A Walk in Ashes
Gold has endured a caustic interview with a defensive Cora Hart (Regina's mother) who is giving large sums of money to Killian Jones, the victim's would-be fiancé. Jones has revealed that he was engaged to be married to Miss French. Regina contradicts him and shares that Belle was having doubts about the marriage and had planned to go to her cabin Friday evening (the time she was killed) to re-think her commitment. Gold, accompanied by Regina and Killian, go the Miss French's apartment where he finds something out of place in the stairwell. There at the apartment, Gold sees a portrait of Belle French for the first time. He is clearly taken with her beauty. He begins a methodical search of the apartment.
Chapter 3 Interviews
Jones has confessed that he went to sleep at the concert he attended Friday night and doesn't remember what pieces were played.
Gold glanced at Jones, "I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Jones. It sounds reasonable. I fall asleep at concerts myself. I'm more curious why you didn't invite some other woman to go with you in Miss French's place."
Jones looked properly embarrassed. "I thought about it but I am . . . was an engaged man and I didn't think it would look right."
"But okay for you to show up by yourself?" Gold persisted.
"Expensive tickets. I didn't want them to totally go to waste."
"No buddies that would go?"
Killian smiled. "I don't have very many male friends," he confessed.
Regina groaned and spoke up, "You found that key yet?"
Gold shook his head, "No, I've looked for it in the desk and on these bookshelves."
"It may be in the kitchen," said Jones and disappeared, quickly returning, "Yes, she had it on one of the hooks where she would put her car keys."
Gold produced a slow smile, "I knew there must be one around somewhere."
Regina had caught the man's smile and spoke up, "The police are very obsessive about their inventories, aren't they? I'm betting that key wasn't on the list of things that were hanging from the hooks in the kitchen yesterday."
"And now it's magically appeared," said Gold. He turned to Jones, "You put it there, didn't you?"
Jones looked at his shoes, "Yeah, yes I did," he admitted.
"Why?" Gold asked him.
"It's just that I didn't want to give it to you while Regina was present."
"Oh, really?" Gold questioned him.
"Well, she's determined to convict me for Belle's death. I really didn't want to involve her or give her any more ammunition to use against me," Jones confessed.
Regina bristled, "I'm already involved! Belle was my absolute best friend and I was hers! You have private reasons, no doubt, to lie about the key? You feel you have to make the cops believe that you didn't have any way to get into Belle's apartment Friday night?"
"Regina, for your own good, I'm warning you to stop implying that I had anything to do with Belle's death," Jones was clearly getting angry.
"Very well," began Regina waving him off, but then turning on him, "I'll stop implying. I'll make a direct statement."
"You're wanting him to think I killed Belle because she broke off the engagement," Jones was bristling and the two were facing off.
"I couldn't have said it better," Regina nearly snarled at the man.
"Well, maybe you killed her," Jones told her. "You couldn't stand that she'd rejected you for a man."
"There would have had to have been a man involved for that to have happened!" Regina shouted at him.
"I'll hang onto that key," Gold spoke up, ignoring their altercation and holding out his hand. "Now do either of you have any idea where her car keys might be?"
Regina and Jones looked at each other.
"How about her car?" Gold pursued the topic. "We have that she's the registered owner of a little blue Aston Martin Vantage, hardly a common car. But despite a thorough search of the lot and nearby streets and parking garages, we haven't located it."
"You think the killer might have stolen her car?" Regina asked.
"No idea. They would have had to have known what she drove." Gold added, "and where she kept her car keys and where she kept the car for that matter." He looked at them both but when neither of them made a reply, he shrugged. "Now, I've got some more people to interview," he said cutting off any more remarks that Regina or Jones might have made.
"Shall we all go?" Regina asked.
"Absolutely not," Gold said in a tone that brooked no argument. "You two - out of here. This is still a crime scene."
"Listen, if you have to go out alone, then go," Regina's voice was soft and sultry. "But why don't you meet up with me at 1:00 at Cúrate for lunch? I'll treat."
"I'll see," Gold said without promising. Going down the stairs, he made Jones and Regina walk in front of him as if they were school children in trouble. Then he set off on foot.
"Looks like he's going to Belle's shop," Regina observed.
"Doesn't look like he's going to succumb to your charms," Jones remarked.
"Or yours," replied Regina.
"Whatever. Going to her shop is a waste of time. None of those people would've wanted Belle dead," Jones said.
"I guess he has to do a thorough job of it." Regina watched the man limp down the street. Damn, he would be fun to nail to a mattress. Would like to see that smug superior attitude crack. Maybe make good use of those handcuffs he probably carried.
Belle's little shop on Haywood was Prêt á Porter, a ladies clothing shop which somehow managed to be both upscale and inviting. There were comfy chairs in the front of the shop for gentlemen to sit on while their wives and girlfriends leisurely shopped. Usually one of the younger salesgirls would provide the gentlemen guests with a drink, warm or cold, depending on the weather. It was hot today, so the going drink was iced strawberry lemonade. A salesgirl, dressed in chic black, looked over Gold and clearly wasn't sure what category to put the man in.
He hadn't come in with a female companion. Perhaps he was someone who would be at Prêt á Porter shopping for a female companion? He certainly didn't look like someone who be there shopping for himself.
"Can I help you?" she asked with a smile on her face.
"Yes, dearie. I need to speak to . . . ." he consulted his little notebook, "A Mr. Jefferson Hatfield."
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked him - obviously she was first line of defense against unwelcome visitors.
Gold reached onto his belt and pulled off his badge. "I believe this will suffice."
The girl sighed. "You're another one. I see. I'll take you up to him." And she led him to the back of the shop and opened a door marked 'Private.' There was a narrow staircase inside. It was lit mostly with natural light from high windows on one side of the stairs. They climbed to the second floor and opened a plain wooden door to another room.
This room was a large well-lit area complete with a hodgepodge of bolts of luxurious fabrics, delicate lace samples, artisan buttons, silken ribbons, sturdy interfacing, and several sewing machines, sergers and embroidery machines, as well as a couple of dress maker dummies. There were two very pretty women standing around in various stages of undress.
This was the fertile field of imaginative design where Miss French would take her mental images and make the fearsome jump to create physical displays of clothing, a confluence of ideas and materials that would become everyday wearable art.
"Jefferson, another cop for you," the salesgirl called out.
A tall, slender young man poked his head around one of the model's crotch area. He'd been on his knees in front of the young woman with his hands down the front of her skirt. "Uno momento," he stood and patted the young woman on the behind. "Darlin', we'll just have to work on this lining later. Why don't you try on the blue silk? That should be ready to go."
He minced over to Gold and produced an exaggerated sigh. "Well?" he said with his hands on his hips. He stopped in front of Gold and looked him over, "My, my but aren't you an intense ball of hotness. Such an improvement over the other officers they've sent here."
"I'm Lieutenant Gold with Homicide. I wanted to ask you a few questions about Belle French's murder," Gold introduced himself levelly.
The young man took out a lavender colored handkerchief from his green waistcoat and touched it to his eye. "Go ahead, but it's so hard. The woman was a saint. Who'd want to murder her?"
"So you liked your employer?" Gold asked him.
"Absolutely. The woman was faaabulous. All of her employees loved her. She gave me my first job in the business."
"Took credit for your work?" asked Gold.
"Oh, I see what you're going after." Jefferson looked Gold over, assessing him. "You think she was stealing my designs and taking credit for them and, in a snit of pique, I murdered her." He wagged his finger at Gold, "Well, first she never took credit for my designs. The woman gave me my own label, Wonderland. Because of her I had the opportunity to work in one of the big New York houses, but I chose to pass it up. For me, working at French's Prêt á Porter was already working at one of the big houses. And second, the woman was not only a genius, she was the kindest, most wonderful person I've ever met."
Gold listened impassively, the merest hint of a smile on his face. "Where were you Friday night?"
"Out with a friend. I can produce the friend if I have to. We were together all night."
"Mr. Hatfield," Gold lowered his voice, "you're not gay."
Jefferson also lowered his voice and pulled Gold aside, "How do you know that?" his voice, his demeanor had both abruptly changed.
"Some of the other officers have already talked with your . . . friend - a Miss Alice. She works as a waitress in the vegan restaurant up the street. She assures us that you were . . . with her . . . all night."
"So why'd you ask?"
"Just to see if I'd get the same story." Gold looked around. "Why the poofer personae?"
"A straight male in fashion?" Jefferson shook his head, " . . . would never be taken seriously. Besides you think these gorgeous women would let me put my hands down their pants and on their boobs if they thought I was straight? Belle knew, but it didn't matter to her. She thought a person should be judged by their talent."
Gold nodded, wrote in his book and then consulted another page. "Can you point me to some of these models? I need to talk with Ashley Sweep, Ruby Wolfe and Lacey Redfern."
"Ashley and Ruby are here. Ashley's the medium blond. Ruby's the tall brunette. Don't know where Lacey is. She didn't come in today or yesterday or . . . not since last Friday, but she's a bit . . . flighty. " Jefferson put his hand on Gold's shoulder and melded back into his swishy attitude.
"Ashley!" he called, "Dearest, this veeery nice policeman wants to talk with you."
Ashley timidly came forward.
Jefferson gave her directions, "Now, girlfriend, don't monopolize his attention. We should all get a crack at him."
Gold shook his head stifling a smile as Jefferson threw up his hands and went back into the changing area. He was calling out to the other model, "Ruby, why are you wearing the blue? The blue is for Ashley. You wear the red."
"Yes sir?" the little blonde in front of Gold seemed fearful.
"You were one of Belle French's models?"
The young woman nodded.
"How long had you known her?"
"Only a couple of months. I was doing some custodial work when she started talking to me about modeling for her. She said I was a perfect size six and she thought I had the right look for her to do her proto-type designs."
"Happy here?"
"Oh yes. I . . . I have a baby and she would let me bring the baby into work sometimes. She was so nice and so understanding. I don't know what I'm going to do now that she's gone."
"Who takes over? Mr. Hatfield?" Gold asked.
"I don't know. I would guess him, but I don't know."
"Where were you Friday night, Miss Ashley?" he asked her the same question he asked everyone.
"Umm. I was home with my baby. I don't get out much. I don't have any witnesses. Do I need a witness?" She sounded a little panicked.
"I don't think so. You don't appear to have any motive," he told her. Didn't come over at all as someone who would murder in cold blood, using a shot gun no less. No apparent motive either.
He dismissed Ashley and called over Ruby. Ruby was a striking statuesque brunette, slender and, he would guess, another perfect size six.
"Yeah?" This one looked him right in the eye.
"Ruby Wolfe?"
"Yeah. No relation to Tom," she told him.
He looked at her, puzzled.
"Tom Wolfe. Look Homeward Angel," she explained.
"Oh yeah." Gold, of course, was familiar with the work, a thinly disguised book about Thomas Wolfe's mother's Asheville boarding house, and, of course, the author was one of Asheville's favorite sons. "How long did you know Belle French?" he got back to business.
"Almost since she first came to Asheville. About five years. She got me modeling for her four years ago when her business started to pick up. She was one of my best friends."
"Really? Did she tell you about whether or not she was going to marry Killian Jones?"
"No, but I doubt she would have. Too slick for her. Belle was the most real person I've ever met. I couldn't imagine her settling for someone like Jones," Ruby told him.
"You don't like Mr. Jones?"
"Does it show?" Ruby asked with a hint of a smirk.
"A little," he liked the forthright young woman. "Tell me about her relationship with Regina Mills."
Ruby made a face. "Regina was like her sponsor. Regina knows everyone. Once she decided she liked Belle, she was able to introduce her to everyone, including a lot of people who helped her career."
"So Belle was using Regina?"
"Oh no. More like they were, what do you call it?. . . symbiotes. Regina liked to know creative people – she made it possible for them to practice their creativity. Belle needed to know someone who helped creative people be creative – and she found Regina. The relationship was good for both of them."
"Were they in love?"
"Well I can't speak for Regina. I think she swings both ways. But as far as Belle went, she strictly drove stick. She wasn't a floozy by any means, but she liked a man's company." The brunette looked him over. "She probably would've liked you. A bit rough around the edges, but you seem like a smart guy. Belle always went for brains even though she seemed to end up with boneheads," Ruby told him.
Gold stopped writing to look at Ruby who was still smiling at him.
"What happens to you now she's gone?"
"Fortunately, I've saved quite a bit. This job paid really well. I've had a couple of offers, one from Tom Ford."
"So did you have a contract with Miss French that you couldn't leave for New York?" he asked.
Ruby gave him a slow smile and she shook her head. "I wasn't under any contract. I worked with Belle because she was my friend." Gold noted a few tears welling in the brunette's eyes. "If I'd've wanted to go to New York, she'd've bought me a train ticket and cried all the way to the station. I'm gonna miss her . . . terribly. She was the finest person I've ever met."
"Where were you Friday night?" he asked.
"Bar hopping with friends. I can give you their names."
"I've got the list already," he told her with his own smile. Well, she was the most likeable of the troupe of oddballs that Belle had collected around her. He could see Ruby pulling a trigger if she got backed into a corner, but he couldn't see her shooting her bff and employer. Again, no apparent motive here.
He thanked the threesome and went down the stairs. He stopped to look over the shop. It was a small ladies clothing shop, classy with polished wood floors and lotsa mirrors, racks of clothes separated by designers – some featuring Belle's work, some Jefferson's and some offered other small-time designers' - unique clothing for the discerning woman. There was a delicate scent wafting through the place. There was original, probably local, art work on the walls.
He knew that Miss French had made money both through her ready to wear and through her design business. Both parts of the business were quite successful. He'd already pulled her tax records and learned that Miss French had been a canny young woman, with a number of wise, steady investments balanced with a few iffy ones, money that she would give as startups for other rising young artists. Some of those investments had failed, but many, if not most, had been wildly successful. She seemed to have had a feel for what would be successful and what would fold. She was doing very well for herself, especially in light of having come to Asheville five years ago with less than three hundred dollars to her name.
He glanced at his watch, five to one. He remembered he had a free lunch coming to him with Regina. He walked up the hill to Cúrate.
Regina was waiting for him from a table in the corner. She waved him back to her. Regina had a notepad computer set up in front of her.
"I've been writing my blog. You," she looked at him through her lashes, "are one of the most interesting people I've met in a while. I knocked out more than a thousand words just sitting here. Now, how went your morning?" she asked him, ignoring the face he was pulling and pouring him a glass of red wine without asking.
"Routine. Just questioning some more people," he avoided answering her question.
"I would imagine your job is days, perhaps weeks of ass-numbingly boring work punctuated by the occasional flurry of life-threatening activity."
"Pretty much," he shrugged. He puzzled over the menu.
"Allow me to order for us," Regina said waving a waitress over. "We'll start with the pan con tomate with manchego cheese. The setas al jerez, the sautéed mushrooms, are to die for. Two of those. Now I also want the gambas al ajillo, shrimp and garlic, their number one tapas," she added, speaking to the waitress and then to Gold as she translated the menu items, "and the bocadillo catalán which is sausage with peppers and onions, of course the patatas bravas, fried potatoes, and the lardo ibérico ahumado which is ham on toast. How does that sound?"
Gold blinked. "Sounds nice. These prices are too rich for my pocket. I'm just a humble police officer who works on the public dime," Gold told her.
"Oh lord, that's so 50's and so going in the blog. Now you know they'll bring our food to us one plate at a time," Regina went on to explain how the tapas bar worked. "It's a bit different from most restaurants. It's meant to be slower, allowing people a chance to savor and enjoy their food . . . and each others' company."
Regina sniffed and continued, "This was our table- Belle's and mine. We spent many quiet evenings here together. I remember we dined here the night of her twenty-ninth birthday. Just we two girls- happy, making plans for her future. Everything had started to come up roses for her. But this was a far cry...from the girl who walked into my life five years before."
Thanks so much to my amazing reviewers (and to everyone still following and favoriting this story): OneMagician, cynicsquest, Aletta-Feather (Chapters 1 & 2), Erik'sTrueAngel, Grace5231973, Tinuviel Undomiel, onlyinyourdreams77, Robin4, orthankg1, auntpsy (Chapter 1), MyraValhallah, deweymay, jewel415, and Chauchi.