Without a Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  I followed, running down the hallway for all I was worth, but Eric was faster. I pushed through the double doors to the lobby just seconds after Eric.

  He and the two plainclothes agents had already surrounded the young boy. He was maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. The hood of his sweatshirt was pushed back from his smooth round face. He looked flushed and frightened, his eyes wide, his pale skin pink with sweat. In his hands, he held a shoebox wrapped in brown paper. Eric flashed his ID and the boy froze.

  Outside, the radiator of the crumpled car was spewing steam from beneath the damaged hood. The two agents who had barely escaped being hit were helping the driver out of the car. Upon entering the lobby, one of them went immediately to a phone and called an ambulance while the other offered the old woman a seat and went to fetch a glass of water.

  Eric turned his attention back to the young boy.

  “Do you know this woman?” He pointed to the old woman. She looked dazed, as though she were trying to absorb what had just happened. With her glasses in one hand, she ran her fingers through her short hair with the other, sighing repeatedly.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Why are you here?” Eric asked.

  “I was told to deliver a package.”

  Eric stepped forward and took the box from the boy, his young hands shaking as he released it to Eric.

  “Do you know what’s in it?”

  “No.” The boy looked frightened, his eyes searching the room as though he was looking for a friendly face. “But the guy who gave it to me said it wasn’t drugs. I don’t do drugs. If it is drugs, I don’t know anything about it, sir. I swear.”

  Eric put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Ryan. Ryan Scott.”

  “Ryan, this isn’t about drugs, and you’re not in any trouble. But I need to know who gave you this box. Can you tell me?”

  “Just some guy on the street corner, ’bout a mile back at the 7-Eleven.”

  “Little late for you to be headed to school, isn’t it?” Eric said.

  “I have first period free. I’m a senior. Got good grades and my first class isn’t until nine, so my mom lets me sleep in. I stop every day on my way to school for a breakfast burrito.”

  I could see Eric evaluating the boy. He looked clean-cut and reminded me of my own son. I doubted he was running drugs.

  “Okay, tell me about this guy. What did he look like?”

  “Slim. Not tall, ’bout my height, five-six maybe.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t know. Old. Maybe ’bout your age.”

  Eric looked at me. I could read his mind. Why is it everybody thinks I’m getting old?

  I smiled back. Kids.

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “He came up to me. Said he had car trouble and needed to get something to the radio station. Asked me if I’d drop it off. Said he’d give me twenty dollars if I would.”

  “And why did you speed through the gate?”

  “I thought I might be late for school. The station’s just a little out of the way, so I was in a hurry.”

  Outside I could see the ambulance approaching the security gate.

  Eric turned his attention back to the woman sitting in the chair. She appeared to have caught her breath and was no longer hyperventilating. He asked her name.

  “Edna Bakers,” she said.

  “And you’re here to see Ms. Childs? You said you had something to drop off?”

  “A picture.” Edna reached into her overly large pocketbook and took out a color photograph. Her hand was still shaking. “I was there the day of KCHC’s Chocolatiers’ Tour. I took this on Rodeo Drive just after you finished your report, before all hell broke out. I’d forgotten about it, and then, when I heard you on the air the other day, I remembered and thought you and your friend might like it. And since I was going to be here anyway I wanted to make a small donation for St. Mark’s. There’s still time, right?”

  I nodded my head yes, and then looked at the picture. Sheri and I were both looking like we’d just overdosed on chocolate liqueurs, but it was something else in the background that caught my eye. A redheaded woman was carrying shopping bags, walking in the direction of Henry Westin’s. I stared more closely at the photo. Was this the same redhead Churchill reported was inside Westin’s the morning of the robbery? It had to be. And the shopping bags? Exactly like the ones I had helped the old lady carry back to the parking lot.

  Hesitantly, I handed the photo to Eric. “You have to see this.”

  I saw a flicker in his eyes as he looked at the photo and then a slight fall of his shoulders. He had to be kicking himself. He’d missed the redheaded woman inside of Westin’s that day and he knew it. And here it was, proof in the photo she was headed into the store. It was no wonder he’d been so distant.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “Those are the same bags I helped carry for the gray-haired old lady. She must have switched disguises right after the robbery.”

  The EMTs entered the lobby and Eric put his hand on Edna’s shoulder and asked if he could have the photo. She said it was fine, as long as he gave it to me later. We watched as they helped her onto a gurney, and Eric promised her it would all be okay and they would take care of the car.

  Eric then turned his attention back to the young boy.

  “Ryan, you mind if I take this box?”

  He shook his head nervously. “Not at all, sir.”

  Eric put on a pair of thin latex gloves from his back pocket, then placed the box on the reception counter, careful not to smear any fingerprints that might still remain.

  Using a small Swiss Army knife, he slid the blade beneath the wrapping and opened the box. Inside were two smaller boxes, similarly wrapped in brown paper. On the outside of the first it said: “Attention Carol Childs.”

  Eric took the first box out of the carton and again opened it, exactly as he’d done with the bigger box. The paper fell away, revealing a slim blue velvet jewelry box.

  “Carol, I think you’re going to want to see this.”

  “What is it?”

  I leaned over Eric’s shoulder and stared down at a magnificent jeweled brooch, a silver peacock, with emeralds, diamonds, and rubies in its tail. It looked like a match to the one the Wigged Bandit had given me the day of the robbery. I reached for it.

  “Carol, stop. You can’t touch it. We’re going to need this for evidence.”

  “I don’t believe it.” I stepped back, my hands on my hips, and stared at the box.

  “I’m sorry, but you know I can’t let you have it.”

  “I’m not talking about the brooch. This was supposed to be cash. Cold hard cash. He said he was sending thirty thousand dollars for St. Mark’s. What’s in the other box?”

  Slowly Eric lifted the second package from inside the box. On the outside was written, “For Carol and Sheri. Enjoy.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Chocolates.”

  Chapter 23

  I watched as Eric headed out the door with the box in his hands. I would have liked the chocolates, but I wasn’t sorry to see the box go. I didn’t trust the Wigged Bandit. Fixated as he was with me, I feared he might have poisoned the batch, and I wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, I was due back in the studio with Bunny, and unless she had downed the entire box of Edelweiss Chocolates the client had sent over yesterday, there had to be something left.

  Before Kari had come down with chicken pox, she had booked Spencer Whitehall from Annabelle’s Auction House for today’s show. For weeks, Annabelle’s had been promoting their upcoming auction, running full-page ads in the LA Times, plus commercials on radio and TV. Annabelle’s was expecting a huge turnout, with sales estimated to be somewhere in the millions. Whitehall, a short, mousy-lo
oking man, pushing sixty and with a graying goatee and thin wire rim specs, was talking with Bunny as I entered the studio.

  Bunny seemed irritated as I grabbed a set of headphones. She snapped, “Carol, small change of schedule. I’m sure you won’t mind, but I won’t need you with me in the studio today.” Then without missing a beat, Bunny turned back to Whitehall and told him I was their “news gal” and not on the air until the top of the hour.

  I wasn’t about to argue, certainly not with a guest in the studio. I smiled and backtracked into the news booth while Bunny replaced her headphones. It wasn’t until I was seated back in the booth, behind the glass that divided my small space from the studio, that I noticed Bunny had changed her look. Gone was the wild frizz of curly hair and long dangly earrings. Today she looked almost corporate. Her hair was swept up into a conservative French twist, and she was wearing a much more sedate suit. Not too different from what I had on, business casual; slacks, shirt, blazer and reasonable shoes.

  Matt, Kari’s producer, started the counted down—five, four, three…Bunny looked nervous, her long manicured fingers tapping on the console. Tyler’s words rang in my ear. “You have to be there, Carol.” I had to back her up.

  I shot her a thumbs-up and looked back down at my news stories.

  As Bunny introduced Whitehall, I half listened and began to scour my notes for the top of the hour news report. In front of me I had stories about a lost dog, a press release announcing the seventieth anniversary of the Crock-Pot, and a list of celebrities celebrating their birthdays today. A blinking red light on my studio phone diverted my attention.

  The news booth is soundproof and unless I opened the mic between my booth and the studio, nobody could hear what I was saying. But I still answered the phone in a whispered tone.

  “This is Carol.”

  “Were you disappointed?” I felt like I had just been socked in the chest. The thin, raspy voice had to be Tomi, the Wigged Bandit, still pretending to be a woman. I scrambled for my notepad and scribbled the time. 10:22 a.m.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Why, Carol, my love, I’m doing exactly as I told you I’d do. I’m helping out. Is that wrong?”

  “You sent me that brooch. Why?”

  “What? You didn’t like it?” He laughed, the sound of his laughter almost maniacal. “I thought after I’d given you the Phoenix you’d enjoy a pair. Lovely, aren’t they? Besides, cash is harder to come by, and the brooch is worth much more than the thirty thousand I was going to send. Probably closer to fifty.”

  “And the chocolates?” I snapped back. “Were they poisoned? Did you plan to poison me like you did Carmen?”

  “Poison?” Again he laughed into the phone like he couldn’t believe I’d made such a silly remark.

  “You poisoned Carmen, didn’t you?” I pushed for a response.

  “Miss Childs, I’m afraid murder’s really not within my line of work. Like I told you before, the woman who died in the explosion was an accident. It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  His voice was chilling. My stomach knotted and goosebumps began to form up and down my arms.

  “Neither was Carmen, but it did happen, didn’t it? Just like with Ms. Pero. Seems like accidents happen when you’re around, Tomi.”

  Now there was silence, dead air, spookier than the sound of his raspy voice. I didn’t know what to say next. Finally, he spoke.

  “The chocolates were from Teuscher, Carol. I thought you would have enjoyed them. But then again, perhaps it’s your friend who really appreciates chocolate. Sheri, right? Yes, that’s it, Sheri Billings. Perhaps she might find them more to her liking. Next time, I’ll send them to her.”

  I hung up the phone. The fact that he knew Sheri’s name sickened me. I wanted to call Eric. I wanted to hear his voice and tell him the Wigged Bandit had called again. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to reach him, not with everything that had happened this morning. He would be tied up investigating the brooch and the Wigged Bandit’s whereabouts.

  And even if I could reach him, what good would it do? I was stuck in the studio, babysitting Bunny. Instead, I sent a text: “Wigged Bandit called @ 10:22. ‘Did I like the brooch?’” Eric responded with a happy face and said he’d call later.

  I felt like a prisoner, jailed in my tiny news booth listening to Bunny. The interview with Whitehall was going poorly. The call-in lines, usually lit like a Christmas tree during Kari’s show, were dark. Bunny appeared to have stalled with questions and was repeating herself, referring to her notes and stumbling through the interview. I could see Whitehall’s patience fading. I was tempted to interrupt, ask a question that might open the phone lines. But Bunny had banished me to the news booth. This was Bunny’s show. After all, I was just the news gal.

  Finally, after a number of false starts that ended in yes and no answers, Bunny asked Whitehall if he might like to offer a little historical background on the life of Huguette Clark and Bellosguardo, the estate Annabelle’s had been selected to auction.

  Bellosguardo. Huguette Clark. The names were familiar. After all the news and media ads, how had I missed putting the two together?

  I remembered seeing pictures of Huguette Clark in the newspaper ads, black and white shots of her, an attractive young girl sitting on the veranda of her estate, wearing a fitted beaded hat and matching long white gown. The ads, all with banner headlines, included photos of the property on the edge of the Santa Barbara cliffs overlooking the ocean, with interior shots of the house and pictures of bronzed sculptures and jewelry. Why hadn’t I recognized the name? Churchill had referenced Huguette Clark when he noticed the Phoenix brooch I was wearing the night of Carmen’s murder. He thought it had belonged to her.

  I adjusted my headphones and leaned closer to the window. Whitehall began recapping Miss Clark’s life story in a dull, monotone voice I feared would put our listeners to sleep.

  I jotted notes. Born in 1906, Miss Clark was the daughter of a U.S. Senator and wealthy industrialist. She had married once, divorced, and lived the remainder of her life quietly with few friends. She preferred to speak only French for fear of being spied upon. Then, around twenty years ago, she had checked herself into a New York hospital for a minor skin cancer surgery and never left. She died there at the age of one hundred and four, a wealthy recluse. Her Santa Barbara estate had sat empty for years. The cost to maintain it was nearly forty thousand dollars a month.

  “I was privileged to tour Bellosguardo before we were assigned the auction. It was like visiting a time capsule. Things were virtually untouched, as through Miss Clark had just left and might return at any moment.”

  Bunny asked, “And of the things you saw from Miss Clark’s estate, Mr. Whitehall, do you have a favorite?’

  “Oh, absolutely.” Finally, Whitehall’s dull voice took on a sense of excitement. Talking about the jewels, he sounded ten years younger, his voice livelier and more animated. “There would be quite a few, but top of my list would have to be the nearly twenty-carat square-cut diamond ring left on Miss Clark’s dressing table. I don’t believe she ever wore it. It’s estimated to be worth two million dollars. And there’s a cushion-cut nine-carat pink diamond by the French jeweler Dreicer & Company. I would estimate it to be worth close to sixteen million. It’s believed to have been a gift from her father to her mother. And then, of course, another favorite of mine, an emerald bracelet designed by Cartier. It’s lovely, probably worth fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  As I listened, I realized Eric was right. There was going to be another robbery, and I knew exactly where.

  Chapter 24

  I phoned Sheri during Bunny’s show. I told her under no circumstances should she accept any deliveries—specifically anything chocolate—and that I would explain later. I suggested we do dinner. I knew I wouldn’t feel like going home. Charlie had dinner scheduled with his dad, and I su
spected by the end of the day Sheri would be up for something, particularly after my call. She suggested Vitello’s, a favorite little Italian restaurant of hers known for live entertainment and star sightings. I’d always think of it as the place where actor Robert Blake shot his wife.

  The story was that after dinner, Blake had walked his wife from the restaurant down a tree-lined street to where he had parked his car next to a dumpster. Once there, he told his wife he’d left his gun inside the restaurant and returned to get it. When he came back, his wife was dead. Shot in the head. The story became LA’s next big celebrity sensation, coming just seven years after the OJ trial. Like OJ, Blake was acquitted in federal court and later found guilty in civil court. The upshot being that LA was becoming known as the town where a man could kill his wife—or arrange to kill his wife—and get away with it. I hoped that wasn’t going to be Carmen’s story.

  Sheri and I ordered a couple glasses of Chianti and an appetizer of fried calamari. I started to raise my glass for a traditional girls’ night out toast when she stopped me.

  “Why don’t we skip the toast and you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “You could start by telling me what was behind your desperate call this morning. I’ve had the front door bolted shut all day long and sent Clint to his uncle’s for dinner. What’s up?”

  I put my wineglass down and exhaled. “I can get to that, but first you need to know the FBI believes the Wigged Bandit is a man. Not a woman.”

  Sheri signaled the waiter for another glass of wine. This was easily going to be a two-glass story. I caught her up on everything that had happened since we last spoke.

  “So, right now, I don’t trust anyone or anything,” I finished.

  Sheri bit her lip and shook her head, her dark hair falling in her face. I could tell she was trying hard not to smile.