ball and all that?”
“Oh, yeah. It was great.” My brothers had never wanted the slightest thing to do with me. I was the alien with big hair.
“Yeah,” she said. “I miss home.”
“Poor Anita,” I said, reaching over to scratch Charley behind the ears, “never getting to go home.”
“Never getting to see her mom again.”
“Awful.”
“And that dreadful ex.”
“Hoo boy,” I said, looking right at her. “Worked at that insurance company, wore those dreadful ties. What a controlling—”
“Yikes,” she said, bending down. She pulled one of her eyelashes off a moss-covered brick. “Slippery little buggers. No, not him. He must be another ex I didn’t hear about. No, I meant the one who works at the used car dealership. Out in Bakersfield? That’s the creep I meant.”
“Oh, him, ” I said. “ He was in a class by himself.”
“Those letters he wrote,” she said.
“They were something all right.”
“Anyway, I should go,” she said, standing up. She had a tattoo on each ankle. A fairy and Betty Boop. “I only came down to get Charley. I’ve got some people waiting up in my apartment, and they must be done with their coffee by now. Two detectives, can you believe it? Knockouts. They look like they should have their own cop show or something.”
Whoops.
I leapt to my feet and started for the exit.
She wheeled around. “Actually, do you want to come upand talk to them? I mean, you knew Anita a lot better than I did. You might be able to help.”
“Help? With what exactly?”
“The case.”
“I heard it was an accident,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “That she fell.”
“I don’t know about that. They’re talking murder.”
Jesus.
“At least that’s what I’m hearing. But maybe I’m wrong. The whole thing’s kind of like freaking me out, to be perfectly honest.” She shivered dramatically.
I pulled out my brand-new BlackBerry and pretended to check my messages. “Oh, man. I was hoping this wouldn’t—listen, I’ve gotta run.” I looked at my watch. “I’d like to help, but I’ve got this work thing, and I’ve got less than half an hour to get downtown.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m supposed to go to rehearsal, but these cops say they need like an hour of my time. They’ve got a whole list of questions. Not that I’m about to feel sorry for myself. Not after what just happened to my friend.”
I watched her go back up the stairs with Charley and close the French doors.
When the coast was clear, I broke into Anita Colby’s apartment.”
Chapter 11
B reaking in may be overstating it a bit. The door to Anita’s apartment was ajar, so I pushed the rubbed brass knob and let myself in.
Another person might have wondered why the door to a recent murder victim’s apartment wasn’t sealed with police tape, much less bolted nine ways to Sunday, but another person probably wouldn’t have been in this particular situation to begin with, so there’s no point going down that road. Closing the door behind me, I slipped out of my ballet flats and put them in my purse. Then I tiptoed into the living room.
It looked like a movie set.
There were Oriental rugs on the dark hardwood floors, a folding peacock screen that made me think of Gloria Swanson, a persimmon satin chaise, a plum crushed-velvet settee, embossed leather ottomans, and hanging Moroccanlanterns with panes of multicolored glass. Two wrought-iron candelabras flanked either side of a baby grand piano, over which hung a portrait of a dark-haired woman in an antique gold frame.
I wanted the name of the set decorator.
Not that he or she would have been happy to see fried eggs on the coffee table with a cigarette stubbed out in them.
Or the half-empty wineglass with the dead fly floating in it.
Or the bouquet of white flowers, which must’ve looked beautiful once, but were now browned at the edges.
The kitchen was an unfortunate seventies redo with dark wood paneling, harvest
“Oh, yeah. It was great.” My brothers had never wanted the slightest thing to do with me. I was the alien with big hair.
“Yeah,” she said. “I miss home.”
“Poor Anita,” I said, reaching over to scratch Charley behind the ears, “never getting to go home.”
“Never getting to see her mom again.”
“Awful.”
“And that dreadful ex.”
“Hoo boy,” I said, looking right at her. “Worked at that insurance company, wore those dreadful ties. What a controlling—”
“Yikes,” she said, bending down. She pulled one of her eyelashes off a moss-covered brick. “Slippery little buggers. No, not him. He must be another ex I didn’t hear about. No, I meant the one who works at the used car dealership. Out in Bakersfield? That’s the creep I meant.”
“Oh, him, ” I said. “ He was in a class by himself.”
“Those letters he wrote,” she said.
“They were something all right.”
“Anyway, I should go,” she said, standing up. She had a tattoo on each ankle. A fairy and Betty Boop. “I only came down to get Charley. I’ve got some people waiting up in my apartment, and they must be done with their coffee by now. Two detectives, can you believe it? Knockouts. They look like they should have their own cop show or something.”
Whoops.
I leapt to my feet and started for the exit.
She wheeled around. “Actually, do you want to come upand talk to them? I mean, you knew Anita a lot better than I did. You might be able to help.”
“Help? With what exactly?”
“The case.”
“I heard it was an accident,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “That she fell.”
“I don’t know about that. They’re talking murder.”
Jesus.
“At least that’s what I’m hearing. But maybe I’m wrong. The whole thing’s kind of like freaking me out, to be perfectly honest.” She shivered dramatically.
I pulled out my brand-new BlackBerry and pretended to check my messages. “Oh, man. I was hoping this wouldn’t—listen, I’ve gotta run.” I looked at my watch. “I’d like to help, but I’ve got this work thing, and I’ve got less than half an hour to get downtown.”
“Yeah. I know. I’m supposed to go to rehearsal, but these cops say they need like an hour of my time. They’ve got a whole list of questions. Not that I’m about to feel sorry for myself. Not after what just happened to my friend.”
I watched her go back up the stairs with Charley and close the French doors.
When the coast was clear, I broke into Anita Colby’s apartment.”
Chapter 11
B reaking in may be overstating it a bit. The door to Anita’s apartment was ajar, so I pushed the rubbed brass knob and let myself in.
Another person might have wondered why the door to a recent murder victim’s apartment wasn’t sealed with police tape, much less bolted nine ways to Sunday, but another person probably wouldn’t have been in this particular situation to begin with, so there’s no point going down that road. Closing the door behind me, I slipped out of my ballet flats and put them in my purse. Then I tiptoed into the living room.
It looked like a movie set.
There were Oriental rugs on the dark hardwood floors, a folding peacock screen that made me think of Gloria Swanson, a persimmon satin chaise, a plum crushed-velvet settee, embossed leather ottomans, and hanging Moroccanlanterns with panes of multicolored glass. Two wrought-iron candelabras flanked either side of a baby grand piano, over which hung a portrait of a dark-haired woman in an antique gold frame.
I wanted the name of the set decorator.
Not that he or she would have been happy to see fried eggs on the coffee table with a cigarette stubbed out in them.
Or the half-empty wineglass with the dead fly floating in it.
Or the bouquet of white flowers, which must’ve looked beautiful once, but were now browned at the edges.
The kitchen was an unfortunate seventies redo with dark wood paneling, harvest
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