Sympathy for the Devil

by Jerrilyn Farmer

  “I’ve been leaving you messages all over the place,” I said. “C’mon and join me outside.”

  Arlo followed and sat on the edge of my lounge chair.

  “So. I leave you alone for a few weeks and you go and kill one of your clients. You should have asked my advice. I’d have said don’t do it.”

  I smiled. “Is that why you haven’t returned my calls? Are you afraid you’ll be connected to my crime spree? By the way,” I added, “are you sure you really want to drink that?” I nodded to his glass, which was tipped up to his mouth.

  “Didn’t you wonder why I poured my own drink?” he countered, grinning.

  “Hmm. Not smart enough. ’Cause the poison used on Bruno was most likely slipped into the bottle. L’chaim!” I smiled and toasted him with my glass of Diet Coke.

  “You vixen! What were you thinking of? Don’t you know poisoning clients does not promote positive word-of-mouth for a caterer?”

  “Duh!”

  “But, hey. A guy doesn’t praise your warm goat cheese with walnuts and toast, he’s got it coming.”

  “Not a jury in the country would convict me.”

  “Well, not an L.A. jury, that’s probably true.”

  “To my town!” I toasted, and we both drank again.

  “Hey, you.” Arlo moved in closer and put down his empty glass. I put down mine. “This courtyard is pretty damn private, you ever noticed?”

  “Uh, Arlo,” I bent to move my computer off the chaise while trying to catch a quick glance at my watch at the same time. I got a face full of denim shirt. It smelled good.

  “No, I’m up here, sweetie,” he coached.

  A kiss.

  “Thanks for reminding me. Only, Arlo, we can’t. Wes will be here any minute and…”

  Another kiss.

  “…it’s kinda important we get him off the hook with the police.”

  My sweater was being lifted and I was definitely in the mood to have it off, but the timing of this thing was distracting me from the present tense.

  “Arlo,” I tried again. “There isn’t time.”

  He stopped. He sat back down and the wind chilled my semiclothed body as he pulled away.

  “Get out your Filofax, cause this is the only time I’ve got open until I turn in my script on Thursday.” It was hard to tell when Arlo was mad.

  “Well, Thursday is not good. I’m teaching a little class in sourdough that night.” It had been weeks since I’d last been with Arlo, and I was not all that anxious to put my sweater back on. With our schedules, it was now or never.

  “Get back here,” I ordered, pointing to my bare chest, shivering, “and I’ll see if I can squeeze you in without an appointment.”

  Arlo smiled a slow, appreciative smile and got back there. It was always a little easier to be wittier than he was when we were having sex. I think it was all that blood rushing away from his brain.

  I’ll admit, it was hard for me to focus. There was the unpleasant thought that maybe, what with Arlo’s modest eating pattern and all, he might actually weigh less than me. I tried to put that out of my mind.

  And then, what was that noise? Wes did have a key.

  “Is that the door?” I asked. By now we were pretty much out of our clothes.

  “You’ve never called it that before.” A joke.

  A new thought: What if the motive isn’t money? What if it’s revenge? That’s going to open up the possible suspects.

  As Arlo pressed a trail of kisses on my neck, he was inadvertently mashing me into the hard wood of the chaise. I adjusted my position and gasped. That’s better.

  My mind couldn’t stay away from the problem. So, maybe if Wes and I could come up with a real case against the real murderer, I could go see that Lieutenant Honnett and get him to…

  “Ah.” Even as scattered as my brain was, this was beginning to feel very good.

  Where was I? Chuck Honnett. Yeah, Chuck Honnett. He was a big one. He had to weigh, what, 210, maybe more. Hey, what was I thinking about? And of all times.

  At some point I noticed Wesley, inside the house, discreetly tiptoeing away from the french doors. So much for privacy. So much for timing. So much for my fabled skills of concentration.

  But just as I was about to give up, Arlo whispered to me, “Think Peeping Tom would like to join us?”

  “Unlikely. I’m afraid we can’t even inspire the guy to keep peeping.”

  “Oh, yeah? I can rise to that challenge!” Laying on me, propping himself on his elbows, Arlo wove his fingers through handfuls of my hair, pulling it back off my face. “Can you?”

  Ah. A challenge.

  With great effort, I put the murder on mental hold. Then I flipped Arlo over until he was on the bottom, with his behind smooshed into the wooden slats, and I was on top. No big trick. Hell, I outweighed him.

  He chuckled up at me, instantly aware of the increase in attention he was suddenly receiving.

  “Want to kiss my door?” he offered, innocently.

  But I had another idea. It was way better after that.

  Chapter 14

  It was nine o’clock. Arlo and I were slowly putting on this (a stray gray sock) and that (a white silk camisole); retrieving articles of clothing from here (atop of a potted hydrangea) and there (scrunched under the leg of the chaise). The aftermath.

  For some time, we had been aware of certain lights and movements from behind the quickly closed curtains of the industrial kitchen. Wesley, no doubt getting a head start on prep for the brunch we were doing tomorrow. Sixteen guests. No sweat.

  Arlo put his arm around my waist, and in the pale patio light I leaned against him.

  “Erica thinks the first two acts suck,” he told me as he disengaged from our hug and finished buttoning his shirt. Erica Moss was the star of Arlo’s sitcom, “Woman’s Work.”

  “She’s nuts,” I said. “You know, this poisoning business worries me because the police maybe think Wes did it.”

  “No kidding? Wes?” Arlo went back to his original thought. “Anyway, I figure if writing the script in the first place didn’t send me screaming down Lankershim Boulevard, rewrites every night until 2:00 a.m. should do the trick.”

  “You need a break, Arlo. Maybe we could get away.”

  “How about after my next taping? We could leave Saturday. The show will be down the next week, so I could manage maybe a three-day weekend in Santa Barbara.”

  “I have this murder thing, remember? I don’t know if I can wrap it up in, oh, the next four or five days.”

  “You underestimate yourself.”

  “It is my first murder.”

  “Well, let me know.” Arlo looked toward the lighted kitchen window. “But for tonight, maybe I should leave you and the murderer to work out your problem with the law.”

  “Maybe that’s a good idea.”

  I walked with him through the office and on into the entry. At the door we held each other, content. I could now get on with working out the puzzle of Bruno’s death. Arlo seemed equally happy to get back to his place. Knowing him, he’d be up all night fiddling with his script problems in his usual workaholic haze.

  Back in the kitchen, Wesley was at the sink, elbow deep in romaine lettuce. He was washing and drying and tearing in preparation for tomorrow when we would finish off the salads with Caesar dressing at the home of our clients. He had also started the garlic marinade for the chicken breasts. They’d soak in the flavor all night so they’d be ready to grill fresh and top the salads at the client’s home in the morning.

  “I hate this.” Wesley waved his hand over the pan of soaking chicken. A stickler for tradition, he believed Caesar salad should be adorned only with anchovies and croutons. Adding chicken had become a restaurant lunch fad and it was, regrettably, a favorite with our Sunday brunch clients.

  “Didn’t a great man once say, ‘We can make it taste good but we can’t make them have good taste’?” I quoted to him.

  “Ah, my favorite author. Me.
” Wes smiled.

  “I thought Charlie the Tuna said that.”

  So far, the conversation had skirted the recent activities on the patio. It was his way. No matter how outrageous the situation, he strove to hit just the right note of nonchalance. It could be infuriating.

  “Ahem. Notice anything going on when you arrived?”

  Wes took the radical shift in subject without dropping a leaf of lettuce. “I had no idea you actually still had a sex life, what with your and Arlo’s busy schedule. What happened? Did his series get cancelled?”

  I shot him a look.

  “You know,” I said, “the best thing about an established relationship is that it’s comfortable. It doesn’t need to take up every minute of your time.”

  “Judging from recent events, I’d say your relationship is so ‘established’ it only requires…” He looked at his watch. “…about forty-four minutes.”

  I looked at my watch, defensively. “Fifty-four minutes.”

  “Maybe,” Wesley offered, “the best part of being in love isn’t bringing a tender encounter in under an hour.”

  I shook my head, defeated.

  “Just a thought,” Wes said, kindly.

  “I’ll figure this relationship business out one of these decades. I hope.”

  I checked the salmon, which had been curing in a pound each of sugar, fennel seed, and kosher salt, and a couple of ounces of whole black peppercorns. I had weighted it down with a heavy griddle and left it in the refrigerator for the past forty-eight hours in a perforated pan. I would finish assembling the caramelized onion tarts with marinated salmon and cream tomorrow, but as I worked on the various components, I filled Wes in on my day.

  Wes only interrupted me twice. The first time was to explain that while he knew all about the chemistry of poison he was not actually an expert at poisoning people. It was true he had T.A.’d a class on biochemistry that covered toxins. He could probably diagram the strychnine molecule, if pressed. But he had no practical knowledge of how to poison a man, whatsoever.

  His second interruption struck a somewhat more unsettling note. He inquired if I had begun to develop some sort of “thing” for Honnett.

  “Thing?” I huffed. “Thing! Tonight, of all nights, you choose to question where my heart lies?”

  “It’s not necessarily about the heart, my girl.”

  “I would never even think of it!” I knew I sounded defensive.

  “It’s not necessarily about the mind, either.”

  But all that said, I still couldn’t get past this overwhelming feeling of anxiety about the murder. And it was abetted by the realization that Wes was not, somehow, taking his situation seriously enough.

  He just kept saying everything would work out fine. He explained that the police, bumbling as they were, were bound to bumble onto the right suspect in a short time. That’s why he’d thought why not ride out the first few days of their investigation in the splendor of the Ritz. If he just kept a low profile, he seemed convinced, it would all blow over.

  “Surely, they are not going to arrest me without finding the poison. Obviously, I do not now have, nor have I ever had, poison in my possession. And, the motive they ascribe to me is not exactly faultless. I needed Bruno alive to pay me back. When they find more hard evidence, it’s sure to lead them to someone else.”

  “If they’re actually looking for more evidence. They may just sit tight thinking they have all the evidence they need to take you in.”

  Wesley smiled. He still seemed too jaunty to be fully appreciating the mess he could be in.

  “And who’s going to help me grill the blasted chicken if you’re in jail?”

  Wes gave me a hug. “There, there,” he said. “I’d never leave you in the lurch with all this uncooked poultry.”

  “Look, maybe we better work this thing out ourselves. If we could come up with any other leads, perhaps the cops would move on to torment someone else.”

  “Believe me, I’m all for getting the cops off my back. Where do we start?”

  “How about the Curse of Los Feliz?”

  “Oh, that old curse,” Wesley mused.

  “With your incredible memory, I knew you’d have the details. Can you tell me?”

  “Do you have a spare hour? It’s kind of fun. I first heard about it back when I was helping Bruno get that land he wanted to purchase behind his house.

  “You remember Denny Steigitz, don’t you? That guy with the weird hair who played drums in that jazz group I used to go watch on Sunset? Anyway, the deal was that his grandmother owned this property up in Los Feliz and one day he tells me he inherited it all and did I know a real estate agent to help him unload it. He thought it might be worth a million.”

  “Right. And then I suggested you get in touch with Bruno.” It had just been one of those coincidences. I’d begun catering the cast lunches on one of Bruno’s soaps and I had heard he was interested in that property. “But what about the curse?”

  “Well, after I got involved, God forgive me, with helping Bruno get the land he wanted, I heard from the title insurance company that the parcel had been part of this old legendary Curse of the Felizes. I always appreciate a bizarre story, so I looked it up. You want to hear the whole thing?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Long version or short?”

  “Long.” After all, if Bruno Huntley died talking about this curse, something in the story might shed light upon the murder.

  “Here goes. Let me take you back in time. It’s the late 1770s, and an ambitious Spanish soldier named Jose Vicente Feliz was appointed to be the military escort for the first Spanish settlers who went up the California coast, eventually founding San Francisco. By being in the right place at the right point in history, and by not getting his party massacred by hostile natives, Feliz got his toe in the door of the new land.

  “A few years later, the Spanish governor of San Francisco sent Feliz south to keep tabs on the folks who were settling a little burg which today is our fair city. Another fortuitous job transfer. As the years went by, the Spaniard, Jose Vicente Feliz, became a big man in a California that was governed by Spain.

  “At that time, all this beautiful land was like giant party favors for the rich and powerful. The map was being divvied up into enormous estates, called “ranchos,” to be granted as gifts to those who had done service to the Crown.

  “In 1802, twenty-five years after he first came to California, Jose Vicente Feliz is granted his own rancho and he settles down to a kingly life. Actually, the neighborhood we know of today as Los Feliz was only a small portion of his great property. Originally, Rancho de Los Feliz was close to eight thousand acres. And it was touted as being some of the prettiest and richest land in all California: pastureland, rugged hillsides, mighty oaks, the works.

  “After securing his fortune, Jose Vicente leaves the wealthy property to be passed down in his family, from generation to generation. And, eventually, it comes into the possession of a relative named Don Antonio Feliz.

  “The terrible Curse of the Felizes dates from the day, in 1863, that Don Antonio died of smallpox. It was also the day the Feliz family lost their beloved rancho.”

  “Wesley, this would make a great miniseries. Go on.” I kept working as he spoke.

  “So here’s the back story. It seems this Don Antonio is a bachelor and lives with his sister. Her name is Soledad and she has a daughter, Petranilla, who lives there, too.

  “Well, Don Antonio gets smallpox and they decide to send the girl, who is only seventeen, away to protect her from the deadly, contagious disease. Soledad stays.”

  “Are you getting to the curse part?” I asked, slicing extra thin slices from the salmon, and interlacing them with sleeves of plastic wrap.

  “Pipe down. You’re interrupting my flow!” he complained, and then resumed the story in that radio drama voice of his.

  “Soledad stays behind to nurse her brother. On his deathbed, Feliz gets a couple of visitors. It�
�s this powerful, influential guy named Don Antonio Coronel…”

  I arched my eyebrow in question.

  “Yeah, the names are kind of confusing, but stay with me. Anyway, Coronel was there in the bedroom with Feliz, who’s sick as a dog, and he thoughtfully brought along his lawyer, Don Innocante, who entered the sickroom leaning on a fancy walking stick.

  “Here’s where it gets dicey. The two visitors draw up a will. The lawyer, Innocante, reads it aloud. Remember, Don Antonio Feliz is dying of smallpox, feeble, maybe unconscious. So the men fasten Innocante’s walking stick to the back of Feliz’s head. And with their strength, they lower the stick, forcing him to nod his assent to the new will.”

  “Ooh. This is good stuff,” I approved.

  “So, guess what? Feliz dies, and surprise, surprise, Coronel was willed the ranch.”

  “What happened to the sister and her daughter?”

  “I think Soledad got a few pieces of furniture. Her daughter, Petranilla, got zip.”

  “Bad luck, ladies. Could they take the will to court?”

  “A little update on California history. Spain had been thrown out and Mexico took over for a while. By 1863, California has only recently freed itself from twenty-five years of Mexican rule, but the men who really run the place are this handful of influential Spaniards who helped settle the place. L.A.’s still a small town. And these big-shot Spaniards, Colonel and Innocante, know the judge. He upholds the new will and declares it legal.”

  “Are we up to the curse?”

  “Yep. Petranilla would not be placated. She is major league pissed.”

  “You know teenagers.”

  “She unleashes the Feliz curse.”

  “Maybe they should have left her a little something. A painting, a vase?”

  “I actually have an article with the word for word curse somewhere at my place,” Wes said. “It was terrific. She goes on and on. ‘Your falsity shall be your ruin! The Feliz family shall be your curse!’ Stuff like that.

  “She puts the curse on Coronel and the lawyer, Innocante, and the judge, too. ‘One shall die an untimely death, another in blood and violence…’”