Killer Market

18

« ^ » “The necessity for a place to sleep, by its daily recurrence, has made the bed we use one of the most important subjects for consideration.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

“Did the police search this office?” I asked Pell when he rejoined us almost an hour later.

“Underwood knew it was here,” he reminded me. “They must have.”

“Savannah may be using the place occasionally,” Dixie said, “but where does she sleep?”

I threw up my hands in frustration. “If you ask me, she’s starting to sound like the Phantom of the Market. Drew says she pops up when least expected. Heather McKenzie says she went scurrying through the bowels of your building like Alice’s White Rabbit. And—”

“Of course!” Pell exclaimed. “Through the looking glass.”

“Excuse me?”

“I almost forgot about this.” He walked over to the large, gilt-framed mirror. “Years ago, she was grumbling about the lack of storage. The owners wouldn’t give her a bigger space, so she bribed one of the carpenters—”

He tugged at the mirror and it swung toward him on concealed hinges to reveal an open space between the wall of the office and the slanting roof. It was six feet tall at the doorway and several feet deep before rafters, studs and joists took over.

The storage space had been floored with rough plywood and Dixie and I immediately stepped inside, but it was much too dark to see anything beyond some sealed cardboard cartons. Heat had built up under the tin roof and the air was uncomfortably warm and stuffy.

“Look,” Dixie said and pointed to an electrical box down near the floor.

“That carpenter must have known a little something about splicing wires,” I said.

My brother Herman is an electrician and he would not have approved those exposed sockets, but the plug end of an orange drop cord lay on the floor beneath them and I could never resist an invitation. As soon as I plugged it in, a dim glow appeared about ten feet away.

Cautiously, Dixie skirted more cartons and walked through the hot still air toward the light. I was right behind her when she pushed aside some sheets that had been rigged to curtain off a small area. We found tote bags, a box of sketchpads and pencils, a bundle of winter clothes, and a deep mound of designer bed linens: sheets, comforters, blankets, and pillows (including a gold-tasseled black cushion) tossed together to form a human nest.

An empty human nest.

From behind us, Pell said, “Oh, my. You should have heard Jordan cuss when that whole Ralph Lauren setup went missing this winter. She thought one of the workmen stole those linens.”

As I turned to let him in, I saw numerous scraps of paper pinned to the curtain. Some had been clipped from Furniture/Today, a few were from the High Point paper, but most of them were pencil sketches done by Savannah. All but three were of Drew Patterson—Drew on Chan’s arm at a party, Drew and her father in a group at some Fitch and Patterson event, Drew’s lovely face smiling, laughing, full of mischief, serene and thoughtful.

The odd three were of Lynnette.

“I don’t think I like this,” said Dixie.

“I think we’d better call your friend David,” I said.

Detective David Underwood wasn’t in his office, but when I called his pager he returned my call within minutes, so I guess the three-five worked.

Pell told him about the rear entrance and went down to meet him. Fifteen minutes later, after I’d signed the search warrant he’d brought along, Underwood stood before the gilt-framed mirror and shook his head.

“Now how the expletive deleted did we miss those hinges?” he asked, shaking his head at his own inefficiency.

This time, he made a thorough examination of Savannah’s hidey-hole, sliding his hand down into each shopping bag (a handful of empty prescription bottles in one) and leafing through her notebooks (more sketches of furniture, Drew and Lynnette). The sealed cartons nearest the mirror looked as if they hadn’t been opened since Savannah originally put them there, so he didn’t bother with them.

But he did explore the surrounding attic space.

Only the part around her office had been floored, but by carefully stepping from one joist to the next, it was possible to walk the whole side of the building between the roof and office walls. The second floor covered slightly less than half the building. The other half, where sets were built, photographed and then torn down, was open from floor to roof except where high catwalks provided support to suspend chandeliers and other lighting fixtures.

At that end of the attic wall, several scrap pieces of boards had been laid across the joists to make a solid floor, and Underwood found a small hole in the sheetrock where someone could stand and look down into the studio.

Correction: where someone short could stand and look down into the studio.

All four of us had to stoop down in order to see through the hole.

It was like looking into a maze of ceilingless rooms and cubicles. No wonder Savannah could pop onto the floor whenever she spotted Drew.

I saw Randy Verlin screwing switchplates onto that “kitchen” wall. I saw the elderly black man position the newly assembled vacuum in the center of the blue carpet and polish away all his fingerprints from the gleaming red plastic body. I saw the movable stairs surrounded by a small semicircle of people who watched as the tall young man we’d seen earlier demonstrated how easily it could slide around. I gathered that the in-house reception included guided tours of the studio.

If Underwood thought it strange that I was here with Dixie and Pell, he didn’t say so. In fact, he seemed to accept Pell’s story about suddenly deciding to check out his colleague’s work space. When we regrouped in Pell’s workroom, he asked me to repeat what Drew Patterson had told me earlier.

“It’s not that much,” I said. “You really ought to ask her.”

“I will,” he promised, “but for right now…”

I shrugged. “We were discussing who could hand Chan brownies and get him to eat them without arousing his suspicions. Drew said any woman probably could, including Savannah because he knew her from when his wife—”

“My daughter Evelyn,” Dixie interposed grimly.

“—from when Evelyn was working here. For some reason, Savannah’s started believing that Drew is her daughter and by extension—because she’s seen Drew with Lynnette occasionally these last few months—she thinks Lynnette is her granddaughter.”

“What?” exclaimed Dixie and Pell together.

I was equally surprised. “Didn’t y’all know?”

Pell shook his head and Dixie said, “Of course we didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t realize there was anything to tell. Drew said that Chan often brought Lynnette over with him when he came and they would go out for ice cream or something while Chan was in conference.”

Dixie nodded. “That I knew.”

“Well, they kept running into Savannah and Savannah got it in her head that Chan and Drew were married and that Lynnette belonged to both of them.”

“That’s crazy!” Pell snapped.

“Delusional maybe,” I said and Underwood’s mustache twitched at that more politically correct term.

“Whatever she is,” Dixie said, looking at Underwood like a protective tigress, “you’ve got to find her, keep her away from my Lynnette.”

“For what it’s worth, Drew doesn’t think she’d hurt Lynnette and neither do I,” I said and described how the little girl had slipped away from me to go to Savannah and how Savannah had amused her by sketching pictures until we found them.

But then I remembered something else. “You know how Lynnette likes to rhyme words and names? How Pell’s Uncle Pelly-Jelly and I’m Judge Fudge?”

“So?”

“So she calls Savannah Savannah-Nana.”

Underwood saw my point. “Savannah’s probably heard other children call their grandmothers ‘Nana.’”

“Oh, dear God,” said Dixie.

Underwood gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “Now don’t you worry, Miss Dixie. We’re going to find her.” He hesitated. “Still and all, if that little girl was my granddaughter, I’d keep her on a short leash till this is cleared up.”

He asked us to stay out of Savannah’s office and took Pell’s key, then left to go find the security guards.

“Whups. I almost forgot.” He turned back to me, slapping at his pockets and finally pulling a ragged scrap from the breast pocket of his neat shirt. “Judge Simmard asked me to give you a message if I ran into you. Wanted you to call him.” He looked at the scrap of paper dubiously. “I think this is his number.”

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.