The Tower of Evil (Bye-Bye Mysteries)

by Robert A. Liston

  “Four women run the place?” Doreen asked.

  “There’s the musclemen who act as chauffeurs and such, but they aren’t really servants. Oh yes, there’s a gardener.”

  Doreen shook her head. “I still find it hard to imagine—”

  “Oh, there’s lots of other help, day labor and per diems. I thought you wanted to know the live-in help.”

  “Day labor? It might work. Who hires that?” She made a face. “Tell me it’s not the housekeeper.”

  “It might be.” He shook his head. “No, I doubt it. Hilde isn’t from around here. She doesn’t know people.”

  Addie said, “She probably calls an agency and tells them how many people she needs that particular day—or the next day, or by the week.”

  Doreen beamed. “I ought to be able to find out what agency serves the Kinkaid castle.”

  “Even if you could get hired on as day help, won’t they recognize you?”

  I don’t think they’ve seen me up close.” She patted Addie’s hand. “In my checkered youth, I dabbled in amateur theatricals. Played a French maid in some outrageous farce once. I suspect with a proper wig and uniform I could give an encore performance.”

  19: At The Gym

  HE HELD HIS TONGUE until they were in the car, then said, “You may want to play dress up, Doreen, but this is no college farce. Believe me, Dirk the Ninja is no French fop. He hurts people.”

  “I know that, dear, but what else can we do?”

  “We can go home to Monarch Lane and resume our nice, dull, boring and safe retirement.”

  She made a face. “I thought we settled that. Jamie and Amanda need us. We can’t let them down.”

  “Very well, but you just said the magic word, we. You’re not setting foot inside that place without me.” Again she made a face. “I mean it, Doreen.”

  “Is this called putting your foot down? If so I don’t think I like it very much.”

  “It’s called being a team, doing things together.”

  She patted his cheek. “That sounds a lot better.” He stopped at the curb in front of her shop. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Go home and try to come up with a plan so neither of us has to play domestics. It’s called appealing to better natures.”

  “Always works with me.”

  He dialed, got the machine, said, “Hi, machine, how are you today? This is Walt Byerly. Remember me? I’d appreciate it if you’d have Sid phone me as soon as he comes in. Thanks, you’re a good fellow, machine.” He’d always wanted to do that.

  While he waited he forced himself to sit and read. It wouldn’t make the phone ring, but it would pass the time. On the front page of the LA Times he read: “THE METEORIC RISE OF JUSTIN WRIGHT.” Meteors fall don’t they? The sub-head read: “From Political Obscurity to White House Front Runner, Thanks to Well-endowed and Well-placed Backers.” One of them was well-endowed anyway. He read the names. A regular Who’s Who in right-wing politics, among them Karl Kinkaid and, surprise, surprise, Columnist Joy Fielding.

  The phone rang and he heard Sid Rankin’s gravelly voice. “Two calls in the same week, perfesser, I may charge you a fee.”

  “Think of all I’ve done for you.”

  “My mind’s a blank. What’s on yours?”

  ”Justin Wright.”

  “You’ve fixated on him.”

  “Maybe with good reason. How do I go about talking to him?”

  “Call him up, I’ll give you the number. You can talk to his machine, just as you did mine. Or, I’ll give you another number where you can learn his views on anything from the Supreme Court to harbor seals—he’s for killing both, only one for furs. Still another number will earn you a personal appeal for funds.”

  “I want to talk to him privately and confidentially.”

  “What about?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I think you’re going to have to.”

  “If everyone knows about it, Sid, there’s no point in discussing it with him.”

  “Has this anything to do with a certain rumor I told you about?”

  The man was sharp all right. “Why would you think that?”

  “Answer a question with a question?” He laughed. “Okay, perfesser, you win. You don’t have to tell me, but you’re going to have to tell someone. The great man’s calls are screened. You’re going to have to provide a good reason for speaking to him, otherwise you’re just some goof-off college professor bugging him with oddball ideas. And Wright isn’t counting too heavily on the vote of academe.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed. “If I say what I want to talk to Wright about, how many people will have to know it?”

  He said nothing for a moment. “It’s a crapshoot no matter what, but I may be able to whisper in the shell-like ear of someone hopefully close to the great man, who will possibly deliver the right message and—”

  “I get the idea, Sid. Whatever I do, chances are it’ll be on the evening news.”

  “A lot depends on the initial message. If Wright doesn’t want it known—”

  “I hardly think he will.” He paused. “How about you, Sid? How many people do you tell?”

  “You wound me, perfesser. Confidences are my life.”

  “This is heavy stuff, Sid, lives may be at stake.”

  His voice changed, lost its insouciance. “Okay, Walt, I’m impressed. What’s your message for Wright?”

  He thought a moment. Say as little as possible, but pique his interest. “Okay, here it is. I can only hope for the best. Say, ’I know where Amanda Sykes is, but I’ll only talk to Wright personally and confidentially.’ Got that, Sid? Don’t write it down and above all don’t ask me any questions. Bye and thanks. I owe you.”

  “Do you provide domestic help for the Kinkaid estate?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  Only her third call. How fortunate. DeeDee glanced at her list, Elite Placements, run by Anita Hockhousen. She’d never heard of Anita Hockhousen, and she’d so hoped to deal with someone she knew. “Is Anita in her office?”

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Never mind, I’ll drop around.”

  The office was on State Street below Mission. She arrived bearing a bouquet of flowers.

  “These are beautiful, DeeDee, but why on earth?”

  She was mid-50s, a full-sized woman, but well presented in an ivory-colored suit, her brown hair nicely coiffed. There was a bit of the Hillary Clinton in her. She’d need diplomacy in dealing with both the upstairs and downstairs folk. “I need a favor.” DeeDee smiled. “And I thought flowers might—”

  “You’re right about that. Let me find a vase and we’ll talk.” One was produced. “You don’t remember, DeeDee, but we met once, at Bonnie James’ garden party last year.”

  “I knew you looked familiar, how could I forget?” She smiled. “I keep having more and more of these senior moments.”

  “Middle-aged moments, you mean.” She deposited the arranged vase on a table behind her. “Now what’s the favor?”

  “You provide servants for the Kinkaids, don’t you?”

  “One of my better accounts.”

  “May I ask how many and what types?”

  “It varies. If no one is in residence, I send hardly anyone. Right now, with Miss Fielding there, it’s as many as six or eight, mostly kitchen help, maid, cleaning women. On laundry days it may be two or three more. Then there are the outside people, gardeners and such. That, too, varies but usually two or three. Why do you want to know?”

  “I want to be hired on.”

  “You? Why on earth would you?”

  She screwed up her face. This wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped. “I need to get into the house.”

  “Then visit. Take her some flowers. It worked with me.”

  “I need the run of the place, Anita. I need—” She grimaced. “I need to check on something…look around without…anyone knowing.

  “Wh
y would you want to do that, DeeDee?”

  She sighed. “Do I have to answer?”

  “If you want my help. I’m sorry, but I can’t risk losing a valuable customer.”

  She nodded, inhaled, blurted, “I think people are being held in the castle against their will.”

  “In the tower?”

  Dee-Dee gasped. “You know?”

  “Heaven’s no.” Anita laughed. “My girls talk about it, how mysterious it is, how they can’t go up there.” Again she laughed. “We’ve all read gothic novels and have imaginations.”

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  Anita Hockhousen arose, walked away from her desk to look out a window. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking of me?”

  “I think I do, yes.” Her voice was small.

  “I could be risking, not only money, but my reputation.”

  “I’m sorry, Anita.” She could think of nothing else to say. Anita was only right. This was too big a favor.

  Suddenly the woman laughed. “Somebody told me once how hard you are to refuse.” She turned back to DeeDee. “What the hell! Everyone loves a mystery.”

  “Thank you, Anita. It will only be for a day or two.”

  “There’s still a problem, DeeDee. All my girls are regulars, been with me a long time. They need the money. I can’t just—”

  “I’ll pay twice what you do, no, make it $1,000, if someone gets sick for a week.”

  Anita Hockhousen stared at her. “You really are serious, aren’t you?” She thought a moment. “I’m sure Susan would love the money and time off. She’s a maid, does light housekeeping, serves meals, drinks, that sort of thing.”

  “She has the run of the house?”

  ”I assume she goes most anywhere, but—”

  “When do I start?”

  “Whoa, DeeDee. You’ll never pull it off. Too many people know you. The last thing you look like is a downstairs maid.”

  “You’d be surprised how I can change my appearance. As for people recognizing me, who expects to find DeeDee Byerly in a maid’s uniform serving cocktails?”

  “You may have a point.” She sighed. “Very well, but if Hildegard, the housekeeper, calls up and wants you replaced, there’s nothing I can do about it and you’re out your money.”

  She waved that aside. “When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow if you wish.”

  “Too soon, I’m not ready.” She remembered Walt’s operation. Maybe she’d never be ready. “The day after. Where do I go?”

  “I’ll give you a uniform. You meet here at 7 a.m., we drive you and the others out there.”

  She hugged her. “Thank you, thank you, you’ve made my day.”

  “I still have my doubts.”

  “If anything goes wrong, it won’t come back to you.” She started for the door, then turned back. “Oh Lord, I almost forgot. Walter, that’s my husband, won’t let me go without him. Could you—”

  “How is he at mowing, weeding, general handyman stuff?”

  “He does that before breakfast.”

  “I’ll give you overalls and an ID.”

  “You’d better give us phony names. And thanks again for everything.”

  “Personally I think you’ll both be sorry, but if you find any bodies in the tower let me know.”

  Lupe entered Olympic Fitness on West Carrillo Street, second floor, and approached the attendant at the counter. It was the fifth gym on her list. “Does this man work out here?” She showed a photo of Harry Gould.

  “Who wants to know?”

  The blonde’s spandex was expanded and not just by muscles. Lupe worked out regularly and thought she was in good shape, but she did not look like this woman. The plastic man produced a body like hers. “I’m Detective Hernandez, Santa Barbara police.” She showed her gold shield. “Did you know Harry Gould?”

  “He’s the guy what killed hisself, ain’t he?”

  Grammar was not required with mammarian displays. “Yes.”

  “Too bad, Harry was a good guy.”

  “Then you knew him.”

  “Sure, but him and me didn’t work out together or nothin’.” She stood on tiptoes, itself awesome, and looked around. “See that girl over there on the treadmill? She and Harry—well, I see them together often. Her name’s Kay Shelley.”

  Lupe knew all eyes watched her walk across the room, literally sizing her up. She considered herself athletic. Softball and volleyball had kept her from quitting high school for a time. But she was too much a loner to make the gym scene. To her mind it was a place to be seen, sort of a muscle beach under roof.

  Sweat glistened on the face and arms of Kay Shelley. She panted from her exertions, yet she was hardly muscular, indeed too thin. Could her workout be part of anorexia, suffer anything to lose weight? “Kay, I’d like a word with you when you finish your reps.”

  She stopped at once. “Anything to avoid this torture. What can I do for you?”

  The sweat was most noticeable about Kay Shelley. Everything else, hair, eyes, attitude, looked drab. Mousy could be her middle name. “I’m Lupe Hernandez with the city police. The girl at the desk tells me you knew Harry Gould.”

  “I did, yes.” Her lips quivered and she looked away, then she snatched up a towel. “I’m…sorry he’s dead. I…miss him.”

  “I gather you and Harry did more than workout together.”

  “No, nothing like that. We never even dated, although we did have coffee once, after a workout.” She applied the towel to her arms. “I liked Harry and I had hopes….” She smiled wanly.

  “I’m sorry.” She got out her notepad. “How often did you see Harry, here I mean?”

  “Oh, two or three times a week, I suppose. We’d look for each other and work out together. But not always. Sometimes Harry came in with guys and worked out with them.”

  “Do you remember any of their names?

  “There was one guy, older, nice looking. ‘Course he may just have looked older because he had white hair. Harry never mentioned his name and I never asked. But I think he was a lawyer, like Harry. I figured they had business to discuss and didn’t bother them.”

  Lupe scribbled. “When did you last see Harry?”

  “The night he…died.”

  “Do you remember the time?”

  “Not exactly, I don’t wear a watch when working out. But we usually met about this time of day, five-thirty or so, maybe six, after work. I’m a paralegal, but not with Harry’s firm.”