Larcency and Lace Part 26

"We haven't seen him," Lolique said, eyeing her husband with such disdain I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

After I left the restaurant, I went to see Werner.

"You're gonna think I'm crazy," I said as I sat down across from him.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, looking almost comfortable in my presence. "Madeira, I already do."

I rather enjoyed sparring with him but shocking him was more fun. "I asked Councilman and Mrs. McDowell to judge the scarecrow compet.i.tion."

Werner sat forward so fast, it was a wonder he didn't snap his spine. "He's n.o.body to mess with, Madeira."

"I know. That's why I want you to judge, too. And I won't accept 'not if you stick a fork in my eye' as an answer."

He nearly smiled. "At least we'll know where they are."

"Exactly. Is that a yes?"

"Under the circ.u.mstances, I'd consider it my civic duty."

"You believe me about them, now, don't you?"

"Let's say that the quilt, the rings, and the Mexican beer chat helped."

He had to know that I'd done some primo sleuthing while we were at it, but if he wasn't saying, then neither was I.

For the next couple of days, along with everything else I did, I catered to Fiona's fellow witches looking for outfits for the Halloween Ball and to our neighbors still hunting for scarecrow clothes.

Fiona put out plenty of stock for both events.

I named my nooks-not hea.r.s.e stalls-which Eve printed on her laser printer. I slipped each "address" into street name-type frames and hung them at the entry to each nook: Shoe Heaven, Bag Lady, Vive la Paris-for haute couture-Eternals, Little Black Dress Lane, Very Vintage, Unique Street, Around the World, and Mad as a Hatter.

For a while I'd toyed with naming the nooks after designers, but there were too many, and this way, I could mix it up and seduce my customers into looking through everything.

One of Aunt Fiona's witch friends, Rebecca Engle, asked to try on the buff suede wraparound fringed skirt that belonged to McDowell's first wife.

"I'll turn it into a Native American costume for the ball," she said, "and I can wear it as it is afterward."

I'd avoided touching it up until now, so I waited with dread for her to exit the dressing room.

"It fits like a dream," she said, still wearing it.

I released a breath, glad I didn't have to touch it.

"Can you sew another b.u.t.ton on it while I'm wearing it?" she asked.

"Of course." I looked around for Aunt Fiona, thinking maybe she could sew it on, but she'd gone to bring some sewing upstairs. A minute; I would only have to touch it for a minute.

I found a small clear b.u.t.ton and thread and stood Rebecca on the riser facing the triple mirrors. "I need the skirt tighter," she said, "but I'd like to keep the original b.u.t.ton, in the event of too much dessert."

I tried hard to concentrate on nothing but my sewing; nevertheless, carnival sounds filled my ears, while into my dizzy view came a man's hand, wearing a big tigereye ring, offering a gla.s.s of what looked like lemonade.

The woman who accepted the gla.s.s wore the suede fringed skirt and sported an emerald-cut diamond. Isobel's diamond.

"I hope it wins," he said-not the voice of the man she'd argued with over the ledgers.

"Mom would be so proud, if it won," Isobel replied. She knew him well enough to say "Mom"?

"You did a great job on it."

A merry-go-round whirled beyond them. I heard a public announcement for a pie contest as a half-empty gla.s.s of lemonade hit the dirt, then so did the woman. Unconscious. The man reached for her. "Let's go," he said.

"She'll be fine," Aunt Fiona said. "She didn't get a lot of sleep last night."

I focused on Aunt Fiona and Rebecca looking down at me. Did I wig out? I found myself still kneeling on the floor, sitting back against my legs, a needle in my hand, Rebecca's new b.u.t.ton in place. "Did I take a catnap?" I asked. "I've got to stop reading all night."

"If you go and change, Rebecca," Aunt Fiona said, "I'll ring that up."

"Have I priced it?"

"Yes, two hundred dollars."

"It's a steal. How bad did I zone?" I whispered.

"Not bad, though it was the first time you had a vision in front of me and a customer. It's a good thing you don't twitch and drool when you do."

"Gee, thanks, something else to worry about."

We got Rebecca square and out the door.

"What did you see?" Aunt Fiona asked pushing a folding chair against the back of my legs.

"That maybe Isobel was drugged or poisoned at the fair? There must have been something in that gla.s.s of lemonade. The man didn't seem at all surprised that she lost consciousness."

Another customer approached us, and several more costumes went out, all from my original stock, thank the G.o.ddess, because that vision had drained me. I couldn't touch any more of Isobel's clothes today.

While I was prepping for another afternoon of giving away scarecrow clothes, my cell phone rang.

"Nick, are you okay?"

"I am, and I've got a couple of minutes to talk for a change. First, I was able to access the local forensics report on Sampson. He was struck in the gut, fell, and cracked his skull on the corner of a cabinet. That's what ultimately killed him. Time of death was shortly before the fire. The only fingerprints on the scene considered suspicious belonged to a Vincent Carnevale."

Who was on the loose. I sighed. "Looks like Sampson might have gotten in the way of Vinney starting the first fire, which seems more and more like a ruse to empty my building, so he could grab the bones. Maybe that's why I'm not getting visions about Sampson, though I am getting them about the bones. Any ID on the bones? The FBI lab got those, right?"

"We got them, but identifying a set of charred bones will take a while. They also have to wait their turn." Nick sighed. "Whoever you're dealing with, on either case, doesn't play nice. Watch your back, ladybug."

"Believe me, I am." He didn't know the half of it.

"Enough about murder," Nick said. "How are you doing? What are you doing?"

"What am I not doing? With only a week left to get ready, I'm setting up shop and filling nooks with vintage clothes, when I'm not fitting witches for movie costumes or chasing murder suspects."

"I'm proud of you."

"Say that after you see the place."

"I might be too busy getting my hands on you then."

"Mmm. Looking forward to it, but since you're there and I'm here-" I cleared my voice. "Let me tell you what else I've done."

"What else?" he asked, and I could sense his smile and his hunger.

I ignored my physical reaction to the timbre of his voice and started to pace. "I got an alarm system. It'll take about two days to install, but it should be ready in time for the opening. An upscale system, extra protective and very noisy."

"You should have had that done right away."

"Never mind the 'I told you so.' I should have, but break-ins, fire, and murder got the best of me."

"Which is why you should have-"

"Enough with the jabs, already. Trust me, this system will scare the sc.r.a.p out of anybody who dares to try and break into Vintage Magic."

Thirty-seven.

When I put my signature on a dress, I regard myself as the creator of a work of art.

-PAUL POIRET My shop wasn't open in the evening yet, and I decided to keep it that way, until the murders were solved and the killer or killers were put behind bars, or until my alarm system was finished, whichever came first.

With time running out-six days and counting-until the grand opening, I took an evening and the better part of a night in my father's bas.e.m.e.nt, to painstakingly hand-decorate the white cabinet from my storage room with the gla.s.s-front top. Now a black enamel cabinet, thanks to my dad.

To marry the boxy utilitarian design to Mom's art deco pieces and Dante's fainting couch, I chose nature and fashion. On each side of the cabinet, the first angle people would see, I traced a side profile of my own design-inspired by a sixties, Yves Saint Laurent wool jersey Pop Art dress-a naked woman standing on her toes at the bottom back, her head leaning toward the top front, as if peeking at the contents of the cabinet.

Except for the curvaceous profile's blonde locks, black lashes, and red lips, I painted her an all-over flesh pink.

Before I got to the drawers, my father called from upstairs. "Madeira, you have a visitor."

"Who is it?" I wiped my hands with a rag.

"It's me, Mad," Werner said. "I'll come down."

"I'm in a mess," I said. "Can you stand the smell of paint?" I opened another window.

"Sure. No problem." He whistled when he saw the cabinet. "Is there anything you can't do?"

"Yes. I can't keep my opinions to myself."

He smiled with his eyes. "I noticed."

"Do you mind if I paint while we talk?"

"Go ahead. I know you're in a time crunch." He looked around. "What are these?" he asked, hefting a bright red marble egg in one hand, a yellow one in the other.

"Aren't they gorgeous? They were my grandmother's. I forgot they existed until I found that box of them in my mother's art deco sideboard. I just cleaned it, because we're taking it to my shop when this is done."

He tossed an egg in the air. "What are you painting on the bottom, there?"

"This is a picture my mother cut from a magazine." I indicated the framed flower garden shoe propped against a chair. "I'm putting one facing shoe on each door." They were squash-heeled pumps of loosely woven tulip leaves. I'd let the occasional vibrant pink to pale yellow tulip nod from their woven stems.

"The picture is of a daffodil shoe."

"I'm making it my own." On mine, the flowers grew in different directions from each other, which I thought added to the overall character of the piece.

I stood back to examine my work. "As a vintage fashion-plate piece, it fits the bill, and it'll accent the colors in my tapestried couch. What did you want to talk about?"

"I have a source that says Sampson probably died because he got in the way of the arsonist."

I didn't dare tell him that I knew, because I didn't want to screw Nick. Well, I did, actually, but-"You want to bounce some ideas off me?"

His hands in his pockets, Werner rocked on his heels and jiggled his loose change. "Let's call it speculation, part deux." He stopped, reached into his inside jacket pocket, and pulled out a bottle of Mexican beer.

I chuckled as I accepted it and popped the top.

"Why would Suzanne pretend to be Sampson's sister when she was his ex? A blood relative is a more likely suspect."

"You said you believe she didn't bother to deny the gossip. Maybe because, as his ex, she could get the house, so she was playing it cool so people wouldn't delve too deeply into her background . . . or into the background of somebody she cares about?"

"Lolique?" he asked.

"According to Lolique herself, she was a pole dancer, which could merely be a part of the colorful persona she gave herself. Frankly, I can't see a politician marrying a pole dancer, myself, especially McDowell. He's too careful of his image. Then again, I think he killed his first wife, so what do I know?" I sighed.

"And another thing. If Vinney took the bones out of your building, who put them there? Couldn't have been him. He's too young."

A man afraid of a ghost, I thought. "A hired killer? Or even someone hired simply to move her from her cave, quarry, or well. It didn't have to be her killer."

"True. We've started a search for caves, quarries, and wells, but it's not all up to us. McDowell lived in Groton when his wife went missing. Besides, we have to get an ID on the bones before we jump to conclusions anyway."

"Sampson was a victim of circ.u.mstance, wasn't he?" I asked. "He died because of the bones. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Seems like." He indicated my cabinet. "Are you going to put that in your shop? It's a brilliant piece of artwork."

"Thank you. The door opens on the aisle formed at the left by my checkout counter and at the right by my stock nooks. I'm planning a sitting area for the back, between the end of my checkout counter and the behind-the-stairs entry to my fitting rooms where the horse stalls were. People will cut though the area to get to the fitting rooms and friends can relax while they wait for someone being fitted."

"Sounds like a place where women would like to disappear for an afternoon."