Dog Collar Knockoff (13 page)

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Oscar, having had enough of all the talk and no action, climbed on top of her foot, wrapped his front paws around her calf and rode her like a wild mustang that needed breaking.

At least someone was getting a little excitement.

“Oh, Oscar,” she said. “You’re such a perv.”

Bart snapped his fingers. “Off, Oscar!”

A second later, Oscar dismounted.

“Good boy,” Bart said. “Lucie, again, sorry about the confusion this morning. We’ll see you Monday, yes?”

“I’ll be here.”

With bells on. Because something about this conversation just didn’t sit right and she needed to find out why.

L
ucie pushed through
the glass door leading into Carlucci’s—er, the new Coco Barknell—and found Ro lining up tile samples in a row on the floor. Next to each tile, she’d placed oversized paint chips.

Lucie contemplated the mighty nice and mighty expensive-looking tile.

Before she could comment, Ro slashed the air with her hand. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. It’s porcelain. Not travertine. And all of them are remnant, so we can get them cheap.”

Phew.
“You scared me for a second there.”

“You know I always take care of you.”

Yes, she did. Always. Lucie tossed her messenger bag on the desk next to Ro’s purse and a spiral notebook. Funny thing about Ro. She loved the finer things, but when it came to taking notes, she went for simplicity. No fancy leather portfolios. Just a plain, old-fashioned spiral notebook. Go figure. “You do always take care of me. I love you, my friend.”

“Yeah, yeah. Ditto.”

Ro tried to blow that off and be the tough, street-wise girl everyone thought she was, but Lucie knew better. Everyone needed to hear they were loved. Including Ro. But, she’d let it go and not embarrass her friend. Her best friend. Her sister. “So, I’m sorry Joey is mad at you.”

Continuing to study the tile, Ro waggled her hand, then squatted to switch out paint chips. “He’ll live. He just likes the drama.”

Speaking of… “I just came from the gallery.”

“I know. You’re early. What happened?”

“Bart screwed up the schedule and forgot to tell me. Anyway, I made sure to tell him I don’t want to be associated with my father’s business. Or criminal activity.”

Ro stopped arranging tile, just froze right where she was and looked up at Lucie. “
Really
.”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“He sort of… put me off. Gave me some line about how difficult it must be.”

“Really.”

Wow. Two
reallys
in a matter of seconds. Lucie moved closer to the samples and picked one up. Too much brown. She set it back down. “If I hadn’t grown up in the life like I did, maybe I’d have bought it. But the whole thing just didn’t sit right with me.”

With that, Ro stood, set her hands on her hips. “I don’t trust this guy. What do you want to do? Your new boyfriend
is
a cop. You could talk to him about it.”

Her boyfriend?
I don’t think so.
What a mess that would be for Sunday dinner.
Dad, welcome home from jail. Meet my new boyfriend, Detective Tim O’Brien.
Amusing as the thought was, she couldn’t go there. Not until she figured out what she and Frankie were doing. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Blah, blah.”

“And, no, I’m not talking to him about it. If this Lutz thing turns out bad, I’ll look like the scam artist I’ve tried so hard not to be. A thief. A
criminal.”

“Oh, the theatrics.” Ro rested her hand against her forehead, threw her head back, sending her hair flying. “I may need to sit down.”

“Go ahead and laugh. You’re not the one people are waiting to see fall off her perch.” Lucie shook her head. “We’re getting distracted here. I think we should call that attorney who handles private sales for the Gomez family. We’ll tell him we want to buy
My Darkest Night.
If the family still has it, we’ll know Lutz has a fake. If the family doesn’t have it, we can find out who they sold it to.”

“He may not tell us.”

Lucie sighed. “I know. It’s worth a try though. We’ll tell him you’re willing to pay big bucks for it. Heck, we’ve promised to compensate everyone else, might as well tell him the same thing. Lawyers like money too.”

“I’m up for it. Do you have his number?”

Lucie dug through the inside zipper of her messenger bag for the number. “Right here. I think it’s his office number. He’s probably not there on a Saturday, but we can leave a message.”

Ro went back to arranging the tiles while Lucie dialed. Thinking like a true detective, she punched in the code that would mark her number as private so Mr. Isby, the lawyer, couldn’t identify her by caller ID. She’d learned that little trick two years ago from Joey. Sometimes having family members who knew this stuff came in handy.

While waiting for the call to connect, she pointed at the second tile from the left. “I think I like that blue one.”

Ro nudged it with her toe. “I like it too, but I’m worried about the footprints. Might need something more neutral.”

Roger Isby’s phone rang as Lucie studied the other sample tiles. That blue one kept dragging her back though. How bad could the footprints be? She stepped on it to see if her sneaker left an imprint, but before she could lift her foot, Roger Isby answered.

“Hello?”

Tile forgotten, Lucie perked up. “Hello. Is this Roger?”

If so, kind of a funny way to answer his office line. But there was music playing in the background. Van Halen. How fascinating. Or maybe not. She supposed lawyers were allowed to like classic rock.

“Yes. This is Roger Isby.”

As Frankie would say,
score!
“Hi, Roger. My name is…”

“Delilah,” Ro whispered, her mouth opening wide as she enunciated each syllable.

“Delilah Stone.”

Dear Lord, she’d just given herself a porn star name.

“How can I help you, Miss Stone?”

The music on the other end went silent. “I was given your number by Carlton at the Montrose Gallery. I’m actually surprised I caught you working on a Saturday.”

“I’m not working. This is my cell. He must have given you the wrong number.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I thought… Well… if you’d rather we speak on Monday, that would be fine.”

Please say no, please say no.

Beside her, Ro whipped her hands in mid-air and the nearly psychotic movement made Lucie a little dizzy. She turned away and received an exaggerated sigh.

“This is fine,” Mr. Isby said. “Depending on what you need. I’m not in my office and don’t have access to my files.”

Lucie spun back to Ro, gave her a thumbs up. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. My employer is interested in purchasing an Arturo Gomez painting.
My Darkest Night
is the title. Carlton said he doesn’t have it in his inventory, but suggested I contact you.”

“I see. Would this be for a private collection?”

“Yes, sir. My employer is an avid collector. She would like to purchase it for her husband.”

“The stripper-banger.” Ro rolled her eyes so hard it should have knocked her sideways.

Lucie gave her a full-on grin.

“Ms. Stone, I’m not sure where that painting is. I can contact the family and check its status. I can’t promise anything.”

Really getting into her acting, Lucie hesitated, pretended to absorb this information while she formulated a response. “I understand. We would certainly appreciate any help you could give us. Of course, we’d be happy to compensate you for your time.”

They’d offered to buy off everyone else, why not a lawyer?

“That won’t be necessary. This is what I do for the Gomez family. Let me call them and see what I can find out. Can I call you back?”

Lucie rattled off her number and disconnected. She’d just have to remember to answer as Delilah when he called back.

Ro pointed at the floor. “You left a footprint on the blue one.”

Lucie glanced down and a small wave of disappointment hit her. One footstep left a dusty imprint. Imagine what people in and out all day would do to that. “Well, shoot.”

“I like the blue and this lighter brown one with the flecks in it. The brown one will hide the dirt.”

Fine. Whatever. If she couldn’t have the blue, Ro could just pick. “Let’s go with the brown then.”

Ro jotted a note in her notebook. “What’d the lawyer say?”

“He’ll get back to us.”

“Then we’ll wait.” She gathered up the samples. “I’ll head over now and order the tile and paint. I think we can get it all done early next week.”

“
That
would be awesome.”

Ro set the discarded tiles on the desk and shoved the one they’d chosen into her tote. “It’ll give you another week to move all the stuff in here before your dad comes home.” She gestured to the back room. “We need to deal with that disaster back there. No idea what all is in those boxes.”

Ugh. Those boxes. Who knew what could be in there? With her luck, Lucie would find a dismembered body. Lovely thought. She checked the time on her phone. Not even 10:30. Plenty of day left. Might as well uncover that body sooner rather than later.

At that, she laughed. Dead bodies.
I’m losing it.
“I’ll go through some of it now. I’ll start a garbage pile and have Joey get rid of it. Once he’s done being mad at us.”

“He’s a big baby. He means well though.”

Ro gave Lucie a hug and sailed out the door. Time to at least begin tackling the storage room. Lucie supposed she could call Mrs. Carlucci and tell her to get her stuff out, but saddling an eighty-five-year-old woman with all the junk was just plain mean.

She pushed open the swinging saloon doors—those had to go—and took in the stacks and stacks of battered boxes. Sunlight poured through the glass door, illuminating the multitude of dust particles floating in the air.

She flipped the switch on the wall, swarming the place with fluorescent light that could fry an egg. That fixture would have to be changed. She’d add an electrician to Joey’s to-do list. In this town, there had to be at least one electrician who might want the opportunity to work off his gambling debts.

Hypocrite. That’s what she was.

“Dammit.”

This life. So complicated. She should find someone on her own. Just jump on the Internet and find a local electrician. One who would probably overcharge.

Still, she could say she’d handled it. By herself.

She grabbed hold of a square banker’s box and opened it. Paper work. She scanned the first few pages. Vendor invoices from 1985.

“Garbage.”

Easy.

She grabbed another box stacked on top of a taller box the size of a dishwasher. Hang on. That bigger box looked newer. Not like the rest of the dust-covered ones with tattered edges and the funky pukish color of old cardboard. And she didn’t remember seeing it back here before.

She dragged it out and found another identical one behind it. And another. Then another.

Five in all.

On the last box, a white label had been torn off the front, but a corner with a date—six months ago—still remained. Six months. Mrs. Carlucci said she hadn’t been in the space in almost a year.

A snaking feeling curled around Lucie’s neck and moved straight up into her skull. Someone had put these boxes in here recently. Hopefully it had been Ro storing fabric samples or something.

But Ro had already told her she wouldn’t deal with this mess. And she wouldn’t have buried the boxes under the older ones.

Nope. Without a doubt, someone didn’t want Lucie to see them.

Joey.

At least she wouldn’t find a dead body in the boxes. Even pain-in-the-butt Joey couldn’t commit murder. But he might agree to help hide stolen merchandise for one of their father’s cronies.

“Please, Lord. Don’t let him have done this to me.”

He wouldn’t. Not after they’d been getting along so well. He knew what Coco Barknell meant to her and wouldn’t risk her business. Would he?

She flipped the top of the box and—gah!—the horror. Inside were the ugliest velour tracksuits—red, green, black, navy—she’d ever set eyes on.

Resting her head back, she stared at the ceiling where a watermark would need to be repaired. More issues. Great. She squeezed her eyes closed and fought the swirling panic ricocheting around her head.
Damn him.

“No, no, no. He did
not
do this to me.”

She glanced back at the box and reached in, sliding her hand along the edge as far down as she could go. She went through the next box, rifling through the contents. More tracksuits.

Next box.

More tracksuits.

After sifting through all five boxes, she stood tall and set her hands on her hips.

Five boxes of the ugliest velour tracksuits money could buy.

“I won’t just kill him,” she said. “I’ll bury him in one of these ugly suits. I’ll make our mother see him in this thing.”

That alone would destroy Joey.

Storming back to the front room, she snatched her phone off the desk and dialed the soon-to-be dead man.

“What’s up?” Joey said, his voice slightly hoarse.

She’d woken him up. Good.

“I’m going to bury your giant butt in one of these tracksuits.” And then her barely contained temper broke loose, tearing up her flesh like a band saw. “How could you do this to me? I trusted you.”

“Ho!” he hollered. “What bug crawled up your ass?”

“I just found your little stash in the storage room at Carlucci’s.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Oh, now he wanted to play dumb and pretend these boxes hadn’t fallen off a truck somewhere. That he hadn’t stored—or perhaps let someone store—stolen items in her workplace? Idiot.

“You’re trying to tell me you don’t know anything about these ugly velour tracksuits hidden in my storage room? Only three people have keys to this place. Me, Ro and you. And Ro wouldn’t be caught dead in the same ZIP code as these suits. So you get down here and get rid of them.”

From Joey’s end of the phone, something squeaked. Probably his bedroom door.

“First of all,” he said, “I don’t know squat about any tracksuits.”