Grave Endings (5 page)

eight

TRINA CREELEY, I LEARNED WHEN I PUNCHED THE PHONE number Gloria Lamont had given me, worked at Frederick's of Hollywood—on Hollywood Boulevard, hence the name, and as it turned out, only blocks from Creeley's apartment. Had I known, I would've walked to the store after talking to Gloria instead of wasting my time with Connors. I was muttering to myself on the drive back, and my mood wasn't enhanced after I circled Frederick's three times without finding a parking spot. I ended up leaving my Acura three-fourths of the way up Cherokee, almost where I'd parked it before. I had new sympathy for Sisyphus.

I'd heard of Frederick's and the sexy lingerie it sells, and you may have seen versions in a mall near you, but this pink-awninged gray building, formerly a garish purple, is the original flagship store. Even if I hadn't been engaged to a rabbi, I would have felt self-conscious entering an establishment where you can buy musical panties that play “Happy Birthday.” Of course, if one of Zack's congregants saw me exiting the Art Deco tower, I could have used a variation of the I-only-buy-
Playboy
to-read-the-articles excuse and say I'd been visiting the Lingerie Museum inside.

The stars on the sidewalk in front of the entrance— Jack Palance and Fleetwood Mac—were echoed in the star-studded motif of the gray carpet inside the store. The walls were purple, the clientele mostly adult, although two women were pushing strollers, and a pregnant customer had a young child in tow.

To be honest, I was disappointed. I'd expected “outrageous,” but aside from a display case offering specialty items (Body Icing, Whipped Body Cream, a Honeymoon Kit, Edible Panties, Passion Powder) and a rack of costume lingerie (French maid, Cleopatra, a nurse, a sailor), most of the merchandise—nighties, teddies, and other items that echoed the theme “Less is more”—didn't look all that different from what you'd see on a Hollywood celebrity at the MTV Awards, or at Victoria's Secret, whose latest Christmas catalog offered panties with holiday jingles. Gives a new meaning to “naughty and nice.”

The sales staff, all women, were dressed in black. I looked around but didn't see anyone I thought was Trina. When I asked for her, a licorice-thin, willowy six-foot-tall brunette who introduced herself as Jonnie pointed to a woman several feet away holding up a rhinestone-studded bra for a male customer's approval.

I wouldn't have recognized Randy's kid sister. According to Porter, she was seven years younger than Randy, which made her twenty-three, but she looked older. Makeup had added the years and a measure of sophistication, and she'd exchanged her brown ponytail for a strawberry blond shag that overpowered her thin face. Fitted black slacks and a long-sleeved black Lycra scoop-neck top showed off a flat tummy and generous curves and an inch of what I supposed was a black lace Frederick's of Hollywood bra.

“She's going to be a while,” Jonnie said. “I can help you, if you like.”

“That's okay. I'll wait.”

Glancing in Trina's direction every twenty seconds or so, I flipped through racks and was checking out the French maid costume when my cell phone rang. It was Zack.

“How about grabbing lunch?” he said. “I'm working on the expense report for the board and my eyes are glazing.”

“It's two-thirty. Kind of late for that,” I told him, though my stomach said otherwise. Since leaving Gloria Lamont, I'd been snacking on Hershey's Kisses and I craved something substantial.

“A cup of coffee, then. Water. Anything.” He lowered his voice. “I miss you.”

Even over the phone, he made me all tingly. “I miss you, too. But I'm kind of tied up right now.”

“Literally or figuratively? With any other woman, I wouldn't ask.”

“Ha, ha.”

“So where are you? Looking at carpet samples? I could join you.”

“Frederick's of Hollywood.”

“Maybe not.” Zack laughed. “Frederick's, huh? Somehow I pictured you in Christian Dior or Vera Wang.”

“They have some nice things here. And costumes.” I described a few. “Maybe I should get one for the shul's Purim party.”

“You'd definitely make a statement. So what
are
you doing there?”

I hesitated, then told him. “And before you say anything, I'm not getting my hopes up that the sister will have any answers for me.”

“You already have, or you wouldn't be there.”

“Don't be so damn smart.” I fingered a black teddy. “As long as I'm here, I may try on a few things, get something special for our honeymoon. Shmuley Boteach would approve.” The author of
Kosher Sex.

“That's because he doesn't have a report to finish. If it's full of mistakes, I'll blame you.
How
many days till the wedding?”

“Fifteen.” I pictured him at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened, top button undone, black suede yarmulke off center the way it always is.

“Too long,” he said.

“
Way
too long. Any preferences?”

“Anything with you in it.”

I hung up the phone, smiling. Trina was still with her customer. I strolled to the back of the store and stopped in front of a large glass display case that featured celebrity lingerie. A pink, fur-trimmed sheer nightie from an Austin Powers movie. A purple nightgown from Naomi Judd. The green boxer shorts Tom Hanks wore in
Forrest
Gump.
I still think
Shawshank
should have won.

To the right of the display case was a short flight of gray-and-white marble stairs that led to the museum. Here the items were more sedate: Frederick's of Hollywood catalogs dating back decades. The bra worn by Tony Curtis in
Some Like It Hot.
Judy Garland's nightgown from
Presenting Lily Mars.
Greta Garbo's black slip from
Camille.

I was examining a black bustier with strategically placed gold tassels when Trina appeared at my side. Five-inch stiletto black heels made her a touch taller than me.

“That's the second bustier Madonna donated,” she told me. “The first one was purple, from her
Who's That
Girl?
tour. It was stolen during the Rodney King riots.”

Up close I could see freckles peeking through her pancake foundation. “Really?”

“Frederick's had to donate ten thousand dollars to Madonna's charity, the one that gives poor women free mammograms. My favorites are the crinoline from
Seven
Brides for Seven Brothers
and Ava Gardner's slip from
Showboat.
That's my e-mail screen name. Ava Gardner.” She smiled. “I'm Trina. Jonnie said you were asking for me?”

Her blues eyes were measuring my chest, and I found myself standing straighter and squaring my shoulders. “Molly Blume. I'm—”

“Thirty-six C, right?”

“B.” They always flatter you.

“We have an Extreme Cleavage bra that's real popular. We also have a vinyl bustier that's really cool. Well, not
cool,
'cause it's vinyl.” She giggled. “Married or single?”

“I'm getting married in two weeks,” I said, not sure why I volunteered the information.

“Wow! Then we have to get you something special.” Her smile erased a few years and revealed almost straight teeth. “I know just the thing.”

I would have preferred talking here, in private, but Trina's heels were already clacking on the marble. I followed her downstairs to a lingerie rack at the front of the store.

“How about a bridal teddy with a matching veil?” she suggested. “Or a maribou-trimmed baby doll? That comes with a veil, too, and matching slippers.”

“I don't think that's me.”

She flipped through the rack. “I know you'll like this.” She pulled out a black corset with burnt black velvet detail. “Sexy, but elegant. Am I right?”

It wasn't bad. “Trina—”

“Come on,” she coaxed, draping the corset against her body, then thrusting it at me. “Try it on, just for fun.”

I took the corset. “Actually, I'm not here to shop. I'm a reporter.” With my free hand I found a card in my purse and handed it to her.

She tucked it into the waistband of her slacks without glancing at it. “You're doing a piece on the museum?” The enthusiasm had left her voice, and her eyes were scanning the room for the next customer.

“I'm here about your brother.”

She stiffened and took a step back. “I don't want to talk about my brother.” Her hand went to the long silver chain that circled her neck.

“I know how painful this must be for you, Trina.” I cringed at the platitude but didn't know what else to say.

She glowered at me. “Did you ever lose a brother?” She kept her voice low but the words were an assault.

Several people, including Jonnie, turned to look at us.

“No.” Thank God.

“Well, then, you don't know anything!” She narrowed her eyes, which were bright with tears, and regarded me with suspicion and unease. “How did you find me, anyway?”

“Mrs. Lamont, the building manager. Is there somewhere we could talk for a few minutes?”

She dropped the chain. “The police told you Randy killed some woman years ago and you want to write about it, huh? I should've figured that out.” Contempt had aborted the tears.

“I'd like to hear more about your brother before I write anything. I
do
have questions about what happened. About his girlfriend, for one thing. Doreen.”

“Isn't it enough that he's dead? Can't you leave us
alone
?”

I felt sorry for her, but pity wasn't about to stop me. Oh, no. “If Randy didn't kill that woman, don't you want to find that out? Don't you want to clear his name?”

“Like you care about my brother! He's just a story to you.”

It wasn't quite the truth, but it was close enough. My cheeks burned. I
didn't
care about Creeley. For all I knew he
had
killed Aggie. And Porter was right. I was desperate for absolution, hungry for details and determined to get them even if it meant manipulating this woman's grief.

Jonnie had approached. “Everything okay here?” she asked with false cheer that sounded desperate.

“We don't seem to have what this customer is looking for,” Trina said, her tone as sharp as the
V
of the toes of her shoes.

“Maybe I can help,” Jonnie offered.

“Actually, I've decided to take this.” I held up the corset.

Jonnie smiled. Crisis averted. Trina threw me a suit-yourself shrug and walked off. Ten minutes later I was standing under the famous pink awning with my purchases—the corset and a white lace-and-pearl-beaded teddy that I'd spotted on the way to the register. I headed toward Cherokee and had crossed Hollywood when I heard someone calling my name. I turned and waited for Trina to catch up.

“You didn't have to buy the corset,” she said.

She hadn't put on a jacket, but she didn't seem to notice the cold that was nipping at my cheeks. Her face was flushed, and she was breathless—from exertion or urgency, I couldn't tell.

“I wasted your time and upset you,” I told her. “I'm sorry on both counts.”

“Well, you should be.” She pushed a thick strand of blond hair behind an ear decorated with multiple studs. “You can return it. We don't work on commission.”

“I really like it. It
is
sexy and elegant. I bought a teddy, too.” I smiled, but Trina was all seriousness.

“You mentioned Doreen. Did you talk to her?”

“No. That's one of the things I want to talk to you about. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

She glanced behind her. “I have to get back to work.”

“How about after work? Five-thirty? Six?”

Trina ran her chain across her lip. I sensed that she wanted to say yes, that she hadn't run after me to talk about corsets.

“Did you mean what you said, that you wanted to help prove Randy didn't kill that woman six years ago?”

“I want to find out the truth,” I said, though Trina's truth and mine might not end up being the same. “The woman who was killed—”

A truck backfired. I was startled, but Trina jumped at the loud noise and jerked her head around. When she turned back, the color had drained from her face, making the rose blusher look like clown's paint.

Her hand went to the chain around her neck. “I have to go.”

“Trina—”

“I don't want to talk about Randy, okay?” she said with some of her earlier belligerence. “I just didn't want you to be stuck with something you don't want.”

I barely heard her. I had sucked in my breath and was staring at the locket Trina had pulled out, a locket with an image of Rachel's Tomb.

“That's an unusual locket.” Buses were belching fumes, cars were honking. My words were pounding in my ears.

“Randy gave it to me. It's supposed to be good luck.”

“Is there a red thread inside?”

Trina's eyes widened with surprise, which quickly changed to alarm. “Yeah. Why?” The
why
was defensive.

“A friend of mine has a locket just like yours, with the red thread.”

“Randy didn't steal it, if that's what you're getting at.” She glared at me and clamped her hand around the locket before dropping it out of view.

“I'm not saying that at all. I'd really like to talk, Trina. You have my card. Please call me.”

“Don't hold your breath. Well, you might have to, if you want to get into that corset.”

She gave a nervous little laugh and practically ran down the block on those killer heels. I watched her for a few seconds before climbing back up the hill to my car. Bird droppings had decorated my windshield and someone had left a series of red-lipstick kisses on the driver's window and side-view mirror.