Frosted Shadow, a Toni Diamond Mystery: Toni Diamond Mysteries (2 page)

“And you are?”

“Toni Diamond. I’m a national sales director. I’ve been with the company for fifteen years, so I know pretty much everyone.”

“And you can tell she’s not in your organization by her shoes?” the detective asked.

“I only caught a glimpse of her legs. I don’t have anything else to go on.”

The detective hesitated. “Would you recognize her if you saw her face?”

Her gaze snapped to his. “I might.”

The elevator creaked and cranked its way down. He glanced over at the coroner who shrugged and said, “Your call.”

He reached over and unzipped the top part of the body bag. Toni moved closer to look, torn between fascination and horror. She tried to imagine this was a sleeping bag and the woman inside it was merely napping. But the face was too pale to keep up the fiction.

“Oh, poor thing. She’s so young.” The dead woman was in her early to mid thirties with flyaway blond hair. A pale blue T-shirt could be seen and the edges of a dark red blood stain on the left side, above her heart.

Her left hand rested on her chest as though she’d reached for the wound as she died. Toni quickly moved her gaze to the woman’s face and experienced a quick burst of relief on finding the woman was a stranger.

“I’ve never seen her before.” But Toni was too honest, or maybe too outspoken, to leave it at that. “She’s wearing Lady Bianca makeup though. And it’s a nice make up job,” Toni said, studying the face which would have been pretty in a nondescript way in life. In death that makeup stood out like a mask.

“She didn’t know enough to brace her elbows when she applied her lip liner.” She glanced at the only other woman in the elevator who was still living. “That’s why it’s wavy around the edges.”

“You can recognize Lady Bianca makeup?” the detective asked. His tone made it sound like a pretty unimpressive talent.

“I’m almost positive. The shadow trio on her eyelids is from our fall collection. Pumpkin spice, mulled cider and hickory liner.” She was genuinely puzzled. “Her make-up’s Lady Bianca, but the rest of her doesn’t match. Not the shoes. Not the T-shirt. Not the hands.”

There were ink stains between the dead woman’s thumb and forefinger, like she’d taken notes with a leaky pen.

“See how she hasn’t taken care of her hands? The nails are bitten, no polish, and her skin is rough. This woman hasn’t had a manicure in months. If ever.” In comparison, Toni showed them her own hands, smooth of skin and shiny of nail. Her daughter might think that the tiny half moon of sparkles where the white part of her French manicure met the pink part was over the top, but then, at sixteen, Tiffany thought everything her mother did was over the top. Including breathing.

She wore a small collection of her prize rings, including the two-carat diamond she’d won when her sales team had the highest sales in the country three years ago. The dead woman wore a single silver ring with a Celtic design on it that badly needed cleaning.

“I’ve never known a sales rep who didn’t come to convention with a fresh manicure.”

“But the woman
is
wearing Lady Bianca make-up,” the cop reiterated.

Toni’s brows pulled together in a frown that she automatically smoothed, determined to keep her face a Botox-free zone as long as possible. “I’m pretty sure she is, but other than that she doesn’t look like one of us.”

The elevator bumped to a stop. “Thank you for your help.” The detective pulled out a card and handed it to her. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, call me.”

She read the name on the card aloud. “Detective Sergeant Luke Marciano. Major Crimes Unit.”

Before they filled their hands with gurney, she pulled out a few of her own cards and handed each person one, starting with the woman who could certainly use Toni’s help in the cosmetics department.

“Let me give you all my card. Give me a call and I’ll be happy to give you or someone special in your life a complimentary makeover.”

With varying expressions of disdain they all pocketed the card. Didn’t matter. She was used to disdain and was philosophical about it. Of course, she’d never tried to market make up over a corpse before, but she wasn’t one to let any opportunity slip away.

She stayed inside the yawning cage of the elevator as the group wheeled the dead woman away, her gaze fixed on the female cop, already envisioning her in better make up and hair.

The wheels of the gurney were bumping their way into the basement area of the hotel where the loading dock would be. As the group passed an industrial trash can the young male officer tossed her card in the garbage.

Okay. So no free makeover for his wife.

Even as the word makeover passed across her mind, the obvious truth hit her. Her gasp was louder than the creaking elevator. She dashed out after them, her heels clacking on the bare cement. “Wait. I figured it out. She must have had a makeover.”

Her relief at finding out for sure that the dead woman wasn’t a Lady Bianca rep was enormous. Not only did she not want to think of anyone in her business ending up … that way, but there was also a practical side to her relief. The convention could too easily be derailed by thousands of women gossiping about murder instead of learning about cosmetics.

The group moving the gurney stopped as one and turned to her.

“She’s not a Lady Bianca associate at all,” she announced. “I knew it the minute I saw those shoes. One of our representatives gave her a makeover, that’s all.”

“What makes you so sure?” asked Luke Marciano.

She pulled out another of her cards and waved it at them. “Lady Bianca cosmetics are sold outside a retail environment. Offering makeovers is how we introduce ourselves and our products, like I just did to you all. During the convention there are thousands of enthusiastic sales reps in and around the hotel. Someone offered this woman a makeover and she took them up on it. Which means she’s not part of Lady Bianca. Obviously, you’ll have to direct your efforts elsewhere.”

Detective Marciano took a couple of steps toward her. “You’re sure this woman couldn’t possibly be connected to Lady Bianca?”

“I’d swear to it on my grandmother’s grave. And I dearly loved my grandmother.” Of course, Gran had been cremated so she didn’t actually inhabit a grave. The urn containing her ashes occupied pride of place on the mantel of the electric fireplace her mama had bought at Wal-Mart. They both looked real nice in the double wide. Since, officially, there was no grave to swear on, Toni was more willing to take a flyer on the truth. But her gut told her this woman wasn’t Lady Bianca and her instincts were rarely wrong.

The detective sent her a look that probably made murderers fall down on their quivering knees and confess.

“How many murders have you solved, Ms. Diamond?”

She smiled sweetly. “About as many as you’ve done makeovers.” A muffled snort of amusement came from the other woman’s direction.

Marciano seemed to be debating something. He stared at her and his right hand slipped into his pocket to jingle change. After a long moment he said, “There were cosmetics found beside the body. Lady Bianca brand.”

This didn’t depress her. The news had the opposite effect. “A small package? With travel sized samples in it?”

“Sounds about right.”

She nodded, forcing herself to suppress her smile of relief out of respect for the recently departed. “It’s the starter kit. We give it to all our makeovers. Encourages them to use the products, then they get hooked and become customers for life.” She glanced at the black body bag, thinking the dead woman’s life as a Lady Bianca customer had been extraordinarily short.

She wondered what that woman had done during her time on earth, and why she’d agreed to a makeover today of all days. Or maybe it had been yesterday.

He looked at the female cop. “If she’s not a Lady Bianca rep, then who the hell is she?”

Toni figured it was a rhetorical question, but she answered him anyway. “I can’t tell you that, but I can find out who gave her the makeover. We always get our clients’ names and contact information when we do a makeover.” She thought for a minute. “Can I see the make up samples?”

Now the cop looked puzzled. “I thought you said giving out samples was standard procedure?”

“It is. But a good rep will customize the pack a little bit, choosing colors that will compliment a woman’s coloring.” She shrugged. “Some can’t be bothered.” She tried not to let the irritation she felt for such sloppy sales practices show in her tone, but if there was one thing she’d learned in more than fifteen years in the business it was that attention to detail mattered. A woman whose Lady Bianca makeover left her looking fabulous was much more likely to spend her money on cosmetics than a woman who merely looked good.

“If I’d done that woman’s make up, I’d have gone with a softer palette. The pumpkin spice, mulled cider and hickory would look great on a brunette like you, ma’am, with your tawny skin tones and big brown eyes, but with this lady’s white and pink tones and what I’m guessing are blue eyes, I’d have chosen our fall mauves and plum tones, I’d have feathered a little eggplant right--”

“Get to the point ma’am. We’re more interested in catching the killer than getting a lesson in cosmetics.”

Well, he might be, but she could tell she’d caught the attention of the female cop.

“What that means is that whoever gave this poor woman her final makeover was either new, incompetent or had overbought on the tawny palette and was trying to push that stock.”

The air down here smelled musty and under the harsh lighting the dust motes floating lazily in the air were the size of dandruff.

“The make up package is upstairs. Find Detective Henderson and tell him Marciano sent you.” He sent her a stern glance. “And you don’t touch anything.”

When she widened her eyes, her mascara-darkened lashes jabbed her as though she’d taken two forks to her eyelids. “Of course not. But it might give me a clue as to who did the makeover.”

“If you find out who did it you call me immediately. Don’t approach the person yourself.”

“But—“

“Ms. Diamond, this woman didn’t die of old age.”

Chapter Three

It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. —
Oscar Wilde

The cops wheeled their gruesome cargo towards a loading dock with such casual assurance that a shiver crossed Toni’s skin as she wondered how often in the past they’d had to perform the same task.

She turned away.

She’d never been in the service end of a hotel before. None of the fancy stuff here, she noted. The hotel behind the scenes was like a woman before she’d made herself up. Bare cement floors, industrial lighting, cinderblock walls -- all of which had been covered over and prettied up out front for the public.

Not quite sure where she was, she decided to take the service elevator back the way she’d come.

When she’d taken those cards out to give them to the officers, she’d noticed a new text message on her phone. Her daughter, most likely.

Pulling her cell out of her bag she saw she was right. The message read,
Nd mr Ilinr,
teen hieroglyphics for
need more eyeliner
. No greeting or please or thank you or salutation. Extraordinary how a three-word message could drip with surliness. She didn’t even have to specify color. Tiffany’s current palette only contained one shade: black.

She took the service elevator up a floor and emerged into another cement floored hallway. A few steps led her into the kitchen. She must have got off the elevator a floor too soon, but, since she’d had enough of that cavernous metal cage, she kept going and got a sneak preview of the food for today’s luncheon banquet.

White coated and capped kitchen help were busy at massive industrial ovens and the smells of baking bread and roasting meat would have made her mouth water under normal circumstances.

A female chef shouted orders to a harried looking underling and then glared at Toni as she edged through the organized bustle.

“Sorry,” she whispered as she eased herself around a gleaming stainless prep counter where salads were being made in assembly line fashion. She headed for the nearest exit and found herself in the ballroom where lunch would be served. After the mayhem of the kitchen, the space looked huge and lonely with so many empty tables. A team of waiters were setting up, flipping lilac table cloths onto the round tables.

Next door to the big ballroom was a conference room now set up as a Lady Bianca cosmetics store featuring everything from the full collection of products to the equally enormous array of prizes that could be won by hard working sales associates.

Even in here she could tell that the atmosphere was different than usual. Less upbeat, verging on somber. This would never do. The sooner they could prove that that poor dead woman was not associated with Lady Bianca, the quicker they could all get back to business.

After buying four of the thick kohl pencils Tiffany favored, and reminding herself once more that goth was a phase like any other, she checked her watch. Normally, she took a second to admire the way the twelve diamonds on its face twinkled, reminding her that every hour of her life was a sparkling opportunity. But now she noted that the next sessions had already started.

She hoped that with the body removed, the associates had gone ahead in and weren’t gawping like
buzzards fixin' to light into a dead possum.

She strode out into the corridor ready to play mother hen if she had to, and found Orin Shellenbach, VP of Sales for Lady Bianca, shepherding the last stragglers into sessions.

Once they’d all disappeared she walked forward and poked her head inside Longhorn C.

“Crime scene, ma’am,” a sharp voice greeted her. It belonged to a heavy-set black woman with a no-nonsense manner.

“I’m looking for Detective Henderson,” she said.

The woman glared at her like she might be here to report a broken nail and they all had better things to do. “He’s out interviewing.”

“Any idea where?”

“Honey, I have enough trouble keeping track of my own people.”