Killer Market dk-5

by Margaret Maron

  At that end of the attic wall, several scrap pieces of boards had been laid across the joists to make a solid floor, and Underwood found a small hole in the sheetrock where someone could stand and look down into the studio.

  Correction: where someone short could stand and look down into the studio.

  All four of us had to stoop down in order to see through the hole.

  It was like looking into a maze of ceilingless rooms and cubicles. No wonder Savannah could pop onto the floor whenever she spotted Drew.

  I saw Randy Verlin screwing switchplates onto that “kitchen” wall. I saw the elderly black man position the newly assembled vacuum in the center of the blue carpet and polish away all his fingerprints from the gleaming red plastic body. I saw the movable stairs surrounded by a small semicircle of people who watched as the tall young man we’d seen earlier demonstrated how easily it could slide around. I gathered that the in-house reception included guided tours of the studio.

  If Underwood thought it strange that I was here with Dixie and Pell, he didn’t say so. In fact, he seemed to accept Pell’s story about suddenly deciding to check out his colleague’s work space. When we regrouped in Pell’s workroom, he asked me to repeat what Drew Patterson had told me earlier.

  “It’s not that much,” I said. “You really ought to ask her.”

  “I will,” he promised, “but for right now…”

  I shrugged. “We were discussing who could hand Chan brownies and get him to eat them without arousing his suspicions. Drew said any woman probably could, including Savannah because he knew her from when his wife—”

  “My daughter Evelyn,” Dixie interposed grimly.

  “—from when Evelyn was working here. For some reason, Savannah’s started believing that Drew is her daughter and by extension—because she’s seen Drew with Lynnette occasionally these last few months—she thinks Lynnette is her granddaughter.”

  “What?” exclaimed Dixie and Pell together.

  I was equally surprised. “Didn’t y’all know?”

  Pell shook his head and Dixie said, “Of course we didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t realize there was anything to tell. Drew said that Chan often brought Lynnette over with him when he came and they would go out for ice cream or something while Chan was in conference.”

  Dixie nodded. “That I knew.”

  “Well, they kept running into Savannah and Savannah got it in her head that Chan and Drew were married and that Lynnette belonged to both of them.”

  “That’s crazy!” Pell snapped.

  “Delusional maybe,” I said and Underwood’s mustache twitched at that more politically correct term.

  “Whatever she is,” Dixie said, looking at Underwood like a protective tigress, “you’ve got to find her, keep her away from my Lynnette.”

  “For what it’s worth, Drew doesn’t think she’d hurt Lynnette and neither do I,” I said and described how the little girl had slipped away from me to go to Savannah and how Savannah had amused her by sketching pictures until we found them.

  But then I remembered something else. “You know how Lynnette likes to rhyme words and names? How Pell’s Uncle Pelly-Jelly and I’m Judge Fudge?”

  “So?”

  “So she calls Savannah Savannah-Nana.”

  Underwood saw my point. “Savannah’s probably heard other children call their grandmothers ‘Nana.’”

  “Oh, dear God,” said Dixie.

  Underwood gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “Now don’t you worry, Miss Dixie. We’re going to find her.” He hesitated. “Still and all, if that little girl was my granddaughter, I’d keep her on a short leash till this is cleared up.”

  He asked us to stay out of Savannah’s office and took Pell’s key, then left to go find the security guards.

  “Whups. I almost forgot.” He turned back to me, slapping at his pockets and finally pulling a ragged scrap from the breast pocket of his neat shirt. “Judge Simmard asked me to give you a message if I ran into you. Wanted you to call him.” He looked at the scrap of paper dubiously. “I think this is his number.”

  It was.

  Pell offered the use of his phone and a gracious Southern male voice answered on the second ring, “Judge Simmard here. How can I help you?”

  I identified myself and he said, “Ah, Judge Knott. Allow me to welcome you to the Triad. I’ve invited a few friends for dinner and would be so pleased if you could join us at Noble’s at eight-thirty tonight if you will excuse the short notice.”

  “Why, that’s awfully nice of you,” I said, lapsing into my own gracious Southern female voice. “Just let me check with my hostess.”

  “We’d be happy to have her join us, too, of course.”

  I covered the mouthpiece and said to Dixie, “One of the judges here wants us to join his dinner party at someplace called Noble’s. What do you think?”

  Despite her concern for Lynnette, a shadow of regret passed across Dixie’s face. “I can’t. Not with Lynnette here. But you go.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. People kill for reservations at Noble’s during Market Week. It’s the only five-star restaurant in town, and the food is wonderful.”

  So I told Judge Simmard that I’d be charmed.

  19

  « ^ » “We must distinguish between a general principle and individual acts, the character of which must, in many cases, be determined by circumstances.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

  Dixie felt she ought to check by her office, so we dropped her there and Pell left his van in her assigned parking space while we cruised the Market, hoping to get lucky and run into Savannah again.

  Our first stop was the Fitch and Patterson showroom on the off-chance that Savannah would be drawn like a magnet to any place that Drew might be.

  Except that Drew wasn’t there.

  Jay Patterson gave me a distracted nod, but he was in deep conversation with what looked like corporate buyers. Indeed, Fitch and Patterson seemed to be doing a killer business. Most of the sales reps were huddled over order books with customers and calculators. As we passed, an attractive woman with short brown curls finished bowing two Japanese buyers out the door and turned to us with the happy smile of someone who’s just sealed a profitable deal.

  “May I show you anything?” she asked. Her smile widened as she read Pell’s badge. “Mulholland Studios. I thought you looked familiar. Hi, I’m Tracy Collier.”

  So this was the woman who had tried to dislodge Chan from Evelyn. She was probably thirty, slender, but not skinny, with wide hazel eyes. Quite pretty actually, in a clipped, efficient way. And she had a certain intensity of manner that was irresistible. People like Tracy Collier can make you feel that all their attention is focused on you because you are so utterly fascinating that they have no other choice. No wonder she was a good sales rep.

  And no wonder that Chan had bought what she was selling until she went too far and involved Evelyn.

  “Drew Patterson around?” I asked.

  “Why, no, I believe she had to run over to Market Square for a little while.”

  Her smile didn’t lose a scintilla of its warmth, but something cold flickered in those wide hazel eyes. It was gone again almost before I had time to register it, but I wondered if Drew knew she had an enemy. And was it because Drew was one of the owner’s daughters or because Drew had been her rival with Chan?

  “Can I give her a message for you?”

  “That’s okay,” we said.

  As we walked away, I was glad Tracy Collier wasn’t anybody I needed to watch my back for.

  Going through the showrooms with Pell was twice as much fun as doing it alone. He knew all the names, most of the facts and much of the gossip; and as we browsed, he kept up a running commentary.

  “D34’s an Ashley knockoff. They never designed anything that clever on their own.” His soft voice was amused.

  “Lovely fabric displa
y. Guess this pattern will be showing up everywhere before the year’s out. See how many snips have been taken out of the bolt? Must be a dozen scissors walking around in pockets and purses in this room. Ah! See there?”

  He nodded toward the mirror and I saw a man reflected as he surreptitiously snipped his own personal palm-sized sample from a length of expensive jacquard weave.

  At one exhibit, Pell gave my arm a nearly imperceptible nudge that made me tune in on the confidential conversation going on beside us. Two men in suits, with briefcases.

  “—may be sharp, but he’s crooked as a dirt road,” said one in a Virginia accent

  “I’m telling you. He’s gotta be laundering mob money,” said the other, whose accent placed him in New Jersey or Long Island, “’cause I don’t care how sharp you are, you just don’t make that kind of money selling RTA.”

  “What’s RTA?” I asked Pell when we’d moved on.

  “Ready to assemble,” he said. “As opposed to RTO.”

  “That I remember from Thursday night: rent to own.”

  “Very good. What’s MSRP?”

  “Manufacturer’s suggested retail price.”

  “And No, No, No?”

  “No down payment, no interest, no payments for a year,” I said smugly.

  He brushed back the hank of long hair from his eyes and that elusively familiar smile gave approval. “You have been paying attention.”

  The aroma of hot buttered popcorn wafted from a nearby booth to tempt buyers into a display of Southwestern pottery. I’d eaten nothing that day except a banana and a doughnut, and those bowls of candy at each booth were starting to call to me as well.

  “Hungry?” asked Pell. “Then we should hit some of the bigger showrooms for real food. Come on.”

  He led the way up the escalator and down a wide hall where one large exhibitor after the other had hospitality areas. Employees had to eat lunch, so did clients. Why not conduct a little business on the side at the same time? Instead of the usual candy and nuts, I learned that most of the big companies had food catered in. One showroom offered pizza squares, others had chicken drummettes or sausage biscuits, and still others provided a modest array of breads and salads. There was usually a bar, too, stocked with soft drinks and an occasional bottle of wine. Most were hosted by very attractive young women in very short skirts and very high heels.

  At Redd-Peabody, all the hostesses wore red dresses.

  “Because of the name?” I asked.

  “So they would have you believe,” said Pell.

  The showroom down the hall and around the corner from Redd-Peabody belonged to Tart, one of the oldest furniture houses in the state. The whole length of the hall had been paneled in Tart’s favorite walnut and the name of the firm was superimposed on the paneling in foot-high walnut letters.

  Unfortunately, the Redd-Peabody hostesses in their tight red dresses chose to lounge against the wall and to take their cigarette breaks by the ashstand which stood directly beneath the wooden letters.

  “I should have brought my camera,” Pell murmured as we passed.

  “Well, sex sells liquor, cars, and clothes. No surprise that it sells furniture, too.”

  “James was born in High Point,” said Pell, unconsciously assuming I knew who James was. “When he and his friends were boys, their fathers used to take them out to the airport to watch the hookers fly in for Market. Some of the bigger companies had party buses stocked with bars and wide seats. They used to pick up their best clients, drive them around for a few hours and then deliver them back to their hotels, sated and satisfied and ready to sign on the dotted line of a quarter-million order.”

  “Used to?” I asked.

  “Hookers still come in for Market, but they’re not as flagrantly subsidized now. Probably the AIDS scare.”

  So far, neither of us had seen anyone remotely resembling Savannah, but I was convinced that she was probably somewhere loose in the Market, munching her way through the exhibits, too, and no doubt filling some of her plastic bags for a late supper or tomorrow’s breakfast. As long as Market lasted, she wouldn’t have to trek over to Yolanda Jackson’s soup kitchen.

  Ever since we left Tracy Collier, Pell had been greeted by friends and clients, but I saw no one I knew until I caught a glimpse of a tall, slender woman with blonde hair and a familiar walk. I thought at first that it was Drew Patterson, but she proved to be Drew’s mother, Elizabeth, who accepted a kiss on the cheek from Pell and gave me a mischievous smile as she touched my badge and said, “I understand we’ll see you at dinner tonight, Judge Sotelli. Chick Simmard’s asked us, too.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, thinking what a nice woman Elizabeth Patterson seemed to be. Too bad Drew hadn’t inherited Elizabeth’s aquiline nose instead of a thinner version of Jay’s. On the other hand, getting that fashion-model body was nothing to gripe about. Better to inherit her father’s nose than her father’s chunky build.

  The thought of one chunky build seemed to conjure up another. As Pell and I helped ourselves to fresh fruit cups from the Mindanao Wood Products Collective’s hospitality counter, I found myself face-to-face with Heather McKenzie.

  Or rather, chin-to-hairline with her, since she was so much shorter.

  I smiled. “You have an interest in Mindanaon wood products?”

  She held up her own fruit cup. “Nope. Just an appetite for pineapples and fresh mangoes.”

  I introduced her to Pell and we took our fruit out to a central hub of the building where benches were scattered around the balcony area.

  She was dressed more seasonally today in a simple cotton tunic over blue straight-legged slacks. The tunic was severely tailored, with a stand-up collar, and the ivory color flattered her dark eyes. Her only jewelry was a single string of lapis lazuli and her lustrous black hair was braided into a single plait that hung down her back and reminded me of Lynnette’s.

  “Would Savannah talk to you yesterday?” I asked, spearing a chunk of banana with my plastic fork.

  “Not a word. I met them as they were leaving Century’s showroom. Drew Patterson had another appointment and I couldn’t get Savannah to stay.”

  She sighed. “Maybe I should just forget about her and get on with my life.”

  “Your life?” Pell was amused by the all-or-nothing gloominess of youth. “Surely a single profile’s not all that crucial?”

  “It is when you’ve invested as much time and energy in it as I have. This wasn’t a one-shot deal. I was going to get a whole magazine series out it. I know she hasn’t been well, that she’s gone off her medications, and—”

  I glanced at Pell, who lifted his eyebrow.

  “Look, I did my homework,” Heather said. “I know all about the Hollytree Nursing Home in Athens, Georgia.”

  She stared moodily into her fruit cup. “It’s so bloody unfair. I finally learn where she is and I’m too late. Her father died in December, did you know that? Her only living relative and he dies a week before I get there. I did meet a woman who knew her as a child and that was interesting. Her mother was extremely proper—white gloves and ladies calling on each other every afternoon for formal tea. That frilly dress she’s wearing now could’ve been one of her mother’s tea gowns.”

  I frowned. “I thought you said this was your first real trip south.”

  “I meant this whole assignment,” she said hastily. “Besides, I was only down there two days. Just long enough to visit her in the nursing home and start to talk to her and Bam! Next day, she’s gone. Just walks away without checking out. Her doctor said I’d stirred up too many memories. How was I to know she’d take off like that? When she’s off her medications, she thinks Drew Patterson’s her daughter. Did you know that?”

  “Yes,” Pell said quietly. “We know.”

  Heather suddenly looked at him with interest. “Pell Austin. Hey, you’re a designer, too, aren’t you? At Mulholland?”

  Pell nodded.

  “I bet you’ve known Savannah fore
ver, haven’t you?”

  “Over twenty years,” he admitted.

  “What was she like back then?”

  Pell started to tell her the same things he’d told me, but Heather brushed that aside.

  “Other people have told me about her innovations,” she said. “But what was she like as a person? As a woman in a man’s world?”

  “There have always been women in this industry.”

  “A few tokens,” she said impatiently. “We all know the real powers in this business still wear three-piece suits and piss standing up. You think I haven’t sat in restaurants here waving my empty cup for more coffee while any man gets his topped off automatically? Dish me some dirt. Who did she have to sleep with to get her first big break?”

  “Sorry,” he said lightly. “I wasn’t here then. She was twelve years older than I and already an established name when they gave me the studio next to hers, so if there’s any dirt, it was shoveled under long before I got here.”

  Heather smiled suddenly and her dark eyes glowed as she patted his arm as if she were the forty-two-year-old professional and he the tyro of twenty-four. “She must have been pretty special to keep a friend like you all these years.”

  Her tone was wistful.

  Pell laughed and stood up. “Come on,” he said. “Why don’t you let me introduce you to Pasquale Natuzzi? Now there’s someone colorful enough for a whole series of magazine articles. The man’s revolutionized upholstered goods. Put affordable leather within everyone’s reach.”

  “I’ve met Signor Natuzzi and I agree that he’s interesting, but I really want to do Savannah first.”

  Pell threw up his hands. “Good luck to you then. Ready to go, Deborah? I told Dix we’d pick her up by five.”

  It was only a little after four, but I didn’t argue. “Do I get to meet Signor Natuzzi?” I asked.

  I didn’t.

  Instead, we wound up stopping past the Stanberry showroom where I was the one making introductions. I showed Pell the headboard I’d put a down payment on. He was quite interested, got caught up in the Stanberrys’ enthusiasm and even suggested a couple of useful design modifications that had Mai and Jeff Stanberry nodding thoughtfully.