For Butter or Worse Read online

  I follow the non-descript gray sedan. We’re cruising toward downtown when the sedan makes an abrupt right, veering across two lanes of traffic. She was in the left turn lane, the green arrow came up, and at the last moment, the redhead cut across and made a right turn. It happened so fast, I got stuck turning left.

  I have no hope of following her. Now, one of two things just happened—mystery woman spotted my tail and dumped me, or she forgot where she was going. I decide to go talk to London at the police station. Maybe she can run the plates on the mystery woman’s car and I can get some professional advice on Lehane’s disappearance.

  Chapter Six

  I park outside the police station and take a quick peek around to see if London’s car is in the lot. The desk sergeant doesn’t like me, so I need to know ahead of time if London is in the building because he won’t let me back to her office. He always gives me a routine where he tells me she’s not in her office, even though I know good and well she is; then I have to text her, and she comes out and gets me while the desk sergeant acts surprised that she’s there.

  I could text London anytime, but we have an agreement that I don’t because if we meet outside the office we usually end up in bed. London is all right with this casual relationship but I’m still pining for my lost love, Gloria the school teacher, who moved away before I got the chance to tell her how I felt. Lost love, for sure. Sleeping with London makes me feel like I’m destined to be alone, except in London’s bedroom. You wouldn’t really blame me for it if you knew how sexy London is—she’s ten years older than I am and has a killer, well-toned body, short dark hair, and gray eyes. And she’s taller than me, which I also find sexy.

  Lucky for me, the desk sergeant is not at his station to buzz me through, so I hop over the gate. My left foot gets caught on the edge of the gate and I land face-first on the linoleum. By the time the stars clear, I see a pair of boots I’d know anywhere. I pull myself up to see London looking down at me.

  “You might want to get up. God only knows where that floor’s been,” she says.

  The thought of all those cop shoe-germs has me scrambling to my feet. London reaches for the hand sanitizer sitting on the desk. I quickly rub it all over my hands, my face, my arms and neck.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” London asks. She snags a donut out of a box sitting on the sergeant’s desk. She offers me one.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I do anyway. I pick out a maple bar, my favorite. I’m going to be spending a lot more time at the gym if I intend to keep all this fried food off my butt. I berate myself. One of the reasons I worry about my weight is that I’ll have to replace my meager wardrobe and that costs money I don’t have. My tactical pants alone go for eighty dollars a pair, and form-fitting black T-shirts don’t look good with a tummy roll. Plus, I’m Italian and we have fat genes.

  London must sense my food guilt. She says, “It’s only one donut.”

  I don’t tell her about all the fried fair food I’ve eaten. London is one of those people who can eat anything. She burns calories like a crematorium.

  We go back to her office. I watch her tight, well-formed ass, and my libido ponders asking her out for dinner. I slap it away. I’m working on two cases at the moment and don’t have time to fool around. Speaking of which, I need to call Veronica and give her an update and bill her for more hours. I plan on riding that cash cow all the way to the bank.

  I take a seat and check out London’s new ivy plant that is already dying. Her coworkers keep buying her plants and making wagers on how long they’ll live under London’s black thumb. She notices me looking. “This one’s lasting the longest. Every week the pot gets bigger. I wish I could get in on the betting action, but according to the boys I have to recuse myself.”

  “What happens if it lives?” I ask. I look over at her Mr. Coffee and try to gauge how old this pot of coffee is. It’s no longer brown... more like tar. Sludge. Black hole black. I decide against the coffee and munch my maple bar instead.

  “If it lives, I get the money. I’m learning about house plants. First, how to keep them alive then how to kill them. I’ve been dumping coffee grounds in the soil. It kind of works, but I have noticed that the plant gets the shakes if it doesn’t get its daily dose of caffeine.”

  “Just so long as it doesn’t grow up to be a flesh eating plant like in Little Shop of Horrors.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, Jamie Bravo…” She smiles wantonly, and my insides turn to warm mush. “What’s on your mind? Besides me.” She rakes her gaze up and down me, and my thighs quiver.

  I cross my legs. “I’ve got two favors. I have two cases, which is why I have two favors, one for each case.” I know I’m blathering but sometimes in London’s presence I seem to lose my mind. All I can think about is her body wrapped around mine.

  “Okay,” London urges.

  “I need you to run a plate,” I say.

  “And?” she prompts. “The other favor?”

  “I’m working on this missing person’s case. I’m not sure if the person is actually missing or just ran off from his life without telling anyone.”

  “Are we talking about Lehane Noster?” London asks.

  “Yes! How did you know?” I sit up straighter in my chair.

  “We’ve gotten several calls from the fair’s butter board to ask what we’re doing about it. Which at the moment is nothing. It appears, for all practical purposes, that he’s on a cruise. He left a note explaining that and just to make sure I called the cruise line,” she says.

  “What did the cruise line say?”

  “There’s a Lehane Noster registered. Maybe he needed a butter break and didn’t want to let anyone down. Believe it or not, people do run away from their lives. They can’t take the pressure, so they bail. Noster probably figures he gave them a good reason why he wouldn’t be competing and it’s a way to get out of being the perpetual King of Butter.”

  I hadn’t thought about it that way. Butter carving is very competitive. Maybe he really couldn’t take the pressure. “You’ve got a point.”

  “So, we have actually looked into it and I explained that to the butter people. We need an actual reason to spend police hours looking for a person who may not want to be found.”

  “I have a key to his house,” I say. She raises both her eyebrows. “I obtained it legally. Want to go have a look?”

  London nods. “I’m off in ten minutes. I’ll meet you out front.”

  Good. Just enough time to enjoy another maple bar.

  ***

  On the way to Lehane’s house, we stopped and got two lattes. We’ve taken my car because a Crown Vic screams police, and I’m glad—its back seat is too small to facilitate any hanky-panky.

  Lehane lives in the uptown area. In fact, he’s only two blocks over from Del Hargrave’s house. As we pass by Del’s house, I notice there’s a different car parked next to the Lamborghini.

  “Nice car,” London says when she sees the Lamborghini. “Odd though, not the kind of neighborhood where you usually see a car like that.”

  “She’s the woman I’m tailing. It’s her visitor’s car that I want you to check the plates on.” I leave out the part where I’m working for Veronica. London hates Veronica the person. She also doesn’t like Veronica the cat because she drew blood on London’s heel one night when she stayed over. From then on if we did a sleepover we stayed at her apartment.

  It was a sleepover at London’s place that ruined my chances with Gloria Lambrusco, the love of my life. The One Who Got Away....London had dropped me off at my place the next morning, kissed me goodbye, and when I got out of her car, I found Gloria waiting for me. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. She just drove away, and I never saw her again. She moved out of state soon after that and I was heartbroken.

  I take full responsibility for losing Gloria. I wish I could go back and do it all over. Unfortunately, adulting means no do-overs. Lesson learned the hard way.

  We park
on the street in front of Lehane’s house and go up to the front door. I ring the doorbell. I don’t want to walk in and find Lehane sitting in his underpants watching porn videos. There’s no answer. I use the key and open the door.

  “Is anyone home?” I call out. We wait. I call out again. No answer. We go in.

  The place is neat, in a bachelor kind of way. No knick-knacks, except his impressive collection of butter trophies and a whole wall of framed newspaper clippings. He’s got a recliner faced toward the large flat screen television. A couch, coffee table, and not much else. It’s pretty utilitarian. My place would probably look the same if I didn’t live with a gay man who had decorating superpowers.

  “Well, no one tossed the place and there’s no sign of a struggle. That’s a plus. Let’s go check out the rest of the house,” London says.

  I know this is bad, but I can’t help being a little disappointed. I wanted a tossed house or at least a pool of blood. No, wait. I don’t want Lehane dead. More like kidnapped, wounded, or something that I can tell Betty. So far all I have is a very neat house and no sign of Lehane.

  London returns from the bedroom while I’m checking out the fridge. He’s got a six-pack of beer, bread, a gallon of expired milk, and a lot fruit: three bags of apples, another bag of oranges, and lots of veggies. The guy must exist on fruits and veggies. I look in the cupboards. Lots of canned soup.

  London is going through his mail. On top of the pile are several large, ripped-open manila envelopes. They look like they were opened hastily.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “Don’t know yet.” She hands one of the envelopes to me. I open it. Inside is a note made with cut out letters from a magazine. It reads, “Step away from the butter.” It’s like the perp read How To Be A Criminal for Dummies.

  I look over at London. She has opened the other envelope. “What does yours say?”

  “Or,” she says, holding up one sheet of paper. “Else,” she says, holding up the other paper. “Yours?”

  “Step away from the butter,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. I cannot contain myself and laugh out loud.

  “It does not,” London says and snatches the paper from me. “You weren’t kidding.” She knits her eyebrows. “What sort of criminal are we dealing with?”

  I ponder that. “Either a really dumb one or one with no imagination or a criminal mastermind.”

  “Or all three. I’m thinking we need to see if Lehane really did get on that cruise,” London says.

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “Do you have the number for the tour line where Lehane booked his cruise?”

  “I do have the number.” I pull out my little black notepad. When I first saw London using her little black book, I got myself one. I’m proud of it. I hand her the info. “According to my notes, the ship is called the Titanic II.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  I shake my head.

  She takes the number and says, “This is the weirdest damn day. It seems like every time we get together weird shit happens.”

  “Are you referring to the times when I’m kinky in bed?” I cannot believe I just said that. Where did that come from? I glance down at the notes so that she won’t see my crimson face.

  “Yes, weirdly blissful.” She raises my chin and kisses me.

  Oh yeah, that’s why I did it.

  “I like getting weird with you,” she says, pulling her phone out of her back pocket. “Go see if you can find any suitcases.” She dials.

  I wander down the hall and open a bedroom door to find myself inside what looks like an REI store. Lehane is evidently a bicyclist because there’s a top-of-the-line road bike and a heavy duty mountain bike in the room. There are also a pair of cross-country skis, snowshoes, and a kayak. And all the gear to accompany all of it.

  I open the closet, which requires moving the two bikes. I slide open the door and find every conceivable size of duffle bag. I lift off the top couple of layers, and low and behold, there’s a pair of silver rolling suitcases. One slightly smaller than the other. It’s spendy stuff, too. I put all the bags aside. Why would anyone have so many different duffle bags?

  I pull out the luggage and open the suitcases. Lehane is a very organized guy. He has his toiletries pre-packed. He has a small zippered case with all his spare electronic stuff. A pair of sneakers in their own bag. There is no doubt that these are his go-to travel bags. He even has a set of spare clothing already packed into his carry-on. This guy knows the tips and tricks of travel.

  My conclusion? He didn’t go on that cruise and leave these suitcases behind.

  I look up to see London leaning on the doorframe watching me. God, she’s so hot. Her lithe body fills the door. I stop myself before I get to the undressing her with my eyes part. I’m pretty sure we’d end up having sex on Lehane’s living room floor.

  “What did you find out?” I ask.

  “He’s registered as purchasing the ticket. The only passenger list is on the ship. They keep track of the passengers from that, but it’s huge. There’s twenty-five hundred people on that cruise.”

  “But didn’t he have to check-in?”

  “Yes, but guests don’t always do it. The staff catches up with them later after the ship has left. People just wander off to look at things and forget. In other words, Lehane is on the boat or he’s not, there’s no way of knowing for sure. We can’t call the ship. It’s in the Bermuda Triangle or something.”

  I can tell she’s disgusted with her findings. She’s also sexy when she’s disgusted. She’s got this cute little furrow in her forehead when she gets stymied.

  She shakes her head. “What’d you find?” She kneels down across from me, the suitcase between us.

  “I’d wager he’s not on that boat.”

  She looks through the suitcase. “Wow. He’s organized. He must travel a lot.”

  “Or he just likes having stuff,” I say.

  London gets up. “Did you see his computer anywhere?”

  I stop to think. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Meaning whoever took him had the smarts to take his electronics,” London says. “Did anyone give you Lehane’s phone number?”

  I pull out my notebook and read off the number.

  She puts her phone on speaker and dials. The phone picks up. We both stare at the phone. Could it be this easy to find Lehane? Just call him?

  “You had me at hello,” a husky male voice answers.

  “Hello, may I speak to Lehane Noster?” London asks.

  “You talkin’ to me?” the voice asks. “You talkin’ to me?”

  “Excuse me?” London asks. “Who am I speaking to?”

  “They call me Mr. Tibbs,” the voice says.

  Okay, this is getting even weirder.

  “This is London Wells of the Lakeland police force. You have a potentially missing person’s phone number.”

  “I see dead people,” the voice whispers.

  “Listen, I don’t know what kind of joke this is, but I need your name and for you to tell me where Lehane Noster is. Do you understand me?” London’s face is red. She’s angry.

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Then the voice squawks three times just so we know we got played by a parrot. “Hasta la vista, baby,” he says then hangs up.

  I’ve already had one bad parrot experience and that was enough. I’d been looking after Mrs. Friedman’s parrot, Lebowitz. He was a no-good, badly-behaved bird with a sadistic streak. He even escaped for a night on the town. It was a week of hell. Fortunately, he returned just in time to greet the returning Friedmans.

  “That was a parrot!” London exclaims.

  “Which begs the question: how did a parrot get Lehane’s cell phone?”

  She dials the number again. This time there’s no answer. London sighs. “He’s turned off the phone. Or the battery went dead. I can’t have the phone traced if it’s not on.”

  “Damn.”

  “You
ready to go?” London asks.

  “Go where?”

  “To check out some pet shops where they sell birds and bird things.”

  “And find out who has parrots in the whole city of Lakeland? Do you have any idea how many parrots that’ll be?”

  “Not as many as you think. Especially ones that are capable of imitating people’s voices.”

  She has a point. She always does. She’s smart that way. Have I told you how sexy I think smart women are?

  ***

  We drive across town to the first pet store on the list of addresses that I pull up on my phone. Surprisingly, there are only three pet shops in Lakeland, which I find odd considering the growing number of pet owners. It’s not like you can buy a live pet on the Internet. I express my concern to London.

  “I suppose with cats and dogs, people either go to the Humane Society or get roped into adopting one by a neighbor or coworker dealing with the aftermath of an unplanned pet pregnancy. Like a lesbian couple considering having a child, but they start off with a dog or cat... which I find very responsible of them.”

  “So why are we thinking we can find a parrot-selling pet shop?” I look up at the pet store’s marquee. Weird and Wonderful. I look over at London and say, “There’s that word again.”

  “You mean weird?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A parrot is a weird pet.”

  “I can testify parrots are not wonderful pets,” I say, thinking again of Lebowitz. That damn bird really worked a number on me. I still have nightmares about him. I see a feather and BAM! I start shaking.

  I follow London into the pet store. I take a good look around. It’s full of weird animals, most of which I have never seen before, even in a zoo, and I’ve been to the zoo a lot because it’s one of Griffin’s favorite places. Juniper won’t take him anymore because the last time she went they saw copulating giraffes. She’s been unable to bleach that image from her mind. Seeing a giraffe penis sent Juniper into a panic attack. When I went to pick them up at the zoo, Juniper was in the first aid office, taking in copious amounts of oxygen through a mask. The panic attack had brought on an asthma attack which brought on a nose bleed, which further exacerbated her breathing issues. They barely got her to the first aid office before she passed out. Griffin was excited that he got to ride in the zoo golf cart. He also got a free ice cream cone and a stuffed dinosaur. He wanted a giraffe, but I put the kibosh on that. I needed to get Juniper home and onto the couch with a cold compress and a stuffed giraffe might set the whole thing off all over again.