Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper (8 page)

“This? This is what I called you about.”

“Ms. Kidd, did anyone overhear our conversation today?”

“At the grocery store?” I thought back to Dante. Had he seen the word “Detective” flash on my screen? I was going to have to reprogram my phone. And the pierced checkout girl? She didn’t seem to be eavesdropping—

“Ms. Kidd?” Loncar prompted.

“No, I was alone. I mean, there were people around, but I wasn’t with anybody.”

He stared at me for a few seconds but said nothing.

“You should take this,” I added, and picked up the box. “I don’t know what it has to do with anything, but it was in the admissions office next to the body.”

“Why do you have it, Ms. Kidd?”

“Eddie picked it up to get it out of the way of the blood. When he got sick, he carried it outside. I don’t think he realized he had it with him. He gave it to me, and I’m giving it to you.”

Loncar took the box. I realized this was his way, letting me babble on with more information than I probably should have shared, but it was the truth, and I wanted to prove to him that I was willing to cooperate. All things considered, I thought I was doing a good job in the “model citizen” category, and I was a little let down that he didn’t produce a gold star.

“If you talk to your friend Mr. Adams, tell him to call me,” he said and then left.

“I can’t imagine why he’s avoiding you, considering how nice and friendly you are,” I muttered as he walked away. I was fairly sure he didn’t hear me.

I dumped my handbag on a chair inside the front door and headed straight for the freezer. The light on my machine mocked me, but before I had a chance to check my messages, someone pounded on the front door. The doorknob jiggled rapidly, and a key turned in the lock.

I grabbed a painting off the wall and held it like a shield in front of my body. The door opened and Eddie came in. His eyes were wide, his face held terror. I dropped the painting, and it landed with a
thunk
and then tipped. A corner dug into my shin and I hopped backward and swore. I hung it back on the wall, and Eddie rushed into the kitchen and shut all the blinds.

“Where’s your remote?” he asked.

I handed him the clicker and he turned on the news. A woman in a cream-colored turtleneck and pencil skirt stood in front of the museum.

“The body of Philadelphia retailer Dirk Engle was discovered last night at the Ribbon Art Museum. Engle, owner of the hat store What’s On Your Mind had recently been consulting on a Hedy London millinery exhibit to be displayed at the Museum’s Frowick Gallery. Engle’s death has been classified a murder, and police are looking into possible suspects. This video of the museum grounds has given the police their only lead. If anyone has information regarding this crime, please call our toll free hotline displayed on the screen. We’ll have the full story tonight at six and eleven.”

I watched the silent footage. It was Eddie, making his way across the grounds in the back of the museum. He stopped, looked toward the building, moved his lips as if talking to himself, and continued. He disappeared around the back to the door. The tape jumped forward, and suddenly there he was, ducking behind the shrubbery, staring at the parking lot like we had when we’d heard the gunshots.

There was no mistaking it was Eddie. Even if I hadn’t been right next to him when footage had been recorded I would have known it was him. But as I watched the incriminating video being broadcast on the nightly news, I knew there was a much bigger problem.

If I had been beside him when this took place, why wasn’t I in the video?

9

I remembered everything that had happened: when Eddie looked like he was talking to himself, he had really been talking to me. I was never more than a few steps away from him. So why wasn’t I in the film? Where was I?

Eddie sunk onto the sofa and held his head in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

I didn’t want to think about the kinds of things I was thinking. “We only know it’s you because we were both there. And there’s got to be something the police aren’t releasing because it’s more significant than a couple of seconds of tape. This is probably why the detective wants to talk to you.”

“How do you know Detective Loncar wants to talk to me?”

“He told me. Did you call him? You should. He’s going to get angry if you keep avoiding him. I should know.”

“When?”

“I called him this afternoon and arranged for him to pick up the hat. We had a nice conversation about it when I was at the grocery store.”

“You went grocery shopping with the detective? Since when are you two so chummy?”

“He called me when I was at the store. I wouldn’t call us chummy, but it did look like he dressed up before he came over.”

“He was here? At your house?”

“I told you, I gave him the hat.”

Eddie kicked the Vans off his feet.

“I’m glad that hat isn’t here anymore. Somebody killed Dirk Engle because of it,” I said.

“We don’t know that. There could be a hundred reasons why someone killed Dirk Engle.”

“Oh yeah? Name one. Aside from that hat, give me one reason why someone would want to kill him.”

“Maybe he screwed someone over. Maybe he skipped out on a poker game. Maybe he jilted a lover. Maybe he—”

“Eddie, he was killed at the museum. We don’t even know why he was there. Did someone lure him back with the intention of murdering him? Was he trying to get something that belonged to him? Or did someone catch him trying to steal something?”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes. That somebody connected to that exhibit killed him.”

Eddie’s cell phone rang. He looked at the display and turned his ringer off. He stood as still as a mannequin, and the color drained from his face. A few seconds later the screen announced a new voice mail. He turned his back to me and walked a few feet away. I left him alone out front and headed to the kitchen, where I doled out two bowls of rocky road ice cream. I couldn’t be sure, but I might have been developing a dependency to the stuff.

When Eddie returned, he looked confused. “I got two messages. First one: detective. He wants me to come in for questioning.”

Considering the detective’s request for Eddie to call him and the highlights reel of the six o’clock news, I wasn’t surprised. “Who was the other message from?”

“Christian. He says he can’t beat publicity like this, and he’s arranged for me to work on the exhibit during off hours. He wants to meet with me tomorrow.”

“Did you erase that message?”

“No. Why?”

“Can I hear it?”

He tapped the screen a few times and handed me the phone. I held it up to my head, comparing it to the argument I’d heard through Dirk Engle’s cell phone. After a few words, I was sure.

“Eddie, I don’t want to freak you out, but I’m pretty sure he’s the person who was fighting with Dirk Engle the morning I came to the museum.”

“What does that have to do with the price of rice in China?”

“I don’t know what it means, but for starters, it might give him a motive.”

“Dude, you think Christian killed Dirk?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Eddie again sank onto the gray flannel sofa. Logan hopped up and walked across his thighs. “Now I have to call the detective back.”

“Why now?” I asked.

“Because I have to tell him that Christian killed Dirk.”

“Not so fast. All we know is that he and Dirk had an argument the day Dirk was murdered.”

Eddie looked at me like I was explaining faggoting to a first year sewing student. “One argument does not a killer make.”

“It’s a heck of a lot more suspicious than if he showed up with a tray of cupcakes.”

“Listen to me. I have some experience with Loncar. He doesn’t take well to blind accusations. We can’t even place Christian at the museum that night. The only thing we know is he was there during the day.”

“So were a bunch of people! Thad was there. Maybe he was jealous of Dirk? Rebecca was there. Maybe she caught him shoplifting little Thinker statues. There was a delivery guy with hats from Dirk’s store. Maybe he held a grudge? What about us? Somebody can say we had a motive.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Rebecca told me a woman dropped off the boxes, not a man. Do you know who she is? Do you know where she works?”

“Over Your Head.”

“No it’s not. It’s pretty pertinent information, if you ask me.” I glared at him.

“No. It’s Over Your Head.”

“Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll find out on my own.”

A smile tugged at Eddie’s face. “The woman was Vera Sarlow, and her store is called Over Your Head. It’s on Penn Avenue. I don’t know why she had the hats. She’s Dirk Engle’s biggest competitor, and Tradava wants to take their business away.”

“Over Your Head,” I repeated, trying to place where I’d heard that before. I grabbed my handbag and rooted around until I found the page I’d torn from the newspaper. “She’s having an event next week. It was in the paper.” I flipped through the buildup of mail on the table until I came to the article I’d torn out. “She sells vintage hats. I wonder if Loncar talked to her. You should go to her store and chat her up.”

“Dude, maybe you should do it. If you turn anything up, you can tell Loncar. You’re going to keep helping me, right?”

I hesitated. “I all but promised Nick that I’d have nothing to do with the homicide investigation. It was a condition of him hiring me.”

“You took a job with Nick?”

“After what happened at the museum, I kinda figured your opportunity was going to dry up.”

“Fine. Don’t tell him you’re helping me on the side. How’s he going to know?”

“He’s not stupid.” I glanced at the clock. “Besides, he’s due here for dinner in a little more than a hour.”

“What are we having? Pizza? You want me to order?”

“It’s date night. You’re not invited. I was going to cook dinner for him to say thank you.”

“You can’t cook.”

“Why does everybody make it sound like it’s so hard to cook dinner?”

“What’s on the menu? Spaghetti? Ice cream for dessert?”

“I think I can do better than that.” I didn’t mention that by “better” I meant rigatoni and not spaghetti. I also didn’t mention the jar of sauce in the pantry or the box of Jell-O no-bake cheesecake I’d been saving for a special occasion.

Eddie walked into the kitchen. I heard cabinets opening and closing. Same with the freezer and the fridge.

I moved to the sofa and scratched Logan’s ears.

A few minutes later Eddie returned. “You got any wine?”

“A bottle of white, a bottle of red.”

“When is Nick getting here?”

“Seven.”

“You have an hour and a half to clean this place and get ready. I’ll take care of your dinner.”

“I already told you I had dinner under control.”

Eddie held up the jar of Ragu. “I don’t think so.”

I did a few mental calculations. If Eddie took care of dinner, I’d have time to shower, redo my hair, and try on at least four different outfits before deciding which one I wanted to wear. I’d probably have time to hang the other three back up just in case Nick and I ended up in the bedroom.

“If I agree to this, we will never speak of it outside this house. Deal?”

“Counteroffer: I’ll agree to never mention this outside your house if you agree to help me with the Dirk Engle thing.”

“Not a word,” I said, pointing at him.

“Who am I going to tell?”

In the end it wasn’t that hard of a deal to make. He needed my help more than I needed him to cook dinner. Maybe I couldn’t make a decent dinner for Nick, but the signs were all there. I knew I could help Eddie with the situation at the museum, and that’s the kind of friend I was.

It was six forty-five when I came back downstairs. I’d decided on a beryl green knit dress and a lime cashmere cardigan. The dress had a low scoop neck and a full skirt. Sexy and feminine at the same time. I’d twirled my long brown hair around my fingers and let it mostly air dry, and then used the drier to soften the curls. I slipped my feet into matte gold lizard pumps and slipped a pair of gold bow-shaped earrings into each of my lobes. I reached for an amber lipstick, remembered Nick’s parking lot kiss, and went with a tinted gloss instead.

The kitchen smelled heavenly, like I imagined the set of
The Godfather
smelled during most of the cooking scenes. Eddie was fitting candles into a collection of holders that had formerly been stashed under the sink.

“Table’s set. Wine’s open. Sinatra’s singing. I loaded a movie in the player. You’re good to go.”

“What are we having?”

“Chicken Florentine. Surprisingly, you had four packages of frozen spinach in your freezer.”

“I like to rest the packages on my eyes when they’re puffy.”

“Use the peas. You have a bunch of them too.”

Eddie left me last-minute directions and left. I would have asked him to go out the back door in case Nick was early, but his VW Bug was in my driveway, so “covert” had more to do with having him take back roads. When the doorbell rang, I was more nervous than if I’d made the dinner myself.

Nick stood on the other side of the door, dressed in a crisp white shirt under a navy blue blazer. The shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing traces of the tan he’d picked up during his last trip to Italy. His jeans were dark wash, his shoes were black wingtips. I looked back up at his face and his root-beer—barrel colored eyes scanned my outfit.

“I brought dessert.” He handed me a small white box. It was cold. He leaned down and said, “In case I was wrong about you shopping for ice cream.”

I turned my head to the side and caught his lips with mine. We stumbled backward until I was up against the hall closet door. I raised my right leg because the knob was jammed into the back of my thigh, and Nick reached down and ran his fingers along the underside of it.

“We should eat,” I whispered between kisses.

“I’m not that hungry,” he whispered back.

In the end, we reheated the chicken Florentine in the microwave. Nick moved the coffee table and we set up a picnic on the floor of the living room. I turned off the stereo and started the movie.