by Krista Davis
A petite woman about my age walked in and asked for Zsazsa at the desk. I flew over to her and introduced myself. She was from the law firm that handled Maxwell’s affairs. She disappeared into the back, but I felt a teeny bit calmer. At least Zsazsa had someone on her side back there with her.
Eric strode in with Goldblum. I rushed over to them. Eric promised to find out what was going on and brushed past me.
Before Eric disappeared into the back, Goldblum said, “I’ll bail her out. I have the name of a good bondsman.”
When it was just the two of us, Goldblum started asking questions. “What happened? Why would they bring Zsazsa in for questioning? What had she done? How could she possibly be a suspect?”
I had no answers. But when Goldblum asked what had she done, I began to worry. What if she had tried to search Edgar’s apartment? Had she been caught and arrested for breaking and entering?
At long last, Eric returned with the attorney. We gathered outside in a private corner of the parking lot.
“Zsazsa has not been arrested,” said the attorney. “My appearance put an end to the questioning. She should be out here any minute. They don’t really have much on her yet.”
“Yet?” I squeaked.
Eric shot me a reassuring look. “The manager of Zsazsa’s apartment building happened to be throwing something in the dumpster when he saw a bottle of antifreeze and a big container of orange juice. They were both empty.”
“What kind of craziness is that?” yelled Goldblum. “There must be a hundred tenants in that building.”
Eric nodded calmly. “They compared the list of tenants with the names of your coloring club members, and Zsazsa was on both.”
“They can’t arrest a person for that.” Goldblum was furious.
“They didn’t arrest her.” The attorney spoke soothingly. “But it doesn’t help that she appears to have been the last person to have seen Dolly Cavanaugh alive. They brought Zsazsa in for questioning. It’s a standard maneuver. Sometimes people confess under pressure. The police watch their demeanor, see how they respond. You’d be surprised by the things people say and do during an interrogation.”
“I’m confused.” I tried to keep my voice even. “Zsazsa is a suspect?”
“Oh yeah.” Eric didn’t even hesitate.
“So that guy Holberstein will take this information and try to build a case against Zsazsa?” I asked.
“Right.” Eric let out a long breath.
“Can she leave the country? What if I take her to Belize? She can’t be extradited from there.” Even in the poor light of the parking lot, I could see Goldblum’s agitation.
“Don’t leave the area is TV baloney,” said Eric.
The attorney added, “And Belize entered into an extradition treaty with the US about twenty years ago. It’s no longer a haven for people hiding from United States authorities.”
“So what can we do?” Goldblum sounded frantic.
The attorney smiled at him. “You can’t do anything but be her friend and offer moral support. In the meantime, we’ll probably hire a private investigator to see if we can find out exactly what happened that night. If we’re lucky, someone else might have seen the victim alive after Zsazsa left her, and we have to hope Zsazsa will have an ironclad alibi for the time up to Dolly’s death.”
“And the police will continue to investigate,” said Eric.
I didn’t want to argue with him. But having spoken to Holberstein, and having dealt with homicide not too long ago, I had a bad feeling the police would think they had their woman. Holberstein was in no condition to pursue a case that he thought was already sewn up.
Zsazsa emerged from the building.
Goldblum ran to her, nearly falling over his own feet in his haste.
The other three of us walked toward them.
“What a horrible experience,” cried Zsazsa. “All I want is a steaming shower and a hot cup of tea.”
“I’ll take you home,” I said.
“No! I cannot go back there. They will come for me in the middle of the night, breaking down my door with guns blazing.”
The attorney said soothingly, “That’s in movies. You aren’t a fugitive or a gun runner.”
“I don’t care. I don’t think I will ever feel safe in my own home again.”
“You could come home with me,” I offered.
“Maxwell! Yes, I must speak to Maxwell. He has been through this and survived. But they put him in jail. I can’t go to jail. I’ll perish. I will! I might not be a perfect person, but I pay my taxes, I always go to vote, and I have never murdered anyone!”
“Maxwell was considered a flight risk,” I reminded her.
“They’ll say the same thing about me. No, I must go somewhere safe.”
Goldblum held out his arm like a gentleman walking the bride down the aisle. “They don’t know about me. You will come to my house. While you take a shower, I will make you a cup of tea. I have a couple of guest rooms, so you can have your own room and feel perfectly safe.”
Relief flooded Zsazsa’s face. “You are very kind. That sounds perfect.” She placed a hand on her chest. “I don’t mean to inconvenience you, Florrie. But perhaps you could pick up a change of clothes and some toiletries for me tomorrow?”
“I would be happy to do that.”
Zsazsa handed me the key to her apartment. “Thank you, darling.” She turned and looked back at the police station building. “I never want to come here again.”
I drove home on Wisconsin Avenue, the main drag that ran through Georgetown. People were still out and about. I stopped for a light and waited for it to turn. On the corner across the street, Professor Maxwell emerged from a bar with none other than Frederic van den Teuvel and a short man whom I didn’t know. He wore his hair slicked back and his eyes roamed like a wild animal scanning the savanna.
No wonder Mr. DuBois was worried about Maxwell. What was the professor doing with scummy van den Teuvel?
I was still pondering that when Jack Miller, the guy who had been bleeding at the back door of Color Me Read, emerged from the bar. He stretched and looked around before casually ambling after the professor and van den Teuvel.
A horn honked behind me. Instead of driving straight ahead as I had planned, I turned right to follow the motley gang. I double-parked briefly, letting the engine idle while I watched Jack follow the other three men. At the end of the block they split up. Van den Teuvel and the wild-eyed guy got into what looked to be a sleek black Jaguar.
Professor Maxwell walked in the direction of his home with Jack on his tail. I followed them slowly, intending to pick up the professor if necessary. When the professor turned up the driveway to his property, Jack stood on the other side of the street and watched briefly before moving on.
* * *
That night I set my alarm two hours early. In the morning, I made a mug of tea but skipped breakfast and took a walk over to Zsazsa’s apartment.
I had been there many times before. In order to compete with the ease of buying online, Color Me Read delivered books in the Georgetown area. Each time I brought books to Zsazsa, she had tea and a pastry waiting for me. I always enjoyed paying her a visit.
This morning, her apartment looked the same, but it felt lifeless without her vibrant presence. Zsazsa’s apartment was filled with books and fascinating art that she brought back from her travels. The walls and curtains were warm golden beige, as though the sun were kissing them. Touches of firecracker red reminded me of her vivid hair color.
The apartment was tasteful and gracious. She didn’t have nearly as many knickknacks as Dolly, but I could understand why they had felt comfortable together and become fast friends. They were both independent women with a dramatic flair.
I walked into Zsazsa’s closet and looked around. It was more difficult than I expected to select outfits for someone else. I spied a suitcase and matching hanging bag with wheels, and filled them quickly.
In the bathroom, I coll
ected a selection of makeup, her toothbrush, shampoo, and conditioner. It didn’t take long to fill a small case with toiletry items.
Just when I thought I had everything, I remembered shoes and grabbed some jewelry, too. As I walked through the bedroom, I looked out the window and saw the dumpster.
Leaving everything in the apartment, I locked the door and took the elevator downstairs. I located a door to the rear of the building and walked outside.
The dumpster was surrounded by a fence on three sides probably to make it less of an eyesore. The open side faced an alley. I walked over to it and looked up. Everyone in the building who had a view of the alley could see it.
Of course, no one would think twice about a tenant putting trash into the dumpster.
The alley ran through the block and was open on both ends. Anyone could easily have walked or driven through and disposed of the antifreeze in the dumpster without drawing any attention.
I had to discount the importance of the orange juice. Even if Dolly had consumed the antifreeze in a glass of orange juice, it was such a staple in households that half the people living in Zsazsa’s building probably had some in their refrigerators at that very moment.
As I gazed around, trying to imagine how a nonresident might have disposed of trash there, it dawned on me that there was no light. I saw one at the back door to the building. But there was no lighting at or even near the dumpster. “For daytime dumping only,” I muttered, “unless you’re trying to get rid of poison, in which case, it was ideally located for a nighttime visit that wouldn’t be noticed.”
I returned to Zsazsa’s apartment, picked up her clothes, and delivered them to Goldblum’s house, which was a mere two blocks away.
As far as I knew, Goldblum had never asked us to deliver anything to him. At least I had never been there before.
His house was immaculate outside. The brick walls had been painted soft cream, which provided a nice background for forest-green shutters. A gate beside the house appeared to lead to a garage in the back. I rang the bell.
A rosy-cheeked Goldblum opened the door. He wore an apron that said Bacon is my Superpower. “Florrie! You’re just in time for breakfast.”
Zsazsa zoomed toward me. “I hope you brought my makeup! I dislike the way I look without it.”
She did appear a little washed out without her usual eyeliner, but I was happy to see she had her verve back. “You bet.”
“I’ll take these upstairs for you,” said Goldblum.
“Not the makeup!” Zsazsa grabbed the smallest bag. “Is this the correct valise, Florrie?”
I assured her it was.
Goldblum loaded up the rest and struggled up the stairs with them.
“I’m so glad to see you feeling better.” I gave Zsazsa a hug.
“Come to the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. Do you like bacon? That apron he’s wearing is no joke. I have known Goldblum for years, but I had no idea he was such a baconista.”
I followed her into a modern kitchen with marble countertops and an eight-burner range. “Goldblum likes to cook?”
“Apparently so.” She handed me a mug of coffee. “Help yourself, Florrie. He made enough for a football team.” She opened the makeup bag, flipped up a mirror, and applied her eyeliner with a practiced hand. She peered down the hallway and whispered, “I think Goldblum likes having company.”
“Do you feel safer here?”
“Definitely. I have already phoned the apartment building manager and given my notice. It’s a nice building, but I have lived there quite long enough. I’m not going back. I will find a new place. Perhaps Nolan knows of a nice condominium. And I already feel more like myself now that I’m wearing eyeliner.” She motioned for me to sit at the counter.
She took both of my hands into hers. “You helped spring Maxwell from jail. You will help me stay out of jail, too. Yes?”
“Zsazsa, I will do anything I can to help you. You know that. But what you really need is the lawyer who came to your rescue last night.”
“Hah! Lawyers!” She waved her hands as if dismissing the thought of them. “What I need is you.”
Goldblum joined us in the kitchen. “She’s right, Florrie. Zsazsa and I have brilliant minds, but you seem to have a knack for this. Zsazsa and I were up late last night discussing her situation and we have come to a conclusion. The person who murdered Dolly does not like Zsazsa.”
Chapter 20
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“The killer is obviously trying to frame me.” Zsazsa dug through the makeup bag and found a lipstick the color of a pink grapefruit. She applied it to her lips, smacked them, and smiled.
“That’s certainly possible,” I said. “But I saw someone running in Dolly’s alley that night. If I had just murdered someone and almost gotten caught in the act, I think I would have thrown the murder weapon, as it were, in the first reasonable place I saw to dispose of it. The killer must have realized the police would be on the scene soon and looking for him.”
They glanced at each other. “Just a moment,” said Goldblum. “The killer wouldn’t have brought a bottle of antifreeze to Dolly’s house. He would have mixed the drink elsewhere.”
“Or he might have made it in Dolly’s house, but he had the antifreeze in a flask,” suggested Zsazsa.
“You make excellent points,” I agreed. “Not to mention that there could be no connection whatsoever between the orange juice and the antifreeze in the dumpster, and Dolly’s death. It could very well be that someone in your building happened to throw out a container of orange juice and another tenant happened to throw out antifreeze.”
“There’s only one small glitch with that scenario.” Zsazsa clasped her hands together so tightly that they turned white under her fingers. “The police informed me that both bottles had been wiped clean of fingerprints.”
Uh-oh. No wonder they pulled her in for questioning.
“Did you two come up with any ideas about who the real killer might be?” I asked.
“We thought it must be someone who knows Zsazsa. Probably someone in the coloring club.” Goldblum picked up a slice of bacon. “Would you care for a fried egg, Florrie? Over easy is my specialty.”
“Thanks, but I can’t stay long. I have to get over to the store.”
“But then it dawned on us,” said Zsazsa, “that most of them probably don’t know where I live.”
“But it would have been easy for any one of them to follow her home and make note of her address.” Goldblum refilled my coffee mug.
“So then we need to figure out which one of them would have been desperate enough to kill Dolly for The Florist.”
“Exactly.” Goldblum held a platter of pancakes out to me. “We’re looking for someone in desperate need of money.”
“Edgar Delaney, if that’s his real name.” Zsazsa nearly spat the words. “I’m sorry but why else would he lie to all of us? I don’t understand why he targeted me, but it’s quite obvious that Edgar is the killer. We just have to prove it.”
I was ashamed that I wolfed the pancakes. They were fabulous, and I told Goldblum so. “Please forgive me, but I have got to get going to open the store.”
Even though I hurried along the sidewalks, I was two minutes late. I hated being late. Bob hadn’t arrived yet, but Olivia waited at the door.
“Good morning. I’m so sorry to make you wait.”
“No problem,” said Olivia. “I wanted to talk with you.”
We walked inside. I asked if she could wait a few minutes while I switched on the lights. The process of opening up, of starting the music and coffee calmed my nerves. When I was done, I spied Bob helping a customer, and found Olivia sitting in the parlor with a fresh cup of coffee.
I perched on the chair beside hers.
She swallowed hard. “Florrie, the homicide detective came by yesterday to ask what Priss and I remembered about the night Dolly died. You know how it is when that happens. Everything just flew right out of m
y head.”
Olivia fidgeted uncomfortably. “I did remember something but now I’m in an awkward position. I thought maybe you could tell your nice Sergeant Jonquille for me.”
She appeared to be rambling. “Okay. You’re afraid to tell the detective?”
” No, no. It’s nothing like that. You see, the night Dolly was killed, I saw Nolan leaving our building. At the time, I didn’t think a thing of it. He was clearly interested in Dolly, whether to date her or to sell her house is irrelevant at this point. But I saw him leaving and I feel the detective should know that. Even if he had nothing to do with Dolly’s death, maybe he saw her killer on the street or something.”
“I agree. The detective should know.” I didn’t think it would make any difference to him now that he had his sights on Zsazsa, but he should be informed. “So what’s the problem? Why can’t you tell him?”
“That’s why I came to you. Not only do you have a direct tie to the police, but you have a sister so you’ll understand my dilemma. Priss has a thing for Nolan. If I report him to the police, she’ll never forgive me.”
I did understand. Sisters could be completely unreasonable. “Did you tell Priss that you saw Nolan?”
Olivia shot me a frustrated look. “What would Veronica do if you tried to tell her you saw her dreamboat at the murder scene?”
“She would be furious. But I would tell her anyway. Shouldn’t Priss know? It might change her mind about him. And what if he murders her?”
Olivia laughed without humor. “These are the things that keep me up at night. What if my sweet, gullible sister is chasing a killer? It happens, you know. I see it on the news all the time. The sister disappears with some guy and comes back in a body bag.”
Olivia was hitting a little bit too close to home for my comfort. Veronica was easily swayed by men. A word of flattery, a cute smile, and she was hooked.
“I understand. I’ll be happy to share that with Eric. But I can’t guarantee that the detective won’t show up at your apartment to ask you about it.”
“I guess that’s a risk I’ll have to take. Thank you, Florrie.”
