Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

by Christine Arness

  “So far I’m the only one overboard,” Keely pointed out. “The people responsible for the thefts have to be somehow connected to the industry. I’m trying to get a lead.”

  An exaggerated shrug. “I just dress the little darlings. I suggest you leave the sleuthing to the police. I hear that the Gifford woman’s a regular bloodhound.”

  “The bloodhound’s on my trail,” Keely retorted. “My concern is to get her pointed in the right direction.”

  Mimi’s answering smile was a nervous grimace. Digging a gilt compact from the middle drawer, she applied a fresh coat of lipstick in a shade that matched her suit. Her trademark pearl earrings were barely visible under the wings of her silvery hair.

  She snapped the compact shut. “Keely, I suggest you wait out the storm and don’t ask too many questions. I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I’m too old to start over.”

  Keely caught the echo of fear behind the brisk dismissal. “Has someone threatened you?”

  Mimi dropped the compact and lipstick into the drawer, slammed it shut, and got to her feet. “Sorry to cut this short, kiddo, but I can’t keep the Deckers waiting. The joys of doing business! An hour wasted while Jean babbles about Tiki torches and I convince her she’s got to lose at least three inches or she’ll look like a ruffled sofa pillow in that gown.”

  Keely watched Mimi pop a breath mint and step into discarded shoes. “You’re letting me down,” she said softly. “I thought we were friends—”

  “I can’t help you. I have neither the time nor the inclination for fruitless speculations.”

  “Is it the prospect of negative publicity?” Keely’s lips were stiff with frustration. Flo’s malice had invaded the room and subverted Mimi’s loyalty. “Are you afraid that if you help me—”

  “The Deckers are waiting, Keely.” Mimi sounded weary. “Your time’s up.”

  Keely heard both finality and a chilling prophecy in the other woman’s words. “If you hear anything that will help me—anything at all, please call.” She reached out to touch Mimi’s arm, but her friend stepped back.

  The lines in Mimi’s heavily made-up face were cruelly apparent as she gave Keely a bland smile of dismissal.

  The ominous clouds of damaging publicity might intimidate Mimi into abandoning a colleague, but Keely sensed something even more sinister was responsible. She had the vision of roots of evil, thick and creeping, buried in darkness.

  Her heart heavy, Keely left through the back door. As was her custom, she’d parked in the private lot behind the salon. Mimi’s behavior convinced Keely she knew more than she was willing to tell. Perhaps Max might be able to charm something out of her—Mimi had a weakness for dark haired men who knew how to keep a relationship “cooking.”

  Keely checked her watch. Nearly 4:30. If she hurried, she might catch Max before he left Feast of Italy to cater his dinner.

  Glancing up, she noticed a shape huddled beside her car. Keely stopped in mid-stride, her puzzled concern at the man’s contorted posture changing to horror when she identified the object in his upraised hand as a meat cleaver.

  Hearing her approach, he whirled, springing up from his crouched position and their eyes met. Keely recoiled, catching her heel in a crack in the pavement.

  The man ran toward her. Keely screamed. Lifting the camera case, she held it before her like a shield, but instead of attacking, the man veered and ran past. Vaulting over the low redwood fence enclosing the parking lot, he disappeared into the alley, the sound of his running footsteps dying away.

  One of Mimi’s assistants poked her head out the back door. “I thought I heard someone yell. Are you okay?”

  Too stunned to respond, Keely stumbled on unsteady legs toward her car. Both tires on the side facing her had been slashed. Spray painted words covered the vehicle’s flank and she read them twice before comprehending the message.

  “‘Next time—your face’?” The girl emerged from the building to hover beside Keely. “Ugh! How creepy!”

  “Call the police,” Keely said thickly, fighting for control. “Ask them to send Detective Gifford.”

  Glancing around the deserted lot, the girl shuddered. “You’d better wait inside in case whoever did this comes back.”

  Clutching her case, Keely followed, her mind whirling. She’d seen the man before, but he’d been dressed differently, in some type of uniform—

  Keely leaned against the wall, her legs refusing to support her. The man caught in the act of slashing her tires had four days earlier served her dinner on elegant Minton china. Doug, Max’s surly waiter, moonlighted as a vandal.

  Chapter 15

  Keely’s hands were still shaking when the law arrived. The officers responding to the call took their time inspecting the damaged car, their expressions carefully neutral.

  “Do you have any enemies, lady?”

  Keely’s sight blurred until she seemed to be looking at her interrogator through a pane of smudged glass. This attack on her car was a follow-up to last night’s phone call, a less than subtle reminder that the deadline for turning over the tape expired tomorrow. Friday. Noon.

  A tape she didn’t have and wasn’t sure even existed.

  The policeman tapped his pen on his notebook in an impatient tattoo. Keely hesitated. Things had gotten too complicated for a five minute explanation to someone unacquainted with the circumstances.

  “Looks like you ticked somebody off, but good. Fight with your boyfriend?” Again, from the shorter cop. Stocky and muscular, even his ginger colored mustache seemed to bristle with aggression. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

  She shook her head, rejecting the question, and received a scowl of disbelief in return. “Lady, we see this kind of stuff every day and it’s usually a domestic gone ballistic.”

  “Not this time,” Keely said in a dull voice.

  “Did you recognize the man wielding the cleaver?”

  Tough question. If she said she knew him as Doug, surname unknown and last seen serving as a waiter for Feast of Italy Catering, Max was likely to get hauled in before he had a chance to explain. On the other hand, did he even deserve one?

  Keely bit her lower lip in an agony of indecision. She’d already shoved Max into the spotlight by telling Gifford he was the man in the hallway. If Max wasn’t involved in this latest incident, she suspected tossing him to the wolves a second time would put a definite strain on their relationship.

  “Well, lady?”

  Being called lady in a scornful tone, tempted Keely to be very unladylike. Any intention she had of cooperating died.

  She spoke to the taller of the pair. “I asked for Detective Gifford. Do you know if she’s available?”

  The woman shrugged. Her tawny hair dragged back into a no-nonsense ponytail, she had the irritating habit of flicking her fingernails against the holster at her hip. “Special squad doesn’t come out for damage to property complaints. If you want to see Detective Gifford, make an appointment or drop by the station.”

  Ginger Mustache planted himself in front of Keely. “You don’t have a clue why anyone would slice your tires into rubber ribbons, huh, lady? Come on, who’ve you been fighting with?”

  This was unbelievable! Keely chewed her already bitten lip. She, the victim, stood accused. A bitter ember of outrage glowed in her breast.

  He moved closer, thrusting his face into Keely’s until she backed up a step. “If you keep taking crap from this guy, the next time he might use that knife on your face.”

  “It was a meat cleaver,” Keely corrected automatically. Whoever said, “Call a friend, call a cop” had never met this joker. Ginger Mustache was one policeman who could use a refresher course in sensitivity training.

  “Officer—” She peered at his name badge. “Officer Jelke, this is not the result of a domestic dispute. This is a blatant attempt at intimidation.”

  “Tell you what, lady. We’ll fill out a report and tomorrow you can pick up a copy for your insurance company.
Get some pictures, too. Insurance companies love pictures.”

  His sarcasm stung. Keely gestured toward the painted words. “I need to talk to Detective Gifford. This matter is rather complicated—”

  “Complicated, huh? Guess you’d better talk to the special squad.” Jelke put his fists on his hips. “The brass don’t let us beat guys handle the complicated stuff.”

  The sneering emphasis told Keely he had taken her earlier request to go over his head as a personal rejection. Staring at her shredded tires, she felt sick to her stomach. The destruction had been confined to one side; the car tilted to rest on the rims of its passenger side wheels.

  Both Jelke and his partner gazed at her, their mouths hard and unsympathetic.

  Keely recognized a kindred anger to her own frustration with Mimi’s unyielding silence. “All I have is a first name—Doug—and where he works. I don’t know his motive, but I believe this is tied into another crime—”

  “Hey, if I want to hear a good yarn, I’ll head over to the library. Thursday’s story time, ain’t it, Andrews?” Jelke gave his partner a toothy grin.

  Keely held out her hands, palm up. “I don’t mean to seem uncooperative, but Detective Gifford and her partner are acquainted with the facts—”

  “Okay. Until you two gals have your little chat,” Jelke spat on the pavement, “we need some facts for our report. Come on, who trashed your car? Who’s trying to ‘intimidate’ a nice girl like you? Gimme a name and I’ll get off your back.”

  Provoked into rashness, Keely blurted, “Flo Netherton!”

  Behind her, someone gasped. Jelke’s gingery eyebrows shot up, but the reflective lenses shielding his eyes prevented Keely from reading his thoughts.

  After a moment, he said, “Gal who owns the newspaper? I thought the vandal was a guy called Doug. Boyfriend, is he?”

  “Doug slashed my tires, but he’s never been a friend. I believe Flo hired him to intimidate me. It’s confusing, but I suspect this is somehow tied into the Sterling Ring robberies—”

  A hand closed on Keely’s wrist and jerked her around. Mimi, her eyes bulging with horror, confronted her.

  “Are you out of your mind?” The older woman kept her voice low. “How dare you accuse one of the most powerful women in the community of responsibility for this obscenity?”

  “Mimi, listen—”

  “No, you listen!” Mimi’s hands shook. Keely couldn’t tell if her overriding emotion was anger or fear. “I don’t want to see you in Mimi’s any more, do you hear? You’re out of control—what’s happening to you could happen to me! My salon could go up in flames and there wouldn’t be even a sequin left in the ashes—”

  “Who said that, Mimi? Who threatened you?” Keely grabbed the older woman’s arms above the elbows. “Did you get a call in the night?”

  “Let me go! I’m not supposed to talk to you!” Tears ran down Mimi’s cheeks, plowing jagged furrows in the smooth make-up.

  “You can’t deny you’re scared, Mimi. Flo’s behind these threats. This time, she’s gone too far. We’ve got to stick together!” Keely urged. “Unity’s our only chance—”

  Mimi jerked free. “I’m too old to take chances. Keep your cameras and your questions out of my salon!”

  “Ever since that woman bought the newspaper, people have been tiptoeing around, trying not to offend her, while she spews her poison. She’s got to be stopped. If you won’t help me, I’ll do it alone!”

  Mimi backed away. “Don’t come inside. I’ll call you a cab.”

  With a defeated sigh, Keely turned to discover that both cops had been attentive witnesses to the argument.

  Jelke pointed his pen at her. “Since I didn’t hear nothing ‘simple’ enough to fit into my report, I suggest you have that talk with Detective Gifford, lady. As soon as possible.”

  Keely massaged throbbing temples. Whatever had possessed her to shout Flo’s name at this cop with his one-track mind? She didn’t have a shred of evidence to connect Doug or the vandalism to the publisher.

  But Doug worked for Max. Caterers used meat cleavers. Flo in a secretive conference with a man who looked like Max. Flo, the notes, that unidentifiable voice on the phone…

  Max, she thought numbly. She would talk to Max, give him a chance to explain—

  Suddenly, shock was swamped by a tidal wave of anger as Keely surveyed her damaged car. Explain? She wanted to see Max’s face when she told him she’d caught the vandal in the act and recognized him as one of Feast of Italy’s employees.

  Doug’s involvement was a powerful link in the up until now tenuous chain of evidence connecting the camera-shy “mystery” man in the hallway to Max Summers. Was Max a spy-in-the-camp, a Judas hand-in-glove with Flo? A traitor who pretended to be attracted to Keely while he monitored her movements?

  She touched the soft petals of the peony still tucked in her belt and remembered her nightmare with a shudder. Peonies symbolized courage and determination.

  Maybe she should have one tattooed on her ankle.

  Max removed a pan of Oysters Rockefeller from the oven and smiled. Perfectly cooked, crinkling slightly around the edges. The faint whiff of garlic reminded him of that evening at the police station when he had asked Keely, “Do you dream of blue-eyed men whose fingertips smell of garlic?”

  “That was, without a doubt, your corniest line,” he muttered, transferring the oysters to a serving dish and heading for the dining room with his savory burden.

  Returning to the kitchen, Max started water boiling in a saucepan and added succulent, new potatoes. Moving unhurriedly, he wiped mushroom caps with a damp cloth. After browning both sides of tender veal scallops dusted with flour, he lowered the heat and added lemon juice and Marsala wine. When the other skillet hissed a soft summons, he dumped in the mushrooms.

  Max was in his element, his mind functioning as a timer on three different levels and the kitchen he’d seen only once before as familiar as if he’d prepared a thousand meals within its blue and white surroundings. He let his mind drift back to the happy hours spent in Bistro’s overheated kitchen, the air replete with the scents of roast lamb, garlic, and tarte tatins, those delicious caramelized apple tarts cooling on wire racks around him. Max rolled up his shirt sleeves—working solo meant no dress code—and hummed a medley of Cole Porter songs.

  He was vocalizing on “Where Is the Life That Late I Led” from the musical “Kiss Me, Kate” when the oil coated caps began dancing in the butter. Max tossed in a garlic clove and splashed in some Madeira. He shook the skillet, the potatoes were nearly tender enough to serve and the veal—

  A sharp rap on the window. Max jerked his hand back involuntarily, yelping as a fine spray of oil coated his wrist. When he dropped the pan on the burner, two mushrooms bounced out.

  Mopping his arm with a towel, Max saw a woman peering in at him. Keely! Removing the skillet from the heat, he motioned her toward a door which led from the kitchen into a side yard.

  Pulling back the bolt, he wrenched it open. “Has something else happened? What are you doing here?”

  Keely stepped into the kitchen. “Max—”

  “My potatoes!” Max dashed over to the stove and removed the saucepan from the heat.

  “Can I help?”

  “Drain the water, add a tablespoon of butter, and toss them together in the pot.” Max busied himself in shaking the mushroom over the flame. “These will be done in a second and the veal is just about ready—”

  Max almost forgot the pain of his injured wrist in the flurry of dishing up generous portions of potatoes and mushroom caps. After sprinkling chopped parsley over the potatoes, he dropped a sprig of thyme on each veal portion and arranged the plates on a serving salver.

  “Don’t go anywhere! I’ll be right back.”

  He hurried from the room, his thoughts sizzling like the scallops. What was she doing here? Caught up in speculation, he took a wrong turn and found himself in the den. Retracing his steps, he was grateful Anna Marie w
asn’t here to share a few choice words on the subject of keeping one’s mind on the job.

  The Seetons didn’t seem to notice Max as he deftly removed the oyster plates and served the main course. They only had eyes for each other. On Amy Seeton’s finger, a ruby glowed blood-red in the candlelight.

  “Snuggle Buns, I adore my ring,” she murmured.

  His face stoic. Max removed the bottle of Italian Pinot Chardonnay from the ice bucket and refilled the wine glasses before slipping from the room. If the atmosphere continued to heat up, the dessert he’d prepared would melt before they could get their spoons to their mouths.

  Back in the kitchen, he found Keely gazing at the chaos littering the stove.

  Reaching out, she touched a drop of spilled Madeira with her index finger. Brought the finger to her lips, tasted the sweet wine. “I had no idea your work required such split-second timing.”

  Max caught himself staring at her mouth. Turning away with brisk movements, he ran cold water over his stinging wrist. “Timing’s one of my specialties. How did you find me?”

  “I remembered the name from your scheduling book yesterday. The house was dark, but I saw the Feast of Italy van parked out front and followed the side path until I found the kitchen.”

  “The anniversary couple’s dining by candlelight. Atmosphere’s everything—a maxim picked up in the restaurant business.” Shutting off the water, Max inspected the reddened area. Oil burns were one of the most painful hazards of his profession.

  “You’re hurt.” Keely moved to his side, her hands gently cradling Max’s arm as she examined the burn.

  Staring down at her bent head, Max caught an elusive whiff of cinnamon. Or was it a sensory memory? Keely’s hair, whisper soft, brushed his skin and the nape of Max’s neck prickled. Overwhelmed with unexpected desire, he felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the stove or exertion. Whoa! Max cautioned himself. Business only. Remember?

  He said with gruff nonchalance, “Part of the job. Now if I’d been slicing vegetables and you startled me—”