Murder on Consignment (9 page)

Walls of glass provided stunning views of pristine
gardens, green rolling acreage, and the large stone stable at the back of the property. Scattered about the room, several well-dressed women stood in small groups holding champagne flutes and dainty plates. Their conversation was punctuated with tiny giggles and exaggerated gestures with diamond-studded hands.

Five small round tables were arranged in the middle of the room, each draped with a simple white cloth and low arrangement of blue asters. My eyes roamed to the sidebar
where I could see several platters of goodies and a row of flutes filled with a sparkling, amber-colored liquid. This was my type of tea party.

“Sister, you’re here.” A willowy, dark-haired-woman lightly embraced my sister, air-kissing each of her cheeks. I was taken aback by her appearance. Her shoulder length hair was cut to perfectly accent strong cheekbones, dark round eyes, and full
pouty lips. She was beautiful! I couldn’t help but wonder why, with a woman like Patricia Farrell, James would have an affair.

She shook my hand graciously as Mary France
s introduced us. I noticed Patricia’s eyes lingered on my scarf for a few extra seconds. It must have made a good decision in wearing it; I noticed her pouty lips turning slightly upward as she studied it.

“Excuse me, everyone,” Patricia said, turning away from us and tapping on her champagne flute to command the room’s attention. “Sister’s here. We can get started now. Please find a seat.” 

She ushered us right past the refreshment bar and toward one of the little round tables. I managed to grab some champagne as we passed, but that was it. I guess the goodies would have to wait.

“I thought you two would enjoy sitting with my daughter-in-law, Morgan,” Patricia said.

A thin, blonde girl rose to greet us. Her handshake jingled from the collection of gold bangles on her wrist.

We barely had time to introduce ourselves before Patricia started the meeting. Having moved to the front of the room, she was holding a clip-board and pen in her hand. “It’s my pleasure, ladies, to serve once again a
s the chairwoman of St. Joan’s garage sale. As you know, we’ve partnered with the St. Benedict Convent to raise money for the Woman’s Transitional Day Center. This charity event is very dear to my heart and I’m proud to say that last year we were able to raise over ten thousand dollars with this sale alone.” 

Everyone clapped. Well, if you could call it that. It was more like tapping. I tried to mimic Morgan’s rim-rod straight posture and the way she lightly tapped her fingers against the palm of her left hand. These girls would not fit
in at a Sox game. Although, judging from my first impression, Morgan probably wasn’t a huge baseball fan.

Patricia raised her hand and the tapping instantly stopped. “
I have an announcement,” she said, pausing and letting her eyes roam the room for effect. “I’m happy to report that James and I will be matching the amount of funds raised at this year’s sale.” That garnered another round of tapping, even more enthusiastic than the last. Whispers of amazement broke out among the guests. 

“Please, please,” Patricia’s hand w
as up again, modestly waving away the compliments. “Remember this is for a good cause. Think how many women we will help with our efforts this year. The Woman’s Day Center is counting on us. Let’s just make this the best sale ever!”

I joined in with my own palm tapping and glanced over at Morgan who was regarding me curiously while munching happily on a tiny cream cheese-filled tart. “Want one,” she asked, sliding her plate toward me.

I scooped one up and popped it in my mouth, smiling while I chewed. Hmm, maybe I had misjudged this prissy blond with perfect highlights. She
was
sharing nicely.

“So, you’re married to Patricia’s son?” I asked, attempting to break the ice.

“Yes, James Junior; we all call him J.J. Two years now,” she replied smiling and giving a little wave with her left hand so I could see the proof—a rock that was surely worth more than three years of my average income. “He was just promoted to CFO of JimDog Corporation,” she stated proudly.

I’ll bet he was.

“We’re living here now, but we’ll be building a home in Schaumburg.” She glanced around and lowered her voice as if sharing a secret. “I hear they have great schools and, well …. J.J. and I want to start a family soon.” Her golden bob bounced around her face as she spoke. I squinted at her scalp, looking for a few dark roots. None. She must spend a fortune on her hair.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Mary Frances chimed in, “I’m sure you’ll have a beautiful family.”

I smiled and nodded. About what, I’m not sure. Beside our mutual appreciation for cream cheese tarts, I was finding very little in common with this twenty-something girl. I’d dealt with her type before. Namely in college, where MRS ranked right up there with BA and MA. It always amazed me how much time some women put into grooming themselves for a chance at a lofty marriage--the right clothes, the right attitude, the right social appearances, all so they could meet Mr. Rich and be set for life. I was always too independent to buy into that crap. I spent my college years developing my own career. Although, maybe I needed to rethink that plan, I thought, glancing down at my outfit and then back at Morgan who was rooting through a designer bag that would bring enough money on-line to pay my rent for three months.

Deflated, I turned my focus back to Patricia
who was going from table to table passing out committee assignments and schedules. Mary Frances and Morgan continued to chat away.

I watched Patrici
a carefully as she mingled with the attendees. Was she the well-dressed woman that paid a thousand dollars for the Sokolov file? Was she driving around town, murdering second-hand dealers, and checking them off her list? She didn’t strike me as the murdering type, but who knew? Maybe she hired out her dirty deeds? 

Morgan, attempting to draw me back into the conversation, tapped my arm politely. “Cool scarf,” she said
, pointing to my neck. “I think I had one of those once.” She sipped her champagne and then added with a sweet smile, “You must have really enjoyed being a Daisy Scout.”

Mary Frances honed in on the scarf and snickered.

Morgan, on the other hand, was regarding me with a little more interest. “What was your troop number? We were 2511. Didn’t you just love summer camp? I went all the way through high school in the scouts. I loved....”

Blah, blah, blah
… I drowned her out and fingered my scarf. Daisies? That was the grade school version of Girl Scouts, which I’d tried once, but they kicked me out when I ate all the profits for the troop cookie sale.

Actually, forget the Daisy scarf. What I really needed to do was get away from Morgan the airhead and find some connections between the Farrells and the recent murders. Somewhere in this h
ouse was proof that one of the Farrells was a cold-blooded killer. If I found it, I would be one step closer to fulfilling my promise to Shep. Plus, as an extra bonus, I could prove to Sean that I was right about the Farrell connection.

If only I could figure out a way to do some sneaking around. “Excuse me, Morgan,” I said, interrupting
a recantation of her favorite scout service project. I leaned over and whispered discretely in her ear, “Where’s the ladies room?” 

She smiled and pointed. “There’s a powder room right off the front foyer, to your left. Do you need me to show you?”

“Oh, no. I think I saw it on the way in.” I slid my chair back and slipped out quietly. Once I was in the hallway, I considered my options. I could hear the clinking of dishes coming from my far left, where I assumed the maid was slaving away in the kitchen. The rest of the house seemed relatively quiet. JimDog was more than likely at the corporate office, working hard. That left JimDog Jr. who must be at work also; after all, he needed to keep his nose to the grindstone if he was going to pay for that new house in Schaumberg.

Sure
the coast was clear, I made my way toward the foyer, but instead of turning into the powder room, I snuck through a magnificent pair of oak-paneled doors. I’d guessed correctly. I was standing in JimDog’s den.

Chapter 12

I shut
the doors quietly behind me, headed straight for a king-size mahogany desk and began searching. Four drawers later, I had nothing but the usual office type stuff. The only thing I learned was that this family had racked up more debt than the federal government. In fact, they should have named their first-born Chase instead of James Junior.

Next, I got down on all fours and examined und
er the desk. Everyone knew the really incriminating stuff was usually taped to the underside of the desk. Nothing. I stood and rechecked the desk drawers for a secret compartment before moving to the file cabinet, which turned out to be nothing but a storage place for family photos and newspaper clippings. Interesting, I’m sure, but I didn’t have time to go through them in detail and a quick scan didn’t reveal anything unusual.

Mindful of
time, I sighed and took one last glance around the room. There had to be something … there had to be … of course! There’s always a safe hidden behind a picture.

I moved to a wall of pictures and started checking behind fr
ames. I stopped, realizing it would need to be a sizeable picture to hide the safe. There was only one of those in the room—a four by three oil painting of JimDog standing outside his first franchise, holding one of his famous dogs and wearing a cheesy grin. Not my idea of good art, but hey.

I ran my fingers carefully along the back perimeter of the frame and found what I was looking for, hinges. I pulled on the picture, which swung away from the wall like a door, and presto—a safe.  I stared at the digital number board for a second and even punched a few of the numbers, but I knew there was no way I could crack the code. I also knew, just as sure as I was standing there, that inside
that safe was the envelope Pauline found. It had to be there. James killed her for it, hadn’t he? It would only make sense he’d store it away in this safe.

Frustrated, I repositioned the painting and turned to leave. That’s when I noticed it—a book that
looked a lot like the ones I saw in the dumpster at The Classy Closet.

I dashed across the room and took a quick look. It was a huge, leather bound book; the only one like it on the entire shelf. A number one on the bottom of the spine indicated that it was the first in a series, but I didn’t see another volume.
Huh? That’s strange
.

I was about to pluck it from the shelf and take a closer look when I heard a noise outside the room. I quickly turned away and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against the wood.

“Mr. Farrell, you’re home.” It was the maid talking.

“Yes, I left some papers in my den.” JimDog’s voice sounded deeper than I expected.

Oh no! How was I going to explain this? I looked around for a hiding place. None. Not even a closet. Could I get to the window, open it, and squeeze my big behind through in time? I didn’t think so.

“Mrs. Farrell
is in the conservatory with the ladies. They’re discussing the sale,” the maid informed him.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot that
meeting was this afternoon. Well, no problem. I’ll just get my papers and get out of the way.”

The door started to open. I did the only thing I could think of at the time.

“Call the cops!” JimDog shouted. “There’s a dead woman in here!”

I kept my eyes closed and focused on staying limp as JimDog continued yelling. Lying with my left ear against the floor, I could hear the click-clacking of high-heeled women resounding through t
he floor-boards; the noise resembled a herd of buffalo running over the prairie.

High-pitched v
oices descended upon the room. Panic had broken out among the tea ladies. “Someone call 911! Is she dead?” 

Then out of the chaos came a clear
voice of authority. “Excuse me. Let me in, please.” It was Mary Frances. She flipped me over and began patting my cheeks. I tried not to giggle.

“She’s alright,” Mary Franc
es assured everyone. “She’s passed out, that’s all. She’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Someone, go get a cool cloth,” Patricia ordered. I let my eyelids flutter open. She was hovering above, taking charge of the situation. “And, someone help me get her to the sofa,” she added.

I tried to maintain my dazed look and limp body as JimDog scooped me off the floor. He hauled me into a formal looking room and placed me on chintz-covered couch. The click-clacking group of ladies followed on his heels. They were all abuzz with excitement. Probably wasn’t often that someone passed out at one of their functions.

I let Mary Frances put the cool cloth on my forehead before fully opening my eyes. I sat up slowly and heaved a dramatic sigh. “What happened?” I asked, looking about me innocently.

“I think you passed out,” Mary Frances said. There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. After all, she’d seen me pull this shenanigan many a time when we were kids.

“Are you feeling better?” Patricia inquired, still looking concerned. Morgan was standing next to her with an extra cloth.

“Who are you and what were you doing in my office?” I looked over to where JimDog stood, his dark features scrutinizing me. The look on his face definitely wasn’t one of concern.

“James!” Patricia admonished. “This is Phillipena. She’s Mary Frances’s sister.”

JimDog’s eyes darted angrily from Mary Frances and then back to me. His territory had been invaded, and I don’t think nepotism with the Godly was high on his list of plausible excuses.

“I’m sorry,” I said in my weakest voice. “I started to feel ill and was making my way to the restroom. I must have made a wrong turn. I think maybe I was having an allergic reaction to something I ate.”

Mary Frances joined in my charade. “Oh my goodness, were there nut products in any of the food?” she asked, implying that I had a nut allergy. She knew darn well that I didn’t have any food allergies. In fact, food and I were completely compatible.

Patricia wheeled around to the maid. “Anna?”

The maid sheepishly spoke up, “I did use crushed pecans in the tart shells.”

“
Oh, I’m so sorry,” Patricia moved closer and was poking at my skin. “Do you have a rash? Trouble breathing? Maybe we should take her to the hospital?”

“No, no …,” I waved off her concern, sat up, and put my feet on the ground. “I’m much better now. Just embarrassed. I’m so sorry to have caused all this trouble.” I stood up and shot a quick glance toward JimDog. I couldn’t tell if he was buying my act or not. He mumbled something
under his breath and moved in the direction of his den. He probably wanted to check things over. I needed to scram.

I turned to Mrs. Farrell and assured her once again that I was feeling better, thanked he
r for her hospitality, and made a hasty retreat for the door. Mary Frances was right behind me.

Once outside, she grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. “Stellar performance, Sis,” she said.

“Thanks for covering for me. That was a great bit about the nut allergy.”

“Just don’t put me in that situation again. I don’t like being dishonest.”

“Well, I’ll have you know that it was worth it,” I said, smiling. “I found something.”

“You did? What?”

“A book.”

“A book?” Mary Frances seemed frustrated.

“A book that suspiciously looks like the ones that were at the Retro Metro and The Classy Closet. It’s a connection.”

“Okay. If you say so.” She didn’t sound as enthusiastic as I felt. “I’ll see you Monday morning, right? We’ll have to start sorting and marking i
tems for the sale. Come by the parish hall by nine o’clock. We’re the first shift; nine until one.”

I glanced once more at the house as we hugged good-bye. I had on
e of those creepy feelings I was being watched. JimDog was tied into all this. I was sure of it. My gut feeling was that he was the male shopper Owen saw inside the Retro Metro the day Pauline was killed. All I needed to do was get Owen to make a positive identification and I’d have my proof. I’d track him down first thing in the morning. For now, I was going to take a spin by The Classy Closet to see if I could find Jane’s sister-in-law, Margie.

*

The next day, Owen stood next to me, hair matted on one side, smelling slightly stale, and looking more shaggy than usual. I wondered how he was holding up after Pauline’s death.

He rubbed the stubble on his chin as he squin
ted at the pictures I brought. I’d copied a few online photos of both James and Patricia at various black tie events; the other one was a picture I found of James Junior from a recent copy of
Chicago’s Young Entrepreneurs Magazine
.

While he looked at the pictures, I checked out his place. Other than some annoying pop music blasting from his stereo, Owen’s apartment was pretty nice. Surprisingly, for being such a shaggy looking dude, he seemed to know how to clean house.

“Nope, it wasn’t any of these people,” he finally answered.

“What? You didn’t see any of these people in the Retro on the day Pauline
was killed?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“No. Sorry.” He handed over the photos, just to have me shove them back at him.

“Look again, please.”

“It wasn’t them,” he insisted.

I didn’t know what to say. I’d been so sure. Although, once I thought about it, Owen not being able to make a positive ID didn’t really prove anything. They could have been wearing disguises. I would have, if I were casing a place and planning a murder.

I got some quick directions to Tanner’s place before leaving Owen’s apartment. Luckily, Tanner lived nearby in
Downer’s Grove.

On the drive
over, I thought about the case. After leaving the Farrell’s yesterday, I stopped by The Classy Closet and talked to Margie. Unfortunately, she didn’t remember any shoppers that fit the description Owen had given me. She was, however, surprised to hear I’d found the box of books in the garbage. She swore that Jane found a buyer for the books and was preparing to ship them. So either that deal fell through and Jane pitched the books, or, more than likely, the murderer tossed the books into the garbage to cover their tracks. I wondered what could possibly be in the envelope that would warrant murder.

My head spun with possibilities. Maybe a birth certificate showing JimDog as the father of Alex Sokolov. Did Patri
cia know about Alex? If so, it could be embarrassing, especially to a society queen like Patricia Farrell. Maybe she was the murderer. But would an illegitimate child be embarrassing enough to commit murder? I doubted it, but then again, after my last case, I had learned never to underestimate what motivated the high society types or what they’d stoop to in order to protect themselves. The one that pointed a gun at my head last year was a good example.

I also knew
the two biggest motives for murder were money and love. With that said, there was one Farrell I hadn’t considered yet, James Junior. He was next in line for the hot dog dynasty. What would happen if another heir, like Alex the Hairy One, showed up and staked claim to the family fortune? Did J.J. know about Alex? I needed to find out.

A half hour later, I pulled in front of the junky looking two-bedroom house that, according to Owen, Tanner rented with four other guys. The small black top driveway was jammed with clunkers, the lawn cluttered with ten-speeds, and the front porch featured a raggedy, lopsided couch and a fully racked weight-lifting bench. I wasn’t sure how anyone could manage not to go nuts with five people in a two-bedroom house; but college-age guys could probably survive easily in such substandard conditions. Kind of like pigs packed in an overcrowded pen. It didn’t really matter how messy things got, just as long as there was enough slop to go around.

I stepped over a skateboard and rapped on the door. A stocky, dark-haired kid appeared. He was wearing baggy sweats and a stained white tank.

“Hi. Is Tanner around?”

He looked me up and down. Probably trying to decide how I knew Tanner. Finally, he shrugged and replied, “He’s usually around. Want to come in and check?”

I thought
for a second. “Actually, can you go check and send him out here?” The house looked toxic.

A coupl
e minutes later, a guy wearing a black and white skull and cross-bones sweatshirt scuffled out of the house. A shock of black hair peeked out from under the hood. “Yeah?” he asked, approaching me with dark look.

I introduced myself and shook his hand.

“I already talked to the cops. I told them everything I know.” He started to turn away.

“Shep asked me to look into this,” I blurted trying to keep his attention. “He also told me that there’s no way you had anything to do with Pauline’s death.”

He turned back and faced me straight on. “I would never have hurt her,” he said bitingly.

“I believe you.”

“I can’t believe she’s dead. It seems so…”

“Senseless,” I offered.

He nodded.

“I can’t even imagine how you feel, Tanner. All I know is that you and everyone who loved Pauline deserves to know the truth about her deat
h. Will you answer a few of my questions?”