The Butcher of Beverly Hills

by Jennifer Colt

  Reba had not quite processed the fact that Terry’s libido ran in a different direction altogether.

  “Tall, about six-foot-one?” I said. “Graying hair? Well-dressed? Tan, but not excessively, just a hint of outdoor color?”

  “Ye-e-s,” Reba said. “That sounds like him. Why?”

  “Because he was at Suzie’s this afternoon. He spoke to the coroner as they . . . took her away.”

  Terry smiled at me, impressed. I even got the coveted thumbs-up from across the room.

  “Maybe he was passing by,” Reba said. “I’m sure he lives in the neighborhood.”

  “Uh, I don’t think so. The coroner wouldn’t give us the time of day, but he had a nice long chat with the well-dressed man. And then they let him into the house without any trouble.”

  Reba paused, thinking it over. “Well, wouldn’t that be an interesting coincidence? Hugh representing both Suzie and Lenore?”

  “Sounds like he represents a good portion of the wealthy widows of Beverly Hills,” I said.

  “The dead ones, anyway,” Terry quipped.

  Reba’s phone clanged to the floor.

  “Reba? Reba!” I shouted.

  Terry and I were just about to hang up and call 911, when we heard Reba pick up the receiver again, breathing heavily.

  “Beverly Hills used to be the safest place on earth,” she said.

  We got to Reba’s house next morning at the stroke of eleven. When the door opened, we were greeted by a mountain of a man in a black suit and Raybans with a squared-off jaw, who sported a blond military brush cut.

  “Morning, ladies.” His voice was low and Eastwood-raspy. “I’m Lance. Mrs. Price-Slatherton’s security consultant.”

  Well, that was fast work, I thought. Reba’d acquired a bodyguard in one morning.

  “Hello, Lance,” I said, starting across the threshold.

  He body-blocked me, sending me flying into Terry, whose wind went out of her with a startled Ugh!

  “Sorry, ladies. No one gets in without a once-over. House rules.”

  Was he seriously going to frisk us?

  He slapped the outside of my arms before I could protest, then yanked them out to the side and ran hands that were like huge, inflated airbeds down the sides of my appliquéed pink tee and low-riding khakis.

  “Lance!” Reba said, rushing into the foyer, her fingers fluttering. “That won’t be necessary!”

  He gave her a flinty look. “I’m afraid it is, ma’am. I can’t guarantee your safety if I don’t follow established procedures. You never know who’s gonna jump out at you with a gun or a knife. Don’t know who might be carrying.”

  “But they’re my nieces!”

  “Everyone’s someone’s relative, ma’am. Mark David Chapman had parents. Ted Kasczynski had a brother. Charlie Manson had one hell of a big family.”

  “Oh, all right. You don’t mind, do you girls?” she said, then whispered, “Just until he gets to know you.”

  Terry and I sighed and held out our arms. We were patted down the hips, the legs, then briskly about the ankles. Lance grabbed my bag and rummaged around inside, extracting a metal nail file before handing the bag back to me.

  “Sorry, miss. This stays with me,” he said, secreting the file inside his jacket. “You may retrieve it when you exit.”

  He turned to Reba. “They’re clean, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Lance.”

  “My pleasure.” He gave her a salute. “Your security is my foremost concern at all times.”

  “Come on girls,” Reba said. “Coffee’s ready.”

  Terry and I straightened our clothes and followed Reba to the dining room.

  “Well, he certainly seems to know his stuff,” I mumbled to Terry. “Still, he could afford to tone it down a tad.”

  We sat down at the dining room table and Reba poured us coffee from the silver service. “Muffins and mangoes all right with you girls?”

  “No, we’d like French toast and eggs with Tabasco sauce,” Terry said.

  Reba was momentarily speechless.

  Terry flashed a devious smile. “Just kidding.”

  Reba placed a hand on her heart. “Grizzie will be right in.”

  As we waited for the food to arrive, I could see Lance’s sleeve in my peripheral vision. He was stationed just outside the living room door, still as a statue.

  “May we speak freely?” I whispered to Reba, motioning toward Lance’s massive presence.

  Reba cut her eyes in Lance’s direction. “He’s absolutely guaranteed to be trustworthy,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “Where did you get him so quickly?”

  “An agency.”

  “A security agency?” Terry said.

  “No,” Reba said, “a casting agency.”

  “What?”

  “My friend Stella Longstreet has a son who’s in casting. He’s gay, of course, but a charming boy. Lance is between movies right now, and Stella’s son thought he’d be perfect for the job.”

  “You hired an actor to protect you?” I said. “Wouldn’t you rather have a professional?”

  “Oh, he is a professional. You should see his résumé. He’s played a robot policeman, a special ops soldier twice, and an army colonel in the last Gene Hackman movie. He even had a speaking part in that one.”

  “But what does he know about bodyguarding?”

  “Well, he’s done a lot of research for a new role. But there’s nothing like on-the-job experience, so Stella’s son suggested he could guard me until I get the real thing. He certainly looks the part, don’t you think? A criminal would definitely think twice about coming at me with Lance around.”

  “Well, that’s probably true,” Terry said, looking pretty dubious all the same.

  “He’s very forceful. Watch this.” Reba called out, “Oh, Lance?”

  He stepped inside the room, maintaining his military bearing. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Do it for the girls.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Come on, don’t be shy. You said it for me, say it for them. One little line reading.”

  He blushed. “Oh, no. I feel stupid.”

  “Just once!” She turned to me and Terry. “This is from the Gene Hackman movie. Go ahead, Lance.”

  He acquiesced, planting his feet, then rolled his head on his neck and shrugged his shoulders to get loosened up. He frowned, jutting out his lower jaw, and jabbed his forefinger in the air.

  “Incoming!” he shouted at a phantom missile.

  He held the pose for a few seconds, then grinned and gave us a little bow.

  Reba applauded in delight. “Isn’t that something?”

  Terry and I clapped our hands. “Thanks, Lance,” Terry said. “We’ll look forward to seeing it in Cinemascope.”

  Lance slipped out of the room and took up his post again.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, that was impressive.”

  “Now, about the Bacon painting—” Reba started to say, but she was interrupted by a sudden outbreak of pandemonium.

  “Get your-r-r foul giant’s mitts off me muffins!” Grizzie screamed, followed by the sound of crashing metal. Lance howled in terror.

  Terry and I jumped up from the table and ran into the foyer. Grizzie was bashing Lance mercilessly on the head with her serving tray. Muffins were strewn all over the floor.

  “Grizzie, stop!” I yelled.

  Lance was backed against the wall, making a sound that sounded a lot like whimpering.

  “Get her off me!” he wailed.

  Terry grabbed Grizzie by the apron strings and pulled her off, ducking to avoid the still-swinging serving tray that sailed over her head. Grizzie and Lance backed away from each other, breathing heavily and shaking with emotion.

  “What the hell were you doing?” Terry shouted at Grizzie.

  “He was grabbin’ and eatin’ all the missus’ muffins!” she yelled, red in the face.

  “Lance, why didn’t you just ask for a muffin
?” I said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m sure Grizzie would be happy to toast one for you.”

  “I . . . I was checking for poison,” Lance sniffed.

  “Poison, indeed! As if I’d be poisoning me own mistress! Why you big bugger!” Grizzie darted forward and slashed at him again with the tray, screeching like some sort of Ninja housekeeper.

  He fought her off the best he could, his huge hands pinging off the tray, then ducked past her and ran for the front door. He threw it open and tore across the porch without looking back, racing across the wide front lawn, sending up tufts of freshly mown grass as he went.

  “Well,” Terry said philosophically, watching as Lance plowed through the front gate, “I guess we call that ‘outgoing.’ ”

  “That didn’t go so well,” Reba observed, as we sat back down at the table. “Maybe I’ll just skip the bodyguard and get a gun.”

  “No!” Terry and I shouted.

  “Why not? I’m entitled, as an American citizen.”

  “Reba, do you know the number of fatalities that occur just from accidents with guns?” I said, my mind reeling at the thought of my great-aunt packing a piece.

  Her lips turned down in a pout. “Well, I thought it might make me a more effective member of the team, but . . .” She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, never mind. I can always gouge out their eyes with nail scissors.”

  Terry started to blink rapidly. I wondered if she was having a seizure.

  “Now, about that Bacon,” Reba said. “I remembered something about it—”

  “What?” I said, keeping an eye on Terry. The blinking had stilled to a simple twitch, thank God.

  “Well, we were playing canasta a couple of weeks ago,” Reba said, “and I noticed it was missing from Suzie’s living room. I asked her about it and she said she’d moved it upstairs, said it didn’t go with the decor and it gave her a migraine. She told me she might consider selling it and buying another landscape. It was one of her husband’s purchases sometime in the sixties, and she’d never really liked it.”

  “So instead of moving upstairs, it looks like the painting made its way into Lenore’s hands,” Terry said.

  Reba nodded. “Yes, it does.”

  “We forgot to tell you last night,” I said to her. “We ran into a man from Suzie’s insurance company yesterday. He said she’d reported a burglary a few weeks ago.”

  Reba looked at me in surprise. “He did?”

  “Yeah, he said some odds and ends were stolen, silver and things, but he didn’t say anything about the painting.”

  “How odd. I heard nothing about it.” Reba got an impish look on her face. “In any case, I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe I know where the painting is now. It must have been taken from Lenore’s house by Hugh Binion!”

  “Huh?” Terry said. “You’re saying Binion has the Bacon?”

  “Yes! Consider this—he already knew that Lenore was dead when I called. Let’s say he got the call about her death the same time I did, which would have given him a few hours to take advantage of the situation, dashing over to her house to take anything of value before I could see what there was to be had—”

  “Hmm,” we said.

  “And he knew that Suzie was in no position to claim the painting,” she added, “because she was dead!”

  “But the painting disappeared before Suzie died,” I said.

  “Before we found her, but not before she died,” Reba said. “She’d been dead for a couple of days before you discovered the painting was missing from Lenore’s.”

  “Hey, she’s getting pretty good at this,” Terry said to me.

  “But how would Binion know Suzie was dead?” I said. “We found the body before he even got there . . .”

  Terry suddenly made the connection, turning startled eyes to Reba. “Wait a minute. Are you accusing Binion of . . . involvement with Suzie’s death?”

  “It’s the simplest explanation possible,” Reba said, matter-of-factly.

  “Unbelievable,” I said, shaking my head. “Is there anyone in this town that isn’t dirty?”

  Reba gave me an indignant look. “Well, I’m not,” she said.

  A half hour later, we were on our way to the law office. Terry and I had decided to play the part of supportive family members, sitting in on the meeting to see if Binion said anything to implicate himself. We figured he’d see us as simply a Beverly Hills matron and her two young nieces, no reason to be especially cautious.

  We grilled Reba on what she should know, and more importantly what she shouldn’t know for the purposes of this meeting. She could know about the deaths of Lenore and Suzie, of course, but she couldn’t appear to know anything about the break-in at Lenore’s house. That would tip Binion off that we’d been there and seen the painting before it disappeared.

  I was sure Binion would have ascertained that we had discovered Suzie’s body, but Reba shouldn’t know about the stabbing. I instructed her to feign ignorance of the exact manner of Suzie’s death, even evincing a healthy curiosity about it. Was it a heart attack? An overdose?

  “Needless to say,” I felt the need to say, “no mention of the Bacon.”

  “Got it,” Reba said. “No break-in, no Bacon, no stabbing.” She winked at us. “Don’t worry about me, girls. I’m the body and soul of discretion.”

  We entered the reception area of Hartford, Huntington, and Binion, full of the requisite brass fixtures, gleaming wood paneling, and leather furnishings of all high-end law firms. Forbes and Harper’s were stacked neatly on the table in front of a brown Chesterfield couch. Polished office plants thrived in hand-beaten copper planters. A pretty brunette in a gray Ann Taylor suit greeted us, then announced us on the phone with a smooth FM-radio voice.

  Within seconds, Binion was hurrying down the corridor to meet us, the rustling of his trousers the only noise in the tomblike silence of the hallway. The thick carpeting sucked up all sound, giving the offices the appropriate hush associated with professionals toiling away for six hundred dollars an hour.

  I recognized Binion immediately as the distinguished man from Suzie’s house. Terry gave me an almost imperceptible nod of her head. She recognized him, too.

  He took Reba’s bony hand in his, leaning in for two air kisses. “Reba,” he said in a satin baritone.

  “Hugh, so nice to see you,” Reba said, then pointed to us. “I’ve brought my great-nieces with me. Terry and Kerry McAfee.”

  He gave us an oily smile. “Oh, but surely they’re your sisters?”

  Reba actually tittered. “No, they’re the daughters of my dear deceased niece, Jean.”

  Binion’s face went solemn. “You have my condolences, Reba. It must have come as a terrible shock, losing both Lenore and Suzie so close together.”

  Reba’s lower lip quivered. “Thank you, Hugh. Most kind. Can you tell me how poor Suzie died?”

  “It was an overdose, an apparent suicide.”

  Reba gasped. “Well, you think you know someone—”

  “Yes,” Binion said, “but so many of us have dark secrets.”

  Terry threw me a look.

  He ushered us down the soundless cavern of a hallway past miles of leather-bound law volumes and into his corner office. We sat on another stately couch and crossed our ankles, resting our feet on a plush Persian rug. A different gray-attired young woman took our drink orders—water all around.

  I scanned the walls behind Binion’s massive wooden partner’s desk. Framed certificates and diplomas, and a couple of prints of Englishmen on horseback out to cadge a few foxtails. No modern oils. No abstract modes of expression. Nothing to upset the aura of historical continuity and mind-numbing stodginess.

  Binion picked up a file from his desk. “I have good news for you, and bad too, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?” Reba said. She was doing a fair impersonation of someone who was completely innocent of what she was about to hear.

  “As you know, your dear friend Lenore thought of you when sh
e drafted her will, and it was clearly her intention to leave you whatever she had of value in her house.”

  Reba gave a wan smile. “I’d have done the same for her. Who did she leave her house to, if I may ask?”

  “The bank, to be perfectly blunt about it. She was in arrears on her third mortgage and they were just about to foreclose.”

  Reba tsked at this disheartening news. “I’d have been glad to help in any way I could.”

  “I’m sure,” Binion said, his voice low and confidential. “But the situation had gone beyond . . . help.”

  “Alas,” Reba said. “You were saying, the contents of the house?”

  “Well, unfortunately there was a mishap.”

  “A mishap? Whatever sort of mishap?” Reba cocked her head like a curious little bird, her voice high and querulous. Okay, maybe she wasn’t such a great actress.

  “A break-in, while Lenore was in the hospital.”

  Reba clapped a hand to her cheek. “No!”

  Oh God. Binion’s going to see straight through our little act, I thought in panic, but he kept his professional mask in place with nary a flicker of skepticism.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said, clucking his tongue. “The times we live in . . .”

  “Was anything taken?” Reba asked.

  “I sent one of my associates over to the house yesterday with an adjuster from the insurance company. They had brought along an inventory, and there was nothing missing as far as they could tell. But many of the household items have been destroyed. The furniture is almost a complete loss.”

  “What a pity.” Reba looked over at Terry and me. “Well, what about her jewels? Were they in the safe?”

  “I’m afraid not. Apparently she’d been forced to sell them.”

  “Oh-h-h-h,” Reba said. “Too bad. I was very fond of her koala pin.”

  “It was a lovely koala,” Binion said, nodding. “She wore it to our meetings on several occasions.”

  “Well, what about her rugs?” Reba said. “As I recall, she had some valuable rugs.”

  “The rugs were ruined. My associate took them to a repair shop but they declared them beyond salvaging.”

  This was a complete lie. The rugs had been tossed aside, but they were in fine condition. They weren’t slashed. Hadn’t been doused with acid. Now we knew for sure that Binion was a bald-faced liar, and probably a thief as well.