Wild Goose Chase (5 page)

Satchel? How old was this guy? “Yes, that’s mine,” I said.

“Can you identify this?” He held up the cardboard I’d put in it earlier.

“Of course, that’s the packaging from a new rotary cutter.” I looked at Buster, who remained stone-faced. “I opened one this morning to use in the booth.”

“You put it in your bag.”

“Not the cutter, just the packaging. The State Board of Equalization requires us to pay sales tax on everything we take out of our own inventory even if it’s for our own use. I needed to take that to the store so I can include the barcode in our monthly report.”

I looked from Sanchez to Buster and back. Neither one said anything. Buster was watching Sanchez’s face. He was taking his cues from the older detective.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Sanchez stood in front of me, his voice stentorian as though he was projecting across a crowded theater. I saw the frustrated actor—or maybe lawyer—in him.

“Ms. Pellicano, did you use the cutter in this packaging to kill Claire Armstrong?”

My first thought was that he finally got my name right. My second was that he was accusing me of murder.

“Of course not,” I
said, my voice wavering. I struggled to get under control. I stood, hoping being upright would stave off how vulnerable I felt. “Can I go now? I’ve been here for hours. You’ve got my clothes, my shoes, and my backpack. Just let me go back to work. I’m needed there.” I stopped talking as I heard my voice veer off into a pathetic whine.

It dawned on me that, without the computer, my last statement wasn’t really true. I didn’t have any business in the booth. Still, I needed to get out of here.

“No,” Sanchez said.

“Okay,” Buster said.

Their voices blending as they spoke at the same time, Buster and Sanchez looked at each other. Buster frowned.

Sanchez shook his head. “We need to hold her until we’ve finished questioning everyone.”

“We have more witnesses to interview. She’s got a business to run,” Buster said. “I have her statement.”

“She had access to the murder weapon,” Sanchez said.

“We’re not sure we have a murder here.”

His partner lowered his voice; Buster bent to hear him. He was at least eight inches taller than Sanchez, but it was clear Sanchez was used to being in charge.

“Healy, put your dick back in your pants.” Sanchez spoke softly, but I heard him.

Buster’s head snapped back, and a red blotch started creeping up his throat as he saw I’d overheard. He glanced at me, an apology in his eyes. He pointed his chin at Sanchez.

“She’s told us all she knows.” Buster’s voice was steely. “We have no reason to hold her.”

Here was a glimpse of the man Buster had grown up to be. Tough when he had to be. I was grateful. Sanchez backed down with a tiny shrug.

“Leave your cell phone,” Buster said. “We’ll keep your backpack. Don’t disappear.”

“I’ll either be at the store, home, or here.”

“More importantly, don’t talk to anyone about what you’ve seen,” Buster said.

He dismissed me, inclining his head slightly toward the door. I flew out into the hall, wondering what price Buster would have to pay for my freedom. I looked at my watch; it was nearly five, almost closing time. I’d spent the whole afternoon with the police. With Buster.

As I pushed the button for the elevator, I noticed a faint smear of blood on my hand. I’d washed my hands when I changed out of my clothes, but I missed this. The blood was caught in the cuticle like the blood you see after getting a paper cut you didn’t know you had. I scrubbed at my fingers, rubbing the redness out of the nail, feeling very, very alone.

Claire’s was the first dead body I’d ever seen outside of a funeral home. I’d always felt cheated not seeing my mother before she was fixed up and put in the pink silk-lined box. That hadn’t been my mother in there, not really. At the viewing, I’d snapped at anyone who said she looked good.

Now I felt grateful to the mortician who’d made her look as normal as possible. I hadn’t understood what a great distance that was, from alive to dead. A vision of Claire’s pale eyes danced in my memory, the arch of her eyebrow, now extinguished forever. Sadness washed over me.

Downstairs in the atrium, the show was closing and quilters were streaming out, returning to their cars and their everyday lives. Several remained behind at tables scattered around the space, basking in their purchases. I heard cries of “Where did you get that?” and whines of “I would have bought some of that if I’d seen it,” as purchases were passed around.

Their frivolous fun grated on my exposed nerves.

I hesitated outside the door to the show. They’d be expecting me back at the booth, wondering where I’d been all day. Ina, Jenn, and Kym had no idea I’d nearly sold the shop this afternoon. They had no clue I’d found a dead body and spent my day with the police. I couldn’t tell them about finding Claire, and I wasn’t going to tell them about selling the shop. But I needed to collect the day’s receipts and bring them back to the store.

No one checked my ID as I bucked the tide of exiting quilters and went in to the show. At the booth, Ina and Jenn were saying goodbye to the final customers of the day. Did they know about Claire? It had been hours since I found her, but I had no idea if word of her death had spread.

If the news had gotten around, death didn’t deter Kym. Her problems, as usual, took precedence.

She blocked my way at the entrance to the booth, hands on her hips. “Dewey, where have you been? I’ve been calling you and calling you. Don’t you have your cell on? We need to cash out.”

“What do you need me for? You know how to do that.” I couldn’t keep the annoyance out of my voice.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whined. “Some stuff was on the computer, the rest of the day wasn’t.”

“Do whatever you used to do before the computer,” I said. Leave it to Kym. She’d caused this trouble, yet expected me to fix it. Well, I wasn’t taking the bait.

Kym stomped a foot in frustration, but I turned my back on her. Ina and Jenn were draping lengths of fabric over the displays, shrouding the tables, closing down the booth for the night.

“We had a good sales day,” Ina offered.

I nodded, like I cared.

“Did you hear about Claire Armstrong?” Jenn said. “She had an accident and died in her hotel room.”

“I heard,” I said curtly.

A garbled announcement came over the loudspeaker. I looked at Ina. “I didn’t get that.”

“The show is closed,” she translated. “The vendors have fifteen minutes to shut down their booths and get out.”

“Or what?” I snickered. “You’re locked in?”

“JustEve productions takes security very seriously, Dewey,” Kym said.

Jenn was nodding her head gravely. “The guards make sure everyone is out and then lock the doors so our things are safe. No one can steal a quilt, or our merchandise, for that matter.”

“It’s true, Dewey,” Ina said. “They only give us a few minutes to get out each night.”

“So what should I do about reconciling the cash?” Kym said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Kym touched my arm, to start pleading with me anew. I pulled myself away angrily, my voice squeaking from exhaustion. I reached under the table for one of our QP personalized totes, stuffing my ugly gym bag and wallet inside.

“Just handle the drawer please, Kym.”

She let out a huge sigh. I lost my temper and whipped around. Getting right in her face, I found the strength to raise my voice.

“This is your fault, remember? I had a procedure for closing using the computer, but you decided to quit using it halfway through the day, so that’s useless. I don’t care what you do. This is your mess, now deal with it.” I ran out of steam pretty quickly, and with nothing left to say, I walked away from the booth. I wanted to be finished with Quilter Paradiso and Kym more than ever.

I heard Kym call after me, but I threw back my shoulders and kept walking. In my haste to get out of the booth, I’d turned left instead of right, sending me deeper into the quilt show, instead of to the outside. I didn’t want Kym to know this wasn’t a deliberate choice, so I walked as though I had a destination in mind.

The aisles were deserted; it wouldn’t be difficult to find my way out. I still had a few minutes before being locked in. I would cut over as soon as I could and go down a neighboring aisle to the exit.

The only sounds were the murmurs of vendors closing up, their voices soft and subdued with the weight of the day’s work behind them. Tired from ministering to customers all day, they were caching energy to do the same thing all over again tomorrow.

A voice came over the loudspeaker. This time in the relative quiet, I heard Eve clearly. She called out the attendance like the announcer at PacBell Park—paid attendees: 2,423 people. A cheer went up from the sales floor. I waited to hear if Eve would mention Claire’s death directly. Instead, she thanked the vendors for their hard work on a difficult day. She reassured everyone that there would be no changes to the schedule. I heard a murmur of approval.

Were these people nuts? I saw a man give his wife the thumbs up. It was ridiculous that the show would go on tomorrow as usual.

At the end of the row, instead of being able to make a U-turn down another aisle to the front door, I found myself at a dead end. Without realizing it, I’d entered an alcove off the main room. A sign overhead read “Award Winners.” Straight ahead was a quilt with Claire’s name on the artist’s card. I stopped, saddened that this was the first time I was seeing any of Claire’s work when she was already gone.

The quilt was a large rectangle, make up of pieced arcs and circles. The colors were blues and browns. I noticed plaids, stripes, and print fabrics. The effect was calming and exciting at the same time.

A tap on my shoulder made me jump. It was the diminutive security guard I’d met earlier this morning.

“Time to go, miss.”

I’d been staring at the quilt without seeing it, my mind lost, Claire’s death replaying in my mind. I swallowed my resentment at being startled. I felt unjustly accused of something.

“I was just leaving,” I said.

“This way.”

He stepped away from me, allowing me room to pass, but staying close. The hall was deserted. I must have been looking at that quilt for longer than I’d thought.

Once we were out the door and into the atrium, he made a big show of locking up. He was pretty pleased with himself. After dealing with the real cops all afternoon, I was in no mood for a Target reject, pushing his weight around.

“That’s a lot of keys on your belt,” I started but checked myself. Let him be. He was just doing his job.

He was oblivious to how close he’d come to getting bitched out. “Just make sure you have your ID card with you tomorrow,” he said.

I held it up, showing him I’d been wearing it around my neck since I put it on this morning. He didn’t acknowledge me.

Eve was sitting in her information booth in the atrium. I wanted to know if she’d considered Myra’s feelings in going on with the show as usual. I crossed over and knocked on the wooden frame to get her attention. She looked up, scowling.

“Eve, hi. I heard you say there would be no changes to the activity schedule. You did hear about Claire, right?”

She nodded. “Of course,” she said, looking at me quizzically. Her cell phone began playing a Sousa march. She glanced at the readout, her face screwed up into a moue of frustration.

She snarled into the phone, holding it six inches from her mouth, “Just handle it, okay? I’m sure she’ll be along any minute.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Freddy approach.

“How about a drink?” he said.

Eve waved him off gruffly.

“Come on, you two,” Freddy persisted. “We all deserve a libation after a day like this. I’ll buy.” To me he said, “I need to make up to you for what I did this morning.”

“What did you do?” Eve asked Freddy.

“I mistook her for her mother.”

He answered without taking his eyes off an attractive young woman in a crisp white fitted blouse and tight jeans who cut between us. Eve came out of her booth, locking the flimsy wooden door behind her.

Eve looked me up and down. “I don’t see it.”

“I could use a drink,” I said, the truth of the statement only hitting me after the words were out of my mouth. A tall glass of syrah would go a long way toward smoothing my ragged edges tonight.

“He won’t, you know,” Eve said to me.

“Won’t what?” I asked.

“Buy drinks. Freddy never does. We go through this every year. Every show, for that matter. He talks a good game, but he never ponies up.”

Eve’s phone rang again; she frowned and answered it. She shook her head vehemently and hissed into the phone. I felt a wave of pity for the person on the other end. She clicked it closed.

“Have you seen Justine?” She punched Freddy on the arm to get his attention, as he followed another pretty girl with his eyes. He turned reluctantly, rubbing his bicep.

“Justine? She’s around here somewhere.”

“No, she’s not. I haven’t seen her since she took the deposit to the bank this morning. I’m getting calls about the fashion show.” Eve’s voice rose, her frustration with her partner evident. “She’s supposed to be in charge. The lighting people want to focus, and she’s got the keys to the stage. It was the only thing she had to do this whole weekend, damn it.”