Design for Dying (24 page)

Late in the afternoon I held out a parcel to a well-preserved older lady but she made no move to receive it, transfixed by a sight over my shoulder. Her voice was an ardent whisper. “Good Lord. Isn't that Ramon Novarro?”

I threw a look behind me. “No, ma'am. Ramon is shorter.” The woman accepted her purchases and reluctantly walked away.

Only then did Armand Troncosa approach the counter, his chalk-stripe suit as black as his mood. His aubergine shirt and purple-and-white necktie made me realize I knew what “resplendent” meant. “Lillian. I trust it is not an imposition to visit you at your place of employment.”

“It's perfectly fine. How are you?”

“I am en route to see your Detective Morrow. He has requested a list of every gift I gave to Natalya. He wishes to search for them in…” He faltered, either out of distaste for or unfamiliarity with the next phrase. “Pawnbroker shops.”

Gene was turning over rocks hunting for Winton Beckett, following up on what Mavis Kreutzer had told me. I wondered if he'd bearded her in her borrowed den, and found myself hoping he hadn't.

“Imagine if Natalya and I had wed.” Troncosa's voice had lost its silky tone. “What a fool I would have been.”

“I think Ruby tried to spare you that fate.”

“Spare me? It was her plan all along to gain my fortune.”

“You said yourself she was reluctant to become engaged. Perhaps marriage wasn't part of her plan. Perhaps by refusing your proposal, she had your best interests in mind.”

“Perhaps you defend her because she was your friend.”

The accusatory edge of his words drove me back a step. At the same time an obscure loyalty asserted itself, not so much to Ruby as to Natalie. Ruby's greatest performance, one I'd never have the opportunity to witness firsthand.

“Truth be told,” I said, “Ruby wasn't much of a friend. But you should know she didn't intend you any harm.”

“I know no such thing. I know nothing about Ruby, other than she scattered my tokens of affection to the four winds for a pittance.”

“Ruby didn't do that,” I blurted out. “That was someone else.”

“So she had a partner in her deceit? Hardly an endorsement of her character.”

I kept silent, having already said too much. That gave Troncosa time to turn my words over and come up with a more accurate interpretation.

“Unless … Ruby was forced into this charade. Is that what you suggest, Lillian? Was she manipulated into deceiving me?” Troncosa reached across the counter and seized my wrist. Not forcefully; he might not even have been aware of his action. But I was finding it impossible to ignore. “If that is so, you must tell me. I demand the name of this Svengali.”

Something brutish and, worse, wounded lurked behind Troncosa's eyes. I recalled Kay's dire speculation that he was in exile after killing a man in Argentina and found it all too easy to swallow. As for the physical act of swallowing, that had suddenly become difficult.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Valentine's voice boomed across the floor, his shoes clicking briskly against the linoleum. Never was I so happy to see a chartreuse pocket square.

By the time he reached us, Troncosa was staring at his hand and wondering who had wrapped it around mine. “No,” he said. “My apologies.” With a bow he struck off toward the elevators.

My boss watched him go, then looked at me. “Miss Frost?”

“It's an extremely long story,” I finally said.

“I see. Heaven forfend we detain you unnecessarily.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your shift is almost over. I suggest we discuss this in the morning.”

*   *   *

I COLLECTED MY
purse and my thoughts, then started for the employees' entrance. When I saw Esteban Riordan battling through shoppers toward me, I almost turned tail and ran. Only the concern on his face made me stand my ground. He raised his hands, leery of spooking me.

“Lillian. Armand is beside himself. He wishes to make amends.”

“I don't care to see him right now.”

Esteban lowered his eyes. “I understand. But you of all people can appreciate Armand is under tremendous strain. He has said and perhaps done things he regrets. He still owes you a great deal, and will not be at ease until he apologizes. Please, I know how much this means to him. And I will be present when he speaks with you.”

Saying the last sentence pained him. What choice did I have? “Very well. But outside the store.”

Esteban moved to touch my arm, only to reconsider.

The Pierce-Arrow looked vivid in the glow of the display window, Tremayne's latest fall fashions arranged on a family of mannequins seated around a Thanksgiving dinner complete with papier-mâché turkey. Troncosa climbed out of the car as we neared. Esteban smoothly positioned himself between us, a protective gesture that only made me feel more defenseless. Troncosa also didn't cotton to it, if the snap of his head was any indication.

“Lillian. My behavior was inexcusable, yet I beg your forgiveness. To put you in such a position at work is unconscionable. Shall I speak to someone in authority at the store?”

“Better we should forget it.”

“As you wish. Allow me to escort you home.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“But I do. And it will permit us to have the conversation I came to have with you. You must tell me about Ruby. Tell me about the woman I loved but did not know. Tell me something to make her real to me.”

She was a hard-eyed dreamer who kept company with Tommy Carpa and pilfered family treasures from unsuspecting roommates.
I didn't think that would go over well in Troncosa's current state of mind. And if I let him work on me, I might slip up and give him Beckett's name.

I shook my head. “That would be a mistake.”

“Please. Your cup overflows with memories while mine is empty. You cannot share?”

It was a cheap ploy, and my almost falling for it doomed his chances. “No, I'm sorry.”

The conversation wasn't going as he'd expected. Troncosa's savage side peered out at me again then darted away. “You surprise me, Lillian. You would prefer to leave me thinking the worst of Ruby?”

“I can't help what you think.” I glanced toward the employees' door but my sole potential agent of deliverance was Horace, the ancient security guard armed only with the overpowering aroma of the homemade liniment he used on his rheumatic joints. “I have to catch the streetcar.”

Troncosa, not to be denied, slipped around Esteban. Who in turn shadowed him and started to speak. The blast of a taxi's horn drowned out his words. A reckless driver took the corner too fast, tires screeching. Before I could turn toward the commotion I heard a sharp crack, and the plate glass display window behind me shattered.

Esteban yelled “Get down!” and hurled himself at Troncosa. I dove to the concrete as a second, then third gunshot blasted the display. Mannequins toppled.

The car, a black sedan, never stopped moving. It sped down the street, a fusillade of horns in its wake.

Esteban helped me to my feet as Troncosa brushed himself off. Most of the window had fallen into the display but shards of glass littered the sidewalk.

“Are you all right?” Esteban asked.

“I think so.” I looked at my shaking hands, spotting a few scrapes on my palms and one or two on my knees. “I may not be a little later.”

A policeman sprinted over and demanded details. Troncosa provided them in a steady voice, so composed you'd have thought he'd been shot at before. Maybe he had. The officer jotted down the particulars. “Stay here while I call this in.”

“Raise Detective Morrow in Robbery Homicide. Tell him it's Miss Frost.” The officer eyed me skeptically, but my hands were trembling more now and demanded my full attention. Esteban wrapped his arm around me. I left it where it was.

Horace the security guard, invigorated by the action, stood a post before the remains of the window. Within moments every Tremayne's employee and customer had shown up to rubberneck the damage. I wanted to tell Georgie the stock boy to fetch a broom and start sweeping. The street was a mess.

When Gene arrived, he noted Esteban's arm on my shoulders without comment and asked after my well-being. Hansen snubbed me, climbing up into the ruined display and poking among the broken glass. “And here I thought I was the only one ever wanted to open up on a family dinner.”

“Mr. Troncosa, I was expecting you downtown,” Gene said. “Someone want to walk me through what happened?”

This time I took the lead, Troncosa and Esteban confirming and elaborating. Yes, it was a black car. No, we hadn't seen the driver. No, none of us noticed the license plate.

Gene drummed the cover of his notebook with his pen. “Now for Professor Quiz's main question. Who was the unknown person in the dark car aiming at?”

Hansen held up the carcass of the papier-mâché turkey.”It probably wasn't old Tom here.”

“It was obviously me.” Troncosa shouldered forward to brave some phantom firing squad. “Who else could it be?”

“Possibly Miss Frost, given she works at Tremayne's. Did anyone know you were coming to the store, Mr. Troncosa?”

“No. But we could have easily been followed. Perhaps it's best I leave this city if I'm being used as target practice on public streets.”

“If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer nobody go anywhere just yet.”

“I hope that doesn't include me,” I said, “because these stockings are a lost cause. I'm going to replace them. A lady likes to look her best even at times of adversity.” I stepped toward the employees' door, knees and palms burning. I hadn't hit the pavement that hard since grammar school recess, when gangly limbs meant jumping rope qualified me for hazard pay.

Gene pulled me close, concern in his eyes and spearmint on his breath. He pointedly placed his hand where Esteban's had been on my shoulder. I felt a reassuring squeeze. “You sure you're all right?”

“If I'm worrying about my clothes, I'm probably okay.”

“I understand Troncosa visited you in the store and came on kind of strong.”

“Yes,” I said, omitting
to the extent he seems capable of a crime of passion, like killing the woman who gulled him
. “You don't really think someone could have been shooting at me.”

“Right now my only thought is I'll take you home whenever you're ready. You just say the word.”

As he walked away I spotted Mr. Valentine in the display window, shaking his head at the fallen mannequins like he was going to have bury them all personally, turkey included. Tomorrow morning could take its sweet time coming.

 

25

IN MY DREAM
the display window dummies had risen from the debris of their ruined Thanksgiving and were chasing me up Broadway, the mother brandishing a horn of plenty like a blunderbuss. Their footsteps sounded hollow, like rapping on wood. It took me a moment to realize I'd awakened and someone was knocking on my door. My relief was tempered by the fact I had a visitor at five past midnight. I rousted an umbrella, my version of a Louisville Slugger, and inquired as to my caller's identity.

“It's Vi.”

We hadn't spoken since our dustup over Tommy Carpa and the purloined comb. “How'd you get into the building?”

“I waited outside and followed one of your neighbors in. Can you open up? I think he's watching me.”

Not Mr. Pendergast, I hoped, foreseeing with crystal-ball clarity six months of him buttonholing me in the hall to ask when Blondie would come by again.

“Are you alone? Or do you have Tommy in tow?”

“It's just me. I swear.”

I took her at her word. Vi was wearing her waitress uniform, the glare of the overhead light giving the short black dress a dull sheen.

“What's so urgent?”

“Tommy wants to talk to you.”

“Not on your life. Wait, you know where he is?”

“For the next little while, anyway. He's only staying there until I bring you to him. He heard what happened at Tremayne's. He wants you to know he didn't have anything to do with it.”

“The smart play is for you to call the police and tell them where Tommy's holed up.”

“I can't do that, Lillian. I promised.”

“Aren't you taking this infatuation too far? I know you think you're in love with Tommy. What's worse is you seem to think he's in love with you.”

She shook her head once, the sweep as deliberate as a searchlight's. “Not anymore. Not the way he's acting. He's swooning over a dead girl. I know that now.”

“So why help him?”

“Because it might help you, too. You've got no reason to trust me after how I acted, but I would never lead you into trouble. Honest. Tommy only wants to talk.”

She raised three fingers, the Girl Scout sign testament to her sincerity. Maybe Vi really was over the palooka. I raided my closet wondering what Edith would advise me to wear to a wee hour rendezvous in an undisclosed location. Black seemed right.

*   *   *

VI FIRED UP
Tommy's green Packard and pointed it toward West Hollywood. Anyone still awake was there. I stared out at the stumpy palm trees lining Sunset Boulevard, watching swells swan in and out of nightclubs swaddled in furs that suited the calendar if not the climate.

One block off the main drag, the action became markedly more furtive. Dark figures in shadowy doorways, their clothes still flashy but their faces turned away from the street. The Packard pulled up outside a brick bunker with curtains shrouding gun-slit windows. The faded sign over the door announced
ELMO'S
with a shrug.

The interior didn't nudge the needle on the charm meter. We navigated a maze of tables occupied by couples who'd clearly made poor choices long before setting foot in Elmo's. Vi reached a thickset man holding up the wall on the far side of the room.