by P. J. Conn
* * *
Joe took the new index cards to Mary Margaret's that night. He brought ice cream for dessert, and she was still licking her spoon when he pulled the cards from his jacket pocket.
"I've cards for people who barely knew Matteo, as well as those who were close enough to have a reason to murder him." He put Lily Montell's card down to begin one stack, and Veronica da Milano's to begin the other. "Veronica was in New York, but she could still have conspired with another woman to kill her ex-husband."
Mary Margaret carried their empty bowls to the kitchen and called over her shoulder, "But why? Apparently they were still close if he left her everything in his will."
"She appears to be an unlikely suspect, that's true, but let's keep her in that pile for now. Constance Remson was the first to hire me to follow Matteo, but he died before I could give her a report. She has an alibi, but Detective Lynch suspected a tie between the women who'd hired me and Matteo's death. I thought he was nuts, but maybe his theory should be considered."
"That's a first," Mary Margaret commented under her breath. She slid into her place beside him at the table. "Who were the other women he believed to be involved?"
"An artist, Paloma Val Verde, and Lily Montell. Paloma loved Matteo far too much to want to harm him, and Lily didn't care enough about him to do him in." He lay Paloma's card with Lily's, but put Constance's card in the middle.
"You're not sure about Constance?"
"She's been very helpful, but if she's really behind the murder, she'd want to keep me close to keep track of what I've discovered."
"Is she dangerous?"
"If she killed Matteo, she certainly is. I met Suzanne Ritter in Matteo's building on La Peer. She's a fashion designer, a sophisticated woman with hair dyed a striking burgundy shade. She told me Matteo liked to make milkshakes after making love."
"Milkshakes? I thought he'd sip champagne all evening."
"So did I, that's why her story struck me as merely a distraction rather than the truth. I've read liars often add details to back up their story. That may be what Suzanne did. I'll make a few calls tomorrow and see if milkshakes were part of Matteo's usual routine."
"Yes, do. A fashion designer could have easily produced the fur coat and hat worn by the woman you saw leaving Matteo's building."
"Indeed she could have. When I met Suzanne, she was still dressed for work, but barefoot. She might have wanted out of her stilettos as soon as she got home."
"Put her in the pile with Constance," she suggested.
"My thoughts exactly." He drew Sean's card. "Sean is the only one who'd gain professionally from Matteo's death, and he's close to Veronica." He placed their cards together.
"Matteo wasn't above romancing the wives of the other men who played in the LA Philharmonic. One of them might have planned to leave her husband for Matteo, and been deeply hurt when she realized her feelings weren't returned."
"A woman scorned? It's a good theory, and I did suggest the woman in furs might be a married lover wearing a disguise."
"You did." He drew a new card. "Tanya Olson lives next door to Matteo, and recalled hearing classical music coming from his apartment, but claimed not to know him. I doubt Matteo would ignore such an attractive young neighbor. She was home at the time of the murder, and could have disguised herself with furs, whipped around the building and returned to her apartment via the backdoor. When I knocked on her door a few minutes later, she answered wearing a robe."
"Did Detective Lynch question her?"
"Yes, but she'd changed her clothes by then. She batted her eyelashes at Lynch, and he quickly let her go. She didn't strike me as a suspect either then, so I can't fault him for it. Now, I wonder if the fur coat and hat weren't stuffed into her hallway closet."
"She had the opportunity it seems, but could a young woman have become angry enough to kill? Murder seems more of a crime a woman would commit after suffering a lifetime of betrayals and disappointments."
"Which brings us back to Constance, who has an alibi, and Suzanne Ritter."
"Could they have known each other?"
"Constance wears beautiful clothes, so it's possible she’s bought something from Suzanne Ritter."
He gathered the cards and returned them to his pocket. "We've spent enough time on this. Let's talk about something more entertaining."
"Wonderful idea. What about our wedding?"
As long as there was going to be one, he didn't care about the details, but he smiled as though nothing would interest him more.
Chapter 13
After playing golf Saturday morning, Joe drove by Timothy Navarro's home and found the young man working on a 1934 Ford Roadster coupe in the driveway. He parked up the street and watched Timothy greet a friend, who joined him working under the hood. The roadster looked as though it had seen better days, but lots of guys bought old cars to turn them into showy hot rods.
Timothy and his buddy were so intent on their work they didn't notice Joe walking by until he stopped and called to them, "That should be a great car when you're finished."
Both young men straightened up, and Timothy smiled with pride. A lanky, fair-haired young man with blue eyes, he came down to the sidewalk. "It's already a great car. It just needs a little more attention on the engine, some work on the body, a new paint job, and leather seats."
Joe laughed. "That's quite a list."
"I know, but it's worth it. I'll make a good profit when I sell it, and buy another old car and start over again."
"It could be a good business."
Timothy quickly agreed. "Sure is, but I should take a mechanic's course so I'd have some credentials to show. Many men came back from the war knowing everything there is to know about truck and jeep engines. I can’t compete with them, but I don't expect to work as a mechanic except in my own driveway."
Joe gazed into the distance as though he were deep in thought. "Detroit must always be looking for people who can design new cars."
"Yeah, I've probably taken enough engineering and math classes to qualify, but for now, I'm concentrating on turning near junkers into hot rods."
"Good plan, but does it leave any time for girls?"
Timothy looked down at his scuffed shoes. "My girlfriend is a student at USC. She's a great girl, and loves cars as well as me."
"Perfect combination." Joe wished him luck and walked all the way around the block to return to his car. He picked up his camera, and got a good shot of Timothy working on his car without being noticed.
He needed to call Mrs. Navarro, but not yet. On a couple of other occasions, he'd switched loyalties from his client to the subject of his investigation. As he saw it, Timothy loved cars, and his grandmother couldn't abide such a frivolous pursuit. If he could adjust her thinking, everyone would come out ahead.
* * *
With plenty of time to spare, Joe drove to Matteo's apartment building on Altmont. He thought Veronica might be there sorting the cellist's belongings, and she was, along with Sean Dermot, and interior designer, Michael Campbell.
There was no longer any evidence of Matteo's murder, and the smell of fresh paint lingered in the entryway air. Georgia Dixon had been killed right outside Joe's office door, and a crew had been hired to remove all trace of her murder. Maybe the same company had come there. There were all sorts of ways to earn a living, but he thought cleaning up bloody crime scenes had to be among the worst.
"Come in and help," Veronica welcomed him with a frantic gesture. "Michael believes he can sell whatever I don't want, but I'm torn about what to keep."
Joe greeted the two men, and asked where she'd like him to begin. "First, did Matteo have a blender to make milkshakes, the kind they have at soda fountains? I'd sure like to have one."
"A blender?" Veronica looked sincerely puzzled. "There isn't one in the kitchen, here or on La Peer. I don't believe Matteo ever drank milkshakes, so why would he have one?"
"No reason at all," Joe responded. "I just thought
I'd ask. Isn't art a good investment, Mr. Campbell?"
"Call me Michael, and yes, good art, which is the only type I promote, always appreciates in value. However, it's really a matter of personal taste."
"And mine isn't the same as Matteo's might have been," Veronica interjected. "I suppose I could leave paintings in their shipping crates and sell them ten years from now. That would work, wouldn't it, Michael?"
He shuddered at the thought. "Art is meant to be enjoyed, rather than hidden. It would be better to sell the work you wouldn't hang in your home. I'll cut my commission to twenty percent."
"You'd charge a widow that much?" Sean asked.
Deeply offended, Michael spoke slowly, as though he were addressing a small child. "Clearly you know nothing about the sale of art, but galleries often take fifty percent of the painting's price. Why don't you call one and ask what their commission is? I promise you'll regard my offer of twenty percent as a gift."
"Do you see why I can't make up my mind?" Veronica asked Joe. "I don't know what to do, and I'm afraid any choice I make will be the wrong one."
"It may be too soon to make decisions about art, or anything else," Sean suggested. "Why not give yourself more time?"
She sighed. "I doubt I'll feel any better about losing Matteo a year from now."
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Sean flinch, apparently hurt by her fond mention of her late ex-husband. "Maybe you should begin with things you know you don't want, and work up to the art."
"Yes!" Michael cried. "That's what we should do. Let's start in the kitchen where there's nothing you want to keep."
Sean checked his watch. "I had planned to stop by for only a moment to see how you are doing, Veronica. I'll talk to you, or see you again soon." He started for the door, but Veronica overtook him, and whispered in his ear. Whatever it was, he left smiling.
Veronica returned to the project at hand. "I like your idea, Joe, but I don't want to keep you all afternoon."
"I hadn't meant to stay. I should have asked about Matteo's Stradivarius. Is it still here?"
"No, it's far too expensive to leave in an unguarded apartment. Gunnar Ingvild picked it up to store with the Philharmonic’s instruments, where there is no chance it will be stolen."
"That's very wise."
By the time Joe bid them good-bye, Sean had already driven away, so he'd missed his chance for another talk with him. Still, it was plain he'd been hurt by Veronica's mention of Matteo. Maybe he loved her and had grown tired of waiting for her to get over her ex-husband. Love was a powerful motive for murder, but if not Veronica, who had been his accomplice?
* * *
Saturday afternoon, Joe visited Frederick's of Hollywood on Hollywood Blvd. to search for a source of murderous stiletto heels.
The owner, Frederick Mellinger, had designed the push-up bra. The store stocked them in multiple colors along with mere wisps of lingerie men would love to see their women wear. A voluptuous red-haired clerk in a tight low cut dress greeted Joe warmly.
"We have many men come in to buy gifts for their sweetheart or wife. Are you perhaps interested in a nightgown? We have a gorgeous selection."
"I'm a detective, working on a case, and heard you have stiletto heels."
"Indeed we do. A detective, I like that, but you needn't be embarrassed to shop here."
"I'm not embarrassed," he insisted with the cool detachment he'd cultivated for his work, but he purposely avoided glancing at the scantily clad mannequins on display.
"I understand," she responded. "You wish to be serious. We do have stiletto heels. Do you wish a particular size?"
Exasperated by the flirtatious clerk, Joe showed her the photo. "Do you by any chance recognize this women?"
She studied it carefully. "We don't sell furs, and it's impossible to tell who she is or if her stilettos came from here."
"Do you keep records of your sales?"
"We record them only to see what's selling, and most of our customers pay with cash. We are a discreet business, and don't share our customers' names with anyone. If something catches your eye, please let me know. Excuse me, I need to see another customer."
Joe left believing a search for the source of the mystery woman's furs or stiletto heels was only marginally less ridiculous than the hunt for a female hit woman.
* * *
On his way home, he stopped by the library and asked the librarian to recommend a book on planning weddings. Despite her quizzical expression, he chose not to elaborate on his request. She led him through the non-fiction stacks and pulled out the most popular volume.
"This is a good resource. It will be due in two weeks, but you may renew it if you need to."
"Thank you." The book was bigger and heavier that he'd expected, but there hadn't been any thin ones beside it on the shelf. He left before anyone coming up to the counter could see what he carried, and nearly ran to his car.
* * *
Mary Margaret wanted to go dancing that night. She loved dancing, and he was grateful for any excuse to hold her. He'd just finished polishing his dress shoes when he heard a soft rap at his door. He didn't care what the problem might be, he wouldn't be late for his date. He swung open the door, and couldn't believe his eyes.
It was the fur-clad woman again dressed as he'd photographed her coming out of Matteo's building. Her hat shadowed her eyes, but the light from his doorway gave her bright red lipstick a forbidding glare. She wore black gloves, and black suede low-heeled boots. She responded to Joe's startled appraisal with a low, throaty laugh.
She handed him his business card, and spoke in a suggestive whisper, "You're on the wrong track. Matteo was dead when I found him. When I had only one reason for being there, it would have badly embarrassed my husband had I remained to summon the police. Another woman wearing stilettos killed Matteo."
Her earnest comments sounded well-rehearsed. He'd not risk inviting her in and blocked the doorway with his body. "You claim to merely be a witness?"
"Yes, but I saw only poor Matteo, not the woman who killed him." She stepped away. "I've said all I wished to. Good night."
He'd passed out so many business cards, he couldn't be certain where she'd gotten the one she'd handed him. Dumbfounded by her surprise visit, he wasted precious seconds before following her down the stairs. He scanned the central courtyard, but she had already disappeared. Tail-lights would still be visible had she driven away down the alley behind the building, but it was dark. He raced out front, but there were no empty spaces between the cars parked along the curb. She'd disappeared just as swiftly as she had on the afternoon Matteo had died.
Cursing didn't even begin to touch his anger. He should have tackled her on the landing before she reached the stairs, but he'd been raised to respect women, and it hadn't even occurred to him.
* * *
Mary Margaret needed to sit down to hear the details of Joe's encounter with the fur-coated lady. "Did you get a good look at her?"
"No, she remained in the shadows. Even if she dared not disgrace her husband, it didn't prevent her from cheating on him."
"Do you believe she was telling the truth?"
He paced in front of her. "Why would she risk making an appearance at my apartment to lie?"
"To fool you, and throw you off the scent. Are you going to tell Detective Lynch?"
The thought held no appeal. "He hasn't kept me up to date on his investigation, so I don't see why I should relate mine."
"You're a bigger person than he is," she countered. "I don't like this, Joe. If she had murdered Matteo, she could have carried a gun and shot you when you first opened the door."
He'd had the same thought. "You're right, but I didn't sense any danger when I went to the door. I expected to find one of my neighbors asking for an ingredient for a recipe. Not that I'd have it, but my instincts completely failed me tonight."
She patted the sofa, and he sat beside her. "Is your home address on your business card?"
; "No, just the office and my telephone number there. She must have followed me home tonight, or she could have any other night."
"That's truly frightening." She gripped his hands tightly. "Let's not tell my mother about this."
"Lord, no. She'd imagine marauders storming through your cottage every night."
"This is a safe neighborhood, but when the bell rings, I look out the front window to see who's there."
"Wise move. I was concentrating on our date tonight, and it didn't even cross my mind that she'd turn up."
"It doesn't sound as though she threatened you."
"No, she just told me I needed to focus my investigation elsewhere, which is what a clever murderess would say. She's either innocent and helpful, or a conniving killer who intended to spin me in the wrong direction."
"Which do you believe she truly is?"
He brought her fingertips to his mouth for a tender kiss. "I don't know, and that's a big problem."
"Did anything about her strike you as familiar, her perfume, or gestures?"
He'd gotten used to Constance's heady fragrance, but there was no identifying scent tonight. "No, I recognized her instantly from the fur coat and hat, but there was no other way to identify her. She remains as mysterious a figure as when I first saw her. You were the one who believed she might be a married woman wearing a disguise."
She stood and pulled him to his feet. "True, but it doesn't thrill me to be right. I still want to go dancing. How about you?"
There was nothing more he could do on the perplexing case tonight except brood over how foolish he’d been to let the fur draped woman escape. "Sure, we might as well enjoy ourselves. I drove the long way here and no one followed me, so she's not hanging around."
"Well, I hope not." She snuggled against him. "You lead such an exciting life, Joe."
"It's all in your point of view, but please don't say that to your mother."
She appeared horrified by the thought. "No, of course not. It's our secret."
* * *
The telephone rang as Joe entered his office Monday morning. "Discreet Investigations."
"Hi, Joe, it's Hal. Do you have time for a job for California West? One just crossed my desk that might interest you."
