by Cassie Page
Chapter Four: Dying For Diamonds
“I can tell you this much. She was standing at the pearly gates before she took a nose dive.”
Olivia gritted her teeth. Did coroners take a course in tastelessness in medical school, or did it come from speaking freely around the dead? She’d never met this one before. Ritter was it? Bitter would be a better name for the sub from Santa Rosa who was filling in for the vacationing medical examiner in San Rafael. He’d been making sour wisecracks since he arrived. I wonder if she thinks diamonds are a girl’s best friend now? And about Xavier’s shop, He’s got a nice scam going, selling pieces of coal to suckers who think they’re big shots because the wife has a rock on her finger. He’d wiggled his fingers in a woo-woo gesture. Like they’re rare.
His attitude didn’t seem to bother Matt, who was more interested in his findings. “Judging from the rigor,” Ritter said, looking at his notes, “I’d say she’s been dead eight hours give or take. I’ll give you some preliminary results by early evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.”
Matt thanked the man and went back inside to join his partner, Detective Johnson, and the team searching through the rubble for clues. Olivia and Xavier remained at the curb to watch the coroner’s unit drive away with Jocelyn’s body in the strapless, backless, thigh-high cocktail dress that barely covered her essential parts. They took her purse, jewelry she been found wearing and the rest scattered around the second floor to check for fingerprints and hair samples.
The crowd of gawkers that had rushed across the street when the paramedics arrived, drifted away, back to the grand opening celebration of Posh Pets Boutique. Olivia took Xavier’s arm and led him back to the shop. He locked up the metal gates he had so recently opened, his shop closed for business now for the foreseeable future. He swooned a bit when he saw the devastation full on, the broken glass and shards of plaster everywhere, the hole in the ceiling that looked down like a scolding parent. The accusing crime scene tape.
They headed towards voices coming from the back of the shop where the small kitchen opened onto the rear parking lot that was shared by the other stores on the street.
“Martin!” Xavier called, arms extended.
A policewoman was questioning a younger version of Xavier trying to gain entrance through the back door.
Xavier ran over to her. “Officer, please.”
The uniformed woman crossed her arms. With her I dare you to try something stare, she made a formidable barrier. “We can’t let the public come in and roam around, sir.”
She didn’t intimidate Xavier. “He’s not the public, he’s my cousin and works here. He needs to know what has happened.”
Solemn and silent, the cousins kissed each other on both cheeks. Then Martin greeted Olivia in the same manner. After an exchange in Spanish, Martin asked in badly broken English, “Somesing bad, jes, Xavier?”
Olivia stood with the two cousins in a closet-like space, the tiny but efficient kitchen adjacent to the studio/office where Xavier created his unique designs. Martin made an espresso for himself as he listened to the dreadful news, looking rattled when Olivia and Xavier described the body.
He had Xavier’s premature salt and pepper hair and startling blue eyes, a rare combination. Looking more like brothers than cousins, Olivia had said when Martin first arrived in the U.S. six months earlier. They had the same easy smile. Martin had to work on his English before Xavier would let him mingle with customers, so he performed behind the scenes work after the shop closed at night, the interim janitor. During the day he was Xavier’s willing gofer. He offered to make coffee for all of them, but Olivia refused.
She stared at her feet, unable to think of what to say now that the scene had quieted down a bit. A knock on the open door announced Matt. With no room for a fourth in the tight space, he stood in the doorway and also refused coffee. He was on the job now, no longer socializing.
“So, Xavier, who else has access to your store? Could one of your employees have let her in?”
“Absolutely not. I am the only one who knows the security code to get into the store and safes.”
“He won’t even give it to me,” said Martin.
“Well, that narrows down our list. What do you know about this woman?”
Matt looked down at his notepad for her name. Olivia noticed how frayed and grimy it was, every page dog-eared with index cards and post-its hanging out like an overfull dresser drawer. His brain, he called it. He found what he was looking for. “Jocelyn Payne? You said she’s a longstanding customer.”
Xavier’s hands shook as he sipped his espresso. “Yes, she is. Since I opened the shop four years ago. Or I should say her husband is the customer. She rarely bought anything on her own. But he was always coming in with his grocery list. We’d laugh about that. Her grocery list. A brooch for a new coat, earrings for a dress for the opening of the Ballet. She had to have a new piece every time she made an important wardrobe purchase. She kept the name designers in New York and Europe very busy.”
He became thoughtful for a moment. “So yes, he is a good customer. But of course Mrs. Payne came in with him, too, sometimes, to guide his selections. Unless he had a surprise in mind. He was very generous. Only the best for his wife. He’s almost my best customer. Oh dear, I should say he was almost my best customer.”
Matt raised his eyebrows. “Almost?”
Xavier finished his coffee and rinsed the cup and saucer in a metal sink the size of a mixing bowl. “Mr. Payne has amassed great wealth, but as you know, he isn’t the only billionaire in Darling Valley. I am fortunate to have several clients with similar wealth.”
He dried the cup and saucer and put it back on the shelf above the sink as he spoke, in the exact same spot it had occupied before Martin retrieved it. Neat and precise about everything, one of Xavier’s well-known characteristics.
“Many people prefer to go to Los Angeles or New York, to Graff’s or Cartier’s to buy their important pieces. Of course, I don’t have anything like the Graff Pink.”
Olivia and Matt looked puzzled, so he explained that in 2010 Lawrence Graff had purchased the most expensive diamond ring in the world for $46 million. The stone was classified as intense fancy pink, fancy the industry term for a colored diamond. He named the rare, perfect 27-carat beauty the Graff Pink.
Then Xavier got back to his own business. “My customers appreciate my sense of design, my ability to secure the best gems. But Mr. Payne? He certainly was up there with the big spenders. The men who like their wives to parade their success.”
Matt picked up the conversation, “So this is going to be a loss for you. Not to have Mr. Payne as a client.”
Xavier nodded sadly. “It is an unpleasant subject after such a tragedy. But yes, you could look at it that way. Mrs. Payne’s death will not be the best marketing for me. But she was a lovely woman and I am devastated that she is dead, that she died in my shop.”
Matt moved in closer to lean against the small refrigerator. His thick, jet-black hair looked like it was spattered with confetti from the plaster dust. Olivia restrained herself from leaning over and shaking the shards loose, from stroking his back.
Matt studied his notepad. “That brings me to my next question, Xavier. What was she doing upstairs? Was she in the shop yesterday? Was she here last night when you closed up?”
The suggestion shocked Xavier. “Matt, I had no idea she was in the shop. What was she doing here? How did she get in? Why didn’t we hear her moving around when we were having our coffee? Those are my questions as well. I will have to call my security firm to see how the system was breached. That may tell me how she got in, but not why she was here.”
Matt tapped his pen on his notebook, thinking. “The coroner said she was dead long before she fell.”
Xavier staggered a bit at that news. “You mean she was in here overnight? How could that happen? Was it a robbery? Was she trying to steal from me? But why would she do that? Her husband could afford to buy the w
hole store. I just don’t understand, Matt.”
Xavier took a turn at making more coffee, pouring water into the espresso machine. Olivia patted his arm. “Xavier, sit down. Maybe coffee isn’t a good idea right now. You need something calming. This has been a terrible shock. Martin, do you have herb tea?”
Martin turned up his nose in distaste. “Tea? What is this, herb tea?”
Matt pulled out the chair tucked under the small desk and offered it to the jeweler. Xavier sank into it.
“We’ll need to notify her husband, Xavier. Do you have Mr. Payne’s address?”
Olivia broke in. “I have it Matt. I did a small job for Jocelyn last year. I enlarged her closet. They live out on Tucker Road. It’s at the north end of Darling Boulevard as you go up into the hills.”
Matt wrote it down. “Just a closet? Doesn’t sound like much of a project for you. What did you do, put in some new shelves?”
Despite the solemn mood, Olivia chuckled. “Matt, when you have as many clothes as she does.” She winced at her own words. “Excuse me, as she had. You need more than a few shelves. Her closet is as large as your apartment.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Of course it is. Why did I even ask? Can you tell me anything about her and her husband?”
Olivia leaned against the rear door and let out a sigh of fatigue. She could hear faint sounds of cars arriving and leaving in the rear parking lot on the other side of the door.
“I can’t really say very much,” she explained. “I know she was the second Mrs. Payne. At least. They had no children together, but her husband has a family from the first and maybe even a second wife. I know he has a son. Some sort of super geek. According to Jocelyn, he’ll probably win a Nobel Prize some day for saving the world. He’s discovered something that will stamp out some terrible disease in third world countries. I don’t know much about it, but Jocelyn flashed an article about him in the Wall Street Journal when I was working for her. I think they’re almost the same age, but she seemed very proud of him.”
Martin scowled. In his Argentinian accent he sneered, “Old men marrying girls young enough to be their daughters. What is wrong with them?”
No one said anything. They knew Martin’s taste ran in the opposite direction. His live-in girlfriend was almost twenty years his senior. And very rich. Actually, he was her live-in boyfriend. Xavier teased him, called her his English teacher.
Matt, his to-do list growing as they talked, urged Olivia to get on with it.
She shrugged. “What more can I say? Jocelyn was a typical trophy wife. Young, beautiful, a terrific hostess. Very style conscious. Maybe not the sharpest eyebrow pencil in the makeup kit, but she made the fashion magazines. Hit all the red carpets in San Francisco for the Symphony and the Ballet. Vogue featured a photo of her at the spring fashion shows in New York. She was gaining stature in the community the way unknowns do. Serving on committees for charities. Raising money for events hosted by friends. Anything that would get her name circulating in the blogs that followed socialites and Hollywood celebrities. From my brief contact with her, the closet project was easy and relatively fast. She was friendly, easy to work with as long as I did everything her way. But that’s the design business.”
Matt was taking notes, the voices of his team murmuring in the background, the click of the forensic camera like punctuation. “Did she work?”
“Not as far as I knew. Not since they married two or three years ago, but I don’t know what she did before.”
Xavier interrupted. “Airline stewardess.”
Olivia said, “I think they prefer to be called flight attendants these days.”
A few minutes later Matt announced that he had to leave. Olivia headed out with him, and Xavier walked them to the front of the shop. The cat nudged Olivia at the door, then nipped at her foot. Olivia darted back, and the cat took a swipe at her with bared claws, leaving a bloody arc on her ankle.
Xavier gasped and apologized. He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the blood away. It wasn’t serious, but Olivia warned, “That alley cat isn’t as cute as she looks. You’d better be careful my friend. She’ll chase away your customers.”
Like any proud parent, Xavier made excuses for his little one. He picked her up and tucked her under his arm, stroking her long fur. “I’m so sorry, Olivia. She’s just getting used to her new home. You didn’t mean it, did you sweet thing? She’s got some Maine Coon in her pedigree I think. Look at that fluffy tail. They are supposed to be very sweet.”
Olivia grinned at Matt. “He’s hooked. Falling for the bad girls, eh, Xavier? Though I admit, she’d win a beauty contest.”
The friends shook hands, the cat still lunging at anyone within striking distance.
Darling Boulevard’s shop windows glittered in the bright morning sun. Matt slipped his notepad in his pocket. “There’s nothing more you can do here. Why don’t I drive you home?”
Olivia said. “I hate to leave Xavier. He’s devastated. But he and Martin are very close. Perhaps it’s the time for family. But don’t worry about me. You’ve a million things to do, and I could use some exercise after all this. I’ll walk home. It will help me clear my head. I told Marguerite Fredericks I’d take care of some of the arrangements for the party today. It’s mindless work, like coming up with a color scheme for the flowers. It’s all I’m capable of after this.”
Despite their rule of no PDA’s, Matt quietly stroked Olivia’s elbow before she headed south on Darling Boulevard towards home. It was just a few blocks and then a right turn down a tree-laden, pristine, gorgeously landscaped side street abloom with bougainvillea, azaleas and rhododendron in everybody’s yard but hers.
Chapter Five: Awful Arlo
The screen door slammed behind Olivia and she called out, “Cody? Are you here?”
No response from her temporary roommate, but she did hear her tenant in the basement apartment, Mrs. Harmon, doing her laundry.
She shouted down the stairwell, “Hi, Mrs. Harmon.”
The response was muffled, so she went down a few steps. “Didn’t hear you?”
Mrs. Harmon peeked around the corner of the laundry cubicle. “Oh, hello there. I said I’m going to run out for an errand, but I’ll be back before this load is done in case you need to use the washer.”
Olivia waved her concern away. “Nope. Laundry’s not on my agenda today, sad to say. Take your time.”
It was their one joke, Olivia’s supposed passion for laundry days. Olivia rarely got a laugh out of her seventy-something elegant but stern tenant.
Mrs. Harmon gave her usual perfunctory snort, then said, “Okay, Olivia, if you’re sure. I’m just running over to Xavier’s. I’ll be right back.”
Dressed as though she were attending a charity luncheon in a St. John suit, pearls and low heels, her everyday uniform, the widow put her detergent back on the shelf and headed upstairs toward Olivia and the back door.
“Xavier’s?” Olivia said running upstairs ahead of her. “I’m afraid he’s closed. It’s not on the news yet, but there’s been an, um, I guess you could call it an accident over there. He’ll be closed at least for the rest of the day.”
“What kind of accident?” Mrs. Harmon searched in her handbag for her car keys, undeterred by this news.
Olivia opened the back door for her, then stepped out into the yard to hold the screen door. “A woman was killed. Jocelyn Payne. Do you know her?”
“No. How on earth did that happen? He wasn’t getting fresh with her, was he?”
By now, almost two years into their shared use of her house, Olivia was beyond understanding Mrs. Harmon’s flights of logic. “Xavier doesn’t get fresh with anyone, if I understand what you mean by fresh.”
Mrs. Harmon rattled her purse at Olivia impatiently as she walked into the sunshine. “You know what I’m talking about. Putting his hands where they don’t belong.”
Olivia let the screen door swing shut, her face dropping in disbelief. “You don’t mean that. Xav
ier is a perfect gentleman. At least he is with me.”
Mrs. Harmon sniffed her displeasure. “Well just don’t get in a dark corner with him. You know that Latin blood.”
Where was this coming from? Mrs. Harmon wasn’t a gossip. “That’s not fair, Mrs. Harmon. Making generalizations like that. I thought you liked him.”
“I like that he’s nearby and I don’t have to go into San Francisco if I need something repaired. But I watch myself around him. I think you should, too. I have to run so I’ll be back in time for the washing machine.”
“But I told you, Xavier is closed.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “He knows better than to keep me out.”
Mrs. Harmon headed for the garage, then stopped at the junction of the back yard and driveway. “My dear,” she said, disapproval dripping from each syllable. “While I have your attention, can you imagine how distasteful it is to come out of my front door only to be greeted by those tawdry rose bushes? It’s starting to look like a horror show over there.”
Olivia could not believe she was referring to her current pride and joy, her rose garden. Inspired by the 3,000-bush strong Berkeley Rose Garden across the bay, Olivia had filled the border between the driveway and fence with as many heirloom rose bushes as would thrive in the narrow space.
Her roses were overdue for deadheading, it was true. But the bushes were in full bloom and provided a colorful panorama of yellow, pink and white against the side fence. Now that Mrs. Harmon mentioned it, she did notice two or three drooping buds tipped with brown. But it would take a magnifying glass to find them if you weren’t looking. Hardly a horror show. Yet, she gritted her teeth, put a smile on her face and turned to her tenant.
“You’re right as usual, Mrs. Harmon. I’ve been derelict. I’ll put that on my list. Bye, now.”
Then, without a goodbye, Mrs. Harmon hurried off to the garage where her eighties vintage Mercedes had the only parking space, leaving Olivia disheartened at this turn of events, the fading roses the least of her worries.