Armoires and Arsenic (8 page)

In the morning, Tuesday burst into the kitchen, a vision in swirling purple and orange.

“A Pucci knockoff?” Olivia asked as she stood back, coffee pot in hand to admire the maxi dress. Tuesday preened, proud of the dress. “Not this time. This is the real deal,” she said, not the least bit squeamish from the clash of colors. She reached for a tangerine in the fruit bowl. “A consignment shop off Melrose that nobody has discovered yet.”

She draped herself across the island and stared mysteriously off into the distance. Olivia said, “A black and white Calvin Klein ad
for Vogue?”

Tuesday straightened up, a smile of victory across her face. “None other.”

Olivia couldn’t tell if the feathers were hanging from her ears or the tiny braids in her hair. She stopped herself from pointing out that feathers were circa 1985, but she did lean forward and whisper as though she were revealing a state secret, “I’ve heard from my spies in New York that long dresses are so last month. Not kidding.”

Tuesday rolled her eyes. “Ollie, I’ve only had it a month. Who’s going to know in this burg?”

Olivia surprised herself by bristling at the remark. “Tuesday, we are a picturesque twenty minute drive from San Francisco. There is more money and style in Darling Valley than all of Beverly Hills.”

Where did this sudden loyalty to Darling Valley come from? “Don’t you know where you are?”

Tuesday gave her a blank look.

“There are two thousand billionaires in the world, give or take a few hundred. Twenty-three of them have homes here. In the barely three square miles of Darling Valley. That is an unprecedented billionaire density. Now they don’t live in their houses the way we do, set up housekeeping and have the mail delivered every day. They are more like honey bees, flitting around the world, going from beautiful residence to unbelievable residence as the mood or business deal moves them. Their houses have everything but throne rooms.

“About eight years ago, Grace Petri, who started an oil refinery empire, stumbled on Darling Valley. Back then it was still a sleepy little village close to San Francisco, but secluded enough that almost no one knew it was here. It has very little incorporated land and it is surrounded by government property or conservation land trusts. Grace immediately knew what that meant. Nothing left to  develop. She and her friends could buy up the few available lots and homesteads, tear down the houses and have their own private universe. The rest of the world wouldn’t be able to follow them like in Silicon Valley and Atherton because once they got started, in the space of less than a year there was no more available land to build on or little bungalow to tear down and turn into a turbo mansion.

Olivia thought she might have lost Tuesday, but she pushed on. “Plus, they don’t need the likes of Detective Richards and his DVPD. Unlike the Silicon Bills . . . “

Tuesday interrupted. “They have their own football team?”

“Silicon Bills, Tuesday. What I call the billionaires who live in Silicon Valley. Those guys have a much harder time keeping their abodes and whereabouts secret. But here, they have their own private security details. Nobody can get close to them because Darling isn’t near anything that attracts the great unwashed. But they are still close enough to the action so that their helicopters can drop them at SFO in ten minutes to board their private jets, or half an hour down the peninsula to meet with Larry Ellison or Bill Gates if he’s in town. That’s why Blackman’s death has the press in a media frenzy. He’s not that important as far as I can tell. I mean, a furniture renovation shop? But his proximity to power has them going wild. He was killed in their back yard. There has to be a story there.”

Tuesday gave a so what shrug of her shoulders. Outside of Hollywood it took a lot to impress her.

“You scoff at this place, Tuesday, but up in the foothills where you can’t see them are homes with art collections the Met in New York and the Tate in London would kill to get their hands on. Why do you think I picked this place to set up shop? I’ll be lucky if I can get close to one of the bills. But millionaires? That’s my feeding grounds. The Mills are much more visible—you’ll see them at an auction we’ll go to tomorrow night. It’s all new tech money. They like to show it off. I’ll take you for a drive and show you the pile of sticks one of my clients, Mrs. Gotshalk, calls home. And wait till you see the boutiques on the upper end of Darling Boulevard. Compared to the Bills, whom nobody has access to unless you’re sleeping with one of their PA’s, the Mills are low hanging fruit.”

Tuesday helped herself to some coffee. “Well why aren’t they throwing any of their ill gotten gains your way?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Olivia said with a mournful droop of her mouth. She pushed a plate of croissants toward Tuesday.

Tuesday grabbed it and said, “Hon, why are we here in the servant’s quarters? Let’s go downstairs and sit on that gorgeous furniture you have and act like we own the joint.”

“And spill coffee and crumbs on my period brocade chairs?”

Heading for the stairs, Tuesday chirped, “You just said yourself, nobody’s buying, so what does it matter? Besides, I’m a grownup. I know how to put a napkin on my lap.”

Olivia sighed and followed her with her own cup and the container of half and half.

Olivia directed Tuesday to the two wing chairs in the back that gave them a view of the traffic on the street. She didn’t turn on any of the lights, letting the early sun send a warm glow over the gleaming wood and gilt that filled the showroom. In the dim light, passersby could not see them, however, the two friends had a clear view of two voyeurs pressing their faces against the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the murderer of Angel Row.

Olivia blew on her coffee to cool it and mused, “I haven’t had this many people interested in my shop since it opened.”

“All publicity is good publicity.”

“I know. Cody reminded me of that last night. So why did the janitorial service call yesterday with some lame excuse that they couldn’t come until next week? And the spring water company, ditto. My neighbors aren’t interested in patronizing my business, but they sure are interested in the gossip about me. Later we’ll cruise Darling Boulevard and I’ll introduce you to the locals and pick up some cleaning products and bottled water.”

Tuesday pointed to two more women mounting the porch and shading their eyes to get a better view of the interior. They shrugged their shoulders at each other and turned away, clearly disappointed. She said, “Too bad we couldn’t drag out another dead body for them. You could charge a viewing fee.”

Olivia shook her head. “Don’t Tues, I’m still in a state of shock.”

Tuesday finished her coffee and gave a dainty swipe of her mouth with her paper napkin and brushed non-existent crumbs from her palm and swept them onto the plate for Olivia’s benefit. “Let’s not be all gloomy and gloppy. Give me a tour of this place. Let me see what you’ve acquired since you left LA.”

Olivia started with a Louie XIV chest, dripping with carved wood and inlaid ivory. Even Tuesday, who didn’t know an end table from a worktable and cleverly decorated her studio with vintage Goodwill, fairly swooned.

“This is my prize, my baby. I will hate to see it go, but I’ll be sure it finds a good home.” Olivia’s sadness cracked through her bravado.

Tuesday gave it a once over. “And how much do you want for it?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Tuesday did a double take. “Twenty nine hundred? That’s a nice piece of change. What’s that, 50% markup?”

Olivia scoffed. “Nooooo, my dear. That’s twenty-nine thousand.” She canted her head forward and drew out the thouuuusand for emphasis.

Tuesday let loose with some purple language, then said. “Holy coffee table, girlfriend. I knew you dealt in pricey goods when you worked for Griffiths and Graham, but you never told me you were this upscale.”

Olivia rested her head against the secretaire, remembering the scary days after she quit her job and had made an offer on the house. “I was afraid to. If I crashed it would be more humiliating. What kind of a decorator can’t sell the best to the people who want the best and have the money to pay for it? But now that seems to be the position I’m in. I’ve had a few low-end projects, but seriously? I haven’t been able to get these people to budge. And now? With a murder in my shop? I don’t see how I can come back from this. It kept me awake all night.”

Tuesday wrapped her Pucci-draped arms around Olivia. “Look sweetie, you’re not there yet. Finish the tour and let’s get out of here for a bit until you open the door for your non-existent business.”

So Olivia showed her the Napoleon chest that the seller swore had actually been in the Emperor’s camp tent. And the handmade leather club chair that Clark Gable had once owned—verified by a photo of the actor sitting in it staring lovingly at Carole Lombard. Next the twin lamps made from ebony and a pair of beautifully twisted antelope horns that rumor had it, Hemingway himself had shot.

“Olivia! You have some serious goods here.”

“I know. And if this sale doesn’t pull me out of the hole this weekend, they will end up on the auction block.”

Tuesday slammed her fist into her palm. “We’re going to do something about that. And I’m not going home until we do!”

“Okay,” said Olivia. “I like the sound of that. I don’t know what we can do, but you’re right. Let’s get out of here for a bit. So what if there is dust on the library stairs. Who’s going to see it? Let’s go. Oh, but first I want to show you the little treasures that arrived yesterday. My netsuke.”

They threaded their way around the silk-shaded floor lamps and carved dining chairs to the Duchess’s table. “They aren’t worth that much,” Olivia explained over her shoulder, “but sometimes a little gem of an accessory can attract a customer to the expensive table it sits on. Over here.”

When they got to the table, Olivia’s eyes widened. “Where are they?”

Tuesday drew her Cleopatra eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”

“I set these on the table yesterday morning before Cody arrived. Now they’re gone.”

Tuesday tried to be helpful. “Maybe they got swept onto the floor. You know how people are when they browse through a shop. They can be so careless with things that don’t belong to them.”

“I didn’t have any customers yesterday. Well,” she said, remembering Charles Bacon. “One, but he didn’t come back this far.”

She hoped. The table stood next to the French doors, far from the chairs where Olivia and the car collector had sat. He would never have seen them.

“Unless,” she said, remembering that she had left him alone while she ran to check her calendar. “Nah,” she answered to herself. “How would he have known they were there? And I saw them after he left, didn’t I? Or did I?”

Tuesday wasn’t putting her mind at ease. “Could someone have come in the day before and cased the joint.”

“Tuesday, really? Cased the joint? You have to get your head out of film noir.”

“Well, excuse me. Perhaps someone came in and surveyed the premises and conveyed the information to a colleague who returned the next day and surreptitiously removed the items from said premises. Madam.”

They laughed, but Olivia dismissed that possibility because she had only unwrapped them yesterday morning. She ran through the rest of the day. “Nobody else was in here except for the police. They came in to talk to me in the afternoon for a few minutes before they took off and walked through the front door into my office. But I can’t imagine a cop recognizing potentially valuable netsuke.”

Olivia remembered the crew of officers and detectives eying the shop and checking price tags when they thought she wasn’t looking, nudging each other with raised eyebrows.

“And I locked up after they left so no one else was in here.”

“What about Mrs. Dimwit downstairs.”

“Tuesday! Be nice. She’d need a key to get in and I had the locks changed during the renovation. And she never comes up here.”

“Olivia, yesterday was a crazy day. You probably moved them without realizing it. You can get a little spaced out when you’re stressed.”

“Oh, look who’s talking. You, who had the key to the Tea Room on opening day and left it at Starbucks, then tried to open the shop with their restroom key.”

“Mistakes happen. I’m just saying. If nobody was in here, they have to be someplace. Let’s get a pendulum.”

Olivia waved her hands in front of her face. “No, I can’t do that right now, Tues.” The suggestion hit a nerve. Tuesday reading tea leaves was one thing. She always got a positive hit. But these other things Tuesday was into spooked her. Probably because sometimes they hit the mark.

“Look, babe, this is just to find a lost object. The most common use for a pendulum. We won’t go near your love life. It won’t be like last time. Come on, this is harmless.”

Olivia was caving, but reluctantly. “None of your stuff is harmless, Tues. Remember the time you read the Tarot for me and my cat died?”

Tuesday rolled her eyes. “How many times do I have to tell you? The cards didn’t kill your cat. They just foresaw a loss and helped you prepare for it.”

“Yeah. For three weeks I was walking on eggshells waiting for something awful to happen.”