Dolled Up to Die (14 page)

The next morning Cate went out to Lodge Hill to talk to LeAnne again. In the distance, she spotted a green tractor and some kind of equipment on a trailer among the rows of grapevines. Several people were working around it. Inside the office, LeAnne was on the phone telling someone that Lodge Hill would be operating as usual, and if the caller wanted a spring wedding it should be scheduled now.

“Wasn’t Mr. Kieferson’s funeral beautiful?” Cate said after LeAnne’s call ended.

“Very well attended,” LeAnne agreed.

Was that a polite detour around expressing an opinion of the service? Cate decided to bypass further small talk and slid a business card across the counter.

LeAnne picked it up. “You’re a private investigator?” Accusingly she added, “But you said you were in the McPherson-Doherty wedding.”

“I am. I’m also a private investigator.”

“Investigating what?” LeAnne asked warily.

“Mr. Kieferson’s death. I know you’ve told the police everything you could, but I’m thinking you were close enough to him to know something important, something no one else might know. Something the sheriff’s deputies may not even have thought to ask about.”

The flattery had a softening effect on LeAnne. She nodded. But then she stiffened again. “You’re working for Kim or Celeste?”

“No. Jo-Jo Kieferson is our client. The police seem suspicious of her.”

“That’s ridiculous! Jo-Jo is just the sweetest person ever. She wouldn’t kill Mr. K even after . . . everything.”

“So I’m wondering if you could tell me anything that might help in my investigation for her. Observations, suspicions, guesses, speculations, anything.”

“I’d like to help, but . . .” LeAnne lifted her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness.

Cate was undecided whether that meant she didn’t know anything, or if the status of her job held her back. Something along the line of “don’t bite the hand that feeds you”?

“Mr. Kieferson had a gun, and a permit to carry it. Do you have any idea why he might feel the need for a concealed weapon?” Cate asked.

“Maybe something to do with picking up money at the restaurant? Though I didn’t know he carried a gun. I do know Rolf has one. But I doubt he has any permit.”

“Why would Rolf carry a gun?”

“Maybe something to do with the people he hires to work in the vineyard? Or maybe Rolf just figures carrying a gun is the macho thing to do.”

Cate could think of another reason. If Rolf was into a marijuana-growing sideline, maybe he dealt with people for whom a gun was an essential accessory.

“Do you think Rolf could have killed Mr. Kieferson?”

“I wouldn’t rule him out.”

“What motive would he have?”

“I had the impression Mr. K wasn’t fully satisfied with Rolf’s management of the vineyard. I saw him go to Rolf’s cottage on several occasions.”

Cate could think of at least one motive herself. If Rolf were running an illegal pot-growing operation somewhere out in the vineyard, and Ed Kieferson had been in on it, maybe they’d had a falling-out. Or if Ed
wasn’t
in on it, maybe he’d found out and was going to turn Rolf in, and Rolf took a murderous step to prevent that.

“Do you have any other ideas on who could have done it?” Cate asked.

LeAnne took a deep breath and glanced sideways in both
directions, as if afraid someone might be lurking and listening. “If I were a betting person, although I’m not, of course, my money would be on Celeste. And the thing is, her conscience, if she has one, wouldn’t even bother her. She’s so into that ridiculous past-lives stuff that she’d figure Mr. K being dead was only temporary anyway. That he’d be back in some new life before long. Like some cosmic washing-machine cycle, going round and round.”

“Why would she kill him?”

“If she found out he was cheating on Kim, she’d whack him. If she thought he was leaving Kim for another woman, she’d double whack him. And she was suspicious of him. She even asked me once if I knew anything about his being involved with another woman.”

“
Was
he involved with anyone?”

“He had plenty of opportunity to meet women at the restaurant. But I don’t think he was into anything.” With a pink bloom rising to her plump cheeks, LeAnne added, with a certain defiance, “He knew I had . . . much admiration for him, and he never tried to take advantage of that. I wouldn’t be so sure about what Kim might have going on the side, however.” With sudden alarm in her eyes, LeAnne added, “This is all strictly confidential, of course.”

“Of course.” Cate planted her elbows on the counter, expectantly hoping for more confidentiality, but a young couple with wedding-radiant faces came through the door, and LeAnne, obviously relieved to end the conversation, turned to them as if they were long-lost buddies.

That evening, Cate worked on her report for the insurance company on the man with the disability claim, making an extra copy for the office files. Then she started a list of what
she knew about Jo-Jo and the Eddie the Ex case. She used a separate page for each suspect. Celeste. Kim. Rolf Wildrider nee Robert Johnson. Jo-Jo herself. Those were the big suspects. But there was also LeAnne Morrison, a long shot, but with a possibility she was skimming money off Lodge Hill receipts, and Ed Kieferson had found out. Or maybe the accountant had his hand in Kieferson’s financial pot. And who was the mysterious person who had called Celeste at the Mystic Mirage and gotten her so “agitated”?

In fact, there could be any number of people who might have killed Ed, Cate realized gloomily. People who weren’t even a blip on her radar. Some disgruntled employee at the restaurant. An illegal immigrant worker at the vineyard who thought the top boss might have him deported. Someone who really hated men with dandruff.

The phone rang, and Cate answered automatically. “Belmont Investigations, Assistant Investigator Cate Kinkaid speaking.”

“Ms. Kinkaid, I’m interested in possibly hiring you in regard to a situation that has come to my attention. Perhaps we could arrange a personal meeting?” The unfamiliar woman’s voice spoke with crisp formality.

“Of course. And you are . . . ?”

“Dr. Celeste Chandler.”

Cate choked on her surprise, coughed, cleared her throat, and made some other noises more often associated with barnyard animals than a competent PI. This couldn’t be about that day at the Mystic Mirage . . . or could it? Finally she managed to apologize for her coughing spell and croaked, “This is in regard to . . . ?”

“I prefer to speak with you in person. But I can say that it concerns someone I may need to have investigated.”

So this hadn’t anything to do with Cate’s unfortunate
inspection of the Kimmy doll’s anatomy. Relief whooshed through her.

“You were recommended to me by a friend,” Celeste added. “I don’t mean to be melodramatic, but I believe it may be a matter of life and death.”

“You should go to the police, then.”

“I may do that. But I’d like to talk to you first.”

“Well, um . . .”

Tempted as she was by the chance to find out why Celeste might want to hire a private investigator, she knew that as soon as the woman recognized her, she’d cut off the conversation like a chainsaw zapping through a marshmallow.

Then inspiration hit Cate. The wig. As different as she looked in it, maybe she
could
carry off a meeting with Celeste.

Mitch and probably Uncle Joe too would point out that this might be the dumbest idea since a local criminal wrote his bank holdup note on the back of an envelope addressed to himself. Celeste Chandler was a possible killer. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

But talking to Celeste might be her best chance to figure out who killed Eddie the Ex.

Cautiously Cate asked, “When did you have in mind meeting?”

“I have a small New Age store, the Mystic Mirage. We close at 5:30. Could you meet me just after closing time tomorrow, say 5:40? We can talk privately in the back room.”

“Yes, I can do that,” Cate said.

Celeste gave her an address and an order. “Come alone.”

Cate had second thoughts as soon as the call ended. Meet Dr. Celeste Chandler, likely killer, in a back room for an after-hours rendezvous? Alone?

Not a smart idea. Even in a brown wig.

The phone number from which Celeste had called was on the caller ID. Cate could call her back and cancel. Or she could simply not show up.

A better idea crashed into her head. She reached for the phone and clicked a familiar number on her contact list.

 12 

Mitch eased his SUV to the curb directly in front of the Mystic Mirage. Cate brushed a fingertip across her left eyebrow. The long brown hair had seemed to call for more dramatic makeup, but had she overdone it? The eyebrow felt large as the wing of a jet plane, and her mascaraed eyelashes sticky and clumpy enough to qualify as insect traps. She had an uneasy vision of the eyelashes gluing her eyes shut at some inopportune moment.

At 5:40 this time of year, the cloudy day had already darkened into evening. Rain spotted the windshield as soon as Mitch shut off the wipers, and a flickering streetlight turned shadows into one-dimensional monsters only temporarily trapped in the sidewalk. Wind swayed the Mystic Mirage sign hanging from the crescent moon. A few cars passed by, and in the next block a hand-holding couple emerged from a sandwich shop, but here the street looked like zombie territory. Lights still shone inside the store, but they suddenly dimmed to creepy movie level.

“I still don’t like this,” Mitch muttered.

Okay, Cate had to admit, she didn’t much like it either, and the uneasiness had nothing to do with sticky eyelashes. She couldn’t see the Kimmy doll, and the dim light oddly
emphasized a wicked gleam of the Oriental swords decorating the back wall. They looked oddly out of kilter now, the display unbalanced.

The situation suddenly seemed decidedly peculiar. Maybe Celeste already knew Cate was investigating Ed Kieferson’s murder. Maybe she thought Cate knew more than she did, and this meeting was a clever trap and she’d find herself shanghaied to some snaky, jungly place. Maybe—

Cate determinedly broke off the maybe jitters. She concentrated on putting confidence into her voice when she assured Mitch, “Everything’s fine.”

“Famous last words.”

“We have all the bases covered.” She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket to demonstrate. Mitch’s cell phone number showed on the screen. “If anything happens or doesn’t seem right, I just push the call button. As soon as your phone rings, you rush in and rescue me. Although . . .”

“Although what?”

“Maybe someone else will call just at that time. An old girlfriend. A stray message from outer space. You’ll think it’s me and burst in like gangbusters just when I’m using my dazzling investigative skills to extract crucial information from Celeste.”

Mitch didn’t comment on her investigative skills, dazzling or otherwise. “Better safe than sorry.”

“You’re just full of clichés tonight, aren’t you?” Cate grumbled.

“Clichés become clichés because a lot of times they’re right.”

“How about a ‘Don’t worry, be happy’ cliché?” Cate ended the discussion by leaning over and kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Thanks for coming along as my backup tonight. I really appreciate it.” She opened the door.

“Don’t forget your briefcase,” he said. With what seemed ill-timed curiosity, he added, “What does a PI carry in a briefcase anyway?”

“PI stuff,” Cate muttered. She wasn’t about to tell him what was actually in the briefcase.

“Don’t let her lock the door so I can’t get in,” he said as Cate grabbed the briefcase and slid out of the SUV.

Cate’s shadowy image in the window as she approached the door showed an unfamiliar, long-haired woman in belted jacket and high-heeled boots. The briefcase bulged with importance. She took a deep breath, blinked her eyes open wide to be sure the lashes weren’t stuck together, and pushed the door open.

The bell tinkled as Cate stepped inside. The first thing she saw was the Kimmy doll lying on the floor, the rocking chair overturned. Odd.

A faint scent of an exotic incense still permeated the air, but the flute music was silent now. There was no sound, in fact. No Celeste swishing through the beaded curtain across the opening to the back room. Not even a rustle of papers or scrape of chair to indicate Celeste knew Cate had arrived.

Cate waited a few moments and then called tentatively, “Dr. Chandler?” No answer. She repeated the name more loudly. “Dr. Chandler?”

Again no answer. Except maybe a furtive creak from the back room?

Cue spooky mood music now.

For a moment, Cate’s finger almost stabbed that call button, but she determinedly held it back. No creak. Just nerves manufacturing creaky . . . creepy . . . sounds.

She stepped briskly toward the curtain. Light filtered between the strands of wooden and ceramic beads. The strands
swayed softly. Had her movement caused that? Maybe. She swallowed. Maybe not . . .

Cate raised her voice so it wouldn’t come out shaky. “I may be a few minutes late. I hope that hasn’t inconvenienced you?” No answer. Cate lifted her hand to push the hanging strands of the curtain aside, but something made her fingers clutch a handful of beads instead. Celeste had to be there in the back room. She’d dimmed the lights just before Cate arrived. At least someone had dimmed them . . .

Cate swallowed again, but her mouth was so dry the swallow stuck in her throat. “Are you there, Dr. Chandler?”

Silence.

“Are you all right, Dr. Chandler?”

More silence.

Okay, she’d just retreat to the safety of the SUV and call Celeste to announce her arrival. No point in acting like a dumb movie heroine stepping into the monster’s den.

Then she spotted movement behind the curtain, as if someone had been bending over and straightened up. And there was something on the floor beneath the beaded curtain . . . Her heart thudded, and her throat went tight and thick, as if one of those wooden beads had suddenly jammed inside it.

A foot.

A foot wedged in a high-heeled sandal. Toes pointed upward. A few inches of shapely ankle and a black pant leg.

And then, stomping down beside the foot, two feet. In heavy black boots.

In spite of all their pre-planning, Cate’s finger didn’t stab the call button. A more basic instinct took over and a scream welled up from deep inside her, a primal shriek that burst up from her lungs and exploded out through her throat. Even as she knew it was her screaming, the sound seemed distant,
alien and unfamiliar, as not-her as the long brown hair on her head.

An arm shot through the curtain. A hand clutched her throat. An eye glared venomously through the beaded curtain. The scream died as the fingers closed around her throat and cut off her air.

Lord, what do I do now? He’s choking me. Help!

Panic thundered through her body and brain. Her head felt thick and heavy, clogged . . . her vision darkening even as her lungs burned. Desperately she flung her hands up to ward off the fingers squeezing her from light into darkness.

The briefcase swung upward too. She had no conscious plan to use it as a weapon, but it slammed into something solid behind the curtain, hit hard enough to thunder vibrations up her arm. A grunt of pain and the hand let go.

She dropped the briefcase, staggered, gasped for air, and frantically grabbed the cell phone in her pocket, but the front door was already crashing open behind her. Mitch hadn’t waited for the ring of the phone when she screamed. On the other side of the curtain another crash as a door slammed on the far side of the back room.

Mitch yanked the curtain, and half the strands broke and clattered to the floor, wooden and ceramic beads hitting and bouncing. He stumbled over the body on the floor. He looked down. “What—?”

The roar of a motorcycle blasted from the alley behind the store. Mitch leaped to the door and yanked it open.

Cate’s legs wobbled unsteadily beneath her. She looked for someplace to sit, but all she saw was a chair at the desk where Celeste had apparently been working. She’d have to step over the body to get to it. No, she couldn’t do that . . . She braced herself against the wall instead. She’d never fainted in her life, but she figured this was how you felt just before a
faint. She gasped breath after breath, valuing the air drawn into her lungs as she never had before.

Mitch closed the door and came back to look down at the body sprawled on the floor. His feet crunched on beads.

Plain now why Celeste had not responded to the call of her name. She lay on her back, eyes wide open, their expression shocked even in death. Half the curved blade and the ornate brass handle of a sword protruded from her chest like some macabre ornament.

Cate knelt and pressed her fingertips to Celeste’s throat. It seemed the thing to do even as what she wanted to do was run screaming into the rainy night. No movement, no twitch of pulse. Yet the body was still warm, which meant she must have surprised the killer bare moments after he’d thrust the sword into Celeste’s chest.

Mitch already had his cell phone in hand, and a moment later he was giving the 911 operator information about location and victim and his own identity.

Cate’s glance swung to the polished gleam of Oriental swords on the back wall of the shop. Also plain now why the display had looked unbalanced. One sword was missing. Because it was now planted deep in Celeste’s chest.

Then she glanced around, suddenly aware of what she wasn’t seeing. She stepped back to peer around behind her.

Mitch returned the phone to the clip on his belt. “What are you looking for?”

“My briefcase. It’s gone! He must have grabbed it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he thought there was something important or valuable in it?”

“Was there?”

“No. Like I said, just . . . PI stuff.”

The police must have been cruising nearby, because a squad
car, lights flashing, was already screaming to a stop behind Mitch’s SUV. Two officers burst through the door, the effect of their entrance marginally diminished when they both did Keystone Kops skids and crashes on rolling beads that had spread like some viral infection.

There was a certain déjà vu about the officers’ activities after they collected their balance. Cate had been through this before, on her first murder scene. The officers checking the pulse for themselves, snapping questions, making calls back to the station. More sirens and flashing lights, more officers arriving. A fire truck. An ambulance. One of the officers got the lowly job of corralling the runaway beads.

Passing cars slowed, and onlookers appeared out of nowhere to cluster on the sidewalk. Some even framed their faces with their hands to peer through the windows until an officer herded them back. Cate and Mitch stood out of the way, beside the fallen doll. Cate’s cold fingers felt welded together, as if she might never be able to separate them. She looked down and saw she was standing on one of the astrological figures painted on the floor, this one an oversized scorpion. She stepped away from it, her feet feeling crawly.

Even if there was a certain familiarity to this, even if she were a private investigator for fifty years and discovered fifty bodies along the way, Cate knew she would never get used to this. A dead body. Murder.

An officer approached them, and Mitch did the talking first, telling the officer who the victim was and what he knew. That the killer had fled through the rear entrance and escaped on a motorcycle. No, he hadn’t seen the man and had only heard, not seen, the bike. Cate gave the facts about who she was, her appointment with Celeste, and her encounter with the man behind the curtain. Details were fading, she realized uneasily, as if her mind desperately wanted to be rid of them.

“You didn’t see his face?” the officer asked.

“No. Just an arm and one eye.”

“Could you tell how tall he was?”

Cate hadn’t thought about the man’s size, but this was a good point. “His eye was above mine, so he had to be taller. Over six feet, I’d say.”

“How about the color of the eye you could see?”

“I’m not really sure. Dark, I think.”

“And the arm?”

“Muscular. Tattooed,” she remembered suddenly.

“Can you describe the tattoo?”

“I saw it . . .” Cate hesitated, desperately trying to bring the tattoo into focus. It was there, but it was just beyond her grasp, like a nightmare that left your heart pounding but slid out of full memory when you woke. “Swirls, I think.”

She lifted her hand and made wavy motions in the air. “Colored swirls. Maybe a design in them. But I—I’m just not sure.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, but if there was a design in the swirls, it stubbornly stayed just out of focus, beyond her reach. All she could really remember was the terrifying strength of the hand squeezing her throat, the feeling that her body might explode with the desperate demand for air.