Surprised, Harley said, “You’re kidding—so I could find out all this stuff just by going on Google?”
“Darling, not even on your best day. It was a joke. I use a special database that requires an access fee.”
“Oh.” She grimaced. “I’ll pay any fees.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He waggled his brows mysteriously and whispered, “Steve uses it a lot more than I do.”
“Ah, the imaginary Steve. One day you’ll have to stop blaming all your crimes on him, you know.”
“Maybe. So come to my show tonight. It’s a special revue. I’ll be dressed as Madonna.”
“I have a date with Morgan.”
“He’ll love it.”
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem that open to new things.”
“Then now is the time to find that out, don’t you think?”
Tootsie was right. No point in wasting time on a man who might have prejudices that she wouldn’t understand and wouldn’t like. Best to find out early on if he was a keeper or a time-waster. She nodded.
“What time do you go on?”
“Ten. At Numbers. You know where that is, don’t you?”
“Cooper-Young area, isn’t it? And no, I don’t know where it is.”
He gave her directions, and Harley said she’d be there, with or without Mike Morgan. It was going to be an interesting evening.
The ladies from Iowa were middle-aged and slightly reserved, but really seemed to like the nineteenth century houses at Victorian Village. They’d done Graceland the day before with Charlsie, and were still talking about the seventies styles Elvis had loved, and the shops where they’d obviously spent a lot of tourist dollars on CDs and Elvis memorabilia. One of them had an Elvis wristwatch that played Hound Dog on every hour, but other than that, Harley had no gripes about them.
When the Fontaine House tour guide got to the part of her spiel about the resident ghost in the upstairs bedroom, Harley wondered if Aunt Darcy’s husband was related to the old family who’d once owned the house. Then she wondered if Paul Fontaine had any connections to his wife’s design shop. Maybe she was leaving out a logical suspect. So far, she’d suspected Darcy, Madelyn, and Amanda of at the very least not telling all they should, and at the worst, having had a hand in Harry Gordon’s murder. If Paul Fontaine, Aunt Darcy’s indulgent but often absent husband, thought Darcy was having an affair with Harry, that’d be a good reason for him to kill Harry. Not that there was a dearth of people who’d seemed to want Harry dead. He hadn’t been the most popular guy in Memphis. And she still didn’t know all she should about Harry. She really wasn’t that good at this detective stuff. But then, she hadn’t been that good at corporate banking, and even her tour guide skills were less than they should be. She had to be good at something. Everybody had a talent. What was hers?
While the Iowans were still touring the house, Harley went outside and dug in her brown leather backpack for her cell phone. She turned it on and dialed Tootsie.
When he answered, she said, “I’ve got an idea. No, not that. Don’t be obscene. Since there are a lot more Harry Gordons than there should be, try narrowing the search to Frieda Plotz in St. Louis or Cincinnati, or both. If Frieda doesn’t show up, try Cheríe Saucier. You may have to go back a few years. There’s got to be a connection between her and Harry before they got to Memphis. Oh, and while you’re at it, if there’s anything you can find out about Paul Fontaine’s financial interests in his wife’s shop, that’d be very helpful. Yes, I know I’ll owe you big time. Twenty percent of my pay and the purple cocktail dress you’ve been trying to talk me into giving you. It’s my last, so this is a huge sacrifice. It’s strapless, so buy your own bra.”
She hung up and turned off her phone, then stuck it back into her backpack. She’d check her messages later, after she got the ladies out of the gift shop and while they were touring the Dixon Art Gallery and gardens. There’d be plenty of time then to sit on a bench in the shade and enjoy the weather and catch up on personal messages.
By the time she tactfully removed the ladies from the gift shop and herded them to the van, it was lunchtime. Lunch was a brief stop at the Dixie Café where the ladies tried fried green tomatoes with catfish and hushpuppies. Harley attempted to convince one of them that the whole catfish wouldn’t be as good as the filet, but she insisted. When the waiter brought out the entire catfish, tail and fins intact, Harley was prepared. Quickly leaning across the table, she promptly chopped off the tail and filleted the fish with an efficiency she hadn’t known she possessed, and explained, “Just think of this as Southern lobster.”
The horror on the woman’s face disappeared, and she gave a shaky laugh. “Well, I hope it tastes better than it looks.”
Harley smiled. “I assure you it does. Have a hushpuppy. They’re really good, too.”
She understood. Her first encounter with fried catfish had been less than wonderful. Some said it was an acquired taste, but she thought it had more to do with an inherited tolerance for cornmeal and lard. Diva had never considered those part of the basic food groups, and Harley’s early childhood had done nothing to prepare her for Southern delicacies. Dulse and bamboo shoots were familiar, but not nearly as tasty as fried cornbread.
After eating her fill of hushpuppies, slaw, and drinking a half-gallon of sweet tea, Harley ushered her group back out to the van for the next stop on their tour. A wind blew popcorn clouds across the bright blue sky, and heat soaked into pavement and asphalt that was made even hotter by car engines and exhaust.
Dixon Gallery on Park Avenue was a sprawling building tastefully flanked by beautiful gardens, donated by an old Memphis family and kept up by the city. Rotating exhibits from Fabergé eggs to Monet paintings inhabited the spacious gallery, and outside in the gardens, the seasonal plantings kept an entire staff of gardeners busy full-time. Harley sat on a concrete bench in the shade just off the circular rose planters. Greenhouses held exotic plants, and a fountain in the distance hosted water plants.
Squinting against the bright light and fighting the rare urge for a cigarette, Harley dialed Tootsie. “Find out anything?” she asked when he answered, interrupting his spiel.
“You’re a pest.”
“I know. You keep telling me that. One day you’re going to hurt my feelings.”
“I say it with love.”
She smiled. “I know that.”
“Well, you called at just the right time. It seems that the most likely of our Harry Gordons has a rather interesting history. Back in the eighties, he worked as a rare coin dealer, before there was a big dust-up about him switching valuable coins for worthless pieces. Then after a brief stint in a Missouri prison he pops up again in another town and career.”
“Did that happen to be St. Louis, perhaps?”
“Don’t you catch on quick.”
“That must be where he met Cheríe or Frieda or whoever she is. My bet’s on Frieda. How close am I if I say that Harry got into the antique business after prison?”
“Right on the money. In Cincinnati. He went to work for a dealer who imported pieces from Europe, Africa, all kinds of exotic places. And that’s when Cheríe Saucier pops up for the first time since she died. Damn. That sounds funny, doesn’t it?”
“Hilarious. Okay, so now we know they probably knew each other in St. Louis, and when he got out of the joint, she followed him to Cincinnati. So how’d he end up in Memphis?”
“There were some complaints in Ohio from people who claimed they’d purchased pieces that were copies instead of genuine. This time ole Harry got five years in an Ohio prison, but he got out early, time off for good behavior. That’s when he went to work for your aunt eighteen months ago. And Cheríe went to work for him, best as I can tell. Privacy laws keep a lot of good info secret.”
“Unless you’re the IRS.”
“Did I ever mention that I once worked for the IRS?”
“Tootsie, you’re amazing.”
“I’ve heard
that. As for Paul Fontaine, he has no financial involvement with Designer’s Den that I can find. Now I have to get back to work before Mr. Penney gets nosy. Later, baby.”
Smiling, Harley punched in the code to retrieve her messages. Morgan had called. He was at the hideout but would call her again later. The hideout. Sheesh. Undercover cops really did get too full of themselves on occasion. Bobby was right about that.
Carefully putting her cell phone back in the leather case inside her backpack, Harley sat for a moment on the bench and thought about all the seemingly unrelated pieces that were slowly fitting into some kind of pattern—Harry, Cheríe, antiques, stolen coins, art objects and smuggling. Same kind of business, just a different location and delivery method. It still didn’t look good for Aunt Darcy.
A breeze picked up, washing the air with the sweet scent of roses, and she looked toward the circular rose beds laid out like a giant wheel. A few Dixon workers labored, and visitors strolled idly in the sunlight. A nice day. She’d go check on her group in a moment, see if they were enjoying themselves or ready to move on. One of them had mentioned the new panda exhibit at the zoo, and Harley was hoping they’d decided against it. It wasn’t unusual for a group to change destinations since Memphis Tour Tyme liked to emphasize that they were the flexible tour service instead of holding clients to rigid schedules. Sometimes, since tour agencies had sections of Memphis they divided up, one of the other branches of Tour Tyme took over but kept the same driver. She wanted to get this over with for the day. If she got out early enough, maybe she’d have time to track down Anna Plotz Merritt. It wasn’t far to Atoka, if she could remember the best way to get there.
As she was contemplating her route, one of the ladies strolling along the paths stopped to talk to a man digging a hole in one of the rose beds. She wore a huge floppy hat, a sundress that looked like a Vera Wang, and sandals that looked like Payless. Harley frowned. There was something very familiar—wait. Of all the people to see here.
She stood up and sauntered toward the rose beds. Neither of them seemed to notice her, but conversed in tones too low for Harley to hear what they said, even when she got right up on them, close enough to touch the expensive folds of the sundress.
“Well hello, Miss Saucier. Fancy meeting you here.”
Cheríe Saucier whirled around, obviously startled, and her eyes went wide, then thinned to narrow slits. “Yes,” she said tightly, “what an unpleasant surprise. I hear your aunt’s about to be arrested for murdering Harry. Shouldn’t you be with your family?”
“Well, one must work to pay the bills, you know. Not everyone prefers stealing to honest labor.”
Cheríe sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth, then managed a prissy smile. “Tell that to Darcy Fontaine. Of course, she’s a thief and a murderer, so I doubt she’d listen. She’s more the kind to, say, leave bodies in cellars.”
“I knew it was you who locked us in. Too bad we got out, isn’t it?”
Cheríe smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But then, neither do you. You’ve just got a lot of questions without answers.”
Harley glanced toward the workman, who kept his head down, doggedly digging a hole for a potted rose bush like he didn’t want to get involved.
“I have a few questions I’d like to ask you,” she said instead of rising to the bait, “but I’d rather do that in private. Unless, of course, you prefer talking to the police.”
“Fine.” Cheríe barely glanced at the workman leaning on the shovel, his head down to show the crown of his straw hat. “You can lead the way, since I had to ask directions to the gallery entrance.”
“Strange, finding you here, of all places. You don’t seem the type to enjoy a bit of culture. I’m curious why you’re here. Mind sharing that with me?”
“I believe the entrance is this way,” Cheríe said. “You have about forty-five feet to ask your questions.”
There wasn’t a chance to argue as Cheríe started off along the bricked path that led up to the house. After a brief hesitation, Harley followed. She got this really strange feeling, like there was something weird going on, but when she glanced behind her, she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just the visitors still ambling along, and the rose bush still waiting by the half-dug hole to be planted.
She caught up with Cheríe near the house. “Look, you can either answer my questions or I’ll pass along what I know to the police and you can talk to them. It’s up to you.”
Halting, Cheríe turned to glare at her, mouth all set in a straight line like she’d just bitten into a sour apple. “What do you want to know?”
“How long you knew Harry, if you met him in St. Louis or knew him before that, and how well you know Frieda Plotz.”
For a long moment, Cheríe Saucier just looked at her. The brim of her hat dipped over her forehead, shadowing her expression, but Harley could still see that she was startled at hearing the name Plotz. Good.
Apparently, Cheríe had a quick recovery time. She shrugged impatiently.
“I became acquainted with Harry Gordon around five years ago. In St. Louis. I’ve never met the other person you mentioned.”
“Right. You do know I’ll find out the truth eventually, don’t you? And worse—the police probably already know everything. If I can find it out, I assure you that they’re much more efficient than I am at that kind of thing.”
It seemed best not to mention Tootsie, or the fact his roommate was a cop and probably unaware of the methods Tootsie used to get information. It was better that way.
“That doesn’t concern me,” Cheríe said, though Harley was willing to bet it not only concerned her, but scared the hell out of her. “I have nothing to hide. Unlike your aunt. Did you know she was overheard threatening Harry? One of her employees heard her scream at him that she’d see him dead and in hell before she let him ruin her business.”
“You know, I find it very odd that you’re the only person I’ve heard say that. Why hasn’t this supposed employee said anything to the police? It’d seem like pretty important information. If it wasn’t coming from just you.”
Spite glittered in Cheríe’s eyes. “Oh, don’t worry. I told the police all about it. Just ask her. She’ll tell you the same thing she told me, and I’m sure she’s told the cops by now, too.”
I’ll be glad to,” Harley said, growing uneasy since it didn’t seem like Cheríe was lying about it. “What’s her name?”
“Find that out yourself. I have no intention of doing your work for you. Though what you think you’re doing is beyond me, since all you seem to have managed is to make yourself look like an idiot and piss off the cops.”
Unfortunately, that was far too close to the truth.
“Now stay away from me,” Cheríe said abruptly. A gust of wind caught at the brim of her hat and she put up a hand to hold it on her head.
Harley lifted a brow. “Wow, some biceps you’ve got there, Miss Saucier. You look pretty strong. Strong enough to, say, lift a dead man and hang him off some elk horns.”
“Come near me again, I’ll swear out a complaint for harassment,” Cheríe hissed, sounding so much like a cobra that Harley wouldn’t have been surprised to see a forked tongue flick out and fangs dripping with venom. Ouch. Must have hit her where it hurt. She smiled.
“You think this is harassment? Just wait. If I’m going to pay a fine, I’d rather it be after I get what I want. I already know you’re not who you claim to be, and that you’re neck-deep in a nest of vipers. You don’t have to go down with them. If you know who killed Harry, tell me. Or better yet—tell the police.”
For a moment, something flickered in Cheríe’s eyes, and Harley could have sworn it was grief. Then the moment passed, and the woman gave her a look of loathing. “Go to hell.”
“Thanks for the invite, but I’m having too much fun here.”
Cheríe turned around and began walking fast, away from Harley and toward the gallery. When Harley followed, Cheríe b
roke into a run and pushed past exiting visitors to go in the back way. Just as Harley got there, a gallery employee pulled the door closed.
“Go around to the front, please,” he said, shaking his head when Harley tried to open the door anyway.
“But I’m with someone. She just went in—a flowery dress and big hat?”
Still shaking his head, the man turned with his back to the French door, and Harley gave up and ran around the side to go in the front way. There were only two exits or entrances that she could recall, so maybe she’d catch Cheríe coming out the front way.
There was no sign of her. By the time Harley got inside, she had no idea where in the maze of walls, hung with paintings and flanked by glass cases, Cheríe could have disappeared. Not that she’d get any more information out of her, but if she could unnerve her enough, maybe she’d make a mistake of some kind. It had been Harley’s experience that rattled people tended to commit unexpected follies.
Like herself, for instance.
Unexpectedly, Cheríe Saucier rounded a corner and ran into her, looking as startled as a deer caught in the headlights. Before Harley could react, Cheríe did.
The hushed quiet of the gallery shattered as Cheríe yelped, then gave Harley a shove that sent her stumbling backward into a glass case set against the wall. Barely staying upright, Harley seized on the first object at hand and flung it at Cheríe’s head. Cheríe ducked. Pottery smashed into a dozen pieces, flying through the air, and someone screamed. Not Cheríe. She ran, but one of the employees rushed Harley like a Dallas Cowboys linebacker, tackling her around the waist and taking her down to the floor.
Trying to wiggle free to go after Cheríe, Harley quickly realized that the two hundred pound woman had her in a death grip. She went limp, but that only gave the employee a greater incentive to squeeze the air from Harley’s lungs. Right before she got to the passing out stage, the weight miraculously lifted, and Harley sat up coughing and sputtering.
Harley Rushes In (Book 2 of the Blue Suede Mysteries) Page 14