Killer Market

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.

“Ready to assemble,” he said. “As opposed to RTO.”

“That I remember from Thursday night: rent to own.”

“Very good. What’s MSRP?”

“Manufacturer’s suggested retail price.”

“And No, No, No?”

“No down payment, no interest, no payments for a year,” I said smugly.

He brushed back the hank of long hair from his eyes and that elusively familiar smile gave approval. “You have been paying attention.”

The aroma of hot buttered popcorn wafted from a nearby booth to tempt buyers into a display of Southwestern pottery. I’d eaten nothing that day except a banana and a doughnut, and those bowls of candy at each booth were starting to call to me as well.

“Hungry?” asked Pell. “Then we should hit some of the bigger showrooms for real food. Come on.”

He led the way up the escalator and down a wide hall where one large exhibitor after the other had hospitality areas. Employees had to eat lunch, so did clients. Why not conduct a little business on the side at the same time? Instead of the usual candy and nuts, I learned that most of the big companies had food catered in. One showroom offered pizza squares, others had chicken drummettes or sausage biscuits, and still others provided a modest array of breads and salads. There was usually a bar, too, stocked with soft drinks and an occasional bottle of wine. Most were hosted by very attractive young women in very short skirts and very high heels.

At Redd-Peabody, all the hostesses wore red dresses.

“Because of the name?” I asked.

“So they would have you believe,” said Pell.

The showroom down the hall and around the corner from Redd-Peabody belonged to Tart, one of the oldest furniture houses in the state. The whole length of the hall had been paneled in Tart’s favorite walnut and the name of the firm was superimposed on the paneling in foot-high walnut letters.

Unfortunately, the Redd-Peabody hostesses in their tight red dresses chose to lounge against the wall and to take their cigarette breaks by the ashstand which stood directly beneath the wooden letters.

“I should have brought my camera,” Pell murmured as we passed.

“Well, sex sells liquor, cars, and clothes. No surprise that it sells furniture, too.”

“James was born in High Point,” said Pell, unconsciously assuming I knew who James was. “When he and his friends were boys, their fathers used to take them out to the airport to watch the hookers fly in for Market. Some of the bigger companies had party buses stocked with bars and wide seats. They used to pick up their best clients, drive them around for a few hours and then deliver them back to their hotels, sated and satisfied and ready to sign on the dotted line of a quarter-million order.”

“Used to?” I asked.

“Hookers still come in for Market, but they’re not as flagrantly subsidized now. Probably the AIDS scare.”

So far, neither of us had seen anyone remotely resembling Savannah, but I was convinced that she was probably somewhere loose in the Market, munching her way through the exhibits, too, and no doubt filling some of her plastic bags for a late supper or tomorrow’s breakfast. As long as Market lasted, she wouldn’t have to trek over to Yolanda Jackson’s soup kitchen.

Ever since we left Tracy Collier, Pell had been greeted by friends and clients, but I saw no one I knew until I caught a glimpse of a tall, slender woman with blonde hair and a familiar walk. I thought at first that it was Drew Patterson, but she proved to be Drew’s mother, Elizabeth, who accepted a kiss on the cheek from Pell and gave me a mischievous smile as she touched my badge and said, “I understand we’ll see you at dinner tonight, Judge Sotelli. Chick Simmard’s asked us, too.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, thinking what a nice woman Elizabeth Patterson seemed to be. Too bad Drew hadn’t inherited Elizabeth’s aquiline nose instead of a thinner version of Jay’s. On the other hand, getting that fashion-model body was nothing to gripe about. Better to inherit her father’s nose than her father’s chunky build.

The thought of one chunky build seemed to conjure up another. As Pell and I helped ourselves to fresh fruit cups from the Mindanao Wood Products Collective’s hospitality counter, I found myself face-to-face with Heather McKenzie.

Or rather, chin-to-hairline with her, since she was so much shorter.

I smiled. “You have an interest in Mindanaon wood products?”

She held up her own fruit cup. “Nope. Just an appetite for pineapples and fresh mangoes.”

I introduced her to Pell and we took our fruit out to a central hub of the building where benches were scattered around the balcony area.

She was dressed more seasonally today in a simple cotton tunic over blue straight-legged slacks. The tunic was severely tailored, with a stand-up collar, and the ivory color flattered her dark eyes. Her only jewelry was a single string of lapis lazuli and her lustrous black hair was braided into a single plait that hung down her back and reminded me of Lynnette’s.

“Would Savannah talk to you yesterday?” I asked, spearing a chunk of banana with my plastic fork.

“Not a word. I met them as they were leaving Century’s showroom. Drew Patterson had another appointment and I couldn’t get Savannah to stay.”

She sighed. “Maybe I should just forget about her and get on with my life.”

“Your life?” Pell was amused by the all-or-nothing gloominess of youth. “Surely a single profile’s not all that crucial?”

“It is when you’ve invested as much time and energy in it as I have. This wasn’t a one-shot deal. I was going to get a whole magazine series out it. I know she hasn’t been well, that she’s gone off her medications, and—”

I glanced at Pell, who lifted his eyebrow.

“Look, I did my homework,” Heather said. “I know all about the Hollytree Nursing Home in Athens, Georgia.”

She stared moodily into her fruit cup. “It’s so bloody unfair. I finally learn where she is and I’m too late. Her father died in December, did you know that? Her only living relative and he dies a week before I get there. I did meet a woman who knew her as a child and that was interesting. Her mother was extremely proper—white gloves and ladies calling on each other every afternoon for formal tea. That frilly dress she’s wearing now could’ve been one of her mother’s tea gowns.”

I frowned. “I thought you said this was your first real trip south.”

“I meant this whole assignment,” she said hastily. “Besides, I was only down there two days. Just long enough to visit her in the nursing home and start to talk to her and Bam! Next day, she’s gone. Just walks away without checking out. Her doctor said I’d stirred up too many memories. How was I to know she’d take off like that? When she’s off her medications, she thinks Drew Patterson’s her daughter. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” Pell said quietly. “We know.”

Heather suddenly looked at him with interest. “Pell Austin. Hey, you’re a designer, too, aren’t you? At Mulholland?”

Pell nodded.

“I bet you’ve known Savannah forever, haven’t you?”

“Over twenty years,” he admitted.

“What was she like back then?”

Pell started to tell her the same things he’d told me, but Heather brushed that aside.

“Other people have told me about her innovations,” she said. “But what was she like as a person? As a woman in a man’s world?”

“There have always been women in this industry.”

“A few tokens,” she said impatiently. “We all know the real powers in this business still wear three-piece suits and piss standing up. You think I haven’t sat in restaurants here waving my empty cup for more coffee while any man gets his topped off automatically? Dish me some dirt. Who did she have to sleep with to get her first big break?”

“Sorry,” he said lightly. “I wasn’t here then. She was twelve years older than I and already an established name when they gave me the studio next to hers, so if there’s any dirt, it was shoveled under long before I got here.”

Heather smiled suddenly and her dark eyes glowed as she patted his arm as if she were the forty-two-year-old professional and he the tyro of twenty-four. “She must have been pretty special to keep a friend like you all these years.”

Her tone was wistful.

Pell laughed and stood up. “Come on,” he said. “Why don’t you let me introduce you to Pasquale Natuzzi? Now there’s someone colorful enough for a whole series of magazine articles. The man’s revolutionized upholstered goods. Put affordable leather within everyone’s reach.”

“I’ve met Signor Natuzzi and I agree that he’s interesting, but I really want to do Savannah first.”

Pell threw up his hands. “Good luck to you then. Ready to go, Deborah? I told Dix we’d pick her up by five.”

It was only a little after four, but I didn’t argue. “Do I get to meet Signor Natuzzi?” I asked.

I didn’t.

Instead, we wound up stopping past the Stanberry showroom where I was the one making introductions. I showed Pell the headboard I’d put a down payment on. He was quite interested, got caught up in the Stanberrys’ enthusiasm and even suggested a couple of useful design modifications that had Mai and Jeff Stanberry nodding thoughtfully.

“You know, I can think of at least two chains who could fit these headboards into their stores very nicely,” Pell said and rattled off the names of some head buyers. “Give me your card and I’ll send them around.”

The Stanberrys were so excited by the prospect that they almost didn’t want to take my check for the balance I owed them.

Almost, but not quite.

Dixie was waiting for us in high good humor.

“One of my retailers finally got some of his own back,” she said as we miraculously found a half-empty elevator after waiting only eight minutes.

“How?” we obligingly asked her.

“You know those flipping eight-hundred numbers?”

She’d lost me.

“Only because you haven’t bought much furniture in your lifetime. Open any home furnishings magazine or tune into any home-shopping program and you’ll see ads exhorting you to call a one-eight-hundred number—‘Buy direct from the manufacturer at wholesale prices,’ they say.”

“That’s bad?”

“Disaster for my people. In the first place, buying direct means a lost sale for my little retailer. In the second place, Ms. Bargain Hunter never buys sight unseen. She wants to see the piece, sit on it, feel the fabric samples, maybe even use the computerized video display to see exactly what that fabric will look like on the couch she intends to buy. So she goes to my retailer, ties him up for an hour or two, writes down the style numbers, thanks him sweetly, then goes home and dials one-eight-hundred.

“One of my retailers down in Columbus finally got fed up with a customer like that. She’s been doing this to him for years and he’s had to smile and pretend he doesn’t know what she’s up to, hoping that eventually she’d realize how much service she’s been getting from him even though she’s never bought much beyond a couple of lamps and some throw rugs.

“But this time, when the expensive couch arrives from the wholesaler, Ms. Bargain Hunter is horrified. She calls one-eight-hundred, finally gets transferred to a human voice and shrieks, ‘I wanted pink rosebuds on my couch, not orange and purple plaid.’

“ ’I’m sorry, madam,’ says the wholesaler, ‘but you ordered fabric number 4879-J and that’s what we sent you.’

“So she calls to scream at my retailer, who says, ‘Did you think I said 4879-J? Oh, no, no, no, ma’am, I said 4879-A. 4879-A’s the rosebuds. Orange and purple plaid doesn’t suit your decor? Sorry, ma’am. If you’d bought it from us, we could make it right, but since you didn’t, I’m afraid we can’t help you.’

“ ‘Sorry, madam,’ says the wholesaler’s customer service manager. ‘But we sent what you ordered, so it’s your fifteen-hundred-dollar problem.’ ”

“The customer is not always right,” Pell told me as he unlocked the van.

“Damn straight,” said Dixie. “ ’Specially if she’s not a paying customer.”

“Why does Savannah think that Drew’s her daughter?” I asked as the porch swing moved gently back and forth like a small boat caught in the shallows.

Dixie shook her head. “I don’t know. You, Pell?”

Hie sun was sliding down the western sky and I was again on Pell’s screened side porch, a glass of wine in my hand. Dixie was in one of the wicker chairs, her long legs tucked under her as she waited for the Ragsdales to bring Lynnette back. Pell was in the kitchen putting together a coq au vin for their supper later, but he had opened the sliding glass window over the sink so that he could hear and be heard.

“It’s only when she’s off her medications,” he said. His voice was muffled as he turned away to slide the casserole into his oven.

“Heather McKenzie said that, too,” I said, “but why?”

We had told Dixie about Heather’s trip to Georgia back in the winter, so she was up to speed.

“Crazy people have crazy ideas. That’s how you know they’re crazy,” she said.

“No, I mean why Drew? Why not Evelyn or some other child?”

“I don’t know,” Dixie repeated. “We weren’t here when it started and Evelyn was older by the time we moved.”

But I was remembering something. “You said she had affairs with some of the biggest names in High Point. And Jay Patterson was one of them, right?”

“That’s only gossip. I wasn’t here then.”

Pell had finished in the kitchen and as he joined us, I said, “You were here in High Point then, weren’t you?”

“High Point, low point, what’s the point?” Pell asked lightly as he poured himself a glass of wine. “There is no point.”

“Yes, there is!” I said sharply. “The point is that Chan’s dead and she may have killed him with my penicillin. Even if it makes no sense to us, there has to be a reason that makes sense to Savannah.”

“Maybe.” He turned his wine glass in his hands and stared into the golden liquid, then sighed. “Okay. Yes, she did have an affair with Jay Patterson. Two affairs, actually. The first one ended when Elizabeth announced that she was pregnant—with Drew, as it turned out—and that was the first time Savannah took off. I guess it hurt too much to stay around and watch him make like a doting king awaiting the birth of the heir apparent. They said she was gone four months. She’d been back about six months when I started working at Mulholland and it was still fresh enough for me to hear all the gossip. For a while, it was all very civilized. She and Patterson acted more like old drinking buddies than past lovers.

“And she certainly wasn’t celibate. Back then she could drink like a sailor and swear like a lumberjack—or is it the other way round? What Heather told us about Savannah’s mother? I didn’t know it, but I’m not surprised. Savannah was always there with gracious thank-you notes, bread-and-butter letters, flowers at the appropriate moment. Underneath all the brittle cynicism, she was Old South proper. But she was always taking on various freelance projects for Fitch and Patterson and I remember her bugging him once because the pictures of Drew that he carried in his wallet weren’t up to date.”

He took a small sip of wine. ‘The first time I noticed anything odd though was when Patterson brought Drew out to the studio one day when she was about three. Savannah had someone bring up an armload of dolls from the prop shelves for Drew to play with, and after she and Patterson finished discussing business, she got down on the floor and played tea party. This was not a woman who normally went gooey-eyed over children, but she even got Patterson to sit down on the floor and sip imaginary tea, too. You know the way some men are about their daughters? Especially Southern men?”

I nodded. My own daddy has a little of it in him although he never played tea party with me. (And not just because I was too busy running after my older brothers to sit still with a tea set.)

“I think Savannah fell in love with Drew that day.”

“And Jay Patterson fell for her again?”

Pell shrugged. “That I can’t say, but they did become lovers again for a while. That picture you said Heather McKenzie had? It was taken around that time.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know that anything dramatic actually happened. I’ve often thought they just realized that their moment had passed. Things were intense for a few weeks, then it was as if the sexual part simply burned itself out. They stayed friends and she always had a soft spot for Drew.”

“Which probably ensured that he’d always have a soft spot in his heart for her,” I said, remembering how he’d helped Savannah fill her baggies with fried chicken and cornbread on Thursday night.

It was almost dark when I left for the restaurant and the Ragsdales had not returned with Lynnette. The coq au vin had cooked and cooled and still they didn’t come. Dixie was striding back and forth in her living room and beginning to think such anxious thoughts that it was taking all of Pell’s gentle reasoning to keep her from calling the police.

“But what if they’ve decided to go ahead and just take her back to Maryland with them?” she said fearfully.

“Never,” Pell scoffed. “The girls are probably having so much fun that they’ve lost track of time.”

“It’s none of my business,” I said, “but did Evelyn leave a will?”

Dixie nodded. “Soon as Lynnette was born, I nagged them both till they went to an attorney.”

“Who did she name as guardian in the event they both died at the same time?”

She didn’t want to say it.

“She named his sister, too, didn’t she?”

Dixie’s head came up defiantly. “And what if she did? I don’t care, Deborah! She never expected it to happen this young. She was thinking years from now, when I might be too old to cope with a teenager.”

“You’re going to be the same age when that time comes,” I said mildly.

“I’ll be here,” Pell said with his crooked smile. “I’m two years younger. I’ll help her cope.”

I could make the usual arguments, but how valid would they be?

Besides, from my time in domestic court, I know that families come in all flavors these days.

Truth to tell, they probably always did.