Larcency and Lace

by Annette Blair

“You have to listen. I’m not sure, but I think he said, ‘You’re a bitch.’ ”

  Thirty-nine

  I want to invent new ways of making clothes in new materials, with new shapes and fashion accessories that are up-to-date with the changing ways of life.

  —MARY QUANT

  I listened to Eve’s voice mail. “I think he’s saying, ‘Y’all’s a bi—’ He doesn’t finish the last word, does he? Is he southern?”

  “No. Maybe he thinks we’re both bitches.”

  “Can you amplify the sound?” I asked.

  “No, that’s as loud as it gets.”

  Each of us listened to it several more times.

  “Can you hook it up and amplify it with a computer?”

  “Not at home,” Eve said. “But I’ll try in my computer lab at the university tomorrow.”

  “Judging is finished,” my father said, coming inside.

  “My prize certificates?” I asked Eve.

  “I put them behind the counter.”

  I grabbed them. “I’d better get out there.”

  “Not until the ballots are tabulated. Sherry has the score sheets I made.”

  “Eve, what would I do without you?”

  “You won’t have to find out if you don’t let Vinney near me. Should I call him back?”

  “Not in this crowd. Wait till I’m with you, ’kay? His tone skeeved me out. It’s so dramatic then . . . end.”

  “Mad, we have the winners,” Sherry called.

  “Go,” Eve said. “I’ll wait.”

  Back at the podium I took the mike. “First prize goes to number thirty-three, Vanessa Vancortland, for her bride scarecrow.”

  The crowd gave an audible “aw” when Cort, her grandfather, held up the three-year-old so she could accept her certificate.

  “Vanessa, this is going to buy you a lot of bee-utiful purses.” Sherry’s flower girl and niece, Vanessa, was a handbag connoisseur who even had a sleep purse in which she kept Duck Duck, her bedtime buddy.

  “Second prize goes to number twenty-five: the Oscar Norton family for their baby-rocking granny scarecrow. And last but certainly scariest, number six: our own Tunney Lague for his bloody, meat-cutting vampire scarecrow.”

  Laughter accompanied the applause.

  When Tunney accepted his certificate, he took the mike from me. “Let’s give a big round of applause to Maddie and friends, who gave us such a wonderful day.”

  After the awards, people looked at the scarecrows for a while, but most of the crowd left when the food ran out.

  At Sherry’s request, Justin went across the street to Mystic Pizza and brought back pizza and sandwiches. The best.

  Justin, Eve, and I sat on the steps. Dad, Fiona, and Sherry each got a folding chair from Justin’s trunk. The wind had died down and the air warmed a bit as we ate, waved to neighbors as they collected their scarecrows, and generally babysat the dwindling assortment.

  “How many do you think are left?” Eve asked.

  “Fifteen or twenty,” I said.

  “If you do this again next year, I might enter. Let’s go look at them.”

  I followed, certain she was antsy. We didn’t stop until we stood in the middle of the scattered scarecrows.

  “I’m dying to call Vinney,” she said. “I’m scared, but I have this gut-instinct need to do it.”

  “No reason to be afraid. You’re surrounded by people who love you.”

  “Suppose he knows that I was the one who hit him that night outside McDowell’s guesthouse, and he is saying, ‘You’re a bitch.’ Maybe it’s a threat.”

  “He can’t hurt you over the phone.”

  She hit speed dial and listened, again, but I was distracted by the faint sound of slot machines behind me. “Do you hear a slot machine?” I asked.

  “That’s not funny!” She snapped her phone shut.

  “I didn’t mean it to be, but don’t worry, it stopped.”

  Eve got a sick look on her face and hit speed dial again.

  I heard the slot machine again. “Can you hear it?”

  “That’s not a slot machine. It’s Vinney’s cell phone. Mad, he’s here.” She dialed again, and in view of my father—I even waved to him—we followed the sound to the first scarecrow in the last row, a crudely painted leather skeleton—like the one worn by Lolique the night she broke into my shop?—from which the sound of slot machines burst forth.

  “This one wasn’t here before,” I said. “People started setting up here.” With a sick feeling, I put my gloves back on to raise the skeleton mask . . . and saw vacant, staring eyes.

  “Vinney!” Eve gasped.

  “Don’t faint,” I said.

  Forty

  Fashion must be the intoxicating release from the banality of the world.

  —DIANA VREELAND

  Still wearing my gloves, I touched the scarecrow’s bare hand, stiff and unbending, and if I hadn’t been sure before, I knew now. “It’s too late to call an ambulance,” I whispered.

  Eve just stared at me while more scarecrows were taken away and people chatted a few feet away from us. Just as well that she was speechless, under the circumstances. I took her hand and led her back toward the family. Without a word, we sat on the steps.

  Sherry frowned. “What’s up with you two?”

  “One of the scarecrows—”

  I touched Eve’s hand. “Sherry, how’s your tummy, sweetie?”

  “It’s great now that it’s full of pizza.”

  “Justin, maybe you should take her home.”

  “What? Has something bad happened? I want to know. I can take it. Finish the sentence, ‘one of the scarecrows...’ ”

  Eve swallowed. “Has a dead body in it. Vinney Carnevale’s body.”

  Sherry gasped and Justin wrapped a protective arm around her.

  I wished I hadn’t left Chakra home, because I could use her calming presence, right now. But I’d been afraid she’d be frightened or get stepped on with so many people around. “I don’t think any of us should panic right now, especially with so many neighbors nearby.”

  “I’ll go make sure that we don’t need to call 911,” my father said, and I didn’t bother to argue.

  The leather skeleton outfit had not been baggy on Vinney’s robust build. It had to be the same leather skeleton jumpsuit.

  “Let’s wait to call Werner until after the other scarecrows are gone,” I suggested.

  My father heard me as he came back, shaking his head. “A few minutes won’t matter to Vinney.”

  I covered my face with my hands. “I really don’t want any more crime scene tape around my shop.”

  “A man is dead,” Eve said. “And you’re worried about crime scene tape?”

  “The man who nearly strangled me. Who you nearly killed with the heel on your shoe to save my life. Ten minutes ago, his phone message freaked the hell out of you.”

  “You nearly lost your life?” my father said. “I dearly hope you’re exaggerating.”

  “I am, Dad.” Not.

  He looked like he didn’t believe me. “We need to shield the last of our neighbors from the grisly sight,” he said. “It would be too easy, as the scarecrows thin out, for someone to go and check out the skeleton.” My father got up. “Let’s move the last of them closer to the curb.”

  Eve and I sat frozen as dad and Justin went to separate the scarecrows from the murder victim. Sherry and Aunt Fiona weren’t saying much, either. Two more cars and a van arrived. Dad and Justin helped them load up.

  My father came back. “The last of the real scarecrows are on their way.”

  “Justin, I think you should take Sherry home, now, because I have to call Werner.”

  Sherry stood. “Please, yes.” They left as I dialed the police station and asked for Werner.

  “Lytton,” I said, when he came on the line, “can you come quietly back to Vintage Magic. No sirens?”

  Werner sighed. “What now, Madeira?”

  “I can
see why our night watchman got the feeling he was annoying you with his calls.”

  “Low blow.”

  “Well, try not to place blame before you hear the facts. Somebody stuck an unentered scarecrow in the back row . . . in plain sight of all of us, even you. It’s Vinney Carnevale in a skeleton costume. He’s dead.”

  It didn’t take Werner five minutes, no sirens. Eventually, however, the ambulance, police cars, and coroner’s car sure attracted attention.

  I put my hand on Werner’s arm. “Please, no more crime scene tape.”

  “No need to cordon it off,” he said. “There were at least a hundred people here, today. Any stray evidence has been trampled. What happened? Nobody took him home, so you checked him out?”

  His cell phone rang.

  Eve raised her open phone to show that she’d called him. “He’d left me a cryptic voice mail message so we called him back. That’s when we heard what you’re hearing.”

  Werner listened to her call, pointed to her phone, and it got scooped into an evidence bag.

  “Hey! I need that.”

  Werner denied her request with a shake of his head. “You’ll get it back as soon as we analyze the message.” He looked at his men. “The skeleton’s got a phone on him. What are you waiting for? Find it.” He signaled for the men with the coroner’s stretcher to wait, but his team searched without luck.

  “Ms. Meyers,” Werner said, “don’t open the evidence bag but use your phone to call him again.”

  When the phone rang, the officers lifted the back of Vinney’s black Halloween cape to get at the phone in his back pocket. To do so, they had to lift his leather jacket, and when they did, something fell to the ground.

  I grasped Eve’s arm. “That’s my Pucci bag!”

  “Now what would a man want with this?” the officer said, picking it up.

  “Maybe, he was trying to name his killer,” I said.

  “His killer?” the officer said. “Who? You?”

  Forty-one

  Fashion marks time.

  -YOHJI YAMAMOTO

  “Bag it,” Werner told the officer, “and keep your opinions to yourself.”

  I turned on my heel. “Eve! His message; I’ll bet those were his last words. He called you for help. He wasn’t saying ‘You’re a bitch’ or ‘Y’all’s a bitch’ like we were guessing. I’ll bet he was saying ‘Lol’s a bitch.’ Lolique. She killed him.” I turned to Werner. “I knew she stole my bag!”

  Werner looked at me like I had two heads.

  “Oh, for the love of Gucci, it’s not like I want the bag back, after this.”

  “You can’t have it, anyway. It’s evidence.”

  “Look, it has tire tracks on it, likely done with the same spite and the same heavy foot as the hole in Eve’s convertible top.”

  “Lolique?”

  “Of course, Lolique. What killed him?” I asked.

  “Cyanide,” the coroner said. “That’s not blue face paint.”

  I put my arm around Eve. “Detective, that outfit is handmade. It might have a tale to tell.”

  Eve began to tremble. “He called me with his last breath,” she whispered as they put Vinney on a stretcher and covered him, his knees still bent.

  In all our years as friends the only other time I remember her crying is at my mother’s funeral.

  “Detective,” I said, “I might have some answers inside that you don’t have questions for yet.”

  Werner waved off the coroner and officers and followed us into my shop.

  “We’ll get coffee,” my dad said, taking Aunt Fiona by the arm.

  “I don’t like that we found something of yours on the body,” Werner said.

  “I am not guilty of anything. You had us in the backseat of your squad car when I realized that purse went missing, remember?”

  “I’m worried because it might be a message that you’re in danger, brat.”

  “Brat? And yet that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Then I remembered the night of the fire. “Well, maybe not the—”

  “Right,” he said to shut me up. “Lolique’s car was left parked in place of Ms. Meyers the night I picked you up at McDowell’s, I remember, so I’m guessing that she still had the purse?”

  “That’s what I said.” I turned to Eve. “Didn’t I just say that? Anyway, I think the purse was Vinney’s way of naming his murderer. So, can you pick up Lolique?”

  “Not until we get a time of death, because Lolique was here judging the scarecrow contest all afternoon.”

  Scrap! “Well, let’s get back to Isobel’s murder. I have these clothes that Lolique brought me, and I didn’t see them as evidence until dead things started pointing toward Lolique.”

  He nodded, grudgingly.

  I thanked my stars and let it go. “This gown,” I said, “is the one McDowell’s dead wife is wearing in her portrait at the dealership. In it, she’s also wearing the diamond I gave you.”

  Werner gave me a respectful head tilt. “I’ll get a warrant and pick up the portrait tomorrow, evidence that the ring is hers.”

  “If you take it down,” I said, “McDowell will lose his dealership, and Gary Goodwin, Isobel’s cousin, will get it. I’d pay money to see that portrait come down. What time are you going?”

  “Now, Madeira.”

  “Come on. That’s not fair. I just gave you evidence you didn’t have before.”

  “I know you did. But life’s not fair.”

  “You bet it’s not,” Eve said, wiping her eyes with an embarrassed chuckle. “I’m working tomorrow and I’ll have to miss the show.”

  “Do you have any more of Isobel’s clothes?” Werner asked.

  “I sold a few pieces.” I nearly ducked. “Don’t get mad.”

  He raised a brow. “They were yours to sell. You didn’t sell the quilt or the diamond. I’ve got your number, Madeira.”

  I wondered if that was good or bad. “The clothes on these racks all belonged to the first Mrs. McDowell.”

  Werner seemed to be considering options. “I’ve got a description of what she was last seen wearing.”

  “Anything here fit the bill?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s the problem. The description doesn’t tell me anything. It’s in fashion speak, as described by Mrs. McDowell’s secretary at the time. If I get the description, can you match it to an outfit?”

  “If I do, can I go and see you take down that portrait?”

  Werner denied my request with a shake of his head as he called the precinct and had someone read the clothing description in his file. “She was last seen wearing ‘a rust linen fitted cape—” He listened again. “With black piping over a black linen sheik dress.” He looked up at me. “Got that?”

  “It’s a sheath dress, but yes, I’m afraid I do have it.” Except that she was really last seen wearing the suede fringed skirt that Rebecca bought, but I couldn’t tell Werner that. My first vision, however, had been correct, and yet my arms and legs felt weighted as I unzipped the garment bag and removed the described outfit, careful only to touch its hanger. I blinked a couple of times as I handed it to him.

  He could see that I was shaken. “Is this the cape you were going to keep—Madeira, are you all right?”

  “It’s silly,” I said. “You play with people’s clothes and you get attached to their bones.” I wiped my cheeks with the back of a hand. Eve wasn’t far behind me.

  “You two would make terrible cops. Stick with fashion,” he said. “You don’t get hurt that way.”

  I so wanted to differ.

  “By the way,” he said as he left with the cape and dress outfit, “the brakes on your Element are locking. You should get the dealer to look at that tomorrow morning . . . around ten.”

  Forty-two

  I have the reputation of being easygoing. But inside, I’m like nails. I will kill.

  —CALVIN KLEIN

  Eve was right. I did have a hard time dressing down. Just to take my car in for
service and witness the toppling of the McDowell empire, I dressed in a moiré silk plum shirt with Janice Wainwright jodhpurs and a pair of Michael Kors cork wedges in plum with one of his famously massive totes to match.

  Call me crazy but I felt the need to pack a gun to go anywhere near McDowell. I settled for a less violent means of self-defense. I filled the well of the oversized tote with some of my grandmother’s marble eggs. I wanted the bag uber heavy in the event I found it necessary to smack the man.

  When I picked up the bag to leave, however, the echoing sound of breaking pool balls followed. To muffle them, I found it necessary to wrap each egg in rolls of fabric, lots of it, until I stopped knocking as I walked.

  Okay, so it weighed a bit more than my usual purse, like twenty pounds or more, and I had to carry it slung over a shoulder like a farmer carried a sack of potatoes, but the weight of it made me feel secure.

  At the last minute, I remembered to take my cell phone from its charger, but I didn’t want the slim red miracle of technology to get pulverized by the contents of my purse. So I slipped it in my pocket.

  I was forced to leave my car at the end of a long line of cars waiting for repairs at the service center because I didn’t have an appointment, a great excuse to linger. I sighed. Two days until my grand opening, and I’m playing hooky. Eve is always right; I must be certifiable.

  I found a comfortable sofa, from which I could see both Isobel’s portrait and McDowell’s desk, because I didn’t want to miss the incredulous look on his face at the moment of his karmic fall.

  I don’t normally wish anyone ill, but the man murdered his wife, a woman with whom I’d formed a bond, probably from experiencing her last moments in my first vision with she/we beginning to fall down that well.

  I wished I could see Lolique’s face when she learned they were going to be poor. Not that it would matter to her in jail, which is where she belonged.

  I’d brought a fashion magazine and got into an article about Marc Jacobs. Next thing I know McDowell is standing in front of me. I questioned his space-invading presence with a look, and he stooped down in front of me while I imagined him wrapping Isobel in a quilt and sticking her in the trunk of his car. Wait? Whose voice had I heard at the fairgrounds?