by Susan Kandel
“Okay,” said her partner, slipping a pad of paper into the pocket of her jacket. “Then we’re done with you. For now.”
“It would be wise not to make any travel plans,” said McQueen.
“Nice touch,” said Collins, whipping her black hair off her face. “You hear that on TV?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, getting up. “I just had a vacation.”
“I’m absolutely dying to get out of town,” said McQueen. “I hope you were somewhere pretty.”
“The Caribbean. It was beautiful.” I shut my eyes for a minute, saw the brilliant blue of the water, smelled the salt in the air. “More beautiful than you can imagine.”
At sunset, the sky would be streaked with pink and orange and purple, fading minute by minute until there was an endless expanse of black and the twinkling of thousands of tiny stars. Most evenings, I’d sit on the deck, looking up, thinking. One night, an older woman came out with a big blanket and settled herself down next to me. Her name was Ronnie. We’d started talking. She’d been married for fifty-six years and had lost her husband two years earlier. She couldn’t believe a girl like me was all alone. I was so pretty, she’d said. But I wouldn’t be young forever. I told her a little about Gambino.
That he was the finest man I’d ever known.
That he’d never been married before because he’d been waiting for the right woman.
That he deserved someone who believed in true love.
That I wasn’t sure I was that person anymore.
Ronnie had given me a sad smile.
“Sometimes you don’t know what kind of woman you are,” she’d said, “until you put yourself to the test.”
It was dark now, but there were no twinkling stars. The two officers escorted me to my car. Buster crawled into the back seat and fell asleep. I sat there with the headlights on, staring through my dusty windshield.
I knew what kind of woman I was.
I was the kind of woman who wanted somebody else to fix it.
Mr. Gomez fixed my pipes.
Bachelor Number One was going to fix my broken heart.
And Gambino—Gambino was going to fix this.
He was a detective.
He’d know exactly what to do.
With sudden fury, I ripped open my bag and dug through the powdery bits of tissue, the unpaid parking tickets, the nail files, the coins, and the broken aspirin tablets until I finally found the hot pink cell phone. I pulled it out and dialed Gambino’s number, but when I heard his voice on the machine, I hung up.
I couldn’t call Gambino.
Not today.
Not ever.
I hurled the phone into the back seat.
Damn it.
I was on my own now.
I had to fix this myself.
But could I?
For Anita?
For me?
Chapter 7
The next morning I opened the front door and found Javier the gardener and Connor from next door standing side by side on my stoop.
“Morning gentlemen,” I said. “Look like rain to you? We could certainly use it.”
“Do you know this man?” Javier asked, running his fingers menacingly over the serrated edge of his trowel. “I find him lurking.”
“I wanted to know if I could borrow a lemon from your garden,” Connor said. “For Jilly’s tea.”
Javier looked horrified. “This is not the time to pick lemons.”
“I didn’t know that,” Connor shrugged.
“You must wait at least one month before harvesting,” Javier said. “And please. Do not pull. You do not want the stem end of the fruit to tear. This promotes deterioration.” He shook his head.
“Okay, then,” I said, closing the door behind me. “So I’ll just be on my way.”
Neither of them budged.
“I have this appointment.” I tapped my watch. “Really soon.”
Still no sign of movement.
“Listen, Javier,” I said.
“Yes?” He narrowed his eyes.
“Can you check the Brugmansia? It’s drooping again. Maybe it needs to be staked.”
“It droops because you must cut back, but you do not want to cut back. I tell you the same thing every time, but you do not listen to me.” Glowering one last time at Connor, he stomped into the backyard.
“Sorry,” I said. “Javier’s kind of protective.”
“Beautiful woman like you,” Connor said. “I understand.”
“Was there something else you needed?” I bent down to pick up my L.A. Times, my New York Times, and a Thai take-out menu Javier had kindly watered for me.
Connor tugged at the bottom of his T-shirt like a kid. Which he was. “Cup of coffee?”
“Isn’t there coffee at Jilly’s?”
“Jilly’s got coffee.”
I gave him a look. “One cup. Then I really have to go.”
I opened the front door, tossed the newspapers onto the entry hall table, and showed Connor into the living room, which was in much better shape than normal. Normal was a pile of sticky plates on the coffee table, magazines and pillows scattered across the floor, cat hairs stuck to the maroon velvet couch. Connor kicked off his shoes, stretched out on my white synthetic fur chaise, and grinned.
“Don’t be shy,” I said, heading into the kitchen. “Just make yourself at home.”
“Are you going to take your coat off?” he called out.
“I am not,” I said. “How do you like it, by the way?”
“You toying with me?” he asked.
“The coffee is what I meant.”
“Cream and sugar.”
I opened the refrigerator, sniffed the heavy cream, and tossed it into the trash. I was out of sugar, so that took care of that.
I set two steaming mugs of black coffee down on the table. Connor rose from the chaise and sat down on the couch next to me.
“No coasters?” he asked.
“Life’s too short,” I replied. “So. Are you this fresh with Jilly?”
“Jilly’s my boss,” he said. “And I like my job.”
“Which is?”
“I help Jilly with things that come up.”
“What kinds of things?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.” He took a sip of coffee. “She’s in entertainment.”
“That’s a broad category,” I said. “Does she run some kind of escort service? That’d explain the guys. Who’s Decker, by the way?”
“Computer specialist.”
“I get it.” I put my cup down. “You’re all CIA, right? Jilly’s got a sunburn because your last assignment was in the Bahamas where you helped extradite a drug kingpin who was trying to bring a thousand kilos of cocaine into Miami.”
Connor laughed. “You’re good. Usually it takes at least a couple of months before our cover is blown. Now we’ll have to infiltrate another average American suburb.”
“I hate to break it to you,” I said, “but West Hollywood is not your average American suburb. Stroll up to the boulevard next Monday. Hundreds of thousands are expected for the Halloween parade, at least fifty thousand of whom are going to be dressed as Dolly Parton.”
“My mom loves Dolly Parton.”
“How about you?”
Connor smiled. “I love my mom.”
The kid was now officially Bachelor Number Two.
“So what do you do?” he asked.
“I’m sort of in entertainment, too.”
“Let me guess. You manage wrestlers?”
“That’s a good idea,” I said. “I should manage wrestlers. I wonder if Andre the Giant is happy with his representation.”
“Andre the Giant is dead.”
“Dead people need representation, too.”
Connor frowned. “How’s that?”
“They have legacies. The truth has to get sorted out from the lie. You know, the story isn’t over just because somebody dies.”
He looked confused. �
�What exactly are we talking about here?”
Anita Colby. I was going to fix it. The story wasn’t over yet.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m a writer. That’s what I meant by entertainment. I write about dead people. I’m struggling with one of them right now. Alfred Hitchcock, the film director?”
“Good evening,” Connor intoned lugubriously.
“That’s him,” I said.
“I remember the night I first saw Psycho. It was this time of year. Late October. A dark and stormy night.”
“Listen, Connor, I might have mentioned I have an—”
“Don’t you know it’s impolite to interrupt?” Connor settled deeper into the couch. He cleared his throat. “It was a first date. She was a psych major and hated it. Said Marion Crane blinked when she was supposed to be dead.”
“That’s partially true,” I said. “Hitch’s wife caught the mistake during the editing, and they did the best they could. But it still looks like an involuntary twitch. The other problem is that Marion’s pupils are still contracted after she’s stabbed. Hitch received several letters from ophthalmologists informing him that the pupils of a corpse dilate after death. From then on, he used belladonna drops to achieve the proper deadeye effect.”
“May I continue?”
I held up my hands. “Don’t let me stop you.” Mimi the cat jumped onto my lap. She loved a good story.
“I took the freeway home so we wouldn’t have to talk,” said Connor. “It worked. We drove in total silence, desperate for the evening to be over with. There was this car driving next to us. She noticed it first. ‘Connor,’ she whispered. ‘Look over to your left. That man is staring at us.’ I looked over at the car in the next lane. The windows were kind of fogged up, he must’ve had the heater on, but you could see the guy’s face and it was true, he was staring right at us. ‘Maybe he thinks he recognizes us from somewhere,’ I said. ‘Forget about it.’ But he kept staring. He was going seventy miles per hour on the freeway at midnight and never took his eyes off of us. ‘I’m scared,’ she said. ‘Get off the freeway. Do it right now.’ But before I could exit, she started to scream. ‘Help! Oh, my God!’ I looked over at the guy and saw something that chilled me to the bone. He’d taken his hands off the wheel and placed them on either side of his face and spun it around on its axis, and where his face used to be was a hideous, bloody—”
This was taking way too long. I stood up, dumping Mimi onto the floor. “It was a mask, right? On sideways? Happy Halloween.”
“Guess you’ve heard the story.” Connor rose to his feet, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his cell. “Sorry,” he said, checking the display. “Jilly. Probably needs me to get something.” He pulled on his shoes.
“I’ve got to be going myself.” I checked my watch. Ten o’clock. Perfect timing.
“California Charlie’s,” Connor said into the phone, and hung up.
“Is that CIA for ‘Yes, I’ll bring back a loaf of bread and quart of milk?’” I shut the front door behind us.
“Damn,” he said, heading toward Decker’s truck. “Now I’ll have to kill you.”
He was a sweet guy, but he didn’t exactly have a way with words.
Chapter 8
My mother always taught me to dress for the occasion. She also taught me that girls should be seen and not heard, except when they are belting the theme song from Cats in the hopes of parlaying a humble Miss Asbury Park victory into the infinitely more glorious Miss New Jersey title, in which case they should go for it like there’s no tomorrow. Which goes to show you shouldn’t always listen to your mother.
I decided on my little-black-dress-except-it’s-navy, with the low square neck and elbow-length eyelet sleeves, and a white silk scarf in my long brown hair. Plus an armful of gold bangles and navy blue patent leather peep-toed slingbacks with white rope platforms. Little Bo-Peep meets Jackie O meets Mata Hari. Weird, perhaps, but calculated to appeal to a broad range of possible marks.
The phone store was a ten-minute walk from my house.
I was the only customer, not that anyone was in a hurry to assist me. If I’d actually wanted to buy something I might’ve been annoyed, but I wanted information and that required patience and cunning. After what seemed like an eternity, the young Indian man behind the counter gave me a smile that radiated intelligence, so I eliminated him. Ditto a girl in a business suit who had the smell of a management trainee, possibly with a college degree. That left the pot-bellied teenager with the dull look in his eyes and the enormous Afro. It was the largest Afro I’d ever seen, especially on someone white. It must’ve measured a foot in every direction. I wondered what happened when he tried to get into a car. He probably took the bus.
The kid was tidying up the display area. The stretchy cords were tangled, and the phones were in the wrong cradles. I watched from a distance for a while, then sidled up to him and ran my fingers over the phones.
“Uh-oh,” he mumbled, glancing back at the girl in the business suit, who smiled at him with fake good cheer like they teach you in company seminars on motivation and team development. Not that I’d ever been to one, but I used my imagination.
“Welcome?” he said, phrasing it as a question. He did not appear to be a people person.
I smiled encouragingly.
“I’m George,” the kid continued haltingly, “and I’d be happy to assist you with your telecommunications needs today.” He tugged on his hair. “Today or any day. Any day that I’m here, I mean. Mondays through Thursdays, and half-day Sundays.” He rubbed his nose. “So are you looking for something special?”
“Yes, George,” I replied. “I’d like a phone with all the bells and whistles. My friend Donatella got one here last week, and I want one just like hers. Now was it this one?” I picked up a $675 model. “Or was it that one?” A $235 number with clean lines, available in pink, silver, or blue. “Or maybe this one?” A $65 option suitable only for someone who wanted to maintain a low profile, but needed to check in regularly with his parole officer.
For the next half hour I ran George ragged. At approximately eleven-fifteen, the Indian guy and the suit asked him if he’d be okay while they went to the back to unload a shipment that had just arrived. That was most likely George’s job, but they knew better than to get stuck with me.
When the coast was clear, I pounced. “On another topic, before I settle on one of the phones.”
George looked unhappy.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the hot pink cell phone. “Donatella and I were out to dinner last night. Cambodian food.” I shook my head. “Never again. Too spicy.”
George tugged at his hair again.
“On my way back to the car, I found this phone lying in a puddle in the street. I want to do the right thing and get it back to its owner, only I don’t know how to find him. It’s a Motorola. I see the model right over there.”
“The Razr.” George took it out of my hand and stroked it tenderly. “Expertly crafted, ultra-thin, MPEG4 video playback, Bluetooth technology, precision-cut keyboard, minimalist styling, metal finish.”
“Wow. You really know your inventory.” I reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind the scarf, and the bracelets slid down my bare forearm, tinkling melodiously. “So,” I said. “Do you think you could just look this Razr up in your big data bank thing over there and give me the name on the account? I would be so appreciative.”
George shook his head with genuine regret. “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to do that.”
“I don’t think it would be such a big deal.” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. “And then we can finish up my purchase, make your boss happy, and everybody can go their merry way.”
“I could lose my job,” George said.
“Well, I don’t want you to lose your job,” I said, chastened. “Of course not. That’d be bad karma. What comes around goes around.”
“Amen to that.”
“But then how am I goin
g to do the right thing here?”
“Let me think.” He scrunched up his face. Then a ray of sunlight broke through the storm clouds. “By George, I’ve got it!”
Everybody’s a comedian.
George picked the hot pink cell phone up off the counter and dialed a number. The store phone immediately started to ring. He ambled over to the other side of the front desk, picked up the receiver, and turned it around so I could see the display.
“There it is,” he said.
“The number of the cell phone,” I said. “Now what?”
“Now you go to the reverse directory and look it up. Only costs $4.50.”
“Can you do that for me?”
He shook his head. “Against store policy. Just go home to your computer and do it. It’s easy. Anybody can look it up.” Then George looked me up. And down. Now I was the one tugging the hair.
“Anybody can do it,” he repeated. “I mean, anybody who knows even the slightest thing about computers.” He paused meaningfully. “Which we all do these days, right?” Another pause. “Of course if you’re in a rush, I could show you a BlackBerry. That’s probably what Donatella got. In fact, I think I remember Gupta, he’s the store manager, selling it to her. She’s tall, right? Louis Vuitton handbag, I believe. Matching wallet? Yeah.” George nodded. “That was Donatella. The thing is, if you had a BlackBerry like Donatella, you wouldn’t have to wait until you got home. You wouldn’t even have to be good with computers. You could find out the person’s name right here, right now, and I’d show you exactly how to do it. One, two, three, you’d be out of here. And we’ve got a promotion going. If you get a three-year contract, the phone itself is half price.”
The dull look in George’s eyes was obviously due to allergies.
By twelve noon, I was the proud owner of a BlackBerry.
By twelve-ten, as per George’s instructions, I was typing in my AmEx number and waiting to discover the name of the person who’d purchased the hot pink cell phone that had taken over my life.
The person so obsessed with Anita Colby that she’d called her ten times in a row. And maybe even killed her.
What a surprise.
