Pedicures & Prejudice

by Stephanie Damore

  20

  While Finn caught up on some sleep, I spent that time researching art crimes and how galleries like Studio One fit into the scheme. By the time Detective Hart knocked on my door, things were starting to make sense.

  “Come on in,” I said. For the first time in twenty-four hours I was wearing pants— well, if leggings counted as pants—and was even sporting some lipstick and eyeliner. I didn’t bother covering the bruise on the side of my face. Purple was always my color.

  “Let’s have a seat over here.” I motioned to the sofa and side chair. My laptop sat in front of me on the coffee table. Finn was still asleep down the hall in the master.

  I handed the catalog over to Detective Hart once she was seated.

  “I had my professor friend take a look at that. None of the pieces in this catalog are previously known. She told me that either Viktor is extremely lucky or…”

  “He’s peddling forged works,” Detective Hart said.

  “Exactly. I also found notecards in Melanie’s desk drawer that match the addresses on the envelopes the gallery was mailing the catalogs out to.”

  “You were in her office?” Detective Hart wasn’t sure if she should be upset or impressed.

  I waved her comment away. The details were irrelevant. I brought up the photos on my phone and showed Detective Hart the matching addresses and the notecards.

  “There was also a notebook, with a series of numbers. I think the first digits are phone numbers, followed by store account numbers or maybe how much money they spent. I’m not positive,” I said. It was the best theory I had.

  “A notebook?” Detective Hart asked. I showed her a couple other pictures.

  “Oh, and Veronica just bought an $800 mid-century typewriter,” I said, if that explained it all.

  “I’m not following.”

  “Well, I did a bit of research. It looks like forging a painting is only the first part. You also need fake documents, you know, letters and receipts, provenance they call it, to provide authenticity. If you’re peddling mid-century paintings, you need mid-century provenance, which also explains all the tea boxes!” I stood up, officially on a roll.

  “Tea boxes?”

  “On Veronica’s counter. I was at her house and she offered me coffee, twice. I found it strange seeing she had boxes of tea sitting out, but now it makes sense.”

  “Still not following,” Detective Hart said.

  I turned my computer Detective Hart’s way to the tutorial I had been reading online when she had knocked on the door. “Forgers use tea to stain paper. Makes it look older. That must be what she’s doing. If you can get a warrant for their storage unit, I bet the pieces will really click together.”

  “Storage unit?” Detective Hart asked.

  I told the detective all about Viktor and Veronica’s storage unit, including where it was located and what was inside.

  “Did I tell you about Veronica’s lawsuit?” I asked Detective Hart.

  “No, but that my team did uncover.”

  “I’m thinking that Veronica was blackmailing Melanie. Trying to force her into staying with the operation, but it seems she had gone rogue.”

  “Who killed Melanie then?” Detective Hart asked.

  I sat back down. My roll had come to an end. “I have no idea. Common sense would say Veronica, but I don’t have any evidence to back that up, just speculation.” It looked like I had solved one crime, but still was clueless when it came to solving Melanie’s murder. It appeared Melanie’s sister might have been correct. Whatever they were up to at Studio One, it had nothing to do with Melanie’s murder. Talk about an anticlimactic ending.

  “Do you have any idea?” I asked Detective Hart.

  “As far as I’m concerned, any one of her family members could have done it. They all appear to have a motive,” she said.

  “That’s true, I guess. What about the car that hit me, did you trace it?” I asked.

  “That’s where it gets sticky. The car was registered to Lucia,” Detective Hart said.

  “Lucia? The murders are connected?” This really started the wheels spinning in my head.

  “Looks that way, but I have no idea how. I’m going to get in touch with the FBI.” Detective Hart held up the catalog. “This might not be the type of quick-close case you’re used to, but I know we’ll crack it eventually.”

  I nodded my head, still not feeling the type of closure I was hoping for.

  Detective Hart stood up. “I wish you well, Ziva. You’re one heck of a detective. Take care and I’m sure I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks, please do.” I walked Detective Hart out and stood at the small kitchenette counter.

  I thought back to Melanie’s sister statement for the hundredth time. What if the murders were entirely separate from the art crimes? What if we removed Veronica, Viktor, and Sasha as suspects. Who did that leave?

  My cell phone rang at that moment. It was a number that I vaguely recognized. I answered the line anyway.

  “Hey Ziva. It’s Clarissa.”

  “Oh hey, how’s it going?”

  “Crazy busy here, but I wanted to let you know that Mr. Frederick’s back in town. He stopped in this morning.”

  “Oh awesome. Did you tell him to call me?”

  “I did, but I don’t think he was listening. He said Belize left him inspired and he’s heading to the fabric warehouse to work.”

  “Fabric warehouse?”

  “It’s the old Sears building off of 95. He bought it on a deal and says the lighting inside is fabulous.”

  “Okay, cool. Thanks so much.”

  I snuck out of the hotel room and had the valet hail me a cab. “Old Sears building on I-95,” I said to the driver, unsure if he knew what I was talking about or not. The cabbie nodded, which I assumed meant he did.

  “Are you being smart or stupid?” I asked myself as the cab drove down I-95. Smart people called the police, stupid people raced off to abandoned warehouses. I had to back my thoughts up. Did I think Mr. Frederick was a murderer? No, no I did not. Because it didn’t make sense for him to firebomb his own apartment. If anything, being anywhere near his vicinity was more of a danger than the man himself. I could only hope that the person who was after him didn’t know he was in town yet. Speaking of being firebombed, I needed to talk to Mr. Frederick and find out if he knew who was after him and why.

  The Sears building was at one end of a mall, so not nearly the creepy abandoned warehouse I had been expecting. One point for the smart column, or maybe I should create another column titled “dumb luck.”

  I walked up to the sliding glass doors and gave a little jump back when they automatically opened. I was not expecting that to happen. In fact, the whole building defied expectations. This wasn’t some abandoned warehouse, but more like a fashion factory. Rows upon rows of fabric took up the front portion of the store with designers walking about choosing material to work with. On the other side, I could see other designers happily pinning at their workstations. Mannequins draped in swatches of fabric this way and that. I planned on walking around and exploring to see what other oddities I could find until security stopped me.

  “Can I help you ma’am?”

  So apparently you couldn’t just waltz in here and look around.

  “Hi, I was just wondering if Mr. Frederick was available?” I asked the man. I’m sure he’s going to want to talk with me when he finds out who I am,” I said more confidently than I felt.

  “And who might that be?”

  “Ziva Diaz.” I let my name hang in the air like a total boss babe would.

  My gamble paid off. Either I was more popular than I thought I was, or Mr. Frederick had been listening when Clarissa told him I was trying to get in touch.

  “Ziva, my peach, I’ve heard wonderful things about you.” Mr. Frederick came out from a back office, wearing a white suit. A silver shimmering cape flowed behind him.

  “I know what it’s like when your muse strikes, but
do you have a minute to chat?” I asked him.

  “That I can do, come this way,” the man said.

  Mr. Frederick’s office was bathed in natural light and all things white. The furniture, walls, fabric. There wasn’t a drop of color in sight. It was blinding.

  Mr. Frederick picked up a white pencil and sat at his desk, ready to take notes on a white piece of paper.

  “I heard about your apartment. I’m so sorry. Any idea who did it?” I asked.

  “No, but it’s concerning. Very concerning. I’d drive myself crazy if I tried to make sense of it all.”

  “That’s true, but I can’t help but think it’s connected to Melanie’s murder. Don’t you think so too?”

  “Melanie’s murder? Why in the world would it be?” The thought seemed to have seriously never crossed his mind.

  I tried a different approach. “You and Melanie were set to go into business together, is that right?”

  “We were. This time it was going to be glorious. A vision. I couldn’t wait to explore the world of bridal with Ms. May.” I swear Mr. Frederick’s eyes got all misty when he talked about it.

  “This time? Was there a time before?” I asked.

  “There was, but I let a foolish sketchbook get in the way.”

  “The one that was stolen, right?” Mr. Frederick looked surprised. “Industry gossip,” I supplied.

  “Yes, that notebook. I was convinced Melanie stole it when I saw her work and the rumors swirled. I didn’t want to believe there was another designer as talented as me.”

  “You were too proud,” I said.

  “I was, but Melanie came to me. We talked everything out and I grew up.”

  “Is it possible that there’s someone who would’ve wanted to wipe the two of you out? A rival?”

  “No, no. Not possible. No one else knew about our planned label.”

  “Are you sure? Your niece is the one who told me about it,” I said.

  “Okay, no one else knew but her. I forgot about that. Isn’t Taylor just wonderful? I love that girl.”

  “What about your lawyers?” I asked.

  “What lawyers?”

  “Wait, you two didn’t sign a contract last month?”

  “Last month? No. We just met Tuesday morning.”

  “But wait, I saw a contract.” I reached for my phone to bring up the email only to realize it was on my computer.

  “Not for us. Our label never got that far. I never even had a chance to call my lawyer.”

  “Then who in the world is the contract between?

  “Me.” I jumped in my seat and turned around to face Gwen. With a blowtorch in one hand, a lighter in the other, and a whole lot of crazy in her eyes, the woman commanded respect. Too bad I was a little low on it.

  “Sweet sugar! What in the world are you thinking?” I asked her. Mr. Frederick looked around the room trying to figure out what was going on. Gwen lit the torch and walked over to a rack of lace, lighting the ends on fire. They curled instantly in the heat.

  She smiled. “No one ever took Gwen seriously, did they? What about now? Do you take me seriously?” Gwen pointed the blowtorch in our faces. I held completely still while my mind put the pieces together.

  “You were getting cut out, weren’t you? You wanted to go into business with Melanie, but she turned to Mr. Frederick instead.”

  “We had a deal. She promised me that if her name was on the label, she would make me partner once the brand took off. Well, the brand took off, and there I was, still a designer.”

  “And her family?” I asked.

  “I knew she wanted out of their control, so I gave her a way out. Together we had the finances to go in alone and cut her father out of the business, and she agreed to it. That is until this fruit loop came along.”

  Gwen played the torch across Mr. Frederick’s white desk. Whatever the furniture had been lacquered with, it went up in flames. I jumped back.

  “I got rid of you once, but you just kept coming back,” she said to Mr. Frederick.

  “Got rid of me? But I never went anywhere,” Mr. Frederick said.

  “The sketchbook. You stole it in Paris and started the rumors about it being Melanie,” I said.

  “I did and it worked for a while. I should’ve known you’d be back,” Gwen said.

  “That was very wrong of you,” Mr. Frederick said as if he was scolding a young child. Meanwhile, his desk went up in flames, taking his white pencils and paper along with it.

  “I’m tired of my work being insulted and cast aside. I’m someone!” Gwen shouted. She turned and lit a bolt of white silk. Flames climbed up the fabric. I found myself more interested in the blowtorch at that moment and not so much the burning fabric. I did not want to get singed by the psycho.

  Mr. Frederick’s desk continued to burn as did the lace and fabric. I looked at the lace and thought to what Gwen had just said.

  “You killed Lucia because she rejected your dress.”

  “She didn’t deserve that dress or the lace I strangled her with,” Gwen said, explaining the imprint Detective Hart found around Lucia’s neck.

  “Then you killed Melanie. Your text was your alibi, but you didn’t send it from home. You used Melanie’s phone to reply to yourself. I bet when the police pull your cell records they’ll see that your message wasn’t transmitted from a tower anywhere near your home.” The more I thought of it, the more it made sense. “I’m sure it wasn’t hard to get her to go with you. You probably got her drunk when you were out celebrating. Was she even conscious when you bashed in her head?” I asked.

  “She deserved it!” Gwen turned the blowtorch on Mr. Frederick’s white leather couch.

  I was proud to have finally solved the case. It was just too bad we’d all be burned up to a crisp before Detective Hart would ever know.

  “My name is supposed to be on the front of the store. Not hers. I’m the designer!” Gwen shouted once more.

  “My child, this is all complete nonsense. Put the blowtorch down and let’s talk about your vision,” Mr. Frederick looked completely calm. I thought Gwen’s reference to him as fruit loop was spot on until I saw the way Gwen responded to him.

  “I wanted to use more lace, less tulle. Vintage necklines and crystal beading. No more ridiculous ball gowns and feathers. No crazy colors. Just pure white. Surely you understand my vision?” Gwen was practically begging Mr. Frederick to believe in her.

  Mr. Frederick played his part to a T. “That would be splendid to see,” he said. As far as I was concerned, the only people Gwen would be designing for were the Nevada State inmates.

  “I wanted to make classical dresses for today’s bride,” Gwen said.

  “The classics never go out of style,” Mr. Frederick said. I looked around the room as the flames started to spread to the carpeting. For as special as this moment was for Gwen, the smoke was starting to burn my eyes. This had to stop.

  “But she ruined it!” Gwen said, stomping her feet. She looked around the room, as if she was trying to see what else she could burn. I didn’t give her that chance. The moment her back was turned from me, I smacked her on the back with a chair, cage fighting-style.

  The blowtorch rolled from her hands and I had a moment of panic. Go after it or subdue Gwen? Mr. Frederick pounced on Gwen like a feral cat. He sure was springy. I ran for the torch and twisted the gas off just as the flame made contact with the curtains. The gauzy fabric shriveled up in flame. I jumped back, looking around for something, anything, to put out the flames. At that moment, Zane came racing into the room, fire extinguisher in hand, and doused the flames. Leave it to a rock star to save the day.

  “How did you know where to find us?” I asked Zane. We were standing in the mall parking lot. The fire fighters were inside putting out the remaining flames. Gwen was already in police custody.

  “I followed Gwen. After I realized Viktor wouldn’t kill Melanie, I put my prejudice aside and thought who would? Who had the most to gain? The answer was cle
ar. Gwen. She would inherit the salon, the brand, everything.”

  “I never even thought of her,” I said.

  “Melanie thought of her like a sister,” Zane said.

  With family like that… “So you went to confront her?” I asked.

  “And she led me here,” Zane said.

  “Well I’m glad she did.” I gave Zane a hug and wondered in that moment if it would be totally inappropriate to ask for an autograph.

  21

  In the ideal world, I wouldn’t be hopping on a flight five days after crashing a helicopter. But this wasn’t an ideal world. I took a deep breath and looked over at my travel companion. Finn was as content as could be, reading the pamphlet that had been tucked in the seat back in front of him, debating his beverage choices. At that moment, I was thinking I should’ve called my family physician, Dr. Michelson, and had him call in a prescription for Xanax. Beverage service could not start soon enough.

  A woman sitting across the aisle from us had a small poodle sitting on her lap that reminded me so much of Captain Jack I felt homesick. I was eternally grateful to be flying back to Port Haven and putting Vegas behind us.

  I convinced Finn to spend a couple of days in Port Haven instead of heading directly down to Tampa with the promise that I would accompany him. Both of us were tired of living apart, and I was ready to make the move permanent. That just meant packing up the rest of my apartment and signing a few more papers, oh, and getting married.

  “Remember when I said I had a project that needed some tweaking?” I asked Finn as we packed up the rest of my apartment a few days later.

  “Yes?” Finn said, cocking his head and looking at me questioningly.

  “Well it’s done.”

  The last thing left in my apartment was an envelope that I had hid on the top of the refrigerator. I climbed up on the counter to retrieve it. Finn watched me curiously the entire time.

  “I would cordially like to invite you to our wedding,” I said, handing the envelope over.