“These speculators,” she asked. “Who do they say is Richard’s mistress?”
“Um ...” I stalled, “well … several names have come up … even your name.”
Madeline shot out of her chair. “Me!”
I sunk as far back in my chair as I could. “I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. Like I said, they’re all just rumors. There’s no way that I believe that …”
“Shut up!” Her trembling hands groped at her robe sash, pulling it tighter around her midsection. “People think that I was having an affair with Richard?” She threw her head back and let out a hearty laugh which ended as abruptly as it started. Then she stared at me with crazed eyes. “What the type of interview is this, anyway?” she spewed angrily. “Did you lie your way in here just to get some gossip out of me? I bet you don’t even work for the paper. You probably work for some trash publication.”
I opened my mouth to reply but she shut me down. “Get out of here!”
I scrambled for the door with Madeline on my heels. “I’m calling the Tribune. Someone is going to hear about this!” she screamed at my backside.
On my way out the door, I chanced one last glance backwards. In her furry, Madeline Reiner had forgotten herself. Her robe had slipped open giving full view of a very racy, very naughty negligee. I couldn’t help but wonder who she was all dressed up for—her husband, or Richard Schmidt?
Chapter Six
I was halfway home when I decided to give Sean a call. I couldn’t quite get a fix on Madeline’s reaction. Maybe I could talk him into expanding on her involvement in the case. I was sure he would know something that would help me connect the dots.
I pulled into a gas station lot and punched his number into my cell. What was I doing? I quickly snapped my phone shut. There was no way I could ask him about Madeline without him wondering what I had been up to. If I thought he was mad about the shed incident, he’d spit nails if he found out that I had actually gone to the Reiner’s home. Especially since he had practically ordered me to stay away from Madeline Reiner. I’d be better off trying to figure out things on my own. Sean wouldn’t appreciate my efforts to help solve this case.
Thinking back on my visit with Madeline I couldn’t believe how unglued she had become. I had definitely touched a nerve. But what? Was she Schmidt’s mistress or not? Were they in on it together? Maybe they both conspired to kill Amanda or maybe … maybe Richard actually had nothing to do with Amanda’s death. Maybe it was all Madeline. I could see how it would have happened: Madeline goes over to Amanda’s house to discuss plans for the fundraiser. Amanda already suspects that her husband is cheating on her, but something Madeline says makes her realize that Madeline is the other woman. She confronts Madeline, telling her to leave her husband alone. Madeline flips out. Caught up in a fit of rage, she loses control, picks up the golf club and takes out the frustration of the unrequited love affair on Amanda’s face. Then realizing what she’d done, she tries to cover her tracks by taking the jewelry and making it look like a robbery.
I shuddered. What a witch.
Opening up my cell again, I dialed Sheila’s number. She must not have checked the incoming call display on her cell, because she picked up instantly and sounded so pleasant.
“Hello.”
“Hi Sheila. Pippi O’Brien.”
“What do you want?” Not so pleasant anymore.
“Where did Amanda get her hair done?”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about a color change. Hers looked good.”
“When did you ever meet Amanda Schmidt? Oh … you mean you checked out her hair color while she was in the casket? You’re despicable.”
Wow, despicable. Imagine that. “Come on, Sheila. Just tell me.”
“Sure, I’ll tell you. Reginald’s. Not that it’ll do you any good. He’s booked months in advanced and he only accepts a certain type of clientele.”
“I’ll take my chances. By the way,” I said, deciding to kill two birds with one stone, “what do you know about Madeline Reiner?”
“The judge’s wife? Not a lot, why?”
I detected a little hedging in her voice. “Is she happily married?”
“I don’t know! We’ve worked on a few committees together, that’s this about it. Why all the questions about her?”
“I’m trying to figure out who Richard Schmidt’s mistress is.”
Sheila let out a funny little snorting noise, “You think it’s Madeline Reiner?”
“You don’t think so?” I asked.
“No. No way. If he was to have an affair, and I don’t think he did, it would never be with Madeline Reiner.” Another little snort. I’d never really heard Sheila snort so much during one conversation. I was starting to get a little suspicious.
“Oh yeah? I think you may be wrong about that, Sheila. I just happened to see Madeline this morning and guess what I learned?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“She wears naughty undergarments.”
“Naughty what? What are you talking about?”
“You know, lots of black leather. The type of stuff you would buy at an adult store … not that I ever go to those places. Plus, her husband was nowhere around when I saw her dressed like that, so who was she all dolled up for, huh?”
“Well, certainly not Richard Schmidt. He’s not the type to go for that stuff.”
“How do you know what type of stuff he goes for?”
“I just … you know, I’m done discussing this and FYI, I’m getting my cell number changed so don’t bother calling me anymore. You won’t have the right number.”
She hung up.
I considered what Sheila had said. If Madeline wasn’t Schmidt’s type, who was? Once again, Sheila was coming to Richard’s defense. Was it because they were such good friends or maybe she knew Richard Schmidt better than I thought. Although, I might be able to imagine Sheila having an affair with Schmidt, I could never see her killing someone. It just wasn’t Sheila’s style. Well, at least not with a golf club. That would be too messy and she would risk the possibility of breaking a nail. Poison maybe, but never a bludgeoning.
I had to call information to get a location for Reginald’s. As it turned out, it wasn’t that far away and despite the downpour of rain, I made it there in no time. After finding a spot in the small lot adjacent to the building, I remained in the car for a few minutes, contemplating the best way to approach Reginald. Unable to come up with anything, I finally decided to wing it and took off in a mad dash through the rain.
I didn’t know who Reginald was, but he must have been quite the clever man. He had taken an ultra-modern, 1970s sprawling ranch home and turned it into a posh, very hip place of business. It sat back from the curb, nestled amongst several mature oaks. A stone pathway, flanked by colorful flower boarders, led from the lot to a covered entrance. A lovely water garden sat to the left of the entryway providing a little Feng Shui for the clientele.
The first thing I noticed after making my way inside was the absence of hair salon stench. Most of the hair places I frequent have a nose burning perm odor that hangs in the air like smoke in a bar; that is, when smoking was allowed in bars. I was actually disappointed that there wasn’t some sort of odor to cover up the wet dog odor of my mother’s wool suit. I had got drenched walking from the car to the door.
I had only been standing in the entryway for two seconds before I was greeted by a real-life version of a Barbie doll. She approached me with a pen and clipboard in hand.
“Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” she asked.
I almost said no, but then deciding to seize the opportunity, I simply shrugged.
“You’re fifteen minutes late, but Reggie says he can still take you.” She appeared more than a little flustered as she frantically crossed my name, oops, I mean Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s name off her list.
As I followed Barbie down the hall, I gazed enviously at her long legs, tiny waist, ample bust line and flawless skin. I resisted t
he temptation to reach out and see if she was real flesh and bones or made out of plastic. Perhaps someone had finally invented a life-size doll that could move and talk. I wondered if her knees popped when she bent them to sit down.
Barbie parked me inside room number four and left quickly. I glanced around. It was definitely more posh than the place in the mall where I get my hair cut, but then again, I never spend more than fifteen bucks on my hair-do.
This room was equipped with the usual chair and sink, stack of white towels, a tray of combs and scissors, blow dryers, and curling irons. There was also a small flat panel TV, several fresh floral bouquets, and a table set up with refreshments, which I helped myself to.
I had just started nibbling on my second fruit kabob when the door flew open and a tiny, black robed man scurried into the room. “Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” he said in a slightly overdone French accent. Then he stopped short upon seeing me, “You’re not Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”
“No, I’m not,” I replied.
My identity didn’t seem to bother him.
“Your hair,” he said, squinting at my head.
I patted my up-do. “Like it? I did it myself. It took quite a bit of work, but …”
“Ah, yes.” He reached out to touch my hair. I ducked. He said, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It looks like a beehive on fire.” His eyes widened in awe. I could tell he was impressed with my capabilities.
“Well. The color is straight from God, himself. No bottle involved here,” I bragged.
We stood in silence for a second, while he continued to study my tresses and I waited for another compliment. When none came, I decided to get on with business. Besides, who knew how long it would be before the real Mrs. Fitzpatrick showed up? “Let me introduce myself. My name is Patricia Owens, private investigator.” I really needed to brainstorm some new aliases. “I’ve been hired to look into the murder of one of your clients, Amanda Schmidt. Do you have a few minutes to answer a couple of questions?”
“Questions? What type of questions?” he asked, still fingering my hair.
I brushed his hand aside. “I need to know some things about her personal life.”
“I have a strict policy not to discuss my client’s personal matters. You should know that everything that goes into my ears is privileged.” He was still gazing at my hair.
“Yes, I understand exactly what you’re saying. It’s just that, well … Amanda didn’t deserve what happened to her. You did hear how she was killed, didn’t you?” I inched backwards, trying to remain out of his reach.
“Yes, awful,” he answered absently as all his focus was honed in on my beehive.
“It’s such a shame. She was so beautiful. To think that someone bludgeoned her to death. I hear the crime scene was a mess,” I said abruptly, hoping to bring his attention away from my hair and back to the matter at hand.
Reggie shuddered. “Poor Amanda!” He began to fiddle with some combs and brushes, avoiding eye contact.
“I can tell that you’re upset, Reginald. Were you close with Amanda?”
“I did her hair for several years. She was a nice woman.”
“I can assure you that whatever you tell me, I’ll keep as quiet as possible. I won’t tell anyone that I got it from you. I just think that the person who did this to her deserves to be punished, don’t you?”
His slim shoulders broadened. “Yes, I do.”
Just then Barbie peeked inside the room. “Uh, Reggie. There’s another Mrs. Fitzpatrick here.” She must have been really nervous about us two Mrs. Fitzpatricks because her mouth was twitching uncontrollably; although, I noticed the rest of her face remained completely unmoved. I suspected that somewhere in the salon, there was a special room full of Botox syringes, and that Barbie spent her lunch-breaks shooting up.
Reggie waved her off. “Give me two minutes and then show her back.”
I took that as a good sign and started in with more questions. “I need to know if Amanda was often upset, or if she ever told you anything special about her marriage.”
“Her marriage? What do you mean exactly?”
“Was her marriage solid? Was it a good marriage?”
“Well, as far as marriage goes, I guess it was good.”
I remembered that I was talking to a Frenchman. He probably had a whole different set of rules than I did. “Did she ever confide in you anything about her husband?”
“Yes of course, I was her stylist, her confidante.”
I held up my hand, aware of time ticking away. “I understand. Tell me, Reginald, did she mention an affair?”
His eyes sparkled. He bent in closer and lowered his voice. “You won’t tell anyone where you got this?”
“No, of course not.”
“Yes, there was an affair.”
I was about to prod further when his head popped up, a broad smile covering his face as he turned to the opened doorway. “Why, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you’re here. I’m just finishing with this woman, please take a chair and I’ll be right there.”
He turned to me, “That’s all I’ll tell you. Now you’d better go, before you scare away my clients.”
I shrugged off his last comment, not sure if it was a backhanded comment on my hair, or if he just thought a detective snooping around was bad for business. Not that it mattered; I had gotten what I came for. I practically bounced back to my car. I had uncovered a lead in the case. Reggie had validated all my initial suspicions about Schmidt being a cheater. Now I just needed to find tangible proof of the other woman.
I celebrated my triumph with an extra gooey toasted cheese for dinner and then spent the rest of the evening hunched over my computer. It took a while—creating so many lies was a lot of work—but I finally came up with a plan to get inside Schmidt’s law firm. By midnight, I finally had what could be considered a passable resume. I hung my mom’s suit in the bathroom and ran the shower on high, hoping the steam would ease out some of the wrinkles. I wanted to look fresh for my interview the next day.
Chapter Seven
I studied my reflection in the steel doors of the elevator as I rode up to the ninth floor of the Clark Building. I had resurrected the Velma wig and paired it with some heavy black framed glasses. Once again, I wore my mom’s suit, but this time I played it down with a plain white button down blouse. I thought I looked smart, sensible, and industrious; three qualities befitting every good paralegal.
I had spent the better part of the morning parked across from Schmidt’s car, waiting for him to leave. I wanted to visit his office, but didn’t want to chance running into him. The last thing I needed was to have another confrontation with Richard Schmidt. Besides, there weren’t enough excuses in the world to explain my current ruse to Sean.
Finally, just before noon, I saw him exit with a group of men. Making my way into the building, I took the elevator up to the seventh floor, drawing in a deep breath as the doors opened up into the lobby of Schmidt, Parks and Maloney. Squaring my shoulders, I confidently approached the woman behind the reception desk. She shot me a quick smile, before picking up a buzzing phone. Waving a finger, she motioned for me to take a seat. I plopped onto a rather stiff leather loveseat and mentally rehearsed my next few lines while studying the woman behind the desk. Although she was attractive, she didn’t strike me as Schmidt’s type. Then again, all I really knew about Richard Schmidt’s preference for women was that he didn’t care for homeless bag ladies.
I glanced around the very conservatively decorated office. I hadn’t really been in too many attorneys’ offices, but I guessed that this would be the typical look: chocolate brown leather furniture, dark oak side tables littered with magazines such as Time, Fortune, and Newsweek, tasteful artwork, and neutrally painted walls. Breathing in deeply, I could almost smell the aged scotch and Cuban cigars that the partners enjoyed after successful litigations.
“How can I help you?” The receptionist had hung up the phone and was addressing me from behind her desk.
&
nbsp; I gathered my bag and approached her with what I hoped was a believable story. “Hello. I’m Paige Osborne. I’m here to submit my resume to personnel. I’d like it to be kept on record for any future openings your firm might have.”
“For what position?” she asked, her eyes surveying my outfit. I noticed that she seemed to approve. I knew I could count on finding something conservative and appropriate in my mother’s closet.
“Paralegal. I’ve just moved to town and am putting my resume in with several firms. I have a lot of experience. I previously worked for Smith and Gallagher in Indianapolis. I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” I said with an air of superiority.
“Yes, of course,” she replied. Which surprised me since I had completely fabricated the firm’s name. Unless there really was a Smith and Gallagher in Indianapolis, but that would be too weird.
She took my resume and headed for the door-lined hallway. “Just have a seat for a minute. I’ll see if someone in personnel has a few minutes to talk to you,” she said over her shoulder.
Just as I repositioned myself, the elevator door dinged and slid open. Out walked a long-legged brunette in an expensive suit. Trailing behind her was a poorly dressed teen with long stringy hair and a bad case of acne. My antennae popped up as I eyed the brunette. Now she would be Schmidt’s type, crimson lipstick and all.
Ms. Long Legs didn’t even glance in my direction as she powered her way through the reception area and entered the second door on the left hand side of the hallway. I took note of the office she entered and turned my attention to the pimply-faced teen who was hanging out in front of the reception desk, shifting nervously from one foot to another.
“Come right this way, Ms. Osborne,” the receptionist was saying. “Mary in personnel has a few minutes to speak to you.”
I followed her down the hall glancing quickly at the name on the outside of Ms. Long Leg’s office. “S. Maloney.” Maloney as in Schmidt, Parks & Maloney? The woman I had seen didn’t look quite old enough to be a partner, but then again, maybe she was exceptionally talented at litigating or … something.
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