Authors: Arlene Sachitano
"You want me to stay here with you?” Connie asked. “Give me a pillow and a quilt, and I'm good to go."
Harriet was touched.
"No, but thanks. The police are going to drive by every hour. And Darcy gave me a door alarm to hang on my bedroom doorknob. She uses it when she travels."
After crawling into bed late one night when she'd returned from girl's night at the movies and rubbing her foot up Steve's cold dead shin, she'd needed several years of therapy just to be able to sleep in a bed again. Several more years with the shrink, and she'd learned that sleep is a great way to escape anything and everything. Probably not Dr. Weber's idea of a successful outcome, but the net result was the same.
The women left, and Harriet turned off the lights in the studio and went upstairs. When she came out of the bathroom in her pajamas, Fred was lying on her pillow. She set her alarm and crawled into the flannel sheets. In spite of everything, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep almost immediately.
A furry head butt woke Harriet up a half-hour before her alarm would have gone off at the ungodly hour of five-thirty a.m. Four hours of sleep had left her feeling as though wet sweatsocks had been stuffed into her head. Her eyes felt swollen, and her mouth was dry.
The night's excitement had apparently had the opposite affect on Fred. He was hungry and ready to start his day. She pushed him off the bed, but he jumped right back onto her chest and started licking her eyelids.
"Can't you be a normal cat and hole up somewhere for hours if not days to recover from your trauma?” she asked him. “Food is not the answer to everything.” She wasn't sure how well she could sell that one, since she tended toward chocolate ice cream and M&M's in a crisis. “Come on, let's go see if we can find your food."
She pulled the plaid flannel robe Aunt Beth had loaned her on over the Oakland A's T-shirt that doubled as a nightshirt in her wardrobe. Fred wove in and out of her legs as she headed for the stairs.
He was in luck—the food cabinets in the kitchen were untouched. His bowl proved a little harder to find. There was a puddle on the placemat where his water dish had been.
She finally found the dishes under the dining room table. She could imagine her thief kicking them in frustration. Good, she thought. I hope he was real frustrated.
Now that she'd had a little rest, she was mad. The beautiful quilts her friends had made for the show had been vandalized for no apparent reason, and her aunt's studio—
her
studio—had been trashed. And she hadn't done anything to deserve it.
She fed Fred then called the police station. She was ready for some answers. Unfortunately, no one was ready to provide them. The desk sergeant assured her no one knew anything more than they had last night, and that they were doing everything that could be done to find out who was responsible. He also suggested she might want to call her insurance person.
Harriet made a mental note to call Bill Young when she got back. She didn't know what kind of coverage Aunt Beth had, but in Foggy Point, if you had insurance you bought it from Bill.
She ate a quick bowl of cereal then went into the studio to box up the show quilts. She grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper from the six-pack she'd kept hidden in her car until her aunt had departed. She hid them behind the orange juice in the refrigerator, just in case the diet police had the box bugged. She was trying to cut back on caffeine, but she'd earned this one.
The Loose Threads had gotten the quilts repaired and put back in their various carry bags, but she needed to find the show entry forms each person had filled out.
It was a shock all over again to walk into the studio. Aiden had picked everything up off the floor, but books, papers, batting and scraps of fabric were piled on every available flat surface, waiting for her to make some sense of them. She picked up a pile of papers and sat in the wing chair and started sorting.
It took most of an hour, but she found forms for all the entrants save one—Avanell's was missing. She thought back over the sequence of events the night before. Aiden had brought his mother's quilt into the studio just before he left for the night. She couldn't quite remember if she had seen a sheet of paper with it or not.
She was reluctant to call Aiden before seven in the morning after keeping him up so late. Besides, she was beginning to feel a little guilty about hitting him in the head with the sprinkler. In the end, she decided that, after a quick shower, she'd swing by the Vitamin Factory and have Avanell fill out a new entry. Avanell had told her at lunch she'd made a practice of arriving thirty minutes before her factory workers, no matter what. She claimed it had curbed an epidemic of tardiness a few years back, and she'd found the quiet time at the start of her day so useful, she'd just kept it up. Harriet hoped she wouldn't mind an intrusion.
With the quilts safely stowed on the backseat of her Honda and the paperwork on the passenger seat beside her purse, Harriet locked the house and studio and drove through the grey light of dawn to the Vitamin Factory.
There were two cars in the parking lot when she pulled into a visitor spot near the door marked office. She recognized Avanell's silver Mercedes. Harriet was surprised there weren't more cars. She certainly wasn't an expert on manufacturing, and she was probably being simplistic, but if Avanell was having trouble finding employees and the factory was falling behind schedule, shouldn't there be some people here working overtime? And shouldn't there be some underling sharing the burden? And what about her business-partner brother? If only Aunt Beth were here, Harriet thought. She probably would have some answers.
It should only take a few minutes to get Avanell's signature on the form, and she could be on her way. She stepped through the door. A plain young woman with long sandy hair and freckles sat at a scarred wooden desk.
"Can I help you?” she said in a voice that made it clear she would rather do anything but. She chewed a tired wad of gum and slowly flipped the pages of a magazine.
"I need to speak to Avanell,” Harriet said.
"I haven't seen her yet today."
"Isn't that her car in the parking lot?"
The woman kept her eyes on the magazine that was clearly more interesting than Harriet's questions. “Silver Mercedes? Yeah, that's hers. Maybe she's in the back. Sometimes she helps out in shipping this time of the month."
"Could you check for me?"
"They're too cheap to have an intercom here. You're welcome to go back and check yourself if you want. Just go through that door and follow the smell of vitamins.” She pointed at a blue door marked “Employees Only."
"Thanks for your help,” Harriet said and knew her sarcasm was lost on the girl.
"No problem,” she said without looking up.
The door opened into a hallway. A large glass window on the right revealed an employee locker room; identical white smocks floated like ghosts on a garment rack. The shelf above it held what looked like fabric shower caps. On the opposite wall was a bank of grey gym-style lockers with combination locks hanging from their clasps. A wooden bench cut the room in half. Assorted pairs of white shoes were lined up underneath. She could almost imagine the workers who would inhabit the costumes within the hour.
She wondered if she would be contaminating their space if she walked out into the production area in her street clothes. She could have gone back and asked the receptionist but was pretty sure it would be a waste of time.
Another blue door led into the vitamin processing room. Large funnel-shaped bags hung over narrow conveyer belts full of brown bottles that snaked through the area. A metal contraption that resembled a giant stamp hovered over the end of the conveyer. A large box of white safety caps sat on the floor next to a table with three chairs around it. Open boxes of surgical gloves were scattered throughout. This was obviously where vitamins were bottled and sealed.
Avanell was not in evidence, so Harriet crossed the room and exited through the door opposite the one she'd come in. She was in a short hallway. Restrooms were to the left. The first room to the right held printing and labeling equipment. The lights were off.
She chose the second door on the right. It opened into the large, high-ceilinged room that was the packing and shipping area as well as warehouse space.
"Avanell?” she called.
A single light fixture illuminated a corner at the back of the building. Harriet headed toward it. The warehouse had a concrete floor, and the heels of her shoes made a loud clacking noise that echoed off the rafters.
"Avanell,” she called again.
She stopped. The silence was deafening. A compressor started. She resumed her path toward what she hoped was Avanell.
"Hello?” she said in a louder voice. “Avanell?"
She arrived at the lighted corner. A large worktable was surrounded by stacks of boxes. A single chair was pushed back from the lone workstation. She came around the end of the table.
"Avanell!"
she screamed.
Avanell Jalbert lay collapsed on the cold cement floor. It was as if an unseen puppet-master had abruptly cut her strings. Harriet dropped to her knees, avoiding the red stain that extended like a dark halo around Avanell's head
"Oh, Avanell,” she whispered. “What happened to you?"
A thin thread of blood had trickled from the corner of her mouth and joined the congealed pool under her head. Harriet looked away and fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone. She dropped it, and when she picked it up again, her hand was shaking so hard she had to punch the numbers in three times before she connected to the 911 operator.
"You have to come to the Vitamin Factory now,” she said. “Avanell Jalbert is dead ... Of course, I'm sure.” She reached toward Avanell; by sheer force of will, she touched the outstretched hand. She recoiled. It was cold, the fingers unbending. She fought to calm her lurching stomach. Avanell was definitely dead.
She told the operator to send the paramedics to the back of the factory and then hung up to wait. She stood and moved a few steps away. A horrible feeling of déjà vu washed over her. She wished she was a strong enough person to hold Avanell's cold hand until someone arrived, but all the therapy in the world wouldn't have made that possible.
It was while she was avoiding looking at Avanell that Harriet noticed her friend's purse lying on the floor. It was upside down, its contents in a pile on the floor. She looked back at Avanell, and saw the rayon lining of her left skirt pocket sticking out. Someone had searched her after they killed her.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Harriet heard the sound of Foggy Point's police sirens approaching. The factory was soon engulfed by a rush of firemen, paramedics and police. Avanell was quickly pronounced dead and the warehouse declared a crime scene. Harriet was hustled back to the front office. She'd given a brief statement to the uniformed officer who had arrived first and been asked to wait for the major crimes detectives.
She was sitting on one of the three cracked vinyl chairs in what passed for a waiting room when a squat man in an expensive suit and fake tan arrived. The family resemblance was unmistakable. This had to be Avanell's business-partner brother, Bertrand de LaFontaine.
"What's going on here?” he demanded. His left forefinger nervously spun a heavy gold band on his ring finger. His graying hair was thin and styled in a comb-over. It was damp, as if he'd just gotten out of the shower. “Clarice said there was a problem and I should come right away."
Clarice must have been the helpful young woman Harriet had met on her way in. She was nowhere to be found now.
Bertrand de LaFontaine looked at her. She gestured at the employee door; and he went through it, opening it so fast it banged against the wall as he did.
She was still waiting for the major crimes detectives when Darcy Lewis arrived.
"Boy, you're keeping me busy tonight,” she said without humor. “Is it true that Avanell is the victim?"
A nod was all Harriet could manage. Tears filled her eyes.
"I'm sorry,” Darcy said. “It's just this job. Avanell was my friend, too. Did you find her?"
Harriet nodded again.
"That must have been awful for you, especially after last night. Do you want me to call anyone for you?"
"No, that's okay. Besides, Aunt Beth is still on her cruise. Do you have any idea how long I have to wait?"
"Are you waiting for the major crimes guys?” She looked at her watch. “They were just going out on a call when I got in last night. That's why I'm here this morning. There was a big drug bust over in Port Angeles that was some kind of interagency thing, so a bunch of our people are over there. I'll bet you can go. Just give your phone number to Briggs before you leave. I'll send him up here. He has to clear the area so we can get started anyway."
Darcy opened the employee door, and Harriet was alone again. She stood up and paced the length of the small waiting area. She searched her pockets for a tissue. She looked on Clarice's desk, but if the woman used tissues, she didn't share them.
Behind the reception desk, she could see two open office doors. She turned away and completed another circuit of the waiting area. On her next pass, she circled the desk and peered into the right-hand open door. A brass nameplate on the dark cherry desk read “Bertrand de LaFontaine."
A brown print box on the matching credenza behind his desk showed promise. Harriet stepped in. The box was empty.
Bertrand, she decided, must be one of those executives who didn't leave work until every piece of paper had been dealt with—all the polished wood surfaces were bare. If he had a wife or kids, they weren't represented here by photos.
A small occasional table sat between two upholstered chairs. It held a two-month-old travel magazine and the previous day's
New York Times
. She turned to the back wall. A small framed oil painting leaned neatly on the floor. Above it, a slightly smaller metal door hung open. She looked inside, being careful not to touch the door. The chamber was empty. If there had been anything in the safe, it was gone now.