An hour or so later, Bertie, Cully, Bling and Blythe Kees rode out of the devastation in a fire truck, huddled together with equally tired and dirty firemen.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
A big piece of plastic slap-slap-slapping in the wind caught Bertie’s attention. It was part of the tarp covering the damaged side of the Beacon-Banner building.
The fire had blown through the west side of L.A., just catching the edge of the Beacon-Banner. Most of the building had been saved, only one small bit of the east wall was open to the world.
That was the good news, the bad news being that with Dillard Johnson dead, Blythe Kees was uncertain about whether she was going to keep the paper going. She’d inherited the bulk of Johnson’s estate; a shocker to Annabelle-Khov, who’d let out a wail heard ’round the city and then disappeared.
Blythe, Cully and Bling were living together with the dog in a posh hotel about three blocks from the Beacon-Banner building. When he left Bertie’s apartment, he’d moved into a cottage on the grounds of Snarky Park at Blythe’s invitation; the final straw that had pushed Dillard Johnson into Cully’s attempted murder.
Blythe was going to use her influence to get Cully’s photo book looked at by some big-name publishers. Bertie wondered if she liked monkeys.
She hoped Cully could talk Blythe into keeping the paper alive. There were too many newspapers going down the tube these days. But even if the Beacon-Banner lived to print another day, Bertie was probably out of a job. She didn’t think Blythe Kees would want a society writer; nobody did these days. She’d been an anomaly.
“Sigh,” she said out loud and turned to her computer, where she’d been idly looking up the care and feeding of monkeys.
Just then a message popped up on her screen: “Boop.” Bertie smiled, and went to the bathroom.
“Hey, woman, I’m glad you made it,” Tiffany said, greeting her with a hug.
Bertie stared in disbelief. Tiffany wore a bottom-shredded denim skirt, holey black tights and a pink and lime-green T-shirt. Her hair matched the pink in her shirt.
“What are you doing? Why are you dressed like that at work?” Bertie said.
“I quit! I’m going into business for myself. I can dress however I like … as long as my mom doesn’t know.” Tiffany’s smile was huge, although some of her black lipstick had rubbed onto a tooth, giving her a Clem Kaddilhopper look.
“Wow! Good for you! I didn’t think your heart was really into journalism. And who knows if the Beacon-Banner will survive? This is really a smart move! What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to open a shoe store.”
“A shoe store?” Bertie asked dubiously. She’d expected a rave club or a clothing consignment store, but not a shoe store.
“Yep, and I need a bartender. You want to work for me?”
“Wait! A bartender? I thought you said it was a shoe store.”
“It is a shoe store: Booze ‘n’ Shoes. I’m going to serve drinks. Do you have any idea how many pairs of $600 Jimmy Choo shoes I can sell after I pour a couple of zucchini-tinis? I don’t know why no one has ever thought of it before. I’m waiting on a liquor license now.”
“Ingenious,” Bertie agreed. “If you don’t mind me asking, where’d you get your start-up money?”
“I found a group of investors, Ire Lane Associates. One of the women … um, she has a funny name, is going to be my social coordinator.”
“Would her name be Felanie?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Felanie. Do you know her?”
“Yes, I know her,” Bertie said and smiled.
***
Back at her desk, Bertie pecked listlessly at her computer keyboard. Howard had taken some time off while Blythe decided their fate. The gossip had roared through the newsroom that he was getting a divorce and marrying the fourth Mrs. Schompe, the widdow Poke.
“Hey, Irene,” she thought, “for a mediocre time, call Howard Schompe.”
The phone startled her out of her reverie.
“Bertie Mallowan,” she said.
“Hey, Bertie, it’s Madison. Can you come down to my office? I know you’re working, but this is kind-of official.”
Bertie had been expecting a call like this. She and Cully had both told the same story, in this case the truth, about Dillard Johnson’s death. She’d been questioned more closely than Cully, since she was the one who’d given him what the police insisted on calling “the fatal push.”
But with both she and Cully insisting that Johnson was still alive when they ran for the pool, Homicide Detective Harry Hausen had no choice but to go along with the medical examiner’s ruling of accidental death.
It had come out in a flood of information a few days after the fire that Johnson wasn’t just bilking the city out of its recycling fees, he’d been the kingpin of a number of illegal schemes involving recycling and garbage. The man’s fortune had been built on garbage. If he hadn’t died, he’d probably be in prison for the rest of his life.
With Madison’s call, she assumed she had to tie up some of the loose ends about her part in the whole mess.
At least she hoped so. Maybe she should pack a bag for a couple of nights in jail.
Just in case.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Bertie knocked hesitantly at the door the female police sergeant had pointed out to her. Madison’s voice greeted her: “Come on in, Bertie.”
Madison stood as she entered the bare little room, as did a strangely familiar man.
“Hello, Bertie,” he said and held out his hand.
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “Drew!” It was Drew Corwin, the dreadlocked, tractor-driving, compost-making, environment-loving stockbroker. Except that his dreadlocks were gone, making his lean, brown face look totally different.
“No, it’s Barry, Barry Rhys. How are you?”
Bertie stood there, staring at him, still holding his hand.
“If you’d like to sit down, Bertie …” Madison said, and pulled a chair out for her. Bertie barely looked at him, but sat. She continued to stare at the man she knew as Drew Corwin.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Barry, would you like to tell her?”
“Sure, I’m with the ATF and - “
“ATF?” Bertie asked.
“Damn, we have to get a better PR person. Yes, ATF, Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”
“I know what ATF stands for,” Bertie said, “I was just surprised.”
“Oh, OK. Well, I’ve been under cover, investigating our little buddy … er, Buddy Laird. Buddha ‘Buddy’ Laird.”
“What did Buddy do that would interest the ATF?”
“Buddy has been growing an excessive amount of corn and since he ain’t best friends with the Jolly Green Giant, we wanted to know why. Seems he belongs to a little group called Misers.”
“Misers? Hoarding money is against the law?”
“No, not M-i-s-e-r-s. It’s M-a-y-s-u-r-s Maysurs. Pronounced the same, but a totally different animal. Maysurs is short for Mayan Survivors. Buddy and his band bought into the Mayan, Nostradamus, Hopi, nut-job theory that the world is going to end soon. And they want to be among the survivors.”
“A cult? Buddy was in a corn cult? Wow, how totally pre-Columbian of him.”
“Mmmm, maybe. Regardless of what they believed in, they were making alcohol – mash, moonshine, corn likker, hooch, firewater, panther sweat…”
“You mean I was donating my perfectly good garbage to him so he could compost it and grow corn to make – “
“Exactly,” Rhys said, nodding his head, “wahoo juice.”
“Wait a minute, he was making money out of garbage, too, like Dillard Johnson?” Bertie asked.
“It’s Southern California, Bertie, home of the TV and movie industry, everyone makes money out of garbage,” Madison said.
“Go on,” Bertie said to Corwin. “No, Rhys,” she thought.
“He’s got that spread out there in the middle of nowhe
re and at first, the drug guys thought he was running a meth lab, but when they found out differently, the DEA alerted the ATF.”
“OMG.”
“Exactly,” Rhys said again, nodding his head. “They were stockpiling guns and supplies for Armageddon, the holocaust, the end of days …”
“Stop!” Bertie said. “Armageddon tired of all these multiple references. But there couldn’t be that much money in selling moonshine. Is there?”
“He was selling some of it and stockpiling the rest just in case the post-apocalyptic world ran dry. But we put an end to his alcohol-making business. And his illegal grease business and his illegal origami business.”
“Origami?” Bertie asked. “You mean… “
“Exactly,” Rhys nodded. “Origami from envelopes that never made it to the recycler. Buddy and the other MaySurs will be spending some time in federal prison. Thanks, Bertie, the information you gave to Madison about your little visit to Buddy’s farm helped us out a lot. I’m going to see if I can get you a commendation.”
“Does it come with a reward?” she asked hopefully.
He stood. “No, just your country’s gratitude.” He reached out a hand to Bertie again. “It was nice meeting you, Bertie Mallowan. And thanks again. I’ll be in touch, Madison.” Corwin/Rhys left, shutting the door to the small room behind him.”
“Wow, who knew? Buddy, the corn king. So he didn’t have anything to do with Rowley Poke’s murder.”
“At this point, we don’t think so,” Madison said, coming out from behind the desk and sitting on a corner of it. “He was Poke’s right-hand man in the corn business before Poke bought it, and he definitely wanted to take it over, but we don’t think he’s guilty of more than wishful thinking in his death.”
“Poke was in the hooch business? How did he expect to run for the Senate and not have that come out?”
“Oh, I suspect that Rowley Poke was going to leak that he was having an affair with Annabelle Johnson and the scandal would make everyone look in the wrong direction. You know, the old magician’s trick of misdirection.”
“Poor Annabelle-Khov. She’d hate to think she was just misdirection and not the center of the universe. Thanks for letting me know, Madison. Can I write about it?”
“It’s already being released to the media, Bertie. I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it for you, it’s not my call. But, I did call you here for another reason.” He suddenly flushed red.
“Something to do with Dillard Johnson’s death?” she asked.
“Uh, sort of.” He went back around the desk, sat in front of a laptop and motioned to her to join him. “I wanted you to know that we found these in Dillard Johnson’s desk at the Beacon-Banner.”
Madison pushed a few buttons on the keyboard and grainy images appeared on the screen. Bertie couldn’t quite make them out until she saw her own face look up and directly into the camera.
“That no-good slop-lapping, monkey-snuffling, pickle-whacker. He did have cameras in the bathroom, didn’t he? He filmed us going to the bathroom.” Bertie started stomping around the room, bouncing epithets off the walls.
Madison could only pick up a word here or there – doodyhead, geekburger – but he got the drift. He let her go until she ran down.
“We’re destroying the tapes, Bertie, and there are no copies. Only two people have seen them, other than Johnson, of course.”
Bertie looked at him sadly. “So are you one of the people who saw me pee?”
“I looked away, Bertie. Honest.”
She sat quietly for a minute. “Well, thanks for letting me know. I guess.” She stood.
“And I never got a chance to wear the dress you made for me.” She said it so quietly that he almost didn’t hear her.
“You will, Bertie. If I have to take you out myself, you’ll get a chance to wear it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
They smiled and Bertie stood to leave. “Well,” she said, “I guess I’ll go back to the job I’m not sure I have anymore.”
“And, I guess I’ll go home and catch some sleep. It’s been crazy around here with all this stuff going on.”
Bertie stopped so suddenly that Madison ran into her. She turned.
“You’re off?”
“Yeah, till day after tomorrow.”
She took his hand. “C’mon,” she said.
“Where are we going?”
She pulled him down the hallway, past the staring female sergeant and out on to the street.
“Bertie, where are we going?”
“We’re going past the Round Cowboy, down Ire Lane and to my place.”
He stopped suddenly and, still holding her hand, spun her around and pulled her to him.
“Your place?”
She was standing against him, her head tilted up as he looked down at her.
“My place.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, then started walking, still holding hands.
Other Mystery/Thriller Titles At Riverdale Avenue Books
Trashy Chic
Book One in the Bertie Mallowan Mystery Series
By Cathy Lubenski
Fifty Shades of Grey Fedora
By Robert J. Randisi
Camden’s Knife:
Volume One of the Macroglint Trilogy
By John Patrick Kavanagh
Of White Snakes and Misshapen Owls: The Charlotte Olmes Mystery Series
By Debra Hyde
Transition To Murder
By Renee James
Snarky Park Page 18
