Three Bedrooms, Two Baths, One Very Dead Corpse

by James, David

  “Sure. What’s the homicide?”

  “Elderly woman hit her husband with a frying pan. Said she couldn’t stand living with him another minute more. Bam!” he said, mimicking an elderly woman hitting an imaginary head with an imaginary frying pan. “You just never know when someone’s going to snap, do you?”

  “No, you don’t. And that’s what makes this world so damn interesting,” I added.

  “Dangerous, too,” Ken added.

  “There’s another angle we haven’t considered,” Alex said, brightening with a new theory.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Monica Birdsong killed Doc to get her hands on a lucrative piece of business.”

  I balked at Alex’s idea.

  “I balk at your idea, Alex.”

  “Because you think she doesn’t have the smarts to carry off a murder?”

  “That woman doesn’t have the brains to brush her teeth. I think she nails her toothbrush to the wall and puts her mouth on it while she moves her head back and forth.”

  “Yeah, but look at Anna Nicole. Thick as a post, but she managed to nail that oil billionaire. You just have to have the right incentive.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, bleach-blond hair, cantaloupe tits, and the ability to dance on your back with an octogenarian.”

  “So I say we pay Miss Birdbrain a visit.”

  “Yes, let’s. This should be quite entertaining.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear?

  The next morning, our car pulled onto Snow Creek Village Road, a tiny private community plunked right at the northern base of Mt. San Jacinto. I mean, right at the base. Doc’s house looked like it was built by a hobbit—a hobbit with a fondness for Jack Daniels. There wasn’t a straight line in the building. The roofline wobbled back and forth, dove down here, and zoomed up there. Porthole windows dotted the walls, their placement about as haphazard as the roofline.

  A pack of dogs greeted us with unorganized barking, wagging tails, and some kicking of dust. They made a lot of commotion, but seemed friendly. Monica emerged from the house wearing Daisy Dukes, even though the day was actually on the cool side, especially with the strong winds that constantly raked this area northwest of Palm Springs. Monica extended her hand, which, I noticed, sported a particularly large diamond. Guessing offhand, I’d say about two-and-a-half carats. Even more interesting was a shiny red Maserati sitting in the driveway.

  Alex kissed her hand in the Continental style. Monica giggled like a little schoolgirl.

  “So fancy, Mr. Thorne!” she tittered.

  One of the dogs came over to sniff my leg, then proceeded to hump it.

  “Oh, Sparky really likes you!” Monica exclaimed as she made no effort to stop Sparky’s amorous motions. I just started walking until Sparky fell off.

  “Come in, you two. I have some tea just brewed and some sweets,” she said, leading the way with her birdlike frame.

  As I followed Monica across the threshold, something flew at my face, circled my head, then flew across the room and settled on a high shelf, where it watched us intently.

  “Oh, don’t mind him . . . that’s Poe . . . he’s a little black-throated sparrow. Doc and I took him in because he had a broken wing. Cost us eleven hundred dollars to fix his wing, but it was worth it. The little guy is just about mended and ready to fly off, aren’t you, Poe?” she asked the terrified bird while blowing him a kiss. Monica motioned for us to sit down . . . on rocks cemented into the floor. What was it about rock chairs here in the desert? I think it all started with Albert Frey, our late, local famous architect.

  The inside of the house was decorated in early Witch’s Lair. Alex and I sat down, with me first looking to check if the sparrow had left a present on the seat. All clear. Monica took her place on a wooden bench that looked like it was still in the process of growing. I looked for roots at the end of the bench legs. Nothing. On another rock sat a tray with a homemade set of stoneware so ugly it looked like it still had some stones lodged in it. The tray was inscribed with Monica’s florid signature, so it was safe to assume that Monica made it. While blind. And missing thumbs.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she offered.

  “Yes, certainly,” we both said at the same time. Finally, something normal about this place.

  “It’s mandrake fruit tea. It’s poisonous if eaten in larger quantities, but one cup of tea won’t hurt, will it?”

  Alex and I threw each other sideways glances, then put our cups down and smiled.

  “Help yourself to some glazed buns. I just made them this morning,” Monica offered with a sweep of her hand.

  I figured she couldn’t have put wolfsbane or some other ingredient in them, so I picked one up, but not before hoping that the white splat on the top of the bun was frosting and not something plopped there by Poe. Luckily, it was. Frosting, that is.

  “So, Monica,” I started, “Alex and I are here because we want to get to the bottom of who killed Doc.”

  “Mr. Thorne, nothing would please me more.”

  Alex leaned forward. “Monica, who do you think killed Doc?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation: “Marty Sultan.”

  “You seem very sure about that,” Alex replied.

  “Absolutely. Doc and that blood-sucking jackal have been at it since Marty decided to come out here because he hadn’t destroyed enough in Los Angeles. This was open territory, and the locals here aren’t prepared for his viciousness. Well, I for one, am going to stand up to him. . . . I’m going to carry on without Doc, and I’m not going to rest until I see that snake in prison.”

  I jumped in. “Monica, I urge you to be careful. Whoever did this is willing to stop at nothing to get their way. I’ve had several attacks on me already.”

  “You don’t seem to be scared, Amanda.”

  “I’m not a direct target, Monica. But you are.”

  “So why would someone attack you if you’re not a target?”

  “Monica, that’s the $64,000 question. I wish I knew the answer. To keep me scared and warn me not to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  Monica replied, “Obviously that doesn’t seem to be working. After all, here you sit.”

  “Good point. No, it hasn’t.”

  Alex spoke up. “Monica, it seems that you’re quite clear on who killed Doc. But is there anyone else you can think of who might have resorted to murder to get even with Doc?”

  “A Realtor with a lot at stake in buying up land in the Chino Cone.”

  “Anyone in particular come to mind?”

  “Mary Dodge, Helen Hatcher.”

  “Interesting,” Alex muttered. “Why?”

  “Because they’re involved with buying up land and assembling it into one big parcel to put up some ridiculous hotel and golf course for rich people. I went with Doc once to talk to Mary Dodge in her office. She was very polite, telling us that Palm Springs needed a five-star resort to bring more taxes into the city coffers. To bring more jobs.”

  “And how did Doc respond to all this?” I inquired.

  “He said that, in doing so, we’d destroy one of the big reasons people come here . . . for the unspoiled mountain views, the wildness at our doorsteps. ‘Who wants to look up at another goddamn golf course and mega mansions?’ was what Doc said. And he’s right. Look at what happened to Sedona. It’s just a suburban neighborhood of ugly houses building right up to those beautiful rocks. It’s destroyed forever.”

  “It sounds like Doc was getting a little hot under the collar with Mary.”

  “Doc had a temper . . . sometimes. He could get so angry with people who had no sensitivity for the environment.”

  “So what was the outcome of the meeting?”

  “He threw a handful of M&Ms in her face,” Monica said, stunning—and amusing—both Alex and me.

  I couldn’t let this one go. “He threw M&Ms in her face?”

  “Yeah, it was kinda funny. Mary just kept repeat
ing the same thing about needing a five-star resort and condos and private homes to raise Palm Springs to a world-class resort destination. She didn’t raise her voice, but Doc got so frustrated because she kept repeating the same line over and over, he reached into a bowl of M&Ms that was sitting on Mary’s desk for clients, grabbed a fistful, and hurled them into her face.”

  Alex looked at me for a reaction, then turned back to Monica. “And how did Mary Dodge react?”

  “Like I said, it was kinda funny. She was shocked at first. I think it was the first time anyone had ever stood up to that bitch. You could tell she wasn’t used to it because she didn’t know how to react.

  “After what seemed like minutes, she told Doc and me to leave her office.”

  Alex pursued a little more. “Did anyone else in the office see this?”

  “What, the M&Ms? Oh yeah! The windows in Mary’s office are all glass . . . you can see right into her office from just about everywhere. Every member of her team saw it. The funny thing, one of them was smiling. I guess there are people on her own team who want to see her get her comeuppance.”

  “That seems to be the general consensus. The top producers are always watching their behinds,” I added.

  “Well, if I were Helen Hatcher, her behind wouldn’t be hard to hit.”

  I was impressed. Monica managed to make a funny.

  “Can I ask you one more question, Monica?” Alex ventured.

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you think that anyone in Doc’s organization had a grudge against him?”

  “If by what you mean organization, you mean Save Our Hills, no. Everyone is nonviolent. We love animals, trees, nature.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Monica, Amanda and I are long-standing members of the Sierra Club and the Nature Conservancy, but some of the most violent acts have been committed by people supposedly dedicated to the environment. Hummers have burned; animal testing facilities blown up.”

  “Mr. Thorne, you’re not a Republican, are you?”

  “Oh God, no. But I don’t think violence ever solved anything, even if it means making a point.”

  “Sometimes, it is necessary . . . to protect the environment, since it can’t protect itself. We have to pick up the sword for it from time to time.”

  “Well,” Alex said, turning to me, “unless you have any questions, Amanda, I think I’ve learned a lot. How ’bout you?”

  “I have one, Monica, and I hope you won’t take this personally, but it seems like a lot of people are donating a lot of money to Save Our Hills,” I said.

  “Yes?” Monica answered, clearly not aware of where this question was going.

  “Well, where is all the money going?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked sweetly.

  “What I’m trying to get at is that with so much money in Doc’s hands, someone might try and kill Doc and get their hands on it.”

  “Oh, that’s silly,” Monica replied, covering the massive rock on her wedding finger with her other hand. “It’s all in an account Doc set up to fund his work. It would be impossible for someone to take it. They’d need Doc’s signature and mine.”

  Mine. The word resounded in my head over and over. Now the bank would need only one signature. Hmm.

  “So Save Our Hills is a charitable foundation?” Alex asked, jumping in.

  Monica was becoming noticeably uncomfortable, squirming in her chair. Either that, or her thong underwear (which I’m convinced was all she owned) was creeping up her ass crack.

  “Doc had some lawyers looking into what was needed to set it up. Doc had been struggling for so long on almost nothing, then when Marvin Sultan proposed Marvin Gardens, the money just came pouring in. I mean, just pouring. So he opened an account and put everything in it.”

  Alex, who knew a lot about everything, lobbed the next grenade.

  “Monica?” he started. “Unless Doc had a nonprofit organization or a charitable foundation set up, he couldn’t open an account under them.”

  “So, you’re saying . . . ?” Monica ventured.

  “That all the money was probably in a checking account in Doc’s name.”

  “Well, yes. The contributors made the checks out to Doc,” Monica replied uneasily.

  “So all the money that was contributed is being . . . was being held by Doc in a personal banking account?” Alex finished.

  “Sure. Listen, the contributors all knew that their money was going to fund Doc’s work. . . . That’s why they made the checks to Doc personally. There wasn’t any organization to make the donations to.”

  I had heard enough. Anything after this point would just be excuses and avoidances. “Monica, thank you so much for taking time out of your day and at such a terrible time for you.”

  “It’s not terrible,” she objected with a smile.

  “Not terrible?” I asked.

  “Doc’s not dead,” she stated as a matter of fact, like one would report it was sunny outside. “Doc’s energy has gone onto a higher state.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for everything, Monica,” Alex said.

  We got up to leave, but as I rose and walked toward the door, Mr. Black-throated Sparrow got agitated and made a wild circuit around the room, depositing a nice splotch of bird doo on my right shoulder.

  Monica was quick to turn tragedy into triumph. “That’s supposed to be good luck.”

  “Or a sign that Eagle Feather’s curse strikes again.”

  “What?” Monica giggled.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “I hope your bird gets better,” I said, while secretly wishing that once he was set free, he’d fly into one of the rotating blades of an electric fan. Don’t get me wrong. I love animals . . . just not this one.

  The rest of the day was pretty much routine. Calls to clients, writing up an offer on a house, ordering new lawn signs. By the time I reached my house at the end of the day, I was exhausted. I slipped into bed early and fell into a deep sleep. Around 2:30 in the morning, I was awakened by Knucklehead’s barking and growling. After what had been going on in my life, I had to carefully check it out. I moved from darkened room to darkened room, peeking out between the slats of my tasteful microblinds. Nothing in the front yard. Nothing on the south or north sides. The backyard . . . it seemed clear. I waited for a while in silence, listening to Knucklehead’s agitated breathing, wanting to bark, but I kept my hand resting on top of his nose. I waited a few minutes. Nothing. I thought about venturing out, but since nothing seemed amiss, I felt it was safer to be inside than expose myself to a lunatic waiting in the shadows. I told myself that it was probably just an animal or that owl I’ve seen sitting atop our telephone poles from time to time.

  I got into bed and read for a while, then turned out the light and went back to sleep. No more barking.

  At 6:00, I arose to find—surprise—another cloudless, sunny day. Opening the blinds, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. My car seemed untouched. Nothing flaming in the front yards. The backyard was fine. Just a bunch of clothes floating in the pool. Topped up by bleach-blond hair.

  I went into the kitchen, ground some coffee, and started my F.A. Porsche-designed coffeemaker for a nice cup of java to start the day. When I heard the machine belch its last volcanic puff of boiling water, I pulled out the carafe and poured a cup of wonderful, delicious coffee, the substance that would bring me from slumber into the world of the living and the awake. In went some half and half. Wonderful. I sat at what would soon be my Caesarstone kitchen counter. I looked out the window into my disheveled backyard and pool that would soon be completely torn apart, reshaped, replastered, with a spa set into the corner, splashing water in a neverending fountain of tasteful splashing and zen-like background noise. I would have to do something about that body floating in the pool.

  . . . body in pool.

  . . . body . . .

  Oh Christ!

  Twenty minutes later, Becker was standing next to me in my kitchen while the crime scene investigators wer
e milling around the backyard, photographing details, putting clues into plastic bags and carefully labeling them.

  “Let me guess, Amanda,” Ken whispered, “you were reenacting scenes from Sunset Boulevard and things got out of hand?”

  Ken was being funny at a time when I really needed it. Just then, a car raced up in front of my house and out popped Alex. Ah, the two men in my life that I really needed right then.

  Alex threw his arms around me, letting me know everything was going to be all right.

  “Sunset Boulevard?” Alex ventured, raising his eyebrows.

  “I did that one already,” Ken said. “Hi, Ken Becker, Homicide.”

  “Alex Thorne, adventurer.”

  I extended my hand for Alex and Becker to shake. “Amanda Thorne, perennial victim.”

  Ken shook my hand first, followed by Alex.

  “Glad to know you, Amanda,” they both said, each in their turn.

  Alex craned his neck to see the coroner supervise two cops pulling a body from the water. “Monica Birdsong?”

  I put my left index finger on the tip of my nose and pointed the right index at Alex.

  “I was afraid that was going to happen,” Alex added.

  “Me too,” I added. “From the minute we left her house, I felt Monica was in over her peroxided head. I just wish I had checked my yard better last night when Knucklehead went berserk.”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference, Amanda. She was already dead before she was dumped in the pool.”

  “You mean someone dragged her dead body, somehow, into my backyard and tossed her in the drink?”

  “It looks like that. There are dragging marks on the concrete from the street curb to your pool. Since you don’t have a side gate . . .”

  “I did have a side gate . . . that is, until Edwin took it down to have it re-welded.”

  “Exactly,” Becker admitted. “It was easy to drag Monica into your backyard. Plus, she was a very petite woman.”