A Killer Closet by Paula Paul Page A

have hired a professional, but she insisted she knew—”
    “Excuse me, Harriet, can you give me the address of Mariposa Landing?”
    Harriet’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Irene. “You’re surely not thinking of going there.”
    “I’d like to. Just to have a look around.” She pushed away the memory of Andy’s warning her not to leave town.
    “Well, I don’t know…”
    “All you have to do is give me the address. I’ll just drive by and have a look at the outside of the place. Unless you want to come along; then we can go inside.”
    A worried frown marred Harriet’s face. “Of course I want to go along. It’s just that…”
    “What?”
    Harriet frowned. “Well, that’s trespassing, isn’t it?”
    “Not necessarily. I mean, she
invited
you and Adelle there. In the sense that she asked you to look for something there in the event something happened to her. And you just said, she gave you a key.”
    The frown disappeared. “You’re right! You’re absolutely right! When can we leave?”
    “Not as soon as I’d like,” Irene said. “I have a store to run. I need to hire someone to help out, and that may take a while.”
    Harriet waved her hand, dismissing the notion. “There’s no reason for it to take any time at all. I have the perfect person.”
    “Still, I’d like—”
    “You have nothing to worry about,” Harriet said. “I’ve known Angel for years. Cleans my house to make money to pay for school. Stays there to keep an eye on the place when George and I are traveling.”
    “But…”
    “I know what you’re thinking,” Harriet said. “You’re thinking a young housekeeper can’t necessarily sell clothes or use a cash register. Angel has worked in sales. You don’t have to worry.”
    “I’d at least like to meet—”
    “You’ll be impressed.” Harriet was already on her way to her car, parked in the church lot. She waved her mantilla at Irene as she disappeared around the corner of the church.
    —
    The yellow tape was gone and the bloodstains removed from the floor by the time Irene reached the store the next morning. She hardly had time to open the turquoise-colored hand-carved doors before customers showed up, making their way through the front courtyard to enter the store. Most of the early customers were locals. She’d already learned to spot them by the cowboy boots they wore with skirts—both long and short. Apparently, the cowboy boots had taken the place of the heavy Native American jewelry Santa Fe women had chosen as their trademark a few years ago when Irene left the city. They came because they were curious about Susana’s death. Irene answered the same questions over and over again.
    What did the body look like? What was she wearing? Who found her? Why was the body in her store? Wasn’t it kind of creepy that two bodies had been found there? Did the police think they knew who killed her?
    Irene answered all of their questions with answers that were as short as possible. In the course of the morning she learned that Susana had indeed been a prominent socialite in Santa Fe whom everyone seemed to know, and that her husband was a wealthy businessman who was now too ill to work.
    Tourists showed up a little later, and most of them had not heard the story. Many of them wore the beautiful turquoise they’d bought from Native Americans who displayed their wares on blankets spread in front of the old Palace of the Governors nearby.
    The day proved to be a profitable one. By noon, Irene had sold two Donna Karan dresses for almost one thousand dollars each. They had been more than two thousand dollars new. She also sold a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo boots, and an Akaris leather-trimmed dress. Afternoon customers went for less expensive items, but the store always had at least three customers. Irene had been so busy she didn’t have time to eat the egg sandwich she’d packed for herself until almost four o’clock.
    She’d just removed the plastic bag