by Diana Orgain
Yolanda flashed me her best, most-charming smile. “Well…”
“Well, what! Why didn’t you tell me?
“Because I knew you wouldn’t want to stop. And I have unfinished business with that woman!”
“I’m not going in there, just to witness another catfight,” I said. Beepo let out a mean howl at the word cat.“See, even Beepo agrees, don’t ya, boy?”
“Oh, stop,” Yolanda straightened her fuchsia skirt and checked her reflection in the store window. “You two are both overreacting. Look. I’d really like to buy the business from Fran, and I offered her a fair price yesterday. It’s just that she doesn’t realize yet how generous I’m being. Now that she’s had a chance to sleep on it, I think she’ll be much more reasonable.” She placed a hand on the doorknob. “You don’t even have to be involved. You can peruse the merchandise. Don’t you need a fashionable sunhat for Mexico?”
I glanced at an outrageous hat in the center display of the arched front bay window. It featured a rooster tail feather and had a red brim that resembled a gobble.
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that,” I said.
Yolanda tsked, shaking her head at what she considered my obvious bad taste. She pranced over to the parking meter in front of the store and wrapped Beepo’s leash around it. He gave a howl of disagreement. “Hush now. You know I can’t take you in, Beep. You remember the last time?”
I knew from experience that Beepo was not of fan of Yolanda’s bright yellow-and-orange faux chicken, so-called designer purses.
Yolanda pushed open the door and an overhead bell chimed as we stepped into the shop.
The store featured cathedral-style ceilings, wide wood-planked floors, and the walls boasted a fresh coat of paint in robin’s-egg blue. Along the far wall was a mind-boggling display of mounted birds.
“Helllloooo?” Yolanda singsonged.
An eerie silence greeted us.
The south side of the shop was covered with wraps of all sizes, the unifying theme was that they all appeared to be made of chicken feathers.
“Oh my God, is this even legal?” I asked.
Yolanda looked alarmed. “What do you mean?
I pointed at a large black-and-white stole. “How many chickens had to die to make that wrap?”
“No, no, no,” Yolanda squealed. “No chickens died! They molt!” Yolanda’s hand fluttered to her heart as if my accusation was about to give her a cardiac arrest. “Anyway, these are synthetic! Do you think we would kill a chicken for fashion?”
I hid my smile. “I think these feathers are ostrich anyway.”
Yolanda’s expression became even more severe. “They are not!”
“What about those chickens?” I motioned to the far wall of mounts.
Yolanda gripped my wrist. “Hush now. Some people like that sort of thing!”
I stared up at the marble eyes of the taxidermy birds and said, “I feel like we’re being watched.”
Yolanda gave my wrist a firm shake. “I can see bringing you here was a mistake. You’re much more of a liability than I’d imagined.” She leaned in close to me and whispered, “Fran’s probably in the back. I don’t want her to overhear you dissing the merchandise.”
“Why not? It may help your negotiating position. Let her know not everybody is crazy about chickens.”
How could this stuff be popular?
I’m not totally alone on this one, right?
Was there an entire chicken fashion movement taking the country by storm and I was the only one not hip to it? It wouldn’t be the first time I was totally out of the loop. After all, there had to be enough of a clientele to keep a high-end store like this one in the black.
“Is that a pot holder?” I pointed to a table that housed various chicken-theme items from pot holders to salt and pepper shakers. “Where are your handbags?”
Yolanda stiffened.
A thought suddenly struck me. “She’s not carrying your bags?” I whispered. Yolanda sniffed the air as if looking for a reason not to answer me. “Why isn’t she carrying your bags? They’re perfect for this place.”
Yolanda nodded. “Thank you, Maggie. I know you love my designs. You’re a true friend.”
Love her designs?
That was a bit of stretch, but, still, I couldn’t imagine a store more apropos than this to feature them.
Yolanda clacked over to the back of the store, where a creamy canary-yellow curtain hung, presumably separating the front of the store from the back. Yolanda stood gingerly in front of the curtain and cleared her throat. “Umm … Fran? Hello?”
When no answer came, Yolanda glanced nervously at me and made a face. “I can’t imagine where she could be. Do you think she stepped out to grab a cup of coffee or something and forgot to lock the door?”
“Uh … Why don’t you try her cell phone?” I asked. I realized the store lights were off. It didn’t mean anything, of course, the store was still well lit from the sunshine pouring through the bay window. But didn’t most store owners put the lights on anyway? Wasn’t that the first thing they did when opening up the shop?
A feeling of unease began to snake through my belly.
And what kind of store owner bopped out to get a cup of coffee and left the store unlocked?
Perhaps an assistant has the morning shift? An assistant who forgot to lock the shop?
“Maybe she’s in the back and she just hasn’t heard us,” I ventured.
Yolanda nodded and called loudly, “Yoo-hoo, Fran!” When no response came, Yolanda said, “Maybe we should just go.”
But now I was like a dog with a bone, unable to let go. “Call her on her cell phone.” I insisted. After all, if someone had found the bar unlocked and unattended Rachel would definitely want to know. “If she’s not in the neighborhood, she can tell us how to lock up—”
“Are you kidding?” Yolanda’s hand fluttered to her chest and fiddled nervously with her necklace chain. “If anything is missing or disrupted or anything she’ll blame me. The woman is a nightmare.”
“Then why are we here?”
Yolanda looked at me like I was idiot. “Because I want to buy the place.” She flung her arms out wide, as if to encompass the store. “Look at it. It’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”
“Except that it’s missing your designer bags.”
“Right,” Yolanda said. “I said beautiful, not perfect.”
I laughed and headed toward the curtain.
“Where are you going?” Yolanda demanded, her voice suddenly shrill.
“I’m going to see if she’s in the back.”
Yolanda blocked my path “No, don’t go back there. Let’s just go. I told you if anything is missing or—”
“Come on, Yo. What if she fell off a ladder and hit her head or something. I can’t leave without—“
“Please don’t, Maggie. I got a bad feeling,” Yolanda whispered.
I looked straight into her eyes. “I got the same bad feeling.”
Yolanda swallowed hard and nodded.
“I can’t leave without checking the back,” I said.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “I know. I know how you are, Maggie, and that’s why I love you.”
Together Yolanda and I both pushed open the yellow curtain, part of me feeling ridiculous, as if I was getting ready to expose the Wizard of Oz, the other part of me trying fiercely to ignore the anxiety in my chest.
The curtain opened up to a narrow passageway. There were three doors. One on the right and two on the left.
“Fran?” Yolanda called out.
The first doorway on the right was open, revealing a small office, the size of a large closet. There were several file cabinets and tidy little desk. Yolanda let out a noisy exhale of breath.
“Oh, thank God! I thought for sure we were going to find her shot dead at her desk!” Yolanda said.
Yes, the same awful thought had also occurred to me.
“What else is back h
ere?” I asked.
Yolanda shrugged. “I’ve never been back here. A bathroom, I suppose, and…”
I turned down the hallway and tried the knob to the first door on the left. It turned and opened to an empty bathroom. Yolanda let out another exaggerated sigh of relief.
“Would you stop with the deep breathing, you’re driving me nuts!” I said.
Yolanda flashed me her most offended expression, one I was getting quite familiar with. “Well, you’re the one insisting on all this poking around. I told you we should just leave.”
I ignored her and the warning system vibrating throughout my entire body and tried the last door on the left. It opened to small stockroom. It was overcrowded with boxes and a strange metallic smell filled the room …
The air felt different in this room, charged with electricity or malice or … “Uh … I don’t like this,” I said.
Yolanda gripped my arm, digging her nails into my flesh. “What? What?” She shrieked. “You don’t like what?”
I shook free of her arm and crept farther into the room. Behind a large cardboard box I spied some thick, red goo on the floor. “That,” I said, pointing.
Yolanda’s expression froze, but she began to slowly back out of the room. “Is that paint?” she asked feebly.
Although I wanted to slink right out of the room alongside Yolanda, I forced myself forward, leaning my whole upper body farther into the room, so I could peek around the large cardboard box.
The metallic smell was stronger now and an involuntary gasp escaped me as I saw Fran lying still on the floor in a pool of blood.
Chapter Four
“Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness, Fran! Fran!” Yolanda screamed. She’d somehow managed to wiggle herself right up to my ear and howled like a lunatic. “Fran! Is she okay? Is she going to be okay, Maggie?”
“Don’t touch anything. Don’t touch anything!” I repeated, sounding just as hysterical as Yolanda.
Yolanda threw her hands in the air and shouted, “I’m not touching anything!”
We fled the storage room as if being chased. I pushed back the yellow curtain that separated the back room from the front and we returned to the relative safety of the store. Outside the large front window, Beepo spotted us and strained at his leash in an attempt to get to Yolanda. He began to bark and howl wildly.
“We have to call Brad!” I said. “He’ll know what to do.”
Yolanda nodded. “Call him. No use calling 9-1-1, they can’t do anything for Fran now.” She suddenly turned white and grabbed the counter.
“You’re not going to pass out, are you?” I asked.
Yolanda and I had already been through the trauma of finding another body and, oddly, that time, I was the one who had a panic attack. Now, it seemed the shoe was on the other foot.
Why is Yolanda having such an emotional response?
“So much blood…” Yolanda mumbled.
Beepo barked loudly and jumped up and down trying to free himself from the parking meter.
“Yeah,” I soothed. “It’s awful. Why don’t you go outside and keep Beepo company?”
Yolanda took a deep breath. “I’m fine. Go ahead and call Brad.” I pulled my cell phone out of my hip pocket as Yolanda carried on. “What do you think happened? Cousin Ronnie get fed up with her using his logo or what? He walks in here and shoots her?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Why do you say that? Was she shot?”
Yolanda’s eyes widened in alarm. “I don’t know! I figured she was shot. Why else would there be all the blood?” She fanned her face.
A chill crept up my spine as I thought of everyone at the bar the night before. Fran had not been well liked. Almost everyone at the table had expressed some animus toward Fran. Yolanda certainly had motive. Of course, so did the woman with the Verdant Vines baseball cap. She’d been extremely jealous of Fran. I couldn’t imagine Hendrick was too fond of Fran, either.
Or could Fran have killed herself? Or perhaps something all together different, a robbery gone bad?
While I cataloged my thoughts, Beepo continued to raise a ruckus outside.
“The poor dear,” Yolanda said. “You call. I’ll see to Beep.” She skirted out the front door to join Beepo.
I dialed Brad.
He picked up on the first ring, his baritone voice filled the line. My knees felt weak at the sound of his voice and my brain turned to mush. An image of his sexy square jaw and electric blue eyes clouded my vision and I blushed, even though I knew he couldn’t see me.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
What an idiot! Maggie, focus! This is no time to be thinking about your complicated love life.
“I shouldn’t have come inside,” I stuttered into the phone.
“Maggie?” Brad’s voice sounded alarmed. “Where are you? What’s happened? Are you okay?”
“I let Yolanda talk me into stopping at Chic Chickie … Fran, the owner, she’s dead.”
“Slow down. Where are you?”
“Chic Chickie,” I repeated.
“Where’s that?”
“Oh! Let me see.” I fumbled around the front counter and discovered a handful of frequent-shopper cards, the kind that gets a stamp every time a customer purchases an item. The address was printed by the logo, which I gave to Brad.
“I’m on my way. Stay put and don’t touch anything.”
“I know.”
We hung up and I suddenly realized I’d just rummaged around the counter, touching everything in sight. Oh, well, the counter probably wasn’t part the crime scene, was it?
I made a mental note to tell Brad when he arrived, just in case. Then, in order not to sully anything further, I decided it would be better to wait outside. I joined Yolanda and Beepo on the curb. Yolanda had released Beepo from the parking meter and was cradling him in her arms. He growled at me as if I was the source of Yolanda’s stress.
She stroked his triangle ears. “I should have listened to Beepo. I knew he didn’t like that store, but I thought he was being silly.”
I shook off the impulse to tell Yolanda he was just a dog, because I knew she wouldn’t listen to reason.
“How well did you know Fran?” I asked.
“Not that well,” Yolanda confessed. “We had a couple of run-ins actually. The last time I saw her was at The Show. She made a huge splash with her hats and everyone, it seems, went from my booth to hers or vice versa.”
The Show—Las Vegas was the largest accessory show in the West. Yolanda had been over the moon to be invited to participate in it. But if her purses and Fran’s hats were the talk of the show, I made a silent promise to myself to make sure I never got dragged to it.
“I thought combining our businesses would be a great idea,” Yolanda said. “But Fran didn’t see it that way.”
“What way did she see it?”
Yolanda shrugged.
There was more to the story, but I’d have to pry later because a woman, holding a steaming paper cup, rounded the corner. When she spotted us, she hurried over. “Are you waiting for the store to open? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting! I thought Fran was scheduled.”
“Do you work here?” I asked.
“Yes,” the woman said, pulling a key from her pocket.
Yolanda scurried over to block the door. “No. Don’t go in there.”
Beepo yapped at the woman and she looked offended. “Excuse me?” she demanded.
Brad’s police cruiser appeared down the street. The woman looked momentarily confused, then gasped. Her hand flew to touch the base of her throat, in a classic self-protection gesture. “Oh, my! Has something happened?” She stared at the front window of the shop. “A break-in?”
When neither Yolanda nor I answered, the woman’s eyes grew wide and she asked. “Fran’s not hurt, is she? Was she here during the hold-up?”
Brad’s vehicle pulled up to the curb and my shoulders immediately relaxed.
When the car door swung open,
Beepo barked happily in greeting. As Brad exited the car and I glimpsed his tall, confident posture, I had to fight the urge to rush into his arms.
Not that he looked ready to receive me.
His expression was sober as he took in Yolanda, the woman, and myself. “Ladies, I’m going to ask you to wait outside here for my partner, Officer Ellington, who should be along in just a few moments. He’ll take your statements.”
The woman nearly jumped out of her skin. “Statement? What statement. For God’s sake, someone tell me what’s happened.”
Brad frowned at her.
“She’s only just arrived,” I said. “She works here.”
“She was supposed to open the store,” Yolanda piped in.
“No, I wasn’t!” the woman said. “I wasn’t supposed to open. I wasn’t even on the schedule! It was Fran who was opening the store. I only came by to—”
“Sorry,” Yolanda said. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
Brad held up a hand to stop them from bickering; at the same time, Beepo barked at the woman. The woman scowled at Beepo, and Beepo let out a frightful growl.
The woman pointed a finger at him. “Wait a minute! Are you the little dog who ruined our inventory the other day?”
Brad stepped between Yolanda and the woman. “Ladies, ladies. I’m going to have to ask you to stop right here.”
Another police cruiser came into view and Brad’s face revealed the relief he felt at his backup arriving. At the very least, he wouldn’t be required to referee a catfight.
“Ah, Officer Ellington is here,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be able to sort the whole thing out.”
Officer Ellington stepped out of his car and nodded a greeting toward Brad. He quickly assessed the scene, and I swear I felt a breeze of cold air when his gaze landed on me. Ever since the night he’d escorted me into an interrogation room, I’ve never gotten a warm-and-fuzzy vibe from Ellington.
Brad mumbled a bunch of codes to Ellington, who grunted an “Alright,” in response. The radio on Ellington’s shoulder beeped and then a rapid series of squawks followed.
“Crime scene team’s been dispatched,” Ellington said. “They’ll be here momentarily.”