Wolfs clothing, p.20
Wolf's Clothing, page 20
“Most are.” He wriggled his eyebrows and gave me the upper lip curl. “Don’t lift anything.”
I backed away. “The silver’s safe with me. Goodbye, sir.”
His acrid laughter sounded at my back the entire time it took me to walk to the back steps and into the house.
The housekeeper approached. “Miss, you okay?”
“Wet.”
“He likes to talk. Sometimes it’s good to wonder how much is real and how much is make-believe.”
I heard a roar come from outside. “Miss!”
I found out what the bullhorn was for.
The housekeeper said, “He means you. He calls me waitress. He thinks it’s funny.”
I walked onto the patio. He had the horn to his mouth. “Go see your crime scene.”
“Thanks,” I shouted back.
“Waitress!” he called. She came outside. “Call Curtis. Give him fair warning.”
19
All excited, I called Lake.
He said he was about to call me. “How’s the neck?”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Is it all right if I keep reminding you to be careful when you’re by yourself without getting a snarky reply?”
I grinned, reliving the feeling of his supple hands on my neck, deep rubbing with scented oils on long compassionate fingers. I could get used to his easy hands and sweet words in assuaging my distress at getting careless. I could take his waggish lashing.
“Mea culpa.”
“I hate it when you talk foreign. You going to tell me who the guy was?”
“I can’t—be sure.” I was telling the truth, although I had a crazy idea.
“Dru you were a cop. You still do cop things. It’s important you tell your suspicions to your partner. Me.”
“I told you I didn’t see his face. He wasn’t someone I’m familiar with. I want to see his back.”
“Running away? Where do you think you’ll see that?”
“I’ll know him when I see him from his backside.” I shrugged and gave Lake my best fluttering-eyelid smile, even though he couldn’t see it through the cell.
As if visualizing it, he sighed and said, “On to other news. I’m sending your computer notebook photos of Demetrios Hammer, the late alleged killer of Amos, and the boys’ photos from a lineup. The lab has plenty to work with if the blood mixed with Amos’s is Hammer’s. Also we got info on the truck and car used by Buddy’s abductors.”
At last I had something to feel buoyant about. “That’s good news.”
“Helps,” he said. “Two employees of Murray and Murray Paint Emporium were outside taking a smoke break. Seems their employer forbids smoking in the store, but also anywhere on the premises of the Peachtree Battle shopping center.”
That’s where Zone Two officers spotted a GMC in the parking lot near a dumpster the day of Buddy’s abduction. The owner reported he had parked it, and after grabbing a cup of coffee and a muffin, came out to find it stolen. Inside the dumpster, the cops found magnetic signs that read Canine Ambulance.
“The woman and man employees,” Lake said, “who might also be more than colleagues to each other, saw an older man and a younger man rush out of the truck they parked by the dumpster. They were in a hurry which got the two clerks interested in what the men were up to.”
“If you’re a bad guy, take it slow and stay under the busybody radar.”
Lake laughed. “The younger man threw something white into the dumpster, which probably were the magnetic signs. They ran across the lot and got into an older model Audi.”
“Where were the employees?”
“They were in his SUV. It was raining. They had the windows open for the smoke, but couldn’t hear the few words the men exchanged. When shown Paco’s drawing, confirmed that it resembled the two men in the drawing. The younger man wore the same rock star tee shirt.”
“Pound Salt. What time was this?”
“Ten-thirty or so. That’s the woman’s break time, but the owner of the store wasn’t in that day, so they took the break together.”
“So the thieves stashed Buddy somewhere and returned the truck. How thoughtful.”
“Yes, which is a good omen for Buddy.”
I needed more than an omen. “Have they finished processing the truck for prints, and such?”
“They got nothing but dog hairs in the truck bed. APD photographs of every male and female involved in these cases were shown at the paint emporium and surrounding stores—including Warner, his kids, Cathilee, Colin Dempsey, Brad Sanders, Joe Subic, Ray Kent, Bart Lawson and a couple of my detectives.”
“Hope the colleagues don’t get in trouble for taking a break together. Smoking, too, my Lord!”
“Sin in the city.”
“What did you find when you ran auto records for Warner and kids?” I wasn’t going to tell him Web had already gotten the info.
“Warner owns three cars. This is confirmed by Liam. He drives a Caddy, his daughter drives a Camry; his son, a Jeep Cherokee.”
“If they aren’t involved, we’ve got nothing.”
“Athens’ PD is cooperating. They’re checking Darla and her car. When and where she and it came and went.”
“I’ll send Pearly Sue to Blacksburg this evening. It’s not that Dirk’s isn’t good and thorough, but we need someone who’s instinctive.”
“I’d go, but I’ve got the Amos Glenn killing and three teams working six other cases.”
“Okay, Mr. Self-Avowed Instinctive, how do the murders of Brad Sanders, via Buddy’s abduction, and Amos Glenn, via the Daniel Garian murder, connect? And done by whom? Add in Cathilee’s big horse plans. And sinister Jon Garian? I’m tearing my hair our trying to figure out how the disparate elements meet.” And who the hell choked my neck and what for?
“Money and greed,” Lake said. “The glue that binds disparate elements together.”
“But Cathilee denies knowing the Erskines.”
“”What’s her take on the missing money and Buddy?”
“I haven’t said a word about missing money to her. She could find out from old news accounts and maybe it’s been in the press already with Sanders having been found on the Garian property.”
“Not that I’ve read or heard,” Lake said.
“Yet,” I added. “The missing money angle stays with us: Warner, Liam, Parker, you and me.”
“And Mitchell, who’s in prison.”
“We need to solve this case, get Buddy back, before it blows wide open and we’re drowned in fortune seekers.
“Keep it simple, Dru, and don’t believe a word anyone tells you. You’ll look terrible with a bad neck and no hair.”
Recalling his grin sent satiny pleasure spiraling through me. “Now to my news. I’ve got the key to Daniel Garian’s house.”
“Good girl. You find the owner?”
“His uncle. He likes playing with minds. The house is presently staffed by a caretaker.”
“I can’t get away until this afternoon.”
“It can wait.”
“Good. FYI, there’s no record here of a Staci or Stacy Brenwood, or Brentwood. That’s about all we can do today. Asses over elbows and hip deep in murder. See you at one this p.m. Want some lunch first?”
“No. Mixed body-part metaphors just filled me up. Bye.”
***
I called Webdog to bring him up to date on Jon Garian’s information. I usually write up my notes and database them for Web, but time was getting away as it was.
“Wow, this thing is sinking further into the gutter,” he said.
“APD ran Staci’s record in Georgia. Clean. Check other states in the South. She spoke with a southern accent, according to what Erin Erskine told police. Garian is from Nashville. He may not have left his sordid career there behind. Or brought some of his players to Atlanta with him.”
“On it.”
I told him I’d gotten mugs of the thug who murdered Amos—allegedly murdered Amos—and was on my way to Lenox Mall.
“I’m pulling Pearly Sue off the church and Cathilee. Tell her to write up her reports and give her what you and Dirk’s ops got on Perry Erskine.”
“She going to Blacksburg?”
“Yep. She’s good in the field.”
“So am I, or I think I would be, if I got the chance.”
“If you can teach Pearly Sue computer language like the difference between Lisp and Lua, you—”
“She’s smart enough.”
“You can begin field work by catching up with Sal and Paco after school and showing them photos of the players in these cases, then stop by the paint store at Peachtree Battle and see what more you can get from the man and woman employees.”
“Actually I was thinking of a long road trip.”
***
The head of security at the mall recognized the mug shot of Demetrios Hammer. He’d been called into the security office twice. Once he’d taken a camera and said he’d made a mistake and forgot to pay for it. He was banned from the stores, but still hung out at the mall with the SSG’s aka the South Side Gangsta’s who were at war with the BHD’s, the Bluff Hawk Devils. The security man said that he watched them carefully and believed that Demetrios Hammer, the oldest of them all, was the main fence for both the Gangsta’s and Devils. He’d also heard that Hammer boasted killing a confidential informant. The security guy obviously did not know that Hammer was dead. “I haven’t seen him in the last two days. Saw some of the Hawk Devils this afternoon. He wasn’t with them.”
I thanked him and called Lake. I asked if APD’s gang squad had any CIs that were recently killed.
“A rumored CI—just a damned kid—and not one of ours, got blown away couple months ago.” I remembered that awful news. “You looking to find the guy that hired Hammer to do the job on Amos Glenn?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good plan. How’s your neck?”
“Needs a good rubbing. Don’t change the subject.”
“What’s the subject now?”
“There are several. Who has Buddy? What could Amos have told us about the night Daniel Garian was murdered?”
“Maybe about a lot of nights,” Lake said. “By the way, Zone Two talked to your neighbors.”
“Lake,” I warned.
“They were canvassing in general about strangers. Half your neighbors have cameras mounted on the side of their houses, right under the dish. We’ll get one for yours. Or you can move in with me.”
That wasn’t going to happen for many reasons on many levels. Next he’d be trotting out the M word. I was in a stretch of my life where I didn’t believe marriage was for me.
***
When I got back to the office Web had information that lifted my flagging spirits. He’d gotten a credible ID on Staci Brentwood. Her current address in Nashville was a residential hotel near the Grand Ol’ Opry. She’d skirted a couple of charges for solicitation. A Nashville vice cop told Web that she was a high-price hooker, targeting music and movie types, and she’d once acted in porn films. He provided a booking photo. The face looking at me was ten years older than she’d been when Garian was murdered, but she was still a good-looking woman.
I picked up the phone and dialed Gary Scheel’s number again. When I got the same curt reception from the operator, I asked her to tell Special Agent Sheel that it was very important that he call me. It was related to a case we’d worked together regarding national security. That got her attention.
I looked at Webdog. “Find Staci for me.”
“Do my best.”
20
One o’clock and Lake pulled up to the curb behind my car. The Art Deco house was set back from the sidewalk with a long curving white-painted concrete path that led to the front steps. A man opened the door before we could find the bell button or knock on the simple chrome knocker. The way the man rubbed his hands together made him appear anxious. “I’m Curtis,” he said. He looked at the SLR camera that I had strapped on a shoulder and frowned. Curtis was a small, fussy man with boy-like features—as if his face hadn’t changed since he was twelve; nor his voice.
The wide, upright cabinet in the foyer was a beautiful example of Art Deco. The two glass doors on the top half revealed shelves for knick-knacks. An extended table top separated the bottom half of the piece from the top. Three larger drawers occupied its lower reaches. The handles were red Bakelite. My mama owned a Bakelite mahjongg set, the tiles of which were a peculiar shade of yellow. To my knowledge she never played the game. The set was handed down from her mother, and I assume it’s worth some money.
Further into the interior of the wide and deep foyer, on a round rug with a sun dial in its center, sat a walnut table with a malachite top. Curtis asked me if I wanted to set my camera on the table top. Clutching the camera closer, I said no thanks, it’s fine right here.
Walking through the foyer and its furnishings, I recalled a man from a past case who lived in an Art Deco house. He told me, “Art Deco is all about glamour.” He got himself killed inside that Art Deco house. I gave some thoughts to Emile and renewed the promise to myself to find the man who killed him. If I ever found the time. I had no idea when I started my agency that so many people needed to be found or needed to find someone. I specialize in children, but I’ve had cases where I’ve searched for young adults, some too old to be called runaways or even children. I once represented a little girl who Portia had dubbed Princess Pita—pita being pain-in-the-ass—in the search for her mother. Now my charge was to find a dog.
“The formal living room,” Curtis announced.
Taking in the formal room that overlooked the front garden, I was reminded of an old magazine that featured the streamlined furniture of the Art Deco era. I said, “According to the uniformed officers, this room had no action the evening of Daniel Garian’s murder. Guests were entertained in the foyer, the dining room, the lounge and the pool lanai. Mitchell passed out in a guest bedroom”
“True, as far as I know,” Curtis said.
“So take us to the lounge,” Lake said.
We left the formal living room and entered the foyer. Past the massive malachite table, near a wall next to a closed door, Curtis passed his hand over a vintage butler’s tray of soft drinks and iced tea. “I took the liberty,” he said, having been expecting us due to a call from Jon Garian’s waitress. “This is where Mr. Daniel Garian served drinks to his guests.”
“Thanks. Got the picture,” Lake said, “Later perhaps on the soft drinks.”
Curtis opened the door to the lounge and we stepped inside.
Lake said, “Is this the way the room was left after Daniel Garian was killed?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “Master Jon,” he seemed to smirk, “decreed that the furniture remain in place.”
“I thought this place had renters,” Lake said.
“They did not remain long.”
“The color would get to me,” Lake said.
Standing in the lounge was like standing in a purple haze. I like purple and all its hues, but this room was too much. I took several camera shots of it, thinking of the word origin of lounge. It’s Scottish variation of the French word s’allonger, which means to lounge about, lie at full length.
Caretaker Curtis said, “It’s in the style of The Great Gatsby.”
“I see,” I said, although I didn’t recall a garish lounge in that epochal novel.
“Reproductions?” Lake asked.
Curtis nearly gasped. Even I caught my breath. Miffed, he said, “Absolutely not.”
The great round rug covering all but the edges of the plum-colored inlaid mahogany floor was violet on the outside with a pineapple woven in the center—a pineapple the color of an eggplant. If the room weren’t so crammed full of round-cornered velvet and satin sofas and chaises, it would be simply tacky instead of gross. A stand-out in the room was a lovely cabinet with finely cut walnut veneer patterns. Each wooden shelf has its own unique inlay, the glass shelves alternating with the wooden ones. The interior mirror was flowery gorgeous. “This is in the French tradition,” I said.
Lake looked at me with impatience. “Are you thinking about Emile again?”
“How did you guess? The house is like his place in the old mill. I remember him telling me that he searched the Earth’s continents for his pieces. I’m guessing Daniel Garian did the same.”
“So much for the missing money,” Lake whispered.
Caretaker Curtis said, “Mr. Daniel Garian was quite the collector. Everything you see is quite costly.”
“Did this room figure into the crime?” Lake asked me. He hadn’t studied the murder book like I had.
“Who knows how?” I said. “It’s true Mitchell and the other singers gathered here in the lounge. Colin got drunk in the dining room. Carletta brought tequila into the foyer. Nita served food in the dining room. Staci escaped through the garden and Amos hid in the lanai’s pool house. Conclusion is obvious: Daniel was murdered by Mitchell on the lanai with the knife.”
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” Lake said. “I don’t have the time for a tour of homes and bad clues.”
I mumbled, “Maybe someday I’ll do my lounge in purple.”
Lake exaggerated a shiver, and we followed the caretaker to the first floor bedroom. “This the only bedroom on this floor?” Lake asked.
“Yes, sir. The master suite is upstairs as is the nursery and four guest bedrooms.” He paused and went on sounding like a realtor, “A ballroom is on the third level. There are six full bathrooms and two half-baths in this house.”
“The nursery?” I asked.
Curtis shrugged. “Looks like it to me. A child’s bed and small rocking chairs are the furnishings, along with dolls and little boy toys.”
I knew Daniel Garian had no children—any born at the time of his death anyway.
Inside the first floor bedroom, it was impeccably kept and I said so.
“We have weekly maid service,” Curtis said, as if we were to understand he had nothing to do with housekeeping.
His speaking apparently reminded Lake that we didn’t talk in front of bystanders. “We’ll take care in here, if you’ll excuse us.”
I backed away. “The silver’s safe with me. Goodbye, sir.”
His acrid laughter sounded at my back the entire time it took me to walk to the back steps and into the house.
The housekeeper approached. “Miss, you okay?”
“Wet.”
“He likes to talk. Sometimes it’s good to wonder how much is real and how much is make-believe.”
I heard a roar come from outside. “Miss!”
I found out what the bullhorn was for.
The housekeeper said, “He means you. He calls me waitress. He thinks it’s funny.”
I walked onto the patio. He had the horn to his mouth. “Go see your crime scene.”
“Thanks,” I shouted back.
“Waitress!” he called. She came outside. “Call Curtis. Give him fair warning.”
19
All excited, I called Lake.
He said he was about to call me. “How’s the neck?”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Is it all right if I keep reminding you to be careful when you’re by yourself without getting a snarky reply?”
I grinned, reliving the feeling of his supple hands on my neck, deep rubbing with scented oils on long compassionate fingers. I could get used to his easy hands and sweet words in assuaging my distress at getting careless. I could take his waggish lashing.
“Mea culpa.”
“I hate it when you talk foreign. You going to tell me who the guy was?”
“I can’t—be sure.” I was telling the truth, although I had a crazy idea.
“Dru you were a cop. You still do cop things. It’s important you tell your suspicions to your partner. Me.”
“I told you I didn’t see his face. He wasn’t someone I’m familiar with. I want to see his back.”
“Running away? Where do you think you’ll see that?”
“I’ll know him when I see him from his backside.” I shrugged and gave Lake my best fluttering-eyelid smile, even though he couldn’t see it through the cell.
As if visualizing it, he sighed and said, “On to other news. I’m sending your computer notebook photos of Demetrios Hammer, the late alleged killer of Amos, and the boys’ photos from a lineup. The lab has plenty to work with if the blood mixed with Amos’s is Hammer’s. Also we got info on the truck and car used by Buddy’s abductors.”
At last I had something to feel buoyant about. “That’s good news.”
“Helps,” he said. “Two employees of Murray and Murray Paint Emporium were outside taking a smoke break. Seems their employer forbids smoking in the store, but also anywhere on the premises of the Peachtree Battle shopping center.”
That’s where Zone Two officers spotted a GMC in the parking lot near a dumpster the day of Buddy’s abduction. The owner reported he had parked it, and after grabbing a cup of coffee and a muffin, came out to find it stolen. Inside the dumpster, the cops found magnetic signs that read Canine Ambulance.
“The woman and man employees,” Lake said, “who might also be more than colleagues to each other, saw an older man and a younger man rush out of the truck they parked by the dumpster. They were in a hurry which got the two clerks interested in what the men were up to.”
“If you’re a bad guy, take it slow and stay under the busybody radar.”
Lake laughed. “The younger man threw something white into the dumpster, which probably were the magnetic signs. They ran across the lot and got into an older model Audi.”
“Where were the employees?”
“They were in his SUV. It was raining. They had the windows open for the smoke, but couldn’t hear the few words the men exchanged. When shown Paco’s drawing, confirmed that it resembled the two men in the drawing. The younger man wore the same rock star tee shirt.”
“Pound Salt. What time was this?”
“Ten-thirty or so. That’s the woman’s break time, but the owner of the store wasn’t in that day, so they took the break together.”
“So the thieves stashed Buddy somewhere and returned the truck. How thoughtful.”
“Yes, which is a good omen for Buddy.”
I needed more than an omen. “Have they finished processing the truck for prints, and such?”
“They got nothing but dog hairs in the truck bed. APD photographs of every male and female involved in these cases were shown at the paint emporium and surrounding stores—including Warner, his kids, Cathilee, Colin Dempsey, Brad Sanders, Joe Subic, Ray Kent, Bart Lawson and a couple of my detectives.”
“Hope the colleagues don’t get in trouble for taking a break together. Smoking, too, my Lord!”
“Sin in the city.”
“What did you find when you ran auto records for Warner and kids?” I wasn’t going to tell him Web had already gotten the info.
“Warner owns three cars. This is confirmed by Liam. He drives a Caddy, his daughter drives a Camry; his son, a Jeep Cherokee.”
“If they aren’t involved, we’ve got nothing.”
“Athens’ PD is cooperating. They’re checking Darla and her car. When and where she and it came and went.”
“I’ll send Pearly Sue to Blacksburg this evening. It’s not that Dirk’s isn’t good and thorough, but we need someone who’s instinctive.”
“I’d go, but I’ve got the Amos Glenn killing and three teams working six other cases.”
“Okay, Mr. Self-Avowed Instinctive, how do the murders of Brad Sanders, via Buddy’s abduction, and Amos Glenn, via the Daniel Garian murder, connect? And done by whom? Add in Cathilee’s big horse plans. And sinister Jon Garian? I’m tearing my hair our trying to figure out how the disparate elements meet.” And who the hell choked my neck and what for?
“Money and greed,” Lake said. “The glue that binds disparate elements together.”
“But Cathilee denies knowing the Erskines.”
“”What’s her take on the missing money and Buddy?”
“I haven’t said a word about missing money to her. She could find out from old news accounts and maybe it’s been in the press already with Sanders having been found on the Garian property.”
“Not that I’ve read or heard,” Lake said.
“Yet,” I added. “The missing money angle stays with us: Warner, Liam, Parker, you and me.”
“And Mitchell, who’s in prison.”
“We need to solve this case, get Buddy back, before it blows wide open and we’re drowned in fortune seekers.
“Keep it simple, Dru, and don’t believe a word anyone tells you. You’ll look terrible with a bad neck and no hair.”
Recalling his grin sent satiny pleasure spiraling through me. “Now to my news. I’ve got the key to Daniel Garian’s house.”
“Good girl. You find the owner?”
“His uncle. He likes playing with minds. The house is presently staffed by a caretaker.”
“I can’t get away until this afternoon.”
“It can wait.”
“Good. FYI, there’s no record here of a Staci or Stacy Brenwood, or Brentwood. That’s about all we can do today. Asses over elbows and hip deep in murder. See you at one this p.m. Want some lunch first?”
“No. Mixed body-part metaphors just filled me up. Bye.”
***
I called Webdog to bring him up to date on Jon Garian’s information. I usually write up my notes and database them for Web, but time was getting away as it was.
“Wow, this thing is sinking further into the gutter,” he said.
“APD ran Staci’s record in Georgia. Clean. Check other states in the South. She spoke with a southern accent, according to what Erin Erskine told police. Garian is from Nashville. He may not have left his sordid career there behind. Or brought some of his players to Atlanta with him.”
“On it.”
I told him I’d gotten mugs of the thug who murdered Amos—allegedly murdered Amos—and was on my way to Lenox Mall.
“I’m pulling Pearly Sue off the church and Cathilee. Tell her to write up her reports and give her what you and Dirk’s ops got on Perry Erskine.”
“She going to Blacksburg?”
“Yep. She’s good in the field.”
“So am I, or I think I would be, if I got the chance.”
“If you can teach Pearly Sue computer language like the difference between Lisp and Lua, you—”
“She’s smart enough.”
“You can begin field work by catching up with Sal and Paco after school and showing them photos of the players in these cases, then stop by the paint store at Peachtree Battle and see what more you can get from the man and woman employees.”
“Actually I was thinking of a long road trip.”
***
The head of security at the mall recognized the mug shot of Demetrios Hammer. He’d been called into the security office twice. Once he’d taken a camera and said he’d made a mistake and forgot to pay for it. He was banned from the stores, but still hung out at the mall with the SSG’s aka the South Side Gangsta’s who were at war with the BHD’s, the Bluff Hawk Devils. The security man said that he watched them carefully and believed that Demetrios Hammer, the oldest of them all, was the main fence for both the Gangsta’s and Devils. He’d also heard that Hammer boasted killing a confidential informant. The security guy obviously did not know that Hammer was dead. “I haven’t seen him in the last two days. Saw some of the Hawk Devils this afternoon. He wasn’t with them.”
I thanked him and called Lake. I asked if APD’s gang squad had any CIs that were recently killed.
“A rumored CI—just a damned kid—and not one of ours, got blown away couple months ago.” I remembered that awful news. “You looking to find the guy that hired Hammer to do the job on Amos Glenn?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good plan. How’s your neck?”
“Needs a good rubbing. Don’t change the subject.”
“What’s the subject now?”
“There are several. Who has Buddy? What could Amos have told us about the night Daniel Garian was murdered?”
“Maybe about a lot of nights,” Lake said. “By the way, Zone Two talked to your neighbors.”
“Lake,” I warned.
“They were canvassing in general about strangers. Half your neighbors have cameras mounted on the side of their houses, right under the dish. We’ll get one for yours. Or you can move in with me.”
That wasn’t going to happen for many reasons on many levels. Next he’d be trotting out the M word. I was in a stretch of my life where I didn’t believe marriage was for me.
***
When I got back to the office Web had information that lifted my flagging spirits. He’d gotten a credible ID on Staci Brentwood. Her current address in Nashville was a residential hotel near the Grand Ol’ Opry. She’d skirted a couple of charges for solicitation. A Nashville vice cop told Web that she was a high-price hooker, targeting music and movie types, and she’d once acted in porn films. He provided a booking photo. The face looking at me was ten years older than she’d been when Garian was murdered, but she was still a good-looking woman.
I picked up the phone and dialed Gary Scheel’s number again. When I got the same curt reception from the operator, I asked her to tell Special Agent Sheel that it was very important that he call me. It was related to a case we’d worked together regarding national security. That got her attention.
I looked at Webdog. “Find Staci for me.”
“Do my best.”
20
One o’clock and Lake pulled up to the curb behind my car. The Art Deco house was set back from the sidewalk with a long curving white-painted concrete path that led to the front steps. A man opened the door before we could find the bell button or knock on the simple chrome knocker. The way the man rubbed his hands together made him appear anxious. “I’m Curtis,” he said. He looked at the SLR camera that I had strapped on a shoulder and frowned. Curtis was a small, fussy man with boy-like features—as if his face hadn’t changed since he was twelve; nor his voice.
The wide, upright cabinet in the foyer was a beautiful example of Art Deco. The two glass doors on the top half revealed shelves for knick-knacks. An extended table top separated the bottom half of the piece from the top. Three larger drawers occupied its lower reaches. The handles were red Bakelite. My mama owned a Bakelite mahjongg set, the tiles of which were a peculiar shade of yellow. To my knowledge she never played the game. The set was handed down from her mother, and I assume it’s worth some money.
Further into the interior of the wide and deep foyer, on a round rug with a sun dial in its center, sat a walnut table with a malachite top. Curtis asked me if I wanted to set my camera on the table top. Clutching the camera closer, I said no thanks, it’s fine right here.
Walking through the foyer and its furnishings, I recalled a man from a past case who lived in an Art Deco house. He told me, “Art Deco is all about glamour.” He got himself killed inside that Art Deco house. I gave some thoughts to Emile and renewed the promise to myself to find the man who killed him. If I ever found the time. I had no idea when I started my agency that so many people needed to be found or needed to find someone. I specialize in children, but I’ve had cases where I’ve searched for young adults, some too old to be called runaways or even children. I once represented a little girl who Portia had dubbed Princess Pita—pita being pain-in-the-ass—in the search for her mother. Now my charge was to find a dog.
“The formal living room,” Curtis announced.
Taking in the formal room that overlooked the front garden, I was reminded of an old magazine that featured the streamlined furniture of the Art Deco era. I said, “According to the uniformed officers, this room had no action the evening of Daniel Garian’s murder. Guests were entertained in the foyer, the dining room, the lounge and the pool lanai. Mitchell passed out in a guest bedroom”
“True, as far as I know,” Curtis said.
“So take us to the lounge,” Lake said.
We left the formal living room and entered the foyer. Past the massive malachite table, near a wall next to a closed door, Curtis passed his hand over a vintage butler’s tray of soft drinks and iced tea. “I took the liberty,” he said, having been expecting us due to a call from Jon Garian’s waitress. “This is where Mr. Daniel Garian served drinks to his guests.”
“Thanks. Got the picture,” Lake said, “Later perhaps on the soft drinks.”
Curtis opened the door to the lounge and we stepped inside.
Lake said, “Is this the way the room was left after Daniel Garian was killed?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “Master Jon,” he seemed to smirk, “decreed that the furniture remain in place.”
“I thought this place had renters,” Lake said.
“They did not remain long.”
“The color would get to me,” Lake said.
Standing in the lounge was like standing in a purple haze. I like purple and all its hues, but this room was too much. I took several camera shots of it, thinking of the word origin of lounge. It’s Scottish variation of the French word s’allonger, which means to lounge about, lie at full length.
Caretaker Curtis said, “It’s in the style of The Great Gatsby.”
“I see,” I said, although I didn’t recall a garish lounge in that epochal novel.
“Reproductions?” Lake asked.
Curtis nearly gasped. Even I caught my breath. Miffed, he said, “Absolutely not.”
The great round rug covering all but the edges of the plum-colored inlaid mahogany floor was violet on the outside with a pineapple woven in the center—a pineapple the color of an eggplant. If the room weren’t so crammed full of round-cornered velvet and satin sofas and chaises, it would be simply tacky instead of gross. A stand-out in the room was a lovely cabinet with finely cut walnut veneer patterns. Each wooden shelf has its own unique inlay, the glass shelves alternating with the wooden ones. The interior mirror was flowery gorgeous. “This is in the French tradition,” I said.
Lake looked at me with impatience. “Are you thinking about Emile again?”
“How did you guess? The house is like his place in the old mill. I remember him telling me that he searched the Earth’s continents for his pieces. I’m guessing Daniel Garian did the same.”
“So much for the missing money,” Lake whispered.
Caretaker Curtis said, “Mr. Daniel Garian was quite the collector. Everything you see is quite costly.”
“Did this room figure into the crime?” Lake asked me. He hadn’t studied the murder book like I had.
“Who knows how?” I said. “It’s true Mitchell and the other singers gathered here in the lounge. Colin got drunk in the dining room. Carletta brought tequila into the foyer. Nita served food in the dining room. Staci escaped through the garden and Amos hid in the lanai’s pool house. Conclusion is obvious: Daniel was murdered by Mitchell on the lanai with the knife.”
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” Lake said. “I don’t have the time for a tour of homes and bad clues.”
I mumbled, “Maybe someday I’ll do my lounge in purple.”
Lake exaggerated a shiver, and we followed the caretaker to the first floor bedroom. “This the only bedroom on this floor?” Lake asked.
“Yes, sir. The master suite is upstairs as is the nursery and four guest bedrooms.” He paused and went on sounding like a realtor, “A ballroom is on the third level. There are six full bathrooms and two half-baths in this house.”
“The nursery?” I asked.
Curtis shrugged. “Looks like it to me. A child’s bed and small rocking chairs are the furnishings, along with dolls and little boy toys.”
I knew Daniel Garian had no children—any born at the time of his death anyway.
Inside the first floor bedroom, it was impeccably kept and I said so.
“We have weekly maid service,” Curtis said, as if we were to understand he had nothing to do with housekeeping.
His speaking apparently reminded Lake that we didn’t talk in front of bystanders. “We’ll take care in here, if you’ll excuse us.”
