by Cassie Page
She turned to say good morning, noting that even at this early hour, just past eight-thirty, Mrs. Harmon was dressed for the day in an elegant coal gray cashmere pants suit that set off her trim figure, stunning silver hair and crystal earrings. The perfect outfit for a quick run to the recycling cans at the end of the driveway, which was where she seemed to be headed. She held Xavier’s plant at arms length accompanied by a look of distaste that made Olivia think she had not slept well.
“Mrs. Harmon, I see you got your present. Do you want a little water for the jade tree?”
“I certainly do not,” the woman said angrily, thrusting the plant at Olivia for emphasis. “I want this thing out of my house. Let the recyclers have it.”
Olivia turned off the water and walked over to her tenant. “You mean you’re tossing it out? But why?”
Of course Olivia could put two and two together. Mrs. Harmon’s grudge against Xavier. This was her way of punishing him.
Indignant, Mrs. Harmon snapped, “It’s not your affair, Olivia. I can’t stand the sight of it.”
Olivia wanted to say, it’s not the plant’s fault, but instead made an offer. “Would you mind if I took it? I’ll give it to the convalescent hospital. I’m going that way tomorrow. I’m sure they’d like to have it.”
Mrs. Harmon set it on the ground. “Take it. Just don’t let me see it again.”
With that, she turned abruptly and went back into her apartment.
Olivia picked up the plant, jogged to the back door and brought it into her office. The plant was quite large, part of its appeal Olivia thought, but there really was no place to put it in the small space, already crammed with bolts of fabric and bric-a-brac for the shop. Inspiration hit and she grabbed a restaurant flyer from her recycling pile and went into the showroom, dropping the flyer on a pietra dura table near the front windows and setting the plant on it. She’d find a better spot for it when she got back, but right now, Darling Boulevard was calling.
It was close to nine and the town’s residents had started to spill onto the main thoroughfare, clogging Darling Boulevard with commuters heading for Highway 101 and their offices in San Francisco, moms ferrying kids to school in their SUVs, and shoppers looking to while away idle hours. Olivia navigated her truck slowly through the traffic until she came to the bank. She pulled into the only available parking space that would allow her fifteen minutes to complete her errand.
Inside the money store, as Tuesday called banks, she waited on line to make a deposit. She looked for her friend, Sonia Gutierrez, formerly head of the loan department and recently promoted to bank manager. Sonia was the real reason for her trip. Olivia needed a laugh this morning and some level-headed advice. In both departments, Sonia was her girl.
Usually Sonia was visible through the perpetually open door of her office or behind the teller cages checking on things. Paranoia began to creep into her veins as she started to imagine Sonia, after hearing the scandal about Olivia, hiding out in one of the conference rooms to avoid her.
No, she told herself, Sonia wouldn’t do that, but after the e-mail from Matt and her brief, angry call to his lawyer, she wasn’t sure. The line moved quickly and she deposited her few checks, payment for items she had shipped to out of state customers, people too wary of modern technology to use credit cards or PayPal. She accepted the receipt the teller slipped under the slot below the window and turned to go, walking into one of her neighbors. Literally. The two women bumped into each other while searching in their purses, heads down.
Alicia something. Olivia pressured her memory but couldn’t come up with the last name. What she did remember was that Alicia-without-a-last-name was particularly disapproving of Olivia. Her list of grievances included her opinion that Olivia’s aging truck was a blight on the neighborhood. “Can’t you at least keep it out of sight? You have a garage, after all.”
The memory of that exchange exploded in a flash of anger, which she quickly squelched. Not a good time for a nasty run in with a neighbor. Awful Arlo might be watching. Olivia mumbled hello. No matter how many designer purses and diamonds the woman sported, to Olivia they never made up for the hideous makeup and unruly hair that no cut or styling ever seemed to tame. But her neighbor always acted as though she had just stepped out from the pages of Vogue. Her haughty air was front and center as soon as she recognized Olivia.
“Surprised to see you out, Miss Granville. You must have a thick skin. With the publicity and all. I guess you’re not worried about being stoned by neighbors less tolerant of having a murderer in our midst than I am.”
Olivia gave Alicia a plastic smile. “Tolerant are you? Don’t worry. I’m sure it will pass.”
She hurried past the woman, deciding that from now on she was going to become a hermit to avoid any further public embarrassment. Fortunately, Paymoor’s delivered, so she wouldn’t starve. Halfway to the door she heard, “Olivia, hold on.”
The sound was music to her ears and she turned to the smiling face of Sonia, who waved her into her office.
“Sit, my friend, sit,” ordered the banker. She closed her door and adjusted her ill-fitting suit, one of many Olivia had observed over the course of their friendship. “What rotten star were you born under to get this boatload of grief dumped on you?”
Olivia relaxed while Sonia sipped on a cup of chicken broth. She guessed her friend was on one of her endless diets to lose her baby weight. Her boys were now ten and twelve.
“So you don’t believe the headlines, Sonia, or the local bloggers?”
Sonia screwed up her face. “Are you kidding me? First of all, I don’t put any stock in what that scummy Dan Arlo has to say. Do you know he has had the nerve to come in here and ask me how much money some of our customers have in their accounts?”
A nice, warm flush of satisfaction put a nasty grin on Olivia’s face. “You mean he is such a dim bulb that he thinks billionaires keep their money in a bank?”
Sonia shook her head. “Some people’s children. I wouldn’t believe him if he said rain was wet.”
The banker’s words and wicked smile were a balm to Olivia’s injured spirit, the medicine she’d come looking for.
“I know,” she agreed. “But Arlo’s the least of my worries. It’s the texts and pictures that are killing me. Where did they come from? I didn’t send the texts. And those pictures? Matt insists they were Photoshopped beyond recognition but can’t figure out how they popped up on the news. I’m wondering if there is a technology that will let someone get into your phone and send texts. You must be a whiz at all that. All the technology in a bank?”
Sonia laughed. “Are you kidding me? Not everyone in my generation is a geek. Give me a page of numbers and a pencil and I’m in seventh heaven. But technology? The Internet? It’s a word some crooks invented to make our eyes glaze over while they pick our pockets.”
Olivia howled. “You’re a gift from the gods, Sonia.”
Sonia batted her eyes with false modesty. “I try.”
“But seriously,” continued Olivia, “I have to find out who’s targeting me and why. This is trashing my relationship, my business is about to go down the tubes, and I’m tangled up with the police.” Her phone rang, but she let it go into voicemail.
Sonia folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward, speaking in earnest now.
“Olivia. This is just between the two of us and if you ever mention my name in connection with it, I’ll deny it and put hair remover in your shampoo. But we have a customer,” she put her hand to the side of her mouth and whispered conspiratorially, “who shall remain nameless,” then resumed her normal voice, “and whom I overheard speaking to a repair guy we had in here one day. He described in very explicit terms an intimate encounter he’d had with the deceased.”
Sonia kept her voice low but warmed to her story, brushing her bushy, dark hair out of her face. “The guys apparently were friends. I made sure they didn’t know I was eavesdropping. Of course, I never thought at the time that
it could be important. I will never, ever tell you who the guy is. Customer confidentiality and all that. But if you were to go online and randomly search for someone’s name like, I don’t know, say Roger Phillips, for example?”
She rolled her eyes to look at the ceiling and said in faked innocence, “To pick a totally random name. Who knows? If you were to Google such a name, you might find something interesting.”
It took Olivia a few beats, then she caught on. “Roger Phillips, huh?”
Sonia said, “That’s Phillips with two L’s.”
Olivia had her phone out before she’d left Sonia’s office and by the time she reached her truck, she’d found a website for R. Phillips & Co., Carpentry, located on one of the back streets behind Darling Boulevard. The low rent end, if such a thing existed in her town.
“No,” she thought. “It’s too much of a cliché. The lady of the house entertaining the carpenter?” Though Olivia had to admit, from the photo he had posted wearing his R. Phillips & Co. tee shirt, snug jeans and carpenters’ belt slung low around his narrow hips, he was one nice piece of eye candy.
Backing out of her parking space, she told her phone to call Tuesday. It went into voicemail, so she left a message. “Where are you girlfriend? We have some hammering and nailing to do.”
Chapter Fifteen: Lemons and Lemonade
“Marguerite, let me in or I’ll tell everybody in northern California that you beat your help.”
Olivia shouted her threat into the foyer as soon as the maid answered the door. She’d shown up unannounced after hearing the voicemail Marguerite Fredericks left while she was talking to Sonia.
The maid tried unsuccessfully to shut the door on her, but Olivia wedged herself over the threshold and called out, “I know you’re here Marguerite. It’s your yoga day.”
Marguerite came waltzing out of one of her many rooms into the ruckus between Olivia and the maid who was trying to shove her back outside. Marguerite literally waltzed down the hallway, apparently caught in the midst of alterations to a turquoise chiffon ball gown that set off her eyes and lush, dark hair. A seamstress with a measuring tape and mouthful of pins came running after her. Olivia assumed the frock was for the engagement party. Without even a hello, Marguerite dismissed the threat with a wave of her manicured and be-ringed hand.
“I slap my maids? Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Olivia. Everyone in town knows I’m mean as a junkyard dog. Is that all you’ve got?”
Marguerite signaled the maid to stand down, a woman Olivia hadn’t seen before. The only member of Marguerite’s household staff who seemed to have lasted more than a month was her gardener, who completely ignored his employer’s threats.
“I know, I know. I’m fired again,” he’d said once when Olivia was in earshot working on the pool house. “What, you’re going to prune a thousand rosebushes yourself? Leave me alone so I can get back to work.”
The maid stood guard, as if to defend her employer from the crazy woman glaring red-faced at her. “Seriously, Marguerite. You don’t think I killed that woman, do you?”
Marguerite didn’t seem the least perturbed by Olivia’s visit. “Oh, all right. Come in as long as you’re here.”
Marguerite nodded to the maid. “It’s okay, Anya,” and the woman closed the door. Marguerite crossed the hall and Olivia double-stepped to catch up with her. She stopped at a heavy oak door. “Wait in there. I’ll just be a minute.”
Olivia entered a library typical of English manor houses with walls lined floor to ceiling with books.
Marguerite returned quickly in a sleek aviator jumpsuit and over the thigh boots, an ensemble Olivia had seen in the window of Neiman’s the last time she was in San Francisco. Olivia stood without thinking, as though Marguerite were royalty. Her hostess took the wing chair with an expanse of first editions behind her that would make the curator of the New York Public Library envious. Olivia wondered if the woman ever made a move that did not scream power.
“Coffee, Olivia?” Without waiting for an answer, Marguerite called out, “Anya? Coffee please? For two? And make it hot this time if it’s not too much trouble.”
Olivia’s winced at the sarcasm, especially to a new employee. These days berating the staff could get you on the front pages of the tabloids, if not in court tangled up in a harassment lawsuit. Marguerite saw her look of surprise and all of a sudden they were talking about her hired help.
“Olivia, Anya’s a keeper. She’s from Germany or Bavaria or someplace and cracks the whip. Told me I made too many crumbs yesterday morning when she cleared away the breakfast dishes. I doubled over laughing. But you know, this morning I was very careful when I nibbled on my toast.”
Olivia nodded. “That’s why you like Yves. The gardener. He doesn’t take you seriously.”
Marguerite drew her brows together. “Oh he takes me seriously, all right. But he’s French. He doesn’t kowtow. And they both know how I like things done. Fortunately for me, they are worse perfectionists than even I am. That’s called job security. Plus, they make me laugh at myself. And we can all use a dose of that, can’t we?”
Which was not the way Olivia felt at the moment. Able to laugh at herself. “Today I feel like I’ll never laugh again. But answer me; are you seriously going to take me off the party crew? Charles said it was up to you. Do you really believe I killed that woman?”
Olivia observed how far their relationship had come if she could speak so openly to her client. Olivia had saved Marguerite’s bacon a while back by preventing her from making a bad investment, but before that she had walked on eggs around Marguerite Fredericks. Like most people did. The woman had a reputation for being formidable and those outside her hallowed circle turned themselves inside out to avoid her wrath. She and her husband had each acquired wealth through their own businesses and together they were a juggernaut in the financial community.
Marguerite looked askance and said, “Do I think you killed her? Of course I don’t. Not after seeing those photographs. Before, well I have to say, Art Payne was putting up a pretty good argument.”
“Marguerite! What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“Olivia, you have to be very careful of that man.” Marguerite shot an impatient glance at the library door. “Where’s the coffee? Is that woman growing the beans? What was I saying? Oh, yes. Art. Yes, be careful. Be VERY careful. His words have a very long reach. Like into the courts. But then when I saw the pictures I knew you couldn’t have done it.”
Olivia wasn’t expecting that reaction. “Why? What did I miss in the photos?”
“Olivia, you’re like me. If you saw a picture of Matt with another woman she wouldn’t be in danger of losing her life, he would.”
Olivia had to laugh. Then she asked, “Well what do you make of the pictures?”
Marguerite had an easy answer. “Dummied up. Olivia, I run a fashion company. I know what you can do with Photoshop and a few layers. Not that I think Matt is above cheating. If the stars are aligned correctly, any man will. But I do believe a married man discriminates.”
“We’re not married,” Olivia reminded Marguerite.
“You are for purposes of my example. Matt isn’t going to stray with a tramp like Jocelyn Payne.”
“You, too? I keep hearing stories about Jocelyn and her men.”
Finally, Anya came in with the coffee and two petit fours, no seconds Olivia noted, no doubt accounting for Marguerite’s slim figure. She set the silver tray down on the English butler’s tray table and left. (Olivia guessed the table was George III, c. 1700’s. She could get $3,000 for it easily.)
Marguerite poured coffee for Olivia, but did not offer cream and sugar. Olivia accepted it black and, as her hostess did, ignored the pastry, not wanting to expose her sweet tooth to her highly disciplined client.
“And they are all true, Olivia. Jocelyn thought she kept her straying a secret, but people tell me things. Or they tell my gardener and he tells me. And Jocelyn made the mistake of dipping her to
e into her own pool. One of her handymen liked to talk and bragged about it all over town. At least to the other workmen. Yves heard it from the horse’s mouth so to speak.”
“You mean Roger Phillips?”
Now it was Marguerite’s turn to gasp. “Him, too? Half the ladies on my boards would like Roger to straighten their shelves, if you know what I mean. But he’s supposed to be loyal to his wife. No kidding? Jocelyn got through to him?”
Olivia put her half-empty coffee cup back on the tray. “I don’t have proof, but I heard a rumor.”
Without asking Olivia if she was finished with her coffee, Marguerite, finished with hers, called for Anya to remove the tray. Olivia was familiar with the woman’s need for order. When she completed something she moved along to the next thing.
Anya arrived instantly, as though hovering outside the door listening for Marguerite’s next order. She collected the tray silently, Marguerite saying, “Thank you, Anya. And we don’t want to be disturbed.”
As soon as the maid left the room, Marguerite said, “Well Jocelyn may have hooked a fish she couldn’t land with that one.”
“What do you mean?”
Marguerite reached into the pocket of her jumpsuit and retrieved a bejeweled lipstick case.
“Roger’s wife is a tough bird,” she said, retouching her lips perfectly without a mirror. “She keeps our handsome carpenter joined at the hip. I don’t think he’s faithful to her out of love, so much as out of fear. I’m not saying he doesn’t worship the ground she walks on. Who am I to say? But from what I’ve heard, I don’t think she’s above pulling a Lorena Bobbit on him. She created quite a scene at the home of one of my friends where he was repairing some storm damage. The wife suspected he was nailing the maid, so to speak.
“Turned out the maid preferred other maids to carpenters, so Mrs. Phillips was exposed as paranoid. But that didn’t stop her.”
Olivia thought of something. Wives were wary of Jocelyn’s effect on their husbands. Jocelyn had seductive looks and used tricks with her eyes that made women butt into conversations she might be having with their husbands at a party. She’d witnessed it herself at the charity auction where she’d first met Jocelyn. At the end of the evening she gave the socialite her card, which led to the closet project.