Chesapeake Crimes: This Job Is Murder!. Donna Andrews

her opinion. Serena had followed Krystle, a thirtyish elementary school guidance counselor, and Artie, the sixtyish president of Millard Department Stores, from Krystle’s townhouse to the Camelot Steak House, the neighboring town’s swankiest restaurant and club (if you liked large slabs of red meat and highballs with your senior discount), and finally to the Dutch Maid. They had both worn sunglasses, but Artie left the car’s top down. They had been pretty easy to keep in view, especially since Artie observed speed limits and Serena had a lead foot. Even Serena had to admit that tailing wasn’t her strong suit. She had been practically on their bumper the whole time, until the Volvo and police cruiser cut her off.

      The bed was against the motel room’s right wall. Artie and Krystle perched on it like two kids waiting to see the principal. Behind them was a closet, its door ajar. Serena could see that Artie had taken the time to hang up his expensive gray suit jacket, shirt, and slacks. Krystle’s silky blue dress hung next to Artie’s jacket. Serena noted Artie’s shoes and Krystle’s blue pumps lined up next to each other in front of the bed. She hummed “Devil with a Blue Dress” while dragging on her Marlboro.

      Krystle stood up abruptly and starting shimmying with Artie’s tie, then flung it away. She was in pretty good shape, kind of jiggly through the bust and hips, but not bad, Serena thought. Krystle quickly shed a polyester, industrial-strength bra and lace g-string. “Red and black! Tacky, tacky,” Serena scolded. She zoomed in on Artie’s face. Even through the telephoto lens, the sweat crowning his balding head and the purple flush of his complexion were evident. Hope he lives long enough to enjoy this, Serena thought. Jeez, if a guy ever looked that miserable about doing a mattress mambo with me, I’d hang up my thong.

      Serena spat out the cigarette, ground it with the toe of her black, high-top sneaker, and returned her attention to the scene on camera. Krystle pushed Artie back on the bed, then coyly pulled up a sheet. Serena yawned. Evidently, Krystle felt that the best way to finish a disagreeable task was to get it over with quickly. Artie’s head was wedged between two pillows and was hard to see. After awhile, they both sat back against the tattered vinyl headboard, sheet tucked in under their chins, and shared a cigarette. It was the most intimate and loving gesture of the evening.

      Serena glanced at her watch, mentally begging the hands to move faster. 10:30 p.m. Morty had told her to get as much as she could, so Serena leaned against the Dumpster, camcorder at the ready, although she had a feeling she’d seen all the action, such as it was, that would be happening in room 112.

      She tried to get the motel room television in the shot, hoping the lovers were tuned in to Operating Theater. Monday night stakeouts made her miss her favorite television show. Serena carefully scanned the rutted parking lot. Artie’s Jag gleamed like a dull gold wedding band in the darkness. She scrambled to it, careful not to step into the pool of light from the lovers’ window, and draped herself comfortably on the hood of the car. She focused on the television screen and paused. CNN? Stock quotes? Weird and kinky.

      Serena resumed filming the couple on the bed. Artie had poured himself a generous splash of… She zoomed in on the bottle of Chivas on the bedside table. Krystle sipped from a can of Diet Coke. Only the best for Krystle.

      Serena yawned again and stretched as Artie worked on the Chivas and Krystle channel surfed. More than once Serena’s head nodded to the cool metal hood of the Jag. She hadn’t expected the sheer monotony of the private detective-in-training’s life. Following people and filming their most intimate moments had seemed an exciting way to make a living, but after only a few months, Serena had been amazed at how dull watching other people have sex could be.

      The late spring air was warm and soft; the murmur of the ocean, only two blocks away, an irresistible lullaby. Serena carefully placed the camera on a mini pod, slid off the car, ran in place, and did jumping jacks. Feeling minimally refreshed, she resumed her place on the hood of the Jag and played Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Herbert Lom was in The Ladykillers with Sir Alec Guinness…hmm…who was in Star Wars with Harrison Ford, who was in The Fugitive with Tommy Lee Jones, who was in Men in Black with Will Smith, who was in Independence Day with Bill Paxton, who was in Apollo 13 with Kevin Bacon! Too easy. Esther Williams—

      Movement from the room snapped her back to alertness. Artie was stumbling from the bed to the bathroom. Not surprising after all that booze. Krystle sat at the edge of the bed, glanced at her watch, then rose and yanked the curtain closed. Shadows spattered the flimsy gray fabric as lights in the room were turned off.

      “Hallelujah,” Serena whispered. The camcorder’s date/time icon read one a.m. She broke down her equipment and stowed it in the duffel.

      Serena started up her BMW and drove slowly from the parking lot. Once out of the lot, she flicked on the headlights and floored it. The Dutch Maid receded in the rear-view mirror as she sped past darkened T-shirt and souvenir shops and into the drive through of the twenty-four-hour Crusty’s Crab Shack. She hadn’t eaten anything except some breath mints since she began tailing Krystle and Artie. She shouted her order into Crusty’s shell-shaped mike, then picked up a Double Dynamite burger and—since it was her birthday—a large chocolate milkshake from a glassy-eyed teenager at the window. She needed a pick-me-up. Krystle and Artie’s encounter at the Dutch Maid was the most depressing assignment of her short career.

      * * * *

      It was almost noon when Serena parked in front of Acerman Security. The company shared a graffiti-tattooed brick storefront with AAA Pest Control and New U! Weight Loss Clinic.

      “So you decided to come to work today, Mata Hari.” Estelle Rein, Morty’s secretary, barely glanced away from her computer screen as Serena entered.

      “Good morning to you too, Estelle.”

      Morty poked his head out of his office.

      Serena smiled at Morty. “Rhett and Scarlett kept me up.” So did the Crusty burger and milkshake, she added silently.

      Serena handed Morty the canvas bag. It held the camera equipment plus some stills she had printed.

      Although he wore his belt a little too high for her comfort, Serena had to admit that Morty still carried himself with the confidence of someone who had once been a G-man. She liked Morty. He had given her a chance when she really needed one. Though he did a tough job for some pretty crummy people, Morty still hustled. Serena didn’t want to hustle herself, but she admired it in Morty. And she liked the way he called her “kid.”

      “Get in here.” Morty waved her into the office. “Hold the calls, Estelle.”

      Serena could feel Estelle’s disapproving eyes follow her as Morty shut the door.

      Morty shuffled behind the desk in the cramped office, and then sat down heavily on his squeaky office chair. “Heard the news this morning?”

      Serena shook her head.

      “I taped it. Watch.” Morty pressed a button on the TV remote, then clasped his hands as if in prayer, and leaned his forehead against them. Serena sank onto the brown vinyl couch opposite Morty’s desk.

      A newswoman spoke urgently as wind whipped her hair about her face. She stood before a huge white clapboard house. The ocean visible behind it was a glossy postcard blue.

      “Prominent Wavecrest Hill socialite Beatrice ‘Bunny’ Millard Stanley was found dead early this morning at Millard Hall, her seaside mansion. When the well-known community leader missed a breakfast meeting where she was scheduled to speak, family members and police were called to the home. Police are investigating the death, and sources confirm that an antique handgun from her family collection was found at her side. An apparent suicide note also was found and made available exclusively to the RIN news team by a source close to the family. The note was addressed to her husband, Millard Department Stores President Arthur Stanley. The note reads, ‘I can’t go on, Arthur. I can’t stand to see you unhappy. Once, the gift of love belonged to you and I. Now, I love you enough to set you free.’”

      The reporter looked up from her clipboard. “For news team RIN, this is Becca Morecci.”

      Serena’s eyes met Morty’s.

      “Yeah,