THE HOUSE THAT VANITY BUILT

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  Wilson hollered from the car. “What are you doing?”

  “You have to ask?” I waved my hankie in his direction and teased the bottom of my skirt. It fluttered just so, and I twisted my ankle coquettishly.

  Wilson put his hand to his head. “Don’t tell me. Claudette Colbert. It Happened One Night. “

  I grinned.

  I may have been fifty years older than Claudette Colbert, who played Ellie Andrews, a young, spoiled heiress in the movie with Clark Gable, and was well known for the classic scene where they had broken down on the side of the road and appeared to be stuck. It was Ellie who came to their rescue and managed to flag down a passing motorist, hiking her skirt and causing the driver to come to a skidded stop. Despite the fact my ankles weren’t up to Colbert’s, I could be just as sassy, and when it came to men and cars, I was one up on her. Age has its advantage; wisdom is seldom wasted on the young.

  “You really think he’s going to stop for you?”

  “Sit back and watch. You might be surprised.”

  Moments later, Matthew appeared from the building. I recognized him from Jared’s memorial. Unlike his handsome cousin, Matthew Conroy was geeky-looking with thick black glasses and a mop of unruly dark hair he had pulled back into a man-bun in an attempt to look hip. His brand new Bentley convertible, similar to the doctor’s, was parked in an area reserved exclusively for the company’s new VP.

  I waited for him to get into the car and steer toward the lot’s exit, then stepped out into the street, raised my hand, and waved the hankie in a very desperate manner.

  Just as I had predicted, Matthew was easy pickings. If not for the well-being of a little old lady standing alone on the side of a busy street, then because Wilson’s vintage Jaguar at my side had caught his eye.

  Matthew pulled slowly up beside me, gave me a quick once over, then looked closely at the car’s classic lines.

  “Please, sir, could you help me?” I hobbled forward, put my hand on the Bentley’s door frame, and with my shoulders slumped and mouth half-open, mustered my most woeful look. “I’m afraid I’m stuck.”

  I gestured helplessly toward the Jag.

  Matthew made a quick evaluation, and with a jut of his chin, told me to step back, and pulled the Bentley up in front of the Jag.

  I sensed he thought the Jag and I were an impossible match. What was a doddering old fool like me driving around in such a cool car in the middle of rush hour traffic?

  “This your car?”

  “It was my late husband’s. I thought I’d take it out for a spin and do a little shopping. Lady’s got to have her moisturizer, you know.” I pointed to the building that housed Conroy’s huge showroom full of cosmetics and merchandise on the ground floor. “When I came back out, I couldn’t find my keys.”

  Matthew glanced back at the Jag. Despite his impatience to move on, the Jag was worth his time.

  “Nice car.” Matthew walked around the Jag and ran the tips of his fingers along the car’s sleek frame, then stopped and with his hands against the blackened driver’s window, tried to peer inside.

  I held my breath. Under the best of circumstances, Wilson was unpredictable, but I knew putting up with someone manhandling his precious Jag would be problematic. If Matthew were to kick the tires or try to spit-shine some nonexistent water spot on the hood, I feared Wilson would lose it. I didn’t dare risk an altercation.

  I looked down at my feet and kicked the keys.

  “Oh, for goodness sakes,” I said. “I must have dropped them.”

  Matthew looked down at my feet, then bent down and picked up the keys.

  “Well, then, here you go.” He dropped them into my hand and just as quickly turned to leave.

  I grabbed his arm. I wasn’t about to let him go.

  “Please, sir, let me thank you.”

  Matthew must have thought I meant to give him money, and took my hand and tried to pull away.

  “There’s no need,” he said. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “But you stopped.” I squeezed his arm tighter. “I left my cell phone in the car, and with no one at home to call anymore, I might have been here hours had you not come along and been so kind. Please let me pay you.”

  “Nonsense. It’s fine, really.” Matthew tried again to remove my hand from his arm, but I held tight.

  “No, I insist. I can see you don’t need money,” I nodded to the Bentley, “but I’m a psychic. The least I can do is offer you a reading.”

  “A fortune-teller?” Matthew chuckled.

  “I prefer to think of myself as an intuitive, but if fortune-teller makes you happy, so be it. Please.” I pulled him closer, my eyes searching his to see if by some small chance he might have recognized me from Jared’s memorial. Seeing none, I continued. “The universe seldom makes mistakes. I feel as though we were destined to meet, and that I might have something important to tell you.”

  Matthew relaxed his shoulders. “Okay, but it can’t take long. I’m in a hurry.”

  I continued to hold his arm. I dared not let go. Psychics can only read those willing, and since Matthew had consented, I wanted to accelerate that read as quickly as possible before he suddenly changed his mind.

  “You’ve recently experienced some big changes in your life.” I glanced back at the Bentley.

  Matthew smiled. “Dealer plates give that away, did they?”

  “Ahh, but it’s more than that. A new job, I think. Something you’ve been groomed for. But it’s come at a cost.” I closed my eyes and bowed my head, my hand gripping tighter to his wrist. “An unexpected loss. A death of someone you were frequently compared to, and with whom you have or had a complicated relationship.” I felt a tightening in Matthew’s arm. “In fact, I feel as though the police think his death may have been more an act of foul play than an accident, and that has people close to you are perhaps suspect.”

  Matthew shook my hand from his wrist and stepped back. “Who are you?”

  “I told you, I’m a psychic.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re a cop or a private investigator, or maybe even a reporter. Whoever you are, I don’t want to talk to you.” Matthew jerked his arm away from me. “If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to talk to my attorney.”

  Matthew stomped back to his car and slammed the door.

  I got back in the Jag and watched as the Bentley peeled away.

  Wilson cocked his head. “Pretty good there, Old Gal. Maybe not quite Colbert, but not bad. Did you get what you were looking for?”

  “Not enough, but I did hit a nerve. He knows Jared’s death was no accident. Either he killed Jared or knows who did. Either way, he’s riddled with guilt.”

  “What’s next?” Wilson put the key into the ignition. “We go to the police?”

  “Not yet. We have no physical proof, and I can’t count on Lupe to back me up with the story about Matthew being in Jared’s bedroom the night of his bachelor party. If the police questioned her, she’d fold. She’s not going to say anything against the doctor’s nephew or the doctor for that matter. But I do have another idea, one that may work even better.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your sister.”

  Chapter 22

  “My sister!” Wilson nearly drove off the road.

  He wasn’t at all happy that I wanted to call Denise and invite her to come by the house. But when I explained the purpose of my request was because of him, and the small bottle of cologne he had smuggled home as a souvenir from the Conroy Estate, he hushed up.

  A little guilt can go a long way when working with a shade.

  “You think the cologne is related to the case?” Wilson asked.

  “More than that. I think, in addition to Matthew planting the EpiPen in Jared’s dresser, that he switched out bottles of cologne and replaced it with a much more potent
variety. One with actual bee venom in it, and if I’m right, Denise may be able to help me prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Denise spritzed herself with the cologne when she was at the house.”

  “So? I did, too.”

  “Yes, but you’re dead—your sister’s not.”

  “Need you remind me?”

  “I’m simply saying that you are not your sister. If I’m right, the allergic reaction she had later that night that prevented her from wearing her flouncy, pink party dress to Jared’s memorial was less a result of the chrysanthemums she’d dropped off with me or anything she had eaten that night, but because of the cologne she sampled at my house.”

  “You think she’s allergic?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Fine. Call her if you must, but in my opinion, you should get her to spritz herself again with the cologne, just in case. After all, we do need positive proof.”

  I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t about to be a party to Wilson’s sibling foolishness. I had no intention of doing anything to cause Denise any discomfort. My hope was that she had gotten the test results back from her allergist and would know if she was allergic to bee venom. If she were, it would be enough for me to suggest to Detective Romero that he test the contents of the bottle for the presence of bee venom, and the bottle itself for Matthew’s fingerprints and perhaps those of his mother. If both tested positive, I believed we were one step closer to catching a killer.

  Denise was waiting on my doorstep when Wilson and I arrived home. Dressed in a short summer frock and boots, despite the summer heat, she stood impatiently, tapping her foot. I sensed with the news of Billy’s arrest she had second-guessed the purpose of my call and couldn’t wait to learn what I knew. Patience, unfortunately, had never been one of Denise’s better qualities.

  “Tell me this concerns Jared Conroy,” she said. “I haven’t been able to think of anything else ever since I heard the news about an arrest. Cesar didn’t think it was possible, but you were right, Misty. Someone murdered that boy. Do you think it’s the beekeeper?”

  “No.” I opened the front door and pointed to the couch in the living room. “But I do think you may be able to help.”

  “Me?” Denise fisted her hands in excitement as she entered. She was delighted to be included in my investigation. Wilson slipped in behind her and mockingly mirrored her hand fisting about his head.

  “Yes,” I said. “You.”

  With Denise settled on the couch, I picked up the bottle of Naked Nectar, Conroy’s Bee-Natural Cologne for men that Wilson had left on the coffee table.

  “I have a question for you concerning this bottle.” I pointed at the label. “I know it says it’s venom free, safe for those allergic to bees, but I think it may have been mislabeled and that you may have reason to know that.”

  “You think?” Denise took the bottle from my hand and stared at the label. “If I had a penny for every bump and scratch this stuff gave me, I’d be rich. Of course, it’s mislabeled.”

  “You’re convinced?”

  “I should be. After all the tests I’ve been through.” Denise held out her arm and pointed to a light rash on the inside of her elbows. “Turns out I’m not allergic to the chrysanthemums I gave you or the shellfish Cesar and I had for dinner that night. I’m allergic to bee venom. It’s the only thing, other than ragweed, the allergist found I tested positive for.”

  I took the bottle back from Denise. I didn’t need another set of fingerprints to smudge the ones I hoped were there.

  “Wait a minute, are you asking because you think the cologne’s related to the case?” Denise’s mouth dropped.

  “I do now. This bottle was on Jared’s dresser the day I picked up his suit for the memorial. I’ve reason to believe it’s the same bottle Jared used the night he died.”

  “Wow!” Denise leaned back on the couch. “You think whatever’s in this bottle triggered the allergic reaction that killed Jared Conroy?”

  “Partly,” I said. “But not entirely. Even though the bottle is labeled venom free, I believe there’s enough bee venom inside to have caused a reaction, but not instantaneously. Perhaps because it’s topical, it caused more of a delayed reaction. Which, in my opinion, may explain why both you and Jared didn’t react right away.”

  “Have you talked with Cesar about this?” Denise asked.

  “Not yet. I needed proof, and as I suspected, your lab results, along with the remains of that nasty rash on your arms, is exactly what I needed to convince the detective.”

  Wilson walked out from behind the couch. “You’re certain she shouldn’t try it one more time? Might be more convincing if the rash were fresh.”

  I cleared the air with my hand above my head, a signal to Wilson to stifle, then turned my attention back to Denise. “How about we call Detective Romero?”

  Romero didn’t just return my call, he showed up within the hour with Detectives Smiley and Williams. Common sense told me it didn’t take three detectives to pick up a bottle of cologne that may or may not prove to be evidence in an open investigation. Rather, I sensed, since Jared’s death had been officially ruled a homicide and Romero had credited me with suspecting something was wrong from the start, that both Williams and Smiley had a renewed interest in me and hadn’t just come along for the ride.

  Denise was first to the door and greeted Romero with a welcome kiss on the cheek and a polite handshake for the detectives.

  I followed two steps behind and invited them in as far as the entry.

  Noting their curiosity about the house, and sensing neither had ever visited a real psychic before, I pointed out the obvious. The old grandfather clock from a Broadway production of Arsenic and Old Lace. The living room set from Sunset Boulevard. The candlesticks on the dining table from The Addams Family TV series. Then went on to explain that the home’s original owner was Denise’s brother, none other than the award-winning set designer, Wilson Thorne.

  “If you expected globes and tarot cards, you won’t find any. However, if you like, I have candles in the closet, but I really don’t need them.”

  Romero cocked his head in the direction of the two detectives with an I-told-you-so expression on his face. “Nobody asked, Misty.”

  “No, but Williams here is wondering. I can tell.” I pointed at the young detective. With what he had told me about his mother’s experience, he may not have been a believer, but I could feel his wandering eyes, probing the bookshelves and the narrow cranny beneath the stairs where Bossypants liked to hide.

  “She’s right, Williams, you can look all you want, but you won’t find any of that stuff here. Teapot, maybe, but that’s about it.” Romero stepped into the living room and spotted the cologne bottle on the coffee table. “This it?”

  “Yes, and if you have your people test it for prints, I believe, in addition to Jared’s prints, you’ll find those of Matthew Conroy and maybe his mother’s.” I wiped my hands on my skirt. I wasn’t worried about Wilson’s prints because shades, like ghosts, didn’t leave prints. My own and Denise’s were easy enough to explain.

  I walked over to the table and was about to pick up the bottle and hand it to Romero when Williams stepped in front of me.

  “I’m sorry, but you don’t really think we can use that? Not after you’ve removed it from a crime scene and you, and who knows who else, has handled it?”

  I didn’t care for Williams’ authoritative tone.

  “Of course you can use it. I found it. It’s evidence. Why else would I have called Detective Romero? If you don’t want to test it for prints, fine. Test the contents. The bottle may be marked venom free, but I believe if your forensics experts test it, they’ll find it contains a high concentrate of bee venom. Possibly higher than that in other Conroy products.”

  Smiley put his hand on my shoulder. I sensed a sympathetic ally, but
still a loyalist to the department.

  “What Detective Williams is trying to tell you is that you finding the bottle and having it here like it is now, well...it’s not good. There’s no chain of custody. No documentation recording where this came from, who found it, or when.”

  Wilson threw up his hands and walked back to the study. “Don’t blame me. If I hadn’t picked up the bottle and brought it back, Denise never would have tested it, and you would never have known it was laced with bee venom in the first place.”

  “Don’t be so sure of yourself,” I said.

  “Excuse me?” Williams looked around the room uneasily. “Are you talking to Detective Romero?”

  I glared at Wilson. If he had only left Jared’s cologne on the dresser, the police wouldn’t be talking to me like a child who had been caught shoplifting.

  “More to myself,” I said.

  “You do that often?” Williams glanced back at Romero.

  “Only as often as I need to,” I said.

  “Well, for now,” Williams said, “I need you to focus. You mind telling me how it is you came to have this bottle?”

  “Not at all. I took it from the guest house at the Conroy estate where Jared was living, right after your detectives completed their investigation.”

  “And exactly why did you go up to the Conroy Estate?” Williams glanced smugly at Romero.

  “Because my client, Amy, asked me to. After she learned her fiancé had died, she was concerned the doctor wasn’t thinking straight. According to her, he was acting irrationally and lashing out at people. She was afraid the police might think she was involved. I wanted to assure her she had nothing to worry about.”

  “And did you?” Williams asked. “Assure her?”

  “Not quite. When I visited the estate, I could feel the presence of evil in the house. And that feeling got stronger when I went from the main house to the guest house, where Jared had lived. Whatever happened to Jared started there—in the guest house—and I felt the need to investigate.”