Skirting the Grave Page 16

  —LEO FRANKOWSKI

  Go home, Detective, Nick said a half hour later, checking his watch as we all admired Isobel’s skill while she did her first public solo fitting.

  She was a fashion professional. She knew the primo designers by pecking order, she aced style, knew the lingo, fashion gossip, and how to do a difficult fitting while complimenting a customer with both the outfit and the right words.

  I looked forward to seeing her altering skills, but I was already certain she was the right York for me, the model who went to fashion school.

  Brandy had actually found me a great intern, albeit with a wacked-out family.

  What I saw was what I got: Isobel York in the flesh, too blatantly honest—annoyingly so, sometimes—to be her own twin. Much too spontaneously indiscreet to be a call girl. And she couldn’t be submissive if her life depended on it.

  Meanwhile, Nick had been doing some disgruntled pacing since Werner told him to let me go. “Detective, isn’t it time you went back to the station?” Nick suggested.

  Eve chuckled at seeing Nick thwarted. “Jaconetti,” Eve said. “I always said you took Mad for granted. Seven years she lived in New York, and you visited like three times.”

  Nick ran a hand through his hair. “I was on assignment.”

  “Interminably? You knew she’d be there waiting, whenever. Now maybe she won’t be.”

  I turned to Nick. “I’m doing some private sleuthing on Payton’s case. No need to worry about me.”

  Nick scoffed. “You mean the detective doesn’t mind, for the first time ever, that you’re sleuthing? That doesn’t tip you off to his intentions?”

  “We’re collaborating.”

  Werner gave Nick a cocky grin. “Yes, we are.”

  “According to Mystick Falls gossip,” Eve said, examining her copper fingernails, “Werner’s attentions tip Mad off to his intentions.”

  “Eve!” I snapped.

  Dante, my ghost, who loved gatherings this size, chuckled and winked.

  “Sorry, Mad, but it’s out,” Eve said. “You two have been seen all over town, sometimes standing a bit close, sometimes with a bit of lip action. Tunney or the Sweets could give you a list of times, locations, and the corresponding body moves.”

  Isobel walked her interested customer to the door while I thanked the stars that my phone rang. I answered and let Nick cool off a bit.

  “Good news,” I said, hanging up. “The MacKenzie Carousel is being set up at Cort’s now. Rory and Vickie MacKenzie are there. They’re not charging her for this stop on their tour, and they’ve made a big donation to the Nurture Kids Foundation.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Isobel said, returning from seeing her customer out. “Are we going to be able to close Vintage Magic to attend?”

  “It’s my sister Brandy’s event. We sure are.” I looked around the shop to make sure my pregnant sister didn’t walk in. “We’re also closing on Sunday for my sister Sherry’s baby shower.”

  Isobel clapped her hands. “What’s the itinerary for Saturday?”

  There’s a garden party–style vintage car show in the afternoon, with models wearing fifties designer clothes to show off the cars. That’s when you can ride the carousel Rory’s ancestor carved that Rory maintains.”

  “I can’t wait,” Isobel said. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything. What does it cost to get in? I mean there has to be a charge if it’s a fund-raiser.”

  “It’s five hundred dollars a ticket,” I said, “but I’ll need you there. You’re hired for the day, so no cost to you.”

  “Grand-mère probably won’t like that. Bet she’ll pay for my ticket. She’s a pushover for anything that supports kids without parents.”

  I’ll bet. “I’d like to meet Grand-mère.”

  “Maybe my whole family can come? The Yorks are rich enough, and maybe it’ll get Daddy’s attention away from the campaign for a bit. He might actually see me.”

  “I hope your dad looks good in a tux, because in the evening there’s a bachelor auction, and he’s agreed to be auctioned off.” I knew he’d do anything for publicity, which is why I wasn’t afraid to ask. “I’ll bet your father will bring a pretty penny. Nick and Werner here will be up for bid, too.”

  They groaned, suddenly on equal ground.

  “Who are you gonna bid on, Mad?” Isobel asked, looking at Nick and Werner as if she’d take the one I didn’t want.

  “I don’t plan to bid, thanks. Right now, I’m off to the Vancortland estate. Coming, Eve? Isobel, can you and Nick lock up?”

  Isobel slipped her arm through Nick’s. “Will do, boss.”

  “Werner, guess it’s back to the station for you.” Nick sounded hopeful.

  “Werner might want to come with us and talk to Brandy,” I suggested. “She got mugged that fateful day, which is what kept her from meeting Isobel on the train. Brandy might have been able to tell that Isobel wasn’t herself—she was Payton. And, Werner, Brandy might have seen her own mugger.”

  “I got robbed, too,” Isobel said, not to be outdone. “They took my ticket and used it for Payton.”

  Werner frowned. “I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t buy fresh tickets.”

  “I believe the point was to keep Brandy and Isobel off the train,” I said. “They might have gotten in the way of the switch. The murderers might also have wanted to confuse the world about which cousin was which, like in the shell game,” I added. “Move the walnut shells around and guess which one has the pea beneath it. Maybe someone’s using the family to toy with Candidate York in a very big way, but he’s too self-absorbed to notice. Sorry, Isobel, I know he’s your father.”

  Isobel made a wry face. “It’s okay; he stepped off the family radar when my mother passed, except for Grand-mère, of course, who pulls his strings. But this is all like that wake-up call, isn’t it?” She shivered.

  Werner turned to face her. “Why do you say it in that tone?”

  “I got a second voice-modulated call. The caller said I should be dead, like Payton, and that my dad was in for a wake-up call.”

  “When?” Werner snapped. “Why didn’t you tell us? I thought we had a trace on this phone.”

  “No, they called me at Mr. Cutler’s house. I’m sorry, it seemed like more of the same, and since I have Nick guarding me. . . . Listen, being self-absorbed is a family trait I’ve been trying to kick.”

  “Nick, stick to her like glue,” Werner said. “Mad, you go ask Brandy the right questions for me.” He checked his watch. “I need to see Patrick York. Then Quincy. I’m going to spell out the dangers to the candidate’s family and make him understand, if I have to rub his nose in it.”

  “Go, Mad,” Eve said.

  “Thanks, let’s go.” I gave a general wave. “See you later.”

  “Will you?” Werner asked. “My house, later?”

  “To discuss the case? Sure. Nick, Isobel, join us? You have as much to add as I do. Werner, want me to bring something?”

  Eve scoffed. “Yeah, he wanted you to bring a toothbrush, doof, not a posse.”

  Nick gave a half nod. “What time?”

  Thirty-four

  Fashion is the science of appearance, and it inspires one with the desire to seem rather than to be.

  —HENRY FIELDING

  “Detective Werner,” Isobel said, coming into Vintage Magic on the morning of the fund-raiser. “I don’t know what you said to my father, but he hugged me really tight this morning, like he meant it.” Her eyes filled. “Thanks.”

  I squeezed Isobel’s shoulder as I passed her to hang the two outfits yet to be picked up at the front. “The minute you get these out the door, you and Nick head over to Vancortland House. I’ll need you to help dress the models.”

  “I’d like that,” Nick said.

  “Not you, Jaconetti,” Eve said. “Your thing is undressing women.”

  I ignored them both. “At noon, whether those outfits have been picked up or not, close Vintage Magic and come to Cor
t’s. Stay with her, Nick.”

  He saluted. “That’s my job, right, watching Isobel’s body?”

  “It sure is. And, Eve, you’re coming with me, now.”

  “I’m your right-hand goth for the day. Kyle’s already at Cort’s, probably putting a polish on his Lamborghini and drooling over the other vintage cars.”

  I set five comped Carousel of Love tickets on the counter. “These are for any of you who find the fivehundred-dollar entry fee a burden. You’ve been a big help to me, to my sister Brandy, and by extension, to the Nurture Kids Foundation; it’s the least we can do.”

  Werner walked me to my car. “I won’t be there until later, kiddo. There’s still a killer on the loose.”

  “Sorry we couldn’t get together last night after all. Are you closing in?”

  “I hope so,” he said. “The FBI says that Rickard was living with a woman on Kingston’s Vineyard. We don’t know who yet, but I’m betting it was Giselle. They sent me some paperwork right before I left the station to come here, and I’ve yet to go over it.”

  Giselle and Rickard? Yuck. “Do you have a picture of Rickard in the files at the station?”

  “I have the file in my car. Why?”

  “May I see it?”

  Call it a hunch, but I needed to see Rickard from the back. “Something about him caught my attention the day he identified Payton. I’d just like another look.”

  Werner brought me the file, and flipping through, looking for the photos, I spotted a canceled check for twenty-five grand, but I couldn’t make out the signature. When I moved it, I noticed that it was clipped to paperwork from Rhode Island social services. Ruben Rickard did not grow up in wealth, but in a series of foster homes.

  I didn’t linger on the document but found the pictures of his corpse, looked at and discarded one after another, until I found what I wanted. The back of Rickard’s head. That’s why he spooked me; he could very well be Gian, the boat client. The man Giselle or Payton was so shocked to see.

  No, I didn’t have proof as to which cousin was the present-day call girl, I reminded myself, just a lot of nebulous evidence, however inadmissible.

  “You can’t afford this,” the York call girl had said. “Are you skimming from the top?” Like . . . skimming from the candidate’s campaign contributions, maybe?

  If Giselle had been the call girl, I wondered if, rather than blackmailing each other, they decided to join forces.

  No, I still doubted whether Rickard and the call girl could be living or working/killing together. He had skeeved the Hermès out of her on that boat. It didn’t make sense.

  Worse, if my wild assumptions were correct, Rickard was an uncle to the cousins. Yuck. And if I was right about that, I sure hoped they knew it. Problem: I learned the nauseating facts in a vision and couldn’t tell a soul. Except Nick, and—

  Wait a minute, maybe I could plumb Grand-mère’s memories.

  “Madeira Cutler,” Werner said. “Your mind’s working a mile a minute.”

  I looked up at him. “Is it?”

  “I can practically see the gears turning. Any conclusions?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  “See you at Vancortland’s, later,” he said watching my lips, but he stepped back. “Tonight, may I have the first dance? If I’m there on time.”

  I nodded. “Thank you for asking.” I watched him pull out of my lot and turn onto Main. Then I went back in the shop. “Isobel, you’re bringing everything we found in Grand-mère’s trunk, skates and all, right?”

  “Just like you said, boss.”

  “Nick, she’ll need your help to hang the clothes . . . in the Element, because they need clothes racks, darn it.” I got out my keys and rolled my eyes. “I’ll drive the Hummer.”

  We traded keys, and Nick followed me to Little Black Dress Lane, where I found an Anne Fogarty long-sleeved black jersey dress. I also stopped at Mad as a Hatter for a black straw hat with a face veil.

  “You going as a woman in mourning?” he asked.

  “Au contraire. I’ll explain later. Stop by my dad’s and get a shovel, will you? A big-ascot ditch digger. Oh, and a couple fake gravestones from our Halloween display.”

  “Do you have a fever?” he asked, hand to my brow.

  “No, sort of. Just don’t forget, you’re my go-to guy.”

  “Feels good to hear you say so.”

  Isobel followed us outside.

  “Find me when you get to Cort’s, please. I’ll have assignments for both of you.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Nick saluted again, then from the doorway, he watched me, as did Dante, wagging a “You be careful” finger at me from beside Nick.

  The Hummer rumbled to life with a loud belch, as would any machine or human that ran on aged French fry oil.

  I smiled, wishing I could enter the camouflaged beast in the car show. I patted the steering wheel. “Bet you’d win best in class, Junebug.”

  Thirty-five

  The fifties and sixties were a time of innocence and innocence destroyed. Fashion ruled the day, separating the “squares” from the “cool,” the “Ivy League” from those that would later come to be labeled “Radicals.”

  —ANGELA EPPS

  Nick and Isobel arrived at Cort’s at eleven, after the last two outfits were picked up.

  Vintage cars had been placed strategically around the grounds, some along the front of Cort’s carriage house, some inside, but I’d requested three bright, big-finned beauties in pastel colors—turquoise, pink, and mint green—to be placed along the circular drive.

  “Isobel, I found that most of Robear’s models can roller-skate. Three are waiting for the carhop uniforms. Run them inside, will you?”

  Isobel grabbed the uniforms. “Is Madame Robear here?” she asked.

  “No, I forgot to tell you she was unable to attend, but her assistant’s running the show. You must have worked with Angela when you worked for Robear.”

  “I did. I’ll say hello.”

  “Nick, Eve will show you inside where to put the other clothes from the Element’s racks. We’ve already picked the models and given them their instructions. When you’re done, come back for your instructions. We open the gates in less than an hour.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief when the models dressed in fifties outfits were finally costumed and beside the vintage cars assigned to them. Also set to roll were the carhops, who’d skate to and from the cars and around the circular drive, fake trays raised high.

  That scenario inspired me to have fifties music piped outside, done in a flash, compliments of Sherry’s husband, Justin, Cort’s son, who grew up in the house.

  A short while later, in character, I wore a red, widenotch-collar sheath dress, its skirt slit to my thigh, long red button-gloves, a black and red half hat with a black veil, and my trusty red Louboutin follow-me pumps.

  Early on, I greeted Vickie and Rory MacKenzie and Vickie’s half sisters, identical triplets, Harmony, Destiny, and Storm, and their hunky husbands. Melody Seabright brought her husband, Logan, and Kira Fitzgerald Goddard brought her husband, Jason.

  Kira gave Brandy some great tips on running a bachelor auction. And I took Vickie up on her offer of an antique carousel ride.

  Afterward, I wished I could continue to play and enjoy. Instead, I fidgeted on Cort’s marble steps and checked my jeweled watch pin every other minute. “The gates are about to open,” I said over my walkie-talkie. “Isobel, will you stay out front here and watch for your family? And when they arrive, introduce your dad to Brandy and Cort and then bring Grand-mère to me. Do you mind?”

  “Anything you say, boss. I’ll go watch for them near the gate.”

  Sometimes I wasn’t sure if her calling me boss was compliment or condescension, but she did seem to enjoy working for me.

  I let Nick in on my vision-inspired plan and asked him to play a small role in the gambit.

  Grand-mère arrived early, chauffeured in that pow
der blue stretch limo, only ten years too new to join in the day’s vintage car competition.

  Isobel brought Grand-mère first to Brandy and Cort. I approved her startled reaction to the carhops. Step one, catch her off guard.

  Isobel then put Grand-mère into my capable hands and went to take Nick’s arm. They would stroll, seemingly at random, about fifty or sixty feet behind us, not always in viewing range.

  “Bette,” I said, holding Grand-mère’s arm for a stroll. “Or is it Lizzie or Betsy?”

  She gave me a double take.

  “Isobel says you go by lots of names.”

  “Oh, yes, Elizabeth has so many nicknames.”

  “You were checking up on your granddaughter at my shop the day she was supposed to arrive, weren’t you?”

  “Vintage Magic is a lovely shop,” she said.

  The Sweets must have recognized Grand-mère from that first day, because they waved and came for a chat. I kept checking my watch. If they delayed us much longer, they’d ruin my plan.

  I think Ethel caught on because she gave me a wink and urged Dolly toward the refreshment tent.

  “Where were we?” Grand-mère asked. “Oh, your little shop. It’s almost good enough for my Isobel. I was skeptical, but she loves her work and her new boss.”

  “Glad to hear it. So what do you think of Vancortland House? We in Mystick Falls are quite proud of it.”

  “Your brother-in-law owns it, is that right?”

  “No, the owner is my sister Sherry’s father-in-law.”

  I walked Grand-mère by the carhops and felt her body stiffen while her pulse picked up speed. “Thanks for that trunk of wonderful clothes, and those carhop uniforms. Those must have been the days, working around all that energy. Great music, awesome tips; you must have felt free as a bird skating for a living.”

  “No one is ever free, young lady,” she snapped.

  I walked her beside the carousel, so she could calm down while she admired it, then we crossed the lawn, passing a display of vintage cars, and the judges ranking them, on our way to Cort’s carriage house.