"How were they?" I asked. Though the scene in front of me pretty much answered that question.
"Who? The little—" Ricky started.
"Angels," Dana finished, sending him a pointed look. "They were little angels."
I grinned. For an actress, my best friend was a terrible liar. "Glad to hear it."
"You're home early," Dana said, glancing at the clock.
"Not early enough." I sighed.
As we cleaned up the chaos in the living room, I filled Dana and Ricky in on what had happened at the Antiques Extravaganza. Not that I had a lot of details, other than my mom had not killed the appraiser and all signs pointed to the idea that she had.
Dana and Ricky made the appropriate gasps and wide eyes at all the right parts.
"So, you think someone stole your mom's hatpin and killed the guy with it?" Dana asked when I'd finished.
I shrugged. "They must have."
"Do you think it was opportunity or intentional?" Ricky asked, collapsing onto the sofa.
"You mean, do I think someone actually framed my mom on purpose?" That was a disconcerting thought.
Ricky nodded. "Or maybe the hatpin just looked convenient?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. But the argument she had with the victim was loud enough that almost anyone there would have heard it. She makes a good scapegoat."
"The police can't possibly think your mother had anything to do with this!" Dana jumped in, her brows pulling down in a frown of concern.
I shrugged. "It doesn't look good."
"But Ramirez knows she had nothing to do with it, right?" she pressed.
I nodded. "Absolutely. And I'm sure he'll do what he can, but I just don't know how much that will be."
My concern lacing that thought must have been clear on my face, as Dana patted my hand reassuringly. "I'm sure your mom will be fine. I mean, if this guy Carrington was that much of a jerk, chances are he's cheesed off a whole list of antiquers, right?"
"Right," I said, liking that idea. "I'm sure Mom's not the first person he's rubbed the wrong way."
Ricky pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Let's check it out," he said pulling up social media sites.
Dana and I watched over his shoulder as he scrolled through several different articles about Carrington, most of them about his untimely demise that afternoon.
"Looks like he was local," Ricky said, pulling up a social media page with Carrington's picture front and center. "It says here he co-owned a small antique shop in Venice called Yesterday's Treasures."
"We should totes go there tomorrow," Dana said, bobbing her bun up and down.
I gave her a look. Something about the hint of excitement in her voice made me think she's wasn't just interested in the antiques.
"What?" she said with mock innocence. "You want your mom to go down for murder?"
"Dana!" Ricky nudged her with his elbow. "I'm sure Ramirez won't let that happen."
But I knew a small part of her was right. Of course my husband would do everything he could to keep Mom out of trouble. But with a roomful of witnesses to their altercation and the murder weapon in her possession, I wasn't sure if everything he could do would be enough.
"I guess it wouldn't hurt to just go ask a couple of questions…" I trailed off.
"I'll be here at nine," Dana said.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning Ramirez was up and out the door before I even had the willpower to raise my head off the pillow. Not that he expected it of me. He'd known when we'd met that I was not an early riser, and he accepted it just like I accepted the fact he'd never learn to put the toilet seat down. Call it marital compromise. Especially since the twins had come along, I'd taken advantage of every second of sleep I could get. Even if those seconds were usually over much too quickly. Case in point—almost as soon as I heard Ramirez's car start up in the driveway, giggles sounded over the baby monitor.
As much as I wanted to pull the covers over my head, I knew that ten more minutes of beauty sleep was out of the question. Luckily, along with giggling, I could detect the faint scents of coffee from the kitchen. Ramirez had made a pot before leaving. Bless that man. You see why I could let the toilet seat thing slide.
I rubbed my eyes with my fist and yawned as I shuffled down the hallway and into the twins' room. When I stepped through the door, I flicked on the overhead light and saw Livvie wide-eyed and laughing over the rail of her crib. Max had his face pressed between the wooden slats of his bed, the most mischievous grin I had ever seen plastered on his chubby little face. If he hadn't been in his crib all night, I'd be more than a little suspicious as to what he'd been up to. No one in the world could be that cute and that happy with themselves and not have been up to something.
I quickly diapered and dressed them—Livvie in a sweet pink floral outfit with big heart-shaped buttons lining the front, and Max in a pair of blue shorts and matching baby blue button-down shirt. I capped their outfits off with shoes from Tot Trots, the company where'd I'd started my shoe design career putting out character themed footwear for kids. Luckily, my clientele had advanced from toddlers to Hollywood housewives, but I still enjoyed a good pair of Spiderman sandals now and then. For Max, of course.
I plopped the cutesome twosome down in the living room with some Cheerios, juice, and Elmo on the TV, and headed toward the luscious aroma of French Roast.
Half an hour later, I'd managed a shower, a loose ponytail, and some foundation, mascara, and lip gloss. I threw on an extra layer of concealer to cover the early morning lurking beneath my eyes and grabbed a navy blue wrap skirt and a white cap sleeve top. I was just adding a pair of neutral wedge sandals when the doorbell rang. I checked my bedside clock. Nine on the dot.
I opened the door to find Dana on my porch with two cups of Starbucks in her hands.
"You are a goddess," I told her.
"I am a goddess—thanks for noticing—and I'm all yours until noon."
"What's at noon?" I asked, ushering her in as the Sesame Street theme song signaled the end of the episode and the end of relative quiet from the twins. I grabbed one cup from her and the remote in the other hand, quickly putting on another show before a Cheerio food fight broke out.
"I've got to meet with caterers to decide if we want to go with an Asian street fair theme or an Ethiopian finger food theme for Ricky's party." In her ongoing effort to push Ricky toward wedded bliss, Dana had decided to throw her boyfriend a surprise birthday party. What might have been an intimate get-together to start with had begun to spiral out of control into a full-blown event of the season. She'd even hired our mutual friend, Marco, to be her party-planner extraordinaire. And if there was one thing that Marco was good at, over-the-top spiraling was it.
"If I have a vote," I told her, "I say go spicy."
"Duly noted," Dana said, sipping at her coffee. "So, what's the plan today?" she asked, changing gears. "Case the antique place? Interrogate the employees? Hack the victim's files?"
I shot her a look. "What are you, Magnum PI? We're not casing or hacking anything."
Dana looked mildly disappointed. "Maybe just a little interrogating then?"
I couldn't help but grin. Dana was between acting jobs, and I could tell she was getting into the role of Dana Dashel, Private Investigator. If nothing else, her choice of wardrobe gave it away—a pair of dark boots, black pantsuit, and a trench coat that was completely out of place for a summer day in Los Angeles. We'd be lucky if the heat index didn't hit 90 today.
"First," I told her, shoving a couple of bags of goldfish into a diaper bag, "we're going to drop the twins off at preschool."
She frowned. Clearly that was not in her action-adventure script.
"Then, we're going to take my pair of vintage heels down to Yesterday's Treasures to see if they can tell me what the shoes might be worth."
Dana nodded. "And then we'll interrogate."
"We might, possibly ask a couple of questions about Carrington. Discreetly."<
br />
"Right. Discreet." She gave me an exaggerated wink.
Oh boy. I had a bad feeling discreet wasn't in her script either.
One more episode of Elmo, a few more Cheerios, and a change of outfit for Max (due to an orange juice related accident) later, I finally had two kids, one blonde bombshell, and a third cup of coffee to-go in my minivan. We arrived at preschool five minutes late, but better late than covered in schmutz, as Mrs. Rosenblatt always said.
Traffic was thankfully lighter than normal on the 405, and twenty minutes later we were parking at the curb beside Yesterday's Treasures. It was housed in a trendy block near the beach, in a modern looking stucco building that felt completely incongruent with the wares inside but totally on point with the juice bars and tanning salons lining the street. A gray sign with raised black lettering touted the business's name above the door, and the window held a display of midcentury furniture mixed with Victorian apparel and Italianate artwork.
As we pushed through the glass doors to the shop, I wasn't sure what I expected, but the sign on the door reading Open and the clean, sunny looking interior held no hint of the tragedy that had befallen the co-owner the day before. Bright overhead lighting shone on the jam-packed shop, every inch of which was filled with antique furniture, vintage clothes, and cases of jewelry and collectibles. The walls were lined with framed paintings and woven tapestries, and several glass cases held collections of art, antique weapons, and dainty porcelain figures. Everywhere I turned sat sparkling little gems of history, and it was hard to know where to look first, my eyes darting to take it all in. They finally landed on a case filled with old jewelry, diamonds winking up at me from the funky art deco settings.
"Gorgeous," Dana breathed beside me, seemingly in the same state of overwhelmed awe as she looked down at a delicate tennis bracelet set in white gold.
I nodded in agreement. "With a price to match," I noted, taking in the five-figure tag tucked discreetly beside the item.
"Welcome to Yesterday's Treasures."
I looked up to find a tall, slender young woman with long auburn hair and green catlike eyes approaching us.
"Is there something I can help you with today?" she asked, a pleasant customer service smile pasted on her face.
I glanced down at the tag on her lapel that read Mina. "Uh, yes, actually. I have these shoes." I held up the box holding my Chanels.
"Are you looking to sell them?" she asked.
I nodded. "Possibly. I was hoping to get an idea of what they're worth first."
Mina nodded. "Sure. Let's see what we can do." She waved us to follow her toward a counter near the back. Her long bohemian skirt swished around her calves as she walked, and her flats whispered gently across the polished hardwood floor. Once she rounded the counter, I sat the box down on top of the long glass case and removed the lid.
"1960s Chanel," I told her. I adored the shoes, but as much as I felt they were works of art, actually wearing them was something I seldom did. If Mina quoted me a high enough price, I actually might sell them.
She gently removed a shoe from the box. "Two-tone. Originals. Very beautiful," she mused and turned it over in her hands. "These look like they're in fabulous condition."
"Thank you. I took them to the Antiques Extravaganza yesterday in hopes of securing an appraisal," I began. "But before I could talk to Mr. Carrington…" I let the sentence trail, hoping Mina would pick up where I left off.
"Yes." She nodded, her eyes going to the floor. "His passing," she said simply.
I supposed his passing was easier for some to say than his murder.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Dana jumped in. "You must have known him well?"
Mina shrugged as she placed my shoe back in its box, some of the excitement at seeing the heels leaving her posture. "He owns this place. Or did," she corrected herself awkwardly.
"Have you worked here long?"
"A couple semesters. I'm getting my degree in art history, so all of this is right up my alley. I kinda love it." She swept her hand around to encompass the contents of the shop.
"I can see why," I said, honestly, thinking of the case of vintage jewelry.
"Do you know if Carrington had any family?" Dana asked. "Wife or girlfriend?"
Mina shook her head. "No, he was single. No girlfriend that I know of, and he never mentioned any family. Why?"
"How was Carrington to work for?" Dana pressed on. "Hard? Stingy? Difficult?"
Mina frowned again.
I shot Dana a look. PI Girl was pushing it.
"He was…fine," she finally said.
Dana frowned, clearly not getting the dramatic answer she was after. "How did he get along with his customers?" she asked.
"F-fine," Mina repeated. "I mean, since the TV show came along, he's been too busy to be in the shop much. But his celebrity status has really helped bring in more business in the last few months. I usually run the shop stuff, but Mr. Carrington and Ms. Cash are out doing appraisals a lot."
"Ms. Cash?" I asked. I recognized the name as the second half of the victim's Carrington and Cash Appraisals.
"Oh, uh, Allison Cash. She's the other owner. She and Mr. Carrington are business partners. Well, were business partners," she corrected herself again.
"How did she get along with Carrington?" Dana asked.
Mina blinked at her. "Uh…fine."
"Is Ms. Cash in?" I asked, peeking around the woman toward a door marked Offices.
Mina nodded. "Sure. Um, why? Did you need to speak to her?" She pulled that frown again.
I opened my mouth to respond, but PI Girl ran right over me.
"We'd like to offer our condolences. You see, my friend, here was actually one of the last people to see Mr. Carrington alive." Dana gestured toward me with a dramatic flourish.
"I, uh, well, was one of many at the show…" I hedged.
Mina nodded. "I'll see if Allison is free," she promised, edging away from us.
"Dramatic much?" I asked when Mina was out of earshot.
"Thanks." Dana grinned at me.
I didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't exactly a compliment.
A moment later, Mina reappeared from the back rooms. "Ms. Cash is just finishing up with a client. She'll be out in just a minute if you'd like to wait."
"Thanks," I told her, tucking my shoebox back under my arm.
As we moved away from the counter, the bell over the front door tinkled, and another customer walked in.
Mina's face brightened immediately. "Mrs. LaMore! Lovely to see you again."
Mrs. LaMore was a short, round woman wearing a green polyester pantsuit that clung in all the wrong places. It might have flirted with trendy in the seventies, but it was far from retro chic. Her hair was a deep orange and was partially covered in a matching green felt hat with a floppy brim, and what she lacked in youth she made up for in makeup, her eyes rimmed in a pair of the thickest eyelashes I'd seen outside of a Maybelline campaign. She held a heavy looking item wrapped in paper in her arms, huffing it toward the counter, where she plopped it down in front of Mina.
"Hello, dahling," she said in a voice laced with at least twenty years of cigarette smoke. "I've got a real gem to show you today." She paused, giving a cursory nod at Dana and me. "That is, if I'm not interrupting."
I shook my head. "Oh, no, we're waiting to see Ms. Cash."
"Ah." She glanced at my shoebox. "You selling those or buying?"
"Selling. Possibly," I added, still not 100% sure I was ready to part with them.
"Mrs. LaMore is a regular here," Mina told me.
"Please, I've told you a thousand times to call me Lottie," she admonished Mina. "And really, it was my husband who was the regular, God rest his soul."
"I'm so sorry," I told her. "He passed recently?"
"Six months ago. Heart attack. But he managed to amass quite the antique collection before he went. Louis loved anything with a history. He saw true beauty where all others see is yard sale fod
der."
"Is this one of his collection?" I asked, gesturing to her package.
Lottie nodded, her hat bobbing. "Yes! Quite a gem, really. Ever heard of the Heffernan Studios?"
I shook my head, admitting I had not.
Lottie frowned, looking a bit put out. "Well, it was the place to be in the sixties. All the great modern artists of the era came out of there. This is an Alvero Dilama!" she said with flourish, peeling back paper.
I looked at the large, oddly shaped lump of glazed clay. I tilted my head, not sure if it was upside down. I was almost certain I'd seen an exact replica last week when I'd bought Max and Livvie a tub of Play-Doh.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Art!" Lottie replied.
"It's…very unique," Dana said.
"Isn't it?" Lottie said proudly. "So thought provoking. So symbolic. So…"
Preschool-esque?
"…breathtaking!" she finished with a contented sigh.
"And you're selling it today?" I asked.
Lottie shrugged, pushing the blob along the counter toward Mina. "Possibly. I wanted to see what kind of price Allison might give me." She paused. "When I had it appraised yesterday, they told me it would fetch at least fifty thousand retail."
I blinked at the lump of clay, suddenly wondering what I could sell Max's creations for.
"Yesterday?" Dana jumped in. "That wouldn't happen to have been at the Antiques Extravaganza, would it?"
"Well, yes. I always try to go when they're in town."
"Did Carrington appraise this?" I asked.
"Oh, no." Lottie shook her head. "He was doing accessories yesterday, I believe. I was in the pottery line. I really didn't even see him. And then…" She trailed off, eyes going to the ground. "Terrible business." She paused, looking up at Mina through her lashes. "But I know he would have liked this sculpture."
10 Suspect in High Heels Page 3
