Skirting the Grave (7 page)

—JOHN T. MOLLOY

“Boy, I hate to do this,” Werner whispered, practically kissing my ear, so I pretended to be half-asleep; then he moved me away from him, lowered me so my head rested on the sofa pillow instead of his shoulder. He stood and covered me with Aunt Fee’s Irish knit afghan. Both of us checked on Nick, asleep, half sitting up, looking hunky dishy, to tell the truth, and I feared that someday I might be forced to choose between them. How could I be half in lust with both of them?

“Thanks, Lytton,” I said, yawning, too tired to figure it out. Time would surely tell. The scent of coffee and pancakes woke me at about the same time as Nick. “Where’s Werner?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

“He’s been cooking,” Isobel said, handing us each a cup of coffee. “With me.”

Gee, I got a little jealous lurch at that, then I remembered him tucking me in last night, and I smiled and sipped my coffee.

We sat at Fee’s glass-topped table overlooking the deck and the Mystic River beyond, and Werner came in with a platter of pancakes for us, and oatmeal thinned with applesauce for Nick.

“You both look like scrap,” I said. “And you’re both gonna say you beat the scrap out of each other, aren’t you?”

Two firm nods.

“What are you going to say you were fighting over?” Isobel asked, her fork halfway to her mouth.

Nick set down his spoon and stood. “Dentith,” he said, and left, slamming the door behind him.

“Thanks for the help cleaning up,” I called after him. Once the three of us erased any sign of our presence, Werner went home to change with a promise from us that we’d meet him at the station later.

Isobel and I drove back to my father’s to get dressed.

Like a fashion week show-and-tell, she opened her Vuitton cases, every piece, and I opened my walk-in closet, once a spare room. And like filings to magnets, the two of us gravitated toward each other’s vintage collections.

As it happened, Isobel fell for my form-fitting two-tone empire dress, bottom a dark taupe, top, black with cap sleeves, maker unknown. And over it, the matching bolero, known these days as a shrug.

I chose her navy, two-piece sailor suit dress with a pencil skirt and short-sleeved top. The square notched collar piped in white had a smaller collar atop a larger one, with a red star embroidered at each corner.

Isobel went into the bathroom, and I into my closet dressing room to try on our chosen outfits. As soon as I slipped an arm into the dress, I realized I’d underestimated the power in my psychic gift, simply because it hadn’t appeared in so long. With the sailor dress wrapped around my shoulders, one arm sleeved, the other free, I sank to my dressing room floor, landing with a thud on my mother’s favorite old Oriental carpet. My closet disappeared, and I hovered over a docked three-masted sailboat. A girl wearing the same dress as me, one who looked like Isobel, headed toward port, or starboard—who knew?

She hesitated when she saw a man posed, not quite tall nor lean, against the rail with his back to her, his hair a dull nutmeg color.

He held his left hand so as to show off a diamond the size of his ego. The emerald cut beauty was set deep in a bright, very pure gold, a calling card and a pickup line all in one. Here was a man who needed props. I had his number, though I’d yet to see his face. I watched the woman who’d worn this dress at some point previous to me.

“I trust you had a good flight, Carissima?” the man said without turning. Had she flown in to meet him? Where from? I wondered.

The boat began to move, and I sensed a rising panic from the girl, worse than from any psychometric vision ever.

“There she is,” said Flimflam Man, though the character analysis was a guess on my part.

“The Golden Gate Bridge,” he said. “Today Sausalito; tomorrow, I’ll take you to Napa. A weekend to remember, one well worth your price. Whether I’m buying, like now, or selling, when necessary, I always get value for someone’s money, my costly one, and you’ll like this part: I always leave my ladies wanting more.”

Ducky for Isobel . . . or her twin.

Why did he not turn to her but continue to stare out to sea, keeping his back to her, even as they conversed?

Meanwhile, she trembled visibly, and I wished I knew why.

“What shall I call you?” he asked her. “You may call me Gian or Carlo, or mi amore. And I will call you Bella Carissima, no?”

No! I thought.

“Sí, Gian,” his hired date said too submissively to be my new intern. But how well did I know Isobel after only a few hours?

His hired date finally stepped to the rail beside him, and Gian turned to face her, raising his glasses at the same time.

When she screamed, I wished I could make out more than the partial silhouette of a man whose glasses reflected the sun, obliterating his face.

“It is you!” she said, stepping back. “How can you afford all this? Are you skimming off the top?”

He gave her a rather sick smile. “What do you care? I know your dirty little secret. A call girl.” He chuckled. “I always wanted something priceless to hold over the old boy.”

“He won’t believe you. Not about me. But he will believe my boss when she tells him about you.”

“Madam C?” He scoffed. “Oh, she’s a reliable source.”

I wished I knew the name of the call girl. Maybe I should have been treating my potential intern less like a friend and more like a suspect—not that a call girl would automatically be a suspect, except that the two of them were talking blackmail.

Logically speaking, I should probably have treated Isobel more formally, like an employee, though yesterday’s threatening morning caller practically put a target on her back, so protecting her made sense.

“Isn’t this the bomb?” Isobel asked, no longer on the boat—if she had ever been on the boat—but in my dressing room doorway looking gorgeous in my two-tone empire dress with a pencil skirt.

“Oh, did you pass out?” she asked as she helped me up.

“Guess I didn’t eat enough breakfast.” I slipped my free arm in the sleeve of her sailor dress, buttoned the top, and smoothed the fitted skirt on my hips.

She stood back and nodded. “You look splendid.”

Who are you, Isobel York? I wondered. If you are Isobel York.

The girl on the sailboat seemed better suited to being a call girl than a model and fashion designer, though supposedly Isobel only modeled for Madame Robear to put herself through fashion design school. Good call, because she had fashionista written all over her. What had Brandy gotten me into this time?

I should keep it on a business level between us until the case was solved, I thought, but I’d look like a jerk if I backed away from this friendly dress trade. What would it hurt if Isobel and I wore each other’s clothes for one day? I could back away bit by bit after. Turn myself into the boss and her into the intern.

Piece of cake.

“Wanna trade handbags, too?” she asked, clapping her hands.

Uh . . . “Sure.” Man, she was riding for a fall. I really didn’t want her to have to view the body at the morgue.

We traded box bags by Will Hardy, or Wilardy, as he often signed them. I chose a white swirl-pearl hatboxshaped Lucite bag with two handles that tilted toward each other after a twist and turn and met at the center top.

She fell for my caramel-colored Lucite, maker unknown, shaped like a man’s lunchbox, circa 1950s, all the way to its single handle.

Despite my short, weird sail on San Francisco Bay, I admitted to a bad case of purse envy. Having found a kindred fashionista in Isobel, I worried more by the minute about her reaction to yesterday’s events. The dead girl must be her twin. That also could have been her twin on the boat. Giselle Trouble York. Too bad Gian hadn’t used her real name.

When Isobel went back into my bathroom, I texted Werner. “Be there soon. Find Isobel’s twin.”

His reply came too fast. “I think we have her.”

Scrap. I put more play in our preparation by opening my hat closet, putting off the inevitable, and yes, letting her know, albeit subtly, that I’d be there for her. So much for treating her like a suspect.

Already, I was going against my vow to put distance between us. True, I’m a pushover, though I can only be pushed so far.

Isobel lost her breath when she saw my hat closet and approached it like the Sistine Chapel. Shh. Sacred place.

She chose a sienna skullcap with a tan-flowered black band. Perfect with her dress. I found a natural sisal straw hat with a short brim and a red grosgrain ribbon. A match for a sailor suit.

Shoes: We wore the same size, though she had a higher arch and me, a narrower foot, but at least 80 percent of our considerable shoe collections would fit us both. She wore my tan and black vintage Diors, and I squeaked, drooled, lusted, and slipped my feet into her 1920s Maud Frizon navy Mary Janes with white piping and squash heels. “I’d kill for these,” I said, trying not to wince at the horrific statement. We should be going to an amusement park. We’d dressed more for fun than—

“Boss, you look like somebody walked on your grave.”

How had I let this turn into playing dress-up? “Let’s go before Werner comes looking for us.”

“I like your car,” she said getting in a few minutes later. “Did I say that last night? It’s awfully pretty in daylight.”

“Thanks. You look gorgeous,” I said as I drove.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your customers,” she said, “after we see your cute detective.”

“Werner’s not exactly mine.”

“Don’t tell him that. He never stopped talking about you while he made breakfast.”

“Really? Did he tell you what I called him in third grade, in front of the whole school?”

“He did, as if he was proud of you. He said it was the making of him. He said Nick used to be yours, like since junior high. He stressed the past tense.”

As I turned into the station parking lot, I had a sick feeling we were going to be stressing the past a lot this morning.

Twelve

Good design is a renaissance attitude that combines technology, cognitive science, human need, and beauty to produce something that the world didn’t know it was missing.

—PAOLA ANTONELLI

I stopped Isobel in the parking lot. “Whatever happens, you’re not alone, okay?”

“What could happen?”

“Well, I hope, nothing,” I said. “But just know that I wanted you to have a good night’s sleep, so there was no point in playing what-if last night.”

Isobel frowned. “Okaaay.”

I took her arm. “Let’s go. I’m here for you.”

“You’re scaring the cotton batting out of me.”

“Sorry.”

Werner, rising from the chair at his desk when we went into his office, looked like he went twenty rounds with Bigfoot.

“Tut, tut, tut, Detective,” I said. “Your face is a forest of greens and blues.”

Isobel commiserated with him. “But that’s an especially great shade of teal,” she said.

“Thanks, both of you, I think. I ran into a steel fist then a curvaceous yet surprisingly lean, mean, feisty machine.” He furrowed his brows. “You think I look ghastly? Not handsome or studly?”

I chuckled. “Your eye looks ghastly. The rest of you is . . . passable.”

“Stop. I might die of embarrassment.” He came from around his desk and took my arm.

“Miss York,” he said, turning to Isobel. “Please take a seat, and somebody will be right with you. I need to chide our saucy Ms. Cutler, where no one will hear us, if you get my drift.”

Isobel’s eyes twinkled as she sat, but she bit her lip as if she remembered our parking lot conversation.

Two men passed us on our way out of Werner’s office, a suave, buff, leader type wearing a navy pinstripe wool silk Armani with a cream silk shirt and an emerald silk tie. Behind him followed a man with rusty hair, shorter, broader, but appearing full of his own worth, his tan suit of good quality but made by a less prestigious designer. I looked back at him twice, before Werner urged me forward. Something about him intrigued me. Together, they went into Werner’s office, and Rusty shut the door behind them, like he was in charge.

I did a double take, wondering why Werner would let two strangers close themselves in with—“Those guys just went into your office. Don’t you care?”

“Sure I do.”

“But Isobel’s in there. Maybe one is the fake-voiced bully who kept calling the shop terrorizing me and asking for her.”

“You didn’t say your caller terrorized you.”

“I was sure I did last night. And I told you when it happened that he spoke through a voice changer, which made him sound like Vader with a bullhorn, and . . . he had a tone.”

“Well, then.” Werner steered me in an unexpected direction. “Billings, throw the book at anybody with a deep voice . . . and a tone.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“You should know. You could win a Pulitzer for mockery; you could teach mockery as an alternative to swordplay or knife throwing. Turn it into an Olympic sport.”

I raised a brow. “So you’re saying I’m sharp-witted?”

“Sharp-tongued. Vast difference.”

“I’ll show you the difference,” I snapped.

He scanned the nearly empty squad room and lowered his voice. “Please do.”

“Meanwhile, Isobel could be getting accosted by a couple of strangers.”

“The dark suit is Mr. Quincy York, Isobel and Giselle’s father, who is running for first selectman of Kingston’s Vineyard. I’m counting on him to identify the girl he’s talking to and settling the question as to whether she’s your intern or not.

“The tan suit is his campaign manager/right-hand man, Mr. Ruben Rickard. I’ll introduce you after they finish their talk. Listen to their voices, would you? And tell me if either of them is your caller.”

I cupped Werner’s chin. “Voice mod-u-la-tor. To decipher that, I think we’d need a wiretap and a techno geek.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked, dead-ended in a secluded corner.

“Mr. Rickard identified the dead girl as Mr. Quincy York’s niece, Isobel’s first cousin, Payton. They’re about to tell Isobel—or Giselle—about her first cousin.”

“I’m so relieved that Isobel didn’t lose her twin, but I’m confused, too. Why get a second ID?”