8
T he next morning at 6:45, Brogan woke to see Lucien’s side of the bed empty. Thinking he’d gotten up early, she threw on a robe and headed downstairs, Stella and Poppy hot on her heels. But as she reached the first floor, she heard snoring. Loud. Emphatic. Snoring. She followed the sound coming from his office. Instead of finding him wide awake, she found him curled up in a ball on the loveseat, passed out.
When the dogs started to whine, she shushed them and looked around the room. She spotted the empty glass tumbler on his desk, picked it up, and gave it a sniff. “Yep, that would do it. I’d recognize that smell anywhere.”
Instead of shaking him awake, she threw a blanket over him and headed to the kitchen to make coffee, the dogs trailing behind, hoping for breakfast.
After scooping food into their dishes, she watched Stella and Poppy settle over their kibble. Craving coffee, she poured beans into a grinder. The whirring sound pulsated out a beat she could wake up to. Bypassing the fancy barista machine, she dumped the fresh ground coffee into her workhorse of a coffeemaker, filled it with water, and hit the button to brew a pot instead of one cup. When it kicked into gear, the aroma was enough to wrap around her like a warm, comforting blanket. It might even be strong enough to rouse Lucien from his slumber.
She leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a moment to savor the quiet before the day began in earnest. The events of the night before flooded her mind—the intensity of their investigation, the dark and dangerous path they were treading in pursuit of a killer.
When the machine beeped an end to the brewing cycle, she poured herself a cup and heard the sound of footsteps shuffling toward the kitchen. She turned to see Lucien rubbing his blurry eyes, blinking rapidly to filter out the bright light coming through the blinds, holding up his hands to block out the sun. His disheveled appearance signaled either a throbbing headache or an intense hangover. He carried his laptop under his arm.
“Could you do something about all that sunlight?” Lucien muttered.
“What do you suggest? Did you turn into a vampire overnight? Do you need to go back to your coffin before you burst into flames?”
“Very funny,” he mumbled as he inched closer to the coffee pot, leaving his laptop on the kitchen table. “Right now, closing those blinds would be a blessing.”
She slowly moved over to lower the shades. “How much did you drink last night?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I thought a hit of Jack Daniels might help.”
“You drank an entire glass. That must be the reason you passed out?”
“I did not pass out,” Lucien protested. “But I did something you may not approve of.”
“If you’re about to admit you joined a porn site—”
“Worse. I replied to Truthseeker22.”
“You did what?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s brilliant.”
One eyebrow arched in confusion. “You think so? I thought you might be upset.”
“No. Not at all. Sure. Why not contact him directly? I mean, it might involve playing cat and mouse with him for a while, trying to get him to trust you, but isn’t that the important thing? That he trusts you enough to give you more information?”
“It sounded much better than that around midnight in my boozed state. I thought it might be a quicker solution. But I can see how I’d need to build his trust before he’ll tell me anything at all.”
“Did you check to see if he replied?”
“Of course.” He shook his head. “It’s too soon.”
Brogan took a sip of her coffee, contemplating their next move. She knew they were walking a fine line by engaging an online persona. “This guy could be our best chance at uncovering the same thing Bethany discovered. Or he could be the killer using his online presence to toy with the bloggers. We need to be careful. We can’t afford any missteps. This is an unknown entity, like all complete strangers you meet online, he could be any weirdo who wants to yank our chain.”
Lucien nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “We need to keep at it, though, engage him in conversation, gain his trust, and maybe he’ll reveal something crucial we wouldn’t have known otherwise. If he bothers to answer at all.”
“He will. He can’t resist feeling superior about what he knows.”
“Once we gain his trust, what if we set up a meeting with this guy? Make it somewhere public, where we can observe him from a discreet distance.”
“Let’s not get carried away. The first step is waiting for him to reply. That could take days or even weeks. That’s when we feel him out and find out who we’re dealing with, little by little.”
“I’m suddenly starving.”
“How about I make pancakes? While I whip up the batter, you can start the bacon.”
“Deal.”
As they finished breakfast, Lucien’s phone rang. “It’s Graeme. He’ll want an update on his stalker.”
“Do you have an update?”
“You know I don’t have any more than I did when I traced the email back to the general vicinity of Santa Barbara.” He turned his focus to his cell phone. “Hello? Dad? What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you what’s up, mate. A huge arrangement of posies just showed up at the front gate. They’re for me, and they’re freaking me out. This has gone on long enough. I want you to find out who’s doing this and make them stop. Sending me flowers is over the top.”
“Okay. I will. I hear you. It’s unacceptable for anyone to send you flowers.”
“I don’t need a smart-ass answer, Lucien. This is serious. Maybe not to you, but to me, anyway. I need to know if I should buy a can of pepper spray or maybe a gun for protection.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t Mace anyone, Dad. Or worse, don’t shoot anybody. The tabloids would crucify you. Just calm down. I’m taking care of it. Was this a simple bouquet from someone’s garden, or is it an arrangement sent by a florist?”
“A bloody florist, who do you think? It’s two feet tall, as big as a small tree. It must’ve cost a fortune.”
“Which florist? Was it one in town?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Well, look for the card. Read me what the card says. Tell me which florist sent the flowers.”
“Janet’s getting it now. I see it’s from one that I’ve often used. The place is called Petal Paradise. They grow their own flowers in the back of their shop in a huge greenhouse where they cultivate all manner of exotic tropical plants like orchids and African violets. This bunch of posies must have at least twenty kinds of flowers in it.”
“The card, Dad. What does the card say?”
“It’s a rhyme and not a very good one at that. This time, it’s not a love letter. The card reads: Graeme, you may be tall, you may be rich, but I’ll carve you up like a little bitch. You make me cry. You make me sick. Because you’ve been such a nasty prick, these flowers are sent with ill-willed intent. I’ll chop you up fine, my buttercup mine, stick the blade deep, deep into your spine .”
“Ouch. Jeez. Your fan has turned from singing your praises to showing that they have a violent streak. That’s not good. Okay. I’ll get right on it.”
With panic in his voice, Graeme pleaded, “I’m not kidding around here, Lucien. I need to see some results. Look what happened to Rory. Do you want the same thing to happen to me? Do you want someone coming in here and slitting my throat while I sleep? You wouldn’t do this to another client. I’m family. I need you to take care of the problem.”
“I will. I will. I’ll have you an answer by this afternoon,” he promised. “You’ll have a name you can give to the cops.”
“I’ll expect to hear from you, mate,” Graeme grumbled, hanging up.
“Are we going to Santa Barbara?” Brogan wondered.
“No. I have a better idea, and it doesn’t involve leaving the house.”
“I like the sound of that. What’s the plan?”
“I’ll go directly to the source and ask Petal Paradise who ordered the flowers. These kinds of stalkers aren’t always careful with their personal information.”
“I like that idea.”
Lucien looked up the number for the florist and punched in the digits. A woman answered. He asked to speak to someone in charge. After identifying herself as the owner of the business, he gave them his name and explained why he had called, including how the recipient had received several threatening emails and now flowers from her shop and feared for his safety. “Are you in the habit of sending flowers to a person when the message on the card involves a threat?”
“No. Of course not. But we don’t read the cards if the customer comes into the store in person. We honor their privacy if they write the card and seal it in the little envelope. We’re not in the habit of prying into people’s private moments.”
“This private moment didn’t go well with the person who received the flowers. The message was a threat. Did this customer pay cash or use a credit card?”
“The arrangement sent to Mr. Sutter is our top-of-the-line product. It goes for almost four hundred dollars. So, I’m fairly certain they used a credit card.”
“I’ll need the name on the card.”
“I’m uncomfortable giving out that information over the phone.”
“Would you rather I call our lawyers and the police? Or how about if we called the media and held a news conference in front of your store? We can make a big stink about this or handle it quietly without anyone knowing you gave up the cardholder’s name?”
The woman let out a resigned sigh. “Okay. Hold on, and I’ll look it up.”
Lucien waited on hold while cheery Christmas jazz played in his ears. After two minutes, the owner returned with the information. “The name on the card is Florence Brown.”
“Okay. That’s all I need to know. Thanks.”
“You won’t say anything negative to the media, will you?” the owner asked.
“As long as the name checks out, you’re in the clear. Thanks.”
“You really made that threat sound real,” Brogan remarked from across the table. “Would you have followed through?”
“Maybe,” he said as he opened his laptop to hunt down anything he could find about Florence Brown. He booted up the software app he hoped would give him an insight into this woman who, depending on her mood, either sent adoring fan letters to a rock singer or threatened to cut him with a knife.
“Found her. Jeez, she’s a fan, all right. Her entire social media presence is full of pictures of Indigo, specifically Graeme Sutter, on stage, going as far back as twenty years ago. And look at this. It appears her cover photo is of all the band members. She posted a picture of your dad, too. Here she is with Graeme. I wonder if that’s photoshopped or if Florence actually met them in person back in the day?”
“Lucien, this woman could be having a mental health issue, a mental breakdown,” Brogan pointed out. “She’s taken obsession to the next level. These are pictures of us when we were in our teens.”
“On tour in Australia with the band,” Lucien finished. “I wonder if that’s where she’s originally from, Australia? Maybe she traveled all the way to the US to be near Graeme.”
“If that’s true, her behavior is over the top. Because he didn’t reply to any of her emails, she got pissed off,” Brogan added. “Did you read her profile all the way through? She claims that she resides in New Zealand. But she’s on holiday in America. She admits she’s here in Santa Barbara. Do a deep dive into her background and see if we can track her using her cell phone. Or maybe she has a family member we could contact.”
“Brogan, she threatened to stab Dad in the back. I’m all for seeing that she gets the mental help she needs, but we need to locate her and get her off the streets, like today.”
“Agreed. But it would be nice if we got a phone number to track down her family, so they’d at least know what she’s up to.”
“Sure. I’ll start with the New Zealand angle. If she’s from there, maybe we can locate her family or friends who can help us understand her behavior and perhaps provide insight into why she’s fixated on Graeme. We can also contact the local authorities there and see if we can get any history on her. We need to act fast but use caution, so we don’t alarm her or worsen the situation.”
As Lucien began his deep dive, he felt a bit uneasy. He knew that his father was a public figure and that it came with its own set of challenges, but this felt like something else entirely. It made him realize just how much danger his father was in and how important it was to find Florence Brown before it was too late. “I’ll be honest. I haven’t felt this edgy since we helped take down Palmer Riordan, the guy who murdered your dad.”
“Over a song that Rory wrote. Riordan was out of touch with reality. Oh, my God. Florence Brown could be the same type of individual.”
“Yeah,” Lucien replied, typing the woman’s name into an international database. “At least Ms. Brown isn’t wanted by Interpol or the local authorities back home in New Zealand. This says she’s fifty-four and has owned a home in Queenstown for the past twenty-five years.” He pulled up a street view of the house. “That’s what it looks like.”
“It looks like a picturesque town, a nice, normal place to live. Why on earth would she obsess over your dad?”
“No idea. Here we go. I’ve got a cell phone number. I also have a phone number for Florence’s daughter.”
“We should call the daughter. What’s her name?”
“You won’t believe it. Her name’s Indigo Brown.”
“Indigo? Brown? She named her daughter after the band. Oh, God, I hope she isn’t another sibling,” Brogan said as she watched Lucien punch in the numbers for the daughter.
“I was thinking the same thing. Hello? Is this Indigo Brown? Is your mother Florence Brown?”
“Yes, yes, who’s this?” the woman asked in an Aussie accent.
After putting the call on speaker, Lucien identified himself and explained the situation. “So, Indigo, interesting first name, like the band. Any reason your mother would be sending Graeme Sutter flowers?”
“What? My mother has been missing for a week. We’ve been going out of our minds trying to find her. And now you’re telling me she’s in America? You’re calling from America? My God, I can’t believe this is happening?”
“Are you aware your mother’s been emailing my father, Graeme Sutter, for months? Her emails have been fairly harmless up to now. She’s been professing her love for him, that sort of thing, telling him what a fan she is. But today, she sent a threatening note with a very expensive arrangement of flowers that sent him over the edge and into panic mode.”
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. Your dad is Graeme Sutter from Indigo. Why didn’t I connect the dots? That must be the four-hundred-dollar charge that showed up on her bank card from a place called Petal Paradise in California. We’ve been tracking her purchases and charges. We’ve been looking for Mum everywhere. Never did we ever think she’d leave New Zealand. Look, this is so embarrassing. But my mum isn’t well. You see, my dad died three months ago. I think my mum must’ve suffered a mental collapse. She’s been acting strangely ever since his funeral. Believe it or not, she insisted we play every one of Indigo’s songs for my father during his wake. Every. Single. Song. On repeat. For three hours. Trust me, this isn’t like her. My mum is about as ordinary and boring as it comes. Please, tell me you know where she is.”
“No. Not exactly. We know she is somewhere in Santa Barbara. If I have the right number, I could track her phone for you.”
“Will you? Please. I’ve been trying to call her. Not one time has she answered the phone. I can try again, though, if you think it would help. Please don’t lock her up over there. I’ll fly there and get her. I swear I will. Please don’t have her arrested.”
“You need to promise you’ll get her some help.”
“Yes, yes, of course I will. I promise.”
“First, we need to locate her,” Brogan pointed out. “Do you have any ideas where she might be staying?”
“Let me think. Oh. Oh. I know. Last Sunday, she had a charge on her bank card that showed up for a posh stay at a hotel with a spa called the Laguna Marq Resort. I thought it was a mistake and disputed the charges in her absence. Oh, my God, I hope I didn’t get her kicked out. This is unbelievable. I can’t believe Mum flew all the way from New Zealand to California alone and then checked into a fancy hotel. That’s twenty-plus hours in the air. And the cost. My dad left her quite flush with money, but that flight must’ve cost seven or eight thousand dollars. I’m so sorry that I’m rambling, but I’m truly worried about her chaotic behavior and what she’ll do next.”
“That’s the problem. What she’ll do next? No one knows for sure. How do you want to proceed?”
“Could you go to this spa and find her? I can send you a recent photo.”
“What good will that do?” Lucien said. “Your mum doesn’t know us from Adam.”
“That’s true. But if you explain who you are, she might be willing to sit down and listen to you. She honestly loves your dad’s music. Their entire playlist is a string of good memories for her. I doubt she meant to hurt your father. Please, I need you to buy me time. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll throw some things in a suitcase and catch the earliest flight available. Will you do it? Please, Mr. Sutter. My parents loved Indigo’s music.”
Lucien exchanged looks with Brogan. “Sure. My wife and I will drive down to Santa Barbara and try to—I’m not sure what we’ll do once we get to the hotel—appeal to her sense of right and wrong.”
“Tell her I’m on my way. And make sure she answers the bloody phone when I call her!”
They spent the next five hours in the car on the phone with Graeme, reassuring him how the crazy stalker had turned out to be a lonely recent widow who had traveled halfway around the world to see him personally and may have suffered a mental breakdown.
Graeme wasn’t that easily satisfied. “I don’t care about the circumstances as long as you get her to back off and stop with the emails and flowers.”
“What if she wants to meet you?” Brogan asked.
“Have you lost your mind? I’m not going to meet up with a crazy fan. Is this the kind of thing you’d tell your clients to do? I’m surprised they have any faith in your abilities,” Graeme charged.
“Okay, okay, it was just a suggestion,” Brogan said, changing strategy. “You don’t have to meet her. Lucien and I will handle the situation.”
“Good. See how that works. Keeping me safe should be your top priority.”
When Graeme clicked off the call, she angled toward Lucien. “Nothing better than spending our day pumping up egos. Isn’t the Laguna Marq one of those exclusive resorts where they don’t tell you how much the room is until check-in?”
“Yeah. It’s that city-block Spanish Colonial sitting on a cliff overlooking the ocean. It doubles as one of the most luxurious hideaways on the West Coast, catering to celebrities. It changed owners a couple of decades back. They added eight acres, filled them with botanical gardens, and built plush bungalows hidden behind walls of wisteria and Bougainvillea. For privacy.”
Realization dawned on Brogan. She snapped her fingers at the memory. “Wait a sec. You’re talking about that mansion where Graeme had one of his weddings near the lily pond.”
“That’s the one. Wedding Number Three. He married a model with a weird, eclectic taste in fashion. I remember she wore a pink dress instead of white and insisted on a pink wedding cake. She insisted that turtle doves be flown all the way from England. All the guests had to pretend they saw turtle doves overhead because the UK refused to send them.”
Brogan snickered with laughter. “I’d forgotten that part. What they saw was plain ol’ wood pigeons that ended up crapping all over the sidewalk. Her name was Ingrid, something or other. She was kooky.”
“That’s an understatement,” Lucien remarked as he exited the freeway. “The few times I saw her, she always had her face covered in bird poop. No lie. She had this weird fascination with birds.”
“You’re making that up.”
“No, I’m not. She used to believe that the kabuki facials made from nightingale poop kept her face looking young. Again, I’m not making that up. Plus, she used to make these origami Japanese cranes and set them around the house. They were everywhere.”
“Hmm. I don’t remember the bird obsession. But I do know Dad was Graeme’s best man. I remember watching the couple walk down the aisle to Nigel playing the wedding march on a classical guitar borrowed from the conservatory at the back of the grounds. I remember thinking in my teenage head that it was all very romantic.”
“Birds crapping on people was romantic?”
“Like I said, I forgot that part.”
As the sun descended over the Pacific Ocean, Lucien pulled the Range Rover into a swanky valet parking area and stopped beside a bubbling stone fountain.
Brogan looked up at the three-story villa, its stucco walls, the massive portico adorned with hand-painted ornate tiles, stunning stained-glass windows on every level, and a sprawling terracotta roof shaped like an exotic wing. “I haven’t been here since Graeme’s wedding. But I remember it now vividly. Let’s hope Florence didn’t get kicked out after her daughter disputed the charges. Otherwise, this is a wild goose chase. These people are very persnickety about not paying for your hotel room.”
“We’re about to find out if we’re spending the night or making a quick turnaround back home.”
She looped her arm through his. “Oh, come on. We could splurge on an impromptu overnight stay, couldn’t we?”
He cracked a grin. “Sure. But what makes you think Graeme would give us a moment’s peace if we haven’t cornered his stalker by midnight tonight?”