Dead Giveaway

by Joanne Fluke

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Roberts . . . I mean, Clayton.” Uncle Lyle’s lawyer had told her to call him by his first name. “I think I’m still in shock.”

  “Understandable.” Clayton took her by the arm and steered her out of his wood-paneled office. “What you need is a drink.”

  “But I hardly ever . . . all right.” Ellen nodded quickly. She had been about to say that she wasn’t in the habit of drinking in the middle of the workweek, but this wasn’t exactly a normal week.

  As Clayton pushed the elevator button, he turned to her. “I’ve got some work to finish here so Johnny Day’s taking you to the Castle Casino for the show. Then we’ll take you up the mountain to see your new home.”

  “Johnny Day?”

  “That’s right.” Clayton’s gold-rimmed aviator glasses slipped down slightly as he nodded. “He’s your fourth-floor neighbor.”

  Ellen’s knees were shaking slightly as she got into the elevator with Clayton. She glanced down at her sensible navy-blue dress with the white collar and cuffs and wished she was wearing something else. The other teachers would be green with envy when she told them she’d met the most famous singer in Vegas.

  The elevator started to descend and Clayton turned to her. “Just relax and enjoy yourself, Ellen. Tomorrow we’ll put our heads together and decide on the best way to move your things out here.”

  Ellen felt her head start to whirl. It was quite a shock to discover that she now owned a safe deposit box stuffed with Federal Treasury certificates plus her aunt and uncle’s expensive condo on Mount Charleston, including what she’d expected to inherit, her aunt and uncle’s silver and china.

  “You’re planning to move out here, aren’t you, Ellen?”

  “I’m not sure.” Ellen’s voice was tentative. “There aren’t many jobs for teachers here, and I’m on a tenure track back in Minnesota.”

  “You don’t have to teach, Ellen. Your certificates yield between seven and nine percent annually. If you continue to roll them over, you’ll never have to worry about money again.”

  Ellen took a deep breath and tried to remember how much money she actually had. Any figure with more than four zeros seemed beyond comprehension. “Mr. Roberts . . . I mean, Clayton . . . do you think I’d have enough money to open my own business?”

  “I don’t see why not. What did you have in mind?”

  Ellen was almost breathless. “Mannequins. I’d like to manufacture them.”

  “Oh, yes. Charlotte had some pictures.” Clayton frowned slightly. “You may have cash flow problems at first. It takes a large capital investment to open a manufacturing concern, and there’s a sizable penalty if you cash in your certificates before the due date. My advice would be to secure another source of financial backing.”

  Ellen was about to ask him to be more specific when the elevator doors opened on a tall, dark-haired man pacing in the lobby. Ellen felt the color rush to her face as she recognized Johnny Day, even more handsome than on his record albums.

  “You’re right on time, Johnny.” Clayton led Ellen over to be introduced. When Johnny reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips, Ellen thought she’d faint from sheer excitement. He was tall, well over six feet, and for the first time in her life, she felt delicate and feminine.

  “I’m on in an hour, so we’d better hit the road.” Johnny took her arm. “A bottle of bubbly’s chilling at your table and I can join you for a glass if we hurry. Are you coming over, Clay?”

  Clayton glanced at his watch. “I’ll meet you there. Make sure Ellen has a good time. I’m trying to convince her to move out here and start her own mannequin business.”

  “So, Ellen . . . what do you think of Vegas?”

  His speaking voice was exactly as she’d expected, deep and soft and incredibly sexy. Ellen tried to keep her mind on the conversation and ignore the way her legs were trembling as they moved toward the door. “I haven’t really seen much of the city, except for the airport, of course.” She was silent for a moment, trying to think of something intelligent to say. “The weather’s wonderful, and everything’s so nice and green. It’s quite a change from the snowbanks of Minnesota.”

  “Hey, we’ve got snow on our mountain.” Johnny flashed her a grin. “Just wait till you see the view from my bedroom window. It looks like one of those winter scenes they put on Christmas cards.”

  Ellen didn’t dare meet his eyes. Was Johnny Day inviting her to his bedroom? Or was she jumping to a ridiculous conclusion? “It sounds beautiful. Is it very cold up there?”

  Johnny nodded. “You bet! Forty degrees when I left his morning.”

  “That’s even colder than Minnesota!” Ellen shivered slightly. “It was only twelve below when I got on the plane.”

  Johnny turned to her with a puzzled look and then he laughed. “No, Babe. It was forty above on the mountain. It never gets below zero here.”

  Ellen felt the color rush to her face and she was glad he was busy hailing the valet parker. Aunt Charlotte had written that the temperature was moderate. Johnny must think she was a real idiot.

  Johnny handed over his ticket and smiled at her again. “So tell me about this mannequin business.”

  “There’s not much to tell.” Ellen stared up at him and wondered whether teeth that perfect could possibly be real. Her natural reticence evaporated as she began to describe her universal mannequin and her long-held dreams of marketing it to department stores.

  “Sounds good to me,” Johnny reflected when she had finished. “And Clay said you need a financial backer?”

  Blushing, Ellen nodded. She knew she’d rattled on like an excited schoolgirl, but there was something about Johnny’s intense brown eyes and friendly smile that invited her confidence.

  “I could back you. I’ve got some loose cash to invest before Uncle Sam takes his cut. Think you’d be interested in having me for a partner?”

  “I . . . uh . . . that sounds wonderful.” Ellen felt her head start to whirl again. Compared to rural Minnesota, where it took people years to decide whether or not to repaint the barn, everything was happening much too fast.

  “We could set up right here in Vegas and name it something catchy. Universal Mannequins is too much of a mouthful. How about Vegas Dolls?”

  Ellen nodded. Vegas Dolls was a fine name for a business, especially if it summoned to mind the gorgeous showgirls who worked here.

  “I’ll look for a warehouse right away. Where do you want to work, in the warehouse or up on the mountain?”

  Ellen took a deep breath. “Would there be room in the condo? I’m used to working at home.”

  “No problem, Babe. You’ve got the whole eighth floor and all you have to do is tell Paul Lindstrom how you want it remodeled. I’ve got some contacts so I’ll set up the distribution network, but we’ll have to move fast. The fifteenth’s my deadline for reinvesting.”

  Ellen was too stunned to do more than nod. Without any effort on her part, her dream was turning into a reality.

  “It’s settled, then.” Johnny leaned over to kiss her cheek. “You’ll be too busy to go back and pack your things. Is there someone who could send them to you?”

  “Alma Jacobson might. I gave her a key before I left. I’ll call her tonight and ask.”

  They were walking out of the building now, and Ellen almost stumbled as she realized what she’d said. She’d just agreed to give up her teaching contract only months before she was eligible for tenure to move over two thousand miles across the country into a condo she’d never seen. And she was going into business with a man she’d met less than five minutes ago who also happened to be the singing idol she’d sighed over for the past ten years.

  “Getting cold feet?” Johnny smiled down at her and Ellen shook her head.

  “Not really. I only get cold feet in Minnesota. It’s much warmer out here.”

  Johnny laughed and led her to his car, a white Ferrari convertible, so shiny that it looked brand-new. Ellen sighed in pure conten
tment as she slid into the bucket seat upholstered in immaculate, soft kid leather.

  It was dusk and the huge neon signs blinked on and off as he drove down the strip. The people they passed looked slim in their summer clothes and Ellen felt almost weightless without her bulky parka and moon boots.

  There was a smile on Ellen’s face as Johnny turned into a circular driveway flanked by towering palm trees, and a huge casino with turrets and spires came into view. There were colored spotlights weaving their beams in patterns over the walls and the entrance was guarded by a moat and a drawbridge manned by footmen in gold livery. It was a scene straight out of a storybook: Miss Wingate in an expensive foreign car with her famous bachelor partner, pulling up in front of a castle. That would certainly make all thirty-one first graders at Garfield Elementary sit up and take notice!

  THREE

  February on Deer Creek Road

  Fifty Minutes before 10:57 AM

  Ellen frowned as she rummaged through her box of mannequin limbs. On days like this, when everything seemed to go wrong, she almost wished she’d never left Minnesota two years ago.

  The morning had started off badly. Her thirty-cup pot was the old percolator type and only made good coffee if she filled it to capacity. It had been a parting gift from the Garfield Elementary faculty and Ellen was sure they’d chipped in their books of green stamps to get it. Perhaps they’d assumed opening a mannequin business meant she’d have plenty of employees. In any event, the coffee it made turned to tar before she could drink it all, and she’d finally geared up to go into town to buy a pot to use every day.

  The saleslady had shown her the newest model, promising that all she had to do was put in the coffee and water, set the automatic timer, and she would have hot coffee. Ellen had set the timer for eight and gone to bed, but when she’d come into the kitchen this morning there was no coffee to greet her. Checking the instructions, she’d found that the digital timer had a red light for PM and a green light for AM. Since the red light was glowing, her coffee would brew automatically, but not until eight in the evening.

  Just as Ellen had switched the timer to manual, the phone had rung. It was the Purple Giraffe in New York, an exclusive chain of children’s clothing stores, frantic because their purchasing department had made an error and they needed two dozen more mannequins by the end of the week. Naturally, Ellen had promised to deliver, and now she’d located twenty-four right arms but no left arms to match. Since she molded the arms in pairs and had never had an order for one-armed mannequins, they had to be somewhere.

  Ellen stepped back to survey the boxes of limbs stacked on her workroom shelves, all coded with numbers, the work of her business manager, Walker Browning. When he’d heard that Ellen was looking for a business manager, Jack St. James had recommended his black friend from Chicago for the job, and Ellen had hired him sight unseen. Walker was extremely well organized and he was also a whiz at finding new markets for Vegas Dolls. If Walker were here now, he’d go straight to the proper box, but he was in Vegas picking up supplies.

  Deciding it would be a waste of time to look for the arms herself, Ellen wandered back into her large sunny kitchen. When she’d moved into the eighth-floor condo two years ago, Ellen had mentioned that she didn’t care for the ultramodern black enameled cabinets that showed every fingerprint and the gleaming white floors that required constant cleaning. Moira Jonas, their resident interior decorator, had offered her services and in less than a week, she’d faced the cabinets in oak and ordered an antique table and chairs to match. With lacy ferns hanging from wicker baskets, green and white gingham curtains, an array of copper pans and utensils mounted on the rack over the stove, and a braided rug on the new wooden floor, Ellen’s kitchen had been transformed.

  Then Moira had started on the rest of the condo, replacing Aunt Charlotte’s stylish white leather furniture with comfortable overstuffed chairs and a couch and loveseat covered in patterned chintz. The black marble fireplace had been redone in aged brick. Matching chintz curtains now graced the floor-to-ceiling windows, and for her bedroom, Ellen had chosen a massive four-poster bed and a dresser set to match. An authentic nineteenth-century quilt in a Double Wedding Ring pattern covered the bed and Priscilla curtains hung at the windows. There was even a spool rocker in the corner to hold her patchwork doll, and a washstand complete with a blue bowl and pitcher.

  The bathrooms had presented a problem. Moira had pointed out that in order to be authentic, they should look like privies, but had compromised with wood paneling and antique medicine cabinets. She’d found a claw-footed tub deep enough to accommodate Ellen’s long legs and the shower was hidden behind wooden doors.

  When it came to Ellen’s workroom, Moira had consulted with Paul Lindstrom, the building architect. They’d knocked out the wall between Aunt Charlotte’s sitting room and Uncle Lyle’s office, converting it into a huge work space. Paul had installed rafters to give it the look of a farmhouse attic and the wooden floor was treated with several coats of polyurethane so it would be impervious to spilled dyes and chemicals. The high ceiling had been lowered in strategic spots to give the illusion of gables, and tall triangular windows gave Ellen the benefit of the spectacular view.

  Ellen was just sitting down at her old-fashioned kitchen table when the phone rang again. It was Laureen Lewis from the first floor.

  “Hi, Ellen. Do you have that recipe of your grandmother’s handy? I tried it last night and had a terrible flop.”

  “What happened?” Ellen frowned. She knew she’d copied the recipe correctly.

  “The caramels never set up. It turned out to be the most luscious chocolate frosting I’ve ever tasted, but that’s not what I was after. It just doesn’t work with a five-ounce can of Hershey’s syrup.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Ellen reached for the red loose-leaf cookbook on the shelf by the phone. Laureen was doing a chocolate program on her cooking show and had been very interested in Grandmother Wingate’s recipes. Ellen flipped through the book until she came to the page with a smear of chocolate on the corner. She remembered making that smear as a child, helping Grandma Wingate make caramels for Christmas.

  “Yes, it says five ounces. At least I think it’s ounces. It actually looks more like a cent sign to me.”

  “That could be it!” Laureen sounded excited. “Does she have any other notations on the recipe?”

  “Yes. At the top it says it’s from Mrs. Friedrich, the Lutheran minister’s mother. And Grandma wrote a note on the side. It says, ‘Never serve to Bill Carr. False teeth.’”

  “I love it.” Laureen laughed. “Is there a date on the recipe?”

  “No, but the one on the next page is for Mrs. Friedrich’s watermelon pickles and it’s from the summer of forty-five.”

  “That’s close enough. I’ll call Hershey’s in Pennsylvania and ask for an old price list. Thanks, Ellen. And I’ll bring you some caramels this afternoon if they turn out right.”

  “That would be a real treat.” Ellen’s mouth was watering when she hung up the phone. She hadn’t tasted Grandma Wingate’s chocolate caramels in years and it was a sure bet she’d never make them. Grandma Wingate had been an excellent cook, and so had Ellen’s mother, and both had looked cute in their ruffled aprons. Unfortunately, neither attribute had been passed on to Ellen. She’d learned to fry an egg and broil a piece of meat, but that was the extent of her talent in the kitchen. Everyone said that a man wanted a wife who was pretty and knew how to cook. She flunked on both scores. No wonder no one had ever wanted to marry her.

  Forty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM

  Laureen’s stomach gave a protesting growl as she opened the refrigerator door. All this wonderful food inside and she couldn’t eat any of it.

  Harry Conners, her producer, had delivered an ultimatum when she’d shown up twenty pounds heavier after the Christmas holidays. If she didn’t lose ten pounds by the end of next month, he’d have to replace her. Laureen had explained that there was no way to test a
recipe unless she tasted it, but Harry wasn’t one to listen to reason.

  Naturally, Laureen had tried. She’d even gone on the newest fad diet, which promised miraculous results if she ate only an unsalted rice wafer four times a day, washed down by a vile-tasting concoction of food supplement powder mixed with grapefruit juice. But three days after she’d finished the recommended two-week stint, she’d stepped on the scale and found she’d regained her lost pounds and then some.

  A package of thick-sliced bacon beckoned, and Laureen yearned for bacon and eggs for breakfast. She was tired of being constantly hungry. Her stomach growled at the most embarrassing times and all she could think of was piles of creamy mashed potatoes awash with savory brown gravy. Grace claimed that dieting was a simple matter of balancing the calories consumed with the amount the body burned up through exercise, but of course that was easy for her to say. She was naturally thin. And the daily exercises she’d recommended only made Laureen hungrier.

  As Laureen reached for the bacon, she had almost managed to convince herself that her problem was hereditary. One of Laureen’s earliest memories involved sitting on a bench in some kind of health club, waiting for her mother to get out of a steam cabinet. She’d expected her mother to emerge thin and beautiful, but her face had been as red as a lobster’s and she’d been just as plump as ever.

  With a sigh of remorse, Laureen shoved the bacon in the very back of the refrigerator. She’d have a small glass of skim milk and a piece of diet toast with sugar-free jam. And then she’d make her husband’s breakfast, even though he didn’t deserve it.

  Alan Lewis looked out his window and frowned despite the lovely scene, a glistening expanse of white snow unbroken by human footprints. The pines in the grove loomed dark and tall, a frosting of snow on their branches and three bright blue mountain jays and a vivid red cardinal were pecking at the feeder Paul had designed. The whole picture was worthy of Currier and Ives, but Alan found it difficult to appreciate. Ever since Laureen had found out about Vanessa, his treatment had been colder than the icicles that hung from their balcony.