Dolly elbowed me. “Keep reading.”
“Oh. Sorry. ‘Said high-and-mighty club also reported confidentially to the charity due to get the proceeds of the event that the amount stolen was precisely half the actual loss, and they gave the charity half of that, after deducting expenses…of course.’”
Fiona whistled, surprising me with her presence. “Sounds like trouble,” she said.
“It is…for the country club. You can read the whole blog after I finish.”
Dolly hooted. “I like a good scandal to keep the juices flowing. Read, Mad, read.”
“’Kay. ‘Who took possession of the money the insurance company paid out? This roving reporter would like to know. Because it is not accounted for on a certain country club’s books. Detective Werner and Ms. Cutler’”—that took my breath away—“‘you were in the right place today. Keep digging. Why not start in the basement?’”
I rubbed my arms against the goose pimples and shivers the last sentence brought.
“Mad, they named you,” Ethel said, excited for me.
I felt nauseous. “I don’t like that ‘this roving reporter’ knows what I’m doing.”
Dolly wagged her finger at me. “Take it from somebody with experience. Don’t do anything you don’t want talked about. See, I mostly worked at making the gossips happy,” Dolly bragged. “And if you don’t want that, then sneak around real good. Want some tips?”
“Not right now, Dolly,” Fiona said. “Mad has to finish reading that blog.”
“Oh, right.” I touched my brow. “I think I was blocking it. Brace yourself. Here goes. It says, ‘Detective, lining the pockets of the rich with hundred dollar bills has always been big in some circles. Ask whoever’s in charge you-know-where. Maybe you’ll get answers, but don’t count on the truth. Tell us this: Who takes part in these scavenger hunts, and who dies? This is Mystick Falls’ phantom blogger, signing off.’”
“Whoa!” I said, sitting down hard in front of the computer. “This is big. Who would know that Werner and I went to the country club this morning? Or even that Isaac found a cash box in my rafters two days ago? I just turned it in to the police yesterday.” Or that someone, namely Robin, had died.
“Everybody in town saw Isaac find the box,” Aunt Fee said.
“That’s a grudge blog,” Dolly added.
Ethel harrumphed. “Like you know what a blog is.”
“Unlike you, who lives in the dark ages, I turn on the computer every morning and surf the net. You may not move with the times, but I do. I follow several interesting blogs. I even have friends on the social sites.”
Ethel raised her nose in the air and went for her coat and purse.
I sighed. “Okay, I have to think.”
I paced while Eve scanned the blog. “Looks like we have some sleuthing to do,” she said. “Seems more fun now that there’s a phantom blogger roving around watching you.”
I elbowed her and glanced back at the Sweets, who were both packing up.
Fiona held her car keys, ready to take them home. “There are a few more garment bags than we expected,” Fee said. “Your father helped bring them earlier, and he said to remind you that this wasn’t his idea.” She opened the door for the Sweets. “Be back in a jiff. Anything you want?”
“Lunch?” Eve asked.
“Never mind, Werner’s bringing Chinese food.” I primped the holly, ivy, and white mums set in a sculptured red Lucite box bag with a cracked top. Since I couldn’t bring myself to throw away damaged purses, I used them to hold flower arrangements.
In this case, I truly mourned the bag. According to Judith Miller’s book Handbags, this particular bag would be worth a grand in perfect condition. I kept hoping I’d find one with a cracked body and could operate to turn the two good halves into one awesome purse.
I checked my messages, made a couple of notes to call people back, then continued around the counter, which was backed by the wall that separated my shopping area to the right of the front door from the lounge area and dressing room to the left.
The garment bags were behind the wall, in an open space between the beverage cart and the art deco sitting area, through which my customers passed to get to the fitting room. It’s so wide open, I had once roller-skated around back there with my fashion intern, but that’s a story for another day.
I stopped dead at the sight. “How many racks of garment bags is that?”
“Eleven racks,” Eve said. “Fiona was nervous that there were so many, so I’m glad she wasn’t here to see your reaction.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, she’s really upset about the sheer volume.”
Fiona cleared her throat behind us.
One look at her and I knew I couldn’t change my mind, so I had to find a way to make it easier on myself. I reached over and squeezed her hand. “It’ll be okay. I’ll figure it out.”
I tapped my lips with a finger. “First step, remove the garment bags and drop them in that corner across from the stairs for now.”
Vainglory’s gown was in about the fifth bag to get unzipped and removed.
“Hey,” Eve said in surprise. “That backasswards-type apron thingy looks like it might match the design on the fabric wrapped around the—pfft!” She lost her breath, with my help.
I’d shoved an armful of garment bags in Eve’s face to shut her up. I didn’t want anyone else to connect the cash box wrapping to the dress I planned to pick in my official capacity as judge, for my own personal sleuthing reasons. Though I fervently hoped that justice would be served by the choice. “Eve, help me bring these into the dressing rooms, will you?”
Twenty
A sea of funereal black dresses saddens the paparazzi to no end. Explore gowns in jewel tones or pastel hues if you’re usually more inclined to darker shades.
—JANIE BRYANT, THE FASHION FILE
Eve was still miffed when we got to the dressing rooms, the horse stalls in Dante’s day.
“I know it matches,” I told Eve. “I saw in my vision that it matched. Why do you think I agreed to judge this foolish contest in the first place?”
“Oh. Oh no! These clothes are going to give you visions, aren’t they? Tons of them. Hey, did you and Werner open that box? What was in it?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
I gave her the abbreviated version.
“I don’t believe you.”
“There you go.”
“So it was like…a robbery?”
“A scavenger hunt, where the scavengers intended to return the goods, but did I forget to tell you about the girl who drowned?”
“Scrap, not a ghost. Please tell me that you haven’t taken to speaking to ghosts.”
“Not on a subject I’d choose,” I said for Dante’s sake, feeling a whisper of a touch on my cheek. Holy eyelet, he was toying with me.
When I stepped into my bathroom, I knew it. Two names were written, presumably by Dante, on the glass in my best and most expensive lipstick. I cleaned it off and didn’t know whether to be grateful for the names, though I couldn’t be sure they fit the picture, or furious because he’d just cost me a fortune in lipstick.
I left the bathroom with Eve behind me demanding ghostly details. I stopped so the others couldn’t hear us. “You’re coming sleuthing with me. I’ll have a chance to tell you everything then.”
“Are we gonna live dangerously?”
“I hope not.”
“Mad, you take all the fun out of sleuthing. Where are we going?”
“An abandoned mill near the ocean and railroad tracks, which gives me an idea of its location.”
“Great. When?”
“Once I figure out where, Noodle. Time, the middle of the night. Now shh.”
We got in our best trouble in the middle of the night, Eve and I.
Eve slapped my arm with a chuckle. “Noodle. I like it.”
“You two keep peeling off the g
arment bags,” I told Eve and Fee. “Sorting will be easier without the bags. Put menswear on a separate rack. I’m guessing five to one, gowns to tuxes. I doubt I’ll choose any black gowns, but if one stands out, I’ll need to see them. Rack them by colors as best you can. Keep outfits with labels separated from outfits without. Got it?”
Fiona saluted, military style.
Eve chose an alternate salute. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I need to go make notes on how to approach the situation.”
“Madeira Cutler,” Fiona said. “Are you sleuthing again?”
“Fee, you’re one with my dad now, and frankly, I’d rather you didn’t know the answer to that. Better you shouldn’t keep anything from him, right?”
A lovely soft smile transformed her expression.
“Of course, right,” I said, since she’d lost track of my question.
I left them to do their thing while I made a “to sleuth” list.
Since the case of Robin O’Dowd, the drowned swimmer, sat heavily on my mind, I noted whom I hoped Werner and I could investigate together and what Eve and I had to handle in a more clandestine manner. For Eve and me: Find more pieces of the petticoat.
First we’d need that list of people who’d attended both jubilees, twenty-fifth and fiftieth, which Werner had already asked for. But—I picked up the phone and speed-dialed him.
“Parking at Chinese takeout right now,” he said as he picked up.
“You need to send a crime-scene contingent to investigate the basement of the country club,” I said.
“I saw the blog,” he said. “A blog is not strong enough motivation for a search warrant.”
“Cold grommets and toothy metal zippers, why not?”
“Sorry, Mad.”
I huffed, thinking about how Eve and I might do some sleuthing down in that particular basement, and I shivered, which probably meant we shouldn’t. “Stud, you need to call the country club back. We forgot to ask for group pictures from the events, though individual pics would be better. They always have professional photographers for that purpose, and I’d bet the country club keeps a set from every event.”
“Stud?”
“You rather be a wiener?”
“Stud it is. I can ask the country club board tomorrow night when I meet with them and their lawyers for all the lists and pictures you want.”
“No, ask them right now, so they have them ready for you tomorrow night.”
“When did you become my boss?”
“You heard Mr. Moneybags, aka Thatcher McDowell Sr. I’m your associate. Just a little more efficient and faster-acting than you, that’s all. You’re the brains, I’ll give you that.”
Werner harrumphed. “I know a snow job when I hear one, but you’re good at it, I’ll give you that.”
“Oh, and make it clear that the rosters should include maiden names, former addresses, and current addresses, so we can further investigate. You might need a subpoena or search warrant-whatchamajiggie.”
“Bye, Mad.”
Hmm, I thought, looking at my dead cell phone. I’d have to be cleverer when I needed something from now on. Straightforward made me sound bossy. Clever was the route I needed to adopt, and maybe a little bit flirty, though not too flirty—a fine line for me, especially with Werner. And I would have to be careful not to cross it.
Eve and Fiona were making too much noise and having too much fun without me. So I put everything about the case in its own folder, tucked it into a file drawer, and joined them.
“Oh, this is a vintage-dress lover’s dream,” I said. “Even the black gowns have their fair share of prizes.”
I went right to the men’s formals. “Only one uniform entered?” I asked.
“Only one.”
“Put an empty rack on that side of the room for the six we choose, and hang the uniform there. It’s number one. Aunt Fee, my appointment book is on the counter. Can you schedule him for a fitting now? I don’t want to have them all at once.
“And, Fiona, we’ll have to set up a display of evening bags. I’ve got a store of beaded clutches from the forties and fifties upstairs. Make sure you bring down certain brands: Corde Bead, Magid, Grandee Bead, Rochette, Whiting & Davis, and that beautiful little shell of a Valerie Stevens. People who are attending have bought out the old display.”
“Will do. So glad to help. Your father and I would feel better if you didn’t end up stressed over this.”
“Now, Eve.” I lifted Chakra into my arms; she’d been leaping around the room, swiping at tulle skirts and rolling beneath them, as if she were chasing butterflies through a meadow. “Let’s choose five more outstanding formals.”
Twenty-one
I see myself as a true modernist. Even when I do a traditional gown, I give it a modern twist. I go to the past for research. I need to know what came before so I can break the rules.
—VERA WANG
Excitement rushed through me just looking at the vintage formals I found myself privileged to be able to handle. I was a sucker for antique clothing, and here were samples of the world’s greatest waiting for me to decide the fates of their owners.
“Aunt Fee, please tell the five people whose outfits we choose to bring me, or give you, pictures of their outfit being worn at the Golden Jubilee. Some people may have already given you photos. I know you showed me pics when you asked me to judge the contest. Just to prove someone wore it that night and nobody’s trying to slip in a ringer. To be fair to everyone who entered.”
“That’s easy,” Aunt Fee said. “Everyone posed for a professional photographer beside a sign marking the event.”
“I thought so. But just in case, let’s choose a few alternates.”
Eve huffed to get my attention, and she crossed her arms over her stomach like she might be sick. To be fair, she did look a bit green around the gills. “Mad,” she begged, “don’t touch any of these outfits, please? For me?”
“Sweetie, are you sick?” I asked.
“No, just scared.”
“Geez, so you scare me back? Begging is not your style, but you’re good at it! I know better than to touch the clothes; don’t worry. It’ll be bad enough when and if I have to fit or alter any of the outfits.” Of course, I wanted to read the embroidered peach crepe silk, Vainglory’s gown, again. I couldn’t wait to check out Deborah VanCortland’s past.
Eve stopped unzipping a garment bag and turned on a boot heel. “You mean the owners, right? Fit them to the owners?”
“No,” I said, “the requirement is an outfit worn at the Golden Jubilee. This year’s wearer won’t necessarily be that year’s owner.”
Eve bit her lip. “It’s true. Prime vintage does change hands. I guess that makes sense.”
“What’s up, Fiona?” I asked. “Eve looks sick, you look worried.”
“I am, or was, about you reading these things, but you seem to have made peace with the possibility.”
“Let’s just say that I have an ulterior motive for taking the chance, and leave it at that.”
Fiona raised a stop-right-there hand. “I know nothing.”
“I’m glad we understand each other. Please remind non–This Is Your Lifers, when you return their entries, that they should wear these to the ball to qualify for a prize. I can tell with one look, though I haven’t seen labels, that we’re surrounded with prize-winning pieces.”
Fiona scanned the room. “It’s true, and I’m so glad you reminded me. I’m feeling positively fa-la-la giddy, I’m so excited about our part in the Valentine’s ball.”
“Chinese food’s here,” Werner announced.
“Smells delicious,” I said. “Be with you in a minute. I’m more than pleased with the uniform. One down, five to go.”
“Sounds easy,” Eve said, opening the stapled bags of food while Fiona took out plastic plates and utensils.
Werner sort of growled, caught my right hand in his, and dragged me away from my checkout/lunch counter and i
nto the dressing rooms, where he backed me into a stall.
His hands on the wall beside my head, he stood up close and personal. “It’s time to leave high school behind.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
My phone buzzed in a text.
I read a message from Nick that needed no reply, and gave it to Werner to read. “‘Cupcake,’” he read aloud. “‘Put on your designer panties, the red lace ones, and be yourself. Have fun. Rock ’n’ Roll to your heart’s content.’”
“Permission?”
“Guilt?”
Werner raised a brow as his frown turned to a grin. “Red lace?”
“Uh-hmm.”
“I prefer an electric blue, myself.”
“I’ll replace them.”
He growled low in his throat, brought his lips to mine, hungry, almost as hungry as me, and we made an unbounded thermonuclear meal of each other.
“Mad,” Eve called. “You’re being conspicuous by your absence, both of you.”
“We need to talk,” Werner said.
“Or kiss some more?” I asked.
“Oh, that, too.” And he complied.
“Everybody will wonder what we’re doing in here.”
“We know what you’re doing in there,” Aunt Fiona called loudly. “You’re talking, like your father and I do.”
My laughter ended the kiss.
Werner pulled a bit away, but not much. “I’m calling for a replay. Later. My house.” His lips tickled mine as he spoke.
“You’re on,” I said. “We have to go back to the lunch crowd.” So we did, arm in arm.
“Nick’s text was almost psychic,” Werner said.
“He’s seen us together.” I stopped walking. “You believe in psychics?”
“Sure.”
Wow, did I have a story for him…someday.
Tulle Death Do Us Part Page 12
