"Uh, let's have Ms. Cash look at it, shall we?" Mina answered very noncommittally.
Lottie shrugged. "Yes, I think that's a good idea."
"Why don't you follow me to the register, and we'll do some paperwork."
The older woman nodded, and the two moved toward the back, leaving the so-called masterpiece on the counter. I stared at it again, trying to find the symbolism in it. I guessed beauty really was in the eye of the beholder.
"Mina said you wanted to speak with me?"
I looked up to find a slim, petite woman wearing a pair of black cigarette pants, black pointy-toed boots, and a black shirt buttoned all the way up to her neck, stepping from the back room. She wore her jet black hair in a short pixie haircut, and the look on her face was about as sunny as her outfit—eyes sharp and assessing, mouth drawn into a fine line slashed with red lipstick, jaw set at a hard angle.
"Ms. Allison Cash?" I asked, stepping forward.
She nodded curtly. "Yes."
"I'm Maddie Springer, and this is my friend, Dana Dashel." I offered my hand to her, which she shook with a quick, icy grip.
"Mina said you had something to sell us?" she asked, coming right to the point.
I nodded, handing her my shoebox. "Possibly. I was hoping to get an idea what they're worth first."
Allison opened the box, pulling one shoe out and inspecting it.
"I wanted to have them appraised at the Antiques Extravaganza yesterday but didn't get the chance," I explained, hoping to segue to talking about Carrington as easily as I had with her employee.
"Yes," she said without the least bit of emotion. "We're all deeply saddened by that business."
She sounded as if she were talking about a skinny profit margin and not the death of her business partner. But people grieved in all different ways, I reminded myself, trying not to be too quick to judge.
"You don't seem very broken up about it," Dana blurted out. Clearly she had already judged and jury-ed.
Allison Cash blinked at us. "We're all very saddened by it," she repeated. Though it held more of a defensive tone than anything akin to sad.
"I'm sorry for your loss," I said quickly.
"Thank you," Allison said curtly.
"I was actually in his line for an appraisal yesterday," I said again. "I had hoped to speak with him."
Allison waved it off. "These are simple enough to put a price on," she assured me.
I wasn't sure how I felt about my vintage Chanel being called simple, but I nodded. "Any idea what they may be worth?"
She shrugged. "They're in fairly good condition. Some minor wear along the soles, and a couple of scuffs here," she said, pointing to the instep.
"Well, they are old," I said, feeling defensive.
"Hmm," she said, still turning the shoes over in her hands.
"How long were you and Carrington partners?" Dana asked.
"I suppose we've been in business together for a little over a year."
"Strictly business?" Dana asked.
Allison's head popped up. "Excuse me?"
I elbowed Dana in the ribs.
"Uh, what I meant was that you two got along?"
"Yes." She narrowed her eyes. "Why wouldn't we?"
"He was murdered," Dana pointed out. "Someone didn't get along with him—ouch!"
I might have elbowed a tad harder that time.
"Look, if you're insinuating something about Peter's death—"
"Of course we're not," I quickly covered. "We just wanted to pay our proper condolences."
"You know, to whomever was closest with him," Dana pressed, scooting out of range of my elbows. Smart girl.
"I wouldn't know," Allison answered in a clipped tone. "His personal life was his business."
"Were you at the Extravaganza with him?" Dana asked.
Allison shook her head. "Something came up at the last minute yesterday, and I was not able to attend."
I waited for more about what the something was, but she just shoved the shoebox toward me across the counter. "I can offer you fifty dollars."
I choked back my shock at the low price. "Fifty dollars? For vintage Chanel?"
Allison shrugged. "They're nowhere near mint condition. The market is soft on clothing right now, and I'd have to make a profit. I have refurbishment and storage costs, not to mention auction fees."
"Auction fees?"
She nodded. "These won't fetch much retail. They need a specific buyer. We usually list with Van Steinberg's, and they'll want their cut for the advertising."
I tucked the tissue around heels and carefully placed the lid. "I'll have to think about it," I told her, swallowing down my disappointment.
Allison shrugged. "Suit yourself. The offer stands. It's more than fair."
I doubted that. In fact, I had a feeling Allison was lowballing me. Whether it was standard business practice for her or whether it was due to my friend's interrogation, I wasn't sure.
* * *
"So, what do we think of the partner's act?" Dana said once we'd left the building.
I shot her a look. "If it was an act."
"Sure. If." Dana winked at me.
This time I didn't even try to restrain the eye roll. "What I think is that Allison is a very tolerant person."
"How so?" Dana frowned.
"She didn't call security on you." I grinned at her.
"Ha. Ha. Very funny," Dana said. Though she was smiling at my teasing. "But seriously. She didn't seem very broken up about the death."
"No," I admitted, "she didn't. But why kill him?"
"Maybe the business is in trouble. Maybe Carrington wanted to dissolve the partnership. Maybe she just hated the guy."
"That's a lot of maybes."
Dana frowned. "It is a few, huh?" She picked up her phone, scrolling through some pages. "What we need is someone who really knew what the relationship between the two business partners was like."
"What we need is to leave this to Ramirez. We were just asking a few questions, remember?"
Dana shot me a get real look. "You're seriously going to do nothing while the police suspect your mom and a real killer roams the streets, possibly ready to strike again?"
PI Girl was going for that dramatic flair again. However, beneath the sensationalism, I had to admit, she had a good point. Any other day, I might have walked away, but it was my mom we were talking about…
"You really think Carrington and Cash might have been on the outs with each other?" I asked.
Dana grinned, knowing she had me. "I think people with good working relationships show some remorse when the other dies."
"Mina said they seemed to get along fine," I said.
"Yeah, according to Mina, everything is 'fine.' What else is she going to say if she likes her job?"
"True. So who else would know if there was any bad blood between the two?"
"I say we start with Van Steinberg," Dana said, eyes on her phone.
"Who?"
She flipped her phone around so I could see the screen. "Van Steinberg's Auction House," she said, showing me their website. "Allison said they usually list items there. If he dealt with Carrington and Cash on a regular basis, he might have some insight into their real working relationship."
"That feels like a bit of a long shot." Trouble was, at the moment we didn't have any short shots.
Dana shrugged. "Well, that's all I've got." She swiped the website closed and glanced at the time on her phone. "And I've gotta get going. I'm meeting Marco for menu planning. Oh, if Ricky ever asks, I told him I'm shoe shopping with you this afternoon." She gave me a wink.
* * *
There was an accident on Sepulveda, and it took nearly an hour to get back home. I just had time to tidy the house and run a couple of errands before it was time to pick the twins up from school. Luckily, after a long day of sandboxes and finger puppets, they were tired enough to go down for naps without too much of a protest. I'd just closed the bedroom door on the sweet so
und of their gentle snoring when I heard Ramirez's car pull up outside. I glanced at the clock. Just past three. Way too early for my husband to be home. My stomach jumped up into my throat. That did not bode well.
Ramirez walked in the door and tossed his keys on the credenza with a distinct clatter.
"Hey, you," I said, crossing the room to give him a quick peck on the cheek.
"Hey, yourself," he returned.
"You're home early?" I phrased it in the form of a question.
He nodded. "Yeah."
Instead of elaborating, he stalked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He popped the top and took a long swig.
Also not boding well.
I followed him into the kitchen, leaning tentatively against the counter. "So, any news on the Carrington case?" I almost hesitated to ask.
He took another swig. He took a deep breath. Then he leveled me with an unreadable look. "It's not looking good for your mom."
My stomach crawled from my throat to my chest, sitting with a hard thud. "How not good?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She's being considered as a suspect in Carrington's murder."
I shook my head. "No way. I mean, how can they possibly think she had anything to do with this?"
"The murder weapon belongs to her—"
"Lots of people are killed with stolen weapons," I protested.
"—and she has no solid alibi."
"She was only alone for a couple of minutes."
"Not to mention there were countless people at the Extravaganza who saw your mom cut loose on Carrington."
"Before he died," I protested. "No one actually saw my mom near Carrington when he was killed." I said it with certainty because I knew Mom was innocent. Though I was starting to feel like I was the only one.
Ramirez shook his head. "No, you're right. We don't have any positive ID on your mom. But honestly? The circumstantial evidence is pretty daunting against her."
"Circumstantial," I emphasized.
"For the moment."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that forensics is combing every inch of that venue for physical evidence to support the theory of the detectives in charge."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I take it you are not the detective in charge on this one?"
He shook his head. "No. Conflict of interest. Laurel and Hardy are lead on this one."
I closed my eyes and thought a really bad word. I'd run into Laurel McMartin and John Hardy before, and they had completely lived up to the buffoonery of their comical namesakes. How the two had ever made detectives, I had no idea. I had a feeling it had to do with greased palms, budget cuts, and a decline in the California school systems leading to overall lowered standards. And maybe the fact that Hardy's dad golfed with the commissioner.
"And their theory is that my mom killed Carrington?" I asked.
Ramirez took a step toward me, the hard look in his eyes softening. "I'm sorry, babe."
"But it's not true!" I shouted. "I know it looks bad, but you know my mom is innocent."
He nodded. "Of course I do."
"So convince them," I pleaded. "Tell them you know her. You know she didn't do it. It's just not in her character. She's being framed."
Ramirez sighed deeply again. "I'm afraid I'm not in a position to tell them anything.
"Why not?"
He gave me that sympathetic look again. "Because I've been pulled from the case."
Desperation made tears back up behind my eyes. "What?! Why?"
He reached out and pulled me in for a tight hug. "Sorry, Maddie," he murmured into my hair. "But if I were the captain, I'd have no choice but to pull me too. It's my mother-in-law. It's not like I can be impartial."
That's what I'd been counting on. As long as Ramirez was in there pulling for my mom, I thought she had a fighting chance of beating the stacked odds. She needed a partial party on her side. But if Laurel and Hardy were Mom's best bet at staying out of jail? Mom was in deep trouble.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, my first destination—after getting the kids to preschool half an hour later because I'd had to comb the entire house for my cell phone, which I'd eventually found shoved into the crisper drawer of the refrigerator courtesy of Max the Phone Bandit—was my stepfather's salon, Fernando's of Beverly Hills. With circumstantial evidence mounting, I wanted to check in on Mom and see how she was holding up.
And as soon as I walked through the doors, that question was answered. Mom sat in the lobby, mascara streaking down her face in two long gray trails, her blue eye shadow smudged toward her hairline, and her hot pink lipstick half chewed away as she sobbed into a soggy tissue.
Beside her sat my stepfather, a comforting arm around her shoulders.
"What happened?" I asked, rushing to her side and placing a hand on her arm.
"The police were just here," Faux Dad explained, clucking his tongue. "Making"—he lowered his voice—"insinuations." His eyes went wide with infused meaning.
Faux Dad's real name was Ralph, he'd been born and raised in the Midwest, and his heritage was pure farm boy. But when he'd hit the West Coast and entered into a career coiffing the rich and famous, he'd had to reinvent himself to stand out. Hence, Fernando, stylist to the stars had been born. He'd gone full throttle with this new self, complete with a faux Spanish heritage, dyed black hair, and deep orange spray tans. In fact, I'd venture to say the only real thing about Faux Dad was his devotion to my mother.
"What did they say?" I asked, dread pooling in my belly.
"They're going to lock me up," Mom moaned into her tissue. "I'm going to the big house!"
I patted her back. "Mom, you're not going to the big house. I'm sure they're just asking questions."
"They were interrogating me. They think I'm g-g-guilty!" she wailed, breaking down into sobs again.
The bell at the front door jingled as Faux Dad's receptionist came bustling in.
"I got your text. I came as fast as I could," Marco said, tossing his yellow pleather shoulder bag onto the reception desk and making a beeline for Mom.
Marco was slim, Hispanic, and wore more eyeliner than Katy Perry. His pink sequined top sparkled above his black skinny jeans with tasteful holes ripped in the knees. He'd capped off the outfit with a pair of white boots with two-inch heels. (Which looked frighteningly like a pair I had in my own closet.) If Johnny Weir and J. Lo had a love child, it would be Marco.
"Two detectives just left," Faux Dad said, catching Marco up. "They were harassing Betty."
"I'm a s-s-suspect," Mom said, between sobs. She sniffed loudly. "I can't go to jail. Have you seen those mug shots? They're so unflattering. And I look terrible in orange!" She covered her face in the tissue again, blowing her nose loudly.
I patted her back some more as Marco tried to comfort her. "I'm sure it's just a formality. I mean, you both were at the scene of the crime," he said, looking to me. "Maybe you're just witnesses?"
Mom shook her head. "No. No they wanted my…alibi!" she wailed out.
I had to admit, that didn't sound good.
Faux Dad clicked his tongue again. "Look, I'm sure Ramirez will get to the bottom of this. He'll clear it up in no time."
I bit my lip. "Uh, maybe it would help if we went back over the timeline," I said, not ready to share yet that Ramirez was out of the loop in this one. "I mean, someone had to have gotten that hatpin from your purse, right?"
Mom sniffed and nodded, lifting her face. "I don't know how."
"Did you leave it alone at all?"
She looked at me like I'd suggested she'd slapped a puppy. "Leave my purse unattended? Why on earth would I do that?"
But I pressed forward. "Mom, if you didn't kill Carrington with that hatpin, someone else did, right?"
She nodded.
"So they must have taken it from your bag."
She nodded again, realization dawning that it could only help her to think of when she'd c
ommitted the cardinal sin of leaving a purse unattended. "But I'm afraid I had it with me all day."
"You didn't set it down? Like, even for a minute?"
She started to shake her head, but stopped. "Wait. I did set it down. But it was honestly just for a minute. I was eating a soft pretzel, and I was so frazzled from the fight with Carrington that I wasn't paying attention and a splotch of mustard dropped on my skort. Of course I'd forgotten to get napkins, and Dorothy was still getting her frozen lemonade, so I just popped up from my seat to grab a handful of napkins at one of the condiment kiosks. But honestly it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. A minute tops," she promised.
That was a mighty tight timeline, I had to agree. But it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that someone had been waiting for that very sort of opportunity. The hatpin would have been the last thing Mom had thrown into her purse. It would have been right on top. Honestly, it probably wouldn't have taken more than a couple of seconds to nab it.
"Did you notice anyone near you at the time?" I asked. Preferably lurking suspiciously.
Mom pursed her lips together, trying to think back. "Well, there was an older couple at the table next to me. And I remember seeing that lady with the clowns walk by."
"Clowns?" Marco asked.
"Ceramic clown dolls," I explained. "She was behind us in line." I turned to Mom. "And she knew Carrington, and you saw her at the food court too?" That was quite a coincidence, and I mentally put Clown Lady at the top of my suspect list.
Mom nodded. "Oh, and I remember a young man there too. He asked me if I knew where the coffee cart was." She perked up a bit. "In fact, I'd swear I saw him earlier when we were in Carrington's line too!"
Now we were getting somewhere. "Do you know who he is?" I asked.
She smiled. "Bradley Cooper."
I blinked. "Bradley Cooper?" I asked skeptically. What were the odds my mom was being framed by an Academy Award nominee?
She shook her head. "No, I mean not the real one. But the guy looked just like him. Spitting image." She sighed. "Kinda cute really."
Faux Dad cleared his throat.
"Oh, in a childish way, of course," Mom said, patting his hand. Then she turned back to me. "Does that help?"
10 Suspect in High Heels Page 4