Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  Sheila Mayhew was what you’d call a vagabond. Her address had been crossed out and reentered five times in the years my mother had known her. As far as I could tell, she was currently living in Studio City. I called the number labeled “cell.” To my amazement, she answered on the second ring. After accepting only the briefest of introductions and the skimpiest of explanations why I wanted to speak with her, she surprised me further by inviting me to meet her the following afternoon in Whittier, where she was doing makeup for a low-budget film about a couple of vampires who decide to leave the life and move to suburbia. It sounded like the perfect vehicle for Lola Scott, so I was disappointed to learn that she wasn’t in the picture. Just as well. If Lola was involved in Evan’s death, I didn’t want to tip her off that I was hot on her trail and that the police would soon be, too. All I needed was a little more evidence to convince Moses Green.

  -11-

  if Muldoon had bothered to ask, I would have told him I hadn’t slept at all that night. Yet if pressed, I couldn’t have accounted for every moment between the times I heard Pookie and Bruce arguing and the aggressive knocking on the front door that awakened me the following morning. The knocking was too early for UPS. Jehovah’s Witnesses and door-to-door solicitors usually came in the afternoon and always gave up after a couple of taps went unanswered. I assumed that Pookie and Bruce had gone out for a makeup walk and forgot to take the house key.

  At the first hint that an intruder had breached his perimeter, Muldoon bolted from the bed, barking with the zeal of a tent preacher. I pressed the pillows to my ears against the din and stretched my legs toward the place where he’d been lying, feeling the warmth of body heat and cashmere. Lately, the pup had been sleeping all night on my bed. I assumed he’d discovered, as Pookie had, that Bruce’s deviated septum produced a sound that was not conducive to a good night’s rest.

  I opened one eye and glared at the clock—7:45 a.m. I’d overslept. I wasn’t scheduled to meet Sheila Mayhew until one; however, Eugene was coming over at nine, and before I left the house, I had to call the Holiday Inn’s catering department and hammer out a muffin strategy for the focus group’s morning coffee break.

  I forced my toes from the warmth of Muldoon’s nest and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, aiming my feet for the slippers I’d left on the floor the night before. The shock of warm soles against cold tile signaled that my slippers were gone. Muldoon had probably commandeered them to use as enemy operatives in his commando games.

  My back was stiff from my encounter with the freight train the day before, and when I brushed my fingers across my cheek, I felt what was undoubtedly a nasty abrasion. I grabbed a bathrobe from the closet and made my way toward a window at the side door, angling the shutter slats upward.

  Woolly gray fog had smothered the morning sun, but I could clearly see a woman standing on my deck. She was in her late twenties, with dark hair and pleasant features. Her arms were crossed over a fussy gold crest on the breast pocket of a navy blazer that looked expensive but too small for her. She was looking downward, scowling at powdery sand coating a pair of hiking boots that were poking self-consciously from the narrow legs of her trousers.

  I grabbed Muldoon’s collar with one hand and used the other to ease open the door. The woman tensed at the timbre of Muldoon’s bark, backing away until the deck’s railing stopped her. As a courtesy, I scooped the pup into my arms and spoke muffled reassurances until his fury was reduced to an anxious wiggle.

  Seeing him contained, the woman curled her mouth into a wary smile. “I didn’t think anybody was home.” Her enunciation was exaggerated, as if she thought I might be foreign or deaf, or perhaps her carefully cultivated speech was meant to disguise the fact that she was the first generation out of the barrio.

  I raised my eyebrows. “If you didn’t think I was home, why’d you keep knocking?”

  Again the woman stared at her shoes. “Sorry if I bothered you. My name is Marta Cruz. I work for the Valley News Now. I wanted to ask you a few questions about Evan Brice.”

  Muldoon was right. Our perimeters had been breached. I wondered how this woman had connected me to Evan. Maybe she’d been among the mob of reporters in front of Cissy’s place and had somehow learned my name. At least she wasn’t from the Los Angeles Times. But any reporter at my front door was bad news.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I can’t reveal my sources, just like I can’t tell anybody else what you say to me. I’m doing an article about Mr. Brice’s murder. I want to get to know him better to make my story more interesting.”

  Her attempts at information gathering seemed clumsy. I didn’t know how the woman would ever make it as a reporter, a career in which it seemed the odds of survival, never mind success, were against you. However, her question was intriguing enough to keep me from slamming the door in her face.

  “What do you want to know?” I said.

  “Was he a man of his word?”

  At first I was startled, and then suspicious. She should have been asking the same questions the police had asked: When was the last time I’d seen him alive? Did he have enemies? Which one of them may have wanted him dead?

  My tone was cautious. “Depends on what you mean by ‘man of his word.’”

  “I mean, if he made a promise, would he keep it no matter what?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  Without hesitation she said, “Because he loved you once.”

  The pulse pounded in my ears as I thought about where she’d gotten her information and what she hoped to gain by it.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Ms. Cruz, you sound more like a jilted lover than a reporter. What’s your scam?”

  Her tone was indignant. “I was not Mr. Brice’s lover, and this is no scam. I just wanted to talk to you. I thought you could help.”

  “Help with what? Your Pulitzer Prize-winning exposé on the Brice murder? Frankly, Marta Cruz, I think your story is full of shit.”

  I moved to close the door, but a hiking boot shifted quickly to block the way. Muldoon resumed barking and nearly slipped out of my arms.

  “Get your foot away from my door—now.”

  A flush of embarrassment burned her cheeks, as if some deeply ingrained civility was warring with her role as hard-nosed investigative reporter. On the other hand, maybe she was just uncomfortable getting caught in a lie. She moved her foot but stood her ground, watching me. For a moment I thought she might try another approach—like the truth—but she didn’t.

  “I was wrong,” she said, turning to leave. “You’re no help at all.”

  Moments later I watched as she fought her way through the dunes, slipping and sliding until she reached the road. She paused only occasionally to brush the wet sand from her clothes. She obviously hadn’t seen the public easement on the south side of Mrs. Domanski’s house, though I wasn’t surprised. My neighbor nurtured the trees along the path with fertilizer spikes to discourage such access to her front yard.

  At least Cruz had had the presence of mind to wear the right shoes. It almost seemed as if she knew she’d need them to negotiate the sand, almost as if she’d been to the beach house before. Great! Just what I needed—my very own stalker.

  I felt unsettled about Cruz’s appearance at my door. I didn’t know what she was up to, but I was going to find out. I’d never even heard of the Valley News Now. Of course, there were dozens of neighborhood newspapers across the Southland that nobody had heard of. They reported on Friends of the Library book drives and local crime statistics and survived by publishing weekly grocery ads paid for by the big chains.

  I was willing to bet that covering celebrity murders was not the usual fare of the Valley News Now. If so, I couldn’t imagine what had driven one of their employees to hunt down a minor player in Evan’s life at 7:45 in the morning. Maybe she’d set her sites on grander ambitions than selling grocery coupons for a throwaway rag, and thought I fit into her plan—that is, if anything she’d to
ld me was the truth.

  It was just after eight when I dialed directory assistance and got a number for the Valley News Now. I was disappointed when the woman who answered the newspaper’s telephone confirmed that Marta Cruz was on their payroll. At least that part of the reporter’s story was true. However, she balked when I asked if Cruz was assigned to cover Evan Brice’s murder. Frustrated, I hung up and logged on to the paper’s Web site. The only accessible information was an array of classified ads and an invitation to download a fifty-cents-off coupon for an economy-size bottle of Mr. Clean.

  Other than Cissy Brice and Claire Jerrard, I couldn’t think of anyone who still remembered or cared about my college romance with Evan. It seemed ridiculous to think either of those two had leaked information to the press. Maybe Detective Green had blabbed, but I didn’t think so. He hadn’t even been interested enough in me to ask Pookie to verify my alibi for the night of Evan’s murder, as he said he would.

  The tile floor was cold. So were my feet. During my first winter in the house, I’d vowed to install wall-to-wall carpeting by spring. Then the rains came. After warring for a few months with gritty beach sand, which inveigled its way into everything, I decided to stick with tile and area rugs just as my grandmother had done. Of course, Anne Sinclair could have afforded to replace ruined carpet after each season, had she chosen to do so. I couldn’t even if it meant cold feet, because my financial future was still too iffy.

  I went in search of my slippers, finding one under the living room couch and the other out on the deck. As I headed down the hall, I glanced toward the bedroom where Pookie and Bruce slept. The door was open, the room empty. That was odd. I wondered where they’d gone.

  I quickly showered, dressed, and slapped on some concealer to camouflage the abrasion on my face. Eugene would be here soon. He was a worrier, and I wanted to avoid explaining what had happened. Unfortunately, the concealer only made the abrasion look crusty. I washed it off and instead arranged my hair so it covered my cheek.

  I went back to my office and called the Holiday Inn catering director, managing to broker an optimal muffin arrangement for the focus group’s morning coffee break in five minutes flat, a record for me. She even sweetened the deal with some free orange juice. In the not too distant future, I’d have to report my progress to Marvin Geyer. I wasn’t looking forward to that. The guy had the disposition of an arthritic cat. How he’d managed to survive in business all these years was a mystery to me. Several times I reached for the receiver to dial his number. In the end I couldn’t bring myself to make the call.

  Instead I made a quick call to Regent Rentals and arranged for them to pick up the furniture in Evan’s apartment. The first available appointment they had was the following Tuesday. Not surprisingly, they also confirmed that the bed in Evan’s master bedroom wasn’t theirs. I could have discovered that for myself if I’d checked the contract more carefully. Cissy would have to decide what to do with the bed. I suspected she’d want to donate it to charity along with everything else. Next I called the battered-women’s shelter to arrange a pickup time for the boxes of bathroom and kitchen items.

  I still had a few more minutes before Eugene arrived, so I logged on to the Internet and Googled Lola Scott, searching several Web addresses that popped up, including a movie trivia site. There I found a list of films with unfamiliar titles dating back four or five years. From a brief bio, I learned that Lola was seventeen when she started modeling and eighteen when she appeared in her first horror film. Two other films followed before Evan took charge of her career.

  I also searched the archives of Variety for any articles about Lola published within the past six months. I found several. A headline dated just days before Evan’s death read, SCOTT, AGENT REEVALUATING PAIRING, followed by, “It appears that one of Hollywood’s more successful agent/client teams may be on the rocks, with Evan Brice and TV soap star Lola Scott considering an end to their six-year relationship.” I clicked on the title of the article and waited for the full text to appear but was disappointed to discover that it was available only to subscribers.

  I’d scrolled down a few pages and was about to log off when a teaser for another article caught my eye. It had been posted only the week before and read, “Lola Scott has committed to joining Grant Medina in Square-rigger’s ‘Pagan Dreams,’ a drama to be directed by Richard Burnett and produced by P. J. Chien and his Square-rigger Productions. Filming begins June 30.” Again, the complete text was unavailable.

  I thought, wow. No wonder Lola hired a PR firm to position her as a serious actor. Considering her questionable talent, getting a starring role in a Richard Burnett picture was a big coup. I wondered what Evan had done to close that deal.

  Burnett was known as an actor’s director because of his ability to transform mediocre performers into Oscar contenders. He was also considered one of the hottest directors in Hollywood. Not only had both his last two films scored big bucks at the box office, but each had also garnered Best Actor nominations for its respective stars.

  I had only two questions: Why had Evan and Lola severed their relationship just when her career was heading in a more promising direction? And did the breakup have anything to do with the porn video I’d found hidden in Evan’s apartment? I wondered if Cissy Brice could answer either of those questions. Perhaps I should ask her before I came to my senses and realized that skirting around a murder investigation could be more than a little dangerous.

  -12-

  at exactly 9:00 a.m., Eugene Barstok arrived to help me with the focus group. Before opening the door, I made sure my hair was still draped over my facial abrasion.

  Eugene was standing on the deck, holding a plastic bag. He was dressed in a heather-colored cable-knit sweater he’d made himself, and the beige corduroy pleated trousers he often wears to add bulk to his slim build. His right wrist was wrapped with an elastic bandage.

  Eugene is in his mid-twenties, with big, blue eyes that could disarm almost any cynic. He’s five feet five or so, with sandy-brown hair, which he keeps cut short because of a cowlick that refuses to be tamed. Today was no exception. A few unruly hairs were standing at attention on the crown of his head.

  A broad smile made his oval face seem round. “You are not going to believe what I found. It’s too perfect.” He bustled past me into the house.

  “Don’t make me guess. I’ve had enough suspense for one morning.”

  He reached into the plastic bag—with his left hand, I noted—and pulled out a box. “Tah-dah!”

  He put the box on the breakfast bar, ignoring my puzzled frown. Inside were file folders that sported a royal blue and white hibiscus pattern. He grabbed one and canted it beneath his eyes, like a geisha seducing a client with her fan.

  “Hawaiian-motif file folders! Didn’t I tell you they were perfect?”

  They were perfect, not to mention hilarious.

  “And . . .” He stretched out the word for a second or two. “I have an idea. Ever since we talked yesterday, I’ve been obsessing about your muumuu dilemma. At three o’clock this morning I finally figured it out. The problem is, they’re unfashionably voluminous. So what do we do? We downsize them, make them shorter and slimmer—you know, more like a cheongsam. We market the new version as trendy beach wear. Maybe we even add a coordinating tote bag with an edgy logo and give the line a name—something that pops, like ‘Hula Bitch.’ Then we watch Mr. Geyer ride the retro wave back to profitability. What do you think? It’s good, right?”

  I had to admit it: In a quirky way, the concept had potential. Still, Mr. Geyer was set in his ways. He might not be open to the idea, even if it meant saving his business. Eugene didn’t buy that argument.

  “That’s ridiculous. When your baby’s in jeopardy, you’ll do anything to save her.” Moments later, his enthusiasm faded to concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s a great idea.”

  “No, I mean what’s wrong with your face. It looks scratched.”

&nbs
p; I reached up to touch my cheek and realized my hair was no longer covering the abrasion. I didn’t want to dampen Eugene’s mood by telling him about my troubles. On the other hand, lying to him would never work. His bullshit meter was hypersensitive.

  “I think you’ll need to sit down for this one.”

  Eugene followed me into the living room. I sat on the couch next to Muldoon. Eugene settled into the easy chair. I told him about Evan’s murder, closing the Venice apartment, and finding the Lola Scott porn video. When I got to the part about being attacked by the freight train, Eugene’s face blanched.

  “You could have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “But you could have been. Why did that ox have to hurt you? Why didn’t he just hide in the closet until you were gone? I’ll tell you why—low id control. You can’t trust a person like that, and you can’t predict what he’ll do next. What if he comes looking for you again? This is serious, Tucker. I think we should leave town for a few days.”

  “I can’t do that, Eugene, but I promise I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  He pressed his lips into a hard line. “You always say that.”

  “This time I mean it. Okay?”

  It seemed as if minutes passed before he spoke again. “Was it scary?”

  “Kind of. Getting attacked isn’t my idea—”

  “Not that. The porn video. I heard Lola Scott has so much cellulite on her butt she uses a body double for all her close-ups.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “I’ll let you know if I ever get an up-close-and-personal look at her derriere. Enough gossip. Let’s get to work.”