Skirting the Grave Page 5

  “Isobel York. Brandy said you were expecting me.”

  “I had been, but . . . something . . . made me think you weren’t coming.” I looked at my father. “Dad, you wanna call Lytton? I’ll speed-dial Nick.”

  “Got it,” he said, raising his cell phone and walking down the hall into the ladies’ parlor to talk on the phone in private.

  I slipped my phone from my pocket. A simple “Get over here,” did it for Nick. He didn’t care why.

  Meanwhile, our front door stood open, our middle-of-the-night caller wilting on the front stoop.

  Did I believe her foolish story? If the dead girl had been wearing this outfit, I would never have doubted her identity. Isobel York Two sported a sixties short-sleeved tent dress in beige, the neck and single pleat both piped in black, with a single black frog closure across the pleat at the bodice. Beauty in simplicity. She carried a simple black patent clutch to go with her sixties slingback pumps.

  That’s why I should believe her story. She dressed the part. But seriously, one could as easily hide beneath an outfit as make a splash and be “seen” in it.

  I hated keeping her on the stoop.

  I hated the thought of letting her inside.

  “May I come in?” fashion-plate Isobel asked, and I feared it wasn’t safe to say yes. I mean, she was posing as a dead girl. That had to be some kind of offense, though I didn’t know how you could arrest someone for having a dead person’s face.

  Identical. The word I’d spoken earlier today reverberated in my mind as I selected and tossed scenarios. Maybe in the light of day, she would be—a dead ringer. I winced at my mental pun too late to edit my thoughts, their poor taste notwithstanding.

  Obviously tired, she leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms. “Did you get Grand-mère’s trunk?”

  The word “trunk” hit me like a suction cup–tipped arrow between the eyes.

  I mentally yanked it off my brow, imagining a cartoonish “slurp” so I’d have time to form an answer.

  “Madeira,” my father said, “she hasn’t pulled a gun on us; I think we can let her inside until the police get here.”

  “Police?” our visitor asked, though she seemed grateful to accept the chair my father offered in our keeping room, first room off the front hall, to the right, across from the kitchen, and about two feet from the front door.

  I took the chair across the table from her. “This will come as a surprise to you,” I told her, “but someone else came to town today, with your wallet and driver’s license.”

  “Oh. So you doubt I’m me? That explains your reaction. Sorry I can’t prove who I am, unless . . . Did you look at the label on Grand-mère’s trunk?”

  “I did, when I thought you weren’t coming and I considered sending it back.”

  “So you saw you couldn’t because the return address is this address, right? Who else would know that? Other than the person who addressed it?”

  “True.” I sure wished the cavalry would get here. I wanted to keep the imposter talking—maybe she’d incriminate herself—except that I was beginning to like her. If only she didn’t remind me of a certain corpse.

  My father set down a cup of hot chocolate in front of her. Thoughtful man.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cutler. At least, I assume you’re Brandy’s father. I didn’t borrow enough money to eat dinner.”

  My dad crossed to the kitchen, again and came back a few minutes later with a cheese sandwich and a plate of Aunt Fee’s famous cinnamon rolls.

  I whipped my gaze his way as he straightened the logs in the basket beside the keeping room’s people-tall fireplace, complete with cast-iron kettle and built-in brick oven.

  “Did Aunt Fiona come home and stay long enough to bake?”

  “No, she left enough frozen buns to keep me supplied until she gets home,” he admitted, entirely too focused on his task.

  I rubbed my face with a hand and released a sigh. How could he not know how Aunt Fiona felt about him? Worse, how could he not know how he felt about her?

  “Feel better?” I asked the stranger after she’d inhaled the sandwich and a cinnamon bun.

  I followed our guest’s surprised gaze and saw Nick standing by the front stairs, watching us.

  “Nick! Did you climb up the getaway tree instead of coming to the front door?”

  “Call me crazy, but I just assumed, when you said ‘Get over here’ at this hour . . . Evening, Mr. Cutler.”

  My father gave Nick his most professorial expression of disapproval. Sore subject, the getaway tree outside Brandy’s room. Every one of Dad’s four children got caught at one time or another sneaking a special friend in or out that way.

  Nick had his eye on that last cinnamon bun, but our visitor picked it up, so I presume that he went into the kitchen for another.

  Werner knocked twice and walked in. “Late nights are getting to be a habit,” he said.

  I swallowed hard, fast, and wrong, and about coughed up a lung. Good thing I’d told Nick we’d had dinner a few times.

  “Too late to be shy,” Werner said, sounding a bit like the grammar school brat who’d provoked me into calling him Little Wiener.

  “Shush,” I said.

  “You don’t have pepper spray or a Taser on you, do you?” he asked. “Tear gas? A grenade in your pocket? You’re making me nervous,” Werner said, so focused on me, he hadn’t yet noticed my father or our visitor.

  “Good evening, Detective,” my father said, stretching to his full height from the fireplace behind my chair. “Has my daughter been terrorizing you?”

  “Since the first time I saw her.”

  “That makes two of us,” Nick said as he reentered the room, eating a cinnamon roll.

  Werner did a double take, then he recaptured his equilibrium. “Heard you were on your way, Jaconetti. Welcome home.”

  The detective turned back to me. “What’s the rush that couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “You might not have noticed that we have a visitor,” I said, indicating our midnight caller, seated out of range.

  Werner turned his head, stilled, then leaned my way. “Cadaver clone, twelve o’clock.”

  “Uh, yeah. That’s why I called.”

  “Leave it to me, kiddo. I’ll protect you.”

  Nick cleared his throat.

  Nine

  Clothes can suggest, persuade, connote, insinuate, or indeed lie, and apply subtle pressure while their wearer is speaking frankly and straightforwardly of other matters.

  —ANNE HOLLANDER

  Our doppelgänger stood, all five feet eight or nine of her, in classic vintage—though her Manolo Blahnik booties were very today at about eight hundred-plus dollars. She was in her mid-twenties, dark hair and doe eyes, looked a little lost, a lot frazzled, uncomfortable in her surroundings, at the mercy of strangers, and trying not to reveal her panic to the odd lot of us.

  That I sensed it, I blamed on my years as New York fashion designer Faline’s first assistant when I worked with newbie runway models. Now, that was a lesson in hidden panic.

  Also, panic had become a frequent visitor of mine since I got my first psychometric reading.

  “If you didn’t want me to work for you, Ms. Cutler,” our visitor said, her perfect chin rising, her pride a bit of a sham, “you should have said so right away. And, Detective, I don’t appreciate the name-calling. Cadaver clone? Am I so pale I look dead to you? Frankly, I went through hell after having my purse ransacked.”

  “A lot of that going around today,” I said. “Can you ID your mugger?”

  “No mugger. A thief. In my apartment. But still, even after losing my ID, money, and train ticket, I busted my buttress to get here on time. So I don’t appreciate being made to feel like a two-headed giraffe in Gucci at a Quant exhibit.”

  “Now that’s what I call a fashion intern,” I said, impressed by the accuracy in her statement. I mean, who else would know Mary Quant, inventor of the miniskirt, these days, except a student
of fashion? And just look at the way she’s dressed.

  “I meant no offense,” Werner said. “Miss Cutler and I speak with a kind of shorthand. We’ve been, ah, frenemies, since third grade. I’m Detective Lytton Werner, by the way,” he said, offering his hand. “And you are?”

  “Isobel York.”

  Werner did a double take, gawked, and shut his mouth, though it fell open again. Still, he tried to compose himself, too late. “Was anything besides your purse stolen from your apartment?” he asked.

  “Actually, my Coach purse was found in the stairs outside my apartment, for which I thank the stars, since it cost an arm and a hoof.”

  “A giraffe hoof, one presumes?” Werner said. “Can you come down to the station in the morning so we can get your fingerprints?”

  I silently questioned the weird request with a look.

  “You were right this morning,” he said. “Peach peasant blouse and socks do not a correct identification make, not for a fashionista.”

  Could our middle-of-the-night visitor conceivably be Ms. York, in the flesh, then? “The resemblance is uncanny,” I said.

  “Resemblance to who and fingerprints why?” Isobel asked, looking from one of us to the other. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “No,” I said, making the save, “but if your wallet is found, they’ll need to know which prints are yours.” If Isobel was related to the deceased—which she certainly appeared to be—we couldn’t break the news until we confirmed the relationship.

  “I was visiting family at my apartment in D.C. when I lost my wallet, actually, though I spend most of my time at my apartment in New York,” Isobel said.

  Werner made a note of that. “Can you tell us who knew you were coming here?”

  “My friends, my family, and likely my father’s workers, you know, the people who keep his family straight because he doesn’t have time.”

  “Maybe we should save the third degree for daylight?” I suggested.

  Werner turned to our guest. “If someone broke into your apartment before you left home,” he said, taking notes, “that’s a far cry from slipping a hand into your purse while you were, say, in the two-headed giraffe pen at the zoo.”

  “Very different,” she said. “And yes, someone had to have broken into my apartment—no other way for my bag to get into the hall—but the D.C. police said there were no signs of forced entry. They think I might have left my door open.”

  “Where did you go without your purse?” Nick asked.

  “To my neighbor’s with my apartment key in my pocket. I know I had it, because I used it to lock my door.”

  “So,” Nick said, “your intruder could have had a key and he/she saw you go to your neighbor’s?”

  Isobel tilted her head, considering the possibility.

  I sat beside her. “Have you ever given anyone a spare key?”

  “My sister used to live with me, but she moved to Los Angeles ages ago, and she lost her key. She certainly didn’t need it once she moved.”

  “I’ll touch base with the D. C. police,” Werner said. “Can you describe your sister?”

  “You’re looking at her. We’re twins. Identical, though my father always called her the wild one. I don’t know; I felt pretty wild today trying to get friends and friends of friends to tag-team me here.”

  Werner cleared his throat, as if he had final say. “I’m going to ask you not to leave town tonight, Ms. York. Do you have a place to stay?”

  “I thought I did, but . . . may I sleep in jail? I’ll get Grand-mère to wire me some money in the morning.”

  My head came up. “I thought your grandmother was dead.”

  “Grand-mère? You mean, because I gave you her trunk of vintage clothes? No, she gave the trunk to my twin, who gave it to me. She said it contained bad memories but great clothes. Things a fashion plate would appreciate. Aren’t they awesome?”

  “I didn’t open the trunk. I . . . guess I was waiting for you.”

  My father checked his watch and stood up. “Miss York, you’re welcome to move in as planned.”

  “I don’t advise it, Mr. Cutler,” Werner said, “unless you have a room for me, too.”

  “And me,” Nick said, a familiar twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll take Brandy’s room.”

  “No, Isobel will have the room across from mine. This was a tavern,” I added. “We have room enough for the entire force.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Isobel asked.

  “No,” I assured her. “Call it protective custody. I think we might have seen your twin today, and let’s say for now that she’s in a bit of trouble.”

  “Listen, her full name is Giselle Trouble York. She’ll worm her way out of whatever she got herself into, though. Trust me.”

  “But can you trust her to keep you out of trouble?” I asked. “What if the wrong person thinks you’re her?”

  Isobel’s shoulders sagged. “Great point!”

  We all looked up when the doorbell rang.

  My father opened it to Aunt Fiona, fresh off the plane, if her wheeled suitcase was any indication.

  “Wow,” she said. “Welcome by committee, I didn’t expect. Although I should have known when I saw Nick’s and the detective’s cars out front.”

  Aunt Fee had expected a committee of one, judging by her barely veiled disappointment. A lot like my dad’s badly hidden longing.

  I turned to Werner, and my heart about stopped, because I saw the same look on his face, except he was looking at me. Ack! “Friends,” I said, nodding. “We’re all friends now. You and me, me and Nick, you and Nick. ’Kay?”

  “You sure?” Werner asked. “I don’t like that he hurt you.”

  “All’s forgiven. God knows you and I have forgiven each other enough times.”

  Werner ran his hand through his hair. “Well, that’s true.”

  “We have to talk!” Nick said, looking from Werner to me and back to the detective, narrowing his eyes. “I think that my case and your case have their tentacles around each other’s throats. Upstairs. Now!”

  “You bet,” Werner said, setting me physically aside.

  “Hey!” I called after them. “Wait. Nick, what you just said? Is that code for ‘I’m gonna whop your ascot’?”

  “Why would he do that?” Werner asked me. “We’re all friends, right?”

  “Are you kidding? Is this some show of testosterone for my benefit?”

  “Don’t worry, ladybug,” Nick said, turning on the stairs. “It’s about the case.”

  “Mad, I’ll take care of it,” Werner said, agreeing with Nick, which made me feel a bit better.

  “But I want to be involved in the case, Nick. You said to get proactive.”

  “Proactive in your own special way,” my former boy toy said, he who knew me better than I knew myself.

  Werner nodded his agreement. “Nick’s right. This is preliminary stuff. Doesn’t concern you. Not yet.”

  “The hell it doesn’t!” What the Hermès were they up to? Did they intend to discuss the case? Or me?

  Nick led the way upstairs, and Werner followed.

  I slammed my hand on the newel post. “Stubborn idiots!”

  My father chuckled. “ ‘ Daughters are like flowers; they fill the world with beauty, and sometimes attract pests.’ Author unknown. Smart, but unknown.”

  Isobel stood. “Do you give fathering lessons? My dad never said anything half as sweet or clever. If he did, he would have said it at the most inappropriate time.”

  “My father’s an English professor at UConn,” I said. “A quote for every occasion, hey, Dad? Aunt Fee, may I have the key to your house? I don’t want to see either of those traitors when they come down. We’re all friends, now, so they cut me out of the conversation? I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Isobel said.

  “You’re coming with me,” I told her.

  My father cleared his throat. “Half an hour ago, you didn’t want to let her into the ho
use, Mad.”

  “Well, call me Groucho Marx, but she said the secret word: Mary Quant. Only a fashionista could have made such an easy statement. Plus she knew the return address on the trunk was this address.”

  “I guess we’ve sort of bonded,” Isobel said. “And I’m glad, because I want to hear more about those two upstairs. They’re both in love with you, boss. You know that, right?”

  My father chuckled. “She knows it.”

  I rolled my eyes. Maybe I did know it, but I wasn’t ready to “hear” it. “Dad, may Aunt Fee sleep here, tonight?” I asked, trying not to grin. “And can you tell my friends, Detective Dickaroo and the Bumburglar, that I expect a full report of their discussion tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” my father said. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

  Watching him and Fee, I chuckled. I couldn’t help myself. “I may be your daughter, but I’m neither dumb nor two years old. You want us out, and fast.”

  Aunt Fee made so bold as to hook her arm through my father’s.

  He blustered, but when she covered his hand with hers, he didn’t protest or remove it. He laced their fingers together.

  I winked at him. “Tell Werner that Isobel and I will see him at the station at some point tomorrow morning.”

  The escalating discussion upstairs made me drag Isobel and her overnight bag out the door.

  Ten

  Fashion contains the potential for renewal and transformation. The more costumes one has, the more fantasy personas one can adopt.

  —EDITH GOULD

  “I’ll take Aunt Fiona’s room,” I told Isobel on arrival. Because I felt responsible for Aunt Fiona’s things. “And you can have the guest room.” Since guest rooms by nature held nothing of personal worth.

  “Ms. Cutler, what should I call you?”

  “Not Madeira. Mostly people call me that if they’re angry with me or they’re my father. How about Maddie?”

  “How about boss?” she suggested. “I’d be more comfortable.”

  I’d feel weird. “Sure, go for it. It’s a new one, but at least it doesn’t make me feel like a bottle of wine.”