Her mother’s eyes flared angrily. “That is Schiaparelli, I’ll have you know,” she said icily, nodding at the exquisite dress Billie had pulled out.
Billie closed her eyes and took a breath. “You’re right, Mother. This will be fine.” She took off her peach dressing robe and pulled the beaded gown on over her crushed, slept-in slip. The gown did fit beautifully, even if it was a touch shorter on Billie than it was designed to be. It would do.
“Schiaparelli will always befine,” Ella retorted.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Mum. I meant that it has to look likemyclothing, not yours.”
“And you are more fashionable, I suppose?” Ella responded. “With your mannish clothes and your shoulder pads?”
The baroness crossed her arms tightly as she watched her daughter continue to raid her things. “You know, you used to do this when you were six,” she said, softening slightly. Her mother’s shoes were a bit tight, but Billie got them on over a pair of dark silk stockings, then assessed her reflection in the mirror. The back of the gown had a lovely plunge. The overall effect with the stockings and slightly tight shoes wasn’t perfect, but it would do. She pulled a fox fur over her shoulders.
“I owe you one, Ella. Thank you. You do have the most beautiful wardrobe,” Billie said placatingly. She looked around. “I’ll need that steamer trunk, too, I think.” She indicated the Louis Vuitton double wardrobe trunk stored in a corner alcove.
Ella’s eyes followed her daughter’s gaze. “Yes, you may borrow it,”she said. “But I want it back in good condition,” she added primly. Her voice had become a touch stiff and formal, in that irritating way it had sometimes when she had spoken to underlings, back when she’d had them.
“Are you sure?” Billie murmured, deadpan.
Ella gasped, horrified, suddenly comprehending Billie’s intention. “Oh no, you don’t! You can’t put him in there! I’ve had that trunk for nearly two decades. Haven’t you any idea of the value? You could buy first-class passage to London and back for the price of that trunk!”
Billie shrugged, being deliberately naughty now. “We have to get him out of this flat somehow. I suppose we could use your hatboxes, but I dare say it wouldn’t be very pleasant. And we’d need to find a saw.”
The baroness paled, one delicate hand to her mouth. “You wouldn’t really...”
“I suppose not,” Billie conceded. She had a strong stomach, but, no. She hoped not to add too much more indignity to Zervos’s untimely end.
“Okay,” Ella said in a resigned voice, looking at the trunk sadly. “Do what you want with the thing. Levi gave it to me. Burn it if you like.” Levi had been her first husband. “Thank goddess that poor fellow is skinny,” she added.
Billie put a hand on her mother’s shoulder, conveyed her gratitude with a look, then got to work.
Sixteen
Billie Walker successfully descended theback fire escape in her mother’s beaded dress and fox stole, crossed two property boundaries without soiling her mother’s shoes terribly, and was waiting in the shadows of a tree beside a block of flats on Quambi Place, directly behind Cliffside Flats, when her assistant pulled up right on time in his faded blue 1939 Ford utility. She rushed over, yanked the door open, and jumped in.
“Thank you, Sam. I know this is over and above.”
Sam put his leather-gloved hand to his forehead. “Oh, you gave me a fright. How do you always manage to do that? I didn’t see you.”
“That’s the general idea.” Billie scanned their surrounds. It appeared she truly had been unseen. This was a sleepy Sunday morning for most, and even the keenest folk in the neighborhood were only just beginning to wake up.
Sam took in her appearance, registered the evening clothes and stole, and if he noted her underslept visage he was tactful enough not to comment on it. She had used her mother’s makeup andbrushes to get herself together, but there was no cure for those bloodshot eyes. Sam, for his part, had dutifully donned his white jacket of the night before, and his formal appearance sat slightly at odds with the rural feel of his vehicle. His clothing did look a touch crumpled, but that didn’t matter in the slightest. His large aquamarine eyes searched her face. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”
“I don’t think anyone is watching us. Kill the engine for a second,” Billie instructed, and took a few minutes to get her assistant up to speed with events. He sat listening with rapt attention as she described her groggy head, the discovery of the unfortunate Mr. Zervos in her flat, his removal to her mother’s place, and what her plan was. She’d never seen his face darken so angrily.
“Who is this bastard who set you up?” he spat. “And drugged you?”
Was it the bartender who’d spiked her drink? Billie wondered. Surely not. Could someone have walked up to the bar and dropped something in it? And whoever it had been, were they acting alone or following someone else’s orders? Had the same person killed Zervos and moved his body?
“I don’t know yet, Sam,” she answered, “but there is some very dangerous game afoot here. He may be the same person who killed Zervos, and he clearly wants me out of the way, and, by extension, he—or she—wouldn’t be keen on you, either. I advise you to watch your back.” It was chilling to imagine that a murderer might have been in her room while she slept. A shiver moved up her body from the base of her spine and raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She stifled the desire to physically shake it off and instead pushed her dark hair back and straightened in the seat. External calm often helped muster the internal variety.
“I will watch out. Thank you,” Sam responded. He was shakinghis head now. “I don’t get it... Why switch the body to your place? Why not put it where it won’t be found for a while?”
“Well, it certainly makes a statement. As a warning to me? To get me tied up with cops and rumors and uncertainty? At least long enough to miss the auction today?” she speculated. “I don’t know. Maybe to get me done for murder, but that seems a stretch.” She’d been thinking on it but found her faith in the system was not yet so poor that she believed they would actually lock her away. Not for long, anyway. “I mean, what motive would I have?”
“He refused to talk?” Sam suggested.
“So I strangled him? What am I, the Gestapo? No, I’m not convinced a judge would be expected to buy that.” She shook her head. “To get the cops to descend and mire me and the case in problems, yes, but an actual conviction? To put me away for murder?”
Was it possible?
