Killer Chameleon (17 page)

My scales in balance again, I filled a tray with cups and saucers, sugar and creamer, ready to play hostess and face the continuation of the inquisition.

Duck caught me as I was about to leave the kitchen. “You okay?” he asked softly. He stroked my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You looked like you were about to slide into a navy-blue funk back there. Evans didn't mean to belittle your record, babe. He's concentrating on the negative because it's the logical thing to do.”

I felt my eyes begin to sting and blinked them dry. Trust Duck to sense how Evans's slant on things had affected me.

“I'm fine, now. Just needed to regain some perspective. Why don't you bring the coffeepot. And something to put under it.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Leaning in, he rewarded me with a peck at the corner of my mouth. “We'll get through this, babe. Together.”

I pecked him back, no other response required.

Evans continued his train of thought as if I'd hadn't left the room. “We'll request a search on your arrest record, look to see if there's anything you might have forgotten. People out there are so crazy these days, you might have simply stepped on her toe accidentally.”

“Well, hell, I'd have apologized,” I protested.

“You might not have sounded sincere.” He extended his cup.

Thackery eyed the coffee service with the attitude of a drowning man being thrown a lifesaver. “Christ, that smells good. Decent java, for a change. Not sure my system can take it. Black for me, please.”

Clarissa shook her head. “None for me. I won't sleep, as it is.” She sniffed behind a tissue and sat up straight. “When can I have Sister's body? I have to make arrangements, take her down home. We have plots there.” She had turned some kind of emotional corner, at least for the time being.

“If you're planning a local service, you might want to consider a memorial.” Evans's features seemed to have thawed considerably, whether because of the coffee or sympathy for Clarissa was open to debate. “We'll do what we can, but the way things are backed up at the, uh, medical examiner's, they may not get to your sister until next week. We'll let you know as soon as it's completed, of course.”

“I'll help you, Auntie Clar.” It was the first time Tina had spoken. “Whatever you need done.”

I was pouring for Tank when someone knocked.

“Probably Mrs. Luby,” Duck said, coming in with napkins, which I'd forgotten.

“I'll get it.” Tank opened the door for her. “Ma'am,” he said, stepping back to let her in. She had abandoned the shorter robe for a lilac one of full length, its top button missing.

She pulled its collar closed with one hand, several sheets of paper clutched in the other. “I wrote down the description like you said. And made enough copies for everyone.” She distributed them, reminding me of a teacher passing out test papers. “I called Zenia and asked what she remembered, but she only got a quick glimpse before the elevator door closed.”

“Typed.” Surprised, Evans set his cup down and fished for reading glasses.

“Printed,” Mrs. Luby corrected him. “I did it on my computer, so I can give it to you on a floppy, if you prefer.”

Scrutinizing her with new respect, he seemed to consider it. “No, this will do for now. But don't erase the file, in case something else comes to mind.”

Duck, remembering his manners, offered her coffee, but she declined. “It'll destroy my beauty sleep. I'd best get back across the hall. Clarissa, I'm so sorry. You let me know if there's anything I can do.”

I could tell she'd have paid cash money to stay, but with no invitation forthcoming, she left with a smile of regret.

Her contribution took center stage for the next few minutes. She'd employed an unorthodox method to describe the person she'd seen.

 

Height: a little taller than Leigh, I think.

Weight and build: a little heavier, but not by much. Perhaps broader across the shoulders. At least that's the way her coat made her look.

Age: thirties, early to mid–.

Complexion: lighter than Leigh. At the time I thought it was because of the lighting in the elevator.

Eyes: too far away to tell. They didn't impress me as any different than Leigh's.

Hair: dark, curly, and short but longer than Leigh's. I hadn't seen Leigh in a while, assumed she'd decided to let it grow.

Wearing: white car coat with hood. Could not see what kind of top under the coat because of the box. Jeans, tall boots, perhaps riding boots.

Comment: she looked enough like Leigh for me to assume it was her. The fact that I assumed the woman with her was Clarissa may have influenced my view.

 

“A sharp lady, your Mrs. Luby. And that reminds me.” Evans peered at me over his lenses. “There was a cardboard box in the trunk behind the . . . behind Ms. Hitchcock. We've already dusted the car for prints but we didn't see the box until we'd removed the body. We'd like to take it in to see if there are any prints on the tape. It looks as if it's been opened and resealed.”

Rage ripped at my composure. Another corner of my life invaded, in this instance all my bills, receipts, tax records. The damage she could do . . .

Pulling my thoughts back into line, I responded to Evans.

“We may get lucky. I used good packing tape. If she tried peeling it free, hoping she could just press it back into place, she found out that wouldn't work. She would have to use fresh tape.”

Clarissa must have changed her mind because she removed the last cup from the tray and filled it with a steady hand. There was a studied calm about her now, as if she held herself together with pure force of will. Clearing her throat, she took the floor with a manner of someone accustomed to it.

“Listening to everything everyone has said, it sounds to me as if this woman may have only superficial resemblance to Ms. Warren. The only person to see her who knows Ms. Warren well is Mrs. Luby, from a distance at that, and only for a moment. She admits she assumed it was Ms. Warren—”

“Leigh, please,” I interrupted, tired of the formality.

She gave me a trace of her usual cherubic smile. “Leigh it is, then. Then there's the receptionist at the travel agency. The only face she'd lock in on would be someone who comes in frequently. You said you'd been in twice?”

“Three times. The first time to tell her where we wanted to go and when, then twice more to change the dates. Come to think of it, Dolly wasn't there the second and third times. So she only saw me once, long enough to show me back to Margie's cubicle.”

“Then you understand what I mean. Unless she's the kind who remembers faces, she'd have only a vague picture of you. And Sister . . .” She paused, blinked, swallowed. “Sister said that picture of you in the bedroom wasn't a very good one because it didn't look much like you.”

“In comparison to the other woman,” Thackery said, pouring himself a second cup of coffee.

“It was the hair, you see. In the picture, it's the same length as she's wearing it now. The woman Claudia saw wore her hair longer.”

“The one that puzzles me,” Duck said, hunkering down backward in his chair, “is the incident in the Silver Shaker.” He was still simmering about that, incensed that I hadn't mentioned it before tonight and wouldn't have, if only to keep Eddie out of it. But Claudia's death changed things.

“We're talking about professionals here, trained officers,” he continued. “If it's the same woman and they mistook her for Leigh, then she must bear a fairly close resemblance to her.”

Tank imitated Clarissa's method to get our attention by clearing his throat. “And yet none of Leigh's neighbors decorating the tree mentioned it. They've known her long enough that they'd have said something to somebody. I suggest we don't get hung up on appearance and stick to what we know.”

“There is no ‘we.'” Evans drained his cup and stood up. “I appreciate the fact that you three, sorry, you four,” he amended, nodding at me, “are professionals, and involved in one way or the other, but leave the investigating to us. If this woman is responsible for the death of Ms. Hitchcock, we won't rest until we've found her.”

“And if she isn't?” Duck's voice was soft. “Directly responsible, that is?”

Evans's eyes became that flinty gray again. “It's still our job, our case. Willard's working the prank call. As for the vandalism to Ms. Warren's car, I'll make sure he gets the word. He may be able to tie both events together. Otherwise, you know the drill, all of you. Stay out of it and let the ones assigned to it do their jobs. You ready, Thackery?”

Five minutes later, with business cards distributed and telephone numbers exchanged in case they needed to get in touch with us, they finally left. A good deal of tension left with them. It seemed easier to breathe.

Everyone sat back but seemed hesitant to speak. I hadn't said it, and it was past time.

“Clarissa, I can't tell you how sorry I am.”

She sat up straight, managed a ghost of a smile. “Thank you. I wish you and Claudia had met. She'd have liked you.”

There was another heavy, gloom-filled silence. Finally Duck rose, spinning his chair around.

“All right, listen up. Clarissa, you just became family. Leigh and I can't replace your twin but we'll do everything we can to support you and see things right.”

She blinked, dabbed at her nose, and nodded. “You're a good man, Dillon. Thank you.”

He wasn't finished. Eyes narrowed, he turned his attention to me. “I know you, Leigh Warren. Nothing those guys said makes a difference to you; you're gonna keep poking and prying to find this woman. I'm going on record here to say I'm gonna be poking and prying along with you.”

“Me, too,” Tina spoke up, to no one in particular. She couldn't seem to look anyone in the face, especially me.

Tank nodded. “Count me in.”

Clarissa's eyes welled. “I know you're doing it for me and Sister—well, partly, anyway. And I really appreciate it, but I don't want any of you to risk your jobs. Sister wouldn't want it either. You heard what they said.”

“We heard them loud and clear,” Duck said. “And we don't care. We're gonna get this woman off the street. And if Thack and Evans don't want our help . . .” He looked at me. I knew precisely what he was thinking.

“To hell with them,” I finished for him.

12

IT WAS STILL INKY-DARK WHEN DUCK KISSED
me awake. “Rise and shine, babe. Breakfast is ready. Everyone's waiting for you.”

I rolled over and willed the face of the clock into focus. Six-ten. “Why so early?” He smelled of soap and aftershave and, in fact, was already dressed. My brain cleared, his last statement finally registering. “What do you mean, everyone's waiting? Who's here?”

“Tank and Tina. Move it, sleepyhead. We've got things to discuss.” He yanked the covers to the foot of the bed and handed me his robe.

I made do with minimum ablutions and toothpaste, pulled a rake through my hair, and managed to get to the kitchen just as Tina yelled, “Hey, I'm eating whether you're here or not!”

“I'm here, I'm here,” I said, tripping over the hem of Duck's robe in my hurry.

“Morning,” she muttered, in my general direction. She still hadn't looked at me in the eye since her outburst of the night before. If this was to continue, it would be a long morning.

One good look at the spread on the table, however, made me willing to put up with anything: a platter of crisp bacon, another of fluffy scrambled eggs half a foot high, and a third of fried apples, a breakfast favorite of mine that Nunna fixed every Sunday the Lord sent.

“Good grief, Duck, what time did you start cooking?”

“I didn't.” Pulling a chair out for me, he jerked his head toward Tina. “She did. Even brought everything with her.”

Tank grabbed the plate of bacon. “Had me shopping for brown eggs at five o'damn clock in the morning. Have you any idea how hard it is to find a store open that early? And they had to be brown, too. Only African-American eggs for Tina J. Younts.”

“Oh, shut your yap.” She took the plate from him, forked three strips for herself, four for him, and passed it to me. “I don't care what anybody says, they just taste better.”

The bacon looked ready for an ad in a magazine, lean, straight, and crisp. “Lord, Tina, you did yourself proud.”

That elicited a pained smile. “It was the least I could do.” She got up, grabbed the coffeepot, began filling cups, but put it down before she'd finished. “I owe you an apology, Leigh. Well, two, actually.”

“Two?”

Nodding, she continued serving the coffee. “You have to understand. Aunt Sister was losing it, but none of us could bring ourselves to admit it. To be truthful, we were taking the easy way out because getting her to a doctor was like bathing a cat. It wasn't just that she was forgetful; I mean, you expect that at their ages—”

“How old are they?” Duck interrupted, helping himself to eggs.

“Seventy-four.”

“Seventy—” He halted, midscoop. “You're kidding. Why were they still working?”

“Because they wanted to. Neat n' Tidy is a family business started by my grandmother's sisters. Practically all of us have worked for it at one time or another, and Aunt Sis especially loved putting things right, she called it. After Auntie Clar retired from teaching full-time, she started helping out with her twin's clients because it was getting too much for her. But I have to be honest, Aunt Sis was always one sheet short of a linen set. She could clean her ass off but that's the only thing she could be trusted to do perfectly. Her head was always somewhere else.”

“Get to the point, honey,” Tank said, shoveling sugar into his coffee. “You've got to be at the doctor's by eight.”

She made a face at him and sat down. So far she hadn't eaten a thing, which meant she was more upset than I'd realized. Anything bad enough to come between Tina and a plate of food had to be on a par with Armageddon.

“What I'm trying to say,” she continued, “is that when I talked to Auntie Clar on the phone out at your new house, she told me that Aunt Sis had screwed up somehow, that it had something to do with you and a box. The problem was, she wouldn't explain, said they wanted to talk to Duck about it first because it had happened here. Then they intended to tell you, Leigh, and they were terrified you were gonna sue them over it.”

“Sue them?” I put my fork down. “Over a stupid box? What would make them think that?”

“According to Auntie Clar, you said you would.”

“How could I, when I didn't even know what had happened to it? I . . .” Then I remembered running off at the mouth, something about suing Duck's pants off. “Oh, no,” I said, groaning, and explained. “I was kidding. I'm planning to marry the man, for pete's sake. How could Clarissa think I'd actually sue him?”

Tina sighed. “Because she did. Auntie Clar, that is, years ago. She got left at the altar and sued the dude for breach of promise. Won, too.”

“Holy shit.” Duck shook his head. “Who'd have thought it?”

“They did.” Tank gestured toward his wife with his fork. “Her people have this thing about the justice system: if somebody does you wrong, sue 'em. They're regulars in small claims court. Go to a family reunion and sooner or later you'll hear that Cousin So-and-So's suit is scheduled for whenever and Great-uncle Doozy-whatsis finally decided to settle.”

“You make it sound like it's a hobby,” Tina grumbled. “It's not. They've never had a suit dismissed as being capricious, so lay off my folks. What was I saying?” she asked, then remembered. “Oh, yeah. I owe you an apology, Leigh, for not saying anything after I got off the phone with Auntie Clar, but she made me promise. Then when I saw Aunt Sis curled up in the trunk of your car and the box behind her, I figured she'd done something dumb just to avoid winding up in court. You didn't deserve what I said then and I'm sorry again, I really am.”

“Tina.” I nudged her plate closer to her. “Apologies accepted. Now eat.”

“Honest?” Her expression was comically pitiable.

“Honest. Your eggs are getting cold.”

“Women,” Tank muttered, his mouth full. Tina whapped him on the back of the head with a pot holder. He grinned, she smiled with relief, and all was right with the world again.

Except for the clink of cutlery against china and the ccasional crunch of bacon, the kitchen was silent while we got down to business and, oh, the fried apples were to die for.

Once we'd finished, I started up to clear the table, but Duck forestalled the effort.

“Let 'em wait. We've got stuff to discuss, then I've got to get out of here. The whole point in my getting up early was to go in before my shift and see what I can find out.”

“About . . .?” I asked.

“We have to get this woman for Clarissa and Claudia, and you. So I need to see if Willard's gotten anywhere, for a start. I wish I knew him. It would make things simpler.”

“Let me do it,” Tank volunteered. “We go back a ways.”

“Great. They'll have dusted the Chevy and the box, so I'll check to see if we got lucky with prints. Then I'll tackle Marty, see if there's anything in the system that'll help. If I take her a carton of Newports, maybe she'll give me a printout of your arrest record.”

Marty. Martha Makrow Jensen, twenty-year veteran with the D.C. Metropolitan Police and expert at massaging the department's computers to find out anything one wanted to know. She was almost as good as Plato dePriest, someone on my list of people to see today.

Tina pecked crumbs off the plate that had held the toast. “I'm kind of in a bind. I've got the doctor this morning and court this afternoon, which I'd forgotten. And after work, I promised I'd take Auntie Clar shopping for a dress to bury Aunt Sis in, so I won't be able to drive you around, but not to worry. Chet's letting you use his car until he's finished getting the paint off yours.”

Either she had one helluva secret she could use as blackmail or his car was a dog. “That's awfully nice of him, Tina. What does he drive?”

“A Vette.”

“As in Corvette?” Duck asked, brows flapping like a flag in the wind. He'd kill for a Corvette.

“Yup.” Her smile was sweet, belying the devilish glint in her eyes. “Loves the thing like it's his firstborn child, and a surefire way to see that he gets your car back to you in record time. Says he'll drop the Corvette off about nine.”

“I'm speechless. Thanks, Tina. And don't even ask,” I warned Duck. I could see his wheels turning, trying to figure a way to get me to trade wheels with his oil-burner.

It was time to broach the subject I'd avoided. If nothing else, it would take his mind off the Corvette. “There's one more avenue I have to pursue if I'm to eliminate possibilities, and that's women you've dated, Duck.”

Thunderheads gathered in his eyes, the kind pregnant with cloud-to-ground lightning. “Anyone particular in mind?”

“Ilene Quarles,” Tina said, elbow on table, chin on fist.

She must have struck a chord because his expression became one of speculation.

“Touché. She did make a real pest of herself. Only thing is, she couldn't pass for Leigh in a month of Sundays.”

“Damn. You're right.” She nudged my foot under the table, confirming my suspicion that she had tossed that name into the hat to take the heat off me and at least make him consider the possibility. “How about Dana Underdown or Selena What's-her-name? They sorta look like Leigh, sort of.”

I felt Duck's gaze and found him scrutinizing me as if for the first time. It was a little creepy, making me sympathize with specimens under a microscope.

He nodded, slowly. “More than sort of. Guess I was working my way toward you even back then, babe. Okay, I'll track them down and check 'em out.”

I wasn't sure I was particularly happy about that, but it made sense. He knew them; I didn't.

“What's on your plate today, babe?” he asked.

“Enough to keep me busy for a week.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “I need to eliminate the teenager and Nell Gwynn once and for all, even if it means contacting every member of Gracie's class. Those two had to have been invited by somebody. There's Plato dePriest to see, and Dolly at Graystone. I want her to take a good look at me and give me similarities and differences with the woman she saw.” That took care of three fingers. “I've got to file a change of address at the post office, buy Janeece a welcome mat, and I still haven't picked up my suit for the wedding. That's for starters. Then there's Ourland and the police station to check on. And Elizabeth—I mean, Grandmother—is waiting for an answer about the house. Oh, and Tracy should be back from her conference in Atlanta.”

“Who's Tracy?” Tina asked.

“A cousin who could pass for my sister. She'll be able to tell me if there's any other female in the family who's our age and looks like us. It's a reach, but I'd be stupid not to check.”

Duck tapped me on the forearm. “Why not ask your mom's sisters? They'd know.”

“Because they want to make a bridal gown for me. I don't want to hurt their feelings, and I'm running out of ways to say no. This family thing's a lot more complicated than I expected.”

Suddenly Tank whacked the table with a hammy fist, making the dishes jump. “Speaking of families, I just remembered something.”

His wife gazed at him sidewise. “This had better be good.”

“It is. Think back, Tee. Remember a certain juvenile who got picked up during a raid of Helle's Hole a few years back, the one you helped out?”

I frowned. “A juvenile? You're kidding.” Helle's Hole. Strippers. Lap dancing.

Tina's jaw hung slack, her eyes the size of the toast plate. “My God. I'd forgotten that. She'd gone on a dare with some college-age friends, used someone else's ID. Once she admitted who she was, I recognized her last name, realized she'd simply gotten in over her head, and called her dad to come get her.”

“In other words,” Duck said, pouring the last of his coffee into the sink, “someone owes you. And that would be . . .?”

She shot him a smug smile. “My lips are sealed. Let's just say that there's a distinct possibility Aunt Sis's autopsy may be performed before the day's over.” She hopped up, placed her dish on the counter. “Move it, Tankie. Places to go, people to see.”

The leisurely breakfast was over. Ten minutes later, they were gone.

I checked the time. It was still a little early for making calls, except, I reminded myself, all the women on the list Gracie had given Duck were retired and probably at home.

I cleaned the kitchen, then myself, enjoying the invigorating sting of Duck's fancy dual-head shower, almost worth marrying him for, even if he'd been a loser. I dressed, opting for fancy undies, my better slacks, a silk blouse, and a good blazer, with the snobs at the Bridal Bower in mind. At eight-fifteen I got on the phone and, as I'd suspected, woke only one person on Gracie's list. All the others sounded bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and more than willing to indulge in a rehash of the decorating, caroling, invasion by the police, and grilling that had ended their evening. None admitted knowing Georgia Keith or Nell Gwynn. Two, however, assumed that they'd been related.