Part 10: Coincidentally Speaking
Mark whistled as he walked toward the storefront of Findley Lawn Services. The glass-fronted office was stylishly designed and located in one of the newer industrial office complexes. Not exactly the kind of place that he'd expected to find a struggling business. Obviously things were going well for Vincent Findley.
He moved inside, equally impressed with the internal décor. The small reception area near the front was empty of people, but there was a bell on the counter to the left of the door. Mark tapped it lightly, and took the opportunity to look the room over.
The waiting room chairs looked very comfortable. It seemed only right that he test them out. He settled into the enveloping cushions and sighed with contentment. Just then a voice interrupted him.
"Doctor Sloan, right?"
Mark hopped up quickly from the chair, attempting to cover his embarrassment with a good-natured grin. "Andy. It's good to see you again." He returned a greeting to the young man who had been working on the Michaels' yard earlier that day.
"Likewise," Andy chuckled. "I was really worried there for a while when that cop took you away in cuffs."
"Oh that." Mark waved the incident away. "Just a little misunderstanding."
Andy looked dubious, but was interrupted from responding by the appearance of another man from the back of the building.
"I thought you were locking up," he said pointedly to the young man, before turning toward Mark. "I'm afraid we're closing, sir."
"I promise not to take up much of your time," Mark assured him as Andy hurried off to make closing preparations. "I'm actually looking for Mr. Vincent Findley."
The balding, medium height man looked back at him. "That's me."
"Oh, good." Mark smiled at him, only slightly put off when the man simply stared back, unresponsive. He continued, "You have lovely offices. And a great location."
Findley glanced at his watch suggestively. "Thank you, I had a good agent."
"No kidding, boss!" Andy, upon reentering the reception area, jumped enthusiastically into the conversation. "Would you believe this place used to be based out of the back of a comic book store? Findley here used to . . . ." He trailed off mid-sentence at Findley's silencing glare, before adding a sheepish, "Sorry, boss."
Mark offered the younger man a reassuring smile, before returning his attention to Findley. "I actually ran into Andy today at the Michaels' place. I was really impressed with his and your work. I have a beach house out in Malibu, I thought I would look into your services."
Findley's brow rose with interest. "What exactly would you like to have done, Mr. . . . uh?" He no longer appeared as if he was ready to bolt out of the door.
"Sloan. Mark Sloan." Mark filled in the blank, before attempting to answer the question. "And, actually, I'm not sure. At home there are lots of plants and shrubs, and . . . well, sand of course. What would you suggest?"
Findley seemed to think seriously about it for a few moments. "It would probably be best if I did an appraisal for you. Would you like to make an appointment for that?"
"Why, yes, I would," Mark agreed.
"The earliest I have is Monday, about eleven o'clock? Two days from today?"
"That'll be fine." Mark waited patiently while the appointment was entered into the computer system, stating his address and phone number at the appropriate time.
"Thank you very much," Mark smiled at the other man, taking the packet of information that was handed to him. "I think you've done a wonderful job with the Michaels' property. Did you know them well?"
"Actually --" Andy, having apparently noticed that his employer was more relaxed, approached and opened his mouth to answer.
"Andy, I think we're all done here." Findley said, smiling toward the young man. "Thanks for your help today. I can see Mr. Sloan out."
"That's Dr. Sloan," Andy spoke up, then looked toward Mark with a wink, and the thumbs up sign. Having picked up something off of one of the tables, he handed it to him. "The interior decorator's card. In case you're interested." He lowered his voice and added, "Don't forget what we talked about."
"Right, I won't." Mark, struggled to hide his grin as he slipped the card into his pocket.
Findley moved toward the opposite corner of the room after Andy left. Mark had no choice but to follow and repeat his question. "As I was saying, had you known the Michaels long?"
"No. Maybe a year." Findley smiled toward him as he went about punching something into the alarm keypad. A beep sounded, then the man turned and herded Mark toward the door.
"It's just terrible what happened to Mr. Michaels. Did you hear that there was trouble there lately Especially with the neighbor across the street?"
Findley locked the door then shrugged noncommittally. "I'm just the gardener." He turned and headed toward a truck parked in one of the spots in front of the building. "Discretion is part of the service, Dr. Sloan. Have a good evening."
"Yeah. Okay. I need to be getting home since it's . . . ." Mark found himself talking to the other man's tail lights. "By the way, you might want to give Andy a raise." He winced.
~*~
The sun was settling over the horizon when Jesse made his way over the sands from the beach. Someone had removed the crime scene tape during the day, and things were looking back to normal with the exception of the splotches of blood on Steve's patio. The reminder was a little unsettling. Maybe he could have it cleaned up so Mark wouldn't have to be concerned with it.
Making a mental note to do just that, he started up the steps that led to the deck on Mark's section of the house. He hoped that his walk had been long enough for Steve and Maeve to discuss whatever they'd needed to talk about.
The image that greeted him through the glass doors was of Steve, eyes closed, his head leaning back against the recliner. Judging from the frown lines on his face, he wasn't sleeping. Jesse watched as he suddenly opened them, and clumsily attempted to get up from the chair. He opened the door and rushed inside.
"Whoa. You need something? I'm at your service. Take advantage of this opportunity while you have it." He smiled, hoping that the touch of humor would spark an answering smile from his friend.
Steve didn't smile back, he sighed instead. "I just need the telephone, Jess. I'm perfectly capable of getting it." His voice was a half growl. A very strong indication, in Jesse's opinion, that the conversation with Maeve had not gone well.
"I know you can. But humor me." He picked up the extension in the kitchen and brought it out to him. On the return trip to the kitchen, he carried the tray that had been abandoned on one of the chairs. It was obvious that Steve had no intention of drinking that juice that he'd prepared for him.
Keeping a careful ear cocked in Steve's direction, he checked on the start he'd made on dinner. The salad would be chilled nicely. Though somehow he doubted that he'd get the looked for argument from his friend about spinach greens.
Steve was calling Cheryl, he made out that portion of the conversation easily enough. Apparently he wanted her to question a woman by the name of Carla Rivers who had some familiarity with the dead guy, Samuel Jarvis. Steve said something after that, but his voice dropped to a lower volume and Jesse was having a hard time making out the words.
He moved from the sink to one of the drawers in the center island, nearer the den. There was nothing that he needed to check into there, but Steve didn't know that. He was just trying to look out for his friend, find out what was going on. He glanced up, startled, when Steve spoke a little above normal tone, "Looking for a user's manual?"
Jesse focused on what was actually in the drawer and flushed when he noticed the paper manuals that had come with the kitchen appliances. He grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Wrong drawer."
"Umm hmmm." Steve shot him a disbelieving look. But it was also tinged with affection.
Jesse couldn't resist the chance to press his advantage. With a broadening grin, he started up the steps into the den and settled into the chair that Maeve had recently vacated. "I take it things didn't go so well?" he asked sympathetically.
"That would be an understatement," Steve admitted. "I don't know how I could have been so --" He was cut off by the ringing of the phone, still in his lap. He picked it up and answered.
"Oh, hi, Amanda." He smiled in Jesse's direction as he identified the caller. His smile dropped away slightly. "That's too bad. Uh, yeah, he's right beside me." He chuckled slightly. "Okay. Right, I'll tell him."
Jesse waited expectantly while Steve hung up the phone. He'd obviously been a part of their conversation. "What did she say?" he wanted to know.
Steve smiled. "Just that she has an emergency autopsy to do and that she won't be able to make it for dinner."
Jesse's face fell. "That's not all she said."
"Really? It isn't?" Steve feigned confusion, but a half smile was still visible.
"No, it wasn't," Jesse replied. "There was something else. I could tell. You guys were laughing about something."
"Jesse. Amanda is my friend. We laugh about lots of things. Now, I'd really like to get some rest." He closed his eyes, but the smile remained on his face. He cocked one eye open and looked at him. "I thought you were supposed to be serving me. Shouldn't you be starting dinner about now? I'm starved."
Jesse grumbled good-naturedly and headed back toward the kitchen. Obviously Steve was just yanking his chain. Amanda's message must have been for Mark. But, he couldn't complain that Steve was smiling. That was a good thing. Smiling to himself, he hoped that this time there would be no crisis that would prevent anyone from actually eating the meal that was prepared for the evening.
~*~
Mark balanced a tray in one hand and knocked on the door to the guest room. Maeve hadn't come out for dinner, complaining of a headache and lack of hunger. Steve had filled him in about what had taken place in his absence. Though he didn't doubt the headache and lack of hunger, he was sure that there was probably a heavy dose of shame and embarrassment involved as well. Maybe even some anger.
She opened the door and looked between him and the tray. "I'm really not hungry, Mark." She turned and headed back inside the room, leaving the door open. Mark followed.
"You should try to eat something anyway," he insisted. "It's just a bit of salad and some chicken. Jesse is very good at salads." He held the tray where she could see that he'd carefully decorated the tray with a small spray of flowers. "This one is especially delicious."
He could see her weakening a little. "Why don't you have a seat right there?" He gestured her to a cushioned chair by the window. With a motion of his hands, he folded down the wooden legs beneath it and settled the tray across her lap. As he stood he handed her a napkin wrapped set of silverware.
"Wow. You've done this before." Maeve smiled at him, a bit of humor returning for a moment. She sighed a little as she started in on the salad.
"I've had occasion to do this from time to time," he admitted, a small smile lighting his features. He liked cooking and preparing meals for Steve, but the only time he could get away with bringing it to him on a tray was when he was ill or recovering.
"This is really good," she admitted.
"I'll let Jesse know. He'll glow with pleasure." He chuckled as she laughed in return. He watched for several moments as she continued to eat, then said, "Steve told me about what happened."
Maeve stopped chewing, appearing to immediately lose her appetite. "Gave you the blow by blow, did he?" She shot a suspicious look in his direction, but Mark smiled beneficently back at her.
"Steve's my son; I worry about him. But I really don't get involved in his personal life." He continued to smile, pleased when she relaxed and started eating again. He continued, "And I wouldn't think of judging you."
Maeve glanced at him. "You're probably the only one."
"Despite his personal feelings, Steve is a good man and a good police officer. He is only looking for the truth."
She put down her fork. "You're probably right. I guess I may have overreacted a little when he kept asking all those questions. But that's his job, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," Mark agreed.
"Well, that probably makes it a little complicated for him having me here. My father will be in tomorrow. I could go to a hotel for the night."
"No," Mark shook his head. "That isn't necessary at all. And Steve wouldn't have it either. Besides, he's already sleeping. Between the meds Jesse is giving him and the recovery process, he won't even know his own name till morning."
"I'm so sorry. I feel like everything that has happened is my fault. Even Adam. If I had been home, maybe he would still be alive."
"Why would you say that?" Mark asked, sympathetically.
"Because he wasn't even supposed to be there. He was supposed to be at work."
"What about the woman who was with him?" Mark asked the sensitive question. "Was she supposed to be there?"
"No," Maeve shook her head. "They were supposed to leave his office and drive up to Palmdale. I guess he must have forgotten something at home."
A startling thought occurred to Mark. "Was anyone supposed to be at your house that morning?"
"No. . . ." Maeve started to answer, then trailed off. "Yes." A worried frowned settled over her face. "Jeff Johansen -- an electrician -- was supposed to be there that morning to complete repairs to our intercom. But he called me Thursday evening and told me that he couldn't get the part for another week. I ran into him later at a club."
"Who else knew he wasn't going to be there that morning? Did your husband know?"
Maeve shook her head. "No. Just Carla. She was at the club, too. You don't think someone wanted to kill Jeff do you? That Adam's death was a mistake?"
Mark whistled as he walked toward the storefront of Findley Lawn Services. The glass-fronted office was stylishly designed and located in one of the newer industrial office complexes. Not exactly the kind of place that he'd expected to find a struggling business. Obviously things were going well for Vincent Findley.
He moved inside, equally impressed with the internal décor. The small reception area near the front was empty of people, but there was a bell on the counter to the left of the door. Mark tapped it lightly, and took the opportunity to look the room over.
The waiting room chairs looked very comfortable. It seemed only right that he test them out. He settled into the enveloping cushions and sighed with contentment. Just then a voice interrupted him.
"Doctor Sloan, right?"
Mark hopped up quickly from the chair, attempting to cover his embarrassment with a good-natured grin. "Andy. It's good to see you again." He returned a greeting to the young man who had been working on the Michaels' yard earlier that day.
"Likewise," Andy chuckled. "I was really worried there for a while when that cop took you away in cuffs."
"Oh that." Mark waved the incident away. "Just a little misunderstanding."
Andy looked dubious, but was interrupted from responding by the appearance of another man from the back of the building.
"I thought you were locking up," he said pointedly to the young man, before turning toward Mark. "I'm afraid we're closing, sir."
"I promise not to take up much of your time," Mark assured him as Andy hurried off to make closing preparations. "I'm actually looking for Mr. Vincent Findley."
The balding, medium height man looked back at him. "That's me."
"Oh, good." Mark smiled at him, only slightly put off when the man simply stared back, unresponsive. He continued, "You have lovely offices. And a great location."
Findley glanced at his watch suggestively. "Thank you, I had a good agent."
"No kidding, boss!" Andy, upon reentering the reception area, jumped enthusiastically into the conversation. "Would you believe this place used to be based out of the back of a comic book store? Findley here used to . . . ." He trailed off mid-sentence at Findley's silencing glare, before adding a sheepish, "Sorry, boss."
Mark offered the younger man a reassuring smile, before returning his attention to Findley. "I actually ran into Andy today at the Michaels' place. I was really impressed with his and your work. I have a beach house out in Malibu, I thought I would look into your services."
Findley's brow rose with interest. "What exactly would you like to have done, Mr. . . . uh?" He no longer appeared as if he was ready to bolt out of the door.
"Sloan. Mark Sloan." Mark filled in the blank, before attempting to answer the question. "And, actually, I'm not sure. At home there are lots of plants and shrubs, and . . . well, sand of course. What would you suggest?"
Findley seemed to think seriously about it for a few moments. "It would probably be best if I did an appraisal for you. Would you like to make an appointment for that?"
"Why, yes, I would," Mark agreed.
"The earliest I have is Monday, about eleven o'clock? Two days from today?"
"That'll be fine." Mark waited patiently while the appointment was entered into the computer system, stating his address and phone number at the appropriate time.
"Thank you very much," Mark smiled at the other man, taking the packet of information that was handed to him. "I think you've done a wonderful job with the Michaels' property. Did you know them well?"
"Actually --" Andy, having apparently noticed that his employer was more relaxed, approached and opened his mouth to answer.
"Andy, I think we're all done here." Findley said, smiling toward the young man. "Thanks for your help today. I can see Mr. Sloan out."
"That's Dr. Sloan," Andy spoke up, then looked toward Mark with a wink, and the thumbs up sign. Having picked up something off of one of the tables, he handed it to him. "The interior decorator's card. In case you're interested." He lowered his voice and added, "Don't forget what we talked about."
"Right, I won't." Mark, struggled to hide his grin as he slipped the card into his pocket.
Findley moved toward the opposite corner of the room after Andy left. Mark had no choice but to follow and repeat his question. "As I was saying, had you known the Michaels long?"
"No. Maybe a year." Findley smiled toward him as he went about punching something into the alarm keypad. A beep sounded, then the man turned and herded Mark toward the door.
"It's just terrible what happened to Mr. Michaels. Did you hear that there was trouble there lately Especially with the neighbor across the street?"
Findley locked the door then shrugged noncommittally. "I'm just the gardener." He turned and headed toward a truck parked in one of the spots in front of the building. "Discretion is part of the service, Dr. Sloan. Have a good evening."
"Yeah. Okay. I need to be getting home since it's . . . ." Mark found himself talking to the other man's tail lights. "By the way, you might want to give Andy a raise." He winced.
~*~
The sun was settling over the horizon when Jesse made his way over the sands from the beach. Someone had removed the crime scene tape during the day, and things were looking back to normal with the exception of the splotches of blood on Steve's patio. The reminder was a little unsettling. Maybe he could have it cleaned up so Mark wouldn't have to be concerned with it.
Making a mental note to do just that, he started up the steps that led to the deck on Mark's section of the house. He hoped that his walk had been long enough for Steve and Maeve to discuss whatever they'd needed to talk about.
The image that greeted him through the glass doors was of Steve, eyes closed, his head leaning back against the recliner. Judging from the frown lines on his face, he wasn't sleeping. Jesse watched as he suddenly opened them, and clumsily attempted to get up from the chair. He opened the door and rushed inside.
"Whoa. You need something? I'm at your service. Take advantage of this opportunity while you have it." He smiled, hoping that the touch of humor would spark an answering smile from his friend.
Steve didn't smile back, he sighed instead. "I just need the telephone, Jess. I'm perfectly capable of getting it." His voice was a half growl. A very strong indication, in Jesse's opinion, that the conversation with Maeve had not gone well.
"I know you can. But humor me." He picked up the extension in the kitchen and brought it out to him. On the return trip to the kitchen, he carried the tray that had been abandoned on one of the chairs. It was obvious that Steve had no intention of drinking that juice that he'd prepared for him.
Keeping a careful ear cocked in Steve's direction, he checked on the start he'd made on dinner. The salad would be chilled nicely. Though somehow he doubted that he'd get the looked for argument from his friend about spinach greens.
Steve was calling Cheryl, he made out that portion of the conversation easily enough. Apparently he wanted her to question a woman by the name of Carla Rivers who had some familiarity with the dead guy, Samuel Jarvis. Steve said something after that, but his voice dropped to a lower volume and Jesse was having a hard time making out the words.
He moved from the sink to one of the drawers in the center island, nearer the den. There was nothing that he needed to check into there, but Steve didn't know that. He was just trying to look out for his friend, find out what was going on. He glanced up, startled, when Steve spoke a little above normal tone, "Looking for a user's manual?"
Jesse focused on what was actually in the drawer and flushed when he noticed the paper manuals that had come with the kitchen appliances. He grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Wrong drawer."
"Umm hmmm." Steve shot him a disbelieving look. But it was also tinged with affection.
Jesse couldn't resist the chance to press his advantage. With a broadening grin, he started up the steps into the den and settled into the chair that Maeve had recently vacated. "I take it things didn't go so well?" he asked sympathetically.
"That would be an understatement," Steve admitted. "I don't know how I could have been so --" He was cut off by the ringing of the phone, still in his lap. He picked it up and answered.
"Oh, hi, Amanda." He smiled in Jesse's direction as he identified the caller. His smile dropped away slightly. "That's too bad. Uh, yeah, he's right beside me." He chuckled slightly. "Okay. Right, I'll tell him."
Jesse waited expectantly while Steve hung up the phone. He'd obviously been a part of their conversation. "What did she say?" he wanted to know.
Steve smiled. "Just that she has an emergency autopsy to do and that she won't be able to make it for dinner."
Jesse's face fell. "That's not all she said."
"Really? It isn't?" Steve feigned confusion, but a half smile was still visible.
"No, it wasn't," Jesse replied. "There was something else. I could tell. You guys were laughing about something."
"Jesse. Amanda is my friend. We laugh about lots of things. Now, I'd really like to get some rest." He closed his eyes, but the smile remained on his face. He cocked one eye open and looked at him. "I thought you were supposed to be serving me. Shouldn't you be starting dinner about now? I'm starved."
Jesse grumbled good-naturedly and headed back toward the kitchen. Obviously Steve was just yanking his chain. Amanda's message must have been for Mark. But, he couldn't complain that Steve was smiling. That was a good thing. Smiling to himself, he hoped that this time there would be no crisis that would prevent anyone from actually eating the meal that was prepared for the evening.
~*~
Mark balanced a tray in one hand and knocked on the door to the guest room. Maeve hadn't come out for dinner, complaining of a headache and lack of hunger. Steve had filled him in about what had taken place in his absence. Though he didn't doubt the headache and lack of hunger, he was sure that there was probably a heavy dose of shame and embarrassment involved as well. Maybe even some anger.
She opened the door and looked between him and the tray. "I'm really not hungry, Mark." She turned and headed back inside the room, leaving the door open. Mark followed.
"You should try to eat something anyway," he insisted. "It's just a bit of salad and some chicken. Jesse is very good at salads." He held the tray where she could see that he'd carefully decorated the tray with a small spray of flowers. "This one is especially delicious."
He could see her weakening a little. "Why don't you have a seat right there?" He gestured her to a cushioned chair by the window. With a motion of his hands, he folded down the wooden legs beneath it and settled the tray across her lap. As he stood he handed her a napkin wrapped set of silverware.
"Wow. You've done this before." Maeve smiled at him, a bit of humor returning for a moment. She sighed a little as she started in on the salad.
"I've had occasion to do this from time to time," he admitted, a small smile lighting his features. He liked cooking and preparing meals for Steve, but the only time he could get away with bringing it to him on a tray was when he was ill or recovering.
"This is really good," she admitted.
"I'll let Jesse know. He'll glow with pleasure." He chuckled as she laughed in return. He watched for several moments as she continued to eat, then said, "Steve told me about what happened."
Maeve stopped chewing, appearing to immediately lose her appetite. "Gave you the blow by blow, did he?" She shot a suspicious look in his direction, but Mark smiled beneficently back at her.
"Steve's my son; I worry about him. But I really don't get involved in his personal life." He continued to smile, pleased when she relaxed and started eating again. He continued, "And I wouldn't think of judging you."
Maeve glanced at him. "You're probably the only one."
"Despite his personal feelings, Steve is a good man and a good police officer. He is only looking for the truth."
She put down her fork. "You're probably right. I guess I may have overreacted a little when he kept asking all those questions. But that's his job, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," Mark agreed.
"Well, that probably makes it a little complicated for him having me here. My father will be in tomorrow. I could go to a hotel for the night."
"No," Mark shook his head. "That isn't necessary at all. And Steve wouldn't have it either. Besides, he's already sleeping. Between the meds Jesse is giving him and the recovery process, he won't even know his own name till morning."
"I'm so sorry. I feel like everything that has happened is my fault. Even Adam. If I had been home, maybe he would still be alive."
"Why would you say that?" Mark asked, sympathetically.
"Because he wasn't even supposed to be there. He was supposed to be at work."
"What about the woman who was with him?" Mark asked the sensitive question. "Was she supposed to be there?"
"No," Maeve shook her head. "They were supposed to leave his office and drive up to Palmdale. I guess he must have forgotten something at home."
A startling thought occurred to Mark. "Was anyone supposed to be at your house that morning?"
"No. . . ." Maeve started to answer, then trailed off. "Yes." A worried frowned settled over her face. "Jeff Johansen -- an electrician -- was supposed to be there that morning to complete repairs to our intercom. But he called me Thursday evening and told me that he couldn't get the part for another week. I ran into him later at a club."
"Who else knew he wasn't going to be there that morning? Did your husband know?"
Maeve shook her head. "No. Just Carla. She was at the club, too. You don't think someone wanted to kill Jeff do you? That Adam's death was a mistake?"