A Killer Closet (2 page)

As it turned out, when Irene's Closet finally opened the day after the body was found, the yellow tape and the subsequent story in Santa Fe's morning newspaper,
the Santa Fe New Mexican,
proved to be a boon for business.

“Loraine Sellers? Dead? I can't believe it!” Susana Delgado said. Her face was pale, and she was obviously disturbed by the news. “Was the body really here, like the paper said?” Susana was one of Adelle's friends, whom Irene had known since childhood. Susana, who was closer to her mother's age than Loraine Sellers had been, had provided some high-quality outfits for consignment. She was going through the racks, but she was probably not looking for anything to buy. More likely, she was searching to see if she recognized anything someone she knew had left for consignment, but she was distracted and obviously nervous. It was clear Loraine's death had upset her.

“I'm afraid I don't know anything more than what you read in the paper,” Irene replied.

“It's awful!” Susana said. Her face was Joan Rivers taut and artfully made up, although she lacked the high cheekbones to give her a classic look, and nothing could hide the fact that she was at least Adelle's age.

“Is this really a Dolce and Gabbana?” a customer asked, holding up a very short black brocade dress and providing Irene with a welcome interruption.

“Yes, it is,” she said, recognizing it as one of two of that brand that Adelle had rounded up for her.

“And only two hundred? Wow, I can't even get a Liz Claiborne off the rack for that.”

Irene didn't tell her the dress was five years old. She was sure it wouldn't matter anyway. Some things never go out of style.

On her way to the cash register, she heard another familiar voice, speaking to Susana in a too-loud whisper. “I heard she was having an affair. With someone in government.” Irene recognized the voice. It belonged to Harriet Baumgarten, another of Adelle's longtime friends. “I wonder if that's why she was killed?” she added, in another whisper that was loud enough for anyone to hear.

Harriet was obviously talking about Loraine, but it didn't distract the other customers, who were mostly tourists and either didn't care about local gossip or hadn't heard the titillating story about the body in the closet.

By the time Irene had the customer checked out and her package wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a ribbon-tied bag worthy of the finest boutique, another customer demanded her attention. She considered herself lucky that she managed to stay busy or could at least pretend to stay busy until Susana and Harriet grew tired of waiting for her and left the store.

By the end of the day, several more of the locals had stopped by, curious to know if the story they'd read in the paper and seen on the TV news was true, and had Irene any idea how a body could have gotten there? And how frightening it must have been to find such a thing. And did the police have any idea who could have done it, and wasn't it awful that something like that could happen in Santa Fe?

When she finally hung up the
Closed
sign, locked the front door, and left through the back, she was dog-tired. Her only compensation was that in spite of the tragedy being linked to her store—or maybe because of it—business had exceeded all her expectations.

All she could think of was a hot bath, a cup of tea, and bed, but as soon as she opened the front door to her home she saw Adelle sitting with Susana and Harriet. They were seated in the old-fashioned parlor, drinking wine from Waterford crystal glasses that Adelle had garnered from one of her marriages.

“Oh, you're home!” Adelle said with an uncustomary show of delight. “You must be exhausted! I must get you fed and to bed right away.”

Fed and to bed? Adelle was
never
nurturing and domestic. She wasn't used to preparing even her own food or turning back her own bed, much less doing it for someone else. Irene gave her a brief stunned stare before she recognized the frown and hard-set mouth that meant Adelle was annoyed. She was using her pretended need to care for her daughter as a way to get the other two women out of the house. Without a doubt they'd been talking about the dead woman, something Adelle would most certainly wish to avoid. More specifically, the location of the dead woman. A daughter with a dead body in her closet was even worse than a daughter who ran a secondhand store.

“Oh, Adelle, let her unwind for a moment,” Harriet said. “I'm sure she'd like a glass of wine and a chance to relax.”

Irene accepted the wine, and within minutes she had learned that both Harriet and Susana knew a great deal about the dead woman.

“Rob, that's her husband,” Susana said with a glance at Irene, “is in London. Something to do with his banking business, I suppose. Or maybe it's real estate. He has his fingers in so many pies. Very successful. I heard he wanted to fly home, but he was being detained for some reason. It must just be awful for him. He's such a dear man.” In spite of her chatty gossip, she appeared ill at ease.

“Wasn't he in business with Tomas, too?” Harriet asked. Tomas Delgado was Susana's husband, who was even more successful and more wealthy than Rob Sellers, but he had been ill and in a nursing home for several years.

Susana gave Harriet a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, that was a long time ago. They haven't been in business together in ages.”

“Well, Rob didn't seem to know anything about Loraine's lover, did he?” Harriet asked.

Susana looked at Harriet over the rim of her wineglass. “If he did, he didn't let on. Could be he thought it was to his advantage. The affair, I mean,” Susana said.

“What do you mean?” Harriet asked.

“Well…” Susana reached for the wine bottle on the heavy mahogany tea table next to her. “If your wife has connections in high places, and I do mean
high
places—like the governor's mansion—that's bound to be good for business, don't you think?”

There was a shocked silence, and even Adelle looked scandalized.

“You mean the governor? She was having an affair with the governor?” Harriet said finally.

“I didn't say that.”

“Well,” Harriet said with a huff, “it wasn't Rob who was having the affair, so I don't see how it could be of any benefit to him.”

“You are so naïve, my dear,” Susana said. “The governor must have thought he was doing favors for Loraine when he helped Rob's business interests.”

“Oh, come on, now,” Harriet said. “That's really a stretch.”

Susana twisted the stem of her wineglass and tried to look disinterested. “Not necessarily,” she said.

Adelle tapped her glass with her French-manicured acrylic nail as she thought about it. “Do you suppose a person could have her killed so she couldn't ruin his political career?”

Susana leaned forward. “You mean someone from the governor's mansion?”

“Well…” Adelle said.

“The thing that puzzles me,” Susana said as she leaned back in her chair again, “is why whoever it was would do such a shoddy job of disposing of the body.” Irene noticed Susana's hand shaking slightly. Her mother's sometimes shook as well. Something to look forward to as you approach seventy?

“I hate to speak of poor Loraine as ‘the body,' ” Harriet said.

Susana ignored her and turned to Irene. “Why would anyone place a body in your closet? It doesn't seem likely anyone here would have anything against you. I mean, you've been away for so long.”

“Yes, I have, haven't I?” Irene said.

Adelle, who was showing more and more signs of discomfort, finally spoke up. “Really, you two! All of this is just gossip. None of us knows anything about any of it at this point. Especially not Irene and I.”

“No need to be upset, my dear,” Susana said. “I know that little store must be important to both of you. So of course we don't want any bad publicity associated with it, do we? It's such a brave thing for the two of you to do, and so brave of you, Adelle, to move back into this…well,
quaint
house.”

Adelle sat up straighter in her chair and managed to look even more uncomfortable, not to mention angry. “What do you mean brave? And this house isn't quaint. It's—”

“Adelle, you look so tired,” Irene said. At Adelle's insistence, she had never called her Mom or Mother. Now she was trying to come up with a graceful way to get the two guests out of the house and to keep her mother's anger from exploding. “Today has been a strain for both us. I think we should go to bed early and—”

The doorbell rang, interrupting Irene and startling all four of them. Adelle sprang to her feet, then stood motionless. No one else moved for several seconds, but Irene was the first to regain her composure.

“I'll get it, Adelle. Sit down and relax.”

Adelle didn't sit, and no one relaxed. Certainly not Irene. To have a doorbell ring after dark so soon after a dead body showed up in her closet made her anxious.

She went to the window next to the door first and peered through the etched glass. Standing in the dim glow of light on the old-fashioned wraparound porch were the chief of police and the same officer who had accompanied him earlier. She felt a moment of relief. At least it wasn't someone ready to murder her and stuff her in a closet. When she opened the door, the chief spoke before she could utter a greeting.

“I'd like you to come with me to the police station, Ms. Seligman.”

“What…?”

“You're a person of interest in the murder of Loraine Sellers. We need to ask you some questions.”

“A person of interest? Isn't that what they call a suspect?” Harriet said from the parlor.

Irene didn't bother to answer, but behind her she heard Adelle gasp.

“Why am I a person of interest?” Irene asked.

“Things would go much easier for you if you just cooperate and come with us,” Chief Iglesias said.

“You didn't answer my question.”

“I don't want to have to arrest you, Ms. Seligman,” the chief said.

“You have no grounds to arrest me.”

Adelle, still standing at the entrance to the parlor, moaned, “Oh, my God! I can't believe this is happening to me!”

“Nothing's happening to you. It's happening to me!” Irene called over her shoulder. She was fairly certain, however, that Adelle was too absorbed in her self-centered anguish and humiliation to have heard her. She'd been about to insist that if she was to be subjected to questioning, it happen in her home, but she could foresee too many problems if Adelle was around.

“All right,” Irene said, stepping out the door. “Let's go to the police station, but no more threats of arrest.”

“This way, Ms. Seligman,” the chief said.

“I think I should call a lawyer,” Irene said.

“There's no need to call a lawyer. You're not under arrest.” The chief took her arm as he spoke, leading her toward the police car.

“I'll decide when I need a lawyer,” Irene said, and pushed the chief's hand off her arm.

“Take it easy, ma'am. I'm not going to hurt you,” the chief said, turning to look at her. There was not even a hint of a smile on his face, something she had found typical of law enforcement officials.

The two policemen led her to the car and helped her into the backseat. Chief Iglesias and the patrolman, who was driving, were speaking in low tones that were inaudible to her as she leaned forward and spoke through the heavy steel mesh that separated her from the front seat. “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

The chief interrupted the conversation long enough to respond without looking at her. “I should have told you that you have the right to remain silent,” he said.

“You only say that to people who are under arrest.”

“You still have that right. Why don't you exercise it?” he said.

Her instinct was to call him a smart-ass, but she restrained herself and said again, “I want to talk to a lawyer.”

“You can call one when you get to the station,” Chief Iglesias responded, still without looking at her.

She knew that, of course, but something made her want to agitate and aggravate as much as possible—a trait she'd always detested in suspects she'd dealt with as an assistant D.A.

But she wasn't a suspect. Just a person of interest.

It took twenty minutes traveling along a tourist-congested Cerrillos Road to reach the police station across town, and she was escorted inside the back of the flat-roofed building, designed, like most buildings in the old state capitol, to look like an Indian pueblo. As she stepped inside the double doors, she saw a row of people seated in chairs along one wall of the building. She was told to take a seat and that she would be called soon. She found a chair next to a woman wearing extremely short shorts, mesh stockings, and stilettos. Her face was decorated with black mascara, purple lipstick, and eyebrows that looked as if they'd been plucked and then painted on. On the other side of her was a man who reeked of cheap liquor and kept his head bowed so that his long hair covered his face. Irene took a seat.

She was uncomfortably aware of the stiletto woman staring at her, and she made an attempt to move away from her, but before she could get all the way to a standing position, a policeman barked at her to sit down.

“What'd they get
you
for?” There was no mistaking the disdain in Stiletto Woman's voice.

Irene tried to ignore her.

“You don't look like you could turn a trick if you had to, bitch,” the woman said.

Those words sent a shot of surprise and anger through Irene, and she turned suddenly, glaring at the woman, trying to bloody her nose with her look. “They got me for murder.”

The woman's eyes widened. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Goddamn!” the woman said with admiration, as if Irene had just told her she'd found a cure for cancer.

Irene turned away again, hoping that would make her appear even more menacing.

Whatever status she had gained by hinting she was a murderer disappeared when she was approached by the chief.

“I'm sorry for the inconvenience of keeping you waiting out here, Ms. Seligman,” the chief said. “I had to deal with a phone call, but if you'll come with me to my office, I believe you can be of some help.”

He'd changed his tone. Now he was Mr. Nice Cop. As she stood to follow him to his office, she heard a snort from the stilettoed woman she'd been sitting next to.

“Murder? No way! You're just a stool pigeon.” Irene refused to look at her when she said that. It did, however, attract the attention of a man standing at the booking desk writing something on a form. He was wearing jeans and a sport coat with a loosened tie, and she was certain he was listening to everything everyone in the room said.

Once she was in the chief's office, he asked her to sit in one of the chairs while he sat down behind his desk.

“Just a second,” he said, as he glanced at a computer screen and typed a few strokes on a keyboard.

“You won't find anything there,” Irene, said. “I'm not in any justice system's database.”

“That's not entirely true,” the chief said. “You're a former prosecutor for the New York district attorney's office.”

She didn't respond.

“In light of that, I'm surprised you were so uncooperative.”

“I wasn't uncooperative.”

He glanced up at her, and she noticed again how appealing his face was, but she wasn't going to allow that to distract her.

“I still want to talk to a lawyer.”

“You're beginning to make me think you have something to hide.”

“No, I just have my rights to protect.”

“I'm only going to ask you a few routine questions.”

“I already answered your routine questions when you came to my shop. I told you everything I know.”

“Then you don't have anything to worry about.” He actually smiled when he said that.

“I still want to talk to a lawyer.” She thought she heard the hint of an impatient sigh as he reached down to a lower drawer on his desk. He pulled out a book no more than an inch thick and plopped it on his desk.

“Then call one,” he said, with no attempt to hide his impatience. He stood and walked out of the room, presumably to allow her privacy to use her phone. He did, however, leave the door open.

Irene grabbed the phone directory and opened it to the yellow pages, looking for the list of attorneys. When she found the listings, she felt a moment of despair. She didn't know an attorney. It didn't seem wise to pick one at random. Maybe she should call Adelle and ask for the name of one. The prospect was depressing.

“Do you need a lawyer?” The voice came from behind her.

“You!” she said when she'd turned and saw that the man who had spoken to her was the same person who'd been eavesdropping in the front area. He was tall, and he had blue eyes set in a square-jawed, high-cheekboned face and a boyish shock of blond hair that fell across his forehead.

“Yeah,” he said, momentarily taken aback. “Me.”

“You can recommend a lawyer?” She made no attempt to keep the skepticism from her voice.

“I was going to recommend me. I'm a lawyer.”

“I…don't…think…so.” Irene spoke in slow, measured tones, thinking she didn't want a lawyer who had to come to the police booking desk to solicit business.

“Oh, yes.” The man pulled a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “It says right there”—he pointed to the card—“attorney-at-law.”

Irene gave the card only a cursory glance. “What I meant was I don't want you as my lawyer. Nothing personal. It's just that I don't know you.”

“You know anybody in that phone book?”

“Well…I'm sure I can—”

He thrust his right hand forward. “Bailey,” he said. “F. Lee.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. The name's Peter James Bailey, which you would have known if you'd read the card I just gave you, and I'm the best lawyer in Santa Fe.”

“Really?” She coated the word with sarcasm.

“Yes, really.”

“Look, I'm sure you're a competent lawyer, but I'm going to choose my own.” She pulled the slender phone book toward her with both hands.

“You didn't kill that woman.”

“Now,
that's
a revelation.” She spoke without looking at him as she leafed through the phone book and tried not to panic.

“You don't have a motive.”

“How can you be so sure?” she asked, wishing he'd go away.

He leaned closer to her and, lowering his voice, said, “Because I know who did it.”

She accidently dropped the phone book, and it landed, splayed open, at his feet. “You know who did it?”

“Well, I can at least think of a couple of people who might have motives,” he said with a little shrug.

She rolled her eyes. “Will you go away, please? And leave me alone?” She started to retrieve the phone directory, but before she could even bend down, the chief approached.

“You're free to go, Ms. Seligman. Something's come up. I'll call you back for questioning later.”

She had to clamp her lips together to keep from berating him for bringing her here in the first place, but all she said was, “Please arrange for a taxi for me.”

“Won't find a taxi this time of night,” the chief said. “This isn't Manhattan.”

She breathed a frustrated sigh. Her only other choice was to call her mother. She dreaded that almost as much as the thought of being a “person of interest” in a murder case. Adelle probably wouldn't even know how to find the police department, anyway. Giving her directions wouldn't help. She could get lost on the block where she lived.

“I'm sure your lawyer will take you home,” the chief said, as if he'd read her thoughts.

“I don't have a—”

“P.J. said he's representing you.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Bailey. P. J. Bailey,” the chief said, nodding toward the lawyer, who was looking at her with an all-too-innocent smile playing at his lips.

She could only stare at him in disbelief. “I've given you no authority to represent me.”

“No personal belongings when you were booked?” P.J. said. He was rifling through a fist full of papers he'd brought with him.

“I wasn't booked. You know that. You were listening to everything.”

“Again, I'm sorry for the inconvenience,” the chief said. “And you can bring your lawyer back with you next time.”

“He's not my—”

The chief walked away before she could finish protesting. “See ya, P.J.,” he said over his shoulder.

Mr. Bailey took her arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let's get out of here.”

In spite of her eagerness to leave, she balked. “You don't even know where I live.”

“Your last name is Seligman. You live in the old Seligman house.”

“Look, Mr. Bailey, I don't want to—”

“Call me P.J.” He led her outside, then opened the passenger-side door to an old pickup, badly in need of paint and bodywork and parked at the curb. He waited for her to get in the pickup, then went around to the driver's side, snatching a parking ticket from the windshield and crumpling it into his pocket on the way.

“All right,” she said. “Take me home. But you're not my lawyer.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and pulled away from the curb.

“Why did you tell them you were?”

He looked at her and smiled. “I guess I just felt sorry for you.”

She was momentarily stunned. She wasn't used to having anyone feel sorry for her. “That was very kind of you,” she said, “but your pity is misplaced. I've been taking care of myself with some degree of competence for a long time now.”

“Of course you have. You're the tough prosecutor from big ol', mean ol' New York.”

“And how did you know that?” He was making her uncomfortable. He knew far too much about her.

A little chuckle rumbled from his throat. “Santa Fe may not be Mayberry, where everybody knows everybody's business, but people tend to pay attention to what's happening with the upper crust, and just about everybody knows who Adelle Mandel Seligman Lucero Sandoval Mason Daniels is, so naturally we'd know…I think I left out one of her names.”

“Doesn't matter. She probably doesn't remember herself.” Irene was recalling what it was like to be a member of the prominent Seligman family when she was growing up in Santa Fe. The Seligmans had made their old money in banking on the West Coast before her branch moved to Santa Fe and took up politics. Besides the distant cousin who'd been the governor, her father had been speaker of the house in the legislature when she was growing up. Even without the Seligman name, it was enough being the granddaughter of the venerable Teresa, who came from old Spanish money and old aristocracy.

P.J. was trying to start the motor of his pickup, but it only responded with a growl. He swore under his breath, then glanced at Irene. “You got a flashlight?”

She opened her purse and pulled out the small, compact flashlight she always carried with her. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.

He took it, pulled a latch to open the hood of the pickup, then went outside to peer under the hood, shining the light on the motor. He used the end of the flashlight to tap on something, closed the hood, got back in the driver's seat, and started the motor.

“So,” Irene said, “I gather Adelle has advertised to everybody who's anybody that I am back in Santa Fe.”

“I don't know that she advertised exactly. Still, word gets around.”