Read Murder After a Fashion Online
Authors: Grace Carroll
I warned myself to concentrate and not analyze the Van Sloats’ social situation. I was there for only one purpose, as my heavy handbag reminded me. It gave me a bit
of confidence having the tools, though I was hoping against hope that the door to that study would be unlocked. But two lucky breaks in one day? Was it possible? I dared not count on it. I figured time was on my side. I could fiddle around with my tools until I got the door unlocked. Then I’d go in and take the gun from the case, using a handkerchief in my pocket so as not to disturb the fingerprints that would lead to the arrest of…Who? Weldon, of course. But why? The usual. Jealousy, of course.
I figured it was Diana who’d stayed after class that night of Guido’s murder. Not to have an affair with Guido, but just to get some clarification on a recipe or something. She wouldn’t have had an affair with the chef. But Weldon, being the jealous type, had found her there after class, flew into a jealous rage and shot Guido with his pistol. I had no proof yet, but today I was going to get it.
All I needed was the pistol with its missing bullet. I’d present it to Jack. He’d have it tested. He’d find the fingerprints and arrest Weldon and give me a citizen’s award. The one I’d never gotten before but so richly deserved.
From the living room I walked quickly and quietly up the stairs to the second floor, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure the neighbors could hear it.
The door to that study wasn’t even locked. I almost
laughed with relief. I didn’t need my tools or my newfound ability to pick locks. I walked in and there it was, the gun in the glass case. I opened the door to the case, pulled out my handkerchief and removed the gun from its oak display stand. My hands were shaking, but I wrapped the gun in a clean towel I’d brought and placed it into my bag.
I felt like patting myself on the back or at least jumping for joy, but I would restrain myself until I was out of the house. I closed the door to the study behind me, and then I heard the footsteps downstairs. I stopped and backed down the hall toward the tiny elevator. If it was the maid again, I’d think up something, anything. What was she going to do if she didn’t believe me? I was a friend of Diana’s. She wouldn’t call the cops on a family friend, would she?
The footsteps got louder. The elevator door was open. I stepped in. The footsteps got louder. Someone was coming up the stairs. It was Weldon wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase under his arm. I gasped, leaned back and accidentally pressed against the control panel, which closed the door of the ancient elevator with a loud clank.
He stopped and looked around. I sucked in a breath and tried to make myself invisible, hard to do in a glassed-in elevator. Then he stopped on the stairs and stared at me. I leaned back as if I could hide. I couldn’t. His face turned red, then almost purple. He pointed a finger at me and shouted, “Stop!”
I was wedged into the elevator and had inadvertently pressed all the buttons. With the door now closed, the elevator creaked and started to descend.
I pushed a button labeled “Stop,” and the elevator stopped between the floors.
“No,” I muttered, “that’s not what I meant.” Now I was
stuck between floors with a mad killer outside waiting for me. I tried to move the lever on the door, but it didn’t budge. Even if it did and the door opened, what would I do, jump out?
“Come out of there. Now,” he shouted.
I yelled that I was stuck, but I don’t think he heard me. He ran back up the stairs and returned to the stairway holding a rifle. I knew where he’d gotten it. From the same place I’d gotten the pistol.
“Don’t move,” he shouted, pointing the gun at me. “I’ve called the police.”
I couldn’t decide if that was a bad thing or a good thing. If he’d called the police, did that mean he wasn’t guilty but I was? I was definitely guilty of housebreaking. What about him? I dreaded seeing the look on Jack’s face when I turned up at his police station. He’d tell me he’d found the killer, gotten a confession and the case was closed. He’d never believe I had found Guido’s killer, and I was beginning to have doubts myself. If only the gun in my bag had Weldon’s fingerprints on it. But what if it did? It was his gun. If only the bullet matched the one that wasn’t in his heart after all, that would help, wouldn’t it?
I didn’t hear sirens. I didn’t hear anything. I wanted to call Dolce. She’d be frantic with worry by now, but I was afraid to make a move.
Just then I heard the front door open. When I turned my head, which was hard to do in the stalled elevator, I looked down and heard Diana’s voice, but I didn’t understand what she said.
“Stay where you are,” Weldon yelled at her. “There’s an intruder in the elevator. I’ve got my gun, and I’ve called the police.”
Her voice rose. “The police? Why did you do that? I told you—”
“Not about you. I saw her on the surveillance camera. She stole my gun, and I caught her. I told you no one needs to know about you and that chef.”
My knees gave way then, from fear and from shock. I sank to the old worn boards of the elevator floor, still clutching my bag. What did he mean, “you and that chef”?
“You know…I didn’t mean…” she said.
“You didn’t do anything,” he said. “That’s all you have to say.”
I knew what I was hearing was important, but I didn’t know what it meant or how to put it together.
It seemed like an eternity that I was stuck in that elevator. Diana and Weldon stayed downstairs while we all waited for the police. I think I dreaded their arrival more than anyone. Unless either Weldon or Diana was guilty. If they were, they didn’t act scared, they acted annoyed. And where was Dolce?
When the police arrived, I was glad to see the cops were no one I knew. Not yet. They worked on the old elevator while I cowered inside until finally they got a ladder and I crawled out and down the ladder.
When Diana saw it was me, she stared at me in disbelief.
“Rita, what are you doing here?” she said. “Did you really take Weldon’s pistol?”
“I can explain everything,” I said.
“If you’ll give it back, we won’t press any charges,” she said.
I said I had to go to the police station.
I hated to do it. Not only did I face charges of breaking and entering, but I also faced the ire of the police chief. Nevertheless,
I quickly gave my handbag to one of the officers, who drove me down to the station after taking a report from Weldon Van Sloat about how he’d surprised a robber in his house. He pointed at me. I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I had broken into their house. I had taken a pistol. I thought that one of them was involved in Guido’s murder, but I didn’t know which one and I couldn’t prove it. I sank down in the backseat of the patrol car feeling despondent.
When I saw Jack, I didn’t even try to protest or excuse myself.
“I’m guilty,” I said morosely. “Arrest me. Lock me up.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Where’s the Rita I used to know? The one who wouldn’t go quietly? The girl who was going to solve my murders for me?”
I was just about to tell him that girl was gone forever when my phone rang. I looked at Jack. He shrugged.
“Go ahead. Answer it.”
“Rita, where are you?”
“I’m at the police station,” I said to Dolce. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the Van Sloats’ house. They just left for the airport. Rita, I heard everything. You won’t believe it.”
I turned to Jack. “It’s Dolce. She heard everything.” I handed the phone to him.
I heard him say, “Yes…yes…I see…I will. Thank you.”
Then he picked up another phone and had someone stop the Van Sloats at the airport. “Pull them off the plane if you have to,” he said.
“So you were wrong,” Jack said to me. “Looks like you’re not guilty after all. Your boss heard everything. She’s on her way here.”
“But I thought you caught the killer.”
“It was a ruse to stop you from interfering. I see now it didn’t work. You caught the killer yourself,” he said.
“But how can we prove it?” I said. “I know how you operate. It’s her word against theirs. They’ll say they didn’t do it.” I stopped and looked at Jack. “Wait. Who did it? Not both of them?”
“From what Dolce said, it was Diana, but her husband wants to take the blame.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Why? She adored Guido. Thought he was wonderful.”
“Maybe Guido didn’t adore her. Not enough,” Jack said.
When Dolce got to the station, her hair was standing on end from the wind and the fright she’d had. I’d never seen her when she wasn’t perfectly dressed and coiffed. Her face was red, and she couldn’t stop shaking. She said Jack was right. She explained that seeing I didn’t return from the Van Sloats’, she got worried. She went into the house from the kitchen door, as I’d done. She heard the police arrive, and instead of coming out she hid in the pantry where I’d found the knife. She wasn’t sure what to do. And she didn’t want to be arrested like I was. From there she heard Diana confessing tearfully to Weldon that she’d had an affair with the chef, but after he told her he’d tell her husband, she shot him the night I went to see him.
“Mr. Van Sloat was shocked, but he said he still loved her. I must say that was unexpected,” Dolce said in a small voice.
“You mean she just happened to have the gun in her purse?” I asked. “That sounds like manslaughter, right, Detective?”
“We’ll see,” he said. Never one to tip his hat, although he never wore a hat to tip.
I wanted to stick around until the Van Sloats were apprehended and brought in, but Dolce wanted to go home. She was keyed up and exhausted at the same time. Jack complimented her on her courage, and she smiled tearfully. I realized Jack didn’t want us there once he’d gotten our statements and I’d turned over the gun. He had one of his underlings drive me home, and Dolce got into her car and went home.
Later that evening after I’d had a soothing hot bath and wrapped myself in a huge terry-cloth robe, I ordered a large pizza with homemade fennel sausage, tomato, bell peppers and mozzarella cheese from Azerbyjohnnie’s to be delivered to my house along with a grilled asparagus appetizer and chocolate biscotti for dessert. After what I’d been through, I deserved it. I realized only then just how big a chance I’d taken on one of the Van Sloats being guilty. I wanted to believe it was because I was brave and smart and intuitive, but I also felt lucky that the elevator failed and that Dolce was my backup. Before the pizza arrived, Jack called me.
“You’ll be glad to know that Diana confessed and so did her husband.”
“That’s love,” I said. “I guess it is anyway. Who do you believe?”
“Who do you believe?” he asked me.
“I don’t want to think Diana did it. I’m betting on her husband. I never liked him.”
“That’s not the way it works, Rita.”
“Well, it should,” I said. “I’ll bet you he’s the one who attacked Armando. He’s the possessive jealous type.” Jack didn’t confirm or deny my statement. “And he hid the knife in the pantry, didn’t he?” Still no confirmation from Jack. But sometimes silence is an affirmation. So I changed the subject and I asked, “Have you had dinner?”
“Not yet.”
“If you leave now, you might get here before the pizza guy arrives.”
“I’ll bring some wine,” he said. “We’ll celebrate.”
I changed into loungewear with a pair of plaid flannel Juicy Couture drawstring pants and a long, striped, hip-hugging, super-soft cashmere autumn sweater. I was dressed for celebrating my innocence and Jack’s success in apprehending not one but two confessed killers for the same crime. He had to be pleased, he had to be hungry and he had to be grateful to both Dolce and me. He was.