by Cassie Page
Tuesday said, “I’ve been doing all that? Seems like our conversations have revolved around your lack of money and the town’s epidemic of murder. I don’t recall mentioning Brooks that much.” She rolled her eyes. “But that’s just me.”
Olivia sank her head into her hands. When she looked up, she laughed. “Have I been borrowing a jack? Yeah, maybe I have.”
She meant the story of the man out in the country with a flat tire and no jack. He sees the light of a farmhouse off in the distance but by the time he gets there, he has convinced himself that the farmer won’t let him borrow a jack. He knocks, the farmer opens the door and the salesman has worked himself into such a fit of anger, he punches the guy in the nose. Borrowing a jack became their code for stupidly obsessing over something, usually a man.
“Listen,” Tuesday said, “I’m picking up the check on this one. Let’s go back to the house, have a small brandy and call it a night. But just so you know, the reason I got no love from these people tonight is this granny dress you made me wear.”
Olivia laughed, carefully avoiding casting her eyes in the direction of Detective Richards and his gorgeous date.
Tuesday eased the Mercedes into the driveway and Olivia took a flashlight out of her purse.
“What’s that for?”
“Just in case we catch the robber red-handed.”
“And what, you’re going to deck him with your purse light? Let me get my phone if you’re afraid. I have 911 on speed dial.”
Olivia stumbled a bit. Even though Sabrina ordered good champagne for the event, Olivia had more than she realized. She righted herself and said, “Okay, Tues. Let’s secure the perimeter.”
They crept up to the porch, looked through the paned windows. Olivia cautiously opened the front door and called out, “It’s the police. Show yourself now.”
Tuesday sighed. “Please, baby girl. Let there be light,” and reached in front of Olivia for the switch next to the door. The crystal chandeliers came to life and flooded the showroom. She gave Olivia a what did I tell you glare. Olivia dropped her purse, flashlight and keys on the nearest table and took off her shoes, Morse code for why do I torture myself with these stilettos. Then she grabbed the shoes with one hand and her purse and keys with the other and led the way to the back staircase.
Chapter Nineteen: Sons of Anarchy
Olivia called Cody as soon as she poured her first cup of coffee the next morning. Half a second later when Tuesday staggered into the kitchen squeezing sleep from the corner of her eyes and yawning so wide Olivia saw the gap in her back teeth, she held up the phone and pointed to the pot. Tuesday said something but Olivia turned her attention to Cody, who answered with a groggy, “Yeah?”
“Cody? You have some explaining to do. What were you doing with that thug who was fighting with Mrs. Gotshalk’s son last night?”
A silence during which Olivia slugged down a big gulp of coffee and Cody played innocent.
Olivia wasn’t having it. She glared at her phone as if to send the evil eye through cyberspace. “Yes, today is a work day. And what do you mean, what thug? I was at the country club last night and saw the whole thing. The fight, one of the guys peeling out of there in a pickup shaking his fist at you.”
More silence and another sip of coffee. “That was Roger? Roger from Blackman’s? Come over here now. We have to talk.” Then she noticed her sweats-for-pj’s and Tuesday’s bedroom hair and skin tight T-shirt and thong that she slept in and changed her mind. “No, make it an hour. We need to get decent.”
She hung up. “Want some eggs, Tues?”
Tuesday answered, “Does a drowning man want a lifeline?” sounding like she had been at the same all night kegger with Cody.
“But after breakfast I’m going to start my cleanse and give up sugar and alcohol.”
Olivia drained her coffee. “Why don’t you shower while I cook?”
Tuesday nodded sleepily, looking like she was suffering an attack of morning sickness.
Olivia pointed to the colorful array of alternative treatments Tuesday had unpacked, but never looked at. “Tues? Do you think maybe you need one of your potions?”
Tuesday looked at the corner of the counter cluttered with her stash and shook her head. “I need to neutralize my body. I’ll start taking them this afternoon.”
She headed back towards the bathroom just as the front door bell rang. “Holy wake up call, is this Granville Central Station?”
She looked at the rooster clock over the stove and grumbled to Olivia, “Why are we up so early? Did our mothers arrive while we were sleeping?”
Olivia scowled. “I told you to go easy on the brandy last night. We’ve got work to do today. Everything in that showroom needs a new tag with the sale price on it. Now let me get rid of who ever is bothering me again at seven a.m. Probably the reporters are back.”
Olivia plodded downstairs and opened the French doors into the showroom. What was it with seven a.m. callers? This was the same time Cody showed up with the body and almost the time that George Clooney appeared on her doorstop. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she was going to sleep until eight and avoid what was becoming a seven a.m. curse. Not that she could call Mr. Clooney, er Bacon, a curse, but the timing of this visitor certainly threw her off guard.
Closer to the door, she could see her caller through the paned windows. Her heart revved up a few beats. Detective Richards stood on the porch flipping through his note pad. Quickly threading her fingers through her hair and making a futile attempt to arrange the sweats into some kind of fashion statement, she opened the door.
“Detective Richards?” She fumbled lamely for a greeting. “Um, have you found my Imari bowl and netsuke?”
Richards stuck the note pad in his pocket, his expression as grim as ever. Did he look particularly appealing this morning because she knew for certain that he wasn’t available? She wouldn’t put it past her cockeyed psychology when it came to men.
He shook his head. “No, afraid not. But that is what I want to talk to you about.”
She opened the door wider and invited him in with a sweep of her arm. “Please.”
The press trucks were still across the street, but apparently no one had ordered a wake up call.
So Richards entered without being seen, looking around, taking everything in. Olivia recognized it now as an occupational tic.
“So I take it from your question,” he said, not yet looking at her, “your valuables have not appeared?”
“Haven’t seen gum nor tooth of them.”
Richards squinted his confusion.
“My grandmother’s expression.” Olivia was acutely aware of her grungy appearance, but always rejected the coy tactic of apologizing for the way she looked, thereby inviting a forced disclaimer and compliment. “Gran hated clichés and wouldn’t say hide nor hair.”
The detective’s expression never lost its half-grimace. Olivia considered whether he was suppressing a smile or indigestion. She’d put her money on a sour stomach, probably part of the hangover syndrome afflicting both she and Tuesday.
“I was just making coffee, detective. Can I pour you a cup?” There was more than one way to warm up a cold fish.
Richards made no effort to disguise his scrutiny of the shop. “No, I only have a minute. I wanted to be sure my men did a thorough job of investigating yesterday.”
Olivia saw his eyes rest on Hemingway’s lamp. “Do you know antiques, detective?” She explained the writer’s connection to the lamp.
He shook his head. “I know nothing about antiques, but I have read Hemingway, of course.”
Olivia commented on the disdain in his voice. “You’re not a fan?”
“Hardly. I’d like to think we are over Hemingway worship and all that macho bull. . . .” He corrected himself. “Business. But those horns could come from the blackbuck we have in India.”
“Your birthplace?”
“Oh, no. I’m a Midwesterner. A suburb of Chicago. Lake Forest
.”
Olivia blinked. “I know it.” The Billionaire Hollow of the Midwest. Hardly the breeding grounds for cops. And very, very white male oriented. She recalled Richards bristling when Mrs. Blackman referred to “you outsiders” at the police station. Olivia bet he had a story to tell. She guessed his parents were servants to one of the wealthy Lake Forest families. Lake Forest would never allow the type of small shop Indian immigrants liked to set up.
“When I visited my grandparents some years back they took me to Vallanadu because of my interest in wildlife. It’s a sanctuary. The blackbuck is on the endangered species list.”
Olivia started to apologize for owning the lamp. She didn’t want to embarrass him by pressing him any further about his background. “Of course, in the Hemingway era, . . . .”
But Richards was relaxing, becoming downright chatty. “My father did an internship at a Chicago investment firm during his studies at the London School of Economics. Fell in love with the cold winters.”
He misinterpreted the look on Olivia’s face. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking. He could have lived any place he chose. Why would a native of one of the hottest places on the planet pick one of the coldest? But stranger things have happened, I guess. When I left Harvard I vowed I would only live in sunshine for the rest of my life. Then a dream job came up back in Chicago. But that’s neither here nor there. Let me get back to business and I’ll leave you alone.”
Olivia was at a loss for words, and more than embarrassed for her immigrant profiling. But with that background, why was he a detective in Darling Valley?
“Miss Granville, I’ve decided to place a detail outside your house tonight, just to keep an eye on things. I should have done it yesterday. I trust nothing else is missing?”
“Okay. No, but I haven’t looked.”
She noticed his bristly chin. Why hadn’t he shaved? He was getting ready to leave. She touched his sleeve to ask a question, felt his arm under his jacket, a delicious sinking feeling warmed her solar plexus. What was she doing? “Um, detective, I have to ask you. Do you always start at the crack of dawn?”
“Murderers don’t take any days off and neither do I. Even when the day has to start at 6 am.”
Startled, Olivia said, “You think the murderer stole my things?”
Richards didn’t seem to be able to maintain a lighthearted pose for long. His eyes narrowed again. “I can’t understand why you are being targeted. It could be random coincidence, if I believed in coincidences. Have you noticed anything unusual lately?”
She crossed her arms, but she needed them to camouflage her whole body, not just the sad chest that her hoodie accentuated. “Actually, I have. A body in my armoire and a target on my back.”
Richards shook his head in grim agreement. “A homicide puts everyone under the microscope, Miss Granville. I’m sure you can understand the need for increased scrutiny.”
“I do, and I would appreciate it more if you could tell me about the progress you’re making. Any clues show up at the country club?”
She was fishing for news about the girlfriend, she knew that, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
“Oh, I wasn’t at the auction to investigate the murder.” He reached into his pants pocket and jangled his change.
No, of course you weren’t. You were impressing the socks off your girlfriend with all the hot shots you know.
He didn’t offer any more information, so she asked, “Well, have you made any progress, outside of the country club?”
“We’re investigating some leads. Nothing I can talk about just yet. I stopped by to see if you’ve located your belongings. My officer said nothing seemed to be amiss when he came by yesterday. Of course, since this is still a crime scene, two thefts in twenty-four hours raises alarm bells. I was hoping you’d tell me they’d turned up.”
Richards was wearing a suit. Was it the one he had on last night? She tried to remember. Yeah, it was. She detected the wine stain on the front of his shirt. He probably was on his way home from a sleepover at his girlfriend’s house. That realization made her more acutely aware of her baggy sweats and helmet hair.
He volunteered that, “Tasmania lives near here and I stayed at her place last night rather than drive into Marin City.”
Olivia wanted to say, “TMI, detective,” but he blathered on and didn’t give her an opening. Crapola. Why was her heart pounding for this guy when she was still mooning over Brooks? Maybe her birth certificate was wrong. Was she 12, instead of 32?
He continued. “So I thought I’d stop by and just see for myself.”
Olivia shook her head and gave him a mournful grimace. “Sorry. Tuesday and I have torn this place apart. They are gone.”
“What about your assistant,” Richards pulled his notepad out of his pocket, “Mr. White. Do you think he could have picked them up? Innocently or otherwise?”
“Cody wouldn’t do that. He just wouldn’t. And anyway, whenever he was in the house, he was with me. He hasn’t been alone in the house. Plus, he wouldn’t steal from me. I know that.”
“Well, if anything turns up on our end, I’ll let you know. I won’t keep you. I need to just go around to Mrs. Harmon’s apartment and check something out with her.”
“Mrs. Harmon? Why are you interested in her?”
“Confidential, I’m afraid.”
“Well, she doesn’t rouse herself until close to ten. I’m not sure she’d hear you knocking.”
“Oh, she’s expecting me.
Stunned by the news that he was not only investigating Mrs. Harmon but also that she deigned to speak to anyone before noon, Olivia said, “Well, don’t let me keep you. You can go down through the back stairs if you like.” She pointed towards her office.
“No, that’s all right. I’ve disturbed you enough. Thanks for your time. Oh, one more thing? What is your relationship with the deceased’s daughter?”
“I have no relationship with her. I don’t know her, well, only that she exists. I believe she’s a friend of Mrs. Harmon and was friendly with Cody White. But no longer from what I can gather. You know how it is with kids and dating. Easy come, easy go.”
“Yes, I know that.”
Oh, why so serious? Touch a nerve named Tasmania? Before Olivia could say anything else, Richards turned and opened the door, causing the little bell over the door to jingle. Olivia stopped him.
“Detective Richards, can I ask you a question? How did you know I’d be up this early?”
He cracked a faint smile that allowed Olivia to get a glimpse of his dazzling teeth. “I’m a detective, remember? You work for yourself. When was the last time you slept past 5 am.”
Olivia smiled back. “Make that 4 am and you’ve got me.”
His smile disappeared and for just a moment Olivia caught his eyes quickly scanning her down to her bare toes.
Oh my god. Is he checking me out, She wondered? He just left his girlfriend’s place. Are all the men in Darling Valley slugs?
As she downgraded his good-guy rating, he slipped back into his formal, policeman’s stance. “Goodbye, Miss Granville.”
“Good bye, detective. And, oh . . . “ She gestured to her sweats. “I’m sorry about the way I look. It’s so early and all.”
“Not at all. You look quite fine.”
Arrrghhh rattled through her brain. What was wrong with her, apologizing to this, this, GUMSHOE! She closed the door behind him and watched him walk around to the side and up the driveway to the entrance of Mrs. Harmon’s apartment. Well, at least he didn’t hassle her about the illegal unit.
Chapter Twenty: Banking Day
Olivia wound her turquoise and ivory beads through her tangerine cashmere scarf and arranged the creation on her neck. She zipped up her cropped Alexander McQueen skinny jeans and pondered her sweater collection for a moment before grabbing a yellow cabled silk pullover, hand knit by the owner of Cobwebs and Cashmere, the yarn shop across the street. Kittie, the owner of the shop, assured her the col
or was made for her blond highlights. Olivia wanted to say, honey, I’ve been worked over by the masters of Rodeo Drive, but bought it anyway and wrote off the sweater as a public relations expense.
The reason she invested a few hundred dollars in the sweater when she had bins full in her closet was because Kitty Woolery, could that really be her name, was the first shop owner to give Olivia the time of day and she wanted to build on the favorable first impression she had made. Olivia did not knit: the sweater was a handmade sample she begged Kitty to part with, for twice what Olivia was sure it was worth. Business was business. She checked herself in the mirror. She was ready to meet Cody and anything else the day might have to offer. Why couldn’t Richards arrive now?
Tuesday raised her eyebrows at the tangerine, yellow and orange get up and said Olivia looked like a citrus juice commercial. Olivia kept her mouth shut about her friend’s outfit. Leather pants cut into daisy dukes, ripped fishnet stockings, a pink lace cami under a man’s 1950’s sport coat and tap shoes. Her hair was badly braided into four cornrows with frayed scrunchies at the tips and over it she had jammed on a pillbox hat, circa 1960. Olivia had gotten Tuesday to dress down for the auction. That was all she could expect in the way of fashion correctness for the remainder of this trip. But she did say, “A chapeau pour petit déjeuner?”
Just then a text came in.
“It’s Jesse,” she said.
Tuesday feigned a swoon. “The dreamy fish monger.”
Olivia held up her index finger to silence Tuesday, and then read the message.
Wuts up w Queenie and Blkmr’s dtr? Tt 1’s a nasty pce o wrk and they r in cahoots bout smthin. We noobies gotta stk 2gthr. yr bb brudda
Olivia had to sit down to read it to Tuesday.
“Okay, what’s this about?”
Olivia explained that Jesse referred to Mrs. Harmon as Queenie and this was the second time she was implicated in something with Jessica Blackman. Why was Jesse worried about Olivia’s well-being all of a sudden? His attention comforted her, but she was in the dark about the reason. They’d have a friendly chat if they ran into each other around town, but that was the extent of their relationship. When she first arrived he would fill her in on some of the local flora and fauna and that’s when he first referred to her tenant as Queenie. “Have you seen her carry that purse? I swear, I expect her to start waving to the commoners.”
