Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

  Her eyes darted around—no one was near. She leaned in close to Gilly and whispered that she noticed Hawk seemed to be struck by her, and that it would not be wise for Gilly to take his overtures seriously. Hawk was known as a womanizer and had already broken several hearts, and besides she’d heard that Hawk’s father had warned him not to get involved with anyone from the outside. “Just a piece of friendly advice,” she said. The woman stalked off leaving Gilly before she could respond.

  “Now, O’Malley, what do you make of that? I have no intention of getting involved with Hawk, or any man right now. But she didn’t give me a chance to tell her. I think she may have her sights set on Mr. Jackson for herself.”

  Gilly found Kirby at the end of the bar showing Maria the unique names of some of the drinks they offered. The bar was empty and Gilly asked if she and Maria could leave when he finished his instructions. With a chuckle, he told them to get lost. He’d see them tomorrow.

  The girls dragged themselves to the car. It had been an emotional rollercoaster of a day for both of them. The girls slid into the car, both resting with their heads back.

  “Mom called,” Gilly said, her eyes closed.

  “And?”

  “Gramps is good. He’s healing nicely and the tests were normal. Now, let’s get home and hit those bunk beds. We have a big three days ahead of us. And, girlfriend, that remark of yours about commuting—you can stay with me as long as you want. Give yourself a chance to see how the job works out. Okay?”

  “Thanks, Gilly. It’s all a little overwhelming tonight.” She reached over and squeezed Gilly’s hand.

  Chapter 27

  ───

  “ACTION. ACTION. ACTION. Not! Here I sit. Friday. I miss Agatha. It’s going to be a yuk weekend.” Skip sat at his desk pondering what to do. He needed a break in his murder case. Oh, and not to forget, Cromwell handed him assignments—petty thefts. Nothing with real meat.

  He stood up, hung his arms over his partition, and looked four cubicles down at Lance Penn working the gold heist—all the action just four cubbies away. A detective was talking, Penn scribbling notes with a photographer sitting next to him. Skip turned away. Slumped down in his chair. Doodled on his desk calendar. Drained his third cup of coffee. And sat gazing at the bottom of his Seattle Times’ mug.

  His phone rang.

  “Hunter here.”

  “Are you the reporter writing about the Kitsap County John Doe?”

  “Yes. What can I do for you,” Skip asked, scribbling John Doe on his pad.

  “His name is Jack Carlson. Lived in an Edmonds condo.”

  The line went dead.

  “Hey, who are you? Your name. Your name.” Skip slammed the receiver down. Snatched it up and punched “O”. “Sally, did you just transfer a call to me?”

  “Yes. He was in a big hurry. Wouldn’t give me his name. Calls are backed up so I put him through.”

  “Did he ask for me? Say anything else?”

  “He asked for Skip Hunter. That’s it. I have to go. Wait. Voice was muffled. Maybe a disguise.” Sally hung up.

  “Jack Carlson. Jack Carlson.” Skip thumbed through the phonebook, ran his finger down the CAs and stopped. “Look at that, bucko. Jack Carlson—address and phone number.” Skip wrote the number on his pad and attacked his telephone. The connection went through and Skip tapping his pen on his calendar counted the rings.

  The phone rang five times. An automated voice answered, “I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message at the beep.” At the beep, Skip opened his mouth to speak but another voice informed him that the message box was full. The call disconnected.

  Pulling his arms through his navy blazer he left a message for Cromwell that he was following a tip. He’d be back to fill him in later. Transferring Jack Carlson’s address and phone number to a notepad, he jammed the pad into his khakis pocket, and bolted out of the building to his car. His Times reporter nametag hanging around his neck flopped from side to side as he ran.

  Traffic was heavier than normal for a Friday morning—workers starting their weekend early plus the Seahawks were playing on Sunday. The four-story building matching the address had a closet-size entrance with buttons lining the wall to push for admittance providing the resident released the locked plate-glass door facing him.

  Skip pressed the button beside the name Carlson. He waited. Pressed again. Frustrated he held the button in. A woman entered the closet with a card key in her hand.

  “That won’t do you any good, sir. If your friend isn’t in, he’s not in.”

  “Is there a manager, maintenance person, someone? I think my friend’s sick.”

  “Oh, well, wait.” The woman dug in her purse, pulled out her cell and scrolled down the directory. “Got a pen? Oh, you do. Here—see, second one down.”

  Skip copied the number and thanked her. With her card she entered the building, the glass door immediately closing behind her. Skip, pulling his cell from his khakis, punched in the number he had written on his notepad. Thirty minutes later, a skinny, very tall woman walked up to the building and took out her cell. A couple of seconds later, Skip’s phone rang.

  “Hunter here. Are you—

  He shut his phone when the woman looked over at him, closing her cell. “Mr. Hunter?”

  “Yes, you are?”

  “Ms. Timulty. I’ve been given permission to escort you to Mr. Carlson’s unit. However, that’s as far as you go. One quick look and then out. If you require further assistance you have to call the police. Mr. Carlson didn’t pay his maintenance fee last month so we’re anxious to see if anything has happened to him. You said he was sick.”

  “Okay. That’s fine with me. Let’s go.”

  Ms. Timulty did as she promised. They took the elevator to the third floor, she produced a master key, opened the door, and they walked in. Standing inside the front door they stared at a trashed living room. Seat cushions were pulled off the couch and two recliners, all thrown in the middle of the floor. Drawers from the desk were lying on the carpet upside down, contents strewn helter-skelter. The doors of a large television cabinet were open, contents pushed to the floor.

  Ms. Timulty was on the phone reporting to her boss what she found as Skip quickly checked the other rooms. In the bedroom he saw a framed photo of a man and a woman in a restaurant each holding a drink with a little umbrella stuck in a large strawberry. The bottom of the photo: Crabby Joe’s.

  Skip picked up the photo, his free hand sweeping over his bald head, eyes squinting at the picture, his mind processing what he was looking at. He was again at the knee of his father piecing clues together.

  Skip presumed the man in the picture was Jack Carlson.

  He knew for sure the man in the picture was John Doe.

  Chapter 28

  ───

  FALL FOLIAGE, PINECONES, and streamers of green-metallic ribbon decorated the Port Gamble Tea Room, a favorite spot for a bite of lunch. The ladies of the little community particularly enjoyed a respite in the quaint café and frequently tested the tea-of-the-day.

  Anne served her daughter and Maria their turkey and cranberry chutney wraps along with the obligatory china cup of herbal tea. Today’s special, raspberry.

  “I love your little town, Gilly,” Maria said taking her first sip of tea. “In fact, I love everything about this side of Puget Sound. What time is your appointment with Mrs. Churchill?”

  “One o’clock. The boutique is just a few shops down the block, toward the harbor. We have time to enjoy our lunch. Once I have her measurements and her thoughts on the design I’m proposing, we’ll take off for the casino.” Gilly took a bite of her wrap, wiping her mouth with the napkin. She checked her tote for the third time to be sure she had the fabric sample. O’Malley, what if she doesn’t like the dress. I’d have to return her $600. She might demand it, especially after she told her grandson about her wonderful designer.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Anne said pouring her daughter a fr
esh cup of tea.

  Gilly smiled at her mother and then looked at Maria. “Your first day on the job. Are you excited?”

  “Very. I hope I can remember everything they told me.”

  “What did your mother say when you called?” Gilly asked closing her tote.

  “You know, it was strange. I’d say she was relieved that I’d be making more money, but even more relieved that I’d be staying with you for four days. My stepfather may be the reason. We get along, but still, it can be difficult. But, you know what, I’m not going to worry. After today I’ll know what the spa part of the job entails, and the hours. And you listen to me, girlfriend, I am going to chip in for gas, and something toward room and board.”

  “No, no. I’d be driving the same route anyway and a skinny thing like you can’t eat much. Bring stuff for dinner once in awhile if you like, and I’m sure Mom would agree we can call it even. And it’s really nice you’ll be at the house. Sometimes it gets a little tense.”

  “You’re grandfather?”

  “More than that. Dad was laid off. Oh, he’s picking up odd jobs but the pressure is on for me to get a real job. He doesn’t get what I’m trying to do … the whole fashion design thing.”

  “Sounds like my stepfather. We just have to show them.”

  ───

  THE BOUTIQUE ONLY HAD one customer. Maria browsed while Gilly talked to the owner. The door chime jingled and Mrs. Churchill breezed in. Gilly rushed up to her, hand extended.

  “Hi, Mrs. Churchill, sorry it took so long to get back to you.”

  “No problem, my dear, and please call me Helen. I’m anxious to see your design. I believe you said you’d bring a sketch for me to look at?”

  “Yes, and, Helen, I’d like you to meet my friend, Maria Delgado. We’re classmates.”

  “Nice to meet you, Maria.” Helen extended her hand with a gentle pump.

  “Let’s go in the back. Privacy,” Gilly said, leading the way. “I see you wore a silky dress so I should be able to take your measurements with your dress on. Then we’ll come back to that little table in the corner so I can show you my sketch.”

  Gilly shoved a low wooden box into the center of the storage room. She took Helen’s hand to steady her as she stepped up. “Maria, here’s a list of measurements I need. I’ll call them out so you can fill in the chart,” Gilly said, handing her a sheet of paper and a pen.

  Mrs. Churchill felt very special standing up on the makeshift pedestal, her seventy-three-year-old frame straight as a ruler. The ladies chitchatted as Gilly wrapped the tape measure around Helen’s bust line, waist, and hips as well as from her shoulder to waist, and to where Gilly envisioned the hemline. The measurement sheet was complete. They returned to the shop and settled at the round table with the antique ice-cream parlor style chairs.

  “Are you ready, Helen,” Gilly asked, smiling as she laid her sketchpad on the table.

  “Ready and eager, my dear.”

  “Remember, don’t hesitate to make suggestions.” Gilly turned back the cover of her sketchpad and laid the drawing down in front of her client.

  Helen had no reaction. She just stared at the sketch. Gilly plunged on describing the details of the dress and why she felt the dress would be a hit at the New York wedding.

  Gilly stopped talking, inhaled a deep breath and looked at Helen, then to Maria, raising her shoulders. What was going on in Mrs. Churchill’s mind? Digging into her tote, Gilly pulled out a zipped bag and opened it, withdrawing a swatch of material.

  “Here’s the fabric I thought might be nice—a pinkish mocha silk—a little color to complement your silver hair and creamy skin. Three pieces—scoop-neck shell, over an elastic-waist skirt. And a jacket with rounded edges in the front, the length just covering the shell. I thought the shell over a skirt would be easier for you to slip on—no zippers.”

  As Gilly spoke, she pointed to the details on the sketch she was describing. “The skirt is straight, loosely skimming over your hips to just above your ankles. You won’t trip and the ankle length will reveal a pair of pretty, strappy metallic shoes—not high, maybe an inch to and an inch-and-a-half.”

  Looking at Helen, she again took a deep breath. “The jacket’s three-quarter sleeves have a slight flare, bell shape. Both the shell and the skirt are lined. The jacket is unlined—light and airy.”

  Helen still sat mute. Her face inscrutable. Gilly pulled a packet of beads from the plastic bag and laid them next to the fabric sample. “I thought a few of these bugle beads, same tone as the fabric, would add a bit of sparkle to the shell and jacket. The fabric is very rich so you won’t have to worry about matching jewelry. You could wear your favorite pieces, however. Pearl or diamond earrings.”

  Helen continued to stare at the design, the fabric, and the tiny beads.

  “So, what do you think?” Gilly asked and then rushed on. “If you don’t like it I’ll be glad to design another piece.”

  Helen raised her hand for Gilly to stop. “My dear, dear, Gillianne, don’t you dare change a thing.” Helen looked up into Gilly’s eyes. “It is the most beautiful design I have ever seen. Everything is perfect.” Tears filled her eyes, a few drops escaped before she blotted them with a lacy handkerchief. “By any chance can I get a copy of your drawing? I want to show my husband. I may even tack it up on the refrigerator,” she chuckled.

  Gilly sighed with relief. “You scared me, Helen. I thought you didn’t like it.”

  “Like it? I love it. I can’t wait for a fitting. When do you think?”

  “Maybe in a month. I’ll call. I’m just glad the wedding isn’t until April. As for a copy, I made up a packet for you,” Gilly said, bending down to find the envelope she had prepared. “Here,” she said handing the envelope to Helen. “A copy of the design, a swatch of the fabric, and in this little bag a few of the beads.”

  “Oh, lovely. I can show my friends. Which reminds me. I have something to show you. You met my grandson Edward a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Yes, he surprised me.”

  “Oh, he should have called. He asked for your address.” Helen put her large pocketbook on her lap, unzipped the center compartment and pulled out two pieces of paper folded in half. “Here, my dear. Take a look at this. Edward emailed me a draft of his company’s catalog. He said he only included the pages featuring his spring collection.”

  Helen laid the papers on the table, pressing her hand across the fold to flatten the creases.

  Gilly looked at the sheets, picking each one up, holding them out in front of her.

  “Nice presentation, don’t you think, Gillianne?” Helen asked.

  “Yes … nice … quite nice. Do you mind if I make a copy?” Gilly’s eyes remained frozen on the paper.

  “Oh, you can have them. I’ll print more if I want. I just thought you’d like to see some of Edward’s designs. Maybe he’ll come here again—you and he have so much in common.”

  Maria looked at her watch then up at Gilly. Gilly got the hint and packed up her tote. “Sorry, we have to run, Helen. I’ll call you about your fitting.”

  Gilly stormed up the street to the parking lot, Maria hustling to keep up. In the car, Gilly slapped the steering wheel several times as she drove out of town.

  “Okay, can you give me a clue to what happened back there?” Maria asked reaching for the roll bar above the car door.

  “Edward, that city slicker with the spiky hair, stole my designs.”

  “Gilly what makes you say that?” Maria braced herself as Gilly swerved around a corner. The right front tire clipped the soft dirt on the apron of the road, rocking the car. Gilly gripped the wheel bringing the car back on the road and lifted her foot from the gas pedal. The car slowed to a stop.

  Leaning forward, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel, then snapped her head up, jerked around and faced Maria—breathing shallow quick breaths, lips tight, eyes sparkling.

  “The catalog. That draft. Edward’s so called designs. They were
identical to my sketches.”

  Gilly, that’s awful, but what can you do? He’s a big-time designer.”

  “I don’t know, Maria. But, I’m not going to ignore it. That’s for sure. I need a lawyer. I’m going to talk to Hawk.”

  Gilly yanked her cell from her Capri’s pocket, punched a code, and asked to be transferred to Mr. Hawk Jackson. Tapping the steering wheel, she waited for him to pick up.

  “Hawk, it’s Gilly. I need your advice. Legal advice.”

  “Sure. What’s it about?”

  “My designs, they were stolen by an unscrupulous, sneaky, spiky-haired New Yorker.”

  “Wow. Are you sure? That’s quite an accusation.”

  “Yes, damn it. I’m sure. Maria and I are on our way to work. Our shift starts soon. I don’t have the proof with me so I was wondering if we could meet tomorrow. I can’t pay you for a few weeks, but—

  “Hey, what are friends for. Dinner with you and Maria next week will be payment enough. How about I come over late morning, tomorrow?

  “Terrific, counselor. I’ll give you directions tonight to my grandfather’s house. Hansville. All my designs are there.”

  “Okay, see you shortly in the bar.”

  “Hawk … thank you.”

  Chapter 29

  ───

  DUELING FREIGHTERS PLAYED a musical duet as they navigated through the dense fog plaguing Puget Sound—one freighter sounding its horn answered by a second freighter traveling in the opposite direction to avoid a collision.

  “Gilly, you awake?” Maria whispered.

  “Umm.”

  “I love it over here. So peaceful. I can picture those freighters, shadowy, performing a slow dance in the fog.”

  There was a light rap on the guesthouse front door, followed by rustling in the galley kitchen. Within a couple of minutes the aroma of rich coffee wafted around the corner into the girl’s bedroom.