“Shoot, I’ve got mirrors in every room in my apartment.”
“Well, then you’re covered,” I said. “Terry seems like a nice, agreeable woman. Hardworking, sensible shoes. That’s exactly who you have to watch out for. Those nice-sounding women in boring shoes. They’re the ones who snap. Don’t trust a women who doesn’t care what she puts on her feet.”
It was true—shoes tell.
“She could be in financial difficulties, but didn’t seem desperate and didn’t strike me as someone who’d do anything illegal, much less commit murder. She also said she’d rather be selling outdoors at the flea market. Didn’t sound very cutthroat to me.”
“Single?”
“I didn’t ask and she didn’t say, but no ring.” I twisted the ring on my own ring finger; it was one I’d bought myself and I wasn’t married, so what did rings mean? Inconclusive.
“Question mark. But if we’re definitely adding the makeup case to the mix, I’d say no. At the risk of sounding mean, she had a unibrow. I doubt the woman owns a tweezer much less a tube of Anastasia Beverly Hills brow gel.”
Were we really making assessments of guilt or innocence based on health and beauty products? Footwear?
Connie Anzalone’s name was the next on the list. She could certainly afford anything in that makeup bag, and hadn’t I seen her in full war paint, even coming back from the ladies’ room at the St. George, even when she knew she’d be back in her room in half an hour? But her husband wasn’t at the show on Friday night. Could she have been arguing with someone else? Who? Fat Frank? Another man?
“Wouldn’t her distinctive manner of speaking have registered with Nikki?” she said.
“That was very diplomatic of you and it’s a good observation, but
As much as I didn’t want to believe it, there was something about the woman’s cutting remarks in the lounge exchange that smacked of the same casual viciousness I’d heard when Connie and Guy had had their brief but volatile tiff in the hotel bar. And the memory of the lye comment was still, uh, seared in my brain.
“I had drinks with Connie at her hotel. When Guy arrived, I got a glimpse of their relationship. Talk about a thin line between love and hate.”
“Were the Anzalones funny?”
“Shut up. This is serious. The husband may be involved in some not quite legal activities. And he’s got these two—I don’t know, goons, flunkies—at his beck and call.”
“Fat Frank and Cookie, I remember. There’s legal and there’s illegal. Just what does he do?”
“He lends money. Maybe takes bets. Is that illegal or just unsavory?” Rolanda didn’t know. She hadn’t taken that class yet.
“If my cop friend is right and greed, lust, and revenge account for most of the crime in this world, chances are we can eliminate the Bagua Lady on all three counts. Cindy Gustafson could have revenge on her side of the ledger if Garland knew her sister and something bad had gone down between them. The Anzalones are at least two for three—they have money and there’s a beautiful woman involved. It doesn’t please me to say this but we may need to put them on the Possibly Involved list.”
“Keep your voice down,” Rolanda said, looking over my shoulder. “Guess who just walked in?”
Forty-five
Rolanda slid all the way over to hug the inside of the booth and stay out of sight of the new arrivals. I did the same.
I felt, more than heard, the couple sit down in the booth behind us. First one thud then a softer one that gently rocked the booth Rolanda and I were sharing. Brian came over to take their drink orders and would have asked if we needed refills, but the look on Rolanda’s face and a slight move of her index finger sent him away without his saying a word. She mouthed something I couldn’t understand and repeated the action three times before I realized the name she was saying—Kristi Reynolds.
I was mildly curious to know what Kristi had said to the cops, especially if she had implicated Jamal Harrington and the other student gardeners because of the trade show mishaps, but I had no reason to hide and didn’t particularly care who she was getting cozy with, so Rolanda’s precautions puzzled me. But the future cop saw or knew something I didn’t, so I kept quiet and stashed the makeup bag.
They spoke softly, but I picked up snatches of the conversation, especially when the man spoke. He had a hearty salesman’s delivery and his speech was peppered with excruciating cliches like “Whatever floats your boat” and “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.” They were the kind of lines that all but ensured his back wasn’t getting scratched any time soon. I didn’t know how Reynolds stood it.
“What we have here is a symbiotic relationship,” he said, his tone getting warmer.
I started to wonder if we should do the sisterly thing by saying hello and giving the poor woman an escape strategy when she dropped the bomb.
“Listen, pal, what we have here is a temporary arrangement. Very temporary. We both know I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire if you hadn’t accidentally seen something you weren’t meant to see. So you can stop pretending that we’re going to be picking out china patterns anytime soon. The minute this weekend is over, I’m going to make a nice little bonfire with your flyers, your business cards, and that ugly shirt you gave me.” Kristi Reynolds spoke the words slowly and, if I had to guess from the tone, they were delivered with a smile, so no one watching from a distance would ever imagine they weren’t a happy, flirtatious couple out for a predinner drink. It was eerie.
“Here’s the list and a map so you don’t screw it up. Thirty-five locations. Make sure you stay away from these ten. Is that clear? If you concentrate on the top five, we should get the response we want.”
She instructed the man on how to proceed. Refusing to take the hint, the man still tried to turn the business meeting into a social one and suggested they’d celebrate together when the job was done.
“If that pudgy wet thing on my leg is your hand, remove it now before I stick a fork in it and you never get to date Mrs. Palmer and her five daughters again.” She laughed at the end as if they were having a fabulous time and she’d just said something wildly amusing.
Dang, the woman had a way with words! Why didn’t I ever come up with lines like that? My bon mots generally came at four in the morning, long after the moment to deliver them had passed.
Kristi excused herself and walked to the bar for another drink.
“That was fast. Hard drinker?” Rolanda whispered.
“I think she wants to get away from him before she goes too far. She still needs him for something and she’s giving herself time to ratchet down. That’s what I’d need to do after the fork comment,” I said. “I’d be hyperventilating.”
On her way back, mixed drink in hand, Kristi looked at Rolanda—out of uniform—and couldn’t quite place her. Then she came a step closer and saw my exhibitor badge. The three of us nodded politely, and Rolanda and I feigned surprise, as if we hadn’t known she was there. I didn’t think she bought it.
The next ten minutes passed quickly and Rolanda and I didn’t hear much. Obviously Kristi had advised the man to keep his voice down. Was she getting a kickback from his sales or giving him leads? Whatever it was, they were in bed together, figuratively if not literally. I took a page from Kristi’s book and went to the bar for a beer but really to see who it was she had been emasculating.
He was about forty years old; thick, dark blond hair; a little pasty; probably ten years and ten pounds past his prime but still the kind of guy your mother’s friends would refer to as “a good catch.” He wore a sport jacket over a polo shirt and khaki slacks. Kristi and her male companion kept the conversation to a minimum, and after what she must have considered a reasonable amount of time, they got up to leave. I went out of my way to say good-bye, hoping the man would turn around and I’d get a better look at him, but he didn’t bite. At their abandoned table were a few crumpled dollars and Kristi’s untouched second drink. She recoiled as the man attempted to put his hand on her shoulder, and they left the bar.
