Drape Expectations

by Karen Rose Smith

  “What does that mean?”

  “That means their customers don’t care particularly where the merchandise comes from. They just want to own it. One of the auctioneers has a Martin listed for the beginning of May.”

  Caprice considered whether she should send this information Detective Carstead’s way. After his attitude the last time she spoke with him, she was tempted not to.

  “Thank you, Isaac. The information could come in handy. I guess I can’t get into these sites to look around.”

  “No, not unless you use a hacker. I have creds as an antique dealer. That’s why they let me in. They think I might see something a client wants. I’ll keep trolling the sites and maybe something else will pop up. If Ace’s band member stole those guitars, he might have his own fence. From his connections in L.A. or anywhere, he could know someone who wants those guitars.”

  “And he’d be that much richer.”

  “He would. If he’s been a two-bit keyboard player up until now, that money could change his life.”

  “A trip to South America and retirement at a little village where he doesn’t have to pay taxes,” Caprice surmised.

  “Sometimes I think that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Isaac, you’d never do that.”

  “Are you saying I’m too stodgy to find another life?”

  “No. I’m saying you like connections. You wouldn’t want to leave old friends ... or your shop.”

  She heard him give a resigned sigh.

  “I guess my days of dreaming of becoming a beach bum are gone.”

  “You could still go to the beach.”

  He laughed. “Ever the optimist. I’ll give you a call if I find out anything else.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, and ended the call.

  Could Len run away with over five hundred thousand dollars? It was a definite possibility.

  Most of the afternoon, as Caprice worked in her home office, she was debating whether or not to call Detective Carstead about the guitar information, and then she received a call from Don Rodriguez, confirming her tires had been slashed. Still, the slashed tires could have been a kid’s prank.

  But what if it hadn’t been a kid’s prank?

  What if someone didn’t want her asking any more questions? What if someone thought she knew too much already?

  Just what did she know?

  Not nearly enough.

  After the afternoon at her computer, she decided exercise, meaning a swim at Shape Up, could do her a lot of good. Often while she swam, she sorted her thoughts. Often while she swam, a new idea popped up that she could act on.

  However, as she stopped at Perky Paws to pick up dog and cat food on her way to the gym, as she drove through downtown Kismet and approached the police station, guilt weighed her down. She had told Detective Carstead she’d keep him informed, so that’s what she’d do.

  She’d stop in. If he wasn’t there, she’d put what she knew in her back pocket and leave him a voice mail.

  When she approached the desk, she could tell the officer there recognized her. His name tag read, OFFICER JOHN PLATT, and she’d noticed him at several of the crime scenes she’d had the misfortune to witness.

  “Is Detective Carstead in?” she asked.

  “Do you have an appointment?” he responded.

  “No, but I do have some information he might want.”

  The officer picked up the phone and pressed the button. A few seconds later, he said, “Miss De Luca’s here. She says she has information for you. What would you like me to do?”

  He hung up the phone moments later. “He’ll be right out.”

  Detective Carstead was frowning when he met her at the desk. “You could have left me a message.”

  “I could have, but I was driving by.”

  He motioned her to follow him. “Come on back. You know the way.”

  Yes, she did.

  After they were seated in his office, he looked her up and down, from her striped blouse, with its Peter Pan collar, to her high-waisted, grass green slacks, which matched one of the stripes in the blouse. She just felt a fifties-style outfit suited her today.

  She wasn’t too sure the detective thought so, because he frowned again. “So, what do you have for me?”

  “My tires were slashed.”

  His eyes widened a little at that. “When was this?”

  “Sunday. A friend came over and he told me my tires looked odd. When we examined them, we saw the back two were flat. Today Don Rodriguez confirmed they’d been slashed.”

  “Why didn’t you call me then?”

  “Because we were on our way to dinner and I didn’t know for sure.”

  Detective Carstead looked like he was about to erupt.

  “Don’t go ballistic on me. It was pouring down rain. There was nothing you could do. I didn’t want to go through the hassle of filing a police report. I still don’t. I’m just telling you what happened.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “And what had you been doing on Sunday before this happened?”

  She’d been afraid he’d ask that. She gave a little shrug. “I visited Len Lowery, Ace Richland’s keyboard player.”

  “And?” Detective Carstead prompted.

  “And . . . he wasn’t friendly. And I practically accused him of stealing the guitars.”

  Carstead started shaking his head. “I told you, if you got in the way of this investigation, you could end up in jail.”

  “I’m not in the way. Ace is probably still your prime suspect, right?”

  “No comment.”

  “You want me to spill everything, but you don’t want to tell me anything. All right, I’ll spill some more. Both guitars are valuable and together could be worth over five hundred thousand dollars. There are online auctions with dealers who don’t walk the straight and narrow. One of them has a Martin for sale at the beginning of May.”

  “And you know this how?” Carstead’s tone told her not to mess around with him.

  “I know this because I asked Isaac Hobbs to investigate a little. He gets around on the auction sites. They let him in because he’s an antique dealer.”

  “I never thought of Hobbs,” Carstead admitted. “I have an officer searching auction sites, but I need to find the underground ones.”

  “I don’t know if Isaac would help you.”

  “But he’d help you?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “I’m beginning to think you have too many friends in Kismet, friends who could give you the wrong information.”

  Caprice stood. “Kismet is a small-enough town that there aren’t many degrees of separation. One person knows someone who knows someone else. I came to tell you what I know. Now I’ve done that. Good afternoon, Detective Carstead.”

  She’d made it to the door when Carstead warned, “You could get hurt.”

  “I’ll be careful. I won’t intentionally put myself in danger.”

  “Your intentions have nothing to do with it. A murderer doesn’t care about your intentions, good or bad.” He sighed. “I’ve learned to respect the information you collect. If you find out anything else, let me know ... im-me-di-ate-ly.” He drew out the last word so she got his message.

  “Got it,” she said with a nod, and left his office. She heard him mumble something about contrary females, but she kept walking. She’d done her duty and she’d keep doing her duty.

  But now she needed that swim.

  Caprice’s swim at Shape Up was therapeutic. She tried to blank her mind while she swam laps and experienced the push of the water against her limbs, the beat of her heart, the fulfilling experience of working her muscles. Swimming was usually like that for her. That’s why it was the only exercise she actually enjoyed.

  The one thing she didn’t like about it was the scent of chlorine. Everything smelled like it when she was finished. Some days, especially in warm weather, she waited to shower when she got home. But today, she just wanted the chemical off her skin
and out of her hair.

  She couldn’t keep all of her thoughts at bay while she dried her hair with one of the facility’s dryers and brushed through it. The shower area of the women’s locker room was separate from the lockers. She was the only one using it right now. She could hear women’s voices in the other section, but she didn’t pay much attention.

  She did pay attention to the thoughts that came and went, but she could no longer push away. Mostly, they were about her visit to Seth’s family and what it was going to be like. She was usually a roll-with-the-punches kind of girl. This time, she wasn’t.

  Why was that? Because too much was riding on the experience? She was looking forward to the weekend with Seth with too much anticipation? Or maybe it was just her sixth sense telling her something she didn’t want to hear?

  After she dressed, she pulled Seth’s bracelet from her purse. She studied it for a few moments, looking at each little charm. The kitten, the flower, and the peace sign, plus the colorful beads, always made her smile. Now it jingled as she slipped it on her wrist and fastened it. She picked up her duffel bag and left the locker room.

  She automatically glanced around the exercise area. She often saw some of her clients here ... or friends. Even her brother had taken out a membership, but he usually worked out in the late evening or early morning.

  To her surprise, over in a corner near the floor mats, she spotted Twyla. Not hesitating, she headed her way. Twyla was using one of the exercise balls to stretch her back. She was stretched over the red ball, her hands on the floor on one side, her feet on the floor on the other.

  Caprice set her duffel on the floor, not wanting to interrupt.

  Twyla opened her eyes and saw her—upside down, grant you, but apparently she recognized her.

  “Hi, Caprice.”

  Caprice didn’t know how Twyla could talk upside down. She knew she probably wouldn’t be able to do it. But then she’d never tried the exercise ball.

  Twyla rolled off the ball and sat in a cross-legged position on the mat, looking up. “This place is great.”

  “You decided to join?” Caprice asked, wondering if Twyla had made the decision to stay in Kismet.

  “I took out a temporary membership. I can pay week by week. It fits for now. It will be a big decision whether I want to move here or not. I’m just not sure. Actually, I’d like to go over the pros and cons with you, if you wouldn’t mind—sell Alanna’s house or keep it. By the way, how’s Mirabelle doing?”

  “She’s settling in, not hiding nearly as much. She and Lady get along fine, and Mirabelle and Sophia are sleeping in the same room together now. That’s definite progress. When would you like me to stop by to talk about the house?”

  “How about tomorrow afternoon? Would that suit you? I’m going to spend some time here now, and I have an appointment with Alanna’s lawyer later.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon would suit just fine.” Caprice picked up her duffel bag. “Have a good workout.”

  Twyla squatted onto the exercise ball again. “I will. See you tomorrow.”

  The following afternoon, Nikki took Caprice to the body shop to pick up her Camaro. Afterward, Caprice drove to White Pillars, armed with a list of pros and cons. She’d brought along facts about Kismet and the surrounding area, and the advantages of living in south central Pennsylvania. She was a neutral party here. She’d made her fee on the staging, so whether Twyla sold or didn’t sell White Pillars didn’t really matter to her. She was glad she had this meeting today. When she was sitting at her computer, designing, or in between phone calls, she thought too much about Seth and the upcoming weekend.

  She parked in the driveway and hurried up to the front door of the mansion. To her surprise, the huge white door was hanging open. Yes, Twyla was expecting her, but that seemed a little unusual.

  She called inside. “Twyla?”

  There was no answer. She could try to call her from her cell, but that was silly. There was no reason she couldn’t step inside that luscious foyer and yell.

  But when she stepped inside the foyer, the tall vase usually on the center table was pushed to one side. And when she peered into the living room ...

  There was Twyla, lying on the floor; a crock of some kind had shattered into several pieces, which were scattered nearby.

  Oh no, Alanna’s sister couldn’t be dead, could she?

  Caprice raced to her. As she sank down on her knees beside Twyla, the woman moaned. Thank goodness.

  Caprice slid her hand along Twyla’s cheek. “Twyla?”

  Caprice could see an abrasion on the side of Twyla’s head, which was bleeding. If that crock had had a rough edge ...

  Twyla’s eyes fluttered open and it took her a moment to focus. When she saw Caprice, she tried to sit up.

  “Stay put,” Caprice warned her. “I should call the paramedics.”

  “I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

  “They could treat you right here.”

  Twyla had already come to a sitting position and was shaking her head. That caused her to close her eyes and wince.

  She pointed to the nearby antique pie safe, its doors hanging wide open. “There was a man in a ski mask and gloves stealing something from there.”

  Just what had been worth stealing in Alanna Goodwin’s antique pie safe?

  Chapter Fifteen

  “You were unconscious, Twyla. That’s not something to ignore,” Caprice reminded her as she took the handkerchief Nana had advised her to always carry and pressed it against Twyla’s wound.

  Twyla held it, while with a tissue Caprice wiped away the blood that had trickled down the side of Alanna’s sister’s face. “I do think we should call the police,” Twyla said in a thready voice.

  They both looked toward the pie safe.

  “Do you have any idea of what was in there?” Caprice asked.

  Twyla shook her head carefully this time. “No. But the man was removing papers when I spotted him.”

  “How could you tell the burglar was a man?”

  “It was his build and height.”

  “What kind of papers did he take?”

  “I don’t know,” Twyla responded. “They were folded up. There’s so much to sort through in this house that I haven’t even gotten to the living room.”

  Caprice desperately wanted to go look in the pie safe, but she knew she shouldn’t touch anything. Or even move around. Evidence could be found anywhere.

  “I’ll call Detective Carstead,” she agreed. “But I know he’ll dispatch the paramedics, too. You need them.”

  This time, Twyla closed her eyes and murmured, “Go ahead. I have a headache that probably won’t quit any time soon.”

  Caprice called Carstead’s cell number. To her relief, he answered. She knew how Carstead worked and she didn’t gloss over anything. She told him, “I found Twyla Horton unconscious on the floor in the living room at White Pillars. A man in a ski mask knocked her out when she found him pulling papers from a pie safe. We’re still in the living room, sitting on the floor where I found her, and we won’t move if you or the paramedics can get here in a decent amount of time.”

  “I’ll be there with a patrol car in five minutes,” he assured her. “The medics will be right behind me.”

  Caprice figured it would be more like ten minutes, but the detective must have used a siren and lights because it wasn’t much past five minutes when he strode in the front door. At the same time, she heard the ambulance bleeping a sound as it pulled up in front of the property.

  Caprice had helped Twyla prop herself against the sofa, but she looked pale and shaky. From what Caprice had seen, Twyla’s wound looked jagged and deep and might need stitches.

  After Carstead took in the scene at a glance, he crossed to Twyla and asked, “What happened?”

  “I was upstairs,” Twyla responded. “Stupidly, I didn’t have the alarm turned on. I had just come in and was changing clothes for my meeting with Caprice.”

  “Why wer
e you two having a meeting?” Carstead asked.

  Caprice answered this time. “Twyla has to decide whether or not she’s going to sell the house. That’s what we were going to talk about. But when I arrived, the front door was open and I found Twyla in here, on the floor.”

  Carstead studied the floor as if he was looking for footprints or some evidence of the man’s arrival and departure.

  He studied the pie safe. “From what I understand, you had an open house here before Mrs. Goodwin was murdered. About how many people attended?”

  “Easily fifty,” Caprice answered.

  “And we had a reception here after the funeral,” Twyla told him.

  “Another fifty?” he inquired with his brow creasing.

  Twyla and Caprice both nodded.

  “Did you have a cleaning service come in afterward?”

  Still holding the handkerchief to her wound, Twyla shook her head. “No. I just didn’t want to be . . . bothered. Alanna’s regular cleaning service was going to start again next week. I had to sign a new contract with them in my name.”

  Suddenly the clatter of a gurney broke their conversation. Two paramedics rushed to Twyla and began their examination, first taking vital signs, then asking her questions and checking her wound.

  As they worked, Detective Carstead scanned the whole room again and his focus targeted the foyer.

  “I only saw one thing amiss when I came in,” Caprice told him. “The vase that usually sits on that table out there was pushed off center.”

  “As if someone running past it elbowed or bumped it?” Carstead asked.

  “That would be my guess,” Caprice agreed.

  “We’ll check it for prints. But if the intruder wore gloves, I doubt if we’ll find anything useful.”

  He walked toward the pie safe, took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, and slipped them on. After a moment of examining the open door, he peered into the shelved interior, spending a good long time examining the inside.

  Taking a penlight from his pocket, he shone it into the shelves then, obviously finding something notable, Carstead took out his mobile unit, pressed a button, and said, “Thompkins, bring in an evidence bag. Any sign of anybody out there?”