Grave Endings

by Rochelle Krich

  “She didn’t have a key,” Gloria said when I asked. “If she did, she wouldn’t of needed me to open his door, would she? I guess she didn’t leave stuff after all.”

  I returned to the books stacked on the nightstand. The top one was a thick text. Alcoholics Anonymous.

  “Can I look at these?” I pointed to the stack.

  “I guess so, seein’ as how the police are done.”

  I picked up the book. It was well worn, I saw as I paged through it, with many passages highlighted in yellow. Serving as a bookmark in the middle of chapter nine were two color photos. One was of Randy with his arm around a pretty, petite, light-brown-haired, pony-tailed young woman in jeans and a T-shirt. The girlfriend?

  “No, that’s Randy’s kid sister, Trina,” Gloria said when I showed her the photo. “She came by ’bout once a week, more when he took sick. Randy’s momma died when he was just a kid.”

  Dead to Randy, and to his family? It was probably less painful to say his mother had died than to deal with the complex emotions of being abandoned.

  The other photo showed Randy as a stunning child (five or six?), cheek to cheek with a beautiful woman I assumed was his mother. There was something artificial about the pose and the smiles and the woman’s long golden hair that seemed to blend in with her son’s. Someone—Randy? his father?—had ripped the photo and Scotch-taped the parts together unevenly, creating a faint, jagged line that scarred her face.

  I replaced the photos and shut the book. “Do you know where I can reach Trina, Mrs. Lamont?”

  “She lives a couple of blocks from here. I don’t know the address. I have her phone number, though. After Randy took sick, she gave it to me, just in case. Work and home numbers. I called her after the police and she came right over. She took it bad, poor thing.” The manager clucked.

  I have three brothers and three sisters and can’t imagine how I would deal with losing one of them. The thought made me shudder.

  I checked the rest of Randy’s reading material. A well-worn Bible, other books on addiction and self-help.

  “It looks like Randy was serious about trying to quit drugs,” I said as we were leaving the apartment.

  “Well, like I said, he was shook up bad when he almost died. He told me he was never gonna do that stuff again, and Trina, she watched him like a hawk. But once you hooked, it’s hard to get free, you know?” She locked the door. “My daughter’s husband swore ten times he was done with all that, and I believe he meant it, every time. Shirrel left him ’bout five months ago, and I hope she doesn’t go back.”

  seven

  CONNORS WAS IN A HORIZONTAL POSITION WHEN I ENTERED the Hollywood Division detectives’ room at one-thirty, his scuffed tan boots propped on his desk, his ankles crossed. He was engrossed in a phone conversation, and acknowledged me with a nod, minus his usual smile. Not a good sign.

  I took off my peacoat, pulled up a chair, and inhaled the smell of coffee from the mug on his desk while I waited.

  “The answer is no,” Connors said in his flat Boston accent when he put down the receiver.

  “No, what?”

  “No to whatever you’re selling.”

  “You’re sure? I have Girl Scout Cookies, wrapping paper, Amway products, magazine subscriptions—”

  “Cut it out.” He swung his long legs down from the desk and sat up straight.

  “I take it Porter told you about our conversation.”

  “He’s ready to lock you up.” Connors scowled at me. “Why would you piss him off like that, Molly?”

  “Because he was being stubborn, and he’s a jerk.” I hesitated, a little nervous to test the water. “And maybe he is too eager to close Aggie’s case.”

  “Porter wouldn’t do that.” There was a warning in Connors’s voice and in his hazel eyes.

  “Then why wouldn’t he consider the possibility that Creeley didn’t kill Aggie?”

  “Because logic and the evidence say Creeley did it.”

  “By evidence you mean the locket. Creeley could have gotten it from someone else, Andy. Or he could have found Aggie’s body in the Dumpster and taken the locket.”

  “The locket’s only part of it.”

  That was a surprise. “What else do you have?”

  Connors shook his head. I could see from his expression that he regretted what he’d said.

  “Come on, Andy. I won’t let on that you told me.”

  “Like Porter wouldn’t figure it out?” He drained his coffee mug and set it on a stack of papers.

  I wondered what other evidence there could be, and why Connors wouldn’t share it with me, why Porter had been so evasive. “I spoke to the manager of the apartment building where Randy lived.”

  Connors tsked. “Only the manager? You’re usually so thorough.”

  “I left my card with the other tenants.” Including the person who had been listening in on my conversation with Gloria. I’d rung his (her?) bell, knocked a few times. My eavesdropper had either left the building or turned shy. “The manager said Creeley reformed when he almost died eight or nine months ago after a drug episode gone bad. He swore to her that he stopped using.”

  “Creeley wouldn’t be the first to start using again, Molly. Rehab clinics are full of repeaters.”

  “But he started going to church, Andy. He repaid money he’d borrowed. You were in his apartment, right? So you saw the books on his nightstand. Alcoholics Anonymous, other books dealing with addiction and self-help.”

  “I have Atkins on my nightstand and still eat too many carbs.”

  “Show-off.” Connors is in his mid-thirties but has the metabolism of an eighteen-year-old and a stomach as flat as a marble countertop. I sucked in my own. “The manager told me Randy’s girlfriend, Doreen, came by the day after he died to pick up some clothes she’d left at his place. There was crime-scene tape on the door, and she said she’d come back.” I paused.

  “Is there a point here?”

  “Doreen hasn’t come back, and I didn’t see any women’s clothes in Randy’s closet. The manager let me in,” I added in response to Connors’s questioning look.

  “Maybe Doreen came back and let herself in.” Connors picked up a pencil and rolled it between his palms.

  “Apparently she didn’t have a key. And if she had a key, why did she need the manager’s help to get into Creeley’s apartment?” No reaction from Connors. “There’s not one feminine toiletry item in his medicine cabinet. Either Doreen never stayed overnight, or she cleaned out all her things. And when the manager, Mrs. Lamont, tried phoning her to tell her the police were done and she could come by, the person who answered said she didn’t know Doreen.” I ended with a flourish that was wasted on Connors, judging from his deadpan expression.

  “So Mrs. Lamont copied down the wrong number,” he said. “People do that all the time.”

  “Maybe. But what if Doreen intentionally gave her the wrong number?” And why wasn’t Connors wondering the same thing?

  “And she would do that because . . . ?”

  “Because she was involved with Randy’s death,” I said, barely restraining my impatience. “Suppose she had a key but didn’t want to be the one to find the body. Suppose she had to get into the apartment the next day to make sure she didn’t leave any incriminating evidence.”

  “Suppose Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction.” Connors put down the pencil. “Maybe Doreen did have a key. She found Creeley dead, but didn’t want to be involved. So she left and then went back and had the manager open the apartment. And she gave her a wrong phone number.”

  I had to admit that made sense. “Did they do the autopsy?”

  “On Friday. Creeley overdosed, like I told you.”

  “I didn’t see any drug paraphernalia.”

  “It was there. We took it. We just didn’t think to give you an inventory,” he added. “Plus Creeley went to town on the booze. If you checked out his apartment, you must’ve seen the empties.”

&nb
sp; “That doesn’t mean he drank the stuff. Someone could have emptied the beer cans and half the whiskey.”

  “Someone could have, but Creeley had enough alcohol in him to open a bar. A guy goes off the wagon, he usually does it in a big way.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Did they find fresh needle tracks?”

  “You’re watching too much CSI. Yeah, they did. Do yourself a favor and let it go, Molly. Creeley killed Aggie. He overdosed. It’s over.”

  “He never killed anyone before, Andy.”

  “He never got caught.”

  “If you say so.” I was playing a broken record and getting nowhere. I stood and returned the chair to the adjacent desk. “By the way, when’s the funeral?”

  “Ten o’clock Thursday morning.”

  “Where?”

  Connors named a cemetery in Downey. “What’re you planning to do, open the casket and make Creeley tell you what happened?”

  “I’d get more information from him than I’ve gotten from you guys.”

  “Don’t mess with the investigation, Molly.”

  “What investigation?” I slipped on my jacket and slung my purse strap over my shoulder. “Creeley overdosed. He killed Aggie. Like you guys keep saying, the case is closed.”

  “It is closed. There’s stuff you don’t know, Molly.”

  “Because you won’t tell me. This whole thing with Creeley doesn’t feel right.”

  “It doesn’t feel right?”

  “Why didn’t Creeley leave Aggie where he killed her? Why did he take her body to a Dumpster behind a restaurant several miles away?” That had been puzzling me all along.

  “What did Wilshire tell you?” There was a note of caution in Connors’s voice.

  “That Creeley wanted to delay discovery of the body. That moving a body can make it harder to pin down the time of death, and that helps the killer establish an alibi.”

  Connors nodded. “So there’s your answer.”

  “What’s going on, Andy? Why are you so uncomfortable?”

  “You’re asking questions about a six-year-old case that isn’t mine and never was mine, Molly. If you want answers, go to Porter.”

  “Yeah, right.” I sniffed.

  Connors sighed. “Why do you have to make this so hard?”

  “Because she was my best friend!” Heads turned our way. I lowered my voice. “What if Doreen killed Randy, or knows who did? Maybe she planted the locket so you guys would think he killed Aggie. And if Creeley was killed, maybe Aggie was a specific target, not a random victim. Have you even considered that? Of course not. You guys are so eager to wrap this up.”

  Connors had risen from his chair and was inches away from me. “Do you have any reason to believe that Aggie was mixed up in something that would put her in danger?” he asked with an intensity that made me flinch.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Was she worried about anything? Was she scared of anyone?”

  “I answered all these—”

  “Was she?”

  This was a Connors I’d never seen. There have been times, when I’ve pressed too much, that he’s told me to back off, but now he was angry. I had a glimpse of how intimidating and effective an interrogator he could be.

  “Aggie wasn’t scared,” I said. “She was happy. She loved her family, her life, her job. She loved helping people. If she was concerned, it was about her clients at Rachel’s Tent. She took her work seriously.”

  “Exactly.” Connors practically spit the word. In a calmer voice, he added, “So why the hell would someone kill her? And why frame Randy Creeley for it?”

  eight

  TRINA CREELEY, I LEARNED WHEN I PUNCHED THE PHONE number Gloria Lamont had given me, worked at Frederick’s of Hollywood—on Hollywood Boulevard, hence the name, and as it turned out, only blocks from Creeley’s apartment. Had I known, I would’ve walked to the store after talking to Gloria instead of wasting my time with Connors. I was muttering to myself on the drive back, and my mood wasn’t enhanced after I circled Frederick’s three times without finding a parking spot. I ended up leaving my Acura three-fourths of the way up Cherokee, almost where I’d parked it before. I had new sympathy for Sisyphus.

  I’d heard of Frederick’s and the sexy lingerie it sells, and you may have seen versions in a mall near you, but this pink-awninged gray building, formerly a garish purple, is the original flagship store. Even if I hadn’t been engaged to a rabbi, I would have felt self-conscious entering an establishment where you can buy musical panties that play “Happy Birthday.” Of course, if one of Zack’s congregants saw me exiting the Art Deco tower, I could have used a variation of the I-only-buy-Playboyto-read-the-articles excuse and say I’d been visiting the Lingerie Museum inside.

  The stars on the sidewalk in front of the entrance— Jack Palance and Fleetwood Mac—were echoed in the star-studded motif of the gray carpet inside the store. The walls were purple, the clientele mostly adult, although two women were pushing strollers, and a pregnant customer had a young child in tow.

  To be honest, I was disappointed. I’d expected “outrageous,” but aside from a display case offering specialty items (Body Icing, Whipped Body Cream, a Honeymoon Kit, Edible Panties, Passion Powder) and a rack of costume lingerie (French maid, Cleopatra, a nurse, a sailor), most of the merchandise—nighties, teddies, and other items that echoed the theme “Less is more”—didn’t look all that different from what you’d see on a Hollywood celebrity at the MTV Awards, or at Victoria’s Secret, whose latest Christmas catalog offered panties with holiday jingles. Gives a new meaning to “naughty and nice.”

  The sales staff, all women, were dressed in black. I looked around but didn’t see anyone I thought was Trina. When I asked for her, a licorice-thin, willowy six-foot-tall brunette who introduced herself as Jonnie pointed to a woman several feet away holding up a rhinestone-studded bra for a male customer’s approval.

  I wouldn’t have recognized Randy’s kid sister. According to Porter, she was seven years younger than Randy, which made her twenty-three, but she looked older. Makeup had added the years and a measure of sophistication, and she’d exchanged her brown ponytail for a strawberry blond shag that overpowered her thin face. Fitted black slacks and a long-sleeved black Lycra scoop-neck top showed off a flat tummy and generous curves and an inch of what I supposed was a black lace Frederick’s of Hollywood bra.

  “She’s going to be a while,” Jonnie said. “I can help you, if you like.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll wait.”

  Glancing in Trina’s direction every twenty seconds or so, I flipped through racks and was checking out the French maid costume when my cell phone rang. It was Zack.

  “How about grabbing lunch?” he said. “I’m working on the expense report for the board and my eyes are glazing.”

  “It’s two-thirty. Kind of late for that,” I told him, though my stomach said otherwise. Since leaving Gloria Lamont, I’d been snacking on Hershey’s Kisses and I craved something substantial.

  “A cup of coffee, then. Water. Anything.” He lowered his voice. “I miss you.”

  Even over the phone, he made me all tingly. “I miss you, too. But I’m kind of tied up right now.”

  “Literally or figuratively? With any other woman, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “So where are you? Looking at carpet samples? I could join you.”

  “Frederick’s of Hollywood.”

  “Maybe not.” Zack laughed. “Frederick’s, huh? Somehow I pictured you in Christian Dior or Vera Wang.”

  “They have some nice things here. And costumes.” I described a few. “Maybe I should get one for the shul’s Purim party.”

  “You’d definitely make a statement. So what are you doing there?”

  I hesitated, then told him. “And before you say anything, I’m not getting my hopes up that the sister will have any answers for me.”

  “You already have, or you wouldn’t be there.”

 
“Don’t be so damn smart.” I fingered a black teddy. “As long as I’m here, I may try on a few things, get something special for our honeymoon. Shmuley Boteach would approve.” The author of Kosher Sex.

  “That’s because he doesn’t have a report to finish. If it’s full of mistakes, I’ll blame you. How many days till the wedding?”

  “Fifteen.” I pictured him at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened, top button undone, black suede yarmulke off center the way it always is.

  “Too long,” he said.

  “Way too long. Any preferences?”

  “Anything with you in it.”

  I hung up the phone, smiling. Trina was still with her customer. I strolled to the back of the store and stopped in front of a large glass display case that featured celebrity lingerie. A pink, fur-trimmed sheer nightie from an Austin Powers movie. A purple nightgown from Naomi Judd. The green boxer shorts Tom Hanks wore in Forrest Gump. I still think Shawshank should have won.

  To the right of the display case was a short flight of gray-and-white marble stairs that led to the museum. Here the items were more sedate: Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogs dating back decades. The bra worn by Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot. Judy Garland’s nightgown from Presenting Lily Mars. Greta Garbo’s black slip from Camille.

  I was examining a black bustier with strategically placed gold tassels when Trina appeared at my side. Five-inch stiletto black heels made her a touch taller than me.

  “That’s the second bustier Madonna donated,” she told me. “The first one was purple, from her Who’s That Girl? tour. It was stolen during the Rodney King riots.”

  Up close I could see freckles peeking through her pancake foundation. “Really?”

  “Frederick’s had to donate ten thousand dollars to Madonna’s charity, the one that gives poor women free mammograms. My favorites are the crinoline from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and Ava Gardner’s slip from Showboat. That’s my e-mail screen name. Ava Gardner.” She smiled. “I’m Trina. Jonnie said you were asking for me?”