Dana shrugged. "You got me there." She paused. "Have you talked to Allison?"
I shook my head as I put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. "I tried, but she was taking a personal day yesterday."
"Hmm," Dana said. "Maybe today is the day."
* * *
Dana had an appointment with the caterer for Ricky's surprise party, so I dropped her off at her place. I was just about to nose out a coffee shop, when a text pinged in from Marco.
Emergency.
I frowned at the readout. I swore if this emergency had anything to do with donkeys…
Real one, he texted, as if reading my thoughts. Police are at the salon.
That did it. I made a hard right, and fifteen minutes later was pulling up in front of Fernando's of Beverly Hills.
As I stepped into the salon, Marco practically ran around the reception desk to meet me at the door, his two-inch neon yellow heels clacking on the floor beneath a pair of black skinny jeans, a white T-shirt with a photo of vintage "Like a Virgin" Madonna on it, and hoop earrings that hung down to his shoulders. "Thank gawd you're here. Mom is at DEFCON three today."
"Oh no." I said. "What happened?"
"What didn't happen?" Marco pursed his pink lips. "Nightmare, Mads. Pure nightmare."
"Where's Mom?"
"In the back. Those cops just left."
I let out a little sigh of relief that they hadn't taken her with them in handcuffs.
Marco took my hand. "Come on, doll." He pulled me along behind him. "Mrs. Rosenblatt is trying to calm her down in one of the massage rooms."
We stepped into the third room on the left, and as soon as I saw what was going on, I stopped short. Mostly because, honestly, I had no idea what was going on.
The lights were dimmed, and Mom was lying on the massage table surrounded by small stones and crystals of various colors. Clear crystals made a perimeter around her upper body, an orange one sat on her stomach, and two dark stones were placed at her feet. Mrs. Rosenblatt chanted something and placed a purple amethyst on Mom's forehead. I watched Mom's eyes cross as she followed the path it took.
"Uh…hi?" I said.
Mrs. Rosenblatt looked up. "Maddie, thank goodness you're here. Betty could use some good energy."
"What's going on?" I asked, coming up to Mom and grabbing a hand.
She glanced my way, careful not to turn her head and lose the crystal between her eyes.
"Hi, honey."
"You okay?" I asked.
Mom nodded, the amethyst slipping a little. "Much better now that Mrs. Rosenblatt is cleaning my chakra."
"Those suckers were blocked like a sewage pipe," Mrs. Rosenblatt added.
I tried not to laugh at the very Zen description.
"The detectives were in here again this morning," Mom said. "I get the feeling that they think I'm a suspect!"
"Shhh," Mrs. R admonished. "Don't gum up the chakras again."
Mom nodded, smoothing out her brow with effort. "Right. Calm. Cool. Clean." She let out a long breath.
"What did they say?" I asked, wondering just how mounting the case against Mom was becoming.
"They said my fingerprints were on the murder weapon." She smiled unnaturally as she said it, ending with a deep, guttural "Oooom."
"That's good. Breathe out the frustration," Mrs. R told her.
Mom let out a long breath that smelled like coffee and Danish.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"They wanted to know her alibi again," Marco added. "Then they told her not to leave town."
"As if I would! Only guilty people run," Mom said. Then she paused and added an "Ooooom."
"They said they had a witness," Marco added in a mock whisper.
I whipped my gaze to his. "Witness?"
"Ooooooom!" Mom said, louder this time.
"What witness?" I asked, lowering my voice.
"Someone said they saw your mom arguing with Carrington."
I shook my head. "Everyone saw that."
Marco pursed his lips. "No, after the original argument. Later. Just before Carrington was killed."
"Which is a lie!" Mom said, popping up from her prone position, the amethyst clattering to the floor.
"Betty!" Mrs. R yelled.
"I was nowhere near him. I never saw him again. I was cooling off with a frozen lemonade!" Mom cried.
"Deep breaths—" Mrs. R started.
"I can't breathe! I'm a suspect!" Mom started hyperventilating.
"In. Out. Slow. Ooooooom," Mrs. R instructed.
I bit my lip, not sure if the scene made me want to laugh or cry. While Ramirez had told me on several occasions that eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable, it was just one more nail trying to pin down Mom's coffin. Of course Mom knew the witness had been mistaken, and I knew it…but I wasn't sure Laurel and Hardy knew it.
"Did they ask anything else?" I asked her. "About the antique store maybe?"
Mom paused in her hyperventilating to turn to me. "They asked if I'd ever been to a shop called Yesterday's Something-or-other."
"Treasures," I supplied automatically.
"Yes, that's the one."
"And you haven't, right?"
Mom shook her head. Then she paused. "I don't think so. But, you know how I love vintage shopping. I can't promise I wasn't there one time."
Oh boy. Not exactly a definite no. "Did they mention anything about fake antiques?"
Mom shook her head.
Mrs. Rosenblatt narrowed her eyes at me. "Why? Do the police think that slimy appraiser was faking something?"
"Maybe," I said. "It's all speculation right now."
"Well, I tell you right now, those cops come back here bothering your mom again, and I'll speculate all of their auras!"
I wasn't sure what kind of threat that was, but the fire in Mrs. R's eyes was real enough.
I gave Mom a hug and left her in Mrs. R's capable, if somewhat left-of-center, hands.
Marco followed me out, fanning himself with one hand. "I swear, I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. This is supposed to be a salon, not a madhouse!"
Po-tay-to, pot-ah-to.
"Yesterday the tear machine," Marco went on, "and today the chakras. I'm losing it, Mads."
"Could be worse. The police could be looking at you as a prime suspect," I told him.
He paused. "I'm sorry, Maddie. It's not that I'm unsympathetic."
"I know," I said. And I did. Marco adored Mom and Faux Dad almost like a second pair of parents.
"So, what are we doing to help?"
"We?" I asked.
Marco blinked his long lashes at me. Natural ones, oddly enough. How a man was allowed to have prettier eyes than I was, I didn't know. "Please, Maddie!" he said. "Take me with you. I can't take the crying anymore. It's scrambling my brain."
I glanced at the time on my phone. "Well, I have the auction for my vintage Chanel in a couple of hours, but I did want to see if I could talk to Allison Cash again first…"
"Done! Let's go."
CHAPTER NINE
Yesterday's Treasures was busier than it had been the first time I'd been in, though whether it was due to the influx of antiquers in town for the Extravaganza or the notoriety of Carrington's demise, I wasn't sure. Mina was alone at the counter, ringing up a pair of porcelain figures for a couple in matching plaid tops and faded mom/dad jeans. Several other patrons wandered the small aisles, and I spotted Lottie LaMore, the regular collector, standing in front of a wall of paintings. She turned and spied me, waving in recognition.
"The girl with the Chanel, right?" she asked.
I nodded, thinking I didn't mind that description in the least. "Maddie," I said, offering my hand again. "And this is my friend, Marco."
"Ah!" She nodded. "Had to bring him in to see the treasure trove, huh?" she cackled, her smoker's voice rasping until it ended in a cough.
"Something like that," I said, glossing over our real reason for being there.
/> "Love the hat," Marco told her.
Today Lottie was dressed in a flowing bohemian style caftan in deep oranges and reds. Silver cuffs adorned both wrists, and she'd accessorized with a pair of brown knee-high boots and a brown felt hat.
"Why thank you, young man," she said tipping the brim toward him. Then she paused, giving him a squinty-eyed look. "It is man, right?"
Marco did a mock hair flip, his earrings swaying in the light. "It takes a real man to pull off heels like this, honey."
"Hmm." Lottie nodded. "Just checking. One can never be too sure these days, huh?"
"You here to sell another antique?" I asked her, changing the subject quickly.
But Lottie shook her head. "No, I didn't end up selling the Dilama." She paused. "Didn't like the price Allison gave me."
If Allison had lowballed her anything like she had me, I didn't blame her.
"I actually have it in an auction later this afternoon instead. I just stopped by to let Allison know. Professional courtesy and all."
"That wouldn't happen to be Van Steinberg's auction, would it?" I asked.
"Why, yes, actually. You know him?"
"My Chanel heels are going up for auction this afternoon too," I explained.
"Well, I guess I'll see you there then," she said, giving me a wink with her monster lashes. Then she tipped her hat to Marco and made her way toward the counter, where Mina was finally free.
"She's fun," Marco said.
I wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or actually enjoyed the fellow fashion eccentric-ista. In fact, I could see Marco being her in about thirty years.
"Her husband was an antique collector. She had an old thirty-thousand dollar sculpture in here the other day that looked like a blob of clay."
Marco stifled a laugh. "Not a fan of modern art, Maddie?"
I shrugged. "I don't get it."
"I'm not surprised," he mumbled.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, dahling!" he backpedaled. "Look, the shopgirl's free." He pointed toward Mina, who had apparently had a very brief chat with Lottie and was once again momentarily available.
I quickly made my way toward her before another shopper could waylay her.
"Maddie." Mina smiled my direction as I approached the counter. "Nice to see you again."
"Thanks, you too. This is my friend Marco," I said and patted Marco's shoulder.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Marco. I'm Mina."
"Charmed, sweetie." He gave her a limp handshake and a mock bow.
Mina laughed, soaking it in. "What brings you in today?" she asked.
I sat my purse on the countertop. "I was hoping to see Allison."
Mina's smile fell. "I'm sorry, but she's still not here."
"Oh. Did she say why?" I asked, wondering again if she was staying away due to grief or guilt.
Mina looked down at the counter. "No. Actually, I didn't hear from her. She didn't call. She's just…not here."
I frowned. "You haven't heard from her at all?"
Mina shook her head and ran her fingers through the length of her glossy hair. "Not since she called in yesterday morning. Honestly? I'm a little worried about her. I think Mr. Carrington's death is really hitting her hard. It's not like her to just not show up."
"Have you tried to call her?" Marco asked.
She nodded. "I tried a little while ago, but there was no answer. I left a voicemail, so hopefully I'll hear from her soon."
"When she does come in, or when you hear from her, could you please have her give me a call? I'd really like to talk to her," I said.
Mina nodded. "I will. I promise. I'm sure she'll call in soon."
I wasn't quite as sure. Especially if she was hiding out because she'd killed her partner. Or worse…had already skipped town.
* * *
I dropped Marco back off in Beverly Hills at Fernando's before heading to Van Steinberg's Auction House. It had been open for preview all morning, in order for potential bidders to examine the items up for sale today and make notes on which antiques they'd like to bid on. Once the auction started, patrons would be able to silently bid on items and, hopefully in my case, fight for them and drive up the prices. Just in case that didn't happen, Van Steinberg and I had agreed on a minimum reserve price, in case the bidding never came near the amount the heels were worth.
After circling the parking lot twice, I finally found a spot near the back, where someone was pulling out. I nudged my minivan in with just enough room to squeeze myself between my driver's side door and the Tesla beside me.
Inside the auction house, a greeter wearing a black suit and tie directed me to the registration desk, where I traded my address, phone number, and driver license number for a white paddle with a number 34 on it in bold black letters. While I was honestly there more to watch, learn, and listen, it was my shopping motto to always be prepared. Who knew? Maybe I'd sell my heels for enough to pick up a small lot of vintage jewelry.
With paddle in hand, I followed the steady stream of people into a larger room to the right that reminded me of a small high school auditorium. A hum of low voices added to the feel, as people discussed their bidding options in low tones. Oil paintings of various landscapes adorned the walls, and blue and chrome chairs lined up in perfect rows on either side of a red carpeted aisle. A tall wooden podium sat at the front of the room, and beside it sat a long table draped in a simple white cloth, just waiting for the treasures of the afternoon to be placed upon it for bid.
"It's a pleasure to see you again." Mr. Van Steinberg stepped up beside me in a perfectly pressed gray suit and steel blue tie. His black shoes were polished, his freshly trimmed goatee twitched ever so slightly with anticipation, and there was a distinct twinkle in his eyes. If everyone here was paying the same commission I was, he was in line to make a nice chunk of change that afternoon. Were I in his place, I was sure I'd have a twinkle in my eyes too.
"Nice to see you too," I told him. I looked around the room. "I'm not an expert, but this looks like a good turnout."
He nodded enthusiastically. "You're right. We had a decent showing last night and a full house this afternoon. Though, I'm not surprised. We have some wonderful pieces going up today. Including your shoes." He smiled.
I hoped someone else thought so too. Preferably someone with deep pockets.
"I don't suppose you've seen Allison Cash here?" I asked.
"Uh, no. No, I haven't," he said, some of the twinkle slipping from his demeanor at the mention of her name. "Why do you ask?"
"She hasn't been at the shop either," I said, watching him closely.
"Hmmm, yes, well…probably grieving, you know…" He trailed off, eyes darting to another group of bidders walking through the doors.
"I was wondering about the painting and the sculpture that Carrington sold here before he died."
"What?" He turned his attention back to me, though I could see his smile slipping the longer we chatted.
"You said Carrington sold two items here at the last auction?"
"Did I? Oh, well, yes. Uh, it was last month."
"Did he have them authenticated?"
Van Steinberg blinked at me. "I-I don't know what you mean. Carrington was an antiques appraiser."
"So there was no third party involved?"
More blinking. "Why would there be?"
Right. Why would anyone disagree with Carrington's appraisals? If he said the antiques were real, no one would dispute it. Which would make it temptingly easy to sell fake items at real prices.
"Now, if you'll excuse me…" Van Steinberg didn't wait to be excused before scurrying toward the door. Though whether it was to greet the latest group of auction goers or get away from the discussion about Carrington and Cash, I wasn't sure.
I tried not to take it personally and took the few moments before the auction started to browse the brochure of the day's items. Van Steinberg hadn't just been blowing smoke when he'd said there were some nice items
up today. Several paintings, The Blob sculpture I'd seen Lottie with, a handful of older furniture—including some midcentury modern desk from Frank Gehry and a pair of Chippendale armoires—and several pieces of fine jewelry. Apparently Van Steinberg did a fine business here. One that might have suffered had it come out that he was selling fakes at his auction house.
If either of the items Carrington had put up for auction recently were reproductions, and that information had gotten back to Van Steinberg, it was his reputation on the line. No one would frequent auctions where the items were of dubious origin.
Of course, that was assuming Van Steinberg hadn't known about the fakes all along. What if Van Steinberg had known? What if Carrington's real business partner was the auction house owner? Who better to be in a position to sell for top dollar? And who better to be able to create an authentic looking fake—an appraiser and auction house owner. No one would argue with them. Unless, of course, someone had figured out their item was a reproduction and Van Steinberg had killed Carrington in an effort to make the dead man take the fall and cover up his own involvement.
Again I wondered who had called in that tip to Laurel and Hardy. It had to have been someone in the know. The owner of the fake itself? Someone close to Carrington? Or close to Van Steinberg?
I looked around at the assembled crowd. Ushers, assistants, the auctioneer. And the bidders. Most looked to be in their late sixties to early eighties, probably retired. A few younger folks spotted the crowd here and there. Some chatted animatedly to each other, likely regulars to the auctions here. I spotted a brown felt hat and waved at Lottie as she caught my eye. She gave me an exaggerated wink, her lashes going slightly crooked in the process.
The large doors to the auction room closed, and a young woman in a plain black pantsuit addressed the crowd, letting us know it was time to take our seats. A couple of beats later, Mr. Van Steinberg stepped up to the podium, and the room went completely silent.
"The first item up for bid is this exquisite modern artwork by…"
As he went on to describe the piece of art beside him, I watched bidders making notes, nodding in appreciation, and finally bidding as Van Steinberg opened the floor. Paddles went up in rapid succession, and Van Steinberg's voice worked overtime to rattle off bids as the price rose higher and higher. Finally a woman with a full head of white hair and a beautiful paisley scarf around her neck won, and she stood and did a little bow to the crowd as they politely clapped. Then we were quickly on to the next item, the Chippendale armoire, where the whole process began again.
10 Suspect in High Heels Page 8
