by Cassie Page
Cody turned apoplectic and a flash of red crossed his cheeks, “It’s not like that with O, er . . . Miss Granville and me. We don’t travel together. Or anything like that.”
Richards raised his hand to slow him down. “Mr. White, I wasn’t assuming anything scandalous. I just meant please don’t leave town. Separately or together.”
Chapter Four: The Crime Scene
Olivia slumped into her chair and straightened some papers on her desk, rearranged four Hummel figures she needed to pack up and mail to a client, and opened and closed her MacBook several times like a robot. Then she started drumming her nails on the desk. “This is a disaster. What are we going to do?”
Cody dumped a stack of mail on the floor to clear the only other available seat in the tiny office, a fragile bamboo and pink linen covered slipper chair that Olivia always feared might crumble under Cody’s weight. He reached across the desk and held her wrists down. “Stop. You’re making me crazy, too.”
Cody let go and Olivia dropped her head into her hands. He spoke to the screen of silky hair sliding over her face.
“A disaster? Copy that, Kimosabe. It’s raining disaster around here. They tagged my truck as evidence, and I don’t know when I’m getting it back.”
Olivia sat up and flipped her hair back. The morning had turned Cody’s face into a bug-eyed cartoon character scared by a monster. She was asking him for advice?
She could hear Richards shouting instructions to the police unit outside, and hoped Mrs. Harmon was snoring through the chaos that had become her backyard. Her backyard? How about her whole life?
“Your truck,” she moaned. “Oh, god. There’s that, too. Don’t get me wrong and think I’m avaricious or anything, but this murder is going to wreak havoc with my sale, to say nothing of the foot traffic I depend on every day. Who’s going to slip under that crime tape to come in for a pair of matching parlor chairs or a perfectly wormed oak refectory table? And with the sale of the Louis 16th bedroom set to Mrs. Gotshalk, I thought I was on my way. A word from her dropped at one of her famous parties and I could be set in this town. Now, who will want antiques tainted with a whiff of murder?”
Cody stared at her. It was hard to tell who looked more pathetic. His black tee shirt sagged at the neck and his scuffed leather jacket, torn at the pockets, looked like he had ripped it off a homeless person. Usually, he dressed up a bit more for work, in case he crossed paths with Olivia’s clients. But this morning was an unusually early start for him and clearly, he hadn’t given his attire a second thought. He tried to man up with a show of confidence.
“Olivia, don’t get carried away. Those detectives will have this cleared up in no time. Obviously, who ever did it is connected to Blackman’s shop and when they find out who, you’re free and clear. You know what they say, any publicity is good publicity as long as they spell the name right.”
Olivia raised her arms, a solid imitation of a mother of an adolescent down to her last nerve. “But Cody? Don’t you see? He was sent special delivery to me.” She thunked her chest with her index finger.
“Why me? I don’t even know the man. And I hardly know Blackman’s. I took a chance on them repairing the furniture because they were so highly recommended by Sunset Antiques in San Francisco. What could they have against me that they would do something so disgusting? That isn’t even the word. So, so monstrous? Don’t you get it?”
Cody stayed on the reassuring track. “Look, I’ll give Roger at Blackman’s a call when we’re done here. He schedules the deliveries. He must know something.”
But Olivia derailed him, shaking her head wildly. “Cody, no. He might be mixed up in it. Maybe he’s the one who stuffed the man in the armoire in the first place. It could be dangerous.”
Cody swatted that idea away with a wave of his hand. “That guy? Uh, not to be disrespectful, but we’re not talking about Charles Manson here. Roger’s good at what he does, but I’ve known him since high school. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He couldn’t figure out how to zap a fly with a heat-seeking missile. I betcha by tonight we’ll have this all wrapped up, Olivia.”
Olivia winced. He called her by name. Not a good sign.
Detective Richards knocked on the back door. He took one look inside, but there was so little space in the office, he asked Olivia and Cody to step outside. Olivia cringed when she saw the trampled flowers and scattered garden accessories in her Garden Center. The police must have overturned every flowerpot, water feature and sculpture.
She was about to insist that Richards put them back where they belonged when he said, “I have to leave now, but it’s going to take my crew most of the day to finish their work here. Expect Forensics and the coroner later. I don’t have a time for you. Oh, and if you can think of anyone who can corroborate your whereabouts, I’d get on it right away. I’m going to have to ask both of you to come down to the station for your statements later today. Make it two o’clock. You can give me their names when you come in.”
He eyed Olivia’s outfit, jewelry and designer shoes. He gestured to his flannel jacket. “I’ll dress up for the occasion if it will put you at ease Miss Granville.”
The hair on her arms prickled. “Do I pay extra for the sarcasm, detective?” Olivia didn’t get to be partner in one of LA’s most prestigious design firms by playing Miss Mealy Mouth, but he just walked away.
She called out to his back, “Who’s going to clean up this mess,” but Olivia and Cody watched his car back out of the driveway and turn towards Darling Boulevard without getting an answer. She motioned Cody into the office, out of sight of Johnson and the police officers still securing the yard and the press begging for access.
“Cody, I don’t trust this investigation.” She nodded towards the back yard. “I mean we’re not exactly in the hands of Special Ops. I’m going to have to figure out why I’m involved. Seriously. It’s one thing to find out who did this to Mr. Blackman, and another to find out why he was sent to me.”
By turns agitated, confused, scared and angry, she paced in front of the screen door, avoiding looking out into the truck.
“This is like something out of a Mafia novel. But I’m just an interior decorator. I know hardly anyone here. Other than pissing off all of Darling Valley by having the temerity to actually move here and set up shop when DV has two perfectly good antique stores, I have no enemies. I need some answers. Maybe it would be a good idea for you to talk to that Robert after all.”
Cody turned his ball cap around, just for something to do with his hands. “You mean Roger. Okay, sure, but it’s too early for him to be at the shop. If they will even open it today. I don’t have a cell number for him, but I know where he usually meets the guys for breakfast before work. A diner near the lake.”
Somewhere between Richards’ insulting accusations and the sight of her ruined garden, Olivia slipped into action mode. “Okay. Then come back here and we’ll have some breakfast ourselves and figure out what to do next.”
A plan of action always gave her a sense of control, which was exactly what she needed to think clearly.
Cody gave her a quizzical shrug. “But how am I going to get there without a truck?”
Olivia rooted on her desk for her keys and tossed them to him. “Take the pickup. I parked it across the street last night, because I knew you were coming with the truck and needed access to the backyard. Go over the fence in the back alley and you can sneak around the block. The reporters won’t know it’s you. Make sure you answer your phone if I call. Cody. Don’t freak me out by going all radio silence like you do when you don’t want to talk to me, okay? And don’t let the police out there see you leaving.”
“Sure thing, Olivia.”
He used her full name again. It brought home the seriousness of the situation and sent a chunk of ice down Olivia’s spine. Through the window she watched him slink along the back of the house to a hole in the fence she hadn’t known was there and disappear without anyone noticing.
; Chapter Five: Tuesday’s Child
“Geez, honey. I knew you wanted a MAD man, but what’s up with that special delivery?”
MAD man was Tuesday’s term for the ideal guy. Mature, affluent and dependent-free. A practice she preached but rarely practiced. Tuesday was like a sister to Olivia. In addition, she read tea leaves for a living in an upscale café on Melrose and was freakily accurate about her assessments and predictions. Olivia hated to admit it, but she had become a little dependent on Tuesday’s advice.
“Listen,” Tuesday said after Olivia finished her tale of woe. “I’m like flying up there? Even it this gets fixed this afternoon? And, I’m like sure it will? You need help with the sale.”
Tuesday’s valley girl lilt relaxed the tension that was making Olivia bite the inside of her cheek and twirl her hair between her fingers like a mad woman. The familiar bubble-headed dialect belied Tuesday’s deep heart and soul. Olivia teased, “So is that your professional assessment, that the killer will be found quickly or are you just trying to fill dead air space?”
Tuesday said, “You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you. I’m looking up Virgin Atlantic flights on my iPad. I’ll let you know what time to expect me. And don’t worry about feeding me, I’m like on a cleanse?”
Olivia knew what that meant. Wheatgrass juice, smelly herbal concoctions and yoga in front of company, while behind the scenes when no one was looking, copious supermarket chocolate, garbage TV and champs, preferably Veuve Cliquot.
Before she hung up, Tuesday instructed, “Don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll rent a car.”
Olivia didn’t push it, though she would have loved a drive through San Francisco to the airport to get her mind off the murder and her other troubles. But Tuesday liked to go first class and would rather rent a Mercedes she couldn’t really afford for the weekend than ride in Olivia’s practical pickup truck. Olivia’s beloved BMW M6 convertible was a distant memory. She’d had to give it up when she decided to exit LA because, as her financial advisor dryly explained, if she wanted this business venture to work, she’d have to resign herself to some unaccustomed belt tightening. Like a used Toyota 4x4 with some rust spots but, engine and transmission-wise, a heart of gold.
Olivia hung up the phone and tried to suppress the regret that dampened her excitement at seeing her friend. She had known Tuesday since they shared an ocean view apartment in Manhattan Beach with three other recent college grads when they all first arrived in LA. Tuesday’s was the only friendship that took, beginning with the first night they shared a room. Tuesday had watched Olivia unpack her designer label wardrobe, turned up her nose and said, “Honeybunch. If you want me to go shopping with you next time, I know this great Goodwill shop in Hermosa Beach. We can get you some great threads and you can give this stuff like back to your grandmother?”
No one was more fun or comforting in an emotional storm than Tuesday, exactly what she needed right now. The price tag, though, would be Tuesday’s insistence on bringing Brooks back from the dead. If she’d told Tuesday once that she didn’t need to be reminded of what an a-hole Brooks had been, she had done it a zillion quadrillion times. Why couldn’t Tuesday understand that the mere mention of Brooks’ name was a rapier straight into Olivia’s heart?
Olivia needed distraction and she turned to the one friend that never let her down: Facebook.
The first post, from a business acquaintance in LA, hit her between the eyes. She immediately slammed the MacBook shut. The woman, a caterer she once used, had shared a headline: Armoires and Arsenic in Billionaire’s Hollow and the accompanying story from the Huffington Post.
How the frigging frig did it get on the Internet so fast? But of course she knew. The press posse outside her house was filing the stories from their phones as fast as they could hit the send button, even as she sat there, infuriated. But arsenic? The victim was still in her back yard. Where did the cause of death come from? She forced herself to open the computer and read the story. The reporter claimed to have a source inside the DVPD. But the medical examiner hadn’t even arrived. Were they making this up?
She pondered what she knew for a moment. Poison was a reasonable assumption since Richards had said there was no blood and gore. But maybe Blackman had a heart attack and somebody panicked and stuffed him in the armoire? No, that didn’t make sense. Why not call the paramedics? But it wouldn’t be the first time somebody panicked and did something unnecessarily stupid. After all, why was Blackman dead in the first place? She was trying to come up with another scenario for the total disruption of her life when the jangling front door bell brought her back to the present. She looked at the computer. Who could that be this early? It was only a little after seven-thirty. Richards had wasted no time getting out of there.
The French doors were still open and she ran through the showroom calling, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” When she opened the door she stared into the smiling face of George Clooney.
Chapter Six: George Clooney Arrives
At least, George Clooney if he dressed like Noel Coward. Behind him she saw a bizarre looking vintage car parked behind the press vehicles across the street. She looked from the running board on the electric blue car to the ascot around pseudo George’s neck to his ornamental cane and did a double take. Had she passed through a time machine that transported her back to say, 1935? She half expected the man to break into song and start tap dancing.
But as soon as he said, “Sorry to botha you so oily but I sawr a light,” she knew the New Jersey accent was more Soprano thug than elegant leading man.
Oh my god, she thought, too late. Why am I opening the door to strangers? Is he from the mob? Is that what I’ve gotten myself mixed up in? She asked cautiously, “How can I help you?”
How did he get past the crime scene tape?
After a courteous bow, the man said, “Charles Bacon, ma’am. I need a garage.”
A garage? “But, um, I don’t have one available. My tenant uses it. I have to park in back of the house myself.”
Fake George pointed to the sign outside her front door. Darling Valley Design and Antiques. “Bud ahn’t you an ahkateck?” It took her a second to translate. “But aren’t you an architect?”
“Yes. Oh, you mean you want me to design one.”
The realization all but lifted Olivia three feet off the ground. In the midst of homicidal chaos, was this a balancing act from the universe? A client? One who had braved crime scene tape? Uh oh. She saw one of the cameramen get out of his SUV and hustle up her walkway.
“Please come in,” she said, pulling Imposter George into the shop before the guy reached the porch. She led him behind a large secretary, out of sight of the reporter and extended her hand.
“Forgive my manners. I’m Olivia Granville. Come in. I couldn’t help noticing your, um, unusual car,” she said. “I assume that’s why you need a garage?”
The man’s face lit up with owner’s pride. “It’s a Talbot Teardrop. New. That is, new to me. It was built in 1938.”
Nineteen-thoity eight. She almost laughed. Did anybody really talk like this in Darling Valley, but he continued.
“They made only seventeen of the cars so it is quite unique. To answer your question, yes and no. I do need a garage for the Talbot. And my one hundred and two other cars in my collection.”
Olivia could paste the most, I’ve-seen-everything-you-can’t-surprise-me expression on her face at the mention of a celebrity name. But this news made her jaw drop. “You’re serious?”
“Well, I don’t want the car museum built all at once. I’d like to discuss the Talbot space wit you and see how it goes from there.”
How could a guy dressed in Armani with a zillion dollar car collection get by without an education? Wit you? Yet Olivia found his combination of diamonds and rust charming. Despite trying to pass himself off as upper class when he was clearly South Jersey, he exuded a sincerity that warmed his smile.
And then, disheartened, Olivia realized what he mea
nt. A beauty contest. So she’d be competing against one of DV’s established shops.
“Now I’m sure I’m interrupting your breakfast and what all,” he gestured to the scene outside her front door, “but you were recommended to me by Mrs. Gotshalk.”
Now this was encouraging news. “Oh, yes. She’s been in the shop,” Olivia said casually. She hardly knew the wealthiest woman in town, but yeah, baby. She must have made an impression to get this referral. And somehow, Mr. Bacon had made an impression on her as well. Almost as hard to believe.
Bacon continued to explain his early call. “I was driving by and, as I said, saw the light. I thought you might not mind. I have a busy day and stopped on the spur of the moment like. I’m just here to make an appointment. I’d like to come back at a time when I can discuss my preliminary plans and get your ideas and what not. Do you have time this afternoon?”
No, she didn’t have time, not with a date with the police, her nagging to-do list for her big sale, plus get ready for Sabrina Chase’s charity auction tonight, but by crankshaft, she would make time. That Talbot car alone had to be worth a hefty slice of a million dollars. This was the client she had been praying for. This was the reason she chose Darling Valley in the first place. But first, she had to bring up the elephant, not only in the room, but crawling all over her property Sherlock Holmes-like.
“Mr. Bacon, I’m sure you’ve noticed the, um, police presence on my property this morning.”
“I didn’t pay no mind.” Another small bow. “That’s your business.”
Was this guy for real? Was he used to a police presence?
“Okay, then. Why don’t we sit down,” she said, ushering him past her most expensive pieces to the red and white Toile wing chairs against the back wall. It was a tactic she used for drop-ins hoping something might catch their eye as they walked by a refectory table reputed to be from Versailles or a partner’s desk that could have seen action in Scrooge’s office. During the week she had been pushing the furniture in the showroom against the wall in preparation for the sale, but Olivia’s eye for the exquisite detail still stood out.