Larceny and Lace (25 page)

Serves you right, I wanted to say. Had McDowell been sincere, at least about Isobel?

I wondered way too late.

“"Why did you move Isobel’'s bones in the first place?”" I asked him. “"Why not leave her in the well?”"

“"This was about to become a car lot. I couldn’'t hide a body this close to a construction crew, then the public.”"

“"Why did you bring them to
my
building, then?”" I was stalling but he hadn’'t figured that out yet. I was surprised that he couldn’'t smell my fear.

“"It was a morgue,”" he shouted, “"full of body drawers. I didn’'t think I’'d live to see the place fall down. You messed with me by buying it. I’'ve killed once, I can kill again.”" Hate laced his last words.

An icy fear ran down my spine.

“"Why did you keep the quilt until you moved Isobel from the well to my place?”"

“"She made the quilt from my aunt’'s clothes and my aunt was good to me.”"

“"But you killed her daughter.”"

“"So now they’'re together.”" He raised a hand like he’'d done them a favor. Psycho.

“"The night I brought Isobel to your place—--”" He shook his head. “"I had the accident that put me in this chair.”"

“"I know,”" I said. “"That’'s called karma.”" He tried to backhand me, but I stepped from his reach. “"Do you want me to sic my ghost friend on you again?”" I asked. “"Too bad I can’'t get him to trip you down the stairs in your chair this time.”"

Goodwin roared like a wounded bear. It would be to my advantage if he lost it altogether. He might be less careful, though his two bodyguards looked on with quiet amusement. They wouldn’'t let me get away with anything.

“"Lolique, why did you call Isobel ‘'Saint Belle’' the night we had drinks?”"

“"The old goat worshipped her, and he was guilt ridden because they’'d quarreled the day she went missing. He still calls her name in his sleep, the schlub.”" Isobel and McDowell had been having a simple quarrel in my cape-wearing vision. I’'d called that one wrong.

Two feet from the well.

I did some fancy footwork around the chair to confuse them all, back to front, a notso-happy dance. Lolique homed in with her gun, but she was so focused on me, she tripped over a clump of grass, and fell.

I ducked behind Natalie as the gun went off.

Natalie fell. Had she caught the bullet?

Lolique scrambled around in the grass. She must have dropped the gun. While she looked, I slipped my hand in my pocket and pushed the single-digit speed dial for Werner, covering the sound by shoving Gary’'s chair into the stone base of the well. He screamed in pain as Lolique scrabbled to her feet.

As she came our way, her attention on Goodwin screaming, I swung my bag and

knocked her down. But the bag was so heavy, it flew from my slippery hands and landed in the well.

Lolique rose and came straight for me, and I realized how strong hate and greed could be.

“"Where’'s the gun?”" Goodwin yelled. “"Kill her now!”"

“"You’'re stupid, Goodwin,”" I yelled, ducking Lolique’'s clawing charge. “"The police are taking down Isobel’'s portrait right now. You were home free.”"

“"No!”" Gary howled like a madman and caught my attention. Lolique caught me off guard and tackled me. I ended up balanced on the edge of the well, like I’'d seesawed on the edge of the upper-floor railing to see the portrait. Lolique laughed in my face and shoved me backward with both hands. Like Isobel, I was falling.

Forty-three
It is the unseen, unforgettable, ultimate accessory of fashion that heralds your arrival and prolongs your departure.

—--COCO CHANEL

I smelled chocolate.

The light was bright, the tunnel narrow, and on the other side, someone called my name.

I opened my eyes. “"Who knew that God would look like the Wiener.”" God growled, and then he got touchy-feely and ran his hands over my arms and legs, my head and back. “"Anything broken?”" he asked.

“"Everything.”" It didn’'t smell like chocolate anymore. It smelled musty and damp. It smelled of decay. The dirt around me had bugs in it, lots of them, and . . . bones. Small bones.

“"Can I just say that you took ten years off my life? By rights, you should be dead,”" Werner said, and I could feel his hand trembling against my arm. “"Smart of you to throw down a bean bag chair first.”"

“"I landed on my bag?”"

“"Well, it’'s not a purple marshmallow.”"

“"You bet it’'s not. My bruises are probably shaped like eggs.”" I gasped, remembering. “"I hope you didn’'t take down the portrait.”" Werner chuckled. “"We’'re having a conversation in the bottom of a well, Madeira.”"

“"So . . . you’'re
not
God?”"

“"I’'m not a wiener, either.”"

“"Did I say that out loud?”"

“"You’'ve probably got a concussion. It doesn’'t count. McDowell was more concerned about you being out here with Goodwin than about my plan to take down the portrait.”"

“"Goodwin killed Isobel and threw her down here,”" I said, “"not McDowell. Vinney was abetting his handicapped stepfather, the murderer, by removing the evidence of Goodwin’'s crime from my building.”"

“"I know. And Vinney killed Sampson to set the fire as a diversion, like you said. Goodwin and Lolique are up there confessing.”"

“"Singing like canaries?”"

“"You watch too many old cop shoes, Mad.”"

“"Enough to know that these small bones might belong to Isobel. Goodwin was sloppy when he moved the bones out of here.”" I hurt when I moved but I picked up the ones I could reach and slipped them into Werner’'s shirt pocket. “"Take good care of Isobel.”"

“"Leave it to you to keep trying to solve a crime when everything seems hopeless.”"

“"
Me?
Solve a crime? Don’'t let Tunney hear you say that.”"

“"Don’'t worry, I won’'t. We’'re in a well, Mad. Weren’'t you dreaming and talking in your sleep about a well the night of the fire?”" Werner asked. “"You remember, before I took you home?”"

“"I can never seem to remember my dreams,”" I said to evade the question. Werner looked as if he didn’'t quite believe me.

“"What about Natalie?”" I asked to change the subject. “"She worked for Goodwin and had a thing for Isobel’'s father, but I don’'t think she was an accessory to murder.”"

“"We’'ll talk to her if she survives. She’'s already on her way to the hospital, which is where you’'re going.”" Werner fingered my bag. “"What did you put in here?”"

“"Madeira?”" my father called from the top of the well.

“"I’'m okay, Dad,”" I called, grabbing my head. “"Ouch. I have a really bad headache, though.”"

I heard sirens. “"What’'d you do, Lytton, call the cops on me?”"

“"That’'s your ride. I’'m going to go up now to make room for the rescue team down here.”"

“"Oh good. I don’'t think I can climb that rickety ladder.”" I must have passed out, because the next thing I knew, I was strapped to a kind of cradle while being pulled up the well shaft. I wished that Isobel might have had the same chance.

As I was placed in the ambulance, my father and Aunt Fiona stood beside me. They both had tears in their eyes.

“"Don’'t cry,”" I said. “"We caught Isobel’'s killer.”" That’'s the last I remembered until I woke in the hospital with Werner standing at the foot of my bed and McDowell standing beside it.

“"What day is it?”" I asked.

“"One day before your opening. And you’'ll be there,”" Werner said, “"on crutches.”"

“"Figures. A ball, and I won’'t be able to dance.”"

“"Be positive. You’'re going to your grand opening, not your funeral.”"

“"I’'m positive that you’'re right.”"

“"I usually am,”" Werner said with a wink.

McDowell cleared his throat. “"Thank you for allowing Isobel to rest, Madeira. I’'ve needed closure for a long time.”"

“"No wonder you got angry every time I mentioned her. But why did you run that night Eve and I took Lolique home, then lie about working?”"

“"I wasn’'t calling the police on you. I told you to get out.”" I touched my head. “"You what?”"

“"I yelled, ‘'Get out, Mad!’' ”"

“"From our vantage point in the underbrush, Eve and I could hear crickets, crackling leaves, an owl hooting, and you telling your unwanted guests to get out.”"

“"But I said your name.”"

“"Yeah, and I thought you were ‘'mad’' as in furious, but thank you for telling us to get out. Nicest thing you ever said to me.”"

“"I called the police on the people you saw in my guesthouse. I couldn’'t pin anything on them, but I knew they were crooked. Even my so-called wife.”" He scoffed. “"I should never have married her, but she was so full of life, such a great actress—--as in she pretended to care for me—--Hell, I thought someone young and fun would cheer me up. Help me recover from my grief over losing Isobel. I’'m a foolish old man.”" I touched his hand. “"You loved Isobel. ’'Nuff said.”"

“"Sell her clothes, Madeira. It’'s time for me to let her go.”" For the first time ever, I felt sorry for Councilman McDowell.

“"What about her quilt?”" Werner asked. “"It’'s evidence, but you’'ll get it back, eventually, or Madeira will, since she gave it to us.”"

McDowell paled. “"I saw Gary in prison last night for the first and last time. He told me more than I wanted to know until I walked. Destroy the quilt.”"

“"But it’'s a masterpiece that Isobel created,”" I said. “"Let me donate it in her memory, naming her as the artist, to a quilt or textile museum.”"

“"I never want to look at it, again. I don’'t want to know where it ends up. And its history stays buried.”"

“"Done.”" I looked at Werner. “"I’'m thinking that the Pucci bag is going the same route.”"

When Eve came in, Werner and McDowell left.

“"Hey, peg leg,”" she said. “"They’'re letting you go. Your father and Fiona are in the hall. I’'ve got your clothes.”" She held up a paper grocery bag. “"Don’'t scream, and I’'ll help you get dressed.”"

Everything she’'d brought me was black, no purse in sight.

Forty-four
Goddesses live in the heavens. They do not stand, they do not walk, they glide and sway. The goddesses are laughing and balance on heels as slender as the tip of a little finger.

-LOLA PAGOLA

Opening day arrived in a flurry of activity, but I was amazingly ready for it, thanks to my family and friends.

Though I had sent an invitation to my former employer Faline, a world-class designer, I did not expect her to take any part in my grand opening. So, talk about a shock. Not only did she show, she was the first one in the door that morning, and she brought fashion, television, and movie icons, vintage collectors, and with them, the kind of press money could not buy.

Vintage Magic was about to buzz the New York fashion world. Oh, she had an ulterior motive, countering the “"feral cat”" stories that proliferated about her after I resigned. I’'d heard them. But hey, if she wanted to prove we were still friends, fine, as long as she wasn’'t my boss.

Moneyed vintage clothes hounds and glittering personalities who brought fame wherever they went were literally shopping in
my
shop because of her.

“"Faline, I can’'t thank you enough for this.”"

“"Thank you for going along with it. I owe you. We’'ll do lunch the next time you come to New York?”"

“"Fashion week?”"

“"I’'ll get us tickets. First row, beside me?”" Faline purred. I danced a mental jig. “"Absolutely.”" I needed to keep my finger on the pulse of the fashion industry, and she’'d just offered me a rare and impressive “"in.”" The media blitz they brought alerted the locals who loved to rub elbows with the stars. My shop rocked, literally.

Councilman McDowell held an impromptu press conference out front—--surprise!—-but he talked about
me
. Go figure. Now the last of my customers, the ones who were coming to the Circle of Spirit ball in an hour, dressed as film stars, were getting ready in my dressing rooms. The media went ballistic when Scarlett O’'Hara came out wearing a gown made from Tara’'s drapes. “"Fiddle-dee dee,”" Aunt Fiona said. “"I’'m so glad that I came to Vintage Magic.”"

Under the eye of those cameras, my grand opening reminded me of a fashion week extravaganza where each gown shone more spectacular than the last and
everyone
looked like a celebrity.

Even some of my old friends from New York attended the grand opening and the ball sponsored by the White Star Circle of Spirit, Southeast Connecticut Chapter. Mock movie stars mingled with the real thing on my crowded second floor before the doors officially opened.

I’'d chosen to wear Isobel’'s Lucien Lelong gown, the one she wore for her portrait, as my way of setting her free, especially here, where positive energy could envelop her spirit. Of course, it had the advantage of covering the cast on my leg, though nothing could hide my crutches, nor my inept use of them. Nevertheless the Schiaparelli pansy evening bag from the thirties hanging from my wrist helped to pretty up the crutches a bit. When Councilman McDowell arrived, minus his killer wife—--awaiting trial in jail, because he’'d refused to post bail—--I doubted the brilliance of my costume choice. He came toward me as if I were wearing a homing device.

“"I’'ll change,”" I said when he reached me.

“"No, don’'t.”" He took my hand. “"You look beautiful. I didn’'t think anyone else could do it justice. I was wrong. Isobel would want you to have and wear it. In a way, you helped me find her. She’'s at rest now. I am, too. Seeing you in her gown helps. Thank you.”"

“"No press tonight?”" I asked.

He shook his head. “"I’'m not running anymore, not from my past and not for office. Enjoy,”" he said, kissed my hand and disappeared into the crowd. Dante appeared. “"Did you
have
to sell my extra tuxes? Six other men are dressed like me. Don’'t I feel special?”"

“"It’'s not like anybody can look down their noses at you,”" I said as I hobbled on my crutches toward the window. “"Look. You’'re about to feel
very
special. My father and Aunt Fiona are bringing Dolly inside.”"

“"Are you sure that’'s Dolly? Her earth body looks pretty worn out.”"