by Susan Kandel
“No, just perverse.”
“Is that wishful thinking?”
“Don’t get fresh with me, Burnett.”
“Give me a reason.”
It was quiet for a moment.
“So, why’d you kiss me like that?” he asked.
“Why’d you kiss me back?”
“Because you’re beautiful.”
“I thought I was morbid.”
“Speaking of morbid, what’s up with that old murder case you talked to my mother about?”
I told him about finding Joseph Albacco’s letter to ESG, and about my visit to Tehachapi. I told him about Theresa Flynn, leaving out the part about the scrap of paper with his mother’s name on it. That seemed the politic thing to do. Mostly, though, I found myself talking about Jean. A girl who had gotten in over her head. What exactly had happened to her that night in that small Ventura bungalow?
It was her first wedding anniversary, hers and Joe’s. She was peeling potatoes. Everything had to be perfect. It was mid-December and strangely hot. The sweat dripped down her forehead and stung her eyes. She walked into the living room and wiped her hands onto her apron. She cracked open a window. She studied her neighbor’s wilted pansies. She watched a cat scurry by, looking for a bird to kill. She had a roast to kill. But Joe was late. Again. She went back into the kitchen and turned on the oven. Then she heard the screen door slam. It didn’t take long after that. Did she even have time to scream?
“Whoa! Are you sure you don’t want to be a mystery writer?” Burnett asked.
Red as a beet, I shook my head. For heaven’s sake, who did I think I was, Erle Stanley Gardner? More like Daphne du Maurier. Talk about your gothic romances. Someone save me from my lurid imagination. I finished my cappuccino and tried to change the subject. Back to Burnett, Burnett and his mother, Burnett and architecture, anything. But he kept turning the conversation back to me—my family, my daughter, even my divorce. Not many men are willing to hear you complain about old mistakes. Or are sweet and sexy enough to make you want to forget about them. I thought I could get used to that.
Later, when he kissed me good-bye, I thought I could get used to that, too.
16
Burnett called the next day just to say hello, and the day after that, he left a bouquet of dahlias on my front step, along with a first edition of The Case of the Daring Divorcée. It had a great cover. The vixen in the shiny cocktail dress even looked a little like me. I had planned to spend the rest of the afternoon with Lael, analyzing these developments, but I was interrupted by a call from Mr. Grandy at the Ventura County Historical Society. He had received some interesting ESG material and thought it would be worth my while to make the quick trip. At that point, I’d have done anything to revive my moribund book. So off I went.
“Cece! Cece! Right this way!”
Mr. Grandy was all smiles, his hands tightly clasped in anticipation. We bounded upstairs and he pulled me into the back.
“Look, look! Twenty boxes of Gardner’s legal files, dating back to the teens. The estate has donated them to us. So much one could learn about old Ventura, don’t you think? And Gardner! All his old cases! Can you even conceive of what you might find in there, Cece?”
No way. Absolutely not. First of all, I was no legal scholar. And second of all, I had more Erle Stanley Gardner material than I could use in twenty lifetimes. Given my lack of focus, not to mention my looming deadline, I knew better than to start going through those boxes. That way lay ruination. Well, that would be four and a half hours wasted, counting the round-trip drive time, thank you very much. I said good-bye to Mr. Grandy, who looked like a wilted lily. I wish I could say it was the first time I had offended a librarian.
I needed candy. The convenience store on the way back to the 101 would be good for a Hershey bar, but I was partial to the stronger stuff.
I headed over to the candy store on Main. The good news was I found a spot right away. The bad news was I didn’t have any change for the meter, but that wasn’t critical. I’d just add the ticket to the pile accumulating on my desk. Those things catch up to you only if you commit a felony. Or a misdemeanor—I can’t remember exactly. Not that I had plans along either of those lines.
Stash in hand, I walked back to the car, past the Busy Bee, formerly the Townsend Café, where Gardner used to take his morning coffee breaks. Past the shoe store next door, which didn’t seem to have changed its décor since the twenties. I could picture old Erle stomping in there for a new pair of brogues, nothing too fancy. I stopped to admire the weathered signage in front of C&M Locksmiths, a flickering neon key decked out in a top hat and tails. I bet Burnett looked amazing in black tie. He hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring, but I knew from experience that didn’t mean a thing. I stopped short. C&M Locksmiths. Why did I know that name? I thought for a minute. I had seen that name in the court transcript. Yes, C&M Locksmiths was the place Jean Albacco had gone the afternoon she died—to pick up some keys, a couple of which hadn’t been ready. Who had just been talking to me about missing keys? Mrs. Flynn. Mrs. Flynn had never picked up her sister’s lockbox from the insurance office because she had never found the keys. Slowly, it sank in. Mrs. Flynn had never found the keys because Jean had never claimed them. On the last day of her life, they still hadn’t been ready.
The front door creaked open. It needed oiling, unlike the hair of the clerk stationed behind the counter. I could count the strands, each one jet black and meticulously waved à la Rudy Valentino. Pinned to his neatly pressed Oxford cloth shirt was a button that read, IF THE SHOE FITS, YOU MUST BE CINDERELLA! A regular ladies’ man.
My mother’s words rang in my ears: “Butter ’em up before you hit ’em up.”
“Hello there!” I gave him my most dazzling smile.
He looked me up and down from behind thick-framed black glasses selected, I surmised, to complement the hairdo. “Are you from the Publishers Clearing House?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I have a dreadful problem. A locksmith problem,” I said. “You see, I live in an old Spanish house with the original front doorknob, which keeps coming off from the inside. Plus, the key sticks in the lock. Half the time I have to climb in the window!”
He shook his head, aghast.
“Anyway, I know of your reputation, of course, and that you people are experts with antique hardware. Just brilliant. Is that true?”
“Well, we’re a family business, been in the game for some seventy-five years,” he boasted. “I’m sure we can solve your problem, ma’am. Shall I page my father?”
“By all means, yes. But before you do, just out of curiosity, my mother, God rest her soul, had some keys made here ages ago, and never did get around to picking them up. Jean Albacco was her name. I’d like to see if they’re still here. Sentimental value, you know.”
“When did she place the order?”
“1957.”
He chortled unbecomingly. “Do you see the sign, ma’am?” He pointed over his left shoulder to a faded placard reading, WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR GOODS LEFT OVER 60 DAYS.
Wasn’t he just the type to go and get his panties in a twist. “Yes, I see it, and I do understand it’s been…a while.”
“Forty-five years, ma’am? That’s not just ‘a while.’” He slid his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“All I’m asking is if you have the keys or not.”
“Oh, they’re here, all right. Guaranteed. I learned a couple of things from my dad, who learned them from my granddad. One is, keys are private business. You don’t ask questions and you don’t offer information. And two is, you never, ever, throw anything away. We have over three hundred thousand keys in this building, ma’am!”
My heart pounding, I said, “In that case, I’d like to collect my mother’s property. I’ll just get out my wallet, and—”
He pointed over his right shoulder to another faded placard, this one reading, NO GOODS DELIVERED WITHOUT CLAIM CHECK.
I should have
seen that coming.
“What an excellent rule,” I said, nodding. “We wouldn’t want anybody to get anybody else’s keys, would we? You could be held liable for all sorts of nasty turns of events.”
His eyes brightened at the word nasty.
“Listen, I respect your rules. I like rules, discipline, that sort of thing.”
Now his eyes were incandescent.
“But,” I said, a becoming catch in my throat, “we’re talking about my mother here. The keys are all I have left of her. She had nothing else. Not even a watch. Not even a family Bible. So let me dig down in here…” I said, diving into the recesses of my purse. “Ah, yes, do you think fifty dollars will cover your trouble?”
I had exhausted young Valentino. The recalcitrant glasses went back up the nose. He disappeared into the storeroom and returned with two small keys, tagged “Albacco.” Those he put into a small manila envelope; my fifty dollars, into his pocket.
“I’ll page my dad now. About your front door.”
“You know, that won’t be necessary. My husband suggested Liz’s Antique Hardware in Los Angeles. I’ll try there first. Thanks again for the keys.”
He looked crestfallen, but I sailed out of there, elated. No wonder so many crooks are recidivists. Who knew scamming one’s fellow human beings could be so exhilarating? My first misdemeanor! Or was it a felony? I was going to have to pay those tickets right away.
I was dying to try the keys. I was certain they’d fit the lockbox. It was possible—more than possible. Mrs. Flynn had gone through all her sister’s effects and never found any keys. And these babies had never been picked up. Maybe there’d be something in that lockbox that could make sense of things. Maybe something that would clear Joe’s name. Better yet, something that would implicate someone else. I hadn’t forgotten Perry Mason’s Rule #1: If the client is innocent, someone else is guilty. Find the guilty party, and the client goes free. It seemed simple enough.
As I hurried back to the car, I punched in the number of the insurance office. I got a cheery greeting from the Queen Bee herself, who was pleased to inform me that because of my efforts, Mrs. Flynn had come in the day before and picked up the lockbox. Bingo.
Traffic notwithstanding, I made it to Mrs. Flynn’s in a couple of minutes. I tore out of the car and bolted up the steps.
I rang the doorbell, waiting for that green eye to appear in the peephole. Nothing. There was no way I was giving up now. I rang again. Maybe she was taking a nap or a bath or something. When I tried knocking, the door pushed right open. Somebody else needed a locksmith.
“Mrs. Flynn? Are you there? Do you know your front door is open? Hello, Mrs. Flynn?”
The late-afternoon sun was blinding. I blinked a few times, then gasped. The living room was in shambles. It was as if a tornado had struck. The pictures were torn off the wall, the books ripped from their shelves, the chair overturned, the vase broken to bits. There seemed to be nothing left of the couch but stuffing, gray and swollen like storm clouds.
And where the hell was Mrs. Flynn? I tiptoed inside, trying not to breathe.
“Mrs. Flynn,” I whispered, “it’s Cece Caruso. You can come out now. Are you all right?” The kitchen was a sea of broken dishes. There were pots and pans everywhere. The only thing that appeared untouched was a shiny set of knives poised on the counter: a steak knife, a paring knife, a serrated knife perfect for cutting grapefruit. I always wanted a set like that, but they were so expensive. I started to reach for one, then drew back with a shudder. What was I, crazy? I didn’t have to do this. I could call for help. I pawed wildly through my bag, but I had left my cell phone in the car. Shit.
The hallway was narrow and dark. I moved toward the back, treading as lightly as possible over the clothes and papers strewn across the rug. I almost tripped over Mrs. Flynn’s sewing kit, a tiny wicker basket with a wooden handle. I picked it up and tucked the pincushion back inside. It was one of those red ones with the little strawberry hanging by a thread. My grandmother used to have the very same one.
Clutching the basket to my chest, I crept past the tiny bathroom. The white tile floor was littered with a rainbow-colored assortment of pills, and the empty containers had been tossed in the tub. At the end of the hall was the door to what I guessed was the bedroom. I approached it slowly, reaching out for the knob. Suddenly impatient, I gave the door a good push and it swung open, hitting the wall with an unceremonious thump.
I don’t know what I expected to see. Or whom. I called out for Mrs. Flynn once more, but it was obvious the house was empty. Even the burglars had gone home. Not before stripping the bed and flipping it on its side, though. What got me were Mrs. Flynn’s cleaning skills. Not a dust bunny in sight. I got ahold of myself. I’d master the rudiments of housekeeping later. Right now, I had to leave. No, I had to call the police, then leave. But something caught my eye. There, on top of the dresser, twinkling in the sunlight, was a small ruby ring, the one I had seen on Mrs. Flynn’s hand the other day. Why would the burglars have left it behind? I put it in my pocket, thinking I’d keep it safe for Mrs. Flynn.
As it turned out, she wouldn’t be needing it. I tripped over the woman’s dead body on the way out the front door.
17
I’m useless with dead people. When I was sixteen, my father had a sudden heart attack. I fainted just before the funeral and wasn’t permitted to attend. Since then, I’ve made an art form out of avoiding open caskets. My mother insists I have a nervous condition, inherited from my father’s mother, whom she detested. Maybe so, but I doubt it. The truth is I’m afraid of ghosts.
But it was too late this time. She was under all that stuffing, covered in blood. I don’t know how I missed her the first time. I bent down to feel for a pulse. Nothing. I could see her green eyes, but they couldn’t see me.
Sangfroid eluded me. I felt the bile rise to my throat. Clutching my hand to my mouth, I stumbled out to the car and grabbed the phone but could barely hold it, I was trembling so badly. I dialed 911 and told them what I’d found. Then I sat down on the curb and gulped fresh air. I wasn’t sure I could stand up again until I heard the sirens wail around the corner.
The cops were kind. They brought me coffee and someone draped a blanket around my shoulders. I watched the coroner’s truck pull into the driveway and the medical examiner go inside. Through the front window I could see flashbulbs popping. The neighbors came out and were standing around, pretending to turn on their sprinklers and look through their mail. A tall woman with a phone clipped to her belt affixed yellow tape around the perimeter of Mrs. Flynn’s front lawn. It was a crime scene now.
After a while, two men came over and sat down on the curb next to me. They introduced themselves as Detectives Moriarty and Lewis. They inquired as to how long I had known the victim, and the nature of our relationship. I said five days, and that we had no relationship. We were acquaintances, that was it.
We talked for another half hour or so. They asked all the right questions but didn’t seem very interested in my answers.
“That about wraps it up,” Detective Lewis said, stretching out his long legs. He rose and a shower of crumbs hit the ground. Doughnuts. The blanket lady had brought them. “I have to ask you, Ms. Caruso, to let us know if you’re planning to leave the area. This case will probably go to trial fairly quickly, and you’ll be needed to testify.”
“Excuse me, Detective, are you saying you know who’s responsible?” Forensics had come a long way, but things were moving pretty fast for me.
“We’ve got a good idea. We’ve visited Mrs. Flynn before. She had a complicated life. Do you know her sons?”
“I didn’t even know she had children.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to boast about these two. Twins, but they don’t look anything alike. One uglier than the other. They’ve been on our radar for years. Damon runs a crystal meth lab. Gil just beats people up. A couple of months ago, Gil showed up on his mom’s doorstep with a forty-five, demanding m
oney. Roughed her up pretty bad. Mrs. Flynn called us but decided not to press charges. We told her that was a bad idea, but mothers get kind of sentimental.”
“So that’s it?” I asked. “The investigation is over?”
“Well, she took a couple of bullets to the gut,” Lewis said. “You figure it out.”
Detective Moriarty finally spoke up. He was older, and had a Southern drawl. “No offense, ma’am, but we’ve been in the business for a while. Used to be we’d take our time, mull things over. We don’t operate that way anymore. After all these years, Lewis and I, we can read a crime scene at a glance. The thing is, you don’t want to throw too wide a loop. You don’t want to look for something that isn’t there.”
I remembered a riddle I’d once heard:
Q: What’s the difference between the cops and everyone else standing around at a murder scene?
A: The cops are the only ones who don’t know who did it.
I decided to keep it to myself.
Moriarty and Lewis walked me to my car. I gave them back their blanket. That meant it was time to drive home. So I did.
I didn’t sleep well that night. It was hot. I was sweaty. My hair stuck to my neck like flies to flypaper. I got up to pour myself a glass of water at four A.M. and sat at the kitchen table until I heard the thwack of the newspaper a few hours later.
I waited until seven to call Lael. She sounded sleepy and pissed off. Baby August had been up all night with a fever, which had broken at six, and she had finally gotten him to sleep when I called. I apologized for my timing, explaining that I had just found a dead body and needed to talk.
She arrived an hour later, after arranging various play dates and baby-sitters. It was Sunday, so we headed over to the Hollywood Farmer’s Market. Lael patted my back as I wept into my blue corn tamale.
