“So I've heard,” I said, remembering my conversation with Clarice Martínez. “But I think he might have had something going with that Laurette Le Blanc.”
“Miss St. Martin.”
“Pardon me?”
“Laurette Le Blanc was Miss St. Martin back in the 80s. A fox. Comes from a good family. Dad's a doc down there. She was an honor student in high school, had a year of college before doing the Miss Pretty bit.”
“No arrests, skeletons in her closet, anything like that?” I was still toying with the idea that Laurette had known J.B. before he and Abby hired her on their honeymoon. Now that Lonnie had told me that she and Peter were fooling around, maybe he had known her before too. “Any evidence she may have known either J.B. or Peter before she came to work for Abby?”
“So far not. Her mother's heart attack checked out too. I can get the hospital records if you need them.”
“I don't right now.”
“Now those people who worked for the rich lady have been doing all right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Got into their bank account.”
“Charley!” I feigned shock.
“Ssh.” He held his finger to his lips. “Some pretty fat deposits lately.”
I knew the estate was nowhere near being settled so that wouldn't have accounted for the extra cash. “How fat?”
“Mmm, seven thousand here, five there. Somewhere around twenty-eight thousand dollars in the past couple of months. And I misspoke. I got into their bank account, but that's not where I found it.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“She opened a separate account three months ago.”
“Abby left her more money in her will.” I was thinking out loud.
“She worked for her longer. Mrs. C only married José seven years ago.”
A new wrinkle. Maybe that explained why Abby had left Gloria more money than José. But, if that was the case, why hadn't Jim Carstensen, Abby's lawyer, known it?
Suddenly Gloria Covarrubias was looking a lot more interesting. Where had the money come from and why was it in a separate account? Did José know about it? Had someone paid her to do something? Like spike J.B.'s and Abby's booze so Abby could be hauled off and killed? If José had been involved, why the separate bank account?
“So is that the second interesting thing?”
He shook his head. “Not the really interesting thing. I turned up an old New York Times clip. Seems there was a tragic fire years ago at the Van Thiessen mansion on Central Park. Mrs. Van Thiessen got trapped, couldn't get out and died in it.”
“Madeleine Van Thiessen?”
“The same. Abigail's mother.”
“That's strange. I could have sworn Clarice Martínez told me she'd died of cancer.”
“Who's Clarice Martínez?”
“She was Abby's best friend.”
“Well, the mother did have cancer. She was bedridden at the time. That was part of the problem. Hang on to your hat, Ellis. One of the kids was playing with matches in Mrs. Van Thiessen's closet.”
“Abby or Peter?”
“Neither, the nanny's daughter. She was five years older than Peter, a year younger than Abby.”
Jesus. I remembered the cave and the irony of Madeleine's perishing in a fire started in a closet did not escape me.
“How old was she?”
“Twelve. According to the accounts I read, Peter saved her life. You'll have to read the clip.”
He didn't have to suggest that. I'd already decided it would be the first thing I'd pull out of the packet he'd left at my office.
“Another interesting thing.” Beads of sweat were bubbling up on Charley's forehead. Although it was getting cooler, it was still hot and I felt guilty about keeping him outside talking to me. “The nanny's daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“Glory Chukker.”
“Let me guess …”
“Yep, Covarrubias, née Chukker.”
Holy cow. Gloria's mother had been Abby and Peter's nanny. The three of them had apparently been raised together and yet neither Peter nor Gloria had mentioned it. Why not? Did that have anything to do with the extra money Abby had left Gloria? And when Clarice was talking about growing up with Peter and Abby, why had she neglected to mention Gloria? Or the fire? Didn't that qualify as a milestone in their childhood?
On the way into the ranch I retrieved Charley's notes from the old mailbox at the stage stop. I knew he'd shared with me most of the information so I waited until later that night, when I was curled up in the La-Z-Boy, to go over them.
The copy of the New York Times article was on top of the stack. There were several pictures—of a healthy-looking Madeleine Van Thiessen and of Peter's father. As I read the story there was no doubt how or where the fire had originated. Glory Chukker had been playing with matches right before all hell had broken out in the Van Thiessen closet.
Peter Van Thiessen had pulled Gloria out of the bedroom, but was unable to save his mother, who was bedridden since her cancer had already spread to her bones. In spite of the best efforts of first her nurses and staff, and then the fire department, Madeleine Van Thiessen had perished in the blaze. Her daughter, Abigail, had been at boarding school at the time.
When I flipped to the second copied page, where the story had jumped, underneath another photograph was the caption, “Boy Hero Saves Nanny's Daughter, Mother Dies in Fire.”
But more interesting than the caption was the picture itself. A pretty little girl with long dark curls and intense eyes was standing behind a young Peter Van Thiessen, who was seated in a chair. The girl's arms were draped over his shoulders and it looked like both of her hands were encased in catcher's mitts, the bandages were that big.
Unfortunately Prego, the mechanic, got home from his fishing trip late Sunday night. By seven o'clock Monday morning Martín had borrowed Priscilla to tow his old Dodge up to Prego's home shop in La Cienega.
After doing a few household chores I put Petunia on the porch, and Blue, Mrs. Fierce and I walked the mile to the stage stop. We were all hot and thirsty by the time we arrived.
The dogs plopped on the cool cement floors as I threw on the evaporative cooler, cracked a few windows and refreshed their earthen crock of water. I mixed a quick pitcher of Trader Joe's lemonade, reached into the tiny refrigerator and popped a miniature tray of ice cubes and poured myself a cold drink.
I went through Charley's packet again, looking for something I might have overlooked, but there was nothing there. It wasn't like I didn't have enough to work with. Now I had almost too much information to assimilate.
Gloria's childhood connection to Abby and Peter had added another twist to the case. Charley had uncovered her new bank account and some hefty deposits. Where had the money come from, and why? Since I'd gone through Abby's checkbook at her house, I was pretty sure that the heavy deposits had not come from Gloria's employer. And why had Gloria been left more money than her husband? What did that mean? Did it have to do with her growing up with Peter and Abby, or, God forbid, did it have to with the fire?
Going over my own material, I had a hunch that I was missing something, but what was it?
I turned to my notes when I'd talked to José Covarrubias. Ramona Miller had come up when he was waxing the car. I'd underlined Ramona's comment “drop … things.” Could Abby have been getting drugs all along? Drugs that affected her coordination? And if she really was dropping things, why had no one except the maid noticed?
Then I remembered the bartender at La Gitana. He'd said Abby had dropped a bottle of booze while she'd been dancing. Had I been too quick to write that off to her being drunk? Had something really been wrong with her?
While I could probably find what I was looking for quickly using the computer, I had no clue how to do that so I resorted to shuffling through my computer-generated pages. Finally I found the notes I had taken at Abby's desk when I was going through her Day Planner and checkbook. There it was. The old m
essage left by Clarice Martínez encouraging Abby to call a man named Hornisher for collagen implants.
Recalling my conversation with Clarice, it hit me. She'd said that Hornisher was a lip guy. Did implants, that sort of thing. Yet Abby had the full, pouty lips of a sexpot movie star. Hadn't they already been done? How long did that stuff last? Was it like dying your hair? Or more permanent?
I picked up the telephone and dialed the Phoenix number she'd left for the doctor.
“Barrows Neurological Institute,” a matter-of-fact voice answered.
Neurological Institute? While most lips were found on heads, I didn't think there was much connection between neurology and plastic surgery. What in the hell was going on?
I asked to be connected to Dr. Hornisher.
“Dr. Hornisher's office, this is Julie.”
“Julie, this is Trade Ellis from Tucson. A friend of mine, Clarice Martínez, suggested that I make an appointment with Dr. Hornisher,” I lied.
“Hmmm, Clarice Martínez. Is she one of our patients?”
“I believe so,” I continued the fib. “She told me that Dr. Hornisher was the best,” I gushed.
“And you've been diagnosed?”
Diagnosed? What the hell for? Lips?
“Yes.”
“Well, the earliest that Dr. Hornisher could see you would be September.”
He must be popular with a three-month waiting list.
“Oh, I can't possibly wait that long.” I tried to sound pitiful. “I'm taking a cruise in August and I'd hoped to have the work done by then.”
She took the bait. “A cruise?” She sounded alarmed. “Work? I think you've been given some misinformation.”
“Dr. Hornisher does lip rejuvenations, right?”
“Oh no.” She sounded aghast. “He's a neurological doctor. His specialty is amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”
I tried to echo her phrase, stumbling through the words. “I … I'm afraid I don't understand.”
“Lou Gehrig's disease. Dr. Hornisher specializes in Lou Gehrig's disease,” she repeated right before she hung up.
35
I WAS HALFWAY OUT THE DOOR WHEN THE TELEPHONE RANG.
“Trade? It's María López Zepeda. I'm afraid I've got some bad news. J.B.'s insisting on the lie detector test.”
“You don't think he'll pass it?”
“He's sure he will, but who knows? As I've said, they're fairly unreliable. But he's the client.”
“You're not going to let him do it, are you?”
“Well …” I heard the hesitation in her voice. “I sure don't want him taking one of theirs, so I guess we don't have much choice if he's determined to do it. We'll use one of the private firms.”
“What if he flunks?”
“The results will be confidential if we do it this way. The police will never have to know that he even took one.”
The defense attorney had a lot more faith in the confidentiality thing than I did. The downtown community was pretty tight and I wasn't so sure that J.B.'s test results would remain a secret.
“I'm trying to schedule him now.”
I groaned.
“He wants out of jail and the judge won't bond him so he sees this as an out. If he passes the thing, he thinks a case can be made for setting bond.”
“Do you agree?”
“Not necessarily. And I told him so, but we have a pretty stubborn client.”
I liked the way she said “we.” At least I wasn't in this alone.
“María, will you let me know the results when you get them?” I asked, wondering what I'd do if he flunked the damn thing.
“Sure,” she promised before hanging up.
I knew finding Clarice Martínez at home was going to be a total crapshoot, but I got lucky. I found her sitting in a patio under the misters near her aviary of flitting finches. She was wearing what looked like one of her husband's white dress shirts and just under the long tails I spotted a hint of faded denim shorts. She was sitting reading and sipping an iced tea.
“Well, look who's here!” She dropped the latest copy of Vogue on the table as she jumped out of the heavy wrought iron patio chair and greeted me warmly.
“Honey, can I get you some tea?”
“No thanks.” I held up the bottled water I frequently carry with me in summer.
“Too hot? Shall we go inside?”
“This is fine,” I said, settling into a patio chair.
“Well, then, how's everything going?”
“It's getting more intriguing all the time.” I watched her closely. “Have you figured out why I'm here?”
“Why no.” Her hands fluttered, not unlike a flight of her beloved tiny birds. “Should I?”
“I called Hornisher's telephone number,” I said. “And it was very interesting.” I paused for effect. “I found out he's not a plastic surgeon at all. He doesn't even do lips.”
“Oh.” It was as though the air had been let out of her. Tiny to begin with, she seemed even more diminutive in the heavy metal chair.
“He's a neurological specialist,” I continued. “Lou Gehrig's disease. Does any of this sound familiar?”
To her credit, she didn't try to evade my question. Her big blue eyes watered as she nodded. “I promised,” she whispered.
“Who did you promise?” I leaned across the table and patted her thin freckled arm. “Abby?”
She nodded, withdrew her arm and brushed the tears away with the tips of her fingers. “She didn't want anyone to know. I was stupid to leave that message on her machine, but I didn't know that she was going to die.”
“No, of course you didn't,” I said gently. “How could you?”
“I was hoping that you'd let it go, that you wouldn't find out about Dr. Hornisher.”
“I almost didn't,” I admitted, thinking of how close I'd come to ignoring the answering machine message.
“But then I figured out that Abby didn't need collagen implants in her lips. I finally called Hornisher's office this morning. Do you want to tell me about it?”
“God, I promised.” She lifted the tail of her long white shirt and rubbed her eyes with it.
“Clarice, Abby's dead. What you know may help me find out how and why she died.”
“And who killed her?”
“Maybe.”
She sighed heavily. “If I tell you, you have to swear you will not breathe a word of this to a single living soul.”
“I can't do that. After I called Hornisher's office, I began putting the pieces together.”
She thought about this for a moment and then began talking.
“About three months ago Abby started noticing that she wasn't feeling right. Her hands were getting stiff and cramping, stiffer than she thought they should with just the normal arthritis.”
“And she began dropping things.”
“You knew about that?”
I nodded.
“She felt like she was getting weaker, although there was no reason for it, and that scared the pants off her.”
“Did she tell J.B.?”
“Honey, are you crazy? Abby was terrified of getting old, of getting ugly. She'd seen her mother go through a terrible, disfiguring disease, and that was the last thing she wanted for herself. And she sure didn't want to share the news with J.B. any sooner than she had to.”
I let the reference to Madeleine pass for the time being.
“There was no way on earth she was going to tell that young husband of hers that she was getting weak and feeble, no way at all.”
“Was she ever diagnosed?”
“Oh, sure. Her regular doctor ran a number of tests and had just come up with Lou Gehrig's right before she died. While they were running more tests, I was checking around trying to get some names for her. When I found Leland Hornisher right up the road in Phoenix, I left the message, but I had to be sneaky about it since Abby didn't want anyone knowing. That's why I mentioned the collagen.”
It was a smart deception
. After all, I'd almost fallen for it.
“You mentioned her regular doctor, was that Samuel Mullon?”
“Uh huh. He was going to give her some referrals too. Wasn't it freaky that he died the same night as Abby?” Now that she had confided in me about Abby's disease, it was as though a huge load had been taken off her and she was eager to talk.
“Freaky,” I agreed, but in my mind I wasn't finding Mullon's death coincidental at all. Had the information he had on Abby's Lou Gehrig's killed him? Could someone have wanted to make sure he didn't pass that on? And if so, who and why? “Who else did Abby tell?”
“No one.”
“Not even her brother?”
Clarice shook her head and the filtered light picked up copper highlights in her short red hair. “She was really definite about that. Said she didn't want anyone to know about it until she'd decided what to do.”
“What's to do with Lou Gehrig's?” I asked. I didn't know a lot about the disease, but I knew enough to know that it was a progressive thing and that most people, once they had it, had no way out.
“Not much,” Clarice agreed. “That thing is surely unkind. It kills your body but your mind still works. By what she was gonna do, I just meant that she wasn't sure who was going to treat her, or how. She was just destroyed by the news.”
“That's when she went on the Prozac,” I guessed. She nodded. “It helped with her depression. Her doctor wasn't one to pull punches, and he told her what she had to look forward to. He didn't paint a pretty picture, honey.”
“I don't imagine he did.”
“She told me she couldn't stand the idea of being in a wheelchair, drooling and breathing through a machine. That she'd rather be dead than go through that.”
“Well, it looks like she got her wish,” I said. “Only it sure wasn't suicide. Clarice, have you told anybody about Abby's illness?”
“Lordy, no.” She was shocked.
“Although she's dead, I think it would be a good idea if you kept this to yourself.” I didn't want to scare her, but I was concerned that there was a possibility that whoever had killed Abby and Dr. Mullon might come after her.
I reached in my purse, pulled out the copy of the New York Times article on the Van Thiessen fire and handed it to her. It was folded back to the second page with the picture of Peter and Gloria. “Do these kids look familiar to you?”
Rode Hard, Put Away Dead Page 23
