Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 12

by Stalker

  About a quarter-mile down the main drag, she came upon a mall of antiques shops. Entering one of them, she found herself looking at items better suited to a thrift shop. Lots of old books and clothing…odd lots of dishes that could have been pieces from great-grandma’s cheap china set. There was a shelf filled with rusted tins that were once used to hold dry goods. Another shelf was stocked with chipped porcelain figurines stamped MADE IN JAPAN. Cindy did notice a few pieces of good-quality iridescent carnival glass, but the prices weren’t any bargain. Still, since Mom collected it and she didn’t want to leave empty-handed, she picked up a cup-and-saucer set and examined it for flaws. Finding the pieces to be in pristine condition, she brought them over to the counter.

  A forty-plus woman was behind the register. A very short haircut emphasized a very long jawline. Blue eyes sat in nests of tiny crinkles, wrinkles, and crow’s feet. Her face was without adornment—no makeup or jewelry. Her clothing was simple—a short-sleeved blue surfer Hawaiian shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. Cindy handed her the cup and saucer.

  “This is nice,” the woman said. She studied the price. “I should have asked more for it. Too bad. My loss, your gain.”

  Cindy nodded and smiled. “Nice shirt.”

  “Thanks,” the woman answered. “We’ve got a stack of them over on the left. Did you see them?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Want me to show you them?”

  “Sure.”

  The woman came out from behind the counter and began leading Cindy through the maze of crowded aisles. “They’re the real thing from the fifties and sixties. One hundred percent rayon. Not cotton. The cotton ones don’t drape well. We also have some bowling shirts if you’re interested.”

  “I don’t bowl.”

  “That’s okay. Most of our customers don’t bowl either. It’s just the latest thing in Gen-Y dress. You know, too hip, gotta go. What do you do?”

  Cindy was momentarily floored by the question. She gave her stock answer. “Student.”

  “U of Redlands?”

  “Uh, no. UCSD.”

  “Nice place to go to school.” The woman quickly rooted through the piles of cloth, then pulled out a pink shirt decorated with Hawaiian hula dancers. “This should be your size.”

  “It’s nice.” She actually thought that it was kind of neat. “How much?”

  “Forty.”

  “Wow! That much?”

  “Like I said, it’s the real thing.”

  “What do you think it cost new?”

  “Five, six bucks. I’ll give it to you for thirty. That’s what I charge Ron Harrison in West Hollywood. He marks them up a hundred percent.” She smiled. “Just slip it on over your blouse. See what you think.”

  Cindy slipped on the shirt. “It’s a little big.”

  “They’re supposed to be big.”

  “I look like a Mafia moll trying to hide a gun.”

  “We get them, too.” The woman smiled. “Okay, I’ll go to twenty-five. I paid twenty for it. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me five bucks.”

  “You’re talking me into it,” Cindy stated. “I don’t need it.”

  “Need is completely different from want. Do you want it?”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Buy it. You won’t be sorry.”

  Cindy threw up her hands, then handed her back the shirt. “Just call me sucker. I’ll take it.”

  “It looks good on you. And if you do change your mind, just bring it in to Ron Harrison. Tell him Elaine sent you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You want some cappuccino or an espresso? I’ve got a machine in the back.”

  “I’m fine—”

  “I’m fixing one for myself.”

  “Okay, I’ll take a cappuccino.”

  “Come in the back then.”

  Cindy followed Elaine into the back of the store. The machine was squeezed between old appliances, specifically iceboxes. “People still use these things?”

  “Nah, strictly for decoration—even though most of them do work. We get a lot of L.A. designers in here looking for odds and ends.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. You sound surprised. Why would they pay fifty percent more to shop in a fancified store when they can get the same thing here if they sniff around a bit? We really have some treasures in here.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said we,” Cindy replied. “Do you own the place?”

  “Me and my friend.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s with the ‘oh’?” Elaine challenged. “You have something against lesbians?”

  “Not at all.” Cindy groped for the right words. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see any gays in a town this small.”

  “We’ve got a lot of gays here in Belfleur.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Mostly lesbians. We’ve also got a few older queers. You have antiques, you have gays. Stereotypes aren’t based on fiction, you know.” She took a carton of milk out of one of the old iceboxes and began to steam it. “What’s your name?”

  “Cindy.”

  “So, Cindy. What brings you specifically to Belfleur?”

  “Actually, I’m sort of hunting around for information.”

  Elaine stopped steaming and faced her. “You’re no student.”

  “I’m a student of life.”

  “That’s as corny as Fritos. What kind of information are you seeking?”

  “That’s the big question.”

  “It’s the big one for me,” Elaine said. “It shouldn’t be for you. You should know what you want.”

  Cindy decided on honesty. “About a year ago, there was a big carjacking murder in Los Angeles—”

  “Armand Crayton.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Of course. Everyone knew Armand. Now, he must have bought a dozen Hawaiian shirts from me.” Elaine paused. “I wonder if the widow still has them?”

  “What did you think of him?”

  Elaine handed her the cappuccino. “What are you? Like a private eye or something?”

  “A cop,” Cindy said. “But I’ll still take the shirt and the cup and saucer. Tell me about Armand Crayton.”

  “A real operator in every sense of the word. First, he tried the sexual allure. When I didn’t bite for obvious reasons, he tried the business angle, but that didn’t work either. But he must have charmed his way into the hearts of more than a few suckers. I know for a fact that dozens of people had bought into his schemes. Most of them were not from around here, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Bought into what? A land development of some sort?”

  “It was supposed to be a resort with private condos as well as rentals. Desert Bloom Estates. They had a whole mock-up of the place sitting in Armand’s office—”

  “Armand had an office here?”

  “For a while, yeah, he had an office. Just for the locals, to show us that he had plans so we wouldn’t think he was a total con man. Of course it was horse manure, but the model was nice. It was complete with buildings and little pieces of blue cellophane for the pools. And there were these tiny little trees and cacti landscaping. Some of the units even showed furniture. You know, the dated pink and green Southwest stuff. But I guess the investors weren’t exactly the sophisticated type. They marketed Belfleur as an upscale Palm Springs with the desert warmth but without the extreme heat. We have the change of seasons as you go deeper into San Berdoo, near where all the orchards are. It’s real woody up there. Course it gets cold up there, too. That’s why we can grow cherries and apples. We get a real chill during the winter. You pass any of the cherry trees?”

  “No.”

  “Keep going northeast into the mountains. It’s going to be a good fruit crop. Come back in June. We’ve got U-pick, U-haul farms. Cherries for a fraction of what you pay in the market.”

  “You own a cherry orchard, too?”


  Elaine smiled. “Now that would be very enterprising of me. But no, I don’t have any cherry trees.”

  “How about Armand? Was he interested in cherries?”

  “Only the human, virgin kind.” Elaine laughed at her own joke.

  “That sounds like Armand.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Not well. But you didn’t have to know Armand well to realize what he was after.”

  “True, true, and too true.”

  “So Armand wanted to turn the area into a desert resort.”

  “See, that’s what the problem was,” Elaine explained. “Belfleur isn’t hot enough year round to be a desert spa. And it isn’t cold enough to be a ski resort. Plus, I’m betting when word got around and people realized they hadn’t invested in any Garden of Eden, they backpedaled. Most of his investors were out-of-towners looking to make a fast buck. It never works that way.”

  “You’re right about that,” Cindy agreed. “Do you know how much the plots originally cost?”

  Elaine sipped her cappuccino, receiving a milk mustache in the process. She licked it off with the tip of her tongue. “You know, you should be talking to Ray. He’s not only a genuine old-timer, but he was more involved with Armand than I certainly was. He’s the town Realtor.” Elaine faced the front of the store. “Go east on Main, past the trailer park, past the big Wal-Mart shopping center with the Taco Bell and the Starbucks, almost to the end of Belfleur. The town merges into Haciendaville. If you reached Haciendaville, you went too far. His place is on the left side.”

  “His office is open today?”

  “His office?” Elaine smiled. “That’s funny…his office. Anyway, he’s always there except Sunday morning when he’s at church. Ray’s straight, a rabid Republican, and a Baptist to boot. But don’t be put off. Despite all that, he’s a good guy.”

  It was a tiny storefront with filmy windows that usually accompanied places boarded up for good. The gold lettering on the glass said RAYMOND HARP. Underneath the name was the word REALTOR. Cindy opened the glass door and went inside. A man was slouched in an oversized chair with his feet propped up on a bridge table, its plastic top made up to look like simulated wood. He was smoking a cigar. He wore a white suit and a Panama hat, and sported a white beard. He had a round face, pale skin, and very dark eyes. He was typecast for the elderly plantation gentleman, or the old corrupt Southern judge. And Cindy wasn’t far off. When he asked—without moving—if she needed help, she detected a slight drawl. But it was more Texas than Deep South.

  “My name is Cindy Decker. Are you Mr. Harp?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Cindy Decker.” The man tipped his hat. “And no, I’m not Mr. Harp. I’m Mr. Harper, if you must know. The E and R got scratched off the window ages ago. Never bothered to put ’em back up, since everyone in town knows who I am.”

  Cindy nodded and attempted to give him a friendly smile as she looked around. The file cabinet was ancient, with papers sticking out even though the drawers were closed. The soda machine was vintage quality and probably worth more than anything Elaine had in her antiques shop. “So you are Raymond Harper, then.”

  “Achully I’m Elgin Harper. Ray was my brother, and he moved out twenty-five years ago. Never bothered to correct that, either. Lots of people call me Ray. But if you’re asking my true Christian name, it’s Elgin Harper.” He smiled, showing brown teeth, then blew a smoke ring. “Now what can I do for you, Cindy Decker?”

  “I’m thinking about buying a weekend escape. I heard that prices are cheaper here than in Palm Springs.”

  There was a pause. Then Harper said, “You’re talking about a second home here?” He swung his feet off the desk. “And just what do you intend to do with a house here?”

  “Just relax.” Cindy kept at it. “Maybe drive into the mountains and do some hiking. Also, since it’s close to Palm Springs, I can drive into the city when I want a little more action.”

  Harper eyed her. “Are you a hooker?”

  Cindy burst into laughter. “No, sir, I am not a hooker.”

  Harper didn’t answer.

  “I’m not a hooker,” Cindy reiterated. “Honest.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “Why are you so curious?” Cindy asked.

  “Because a pretty lady comes in here asking for a retreat. A lady who wears slacks instead of jeans and a fancy sweater that shows off a healthy chest, excuse my impertinence. Listen, you want to ply your trade, I won’t object. I could give you a slew of referrals. Heck, being a red-blooded Republican male, I may even come to you myself. But I still go to church. That means I’m not gonna sell to you and get in trouble with the locals. Not that we’re too overly Christian. You see all the antiques stores we got?”

  “I met Elaine.”

  “She’s one of many. Hell, we got more queens in this here city than in Europe. But we don’t want any of your type bringing in imported trash. We got enough with our own local trash. You want customers, try the reservations for that kind of shenanigans.”

  “I am not a hooker.”

  “Well, maybe not. But you’re not being truthful. What do you want?”

  Cindy glanced around. “You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you, Ray? Or is it Elgin?”

  “It’s whatever you want to call me, honey.” He started laughing. It turned into a hacking cough. “And yes, I’ve been here a while. Hey, I bet you’re a bondsman. Who skipped bail this time?”

  “I’m not a bondsman. I’m not even a bondswoman.”

  “Well, you’re some kind of person looking for information. You’re packing.” He pointed to her bag. “I can see the piece dragging down at the bottom of your bag. If you’re going to rob me, go away. Only money here is in the soda machine.”

  Harper stood up. His protruding belly fell over his belt and hung down, nearly hiding his genitals. He put his hands on his hips and took a step forward. “So what do you want, young lady?”

  “Okay,” Cindy said. “This is the deal, Mr. Harper. I’ll tell you what I know about Armand Crayton and you fill in the rest.”

  “What’s in it for me, Cindy Decker?”

  “Who knows? Maybe by talking, we can figure out who murdered Crayton.”

  “And why would I care about that?”

  “You didn’t like Armand?”

  “As a matter of fact, I found him an agreeable young lad. But if you’re asking who killed him, I’ll tell you there’s a long list of candidates. Armand disappointed quite a few people.”

  “Tell me about them,” Cindy persisted.

  Harper blew another smoke ring. “I think I’m gonna sit down again. This may take a while. You might want to pull up a chair yourself.” He held up his cigar. “This bothering you?”

  “No, not at all. I love the smell of a cheap cigar. It reminds me of back alley gambling and barroom brawls.”

  “Now there’s a thought.” Harper sank into his chair and put his feet back up. “You wanna make up some coffee?”

  “I suppose I can do that.” She searched around the room. “Where’s the coffeepot?”

  “In the john, right next to the toilet paper.”

  “Lovely.”

  “No, it ain’t the Ritz, thank you very much.”

  Cindy went inside the bathroom. It was small, but surprisingly spotless. Even the grout that held together the white tile floor was clean. The machine rested on a shelf, along with the coffee, its accoutrements, and three mugs. She poured the water into the apparatus and waited for it to gurgle. As the coffee brewed, she tried to formulate her questions. But there were so many of them, she gave up.

  A few minutes later she walked back into the office—so to speak—and handed him a fresh cup. “What do you take?”

  “Three packets of powder, three lumps of sugar.”

  She took the cup from him and prepared it to his liking.

  Harper said, “I could get into this. A beautiful woman fixing coffee for me.” A fraction of a wait, then he sa
id, “Any woman fixing coffee for me.”

  “I bet you do okay in the woman department.” She pulled up a chair. “That ah-shucks demeanor. Gets ’em every time. Now…” She sipped her coffee. “What can you tell me about Armand and Desert Bloom Estates?”

  “The gentleman almost pulled it off. Quite a feat, Cindy, because this land doesn’t have a whole bunch of natural resources to sell it. Yet, Armand approached the land like it had been kissed by King Midas of Crete. Man, that boy could talk a good case. And he was nice to the locals, though everyone knew it was with self-serving interest. Still, he was polite. I’ll give him that much.”

  “Who were his investors?”

  “I’d say fools, but that would be harsh. You’ve got to remember, Cindy, that the stock market was booming with everything e-this or e-that. People were throwing capital into companies that had never turned a profit. Guess Armand figured he might as well ride that wave. Housing was booming, and empty land was at a premium—if you lived in Silicon Valley or Seattle, that is. What’s the first thing they teach you in real estate buying school—location, location, location. Well, here in Belfleur, hi-tech means a calculator. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. What can I tell you? Belfleur didn’t really participate in the boom.”

  Harper stubbed out his cigar and took a swig of his coffee.

  “Sure we had a few Hollywood types with their ponytails and second wives that got it in their heads to be gentlemen farmers and bought some fruit orchards, but that was about it. All that was true until Crayton came along. But, you see, Armand wasn’t in the real estate business. He was in the dream business. He sold dreams to anyone willing to believe them.”

  He arched his hand across the air, making an imaginary banner.

  “Desert Bloom Estates. All you ever wanted in a dream getaway. Pools and sauna and gyms and massages and mud baths and salt rubs. The place to come when you want to be pampered. And who doesn’t want to be pampered. Heck, I get excited when a pretty young lady makes me coffee.” He winked at her. “Real excited.”