A Secondhand Murder (5 page)

The sound woke Timble. “You got a confession?” He stuck his pencil in his mouth, wet the tip, and prepared to write.

“
Valerie Sanders and I didn't like each other much.”

Frida nodded. “Go on.”

“
We had a bit of a disagreement.”

“
This was when?” She grabbed her notebook off the desk and jotted something in it.

“
Last week.”

“
It was a disagreement, you said?”

“
Right.”

Timble continued to look awake, but I could tell he wasn't excited about the direction I was taking the conversation. His eyelids again drooped over his eyes. I didn't feel guilty for putting him back to sleep.

“
Want to tell us about it?” Frida locked eyes with me.

“
Not really. It was private business.”

“
A woman is dead, murdered. I don't think you need to be concerned about keeping your business arrangement a secret anymore.”

I'd never seen this side of Frida before. She was like a snapping turtle—she wasn't going to let go, not with my finger in her jaws.

“
Okay. Fine. It was more than a disagreement. I punched her in the chops.”

I
read what Frida wrote in her notebook, the one she so cleverly placed on the desk in front of me, so I would know I had to 'fess up. Frida's pupils didn't even dilate with surprise when I announced that I had I hit the woman. No wonder she got the promotion to detective. She was one smart lady. She got the truth out of me. And someone else. Now I had to do some swift maneuvering of my own.

“
The reason you assaulted her?” Frida's pencil was poised over her notebook, ready to get the goods on me. Timble came to life, scribbling nonstop in his little black book.

“
You assume the assault was unwarranted? She came at me first. I only hit her to protect myself.”

“
Still. The reason for the two of you getting physical?”

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I let out a sharp sigh. “Can't you guess? Valerie Sanders was cheap. She may have been rich, but she was tight with her money. Maybe that's how she got so rich. She wanted me to take a smaller percentage for the consignment of her castoffs. I told her no. She went crazy. Came at me as if I had accused her of buying her clothes at Sears.” Privately, I was pretty certain she did buy some of her stuff at Sears, but then sewed on designer labels. That's how damn cheap she was.

“
And then?”

“
Once I gave her a good bop on the puss, she seemed to come to her senses. Grabbed her purse and left. The next time I saw her was the day of our grand opening, the day she—”

“
How did she act toward you that day?”

“
As she usually did. Like I was lowlier than the help she hired to clean her toilets, but a necessary evil.” I glanced at my watch. I'd been here for over a half hour. Madeleine would be frantic if I wasn't back soon.

Frida and Timble exchanged looks and nodded at each other.

“
Okay. You can go, but we may have additional questions.”

“
Well, I have one of my own. Who told you Valerie and I had a run-in?”

“
Madeleine. This morning on the phone. I asked her if she knew of anybody who didn't like Valerie. She volunteered your name.”

I could feel the blood rush to my face. That little rat! Here I'd been trying to protect her by lying about my whereabouts this afternoon. Once I got back to the store, I intended to up her stress level. Her wrinkles be damned! But before I did that, I needed to find out what she'd overheard between Valerie and me.

Had she heard the real reason for Valerie's attack? If so, had she told Frida? If Frida knew I hadn't been honest about the reason for our confrontation, she'd be examining my background, which wouldn't stand up to that kind of scrutiny and could lead to too much interest in Jerry's dealings with the Sanders family. Oh yeah, as usual, Jerry had lied to me. I knew him well enough to detect the dissembling in his voice when we talked. He was up to his armpits in the Sanders' investments. Not that he could be involved in the murder. No way. Nuh-uh.

I kept my mouth shut about the fact that Madeleine had been shooting off hers to Frida until we were already headed for the coast.

“
They've been burning the sugar cane fields south of here all day,” I said. “You can still smell that acrid scent in the air.” It was not an odor I savored. I rolled up the window and turned on the air conditioner.

Madeleine said, “Should we go to Cory's first, since it's all the way on the other side of West Palm?” She lowered the vanity mirror on the visor and examined her face.

That did it. “I told you this morning,” I said. “There's no wrinkle. I lied to you. Your forehead is as smooth as the inside of a cream puff.”

“
Why are you yelling at me? You've been acting funny ever since you picked me up at the store. If you're going to treat me like that, let me out here.”

I almost did just that, but we were driving the 714 East after the commuter rush hour had already passed, and I doubted anyone would be on the road. She'd get eaten by an alligator crossing to hunt overnight in the swamp on the other side. She'd surely blame me for that. I could just see her shaking her tiny freckled fist at me as a gator swallowed her whole.

I slammed my fist on the steering wheel. “Why the hell did you rat on me?” I said. “I thought we were best friends and then you blab to the cops.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
You told Frida that Valerie and I had a fight.”

“
You did.”

“
It was private.”

“
Half the county heard you.”

“
Did you tell Frida why we fought?”

“
The shop's take, right?”

I looked over at her face, but in the dim light I couldn't tell if she knew more than she was saying. “Whatever. You owe me one.”

“
Do not.”

“
Do so. And here's how you can make it up to me.” I told her about my concern for our business, and that I was worried the shop would suffer if Mrs. Sanders' murderer wasn't identified sooner rather than later. I told her my brilliant plan. She must have felt some guilt about talking to Frida because, to my surprise, she agreed to help me out.

It wasn't much of a plot. Mostly just the old good-cop-bad-cop routine put to good use by the good-consignment-shop-owner and the bad. I don't have to tell you what part I was playing, do I?

Getting Cory Burnside to confess to us what she and Valerie had been scheming about on the day of the fight would only be possible if her husband wasn't home tonight. Rumor had it that Randolph Burnside spent as little time at home as possible. He was too involved in making money, something he seemed to do very well. I figured he needed all the cash he could get just to pay for the extensive “procedures” his wife underwent. Cory lived by that old dictum, you can't be too rich or too thin, and its addendum—too wrinkle- or sag-free. Her face had undergone surgery so often that it was painful to look at her. She appeared to be in a state of perpetual surprise. One more lift and her eyebrows would join her hairline.

We pulled up in front of Cory's large house just as the sun was going down. The stucco dwelling sat back from the road, sheltered amid a variety of palms and oaks. A manicured lawn seemed to invite visitors to take off their shoes and walk across the green carpet, but a sign indicating the property was protected by a security system suggested the grassy invitation was not serious. I rang the bell and expected a servant to answer. Cory showed up instead.

She kept us waiting at the door while she grabbed a load of garments from a hallway chair and loaded them into my arms. “Could we come in for a moment?” I asked.

She looked surprised at my request. That reaction wasn't what piqued my curiosity. It was the alarm I saw in her eyes.

“
It's about poor, dear Valerie.” Madeleine looked appropriately sad.

“
This really isn't such a good time.” She tried to close us out, but I'd already placed one of my size-ten feet in the door and I now stood in the foyer, looming over her. Madeleine ducked past me and went to stand next to her.

“
Well, fine,” she said, “if you don't stay long. I'm expecting someone.”

“
We'll stay for a quick drink. That's all.” I walked straight ahead, across the marble entryway and into a dimly lit room beyond. The space was overcrowded with potted plants, heavy teak furniture and lots of leather—couches, chairs, even the lampshades were made of animal skins. That East Indian look that is so popular in south Florida.

The back of the room was fashioned out of glass, and through it we could see a beautifully landscaped garden filled with royal palms, bougainvillea and a plethora of tropical flowers. Standing guard over the garden was a huge oak that dwarfed even the largest of royals. In the center of all of this beauty stood a pool into which a waterfall cascaded. I dropped the clothes on a leather sofa and walked through the open doorway into the warm night.

“
Too bad we didn't bring suits,” I said. “A dip after the day I've had would feel great.”

Cory muttered with irritation, Madeleine apologized for my manners, and I threw myself onto a chaise lounge.

Cory stood at my side looking down at me as if she wanted to drown me in the clear, blue water but was worried the pool service would never be able to clean up the mess.

I reached up and took her bony hand. “Madeleine's right. Please forgive my manners, but this had been quite a day. Here we are, all of us, so … so, well … so aggrieved at Valerie's death. Horrified, too. Then to have the cops act as if I was at fault! Have they been to see you, dear?”

The triple whammy of my apology, the news about my run-in with the cops and my inquiry into her own dealings with the law seemed to have the desired effect. I had intended to confuse her and, although her face appeared as startled as ever, her eyes, the true barometer of her emotional state, jumped around in their sockets, signaling fear or concern. Or was it terror?

I pressed my advantage. “Oh, they'll be here soon enough. Or they'll summon you to headquarters. Let me tell you, that place is a dump.”

She plopped down on the end of the lounge. “You mean they might insist that I drive there and be interrogated in some backwater police station? If my friends find out about this, I'll just die.” She put her head in her hands and began to sob.

“
What did you expect? You were close to Valerie. Of course they'll want to talk to you.” I reached out. Madeleine rummaged in her purse, found a tissue and handed it to me. Cory held out her hand for it. I blew my nose and tossed the wad back to Madeleine. “You'd better have a good story for them when they arrive.”

“
Story? Why do I need a story? Besides, Valerie and I weren't even that close. Once she and her husband lost all their money, well, we weren't running in the same circles anymore.” She sounded angry, not scared.

“
What about your recent, uh, troubles?” There was sympathy in Madeleine's voice. Madeleine gave me a sly look, indicating she was taking a shot in the dark.

For a moment, I thought Cory might deny the fact that she and Randolph were having “troubles,” but she chuckled instead. “Isn't that the funniest thing? Valerie recently mentioned a project she and her husband had gotten involved in. She promised a good return on our investment, but I told her Randolph wasn't interested. Randolph does his own investing, doesn't follow his friends' lead. That's what gets so many people in trouble, you know, following along. I didn't even ask her for details”

“
She and her husband had enough money to invest?”

“
Yes.”

“
You sure you don't know what kind of project?” Usually I can tell when someone is lying—I have had plenty of practice being married to Jerry—but Cory's face gave away nothing.

“
Don't be coy,” she said. “I assume the investment involved you and your estranged husband, as usual.” Her tone was clipped and accusing.

A figure emerged from behind one of the silver palms. “Now that's something I didn't know. I'll bet the cops don't either.” Lean, casual, hands in his pockets—my investigator playing eavesdropper in the garden.

Dumbfounded, I turned to Cory. “Is
this
the person you were expecting?” I couldn't have been more surprised and less amused. Alex and Cory, a new take on
The Odd Couple
? “Since when do you let PIs wander around in your azaleas?”

“
I told him to come in through the back. I didn't want to explain the presence of a strange man at my door to any neighbors who might be watching.”

“
Isn't this cozy?” Alex wandered over to the bar cart. At first I thought he was going to reach out and make himself a drink. Instead, he twisted one of the bottles around and read the label. “Johnnie Walker Green. Rich stuff.” He looked at Cory with a question in his eyes.