Armoires and Arsenic (3 page)

Olivia said, “The armoire has been sitting out in the damp air? That’s why the wood swelled up.”

Cody gave her a thumbs up in agreement, then turned to Richards. “This is a small town and we work on the honor system.”

Johnson cocked his eye toward the body in the truck and said, “Well, not everybody does.” He laughed at his own joke and three rolls of chin jiggled for a moment.

Cody continued. “And Jeralyn, the barista, wasn’t working today and the line was too long to wait for coffee so I drove to that new coffee drive in and it was closed. I chewed up so much time that I just came straight here without looking anyplace else for coffee. I don’t think anybody’s seen me this morning except you.”

Richards said, “Well, that’s something at least. I’ll need that note for evidence.” He sneezed again and backed further away from the rose bushes.

Cody said, “What? What note? I threw it away. Why would I keep a pizza flyer with some scribbles on the back? That’s all it was.”

Richards gave a disgusted shake of his head and turned to Olivia. “And you Miss Granville? Who can verify your whereabouts for the last, let’s say, twelve hours?”

Olivia saw a look of appraisal in his eyes and immediately assumed he was judging the hook in her nose and the abysmally small breasts. She swallowed a momentary embarrassment and said, “Only Cody. He’s the only person I’ve spoken with since I closed up shop last night, and that just on the phone.”

Cody said, “What about Mrs. Harmon, O? Didn’t you tell me she was going to fix supper last night?”

Olivia explained to Richards that Mrs. Harmon was her tenant. For a moment, she panicked. Irritating as he was, this Richards was the law in DV. Would he check into the zoning code on the unit?

Ignoring that worry in favor of more serious ones, she said, “Mrs. Harmon cancelled. Said her nephew was in town from Boston and was taking her out to dinner.”

Oh, dear. She had forgotten all about Mrs. Harmon. What would she do when she woke up to the vision of a murder victim out her back window?

Mrs. Harmon was an unobtrusive tenant who paid her rent and utilities on time, unlike some of Olivia’s more affluent clients who sat on her invoices. This town had money, all right. But it didn’t like giving it to strangers. Olivia was quite surprised that her tenant had invited her for dinner in the first place. And then not surprised when no nephew showed up. When Olivia had emptied some trash at 10 pm, as she expected, she saw that her tenant’s TV was still on. Nice try, Olivia thought as she realized that the timid woman had simply chickened out on opening herself up to more than a business relationship.

Richards’ continued. “Maybe this Mrs. Harmon saw you or heard you moving about last night and can verify that you were here the whole time.”

Olivia paused thoughtfully. “I doubt it. Her place is pretty well soundproofed, but I’ll ask her.” She shivered, wishing she had put on a jacket. The sun, competing with the morning fog that always hugged the coast in early summer, had yet to warm the shadows behind the house.

Richards said he had all he needed and that they should wait in the house while the crew finished securing the crime scene.

Olivia insisted, “This is NOT the crime scene. The crime scene is where he was killed.”

Remaining businesslike, Richards informed her that, “The crime scene is also where we find the body, ma’am. I’ll let you know when we are done. I have to ask you two not to make any plans to leave town.”

Cody turned apoplectic and a flash of red crossed his cheeks, “It’s not like that with O, er . . .  Miss Granville and me. We don’t travel together. Or anything like that.”

Richards raised his hand to slow him down. “Mr. White, I wasn’t assuming anything scandalous. I just meant please don’t leave town. Separately or together.”

Olivia slumped into her chair and straightened some papers on her desk, rearranged four Hummel figures she needed to pack up and mail to a client, and opened and closed her MacBook several times like a robot. Then she started drumming her nails on the desk. “This is a disaster. What are we going to do?”

Cody dumped a stack of mail on the floor to clear the only other available seat in the tiny office, a fragile bamboo and pink linen covered slipper chair that Olivia always feared might crumble under Cody’s weight. He reached across the desk and held her wrists down. “Stop. You’re making me crazy, too.”

Cody let go and Olivia dropped her head into her hands. He spoke to the screen of silky hair sliding over her face.

“A disaster? Copy that, Kimosabe. It’s raining disaster around here. They tagged my truck as evidence, and I don’t know when I’m getting it back.”

Olivia sat up and flipped her hair back. The morning had turned Cody’s face into a bug-eyed cartoon character scared by a monster. She was asking
him
for advice?

She could hear Richards shouting
instructions to the police unit outside, and hoped Mrs. Harmon was snoring through the chaos that had become her backyard. Her backyard? How about her whole life?

“Your truck,” she moaned. “Oh, god. There’s that, too. Don’t get me wrong and think I’m avaricious or anything, but this murder is going to wreak havoc with my sale, to say nothing of the foot traffic I depend on every day. Who’s going to slip under that crime tape to come in for a pair of matching parlor chairs or a perfectly wormed oak refectory table? And with the sale of the Louis 16th bedroom set to Mrs. Gotshalk, I thought I was on my way. A word from her dropped at one of her famous parties and I could be set in this town. Now, who will want antiques tainted with a whiff of murder?”

Cody stared at her. It was hard to tell who looked more pathetic. His black tee shirt sagged at the neck and his scuffed leather jacket, torn at the pockets, looked like he had ripped it off a homeless person. Usually, he dressed up a bit more for work, in case he crossed paths with Olivia’s clients. But this morning was an unusually early start for him and clearly, he hadn’t given his attire a second thought. He tried to man up with a show of confidence.

“Olivia, don’t get carried away. Those detectives will have this cleared up in no time. Obviously, who ever did it is connected to Blackman’s shop and when they find out who, you’re free and clear. You know what they say, any publicity is good publicity as long as they spell the name right.”

Olivia raised her arms, a solid imitation of a mother of an adolescent down to her last nerve. “But Cody? Don’t you see? He was sent special delivery to me.” She thunked her chest with her index finger.

“Why me? I don’t even know the man. And I hardly know Blackman’s. I took a chance on them repairing the furniture because they were so highly recommended by Sunset Antiques in San Francisco. What could they have against me that they would do something so disgusting? That isn’t even the word. So, so monstrous? Don’t you get it?”

Cody stayed on the reassuring track. “Look, I’ll give Roger at Blackman’s a call when we’re done here. He schedules the deliveries. He must know something.”

But Olivia derailed him, shaking her head wildly. “Cody, no. He might be mixed up in it. Maybe he’s the one who stuffed the man in the armoire in the first place. It could be dangerous.”

Cody swatted that idea away with a wave of his hand. “That guy? Uh, not to be disrespectful, but we’re not talking about Charles Manson here. Roger’s good at what he does, but I’ve known him since high school. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He couldn’t figure out how to zap a fly with a heat-seeking missile. I betcha by tonight we’ll have this all wrapped up, Olivia.”

Olivia winced. He called her by name. Not a good sign.

Detective Richards knocked on the back door. He took one look inside, but there was so little space in the office, he asked Olivia and Cody to step outside. Olivia cringed when she saw the trampled flowers and scattered garden accessories in her Garden Center. The police must have overturned every flowerpot, water feature and sculpture.

She was about to insist that Richards put them back where they belonged when he said, “I have to leave now, but it’s going to take my crew most of the day to finish their work here. Expect Forensics and the coroner later. I don’t have a time for you. Oh, and if you can think of anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts, I’d get on it right away. I’m going to have to ask both of you to come down to the station for your statements later today. Make it two o’clock. You can give me their names when you come in.”

He eyed Olivia’s outfit, jewelry and designer shoes. He gestured to his flannel jacket. “I’ll dress up for the occasion if it will put you at ease Miss Granville.”

The hair on her arms prickled. “Do I pay extra for the sarcasm, detective?” Olivia didn’t get to be partner in one of LA’s most prestigious design firms by playing Miss Mealy Mouth, but he just walked away.

She called out to his back, “Who’s going to clean up this mess,” but Olivia and Cody watched his car back out of the driveway and turn towards Darling Boulevard without getting an answer. She motioned Cody into the office, out of sight of Johnson and the police officers still securing the yard and the press begging for access.

“Cody, I don’t trust this investigation.” She nodded towards the back yard. “I mean we’re not exactly in the hands of Special Ops. I’m going to have to figure out why I’m involved. Seriously. It’s one thing to find out who did this to Mr. Blackman, and another to find out why he was sent to me.”

By turns agitated, confused, scared and angry, she paced in front of the screen door, avoiding looking out into the truck.

“This is like something out of a Mafia novel. But I’m just an interior decorator. I know hardly anyone here. Other than pissing off all of Darling Valley by having the temerity to actually move here and set up shop when DV has two perfectly good antique stores, I have no enemies. I need some answers. Maybe it would be a good idea for you to talk to that Robert after all.”

Cody turned his ball cap around, just for something to do with his hands. “You mean Roger. Okay, sure, but it’s too early for him to be at the shop. If they will even open it today. I don’t have a cell number for him, but I know where he usually meets the guys for breakfast before work. A diner near the lake.”

Somewhere between Richards’ insulting accusations and the sight of her ruined garden, Olivia slipped into action mode. “Okay. Then come back here and we’ll have some breakfast ourselves and figure out what to do next.”

A plan of action always gave her a sense of control, which was exactly what she needed to think clearly.

Cody gave her a quizzical shrug. “But how am I going to get there without a truck?”

Olivia rooted on her desk for her keys and tossed them to him. “Take the pickup. I parked it across the street last night, because I knew you were coming with the truck and needed access to the backyard. Go over the fence in the back alley and you can sneak around the block. The reporters won’t know it’s you. Make sure you answer your phone if I call. Cody. Don’t freak me out by going all radio silence like you do when you don’t want to talk to me, okay? And don’t let the police out there see you leaving.”

“Sure thing, Olivia.”

He used her full name again. It brought home the seriousness of the situation and sent a chunk of ice down Olivia’s spine. Through the window she watched him slink along the back of the house to a hole in the fence she hadn’t known was there and disappear without anyone noticing.

“Geez, honey. I knew you wanted a MAD man, but what’s up with that special delivery?”

MAD man was Tuesday’s term for the ideal guy. Mature, affluent and dependent-free. A practice she preached but rarely practiced. Tuesday was like a sister to Olivia. In addition, she read tea leaves for a living in an upscale café on Melrose and was freakily accurate about her assessments and predictions. Olivia hated to admit it, but she had become a little dependent on Tuesday’s advice.

“Listen,” Tuesday said after Olivia finished her tale of woe. “I’m like flying up there? Even it this gets fixed this afternoon? And, I’m like sure it will? You need help with the sale.”

Tuesday’s valley girl lilt relaxed the tension that was making Olivia bite the inside of her cheek and twirl her hair between her fingers like a mad woman. The familiar bubble-headed dialect belied Tuesday’s deep heart and soul. Olivia teased, “So is that your professional assessment, that the killer will be found quickly or are you just trying to fill dead air space?”

Tuesday said, “You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you. I’m looking up Virgin America flights on my iPad. I’ll let you know what time to expect me. And don’t worry about feeding me, I’m like on a cleanse?”

Olivia knew what that meant. Wheatgrass juice, smelly herbal concoctions and yoga in front of company, while behind the scenes when no one was looking, copious supermarket chocolate, garbage TV and champs, preferably Veuve Cliquot.

Before she hung up, Tuesday instructed, “Don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll rent a car.”

Olivia didn’t push it, though she would have loved a drive through San Francisco to get her mind off the murder and her other troubles. But Tuesday liked to go first class and would rather rent a Mercedes for the weekend she couldn’t really afford than ride in Olivia’s practical pickup truck. Olivia’s beloved BMW M6 convertible was a distant memory. She’d had to give it up when she decided to exit LA because, as her financial advisor dryly explained it, if she wanted this business venture to work, she’d have to resign herself to some unaccustomed belt tightening. Like a used Toyota 4x4 with some rust spots but, engine and transmission-wise, a heart of gold.

Olivia hung up the phone and tried to suppress the regret that dampened her excitement at seeing her friend. She had known Tuesday since they shared an ocean view apartment in Manhattan Beach with three other recent college grads when they all first arrived in LA. Tuesday’s was the only friendship that took, beginning with the first night they shared a room. Tuesday had watched Olivia unpack her designer label wardrobe, turned up her nose and said, “Honeybunch. If you want me to go shopping with you next time, I know this great Goodwill shop in Hermosa Beach. We can get you some great threads and you can give this stuff like back to your grandmother?”

No one was more fun or comforting in an emotional storm than Tuesday, exactly what she needed right now. The price tag, though, would be Tuesday’s insistence on bringing Brooks back from the dead. If she’d told Tuesday once that she didn’t need to be reminded of what an a-hole Brooks had been, she had done it a zillion quadrillion times. Why couldn’t Tuesday understand that the mere mention of Brooks’ name was a rapier straight into Olivia’s heart?

Olivia needed distraction and she turned to the one friend that never let her down: Facebook.

The first post, from a business acquaintance in LA, hit her between the eyes. She immediately slammed the MacBook shut. The woman, a caterer she once used, had shared a headline:
Armoires and Arsenic in Billionaire’s Hollow
and the accompanying story from the Huffington Post.

How the frigging frig did it get on the Internet so fast? But of course she knew. The press posse outside her house was filing the stories from their phones as fast as they could hit the send button, even as she sat there, infuriated. But arsenic? The victim was still in her back yard. Where did the cause of death come from? She forced herself to open the computer and read the story. The reporter claimed to have a so
urce inside the DVPD. But the medical examiner hadn’t even arrived. Were they making this up?

She pondered what she knew for a moment. Poison was a reasonable assumption since Richards had said there was no blood and gore. But maybe he’d had a heart attack and somebody panicked and stuffed him in the armoire? No, that didn’t make sense. Why not call the paramedics? But it wouldn’t be the first time somebody panicked and did something unnecessarily stupid. After all, why was Blackman dead in the first place? She was trying to come up with another scenario for the total disruption of her life when the jangling front door bell brought her back to the present. She looked at the computer. Who could that be this early? It was only a little after seven-thirty. Richards had wasted no time getting out of there.

The French doors were still open and she ran through the showroom calling, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” When she opened the door she stared into the smiling face of George Clooney.