He continued. “There’s a tea set in the back wrapped up in a box. I want you to look at it and verify if it was the one in the hutch.”
“Okay.” I followed him into the office thinking this whole thing was seeming stranger by the minute.
“Jane only had one employee, her sister-in-law, Margie,” he said as we made our way toward a large metal desk that was stacked with paperwork. “We interviewed her earlier and she can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt Jane. I had Margie look over the store’s inventory, but I’m not sure how reliable she was. You know, with being upset and all.”
I nodded. “I’m sure this must be a shock to her.”
“Yeah. Anyway, she said she didn’t notice anything missing. After checking out this tea set, I want you to take a look. See if you see anything else out of place since yesterday.”
“Okay, but Shep actually runs a business like this. He might have taken more notice of Jane’s inventory and how her shop is set up. I’m sure he’d be a big help.” I was testing the waters. Sean’s attitude was making me nervous. I’d known him for a long time and could tell when he was onto something, or in this case, thought he was onto something. There was absolutely no way Shep was involved in Jane Reynold’s murder. “In fact, maybe I’ll just give him a quick call,” I added, reaching into my bag for my cell.
I didn’t even push the first number before his hand reached over and snapped my phone shut. “No need, we’ve already tried to contact him.”
“Tried? What do you mean? Can’t you reach him?”
He shrugged off my questions, pulling a box from under Jane’s desk. The top of the box was marked with Shep’s name. “Is this it?” Sean asked, opening it.
I set my purse down and gently lifted one of the green jadeite tea cups, the same design Shep admired the day before. I nodded slowly, the uneasy feeling in my stomach growing. “I know what you’re getting at, but there’s no way Shep had anything to do with murder. How could you even think that, Sean? We use to hang out together.”
He turned his gaze away, his jaw muscles tight with tension. “Like I was saying, we need you to look around the scene and see if you notice anything else missing from her inventory.” He started fidgeting with the hem of his suit, which I noticed was a designer label, definitely a step up from his usual sales rack pick. “Spend some time checking out the store and see what you come up with. Don’t worry about disturbing anything; the crime techs are finished. Everything’s been photographed and dusted.”
I rolled my eyes around the room and nodded.
“By the way,” he continued. “Do you know if Shep owns a gun?
“What! No, Shep doesn’t own a gun!” At least I didn’t think he did. I’d never thought to ask him.
Sean held up his hand. “Take an easy. I just thought maybe he kept one in his shop for security reasons.” He turned and started walking away. “Let me know if you find anything. I’ll have Officer Wagoner drive you back when you’re done,” he added over his shoulder.
I stared after him in disbelief. In all the years I’d known him, Sean had always put a high value on friendship. It wasn’t like him to so easily doubt a friend, let alone suspect a friend of something as brutal as murder. One thing was for sure, more than just Sean’s haircut and wardrobe had changed since I’d last seen him and I knew exactly who to blame … Sarah Maloney.
As soon as he was out of sight, I dialed Shep’s cell number. No matter what Sean said, I knew there was a perfectly logical explanation for all this. Getting Shep’s voice mail, I hung up and dialed his business number at the Retro Metro. A diligent employee politely refused to divulge his whereabouts but promised to give him my message. For good measure, I redialed his private home number and left a message there, too.
A few moments later, I was still standing there, trying to decide what to do, when one of the officers approached and reiterated Sean’s permission to move about freely. I obeyed, feeling a little conspicuous as I tiptoed through the store trying to look like I knew what I was doing. For the next half hour or so, I meandered around the racks and past displays of accessories and purses. The only thing that caught my eye was a couple of gorgeous designer handbags that were in perfect shape and priced ridiculously low. I must have missed them the day before. If only circumstances were different, I’d snatch these up and turn them around for a neat profit.
“Have you found something?” Officer Wagoner asked.
I replaced one of the purses I had in hand. “No, not really. I probably wouldn’t be able to tell if something was missing. I’m not really familiar with her inventory.”
“I understand. Just take your time. No hurry. I’ll be ready when you are,” she replied with a nod, her perky pony tail bouncing with her head. That, along with her tiny frame and petite voice, made me wonder how efficient she’d be as a street cop. Of course, I’d learned the hard way that looks could be deceiving. It was only last year that I had fallen for a sizzling hot guy who seemed quite normal until the day he held a gun to my head. Funny how easy it is to misjudge a person.
I sighed and roamed around for another twenty minutes before conceding defeat. “I’m ready to go now,” I told Officer Wagoner. “I’m sorry but I didn’t find anything. Just let me grab my bag. I left it in the office.”
I made my way to the office and was about to shoulder my purse when I decided to take a quick look through some of the shopping bags lying around the desk. More than likely, these were full of recently received items for consignment.
The first couple I untied revealed a tangled mess of ladies clothing. A tag on the outside was marked Sokolov. Well, whoever Ms. Sokolov was, she’d not taken good care of packing her clothes. Usually, consigners get the best deal if they take the time to properly launder and prepare their clothing before trying to sell it. I pulled out and checked over a few items; they were wrinkled, but in good shape with expensive labels. Too bad she hadn’t bothered to iron them. Fair or not, the wrinkles would probably depreciate their resale value.
Rummaging around, I found a couple of other boxes containing shoes, size eight, and all in nice condition. I took note of the quality, estimating that the cheapest pair would probably retail for two hundred bucks.
I had just started going through another bag when Officer Wagoner yelled, “Everything okay back here?”
“Yup. I’m ready,” I replied, reclosing the bag and standing to leave. Before walking away though, my eyes slid back to the brown packaged box with the tea set. A bad feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.
Chapter 3
This time, on the ride home, I chose the front seat, which was enough of a thrill to momentarily shake any leftover uneasy feelings from the crime scene. After all, I hadn’t sat in the front seat of a police cruiser since Community Hero Week in elementary school when my second grade class was invited to tour the police station. I’ll never forget that field trip. My teacher must have assigned me to an errant parent chaperone, because somehow I escaped from my group and found my way into an open police cruiser. Having been one of those kids that had to touch everything, the first thing I did was hit the siren button. I can still recall how awesome the shrill screams of the siren sounded as they echoed off the concrete walls of the police parking garage.
“So you have a second-hand store, too?” Officer Wagoner asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“No, nothing like The Classy Closet, just a huge on-line store.”
“An on-line store? Can you make money doing that?”
“I manage. I also have a regular booth at the Third Saturday Flea Market,” I added.
“Cool. Sounds like fun.”
I shrugged. “It’s better than my old job, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, yeah? What was that?”
“I was an investment banker.”
“Really?”
I let the surprise; no make that the shock, in her voice roll off me. I was used to getting that reaction from people when I told them about my past
life. It was as if they just couldn’t believe I’d traded the lucrative, respectable job of investment banking for my current career, which in my opinion, was still respectable, just not as lucrative. Or perhaps her analytical cop mind was secretly wondering if I became caught up in some sort of insider trading scam and was forced to leave my old career.
“Some of the guys were saying you broke a case last year,” she said, changing the subject. “The Amanda Schmidt murder.”
I sat up a little straighter. “Well…I wouldn’t say that I broke the case. I…well…I did find the murder weapon.”
“That’s what I heard. Guess you used to date Panelli?” she prodded.
I sighed. “Yeah, used to.”
“Panelli’s a good cop. He’s got a good reputation.”
“I’m sure he does. He’s dating a lawyer now, Sarah Maloney,” I stated with a sideways glance.
“That’s right,” she replied, focused on the road.
I gave her the once over, wondering if I could trust her. “He seemed different today.” I squirmed in my seat. “I mean, he’s changed.”
“Changed, huh? How’s that?”
I struggled with my reply, wishing I hadn’t brought up the subject. “I don’t know. It probably sounds weird that I’m talking about it.”
“No, not at all. I think I know what you’re trying to say.”
“You do?”
“I’ll tell you something,” she said. “It’s just woman to woman though, you can’t repeat it ‘cause it could get me into trouble, know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sure.” I was hanging on her every word.
“I think Sarah Maloney is a little strange.”
“Strange? Sarah Maloney? She’s one of the most respected attorneys in town. She’s gorgeous, smart and probably rich.”
She squinted my way for a second. “You sound like the president of her fan club or something.”
“No. Not at all. I can see why he would fall for her, that’s all.”
We were pulling into the alley behind my apartment. Wagoner put the gear in park and turned toward me. “She calls him a lot, like maybe fifteen times a day. At least that’s what I hear. I also see her at the precinct all the time.”
“She is a criminal defense lawyer.”
“No, she’s not always there on business. She’s checking up on Panelli. It’s starting to cause trouble, too. Everyone’s getting sick of it.”
“Really?” I was trying to keep the delight out of my voice.
“Really. So, if you think he’s changed, that’s probably the reason. Sarah Maloney is driving him crazy,” she added with a mischievous little wink.
I did a double take, not sure if I heard her correctly. I hoped I had. I’d like nothing more than to have a second chance with Sean.
*
Inside my apartment, I tore off the too-tight blazer, kicked my way through a few laundry piles and flopped on the sofa. What I needed was a nap. However, I no sooner began to close my eyes when my cell rang. I scrambled to retrieve the phone from the blazer’s pocket, but shouldn’t have bothered—it was Cherry.
“You hung up on me earlier. That’s no way for a maid of honor to act.”
“Sorry. But technically I’m just a fill-in.”
“Uh, huh. Well, I didn’t get a chance to tell you about your fitting.”
“Fitting?”
“Yes, in case the dress needs to be altered. You’ll need to go in today.”
“I can’t. It’ll have to wait a couple of days.”
She muttered something I couldn’t quite understand. “You’ll have to go today. The wedding’s in less than two weeks.”
“All right, fine. It’ll have to be tomorrow, though.” I was using my spare hand to open my kitchen cupboard. I rummaged past packages of chocolate cookies, a bottle of wine, a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese, and some miniature candy bars, finally settling on the cookies.
“Are you really going to go tomorrow?”
“Sure. No problem.” I popped a cookie in my mouth and reached back in for the wine bottle. “What size is Willow? Maybe I won’t need to have it altered.”
“She’s a six.”
A six! I shoved the cookies aside. “I’ll go first thing in the morning.”
“Good. It’s at Brenda’s Bridal Boutique. Call me if there’s any problem.”
A problem, I thought, hanging up. A problem? Well, let’s see… I didn’t want to be in this stupid wedding, I looked horrible in orange, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to squeeze my behind into a size six dress.
I popped the cork and rifled through the cabinet for a clean glass. Finding a stadium cup tucked in the back, I filled it to the brim and snatched the cookies off the counter. I knew I shouldn’t, but my stress level was on overdrive.
Settling on the sofa, I crunched my way through half the bag and surfed channels until I found a Matlock rerun. Well…at least something good had come of the day. Munchies, Merlot, and Matlock—the three M’s; a magic combination almost as good as the three S’s—Sugar, Shopping, and Sex. Not that I’d hit on all three of the S’s in a long time.
*
The next morning, I awoke to someone pounding on my door. I reluctantly rolled off the sofa, brushed off some cookie crumbs, maneuvered around a couple stacks of boxes, and reached the door just as the bellowing started, “Phillipena, answer this door!”
I braced myself before opening. “Hi, Mom.”
As usual, my mother was impeccably dressed in a light grey pinstriped suit unbuttoned to reveal a cobalt blue blouse and her signature pearls. I had to hand it to her: she knew how to set off her best features—her intense blue eyes and her knock-out figure. I didn’t inherit her talent for fashion or her figure.
“I’m here to take you to the bridal shop,” she said, offering a small hug before breezing by me. “Your Aunt Maeve called last night. She said Cherry was in a tizzy, worried you weren’t going to get your fitting. She doesn’t think you’re taking your bridesmaid responsibilities seriously.”
I watched as mom circled my apartment, her heels clicking against the wood planks. She seemed to be checking out my current acquisitions. “Have you been busy, dear?” she asked.
“Not really,” I admitted. “Curbside acquisitions are down. Probably due to the economy, people just aren’t discarding like they used to. On the plus side, consignment stores are being bombarded with merchandise and in response are reducing the mark-up on resale items.”
Even to me, that spiel sounded like something out of the mouth of the current Chairman of the Federal Reserve. For some reason, I always felt like I needed to glamorize my profession, especially to my mother. Although she always says she’s proud of me, I know that both she and Dad wished I would get a normal, respectable job. Something like my old position at Global Financial Trading, Inc. Back then I drove a Lexus and wore expensive suits. I dined at five-star restaurants and shopped the Mag Mile. I had a brownstone apartment two blocks from Wrigley that made even the most expensive furniture store showroom look like a candidate for a HGTV makeover. Although, what I had the most of was stress—major stress accompanied by high blood pressure and an extra twenty pounds around the hips. Hard telling where I’d be today if I hadn’t decided to leave the corporate world and pursue a career in used merchandising.
Unlike me, my mother could easily handle the pressure of a successful, demanding career. Not only did she raise us five girls, she obtained her real estate broker license, opened shop and climbed to the top. Everyone knew Maureen O’Brien—her face was plastered on real estate signs all over the city.
Of course, she had lots of help from my father. My mother and father were like Yin and Yang: two opposites which fit together and formed one great team. Mom was the bread-winner, while Dad, more of the quiet, intellectual type, tended to the everyday tasks of running a family. When he wasn’t working as a part-time librarian at Community Union library, he was busy making dinner, washing clothes, and d
oing the grocery shopping. My father was one of the original “Mr. Moms”—and he was good at it.
“I presume you’re going to put on some makeup and change into something decent before we go.” Mom was browsing through a bag of clothing I’d bought at rock bottom prices from a garage sale in an upscale Lisle neighborhood. “Hey, there are some nice pieces in here,” she said, holding up a scoop-necked blouse.
“Do you want that?”
“Oh thanks, dear. But it’s really not my color.” She stuffed it back into the bag and crossed over to my personal closet. “You go get cleaned up and I’ll find something for you to wear. I have a showing at one o’clock, but maybe we can squeeze in lunch after the fitting. Go on…get moving!”
I obeyed and scurried into the bathroom. I rinsed, brushed, and swiped on some makeup as quickly as I could, all the while wondering what my mother was going to come up with for me to wear. My wardrobe was limited.
“Mom! What are you doing?” I hit panic mode when I saw her rummaging through the plastic bins stacked on kitchen counter. “That’s stuff I’m getting ready to list!”
“I know, but the only things I found in your closet were jeans and T-shirts. Oh … look at this!”
She’d pulled out a pretty floral skirt and a coordinating button-down blouse.
“This is perfect, don’t you think? It looks like your size, too,” she said, obviously proud of her efforts.
“I can’t wear that blouse.” I pointed to the tags that dangled from the lapel. “I have to sell it NWT.”
“NWT?”
“New with tags. It’s worth more that way.”
“Where are the scissors?”
“What?” I watched as she carried the blouse across the room to my coffee table, where I package boxes for shipping, and found a pair of scissors. With a swift sinister snip, she removed the tag and depreciated twenty-five percent of the garment’s resale value.
My jaw dropped. “Mom! That’s going to cost me about ten bucks!”
“Oh, relax. I said I’d buy lunch, didn’t I? Now put this on and let’s get going. Time’s wasting.”
2 Murder on Consignment Page 2
