Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  “Try me. You may be surprised just how much I understand.”

  I paused, debating the wisdom of telling him more, but eventually I did.

  “Evan called me the night he died. I didn’t pick up the phone. If I had, maybe I could have saved him. That one decision may have left Dara fatherless.”

  “You talk like everything that’s happened to the whole Brice family is your fault.”

  My chest felt tight. “In a way, it is.”

  He paused for a moment, watching me. “Come on, Stretch. You look like you could use some fresh air. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Muldoon heard the word “walk” and began barking so enthusiastically, he was nearly levitating. It was chilly outside, so I loaned Deegan one of Bruce’s down jackets. He kicked off his shoes and socks and rolled up his trouser legs. The three of us headed to the beach, carrying the sack of food, the champagne, and an old blanket. A few yards away from the house, we spread the blanket on the sand, and with Muldoon huddled between us, we ate chopped salad and what turned out to be chicken tetrazzini.

  I don’t recall exactly what we talked about at first—movies we’d seen or books we’d read. All I know is, at some point I told him about Frank Jerrard’s death. How he’d called me the day he died, just as Evan had. Frank had insisted I write down several recipes, the ones he made for Claire every Sunday, which was his night to cook. At the time, I thought it was weird. I was impatient to get him off the telephone. As it turned out, I should have listened more carefully to the tension in his voice. Shortly after he replaced the receiver, Frank Jerrard stacked his neatly folded clothes on the dresser. He grabbed a pillow from the bed to muffle the sound, stepped into the shower, and put a bullet through his head.

  Deegan listened to my story without comment. I was grateful he didn’t put his arms around me and say, “I’m so sorry. Let me give you a big hug.” He must have sensed that trying to take the edge off my guilt would have been a mistake. I thought more of him for knowing that.

  “I keep thinking those recipes were his way out,” I said. “Maybe he hoped I’d tell him that the world couldn’t survive without his stuffed pork chops, and he’d have a reason to live. Instead, I told him I had to study for a chemistry exam. Because of me, Claire doesn’t have a husband, and Cissy doesn’t have a father.”

  “Don’t tell me they blamed you for his death.”

  “No. They didn’t. I blamed myself. The Jerrards were like my second family. Frank was the father I never had. I felt so guilty, I didn’t even tell Claire about his call. I still have his recipes in an old cigar box in the closet.”

  “You were just a kid, Stretch. Even if it happened now, how could you possibly know what was on his mind?”

  “Eighteen’s no kid, and I wasn’t some sheltered Westside ingenue, either. I’d seen things in my lifetime. Besides, the warning signs were in neon. Maybe if I hadn’t been so caught up in worrying about college and getting a summer job, I would have noticed.”

  It’s amazing how sharply focused hindsight had become after twelve years of adjusting the lens of my memory. I knew that Frank Jerrard had invested heavily in a gas-and-oil limited partnership that was being challenged by the IRS as an illegal tax shelter. There were lawsuits, which had generated hefty attorney’s and accountant’s fees. The Jerrards stood to lose big-time if things didn’t go their way. Living on the brink of financial ruin was a situation my mother and I knew all too well. We’d always managed to land butter side up. I had assumed that Frank Jerrard would, too, because he was strong and smart and deserving. I’d been wrong.

  His slide into depression had begun with cocktail hours that lasted through four martinis instead of one. Eventually, he had stopped smiling, working, and trimming the hedge. The hedge. That’s when I should have known something was terribly wrong.

  Deegan and I stared at the water, taking turns petting Muldoon. Deegan refused a second glass of champagne because he was driving. That didn’t stop me from having a refill and then another. It wasn’t a particularly good idea, because I wasn’t used to drinking. After the third glass, I was feeling no pain, or almost none. Deegan suggested we go back to the house. My response came out sounding something like “sheowsnlikeaplaaan.”

  Deegan washed the dishes while I put away the cracker tray and the fruit basket spreaders. At about nine-thirty I walked him to the door. He paused at the threshold, watching me. His jacket was slung casually over his shoulder. I dread the end of evenings when you’ve had too much to drink and no opportunity to check for lettuce leaves stuck between your teeth, when a man is standing in the light of your doorway, and you have no idea what might happen next. I decided to defuse the situation.

  “Can’t you convince Green to be more open-minded about Cissy Brice?”

  “Moses is a good cop. He doesn’t need counseling from me.” He tenderly brushed his fingers over the bruise on my cheek. “You know, Stretch, punching out bad guys in biker bars is a dangerous game. Do yourself a favor and me, too. Stay out of it. I’d hate to miss our wedding date because something bad happened to you.”

  He turned and started down the steps.

  “Who was the woman in the car with you yesterday?”

  He looked back, puzzled. Then a lopsided smile appeared on his face. “Ah, you mean Candy.”

  “Is that a name or an endorsement?”

  “A name.”

  “For now.”

  “That’s right, Stretch. For now.”

  “She your new partner?”

  “Nope.” He turned and headed for his car.

  After Deegan was gone, I felt unsettled. I’d given him intimate details about my life, but as usual, he hadn’t told me squat about his. Worse yet, the only information he’d shared about Evan Brice’s homicide investigation was already part of the public record. At least I knew Evan had eaten at Poet’s Corner the night he died. If nothing else, the information would help me piece together the last hours of his life.

  Deegan had warned me to stay out of the investigation, as I knew he would. What I’d failed to make him understand was that I couldn’t turn my back on Cissy Brice. Despite his admonition, I was going to push ahead until I got somebody to listen to reason.

  -16-

  about twenty minutes after Deegan left, the telephone rang. It was Pookie.

  “Where in the hell are you?” I said.

  “In Vegas.”

  “And that would be because . . .”

  There was a long pause, followed by a girlie-girl squeal. “Bruce and I got married.”

  My throat felt dry. All I could manage in response to her announcement was a breathy, “H-h-a-h-h-h.”

  “It was so amazing, Tucker. Wednesday night Bruce and I had this huge fight. We went for a ride to cool off. Before we knew it, we were in Sin City. So we thought, what the heck, let’s take in a couple of shows and play the machines. We stayed up all night, got polluted, and then we got naked—”

  “Whoa, Pook! Too much information. I get the picture.”

  She laughed. “I just wanted to let you know. We’ll be home tomorrow.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment, because I was thinking, and because Pookie was babbling on about winning a sixty-five-dollar jackpot while playing the slots. It’s not that I felt slighted because my mother didn’t invite me to her wedding. In fact, I was relieved that I hadn’t been there. Watching Bruce become my stepfather wasn’t on my all-time great things-to-do list. On the other hand, I wanted to be objective, so I floated the theory that I was jealous Pookie had found someone to love, while I was still sharing my pillow with a dog. Except that I knew it wasn’t true. I loved my mother. I wanted her to be happy, but sometimes I also wanted her to be an adult. This was one of those times. I waited for a lull in her monologue.

  “You know, Pookie, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you and Bruce to live here anymore. You’re big kids now. It’s time you two got a place of your own.”

  “We’re looking, sweetie.”<
br />
  “Not hard enough.”

  “I know it’s a little crowded, Tucker, but it won’t be much longer—really. Bruce and I want to find just the right place. That’s not as easy as you think. Mrs. Gwee is working at it, but she has other clients—”

  I interrupted. “Why don’t you send Bruce to live with Mrs. Gwee for a week or two? That should fire up her work ethic.”

  There was silence, followed by a sigh. “I’m sorry Bruce annoys you, Tucker. I hope in time—”

  “Pookie, can’t you see you’re making a terrible mistake? He’s not right for you. You could do better.”

  There it was. Out in the open. Maybe it was blunt, but if anybody other than Tucker B. Sinclair needed to keep her eyes wide open about men, it was Mary Jo Felder Sinclair, aka Pookie Kravitz. I figured my mother needed a wake-up call. I was just doing the dialing.

  There was a lengthy pause. “I’m sorry you think I’m such a failure, Tucker. I love you.” She hung up before I could respond.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I woke up with a well-deserved champagne headache. While searching through my purse for aspirin, I found the key chain I’d taken from Evan’s apartment. More of the beads had slipped off, which made the flower look slightly bedraggled, as though petals were missing. I knotted the loose threads together to hold the remaining beads in place, imagining Dara’s delicate hands laboring over the design with the help of her teacher. I attached the key chain to my own as a reminder to give it to Cissy.

  I dumped the loose beads in the garbage, on top of what remained of the white tetrazzini sauce from last night’s dinner. The specks of red and green looked like those tiny candies you sprinkle on desserts. They reminded me of when I was in first grade and Pookie brought cupcakes to school to celebrate my birthday. It must have been during one of our grimmer financial periods, because she’d thinned out the white frosting to make it stretch and used sprinkles left over from some long-forgotten Christmas. Not only did the cupcakes taste awful, they looked awful, too. I still remember how humiliated I felt when my classmate Ronnie Horn told everybody that the frosting looked like bird shit. Hopefully, at this very moment the IRS was auditing his tax returns.

  Predictably, Eugene called right at nine. He was still concerned about my safety, but it hadn’t blunted his enthusiasm for the Hula Bitch line of products for Mr. Geyer’s mail order catalog. I told him I’d pitch the idea as soon as an opportunity presented itself. When I broke the news that I didn’t have any more work for him to do, he seemed disappointed but not breathless.

  “How’s Liza?” I said.

  “Better. Thanks for asking.”

  “Is she well enough for Palm Springs yet?”

  “I suppose, but we can’t go now. I’m not going to desert you, not with a homicidal maniac on the loose. Plus, there’s the focus group to worry about. I’d never leave you in the lurch like that.”

  “‘Homicidal maniac’ is a bit extreme. The freight train was more like a burglar. And as far as the focus group is concerned, I’m pretty organized, thanks to you. I think you should go to the desert. It’ll be good for you. Liza, too. All that hot, dry air will do wonders for her respiratory infection. Look, if I have a problem, I’ll call the police. I promise. What do you think?”

  “Here’s what I think: We should all go to Palm Springs. You could stay in my friends’ spare room. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “I can’t leave town right now, Eugene. Maybe when business picks up. But look on the bright side. Palm Springs is a great place to do resort-wear research. You could scope out Mr. Geyer’s muumuu competition.”

  I waited through a long pause.

  “Promise you’ll call the police at the first sign of trouble?” he said.

  “Yup.”

  There was another pause.

  “You know I can tell when you’re not being sincere. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Your bullshit meter is top-notch, Eugene. Haven’t I always told you that?”

  It took several more minutes of gentle persuasion before he finally said, “I suppose a couple of days away from the smog couldn’t hurt.”

  It wasn’t until after we hung up that I realized he hadn’t mentioned knitting or carpal tunnel syndrome once during our conversation.

  For the next few hours I worked on the focus group, tweaking the wording of my opening remarks and jotting down a few notes for an e-mail, which I intended to send to Mr. Geyer on Monday morning. By the afternoon, my mind felt dull. I decided to take a break and drive into Santa Monica to look for a dress for Eric’s wedding. Muldoon looked eager when he saw me putting on my jacket.

  “You can’t go,” I said. “You have to stay and guard the house.”

  That didn’t meet with his approval. He dropped his tail and headed for his favorite hiding spot under my bed. Muldoon’s funk made me feel guilty—not a state I liked to be in. Under pressure, I filled a small bowl with some leftover popcorn and slid it under the bed.

  “If you tell Pookie I gave you this, it’s over between us.”

  The sound of enthusiastic crunching assuaged my guilt long enough to get me to my car.

  SANTA MONICA PLACE is a shopping mall in the downtown area that is anchored by two big department stores: Macy’s on one end and Robinsons-May on the other. I walked each of the three levels, trying on outfits in every shop that carried formal wear, until I found a dress I liked. It was a little more orange than anything I had in my closet, but the style accentuated the few curves I had. I just hoped the message it conveyed to Eric and his bride was “hot babe moving on with her life” and not “Caltrans road crew flagging traffic.”

  With that task out of the way, I headed to the Third Street Promenade, a pedestrians-only boulevard peppered with trendy shops and outdoor cafés. I dawdled over a mochaccino at Starbucks, even though I knew that drinking it so late in the day would keep me awake. But it was Friday night, and I had no one to answer to but Muldoon.

  It was after seven o’clock by the time I arrived home, juiced up by caffeine and consumed with buyer’s remorse for buying a dress that made me look like an orange Popsicle. As I walked in the door, the telephone was ringing. It was Venus.

  “Where have you been?” she said. “I called earlier, but nobody answered.”

  “I already have one cranky mom, Venus. I don’t need another.”

  “Listen up. Turn on the TV—channel six. There’s something you gotta see. And use the remote, because you need to be sittin down for this.”

  The tension in her voice was contagious. “Shit! Did the police arrest Cissy?”

  “Turn on the tube, girl, before I lose my patience.”

  I carried the telephone into the living room and flipped on channel six as directed. The tabloid show Celebrity Heat appeared on the screen. The program was in the final minutes of a segment about dogs on diets.

  “What’s the deal?” I said defensively. “You think Muldoon is fat?”

  Venus didn’t have time to answer, because the chunky-pups segment ended, and a clip of me arriving at Cissy Brice’s house appeared on the screen. The image was accompanied by a voiceover: “Explosive new details uncovered in the murder investigation of Hollywood talent agent Evan Brice. Who is the mystery woman in his life? Her identity revealed after the break.”

  My heart was pounding as I sank into the couch. I remembered the Celebrity Heat van parked outside Cissy’s house the day I was there, and Darcy Daniels asking me a question, which I hadn’t even answered. I didn’t have any idea why the show was focusing on me. It must be a slow news day.

  “They’ve been playing that teaser ever since I turned on the TV,” Venus said. “What’s going on?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Venus and I stayed on the line through a poignant interview with the East L.A. parents of a young man killed in a drive-by shooting . . . through another commercial break . . . and one more teaser for the mystery woman segment. Each delay hiked my blood pressure. Finally, the program’s
host appeared on camera. He was a fresh-faced black guy in his late twenties with skin that looked as if it had been polished with Pledge.

  “Celebrity Heat’s investigative reporter, Darcy Daniels, has recently uncovered the identity of a woman seen arriving at the home of Hollywood agent Evan Brice just a day after he was found slain in a gang-infested Venice neighborhood.”

  “Uh-oh,” Venus said. “I don’t feel good about this.”

  The camera cut to Darcy, standing outside the gate to Cissy Brice’s house. She had a microphone in her hand and an ultraserious look on her face, as if she were a hard-nosed investigative reporter prowling the war-torn caves of Afghanistan instead of loitering in an upscale neighborhood in Benedict Canyon.

  Even in her official Celebrity Heat windbreaker, Darcy didn’t look hardened by anything more serious than the minimum required balance in her checking account. Granted, it was difficult to look like a seasoned journalist when you had lips so glossy and puffed up by silicone that they looked like two blimps flying in formation. I noticed that those lips were also tempting targets for the wind, which was whipping her mane around, causing wisps of hair to catch in the sticky gloss. She brushed away the hair sandwich and leaned conspiratorially toward the camera. Clearly the gesture was meant to seduce the audience into thinking she was entrusting them with some sensational secret. I waited impatiently to hear what it was.

  “Celebrity Heat was first to break the story about the gruesome murder of successful Hollywood agent Evan Brice. Now in a stunning new development in the investigation, we have uncovered the name of the mystery woman seen entering the victim’s house shortly after he was found bludgeoned to death . . .”

  “Bludgeoned?” Venus said. “I thought you said he was stabbed.”

  “S-h-h-h! I can’t hear.”

  “She is businesswoman Tucker Sinclair, who was involved in another recent murder. Now, only four short months later, someone else close to this woman has met with violent death.” Darcy turned away from the camera and dramatically pointed toward the entrance to Evan’s driveway. “The man who once lived behind these gates . . .”