Regan Reilly Boxed Set 1

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “All over. He said he hated moving around so much when he was a kid. His father could never keep a job. Then his parents divorced when he was a teenager. Shuttling back and forth between them for the next two or three years was no fun. Once he was eighteen he went to college and was more or less on his own. His mother married a wealthy guy, and they were always traveling. I get the feeling she’s a real glamour-puss. Cody’s father was always running around with younger women. I have absolutely no idea how to find them, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want to hear from me anyway.” Abigail sighed. “Cody said he always wanted stability and was so happy to have found it with me. Doesn’t that make you sick?”

  “In his own way, he might have meant it,” Regan said with a shrug.

  “Don’t try and make me feel better. He’s a liar and a thief and I want my money back.”

  Regan stood. “I’ll get out my laptop. Let’s see what we can find. I’ve got the feeling Cody Castle’s name has to be attached to something going on in this town.”

  “Better not be bankruptcy court,” Abigail muttered. She looked at her watch. “Nine hours and counting until Grandma Ethel’s plane touches the ground.”

  24

  Dean was exhausted when his alarm went off early Tuesday morning. He hadn’t gotten more than two hours of sleep. The night before, he’d driven to Beverly Gardens Park at the corner of Santa Monica and Wilshire and risked arrest by picking a rose from one of its famous bushes. Then he’d driven to the Beverly Hills Hotel and told the front desk clerk that he’d like to book one of the cottages for friends who would be arriving momentarily.

  “You mean a bungalow?” the clerk had asked disdainfully.

  “Cottage, bungalow, whatever you want to call it,” Dean had snapped. “Give me the one Greta Garbo stayed in, if you have it. My friends are like her. They crave their privacy.”

  “They’re called bungalows, my good man. We have one left.”

  “I’ll take it.” Dean had handed over his credit card, then sat in the gorgeously appointed lobby and waited for the arrival of Romeo and Juliet. I can’t believe this, he thought. I’ll go home to the dump while Cody stays in the lap of luxury for the next three days, pretending he’s actually got a dime in his pocket. I just hope none of his acquaintances from the jailhouse happen by.

  When the twosome arrived, Stella acted as though she were the only person in Los Angeles who’d experienced the earthquake. “Dean,” she’d cried, giving him a hug. “You’re here! It was all so scary.”

  Dean handed her the rose. “Cody called and told me you’d feel better if you stayed at this beautiful hotel. I jumped in the car and came straight here to make sure things went smoothly. Luckily I was able to book you two the last bungalow.” He laughed and lowered his voice. “Whatever you do, don’t call it a cottage.”

  Stella laughed and sniffed the rose.

  “I just wanted to make sure that you feel secure,” Dean continued.

  “I do now.”

  Dean turned to Cody. “Here are the keys to the bungalow. We have a meeting tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at 9:30.”

  “Should I come with you?” Stella asked.

  “No,” Dean answered quickly. “One of our major investors just wants to go over a few points in our agreement.”

  “But wouldn’t an investor like to meet the star?”

  “Let’s keep the mystery,” Dean suggested. “You relax and rest up for the film. I see the bellman is waiting to escort you. Run along, kids,” he said with a laugh.

  “Thanks, man,” Cody said with a wave. “Appreciate all you’ve done.”

  Dean darted out of the lobby, paid the outrageous parking fee, tipped the valet, and drove off into the night. For a fleeting moment he’d been tempted to search the garbage cans in West Hollywood one last time, but decided enough was enough. He’d go home and lay down his weary head.

  Now it was 8:30 A.M. and he was printing out scripts. He’d frantically gone through e-mails to find the addresses of the people they were meeting with today. At least I didn’t lose my computer, he thought. That would have been the end.

  While the printer was whirring, Dean turned on the television. A reporter was standing in front of Nicky Tendril’s apartment building.

  “Eighty-five-year-old Nicholas Tendril was found murdered yesterday. His attacker pushed him against a wall in his apartment. Tendril died immediately of head injuries. Police are asking anyone with any information whatsoever to please call the hotline…”

  Oh no, Dean thought, his head swimming. No. He couldn’t have…

  25

  Kaitlyn Cusamano had worked as activities director at the Orange Grove Assisted Living Facility for nearly two years. Besides the usual bridge games and bingo, she managed to arrange, on a limited budget, activities such as dance lessons, painting sessions, photography classes, piano recitals, and speakers who would be of interest to the seniors. The job was challenging and rewarding. It gave Kaitlyn great satisfaction to witness people who were faced with the burdens of old age find pleasure in the diversions she worked so hard to offer them.

  This morning she’d left the small apartment she shared with a roommate earlier than usual. By 8:15 she was parking her car near the main entrance of the facility. She wasn’t due until 9:00, but it was her first day back from vacation, and she was sure some of the residents would be out of sorts after the earthquake last night. Many of them liked to stop by her office in between scheduled activities to just say hello or have a chat. Kaitlyn had the feeling that she’d have more visitors than usual today. Even if they weren’t upset, they’d want to compare notes about all that shaking.

  Inside the building, Kaitlyn waved to the receptionist. “You make out okay last night?” she asked.

  The receptionist shrugged. “My husband slept through it. Glad to have you back.”

  Kaitlyn laughed and went straight to her office. She put her purse on the desk, took off her jacket, and hung it on the back of the door. Quickly she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was blond-haired and blue-eyed, with a freshly scrubbed look that made her appear younger than her twenty-seven years. Visitors to the center often assumed she was a teenaged granddaughter of one of the residents.

  Settling in at her desk, she glanced at the monthly calendar she liked to keep within reach. Today was Tuesday, January thirteenth. Her friend Abigail’s birthday. Kaitlyn was anxious to call her but thought it might be too early. She’d bought her a special present and wanted to take her to dinner. Abigail had a big heart. Her regular visits to Orange Grove to cut the seniors’ hair had come about unexpectedly and turned into one of the events the seniors looked forward to most. Even people who didn’t want their hair cut had fun watching the action. It’s amazing how some of the best things in life happen by chance, Kaitlyn often thought.

  Last June Abigail had stopped by the center after working on a film in the area. She’d accompanied Kaitlyn to the recreation room, intending to stay just a few minutes. Kaitlyn introduced her to the seniors and they started asking questions about the movie. One thing led to another.

  “Bet you wouldn’t know what to do with my hair,” one of the nearly bald men had called out, pulling at the sparse growth on the sides of his head.

  “Is that a dare?” Abigail joked.

  The whole room had laughed.

  “You trust me with a scissors?” Abigail continued.

  “Any reason not to?”

  “Get up here, then,” Abigail had urged. “My kit is in the car. I’ll be right back.”

  Abigail ended up giving ten haircuts that first day and made every single person whose locks she tended feel beautiful or handsome. She promised to come back and she did, every month or two until her accident. Kaitlyn often told Abigail that she understood if Abigail didn’t have time for the seniors, but Abigail always insisted her visits to Orange Grove were something she looked forward to.

  “Hey, Katie,” a familiar voice called from the doorway. />
  Kaitlyn turned. It was Norman Grass. He suffered from dementia that was only getting worse. But there were certain days when he seemed fine. Today was not one of them. He clearly looked agitated. Maybe he hadn’t slept well after the earthquake. Kaitlyn smiled at him. “Norman, how are you this morning?”

  “Not good, Katie,” he said, stifling a sob. “I just saw on the news that my friend Nicky was murdered!”

  “Nicky? You mean?”

  “Yes. Nicky Tendril. Remember I told Abigail Feeney he really could use a free haircut? She went to his apartment a few times, then told him she wasn’t coming back. I wonder how she’ll feel now that he’s dead. I bet she’ll be happy!”

  “Norman,” Kaitlyn said, coming around the desk. “Sit down for a minute.”

  “I don’t want to sit down. I just wanted to tell you that your friend was very hurtful to Nicky. He mentioned it every time I talked to him. And now she doesn’t come back to see us, either.”

  Kaitlyn knew what had happened between Nicky and Abigail. She didn’t blame Abigail one bit and felt terrible that the whole incident stemmed from Abigail’s generosity with the residents of Orange Grove. Abigail worked hard and didn’t need to spend her precious time giving free haircuts to someone who was not only rich but rude. “Norman, I told you she had an accident,” Kaitlyn said calmly. “She broke her arm. She hasn’t been able to work. I’m very sorry about Nicky. What happened to him?”

  “Someone threw him against the wall in his apartment. I told him he should have moved in here with us.” He turned and stalked down the hallway.

  Kaitlyn sighed. Poor Abigail. She’s been through so much lately. No wonder she’s always saying she’s cursed. Kaitlyn went around the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed Abigail’s number. I just want to hear her voice and wish her a happy birthday, she thought.

  Back in his room, Norman Grass was also picking up the phone. He’d very carefully written down the number of the police hotline that the reporter had repeated three times. He’d give them a piece of his mind regarding that hurtful, greedy Abigail Feeney.

  26

  Gloria Carson had barely slept. First she couldn’t get the sight of Nicky’s dead body out of her mind. Then the earthquake struck. Tubes and bottles of makeup that neatly lined the shelves in her little bathroom had gone flying, most of them splashing down into the toilet. Donning rubber gloves, she’d fished the mascara and lipsticks and eye pencils out of the water, tossed them into the trash, and wearily gone back to bed.

  All night she kept thinking about the events of the day. One thing that bugged her was the funny way the detectives looked at her. She knew they weren’t thrilled that she’d gotten blood around the apartment. But they could have shown an iota of sympathy for my plight, she mused. I was the one who ran to call for help, raced back to Nicky’s side, was shocked into hysteria, and what do I get for my troubles? Attitude with a capital A.

  Sixty-two years old, Gloria had lived in her apartment for five years. She got a break on her rent in exchange for being the on-site manager whom tenants called with their problems. Not that she could fix a leaky pipe, but she made sure it got done quickly. When she first moved in, she tried to be friendly to everyone. Nicky never gave her the time of day. He kept to himself. Gloria worked part-time for a dermatologist to the stars. By the time she got home, Nicky always had his shades pulled down. Their paths didn’t cross except when he needed something fixed or she had to remind him to get his wash out of the machine.

  Love thy neighbor wasn’t something he believed in.

  At 7:00 A.M. Gloria got out of bed, showered, and was making do with what makeup she had left when the detectives called and asked if they could come speak to her again. They said they wanted to see if there was anything that they or she missed. It was so unfair. Their pretense didn’t fool Gloria one bit. She had watched enough of those crime shows. I live next door. I found the body. It would be so easy for them if I dunnit.

  At 8:30, Detectives Vormbrock and Nelson were sitting in her living room. The heavy smell of Gloria’s freshly applied perfume was making Nelson’s nose itch.

  “I hope those television trucks outside don’t report that you came in here to question me,” Gloria said, dressed and ready for work. She was wearing gold pants, heels, and a white ruffled blouse. Gloria was an attractive woman with teased red hair, who never walked out the door before she’d done herself up. She’d been divorced twice and joked to her friends she was hoping for a trifecta.

  “Ms. Carson, we would like for you to tell us what you know about Nicky’s routine,” Vormbrock began.

  “Routine? He was retired and kept to himself. I work during the day and have better things to do than to keep track of his routine.”

  “So you don’t know if he had any regular visitors?”

  “No.”

  “You found his wash in the machine but there was so sign of a maid. Did he clean the apartment himself?”

  “I guess so. If he had a maid I never saw her. Or him.” She patted her hair.

  “Are we making you nervous?” Nelson asked.

  “What makes me nervous is knowing I live a stone’s throw from where a murderer took Nicky’s life. I barely slept a wink last night.”

  “There was a girl who came to Nicky’s apartment a few times and gave him free haircuts. You know anything about that?”

  “No, but I wish I did. A good haircut is expensive these days.”

  The detectives both nodded. Nelson scratched his nose.

  Gloria clasped her manicured hands and leaned forward. “Let me tell you something. When I went to work in the morning, I always assumed Nicky was still asleep. As you can see, my front door opens onto Monty Street, his is around the corner on Eastern. I park my car in front of my house. I come home at night and rarely pass his front door. For weeks I wouldn’t hear a peep out of him. There are eight apartments in this building. Everyone lives their own life. As long as people pay their rent on time and don’t make too much noise, I’m happy. It’s just my luck that Nicky turns on a wash right before he’s murdered. If I didn’t decide that I wanted to throw in a load of towels, he’d still be lying in a pool of blood!”

  The detectives were both silent for a moment.

  “Ms. Carson,” Vormbrock said. “All we want to do is bring Nicholas Tendril’s killer to justice. Can you understand that?”

  “Of course.”

  “We’re asking you questions in the hope that you’ll remember something you hadn’t thought of previously. Something that might be helpful for us. That’s all.”

  The detectives stood.

  “You have our cards,” Nelson said.

  “The girls who live in the building weren’t any help when you talked to them? I was so upset last night…I don’t even know when any of them returned home. They all keep crazy hours, running here and running there.”

  “Every one of them was at work when the murder took place,” Nelson told her. “None of them knew of anyone who visited Mr. Tendril.”

  “Their names aren’t on your list of suspects then?” Gloria asked, a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Ms. Carson, we’re just doing our job.”

  Gloria was silent as the two men walked out the door. She went back to the bathroom to check her hair and makeup before leaving for work. Is there something I might have noticed yesterday? she wondered. The killer must have left behind some kind of clue.

  She started going over in her mind every second from the time she got home yesterday. As usual, she parked her car close to her front door. The sun was so bright. When she’d gotten out of her car she’d dropped her keys, so she leaned down and her sunglasses fell off. After gathering the keys and the sunglasses, she’d gone into her apartment, dropped the mail on a table, and poured herself a cold glass of water. She was home for at least half an hour when she decided to do a wash.

  She’d gathered her towels, gone back to the shed, and been annoyed when she discovered Nicky’s laun
dry was in the machine. There was a sign above the washer and dryer that urged tenants to be considerate of their neighbors by removing their clothing as soon as the cycle finished. Unfortunately most people lost track of time. Gloria had hurried to Nicky’s back door, half expecting the shade to be pulled down.

  So what did I notice? Gloria wondered as she put a few finishing touches on her makeup. I think there was something. I’ve got to figure out what it was.

  If only to save my own skin.

  27

  Regan had set up her laptop and printer on the kitchen table and was searching the Internet for films currently in production in Los Angeles with Cody’s name attached. There were none. There were also no listings for an “Untitled Short Film.” If Regan and Abigail tried to go through the thousands of sites about films in production in Los Angeles searching for signs of Cody and Dean’s project, it would take forever.

  Abigail sat back in her chair. “Regan, they’re probably nowhere to be found on any legitimate list. I’m sure they don’t have much money and are trying to get people to work for free. Cody said they were planning to meet with investors. Who in their right mind would give those two money to make a film?”

  Before Regan could answer, Abigail tapped her forehead with her palm. “People like me, I guess. I can’t believe I actually took a pen and wrote out a check to Cody for one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “You were in love,” Regan said. “People do stupid things when they’re in love. And it wasn’t an investment, it was an IOU. That’s different.”

  “I bet Cody’s been turning on the charm with anyone who has a few bucks to throw around. He and Dean probably found people who now believe they’re helping to launch the careers of future legends in the industry.”

  “How much would they need to do a short film?” Regan asked.

  “It depends. Some young kids out of film school do it on a shoestring budget, spending almost nothing. Others manage to get grants. Cody said they wanted their film to have great production values, which obviously costs plenty. You know, Regan, we’d probably have better luck driving around and looking for their camera set up on a street corner than searching the computer.”