10 Suspect in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  "Wait—Carrington put the bracelet that he knew was fake up for auction at Van Steinberg's?" I asked.

  Terri nodded. "And it sold for a couple thousand dollars."

  "Did you tell anyone?" I asked.

  Terri bit her lip and slowly shook her head. "Not then. Look, I didn't want to get Peter in trouble. I mean, he was a good person. But after he died…well, I thought it might be important. You know, to find out who killed him. So I called the police."

  "Why did you call anonymously?" Dana asked. "Why not give your name?"

  Terri looked down at the ground. "I-I wanted to make sure they looked into it. Believe it or not, sometimes I have a hard time getting people to take me seriously."

  Shocker.

  "Do you remember who won the bid for the bracelet?" I asked.

  "Sorry. I didn't get a name." She shook her head again. "But I remember thinking the guy looked familiar. Like he reminded me of some actor."

  "Bradley Cooper?" I asked, having a pretty good idea whom she was referring to. "He was in A Star Is Born."

  "Yeah, that's the one!" She paused. "I felt bad for him to pay that much for a fake. I never thought Peter would let himself be lured into something that dirty."

  "You think someone lured him into it?" Dana asked.

  "Well of course. Peter would never do this on his own. It was her!" Terri's voice rose into shrill territory. "She must have put him up to it. I told you, she was poisoning his mind!"

  "And now she's dead," I said.

  Terri sucked in a breath. "I didn't kill her." She hugged her clown close to her chest. "Now, if you're through, Bobo and I would like very much if you would leave."

  * * *

  "Well, that was unnerving," Dana said once we were back in my car, AC blasting.

  "But interesting," I countered. "At least we know who called Laurel and Hardy now."

  "You believe her story about Carrington and the fake bracelet?"

  I thought about it for a beat. "I do. Considering how enamored with Carrington she was, I don't see her making up something that makes him look bad."

  "True. But I still think it's entirely possible she killed Carrington in a fit of passion, floated the fake antique story to the police as a red herring, and then went after Allison."

  I shrugged. "Her alibi for the night of Allison's murder is definitely shaky."

  Dana shot me a look. "Ya' think?"

  I grinned. "But I'm still inclined to believe her about the fake bracelet. I mean, it would be easy enough to check auction records and verify the bracelet was sold."

  "Okay, so let's assume the fakes are real." Dana paused. "So to speak."

  "Which means there is a collector out there who was duped by Carrington. At least once."

  "You think Van Steinberg has a record of the buyer who won the bracelet?"

  I shook my head. "No, if Benton was the broker who purchased it, the buyer would be anonymous in Van Steinberg's records. Benton's the only one who knows the buyer's name. And he was decidedly not chatty last time I saw him," I added. I paused, my mind going back to the menacing way he'd ushered me out of his office. "You know, maybe it's more than a coincidence that Benton was the one who brokered the deal for Carrington's fake bracelet."

  "How so?"

  "Well, what if he and Carrington were in on it together?"

  "I like it. Go on."

  "Carrington gives Benton a heads-up about a fake antique. Benton finds a buyer. Then they go through the motions at the auction house, using Van Steinberg to help give the item a legit provenance. In the end, they split the proceeds."

  "So something goes wrong with a deal, and Benton kills Carrington?" Dana asked.

  "Maybe. Or one of Benton's clients finds out and kills Carrington."

  "So where does Allison fit in?" Dana asked.

  I shrugged. "Maybe she was in on it too? Or maybe she saw something while she was at the Extravaganza? Saw Benton go after Carrington, so he had to kill her too?"

  "You know, if the bracelet is really only worth a couple thousand dollars, I find it hard to believe someone would kill over that," Dana said, pulling a tube of lipstick from her purse and reapplying in the rearview mirror. "Let alone twice."

  "Good point." I thought about that. "But maybe it wasn't the only item Carrington faked. Maybe he did this regularly. Over time, some bigger ticket goods, we could be talking real money."

  "Which points more to Van Steinberg than a single buyer," Dana said.

  "Another good point." I flipped my visor down, checking my eye makeup as I contemplated that. "So, maybe the buyer of the bracelet finds out she's got a fake and goes back to the auction house she bought it from. Van Steinberg realizes what's going on, and he kills Carrington."

  "Over the bracelet?" Dana asked.

  I shook my head. "Over his reputation. It might have been a two-thousand-dollar bracelet, but imagine how it would hurt his business if it got out he was auctioning off fakes."

  Dana nodded. "Especially if this hadn't been the only time."

  "The only problem is, the only buyer I know of is Felix. And he hasn't killed anyone."

  "You sure?" Dana teased. She knew better than anyone that our complicated past had started off rather rocky.

  I gave her a playful punch in the arm. "Yes. I'm sure."

  "Well, you know, it's Saturday," Dana pointed out.

  I raised an eyebrow her way. "Meaning?"

  "Well, chances are Benton's offices are closed."

  "And?"

  "Well, Benton might not tell you who his buyers are, but he's got to keep records of them, right?"

  "Riiight," I said, not liking where this was going.

  "What if we slipped in and just took a little peek at them. You know, just to see who might have bought the fake bracelet? Then we could ask her if she told anyone, like Van Steinberg."

  "And how exactly do you suggest we just 'slip in'?" I asked.

  Dana grinned. "Trust me. I played a cop for three seasons on Detroit Blue."

  * * *

  Life tip: when someone says "trust me," it's usually a sure sign you should not trust them.

  "How much longer?" I asked, whispering to Dana as she crouched at the keyhole to Benton's offices on the second floor.

  "Patience. There's an art to this."

  One she had clearly not mastered, as I'd been standing guard in the hallway for at least ten minutes and was getting antsy. We'd spent a half hour in weekender traffic getting to Benton's offices, before casing them out from the comfort of my car. No sign of his Mercedes, no lights in the windows, no sounds beyond the door. After watching for a good twenty minutes, we'd been relatively sure he was out. In fact, most of the offices in the building had a closed look to them, with the exception of a dentist's office occupying the unit closest to the elevators, whose lights were definitely on. It was only a matter of time before someone with a toothache came barreling down the hall, and our jig would be up.

  "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I asked.

  "Sergeant Buffy Macintyre did this all the time."

  "Why did a police sergeant have to pick locks?" I asked.

  "She didn't always play by the rules." Dana paused, glancing up at me. "Tough mom, absentee father. Writers gave her a really compelling backstory."

  "Sounds fab," I said.

  "It was. No idea why she was canceled, but she was a pro at this."

  "But here's a question for you—is out-of-work-actress Dana Dashel a pro at this?" I asked.

  Dana shot me a look. "I am between jobs. That's not the same as out of work."

  "Sorry," I shot back. "Breaking and entering makes me edgy."

  "Forgiven," she said, going back to the lock, her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth at the effort of it. "Now, the key to beating a lock like this is getting all of the pins to release at once. I can get them one by one, but holding them in the right position is the hard part."

  Everything about this felt like the hard
part. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," I said, second-guessing this whole harebrained scheme.

  "Just a couple more pins…"

  A click sounded, and Dana turned the handle, the door swinging open.

  I had to admit, I was kind of surprised it worked. "Wow."

  Dana grinned at me. "See? I told you Buffy Macintyre was a pro."

  "Forget acting, maybe you should get a job as a real PI," I said, following her inside the office.

  "Huh. Maybe I should."

  "I was joking."

  "Killjoy."

  I closed and relocked the office door behind us, happy to have the shield from any dental patients and looked around. The only sound in the room was the bubbling of the fish tank in need of a cleaning.

  "Now what?" I asked.

  "Where do you think he keeps his client files?" Dana whispered, even though we were clearly alone.

  I pointed toward the door marked Private Office. "That's the door he came out of when I was here last time."

  Dana stepped forward and pushed inside. While the lobby was drab and empty, Benton's private office looked to get a lot more use, clutter covering every available surface. Two bookcases held a hodgepodge of folders, dusty books, and binders. A cheap chrome and faux wood desk held a computer monitor, landline, and a half dozen piles of bills and unopened correspondence. Near the windows a row of file cabinets looked like it hadn't been touched since the cloud had been invented. Two chairs that might have once been for clients, were now serving as host to file boxes, a couple of discarded ties, and an assortment of empty takeout boxes. The entire place smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and kung pao chicken.

  "Gross," Dana said, picking through the mess.

  "And hardly organized. Where do we start?"

  She shrugged, her eyes going to the computer. "There?"

  We both crossed to the desk, and I stood behind Dana as she sat in the office chair, the springs creaking under her weight. She jiggled the mouse, and the unit hummed to life, the screen lighting up with a desktop.

  Dana clicked around a bit, finding several folders full of files. It seemed that Benton's disorganization extended to his virtual world too, files full of photos mixed with downloaded programs and PDFs, mixed with financial records.

  "This guy seriously needs a secretary," Dana decided, clicking another folder marked important, which contained two photos of someone's hand covering the lens and one menu from a pizza place.

  I shifted from foot to foot, feeling time tick by as she clicked through several more files. I was just starting to give up and contemplate digging through actual paper in the dusty row of cabinets, when Dana opened a folder containing a list of files organized by date.

  "This looks promising," she mumbled. She opened a file, and revealed a receipt for an antique that Benton had brokered—a statue of a Greek god, according to the description.

  "Wow, this old stuff goes for a lot," Dana said, noting the total for the item that was well into five figures.

  "Terri said she saw the bracelet a couple of months ago."

  Dana clicked back and scrolled down, finding a date from that time period. She opened the folder, and several files appeared. I felt sweat trickle down my neck as she clicked through each one. The first detailed a sale of a painting, then next an antique merry-go-round horse. Finally the third file held a description of a silver bracelet from the art deco era, purchased for a client at Van Steinberg's Auction House.

  "That's it," I said, pulling out my phone and taking a picture of the screen.

  "Looks like the buyer was someone named Carla Montgomery." She paused. "Why does that name seem familiar?"

  I had no idea and was about to say so, when I heard a sound outside the door. One that sounded a lot like a key being inserted into a lock.

  I froze, my eyes shooting to Dana. She stared back at me like a deer caught hacking the hunter's computer.

  "What do we do?" she whispered.

  "Hide!"

  She quickly closed all the computer windows and shut off the monitor as I eyed the door. Nerves built in my stomach, simultaneously making me feel like I had to pee and cry. "Hurry!" I urged.

  I heard the outer door open and close, footsteps shuffling across the dingy carpet of the lobby.

  I looked around for anywhere to hide. While the room was small, the wall-to-wall clutter looked beautiful now, providing several options for cover. Making a quick decision, I dove behind a couple of file cabinets, stifling a sneeze as a cloud of dust rose in protest.

  Dana crouched in the corner, making herself small between the bookcase and the windows.

  Just as the door opened and Benton walked in.

  I willed myself not to make a sound, not to breathe, not to send out any psychic vibes I was there.

  I closed my eyes, listening to Benton move around the room, picturing where he was. I heard shuffling near the desk, the mouse jiggling. A drawer opened, and a moment later I heard what sounded like a pen scratching on paper.

  I bit my lip, praying that he was just here to jot down an address or phone number and not to catch up on paperwork for the week.

  A few more sounds came from the computer—some pinging as things opened or closed, lots of keyboard clacking, a couple mouse clicks. Finally I heard Benton moving again, the creak from his chair signaling he was standing. Then the desk drawer opened and closed again, and muffled footsteps crossed the room. The door whispered open over the carpet and then shut with a thud as Benton moved back into the outer office.

  I didn't dare let out the breath I'd been holding until I heard the outer door close again and the faint sound of a key locking it shut.

  I hear a loud exhale across the room to match my own. "Ohmigod, I thought we were caught for sure," Dana breathed, standing.

  "Ditto," I agreed, getting up and working a cramp out of my calf. I was pretty darn proud of myself that I hadn't peed my pants while crouching behind the cabinets. "Let's get out of here."

  We did, quickly exiting the private office and tiptoeing to the outer door. I peeked my head out. One guy dressed in sweats stood in the hallway outside the dentist's office, drooling slightly as he waited for the elevator. No Bradley Cooper.

  "Come on," I urged, pushing the door open. We both slunk out and quickly made for the stairs, clattering noisily down them. I was pretty sure my heart didn't start beating normally again until we were buckled back in my car and I was pulling away from the curb toward the 405.

  "Wow, that was invigorating," Dana said once we were safely ensconced in traffic.

  The word I might have used was closer to terrifying, but I let that go.

  "What was the name of the bracelet's new owner again?" Dana asked, pulling her phone out.

  "Carla Montgomery," I told her. "Why?"

  "I swear I know that name." She typed it into a search engine, scrolling for a couple of seconds before recognition hit. "That's it!"

  "What?"

  "She's a child psychologist."

  "And you know her?"

  "No, not personally. But I've heard of her. Remember when that child actress…what was her name…" She snapped her fingers quickly, trying to recall. "Pippi Mississippi! Remember when she had that meltdown in the middle of filming her movie?"

  I nodded. "Vaguely."

  "She had, like, a TV show where her real life dad played her school principal, and there were dolls and lunch boxes and all kinds of Pippi Mississippi merchandise. Anyway, they were doing a movie to tie in to the TV show, and the teenager had a breakdown right in the middle of it. No one could find her for, like, two days. Then she showed up naked on one of her own billboards, threatening to jump."

  "Wow. Sounds like a doozy of a meltdown."

  Dana nodded. "It was. The Informer dedicated an entire issue to it."

  "And Carla Montgomery?" I asked, inching forward in the traffic on the freeway.

  "She was the physiologist they called in to talk her down. Only took five hours."

&n
bsp; I was about to respond, when my phone rang and Mom's name showed up on my dash display. I quickly swiped her on to speaker.

  "Mads! Thank God you're there!"

  "Mom, what's going on?" I asked, the panic in her voice immediately putting me on edge.

  "It's the police officers. They're here again."

  "Laurel and Hardy?" I asked.

  Mom paused. "Well, I don't know if they're that bad, Maddie."

  "No, those are their names. Laurel McMartin and John Hardy."

  "I-I don't know. I didn't ask. It's that man with the goatee and the woman. They say they have a warrant."

  "A warrant for what?" I asked, my eyes cutting to Dana. Her brows were pulled down in the same concern I felt flooding my system.

  "They said they want to search my car. I don't know what to do."

  "Is Ralph there?" I asked, signaling to merge right and exit the freeway.

  "No, he's at the salon. But Mrs. Rosenblatt is here with the twins. She says I need a lawyer, Maddie. Do I need a lawyer?"

  I hoped not, but I feared the worst.

  "I'll be right there," I promised her, exiting on Wilshire and making a right.

  Luckily, once I left the freeway, traffic lightened up, and ten minutes later I was pulling up to my mom's place. I parked at the curb next to her mailbox, right behind a nondescript gray sedan with a police light affixed to the dashboard.

  The owners of the vehicle were in the driveway, both of them standing over Mom's car, the trunk popped as they rummaged around inside. Mom stood on the lawn in a pair of pleated culottes and a tie-dyed tank top, nibbling on one fingernail. Mrs. Rosenblatt stood beside her, arms waving up and down, shouting a string of curses in Yiddish as her muumuu flapped around her like bird wings.

  "Lign in drerd un bakn beygl!" I heard Mrs. Rosenblatt direct to Hardy as I got out of my car.

  "What does that mean?" Dana asked, the two of us jogging toward Mom.

  "I have no idea. Something about a bagel?" I guessed. Though the venom in her voice made the gist clear enough.

  "May you burn in hades forever and bake bagels you never eat!" Mrs. R translated with equal venom, spitting on the ground for emphasis at the end.

  I still didn't quite get it, but I focused on Mom, grabbing her in a quick hug. "Are you okay?" I asked.