She hesitated for a second or two, then laughed and ran across the yard. Bling, who’d been watching them quizzically, chased her, nipping at her heels.
“I want to see what you’re doing in there,” and slowed to a walk before entering the dark garage.
Cully followed her, slowly. He seemed to be breathing heavily, much more so than the short walk from the tree to the garage demanded, but by the time he reached her he was smiling again.
“Of course. What genius doesn’t want to show off his masterpieces?”
There were several photos hanging on a clothesline strung over a work counter in the dark, musty smelling garage. Cully turned on a small light and Bertie stopped in front of one of them, stunned.
A man – at least Bertie assumed it was a man – sat huddled against the side of a warehouse, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs, his head on his arms. He had the look of a bundle of raggedy clothes that had been thrown out of a passing car and ended up against the warehouse because there was, literally, nowhere else to go.
It was an image of sadness and despair and Bertie loved it. The other photos were also of homeless people and they were excellent, but Bertie kept coming back to the first one.
“This is beautiful, Cully, in a tragic, desperate way. Do you have more like this one?”
“I’ve been struggling with one I took in the same warehouse row, but I managed to get some annoying light in it. Take a look.” He pulled a wet piece of photo paper out of a chemical solution. It was an image of a woman pushing a shopping cart heaped with junk past a warehouse. In the upper right-hand corner was a bright light that drew the eye to it.
“What is that?” Bertie asked.
“I think it’s a surveillance camera,” Cully said. “There are cameras everywhere these days. I think I triggered it somehow. I don’t know why anyone would be worried about security there, it’s a row of empty warehouses with a homeless camp down the road.”
“I read somewhere that the average person has his or her picture taken 200 times a day by surveillance cameras. If that’s true, no wonder you ran into one. Too bad it spoiled your shot, though.”
“Yeah. I might go back there and shoot some more tomorrow, try and get something without a surveillance camera in it. C’mon, I’m done for the night, let’s go in.”
He shut off the light, locked the door and they strolled across the yard to the apartment. Cully went to the refrigerator, tore the lid off a Diet Dr Pepper for Bert and a Pepsi for him and they settled onto the couch, Bling between them.
“I need to talk about the murder,” Bertie said.
“I’m not surprised,” Cully replied. “It must’ve been terrible for you, that guy falling dead right in front of you.”
“Well, yeah, but I really need to sort out the suspects if I’m going to get out of society columnist hell and get a real writing job.”
Cully laughed. “You and I both know you’re not the hard-as-nails broad you’re trying to be, but okay, let’s talk suspects. There are quite a few, but I think Howie-baby looks like the best bet right now, don’t you?” Cully had met Schompe the day before when he was at the paper to download his pictures from the PAP show. He wasn’t impressed, but Howard had gone out of his way to meet and greet Cully, impressed by his pedigree from the largest newspaper in L.A.
“I think you think Howard’s the one because I think he’s a horse’s ass, and I’d like to send my boss to jail. We have to consider the suspects on their merits, not who I want the murderer to be,” Bertie said.
“That’s very equal opportunity of you, Bert. OK, so there’s Howard Schompe, Mrs. Poke, Buddy Laird, and now, thanks to your friend Monica, we know that maybe Annabelle Johnson is on the list, too. That’s one scary broad, Bert.”
“Annabelle?”
“No, Monica. I couldn’t get away from her.”
“Yeah, that’s Monica. She was wearing leopard-print because she couldn’t find a cougar-print dress. She’s relatively harmless, but she does like younger guys. And she’s a great source of information. Like Tiffany, coming up with the info about Annabelle and Poke were boinking.”
“Boinking? That’s one of the things I always loved about you, Bert: Your sophistication. But why would Annabelle want him dead? If she wanted to be Mrs. Senator Poke, she’d want him alive, wouldn’t she?”
“You’d think. Maybe he was going to spill the beans about them before she was ready to shed Dildo Johnson and his money. I mean, Poke wasn’t a senator yet.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Cully said. He stood and started pacing in front of the sofa. The tiny apartment wasn’t really built for pacing; he could only take three or four steps before he had to turn. Bertie and Bling were watching, their heads moving back and forth with Cully like he was the ball at a tennis match.
“Wait a minute!” Bertie suddenly sat up straight. “We’re missing the obvious here. If Annabelle was banging Poke, then Dillard Johnson had a reason to kill Poke, too.”
“But didn’t Monica say that he was still in love with Blythe?”
“Blythe? Well, you two got friendly fast, didn’t you? I saw you talking with her.”
“Why, Bert, you’re not jealous, are you?” Cully laughed. “I talked to about twenty women this afternoon, she was just one of them. I can’t see Johnson getting too ripped up about Annabelle, even if she was screwing around. She’s a type, there are a million just like her; he could find someone to replace her and not even notice the difference.”
“I guess,” Bertie said, doubt shading her face and voice. “Buddy Laird is the one I don’t understand,” Bertie said. “Why does he want to control The End so badly? There just can’t be that much money in it, and he doesn’t act like a guy who’s hung up on power.”
“You’re going there to help him Tuesday, right? Do you want me to come, too? If he’s a murderer …”
“I really don’t think he’d make a public announcement at the work session that he’s looking for victims, do you? I think it’s all right. It will be a good chance to get to know him a little better. Although I’m not looking forward to his little experiment in pest control. Yuck.”
“Well, make sure you have your cell phone with you all the time.” Cully sat back down again and put his hand on Bling for a pet. Bertie had just reached out to pet him, too, and their hands touched. They both pulled back.
“I still think Howard Schompe is the best bet so far,” Cully said quickly, filling in the awkward moment. “With Poke gone, Mrs. Poke will be free, right? Does Howard need money?”
“Dunno. But if he’s been married three times and divorced twice, I’d guess so. Tiffany can work on that. She can check public records at City Hall for any actions taken against Schompe.”
“We need to find out about Mrs. Poke, too. Maybe she’s just a hot babe that Schompe couldn’t keep away from.”
“If that’s his reason, what’s hers? I mean, Howard Schompe? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Before going to their separate beds, they worked together to clean up the kitchen. Bertie, impressed at Cully’s changed attitude toward helping out around the house, thanked him.
He smiled smugly at her. “Yeah, I learned everything I know about relationships from ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ reruns.”
She rolled her eyes and went to bed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Before leaving for work the next day, Bertie shook Cully awake long enough to tell him to get turkey cutlets for dinner. He grunted and rolled back over again.
“Yeah, you’re the relationship expert,” she said to his back as she left the apartment to tackle morning rush-house traffic.
Tiffany was waiting for her as she got off the elevator on the third floor of the Beacon-Banner building. Her hair was once again its nondescript brown, her clothes a beigely boring.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well to you, too,” Bertie replied.
“Bertie!” she was practically bouncing. She t
ook Bertie’s arm and pulled her down the corridor and off to the side. “No one can hear us here,” she said, looking up.
“How do you know where all these safe places are?” Bertie asked.
“I spend a lot of time looking up. Well? Did you try out the Little Miss Spy kit? How did it work?”
“Oh, cheeze, Tiffany, I forgot all about it. What with Annabelle Johnson’s charity thingy and getting stuck with her dog … I’m sorry.”
Tiffany’s face fell. “OK. Well, never mind.” She started to walk away.
“Wait! Are you going to City Hall today?”
“Of course, I go every day,” Tiffany said, bitterness tingeing her voice. “You’re the one who gets to do the fun stuff.”
“How about looking for charges, of any kind, that may have been filed against Rowley Poke, Irene Poke, Buddy Laird and …” Bertie stopped and looked furtively around. “And Howard.” She said his name so softly that Tiffany had to lean in to hear her.
“Oooh, I can do that.” A faint pink flushed her cheeks, making her almost pretty. Almost.
“Good, that’ll be a big help. And thanks. Lemme know if you find anything.”
Bertie walked to her desk, satisfied she’d not only gotten Tiffany off her back about the Little Miss Spy kit, which she’d honestly forgotten, but also given her something to do that would help.
Howard wasn’t at his desk and Bertie settled in to spend the time whittling away at the pile of work that magically appeared on her desk every time she stepped away from it. Howard was going to have a kitten when he found out she was going to spend the day with Buddy Laird tomorrow, but he’d just have to deal with it. She hoped.
He’d arrived uncharacteristically late that morning, out of breath and with a flushed face. “Sorry I’m late, it was unavoidable,” he announced. Bertie didn’t think he was talking to her, maybe he was telling the cameras in the ceiling.
“Well, isn’t this suspicious,” Bertie thought. “Rowley Poke is dead a little over a week and Howard comes in late, probably for the first time in his life.” One of the buttons on his shirt was undone, too.
Bertie resumed typing and once again started playing peek-a-boo with Howard. She’d peek at him, then pull back if he looked up. It was maddening, but now that she’d started it, she couldn’t stop.
After about an hour, he stood up, pulled his ringing cell phone out of his jacket pocket, and walked away from his desk. “Oh, hell!” Bertie thought. “I might be able to hear him on his desk phone with my Little Miss Spy listening device, but how am I going to hear him on his cell phone?”
She gave him a minute’s start, then walked in the direction he’d taken. He was gone. She headed back through the labyrinth of halls that connected the cubicle farm with different parts of the fourth floor, but couldn’t find him. She stopped, out of breath, outside the men’s room.
“Can I help you with anything, Bertie?” Howard asked. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, waiting to emerge. She was in his way.
“Ummm, no, Howard, of course not. I was just … counting the steps to different places around the building. I’m on a diet and I need to know how much exercise I’m getting. Well, it looks like it’s 45 steps from my desk to the men’s room.”
“You walk to the men’s room often during the day?” Howard asked, a frown on his face.
“Oh, sure … it’s a happenin’ place.” She smiled at him and fled.
At her desk, she kept her head down and worked at a steady pace, no peeking, for awhile. “The men’s room is a happenin’ place?” she thought. “Yikes!” She worried that she was losing her ability to lie under pressure.
***
Working at such a steady pace gave Bertie a headache. She was glad to leave for the trek out to Snarky Park and her weekly gossip report.
Brown was waiting for her as she pulled in. He opened the door for her, greeting her and inexplicably staring at her in such an odd way that Bertie said, “Hello, Mr. Brown, remember me? It’s Bertie Mallowan, I took Bromby Pompton’s place.”
“Oh, yes, of course, Miss,” he replied, bobbing his head and smiling.
She wondered if he might be getting a little senile, but forgot about it as she rang the bell. It was a cloudy day and the mansion looked broody to Bertie, like it might swallow anyone it didn’t like.
Annabelle answered the door, dressed today in a flowing, strapless dress, her Jessica Rabbit breasts threatening to fall out with every step.
“Oh, I’m glad you’re here, Bernie. I have something very important to tell you.” She led the way to a small room off the main hallway. A beautiful antique desk and matching chair took up most of the space in the room. Annabelle seated herself in the chair, forcing Bertie to stand before it like a naughty child.
“I’m changing my name to Khov, and I want all the stories you write to reflect that,” Annabelle said.
“Khov?” Bertie asked, startled. “You mean like a bay or inlet?”
Annabelle looked impatient. She swung her head, sending her long hair swishing around her shoulders. “No, I mean like Khov. K-H-O-V. Don’t you think it’s elegant? I’m tired of Annabelle. And all the big names go by just one name – Madonna, Rihanna, Oprah, Bono …”
“Oh, yeah, don’t forget Lassie and RuPaul,” Bertie added helpfully. “Khov. Um, OK, sure. If you really want unusual, you could spell it C-O-B-H, like the Irish city. Then – “
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Annabelle said, standing. “No one would ever spell that correctly.” She walked around from behind the desk and started ushering Bertie out.
“Uh, Annabelle, I mean Khov, should I bring Bling back the next time I come out?”
“Who? Oh, the dog, Miss Bling. No, if you wouldn’t mind keeping her for awhile longer, I’m going to visit my mother in St. Louis, I’ll be gone for awhile. Thanks ever so much.” She maneuvered Bertie out the door and shut it in her face.
Bertie stared open-mouthed at the door. “I don’t believe you have a mother, you were dropped off on Earth by aliens,” she said softly.
She stepped out of the mansion into the garden and stopped once again in awe at it. She breathed in the damp, cool air and wished she could spend a day, a week, a month there. Something new had been added since the last time she was there – a huge bulldozer sitting idle and quiet to one side of the garden marred its beauty.
Dillard Johnson was waiting for her by the statue of Zeus. “Oh no you don’t,” she said softly to herself.
“Hello, Bertie,” he said and pulled out the chair, the one under Zeus’ dangling thingy, for her. She lowered herself almost onto the seat, then sprang back up again.
She walked to the stone wall and stopped at the point he’d been staring at the first time she was there and stood looking out on the garden. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand for awhile. I’ve been sitting all day.”
She gave him little choice but to join her. She was satisfied with her maneuver, but she stole a look at him and her satisfaction died, leaving a quiver of fear in its place. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were alive with something that frightened Bertie – something dangerous that said he didn’t like being thwarted.
The look was momentary, it fled when he saw Bertie’s gaze on him, but she knew it had been there and she was scared that she’d dared go against his wishes. “Better a cement penis dangling over my head than a Big Johnson angry at me,” Bertie thought, and spared a fleeting thought about having that carved on her headstone.
But now that she was at the place he’d been staring, she casually looked around for something that was worth his attention. She couldn’t see anything except a section of the wall that looked as if something had been scraped over it. She was looking at it when Johnson abruptly put his elbow down and covered it.
He turned and stared out at the garden. “You know, Bertie, growing up, I had two or three jobs at once, working 24/7. It was hard, but I had something to prove.”
“Yes sir?”
“When I was little we were poor, so poor. I made friends easily but as soon as they found where and how I lived they dumped me. I even had a girlfriend tell me that she’d never be popular if she dated me. She never spoke to me again. It was humiliating. I vowed I’d show them all. And I have. I’m here in L.A. in my mansion, one of the most beautiful places in the world and they’re still back in Hicksville U.S.A. Ha, ha, ha.”
His laugh was shrill with a world of hurt and anger in it. The whole situation was scaring Bertie so bad she could feel her stomach churning “Oh, no,” she thought, “not that, please God.” Fear always started Bertie’s digestive juices to roil, creating the most dreaded social botheration of all: gas. She could almost feel it forming deep in her gut and pushing its way to the closest exit. “Let it be a burp, let it be a burp, let it be a burp,” she prayed.
It wasn’t. She coughed loudly in hopes of covering the sound. Fortunately it was just a little poot, virtually noiseless, but Bertie knew she had to get out of there – both to avoid further toots and to get away from the craziness of Dillard Johnson.
She shared the story of the dog peeing on its owner leg at the fashion show with him and he laughed perfunctorily, but dismissed her abruptly. She slunk through the long hallway and out the front door where Brown was waiting for her with her car. Did the man have ESP? How did he know when she was leaving?
“Hello, again, Miss, a short talk today, eh?”
“Yes, a short talk,” she said, in a hurry to get in her car and out of there.
“Um, I was hoping to talk to you briefly, Miss. You see – “
“Brown! Please let my guest leave, you can see she’s in a hurry.”
Bertie was in a hurry, a hurry to get away from Dillard Johnson, but she put her hand on Brown’s arm and asked, “What is it, Mr. Brown?”
“Nothing, Miss, nothing,” he said, and a look of fear scurried its way across his face. He held the door open for her, closing it when she was in and walked quickly away without looking back at her.
Snarky Park Page 9
