Armoires and Arsenic (4 page)

At least, George Clooney if he dressed like Noel Coward. Behind him she saw a bizarre looking vintage car parked behind the press vehicles across the street. She looked from the running board on the electric blue car to the ascot around pseudo George’s neck to his ornamental cane and did a double take. Had she passed through a time machine that transported her back to say, 1935? She half expected the man to break into song and start tap dancing.

But as soon as he said, “Sorry to botha you so oily but I sawr a light,” she knew the New Jersey accent was more Soprano thug than elegant leading man.

Oh my god, she thought, too late. Why am I opening the door to strangers? Is he from the mob? Is that what I’ve gotten myself mixed up in? She asked cautiously, “How can I help you?”

How did he get past the crime scene tape?

After a courteous bow, the man said, “Charles Bacon, ma’am. I need a garage.”

A garage? “But, um, I don’t have one available. My tenant uses it. I have to park in back of the house myself.”

Fake George pointed to the sign outside her front door. Darling Valley Design and Antiques. “Bud ahn’t you an ahkateck?” It took her a second to translate. “But aren’t you an architect?”

“Yes. Oh, you mean you want me to design one.”

The realization all but lifted Olivia three feet off the ground. In the midst of homicidal chaos, was this a balancing act from the universe? A client? One who had braved crime scene tape? Uh oh. She saw one of the cameramen get out of his SUV and hustle up her walkway.

“Please come in,” she said, pulling Imposter George into the shop before the guy reached the porch. She led him behind a large secretary, out of sight of the reporter and extended her hand.

“Forgive my manners. I’m Olivia Granville. Come in. I couldn’t help noticing your, um, unusual car,” she said. “I assume that’s why you need a garage?”

The man’s face lit up with owner’s pride. “It’s a Talbot Teardrop. New. That is, new to me. It was built in 1938.”

Nineteen-thoity eight. She almost laughed. Did anybody really talk like this in Darling Valley, but he continued.

“They made only seventeen of the cars so it is quite unique. To answer your question, yes and no. I do need a garage for the Talbot. And my one hundred and two other cars in my collection.”

Olivia could paste the most, I’ve-seen-everything-you-can’t-surprise-me expression on her face at the mention of a celebrity name. But this news made her jaw drop. “You’re serious?”

“Well, I don’t want the car museum built all at once. I’d like to discuss the Talbot space wit you and see how it goes from there.”

How could a guy dressed in Armani with a zillion dollar car collection get by without an education?
Wit you?
Yet Olivia found his combination of diamonds and rust charming. Despite trying to pass himself off as upper class when he was clearly South Jersey, he exuded a sincerity that warmed his smile.

And then, disheartened, Olivia realized what he meant. A beauty contest. So she’d be competing against one of DV’s established shops.

“Now I’m sure I’m interrupting your breakfast and what all,” he gestured to the scene outside her front door, “but you were recommended to me by Mrs. Gotshalk.”

Now this was encouraging news. “Oh, yes. She’s been in the shop,” Olivia said casually. She hardly knew the wealthiest woman in town, but yeah, baby. She must have made an impression to get this referral. And somehow,
Mr. Bacon had made an impression on her as well.  Almost as hard to believe.

Bacon continued to explain his early call. “I was driving by and, as I said, saw the light. I thought you might not mind. I have a busy day and stopped on the spur of the moment like. I’m just here to make an appointment. I’d like to come back at a time when I can discuss my preliminary plans and get your ideas and what not. Do you have time this afternoon?”

No, she didn’t have time, not with a date with the police, her nagging to-do list for her big sale, plus get ready for Sabrina Chase’s charity auction tonight, but by crankshaft, she would make time. That Talbot car alone had to be worth a hefty slice of a million dollars. This was the client she had been praying for. This was the reason she chose Darling Valley in the first place. But first, she had to bring up the elephant, not only in the room, but crawling all over her property Sherlock Holmes-like.

“Mr. Bacon, I’m sure you’ve noticed the, um, police presence on my property this morning.”

“I didn’t pay no mind.” Another small bow. “That’s your business.”

Was this guy for real? Was he used to a police presence?

“Okay, then. Why don’t we sit down,” she said, ushering him past her most expensive pieces to the red and white Toile wing chairs against the back wall. It was a tactic she used for drop-ins hoping something might catch their eye as they walked by a refectory table reputed to be from Versailles or a partner’s desk that could have seen action in Scrooge’s office. During the week she had been pushing the furniture in the showroom against the wall in preparation for the sale, but Olivia’s eye for the exquisite detail still stood out.

Mr. Bacon stopped to admire one of the two secretaries that bookended the wing chairs, a magnificent late 18th century South German beauty, circa 1800, all parquetry, ormolu and hidden drawers. He checked the price tag, but didn’t blanch at the cost, $24,000. His only complaint was that the tag didn’t include the region of Germany where it was made.

Olivia said, “It came from Heidelberg.”

Bacon replied, “I would have said Munich. No disrespect. Like from one of Mad King Ludvig’s castles up in the Bavarian mountains. The color of the walnut and all.”

Behind his back Olivia screwed her face into a who is this guy grimace. How does he know from Ludvig’s castles? Wouldn’t this make a great Facebook post: The time I debated German baroque details with a celebrity look alike mobster while under suspicion of murder.”

Bacon said it might work in his study. “I’ll think aboud it,” he mused, as if making a mental note, then asked if two o’clock would work. Olivia made a show of asking him to wait while she checked her calendar in her office, then came out, assured him two o’clock was fine and walked him to the door. She could not detect a limp. Why the cane? If he’s trying to pass as British aristocracy, he must have skipped the elocution lessons.

He reached into his wallet. “Two o’clock then. My card, in case there is an emergency.” Emoigency.

She thanked him, and after closing the door, kissed the card and headed back upstairs to make coffee for Cody.

A short while later Cody came in the back door beating his head and shoulders, a parody of swatting off a plague of gnats. “Those reporters were eating me alive.”

The press people were edging up the driveway, but a female police officer had kept them from following Cody into the yard.

“Aren’t they supposed to stay behind the yellow tape? They’re getting closer and closer to the back door. Pretty soon they’ll be inside.”

Olivia sighed. “I know. It’s like watch a river rise, waiting for it to flood your house.

He had no news. He never found Roger, so he drove by Blackman’s to see what was up there. When he saw the police were all over the place, all eight of them, he didn’t stop to gawk. Now he wandered around the office as Olivia plotted their next move.

Olivia saw through to the showroom windows the reporters, as if hearing the blast of a starting gun, suddenly turn and run to their respective vehicles, the drivers creating gridlock and swearing at each other as they jockeyed for position to make U-turns in the narrow street and peel off towards downtown. Olivia shrugged her shoulders. “Is there a new find at Blackman’s? Are they headed for the police station? Maybe they’ve arrested the guy.”

She led Cody up the stairs to the kitchen. He dropped the Toyota’s keys on the island and held up crossed fingers, “We can only hope.”

After they finished up a fresh pot of Jamaican Blue Mountain and French toast, Cody cleared the dishes into the sink. Over breakfast they had tried to piece together the crime, possible suspects and motives. But the police were closed mouth and they just didn’t have anything to go on. They realized they would just have to live with their impatience and anxiety until they had more information.

“I give up,” Olivia said. “Let me drive you home. We’re not going to get any work done this morning. She explained to the officer in charge her errand. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, then dropped Cody off at his parent’s house.

“I’ll see you at the police department,” he said, waving goodbye.

Olivia leaned over to talk through the rolled down passenger window. “Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up?”

“Nah, I can walk from here.” Cody set his cap and headed up the walk. “See ya.”

Olivia returned home, her head roiling with questions. The first thing she noticed was the coroner’s van in the driveway and an unfamiliar Mercedes sports car behind it. She checked the Toyota’s clock. Eleven on the dot. Thankfully, the press had not returned. She walked up to the police officer directing traffic in the driveway and listened in on his conversation with a well-dressed man Olivia guessed was the owner of the fancy car. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him.  Probably someone passed on Darling Boulevard, small town and all that..

“Sorry, sir. That’s out of my jurisdiction. You’ll have to call Detective Richards or Johnson to get permission to examine the body.”

The officer recognized Olivia and said, “Please step back, ma’am. I’m conducting an interview here.”

Olivia retreated several feet, but the men’s voices carried. The man was objecting loudly. “But I’m Mr. Blackman’s physician. He had a heart condition. From what Detective Richards told his wife, I’m sure he had a heart attack. Let me examine him so I certify that and we can move this along. Make the funeral arrangements. His wife is also my patient. She’s just had a brutal shock as it is but the thought of an autopsy is well . . . I had to sedate her when she heard. I’m sure you can understand. C’mon, guys.”

Olivia imagined him giving the officer a conspiratorial wink.

“Sir, this is a murder investigation. We have procedures.”

“Murder? Oh my god. I wasn’t told. I don’t believe that.” The man looked around and tugged his hair. “Look officer, I’m a physician. I can declare Mr. Blackman dead and you can fill out your forms. Let’s help the widow out here. This is bad enough without making her sit around and wait for the bureaucracy to kick in.”

The officer put up his hand. “I’m sorry sir. I called it in and we have to follow protocol. The ME
, the medical examiner, has to rule on suspicious deaths. I’m sure you know that.”

Olivia saw the man stamp his foot like a petulant child. “What’s suspicious about a heart attack?”

Olivia assumed he hadn’t been given all the particulars, the armoire, the ropes.  What did he think he was doing at Olivia’s house? The man’s voice was rising.

“Well, then, I’ll just call the ME who is a friend of mine and have her deputize me. You know you don’t even have to be an M.D. to be a coroner, so certainly I have the credentials. I won’t stand for my patient having to bear any more stress than is necessary when we can settle this right now, right here.”

He stepped away and pulled out his cell phone, punched in a number. A moment later he left a message saying, “Amelia, call me as soon as you get this. It’s about the Blackman case. I need you to step in. It’s urgent. Call me.” He gave his number and stuck the phone back in his pocket.

Just then two men came down the driveway steering a gurney with a body bag riding on top. The doctor tried to stop them, then watched, spluttering expletives as they secured Blackman’s corpse inside the van and handed a clipboard to the police officer for a signature.

The doctor made one more try. “Stop, stop. I’m a doctor and I’m giving you orders to stay right here until Dr. Hardy calls me.”

He pulled out his phone and held it up as if the EMT’s didn’t know what a call meant. The officer gave the clipboard back to the van driver then turned to the man. “Doctor, you’ll have to move your car so the van can get out.”

“And if I refuse?”

The officer spread his hands. “Up to you. Obstruction of justice. I’d have to take you in.” He rattled his handcuffs hanging from a loop on the side of his pants.

The doctor brushed past Olivia without looking at her, got in his car, backed out of the drive way and drove off in a squeal of rubber. Olivia wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard the officer call the man an asshole to his partner. Then he informed Olivia that the victim was being transported to the coroner’s office and they would all be leaving.

“Can you take the crime tape with you?”

“No, ma’am. We can’t have anyone messing around here. This is still an active crime scene.”

Olivia watched the last car drive off and returned to her loft to collect her thoughts. First up, a run to clear her head.

She followed her usual route through the flat streets behind Darling Boulevard, past the smallish Tudors and Victorians, homes on property too small to allow teardowns, unless the buyers bought two homes and rebuilt on double lots. In some cases they’d need three to compete with the larger mansions up in the hills, but so far Darling Valley hadn’t approved the zoning for that kind of land grab. She had mixed feelings about that development practice. On one hand it was good for her business if she could snag one of the renovations. On the other, she hated to see historic homes demolished. Some of these buildings dated back to the late 19
th
century. Not her problem today she decided half an hour later as she rounded the corner and headed for her driveway.

She entered her house by the back door sweaty and red-faced, her phone buzzing with news alerts. The press had identified the victim, variously speculated on the cause of death, positing everything but drowning and disembowelment and listed the location where the body was found. One website confused the name of her shop with Blackman’s, calling it Darling Valley Antique Restoration. For once she didn’t mind a publicity miscue. Maybe it would tone down unwanted attention. The next alert squashed that when she saw a dated picture of herself with Brooks at an opening in Beverly Hills. For the first time, she had top billing: 
Noted Designer Fingered In Billionaire’s Death
. Blackman a billionaire? Then why was he running a cabinetry shop? And she’d been fingered? Whatever happened to checking your sources? She stuck her phone deep in her purse as though that would silence it and stripped off her running jersey as she headed for the shower.

She zipped up the Tory Burch tunic and smoothed it over her knife-creased pants just as the shop phone began ringing. By now, the whole town must have read the Internet reports of a murder in Billionaires’ Hollow, Wall Street’s nickname for the town favored as a retreat for the world’s wealthiest. Some called it Newport West, but that was stretching it. The boutiques on Darling Boulevard rivaled Beverly Hills’ finest, but thanks to the Alaska current running down the Pacific west coast, the nearest beach required down jackets and fur-lined boots suitable for the arctic.

Olivia picked up the extension phone. The janitorial company had to cancel their appointment to clean the shop prior to the sale. Something about staff catching a virus. Within fifteen minutes, three of the personal assistants for her best clients called to cancel orders. Best clients meaning the ones who only bought knickknacks and inexpensive occasional pieces. But, somehow, the chairs and tables that had been perfect finds last week would no longer work. Each assistant gave a version of, “So sorry, Olivia. I’m sure you understand.”

Oh she understood, all right. The few people who had taken a chance on the newcomer regretted their decisions now that they were doing business with a possible murderer. That brought up another issue. Was Sabrina Chase going to proceed with her charity auction on the heels of losing her business partner? And, if yes, did she still want a donation from Olivia? She dialed her number, but it went into voice mail, so she left a message. Mentally crossing off that task, she turned her attention to her tenant.

Mrs. Harmon would be up by now and Olivia needed to find out if she had heard her knocking about last night or this morning. She locked the French doors into the showroom, a habit to keep customers from wandering into her office, and put a “Back in 10” sign on the front door. But now she could see through the pane windows that CNN and FOX News trucks were setting up their Star Wars equipment across the street. Where had they come from? Were they Johnny come latelys who had gotten stuck in traffic on the narrow mountain road from Highway 101 while the local outlets were nailing down the story, or was something new about to break?

As soon as she opened the door to walk around to the side, two reporters raced up and jammed microphones in her face.

“Is Brooks here, Olivia? Can we have a picture of you two together?”

Olivia slammed the door, locked it from the inside and ran back to her office. Even here in Darling Valley everything was about Brooks. She expected the paparazzi to follow them on their dates in LA when she was his current eye candy. By herself, though, even as a murder suspect, by comparison she was as interesting as a chain link fence. They only saw her as an opportunity to get a shot of Brooks, find out something sleazy about him and do an exclusive. By herself she was as interesting as a chain link fence. But if they could tie the sensational Brooks Baker, boy wonder, to a murder case, that could make careers. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. Would she ever get that man out of her life?

She took the inside stairs down to the tiny sliver of basement left after the Cooks had carved out Mrs. Harmon’s apartment. Mrs. Harmon’s living room door opened onto the driveway, giving her a private entrance and easy access to the garage, another contingency Olivia had to swallow. It was a one-car garage with no room on her property to add a space for her truck. However, Mrs. Harmon’s kitchen door opened onto the laundry area they both shared, plus a few shelves holding flashlights, Olivia’s household supplies and a toolbox. At the end of the narrow corridor, there was a door that led up a few steps to the outside that Mrs. Harmon could use to get to the trash and her corner of the garden out of sight of customers in the Garden Center. Olivia complained about that perk to the Cooks.  “I have no private space in my own garden.” They suggested she give up her Garden Center, part of her livelihood.

As yet, the press didn’t seem aware of Mrs. Harmon’s existence. What would the poor woman do when they parked outside her door, forcing her to fight her way to the garage? Olivia tried to be sympathetic to that one.

In answer to Olivia’s knock, Mrs. Harmon cracked open her door in a matching peach Charmeuse and lace peignoir and negligee elegant enough for an opera opening, giving Olivia a cool greeting. Olivia did not assume her tenant hid behind her door because she was embarrassed about her attire; the reclusive Mrs. Harmon always acted as though she were hiding something or someone in her apartment. Olivia could not see much beyond the woman’s perfectly coiffed silver hair and that she had yet to apply her signature pale lipstick and navy mascara. Her stately looks always took Olivia’s breath away. If Olivia was a Botticelli, Mrs. Harmon was a John Singer Sergeant.

Mrs. Harmon waited for Olivia to announce her intentions. “Mrs. Harmon. I’m sorry to bother you but I’m sure you’ve seen the commotion in the back drive.”

The small apartment was half below ground but with many high windows that afforded brilliant morning light and a view of the rear Garden Center and yard.

“I could hardly avoid seeing the police.” She spit out this observation as though she were being taxed for each syllable.

At least their feet Olivia thought but didn’t say.