Dead Silent (A Jettine Jorgensen Mystery, Book 1) Page 7

  “Hi, I’m Krissy Simmons, here for the dog nanny interview.”

  “Hi, please come in.”

  She stepped in and glanced around the foyer, then stared at the winged Valkyries. Her clothes reeked of marijuana. “This place is really something.”

  “Thanks. I’m Jett Jorgensen, and these are my puppies, Pratt and Whitney.”

  Krissy smirked. “Their names are Pratt and Whitney? Kinda dumb names for dogs, but whatever. How often am I supposed to walk them? Will I get nights off?”

  “This is a live-in position, so you’d be on duty five days a week with two days off.” I peeked at the dogs, who were still waiting for Krissy to interact with them. “Your duties will include feeding, grooming, walking, and playing with the puppies.”

  She stared at text messages on her phone. “Huh? Five days? But I can have my boyfriend here while I’m on duty, right?”

  The girl seemed far more interested in what was on her phone. She hadn’t even petted the dogs, who sat waiting for some indication she’d noticed them. The strange scent on her clothes made them hold back.

  “What floor is my room on, and when do I get a tour of the castle?”

  “No tour. We’re done.” I escorted her the few feet back out the door. “I’ll call if you get the job. Have a nice day.” I closed the door before Krissy had a chance to object.

  I fussed over my doggies. “You were so well behaved. I’m very proud of you.” I checked the time. “Let’s go in the backyard before the next interviewee arrives.”

  Thirty minutes later, a slender woman around my age arrived wearing a navy skirt suit and matching stilettos. She carried an electronic tablet and wore her blond hair pulled back in a bun like a legal secretary. Her perfectly manicured nails were painted a pale pink.

  She paused beside a Valkyrie statue and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Jennifer Maxwell.” She perused her tablet. “Right on time for my interview. You must be Miss Jorgensen.”

  I shook her hand. “Call me Jett, and these are Pratt and Whitney, the pups needing a nanny.”

  Jennifer reached down and gave each furry head a light pat. She held her stylus perched against her tablet. “I’m sorry, what did you say their names were?”

  “The male is Pratt, and the female is Whitney.” I pointed at each dog.

  The stylus slipped out of her hand and bounced across the marble floor. Pratt remained beside me while Whitney rushed to retrieve the plastic pen-like object. She grabbed it with her tiny needle teeth, trotted back with it in her mouth, and dropped it at the woman’s feet.

  Jennifer picked it up. “Eeew, dog slobber.” She wiped it off with a tissue from her purse and then doused her hands with liquid sanitizer. Stylus poised, she asked, “How do you spell their names?”

  “Never mind. This isn’t the right job for you.” I eased her out the door. “Thank you for coming.” I closed the door. “Two down, three to go. Mommy needs a glass of chardonnay.”

  The puppies wrestled and played as they followed me into the kitchen. I pulled a bottle from the refrigerator and poured a glass. After taking a sip, I said to the dogs, “I didn’t think it would be this difficult to find you a good nanny.” I took another drink.

  Candidate number three, Iris Jenkins, was a no-show. I finished the glass of wine.

  An hour later, Becky Sue Simmons arrived with a lit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. When I opened the door, the woman exhaled smoke into my face and moved to enter.

  I blocked her. “Sorry, no smokers. I made that clear in the ad.” I closed the door in her face and sucked in a deep breath to calm myself. “What a rude person! Let’s hope number five turns out to be just right.” I petted my dogs and took them out through the terrace doors to romp on the back lawn.

  Sophia DeLuca arrived promptly at four o’clock carrying a large handbag. Under five feet tall, she wore tennis shoes and a tan pantsuit in a cotton-poly blend. Sixty years old, she had short curly hair dyed dark brown with a reddish sheen. Slender with a kind face, her nails were short, clean, and free of polish.

  The instant she stepped inside, she dropped to her knees and fussed over the puppies. She looked up at me. “Sophia DeLuca here for my interview. You must be Jett. Your fur babies are adorable.” She leaned down so they could lick her face. “Such cuties! Grandma Sophia loves you.”

  I offered her a hand. “Welcome, Sophia. Come with me into the great hall so we can sit and chat.” I helped her up and led her to a sitting area where dark-brown leather sofas and chairs formed a rectangle.

  Sophia perched on a sofa and reached into her purse. She pulled out two Ziploc bags, one filled with tubular pastries and another with small dog biscuits. “I figured you’d be hungry after conducting so many interviews. Cannoli with chocolate bits for you and my home-baked dog biscuits for the puppies, if that’s okay.” She offered me cannoli on a paper napkin.

  “Thank you. It smells wonderful, and I’m sure my dogs would love some of your dog biscuits.” I took a bite. “Delicious! Did you make this?”

  She smiled. “I love to cook. Glad you like it. Have another. There’s plenty.”

  The puppies made short work of the dog biscuits and licked her hand.

  “You’re welcome, my little dears.” She caressed their fur. “I should get them some water. They look thirsty.”

  “They know where their water dishes are. Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea? Something stronger?”

  “Iced tea would be great. Need any help?” Sophia glanced around as she petted the dogs, her gaze pausing on a large painting of Viking longships under sail, a nearby statue of Thor, and then a broadsword mounted on the east wall between windows.

  “Relax, I’ll be right back.” I headed for the kitchen, and the puppies followed. They lapped up water from their bowls while I prepared a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses.

  I served Sophia and then settled across from her. “Do I detect a New York accent?”

  “Brooklyn. I come from a big Italian family.” She lifted the dogs and placed them on either side of her. “My father, Francesco Calabrese, was an immigrant from Sicily.”

  My jaw dropped. “Not Don Calabrese?”

  “Yes, dear, you’re looking at the Mafia Don’s daughter, may he rest in peace.” She crossed herself. “Don’t worry. I don’t participate in Mob business. After my sons were raised, I moved to Florida to get away from those over-protective goombahs.” She twisted her napkin. “I had a nice nest egg from my late husband’s life insurance, but I lost a big chunk of it in the recent stock market crash. I’m afraid if I ask my sons for help, they’ll insist I move back to Brooklyn.”

  “How long ago did your husband pass?” I smiled at the way Sophia automatically petted the puppies while she talked.

  “Twenty years ago, that worthless imbroglione was caught in bed with the wife of a lieutenant from a rival family. I was humiliated, and my father was furious. Nobody ever saw my Vincent again. He’s probably wearing cement overshoes on the bottom of Long Island Sound.” She made a gesture with her arm and a balled fist. “Good riddance! I’m done with men. The only thing they want with a woman my age is a free cook, housekeeper, and nursemaid. Who needs them?”

  “I can see you love dogs. Do you have any experience with big ones?”

  “I used to breed Italian Cane Lupino del Gigante dogs. They’re big and look a lot like German shepherds. My dear Bello passed away four months ago. I feel lost without him.”

  I took a sip of iced tea. “Sophia, you seem ideal for this job. If my cop friend does a background check on you, will it come back clean?”

  She crossed herself again. “May God strike me dead if it doesn’t.”

  “How are you at keeping secrets?”

  “What kind of secrets are we talking about? I don’t put up with sexual shenanigans. And if you’re sneaking around with married men, fuhgeddaboudit. I’m outta here.”

  “No, no, nothing like that. It has to do with me and this house,
which was built in 1908.”

  “Well, if your house is that old, it’s probably haunted. Are you afraid of ghosts, dear?”

  “No, are you?” I studied her face to judge her reaction.

  “When I was growing up in Brooklyn, the body count was pretty high, and back then they laid out the corpses in open coffins in our living room. I’ve seen plenty of ghosts.” She noted all the Norse statues. “You got some Viking ghosts here?”

  “No ghosts, but my mother was a Cherokee shaman‍‍—”

  Sophia broke in, “A shaman? Is that a medicine woman?”

  “She was a spiritual leader and a natural healer.” I bit my lip. “I’ve seen her in my dreams three times this week, and two of the times involved me sleepwalking.”

  “That’s no big deal as long as you don’t fall off a balcony.” She bit into a cannoli. “Won’t bother me. I’ve seen real ghosts.”

  “No kidding? What have you seen?”

  “The worst one was my Uncle Benny, walking around with blood oozing from bullet holes in his chest and forehead. He was grotesque.” She grinned at me. “Of course, he wasn’t much better looking alive.”

  “Let me make a quick call. While I’m gone, think about when you can move in.” I strode out onto the terrace, closed the glass door, and called Gwen. “I think I found the perfect dog nanny. How fast can you run a check on Sophia Calabrese DeLuca, sixty, from Brooklyn, currently living in Silver Lakes in West Palm Beach?”

  “Hang on, I’ll run it now,” Gwen said as she typed in the info. A few seconds later, she said, “Whoa, Jett, she’s Francesco Calabrese’s daughter. He was Don of the biggest Mob family in New York until he died eight years ago and passed the torch to his two grandsons, Domenico and Marco.”

  “She already told me all that. Is her record clean?”

  “Yes, but Mafia women usually steer clear of the wet work. That doesn’t mean she’s an angel.”

  “My dogs love her, and so do I. She’s a real peach. Says exactly what she thinks, and she loves to cook. She brought me the best cannoli I’ve ever tasted. I can’t wait for you to meet her. Thanks for the background check.”

  I walked back in. “You’re hired. When can you move in?”

  “Is tomorrow too soon?”

  “Tomorrow is perfect.” I smiled. “Come any time after ten in the morning.”

  Twelve

  I called Hunter after Sophia left. “Hey, I love the puppies, and they’re super smart. So easy to train. I think it’s the wolf in them.”

  “Glad you like them. Any news on the mayor’s murder?”

  “I have something you need to see, but you have to come here to see it, and you might want to stay overnight. Any chance you can come tonight? It’s important.”

  “Is this something you want to keep private or can I bring my date?”

  “We definitely wouldn’t want your date involved.”

  “Is it okay if I arrive around ten? I’ll take her to an early dinner and drop her off before driving out to Valhalla.”

  “Ten will be fine. I’ll look forward to seeing you tonight. Bye.”

  The dogs and I greeted Hunter when he arrived in his black McLaren at 10:15 p.m.

  I hugged him. “Thanks for passing up the rest of your date so you could come here.”

  He leaned down and petted the puppies. “I swear they look bigger already. Now, what’s so important?”

  I bit my lower lip. “Brace yourself. Your sister … my mother … has returned in my dreams to show me that she and Dad were murdered.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “After two years? Are you sure about this? What did Atsila tell you?”

  “Come in, have a drink, and we’ll talk about it.” I led him to the great hall. “What would you like?”

  “Beer is good.” He sat on a sofa and surveyed the room like he was expecting to see his sister step out of the life-size portrait of her and my dad over the fireplace.

  “Is Coors okay?” He nodded as I headed for the kitchen.

  I handed him a cold bottle and settled beside him with a glass of merlot. “The first time I saw something weird was out front at Odin’s fountain right after the mayor’s murder. Just a glimpse, but I’m certain it was Mom’s wolf spirit.”

  “How can you be so sure?” He took a swig of beer.

  “It was a flaming wolf with golden eyes. Mom had golden eyes, Atsila means fire in the Cherokee language, and she was shaman of the Aniwaya Clan. You know Aniwaya means wolf. Hence, a flaming wolf with Mom’s golden eyes.”

  “Okay, that makes sense, but you only had one brief glimpse of it, right?”

  “Yes.” Then I described every dream and sleepwalking episode in detail. “The day after she showed me the book, the model of their jet broke at the tail.”

  He rubbed his chin. “So, this has nothing to do with the mayor? It’s just about Atsila and Victor?”

  “She wants me to know their jet was sabotaged, but I don’t know if it has any connection to the mayor’s murder or why two years passed before I had the dreams.”

  “Okay.” He crossed his arms. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Dive on the crash site with my SEAL friend, Snake, a tec deep diver named Justin, and me to look for evidence. I booked a dive boat for next Wednesday in Freeport.”

  He took another swig of beer. “Show me the broken airplane in the study.”

  “Good idea.” I stood and headed down a hallway to the southwest corner of the house. The pitter-patter of eight tiny feet trailed behind us.

  We settled on a cordovan sofa and examined the broken tail and fuselage.

  “Small charges set on the attach bolts and timed to explode during the climb out would separate the tail from the airplane. It would only require small explosions to shear the bolts. It’s possible someone did that.”

  “I won’t rest until I know for sure. Will you dive with me?”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll come.” He handed me the plastic T-tail. “Any developments on the mayor’s murder?”

  I filled him in. “They still don’t know who rigged my security feed to look like no one was here every afternoon. They suspect it was an outside hacker.”

  “Why be satisfied with one hacking fee from the mayor? If it had been me, I would’ve gone a step further and installed a tiny video camera the size of a pencil eraser to use for blackmailing all the players. Did the cops find a hidden camera?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Do you know what one looks like?”

  “I may or may not have put one in my bedroom,” he said with a wink. “Show me the room where the mayor died.”

  The dogs weren’t big enough to climb the stairs easily, so we picked them up and carried them to the second floor. When we entered the guest room, we set the dogs down, and they sniffed under the four-poster bed where the mayor had died.

  A large oil painting hung over a low dresser on the wall opposite the bed. The picture depicted a rocky shoreline in Denmark. Lots of shiny black rocks with waves washing over them fronted a stone fortress looming in the background.

  Hunter searched the painting for several minutes. “Aha! You’d never see it if you weren’t looking for it, and crime scene techs would’ve been reluctant to mess with this valuable painting.” He pointed at a quarter-inch diameter camera hidden among the rocks. Lifting the painting, he found a tiny antenna taped behind the camera. “See this? I bet it transmits the images to a video recorder in a closet directly above us on the third or fourth floor.”

  “I can’t believe you found this.” Amazed, I gawked at the miniature spy apparatus.

  “Let’s go find the recorder.” He bounded out of the room.

  I rushed to catch up. “Wait. I need you to carry one of the dogs.”

  He scooped up Pratt, and we trotted upstairs past a huge portrait of my great-great grandfather, whose steely-blue eyes seemed to follow me.

  “We’ll look on the third floor first.” He turned left into a wide hallway with a twelve-foot c
eiling. Tall, Nordic statues spaced every ten feet lined both walls in between vibrant-hued oil paintings.

  We turned into the bedroom directly above the murder room, and I switched on the light. Twin brass beds flanked a nautical-themed brass and teak dresser. A round mirror over the dresser looked like a large, brass-framed porthole.

  When he opened the closet door, the dogs pounced on an overturned cardboard shoebox on the floor. I pulled them back, and Hunter used his house key to lift the edge of the box. A video recorder was hidden underneath, and it was still on.

  “I’d love to know what’s on it, but Mike Miller will have our hides if we mess with this. He’s the lead detective on the case.”

  Hunter arched an eyebrow. “Mike, huh? Are you two back together?”

  “Seriously? After six years of him ignoring me?”

  “Whoa!” He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”

  “We’re on speaking terms again because of the murder.” I pulled out my cell and called him. “Mike, it’s Jett. Better come to the house right away. Hunter found a video camera hidden in the murder room and a recorder in the room above it.” I rolled my eyes. “No, we didn’t touch them. Are you coming?” I hung up.

  Hunter smiled. “I take it he’s coming.”

  “He’ll be here by the time I get downstairs to let him in.” I picked up Whitney.

  “Alrighty, let’s go.” He scooped up Pratt and headed for the stairway.

  The doorbell rang as we reached the foyer. I set Whitney on the floor and opened the door.

  Mike’s facial expression was all business when he walked in. He shook my uncle’s hand. “Good to see you, Hunter. I hear you found a hidden camera upstairs.”

  “And a video recorder in the room above it. Looks like it’s still turned on.”

  Mike turned to me and arched his eyebrow. “Am I going to find your fingerprints on it?”

  “No, but you might find some from the killer or maybe little paw prints.” I nodded at the dogs. “The puppies pounced on the cover.”