Death in a Funhouse Mirror (17 page)

"Of course not."

"Why 'of course not'?"

"Because Cliff loved his wife. And he's not the killing type."

"So, are you going to do it?" he said.

Disappointment made me grouchy again. "I thought finding killers was your job."

"We can always use a little help."

"You're supposed to tell me to stay out of it," I said.

"Oh, right," he agreed. "Missy, you keep your pretty little nose out of this, you hear? This is police business. Too dangerous for a nice girl like you. You just leave the crime solving up to Uncle Dom and Uncle Steve and when we're done you can bake us a cake, okay?" I wanted to be mad at him but I was laughing too hard.

"Seriously, though," he said, "by a little help I don't mean you should go around interviewing witnesses or give Cliff Paris the third degree. Just keep your eyes and ears open and if you hear something, call me. Anytime. Day or night. The lines are always open." And then, sounding a lot like Andre, he said, "You be careful around these people.
All
of these people, you hear?"

"There's nothing wrong with my ears, Florio. Does that mean you've narrowed your pool of suspects?" I wanted him to say no, but he just gave me that mocking cop's look again—the old "trust me, I'm trying to help you but don't expect me to tell you anything" look. The one that always makes me bristle. On the bright side, even if he hadn't quite taken my problem off my hands, he'd given me some direction, as in 'stay out of it unless you overhear something useful.' That felt better.

When the check came, I grabbed it before he could over his protests that he couldn't let a witness pay. "I'm not a witness," I said, "I'm just an informant. A sweet young thing, remember? Besides, I invited you." He still seemed uneasy. "Come on, Dom, relax," I said, "you don't think I did it, do you?"

He shook his head. "So far, you're about the only person I don't suspect."

Grateful for small favors, I went forth to tackle the next task on my list. The Elegant Aisle, which is a nauseating name for a bridal shop, opened at 9:30, and I was camped on the doorstep ten minutes before that, waiting for shoe showdown time. I was feeling invigorated by my breakfast with Dom. It was strange how exhilarating a bit of banter and conflict could be first thing in the morning. Andre often gave me the same feeling, and I knew one of the reasons I liked Dom was that he reminded me of Andre. I wasn't literally on the doorstep, of course, I was in my car, and I used the time to review the notes I'd made for my eleven o'clock meeting. I wasn't worried about that one. It was a straightforward job, something Suzanne and I could do with our hands tied behind our backs. It was the afternoon meeting with Cliff that I was more concerned about.

Finally, at 9:40 the place began to show some signs of life. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. Weddings never start on time, why should wedding suppliers? Besides, these were the dim folks who had lost three pairs of shoes and now were trying to weasel out of their responsibilities by passing the buck. I was about to pass it right back. I shouldered my briefcase and went inside.

The woman who came to greet me was probably in her fifties, well corseted and elaborately coifed. She was wearing a fussy pink silk number unsuitable for any occasion occurring before four in the afternoon. I got right to the point. "Good morning, Mrs. Leslie," I said, "I'm Thea Kozak. I don't know if you remember me. I'm in Suzanne Begner's wedding party. She asked me to stop in and pick up the shoes."

Mrs. Leslie's face, which had begun to smile, fell into a frown when I reached the word "shoes." "I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding, Mrs. Kozak," she said, "we don't have the shoes. They've already been picked up."

"That's odd," I said, "Suzanne just called me last night and asked me to pick them up this morning. Were you open at ten last night?"

"We closed at six," she said. "The shoes were picked up along with the dresses. We always do it that way. To avoid confusion. You know how flustered brides can be."

"I do," I agreed, "brides can get very flustered, especially when something that is supposed to be delivered is never delivered. To whom did you deliver the shoes?"

"I'll have to check the records," she said. "Excuse me just a moment."

I waited impatiently, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. The room was so decorated it was oppressive. It looked a lot like I'd always imagined a French bordello might look, and it wasn't big enough for the three mannequins in full bridal regalia who stood around me. The carpeting was so deep I could hardly see my feet.

After an extremely long moment she came back clutching two order forms which she laid down on the desk facing me. "Now, as you can see from this," she pointed to my order form, "we put a check mark in these boxes when the items are delivered. Here is your form, with a check next to your dress, and one next to your shoes, and here," she pulled my form back and slapped another in its place, "is Constance Webster's, also with two check marks." She pointed out the marks with the pen she was holding.

I looked at the marks, and then at the pen. "I'm still confused," I said. "I picked up my dress myself, and there were no shoes. Suzanne says Mrs. Webster got no shoes either. Isn't it possible that someone simply forgot to hand them out but inadvertently checked the box, and the shoes are somewhere in the back, still waiting to be collected?"

"Certainly not," she snapped without even considering my suggestion, "we're very careful about things like that."

I doubted that she'd even looked for the shoes. "How does your pickup usually work?" I asked. "Does one person coordinate the order and deliver both the dress and the shoes, or do you have a dress person and a shoe person, each of whom must check off the appropriate space on the order form?"

"One person," she said, looking puzzled. "We're a small business."

"Well, then perhaps you can explain to me why the checks on the forms are written in two different colored inks, one blue, and one red like the pen you're holding, and why they are so obviously made by two different people? And perhaps you could also explain," I said, pulling out my own copy of the form, which I'd gotten when I picked up the dress, "why only the box for the dress is checked on my form, which is supposed to be an exact copy of yours."

Mrs. Leslie bent down and peered at the form I was holding, then straightened up and looked at me like I'd just tracked something nasty across her carpets. "I'll have to check on this," she said, and stalked out, her tightly corseted rump rocking up and down like an anchored tugboat in a rising tide. She stumped back five minutes later with two shoe boxes which she dumped in front of me. "Here you go," she said grudgingly. "I don't know how this could have happened."

I opened the first box. A gleaming pair of green satin shoes. So far, so good. Opened the second box. Another green pair. The boxes confirmed that one was nine and the other seven. Great. I was two-thirds of the way to victory. "This is terrific," I said, "now I just the need the rose shoes for the junior bridesmaid and I'll be on my way."

"She hasn't picked up her dress yet," Mrs. Leslie said stubbornly.

"That's okay. I'll take the dress, too."

"I'm afraid I can only release that to the bride or the young lady herself."

I was losing my patience with her administrative bullshit. Systems put in place to make things go more smoothly I can understand, but I have no tolerance for rigid adherence to systems which only inconvenience the customer. "I promised Suzanne I'd deliver the shoes today and I intend to do that. You can give me the shoes, or the shoes and the dress, whichever you prefer. But I will not leave without the shoes, and if you delay me any further," I made an elaborate display of looking at my watch, "I will take out a very large ad in the local papers detailing exactly how you've behaved here today and urging people not to patronize this shop, and I will do it for at least four weeks."

"You wouldn't dare!"

I shrugged. "You want to try me and see? It's the truth. I can afford it. And I hate people who screw things up and then try to shirk their responsibility." I moved closer, so I was towering over her, invading her personal space. "Why don't you go get the shoes."

She scampered off and came hurrying back with the dress and shoes. She practically threw them at me. "There," she said, "take them and go. I have never dealt with someone so rude."

I put the dress over my arm and picked up the three boxes of shoes. "I can't say I've never seen anyone more dishonest," I said, "but you do puzzle me. What were you going to do? Return the shoes and pocket the money? It's pathetic, Mrs. Leslie. Unless it's just incredible incompetence." She started to say something, but I didn't wait to hear it. I took the loot and left. From the car I could see her standing behind the counter, sagging like an inflatable doll with a slow leak.

Flushed with triumph, I went to the office. Magda's normally sad face lit up when she saw me coming with the dress and the shoe boxes. "This is very good, Thea," she said. "Now maybe Suzanne can get some work done today." She shook her head and made a spiraling motion in the air with her hand. "All of this stuff is making her crazy. Myself, I will be most relieved when this weekend is over." Suzanne wasn't in, so I left the stuff in her office and hurried to get the stack of pink slips Sarah had been waving at me since I came through the door.

"Thanks," I said, grabbing them.

She smiled wryly. "I'm not sure you should be thanking me. I've been wondering, is telephone ear a covered disability under workers' comp?"

"Not until you have open sores," I said. She made a face and went back to her typing. I carried the messages into my office, dropped into my chair, and went through the stack, sorting them into three piles—ASAP, respond when I have time, and into the circular file. The ability to prioritize is an important skill. I ended up with three messages from someone called Lenora Stern I didn't know what to do with. I stuck my head out and asked Sarah.

"Any idea who Lenora Stern is?"

She shook her head. "The only thing she said was that Eve had asked her to call you." That wasn't very illuminating, but at least I knew I could put her in the "when I have time" file. I threw most of the messages away, stuck Lenora and the rest of her group under the corner of my blotter, and began to work my way through the ASAPs.

A while later Suzanne blitzed in, thanked me effusively for the shoes, and dumped an administrative headache on my desk. "Bobby says he has a hot prospect for Valeria's job. Can you see her sometime tomorrow?" She thrust a resume at me and hurried out.

Praying for light traffic and green lights, I grabbed my stuff and went to my meeting. I was sitting at a red light, drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, when I remembered who Lenora Stern was. The imperious colleague who had spoken at the funeral. The one who'd impressed me into slavery. I experienced a momentary irritation with Eve. I didn't know what she was up to, but I did know I had no intention of returning Lenora's call.

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

My meeting with Cliff Paris wasn't going well. "Bear with me," he said wearily, "I know I initiated this and I should be more helpful but I have a lot of trouble thinking about our clinical services as a product and about referring therapists and HMOs as target groups or feeders. All these words. Networking. Heightened awareness. Name recognition. The Yellow Pages. Jesus! Is this really what we have to do?" He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and scrubbed at his forehead like he was trying to wipe his confusion away. "I'm glad you understand this stuff," he said, "because I'm totally at sea here."

"It is a lot of stuff to grasp all at once, Cliff. Would it be better if I put something in writing for you to look at? Something you can show the rest of your board? Or would it be easier if I just met with you and the board and tried to explain it to all of you?" He stared at me helplessly, not responding. I wasn't used to seeing Cliff helpless. He was the parent of a friend. As long as I'd known him, he'd always been the wise, invincible grown-up. I stared back at him, this man I'd known for nearly a decade, seeing him for the first time vulnerable and confused. He was so clearly suffering. How could Eve possibly believe he'd killed Helene?

Today he looked as haggard and distressed as everyone had been suggesting he should. The skin beneath his eyes was smudged with purple and he had an unhealthy pallor. He was nothing like the charismatic man I knew. He was doddering and confused and looked suddenly old. He had to make a physical effort to follow what I was saying and even then he wasn't getting much. As I watched, waiting for him to answer my question, his eyes gradually closed and his head dropped forward onto his chest. I sat very still, not wanting to startle him with any sudden movements. When I was sure he was fully asleep, I took his jacket, tucked it around him, and quietly let myself out.

In the outer office, his assistant Roddy Stokes gave me a surly nod, grabbed a stack of papers and headed for the door. "Don't bother him right now," I said. "He's asleep." He paused before the door, literally trembling with indecision. He wanted to defy me because he disliked me. He seemed to dislike everyone. I knew that from Eve and I knew that from dealing with him. It didn't take long. This time, though, he was frustrated. He couldn't defy me without disturbing Cliff. Finally, with a shrug and a sigh, he walked dejectedly back to his desk and stared at me angrily.