Frosted Shadow, a Toni Diamond Mystery: Toni Diamond Mysteries (8 page)

“What?”

“He’d find somebody worse off to share the wealth with. And he really had to look hard to find anybody poorer than us. But they were good people and they loved Mama and me even though she’d fallen from the path of righteousness and I was the living proof.”

“It’s hard to picture you dirt poor.”

“I was a kid in the 1980s. The biggest shows on television were
Dallas
and
Dynasty
and we didn’t have a TV. I used to sneak to my friend Jo-Jo’s house and watch that life I knew I wanted. I fell in love right then and there with glamorous people and clothes and I vowed to myself that I was gonna be one of ‘em. Them.” She shook her head. “I get talking about the old days and I start talking white trash which was the official language of my childhood.”

“Looks like you got your wish.”

“Yes, sir, I did. I got it by working hard and selling a product I believe in. I’ve also helped a goodly number of women set up their own independent businesses. I’m real proud of my team.”

“You’re selling me all right. But everybody in your organization isn’t as ethical as you are. I checked out some websites.”

The look she sent him was far from apologetic. “Lady Bianca is a big organization. Sometimes the wrong people join up. Are you going to tell me that every police officer in the country is perfect, law abiding and honest?”

His face registered surprise as he glanced at her. It was a look she’d been getting since she’d first grown breasts and dyed her hair blond. The kind of look Marilyn Monroe might have received if she’d opened her mouth and expounded a new theory of quantum physics.

“I take your point.”

She accelerated smoothly around a U-haul truck. “I help women look better and that makes them feel good about themselves. If you ask me, happy people have less reason to commit crime.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Look, I’m not pretending I can cure cancer or solve world hunger or fix that whole global warming thing. But if I make someone feel better about themselves maybe that gives them a little more confidence to get out there and do those things. We are also a very green company,” she told him. “I’m sure you noticed the minimal packaging, no extra boxes or cellophane and every one of our containers is recyclable. And, as I keep telling Tiffany, we also use natural ingredients grown and harvested in a sustainable manner.”

“It would be greener if everybody stopped wearing make up.”

She glanced at him from under her lashes. “Now you’re just being silly.”

Chapter Nine

I have always a sacred veneration for anyone I observe to be a little out of repair in his person, as supposing him either a poet or a philosopher. —
Jonathon Swift

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Luke said as they walked into the hotel to find the day’s electronic message board had changed. The Lady Bianca convention still held top billing, but the area toastmasters were gone. In their place were two new groups -- a medical equipment sales seminar in the Getty Ballroom and, lo and behold, Mystery Readers of America registration and opening banquet in the Cactus room.

Toni paused beside him. “A mystery readers’ convention. What do you bet Violet was here to attend that?” Satisfaction spiked like a tiny fist punching the air, Yes!

He nodded, still staring at the board.

“It makes sense that she was a bookworm. She looked like a teacher or librarian, didn’t she? The clothes, the Birkenstocks, the ink between her fingers. And she named herself after a Holmes character.”

He stuck his hand in his pocket and jingled the change in there. “Then the bookworm had a makeover. She said because she had a date.”

“Which suggests she was trying to impress. First date, maybe.”

She cast her mind back to the image of the woman’s dead body on the gurney and the picture came through as clear as though she’d snapped a photo.

“She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, unless that Celtic design was one, which I doubt.”

“Think I’ll check out the Cactus Ballroom.”

“Sorry you wasted your time today,” she said, feeling anything but sorry. She was still sad the poor woman had been murdered but it was nice to be proven right. The death had nothing to do with Lady Bianca and they could all get back to their seminar.

“Oh,” he said, letting his espresso gaze settle on her for a warm moment, “It wasn’t a waste.”

And he was gone.

Which was just as well since she was, for the first time in years, speechless.

Luke strode into the Cactus Room and knew he wasn’t in Lady Bianca land anymore. Not a sequin, a sash or a single balloon could he find in the sparsely populated conference room. No dress code either unless the requirements were tweed, knit sweaters and eyeglasses.

Where the Lady Bianca crowd tended to display cosmetics and prizes everywhere, usually with a lot of purple frills and glitzy helium balloons wafting along for the ride, the mystery readers went in for books. Tables stacked with books. Hard cover, paperback and trade paperback. Hefty, glossy bestsellers written by household names and obscure, small-press titles whose print run was probably in the hundreds.

The bookworms who had registered wandered around, some with their name tags already hanging around their necks, holding simple cloth bags printed with the words “A Conference to Die For.” The logo was a laughing skull.

In Jane Doe’s case those words were more prescient than the conference organizers could have imagined.

He headed first for the long table at the front of the room where three registrars sat: two ladies who had to be in their seventies, grandmotherly types with white hair and glasses, and a skinny young man, intense and scraggly in a black sweater vest. College student, Luke guessed.

Both the young guy and one of the older women were occupied with registrations, but the other woman put down her Kindle when he stepped in front of her, and eyed him with a smiling welcome.

“Here to register?”

“I’m a police officer.” He backed up so she could see his belt badge and sidearm, then introduced himself. “I’ve got a few questions.”

Her expression was a cross between amusement and concern. “We only read about crime, Detective. We aren’t planning any.”

“There’s already been a murder in the hotel.”

Her hand went to her heart and he wished he hadn’t been so blunt. “But -- I didn’t -- I’ve been so busy, traveling straight here and then coming down to help with the registration that I never listened to the news. Oh, how awful. What happened?”

“A woman was stabbed to death. I think she might have been with your group.” He pulled out the photograph. “Do you recognize this woman?”

The lady adjusted her glasses more firmly on her nose and gazed at the photograph for a long time, long enough that he began to hope she had recognized the dead woman. Finally she said, “It’s so sad to see them die young. One of my nieces died tragically. Drug overdose. I remember the viewing. How pale she looked, and how peaceful. This reminds me – a little.”

“I’m sorry to upset you. Do you need some water?”

“No. I’m fine.” She blinked hard. “Just for that moment…”

“Any chance you recognize the woman in the picture?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’ve never seen her before.” She handed back the photo.

“How many do you expect at the convention?”

“About a hundred and fifty. And then the speakers and authors on top of that. But our members come from all over the country. I don’t know them all.”

He repeated the process with the other two at the registration desk and struck out twice more.

“So, none of you registered her.”

“No,” said the young guy, “but registration didn’t start ‘til today. There’s always a few who come early to check out the city or hook up with friends.” He shrugged. “Maybe she arrived early.”

The second woman said, “There are other conferences here, Detective, as I’m sure you’re aware. Perhaps she’s with Lady Bianca.”

Funny how every conference wanted to shunt the murder victim to somebody else’s agenda. “In fact, she did have a Lady Bianca makeover yesterday. She put her name on the customer card as Violet Hunter. What do you make of that?”

“
The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
,” the first woman said with a fond smile. “Not Conan Doyle’s greatest work, perhaps, but always a favorite of mine.”

“The fact that she chose a name out of a Holmes story makes this conference a likely bet. When do you expect everyone to have registered?”

“Not until tomorrow sometime.”

“Any way of finding out who came in early?”

“Yes. Everyone who registered used a special code to get the conference rate with the hotel. The front desk should have that information.”

“Thanks. Mind if I look around?”

“Of course not, Detective. And if you care to purchase any of the books, in most cases the authors are here at the convention and would be happy to sign them for you.”

He nodded and turned to check out the readers milling around the book-laden tables. What kind of people came to a conference like this? He’d always loved mysteries but he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to hang out with other people who read them. He’d never considered reading a group activity.

He’d assumed a book club was a commercial enterprise that sold novels at a discount -- until a former girlfriend had set him straight. Thursday nights once a month were sacred; her book club night. And he soon learned that the Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday leading up to the Thursday night were sacrosanct too, since she was always behind and had to read the book in a hurry ready to discuss it.

It seemed the book club had gone a step further. Now there were entire conventions devoted to mystery reading. He wondered how many books these poor suckers had to cram before they got here.

“Is that disdainful smile directed at me, young man?”

Something about the voice made him straighten and wipe the smirk right off his mouth. “No, ma’am,” he said, and found himself confronting an elderly woman who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. Her ample bosom stuck out from her chest like a shelf, and he imagined her resting her novel there while she was reading.

She had a thick head of red curly hair that had to be a wig, and wore clip-on earrings of cascading fruits that reminded him of Carmen Miranda’s head dresses. Her lipstick was bright red, but a different red than the hair, and under turquoise eyelids that looked as though they’d been painted on by a toddler with a crayon a pair of sharp gray eyes snapped with humor. “You here for the conference? You don’t seem the type.”

“No. I’m not. Are you?”

She cackled with laughter. Big teeth stained with nicotine and coffee. “Yes, I am, and I’m exactly the type: an old spinster without enough to do.” She had the raspy tones of a smoker. He bet her doctor had been nagging her for years to quit.

She’d been eyeing his badge and sidearm but he still told her he was a cop and pulled out his wallet ID before she could demand to see it. Somehow he knew she would. She studied it carefully before asking what he wanted.

He showed her the photograph and once more was disappointed after she studied it carefully, pulling on the reading glasses hanging around her neck to do so, and then shaking her head..

“What kind of people
do
come to the conference?” he asked her.

“Folks like me. Teachers or retired teachers. Writers, of course, and people from every walk of life who love the genre and want to know more about it. We get some young people, but most of us are middle aged or older. We’re the ones with the most time to read and the most money to spend indulging our whims.”

“Were you here last night?”

“No. I flew in this morning from Boston. Just got here an hour ago and came down to register – and browse the books.”

Her gaze strayed behind him to a stack of shiny new hard covers. He turned to follow her gaze. “Perfect Murder,” he read aloud. “A novel?”

“No. Non-fiction. Joe’s a true-crime writer. I understand he spent several years researching this book.”

“Great. Exactly what cops need. A textbook on how to murder people and get away with it.” He picked up the book and skimmed the back jacket.

“You can tell the author exactly what you think of him and his book,” the gravelly voice informed him with relish. “He just walked in.”

Luke’s first thought was that the guy heading their way did not fit the profile as described to him by his new friend. Joseph Mandeville, author of
Perfect Murder
, sported a manly, chiseled chin, wavy black hair that was exactly the length to scream ‘artiste’ and big, greedy lips. He had a large body, as though he’d played a lot of sports in his younger days, but his time behind the computer had softened him. He wore jeans, cowboy boots that had never seen the range, a black corduroy jacket, and a gray patterned scarf draped nonchalantly around his neck.

After pausing inside the doorway, he glanced around and when his gaze lighted on his own books, he headed toward them without the pretense of being interested in any other book in the room but the one he’d penned.

“Joe,” said the old woman beside him stepping forward, “I’m Helen Barnes. We met last year in Knoxville. I moderated the panel discussion on strangling methods.”

“Of course, Helen, how are you?” Joseph Mandeville reached forward and kissed both of her withered cheeks with European aplomb.

“I’m fine, thank you. This is Detective Marciano. He’s interested in your book.”

“Of course. My pleasure.” And the author reached into his pocket and pulled out a fountain pen. “Whom do I make it out to?”

“Don’t need it signed, thanks. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions though.”

The author held up his hands and raised his voice in mock alarm. “I never give away my sources or my secrets.”

Pretentious prick
. “I’m investigating a murder, here at the hotel. When did you arrive?”

The man blinked. “A murder? Here? Really? I was in my room writing. I never looked at the news. Who’s the victim?”

“We’re trying to find that out, sir. When did you arrive?”

“Day before yesterday. I had a couple of book signings and a speaking engagement before the conference started.”