The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(63)

“Mornin’!” one called out as his partner took the freshly sawed chunks of pine over to a worktable. He had a bright smile and a chestnut-colored mustache.

“Hey there,” I said. “This your place?”

“Y&M,” he said, nodding to the sign. “He’s Young, I’m Messner. In the market for new cabinets? We just finished some real beauties that need a good home.”

“Something a little more offbeat. Friend of mine called over earlier. Looking for armature puppets. Big ones.”

Messner rubbed his mustache, looking between Caitlin and me.

“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, I don’t mean to be nosy, but you’re the second person who’s asked about commissioning those things. I sure don’t mind the money, but mind telling me what the darn things are for? Young’s guessing it’s some kind of art installation.”

“She didn’t—” I said, then looked to Caitlin. “She didn’t tell him. Can you believe that?”

Caitlin caught my drift and shook her head. “Oh, that’s Meadow for you. She’d forget her head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

“I’m Peter Greyson,” I said. It was an alias I’d used before. “Regional manager for Del Rey Fashion. This is Zoe, our director of marketing.”

“Charmed,” she said.

“Our flagship stores are in Florida,” I said. “Think Abercrombie and Fitch meets Miami chic. We’re getting ready to make a big splash on the West Coast. Those life-sized armature dolls are sort of a store trademark. We use ’em instead of plastic mannequins for setting up clothing displays. Looks a little classier, you know?”

Messner put his hands on his hips. “You hear that, Young? Y’owe me five bucks. Art installation, my ass.”

Young pulled on a pair of plastic safety goggles, flipped Messner the bird, and turned back to his workbench.

“Now, this part’s a little embarrassing,” I said. “See, the reason you got multiple calls, and we had to track you down like we didn’t know you were already building the puppets for us—”

Caitlin folded her arms and glared. “Oh, just say it, Peter. We fired the bitch. We trusted that woman to set up our entire Nevada retail hub, only to find out she’s done nothing for months. We haven’t broken ground on a single store.”

I put on an apologetic, sheepish smile. “Right. Ms. Brand’s basically dropped out of sight entirely, and we’re still trying to recoup some of our lost assets. Did she make any arrangements to pick up the next batch of puppets?”

“Nope,” Messner said. “In fact, we’ve been calling her, but she hasn’t called back. Hasn’t been around for a couple of weeks. So, uh, does that mean you’re gonna pay for this batch? Because the order’s just kinda sitting here, and there isn’t a whole lot of demand…”

He trailed off with a hopeful lilt in his voice.

“Of course,” Caitlin said primly. “That’s why we’re here. Will cash be acceptable?”

Messner’s eyes lit up. “Cash is always welcome here, miss.”

She stepped a little closer, holding him in her gaze.

“And you wouldn’t mind helping us wrap up our paperwork, would you?” she said. “Having copies of Meadow’s receipts would go a long way toward unraveling the mess she left for us. I’d consider it a favor.”

Messner nodded and waved us into the shop. “Of course! Long as you’re taking this last order off my hands. You’re helping me out, I’ll help you out.”

The mannequins, four of them in all, were wrapped up in plastic sheeting and stacked like corpses in a shadowy back corner of the garage. Their blank, featureless faces stared out from under their glossy shrouds. I noticed their left hands were all missing. Meadow must do that part herself, I figured, equipping her murderous minions with their knives and rusty awls while bringing them to life.

“That’s, uh, twelve hundred for the lot,” Messner said.

Caitlin opened her purse and counted out a string of hundred-dollar bills. While Messner went to put together all of the paperwork on Meadow’s past purchases, I called Pixie.

? ? ?

We wrestled two of the puppets into the backseat of the Barracuda and the other two into the trunk. “This isn’t creepy or anything,” I said as I shut the lid.

“If anyone looks in the backseat, we’ll just tell them we’re exploring an exciting new fetish,” Caitlin said.

“You don’t think that Meadow—” I caught myself as I slipped behind the steering wheel. “Never mind. That’s on my list of mental images to never have again.”

Pixie met us at the Scrivener’s Nook. She pulled up out front in the Wardriver, an old white Ford panel van that rattled and wheezed when she killed the engine. It looked like a clunker, but that was just for show. Inside, the Wardriver sported enough electronics and surveillance gear to make an FBI agent drool. A bumper sticker slapped up on a control panel, just under a row of closed-circuit screens showing the street outside the van from every possible angle, read “This Machine Kills Fascists.”

I pocketed my phone as Caitlin and I climbed in back. “Our first stop is Sapphire Skytours. Pix, can you scan this contract? We’re going to need to email it to somebody.”