AHMM, July/August 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Listen, love to talk, but I've really got to go. I have an appointment with a rich client downtown in forty-five minutes and I'll need every bit of it to get there in time.”

  “Break it. Downtown L.A. is hell's half acre.” This from a man whose office is a hundred yards from the Fresno County Jail.

  “You haven't seen this block of downtown, and I guess you missed the important part.”

  “Rich?”

  “No. Client.”

  “Oh, Erica,” he said, and I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Mom wants a word—”

  “Sorry. Gotta run. Love you.” I hung up before Mom joined the charge, waving her saber amidst blaring bugles and the thunderous thud of hooves. My family, gotta love ‘em.

  I checked my purse to see if I had enough money for gas. Damn. Looked like I was taking the bus.

  * * * *

  I only had to walk a short distance from the bus stop to get there. The McKinley Building was half a city block of art deco steel and cast cement that had once housed a bank at street level and large swanky office suites above. It had recently been restored to its Roaring Twenties glory, only now it featured high-end retail on the sidewalk, with the rest of the building divided into outrageously expensive condos for the urban ultracool.

  In the lobby, a bored guard made me sign in after making a call upstairs to make sure I had a legitimate reason to be there. He reluctantly let me through to the bank of elevators. I went to the one at the end, at a right angle to all the others, because it was the only one that went up to the penthouse loft. The private one.

  When I got out at the top, I was met by a smartly dressed woman, brunette, maybe ten years older than me, who could have been anything from a CEO's executive secretary to an archduke's housekeeper.

  I was a little slow introducing myself because I was trying to take everything in. Sometimes a moment of silence can have a dramatic effect. At other times, it just makes you look dumb. This was one of those other times.

  “Hi. I'm Erica H. Wooding.”

  I thrust out my right hand. The woman pressed my fingers for a split second as if to say, I'm only doing this to be polite.

  “I have an appointment with Ms. Fowler.”

  “You are expected, Ms. Wooding,” she said, like I didn't already know. Her accent said upper-crust East Coast. “I'm Fredericks, Miss Enola's valette. May I take your coat?”

  First of all, there's no such word as valette, she just made that up. Now, a valet in L.A., and probably where you live too, is usually somebody who parks cars. But I could tell she was saying she was a sort of female Jeeves. Not a mere lady's maid, but a valette. Secondly, there was the Miss Enola instead of Ms. Fowler, like something out of Tennessee Williams.

  “Coat?” I had on a short leather jacket. Nobody ever wears a coat in Los Angeles unless it's raining, and you know how often that happens. “I didn't bring one, Ms. Fredericks.”

  Somehow, even though she didn't change expressions, I could tell I'd disappointed her, as if a lady always had a coat, and therefore Erica H. Wooding must not be a lady.

  “Just Fredericks. This way, please,” she said, leading me into the loft.

  The first thing I noticed was soft classical piano music being piped in, as if I were shopping at Nordstrom's. Then the decor struck me. What would otherwise have been a huge single space was divided into rooms by Japanese paper screens extending from floor to ceiling between square pillars holding up the roof. From the look of them, the screens could be slid or moved to reconfigure the floor plan. The ceiling itself was high and made of pressed tin tiles painted copper, uber-retro but nice, punctuated with sprinkler heads every six feet or so. The floor was teak and maple parquet, polished to a brilliant sheen, with fine woolen rugs centered in each room. There was very little furniture, all of it in Mission-style oak, austerely elegant—minimalist, you could say.

  She led me all the way back to some tall French doors that opened north onto the rooftop patio. The air had been blown clear by the Santa Ana winds the day before, so to the far left you could see all the way to Century City, Santa Monica, and the ocean. On the near left were the Hollywood Hills. North and east, skyscrapers glinted in the sun. The sky was a glacial blue.

  There were Heritage rosebushes and garden herbs planted in big terra cotta planters along the balustrade, and not quite a soccer field away at the other end of the patio was a glass hothouse. Fredericks kept going that way so I followed her.

  She opened the door to the hothouse and led me in. Humidity swept over me like I had wiped out on a rogue wave. My silk blouse was already starting to stick to my skin.

  The second thing I noticed was a wheelchair, one of those fancy motorized scooter gizmos, basically a one-seat Cadillac convertible. The woman in it was older than Mom, but younger than either of my grandmas. She was doing some pruning and didn't look up as I came in. The same piano music as in the living quarters accompanied the clip of her shears.

  The hothouse was full of antheriums blossoming under potted Sago palms. Most people don't know what this kind of flower is called, but everybody's seen one: a big, single, heart-shaped, leaflike petal, usually scarlet or orange but sometimes white, with a thick yellow erect stamen jutting up from where the stem joins the petal. They're really almost obscene. I knew what they were because before I was old enough to help Dad at the bail bonds boutique, I worked a couple of summers in my aunt's flower shop.

  Fredericks discreetly coughed. “Miss Enola, your appointment.”

  Miss Enola, again. All right, I could cope. While I was waiting for her to look at me, I got a good look at her. She was a little thing, and reminded me of a tiny songbird, sharp-nosed and bright-eyed. Adding to the effect was a bright yellow dress trimmed with green and black. Her hair was dyed a lustrous mahogany brown and was slightly gray at the roots, cut short and parted on the left, sweeping back behind her ears.

  Finally she stopped and looked up at me. She stared at me for several seconds, then turned her chair to face me.

  “You're too tall,” she said abruptly. She had a high little soprano, but well modulated. “Your hair is too long and your skirt is too short. But at least your shoes are sensible, and you don't wear too much makeup or have talons instead of fingernails.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “As far as I'm concerned, high heels and long nails are for women who don't work.”

  “Even so, your appearance gives me the impression that you may be a little too fond of men.”

  “Some men, maybe,” I said. “Personally and professionally, I don't always trust appearances.”

  She nodded curtly. “Sit down.”

  Where? But Fredericks was unfolding a low metal chair, really a backed stool. Then she vanished like a ghost. Well, that's what it seemed like.

  I sat down as ladylike as I could, which isn't as easy as it sounds when your legs are as long as mine. I really should have worn a longer skirt, I guess, but it was a little late to worry about that.

  “How can I help you . . . Miss Enola?” I asked in my best business voice. Sometimes being a P.I. is like being a therapist or a bartender. Look interested even if you aren't, then shut up and listen. You'll learn more that way.

  “Erica H. Wooding,” she said, staring at me appraisingly. “What is the ‘H’ for?”

  That took me off guard. “Oh. It stands for Holmes, my mother's maiden name. I was named for my grandfather.”

  Miss Enola was amused, and though she compressed her lips to keep from smiling, the rest of her face opened up like a daisy.

  “A private detective named Holmes. How droll. You're blushing, my dear.”

  “No, I'm just very fair and it's a little warm in here.”

  “So you were named after a man,” she said, disapproving.

  What was that all about? “And, Miss Enola, you were, what, named after the B-29 that nuked Hiroshima?”

  Then she did smile, but just as soon it was gone. “Quite a bedside manner you have, Erica.”
>
  “You want a good bedside manner, hire a nurse. I'm an investigator, and my name and my hair and my skirt have nothing to do with it. I'm good at what I do, and if you want to know if I'm the right woman for the job, I suggest you ask me about that.”

  “I had a background investigation performed prior to making our appointment, Erica. I know all about your professional abilities. The firm that referred you to me, Cal Ops, is very good, for a competitor. Their report was quite positive.”

  Which was big news to me. Cal Ops, short for California Operatives, Inc., was an elite Beverly Hills agency where I had once unsuccessfully applied for a position when I came to L.A. Actually, I had unsuccessfully applied for a position at every reputable agency in Los Angeles before the Grady calamity, so going independent had been a last resort. The recession may not have hurt Sherwood Brothers, but it was killing me. Getting Cal Ops to check me out was like driving a Bentley to a car lot to shop for a Honda. Mucho bizarro. If she had hired Cal Ops, what did she need me for?

  And what did she mean by competitor?

  “I think you might do,” Miss Enola said. “I am not a termagant, Erica, my unconventional interview technique notwithstanding. I needed to judge you for myself. Your predecessors lacked the necessary character, but they were all young men. None of them lasted longer than a month. I've interviewed a few other women, but they were either too demure or too pugnacious. I need someone who will not wilt at the first sign of confrontation on the one hand, nor go for the throat at the minutest challenge on the other. She must hold her own and maintain her dignity.”

  Dignity isn't a word I hear applied to me a lot. I said, “I'm not sure what we're talking about.”

  “We will start on a trial basis. If you prove suitable during our investigation, I will consider making the arrangement permanent.”

  "Our investigation? Make what permanent?”

  “I trust a twenty-five hundred dollar retainer will be sufficient?”

  I quickly nodded, afraid that if I opened my mouth, I'd knock my teeth out with my foot again.

  “Excellent. Now, as to the terms of your employment—”

  “I'll need to know something about your case first. There are some things I won't do, like divor—”

  “Nothing so sordid, I assure you. Details will be provided.”

  “I brought a standard contr—”

  She waved me off. “Unnecessary. Let us retire to the office.”

  With that, she whizzed out the door. I closed it behind me as I left.

  I followed her across the patio back to the French doors. Inside, Fredericks was waiting for us with a checkbook, a brandy-colored leather portfolio, and a fountain pen. She handed the portfolio to me and the checkbook and pen to Miss Enola.

  Miss Enola opened it, signed a check, pulled it out, and handed it to me. Then she led us into a large windowless space dominated by a long wraparound desk with nothing on it but a light headset with a microphone, a wireless keyboard and mouse, and three wide-aspect computer monitors. There were three chairs facing the desk, but none behind it, so that Miss Enola could wheel in to work. The Japanese screens that acted as walls were hung with delicate Zen scroll paintings of tall bamboo and exquisite birds.

  She motioned us to be seated. I took the closest chair, on the right, and Fredericks took the chair on the left. From somewhere, Fredericks had produced a touchscreen computer which she hefted like a steno pad, to which she applied a sterling silver stylus with a rubber nib, taking notes as Miss Enola talked.

  “Your initial trial period will be for two weeks,” Miss Enola said. “After that, if you prove suitable, you will become a probationary employee for six months. You will move out of your current lodgings and move here into private quarters. I shall not charge you for room and board. We shall not terminate your residence at your current address until the end of your two-week trial. I will pay any rent owed on your apartment during the trial period. Fredericks will provide you with the appropriate tax forms—”

  “Easier if I bill you,” I said. “I can handle my taxes on my own. And I'm sorry, but there's no way I'm moving in. It's more convenient if I maintain my independence and regularly report to you on my progress.”

  “Erica, you misunderstand. It may seem more convenient to you, but it is not remotely more convenient to me. I am hiring you not as an independent contractor, but as a salaried employee, like Fredericks here, to be available at any time of the day or night that I may require your services. This is not a nine-to-five job.”

  “Well, investigations never are, but—”

  “No overnight visitors. No loud noises. Otherwise, you are free to act as you please, within reason.” She turned to Fredericks and said, “Make arrangements to have whatever personal items Erica may need—clothes, toiletries, and so forth, delivered from her apartment, although I think perhaps a shopping trip might be in order to bring her wardrobe up to snuff—and show her to her room.”

  I stiffened. Like I'm going to let some stranger go through my underwear drawer.

  “Right now I think I'll have a rest,” she said, completely unaware I was offended.

  “Yes, Miss Enola,” Fredericks said, nodding.

  “Erica, we'll discuss the case after supper,” Miss Enola said. “Familiarize yourself with the contents of the portfolio in the meantime. We dine at seven. I should warn you that this is an organic vegetarian household.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Nobody's going through my things. And my landlord will go ballistic if he thinks I'm moving out.”

  “Don't worry about your landlord,” she said. “He will be addressed.”

  “And what about my car?”

  “That will also not be needed, but you may store it in our garage during the trial. After that, if you continue with us, you should probably sell it. Or you can give it to charity.”

  “I'm not selling Rhonda. How am I supposed to get around?”

  “You took the bus to get here,” she replied, “but in the future, you can drive the Tesla.”

  “Tesla?” I know squat about cars in general, but since I hadn't heard of it, my guess was it must be a pretty exclusive ride. “I don't know what that is, but I'm guessing it's expensive.”

  “Moderately,” she said. “It was just under two hundred thousand. The Tesla Roadster is an electric-powered sports car that does zero to sixty in less than four seconds.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “You're an attractive young lady, Erica,” Miss Enola said, frowning, “so do try not to sound like a celebrity party girl.”

  The idea of taking such an outrageously expensive car out for a spin on the insane L.A. freeways struck me as about as smart as juggling the White House china at a state banquet. Don't get me wrong, I'm a pretty good driver in the right vehicle, say, one slightly less costly than a private Caribbean island—but I'm a lousy juggler.

  Besides, I loved my car. Rhonda was a Chevy HHR woody that I had won at an auction for a song. It was love at first sight, and I named her after an old Beach Boys song Dad used to sing to me when I was a little girl. We had bonded. Plus, imagine me toting my beat-up old surfboard to the beach on the roof of an exotic sports car. Or toting grocery bags in the passenger's seat. It would be like wearing pearls and a sleek black cocktail dress to In-N-Out Burger.

  Then something she'd said hit me.

  “Uh—how did you know I took the bus?”

  But she was already rolling away. “We'll discuss it later. Welcome to the Fowler Investigative Analysis Team.”

  “The Fowler Investigative what?”

  She stopped. “The Fowler Investigative Analysis Team. We are licensed to perform confidential inquiries for select clients.”

  Miss Enola was a detective?

  “You mean you're a licensed P.I. too?”

  “That is correct, but the FIAT—” She pronounced it to rhyme with “high hat,” and I subsequently noticed that whenever she said it, it was always the FIAT. “—is not your garden varie
ty rent-a-cop shop.” She started rolling away again.

  I could believe that. “How many agents are there on the team?”

  “Formerly one. Now there are two. With occasional supernumeraries.”

  “Wait—”

  But she had turned a corner and I wasn't sure if I should go after her.

  “Ms. Wooding, if you will please follow me,” Fredericks said before I could make up my mind. Because I didn't know what else to do at that point, I obeyed.

  I was still a bit stunned as Fredericks led me to “my room,” which turned out to face west, with a view almost as good as from the patio. The bathroom was as big as my whole Studio City apartment, dominated by a recessed pink granite tub, with all sorts of colored bath oils in glass bottles around it, which I thought a little girlie given how Spartan everything else was. I was afraid there might be a futon instead of a real bed, what with the Japanese screens everywhere, but I was wrong—it was a queen, in that spare Arts & Crafts style like all the other furniture, covered with what had to be a hand-stitched quilt. Instead of closets there were two big wardrobes of pale oak with full-length mirrors on the doors. A huge HDTV sat on a wide stand next to a vanity dresser on the wall opposite the bed. It was a wonderful room. But not wonderful enough.

  Reluctantly, I faced Fredericks and handed her the check.

  “I can't do this.”

  Fredericks let me hang for a moment, and then sighed.

  “I will talk to Miss Enola about your car,” she said at length. “I'm sure we can arrive at an equitable arrangement. And we shall go together to gather your things after dinner, so you don't have to be worried about your privacy.” She paused. “Ms. Wooding, may I speak plainly?”

  “Go ahead, and call me Erica,” I said. “Everybody else seems to.”

  “My first name is Brunella,” she said drily. “Now you know why I go by Fredericks.”

  “Ouch. I sympathize. What were you called growing up?”

  “Freddy. I hated that too. But please listen.”