Armoires and Arsenic (13 page)

“Miss Granville, this is unexpected.”

He turned his attention to Tuesday. “And Miss, Miss”

Olivia said, “Tuesday.”

“Yes, of course. Miss uh Tuesday.”

Olivia’s surprised gaze whipsawed from his eyes to the equally beautiful orbs of the brunette beauty holding his arm. The air went out of what little bit of party ebullience Olivia had managed to resurrect for this event. Richards turned to his companion to introduce her, but a man next to him backed up without looking and when he gestured to apologize, sprayed his champagne down the front of Richards’ lapel and shirtfront. While the detective was busy brushing away the man’s cocktail napkin and offer of help, the girl introduced herself. Olivia heard Tasmania, but the last name got lost in the buzz of the growing crowd and the swish of her jet-black waves cascading down her back.

Olivia gave Tasmania a weak smile, fighting a surge of disappointment that dampened any last enthusiasm she had for the fundraiser as surely as the stranger’s champagne had soaked Richards’ shirt.

She had a sudden desire to get out of that ballroom in a hurry. If she mentioned to Richards that, once again, the police had been singularly ineffectual in tracking down her stolen Imari bowl, she wasn’t sure how she would camouflage her rage. She didn’t know what else they would talk about.

To fill in the awkward silence as the foursome smiled blankly at each other, Olivia raised her glass in a wordless toast, downed her champagne and said, “Well, Tuesday, time for us to mosey.”

She turned to Richard’s companion. “The Imari bowl is mine. See if you can bid up the price,” and both Richards and the woman gave Olivia a puzzled look.

Olivia reached past Tasmania to plant her empty glass on a passing server’s tray, motioned to Tuesday to do the same, took her friend’s arm and marched her through the crowd to the exit.

Outside, while they waited for the valet to bring Tuesday’s rented Mercedes around, they heard a commotion in the bushes on the side of the colonnaded entrance.

Angry male voices cut the air and the two women strained to look.

“You pay up or else.”

“Don’t you threaten me, you . . . “

The parking attendants rushed to break up the fight, too late to stop the first blow. The four attendants outnumbered the combatants and quickly subdued the two men. But they couldn’t stop the swearing and threats. They pushed them back from each other, further out of the lights in the entranceway, making it even harder for Olivia to see what was going on. A manager of some kind came running out and pressed the arriving guests back, trying to block their view of the fray. One of the men was ordered to leave and Olivia could see a short, stocky figure in work clothes retreating to the parking lot. He made a final assault, turning to yell, “We’re not done here.”

The other man shouted back, “Don’t you threaten me. I know what you did the other night.” By now the attendants had pushed him further back towards the bushes. He insisted he had an invitation to the party and searched through his pockets until he retrieved a square envelope.

Olivia saw the attendant read the name and, satisfied, allowed him to pass, saying, “But no more trouble, okay Mr. Gotshalk?”

Olivia whispered in Tuesday’s ear. “Gotshalk? That’s my customer’s name. Must be her son.”

   The Mercedes arrived. Tuesday wound around the parking lot to the exit.  Olivia shouted, “Tuesday, look!”

Tuesday stopped the car and they watched the pugilist getting in to his truck. He gunned the Toyota and backed out of his parking space, giving Olivia and Tuesday a clear view of him raising his fist to his passenger, and pounding on the steering wheel. Tuesday followed him slowly.  He pulled under a street lamp and Olivia gasped. The driver was raising his fist to Cody.

At Hugo’s, the server cleared the ratatouille and goat cheese tart crumbs from the table and signaled to her assistant to serve the halibut while she refilled Olivia and Tuesday’s wine glasses with another two fingers of Pinot Grigio. Olivia assured the woman that the start to their meal was all they had hoped for and, yes, they couldn’t wait for the halibut in cream and champagne but, they would try to leave room for the queen of desserts, Grand Marnier Soufflé.

Tuesday remarked that judging by the menu, it must be retro night at Hugo’s, but otherwise, the scene outside the country club had subdued the two friends. They’d said little after they got onto the road and left Cody and his contentious friend behind. Now, half an hour later, the wine began to work its magic, relaxing them and opening them up.

Olivia said, “I have more questions than there are answers in the universe. Why didn’t Mrs. Gotshalk’s son take off his Ermengildo Zegna sports coat before pounding the other guy into the boxwood topiary?”

Tuesday said, “My list has,” she pretended to read a piece of paper, “who is Mrs. Gotshalk? Why was the poundee giving Cody what all in his 4x4? And if I’m allowed one more, how can that dreamy detective afford to pony up $2,500 a plate for himself and his plus one?”

She looked at Olivia’s face. “Gotcha. You winced when I mentioned the girlfriend. Don’t tell me he’s just an annoying gumshoe.”

Distractedly, Olivia drew a circle in the condensation on her wine glass. “You didn’t see anything of the kind on my face. This has been a dreadful day. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Then it was Tuesday’s turn to jaw drop. Olivia said, “What?” and turned in the direction of Tuesday’s wide-eyed gawp. She quickly whipped her head around.

“Don’t stare, Tues. Don’t let him know we’ve seen him.”

Tuesday said, “So maybe he was there to check on security, but if I paid cash money for those tickets I’d sure want my rubber chicken. What does Detective McDreamy want with dinner here?”

Olivia tasted her halibut, scraped some of the cream sauce away, then squeezed a few more drops of lemon over it. “He probably doesn’t want to conduct his affairs in front of all of Darling Valley. There’s a little more privacy in that dark corner over there, since this is a slow night at Hugo’s.”

“Yeah, or maybe he’s running a protection racket in DV and Hugo lets him order in his pricy restaurant without worrying about paying a tab. Or maybe . . . “

“Stop Tuesday, I don’t care what he’s doing here, why he’s here and who he’s with. Let’s eat, go home and get some sleep.

Tuesday adjusted her sequined shift to show a little more of her muffin tops. “Well, okay. All I have to say is, did you see the mouth on that girlfriend? Those lips would rival an Orangutan in the zoo. I didn’t know there was that much Botox outside of Hollywood. New topic, what do you think young Master Gotshalk meant when he said he knew what that guy was doing the other night. Too sinister for me. I mean the whole scene was creepy, but what else could he mean but some involvement with Blackman’s death. I don’t think anybody on the planet is talking about anything else.”

Olivia nodded. “Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing. And there’s something else that happened tonight that I haven’t had a chance to tell you about.”

She recounted the scene between Sabrina and Elgin Fastner. “I just can’t get over it, Tues. He’s pimping himself for bank loans. After giving me that speech about the moral compass of the banking industry wouldn’t allow him to help me out with info about Sabrina when I’ve got a life and death situation on my hands.”

Tuesday fiddled with her fork. “What I don’t understand, Olivia, is why you’ve been telling me since you moved up here that Darling Valley is the next best thing to Nirvana? So far I haven’t met anyone who isn’t under suspicion for murder, unfriendly to the point of rudeness or convinced you are the devil’s spawn. What, exactly, is so great about this place? And this is okay halibut, but compared to S
pago’s in LA? Are you kidding me? Surely you didn’t have to come all this way to avoid running into Brooks.”

Olivia threw down her fork, paying no attention to the clattering that registered at least three tables away when it bounced off her water glass. “I’ve asked you, Tues. Brooks is off limits. I don’t want to discuss him. You keep asking me about him, telling me what he’s up to and I’ve told you I’m not interested and he can fly to the moon on Pegasus for all I care. Subject closed.”

Tuesday said, “I’ve been doing all that? Seems like our conversations have revolved around your lack of money and the town’s epidemic of murder. I don’t recall mentioning Brooks that much.” She rolled her eyes. “But that’s just me.”

Olivia sank her head into her hands. When she looked up, she laughed. “Have I been borrowing a jack? Yeah, maybe I have.”

She meant the story of the man out in the country with a flat tire and no jack. He sees the light of a farmhouse off in the distance but by the time he gets there, he has convinced himself that the farmer won’t let him borrow a jack. He knocks, the farmer opens the door and the salesman has worked himself into such a fit of anger, he punches the guy in the nose. Borrowing a jack became their code for stupidly obsessing over something, usually a man.

“Listen,” Tuesday said, “I’m picking up the check on this one. Let’s go back to the house, have a small brandy and call it a night. But just so you know, the reason I got no love from these people tonight is this granny dress you made me wear.”

Olivia laughed, carefully avoiding casting her eyes in the direction of Detective Richards and his gorgeous date.

Tuesday eased the Mercedes into the driveway and Olivia took a flashlight out of her purse.

“What’s that for?”

“Just in case we catch the robber red-handed.”

“And what, you’re going to deck him with your purse light? Let me get my phone if you’re afraid. I have 911 on speed dial.”

Olivia stumbled a bit. Even though Sabrina ordered good champagne for the event, Olivia had more than she realized. She righted herself and said, “Okay, Tues. Let’s secure the perimeter.”

They crept up to the porch, looked through the paned windows. Olivia cautiously opened the front door and called out, “It’s the police. Show yourself now.”

Tuesday sighed. “Please, baby girl. Let there be light,” and reached in front of Olivia for the switch next to the door. The crystal chandeliers came to life and flooded the showroom. She gave Olivia a
what did I tell you
glare. Olivia dropped her purse, flashlight and keys on the nearest table and took off her shoes, Morse code for why do I torture myself with these stilettos. Then she grabbed the shoes with one hand and her purse and keys with the other and led the way to the back staircase.

Olivia called Cody as soon as she poured her first cup of coffee the next morning. Half a second later when Tuesday staggered into the kitchen squeezing sleep from the corner of her eyes and yawning so wide Olivia saw the gap in her back teeth, she held up the phone and pointed to the pot. Tuesday said something but Olivia turned her attention to Cody, who answered with a groggy, “Yeah?”

“Cody? You have some explaining to do. What were you doing with that thug who was fighting with Mrs. Gotshalk’s son last night?”

A silence during which Olivia slugged down a big gulp of coffee and Cody played innocent.

Olivia wasn’t having it. She glared at her phone as if to send the evil eye through cyberspace. “Yes, today is a work day. And what do you mean, what thug? I was at the country club last night and saw the whole thing. The fight, one of the guys peeling out of there in a pickup shaking his fist at you.”

More silence and another sip of coffee. “That was Roger? Roger from Blackman’s? Come over here now. We have to talk.” Then she noticed her sweats-for-pj’s and Tuesday’s bedroom hair and skin tight T-shirt and thong that she slept in and changed her mind. “No, make it an hour. We need to get decent.”

She hung up. “Want some eggs, Tues?”

Tuesday answered, “Does a drowning man want a lifeline?” sounding like she had been at the same all night kegger with Cody. “But after breakfast I’m going to start my cleanse and give up sugar and alcohol.”

Olivia drained her coffee. “Why don’t you shower while I cook?”

Tuesday nodded sleepily, looking like she was suffering an attack of morning sickness.

Olivia pointed to the colorful array of alternative treatments Tuesday had unpacked, but never looked back. “Tues? Do you think maybe you need one of your potions?”

Tuesday looked at the corner of the counter cluttered with her stash and shook her head.  “I need to neutralize my body.  I’ll start taking them this afternoon.”

She headed back towards the bathroom just as the front door bell rang. “Holy wake up call, is this Granville Central Station?”

She looked at the rooster clock over the stove and grumbled to Olivia, “Why are we up so early? Did our mothers arrive while we were sleeping?”

Olivia scowled. “I told you to go easy on the brandy last night. We’ve got work to do today. Everything in that showroom needs a new tag with the sale price on it. Now let me get rid of who ever is bothering me again at seven a.m. Probably the reporters are back.”

Olivia plodded downstairs and opened the French doors into the showroom. What was it with seven a.m. callers? This was the same time Cody showed up with the body and almost the time that George Clooney appeared on her doorstop. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she was going to sleep until eight and avoid what was becoming a seven a.m. curse. Not that she could call Mr. Clooney, er Bacon, a curse, but the timing of this visitor certainly threw her off guard.

Closer to the door, she could see her caller through the paned windows. Her heart revved up a few beats. Detective Richards stood on the porch flipping through his note pad. Quickly threading her fingers through her hair and making a futile attempt to arrange the sweats into some kind of fashion statement, she opened the door.

“Detective Richards?” She fumbled lamely for a greeting. “Um, have you found my Imari bowl and netsuke?”

Richards stuck the note pad in his pocket, his expression as grim as ever. Did he look particularly appealing this morning because she knew for certain that he wasn’t available? She wouldn’t put it past her cockeyed psychology when it came to men.

He shook his head. “No, afraid not. But that is what I want to talk to you about.”

She opened the door wider and invited him in with a sweep of her arm. “Please.”

The press trucks were still across the street, but apparently no one had ordered a wake up call.

So Richards entered without being seen, looking around, taking everything in. Olivia recognized it now as an occupational tic.

“So I take it from your question,” he said, not yet looking at her, “your valuables have not appeared?”

“Haven’t seen gum nor tooth of them.”

Richards squinted his confusion.

“My grandmother’s expression.” Olivia was acutely aware of her grungy appearance, but always rejected the coy tactic of apologizing for the way she looked, thereby inviting a forced disclaimer and compliment. “Gran hated clichés and wouldn’t say hide nor hair.”

The detective’s expression never lost its half-grimace. Olivia considered whether he was suppressing a smile or indigestion. She’d put her money on a sour stomach, probably part of the hangover syndrome afflicting both she and Tuesday.

“I was just making coffee, Detective. Can I pour you a cup?” There was more than one way to warm up a cold fish.

Richards made no effort to disguise his scrutiny of the shop. “No, I only have a minute. I wanted to be sure my men did a thorough job of investigating yesterday.”

Olivia saw his eyes rest on Hemingway’s lamp. “Do you know antiques, detective?” She explained the writer’s connection to the lamp.

He shook his head. “I know nothing about antiques, but I have read Hemingway, of course.”

Olivia commented on the disdain in his voice. “You’re not a fan?”

“Hardly. I’d like to think we are over Hemingway worship and all that macho bull. . . .” He corrected himself. “Business. But those horns could come from the blackbuck we have in India.”

“Your birthplace?”

“Oh, no. I’m a Midwesterner. A suburb of Chicago. Lake Forest.”

Olivia blinked. “I know it.” The Billionaire Hollow of the Midwest. Hardly the breeding grounds for cops. And very, very white male oriented. She recalled Richards bristling when Mrs. Blackman referred to “you outsiders” at the police station. Olivia bet he had a story to tell. She guessed his parents were servants to one of the wealthy Lake Forest families. Lake Forest would never allow the type of small shop Indian immigrants liked to set up.

“When I visited my grandparents some years back they took me to Vallanadu because of my interest in wildlife. It’s a sanctuary. The blackbuck is on the endangered species list.”

Olivia started to apologize for owning the lamp. She didn’t want to embarrass him by pressing him any further about his background. “Of course, in the Hemingway era, . . . .”

But Richards was relaxing, becoming downright chatty. “My father did an internship at a Chicago investment firm during his studies at the London School of Economics. Fell in love with the cold winters.”

He misinterpreted the look on Olivia’s face. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking. He could have lived any place he chose. Why would a native of one of the hottest places on the planet pick one of the coldest? But stranger things have happened, I guess. When I left Harvard I vowed I would only live in sunshine for the rest of my life. Then a dream job came up back in Chicago. But that’s neither here nor there. Let me get back to business and I’ll leave you alone.”

Olivia was at a loss for words, and more than embarrassed for her immigrant profiling. But with that background, why was he a detective in Darling Valley?

“Miss Granville, I’ve decided to place a detail outside your house tonight, just to keep an eye on things. I should have done it yesterday. I trust nothing else is missing?”

“Okay. No, but I haven’t looked.”

She noticed his bristly chin. Why hadn’t he shaved? He was getting ready to leave. She touched his sleeve to ask a question, felt his arm under his jacket, a delicious sinking feeling warmed her solar plexus. What was she doing? “Um, detective, I have to ask you. Do you always start at the crack of dawn?”

“Murderers don’t take any days off and neither do I. Even when the day has to start at 6 am.”

Startled, Olivia said, “You think the murderer stole my things?”

Richards didn’t seem to be able to maintain a lighthearted pose for long. His eyes narrowed again. “I can’t understand why you are being targeted. It could be random coincidence, if I believed in coincidences. Have you noticed anything unusual lately?”

She crossed her arms, but she needed them to camouflage her whole body, not just the sad chest that her hoodie accentuated. “Actually, I have. A body in my armoire and a target on my back.”

Richards shook his head in grim agreement. “A homicide puts everyone under the microscope, Miss Granville. I’m sure you can understand the need for increased scrutiny.”

“I do, and I would appreciate it more if you could tell me about the progress you’re making. Any clues show up at the country club?”

She was fishing for news about the girlfriend, she knew that, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

“Oh, I wasn’t at the auction to investigate the murder.” He reached into his pants pocket and jangled his change.

No, of course you weren’t. You were impressing the socks off your girlfriend with all the hot shots you know.

He didn’t offer any more information, so she asked, “Well, have you made any progress, outside of the country club?”

“We’re investigating some leads. Nothing I can talk about just yet. I stopped by to see if you’ve located your belongings. My officer said nothing seemed to be amiss when he came by yesterday. Of course, since this is still a crime scene, two thefts in twenty-four hours raises alarm bells. I was hoping you’d tell me they’d turned up.”

Richards was wearing a suit. Was it the one he had on last night? She tried to remember. Yeah, it was. She detected the wine stain on the front of his shirt. He probably was on his way home from a sleepover at his girlfriend’s house. That realization made her more acutely aware of her baggy sweats and helmet hair.

He volunteered that, “Tasmania lives near here and I stayed at her place last night rather than drive into Marin City.”

Olivia wanted to say, “TMI, detective,” but he blathered on and didn’t give her an opening. Crapola. Why was her heart pounding for this guy when she was still mooning over Brooks? Maybe her birth certificate was wrong. Was she 12, instead of 32?

He continued. “So I thought I’d stop by and just see for myself.”

Olivia shook her head and gave him a mournful grimace. “Sorry. Tuesday and I have torn this place apart. They are gone.”

“What about your assistant,” Richards pulled his notepad out of his pocket, “Mr. White. Do you think he could have picked them up? Innocently or otherwise?”

“Cody wouldn’t do that. He just wouldn’t.  And anyway, whenever he was in the house, he was with me. He hasn’t been alone in the house. Plus, he wouldn’t steal from me.  I know that.”

“Well, if anything turns up on our end, I’ll let you know. I won’t keep you. I need to just go around to Mrs. Harmon’s apartment and check something out with her.”

“Mrs. Harmon? Why are you interested in her?”

“Confidential, I’m afraid.”

“Well, she doesn’t rouse herself until close to ten. I’m not sure she’d hear you knocking.”

“Oh, she’s expecting me.

Stunned by the news that he was not only investigating Mrs. Harmon but also that she deigned to speak to anyone before noon, Olivia said, “Well, don’t let me keep you. You can go down through the back stairs if you like.” She pointed towards her office.

“No, that’s all right. I’ve disturbed you enough. Thanks for your time. Oh, one more thing? What is your relationship with the deceased’s daughter?”

“I have no relationship with her. I don’t know her, well, only that she exists. I believe she’s a friend of Mrs. Harmon and was friendly with Cody White. But no longer from what I can gather. You know how it is with kids and dating. Easy come, easy go.”

“Yes, I know that.”

Oh, why so serious? Touch a nerve named Tasmania? Before Olivia could say anything else, Richards turned and opened the door, causing the little bell over the door to jingle. Olivia stopped him.

“Detective Richards, can I ask you a question? How did you know I’d be up this early?”

He cracked a faint smile that allowed Olivia to get a glimpse of his dazzling teeth. “I’m a detective, remember? You work for yourself. When was the last time you slept past 5 am.”

Olivia smiled back. “Make that 4 am and you’ve got me.”

His smile disappeared and for just a moment Olivia caught his eyes quickly scanning her down to her bare toes.

Oh my god. Is he checking me out, She wondered? He just left his girlfriend’s place. Are all the men in Darling Valley slugs?

As she downgraded his good-guy rating, he slipped back into his formal, policeman’s stance. “Goodbye, Miss Granville. Actually, I have a favor to ask. I let slip a bit of personal information. I feel more comfortable not talking about where I went to school and that sort of thing.”

“You mean you don’t have many Harvard classmates on the police force?”

“Let’s just say, I prefer not to flaunt it. Not that anyone couldn’t look it up. But I try fit in.”

“So that’s why you pretended not to know what an armoire was?”

“Oh, that’s for real. I had to Google it. They don’t teach you everything in grad school.”

“Good bye, detective. And, oh . . . “ She gestured to her sweats. “I’m sorry about the way I look. It’s so early and all.”