“Well, umm, basically the sermon was about GIGO.”
“GIGO?” she repeated doubtfully. “GIGO is in the Bible?”
“Not in that exact wording. But the pastor used it in his sermon.”
“Garbage In, Garbage Out,” she reflected. “The greatest computer in the world will spew out garbage results if you put garbage data into it.”
“Right. And if you put garbage into your life in the form of wrong beliefs, wrong values and standards, then garbage is what will come out of your life. It’s a reflection of what we’re ‘eating’ spiritually. So a different interpretation of GIGO might be Good In, Good Out.”
She picked up the skateboard and tucked it under her arm. “It’s a nice theory. But there are people who are living good lives and doing good things who aren’t going to church or reading the Bible or praying or any of that stuff. And I knew a girl back at school who never missed a Sunday at church and who could whip out a Bible verse for any occasion, from flunking a test to a bad hair day. Her take on the ‘do not steal’ commandment was that it was okay if you shoplifted from big stores because they calculated that into their profit margins. It was stealing only if you took it from an individual.”
“Thou shalt not steal . . . unless it’s from Wal-Mart?” I asked in dismay.
“No Wal-Mart for her. She liked the high-end stuff. Neiman Marcus was her favorite, especially for cosmetics.”
So, Lord, how about that? The Good-In system had apparently hit some speed bumps with that girl. I wished I could whip out a verse to fit the situation, but as usual I was frustratingly blank. For two reasons. One, I’m reading and trying, but I’m still woefully ignorant about Scripture. Two, I apparently lost the ability to memorize about the time cellulite started homesteading on my thighs. Now my brain seems to have a Teflon coating; everything slides right on through it. The only quotation that surfaced at this moment was, “Blessed are those who run around in circles, for they shall be called big wheels,” which didn’t seem particularly relevant. And was definitely more bumper sticker than biblical.
“I’d say that somewhere along the line the girl at school had some garbage input that booby-trapped the good input. And it’s kind of a surprising fact, but as I understand it, piling up a mountain of good deeds still isn’t going to get you into an eternal life with Jesus. It’s faith and belief that does that.”
“If you have faith and belief you can go ahead and sin all you want?”
Leave it to Pam to vault right into what looked like a loophole.
“No, if you really have faith and belief, you’re going to want to do the things God considers right and good. If what you want is to keep on with the sins, it puts a big question mark on whether you’re really committed to the faith. Although people who are faithful and committed sometimes slip, so I suppose that kind of muddies the waters,” I admitted.
“The waters are pretty muddy about the whole ‘eternal life’ thing, as far as I’m concerned.”
No, they’re not, I realized suddenly. I may not understand many things yet. I may be puzzled about whether we’ll be in robes or jeans. Whether we’ll eat manna or stuffed zucchini. Or if we’ll eat at all. And what everyone will be doing in all that timeless eternity. But this I understood as surely as I knew the tides were going to keep rushing in and out: there is an eternal life.
Pam turned a palm up to the sky, abruptly dismissing this discussion. Which, I thought with a regretful sigh, had probably benefited me more than it had her.
“Okay, if you’re going to skateboard, let’s get going before it really starts raining.”
“I’ll go change. What should I wear?”
“Something padded. Skateboarding is a contact sport.”
“Contact?”
“Contact with the pavement.” She waved a hand as if to dismiss that small detail. “Some skateboarders wear special shoes, but you can just use whatever you have handy. Just remember that skateboarding is rough on shoes. And various parts of the anatomy.”
Okay, I heard her. She disapproved. But I’d long wanted to do this, and I felt ridiculously elated as I started back to the limo. Me . . . skateboarding! Then I remembered something I wanted to ask. “Did you listen to Michelle’s answering machine to see what it picked up last night?”
“It got quite a lot of the conversation, actually.” She hesitated and then added, “I erased it.”
“What? Why?”
“I didn’t see any point in saving it.”
I was mildly dismayed that she hadn’t preserved the conversation, which was evidence, of sorts, in case Mike backed out on going to the police. I wondered if she’d tell them what he’d done if he didn’t, or if she’d protectively try to keep him out of it. Which probably didn’t matter, of course. Detective Molino most likely already knew all about Mike, up to and including his shoe size and whether he flossed his teeth daily.
As if reading my mind, Pam added, “Mike is going to the police. He’s no criminal.”
Though his stop-the-wedding technique could use some fine-tuning.
In any case, the recording was now gone and there wasn’t much point in arguing with her about it. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I drove on up to the house. Inside I changed to jeans, long-sleeved sweatshirt, and the heavy tennies I use for chores like limo washing. Coming out of my room, I ran into Phyllis Forsythe in a pink terrycloth robe and fuzzy slippers, hair tied up with a pink scarf.
“I thought I’d take a soak in the hot tub. My nerves have been rather tense, and it’s very relaxing,” she said in her whispery little voice.
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“Would you like to join me? If you don’t have a swimsuit, there are extras down there, and dressing rooms to change in. I just prefer the privacy of my room for changing.” She gave the robe a tightening twitch.
The hot tub, which was in a corner of Michelle’s basement Fitness Room, struck me as a good place to pick Phyllis’s brain. As an employee, I’d never used the tub, but no one had ever said I couldn’t, and Shirley had said she used it. “Pam’s going to show me how to skateboard, but I’ll join you as soon as we’re through.”
“Skateboard? Oh, isn’t that dangerous?” Her whispery voice took on a note of alarm, with an undercurrent of disapproval.
Skateboarding, I knew without asking, was not one of Sterling’s chosen activities.
“I won’t be long. I’ll quit when the first bone breaks.”
I meant that as a little joke, but Phyllis just looked appalled and said, “Do be careful.” Sense of humor, I was fairly certain, was not a family strong point.
Outside, Pam was headed down the hill again. As I watched, she and the skateboard lifted off the pavement and separated. I thought she was crashing again, but this time she reconnected with the board and swirled to a graceful stop.
“Was that a kickflip?” I called.
“No, that was just an easy little ollie. It’s a good move for jumping over something.” She picked up the board and motioned me to join her down on the flat part of the driveway. “Are you right-footed or left-footed?”
Not a question that had ever arisen before. I tested my feet. They didn’t offer an opinion. “I don’t know.”
“Okay, you can start out doing it the regular way. Left foot up front on the board, right foot pushing. If that doesn’t feel comfortable, you can switch. Or there’s mongo style, pushing with a front foot. But not many people do that.”
The first thing I learned when she set the skateboard in front of me was that skateboards aren’t flat, as I’d always assumed. There’s a slight concave dip in the board.
She fastened the helmet on my head, showed me where to place my foot and how to push. She ran along beside me as I pushed, a balancing hand on my lower back. We did that for several trips back and forth to the gate. I wobbled, but her steadying hand kept me upright.
Finally she said, “Now just give a good push, then pick up your foot
and put it on the board. And keep your eyes to the front. Always watch where you’re going.”
I tentatively placed my pushing foot on the board. She let go. I sailed forward.
“See, you’re doing it!”
Hey, I was! I was skateboarding! Although that lasted all of thirty seconds before the board scooted out from under me, and I hit the concrete and skated on my derrière. But if I thought Pam was going to give me the kid-glove treatment because of my age or inexperience, I was mistaken. Tough love all the way.
“Get up and try it again,” she yelled.
So I did. After another half hour or so I wasn’t doing ollies, but I was scooting along the flat concrete by myself. Although gravity seemed to take a much sterner attitude with me than it did with all those young kids you see blithely defying it with twists and turns and flips. But when I was upright, skateboarding was every bit as exhilarating as I’d imagined. Wheee!
I figured this was probably my once-in-a-lifetime go, and I didn’t want it to end, but when Pam said, “I think that’s enough for today,” I regretfully agreed. Partly because I had sore spots where I didn’t know spots existed, partly because I wanted to get to the hot tub before Phyllis left it. Partly because, although I hadn’t noticed until then, the drizzle had turned to a steady rain and my back was soaked.
So I was surprised when, as we were walking up to the house, Pam said, “Tomorrow, same time, same place?”
“It’s probably time I headed on home. I don’t think there’s anything I can do to help you here now.”
Pam stopped short, the scrunch of her eyebrows dismayed. “Mr. Steffan wants to go out to the casino this evening, so he’ll need the limo for that.”
“Calling a cab for him would be cheaper than my staying on.” And I had plans with Fitz for this evening.
“I’m not positive, but I don’t think I have to worry about money. And I need you to stay on, Andi. Please? I feel as if I’m wandering through a swamp full of hungry alligators. Lawyers, the funeral, that autopsy thing . . .”
She sounded so momentarily little-girl-lost that I quickly assured her I didn’t have to leave yet. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You can figure out who killed Michelle.”
“That’s Detective Molino’s job.”
“Detective Molino isn’t here at the house.”
And maybe the killer was? Though after talking to Mike last night, Uri Hubbard was edging up to top place on my suspect list. And he wasn’t here at the house.
“Would you mind if I poked around in Michelle’s office?”
“I’ve been thinking I’ll have to do it sooner or later, but if you want to do it, poke away,” she said. “We’ll do the skateboard thing again tomorrow?”
“When do I get to try it on the slope, where I can pick up some speed?”
I thought I heard in your dreams, but her out-loud answer was more diplomatic. “Not for a while yet. Be patient.”
I went directly to the Fitness Room. The water in the hot tub churned energetically, but it looked empty. No, something was floating in it.
I rushed over, an awful possibility flashing like a murder mystery title across my mind. Murder in the Hot Tub . . .
Chapter Seventeen
I peered closer. Blue things floated in the churning water, like tiny, multi-headed creatures flung up from the bottom of the sea.
Then, on the other side of the tub, a human head broke through the bubbling water.
“Mrs. Steffan! Are you okay?”
She let out a huge held breath, then reached over and turned the control knob down to something below storm-surge level. “I’m fine. I just like to go all the way under occasionally.”
Which struck me as about as appealing as washing your hair in a dishwasher, but everyone to her own taste.
She leaned back against the side of the tub, and the blue things rose again. Not strange sea creatures after all. Just Mrs. Steffan’s feet with toenails pedicured blue.
“C’mon in,” she urged. “I turned the heat up, and it’s just right.”
“I’ll have to find a swimsuit.”
“Skinny dipping’s more fun.”
I stopped, momentarily dismayed at the sight of Mrs. Steffan’s bare shoulders. Was she really—? Then she rose higher out of the water and I saw the exotic flowers twined across her strapless suit.
She gave me a mischievous smile, as if she’d caught me at something. “You didn’t think I’d actually go skinny dipping here, did you?”
I found a burgundy, one-piece suit and changed in the dressing room. It fit surprisingly well, and the halter-type neckline was quite flattering. Though, like every swimsuit in existence, it did nothing to conceal my jiggly thighs.
Mrs. Steffan pointed to a corner spot in the tub when I returned. “That jet is good for sore shoulders. Or if you want your lower back massaged, the center one is best.”
I picked the lower-back area and slid into the just-right water, not too hot, not too cool. The life of luxury. I could get accustomed to this.
“Do you come for a soak every day?” I asked.
“I’ve been doing what I do at home, working out on the machines for a while and then relaxing in the hot tub. I like that machine the German guy invented.” She pointed to a machine with curved bands that looked as if it might take off like a rocket ship if all those bands went sproing at once. “They were planning to unveil it to the public at the opening of the fitness center, but I haven’t heard what’s going to happen now.”
I wouldn’t have guessed Mrs. Steffan knew one exercise machine from another, let alone used them regularly. Although her body, revealed by the swimsuit, was not as dumpy as I’d assumed from those shapeless flowered dresses she always wore.
“Was Phyllis here earlier? I met her when she was coming down.”
“She left just a few minutes ago. Said she hasn’t been sleeping well and was going to take a nap. I think she’s afraid someone is going to creep in and murder her in the night.”
“Surely people aren’t afraid there could be more murders!”
“I don’t see any reason to think there’s some serial killer on the loose here. I think someone just had it in for Michelle. Although one does start to wonder, considering the other unfortunate deaths in the family.”
“Pam’s father’s death, you mean? And her mother too.”
“Mother, father, stepmother. If I were Pam, I think I’d be afraid I might be next in line. But I don’t see any reason for Phyllis to worry. Who’d benefit if she were dead?”
“You’re suggesting someone benefited from the other deaths?” Which was certainly a reasonable line of thinking from my point of view.
“Oh, my, no. Just tragic coincidences, I’m sure.” Mrs. Steffan lifted a leg out of the water and examined it critically. “I need a wax job, but I think I’ll wait until I get home.”
I wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Michelle and Phyllis were distant cousins, as you probably know. I suppose there’s a possibility she may benefit from Michelle’s death.”
“Surely Pam will benefit considerably.”
“Only in that she’ll now have control of her trust fund herself.”
“Umm.” Examination of the other leg.
“This must be a very difficult time for Phyllis. I wonder how she feels about Sterling and Pam’s breakup?”
“She didn’t say.” Mrs. Steffan let her legs drift back into the water.
Now the toes were ten blue eyes, all staring at me. I tried not to stare back.
“I imagine she’s disappointed,” Mrs. Steffan continued. “There’s considerable prestige connected with their son’s position, I’m sure, but I don’t think research pays particularly well. And even if the son comes up with some discovery or invention worth a bundle, it’ll belong to the company. That’s the way those things work. I’d feel awfully awkward if I were them, staying here and taking advantage of their son’s ex-fiancée’s hospitality.”
“T
here’s probably satisfaction in what he does even if the money isn’t outstanding.”
“True. Although Pam’s money would surely have made the marriage more comfortable. Which has nothing to do with Michelle’s murder, of course.”
Also true. Yet the scent of a money-murder connection lingered like a whiff of that smelly fog.
“So, who do you think did it?” I asked conversationally. I shifted a bit to let the thrust of jetting water hit my hip, which had taken a beating in the skateboard lesson.
“I’ve been wracking my brain. Stan and I don’t have children, so Michelle was almost like the daughter we never had. We were very close to her at one time. She even lived with us for a while. I always appreciated the fact that, unlike most of the attractive women Stan works with, she never had an affair with him. Her death hits us very hard.”
Well, there was a level of openness I hadn’t expected and didn’t know what to do with. How do you deal with a woman who speaks of her husband’s affairs as if only the woman involved were to blame? I had some indignant thoughts on this subject, but taking potshots at the Stan Man probably wouldn’t aid my information-gathering project. “Did Michelle have enemies in Hollywood?”
“Everyone has enemies in Hollywood. It’s a jungle of rivalries and jealousies and backstabbings—“ She broke off and touched her fingers to her lips. “Oh dear, that didn’t come out right. I didn't mean literally, not like what happened to Michelle.” She frowned. “Although you never know how far some people will carry a grudge, do you?”
“Are you saying someone she knew from a long time back could have murdered her? Because of something she’d done to that person in the past?”
“It’s possible. When Michelle wanted something, she went after it. Fond of her as I was, I have to say she didn’t care who she had to crawl over to get it. But she wasn’t alone in that, of course. Get yours is the general Hollywood ethic.”
“You have anyone specific in mind?”
“Well, she didn’t invite those with whom her past relationships were the most, umm, disagreeable. Although she and Rosamund Blanchard had their differences.”
Here Comes the Ride Page 15
