Murder on Consignment (18 page)

I stood in the middle of the bathroom with my hands on my hips. If I didn
’t know better, I’d sworn the place had been picked clean. There wasn’t anything personal anywhere. No personal correspondence, address books, or even photos. J.J. and Morgan led a very impersonal, sterile life. Weird.

Perhaps the weirdest thing of all was the fact that all of Morgan’s stuff was still there
, including her cosmetics. There was no way she’d planned her escape. A girl like her would never leave without her full makeup ensemble.

Of course, she could just buy more. That’s what I would do. I mean, if she wanted to disappear quickly, it wouldn’t do to drag a thirty pound bag of cosmetics out the front door.

Finally, I admitted defeat and left. I found Patricia waiting for me in the front room. She was drinking some sort of clear liquid on ice in a crystal glass. She raised it and jingled the ice in my direction.

“No thanks, it’s a little early for me.”
Although, it probably wouldn’t be if I was married to the weenie boss.

“What did you find?” she asked, sipping away. She still hadn’t bothered to clean herself up.

“Absolutely nothing.”

She didn’t seem surprised.

“You said that Morgan had hired a private investigator. Do you know who?”

“No idea.”

“Do you know if she has an attorney?”

“Probably, but I wouldn’t know who.”

That was a dead end. There were only about ten thousand divorce attorneys in the Chicago area.

“It does seem like
Morgan didn’t plan her escape. She didn’t pack anything. Not even her cosmetics.”

Patricia gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. “Oh, no. That means that…. Do you think she’s de—”

I held up a hand. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Like I said, I’m pretty sure she’s off with Alex Sokolov. I have the neighbor’s story to verify that.”

She narrowed her eyes and slammed back the rest of her drink. “You have to understand how important it is that you find Morgan before she does something to ruin my son’s reputation or provoke my husband into doing something violent.”

“Quite frankly, Patricia, I don’t think your husband needs much provocation. He seems to have a short temper.”   

“James is just being protective of his son.”

“His son or his money. I mean, that’s what we’re really talking about, isn’t it? If Morgan sues J.J. in divorce court, she may get half of J.J’s company shares. Especially if they were acquired after he and Morgan were married. Most divorce courts consider anything acquired after marriage as marital property and it’s subject to equal distribution.” I knew my stuff. I had handled the portfolios of many divorcees in my professional days. I kept going, “That means any growth of the business can be attributed to spousal support. JimDogs has really grown since J.J. became CFO, hasn’t it? I mean, look at the new store they’re opening in Skokie. How many other stores have opened since J.J. came on board? Wouldn’t Morgan be entitled to her share of that growth?”

“I bet it
really sticks in James’ crawl that Morgan will get shares in JimDogs,” I continued. “Especially since he thought all along that J.J. had signed a prenuptial agreement before the marriage.”

“Yes, James was careless. He never should have taken J.J. at his word. J.J. was young, stupid, in love. He let that girl trick him.”

“And now what? You think your husband has killed her?”

“I don’t know what to think. That’s what I’m paying you for. Find out. I need to know.”

I watched her extract a Gin bottle from the liquor cabinet and pour another glassful. She topped it off with a splash of tonic water—no lime. Geez, one gin and tonic like that and I’d be flopping on the floor.

I thought maybe I was starting to understand where
Patricia was coming from and why it was important to her that I find Morgan alive. Patricia had lived under James’ control all these years, put up with his infidelity and who knows what else.
She was no dummy. She could see that history was repeating itself. Just like his father, J.J. was rising in the weenie business and he’d taken a mistress. Maybe she wanted to save Morgan from the pain she’d endured in her own marriage.

“Why have you stayed with him all these years, Patricia? Why did you put up with him having an affair? Why didn’t you just leave?”

She moved to the windows. The bright sun made her robed silhouette appear small and shapeless. I watched her tip back her head and drain yet another glass of gin. There was a long pause before she answered, her speech slightly slurred, “What options did I have?”

With that said, she moved back toward the liquor cabinet for a refill. I showed myself out. I’d seen enough.

Chapter 21

Shep was sitting up in bed staring blankly at the television when I walked into his room carrying two bags of Korean takeout. I’d brought the food to ease my guilt over not visiting for a
couple days.

“Look,” I said, holding up the large white bag marked
Seochi’s BBQ. I knew it was one of Shep’s favorite places. “I brought all your favorites: kimchi, tofu soup, and kalbi.” I crossed the room and opened the curtain, allowing some light to stream in. Shep looked tired and pale.

“Oh, yummy,” he said, with less e
nthusiasm than I’d hoped for. I set his bedside table with Styrofoam containers and helped him open the plastic package of silverware.

“I haven’t seen you for a couple of days. I was hoping to hear that you made progress on finding Pauline’s killer.”

I chuckled. Not because something was funny. It was more of a nervous type of chuckle. Shep’s mood seemed sour. I didn’t want to add to it by telling him I hadn’t made much progress.

He
was too shaky to balance a spoonful of liquid, so I moved the tofu soup and pushed some kalbi chicken his way.

He started fi
ddling with the remote attached to the side of his bed. I turned sideways so I could see the TV and still manage to talk to him. He flipped to channel three. The noon news was on. He dug into his food, eating slowly, but seeming to enjoy the chicken. At least he still had a good appetite.

The scene switched from the weather man back to the anchorwoman who was announcing the local stories of the day: the mayor was givi
ng a statement on gang violence; there was a mid-town robbery; and uh oh … a murder in the Ukrainian Village. The anchorwoman referred to a field reporter who was live at the scene.

This is Lindsey Barnes live at the scene of the brutal murder of Alex Sokolov, a young graduate of Princeton University, who has just recently suffered the loss of his mother to cancer. Police are paying particular
ly close attention to this murder which they believe occurred sometime yesterday morning.

Alex Sokolov
? I was all ears as the camera flashed back to the anchorwoman in studio. “Do the police have any leads?” she asked the reporter.

Yes. A witness has come forward and given a detailed description of a possible suspect who was seen prowling around the house prior to the discovery of Alex’s death.

I cringed as the screen filled with, a crude, but pretty close likeness of me. Thank goodness the old bitty suffered from cataracts, no telling how much more detail she would have been able to give the police artists. As it was, the artists had completely missed the mark on my hair. On the screen it looked like a fluffy cone of bright orange cotton candy. He’d definitely made my eyes too close together and drawn my nose too wide. No one would think that was me, would they?

I glanced sideways at Shep. He was bus
y with his food and not paying attention to the television.

Lindsey Barnes was back on the screen. She was standing in front of
Calina Sokolov’s house with a mic in her hand.

If you’ve seen this person or have any information concerning this case, please call this number immediately.

A number ticked across the bottom of the screen. I was trying to remain casual, not wanting to alarm Shep, but the tremble in my hand caused me to spill soup down my front. I dabbed at it with a napkin, my mind racing. Alex Sokolov was murdered. When did that happen? Was he in his house dead when I was there? Where’s Morgan? Was anyone I knew calling that number right now and turning me in?

The anchorwoman came back on and wrapped up the segment with an emotional plea.

Please don’t hesitate to get involved. Call the police if you have any information. This close neighborhood of Russian immigrants has seen its share of sadness lately. Please help the authorities solve this crime.

I looked back at Shep who had given up on the food and flopped back onto his pillows. He must not have heard the television anchorwoman mention Alex Sokolov’s name, or he would have recognized it. I reached over and flipped to a different channel. “Are you in pain today, Shep?  You seem really…”

“What? Like I’m in a bad mood? I’m sick of being in here.”

I backed up a little, unsure of how to handle the shift in his
demeanor. “Things must be getting better. You’re not wheezing as much. I bet they’ll let you out soon.”

He sighed, making a half-attempt at a smile. “Yeah. Sorry, today’s just a down day.”

“Don’t apologize, Shep.”

Except for the whirl of machinery and the constant beeping of his monitors, the room grew uncomfortably silent. I started straightening his blankets, trying to make him more comfortable.

He placed his hand over mine. “You know, doll. I think I need some time alone today. Could you come back sometime this weekend?”

My eyes stung. “Sure, I understand,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I’ll come back on Sunday.” I leaned in and gave him a hug, hanging on longer than necessary.

I barely made it back to my parked car before I broke down. Once my sobs started, they wouldn’t stop. Like a crazed idiot, I sat there, my head against the steering wheel, my body shaking uncontrollably. Things were spinning out of control—Shep’s illness, this thing with the Farrells, the wedding. I was tempted to drive straight home, finish off a bottle of wine, and take a long nap. Deep down, however, I knew I needed to find some answers. It was the best thing I could do to help Shep. 

I checked my review mirror and wiped under my swollen eyes. One thing for sure, there was no way I was going to be able to get much done with my picture plastered all over the news. There was only one thing to do. Drastic, sure. But necessary.

*

After a quick trip to the neighborhood pharmacy, I was back in my apartment, drinking a glass of wine and setting the timer for twe
nty minutes. The directions said to do a test run on a small portion of hair, but I didn’t have time for that. I needed to be at Stumpy’s pumpkin patch in two hours.

As soon as timer went
off, I hopped in the shower, shampooed and rinsed. I started feeling nervous. I’d never been a brunette before. I had to admit, dying my hair had sounded like a good idea; but now, as I stood looking in the mirror, I wasn’t so sure. It was definitely a transformation … of some type.

I went through my basic routine: gargle, brush, pit-stick, lipstick and mascara, and lots of goop to hold in the
frizzes. When I was done, I stepped back and surveyed the final results. Something was askew. I think it was my freckles. They didn’t match the black hair. I looked like a paint-by-number picture gone bad.  

Oh, well. Not much I could do about it at
the moment. Besides, I was only going to a pumpkin patch. Who would care?

Chapter 22

“What have you done?” It was my mother. She was standing by my Aunt Maeve who was staring wide-eyed at my new hairdo.

Both of them were wearing dark blue bib overalls. My Aunt, however, had paired hers with a flannel shirt and a pair of brown boots, while my mother wore a crisp white button-down shirt and, believe it or not, a small strand of pearls. My mother and her sister were a study in contrast; although at the moment they were both wearing the same shocked expression on their faces.

“What happened to your hair?” My sister, Anne asked, joining my little group of admirers. My other sister Kathleen was right behind her.

“You’ve gone Goth!” Kathleen exclaimed.

“I have not. I’ve just changed my hair color, that’s all.”

“Why?” Anne asked, rubbing her protruding pregnant belly.

“Yeah, what’s wrong with red?” Kathleen added.

I looked around, suddenly feeling like the odd one out. Everyone around me sported different shades of red: Mom and Maeve, a beautiful auburn; Kathleen, a head of blondish-red curls, and Anne, long straight fiery red hair.

My hand involuntarily moved to my own hair. “I well ….” I
was trying to find a suitable explanation, but what was I going to say? As a red-head, I was a wanted woman. Black was my only choice. “Does it look that awful?”

They all
stammered, but no one came up with a reply. That is, except Anne’s four year old who pointed at me from afar and yelled, “Look, Aunt Pippi dressed up as a witch.”

I practically shriveled with embarrassment. I wanted to run and hide, but I couldn’t because in about fifteen minutes I was going to have to practice my part in this whole fiasco. So I did the next best thing.

I walked right up to a scarecrow, stole the straw hat off his head, shoved my hair inside and pulled the drawstring tight. Then I saddled up to the keg and held out my plastic cup for a fill-up.

My Uncle Chuck was manning the tap. “Why hello there,
Pippi! You’ve sure grown since I saw you last.”

My Uncle Chuck always said that, even though I
was way into adulthood, he couldn’t quit commenting about my growth.

“Hi Uncle Chuck. Nice rehearsal party. Where’s Cherry?”

“Oh, she’ll be coming around the corner any minute,” he chuckled and tipped his cowboy hat.

I glanced around and spotted her—the source of over a week’s worth of angst, my cousin Cherry. I glared her down as she approached with her future hubby on her arm. Was it wrong for the maid of honor to wish so much evil and hateful things on the bride?

“There you are, Phillipena! Oh, can you believe I’m going to be Mrs. John Garcia tomorrow?”

I practically choked on my beer. I’
d only met the guy briefly and forgotten his last name was Garcia. It just hit me. My cousin was going to become one of my favorite ice cream flavors … Cherry Garcia.

I struggled not to laugh as I shook John’s hand and made small talk. He seemed nice enough. Who knew? Maybe ice-cream was the way to go.

I managed a couple more cups of beer before the minister arrived and started the rehearsal. It was easy enough. All I had to do was walk, smile, hold the bridal bouquet, smile, and walk again. No problem.

Afterwards,
Stumpy’s party caterers brought out large trays of sandwiches and kettles of chili. Everyone sat around discussing the next day’s events.

“It will be wonderful,” Cherry was gushing. “After we’re pronounced man and wife,” she looked lovingly into John’s eyes when she said that, “we’re going to light the bonfire.”

I perked up. No one had said anything about a bonfire. I guess that was Cherry’s alternative to lighting a wedding candle.

“Then we’ll all gather around and hold hands and everyone can give us a life blessing. After the blessing ceremony, we’ll pass out the roasting sticks and hotdogs.”

I glanced at my mother. I thought she was going to croak. I moved out of earshot and over to the food table. I decided to skip the double stacked sandwiches and instead refilled my beer. Uncle Chuck was nowhere to be seen, so I just stood by the tap and kept refilling. It wasn’t the best beer, but at that point, anything would do.

*

The next thing I knew, I was waking up in … “What happened,” I gasped. I shot straight up, wide awake. I took a second, trying to get my bearings, before jumping out of bed. I was still fully dressed.

I walked out to the kitchen. Not my kitchen. Sean’s.

He looked up from the skillet where he was scrambling eggs. “I hate your hair.”

“Yeah, me too. What am I doing here?” I grabbed for a mug of coffee like it was the only lifejacket on a sinking ship.

“You don’t remember?”

I thought back to the night before. I had a slight recollection of waving my hat in the air while riding astride a bail of straw all
the while shouting something about Annie Oakley being the true unsung hero of the west. I rubbed my temples and moaned. “Oh, was I that bad?”

“Y
our sister, Kathleen, said you drank half the keg by yourself. The good news is that Cherry was also two sheets to the wind, so I don’t think she noticed your condition.”

“I’m not worried about Cherry. It’s my mother who’s going to kill me.”

“You’re on your own with her,” he said, passing a plate of eggs my way. I took one look at the wet looking yellow mush and almost hurled.

“Eat. It’s the best thing for a hangover.” He sat down on the stool next to me with his own plate heaped full.

“What, did my parents call you to come rescue me or something?”

“No. I went out to
Stumpy’s to find you around eleven. I was waiting at your place and you never came home, so I was worried. You were too sick to be on your own, and there was no way I was going to be able to get you up your steps, so I brought you here. Your parents agreed that it was the best alternative. Especially in light of all that’s happened lately. They’re still worried that someone is after you.”

I picked at my eggs.

“Is that why you did that to your hair?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“Your hair. Did you change the color because you’re trying to throw off the person who is after you, or is it because a police sketch of you is all over the news?” He opened a cabinet drawer, pulled out a bottle of aspirin and slid it across to me.

I grima
ced. I should have guessed he would already know about that. I took my time opening the aspirin bottle, trying to formulate a good answer. “Okay. I was at Alex Sokolov’s house and ran into that old woman, Mrs. Stanislav, who by the way, gave a lousy description of me. I look a lot better than that drawing that was on the news.”

I paused,
but he didn’t offer any comment.

“Well, anyway, all I did wa
s look in the window. I was trying to find Morgan Farrell, which I was hired to do, so I had every right to be there. Mrs. Stanislav is the real criminal. Did you know she tried to kill me?  She shot at me with a big gun. I bet she doesn’t have a FOID card for it either. You should check into that.”

“It’s nowhere in my jurisdiction.”

“Are you going to turn me in?”

“I feel obligated to. You’re a murder
suspect.” He finished his eggs and drained his coffee. “I’m a cop. Sooner than later, someone is going to figure out it’s you, even with your black hair, and then I’m going to be in big trouble. Everyone knows that we ....”

“That we what?”

He shrugged it off. “Probably some of the guys already recognize you; they’re just showing me respect by not reporting it yet.”

“No one would honestly think that I killed Alex Sokolov.”

He stood and moved to the sink with his plate and mug. “No, no one that actually knows you would think that you murdered the guy, Pippi. It’s just that you need go in and get this cleared up. You were witnessed at the scene of a crime. If anything, you might have information that could help the investigation.”

“Can’t you
call someone and clear it up for me?”

“I’d be happy to go in with you and help in any way I can;
but it’s not as simple as making a call. I mean, what do you want me to say?
Hey guys, that’s my girlfriend in the police sketch, but it’s all a mix up. No need to bother her about it
.”

Girlfriend? Did he just call me his girlfriend? The idea both thrilled me and ticked me off. I thought better to ask him about it though. Instead, I stayed on topic. “Yeah, guess that won’t
work.” It was hard to think all this through with such a fuzzy brain. “I will go in, I promise.  First thing tomorrow morning. Just let me get through today. I have that hotdog thing, and then the wedding. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” 

“No, I think you ought to go in now. I’ll get showered and we’ll go together.”

“Fine,” I replied. “I’ll get tidied up a bit, too. Can I use your guest bathroom?”

He came across the kitchen and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, Pip. And don’t worry; it’ll all work out okay.”

I smiled, but kept my focus down, shifting eggs from one side of the plate to the other. I didn’t dare look up. He’d see the guilt written all over my face. Instead, I kept shifting eggs until I heard the shower running full steam. Then I scribbled a quick note, took his keys, and quietly slipped out the door.

Sean was going to freak when he f
ound the note and realized I had left. At least I had the courtesy of letting him know where he’d be able to find his car and keys. I wondered if he would come after me; he pretty much knew my itinerary for the day. Hopefully, he had enough going on that he wouldn’t bother chasing me down.

Speaking of which, I only had a couple of hours before I was due at the new JimDog’s grand opening. Leaving Sean’s c
ar in Stumpy’s parking lot with the keys under the mat, I got in my rental and high tailed it back to my apartment for a quick shower and change. Even though my locks had changed color, I still grabbed the black wig with heavy bangs and smeared on some extra heavy makeup to cover my freckles. If anything, I was consistent. 

The whole way to Skokie, I kept glancing in my mirror, wondering if Sean would put out an APB on me, or just hunt me down himself. Neither was a good o
ption. Maybe I should have followed his advice and turned myself in.

I arrived in Skokie with no time to spare. The new JimDog store had made quite the transformation in the last few days. The building was completed
and included a new giant weenie, JimDog’s trademark, on the roof. A large banner and a giant, forty-foot high balloon marked the occasion.

Things were already bustling by the time I walked inside. I caught a glimps
e of Ms. Ashcroft across the room. She was standing by the kitchen with J.J. and another woman.

I readjusted my wig and approached cautiously, hoping my disguise would fool them.

They all turned in my direction as I approached. “There you are,” Ms. Ashcroft said. “I have your costume ready. It’s hanging in the restroom. Did you sign the paperwork?”  

I handed over the envelope noticing that the secretary and J.J. were standing awfully close to each other. The type of close that suggested intimacy.

At first glance, they made an unlikely couple. He was dressed in a classic cut suit which would have looked great if his head didn’t look like it belonged on the eight pound rack at the Ten Pin. The woman next to him was also dressed classically—like a classic bimbo, that is. Short skirt, tight shirt, and heels high enough to challenge a stilt walker.

I nodded and uttered a quick thank you, not wanting to chance it that J.J. might recognize my voice. As it was, he’d barely glanced my way so far. His eyes were pretty much stuck on the short-skirted woman.

I headed for the back of the restaurant to change.

Once inside the restroom, I stepped into the six foot weenie and zipped up. The costume came complete with a long sleeve white tunic, leggings, gloves, and foot covers. The
polyfoam body zipped right up to my neck and then attached to a large matching head complete with eyes, a toothy smile and a mustard streak up the middle. I looked very yummy.

O
ut in the restaurant, the doors were opening and the meat-loving crowds pouring in. My job was to circulate, hand out stickers and balloons to kids, and be available for photo opportunities. I got the hang of it pretty fast. Actually, I was good at being a giant hotdog. The kids loved me.

I was getting into a
groove when, over the happy shrieks and giggles, I heard JimDog’s booming voice. “Welcome to JimDog’s,” he was saying to a young family hunkered down in one of the booths.

I lumbered over in his direction, but stopped short as I saw J.J. approach. JimDog didn’t look happy to see him. He grabbed his arm and pulled him
over by the back kitchen entrance. I followed, but hovered around the corner and tried to stay out of sight as best I could in the giant hot dog suit. I strained to catch their conversation.

“I see you brought
her
with you,” JimDog said.