Don't Fall For That Trick: A Booke Cases Mystery

Part 2 of 4

Becky rattled her newspaper. "Well, I really should see how Trick is doing ... "  

"Don't worry," I said. "I told the nurses you're here. Especially since the others left."  

"The others ... left?"  

"Except your mom; she's using the phone. Ms. Kroenig said to call with any news. She's at the house."  

"At ... Trick's house?" Becky rolled her eyes. "She could at least pretend she's concerned."  

Becky didn't notice Darla first looking at her, then at me with raised eyebrows. I put my hands in my pockets and asked Darla what she wanted to wear.  

"You know, skirt, blouse, shoes. Oh! Maybe you can help these ladies out here and swing by Trick Henderson's house to get him some personal things, too? That way they can stay near him. I'm sure Becky can give you the directions."  

"Oh. Um, sure." Becky looked like she was on the spot. "I guess the housekeeper can get them for you. Thanks."  

I was on the spot, too. "Okay, sure. So what all should I get?"  

"I'll write it down." Darla pulled a pen and scratch pad from her purse.  

"Wait-you had paper?"  

"Sure. Need some?"  

"Like two hours ago."  

"You didn't ask." Darla arched that eyebrow she does, then scribbled out a note and handed it to me. I was trying to figure out the message when the nurse came to check Darla's temperature. "Doing all right?"  

Darla nodded and mumbled, thermometer in mouth, "Mmfhmf."  

I looked at the note again before tucking it in my shirt pocket.

***

And so I drove out to Trick Henderson's estate. One hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching directions to his place of residence.  

It was a nice drive. Rolling hills, green trees. Not that I could enjoy it: My excuse to visit the Henderson home may have been to get some of his personal belongings back to the hospital, but I also had a hidden agenda.  

Darla had written down three items on the note:

Night of wreck.  

Birthday party.  

Call George.

Well, I didn't need to bother our friend in the police. If Darla suspected one of these people of foul play, I could certainly figure it out for myself.  

Driving through the neighborhood, I gawked as I drove past each set of fancy gates. The upscale area of Brentwood is populated by many a music millionaire: artists, managers, record execs-I tried to imagine who all lived privileged lives behind these privacy hedges. (George Jones? Faith Hill? Garth Brooks? If only some kid with a corner stand was selling maps to the stars homes.)  

I found the driveway. The big double-gate was wide open, so I drove in up the hill, past the immaculate lawn and parked at the enormous house. Scaling the steps to the front door, I pressed the button. I was disappointed to hear a common doorbell. The door opened and I was face to face with the Mrs. (Or, rather, the ex-Mrs.) Feeling foolish, I gave her my best grin. "Uh, hi! I expected the housekeeper to answer."  

"She is not here." Ms. Kroenig looked at me uncertainly. "You were at hospital, Mr. ... "  

"Booke."  

She shifted her weight, regarding me. Then shook her head and stepped back, opening the door. "Ach! But I am sorry, come in, come in."  

The lobby (it was too big to call a foyer) had a huge chandelier overhead. Black-and-white checkerboard tile led right to the staircase. "Hey," I said sincerely, "this is nice."