by Ginny Aiken
Silence.
Shocked women.
A snigger in the back of the crowd.
Finally, Gussie shook her head and began to clap.
The speaker came and, thankfully, took my place behind the podium. I fled faster than Bali H'ai ever had. For the next hour and a half, I took refuge behind the mammoth silk weeping fig in a corner of the church's community room and ignored the occasional stare sent my way.
Something had to give. At the rate I was going, I'd be either bashed in the head by Marge's killer, banned from my father's church, or both before the end of the week.
Applying a hot-glue gun to shut my mouth seemed like a good idea.
Eventually, the dull monologue came to an end. I returned to the podium, told everyone where the refreshments were (as if they, longtime members of the church, didn't know where they'd left the cookies, fruit breads, and punch) and said good night to one and all.
Gussie blocked my escape. "You can't leave yet. The president leaves last."
Was this day ever going to end? I wondered if I could talk Tyler into opening the dojo for me. There was something about a good punching bag ...
But escape didn't come easy. Oh, no. Not for me.
Bella marched up. "I've a bone to pick with you, chickie. You said you'd let me help when you went sleuthing, and you've been up to some pretty cool stuff. But you didn't tell me a thing!"
Who'd told her about my calamities?
"I haven't done anything that would interest you, Bella."
"You wanna make a bet?" She crossed her pudgy arms over her cotton-candy-pink top. "Lorrianne Dumont saw you skulking in Marge's trash yesterday. She says you had some major hunk with you. Is that the hottie who squished my poor Bali Hai? I wouldn't share him either, but you promised I could help you snoop."
"I've never skulked." I felt safe with that. I'd made enough noise to wake up rocks in Outer Slobovia.
Bella's blue eyes narrowed to slits. "You sure stunk of trash."
"I told you I'd tripped over some stinky stuff."
"In Marge's trash."
"It wasn't Marge's." Marge had been dead for a few days. It was probably Steve's.
"I'd have done better'n you did if you'd taken me along to snoop around."
She probably would have. I doubt anyone could do worse. "I ... ah ... snooping's not part of my business."
True again.
"Now, Bella," Gussie said. "Let the poor girl go. She's had some rough days, and she doesn't need this. I'm sure she'll include you at the right time."
Bella's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, honey. Just listen to me. You lost your friend, and all I can do is carp like a vulture about snooping and clues. Here, let me give you a hug."
I nearly broke down and cried. In spite of her nuttiness, Bella was as good as the proverbial gold. "I promise," I whispered into her pink mane. "I promise I'll bring you with me when I can use your help."
That seemed to satisfy her, since she went home a short while later. I sat on the nearest chair and refused to let a single thought take root.
Finally, the last three ladies left. It was just Gussie and me and the chairs in the room.
'Are you going to be okay?" she asked.
"Someday." The quiver in my voice bothered me.
"You know you can count on me, don't you?"
"Always, Gussie."
"Good." She rolled up and placed a hand on my arm. "I know it's hard to lose someone, and you've had two hard blows. Please call if you need anything. We can talk. I can make a pot of Starbucks. I can give you a hug. I love you, Haley."
"I love you too, Gussie. And thanks. Thanks for being you.//
Feeling less alone, I locked up the church's auxiliary building and then watched Tom Stoker gently ease his disabled wife into the passenger seat of their van.
I was fortunate to have had Marge when my life imploded on me-twice, no less. And now it seemed that another wonderful woman wanted to help me through this latest rough patch. I'd be a real basket case if I had to go it alone. What would life be like without people like Dad and Marge and Gussie?
I walked home, more determined than ever to do my best in her home. She deserved no less from me.
I'd just have to be more discreet in my investigation. Even though it might be smarter to quit my efforts, I wasn't sure I was ready to trust the cops.
I didn't want to go to jail. Not when I had jobs the Stokers and maybe even Noreen were willing to pay me to do.
Marge's killer wouldn't get away with murder.
I had too much to lose.
Satisfied with my initial drawings for the Stokers, I packed my portfolio and headed to Magnus Mills by ten the next morning. I wasn't going to think about Marge's murder until I had a finished design board for the Stokers.
I learned to love the design-board concept at school. I get a kick out of seeing my suggestions spread out on a large piece of foam core. I attach fabric samples and paint chips around the floor plan I set in the center, and in the corners of the board I include photos of furniture pieces that might work in the room. This is the fun part, the idea and its development. Purchasing and installation are pure hard work and fraught with monumental roadblocks and headaches.
Today I was off to one of my favorite places. Adrienne Magnus Soames, great-granddaughter of Orville Magnus, founder of the mill, is a fabric genius. Orville had established a weaving facility. On Adrienne's persistent advice, his grandson Craig, her father, began to import some unique fabrics. Now semiretired, Craig gave his business- and art-savvy daughter the reins to the business. She gave the company wings. Thanks to Adrienne's army of buyers, Magnus Mills has taken its place as a powerhouse in the fabric world. They now offer woven material from every corner of the world at bargain prices. Adrienne pays producers a fair price, then resells based on what she paid, not on an inflated snob scale designed to stroke the ego of pretentious designers du jour.
I love Adrienne and her wares.
"Haley!" Adrienne said when I walked into her kaleidoscopic warehouse. "How're you doing?"
She had to stoop to hug me. Despite her six-foot height, she had yet to give up the four-inch heels she fell for during her time on the silver screen. I would have fallen too. On my face.
I mumbled into her collarbone, "I'm okay, as okay as possible."
Adrienne held me away, scoured me head to toe, then shook her glossy, prematurely pewter-grayed head. "You look wonderful, considering."
"You mean I don't look like something the cat dragged in?"
"Of course not."
"I should, considering."
Adrienne crossed her arms and gave me a disgusted look.
"Hey," I said, "I was attacked by a demented cat. She did everything in her power to drag me to her owner as the trophy of the year. See, I'd been hanging with rats-you know, the gross kind with long, hairless tails."
Even when she wrinkles her perfect, elegant nose, Adrienne looks spectacular. "I'm sure I don't want to know more." She shuddered. "Rats, Haley? Please."
"Tell you what. You show me your most fabulous loot, and I won't mention rodents again."
The ridiculously elongated and outrageously pointed toe of one of her glamour-girl shoes tapped a time or two. "On its face, your offer seems too good to pass up, but you did a job on my curiosity. I've an even better offer for you, and I don't think you can pass it up. Tell me about the cat and the rats, and I'll up your discount."
"You know me, Adrienne. I don't like to dump on anyone."
"Oh, honey, you know you can talk to me. Your mom, Marge, and I go back a long, long time. You even used to call me Auntie Adie when you were little."
"You weren't that big then either. You and Marge are at least eight years younger than Mom, and she had me when she was only twenty-two."
Adrienne looked down her nose. Nobody does it better than she, a good reason why she'd made such a splash in Hollywood. "It's never a calendar thing, Haley. Maturity is a state of mind."
&
nbsp; "Sure. We live in Washington. Talk about a state of mind."
We laughed on our way to the stacks. I recounted-with some wise edits-my exploits of the past two days. Marge's death had devastated Adrienne too. They'd been friends nearly forever. She'd called me on my cell phone while I sat in gridlocked traffic on the way back from my meeting with my favorite shyster, Mr. Harris, the day after Marge's murder. We'd cried, comforted each other, and failed to make sense of the senseless crime.
"Now that you gave me a stitch in the side," the material maven said at the end of my tale of indignity, "why don't you tell me what you're looking for."
I showed her my floor plan and the case goods I hoped Gussie would approve. "I'd like to contrast the warm walnut tone of these wood tables, new entertainment center, and shelving units with something in an equally warm but more neutral palette."
Adrienne shot me a look of horror. "You're doing beige?"
I laughed. "No way! I was thinking along the lines of rich caramel, mellow gold, some buttercream, and maybe a hit or two of persimmon to keep things from looking too tame."
"Phew!" Adrienne was not a neutral sort. "Let's go for the gold on the sofa with this supersoft chenille, and for the draperies, I have the most delicious caramel-sundae dupioni silk you can imagine."
The chenille felt great against my skin. It had as good a "hand," as Adrienne said. But the silk ... "It's a Craftsman-style bungalow. Small rooms, small windows, gorgeous but dark woodwork, and low ceilings. I'm not sure that deep a saturation in the dupioni won't block more light than I'd like."
"How about your buttercream for sheers beneath the silk? That way, you can use the caramel in panels to frame the sheers-you know, leave the drapes open at the sides."
"That could work. I could even fake wider windows that way. What do you have that's sheer in that color range?"
The bolt of gossamer cream stripe Adrienne showed me took my breath away. "Where did you get this?"
Adrienne's smug smile was my only answer.
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Keep your secrets, but please, please, please stash away the rest for me, whatever I don't use for Gussie's job. I know I'm going to want more."
"I could do that." Her hazel eyes narrowed. "But it'll cost you."
"More than the fortune you're charging for it?"
"Give me a break, Haley. Where else are you going to find that quality Thai silk for that puny little price?"
I shrugged. "Hey, remember who taught me to bargainqueens of haggle don't do things by halves."
"Marge and I should have known way back then that sooner or later you'd turn our lessons on us."
"And you're loving every minute of it. You'd ream me out if I ponied up whatever you asked without a whimper."
"True, but as your auntie Adie, I reserve the right to refuse to haggle-and to tease."
"Fine. But you better not sell an inch of this silk to anyone else."
'As long as you tell me everything you learn about Marge's killer. And as long as you watch your back. Marge got in someone's way, and I doubt they'll let you find them out. You're a very convenient scapegoat."
"Tell me about it." I sighed. "I'd better get going. I have fences to mend, and I shouldn't put it off. If you'll have one of your minions snip me full-yard samples of the chenille and the silks, plus a satin stripe in creams and caramels or maybe shades of gold for a side chair I want to reupholster. And don't forget the persimmon."
I took another look at my design board. "Oh, I want a floral tapestry with sepia tones for pillows and accessories too. Then I'll be on my way."
"Todd." Adrienne waved over a young man, probably a student at Seattle Pacific University, and gave him precise instructions. But as thorough as she was, the expression on her face told me she had something else on her mind.
When Todd left on his sample safari, I braced myself. "Okay, Adrienne. I'm not leaving until you tell me what's up. Your head's doing about a mile per nanosecond, and I don't think Thai silk calls for that much thought."
She gave me another of her elegant shrugs. "Not here, all right?" She pointed toward her glass-enclosed office.
I nodded. Once we sat, Adrienne behind her beat-up army-surplus-green metal monster of a desk and me on a melt-into-the-clouds leather armchair across from it, she sighed.
"You know I don't like to gossip, but there's something you don't know that might have something to do with all this."
Adrienne had hated the glass-house atmosphere of Hollywood and the notoriety that went with her kind of success. When she fell in love with a Seattle business executive, their dates became a matter of public record. The publicity nearly cost her the love of a wonderful but private man. When Brad proposed, Adrienne turned her back on the bright lights, came home, and produced five mini-Brads.
"If it's something that might keep me out of jail," I said, "please tell me. I don't think that would count as gossip. Last I checked, gossip is idle, self-serving, and malicious. You're none of the above. And you might keep me out of jail, since I did not kill Marge."
Adrienne's smile was forced. "You need to talk to Ozzie."
I gaped. Hadn't I thought the same thing? I scooted my chair closer to the desk and planted my hands on its cold steel top. "What about?"
"He and Marge worked well together, but not always. At least, I know they had an ongoing battle over ownership of the auction house."
"How could they argue about that? The business belongs to-" I winced "-belonged to Marge."
Adrienne reached across the desk and covered my hand with hers. She gave me a gentle smile, then shook her head, her pretty face sad.
"Exactly," she said, "and that was the problem. Ozzie worked for her for almost twenty years. He wanted a piece of the action, a partnership. Minor, yes, but he felt he'd earned the right to part of the profits, not just a salary and commission."
"That could build some resentment. But do you think he'd kill her? He wouldn't have thought he'd inherit the business with that kind of disagreement, don't you think?"
Even though Detective Tsu had shot down my ideas, I hadn't been that far off. Now I wanted someone who'd known both Marge and Ozzie way longer than I had to tell me if she could see the fussy little man as a killer.
Adrienne closed her eyes. She was praying-another one who prayed about everything. They were all around me. I felt more alone than ever now that Marge, the one agnostic I knew, was gone.
"They had a tug-of-war going on," she finally said. "I often wondered if Marge knew something about Ozzie that kept her from moving forward on the partnership, something bad, something he didn't want made public. Otherwise, why object for so long? He made her buckets of money over the years, not only because of all his contacts, but also because of all he sold for her. He's an amazing salesman. I'd have made him a partner."
My eyes nearly popped from their sockets. "You think Marge was capable of blackmail?"
"I wouldn't go that far. I just know something wasn't quite right, and it held her back."
Movement on the other side of the glass wall caught Adrienne's and my attention at the same time. Todd was back, beautiful fabric swatches in hand.
Adrienne stood, relieved, and opened the door. "Well, then. Since you said you had to go, call me and let me know which goods you'll want and how much of each. I can have them delivered to you, at home or at the site, the same day you place the order."
I wasn't about to learn anything more, and Adrienne did need to get back to work. Besides, I had more snooping to do, not to mention those fences I was afraid I'd obliterated. Repair work was called for if I wanted to have a business.
Ozzie Krieger, here I come. Then Noreen ... and maybe even-did I really have to?-Dutch.
"Thanks for everything," I said, and she understood.
"Be careful, Haley. I ... I don't know that I can stand to lose you too. I know the Lord says I won't be hit by more than I can bear, but it's already been so much."
I reached up and hugged her hard, fou
ght the tears that stung my eyes, made my voice sound even stronger than usual. "I'll be fine, Adrienne. You'll see. I'm going to be your best customer in no time flat."
"That's my prayer." Tears filled her almond-shaped eyes. "God bless you, sweetie. You're always in my prayers."
For a moment, unaccustomed warmth washed my heart, maybe even a hint of comfort, but then anger rushed back in.
"See ya." I grabbed my samples and fled to my car.
I couldn't think about the emotions Adrienne's prayers had teased awake. I had to focus on the present, on my problems. I had to find out who killed Marge.
Maybe then I'd know what to do with all the rage.
"Is your father home?" I asked Hugh Krieger forty-five minutes later.
The fireplug-shaped man on the roof spit a mouthful of nails into his hand. "Had an appointment with a family. The great-aunt is headed for a nursing home. They asked him to appraise the estate."
"Will the law allow a sale this soon? The auction house is still in probate. Besides, there's a murder investigation going on, and it involves the auction house and everything related to it."
"Murder ... now there's a topic for ya."
I didn't like his tone of voice, and his poisonous stare wasn't any better. "Yes, one I need to discuss with Ozzie. Do you know what time he'll be home?"
The bullish man looked at the cedar shingle in his hand, then at me. He tossed the wood in the air, as if gauging its heft. He looked down at me again. "I have no idea, but I'm pretty sure he's not interested in your lies."
"What lies? You don't know what I have to discuss with him."
Another toss. "I don't care what you want to talk about. All I know is that Dad's been a wreck since you killed Marge. You think he's going to want to have tea and cookies with you any time soon?"
I sucked in air. No one had talked to me like that, not even Dutch. It nearly brought me to my knees. "I didn't kill Marge, and Ozzie knows that. Did he say I did?"
"No. Dad hasn't talked, but I can read. It's all over the papers. The cops are gonna lock you up any day now."
