“We do those all the time. Why?”
“Do you keep records?”
“Yup,” he answered, moving to the office doorway and pointing toward a three-drawer file cabinet. “Bottom drawer. Unless it’s not filed yet; then it would be somewhere on Shep’s desk. We file the receipts and then enter the items on a spread-sheet on the computer. The receipts aren’t really detailed. Just the amount of the purchase and a general description of what was bought. We don’t put everything on the spread-sheet, either. There’s not enough time. Sometimes we bring in a whole truck of stuff from those sales.”
I pulled out another drawer. “No problem. I just need some general information.” I’d found the drawer with files and started leafing through, eager to find one marked Sokolov. There wasn’t any.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Owen asked.
“An inventory for a sale from the Sokolov estate.”
“That sounds familiar. I think we did buy from that estate.”
“Where would the receipt be?”
“In the file cabinet, probably.”
I sighed. If the killer was trying to cover his tracks, it would only make sense that he had removed the receipt. I started rummaging through a few piles on the desk, just in case it hadn’t made its way to the file cabinet.
“Have you received any unusual books lately? Books in a different language?”
He shrugged. “We get tons of those. Oh, you know Pauline did find something in a book yesterday morning.”
My head snapped up. “What?”
“An envelope.”
“An envelope? What was in it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. We were busy.”
“You didn’t see her open it?”
“No, but I’m sure she did. We’re always finding things like that in books or inside sofa cushions. If it’s something valuable, we try to find the owner.”
“Did Pauline try to find the owner?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think much about it.”
Owen was starting to get upset. “You think it has something to do with her death?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Can you remember what book she found it in?”
His eyes grew wide. “I don’t know. There were so many.”
“Okay. Don’t worry about it.” I tried to calm the panic rising in his voice.
“Were you here when the police looked around?”
“Yeah, Shep called and asked me to come down and answer their questions.”
I looked around. “So, did they take anything for evidence?”
“Just Shep’s laptop. They said they would have it back to us by early next week.”
My eyes immediately moved to the empty spot on Shep’s desk. So much for my powers of observation; I hadn’t even noticed his laptop was missing.
I restacked a few of the paperwork piles I’d shuffled through. The Sokolov receipt wasn’t on the desk and there was no sign of the mysterious envelop Pauline had found. “Did you happen to notice if the cops took any envelopes or papers of any sort?” I asked in vain. I already knew whoever murdered Pauline was after that envelope, and it was long gone.
I opened my cell and found it was too low on charge to make a call, so I picked up the phone on Shep’s desk and dialed Sean. He answered on the first ring.
“Sean, this is Pippi. Can you find out if the Westmont police found an envelope or a bill of sale from A to Z at the scene of Pauline’s murder?”
I glanced up as Owen motioned that he was going to be in the next room.
“Why?” Sean asked.
“Well, a kid that works here said that Pauline found an envelope in one of the books they bought from an estate sale. I can’t find it here. I also can’t find a receipt for a purchase that they possibly made at A to Z Estate Sales for the Sokolov estate. I thought maybe the cops took it for evidence.”
Silence.
I took a couple of deep breaths. “Sean? Could you check into it for me? Please.”
“Sure,” he sighed. I was testing his patience.
“Did you happen to find out anything at A to Z sales?” I asked, pushing it a little further.
“I sent a couple of guys over there, but they didn’t get much.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Charlie denied that a woman paid him a thousand dollars for the Sokolov file.”
“Chuck said that? He’s lying. Does he have security cameras in the place? Maybe you could review the tapes and see if the lady is on video.”
“Nope, no security cameras. Just a hard-wired alarm system.”
Sean’s answers were so short and curt, I wondered if maybe he wasn’t alone. “Did they search the place?”
“You know no judge would give us a warrant based on assumptions.”
What he meant was my assumptions. I bit my tongue.
The line grew silent. In the background, I could hear a female voice. I had assumed correctly. He wasn’t alone; he was with Sarah. Great. “Well, guess I’ll go. I’ve got a lot to do,” I said curtly.
I hung up and took a second to collect myself before setting out to search for Owen. I found him restocking bags under the cash register.
“Hey, Owen. I’m leaving now. Do you want to walk out with me?” He readily agreed. Neither one of us wanted to be alone in the Retro Metro.
I felt overwhelmed with sadness as I watched Owen lock the doors. The Retro Metro had always been my retreat from the world. Now, after Pauline’s death and Shep’s illness, it would never be the same.
I stopped off at a gas station, filled my tank and grabbed a quick snack, before heading back toward the suburb of Lisle. Taking Seventy-Fifth Street, I worked my way west until I found the Farrell's’ main residence on Hobson Road.
My eyes were easily distracted by the scenery as I struggled to find the correct house number. I didn’t often venture to this pocket of the Lisle. It was like a whole different world—white fenced acreage, large horse barns, and opulent residences with guarded gates.
Then I saw James Farrell’s house. Wow! Nestled on probably four acres of land, at the end of a windy, tree-lined drive, was a stately stone English manor which could easily be ten thousand square feet of living space. The house was situated on a small rise with manicured gardens and an impressive matching stone stable and a white-fenced pasture. Everything about the property said civilized taste and abundant wealth. Hotdogs had definitely been good to James Farrell.
Despite strange looks from the gate guard, I lingered across the road for a few minutes, admiring the grand home and trying to get a feel for the family that lived there. What type of secrets were the Ferrells keeping; and were their secrets dark enough to kill for?
I pulled away from the curb and drove on, my mind racing with even more questions. I knew James Farrell was an adulterer; could he be a murderer, too? Who was the rich-looking woman that paid Chuck a thousand dollars to look at the Sokolov estate file, one of the Farrell women or just someone hired by James Farrell? What was in the envelope Pauline found? Perhaps, most importantly, how was I going to get close enough to James Farrell to find the answers to my questions? What I needed was a connection and if my instincts were correct, I knew just where to start.
Chapter 11
The St. Benedict campus is usually an orderly place; today it was pure chaos. People were everywhere and the circular drive in front of the main building was jammed with cars. For a lack of a better spot, I parked my Volvo down the road in front of the gates to the campus cemetery. With its black iron fencing and the bare tree branches stretching against the cold sky, the cemetery’s menacing appearance seemed to match my own dark mood.
The sky was darkly threatening rain and the cold October wind was blowing in from the northwest, causing the last few dangling leaves to swirl to the ground. I hoofed it toward the monastery’s entrance, weaving in and out of people, trying to reach the front steps.
I made my way through the front doors, waved to Sister Eile
en who was working the front desk, bypassed the elevator and took the old marble steps to the second floor. My sister’s office was just down the hall past the chapel’s entrance. I gave a little polite knock before cracking open the door. “Mary Frances?” I called out.
“Pippi!” My sister squealed and jumped up from her desk, sending her chair on wheels flying across the room. She engulfed me in a giant bear hug, her dangling cross earrings flashing and her shoulder length hair smelling a lot like coconuts.
“What’s going on downstairs?” I asked after we settled into chairs. She offered me a bottled water from a dorm-size fridge in the corner of her office. Her desk was cluttered with scraps of paper and yellow post-its.
“Oh, that’s Sister Veronica’s family and friends. After Vespers, there’s going to be a jubilee celebration.” My sister beamed as she spoke. “Can you imagine celebrating fifty years of service? What a joyful occasion!”
“That is wonderful,” I reiterated, trying to match her enthusiasm. The truth was I couldn’t imagine fifty years of anything, let alone celibacy. Obviously, consistency wasn’t my strong point. I couldn’t even keep a job, a boyfriend, a diet routine, not to mention a balance in my checking account.
“What are you working on?” I asked, trying to be polite. I hadn’t visited for a while and felt like a jerk for popping in to ask a favor.
Mary Frances shoved a pile of papers out of the way and leaned forward on her desk. “Our monthly newsletter. I must keep the public informed, you know?” She leaned back in her chair and regarded me seriously. “What brings you here, Sis? I haven’t seen you for a while. Everything okay at home?”
“Everything’s fine,” I reassured her. “Yeah, we haven’t got together for a while, have we? Sorry, guess I’ve just—”
“Oh, it’s not your fault. I’ve been busy, too,” she said, waving off my apology. “Time flies, doesn’t it? Thank goodness for on-line social networking, or I would have lost touch with everyone by now.” One of Mary Frances’s duties, and probably the most suited to her vivacious personality, was to serve as a public liaison for the convent. She coordinated special masses, prayer intentions, a monthly newsletter on monastery life, and several outreach ministries. She’d even ventured into social media and knew more about the popular sites than most teenagers. I often envied my sister. She always seems so happy. Which seemed strange to me, considering there was no hope of marriage, kids, or for that matter, sex in her future.
“I actually came by to ask a favor,” I said.
She sat forward again. “Sure, of course. What’s up?” She fiddled with a pen, twirling it between her fingers like a baton before finally tucking it behind her ear. Her auburn hair, loose and layered, fell attractively against her bare face, making her look much younger than her thirty-something years. Today, she was wearing khakis and a Mt. Carmel hooded sweatshirt.
“Do you remember that game we used to play when we were kids? The Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon?”
“Oh my, I haven’t thought of Kevin Bacon in years. I had a poster of him from Footloose over my bed. I used to be a pro at the Six Degree game. Let’s see, Harrison Ford, he was one of my favorites, especially in Indiana Jones. Well, Harrison was in Working Girl with Sigourney Weaver who was in Aliens with Bill Paxt—”
I threw up my hands. “Stop!” I laughed. “I was actually hoping we could play it with James Farrell instead of Kevin Bacon.”
“James Farrell? As in JimDogs?”
“Yup. That’s the one.”
“The Farrells are big donors to our convent,” she commented.
I had hoped as much. They didn’t live far from St. Benedict, and Farrell was, after all, an Irish Catholic name. My sister continued, “Why do you want to know about James Farrell?”
“Oh, come on, Sis. How many degrees?”
“You’re not messing around in police business again, are you?” My sister had a way of cutting to the chase.
“No. I’m just checking into something for a friend.”
“What do you think the Farrells have done?”
“There’s been a couple of murders. Their name keeps coming up.” I stood, shoved my hands into my pocket, and moved toward a small window above the heat register. Outside people were collected in small groups and milling around the fountain. “I need to find out some things. Things I can only find out if I get close to the family. I was hoping you could help me.”
“I doubt the Farrells would be involved in murder, Pippi. They’re a well-respected family. What would be their motive?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I need to find out.” I held up my hand before she could get started again. “For the record, I’m doing this for my friend, Shep. A girl at his shop was murdered. Shep’s sick, Mary Frances. Really sick. He asked me to do this.”
She took a deep breath but didn’t respond. Instead, she sat silently for a minute, seemingly contemplating her next move. Or, maybe praying, I wasn’t sure.
“Two,” she finally said, with a wicked little grin.
“Two?”
“Two degrees. I’m only two degrees away from James Farrell. I’m currently spearheading a garage sale to benefit the Daily Transitional House for Women and serving on the committee with me is Patricia Farrell, wife of James Farrell. So, there you have it, two degrees. Can you top that?”
I crossed the room and hugged her. “That’s great! Can you introduce us?”
“Better than that. Welcome to the committee, Sis. Hope you’re ready to roll up your sleeves and do some serious work. The homeless women of our community are counting on you. All the volunteers are meeting at two o’clock tomorrow at the Farrell’s residence. We’re going to discuss plans for the sale over tea.”
I hugged her again, practically gushing with joy. “You’re not going to mention this to Mom and Dad, right?” I asked with trepidation, almost afraid to test my luck.
“Not unless you’re putting yourself in danger, which you won’t be, right?”
“Right.”
She stood, glancing at the wall clock. “I need to change for Vespers.”
“No problem. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, following her to the door.
“One good thing about this,” she added. “We’ll get to spend some more time together.” She squeezed my arm.
We hugged one more time before I started the trek back to my car. As I walked, an idea struck me. If Owen had noticed the ‘book lady’ and the ‘rich man’ in the Retro the day Pauline was killed, maybe these same shoppers were at The Classy Closet the day Jane was killed. A long shot, but it was worth checking into.
*
The next afternoon, as I began to get ready for the tea at the Farrell’s, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was just fate that Mary Frances knew Patricia Farrell or divine intervention. Whichever it was, I’d caught a huge break. All I needed now was something perfect to wear.
What did one wear to tea? An image of white gloves and parasols popped into my mind; but that was so Victorian. What I really needed was something classy. I could just imagine a table full of well-coiffed socialites wearing navy wool trousers, coordinating sweater sets, and strands of pearls. Boy, would my mother fit in there. Problem was, I was more of the jean and sweatshirt type.
I tore through my closet and then moved to my on-line auction bins. Nothing. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? I really only had a half-hour to pull something together. I always was a procrastinator. I should have listened to Mrs. Beeman, my fifth grade teacher. What was it she always said? Don’t put off for tomorrow what you can do today. Well, I obviously didn’t heed her advice because, over the years, my personal motto had evolved to: Put it off today, so you can freak about it tomorrow.
I continued to rip through bins of clothes creating another disaster on top of the disaster I already had. Even with all my efforts, all I came up with was a funky blue and brown polyester scarf printed with tiny white flowers.
Then it dawned on me; my Prudence Overton
outfit might work. I scurried across my apartment and threw open a closet where I kept a stackable washer and dryer. There it was, waded up on the floor. I shook it out and sniffed the fabric. Not too bad, except for a few wrinkles, it would do.
Checking the clock, I wiggled out of my sweats and back into the long wool skirt and high-buttoned blouse, double checking to make sure my behind was completely covered this time. I did a mental chuckle thinking of the reaction my bare bottom would cause at a ladies’ tea.
I retrieved the black pumps from under the coffee table and slipped into them on my way to the bathroom. My hair actually didn’t look too bad. The humidity must have been low, because usually by that time of day I looked like a frizz queen. I pulled my locks into a jeweled clip and covered a zit that was emerging on my chin. A quick smudge of lip-gloss and I was ready to go.
I leaned into the mirror for one final inspection and decided that I needed a little something extra. Hmm…what?
Looking at the clock, I cursed again. I needed to hit the road. As it was, I was going to be fashionably late. In a last ditch effort, I grabbed the flower-printed scarf off the back of the sofa and slipped it around my neck. I nodded one more time at my reflection. The scarf added that little extra something. Now I was ready.
Thankfully, traffic was moving right along. I was only ten minutes behind schedule when I finally reached the Farrell’s.
The gate guard, a round-faced, pot-bellied man with a gray handle-bar moustache, gave me a nasty once-over, checked his list three times and radioed the house for verification before pushing the button which allowed the iron gates to swing open for my admittance. I shot him my best indignant look as I jammed my Volvo into gear and peeled out; my tires squealing sharply as they burned asphalt and sent a plume of rubber fumes into the air.
As soon as I neared the house, I spied Mary Frances waiting for me in the driveway. She was standing against the bumper of her 1970’s baby blue Volkswagen bug and waving cheerfully in my direction.
I parked and went to join her. We walked together toward a large stone porch covered in pots of bright yellow and orange chrysanthemums.
2 Murder on Consignment Page 8
