A Walk in Ashes
Gold, a self-deprecating homicide detective who's been brought out of semi-retirement to investigate the death of a well-known fashion designer, has met and interviewed her self-proclaimed best friend, Regina Mills, a famous blogger and writer. She has shared what she knows of Miss French's last activities and volunteered to accompany Gold on his investigation – they have ended up at Regina's mother's apartment.
(A.N. Yeah, I know this is hardly proper police procedure – let it go, please).
Chapter Two – Engagement
Ms. Hart had evaluated the police detective, her eyes flicking appreciatively over the police officer's trim form. "I'll do anything I can to help," she said in a husky feminine voice. She touched her hair, fluffing it up.
"You were Miss French's attorney?" he asked either ignoring or not noticing her salacious look.
"Why yes. After Regina took up with her and her little business began to take off, Belle came to me for legal help. I advised her to form a corporation and drew up the paperwork. I helped her with other legal matters too. "
"You invested with her corporation?" he asked making a little note.
"I did. It was like buying Xerox at the IPO. Best investment I ever made. Made back my original investment and continued to have money coming in," Cora said with some pride.
"Were you fond of Miss French, Ms. Hart?" He was looking right into her eyes.
"Why, I adored the girl." Ms. Hart broke eye contact and reached over to the table next to her. "It was refreshing for me to be able to go to her for a couture design. I was one of her first clients and she always remembered that. She understood me and my personal style like no one else. This dress was one of her efforts. Such a treasure. Cigarette?" She held up an elegant marble box that she had flipped open for him to make a selection.
"No, thank you," Lieutenant Gold was all business, his glance not wavering. "You collapsed when you identified the body."
Regina, who'd settled herself on the wide arm of the sofa next to him, spoke up, "We can all quite understand that. A shotgun loaded with buckshot, close range. Eeuu."
"Not very nice to look at," agreed the Lieutenant.
"It was horrible!" Ms. Hart told them, resting her hand on her chest and closing her eyes as if to erase the ghastly image.
The lieutenant nodded and turned to another page in his book. "Her maid, Bessie Potts? I suppose she was devoted to Miss French?"
"Oh, she worshiped her. She'd been with Belle for several years. She discovered the body you know. It must have been awful," Ms. Hart told him.
"And what do you know about the people that worked for her, Jefferson Hatfield, Ruby Wolfe, Lacey Redfern, Ashley Sweep?" he asked.
Ms. Hart looked slightly confused. "I believe the Hatfield character is one of her designers and the others. . . aren't they models?" She shook her head, "I really don't know them. I always dealt directly with Belle."
The lieutenant flipped back to another page and abruptly changed his tack. "Did you approve of Miss French's upcoming marriage to Mr. Jones?" He made eye contact with her.
Ms. Hart drew herself up. "What are you getting at? Why shouldn't I approve?" she asked sharply.
Lieutenant Gold shrugged, "I don't know. What is your relationship with Miss French's fiancé Mr. Jones?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" Ms. Hart was becoming increasingly offended. She was sitting upright now.
"What I mean is he's been a frequent guest in your home." Now his questioning had become incisive, scalpel-like in its precision. "Is he an acquaintance? A friend? A lover?"
"This is beginning to assume some fabulous aspects, Mother," Regina observed (rather gleefully) from the sidelines.
"Oh shut up, Regina!" Ms. Hart spat at her daughter and then turned back to Lieutenant Gold. "Just what are you driving at?" Her tone was not friendly.
"The truth, Ms. Hart. Are you in love with Mr. Jones, Miss French's fiance?" he was looking at her, looking her directly in the eyes, his own eyes steady and unblinking.
"Why, no. I'm . . I'm very fond of Mr. Jones, if you must know," she admitted, breaking his gaze and looking away. "Everyone is."
"I'm not, I'll be hanged if I am," Regina snorted. "He's a smarmy fuck-wit."
Ms. Hart turned on her daughter, "Oh don't be so annoying, Regina!"
"Did you give Mr. Jones money?" Lieutenant Gold was relentless.
Ms. Hart was more guarded. "What do you mean?"
He checked his notes. "A couple of checks went through your account endorsed by him. One on July second for five thousand. One on July seventeenth for three thousand." He looked up expectantly.
"Oh that . . ." Ms. Hart hesitated. "I. . . I'd asked him to do some shopping for me. That's all." She waved off the entire affair.
"This Jones seems to be a very obliging fellow," Gold noted.
Regina leaned over to Gold and said conspiratorially, "You have no idea."
The police officer continued looking down at his notebook, "Now for some time you've also been withdrawing various amounts in cash."
"On occasion. . . " Ms. Hart began.
"On occasion? Actually at a pretty fast clip," Gold said to her looking up from his notebook, obviously prepared to offer examples.
"Yes, well, I needed that money," Ms. Hart explained, cautiously.
"The day you took out one thousand, Mr. Jones deposited one thousand. When you withdrew three thousand, he deposited three thousand."
Regina leaned in, "Maybe he was blackmailing her, got some naughty pictures of her buying drug store cosmetics, scarfing down a double-bacon cheese burger, playing mahjong with Satan," she suggested, obviously enjoying her mother's discomfort.
Ms. Hart stood up, "Must I be insulted like this?"
"I am sorry, Ms. Hart, but I have to find out about these things," the police lieutenant locked eyes with her again.
"Killian needed some money and I lent it to him," she explained sharply. "That's all. After all, it is my money!" She added defiantly, "I suppose I can do as I please with it."
The lieutenant shrugged, "Sure, of course. Your money. Do as you please." And he consulted his notebook yet again. "Now, on Friday night, Ms. Hart, you stayed home alone all evening?"
"Yes," she answered, sitting down again.
"Any witnesses?" he asked.
"Not really. My man, Smee, gets Friday nights off," she told him.
"Did you know Miss French was planning to go up to her cabin?"
"No. I knew she usually had supper with Regina and they would talk over prospects and businessy stuff."
"Uh huh." Gold looked back through his book, "Mr. Jones went to a concert alone. Why didn't you go with him?"
"Because he hadn't asked me," she said shortly.
Just then a tall, dark and handsome young man entered the room, coming into the opulent living room from one of the back rooms. He was dressed in clean cut khakis and a brand name polo shirt.
Regina spoke up, "We were just talking about you, Jones," she cheerfully told him. "What a coincidence, finding you here with Mother." She gestured towards the police office. "This is Lieutenant Gold. He's the officer investigating Belle's murder."
The young man smiled and came over to the officer.
"Oh, how do you do Lieutenant Gold," Mr. Jones offered his hand to the police officer who, in deep consultation with his notebook, didn't notice it.
"I didn't know you were here, Mr. Jones," Lieutenant Gold told him finally looking up from the little notebook, glancing at the hand, then looking back down at his notebook.
Jones looked contrite. "As a matter of fact, Cora was a dear and let me come here to rest. The air conditioning in my little apartment has not been able to manage this heat and then there have been all these people, the reporters and the telephone . . . the telephone has not stopped ringing." He turned towards the police officer. "You know how it is, Lieutenant. I've hardly slept a wink since it happened."
Regina slid down to the sofa cushions and slouched, "Not sleeping, huh? Tell me Gold, is that a sign of guilt or innocence?"
Jones glared at her but then turned back to the police officer. "I'm at your disposal, Lieutenant. I'm as eager to find the murderer as you are." He sat down across from Gold.
"I do have a few questions for you," and Gold was thumbing through his little notebook again.
"Well I hope I'm not on the list of possible suspects," Jones began. "What possible motive could I have for killing Belle? She and I were going to be married this Thursday, you know."
Regina sat up and spoke clearly, "Married!? No, he doesn't know that and neither do you. . . or I . . or anyone else alive!"
"What do you mean?" Gold was about to flip to a new notebook page but stopped to look at Regina.
Regina stood up, "Belle had not definitely made up her mind to marry him. She told me so herself last Friday when she called up to cancel our dinner." She paced away from the group sitting together and turned back to them. "As a matter of fact, that was why she was going up to her mountain cabin - to think the whole marriage thing over." Regina was smug now. "She was an extremely kind woman, but I was always sure that she would have never thrown her life away on some male beauty in distress."
Jones drew himself up and spoke to Gold, "I suppose you've heard losers rant before. . . "
Regina finished for him, "and the guilty, huh?"
Jones sighed and turned back to Gold, "Would you like a drink, Lieutenant?"
"That's very thoughtful – the perfect host," Regina shook her head and sat down again.
"Regina!" Ms. Hart reprimanded her.
"Well, you'd almost think that this was his own home," Regina snapped back.
"Killian knows how distracted I am," Ms. Hart came to his rescue then turned back to the police officer. "Now, would you like a drink, Lieutenant?"
Gold stood. "Thank you Ms. Hart. But I've got to be going."
"But Lieutenant. I, well, I rather thought you'd want to ask me some more questions," Killian spoke to him.
Gold turned to a new page. "I did. Had you asked Miss French to the concert Friday night?"
"I did," Jones responded, "but, at the last moment, she told me that she wanted to keep her Girl's Night dinner engagement with Ms. Mills."
"So you went by yourself?" Gold asked him.
"Uh hum," Killian answered.
Gold nodded and took a note. "And what did they play at the concert Friday night?" he asked.
Jones thought a moment. "Oh, it was some classical interpretations of the Beatles' music, among others," he answered.
Gold wrote it down in his notebook. "And do you have a key to Miss French's apartment?" he asked the young man.
"Of course not. Belle had some rather old-fashioned notions about that sort of thing."
Gold wrote something down in his notebook. "How about one for her house up in the mountains?"
"No, but I believe there is one in her apartment," Jones told him.
Gold paused for a brief moment and then nodded, "Okay, I'll have a look there."
"Please, perhaps I can help you there," Jones spoke up. "I do know where she kept many things in her apartment."
Gold considered, narrowing his eyes, and finally shrugged, "All right. Thank you so much for your time." He nodded at Cora and headed for the door.
"Be seeing you, Mother," Regina said as she followed the lieutenant out the door. Jones followed them.
"Aren't we taking a car? It's really hot," Jones asked as they walked out into the street. Stepping out from the air-conditioned sanctity of the condo onto the baking concrete of the city was like stepping into a furnace.
Gold shrugged. "I'm walking," he told the two.
Regina and Jones looked at each other and, connecting in their mutual misery, they nonetheless followed the determined police office.
"He's just doing this to be mean," Regina commented, complaining to Jones.
She continued talking as they walked behind him, intoning into her pocket recorder, "Eschewing comfort, ever conscious of tax-payer dollar, the policeman walked the oh hell, how many blocks is it? blocks down to Belle French's apartment." She earned yet another glare from Lieutenant Gold. The three walked up Battery to turn right onto Haywood, then down to Patton and then the half block to Church and down to the old apartment building that housed Belle's apartment.
Belle French's city apartment was not in quite as exclusive a building as Cora Hart's. Far from being a new building, but quite near the downtown area, it had been renovated, the original brick structure built in 1928. It still retained much of the charm (and lack of amenities) as the original building.
As they began the walk up the three flights of stairs to Belle's top floor apartment, Gold stopped on the first floor. They were in an un-airconditioned stairwell and he'd stopped in front of a large open window. Gold examined the window and using his Bic pen, he pushed against the screen, finding that it had been unhooked. He looked out through the window and noted the drop to the ground was less than six feet. He made a note in his notebook.
As he was looking and making notes, Regina was checking her phone. "Here's the latest" and she read, "Famous designer victim of brutal slaying."
Gold looked at her, some level of disgust reflected on his face before turning and continuing up the staircase. Here the hallways were softly lit. The floors were well worn dark wooden planks and the walls painted a pale matte blue. Once at the top of the stairs, Gold went through the police tape and opened the door with a passkey.
This was his first time actually in The Apartment. It was less formally decorated than the other two opium dens . . . uh, apartments, he had just been in. The furniture was an eclectic pastiche of delicate, fine antiques and elegant modern pieces. There was a small vintage writing desk where a modern sleek (pink) computer sat, a plush sofa (not an antique) with a fake fur throw draped on one end, and bookcases – good lord, bookcases that went floor to ceiling, bookcases that were crammed with books – art books, craft books, classic literature, text books, cookbooks, modern fiction and nonfiction, paperbacks and hardbacks. There was also a stone fireplace with gas logs set off by a solid oak mantle. Various candlesticks were set on the mantle and in the fireplace set with candles of different widths and heights. The candles had all been lit at some point. The place managed to give off a comfy, welcoming feeling, lived-in but not too cluttered, feminine but not too frilly.
Regina looked around. "I think someone probably rang the doorbell and as she opened the door, a shot was fired."
"Why would you think that?" Gold asked her.
"She fell backwards. The body was found on its back with her face blown off right here," Regina pointed to the floor near the door. It hadn't been hard for her to find. The police tape was still hither and yon in the area. The blood stains were still on the floor. The splatter pattern was still on the walls.
"I didn't think you'd been up here since the shooting," Gold mentioned.
"I haven't been, but I got to see the police photos when I went with Mommy Dearest to identify the body."
Gold looked at Regina with another flicker of disgust. "I guess I better try and find that key."
"Gold, tell me, why did they have to photograph her in that horrible condition?" Regina asked. She asked this question sincerely.
Gold shrugged, "When a knish gets killed, she doesn't worry about how she looks."
"A what?" Regina didn't recognize the term used in that manner, but thought likely that it was pejorative. She quickly googled the term and it was her turn to glare at him. "Look around this apartment," Regina directed his attention to Belle's portrait which was hanging above the fire place mantle. "Look at her." While he stood gaping at the large painting, Regina went and turned on a sleek well-preserved old-style record player. Soft guitar music and a raspy folksinger began a song.
Gold looked over the large portrait that was set in the over-mantel above the fire place with a certain level of pure male appreciation. He gave the portrait his complete consideration. The woman was a gorgeous brunette with just a hint of red in her hair. She had startling blue eyes and was wearing a snug fitting blue dress that caressed all her curves. And did she have curves. "That's her? Not bad," he finally admitted. Not bad at all.
"Gaston was in love with her when he painted it, but he never captured her vibrancy, her warmth." Regina watched Gold as he began to methodically go through each and every drawer in the elegant little writing desk that was set in the living room. Then he set about examining Belle's pink computer, then picked up and examined a white leather-bound volume. Regina asked him, "Have you ever been in love?"
"There's my bitch of an ex-wife from a teenage marriage and a witch from Montreat once got a pair of diamond earrings out of me," he answered her without looking up. "Sooooo . . . no."
Regina rolled her eyes, "Ever know a woman who wasn't a 'bitch' or a 'witch' or a . . . 'knish?'"
"I use other more colorful names in my head," Gold admitted with a smirk. "But no, not really." Gold then began going through Belle's liquor cabinet, stopping occasionally to write down different things in his little notebook. He continued talking, "The ex-wife ran off with some rich bum who'd just made a fortune pirating software. The one who took the earrings from me, pawned them, bought some fancy red shoes and went off for flying lessons with some big ape she'd just met. They're all looking for the same thing. Would you mind turning that off?" He glanced over at the record player.
"Why? Don't you like it?" Jones had stepped up to turn off the record player. "It was one of Belle's favorites. She preferred classic rock and roll and folk music. She had an extensive collection of old vinyl records by the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel."
Gold was now going through the bookcases set floor to ceiling, "You know a lot about music?" he asked Jones.
"I don't know a lot about anything, but I know a little about practically everything," Jones told him.
"The perfect Southern gentleman," Regina carped.
Now Gold was examining the books on the shelves. For some time now Regina had been watching him pick over the apartment, like a rat in a meth lab, skittering here and there, never quite settling down. At the moment Gold was searching through a magazine box. The first magazine he picked out was an old Belle Armoire that featured a cover photograph of Miss French in an amazing lace attire that she must have pieced together from antique crocheted doilies. He glanced through the other magazines and caught her name and/or her picture on the cover of several of them. These must have been magazines that had featured articles on her.
"Yeah," Gold finally replied and returned to his questioning, "Tell me, why did you say they played Beatles' music at the concert Friday night?"
Jones didn't answer and Gold pressed him, "I checked. They were playing orchestra renditions of several classic groups, like the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac and a couple others, but no Beatles."
Jones gave him a chagrined smile, "I suppose I should have told you in the first place. I'd been working on the advertising campaign for Belle's new clothing line. Well, we'd been working so hard, I. . . I just couldn't keep my eyes open. I didn't hear a note at the concert. I fell asleep."
"Next, he'll produce photographic evidence of his dreams," said Regina snottily.
Jones shrugged, "I know it sounds suspicious, but I'm resigned to that by now. I'm a natural-born suspect just because I'm not the conventional type."
Gold glanced at Jones, "I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Jones. It sounds reasonable. I fall asleep at concerts myself."
Thanks to all those who are already following and those who have favorited this story. A special thank you to my early reviewers on this story (some of whom needed reassurance that this was a for-real-and-for-true Rumbelle Romance – it is, I promise): Tinuviel Undomiel, onlyinyourdreams77, orthankg1, Robin4, jewel415, MyraValhallah, Grace5231973, Erik'sTrueAngel, deweymay, OneMagician and Chauchi.
NEXT Jones implicates himself
Gold interviews Belle's employees
Gold joins Regina for lunch