Just when I thought I could breathe again, my lungs stalled. “Tomorrow? But tomorrow’s Wednesday.”
“Yeah, it is. Is there a problem?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.” I could picture Beatrice, back at my studio, telling me to lie about my dinner date with Grady. Maybe not lie, exactly, but definitely not tell the truth. “I already have plans for tomorrow night. With a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Yeah, um . . .” I grabbed the cereal bowl, desperate for a diversion. “Darn. We ate all of your Frosted Flakes. Want more?”
“No. No, that’s okay. And what friend are we talking about?”
“An old friend. It’s no big deal.”
“Do I know her?”
I tried to focus, but everything seemed a little topsy-turvy. This wasn’t going at all like I’d planned. “To tell you the truth . . . it’s not a girl. I’m meeting Grady. You know, Grady from the doughnut shop.”
Ambrose flinched, as if I’d sucker punched him in the stomach.
“I think he wants to talk business,” I quickly added. “Run a few things by me. Probably talk about advertising and stuff . . .” I prayed I sounded more genuine than I felt.
“Grady, huh,” he finally said. “Whaddya know. Well, it’s no big deal. Dinner can wait ’til this weekend.”
“Sure . . . this weekend. I’d love that.”
Without warning, Ambrose straightened and plucked the bowl off the table. “I’d better put this away. Time for me to go to bed, anyway. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.” He threw one leg, and then the other, over the bench and rose. “And turn out the light in here when you leave, will ya? I think you left it on last night.” His voice was sharp now.
“I did? Okay, if you say so.”
He strode to the sink, where he roughly tossed the bowl in the basin. By the time it finally stopped clattering, he was gone.
“Good night,” I called after him.
No sound, so I dropped my head to the table. Why, oh why, didn’t I listen to Beatrice? What made me run off at the mouth like that? He was obviously upset. I should’ve stayed quiet and let him guess who was meeting me for dinner tomorrow night.
Now it was too late. Like so many times before, I’d let my mouth take off before my brain had a chance to catch up.
I rose from the table with a sigh, and then I slapped at the light switch on the kitchen wall. Once I made my way down the hall and into my bedroom, I tossed on a tattered T-shirt and flowered boxer shorts. A few halfhearted passes with a washcloth and toothbrush later, I fell into bed with a thump.
My mind kept replaying the scene with Ambrose in the kitchen. He looked so sad. Disappointed, even. He’d actually blanched at the news.
Every time I tried to get comfortable, my mattress turned rock-hard. When I flipped right, it pressed against my ribs. When I turned left, my shoulder met granite.
Finally, after hours of tossing and turning, and maybe a few measly hours of sleep, I gave up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
A ribbon of pink glowed under the window shade in my room. Ready or not, dawn had arrived, so I quietly rose and padded down the hall. Nothing sounded but a few starlings in the backyard as they called to the morning sun.
Phew. Phew. Phew. Normally, I enjoyed the sound of birdcalls, but today it was a little too loud and a little too incessant for its own good. I tried to ignore it as I walked to the kitchen, where my gaze instantly flew to a hook near the telephone, where Ambrose always kept his keys. Empty. Not only that, but the countertop was spotless. Every other morning, for as long as I could remember, Ambrose left a watery coffee-cup stain near the stove. He also scattered sugar crystals on the stainless-steel burners when he added two teaspoons—never more and never less—to his coffee cup. Today, though, everything was sparkling.
Now I felt even worse. Apparently, he’d rather leave early, and without his coffee, than risk running into me. I trudged back to my bedroom on legs of lead.
Frowning, I flung open the closet door and quickly grabbed the first thing I saw: a black turtleneck, burgundy corduroys, and dark kitten heels. Once dressed, I moved to the bathroom to assess the damage.
The face in the mirror looked pale and puffy. Dark rings circled both eyes, which made my winter pallor even more noticeable, so I first dabbed some under-eye concealer over the shadows. Then I added blush, mascara, and lipstick, although nothing seemed to help much.
Maybe what I needed was a good hairdo. The French knot seemed to work reasonably well yesterday, at least for part of the day, so I quickly gathered my hair into a ponytail, twisted it from top to bottom, and then coiled the strands at the base of my neck.
That helped some, but not much. What I needed was a foolproof pick-me-up: a great hat. So I shuffled back to the closet and plucked one of my favorites from the top shelf.
A wine-colored fascinator made of wool, it featured Lady Amherst’s pheasant feathers at the sides and a pouf of black netting on top. Best of all, the French knot would play peekaboo under the rim of the fascinator and give people behind me something to look at.
Once I angled the hat against the side of my head, I poked a hatpin through it. Much better. I hightailed it out of the bedroom, grabbed my keys from the side table in the entry hall, and stepped outside.
A light drizzle misted everything. Thank goodness, I’d opted for the sturdy wool fascinator, instead of a more delicate one made of silk or velvet.
To be safe, I cupped my hands over the feathers and dashed for my car. As soon as I reached it, I started up the engine and pulled away, just as a few raindrops landed on the hood.
The rain grew stronger as I pulled onto the highway. Lulled by the staccato sound of water pelting metal, my thoughts slipped back to the night before: To the way Ambrose smiled at me when I first came home. And the way he teased me about my cell phone battery. Even the way he worried about me, once he read the note from Lance aloud. He’d said something about a “person of interest” in Charlotte Devereaux’s murder investigation, which was about the only good thing to come from our conversation.
It meant Lance finally had a lead in the case. While not as solid as a suspect, a “person of interest” meant he had a starting point. I’d have to call him as soon as I got to the Factory, before anything else could distract me.
As if on cue, the Factory’s parking lot appeared up ahead. I spied Ambrose’s Audi in the third row, so I cautiously pulled into the row before it. There was no sign of Bettina’s car, but, then again, she might’ve carpooled to work this morning.
What with the ominous clouds overhead, I made sure to double-check the latch on the soft-top after I shut off the car.
Knock, knock, knock.
Sweet baby Jesus. My heart leaped to my throat. Stormie Lanai appeared in my window, larger than life and covered in stage makeup. She wore thick fuchsia lipstick, charcoal eyeliner, and false eyelashes that fluttered like two butterfly wings.
Whatever was Stormie doing in the parking lot of the Factory at six in the morning?
I cautiously lowered the automatic window. Luckily, the rain had slackened and only a few drops fell against the steering wheel. “Can I help you?” I didn’t mean to bark, but she’d scared the bejesus out of me.
“Good morning. Stormie Lanai here. Can we talk?”
My first instinct was to jam the car in reverse and roar away, but then she’d only follow me. It made more sense to face her in public—even though the parking lot was practically empty—than to meet her back at my rent house, where we’d definitely be alone.
I sighed, raised the window, and whisked out the keys. Then I threw open the door and stepped onto the pavement, as she shoved a handheld mic under my chin. Along with thick makeup, she wore a tight plaid jacket, a skirt that was two sizes too small, and a pair of stilettos that added six inches to her height. All in all, it was hard not to stare.
Behind her stood a middle-aged cameraman with a JVC recorder on his shoulder, which he
switched on the moment the reporter began her countdown.
“On one: Three . . . two . . . one. This is Stormie Lanai—”
“Just a second.” I threw up my hand to block the camera lens.
“What’re you doing?” Stormie demanded.
“I’ve got a few questions for you first. How’d you know where to find me?”
“I wasn’t sure, but I ran into your assistant yesterday. She told me you come to work pretty early.”
Poor Beatrice. The sound of a whirring camera probably caught her off guard too. “Fine. But don’t go back to my studio.” I lowered my hand. “You won’t find anything there. You’ll only upset my assistant. If you have something to say, say it to me . . . not her.”
“That’s why I’m here, honey,” Stormie said, a little too sweetly. “To get your side of the story. That’s what you want folks to know about, right?”
She has a point. Especially since Lance had identified a person of interest in the case. Maybe it was time for me to launch a public defense and finally clear my name. It might help convince my clients they shouldn’t cancel on me. “All right. You win. What do you want to know?”
The cameraman repositioned the camera.
“On one,” Stormie repeated. “Three . . . two . . . one. This is Stormie Lanai, reporting live for KATZ news.”
A thunderclap sounded overhead, but we all ignored it.
“I’m standing here today with Melissa DuBois, owner of a well-known millinery studio,” Stormie said. “We’re at a shopping center called the Factory, where police found the body of a wedding planner two days ago. So, Missy . . .” She turned a fraction, no doubt because that favored her better side. “Can you tell us what happened that morning?”
I did my best to ignore the blinking red light on the camera. “The victim was already dead by the time I arrived at work. I found her in a barrel behind my studio.”
“It was your barrel, wasn’t it?” Stormie widened her eyes dramatically, which stopped the oversized lashes from fluttering. “It was a whiskey barrel, from what I understand.”
“Well, yes. It was my barrel. But I only put it there to catch the rain.”
She inched the microphone closer. “Police say the victim was bludgeoned to death with something you’d made. Isn’t that right?”
“No. I mean, yes. It was my hat stand. But they found it in a dumpster.”
Her eyes widened even more. “So, whoever murdered the poor victim just tossed it away, like a scrap of trash?”
A light sweat broke out along my hairline. “Look, I’ve already been cleared by the police, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“I’m not getting at anything.” She glanced at the camera sincerely. “But our viewers have a right to know what happened, don’t they?”
Words failed me. Maybe it was the blinking light on top of the JVC or the ridiculously long lashes that hung over the reporter’s eyes, but I couldn’t focus.
“Well, don’t you have anything to say to our viewers?” she asked.
“Look . . . um, what happened was—I mean, the whole reason I was there—um . . .”
She whisked the microphone away. “How horrible to find a dead body in the parking lot behind where you work. And then to know you made the murder weapon . . . well, it’s all too tragic. This is Stormie Lanai reporting live—”
It’s now or never. I grabbed the microphone back. “Look. I’ve given the police my alibi, which they’ve confirmed. From what I understand, they identified a person of interest last night. You might want to double-check your information before you ambush someone again.”
Her mouth fell open. “I didn’t—”
“One more thing,” I said. “Don’t ever harass my assistant again.” Only then did I relinquish the mic.
Stormie looked dazed. As she whirled away from me, her stiletto splashed into a puddle of oil and muck, and she quickly whisked it up again. Then she and her cameraman began to stalk across the parking lot, apparently headed for a royal blue Republic trash dumpster that partially blocked a white van. No wonder I hadn’t seen the news van when I first pulled into the parking lot.
They both disappeared from view a short while later. Although the day had just begun, I already wanted to go home.
Chapter 12
By the time the reporter zoomed away from the parking lot with her cameraman, the drizzle had hardened to rain. I locked up my car, and then I scampered through the parking lot, too rushed to worry about protecting my hat this time.
Sure enough, by the time I passed the atrium, where sheet after sheet of rain slid down the windows, a limp feather drooped against my cheek.
My only hope to preserve what was left of my outfit was to dash under an overhang that jutted from the building. Which helped some, but not enough, since wind whipped the rain sideways and splashed it onto my legs and feet. By the time I finally arrived at the studio, wet corduroy hugged my thighs like a clammy paper sack.
It wasn’t my only problem, though. A pile of glass shards greeted me, in a spot where I normally kept a welcome mat. The glass belonged to my beautiful French door, which had been reduced to rubble. Most of the shards were no bigger than my fingernail.
To add insult to injury, the debris breeched the doorjamb and spilled onto a rug inside. I blindly crouched to brush away some shards. Ouch. I pulled back, but it was too late: a jagged piece jutted from my palm like an icy thorn.
Nothing made sense. I could understand one pane of broken glass. Maybe the wind blew something against it; that was understandable. But all fifteen window panes? It was too much. Especially since some gouges on the doorframe looked suspiciously like ax marks.
The landscape tilted as I rose. Sometime during the night, as I tossed and turned only a few miles away, an intruder hacked away at my French door, methodically smashing each and every windowpane. Looking through raindrops at the carnage, nothing made sense, at least not right away.
I finally glanced up to see Ambrose standing beside me.
“What happened?” he whispered.
“I—I don’t know. I just got here.”
He helped me rise, and then he gently turned me away from the carnage. “Do you have any idea who did this?”
I shook my head, too numb to speak.
“Wait here a second.” He pushed open what was left of the door and stepped onto the throw rug inside.
“No, Ambrose. Don’t. They still could be in there.”
He moved quickly, though, as he lurched over the rug.
“Please, don’t.” I lunged after him and caught the hem of his jacket. “Please let the police handle this.”
“But I don’t want them to get away.”
I let go of the hem when I realized I’d left a bloody smear. “They could be armed. I’ll call Lance. He’ll know what to do.”
That stopped him, and he hovered in place for a moment. “All right.” He retreated through the doorway. “We’ll go to my place and you can call your friend from there.”
We somberly made our way next door. Once we reached Ambrose’s Allure Couture, he held open the door for me and then closed and locked it when we were safely inside. His eyes widened when he noticed something. “Look at you. You’re hurt. Stay right there.”
He left me to retrieve a Band-Aid from a first-aid kit he kept under the counter. By the time he returned, a pink trail of blood curled around my wrist.
He wiped it away with a tissue and carefully applied a bandage. “That’s much better.”
“Thank you.” While I hated to move, I needed to call Lance. Once I withdrew my cell and tapped its screen, Lance’s voice sounded over the receiver.
“Hey, there. You got my message.”
“Can you come to my studio?”
“I dunno. Lots of things going on here and—”
“It’s an emergency, Lance.” Thank goodness he and I were such good friends. Over the years, we’d learned to communicate in shorthand, and now neither one minded when
the other one interrupted. “Someone broke into my studio last night. Shattered my French door. Glass everywhere.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know if they’re still there.” My eyes flew to Ambrose. “Thank goodness Ambrose found me. I’m calling you from his studio.”
“Gotcha. I’ll call for backup and then head over to the Factory. Don’t move, okay?”
I couldn’t help but sigh, in spite of everything. “You always say that to me, Lance. Just where am I supposed to go?”
“With you, there’s no telling. And I’ll be there in five minutes. Promise you won’t go back to your own studio.”
“Scout’s honor.” I threw Ambrose a look as I clicked off the line and laid the phone down.
“What?”
“Lance told me to stay away from my studio. I knew it was a bad idea for you to go back inside.”
“Hey, I was worried about you. What can I say? At least you’re safe now.”
He pulled out a stool for me, which I gladly accepted. Amazing how quickly things changed. We’d both gone to bed angry the night before, but now it didn’t matter.
“Look, I’m sorry about last night,” I said. “I hated how we left things.”
“Me too. I didn’t sleep at all.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, Ambrose. But we never said we’d only date each other.” I purposefully studied the Band-Aid so I wouldn’t have to look into his beautiful, Tiffany-blue eyes.
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve told you if it bothered me.”
If. The word hung awkwardly in the air. What does he mean by that? I was about to ask when he turned away.
He spoke over his shoulder as he walked. “You’re soaking wet. Might as well get you cleaned up.” He moved to the back of the room, where he paused in front of an antique armoire called a chifforobe. “There’s bound to be a slip or a skirt in here you can wear.”
I slid from the stool and followed him. Like most designers, Ambrose kept a “hide closet” in the back of his studio to stash away the messier parts of his profession.
His version of a hide closet was a maple chifforobe with a rounded top. When he pulled open its doors, a bolt of fabric, tub of scissors, and poufy ball-gown skirt tumbled to the ground. He plucked up the skirt and tossed it to me. “Here, try this.”
Someone's Mad at the Hatter Page 9
