Larceny and Lace (10 page)

“"Sure. Can we rent your ballroom?”"

“"Of course. Call me superwoman. I can get it done. Have you already advertised the ball?”"

“"Yes, so we have to do a big media splash and fast to tell everyone that we’'re having it at Vintage Magic now, instead, as part of your grand opening.”" I shot to my feet. “"My grand opening. However the downstairs looks, I’'ll actually have one because of you.”" I hugged her. “"You’'re a godsend.”"

“"A Goddess-send. And don’'t celebrate too soon. You have a lot of work to do.”"

“"Starting with returning my rental and buying a new car, and in between, I have to set up shop and clear Tunney’'s name. Two murders in such a short time. What is this world coming to?”"

“"Two?”" she asked.

“"Sure. Sampson and the bones.”"

“"The bones, of course,”" Aunt Fiona said. “"A young woman, according to Detective Werner.”"

“"I don’'t know enough about her yet to talk about it, even to you, Aunt Fiona”"—-except
maybe
her name, I thought—--“"but I intend to start looking.”"

“"You know that you can talk it through with me when you get some vibes, right?”" I found myself pacing again. “"I have to find the last person who saw Tunney at the market last night and anybody who might have seen him run over to the playhouse. Obviously the time each event occurred is key—--Sampson’'s death, the fire, and my burglary. What time does Tunney close on Fridays?”"

“"Around the time the fire started.”"

Eighteen
I design to hit people at a gut level; to capture the soul and raw beauty of people and nature.

—--LINDA LOUDERMILK

“"Can you stand it?”" I asked Werner as we stood in the parking lot of Vintage Magic.

“"Twelve days before my grand opening and there’'s yellow crime scene tape across my front door? And look, more donation boxes from our neighbors.”"

“"Our neighbors are well-intentioned,”" Werner said. “"And the crime scene crew will be out of here before the day is over.”"

“"The day nearly is over. I slept through most of it. Hey, aren’'t you tired?”"

“"I got a few hours,”" he said. “"Not as many as you—--”"

“"I’'ll stop whining. I’'m being selfish. Look at our beautiful old playhouse. What a loss to the community and its historic profile.”"

Werner and I crossed my parking lot to take a closer look.

Sampson’'s building smoldered still, half a wall standing, firefighters sifting through the rubble.

Councilman McDowell, the publicity hound, was giving a TV news interview, using the grisly scene as a backdrop.

“"He’'d hang around at the dump,”" I muttered, “"if a reporter and camera crew were due to show up. Leave it to him to cash in on a tragedy. Was the fire set?”" Werner jiggled the change in his pocket. “"We found ac celerant on the curtains the first time, and on the bones the second time.”"

My stomach lurched again. Why did I believe the bones belonged to Isobel? I didn’'t know any Isobel. “"What about Tunney?”"

“"Prime suspect. I questioned him last night and let him go, so no arrest. Yet.”"

“"Thank you.”"

“"Don’'t. I do my job, whatever it calls for.”"

I nodded. “"Have you seen any sign of Vinney Carnevale since all this happened?”"

“"We’'re checking trains, buses, planes.”"

“"This is the first time you’'ve answered my questions about a case without biting my head off.”"

“"Let’'s call it a trade for your hypothetical scenario.”"

“"What scenario did I hypothesize?”"

“"In a roundabout way, you said that the first fire might have been set as a diversion to get you out of your building so someone could get into your storage room.”"

“"If I said that, I didn’'t hear myself.”"

He shrugged. “"Good detective work, Ms. Cutler.”"

Ms. Cutler. “"About last night—--”"

“"Never happened,”" he said. “"I’'m a gentleman, believe it or not, and gentlemen don’'t tell.”"

I certainly wished he’'d tell
me
, so I’'d know what did happen, precisely. “"I appreciate that, Lytton. Your questions back at the house, did I answer them to your satisfaction? If you want more answers, ask away.”"

“"I might be back for more.”"

Whoa. Was that a double entendre on his part? Or wishful thinking on mine?

Neither. Definitely. “"I’'m a phone call away.”"

“"Have a good day.”" He left with a wave and didn’'t look back.

“"Have a good day yourself, Detective.”" I watched him go, freaked out because I remembered the sound of his heartbeat accelerating beneath my ear, and relieved because we were back to formality, if not impolite indifference.

While I waited for Eve, I opened some new boxes of clothing at my door, being careful not to touch any, especially after last night. To my surprise, I found that a set of pristine double-wide, white file boxes held a vintage treasure trove. Designer clothes, half of them couture, mostly from the seventies to mid-eighties, though a few might be older. Who in the world could have left me such treasures? Who around here could have afforded to buy them new or vintage?

I’'d
wear most of them, especially the buff-colored suede fringed wrap skirt, and the white-and-beige, leather horizontal-banded three-quarter coat. I moved corners aside with box covers. I adored the ivory beaded silk faille floor-length cape, reversible to black sequined faille. Evening wear at its finest. I resisted the urge to hold it up to search for a label because I didn’'t want it dragging in the parking lot or taking me back in time. A poodle skirt topped one box, an aqua silk beaded cocktail dress with a petaled skirt, another. I found a beige shift dress that I believe went with the leather dress coat. My favorite was a Cardin burgundy minidress with a pocket high on the chest, which I just might keep for myself.

“"Hello,”" a woman called from across the street as she ran my way. “"I’'m Fiona’'s next in charge for the Halloween Ball,”" she said, out of breath as she reached me. “"Are you Maddie Cutler?”"

She had the most beautiful head of long red curls I’'d ever seen. “"I am, yes.”"

“"Thank you so much for letting us hold our ball here. Oh, I’'m Virginia Statler, and I need a costume today, because I’'m on my way out of town first thing in the morning, and I won’'t be back before Halloween.”"

“"Oh, but my stock isn’'t here yet.”"

“"What about this stuff?”" She started rifling through the white boxes and opened the last two.

I was a little taken aback. I didn’'t even know what to charge for these things. Normally, I’'d research them before putting them out for sale.

“"Oh, this is it,”" she said. “"I’'ll be the heroine, whoever she is, from
Flower DrumSong
. I’'m sure I can find a Japanese fan to go with it.”" She held up a rare Japanese wedding kimono. Uber valuable. In Japan, it would cost at least five thousand dollars new. I’'d priced them when my old boss Faline held a fashion show there.

“"I have at least two if not three Japanese fans in my vintage stock in storage,”" I said, “"but as for the kimono, I’'d have to look it over for flaws, but it’'s worth at
least
three thousand.”"

The woman didn’'t blink. “"I’'ve always wanted one. I know that’'s a fair price for vintage, even if it costs more, unless it has a cigarette hole in it or something. I’'ve wanted one for years to mount in Plexiglas on the wall in my living room, which I’'ll do with this one, after the ball. Do you want a deposit so you can hold it for me?”" She took out her checkbook. “"Will five hundred dollars do?”"

Who knew that I’'d find vintage collectors with money to burn right here in Mystic?

Normally, I wouldn’'t take a check from a stranger if I couldn’'t immediately verify it with her bank, but if I was keeping it for her, I’'d have time to do that. She handed me the check, and before I knew what she was doing, she tried on the kimono, right there in the parking lot. I squeaked and ran behind her to grab the fabric and keep it from trailing in the leafy lot. Virginia talked non-stop the whole time, as if a parking lot sale were normal for something this pricey.

In a dizzying blink, I saw a young man in a white tux walking into a country club. “"I certainly hope this is worth the expense,”" he said to his companion, a young man similarly dressed.

“"Think of it as an investment, old boy,”" his friend said with an English accent.

“"She’'s worth a bloody fortune, and she’'s gorgeous besides. You’'ll have everything you ever wanted, and it’'ll hardly be a sacrifice to put your shoes under
her
bed.”"
She
, it turned out, was wearing the kimono with a Japanese wig, and she was having a conversation with Marie Antoinette and Cleopatra.

A moneyed costume ball, no doubt about it.

When I dizzied my way back to the present, I was carrying Virginia Statler’'s “"train”" as she walked around my parking lot, still talking about the Circle of Spirit and her friendship with Fiona. No, she hadn’'t seen me zone. I’'d evidently been sleepwalking while keeping up with her. Good thing she was one of those women who didn’'t need a second person to take part in her conversation.

In the vision, I’'d seen a man who appeared to be looking to marry for money. Why else would his presence there be considered an investment? But I knew better than to jump to conclusions. Whatever happened to the “"investor”" and the woman in the kimono, I might never know.

One thing I’'d learned from Aunt Fiona, who understood these things as only a witch and an empath could, was that I usually got these visions from particular vintage clothing items when the universe wanted them known. “"Usually”" being a relative term, because the one time I’'d read vintage clothing in the past, the items involved a murder. On this particular day—--after one murder took place and one was discovered—--my

question to the universe would be: which murder do my recent visions involve? Sampson’'s or the bones? Or were they leading me elsewhere?

I couldn’'t see Isobel or the kimono having anything to do with Sampson’'s death. Unless Sampson had been the money grubber investor at the expensive costume party, and the woman in the kimono killed him and set the fire? Random thought. Wild conjecture. Someone besides Vinney setting the fire? Gut wise, I didn’'t think so. Virginia took off the kimono, folded it, and tried to hand it to me. “"Can you just set it back in the box?”" I asked, afraid to touch it again for fear I’'d “"see”" something more.

“"Too bad about the playhouse and poor Tunney,”" Virginia said, closing her Chanel purse, “"but he certainly had motive.”"

“"He did?”" I asked. “"What kind of motive?”"

“"I don’'t subscribe to gossip,”" she said as she left. “"Have a good day.”"
Nineteen
Everything in your closet should have an expiration date on it the way milk and bread and magazines do.

-ANDY WARHOL

Well, damn, Aunt Fiona’'s chatty friend subscribed to just enough gossip to whet the appetite. I only hoped that Virginia Statler didn’'t know any more than the Sweets did. As for Tunney’'s motive, maybe I should ask Tunney and Suzanne Sampson about that. Separately, of course.

Turning back to the kimono, I realized something about the woman who probably once owned the clothes in the pristine white file boxes—--matching boxes giving the impression they came from the same person. The original owner liked vintage, yet followed fashion trends, and she could afford to do both with panache.

As I put covers back on boxes I noticed that Virginia hadn’'t put the kimono in its original box, giving me the opportunity to see what other clothes had been packed beneath it. What I saw made my fashionista’'s heart skip. A cape to die for—--capes being my weakness. Beneath it, I could also see a slim black sheath dress to match. Without thinking, I threw the cape over my shoulders and fastened buttons, hidden beneath a slimming black placket. In rust linen with black piping along each vertical seam from neck to hem, I adored the padded shoulders, a la Yves Saint Laurent. The cape had no collar and its zippered pockets were aligned with and hidden in its side seams. I loved the outfit so much I might keep it for myself. I was wishing I had a mirror when dizziness overtook me, and I barely had time to acknowledge my rash action before I was forced to sit on one of the boxes as my world darkened to match my unfamiliar surroundings.

A man in a pricey gray pinstripe suit slipped a legal-sized set of old green-and-brown ledger books into a home safe.

“"What are you doing?”" a woman asked from behind him. At the sound of her voice, his body went rigid. His jaw stiffened, and the tic in his cheek became pronounced.

Belligerence transformed his movements from furtive to contentious. “"I’'m doing my job,”" he said, his voice as familiar as a newscaster or a weatherman. “"Short service today?”" he asked.

“"I think Father had a golf game.”"

“"Your father or the priest?”"

“"Both.”"

The couple spoke with polite indifference, or dislike, either because of a quarrel or out of habit.

Mr. Incongeniality slammed the safe door, twisted the dial with a nervous move, and let a painting slip into place, possibly a Monet, though it could be in that style by a lesserknown artist. A good one.

“"I wish you would trust me,”" he said.

“"I might say the same. Why do you bring the books home, slave over them when you have a bookkeeper to do that, and lock them away from me? Or are they a second set of books that no one else knows about? The
real
story?”"

“"Nice talk.”"

They stood in a room paneled in dark walnut. An old-fashioned male-only study with an antique Tiffany lamp in greens and golds.

From a round, gaudy-legged marble-topped table, he took an etched, square decanter from its brass carrier and poured himself a snifter of brandy.

“"Isn’'t it a bit early for that?”" she sniped.

Still keeping his back to her, he shrugged. “"Whatever it takes.”"

“"To drown out my voice?”"

“"Those are
your
words.”" He hadn’'t once looked at her. The glass-fronted bookshelves lining the room revealed pricey leather-bound books. I couldn’'t read titles but I suspected vintage from their muted colors and gold leaf. Autographed pictures of men shaking hands dotted the walls between, and there was no mistaking the White House in the background on at least one.