A Corpse in a Teacup
Page 25
Butel leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back legs, rocking slightly, cleaning his fingernails while he waited for Vitale to answer his questions. Vitale had already insisted that they weren’t having marital or financial problems. He all but fainted when Butel showed him the loan documents, her funding of Marco’s investment in The Mulberry Cat. Jameson’s search warrant of the chef’s house had uncovered those. Clipper’s find. And no, he declared emphatically, she didn’t have mental health issues. Wasn’t on any meds. To which Butel had replied, “So she’s just having your typical bad day?”
Vitale was close to tears, riffling through the papers linking his wife to the chef. By now Butel had told Vitale that they’d found the poisonous plants in the chef’s famed backyard garden. The death lilys. Tuesday’s brainstorm. Butel had told him that tissues from the deceased were, as they spoke, being spun in a special spectrometer and would show the cells laced with toxins from the deadly plant, toxins that, in humans, mimicked a cardiac arrest. So he might as well come clean with what he knew. He didn’t tell him it would take weeks for the results to come back from the lab.
Vitale exclaimed, “And you think I had something to do with the poison? With the deaths of those women? Preposterous.”
Butel held up his pocket nail file. “I got all night. Take your time. Where’d your wife get the gun?”
Vitale pleaded. “I’ve told you. My wife doesn’t have a gun. She’s very anti-NRA. She wouldn’t let a firearm come within a mile of our house.”
Butel trimmed a corner of his thumb with his teeth, spit to the side. “We got a witness tells us otherwise.”
Butel sighed deeply. He rocked forward, slamming the front chair legs onto the tile floor with a smack that reverberated around the room. Vitale flinched, his hands shook violently, Butel’s intention.
“Now if you know something about this little joyride she took, and you’re withholding, well, I’d have to look it up in the book but I’m sure impeding a murder investigation has to be worth, oh, twenny, twenny-five years. Something like that. And if you slipped the poison to any of these women, or something happens to Miss Holley Wood tonight, well, I’d say we have enough for special circumstances. You know what that means? A dose of poison administered by the state.”
Vitale folded his arms on the table, laid his head down on top of them. Muttered, “I don’t know anything, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why she’d do something like this. She’s so supportive of my projects, the casts and crews. I don’t understand.”
Butel spoke to his balding head. “I should tell you, Mr. Vitale, that as we speak, Marco is in another room considering his options as we ask him about his relationship with your wife. Anything you can tell us about that?”
Goren was shaking his head as Jameson burst into the room. Without a preamble, she began firing questions at him. “You have any real estate in the area that might be vacant? No? How about your wife? Does she own anything under her own name? Anybody in her family, any close friends? A place where she could hide and think we won’t find her?”
Vitale looked like someone awakened from a deep sleep by a bright light. Eyes popped open, confusion written all over his face. “No, no, I don’t think so. Only her father. He doesn’t own any vacant houses but he has a real estate office. The business is dead. He only goes there to get away from his wife. My opinion. Over in Montrose. But I don’t think she has a key or anything.”
Jameson had her iPad out. “Father’s phone number, address. Hurry up. I don’t have all night.”
Tuesday and Clipper sat in a small anteroom. Tuesday had refused to go home and Clipper pulled strings, so they were allowed to wait where the news was likely to break. Two detectives Tuesday hadn’t seen before were questioning Tessa in another room. Tuesday was not allowed in but assured they were treating her mother with kid gloves. The door was open and they saw Jameson run out of the building. Clipper grabbed Tuesday’s hand. “Let’s go.”
They followed Jameson as far as the roadblock in Montrose. Clipper pleaded with the officers stringing up crime scene tape, but they could only watch as Jameson and several uniformed officers drew their weapons and crept up the street.
“Douse your lights sir.” The officer’s voice was tight with urgency. “I urge to leave the scene. You’re safety is at risk.”
Clipper cajoled and pleaded but couldn’t get them any closer. Tuesday could barely breathe from the tension. Jameson and her team disappeared into the shadows, a wall of armed officers blocked any view of the real estate office in the distance. Police moved around stealthily, whispering, giving hand signals. ROVER’s crackled on the officers’ shoulders. Another squad car arrived. Butel got out with his weapon drawn. The officer pointed to Jameson down the block.
Suddenly shots rang out, muffled as they ricocheted inside the real estate office, but distinctive. Jameson seemed to be holding her team back, reconnoitering outside. Then all was quiet for a moment. Tuesday broke down. “She dead. She’s been shot. Oh, Holley.”
Then there was a crash of glass shattering, wood splintering. Jameson was storming the office. Shouts now, indistinct, angry voices, terrified voices. A figure jumped through the large broken window, tall, dark hair streaming behind her. She ran very fast. Another figure ran after her, faster still. The bulky speed demon, Detective Butel.
Chaos now where a moment ago all had been quiet. On cue, several of the officers in front of Clipper’s car rushed forward. He held up his hand to Tuesday.
“Stay here,” he said and tumbled out of his car to run after them. Other officers tried to stop him, but he pulled away, Tuesday unnoticed behind him.
They reached the real estate office, brochures for long ago sold properties, graffiti and handbills hanging from the smashed windows. A policewoman pulled Tuesday away and whispered loudly, “What are you doing here? Who let her get this far?”
The front door to the office was open. An officer, stepping carefully, swept a huge torch over the front room. Tuesday saw Jameson in the strobe-like bursts of light, then looked down at the floor and let out a bloodcurdling scream. “Holley! Oh, my god, Holley.”
Clipper pulled her back, both of them staring at the body on the floor, the blood-stained ponytail covering her face. Tuesday crumpled into his arms.
Moments later the shrill ring of an ambulance and paramedic vehicle whined in the air.
Butel drove Tessa to the hospital himself. Jameson waited with Tuesday and Clipper. Tuesday ran into Tessa’s arms when she rounded the corridor.
“Oh mommy. She’s in surgery and they won’t tell us anything.”
Brava was in a second operating room. Nobody waited for news of her except the police officer guarding her door, ready to officially arrest her when she woke up. She broke her arm and clavicle when Butel landed on her.
The sun was rising, coloring the hills behind Verdugo Hospital when the surgeon came into the waiting room asking, “Miss Wood’s family?”
Tuesday ran forward. “She has no family here. Her mother’s in the south of France. I don’t know about anyone else. She’s my friend, my close friend.”
The surgeon took lip balm out of the pocket of her lab coat and ran it over her lips. Her scrubs underneath had smears of blood on the front.
“Your friend is very lucky. One bullet grazed her brain, but there shouldn’t be any permanent damage. It didn’t hit any vital structures and there was minimal bleeding. She’ll have a scar of course, but her hair, when it grows in, will cover that. Another bullet must have ricocheted off the wall or something and hit her in the foot. She’ll be on crutches and will need physical therapy, but as I said, she’s very lucky. Is she a ballet dancer?”
Tuesday shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Well that career is over. I doubt she’ll get up on points again if she is, but don’t worry. She’ll still be able to boogie. But she’s going to need a lot of rest.”
Behind her, Tuesday heard footsteps coming into the roo
m. “I can make sure that happens.”
Tuesday turned around. Roger stood there, looking as though he had not slept in years. “I heard about it on the news coming over from the beach. Can I see her?”
Chapter Forty-One: The Breakfast Club
They all sat around two tables pulled together in the Café, Tuesday, Clipper, Tessa, Natasha, Jameson and Butel. An attempt at breakfast had resulted in the preparing a pot of coffee, badly scrambled eggs and some stale French bread. The pastry delivery for the brunch menu was not due for another hour. Jameson was deep into her iPad, reading notes and taking notes.
“Motive?” she said. “That’s a tricky one. Marco isn’t admitting much, trying to make a deal, but Brava’s opening up, blaming everybody but herself. The Vitale’s were heading for divorce court. He wanted out.”
Tuesday’s eyes opened in surprise. “But Holley said she was so supportive him, they were so close.”
“This is Hollywood, girlfriend,” said Butel. “Everybody’s an actor. You should have heard the song and dance he gave me about their wedded bliss.”
“So anyway,” Jameson cocked her head at Butel, “if I may continue, she wasn’t going to get much of a settlement. They hadn’t been married very long. This is California. No longer wife friendly in divorce cases. So she decided if she wasn’t going to get anything, he wasn’t going to have anything left. So she devised a plan to sabotage his film company by offing the people close to him. Figured she’d get away with it if she made it look like they died of natural causes. She wouldn’t get caught, but the deaths would put a curse on Vitale and he’d be out of business. Ruined. That would teach him.”
Clipper cut in. “So she had something on Marco and he made the soup with the poisonous plants and she fed it to them. That’s bizarre.”
Jameson nodded. “He owed her a lot of money. On top of that, love is blind. She told him they’d get married after her divorce. I guess they were going to live on love. He’s in debt up to his ears. But he’s a noted gardener. And he knows how to doctor the soup with poison.”
Natasha broke in. “The garden was what made his food outstanding. He grew almost everything he served. He vas a genius with the green thumbs.”
Jameson said, “There you go. This plant, the death lily, is easy to grow. It mimics wild onions. In the spring and summer it’s a problem for ranchers. They lose sheep and cows when it pops up in grazing pastures and hillsides. He figured it wouldn’t be noticed in his garden. Plus, he never let anyone go into his garden.”
Kanesha paused to drink her coffee. She had pushed aside the eggs Tuesday had made for everyone. “Why these victims? Brava was jealous of Ariel, though we don’t have any evidence she was actually doing the down and dirty with the director. Maybe the wife saw the handwriting on the wall. He was playing around with the costumer, though. Of course, so was everyone else in this town, but it got out and she was humiliated. Zora? The assistant? She had the misfortune to just be your garden variety bitch and she got on Brava’s wrong side.
She sat back, closing the iPad, finishing up her narrative. “Holley was on her list, but we think Marco had the hots for her and tried to scare her away from the project. Nobody else got warnings as far as we know. Brava would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for the cat. That’s what led us to the killers.”
Tuesday blurted out, “Vera was right!”
“What do you mean? Who’s Vera?”
“A psychic I know who said the killer was a cat. She said find the cat and you’ll find the killer. I didn’t know what she meant.”
Jameson looked at her disgustedly. “A psychic?”
Butel gave her a thumbs up.
Jameson continued. “The chef did tell us this. He made a batch of the deadly soup at home. Said he mixed it up with some he’d made for himself. Accidentally ate some and it made him sick before he realized his mistake, but it didn’t kill him.”
Tuesday said, “Did it ever. All over the kitchen.” Natasha made an ugly face, remembering him vomiting in her kitchen.
“Anyway, he came in one morning early. He had another kind of accident. He was rushing around before any of the staff showed up and he’d have to explain what he was doing there. Couldn’t say he was picking up some cream for his poisoned soup. He knocked over the cat and instead of just owning up to it, and letting the staff or the janitorial service clean it up, he swept it up himself. He was going to blame it on the earthquake. He was already juggling one dangerous female, he didn’t want to tangle with Natasha. He knew how she was about the cat.”
Natasha growled, “And why shouldn’t I be angry? Do you know what that cat. . . “
Tuesday put two and two together and interrupted Natasha’s tirade. “So the pieces scattered and that’s why I stepped on one and some pieces got stuck on his clothes and fell into the soup. Talk about coincidences.”
“And if your friend Clipper here hadn’t seen the sliver on your boot, he never would have recognized it at the autopsy. There is no way we would have made the connection to the Café otherwise. The coroner would just have assumed she swallowed a foreign body by accident. Case closed.”
The front door opened and Rowena entered, a look of surprise on her face when she saw the group sitting over dirty dishes. She said hello to Natasha, then introduced herself. “I’m Rowena, the sous chef.”
Everybody nodded hello.
“Natasha, if you’re busy, I can wait in the kitchen. You said to come in early to meet with you. I didn’t know what time you wanted me here.”
Natasha stood up. “What do you mean, you’re Rowena the sous chef. You will NEVER work as a sous chef in The Mulberry Cat Café again.”
Rowena blanched and seemed to crumble. She held onto the nearest chair. “Natasha, I assure you, I had no idea what Marco was doing. I swear. I had no part in those awful crimes.”
Natasha ordered, “Come over here.” Rowena obeyed and Natasha pushed back her chair and stood up. She was easily half a foot taller than Rowena, imposing. She put her arm around Rowena’s shoulder. “This is no longer Rowena the sous chef. I vant to introduce Rowena, my new executive chef.
Chapter Forty-Two: Welcome Home
Gregory hosted the welcome home party. Rowena made salads and fresh lasagna from produce in his garden and artisan cheeses from the Café. Natasha contributed wine from her cellar and Clipper picked up a dangerous chocolate dessert at his favorite steak house. He’d consulted Tuesday about his choice and she’d approved.
They all stood on his front lawn as Tuesday and Tessa drove up in Holley’s boat of a Mercedes. Holley had told Tessa, still bunking at her hilltop house, where to find the key. They flocked to open the doors and help their favorite patient out, juggling crutches and her purse, and carrying in the enormous floral arrangements Roger had Holley’s favorite florist deliver to the hospital almost daily.
Gregory’s living room was spare, but he had a cozy chair set up with pillows and an ottoman for Holley’s foot. She insisted she was comfortable. She looked around the room at the others, most of them sitting on the floor due to the lack of furniture. “Isn’t Roger coming?”
Gregory offered, “He said he’d be here. Maybe he’s just late.”
“I hope he’s not going to pull another disappearing act. He had me scared half to death that he was the next victim.”
Holley could not move her head when she spoke. The massive bandage held her head rigid. The swelling was going down and the long, blond hair on the opposite side of her shaved head was pulled into her signature side ponytail, which hung limp as she had not yet been able to shower or shampoo her hair. Otherwise, everyone agreed, she was radiant.
Gregory invited Tuesday and Clipper to tour his garden while he, Tessa and Rowena set out the lunch. Natasha kept Holley company in the living room. Holley told her that Goren Vitale had called her. Publicity about the case made his fans rabid for his next movie. The project was on and she had the part. They’d start rehearsals as soon as she was well.
Natasha scoffed. “That’s nothing. This case has made my restaurant so popular the vait for a reservation is three months.”
Outside, Clipper pulled Tuesday close to him and kissed her on her temple while the stood over the patch of lilies of the valley. “Do you know they are poisonous, too?”
“I don’t believe it,” she said. “They’re too pretty. They are Tessa’s favorite. By the way, have you noticed the way my mother and Gregory look at each other? And what’s up with the happy homemaker act in the kitchen. She never fixed a meal like that for me.”
“Love can work wonders, you know.”
“Yeah, well don’t expect home cooking from me. Just so you know.”
“Why would I when we have our favorite Ozzie’s down the road.”
Tuesday stared at him, disappointed to see that he meant it.
What she didn’t tell Clipper was that Tessa had revealed her secret to sobriety several days before. Apparently, twelve months and three days previously, she was adamant about the date, a friend’s toddler had been entrusted to her care, an overnight babysitting gig. Friends came over after the child was asleep on her bed and she ended up wandering home at four a.m., climbed into bed and woke up two hours later, still drunk, to the child pulling on her hair and asking for his bebbers.
Deeply shaken, she broke off the friendship with the boy’s mother. Seeing him was too painful a reminder of how close she and he had come to disaster. She sobered up, cut herself off from her drinking friends and resolved, once and for all, to change her life.
Tuesday was shocked at the story, imaging the child locked in her mother’s house with a fire raging around him, or waking up and wandering outside by himself. She didn’t fully trust Tessa’s redemption, but was going with it.
Holley had wangled a job on the movie for Tessa doing makeup. She tried to get Tuesday a gig doing the costumes now that that post was open. Goren was thinking about it. So was Tuesday. It would mean working with Rainey, a possible deal breaker. Goren’s new assistant had called her several days ago.