Authors: Sara Paretsky
Crenshaw had done an army stint in Southeast Asia in the late sixties. Since much of the bamboo furniture the store specialized in came from the Far East, some people speculated that Crenshaw had set up the smuggling route when he was out there in the service. Especially since Kansas City immigration officials discovered heroin in the hollow tubes making up chair backs. If Darnell knew anything about the smuggling, he had never revealed it.
“That’s all we know here, honey. Of course, you could come on down and try to talk to some people. And we can wire you photos if you want.”
I thanked her politely—my paper didn’t run too many photographs. Or even have wire equipment to accept them. A pity—I could have used a look at Crenshaw and Ronna Perkins.
La Cygnette was on an upper floor of one of the new marble skyscrapers at the top end of the Magnificent Mile. Tall, white doors opened onto a hushed waiting room reminiscent of a high-class funeral parlor.
The undertaker, a middle-aged highly made-up woman seated at a table that was supposed to be French provincial, smiled at me condescendingly.
“What can we do for you?”
“I’d like to see Angela Carlson. I’m a detective.”
She looked nervously at two clients seated in a far corner. I lowered my voice. “I’ve come about the murder.”
“But—but they made an arrest.”
I smiled enigmatically. At least I hoped it looked enigmatic. “The police never close the door on all options until after the trial.” If she knew anything about the police she’d know that was a lie—once they’ve made an arrest you have to get a presidential order to get them to look at new evidence.
The undertaker nodded nervously and called Angela Carlson in a whisper on the house phone. Evangeline had given me the names of the key players at La Cygnette; Carlson was the manager.
She met me in the doorway leading from the reception area into the main body of the salon. We walked on thick, silver pile through a white maze with little doors opening onto it. Every now and then we’d pass a white-coated attendant who gave the manager a subdued hello. When we went by a door with a police order slapped to it, Carlson winced nervously.
“When can we take that off? Everybody’s on edge
and that sealed door doesn’t help. Our bookings are down as it is.”
“I’m not on the evidence team, Ms. Carlson. You’ll have to ask the lieutenant in charge when they’ve got what they need.”
I poked into a neighboring cubicle. It contained a large white dentist’s chair and a tray covered with crimson pots and bottles, all with the cutaway swans which were the salon’s trademark. While the manager fidgeted angrily I looked into a tiny closet where clients changed—it held a tiny sink and a few coat hangers.
Finally she burst out, “Didn’t your people get enough of this yesterday? Don’t you read your own reports?”
“I like to form my own impressions, Ms. Carlson. Sorry to have to take your time, but the sooner we get everything cleared up, the faster your customers will forget this ugly episode.”
She sighed audibly and led me on angry heels to her office, although the thick carpeting took the intended ferocity out of her stride. The office was another of the small treatment rooms with a desk and a menacing phone console. Photographs of a youthful Mme. de Leon, founder of La Cygnette, covered the walls.
Ms. Carlson looked through a stack of pink phone messages. “I have an incredibly busy schedule, Officer. So if you could get to the point….”
“I want to talk to everyone with whom Darnell had an appointment yesterday. Also the receptionist on duty. And before I do that I want to see their personnel files.”
“Really! All these people were interviewed yesterday.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “Are you really with the police? You’re not, are you? You’re a reporter. I want you out of here now. Or I’ll call the real police.”
I took my license photostat from my wallet. “I’m a detective. That’s what I told your receptionist. I’ve been retained by the Barthele family. Ms. Barthele is not the murderer and I want to find out who the real culprit is as fast as possible.”
She didn’t bother to look at the license. “I can barely tolerate answering police questions. I’m certainly not letting some snoop for hire take up my time. The police have made an arrest on extremely good evidence. I suppose you think you can drum up a fee by getting Evangeline’s family excited about her innocence, but you’ll have to look elsewhere for your money.”
I tried an appeal to her compassionate side, using half-forgotten arguments from my court appearances as a public defender. Outstanding employee, widowed mother, sole support, intense family pride, no prior arrests, no motive. No sale.
“Ms. Carlson, you the owner or the manager here?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious about your stake in the success of the place and your responsibility for decisions. It’s like this: you’ve got a lot of foreigners working here. The immigration people will want to come by and check out their papers.
“You’ve got lots and lots of tiny little rooms. Are they sprinklered? Do you have emergency exits? The fire department can make a decision on that.
“And how come your only black professional employee was just arrested and you’re not moving an inch to help her out? There are lots of lawyers around who’d be glad to look at a discrimination suit against La Cygnette.
“Now if we could clear up Evangeline’s involvement fast, we could avoid having all these regulatory people trampling around upsetting your staff and your customers. How about it?”
She sat in indecisive rage for several minutes: how much authority did I have, really? Could I offset the munificent fees the salon and the building owners paid to various public officials just to avoid such investigations? Should she call headquarters for instruction? Or her lawyer? She finally decided that even if I didn’t have a lot of power I could be enough of a nuisance to affect business. Her expression compounded of rage and defeat, she gave me the files I wanted.
Darnell had been scheduled with a masseuse, the
hair expert Signor Giuseppe, and with Evangeline. I read their personnel files, along with that of the receptionist who had welcomed him to La Cygnette, to see if any of them might have hailed from Kansas City or had any unusual traits, such as an arrest record for heroin smuggling. The files were very sparse. Signor Giuseppe Fruttero hailed from Milan. He had no next-of-kin to be notified in the event of an accident. Not even a good friend. Bruna, the masseuse, was Lithuanian, unmarried, living with her mother. Other than the fact that the receptionist had been born as Jean Evans in Hammond but referred to herself as Monique from New Orleans, I saw no evidence of any kind of cover-up.
Angela Carlson denied knowing either Ronna Perkins or John Crenshaw or having any employees by either of those names. She had never been near Lawrence herself. She grew up in Evansville, Indiana, came to Chicago to be a model in 1978, couldn’t cut it, and got into the beauty business. Angrily she gave me the names of her parents in Evansville and summoned the receptionist.
Monique was clearly close to sixty, much too old to be Roland Darnell’s ex-wife. Nor had she heard of Ronna or Crenshaw.
“How many people knew that Darnell was going to be in the salon yesterday?”
“Nobody knew.” She laughed nervously. “I mean, of course
I
knew—I made the appointment with him.
And Signor Giuseppe knew when I gave him his schedule yesterday. And Bruna, the masseuse, of course, and Evangeline.”
“Well, who else could have seen their schedules?”
She thought frantically, her heavily mascaraed eyes rolling in agitation. With another nervous giggle she finally said, “I suppose anyone could have known. I mean, the other cosmeticians and the makeup artists all come out for their appointments at the same time. I mean, if anyone was curious they could have looked at the other people’s lists.”
Carlson was frowning. So was I. “I’m trying to find a woman who’d be forty now, who doesn’t talk much about her past. She’s been divorced and she won’t have been in the business long. Any candidates?”
Carlson did another mental search, then went to the file cabinets. Her mood was shifting from anger to curiosity and she flipped through the files quickly, pulling five in the end.
“How long has Signor Giuseppe been here?”
“When we opened our Chicago branch in 1980 he came to us from Miranda’s—I guess he’d been there for two years. He says he came to the States from Milan in 1970.”
“He a citizen? Has he got a green card?”
“Oh, yes. His papers are in good shape. We are very careful about that at La Cygnette.” My earlier remark about the immigration department had clearly stung. “And now I really need to get back to my own
business. You can look at those files in one of the consulting rooms—Monique, find one that won’t be used today.”
It didn’t take me long to scan the five files, all uninformative. Before returning them to Monique I wandered on through the back of the salon. In the rear a small staircase led to an upper story. At the top was another narrow hall lined with small offices and storerooms. A large mirrored room at the back filled with hanging plants and bright lights housed Signor Giuseppe. A dark-haired man with a pointed beard and a bright smile, he was ministering gaily to a thin, middle-aged woman, talking and laughing while he deftly teased her hair into loose curls.
He looked at me in the mirror when I entered. “You are here for the hair, Signora? You have the appointment?”
“No, Signor Giuseppe. Sono qui perchè la sua fama se è sparsa ai fronte a lei. Milano è una bella città, non è vero?”
He stopped his work for a moment and held up a deprecating hand. “Signora, it is my policy to speak only English in my adopted country.”
“Una vera stupida e ignorante usanza io direi.”
I beamed sympathetically and sat down on a high stool next to an empty customer chair. There were seats for two clients. Since Signor Giuseppe reigned alone, I pictured him spinning at high speed between customers, snipping here, pinning there.
“Signora, if you do not have the appointment, will
you please leave? Signora Dotson here, she does not prefer the audience.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Dotson,” I said to the lady’s chin. “I’m a detective. I need to talk to Signor Giuseppe, but I’ll wait.”
I strolled back down the hall and entertained myself by going into one of the storerooms and opening little pots of La Cygnette creams and rubbing them into my skin. I looked in a mirror and could already see an improvement. If I got Evangeline sprung maybe she’d treat me to a facial.
Signor Giuseppe appeared with a plastically groomed Mrs. Dotson. He had shed his barber’s costume and was dressed for the street. I followed them down the stairs. When we got to the bottom I said, “In case you’re thinking of going back to Milan—or even to Kansas—I have a few questions.”
Mrs. Dotson clung to the hairdresser, ready to protect him.
“I need to speak to him alone, Mrs. Dotson. I have to talk to him about bamboo.”
“I’ll get Miss Carlson, Signor Giuseppe,” his guardian offered.
“No, no, Signora. I will deal with this crazed woman myself. A million thanks.
Grazie, grazie.”
“Remember, no Italian in your adopted America,” I reminded him nastily.
Mrs. Dotson looked at us uncertainly.
“I think you should get Ms. Carlson,” I said. “Also a police escort. Fast.”
She made up her mind to do something, whether to get help or flee I wasn’t sure, but she scurried down the corridor. As soon as she had disappeared, he took me by the arm and led me into one of the consulting rooms.
“Now, who are you and what is this?” His accent had improved substantially.
“I’m V. I. Warshawski. Roland Darnell told me you were quite an expert on fitting drugs into bamboo furniture.”
I wasn’t quite prepared for the speed of his attack. His hands were around my throat. He was squeezing and spots began dancing in front of me. I didn’t try to fight his arms, just kicked sharply at his shin, following with my knee to his stomach. The pressure at my neck eased. I turned in a half circle and jammed my left elbow into his rib cage. He let go.
I backed to the door, keeping my arms up in front of my face and backed into Angela Carlson.
“What on earth are you doing with Signor Giuseppe?” she asked.
“Talking to him about furniture.” I was out of breath. “Get the police and don’t let him leave the salon.”
A small crowd of white-coated cosmeticians had come to the door of the tiny treatment room. I said to them, “This isn’t Giuseppe Fruttero. It’s John Crenshaw.
If you don’t believe me, try speaking Italian to him—he doesn’t understand it. He’s probably never been to Milan. But he’s certainly been to Thailand, and he knows an awful lot about heroin.”
Sal handed me the bottle of Black Label. “It’s yours, Vic. Kill it tonight or save it for some other time. How did you know he was Roland Darnell’s ex-partner?”
“I didn’t. At least not when I went to La Cygnette. I just knew it had to be someone in the salon who killed him, and it was most likely someone who knew him in Kansas. And that meant either Darnell’s ex-wife or his partner. And Giuseppe was the only man on the professional staff. And then I saw he didn’t know Italian—after praising Milan and telling him he was stupid in the same tone of voice and getting no response it made me wonder.”
“We owe you a lot, Vic. The police would never have dug down to find that. You gotta thank the lady, Mama.”
Mrs. Barthele grudgingly gave me her thin hand. “But how come those police said Evangeline knew that Darnell man? My baby wouldn’t know some convict, some drug smuggler.”
“He wasn’t a drug smuggler, Mama. It was his partner. The police have proved all that now. Roland
Darnell never did anything wrong.” Evangeline, chic in red with long earrings that bounced as she spoke, made the point hotly.
Sal gave her sister a measuring look. “All I can say, Evangeline, is it’s a good thing you never had to put your hand on a Bible in court about Mr. Darnell.”
I hastily poured a drink and changed the subject.