“We keep our donors’ names and the items they give us private.”
“Oh, you can tell me. I won’t say a thing.” The woman, wearing a pants suit printed with fuchsia flamingos running through emerald green ponds, leaned over the counter as if she expected me to reveal the secret of the dress’ former owner only to her.
Madeleine pulled on my sleeve and whispered, “Tell her the dress belonged to Mrs. Sanders. What can it hurt?”
“Madeleine Boudreau, shame on you. A deal is a deal, and we vowed to keep our donors’ identities secret.” I turned back to the woman, who appeared to be on the verge of salivating on the dress in her eagerness to know its provenance. “I can’t tell you.”
“Well, I never.” She flung the dress on the counter and strode toward the front door.
“Lost that sale, didn’t you?” A man’s voice. A man! In a women’s consignment boutique? I grabbed the counter for support and looked up into a pair of azure eyes. Up. Get it? He was taller than me. That wasn’t his only virtue. He had brown hair, sun-streaked and worn long. It curled over his shirt collar. I tried to catch a whiff of his aftershave. None. Just the clean smell of Dial soap coupled with a strong whiff of sexiness.
I leaned forward farther and would have fallen onto the floor, but a bronze arm handed me a business card. I took it.
“You’re a private dick?” I asked, feeling my cheeks heat up at the word. “Um, PI,” I amended. Alex Montgomery, the card read. Investigations.
As he extended his hand to shake mine, the polo rider on his turquoise knit shirt galloped ahead several paces, propelled by well-developed pecs.
“You are the proprietor of this establishment. Right?”
“Along with my partner here.” I motioned to Madeleine, who moved closer to the counter to stand next to him.
She looked up into his eyes, blinked once and sighed. “Madeleine Boudreau.” She stuck out her hand and hit the earring display rack on the counter, knocking it to the floor. As she bent to pick up the jewelry, PI Montgomery stooped to help her, and I could see trouble coming. I rushed around the counter and tried to push him out of the way. I was right to do so, for Madeleine’s rear end hit our display mannequin, which wobbled precariously on its one plastic leg (we’d picked up the model at a rummage sale for a buck—the other leg had been lost somewhere). As it plunged toward the floor, the long necklace Ms. Plastic was wearing flew over the PI’s head, the mannequin flipped around and Mr. Hottie found himself pinned to its silk-clad chest by a rope of ersatz pearls.
“Don’t move or you’ll strangle yourself. Madeleine, get up off that floor and ring up Mrs. Nile’s sale. I’ll take care of Mr. Montgomery.” Oh, how I want to take care of Mr. Montgomery.
Mrs. Nile must have had the same thought. She appeared to have lost interest in the shorts set she had brought to the counter and was eyeing Mr. Montgomery (or Alex, as I wanted to think of him now) with the hunger of an alligator in a drought looking for a new breeding hole.
I prevailed, probably because of my height. Also because I can be very commanding if I want to, and I wanted to at this moment. I pushed Mrs. Nile—I tried to push gently—toward Madeleine. “She’ll ring you up.” I turned back to my PI guy.
“Alex, uh, I mean, PI Montgomery, please remain calm. I’ll get you free in a moment.” Actually he looked both calm and amused. A sense of humor. Good. I like that in my men.
I extracted him from the pearls while he righted the mannequin. I envied her the momentary closeness with my private eye. For once I wished I could emulate Madeleine’s awkwardness. I yearned to stumble straight into those strong arms.
“I think you were about to introduce yourself.” He cocked one eyebrow.
“Not really. You’re the investigator, so I assume you already know my name. Right?”
He laughed. “Eve Appel, right? Like in Genesis.” So that flash of humor hadn’t been a momentary fluke.
“What can I do for you? You’re not here to buy your wife, girlfriend, life partner, date or significant other of either sex a gift, are you?” I covered all the bases.
“No. Actually I’d like to talk to both of you about what happened here yesterday.”
“How is that your concern?”
Madeleine shoved me to one side. “Someone hired you to investigate the murder?” Eagerness to cooperate in any way possible was written all over her face, as was the desire to cook him dinner, ply him with wine and undress him in front of her fireplace. I shot her a look that said, “I saw him first, and I didn’t try to strangle him.”
“No. Actually, I was investigating Mrs. Sanders. Maybe the two of you can shed some light on her situation. She brought her clothes here for consignment. Isn’t that odd for a woman who had millions?”
I shoved Madeleine to one side and pushed her behind me. “Are you suggesting this place isn’t a business the elite would frequent? Why not?” I placed my hands on my hips.
“Well, you do sell secondhand merchandise.”
“Classy, previously owned, high-end items.” Madeleine offered her usual sales pitch and poked her head around me.
PI Montgomery took a step backward. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’m not passing judgment on the quality of your inventory. Just wondering why someone who could afford everything new and haute couture would drive sixty miles through rural Florida to buy her dinner dance gowns when she could have her chauffeur take her to City Place.”
“We don’t ask our customers why they shop here,” I said. “We’re just happy they do.”
“Pleased they bring their clothes here for us to sell, too,” Madeleine added, breaking into one of her high wattage smiles.
“The current economic downtown has been a leveling factor for the wealthy. We took advantage of that to open this place. I can’t see how interrogating us about Mrs. Sanders’ reasons for doing business here helps your client, whoever he or she is.” I wasn’t sure why I wanted this guy to understand our business philosophy, but I did.
As much as I didn’t want to chase this hunk off, I wasn’t too happy with his questions about our customers. Some of them were eavesdropping and, apparently dismayed at the direction the conversation was taking, had hung their items back on the racks and were sidling toward the door. I knew that several of them had driven over from West Palm and didn’t want it revealed that they did their shopping in a cowboy town in rural Florida.
“Yeah, but why come here when there are dozens of high-end consignment shops on the coast?”
I knew the reason why, but I’d be hung by my acrylic nails from the nearest Sabal palm before I blabbed these matrons’ rationale in the middle of my shop.
I grabbed the PI by the arm and steered him toward the office. Madeleine followed so close in his tracks she seemed to be Velcroed to his leg. I turned on her.
“Get back out there and smooth some ruffled feathers. You’re better at that than I am.”
“But I want to—”
“No, you don’t. You want to sell dresses, shirts, pants and jewelry. You fall into things. I get in trouble because of my mouth. That’s the way it is, and we might as well play to our strengths.” I dragged Mr. Montgomery into the office and slammed the door behind us. He was smiling.
“You’re really something.” His smile went from friendly to seductive. “How about we have dinner tonight?”
“Yes. I mean, no. At least not until you get something straight. Women shop here because they don’t want their friends knowing their income has taken a plunge and that they can no longer afford the finer stores. They don’t want to chance running into their society friends in a consignment store on the coast because they know their friends are in the same boat.” I paused to catch my breath.
“But—”
“I know what you’re going to say, that eventually they’ll run into someone they know here, but they find it easier to make up a good excuse for being here than in a thrift shop in West Palm.”
“Like what?” The smile was gone from
his face. He seemed interested.
“Like, they’re slumming, or looking for the real Florida, trying to find Florida as it used to be or they’re into cowboys.”
“Interesting.” He paused. “Are you into cowboys?”
Was I? I thought about it. I’d been here for only three months. I liked going to the local cowboy bars with Madeleine and dancing up a storm with a lean, tanned guy in jeans and a Stetson. I looked at my private eye. No cowboy there. Chinos and a knit golf shirt. What could be less Western?
“I don’t know a lot of cowboys. Obviously not many come in here.”
“So where does one meet them?”
I couldn’t see where he was going with this.
“Uh, in a bar maybe?”
“So, take me to a bar tonight after dinner. I’ll see if I can keep up with the competition.”
Could he! Two step, salsa, jitterbug, slow bump and grind. I was blown away. Everyone watching us seemed to be as well. The cowboys who were sometimes my partners when Madeleine and I hit the Gator and You Bar or the Tasty Frog Grill were high-fiving the two of us on the dance floor. By the time we left—after food service stopped and everyone had lit up a cigarette (a quaint tradition in Florida)—I was exhausted. It was a good thing PI Montgomery didn’t have anything more athletic on his mind than a good night kiss.
“I’ll call you.” His gaze held mine for a moment longer than necessary.
As soon as I closed the door, I threw my purse on the dining room table, stripped off my three-inch heels, grabbed my phone and sprawled out on the couch.
“Madeleine, I think I’m in heat.”
“What do you think your hubby will think of that?”
I thought about Madeleine’s question. Jerry wouldn’t really care if I found someone, permanent or temporary, that jangled my hormones. It’d probably be easier for him to get out of the marriage if I had something on the side, as he wanted me to believe he did. He was wrong about one thing. I had no intention of making anything easy for Jerry, not after he had humiliated me in front of all my friends at my thirty-fifth birthday party by arriving two hours late with a blonde in tow. Everyone thought I should forgive him for his little peccadilloes. I would have, if that was the problem. But I knew Jerry. He wasn’t drunk, and the blonde was rented. That was the real humiliation. He manipulated our relationship the same way he manipulated his business associates. The man didn’t have an honest emotional bone in his body. Maybe I wasn’t any better. The only real friend I had was Madeleine. The rest were just acquaintances I occasionally hung out with—playing tennis, having lunch, attending parties with the “right” people, shopping. I’ve always liked shopping. That’s why running a consignment shop with Madeleine had seemed a natural step for me. Well, perhaps I’d miscalculated just how natural it was here. Swerving to avoid an alligator in my lane or a feral hog dashing across the road was not exactly what I had in mind when I moved. Until Mrs. Sanders’ murder, I had believed that the endless pastures opened something inside me. Maybe it was all the heat and humidity melting my cold Yankee heart like a popsicle under the summer sun. Or maybe it was just heat stroke.
As for my PI, I didn’t really care at this point if the kiss was genuine or not. That had been one hot kiss, and I was eager for another. I plunged into sleep with the thought of his full, firm lips on mine.
The ringing of my bedside phone disrupted my dreamy desires. I looked at the caller ID. Jerry. Wouldn’t you know it? He just had to insert himself into my life down here, didn’t he? I took the phone out of its cradle and, without answering, punched the off key. I turned toward the window. The moon was rising and its light danced across my bedroom floor, finding its way finally onto my bed. I touched the silver with my fingertips, listened for a moment to the whisper of the palm fronds outside my window and fell asleep. I dreamed of azure eyes.
Chapter 3
By the following morning, reality struck down my nighttime fantasies and made me wonder if the kiss had been real.
Madeleine sat on the end of my bed waiting for me to finish toweling off in the bathroom. “I tried your cell and got no answer. Same with your landline. Why do you bother having these devices if you turn them off all the time?” Since she had a key to my place, I wasn’t surprised to find her in my bedroom when I awoke. I was, however, surprised at the early hour and shocked when she told me the reason for her visit.
“Frida our cop friend called. There were no prints on the knife, but since it came from our store, we’re persons of interest in the case.”
“Mmmmm.” I sipped the cup of coffee she had brought and stared through the bedroom window.
“That’s all you can say? ‘Mmmm?’ We’re suspects.”
I glanced at her, then took a longer look. Silly of me not to notice immediately. The early hour, coffee from the newly opened, fancy coffee bar. All signs she was overwrought. My usually neat-as-a-professional, organized friend had popped out of bed at Frida’s call and failed to shower, put on makeup or do something with her hair. It looked like mine, but my style was on-purpose punk, not bed head tangle. She was upset and assumed I’d be the same.
“Well, let’s see,” I began in that cool tone of voice I couldn’t help adopt in a crisis even though I know it annoyed the hell out of Madeleine.
She humphed at me and rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to go to jail.”
“You’re not going to go to jail,” I insisted.
“I don’t want to be a suspect.”
“That’s not going to happen, either.” I hoped.
“She didn’t commit suicide, you know.” Her voice began an upward spiral.
“Kind of hard to stab oneself to death, although I bet it could be done.” I stirred another packet of sweetener into my cup.
“Why are you being so, so, so—”
“I’m being so-so-so about this thing because I know I didn’t do it and you didn’t do it … well, not intentionally, at least. You didn’t fall into her while carrying that knife display, did you? And not tell me?”
“Arghh.” She tossed her cup in the waste can and stormed out my bedroom door.
I followed her. “I’m kidding, honey.”
“I know you’re kidding, but someone has to open the store. Clearly, you’re not ready.” She stood in the hallway and stared back at me, a look of disgust on her face.
“I’m not?”
“You need to comb your hair.”
I stuck my head back into the bedroom and glanced quickly in the mirror. How the hell did she think I got that punk look? If I combed it, all the pizzazz would be gone.
“I’m fine, but have you looked in a mirror?”
She turned toward the hallway mirror and squeaked like a mouse. “I look like I fought with the cat all night.”
“I’ll open. You go home, take your time and get presentable. I’ll call Frida back.”
I didn’t believe we could possibly be suspects. No one intending to commit murder would grab a knife and plunge it into the victim in their own business. Unless that person was really, really dumb or didn’t own a television and hadn’t watched all the recent crime shows. On occasion, I found my new friends in Florida to be somewhat naive, but I couldn’t think of anyone who qualified as a stupid or TV-challenged killer. No one in Sabal Bay possessed those dubious qualifications. All I had to do now was share my reasoning with Frida. Should be a snap.
“So, no prints on the knife?” I’d convinced Frida to meet me at the local Tic Toc Restaurant for coffee. She didn’t want to appear to be socializing with a suspect, so I ran in for the coffee. We sat in her police cruiser and talked. If you were willing to bend the rules a little, you might see the cop car as an extension of an interview room at the station.
“You can’t really believe we had anything to do with Mrs. Sanders’ death.” Madeleine might not like my logical side, but Frida, being a cop, had to respect it.
“It was your shop. You were right there. Opportunity. I have to run with it. ”
“No you don’t. Who says?” Anger and just a droplet of anxiety were watering down my desire to be reasonable.
“Captain Tony says, that’s who. He’s my boss.” She crumpled up her cup and turned to me. “Besides, there’s more. Do you have something you’d like to tell me about you and Valerie Sanders?”
The question caught me by surprise. I couldn’t imagine what Frida might have on me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Frida stared at me for a moment. “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. You could cooperate by coming down to the station this afternoon and answering some questions.”
“I’ll answer them now.”
“Now, I’m doing you a favor as your friend. Later, you’ll be doing me a favor by coming to the station to save my butt with Tony.”
“What about Madeleine?” I asked.
“No one could possibly believe tiny little Madeleine could stab a woman the height and size of Mrs. Sanders.”
What she wasn’t saying was that I was the most likely suspect once you gave up the suicide theory.
“You assume I’m smart enough not to spread my prints all over the murder weapon like butter on toast but dumb enough to kill her in my own shop.” I leaned back against the car door and crossed my arms over my chest. “So, what’s my motive?”
“Who knows? Maybe you didn’t like the clothes she brought to your store for consignment.”
“You’re kidding, right? I wouldn’t care if she brought in a nun’s habit as long as I thought someone would buy it. I don’t have to like the stuff people bring to the store. I just have to believe someone else will pay money for the item.”
She shook her head. “Forget it. Captain Tony says we talk, so we talk. How about three?”
I opened the door and got out, then turned and stuck my head back into the car. “Should I bring a lawyer?”
“You can if you want, but you’re not being charged with anything ... yet.” Frida offered a rueful smile, as if to excuse her role in the upcoming interview, waved at me and sped out of the lot.
A Secondhand Murder Page 2
