Just Murdered Page 7

  Steed choked slightly on his biscuit and took a swig of tea, managing to burn his mouth in the process. ‘Constable Connor is a junior officer,’ he managed to splutter.

  Peregrine pushed forward on her chair, ready to start an argument, but Florence cut her off.

  ‘For goodness sake! Can we just get on with this? I’ve already told you I have no idea who might have wanted to hurt Barbie Jones. The only other thing you need to know—the only thing I can tell you—is that I didn’t kill her. Barbie and I were friends.’ She folded her arms impatiently.

  ‘And, besides,’ Peregrine added, ‘why would Florence sabotage her own show with a dead body? It makes absolutely no sense.’

  Steed opened his mouth to speak but Peregrine wasn’t finished.

  ‘None. No sense, no motive, no murder weapon and no evidence against Florence. It’s probably a good thing poor Barbie was left in plain sight or you might not even have a body.’

  The detective paused, waiting to see if Peregrine’s speech was over, then leaned across the desk. ‘People often do things that don’t make sense. And your friend here’—he nodded at Florence—‘had a very public argument with the deceased yesterday. People said Miss Jones was constantly running late. Was the argument about that? A boyfriend, perhaps? Too many late nights?’

  Peregrine nodded approvingly. ‘See? Now you’re starting to sound like a detective.’ Then she angled her body close to Florence. ‘The fight with Barbie isn’t a good look,’ she murmured.

  Florence flapped a hand at them as though brushing away the problem. ‘As far as I know Barbie didn’t have a boyfriend. She was just perpetually late. And as for the argument, it was nothing. A silly tiff about one of the dresses. Barbie claimed it was too tight and was refusing to wear it, but I knew she was just being a prima donna; she hated the bias cut and all the flounces.’

  ‘She hated the … what?’ Steed’s brow furrowed and his pen hovered uncertainly over his notebook.

  ‘The bias cut and the flounces!’ Peregrine sighed impatiently and tapped the desk.

  ‘I have no idea what that is, so if you could just—’ He broke off, held out a hand palm down, and patted the air in front of him. ‘Tone it down.’

  ‘Why? Because you don’t know what a bias cut is? Do you think Inspector Turkey has a clue?’ Peregrine’s voice rose.

  Steed winced and closed his eyes, just as Inspector Sparrow, accompanied by a white-faced and miserable Birdie, stepped into Peregrine’s line of sight.

  Sparrow pointed at Peregrine. ‘You! Get out!’

  Peregrine was ready to argue, but seeing the look on Sparrow’s face she bit back her smart remark. Now was not the time. She stood, snatched up the red notebook she’d brought and gave Florence a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Detective Steed.’ She nodded at him then turned to leave.

  Sparrow blocked her path. Seconds ticked by, the moment stretching, and it seemed the entire group held its breath. Then, with an exaggerated show of good manners Sparrow moved aside, allowing Peregrine just enough room to pass.

  She stalked off without looking back.

  When Detective James Steed arrived at Blair’s Emporium the following morning, he found Peregrine Fisher’s convertible, with its top down, parked directly in front of the store. Peregrine herself was leaning back with her elbows on the car’s bonnet, face tilted to the sky, enjoying the sunshine.

  ‘I was starting to wonder if you’d ever show up,’ she said, eyes invisible behind dark sunglasses.

  Steed ignored the jibe, staring at the baby blue Austin-Healey in disbelief. ‘Don’t tell me you got the house too?’ he asked, surprise and just a hint of envy in his voice.

  ‘As a matter of fact I did! So you’ll always know exactly where to find me, Detective.’ Peregrine stood up and pulled off her sunglasses. ‘Now I just have to convince Birdie and the rest of the Adventuresses that I can do my aunt’s old job. I mean, it’s not really that hard, is it? You start with the dead body, figure out when and how they were murdered, make a list of suspects, ask some questions and find out as much as you can from the cops. The nice, helpful cops.’ She put her hands behind her back and smiled sweetly at Steed, but he just shook his head.

  ‘I’ve got real work to do.’ He started walking towards the main entrance of Blair’s Emporium, but after a few seconds he stopped and turned.

  Peregrine had been following right behind and she was so close Steed was forced to take a step back.

  ‘You can’t just decide on a whim that you’re going to be a detective!’ he exclaimed. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I’ve been through the police academy, done three years of special training—’

  ‘And I’m sure you learned a lot,’ Peregrine said politely.

  Steed forged on. ‘I’ve spent countless hours—’

  ‘Sitting in a police station having someone else bring you cups of tea?’ Peregrine arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, while you’ve been learning from the likes of Inspector Sparrow, I’ve been studying at the school of hard knocks.’

  ‘The school of … When did you actually leave school?’

  ‘I was fifteen. But I can pipe pink icing onto one hundred finger buns in five minutes, tease three beehives in an hour, compound enough nerve pills in an afternoon to knock out a mothers’ club, and rebuild a Holden from the wheels up in three days with only four spanners. Among other things.’

  ‘So you have some life skills. That’s great. But unless the killer is a beauty queen who drove to a mothers’ club bake sale with a carload of finger buns laced with nerve pills, you’re still not a detective.’ Steed turned, slapped his palm against the door to the emporium and pushed hard, intending to make a grand exit, but the door remained firmly closed.

  ‘Here’s another trick I learned in the real world.’ Peregrine pulled the adjoining door open and sailed past Detective Steed.

  He hurried to grab the door as it swung back and followed her into Blair’s Emporium, catching up as she paused to admire a grouping of mannequins dressed in tennis clothes.

  ’Do you know when Barbie died?’ Peregrine asked.

  Steed struggled with himself for a moment then sighed. ‘Some time early yesterday morning.’

  ‘That’s a bit vague and not particularly helpful. Can you tell me why she was killed then?’

  The detective pulled back and looked at her in disbelief. ‘No. Of course I can’t. I’ve only just started my investigation.’

  ‘I thought you said it was Sparrow’s investigation,’ Peregrine said innocently, lifting a price tag attached to a tennis skirt as she spoke.

  ‘Why am I telling you anything anyway?’ Steed stalked off across the black-and-white terrazzo shop floor. ‘I have an appointment.’

  ‘And I have so much shopping to do! I wonder what fashionable detectives are wearing this season?’ Peregrine stepped onto a nearby escalator and turned to wave at Steed as she ascended to the lofty heights of Blair’s ladieswear department.

  Despite himself, the detective watched her until she reached the top and disappeared.

  Steed then took the elevator to Terence Blair’s top-floor office, trying—and largely failing—to order his thoughts. When the doors slid open, Joyce Hirsch, Blair’s secretary, was waiting for him.

  ‘Good morning, Detective. Mr Blair isn’t here.’

  ‘He’s not … Good morning, Mrs Hirsch.’ Steed’s good manners won out over his annoyance.

  ‘He asked that you meet him on the first floor. He likes to be seen by staff and customers. Especially at a time like this.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘He has to put up with such a lot.’

  Steed decided not to rise to the bait and backed into the still-waiting elevator car. ‘Thank you.’ He touched the brim of his hat as the doors closed.

  On the first floor, Peregrine hovered only a few feet from two men she assumed were Mr Blair and his son; the younger one was, after all, wearing a badge that proclaimed him Colin Blair, Assistant Manager
. James Steed was easy to spot as he hurried towards them, a lone man in a sea of femininity. His stride faltered slightly when he noticed her, idly stroking the fabric of a gown, and she waggled her fingers at him in a wave that was both discreet and deliberately annoying.

  ‘Mr Blair,’ the detective said, while studiously ignoring Peregrine. ‘Thank you for meeting with me again. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

  There was a round of handshakes and comments on the terrible business of Barbie’s murder, then Terence Blair began to lead the men away. Peregrine caught Detective Steed’s eye as they walked past and he flashed her a triumphant grin. She started to follow, expecting a long trek through the store, but had to suppress a laugh when they stopped only a dozen feet away at a department manager’s table, tucked into a corner of the shop floor. Steed commandeered the manager’s chair, leaving the Blairs to settle themselves in the seats usually reserved for customers.

  Peregrine picked up a dress and carried it over to a mirror directly behind where Terence Blair and his son were sitting. She held the dress in front of her and stood before the mirror, pretending to assess the style. In the reflection, she met Steed’s eye and quirked an eyebrow. He glowered at her then looked away.

  ‘So …’ Detective Steed leafed through his notebook. ‘Just a few follow-up questions. How long had Miss Jones been working for Blair’s as a house model?’

  ‘About six months.’ Terence Blair crossed one leg over the other, displaying a yellow argyle sock. ‘She approached Colin initially.’

  ‘It was just a standard job interview—until she started to get emotional,’ Colin added.

  ‘And that’s all it takes for Colin. As soon as a woman gets a bit weepy, he’s putty in her hands.’ Terence gave a long-suffering sigh and shook his head, oblivious to the wounded expression on his son’s face.

  In the mirror, Peregrine gave Steed a wide-eyed look then swapped the dress she was holding for another one, pulling the pink fabric across her abdomen. Steed shot her a dirty look.

  ‘Why did she get emotional?’ he asked.

  ‘Miss Jones told me she had to leave White’s,’ Colin explained.

  Steed pulled his attention back from Peregrine. ‘You mean H.R. White’s? The department store across the road?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Colin confirmed.

  ‘Did she tell you why?’

  ‘No. I was going to ask but she was so upset. And the crying increased every time White’s was mentioned.’

  ‘It’s always tricky taking on staff from White’s,’ Terence said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. ‘We try to respect each other—well, from an operations point of view at least. You know, maintain a bit of distance and keep things cordial. They’re our biggest competitor, but no one wants a full-on war. That just means lower profit margins all round.’

  Peregrine decided she’d heard enough for now: she wasn’t going to solve Barbie’s murder by listening to the Blairs pontificate about business or by provoking James Steed, although it was fun watching him tie himself in knots. She dumped the dress she’d been holding on the nearest rack and plunged deeper into the store, looking for a way to get into the stockrooms.

  Peregrine spotted a saleswoman carrying a teetering stack of shoeboxes and followed her to an unmarked door. The boxes wobbled alarmingly as the woman attempted to reach for the doorhandle and Peregrine rushed forward.

  ‘Here, let me,’ she said opening the door and holding it wide.

  ‘Why, thank you,’ came the startled reply. Blair’s clientele were not usually so considerate of the staff who pandered to them. The saleswoman squeezed past, her attention focused on not dropping anything and returning to the shop floor as quickly as possible. She failed to notice Peregrine following her through and scurrying off in the other direction, the tap of her own shoes on the linoleum masking the sound of Peregrine’s footsteps.

  Peregrine tried a few doors before finding one that was unlocked. Easing it open as quietly as possible, she peered around the frame. Stairs, scuffed and utilitarian. She headed down, past one door marked with a G and arrived at the basement level. Another door, slightly ajar, was directly in front of her. She stepped forward and applied one eye to the gap. The vast room was dimly lit and cluttered, but looked like it was unoccupied. Peregrine slipped through the door, closing it behind her. She seemed to be in a part of the storeroom reserved for display material. Discarded signage, backdrops for window displays, a partition papered in floral damask to resemble a wall, shelves and shelves of miscellaneous props and accessories and, off to one side, a giant wedding cake. Peregrine was running her hand over the wallpaper and wondering how she could examine the top of the wedding cake when suddenly she had the feeling she was no longer alone. The hairs on the back of her neck rose and she slowly moved around the end of the faux wall.

  A face, inches from her own.

  ‘Oh!’ Peregrine jumped back, colliding with something. Fingers clawed at her shoulder and she shrieked and spun around, hands out, ready to karate chop her attacker. Then her arms dropped to her sides and she sucked in a breath. ‘Well, that’s embarrassing,’ she muttered.

  Concealed behind the wallpapered partition were at least a dozen shop mannequins, some waving or pointing, standing normally or with legs in unnaturally twisted poses, some dressed, a few with moulded hair, a few that were bald and a number wearing wigs. And all of them were staring unblinkingly at Peregrine. She found herself checking each face, just to be sure there wasn’t a real person hiding in their midst. When her heart rate had slowed, Peregrine moved past the crowd of dummies and continued to nose about, but there was nothing suspicious, just the detritus of a large store. Towards the back of the room she came across a pile of fashion magazines and noticed Barbie Jones on the cover of the topmost edition. Picking it up, Peregrine began to flick through the pages, but then, from the corner of her eye, she noticed another door in a dim corner of the room. Peregrine made her way over, skirting around a couple of beach chairs and a small carousel horse. The door was marked Alterations and stood slightly open. She pushed it wide. Overhead, a fluorescent light buzzed and faltered, but the tiny room contained only an empty clothes rack, a worktable, chair, dressmaker’s form and a sewing machine.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  The voice came from behind her and Peregrine spun around. A man in a dustcoat and flat cap stood there, a female mannequin under each arm. The flickering light was reflected in his spectacles, hiding his expression from Peregrine.

  ‘Sorry! Gosh. I was just looking for the powder room. Must have taken a wrong turn.’ Peregrine gave him a quick smile.

  ‘Miss!’ A second voice came from the other side of the basement and Detective Steed stepped into the light. ‘You can’t be in here, miss. This area of the store is out of bounds to the general public. If you’d like to come with me …’ He nodded to the storeman. ‘Mr Knox.’

  Peregrine hurried over and positioned herself just behind Steed’s shoulder, but Knox had already lost interest. He peered earnestly at the detective.

  ‘The other cop said I could still use the storeroom for my ladies,’ Knox said, hefting the mannequins under his arms for emphasis. ‘They don’t like to be abandoned in strange places.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Knox.’ Steed nodded at him.

  Peregrine couldn’t repress a shudder as she and Detective Steed watched the storeman carry his mannequins away. When Knox had disappeared from view, Peregrine turned her attention to the detective and noticed he was holding a thick folder of papers under one arm.

  ‘What’s in there?’ she asked, pointing to the file.

  Steed twisted his shoulder back, putting the folder out of her reach. ‘Confidential police documents, just rushed over from the station,’ he said.

  She stared at him for a moment. ‘Fine, don’t tell me. I, however, have something I’d like to share with you.’ She pulled Steed over to the pile of magazines.

  ‘Look! Last summer’s edit
ion.’ Peregrine flipped through until she found the double-paged editorial featuring Barbie Jones in a variety of swimwear. She held it up for Steed to see. ‘The article says Barbie Jones was one of Australia’s top models and, quote, “the elegant face of H.R. White’s Department Store”.’

  ‘Yes, but she left White’s six months ago.’ Steed took the magazine and slowly began to turn the pages, tilting his head occasionally as he did so.

  ‘She must have been a huge catch for Blair’s,’ mused Peregrine. ‘If I was Mr White and someone had poached my star model, I might want revenge. And murdering Barbie Jones in Blair’s Emporium in public wouldn’t be a bad way to do it.’

  ‘Barbie wasn’t poached. It was her decision: she left.’ Steed turned the magazine sideways.

  ‘No, actually she said she had to leave.’ Peregrine snatched the magazine from his hands.

  ‘That was a private conversation.’

  ‘In the middle of the ladieswear department!’ Peregrine rolled her eyes. ‘And what about that weird storeman who was just here? Don’t you think he might be up to something?’

  Steed took her arm and tucked it through his own. ‘I’m escorting you from the premises, Miss Fisher.’

  When they emerged onto the shop floor, Steed attempted to disengage his arm but couldn’t. Peregrine wouldn’t let go. Instead, she pulled him closer, rested her head on Steed’s broad shoulder and slowed her pace to a dawdle. Then she sighed. ‘Isn’t this lovely?’ She smiled up at him.

  ‘Miss Fisher …’ Detective Steed gave his arm an experimental tug, but Peregrine clamped it tight with her own.

  ‘Isn’t this lovely, darling?’ she said loudly. ‘Would you mind waiting while I try a few things on, or should we go and choose the china for our wedding registry first?’

  ‘Miss Fisher!’ He blushed, looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

  A matronly woman in a floral-print dress met his eye and smiled indulgently.