Closet Confidential

by Maffini, Mary Jane

  This idea was all quite a bit of unexpected fun, and I took notes at a furious rate in my little paper organizer. I didn’t want to lose any of the ideas dancing in my brain. There’s something nice about coming up with an extra line of business. I stopped off at my apartment to let Truffle and Sweet Marie out for an extra walk.

  When we came back, I checked the food supply. There’s empty and then there’s my fridge, which gives new meaning to empty. My Betty’s toast and jam was long gone, and I didn’t want to eat the B & J’s New York Super Fudge Chunk, the Cheerios, or the Mars bars for lunch. I wondered if I would ever turn into a Wendy, happily feeding a family and humming as I did so. Somehow I suspected it wasn’t in my genes.

  People who have it in their genes seem to accumulate families or open restaurants. I headed for my favorite café. Ciao! Ciao! has the best takeout in town, and this seemed like the right day for it. About once a week, I drop by Jack’s bicycle shop and bring him lunch. He does a lot for me. I had a very reasonable rent on the entire second floor of the Victorian house Jack had inherited from his parents. I had someone to walk the dogs without even being asked whenever I was in a bind and frequently a Hawaiian-shirted shoulder to cry on. The occasional lunch seemed a small price to repay. And that morning he’d done me the favor of getting up early to meet Tierney. Mind you, he’d glared at Tierney throughout breakfast. For a guy who was just short of a PhD in philosophy, every now and then Jack’s a bit light on subtlety.

  I arrived at CYCotics carrying three prosciutto and provolone on ciabatta bread sandwiches, and a pair of jumbo coffees. I figured Jack’s breakfast would have worn off by now. I opened the door to CYCotics and was stunned to see a customer. Who knew? He always maintained he had clientele and that CYCotics did a good business. He even claimed to have two part-time employees who did repairs and tune-ups. I had never seen any sign of that. Jack and the customer engaged in a long and esoteric discussion of Italian bike pedals. As usual, Jack was physically into the discussion, waving his long arms, as the pineapples on the Hawaiian shirt swayed along. I sipped my coffee and thanked the universe that I had my job and not his.

  “Told you,” he said when the customer had departed, but not before making a serious deposit on a pair of astronomically priced pedals. “I have customers. So what do I owe you for the lunch?”

  “On the house. I am grateful that you came with me this morning.”

  “Always glad to help you. You don’t have to buy me lunch, although you did have to buy me breakfast.”

  “Accept it, Jack.”

  “All right,” he said, giving up without a fight. “But why did you need me to be there? That was the most banal conversation.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d agree as Jack and I have had some conversations that would make the banality Olympics. When we got going, either one of us could bore for the U.S. of A. “I didn’t want him to think I was making a play for him.”

  Jack’s hand stopped inches from his mouth, the sandwich so close and yet so far away. “Why would he think that?”

  “I don’t know. He’s got a sense of himself. We had a date a couple of—”

  The sandwich hovered. “A what?”

  “A date. You’ve heard of dates, Jack.”

  “Yeah, but you had a date with him? I didn’t hear anything about that.”

  “Maybe I forgot to mention it. Maybe you were tied up with the shop. Maybe I was busy. Maybe I thought I mentioned it and I didn’t. Maybe it was when what’s-her-name was in the picture.”

  “Huh.”

  “Not again with the ‘huhs.’ You can’t read anything into that, Jack. Anyway, even if you did read something into it, there’s nothing to read, because he never called me back for another date.”

  “Not so fast with all this information. You said a date. Where did you go? What did you do? What—?”

  “Boundaries, Jack. Remember boundaries?”

  “Well, I’m supposed to be your friend. I’ve been in your life since grade school, and now you’re sneaking around with this silky—”

  “He’s not a silky anything and I wasn’t sneaking. Didn’t you have a relationship with that woman last fall?”

  “Now it’s a relationship with this dude? Out of the blue, like that? Upgraded status?”

  “It is not necessary to snap your fingers. You were the one who had the relationship with you-know-who.”

  “That was not a relationship. It was a series of misunderstandings, miscommunications, and deliberate misleadings.”

  “A long series.”

  “But all that stuff is over. And we have to move past it. You know that, Charlotte.”

  “Well, I can’t move past the thing with Tierney. One date does not a relationship make.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You heard me. Particularly as he never called me for a second one.”

  “I told you there was something wrong with that guy. Is that second sandwich for me, too?”

  I had enough time to drive down Friesen Street again. I parked and walked along the block nearest the construction site. It looked much livelier with people on the street. The dry cleaner and the sandwich shop were both busy, and the office door of Hope for Youth at Risk was open. I stepped in and smiled. A tall, intense-looking young man in a battered leather jacket brushed by me. He had cheek-bones you could cut glass with. And if he hadn’t been in this particular location, I might have taken him for a star in some movie shoot. A woman’s voice called out, “See you later, Dimitri.” But he didn’t turn around.

  Inside there was no sign of recent tragedy: The walls were covered with encouraging posters, and there was a grouping of chairs and a coffee table with magazines. The message was, We’re here for you. A boy and girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen and who must have been living on the street judging by the whiff their clothes gave off treated me to a look of suspicion, vacated the chairs, and vanished through the door. A miasma of cigarette smoke and sweat lingered behind them.

  I stared after them before turning to check out the staff. A curvy woman with huge dark eyes and luminous ebony skin chuckled softly from behind a desk. As I approached, I noticed that there was an overlay of air freshener in the office. A good idea, I thought.

  I had no choice but to grin. “I guess I’m scarier than I thought.”

  She stood up and nodded agreement. “You got it. In that outfit, you look like you’re representing some kind of authority. That’s never good news for some of our clients.”

  That explained her plain long-sleeved scoop-neck white tee and the jeans with a studded belt. She may not have been dressed for business, but even so she radiated equal parts in-charge and empathy. A nice combo.

  “They’re safe from me,” I said. “Not that I’d ever catch up with them to tell them that.”

  “I’m Gwen Jones.” She extended a hand. Gold bangles jingled on her wrist. They matched the substantial gold studs in her ears.

  “Nice bangles,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to get some.”

  “They’re cheap and cheerful,” she said. “Genuine goldium. You don’t wear the real thing around here.”

  I knew they weren’t real, and agreed you might think twice about wearing gold bangles in this neighborhood.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Charlotte Adams, and this will sound stupid. I wanted to see the site where Anabel Beauchamp died and I remembered that she’d worked here.”

  The smile dipped. “Oh yes, Anabel. But why?”

  “I knew her practically all her life. The way she died was so tragic, I find it keeps bothering me.”

  “Me, too, and I guess it always will. Such a horrible waste of a wonderful, caring person.” A tiny frown flickered across her lovely face. “I don’t remember seeing you at the funeral or the family reception. Are you a reporter?”

  “A reporter? No! I missed the funeral because I was in Europe. I didn’t even find out she’d died until much later. Our mothers have kno
wn each other all their lives, but my mother was also traveling at the time. I guess that’s why I’m here. Needing a bit of closure.”

  “Closure doesn’t always come easy.”

  “I took a look at the site and it seems like . . .”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  I said, “Such an awful place to die. For anyone, but especially Anabel.” I glanced at Gwen Jones. I thought she blinked away a tear. That surprised me. I supposed you would toughen up working in this environment.

  “For anyone indeed,” Gwen said. “It was incredibly shocking that she died that way. I still can’t get used to the idea.”

  “Thank you for saying that. Her mother is convinced that she was murdered, and I guess that’s why I’ve been thinking about it. It appears that she was the only one to think that.”

  Gwen said, “Most people accept that Anabel was in the wrong place at the wrong time and she was the victim of a freak accident. Anabel’s mother is a strange person, maybe not living entirely in the real world.” She slumped back in the chair. “You know, some days I still don’t believe it. She brought such energy to this place, and she was an amazing fund-raiser. That’s an endless and often thankless job. I have to say her connections came in handy and she didn’t mind mining them.”

  “Quite a loss for you, too,” I said.

  “For the organization. And for our clients.”

  I wondered for a second if that included Gwen herself.

  “So you don’t think she was murdered?”

  Gwen shook her head.

  “I guess her mother is the only one who does.”

  That drew a blink. “Maybe not the only one, but one of a very few. Some people around here have trouble accepting it, too.”

  “Like who?”

  Her expression shifted to caution. “People have to grieve and move on. Anabel’s death was an accident. Nothing more. If you don’t believe me, please check with the police.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was, but I wanted to rule out—”

  “Rule out?” Her full contralto voice rose. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to help these kids get their lives together? Do you think we need foolish talk of murder to mess up our city funding and alarm our donors and supporters? I’d like to rule out that.”

  I know when I’ve been dismissed, and this was one of those cases. To make the point that much clearer, Gwen stood up and turned her back to me, slapping around some files on the table by her desk.

  Anabel hadn’t been murdered. Merely an accident. Just ask the police. This was what I wanted to hear, so why didn’t I feel happier when I left?

  My cell phone rang as soon as I climbed back into the Miata. I was asking myself who else might be thinking that Anabel might have been murdered, although I knew Gwen wasn’t likely to give me that information.

  Lilith Carisse was on her break from her job at a nearby nursing home and returning my call.

  “Sure,” she said when I explained Wendy’s situation. “I’ll be glad to help. I know Mrs. Dykstra and I think she’s great. I don’t mind giving her a break on the price. I know they’re tight for money keeping three boys in college.”

  I loved that. There was Lilith putting herself through school on three jobs with no help from anyone in her family and she could still offer some assistance to Wendy.

  “That’s nice. But I’ll pay your regular rate. There are other ways to trim costs. By the way, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a few meals in it for you.”

  “Awesome.”

  “And I may have a much bigger job coming up and I’ll probably need a team of packers. I’d like you as team leader if that works for you.”

  “Thanks. What kind of job?”

  “Can you get your head around seven custom-designed closets stuffed with designer clothing, accessories, and goods, much of it probably with the tags still on?”

  “Whoa. That is hard for me to imagine. What kind of a person has that lifestyle?”

  “A cover girl. Well, a former cover girl with a wealthy, indulgent husband and a contract as the face of a major cosmetics company.”

  “Oh. Sounds like Lorelei. I bet she’s the only person in this area who fits that description. Is it confidential information?”

  “Not if you’re going to be the team leader for the packing.”

  “I have to head back to work in a minute, but that sounds very cool.”

  “It will be a different kind of project for all of us. I’m not sure Lorelei’s completely committed to it. But I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Sure. Gotta go.”

  “Right. Before I forget, did you happen to know her daughter, Anabel Beauchamp?”

  Lilith paused. “Sure. I knew Anabel. But those patient bells are ringing and I’m back on duty. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

  Was it my imagination or did Lilith’s voice have an edge in it when she said Anabel’s name? That didn’t make sense, because everyone, absolutely everyone, had loved Anabel. Hadn’t they?

  The Beauchamp home was a pleasant drive out of town, across my favorite bridge and into the much more affluent town of Rheingold. I love Woodbridge for all its quirky history, artistic and entrepreneurial population, not to mention the splendid Victorian-era houses, but in Rheingold you can practically smell money in the air. It was the right place for the Beauchamps to have their “summer home,” no question.

  Rumor had it they had an ocean-view condo in Palm Beach, Harry’s family home in Georgia, and a pied-à-terre in Paris. Regular folks, but with all the seasons covered.

  I realized as I checked my watch that I was going to be five minutes late for the first time in my working life. There’s always a real reason for being late, I reminded myself. I always told clients that. And it’s not bad traffic or a flat tire or a broken heel. It’s something in your head. I knew darn well in this case Lorelei was in my head. As I drove along I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mild weather or the warm Miata. A glance at my speedometer indicated I was way under the speed limit, which is not my style.

  A ray of hope glowed softly in my brain: Maybe Lorelei would change her mind about the project. While I would be sorry that Lilith wouldn’t get that job as team coordinator, I would have been quite pleased. Besides, I always had plenty of work for Lilith, often more than she could handle.

  Even the crunch of the car tires along the long driveway had an ominous sound. I was ten minutes late by this time. When I got out of the car, Harry was waiting near the door.

  “I am sorry that I’m late.” I did not offer an excuse, as I could hardly say I’d been creeped out by the idea of coming back.

  “Don’t you worry about that, Charlotte honey. We’re glad you’re here.” Harry exuded southern warmth. He sure didn’t seem to be aware that I was creeped out.

  Well, Harry might have been glad I was there, but Lorelei was nowhere to be seen.

  “Lorelei’s getting freshened up. I’ll keep you company.”

  Such a warm, reassuring man. I wondered how he could stand this sterile environment and the ice queen who was Lorelei. Of course, I know from my mother’s life, my own, and those of my friends that there is no accounting for taste in lovers and husbands.

  “Sometimes it takes Lorelei a fair amount of time to feel ready to meet the world,” he said.

  I refrained from comment. I’d been late and had no business criticizing others. And it was hard not to smile at Harry.

  Harry headed toward the kitchen. “You have a seat here. I’m fixin’ today’s special cocktail. It’s a champagne julep.”

  “Thanks so much, but it’s a bit too early for me. I need my head about me.”

  He called back over his shoulder. “What’s that charmin’ expression? Somewhere in the world it’s the cocktail hour?”

  “It probably is. Can you make mine a virgin champagne julep?”

  “Well, that’s a good idea.”

  Harry returned with three champagne flutes. They all looked pretty much the
same. Mine turned out to be a gentle ice tea with sugar syrup and mint. I had to admit it was delightful.

  Harry sat on the opposite sofa and raised his glass in a salute.

  I raised mine in turn.

  “She’ll be down in good time, don’t you worry.”

  “I’m sure she will. But I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you, Harry.”

  “Really? Why?”

  I liked the way he said it. Sounded like “wah.” Musical.

  “I get the impression that Lorelei isn’t hugely enthusiastic about the whole closet reorganization project.”

  He shrugged. He was an engaging man; he could manage a shrug without looking rude. It seemed to say, Well, what can we do? We are all in this together.

  I pressed on. “Am I right?”

  “Sometimes Lorelei needs a little nudge in a particular direction.”

  “Am I a little nudge?”

  “You are a lot more than that, Charlotte honey. You could be a very pleasant and even productive diversion for a lovely lady who is in desperate need of bein’ diverted from her own thoughts.”

  “I’m not so sure I’ll be able to provide that diversion.”

  “I don’t know anyone who loves clothes more than my girl, and I think when you all get right into the project, you’ll both enjoy yourselves thoroughly.”

  “She didn’t seem very engaged yesterday. We only saw one closet out of the seven.”

  “Seven? I think there might be more than that.”

  “More than seven?”

  “Well, I’m not certain. I don’t ever think much about closets. I can go check for you. Count ’em up.”