2Golden garland

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  "Ages ago. Probably when she was still alive. Too bad they never found anybody to play the part who could live up to the Wimsey in her mind, the way that Jeremy Brett went over the top to reinvent Holmes."

  "Some characters are meant to live only on the page. I can't believe this. An item in the morning paper. How--?"

  "New York may look inefficient to outlanders, but we do just fine here. Get a lot done, well done."

  "This is odd. It says the street clothes of the 'slain Santa' carried no identification."

  "What's odd? The 'slain Santa' or the no ID bit?"

  "Both, as a matter of fact. Lieutenant Katrina must have told a reporter that the death was not an accident. Kind of soon to make that judgment."

  "I told you. We don't waste time here. Besides, how many golden chains end up in a booby trap at the top of a pressed-wood chimney?"

  "At Christmastime a lot of golden bric-a-brac ends up lying around. Maybe Marley's ghost was set to make a later appearance."

  "That's interesting." Kit looked up through the mottled-indigo metallic of her eyeglass frames. "Marley was a business partner, wasn't he? Maybe the chain was sending a message."

  Temple stopped considering the fact that she'd probably look just like Kit in thirty years; in fact, she looked a lot like her now--maybe she should try contact lenses again soon.

  "You mean that the means of death, the golden chain, was symbolic, not just handy?"

  "How many golden chains you got hanging around your place?" Kit's skeptical eyebrows overshot her eyeglass frames. "Of course, I may be discounting any leftover props--personal or professional-- from your erstwhile boyfriend the magician."

  "Just handcuffs and silk scarves," Temple rushed to assure her aunt, then realized that she had done nothing of the kind.

  "What I can't figure out," Kit said after a truly pregnant pause and a sip of coffee, "is why the dead man was taken for this Brent Colby, Junior, for so long, even by his own daughter, not to mention partners and employees."

  "Any homicide cop would tell you that strangulation does not produce a pretty corpse, and I can testify to the fact. Talk about a dark red and swollen face. Besides, he was still wearing the Santa getup, and all that shows is eyes and nostrils."

  Temple sipped her coffee, then squinted at the gray canyons of Manhattan out the windows. "After the death, when I was thinking everything over, I realized that when I blundered into the wrong conference room, I'd swear that the Santa guy looked startled and then guilty to see me. I figured I'd caught the dignified Colby lurking with intent to surprise. But he seemed more surprised by my presence than vice versa. Anyway, that's the kicker. A face full of permanent-waved cotton batting totally distorts the features underneath. I keep trying to imagine what the Santa I saw would look like without the whiskers and mustache and fur-trimmed cap down to his frosty eyebrows, but it's impossible."

  Kit nodded dolefully. "Now I get the picture. If I were a crook trying to pass as somebody else, a Santa suit disguise would be my number one choice. It distorts face and figure, yet it's so familiar to people from their earliest childhood that we never try to look beneath it; that ruins the whole point of Santa."

  "Then the likeliest scenario is that the golden chain was meant for the custom-shirted neck of Brent Colby, Junior, but only Colby knew he was using a substitute this year. That opens up oodles of motives, especially among Colby's closest associates."

  "And family."

  Temple frowned. "I'd hate to think Kendall did it."

  "Why?"

  "Well, she's his only daughter, and she's been nice to me."

  "Temple. Judas was 'nice' to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. Those who will betray you with a kiss are the most dangerous of all. What about Mrs. Colby?"

  "A long-gone ex, I'd assume. Nobody even brought her up. Guess I should. I'll delicately ask Kendall about her family background first thing Monday."

  "Don't you imagine the police are doing plenty of that today? Maybe they'll crack the case by Monday."

  Temple shook her head and tapped the tiny article at the back of the huge newspaper section. "Not if the dead Santa had no ID. Someone doesn't want him identified, and that makes it look like he was the target."

  "You did say that Colby had learned about him from an agency?"

  Temple nodded her head.

  "I know some agency people. I could call around this afternoon, see if they remember Colby calling."

  "On Sunday?"

  "The Naked City never sleeps," Kit intoned as flatly as a true-crime television-show announcer. "And inquiring New Yorkers want to know who's been killing Santa Claus."

  "I can't believe I traveled three thousand miles to run into another murder. I wonder if the lady lieutenant here called the lady lieutenant in Las Vegas about me yet."

  "Don't look so glum. It never hurts to have people talking about you."

  "Not homicide detectives. Molina might tell Katrina who-knows-what. She's not fond of amateur anythings."

  Kit leaned against the couch back, forgetting about Midnight Louie, who growled.

  "Goodness! We are grouchy this morning." She sighed. "You think you saw Santa's eyes before. I'd bet you did. You've had theatrical experience. Actors never forget eyes. Did he seem uneasy to recognize you?"

  "No. More surprised. You don't suppose it was suicide?"

  "Now there's a notion. This is intriguing. What if this poor nameless soul wanted to cause a little stir as he left the world, perhaps more than he merited while alive? A public hanging at a Christmas party would do the trick. Sad what some people will do for attention."

  "Or ..." Temple sat up. "What if the golden chain wasn't making a statement, but the dead man was? What if he blamed someone at Colby, Janos and Renaldi for something, and wanted to embarrass the firm? Bad publicity like this is poison to an advertising firm. It upsets clients."

  "Corporate revenge. I like it. All we have to do is find out who he ... was . . . and what he might have against a big advertising agency like CJR."

  All? Kit, he could be someone who ... lost a loved one to a faulty product for which CJR handled an advertising Campaign. He could have no overt connection whatsoever and still could have that kind of motive. What do you really think 'we' can do about it?"

  "We can start with what we know, and I know those agency people who hand out most of the Santa assignments around this town. And Rudy might have some ideas." Her fading red hair trembled as her head nodded firmly. " 'Every journey to a thousand parts always starts with a single phone call.' Article One of the Actor's Creed."

  Chapter 23

  Moby Couch

  The evening of the morning after the day before.

  Matt stood in the glare of his apartment lights, sweating like a stevedore and gazing at a white elephant. At a bloody Moby Dick of the landlubbing world.

  A long, sinuous S of red suede sofa snaked diagonally across the parquet floor in an otherwise almost-empty room.

  "Temple--" he threatened the emptiness, or the sofa, aloud.

  His wallet was lighter by another hundred and fifty dollars. Movers that could muscle an eight-foot-long sofa up three floors of a building built in the fifties with narrow- everything didn't come cheap. Getting it out would probably be best accomplished by wrestling it to the patio railing and dumping it overboard, after shouting suitable warning, like "Timmmmmm-ber!"

  He walked around it, hands on hips, shaking his head. "Temmmple," he repeated softly.

  He had to admit that in nighttime lighting the behemoth looked pretty good The flagrant red had a holiday dash. But his brick-and-board bookshelves looked like- escapees from a prison tor makeshift furniture now. What did he need a living room for, anyway? He had no visitors, and wasn't likely to have any, not with the transient company he kept at the hot line.

  Matt decided to give himself a talking-to, since Temple wasn't here to do it for him. All right, Devine. This is a pretty cool sofa, after all. And you paid enough for it. Could
have had some nondescript yuppie cotton-duck-covered love seat for the price, and a floor lamp.

  He sat down smack in the sofa's middle and stared at the brandy-colored wood floor. Well, he supposed he could get one of those white, hairy goat rugs like Temple had, and stick it in the sofa's front curve. Only it wouldn't be genuine. Nothing living would die (or decorate) for his sins. Synthetic. Come to think of it, Temple had said "suede."

  Matt stroked the smooth fabric. Not as soft as velvet, but not as harsh as cotton duck either. Except for one stain on the back, the sofa was in perfect condition. Someone must have taken good care of it for a long time.

  Suede, though. At least the suede-bearers had probably served humankind in a dozen different ways. Matt leaned his elbows on his knees to study his empty white walls. One of Rouault's Christ-figure paintings would look nice on that wall, and crucifixion scenes always have a dash of red in them, especially Rouault's deceptively prettified stained-glass style ...

  Christ! He wasn't furnishing a convent. This was a bachelor pad. Why did everything he thought of come up churchy? What other artists' work had he seen? Van Gogh. Not much red there, except in his self-portrait sans ear. Aha! Renoir. He nodded. Plump bourgeois women and children in quaint late-nineteenth-century dress. Lots of reds.

  Didn't exactly go with a sofa that was just two long curves: shorter back support, and long, long seat. 0f suede. How many suedes had died so his rear could cushion itself on this soft surface?

  Georgia O'Keefe, maybe. Modern. Innocuous subjects, flowers. Big like the sofa, lots of lush reds. All pretty erotic, of course. He had heard. Didn't want to send that message any more than the one behind Rouault's jewel-tone meditations on sin, suffering and death.

  Oh, Jesus. He meant it as a prayer, not an epithet. Is this my forty days in the desert? My temptation? A long red suede sofa?

  Matt put his face in his hands. How could he know who he could love, when he didn't even know what he could like?

  So it came back to Temple. He missed her. And he was actually glad the ridiculous sofa had arrived today and distracted him from the encounter with Cliff Effinger last night.

  He hadn't slept all night, but then he was used to being up, working, those hours. That wasn't it. The triumph was rolling around inside of him, bumping into all his tender spots. And he'd discovered what Molina probably already knew. He had banged himself up right royally with Effinger, and vice versa. Funny, he'd hadn't felt a thing at the time. Adrenaline?

  So he was aching all over today, and of course he had to help the two beefy guys with beer guts that would choke a horse manhandle the sofa upstairs. Couldn't take the elevator. Too small. Why would such a little woman like Temple fall in love with such a big sofa? Uh-oh, Matt's inner voice warned. She fell in love with Max Kinsella, and he ain't exactly small. Opposites attract, dummy. Rule number one of the secular, coeducational world.

  He'd had a headache all day too. Probably from those partially tasted cheap drinks. Impersonating a gumshoe of the old school was hazardous to clean nineties lifestyles.

  He glanced around, surprised at being encompassed by a curving palette of pure red. This sofa certainly didn't let you forget about it.

  The phone sat on its shaky-legged table. He should . . . call Temple. Tell her the unsinkable thrift-shop sofa had arrived safely. Tell her--

  She had left the number, and he had left it right by the phone.

  Matt slid about six feet down his new sofa to the end and punched numbers. About 2 P.M. in New York, his wristwatch told him. Might be home between meetings and eatings out.

  The phone rang exactly twice before it was answered.

  "Hello." Perky. Familiar. Like smelling fresh espresso.

  "Temple?"

  "No, her aunt. Kit."

  "Oh. I'm calling from Las Vegas--"

  She cut him off before he could give a reason. "Which one are you--the blond or the brunet?"

  He didn't like being reminded of that "The blond." He said it coolly, like a natural blond should.

  "Good." Her lightly raspy voice lowered to conspirator-level. "I liked you best."

  "I'm sorry, Miss Carlson, but we've never met. I heard about you, of course--"

  "Same here. And ... I glimpsed you both in the casino. Temple really shouldn't reduce the man pool by two, given the male-female ratio among the aging population."

  "Temple shouldn't do a lot of things she does, but I do think she should talk to me, if she's there, and if you don't mind."

  "I do, but I am a good, if heartbroken, hostess. Nice talking to you, Matt."

  He rolled his eyes. Now what was Temple saying? About him, about Kinsella?

  "Matt!"

  Her voice was so vibrant, so nearby, despite the long-distance line that he forgot his list of annoyances. "Hi. Glad I caught you in."

  "How goes everything?"

  "The sofa came."

  "Really?"

  "It was pretty difficult, and expensive, to get up all these stairs. The movers said a baby grand would be easier."

  "Stairs? Why not the elevator ... oh, too big. Too bad. Listen, my aunt's place is down in the Village, where they have a lot of upscale vintage stores and I think, I think your sofa is a Vladimir Kagan."

  Suddenly it really was his sofa. "A Vladimir Kagan? No wonder it's red."

  "Fun-ny. Kagan is German. I spotted his stuff when Kit and I window-shopped the pricey vintage places. Kagan is a fabulous custom designer who was avant-hot in the fifties; now his pieces are undergoing a huge revival. You need to tip up your--what did the brochure call it?--'extravagantly biomorphic' sofa and check the bottom for any signatures or labels."

  "Temple. Three men could barely get this thing here upright. How am I going to tip it over solo, and look for labels?"

  "I'll do the label part when I get back."

  "Thanks."

  "You sound kind of terse. Everything okay? If it's a Kagan it's worth four thousand dollars, easy, in New York or LA."

  "Yeah, but it'd take five thousand dollars to get it there. Besides, I kind of like it here, I decided."

  "You do? I'm so glad. I worried during the whole plane flight that I'd buffaloed you into something you'd hate. I get carried away sometimes."

  "I noticed. I like it. The sofa, I mean. Not you getting carried away. But I like that too. I doubt I'd have the nerve not to like something you liked."

  "Awww."

  "How are things going there?"

  "All right, but it's New York and it's noisy all night, sirens and garbage trucks from Hades, and crowded all day, and they have split elevator banks and don't tell you, but Louie is being a lamb. Isn't it a little early for you to be up?"

  "I had last night off."

  "And--"

  "What do you mean, And--'?"

  "Matt. I can hear the strain in your voice. I heard it from the first. It can't be just from hustling collectible sofas up three flights of stairs."

  "You're scary sometimes."

  "Thanks."

  "Temple." He gathered himself to hurl headfirst into a topic that was a lot more volatile than a flaming red sofa, or a flaming redhead. "I found him."

  Her words stalled for the first time. "Effinger?" she said finally.

  "Effinger."

  "How?"

  "One of the little sketches you suggested. A ... woman contacted me and said he was hanging out at an off-Strip casino."

  "Well, what happened?"

  "A lot. But it's not suitable for long distance. I'll tell you when you get back. I'm working New Year's Eve, but maybe we can have New Year's Day dinner."

  "You never take the rough nights off, do you?"

  "I don't have a family, and the others do."

  "Maybe you do too, and you just don't know it yet."

  He found another dead silence growing. "I have the sofa now for quite a clan."

  "Hey, you can't let just anybody sit on an extravagantly biomorphic collector's item like a Kagan couch."

&nb
sp; "Just you, then. And me."

  "That sounds pretty good."

  "Did you have that in mind when you made me get it?"

  "Maybe. But what happened to Effinger? Surely you can give me a hint."

  "I found him at his motel, which you know well."

  "Yes, Nostradamus. Which one?"

  "Did I rhyme the last sentence? Must have been the boilermaker I didn't have while bribing half the bartenders in town."

  "You, hitting the streets and the bottle like Sam Spade? Wish I'd been there. You were going to tell me where 'there' was."

  "The Blue Mermaid Motel. No, you wouldn't really have wanted to be there."

  "Ooh, sleazy. What did you do when you caught up with him?"

  "I didn't kill him. I just collared him. Called Molina and handed him over later. She was peeved I hadn't forewarned her, but I didn't exactly know that was gonna be the night."

  "So. You okay with it?"

  "Better than okay. I didn't kill him."

  "I didn't think you would."

  "How come I wasn't so sure of that?"

  "Because you're the Hamlet of the Circle Ritz. You're so busy debating the right thing to do, and if you'll do it, that you sometimes miss the obvious."

  "So what was so obvious?"

  "You're not like him, Matt. Never were, never will be. You'd never kill him."

  "But I hate him."

  "You're entitled, and besides, you make yourself so guilty about that, that killing him would ruin your fun."

  "Temple, if you ever die, you'll go to heaven, or--if there's a form of sanctioned reincarnation--you're going to come back as a very long red sofa and bedevil the life out of somebody for forty more years."

  "I hope so," she said. "You can sit on me anytime you like."

  He didn't answer that one, especially with weird fragments of porno film dancing in his head along with the usual seasonal snowflakes and sugarplums. She went on without pause, anyway.