Free Armoires and Arsenic by Cassie Page Page A

her if it seems appropriate,” and then wheeled her cart towards the meat department.
    Then, unexpectedly, Marcia turned to her and said, “Oh, by the way. Mrs. Harmon was having dinner with the Blackmans’ daughter. Maybe they were talking about her divorce,” and then Marcia pushed off leaving Olivia open-mouthed and still undecided about the oysters. Jessica was getting a divorce? Jessica was married?
     
    By the time Olivia made it to the checkout counter with enough high priced convenience foods, take out and champagne to last through the weekend, no less than six DV residents had stopped to chat with her. Women who openly snubbed her were suddenly intensely interested in how the business was going, how the renovations were coming along or suggested that they were way overdue for lunch or tea at the Redmond, the inn that boasted an afternoon tea service to rival the Ritz Carlton in San Francisco.
    Two men openly hit on her, but she tossed their business cards in the trashcan in the produce department. As she waited on line with her debit card in her hand, she said under her breath that if all it took was a murder to warm DV up to her, she would have knocked off that icy neighbor across the street when she first unpacked.
    Before pulling out of the parking lot, she checked her phone. The New York Times texted an update that odds were that strychnine had killed Blackman and Tuesday texted Chill the champs!!!!!!   She had landed and was heading to Hertz to pick up her Mercedes.
    A slight smile broke the grim line of Olivia’s mouth. There was nothing more appealing right now than a glass of champagne with Tuesday, especially when she got home and found the card of Mr. Black, the garage man, stuck in her front door. “Did I make a mistake? 2 pm, right?”
    She looked at her watch and let loose with many expletives. Three-thirty. How could she have forgotten their appointment? Inside, she checked her office voicemail. Sabrina called back to say that, of course, she wanted a donation and reminded Olivia that the auction was tomorrow night, not tonight. She wasn’t going to penalize her charity over this tragedy. And did Olivia know why Detective Richards wanted her Jimmy Choo shoes? Olivia apologized into the phone for messing up the date. Her excuse-- too much fareekin crime news for one day.
     

Chapter Ten: A Vision of Tuesday
    Tuesday was a vision in black and white. Stripes, polka dots, zebras, plaids and a 1968 hallucinogenic geometric nightmare adorned her blouse, sweater, skirt, petticoat, scarves, shawls and Paris-themed apron. Each floaty and fighting for attention.
    “Apron?” Olivia said when she ran down the walk to jump on her friend. “Who wears aprons anymore? Even to cook?”
    Tuesday howled. “You know me. I love Paris,” she sang, twirling like a whirling dervish as she showed off her outfit.
    It wasn’t until after the marathon hug and many cheek and air kisses that Olivia noticed the pink hair. But that wasn’t a surprise. Tuesday rainbowed her locks regularly. It had been a purple Mohawk when they’d kissed goodbye.
    “Come in, come in,” Olivia said, grabbing some of Tuesday’s luggage, enough for a six-month getaway to Europe.
    Tuesday made the appropriate cooing noises about the beautiful space and extravagant pieces for sale. Her first act was to head to the kitchen with a carryon and line up a new age pharmacy worth of herbs, teas, plus various remedies and cleanses. She said what Olivia already knew, “I can’t go anywhere without my stash.”
    Later, on the white couch that Tuesday claimed because it was the perfect backdrop for her two-toned look, she drained her first glass of champs, held it out to Olivia for a refill and said, “So? Details please?”
    Olivia obliged her with the Veuve Cliquot and said, “Tues, if I knew the answer to your questions, I’d take over Detective Richards’ job. I don’t know, I don’t know, and, let’s see. There’s one more thing. Oh,