by Chassie West
Someone had to have seen her. But I wasn’t sure there was any urgency to confirm that now. She’d obviously followed someone in. Any resident entering the building would assume she was one of the decorating crowd, or perhaps she had said as much. And she could have stepped outside to use a cell phone and call the police, then simply walk away—or more likely stand on the corner and watch the excitement. It made sense. I could tell Neva not to bother trying to find out whose bathroom Nell Gwynn had used.
She was waiting for me, snatching her door open before I’d barely finished the first knock. “Was she there? Did you catch the bitch?” Good old Neva, harboring no compunction about labeling the woman precisely what I longed to.
“No such luck. But it explains a few things.” I laid out my thinking about the prank call to the police. “The only snag is the timing of the earlier incident, the call about Duck’s bogus accident. Why do it if she knew I wasn’t here to answer the phone?”
“Maybe she didn’t. She might have gotten out there after you’d left.”
“She’d have seen that my car was gone,” I argued. “And that paint job proves she knows it when she sees it.”
“So what?” Neva lowered herself onto her sofa. “How often do you manage to find a parking space out front? Your car could be anywhere, around the corner on one of the side streets. And don’t forget, Mr. Jolly and Libby Winston have cars just like yours. If she saw one of them, she mighta thought it was yours and you were home.”
I suspected that Ms. X probably had my tag numbers tattooed on her butt and could pick out my car in a lot of a hundred, but didn’t bother to say so. I had to confirm my initial suspicions about something first.
There are definite advantages to having worked for the city. I knew where to call. After several minutes on hold, and one surly “Why do you want to know?” I had the proof I needed.
“Whoever the hell she is,” I informed Neva, “she’s not doing a traffic survey, so don’t hold your breath waiting for any new left-turn signals.”
“Shit.” Her lips pursed in a pout. Then she sat up. “Hey, what do I care? We don’t have a car. So now what?”
I let the question simmer for a while before answering. “If she’s been out on that corner for any length of time, it’s a cinch she talked to other people. As much fuss as Roland makes about the homeless loitering in front of his dry cleaners, I bet he went out to ask her what she was doing. If she was smart, and, as much as I hate to admit it, she is, she might even have gotten friendly with him and his help so she could step out of the wind occasionally.”
“Or use the john.”
“Good point,” I said, making for the door. “Only one way to find out.”
Roland Roundtree had new teeth and flashed them at me as I approached the counter. “Ms. Warren! Haven’t seen you in a while.” He frowned. “We don’t have anything of yours, do we? You picked up your trench coat. I remember distinctly.”
“No, thanks to you, all my winter clothes are clean as a whistle. I came in to say good-bye. I’ve moved in with my fiancé. He lives in Southwest.”
“Aww, we’ll miss you.” He seemed genuinely aggrieved. “You’ve been a good customer. I really appreciate your business all these years.”
“You earned it. While I’m here,” I said, hoping I sounded a lot more casual than I felt, “I wanted to ask you about the woman who’s been doing the traffic survey.”
“Miss Bernard? What about her?” He stopped, his mouth dropping open. “I’ll be jiggered! That’s who she reminded me of. You! Are y’all related?”
“Could be,” I fibbed. “I just recently discovered a whole wing of my family in the area. Neva mentioned she resembled me, so I’m hoping to track her down and find out if she’s one of the cousins I haven’t met yet. Did she give you a first name?”
“She probably did,” he said, “but I don’t remember it. A cousin. Isn’t that something? She was nice as she could be, even ran over to Fred’s a couple of times to get coffee for me and Geneva. We even let her use our . . . uh, facility once, if you know what I mean.”
Neva would be pleased to hear she’d been right on target.
“Can you think of anything else about her that might be helpful? Did she sound local or from somewhere else? Did you ever see her car?”
“No, sorry. Never saw a car, and she talked like everybody else hereabouts. Wish I could help.”
“You have. You gave me her name, which is more than I had when I came in.”
“I’d ask Geneva about her first name, but she just left for the other store. Hey, maybe the lady preacher can help you. Not that I saw them talking or anything. This corner was Miss Bernard’s and the preacher staked her claim on the other three but maybe they came to some sort of agreement, know what I’m saying?”
A customer came in loaded down with a pair of comforters, so I took advantage of it, said good-bye, and left to check with the folks in Fred’s Grill and the liquor store. They’d served her coffee but nothing else, and she had never introduced herself, as far as they remembered.
“Maybe she’s a vegetarian,” Fred’s sister said, and shook her head at the thought.
Yeah, and a teetotaler, I thought grumpily. I scanned the block as I left but saw no sign of the Reverend Hansberry. Perhaps she’d moved on to a neighborhood with more generous residents.
I was waiting to cross at the light when a young woman rounded the corner opposite me and my brain yelled, “Hello!”
She wore a black ankle-length coat with a hood and bright red boots with platform heels. What captured my attention, however, was her hair, a long, straight ponytail anchored atop her head and cascading in a dark fall damned near to her waist. Remembering the description Mrs. Williams had given me of the teenager, I took off running, to hell with the light.
She was nearing the walkway of my building when I reached her. Coming up behind her, I tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, is your name Georgia Keith?”
Startled, she turned quickly and stared at me. Her eyes, intensely black and almond shaped, suggested a touch of Asia or perhaps Polynesia. “Uh, yes, ma’am. I’m Georgia. Do I know you?” She had a little-girl voice, soft, filled with shyness and southern fried chicken.
“No, we haven’t met. I’m Leigh Warren. Do you mind if I ask if you were in that building Monday, helping to decorate the Christmas tree?”
She flinched. “Oh, Lord. Yes, ma’am, and I’m sorry, I really am. I know the sign on the door says ‘No Soliciting’ but this lady was goin’ in and had her arms full and didn’t realize that some of her Christmas stuff was about to spill out of one of her shopping bags. I asked if I couldn’t help her carry something and I did and when another lady in the lobby came and opened the door for her, I went in with her. Then when I saw the tree and everybody having fun and all, I, like, decided the magazines I was selling could wait and I sorta joined in. I never asked anyone if they wanted a subscription, honest. So I wasn’t really soliciting.”
I could swear she hadn’t taken a breath once, it came at me so fast. She watched me, a plea written across her face. Obviously she’d caught hell from building managers before.
“Don’t worry, I have no interest in lodging a complaint or anything. How long were you in there?”
Her shoulders hunched. “A couple of hours, maybe. Why?”
“Were you there when the police arrived?”
Her mouth and eyes went round with panic. “Somebody called the police on me?”
“No, Georgia. It was about something else. So you weren’t there?”
“No, ma’am. Lord, if I had been, I’d have wet my pants.”
I had to smile, since I’d been in danger of doing the same thing back there for a moment or two.
“Okay, one last thing and I’ll let you go. Do you remember seeing this woman while you were there?” I held up the photos.
She leaned forward, frowning as she looked from one to the other. “No, ma’am. Of course, there was a lot of c
omin’ and goin’ but I don’t remember her.”
Shit. “Well, thanks,” I said, sliding them back into my pocket. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. To tell the truth,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning down, “I hate this job. Come Christmas, these people can take it and shove it. In fact, I’ve had enough doors slammed in my face today. I’m going home. It was nice meeting you.”
“Same here. Be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure will.” She smiled, turned, and wobbled back the way she’d come, none too steady on those ridiculous heels.
Well, scratch Georgia Keith. I’d always considered her a loose end to begin with, so it was a relief to be able to weave her into the fabric of that awful day.
It was time to round up Clarissa, which turned out to be quite a chore. In my absence, she and Gracie had become bosom buddies, and I could swear I detected a hint of Jim Beam on her breath. I had to promise to bring her again before Gracie would let either of us leave.
“I can’t thank you enough for introducing us,” Clarissa bubbled, once we were back in the Corvette. “You can take me home now. Gracie was like a dose of tonic, she cheered me up so. All that lovely artwork. She’s invited me to join her still-life class.”
“Good idea,” I managed to squeeze in.
“I used to paint when I was younger. I wasn’t very good but I was painting to feed my soul, not my wallet—which is just as well or I’d have starved to death long since. I’m going to enroll in her class, did I tell you?”
Yes, definitely Jim Beam. I let her chatter on. There was no reason to stop her, even though I had more than enough to think about and could have used the silence.
I dropped her at her house, allowing her to talk me out of parking and walking her to her door, since she seemed steady enough on her feet.
“I’m fine, now, honestly, dear. I can face that mob, out-smile every one of them and almost mean it. You will keep in touch, won’t you, Leigh?”
“You can count on it. And not just because of the unfinished business with your sister. You’ll let me know about the memorial service?”
Her glowing face dimmed, but just for a second. “Of course. Drive carefully, now.” She waggled her fingers in farewell, then marched up the steps from the sidewalk to her yard. She waggled again from there, mounted her front steps, and disappeared inside.
I did a repeat of the maneuver I’d used while she’d gotten the tears out of her system, driving to the end of the block and pulling over. I had to take stock, check my list, decide what to do next.
Bernard. The name didn’t ring any bells. My initial excitement faded. She had probably lied about it, given Roland her dog’s name, or something. Back to the list. Post office, Plato’s, the Ourland police station. The last would have to wait until tomorrow. I could see the aunts about the wedding dress and kill two birds with one stone. Bile surged for a moment. I had done a good job of talking myself into liking that Bridal Bower suit. I wanted my damned suit!
You’re old enough not to let your wants hurt you, Nunna’s voice whispered in my ear. Take care of the things you can do something about, and forget the rest.
Well, hell, I mused. That was the problem. At this point, there wasn’t much I could do about anything. Except see Plato dePriest, my hacker genius, a consultant now to unnamed government agencies, charged with trying to break into as many of their shielded Web sites and databases as he could. They’d used good sense, for once, opting to put him on the payroll for doing what he’d been doing just for fun—invading their files and leaving his e-mail address, in case they had any questions about how he’d done it. Suffice it to say, Plato is not your garden-variety hacker.
I crawled my way toward Georgetown, cussing traffic, roadwork, and a fender bender or two, all for nothing. I practically bloodied my knuckles knocking on his door. No answer. That was worrisome. Plato considered me one of the few friends he had and had never turned me away before.
I wasn’t sure what to do. Even if I called the police, they in turn would have to call the bomb squad or a safecracker to get past his front door. The unnamed government agencies had seen to it that Plato’s residence was as secure as Fort Knox. Was he sick? Or dead in there, surrounded by his phalanx of computers?
I finally gave up and left. Somewhere in my files was a number he’d given me for emergencies. I hoped I could find it before I’d have to start dressing for the party for my actress friend, Bev.
The trip from Georgetown back to Southwest ate up what little goof-off time I had left. I parked the Corvette in an unreserved spot in the garage and crossed my fingers that it was close enough to one of the overhead lights that the Bernard woman might think twice before cutting loose with any more spray paint.
Upstairs, I indulged in a quick shower, then raided the closet, wondering just how much of an occasion this party was going to be. It didn’t matter; I still hadn’t unpacked any fancy duds, so casually dressy would have to do. I yanked the raspberry peachskin pantsuit off its hanger, found my black T-straps and pantyhose, claret-colored bra and panties, and began dressing.
I was still seminude when I remembered precisely where Plato’s in-case-of-emergency number was in my files: in the box in the trunk of the Chevy, which, in turn, was in the possession of the D.C. Metropolitan Police Department. Dammit! But I couldn’t get Plato off my mind.
I finished dressing; made a light pass with blusher, eye liner, and lipstick; draped a skein of gold chains around my neck and put studs in my lobes; checked the full-length mirror; and pronounced myself middlin’ decent.
I was weeding out essentials to transfer to a smaller black bag and had just stuck Bev’s Chicago review in it to get it autographed for Nunna when a key rattled in the deadbolt.
“Honey, I’m home,” Duck called, and chuckled at how clever he was. I heard the door close, the locks engage, and a second later he stuck his head into the bedroom and whistled. “You look great. You know, I’m gonna like having you around on a permanent basis. The whole place smells like Cashmere Mist.”
Face it, you’ve got to love a man who remembers the name of the scent you wear.
“Ready to go? How ’bout I run you over to Helena’s?” Leaning against the doorsill, he was trying his damnedest to appear casual.
I wasn’t fooled. “Sorry, love, but I’d rather drive myself. That way I can leave when I want. Tell you what, I’ll come home by ten at the latest. I’ll call you, and you can come down and take us for a spin.”
His smile of delight reduced him to a ten-year-old being presented with a new skateboard. “It’s a deal. How did your day go after I saw you?” He came in, sat on the end of the bed.
This is what I would relish about our being under one roof: rehashing the events that had transpired since we’d last seen each other. My recital didn’t take long, but at least I could pass along the news about Ms. Bernard, traffic surveyor.
“For how long?” Duck asked, clearly unhappy knowing she’d been under our noses all the time.
“Neva couldn’t pin it down but she’s sure for several weeks.”
He lay back and propped himself on one elbow, thinking. “What time does the dry cleaner close? If Roland’s wife knows Bernard’s first name, I could check it against your arrest record. Even if she lied about her name, chances are she used one with the same initials.”
It was a good idea. “They’re open until nine on Fridays. There’s a receipt on the plastic bag over the trench coat in the closet, if you need the phone number. One more thing: Plato didn’t answer his door, and the emergency number he gave me was in the box in the trunk of the Chevy. Any way you could convince someone to dig it out and give it to you? I’m really worried about him.”
Duck’s decidedly mixed feelings about Plato dePriest showed in his hesitation, but he finally nodded. “I’ll try. You’re probably worrying for nothing. Knowing him, he’s squirreled back there in his computer room with earphones on, lis
tening to the Grateful Dead. Any news from Tank or Tina?”
I had forgotten about them, and he added them to his list of things to do until I returned with the Corvette. I kissed him good-bye, reminded him that he had Helena’s number if he needed to reach me, and hit the road.
Helena Campion, the hostess for Bev’s party, lived on one of the side streets edging Rock Creek Park, the city’s piece of paradise, our own version of Central Park. I scouted for a parking space, uncertain whether I should chance leaving the Corvette on the street or block Helena’s driveway. This was one of the District’s toniest neighborhoods, but the thought of coming out and finding the Vette gone sent chills down my spine.
A woman came out of a house two doors beyond Helena’s and bounded down her steps. She got into a Beemer and in one smooth maneuver eased away from the curb and sped off. I pulled up, craning to see if there was enough room for the Vette. It looked manageable, just barely. It took a couple of tries but I finally got it in, relieved no one was watching. Duck would have hooted his head off.
I pried myself out, locked up, and started back when a late-model Town Car stopped in front of Helena’s. A handsome hunk in a dark suit left the driver’s seat, strode around behind the Lincoln, and opened the rear door. A white pants leg appeared, then another. “Leigh?”
I stopped at the foot of the steps and waited. With no idea who else Helena had invited, I couldn’t be certain who had called my name. “Yes?”
“Leigh!” Beverly Barlowe bounded from the backseat, resplendent in white slacks and a fuzzy white turtleneck sweater. She grabbed me and began jumping up and down, almost suffocating me in all that angora and necessitating my hopping up and down with her or get stomped on. “Gawd, girl, it’s so good to see you! How the hell are ya?”
I hugged her back, delighted to find that she hadn’t changed. She was the same effusive, loud, zaftig, occasionally profane screwball she’d been back in law school. “I’m fine, Beev. How long has it been?”
