alley, the car stopped. I peeked around the corner to see a rotund man emerge. He looked at the tourists, who stared back at him. Then he looked at me. “Miss Parker? Miss Parker? Your friend Harold said I might find you here.”
I poked my head out all the way to look at him and put the pieces of the puzzle together. Jamal and Harold were right—Sabrina Norton Buckner’s husband was indeed a god-awful driver. I waved at the tourists to indicate I was okay, and they walked off, muttering “loco!”
Shoving my hands in my jeans pockets, I replied, “Well, this is some introduction. Lemme guess, are you Mr. Buckner? Jamal said you were looking for me.”
“Yes, yes. I’m so glad I caught you.” He swept his hands against each other as if he were ready to get down to business, and he started walking around the front of the car. He looked ready to begin a full conversation right there on Bryant Street.
Once I got an eyeful of Mr. Buckner, I decided everything Jamal said about him was true. The headlights on his car threw everything on full display. The Beamer was blue with four doors. When Jamal said Mr. Buckner was a “white dude,” he meant it. Mr. Buckner was flat-out pasty. He had steel gray hair done a little long on the sides and swept back from his forehead, showcasing a receding hairline. He dressed as immaculately as his wife did, but, unlike her, he had indulged in a few too many meals at the Gold Rush BBQ, not to mention other restaurants, and his tummy strained against his suit buttons. Once he got a little closer, I confirmed all the little details that Jamal mentioned—the wrinkles, the tired eyes, the manicure.
“I’m Sabrina’s husband,” he said. Then he paused and added, “The chancellor.”
I played dumb. I almost blurted out in response, “Well, bully for you” because I was still pissed off that he almost ran me over. But I choked it back and told him, “Mr. Buckner, I don’t think this is the best place to talk. I’m more than willing to talk to a client, but would you be interested in visiting my satellite office?” I nodded my head toward the blue awning of the Seagull’s Nest.
He hesitated. “What about joining me in my car?”
I folded my arms across my chest and shook my head. Even if he was a public figure and his wife was my client, whether he knew it or not, he was still a stranger. Those Spanish tourists were long gone for a sweaty night at the End Up, so I didn’t have any witnesses in case anything went wrong. “The introductory meeting should always be on the detective’s turf. My satellite office, or no go.” I thought he was worried someone important might see him in a place as unsavory as the Seagull’s Nest, so I added, “Hardly anyone is in there at this time. And they’re not your type.”
Relenting, Mr. Buckner took my arm, which I didn’t like, and pointed the way to the Seagull’s Nest. “Whatever you say, Miss Parker.”
“Perhaps you’d better park the car first. And don’t forget the headlights,” I reminded him. Perhaps a scandal associated with his job and a wife who was pouring money into a shrink’s practice was making the guy absolutely scatterbrained.
I watched him trying to back his car into an open space, and I wondered how Sabrina Norton Buckner found a guy who didn’t even know how to parallel park remotely interesting. And how did a guy who couldn’t parallel park run a major university?
As Mr. Buckner climbed out of the car—awkwardly, given the size of his tummy—I asked, “Mr. Buckner, if you’ll excuse me, are you feeling all right?”
His eyes got wide, as if it never occurred to him that a private eye might notice details. “Oh, oh … the car. Yes, I am used to parking in Sacramento. Open spaces, you know!” He stretched his arms to suggest an expanse of land and gave me a forced smile.
CHAPTER 9
THE SEAGULL’S NEST
A S SOON AS WE ENTERED the Seagull’s Nest, I saw Muriel, with her candy-striped
I poked my head out all the way to look at him and put the pieces of the puzzle together. Jamal and Harold were right—Sabrina Norton Buckner’s husband was indeed a god-awful driver. I waved at the tourists to indicate I was okay, and they walked off, muttering “loco!”
Shoving my hands in my jeans pockets, I replied, “Well, this is some introduction. Lemme guess, are you Mr. Buckner? Jamal said you were looking for me.”
“Yes, yes. I’m so glad I caught you.” He swept his hands against each other as if he were ready to get down to business, and he started walking around the front of the car. He looked ready to begin a full conversation right there on Bryant Street.
Once I got an eyeful of Mr. Buckner, I decided everything Jamal said about him was true. The headlights on his car threw everything on full display. The Beamer was blue with four doors. When Jamal said Mr. Buckner was a “white dude,” he meant it. Mr. Buckner was flat-out pasty. He had steel gray hair done a little long on the sides and swept back from his forehead, showcasing a receding hairline. He dressed as immaculately as his wife did, but, unlike her, he had indulged in a few too many meals at the Gold Rush BBQ, not to mention other restaurants, and his tummy strained against his suit buttons. Once he got a little closer, I confirmed all the little details that Jamal mentioned—the wrinkles, the tired eyes, the manicure.
“I’m Sabrina’s husband,” he said. Then he paused and added, “The chancellor.”
I played dumb. I almost blurted out in response, “Well, bully for you” because I was still pissed off that he almost ran me over. But I choked it back and told him, “Mr. Buckner, I don’t think this is the best place to talk. I’m more than willing to talk to a client, but would you be interested in visiting my satellite office?” I nodded my head toward the blue awning of the Seagull’s Nest.
He hesitated. “What about joining me in my car?”
I folded my arms across my chest and shook my head. Even if he was a public figure and his wife was my client, whether he knew it or not, he was still a stranger. Those Spanish tourists were long gone for a sweaty night at the End Up, so I didn’t have any witnesses in case anything went wrong. “The introductory meeting should always be on the detective’s turf. My satellite office, or no go.” I thought he was worried someone important might see him in a place as unsavory as the Seagull’s Nest, so I added, “Hardly anyone is in there at this time. And they’re not your type.”
Relenting, Mr. Buckner took my arm, which I didn’t like, and pointed the way to the Seagull’s Nest. “Whatever you say, Miss Parker.”
“Perhaps you’d better park the car first. And don’t forget the headlights,” I reminded him. Perhaps a scandal associated with his job and a wife who was pouring money into a shrink’s practice was making the guy absolutely scatterbrained.
I watched him trying to back his car into an open space, and I wondered how Sabrina Norton Buckner found a guy who didn’t even know how to parallel park remotely interesting. And how did a guy who couldn’t parallel park run a major university?
As Mr. Buckner climbed out of the car—awkwardly, given the size of his tummy—I asked, “Mr. Buckner, if you’ll excuse me, are you feeling all right?”
His eyes got wide, as if it never occurred to him that a private eye might notice details. “Oh, oh … the car. Yes, I am used to parking in Sacramento. Open spaces, you know!” He stretched his arms to suggest an expanse of land and gave me a forced smile.
CHAPTER 9
THE SEAGULL’S NEST
A S SOON AS WE ENTERED the Seagull’s Nest, I saw Muriel, with her candy-striped
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