had work to perform, clients to keep happy, and a business to run. Rossi had set our plans in motion, but building our new home was a team effort, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
That meant I’d soon be moving from Surfside. I glanced around my familiar living room. For the first time since I’d lived here, it seemed cramped to me, its muted greens and turquoise a tad dated. I had to smile at my own dissatisfaction, for to be honest, ever since I’d sold my late husband Jack’s Irish antiques, I hadn’t really been happy with the changed look of the place. Not with the colors, or the consignment store secretarial, or the nubby club chairs...
Designer
,
heal thyself
.
The portfolio with the journal inside still lay on the chair where I tossed it.
Too bad I hadn’t had a chance to show it to Rossi. Though on second thought, maybe that was just as well. He’d been working twelve hours most days, sometimes even longer, and I didn’t want to burden him with yet another problem. After all, no crime had been committed. Stew had lied was all...lied about Connie Rae’s life-threatening illness. At least I think that was all.
Anyway, according to what I read in the journal, somebody had lied. Why would a girl claim her husband knew she was in danger of dying if he didn’t know? And if Stew was aware of his wife’s desperate situation, why would he deny the knowing? None of it made sense. To get at the truth in Connie Rae’s journal, I needed Naomi Pierce, a handwriting expert and woman of many talents. Providing I could find her.
I had to. An urgent need to learn more about the dead girl crowded out all other thoughts. Acting on a hunch, I stowed the deed safely in a desk drawer, retrieved my cell phone from the orange tote and carried it out to the kitchen counter.
I perched on a stool, clicked on the Google icon and tapped in Handwriting Analysis. A menu of several names from around the country popped up, but no Naomi Pierce from Naples. Not under America’s Handwriting Expert or Forensic Document Examiner, either. Before switching to Graphology, I’d try Signature Expert—Forged wills, contracts, forms. And there she was, with both an email address and a local phone number.
Though psyching out human behavior from how a person wielded a pen wasn’t exactly a skill in high demand, on occasion the NPD had used Naomi to help crack a case. She excelled at ferreting out hidden motivation. And that was what I was after. Motivation.
I’d try the phone number first. It would be faster. But I was out of luck. A robo voice came on the line: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” The email address then. No luck there, either. An instant after I sent a message, it was bounced back to me. Now what?
Naomi was a free spirit who moved from one rental apartment and trailer park to another. I’d never known exactly where she lived at any one time, and in the past year or so, I’d lost track of her completely.
The duty officer at the station might have her new number. But even so, he wouldn’t give it to a stranger on the phone. If all else failed, I’d ask Rossi to track her down, but he was already so overworked I hated to add to his schedule.
I glanced at my watch. Nearly eight o’clock. He’d been on the job since dawn. I wondered if he’d had any dinner and hopped off the stool to check the fridge. Nope. The barbequed chicken hadn’t been touched nor the Greek salad either. He’d probably feasted on a cup of stale coffee and a bag of peanuts. What he needed now was a meal and a good night’s sleep, not another task.
That settled it. I had to find Naomi on my own. Naples was her home. She’d been born and raised here, and chances were good that she still lived in town. I could go to the Collier County tax assessor’s office, or drop in at a local bistro she used to frequent...
Or...
Or!
Wanting to slap myself up the forehead for not remembering sooner, I forgot about the chicken
That meant I’d soon be moving from Surfside. I glanced around my familiar living room. For the first time since I’d lived here, it seemed cramped to me, its muted greens and turquoise a tad dated. I had to smile at my own dissatisfaction, for to be honest, ever since I’d sold my late husband Jack’s Irish antiques, I hadn’t really been happy with the changed look of the place. Not with the colors, or the consignment store secretarial, or the nubby club chairs...
Designer
,
heal thyself
.
The portfolio with the journal inside still lay on the chair where I tossed it.
Too bad I hadn’t had a chance to show it to Rossi. Though on second thought, maybe that was just as well. He’d been working twelve hours most days, sometimes even longer, and I didn’t want to burden him with yet another problem. After all, no crime had been committed. Stew had lied was all...lied about Connie Rae’s life-threatening illness. At least I think that was all.
Anyway, according to what I read in the journal, somebody had lied. Why would a girl claim her husband knew she was in danger of dying if he didn’t know? And if Stew was aware of his wife’s desperate situation, why would he deny the knowing? None of it made sense. To get at the truth in Connie Rae’s journal, I needed Naomi Pierce, a handwriting expert and woman of many talents. Providing I could find her.
I had to. An urgent need to learn more about the dead girl crowded out all other thoughts. Acting on a hunch, I stowed the deed safely in a desk drawer, retrieved my cell phone from the orange tote and carried it out to the kitchen counter.
I perched on a stool, clicked on the Google icon and tapped in Handwriting Analysis. A menu of several names from around the country popped up, but no Naomi Pierce from Naples. Not under America’s Handwriting Expert or Forensic Document Examiner, either. Before switching to Graphology, I’d try Signature Expert—Forged wills, contracts, forms. And there she was, with both an email address and a local phone number.
Though psyching out human behavior from how a person wielded a pen wasn’t exactly a skill in high demand, on occasion the NPD had used Naomi to help crack a case. She excelled at ferreting out hidden motivation. And that was what I was after. Motivation.
I’d try the phone number first. It would be faster. But I was out of luck. A robo voice came on the line: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” The email address then. No luck there, either. An instant after I sent a message, it was bounced back to me. Now what?
Naomi was a free spirit who moved from one rental apartment and trailer park to another. I’d never known exactly where she lived at any one time, and in the past year or so, I’d lost track of her completely.
The duty officer at the station might have her new number. But even so, he wouldn’t give it to a stranger on the phone. If all else failed, I’d ask Rossi to track her down, but he was already so overworked I hated to add to his schedule.
I glanced at my watch. Nearly eight o’clock. He’d been on the job since dawn. I wondered if he’d had any dinner and hopped off the stool to check the fridge. Nope. The barbequed chicken hadn’t been touched nor the Greek salad either. He’d probably feasted on a cup of stale coffee and a bag of peanuts. What he needed now was a meal and a good night’s sleep, not another task.
That settled it. I had to find Naomi on my own. Naples was her home. She’d been born and raised here, and chances were good that she still lived in town. I could go to the Collier County tax assessor’s office, or drop in at a local bistro she used to frequent...
Or...
Or!
Wanting to slap myself up the forehead for not remembering sooner, I forgot about the chicken
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