Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘I thought the show was doing well?’

  ‘These days just doing well isn’t enough. Sure, Teen Scream is riding the retro-horror wave … Out with the splatter and gore and in with trench coats, film noir and remakes of those quaint old movies from the twenties and thirties: Frankenstein in his crumbling castle … Dracula in a tuxedo and cape.’

  ‘Bats in the belfry?’

  ‘That’s right. Old stories told in neo-Gothic ways. But the ratings are falling …’ Bloom pursed his lips. ‘Two others like this one were cancelled at the end of last season. The network wants to keep ahead of the slump and put in something new.’

  ‘You mean until Earl Curtis was found here?’

  ‘Basically, yes. That gave Teen Scream a huge boost in the ratings wars.’

  ‘And the ghost you mentioned, the one that’s supposed to haunt this place … How does that fit in?’

  ‘That was supposed to be Earl.’ Bloom shrugged. ‘For once the Hollywood mumbo jumbo experts were right. But no one took them seriously. Why would anyone believe Earl’d been cemented into the floor of his own studio?’

  Why indeed?

  I nodded down at the taped area below. ‘I want to take a look at the recovery site.’

  Angry voices bombarded us as soon as we left the booth. The director ordered the actors to apologise, the blonde actress replied with a barrage of accusations, while Leonard tried to shout them all down.

  No, Leonard definitely hadn’t been employed for his charm.

  The yellow-and-black-striped tape protected a shallow rectangular hole in the cement floor. The sides were smooth, cut by a circular saw, with the faint gleam of steel reinforcing rods showing through the cement. The hole was larger than body size — the police had cut further in, searching for evidence.

  ‘Did they find anything with Earl?’

  ‘No, just his fully clothed body, shoes and all. Or what remained of him anyway …’ said Bloom, staring into the hole. ‘To keep out of Teen Scream’s hair, the studio refurbishment was done at night. About 2 am one of the workmen cutting the trench saw the tip of one of Earl’s fingers. They excavated around it, but when they realised it was a body they thought someone was playing a practical joke. That all stopped when they cut Earl’s hand off and saw the bone inside …’

  Bloom shot me a mirthless grin. ‘Ever heard a grown man scream?’

  I had actually … several, in fact. But what troubled me was this lawyer’s callous attitude towards his client.

  Bloom checked his watch, no doubt to remind me of his worth per second. ‘So … do you have the contract ready for me? I want to peruse it this afternoon.’

  I searched his fox’s face. He’d presumed I was taking the case. I’d let that stand for a moment longer.

  ‘Wait a minute, Mr Bloom, let me clarify. Do you have any idea at all who put Earl Curtis in there?’ I nodded down at the hole.

  ‘No, Ms Dupree. Even with his body recovered, the LAPD still don’t know who did it or why. No solid leads whatsoever. It’s just been so long since Earl Curtis was killed … That’s why we need you.’

  I knew what was coming.

  ‘So …’ Bloom took a breath to signal he was getting to the point. ‘We want you to go back to 1939 and find out what happened as soon as possible.’

  The problem, as I’d explained to him so very carefully last night, was that there was no way I could take the case … yet.

  We were about to have the same conversation once again.

  ‘As I have told you, the NTA will simply not agree to me taking this investigation at this time.’ I spoke with as much patience as I could muster. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  What real choice did Bloom have anyway? There were only three of us he could draw on and none of us could operate before the last six months of training were up.

  He dismissed that with the wave of a manicured hand. ‘Ah, but the Curtis family want this case solved as soon as possible, so …’

  ‘Look.’ My attempt at a polite tone was getting ragged around the edges. ‘The NTA has made it absolutely clear that I will not be permitted to even apply to conduct my own private investigations until my training’s complete and I have my licence. So unless you’re willing to wait that long there is no point to this conversation.’

  Bloom gave me a keen appraisal. His natural instinct was to keep arguing but he thought better of it. ‘All right, have it your way.’

  He was humouring me.

  The old lawyer removed a folded sheet of white paper from his breast pocket and presented it. ‘This is our offer. We will, of course, pay all preparation expenses … A base salary of five thousand dollars per day, the required NTA user fee, and we will put an expert team of researchers and ancillary staff at your disposal. On top, we’re offering you five thousand dollars commission per day while you’re in the field. Plus a one-off payment of ten thousand dollars as incentive.’

  Shelby Bloom scanned my expression as though it was a contract. He was in full negotiation mode.

  When I didn’t react, he curled his lip. ‘Don’t try to push the price up, Ms Dupree. You’re not going into a foreign country. You’re not going into the primitive past. And you’re not going into a war zone. It’s just Hollywood in the late 1930s. So there’s little danger or even discomfort. You won’t even need to wear a language translator.’

  I studied the paper, the figures blurring as I tried to think of a way to make this work. If they would just wait …

  He prompted me, his words carrying a cynical edge. ‘That’s a lot of money for your first time travel case and this one will guarantee your professional reputation … let alone a place in Hollywood history.’

  The figures came back into focus. Sitting there in black and white, the wily old lawyer was right: it was a lot of money. And I was going to need all of it and probably more. I was almost broke as it was, and if I managed to survive that hellish training program and get my NTA licence I’d need a very healthy chunk of capital to set up my new business.

  ‘Will you do it?’ He knew I really wanted to say yes.

  Bloom had made the case sound like a relaxing stroll in the park, but nothing to do with time travel was ever easy … or uncomplicated.

  ‘I need a lot more information, Mr Bloom. I can’t make that kind of commitment just based on the sketchy details you’ve given me. Starting from no leads at all will make my job extremely difficult. I’ll need to interview surviving witnesses, do archival research …’

  Impatient, he snapped, ‘Yes, yes. But I need an answer now … When the NTA allows you to do it, will you take the case?’

  I tried to keep my voice neutral. ‘I will.’ This was the chance of a lifetime!

  ‘Good!’ Bloom smirked, as though satisfied I’d finally taken the bait.

  But what bait?

  ‘Now we have to get you over to see Earl’s wife. Susan wants to meet you. You’ve plenty of time before you have to fly back.’

  He tried to hustle me towards the door.

  I planted my feet.

  That knowing smirk had riled me and I had too many questions left unanswered.

  ‘First, Mr Bloom, tell me why you contacted me.’ I emphasised the last word.

  He misunderstood. ‘The NTA doesn’t perform private investigations?’

  ‘No, I mean why are you choosing to hire me in particular? There are two other candidates still in the NTA training program …’

  Bloom had to have approached me first — because Klaasen or Melnick would’ve killed for this opportunity … done anything … promised anything …

  ‘You’ll have to ask Mrs Curtis,’ he replied brusquely, uninterested in the topic. ‘She considered all three candidates and you were her first choice. Now, Ms Dupree …’

  Before he could finish, Leonard stomped up to us, ready to vent his list of grievances. ‘I want —’

  Bloom froze the interloper out. ‘Now, Ms Dupree, when you meet Susan I want you to be as tactful as possibl
e. She’s in a wheelchair and very frail. This has all been a profound shock.’ The lawyer’s expression was still professional, but his tone had softened, become more human … caring even.

  ‘I think Susan’s always believed her husband would reappear one day.’ He shook his head at that sad thought.

  I didn’t, but wanted to. How many decades of waiting did that imply?

  Too many for a healthy client-investigator conversation.

  It also made me wonder just what Susan Curtis thought I could do. I could retrieve information, which would hopefully solve the mystery, but I couldn’t change the past. I certainly couldn’t rescue Earl and bring him back to the present.

  ‘Does Mrs Curtis fully understand the limits to my investigation … that I can’t change the past?’

  Bloom wrestled with himself for a moment, then, with Leonard breathing down his neck, simply said, ‘Yes, Susan understands.’ He wasn’t convincing.

  Damn. This was going to be a tough meeting.

  ‘Bloom!’ barked Leonard, forcing the issue. ‘Before you leave I demand to know if the rumours are true? This involves my show and I have a right to an answer!’

  Shelby Bloom inspected the producer with the manner of a bored entomologist. ‘What on earth are you whining about now?’

  ‘Is it true that Earl was found with a clue that points to his murderer?’

  Bloom ignored him.

  Leonard Brewster took it as a challenge. ‘I heard that the LAPD insisted that Mrs Curtis attend a special meeting at the Coroner’s Office … to view something … something about her husband’s body.’

  The silence hung there for a moment, frigid with innuendo.

  Brewster leant into Bloom. ‘I heard they had to call an ambulance for Mrs Curtis. That Susan collapsed in the mortuary. That they rushed her to Holy Sepulchre Hospital …’

  What the hell had Susan Curtis seen?

  Bloom was white with strain from the memory.

  Leonard moved in for the kill. ‘What did Susan see in the mortuary, Bloom? What did she see on Earl’s body?’

  Pushed too far, Shelby Bloom, now radiating animosity like a pit bull at a dogfight, whispered, ‘Don’t mess with me or mine, Leonard! This is none of your damned business!’ Shelby spun on one expensively-clad heel and stalked to the sound-stage door.

  I watched him go with angry eyes. Bloom had lied to me! He’d said the LAPD had no leads and absolutely no idea who’d killed Earl Curtis.

  What was he hiding?

  And why?

  Leonard deciphered my expression with glee. ‘So, Bloom didn’t tell you about the clue either?’ He gloated. ‘You have no idea what you’re getting into.’

  Then his tone changed, became harsh, grating. ‘But remember this, girl … if you ever do anything to jeopardise my show, I’ll make you sorry … You can depend on that.’

  4

  CEIBA HOUSE

  I sat in the back of the limo, fuming. Brewster was just a lumbering thug, but Shelby Bloom had lied to me.

  And what I was staring out at didn’t improve my mood.

  It should’ve been a bright blue day; instead everything was covered in stinking brown-grey air that made it hard to draw a deep breath. The thick layer of smog, produced by millions of cars and trapped by the broken crescent of mountains that enclose Los Angeles, hung over the city like a choking blanket.

  It may be the city of angels but today they’d have to wear gas masks.

  The chauffeur had just dropped Shelby Bloom off at his lunchtime meeting in the business end of Beverly Hills; now he was taking me north to see the grieving widow, Susan Curtis. I’d confronted Bloom about the rumour. Had there been a vital clue found with the body or not? Bloom had claimed he had no time to comment … but he could’ve briefed me in the time he’d wasted putting me off.

  Damn Bloom. I hate it when clients make me play guessing games; I usually have to pay for the pleasure.

  Bloom was wrong about it being safe to go back to Los Angeles in 1939. Time travel was never easy and there were always unpleasant surprises.

  Sometimes they killed you.

  I could die just as permanently in the past as in the present, so I didn’t like surprises. The past never turns out to be what you expect … Even when you can remember it.

  The Beverly Hills of the movies flickered past the window. We headed up Beverly Drive and crossed over Santa Monica Boulevard. Graceful parkland flashed by … then a thick line of tall, well-tended palm trees waving over perfect Tudor, Spanish and more globally anonymous celebrations of fat bank accounts.

  Every inch of garden was honed into polished submission; there wasn’t a blade of grass out of place. And there were no pedestrians in sight.

  Every second car was a shiny new luxury import. Every other car was a truck with a driver of dark ethnicity and either carrying renovation equipment or garden materials. The shadier angels had been let into perfect Paradise.

  Beverly Drive hit a big six-way intersection in front of a lush triangular park, backing onto another property surrounded by high hedges and tall trees. The turrets of a pink hotel peeked out. The chauffeur took us across the intersection and into Benedict Canyon Drive, then past Harford Way and turned right into a driveway. Our passage was cut short by double steel-barred gates set into high stone walls topped with metal bayonets. A security camera beamed down at us.

  My ideas about the bland uniformity of Beverly Hills fell apart when I looked through the front gates …

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  The driver chuckled. ‘Why, that’s Ceiba House, ma’am. The Curtis family residence. You’ve never heard of it? It’s one of the five houses Frank Lloyd Wright built in Los Angeles.’

  ‘Frank Lloyd Wright designed that thing?’

  Damn … It should be sitting in the middle of a steamy, monkey-filled jungle but be cleaned by steel robots out of a sci-fi cartoon.

  It was a twentieth century version of an ancient Mesoamerican temple …

  The kind of temple that the Spanish conquistadors had raided for gold and then burnt to ashes as a site of devil worship.

  Ceiba House squatted on top of a ten-foot-high foundation of steep stone steps … The sort that priests used to throw sacrificial victims down once they’d hacked open their ribcages and ripped out their hearts.

  It was made of sandstone, or sand-coloured cement — it was hard to tell at this distance. The bottom storey was a long rectangular box inlaid with deep slit windows and an equally deep inset front door. The unnaturally deep apertures suggested inside feathered Mayan warriors perpetually searched the front lawn for enemies while the womenfolk prepared for a siege. The second storey had no windows on this side and its walls sloped slightly inwards and upwards, creating the impression that it was really a massive stone roof. Tropical-green foliage clawed its way over the very top edge, so there was probably some kind of roof garden. But I was prepared to be surprised.

  Maybe that was where they held the human sacrifices.

  ‘It’s Mayan, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. It’s based on a palace in Mexico. I think it’s called Palenque.’

  Now that I’d moved past the shock of seeing this kind of death-oriented structure being used as a family home, and in the middle of staid old Beverly Hills, something else struck me. Ceiba House, unlike its neighbours and the rest of this uber-wealthy enclave, was a bit run down.

  Not neglected in any obvious way, just crumbling around the edges. As though the jungle was slowly taking back its own.

  ‘Why do they call it Ceiba House?’

  ‘See that line of carvings?’ The lower edge of the upper storey was lined with some kind of carved stone motif, which continued right around the house. ‘They’re ceiba trees. They come from the same place as the Mayans.’

  The driver lowered his side window to press the buzzer on the security pad and then leant out to speak into the intercom. ‘Ms Dupree is here to see Mrs Curtis.’

  A ha
rsh English voice, female, boomed out of the speaker, ‘You’re late.’

  The chauffeur scowled. ‘Mr Bloom has already spoken to Mrs Curtis.’

  The woman tutted. ‘Well come in then, if you must!’

  He snorted in well-practised exasperation and drove through the opening gates.

  We halted at the foot of the stone stairs where the chauffeur bounced out to open my door. I stood, straightened my chocolate-coloured skirt suit and re-gripped my leather briefcase before scaling the steep steps up to the front door.

  A middle-aged woman, steel-grey hair tortured back into a permanent bun and wearing black housekeeper’s clothes that should’ve stayed in the last century, peered at me with suspicion.

  ‘Miss Dupree?’ It was more an accusation than a greeting.

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m Mrs Hutch, the housekeeper. Come this way.’

  I ignored that command to take a closer look at the stone motif carved into the space above the double entry way. This was Earl Curtis’ house … kept in the original state, if Leonard Brewster was to be believed.

  The motif was a stylised tree, with sharp twisting roots stabbing into the earth, a tall straight shaft and fecund, hand-like branches clawing at the sky. The savage spirit of the jungle had come to visit. Raw, powerful, and intrusive.

  Not your average suburban houseplant.

  ‘Miss Dupree,’ said the housekeeper, bristling at my lack of compliance. ‘I must insist! Mrs Curtis is waiting for you, now. In the Collection Room.’

  The Collection Room?

  It sounded intriguing but was probably not. Stuffed animals or endless arrays of floral chinaware were not high on my list of favourite things. But then, from the Curtis choice of family home, maybe it was shrunken heads?

  I followed her through the open doorway.

  It was chilly inside, damp even.

  I shivered.

  The walls were exposed stone blocks but used to form recognisably modern rooms and connecting halls. They were almost softened by dark wood panelling and tapestries in colours that matched and accentuated the warmer tones of the wood, but the attempt failed.