Wild Goose Chase

by Terri Thayer

  “Not so fast.” Lark held the dress away from me, a game of silky keep-away. “I’ll need to get Eve’s permission for you to wear this.”

  I grabbed the jacket sleeve. “Tell her I wear that or I’m out of here.”

  Myra demanded my attention, tapping my free arm. She said, “I’ve got something to tell you. Come with me.”

  She was pulling me away from Lark, away from the dress. “Hold on, I need Claire’s entry,” I said.

  Myra took two steps toward Lark and snatched the hanger away from her. “Here.”

  Lark protested, but Eve waved her off, and Myra thrust the dress at me.

  “Eve’s got bigger troubles than whether or not you wear this or something else. Just put it on,” she said, pushing aside a pile of street clothes, clearing an empty spot at the counter. “I’ve got other news.”

  I grabbed the dress and turned my back on Myra, stepping quickly out of my shoes, jeans, and T-shirt and pulling the dress over my head. The garlic smell coming off my clothes transported me right back to the truck. I stuffed down my sense of shame with great effort, unable to stop a red blush from crawling up my neck.

  The dress slipped on easily, the silky fabrics cooling down my hot skin. I looked at myself in the mirror. The dress complemented my coloring without washing out my skin. The fabric pieces were intricately shaded, the tones enhancing each other. It had taken a great eye to pull all these fabrics together in such a cohesive way.

  “How did Claire do this?” I asked, fingering the hem. “Did she make the fabric or what?”

  Myra nodded, picking up my pants off the floor and hanging them on a nearby hook. “There’s silks, cottons, rayons, over a hundred different prints in that skirt. She just sewed and sewed pieces together to make new fabric, then cut that apart and sewed again. The jacket is miniature quilt blocks. It took a lot of work, believe me.”

  I examined the jacket before pulling it on. “What about these buttons? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

  The buttons on the jacket were unique. Round with a center core of blue, the holes were surrounded by tiny green leaves and purple flowers. The colors in the buttons matched the fabrics of the jacket exactly.

  “Fimo clay. Claire made them from scratch. You’ve got to have an edge if you want to win first prize.”

  She grabbed my hands. Her palms were freezing. “Never mind the dress now. Let me tell you my news.”

  I could tell she was excited. Her pale skin was highlighted with two high spots of color on her cheeks.

  “It’s official,” Myra said, clapping her hands. “I can buy Quilter Paradiso.”

  “You buy Quilter Paradiso?” That was the last thing I’d expected to hear.

  “I talked to the lawyers this afternoon,” she said. “We’re going to execute the sales contract that Claire had drawn up with your mother.”

  “A contract? I didn’t know they’d gotten that far.”

  “Claire’s attorney knew all about it.”

  “But I didn’t know you wanted the shop,” I said. “I lined up some other people to talk to. I’ve scheduled appointments.”

  Myra zipped me up. “Well, now you don’t have to. I think Claire wanted me to have it,” she said wistfully. “That was her intent all along. She was buying your mother’s store for me.”

  The idea that I could stop looking for a buyer started to take hold. The shop would belong to Myra. No more worrying about the inventory, or making payroll. No more agonizing over what lines of fabric to buy. No more Kym. I felt lighter. I straightened my shoulders. I didn’t need to meet with Colin after all, and missing my drink with the Freitas sisters didn’t matter. I could let our family attorney handle the details. I could be finished with Quilter Paradiso.

  I held out my hand. “Okay, Myra, you’ve got a deal.” We shook. Myra smiled and I returned her grin. I’d call my old work buddies on Monday and start networking for a new job.

  Lark brought me back to earth, jerking me onto a small step stool. “Let me put up the hem, Dewey.” She was armed with a pin cushion strapped to her wrist.

  “I’m done here,” Myra said, patting my forearm. “I’ll go see if Eve needs my help. I can’t wait to see you on stage in Claire’s outfit. You’re going to be quite a sight.”

  Lark knelt on the floor, gave the skirt a fierce tug and, taking pins from her mouth, began rapidly turning up the hem. I glanced at her in surprise.

  “I didn’t know you knew how to sew.”

  “You see any needle or thread? I’m pinning, not sewing, Dewey,” she growled. “If it was up to me, I’d use scotch tape. Hold still.”

  Chastened, I held my hands down at my side, and tried to stand motionless.

  “Keep your chin up. Remember what I told you.”

  We were interrupted by two shrill blasts of a whistle.

  “Line up,” Eve’s voice cut through the noises of the crowd. She clipped her syllables like a cheerleader. “Your outfit should have a number. Get in numerical order.”

  Lark let me go reluctantly, the pins in her mouth twitching as she spat out one more and jabbed it in the hem. She gave me a hand down off the stool.

  Eve bent down to hear what Myra was telling her. From the vantage point of her chair, Eve pointed across the heads of the models at me.

  “Dewey, you’re first.”

  “First? No way!” I cried. “I don’t know what to do.” I felt silly, with everyone’s eyes on me without even leaving the dressing room. What would it be like in front of an audience?

  “That’s why we’re having a rehearsal,” Eve said. “Myra’s right. As long as you’re going to wear Claire’s work, you should be out in front. I’m not messing again with the lineup. Get over here. All you have to do is walk across the stage without tripping.”

  The models were already bunched by the closed stage door, jockeying into position. Wending my way to the front, I stepped on a mermaid’s tail and heard a yelp. I apologized.

  “I’m on first, sorry. Excuse me, I need to get by.”

  Lark called out, “Chin up. Shoulders back, don’t look down whatever you do.”

  I gave her a feeble wave.

  Eve handed me a pair of shoes. I slipped them on and she pointed me toward the stage. “Walk slowly, one foot in front of the other,” she said.

  Another chorus of “I Feel Pretty” started in the back of the room. She turned to the rest of the models, waiting in a line behind me.

  First on meant first off. That was some consolation. Maybe I wouldn’t be late meeting Colin Bergstrom and the Freitas sisters. I should let them know I’d agreed to sell to Myra.

  “Okay, everybody, ready to strut your stuff? Just because this is only a rehearsal doesn’t mean you can’t vamp it up. Be outrageous.”

  That was the last thing I wanted to be. I just wanted to get across the stage upright. The shoes pinched with each step I took. I felt sick. One of Lark’s pins had worked loose and was poking me in the calf. I felt a trickle of sweat travel between my shoulder blades. Kym was going to hear about this.

  I looked around for Myra. She was standing in the back of the dressing room and gave me a thumbs up. That made me feel better.

  “Ready with the spot? Lark, get ready to open the curtain,” Eve said into her walkie-talkie. “Okay, Dewey, go, go, go.”

  I felt my heart pound. Eve opened the door and pushed me out onto the stage. I hesitated, and she shoved me hard, like a commander pushing a parachuted rookie out of a plane.

  I took several baby steps. Small footlights lit only the area directly in front of me. Myra was expecting me to do Claire’s outfit proud. I sucked in my stomach and took another small step. Inhaling, I mouthed Lark’s words. Chin up, don’t watch your feet. I took two more steps.

  A noise from the doorway behind m
e froze my progress. I looked. Eve was wheeling her arms, urging me on. Faster, she mouthed. I picked up the pace and moved closer to center stage. A bright spotlight came on from behind the audience, blinding me. I shielded my eyes without thinking and heard Eve holler, “No!”

  Damn it, I was doing my best here. What did she expect? I’d told her I had no experience onstage. “Sorry, it was just so much brighter …” I turned to apologize, to explain to her that I hadn’t been prepared for the light but I would do better next time.

  Eve was hurtling toward me. At my feet, she crumbled to the floor and began crawling. What was she doing? She passed me and I looked to see where she was headed. The stage was brightly lit now. I blinked, sure I was not seeing what I was seeing. Suddenly my eyes cleared and I knew I was looking at another dead body.

  Justine lay in the middle of the stage, a large pool of dark blood underneath her head. The blood had spread around her but stopped, the jagged edges forming a red mantilla around her blood-darkened hair. Holding my own breath, I looked to see if her chest rose, but I saw no sign of life.

  I closed my eyes, refusing to believe it. When I opened them again, Justine had not moved.

  I looked back at the rest of the models, who had been shocked into complete silence. I saw Lark standing head and shoulders above the others. For a long moment, I held her eyes, refusing to acknowledge that Justine was laying three feet away from me, dead. Maybe if I never looked …

  “She’s hurt!” a woman in a feathered hat shouted.

  “Call 911,” someone else yelled.

  No one moved. I couldn’t leave Eve alone. I took the several steps to where she was kneeling alongside her fallen friend, her tears spilling freely.

  “Justine,” Eve keened, the word taking more syllables than I would have thought possible.

  My second body in as many days. I was getting to be an expert.

  I put my hand gently on hers. “Don’t touch anything, Eve.”

  “But she’s hurt.” Eve’s words were followed by gully-washing tears.

  “She’s past being hurt.”

  Eve turned her sorrowful brown eyes to me, the pain so deep in them I had to look away. I reached for my phone, then remembered it was with my clothes. “Someone call the police,” I yelled. “She’s dead.”

  The crowd of models remained huddled in the doorway on the edge of the stage. The woman in the flapper dress shook, her fringe flying vigorously. Just a few minutes ago, they’d been a lighthearted group, singing and bitching about too-tight waistbands.

  Everyone was looking at me as though I should know what to do. And I did. I knew I had to keep everyone together until the police came. I tried to find Myra, but I couldn’t see her. She shouldn’t be alone.

  “Lark,” I hissed. She took several tentative steps closer, keeping her gaze on my face, off Justine’s body.

  “Keep everyone in the dressing room. Make sure no one leaves. The police will want to interview them,” I said.

  She nodded, herding the models back into the dressing room. I heard their voices rise excitedly, quiet shock replaced by the compulsion to talk about what they were experiencing.

  I remembered the #Buster on my phone.

  “And tell Myra. Tell her to bring my cell phone. She knows where it is.”

  Eve pulled on Justine’s bangs, smoothing the hair on her forehead. I looked away, unwilling to look at Justine’s flat, staring eyes. Nothing, I learned again, was as empty as eyes with no life behind them.

  I wanted to move away. “Eve, honey, we’ve got to leave,” I said gently.

  “No,” she roared. “I’m not going.” She moved closer to Justine, cradling her shoulders. I knelt, keeping a distance, reluctant to get bloody again. Eve stroked Justine’s cheek over and over. Her face told me she knew her friend was beyond feeling, but she was unable to stop.

  “She was a good person, Dewey. Even after everything she did, I still loved her. And she loved me.”

  “I know she did.” I shifted, my knees stinging from the cold wood stage.

  “Listen to me,” Eve pleaded. I sat back on my heels, Claire’s skirt covering my legs, the pins in the hem digging into my thighs.

  “We never should have moved out of San Francisco,” Eve said quietly. “I thought we’d have a better life in Reno. But Justy was lonely there. It was harder to make friends than we thought it would be. I had my garden, but Justine, she needed people. She tried golf, tennis, but she got bored.”

  Eve struggled to replace Justine’s sandal that had fallen off. Her bare foot was white as marble, vulnerable and cold. I swallowed hard.

  “At first when she started going to the casinos, I didn’t mind. I was glad.”

  I looked back at the stage door. The models had migrated back to the entrance in a knot. Lark was not with them anymore. I couldn’t leave Eve alone, and no one was coming out to spell me. I shifted my skirt so the pins weren’t sticking me as much. It would be a while before the police arrived, even with Buster and Sanchez in the building somewhere.

  Eve continued, her voice insistent and low. I felt like she’d been waiting to tell someone this story for a long time.

  “At first I didn’t know where she was going. Justine always handled our finances. We were short some months, but she always had an explanation. The truck needed a transmission, or she’d made a deposit on a hall in Lancaster for the spring convention. She always had a reason.”

  Eve grew quiet, and I thought she was finished.

  “I followed her to the casino one night,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Justine was at the blackjack table, playing for thousands of dollars. The dealers knew her well, brought her White Russians and coffee. She loved White Russians.”

  Eve dissolved into tears. I patted her while she rocked back and forth, wordless sounds coming from her mouth. Where was Myra with my phone?

  A movement on the stage caught my eye. Was the killer still here? I started. Eve sensed my urge to flee and grabbed my hand, keeping me at her side. My heart in my throat, I tried to make out what I saw. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I could see the gold fringe fluttering on the American flag that stood in the back corner of the stage. Her rocking had caused a cross breeze, making the fringe move and settle. Nothing alive, just shiny gold fringe.

  My breathing returned to normal, and Eve lessened her grip. I scanned the stage, trying to assure myself that that was all that I’d seen. I spotted something familiar on the floor near the back of the stage. One overhead light was illuminating the little orb.

  A button. From here, I could clearly see the brightly colored flower in the center. Just like the one on the jacket I was wearing.

  I pulled the jacket around me. A chill went through me. If Sanchez saw this, he would suspect me of murder—again. My heart fluttered. I had to get that button.

  Two EMTs arrived, easing Eve away from Justine’s body. I heard them muttering about gunshot wounds. Lark came out and hugged Eve, dragging her toward the dressing room, as the emergency workers bent over Justine. I backed away, gathering the skirt around me, sat back on my heels, and glanced at the crowd regrouped at the stage door. All eyes were on Eve. I scooted backward, away from the front of the stage. No one noticed that I was moving away from them. In the semi-darkness of the downstage, I put my hand out, fingers scrambling, reaching until I found the button. I scooped it up.

  To my right, on the opposite side from the models, I felt for an opening in the curtain. To my great relief, I found one and, still crawling backward, slipped through.

  I stood, letting the curtain close around me. I pulled off the painful shoes. I was in a dim, musty space off stage left. My bare foot bumped into something hard and I nearly tripped over a metal dolly. I bit my lip to avoid crying out in pain.

  One hand out, I felt my way toward the red g
low from an EXIT sign at the end of the hall. I closed my other hand around the button. The sharp edges dug into my palm.

  No way was I going through an interrogation with Sanchez believing I had something to do with another murder. Hours of questions I had no answers to. I knew there would be consequences later, but I didn’t care. My throat closed. I felt as trapped as a squirrel in a forest fire, with the same overwhelming urge to flee.

  I pushed the exit door open, waiting for alarm bells, only breathing normally when none came. I was outdoors, on a small concrete dock. I couldn’t see the street from here, but I could hear the air brakes of trucks stopping at a nearby traffic light.

  I had come out onto the loading zone for the auditorium, similar to the one we had used to set up Wednesday night—the mundane working end of the convention center.

  I tore the jacket off and compared the buttons to the one in my hand. An exact match. I counted the buttons down the front. Five, all intact. No buttons were missing off the jacket. No sixth buttonhole, no little threads indicating a button had fallen off. I patted the dress down. It had a long zipper in the back. No buttons on the dress, not as fastener or embellishment. Where had this one come from?

  My mind spiraled back to Justine’s dead body. I had to keep the button away from Sanchez. I didn’t need anything to point me to the scene of the crime.

  I walked along the concrete pad. A stenciled sign on the back wall read “No jumping off the dock.” Did people really commit suicide off loading docks? Was this loading dock the Golden Gate Bridge of Silicon Valley?

  I scrubbed at my eyes and dragged the fingernails of my left hand through the hair at my temples. The pain reminded me this was not some nightmare I could wake up from. People were dying around me. First Claire, now Justine.

  I reached for my phone to call Buster before remembering I didn’t have it. What would I tell him anyhow? That I was running from another crime scene? That I was withholding possible evidence?

  A shiver ripped through my body. Most of the area was in deep shade, and the air was cold. Moving toward the sun, I saw steps that led down to the drive—steps to freedom. Somewhere around this maze was the way out, a path that would lead me to the parking garage and my car and my real life. Away from death, away from murder. I would make a run for it.