The Charlatan Murders

by Jennifer Berg

  “Were you ever romantically involved with him?”

  “I just told you that I didn’t know him especially well.”

  Riggs frowned. “Do you think Paul is the sort of man who could murder someone, if he was desperate enough?”

  Victoria smiled and seemed to relax. “No. I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

  “But you just said you don’t know him well,” Riggs reminded her. “Are you sure you and Paul Abbott weren’t having an affair?”

  Victoria’s jaw tightened. She smirked but her tone was pleasant.

  “Inspector, Paul is an attractive man and he has his charms, but he also has faults. Some women don’t mind those kinds of faults. But as far as I am concerned, they’re deal breakers. But I still don’t believe that Paul Abbott has the temperament to willfully hurt anyone.”

  Michael Riggs smoothed his mustache. If Victoria Bell was the murderer, she would have covered her tracks. Chances were, he’d never be able to prove it and his only chance to prove himself as a decent inspector were already shot. But if Victoria was innocent, she could be the key to helping him solve the case. Victoria had inside knowledge. She had sway with Walter. And the chief didn’t care how the cases were solved, as long as they were solved.

  Riggs glanced up and saw both Fisher and Victoria waiting.

  But if she were the murderer, she might relax and become overly confident. And if she got careless, she might just let something slip and give herself away.

  Fat chance.

  But enlisting a suspect in a murder investigation wasn’t just ludicrous, it was downright dangerous. The chief would fire Riggs in a heartbeat if he even suggested it.

  Riggs took his pipe out of his pocket. He turned it over in his hands, watching how the rectangle windows behind him reflected as wavy distorted shapes on the polished cherry wood. He didn’t like to take chances. It made him uncomfortable. But the real Sergeant Inspector Riggs had always said: Never gamble if you can help it, but if you have to gamble, bet on the fastest horse.

  Sergeant Inspector Michael Riggs slipped the pipe back into his pocket. He instructed Inspector Fisher to get an update from the doctor. The young investigator hesitated, but a stern look got rid of him.

  When the door was closed, Riggs said, “Look, Bell, this is a tricky case.”

  “I know you’ve got a handful of good suspects.” Victoria smiled. “Including me.”

  “Especially you,” Riggs corrected her.

  Bell leaned forward. “This is stressful on the Abbotts. It’s hard on Walter. But whatever you think of Paul — he didn’t murder Miss Sinclair. Now, I want to help you find the right person, and quite frankly, I think you need me.”

  “Are you sure you really want to find the murderer?”

  Victoria nodded.

  “It could be your husband.”

  “I’m willing to take that chance.”

  Riggs leaned forward so his elbows were resting on his desk. “What was the file that your husband left with his mother; the one that was stolen from her office on the night of her murder?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out. Walter, well… He might listen to me.” Victoria glanced at her watch. “I can talk to him this afternoon and I’ll let you know what he says.”

  Riggs leaned forward and, in a few sentences, he described the important points surrounding Camille Sinclair’s murder and the case against Paul. He omitted the murder weapon and the exact times, and he watched Bell’s face carefully. Victoria listened quietly. When he was finished, Riggs leaned back and said, “Now, since we’re working together, I want to know where you really were last weekend. Because we both know that you weren’t in New York when your mother-in-law was killed.”

  Victoria looked surprised, but before she could answer, a secretary stepped in and handed Riggs a message. It was addressed to him with the word “Urgent.” Riggs opened it up and read the neat handwriting:

  Inspector Riggs,

  I just heard the terrible news, and I thought I should let you know that I visited Miss Sinclair yesterday. I don’t believe I have any useful information, but if you’d like to talk to me, I’ll be at my shop all day. You can telephone me at Kenwood 8416.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Donna Holt.

  Riggs stood up and grabbed his hat. “Bell, I want you to tell me one thing, and you might as well be straight with me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you kill either of these women?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any proof that you’re innocent?”

  “No, but you don’t need proof that I am innocent. All you need is proof of who’s guilty.”

  Riggs put on his coat, frowned, and finally handed the note to Victoria. After she read it, Riggs said, “I want you to come with me to see Miss Holt. If still think you have murdered someone, but — ”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think,” Victoria said as she grabbed her handbag, “either way, you need me.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three: The Boutique of Modern Living

  Less than ten minutes later, Inspector Riggs and Victoria Bell stepped into the fashionable design shop on Highland Avenue. The brass doorbell jingled, and Donna came over to greet them.

  “Good morning, Miss Holt,” said Riggs. “I suppose you may already know Bell, I mean Miss Abb — , uh, Mrs. — ”

  “Yes, we met a couple days ago.” Donna smiled, holding out her hand. “Good morning, Victoria. Would it be okay if we just stepped over here?” she suggested, indicating a part of the showroom that was removed from the customers.

  They followed Donna to a work area with two large work tables. One was covered with stacks of decorating sketches, catalogs full of wallpapers and fabrics, yard sticks, colored pencils, and mail, while the other table was piled with beautiful bolts and swatches of fabrics in every color, pattern, and texture. The shelves around them were stacked with lampshades and vases, and boxes of buttons, sashes, tassels, and every other kind of decorating paraphernalia imaginable. Victoria glanced around the shop, trying to take it all in.

  “I assume you got my note?” Donna asked softly. “Miss Sinclair and I weren’t personal friends, but she was a regular client.” She rubbed her arms as if there was a breeze. “When Mrs. Abbott was murdered, that was bad enough but I suppose I was secretly hoping that it would turn out to have been an accident, or at least something impersonal. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  Victoria reached over to a bolt of yellow satin on the table. She rubbed it between her fingers before moving on to a bolt of sapphire tweed.

  “Miss Holt, what time did you see Miss Sinclair yesterday?” Riggs asked.

  “In the afternoon. Let me see, I’d had lunch on the waterfront with a client, Mrs. Prescott. She’s a very talkative woman. Since we met at noon, at the Elliott Bay Grill, on Pier 56, I think I must not have arrived at Miss Sinclair’s apartment until about 2 o’clock.”

  Riggs made a note. “And how long were you there?”

  “Not more than 20 or 25 minutes. Miss Sinclair wanted some new pillows for her living room, and she asked me to stop by so we could discuss it. She gave me samples of the sort of thing she was looking for and I said I’d pull up some fabric options and telephone her next week.”

  “So you were at the apartment from roughly two o’clock, until about 2:25, is that right?”

  Donna nodded, then she added apologetically, “I’m sorry I can’t be more exact about the times. I wasn’t paying close attention.”

  “Did you see anyone else while you were there?”

  Donna frowned. “No, Camille let me in herself. If there was anyone else there, I didn’t see them.”

  “And after you left her, did you come back here?”

  “No. She was my last appointment for the day, so I went shopping. I didn’t come back here until just before closing, and I only did that so I could drop off Miss Sinclair’s samples and make sure my new girl locked up properly. I’m very particular
about security.”

  Victoria turned away from the fabric so she could adjust the pencil in her hair.

  Riggs lowered his voice. “Do you keep a lot of cash here?”

  “Not anymore,” Donna explained. “I had a burglary last year. They broke the front lock and took twenty-four dollars out of my till. Luckily, I’d just taken five hundred dollars to the bank the day before. I don’t have a lot of savings and it would have ruined me if that had been stolen. And I’m lucky they didn’t damage any of my merchandise. I found the door broken when I arrived at seven in the morning. I reported it to the police, of course, and Mrs. Abbott. She had her locksmith out here by eight-fifteen. Before lunchtime, he had replaced the old lock with a huge solid one. He changed the back locks, too.”

  A young sales girl interrupted them to ask Donna for the price of a large green and white striped vase and a yellow pillow. When Donna returned, Riggs asked, “What did you and Miss Sinclair talk about yesterday?”

  Donna leaned against the work table. “She complained about the weather a little, saying that she thought it might be a hot summer again. She gave me the samples. She said she got them from a theater costume designer. Then she said something about Mrs. Abbott’s murder.”

  Riggs raised an eyebrow. “What did she say about it?”

  Donna hesitated. “She said, ‘Those damn policemen love to harass people. It’s a shame that Mrs. Abbott’s dead, but it has nothing to do with me.’”

  “Is that all?” Riggs asked.

  Donna shrugged. “After that we talked about throw pillows.”

  Riggs stopped to make a note. While he was writing Victoria asked, “Just out of curiosity, what sort of pillows did Miss Sinclair want?”

  Donna smiled and her speech quickened. “Oh, she wanted more color. You know how her living room is now, it’s all shades of white and cream with the cherry wood and accents of marble and stone. Thoroughly sophisticated.”

  “Actually, I haven’t seen the place for ages,” Victoria admitted. “The last time I was there was before Paul had even met Miss Sinclair.” The inspector glanced at her and Victoria added, “She wasn’t living there anyway.”

  “Ah, well, when she moved in, she had everything redecorated, top to bottom,” Donna said. “She wanted the room to evoke ‘A Rebirth of Ancient Greek Theater.’ And I brought in all new furniture and carpets. It’s very dramatic. The materials are more modern, but they have a classical feeling. She had a very clear vision of what she wanted.” As Donna explained, she assembled a collection of white fabric swatches to illustrate Camille’s decor. “It looks more or less like this.”

  “And yesterday, she wanted to discuss pillows?” Riggs said, rejoining the conversation.

  Donna pointed at the collection she’d just assembled. “Well, you see, Miss Sinclair decided that the living room looked too faded, even for its ancient theme. She said it felt more like ruins than a living breathing place. Her idea was to incorporate several bright, passionate hues that would bring it to life almost like a garden.” Donna added a rich fuchsia and a deep purple swatch to the mix. “She said the living room should feel like an ancient Athenian Theater in its heyday, basking in the sunlight and draped in vines and blossoming bougainvillea.’”

  Riggs raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

  Donna shrugged. “Miss Sinclair had a lot of vision. She collected fabrics from custom designers and magazine pictures, then she would add her own description of how she wanted it all to feel, and it was my job to make it happen.”

  “Do you have the samples that she gave you?” Victoria asked.

  “Of course.” Donna went to the back office for a moment. She came back with some swatches and handed them to Victoria. “Here are the ones she gave me yesterday.” The linen fabric was a deep fuchsia color with carnation pink stripes and the cotton tweed fabric was magenta with olive-green threads woven in.

  “I’m not a decorator,” Victoria ventured, “but aren’t these colors pretty bright for the rest of the apartment?”

  “Miss Sinclair said she wanted vibrant colors, but not necessarily these exact shades,” Donna explained. “I mean, she wanted pillows that were a little lighter and less saturated than those samples. All the white and cream in the apartment was starting to bore her. Her idea was bold, but I think it would have worked.”

  Victoria handed the fabrics to Riggs. “Did Miss Sinclair say anything about Paul Abbott when you saw her yesterday?”

  Donna considered for a moment trying to remember. “Not that I can remember. Oh, she mentioned that he doesn’t care for tassels.”

  Riggs looked up sharply. “What?”

  “Tassels,” Donna repeated and pointed to a tassel on a nearby table runner. “I’ve got a whole file on her tastes, if you’d like to see it. I keep track of each client’s style preferences. That way, I always have an instant reminder of her tastes and what we’ve done so far.”

  Donna walked over to the large cupboard in the back of the room and flipped through her customer folders. Victoria stared at a display of lamps on a nearby table. “Donna, this lamp over here, the white porcelain one…I think I’ve seen it before. Was it made in New York?”

  Riggs looked at the lamp.

  Donna turned to Victoria. “Oh, that lamp is very fashionable at the moment. The lines are so modern, like a rocket. But it’s not made in New York; it was imported from an Italian designer. I actually sold two of those lamps to Miss Sinclair.”

  Riggs had been watching both of the women carefully. When Donna handed him Camille’s file, he said, “Unfortunately, Miss Sinclair was murdered with one of those lamps.”

  Victoria stared at the lamp, and Donna turned white. She reached out and steadied herself against a work table, bumping some papers onto the floor.

  “I didn’t know. I hadn’t really thought about how— I mean, I didn’t — ” she stopped short, and rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. Then she looked at the folder in Riggs’ hands, cleared her throat, and began talking. “I doubt you’ll find anything in there to help, Inspector Riggs. But you’re welcome to take it with you.”

  Riggs glanced through the folder. It was a collection of elaborate fabrics, photographs — mostly from the theater, sketches, scenic postcards from the Mediterranean and plenty of invoices. Many had been signed by Paul, but several of the more expensive items, like the wall-to-wall carpeting, the sofa, and the hand-made Venetian ashtray, had been paid by Camille. Riggs closed the folder and tucked it under his arm.

  “Miss Sinclair’s styles are very bold and elegant,” Donna was saying in a shaky voice. “She liked rich fabrics and smooth contours, but nothing too cold or angular. Oh, this is a photo of the Greek God Dionysus. I had to find a brass statue of him for Miss Sinclair’s living room and that wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounds.”

  “Yes, I saw it on the table,” Riggs responded.

  Victoria began picking up the papers off the floor, but her mind was somewhere else. There was something in particular about that lamp, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She had a funny feeling that she’d seen that lamp somewhere before, but she couldn’t remember where.

  Riggs had closed Camille’s folder and reached for his hat before Donna realized that Victoria was cleaning up her scattered papers. She had already collected several catalogs in one hand and a pile of letters in the other.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Victoria. You don’t need to do that,” Donna exclaimed, stooping down to help.

  But Victoria was still lost in her own thoughts. She was so sure that she had seen that lamp somewhere, and very recently, too. She gathered a handful of papers. Most of the catalogs seemed to be from New York, and the mail was a mix of personal and business letters. Victoria’s gaze passed over the postmarks. New York. Italy. London. New York. New York. She was sure that she’d seen that exact lamp just the other day, but where? She had already told them she hadn’t been to Paul and Camille’s apartment since it was remodeled, so where had she seen t
his lamp? Maybe she had seen a lamp like that in New York during the conference; maybe it was in the hotel lobby. It was such an elegant lamp, smooth and shiny. So delicate. She gathered several letters addressed to a Mr. and Mrs. Wilton, and as she handed the whole pile to Donna, it wasn’t the New York postmark that stuck in her mind, it was the titles on the envelope: “Mr. and Mrs.”

  Victoria knew where she’d seen that lamp.

  “Donna, Marcus, and Julia Shrubb have that same lamp!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Lamp

  Donna nodded. “Yes, Julia originally bought it for her music room, but I noticed that it’s in the living room now. I suggested this one because it complements their tweed curtains. Mrs. Shrubbs’ style is very simple and understated, which is difficult to blend with their grand house. Mr. Shrubb likes everything to look elegant and luxurious. That lamp was the perfect compromise for them.”

  Donna laid the papers back on the table and added, “Mrs. Shrubb didn’t care for it at first because she thought it was too fragile, but once I showed her how solid it was, she fell in love with it. She even joked that I could label it as ‘son-proof,’ because a boy could knock it with a baseball, and it probably wouldn’t even break—” Donna stopped talking. She looked ill.

  Riggs cleared his throat. “I think I will take this file, Miss Holt. I will return it later.”

  Donna tried to smile, but it wasn’t easy, and when she finally managed it, she still looked miserable. “No, you don’t have to return it, Inspector. I’m sure I won’t need it anymore.”

  “Thank you,” Riggs said. “Now, did you happen to notice anything else while you were in the apartment yesterday? Was there anything unusual, or did Miss Sinclair say or do anything to indicate that she was distraught or preoccupied?”

  Donna shook her head. “She wouldn’t have shared anything very personal with me, even if she did have something on her mind. Miss Sinclair just wanted some colorful pillows made for her living room. The only thing I really noticed was that she was folding her drapes properly, and she’d rearranged her bookshelf again. She couldn’t decide between arranging them by height or by color. Apart from that, our meeting was short and pretty straightforward.”