by Joanne Pence
She glared at the stupid tree and its “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” cacophony. A horrible thought struck her. She detoured to the family room.
There, in front of the photos of the Roxbury family, where millions of TV viewers could see it if the camera panned slowly and they squinted hard, Rebecca had snuck a photo of her and Paavo standing side-by-side and smiling happily.
Angie snatched it up and dropped it in the trash.
The local chapter of the Audubon Society was located near Sigmund Stern Grove. Minnie Petite lived off of West Portal Avenue, right between Paavo’s current location and the birdwatchers.
As he drove, he phoned Missing Persons and spoke with Inspector Pamela James for the low-down on Fred Demitasse.
James had few details. Apparently Minnie had filed a report the evening before going to see Paavo. They had scarcely begun to work on it.
He thought that was strange. Nevertheless, he decided to pay Minnie a visit.
Petite lived in a brown-shingled cottage with white shutters and a green peaked roof. Almost fairy-tale size, it seemed fitting for its occupants.
She was home and invited Paavo in. He felt like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. All the furniture had been cut down, and even the interior doorknobs were level with his knees.
“It’s about time you got off your fat ass and tried to help.” Petite jutted out her lower lip and glared up at him. “I’m a tax-paying citizen and have rights when my friends go poof and aren’t heard from again!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Paavo said. “That’s why I’m here. I’d like to help you find Mr. Demitasse.”
“Hmmph!”
Since that was her only retort, Paavo knew he was winning her over. “Why don’t you tell me about Fred’s last few days at home?”
“I’ve gone over them in my head, and I don’t think you’ll get anywhere. You can set yourself on that couch. I’ll go through it all again.”
He sat. His knees nearly touched his chin while Minnie told him how Fred was working on getting a television role he seemed to think he had coming to him. He hadn’t told her much about it, probably because he was afraid she’d tell their roommates of the possible job opening, or maybe that she’d want it herself. Fred was a sneaky bastard, she admitted.
He asked if Minnie knew who Fred had been talking to about the television job. Had she picked up any phone calls or heard him refer to anyone by name on the phone?
“I have no idea. I only know what he told me,” Minnie answered. “He mostly used e-mail.”
“Have you checked his computer to see if it gives you any information on his whereabouts?”
“I don’t like computers.” Her eyes narrowed at the mere thought of the loathsome machines. “The few times I tried to use one, it jammed up and nothing would move. I think computers like me even less than I like them.”
“Why don’t we take a look at his computer together?” Paavo suggested. “It just might have the answer you need.”
She led him through the house. He felt as if he should simply step over the furniture rather than walk around it.
He turned on the computer and waited for it to boot up.
Paavo suggested Minnie take the desk chair. He instructed her to double-click on the AOL icon. If this were a murder investigation, for him to go through Fred’s computer without any kind of warrant would be illegal as hell. For one roommate concerned about another’s disappearance to look through it, however, was reasonable.
After a minute of loading Minnie hit the sign-on screen. It opened up with the ubiquitous, “You’ve Got Mail.”
“Hot damn! Will you look at that?” she cried.
“He’s got his computer set up so that no passwords are needed,” Paavo said. He had Minnie open the “Read Mail” window. Five messages were listed, all spam. Typical AOL. “Let’s see if he kept old e-mails in his filing cabinet.”
Minnie looked around the room. “His what?”
He showed her how to move the mouse to find the cabinet, but it was empty. Familiar with AOL, Paavo had Minnie open the “Old Messages” and “Sent Messages” folders.
The last three messages Fred sent were to someone listed as “Etstar.”
“Was he into astrology?” Paavo asked.
“For cryin’ out loud!” Minnie snarled. “He was a movie star. Get it now, dummy?”
Paavo bit his tongue. “Hit open, let’s see what he said to this Etstar.”
Together, they read the most recent message:
The Christmas goose was not kosher.
“What the hell?” was Minnie’s reaction.
The second message said:
Aren’t you curious about the gander who plucked your goose?
Paavo hoped the earliest message would make sense out of those two. It didn’t. It read: Christmas comes but once a year. Or does it?
“Fred’s gone bonkers!” Minnie cried. “He doesn’t even like goose. What does he care about kosher? He’s not Jewish. You should see the junk he jams into his fat mouth.”
Paavo reread it. “It might be some sort of code.”
“A game?” Minnie reread the messages thoughtfully. “Fred didn’t like games unless he was making up the rules.”
They read through the old incoming messages. All were industry news, Viagra come-ons, how to get out of debt fast, or porn sites.
“Do you have any ideas, or even guesses, who he was writing to?” Paavo asked.
“I have no idea.” She glared at the computer as if it might give her an answer. “Maybe you should ask your fiancée if she’s heard anything?”
Paavo’s head snapped from the computer to Minnie. “My fiancée? Why?”
“Connie told me she was working with some big Hollywood director and that she knew all about what was going on there these days. That’s why I went to see you. What did you think? It was because of your big baby blues?”
Paavo mentally rolled his “baby blues.” Angie loved to exaggerate, and Connie loved to even more. Before long, he’d probably hear she was up for an Emmy. “You were given the wrong impression, Ms. Petite. I’m sure you have a lot more knowledge of television and movies than Angie.”
“Hell! I should have known better than to listen to that gossipy Connie! My so-called knowledge is a damn thirty y—I mean, thirty months old. Things move fast there. I need to know what’s happening now.”
Paavo stood. “I’m sorry.”
“Get off your high horse and sit back down. Fred’s still missing, and you’re better than nobody trying to find him.” She pointed at the computer. “So, what do you think, Mr. Expert?”
He considered telling her exactly what he thought: no wonder Fred took off. Something might have happened to him, though. He should try to help…within reason. He gazed at the e-mails again.
“Etstar. Et. Star. Ets. Tar,” he murmured. “E. T. Star—extra-terrestrial! Was Fred involved with the movie E. T., or know any of the stars from it?”
Minnie shook her head. “His only involvement was complaining to ASCAP that they used some animated dummy to play E. T. instead of one of the little people. Namely, him. Cripes, if he’d had his way, E. T. would have been a flop.”
Paavo grimaced. Maybe Steven Spielberg was behind Fred’s disappearance.
Chapter 9
“There’s a man here to see you,” Mariah said, after finding Angie in the kitchen. “He said he’s your assistant.”
“A man!” Angie’s eye lit up. Third time’s the charm, she thought. It had to be Paavo. He came to be with her after all. He didn’t really want to be separated from her for long, lonely days…and nights. “How wonderful! Is he in the living room?”
“He’s outside the door.” Mariah’s pigtails swished as she spun rapidly around and stalked off.
Angie was horrified that Paavo had been left standing on the stoop like some door-to-door salesman. “That will never do!” She dashed to the front door and pulled it open, ready to throw herself into her fiancé’s arms. She sto
pped herself just in time.
Standing in the doorway, covered with snow, was her neighbor, Stanfield Bonnette. Stan could have been a decent-looking fellow—early thirties, fairly tall, wiry build, good dresser, with silky light brown hair that flopped boyishly onto his forehead and sappy brown eyes—except that his one fault caused people to overlook everything else about him. Laziness. Those who knew him marveled over the way his father’s influence kept him in a cushy job at a bank and a nice apartment right across the hall from Angie.
Somehow, he and Angie had become friends. Not the tell-your-deepest-secrets-to kind of friends, but the I-can-count-on-you-in-a-pinch type.
“Can I come in, Angie?” he asked, teeth chattering. “It’s freezing out here.”
Freezing? She gawked at the machine shooting a stream of plastic snowflakes over the front of the house and everything on it, including Stan. Some even blasted her. She grabbed Stan’s arm and jerked him indoors. “The snow is fake, Stan.”
“That’s good,” he said. “I’m not wearing my thermals.” He reached into his pocket. “I brought you something.”
“You did?” She was shocked. This was like the Three Wise Men bearing gifts…except that Stan was no Magi. Nor, for that matter, was Rebecca Mayfield. Or her sister.
“Your favorite perfume. I was surprised you left it home.”
Gold, incense, perfume…it fit well enough. What was going on here? This was all too eerie.
He placed the expensive bottle of Fleur in her hand. She stared at it, all thoughts of Wise Men fizzling. “Where did the perfume go?”
He looked at the empty container. “So that’s why my car smells so good.”
Bah, humbug!
“This house is incredible!” He took off his jacket and shook the snowflakes from it, then brushed his fingers through his hair. More snow fell. “It’s like Christmas.”
Angie frowned. The small foyer Christmas tree whirled, playing, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” which was laughable considering Stan, not Paavo, had been at the door.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “And what do you mean by telling anyone that you’re anything to me, let alone my assistant? I don’t need any assistance—”
“Calm down, Angie. I just wanted to be helpful. I brought you something you need to know. I had a bunch of the old Eagle Crest shows on tape and I transferred them to DVD.” He handed her a disk. “Watch and learn.”
He darted into the living room and touched all the furniture, piece by piece. “You don’t know how demanding these television types are.”
“Is that so?” Angie tried to kick the snowflakes under the Christmas tree skirt. The set people were fanatical about the slightest thing out of place. “And you know all about it, I suppose? You still have snowflakes in your hair, by the way.” The more she kicked, the more the flakes scattered. She gave up.
“I didn’t expect a blizzard.” He sat on the sofa, then each chair in the room, practically bouncing on them. “I’ve watched every episode at least twice. Some even more. If you’re part of a reunion show, you need to know what’s important to its fans. How many shows have you seen?”
She tapped his disk against her palm. “All of them.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really? I had no idea you had such good taste. You don’t need this.” He took back his gift, then ducked around some dollies and lights and scurried down the hall to the family room. “I love this room! Remember how Julia Parker used to hop up on those barstools? Man, I was madly in love with her. When she died, I actually cried.”
Angie shook her head and chuckled. “I had no idea.”
“Whatever you need, I can help. Say the word.”
“All I need is for you to keep an eye on my apartment while I’m away.”
“It’ll be like I’m two places at once. Hey, look at that!” He pointed at the bounding Rudolph. Someone had turned it back on. “Man, that dude must be really horny,” Stan said.
Angie yanked the plug and stuffed the red-nosed one far in the back of a closet.
When she turned around, Stan was behind the bar, then disappeared to study the contents of the under-counter refrigerator. First, a bottle of Sam Adams was lifted onto the bar top, then a bag of pretzels.
“Want some?” he asked, his mouth full of pretzels as he held the bag toward her.
Angie sat on a barstool. “No, thanks, but I’ll have a diet Pepsi. I’m surprised you aren’t asking about lunch.”
“I don’t visit you only to eat.” Stan actually looked hurt. He opened a Pepsi and slowly poured it into a glass. “I’m here to help, as you can see.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve had to cook an elegant Christmas dinner. I know how to do it,” she said.
“You’ve never done it for a TV show before.” He handed her the glass.
“They won’t be filming me. I’ll be sweating off-camera, in the kitchen.” She took a sip.
“See! You do need me,” he said smugly as he walked around the bar and sat beside her. “I can give you cool things to drink and dab your brow with a napkin.” Popping another pretzel into his mouth, he looked around the room. “Remember the scene in front of the fireplace where Cliff first seduced Natalie and convinced her to marry him? I was a young teen, and I swear, I’d never seen anything so hot. Man, I can see it right now.”
“That’s right. When Adrian found out, he tried to melt Natalie’s ice skating trophies by putting them in that same fireplace.”
Stan sighed wistfully. “I even took up ice skating. I wanted to find a girlfriend like Natalie. Didn’t happen. I won a couple of trophies, though.”
“You were a skater?” Angie gaped.
“I could have been good, but I got too dizzy when I twirled. Never learned how to stop that. I brought one of my old trophies. It’s in the car. No one will notice if we add it to Natalie’s”—he pointed to the trophy cabinet—“will they? It’ll be such fun to watch the show and see it. Our little secret, Angie.”
Stan finished the pretzels, then draped himself over the bar to reach behind it for a jumbo sack of Frito-Lay. He didn’t realize that the sack had been opened, and as he lifted it, potato chips tumbled all over the floor. “Oops,” Stan said. He went behind the bar and began to pick up chips. He looked around for a wastebasket and found one in the cabinet under the sink.
“Forget the trophy.” Angie joined him behind the bar to help. “The crew here is quite picky. Someone’s sure to notice, and if they trace it back to me, it wouldn’t be good. I plan to impress them. A lot.”
“Why are you so uptight about this job? Hey, what’s a bottle of wine doing under the sink?” He lifted it onto the bar. “Let’s have some. Maybe you’ll see things my way.”
She smiled. “Not likely. Mainly, though, I want to make my father proud. He asked me to do this for his friend.” She stood, having picked up quite enough potato chips for one day.
Stan also stood. “Say, this wine’s already been open. I wonder if it was down there because it’s bad.”
“With Waterfield wines, who could tell?” Angie said.
Stan worked the cork out of the bottle. “How bad can it be?” He sniffed, then coughed and gasped. “It’s awful!”
Angie took it from him. “Didn’t I warn you?” She made a slight sniff, then sniffed again. “This isn’t wine. It’s gasoline.”
“Gasoline? Under the bar? That’s dangerous. Even I know that. And there are a bunch of rags down there, too.”
“What was someone thinking? Did they want to start a fire?” Something niggled in the back of her memory. She put the cork back in the bottle. “I’ll give all this to Sterling, and warn him about an incompetent worker in the group.”
They went around to the front of the bar and sat, Stan with his Sam Adams and an unopened bag of cheese popcorn, which he promptly broke into. “You’ve got to let me stay, Angie. I even asked the bank for vacation time.”
“Vacation time? How can you have any? You’re always home.”
“Those are sick days. If I don’t see my favorite TV stars here, now, today, I might get sick.”
“I hate to be the one to tell you, but the cast isn’t here yet.”
Stan gawked. “No cast? You mean Cliff and Natalie and Leona—”
“Not yet.”
“How can that be?” He was so upset he stopped eating.
“The crew is filming all the outside shots and getting things ready for them inside. I hear the cast won’t be needed for another couple of days.”
He stood up. “Well…in that case, don’t let me take up any more of your time. I’d better head back to the city for now, and try again later. See you soon!”
With that, he grabbed the popcorn and his jacket, then faced the plastic snow, trudging back to his car much like Sir Edmund Hillary braving Mt. Everest.
The front door slowly opened. Light footsteps crossed the foyer to the living room.
There it was!
Gloved hands reached up and gently lifted the Little Drummer Boy. The temptation to turn the key, to hear the song, was enormous. Instead, the figurine was placed into a large paper bag.
As quietly as the entrance was made, so was the exit.
Chapter 10
Angie hiked a little way into the hills after Stan’s visit to get some fresh air, see the scenery, and clear her head. So far, it had been a very strange day.
When she returned, the house was abuzz with activity.
Natalie Roxbury stood in the middle of the room talking to Tarleton. In reality, she was Rhonda Manning, but to Angie she was Natalie come to life. She was taller than Angie had expected and much thinner—skinny, in fact—but looked classy yet fragile, as if she’d suffered a deep hurt. Angie wondered how much of the vulnerability she gave to Natalie’s character came from acting, and how much from the woman herself.
Angie glanced down at the jeans, T-shirt, and heavy boots she wore for the hike. She was backing quietly out of the room when Tarleton called her.
