Larcency and Lace Part 29

When the phone rang, the officers lifted the back of Vinney's black Halloween cape to get at the phone in his back pocket. To do so, they had to lift his leather jacket, and when they did, something fell to the ground.

I grasped Eve's arm. "That's my Pucci bag!"

"Now what would a man want with this?" the officer said, picking it up.

"Maybe, he was trying to name his killer," I said.

"His killer?" the officer said. "Who? You?"

Forty-one.

Fas.h.i.+on marks time.

-YOHJI YAMAMOTO.

"Bag it," Werner told the officer, "and keep your opinions to yourself."

I turned on my heel. "Eve! His message; I'll bet those were his last words. He called you for help. He wasn't saying 'You're a b.i.t.c.h' or 'Y'all's a b.i.t.c.h' like we were guessing. I'll bet he was saying 'Lol's a b.i.t.c.h.' Lolique. She killed him." I turned to Werner. "I knew she stole my bag!"

Werner looked at me like I had two heads.

"Oh, for the love of Gucci, it's not like I want the bag back, after this."

"You can't have it, anyway. It's evidence."

"Look, it has tire tracks on it, likely done with the same spite and the same heavy foot as the hole in Eve's convertible top."

"Lolique?"

"Of course, Lolique. What killed him?" I asked.

"Cyanide," the coroner said. "That's not blue face paint."

I put my arm around Eve. "Detective, that outfit is handmade. It might have a tale to tell."

Eve began to tremble. "He called me with his last breath," she whispered as they put Vinney on a stretcher and covered him, his knees still bent.

In all our years as friends the only other time I remember her crying is at my mother's funeral.

"Detective," I said, "I might have some answers inside that you don't have questions for yet."

Werner waved off the coroner and officers and followed us into my shop.

"We'll get coffee," my dad said, taking Aunt Fiona by the arm.

"I don't like that we found something of yours on the body," Werner said.

"I am not guilty of anything. You had us in the backseat of your squad car when I realized that purse went missing, remember?"

"I'm worried because it might be a message that you're in danger, brat."

"Brat? And yet that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." Then I remembered the night of the fire. "Well, maybe not the-"

"Right," he said to shut me up. "Lolique's car was left parked in place of Ms. Meyers the night I picked you up at McDowell's, I remember, so I'm guessing that she still had the purse?"

"That's what I said." I turned to Eve. "Didn't I just say that? Anyway, I think the purse was Vinney's way of naming his murderer. So, can you pick up Lolique?"

"Not until we get a time of death, because Lolique was here judging the scarecrow contest all afternoon."

Sc.r.a.p! "Well, let's get back to Isobel's murder. I have these clothes that Lolique brought me, and I didn't see them as evidence until dead things started pointing toward Lolique."

He nodded, grudgingly.

I thanked my stars and let it go. "This gown," I said, "is the one McDowell's dead wife is wearing in her portrait at the dealers.h.i.+p. In it, she's also wearing the diamond I gave you."

Werner gave me a respectful head tilt. "I'll get a warrant and pick up the portrait tomorrow, evidence that the ring is hers."

"If you take it down," I said, "McDowell will lose his dealers.h.i.+p, and Gary Goodwin, Isobel's cousin, will get it. I'd pay money to see that portrait come down. What time are you going?"

"Now, Madeira."

"Come on. That's not fair. I just gave you evidence you didn't have before."

"I know you did. But life's not fair."

"You bet it's not," Eve said, wiping her eyes with an embarra.s.sed chuckle. "I'm working tomorrow and I'll have to miss the show."

"Do you have any more of Isobel's clothes?" Werner asked.

"I sold a few pieces." I nearly ducked. "Don't get mad."

He raised a brow. "They were yours to sell. You didn't sell the quilt or the diamond. I've got your number, Madeira."

I wondered if that was good or bad. "The clothes on these racks all belonged to the first Mrs. McDowell."

Werner seemed to be considering options. "I've got a description of what she was last seen wearing."

"Anything here fit the bill?" I asked.

"Well, that's the problem. The description doesn't tell me anything. It's in fas.h.i.+on speak, as described by Mrs. McDowell's secretary at the time. If I get the description, can you match it to an outfit?"

"If I do, can I go and see you take down that portrait?"

Werner denied my request with a shake of his head as he called the precinct and had someone read the clothing description in his file. "She was last seen wearing 'a rust linen fitted cape-" He listened again. "With black piping over a black linen sheik dress." He looked up at me. "Got that?"

"It's a sheath dress, but yes, I'm afraid I do have it." Except that she was really last seen wearing the suede fringed skirt that Rebecca bought, but I couldn't tell Werner that. My first vision, however, had been correct, and yet my arms and legs felt weighted as I unzipped the garment bag and removed the described outfit, careful only to touch its hanger. I blinked a couple of times as I handed it to him.

He could see that I was shaken. "Is this the cape you were going to keep-Madeira, are you all right?"

"It's silly," I said. "You play with people's clothes and you get attached to their bones." I wiped my cheeks with the back of a hand. Eve wasn't far behind me.

"You two would make terrible cops. Stick with fas.h.i.+on," he said. "You don't get hurt that way."

I so wanted to differ.

"By the way," he said as he left with the cape and dress outfit, "the brakes on your Element are locking. You should get the dealer to look at that tomorrow morning . . . around ten."

Forty-two.

I have the reputation of being easygoing. But inside, I'm like nails. I will kill.

-CALVIN KLEIN Eve was right. I did have a hard time dressing down. Just to take my car in for service and witness the toppling of the McDowell empire, I dressed in a moire silk plum s.h.i.+rt with Janice Wainwright jodhpurs and a pair of Michael Kors cork wedges in plum with one of his famously ma.s.sive totes to match.

Call me crazy but I felt the need to pack a gun to go anywhere near McDowell. I settled for a less violent means of self-defense. I filled the well of the oversized tote with some of my grandmother's marble eggs. I wanted the bag uber heavy in the event I found it necessary to smack the man.

When I picked up the bag to leave, however, the echoing sound of breaking pool b.a.l.l.s followed. To m.u.f.fle them, I found it necessary to wrap each egg in rolls of fabric, lots of it, until I stopped knocking as I walked.

Okay, so it weighed a bit more than my usual purse, like twenty pounds or more, and I had to carry it slung over a shoulder like a farmer carried a sack of potatoes, but the weight of it made me feel secure.

At the last minute, I remembered to take my cell phone from its charger, but I didn't want the slim red miracle of technology to get pulverized by the contents of my purse. So I slipped it in my pocket.

I was forced to leave my car at the end of a long line of cars waiting for repairs at the service center because I didn't have an appointment, a great excuse to linger. I sighed. Two days until my grand opening, and I'm playing hooky. Eve is always right; I must be certifiable.

I found a comfortable sofa, from which I could see both Isobel's portrait and McDowell's desk, because I didn't want to miss the incredulous look on his face at the moment of his karmic fall.

I don't normally wish anyone ill, but the man murdered his wife, a woman with whom I'd formed a bond, probably from experiencing her last moments in my first vision with she/we beginning to fall down that well.

I wished I could see Lolique's face when she learned they were going to be poor. Not that it would matter to her in jail, which is where she belonged.

I'd brought a fas.h.i.+on magazine and got into an article about Marc Jacobs. Next thing I know McDowell is standing in front of me. I questioned his s.p.a.ce-invading presence with a look, and he stooped down in front of me while I imagined him wrapping Isobel in a quilt and sticking her in the trunk of his car. Wait? Whose voice had I heard at the fairgrounds?

"You don't like me much, do you?" he asked.

Understatement falling on deaf ears. Look out below. "Call it instinct," I said, wondering if he knew that his st.i.tch of a wife was a killer, too.

"If you've decided that you don't want to give me your business, Madeira, I'll take the car back and send you over the state line to my compet.i.tion in Rhode Island."

"Is that where the well is? Or is it on your Groton property?"

He stood like I was the scary one. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about? You need to get a grip, Ms. Cutler."

I did. I got a grip on my shoulder bag, until Gary Goodwin rolled his wheelchair over. "I sense some animosity, here. Let's not make a scene, McDowell. Ms. Cutler, help an old man. Come, push my chair out into the fresh air while you wait for your car."

I'd need two hands to do that, and I didn't want to let go of my purse. When I thought I'd have to say no, Natalie Hayward came over. "Can I help, Ms. Cutler?" she asked as she got behind Goodwin's chair and started pus.h.i.+ng him toward the door.

Okay, Goodwin had been in the guesthouse with Vinney and Lolique that night, and what I didn't know about him bothered me more than what I knew. But he didn't have a lot of choices in life, because he was stuck in that chair.

"Coming?" Natalie asked.

I checked the clock on the wall. Ten minutes till Werner arrived.

Since the police were on their way, I figured I could chance it. "A short walk," I said.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," McDowell called after us.

"You wouldn't think so," I said beneath my breath as I walked beside Goodwin's chair.

He chuckled. "You hate the b.a.s.t.a.r.d as much as I do, don't you?"

"That transparent, am I?"

"You're utterly transparent, Ms. Cutler, in a challenging sort of way."

What did that mean?

"We have some wildflowers behind the addition. Natalie, go around by the side of the building. It's gorgeous back there in the fall."

"Mr. Goodwin," I cautioned, "I don't think you want to be gone too long this morning."

"Why's that, eh?"

I smiled. "I know nothing."

"You certainly don't," Lolique said, waiting for us as we rounded the building.

She held a small gun in her hand, and Natalie didn't blink or miss a step when she saw it.

I hesitated. "Mr. Goodwin?"

"Ms. Cutler," he said. "You disappoint me. I thought you were such a quick study. Natalie Hayward has been in my employ since this branch of the dealers.h.i.+p opened. She keeps me abreast of current events."

"He pays very well," Natalie said. "Very, very well."

"You're his mole?" I said. "Wait! You pushed me and pretended to save me?"

Their silence spoke volumes. With the gun, Lolique indicated my path toward the woods. "Keep going," she said. "Don't stop now."