Her voice had risen slightly, and Harley put a hand on her arm. “If he has, you can prove you didn’t know anything about it. After all, you’re going to report it.”
“Report it?” Darcy blinked. “You mean—to the police? Oh no, I’m not! I’m not about to have my name in the paper like that. Why, I’d lose every one of my clients. No, no, you’re going to prove that Harry’s responsible, and then we’re going to confront him with the proof. I thought maybe you could get that Italian boy to come with us, just as leverage. Muscle, I think I’ve heard it called. You know who I mean. The Mafia guy.”
“Mafia—Bobby? He has the weight of the Memphis Police Department behind him, Aunt Darcy. Bobby won’t involve himself in anything underhanded. I know. It’s a shame, but that’s the way he is. He will, however, advise us on how to press charges and keep it as quiet as possible. Listen—if you wait and the police somehow get involved, then you’ll be under suspicion and it will be in all the papers anyway.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. She looked positively ferocious, kind of like a thwarted possum, with bared teeth and glittering eyes.
“There is no way this side of hell that I’ll risk everything I’ve worked for like that. No. You get the proof, and I’ll take care of Harry.”
That was Aunt Darcy. A velvet steamroller. Iron fist inside the lace glove. Oh yeah. It was a family trait. Even Diva had her inflexible core. It seemed to be a female characteristic inherited from Grandmother Eaton, and her mother before her. Nana McMullen was one hard lady, but with none of the velvet. Now in her mid-eighties, Nana was all steel and stubbornness, age stripping her of any need for pretense at courtesy or gentility. A scary old lady. Apparently, Aunt Darcy had inherited a wide streak of her grandmother’s stubbornness.
“Okay,” Harley said, “I’ll see what I can find out. But why haven’t you been able to find out anything? Don’t you keep records?”
“Of course we do. But Harry keeps separate records. You’ll have to find where he hides his books and get them for me. He’s got a desk here, but he keeps that kind of thing in his home office, I’ll bet.”
Oh boy. “Uh, that might be classified as breaking and entering.”
“I have no idea how to classify it. I just want his ledgers. Get them for me. I’ll pay you well.”
“How well?” Okay, so it was a little crass to shake down family, but Aunt Darcy had the bucks and spent freely when she wanted. Besides, she still owed Harley twenty dollars for their drinks at The Peabody.
“Five thousand dollars if you get me those ledgers.” Aunt Darcy said it without a blink, her blonde hair unturned. Her face relaxed back into the pre-possum mode, looking unlined and pleasant again.
“Five thousand . . . okay. I’ll do what I can.”
“As quickly as possible, please. We’re expecting another shipment, and Harry’s supposed to be out of town until next week, so be at my shop Thursday afternoon at two. That will be the perfect time to see what’s coming into the shop. Just watch out for his helper. Sherry something. Brown hair. Annoying voice. Very bourgeois. She hovers like a vulture.”
“Won’t she think it’s strange that I’m visiting?”
“I’ve already thought of that. You’ll be here consulting with me as a designer to redo your apartment.” Darcy smiled. “Now see, sugar? You’ll do just fine.”
Not bad. Maybe Darcy wasn’t as scattered as she’d once thought. And that was a little scary, too.
“You sure you want to get mixed up in that, baby?” Tootsie frowned, pushing away from the filing cabinet to roll his chair back across the floor to his desk. “Your aunt needs to go to the police.”
“Yeah, I tried to tell her that. I think once there’s proof either way, she can be convinced.” She heard the doubt in her own voice and sighed. “Or whatever. She’s willing to pay me five thousand to find out what’s going on and get her his books.”
Tootsie whistled softly. “Wish I had a generous relative.”
“She’s not generous. I think she’s desperate.” Harley frowned. “Could you get me a background check on Harry Gordon? I’m supposed to go back to the shop and pretend I’m remodeling my apartment so I can see what’s coming in, and maybe get my hands on his books. While I don’t really think he’s dumb enough to keep incriminating records anywhere close by, it will at least satisfy Aunt Darcy if I make the effort.”
“Sure, I’ll do what I can. But be careful. Your family has a way of getting into trouble without trying.”
“Don’t I know it.” She raked a hand through her hair, then remembered she’d put extra gel on it to hold it in place. It felt like porcupine quills. Spiny and sticky. That made her think of the rhinoceros powder. She pulled out the envelope Darcy had given her.
“Can you get Steve to test this, see if it’s some kind of bath powder or if it’s drugs or something?” Steve was a cop and Tootsie’s significant other, but despite their long, monogamous relationship, Harley had never met him. He always seemed to be working. Harley had once suggested that he was Tootsie’s imaginary playmate, much to his amusement.
She held out the tan envelope. “Aunt Darcy’s convinced it’s an illegal substance used in voodoo rituals. What do they do with powdered rhinoceros horn? Never mind. I’d rather not know.”
Tootsie’s smile was wicked. “Sure, I’ll have Steve test it. Preferably, on me.”
“Tootsie—”
“Oh, all right. You want this done on the quiet, I presume.”
“Of course. Will Steve keep it quiet even if it’s illegal?”
“No. But he will let you report it yourself. You know how cops are. Prone to be law-abiding.”
“An unfortunate side-effect at times.”
Tootsie lowered his voice. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Harley. Sure you want to do it?”
“No, but it’ll keep peace in the family if I at least try. Besides, what can happen in a design shop?”
By one-fifty-five Thursday, she’d returned to Designer’s Den, located off Poplar almost in Germantown, the elite town that blended into the city limits of Memphis with hardly a blink. Poplar Avenue stayed the same, except that in Germantown, the roadside speed limit signs also listed speed limits for horses. Germantown was a Mecca for the horsey set.
It was one of those June days Shakespeare had written about and Memphis was famous for—blue sky, warm breeze, the sweet fragrance of flowering plants in the air. Along with loads of pollen to irritate the noses of the allergy prone.
Harley parked her car on the side, off the crushed seashell parking lot bordering the rear drive, and stared at the huge truck nosed against the back loading area. It had no logo, nothing to designate it as a shipping firm or delivery van, just a plain white-sided truck. That was rather odd. Didn’t most delivery firms like to advertise? Maybe she’d go in the back way and see what was up.
It was blacktop back there. The white van used by Designer’s Den to deliver furniture to clients was parked against a line of hedges. Behind it was a Mustang convertible, sporty and blue and definitely not Aunt Darcy’s. She had a sensible—and expensive—four-door white sedan, one of those with all the bells and whistles. It also defiantly bore a row of Obama-Biden 2008 stickers on the back bumper. When the presidential elections came around again, Aunt Darcy would replace them with whatever Democratic candidate ran against the Republicans. She could be counted on for party loyalty, no matter what the scandal or platform. Of course, there were plenty of rattling skeletons in both party closets that often sent Harley’s father, Yogi, into a rant against the government and Big Brother, so Harley avoided all family political discussions. It could turn ugly quickly.
A rather florid, tall man with iron-gray hair and piercing blue eyes stood with a clipboard near the cargo doors, and he seemed startled to see her.
“The entrance is in front, miss,” he said, but she ignored him and climbed up the three steep steps to the cargo bay.
“Oh, I know, but I thought I might find D
arcy Fontaine back here. She’s supposed to meet me, didn’t she tell you? Are you one of her employees?”
“No.” His eyes narrowed slightly, but the polite smile remained fixed. Ah. This would be Harry Gordon, who obviously hadn’t left town. “You’ll find Mrs. Fontaine in the front of the store. I’ll be glad to escort you there,” he said.
“Oh, don’t bother. I know where it is. My, what a lovely chest. Is it French?”
“Portuguese. And it’s an armoire. Really, I must insist that you leave this area. Insurance requires that we not allow anyone back here where there might be an accident.”
While he spoke, he took her firmly by the arm, his fingers digging into her biceps with iron determination. It was almost as if he was afraid someone might see something they shouldn’t. Maybe Aunt Darcy was right after all, though it did stretch the imagination to think it would be anything more than a few Cuban cigars. And how did he manage that?
“I’m a customer,” she lied as he escorted her toward the double doors leading into the shop, “and Mrs. Fontaine said to meet her back here to look at a new shipment.”
He sliced her a quick, hard glance from those bright blue eyes that were cold and hot at the same time. “Really. Then I take it you’re interested in Portuguese armoires and Grecian urns? If not, you’ll find styles more to your taste up front, Miss—”
It was an open invitation to provide her name. She could almost hear his mental wheels clacking.
“Davidson. And you are . . .?”
“Harry Gordon.”
As suspected. She smiled. “And I do like Grecian urns, as a matter of fact. I’d like to look around for a few minutes before we discuss anything, however.” Not an entire lie. She picked up a vase with ugly, primitive looking figures on it. “This is nice.”
Moving closer, he took it from her hands and carefully put it back in the straw-filled box at the bottom of a carved chest. He closed the lid. “These are a new shipment not yet catalogued. Look, Miss Davidson, you’ll have to wait until we’ve inspected our shipment.”
“Then perhaps you should speak to Mrs. Fontaine, since she said I could browse through everything as soon as it got here. Get first pick, you know, before anyone else can try to buy it out from under my nose. Like this pretty jewelry box.” She picked up an item still in a crate, with straw clinging to it. The carved images in white bone looked Celtic, snakes and dragons all twisting around in sinuous loops.
His florid complexion went redder, and for a moment she thought he might turn purple. He reached over to pluck it out of her hands, then excused himself with a harsh mutter and stormed toward one of the delivery men working in the truck. There was a brief, low discussion during which he handed over his clipboard, and then he went back toward the front of the shop without another word to her.
Well, he’d left the clipboard, but unfortunately, it was in the possession of a large, burly man with a single eyebrow and low forehead. Primitive man at his best. Maybe brashness would work, as subtlety would be lost on this guy.
She strode toward him, whipped out her tour guide ID in an arc that she hoped was too swift for him to catch, and said, “Yes, I’ll go ahead and look at that now, please. Thank you.”
Reaching for the clipboard, she was elated when he looked surprised and uncertain and held it out. Then he seemed to recover and snatched it back, scowling at her.
“No,” he said in a heavy accent she couldn’t place, “no’ allowed.”
“Of course it is. I want to see what’s on that bill of lading. You’re familiar with Customs? Immigration?”
The last word caught his attention and he blanched. Harley kept her hand out, an eyebrow arched and her foot tapping impatiently. It was easy to see his internal struggle as he stared at her with the same look she’d seen on moose heads mounted on walls—a glassy-eyed, stunned sort of resignation.
Oh yes, she thought as the clipboard in his hand quivered closer to her outstretched fingers and success, give it to me . . .
Of course, nothing was ever that easy.
“Julio!” boomed a voice, startling the man into almost dropping the clipboard and making Harley jerk in annoyed surprise. Harry Gordon strode back into the delivery area with Aunt Darcy in tow.
Just a few more seconds and it would have been hers, Harley thought with a surge of exasperation at her aunt’s abominable timing. Aunt Darcy’s expression was caught between anger and fear. She looked like a trapped ferret. Her eyes darted between Harry and Harley, and her lips stretched back over her teeth in a grimace. Darcy could have at least called to warn her that Harry would be here, dammit.
“Miss Davidson,” Gordon said flatly, “you’ve no business back here at all.”
“Of course I do. I want to look at some unusual furniture, and I was told you have quite a few unique items coming into the shop today.”
His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t fooled one bit, and his lowered brows conveyed skepticism as well as irritation.
“Then wait until it’s all unloaded and inventoried. Your aunt will show you into the shop for now.”
Apparently, Aunt Darcy had told all. What a nitwit. How did she expect Harley to skulk around the shop if Gordon was suspiciously watching her every move? Honestly!
“I’m sorry,” Darcy muttered when they were at the front of the shop standing by a table holding glass globes and crystal figurines, “but I goofed and said you were my niece. I’m just so upset. He came back early and this shipment came in late . . . and now the other merchandise that I showed you Monday is gone. I kept it locked away, but it’s all disappeared.”
“Super.” She picked up a small glass globe with faint multicolored transparent swirls in the center, lovely and elusive. Diva would love it for her séances and palm readings. She shook it. “So now that he knows I’m family and his suspicions are probably on high alert, I’ll come back after six.”
Darcy frowned. “But we’ll be closed.”
“Yes. I know.” When her aunt still didn’t get it, she said, “After hours he’ll be gone and I can do some snooping.”
“Oh.” Darcy reached out, took the glass globe from her, and set it gently back onto the table. “If you think that’s best. What time shall I meet you here—oh wait. That’s no good. I have a Junior League meeting tonight. A charity auction.”
“If we give him too much time, whatever he’s bringing in now may be gone. We need hard evidence, something to hold over his head. We can use it as leverage to get his records. Or his resignation.”
“Well, I suppose I could give you a key,” Darcy said slowly and obviously reluctantly, “if you bring it back to me tonight.”
“I’ll see you at Grandmother’s Saturday for lunch. Why not then?” It was Thursday night and she had plans with Morgan for later, something deliciously wicked if she was lucky.
“Oh all right, I suppose I can trust you. You will be careful, won’t you, Harley? I mean, if he should find you in here he’d know I suspect him, and then it could get really ugly, or he could somehow say I’m involved in it when I’m not, really, except that it did seem too good to be true that we could sell all that awful stuff he imports at such a markup—”
“Aunt Darcy. I’ll be careful. I’ll need a camera to take pictures of the stuff he’s brought in, do a little snooping and see if I can find his ledgers or invoices, though I doubt he lets any of it far from his sight. He probably keeps it in a safe at his house.”
“I’ll give you my camera,” Darcy said, “but be careful with it. I use it for clients’ homes, and don’t want it broken.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? It’d be easier to call in the police, you know. If he’s smuggling, they’ll put him in jail.”
“It’d also ruin my reputation. Clients will think I’m unreliable, that somehow I’m mixed up in all this as well. If at all possible, I want to keep this quiet. Just please get me some proof that Harry’s smuggling. Then I can make him go away.”
“That might be called blac
kmail or extortion,” Harley said slowly. “I’m not up on all the laws, but it sounds dangerous. Harry doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d take it well.”
“I should have listened to Mama and Daddy,” Darcy said again, and Harley couldn’t argue with that.
It was nearly eight when Harley let herself into the shop, using the borrowed key Darcy had made her swear she’d guard with her very life. Ready to punch in the alarm code, she saw that it hadn’t been set, and paused. Definitely odd. But then, Aunt Darcy was so rattled by all this, she may well have forgotten to set it.
Waning light lent a musty gloom to the shop lit only by a few lamps here and there. It was quiet and still. Thick carpet underfoot gave way to the muted gleam of light oak floors in the next showroom, crowded with brocade couches and chairs, tall armoires, lamps, statues, tables, more chairs, and dozens of pots of greenery. No canned music filtered through hidden speakers; the only sound was the hum of the central air conditioning.
Moving quickly through the showrooms to the back, Harley paused when she heard a loud thud, like the slamming of a door. Her heart pounded, and air constricted her lungs as she froze. Meeting up with Harry Gordon would not be the highlight of her evening. The parking lot was empty except for the big store van out back, but it stayed there all the time. No one should be here, but an uneasy feeling of being watched prickled the back of her neck and made her reach for the Mace can she wore clipped to the waistband of her jeans. No point in being stupid.
The camera slung around her neck clinked softly as she moved forward, taking slow steps and trying not to bump into anything expensive. It was darker here, lamps on low providing spotty light, and suddenly her breathing sounded far too loud in the smothering gloom.
This was silly. No one was here. It was after hours. She was just jittery. Luck often went in the other direction when she started snooping. Still . . . she came to an abrupt halt when the thud sounded again, louder and closer. A door?
Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) Page 4