Killer Chameleon (20 page)

Turning to leave, I was halted when I heard the door open.

“Come to pay your respects?” a voice boomed. “Don't go. Clar, more company!”

I swiveled around to meet the welcoming smile of a ginger-haired man wearing the collar of the clergy and facial features that marked him as a blood relative of the twins. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks like paint spatters, and a slight gap between his two front teeth gave him a boyish look, despite the fact that he had to be at least middle-aged or beyond.

Clarissa ducked under the arm holding the door open, her frazzled expression dissolving when she saw me. “Ms. Warren! Leigh! How nice of you! Please, come in and meet everyone.”

I don't know if the reverend picked up on it but I distinctly caught the desperation in Clarissa's “please.”

“I can only stay a minute,” I lied, feeling no guilt at all once I was inside. If the house had had rafters, there'd have been people hanging from them. The place was jammed, all ages, all sizes, all colors, all identifiable as from either Tina's side of the family or Clarissa's. The reverend, it turned out, was her brother. Considering the occasion for their coming together, they were a darned cheerful bunch. And after all the introductions, the only name I could remember and match to a face was the reverend, whose name, oddly enough, was Lee.

Clarissa hustled me into the kitchen where several preschoolers sat around the table mangling peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a couple of grandmotherly types watching and wiping mouths and hands. The latter glanced up long enough to smile and say, “Pleased to meet you,” before returning to their charges.

“Coffee?” Clarissa opened an overhead cabinet, one eye on the gathering behind her. “Please,” she said softly, as she reached for a cup. “Get me out of here.”

I managed to swallow my surprise. “Are you sure?”

“If you don't, I'm gonna kill somebody,” she whispered. “Or myself. Please!”

“You've got it.” I had no idea what I'd do with her, but I recognized a plea to escape when I heard it. “I came to take you to the station house so you can sign your statement,” I said, loudly enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear. “Did you forget?”

Her eyes rounded comically. “My goodness, I certainly did. Give me a minute and I'll get my coat.”

It took us a good fifteen minutes more to get out of there, during which Clarissa was called upon to swear that there was no reason for anyone else to come with us and that it made more sense for me to take her, since as a former member of the force, I knew the ins and outs of what would be required of her.

Once in the Corvette, all restraints were off. Clarissa broke down, blubbering into a lace-edged handkerchief. I got us away from there before someone might look out and see her, drove to the end of the block, and pulled over. I dug a pack of Kleenex from my purse. There was no way that dainty hanky would be enough for the job.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, sniffling and wiping some minutes later, “and so grateful, Ms. Warren.”

“If you don't start calling me Leigh, I'm gonna make a U-turn and take you right back home.”

She shot a teary smile at me. “Leigh. Don't misunderstand. They're my family and I love them, but not en masse, unless it's a reunion. It's all that cheerfulness. We truly believe that death is simply a transition from one stage of life to another and that even though Claudia's left this plane, she's still around, watching over me. So there's no reason for a lot of gloom and doom. But I'll miss her, dammit, and I can't pretend I won't.”

“I'm sure they don't expect you to. They're probably all putting on brave faces, thinking they're helping you.”

“I know.” She demolished another tissue and squared her shoulders. “You can take me back if you want to. I didn't mean to interfere with your day.”

Dumping her would definitely simplify matters, but I couldn't do it. She looked so brave in her bright red coat and dangling onyx earrings.

“Tell you what. How about hanging out with me for a while? I'm still trying to track down the woman who”—I took a breath, trying to compose a tactful way of referring to the witch who might have been responsible for her twin's death—“who's been masquerading as me.” I went on to describe the Bridal Bower farce.

“Oh, Leigh.” Clarissa placed a consoling hand on my shoulder. “I'm so sorry. What an awful person this woman must be. And how awful for you. Your wedding dress, of all things.”

It occurred to me that as hard as I'd tried to avoid it, I'd have to give in and let the aunts in the Shores make my outfit. The problem would be convincing them to keep it simple. And considering how little time there was between now and the day after Christmas, I'd better get it over with and tell them.

“Is there anywhere you need to go?” I asked Cla-rissa. “Have you contacted a mortuary?”

“No need to. One of the cousins back there runs a funeral home. He'll handle everything, memorial service and arranging to take Sister back home, and Tina's taking me shopping this evening.” For a moment I thought she might break down again, but she hoisted her chin and sighed. “That's part of the problem. I don't have anything to do to distract me and keep me from thinking about poor Sister and how afraid she must have been closed up in all that darkness.”

It was my turn for the consoling pat on the arm. Lord knows I couldn't think of anything of comfort to say. We still didn't know whether Claudia had been alive or dead before winding up in the trunk. Either way, she hadn't climbed in of her own free will. Heat simmered between my eyes. The urge to kill was taking on a whole new meaning.

“So where are we going?” Clarissa asked. I had the distinct impression she'd known what I was thinking.

“My old apartment building. There are a couple of people I need to see.”

“Shall I wait in the car?”

“It's too cold for that, and I can't guarantee how long I'll be. Besides, I think you'd enjoy meeting Gracie Poole.”

I'd said it as a means of assuring Clarissa that I had no qualms about taking her along. As things worked out, I'd been right on target. The two hit it off immediately, thanks to Gracie's decor.

“My Lord, it's enough to make a body swoon,” Clarissa declared, hands clasped as in prayer. “All these lovely prints and things. Is it all right if I just look around while you two talk?”

Gracie, flamboyant in a flowing caftan, flushed with pleasure. “Help yourself. I'm so pleased you like them. Let's adjourn to the kitchen, Leigh. We can chat while I make tea for us all. You will take tea, Clarissa?”

“What?” Seemingly mesmerized by a copy of Gainsborough's Blue Boy, she tossed over her shoulder. “Oh, yes, I'd be delighted.”

Gracie's kitchen, the same layout as mine, was another gallery in miniature. Small, framed prints of Picasso, Matisse, Klee, Pollock filled every square foot of available wall space. I found the effect claustrophobic, but reminded myself it wasn't my kitchen.

She put the kettle on and set out cups and saucers. “Willa called to tell me she'd talked to you this morning. Was she of any help?”

“I got more detailed descriptions of Georgia and your Ms. Gwynn.” I related the puzzle about the latter's use of a bathroom.

“Not mine,” Gracie said, shaking her head firmly and dislodging a long white tendril in the process, “although she could have if she had asked. Oh, dear, I just remembered I'm all out of English Breakfast.”

I assured her that Clarissa would enjoy whatever was available. “Do you mind if I pass on the tea and leave her with you while I go up and talk to Neva? Oh, and would you take a look at these?” I placed the photos on the table. I doubted that Gracie had seen my nemesis, but it couldn't hurt to check.

She abandoned the tea service and sat down, digging a pair of spectacles from the pocket of the caftan. “Who is this, now?”

“The woman who's been causing me so much trouble. Perhaps she has some connection to your Georgia Keith and Nell Gwynn.”

Gracie peered at the pictures, grabbed a napkin, polished her glasses, then examined the photos again. She frowned.

“She definitely wasn't one of the ones helping with the tree,” she said. “But I could swear I've seen her before, Leigh. Perhaps at the Seniors' Center. I'll have to think about it.”

I ground my teeth in frustration. Everyone seemed to be of the opinion they'd seen this woman before. Why the hell couldn't they remember where?

I took my leave as soon as I could, secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't be missed. Once Gracie discovered that Clarissa had actually met Picasso, I knew it wouldn't matter how long I'd be gone.

Upstairs Neva's snarl when she jerked open the door metamorphosed into a smile of pure relief. “Sorry. I thought you were Mr. Hopkins. He's been down here twice today, griping about his thermostat. He's the one who broke the damned thing. Come on in.”

It was even more disorienting being in my old unit than it had been in Gracie's. It was the first time I'd crossed the threshold since moving out, and it looked and felt completely different than it had during the years I'd occupied it. Neva and Cholly were into kitsch in a big way, Neva's arts and crafts a major element of the decor.

She hauled me into the den, now a nursery, to show me the cradle she'd cleaned and painted, and the assortment of baby paraphernalia she'd acquired. Mobiles dangled from the ceiling, making me dizzy. Otherwise, the effect was charming, with teddy bears and rainbows decorating the walls.

“It's lovely,” I said, realizing she was waiting for my reaction. “This is gonna be one happy baby.”

She turned in a circle, her expression wistful. “I sure hope so. It's likely to be the only one we'll ever have. I'm no spring chicken, you know?”

I wasn't certain how I should respond to that so I guided her gently toward the purpose of my visit.

“The bitch stole your wedding dress?” Neva's righteous indignation was fulfilling. It made me feel infinitely better that someone else, especially a female, understood what I felt.

“I'd kill her, that's what I'd do,” Neva said. “Kick her ass good and proper, bloody her up some, and then, whack! Let her have it.”

“A tempting thought, but I have to catch her first. I want to ask a favor. The lady with the Jamaican accent I've been trying to find, it turns out her name is Nell Gwynn and she had to use the bathroom while she was here helping with the decorations. I figure she wouldn't knock on a stranger's door and ask if she could use the john. So if I can find out who let her use theirs, I'll be able to track her down. I don't have time to canvass everyone in this building, so—”

“Want me to do it? Be glad to. I'll start right after dinner. Practically everybody will be home by then. And I'll call you at Mr. Duck's and let you know what I've found out.”

“You're a good friend, Neva,” I said, marveling that I could say this without reservation, considering all the years I considered her a pain in the butt. “Oh, and take a look at these. This is Madam X.” Once again, I removed the photos from my pocket and passed them over.

Neva held them up, her eyes widening as if it helped her to see more clearly. “Wait a minute.” She stomped into the kitchen and returned with a monster magnifying glass, using it to get a closer look. “Well, shit, I've seen her, even talked to her.”

I couldn't believe it. “You have? Where?”

“Across the street on the corner. She's been there for I don't know how long, several weeks, anyway.”

“You mean, she's homeless?” That made no sense.

“No. Working, for the city, she said. I asked her. I mean, she'd been standing over there with a clipboard all hours of the day and I couldn't stand it no longer. So the next time I had to go over to the cleaners, I asked her what she was doing. She said something about a traffic survey, counting the number of cars turning left from the side street onto Georgia. I figured maybe they were finally gonna break down and put some left-turn signals up. Only thing is, she was doing a piss-poor job. I never saw her paying one bit of attention to no cars nowhere and there wasn't nothing on that piece of paper on her clipboard but doodles.” She looked down at me from her lofty six feet. “So that means . . .”

“That the woman has been watching me, stalking me for God knows how long!”

14

I BOLTED OUT OF NEVA'S APARTMENT, IGNORED
the elevator for the stairs, and was peering out of the lobby door not sixty seconds later. The building is U-shaped, the entrance to it recessed and too far back to see the corner. Which I knew, of course, but had reacted first, thought second.

Back up to the fifth floor again, to Janeece's, this time. Thank God she'd insisted I keep a key. I knocked, then went in and hurried to her bedroom windows, almost launching myself straight through them, since evidently Janeece had gone through an eeny-meeny-miney-mo this morning, trying to decide which shoes to wear to work. She'd left them out and I tripped over several. I nudged them aside and plastered my nose against the pane, the corner in plain view. She wasn't there.

I swore, rearranged the shoes, and left the apartment, fuming at the thought of that woman watching me come and go. And she had to have been in the lobby at some point on Monday night during the decorating. How else would she have known that I was on my way to the basement, specifically to the storage units?

Someone had to have seen her. But I wasn't sure there was any urgency to confirm that now. She'd obviously followed someone in. Any resident entering the building would assume she was one of the decorating crowd, or perhaps she had said as much. And she could have stepped outside to use a cell phone and call the police, then simply walk away—or more likely stand on the corner and watch the excitement. It made sense. I could tell Neva not to bother trying to find out whose bathroom Nell Gwynn had used.

She was waiting for me, snatching her door open before I'd barely finished the first knock. “Was she there? Did you catch the bitch?” Good old Neva, harboring no compunction about labeling the woman precisely what I longed to.

“No such luck. But it explains a few things.” I laid out my thinking about the prank call to the police. “The only snag is the timing of the earlier incident, the call about Duck's bogus accident. Why do it if she knew I wasn't here to answer the phone?”

“Maybe she didn't. She might have gotten out there after you'd left.”

“She'd have seen that my car was gone,” I argued. “And that paint job proves she knows it when she sees it.”

“So what?” Neva lowered herself onto her sofa. “How often do you manage to find a parking space out front? Your car could be anywhere, around the corner on one of the side streets. And don't forget, Mr. Jolly and Libby Winston have cars just like yours. If she saw one of them, she mighta thought it was yours and you were home.”

I suspected that Ms. X probably had my tag numbers tattooed on her butt and could pick out my car in a lot of a hundred, but didn't bother to say so. I had to confirm my initial suspicions about something first.

There are definite advantages to having worked for the city. I knew where to call. After several minutes on hold, and one surly “Why do you want to know?” I had the proof I needed.

“Whoever the hell she is,” I informed Neva, “she's not doing a traffic survey, so don't hold your breath waiting for any new left-turn signals.”

“Shit.” Her lips pursed in a pout. Then she sat up. “Hey, what do I care? We don't have a car. So now what?”

I let the question simmer for a while before answering. “If she's been out on that corner for any length of time, it's a cinch she talked to other people. As much fuss as Roland makes about the homeless loitering in front of his dry cleaners, I bet he went out to ask her what she was doing. If she was smart, and, as much as I hate to admit it, she is, she might even have gotten friendly with him and his help so she could step out of the wind occasionally.”

“Or use the john.”

“Good point,” I said, making for the door. “Only one way to find out.”

Roland Roundtree had new teeth and flashed them at me as I approached the counter. “Ms. Warren! Haven't seen you in a while.” He frowned. “We don't have anything of yours, do we? You picked up your trench coat. I remember distinctly.”

“No, thanks to you, all my winter clothes are clean as a whistle. I came in to say good-bye. I've moved in with my fiancé. He lives in Southwest.”

“Aww, we'll miss you.” He seemed genuinely aggrieved. “You've been a good customer. I really appreciate your business all these years.”

“You earned it. While I'm here,” I said, hoping I sounded a lot more casual than I felt, “I wanted to ask you about the woman who's been doing the traffic survey.”

“Miss Bernard? What about her?” He stopped, his mouth dropping open. “I'll be jiggered! That's who she reminded me of. You! Are y'all related?”

“Could be,” I fibbed. “I just recently discovered a whole wing of my family in the area. Neva mentioned she resembled me, so I'm hoping to track her down and find out if she's one of the cousins I haven't met yet. Did she give you a first name?”

“She probably did,” he said, “but I don't remember it. A cousin. Isn't that something? She was nice as she could be, even ran over to Fred's a couple of times to get coffee for me and Geneva. We even let her use our . . . uh, facility once, if you know what I mean.”

Neva would be pleased to hear she'd been right on target.

“Can you think of anything else about her that might be helpful? Did she sound local or from somewhere else? Did you ever see her car?”

“No, sorry. Never saw a car, and she talked like everybody else hereabouts. Wish I could help.”

“You have. You gave me her name, which is more than I had when I came in.”

“I'd ask Geneva about her first name, but she just left for the other store. Hey, maybe the lady preacher can help you. Not that I saw them talking or anything. This corner was Miss Bernard's and the preacher staked her claim on the other three but maybe they came to some sort of agreement, know what I'm saying?”

A customer came in loaded down with a pair of comforters, so I took advantage of it, said good-bye, and left to check with the folks in Fred's Grill and the liquor store. They'd served her coffee but nothing else, and she had never introduced herself, as far as they remembered.

“Maybe she's a vegetarian,” Fred's sister said, and shook her head at the thought.

Yeah, and a teetotaler, I thought grumpily. I scanned the block as I left but saw no sign of the Reverend Hansberry. Perhaps she'd moved on to a neighborhood with more generous residents.

I was waiting to cross at the light when a young woman rounded the corner opposite me and my brain yelled, “Hello!”

She wore a black ankle-length coat with a hood and bright red boots with platform heels. What captured my attention, however, was her hair, a long, straight ponytail anchored atop her head and cascading in a dark fall damned near to her waist. Remembering the description Mrs. Williams had given me of the teenager, I took off running, to hell with the light.

She was nearing the walkway of my building when I reached her. Coming up behind her, I tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me, is your name Georgia Keith?”

Startled, she turned quickly and stared at me. Her eyes, intensely black and almond shaped, suggested a touch of Asia or perhaps Polynesia. “Uh, yes, ma'am. I'm Georgia. Do I know you?” She had a little-girl voice, soft, filled with shyness and southern fried chicken.

“No, we haven't met. I'm Leigh Warren. Do you mind if I ask if you were in that building Monday, helping to decorate the Christmas tree?”

She flinched. “Oh, Lord. Yes, ma'am, and I'm sorry, I really am. I know the sign on the door says ‘No Soliciting' but this lady was goin' in and had her arms full and didn't realize that some of her Christmas stuff was about to spill out of one of her shopping bags. I asked if I couldn't help her carry something and I did and when another lady in the lobby came and opened the door for her, I went in with her. Then when I saw the tree and everybody having fun and all, I, like, decided the magazines I was selling could wait and I sorta joined in. I never asked anyone if they wanted a subscription, honest. So I wasn't really soliciting.”

I could swear she hadn't taken a breath once, it came at me so fast. She watched me, a plea written across her face. Obviously she'd caught hell from building managers before.

“Don't worry, I have no interest in lodging a complaint or anything. How long were you in there?”

Her shoulders hunched. “A couple of hours, maybe. Why?”

“Were you there when the police arrived?”

Her mouth and eyes went round with panic. “Somebody called the police on me?”

“No, Georgia. It was about something else. So you weren't there?”

“No, ma'am. Lord, if I had been, I'd have wet my pants.”

I had to smile, since I'd been in danger of doing the same thing back there for a moment or two.

“Okay, one last thing and I'll let you go. Do you remember seeing this woman while you were there?” I held up the photos.

She leaned forward, frowning as she looked from one to the other. “No, ma'am. Of course, there was a lot of comin' and goin' but I don't remember her.”

Shit. “Well, thanks,” I said, sliding them back into my pocket. “Sorry. I didn't mean to hold you up.”

“Oh, I don't mind. To tell the truth,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning down, “I
hate
this job. Come Christmas, these people can take it and shove it. In fact, I've had enough doors slammed in my face today. I'm going home. It was nice meeting you.”

“Same here. Be careful.”

“Yes, ma'am, I sure will.” She smiled, turned, and wobbled back the way she'd come, none too steady on those ridiculous heels.

Well, scratch Georgia Keith. I'd always considered her a loose end to begin with, so it was a relief to be able to weave her into the fabric of that awful day.

It was time to round up Clarissa, which turned out to be quite a chore. In my absence, she and Gracie had become bosom buddies, and I could swear I detected a hint of Jim Beam on her breath. I had to promise to bring her again before Gracie would let either of us leave.

“I can't thank you enough for introducing us,” Clarissa bubbled, once we were back in the Corvette. “You can take me home now. Gracie was like a dose of tonic, she cheered me up so. All that lovely artwork. She's invited me to join her still-life class.”

“Good idea,” I managed to squeeze in.

“I used to paint when I was younger. I wasn't very good but I was painting to feed my soul, not my wallet—which is just as well or I'd have starved to death long since. I'm going to enroll in her class, did I tell you?”

Yes, definitely Jim Beam. I let her chatter on. There was no reason to stop her, even though I had more than enough to think about and could have used the silence.

I dropped her at her house, allowing her to talk me out of parking and walking her to her door, since she seemed steady enough on her feet.

“I'm fine, now, honestly, dear. I can face that mob, out-smile every one of them and almost mean it. You will keep in touch, won't you, Leigh?”

“You can count on it. And not just because of the unfinished business with your sister. You'll let me know about the memorial service?”

Her glowing face dimmed, but just for a second. “Of course. Drive carefully, now.” She waggled her fingers in farewell, then marched up the steps from the sidewalk to her yard. She waggled again from there, mounted her front steps, and disappeared inside.

I did a repeat of the maneuver I'd used while she'd gotten the tears out of her system, driving to the end of the block and pulling over. I had to take stock, check my list, decide what to do next.

Bernard. The name didn't ring any bells. My initial excitement faded. She had probably lied about it, given Roland her dog's name, or something. Back to the list. Post office, Plato's, the Ourland police station. The last would have to wait until tomorrow. I could see the aunts about the wedding dress and kill two birds with one stone. Bile surged for a moment. I had done a good job of talking myself into liking that Bridal Bower suit. I wanted my damned suit!

You're old enough not to let your wants hurt you,
Nunna's voice whispered in my ear.
Take care of the things you can do something about, and forget the rest.

Well, hell, I mused. That was the problem. At this point, there wasn't much I could do about anything. Except see Plato dePriest, my hacker genius, a consultant now to unnamed government agencies, charged with trying to break into as many of their shielded Web sites and databases as he could. They'd used good sense, for once, opting to put him on the payroll for doing what he'd been doing just for fun—invading their files and leaving his e-mail address, in case they had any questions about how he'd done it. Suffice it to say, Plato is not your garden-variety hacker.

I crawled my way toward Georgetown, cussing traffic, roadwork, and a fender bender or two, all for nothing. I practically bloodied my knuckles knocking on his door. No answer. That was worrisome. Plato considered me one of the few friends he had and had never turned me away before.