“I see,” I said, thinking that what Calina really should have given him was about fifty electrolysis sessions. “Do you know who her, her, um…?”
“It’s no secret. Calina talked about him all the time. An Irishman, James Farrell. They’d been together for years.”
My heart thudded with excitement. Golly gee, a solid clue. I jotted it down enthusiastically.
I heard the sharp dinging of bells. Mrs. Stanislav turned up the volume just as the showcase winner was announced. I was right; sixteen five was way too low.
She sat grinning at the boob tube, her cloudy eyes round with excitement and her jaw working frantically back and forth. I thanked her and quietly excused myself, nodding guiltily to the Madonna as I showed myself out.
Chapter 8
“That James Farrell?” I was talking to myself as I typed on the keyboard. It had only really taken two clicks to get a full biography on Calina’s lover.
I thought the name sounded familiar. James Farrell the hot dog king. Of course! I ate at JimDogs all the time. Best deal in town. My personal favorite was the Junior J-dog combo meal with a CubbyPup and a frosty mug of root beer.
What a story James Farrell had. The product of a large, poor south-side Irish family, James Farrell had worked hard and built his hot dog dynasty from the ground up. No rich daddy, no fancy business degree, no government grants, just a determined spirit, hard work, and innovation—that innovation being his version of the hot dog bun. As the story goes, young James spent days in his mother’s kitchen, experimenting with her bread recipes, until he created what, in my opinion, was the best hot dog bun in the whole world. Light…flakey…buttery…my mouth was watering just thinking about it. He took his products and hit the streets, peddling his cart from one street corner to the next. His reputation grew quickly as everyone started talking about James’s Dogs which was eventually shortened to JimDogs. Soon, he had enough revenue to move his pups to a permanent JimDogs residence, which he opened right here in Naperville. Since then, the business had grown with franchises in twelve states. The guy was the quintessential American rags-to-riches story.
And now I had discovered that he was also the keeper of a Russian mistress. Not so good, considering he was married with a grown son.
All very interesting, but how could there possibly be any connection between JimDogs and Jane’s murder? I had no idea. My previous excitement began to fizzle. I thought I’d stumbled upon some case-breaking evidence, but there was no way to connect James Farrell with these murders. What motive would he have? The guy was worth millions; he’d probably never set foot in a consignment shop. Unless…maybe he was mixed up with the Russian mob somehow. I watched enough mobster television shows to know that businessmen get mixed up with the mob all the time. So, maybe my first theory was correct. I could see how easily it could happen: A young James Farrell had the best hot dog bun in the city, but couldn’t start up his business without capital. Desperate, he turned to a two-bit mobster for quick cash. As he grew his business, the mobster was always there to take his share. Poor James was forever indebted to the boss; he’d sold his soul to the mob and they took care of him. They even gave him a beautiful Russian woman, or no … maybe Calina was the mob boss’s daughter … yeah … that really tied James into a life of crime. And now that Calina was gone, he wanted to sever his ties with the family, but they had some sort of hold on him…maybe proof of some illegal activity, or who knows? Whatever the crucial link was, proof of it was mistakenly sold off in Calina’s estate and James had to get it back. Murder could come easily to a man who was that desperate…
I smiled to myself; proud that I’d put it all together so quickly. All I needed was a little proof. If I could just find a wee piece of evidence to support my theory, I could prove Shep wasn’t involved in any of this.
I sat back and carefully considered my options before deciding to follow up on my one other lead—A to Z Estate Sales. I typed their name into the search engine prompt and printed out directions. On the way out, I smeared peanut butter on a piece of white bread and folded it in half for a lunch to go. As a final thought, I grabbed the round-framed glasses again and tucked them away in my bag; Prudence may be needed again on this mission.
I barely made it down my steps when Mom appeared from around the hedge. Pretending not to see her, I made a mad scramble for my car.
“Phillipena!”
I cringed. I wasn’t overly fond of my name, especially when my mother yelled it out like that. No matter how it was said, it had a weird sound to it. I had my dad to blame. When I was born as the fifth girl in the O’Brien family, he gave up on waiting for a male namesake and stuck me with some strange feminism of his name. Then, in the third grade, Phillipena became Pippi when the teacher read to us about another precocious red-headed character, Pippi Longstocking.
“What in the world! Stop right there!” Mom was running across the yard at break-neck speed.
I obeyed, turning around to face her.
She descended upon me like ants on melted ice cream. “What in the world are you wearing?” she asked, punctuating her question with an open-jaw, eye-popping expression.
I backed up a little. “What am I wearing?” I reiterated, looking down at my wardrobe choice. It seemed fine to me. “A wool skirt, button-down blouse, and navy blazer.” I brushed some dust off the back elbow of the blazer. “I admit, this blazer’s a little dusty. It’s the color; it seems to attract dirt. And there’s a tiny rip in—”
“Turn around.”
I backed up a little more. Was she going to spank me for my wardrobe choice?
“Turn around right this instant!”
I pivoted, slowly, squeezing my eyes shut.
“That’s obscene!” she screeched.
I opened my eyes and faced her. “Obscene?”
“Your skirt.” She grabbed my shoulders and spun me back around. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling and tugging at my backside. “Oh, no. Did you try to tape the hem of this skirt?”
“Yes, why?” I was twisting my head like an inebriated owl, trying to see what she was fiddling with.
“The tape is tangled in the skirt’s liner and stuck to your waist band in the back. You’re completely exposed back here. Look at these holes! You need to get some better panties. Well, at least I caught you before you got out the door. How embarrassing if someone else had seen you this way.”
I shriveled, thinking about how many people I previously mooned: the construction workers; Alex the Sasquatch Man; all the people on the street. “Yeah, that would have been really embarrassing,” I replied thinking there was no need to embarrass the both of us.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Uh…well, I have an appointment in Ridgewood.”
“With whom?” My mother’s grammar was impeccable.
“I have an appointment with an estate auctioneer. Why?” It was natural to be suspicious when my mom inquired about my whereabouts.
“Why? Because you’re wearing makeup and you’ve actually styled your hair.” She gave me an approving once-over. “I thought maybe you had a date.”
“A date?”
“Didn’t you follow my advice and call about the singles club at church?”
“Well, I haven’t actually had—”
“What will you do at Cherry’s wedding without a date? You’ll be bored to death.”
Hmm. I hadn’t thought about that. Another good reason to get a hold of Shep. He’d always come through when I needed a male stand-in. “I’m working on it.”
“Fine. Just remember to stop by the house when you get back. I picked up the dress today and you’ll need to try it on again, just in case Doris needs to make any more alterations. The wedding’s just a week away, you know?”
I grimaced. “I know. Here, take this,” I said, handing her my peanut butter sandwich. “I won’t need it.” Just thinking about that skin-tight chiffon atrocity was ruining my appetite.
*
&n
bsp; Thirty minutes later, I walked through the door of A to Z Estate Sales, and came face to face with Chuck Norris. Well, not the actual Chuck Norris, but someone that looked just like him.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
I stood speechless—my slack-jaw mouth unable to produce an intelligible syllable. I had a huge crush on Chuck ever since I was in junior high. Even now, I’ll stay up until all hours of the night just so I can watch him strut his stuff on late night infomercials.
“Miss?” Chuck was waiting for my reply.
I stuck out a wobbly hand. “I’m Prud…no, I mean…I’m Pippi O’Brien.” The eyes of the ranger were upon me. I couldn’t lie. “I need to speak to the manager.”
“That’s me.” He grasped my hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’m Charlie.”
“No way,” I said, before I could stop myself. “Does anyone ever call you Chuck?”
“Yeah, I get that all the time. What can I do for you?” He seemed in a rush. “I need to find out about an estate sale that your company handled for Calina Sokolov. Do you recall the name?”
He tilted his head back and studied me through furrowed brows. “Yes, why?”
I took a deep breath and continued, “Did you keep records of who purchased books from that estate sale.”
“We always keep records of sales, but they’re confidential.” He smiled and winked. Strange, I’d never seen the real Chuck wink.
“I think there may be a connection between that estate sale and a recent murder.”
“Murder?” Chuck suddenly looked nervous.
“It’s just a hunch. But if you could simply verify if you sold items from the Sokolov estate to Jane Reynolds or perhaps to her business, The Classy Closet, it would be a huge help to me.”
“Why, are you a cop?”
I chuckled. “No, I’m not a cop. Although, I am sort of working as a consultant for the police.”
“Sort of working?”
“Well, not officially, I guess.” I hesitated and shifted a little. “Actually, it’s just a personal thing. Can you help me out? Please?”
He moved over to his desk and fingered a manila file. Even from where I was standing, I could see the name Sokolov written on it with black sharpie.
“That’s the Sokolov file,” I stated, practically salivating.
“Yes, it is.” He kept a firm grip as he leaned back on his desk and smiled like a sly cat.
Like an idiot, I reached for it. He snatched it away. “You gotta be kidding,” he laughed, “I don’t know what’s going on, but these names are worth at least a thousand bucks.”
“A thousand bucks!”
“Yeah, that’s what the other lady paid.”
“A lady? What lady? What was her name?” I took a deep breath. I half expected him to blurt out the name Farrell.
“She didn’t give me her name. Just said she had an interest in antiques and wanted a chance to approach the consigners who bought from this particular estate. There were only a few buyers, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.” Chuck had folded his arms and was leaning back on his desk, the file crunched up in his muscular biceps.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “So you just let her copy down the information without even knowing her name?”
“Hey, she paid me a thousand bucks,” he stared at me expectantly. Did this guy actually think I looked like someone who could pull a thousand dollars out of my purse?
“Would you consider letting me look at it without paying any money?”
“No.”
I dug around in my bag. “Fourteen dollars?” I asked.
He tilted back his head and let out a hearty laugh before moving around his desk and throwing the file into a drawer. This guy was definitely no Chuck Norris. Chuck’s morals would never be for sale— just his exercise machines.
I paused, considering my options.
“Well, lady. What’s it going to be?”
“Fine. I’ll leave,” I said. “But, could you at least tell me what she looked like?”
“Sure. That type of information would be worth oh…fourteen dollars.” He held out his hand. I reluctantly handed over the money and waited expectantly.
“She wore a long coat, a hat and dark glasses.” He smiled mischievously. I wanted to scream.
“Young, old?” I pressed.
“Middle-aged, maybe. Maybe older, maybe younger.”
“How about hair: blonde, brunette...?”
He shrugged and pointed mockingly toward his head. “Like I said, she was wearing a hat.”
I slammed the front door on my way out. I couldn’t believe I paid fourteen dollars for nothing.
Chapter 9
I left A to Z Estate Sales with my tail between my legs and fourteen dollars poorer. The latter really ticked me off. I was a woman used to getting what I paid for, and that guy ripped me off. Although, it might have been money well spent, if what I just learned could help to clear Shep’s involvement in all this.
After a little deliberation, I decided to give Sean a call. Funny how my fingers automatically remembered his number even though I hadn’t dialed it for over a year.
I could barely hear his voice mail message over the nervous thudding of my heart, but at the beep, I cleared my throat and started in, “Hi Sean. This is Pippi. I’m just leaving a place called A to Z Estate Sales in Ridgewood and I think you might want to check it out. The sleazebag that runs the place calls himself Charlie. You can’t miss him…he looks just like Chuck Norris. Don’t let his looks fool you … he’s nothing like the real Chuck—he’s a slime ball. Anyway, he’s got this file that lists the consigners that shopped at the Sokolov estate auction. That’s S…o…k…o…l…o…v. Remember? I got that name off the box I saw in the dumpster at The Classy Closet. I definitely think there’s a connection between Sokolov and Jane’s murder. There has to be. I mean, you’re on the wrong track with Shep. I think a guy named James Ferrell might be involved somehow. You see, I stopped by Calina Sokolov’s home and spoke to her neighbor who told me Calina was involved with James Ferrell. That’s Ferrell as in JimDogs. Anyway, the big thing is that Charlie here at A to Z said a lady paid him a thousand bucks for the info in the Sokolov file. So, there’s got to be some sort of connection. You should get a warrant for A to Z Estate Sales right away so you can get that file and a description of the woman who paid to see it. Oh, and while you’re searching the place, see if your guys find fourteen dollars in crumpled bills: two fives and four ones. That’s my money … that guy Charlie practically stole it from me.” I paused, trying to think of anything I may have left out. “Ok, then. Bye, and um … well, sorry about slapping you.”
I felt regret the instant I disconnected. What was wrong with me? Not only had I apologized for a perfectly legitimate and well deserved face slap, I pretty much sounded like a babbling idiot.
I shrugged it off. The important thing was that I turned over the information to Sean. With that done, I decided to let it go and get back to my own work.
*
In warmer weather, I usually spent Thursday afternoons hitting early garage sales, but since October wasn’t a big month for sales, I thought I’d run by a couple of my favorite consignment shops instead. I actually scored big at the Thrifty Kids shop. The owner was anxious to unload a bunch of unsold summer clothes which I practically stole for five bucks a bag. Nice stuff, too. Mostly brand names. Luckily for me, she took a check, since ol’ Chuck had taken my last bit of cash.
Although I definitely needed exercise, carrying my latest acquisitions up all twenty-two steps leading to my above-garage apartment was exhausting. My glutes were starting to burn as I headed out for trip number four and found my mother on the top step. She was holding the two remaining bags. “Looks like you’ve been busy. I’m glad. I always say work is the best therapy.”
I knew she was referring to my troubles with Sean, but I didn’t really want to go into it again. “Look, Mom, thanks for helping, but I’ve got a lot to do.”
; She patted my shoulder and smiled. “Sure, dear. I just came to see if you wanted to eat dinner with us. Your dad’s been cooking all day.”
“Really? Sounds good,” I backtracked without hesitation, my rumbling stomach prompting me to trudge down the steps behind her. My mood softened as I ducked around the hedge, and crossed the backyard toward the warm glow of kitchen lights cast against the increasingly darkening evening. My nose began twitching as soon as I opened the back door—Mulligan stew, my dad’s specialty. Paired with hard rolls and cold Guinness, it was the ultimate comfort food.
“There you are,” my father said, pulling a sheet of oatmeal cookies from the oven. “Your mother asked me to make something special for dinner. She said she needed an incentive to get you over here to try on the dress for your cousin’s wedding.”
I shot my mother a look. I should have known she had an ulterior motive for inviting me to dinner.
I was just about to pop a piece of hot cookie into my mouth when she grabbed me. “Dress first, then food. Come with me.”
I followed her into the family room. She pointed to the dress which was draped over the sofa. The television was tuned into the six o’clock news and the weather girl was promising lower temperatures and a possibility of rain for the next couple of days.
Mom sighed. “I certainly hope Cherry has good weather for the wedding. It’s risky planning an outdoor event this time of year. Are you excited for the wedding, dear? All your sisters are going to be there, you know.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said with a sigh, attempting to squirm out of my jeans. “I wouldn’t worry about the weather. The only thing that’s going to ruin this wedding is me in this dress.”
Mom was stooped down, holding the dress open. I rested one hand on her shoulder as I stepped into it. Amazingly, she pulled it over my hips with no problem.
“That Doris is a miracle worker,” she said, zipping and buttoning my back side. “You can’t even tell this was altered.”
2 Murder on Consignment Page 6