“Funny, Gordy never mentioned it.” Jeff grinned. “I know what my first call’s going to be when I get home.”
Sam stretched in order to get another look at the woman. “Her name explains it, I guess. She looks like one of those boxes we used to decorate and take to school on Valentine’s Day.”
Jeff leaned a little to the left in order to see what Sam was talking about.
Vanessa Valentine was wearing a tight leopard print sweater, pink with black spots, secured with buttons that caught the light and glinted pink like tiny prisms. The sweater was strategically unbuttoned to reveal a bit of cleavage, and the sleeves were pushed up to three-quarter length, exposing a thick dusting of gold-pink freckles on both arms. A mass of brassy red curls, loosely pinned up at the back of the woman’s head, brushed against her slender neck. She fumbled with a disposable lighter in a shade of pink that matched her nails, got the flint to catch on the third pass, then with hands slightly trembling, she put fire to a cigarette held tight between bright pink lips. Jeff noted that the woman’s face was lined and hard, but he suspected she’d been a real looker in her day.
“I don’t know.” Jeff straightened himself in the booth and took a drink. “Gordy could’ve done a hell of a lot worse.”
“In his nightmares, maybe.” Sam started to take a hit off his beer, then started snickering and set the bottle back down.
The Judge grinned. “She looks like fun to me.” He cleared his throat, then added seriously, “Of course, I’m heading down the campaign trail and the post-Clinton rule book for politics is to stay away from females who look like fun.”
Jeff wondered absently whether the Judge would ever remarry. His wife of thirty years had died about the same time Jeff had left the FBI.
“Have a heart, guys,” said Kyle. “She looks like she’s lost her last friend or something.”
“Kyle’s right,” Jeff said. “You never know what drives people to do what they do.”
“Or act how they act.”
“Or,” Sam said, “dress like a bottle of Pepto Bismol.”
A barmaid in tight black jeans and a top cut to reveal her midriff stopped on the fly and said, “You fellas need to drink faster. Bring you another round?”
“Sure,” Jeff said. “And while you’re at it, give Miss Valentine a cup of coffee from me.”
“It’ll only piss her off.”
“Tell her I’ll buy her another drink if she gets someone to drive her home. Otherwise, the offer of coffee stands.”
The waitress left without further comment, and Sam said, “What’d you do that for?”
Jeff shrugged. “What can I say? People like our Miss Valentine over there are perfect targets for shrewd pickers such as myself.”
“Target, my ass,” Sam said. “You’re too damned honest to take advantage of a drunk, let alone a drunk woman.”
“True enough, but I think Kyle has a point. Right now she needs a friend, and in my line of work, a little bread on the water never hurts.”
The waitress returned with the beers, and Jeff checked the bar. In front of the lady in pink was a substantial coffee mug. “Well, that’s reassuring.” He nodded toward the bar.
“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for thinkin’.” The waitress set the drinks down with a thud. “She said, ‘I’ll take half a cup of coffee and you can make the other half Kahlua.’ ”
“Doesn’t matter to me, as long as she’s got a ride.”
“She’s got a ride all right. She said to tell you she’ll be ready in a minute.”
The waitress was gone before Jeff could unclamp his jaw and spit out a protest.
His three comrades roared.
Jeff fumbled with the key, unwrapping satiny strands from the six-inch-long mauve tassel that Vanessa Valentine used as a key ring. It was an old skeleton key belonging to a charming cottage at the end of a tree-lined street in a small community about five miles down the road from the bar.
Once inside, Jeff groped for a light switch. He found an ancient push-button apparatus and punched it. The room was illuminated softly with light from a crystal-prismed chandelier.
The place glittered with perfume bottles, hundreds of them, displayed on everything from shelves to bookcases to windowsills. The initial effect was decadence, something that one either nailed or missed by a mile when showcasing such an overwhelming collection.
Jeff’s inebriated charge had a real eye for design, a talent he hadn’t expected. She had taken her cue from the dominant labels and liquids, and had filled the small room with shades of gold, garnet, and sable. It was like stepping inside a box of lavishly wrapped chocolates.
He was debating whether to deposit Miss Valentine on the couch or ask whether she would be able to make it to her bedroom on her own, when she broke free of his hold and stumbled toward the kitchen.
“. . . need another drink,” she slurred.
Jeff grabbed her arms and guided her toward the nearest chair. “Only if it’s coffee, Ma’am. And no more of those half-cup tricks.”
She scowled up at him, but didn’t protest.
He found the kitchen quick enough, and the makings for coffee even quicker. On the countertop, next to a Bunn coffeemaker (his personal favorite for sheer speed since it kept a reservoir of hot water at the ready) was a large silver tray that held a well-used electric grinder and several varieties of beans in sacks and canisters. From the looks of things, Vanessa Valentine liked coffee as much as he did. He opened a sack of Tully’s brand hazelnut beans and put a handful in the grinder.
After he got the coffee going, he returned to the living room, only to find his charge draped over the chair’s arm, snoring softly.
He couldn’t very well leave her like this, he decided, or her neck would never be the same. He located a light switch in the small hallway and set about determining which room was her bedroom.
It didn’t take long. Although there were two small bedrooms in the cottage, it was easy to tell which one Miss Valentine slept in.
The first one he came to wasn’t it. This one looked more like a quilt shop, and although it had an elaborate antique iron bed, no one could have lain upon it. Suspended just inches above the bed was a quilting frame that held a work in progress. He recognized it as the Double Wedding Ring pattern.
Around the room, every conceivable surface held bolts of fabric, plump-cushioned sewing baskets, and stacks of neatly folded finished quilts. He found a few more styles he recognized — Cup and Saucer, Rose of Sharon, Log Cabin — among several that he wasn’t familiar with. Ms. Valentine hadn’t struck him as the seamstress type.
He flipped on the light in the second bedroom, and any question he might have had about her collecting things in honor of her name was answered. Vintage valentines were tucked into French memo boards, mirror frames, and bulging albums opened for display. All the perfume bottles in this room were heart-shaped.
A long-haired feline with a snowy coat lay curled up in the center of the bed. The furniture was Louis XV Revival in superb condition and bearing an ornately carved shell motif. It had a warm patina that was difficult to achieve with new pieces. The cat raised its head and squinted green eyes at him. From its pink collar, Jeff assumed it was female.
“Scoot over, girl,” he said as the cat stretched lazily. He turned down the bed linens, then returned to the living room to fetch the lady of the house.
The coffee’s aroma teased his senses, and he wondered whether or not it would be proper of him to have a cup before he left. He’d earned it, that was for damned sure.
The question was moot. As he walked into the living room, the lady of the house emerged from the kitchen, carrying a complete silver tea service. She smiled, then wobbled slightly, as if the simple gesture had thrown off her balance. Metallic tings reverberated as the set jostled. The woman steadied herself before Jeff could offer any assistance and placed the laden tray on a butler’s table near the sofa. After pouring coffee (with only a slight amount of spillage) int
o two mugs, she handed one to Jeff and sat in a plump chair. The resident feline promptly curled up in her lap. “Forgive me for not using china cups and saucers, but I’m fully aware I’m in no condition to pull off that balancing act.”
“I . . .” Jeff wasn’t sure what to say. He’d seen people before who’d appeared to suddenly sober up, but it usually took more than a catnap. “Thank you, Miss Valentine.”
“No, thank you. Although I’m more distraught than drunk, I was certainly in no shape to drive. I appreciate your taking the time to get me safely home, Mr. — ?”
“Talbot. You’re welcome. But, please, call me Jeff.”
“If you’ll call me Val, instead of Miss Valentine.”
“Val, then.” He looked around the room. “It was worth it — bringing you home, I mean — just to see this magnificent collection.”
“So, you know antiques?”
“It’s my business, actually. I’m a picker.”
“Oh? Do you come across many perfume or scent bottles? I’m always looking for something to add to my collection.”
“Not too often, although I recently acquired some in a large group of things. I can’t promise anything, but there might have been one or two large ones, like those.” He pointed out a pair of identical containers prominently displayed on the mantel. “Weren’t they used for shop windows?”
“Yes, they were.” She sipped her coffee. “They’re called factices, which, basically, is French for ‘fake.’ They don’t really contain perfume, since they were used for store displays. I’d love to have a few more, if your prices are within reason, of course.”
“I’ll see what I can do, once I have an inventory.” He’d wrapped the glassware that was in the two houses so quickly that he couldn’t be sure exactly what he did have. “You said ‘perfume or scent.’ Are there two types, or do both terms apply to one?”
She smiled. “It’s refreshing to find a man so genuinely interested. Scent bottles usually refer to those bought empty and filled either with a woman’s specific blend or choice of fragrances. They are also called noncommercials. A commercial perfume bottle is as the name implies — sold commercially with packaging designed to go with the specific fragrance it holds.”
“That’s good to know.”
“If I may be honest, I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
Actually, he knew more than he was letting on, but he’d learned that you could pick up a lot of valuable information if you just let the other person talk. He didn’t want her to know that though, so he said, “One of the curses of being a picker is that you tend to become a jack of all trades, master of none. I’ve come across a few perfume bottles, but I’ve never gotten into the specifics. Can you recommend some reference books about them?”
“Sure.” She walked to a bookcase near the hallway and chose two volumes. “These will get you started without breaking the bank.”
Jeff jotted the titles and author’s names in his notebook. “Do you ever sell any pieces, or discover that you have duplicates and weed some out?”
“I’ve never bought a duplicate. Thankfully, I have a photographic memory for what’s in my collection. Although you can get some of the Avon collectibles for about twenty dollars, a rare bottle by someone like Rene Lalique costs sixty grand.”
Jeff’s brow raised.
Val nodded, then continued. “As for the rest, my mother would haunt me from her grave if I even considered selling.”
“Did you inherit the collection from her? Is that the reason you keep it?”
She thought a moment. “That’s how it got started. Now, every time I add a new piece, I feel like we went shopping together.”
“Collecting does get in one’s blood, doesn’t it?”
“You collect, too?”
“Probably more than I should.”
“It would be hard, I’d imagine, being a picker and a collector. How do you ever part with your treasures?”
“Depends on the collection. I collect cuff links, for instance, but only those I would actually wear. Mostly, though, I remind myself that I’ve got bills to pay.” He smiled. “If that doesn’t make you a mercenary, nothing will.”
They fell silent. Jeff drank his coffee, suddenly aware that he wasn’t sure what else to say to this stranger. Antiques brought many different kinds of people together, but it was rare for a conversation to move beyond that world.
The woman studied Jeff a moment before speaking. “The bartender said you’re the one who found Bill Rhodes yesterday. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to murder him. He was the kindest man.” She shivered, shook her head violently. “I heard it was a horrible death.”
The image of Bill lying on the floor surfaced in Jeff’s mind. “Did you know him?”
“Sure. We have a pretty close-knit community out here.”
Jeff suspected as much. Likely everybody knew everybody, especially those who frequented Coop’s Tavern. Just like those who went to church, or had kids in school, or were active in the community would know one another. There was probably even a select group who crossed the line by visiting the tavern every Saturday night, then showed up at church on Sunday morning to confess their sins. Most, though, would have stuck to one type of life or the other.
Val was silent for awhile before she spoke again. “Not too long ago, we were both at Coop’s. It was pretty quiet, and Bill was trying to tell me how handy the Internet was
for finding antiques. I don’t know anything about computers and besides, I’d much prefer to spend my time poking around flea markets and antique malls. But Coop told him he could use the computer in the office to show me what he was talking about.
“Did you know,” she continued, “there’s an International Perfume Bottle Association?”
“I don’t doubt it. There’s at least one club or organization or association for just about every collectible out there.”
“Funny, I’d collected for years and didn’t know that, until Bill accessed their website for me. Anyway, he showed me how to buy antiques on . . . what did he call it? . . . it’s a place where you bid . . .“
“ehammer? eBay?”
“eBay, that was it. I remember, because I asked him what ‘Bay’ stood for. I mean, ‘hammer’ is easy. Auction, right? Anyway, we were going to look up perfume bottles, and he sort of backed into the process by first checking some lures he was bidding on. He said he usually bid by proxy, so that he wouldn’t get carried away and pay a lot more than something was worth. After looking in on those, he went back to square one and did a search for old fishing gear reels, lures, stuff like that. As he was showing me how to get details of each item, he brought up a screen with a lure to show me that each entry had a photo and a more detailed description.
“Well,” she went on, “that day was the only time I’d ever seen Bill Rhodes lose his temper. Suddenly, he jumped up and said he had to get home to check on something. He left so fast, I wasn’t sure what to think. When I went back out front and told Coop, he agreed that Bill had seemed upset. He said that he’d tried to ask him what was wrong, but Bill acted like he hadn’t even heard him.
“After a little bit, Coop picked up the phone to make a call, paused a second, then asked me if the computer was still online. I told him I didn’t know a damn thing about that high-tech stuff. He asked me to watch the bar while he went back to the office and signed off.”
Jeff leaned forward. “How long ago was that?”
Her forehead creased. “Let’s see. Two weeks, maybe. You could check the football schedule. I remember that it was the day before the Seahawks’ big game with the Forty-Niners, because all of Coop’s suppliers were making deliveries.”
Jeff remembered seeing a game schedule taped inside the pay phone he had used at the grocery store. “Are you sure Bill didn’t say anything? Anything at all, even if it didn’t seem important at the time. It might mean something now.”
/> “I’m sure. You knew Bill. He was a talker, always had something to say. That’s why it stuck in my mind. I’d never seen him just leave like that without a word.”
Jeff thought about this bit of information while he finished his coffee, cursed himself for not thinking to check Bill’s Internet bookmarks while he had access to the man’s computer. He cringed at the thought of having to face Tanya Rhodes again on her own turf, but he might have to, if it meant finding some clue about Bill’s murder. “I understand there’s to be a service tomorrow afternoon.”
Val nodded, now more subdued. “His wife is furious about it, too, from what I gather. I’m sure her ears are burning more than usual.”
“Does she have any friends around here?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I do know this: She didn’t treat Bill right. Anyone’ll tell you that.” She was fading, words trailing off. “ ‘Course, that’s what he gets for jumping into marriage with someone he barely knew.” She looked up, asked sincerely, “Are all men like that? So damned flattered by the attention that they don’t even look past the silicone to see if there’s a heart behind it?”
“No. That’s why it’s so noticeable when one of us does.”
She stood and shuffled toward the door, effectively ending the conversation.
Jeff mulled over what Val had said about Bill’s marriage, wondered whether there had been something between her and the victim before he had met and married Tanya. Jeff rose, followed the woman to the door.
She retrieved a light pink business card from a small sterling tray atop a table stained the color of rouge and handed it to Jeff. It put him in mind of the calling cards so popular during the Victorian era. “Please call me when you know about the perfume bottles.”
“I will.” He gazed at the card’s font printed in garnet ink. Both of the capital Vs in Vanessa Valentine appeared to be three-fourths of a stylized heart.
Jeff bid his hostess good night.
As he drove back to the cabin, he pondered an evening that had been full of intriguing women. Women who had all known the victim. . . .
The Weedless Widow Page 10