Coming Unclued (25 page)

I reached into my handbag and pulled out the cap gun. “I have a gun,” I said. Heather recoiled at the sight of my weapon. It really was much too realistic for a toy. “Val! Where did you get that?”

“I have my sources,” I said. I hated to mislead Heather, when she was being so helpful, but she wasn’t a good liar. I needed her to believe the gun was real.

“Is it loaded?” asked Heather.

“What would be the point of an unloaded gun?”

Heather looked so shaken I hasted to assure her, “I’m not going to shoot anyone. I’ll just wave it around if Angie needs persuading.”

“A gun isn’t going to help your case Val.”

It certainly wouldn’t, though at this point I’d broken so many laws I was beyond caring. What was the penalty for pointing a cap gun at someone? Was impersonating a gun owner an indictable offense?

We stepped into the outer foyer of Angie’s building, where there was a security camera and phone. Heather, who now seemed quite nervous about her association with me pointed to the camera. “Get over there,” she said, “where the camera can’t see you.”

I squeezed into the corner under the camera and Heather punched in Angie’s number. “Hello,” she said, in a voice that was a lot more tremulous than the situation merited. It’s not like I was pointing the gun at her. “My name is Heather Elliott. I’m a friend of Val Valentyn’s and I was hoping I could come up and talk to you for a minute.” She paused for a moment. “Yes. Yes, we’re neighbors. I’m the esthetician.”

Heather hung up the phone and the buzzer rang unlocking the door. Angie was probably hoping for some skin care tips. “Nice,” said Heather as we entered the lobby. “This is the kind of building I want to live in.”

It was very nice, if you like that starkly elegant dark wood and leather look. Not a ratty Christmas tree or dusty poinsettia in sight. Not very homey, in my opinion, but each to their own. Angie lived on the top floor; the penthouse so to speak, though the building was only six stories. “Very very nice,” said Heather, as we stepped into the elevator.

“Hold the doors please,” a woman yelled as she came trotting toward us, dragging a little boy by his hand.

“Thanks,” the woman said, as she stepped in and punched the button for the third floor. I hunched against the back of the elevator, keeping my eyes on the ground. The little boy was adorable with his red hair in a goofy looking bowl cut and his striped mittens hanging from a string. The doors opened on three and the woman and little boy got out. “Pe Yew! That woman smells like Jasper when he’s wet,” said the boy as the doors closed.

Heather looked at me with the slightest of sneers on her face. “It’s your coat. It’s putrid. I didn’t want to say anything in the car.”

Well she needn’t think I was thin-skinned about how I smelled. “I appreciate your sensitivity,” I said. “I’m a little caught up in other issues. I hadn’t noticed that I was starting to stink.” For some reason I felt I had to defend myself. “It’s a very warm coat. Very practical.”

The elevator doors opened to a wide hallway with a table burnished to a glossy finish that held a vase containing a lavish Christmas display of greenery and berries. Heather’s mouth was pursed into a tight line of bitterness and for the first time I thought she looked a little old. Visiting those with lifestyles more lavish than her own was obviously a draining experience for her. “She’s on the corner,” I said, nodding my head to the left.

“Of course,” said Heather. “A corner unit. Lots of windows.”

I tapped on Angie’s door and she opened it almost immediately. She was wearing a cashmere sweater set and a pair of tweed slacks. Angie frowned at me. “Val?”

I pushed past Heather and into the condo just in case Angie decided to slam the door in my face. “Yeah. Hi. This is my friend Heather. Sorry to drop by without calling. Are you going somewhere?” I asked.

“No I’m not going anywhere,” said Angie. “Let me guess. You put on sweats the minute you walk in the door.”

“Or pajamas,” I said.

“Well I don’t,” said Angie. “What are you doing here Val?” she asked. “I thought you’d skipped town. That’s what everyone is saying.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said. “And the papers haven’t got anything right so far.”

We were standing awkwardly in Angie’s foyer like three strangers at a cocktail party. Angie seemed to be having some difficulty deciding if inviting a wanted criminal in for a drink was the appropriate thing to do. “What is that smell?” she asked, sniffing the air in disgust.

“It’s me,” I said. “Not my body, my coat.”

“Nice. You smell like a potato that’s starting to go off.” What was with it with these two? Were they under the impression I was in a position to be fretting about my rancid coat?

“Can we come in?” I asked. “I could really use a drink.” I gave Angie my most winsome smile. “You can imagine.”

“Could you take that coat off?” she asked. “Maybe put it out in the hall.”

Honestly. I removed the coat and dropped in on the floor outside the door. “Okay?”

“What are you wearing?” asked Angie in disbelief. “What are you even disguised as? When’s the last time you saw someone wearing a bell bottomed pantsuit and a fright wig?”

I could see where Angie and Heather could potentially become the best of friends. Their shared ability to focus on the superficial was almost uncanny. “A drink?” I asked.

“Are you sure?” asked Angie. “You were drunk when you stabbed Harry. Wasn’t that a bit of a wake up call?”

I headed into her living room and plunked my polyester ass down on her velvet couch. Or settee. Her couch-like object. “I’m not going into this again. I have some questions for you. That’s why I’m here.”

“Wine then?” asked Angie.

“Sure,” I said. “Whatever.”

“White wine would be lovely,” said Heather as she eyed over Angie’s living room. “Oh look,” she said, peering at the wall. “That’s my favorite Warhol. A numbered print. Nice. Is this an Eames?” she asked, running her hand over the arm of a lounge chair.

“Hmmm. I got it at an auction. A real steal,” said Angie. “Isn’t it a beauty?”

“Stunning,” said Heather, in a hushed voice.

It looked a lot like IKEA to me, but Angie and Heather were gazing at the chair like it was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Angie went in to the kitchen and came out with a bottle of wine which she passed around before joining me on the couch. “Dip?” she asked. “It’s nice. Crab with just a hint of apple.”

“Ahhh. Crapple,” I said. She’d been sitting here by herself, dressed in cashmere and heels, nibbling from a plate of pita chips and dip. Did she think Architectural Digest was going to drop in unexpectedly for a photo shoot?

“So,” she said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“It is my belief,” I said, as I swallowed a mouthful of the extremely tasty pita and dip, “that you are in possession of information that may be helpful to my case. It is my belief —” shit, I sounded ridiculous, “that you know more about Mr. Potter’s activities than have come to light in the process of this investigation.”

“Jesus,” said Angie. “What investigation? Get the poker out of your ass.” She began to imitate me, “It is my belief.” She smirked at Heather, who, perhaps overcome by the high-end furnishings smirked back.

“What do you know Angie?” I demanded. “Mr. Potter was a sleazeball. He ripped off a lot of people; probably has a lot of enemies. The question is, who did he screw over so much that they wanted to kill him?”

“Besides you?” asked Angie.

“Give me a break,” I said. “What’d he ever do to me?”

“Besides refusing to promote you? And, you know, not leaving Sophie. And God knows, whatever weirdness he was into when you took him home. I always thought he’d have pervy tendencies.”

This was beyond the pall. “You cannot be serious,” I said. “There is no way you can really believe I had any kind of physical contact with that foul little misery of a man.” I paused for a moment. “May he rest in peace.”

Angie just shrugged. “Who knows? People do crazy things. Like I said, I’m not judging you. I’m sure you had a good reason. He was on his way out anyway so c’est la.” She daintily wiped her mouth with her cloth cocktail napkin.

On his way out? Really? “Cancer?” I asked.

Angie scrunched up her face, clearly put off by my slow wittedness. “No, not cancer. He was going to retire. Pushed out. Douglas was planning to buy him out. It was probably all starting to catch up with him.”

Interesting. Very. “Tell me this,” I said. “Why did I leave with him? That’s what I can’t figure out. You never really explained that.”

“You were drunk,” said Angie, sounding kind of bored. “He was drunk. You were both leaving at the same time. Honestly, I don’t think you really planned it. I think he more or less just staggered into your cab.”

“I knew it! I knew I didn’t plan it.”

“So what if you didn’t plan it?” asked Angie. “The end result is the same. Harry Potter sashimi from what I hear.”

Disgusting. She was disgusting. “He just followed me home and I was too goodhearted to get rid of him. Even gave him my bed.” Now it all made sense. My generous nature had been my downfall. “Who saw us leave?” I asked. “Someone must have followed us.”

“I don’t know,” said Angie. “There were a few people hanging around the lobby of Hy’s having a good laugh at the two of you. I can’t remember exactly. Douglas was there I think.”

Douglas. Just as I thought.

“Look,” I said, “Just tell me what was going on at the office. It’s clear you know something. I know Mr. Potter was targeting the elderly with some kind of slimy scheme. Do you know anything about this David guy? And the cat?”

“Oh David — that old guy that wanted to leave all his money to his cat.”

“Exactly. Him.” I was excited. Finally I was making progress. “Mr. Potter robbed him blind.”

“Oh grow up Val. So what if Harry redirected a little of that money. You think the cat missed it?”

“Redirected. Nice. Nice word. I guess that’s what you call outright thievery.” Haa! I was on to something here.

Angie took a sip of wine and poked around in the nut bowl until she found the last cashew. “It’s an investment company Val. Some investors were happy, some weren’t. That’s the way it goes.”

I picked up an expensive looking crystal elephant from the side table. “And it looks like you were one of the happy ones. What was it? Ponzi scheme? Selling shares in companies that didn’t exist? Insider trading?” I was desperately searching my limited inventory of monetary knowledge for investment scams.

Angie rolled her eyes. “Ponzi scheme. Oh sure. Harry Potter, our own mini Madoff. Please.” She stretched one arm and yawned, not even bothering to cover her mouth. “It’s been good seeing you Val, but I’m tired so I think you’d better move along or I’ll have to call the police. I could get into real trouble for not reporting you.”

“We were friends at the office,” I said.

“Hey, I like you Val. I’m sorry you got caught, but there’s nothing I can do about that. You were stupid.”

Angie in a nutshell. She was okay with the idea of me stabbing Mr. Potter, it was my getting caught she found distasteful. Bitch. I pulled Alice’s toy gun out of my handbag and pointed it at her. “Yes there is something you can do. You can tell me exactly what you know.”

“Are you kidding me? Is that real?”

“It’s real,” I said, in what I hoped was a deadly serious sounding voice. I glanced down at the gun. There was a batman sticker on it. How had I not noticed that? I quickly put my thumb over the sticker, got off the couch and stood across the room from Angie. “Start talking,” I said.

“Oh please,” said Angie. “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“Oh I would,” I said. “I’m a desperate woman.”

I waved the gun at Heather. “Tell her,” I said.

Heather blanched and gripped the arms of the chair. “Stop that Val. It could go off.” She shot Angie a distressed look. “She is desperate. She’s not herself.”

“I have nothing to lose Angie. If I don’t get some answers I’m going down for this.” There. I’d covered just about every cliché I could think of.

Angie took a sip of wine and settled back on the couch, but her shaking hand gave her away. She was scared of me. Good. She should be. She was going to talk or else. Or else what? I’d point my toy gun at her? I waved the gun in Angie’s general direction.

“What was Mr. Potter up to? How did he make all that money?”

“He ran a successful financial planning company.”

“Yeah, yeah. Apart from that. How did he really make his money?”

“What are you, an imbecile? That’s how he really made his money.”

I had to hand it to Angie. She was brave. Most people would be reticent to call a gun wielding maniac an imbecile.

“I mean, okay, maybe he sometimes got a little greedy. Like with David. He did some unethical things.”

Well finally. “Like what? What exactly did he do?”

“Oh for God’s sake Val. What difference does it make? You think some bitter eighty-five year old crawled up to your apartment and stabbed him? Get a grip. Yes, he might have talked a couple old folks out of their savings, but most of them were close to death anyway. What were they going to do with it? Anyway, I don’t know that much. Annette did all the paperwork. She’s the one you should be talking to. He kept her on a string for years. Poor old thing was in love with the guy, if you can imagine. He let her go, you know, on the Friday before the staff party. Gave her a nice little package and sent her on her way. She was in quite a tizzy. I think she thought that someday he would come to his senses and leave Sophie for her.”

Okay. This was big. “Did you tell that to the police?” I asked. “That’s a pretty big motive.”

“Didn’t even think of it,” said Angie. “Harry was stabbed to death. Can you picture Annette doing that?”

I waved the gun at Angie. “Can you picture me doing that? And I’m going to report you. Aiding and abetting the extortion of seniors. That’s a serious crime. You’re going to be in big trouble. Just wait ‘till the police start investigating how a lowly receptionist ended up with a place like this.” I waved the gun at the ugly chair Heather was perched on. “There’s not going to be any Ames chairs where you’re going.”