Killer Market

It was.

Pell offered the use of his phone and a gracious Southern male voice answered on the second ring, “Judge Simmard here. How can I help you?”

I identified myself and he said, “Ah, Judge Knott. Allow me to welcome you to the Triad. I’ve invited a few friends for dinner and would be so pleased if you could join us at Noble’s at eight-thirty tonight if you will excuse the short notice.”

“Why, that’s awfully nice of you,” I said, lapsing into my own gracious Southern female voice. “Just let me check with my hostess.”

“We’d be happy to have her join us, too, of course.”

I covered the mouthpiece and said to Dixie, “One of the judges here wants us to join his dinner party at someplace called Noble’s. What do you think?”

Despite her concern for Lynnette, a shadow of regret passed across Dixie’s face. “I can’t. Not with Lynnette here. But you go.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. People kill for reservations at Noble’s during Market Week. It’s the only five-star restaurant in town, and the food is wonderful.”

So I told Judge Simmard that I’d be charmed.

19

« ^ » “We must distinguish between a general principle and individual acts, the character of which must, in many cases, be determined by circumstances.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

Dixie felt she ought to check by her office, so we dropped her there and Pell left his van in her assigned parking space while we cruised the Market, hoping to get lucky and run into Savannah again.

Our first stop was the Fitch and Patterson showroom on the off-chance that Savannah would be drawn like a magnet to any place that Drew might be.

Except that Drew wasn’t there.

Jay Patterson gave me a distracted nod, but he was in deep conversation with what looked like corporate buyers. Indeed, Fitch and Patterson seemed to be doing a killer business. Most of the sales reps were huddled over order books with customers and calculators. As we passed, an attractive woman with short brown curls finished bowing two Japanese buyers out the door and turned to us with the happy smile of someone who’s just sealed a profitable deal.

“May I show you anything?” she asked. Her smile widened as she read Pell’s badge. “Mulholland Studios. I thought you looked familiar. Hi, I’m Tracy Collier.”

So this was the woman who had tried to dislodge Chan from Evelyn. She was probably thirty, slender, but not skinny, with wide hazel eyes. Quite pretty actually, in a clipped, efficient way. And she had a certain intensity of manner that was irresistible. People like Tracy Collier can make you feel that all their attention is focused on you because you are so utterly fascinating that they have no other choice. No wonder she was a good sales rep.

And no wonder that Chan had bought what she was selling until she went too far and involved Evelyn.

“Drew Patterson around?” I asked.

“Why, no, I believe she had to run over to Market Square for a little while.”

Her smile didn’t lose a scintilla of its warmth, but something cold flickered in those wide hazel eyes. It was gone again almost before I had time to register it, but I wondered if Drew knew she had an enemy. And was it because Drew was one of the owner’s daughters or because Drew had been her rival with Chan?

“Can I give her a message for you?”

“That’s okay,” we said.

As we walked away, I was glad Tracy Collier wasn’t anybody I needed to watch my back for.

Going through the showrooms with Pell was twice as much fun as doing it alone. He knew all the names, most of the facts and much of the gossip; and as we browsed, he kept up a running commentary.

“D34’s an Ashley knockoff. They never designed anything that clever on their own.” His soft voice was amused.

“Lovely fabric display. Guess this pattern will be showing up everywhere before the year’s out. See how many snips have been taken out of the bolt? Must be a dozen scissors walking around in pockets and purses in this room. Ah! See there?”

He nodded toward the mirror and I saw a man reflected as he surreptitiously snipped his own personal palm- sized sample from a length of expensive jacquard weave.

At one exhibit, Pell gave my arm a nearly imperceptible nudge that made me tune in on the confidential conversation going on beside us. Two men in suits, with briefcases.

“—may be sharp, but he’s crooked as a dirt road,” said one in a Virginia accent

“I’m telling you. He’s gotta be laundering mob money,” said the other, whose accent placed him in New Jersey or Long Island, “’cause I don’t care how sharp you are, you just don’t make that kind of money selling RTA.”

“What’s RTA?” I asked Pell when we’d moved on.