Cat In An Indigo Mood

Chapter 35

Imagine Seeing You Here

Temple sat on the edge of the insufficiently padded chair, tote bag clutched on her knees.

Lieutenant C. R. Molina was wearing a forest-green suit today that did nothing for her morning-glory-blue eyes. This woman needed a personal wardrobe consultant, but Temple was no masochist. Then again, Molina was career-driven enough to consider personal attractiveness a disadvantage. In public relations, being neat, clean, and articulate always counted for something. Not that Molina wasn't all of the above. It was just that neat, clean, and articulate didn't seem to do a thing for her. In that respect,

Molina was rather like a Double-mint Twin on a TV ad: bland beyond belief.

The notion of Molina with a twin sent Temple's mind on a free fall of speculation, so she hardly heard the operative question.

"What about my nose?" she asked too late to appear connected.

"Matt Devine speaks highly of it."

"Really?"

"At least he thinks you might be able to identify the source of an odor on a dead woman's clothing."

"Really." Temple's enthusiasm level had plummeted. "l can't say I much care for eau de morgue."

"The clothing spent very little time in the medical examiner's area. It's been held in Evidence."

Temple had a deep suspicion that "Evidence" was very near the morgue.

Molina produced a brown paper bag very like a large lunch sack--really!--and pushed it across the desk toward Temple.

"Do I get a hint what smell I'm supposed to detect?"

"Mr. Devine said he recalled smelling it when with you."

"Maybe it was at the funeral home for his stepfather's visitation."

"He says not. But he can't remember where. Come on, have a sniff. It can't kill you."

"I suppose you do disgusting stuff like this all the time?"

"Every day," Molina said gravely. "That's right." she encouraged as Temple uncrinkled the bag. "Come on, sniff!"

Temple essayed a delicate inhalation and reared back. "Wow.

That bag really intensifies the odor. It's strawberry-scented room freshener. I'd say a pretty pure dosage. Over dosage. Whew!" She began choking on her words.

"We knew that," Molina said wearily. "Where you might have smelled it is the question."

"Very bad ladies' rest rooms, like in non-name-brand gas stations."

"Where you smelled it . . . when you were with Matt Devine," Molina elaborated. "Or is there something I should know?"

"Funny." Temple clapped a palm to her face and thought.

"Hmm. Some car washes have that stuff around. You know, when you're sitting in the miserable little room with sixteen three-year-olds hunting and fishing magazines watching your baby go through the suds cycle on the other side of the window?"

"I don't know. I wash my car myself."

"You do?"

"I have help."

When Temple looked even more speculative, Molina added, "Child labor."

"Oh, right. You have access to that. Louie doesn't wash much but his own body parts."

"I assume we can presume that Matt Devine has never kept you and the hunting magazines company in a car-wash waiting room?"

"No. I haven't washed a car like that in years, actually. But that's where I smelled that pukey ultra-strawberry stuff."

Temple leaned forward to pull out a fold or two of skirt. "Polyester," she diagnosed, making a face. "From about 1978. Polyester was very big back then. Of course! Why didn't you tell me it was polyester!"

Temple had to give Molina credit for not answering as if the game of Clue: "Polly Ester in the Laundry Room, smothered with a scented fabric-softener strip."

"May I assume, 'Eureka?"

"Secondhand store. Not upscale. They use it to get rid of that lived-in smell on clothing. It tends to, um, cling."

"And you were in such a place with Mr. Devine?"

"Where do you think he got that racy red couch? You have seen it? I thought so."

"I'll do the interrogations. Are you thinking of a particular place?"

Temple nodded grimly. "One place. Occasionally has some neat stuff, but overdoes the ripe strawberries."

"Do you think the management would recognize the outfit?"

Temple pulled out the permanently pleated navy polyester skirt, the floral polyester blouse.

She felt sorry for the murder victim already.

"A lot of their business is consignment. They keep meticulous records. They can probably tell you from whose closet this came."

"As well as to whom it sold?"

"Maybe."

Molina nodded, well pleased, if no less sallow-looking. "Can l count on you to take me there?"

"You yourself, Lieutenant?"

"This lead is much too important for mere detectives, don't you think?"

"I don't know, but I can tell you this."

"What?"

Temple fingered the sleazy, used polyester. It was wrinkle-free.

"This was a modest lady. How did she die?"

"She was strangled and stabbed behind a nightclub."

Temple shook her head, repelled by the brutal facts. "No. Not Miss Strawberry Polyester.

Something's wrong."

Molina was silent. When she looked at the brown paper bag neat Temple's hands, it was with regret. "That's what I called her, the Strawberry Lady. Maybe you can help put a name on her."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I can put a name on this one."

Temple reached into her tote bag and pulled out a copy of the newspaper folded to reveal Janice Flanders's sketch, along with a copied fistful of photos from Gloria Fuenres's magicians-assistant days, fishnet hose and all.

Glory days.

Molina looked like she'd seen a ghost, and it wore eau de morgue. "You never cease to amaze," she muttered, paging rapidly through the copies. "Where the hell did you find these old photos?"

"At the university. What do you think of my nose for news now?"

The bolt from the blue of Molina's eyes was sharp, and full of warning.

"Dangerous. I've always thought it was."

"But you'll use it."

"That's my job."

She stood, and the interview was over.

But the case was not. Her desk phone rang before she could tell Temple to skedaddle.

"Molina," she barked at whoever was on the other end.

Whoever it was barked back. Molina sat down again at her disk chair. "When? Well, it's your job to be sure! I see. Any theories? Right. Can't wait."

She eyed Temple as she hung up, looking like the wolf that was contemplating tenderloins of Little Red Riding Hood. Hungry.

*****************

Molina called someone from her cell phone while they were en route. The same mustached detective Temple had seen on an earlier homicide case--the cover-hunk-model deaths, wasn't it? drove.

The Crown Vic swung around the comer, tossing Temple and her tote bag halfway across the otherwise empty back seat. She dug the handy metal high heels of her Stuart Weitzman magenta suede pumps into the serviceable carpeting like pitons. She could use some company as buffer.

Molina had not said where they were going, but she maintained custody of the photocopied likenesses of Gloria Fuentes.

"Where are we going?" Temple finally piped up.

"Goldilocks' bizarre bazaar, than Grizzly Bahr's place," Molina growled.

No wonder Temple was confused--she had been casting herself in the wrong fairy tale; no wolf, no Little Red; now she was Goldilocks and had been sleeping in the wrong bed. Oops, fairly Freudian, that notion. But if this mysterious "Grizzly Bahr" was Papa Bear, was Molina Mama Bear? Then who was Baby Bear? Not her!

"Isn't it . . . unusual," Temple tried again, "for you to be out on a case yourself?"

The detective at the wheel slid Molina an expectant glance.

He thought so too.

"This isn't a case; it's a circus."

*****************

"What was that address?" Molina shot over her shoulder at Temple.

Temple told the driver, feeling that treating a homicide detective as if he were a common cabbie must be against some law.

Not that the Crown Victoria didn't have a smooth ride, but the driver didn't reduce speed much to take the corners.

When the car pulled up at the designated address, they all stared at its humble facade.

"Many Happy Returns" read a hand-lettered sign above the aging Strip-center's shop doorway.

An eclectic collection of household items littered the sidewalk. Temple was sure that there was a statute against exhibiting a used baby carriage next to a rolling bar-cart covered in leopard vinyl.

Apparently Molina and her minion weren't here to enforce paltry city ordinances. They got out and wove indifferently through the slightly abused clutter. Temple followed.

The minute they crossed the threshold, the trail they sought became patently clear. A miasma of strawberry air-Freshener hung invisibly over crowded racks holding used clothing hung on wire hangers.

"I remember coming to this place with Matt. We didn't stay long," Temple said. "Sometimes it has something; sometimes not."

She idled over to the display case that also served as pay station. A plus-size elderly woman in polyester-knit pants was arranging new arrivals on the long clothes rack behind her.

A miniature dachshund curled on a pillow atop a stool growled at their approach, and followed up with two sharp yaps of dislike.

"I'll be right with you," the woman caroled over her T-shirt-clad shoulder, when she turned to the foursome, her open features showed immediate perplexity. Finally, her trifocal glasses fixed on Temple.

"I haven't seen you in here for some time."

"No, been too busy to get around to the shops much. This is, ah--" Temple was mercifully cut off before she could make introductions. "We're the police."

Molina waved a clip-on identity badge pulled from her jacket pocket. "We have some questions about clothes we have reason to believe were purchased here."

She lifted the brown paper evidence bag to the glass counter top, obscuring most of the costume jewelry displayed on the top shelf, which Temple had been discreetly checking out.

"Are you the owner?" Molina donned latex gloves and began easing the clothing out of the bag.

"Sure. Bernice Grandy. Been at this location for ages. But what makes you think these clothes came from here ?"

An awkward silence. No one wanted to say the joint smelled like fermenting strawberries.

Molina must have found awkward silences useful in her work, because she let this one lengthen into an embarrassment before she broke it. "That's why Miss Barr is with us. I understand that she's something of an expert in the used clothing area."

"Gently worn," Bernice corrected, gently. She struggled into the latex gloves that Molina extended and smiled at Temple.

"Now I remember what you got here last! That sixties hot-pants outfit with the cute little marabou jacket."

"Ah, I bought that as a curiosity. Not to wear." Temple eyed her audience, who eyed her back. Nobody believed her. "But you've got a great memory for clothes, Bernice. I thought you might remember these."

Bernice unfolded the items, shaking her head. "Your stuff I remember. It's always different. I never thought I'd unload that size-six sixties outfit, and that was when sizes were smaller than they are today. But this stuff. it's . . . pretty routine. I don't charge much for it and it usually ends up on a discount tack. Hmmm.

Size 14."

They waited, while the dachshund sighed and curled into a cozier sleeping position, apparently bored with their business.

"That's interesting."

"What is it?" Temple asked.

"I did get a pile of stuff like this a couple months ago, all in size fourteen. I think somebody died."

"So do we," Molina added.

Bernice didn't quite make the connection that the clothes in question had last covered a corpse.

"Let me get my book," she said, lumbering through the many racks to the back of the store, doffing the latex gloves as she went.

Temple responded to Molina's look. "Bernice assigns a number, price, and description to each outfit so she can reimburse the consignors."

"So there's actually a chance that she might be able to identify where these clothes came from?"

"And where they went, if the buyer paid by credit card or check."

"Didn't look like a credit-card spender to me," the male detective put in.

"If it was cash--" Temple shrugged. "Unless she signed up for Bernice's mailing list, but it'd be hard to tell who was who."

"This the only resale shop that smells like 'Strawberry Fields Forever!' " Molina wanted to know.

"It's the most obvious, for some reason. Resale clothes can smell . . . stale, more so than vintage clothes, because those really haven't been worn in decades. But you should--"

Molina's Medusa look at Temple would have turned fire to ice.

"Here she comes. Now we'll find out something."

"--know that," Temple trailed off in a mutter.

At Molina's words, hailing the return of Bernice, the male detective had immediately focused on the arriving hard evidence.

Gee, Temple hadn't meant to give away Molina's experience in finding vintage clothes for her Carmen persona.

Bernice hefted the massive ledger to the countertop, pushed her glasses firmly against the bridge of her nose, and began paging through the hand-written entries.

"I'm guessing November."

"We're in a hurry," Molina said.

"Don't get your culottes in a twist; there were at least sixteen items in the consignment I'm thinking of; should be easy--yes, here it is. November twelfth. hmmph." She stared through the lowest trifocal bar on her lenses at the mounded clothes. "Navy poly suit. Yup."

"You have a record of the buyer?" Molina demanded.

"Might. Now l have to look in the receipts."

Bernice reached under the counter and pulled out a . . . shoe box. "l think this sold before Christmas. Let me see--"

Molina and her minion openly fidgeted, while Temple, unhurried, window-shopped the display case.

Bernice's unlipsticked mouth made a sound between a "tsk" and a smacking kiss. She was nodding as she pulled a small yellow paper from the shoe box. Temple noticed the brand was Red Cross, not exactly her high-flying style.

"Used a check."

"Did you get a name" and address?" Molina asked almost breathlessly.

Bernice shook her penned lamb's fleece of white hair. "Nope. It's one of those temporary checks they give You when you an account."

Temple aborted a smile at Molina's exasperated expression.

"But I got a driver's license number. Will that do?"

Bingo! Cop faces beamed.

"I wonder if I could see that mesh metal belt," Temple told Bernice while the detective was squinting at the yellow receipt, writing clown the long string of numbers.

"That'll have to wait until you're on your own time." Molina scotched private enterprise as she stacked the "clothes and picked up the brown bag. "Thanks very much for your trouble," she told Bernice.

By then, her minion's notebook held not only what could be the dead woman's license number, but Bernice's name, address, and phone number at work and at home.

All three traipsed outside and stood for a moment in-the silent communion of a job well done at last.

"Detective Morris Alch," the man told Temple. "I met you on that cover-boy case."

She almost blushed at having her mind read.

"What a lame operation," Alch said. "Are the used places all this informal?"

"We wouldn't have gotten anything from a regular clothing store," Molina pointed out. "No sales clerk would have "ever remember a particular item." She turned to Temple. "Did that

'sixties hot-pants outfit' reek of strawberry air-Freshener too?"

"I didn't know you cared."

"I don't. Answer the question."

"Yeah, but I hung it off the balcony for a couple of days-until the smell was almost gone, then I had it dry-cleaned. And I kept it separate from my other clothes for a few weeks until it really aired out."

"The victim didn't bother doing any of that, obviously. I wonder why."

"Maybe she wasn't as sensitive to smells. So. We're done?"

Molina's smile was almost sadistic. "Noooo. We haven't visited Grizzly Bahr yet." She turned to Alch, smile still lethal. "Next stop; you should enjoy this too."

*****************

Temple had only visited a medical examiner's facility in Manhattan, but she recognized this one immediately after they had been allowed through a secured door.

Once again her nose for news was causing her trouble. She could smell that faintly sweet, faintly rotten tang in the air, so subtle you thought you were imagining it because you expected it.

Grizzly Bahr lived up to his name: a big, burly man in his sixties with sun-freckled face and hands, and a larger-than-life manner.

"Civilian?" He cast one corrosive glance at Temple from under albino thickets of eyebrow.

He might as well have said, "Fresh meat?"

Molina nodded. "Now. What about the second victim's body?"

"That's if you assume these two deaths are connected." Grizzly took relish in pointing that out as he turned to lead them down halls and through doors. Temple tried not to glance into side rooms they passed, but she couldn't help seeing a naked female body on a gurney. A clinician in a laboratory slicing brain material like it was pate, more technicians taking fingerprints from a head-less, legless torso burned beyond recognition.

"You okay?" Detective Alch asked softly, cupping a hand under her elbow.

"Fine. I just seemed to be walking through quicksand for a stretch there."

"Don't look, don't ask," he advised. "And don't breathe through your nose."

Temple nodded. "If I'd known I'd be visiting here I would have brought my Vick's. Maybe I'll just think of strawberries."

"Excellent idea."

By then Dr. Bahr had led his troupe into an examination room.

His white-jacketed bulk, matched by Molina's dark-coated presence, was enough to obscure the steel although Temple glimpsed a vulnerable row of toes.

"Amazing," Molina said. "And you discovered it--?"

"When I brought the body out to confirm the identity against the photocopies you faxed over."

"What do you make of this, Alch?"

The detective reluctantly shouldered his way into the line.

Temple didn't need to know. She had no curiosity except as to whether she would faint if she had to confront naked and the dead form of the chorus-girl lithe figure from time old posters of Professor Mangel's.

While she was thinking so hard about how she might react if confronted by a dead body, somehow the trio had parted like a human curtain. Temple glimpsed the waxy yellow form of an unclothed mannequin. Across the bare and bony chest were words, "she left."

No caps, no quotes, no punctuation, Temple noticed trying desperately not to inventory any other background details.

"How do you explain it showing up now! Tampering?" Molina was asking.

Grizzly Bahr shook his big, shaggy head.

"Not at all. it was always there." Once the silence had held for a suitably dramatic moment, he nodded portentously, "It was written in some kind of disappearing ink. The lights here, or changes in the body's composition. er, decomposition, brought it out in due time."

"Bizarre." Even Molina sounded impressed. "Imagine." turned to Temple. "A magician's assistant, murdered and with invisible ink. Almost as if someone is playing with us. This definitely links the two deaths."

Temple nodded miserably.

"It would seem so," Grizzly Bahr agreed with small

"It had better be disappearing ink. I'd hate to think someone was sneaking into my morgue to mess with my bodies. We've got better security than that."

"People actually' try to sneak into MEs' facilities?" Temple asked.

"All the time," Bahr boomed genially. "Especially when we have celebrity autopsies."

Temple shook her head. She wouldn't want to try any of these rolling steel beds on for size, even if Papa Bear Bahr presided in person.