Read Online Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery by R. Barri Flowers - Free Book Online
Authors: R. Barri Flowers
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vision of the ideal woman—graceful,
elegant, small, lovely—with another man.
A twinge of jealousy mixed with curiosity
overcame me, as if I had a right to know how she spent her time and
with whom. Was he the new man in her life or the prodigal
husband/boyfriend returned from wherever he had been keeping
himself for the past two months? Dreams die hard. I put my
disappointment on hold while turning my attention to one of the two
cases I had taken on.
It was just after three in the afternoon when
I showed up at Gregory Sinclair’s business address. I knew what he
was up to and who with, but decided to get more incriminating
evidence for Catherine to do with as she pleased. And the fact that
I was operating on twice my normal pay didn’t hurt my desire to
stretch this out one more day either.
Sinclair spent at least an hour at what I
later determined was a consulting firm bearing his name. From there
it was a restaurant meeting with a white male I presumed was a
client, and on to a florist. Now, I suspected, we were getting
somewhere. Sinclair emerged with two long stemmed pink roses. More
driving around the city ended at the Oregon Zoo.
Keeping a sufficient distance, I followed him
in. Sinclair shared peanuts with the elephants before his blonde
friend arrived by his side. I captured them with one hell of a
greeting kiss I was sure Catherine would love. Even the
presentation of the roses and the blonde’s exaggerated appreciation
gave ample evidence that this was not a meeting of the minds.
The cheating husband and blonde bimbo (I gave
her the benefit of the doubt) did enough smooching and giggling to
fill a couple of rolls of film. Even the elephants seemed to
notice. Then the giraffes and hippopotamuses. It was almost as if
Gregory Sinclair didn’t give a damn if he was caught with his hand
halfway or all the way in the cookie jar. Maybe he figured it was
worth it to get caught to rid himself of Catherine.
It was her problem. I wanted no further part
of her once this was over, whichever way her marriage ended up. I
figured I had more than enough evidence of a less than faithful
husband for Catherine Ashley Sinclair to mull over. The rest was up
to her. If, by chance, she wanted more intimate indiscretions to
present before the judge, I would gladly recommend another private
eye.
For me, the buck stopped here—and the bucks,
too. But I didn’t need the aggravation nor the qualms about spying
on a cheating husband for an unfaithful wife.
CHAPTER TEN
I arranged to meet Catherine Ashley Sinclair
at my office two days later when she called for an update. As if
she felt compelled, she explained that between social functions and
having her hair and nails done, she’d been too busy to concern
herself with her husband’s personal agenda.
Catherine stepped inside the door wearing
that same white hat tilted elegantly and an orange dress that
contoured to every part of her body as much, if not more, than the
red dress she had worn the night I met her at Jasmine’s. Matching
orange pumps seemed the perfect fit for this sexy woman of
intrigue.
And danger, something told me.
“Hello,” she said unemotionally.
“Hi.” I remained at my desk
semi-professionally. “Have a seat, Mrs. Sinclair.” Somehow
Catherine or Ashley seemed too personal and intimate this time
around for my liking.
She seemed to concur. “Is he seeing someone
else?” she asked straightforwardly. Then added, as if dark humor:
“Or is there more than one woman?”
Looking across at those enticing blue eyes, I
responded succinctly: “Only one that I’ve been able to
determine.”
For but a moment, bitterness crept across her
face like a bleak shadow, quickly replaced by resignation. “Do you
have proof?”
I nodded. On my desk was a stack of some of
the photos I’d taken at the motel in Vancouver and at the zoo. I
held back the rest, which were largely repeat offenders.
She flipped through the pictures quickly with
narrowed
elegant, small, lovely—with another man.
A twinge of jealousy mixed with curiosity
overcame me, as if I had a right to know how she spent her time and
with whom. Was he the new man in her life or the prodigal
husband/boyfriend returned from wherever he had been keeping
himself for the past two months? Dreams die hard. I put my
disappointment on hold while turning my attention to one of the two
cases I had taken on.
It was just after three in the afternoon when
I showed up at Gregory Sinclair’s business address. I knew what he
was up to and who with, but decided to get more incriminating
evidence for Catherine to do with as she pleased. And the fact that
I was operating on twice my normal pay didn’t hurt my desire to
stretch this out one more day either.
Sinclair spent at least an hour at what I
later determined was a consulting firm bearing his name. From there
it was a restaurant meeting with a white male I presumed was a
client, and on to a florist. Now, I suspected, we were getting
somewhere. Sinclair emerged with two long stemmed pink roses. More
driving around the city ended at the Oregon Zoo.
Keeping a sufficient distance, I followed him
in. Sinclair shared peanuts with the elephants before his blonde
friend arrived by his side. I captured them with one hell of a
greeting kiss I was sure Catherine would love. Even the
presentation of the roses and the blonde’s exaggerated appreciation
gave ample evidence that this was not a meeting of the minds.
The cheating husband and blonde bimbo (I gave
her the benefit of the doubt) did enough smooching and giggling to
fill a couple of rolls of film. Even the elephants seemed to
notice. Then the giraffes and hippopotamuses. It was almost as if
Gregory Sinclair didn’t give a damn if he was caught with his hand
halfway or all the way in the cookie jar. Maybe he figured it was
worth it to get caught to rid himself of Catherine.
It was her problem. I wanted no further part
of her once this was over, whichever way her marriage ended up. I
figured I had more than enough evidence of a less than faithful
husband for Catherine Ashley Sinclair to mull over. The rest was up
to her. If, by chance, she wanted more intimate indiscretions to
present before the judge, I would gladly recommend another private
eye.
For me, the buck stopped here—and the bucks,
too. But I didn’t need the aggravation nor the qualms about spying
on a cheating husband for an unfaithful wife.
CHAPTER TEN
I arranged to meet Catherine Ashley Sinclair
at my office two days later when she called for an update. As if
she felt compelled, she explained that between social functions and
having her hair and nails done, she’d been too busy to concern
herself with her husband’s personal agenda.
Catherine stepped inside the door wearing
that same white hat tilted elegantly and an orange dress that
contoured to every part of her body as much, if not more, than the
red dress she had worn the night I met her at Jasmine’s. Matching
orange pumps seemed the perfect fit for this sexy woman of
intrigue.
And danger, something told me.
“Hello,” she said unemotionally.
“Hi.” I remained at my desk
semi-professionally. “Have a seat, Mrs. Sinclair.” Somehow
Catherine or Ashley seemed too personal and intimate this time
around for my liking.
She seemed to concur. “Is he seeing someone
else?” she asked straightforwardly. Then added, as if dark humor:
“Or is there more than one woman?”
Looking across at those enticing blue eyes, I
responded succinctly: “Only one that I’ve been able to
determine.”
For but a moment, bitterness crept across her
face like a bleak shadow, quickly replaced by resignation. “Do you
have proof?”
I nodded. On my desk was a stack of some of
the photos I’d taken at the motel in Vancouver and at the zoo. I
held back the rest, which were largely repeat offenders.
She flipped through the pictures quickly with
narrowed
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