by Cassie Page
Olivia stood up, ending the session. “I’m washing up the china and going about my business. If I have any, that is.”
She air kissed Tuesday as she scooped up the Wedgewood. “Not a good time, Tues. Truce?”
Tuesday air kissed back. “Whatever. Truce.”
An hour later, Olivia put the Closed for Lunch sign on the front door and went upstairs to confirm to Tuesday that, as she herself had predicted, no one was coming in to buy Olivia’s gorgeous antiques.
She found Tuesday sitting at the counter, green from the clay mask plastered all over her face.
“Listen. I forgot about the oysters. Let’s make a salad and my special champagne mignonette and put our feet up. Sabrina left a message while we were out this morning. She’s miffed that I didn’t make my contribution to the auction sooner, but I’ve had other things on my mind. It only occurred to me two days ago to donate something as good PR. She’s up to her ears in planning the auction, though I don’t know how she can cope after what happened. Wants me to come early and drop off my donation tonight before the affair gets started. She is really pissed that she has to give her shoes to Detective Richards. What is that all about? Does he have a shoe fetish?”
While she fixed the salad, she opened up a new line of conversation. “I have a decision to make, Tues.”
“I’ll say you do.” Tuesday’s face was still rigid from the mask and she spoke as though she had dental instruments in her mouth. “Should you ‘ake a ‘ove on ‘ichards ‘fore or after ‘is case is settled. Tell you what I’d do.”
“Tuesday! What a disgusting thing to say. I don’t have designs on that guy. He’s got ice in his veins and he’s terribly rude.”
“Oh ‘at’s not what I saw flowing when he looked at you. He is all over you like butter on toast, girl.”
“That’s not what the tea leaves said.”
“You didn’t let me finish. But my eyes saw what my eyes saw at the police station. I’m just saying, he’s there for the picking if you ask me.” Ee’s air for the icking ih you ask ee.
“And just how does he fit the definition of a MAD man? He’s mature, I’ll give you that. He does seem to take control of things. But a cop who’s affluent? And he’s probably got a whole family in the Punjab that he’s supporting. Course I do get lost in those eyes, but no. What are we doing? Tuesday, what I’m talking about is, do I go ahead with the sale knowing that if this murder is not solved no one will come, and I will look even more foolish with my prize possessions on the lawn and no buyers? Or do I throw in the towel and just pack up and go back to LA. Maybe Griffiths and Graham will take me back. I know my clients would love to see me. I made good contacts there.”
Tuesday pointed to her face and said, “Ee ri ack.” She took off for the bathroom and came back a few minutes later rubbing a fragrant cream into her clean face. “Now what was I saying?” She gave an approving look at the salad Olivia was piling on to plates.
“Look honey, it’s the beginning of the week. You have until Saturday. Let’s get busy and see what we can find out to move things along. Do we have a cause of death yet? What’s with that business partner? Sabrina? Remember what Carrie said about her? Seems to me she should be too broken up about losing her business partner to carry on with a society function? Right?”
Olivia served lunch, but before she sat down, checked her phone for news updates. The doctor who wanted to certify the cause of death must have pull. The San Francisco Herald was pushing a theory that it was an illicit sex game gone very wrong and the Hollywood Times ID’d the location where the body was found as the Darling Valley home Olivia shared with Brooks. That made Olivia so mad she started to throw her phone across the room until Tuesday snatched it out of her hands.
After their first bites, Olivia told Tuesday all she knew about Sabrina Chase. “I swear, there must not be a charity event that she doesn’t run. Rumor has it that she raises more money in Darling Valley than anyone in Hollywood. She knows how to reach into those deep pockets. I’m curious to see what she’ll get for my Imari bowl. Probably more than I would selling it in the shop. I wish I had her touch.
Olivia stopped to slurp the last oyster and lick her lips. “But other than that, I don’t know much about her. Could she have a motive for killing her partner? I wish I knew. But I don’t know their relationship. Did they have an argument? Does she have a financial stake in his death? I’m handicapped here. I don’t know enough about the players without a scorecard. But now that you’ve made me think of her, she’s on my mind. And speaking of which, I should wrap up the bowl for tonight.” She made a wry face. “To protect it from the wild hordes lining the driveway wanting to snap it up. I’ll go get it.”
Tuesday pushed her plate away and said she’d come with her.
Olivia described the piece with her hands as they descended the stairs into the showroom. “It’s not the most valuable thing in the shop, but it is beautiful. An onion neck vase. It’s only late 19th century, but the gold work is exquisite. Wait till you see it. Probably worth $1,200 or so. I have a piece that is from the Topkapi Palace, but I wouldn’t give that away to auction. I have it on consignment from a collector. He wants $8,000 and I think just on its reputation, I’ll get it. Early 18th century. Japanese not Chinese. You know the difference?”
They had reached the French doors. Olivia didn’t turn around to see Tuesday shrug her shoulders in a gesture of, what do I know or care about Imari bowls?
“The bowl is over there on the tray table.” Olivia walked towards the outside wall where she had arranged under the window a duck egg blue klismos chair and small mahogany tea table and porcelain reading lamp. “It won’t take a minute to get this ready. I have some bubble wrap in the office.”
But as she got closer to the wall, circling around an English table with barley twist legs and a pair of Chippendale bedside tables, she saw a circle in the light film of dust where the bowl should have been.
“Wait a minute. Where’s the bowl? It’s been in the same spot for two weeks. Where did it go?”
Tuesday came up behind her to look, though she had no idea what she was looking for. She asked the most obvious question, “When did you see it last?”
Olivia put her hands on her head and looked from side to side. “Well, I’m not sure. It’s been there so long it’s like a fixture. But I would have noticed if it were gone. I come through each day to get the showroom shipshape before I open the doors for business. I know everything in this shop. I’m sure I saw it yesterday. You know how I am.”
Tuesday shook her head acknowledging her friend’s compulsiveness when it came to her business. “Do I ever. But, it has been a crazy time. I believe you, but I’m just saying. Things get away from us when we’re stressed.”
Olivia walked over to the table that, until this morning, held the netsuke. She pointed to the empty spot and called to Tuesday, who was searching tabletops for the bowl. “Tuesday, someone is stalking me. Mr. Blackman’s body, the netsuke, and now the bowl. I’m being targeted. I know I am, and I don’t know why.”
Olivia narrowed her eyes, a signal for anyone in close range to watch out. “But I’m going to find out. Now I have to find something else to give to Sabrina. And call Detective Richards to report this.”
The DVPD arrived within fifteen minutes of Olivia dialing 911. They scoured the shop and Olivia’s living quarters, but found nothing that would lead them to the bowl.
Two hours later Sabrina Chase called to say she was behind schedule. Would Olivia mind coming even earlier to the auction to drop off the bowl. Say 6:30 instead of seven?
”Of course not,” Olivia assured her, a plan that began to form in Detective Richards’ office now presenting itself to her full blown.
Olivia told Tuesday she had to run an errand. “You don’t mind watching the shop, do you? I’ll be gone a half hour, tops. The only people I think would come by are the gawkers we saw this morning. If they ask about prices add a zero to the number on the tag or tel
l them to come back on Saturday when everything will be on sale.”
Olivia searched her bag and withdrew her keys, climbed into the truck and was gone, making a beeline for Darling Boulevard again. Without Tuesday for distraction, she obsessed on the scene at the police station and Mrs. Blackman’s allegations. She could imagine what the pedestrians were saying, especially if they were friends with Mrs. Blackman. Imagine, accusing her of trying to ruin her husband. Olivia tried to talk herself out of her anger. The woman is in shock, she told herself. Needs to blame somebody. Clearly her husband meant the world to her and she was desperate. But accusing Olivia of murder? She was mid-thought when she arrived at the bank and, with a squeal of tires, pulled into one of the parking spaces reserved for customers.
Olivia nodded at Darlene, The Darling Valley Bank greeter, when the girl opened the door for her and offered a silver tray with an actual linen doily upon which rested assorted cookies from The Salted Caramel Bakery. Darlene knew her by name from the frequent trips Olivia had made to the bank negotiating a loan.
Olivia waved away the tray. “No thanks, Darlene. Not hungry today. Is Mr. Fastner in? I need to see him.”
Without waiting for an answer, Olivia headed for the loan manager’s office, a glassed in cubicle distinguished by a cheap, spiky plant standing guard outside his door. Olivia hated it. Fastner looked up from his computer to see Olivia marching toward him. Instead of leaping across the desk like an Olympic hurdler as he usually did, he flustered about for a moment with papers before finally getting up to open the door. The Ichabod Crane lookalike gave her a tenuous hello, as if Olivia might be carrying a flesh-eating virus. A sign that he had been reading the news and listening to the gossip. How could he not know what had been going on at Darling Valley Design and Antiques? Why would he not want to distance himself from her?
During their loan negotiations for her house, Fastner had made it clear that he would do everything possible to help Olivia secure her financing. When she signed the final papers and their business was done, he had all but kissed her hand as she left his office and said, “Olivia, call on me for anything. ANYthing.” She had giggled at his fawning all the way to the car. But now she would take him up on that offer.
Olivia helped herself to the seat across from Fastner. It struck her that this was the second time that day she had sat in a man’s office pleading her case. “Mr. Fastner . . . “
Fastner had turned down the heat on his usual greeting, but remained courteous. “Please. Olivia,” he said, leaning back in his chair instead of salivating across the desk. Call me Elgin.” She gave him props for that.
“Yes, well, Elgin.” She beamed a buttery smile at him, and he returned a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the difficulty I’m in.”
“You mean because of John Blackman. Yes. I can’t imagine what it has been like for you.”
But he was not showing all of his cards. He had yet to offer to help her, which was what she was hoping for. She hated groveling. But business was business she reminded herself as she began her speech.
“Well, as you can imagine, there are rumors going around town that instead of being victimized by this crime myself--my business has absolutely dried up--I am being implicated in it. Can you imagine?” She allowed her lower lip to quiver.
She fussed with the top button of her shirt as if to get some air, pleased when Fastner glued his eyes to her bosom, small though it was. She heaved a big breath, holding her chest taut for just a moment, until she was sure she had his full attention. Then she relaxed into a desolate sigh. “I need to do everything I can to find out who did this hideous thing and exonerate myself.” Eyes up high now, Elgin. Look at me, she instructed silently. Time to look at my eyes.
As though he had heard her, he looked into her eyes, momentarily lost in the shimmering green pools. “Yes, of course. But how can I help?”
“Elgin.” she drawled his name shamelessly. “I have heard some, shall we say nasty rumors about one of the bank’s clients. And I fully understand confidentiality and all that. But I thought perhaps under the circumstances, and because we are such good friends . . .” She leaned forward, almost laughing at her ridiculous performance, but Fastner seemed rapt.
“Yes, and who might that be, Olivia?”
“Mr. Blackman’s partner. Sabrina Chase.”
“Why yes, she’s a client of ours. I’m not revealing anything out of school. She did a public promotion on the local cable station for the bank.”
Olivia leaned over the desk and extended her hand, all but inviting Fastner to stroke it. “Well, I have heard that Ms. Chase is in financial difficulties. Quite extreme, I understand. The awful suggestion is that she might have had a motive for, for. Oh, I can’t even say the word. For harming Mr. Blackman. I don’t know the details. There might have been business insurance or a buyout or some such issue. I thought perhaps you could tell me about it.”
Fastner sat back in his chair immediately and vigorously shaking his head. “Oh, no, Olivia. No, please don’t go there. You’re a businesswoman, after all. You know how important confidentiality is between banker and client. Why, the bank would suffer terribly if I were to reveal anything about our customers’ affairs. I’m sorry. You know I’d do anything to help you, really I would. But there is a line I cannot cross. I’m sure you understand.”
Olivia scoffed to herself, Hm. So he has a backbone, after all. She realized she was barking up the wrong tree and mentally kicked herself, realizing that this might have been a very bad move. In fact, she hoped she had not lost Fastner’s interest in her. Why had she acted so impulsively? She hoped this wasn’t going to backfire. After all, she needed to call in some chits if she couldn’t meet her mortgage payment this month. Fastner was not somebody she wanted to alienate.
She stood up and extended her hand. “Of course, I understand. What was I thinking? I’m just so, so desperate.” And that was the truth, and heartfelt.
Fastner came around his desk and took her hand in both of his. “Don’t think about it any more, Olivia. We’ll just forget this discussion ever took place. Should anyone ask what you were doing in my office, well, I’ll plead client confidentiality.”
He gave her a smirk, clearly pleased with his own joke.
“Thank you so much,” genuine notes of sadness notes coloring her voice.
He walked her to his door, but did not accompany her through the lobby. Covering his bases, she thought, in case one of Mrs. Blackman’s peeps should see him.
Chapter Seventeen: The Auction
Tuesday sashayed into Olivia’s bedroom drenched in feathers and beads. She did a coy shuffle off to Buffalo and asked, “How do I look? Boring? Brilliant? Off the charts?”
Between trying to convince Tuesday to tone down her jewelry and explaining the pecking order to expect at the auction, Olivia saw the time slipping away. In less than an hour she had to deliver the replacement bowl to Sabrina. She hoped Sabrina wouldn’t know there’d been a switch, she’d said it was already on the program. Before they left for the country club, she also had to track down Mr. Bacon. She missed his call again when she ran down to the laundry room for a moment to put a load of towels in the washing machine. When she called him back, he had not picked up. She’d give him one more try tonight. Her mood was not conducive to socializing, but she had to put on her game face. And do something about Tuesday’s outfit.
“Tuesday, I think the feathers and beads, well, they compete. And when you wear them, they are so, well, unique. No, that’s not the word I want. You want them to stand out as individual pieces and not, you know, well, like compete.”
Tuesday shot her a get over yourself look. “Miss Priss? How long have we known each other? You think I don’t get the code for over the top and I’m embarrassing you in public?
In LA, Tuesday’s rainbow combinations found in thrift shops and last call sales blended in with her crowd. All her Melrose Avenue friends had multi-colored hair. They
tried to outdo one another to see who could come up with the most outlandish outfits and show off the most cleavage without getting picked up for public nudity. Olivia was the one who got called to task for her conservative wardrobe. Tuesday would harangue her: Show your individuality. Why do you always have to look so Rodeo Drive? People will think you have no imagination.
Even though Olivia would remind her that just one of her outfits cost more than Tuesday’s whole closet, Tuesday scoffed. “You’re just lucky I can overlook things. I don’t know why you’re so afraid of the fashion police.”
But tonight Olivia needed Tuesday to tone it down. She dropped the mask of fashion consultant and laid it on the line.
“Tues. I can’t give these people any more ammunition. Even if Detective Richards,” at the name Tuesday pantomimed fluttering eyes and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in a swoon.
Olivia shot her a look. “Even if he takes the spotlight off me, this is ultra conservative USA. I need to blend in, not stand out. Now if we were socializing with the billionaires it wouldn’t matter. They have made it. They are so high on the pile that they regard bohemianism as fun. They don’t have to please or answer to anyone. But the mere multi-millionaires? Watch out. They don’t want to be thrown out of the club for wearing the wrong designer frock or sporting diamonds at breakfast. Even if they once belonged to Catherine the Great.”
Tuesday cocked her head in surprise.
“True story.”
Olivia could do nothing about her friend’s tri-tone pink hair, but she did get rid of the feathers and convinced her to wear one of her dresses instead of a Bollywood costume she got in a trade with a prop girl she knew at Warner Bros. That Olivia’s dress was covered in sequins helped seal the deal, along with a promise of a mouthwatering halibut dinner at Hugo’s, the best restaurant in Darling Valley.
Olivia had already schooled Tuesday in the guest list, explaining that the first tier, the true billionaires never attended these charity events. They gave endowed chairs to universities, not trinkets like early 18th century porcelain just to wring some dollars for the town’s historical museum. Those hotshots had suffered through the boring dinners and auctions on their way up the ladder and now they could stay home and watch basketball, probably a team that they owned. Any excuse to behave like the little boys they all were at heart.