What if it was Jennifer’s bracelet and George, not Winter, her boyfriend, who had helped her kill Brad? How or why else would George have her bracelet?
I opened the closet door. It was deep, full of designer clothes, evening gowns, and a zillion of my favorite thing—shoes.
A black satin gown with silver trim caught my eye.
Ooh la la.
What function had Michelle worn this to? I imagined her at the country club with Brad and Mrs. Avery. Maybe a black-tie event, an auction, or a benefit.
I eyed a box from Via Spiga at my feet.
What size did she wear? Would there be any way a cute pair of shoes would ever fit my fat swollen feet?
I kicked the box open. Beautiful size eights stared me in the face. Pre-Laurie they would have been too big. I slipped them on. Perfect fit. I put them back in the box and picked up the next box. I amused myself with a mini-fashion show.
After trying on a few pairs, I noticed a cubbyhole full of handbags. I pulled out a few Coach purses and saw a shoe box concealed behind them. I extracted the box from its hiding place. It was full of paperwork.
I carefully replaced the purses, then took the box over to the bed and sat down to examine the contents. It looked like business ledgers from El Paraiso. I couldn’t read anything on the charts. Well, I could read it. I just didn’t know what it meant. One report looked like a profit and loss summary. But what did I know? I was a theater major in college. And the closest I got to accounting in my corporate job was ordering pencils and staples.
Jim would know. At least he had a business degree.
Flipping through the reports, I saw one for Heavenly Haight.
My breath caught. Svetlana’s store? Even after her marriage to Brad had ended, she’d stayed connected to him and by more than the memory of their daughter. Had they started the store while they were married? Did he still own shares in it? Maybe those shares had gone to Michelle.
I stuffed the reports into what I now lovingly referred to as my “diaper purse,” a very far cry from a Coach handbag, and stood. I placed the empty shoe box back into the closet and closed the door.
Without a clue about what to look for next, I decided I’d check out the makeshift office area in the guest bedroom. If memory served, what little I had left, I thought I’d seen at least a desk with a computer and printer. But first a stop in the master bath.
I rummaged through Michelle’s medicine chest, looking for Valium. It was practically empty. Maybe the cops had gone through and confiscated everything they could find.
Wait.
If Michelle had an office setup, why would she store paperwork in a shoe box at the bottom of her closet?
She must have been hiding those reports, but why?
Just then I heard a click and a creak.
The front door?
Someone was entering the house.
I froze. Footsteps approached from the hallway. Two voices, a man and a woman. The man’s voice was clearly recognizable to me. Rich, the manager of El Paraiso, aka Mr. Creepy.
He had a key to Michelle’s house?
“That fucking bitch! She can’t screw me like this!” Rich fumed.
“Calm down,” the female voice said.
Who was he with? I couldn’t place her voice.
“I won’t let her screw me over!” Rich said.
Something crashed to the ground. The woman yelped.
“Jennifer is going to sing like a canary. I gotta be sure there’s nothing here. Go check her stupid office, will ya?”
Footsteps sounded down the hallway. “I already told you: I checked before and didn’t find anything.”
“Yeah, well, check again!”
More footsteps in the hallway. Heavier ones. Rich’s. Coming right toward me in the master bath.
A drop of sweat stung my eye. I needed to get out of the house. But how?
Footsteps sounded dangerously close. I heard the closet door swing open.
“Look at all these shoes!” Rich said.
He slammed the door shut.
I listened as his footsteps retreated toward the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Now’s my chance.
I cracked open the bathroom door and peeked out into the bedroom.
Empty.
I leaped toward the window. It wouldn’t budge. I pried harder.
Nothing. Painted shut!
Old houses were exasperating. Michelle had done a lot of renovation work, but obviously she hadn’t gotten around to replacing the windows in the bedroom.
Could I break the window and get out?
I heard arguing from the living room and a crashing sound. Glass breaking. I thought of Michelle’s gorgeous crystal lamps and hoped they weren’t the victims.
If Rich and his gal pal were going to start throwing things, maybe they wouldn’t notice if I broke a window.
I heard footsteps outside the bedroom and took a nose-dive under Michelle’s king-sized bed.
Dust balls were everywhere. I repressed a sneeze by rubbing the tip of my tongue across the roof of my mouth.