by Kelly Rey
They both looked at me.
"What I mean," I said, "is did she mention anything about killing her husband?"
"Maybe." Lizette did a little headshake. "I don't want to say, really. I don't know. I don't even remember much of it, to be honest with you. She started screaming at me and it made me so anxious, I just wanted to leave. Anyway." She reached into her bag for a cream-colored envelope with pretty cursive writing on its face. "I really just stopped by to see if you could get this in front of her. I did every little silly thing she asked, and now she doesn't want to pay me."
I was starting to think the wrong Thorpe had been killed. Sybil seemed to have ticked off even more people than Oxnard.
"Did you leave bills here before?" I asked her.
Lizette nodded. "You threw them out, right? I don't blame you. Why would you want to help me get paid?"
I wanted everyone to get paid, starting with me. Unfortunately for Lizette, Sybil hadn't seen it the same way.
"I went to her house," Lizette was saying. "And Pandora told me she wasn't there. I think she's hiding from me." She laid the envelope on my coffee table. "Tell her she has ten days to pay it before I get my lawyer involved."
Maizy scooped up the envelope. "I'll take care of this. Do you have a card?"
Lizette shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't have one on me. Are you planning a wedding?"
"God, no," Maizy said. "I'm never getting married. I meant for your lawyer."
Lizette seemed vaguely confused. "Why do you need that?"
Maizy shrugged. "You never know what may happen. It's good to have a lawyer on speed dial. It's a real time saver."
Lizette glanced at me. "Is she serious?"
"She likes to plan ahead," I said.
"Well." She glanced at both of us. "I'd appreciate anything you can do. And again, for what it's worth, I'm sorry for the way I treated you."
"I appreciate that," I said.
"I'll show you the door," Maizy told her. She took a step to the left and pointed. "There it is."
Lizette's eyebrows puckered for a second before she picked up her bag and let herself out, letting the door bang shut behind her.
"What'd you think of that?" Maizy asked.
"Bok bok," I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Curt showed up a half hour later, after Maizy had tweaked my inner chicken. He was carrying a carpet sample which he tossed on the coffee table. "Cam wants this one. What do you think?"
"You should've been here sooner," Maizy told him. "You missed the wedding planner."
"Seen it," Curt said. "Not a fan."
I picked up the sample. "She means Lizette Larue," I said. "Sybil's wedding planner. She stopped by to apologize and drop off her bill." I hesitated. "Mostly to drop off her bill. She wants me to convince Sybil to pay it."
He scooped Ashley up with one hand and sat in the recliner, kicked the footrest up, and deposited her in his lap. She kneaded his thigh for thirty seconds and settled in, purring violently. "And you're supposed to do this how?" he asked.
"Maybe convince isn't the right word," I said. "Maybe suggest is a better one."
"I say you mail it to her," Curt said. "Anonymously. It's not your problem."
"We should probably take it over there," Maizy said. "Seeing as how Lizette heard Sybil on the phone making plans for life after Oxnard."
"The guy was almost a hundred," Curt said. "Not exactly a stretch that there'd be life after Oxnard."
Maizy's cell phone buzzed with an incoming text. She whipped it out of the pocket of her hoodie and checked the screen. "Little complication. Remember Antoine said Herman wasn't at the country club on the sixteenth?"
I nodded.
"Who's Antoine?" Curt asked.
"Turns out Antoine wasn't working on the night of the sixteenth," Maizy said. "He swapped nights so another chef, Giorgio, could go to his sister's wedding."
"So we still don't know if Herman was there on the night of the murder," I said. "He might have been. Do you know Giorgio?"
Maizy shook her head. "I don't know Gil, either. But we probably shouldn't show up in the kitchen there anymore. Someone complained to the Board of Health. They found a hair in their vichyssoise."
"Let me guess," Curt said. "It was blue."
"I don't see the problem," Maizy said. "Vichyssoise could use a little color."
I rolled my eyes.
"So let me see if I get this," he said. "Three guys named Antoine, Giorgio, and Gil work at the country club and none of them know if Herman Kantz showed up there on the night Oxnard was killed, and you guys didn't bother to cover your hair when you trampled through their kitchen."
"That's pretty much it," I told him. "Except Giorgio and Gil might know. We didn't talk to them."
Maizy glanced up from her cell phone. "And we won't be, either. I'm not putting a stupid shower cap on for anyone. It takes a lot of work to look like me."
I'd heard that before, and I'd seen how much work it had taken. I'd spent more time blinking. I held up the carpet sample. "This is nice."
"You think?" He studied it. "It won't match the walls."
"The walls need painting," I told him. In truth, he'd given me the green light when I'd moved in to redecorate. I'd just never gotten around to it. I'd never found the time with my high-powered job and my demanding sleep schedule. "And then the drapes probably won't match," I added. "Not that that's your responsibility. Except I might need new hardware, and you'd have to install that." Preferably shirtless.
Curt shook his head. "It's like I'm married."
"I hate to interrupt this boring conversation," Maizy cut in. "But I need to get to the nearest pharmacy before they close." She did a sidelong glance in Curt's direction. "And I can't drive myself, since I only have my permit."
That, and the phony driver's license tucked in her backpack.
"Please tell me you're not buying a home pregnancy test," Curt said.
"Something much more important," Maizy said.
"Penicillin?" he asked.
"Sometimes I don't think you get me," Maizy told him.
"Pretty sure I never will," he said.
* * *
Twenty minutes later I followed Maizy into the pharmacy and thankfully, into the cosmetics aisle, where I people-watched while she compared black eyeliners. To be honest, I tried to stay out of cosmetics departments. I had enough self-confidence issues without bright lights and magnifying mirrors.
It didn't take long for me to notice Dusty Rose farther down the aisle, fabulous in an electric blue dress and hair that shone like glass.
I tapped Maizy on the shoulder. "Maize, look."
Maizy looked. "Isn't that Bridesmaid Number Two?"
"Otherwise known as Dusty Rose," I said. "The one deceived by Oxnard. I'm going to go talk to her."
"I'll be right there," she said. "As soon as I find an eyeliner that doesn't have petroleum in it."
"Good luck with that," I told her.
Up close, Dusty wasn't so fabulous. In fact, she was downright imperfect. Her arms and legs and chest were splotchy with a bright pink rash, and I noticed she was clutching a tube of concealer. One wasn't going to be enough.
She noticed that I noticed. "I'm sort of having a little issue." She tugged at the hem of her dress to pull it down over her thighs but that was like trying to cover a Ferrari with a handkerchief.
I tried not to stare. "Have you seen a doctor?"
She nodded. "He says it's stress related. I'm having some money problems right now."
"I'm sorry to hear it," I said. "Didn't you say you had landed a job?"
A middle-aged woman with wiry graying hair and mom jeans charged up the aisle. She hesitated when she saw Dusty, and I could practically see the Why bother thought bubble hovering over her head.
Dusty didn't notice. "I lost it."
Hm. "What happened?" I asked.
A shadow darkened her face. "You want to know what happened? Oxnard Thorpe was a pe
rvert!"
Tell me something I didn't know.
"Can you be more specific?" I asked.
"He promised me the spokesmodel position at No Flows if…" She hesitated, blushing.
"I think I get it," I said. Clearly Oxnard's libido had been half his age.
"It's hard out there," Dusty said. "There's a lot of beautiful girls. So I did. Once." She shuddered.
"He didn't tell you he'd sold the company," I guessed.
"Worse than that," she said. "He filmed us. And he was trying to sell the video!"
"Who'd want to see that?" Too late, I realized I'd been thinking aloud. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"You're right," Dusty said. "He was a disgusting man."
"Excuse me." The woman approached us clutching two lipsticks. "Which color do you think is best for me?"
"You don't want either one," Dusty told her. "These will dry out your lips. Go with the hydrating lipstick." She tilted her head, assessing the woman's face. "In a nice rosy shade. It'll complement your hair color."
I agreed. Pink did go well with gray. When I had Dusty's attention again, I asked, "When did Oxnard tell you this?"
"After the wedding." Her voice was flat. "When I was helping him pick breadstick crumbs out of his tuxedo."
Yuck.
"That must have been a surprise," I said.
"A surprise?" She snorted. "You could say that. It's also a surprise that my furniture doesn't fit underneath the overpass where I'll be living soon."
Oh, boy. Was that motive I heard?
"Are things that bad?" I asked.
"Not if I want a job as a cashier. Maybe I can live in Oxnard's office. That'd be ironic, wouldn't it?"
I blinked. "What office?"
"He kept a place in Maple Grove," she said. "I don't think he ever told his wife."
Which probably meant he kept things there that he wanted to remain hidden. Which seemed like pretty much everything except his winkie.
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. Everyone's got problems, right?"
Sure. But not everyone solved them with murder.
Her nose wrinkled. "Here," she said to the woman, "let me help you." She pointed. "Try this one." She pointed again. "And this one."
"You and Oxnard seemed to get along so well," I said, thinking aloud.
"Thanks to acting lessons," she said.
Given what she'd told me, she'd have to be Meryl Streep.
Was she a good enough actress to lure Oxnard to the pool for a grand seduction so she could shove him off the edge to his death? I had two thoughts about that. One was that it wouldn't take much to lure Oxnard anywhere, and another was Eww. Nobody could be that good an actress. Of course, homelessness may have made her desperate, and being exploited could have made her vengeful.
Maizy stomped down the aisle in her Doc Martens, clearly aggravated. "Looks like if I don't want to buy poison makeup, I have to go to the health food store."
The middle-aged woman glanced over with alarm.
"That'll teach me to think positive," Maizy grumbled. She stuck her hands on her hips. "So what are you guys talking about?"
No point in embarrassing Dusty with the video.
"Dusty lost a spokesmodel job," I said. "For No Flows."
"Maybe it's that rash," Maizy said.
Dusty's cheeks pinkened. "It's from stress."
"You need to eliminate stress," Maizy told her. "And wear pants."
"I'm working on it," Dusty told her. "I thought I had everything under control and it kind of blew up on me."
"That'll happen," Maizy said. "You know, I hear killing people can be stressful."
I shot her a warning look. "So where'd you go after the wedding, anyway?" I asked Dusty. "Everyone cleared out so fast, I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye."
She shrugged. "I went home to bed. While I still have a home and a bed. I should've kept my date. He was going to fly me to his place in Kennebunkport for the weekend. Last time he had lobsters and champagne waiting." She smiled a little, reminiscing.
Same old Saturday night to me.
"What's she mean?" Maizy asked me. She turned to Dusty. "You mean you weren't doing nicky-nack with the geezer?"
"Hey, I only did that once," Dusty said.
"She's an actress, too," I told Maizy.
"Aren't we all?" Maizy said.
I felt my teeth grind. "I mean she's taking acting lessons."
"She needs lessons to fool a guy?" Maizy asked. "It's the easiest thing in the world. They want to be fooled. They practically ask for it."
"I don't want to fool Raul," Dusty said.
"You say that now," Maizy told her. "Wait till Raul eats a few more lobsters and puts on thirty pounds and clogs a couple arteries."
Dusty looked at me. "I don't understand her."
"No one does," I said. "So listen, I'm sure you heard that Oxnard is dead."
A trace of a smile dusted her lips and was gone. "I'm not surprised someone killed him."
Maizy and I traded glances.
"Who said someone killed him?" I asked.
"That's what I was told," she said.
Well, that couldn't be more vague.
"Any idea who might have wanted him dead?" I asked. Besides you?
Dusty shrugged. "Pick a card. That man had more shady deals going than you can imagine. I mean, take Triple D Supply. His adviser told him he was diversifying into another multimillion-dollar industry. But those books weren't just cooked, they were burnt."
"Herman Kantz?" I asked.
Dusty shrugged. "I guess so. Oxnard trusted that guy because she recommended him."
Something prickled up my spine. "She who?"
"Sybil, of course."
"What's Triple D Supply?" Maizy asked. I could practically see thought bubbles forming over her head.
Dusty smirked. "It's a joke. Funny, right?"
"I've got to go call someone," Maizy told me. "Meet you at the car."
I suddenly remembered the paperwork I'd seen on Oxnard's desk. "Wait a minute," I said. "Are you sure you'd gotten that job in the first place? I saw some contracts with the names Allison Cartwright and Caroline Kirby on them."
Dusty smiled. "You didn't think anyone was actually named Dusty Rose, did you?"
Only if she was lucky.
"I'm Caroline Kirby," she said. "And yes, Oxnard told me I had a job on a two-year contract, for six figures. And now I can sell lipstick."
I didn't know what to say. Dusty's anger practically radiated off her. "Are you saying he drew up phony contracts?" I asked.
"Is that so hard to believe?" Dusty asked. "Did you notice he never signed them?"
As a matter of fact, I had.
"It was all a game to him." Bitterness soured her voice. "My life was just a game to him."
The middle-aged woman stepped into the silence to ask, "Is this better?" She puckered her lips at Dusty.
"What?" Dusty gave a start. "I—no. No. Let me help you." With the efficiency of a surgeon, she painted a set of curvaceous lips on the woman. "There. Better."
The woman beamed at herself in the mirror. Then she beamed at Dusty. Which led me to an epiphany.
"You should be working as a makeup artist," I told her. "You know, as soon as your problem clears up. I bet you could build a client base in no time."
"You think?" I could tell she was intrigued by the idea. That homicidal glint in her eyes had all but disappeared.
"I really do," I said. As long as she wasn't thrown in jail for killing Oxnard.
"Yeah." I could practically see the gears chugging away while she thought about it. "Yeah," she said again. "I think I'll look into that. Tell you what, you can be my first client. You could use a head-to-toe makeover."
Me and my big mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
"Well, this isn't going to get us anywhere," I said two nights later when we rolled to a stop in what used to be the parking lot of Triple D Supply
in Elmer Landing, a tiny industrial town on the banks of the Delaware River. The lot was strewn with litter and broken glass, choked with weeds, and it was still in better shape than the warehouse, which had been gutted by fire. Most of the windows and a large part of the roof were gone.
"Herman Kantz strikes again," Maizy muttered. Her backpack was open on the floor at her feet. Her tablet was in her lap.
A tugboat inched its way up the river toward the old Philadelphia Navy Yard. "What does that mean?"
She pointed to the screen. "He used to be majority owner of this dump. Triple D filed for bankruptcy in 2015."
Yet he'd recommended it to Oxnard as an investment? Another black mark on Herman's résumé. And Oxnard had taken the bait. Herman Kantz didn't strike me as that persuasive, unless Sybil had gotten involved.
Which brought me back to Sybil's relationship with Herman Kantz. Whatever it might be, it was strong enough to warrant red roses and private visits.
I restarted the car, and we drove out of the lot toward home.
"I'm not sure where to go with this," I said.
"I've got more bad news," Maizy said. "Bitsy Dolman hasn't paid her electric bill in four months." She grinned. "Told you."
"Okay," I said. "So she's having a hard time right now."
"Hard time is not having money for Starbucks," Maizy said. "What she's having is Chapter 13. I feel kind of bad for her."
"She still might have killed Oxnard," I reminded her. "And she did lie about attending that Fire and Ice fashion show on the night of the wedding."
"What was she gonna do?" Maizy asked. "Admit that she ran home alone to her rat hole in Loserville?"
"That's kind of harsh," I said. "You don't know that she was alone."
"Maybe we should send her a flashlight," Maizy said. "A small one, so she wouldn't have to see very much. Besides, how do we know that she lied?"
"You saw her house, right?" I said.
"Sloppy houses don't necessarily imply poverty," Maizy said.
In my case, it came uncomfortably close.
"I think it's worth a phone call," she said.
"I checked the flight schedules," I said. "There weren't any planes leaving Philly for Chicago at that time of night."