by Albert Simon
Chapter 9
Henry got into his car and picked up his handwritten list of houses and owners. He thought about what he had just learned he found it interesting that Thornbird mentioned the Marilyn Monroe connection only after he had shown the hotel to the Miller family. Perhaps Thornbird had not thought about or learned of Marilyn’s stay at the hotel until after the Frey connection did not make any impact on Tim and MarieAnne. Had Marilyn Monroe ever stayed at this place? It was certainly difficult to find out, and Henry wasn’t sure that it mattered to his investigation.
He couldn’t really consider them suspects. Henry felt that the Millers had no reason to harm Thornbird, their business was thriving, he was sure the hotel property had increased in value considerably since they bought it. An interesting business Tim and MarieAnne had here, he never would have guessed that there was money to be made by allowing people to swim and sunbathe in the altogether. The idea didn’t bother him at all though; after all, he swam nude every day and usually just carried his towel out to the pool. Maybe he would take them up on their offer of a day visit sometime in the future. He looked down at his left hand again; he realized that this was the second time in 24 hours that his ring caused someone to have a mistaken impression about him.
He started the car, waited for the air conditioner to make an impact on the heat and headed for the Wadowicz house. It was a few blocks away, over in the Movie Colony section of Palm Springs. The house didn’t appear like much from the street, but that wasn’t unusual for a lot of the homes here. He remembered reading the description about Alexander homes on Thornbird’s computer and while he didn’t think this was an Alexander built home, it had some similarities to them. Henry parked on the driveway, walked up the path and knocked on the door. A large Hispanic woman opened the door and without saying anything, let him in and waved at him to follow her to the back of the house. They walked out of open French doors to the backyard where Mr. and Mrs. Wadowicz were having a late breakfast or early lunch under the patio cover.
Whereas the front of the house was plain, the backyard was the total opposite. There was a large black bottomed pool, and a built in spa on one side that continuously spilled its water back into the pool. Lush tropical plants everywhere, large palm trees and a pool house with chaise lounges covered with thick fluffy white towels. It was hard to see a fence and impossible to know where this yard ended and the neighbor’s began. In one corner of the yard he noticed a small creek with a little waterfall and he couldn’t quite see it from here, perhaps a small pond. The garden furniture was made of expensive plantation grown hardwood covered in thick cushions; Henry had seen this stuff in a catalog once and guessed that each piece was an average person’s house payment.
Mr. Wadowicz pushed his chair back and said “Gracias, Rosa.” At which the woman who escorted him back here, smiled and did a little half bow before she disappeared into the house.
“Good to meet you Mr. Wright, I’m Fred Wadowicz, pull up a chair, we hope you haven’t had lunch.”
“No, I haven’t, thank you for your hospitality and please call me Henry.” Henry pulled the chair out and took Mrs. Wadowicz offered hand.
“I’m Georgia, please just call me Georgia, and we’re happy to help.” She waved Henry to sit down.
Henry pulled up the chair and sat down; there was a place setting for him as though they knew that he would join them. The table was set with a linen tablecloth, there was a plate of fresh fruit on the table, a platter of crepes, a bowl of scrambled eggs, a basket with a stack of fresh croissants, a bowl with large strawberries and champagne flutes.
“Champagne, Henry, or are you on duty?” Fred pulled a bottle of Moet Chandon from an ice filled wine cooler next to his chair.
“Uh, yes please, perhaps just a little.” Henry picked up his champagne flute and held it out for Fred to fill.
“I’m not really on duty; I’m sort of a freelance consultant for the Palm Springs Police Department.”
As he looked over this array of food, Georgia said, “If you want something else, Rosa will be happy to make it for you.”
“Oh no, this is great.” Henry took a sip of the champagne; it was very good, and reached for a croissant and the bowl of eggs. “I had not expected this and really appreciate you inviting me to brunch. Can you tell me about how you met Rex Thornbird?” Henry asked, slicing open his croissant.
“Well, we lived in Michigan, we had some friends that have lived here a long time and we had been out to visit them several times. They own a house in Little Tuscany and we stayed with them – their place is quite a bit larger than this one – when we visited. We liked it here, so we decided to look for a winter place and our friends referred us to Rex Thornbird.” Fred explained. “Since then, I’ve retired and now we live here almost all year around.”
“We came out here to hunt for a home; our friends were at their place in Palm Beach in Florida, so we stayed at the Hyatt Regency downtown. Rex picked us up in that big car of his to go house touring.” Georgia explained.
“Rex is very knowledgeable, was, I mean, about Palm Springs history and which movie stars lived in the various homes here, he showed us a lot of places in different areas, both here in Palm Springs and in Palm Desert.” Fred continued.
Just as any couple who had been together a long time, they finished each other’s sentences and thoughts. “We referred several other friends to him since then.” Georgia picked up the coffee pot and poured Henry a cup.
“He spent a lot of time with us, explaining different neighborhoods, architectural styles, the influence of modern architects, he was very knowledgeable.” Fred held his coffee cup up for a refill from Georgia. He set his full cup down, picked up the champagne bottle and refilled everyone’s glass.
“We looked at dozens of homes, but none of them seemed quite right. Finally, after several weeks of looking around, we bought this one; this pool was designed for Veronica Lake when she lived here.” Georgia filled Fred’s cup and set the pot back on the table.
“Did Thornbird tell you that, or did you find out some other way?” Henry finished his croissant and took another forkful of eggs from his plate.
“Oh, no, Rex was very explicit about who had lived in the houses that he showed us, he said we were lucky with this house.” Fred told him. “We paid more than comparable homes in the neighborhood, because Veronica Lake lived here.”
“You seem like a smart business man, did you verify that Veronica Lake actually owned this property?” Henry finished the last of his eggs.
Fred gave a knowing smile. “You know, I made a lot of money when I sold my companies in Michigan. We have a home in Deer Park, a condo in Kauai and this place here. Our children do not have to work a day in their lives if they don’t want to, we’re very comfortable.” Henry smiled as well; he was starting to understand Fred Wadowicz.
“We knew that Rex was stretching the truth somewhat, but he spent so much time with us, this home is exactly what we wanted, we considered the “celebrity premium” fair in return for what we got.” Georgia explained. “More coffee?”
“No thank you.” Henry wiped his mouth off with his napkin.
“More champagne?” Fred pulled the bottle out of the ice bucket.
“No thank you, this was wonderful, really. I feel quite spoiled. Henry set his napkin down on the table. “Once again, I really appreciate you taking the time for me, and this brunch was an unexpected pleasure.”
“Anything we can do to help you find Rex Thornbird’s murderer is the least that we owe him.” Georgia smiled. All three of them got up as Henry got ready to leave.
“I think you’ve answered all of my questions, but I’ll call you if I think of something.”
“Let me walk you out,” Fred motioned Henry towards the house. “Really, if we can do something to help you in any way, just let us know.”
As Henry got back into his car, he realized two things. The first was that he hit another dead end. Fred and Georgia Wadowicz knew that the truth was bei
ng stretched a bit when Thornbird billed this house as once owned by Veronica Lake, but just like the Millers, they got what they wanted and didn’t seem to mind paying a premium. Henry started wondering if he was chasing up a blind alley by talking with the owners. The second thing he realized was that he wasn’t used to drinking champagne during the middle of the day.
He thought about making another call on Rosie to talk to her about the relationship Thornbird had with the other realtors might be in order. He’d go back to his house and call her from there to set up an appointment.
On his way home, Henry drove past one of the other properties on the list. This was the home that had supposedly been owned by Bette Davis. It was on the corner of Hermosa Drive and Alejo Road. Henry parked the Mercury at the curb, behind a contractor’s truck. He walked up to the front door which was open. He knocked anyway and stuck his head inside.
“Hello!”
“Back here in the kitchen.” The yelling voice had an echo as though it was coming from inside a sports stadium. Henry carefully walked around piles of lumber, sheets of plywood and other construction materials; the house looked more like a construction zone than a residence as he made his way to the back of the house.
“You must be Amit Anchula”
“Not hardly!” A tall, older man wearing a Dodgers baseball cap was bent over a sawhorse with architectural drawings. He looked up as Henry walked into what must have at one time been the home’s kitchen.
“Howard James, general contractor. Anchula is the owner, but he ain’t here.”
“Henry Wright, I’m an investigator looking into the murder of a real estate agent.” Henry held out his hand and shook Howard’s large callused hand.
“Anchula is out of town, he works in the San Francisco Bay Area for some high tech company doing something with computers.” Howard explained. “I’m just the general doing all the modifications to this place so that Mr. Anchula will be happy when he decides to come and visit here.”
“It looks like there is some extensive remodeling going on here.” Henry looked around the room which was down to its stud walls, there were wires everywhere, and the floor was bare concrete.
“Yeah, this place was remodeled in the late seventies, but Anchula didn’t like it. So we’re now working on his third redesign of the place. The little prick thinks he’s an architect.” Howard shook his head looking around the room and waving his hand at the drawings in front of him.
“It sounds like you and he have a few, eh, disagreements.” Henry said taking a look over Howard’s shoulder at the drawings.
“You could say that, he wants everything done his way and he’s a cheap little….” Howard said in frustration.
“I get the picture.” Henry interrupted.
“Look, Mr. …”
“Just call me Henry.”
“Look Henry, I don’t know anything about a real estate agent. I got this job through a friend of mine who was too busy to take it. By the time I got involved Anchula had owned this place for about six months, and he wanted to renovate, that’s when I met him. The spoiled little shit is going to have a pool put in the backyard once we finish in here, can you believe it – it’s going to be the size of a kiddie pool. Anchula dealt with the realtor long before I came into the picture, why don’t you call him?
“I think I’ll do that, do you know how to get hold of him?” Henry asked.
“Yeah, last week when he was here, he gave me his home and cell phone numbers, but the guy never answers, you’ll have to leave a message, hopefully he’ll call back.” Howard picked a pencil up from the sawhorses and dug a business card out of his overalls. “Here’s his numbers, good luck.”
“You say he was here last week?” Henry took the business card and put it in his shirt pocket.
“Yeah, he flew in last week and left on Tuesday or maybe Wednesday afternoon I think, I’m not sure. He left in a big hurry; I never did get him to tell me what to do about the ceiling lights that are supposed to go in here.” Howard bent back over the drawings. “Good luck getting a hold of him, he’s a tough one.”
“Thanks for your help, good luck with your project.” Henry turned to walk out
“Yeah, thanks.” Howard was already studying the drawings again and paid no attention to Henry as he walked out the front door.
Henry got to the front door and turned back to Howard who was now examining some of the wires dangling from the living room ceiling. “Howard, one last question, do you know if Bette Davis ever owned this home?”
“Bette Davis? Are you kidding? I did some work on her house once in the sixties and she wouldn’t have been caught dead in a little place like this in this neighborhood.” He answered. “You know, I told Anchula the same thing about a month ago. Funny you should ask, is that connected to the murder you’re asking about?”
“Thanks, no, it’s probably just a coincidence. You’ve been a lot of help.” Henry walked out of the house and to his car. He looked back at the house; it was small, on a corner, not very impressive in appearance, certainly nothing that a star the magnitude of Davis would have considered home. He wondered how Thornbird had gotten away with it, unless like the other owners he spoke with that morning Anchula didn’t care who owned it and he wanted to buy this particular home. A call to Anchula was certainly in order, especially if what Howard said was true, Amit Anchula was in Palm Springs the day that Rex Thornbird was murdered.
Henry walked into his home office and called Rosie at Coachella Real Estate. After about six rings Tiffany answered – Henry could picture her hanging up the other line, putting the magazine and nail file in the drawer before picking up his call – she said that Rosie was out to lunch and would be back around 2:30. He left a message for Rosie to call him at his house when she returned. He picked up his handwritten yellow pieces of paper and the folder that Rosie gave him and started looking through it again. He thought the answer was in there somewhere amongst Thornbird’s former customers, but after this morning’s interviews he couldn’t be sure. Although Anchula’s presence in Palm Springs was suspicious, it certainly didn’t mean that he did it.
He took the card out of his shirt pocket and picked up the phone. The first call to Anchula’s home resulted in Henry leaving a message on his answering machine. The second call to Anchula’s cell phone had the same result. He was probably in the office; Henry thought he would try again after dinner. Anchula had to check his messages some time, Henry grabbed another piece of paper and started to make a list of questions to ask Anchula. This one was going to be different than the Millers and the Wadowicz’s, he just knew it, he had the feeling that Anchula was not one of Rex Thornbird’s satisfied customers willing to overlook a premium added to a sales price.
Perhaps the stranger and the enlightenment his fortune cookie the other night had referred to was Howard James’ news. He sat back in his chair to think about how this might have played out.
