Page 16 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Polished Off

She made a beeline for the ornate desk off to one side of the gaily-
decorated shop. There sat Patty Melton, rigidly coifed and
fashionably if conservatively attired. She slightly relaxed the
professional smile which had flexed on her face when our entrance
triggered an electronic chime. She was younger than Mariana, I
think—or did a better job of making up and dressing. I felt she had a
good business head, and it must have been frustrating to receive up-
scale homeowners and their furnishing advisors in this recently run-
down district. If so, she gave no sign of it in her expression.
“Mr. Keane? Is it merely coincidence that you have come to my
shop on this, of all days? Poor Mariana. And this charming lady is…”
“Lieutenant Gramercy, Ms. Melton. I am investigating the death
of Mariana S. Trench. What time did you last see her this morning?”
Patty looked at a row of clocks on the opposite wall, none
agreeing. “Oh, I usually go over there before I officially open at ten-
thirty, so it had to be before then.”
“Did she offer you coffee?”
“Always does. It’s instant, and I supply it. She is—was—unable to
distinguish a good cup of coffee from a bad one. I never told her
that, of course.”
“Did you drink it?”
“You mean today? I guess so. Sometimes I don’t finish it if it gets
too close to ten-thirty.”
“So you bring it back here?”
“If I want to drink the rest of it. Or even if I don’t: she doesn’t
have a sink in her office, and I would rather rinse out my cup in
there”—she pointed at a door in the rear, leading, I deduced, to a
chamber containing plumbing fixtures—“than take the time to do it
in her bathroom.”
“May I see that cup.” It was not a question, although I was
becoming accustomed sufficiently to Labelle’s manner to know she
was making an effort to be polite.
“Certainly.”
Patty came out from behind the desk and flounced over to a large
armoire, Labelle at her right heel; Ms. Melton must not have been a
southpaw. I followed at a respectable distance. Patty unlocked the
cabinet doors and extracted a nondescript gray mug. I realized the
armoire was not for sale: no tiny gilt-edged price tag dangling on a

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