Death in Santa Clara (Miranda Marquette Mysteries Book 3)

Book summary

When Miranda's neighbor is found dead, her past resurfaces, branding her the "Princess of Death" once more. As she works to clear her name, she must navigate the shadows of Santa Clara to find the real killer. DEATH IN SANTA CLARA is a cozy mystery set in California and part of the Miranda Marquette Mysteries series.

Excerpt from Death in Santa Clara (Miranda Marquette Mysteries Book 3)

May 2009

My blood-red fingernails glistened in the sun as I sat with my back to a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the bay. I figured it could never hurt to dress for success as I waited in the lobby of the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services Regional Office on the tenth floor of the San Francisco Federal Building on 7th Street.

My semi-conservative sand-colored skirt, cardigan sweater, and five-inch heels matched the color of the ceramic tile floors, which seemed like a good omen. Using the bathtub as a steam room, I was able to vanquish the wrinkles my clothes had sustained by stuffing them in my motorcycle’s saddlebag. I couldn’t resist riding up the coast and avoiding the interstate.

I felt blessed to have found the building on-time, even though I had nearly walked right by it. The eighteen-story environmental wonder that, to my untrained eye, looked like a Dr. Suess design, was far more whimsical than I ever thought any federal building should be, considering the life-altering things that could happen here.

It struck me funny when several employees whined to one another as they filed up the staircase leading to this floor, cursing whoever had purposely designed the elevators to stop only on every third floor. While the architect proclaims on a plaque in the elevator, the purpose was to promote employee interaction, the intenti on, according to Wikipedia, was to keep operating costs down. I drummed my fingernails nervously on the table, trying my hardest to think about anything but the reason I was here, and attempted to figure out how an elevator stopping on fewer floors would save energy. But the building cost forty percent less to operate than its counterparts in the City by the Bay, so someone knew what they were doing.

As I pulled my compact mirror out of my bag and checked my lipstick, which was the identical shade of red as my nails, I bemoaned being back in San Francisco, which was quickly becoming my least favorite city. Not that it wasn’t vibrant, eclectic, and beautiful. I was just starting to associate it with murder and mayhem.

I stood up, pulled down my skirt, and straightened my sweater, walking casually over to one of four mirrors on each side of a giant column. I surveyed my long blond hair, which cascaded down my shoulders and back. I usually pulled it back, which made my facial features seem more severe than they were naturally. However, it was preferable for motorcycle riding, which was my preferred means of transportation.

This trip, I had planned and stayed overnight at the Hilton, Union Square, which was an easy walk to the Federal Building if not somewhat unnerving due to the number of homeless lining the sidewalks, hoping for a handout. The hotel stay had allowed me to shampoo and blow dry my hair, which added a half-hour to the process. I was happy with who I saw in the mirror, not that looking pretty would make them any more lenient, but because I was meeting with two male federal agents, it couldn’t hurt.

I hadn’t been here since Heather’s murder trial last summer. That hadn’t turned out anywhere near how I’d expected. But when she left town soon after that, the last thing she said was that I was going down. As time went on, I was getting the sense Heather was right. I wasn’t sure how she knew. Had she been so hell-bent on destroying me that she had turned me into the feds on contract irregularities?

Whether the cause was Heather, someone else, or just bad luck, I waited to meet my fate with Federal Agents Emil Schwendinger and Steve Pierce, nearly two years after they first contacted me with a request for all sorts of data and information. At first, I didn’t think that much of it. I figured it was routine, and they would eventually go away. I felt invincible at that time. I had ridden the wave from North Carolina to Malibu, and I felt like nothing was going to stop me.

Their latest request for information was last spring, which I forwarded to my attorney. I never heard back from her, other than a copy of her response, which seemed like a bunch of legalese, so I figured I had no worries. When summer, fall, and winter went by without a word, I thought I was home free. But then I got the call to meet with them in San Francisco. I didn’t know the details of their issue, but I was sure it wasn’t a social call. They claimed I didn’t need an attorney, but if the Feds were anything like the police, that was their standard line.

Not much had gone the way I had planned since the Street Luge Nationals nearly a year ago. My all-girl extreme team died, both literally and figuratively. My best friend turned out to be anything but, and my reality T.V. series ended before it got started. The only bright spot was becoming Godmother to Nate, the most adorable little boy ever. My friend Patricia and her newborn, Nate, had moved in with me a couple of months ago after she finally cut the apron strings to her wealthy parents in Denver. I had a lot to learn about motherhood, but I was learning fast.

I smiled to myself and was lost in thought when the receptionist, Mandy, let me know that I could go into Conference Room Two B. I almost joked about whether this was Two B or not Two B, but even I didn’t think that was particularly funny at this point and kept my mouth shut.

My anxiety level was through the roof, as evidenced by my lightheadedness, sweating forehead, and ringing ears. I took several deep breaths as I approached the conference room, praying I didn’t have an anxiety attack.

Following the twenty-something receptionist, I wondered how she managed to walk in six-inch heels and make it look so effortless. I debated asking her advice on the way out. Despite the five-inch heels I wore today, anything above three inches required my full concentration.

Two men in suits sat next to one another at a fifty-foot long mahogany conference table. And I thought the government was going broke. There was no evidence of that in this opulent board room.

I assumed they were Steve Pierce and Emil Schwendinger, and it was pretty clear to me who was who. Schwendinger had to be the dumpy-looking, balding guy with a gut, in his mid- to late-fifties. He looked like the stereotypical government agent, deep lines in his face, a constant frown, a baggy brown suit, and a brush cut straight out of the sixties. Pierce was a nice looking jockish kind of guy, probably around my age but with a real boyish look. He was attractive for sure, but not my type, although I found my eyes drawn to him because he seemed familiar to me, I couldn’t place from where.

They both shook my hand. Schwendinger’s hand was clammy. I wanted to go wash mine after that shake like I might catch whatever he had. Pierce’s handshake was the exact opposite, confident but not overly so. He looked me in the eye and smiled. His eyes told me that he would be honest. I needed someone to trust at this point.

Schwendinger was all business and jumped in with his questioning. “Ms. Marquette, it’s my understanding that you operate a solely owned, privately held corporation called Self Esteem for Women, Inc. and that corporation operates several websites under the domain names: selfesteemforwomen dot com, cosmeticsurgerynow dot com, and ifnotnowthenwhen dot com. Is that correct?”

We also operated firstextremeallgirlsportsteam dot com, but I decided I shouldn’t volunteer any more information than necessary. “Yes, that is correct.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. This conversation already felt like an interrogation. I hadn’t brought an attorney because Schwendinger had told me on the phone that it wouldn’t be necessary because they just had some preliminary questions. I kicked myself for believing him because deep down, I knew better.

He continued, “Before we go any further, I neglected to tell you that this conversation is recording, so there are no misunderstandings of the details discussed.”

I responded, “Fine,” tapping my pen nervously on the table.

Schwendinger glared at me, and I stopped my nervous habit.

He continued, “It is our understanding that you provide referral services to an extensive network of cosmetic surgeons through one or more of the websites that I listed earlier. Is that correct?

I felt very uncomfortable with the way this had started, and my mind was saying ‘Call a stop to this and get an attorney,’ unfortunately, my mouth had other ideas, “Yes, that is one of the services that we provide. We provide access to blogs, educational materials, physician network lists, and other on-line resources, so women can gain an understanding that they are not alone in the issues they are encountering. We also provide access to exercise and nutrition information and links to other valuable websites like weightwatchers.”

He started to speak again, but I interrupted him. “Agent Schwendinger, I was not informed of the purpose of this meeting, and I am feeling less and less comfortable addressing your questions without my attorney present.”

He looked irritated. “Ms. Marquette, this is not a legal proceeding. We are not technically officers of the law. This conversation is recording, and there will be a transcript made available as well. If your attorney would like to listen to the recording or review the transcript, he or she is certainly welcome. Technically, in the letter you signed, acknowledging the acceptance of this meeting, you waived your right to have an attorney present.”

I silently nodded my understanding and chastised myself for not having had my attorney review that letter before I signed it. The truth be known, I barely read it.

He continued, “We have reviewed your provider contracts and are looking for clarification of the ‘Payment for Services’ section. In paragraph B of that section, it states, ‘Provider will reimburse Self Esteem For Women, Inc. the amount of a thousand dollars for each referral that results in any surgical procedure whether reimbursed through private pay, health insurance or any other source. Such reimbursement shall take place in not more than thirty days after the procedure. Self

Esteem For Women, Inc. assumes no liability for the outcome of such surgery. This amount shall increase annually on January first by the Healthcare component of the Consumer Price Index published in the Wall Street Journal on December thirty-first of the prior year or the closest day prior if there is no publication on that date.’ Ms. Marquette, can you describe in your own words what that paragraph means?”

He had a terminally smug look on his face. Pierce’s forehead was sweating. I was afraid to open my mouth. But as Schwendinger glared at me, I decided I had no other option, “When we signed the Cosmetic Surgery Network Agreement, participating providers stood to make a windfall of volume, much of which they would not have had without our support. Providers agreed to remunerate a reasonable amount for the business that we provided to them. It’s a standard commission arrangement.” Pierce noticeably cringed when I spoke those words.