Felix Dunn.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I watched Benton and Felix exchange a few words that I couldn't hear, Benton do some gesturing to the package, and Felix shake his hand. Then Felix took the wrapped item inside the house and closed the door. Benton hopped back into his Mercedes and sped off down the road the way we'd come.
It was all over so fast, yet I was still stuck staring at the house, trying to rearrange all of my theories. Felix Dunn was Benton's anonymous buyer. Clearly Felix had not killed Carrington. Not that he didn't have a bit of a wicked streak when it came to printing salacious stories in his tabloid, but he certainly wasn't a cold-blooded killer.
Though, honestly, I never would have pegged him as an antiques collector either.
Left with more questions than answers, I got out of my car and walked up the paved drive to Felix's home, ringing the bell, as I'd seen Benton do just moments before. I heard the sound of footsteps echoing on the other side before the door opened and Felix stared down at me.
"Maddie?" He blinked at me, a small frown of confusion forming between his sandy eyebrows. His hair was styled differently than the last time I'd seen him, falling just a little long into his eyes. It suited him—made him seem younger than the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes said he was. Though, he was dressed just as I'd remembered—in his usual uniform of rumpled looking khaki pants, a loose dress shirt, untucked and in need of a good ironing, and sneakers that looked more appropriate for a skateboarding teen than the editor in chief of LA's most popular tabloid.
"Hi," I said, giving him a big smile. "How are you?"
"Uh, fine, I guess. W-what are you doing here?" He looked behind me, as if the answer might lie in his empty driveway.
"It's a long story," I told him honestly. "May I come in?"
"Uh, yes. Yes, of course." He stepped back to allow me entry, his British accent coming out a bit thicker than normal, having been caught unawares.
"Listen, I don't mean to bother you—" I started.
"No bother," he cut in, ever the one with the well-bred manners. He paused, giving me a head-to-toe glance. "You look good."
I cleared my throat, the compliment meaning more to me than it should. "Thanks."
"Can I offer you a drink or something…" He trailed off, and I could see him mentally going over what his "or something" options might be. As a bachelor, I doubted his refrigerator held much more than condiments.
I shook my head, giving him an out. "No, thank you. Actually, this isn't exactly a social visit."
"Oh?" One eyebrow rose, disappearing into his too long bangs. "Everything alright?"
"Well, yes. And no."
"Does this have to do with your mother?"
I nodded and quickly filled him in on what I'd learned since asking for Cam's photos the day before. Which, honestly wasn't much, but when I got to following Benton from his office and my theory about an angry antiques collector, that frown was back on his face again.
"So, you thought I killed Carrington?" he asked.
"Not you," I said. "But, yeah, I thought it was a good lead that a collector might not have been happy about getting fakes."
"And you're thinking Benton had something to do with it?"
I sucked in a deep breath. "Maybe. How well do you know him?"
Felix ran a hand through his hair. "Well, we're not school chums, if that's what you mean. I met him through a mutual acquaintance. He's a good broker. Gets things at a fair price. And charges a very low commission."
I stifled a laugh. Felix was notorious for being stingy when it came to money. Ironic, considering he had plenty of it. In fact, as I'd found out years before, he owned an actual castle in England and was even distantly related to the queen.
"So, you liked Benton's low commissions and hired him to pick up antiques for you. Including a Bracington sculpture."
"Yes. I acquired that just last month." He paused. "How did you know?"
"It was Carrington's. He put it in Van Steinberg's auction. How many other pieces did Benton acquire for you?"
Felix shrugged. "Just a couple. With the stock market as volatile as it is, I thought I'd diversify my investments."
"Were the items from Carrington?"
"Haven't the foggiest. Until you said it now, I had no idea the Bracington had been."
I pursed my lips together, unsure how he'd react to my next question. "How confident are you that the Bracington is real?"
He stared at me for a beat before answering, "One hundred percent."
"That's a big percent," I pointed out.
"Yes, well, I told you, they are investments. I don't take money matters lightly. I've had everything that I've purchased independently appraised since acquiring."
"Even the Bracington sculpture?" I asked, feeling my one and only lead slipping from my grasp.
Felix nodded. "Yes. Just last week in fact. Turns out I even paid a bit below market value." He beamed, as if he'd gotten an A on a report card.
"And it's definitely legit?"
He nodded again, his hair flopping in his eyes. "Like I said, one hundred percent."
I sighed, feeling my entire body sag. So much for that theory.
"Would you like to see it?" Felix asked.
I wasn't sure what I'd see that an appraiser wouldn't, but I agreed anyway, following him from the open living room to a smaller room off the chef's kitchen that no one cooked in.
"How much do you trust Benton?" I asked, still hanging on to a shred of hope that the menacing broker had something to do with Carrington's death.
"Like I said, I don't know him that well. But I trust his instincts when it comes to antiques."
"He was at the Antiques Extravaganza," I pointed out. "Mom saw him more than once."
"It's possible he was scouting items," Felix reasoned.
Which I hated to admit, was actually very reasonable.
Felix stepped into a smaller room and flicked on the lights, revealing a study. A large polished desk in one corner, lots of expensive looking leather bound books on the shelves, and a bright picture window that looked out onto his pool. He walked to the far wall, stopping in front of a glazed clay sculpture that sat on a pedestal. While it was taller and skinnier than The Blob, it had the same indistinct shape about it, and I was still confident that Max and Livvie could pump out something equally symbolic with Play-Doh.
"It's…nice," I said, trying not to be rude.
"Isn't it?" Felix beamed like a proud papa as he stared at it. "It's been incredibly well maintained. See this part here? How thin it is?" he asked, pointing to about mid-statue. "A lot of pieces from the Heffernan Studios have broken over time. They're very delicate. But that's what makes it so valuable."
I nodded. I'd heard that before when watching the Antiques Extravaganza on TV. Age played a much smaller factor in value than condition and rarity. "I hate to say it, but I just don't get modern art," I admitted.
"That's okay." Felix turned to me with a smile. "I don't get fashion." He gave me a wink.
I couldn't help laughing at the easy banter. "Okay, so you're sure there's no way this could be fake?" I checked again.
But Felix shook his head. "No. It was authenticated by the Bracington estate themselves."
Which meant I was back to square one.
I thanked Felix for his time and promised not to be such a stranger as he walked me out. A promise that we both knew was probably hollow, as our particular memory lane felt a little too dangerous to traverse very often.
I walked back to my car, turned on the AC, and headed back down the hill, my mind adjusting to what I'd seen in Felix's house.
Carrington had definitely not sold fake antiques to Benton. At least not in this case.
That is, if, in fact, there ever were any fakes to begin with. While it made for a great motive for murder, all I really had was some vague tip phoned in to Laurel and Hardy. Let's face it, while I had a lot of good theories, all the evidence still pointed in Mom's dire
ction. What I needed to know was what, if anything, had really been faked.
And for that, I needed to talk to Allison Cash.
* * *
Half an hour later I was parked in front of a small Spanish style house with a red tile roof, dark shutters, and a lot of overgrown birds of paradise looming over a short wooden fence. No car sat in the driveway, and the windows were all dark. I checked the address Google had given me for Allison a second time, making sure I had the right place. 614 Aldercroft Drive. I wasn't sure where I'd imagined the severe looking woman living, but this felt a lot more homey and less disciplined than I imagined.
I got out and locked my car with a beep, opening the wooden gate and following a stone pathway studded with weeds to the front door. I knocked and waited, listening.
No sound of footsteps, no rustling of someone getting up, no faint sounds of a TV in another room. I tried the bell, but the echoing chime through the wooden door was all I heard.
I stepped over a potted plant and two newspapers on the porch, putting my hands to my eyes as I peeked in the window at the right of the door. I could make out a sofa, a television, a coffee table. Beyond the living room, a small dining set was visible, though no dishes or placemats sat on it. Everything looked clean, quiet, and empty.
"She's not home."
I quickly pulled back from the window, feeling guilty at being caught looking in. A woman stood in the yard next door, a pair of pruning shears in one hand. Her floppy straw hat flapped in the warm breeze, and the knees of her jeans bore the grass stains of a dedicated gardener.
"Sorry. I was just looking for Allison Cash," I said.
"She's not here," the woman repeated.
"Do you happen to know where she went?"
The woman shook her head, taking off a pair of gardening gloves.
"Any clue when she'll be back?"
"I have no idea," she told me. "She usually asks me to bring in her mail and her newspapers when she goes out of town, but she didn't ask this time."
"Did you see her leave?" I pressed.
She just shook her head. "No. But I haven't seen her come home from work the last couple of days, and her newspapers are piling up." She gestured to the two I'd just stepped over.
She was right—it didn't look like anyone had been home in at least a couple of days. And Allison hadn't been to work either.
So where was Allison Cash?
CHAPTER TWELVE
I thanked the neighbor and handed her my card, asking her to call if she saw Allison come home. Then I drove to the Starbucks down the street for a much-needed afternoon caffeine infusion before picking up the kids. I'd just paid for my iced coffee and was heading back to my car when my phone rang, and Ricky's number came up.
I frowned, hoping everything was okay with Dana. "Hey, Ricky," I answered.
"Hi, Maddie! How are you?"
"Melting," I answered, beeping my car open and slipping inside the roasting interior.
Ricky laughed. "Join the club. I heard it was 105 in Palmdale today."
"Well, I guess life could be worse. We could be in Palmdale."
"Seriously."
"So, what's up?" I asked, sipping my drink.
"Dana's not answering her phone. I was wondering if you could put her on?"
"Me?" I asked.
"She is with you, right?"
"No, last I saw her, she and Marco were arguing about—" I froze, stopping myself just in time. "Uh…arguing about shoes?" I finished lamely, trying to mentally pull my foot out of my mouth.
"Arguing about shoes," Ricky repeated, not totally buying it.
"Uh, yep. At the shoe store. Where we were at. Together. Today. Earlier. But, you know, not now. But we were."
"Maddie, you're a terrible liar."
Oh crap, crap, crap. "W-what do you mean?" I asked, channeling dumb blonde as hard as I could.
"It was about the party, wasn't it?"
I cleared my throat. "Party? What party?"
"My surprise birthday party."
I closed my eyes and thought a dirty word, trying not to picture my best friend's face as she realized the cat had clawed its way out of the bag. "How did you find out?" I moaned.
"Well, the way Dana's been sneaking out early, making hushed phone calls, and snapping her laptop shut every time I walked into a room, I figured she was either having an affair or planning a surprise party."
"There's no affair," I assured him.
"I know." He paused. "I saw the receipt for the cake on her kitchen counter last week."
"You cannot tell Dana you know," I pleaded with him. "She's been planning this for weeks."
I heard shuffling on the other end, like the phone being shifted to the other ear. "Hey, I'm not about to spoil anyone's fun."
"Good," I told him. "I expect to see an Oscar-worthy performance of shock and awe when you walk in."
"Geez, you're more demanding than my agent," he joked. Then he asked, "So, what exactly were she and Marco arguing about?"
I bit my lip. "You don't want to know."
"That bad?"
"Let's just let some things stay a surprise."
* * *
I picked up the twins from preschool, and while they went to town on a couple of coloring books, I spent the rest of the afternoon working on some sketches for my upcoming line of high heeled winter boots. But my heart wasn't really in it. My mind kept going to the missing Allison Cash, the dead Peter Carrington, and my mom caught in the middle of it all.
By the time Ramirez walked in the door with—God bless the man—a large pizza in hand, I'd made very little headway on either my suede ankle boot or the question of Carrington's death.
"Is that pepperoni?" I asked as he stooped to plant a kiss on my cheek before depositing the pizza on the counter.
"Uh-huh. With sausage and mushroom."
Be still my beating heart. I abandoned my sketchbook and followed him to the kitchen, where he'd already grabbed two plates and a pile of napkins. He extracted one gooey slice and set it on a plate before passing it to me.
"This isn't to butter me up for anything in particular, is it?" I asked, digging into the cheese covered heaven.
He shook his head. "I wish. It's mostly to soften the blow."
I paused mid-chew. "Oh no. What now?"
Ramirez served himself a slice. "Word at the station is Laurel and Hardy have a witness in Carrington's murder."
I swallowed my bite of pizza that suddenly felt like cardboard. "Mom mentioned something about that earlier. She said someone claims to have seen her with Carrington."
He nodded.
"But they're lying," I said, pointing my slice of pizza at him for emphasis.
"Or mistaken about who they saw. Or what they saw or when they saw it," Ramirez added. "You know witnesses. Memories aren't always reliable."
"But it isn't helping Mom's case any, is it?" I asked.
Ramirez shook his head slowly. "Sorry, babe."
I took another bite of pizza, needing comfort food.
"And there's more."
I glared at Ramirez over the top of my slice. "More?" I asked, my mouth full.
"Laurel and Hardy are naming an official suspect in Carrington's death."
"Tell me it's Allison Cash?"
He shook his head slowly again. "Wish I could, kid. But they like your mom for this."
"My mom did not kill anybody," I said vehemently.
Ramirez held his hands up in a surrender gesture. "I know, I know. But it's out of my hands. Trust me, I've been trying to run interference as much as a guy who is off the case can."
While I knew Ramirez was doing everything humanly possible to keep my mom out of jail, I just wasn't sure it would be enough.
"What does 'official suspect' mean?" I asked.
Ramirez pursed his lips together like he'd rather not say.
I set my slice of pizza down on my plate. "Come on. I'm a big girl. I can take it." Maybe.
"They'll be going
public with her name."
I sucked in a breath, thinking the kind of words I didn't dare say out loud around my preschoolers. "I'll call Faux Dad and see if he can keep her off social media."
"Good luck," Ramirez told me. "You know she's addicted to those Facebook polls. She posts, like, three a day."
I did know. I also knew she'd be devastated if she saw her own face come up in her news feed next to the word murderer. It was one thing to have a couple of buffoons in blue think you were guilty. It was another to have the world giving you the side eye.
I was about to ask more, when Ramirez's phone rang, and he glanced briefly at the readout before a frown creased his features. "I gotta take this," he mumbled and stepped into the relative quiet of the hallway to swipe the call on.
I took the moment to pull out my own phone, texting Faux Dad the latest. He shot a reply right back, saying he'd do his best to shield her. Which was small comfort as I knew she was bound to see something. And bound to take it to heart. I tried to choke down a couple more bites of pizza, but all the joy had been sucked out of the calories.
A beat later Ramirez came back into the kitchen. As he ended the call, his face was stoic and eyes dark in a way that made my stomach sink.
"What now?" I asked, not totally sure I wanted to know.
"They found Allison Cash."
I did an internal sigh of relief. "Thank God. So, what's she saying about where she's been the past two days?"
"Nothing." Ramirez paused. "Allison Cash is dead."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The lone slice of pizza I'd had time to ingest sat in my stomach like a lead weight as Ramirez drove through the early evening traffic, and I felt a mix of guilt and confusion solidifying around it. Guilt that I'd known Allison was missing earlier that day and not thought to report it to anyone. Confusion because the reason I hadn't reported it is I'd thought she'd done a runner…not been killed.
If Allison was a victim, that clearly meant someone else had been doing the killing. Had the same person killed Carrington? It would seem like a heck of coincidence if not. Which meant, whatever the motive for Carrington's death, it hadn't been a rift between partners like I'd originally thought. Had the two been up to something together…and a third party found out? I thought of Van Steinberg. If Carrington and Cash had been selling fakes together through his auctions, he had a good reason to want them both out of the picture. If there had been fakes. And if they'd sold anything. And if Van Steinberg had found out.
10 Suspect in High Heels Page 10
