I took a sip of my coffee. “Do you know if the museum recycles boxes?”
“No, but I can ask somebody.”
“If they do, that might explain the box.”
“Only if there’s some reason for the museum to mail a package to Milo. Why?”
“I can’t see any reason why Milo would be getting a package from the museum, unless he’s part of the problem.”
He made a silent O and nodded. We stood there in shared silence, digesting this last theory.
“Let’s review what we know,” I said. “Dirk Engle was Milo’s business manager until he left him high and dry. But would Milo kill him over that? And why would he edit me out of the surveillance footage—to make you look guilty? Why would he stab Thad? And even if he did those things, when did he do them? We’ve never seen Milo at the museum.”
“None of it makes sense.”
I found a stale muffin and picked the cranberries out of it. “If you count everybody, including Dirk, we have two store owners, a hat designer, a Hollywood icon, and a bunch of museum employees. What about the collectors? There seems to be a pretty strong parallel between them. What’s the why?”
“The Y?” Eddie asked.
“The why. The motive. The reason one of these people would want to kill Dirk Engle.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Someone wanted his client list. Vera could double her business. Milo could seek out financial backing. Christian could approach them as donors. I’m pretty sure that’s why Hedy London agreed to be a part of the exhibit. Just about anybody involved could leverage her name for their benefit, and she wanted to make sure if someone was going to be in the limelight, it might as well be her. She’s supposed to be at the exhibit. What time is she supposed to get there?”
“This afternoon.” Eddie said. He rocked back on his chair legs.
I had to fight the adult urge to tell him to bring it down on all fours. I scooted back farther on my barstool until my legs were dangling.
Eddie picked up the now-dry list of collectors from the table. The developing fluid had warped the paper, and a faint pinkish-brown stain covered two-thirds of the writing.
Eddie scanned the page, using his index finger to trace down the list. “I know a couple of these names from the program. The Willoughbys are known costume collectors. There was an article in the paper about them last year when they bought some costumes from one of those thirties husband-wife detective-team mysteries. Remember? They came up at auction in New York?”
“There was a Mrs. Willoughby at Over Your Head the day I first went there.”
“So she’d obviously be interested.”
“And some guy in a wrinkled seersucker suit and straw hat has been hanging around outside of the museum. Do you know who he is?”
“That’s Carl Collins. He’s a reporter for the Ribbon Times.”
I recognized the name from the article I’d read. “I should have known there would be a reporter snooping around the museum.”
“Carl’s harmless. They put him on puff pieces.”
“What if Christian is planning to resell the hats on the collector’s market? What if he had a set of fakes made up by Milo and he replaced the originals with the phonies?” I thought back over the samples I saw at Milo’s showroom, how familiar they looked, and how upset he’d gotten when I asked about his inspiration. “The twelve people on this list represent money for the museum. If these people are rabid collectors, wouldn’t they be interested in seeing the Hedy London hats first?”
“You think the hats at the exhibit are fakes?”
“It would explain the different labels. It would also explain the fact that we have two of the same hat—the one we found next to Dirk Engle’s body and the one Milo sent here.”
“So Loncar brought us fakes. You think the police have the real ones?”
Eddie flattened the paper against the table with the side of his hand. “If they do, then somebody had better get the real hats to the museum for the gala.”
“Maybe the police don’t know they had fakes. Maybe the real hats went missing from the beginning.”
“Yeah, well, collectors know their stuff. They’ll be able to spot a fake a mile away.”
He folded the paper in half and then in half again. “I’m going to spend the day at the museum. You wanna come?”
“No, I’m going to see Milo. His event is today, and I want to thank him for sending me a hat for tonight.”
After Eddie left, I found the ad from Over Your Head on the counter and unfolded it. The Milo Delaney public appearance was today. I dressed in a black and white checkered strapless dress layered over a mint green cotton poplin shirt. I fed French knots through the cuff link holes, pulled on a pair of pointy-toed black ankle booties, filled a houndstooth handbag with my wallet, sunglasses, phone, and lip-gloss, and left.
The ad for Milo’s event at the hat store said he’d be available between noon and two. I arrived at twelve thirty, figuring it was better to be early than late, surprised to find a Closed sign in the window. Next to that was a smaller sign taped to the inside of the glass. Milo Delaney event cancelled until further notice.
Interesting. If someone involved in the homicide was looking for a good day to skip town, today would rank right up there.
32
I sat in the car out front and called information for the store’s number. Once connected, I sat through five rings until the machine picked up. Vera Sarlow’s voice confirmed what the sign said. The Milo Delaney public appearance was cancelled, and Over Your Head was closed until further notice.
I drove around back, hoping to find a crew quietly smuggling her inventory out of the store, but I found nothing. The building was locked up as tight as a drum. I hopped out of the car and glanced in the Dumpster. It was empty. I looked at the sticker on the outside of the fixture. Trash pickup had been that morning.
Curses.
It was after two by the time I pulled into my driveway. There was little else for me to do but get ready for the gala. Nick was due to pick me up at three thirty, which left me an hour and a half to get ready. Despite the drama surrounding the event, my excitement over attending the soiree colored my expectations. The risk of spending time at the museum was barely a thought.
I surveyed the contents of my closet, narrowing my choices down to a strapless cocktail dress with full skirt and built-in crinoline and a burnt sienna backless jersey gown cut on the bias. Both were favorites. Both had been worn only once. Both held promise. Neither felt right.
I went downstairs for a glass of water and saw the ivory plastic garment bag draped over one of the dining room chairs. The logo on the bag read Catnip. It was the other bag Cat had brought when she delivered the last bag of garbage.
Seems Cat wasn’t a very good negotiator. Even though I’d chosen the garbage, she’d left this for me anyway. I carried the bag to my room, wondering what was behind door number three.
As I unzipped the bag, I noticed a flash of black and red satin. I pulled out the dress. It was a mandarin-inspired style, straight out of The World of Susie Wong. A subtle black-on-black jacquard print of bamboo decorated the silk. The neckline and sleeves were piped in red. I had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t hide my recent ice cream indulgences. It was knee-length, with slits on the side that made it borderline-inappropriate for a work function. Good thing Nick said he didn’t want to spend time with his showroom manager.
I rooted around the bottom of the bag and found a pair of black patent Mary Janes with a red lacquer heel. Cat had also included a pair of black fishnet stockings, a bustier and matching panties, a pair of gold shoulder-duster earrings, and a black satin bag with gold metal handles.
She’d omitted nothing. I bet it had really burned her when I chose the garbage instead of this.
I showered, shaved, moisturized, perfumed, blow dried, flat-ironed, up-twisted, and made-up before putting on the lingerie. Cat was good. The corset was a snug fit, boosting me
in the right places. I pulled the fishnets over the panties, slipped on the shoes, and checked out the Moulin Rouge effect in the mirror.
A horn beeped out front. I peeked out the window and saw Nick’s truck pull up in front of my house. He was early! Not cool. I traded the shoes for slippers, knotted my silk kimono over my underwear, and ran downstairs. A few seconds later Eddie whipped the front door open and strode into my house.
“What are you doing here? And why are you driving Nick’s truck?”
“He said I could use it. More undercover than my Volkswagen, plus I needed more space to move a few extra mannequins from Tradava.”
“So he has your Bug?”
“Yes. I left it at his house when I went to pick this up.”
He wore a fitted tux, white shirt, and white necktie. He looked like he’d stepped from the pages of a magazine, I thought, until I noticed the checkered Vans on his feet.
“This is going to be a stressful night, you know? So I know I don’t completely look the part, and I know I should either abandon the whole dress code or totally go into formal wear, but I don’t feel right doing either. I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to be somebody that I’m not either, so this was the best compromise I could come up with. It doesn’t look too bad, right?”
“It looks like you. Only not.”
“The police are going to be watching me. They agreed to let me go about my business launching the exhibit as though nothing were wrong. After the evening is over I’m out of this whole thing.” He smacked the palms of his hands together twice like a baker dusting off the flour. “Basta!”
“Enough indeed.”
“Nick said he’s going to drive my Bug here and take you to the museum. At the end of the night he’ll drive his truck home and I’ll bring you back here.”
I didn’t like the sounds of it.
“Have you talked to the detective recently? About the exhibit, or security, or anything like that?” I asked.
“Loncar met me this morning. He said police would be everywhere, but he told us to act normal. Christian and I walked him through the whole thing: the entrance, the exhibit, the exits. Dr. Daum is going to greet guests. Rebecca is going to work the check in desk.”
“Who’s going to man the gift shop?”
“Christian wants it to be closed.”
“And pass up a perfectly good opportunity to peddle Thinker statues? That doesn’t sound like him. I thought back to the day he found me in the gift shop and it hit me. I dragged Eddie to the kitchen table and we both sat down.
“Christian told Rebecca to leave the Rodin statues alone. She was trying to straighten them. He was very direct. He told her to get down and focus on keeping the inside of the store neat, and he said nobody ever looks above eye level. I bet he’s hiding something up there!”
Eddie tipped his head back and stared directly at the ceiling. I don’t think he was looking for anything, just trying to think. “We have to get there and look.”
“No, we have to call the cops. Christian’s already at the museum, I’m sure. You can’t show up and demand to go looking around.”
So we did. Call the cops, that is. Yes, we were learning from our mistakes. I let Eddie take credit for the information and the call. He identified himself and asked to speak to Detective Loncar. I overheard him talking about police protection at the museum opening and segue into the part about the gift shop. Eddie had common sense after all and was setting a nice example for the kids out there.
His second phone call was to Dr. Daum. Eddie had asked for privacy when making his phone call, so I left the room but hovered just close enough on the other side of the wall to hear him tell the former director about his arrangements with the police. You didn’t really think I was going to let him conduct all this business without my knowledge, did you?
“So everything’s under control?” I asked.
“Yep. The law’s in the hands of the law and the fashiony stuff is in the hands of the fashion people. I worked hard on this exhibit. I deserve the credit.”
I squeezed his hand. “You’re going to be great tonight. You know that, right?”
He squeezed back. “I hope so. I’d better get going—last-minute touches and all.”
Eddie left, and I changed out of my kimono and into my dress. Forty-five minutes later I swapped the dress back out for my silk kimono so I could sit comfortably while cursing Nick out. I had long since moved into if-you’re-not-coming-just-say-so mode. I touched up my makeup and considered loosening the corset when I saw Eddie’s VW Bug careening down the street. Only I knew it wasn’t Eddie behind the wheel. When I opened the front door, Nick stood on my doorstep.
He wore a vintage black 1940s satin roll-collar tuxedo, white shirt, and black tie. The waning sunlight flashed on his ebony cuff links and off the shiny patent of his shoes.
“Before you say anything, I’m sorry I’m late.” He was quiet and serious. “Go for a walk?”
“Give me a sec to put my dress back on.”
“You’re fine,” he said.
I checked the locks to make sure the door wouldn’t lock behind us and followed him onto the porch and down my driveway. The air was cooling down now that the sun had dropped. We made it halfway down the block before he spoke.
“I don’t think this is working out,” he said.
“I know.”
A thin veil of mist surrounded us, typical of the evenings in Ribbon. I took a few steps back to where he was standing and positioned myself in front of him.
“Let me explain something.” He stopped walking. He looked down at the sidewalk, using the toe of his shiny tuxedo shoes to play with some gravel in his path. There was a childish quality to his body language. “I’m worried about you, Kidd. Like it or not, your involvement with Eddie put you right in the crosshairs of this thing.”
“Nick—”
He held a finger to my lips to shush me. “I care about you. I want to protect you. And the only way I know how to is to keep you from going tonight.”
“But Eddie’s counting on me. I can’t let him go through this alone.”
“Whatever this is, it’s not just about Eddie anymore. This time neither of you has to be involved. Spend the night with me.”
My eyes widened.
“I don’t mean that. I mean …” He took my hands in his. “Let’s stay away from the exhibit together. Go out to dinner, go see a movie.”
“But Eddie needs me.”
“Eddie’s got the boys in blue to watch over him. He doesn’t need you.”
What I didn’t say out loud was that deep down, I knew Nick was right. Eddie might not need me, but I needed him. I needed his confidence in my friendship and loyalty. I needed to be there to support him. I needed to watch him get through the night without a hitch to know that he was going to be okay, and I needed to see the killer get his due.
When I finally spoke, it was a mere hint of a whisper. “I need to be there.”
He stepped away from me and dropped my hands. “I can’t watch you do this.”
“I know.”
The mist swirled around us. He ran a finger along side of my face and twisted it around a tendril of hair that had escaped my fancy up-do and turned curly due to the dampness in the air.
“You look beautiful.”
“I’m not even ready yet.” I flushed and looked down at my slippered feet with embarrassment.
“If I were a different kind of boss, I might take advantage of a moment like this,” he said with a smile, his fingertip now tracing a line down my neck. His palm opened up and he wrapped his hand around the side my neck, his thumb stroking the spot under my ear. I tipped my head to the side and he leaned forward and kissed my neck.
“If I were a different kind of employee, I’d want you to,” I whispered.
He leaned down to my lips and kissed me. This time I knew it wasn’t one-sided. The mist turned into a sudden rain that created puddles on the uneven street and pasted my kimono to my b
ody. Nick pulled his hand away, took off his jacket, and draped it over my shoulders.
We ran through newly formed puddles on the way back to my house. As quickly as the shower had started it stopped, just before we reached my front door.
“I think I should be leaving,” he said.
“Nick, don’t leave. You’re already dressed. Think of the visibility for your business.”
“I can’t do this with you.” He took my hands in his and kissed me on the cheek. “And it would be hypocritical to do it without you. Be careful, Kidd.”
I didn’t want to think about what he really meant. Sometimes a woman has to know how to take care of herself, and this felt like one of those times. I fixed my hair, stepped into my shoes, and admired myself in the mirror. I was ready. If only I knew what I was getting ready for.
33
I filled the small black satin bag with essentials: twenty-dollar bill, fully charged cell phone, identification, lipstick, powder, keys, breath mints, nail file, painkillers, moisturizer, small notepad and pen, Swiss Army knife, and emergency sewing kit. My version of the Boy Scout motto. I snagged a second twenty to cover what-ifs and left.
The sun was setting behind the museum, giving the sky a romantic orangey-gold tone. It was the perfect backdrop for the event. I pulled up in front of the museum, handed off my keys to the valet attendant, and gave the hem of my dress one last tug before accepting its miniskirt reality. As I approached the front of the museum, I watched limousines and shiny cars drop off well-dressed patrons. I scanned the crowd for police and spotted three uniformed officers standing to the left of the entrance and two more on the right. Good. They weren’t taking any chances here tonight.
The last time I had been at the museum for a formal event, I had not been on the guest list. There’d been no thrill of being one of the partygoers. In fact, I had been dropped off a few blocks away and walked to the event, watching by the pond and conducting surveillance before being threatened, hiding in a tree, and being chased from the premises.
Tonight was different.
Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper Page 20
