“I said I wanted the car. I saw it first,” Kelvin said, then pointed to me. “And now she’s trying to take it away from me.”
He sounded like a spoiled child. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he stomped his feet or threw himself down on the ground, screaming until he got his way.
“I’ll handle this, Kelvin,” Dan said.
He spoken with the calm reassurance of a man who knew he could—and would—do anything necessary to make things right. Yet there was no threat in his tone, just confidence. It rolled off of him. It swept over me, through me, in hot waves.
Wow.
“Wait by the car,” Dan said.
Kelvin left without a word.
I hadn’t seen Dan when I’d walked up. He’d probably been standing a discreet distance away, keeping an eye on Kelvin. That meant Kelvin was a client—probably a newly rich one—who needed backup if, in fact, he had two hundred grand in cash with him, as he’d told Russell.
Russell glanced at Dan and me, then took a step back. From his expression I was sure he knew why Dan was there and had better sense than to tangle with him.
“I’ll leave you two to sort this out,” Russell said, and walked away.
Dan turned his gaze on me.
Blue eyes. Deep blue. Piercing blue. Set in a face not quite handsome enough to grace the cover of GQ, yet so compelling it was hard to look away.
No wonder Meredith had told me not to look directly into his eyes.
I gave myself a mental shake.
“I’m Hollis Bran—”
“I know who you are,” Dan told me.
I didn’t know whether to be flattered—or worried.
He didn’t introduce himself. I suppose he figured I knew who he was.
I wasn’t sure whether that was arrogance on his part, or an assumption that I was wired-in and knew everyone who worked at Fisher Joyce.
I chose to take it as a compliment.
“Are you interested in the car?” Dan asked.
I shook my head. “I was in the neighborhood, thought it was cool, and wanted to take a closer look.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Since Dan knew who I was, he also knew what I did for the company.
“Consulting with a client,” I said. “She has a family wedding coming up and needs a gift for the newlyweds.”
Dan turned his attention across the street, two doors down, to the BMW I was driving today that was still parked in Edith Bagley’s driveway.
I decided this was a good time to change the subject.
“Who’s this guy you’re babysitting?” I asked.
The tiniest grin tugged at one corner of his mouth.
Oh, wow.
I’d have to tell Meredith to never look into his smile, either.
“Kelvin Douglas,” Dan said. “He’s a billionaire computer guy who’s decided he wants to get into classic cars.”
I looked at Kelvin standing by his Mercedes, mesmerized by his cell phone, pecking away at a speed that rivaled a first-place finisher taking the checkered flag at Daytona.
I did a mental tug-of-war for a minute, then asked Dan, “Do you like the guy?”
He shrugged. “He’s a client.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But do you like him?”
Dan tilted his head, seeming to understand that there was something more behind my question, but didn’t ask. His silence compelled me to talk.
“Because if you don’t like him, then I say hand over the cash I’m guessing you put in a trunk of his car, and get on with your day,” I said. “But if you like the guy and want to do him a favor, I could make you his new best friend.”
Dan drew back a little and shifted his weight. I’d surprised him, yet he didn’t ask anything, just looked at me waiting—expecting—me to explain.
I didn’t.
A very long minute dragged by with both of us looking at each other.
Dan broke first.
“How?” he asked.
“This isn’t an SS 454 like Russell claims. It’s a clone,” I said, and nodded toward the car.
A deep frown settled over Dan’s face.
“It isn’t even a Chevelle,” I said. “It’s a Malibu made to look like a Chevelle. Check out the gauges. The SS gauges are round. These are horizontal, like the Malibu. The SS had a blacked out grill. This one is chrome, again, like the Malibu.”
Dan looked at the car, then back at me again.
“Take a look at the harmonic balancer,” I said.
His brows drew together. Now he wasn’t simply lost, he was either incredulous or impressed. I didn’t know which.
“The harmonic balancer is on the front of the engine where the pulleys bolt to the engine’s crankshaft,” I explained. “The 454’s is different. It has a cutout. This car’s engine is more likely a 396.”
“So this car is a fake?” Dan asked.
“A clone,” I said again. “Somebody took a Malibu and dressed it up like a Chevelle SS 454. It’s worth maybe twenty-five, thirty grand.”
Dan cut his gaze to Russell standing beside his porch, then looked at me again.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“I can go on,” I offered. “Would you like to hear about matching numbers?”
Dan opened his mouth, then closed it. “No,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if that meant he believed me or was just tired of hearing about classic car restoration.
“Look,” I said, “take the car to a reputable mechanic, have it looked over. Or tell Mr. Billionaire Computer Nerd to Google it. But I’m telling you, either way you’ll be wasting your time.”
Dan spun around and headed toward Russell. I guess that meant he believed me—or at least intended to check out what I’d said.
I decided this was a good time to leave. When I got into my Beemer and drove past a few minutes later, Dan was hustling Kelvin into his Mercedes and Russell was nowhere to be seen.
I allowed myself a little smile, made a mental note to share this story with my uncles the next time I called, and got back to business.
Now with Edith’s appointment book tucked inside my tote, I was amped up and ready to find out what info it held. But first, I had to take care of the business I was being paid to do.
I drove back to Fisher Joyce. The valet who popped out of the booth was a guy named Trent. He was about my age, good looking, and working to pay for college.
“Back already?” he asked, as he opened the door for me.
“It’s a fashion emergency,” I said, as I climbed out and grabbed my purchases from the back.
“You got it rough, girl,” he said, grinning and shaking his head.
I hurried to the shipping department, wrapped Zella Mason’s blouse as per company policy, handled the required paperwork, then zipped Carlotta Cain’s clearance-priced gown into a gray and dark blue garment bag emblazoned with the Fisher Joyce logo. While I waited in line to hand off Zella’s package to the shipping guy, I checked my phone and was glad to see that Louise hadn’t sent me anything new to buy for one of my off-listers—so far, anyway. Orders came in at all hours of the day and night.
I hoofed it toward the valet booth. Three men wearing thousand-dollar suits and holding briefcases walked up, talking among themselves. Lawyers, no doubt.
Trent gave me a look and I nodded my understanding. He had to get a vehicle for these guys first.
I knew my place on the company totem pole.
While I waited, I pulled Edith’s appointment book out of my tote and saw that I’d gotten lucky—it also contained her address book. I glanced over the names, then flipped to her calendar. Meetings, luncheons, dinners, medical and business appointments were detailed in Edith’s elegant, old school handwriting.
Despite what Genevieve had said about Edith not feeling up to doing much, she’d been busy the week before her death. She’d had appointments with an attorney, an accountant, and a financial planner.
I flipped to the address book and saw that all of their contact info—addresses and phone numbers—was listed.
Edith had surely done business with these firms for years, and they were bound to have all kinds of information about her. But would they give it to me?
Not likely.
What they were likely to do was call Fisher Joyce and demand to know, even if Barbara called ahead—something I wasn’t sure she would do—why I was asking questions about their long-time client who’d recently passed away, which wouldn’t do my investigation or my chances of remaining employed, any good.
I glanced up at the valet booth. The three lawyers were still waiting.
Meredith popped into my head. With the list of information I’d asked her to check into this morning I’d included requests for the police report made by the neighbor who’d spotted the strange car in the neighborhood, and the report from the home security company who’d answered the alarm at Edith’s house.
Not that I wasn’t up for a challenge—even this one—but I found myself hoping that after I read those two reports I’d find something that indicated Edith had not been murdered.
I really hoped she’d passed quietly in her sleep.
I accessed my e-mail and saw that Meredith had sent the file. I scrolled through the information and found the police report about the neighbor’s complaint that a strange car had been parked on the street near Edith’s home. I checked the date and saw that the incident occurred a week before her death.
According to the police officer who’d taken the report at the scene, the witnesses stated that the vehicle was an older model Mustang, although it could have been a Camaro, or something similar in size to a Mustang or a Camaro, or maybe it was an import. The sun was going down so it was hard to tell whether it was blue or black, or some other dark color. It had a dent in the left—or maybe it was the right—front fender, or maybe it was just a shadow that made it look like a dent. The driver had been wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, and was probably alone in the vehicle. The witness hadn’t been able to get the license plate number.
I mentally pictured the police officer thanking him for the information, promising to increase patrols, and walking away rolling his eyes.
So much for my hope that I’d find something to convince myself that Edith hadn’t been murdered.
I glanced up from my phone. The three lawyers were huddled together, smiling and chatting, probably fantasizing over some rock star client they’d just signed who was known for his run-ins with the law thus bestowing them thousands of billable hours.
No sign of the valet with a car for them yet.
I read the other information Meredith had included in the file. The documents included copies of Edith’s birth certificate and marriage license, and a property profile from a title company stating she was the owner of the June Street house. No mention of any children. Her credit report indicated she had no mortgage, no car payment, two Visa accounts with zero balances, and an excellent payment history dating back several decades.
All pretty routine stuff.
Meredith had also included info on Edith’s banking, stocks, and investment portfolio. My eyes bugged out. Edith had been loaded. Multi-millions that had grown steadily during the previous five years the report covered.
Edith must have had a solid, cautious financial adviser, probably the same guy she’d gone to see the week of her death whose appointment I’d seen on her calendar. Likely, he’d been looking after her money dating back to the time before her husband Conrad died.
The only thing that jumped out at me was a hundred-grand hit her portfolio had taken a month ago. I wondered what she’d bought with that much cash. I hoped she’d partied hearty with it—especially after the way things had gone only a few weeks later.
From everything I’d seen, heard, and read about Edith, she was a conservative woman with a conservative lifestyle who’d spent most of her time, money, and effort helping other people through her charitable endeavors. I hadn’t seen, heard, or read anything about Edith that indicated anyone had a motive for murdering her.
I glanced up from my phone in time to see the lawyers piling into a Mercedes, then turned my attention to the final item in the report, the info Meredith had gotten from Edith’s home security company. It stated pretty much what Barbara had already told me—they’d responded to an alarm that was caused by old equipment, which they recommended be replaced.
A BMW drove up. Trent got out and waved me over
“Heading out again?” he asked, and opened the car’s doors for me as I approached.
“Fashion never stops,” I said.
I draped Carlotta’s garment bag in the back of the Beemer, then slid in behind the wheel.
“Stay safe,” Trent said as he closed my door.
“Where’s the fun in that?” I asked.
He grinned and I took off. At the top of the ramp, I punched Carlotta Cain’s address into the GPS unit and headed out.
Traffic crawled as I merged onto the southbound 110 but I was okay with it since I needed some time to think—no, really, I needed to talk myself down from the panic that was seeping into my brain.
None of the information I’d uncovered helped my investigation. How was I going to find out what—if anything—had happened to Edith Bagley? How was I going to explain my lack of progress to Barbara tonight when she called for a report?
And how was I going to continue to live in Los Angeles after she complained to Fisher Joyce and I got fired?
Merging west onto the 10 freeway I forced myself to calm down. After all, nothing bad had happened yet—except for Edith’s possible murder, that is—and I was, in fact, making progress in the case.
I drew in a big breath. A plan popped into my head. I would dash into Carlotta Cain’s home, drop off the dress, then find a place to hunker down and go over everything I’d learned, and decide what action to take next.
I always felt better when I had a plan.
The GPS eventually led me north on Lincoln Boulevard. As I made the turn onto Montana Avenue, my cell phone chimed. I whipped over to the curb and dug it out of my tote.
“Damn,” I muttered, when I saw that it was a text message from Louise leading off with “911,” a reminder that I lived in Los Angeles, one of the few places where there could actually be a fashion emergency.
I read the message. One of my off-listers—I remembered buying for her only once—needed a dress to wear to dinner tonight at the home of a movie producer.
I accessed her file and skimmed her bio. She was an actress who’d put everything on hold six years ago to have children. Now, it seemed, she wanted to get back into the spotlight and needed a killer dress to re-ignite her career.
My afternoon had become crowded. I had to hurry things along if I was going to have something to report to Barbara this evening.
I scrolled through my phone list, called my contact at Nordstrom, and told her what I needed. She promised to pull some dresses and have them waiting when I arrived.
I headed down Montana Avenue toward Carlotta’s house again, more anxious than ever to get this errand over with.
This section of L.A. was called North of Montana, one of the most upscale areas in Santa Monica. The homes and the lots on which they sat were large and expensive, priced in the multi-million dollar range.
Amid the newer, upscale houses were small homes built decades ago, lived in by owners who were probably old and content with their circumstances. No doubt, their heirs were waiting for their demise so they could pocket a fortune they hadn’t earned by selling out to buyers who’d raze the house and construct their own mini-mansion.
I swung into the driveway of Carlotta Cain’s home. The house was a small white stucco with red shutters and a blue door faded by time and the sun. The shrubs were overgrown. What had probably once been flowers drooped over the sides of stone planters. There were brown patches in the grass.
I flipped open the portfolio Meredith had prepared for me on Carlotta. There wasn’t much to read. She owned the house, lived alone, and had no close relatives. She’d been an actress with moderate success, several decades ago.
Maybe she was mounting a comeback, like the other actress I was shopping for later today.
Meredith hadn’t dug any deeper than this cursory information, but for a two-hundred dollar gown, it was enough.
I fetched the garment bag from the back and headed up the cracked sidewalk toward the house. My cell phone rang as I hit the doorbell. Meredith’s name popped up on the caller ID screen.
“Great news,” she said, when I answered.
“Let me have it,” I said, because, really, I could use some good news.
“I found the dog,” she said.
“You—what?”
“The missing dog. Gizmo,” she said. “I found her.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
“I was really worried about the poor little thing so I checked all the animal shelters in the area,” Meredith said. “And I found her. You can go pick her up right now.”