by P. J. Conn
He thought better of describing the trail of bloody shoeprints the mystery woman had left on the sidewalk. "She entered the building near the time of the murder."
"So she's a witness?"
"Maybe." Tanya was again dressed in slacks and a sweater. She was such a pretty girl, he wondered if she hadn't been among Matteo's many conquests. "Did you ever go out with Matteo?"
"Me?" She blushed. "No, I think he preferred brunettes. His loss, as my mother used to say."
"Wise woman. Keep my card and call me if you remember anything more."
"I sure will."
Joe was both tired and hungry and decided to visit the four residents living on the third floor another night. If the woman in furs had been a guest from New York, then according to Michael Campbell, she would have stayed at Matteo's other apartment. That meant he might have better luck showing her photo there. Of course, if the furs had been part of an elaborate disguise, then no one would recognize her there either.
Chapter 3
Friday morning, Joe went downtown to see Hal Marten at California West Insurance to turn in his report on the MacNaughtons. Hal's spacious office was beautifully furnished, which reminded Joe he still needed to pick up a used rug for his.
"There wasn't much to type," Joe explained. He described how quickly Daniel MacNaughton had confessed to replacing the diamond in the ring to cover gambling loses. His wife was unaware of the scheme. That was the sum of his report, even if there were more to their story.
"I don't know how one of your company adjusters would have handled the case, but we led Emily to believe the 'thief' had dropped the ring as he climbed out of the powder room window, and that Daniel had found it in the hedge."
Hal stared at him a long moment. "Mr. MacNaughton admitted to submitting a fraudulent claim, and you stayed to help him invent a story so he could return the ring, which hadn't actually been stolen, to his wife?"
"That's what I said," Joe responded. "She truly believed there had been a theft. You can tear up the claim, and Mrs. MacNaughton has her ring back. Everyone should be happy. I'm just charging you for my time, I don't expect a percentage of the value of the ring. That's simply too much when the issue was resolved so quickly."
Hal leaned back in his chair. "No, you deserve ten percent for solving the issue to California West's advantage. That's our standard policy. I'm sure we'll have other cases for you, but please don't make it a habit to help crooks cover their crimes."
"Mr. MacNaughton can't really be described as a garden variety crook, or I wouldn't have helped him." Joe took the check Hal offered, but he couldn't promise not to help the next poor fool who thought he could get away with making a fraudulent claim.
"There's a breakfast meeting scheduled for executives this Saturday morning, so I won't be able to play golf with you and Gilbert Werner. Maybe you two will still want to play."
"Let's all take Saturday off. I'll call Gilbert and let him know. See you next Saturday."
"I'm looking forward to it. Meetings that last more than fifteen minutes usually put me to sleep. On Saturday, that means there will be a real danger I might doze off and smother in my scrambled eggs."
"Take care that you don't. One of the benefits of being my own boss is that I never have to sit through tedious meetings, and I make Employee of the Month every time."
* * *
After depositing the generous California West check in the bank, Joe went to Sears and treated himself to a new rug. CC helped him carry it up the stairs to his office.
"This is a right pretty shade, Mr. Ezell. It brings out the colors in your painting."
"I'd hoped it would. Terra cotta I believe it's called." They rolled it out in the front half of his office, made sure it was straight, and placed the client chairs on it. "All right, the oak clothes tree and desk came with the office. I've added a file cabinet, coffee pot, a philodendron, an impressive California landscape, and a fine rug. Am I missing anything?"
CC surveyed the office with an appreciative glance. "Looks perfect to me. When you're ready to hire a secretary, you'll need to move into a larger space though."
"If I moved into a larger office, I couldn't afford a secretary. Mike Hammer, Mickey Spilane's detective, has a secretary but an author can makeup anything for a book."
"I like his stories. Anything else you need while I'm here?"
"Thank you again, CC, that's all for now." After the custodian left, Joe sat down at his desk, took 3x5 inch cards from the top drawer, and got to work creating a suspect map on the bulletin board he hung on the wall behind his desk.
Matteo da Milano's name went into the center. He wrote Paloma Val Verde and Constance Remson's names on two more cards. He added Lily Montell's card. They might not have had anything to do with the murder, but they belonged on the edge of the investigation. The woman dressed in furs had a card, but there still had to be a lot of people missing.
As for the residents of the Altmont apartments, Miss Lacewell and Sofia Ragland wouldn't have appealed to Matteo. Mrs. Ambrose was also outside the age range he preferred, so it was doubtful jealousy would have prompted her husband to murder.
Tanya Olson had said she hadn't dated the cellist, but that might not be true. That she'd greeted him in a dressing gown still disturbed him, and he put her name on a card to keep her in mind.
After having no success reaching Constance Remson, Joe was surprised when she entered his office without bothering to knock. He quickly removed the bulletin board and turned it toward the wall before she had a chance to see a card with her name. He stood to greet her, but with her strange perfume, he should have smelled her coming. She was dressed in a tailored gray blouse, a darker gray skirt, and the same pair of black stiletto heels.
"Miss Remson, I called several times, and was sorry not to find you at home."
Before taking a chair, she gave the new rug a fleeting bit of attention. "I see you're dressing up the place."
"Thank you for noticing," he remarked, although he doubted her comment had been a sincere compliment. He returned to his desk chair and rolled it into place. "You've heard about Mr. da Milano?"
"Of course, that's why I'm here. A Detective Lynch called me this morning to ask if I had an alibi for Wednesday afternoon when Matteo died. Fortunately, I was surrounded by friends at a birthday luncheon, that lasted well into the cocktail hour."
After a glance at the colorful landscape, she sighed. "Would you care to tell me how he happened to have my name?"
She didn't look pleased, but he doubted she ever did. He described meeting Lynch at the scene of Matteo's murder. "I was there following up on your case, and he insisted upon having your name, and any photographs I'd taken." He handed her the photo of the mystery woman. "Do you know her?"
Constance studied it closely. "That's Matteo's apartment building, that's all I recognize. Who is she?"
"No one seems to know, but she may have killed Matteo."
Reacting as though the photo had seared her fingers, she tossed it back to him. "So he was seeing other women."
It wasn't a question, but clearly she wanted confirmation. "Your suspicions proved correct." He'd not reveal her rivals' names, however, or how he'd happened upon the murder scene. That a woman would kill a man wielding a deadly stiletto heel didn't sound real anyway. Not that many women wore stiletto heels, something he should have considered earlier.
"This may appear to be an absurd question, but bear with me. Where did you buy the heels you're wearing?" he asked.
She responded with a strained smile. "It's certainly a quirky inquiry. These were custom made by Luigi Albano. He also makes men's shoes, and Matteo wore them. Once you own a pair of Luigi's shoes, you'll no longer hunt for a perfect fit in any shoe store. They are pricey, of course, but they'll last much longer than your average shoe, and with his classic designs, they won't go out of style."
"Where is his shop?"
"It's on Vine Street in Hollywood, near the Brown Derby. Let me see the p
hoto of the woman in the fur coat again." Joe handed it to her, and she studied it closely. "She is wearing stiletto heels, and they may have come from Luigi Albano, and maybe not. It's impossible to say."
Joe made a note of Luigi Albano's location. "Where else would a woman with a fur coat buy stilettos?"
"The high end department stores, Bullock's Wilshire, or I. Magnin must have them. Frederick's of Hollywood probably has some at a much lower price. From what I've heard, they sell enticing lingerie and other provocative clothing. Stilettos heels fall into that category."
He'd heard of Frederick's, and knew the average woman didn't shop there. "Thank you. With those leads, I might find someone who knows the woman."
"You're welcome." After a lingering glance at the colorful landscape, she sighed softly and straightened her already erect posture. "I want you to continue working for me to find who killed Matteo. Let's go to the funeral together tomorrow afternoon. It will give you a chance point out the other women Matteo was seeing."
It was an astonishing request, and one he couldn't condone. "I'll agree to work on Matteo's murder, but I won't identify those women. You wouldn't want to create a scene at the funeral. Let's go to watch for the woman in furs."
Displeased, her gaze narrowed slightly. "All right, I'll accept your terms rather than go through the hassle of hiring someone new. As for the woman in your photo, we've enjoyed mild weather this autumn, and she wouldn't have needed to wrap herself in furs. Would she show up again dressed for the North Pole?"
"She might. The police have the photograph I showed you, but they didn't release it to the press, so she wouldn't know she'd been seen leaving Matteo's building."
"Maybe she's an eccentric soul who always dresses that way."
"Let's hope so. I have a dark suit, so you shouldn't be embarrassed to be seen with me."
"You've no idea how easily I embarrass, Mr. Ezell. The funeral will be at one o'clock at the St. Mary of the Angels church on Finley Avenue. Do you know it?"
"I do. It's known for serving the Hollywood crowd, who aren't always welcome at other churches. Was Matteo a member?" The late cellist juggled so many women, it would be remarkable if he also found time to attend church services.
"No, he wasn't, but he knew Fr. Dodd, and the priest offered to officiate. The entire LA Philharmonic will probably attend. Let's meet in front at twelve-thirty so we won't be forced to sit out front in folding chairs."
Clearly the thought horrified her. "I'll meet you there." He walked her to the door. There was still time to visit Luigi Albano's shop, but first he went looking for CC to borrow a fan.
* * *
The Luigi Albano shop's front window held a swirl of gray satin and a beautifully hand-lettered sign stating shoes made to custom order. A single pair of men's black loafers and a pair of women's high heels in a deep purple that appeared navy blue at first glance provided evidence of his talent and skill.
Joe looked down at his own brown oxfords, a serviceable pair he'd brought at Sear's. They were comfortable, and with a frequent polish and new heels when needed they would last several years. He hoped he wasn't shown out of the shop before he could explain the reason for his visit.
Luigi was younger than Joe had expected, tall, good-looking, with prematurely gray hair softly curled over his collar as European men favored. His vivid green eyes were brightened by a deep tan. Rather than a shoe repairman's well-worn leather apron, Luigi wore a white dress shirt, neatly pleated gray wool trousers, and loafers identical to the pair in the window. Clearly he designed the shoes bearing his signature rather than fashion them himself.
Voices came from the workroom behind the well-furnished showroom. Joe could not help but imagine elves from the Shoemaker and the Elves children's story hard at work with needle, thread, and tiny hammers and nails.
Joe spoke before Luigi could greet him, explained his purpose, mentioned Constance Remson, and handed him the photo. "Perhaps you won't be able to identify the stilettos on his woman, but I wonder if you recognize her."
Luigi studied the image. His voice was flavored with a slight accent, "No, I've no idea who she may be. It looks as though the photo caught her in mid-stumble. She can not possibly be wearing my stilettos."
"It must be difficult to walk in such high heels," Joe remarked.
"Not for the women, such as the graceful Miss Remson, who come to me for heels with a perfect fit. We use only the finest Italian leathers, and wearing our shoes is like walking on a cloud.
"Many people don't realize their feet may vary slightly in size," he continued. "They are simply used to having one shoe fit better than the other. Shoe stores measure only length and width, while we take more measurements to insure the ultimate fit. Would you care to try on a pair of men's loafers? We have samples in popular sizes. A custom pair made expressly for you will feel even better."
The shoe designer hadn't looked down and grimaced at Joe's oxfords. It was clever of him not to ridicule a prospective customers' current footwear. "Thank you, but I won't take any more of your time." As he reached the door, he couldn't help himself.
"I understand Matteo da Milano wore Luigi Albano shoes."
Luigi responded with a wide grin. "Indeed, he was a handsome advertisement for us." He bowed his head for an instant. "May he rest in peace. Please come back when you're ready to place an order. You are sure to regret not coming here sooner."
"I'll do that," Joe promised, but he had more worthwhile things to save for at present, and well into the future. He checked his watch, and headed for Bullock's Wilshire.
The luxury department store's Art Deco architecture featured a tower sheathed in copper, now turned a distinctive aqua shade. Joe parked in the rear lot, entered and went first to the ladies' shoe department. A clerk immediately approached him.
"How may I help you, sir? Are you seeking shoes for your wife, or mother?"
Joe explained who he was, and with a brief introduction showed him the photo. "I'm checking everywhere stiletto heels are sold in hopes someone will recognize this woman, perhaps from her shoes."
Alarmed, the clerk's eyebrows shot up. "She may have witnessed a murder?" He'd kept his voice low, and looked around quickly to be certain they hadn't scared off a customer. Fortunately, the other clerk was helping a woman whose attention was focused on the small mountain of shoeboxes surrounding her.
"It's a real possibility." Joe was glad he hadn't frightened him any further by describing her as the chief murder suspect.
"A few women do come in wearing furs, but generally later in the year when they're needed for warmth. As for the shoes, we do have stilettos, but there's no way to be certain hers are from here. I certainly hope not." He shuddered slightly as he returned the photo to Joe.
"We keep sales records to reorders popular styles, but customers names aren't attached. There are records of charge purchases in accounting, but Bullock's certainly wouldn't share them with you."
Joe had expected as much and didn't wait to speak with the second clerk. Instead, he went upstairs to the furs. A clerk wearing a wide smile approached him.
"Furs make the perfect Christmas gift. You're wise to shop early for the best selection. Did you have something in mind?"
Joe hated to disillusion him. "Do you recognize this woman, or her fur coat and hat by any chance?"
"We have similar furs, but I have only been assigned to this department for a few months, and have no idea what we've sold in the past. Perhaps you'll have better luck elsewhere."
Joe knew there was no point in asking to see sales records. The police could get them, if Detective Lynch thought of it, but when the clerk hadn't already seen the photo, it was obvious the police hadn't beaten him there.
He made a quick stop at I. Magnin, another department store catering to women who were unconcerned by the expense of their wares. The clerks were no more helpful than those at Bullock's, however, and Joe thought it a good time to quit for the day.
* * *
&nb
sp; Friday night, Joe lay stretched out on Mary Margaret's sofa with his head cradled in her lap. After reading about Matteo's death in the Los Angeles Times, she'd guessed the cellist had been the central figure in his case with multiple female admirers. He always told her the truth, but he didn't think she would appreciate anything about Constance Remson. Perhaps the less said about her, the better.
"I'm going to Matteo da Milano's funeral tomorrow afternoon at St. Mary's of the Angels," he began.
"Do you expect the murderess to be there?" She ran her fingertips through his hair in a lazy caress.
"She could be. I intend to keep my eyes open, and speak with anyone who'll accept a question or two. Members of the LA Philharmonic might have a different view of Matteo than the women he dated."
"Isn't St. Mary of the Angels the movie stars' church?"
"It's called that, but it doesn't mean any were fans of Matteo."
"Well, if Katherine Hepburn is there, or Cary Grant, will you please ask for an autograph for me?"
He laughed at the thought. "Wouldn't it be in very poor taste to request one at a funeral?"
"Probably, which means you won't be the only one asking!"
He'd escaped having to describe Constance Remson, but simply omitting any mention of her stung his conscience. He sat up. "Let's finish the ice cream in your freezer before I go home."
"What a terrific idea." She leaned close to kiss him. "I can't wait for the time we'll be sharing my cottage."
"Me too." During the war, he’d envied the men who’d showed off photos of their wives and girlfriends waiting for them at home. They had love letters to read, while all he’d had were mystery novels. Mary Margaret had been well worth the wait.
* * *
Saturday afternoon, Joe arrived in plenty of time to take note of others attending before meeting Constance. The noted architect Carleton M. Winslow Sr. had designed the St. Mary of the Angels church in the popular Spanish Mission style. The spectacular altarpiece featured glazed terra cotta figures of St. Mary and the archangel Gabriel at the Annunciation with side statues of St. Francis and St. John, all from the renown della Robbia studio in Florence, Italy.