Chapter 10

There was a knock on Monica’s office door just as I pressed Send on a text that I wasn’t sure I should send. Ted had left a three word note for me: “I need you.” After much consideration, I sent him a four-word text.

 

You can’t buy me.

 

When I looked up, Monica was checking the video screen that showed the hallway outside her door. Her security at the shop was tight, which only made sense, considering the amount of cash and cannabis she kept on hand.

“It’s Abby,” she said, glancing from the screen to me. “She’s just bringing a delivery. It won’t take long.”

“I should get out of here. I’ve taken enough of your time.” I stood. “Thanks for the tea, and for putting up with me.”

She got up and moved to the door. “Anytime. And don’t do anything with those gowns until I get to see them.”

“I won’t,” I said as she opened the door.

Abby, the vendor that I’d met the other day before the owners’ meeting, stood in the hallway wearing a pale blue sweater that complemented her cropped white hair. She held a carton stacked with small brown boxes. “Hi, lovie,” she greeted Monica. “I’ve got all the custom orders from the other day. Kristy told me I should bring them back here so nobody sells them by mistake.” She set the carton on Monica’s desk before she noticed me. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi. It’s Nora. We met the other—”

“Of course, Nora.” She moved in for a quick hug. “I remember. You were here with Tommy, and—” She released me and took a step back, biting her lip.

“And S,” I finished for her. She’d been deep in conversation with S when the rest of us had gone into the lounge for the meeting. The day before he died.

“I couldn’t believe it when I heard.” She looked from Monica to me. “Did you know him well?” she asked me.

“Not at all. That was the only time I met him.”

She nodded. “So awful.”

I remembered that she’d seemed as struck with his rock star aura as everyone else in the shop that day. She’d gaped at him when he approached and had seemed more than a little discombobulated by his presence.

“Did you talk to him long after we went into the meeting?” I asked her, silently wondering And did he happen to mention anyone wanting to kill him? Tommy, perhaps?

“I did,” she said. “He was interested in everything in the shop, not just my line. I showed him around and answered what I could of his questions. Whatever I didn’t know about, Kristy did.”

“Kristy’s good,” Monica said.

“Very knowledgeable,” Abby agreed. “I think she made quite an impression on him.”

“He definitely made an impression on her,” Monica said. “She couldn’t talk about anything else the rest of the day.”

“I’m not surprised,” Abby said. “He certainly bought enough to impress her.”

I’d been thinking I should go have a word with this Kristy, but Abby’s comment got my attention. “Really?” I asked. “He bought a lot? More than normal?”

“I can’t say what’s normal,” Abby replied. “But he bought quite a bit. Three, no four things from me.” She frowned in concentration. “Plus a few samples. And he placed a custom order. But he didn’t just buy from my line. He filled a basket before he left.”

“We’ll have a record of what he bought,” Monica said. “Receipts are itemized and tracked by purchaser. Do you think it’s important?” She looked at me.

“I have no idea,” I said honestly.

“I joked that he must be throwing a party,” Abby said. “And he told me the next day was going to be the biggest party of his life.” She looked at us. The next day he’d died onstage.

She turned and shuffled through the stack of boxes she’d put on Monica’s desk. “I brought his custom tincture. I didn’t know what else to do with it. He’d given me his history and I was so pleased to be able to develop this blend for him, before I heard what happened.”

She found the box she was looking for. It had S Bank’s name on the label, and last Tuesday’s date, followed by a handwritten list of ingredients, none of which were legible.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t really know much about how you work. What do you mean about him giving you his history? His medical history?”

She nodded. “Things like illnesses and allergies, any prescriptions he was taking, as well as his experiences with cannabinoids. He was excited to see what I could blend for him.” She looked down at the box in her hands, her expression unreadable.

“Did he take any prescription drugs?” I asked, wondering if they could have been tampered with. A doctor would never have told me, but I assumed there was no such thing as pot-purveyor-client confidentiality.

I was right. “Just the occasional antibiotic,” she answered. “Nothing on a regular basis.”

“Right.” That let the tampering theory out. But not all drugs were prescription. “I got the impression S was pretty experienced with, um, cannabinoids,” I said. “When I saw him on the webcast that day he looked like he’d already taken something.”

“I thought so, too,” Monica said. “When I watched it online, after.”

I turned to Abby. “Do you know of anything that could intensify the effect of pot?”

She nodded. “Sure, but not enough to kill him. Is that what you’re asking?”

“I guess it is. The thing is, I’ve been wondering about where Tommy would have gotten poison—not that I even know what poison killed S or how hard it would be to get.” I grimaced. “On the news this morning they said they probably wouldn’t have the results from the autopsy until Friday or so.”

“Do you think Tommy did it?” Abby asked.

“I don’t know. But the police must have some reason for thinking so.”

“We all have some reason for thinking so,” Monica reminded me.

“True.” Especially if, with S out of the way, Tommy would get more of the profits from the game.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s that hard to get your hands on poison,” Abby said. “Of course, my farm is all organic, but there are still plenty that pour on the toxic weed killer.”

“Something tells me Tommy May doesn’t take care of killing his own weeds,” I said. Would he take care of killing his own business partner?

  

“Forget about Tommy for a minute. You absolutely have to try on those gowns.” Robbie’s voice, over the phone, was definite.

I was back in the basement after everyone else had gone home for the night. I’d managed to stay busy throughout the day, mainly putting things together for Friday’s midnight movie party, but once the handful of customers cleared out at the end of the nine-fifteen I had the joint to myself. Even Trixie had disappeared. That happened sometimes. She never remembered where she went when she was away, but so far she’d always come back.

“I’d be terrified to even try putting one on,” I told Robbie, eyeing the fashion fantasies that were now somehow in my care. “What if I damaged it?”

I’d sent her pictures of the gowns. She was ogling them from her kitchen in Beverly Hills, which didn’t give her the perspective I had on how very tiny they were.

“Oh, come on. How can you have Marilyn’s gown and not try it on?”

“Have you seen Marilyn?” I asked her. “And have you seen me? I question whether we’re even the same species, let alone the same size. Maybe if it was Jane Russell’s—she was at least taller—but Marilyn?”

“Okay, then try the Audrey Hepburn,” Robbie encouraged. “You can pull off Audrey Hepburn.”

“Just because I don’t have boobs it doesn’t mean I’m Audrey Hepburn,” I told her. My figure could most kindly be described as “athletic,” which was fine for being the manager of a classic movie theater. It hadn’t been quite so fine when I’d been expected to suit up for red carpet events with Ted over the years. I was a normal human woman, not a double-zero sylph or a curvy goddess, which seemed to be the only two shapes Hollywood designers deemed permissible.

“You have boobs,” Robbie informed me. “You just don’t have the kind that slap you on the chin when you’re on the treadmill like mine do. Not that I’m on the treadmill that often.”

“Can we stop body shaming ourselves and get back to the dresses?” I asked. “What am I supposed to do with them? They should be in some sort of temperature and humidity-controlled environment or something, shouldn’t they?”

“Probably. Do any of the museums up there have textile departments? Maybe they’d be able to rent you some space or something.”

“It’s just like Ted to give me something that will cost me rent instead of giving me the money that’s actually mine.” I slumped into a chair, facing my glittering charges. Ted had not responded to my text. “Give him the filthiest of all possible looks the next time you run into him, will you?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Because that would mean acknowledging him as someone who exists. He’s dead to me. I can’t give filthy looks to the dead.”

“You should be written up in the encyclopedia of best friends,” I told her. “Who else is dead to you?”

“After that meeting on Monday, I would have said Tommy,” she said. “But he may not be our problem anymore.”

“Oh, so we’re allowed to talk about Tommy now?”

“For a minute. Do you think he really killed that guy?”

It was the question of the day.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Detective Jackson won’t tell me anything, which isn’t exactly a surprise. You know Tommy better than I do. Could he do that sort of a thing?”

“I’ve written several hit shows based on the premise that anyone could do anything, given the right motive,” she said. “But the how and the when of it don’t make sense to me. If you’re going to knock off you partner, why would you do it so publicly? Why wouldn’t you give yourself an alibi?”

I thought about it. “Maybe doing it publicly was the point? The game is front page news everywhere now, not just on geek websites. From a crassly commercial perspective, S’s spectacular online death is great publicity.” I got up to blow a tiny speck of dust off the white My Fair Lady dress. I’d have to drape the tissue around them all before I went home. “And what do you mean about Tommy not being our problem anymore? Can’t he own a quarter of the Palace from jail?”

“Maybe, but he won’t be in much of a position to call in to board meetings from cell block C.”

“No.” I saw her point. “That’s a cheerful thought.”

“Assuming he’s actually found guilty,” she cautioned. “Let’s not forget he’s a rich white dude.”

“There’s that,” I agreed.

“And speaking of rich white dudes, I’d better go. I’ve got a breakfast meeting with one of them in the morning.”

“They’re everywhere,” I whispered ominously.

“For now,” she said easily. “But there are more of us than there used to be. There will be even more of us when you start writing scripts again.”

“And on that note…” I said.

She laughed. “Okay, I won’t push. Say goodnight, Gracie.”

I grinned. “Goodnight, Gracie.”

If I did start writing scripts again, they’d probably be about murders.