Killer Chameleon (18 page)

“A similarity, doncha know,” a Mrs. Williams told me. “The shape of the face, more than anything else. Must be some Caucasian in the young lady's family, though. Long, straight hair halfway down her back. The one my age with the charming accent, she wore hers in a short Afro like, gray all over. Very attractive.”

Short gray hair like the driver of the compact?

A Miss Cobey, however, wasn't quite as complimentary. “Too much foundation for a woman her age. I used to sell Mary Kay, so I notice that kind of thing. No reason for all that makeup either. I mean, it wasn't a dressy occasion, we were decorating a tree, for God's sake. And she had quite good skin underneath all that goop. I told her she was ruining her pores lathering it on with a trowel like that. I had hoped she might have taken the hint when she left to go to the bathroom, since it would have been a good opportunity to wipe some of it off, but she didn't. She'll learn.”

“Whose bathroom did she use?” I asked, paying attention for the first time. There was no public restroom in the building.

“I don't know, I'm sure. She got on the elevator, so I assumed she went to someone's apartment.”

Damn. Eight apartments on each of five floors. It would take me a couple of days, if not longer, to catch everyone. I could just hear myself: “I'm sorry to bother you, but did you let a lady with a Jamaican accent use your bathroom on Monday?”

Figuring I'd get other calls out of the way while I had the time, I caught Tracy as she was about to leave for work as a branch manager of one of the county's libraries.

“Hi, cuz,” she trilled. How could anyone sound so chirpy this early? “When are you coming out? It's been a while since we had a girly session over a plate of fries.”

“Soon,” I promised. “I'll make this fast. You know the family. Is there anyone else who looks like us, enough to pass for you or me if someone didn't know us well?”

“Well, that's one hell of a question, cousin. Let me think.” I heard the tap-tap of a fingernail, but it didn't take her long. “In a word, no. Not even close. What's going on?”

“Long story and you don't have time. Perhaps this weekend. Thanks, Tracy. Tell your mom I said hi.” I hung up before she could ask more questions.

Next was Elizabeth, who sounded delighted that we would accept the house. I put her on my list of weekend visits and phoned Plato next or, rather, his voice mail, which meant he either was in the john or didn't feel like being bothered. There was no question that he was home. Agoraphobic, he only left his sanctuary under pain of death. I left a message that I'd call him later and just might stop by. It paid to warn him or he'd ignore the doorbell.

Someone knocked at nine on the dot, and I opened the door to a masculine version of Tina a foot taller in height and a lot less talkative. With a minimum of words he informed me that my car would be ready tomorrow, the next day at the latest, that there was a LoJack installed in the Corvette and alarms up the wazoo, but regardless, he'd just as soon I not park it in a neighborhood where it was guaranteed someone would try to steal it. He showed me how to work the remote, dropped the keys in my hand, and left looking as if he was losing his only friend in the world. Once I saw it, I understood why.

Turquoise, long, and low-slung, it was parked in someone's reserved slot, the reason perfectly clear; it was the only space open with a light directly above it. No dark corners for this baby. Not only could you not miss it, you'd be clearly visible if you tried to steal it.

I got in it and prayed that mine would be ready tomorrow. My knee, unused to having to bend at such an acute angle in order for me to sit, snarled at me. This turquoise beauty was so low, I might as well have been sitting on the ground. I wondered if I'd be able to get out without a hoist of some kind. Then I started the engine and forgot any misgivings I had. This thing had Power with a capital P!

I headed for the Bridal Bower to get that out of the way first, and during a stop at a traffic light a couple of blocks from the store, used the wait to dig the Bridal Bower receipt out of my purse. And didn't find it. An annoyed blast of a horn from a cab alerted me that the light had changed, so I interrupted the search and continued it at the next stop. And still couldn't find it.

Irritated, I turned onto a side street, eased into the vacant space beside a fire hydrant and, with emergency blinkers on, emptied the contents of the damned bag onto the passenger seat. I'm always amazed at the amount of pure junk I wind up carrying, but the receipt from Bridal Bower was definitely not among it.

What could I have done with it? I squinched my eyes tight, trying to think. Janeece had dragged me to the shop kicking and screaming back in October. No way was I getting married in white satin or organdy fluff. That's not my style. Besides, to wear white anything would be a travesty, since Duck and I had known each other—and that's in the biblical sense—for over a year. Last but not least, anything in the shop had to be six times more than I was prepared to shell out. It was in a high-rent district and I was already paying rent, at my insistence, to Janeece. But she's six-feet-plus with Georgia mule in her veins and wouldn't take no for an answer.

“Dammit, it's your wedding, Leigh. Whether it's your first or fifth, you should at least get gussied up for it. Now, come on.”

I had eventually settled on an unfussy ecru suit with a mandarin collar and straight skirt, the only decorative elements a bit of embroidery around the sleeves and the bottom of the jacket. It didn't help that I looked fantastic in it. Still, I could use it again on dressy occasions, the only thing that salved my conscience and wallet, along with the fact that it was on sale. And I'd insisted on paying for it myself, since Nunna, a retiree and recently married herself, really couldn't afford it.

I'd left it for minor alterations, shortening the sleeves a bit and lengthening the hem in the back since my ample rear end tended to hike it up back there.

I'd squeezed the receipt into my wallet, but I remembered taking it out at Duck's and sitting at his desk a couple of weeks before to tally up how much I'd spent on Christmas and the wedding to that point. I could swear I had put it back but honestly couldn't remember doing it or seeing it since. Still, I might not need it. I had enough ID to prove who I was, and the credit card I'd used.

I parked in the lot behind the shop, hauled myself out of the car with every bit as much trouble as I'd anticipated, set the fancy alarms, and hurried inside, bells tinkling “Here Comes the Bride” announcing my entry. Flocked satin lined the walls and covered the lounge chairs, and bouquets of lilies of the valley and baby's breath draped the doors, windows, and mirrors. A white baby grand, complete with candelabra, was parked in a corner. The only thing missing was Liberace.

The fitter, a tiny, ageless woman with the exotic features of the Orient and straight pins between her lips, stuck her head from between the curtains separating the fitting rooms and stock from the front. She gestured for me to wait, and a few seconds later a statuesque blond flirting with middle age swept into the room, a plastic smile in place. “Yes? I'm Monica. How may I help you?”

“I'm Leigh Warren. I left a suit for alterations,” I said. “I'm a couple of days late; I was supposed to pick it up on Monday but had to postpone coming in that day.”

She nodded. “I remember the call. Is there a problem with it?”

“With what?”

“The fit. If there is, we'll do what we can, of course, but you really should have tried it on before taking it.”

A chill slithered down my back. “Don't tell me. It's gone? Someone picked it up?”

Something filtered into her eyes, a certain wariness. “Yes, on . . . Just a minute.” She strode away, disappeared into the corridor to the fitting rooms, and returned almost immediately, a pink fabric-covered file box in her hands. The Asian lady stuck her head out of the curtain, watching.

“Here we are,” Monica said, her relief palpable as she removed a card from the box. “Picked up early yesterday. ‘Customer declined final fitting.' Is something wrong? I'm a little at a loss here.”

“Join the club,” I said, the chill replaced by white-hot lava. “I'm at a loss of three hundred twenty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents and the suit I'm supposed to wear at my wedding. A woman claiming to be me has been making my life hell, and she's obviously done it again. She picked up the suit, not me. Just damn it!”

“I told her!” The fitter burst through the curtains. “I told Catherine something wasn't right. I may not recognize a face every time, but I remember busts and waists and hips, and the woman who came for the ecru was the wrong shape.”

Monica paled, but stood her ground. “I'm so sorry. We've never had anything happen like this before. But Catherine would have had no reason to doubt this other person. She had a receipt.”

Which she'd swiped from Duck's desk in the living room. My suit was gone, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I turned, and my legs gave out. Rather than winding up on the floor, I plopped down on one of the brocade love seats. I had to think.

Monica and the fitter watched me anxiously. After a moment, I decided to fall back on the tried-and-true and dug out my notepad.

“Anna, isn't it?” I asked, belatedly remembering the fitter's name. “Describe her for me, please. You may be able to give me details the average person couldn't.”

She fingered the scissors hanging from a cord of the belt of her trim black dress. “Taller than you are, short-waisted, probably a thirteen, and broader through the hips. Her skin was a different color, a bit lighter. But, Monica . . .” She turned, glancing back at the taller woman. “We can do better than describe her.”

It took the clerk a moment to catch her drift, her confusion contributing a frown and crow's-feet that hadn't been visible before.

“Oh! Of course! Do you have a few minutes, Ms. Warren?”

“However long you need.” I wasn't sure what was what, but they clearly had something up their respective sleeves, and I was in no shape to go anywhere.

They retired to the inner sanctum again, Anna practically running to keep up with Monica. I used the time to pull myself together and jot down the fitter's unorthodox description to compare with Mrs. Luby's and Dolly's at the travel agency, my next stop. I was debating where to go after Graystone's when my cell phone burped. To my surprise, it was Eddie Grimes.

“You ratted on me,” he said, without preamble.

“I had to. Did Duck tell you what's been happening? She's stolen my wedding outfit, Eddie,” I blurted, unable to contain my anger any longer, “marched in the Bridal Bower and out with my damned suit. She had the receipt, and the only place she could have gotten it was from Duck's apartment.”

“Jesus! This broad's a real con artist. Listen, let me talk to the guys who told me about the Silver Shaker look-alike, see if there's anything they know that might help. It may not have been the same woman at all, but it couldn't hurt to ask. They're supposed to be trained observers, right? Hold on a minute, can you?” The line went blank. Damn all hold buttons.

I'd been waiting for a decade before Monica and Anna swept through the curtains to the fitting rooms, their smiles reminding me of well-fed cats. Anna planted herself in front of me and handed me a business-sized envelope, the baby's breath insignia of the shop embossed on its corner. “For you. Maybe it'll help make up for . . . the mix-up.”

Inside the envelope were two underexposed photographs, one of a woman entering the store, the second of her at the circular counter in the center of the floor, the face in profile.

I looked up in search of a camera and wasn't surprised at not having noticed it. Above the curtained door in the center of one of the flocked blossoms of the wallpaper, a tiny red light blinked. There were, in fact, several of them, one near each corner. They looked like jewels, part of the decor.

“Very clever,” I said.

“You'd be surprised,” Monica said, one brow arched, “how often someone tries to pull a switch on us by changing a price tag or walking out with a veil under their skirt. Will the photos help? We enlarged them as much as we could. You're lucky you came in so soon or it would have been recorded over.”

I had wanted to wait until I was outside to take a good look at the woman I was coming to hate with a searing passion, but realized that would cheat these two out of what little reward they would get for their efforts. Crossing to the counter, I placed the photos side by side. And wondered what was wrong with people's eyes. As far as I was concerned, she looked nothing like me at all.

“Thank you so much.” I extended a hand to them both. “This will help enormously.”

“Hey!” Eddie's yell from the love seat reminded me that I'd been on hold. I sprinted for the phone.

“Hey. Sorry. Are we done?” I asked.

“Yeah, for now. I wanted to check to see if any of those guys were working this shift and where. Got lucky; two of them are. They're on their way in from court, so maybe I'll have something to tell you before the day's over.”