Page 17 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case
P. 17

Polished Off

        piece of colored string. As Patty handed the coffee cup to Labelle, I
        observed that the obviously recently-patinated shelves held a number
        of items of non-decorative function.
           Labelle put the cup in a plastic bag she had produced from within
        her jacket. “I’ll give you a receipt for this later,” she said. “Do you
        use these paints and polishes often?”
           Patty expressed surprise. “Now and then. The merchandise does
        become  a  bit  shopworn  after  weeks  of  being  examined  by
        prospective  clients.  Small  scratches  and  scuff-marks  can  be
        eradicated—or  at  least  rendered  less  visible—with  the  judicious
        application of the correct restorative preparations.”
           “It  appears  as  if  two  of  these  bottles  were  recently  removed.”
        Ah-ha, I thought. More distinctive footprints.
           Patty  Melton  stared  at  the  shelf  space  indicated  by  Labelle’s
        unwavering index finger. “Well, I might have discarded a couple of
        things early last week. Yes, now I remember: a bottle of brown liquid
        polish  and  a  bottle  of  rosewood  dye.  They  had  both  dried  out.  I
        happened to notice it then, so I disposed of them.”
           “Is your trash collected from the alley behind the shop?”
           “Yes. Every Thursday.” No chance for Labelle to fit the missing
        objects back into place, unless she planned to unearth a very large
        suburban  landfill.  Ms.  Melton  was  losing  a  bit  of  her  enameled
        demeanor under what had quickly become a sort of interrogation. If
        she  had  been  my  client,  I  would  have  objected.  But  she  had  not
        exercised  any  foresight  in  selecting  legal  representation.  I  stood
        silently,  watching  her  reactions.  The  coffee  cup  was  no  longer  in
        Labelle’s hands; her notebook was, and she notated rapidly. Now she
        would have a list of touching-up chemicals to go with her list of rare
        books.
           I felt uncomfortable in the sudden conversational void. “I was just
        wondering, Patty,” I ventured, “if Mariana seemed at all bothered by
        anything this morning.”
           She seemed grateful for the change of subject. “Oh, she was going
        on about something. I only half-listened. I don’t think she was more
        upset than usual. I mean, I expected her to complain about someone
        or  something:  maybe  her  niece,  maybe  the  other  people  working
        there, maybe a customer who had given her a hard time.”
           “Not about anything you brought up?”

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