Murder on Consignment (5 page)

My heels had only clicked a few feet down the walk before I stopped and turned around. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something wasn’t quite right at the Sokolov home. For starters, how did
Calina Sokolov afford such an elaborate lifestyle? Russian mob, maybe? I shuddered. With his Wookie-like attributes, Alex Sokolov could easily be a mobster. Just looking at him, I knew how it had all gone down: 
Alex Sokolov, known amongst the other Russian gangsters as “Scary-Hairy”, realized something incriminating had been sold off with his mother’s estate. Probably a weapon used in a mob murder, or maybe his loan shark book, or…whatever. He somehow found out it was sold and tracked it down to The Classy Closet. Poor Jane stumbled across him as he broke in to retrieve it and Alex eliminated her. It should be a case easy to solve based on forensics alone. A guy like that would have left thousands of hairs at the scene…

I snapped back to reality. I was jumping to conclusions—a very bad habit of mine. What I needed was proof.

I glanced back at Calina’s house, double checking to make sure I wasn’t being watched, before approaching the house next door. My knock was answered by spry-looking, old lady.

“I already have a church,” she squawked, shutting the door in my face. I knocked again.

“I don’t need anything, I’m busy.” She started to close the door again, but failed when it hit my foot, which was wedged between the door and the frame. I could hear the Price is Right playing in the background. The showcase showdown was just getting under way. No wonder she was so anxious to get rid of me. My mind raced; I needed a good cover story if I was going to compete with the popular game show.

I assumed an authoritative posture. “I’m Prudence Overton with Liberty Insurance. We’re conducting an investigation on the death of your neighbor
Calina Sokolov. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.” 

I stared directly into her milky-blue eyes, daring her to defy an official investigator.

“What type of questions?” she snapped.

“Official questions. Your cooperation is imperative, Mrs.…”

“You’re an investigator and you don’t know my name?”

Good question. This old bat was a sharp one.

“Actually, we’re just in the initial phase of questioning; we’re canvassing the neighborhood.” I glanced back to Calina’s house. All seemed quiet. I removed a steno pad and pen from my purse. “This won’t take much of your time. I just have a few questions…please.”  I turned off the authority and turned on beggar mode.

She gave me a scrutinizing once over before standing aside and waving me into her living room. She motioned to a floral-upholstered chair as she picked up the remote and turned down the volume on the television.

I glanced around. Her house was a study in contrast compared to Calina’s home. The combination of dark woodwork and poor lighting made me feel instantly depressed. Adding to the dark mood, a large wooden image of the Russian Madonna stared at me from the fireplace mantel. I squirmed under her watch. It wasn’t easy being a liar.

“Well, what are your questions?” She slouched into a light blue recliner, adjusting a couple of pillows behind the small of her back and pulling a hand-crocheted afghan around her legs. I’m not sure why she needed the afghan; it must have been close to a hundred degrees in the room.

I opened my pad. “What is your name?” I asked, pen poised in air.

“Yelena Stanislav. What do you want to know about
Calina?”

“Did you know her well?” I asked.

“Well enough.”

“Were you on friendly terms?”

“We were neighbors, weren’t we?” 

I sighed. This lady was all about patience and understanding.

“Had Mrs. Sokolov been ill for a long time?”

“Yes. Cancer. I would take her some
yushka
about once a week. It was her favorite.”

I adjusted my glasses. The word cancer al
ways made me squirm. “That was kind of you, Mrs. Stansilove,” I managed to say.

“That’s Stanislav. Get it right,” she hissed. She turned to check on the showcase showdown. The first contestant was making a bid of sixteen thousand five hundred. Way too low, I thought.

“Stanislav, sorry. My firm is making inquiries into Mrs. Sokolov’s finances. Do you know where she worked?”

“She didn’t work.” She was fingering the remote, getting ready to turn up the volume again.

I looked at her over the rim of my glasses. “There is some question as to how she made a living. You see, if she falsified information on her tax papers, she may not be entitled to a full payout. Or if she was involved in some sort of illegal behavior….”

“Illegal behavior?
Calina?” 

“Yes, well…you know… like maybe the Russian mob.” 

She sat upright, making some sort of weird noise that sounded like a mixture of air letting out of a tire and a cat’s hiss. I watched tiny droplets spray from her mouth, glad that I was positioned far enough away to be safe from the spittle-splash.

“Mobster?” her voice crackled with
what I took to be laughter. “Why do all you people think every Russian is a mobster? Calina earned her money honestly. She was a… what do you say?  Kept woman.”

That’s not what I expected to hear. “A kept woman?”

Mrs. Stanislav raised a wrinkled hand in my direction as if to emphasize her next point. “Such a beautiful woman. Too young for cancer. And where was
he
when she died? Nowhere. Not even descent enough to be with her in the last moments. She died all alone.”

“Her son wasn’t here?”

“No, her lover. But, her son?  That no good…,” Mrs. Stanislav paused. I could see her working her tongue inside her mouth, adjusting her dentures. They must have been slipping. “Her son is a spoiled brat. Calina was a weak mother. She could never say ‘no’ to him. He never wanted for nothing.”

“I see,” I said, thinking that what
Calina really should have given him was about fifty electrolysis sessions. “Do you know who her, her, um…?”

“It’s no secret.
Calina talked about him all the time. An Irishman, James Farrell. They’d been together for years.”

My heart thudded with excitement. Golly gee, a solid clue. I jotted it down enthusiastically.

I heard the sharp dinging of bells. Mrs. Stanislav turned up the volume just as the showcase winner was announced. I was right; sixteen five was way too low.

She sat grinning at the boob tube, her cloudy eyes round with excitement and her jaw working frantically back and forth. I thanked her and quietly excused myself, nodding guiltily to the Madonna as I showed myself out.

Chapter 8

“
That
James Farrell?”  I was talking to myself as I typed on the keyboard. It had only really taken two clicks to get a full biography on Calina’s lover.

I
thought the name sounded familiar. James Farrell the hot dog king. Of course! I ate at JimDogs all the time. Best deal in town. My personal favorite was the Junior J-dog combo meal with a CubbyPup and a frosty mug of root beer.

What a story James Farrell had. The product of a large, poor south-side Irish family, James Farrell had worked hard and built his hot dog dynasty from the ground up. No rich daddy, no fancy business degree, no government grants, just a determined spirit, hard work, and innovation—that innovation being his version of the hot dog bun. As the story goes, young James spent days in his mother’s kitchen, experimenting with
her bread recipes, until he created what, in my opinion, was the best hot dog bun in the whole world. Light…flakey…buttery…my mouth was watering just thinking about it. He took his products and hit the streets, peddling his cart from one street corner to the next. His reputation grew quickly as everyone started talking about James’s Dogs which was eventually shortened to JimDogs. Soon, he had enough revenue to move his pups to a permanent JimDogs residence, which he opened right here in Naperville. Since then, the business had grown with franchises in twelve states. The guy was the quintessential American rags-to-riches story.

And now I had discovered that he was also the keeper of a Russian mistress. Not so good, considering he was married with a grown son.

All very interesting, but how could there possibly be any connection between JimDogs and Jane’s murder? I had no idea. My previous excitement began to fizzle. I thought I’d stumbled upon some case-breaking evidence, but there was no way to connect James Farrell with these murders. What motive would he have? The guy was worth millions; he’d probably never set foot in a consignment shop. Unless…maybe he was mixed up with the Russian mob somehow. I watched enough mobster television shows to know that businessmen get mixed up with the mob all the time. So, maybe my first theory was correct. I could see how easily it could happen: 
A young James Farrell had the best hot dog bun in the city, but couldn’t start up his business without capital. Desperate, he turned to a two-bit mobster for quick cash. As he grew his business, the mobster was always there to take his share. Poor James was forever indebted to the boss; he’d sold his soul to the mob and they took care of him. They even gave him a beautiful Russian woman, or no … maybe Calina was the mob boss’s daughter … yeah … that really tied James into a life of crime. And now that Calina was gone, he wanted to sever his ties with the family, but they had some sort of hold on him…maybe proof of some illegal activity, or who knows? Whatever the crucial link was, proof of it was mistakenly sold off in Calina’s estate and James had to get it back. Murder could come easily to a man who was that desperate…
 

I smiled to myself; proud that I’d put it all together so quickly. All I needed was a little proof. If I could just find a
wee
piece of evidence to support my theory, I could prove Shep wasn’t involved in any of this.

I sat back and carefully considered my options before deciding to follow up on my one other lead—A to Z Estate Sales. I typed their name into the search engine prompt and printed out directions. On the way o
ut, I smeared peanut butter on a piece of white bread and folded it in half for a lunch to go. As a final thought, I grabbed the round-framed glasses again and tucked them away in my bag; Prudence may be needed again on this mission.

I
barely made it down my steps when Mom appeared from around the hedge. Pretending not to see her, I made a mad scramble for my car.

“Phillipena!”

I cringed. I wasn’t overly fond of my name, especially when my mother yelled it out like that. No matter how it was said, it had a weird sound to it. I had my dad to blame. When I was born as the fifth girl in the O’Brien family, he gave up on waiting for a male namesake and stuck me with some strange feminism of his name. Then, in the third grade, Phillipena became Pippi when the teacher read to us about another precocious red-headed character, Pippi Longstocking. 

“What in the world! Stop right there!” Mom was running across the yard at break-neck speed.

I obeyed, turning around to face her.

She descended upon me like ants on melted ice cream. “What in the world are you wearing?” she asked, punctuating her question with an open-jaw, eye-popping expression.

I backed up a little. “What am I wearing?” I reiterated, looking down at my wardrobe choice. It seemed fine to me. “A wool skirt, button-down blouse, and navy blazer.” I brushed some dust off the back elbow of the blazer. “I admit, this blazer’s a little dusty. It’s the color; it seems to attract dirt. And there’s a tiny rip in—” 

“Turn around.”

I backed up a little more. Was she going to spank me for my wardrobe choice?

“Turn around right this instant!”

I pivoted, slowly, squeezing my eyes shut.

“That’s obscene!” she screeched.

I opened my eyes and faced her. “Obscene?” 

“Your skirt.” She grabbed my shoulders and spun me back around. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling and tugging at my backside. “Oh, no. Did you try to tape the hem of this skirt?”

“Yes, why?” I was twisting my head like an inebriated owl, trying to see what she was fiddling with.

“The tap
e is tangled in the skirt’s liner and stuck to your waist band in the back. You’re completely exposed back here. Look at these holes! You need to get some better panties. Well, at least I caught you before you got out the door. How embarrassing if someone else had seen you this way.” 

I shriveled, think
ing about how many people I previously mooned: the construction workers; Alex the Sasquatch Man; all the people on the street. “Yeah, that would have been really embarrassing,” I replied thinking there was no need to embarrass the both of us.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Uh…well, I have an appointment in Ridgewood.”

“With whom?” My mother’s grammar was impeccable.

“I have an appointment with an estate auctioneer. Why?” It was natural to be suspicious when my mom inquired about my whereabouts.

“Why?  Because you’re wearing makeup and you’ve actually styled your hair.”  She gave me an approving once-over. “I thought maybe you had a date.”

“A date?”

“Didn’t you follow my advice and call about the singles club at church?”

“Well, I haven’t actually had—”

“What will you do at Cherry’s wedding without a date? You’ll be bored to death.”

Hmm. I hadn’t thought about that. Another good reason to get a hold of Shep. He’d always come through when I needed a male stand-in. “I’m working on it.” 

“Fine. Just remember to stop by the house when you get back. I picked up the dress today and you’ll need to try it on again, just in case Doris needs to make any more alterations. The wedding’s just a week away, you know?”

I grimaced. “I know. Here, take this,” I said, handing her my peanut butter sandwich. “I won’t need it.” Just thinking about that skin-tight chiffon atrocity was ruining my appetite.

*

Thirty minutes later, I walked through the door of A to Z Estate Sales, and came face to face with Chuck Norris. Well, not the actual Chuck Norris, but someone that looked just like him.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

I stood speechless—my slack-jaw mouth unable to produce an intelligible syllable. I had a huge crush on Chuck ever since I was in junior high. Even now, I’ll stay up until all hours of the night just so I can watch him strut his stuff on late night infomercials.

“Miss?” Chuck was waiting for my reply.

I stuck out a wobbly hand. “I’m Prud…no, I mean…I’m Pippi O’Brien.” The eyes of the ranger were upon me. I couldn’t lie. “I need to speak to the manager.”

“That’s me.” He grasped my hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’m Charlie.”

“No way,” I said, before I could stop myself. “Does anyone ever call you Chuck?”

“Yeah, I get that all the time. What can I do for you?” He seemed in a rush. “I need to find out about an estate sale that your company handled for
Calina Sokolov. Do you recall the name?”

He tilted his head back and studied me through furrowed brows. “Yes, why?”

I took a deep breath and continued, “Did you keep records of who purchased books from that estate sale.”

“We always keep records of sales, but they’re confidential.” He smiled and winked. Strange, I’d never seen the
real
Chuck wink.

“I think there may be a connection between that estate sale and a recent murder.”

“Murder?” Chuck suddenly looked nervous.

“It’s just
a hunch. But if you could simply verify if you sold items from the Sokolov estate to Jane Reynolds or perhaps to her business, The Classy Closet, it would be a huge help to me.”

“Why, are you a cop?”

I chuckled. “No, I’m not a cop. Although, I am sort of working as a consultant for the police.”   

“Sort of working?”

“Well, not officially, I guess.” I hesitated and shifted a little. “Actually, it’s just a personal thing. Can you help me out? Please?”

He moved over to his desk and fingered a manila file. Even from where I was standing, I could see the name Sokolov written on it with black sharpie.

“That’s the Sokolov file,” I stated, practically salivating.

“Yes, it
is.” He kept a firm grip as he leaned back on his desk and smiled like a sly cat.

Like an idiot, I reached for it. He snatched it away. “You
gotta be kidding,” he laughed, “I don’t know what’s going on, but these names are worth at least a thousand bucks.”

“A thousand bucks!”

“Yeah, that’s what the other lady paid.”

“A lady? What lady? What was her name?” I took a deep breath. I half expected him to blurt out the name Farrell. 

“She didn’t give me her name. Just said she had an interest in antiques and wanted a chance to approach the consigners who bought from this particular estate. There were only a few buyers, so I didn’t think it was a big deal.” Chuck had folded his arms and was leaning back on his desk, the file crunched up in his muscular biceps.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “So you just let her copy down the
information without even knowing her name?” 

“Hey, she paid me a thousand bucks,” he stared at me expectantly. Did this guy actually think I looked like someone who could pull a thousand dollars out of my purse?

“Would you consider letting me look at it without paying any money?”

“No.”

I dug around in my bag. “Fourteen dollars?” I asked.

He tilted b
ack his head and let out a hearty laugh before moving around his desk and throwing the file into a drawer. This guy was definitely no Chuck Norris. Chuck’s morals would never be for sale— just his exercise machines.

I paused, considering my options.

“Well, lady. What’s it going to be?” 

“Fine. I’ll leave,” I said. “But, could you at least tell me what she looked like?”

“Sure. That type of information would be worth oh…fourteen dollars.” He held out his hand. I reluctantly handed over the money and waited expectantly.

“She wore a long coat,
a hat and dark glasses.” He smiled mischievously. I wanted to scream.

“Young, old?” I pressed.

“Middle-aged, maybe. Maybe older, maybe younger.”

“How about hair:
blonde, brunette...?”

He shrugged and pointed mockingly toward his head. “Like I said, she was wearing a hat.” 

I slammed the front door on my way out. I couldn’t believe I paid fourteen dollars for nothing.