Page 26 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case
P. 26

Polished Off

           “One  bottle  of  brown  liquid  shoe  polish  knocked  off  the  shelf
        over the desk and broken,” she reported. “Nothing wiped out by the
        polish that wasn’t recorded earlier.”
           I could smell it. Turning back to Linsey, I said, “Nothing to worry
        about. Is there any sort of ventilation in that back room? It might not
        be good to breathe in the fumes from that stuff.”
           Linsey  smiled,  obviously  grateful  for  my  intervention.  “Well,
        there’s a switch here for the exhaust fan in the attic. We usually turn
        it on in the morning during the summer, but I see that it’s off right
        now. There. That ought to clear some of it out.”
           My  ears  drew  my  attention  away  from  her  to  a  conversation
        beginning  a  few  feet  away,  behind  a  display  rack  of  celebrity
        biographies recommended, in each case on a gaudy sticker affixed to
        the front of the cover, by  other celebrities. It was Labelle and the
        handyman.
           “Yes, I am Pete Boggs. I work here from time to time. Here—let
        me find my driver’s license. It’s in my wallet. Oops.”
           I heard fumbling on the floor, plastic cards and small pieces of
        paper scraped up.
           “Were you here yesterday?”
           “Well, yes. I came by to ask Mariana if she needed anything taken
        care of.”
           “And that is why you were here today?”
           “Yes. She wanted me to reinforce a bookshelf that some customer
        had complained about, said it was about to fall over. Also said that
        Iris complained about a pest infestation behind the New Age science
        and fiction section.”
           “Did anyone else hear her tell you that?”
           “I  don’t  know.  It’s  hard  to  have  a  private  conversation  in  this
        place.”
           I  felt  my  face  redden.  But  I  did  not  make  a  sound—nor  did
        Linsey. We were partners in a rather petty crime.
           “What time did you leave yesterday?”
           I could just make out the top of Boggs’ head over the dust jacket
        of She Had It All. His thin gray hair was slicked down laterally across
        his pate, as in the usually hopeless attempt to cover a large bald spot.
           “Probably late morning, definitely before noon.”
           “Did you unlock the back door about half an hour ago?”

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