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CHAPTER THREE
That afternoon, Daisy Fortune sat at her desk in a rundown section of East Plainfield, New Jersey, eyeing the picture of her father on the wall as she waited for Goldie Tate to arrive.
In the photograph, her father, the esteemed Edward Fortune, was shaking hands with the President of the United States. Handsome and bulldog-strong, he posed on the steps of the state courthouse in Trenton, fresh after breaking up a massive drug ring. National media had been there, and he’d received personal congratulations from the highest office in the land.
Bells over the doorway jingled, a rare sound, signaling someone was coming in.
She swiveled around to face the army of empty desks in the room. In its heyday, Fortune Investigations employed over a dozen private eyes. But that had been a long time ago. Now, thirty years after he’d gotten that commendation from the president, all but one of the desks were empty. Some of them still had typewriters on them, beneath layers of dust. The place looked dirty, old. Itwasold, the HVAC always leaving the place ice-cold and never fully circulating the stagnant air. It smelled now of a burned popcorn mistake she’d made with the breakroom microwave a week ago. The neighborhood around the place had deteriorated, too, and now the only businesses on the street were pawn shops and an addiction treatment center. Her father had put bars on the windows a decade ago, and yet that hadn’t stopped someone from spraying a graffitiSUCK ITon the storefront window a month ago.
The woman who came in, Goldie Tate, was clearly well taken-care-of, which was why she looked around the dilapidated area as if it was an alien world. She was wearing a bright pink jumpsuit that showed off her ample curves and comically large breasts, and though most women her age would probably never wear an outfit that outlandish, she carried it with all the confidence of someone half her age. She had a short haircut, shaved on the sides, and matching pink earrings that dusted her shoulders. Though her skin was without a single wrinkle, her face looked tight, as if she was in pain, and her eyes slanted up slightly on the corners, suggesting one too many facelifts.
She fixed her eyes on Daisy as she removed her dark sunglasses and tutted. “Girl, why are you in a place like this? I parked my Mercedes across the street and I swear, they’re eyeing it up, right now.” She bent her head slightly to look out the window.
Daisy was sure the whole,It’s all I can affordargument would go right over this woman’s head. She lived in Short Hills, which, though it was in the same state, was a world away as far as financial status. So she ignored the question. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, no. I should keep this quick,” she said, glancing out the window again as she took her seat.
“Yes, of course—”
“You’re probably wondering how I found you,” she steamrolled over Daisy’s words. “Especially out here in the wilds of . . .” She frowned. “Where are we, again?”
“East Plainfield.”
“Ah yes. Never heard of it.” She shrugged off her coat and cracked her knuckles, as if ready to tell a long, winding tale. So much for making it quick. “Anyway. I spoke to a friend who said you’d done marvelous work on a murder in Rhodes. And that you were American. And I thought, that’s just what I need. I don’t need some foreign detective that I don’t understand, trying to tell me my business. I can tell you’re a woman of the world, and that you know just what I need—"
“I don’t,” Daisy finally succeeded in interrupting. “I don’t know exactly why you’re here. Can we start with the crime? You said your husband was murdered? When was this?”
“My ex, actually. They found his body yesterday.” She paused and tilted her head. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Jealous ex from hell. But I promise you, I’m not that. Yes, we may have gotten divorced years ago, but that was because we realized mutually that we were not compatible as husband and wife. He went looking at younger models, and I realized I like being alone.”
Daisy had been thinking about the last murder she’d solved, where the fiancé who had retained her services had actually wound up being the killer. And it had been due to jealousy. “How long have you been divorced?”
“Twenty years.”
Daisy frowned. “Okay, I’m sorry, but how are you involved, then?”
“Because you have to understand my relationship with Franklin. We actually became better friends when we got divorced. We were the best of friends. He told me everything. Everything. And that’s why I suspect foul play.”
“The police don’t?”
“No. They say it was a heart attack. Too much partying. Rubbish.” She waved her hands as if it would drive the point home. “Yes, he liked all the vices—smoking, drinking, partying, gambling—I like them a fair bit, too, you know. But he was active. Had a perfect ticker!”
She pounded with great force on her heart.
“Okay.” Daisy picked up a pen and scrap paper to take notes. “Your husband’s name?”
“Franklin Tate. You may have heard of him. He’s a successful entrepreneur.”
Daisy stared at the name. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“That’s probably because he hasn’t done much since his divorce from me. He’s a behind-the-scenes man in his business. Prefers to spend his time leading from afar. He likes to travel. He spends a lot of time in his villa outside Venice.”
“Oh, is that where it happened?”
“Happened in the sky. When he was on his private jet, traveling back from a boy’s gambling trip to Monaco and France. He likes to go on whirlwind trips often. He called me before the last one. I was going to jet out there and meet him for lunch when he returned. But . . . now I have to go out for a funeral. Well, not funeral. Memorial. He wants to be cremated and have his ashes scattered about the sea.”
She wiped her face, and Daisy was surprised to see a tear in the brash, confident woman’s eye.
“Frankie was foolish. He liked to live for today, never thought much about the future. He did some reckless things. But he didn’t deserve this. It’s that girl. That Kiki.”
