“No, no. Nothing like that Mrs. W.” I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected that Wes’s mom thought we were a couple.
“I think I know where you can find him.”
“Great.” I felt a rush of relief.
“Perhaps, dear, it would be best for me to try to get him and that way he can call you…”
“Well, thanks, Mrs. W. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Maybe you could give me the…”
“This isn’t some sort of lover’s quarrel?”
“No.” She had a lot to learn about her son, I sighed.
“Okay, honey. We’ll work this out.”
My water was boiling and here’s where things can get hairy, polenta-wise. I had learned the traditional trick of adding the cornmeal by the fistful, letting it trickle between almost closed fingers in a fine golden stream, while whisking constantly, to prevent lumps.
I found my container of stone-ground yellow cornmeal and measured out four cups. Then I shook my clenched fist over the pot as I sifted and whisked, sifted and whisked. And I thought about what I hadn’t disclosed to the police.
It’s just that everything kept pointing to Wes. Like the idea I’d been toying with of the poison being slipped into Bruno’s brandy. I knew Bruno’s drinking habits a little better, in actual fact, than I had led on to old Richie McGee.
Bruno did drink only brandy after a meal, as I’d reported, but it was a waste of time for the police to test the bottles from the bar. Bruno would never have touched the brandy intended for his guests. Only the very best of the best Armagnac would pass his lips. And I was beginning to believe it just may have killed him.
Bruno had become fascinated by the 1962 vintage Armagnac from Larressingle, one of the oldest firms in Gascony. Naturally, this kind of spirit costs a bundle. The Larressingle was $150 a pop, and Bruno boasted that he’d cellared a dozen cases. It was his habit to keep a bottle locked in his private liquor cabinet in the butler’s pantry. Bruno, with a large staff and a small child, had liked the idea of locks and keys.
If the poison was in Bruno’s brandy, it had to be from that locked-up bottle of Larressingle Armagnac, vintage 1962. I recalled that for last night’s party, the ring containing all the keys to the house, including the ones to the wine cellar and the liquor cabinet, had been given to us early in the day. And they had been held by Wes.
The polenta was getting thicker. Careful whisking had kept the cornmeal smooth but now the real work began. I turned the heat down to medium-low, switched to a wooden spoon, and began to stir.
The phone rang. Mrs. Westcott.
“Madeline, this is odd. I was sure Wes said he was staying at his favorite hotel…”
“The Ritz-Carlton in Laguna?”
“Yes. Well, I called and tried to get him, like you asked. But it turns out I was wrong. He did tell me he was staying at his favorite hotel, Madeline, but he wasn’t at the Ritz-Carlton.”
Where are you Wesley? I changed the phone to my right ear, and shifted my wooden spoon to my left hand. That felt better.
“Thanks, Mrs. W. I’ll find him.”
Wasn’t I the woman who always met a challenge? Didn’t I profess to love a good mystery? Well, here was a chance to prove I was up to it. Maybe Wes had registered under a false name, or maybe…
I remembered Mal.
“Ark Animal Hospital,” a young woman’s voice purred in my ear.
“Yes, great. This is Madeline Bean, and my partner, Wes Westcott asked me to check on Mal, his springer spaniel. Could you tell me how she’s doing?”
“Just a moment,” she said and she put me on hold.
A dull ache had seized up my left arm and, while I listened to “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head,” I switched sides again; phone to left ear, spoon to right hand. I looked up at the clock. I’d only been stirring for ten minutes.
“What was your name again?” the voice asked.
“Madeline Bean.”
“Mal is fine, Miss Bean. But Mr. Westcott told us you wouldn’t be picking her up until tomorrow. Is that still your plan?”
Yowza!
“Uh, yep. That’s right.” So Wes had brought his dog to the vet to have her boarded while he was away. I felt a flush of victory. It sounded like Wes had been planning to leave Mal with me. I always looked after her when he traveled.
I figured a bit further. When he called earlier, I had already left the house for my lunch date with Lizzie, so he took her to the kennel until he could reach me. That made sense. I was sure if I had been home he would have told me everything. Wesley wasn’t running away from me. So no need to panic.
“By the way, did he leave a number where you could reach him in an emergency?”
“555–2010,” she read to me quickly.
That was my number.
“Any other notes?”
“That’s all that’s on the card,” she said sweetly. This call was just about over.
“It’s just that I’ve got to find Wes…” I was running out of anything rational to add, and just began to blither. “…and he is supposed to call me, but I may be out when he does, and it’s about Mal’s special food…”
“You just wait a minute. I’ll ask Francine. She was here when Mr. Westcott brought Mal in.” And once again I was listening to “Raindrops.” Considering the extra effort I’d just inspired, I must make a note to stop trying to sound so competent all the time.
The polenta was a thick, sticky, golden mush and weighed a ton, but I kept at it. I was entering a kind of Zen state of stirring.
“Miss Bean. You know what? Francine says Mr. Westcott was going to the desert. How about that? See, we don’t really have any room for last-minute boarding, especially on a weekend like this. But Mr. Westcott said how it was he had this urgent business in the desert and how you’d be picking up Mal as soon as he could reach you. So Francine said yes. Does that help you at all?”
The desert. In California, that meant Palm Springs. Quick switch of hands, phone to right, dialing; spoon to left, stirring.
“This is Rita. What city, please?”
“Rancho Mirage,” I said rapidly. “The Ritz-Carlton?”
After noting the recorded number, I dialed it and asked for Wes. I was betting that a man who loved the feel of Ritz-Carlton towels after a dip in the pool in Laguna Niguel would find them just as plush while drying off on the outskirts of Palm Springs.
“Mr. Westcott? One moment, please.” I heard the line connect and ring through to a room.
I grinned. I had done it. Tracked him down and it had only taken thirty-five minutes. Not bad.
“I’m sorry, there’s no answer. Is there a message?”
“Could you connect me to the health club?” I countered. Faint victory if I couldn’t get him on the line. I knew my quarry. I’d track him through his favorite little luxuries, even if I had to be transferred all over the damn hotel. I was going to nail him.
“Spa,” a deep male voice answered.
“Does Wesley Westcott have a massage scheduled today? This is his…wife.”
“Umm, yeah. He’s here now. He’s in room two with Theo.”
“It’s an emergency. Please tell him it’s about Mal and get him to the phone right away.”
“Just a moment, Mrs. Westcott.”
I waited, listening to Chopin—it appears I’d earned a muzak upgrade—and counted the strokes I was stirring in the polenta. I had gotten to thirty-three when Wes’s voice came across the line.
Victory.
“Wesley Westcott get dressed. We have got to talk.”
“Madeline! I’ve left messages. Where have you been?”
“After my brush against the thorny backside of the law, I have been trying to figure out who the hell killed Bruno Huntley.”
“I’m standing at the spa reception desk wearing a sheet. I’ll call you back…”
“Oh, no you don’t. I’ve been through hell trying to find you and I have fifteen more minutes of stirring polenta, so park it
in a chair and tell me why you ran off.”
“I was trying to keep you out of this mess.” He sighed. “You have permission to remind me to keep my mouth shut. Ordinarily, talking about what an asshole Bruno is can be a popular conversation starter. It’s just that I was dishing the man at a rather bad time.”
“Wesley!” He had that familiar tone. He was not taking any of this at all seriously.
“Well, how was I to know he’d get popped off last night? Do you think I’d go around trashing the man if I was planning to murder him? It’s ridiculous.”
“I know, Wes. But leaving town so suddenly only makes it look worse. Now they’re going to think you ran away. I’m scared.”
“Well, honestly! Would I kill anyone? The police are so immature!” he groused. “Granted, I was annoyed at the bastard for ripping me off on that old land commission. But how would his death get me my money? It’s not logical.”
His tone of voice changed. “The towels? I’m not sure I can help you.” He was speaking to someone at the spa.
“Wes.” I giggled. “Are you really sitting there in a sheet?”
“Hey, did you turn down the heat on the polenta? You want the cornmeal to taste toasty, not bitter.”
Wes and I could argue recipes for days, but on polenta we were both a bit old-fashioned. No instant mixes, no shortcuts.
“Leave me alone about the polenta. Look, I need you back here to help me figure this out. I’ve come up with some clues…”
“Oh, good. Clues!”
“Yes. But, oddly, they all seem to lead to you, my friend.”
“Me? Like what?”
“Like the strychnine that was used to poison Bruno? I’m getting an unsettling feeling it was put into the bottle of Armagnac that Bruno kept locked up for his special nightcaps.”
“In the Armagnac? Are you sure?” Wesley thought it over. “That would make certain sick sense. The killer had to know that sooner or later Bruno would take a drink from his precious bottle of Armagnac.”
“Sure. Everyone close to Bruno knew how he’d pour himself a snifter of brandy after dinner. And by poisoning that one bottle, they could be pretty sure they’d only poison him.” It had been Bruno’s inconsiderate habit to offer no one else a drink from his private bottle.
“Interesting,” Wes drawled.
“Then, assuming we’re right about all this, the poison must have been placed in the Armagnac bottle some time after he took his last drink on the night before the party.”
“Of course.”
“But, Wes, it was right after that that Bruno gave his entire key ring to you.”
“Hmm.” He paused.
“Wes?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Good idea.”
“Keep stirring,” Wes chided me.
“Wesley!”
“I did lend the keys out to several people. And I’m sure Lily must have her own set of keys. And, for all we know, someone else might have made a duplicate of the liquor cabinet key at any time.”
“Of course, you’re right. But tell me, who did you give the key ring to?”
“Well, I lent it to what’s her name, the soothsayer, so she could lock up the guest cottage when she took a break. And then Alan needed the key to the wine cellar. I gave him the entire key ring when I asked him to get more champagne.”
“I don’t expect it could be Alan,” I reflected. He’d been an employee of ours, off and on, since we’d started. However, lately, his acting career had been fairly active. We’d not seen him for months until this party. But now that I thought about it, I remembered that Alan had worked on one of Bruno’s soap operas and been let go. Could he have a grudge big enough to kill the man? My head swirled. It was impossible to really know a person’s heart, if they meant to keep it hidden.
“Anyone else have the key?” I asked.
“Well, not exactly. But…” Wes’s tone changed to deep melodrama. “I did unlock the liquor cabinet for Carmen Huntley at one point in the evening.”
“What! When? Why?” I sputtered.
At that moment, Holly walked into the kitchen. “You sound like a journalism student,” she offered.
“I’m on with Wes. Could you start a salad and take out the chops?” Then, back into the phone, “Wesley, what about Carmen?”
“It must have been around 11:20, because I was about to go meet up with you and Holly. Carmen swiveled into the kitchen on those six-inch heels and said Bruno had sent her for something or other. I just unlocked the liquor cabinet door and left her.”
“Carmen Huntley was in the liquor cabinet, Wesley.”
Holly stared at me and then looked at my arm, dragging itself around in determined circles in the pot. “Want me to take over?” she whispered.
I smiled, shaking my head no, and picked up my stirring pace.
“Got to go,” I told Wesley. “Get back here this instant. We’ve got work to do and I’ve got a load of questions.”
“You’re probably right,” Wes sighed. “Save me some of that polenta. Don’t let Holly eat it all. After it cools, maybe I’ll slice it and fry it up in butter with some nice crimini mushrooms.”
“We’ve got portobello.”
“Perfect. And some ripe plum tomatoes and onion…”
“Get back here, Wes. I’m worried the police are building a case against you. We may have to prove you are not the killer.”
“Killer?” Holly’s eyes went big. She had finished a salad of mixed field greens with a simple vinaigrette and was now putting four lovely lamb chops on the grill of the Viking range.
I removed my pot from the flame and turned half of the thick and sticky mush out onto the marble counter where it would cool, perfect for Wes to slice later. The rest I spooned into an old green bowl. It poured out like whipped cream that’s been beaten into stiff peaks. I added about four tablespoons of butter, grated in some fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano and beat it some more until the polenta was smooth. Then I tasted.
It had a rich corn flavor with a slightly bitter edge that was a perfect match for the cheese and butter. “You’ve got to taste this, Holly.”
Holly tasted. She made that face like she was falling in love.
“We need to find the guy who killed Bruno Huntley, Holly. It may be the only way to keep Wesley out of jail.”
I walked back to the grill and flipped the chops.
“We’ve got work to do. I need to talk to Alan, and that girl who did the soothsayer bit, and I may even talk to Carmen Huntley, what the hell?” I served the lamb with the polenta onto brightly colored Metlox plates and we sat down to eat.
“Maddy, if anyone can find out who killed Huntley, you can.”
I grinned at her. Maybe I could.
But first, dinner.
I put a vivid yellow plate down in front of my assistant, and watched her mouth form into a satisfied smile. This girl did love to eat. She started to cut into one beautiful lamb chop, grilled medium rare and dusted with rosemary.
“Killer!”
For once that day, I figured someone was using that word in a purely complimentary way.
Chapter 13
There were still a few little things I needed Wes to clear up. Like, what was this rumor that he’s some kind of poison expert? And, how did he figure into the Curse of Los Feliz? I checked my old Hamilton watch with the scratched crystal. Since he was driving in from Rancho Mirage, it would take him at least another hour to get to my place. I swore.
Nobody had ever accused me of sainthood. Patience was sorely missing from my inventory of fine qualities. I became aware of the sound of my tapping foot.
For the moment, I was alone. After helping me clean up the dinner dishes, Holly had to go meet her latest guy. So I grabbed my notebook computer and walked out through the french doors of my office into the back courtyard. I arranged myself on a large wooden chaise lounge, with the computer in my lap and a Diet Coke by my side, and I started a journal of the events that surrounded Bruno Hun
tley’s murder.
First, I typed the heading “Enemies and Suspects.” I stared at the blank, vivid blue screen. This was no use. Everybody could be on that list. I backspaced through the heading and tried again. I typed “Motives” and considered.
Money was always a popular motive. Who stood to gain the most? I figured Lily would come into a chunk of money. Also, Bru, Jr. and Graydon. I made a note to find out to whom Bruno had left his estate. Not too tough. With the gossip mill in this town, that news would practically be broadcast on “Entertainment Tonight.”
I thought I heard the doorbell ring, and I jumped up to answer it. Maybe Wes had been speeding. I reached the entry hall and opened the door. Standing in the small circle of low-watt yellow light was Arlo.
Arlo and I hadn’t been seeing each other that much lately, and suddenly finding him there made me miss him, with a sharp, inward hurt.
He had wavy brown hair that seemed to be getting longer, I noticed. His compact body was super slim. Despite my reputation in the kitchen, this guy was strange in the ways of the palate. He would only eat certain foods, cooked certain ways, and in certain combinations. Serve him meat and fruit in the same meal and he’d have a cow.
Send me to a shrink for a year, but I kind of dug the way he was so uninterested in food. Or better yet, save your money. I was always being patted on the head for my cooking. Maybe I just wanted a man who saw me for something other than the obvious.
Arlo walked through the door and tossed his black sports coat down on my desk as he detoured past my office. I padded in my stocking feet behind him. He hadn’t said a word, yet. It was his offhand, familiar way of picking up where we’d left off a few weeks ago.
Another of Arlo’s appealing traits is that he is really funny, and I can actually feel myself revving up, just to keep up with him in conversation. A night with Arlo is a terrific mental workout. I find it stimulating, tiring, hysterical.
“Arlo?” I was trailing him as he made a straight path to the kitchen and found a bottle of Scotch. He clinked some cubes in a water glass and started pouring.
“Hey.” He finished pouring and looked up. “You look great.”
My jeans, by now, bagged at the knees, and I hadn’t bothered to put on any makeup. You had to love a guy who thought you looked great. Maybe he’d been missing me, too.
Sympathy for the Devil Page 8
