Accessories to Die For Page 2

  “Aren’t you going home?” Angel asked as he walked toward the back door.

  “In a little while,” Irene said. “I have some bookkeeping to do first. You know how picky the IRS is about records.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Angel said as he opened the back door to the parking lot. “Don’t stay too late.”

  “I won’t,” Irene assured him. After he left, she did her best to concentrate on the forms she had to complete to keep track of her income and estimated taxes, but all she could think of was Juanita. Too restless to stay at her desk in the back, she stood and walked to stare out the front window at the darkening plaza.

  Tourists and locals milled around; musicians played mariachi music; a few couples tried to dance to the mariachi sounds. Jimmy Holland was still out there leaning against a tree, smoking. Soon he was joined by a few other young people. A couple of them appeared to be stoned.

  Irene pressed her face against the window when she thought she recognized one of them. It was Danny, and he was indeed stoned. Jimmy Holland put his arm around him, and led Danny away. People said Jimmy had a cheap apartment somewhere just off the plaza. Maybe he was taking Danny there for the night.

  Juanita needed to know where her son was. Irene would tell her if only she had a way to call her, but she had no phone number for the Pueblo woman. She would let her know tomorrow when Juanita came back to the Palace of the Governors to sell her remarkable jewelry.

  Chapter 2

  Louis Joliet Armaud died that night under mysterious circumstances, according to the Santa Fe New Mexican. The story on the front page said the body of the director of a Paris arts auction house was found on land belonging to the Kewa tribe.

  Irene had picked up the paper from the front yard of her house and took it with her to the store. She unrolled it to read while she had coffee in the back room. Angel had not yet arrived. He had an early class on Mondays at the Santa Fe University of Art and Design, where he was studying sculpture and painting, so Irene had positioned herself so she could see customers when they came in the front door. She’d slept late and hadn’t had time to read the paper before she left home. Her mother, Adelle, had played bridge at a friend’s house late into the night and was still in bed when Irene left.

  For a moment, when she first saw the headline, her breath seemed to leave her body. As she read the story, dark dread crept in to replace the air she tried to breathe; she tried not to think of what Juanita had said yesterday before she left.

  Now I think the Frenchman must die.

  Irene wished with all that was within her that she had not heard Juanita speak those words. But no one would have to know, would they? There would be no reason for the police to question her. Yet wasn’t it her duty to provide the information? The part of her that had been a prosecutor said yes, but the rest of her, shouting from the depths of her soul, said no. Juanita could not have meant those words. Not in the sense that she was willing to commit murder. At least Irene hoped that was the case. But Juanita clearly blamed the Frenchman Armaud for Danny’s disappearance. She needed to see Juanita. To let her know she’d seen Danny last night. Wouldn’t that be a comfort to Juanita? Or was it too late? Had Juanita already taken her revenge? It was not something Irene wanted to think about, and she was grateful for the customer who entered her store at that moment, a tourist from the East Coast.

  “I was hoping to find something with a Southwestern flair,” the woman said. She was middle-aged with blue eyes and dark hair showing a bit of gray. “You know, to remind me of being here. Something a little exotic, maybe?”

  Irene showed her a long, woolen, fringed, turquoise-colored coat that one of her mother’s fashion-conscious friends had brought in on consignment. She sold it to the woman for three hundred dollars and then talked her into buying a pair of Lucchese boots with turquoise leather inlay for nine hundred dollars, much less than half of their original price.

  She had made two more sales to other customers when Angel showed up, looking handsome and boyish—just the look her customers loved. He sold two thousand dollars’ worth of Irene’s consignment merchandise by noon. He was showing the last customer a sienna-colored Chanel jacket that draped across the front in just the right way to hide bulges, and telling the plump woman the color brought out the golden flecks in her brown eyes, when Irene slipped away to the back to fortify herself with more coffee.

  She’d filled her cup and just sat down at the table when her eye again caught the newspaper’s distressing headline. It made her wish she’d stayed in front and waited for more customers. Helping them had kept her mind off Juanita and Danny and the unfortunate Frenchman. Picking up the paper, she was folding it to take home to read later when Angel stuck his head in the doorway.

  “Hey! Did you read that story in the New Mexican? I saw the paper in the library at school. Some French guy got himself murdered.”

  “Yes, I saw it.” Irene’s tone was less than enthusiastic, maybe even a little weary.

  “Said he was killed with some kind of handmade bullet. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t see that part. Never got to read all of the story. I was going to take it home and read it tonight.”

  “That has to be the same guy Juanita Calabaza was talking about,” Angel said. “You know, the one who buys stolen Indian artifacts for auctions.”

  “I know the one, but how do you know what she was talking about?”

  Angel cocked his head, making him appear even more charming. “Well, I wasn’t eavesdropping on your conversation, if that’s what you’re getting at. I just happened to hear some of it.”

  “I see.”

  “Aw, come on now, don’t be mad. I meant it, I wasn’t eavesdropping. You should just close the door from now on.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Irene leaned forward to rest her head in her hands, elbows on the table.

  “You okay?” Angel asked. “You look like you just lost your best friend.”

  “Do I?” Irene’s voice was flat.

  Angel gave her a concerned look. “I get it. You’re thinking Juanita might be in trouble because of what she said out loud about that French guy. It doesn’t look good, does it?”

  Irene sat up straight. “You heard that, too?”

  “I swear, I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just—”

  “Never mind,” Irene said with a wave of her hand. “You’re right, it doesn’t look good.”

  Angel sat down across from her with an orange soda he’d pulled from the refrigerator. “You don’t think Juanita could have done it, do you? Killed the guy, I mean.”

  “I…don’t know.”

  Angel studied her face for a second. “Jeezus, you do think she could have done it.”

  Irene shook her head. “I’m not saying that, but I’m wondering if—”

  “If you should warn her about the story in case she hasn’t seen it?” Angel said. “Wouldn’t hurt. She might want to lay low for a while. You know, in case she said something like that to someone else.”

  “I was going to say, do you think I should tell the police?”

  “Hell no!” Angel said.

  “Don’t be indecisive, Angel. Just tell me what you think.”

  “No need for sarcasm. Just tell me why you think Juanita could possibly murder someone.”

  “It’s not my job to decide her guilt or innocence. I just think that if I might have some evidence, I should—”

  “Stop the bullshit, Irene. You’re not a prosecutor anymore. You’re Juanita’s friend. At least I thought you were.”

  “Of course I’m her friend.”

  “Then protect her. Just remember, people say things they don’t mean. Everybody does it.”

  “You sound like a defense attorney,” Irene said as she stood up. “Now finish your soda and let’s get back to work.”

  “Did someone say defense attorney?” A male voice came from the front of the store.

  “Hello, P.J.,” Irene said when she saw that
it was Peter James Bailey, Santa Fe’s most high-profile criminal lawyer. “What a surprise! What brings you in?”

  “You know me. I’m always looking for high fashion at bargain prices.” He fingered a red and green chiffon tunic on display at the end of a rack. “How’s it going, Angel?” he asked when he saw the young man emerging from the back.

  “Not bad,” Angel said and gave him a high five. “You?”

  “Busy.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah,” P.J. said. “Crime pays.”

  Irene was watching in an impatient stance with her arms folded. “I don’t have that tunic in your size, P.J. Can I interest you in something else?”

  “As a matter of fact, you can,” P.J. said. “How about lunch? My treat.”

  “Really?” Irene’s voice was not without sarcasm. “Did you land a big case?”

  “You might say that. You might say the Fairchild family.”

  “Fairchild?” Angel said at the same time Irene’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “No kidding? They’re one of the oldest families in Santa Fe. Not to mention one of the wealthiest,” Irene said.

  P.J. nodded. “Indeed.”

  “And they’re involved in something criminal?” Angel asked.

  P.J. shook his head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. There are some discrepancies with the estate. You know the patriarch died recently.”

  “Charles Fairchild,” Irene said. “Yes, I remember that, but there’s nothing criminal about a natural death or squabbling heirs.”

  “Of course not. It’s a civil case.”

  “But you’re a criminal lawyer,” Irene said.

  P.J. shrugged and smiled. “I’m versatile.”

  “Wow!” Angel said. “The Fairchilds hired you! There’s got to be a bundle of money in it for you. Maybe I’ll change my major to law.”

  “Stick to the fine arts, kid,” P.J. said. “You don’t have the temperament. The law can be nasty business. Just ask your boss, the former prosecutor.” He glanced at Irene and added, “But you’ll have to ask her later. She’s on her way out the door to have lunch with a famous defense attorney.”

  Irene shook her head. “I can’t do that now, P.J. It’s been a busy day, and I need to—”

  “Go!” Angel said. “Take a break. You deserve it. I can handle everything.”

  “He’s right,” P.J. said. “I’ve seen him in action. He’s a better salesman than you are.”

  Irene sighed. “Maybe I should just turn the entire store over to him and go back to the nasty business of law.”

  P.J. took her arm, ignoring her comment. “Where would you like to eat? Do you feel like seafood?”

  “We’re too far from an ocean to get good seafood.”

  “I’m not talking McDonald’s fish sandwich. I’m talking flown in fresh daily. I found a new place.”

  He took her to an out-of-the-way restaurant she’d never heard of on a narrow, winding street several blocks off the plaza. He ordered miso soup and then sushi for both of them, and she had to admit it was fresh as well as delicious.

  “You seem distracted,” he said halfway through the meal.

  “I suppose I am,” she said. “Forgive me. The sushi really is good.”

  P.J. took a sip of wine. “Of course I’ll forgive you, but you have to tell me what it is that’s distracting you.”

  “You didn’t see the headline in the New Mexican this morning?”

  “You’re talking about the Frenchman who was murdered. Of course I saw that. But why is it troubling you? He wasn’t one of your clients, was he? I mean, I didn’t read the entire story. Just the headline.”

  Irene rolled her eyes. “Can’t you ever be serious, P.J.? Of course he wasn’t one of my clients. But a friend of mine knew him.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry for her loss,” P.J. said in a more sober tone.

  “He wasn’t a friend. She didn’t like him.”

  P.J. was silent, studying Irene’s face for several seconds. “You think your friend killed him? That’s why you’re so distracted?”

  Irene shoved her glass of water, which she’d ordered in place of wine, away from her and sat back in her chair, throwing her napkin beside her plate. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

  “Because I’m good at reading people. Especially prosecuting attorneys. It’s my job.”

  “I’m not a prosecuting attorney now.”

  “But you still think like one.”

  “You’re full of crap.”

  P.J. grinned. “Maybe, but you’re still worried about someone you know.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Okay.”

  Irene went back to trying to eat her sushi, but she couldn’t force herself to even bring the chopsticks to her mouth. She’d lost her appetite. Finally, she spoke without looking up from her plate, where she held a morsel between the two sticks.

  “Juanita Calabaza.”

  P.J. looked at her with a puzzled expression. “What?”

  “Juanita Calabaza. You probably don’t know her.”

  “Of course I know her,” P.J. said. “Kewa Pueblo. One of its most talented artists. She’s been written up in New Mexico Magazine and Arizona Highways. You think she…Oh, yes, now I remember. Her son disappeared not too long ago. Left home or something.”

  “Yes,” Irene said. “Except I think I saw him last night.”

  “Mmmm,” P.J. said, his mouth full of sushi. “Juanita will be glad to hear that. But what does that have to do with a dead French guy?”

  Irene hesitated a few fractions of a second too long before she spoke. “Uh…nothing at all, I’m sure.” She had lost her intent to unburden herself of her concern. After all, she had no proof.

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “She was familiar with the man who was murdered. Louis Armaud.”

  “Did you say Louis Armaud?”

  “Yes, Louis Armaud. Apparently he deals in Native American artifacts. Juanita doesn’t like him because of that.”

  “Armaud deals in artifacts. I didn’t know that. I should have, but I didn’t,” P.J. said.

  “Why should you have known? There must be plenty of people who didn’t know his name. I wouldn’t have known myself, if—”

  P.J. stood abruptly. “Excuse me, Irene, but I have to go. I’ll drop you off at your store, then I have to…Look, I’m really sorry about this. I know it’s rude, but—”

  “If you have to go, then go,” Irene said, trying to contain her surprise. “And don’t bother about dropping me off at the store. I can walk. It’s not far, and I can use the exercise.”

  “No, I couldn’t—”

  “Go!” she said. “But you have to promise me to tell me later what this is all about.”

  “If I can,” he said. “But it may be a matter of client confidentiality and…”

  He turned away without finishing his sentence and turned back just as quickly to slap a credit card on the table. “Use this. Pay the bill. Big tip. Forge my name.”

  “No, I can’t…” He was gone before she finished her protest.

  Irene finished her lunch alone and paid the bill using her own credit card. To say she was shocked at the cost of the meal would have been an understatement. She had to hurry back to the store and do her best to sell more merchandise.

  Chapter 3

  The following morning, the major story on the local news that always accompanied Good Morning America was about the arrest of well-known artisan Juanita Calabaza on suspicion of murder. It was also the headline in the newspaper. Irene felt sickened by the turn of events. Her hand shook as she picked up the paper to toss it in the trash. Section B slipped out of the fold of the paper as she was about to throw it away. Her eye caught the headline of a story about the murder of a local gang member, but she didn’t take the time to read it. Gang member murders were nothing new. However, a small story buried at the bottom of the page commanded her attention.

  It was about the
Fairchild case that had been filed in state court. The dispute had to do with a large sum of money garnered from an auction house in France. There was no mention of a connection with the murder of Louis Armaud, but Irene remembered P.J.’s reaction when he heard the name.

  “Coffee!” The word came out like a grunt from Adelle Daniels as she seated herself at the kitchen table and stared, bleary-eyed, into space. Adelle was Irene’s mother—the one Irene had left a perfectly good job in New York for because Adelle had turned seventy and was frightened at the idea of being old and alone. The one who had never wanted to be called Mom or Mother because it was too plebeian. She was Adelle, she said, and she expected to be addressed by that name. She was Adelle, whose numerous husbands had pampered her and saw to it that she never had to lift a finger.

  “It’s plugged in. Your cup’s on the counter,” Irene said without looking at her mother. She was still standing at the counter reading the story about P.J.’s lawsuit. Adelle, who had recently divorced another husband—Irene thought it was number five, but it could have been six—was used to having her demands met immediately, especially since most of her husbands had been wealthy. David Seligman, Irene’s father, was a member of a prominent Santa Fe Jewish family, not wealthy but comfortable and politically influential. It was from him that Irene had inherited the Victorian house she now shared with her mother.

  Adelle grumbled again when she raised herself from her chair and poured her coffee. Irene watched from the corner of her eye. She was in the process of training Adelle to fetch her own coffee every morning. It was enough that she’d given up her job as an assistant district attorney in Manhattan to move back to Santa Fe because Adelle said she couldn’t make it alone. Guilt always worked on Irene. It was in her genes.

  “God, you look terrible,” Adelle said as she stirred cream into her coffee. “Like you just lost your best friend.”

  Irene gave her a noncommittal mmm as she continued to read.

  “You shouldn’t read the paper,” Adelle said. “It’s always full of bad news, and it causes you to stress, and that ages you. I’ve spent my life trying to avoid stress, and you’ll have to admit it’s paid off. Everyone says I don’t look my…Oh, look, that woman is in jail. Isn’t she the one who comes into your store sometimes?”