Shear Murder (8 page)

Clasping her hands, Marla leaned forward without voicing her opinion. Why had Jill come to her instead of Arnie? “I thought your cousin Kevin was hunting for a new tenant.”

“He is.” Jill blinked, her lashes heavily darkened. “He sent letters to his company contacts, including banks, since that other fellow had mentioned getting a bank building on the site.”

“You mean the real estate guy who first alerted you?”

“Yep. We could get a decent income by renting to a new tenant, better than the old lease. Whereas if we sell, we'll have to pay commissions and capital gains taxes and attorney fees. There wouldn't be much left to invest, and we'd never generate the same monthly amount.”

“Do both co-owners have to consent in order to sell?”

“Scott says we do.” Jill wrung her hands. “Torrie and I never got around to signing the partnership agreement. This is exactly the reason why I wanted one, so the rules would be clear. I can't deal with Scott, Marla. I can't.”

“He might be reasonable if you pointed out the pros and cons for selling versus renting the property. It's worth the wait to try and find a tenant.”

“Absolutely. The lube center has to give us one year's rent up front as a condition of early termination. That will help us pay our expenses. Kevin isn't charging us a commission, and Eddy's law firm will give us a discount, but it'll still cost us. What did you and Stan do when you both owned your property?”

Marla winced at the mention of her ex-spouse. “We were in agreement on most issues. It sounds as though you know what you want.”

“Maybe so, but I'd be grateful if you could talk to Scott.”

“Me? What for?”

Jill's blue eyes took on an imploring look. “You're good with people. Pay him a condolence call and then steer the conversation to the topic. Tell him the advantages of renting. You're getting good income on your property, aren't you?”

“Well, sure.” That's why she had bought Stan out. “I'll fit it in somehow. I'm booked with hair appointments today. Tonight, I wanted to discuss gifts with Dalton for his ushers. And we still can't agree on a place for the rehearsal dinner.”

“Where have you looked?”

Marla mentioned some local restaurants. “Dalton's mom insists on paying.”

“That's generous of her. You're talking about December. You'd better hurry or nothing will be available.”

“Tell me about it. Dalton doesn't care, and my mother is more concerned with the price tag for the reception.”

“Heck, sugar, sounds like both your mamas are being bullish.”

“It's like a competition between them. We should have gone to Vegas and eloped.”

Jill rose, swinging her ponytail. “No fair. You came to my wedding. I wouldn't miss yours.”

Marla grinned. “You're right.” Standing, she stretched. “At least we've got the basics covered. In the meantime . . . I hate to bring this up, but when is Torrie's funeral?”

“Probably on Friday. The police said they're going to, uh, you know, release her on Wednesday. Scott is still making arrangements. I offered to help, but he likes to do things on his own. He's letting me order food platters for the people afterwards.”

“Is he working this week?” She couldn't imagine he'd go into his shop right after his wife died.

Jill shrugged. “He's been home when I've called.” Her gaze shifted. “Nice paintings. Very colorful.” She pointed to the wall where a couple of framed pictures hung on display.

“I bought them at an art auction on board the
Tropical Sun
during the final blowout sale,” Marla replied with a hint of pride. She'd deserved it, after solving the murder of an artist whose work had been the cause of scandal.

“Those romantic scenes match your furniture.” Jill glanced around with approval. “This looks charming. I hope you'll invite me to the grand opening. I'll bring my friends.”

“Arnie has agreed to cater the event, but I'll have to supply the wine.” Marla bustled to the armoire and grabbed a brochure listing spa services. “Twenty percent off your first facial, massage, or paraffin wax treatment.” She smiled. “Try the foot reflexology. It's relaxing after work.”

“Maybe for you. I sit at a desk all day.” Jill gave a weary sigh, as though her shoulders had taken on a burden of heavy weights. “Thank goodness I took this week off. I couldn't have worked under the circumstances.”

“I'll talk to Scott.” Marla walked her friend to the door. “In the meantime, let me know if you learn anything new.”

Twenty minutes later, while she was lifting a strand of damp hair on her next client, Marla remembered what she'd meant to say to Jill. With so many other things on her mind, she'd forgotten.

“Holy highlights,” she called to Nicole, cutting a customer's hair at the adjacent chair. “I forgot to ask Jill the most important question.”

“What's that?” Nicole flicked a glance her way.

Marla began telling her about recent events but was interrupted by a phone call from her best friend, Tally, and then by Dalton, who discussed the virtues of different door handles for their house. It would have been easier to go with the standard package instead of customizing every accessory. As the cost escalated, so did Marla's sense of regret over their decision. She wondered at Dalton's sudden obsession with toilets and door knobs. Was this his way of escaping wedding anxiety?

“I meant to ask Jill who may have hated her sister enough to stab her,” she told Nicole later, after finishing her story when they both had a few minutes in private. “And where did the napkin go, assuming that's what the killer used to wipe off the knife handle?”

“On another table?”

“I thought of that. Presumably, the detective has spoken to the waiters. There's a door behind the alcove, which means someone could have entered from the corridor behind and shoved Torrie under the table in the reception hall.”

“They could have escaped down that same corridor.” Nicole busied herself stacking foils for her next client. “Was anyone missing from the wedding party earlier, before you discovered the body?”

“I'm not sure. I should talk to the catering staff. It's always best to go firsthand to the source.” Besides, they might provide more information about Falcon Oakwood. Marla remembered Torrie speaking to him earlier that day, and he hadn't appeared pleased by their conversation.

Maybe she could persuade Dalton and Brie to accompany her. They enjoyed walking in parks and identifying the trees. That notion appealed to her a lot more than another trip to a hardware store.

Then again, Philip Canfield, the wedding decorator, had a connection to both Torrie and Oakwood. Would Torrie's husband know anything about the guy?

She sought a way to bring up the subject that evening when she stopped by Scott's house at six-thirty. Schlepping a sack with an aromatic roast chicken in one hand and her handbag in the other, she rapped on his door. She'd had to leave work early in order to beat rush-hour traffic and was glad she'd had the foresight to grab a burger before getting on the turnpike.

Scott greeted her at the door of his ranch-style home in the Kendall area of South Miami. The days were getting shorter and the sun had begun its descent, leaving a chilly breeze in its wake. Marla admired the blue plumbagos and hot pink lantana plants decorating his walkway.

“Nice house,” she commented, her gaze sweeping to the white tile roof, sandpaper exterior, and impact-resistant windows. His gutter had a dent, possibly made by a flying coconut in the last storm. A palm leaned nearby, dead fronds hanging down.

“Thanks.” He ushered her inside. She swore he looked like an older-era movie actor with his goatee and mustache.

Suppressing the urge to blurt her impression, she followed him into a living room furnished with a leather sofa, loveseat, and two armchairs. “Here, I brought you some dinner.” She handed him the bag. He accepted it with a small nod. “I'm so sorry,” she started when he'd returned from the kitchen.

“Thank you for—” He stopped, waiting to let her speak. When she remained silent, he continued, “Thanks for stopping by.” Rubbing his forehead, he scrunched his small, dark brown eyes. “It's been a tough week.”

“Jill said the funeral might be on Friday?”

“Not anymore. There's a delay in releasing her, uh, you know. It'll be on Sunday at eleven o'clock.”

“If you give me directions, I'd like to attend. Jill is a good friend of mine, and I'm sure she'd appreciate the support.”

Scott tugged on his tie, making her wonder if he'd gone to work that day. Why else would he wear a dress shirt and good pants, unless it was to impress visitors like herself?

Remembering that he wasn't Jewish and had different customs, she wanted to ask about a wake but didn't care to sound ignorant.
Jill will tell me,
she decided, avoiding the awkward topic.

“Sorry, please take a seat.” Scott gestured at the furnishings.

As she crossed in front of him, she noted a stain on his shirt. Maybe he wasn't as collected as he tried to appear.

“That's a great photo of you and Torrie.” She pointed to a framed picture on the cocktail table.

“It was taken at a benefit dinner last March.” Dropping into an armchair, he hunched forward. “Torrie attended a lot of social events for her job. Sometimes she would take me along with her.”

Marla sniffed at a hint of tobacco, like from a pipe or cigar. “What kind of work do you do?”

His challenging gaze met hers. “I own a clock repair shop. I know it doesn't sound like much, but I've always had a fascination with time pieces. We fix everything from watches to chime and cuckoo clocks to antique long-case models. Those are especially beautiful in mahogany.”

From the passion lacing his voice, she could tell he truly enjoyed his occupation. “How you do train for that type of job?”

“I studied horology in Pennsylvania.”

“What?”

“Horology. It's the study of time, timekeepers—meaning clocks and watches—and timekeeping. I'm certified as a master clockmaker and master watchmaker.”

Her ears picked up the sound of clocks ticking. She followed their direction to a wall unit displaying several models. “That's a nice collection. Are they antiques?” She knew nothing about the subject. Her clocks at home were either battery run or digital, certainly unlike these decorative objects.

“Those are my vintage Atmos clocks.” He got up and strode to a rectangular-shaped case. Inside the housing was a round dial. “This is the tall-case version. It's nickel-plated, as you can see.” His fingers traced the silver in a caress worthy of a lover. “The movement works perfectly. Over here, we have a regulator model.” He pointed to a square case where another round clock filled the interior.

She noted the Tiffany . . . Company name on its face. “I like the one next to it.”

“That's by Kirby, Beard . . . Company of Paris. See the porcelain dial with the gold case? I've never come across another one like it.” He indicated a dome-shaped model at the end of the row. “This bell-jar is my favorite. Isn't she a beauty?”

“It's amazing they're still working.” If he'd showered as much attention on his wife, they might have had a happier marriage.

Scott beamed proudly. “All of these have a mercury motor. It's inside the round box behind the movement. The motor transforms thermal energy into mechanical energy, which the clock movement uses to drive the balance and display the time. The Atmos clock consumes sixty times less energy than a wristwatch.”

“No kidding? You mean the old wind-up type, don't you?”

He frowned in response. “I have modern timepieces, too. You'll have to stop by my shop to see the Jubilee model. It was created in 1983 to celebrate the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the manufacturer. They produced a limited run of fifteen hundred units. This is number two hundred and twelve.”

“They're all very attractive.” Marla admired the round- and square-shaped dials inside the glass and metal housing.

“I have so many more. Grandfather clocks, mantle clocks, carriage and cuckoo clocks, master and electric models. I could start a museum.” His voice sped up, like a train gathering speed. If she didn't stop him now, Marla would never be able to change the topic.

“How did Torrie feel about your business?”

“She never understood my passion.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I forgot to offer you something to drink. Or I have lots of cake. The neighbors have been generous.”

“No thanks, I've just had dinner. But go ahead if you're thirsty.” She watched while he poured himself a Scotch and soda from a bar in his wall unit. His hand shook as he held the bottle. Was their conversation disturbing him?

“Torrie yelled at me for wasting money on inanimate objects,” he said, his back to her. “So I asked, what about those rocks she wore around her neck? ‘Oh no, they count as wardrobe, and as a fashion reporter, I have an image to project,’” he mimicked in a high falsetto.

“Did she ever help you in the shop?”

“Are you joking?” He whirled around to face her. “Torrie never wanted me to give up the insurance biz. I sold life insurance when we met,” he said, responding to her questioning glance. “Got quite a good income, too. Then I got burned out on telling people they were gonna die someday.”

“So you turned your hobby into a business?”

“Exactly. I'd hoped our investments would make up the difference, but things don't always work out the way you plan.”

“Tell me about it.” Wondering which thread to pull, his financial status or the property issue, she decided to come at either of them from an oblique angle. “You couldn't have foreseen what happened at the wedding. I'm so sorry.”

Grasping his whiskey glass, he sank into an armchair. “Torrie thought it was so cool she got Jill's wedding booked at Orchid Isle. She's friends with the developer's wife, you know.”

“Yes, I met them briefly at the reception. Leanne seems like a nice woman.”

“Nice but flighty. She needs a man who's fully devoted to her, but Falcon's balls are cut off by his mother.”

“Excuse me?”

“Didn't you see Cornelia at the wedding? The older lady who sat next to him in the pew?”

“Oh, yes.” Marla remembered the white-haired lady with the stiff coiffeur.