Murder at the Makeover

by Sandi Scott

  “You know who isn’t here?” Georgie whispered.

  Aleta shrugged.

  “Where’s Jet? I don’t see him anywhere.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “He didn’t say goodbye to you or wave while you were on the phone, did he?”

  “No, I didn’t see him at all. I was preoccupied, but I didn’t see him leave.”

  “I think we have our first suspect.”

  “Why would he want to rub out Samantha?”

  “Rub out? Who are you, Don Corleone?”

  “Am I wrong?” Aleta shook her head from side to side. “He seemed kind of ...you know ......”

  “No, I don’t. He seemed kind of what?” Georgie was genuinely puzzled.

  “Well, to put it nicely, he seemed to have not graduated to anything much higher than a jock. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Because dumb jocks never kill anyone? Have you ever heard of this guy called O.J.?” Georgie teased.

  “Very funny. Boy, death really brings out the comedian in you.” Aleta shot a snarky look at Georgie.

  “What can I say? I find light where there is darkness.”

  “You ladies are all clear. Not that I didn’t know that already.” Leto grinned at them. “You can go, but try and do it quietly. Stan may need some of these people to stay for a while.”

  “I knew we should have come in my car,” Aleta muttered.

  Georgie rolled her eyes and slipped between some of the guests that were milling around the entrance.

  “That VW is going to sound like an old-time steam engine when you start it up. Everyone is going to know we are leaving.”

  “Your point, Aleta?”

  “I’m just saying that your car makes too much noise.”

  “You know what else does? My twin sister!”

  Chapter 7

  Georgie dropped Aleta off at the office so she could help Emily.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Georgie asked her sister. “I can’t type or answer phones or lift anything, but maybe I could file something?”

  “No, after the day I put you through I think you deserve a break.” Aleta’s mind was already on what needed doing inside her daughter’s office.

  “You weren’t so bad, Aleta. I appreciated your coming with me. You know I wouldn’t have had any fun if you weren’t there, even with the murder.”

  “That’s so sweet and yet so disturbing.” Aleta grimaced and hoisted herself out of Pablo.

  “One more thing,” Georgie said before Aleta could close the door. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how Clara Lu didn’t really talk to you. I’ll bet she told Peg to do that to your face.”

  “My face! I forgot I had this Kabuki style makeup on!” Aleta huffed as she closed the car door, waved, and hurried inside the office before anyone on the street could see her.

  That night Georgie and Bodhi sat on the couch with Georgie’s computer on her lap. She had finally finished her painting of Sloopy, the beagle, that afternoon and was relaxing with a reward of chocolate covered graham crackers and peppermint tea.

  “Bodhi, I think Sloopy’s parents will be very happy with his picture. He looks very distinguished”—Bodhi looked up, his bug eyes blinking up at her adoringly—“but not as distinguished as you. No puppy is as handsome as Bodhi.” Georgie cooed. “No chocolate for you though. Chocolate’s no good for puppies. It’s no good for Georgies either, but I can’t just leave it lying around the house.” She took a bite of cookie then focused on her computer.

  Her e-mails revealed a new request for a pet portrait. A newlywed couple wanted their greyhound, Flash, painted.

  “A greyhound—I’ve never seen one of those up close. They look like they have no hair. They walk like ballet dancers on their toes. Well, I’ll tell them I’d love to.”

  Georgie typed as she chewed.

  Stan had sent her a couple of jokes. Of course, Georgie also received a fair number of e-mails telling her she was the sole heir to 8.2 million dollars ready to be deposited in her bank account if she’d provide the account number. In addition to that, she could also get discounted Viagra in bulk.

  “Ugh.” Georgie thought for a moment about forwarding that to Stan as a joke but quickly changed her mind. He would think that was some kind of invitation. Those were wires she didn’t want crossed.

  “Let’s see if Samantha has left any clues on the Internet, Bodhi.” Georgie typed in Samantha’s name and was immediately bounced to her The Better You! page.

  There was a lovely glamour shot photo of her smiling, all soft around the edges. Her biography revealed she was divorced, had no children, and lived in a prestigious high-rise in Chicago’s Edgewater neighborhood.

  “Not cheap, but not the most expensive either.” Georgie clicked her tongue and continued to scroll through the description.

  In addition to being one of the top sellers of The Better You! products for three years in a row, Samantha was president and CEO of Universal Property Management.

  “Universal Property Management—let’s see what they look like, Bodhi. Are you paying attention? Are you getting all this?” Georgie cooed to the dog. He wagged his curly tail in response.

  Before long Georgie saw a pattern with Universal Property Management, referred to as UPM on the Web pages, regarding their treatment of their tenants. Every review site from Yelp to the Better Business Bureau to Rate Your Landlord listed negative reviews.

  “But Samantha looked so professional,” Georgie said to Bodhi.

  Georgie scrolled down to see if maybe she was reading the reviews wrong. There had to be some good reviews or comments on Samantha’s business. How could she be so popular selling bug-based makeup and such a failure at managing a building?

  But no matter how far back Georgie went, the reviews were all bad. With the exception of someone who gave UPM three out of five stars for fixing a frozen pipe, the rest were all one or no stars.

  “Well, this guy, Paul Lee, has a real issue—” Georgie focused on that name that kept popping up repeatedly on the review sites. “—WOW, not a happy camper!”

  “Listen to this, Bodhi.” Georgie read one of the reviews out loud to Bodhi who cocked his head intelligently considering his mistress’ words. “Someone needs to deal with UPM and Samantha Alfred. This business should be rooted out like a weed. If you are a day late with your rent they start eviction proceedings. But they will sacrifice any tenant’s health in order to save themselves a dollar. UPM should have its doors closed permanently. Paul Lee – tenant.”

  As Georgie read Paul Lee’s reviews, she saw he had been complaining about UPM for more than six months. It all started with a mold problem. Initially, a small patch of black mold had crept up in the basement of the house he was renting. In the following weeks, UPM sent people to look at it, but nothing was done. He was told it was no big deal, but the patch kept getting bigger. Still, no one would do anything more than come, inspect it, and tell him it wasn’t dangerous. Finally, after dozens of phone calls, UPM had finally sent two workers, who simply painted over the mold. Within twenty-four hours, the mold had seeped through the paint. According to Paul Lee’s posts, the mold was worse now than ever before. Due to the terms of his lease, he couldn’t even move because he would owe triple his first and last months’ rent, in addition to losing his security deposit if he broke the lease. Not to mention what it would do to his credit! Georgie mused to herself that she completely understood where Paul Lee was coming from.

  “I sure would like to pay Mr. Lee a visit. He doesn’t seem to shy away from telling how he really feels. I wonder if he has what it takes to put his words into action. What do you think, Bodhi?”

  She leaned down, letting the pug lick her face, just as the doorbell rang.

  Aleta would just walk in, so who could it be? Looking at the clock, Georgie had no idea who could be stopping by at six-thirty in the evening.

  “Obby?” Georgie was taken aback to see the tall figure of Malcom Obberf
ield when she opened the door. “What an unexpected surprise!”

  “Hi, Georgie. I hope you don’t mind my taking liberties and paying you a visit?”

  “Not at all. Come on in.” Georgie usually didn’t like people just popping in, especially people who wanted to pursue a relationship when she wasn’t sure she was ready for one. But, Obby was so pleasant and looked so dapper in his dark blue jeans cuffed at the ankle with a plaid shirt topped by a blazer. His blue eyes matched his bowtie; he smelled of cloves and orange spice.

  “I thought I’d check and see if you had already eaten. I was on my way to Pasteur and wondered if you would like to join me in a couple of glasses of wine and some coq au vin.”

  “That sounds wonderful, but I’m afraid I can’t.” The words came out before Georgie really had a chance to censor them. But, since she had said it, she rolled with it. “It’s been a wild day. In fact, if you aren’t in a hurry, I’ve got some pound cake in the freezer, and I just put some water in the kettle for tea. It isn’t coq au vin, but I think you’ll like it.” (Georgie pronounced the French meal of chicken in wine, quack-o-vain.)

  “I think that sounds delightful. That will give me a little time to tell you about this fantastic space I’ve found for a new gallery.”

  “Another one?”

  “Well, the first one was for my own private collection. This one will be utilized for new artists that study the Old Masters.”

  “Do you mean there are some?” Georgie joked. “Whenever I read about new artists making headlines, they seem to paint something sacrilegious, obscene, or else it isn’t a painting or drawing at all, but a urinal removed from Union Station and placed on the floor.”

  “You are so right. But, there is a reemergence of students at several of the schools who are returning to true art.”

  Georgie poured the tea and pulled the pound cake from the freezer. Within minutes, she and Obby were sitting at her kitchen table engaged in a lively discussion of some of their favorite “bad” artists and laughing about the auctions at places like Christie’s in New York.

  “All I know is, if I had a couple of million dollars to throw around, I would rather buy a postage stamp painted by Dali than three white panels by Rauschenberg.” Georgie laughed. “Maybe that makes me lowbrow. I don’t know. I paint pet portraits after all.”

  “You are being honest. That is more than you’ll get from artists like Rauschenberg or the people who buy his work.” Obby shook his head. “That’s why I think it is important to really reward those students who want to emulate Gauguin, Matisse, Van Gogh, and, of course, the master Michelangelo. Isn’t it something how the pendulum swings so far? Then, just when you think all is lost, what is old becomes new again, and the world is better for it!”

  “That’s really lovely, Obby. I couldn’t agree more.” Georgie looked out her kitchen window and then at her watch. “Goodness. It’s after nine. I’m so sorry to have kept you so long. I’m going to have to excuse myself. I’ve got a painting of a beagle I need to finish,” Georgie lied. She didn’t want to come right out and tell Obby he had to leave.

  “That’s quite all right. The time just flew buy. I certainly didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

  Georgie waved as she took his teacup and her own and put them in the sink.

  “So, have you given any more thought to coming with me to the movies? Art School Confidential is playing at the Music Box Theater.”

  “I’ve never seen that.”

  “Well, for anyone who has attended art school, it is a stroll down memory lane and exposes the good, the bad, and the ugly—the ugly always getting the gallery showings!”

  They both laughed.

  “It’s a murder mystery and much fun. I think it would be right up your alley.”

  “Funny you should mention a murder mystery.” Georgie cleared her throat. “An old classmate of mine was found dead today at the Craghill Mansion.” She gave Obby the Reader’s Digest version of what had happened.

  “I just won’t be able to concentrate on anything else until this is solved.”

  “And what if it never gets solved?” Obby asked. He smiled at Georgie, but his eyes looked very sad. “What if it becomes one of those cold cases? Will you wait all that time to live life again? It would be such a waste to deprive the world of your presence, Georgie.”

  That was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her. For a second, Georgie wavered. Why not? Why not just forget about Samantha’s murder and let Stan handle it? He’d get the bad guy eventually, right? After all, Samantha never risked her life for Georgie. In high school, Georgie could barely recall two words Samantha ever spoke to her.

  “That’s not the issue, Obby. Yesterday Samantha Alfred was a living breathing person. She might not have been perfect”—She may not have even been nice based on the reviews of her business was Georgie’s private thought as she continued out loud to Obby—“but she was alive, and someone else thought she didn’t deserve to be. If there is anything I can do to help bring a little fairness into the world, well, that is more than most people do. How can I turn away now?”

  “When you put it like that, I guess you can’t,” Obby said. “Then, when you help bring this rogue to justice, allow me to be the first to congratulate you with dinner and a movie.”

  “That sounds wonderful, Obby!” Georgie held the front door open for him. “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Here’s the thing.” Obby shrugged and held up one finger. “I don’t understand, but I am fascinated like a boy who discovers that something on the microscope slide is moving, and he cannot stop studying it.”

  “You should write for Hallmark, Obby,” Georgie gushed.

  Chapter 8

  Georgie was woken up the next day by her phone ringing.

  “Are you still in bed?” Aleta asked.

  “I was,” Georgie mumbled. The clock read seven. Normally Georgie was up, showered, and dressed by now.

  “When you didn’t come by, I got nervous.”

  “Apparently you didn’t think I could be dying and need help since you decided to call instead.” Georgie scratched her head.

  “I thought if it was the person who did Samantha in, the killer might still be there. No reason for the both of us to meet our Maker!”

  “Very funny.” Georgie yawned.

  “Now that I know you are still alive, I’ll be over in five,” Aleta said. “Have you got some breakfast food?”

  “I have some fresh strawberries and whipped cream—the real whipped cream.”

  “A healthy breakfast today? Sounds good!”

  Georgie quickly got out of bed and wrapped her terrycloth robe around her fuzzy, flannel pajamas. Bodhi followed at her feet as she led him to the sliding door in the kitchen.

  “You go in the backyard today, Bodhi. A little variety never hurt anybody.”

  Georgie watched the dog from her kitchen window as he chased the birds, barked a couple of times, and then began his search for the perfect spot to mark.

  The smell of coffee quickly filled the kitchen. Just as Aleta let herself in the front door, Georgie was filling two crystal dessert bowls with fresh, ripe strawberries.

  “I can smell those from here.” Aleta pointed to the lush, red berries. “What a nice treat.”

  “Whipped cream is in the fridge,” Georgie said. “How is Emily?”

  “She’s exhausted,” Aleta said as she yanked the refrigerator door open. “She doesn’t seem to be transitioning too well. It won’t be much longer, and she’ll be in the new space. But, I don’t think she was mentally prepared for what an office move like this means and entails. It’s like a boat tied to a pier during a storm. The waves are mercilessly tossing it every which way, and the only thing keeping it secure is one tiny rope.”

  “She’ll survive this and be better for it.” Georgie set the bowls down on the table and grabbed two cups for coffee.

  “I know, but you know you never stop being a Mom.”

 
; “I know it all too well.” Georgie took the whipped cream, shook the can and squirted a healthy dollop on Aleta’s bowl, then her own.

  There were a few moments of silence as the ladies began to eat their strawberries. They were just ripe enough and tasted sweet with the cool taste of whipped cream.

  “So? How come you slept so late?”

  “I had a visitor yesterday,” Georgie replied. “Obby stopped by and invited me to dinner.”

  “I should have guessed. Did you go?”

  “No, we stayed here and had some pound cake and lovely conversation.”

  “Well, that sounds nice. He is persistent, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but I’ve made it very clear that, well, I don’t know ...”

  “That you like your independence?”

  “Yes and ...”

  “...and you still have feelings for your ex-husband?”

  “Of course, I have feelings for Stan. They just aren’t what he or you think. But, even that isn’t it. I have—how do I put it?”

  “You have the tendency to fall into mysteries that require a lot of your time?”

  “That’s it!” Georgie pointed her spoon at her sister. “I can’t help it. That reminds me, I found out quite a few interesting things about Samantha Alfred that might help us get this case wrapped up in record time.”

  “Do tell!” Aleta leaned in closer to her sister and took a sip of coffee.

  Georgie explained the biography she read on The Better You! Web site and how it led her to the Universal Properties Management site and all the negative reviews.

  “So, who is Paul Lee?”

  “He seems to be the angriest tenant UPM has, and, let me say—based on what I read—that is saying a lot!”

  “Wow! Do you know where he lives? Maybe he’d be worth talking to,” Aleta said, popping the last whipped cream covered strawberry in her mouth.

  “I’m glad you asked.” Georgie smiled. “I have a plan.”

  “I knew I should have just assumed you were dead and stayed away from the house. What are you planning on doing?”