10 Suspect in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  Some of the cop softened out of his face, and he pulled me in for another long hug. "I'm just glad you're okay," he murmured into my hair.

  "Me too," I told his chest as I pressed my face to it.

  "This is going to be a mess to explain to the insurance company," he said, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

  I pulled back, taking in my battered car. "And I don't think this was a random drive-by," I said slowly, watching my husband's reaction.

  His jaw did some serious clenching again, working back and forth. "That's concerning," he finally ground out.

  I bit my lip. "I, uh, think it might be connected to Carrington's death."

  Ramirez took a step forward, crouching down to get a closer look at the bullet hole in my car. "Should I ask why you think that?" he said.

  "I may possibly have been asking some questions today. To some people who knew him."

  "Questions." His tone was flat, but I could see that jaw working again. This time it was accompanied by a small vein in his neck bulging ever so slightly.

  "Look, I was in public places. Out in the open. With Marco even!"

  He stood, turning to face me. "Six inches in the other direction, and the bullet would be in your chest."

  The fear I'd been attempting to quell ever since my window shattered hit me in a wave, reminding me how lucky I'd been.

  I could see the same emotion in Ramirez's face too as he took a step toward me. "Maddie, this is a murder investigation. This is not some game."

  "I'm well aware. I'm the one who was shot at, remember?"

  While I expected a fight back, his face softened instead. "That is not something I ever want to hear again."

  I swear his voice cracked on that last line.

  Tears gathered in my eyes again. I sniffed them back. "I know," I choked out. "Me neither."

  He pulled in a deep breath, nostrils flaring at the effort. "Look, I am doing everything I can to get your mom out of Laurel and Hardy's sights. Against Captain's orders, by the way."

  I reached a hand out and grabbed his. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. But I need you to stay out of it."

  I bit my lip. While all my feminist instincts screamed to tell him that wasn't his call, my better judgment knew he was right. Just how close I'd come to being a statistic on the evening news had hit me hard. What would Max and Livvie do if something happened to me? It wasn't just myself I had to look out for anymore.

  So, I nodded, fully meaning it. "I'll leave it to you."

  I must have shocked my husband as much as I shocked myself, as he cocked an eyebrow at me. "Really?"

  "Really," I assured him. "I trust you. You'll find whoever did this," I said, gesturing to the car, "and killed Carrington and Cash."

  He nodded, still looking me as if he didn't quite believe me. But he said, "Thank you. And, I will find them."

  I glanced at the car door. "You think the same weapon did this that killed Allison Cash?"

  "Too soon to tell." He crouched down at the hole again. "I can see the bullet was small caliber, but we'll have to dig it out and compare the two to know for sure."

  I cringed at the words "dig it out."

  "My car is evidence now, isn't it?"

  Ramirez gave me a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, babe. I'm going to have to call it in and have them tow it."

  While it wasn't ideal, I was still on a high of just being alive, so I only groaned minimally as I grabbed my purse and personal belongings from the car. Ramirez called in the incident, requesting a forensics team, before taking the car seats out of my minivan, shaking the bulk of the glass off of them, and transferring them to his own vehicle. We only had to wait a few minutes before a black and white squad car arrived, pulling to a stop just behind Ramirez. He gave the uniformed officer a brief rundown on the situation then left him to await the forensics team.

  The drive home was quiet and thankfully quick. I wasn't sure if it was the sleepless night, the early morning call from the prison, or the ebbing adrenaline leaving me drained, but I was suddenly exhausted, every muscle in my body feeling limp and used up by the time we pulled up to our bungalow. Ramirez walked me inside, where I promptly went into the hottest shower on record. By the time I'd gotten out, done a little lip gloss and eyeliner routine, and dressed in a comfortable pair of loose palazzo pants and a cropped shirt, I found Ramirez in the living room, just ending a phone call with someone.

  "Car's at the station, and they'll be working on a bullet match soon."

  I nodded, hoping they found something useful and my ordeal might not be for nothing.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  I gave him the best smile I could muster. "I'm good. Really."

  I must have been getting better at lying, as some of the concern smoothed from his forehead. "Good. In that case, I'm going to go pick up the kids from my mom's. I've already called Dana to come hang out with you while I'm gone."

  "I don't need a babysitter," I told him, sinking into the sofa.

  "Too late. She's already on her way." He shot me a big smile. "Be back in a few minutes. If you're real good, I may even stop for pizza on the way home."

  "No fair. You know my kryptonite."

  He gave me a knowing wink before ducking out the front door.

  Left alone, I settled on the sofa and flipped on HGTV, watching a couple in Iowa decide between three gorgeous houses for sale at prices that would make anyone on the West Coast jealous. They were just leaning toward the two story colonial, when my phone rang and an unfamiliar number came up on the screen.

  "Hello?" I answered.

  "Hi. Maddie Springer?"

  "Yes?" I asked, expecting the pitch of a telemarketer to come next.

  "This is Lottie. Lottie LaMore. I, uh, got your number from Mina at Yesterday's Treasures."

  "Lottie," I said, sitting up straighter. "Hi. Is everything okay?"

  "Yes, yes. I just…well, I was thinking about what you said at the auction house earlier today. About Carrington and falsifying antiques."

  "Oh?" Lottie had been a regular at Carrington's shop. Had she, like Terri, witnessed Carrington selling fakes as well? "What about it?" I asked.

  "Well, there's something I think you need to know."

  "Yes?"

  She paused, and I could sense hesitation on the other end. "I-I'd really rather discuss it in person. Is there any way you could meet me?"

  "Now?" I asked, glancing at the clock. Despite how drained I felt, it was only late afternoon.

  "The sooner the better in this case, I think," she said. "I…well, I think it might be important."

  I bit my lip, my angel shoulder and devil shoulder doing an internal battle. I'd promised Ramirez I'd stay out of the whole case less than an hour ago. And unlike the past times I'd made that same vow, I'd fully intended to keep it this time. But if Lottie knew something about Carrington…something she was willing to share with me…it might well be the key to making all the bits and pieces I'd been chasing down over the last week fit into neat little places.

  "Maddie?" she asked.

  "Sorry, uh, yes. Where would you like to meet?" I asked, mentally planning the apology dinner I'd owe my husband now.

  She gave me the address to her house, and I promised I'd be there as soon as I could.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I was just throwing on a pair of red heels and an extra layer of lip gloss when Dana arrived a few minutes later. I met her at the door, pulling it open almost as soon as she knocked.

  "Mads! Ohmigodyoupoorthing!" she slurred together, attacking me with a linebacker worthy hug.

  "I'm fine," I protested. "But you might be breaking a rib."

  She let me go, shaking her head in disbelief. "Ramirez said you were a drive-by victim! What happened?"

  "I'll tell you all about it in the car."

  "Wait—what?" Dana asked as I grabbed her by the arm and shoved her back out onto the front porch.

  "We're going to visit Lottie LaMore."

>   Her blank face told me the name didn't ring a bell.

  "The antiques collector who sold The Blob sculpture."

  "Oh." She nodded, recognition dawning as I locked the front door behind me and headed to the car.

  As I buckled in, I sent Ramirez a short text telling him I was with Dana and we were making a quick little trip to visit a friend. Then I shut my phone off for fear of the texts I'd get back.

  "So, why are we going to see Lottie?" Dana asked, backing her car out of my driveway.

  I quickly told her about the phone call from Lottie, then as we hopped onto the 10 freeway, bravely recounted the entire shooting incident.

  When I'd finished, her usual perfectly smooth forehead was puckered in concern, and her lips were drawn into a tight line. "You got too close to the truth, Mads," she decided. "That's why the killer tried to take you out."

  I shivered despite the heat wave. "I only wish I knew what that truth was."

  "Maybe Lottie's story will help," Dana said, merging onto the 110.

  I hoped so. Because I was running out of options.

  A few minutes later we pulled up to a one story ranch house in south Pasadena. Dana parked at the curb, and I shielded my eyes from the sun as I stepped out into the heat. The grass looked in need of a good mow, but the roses leading up to the door were bright and well pruned, and while the stone pathway looked worn in places, it was weeded and well cared for.

  After beeping the car locked, Dana followed me up the walkway to a front door that was painted a cheery red, and I rang the bell.

  Lottie must have been waiting for us, as I'd barely heard the chime sound on the other side before the door pulled open.

  "Maddie, I'm so glad you could make it." She paused when she saw Dana. "And you brought a friend?"

  "My car's in the shop," I said, glossing over the details. "This is Dana. I believe you met her at the shop?"

  "Yes. Of course, I remember you now. Please, come in." Lottie stood back to allow us entry.

  The interior of the house was cooler, thankfully bathed in air conditioning, and I was immediately struck by how much Lottie and her late husband had packed into the small home. A living room sat to our right, where three large, overstuffed love seats were rammed in between several end tables in a mix of styles—all of them dating back at least a few decades. The floor was covered in several rugs in competing designs, and the walls were adorned in paintings, photographs, and various items framed in shadow boxes, almost creating a second layer of wallpaper over the floral design that was already pasted up. Ahead of me was an entry hall that I presumed led to back bedrooms. It, too, was covered in a hodgepodge of décor from yesteryear.

  "Wow," Dana said, mirroring my thoughts as she took in our surroundings. "This is quite a collection."

  "Thank you." Lottie nodded, the pride apparent on her face. "But my husband was the one who collected most of these. He used to say he was rescuing history."

  "That's lovely," I said, meaning it. While the mishmash of stuffy furniture wasn't my taste exactly, I did appreciate the craftsmanship and stories they had to tell. Speaking of which…

  "You, uh, said you had something to tell me about Carrington?" I prompted.

  Lottie cleared her throat, her expression morphing from serene to troubled. "Yes. Uh, why don't we step into the study and chat there? I just made some iced tea."

  I nodded, and Dana and I followed her down the hallway toward a small room that had been fashioned as an office. Three of the four walls were lined with bookcases featuring all manner of antiques, from books with well worn spines to sculptures to groupings of tin toys and porcelain figures. A desk sat at one end of the room and a sofa and small coffee table in the center. As with the living room, the floor here was covered in old rugs—so many that some overlapped in places.

  "This was Louis's favorite room," Lottie said, her eyes taking on that faraway look again. "See that knife over there?" she asked, pointing to a rusted looking bowie knife beneath a frame. "That was his first antique purchase. Picked it up at a rummage sale as a young man. Paid just ten cents for it, and later found out it's worth several hundred dollars. He was hooked after that."

  "Super cool," Dana said, taking a step closer to examine it under the glass frame.

  Lottie chuckled. "Yes, well, I suppose it is cool. Excuse me just a moment while I get the tea."

  "Can you imagine if each of these things is worth a few hundred dollars?" Dana asked, moving on to a shelf holding an assortment of pottery pieces. "Lottie could be sitting on a fortune here."

  "I wonder how many of these were purchased from Carrington," I mused.

  Dana shrugged. "Or if they're all authentic."

  I didn't have much time to ponder that, as a moment later Lottie came back, carrying three glasses on a tray, along with a plate of cookies. She set it down on a small coffee table in the center of the room and offered a glass to me. "Peppermint brewed with a hint of raspberry," she said. "Very refreshing for these warm days."

  "Thank you," I told her, taking a sip. She was right—the peppermint added an extra cooling component.

  "And for you, my dear," she said, crossing the room with a glass for Dana.

  Only she must have tripped on the edge of one of the layered rugs, as she stumbled toward my friend, the glass in her hand pitching forward.

  And spilling all over Dana's white linen skirt.

  Dana gasped and jumped back.

  "Oh no! Oh, I'm so sorry!" Lottie said, hand going to her mouth in embarrassment.

  "It's okay," Dana reassured her. "Cold, but okay."

  "No, I-I'm so clumsy sometimes. Here, let me take you to the powder room, where you can clean up."

  Dana shot me an eye roll before following Lottie out the door to the restroom. I had a bad feeling I owed her an apology dinner too, for dragging her along.

  I sipped my own iced tea in the silence for a couple of moments, browsing the room. In one corner I found a pair of sculptures very much like The Blob, only a bit larger and…well, uglier. I picked one heavy lump of clay up, turning it over in my hand to see a small signature on the bottom: Bracington.

  "My Louis purchased that in the eighties," Lottie told me, coming back into the room. "It's quite rare to find a pair still together like that."

  "It's…very nice," I said, setting the indistinguishable shape back on the shelf next to its mate. "You mentioned something you needed to tell me about Carrington?" I prompted again, feeling a little uncomfortable in the claustrophobic space.

  Lottie bit her lip and nodded, turning to the tray again as she grabbed her own glass of tea. "Yes. I believe I do."

  "Did you ever see him trying to sell items you thought might be fake?"

  With her back to me, I couldn't read her expression, but her voice held a note of sadness when she spoke again. "I had such faith in Carrington. You see, my husband had been dealing with him for years. He trusted him to know the difference between something valuable and something just old. Louis had a great eye for history, you know," she said, turning to face me. Her lips held a sad smile, and her eyes seemed to focus on a point somewhere in time rather than in the room. "He saw beauty and craftsmanship, but that didn't always equate to a valuable piece in the antiques world. Condition, rarity, provenance. Those all matter far more, and I'm afraid my Louis never really did develop a knack for differentiating between history and value."

  "Well, he seems to have amassed a large collection anyway," I said.

  Lottie nodded. "Oh, he did." She paused. "And he trusted Carrington to give a fair price when he was ready to sell them."

  "He sold a lot to Carrington?" I asked.

  Lottie's expression changed, the faraway look being replaced with something else I had a hard time reading. "He did. More than he should have."

  "Meaning?" I asked.

  But instead of answering me, Lottie set her tea back down on the tray and said, "Did you know it can be almost impossible to tell a reproduction from the real thin
gs sometimes?" She didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "Old materials are easy to find, thanks to the internet, and a clever forger can duplicate almost any marks or insignia. In fact, to an untrained eye, a reproduction and an authentic piece can look almost identical."

  "That sounds difficult," I agreed.

  "It is. Which makes people like Carrington so important. People we trust to tell us what we have in hand. People who know the difference between pretty junk and real valuables." She paused. "At least when they tell the truth."

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  "Did Carrington lie to you about a reproduction? Did he tell you it was real?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "No, dear. That wasn't the lie he told."

  "But he did lie to you about the value of an item," I said, feeling pieces slowly fall into place as I watched her face. "He lied to you about a real antique, didn't he?"

  Lottie sucked in a breath, eyes intent on mine as she slowly nodded.

  "Carrington wasn't selling fakes," I said, clarity washing over me almost like a physical thing. "He was selling real antiques…but he was telling the people he bought them from that they were fake."

  Lottie's eyes were watery as she nodded. "I'm afraid so."

  I thought back to when I'd first met Carrington at the Antiques Extravaganza. "Just like he did to Mom's hatpin," I said, working it out. "She was sure it was real, but he told her it was a cheap reproduction. That was his scam. He'd tell owners they had junk, offer to buy it off them for a small sum, and then resell it at auction for the real money it was worth."

  Lottie sighed deeply. "See, I knew you'd figure it out."

  Something about the tone of her voice pulled me out of my own thoughts. "You knew what?"

  "The moment you mentioned fakes at Van Steinberg's, I knew you were getting close to what Carrington's real business was. And it was only a matter of time before you realized why he was killed." She paused. "And by whom."

  I blinked at her, the meaning behind her words slow to sink in. Though, as soon as she opened a drawer to her right and pulled out its contents, the meaning was crystal clear.