"Did you know Carrington?" I asked.
He nodded. "Yes. The antiques community is a small one."
"I'm very sorry for your loss," I told him.
He looked momentarily surprised, as if the thought he should be upset by the death hadn't yet occurred to him. "Uh, yes, well, thank you."
"Were the two of you close?"
Van Steinberg let out a bark of laughter. "Hardly."
Now we were getting somewhere. "Oh. Why is that?"
He leveled me with a look. "I don't wish to speak ill of the dead."
Though, with that sentence he kinda already had. "I take it you were not a fan of his?"
"Oh, Carrington had enough fans. Every flea-market Sally who saw him on TV suddenly started showing up at our auctions."
"I would think that would be good for business."
"Sure. If they ever bought anything. But they just came to look and get close to Carrington. Antique groupies, if you will." He shook his head.
I thought of the Clown Lady and how she'd practically fawned over him as we'd stood in line at the show. "I think I met one of them at the Extravaganza. Petite, dark bob, glasses. Has a thing for clowns."
"Ah." He nodded. "Yes, I've seen her here several times. Never buys," he added, scowling.
"I don't suppose you have a name for her?"
He shook his head. "I wouldn't know."
"What about Carrington's partner?" I asked, switching gears. "Allison Cash?"
"What about her?" he asked. If he had any opinion of her, it didn't show, his expression remaining neutral. His eyes were on the shoes again, examining a microscopic bit of something on the toe.
"Do you work with her regularly as well?"
"I'm sure she's been in once or twice. But I believe she handled more of the business aspects and Carrington did more of the hands-on appraisals and auctions."
"Did they get along?" I asked.
Again Carrington's eyes went to mine, this time narrowing ever so slightly. In his defense, it was an odd question for someone looking to auction a pair of shoes.
"I, uh, just ask because Allison seemed to lowball me when I had these in her shop yesterday. Just wondering if she was always that difficult or…" I let the thought trail off. Admittedly, it was a lame excuse.
But he seemed to buy it, as he shrugged. "I wouldn't take it personally. Like I said, Allison was the business brain behind the operation. She was probably just looking out for her bottom line."
Which didn't tell me anything about how the partners got along.
I decided to try a different tactic. "The police are saying Carrington was murdered."
"Hmm," Van Steinberg mumbled. "Yes, I heard that."
"Do you know if Carrington had problems with anyone? Any disputes with clients or other dealers?"
Van Steinberg snorted. "Knowing Carrington? He likely had problems with everyone."
This guy really wasn't a fan. I wondered if there was a specific reason Van Steinberg didn't like Carrington or just a general distaste toward the man.
"Had Carrington auctioned anything here recently?" I asked. I was fishing, but you never knew when a shark might bite your line.
"Well, let me see." His forehead wrinkled in concentration. "I believe the last two items he brought in both sold at our previous auction. A Veldenshort oil on canvas and a Bracington sculpture." He paused. "From the Heffernan Studios."
"I'm familiar with the style," I mumbled, remembering The Blob Lottie LaMore had been peddling.
"Oh, a modern art fan?"
"Isn't everyone?" I gave him a bright smile, hoping he bought it. "When was it you said the last piece sold?"
"Last month. The Bracington sculpture. Buyer was anonymous."
I frowned. "Anonymous? Then how do you know who takes the item home?"
"It was bought through a broker. He handles the transaction, and the buyer compensates him. Usually a small percentage."
"I had no idea," I mused. This was much more involved than eBay.
"With some of our higher dollar items, buyers prefer that the ownership not be of public record." He shot me a knowing look. "Tax purposes and all that."
I nodded, pretending to understand the issues of the 1%.
"I'll admit, I've never brought an item to an auction house before. How does the process work?" I asked, genuinely curious.
He studied the bottom of a heel, then sat the shoe back in the box.
"It's going to vary depending on what you're auctioning. We have formal auctions here on site every month. We generally fill them at least two to three months ahead of time."
"Oh, I didn't realize," I mumbled.
He waved a hand. "For the larger ticket items. We need the time to photograph items, prepare brochures, and promote the auction. For items like that we do sometimes charge storage and insurance fees as well, but again we're talking bigger ticket pieces. For an item like these," he said, gesturing to the heels, "we can usually fit them in as an add-on piece. Or, quite honestly, I think they'd do well at one of our day auctions."
"Day auctions?" I asked. "What are those?"
"Well, often our marquee auctions are in the evening, many of them invitation only."
Sounded exclusive. And expensive.
"But," he went on, "we usually have a more informal auction the day after to sell off smaller items or those that didn't find a buyer the previous evening. Starting bids and buyers' premiums are generally lower, and they're open to the public. In fact we have one of those scheduled for tomorrow."
"And you think these might be a good fit for a day auction?"
He nodded. "I do. These shoes are in quite good condition, with the exception of a little wear on the heels here." He lifted a shoe and pointed to the bottom for me to take a look. "I'd say you could expect in the neighborhood of two to three hundred dollars for them. Possibly more if the right buyer is interested."
Which was far more than Allison Cash had offered. "And what fees would I owe?"
"Just a sales commission. For these, let's say 10%."
The truth was, it had been years since I'd worn the Chanel. As much as I loved owning a part of fashion history, they'd seen more of my closet than strutting down Rodeo. I'd enjoyed them, and the idea of giving them a new home with someone else who could appreciate them was enticing. Especially if it meant a couple hundred in my pocket and an invitation to delve deeper into Peter Carrington's world.
I stuck my hand out toward the pristine man. "You've got a deal."
CHAPTER SEVEN
After filling out some paperwork and leaving my Chanel heels in Van Steinberg's care, I got back into my car and hit a drive-thru Starbucks, contemplating my next move. Van Steinberg had given me precious little to go on about Allison Cash other than she was the businesswoman behind Carrington's TV face. And while it was clear the auctioneer didn't have a very high opinion of Carrington himself, I didn't see him killing the guy over a few groupies. His reaction hadn't been any worse than anyone else in Carrington's life to the news of his demise. In fact, so far no one I'd encountered actually seemed to have liked the guy very much…with the possible exception of Clown Lady. Who had been at the show when Carrington was killed and had gotten a front row seat to Mom's altercation with him. While I wasn't sure of motive, Clown Lady definitely had opportunity and means to off the appraiser.
I took a cooling sip of my Frappuccino and set it in my cup holder, making a sharp right onto Santa Monica, heading back toward Venice. If Clown Lady had been a regular at Van Steinberg's auctions, chances were she'd frequented Yesterday's Treasures as well. And it was quite possible friendly Mina had thought to ask for a name where impersonal Van Steinberg had not.
I was just indulging in the last syrupy sips of my coffee concoction when I parked in front of the antique shop. Through the window I could see more bodies filling the shop today than there had been yesterday. However, as I pushed through the glass doors, I realized the bodies were not patrons but police. Laurel a
nd Hardy to be specific.
I paused, ducking my head away from the two, lest they recognized me, and feigning interest in the jewelry case to their left. (Which wasn't really all that hard, as it was an interesting case!)
John Hardy had a generous amount of padding in the middle and a 1990s soul patch on his stumpy chin. His dress shirt was wrinkled and had a suspicious-looking brown stain near the pocket, his slacks were at least an inch too long, pooling unflatteringly around his ankles, and he'd capped off his plainclothes not-so-chic outfit with a dark fedora that looked more Halloween costume quality than Sinatra sultry. In contrast to Hardy's disheveled self, Laurel McMartin was buttoned up, pressed, and starched to within an inch of her life. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail so tight that it made her makeup-less eyes slant upward. She wore dark slacks that were just a little too tight on the rear and a little too loose in the legs, a pale blue dress shirt, and sensible low heeled black loafers.
They each had their smartphones out, consulting what I assumed to be notes as they questioned Mina—who was minus the smile today, standing behind the counter and chewing on an unpainted fingernail as her eyes darted from one detective to the other.
"So you were here the day of the Antiques Extravaganza?" Laurel said.
Mina nodded. "That's right."
"Not at the show?" Hardy asked.
Mina shook her head.
"Alone?" he pressed.
"Uh…I guess. I mean some customers came in…"
"Got names for them?" Laurel demanded.
"I guess I could check our receipts, but not everyone who came in bought something."
"Yeah, we'll need to see those," Laurel told her, glancing down at her phone screen to type some notes.
"Uh, okay. I'll have to ask Ms. Cash…"
"That would be Alexis Cash?" Hardy asked, squinting at the screen of his own phone.
"Allison Cash," Mina corrected.
Hardy shot her a sharp look. "I have Alexis."
Mina shook her head. "It's Allison."
Hardy turned to his partner. "What do you have?"
"I've got…" Laurel held the phone out at arm's length, eyes narrowing at the screen. "Alejandro?"
Hardy shot an accusatory look at Mina. "Okay, so which is it?"
"Allison?" Mina said, though her voice held a note of question.
"Huh." Hardy looked back at his notes. "It's the damned autocorrect," he told Laurel. "Does yours have autocorrect?"
"You have to turn that off."
"You can turn it off?"
"Yeah, you go to settings, then… Oh, just let me do it." She grabbed Hardy's phone.
"What's that screen? I've never seen that screen before."
"Well, your settings are different than mine…"
I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry that my mom's fate was in the hands of these two.
"There," Laurel finally said. "It's off."
"So, how come yours did 'Alejandro'?"
"Oh, well, I was using speech to text."
"You can do that?"
"Yeah. Just push this little icon—"
"Um, was there anything else?" Mina asked, looking antsy.
Hardy turned back to her as if suddenly remembering where he was. "Yeah, as a matter of fact, there is. We'd like to speak to Al—er, your boss."
"She's not in," Mina said. "She's taking a personal day."
"Personal day, huh?" Laurel said, making a note on her phone.
"Yes. She was distraught," Mina explained, sounding defensive.
"I bet she was." Hardy shot Laurel a knowing look.
Laurel smirked back.
"She was," Mina protested. She paused. "Why did you need to speak with her?"
"We need to follow up with her about a tip we received," Hardy told her.
My ears perked up, and I nudged myself a little closer to the pair.
"Tip?" Mina asked.
Laurel nodded. "About fake antiques."
Mina frowned. "What about them?"
"You ever sell any?"
"Wh-what?" Mina took a step back from the counter. "No. Of course not!"
"You sure about that?" Hardy asked, leaning his pudgy elbows on the counter.
"Yes!" She frowned. "Every item we sell has been authenticated, if not by a certifying agency, then by one of our owners."
"So they say," Laurel said, pointedly.
But Mina shook her head. "No, there's no way they would do that. Who told you we were selling fakes?"
"Sorry, we can't divulge our sources," Laurel told her.
"Well, whoever it was, they are wrong."
Laurel gave Hardy a look. Hardy smirked this time. Laurel wrote something down.
"Have your boss call us when she gets in, huh?" Hardy told Mina, shoving a business card across the counter at her.
Mina pursed her lips but didn't answer as she watched Laurel and Hardy leave the shop.
I gave her a two count to compose herself again while I digested the information that CSI: Dumb and Dumber Edition had just dropped. Had someone accused Carrington of selling fake antiques? If he'd been scamming clients, that lent itself nicely to a motive to want him dead. Especially if someone had paid top dollar for said fake, I decided, thinking of the two items Carrington had sold at Van Steinberg's auction before he died.
I cleared my throat and approached Mina.
She tore her gaze from the front doors, noticing me for the first time. "Oh, sorry. Can I help you?"
I smiled at her, trying to ease some of the tension the Laurel and Hardy act had set into her shoulders. "I was in here yesterday. With the Chanel shoes?"
"Oh, right." Mina's posture relaxed a bit as recognition dawned.
"Maddie," I offered.
"Right. How can I help you, Maddie?"
"I take it Allison is still out?"
She nodded. "Unfortunately." She glanced back toward the glass door, outside which I could clearly see Laurel making more adjustments to Hardy's phone, Hardy gesturing wildly with his arms as he tried to explain his technology woes.
"Everything okay?" I asked, even though I'd eavesdropped on most of the conversation.
She blew out sigh. "Yeah. They're detectives. Looking into Carrington's murder."
"They have any leads?" I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
Mina shrugged. "They just asked a ton of questions I wasn't sure how to answer."
"Oh? Like what?" I asked, trying my best to sound casual.
"They just showed me some pictures of this older woman and asked if I'd ever seen her in the shop, if Carrington knew her, if she had anything against Carrington."
I felt my chest tighten. "The older woman…she didn't happen to have a whole lot of blue eye shadow and kind of '80s style clothes, did she?"
Mina nodded. "Yeah. Why?"
I sighed. "I, uh, might have seen the same pictures."
"Yeah, well, they seemed pretty sure she did it. And then they accused us…" She paused, biting her lip.
I nodded sympathetically. "I overheard about the fake antiques."
"Well, it's not true!" she said hotly. "Honestly, I don't know who told them that, but Carrington would never do such a thing. Can you imagine what that would do to our reputation? I guess they thought he sold a fake item to this woman and she lost it on him."
As far as I knew, Mom had never set foot in Yesterday's Treasures. But I wasn't sure a little thing like actual evidence was going to stop Laurel and Hardy.
"Anyway, was there something I could help you with?"
"Actually, I think there might be," I said. "I met a woman at the Antiques Extravaganza the other day," I began. "She had this little clown doll. I didn't catch her name, and I was wondering if you might happen to know who she was. I got the feeling she was a big fan of Carrington's."
"Ah. Yeah, that would be Terri Voy. She's in here all the time. Always with clowns. They're kind of her thing, I guess." She shrugged, as if she didn't get it either.
"So she knew Carrington well?"
Mina shrugged. "She came to see him a lot, but I don't know if they were friends or she was just a fan or what. She never really wanted to chat with me—just asked for Carrington." Mina paused. "Why do you ask? Did you want to buy one of her clowns?"
I tried not to visibly shudder at the thought. "Uh, yeah," I lied. "I might. You don't happen to have her address, do you?"
Mina pursed her lips and shook her head. "Sorry. We don't keep info like that. If Mr. Carrington did, it would be on his computer. Which they already took." She nodded in the direction of the detectives, who were both looking at their screens now, squinting and comparing.
I thanked Mina and left, telling her again to pass on my message to Allison Cash when she came in.
* * *
As soon as I hopped back into the car, I pulled up my trusty friend Google and typed in Terri Voy. In addition to finding a social media page covered in clown-themed skins and a small article on a collector's blog about the rising popularity of porcelain clowns, I found a White Pages listing with an address in Pasadena. I checked my dash clock. I only had an hour before I had to pick up the twins. Possibly enough time to question Terri about her groupie status with the deceased, but I'd be cutting it close to get back across town in time. I decided not to chance it (I swear it had nothing to do with a fear of clowns—strictly a timeline thing) and instead did a quick drive-thru Del Taco run before picking up the tiny twosome.
Happily sated with french fries and tacos in their matching car seats, the twins giggled in the back while I headed toward home. I'd only gotten a couple of blocks, however, when my Bluetooth rang with a call from Marco.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Maddie, thank gawd you're free!" came Marco's voice through my car speakers.
"I'm not exactly free…" I hedged, glancing in the rearview at the kids (throwing shredded cheese at each other). "I'm in the car—"
"We have a situation," Marco said, plowing ahead.
My mind immediately went to Mom. "Is everything okay? What kind of situation?"
"A terrible one," I heard Dana's voice come over the line.
10 Suspect in High Heels Page 6