Murder for Bid (11 page)

This room was equipped with the usual chair and sink, stack of white towels, a tray of combs and scissors, blow dryers, and curling irons. There was also a small flat panel TV, several fresh floral bouquets, and a table set up with refreshments, which I helped myself to.

I had just start
ed nibbling on my second fruit kabob when the door flew open and a tiny, black robed man scurried into the room. “Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” he said in a slightly overdone French accent. Then he stopped short upon seeing me, “You’re not Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

“No, I’m not,” I replied.

My identity didn’t seem to bother him.

“Your hair,” he said, squinting at my head.

I patted my up-do. “Like it? I did it myself. It took quite a bit of work, but …”

“Ah, yes.” He reached out to touch my hair. I ducked. He said, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It looks like a beehive on fire.” His eyes widened in awe. I could tell he was impressed with my capabilities.

“Well. The color is straight from God, himself. No bottle involved here,” I bragged.

We stood in silence for a second, while he continued to study my tresses and I waited for another compliment. When none came, I decided to get on with business. Besides, who knew how long it would be before the real Mrs. Fitzpatrick showed up? “Let me introduce myself. My name is Patricia Owens, private investigator.” I really needed to brainstorm some new aliases. “I’ve been hired to look into the murder of one of your clients, Amanda Schmidt. Do you have a few minutes to answer a couple of questions?”

“Questions? What type of questions?” he asked, still fingering my hair.

I brushed his hand aside. “I need to know some things about her personal life.”

“I have a strict policy not to discuss my client’s personal matters. You should know that everything that goes into my ears is privileged.” He was still gazing at my hair.

“Yes, I understand exactly what you’re saying. It’s just that, well … Amanda didn’t deserve what happened to her. You did hear how she was killed, didn’t you?” I inched backwards, trying to remain out of his reach.

“Yes, awful,” he answered absently as all his focus was honed in on my beehive.

“It’s such a shame. She was so beautiful.
To think that someone bludgeoned her to death. I hear the crime scene was a mess,” I said abruptly, hoping to bring his attention away from my hair and back to the matter at hand.

Reggie shuddered.
“Poor Amanda!” He began to fiddle with some combs and brushes, avoiding eye contact.

“I can tell that you’re upset, Reginald. Were you close with Amanda?”

“I did her hair for several years. She was a nice woman.”

“I can assure you that whatever you tell me, I’ll keep as quiet as possible. I won’t tell anyone that I got it from you. I just think that the person who did this to her deserves to be punished, don’t you?”

His slim shoulders broadened. “Yes, I do.”

Just then Barbie peeked inside the room.
“Uh, Reggie. There’s
another
Mrs. Fitzpatrick here.” She must have been really nervous about us two Mrs. Fitzpatricks because her mouth was twitching uncontrollably; although, I noticed the rest of her face remained completely unmoved. I suspected that somewhere in the salon, there was a special room full of Botox syringes, and that Barbie spent her lunch-breaks shooting up.

Reggie waved her off. “Give me two minutes and then show her back.”

I took that as a good sign and started in with more questions. “I need to know if Amanda was often upset, or if she ever told you anything special about her marriage.”

“Her marriage?
What do you mean exactly?”

“Was her marriage solid? Was it a good marriage?”

“Well, as far as marriage goes, I guess it was good.”

I remembered that I was talking to a Frenchman. He probably had a whole different set of rules than I did. “Did she ever confide in you anything about her husband?”

“Yes of course, I was her stylist, her confidante.”

I held up my hand, aware of time ticking away. “I understand. Tell me, Reginald, did she mention an affair?”

His eyes sparkled. He bent in closer and lowered his voice. “You won’t tell anyone where you got this?”

“No, of course not.”

“Yes, there was an affair.”

I was about to prod further when his head popped up, a broad smile covering his face as he turned to the opened doorway. “Why, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, you’re here. I’m just finishing with this woman, please take a chair and I’ll be right there.”

He turned to me, “That’s all I’ll tell you. Now you’d better go, before you scare away my clients.”

I shrugged off his last comment, not sure if it was a backhanded comment on my hair, or if he just thought a detective snooping around was bad for business. Not that it mattered; I had gotten what I came for. I practically bounced back to my car. I had uncovered a lead in the case. Reggie had validated all my initial suspicions about Schmidt being a cheater. Now I just needed to find tangible proof of the other woman.

I celebrated my triumph with an extra gooey toasted cheese for dinner and then spent the rest of the evening hunched over my computer. It took a while—creating so many lies was a lot of work—but I finally came up with a plan to get inside Schmidt’s law firm. By midnight, I finally had what could be considered a passable resume. I hung my mom’s suit in the bathroom and ran the shower on high, hoping the steam would ease out some of the wrinkles. I wanted to look fresh for my interview the next day.

Chapter
Seven

I studied my reflection in the steel doors of the elevator as I rode up to the ninth floor of the Clark Building. I had resurrected the Velma wig and paired it with some heavy black framed glasses. Once again, I wore my mom’s suit, but this time I played it down with a plain white button down blouse. I thought I looked smart, sensible, and industrious; three qualities befitting every good paralegal.

I had spent the better part of the morning parked across from Schmidt’s car, waiting for him to leave. I wanted to visit his office, but didn’t want to chance running into him. The last thing I needed was to have another confrontation with Richard Schmidt. Besides, there weren’t enough excuses in the world to explain my current ruse to Sean.

Finally, just before noon, I saw him exit with a group of men.  Making my way into the building, I took the elevator up to the seventh floor, drawing in a deep breath as the doors opened up into the lobby of Schmidt, Parks and Maloney. Squaring my shoulders, I confidently approached the woman behind the reception desk. She shot me a quick smile, before picking up a buzzing phone. Waving a finger, she motioned for me to take a seat. I plopped onto a rather stiff leather loveseat and mentally rehearsed my next few lines while studying the woman behind the desk. Although she was attractive, she didn’t strike me as Schmidt’s type. Then again, all I really knew about Richard Schmidt’s preference for women was that he didn’t care for homeless bag ladies.

I glanced around the very conservatively decorated office. I hadn’t really been in too many attorneys’ offices, but I guessed that this would be the typical look: chocolate brown leather furniture, dark oak side tables littered with magazines such as
Time
,
Fortune,
and
Newsweek,
tasteful artwork, and neutrally painted walls. Breathing in deeply, I could almost smell the aged scotch and Cuban cigars that the partners enjoyed after successful litigations.

“How can I help you?” The receptionist had hung up the phone and was addressing me from behind her desk.

I gathered my bag and approached her with what I hoped was a believable story. “Hello. I’m Paige Osborne. I’m here to submit my resume to personnel. I’d like it to be kept on record for any future openings your firm might have.”

“For what position?” she asked, her eyes surveying my outfit. I noticed that she seemed to approve. I knew I could count on finding something conservative and appropriate in my mother’s closet.

“Paralegal. I’ve just moved to town and am putting my resume in with several firms. I have a lot of experience. I previously worked for Smith and Gallagher in Indianapolis. I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” I said with an air of superiority.

“Yes, of course,” she replied.
Which surprised me since I had completely fabricated the firm’s name. Unless there really was a Smith and Gallagher in Indianapolis, but that would be too weird.

She took my resume and headed for the door-lined hallway. “Just have a seat for a minute. I’ll see if someone in personnel has a few minutes to talk to you,” she said over her shoulder.

Just as I repositioned myself, the elevator door dinged and slid open. Out walked a long-legged brunette in an expensive suit. Trailing behind her was a poorly dressed teen with long stringy hair and a bad case of acne. My antennae popped up as I eyed the brunette. Now
she
would be Schmidt’s type, crimson lipstick and all.

Ms. Long Legs didn’t even glance in my direction as she powered her way through the reception area and entered the second door on the left hand side of the hallway. I took note of the office she entered and turned my attention to the pimply-faced teen who was hanging out in front of the reception desk, shifting nervously from one foot to another.

“Come right this way, Ms. Osborne,” the receptionist was saying. “Mary in personnel has a few minutes to speak to you.”

I followed her down the hall glancing quickly at the name on the outside of Ms. Long Leg’s office. “S. Maloney.”
Maloney as in Schmidt, Parks & Maloney? The woman I had seen didn’t look quite old enough to be a partner, but then again, maybe she was exceptionally talented at litigating or … something.

I was ushered through a large maze of cubicles, each furnished with the requisite white desk, a multi-lined telephone, computer, and monitor. Most were occupied with conservatively dressed employees typing on keyboards, talking on phones, or shuffling through large stacks of papers. The whole scene reminded me of the “pit room” at Global Investments, where every young trader started his career sweating over compiling a clientele portfolio worthy of promotion a
nd a one-way ticket out of the ‘Pit.’ Pit was short for armpit, which is exactly what that room was—hot and stinky. This room was, too.

We finally reached the back wall, which housed a
couple of large offices marked ‘personnel.’ A tidy, middle aged woman greeted me with a firm handshake. “I’m Mary Hatfield. I’ve been reading over your resume, Ms. Osborne, and I must say I’m quite impressed.”

I smiled, hoping I hadn’t overdone my credentials.

“Have a seat and let’s talk a little bit about your qualifications.” Ms. Hatfield perched herself on the other side of a highly polished desk and eyed me approvingly. “So, what brings you here from Indianapolis?” she asked, right off the bat.

“My husband had a job transfer.”

“Oh really, what does he do?” She glanced down at my ring finger which I realized was bare. Oops.

I scrambled for a story. “He’s in the technology industry. His company offered him a promotion here.”  

“Interesting,” she replied. Although I knew it wasn’t. Technology was a good cover. Most people didn’t really know what exactly the technology industry was nor did they care to find out. Had I said doctor, or professor, it would have opened up a whole new line of questioning.

“Do you have children?” she asked in a tone that suggested that children were quite disgusting.

“No,” I replied, with equal disdain.

She leaned back in her chair, tapping her pen and eyeing me. “We actually have a legal assistant position open at this time. I’d like to set up a formal interview for early next week, if that works into your schedule.”

I was taken aback by her eagerness. I really
did
overdo my resume. “Would that position be as an assistant to one of the firm’s partners?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Maloney?” I pried.

“Why, yes. Do you know Ms. Maloney?” she asked.

“Only by reputation,” I said, keeping her guessing. “I hear that she’s one of the best attorneys in town.”

“Yes, she is. Of course, all of our attorneys are excellent,” Ms. Hatfield replied with professional pride.

“That’s why I’m here. I want to work for the best,” I gushed and flashed my best smile. “This must be a very stimulating environment to work in. I bet all the attorneys are close,” I added.

“Close?”

“Well yes. I mean, the partners must have had to work long hours to build such a reputable firm. I’m sure they’re all the best of friends.”

Ms. Hatfield shrugged, “I guess you could say they’re friends.”

I glanced to the side, and then lowered my voice. “I know exactly what you mean, Ms. Hatfield.  I can assure you that I’m always discreet.”