Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (130 page)

Moon’s Anne Lisbeth will not live this long.

She will wear her dress today.

49

There were about one hundred secondhand clothing and thrift-type stores in Philadelphia, Montgomery, Bucks, and Chester Counties, including those small boutiques that had sections devoted to consignment clothing.

Before she could plot her itinerary, Jessica got a call from Byrne. He had struck out on a search warrant for David Hornstrom. Plus, there was no manpower available to put a tail on the man. For the time being, the DA’s office had decided not to move forward with a charge of obstruction. Byrne would keep the pressure on.

JESSICA BEGAN HER
canvass on Market Street. The shops closest to Center City tended to be more expensive, specializing in consignment of designer clothes, or offering versions of whatever vintage style was popular du jour. Somehow, by the time Jessica reached the third store, she had picked up an adorable Pringle cardigan. She hadn’t meant to. It had just happened.

She left her credit card and cash locked in her car after that. She was supposed to be conducting a homicide investigation, not building a wardrobe. She had with her photographs of both the dresses that had been found on the victims. So far, no one had recognized them.

The fifth store she visited was on South Street, tucked between a used record shop and a hoagie shack.

It was called TrueSew.

THE GIRL BEHIND
the counter was about nineteen, blond and delicately pretty, fragile. The music was some kind of Euro trance, volume low. Jessica showed the girl her ID.

“What’s your name?” Jessica asked.

“Sa’mantha,” the girl said. “With an apostrophe.”

“And where would I put that apostrophe?”

“After the first
a
.”

Jessica wrote
Samantha
. “Got it. How long have you worked here?”

“About two months. Almost three.”

“Good job?”

Sa’mantha shrugged. “It’s okay. Except for when we have to go through the stuff that people bring in.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some of it can be pretty skanky, right?”

“Skanky how?”

“Well, one time I actually found a moldy salami sandwich in the back pocket of a pair of overalls. I mean, okay,
one,
who puts a frickin’ sandwich in their pocket? No baggie, just the sandwich. And a
salami
sandwich at that.”

“Yuck.”

“Yuck squared. And, like,
two,
who doesn’t even bother to
look
in the pockets of something before they sell it or donate it? Who would do that? Makes you wonder what else this guy donated, if you know what I mean. Can you imagine?”

Jessica could. She had seen her share.

“And another time we found like a dozen dead mice at the bottom of this big box of clothes. Some of them were baby mice. I
freaked.
I don’t think I slept for a week.” Sa’mantha shuddered. “I may not sleep tonight.
So
glad I remembered that.”

Jessica looked around the store. It looked totally disorganized. Clothes were piled on top of the circular racks. Some of the smaller items—shoes, hats, gloves, scarves—were still in cardboard boxes, scattered around the floor, prices written on the sides in black crayon. Jessica imagined that it was all part of a twenty-something Bohemian charm to which she no long subscribed. A pair of men browsed at the rear of the store.

“What sort of things do you sell here?” Jessica asked.

“All sorts,” Sa’mantha said. “Vintage, Goth, jock, military. Some Riley.”

“What’s Riley?”

“Riley is a line. I think they’re out of Hollywood. Or maybe that’s just the buzz. They take vintage and recycled stuff and embellish it. Skirts, jackets, jeans. Not really my scene, but kinda cool. Mostly for women, but I’ve seen some kid’s things.”

“Embellish how?”

“Ruffles, embroidery, things like that. Pretty much one-of-a-kind merch.”

“I’d like to show you some pictures,” Jessica said. “Would that be okay?”

“Sure.”

Jessica opened an envelope, produced photocopies of the dresses found on Kristina Jakos and Tara Grendel, along with a picture of David Hornstrom, the one taken for his Roundhouse visitor ID.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Sa’mantha looked at the photograph. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Sorry.”

Jessica then put the photographs of the dresses on the counter. “Have you sold anything like these to anyone recently?”

Sa’mantha scanned the pictures. She brought them into better light, took her time. “Not that I remember,” she said. “These are pretty sweet dresses, though. Outside of the Riley line, most of the stuff we get in here is pretty basic. Levi’s, Columbia Sportswear, old Nike and Adidas stuff. These dresses look like something out of like
Jane Eyre
or something.”

“Who owns this store?”

“My brother. But he’s not here right now.”

“What’s his name?”

“Danny.”

“Any apostrophes?”

Sa’mantha smiled. “No,” she said. “Just regular old Danny.”

“How long has he owned the place?”

“Maybe two years. But my grandmother owned the place like forever before that. She still does, technically, I think. Loan-wise. She’s the one you want to talk to. In fact, she’ll be here later. She knows everything there is to know about vintage stuff.”

The receipt for getting older,
Jessica thought. She looked on the floor behind the counter, noticed a baby bounce chair. It had a toy bar across the front, one with brightly colored circus animals. Sa’mantha saw her looking at the chair.

“That’s for my little boy,” she said. “He’s asleep in the back office now.”

There was a sudden sadness to Sa’mantha’s voice. It sounded like her situation was a legal thing, not necessarily a matter of the heart. Not Jessica’s business, either.

The phone behind the counter rang. Sa’mantha answered. When she turned her back, Jessica noticed a pair of red and green streaks in her blond hair. Somehow, it suited this young woman. After a few moments Sa’mantha hung up.

“I like your hair,” Jessica said.

“Thanks,” Sa’mantha said. “Kind of my Christmas groove. Probably time to change it.”

Jessica gave Sa’mantha a pair of business cards. “Would you ask your grandmother to call me?”

“Sure,” she said. “She
loves
intrigue.”

“I’ll leave these photographs here, too. If you think of anything else, feel free to get in touch.”

“Okay.”

When Jessica turned to leave, she noticed that the two people who’d been at the back of the store had gone. No one had passed her going to the front door.

“Do you have a back door here?” Jessica asked.

“Yeah,” Sa’mantha said.

“You don’t have a problem with shoplifting?”

Sa’mantha pointed to a small video monitor and VCR under the counter. Jessica hadn’t noticed them before. It showed an angle on the hallway leading to the rear entrance. “This used to be a jewelry store, believe it or not,” Sa’mantha said. “They left the cameras and everything. I’ve been watching those guys the whole time we were talking. Not to worry.”

Jessica had to smile. Outflanked by a nineteen-year-old. You never knew about people.

BY EARLY AFTERNOON
Jessica had seen her share of Goth kids, grunge kids, hip-hop kids, rock and rollers, and homeless people, along with a contingent of Center City secretaries and receptionists looking for that Versace pearl in the oyster. She stopped at a small restaurant on Third, grabbed a quick sandwich, called in. Among the messages she had received was one from a thrift store on Second Street. Somehow the information that the second victim had been dressed in a vintage outfit had leaked to the press and it seemed that everyone who had ever even seen a thrift store was coming out of the woodwork.

The unfortunate possibility existed that their killer had purchased these items online, or had picked them up in a thrift store in Chicago, or Denver, or San Diego. Or maybe he’d simply had them in a steamer trunk for the past forty or fifty years.

She entered the tenth thrift store on her list, the Second Street location from which someone had called and left her a message. Jessica badged the young man at the register—a particularly alert looking kid in his early twenties. He had about him the wide-eyed, buzzy look of one two many Von Dutch energy drinks. Or maybe it was something a little more pharmaceutical. Even his spiky hair looked amped. She asked him if he had called the police, or knew who had. After looking everywhere but into Jessica’s eyes, the young man said he knew nothing about it. Jessica wrote the call off as another crank. The oddball calls were starting to pile up on this case. After the Kristina Jakos story hit the papers and the Internet they had gotten calls from pirates, elves, fairies—even from the ghost of someone who had died at Valley Forge.

Jessica glanced around the long, narrow store. It was a clean, well-lit space. It smelled of a new coat of latex paint. In the front window was a step display of small appliances—toasters, blenders, coffeemakers, space heaters. Along the back wall were board games, vinyl LPs, a few framed art reproductions. To the right was furniture.

Jessica made her way down the aisles to the women’s apparel. There were only five or six racks of clothing, but it all seemed to be clean and in decent shape, certainly organized, especially when compared to the inventory at TrueSew.

When Jessica had attended Temple University, and the ripped designer jeans fad had been in its first blossom, she had frequented the Salvation Army and secondhand stores looking for just the right pair. She had probably tried on hundreds. On a rack in the middle of the store she saw a pair of black Gap jeans for $3.99. The right size, too. She had to stop herself.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Jessica turned to see the man asking the question. It was more than a little odd. He sounded like he worked at Nordstrom or Saks. She was not used to getting waited on in a thrift store.

“My name is Detective Jessica Balzano.” She showed the man her ID.

“Ah, yes.” The man was tall, well groomed, soft-spoken, manicured. He seemed out of place in a secondhand shop. “I am the one who called.” He extended his hand. “Welcome to the New Page Emporium. My name is Roland Hannah.”

50

Byrne interviewed three dancers at Stiletto. As pleasant as the detail was, he had learned nothing, except that exotic dancers can be upward of six feet tall. None of the young ladies remembered anyone paying particular attention to Kristina Jakos.

Byrne decided to take another look at the Shawmont pump house.