by Jana DeLeon
“Hey, what are friends for?”
I slipped the phone into my pocket, still smiling.
“Did she make it out okay?” Marie asked.
“Yeah.”
I explained what had happened in the closet to Marie. Her eyes widened until they couldn’t get any bigger, then she started chuckling.
“Oh my,” Marie said, fanning her face with her hand. “Between Ally and Gertie, this entire event was a comedy of errors. Did you have this much trouble when you were helping me?”
I stared. “Ida Belle and Gertie never told you about that?”
“No, and when I’ve brought it up, they’ve always redirected the conversation.”
“Ha. Probably because they exposed me to twenty levels of crazy and don’t want to admit it. I tell you what—when this mess with Pansy is cleared up, we’ll get together for dinner and drinks, and I’ll tell you exactly how far off the normal chart your friends are.”
Marie smiled. “I’d like that, but somehow, I doubt anything you say will surprise me.”
“Somehow, I do too.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Well, don’t make us wait any longer,” Ida Belle said, pointing at my hand that held Pansy’s journal. “I tried to get Gertie to let me see on the way to your house, but she refused to let go of the damned thing. She drove over here with one hand and no glasses. Took out four Mayor Fontleroy reelection signs, and I think she punctured a tire.”
“I did no such thing,” Gertie argued.
I peered out the screen door and saw Gertie’s Cadillac sitting slightly to the side. “Uh-huh. Well, you may want to call Walter unless you plan on walking home.”
Gertie looked outside. “Crap.”
She reached to open her handbag and pulled away the large piece of turf. I opened the front door and she tossed it onto the lawn before digging out her cell phone.
“This calls for refreshments,” I said and waved them to the kitchen.
I poured iced tea for everyone and we waited impatiently for Gertie to finish making arrangements with Walter before opening the journal. Finally, I slipped the journal open and started scanning the text.
“Well, what does it say?” Ida Belle demanded.
“We were right—she went to work for an escort service,” I said and flipped through several more pages. “But it looks like she didn’t get along with the owner—a woman.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Ida Belle said.
“She decided she could make more money if she went independent,” I said. “Apparently, she took several of her clients with her.”
“Is that allowed?” Gertie asked.
Ida Belle rolled her eyes. “You think prostitutes have a non-compete clause?”
“I doubt they have anything that they’d want to take to court,” I said, “but you can bet that her former employer wasn’t happy when Pansy made off with clients.”
“Unhappy enough to track her down and kill her?”
I frowned. “I doubt it. More likely, the former employer is who turned her in to the IRS.”
Ida Belle nodded. “That makes sense. Get rid of the competition and get the clients back without having to get your hands dirty.”
“Would the IRS bother to track down the source of her income?” Gertie asked. “Or would they just do that amputated income thing that Marie talked about?”
“Imputed income,” Ida Belle corrected.
Gertie waved one hand in the air. “Whatever. The question is still valid.”
“Yes, and it’s a good one,” I said. “If the IRS attempted to track down sources, some anxious men and/or hacked off wives might have been in their path.”
“So a worried customer could have killed Pansy to prevent her from giving his name to the IRS,” Ida Belle said, “or she could have given the information to the IRS and they questioned the men, stirring up a potentially murderous wife.”
“Exactly.”
Ida Belle pointed to the journal. “Then let’s get those names.”
I flipped through the journal, scanning page after page of Pansy’s diatribe about her unfair life and how she was due far greater things and everyone in Hollywood was keeping her down. Blah, blah, blah. It went on for a countless number of pages.
Finally, I started flipped the pages like a deck of cards, looking for a page with white space, which might signify an end to Pansy’s egotistical ranting and the beginning of the information we were looking for. I finally found what I wanted at toward the end of the journal.
“Three names,” I said and read them off to Ida Belle and Gertie. “Have you heard of any of them?”
They both shook their heads.
“They’re not famous actors or directors,” Gertie said, “but there’s a lot of wealthy people in LA who aren’t attached to the movie industry.”
“Let’s see what we can dig up on them,” I said and reached for my laptop.
I typed in the first name and got a page of hits. “Mark this one off the list,” I said as I clicked on the first link and scanned the contents. “He died eight months ago and wasn’t married.”
“It’s better if we can narrow it down, anyway,” Gertie said.
I nodded and typed in the second name. “Another bust. This guy moved to France six months ago with his partner—another man.”
Ida Belle raised her eyebrows. “I don’t even want to know.”
“Last one,” I said and typed.
Ida Belle and Gertie leaned across the table.
“Well?” Ida Belle asked.
“This may be our guy,” I said, a stir of excitement starting in my belly. “He’s a pro-am marathon runner and a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills.”
Gertie whistled. “I bet he’s making a fortune…and now we know how Pansy afforded those new boobs.”
“Is he married?” Ida Belle asked.
I clicked on a news article about a charity event and smiled. “Oh, yeah, and his wife comes from a politically connected family with old money.”
“He’s married to Maria Shriver?” Gertie asked. “I thought she was married to the Terminator.”
Ida Belle rolled her eyes.
“She’s not a Kennedy,” I said, “but apparently the family name has some weight in California.”
“Sounds like a man who has a lot to lose,” Gertie said.
I turned the laptop around and showed them a picture of the skinny blonde with breasts that were way too large for her frame. “That’s his wife.”
“Good God. She looks like Pansy,” Ida Belle said. “Do they make you go blond and get implants in order to get a driver’s license over there?”
“Probably if you live in Brentwood,” Gertie said, “which is where this article says they live.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a cell phone. “This is one of those disposable phones. We can call his office and see if he’s been out of town recently.”
“You bought a disposable phone for this?” I asked, impressed that Gertie had thought that far ahead.
Gertie shook her head. “Ida Belle and I keep a couple on hand—in case of emergencies.”
I took the cell phone from Gertie, not about to ask what emergencies constituted an inventory of untraceable cell phones, and punched in the number for the plastic surgeon’s office.
“Hello,” I said when the receptionist answered. “I spoke with Dr. Ryan last week about possibly scheduling some work. He was supposed to call me back on Friday, but I never heard from him.”
“I apologize for that,” the woman said. “Dr. Ryan left Friday afternoon to attend a surgical seminar in New Orleans. He was in such a rush getting out of here that it probably slipped his mind.”
“I understand. When will he return?”
“He should be back in the office on Wednesday. Would you like for me to schedule you an appointment?”
“No, thank you. I’ll call back some other time.” I hung up the phone, unable to contain my excitement. “He left Friday for a surgical
seminar in New Orleans.”
“Find the seminar,” Ida Belle said, waving a hand at my laptop. “If it’s being held at a hotel, there’s a good chance that’s where he’s staying.”
I did a search for medical conferences in New Orleans but came up empty for the past weekend. Several variations yielded the same result.
“It looks like he lied about the conference,” I said.
Ida Belle’s cell phone went off, blasting Linkin Park across the kitchen.
Gertie covered her ears with her hands. “Why can’t you have George Strait, like everyone else?” she yelled.
Ida Belle waved a hand at her. “It’s Genesis,” she said and answered the call.
Gertie and I waited while Ida Belle nodded and exclaimed, and by the time she got off the phone, we were ready to burst.
“Genesis got the gig working on Pansy. She asked to see the body this morning so she’d know what kind of supplies to bring.”
“Did she ask how Pansy was killed?” I asked.
Ida Belle shook her head. “She didn’t have to. There were two purple handprints on Pansy’s neck.”
Gertie whistled. “Strangling usually means it’s personal.”
“Or professional,” I said. “Remember, Celia was upstairs so the killer needed to be quiet.”
Ida Belle raised an eyebrow.
“Occupational hazard,” I said.
“Hmmm,” Ida Belle said. “Not a pleasant thought but a valid one. But given that our chief suspect is in the state for no apparent reason, that doesn’t seem to apply. Surely, if he’d hired someone to kill Pansy, he would have made sure he stayed in LA and in front of as many people as possible.”
“That’s true if we assume she’s dead at his hands, but what if his wife hired someone?”
Gertie nodded. “Those families with old money hate scandal, although they’re usually guilty of the biggest ones.”
“But surely,” Ida Belle said, “if his wife had hired a killer, she would have made sure he was front and center as well.”
“Unless she wanted him to be blamed for the murder,” I pointed out. “Maybe she found out he was chasing Pansy to New Orleans and decided to kill two birds with one stone.”
Ida Belle gave me an appreciative look. “You have an excellent criminal mind.”
“It’s all speculation,” I pointed out. “Remember, we only have his receptionist’s word that he came to New Orleans. But we don’t know for sure that he even came here or that he’s still here. He may have changed his mind and gone to Fiji instead, figuring it was all too big a mess.”
“I would have opted for Fiji as well,” Gertie agreed.
“So if I were a rich plastic surgeon, what hotel would I stay at in New Orleans?” I asked.
“The Ritz-Carlton,” Ida Belle and Gertie answered in unison.
I tapped in the Ritz-Carlton into the laptop and dialed the hotel on Gertie’s disposable phone.
“Hello, this is Jean with Copy Express,” I said to the front desk clerk. “I have a package for Dr. Ryan, but the person who took down the address has awful handwriting. I wanted to make sure this is the right hotel before I drive over there.”
“Yes,” the desk clerk said in her crisp and professional voice. “Dr. Ryan is staying with us. You can drop off the package at the front desk and we’ll see that it’s delivered to him.”
“Great. Thanks.” I hung up the phone. “Jackpot.”
Gertie bounced up and down on her chair, clapping her hands. “We are so smart.”
“Yeah, but what do we do with the information?” Ida Belle asked.
Gertie stopped clapping and frowned. “I hadn’t gotten that far.”
“We really should give this information to Carter,” I said.
Gertie shot a worried look at Ida Belle. “Somehow, I don’t think he’s going to take it all that well.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Ida Belle agreed. “And what do we really know? Maybe this Dr. Ryan is four foot eleven and has hands like a ten-year-old girl. If he’s not our killer then we’ve exposed a whole lot of our business to Carter for no good reason.”
“Maybe we should go to New Orleans and take a look at his hands,” Gertie suggested.
“No way,” I said. “If Ryan is the guy, we’re putting ourselves at risk if he sees us. For all we know, he could have studied up on people in Sinful, and none of us look like the five-star-hotel type. If he’s already strangled one woman to keep her quiet, what would stop him from strangling a couple others?”
“But if it’s clear that it’s not him,” Ida Belle argued, “then we don’t have to give up trade secrets to Carter and nothing has been lost but our time and for some of us”—she rolled her eyes over at Gertie—“probably a bit of dignity.”
“I’m not sure my purse is going to make it,” Gertie said, completely oblivious to Ida Belle’s insult. “That turf really did a number on the clasp.”
“Carter told me not to leave town,” I said, not about to admit that Ida Belle’s plan had merit, especially in the “keeping off Carter’s radar” column.
“We went to Mudbug on Saturday,” Gertie pointed out.
“He didn’t catch us going to Mudbug,” I said. “I can’t be in trouble for something he doesn’t know about.”
“Exactly,” Ida Belle said with a broad smile.
I slumped back in my chair, knowing I was defeated. Gertie and Ida Belle were going to check out that man’s hands, whether I went with them or not. And darn if my own curiosity hadn’t gotten the better of me. I really wanted to see his hands, too.
If his hands could fit around a neck, and he looked like he had the strength to strangle Pansy, then we could turn the suspect over to Carter. Granted, he’d be madder than a hornet about our interference, but he wouldn’t be able to argue over the results.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll check out this doctor’s hands. But we will not engage him in any way.” I pointed my finger at both of them. “Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Ida Belle said.
“Scout’s honor,” Gertie said and threw a peace sign.
Somehow, I wasn’t encouraged.
Chapter Sixteen
It was just after two o’clock when we climbed out of Gertie’s Cadillac in the parking garage down the street from the Ritz-Carlton. We started down the sidewalk, going over our plan one last time.
“I will go to the front desk with the package,” I said, holding up the brown-wrapped empty box that Gertie had assembled for our mission. “I’ll say I need a signature for it, and if we’re lucky, Ryan will be in his room.”
“I’ll wait near the elevators, and when I see him come down,” Gertie said, “I’ll signal to Fortune to leave before the desk clerk can point her out.”
“I’ll be standing near the front desk,” Ida Belle jumped in, “pretending to wait on a friend, and will get a good look at his hands when he steps up to the desk.”
“No improvising,” I said. “If we cause trouble in this hotel, they won’t hesitate to call the cops.”
They both nodded, but I still wasn’t convinced.
Just before we arrived at the hotel, I pulled a ball cap out of the backpack Ida Belle had supplied me with and put it on, shoving my ponytail underneath it. Then I donned reflective sunglasses and popped a piece of bubble gum in my mouth. I took a deep breath and gave them a nod before heading down the sidewalk and into the hotel.
I’m not much of a luxury-living person, but I have to admit, the hotel lobby was nice with its fancy furniture and huge plants. A middle-aged, uptight-looking woman with her hair pulled up in a bun narrowed her eyes at me as I approached the front desk. Clearly, she’d already decided I had no business in the hotel.
“Got a package for Dr. Ryan,” I said, pasting on a bored expression.
“I can take that,” she said and reached across the counter.
“Gotta have a signature,” I said and popped my gum.
She moved her hands back and w
inced, then reached for the phone. “Let me see if I can reach him.”
I backed against the counter and chomped on my gum, catching sight of Gertie as she slipped into the hotel and headed for the elevators. Ida Belle followed a couple of seconds later and hovered near the entrance, waiting for my signal.
A couple of seconds later, the desk clerk spoke. “Dr. Ryan. There’s a package delivery for you at the front desk.”
She put her hand over the phone and looked at me, still frowning. “He’s not expecting a delivery.”
I pointed to the label. “Says Dr. Ryan at the Ritz-Carlton right here. Do you have two Dr. Ryans staying here?”
“No, but—”
“Then he’s the one.”
“Perhaps if you could tell me who the package is from…”
“No can do. They just hand me the packages and I deliver ’em. I don’t care who they’re from as long as I get paid.”
She gave me a scathing look and removed her hand from the phone. “I’m sorry, Dr. Ryan, but the delivery service doesn’t know the origin of the package. I would accept it for you, but they’re requiring your signature.”
A couple of seconds later, she hung up the phone. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Cool.” I pushed off the front desk, touched the brim of my hat to signal Ida Belle, and strolled across the lobby, stopping to finger a plant. “Hey, are these real?” I yelled back at the desk clerk.
I swear, I could feel her sphincter tighten. “Yes, please don’t touch the plants. You could damage them.”
“Whatever you say, lady.” I let go of the plant and walked a little farther across the lobby and closer to the exit. The front desk clerk seemed relieved the farther away I got. So far, the plan was working.
Ida Belle strolled across the lobby and stopped a couple of feet from the front desk. The desk clerk looked over at her, the same putrid expression on her face. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I’m waiting for my friend.”
“I can call her room if you’d like and tell her you’re here.”
“She hasn’t checked in yet. Damned woman’s always late.”
The desk clerk looked uncertain. “We have some comfortable seating in the middle of the lobby,” she said and waved a hand in the direction of some furniture that looked as uptight as the desk clerk and not even remotely comfortable.
