“No. I gave her the night off. I’ll get it.” Cory hustled from the pool area toward the front of the house.
Randolph continued standing at the end of the lounge, rocking back and forth on his heels and toes, looking me up and down.
“How tall are you, anyway?”
“How tall are you?” I shot back.
He tossed his head back, the wave of abundant hair barely moving, and guffawed. “That’s a good one.” Was it sprayed in place to cover a bald spot? He removed the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his eyes. “A good one.”
I could hear voices issuing from inside the house. Familiar voices. One was Madeleine’s. The others belonged to Alex, Frida, and Timble.
“Oh, boy. Now that everyone’s here, we can have a party.” I raised my glass in a salute to the newcomers and looked over the rim of it at Cory. “I told you the cops would be coming around soon.”
Frida gave me a look of disgust. “I found this one,” she pointed to Madeleine, “at the corner, and this one,” Alex smiled, “was leaving by a door at the back of the house. You’re wrong, Eve. This is no party. I have a few questions I need answered.”
So did I. I settled back into the lounge with my drink and tried to hide my look of gleeful curiosity.
Frida walked over to the lounge, reached down and took the glass from my hand. “The two of you can leave.” She nodded her head at Madeleine and me. “Let’s see,” she consulted her notebook. “PI Montgomery, I’ll be in touch. Soon.”
“Don’t you want to tell him not to leave town?” I reluctantly rose from the chaise and shot PI Alex a sharp look. Madeleine grabbed my arm and tried to hurry me out. I was waiting for Alex.
“He knows the script.” Frida gave him one of her best police smiles—lips slightly curved upwards, no teeth, no amusement in her eyes.
“Let me walk you out.” Randolph placed his hand in the small of my back and guided me toward the door. I moved away from Randolph’s presumptuous gesture and stepped ahead of him.
“Don’t leave me here with these, these police people,” said Cory, but Randolph was already walking toward the front entrance.
Alex pulled the door open and gestured to Madeleine and me. “Ladies.”
Impulsively, I grabbed Alex’s arm and smiled into his face. If I couldn’t be in on Frida’s investigation of the Burnsides, I could at least grill Alex about his surprising appearance at the house. I wasn’t about to let him get away once we hit the street.
“You’ve got quite a grip,” Alex whispered in my ear. “We weren’t on such good terms when you left the restaurant this morning. Change of heart?”
I tightened my hand around his arm—his yummy, muscular, warm, sexy arm—and felt his hand on my rear. I jumped away from him, about to slap that smug, sexy, yummy—never mind. He looked surprised at my movement, and I realized the hand on my ass wasn’t his. It was Randolph’s. The gremlin was coming on to me!
“Please come back. Soon. Anytime.” Randolph gave me a wink. “Bring your tiny friend, too.” He gave Madeleine a look of dwarfish lust.
A threesome? As if reading my mind, Randolph shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips. I didn’t want to imagine what he had in mind, but I couldn’t help it. An unpleasant vision of Cory interrupting a naked Randolph as he pursued Madeleine and me around the pool almost caused me to lose my Johnnie Green into a bed of azaleas.
“You don’t look very well.” Madeleine reached out and put her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
“You need to sit down?” Alex took my other arm.
“I could use a stiff drink.”
“You just had one. Back there.” Madeleine gestured with her head toward the house.
“I didn’t get to finish it. You up for a drink, PI Montgomery?” I gave him my best flirty look. I even batted my eyelashes.
“You got something in your eye?” Madeleine was just being mean.
I rode in Alex’s car, afraid that if I let him take off by himself, he’d bolt. He had to have known that I was up to something. He wasn’t a total idiot. Madeleine was driving behind us and I kept sneaking glances of her in the rearview mirror. She looked as if she was having an argument with herself. I hoped her better side—the one telling her to drive home and leave me to flirt—wouldn’t win.
Once we were all safely in the bar, I grabbed his hand again. He had questions to answer.
“You can let go now,” said Alex. The three of us had selected a booth at the rear of the bar. “I think the circulation in my arm has been cut off for so long that it’ll have to be amputated.”
“I’ll give your arm back if you answer my question.”
“I can’t promise anything, but for you, I’ll try.” He mimicked my eyelash batting and gave me a sarcastic smile.
“Fine. Point taken. Let’s get down to business.” Thank goodness. Another eyelash bat and my lids would fall off.
The bartender came out from behind the bar. “We got no table service here. You’ll have to order at the bar.”
“Can’t you take our order?” Madeleine produced her most winning smile.
“If I take your order, I’ll have to take everyone’s order.”
We looked around. There was no one else in the place.
“Rules is rules.” He returned to his station.
Madeleine’s smile slipped. “Oh, I’ll go. I think the two of you have some things to work out.”
“There’s nothing to work out. I just need to know what the hell Alex was doing at Cory’s house.”
“I’ll have a Bud.” He pointed at me. “She’ll have a scotch.”
“I’ll have one, too.” Madeleine licked her lips.
Alex shook his head. “You’ll have a coke. You’re driving home.” I chuckled at Madeleine’s look of irritation before she headed for the bartender. Now she could finally appreciate how annoying this man could be.
Alex turned his attention to me. “As for your question, it’s none of your business. Why were you there?”
“Consignment shop business.” I smirked at him. We were at a stalemate.
He ran his hands through his windblown hair. I’d love to have done that for him and messed up his coif a bit more.
“Have you considered this, Eve? Maybe the killer made a mistake and wasn’t after Valerie Sanders, but someone else.”
What an interesting speculation. I wondered what had provoked it. Had his chat with Cory uncovered a new lead? My heart raced with excitement and eager curiosity. “Oh yeah? Like, who?”
“You.”
I laughed.
Madeleine returned with our drinks. “You think Eve was the target?” She slid into the booth beside me. “Yeah, I could see that.”
A small sliver of fear crept up the back of my neck. I ignored the feeling and took the offensive. “You can? Why is that? Because people find me irritating, overbearing, and unpleasant?”
“Well that, of course, but mostly your looks.” Madeleine took a sip of her coke.
“My looks make people want to murder me?”
“No. I mean you look a lot alike.”
“You can’t mean Valerie and me.” My very best friend was insulting me, and, what’s worse, she was doing it in front of a man I found … interesting.
“She’s right. You and Valerie are similar in appearance. I mean, were similar.” Alex looked quite satisfied about getting Madeleine to side with him.
How could the two of them compare my racy, unique, spot-on style to Valerie’s south Florida society matron guise? “How? How were we alike?”
“Don’t get your thong in a twist. What I think we mean,” Madeleine glanced at Alex for confirmation, “is that you were both unusually tall women with blonde hair. Of course, yours has black roots.”
“That’s intentional. It’s a look, not a mistake!” I was yelling now.
“You both hung around the consignment shop. If someone had hired a killer and given him or her a description, the killer could have mis
taken Valerie for you.” Alex began peeling the label off his beer bottle with his thumb.
I took a slug of my scotch. With the next swallow, I hit the bottom of my glass and started to chew my ice cubes. “That’s silly. Why would anyone—I mean serious now—anyone want me dead?”
Madeleine rolled her eyes but kept quiet.
Alex continued to build a pile of soggy label pieces on the table in front of him. “There’s your reluctance to give your husband a divorce.” He refused to meet my eyes.
“How would you know anything about that?”
He concentrated on his thumb, then raised his eyes to mine. “It’s my business to know. That’s all I can tell you.” He stood and threw several bills on the table. “Drinks are on me. I gotta go.”
As we watched him walk out, I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My mouth had fallen open so far a Humvee could have driven in. Madeleine looked the same.
I grabbed my purse and ran after him. Madeleine was right behind me, but by the time we reached the parking lot, he was already pulling out, fast.
“That was so sweet of him,” said Madeleine.
“What was sweet? Paying for our drinks?”
“No. I think he was warning you to be careful. I think he likes you. A lot.”
“He was fingering Jerry, and that’s stupid. He can’t know anything about Jerry if he thinks Jerry would hire somebody to kill me, just to get me to finalize the divorce. Jerry’s a bit impulsive and impatient, but he’s no fool. Who would the authorities look for first if I died under unusual circumstances? Him, of course.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
I considered the possibility that Jerry had hired someone to kill me and rejected it. He was far too cheap to pay anyone to do that. A hit like that had to cost a lot of money, unless, of course, you hired some idiot who couldn’t tell a society matron from a flashy, sexy, displaced Connecticut know-it-all broad. I reconsidered. Now that sounded like something Jerry would do. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Jerry had never done any work that he could have gotten someone else to do for him, especially if the price was right. I wondered how much the bastard thought I was worth dead.
Chapter 7
“We didn’t know Valerie all that well.” Madeleine’s tone of voice told me she was having second thoughts about being here. She squirmed around in a folding chair in the back of the room. The funeral director had set up several additional rows of chairs for Valerie’s service because the space had been filled beyond capacity.
“It’s the professional thing to do. Will you sit still?” I wanted to put my hand on her head to stop her from wiggling.
“My seat is uncomfortable. You’d think a place with this much class would have better seating.”
“We’re not going to be here for very long. Stop thinking about your butt.”
Our presence at Valerie’s funeral was more than good business. I had insisted that we attend for another reason. I had to get a better look at Valerie. Was Alex right? Were she and I alike? I should have had a better picture of the woman in my mind. I’d seen her in the store at least three or four times. We’d had a confrontation. I’d even discovered her dead in my shop. Why couldn’t I call up her image to make the comparison? Maybe the trauma of the murder had wiped out some important neural connections.
From where we sat in the back, I couldn’t see into the casket, and I knew the lid would be closed before the service began. Once that happened, my chance to make comparisons would be gone forever.
“I’m going up front to pay my respects to the family.”
“You don’t know the family. We never met them.”
“C’mon. You said your fanny was killing you.” I yanked her out of her chair.
“I don’t want to get too close.”
“For God’s sake, she’s dead, and it’s not like she had a contagious disease.” I grabbed her arm and walked her to the casket. I spotted many of our West Palm customers among the mourners as we passed, but no one gave us a nod of recognition. Just to be contrary, when I passed near Cory Burnside and hubby, Randolph, I waved and mouthed a hello. She sniffed and turned away, but randy Randolph gave me a smile and puckered his lips as if to blow me a kiss.
I stood in front of the casket, looking down at Valerie Sanders. She was at least five years older than I, but they were well-preserved years. Her lips were full, her nose was long and she had high cheekbones and blonde hair—short, but not cut in the same punky style as mine. I couldn’t see any resemblance beyond the general impression of tall, cool, blonde. Besides, she was heavier than me. I shook my head. Only an idiot would …
“Your sister?” asked a woman who came up behind me. “I didn’t know Valerie had a sister.”
I turned to deny the relationship, but another voice interrupted.
“Now do you see what I mean?” I felt Alex’s breath on my neck. He stood close. Too close. His shoulder rubbed mine, sending little shivers down my side.
I ignored him, grabbed a hold of Madeleine once more and steered her toward the family. I offered my hand to a man I assumed to be Valerie’s husband. He was short, balding, his eyes red-rimmed, either from crying or too much alcohol.
“My condolences.”
Beside him stood a young woman whose face reminded me of Valerie’s, but this woman was thinner, younger. A daughter. She gave me one of those you-can’t-be-anybody-important looks, then leaned into the man at her side and whispered in his ear. From his dark good looks, I guessed him to be the South American husband. He glanced over at me, put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Ah. Constance and her rich polo–pony-riding husband—Eduardo, or Emilio, or Edmond.
The woman standing at Eduardo’s other side moved closer to him, her hand coming to rest on his coat sleeve. Her face was exquisite—angular, but not masculine. A family member? She had Eduardo’s café au lait skin and chiseled features. Perhaps his sister. She gave me a dismissive up and down look as if my presence was a fashion faux pas.
I turned my attention back to Valerie’s husband, who shook my hand, a look of puzzlement on his face. “You are?”
“Eve. From Sabal Bay.”
His puzzled expression remained. “I don’t remember Valerie mentioning your name. She had friends over there? I’m surprised.”
“We were both fascinated by old Florida. I just met her several months ago, but I’m so distressed to hear of her death in … that shop.”
He nodded at my words, as if he too found her place of demise as unpleasant as the death itself. “Valerie was quite a gal. She loved to go to unusual places.” He spoke as if trying to explain her presence somewhere other than on Worth Avenue. His pleasant remembrance of Valerie, which had animated his face for a moment, faded. He grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Her wandering got her killed, didn’t it?”
“She’s not one of Mom’s friends.” The voice came from a younger man standing slightly behind Valerie’s husband. I watched as the interruption turned Mr. Sanders’ remorse into concern, then irritation.
“‘Mom?” I was puzzled. He didn’t look like Valerie.
“Valerie was Dwight’s, my son’s, stepmother.” Mr. Sanders spoke through puckered lips, as if he had sucked on a lime.
Dwight looked familiar and out of place here among the well-groomed and fashionably dressed icons of the Palm Coast. His clothes hung loosely on him and he was unshaven. What did I know about the fashion trends of the younger generation? Perhaps he was going for the European look, with several days’ growth of beard and his baggy, unpressed suit.
“This woman and her friend here,” the son nodded his head toward Madeleine, “own the shop where Mom was killed. They weren’t friends. The cops told me they think she might have done it.”
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Sanders’ face had that still, cold look of anger on it. His lips pressed together in a hard line.
“Probably gloating that she got
away with it.” Dwight’s voice was reedy and whiny.
That did it. This little twit was annoying. I wanted to grab his rumpled lapels and shake him, but Alex, reading my mind, placed a restraining hand on my arm. “Let’s go. I’m sure Dwight didn’t mean anything by his remarks. We’ll leave Leon, uh, Mr. Sanders, to his grief.” Alex nodded to the family and steered me away from them.
“But …”
“He’s right.” Madeleine shoved me from behind, and the two of them guided me toward the door. On the way out, I saw a smirk on Cory’s face. The tip of Randolph’s tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his lips as I passed. Mourners who frequented our shop cast their eyes down toward their programs and feigned ignorance of my identity. As if guessing that I might use this opportunity to launch into one of my diatribes about hypocrisy, Madeleine quickened her pace and the sea of faces became a blur as she and Alex wrangled me out of the funeral parlor.
Maybe Alex and Madeleine thought they had rescued me, but they were wrong. Once outside, I bumped into Detective Frida and her mentor/sidekick, Timble.
“It’s not what you think. I’m not attending the funeral of my victim to get my jollies,” I said.
“Well, since you’re here and Madeleine’s here and … well, well, it’s PI Montgomery again. The two of you should find better places to meet.”
“You’re as perceptive as Eve said you were.” Alex gave Frida a one-hundred-watt smile.
Had I said something to Alex about Frida? I didn’t recall that, but there had been a lot of wine and dancing and … that kiss. I couldn’t remember everything I had said on our date.
Frida smiled back at Alex, the wattage on her teeth equally blinding. “I’ve been looking for a chance to speak with you, especially since you and Eve seem to be such good friends. You turn up everywhere together. Now is good for me. What about you?”
“Now? Uh …” This time his voice carried a note of concern. “As for Eve and me, well, we’ve had a few dates, but …”
“A few? I only know about one. There were more and you didn’t tell me?” Madeleine looked at me with accusing eyes.
A Secondhand Murder Page 5
