Accessories to Die For

by Paula Paul

  “Is she all right?” Irene asked.

  “Vital signs seem to be okay,” one of the paramedics said, “but to be sure, we’ll take her to the hospital.”

  “My head hurts!” Adelle said. “But I don’t need a hospital. Irene, did you see what happened? Did someone hit my head, or did I fall on my own?”

  “Try to stay quiet, Adelle,” Irene said. Before Adelle could respond, two of the paramedics were lifting her to a stretcher and wheeling her away toward the parking lot. Behind them, dancers from the Turquoise Clan began a chant, and the beat of the drums became a heartbeat pulsating throughout the pueblo.

  Irene watched as her mother was carried away.

  Chapter 7

  Irene found her mother in the emergency room. Bandages crisscrossed around her head, and the police had already arrived to question her.

  “I was just trying to help a woman who was being attacked,” Adelle said in response to a question from a police sergeant.

  “Do you know the woman?” the sergeant asked.

  “Know her? No, I don’t know her. You don’t have to know someone to help them.”

  Irene breathed a sigh of relief at Adelle’s response. She wasn’t going to reveal more about Juanita than she had to. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? After all, Juanita did not belong in jail. Nevertheless, Irene felt conflicted. Her training had taught her that it was best to tell law enforcement everything. Or was it? Weren’t there some circumstances in which it was best to be discreet? She managed to convince herself, finally, that now was not the time to think about it. For now, she had to concentrate on making sure her mother was getting the care she needed.

  That took less time than she had expected. Adelle’s wound was superficial, and she was told to go home and rest for a few days as soon as she was released.

  “Did you get a look at the man who hit you?” Irene asked as she waited with Adelle for the release documents.

  “How could I?” Adelle said with a sniff. “He hit me from behind.”

  “I thought it might have been the same man you were with in the parking lot.”

  “Were you spying on me?”

  “I wasn’t spying. I was just searching for you. It worried me when you disappeared.”

  “I didn’t disappear. I was just talking with a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Someone you don’t know,” Adelle said. “And he certainly would not have hit me.”

  “Then who…?”

  “Oh, stop worrying, Irene. I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of it. And anyway, I’m quite all right.”

  In spite of insisting that she was quite all right, Adelle played her role to the hilt, asking for a wheelchair to get her to Irene’s waiting car. Once they were home, Adelle asked to be dressed in a lacy bed jacket and propped up in bed with five pillows around her.

  The next day when Irene went to work, she left Adelle at home with an impressive-looking bandage around her head and dressed in an elaborate robe fit for Christine Daaé in Phantom of the Opera. She lounged on one of the velvet settees in the living room while she regaled Harriet, along with Barbara Mendoza and Linda McKee, both among Santa Fe’s well-dressed elite, with tales of her adventure at the Kewa Green Corn Dance.

  When Irene left the house, her mother was in the middle of an elaborate story about the attack. Adelle still was saying nothing about Juanita Calabaza. She described the woman she tried to rescue only as “someone who needed help.” Although Irene was surprised at her mother’s discretion, she continued to be grateful.

  By the time she arrived at Irene’s Closet and started relaying the story to Angel while they waited for the first customer, Irene was having second thoughts about her own decision to keep quiet about the matter and not go to the police.

  “Why would you want the police to know?” Angel asked. He refreshed Irene’s coffee from the pot he had made that morning, then sat down across from her at the back room table. They were both positioned to watch the front door so they could see when a customer entered.

  “I don’t know…” The words came out of Irene’s mouth with a sigh. “It’s just the right thing to do.”

  “You’re talking like a prosecutor.”

  “I’m talking like a law-abiding citizen.”

  “But that would put the cops hotter on Juanita’s trail, and she’d end up back in jail with additional charges.”

  “Still…” Irene began.

  “Still what? You don’t believe she killed that French guy. There’s no point in causing more trouble for her,” Angel said.

  “She’s already done that. Caused more trouble for herself, I mean.”

  “What we need to do is find out who did kill that guy,” Angel said. “I have a feeling Juanita knows, and if Danny is still alive, I’ll bet he knows, too.”

  “He’s in danger,” Irene said, “but he was alive a few days ago when I saw him on the plaza.”

  Angel shrugged. “There’s always hope.”

  “Hang on to that hope,” Irene said as she pushed her coffee cup aside and got up to greet a customer who had just entered.

  “I only want to look around,” the customer said. She was a tall woman with the telltale look of a tourist—jeans and cowboy boots that looked too new, and an oversized turquoise ring on one of her fingers.

  “Looking for anything?” Irene asked.

  “No, nothing in particular,” the woman said and rummaged through the racks, moving from one display to another.

  Irene backed away, not wanting to come across as hovering or too pushy. Just as she moved behind the counter to finish counting the previous day’s receipts, Angel approached the customer holding a Chanel brocade jacket marked at $500 that had originally sold for $3900.

  “I couldn’t help noticing your eyes,” he said. “They’re remarkable, really—sort of golden with green flecks. Beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said giving him a smile that was almost shy.

  “This jacket was made for those eyes,” he said. “I wish you would at least slip it over your shoulders and let me see.”

  The woman accepted the jacket, and Angel led her to a mirror, exclaiming about the color and sparkle of her eyes. He would make the sale, of course. He was a natural. But before Irene was able to observe the rest of the master’s work, the front door opened again, and P.J. entered and walked to the counter where she stood.

  “How’s your head?” he asked, placing his briefcase on the counter.

  “Better,” Irene said, fingering the small bandage that had replaced the elaborate wrap she’d worn when he last saw her.

  P.J. nodded, then asked, “Where have you been?”

  “What makes you think I’ve been anywhere?”

  He gave her a cautious look. “You’re being evasive. You weren’t here yesterday when I stopped by. You’ve been up to something.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was not within hearing distance of Angel or the customer. “You went looking for Juanita, didn’t you?”

  Irene stared at him without speaking.

  “You’re trying to think of something to say. Some way to be ambiguous.”

  “You don’t want to know too much. I can tell you that.”

  He studied her face for a second. “You’re thinking that if I know too much I could…”

  “You’d have to tell the cops or risk losing your license, not to mention compromising your client.”

  “You found her!”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?” she asked.

  “Come on now. Stop being cagey,” P.J. said. “Tell me everything.”

  Irene glanced toward Angel and the customer. “Now is not the time or the place.”

  “Tonight? My place?”

  Irene hesitated. “I really should be home to see after Adelle. She’s all right now with her friends there, but—”

  “What’s wrong with Adelle?”

  �
�I take it you haven’t been to the courthouse or the police station today. Been too busy with that Fairchild French connection case of yours, I guess.”

  “Damn it, Irene!”

  “Nothing to get excited about,” she said, pretending to be interested in the receipts she still held in her hand. “She just had a minor accident, that’s all.”

  “So Adelle went with you when you went looking for Juanita.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  P.J. leaned closer and whispered, “Where is she? Juanita, I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” Irene said.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You think I can’t tell when another lawyer is lying?”

  Irene sighed and rolled her eyes. “Look, if I promise to tell you everything I know later tonight, will you stop pestering me?”

  “Your request is too broad.”

  Irene dismissed his persistence with a wave of her hand. “Get back to work, P.J., I’m sure your office needs you.”

  “Okay,” he said and turned halfway toward the front door. “I’m going back to work, but I’ll see you tonight. Your place,” he added. “I want to check on Adelle, of course.”

  “Of course,” Irene said, “but it’s only fair that I warn you, I’ve coached her what to say and what not to say.”

  “Only crooked lawyers do things like that.”

  “So they say.”

  P.J. grinned and moved toward the exit.

  “You really think the pink tunic makes my skin glow?” Angel’s customer asked. She was standing in front of a mirror, turning from side to side while she admired herself in the tunic and a pair of skin-tight jeans Angel had suggested she try on. The jeans had been left on consignment by Linda, who had bought them at Nordstrom in Denver two sizes too small since, she said, she was certain she could lose enough weight to fit into them. That had never happened.

  “Certainly, and the jeans are perfect for your trim figure,” Angel said. “And, as you can see, they’ve never been worn. Tags still attached.”

  The customer studied herself in the mirror from all angles for a few seconds longer. “I’ll take them,” she said. “All three, the jacket, the tunic, and the jeans.”

  “You have remarkably good taste,” Angel said.

  The woman reached for the jacket Angel held for her. “Let me try it on one more time,” she said, slipping it on over the tunic. “I love it!” she said, still preening in front of the mirror. If the weather weren’t so hot, I’d wear it today.” She stuck her hands in the pockets to study the effect in the mirror.

  “When you’re ready, I’ll meet you up front at the cash register,” Angel said.

  “Oh, look!” the woman said. “I found something in the pocket!” She pulled out a string of turquoise and coral. “Eew! It looks old.” She held it in front of her, holding it by one end and frowning. “You told me the jacket is last season’s style, but I’m not so sure. How long do you suppose this thing has been in that pocket?”

  Irene dropped the receipts she’d been holding on the counter. She recognized the necklace from the photograph the Santa Fe New Mexican had published on the front page soon after the sacred and ancient Native American artifacts were reported stolen. Her first instinct was to rush across the room to take the necklace before the sinew string broke as the woman held it up, but she checked herself.

  “Oh, there it is!” She walked at a measured pace toward the woman. “I knew I dropped that in the pocket of something that came in for consignment yesterday.” She took it from the woman and cradled it carefully in her palm. “It’s just an old piece someone brought in because they thought it might be valuable, but of course it’s not something I can sell.”

  “I should think not,” the customer said. “Obviously you only handle first-class merchandise. By the way, you have a lot of nice accessories. Jewelry included.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Irene said. “I never meant to keep this piece in the first place. I’ll see that it gets back to the owner.”

  The woman laughed and shook her head. “Some people’s idea of quality!”

  Irene felt as if her breath had left her body, and the hand holding the necklace trembled so that she had to cup her other hand over it. Blood rushed through her head with such force that she didn’t hear the door open, but she sensed a presence and turned just as P.J. entered.

  “Forgot my briefcase.” He walked toward the counter but stopped when he saw Irene.

  “As soon as you’ve changed, I’ll help you get checked out,” Angel said, breaking a stunned silence that followed P.J.’s remark.

  The woman disappeared into the changing room, and Angel shot a knowing glance at Irene.

  “Are you all right?” P.J. asked, going to her side. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Irene said.

  “Bullshit,” P.J. said. “I told you I can tell when another lawyer’s lying. Besides, even a blind man could see the look on Angel’s face.”

  “I think I need to sit down,” Irene said. She started toward the back room. “Angel, can you—”

  Angel’s face had grown pale. “I’ll take care of everything out here. You decide what we have to do.”

  Irene nodded and continued toward the back room, only vaguely aware that P.J. was following her. Once inside, she closed the door and placed the necklace on the table.

  “My God, Irene, is that—”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you—”

  “I don’t know how I ended up with it.”

  “You have to turn it in to the police.”

  “Yes.”

  They both sat down at the table and stared at each other silently. “You have to turn it in now,” P.J. said.

  “I will,” Irene said without getting up from the table. After a long few seconds, she reached for her cellphone. With her fingers poised over the keyboard, she said, “I don’t know the number for the sheriff’s office. Or should I call the state police?”

  “Either one will do,” P.J. said and gave her both numbers. Before she could begin to dial, her telephone rang.

  She answered with a shaking voice. “Irene Seligman.”

  She didn’t recognize the voice that replied, but what he said almost caused her to drop the phone.

  “Did you find it?” the voice asked. The words were slurred. The speaker sounded drunk. Or stoned.

  “Uh…find what?”

  “I know you did. This is Danny Calabaza. My mom said you’d help me.”

  Chapter 8

  Juanita’s face stung from the blows that struck her, and the rope that bound her hands behind her back were cutting into her wrists. Her upper arm still hurt where a bullet had pierced the flesh when she was first captured and thrown in the back of a car. Her captor had given her a piece of cloth as a sling, then later took it away. Now she needed to pee in the worst way, but she wasn’t about to admit that to the savage brute who was hitting her. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling her no.

  The next punch came sooner than she’d expected, delivered by the hard-knuckled back of her captor’s hand, causing her head to swing so violently to the side she could hear the click of vertebrae shifting in her neck.

  The beast delivering the blows heard the sound as well and laughed. “I’ll break your goddamned neck next time if you don’t tell me where the necklace is.”

  “I told you. I don’t know.” She stiffened, expecting him to hit her again, but he hesitated, stood up, paced the floor, then turned suddenly and hit her hard in the mouth. This time with his fist. She tasted blood and felt a sharp pain in her gum beneath a front tooth.

  “All right, bitch. What’s it going to take? Your son? I’ll kill him if you don’t tell me the truth.”

  Juanita didn’t respond. She simply looked at the man and tried to ignore her throbbing tooth and the blood that was trickling down her chin. His name was Hutch, she knew that much. Maybe a n
ickname for Hutchinson. Whatever his name, she was pretty sure he wasn’t French. She’d heard him say “Hutch here” once when his cellphone rang. He hadn’t said anything more. He’d just listened a few seconds, hung up, and gone back to trying to get her to tell him the location of the ancient necklace. She wasn’t lying when she told him she didn’t know. She could only hope that Danny didn’t have it. She could only hope that Danny was still alive. In spite of Hutch’s constant threats to kill her son if she didn’t talk, she was afraid he was already dead. There was no doubt in her mind that a man like Hutch was capable of killing him. Capable of killing anyone, for that matter. Including her. Still, she wasn’t going to tell him anything.

  He raised his hand as if to hit her again, but he dropped it and snarled at her. “You think you’re tough, don’t you, bitch?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “Yeah, we’ll see.” He grabbed her in a quick movement, bringing her to her feet. Juanita tried to keep her balance as he dragged her toward a door leading to another room, then pushed her hard. She hit her hip against a bathroom sink. The man caught her arm, then used his other hand to press against her throat.

  She gagged and tried to cough while she instinctively brought her own hands to her throat to try to pull his away. His grip on her neck tightened, and she felt the room swirling around her. She was doing it wrong! Some faint memory of something she’d once read surfaced reminding her that she should use her hands to her advantage.

  Gouge his eyes!

  She tried, but he used his heavy forearms to push her arms away. One big hand went back to her throat. Everything around her had turned an odd gray color that became darker and darker. The sound of water running startled her, but her breath, her life, were being choked out of her, and she couldn’t make sense of the sound.

  Suddenly she was drowning! He pushed her head and face deeper into the water that filled the sink. She gasped and tried to hold her breath while he forced her head down, down deeper into the water.

  He said something. She couldn’t make out the words as the room grew darker. Finally, he pulled her hair and jerked her head up. Her mind seemed to be functioning too slowly because she couldn’t remember what she should do to escape.