“We’re gaining altitude,” Regan commented.
“We sure are.”
They traveled up the dark and secluded street, populated only by a handful of houses, following its curves until they reached the very end.
“Here we go,” Abigail said as she pulled up to a high wooden gate, rolled down her window, and pressed in a security code. The gate swung open.
This won’t be so bad, Regan thought.
But when they pulled in the driveway and made a slight turn to the right, the small dwelling perched on stilts reminded Regan of an overgrown tree house. Why would this place need a house sitter? she wondered. What it needs is a couple of hawks.
“Cute, huh?” Abigail asked.
Regan nodded. “Sure is.”
“Brennan’s done a lot of work on it. He’s so handy. He built a deck off the back and made most of his own furniture.”
“Great,” Regan said. “I have to say, I’ve never known a guy like that.”
“Me neither. I don’t think my father has ever changed a lightbulb.” Abigail pulled the car up to the carport, located smack under the house. They got out, retrieved Regan’s bag, and walked to the driveway.
“What a view,” Regan said as she looked out on the lights of the city.
“That’s what this place is all about,” Abigail said. “The view.”
You got that right, Regan thought.
“Come on,” Abigail directed. “We’ll go in the back door. It’s easier.”
Regan rolled her suitcase as Abigail led the way up a stone path. Motion detectors had activated the security lights that partially illuminated the vertical backyard.
“That’s some steep hill,” Regan commented.
“I know. You’d have to be a nanny goat to get to the top.”
When they reached the steps to the deck, Regan lifted up her suitcase and carried it.
“I wish I could help you with that.”
“Abigail, don’t worry.”
They crossed the redwood deck and stopped at the back door. “I love to just sit here,” Abigail said. “It’s so peaceful and private. It makes me feel at one with nature.” As she started to put the key in the lock, the earth started to rumble.
It only took a split second before the two of them realized what was happening. “Regan!” Abigail cried out, as an explosive noise filled their ears.
“Get away from the house!” Regan ordered, grabbing Abigail’s good arm and linking hers through it. They moved a few steps from the back door as the earth shook. Regan reached for the railing of the deck and said, “Get down on your knees.”
They both bent over, dropped to the ground, and covered their heads with their hands.
A few seconds later the movement stopped.
“Wait,” Regan warned. “Let’s just be sure…”
Nothing but an eerie silence filled the air.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Regan said optimistically.
“I’ve never been here during an earthquake,” Abigail replied breathlessly.
“I was once—not a bad one. It felt just like this. Luckily there weren’t any serious injuries.”
“That’s what counts, Regan,” Abigail said. “With any luck my grandmother will now decide to postpone her trip.”
“I admire your ability to immediately look on the bright side of things, Abigail.”
“Thank you. You’ll notice this did happen on my birthday.”
“That thought ran through my head.”
Abigail hesitated. “Do you think it’s safe to go inside?”
“Is this house built to withstand earthquakes?” Regan asked.
“It just did, didn’t it?”
“I guess you’re right. Those stilts make me a little nervous.”
“Brennan told me that everything is built to code. Nothing to worry about. This place is safe and sound.”
“Okay then. Let’s go.”
Abigail unlocked the door, pushed it open, and turned on the lights. They stepped inside the kitchen and walked around.
To Regan, everything looked just as she would have guessed—wood walls, wood floors, logs on the ceiling, as if the whole place could have spontaneously grown out of the side of the canyon. There was even an earthy smell, which would take some getting used to. But it had a certain appeal. In the living room, a vase had fallen on the floor and broken in pieces. Various other objects had tumbled from their shelves.
“It doesn’t look too bad. I’ll clean up tomorrow,” Abigail said. “Let me show you your room.”
“We’ll both clean up in the morning,” Regan answered.
They went down a tiny hallway. Regan’s room had a bed with a rough wooden headboard that looked like it might cause splinters. She was happy to see there was a television on the wooden dresser.
“Let’s turn that on and see what they’re saying about any possible aftershocks,” Regan suggested.
Abigail flicked the remote control. As expected, news crews were being dispatched in all directions to survey the damage, but nothing major had been reported thus far. There were scattered power outages and reports of cans and bottles flying off the shelves at grocery stores. There had already been minor aftershocks but they were barely detectable.
The house phone rang. “Ten to one that’s Brennan,” Abigail said. “He’s in Europe but word travels fast.” She hurried down the hallway to the kitchen.
“Everything’s fine,” Regan heard her say. “A few things broke…No, your acting awards are still on the shelf.”
Regan sat on the bed, staring at the TV coverage. I’ve got to muster the energy to open my suitcase, she thought as she watched reporters ask people how the earthquake made them feel. A moment later, Abigail was back. “Regan, I just thought of something.”
“What?”
“I’m house-sitting two other places. The owners knew I wouldn’t be staying there overnight but I’d better go check on them. There could be problems with the water or gas. You can stay here. I’ll be back as soon as—”
“Abigail, you’re not going alone. Of course I’ll ride with you. Hey, where are those other houses, anyway?”
Abigail made a face. “One of them is in Malibu and the other is in the Valley.”
We won’t be back before dawn, Regan thought wearily, but kept a straight face. “That’s okay,” she said with a smile. “Give me a minute to freshen up.”
“Regan, are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
Regan’s bathroom brought to mind a camping trip she’d gone on with the girl scouts many years ago. The sink and shower and toilet also looked like they somehow sprung from the wilderness. But there’s nothing like running water to make you feel good, Regan thought as she splashed her face.
It was almost 1:00 when the two former neighbors ventured back out into the night. “Now, Regan,” Abigail said as she double locked the door, “you can’t tease me anymore when I talk about being cursed. Doesn’t this prove it?”
“Abigail, I just hope that curse isn’t contagious.”
The two of them laughed as they walked down the stone path to the car, unaware of an intruder perched on the hillside.
13
It had taken Mugs a while to finally fall asleep. She dreamt that she was calling her sister to tell her what had happened to Nicky, but Charley’s phone just rang and rang and rang. Then in her dream Mugs heard a knock at her door. When she answered it, Nicky was standing there. Mugs screamed and felt herself starting to sway. Her eyes flew open. She was swaying! The whole room was moving.
“An earthquake!” she gasped as she bolted out of bed. Oh no! Duck, cover, and hold. She knew the drill. Harry had drummed it into her head. If there were anyone more prepared for an earthquake than Harry had been, she’d like to meet them. Mugs grabbed the flashlight off her nightstand, and slipped her feet into the unattractive but sturdy “emergency” slippers she placed next to her bed every single night. Harry had bought them each a pair in c
ase they had to “run like the dickens.” She had never been able to put his slippers away after he died. They were still on the floor on his side of the bed.
Mugs ran to the doorway, crouched down, and covered her head and neck with her hands. Oh, Harry, she thought, remembering the last time an earthquake had struck late at night. They’d held on to each other in this very spot. Harry, I’m doing everything you taught me. I’m wearing these atrocious slippers. I just wish you were here…
Within seconds the shaking stopped. Mugs breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” she murmured.
Her phone immediately rang.
She flicked on the light and hurried back to her bed. “Hello.”
“Mugs, it’s Walter. Are you all right?”
“Yes. How were you able to call me so fast?”
“You’re on my speed dial, Mugs. Not that it does me any good.”
Mugs ignored him. “Thank you for checking on me. I do appreciate it.”
“Do you want me to come over? I can be there in a few minutes”
“No.”
“There might be aftershocks.”
“I know. I’ve lived in California for a long time.”
“It’s been some day, huh?”
“It sure has. I was dreaming about Nicky.”
“I wish you were dreaming about me.”
Mugs rolled her eyes. The man was relentless. Another good reason to get out of town. “Walter, I think I’m moving to Florida to be with my sister.”
“What?” Walter said. “Mugs, you’re going to make me cry.”
“Come on, Walter. Stop.”
“My good buddy gets murdered. You’re leaving town. As they say, old age ain’t for sissies.”
“I didn’t know you and Nicky were so close.”
“Maybe not close, but we were pals. Once in a while I’d go over there and watch a game with him. He didn’t really get close to anyone.”
“I wonder if the police have been able to get in touch with his niece.”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell you one thing, she won’t be shedding too many tears. I met her a few weeks ago when he was in the hospital. She was running back and forth from San Diego to look after him. Nicky was so ungrateful. He thought she was visiting just to be sure she was in his will. I got the feeling he wasn’t planning on leaving her anything.”
“If she’s his only family then who would he leave his money to?”
“He said he was leaving it to the hospital in Long Beach that treated his wife. They said they’d name a room after her if he did.”
“A room? How much money did he have?”
“My mother taught me it was impolite to ask people how much they had in the bank.”
Mugs couldn’t help but smile. “I was taught the same thing.”
“Say, Mugs, what are you going to do about your apartment? It’s not a good market for the seller these days. Shouldn’t you wait until things turn around?”
“A friend of mine from high school, Ethel Feeney, is interested in buying it for her granddaughter. Ethel is flying out tomorrow to stay with me. We’ll see if we can come to an agreement.”
“Great timing. Negotiating a deal on your apartment the day after an earthquake.”
“Thanks, Walter.”
Walter laughed. “Does the granddaughter live here now?”
“Yes. She works as a hairdresser in films.”
“What’s her name?”
“She’s too young for you, Walter.”
“What are you talking about?” Walter protested. “I’m only interested in women my age. Unlike Nicky.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just kidding. That small building he lived in has eight apartments. Except for the manager, who is in her sixties, all of the apartments are occupied by young women. One is better looking than the other. I’d tease him about it. He’d growl that he and his wife had lived there long before any of them were even born and why should he move.”
“I hope one of these young women saw something that will be helpful to the investigation.”
“Hey, it could be one of them who did him in. You never know.”
“Well, whoever killed Nicky must have been someone he knew. He never would have let a stranger inside his apartment, and there was no sign of forced entry. That’s what is so scary.”
“You’re right. I’m sure the detectives are questioning everyone. Now you’re sure you don’t want me to come over?”
“Positive. Good night, Walter.” Mugs hung up the phone, and kicked off her emergency slippers. “I hope I won’t have to wear these ever again,” she muttered. Her terrycloth slippers with the embroidered snowflakes would be back in action tomorrow morning.
Mugs flicked on the television. Every channel had nonstop earthquake coverage, but all she could think about was Nicky. It was unbelievable that he had enough money to have a room at the hospital named after his wife. She thought of what Harry always used to say when someone asked him what the show he was working on was about.
“The story always boils down to love or money. My job is to make sure the lighting is good.”
Surely Nicky wasn’t killed by a jealous lover. That would be even more of a surprise than learning he had a lot of money.
But who could have done this to him?
And where were they now?
14
Detectives Vormbrock and Nelson had had a long day. They were back at the police station in West Hollywood, drinking coffee and reviewing their investigation. The body of Nicholas Tendril would be autopsied in the morning. There was little doubt that he had been shoved, causing him to fall back and hit his head against the kitchen wall, inches away from the clock. His body had crumpled to the floor.
“If he’d hit the clock and broken it, we might have the exact time of death,” Vormbrock said wryly.
Nelson nodded. “Close but no cigar. Well, we know he hadn’t been dead for that long when we arrived. Too bad his last meal was probably that soup he had on the stove. Boy did that smell up his whole apartment.”
“Did it ever.”
A bank receipt they’d found in Tendril’s pocket indicated that he had withdrawn five thousand dollars in cash from his account at 11:10 A.M. that morning. It was not known what he did right after that. According to Gloria Carson, the resident manager of his building, who also lived on the ground floor, it was after 2:00 when she arrived home from her part-time job at a dermatologist’s office. A while later, she went to do a load of laundry in the building’s single washing machine located in a shed in the tiny backyard. But the machine was filled with men’s clothes, which she recognized as Nicky’s. Touching other people’s laundry, clean or not, “gave her the creeps,” so she knocked on his back door. There was no answer, so she peeked in the window, saw him on the floor at the far end of the kitchen, and thought he’d had another heart attack.
She’d run to her apartment, called 911, retrieved a master key, then hurried back and let herself in. When she first saw the body on the floor, she didn’t get a look at his face. From her vantage point at the window, it had been blocked by the refrigerator. There was a series of wall cabinets at the far end of the room with a counter underneath that served as a desk. Nicky was lying between the refrigerator and the cabinets.
It was only when Carson let herself into the apartment and ran to his side that she saw all the blood around his head. She knelt down and cradled his head in her hands, but it was obvious he was dead. Agitated and hysterical, she ran to the front door when she heard the police, opening it with her now bloody hands. To say the least, her actions compromised the crime scene.
In the next few hours the detectives had searched the apartment for clues. They found the bank receipt, but there was no sign of the money in the apartment. They’d talked to a lot of people, but had no prime suspect.
“It’s possible someone followed him home from the bank,” Vormbrock said, staring at his notes.
“Maybe,” Ne
lson answered. “But that was several hours before his time of death. He could have been tailed, and our perp was waiting for the right time to attack. The soup on the stove was still slightly warm, so I imagine he had been home for a while when he was killed. And that wash had already finished the cycle. But how would someone who followed him have gotten into the apartment? He was attacked in the kitchen, so it’s not as if he answered the front door and someone pushed their way in. In that case, he would have been on the living room floor. The killer had to have been someone he knew.”
“It’s a safe bet that whoever killed him is now five thousand dollars richer.” Vormbrock sighed. “Kill a guy for five grand?”
“But why was he withdrawing that money in the first place? His bank records show he never had made large cash withdrawals before.” Nelson got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. “This Gloria Carson…It’s interesting the way she doesn’t want to touch his clean, albeit wet laundry, yet she doesn’t mind getting his blood all over her hands. She didn’t have to touch him.”
“That is convenient, isn’t it?”
“It is for someone who wants to appear innocent.”
They reviewed the list of people they’d spoken to.
“And how about Abigail Feeney?”
Nelson shrugged. “This guy didn’t have too many fans. She was one of the few people who went out of their way for him—she cut his hair for free. It looks like he could have used a haircut when he died. I don’t know.”
“She was injured on the job. She hired a lawyer to get money out of the production company. It’s something to think about.”
“I suppose it is.” Nelson took a sip of his refreshed cup of coffee just as the ground started to shake. “Oh boy,” he said as both men ran to the doorway.
15
Dean had decided he had no choice but to file a stolen-property report. He angrily slammed his trunk shut, then called 411 for the address of the West Hollywood police station. Our wonderful script is in the hands of a thief, he thought as he struggled to get out of the tight parking space. All that work. All my papers. Now it’s Cody’s turn to be furious with me. His name is on the script. He wouldn’t want me to report the theft, but I have to. So what if his name shows up on the police blotter? It won’t end up in the paper. We’re not famous yet. No reporter is going to care. They only checked police blotters hoping to find something juicy involving celebrities.
Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked. Page 23
