Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

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Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery) Page 6

by Dorothy Howell


  “This room was where that night nurse Allison stayed,” Genevieve said, and gestured to a closed door as we walked past.

  Did the balcony have stairs that led to the grounds? I wondered.

  “She was nothing but trouble,” Genevieve said. “She didn’t look after Miss Edith like she should. I told Miss Barbara about it.”

  Had Edith’s possible murderer gained entrance to the house through those double doors?

  “Right after Allison started working here I came by one night, just to check on things. I saw a strange car parked down the street. I knew it didn’t belong here. I keep an eye out for things like that. A lot of the other neighbors do, too,” Genevieve said.

  Could someone have climbed up without being heard or seen by a neighbor?

  “I thought, you know, that Allison had a man up here with her, and that’s whose car was parked on the street.” Genevieve shook her head in disgust. “No man was here. But she’d been drinking. I smelled it on her. That Allison was drinking when she should have been listening out for Miss Edith. Made me so mad I could hardly see straight. I told her she’d better never do that again or I’d see to it she got replaced.”

  Genevieve stopped outside the door to Edith’s bedroom and I slipped past her to the balcony doors. I grasped one of the brass knobs, then the other. Both were locked.

  “Miss Edith loved to sit out there. She loved the sunshine and the view of the gardens,” Genevieve said.

  I pressed closer to the glass doors and peered outside. The balcony was a relaxing retreat crowded with white wicker furniture, planters, and hanging baskets of flowers, ringed by a wrought iron railing. The rear lawn was enclosed with tall, mature trees and shrubs, probably as old as the home itself, strategically placed to block the views of the neighboring houses. No staircase led to the lawn.

  “I’d help her get settled out there and give her the lap desk she’d used for years,” Genevieve said. “She’d take care of her correspondence and write in her journals.”

  She stared outside as if still seeing Edith on the balcony. Her eyes misted. I decided it was best to get this errand over with.

  I moved away and Genevieve went with me. She opened the door to Edith’s bedroom and stood watch while I went inside.

  The vintage Louis Vuitton suitcase containing the cash and handgun were nowhere in sight. I crossed the room making a point to turn my head as if I were looking for Edith’s appointment book, and stepped into the dressing suite. The row of gowns encased in clear plastic garment bags hung in perfect order. I parted two of them and saw that the hidden pocket door was closed tight.

  Barbara Walker-Pierce had, apparently, returned the luggage and its contents to the secret room after I left yesterday. I figured she’d left the cash and handgun inside the suitcase; she wouldn’t have known what to do with them.

  “It’s out here,” Genevieve called.

  I walked into the bedroom and spotted her standing beside Edith’s desk.

  She held the appointment book in both hands for a moment, as if reluctant to let it go, then passed it to me.

  It was black leather with a snap closure, about the size of the journal Mrs. Walker-Pierce had shown me lying atop the Louis Vuitton luggage in the secret room. I hadn’t expected Mrs. Bagley to have an electronic device to keep track of her engagements and personal information, and was relieved that I had guessed correctly and wouldn’t have to figure out a password to retrieve the info I needed.

  We left the room. Genevieve led the way downstairs to the foyer. She opened the front door.

  “I’ll be working here until after the service,” she said, then went on when she saw my raised eyebrows. “The memorial service. Out back in the garden, Miss Edith’s favorite spot. Just close friends and family. She wouldn’t have wanted something big and showy.”

  I nodded because I really didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I’ll be here for a while after that,” Genevieve said. “If you need anything more.”

  Surely, she wondered why I wanted her employer’s appointment book—and why Mrs. Walker-Pierce had agreed to let me take it—but didn’t ask. I figured that even if she suspected the worst, she probably wouldn’t want to know.

  “I appreciate your help,” I said.

  We stepped out onto the porch. For a moment, I thought she might ask me something, but instead she nodded toward the English Tutor mansion two doors down and across the street. The man I’d seen polishing a classic car when I’d driven up was still there. Now the hood was open, a Mercedes E-Class sat at the curb, and another man was standing next to him while he pointed at the engine.

  “Disgusting,” Genevieve grumbled.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “No. I don’t know him,” she said. “But Miss Edith knew his grandfather. They were neighbors for years. A good man. He passed and left everything to that grandson of his—Russell, I think his name is—and he’s selling off anything he can wring a dime out of, as if it were nothing important. No respect.”

  This wasn’t the first time I’d heard this kind of story. Back home in KCK my uncles sold used cars, but they loved, adored, and borderline worshipped collector cars. They’d dedicated a large portion of their dealership’s shop to restoring them. More than once they’d picked up a great deal from a seller who’d inherited a classic but didn’t want it, or appreciate it.

  I said good-bye to Genevieve and headed down the walk. Despite the beautiful Southern California day, I couldn’t shake off the vague feeling of despair that had hit me while inside the Bagley house.

  My uncles popped into my head. They’d been great to me, giving me a job at their used car lot, teaching me more than the average car buff ever wanted to know, trying as best they could to make up for their sister’s—my mom—shortcomings. I missed the two of them.

  I knew they’d drool over the classic Chevy the ungrateful grandson two doors down and across the street was trying to sell. Maybe if the buyer who was looking at it now wasn’t interested, my uncles would want it.

  My thoughts sank into the homesick spot in my brain that was both comforting and upsetting, and I imagined Beau and Buster coming out to see the car, visiting me, the three of us talking about old times. They’d both been understanding when I’d left for California with Brittany, but they’d been worried about me staying out here alone. I’d told them that I was managing, but I was sure they’d like to see it for themselves.

  I slid Edith’s appointment book into my tote, crossed the street and walked down the block. The guy selling the car—Russell, the ungrateful grandson, according to Genevieve—was younger than I’d guessed from a distance, maybe mid-thirties. He had on True Religion jeans and a Burberry half-zip pullover---I’d seen them in Neiman Marcus last week with Bailey when she’d bought similar items for a client—and ECCO running shoes just like a pair I’d purchased for one of my off-listers, for a look that went for around eight hundred bucks.

  The guy standing beside him staring into the engine compartment was younger, maybe just a couple of years older than me. He, apparently, hadn’t purchased any new clothes since graduating high school because his jacket sleeves were a little too short and his jeans were faded from too many cycles through the washer.

  I’d learned quickly that outward appearance often meant nothing in Los Angeles—Zella Mason with her hideous fashions and her squirreled-away millions being a prime example—so I knew this guy must have money, despite his outdated attire. The Mercedes parked at the curb was his, obviously, priced at around seventy grand. I knew, too, that he really wanted the Chevelle. He was nodding and bouncing around, asking questions but not really listening to the answers.

  My uncles Beau and Buster loved a customer like him.

  I stood by for a couple of seconds until both men realized I was there.

  “Hi,” I said. “I just was visiting down the block and saw your car. Is it for sale?”

  “I’m Russell,” the ungrateful grandson said
. “And you bet it is.”

  He held out his hand. I introduced myself and we shook. He held on a little too long and gazed into my eyes as if I were his dinner appetizer.

  “No. No, it’s not,” the other guy insisted. “I was here first. I’ve got dibs.”

  “Easy, Kelvin, my man,” Russell said and gave me a sly wink. “Nothing wrong with a gal who appreciates a classic car.”

  “You can’t have it,” Kelvin said to me. “You can’t have it unless I decide I don’t want it.”

  Russell ignored him and cupped my elbow. “Let me show you the car.”

  I eased out of his grasp and circled the car with him.

  “What I’ve got here is a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454—the SS stands for Super Sport,” he said. “And she’s a beauty.”

  The car was gorgeous, all right. Midnight blue with white stripes on the hood, and Super Sport wheels with raised letter tires.

  “It’s undergone a frame-off restoration,” Russell went on. “Matching numbers. All original. Fully restored.”

  I leaned in the window and checked out the gauges, the black interior, and the four-speed shifter.

  “It’s got the SS 454 LS7 engine. Turns out 460 horses. Rare. Very rare,” he told me. “And check out the factory air conditioning and the 8-track tape player. Chevrolet didn’t make too many of these babies.”

  I walked around to the engine compartment and peered inside. A little grin tugged at my lips. Oh, yeah, my uncles would love to be here right now.

  “It breaks my heart,” Russell said, and touched his chest, “but I’m willing to part with this little beauty for two hundred grand—and that’s a bargain.”

  Kelvin wiggled between us.

  “I’ll take it for two hundred,” he said. “I’ll take it. Now. Right now. I’ve got cash. Here. With me. Just like you said.”

  “Not so fast,” Russell said, backing away. “If there’s another offer—”

  “No! I was here first! I called you! I made an appointment! I saw it first!” Kelvin face turned redder as his voice grew louder. “You can’t take another offer after I’ve already said I want it!”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Another man shouldered into our group.

  My breath caught.

  It was Dan Kincaid.

  Chapter 7

  “I said I wanted the car. I saw it first,” Kelvin said, then pointed to me. “And now she’s trying to take it away from me.”

  He sounded like a spoiled child. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he stomped his feet or threw himself down on the ground, screaming until he got his way.

  “I’ll handle this, Kelvin,” Dan said.

  He spoken with the calm reassurance of a man who knew he could—and would—do anything necessary to make things right. Yet there was no threat in his tone, just confidence. It rolled off of him. It swept over me, through me, in hot waves.

  Wow.

  “Wait by the car,” Dan said.

  Kelvin left without a word.

  I hadn’t seen Dan when I’d walked up. He’d probably been standing a discreet distance away, keeping an eye on Kelvin. That meant Kelvin was a client—probably a newly rich one—who needed backup if, in fact, he had two hundred grand in cash with him, as he’d told Russell.

  Russell glanced at Dan and me, then took a step back. From his expression I was sure he knew why Dan was there and had better sense than to tangle with him.

  “I’ll leave you two to sort this out,” Russell said, and walked away.

  Dan turned his gaze on me.

  Blue eyes. Deep blue. Piercing blue. Set in a face not quite handsome enough to grace the cover of GQ, yet so compelling it was hard to look away.

  No wonder Meredith had told me not to look directly into his eyes.

  I gave myself a mental shake.

  “I’m Hollis Bran—”

  “I know who you are,” Dan told me.

  I didn’t know whether to be flattered—or worried.

  He didn’t introduce himself. I suppose he figured I knew who he was.

  I wasn’t sure whether that was arrogance on his part, or an assumption that I was wired-in and knew everyone who worked at Fisher Joyce.

  I chose to take it as a compliment.

  “Are you interested in the car?” Dan asked.

  I shook my head. “I was in the neighborhood, thought it was cool, and wanted to take a closer look.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Since Dan knew who I was, he also knew what I did for the company.

  “Consulting with a client,” I said. “She has a family wedding coming up and needs a gift for the newlyweds.”

  Dan turned his attention across the street, two doors down, to the BMW I was driving today that was still parked in Edith Bagley’s driveway.

  I decided this was a good time to change the subject.

  “Who’s this guy you’re babysitting?” I asked.

  The tiniest grin tugged at one corner of his mouth.

  Oh, wow.

  I’d have to tell Meredith to never look into his smile, either.

  “Kelvin Douglas,” Dan said. “He’s a billionaire computer guy who’s decided he wants to get into classic cars.”

  I looked at Kelvin standing by his Mercedes, mesmerized by his cell phone, pecking away at a speed that rivaled a first-place finisher taking the checkered flag at Daytona.

  I did a mental tug-of-war for a minute, then asked Dan, “Do you like the guy?”

  He shrugged. “He’s a client.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But do you like him?”

  Dan tilted his head, seeming to understand that there was something more behind my question, but didn’t ask. His silence compelled me to talk.

  “Because if you don’t like him, then I say hand over the cash I’m guessing you put in a trunk of his car, and get on with your day,” I said. “But if you like the guy and want to do him a favor, I could make you his new best friend.”

  Dan drew back a little and shifted his weight. I’d surprised him, yet he didn’t ask anything, just looked at me waiting—expecting—me to explain.

  I didn’t.

  A very long minute dragged by with both of us looking at each other.

  Dan broke first.

  “How?” he asked.

  “This isn’t an SS 454 like Russell claims. It’s a clone,” I said, and nodded toward the car.

  A deep frown settled over Dan’s face.

  “It isn’t even a Chevelle,” I said. “It’s a Malibu made to look like a Chevelle. Check out the gauges. The SS gauges are round. These are horizontal, like the Malibu. The SS had a blacked out grill. This one is chrome, again, like the Malibu.”

  Dan looked at the car, then back at me again.

  “Take a look at the harmonic balancer,” I said.

  His brows drew together. Now he wasn’t simply lost, he was either incredulous or impressed. I didn’t know which.

  “The harmonic balancer is on the front of the engine where the pulleys bolt to the engine’s crankshaft,” I explained. “The 454’s is different. It has a cutout. This car’s engine is more likely a 396.”

  “So this car is a fake?” Dan asked.

  “A clone,” I said again. “Somebody took a Malibu and dressed it up like a Chevelle SS 454. It’s worth maybe twenty-five, thirty grand.”

  Dan cut his gaze to Russell standing beside his porch, then looked at me again.

  “You’re sure about this?” he asked.

  “I can go on,” I offered. “Would you like to hear about matching numbers?”

  Dan opened his mouth, then closed it. “No,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure if that meant he believed me or was just tired of hearing about classic car restoration.

  “Look,” I said, “take the car to a reputable mechanic, have it looked over. Or tell Mr. Billionaire Computer Nerd to Google it. But I’m telling you, either way you’ll be wasting your time.”

 
Dan spun around and headed toward Russell. I guess that meant he believed me—or at least intended to check out what I’d said.

  I decided this was a good time to leave. When I got into my Beemer and drove past a few minutes later, Dan was hustling Kelvin into his Mercedes and Russell was nowhere to be seen.

  I allowed myself a little smile, made a mental note to share this story with my uncles the next time I called, and got back to business.

  Now with Edith’s appointment book tucked inside my tote, I was amped up and ready to find out what info it held. But first, I had to take care of the business I was being paid to do.

  I drove back to Fisher Joyce. The valet who popped out of the booth was a guy named Trent. He was about my age, good looking, and working to pay for college.

  “Back already?” he asked, as he opened the door for me.

  “It’s a fashion emergency,” I said, as I climbed out and grabbed my purchases from the back.

  “You got it rough, girl,” he said, grinning and shaking his head.

  I hurried to the shipping department, wrapped Zella Mason’s blouse as per company policy, handled the required paperwork, then zipped Carlotta Cain’s clearance-priced gown into a gray and dark blue garment bag emblazoned with the Fisher Joyce logo. While I waited in line to hand off Zella’s package to the shipping guy, I checked my phone and was glad to see that Louise hadn’t sent me anything new to buy for one of my off-listers—so far, anyway. Orders came in at all hours of the day and night.

  I hoofed it toward the valet booth. Three men wearing thousand-dollar suits and holding briefcases walked up, talking among themselves. Lawyers, no doubt.

  Trent gave me a look and I nodded my understanding. He had to get a vehicle for these guys first.

  I knew my place on the company totem pole.

  While I waited, I pulled Edith’s appointment book out of my tote and saw that I’d gotten lucky—it also contained her address book. I glanced over the names, then flipped to her calendar. Meetings, luncheons, dinners, medical and business appointments were detailed in Edith’s elegant, old school handwriting.

  Despite what Genevieve had said about Edith not feeling up to doing much, she’d been busy the week before her death. She’d had appointments with an attorney, an accountant, and a financial planner.

 

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