Copy Cap Murder (11 page)

“You know who strangled Win,” she said.

“Me?” I asked. I pointed to myself in confusion.

“Yes, you,” she said. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. She walked around her statue, passing her hand lovingly over its alabaster curves as she went.

“How do you figure that?” I snapped. My usual people skills had abandoned me and I felt Viv step closer to me as my temper got the better of me. I wondered if she thought she was going to have to tackle me to keep me from doing Ava Carson an injury. Not the craziest thought.

“Why, because you're in love with the killer,” Ava said. She leaned against her marble image and stared at me with an intensity that made my skin itch. “Harrison.”

“All right, let's get some things straight. Number one, I am not in love with Harrison, and number two, he is not the killer,” I huffed.

Ava looked past me at Viv. “You know I'm telling the truth.”

Viv threw her shoulders back and glared. “I know no such thing. Harrison is not a murderer.”

I noticed that she didn't deny my love for Harrison, which I thought was a tactical mistake. I was right.

Ava came at us, sort of like a big cat stalking its prey but wearing a purple robe, which made her look a bit ridiculous frankly. From the smirk on her face, she seemed to be taking a perverse delight in needling us.

“Oh, is that how it is?” she asked.

She stopped right in front of us and planted one hand
on her hip as she looked at Viv. I noticed Ava had the crazy eye thing going, you know, like she wasn't really dialed in to this reality. “You're in love with Harrison and you don't want your precious little cousin to have him.”

“You are way off the mark,” Viv said. “Harrison is my friend and I know he could never ever do anything like strangle the life out of a colleague. You, however . . .”

“What?” Ava leaned closer and I caught a whiff of morning breath tainted with cigarettes that made me gag.

“She's thinking you could have killed him,” I said, because I'm helpful like that. “I'd have thought poison would be your chosen method, though. It is for most women as it's less messy and doesn't require quite so much upper arm strength.”

“You're daft,” Ava snapped at me.

She stepped back, looking angry. The bright red flush on her cheeks looked so much better than the washed-out pasty thing she'd had going on, but I wasn't sure how to work that into the conversation without sounding insincere.

“There's only one person with anything to gain from Winthrop Dashavoy's death and that is Harrison Wentworth,” Ava said. “They were rivals in the office”—she paused to look me over with scathing contempt—“as well as outside the office. It had to be Harrison and, honestly, the man should be awarded a medal!”

With that, she swept past us out the door without saying good-bye or get the hell out, both of which I had expected, although maybe the get the hell out more than the other.

“Is it just me, or did we just survive a typhoon?” Viv asked.

“Not just you,” I said. “We did.”

We were both silent, trying to get our bearings after such a rocky encounter. I waited until I was steady and then said, “She really thinks it was Harrison.”

“I know.” Viv nodded.

“If she thinks it, then—” I started the thought but couldn't finish it.

The truth was if Ava was this decided that it was Harrison then I had a feeling most everyone at Carson and Evers felt the same and if they did then the police were bound to center their investigation on the likeliest suspect. Harrison.

Mrs. Bailey returned with the news that Viv's hat was nowhere to be found. She was so genuinely aggrieved about it that I felt badly that we had tricked her. Viv must have felt the same because she thanked Mrs. Bailey profusely and then gave her a business card, telling her that anytime she needed a hat she could come into the shop and pick one out on the house. Yeah, guilt makes a liar generous when repenting.

*   *   *

By the time we got back to the shop, Fee looked like she wanted to strangle us. I was pretty glad I wasn't wearing a necktie and I removed my scarf posthaste. All was forgiven when Viv handed her a takeaway bag from Nando's with a butterfly burger in it.

Fee made a grumbling noise that sounded like thank you and disappeared into the workroom with her lunch. The shop was quiet. Two ladies were standing in front of a mirror in the corner trying on a few of Viv's more outrageous fascinators. The giggles they were emitting made me
smile and I realized it was probably one of very few that day, which was depressing but I refused to dwell on it.

Viv sank down on the chair beside me and leaned her head back. She was the less sociable of the two of us so I figured if I was feeling drained she must be utterly wrung out.

“I wish I felt as if we'd learned something useful today,” I said. “I feel like all we did was spin our wheels a bit and we landed in the same spot where we started.”

“We made enemies of Tuesday Blount and Ava Carson, don't forget that,” Viv said. She didn't lift her head or open her eyes while she spoke and I wondered if she was drifting off to sleep.

“Not frenemies?” I asked. “I was hoping for some sort of mutually respectful loathing.”

“Maybe with Tuesday but not Ava,” Viv said. “I get the feeling she's the sort of woman who doesn't have girlfriends.”

“I never trust those types,” I said.

“Me either, but at least they're honest,” Viv said. “An even worse sort of woman is the one who specifically picks her friends because they make her prettier, richer, smarter, etc.”

“Oh, I've had a few of those,” I agreed. “Remember my college roommate?”

“She was a horror,” Viv said. “She took your clothes, your food and your boyfriend.”

“In that order,” I said. “And all the while she pretended we were friends. Ugh, I was so happy when I moved out. I don't think my self-esteem was ever so hard hit, well, except when I found out my rat bastard boyfriend was still married, but I've moved on, really.”

“Have you?” Viv asked.

She didn't move but her eyes opened and I could feel her watching me with concern.

“Yes, definitely,” I said.

“No lingering pangs or longings?”

“God, no,” I said. “Well, I'd still like to back over him with my car if the opportunity presented itself, but I've stopped fantasizing about it daily, so I think that's an improvement.”

Viv laughed. It was as sparkly and ticklish and colorful as the feathers on the fascinator one of the ladies had perched on her head. I realized I hadn't heard her laugh much over the past few months and it warmed me from the inside out.

“Have I told you how glad I am that you're here, Scarlett?” she asked.

“Yes, but it never hurts to hear it again,” I said. I reached over across the small table between us and squeezed her hand. “I'm glad I'm here, too.”

We shared a smile and I felt as if we were finding our way back together again.

“Miss, oh, Miss!” One of the ladies waved at me.

“Duty calls,” I said to Viv.

“Yes, it does,” Viv said.

I rose from my seat and Viv did the same, but while I crossed the shop toward our customers, she turned and headed back into the workroom. Customer service really wasn't her thing.

As I glanced at the two ladies, I noticed they had a marked similarity in appearance, the same pretty blue eyes and matching dimples in their left cheeks. I wondered if they were sisters.

“I need your opinion, Miss,” the first one said. I noted right away that she had an American accent. “My cousin thinks I should be bold and buy the hat with the bright fuchsia feathers, but I am more partial to the quieter shade of green. What do you think?”

“That you're going to blend right in with the curtains,” the other woman said. She was clearly a local judging by her London accent.

“I didn't ask you,” the first one said. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and turned back to me. “I'm Carol Landers and this is my cousin Mary Tavistock.”

“A pleasure,” I said. “I'm Scarlett Parker and my cousin Vivian Tremont is our hat designer. We're cousins, too, one American and one British.”

They did not look nearly as interested in the fact that we were two sets of female cousins from two different countries as I was.

“That's nice, dear,” said Mary. “Now convince her not to be as drab as dishwater and go with the pink one.”

The bossy one was definitely most like Viv. I mean just because you have a sense of style doesn't mean you should force it upon others. Viv and I had this conversation repeatedly, and yet, she still had episodes where she bullied one of our clients into some elaborate creation of hers that they were uncomfortable with and I had to mediate an acceptable outcome.

“Maybe if you told me a bit about the event, I would be better able to determine which hat would be most appropriate,” I said.

“We've been invited to high tea with the Countess of Wessex,” Mary said. “And I don't want Carol to go
unnoticed. She needs something bolder than her usual quiet colors.”

“I'm just not sure,” Carol said. She was pretty with short-cropped dark brown hair and sparkling eyes that made it seem as if she didn't take life too seriously.

“If that shade of hat is too bright”—I paused and gestured to the bold pink confection Mary had put on the counter beside her cousin—“then how about a lighter shade of pink or a different color altogether? Viv has made a wide variety of hats, and I'm sure we could find something that will work.”

“Well . . .” Carol bit her lip. “Maybe.”

I led the two ladies to a cupboard in the back. At the height of wedding season, Viv and Fee had hired on extra help to meet the demand. The extra hats, which covered every hue of the rainbow, had been stored back here to be refurbished for the next season.

I sincerely hoped I had something that would suit Carol, because I wanted her to have a successful high tea that she would remember fondly.

I moved aside several hats until I found the clutch of moderately bold ones. Viv and Fee had created everything from the palest pink with a blusher to a studded dazzler in vivid purple that was so bright I was surprised it didn't light up.

Naturally, Mary liked that one. Carol shook her head in horror so I pushed it to the back. We were left with a variety of others that I thought would do nicely.

“That one,” Carol said.

To my surprise, she chose a unique pumpkin-colored pillbox hat fashioned out of sturdy felt with a burst of brown and white feathers on the front with two longer
pumpkin-colored feathers curling away from the front in a charming accent.

“Oh, I like that one,” Mary said. “Try it on.”

We moved to one of the many mirrors in the shop and Carol put the hat on. It didn't sit quite right.

“May I?” I asked.

“Please,” she said.

I stood behind Carol and moved the hat to a jaunty angle on the side of her head. “A nice hat pin will hold it in place and give it some sparkle.”

“It's perfect,” Mary said. “You will be the talk of the tea.”

“Oh, I'm not comfortable with that,” Carol said.

“Just smile and you'll be fine,” I said. She really had an infectious smile; everyone was going to love her.

“Shall I box it up for you?” I asked.

“Yes, please,” she said.

“Mine, too, please,” Mary said.

I took both of the hats and set to work behind the counter, boxing them up in a nest of tissue paper inside our sturdy round boxes with the blue silk cord for a handle. It was an updated box from the ones Mim had used forty years ago, but it still had the blue stripes and the name “Mim's Whims” scrawled across the top of the lid.

There was a decided nostalgia to using the hatboxes that I enjoyed. I supposed I had a romanticized view of the past, but I liked sturdy hatboxes, milk in glass bottles, daily newspapers, men in fedoras who opened doors for a lady, jazz on the radio and a nice fruit-laden cocktail at the end of the day. Not for the first time I wondered if I was living in the right century.

“Do you teach any hat-making classes?” Mary asked.

“Occasionally, my cousin will do a small fascinator-making session at a hen party,” I said. “Why?”

“We have a friend in Paris, Lucas Martin, who runs an art school,” Carol said. “We were just there, taking a class in watercolors.”

“That sounds lovely,” I said. And it did. Paris. I'd been in London for eight months and had not made it across the English Channel to France. Now that I thought about it, my priorities were completely out of whack.