Wild Goose Chase (16 page)

“Fimo clay. Claire made them from scratch. You’ve got to have an edge if you want to win first prize.”

She grabbed my hands. Her palms were freezing. “Never mind the dress now. Let me tell you my news.”

I could tell she was excited. Her pale skin was highlighted with two high spots of color on her cheeks.

“It’s official,” Myra said, clapping her hands. “I can buy Quilter Paradiso.”

“You buy Quilter Paradiso?” That was the last thing I’d expected to hear.

“I talked to the lawyers this afternoon,” she said. “We’re going to execute the sales contract that Claire had drawn up with your mother.”

“A contract? I didn’t know they’d gotten that far.”

“Claire’s attorney knew all about it.”

“But I didn’t know you wanted the shop,” I said. “I lined up some other people to talk to. I’ve scheduled appointments.”

Myra zipped me up. “Well, now you don’t have to. I think Claire wanted me to have it,” she said wistfully. “That was her intent all along. She was buying your mother’s store for me.”

The idea that I could stop looking for a buyer started to take hold. The shop would belong to Myra. No more worrying about the inventory, or making payroll. No more agonizing over what lines of fabric to buy. No more Kym. I felt lighter. I straightened my shoulders. I didn’t need to meet with Colin after all, and missing my drink with the Freitas sisters didn’t matter. I could let our family attorney handle the details. I could be finished with Quilter Paradiso.

I held out my hand. “Okay, Myra, you’ve got a deal.” We shook. Myra smiled and I returned her grin. I’d call my old work buddies on Monday and start networking for a new job.

Lark brought me back to earth, jerking me onto a small step stool. “Let me put up the hem, Dewey.” She was armed with a pin cushion strapped to her wrist.

“I’m done here,” Myra said, patting my forearm. “I’ll go see if Eve needs my help. I can’t wait to see you on stage in Claire’s outfit. You’re going to be quite a sight.”

Lark knelt on the floor, gave the skirt a fierce tug and, taking pins from her mouth, began rapidly turning up the hem. I glanced at her in surprise.

“I didn’t know you knew how to sew.”

“You see any needle or thread? I’m pinning, not sewing, Dewey,” she growled. “If it was up to me, I’d use scotch tape. Hold still.”

Chastened, I held my hands down at my side, and tried to stand motionless.

“Keep your chin up. Remember what I told you.”

We were interrupted by two shrill blasts of a whistle.

“Line up,” Eve’s voice cut through the noises of the crowd. She clipped her syllables like a cheerleader. “Your outfit should have a number. Get in numerical order.”

Lark let me go reluctantly, the pins in her mouth twitching as she spat out one more and jabbed it in the hem. She gave me a hand down off the stool.

Eve bent down to hear what Myra was telling her. From the vantage point of her chair, Eve pointed across the heads of the models at me.

“Dewey, you’re first.”

“First? No way!” I cried. “I don’t know what to do.” I felt silly, with everyone’s eyes on me without even leaving the dressing room. What would it be like in front of an audience?

“That’s why we’re having a rehearsal,” Eve said. “Myra’s right. As long as you’re going to wear Claire’s work, you should be out in front. I’m not messing again with the lineup. Get over here. All you have to do is walk across the stage without tripping.”

The models were already bunched by the closed stage door, jockeying into position. Wending my way to the front, I stepped on a mermaid’s tail and heard a yelp. I apologized.

“I’m on first, sorry. Excuse me, I need to get by.”

Lark called out, “Chin up. Shoulders back, don’t look down whatever you do.”

I gave her a feeble wave.

Eve handed me a pair of shoes. I slipped them on and she pointed me toward the stage. “Walk slowly, one foot in front of the other,” she said.

Another chorus of “I Feel Pretty” started in the back of the room. She turned to the rest of the models, waiting in a line behind me.

First on meant first off. That was some consolation. Maybe I wouldn’t be late meeting Colin Bergstrom and the Freitas sisters. I should let them know I’d agreed to sell to Myra.

“Okay, everybody, ready to strut your stuff? Just because this is only a rehearsal doesn’t mean you can’t vamp it up. Be outrageous.”

That was the last thing I wanted to be. I just wanted to get across the stage upright. The shoes pinched with each step I took. I felt sick. One of Lark’s pins had worked loose and was poking me in the calf. I felt a trickle of sweat travel between my shoulder blades. Kym was going to hear about this.

I looked around for Myra. She was standing in the back of the dressing room and gave me a thumbs up. That made me feel better.

“Ready with the spot? Lark, get ready to open the curtain,” Eve said into her walkie-talkie. “Okay, Dewey, go, go, go.”

I felt my heart pound. Eve opened the door and pushed me out onto the stage. I hesitated, and she shoved me hard, like a commander pushing a parachuted rookie out of a plane.

I took several baby steps. Small footlights lit only the area directly in front of me. Myra was expecting me to do Claire’s outfit proud. I sucked in my stomach and took another small step. Inhaling, I mouthed Lark’s words. Chin up, don’t watch your feet. I took two more steps.

A noise from the doorway behind me froze my progress. I looked. Eve was wheeling her arms, urging me on. Faster, she mouthed. I picked up the pace and moved closer to center stage. A bright spotlight came on from behind the audience, blinding me. I shielded my eyes without thinking and heard Eve holler, “No!”

Damn it, I was doing my best here. What did she expect? I’d told her I had no experience onstage. “Sorry, it was just so much brighter …” I turned to apologize, to explain to her that I hadn’t been prepared for the light but I would do better next time.

Eve was hurtling toward me. At my feet, she crumbled to the floor and began crawling. What was she doing? She passed me and I looked to see where she was headed. The stage was brightly lit now. I blinked, sure I was not seeing what I was seeing. Suddenly my eyes cleared and I knew I was looking at another dead body.

Justine lay in the middle of the stage, a large pool of dark blood underneath her head. The blood had spread around her but stopped, the jagged edges forming a red mantilla around her blood-darkened hair. Holding my own breath, I looked to see if her chest rose, but I saw no sign of life.

I closed my eyes, refusing to believe it. When I opened them again, Justine had not moved.

I looked back at the rest of the models, who had been shocked into complete silence. I saw Lark standing head and shoulders above the others. For a long moment, I held her eyes, refusing to acknowledge that Justine was laying three feet away from me, dead. Maybe if I never looked …

“She’s hurt!” a woman in a feathered hat shouted.

“Call 911,” someone else yelled.

No one moved. I couldn’t leave Eve alone. I took the several steps to where she was kneeling alongside her fallen friend, her tears spilling freely.

“Justine,” Eve keened, the word taking more syllables than I would have thought possible.

My second body in as many days. I was getting to be an expert.

I put my hand gently on hers. “Don’t touch anything, Eve.”

“But she’s hurt.” Eve’s words were followed by gully-washing tears.

“She’s past being hurt.”

Eve turned her sorrowful brown eyes to me, the pain so deep in them I had to look away. I reached for my phone, then remembered it was with my clothes. “Someone call the police,” I yelled. “She’s dead.”

The crowd of models remained huddled in the doorway on the edge of the stage. The woman in the flapper dress shook, her fringe flying vigorously. Just a few minutes ago, they’d been a lighthearted group, singing and bitching about too-tight waistbands.

Everyone was looking at me as though I should know what to do. And I did. I knew I had to keep everyone together until the police came. I tried to find Myra, but I couldn’t see her. She shouldn’t be alone.

“Lark,” I hissed. She took several tentative steps closer, keeping her gaze on my face, off Justine’s body.

“Keep everyone in the dressing room. Make sure no one leaves. The police will want to interview them,” I said.

She nodded, herding the models back into the dressing room. I heard their voices rise excitedly, quiet shock replaced by the compulsion to talk about what they were experiencing.

I remembered the #Buster on my phone.

“And tell Myra. Tell her to bring my cell phone. She knows where it is.”

Eve pulled on Justine’s bangs, smoothing the hair on her forehead. I looked away, unwilling to look at Justine’s flat, staring eyes. Nothing, I learned again, was as empty as eyes with no life behind them.

I wanted to move away. “Eve, honey, we’ve got to leave,” I said gently.

“No,” she roared. “I’m not going.” She moved closer to Justine, cradling her shoulders. I knelt, keeping a distance, reluctant to get bloody again. Eve stroked Justine’s cheek over and over. Her face told me she knew her friend was beyond feeling, but she was unable to stop.

“She was a good person, Dewey. Even after everything she did, I still loved her. And she loved me.”

“I know she did.” I shifted, my knees stinging from the cold wood stage.

“Listen to me,” Eve pleaded. I sat back on my heels, Claire’s skirt covering my legs, the pins in the hem digging into my thighs.

“We never should have moved out of San Francisco,” Eve said quietly. “I thought we’d have a better life in Reno. But Justy was lonely there. It was harder to make friends than we thought it would be. I had my garden, but Justine, she needed people. She tried golf, tennis, but she got bored.”

Eve struggled to replace Justine’s sandal that had fallen off. Her bare foot was white as marble, vulnerable and cold. I swallowed hard.

“At first when she started going to the casinos, I didn’t mind. I was glad.”

I looked back at the stage door. The models had migrated back to the entrance in a knot. Lark was not with them anymore. I couldn’t leave Eve alone, and no one was coming out to spell me. I shifted my skirt so the pins weren’t sticking me as much. It would be a while before the police arrived, even with Buster and Sanchez in the building somewhere.

Eve continued, her voice insistent and low. I felt like she’d been waiting to tell someone this story for a long time.

“At first I didn’t know where she was going. Justine always handled our finances. We were short some months, but she always had an explanation. The truck needed a transmission, or she’d made a deposit on a hall in Lancaster for the spring convention. She always had a reason.”

Eve grew quiet, and I thought she was finished.

“I followed her to the casino one night,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Justine was at the blackjack table, playing for thousands of dollars. The dealers knew her well, brought her White Russians and coffee. She loved White Russians.”

Eve dissolved into tears. I patted her while she rocked back and forth, wordless sounds coming from her mouth. Where was Myra with my phone?

A movement on the stage caught my eye. Was the killer still here? I started. Eve sensed my urge to flee and grabbed my hand, keeping me at her side. My heart in my throat, I tried to make out what I saw. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and I could see the gold fringe fluttering on the American flag that stood in the back corner of the stage. Her rocking had caused a cross breeze, making the fringe move and settle. Nothing alive, just shiny gold fringe.

My breathing returned to normal, and Eve lessened her grip. I scanned the stage, trying to assure myself that that was all that I’d seen. I spotted something familiar on the floor near the back of the stage. One overhead light was illuminating the little orb.

A button. From here, I could clearly see the brightly colored flower in the center. Just like the one on the jacket I was wearing.

I pulled the jacket around me. A chill went through me. If Sanchez saw this, he would suspect me of murder—again. My heart fluttered. I had to get that button.

Two EMTs arrived, easing
Eve away from Justine’s body. I heard them muttering about gunshot wounds. Lark came out and hugged Eve, dragging her toward the dressing room, as the emergency workers bent over Justine. I backed away, gathering the skirt around me, sat back on my heels, and glanced at the crowd regrouped at the stage door. All eyes were on Eve. I scooted backward, away from the front of the stage. No one noticed that I was moving away from them. In the semi-darkness of the downstage, I put my hand out, fingers scrambling, reaching until I found the button. I scooped it up.

To my right, on the opposite side from the models, I felt for an opening in the curtain. To my great relief, I found one and, still crawling backward, slipped through.

I stood, letting the curtain close around me. I pulled off the painful shoes. I was in a dim, musty space off stage left. My bare foot bumped into something hard and I nearly tripped over a metal dolly. I bit my lip to avoid crying out in pain.

One hand out, I felt my way toward the red glow from an EXIT sign at the end of the hall. I closed my other hand around the button. The sharp edges dug into my palm.

No way was I going through an interrogation with Sanchez believing I had something to do with another murder. Hours of questions I had no answers to. I knew there would be consequences later, but I didn’t care. My throat closed. I felt as trapped as a squirrel in a forest fire, with the same overwhelming urge to flee.

I pushed the exit door open, waiting for alarm bells, only breathing normally when none came. I was outdoors, on a small concrete dock. I couldn’t see the street from here, but I could hear the air brakes of trucks stopping at a nearby traffic light.

I had come out onto the loading zone for the auditorium, similar to the one we had used to set up Wednesday night—the mundane working end of the convention center.

I tore the jacket off and compared the buttons to the one in my hand. An exact match. I counted the buttons down the front. Five, all intact. No buttons were missing off the jacket. No sixth buttonhole, no little threads indicating a button had fallen off. I patted the dress down. It had a long zipper in the back. No buttons on the dress, not as fastener or embellishment. Where had this one come from?

My mind spiraled back to Justine’s dead body. I had to keep the button away from Sanchez. I didn’t need anything to point me to the scene of the crime.

I walked along the concrete pad. A stenciled sign on the back wall read “No jumping off the dock.” Did people really commit suicide off loading docks? Was this loading dock the Golden Gate Bridge of Silicon Valley?

I scrubbed at my eyes and dragged the fingernails of my left hand through the hair at my temples. The pain reminded me this was not some nightmare I could wake up from. People were dying around me. First Claire, now Justine.

I reached for my phone to call Buster before remembering I didn’t have it. What would I tell him anyhow? That I was running from another crime scene? That I was withholding possible evidence?

A shiver ripped through my body. Most of the area was in deep shade, and the air was cold. Moving toward the sun, I saw steps that led down to the drive—steps to freedom. Somewhere around this maze was the way out, a path that would lead me to the parking garage and my car and my real life. Away from death, away from murder. I would make a run for it.

I had reached the top step when I heard footsteps behind me. I stopped short, left foot dangling near the edge, and felt the hairs rise up on the back of my neck. A tickle set up in the small of my back. Was Sanchez coming to get me?

Not knowing was worse. With trembling knees, I forced myself to turn. Myra was framed in the doorway, holding my phone. I yelped with relief.

“I’m so glad it’s you,” I said.

“Are you okay? I saw you leave. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m going home. Let them come and get me.”

Despite my tough talk, my legs were wobbly and I didn’t trust them to navigate the stairs. I sat down on the top step.

“Here we are again,” Myra said as she came alongside of me, handing me my cell. The two of us sat facing the ugly stained driveway. I felt so stuck.

“Yeah, another day at the quilt show, another murder,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“The EMTs said Justine was shot,” I said.

“But Claire had an accident, Dewey.”

Me and my big mouth. I’d forgotten that Myra didn’t know Claire had been killed deliberately.

“She tripped and fell with the cutter in her hand,” she persisted.

I grasped my cell, wishing I could call Buster. The button in my hand reminded me I couldn’t.

“What? Do you know something? Tell me,” Myra said.

She deserved the truth. I laid my hands in my lap. Without looking at her, I explained. “I was talking to Detective Healy earlier about the different kinds of rotary cutters. He realized that the type of cutter found by Claire was the safety cutter.”

A look of recognition passed over Myra’s face, and then another. She was familiar with rotary cutters and got the meaning immediately.

“So she
was
murdered?” she said, sounding strangled.

“Someone,” I continued, “had to have held that cutter and cut her with it.”

Myra exploded up. She took several long steps away from me, then wheeled back at me. Her face was contorted with anger. I felt sick that I’d been the one to tell her.

She was walking close to the edge of the dock. There was no guardrail here, just the edge of the concrete and then the drop. I looked down—it would be a nasty fall. I was afraid that with one slip of her foot, she would go over.

I pushed myself off the step and approached her tentatively. I put a hand on her elbow. She pulled away from me and, off balance, teetered near the edge. I felt my own feet get unsteady. I stiffened my knees to hold my ground.

“Just watch your step, Myra.” I backed up, afraid we would both fall. Myra was still standing too close. I hoped my words would be enough to settle her down.

“Look, I’m sorry if I upset you. I know this is craziness. It’s not fair that Claire’s gone and now Justine. It’s not fair at all.”

I felt the cold seep up through my ankles from the damp concrete floor as her eyes bore into mine.

“Dewey, now another person is dead. Don’t you see?”

“I get it, Myra. Probably the same person killed both of them. Maybe if someone had figured out who killed Claire earlier, Justine would be alive.”

Could that someone have been me? If I’d talked to Justine earlier, told her I knew she had borrowed from Claire, that I’d seen her walking away from Claire’s door, would she still be alive? I would never know.

But who killed her? Maybe her partner had been mad enough to kill her. It would take passion to shoot Justine, and Eve had plenty of reasons to be angry with Justine. I remembered her scathing toast of Claire in the bar.

“Did you see Eve around the auditorium before the rehearsal started?” I asked.

Myra looked at me quizzically. “What are you thinking?” she said.

“What if Eve confronted Justine about stealing and ended up killing her?”

“Do you really think that might have happened? Whoa.” Myra stopped to think, her brow furrowed with concentration. “I wasn’t around earlier. I was at the lawyer’s this afternoon, and I had to get the dress; it was back at my loft. I had only just gotten to the fashion show when you saw me.”

I felt the button in my hand, pressing into my palm. I was going to be imprinted with the detail from the design if I wasn’t careful. I tried to relax my fingers.

“Myra, this button …” I held my hand open for her inspection, moving the cell aside. “It matches the ones on Claire’s jacket.”

Myra picked it up and looked at it. “Yes, it does. Where did you find it?”

“On the stage. Way back. But there are no buttons missing on the outfit. I checked.”

“So what? Claire usually put an extra button on the inside seam. It must have fallen off when you knelt down.”

“But it was so far away. I found it way back, almost to the back of the stage.”

“So it rolled.” Myra studied the button as though she could figure out its trajectory.

I flinched as the door banged open again. I jumped out of the way of the swinging metal, and Myra steadied me. Sanchez took a step outside.

“I need you two back inside. Now,” he said.

I heard disdain in his voice, through the veneer of courtesy. His face was locked down tight. As he held the door open, I caught a gleam off his manicured nails.

“I won’t go back in there.” I was surprised how weak my voice sounded. In my head, that statement had been strong.

Sanchez held the door open wider. He looked past me, his eyes scanning, taking in all of the dock and the driveway beyond. A car went by and he studied it, not turning from it until the sedan was out of sight. When his eyes finally lit on me, I could see his eyes were narrowed with barely controlled rage.

“Ms. Banks,” Sanchez said to Myra without looking at her, “please go inside. There’s an officer waiting to escort you to be questioned.”

Myra gave me a feeble wave, fist closed over the button. I relaxed, the button out of Sanchez’s clutches for now.

I sensed his impatience with me, his thin lips growing tighter. He frowned, the parallel lines carved deep into his forehead, reminding me of furrows left in the sand, except that these were permanently etched on his brow and wouldn’t disappear with the tide. Buster was on his way to having those same lines.

I didn’t know how to change this man’s mind about me. I thought of myself as a good and honest person who captured spiders and released them. He saw me as a liar and murderer.

“What did you think you were doing, leaving the scene like that?” he said.

“I don’t want to go through this again. I won’t. I can’t.”

“You do not have a choice. This is an official police investigation, and I will not tolerate your interference.”

“Buster …” I began, before I remembered Buster would not help me.

His eyes locked on me and his voice grew even deeper. “I’m aware of your personal relationship with Detective Healy. I understand you lured my detective away from his duties this afternoon.”

“I did not lure—”

He cut me off. “How convenient that you kept him away for hours while someone else was murdered.”

“How was I to know Justine was going to get killed?”

He stared at me, the stare of a leopard trying to paralyze his prey.

I realized what he was saying. “Oh come on. You don’t seriously think …”

“What am I to think? According to Healy, you haven’t looked at him in the twenty-odd years you’ve known each other. Suddenly, you find him irresistible and you choose today to seduce my detective. What am I supposed to think?”

How dare Buster tell his partner we’d been together. Was he truly that suspicious about my attraction to him? My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It was mortifying to think this cop knew details.

“Stop. You’ve got no idea,” I said.

“You lead my detective away from the convention center, in the height of an ongoing investigation, and keep him away. Another person dies. If you’re not killing people, maybe you’re protecting someone. Tell me, who?”

My mouth fell open. I tried to conjure up some courage. The courage of the falsely accused.

“I’ve got nothing to hide.” Again, my words sounded weak. Sanchez was draining whatever strength I had.

“We’ll see, Ms. Pellicano. We’ll see. It would not be that difficult to switch rotary cutters next to a dead woman.”

We returned through the hall I had used to escape. I was beginning to understand that talking was not my best option. I clamped my lips tight. We were getting closer to where Justine’s body had landed. A nerve in my thigh twitched painfully. I did not want to go there.

“Follow me.”

Sanchez opened a door and led me across the apron of the stage, in front of the closed curtain. I could hear low voices, feet scraping, and other indistinct noises as people tended to Justine. I could only imagine what they were doing behind the curtain. I shut down my imagination so I wouldn’t conjure up any images.