I had to call Cathy to help me figure out what to wear. “Casual” had different definitions depending on who says it. Jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers are how I usually defined it.
“Heavens no!” Cathy had said. Then she dictated my entire outfit from memory. When I arrived at her house, she made more adjustments, exchanging my necklace for one of hers and bemoaning the fact that there wasn’t enough time to apply nail polish.
While she took a last trip to the powder room, Parker pulled me aside.
“Do you, uh, notice anything different about Cathy lately?” he asked.
“Different?” I blinked at him.
He eyed me curiously. He’d always been able to tell when I was hiding something or stretching the truth. “It’s not someone else, is it?”
“What? No! What would make you think that?”
“Every time we talk, it seems like she’s holding something back.” He squinted at me. “You know what it is, don’t you.” That was not a question. “There’s something she’s not telling me.”
“Parker,” I whispered, “just ask her. Cathy loves you. If she’s keeping anything back from you, I’m sure it’s not that.”
Our conversation ended as Cathy bustled in. “Ready to go?” She didn’t wait for an answer, so I followed her outside.
I was thankful for her fashion intervention the moment we pulled up in front of Lori Briggs’s house. Other women were walking down the sidewalk or emerging from their cars looking like they were about to go yachting with the Kennedys. Casual, my foot.
Lori lived in a perfectly restored, grandiose Victorian with landscaping that must’ve kept a crew of twenty busy. I couldn’t fault her choice in homes. Why settle for a McMansion somewhere when you can buy an “authentic” historic home that had genuine charm? Many of these had been modernized at some point along the way, losing much of their period character. Now, of course, all those modern trappings were dated, and homeowners paid top dollar to rip out all those features and replace them with modern reproductions—or even more for the real deal from wily and enterprising junk dealers who’d had the foresight to pull all that stuff out of the trash.
“Liz, Cathy, so happy to see you.” Lori leaned in for an air hug. “Come in and meet everybody.” And then she deserted us, leaving us to fend for ourselves.
Lori’s large house was wall-to-wall women. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, young ones, old ones. All impeccably dressed, flawlessly made up, and balancing drinks and small plates of appetizers with the skill of Chinese acrobats.
Lori swept in with a spray bottle and started spritzing her drapes. When a circle gathered around her, she started her pitch. “No matter how clean our house, it doesn’t feel clean unless it smells clean. Am I right?”
If she’d been standing in the pulpit of any church, she would have gotten a hearty amen. But the women standing around her bobbed their heads, and a couple voiced their assent.
A familiar scent tickled my nostrils, but I couldn’t quite place it.
“Doesn’t it smell clean?” Lori asked.
More nodding followed.
“Like all Clean Queen products, it’s plant-based and completely nontoxic.” She removed the top and lifted the bottle to her mouth.
When a few women gasped, she raised her hand and added, “Not that the company recommends doing this. But when I demanded proof of its safety—you know I’d only sell you the best—the regional distributor opened up a bottle and took a big swig. That’s all I needed to know. But I want you to know how much I believe in this product.” She took a careful sip, then winked. “It’s”—she cleared her throat—“actually not bad.”
We meandered through the living room to the dining room, with Cathy stopping to introduce me to members of her various writing groups and literary societies. I kept looking at faces, hoping to recognize Jenna Duncan among the guests. Meanwhile, Lori started repeating her spiel to those in the dining room, airing out the drapes on the French doors. This time, she took a less hesitant sip—“Now, remember. Don’t do this at home!”—and the crowd applauded.
When the demonstration concluded, conversations resumed. After what felt like three hours but was probably less than ten minutes, I excused myself from an extended conversation on rhyme schemes and left Cathy to her own devices.
I wandered into the kitchen where a somewhat flushed Lori was again demonstrating the power of Clean Queen, this time used as a degreaser. When she was done, she tossed her rag next to her now half-clean stove. “Don’t clean the rest of it,” she said to a nearby woman hard at work loading hot appetizers from a baking tray onto a serving plate. “I want to run that demo again later.”
The woman, who I’d assumed was paid help, nodded, and I was surprised to see it was Jenna Duncan clad in an apron and stationed at the working end of the long granite-topped kitchen island. She concentrated on her work, but when she did look up, she did a double-take when she saw me.
“Jenna Duncan?” I asked.
“Yes. If you’ll excuse me just a second,” she said, and then she walked out with the tray.
While she was gone, I helped myself to one of the hot appetizers. I only wish I knew what it was. Some spicy filling wrapped in something. Whatever happened to minipizzas and nachos? When I finished that one, I helped myself to another.
Jenna certainly took her time. I thought of poking my head out of the kitchen, but that would risk being drawn into another inane conversation or worse: being forced to take in yet another Clean Queen demo, which I could hear even from the kitchen.
“. . . not that they recommend you drink it.”
By the time I finished nibbling my third appetizer, I was beginning to think Jenna was on the lam, and I couldn’t blame her.
She returned a moment later with two empty serving plates and looking a little harried.
“Would you like a hand?” I asked.
“You’re a guest here. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“Aren’t you? A guest here, I mean.”
“Sort of,” she said. “Lori and I are hosting the party together. Which means she provides the venue . . .”
“And you end up doing all the work?”
“That’s about right.” She replaced the paper doily on one of the serving plates and began loading it with premade minicheesecakes.
I took the other tray and started doing the same. “Didn’t I see you at the train and toy show the other day?”
Jenna bobbled one of the cheesecakes but managed to catch it before it hit the floor. When she set it on the counter, she took a deep breath and faced me.
“You and I both know you did.” She wiped her hands on her white apron. “And based on where I saw you and who I saw you with, I’m going to wager that you know that I was also there to try to talk Craig into selling back some comics he practically stole from me.”
“Stole?”
She forcibly crushed the empty cheesecake box and set it next to the trash for recycling. “He knew what they were worth. Well, maybe not exactly. But he took a look through the box at my garage sale and offered me fifty dollars, then acted like he was being nice when he met me halfway at seventy-five.”
“You priced them at a hundred bucks?”
She winced. “I know. It’s partly my fault. I had no idea they were worth anything at all. How could I? They were just sitting in a box in the attic.”
“Your husband was a collector?”
“Not that I ever knew about. But he wasn’t exactly here to help . . . and since I saw you with Hank McCall, I’m going to wager you know that too. And why. But I was trying to clean out the house so I could put it on the market, you see, and selling those books meant one less box to move.”
“When did you find out their worth?”
“I’m still not sure of the exact amount. Only that Josh had a hissy fit when I told him I’d sold them. He went on a rampage telling me not to sell any more of his stuff and said I’d sold them to spite him. Who knows? Maybe I did. Anyway, I thought I’d be the sweet and dutiful wife and try to get the books back. Maybe offer double what Craig paid for them. But that woman at the shop said they’d mailed them somewhere. And Craig just laughed at me when I finally saw him.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“At the train show,” she said. “He’d never returned my calls, and I saw in the paper that his shop was going to be at the show, so I figured he’d be there too. With all those potential customers milling about, I’d hoped he’d be reasonable and make things right. If he didn’t cooperate, I thought of a few ways I could make life difficult for him.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Nothing illegal. But the place would be swarming with buyers. And with a few well-timed words, I could let people know what a creep he is. Was.” She let out a noise I’d qualify as a growl. “I hate being mad at dead people. No matter what they did to you, people don’t want to hear anything but how wonderful they were.”
“Trust me, I grew up with Craig. I know what a jerk he could be.”
Lori burst into the kitchen and made a beeline for one of her tall pantry cupboards. “Mop. Mop. Mop. Where’d the maid put the mop?” She opened several before finally pulling out a mop and bucket. While she filled the bucket with hot water from the sink, she fanned her face with her hand. “Is it hot in here?” She undid the top button of her blouse. “I must’ve worked up a sweat with all this cleaning!” She winked at me. “Clean Queen is wonderful. So wonderful. Make sure you buy a case of it!”
As Lori exited the kitchen, she stumbled. She managed to catch herself but apparently didn’t notice that she’d splashed a little bit of water onto the tile floor.
Jenna rolled her eyes. “I’d better get that. Last thing we need is for one of the guests to slip and sue both of us.” She threw a folded paper towel onto the spill and wiped it up with her foot before bending down to retrieve the towel.
I took a piece of cheesecake from one of the trays and rearranged the rest so they were even. “So you talked to Craig that morning?” I asked, nonchalantly peeling back the paper liner.
“Yes. Not that there was any getting through to him. He was wearing that silly costume, and I think he really believed he was some kind of superhero. Anyway, he had much more important things to do than talk to me.”
“Did he seem himself? I mean, was he off balance or slurring his words or anything like that? Anything odd?”
“You mean like drunk?”
“Something like that.”
“I guess he could’ve been,” Jenna said. “It’d explain him falling off the catwalk, I suppose. I honestly didn’t know him well enough to say if he were acting out of the ordinary. It was hard to talk with him wearing that mask.”
“Was he angry when you confronted him?”
“He mostly just blew me off. It’s not like I had much of a legal ground to stand on. I was hoping to appeal to his compassionate side, but I’m not sure he had one. He actually boasted that he was going to put all that money to much better use, and if I stuck around, I’d see what it was.”
“And did you? Stick around?”
She nodded. “Mostly just hoping to drive away some of his paying customers. Just plant a few seeds that he was ripping people off. And yes, I heard that some comic books went missing. If you’re wondering if I stole them, not a chance. Craig would have liked nothing better than to see me pinched for shoplifting, but I think one Duncan in prison is enough, thank you very much.”
“Did you tell anyone else besides your husband that Craig had those comics?”
“You’re thinking someone I know tried to steal them for me? Honey, I wish I had friends that good.” She carried the two plates into the dining room. I tried to remember what Dad had told me about how to tell if someone was lying, but they were mostly facial cues, and I’m pretty sure that if Jenna had “liar” written all over her face, it was erased by enough Botox to kill a cow. The growing irritation in her voice, however, was coming across quite clearly.
“There you are,” Cathy said. “I just had a wonderful conversation with the library director. She’s offered to let us display some of our antique toys in the glass case in the lobby. We can’t put prices on them, of course, but we can put in a little sign saying they’re on loan from the shop. Isn’t that great?”
She picked up the crushed piece of cheesecake, examined it, shrugged, and popped it into her mouth. “What are you doing hiding in here?”
“Waiting for Jenna Duncan to come back. She’s playing hostess. Or more like scullery drudge.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“She admits to being at the show, but I think I just ticked her off, and I have one more question to ask.”
“What is it?”
“If she’d ever traveled to Colombia.”
“Why Colombia?” Cathy asked. “I thought you said they already found that drug when they searched the hotel room of those two mob guys.”
“They found what looks like a drug. It hasn’t been tested yet, and it’s also possible Jenna’s tied up in this somehow. Maybe she hired them. Maybe she supplied the drug.”
“No worries. I got this.”
When Jenna returned, Cathy piled on the charm. “Jenna! I just had to compliment you. Liz here said you’ve supplied the food. Everything is simply scrumptious!”
“I mostly just put it on the plates,” she said.
“Now, don’t be humble. I don’t know what Lori would do without you!”
Miracle of miracles, Jenna’s face actually moved. Into somewhat of a smile, no less.
“And my, you certainly don’t look like you’ve been slaving away. You look fantastic! What a great tan. Have you been traveling? Somewhere exciting?”
“Fat chance,” Jenna said. “I do have an amazing excursion planned. I’m blowing all my garage sale money and anything I earn tonight on a lavish trip to visit my mother in exotic Cleveland.” She rolled her eyes. “Josh and I had been talking about going back to the Dominican Republic. Such wonderful ocean breezes. But then . . . I haven’t been out of the country in so long, I’m not even sure my passport is valid.”
When we left the kitchen, Cathy was waylaid by someone else she knew. I meandered through the dining room, placed an order for a nontoxic cleaner I didn’t need, put my name in for a raffle, and helped myself to coffee in a cup so delicate, I was almost afraid to handle it.
Someone vacated a plush armchair next to the fireplace, and I grabbed it. This shindig was emptying out fast, and Lori had to interrupt her mopping to give out more air hugs to departing guests at the door. “Your orders should be in sometime next week,” she called out after them. “Wait! I was going to do the stove again. Who wants to see the stove?”
While a few women followed Lori into the kitchen, I waited in the chair until Cathy was finished. Left alone to review what I’d learned, I almost felt sorry for Jenna. Almost. She wasn’t exactly destitute and begging on the streets, but she deeply felt the loss of her former lifestyle. Was that enough motivation to exact revenge on Craig? He wasn’t the cause of her economic downturn, but he’d most certainly exacerbated it.
But if she blamed my father for her husband’s downfall, she could have been targeting him instead. Maybe she even hired Batman-man and Grandpa to do it. She could have paid off Janet to put the drug in the coffee before she handed it to me. Everyone has a price, right?
I did my best to shake off that thought. There was too much subsequent interest in Craig and those comic books for Craig to simply be collateral damage in some mob vendetta against my father.
I remembered what I’d read about the drug found in Craig’s system. It made victims subject to suggestion. Too much could lead to death. So which were they after? Was someone trying to control Craig to get him to surrender those pricy comics without making a scene? Or was someone trying to kill him?
Cathy took a seat next to me on a vacant ottoman. “You look like you’re ready to go,” she said. “I was hoping they’d have done the raffle by now. You have to be here to win. The prize is a whole case of Clean Queen, and you saw how fabulous it is.” She looked around to make sure nobody was listening before whispering, “I may have entered more than once.”
“We can wait,” I told her. “And if I win, you can have it. Not sure I like the smell of it.”
“It’s lemony,” she said.
“And something else. Can’t put my finger on it.”
Lori strode across the living room heading in our direction. Instead, she went straight for the fireplace. “Whose bright idea was it to start a fire? Way too hot for a fire.” She unbuttoned another couple of buttons of her blouse, now exposing a lace bra she probably sold at a very different home party. She took out the tongs, started to fling ashes on top of the burning wood, and ended up sending hot sparks onto her white carpet.
I got up to help stamp them out.
Lori stopped me, giggling. “I got it.” She whisked out her Clean Queen bottle and sprayed it on the ashes on the carpet. It burst into flames, sending a terrible stench into the room.
“Oh, dear,” Lori said. Well, maybe that’s my sanitized paraphrase of her words. Red-face and sweating profusely, she seemed to have trouble standing up. She grabbed my arm.
“Liz. Help me. I don’t feel well at all. I think . . . I’ve been drugged.”
And then she passed out.