X Dames: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 3)

by J. J. Henderson

  “Hey, thanks, Lucy. I’ve been working on that move but I never did it in a wave that big before. To tell the truth I don’t know how I pulled it off.”

  “I’m pretty sure they got it on video, too,” said Terry. “I could hear the judges barking about something totally awesome not long after the heat started.”

  “Video. Videotape!” cried Lucy. “That’s it! We need to look at videotape. From last night. From this morning. All of it. Every inch.”

  “For what?” Terry said. “Luce, Bobby’s got all that stuff in the can already. He’s scheduled a breakfast meet for 9 am tomorrow. Probably going to pack it in I would guess. What else can he do once everybody knows Sandra’s died? If he wants to go on with the show he’s got his episode, but it seems to me it would be in seriously bad taste.”

  “Bad taste? This is television we’re talking about here! Do you really think he’s going to cancel the show because of—”

  “A death in the first week of shooting?! What else can he possibly do?”

  Lucy looked at her. “You said it yourself, Ter. The guy’s a sleaze. And we’re talking about The Industry. This isn’t going to stop him. If anything it’ll inspire him to greater heights of sleaze.”

  Five minutes into the breakfast meeting the next day, Terry flashed a ‘Girl you sure got that right’ look at Lucy. Then they returned their attention to Bobby Schamberg, on his feet at the head of the long oval table, struggling to look gravely compassionate in light of the fact that he had just officially announced Sandra’s death, by drowning and traumatic head injuries, to the entire cast and crew of X Dames, Episode One. Although the resemblance hadn’t occurred to Lucy before that moment, the combination of false compassion and fake sincerity transparently layered atop shallow, selfish, scheming thoughtlessness made him look very much like one George W. Bush.

  Lucy and Terry had taken a taxi to Bobby’s house the night before. They had interrupted his intimate frolic involving two Canadian sisters and Henrietta; they had also interrupted a similar bit of business, it seemed, involving other characters, for even as they insisted to Bobby that he get his butt out of his overladen bed and let them have a look at the videotapes of the entire day’s events, out of the corner of her eye through a window Lucy saw Judy Leggett and Ruben Dario skulking down a path towards the sea.

  And then they’d watched the videotapes.

  Things became subtly clear, at least to Lucy’s suspicious eyes, as she viewed assorted fragments of unedited tape from the pre-contest breakfast on the verandah. First, Judy Leggett casually steered Sandra down to the end of the table, so that she ended up seated next to Lucy. Then Judy Leggett and Ruben Dario ran the waiters, keeping the food and drink coming, and at one point, a waiter with a pot was about to pour coffee for Lucy and Sandra when Judy sharply called him back. He went to her side, she spoke a few words to him, and then he returned to the kitchen, leaving the coffee pot on the table. Judy glanced around, picked up the coffee pot, and moved it out of sight under the lip of the table for just a few seconds. Then she put it back on the table. A moment later the same waiter came to the table, picked up the pot, and proceeded to head straight to the end of the table to pour coffee for Lucy and Sandra.

  Lucy had kept her mouth shut, watching that tape. Then they’d watched some more tape, of the contest, and there was nothing odd to be seen. Later, she’d told Teresa what she thought. Teresa, who had watched with her, hadn’t even noticed any of the business with the coffee pot.

  Now they were in the midst of another breakfast on the verandah. As always, the camera guys were armed and shooting. Bobby cleared his throat. “My friends, I have an announcement to make which may strike some of you as strange, but this is the television business and sometimes things don’t go exactly the way you expect them to. In light of Sandra Darwin’s shocking accident and tragic demise, we have had to re-think certain elements of our show. Yesterday afternoon, one of our producers”—he glanced at Teresa—“called the Puerto Vallarta hospital where Sandra Darwin had been taken, and where she sadly, subsequently passed away. And this producer spoke with one of the doctors, and requested that they perform a blood test on Sandra, to see if there were any drugs involved. When I heard this I thought she meant steroids, but no, what she was talking about was—barbiturates, or opiates. This producer for some reason seemed to think that Sandra had been drugged prior to the contest, and that somehow these drugs had caused the accident—accidents—that let to her death. I think personally that she is crazy, this producer, but in the interests of making sure that we left no stone unturned regarding Sandra’s demise, I informed Señor Dario—who is not here, by the way, because he is handling matters relating to Sandra’s death for her family back home in Utah—that he should permit the doctor to obtain some of Sandra’s blood prior to the embalming or cremation of her remains. However, Dario called me back an hour later and said that she had already been identified and sent to the mortuary for embalming, per her parents’ request. And so this blood sample was unavailable.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Lucy, standing. “You can’t tell me that her body was embalmed on the same day as—”

  “I’m afraid so, Ms. Ripken,” said Bobby. “Señor Dario said that—”

  “I don’t care what Dario said. Don’t you know why Teresa requested this?”

  “I think I do, Lucy. Drugs, like I said.”

  “Yes, but what does the presence of such drugs in her body—the possible presence, I mean—tell you?”

  “Nothing. I mean, what, that she had a drug problem?”

  “No, of course not. Jesus, Bobby, why don’t you try thinking—for once! Has it occurred to you that maybe she was drugged! That someone did it to her so she would drown during the contest, fool.” The table buzzed.

  “You want to keep your job, mind your manners, Lucy,” Bobby said, but the way his nostrils flared, she could tell this public verbal combat was getting him off.

  “Don’t talk to me about manners, Bobby. We’re talking about murder here.”

  “Murder? What the hell do you mean? You saw that wave runner land on her head, Lucy.”

  “But you said she died from drowning.”

  “And blunt force head trauma.”

  “Well guess what, Bob?”

  “What?”

  She paused dramatically. “For reasons which I will make obvious later, I had a sample of my own blood drawn last night, and rushed to the lab in PV. I had my own blood tested for opiates and barbiturates too. They called me with results early this morning. It appears that at some point yesterday I had been given a rather large dose of seconal.” A general outcry arose around the table. “You know what seconal is, Bobby?”

  “Of course I know what seconal is. Every redblooded American knows what seconal is.”

  “Well all I have to say to you is,” and Lucy stared directly at Judy Leggett, wearing shades, seated next to Bobby, “Have a look at your tape from yesterday’s breakfast meeting.” With that she sat down.

  “What is she talking about?” Moki Sue demanded. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Hey, hey, I don’t know. Jesus,” Bobby said. “Listen people, what I was going to tell you is that we have to stick around for a day or two, sort out the aftereffects of the— tragedy, and see what we want to do next for the show. And then its on to Chile for the snowboarding competition. But meanwhile I intend to look into these—ah, interesting questions that have been raised by Ms. Ripken. I would like you all to meet me at Don Pedro’s for lunch, at which time we’ll have a new schedule. People, I know this has been something of a shocker, but we have to look at the big picture, don’t we? And the truth is, for a lot of reasons we had an incredibly dramatic surfing contest yesterday. Lucy, Terry, can you guys come back to the house with me?”

  “I’m coming too,” Judy said, jumping up.

  “Me too,” said Marcia.

  “Hey, I want to see what she’s talking about,” said Moki Sue.

  “
Yeah, we all do, Bobby,” Charlene chimed in.

  And so the remaining contestants, along with crew members and a few hangers on, climbed into the small fleet of rented SUVs for the short trip from the Villa Roma to La Casa de la Luna Grande.

  They arrived at the house five minutes later, camera guys shooting as always. They entered to find Ruben Dario seated on a sofa talking on the phone. He held up a hand authoritatively, and the crowd hesitated in the foyer as he murmured into the phone. “Yes. OK, Mrs. Darwin. Yes. Tomorrow. That’s fine. Bye now.” He hung up. “OK. Sorry. That’s done. I’m shipping the body home tomorrow.” He looked appropriately grave. “But hello, my friends. What are you all here for?”

  “Videotape, Ruben,” said Bobby. “We need to look at the tape from yesterday’s breakfast.”

  “Well you have all that on the machine in your room, do you not, Señor Bobby?”

  “Yes I do. Please wait here folks.” He walked down a long hallway while fourteen people filled the living room, dominated by a massive television monitor at one end. A couple of digital editing machines sat on a table nearby. Bobby emerged a minute later with a disc that had the words “pre-con breakfast” scrawled on one side. He put it in one of the machines, cued it up, and ran it.

  They all watched. The dvd ran through the breakfast. Lucy was dumbfounded: the bits that she’d identified as suspicious had been seamlessly erased. Nothing showed how she and Sandra had been herded to one end; nothing about the waiter and the coffee pot and Judy Leggett. They were simply gone. It ended. Bobby looked at Lucy. They all did. “Lucy,” said Bobby. “Was there something on there that…did I…did we miss something?”

  “No. I mean yes. I mean I don’t know,” Lucy said, flustered. Teresa put a hand on her arm, and gave her a look.

  “Hey, Lucy did take barbiturates yesterday, and she doesn’t know how. So maybe she didn’t recall exactly what—”

  “I know what I saw, dammit, Terry.”

  “I know Lucy,” she murmured. “Just be cool.”

  “Well, in any case,” said Bobby. “I don’t see any reason for you all to hang around here. I would suggest you all go to the beach, enjoy those little waves out there—thank god that monster swell is over, eh?—and we’ll get together for lunch like I said. Lucy, Terry,” he added, “Can you two stick around for a few minutes?”

  “Here comes the shaft,” Terry said to Lucy. “Any last words?”

  They waited while the gang filed out. Ruben Dario lingered, arrogant dark eyes on Lucy—and then he left as well.

  “Well, ladies,” Bobby said. “Want a coffee?”

  “I have a copy of that dvd,” Teresa said quietly.

  “What?” Bobby said.

  “I came back here and copied it on my computer last night, when you guys were all down at Don Pedro’s ‘mourning’ Sandra’s demise with all those margaritas. Don’t even think about getting mad, Bobby,” she added quickly, as Schamberg puffed himself up. “You have zero credibility here. But I will say that I know you would never have anything to do with what happened out there, and that’s why I’m letting you in on this.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” said Bobby. “But what’s the point? There’s nothing on that tape that says anything, Terry. Which brings me to my next point. I’m thinking that maybe—well, we’re not sure exactly when the—”

  “Bobby, be quiet a minute, will you?” Terry said. “I know you’re ready to fire Lucy and me, but first I want you to remember what you just saw, and then look at this.” She took a dvd out of her purse and slid it into the machine. After a few seconds, the same video they’d just watched started up. But then, at a certain point, something else showed up: Judy herding Lucy and Sandra down the table. They watched some more, and soon saw the incident with the coffee pot and the waiter. This time, Lucy noted, when the waiter came back from the kitchen he gave Judy a cigarette—that’s what she’d sent him to fetch, it seems—which she lit, and smoked, they saw in snatched bits, as she watched him deliver the coffee to Lucy and Sandra’s cups at the other end of the table.

  “And so?” Bobby asked impatiently when it ended.

  “Did you see anything different?”

  “Yeah. Judy seating you guys and then getting the guy to get her a cigarette.”

  “Did you see the coffee pot disappear?”

  “She poured coffee into her cup in her other hand. Jesus, this—”

  “Her cup’s on the table, Bobby. She’s putting something in the pot down there. She’s—”

  “This is the most paranoid thing I’ve—”

  “Then why did Ruben just edit it out of the tape we all watched, Bobby?” Lucy said. “Can’t you see what’s happening?”

  He shook his head. “You two are fucking nuts. How do you know Ruben did that? What are you saying? That Judy—Judy and Ruben tried to have—that they drugged and murdered Sandra? But why? What the hell for?”

  “They also drugged me, Bobby,” Lucy said. “And I have no clue as to why. Do you?”

  “What do you think?” he snapped. “Why the fuck would anyone want to drug a writer?” he sneered. “All you have to do is fire them.”

  “Fuck you, Bobby,” Terry said. “Can’t you see this is serious?”

  “Whatever.” He shrugged. “So what do you want to do, ladies? My suggestion is you shut the hell up about all this paranoid conjecture and take the next plane home to LA. I’ll be happy to pay you a month—two months!—salary to ease the pain, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Whoa, Bobby boy,” said Teresa. “Don’t get condescending on me. Besides, I have a better idea, if you don’t mind listening for five minutes.”

  “What would that be, Terry?” he said dismissively. He’d already written them out of his script.

  Lucy took the reins. She and Terry had worked it out earlier, after getting Lucy’s blood work back and watching the video one more time. The whole scene they’d just played out had been an act, to get the guilty parties to let down their guard. “Get the cast and crew comfortable with the idea of sticking around a few days to shoot more background, location, other footage to fill in. That should be easy enough, since you already mentioned a day or two of downtime. Meanwhile, let Terry and Marcia and I look into this a little further. We have some leads we’re working on. Just let us have Leslie and one of your cameramen—that guy Hector Valdez would be my choice, because he speaks Spanish fluently—to shoot everything we find. Then if we get something good, you can incorporate it into the show as a real life murder mystery, solved in real time. I don’t know what could kick off a new TV show better than a real murder, with real people solving it, as a part of a show about a real life surfing contest. We don’t even have to involve the cops if we find something out, unless you want us to write it that way. It will be a first, man. It’ll make the show.”

  Terry finished: “And if we can’t figure anything out or we’re just being paranoid, you’ve still got your surfing contest with a built-in tragedy, and then you’re off to Chile.”

  He stared at them, and then a smile broke out on his face. “Fuck, MacDonald, you are such a genius. God damn!” He looked at his watch. “Three days. Make it happen. I’ll cover your asses and keep everybody busy.”

  “Including Ruben Dario—and Judy,” Terry added ominously.

  He looked concerned. “Yeah. I guess she’s a—what would you call her?”

  “A Person of Interest,” said Lucy. “That’s one notch below ‘suspect’.”

  “Right,” he said. “Well, I’d better get back to the beach and see what’s up.” He headed out.

  “Good job, Terry,” said Lucy. They high-fived. “Good job, Luce,” Terry said. They low-fived. “So now what?”

  “Pharmacies. Internet. Real estate. That’s where we want to go. I think you and Marcia and the camera guy Hector Valdez should work south from here towards PV, find the pharmacies, and see if you can find out anything about any prescriptions Judy or anyone connected to her might have gotten.
I think we can clue Valdez in, and he can translate for you and shoot anything that happens. I’m going to sit Leslie down and tell her what’s up—I know she’s got nothing to do with this, and she can shoot me with that little handheld camcorder she’s been using. I want to see what I can find out about Dario and Townsend, without showing my hand. I’ll also check in with some friends via phone and email to see if we can do a little hacking into the realtors’ office website. That may be the best way to see what’s up with those guys.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DOPE AND PARANOIA

  By the time Lucy and Terry met up with Marcia back at the hotel it was eleven-thirty. Lucy and Leslie had agreed on a 12 o’clock in Lucy’s room, at the same time Marcia and Terry planned to meet Hector Valdez at the plaza. After they left Lucy fished out her camera and was just about to turn it on and review her images when she stopped and put it down. Time for a moment of reflection. She put her head in her hands, elbows on the desk, and sighed. Then she looked out at the ocean, where two-foot high waves broke close to shore. The swell had completely disappeared.

  It had been only four days since she and Harold said their goodbyes at LaGuardia. What an insane week! She needed to hear from him, even if he was buried in the Florida mud on his mad tunneling mission. She needed to tell him what was up, see what he had to say. Harold had sharp insights into these criminal situations, and even when they were oceans or continents apart, Lucy never hesitated to pick his brains if the opportunity arose. And to rip his pants off when the oceans between them went away. She missed him. Damn did she miss him right now.

  And she needed to check in with Jane in the building, see where the deal with the landlord had gotten itself to; she also needed to talk to her pal Mickey, who had a friend she swore could hack into any computer in the world from his fifth-floor walkup railroad flat on East 9th Street.

  Five minutes to noon. She watched Leslie strolling up the road towards the hotel. Harold, Jane, and Mickey’s hacker would have to wait. At least her dog was doing well. Earlier Marcia had called her sis, and Mariah reported that Claud had learned how to bodysurf and had befriended no fewer than six of the neighborhood hounds.