Skirting the Grave

by Annette Blair

  “Tut, tut, tut, Detective,” I said. “Your face is a forest of greens and blues.”

  Isobel commiserated with him. “But that’s an especially great shade of teal,” she said.

  “Thanks, both of you, I think. I ran into a steel fist then a curvaceous yet surprisingly lean, mean, feisty machine.” He furrowed his brows. “You think I look ghastly? Not handsome or studly?”

  I chuckled. “Your eye looks ghastly. The rest of you is . . . passable.”

  “Stop. I might die of embarrassment.” He came from around his desk and took my arm. “Miss York,” he said, turning to Isobel. “Please take a seat, and somebody will be right with you. I need to chide our saucy Ms. Cutler, where no one will hear us, if you get my drift.”

  Isobel’s eyes twinkled as she sat, but she bit her lip as if she remembered our parking lot conversation.

  Two men passed us on our way out of Werner’s office, a suave, buff, leader type wearing a navy pinstripe wool silk Armani with a cream silk shirt and an emerald silk tie.

  Behind him followed a man with rusty hair, shorter, broader, but appearing full of his own worth, his tan suit of good quality but made by a less prestigious designer. I looked back at him twice, before Werner urged me forward. Something about him intrigued me.

  Together, they went into Werner’s office, and Rusty shut the door behind them, like he was in charge.

  I did a double take, wondering why Werner would let two strangers close themselves in with—“Those guys just went into your office. Don’t you care?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “But Isobel’s in there. Maybe one is the fake-voiced bully who kept calling the shop terrorizing me and asking for her.”

  “You didn’t say your caller terrorized you.”

  “I was sure I did last night. And I told you when it happened that he spoke through a voice changer, which made him sound like Vader with a bullhorn, and . . . he had a tone.”

  “Well, then.” Werner steered me in an unexpected direction. “Billings, throw the book at anybody with a deep voice . . . and a tone.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “You should know. You could win a Pulitzer for mockery; you could teach mockery as an alternative to swordplay or knife throwing. Turn it into an Olympic sport.”

  I raised a brow. “So you’re saying I’m sharp-witted?”

  “Sharp-tongued. Vast difference.”

  “I’ll show you the difference,” I snapped.

  He scanned the nearly empty squad room and lowered his voice. “Please do.”

  “Meanwhile, Isobel could be getting accosted by a couple of strangers.”

  “The dark suit is Mr. Quincy York, Isobel and Giselle’s father, who is running for first selectman of Kingston’s Vineyard. I’m counting on him to identify the girl he’s talking to and settling the question as to whether she’s your intern or not.

  “The tan suit is his campaign manager/right-hand man, Mr. Ruben Rickard. I’ll introduce you after they finish their talk. Listen to their voices, would you? And tell me if either of them is your caller.”

  I cupped Werner’s chin. “Voice mod-u-la-tor. To decipher that, I think we’d need a wiretap and a techno geek.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I asked, dead-ended in a secluded corner.

  “Mr. Rickard identified the dead girl as Mr. Quincy York’s niece, Isobel’s first cousin, Payton. They’re about to tell Isobel—or Giselle—about her first cousin.”

  “I’m so relieved that Isobel didn’t lose her twin, but I’m confused, too. Why get a second ID?”

  “We didn’t seek it out. Before Isobel arrived last night, we called Mr. York to inform him of Isobel’s death, per Ms. Robear’s ID. York and Rickard showed up today, because we didn’t know, before Isobel told us last night, that she had an identical twin. Rickard viewed the body and told us we made a mistake. It’s not one of York’s daughters but his brother Patrick’s daughter. York was as surprised as we were—and his relief perfunctory—that Robear gave us a bad ID.”

  “No fingerprint confirmation?”

  “No fingerprints on record for any of the three girls anywhere.”

  “Okay, so why did Rickard and not York view the body?”

  “Evidently, Rickard does all York’s dirty work.”

  “Oh.” I scrunched my brows and shook my head. “Still confused. How could Payton look so much like her cousins?”

  Werner urged me down the hall, back toward the squad room. “Isobel’s father and his brother, Patrick, married twin sisters. They say the three girls only look alike to the untrained eye.”

  “I wonder if Isobel ever loaned Payton her sailor dress.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Could Payton have been the girl on the sailboat in San Francisco Bay?

  “She sure didn’t dress like a York for her train ride yesterday,” I said. “She must have been in disguise.”

  “You’re right. Rickard was appalled when he saw the clothes she’d been wearing. He said they weren’t hers.”

  I couldn’t believe I was thinking this, but if I could get my hands on them . . . I shuddered. “I assume her clothes are still being held as evidence?”

  “Absolutely. Why? Do you want a look at them?”

  Not in front of him, I didn’t. “Maybe when they’re released from evidence, in case Isobel wants them. Did both brothers have twins? I mean, is Payton a twin?”

  “No. The twins have one cousin, Payton, our deceased, born about a week after Isobel and Giselle.”

  “Have you located Giselle?”

  “She seems to be a happy wanderer. She’s not at the York family home or at her L.A., New York, Aspen, or Palm Springs condos. Her father hasn’t seen her in six months; but that doesn’t seem to be unusual for him.”

  “That’s a lot of condos.” Gee, who could afford so many homes? I don’t know. Maybe a . . . very high-end call girl?

  “I know,” Werner said. “We’re looking into her financials, too.”

  “Have other family members seen her?”

  “None we’ve talked to, which takes our investigation up a notch.”

  “As in, Giselle’s a suspect? Or she’s dead somewhere, too?”

  Werner nodded. “She could be a suspect, but I’m also concerned about her welfare. We’ve issued a national missing persons bulletin. I’m still talking to Isobel’s father. I don’t know if either set of parents is still married, if any of the three girls lived with their parents. I’d know more if you hadn’t shown up so early. I was in the middle of asking Candidate York a few questions.”

  “I wish you’d told me last night to come in later. I’d have given Isobel more time to sleep this morning, though I think you woke her up with your loud cooking.”

  “I didn’t wake you up, and I didn’t expect my staff’s investigative phone calls to net us a visit from Mr. Quincy York.”

  “Why is he such a big deal?”

  “Highly publicized political aspirations,” Werner said, “though he’s definitely starting at the bottom. Famous family money.”

  “Ah. So famous I don’t know him.”

  “You hate politics.”

  “Oh yeah. Madame Robear sure got it wrong. You’d think the owner of a modeling agency would know her models well enough to identify their faces correctly.”

  “You’d think.” Werner turned to Billings, his sometimes driver, sometimes desk clerk. “Knock on this door when the people in my office come out.”

  Billings saluted and tried to hide his grin by focusing on his computer keys, as Werner backed me into a supply closet, hands on my upper arms, and kicked the door shut behind us.

  “Are you seeking revenge?” I asked, coming up against a set of shelves.

  “Maybe. See, I got this knot on the back of my head . . .”

  He lowered his head to show me, his hands braced on the shelves behind me.

  I combed my fingers through his hair until I found the bump. Couldn�
�t miss it, really. High and hard, and wow, it must hurt. “It really is huge.”

  “I’ve dreamed of you saying that.”

  I shoved his shoulder. “You’re a pain, but I apologize for knocking your lights out.”

  “You already apologized. Right before you fell asleep in my arms.”

  I gasped. “With Nick on the opposite sofa?”

  “He passed out long before we did. Probably woke up yesterday in Timbuktu, secure in an assassin’s trap, and then he came home to real trouble: you.”

  I kissed the knot I gave him. “Does that make it better?”

  “Not as much as looking down your dress does.”

  I pulled his head up, his grin about cutting me off at the knees.

  “Tell me you were not looking.”

  “Hey, this is you, kiddo. Of course I looked. You make a man’s mouth water.”

  “I am not a pork chop!” Still, stupid me, my heart tripped.

  He took my hand and ran his thumb over my fingernails. “You’re all woman, Mad, especially in that yellow lace bra. I like. But I like what’s inside better.”

  Inside me, he meant, not in my bra, right? Of course, right. “What are we doing here?” I asked. What was I doing here? Alone with the Wiener, and liking it?

  “Testing the waters,” he said. “Though with you, I always try to remember that drowning’s a probability, and yet I forget. You’re like some kind of bewitching sea siren. I’ve got the scars from where you’ve dashed me against the rocks. Yet here I am, ready for another dip. Glug, glug, glug.”

  Thirteen

  Clothes make a statement. Costumes tell a story.

  —MASON COOLEY

  Something that sounded like a paired set of sweat socks thumped against the supply room door. “Yo! Sarge!” A shout from Billings. “The people in your office are asking for you.”

  “Saved by the clerk,” I said.

  In Werner’s office, I opened my arms to the girl her father confirmed as Isobel. “I’m sorry about your cousin. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Isobel said, her eyes red. “Thank you.”

  Mr. York stood. “When can we expect to plan a service for my niece?” he asked, his lack of emotion disconcerting.

  Werner sat behind his desk and moved a few things around. An obvious stall. “As I told you earlier, we can’t release . . . Payton . . . because we’re waiting for a forensics report on cause of death.”

  Werner didn’t tell Isobel’s father that a suspicious caller kept asking about Isobel or that it was possible Payton made a bad choice in the identity she stole. I think he withheld as much as he could, because Mr. Quincy York seemed like a suspicious character himself. And I had a lot of questions about the campaign manager. I would have to draw Isobel out about her family as soon possible, because some things just didn’t add up.

  Werner clicked his pen. “In the meantime, we need answers, and you can help, Mr. York, by sitting down and giving me as many as possible.”

  Isobel and her father sat.

  Werner checked his watch. “Mad, I know you need to open your shop. And, Ms. York, if it’s all right with you, I’d rather speak to your father alone, so you can go with Ms. Cutler right now, if you don’t mind. I’ll stop by and talk to you at Mad’s shop later, but you do need to stay in town until the investigation is over.”

  “I have to leave right away, Isobel,” her father said. “You know that, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I exchanged a quick glance with Werner. “Isobel,” he said, “stop by Billings’s desk and get fingerprinted before you go.”

  “Why?” her father asked. “Surely you don’t suspect Isobel of hurting her cousin?”

  “If most people can’t tell the three girls apart, it would behoove me to have a positive ID on at least two of them. It’ll turn out to be proof that she couldn’t have hurt her cousin. We had a chance to talk at breakfast. I think statements from the people who served as her tag-team taxis on her way here will give her an airtight alibi.”

  “Ah,” Isobel said. “Then you’ll know for sure that I’m me.”

  Mr. York frowned. “But you have my word.”

  And I thought, Nuff said.

  Werner clicked his pen one more time.

  “No problem, Daddy. Physical proof is good proof.” She kissed her father’s brow. “See you later. Call me when you’re not busy with the campaign.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, appearing too preoccupied to grasp the concept. “Meanwhile,” her father added, noticing she was still there, “you let Ruben here know if you need anything.”

  “Right.” Isobel rolled her eyes and came my way.

  Mr. York leaned toward Werner across the desk. “Is this a murder investigation?”

  “We don’t have cause of death for your niece, and that’s all I can say right now.”

  “But she had my daughter’s ID.”

  “Her license and train ticket. Yes, she did.”

  “And you say my other daughter is missing?”

  “We are investigating Giselle’s whereabouts. May we speak alone?” Werner asked, all detective now, recorder on, pen in hand, notebook open.

  “Ruben, please wait for me in the squad room.”

  Ruben did as he was told.

  I shut the door on Werner and Mr. York and turned to Isobel. “Mid-morning snack? Coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I’m sincerely sorry about your cousin. I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but I need a Mint Mocha Chip Frappuccino. Sure you don’t want one?”

  “Make mine an Iced Caramel Macchiato, heavy on the caramel.”

  “That’s my intern. You want Billings, here, for fingerprinting, and I’ll be right back.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Isobel waited for me outside the police station, trying to wear away her stained fingertips with a Wet-Nap.

  She climbed into my Element with swollen eyes and a blotchy face. I was glad she’d released her emotions. I’d worried she was like her father and didn’t have any.

  “Is your dad still inside?” I asked, handing her the Macchiato.

  “Either that or he left by the back door.”

  “You’re close, then?”

  “You give great snark,” Isobel said. “I like that about you. Am I allowed to participate?”

  “Yep, but we both pretend we’re demure and ladylike in front of the customers.”

  “You’re on, boss.” She winked.

  “Did anybody give you your wallet back?”

  “No. Evidently, it’s evidence. But your detective said he’d get me a duplicate license. What smells so good?”

  “Warm brownies with thick, melty chocolate frosting.”

  “How do you stay so fit?”

  “I don’t have an elevator . . . except for caskets, but that’s another story. I’ll give you a tour of the shop when I have someone to watch the register, and you’ll see why.”

  “I can’t wait to explore Vintage Magic.”

  “I can’t wait to open your grandmother’s trunk.”

  “Brownies first, then the trunk,” Isobel suggested. “I need a sugar rush, and you’re in for a fashion rush when you look at Grand-mère’s things.”

  “If you love your grand-mère’s clothes so much, I think you should keep them as a memento of her.”

  “I don’t want them, believe me.”

  “But we have the same taste. If I’ll love the contents, then you must already adore them. We love the same things.”

  “Except for Grand-mère. We don’t both love her.”

  I gave Isobel a double take. “Why don’t we?

  “She never liked me.”

  “Then why did she give you a gorgeous vintage trunk full of delicious vintage clothes?”

  “She didn’t. She gave them to Giselle. Gigi is everybody’s fave. She’s probably Daddy’s sole heir, too.”

  “So why did Giselle give you the clothes if you don’t get along?”r />
  “It’s not that we don’t get along, we’re just not friends. Don’t you have a sibling you’d like to strangle more than the others?”

  Brandy. “Right. Gotcha.”

  “Giselle doesn’t like the bitter old lady any better than I do, and since I’m the fashionista in the family, she gave Grand-mère’s clothes to me. Now I’m giving them to you.”

  “Were you friends with Payton?”

  “Not especially, and I’ve been guilt-tripping about that since I found out she died.”

  “Who else doesn’t like Payton?”

  “Ask for the short list. Who liked her?”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Who liked her?”

  “Nobody I know.”

  “Not even your twin?”

  “Especially not my twin.”

  “Payton’s parents, then? They must have loved her.”

  “Not so much. Payton made sure of that.”

  Fourteen

  Is fashionable dress part of the oppression of women, or is it a form of adult play?

  —ELIZABETH WILSON

  The minute we walked toward the sitting area, Isobel went to the old black enamel undertaker’s cabinet that I decorated. She traced the profile on the cabinet’s side: a naked, fine-figured blonde standing on her toes at the bottom back, her head leaning toward the top front, as if peeking into the cabinet at my fashion doll collection inside.

  Except for the curvaceous profile’s long hair, black eyelashes, and red lips, I’d painted her an all-over flesh pink with no details.

  “The design reminds me of a sixties Yves Saint Laurent wool jersey Pop Art dress.”

  “That’s where I got the idea! You are so good. Nobody, but nobody who walks into this shop has ever connected that cabinet to, well, fashion design.” I could stop worrying about her being Giselle posing as Isobel. This girl definitely studied fashion design. Isobel, for sure.

  Yeah, her father’s word just hadn’t done it for me, but this did.

  “I’m thrilled we speak the same language,” Isobel said, sipping her Macchiato. “I love your art deco furniture, especially the sideboard.”