Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4)

Dead Boyfriends (Mac McKenzie #4) Page 87

“Is this the woman you found with Eli in your bedroom that day?” I asked.

Vonnie Lou was definite. “No,” she said. “I told you, the bimbo was younger. A college girl.”

“Are you sure? She looks young for her age.”

“Not that young. Besides, the bimbo had auburn hair. This one is blond.”

“It’s a dye job. Imagine her with auburn hair.”

“It’s not her.”

I was disappointed. I thought I was on to something.

“You don’t look so hot,” she told me.

“I haven’t been to bed yet.”

That’s why you’re punchy, my inner voice told me. That’s why you’re not thinking straight.

“Can you move your car now, McKenzie? I’m really late.”

I returned to the Cherokee. I was about to back out of the driveway when I had another brainstorm. A moment later I was standing in front of Vonnie Lou’s driver’s side window. Vonnie Lou rolled it down.

“Now what?” She was losing patience with me.

I shoved another printout at her. “One more photo. Look carefully. Is this the woman you found in your bed?”

Vonnie Lou studied it for a moment.

“Yep,” she said. “That’s her.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am absolutely sure. Now can I go?”

I was the first one in line when they opened the doors to the Minnesota Driver and Vehicle Services office in the Town Square Building in downtown St. Paul. The woman behind the desk was happy to furnish me with both a Records Request form as well as an Intended Use of Driver License and Motor Vehicle Information form. I filled both out carefully, then returned them to the clerk, along with the nine fifty search fee.

It was only a few minutes before I was rewarded with the information I sought—Priscilla St. Ana’s complete motor vehicle information and driving record. According to the printout, Priscilla St. Ana owned two cars. The first was the Saab she had told me about. The second was a Mazda Miata MX-5.

“Would you call that a sports car?” I said.

“One-forty-two horsepower, four-cylinder, five-speed transmission, two-seat convertible—yeah, I’d call it a sports car.”

I glanced up at the clerk. She gave me a toothy grin and said, “I like cars.”

I went back to the printout. Under color, it read “black cherry.”

May I take the Mazda? Silk had said.

You always do, Cilia told her.

That’s because I look so good in it.

“Nuts,” I said.

15

By midmorning the hot sun was shimmering off the gray tiles on the roof of Priscilla St. Ana’s estate in Woodbury—and off the tiny black-cherry sports car parked in the long driveway. I spent a good deal of time staring at the car. It reminded me of something G. K. Bonalay had said—was it just yesterday?

God is in the details.

My inner voice scolded me. So much misery could have been avoided if only you had looked in the garage, it said.

Yeah, but there are no windows in the garage.

Excuses, excuses.

The way I looked, I didn’t think I had much chance getting past the maid, Caroline. Besides, I didn’t want to speak with Cilia. So I ignored the front door and made my way around the sprawling house to the backyard patio. I heard the rumbling sound of the diving board and saw Silk slicing into the water as I turned the corner. I watched her pull herself from the pool as I approached. She was wearing a pale gray swimsuit with some pale blue splattered here and there. The sun touched droplets on her face and shoulders and the top of her breasts, turning them to silver. Silk smiled as she took a big white beach towel from the back of a chair and brushed away the droplets.

“Mr. McKenzie,” she said as if it were the answer to a question.

“Ms. St. Ana,” I said.

She seemed amused by my appearance—bruised, unshaven face; flat, disheveled hair; dirty jeans and shirt; damp, shapeless sports jacket.

“You look like you fell into something,” she said.

“I suppose you could say that.”

I sat in an iron chair next to the glass table without asking permission, stretching my legs out in front of me. I hid a yawn behind my hand.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve been up all evening.”

“Must have been an interesting night.”

“It had its moments.”

“Are you here to see Aunt Cil?” she asked.

“No. I’m here to see you.”

“Me?”

Suddenly, Silk seemed bashful. She took a tentative step backward and brought the huge white towel in front of her, concealing her body.

I set a heel on the seat of a chair and launched it forward. It slid across the tile and came to a rest next to Silk.

“Take a seat,” I said.

Silk did what I told her, an obedient child listening to the voice of authority, holding the towel in front of her as if it were a life preserver.

“What do you want?” she said. Her voice made me believe she was willing to do whatever I requested. Where was her confidence? I wondered. Where was her audacity?

I said, “The clock is striking midnight, Cinderella. It’s pumpkin time.”