A Secondhand Murder

by Lesley A. Diehl

  “One date only.”

  “Two, if you count breakfast.” He held up two fingers.

  “One.” I thrust out my chin in defiance. “Why would I go out on another date with you when the first was so disappointing?”

  Frida stepped between the two of us. “Okay, let’s take this back to the office. Trevor will be staying here to cover the funeral. Why don’t we rendezvous back in Sabal Bay in, say, an hour?”

  It took me two hours to negotiate the drive from the coast to the Sabal Bay Police Station.

  “Why are you driving so slowly?” Madeleine squirmed around in her seat impatiently. “Are you trying to make us late? Frida won’t be happy.”

  “I’m just enjoying the scenery.”

  “You’ve driven this road a hundred times.”

  The 714 is one of the most memorable stretches of road in rural Florida. It passes between rows of palms and large oaks draped with Spanish moss. Like old-fashioned ballroom dancers, the trees reach out over the roadway as if to link hands with their leafy partners on the other side. Residents of the area refer to it as “the canopy.” The government is always threatening to cut down the trees in order to expand the road into a four-lane, but those against destroying the natural beauty of the route always prevail with petitions to leave it unchanged. I never tired of driving through the cool, shadowy tunnel, but this afternoon, I was focused less on the scenery and more on the thoughts in my head.

  “The woman at Mr. Sanders’ side? That was Valerie’s daughter. Same height and build, but Valerie was a blonde and her daughter’s a brunette.”

  Madeleine tossed me a glance. “Most blondes are.”

  I ignored the implication of her words.

  “And her husband …”

  “Eduardo. Handsome, isn’t he?” Madeleine rolled her eyes and grinned.

  “His face is too controlled, too angular for him to be one of the good guys. There was that female clone next to him, the one who looked as if she caught a whiff of swamp gas.”

  “That’s a rash judgment, isn’t that? We were at a funeral. What did you expect? She’d be cracking jokes? Besides, Alex’s face is angular, too.”

  “Yeah, but his eyes are azure, not reptilian.”

  “Reptilian is not a color.”

  “It is in my book.” I turned into the police parking lot. Frida’s cruiser was already there, as was Alex’s car. He was leaning against the door, legs crossed at the ankles, the epitome of cool confidence.

  When we got out of the car, Alex gave me a slow smile. “I took you for a better driver. I thought you might at least go the speed limit,” he said.

  “I had some things on my mind. Do you know who that woman was? The one standing next to Mr. Sanders?”

  “Valerie’s daughter, Constance, and her husband, Eduardo Pacheco?”

  “No, the other woman next to Eduardo.” I don’t know why I asked him. How would he know? Yet he answered me quickly enough.

  “Marie Artois. Valerie’s social secretary. I think she’s also a friend of Eduardo’s.”

  My, he knew a lot about that family.

  He opened the door to the building and ushered us in with a sweep of his hand.

  Frida met us in the hallway “There you are. I was beginning to think you skipped out on me.”

  I scrutinized her face for sarcasm but Frida wasn’t easy to read. It was no wonder she had made detective so quickly.

  She led all three of us into the same interview room, the same one I had been questioned in just days before. A navy blue jacket lay on the table. Frida picked it up and held it out to Madeleine and me. “Recognize this jacket?”

  Madeleine and I nodded. It was a loose fitting, unstructured jacket, no lining, boxy, fashionable several years back.

  “Good. You seem to be on top of your inventory.”

  I took the jacket and noted the tag hanging off the label in the back. From our shop. “It’s ours, but what’s the stain on the sleeve and front?”

  “Blood. Valerie’s blood. Whoever killed her wore this jacket over his or her clothes while stabbing our victim, ran out your side door near the dressing rooms, then tossed the item in the dumpster down the street.”

  “It had to have been a woman, someone from the crowd of customers that had been swarming the place on opening day. I’d have noticed if a man had come in.” I shifted my eyes to Alex and—I couldn’t help myself—smiled.

  “Eve’s right,” said Madeleine. “A man would have stood out. I can’t remember any that day. Not that we don’t welcome them in to shop for the women in their lives.” Madeleine smiled at Alex.

  “And these?” Frida pulled a pair of leather gloves out of the jacket’s pockets.

  “Also tagged. Also ours.” I reached out for them.

  Frida moved them beyond my grasp. “Evidence. There’s Valerie’s blood on the gloves and we’re examining them for epithelials.”

  “It could be a man,” said Alex.

  “Weren’t you listening?” I asked. “We just covered that.”

  “Not entirely. Someone could have come through the side door, grabbed some items from the return rack just outside the dressing rooms, put them on, stabbed her, then left through the same door.”

  “That door is always locked from the inside.” At least, it’s supposed to be.

  “Maybe Valerie let someone in,” said Alex.

  “How could that person get the knife from house goods in the main part of the store without either Madeleine or me seeing him? Hims, remember, are noticeable.”

  “Maybe Valerie had the knife on her. Perhaps she had picked one out of the display and taken it with her to the dressing rooms.” He certainly was quick with the theories.

  Frida shook her head. “Why would she do that?”

  “She was looking at the knives. I noticed that,” said Madeleine.

  “She took the knife for protection.” Yet another bold speculation on his part.

  “From whom?” I gave a snort of disbelief. He was spinning a wild tale here. Something I suspected he liked to do to get everyone riled up. He had done the same with me at the restaurant when he suggested I was the intended victim.

  “From the person she opened the door for, the person she arranged to meet at your shop.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned. Smug.

  Frida leaned forward toward Alex, her usually soft brown eyes now hard as black ice. “You seem to have a keen interest in this case, Mr. Montgomery. Ms. Appel told me you came into her store the day after the murder, saying you’d been hired to get information about Mrs. Sanders. Care to tell us what that’s about and who hired you?”

  “Can’t. Private between me and my client.”

  “Your client could be a killer. Have you thought of that?”

  “I have and if I thought there was anything illegal going on, I’d drop the client and tell you first thing.” He had the look of an innocent schoolboy.

  I didn’t buy that angelic façade for a minute. I caught Frida rolling her eyes and knew that she didn’t either.

  Frida stood and walked around the table until she stood inches behind Alex. “You need watching, Mr. Montgomery.”

  Oh, boy, did he, but not in the manner she had in mind.

  He smirked, unperturbed by the threat. “Want me to try on that jacket to see if it’s a fit, Detective?”

  “I know you didn’t kill her, but I hope you’re right about your client’s innocence. Meantime, I’m going to keep an eye on you.” Frida bent over him, close enough that she could have blown in his ear. She didn’t, of course, but I envied her position. Alex turned his head and their faces almost touched. Frida didn’t retreat a millimeter. Neither did Alex. They simply eyed each other without blinking until Frida reached out and picked a piece of something off his shoulder. She stood up to examine it in the overhead light. “A blonde hair, I believe.” She winked at me.

  “That could be anyone’s hair.” I could feel a flush work its way up my neck and onto my cheeks.r />
  Alex grinned. “Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s yours. This is the same coat I was wearing when we went dancing.”

  I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they’d crumble into dust. The man was so annoying. And so sexy.

  Chapter 8

  The answering machine light was blinking “5” when I got home. I hit the play button and scanned my almost empty refrigerator.

  “It’s Jerry, baby. Call me.”

  “Jerry here. It’s important that you call me.”

  “Jerry. Call. Soon.”

  “It’s me. I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m in trouble and need your help.”

  I picked up the phone and called Madeleine. “There’s nothing in my fridge. How do you feel about some Mexican food? I need to get out of the house, anyway.”

  “What do you mean? You’ve been out all day. We could order a pizza or Chinese.”

  “No, no, no.” A beep. Call waiting. “Look, if you don’t want to eat with me, just say so. I’m starved.”

  “If we had stayed at the funeral, I’m sure we would have been invited back to the house. I’ll bet the food was to die for. Oops, bad choice of words. You know what I mean. But instead …”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. We spent the afternoon in a much more exotic setting, the interrogation room of our local police station. Look, are we on for dinner or what?” Why were we arguing over food?

  “Okay. Give me at least an hour to get ready—”

  “Now! I mean, I want to go now. I’ll meet you at the Mexican restaurant in the plaza.” I hung up, grabbed my purse and hurried out the door. My cell rang. I checked caller ID. It was Jerry, so I shut it off. In my book, hunger trumped a call from my husband. No emergency of his had ever warranted instant action on my part. When he said he was in some kind of pickle, it usually meant with a woman or he needed money or he was in jail for running a red light under the influence. If this case was the exception, then too bad. He had cried wolf one time too many.

  I should have known better than to expect Madeleine to be on time. She went nowhere in public unless she was perfectly turned out. So I waited. I was on my second Margarita and second bowl of chips and salsa when she finally appeared, breathless. She wore a colorful, multi-tiered ankle-length skirt and white peasant blouse. On her tiny, French-pedicured feet were slave sandals, the strap around the ankle emphasizing the shapeliness of her slender feet.

  The handsome, dark-haired waiter looked at her with admiration and perhaps a hint of Latin passion. She tilted her head and pursed her Cupid’s-bow lips. “I’ll have one of those.” She pointed at my glass with the ring finger of her left hand. An awkward movement, but the gesture showed she wasn’t wearing a diamond or a wedding band.

  Before I could even take a breath, her drink appeared in front of her with another, much larger bowl of chips and salsa.

  “You’re late.” My tone was snappish.

  Madeleine opened her mouth to explain her tardiness, but I raised my hand to halt her words. “Not only did I miss your company earlier, but now that you’re here, the service has improved about a thousand percent. When I arrived, the waiter took fifteen minutes to even make it over here and another fifteen to get my drink.”

  “How many of these have you had?” She took a demure sip of her Margarita and licked her lips.

  “Never mind that. I’ve got a crisis on my hands.”

  Madeleine looked skeptical.

  The waiter scurried over and asked if “madam’s drink was to her liking.”

  Madam dropped her glance and fluttered her eyelashes. “Perhaps a little too sour.” He grabbed the glass with a waiter-like flourish and swept the offending drink away to the bar, returning in less than a nanosecond with another. He hovered at the table while she took a small taste. He cocked one dark eyebrow.

  Madeleine looked him right in the eyes. “Perfect.” I couldn’t tell if she meant the drink or him.

  He flashed his Latin smile and departed.

  “Why didn’t you just ask him to join us? Or better yet, you could accidentally drop your phone number onto his serving tray.”

  “About this crisis.” She settled back into the booth and threw her arm across the back of the seat, hitting the head of the man seated behind us.

  “You saw what happened today. PI Montgomery is way too nosy about my life. And when I got home, I had 5 messages from Jerry demanding that I call him. I’ve got two men I want to avoid. Then there’s the murder thing.”

  “I thought you told me not to worry about the murder thing.”

  I skewered her with what I wanted to believe was a scathing look, but the tequila had already taken the edge off my usually razor-sharp regard. “What I haven’t told you is Valerie Sanders and I go way back.”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  “What! You know what?”

  She caught the waiter’s eye, a feat difficult to accomplish now that more patrons had entered for dinner, and pointed to her glass.

  “Valerie and I only chatted briefly at the shop, but she told me a bit about the two of you. She said she knew you from Connecticut and that she wouldn’t have brought her clothes to us if she had known you were one of the owners. I guess using your maiden name fooled her. Good thing for us, too. She really didn’t like you, did she?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Does Frida know?”

  The waiter placed another drink in front of her and asked if we wanted to order.

  I pointed my finger at the kitchen. “Go away.”

  He did.

  “See, now that’s probably why Valerie didn’t like you. You’re so rude.”

  “What did she say about me?”

  I never did find out because just then an explosion rocked the restaurant, blowing out several plate glass windows in the front. People screamed and ducked under their tables. Others ran for the back. Waiters dropped their trays and rushed toward the back of the room. Cooks streamed from the kitchen into the dining room. People just entering hit the floor, covering their heads. Some of them crawled away from the noise toward the bar area, which was on the left and to the back. Shouts, cries, and moans filled the room. The manager rushed into the main part of the restaurant, trying to assure patrons that everything was fine. Luckily, the window seats had all been empty, so the flying glass only cut a few people.

  “Everyone be calm,” the manager said. “It looks like one of the cars in the parking lot caught fire and exploded. That’s what blew out the windows. I called nine-one-one.”

  It was all over in a few seconds. I too had dropped to the floor and crawled under our booth, where all I could see was people’s feet running back and forth. I had to know what was happening. I peeked from under the tablecloth and raised my head a little so that I could look out the windows. Sure enough, something was burning out there. What was once a car was now only a mass of twisted and seared metal, flames shooting from the wreckage. Despite its mangled state, something about the former vehicle looked familiar to me.

  I heard sirens and saw the blue lights of emergency vehicles on the road. I stood up and glanced across the table to where Madeleine had been, but she was gone. I looked under the table. Not there. I peered around the room and found her hanging onto the waiter at the end of the bar.

  How did she get over there?

  I watched her plant a kiss on his cheek then walk back to our table.

  “He rescued me. He was standing at the end of our row of booths, and he could have run the other way, but he tore over here, picked me up and carried me toward the bar, farther away from the windows. Now that’s what I call service.”

  I stood up and glared across the room at our waiter. “What about my safety?” I yelled. “What about me?” I pounded my chest, stuck out my chin in a belligerent manner and then slumped back down onto the bench. It was good to get that off my chest even though he probably couldn’t hear me.

  “You told him to go away. Remember?”

  EMTs arrive
d and checked over the patrons who had been hit by flying glass. Luckily, they had all been seated far enough from the windows that their wounds were superficial. A few people were still hysterical from the shock, so emergency personnel examined and calmed them as well. Meanwhile, fire trucks surrounded the vehicle and were extinguishing the flames.

  “Some excitement, huh?” said Madeleine’s waiter, who was refreshing the drink she had spilled thanks to his Tarzan act.

  I clasped my empty glass with a grip almost tight enough to break the little green-glass cactus stem as I watched the fire fighters spray fire retardant on the smoking vehicle. To be precise, they were spraying the hood of my car. My sexy red Miata convertible. The only one I’d seen in these parts. The one that always got me attention when I drove into a parking lot. The one that was paid for. The car I just had washed and waxed for $150 at SudsUp, where the guy applying the coat of wax told me he lusted after my car. My car. Not me. Gone. What happened? An accident? Or …

  By the time Frida arrived at our booth, I’d propped my chin on the edge of my Margarita glass for added support. “Your car is a total loss,” she said.

  “Right.” I raised my head. Frida’s blurry face came into view. I licked a bit of salt off the edge of my glass. “Maybe another drink?”

  Madeline chimed in on this one. “You’ve had enough. I told Paco not to serve you any more Margaritas.”

  Frida looked puzzled. “Who’s Paco?”

  “My, I mean, our waiter,” Madeleine said.

  “She’s right. I’ve had enough and he’s her waiter, not mine. I could hardly get a tortilla chip out of the guy.”

  “She seems to be taking the car thing awfully well,” said Frida, turning to Madeline. “Well, if you overlook the drinking.”

  “Tell me. Tell me …” I grabbed Frida’s arm.

  “Tell you what?”

  “I forget.” I propped my head on my elbows and looked across the table at her. “Oh, yeah, tell me how that happened to my car.”

  “We don’t know yet, but we think somebody put an incendiary device under your hood.”

  “They killed my car on purpose? The perp committed car murder?”