Part 12 (1/2)
By the next morning, I'd decided that two could play the same game. Declan was out to charm his way to information? Well, even on my best days, I'd never been accused of being charming. But I sure as heck could be proactive and clever.
As soon as ten o'clock rolled around and I knew George, Denice, and Inez didn't need any help at the Terminal (why would we when our parking lot was empty and the parking s.p.a.ces in front of Caf-Fiends were full?), I headed over to Artisans All, the gallery across the street that was wedged between the beauty shop and the empty storefront.
Like Caf-Fiends, Artisans All was housed in a redbrick building that had seen better days. Still, somehow the faded bricks looked just right with the tasteful robin's-egg blue front door and the wreath of bright spring flowers that hung there along with the OPEN sign. Like Caf-Fiends, the front window was decorated to the hilt. This time, there were no stuffed bees or paper flowers. Instead, the gallery window held a tasteful array of handmade jewelry, a hand-painted silk kimono, ceramic pots, and hand-dipped candles.
I had never been a fan of artsy-craftsy and what I saw sure wasn't worthy of Rodeo Drive, but most of it was interesting and some of it was downright impressive.
I pushed open the door and was greeted by a woman of sixty-some years with frizzy red hair piled loosely at the top of her head. Her orange caftan and bead-encrusted sandals seemed more suited to Key West than they did to Hubbard.
”You're Laurel.” She held out a hand and, before I had a chance to shake it, she introduced herself as Carrie Farmer and added, ”You know, we've all been talking, everyone in the neighborhood. We knew you were coming. Sophie told us. But no one imagined you'd bring so much excitement along with you.”
”The excitement has nothing to do with me,” I was sure to tell her.
Carrie smiled. She wore a thick gold hoop in one ear, a thinner, bigger hoop in the other, and three rings on each hand. ”I've got coffee,” she said, and turned to glide to the back of the store. ”Cream and sugar?” she called from a back room.
I asked for sweetener and took a minute to look around. As I suspected from the display in the front window, the gallery was filled with pretty things: framed photographs of wildflowers, handmade soaps from a place called A Goat in Bubbles, beaded jewelry, knitted scarves. It was all displayed with style, and the prices . . .
I checked out a pair of earrings-dangling purple stone b.a.l.l.s-displayed near where I stood.
I was in the Midwest; the price was a steal. Back in the day when I had a job-I mean a real job-I wouldn't have thought twice. These days . . .
I set down the earrings, and when Carrie returned to the front of the gallery I took the cup of coffee she handed me.
”So . . .” She looked me over. ”I guess everything they say about you is true.”
I sipped my coffee. ”That depends on who they are and what they say.”
When she laughed, she opened her mouth wide and threw back her head. ”Alexander McQueen shoes, and that green-and-black-striped jersey top is from the spring collection at Saks, if I'm not mistaken. The jeans . . .” She gave them another look. ”Maybe not top-of-the-line, but very close to it. You were some hot shot out in Hollywood, weren't you? Just like Sophie told us.”
”Sophie tends to exaggerate. I was a personal chef, that's all.”
”Well, you were a personal chef with very good taste.” Carrie set her china coffee mug down on the gla.s.s-topped display counter and folded her hands together at her waist. Her fingernails were very long and painted a blue that matched the front door. ”And now you've got a murder mystery on your hands.”
I was grateful she'd brought up the subject. It saved me from doing it. ”The police have released their only suspect.”
Carrie wore lipstick that was nearly the same shade as her flowing caftan. When her top lip curled, it left a smudge of orange under her nose. ”Those people!” She snorted. ”You can't tell me that little twerp didn't do it.”
”You know Owen Quilligan?”
She tsked. ”I don't have to know him. I know them.”
I wasn't sure what she was getting at. I was sure from the tone of her voice that whatever she was talking about, it was sure to p.i.s.s me off. ”Them? You mean the Quilligan family?”
”Like I said, never met the kid. Or his family, as far as I know. But the Sheedy family, the Fury family . . . all those types who call themselves Travellers. That's who I mean. I wouldn't put it past any one of them to kill somebody and not blink twice.”
Her a.s.sessment didn't jibe with what Declan had told me about family and loyalty. ”What can you tell me?” I asked Carrie.
”Gypsies. Crooks. Every one of them.”
Oh, don't think I'd forgotten that Declan was only out to charm the socks off me so that he could help his cousin out of a bind. But that didn't make him dishonest. Did it?
”They've got records?” I asked Carrie.
She gave an unladylike snort. ”They should. You know what they do, don't you?” she asked, then without waiting for me to answer, she told me. ”They live by some old-time, old-fas.h.i.+oned, outmoded set of rules and they keep to themselves because they have plenty of secrets and they don't want anyone on the outside to find them out. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them spend their days gazing into crystal b.a.l.l.s and reading tarot cards! The rest of them? They travel through the area, mostly in the summer. They go around and offer to do maintenance work on people's houses. You know, new roofs, new driveways. Then they do a half-baked job. Or they use c.r.a.ppy materials. Or they take a person's money, start the work, then never come back to finish it. Travellers!” Another snort emphasized her opinion. ”Around here, we know better than to trust any of them.”
”Declan doesn't seem to be like that.”
”He doesn't have to be, does he? All right, I admit it, the man deserves one of those s.e.xiest Man of the Year awards. No doubt you've noticed. But, you know, him being over at that gift shop, that's just a front of sorts.”
I guess I was not as immune to charm and a handsome face as I'd hoped because the very thought made it hard for me to get the words out. ”A front for something dishonest?”
”For his law practice!” From the way she said it, I wasn't sure Carrie thought that made it dishonest or not. ”The man's job is to keep his relatives out of trouble and when that's not possible-and believe me, it's not usually possible-his job is to get his relatives out of trouble. You know that, don't you? He's an attorney, all right, but he only has one client, his own family. You can see why they'd need him, all those Traveller types showing up here from down south and pulling their scams. And that uncle Pat of his . . .” Carrie leaned closer and lowered her voice at the same time she slid a look in the direction of the beauty shop next door. ”They say he used to run the Irish mob in this part of the state, you know.”
”Used to?”
”Not what it used to be.” I couldn't tell if she approved or if she thought less of Uncle Pat because he hadn't made it to Al Capone status. ”Not nearly as influential or as violent as they were back in the day. But that doesn't mean they still don't get in trouble. The whole lot of them! Oh yeah, Declan, that's his job. He runs interference between his family and the law.”
Another thing he'd forgotten to mention.
I made a mental note of it, but rather than get distracted, I got down to business, and since Carrie apparently had something against Declan and his family, I decided to leave him out of it. ”Myra over at the coffee shop told me that on the night of the murder, she saw something outside the Terminal. A car. Parked there sometime before Sophie and I showed up around nine o'clock. I don't know if you were open late that night, but-”
”Monday nights, I close at five.”
I guess Carrie saw the way my shoulders drooped because her plucked-to-a-hair-breadth eyebrows rose and she was quick to add, ”But I was here late that particular night, going over the books.”
My head came up. ”Did you see the car?”
”A car?” As if it might kick-start her memory, she strolled toward the front window and looked across the street at the Terminal. For a long time, she stood lost in thought before she said, ”You know Jack Lancer spent a lot of time over there these last few weeks.”
”So I've heard.” I joined her. From this vantage point-with that pink and white kimono, a flowered teapot, and a row of silky scarves framing the scene-the Terminal looked more dreary than ever. ”Do you know what he was doing there?”
”I know what he wasn't doing!” Carrie tossed back her head. ”Man sure wasn't looking for a story idea. First day he showed up, see, it was all anybody around here could talk about. Then the next day, he was back again. I heard about it from Denice when she came outside for a smoke. Hey, I know how these TV types are. They're always looking for something new and interesting. So I figured, what the heck, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I put this on.” She pointed to our right and a display of chunky stone jewelry and touched a finger to a necklace made of sterling beads and lapis drops polished to a velvety finish.
”Wore that, and took a walk over to Sophie's place.”
The why wasn't a mystery. Hollywood had taught me a lot about self-promotion.
”You were hoping he'd realize that you sell wonderful art and do a story about the gallery. What did Jack Lancer say?”
”The son of a gun didn't even notice my jewelry. He did”-Carrie elbowed me in the ribs-”he did notice me, though. Not only did he ask me to join him for coffee, he wondered what I was up to that night and just about came right out and propositioned me.”
Kim did say Jack was something of a ladies' man. ”And you told him?”
Carrie hooted. ”I told him that I sell art, not myself. And I didn't have coffee with him, either, in case you're wondering. He might have been a TV star, but Jack Lancer was not my type. Too loud. Too pushy. You know what I mean?”