Dipped, Stripped, and Dead (18 page)

“And you want to go with me to Denver because . . .”

He shrugged. “I can’t go home. Les isn’t answering my calls. I figure I have nothing better to do. We can go to Denver and do . . . whatever it is you do there, and then have dinner and come home.”

“Right,” I said. Normally I would have asked him if he was all right. Normally I would have been sure he shouldn’t come with me. I mean, he had other friends and a life. There were, however, a few things militating against that. The first was that Ben was at loose ends. I thought of how many times he’d called Les, and from that
He’s not answering my calls
, I suspected he’d tried again today. And then the other thing was that the Volvo had the worst habit of dying in Denver, in the middle of Colfax Avenue, so even if I had the money for gas it would be unwise. The other thing was that a drive of three hours each way was much better passed in company, even if the company was Ben. Also, if we were taking his car, he would more than likely insist on driving, because no one touched his baby but him.

“Fine,” I said. “You can come with me, and we’ll go in your car. But you’re going to be bored out of your gourd.”

“Unlikely,” he said. “There are many things you are, my dear, but boring isn’t one of them.”

We finished our breakfast and he went into the shower while I was doing dishes. And while I was doing dishes, I got to thinking. About a lot of things. Like that note on the bottom of the table.

So much had happened since yesterday that it seemed I hadn’t slowed down to think till now. That note written on the bottom of the table still chilled me. I didn’t want it to be related to the murder. Positionally, it was unlikely it was related to the murder. I stacked the cups and plates carefully. The thing was, see, that it was clearly written by an expert in antiques—and one who didn’t mind working on things that had multiple layers of paint. Which meant someone who had a lye vat and wasn’t afraid to use it. Maybe. But it could be. And that would mean the table was related to the murder, and my chances of setting my financial life on a somewhat even keel would be gone.

Which meant that—as far as I was concerned—figuring out who had written on the bottom of the table, and, if possible, proving the writing had nothing to do with the murder was of the most urgent essence. But how did one go about doing that?

The way I saw it, there were two ways. One was to solve the murder—and even I snorted at that thought. The other was to figure out who had written those words on the bottom of the table.

Unfortunately the note didn’t say something like
The spirit of the tree wishes to come out
. So that maybe ruled out Oakfriend. The scope of the project or lack thereof, no matter how good the piece, probably ruled out Rocky Mountain. They simply didn’t bother with fussy small projects. Not worth their time, I guess. But frankly I saw neither Michael Manson nor Miss Jewel—whichever one he was at any given moment—engaging in careful notation on the bottom of an old piece. At any rate, if he was
refinishing anything at all, it would be by private contract, and not something freelance. At least the only things I’d ever heard of him refinishing had been to match furniture he was also making. Usually for hotels or some big McMansion.

No matter how I turned it—or thought about it—the only outfit in town with the knowledge to make the note was Rocky’s. Perhaps it had been put out by the curb for some particular someone to pick up? And perhaps that someone had given it to a student, who had decided that it was too painted over to carry with him when he moved on from college. But then I thought that there was no reason the note had to have been made here in town or by Rocky or anyone else, just like there was no reason why the corpse and the table—and the chairs—had to be related at all. But I still had to prove someone in town wasn’t involved. If I could. To myself. For my own satisfaction. Someone in town with a big, handy lye vat.

It could be, perhaps, that someone not even connected with furniture refinishing had filled a barrel or a trash can with lye and dipped a corpse in it. Why not? It could happen.

Sure it could. And pigs could fly, given a fortuitous genetic mutation, but I hadn’t seen any swine wing it past my window lately.

I wasn’t a genius, like Ben, but even I had retained something from my science classes. The simplest explanation is usually the true one. Occam’s razor. And the simplest explanation was that the note on the table had been made by a local refinisher who’d discarded it when he or she realized how much trouble it would be to peel. And if it was related to the murder—though I very much hoped it wasn’t—it would have had to come from a place with a lye vat.

The only place I knew where there was a lye vat was Rocky’s. And the fact that the lye vat was stationary might
provide a reason why the body was discarded before being fully dissolved: if they only had time for so long before someone was due to come into the workroom.

Besides, Rocky bought really good, if often work-intensive pieces to start with. The kind you find at estate sales, brought from all over the country. Stuff you otherwise couldn’t find in Colorado.

In the unlikely event the table was related to the murder, then it all had to hinge around Rocky’s.

I got the phone book from where I normally kept it, on the little stool by the living room window so that, by standing on tiptoe on it, E could look out at the cars.

Rocky Mountain Refinishing was in the Yellow Pages. It wasn’t till the phone started ringing that I thought of such things as
What am I going to ask them?
Or
What will they be able to tell me?
Or even
Why in hell would anyone be at the refinishing workshop over the weekend?
This last occurred to me after two rings, and I was about to hang up when a voice—sounding much like someone had a severe cold—answered, “Rocky Mountain Refinishing. Nick speaking.”

Nick? I’d only ever talked to Rocky himself. Yes, his name was actually Rocky. Well, it was Arthur Stone, but he went by Rocky. But I supposed he had several people working for him and this was one of them. “Hi, Nick,” I said, as if the name conjured any image at all in my mind. “This is Dyce Dare. I was wondering . . .” And out of the blue, as if someone or something had taken over my mouth—which is true, because I was channeling stupid recklessness straight from the source—I found myself saying, “if you know anything about a small occasional table, or perhaps a tiny writing desk. Dark cherry. Hand carved. Colonial.”

There was the sound of heavy breathing from the other side. Slow, deliberate heavy breathing. However, considering how the man’s voice sounded, perhaps he was just
sick. At long last an answer came. “Uh . . . you mean a piece in this workshop?”

“Or something you’ve seen recently,” I said. “Yes.”

“Uh.”

There was another long silence filled with heavy breathing. “No.”

“Okay,” I said. And then a devil took hold of me—a sensation like that of setting fire to that quilt frame and waving it around Mom’s book-stuffed living room. It made my heart pound. My mouth continued on without the least input from my mind. “One other thing. Do you have a woman employee there? Blond, with kind of short hair and curls?”

“No.” The answer was instant and surprisingly clear. “No one like that here.”

He hung up very quickly, leaving me wondering if the haste betrayed anything more than exasperation with my questions. Probably not. And speaking of exasperation, I heard Ben’s voice from the living room. “Look, Les, I’m not mad. I understand I can be very difficult to live with. Just give me a call. We’ll talk it over.”

Right. I marched right out to the living room. The door to my bedroom was open to expose the only full-length mirror in the house. Ben’s phone was closed and sitting atop the coffee table. Because I didn’t think he had progressed—yet—to talking to himself, I assumed he’d just hung up and set the phone down. He was now doing something I’d seen him do the few times we’d stayed in the same house overnight or we’d gone somewhere together and I’d arrived early. He was untying and tying his tie, his expression one of concentrated, frowning intensity, as he adjusted the length so that it fell just over the top half of his belt.

I knew from experience that it was no use at all expecting him to break from this life-and-death activity to give me any attention. The fact that—on a Sunday when he
knew I would drag him over the half of creation that was composed of thrift shops and construction materials—he was wearing khakis, a white shirt that looked good enough for work, and a dark reddish-brown tie that had surely been picked for the fact that it matched his eyes in most light spoke for itself.

After standing behind him with my arms crossed for a while, I gave up on getting him to even so much as ask me what I wanted, turned around, and headed for the back, where I brought the ready furniture to my car—the little bookcase, end tables, and reading desk. I put them in the back of my car. Then the thought hit me that I was leaving the house with a very valuable table in the back.

It was stupid to worry, of course. I knew that. I knew that as well as I knew it was, if not impossible, highly improbable to find a decomposing body in a college Dumpster. As well as I knew that my house could not be broken into—because there was no reason for it to be broken into, of course. But someone had broken in for the express purpose of hanging a stuffed animal and knifing my kitchen table. Insane.

Which meant . . .

I made it to my workshop, put the drawer back in the table, and carried it all through the house to the car. I might leave it there, or I might put it in the trunk of Ben’s car for the trip to Denver. I was very attached to this little table. This little table would make me enough money that I might be able to buy some severely distressed good pieces at thrifts and sell them for a high profit. This little table could be the beginning of my going respectable and not having to worry about keeping E in pancakes.

I looked up from closing the trunk to find Ben watching me with an unfathomable look. As I came into the house, he said, “Why, Dyce?”

I shrugged. “I don’t feel secure.” And I didn’t know if I was reassured about the soundness of my judgment or
scared when he didn’t dispute it. “The table is worth a lot of money.”

“You’re going to take it all the way to Denver, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” I said. “Do you have everything you need? Do you wish to measure your tie or self-flagellate by calling Les again?”

“You know that’s out of line.”

It probably was. After all, Ben’s romantic life was his own, but I felt like he was not giving himself the respect he deserved and found myself annoyed at it. I fumed as I put the finished pieces in the car. I had no idea at all what Ben might have done to bring about this rift with Les. I was perfectly willing—eager at times—to certify that Ben was the most annoying male ever to walk—or drive, or run—the Earth. But in my opinion none of this justified smashing his beloved oxblood vases, much less starting a fire on his stove.

Even if Les had been stupid enough to think it would not set off the fire alarm—and I was fully willing to believe that Les was stupid enough for that, hence his building the fire on the stove—it was inexcusable and reckless. Wasn’t breaking the frames and ripping the pictures enough?

I thought of my own departure from All-ex’s home—packing my bags and driving away, without so much as smashing the framed wedding picture. It could be done. If I could do it, just about anyone could. Truly.

But I didn’t say anything. Instead, we got in the car and drove to the garage where Ben’s tires had been replaced. Apparently they had been punctured in such a way that the tear could not possibly be fixed, something the man spent some time explaining to Ben, possibly to justify the expense of something he called radial belted—which led me to wonder if there was triangular belted, and the inevitable paisley belted. Tires to me were whatever
came with the used car I bought. If I was lucky, they didn’t require changing before I sold the car or ran it into the ground.

Ben, apparently in a show of goodwill designed to mitigate whatever ill will might be caused by keeping his mouth shut tight all the way to the garage, moved the table to his trunk and the other furniture to the backseat himself, without my even having to ask. And if there was a little smile on his lips, I suppose he could be forgiven.

The ride to Denver was uneventful. At this time of year, it was neither parched dry nor too cold. In winter, setting out to Denver was always an adventure. You could leave with the weather in the high eighties, only to see light flurries an hour later and find yourself plowing through a blizzard within an hour and a half or less. I’d driven this road when I could not see any more than a couple of feet in front of the car and had to go very slowly in case another car suddenly appeared in that space.

But in spring, absent the occasional hail shower, it was a pretty if somewhat boring ride—sparsely treed hills, the occasional house or fast-food joint off in the distance off the highway.

Ben and I didn’t talk much—not beyond “Is this music all right?” and “Do you want the air conditioning on?”—because to talk would mean that both of us would touch subjects we didn’t wish to. At least I assumed it was both of us. I knew I had no intention of talking to Ben about what was bothering me. Not about the vandalism in my house, not about my concern for the little table that had prompted me to put it in the back. Not even anything about my date with Officer Wolfe.

And he, for all his through-the-letter-flap curiosity, also didn’t seem intent on prying. And I supposed because of that, I had to honor our gentlemen’s agreement and not ask him about whatever in heaven was going on with Les. More than that, I think he was afraid I would ask him
what he thought he was doing in that relationship, what he hoped to gain, and whether he should allow himself to be treated the way he was being treated.