or b) see something that needed her urgent attention inside Sweet Art’s shop. When she left at the end of her workday, it was usually best to dart out the back like a thirteen-year-old avoiding a middle school dance.
Her Nikes crunched gravel as they crossed the short distance to Nora’s Library on the Green Museum. One of Britt’s favorite job perks? The freedom to dress for work either in work-out gear or jeans paired with casual tops.
Once again, Zander held the door for her. Britt crossed the threshold into Nora’s library. The two-story structure had begun life in 1892 as an apothecary and was the only one of Merryweather Historical Village’s buildings that occupied its original site. The others, including Sweet Art, had all been carefully relocated to the village.
Britt was more of a let’s-go-paragliding and less of a let’s-go-to-a-museum person. Even so, she loved Nora’s library, with its books and artifacts and towering old windows.
Nikki hurried over to ogle Zander. “Hello, handsome.”
“Hi, Nikki.”
“You look like you’re on your way to play lead guitar for a band or pose for a romance novel cover,” Nikki said.
“Nope. Just hanging out with Britt.”
Nikki leaned in and sniffed near his shoulder. “Is that Polo cologne you’re wearing?”
“No.”
“Because even though I’m old enough to be your mother—what’s age, after all? So arbitrary!—if it’s Polo, then you’re going to have to take me out dancing right here and now.”
Zander laughed. “It’s not Polo.”
“How are things going with Clint?” Britt asked.
“I’ve been to two Pilates classes with him. You should see his single leg circles. Poetry, I tell you! Have you ever done Pilates?”
“Yes,” Britt said. “It’s great—”
“It’s miserable,” Nikki stated. “Pilates makes my inner thighs tremble. I haven’t exerted myself that much since I competed in a three-legged race to win tickets to a Duran Duran concert, and so far, the Pilates isn’t even paying off. Clint hasn’t asked me out, and you know how I am about that. I talk big, but I’m old-fashioned in the sense that I expect the man to ask me out. I want to be pursued! If a man can’t summon the courage to ask me out for chicken strips, mashed potatoes, and green beans, then what chance do we have as a couple?”
“He won’t be asking you out for chicken strips,” Britt said. “Clint eats Paleo.”
Nikki’s heavily eye-linered eyes rounded. “Land! What does that mean?”
“No grains, no sugar,” Britt said.
“Just meat, vegetables, nuts, and fruit,” Zander said.
“No pancakes?”
“Paleo pancakes only,” Zander said.
“No Pillsbury crescent rolls?”
“No,” Britt said.
“I pretty much live on carbs,” Nikki told them. “How about a teensy little cracker? Would Clint eat that?”
“No.”
“Well, I suppose I could go without carbs if Clint and I go out on a date. Have you noticed his biceps?” she asked Britt. “He has very good biceps.”
“I’m well acquainted with Clint’s biceps.” She ought to be. Clint had been walking around Bradfordwood in leather vests for years.
“And I’ve always loved men with long hair,” Nikki said. “Very mountainous, you know?”
“Oh yes,” Britt said. “Clint’s quite the mountainous Pilates man.”
“Will you please give him a call and encourage him to ask me out?” Nikki asked Britt.
“Why not ask Nora to give him a call? You work with Nora, and she knows Clint as well as I do.”
“She’s already told me that she won’t be party to this. I think she’s tired of playing the role of my wing woman. But I’m going to need a wing woman with Clint. I sense that he needs a subtle push.”
“Do you categorize my calling him and encouraging him to ask you out as subtle?” Britt asked.
“I do, so long as you don’t mention that I told you to call. Just say that you noticed sparks between us that day at Sweet Art and wanted to make sure that he followed up by asking me out because I’m a very endearing person. And you think we’d make a great couple.”
“Anything else you’d like me to say?” Britt asked dryly.
“You can mention my fabulous figure if it seems appropriate.”
“I can’t imagine a scenario in which that would seem appropriate.”
“You can mention my delightful personality, then. And my good taste in chocolate.”
“You eat milk chocolate pecan turtles.”
“Because I know what I like.” She winked as she moved off to check on a trio of patrons. “And I like Clint Fletcher.”
God have mercy on Clint, Britt thought as she and Zander climbed the stairs. The library’s second floor held a sitting area, Nikki’s office, and Nora’s office.
They found Nora behind her desk, a mug of steaming tea at her elbow. The pastel-striped rug, the jaunty tulips in a vase, and the carefully curated books filling Nora’s bookshelves communicated just how much Britt’s older sister adored her job.
All of the Bradford sisters had been lucky in that way. They’d each found their way to careers they loved. Nora had a passion for genealogy and history. Britt was crazy about chocolate . . . always and forever chocolate. And Willow was devoted to the housewares and clothing she offered at her new store, Haven.
Haven had been a roaring success ever since word had gotten out that renowned former model Willow Bradford was doling out fashion and decorating advice via her store. And luckily for Britt, Willow sold the gift boxes of Sweet Art chocolate she ordered for Haven almost as soon as she stocked them.
“Two of my favorite people.” Nora stood to give them hugs. “I thought I heard your voices downstairs. Did Nikki scandalize you?”
“She did,” Zander answered.
“Good to hear that the status quo has continued uninterrupted.” Nora sat again behind her desk as Britt and Zander eased into the patterned chairs facing her. “Would either of you like tea?”
“We just had mediocre chocolate, so I’ll pass on mediocre tea,” Britt said.
Nora responded to Britt’s jab exactly the way Britt had known she would, with a look of exaggerated offense. “My tea is the pinnacle of excellence, as you well know. Zander? Would you like to taste the pinnacle of excellence?”
“Thanks, but no. After this, Britt wants to go mountain climbing. If I have tea now, then Britt will blame the caffeine for giving me an unfair advantage when I beat her.”
“I admire your foresight,” Nora said to Zander. “No amount of caffeine could help me beat her. At anything. Ever.”
“Except perhaps Trivial Pursuit,” Britt said.
Smiling, Nora took a sip of tea. “So.” She set her mug on a coaster that read, If you walk a mile in my shoes, you’ll end up at a bookstore. “When you texted me earlier, you mentioned that you’d like to research Frank’s old accomplice.”
“Yes,” Britt said. “How should we go about finding more information?”
“You dare insult my tea when in need of assistance?” Nora teased.
“Pretty much,” Britt said brightly. “I know you well enough to know there’s only one thing you like better than tea—”
“John.”
“—assisting people with research,” Britt finished.
“Speaking of John, your wedding is coming up soon now,” Zander said.
“In less than a month,” Nora answered. “I can’t wait.”
Nora had been engaged once before, years ago. Her fiancé had fallen in love with someone else a few months before their scheduled wedding, breaking both their engagement and Nora’s heart.
In the end, though, Nora’s ruined engagement had been revealed for what it truly was—a blessing in disguise. John Lawson was far more perfect for Nora than her first fiancé had been.
At this point, Nora’s bridal showers, the bachelorette getaway weekend, and the wedding preparations were all complete. The only things left: their parents’ return from Africa and the wedding itself.
“You deserve every happiness,” Zander said to Nora.
Britt’s sister beamed. “And for that, I’ll take pity on you and lend you a hand with your research. Bring the chairs around.”
Britt situated her chair next to Nora, and Zander claimed Britt’s other side. The monitor remained centrally located, though Nora slid her wireless keyboard in front of herself.
“Do we have any idea how old Ricardo is?” Nora asked. “A birth date would really help.”
“He and Frank were in the same grade at school, so they had to have been close in age,” Zander said. “Frank was born in early 1954. So Ricardo was likely either born that year or in the fall of 1953.”
“And we know that Ricardo was living in Chicago when?”
“Between around 1970 and 1983.”
“And that the gas station robbery occurred there,” Britt said.
Nora surfed to one of her genealogy sites and filled several fields with the information they’d provided. Her search returned numerous results. Three of the Ricardo Serras listed seemed like possible matches. They pored over the records, but there was no way to verify whether any of the profiles belonged to their Ricardo.
Nora scribbled the birth dates of the three men onto a notepad.
Ricardo James Serra, June 29, 1954
Ricardo Arthur Serra, February 1, 1954
Ricardo David Serra, October 14, 1953
“We might be able to find him in the Illinois Inmate Database,” Nora said, “if we can match an inmate named Ricardo Serra with one of these birth dates.”
Nora typed Serra, Ricardo into the Illinois Inmate Database.
In response, an error message appeared. Inmate not found. The inmate’s sentence may be discharged.
“Drat,” Nora said. “Their database doesn’t include information about inmates who’ve completed their sentences. But there’s a number listed here—” she squinted at the screen and scrolled down slightly—“for their Department of Corrections.” She punched the string of numbers into her cell phone. “They might be able to provide information about someone who was formerly incarcerated over the phone.”
While Nora conducted her conversation, Britt became increasingly attuned to Zander’s physicality and nearness.
She sensed his body’s warmth. Noticed the cadence of his breathing. Imagined the blood pumping through his fit, hard body.
His hands set atop Nora’s desk, fingers loosely clasped. The tip of one thumb rested against the center of his other palm. His nails were short and clean. A delta of veins ran beneath the skin on the outside of his hands, leading to his knuckles.
She wanted to trail a fingertip along one of his veins, dip it into the hollow of his palm.
The thought caused a delicious sensation to draw at her middle. Her skin flushed with heat.
Great Scott! What was her problem?
It was so ill-advised to indulge in these flights of fancy over her friend. Her friend!
Nora disconnected the call and adjusted to face them. “Ricardo was released in November of 1983.”
“Same as Frank,” Zander said.
“According to the woman I just spoke with,” Nora said, “Ricardo was only incarcerated in Illinois that one time. And this date here,” she circled the birth date next to the name Ricardo David Serra on the notepad, “is his birth date.”
“Can you check to see if he was ever incarcerated in Washington?” Britt asked. “In case he ended up here like Frank did?”
“Sure.” A few swift clicks and Nora navigated to the inmate site for Washington. “This site, I’m more familiar with.” Her fingernails clicked keys. “Ricardo’s not currently in jail in Washington. Like the last website, this one won’t give us information about former inmates. If we want that kind of data, we’ll need to send them an email with a request.”
“I’m for that,” Zander said.
“It might take them a few days to get back to us.” Nora filled out the form, then hit Submit. “There’s one other inmate database we should check. The federal inmate database. It’s slightly more comprehensive than these other two.”
“It contains the names of prisoners convicted of federal crimes?” Britt asked.
“Exactly.”
“Like?”
“Art theft, for one.” The faintest upward curl lingered at the edge of Zander’s mouth as he met Britt’s eyes.
“Here we are,” Nora said a moment later.
The words jolted Britt’s focus back to her sister.
Had she stared at Zander a mite too long just then? She’d gotten lost in the ocean blue of his eyes.
Details about Ricardo were centered on Nora’s screen.
Ricardo David Serra
Age: 65
Race: White
Sex: Male
Released: January 22
“January twenty-second of this year?” Britt asked.
“Right,” Nora answered.
“This proves that Ricardo didn’t give up his criminal pursuits back in 1983,” Zander said.
“Not only that,” Britt said. “The timing is suspicious. Ricardo was released from federal prison, and a few months later Frank receives an upsetting phone call while he’s at work. He’s found dead the next day. What if that phone call was from Ricardo?”
“Is there a way to find out what crime Ricardo committed that landed him in federal prison?” Zander asked.
“Yes,” Nora answered, “but that may take me a little bit of time.”
“How can we get ahold of a current address for Ricardo?” Britt asked.
“Why do you want his current address?”
“So we can contact him,” she said matter-of-factly. “If he lives anywhere nearby, I want to talk with him. I’ve got about a million questions I’d like him to answer.”
Zander stared at her like she’d suggested swimming with polar bears. “You’re not going to talk with Ricardo Serra,” he said.
“Not alone, I’m not. We’ll talk to him together.”
Zander’s journal entry:
What if Frank actually was involved in the Triple Play? What if Frank’s old life came back to haunt him in the form of Ricardo Serra? What if I was followed?
It’s three a.m. I’m sure Britt is sleeping soundly, because she’s too brave to be terrified.
I’m going to have to be sensible . . . and terrified . . . enough for the both of us.