2 Murder on Consignment

by Susan Furlong-Bolliger

  I looked around. What’s-his-name was nowhere to be found. I scanned the front counter and surprisingly enough, no one seemed to even notice Morgan’s little outburst. If it wasn’t for the guy across the room with the soda-stained shirt flashing a rude hand gesture, I might doubt it had happened at all.

  I looked back just in time to see Morgan high-tailing it out the side door. “Wait!” I grabbed what was left of my CubbyPup and ran after her. By the time I got to the lot, she was roaring away, tires squealing like a dozen hungry pigs.

  I stood, staring after her, finishing off the last bit of my hotdog. Well, that didn’t go as I’d planned. Not only did I not get to meet J.J., but now I was stuck without a ride back to St. Joan’s. I could call a cab, but geez, it would cost more than I wanted to spend. To top it off, my sweatshirt was still in her car.

  Luckily, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a red and white uniform. “Hey, hey!” I yelled, running to where what’s-his-name was opening the door to a dented hatch-back.

  “What’s wrong? She leave you stranded?”

  “Yeah.” I threw myself at his mercy. “Can you give me a lift to St. Joan’s? My car is parked in the church lot.”

  “Sure, hop in.”

  It was a quick ride, but long enough for me to ascertain a few things. First, what’s-his-name was Aiden Parker, a college student who happened to be working his way through college one hot dog at a time. Second, according to Aiden, Morgan’s fits were nothing new to JimDog employees. Apparently she’d chucked quite a few fountain drinks since she and J.J. tied the knot. Third, Aiden thought perhaps Morgan was quite spoiled. No news there. But, he also confided that he couldn’t blame Morgan for flipping out every once in a while. James Junior was a real jerk.

  When I asked him to clarify that statement, he simply winked and said, “Well, like father like son.”

  That piqued my interest. I wanted to ask him more, but we were pulling into the lot at St. Joan’s and he was anxious to get home and change for his three o’clock class. I did manage to ask Aiden the whereabouts of JimDog headquarters. It was located not too far away, off of Corporate West Drive in Lisle.

  I briefly considered taking a spin past the corporate office, but changed my mind. I probably wouldn’t gain much by looking at the outside of a building; plus, I was beat. I decided to head home.

  Unfortunately, my first day working with Morgan didn’t yield as much useful information as I’d hoped. The only thing I learned, besides Morgan suffered from some sort of personality disorder, was that the elusive J.J. was like his father. What did that mean? Did he have a mistress? That would explain Morgan’s fury when she found out he couldn’t meet her for lunch. Did she suspect he was sneaking off for a rendezvous with his lover?

  If I had a hubby who was cheating, I would do more than throw a soft drink, but that’s just me. Some women will put up with anything, especially when it comes to money. After all, Morgan did want that new house badly. Maybe she was willing to tolerate her hubby’s indiscretions if it meant she would still get her suburbia dream home.

  One thing for sure, if J.J. was the type of man who would cheat on his spouse, then he lacked as many morals as his father. Maybe I did need to take a closer look at him. I knew just how to do it, too.

  Since, I couldn’t put my plan into motion for a couple more hours, so I decided to pass the time at my workbench. Working on “fixer-uppers” always settled my mind, and I could use a little break from the stress of this case.

  The small niche adjacent to my bathroom, designated as my ‘trash-to-treasure’ area, featured a utilitarian bench made of old sawhorses and a discarded orange laminate countertop that I found alongside a home store dumpster. Underneath it, I stowed several plastic storage units on wheels, the drawers marked with labels such as glues, fasteners, batteries, polishers …well, in short, every sort of fixer-upper imaginable.

  Currently, I was working on one of my latest curbside acquisitions, a blue and white ceramic vase. By itself, the vase wasn’t valuable; but as a chic French country style table lamp, it would be fabulous.

  I’d done quite a few lamp conversions and found they were popular with my flea market crowd. I could convert just about anything into a lamp—antique bottles, mason jars, teapots. My favorite conversion was a large pink piggybank that I electrified and topped with a pink and white checkered shade. One of my flea market customers paid thirty bucks for it saying it was a ‘must-have’ for her baby’s nursery. It gave me a lot satisfaction to know that homes across the city were lit by my little creations.

  As usual, time passed quickly as I sat at my workbench. I was contemplating the best spot to drill a hole for the lamp cord when I noticed it was nearing six o’clock. Time to put my plan into place.

  It was twenty minutes before seven when I neared the Farrell’s front gate. I’d already formulated a convincing spiel for the gateman. After my encounter with him at the tea, I knew he could be one tough cookie.

  “Name,” he said, looking down from his white box throne. I decided to ignore the way he turned up his nose at my fifteen-year-old Volvo. Didn’t he recognize timeless quality when he saw it?

  “Pippi O’Brien. I’m here to see—”

  “Do you have an appointment?” he interrupted, glancing through the pages on his clipboard.

  A quick glance toward the house told me Morgan’s car was in the drive. What luck! My plan was to use my sweater, which I left in her car before the ‘diet soda incident’, as an excuse to get in and see her. Of course, she’d probably feel horrible about her previous behavior. Plus, since I was showing up at dinner time, she’d more than likely invite me in for a bite to eat and … voila! I’d be back in the Farrell residence. Hard telling what I might find this time.

  If only I could get past this pesky gateman.

  I pulled back my shoulders and laid it on thick. “No, I don’t have an appointment. You see, I accidently left my sweater in Morgan’s car when we were lunching this afternoon and I thought I would stop by and get it. I’m sure if you just phoned the house and explained, she’d be happy to see me. We are very close friends, after all,” I added.

  For some reason he looked confused. He stammered a little, then picked up the phone and started to dial. Just then, I noticed Morgan coming out the front door of the estate and starting for her car. Well, crud! There went my plan.

  I wondered where Morgan was off to. Out for dinner with J.J? Maybe he was trying to make up for standing her up at lunch time.

  “Wait!” I yelled at the gateman. “Oh silly me. I just remembered, I didn’t leave my sweater in Morgan’s car. Why there it is!” I pointed aimlessly to the back of my vehicle. “So sorry.” I slammed the car in reverse. “Gotta run!”

  I backed out quickly and pulled down the street, ducking under the steering wheel so Morgan wouldn’t see me as she passed. More than likely she wouldn’t pay attention to my car. I don’t think she’d even seen it at the parish parking lot and probably wouldn’t recognize that it was it mine. While I hated to abandon my original plan, I was a little curious about what Morgan Farrell did in her spare time. Besides, if she was going to meet J.J., maybe I could ‘just happen’ to bump into them.

  As soon as I was sure she’d passed, I sat up and eased my foot onto the gas pedal. My adrenaline kicked in and I struggled to maintain enough distance between our cars to avoid suspicion. Whenever the opportunity arose, I made a casual lane change and dropped back another two cars. I continued this procedure for approximately three and half miles when Morgan made a right hand turn onto College Street.

  Traffic was light; so I increased my distance to four car lengths. I continued following, undetected, as College turned into Yackley Avenue and we crossed under Highway 88. Morgan had no idea I was tailing her.

  Soon, I began to recognize our location. We were in Lisle, driving parallel to the highway on Corporate West Drive. I remembered Aiden telling me JimDog’s corporate offices were located on this road. Was
Morgan heading to the office to meat J.J? Good. She was probably going to pick him up for their dinner.

  Then suddenly, Morgan surprised me by pulling into the Huntley Hotel parking lot. Gripping the wheel a little tighter, I cautiously pulled in after her, still maintaining a safe distance.

  She, of course, found a parking space immediately. I hung back a row and watched her exit from her car, sling her bag over her shoulder, and walk with purpose toward the hotel. I noted that she was wearing some sort of sleek black dress, cut way low in the back and heels that would send me into immediate traction.

  My heart sank a bit. She was dressed to the nines. Probably meeting hubby for dinner at the Huntley dining room. There was no way I could just ‘show up’ there dressed in my three-day-old sweat pants. Although, it wouldn’t hurt to follow her anyway, just in case.

  As soon as she was a safe distance away, I began roaming the lot. Just my luck, Morgan seemed to have found the last available space. Not wanting to lose precious time, I took a chance and made my own parking space at the end of a row of cars, and high-tailed it into the lobby.

  Things were hopping at the Huntley. The lobby was packed and by the time I caught sight of Morgan, I was surprised to see she was heading for the elevators, not the restaurant off the back of the lobby.

  Well, there was no way to follow her now. My only option was to hang out until she came down. Knowing I was in for a long wait, I settled into a club chair and picked up a rumpled copy of the Chicago Sun Times. I kept one eyed peeled while I halfway hid my face behind the newspaper.

  I wondered what Morgan was doing dressed so nicely and heading to a hotel room. I doubted she had a rendezvous planned with her hubby. I mean, why would she go to the trouble of getting a room when they lived together already? An affair? That sort of made since. If J.J. was dabbling on the side, why shouldn’t she? Only, why here, right next to his office? So, she could rub it in? Maybe.

  Or … oh my goodness! I knew what Morgan was doing. I practically laughed out loud. I mean, it was so obvious. I’d hate to be J.J right now. I could see how this was going down. J.J., like his father, has a mistress and the Huntley, being so close to the office, is a convenient rendezvous spot. Morgan has suspected his infidelity for a long time, which was obvious by her reaction at JimDogs earlier in the day. She probably hired a private investigator. Yeah, that’s it … the private investigator tipped her off to J.J.’s whereabouts and she’s here to make the big bust. I can just see the room of the door flying open and Morgan standing in the doorway looking dangerously beautiful in her low-cut black dress and pointing an accusing finger at her husband and his mistress. If she’s smart, and I’m not sure she really is, she’ll use her cell phone to snap a picture of the raunchy rendezvous so she can use it later in court to sue the cheater for everything he’s worth. That way, she’ll still have enough money to build her house in Schaumberg.

  I was just starting to really enjoy my little reverie when out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a familiar furry face. It was Alex Sokolov, walking very purposefully toward the elevator. He was wearing an overcoat and one of those Russian fur hats. Not a good fashion choice for such a hairy man. From my vintage point, it was difficult to see where the fur of the hat ended and the fur on his face started. The overall effect was one huge hairy blob attached to a blah-gray overcoat.

  Seeing him, though, made me think I had it all wrong. This was too much of a coincidence. Morgan wasn’t here to catch her cheating hubby in the act. She was here to meet with Mr. Fur Face. But why? Certainly they weren’t involved. Or were they? I had to know.

  Thinking quickly, I reached into my bag and extracted my Prudence Overton glasses. Good thing I still had them with me. I shoved them on my face and ran across the lobby at breakneck speed. “Hold the elevator please!” I yelled.

  Alex looked perturbed, but held the door while I slipped aboard. As the door closed, he reached over and pushed number nine. “What floor?” he asked.

  “Nine,” I replied, then exclaimed, “Is that you Mr. Sokolov?”

  Alex looked surprised.

  “It’s me, Prudence Overton.” I pushed the glasses up my nose. “We met the other day at your mother’s house. Wow, I can’t believe I’ve run into you here. I didn’t think you’d still be in town. Please excuse the way I’m dressed.” I waved a hand toward my sweatpants. “I just finished working out in the hotel gym,” I said, hoping they did indeed have a gym. “Anyway, why are you here?”

  The door opened and he was starting down the hallway. I followed, waiting for his reply.

  “I’m meeting a friend,” he replied. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Overton.” He stopped at number 947 and was keying in with a key card. Was Morgan in there waiting for him with open arms? I had to know.

  I continued down the hallway, pretending to head toward my own room. “You too, Mr. Sokolov,” I replied cheerfully over my shoulder. As soon as I heard his door click shut, I trotted back. As I neared his room, I got down on my hands and knees and crawled, just in case he was peering through the peep-hole.

  I remained on my knees as I listened at the door. I have to say, the Huntley had invested their money in quality construction. The room was virtually soundproof. I couldn’t hear a darn thing.

  I had just pressed my ear fully to the door when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I jumped up and stood nose to nose with a maroon and yellow-capped bellboy.

  “Can I help you ma’am?” He was giving me a hard look.

  “Oh, no thanks. I thought I dropped something, but I guess not.” I was whispering, hoping that Alex wouldn’t hear the commotion and come to the door.

  “That’s not what it looked like to me, ma’am.”

  Man, this bellboy was a sharp one. I signaled for him to be quiet and began rooting in my purse for a little persuasion. Unfortunately, Chuck had taken all my persuasion earlier in the week.

  Just then the door opened. “Is there a problem out here?”

  “Oh, hi again Mr. Sokolov … um … no there’s no problem. I just dropped something that’s all. This nice young man is helping me look for it.

  Alex was standing, with both hands on the door frame. I shifted this way and that, trying to get a glimpse around him. He shifted also. Getting angrier by the moment.

  “Is there something you want, Ms. Overton?” he asked curtly.

  While his bulky physique took up most of the doorway, I did manage to catch a glimpse inside the room. In it I saw, over by the small table in the corner of the room, the lower half of a pair of woman’s legs, neatly crossed and wearing to-die-for red stilettos.

  “No, I was just on my way out.”

  “You bet you are,” injected the bellboy, placing a firm hand on the small of my back and ushering me to the elevator. He stuck with me down to the lobby and out the front door.

  Damn.

  Now I may never know what was going on in that room. Could those legs have possibly belonged to Morgan Farrell? Geez, why didn’t I take a closer look at what shoes she was wearing? If those were Morgan’s legs, what was she doing with her husband’s illegitimate brother? Certainly not an affair? Or, maybe Morgan was more than just a ditzy spoiled housewife. Maybe she was the mastermind behind both of the murders and had teamed up with Fur Face to pull them off. Could she have been the lady that paid Chuck a thousand bucks for the Sokolov file? No, that wouldn’t make sense. If she was involved with Alex, she could have whatever she wanted from Calina Sokolov’s estate.

  I was so frustrated, I wanted to bang my head against the wall and scream. I needed to calm down and think rationally. I was jumping to conclusions. I didn’t know for sure that Morgan even came up to the ninth floor. It was a huge hotel. She could have gone anywhere. I didn’t even think she was wearing red shoes. I only saw her for a second before she entered the hotel, but I would have noticed red. Wouldn’t I?

  Feeling like a failure, I made my way back to my car, which luckily hadn’t been towed, and moved it so I had a prime v
iew of Morgan’s vehicle. The least I could do was wait for her to leave and check the color of her shoes.

  I waited, and waited, and waited.

  Then, I woke up.

  Wiping drool from my cheek, I squinted against the early morning sunlight searching for Morgan’s car. It was gone. My heart sank. I’d fallen asleep and missed her exit from the hotel.

  Shivering from the cold, I opened my cell to check the time. After seven already. I stretched and reached over to crank the engine, only it wouldn’t start. It must have been running when I fell asleep. It was out of gas. Now my teeth were chattering and my stomach rumbling. I flipped open my cell again and dialed in desperation.

  “Hello, Sis, I’ve got a problem. Can you meet me with a can of gas, a sweatshirt, and some hot coffee at the Huntley in Lisle?”

  I paused as she flooded the line with questions.

  “Actually, can I explain it to you later? I’m stranded in the lot right outside the main door. Hurry. I’m freezing.”

  About forty-five minutes later, my trusty sister showed up with the requested items, plus an extra bonus of a half-dozen chocolate glazed donuts. Once the gas was in the tank, we sat in the front seat gobbling donuts, slurping coffee, and basking in the full blast of hot air coming from the car vents.

  “It must have been some other woman. I can’t believe Morgan Farrell was the woman in Alex Sokolov’s room,” my sister was saying. “She doesn’t seem like the type that would cheat on her husband. You’ve heard her talk about him. She seems so in love.”

  “Well, maybe it’s a case of affair revenge. Obviously, she suspects her husband of having a mistress. Maybe she’s engaged in a retaliatory affair. Could you blame her?”

  My sister shot me a dark look.

  “Oh, give me a break, Sis. Don’t you ever get tired of the old double standard? Men just get to do whatever, while women stay at home and accept it?”

  “I’m not condoning any sort of extra-marital affair. First of all, you don’t even have proof that James Junior has a mistress. All you’re going on is idle gossip from one of his employees. Second, all you saw was a leg. A completely dressed leg. It could have belonged to anyone. You can’t be sure it was Morgan Farrell’s leg.”