by Jane Tesh
“Didn’t the police down there decide it was a suicide?”
“I’m wondering about that.”
“To answer your question, usually a relative identifies the body, and if there’s no good reason to suspect foul play, case closed. Did McMillan commit any other crimes?”
“No, he wrote a letter saying he was sorry he took the money.”
“Where’s the money now?”
“Mrs. Harper got it back.”
“Let’s see. Dead body, shotgun wound to the head, no one else hurt, money returned, letter of apology. Sounds like suicide to me. I don’t see that a crime was committed here, Randall.”
I thanked Jordan and hung up. Next call: Lucy Warner.
“Mrs. Warner, this might sound odd to you, but how did you know the body you saw was George?”
She took a couple of deep sniffs. “Once when we were children, we went exploring in the woods, and George fell out of a tree. He had a distinctive scar on his leg. I knew it the minute I saw it.” Muted animal noises in the background made her turn her head and say, “Quiet, dearies.” Then she said to me, “What are you saying, Mr. Randall? Are you saying George might be alive? That’s impossible.”
“I’m trying to cover all bases, thanks.”
I hung up and watched the kittens roll on the floor. Speaking of scars, I checked my finger. It wouldn’t be any great chore to make a scar on someone’s leg, shoot off their face, and make the world think George McMillan had gone to the great beauty parlor in the sky. But who would want to? I needed to have another talk with Folly Harper.
Chapter Twenty
“Now and then there’s one with slight defects.”
Folly Harper greeted me at the door of her elegant brick mansion on Tudor Club Drive. “I hope you have some good news for me, David.”
I followed her through the vast foyer to a parlor decorated in—you guessed it—peach. Peach velvet draperies pulled back from beveled windows, letting sunlight in on a peach-colored sofa and chairs and large arrangements of silk flowers, also peach. Bright aqua cushions on the sofa gave a welcome stab of blue amid all the peachiness. Piles of paper lay on the floor beside a corner desk.
Folly pushed in an open drawer. “I’m cleaning out George’s things.”
I picked up the nearest stack. “He kept more plans here?”
“These are his recent ideas. He liked for me to go over them.”
I scanned George’s notes: lipstick mousse, eyeliner strips, complexion changing goo. “Any of these work?”
“Unfortunately, no, but he kept trying. He was certain he could revolutionize the cosmetics industry.”
Not with these ideas he couldn’t. “I have some news for you,” I took a seat. Folly perched on the peach sofa. “First, I want you to tell me what these numbers Camden is seeing for you mean.”
She shifted position. “I’m not sure I can.”
“It would be a good idea.” Because, until I get some answers, you are suspect Number One.
“You have to promise not to tell another living soul.”
“I promise.”
She kept her gaze on the flower arrangement. “I feel so stupid.”
Not exactly the words of a hardened killer, but these days, you never knew.
“The formula for BeautiQueen’s new anti-aging cream,” she said. “George and I were the only ones who knew it. Now he’s dead, and I’ve forgotten it. That’s why I came to Cam. I knew he’d give me some lucky numbers, and I’d use them for the formula.”
“Use them? How?”
“George and I experimented with different amounts of ingredients. I can’t remember which one was right.”
She’d been using the numbers to determine the proportions. “Has it worked?”
“Not yet, but I’m very, very close.” She began twisting her rings. “But you mustn’t say anything to anyone. I can’t tell you what it would do to BeautiQueen if this formula got out. And this is my discovery, mine and George’s.”
“The same formula he was going to sell to Perfecto Face?”
“Yes.” She got up, went to a peach colored cabinet, unlocked a drawer, and took out a folder. “Let me show you.”
She handed me a photograph. The girl in the picture was pretty, but there were lines around her eyes and mouth that made her look tired and old. Folly handed me a second photo. In this after picture, the girl looked almost as beautiful as Kary. I looked several times to convince myself this was the same girl and not her gorgeous younger sister. No lines, clear glowing skin, an amazing transformation.
Women would kill for this stuff. Maybe one already had.
“Unfortunately, there are some side effects.” Folly handed me a third photo. The glow had dimmed, the lines had returned, and the girl’s eyebrows had fallen out.
“Eek,” I said.
“Oh, they grew back. I only have to get the perfect proportions for the cream, that’s all.”
“And George knew these proportions? Damn it, Folly, something this important, and you didn’t write it down, didn’t put it in your computer or your phone?”
She looked down at the peach carpet. “I was afraid someone would steal it. Competition is so fierce. I couldn’t trust anyone except George.” She looked up anxiously. “But Cam will find it, won’t he? He can see into my mind.”
“Camden is involved in his own problems right now. You can’t rely on his predictions. You have to rely on the facts. No more secrets. Was George the only one who knew the formula?”
“Yes.”
“Did he write it down anywhere?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did he discuss it with anyone else?”
“No, we always swore we’d never tell anyone about it.”
“No one else? No one who might have killed him to get it? You never said a word about it to anyone?”
She wiped a tear from her eye. “No one. This was going to be the great discovery that put BeautiQueen on top.”
I glanced at the eyebrowless girl. Or bury it. “What about all these notes? Could it be somewhere in that?”
“Actually, that’s what I was hoping to find.”
I got up and started looking through another stack of papers. Folly looked, too. We read more ridiculous ideas like eyelash lengthening cream and wrinkle smoothing paste. George’s scribbled notes in the margins included, “Add more texture,” and “Needs crystallizing foam.” We found diagrams and calculations and graphs, but nothing that resembled a secret formula.
Finally, I sat back. “Nothing.”
“I’m afraid not.” Folly pulled herself together and gathered another little bag of cosmetics. “This is for that lovely young lady at your house. I understand she’s going to be in the Miss Parkland Pageant. Did I tell you BeautiQueen is going to be one of their sponsors, along with the Psychic Service? Ellin took care of all the details.”
The set back in wedding plans hadn’t kept Ellin from taking advantage of situations. “That’ll be good publicity.”
“I so wanted our new cream to be ready in time for the pageant,” Folly said. “Is Cam at home? Maybe he can see the right combination of numbers today.”
I took another look at the after photo of eyebrow girl. “I think you’d better stick to the cream you’re using now.”
“We’ll have something ready, I’m sure.”
I helped her pick up all the papers and dump them into a peach trash can. “Did George keep papers anywhere else?”
“I don’t think so.” She gave a little shudder. “I feel so odd throwing all that away. It’s his life’s work.”
I checked the desk top. “Calendar? Rolodex? Cell phone?”
“He had an address book.”
I found it in the top drawer, another startling blue against all the peach. Only a few numbers were wri
tten inside, but in the back I found a letter addressed to Amelia Tilley. It had been returned to George unopened. I opened the letter, thinking George might have sent the secret formula to Perfecto Face. I didn’t have to read very far to realize George had other things on his mind.
Folly watched me. “Anything important?”
“I believe George had a crush on Amelia Tilley of Perfecto Face.” That was the nicest way I could say it. George’s letter to Amelia was more than steamy.
“And she never got his letter. That’s so sad.”
“I’ll take it to her.”
“Would you? She’ll appreciate it.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
***
Amelia Tilley frowned as I entered her office. “I need to have a word with you, Mr. Randall. I called the newspaper with an update for your article. You are not from the Herald.”
“And you weren’t straight with me about George McMillan.”
She held my gaze for a long moment. “Fair enough. Who goes first?”
“I’m a private investigator. Folly Harper hired me to find out what happened to George. We don’t think he committed suicide.”
She kept a firm grip on the edge of her desk. “You think someone murdered him?”
I put the letter on her desk. “I found this in his things. I’m guessing it’s one of many.”
She loosened her grip and sat down, still keeping a level gaze. She didn’t touch the letter. “George sent me several letters. After reading the first one, I returned any others unopened. I told him I wasn’t interested, but he insisted. Then he became angry and said he would start his own company and run everyone else out of business. I said he was welcome to try. I was sorry it came to that.”
“Maybe you got angry, too. Maybe you didn’t like his threats.”
A dark blush spread across her smooth cheeks. “As far as I was concerned, George McMillan was just another man who couldn’t take no for an answer. He was extremely annoying, but I certainly didn’t want to kill him. He finally stopped calling and sending me letters. It was over.”
“Did he ever tell you about a secret anti-aging formula he and Folly were working on?”
“Yes, he thought this would make me fall in love with him.” She sighed. “Mr. Randall, everyone in our business is always working on an anti-aging formula. It’s nothing new or surprising. George had a mania for discovering it first.” A buzzer sounded on her desk, and she answered the intercom. “Yes?”
A man’s voice spoke. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Tilley, but you wanted to speak with security before their next shift.”
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Problems?” I asked.
“We’ve had some break-ins lately.”
“Would you mind telling me what’s missing?”
“I guess not. We’re missing some shipments of retinoic acid.”
“How does that relate to cosmetics?”
“Vitamin A derivatives called retinoids improve your skin, especially skin that’s sun-damaged.”
“What about aging skin?”
“Retinoic acid can treat aging skin. I don’t know if you’ve heard of Retin-A or Renova? Those products have tretinoin, which helps the skin renew itself. It reduces fine lines and wrinkles. It also clears up acne.”
“Do you sell products like that?”
“Tretinoin is found in prescription medicines, but we use forms of retinol, which is very effective in improving skin texture. Where is all this leading, Mr. Randall?”
“What about vitamin C?”
“Another excellent antioxidant. Vitamin C stimulates the fibroblasts to produce more collagen and elastin.”
Most of that was lost on me, but I was beginning to think Ms. Tilley’s burglar might be the Drug Palace thief. “When did the break-ins start?”
“A week ago.”
Exactly when Ted hired me to patrol the store. “Can you think of anyone who’d want to steal from your company? Disgruntled employee? Unsatisfied customer?”
“The only one who’s ever had a grudge against Perfecto Face was George McMillan.”
Amelia Tilley let me accompany her down to the shipping department of Perfecto Face to examine the new locks the night shift had installed on the doors. She spoke with the day shift security guards to make certain they understood all the new keys and codes. I walked around the large room past conveyor belts loaded with boxes of Perfecto Face. Employees on one end filled the boxes with bottles and tubes of makeup while employees on the other end sealed the packages and put them on wooden pallets to be loaded onto trucks. I didn’t see any other way someone could get in.
“Did George ever come down here?” I asked Amelia Tilley as we took the elevator back to her office.
“Yes, the first time he visited, I gave him the tour.”
“Is it possible he could’ve found out your codes?”
“I suppose so, but this is ridiculous, isn’t it? George is dead, and even if he were alive, why would he steal products he could easily get at BeautiQueen?”
Good question.
I had lots of good questions, but no answers. After leaving Perfecto Face, I checked my messages. Ted from the Drug Palace reported that the Rexall on Ames Avenue and Eisner Drugstore out by the shopping center had break-ins. I needed to find out if the thieves had stolen vitamins, as well, so I gave them a call. Sure enough, they were missing the same items. I decided to go by the Drug Palace and ask Ted about Retin-A.
Ted was filling several bottles with small yellow pills. “Retin-A was created round about 1969, I think, as an acne treatment. Wasn’t till much later someone discovered it reversed skin damage. Retin-A causes keratinocytes to move to the surface of the skin, improving the stratum corneum, or top layer.”
I didn’t need a complete translation. “So it’s the miracle that women have been looking for?”
“It doesn’t work for everyone, and a lot of people don’t want to put up with the redness and irritation. You have to use it for eight to twelve weeks to see results, plus you have to stay out of the sun. It’s like having a bad sunburn with a great tan underneath. You have to wait until the sunburn fades or peels away.”
This didn’t sound like something I’d want on my face. “Would someone be able to make their own form of Retin-A using the products stolen from the drugstores?”
“Possibly, but who’d want to use it? I can’t see anyone making a profit off pseudo Retin-A. Although—” he paused. “It could be a Mixer.”
“Who or what are the Mixers?”
“Rogue pharmacists.”
I pictured a group of men in white smocks riding through town, tossing drugs left and right to a grateful populace. “Is this something new, Ted?”
He secured the lids on the pill bottles. “They’re out there. Mixing their own stuff, trying out new prescriptions.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Sure, but a Mixer doesn’t care about that. It’s the thrill of the mix, the smell of chemicals, the possibility of finding a cure for the common cold.”
The thrill of the mix? Ted usually didn’t get carried away like this. “So you think these Mixers could be responsible for the break-ins?”
“When it was only this store, no, but now that others have been hit, I see a pattern.”
“Ted,” I said as calmly as possible, “come back to Earth for a moment and talk sense. If you know who’s behind the thefts, tell me, and I’ll do something. Don’t give me this wild tale about pharmacists gone bad.”
Ted leaned on the counter and spoke in a low voice. “I know the Mixers because I used to be one. It was in college, and it was only for fun. Nobody got hurt, and we blew up the lab only once. Nowadays, I can’t afford to be careless, or spend time and money goofing off. But I imagine a few of my o
ld buddies still like to mix it up when they can.”
“The names of these buddies?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you.”
“I won’t tell them you ratted on them. I can be investigating another break-in. Besides, if it’s your old pals, they’ve stolen your stuff, remember? Or did you leave the back door open?”
“Okay, okay,” Ted said. “Lagenfield. Armand Lagenfield.”
A rogue pharmacist name if I ever heard one.
“And where might I find Mr. Lagenfield’s secret laboratory?”
“He lives on Viewmont Street, past the bakery.”
“No wonder those doughnuts won’t stay in the box.”
“He’ll probably talk to you. I don’t know about the others.”
“How many others?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You want the thief caught or not?” He hesitated. “Ted, did you take a blood oath? Are you going to violate the pharmacists’ code of honor?”
“Nothing like that.” He made a decision. “Yes, I want the thief caught. There are six guys I used to mix with. I don’t know a lot of the newer members. Lagenfield might. If he doesn’t have the answers, I’ll get the other names for you.”
Lagenfield and O’Neal, Pharmacists At Large. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll let you know if your pal’s been playing Doctor Frankenstein.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“I’ve grown accustomed to her face.”
Armand Lagenfield lived in one of the shabbier neighborhoods near the university in a rusty-looking house with flaking paint and a weed-filled yard. I could see the faint outline of Greek symbols over the door and figured the building had been a fraternity house before becoming even too run down for careless frat boys. I expected a shriveled guy with a domed head and bloodshot eyes. Lagenfield looked more like a well-worn surfer dude. He had long stringy bleached blond hair, tanned leathery skin, and sharp blue eyes magnified by a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing cut-off jeans and a faded tee shirt that read, “Visualize Whirled Peas.”
“Ted sent me,” I said, and he nodded.
