by Dianne Emley
Kissick did it for her. “This is some table.”
Gig brightened, enjoying talking about himself and his possessions. “It’s from the library where I grew up in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I spent many hours in that library when my mom was working cleaning bathrooms at the hospital and my dad was either getting drunk or sleeping one off, usually in the town jail.”
He fingered graffiti on the top. “Here’s where I carved my name with a Bic pen when I was ten. Miss Garner, the librarian, gave me hell. She handed me a book and ordered me to read it. It was A Wrinkle in Time. Changed my life. A few years ago, I helped them build a new library. Asked if I could have this table from the old one.”
He seemed wistful as he traced his crudely carved name, but Vining couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t acting.
Towne sat back in the chair, his hands cupping the lion paws on the ends of the arms. “I just spent a long time with two LAPD detectives discussing what happened to poor Trendi. Shocking. Trendi was more than an employee. She was a dear friend. Still hasn’t sunk in. I pray they find out what happened. I don’t know what brings the Pasadena police to my door, but you can’t be here to tell me I won a makeover on Oprah.”
Kissick began. “Do you know Catherine Engleford?”
The look in Towne’s eyes that Vining had taken for false sincerity was erased and replaced by genuine alarm. “Sure, I know Tink.”
“This morning, her assistant found her dead in her backyard pool.”
Towne sucked in air. He looked from Kissick to the table, to Vining, then back at Kissick.
“Drowned?”
“We’re investigating the circumstances that led to her death,” Kissick replied.
Towne drew his hands over the wooden lion’s paws and gazed across the room. “The universe is unbalanced. Tragedy will abound until homeostasis is established.”
Vining turned to follow Towne’s gaze. He was looking at Bozo.
SEVENTEEN
We just saw Tink last week. Sinclair and I have been working with her on a fund-raiser for Georgia’s Girls.” Towne rubbed his hand over his chin. “I can’t process this. First Trendi. Now Tink.”
Kissick took notes in his spiral notebook. “When did you meet Catherine Engleford?”
Towne stuck the tip of his tongue between his teeth. “Oh, gosh. Must be over a year ago. Sinclair and I met her at Berryhill—Georgia’s compound up in Malibu Canyon. Tink’s a neighbor. Well, an L.A. version of a neighbor, meaning someone who only lives a few miles away on surface streets. Sinclair has a big heart and invited Tink over for dinner. I’m sure you know about Tink losing both her son and husband. That’s what brought her to Berryhill. She worked The Method and I believe she found peace.”
Kissick turned to a fresh page in his notebook. “Have you met Mrs. Engleford’s boyfriend, Kingsley Getty?”
“King Getty.” Towne intoned his name as if announcing the arrival of royalty. “Great guy. Sinclair and I were so happy when Tink started dating him.”
“Where did she meet him?”
“At Berryhill.”
“He calls himself a movie producer,” Vining said. “Do you know any movies he’s produced?”
Towne laughed. “That’s what he puts on his business card, like some people put ‘investor’ or ‘consultant.’ He’s independently wealthy.”
“How do you know?”
“I haven’t seen anything to indicate that he’s not who he says he is.” Towne became thoughtful. “I see what you’re getting at. Tink is a lonely rich widow. Getty is a charming man-about-town. Look, I have a finely tuned BS monitor. When you’ve been in Hollywood as long as I have, you need one if you’re going to survive. Actually, I’m working on a couple of projects with King right now. One is a remake of From Here to Eternity.”
“One of my favorites,” Kissick said.
“We were thinking of updating it to an army base in Iraq.”
Vining considered that. She had broad knowledge of classic movies, as she frequently relaxed with the cable classic movie channel when she couldn’t sleep. “That would make it hard to re-create that famous seduction scene on the beach with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in the waves.”
“No one can re-create that,” Towne was quick to respond. “You do something just as sexy, but different.”
It was clear to Vining that Towne didn’t like being challenged.
He went on. “We’re also working on a modern update of La Bohème. Sinclair will play Mimi, and we’re going to call it Love Kills.”
Kissick raised his eyebrows. “That sounds really interesting.”
Towne grinned. “It’ll be a smash.”
Vining cleared her throat.
Towne returned to the main topic. “King couldn’t have had anything to do with Tink’s death. He’s much too much of a gentleman. No disrespect to Tink, but she enjoyed her cocktails. She might have had a few pops too many and tumbled into the pool.”
“She might have,” Kissick agreed. “How would you describe Mrs. Engleford’s mood recently?”
“She was in love. She was centered, healthy, fit, and full of life and vigor. Humbled by the hard knocks she’d experienced, but grateful for all that life had bestowed upon her, and she was moving on with her life. Eager to give back to the community some of the blessings that she’d received. Working on reaching an even higher plane. Tink was not a woman who was about to commit suicide, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Vining was impressed by the eloquence of his off-the-cuff eulogy. “What higher plane are you speaking of? Does this have to do with shadow selves?”
A clock on the mantel pealed a single musical chime to mark the half hour.
Towne pushed himself up from his chair, went to a bookshelf, raised the glass door, and pulled out a book. He placed it in front of Vining before again taking his chair.
It was a copy of The Berryhill Method, like the one they’d seen at both Tink’s and Getty’s homes, but this edition had a glossy cardboard cover like a textbook.
“Study that and we’ll talk. I can’t discuss The Method out of context, without any background. It’s like telling someone that Jesus died for our sins without the backstory. You can’t possibly understand. Not you personally, but anyone. You should talk to Georgia and Stefan. They’d be more than happy to answer all your questions.”
Vining looked at Georgia Berryhill’s plump pleasant face on the back of the book. “I couldn’t help but see the new People magazine when I was grocery shopping. Are you and your wife really best friends with Georgia Berryhill and her husband?”
“Absolutely. Sinclair and I wouldn’t have done that piece if we weren’t. We’ve known Georgia and Stefan for years. From the beginning, when they got started with Vitamin A. Now they go all the way through Zinc.” He laughed at his joke, looking at Kissick for a smile, having given up on Vining.
Kissick cooperated and grinned. “Do you adhere to the Berryhill vitamin regimen?”
“How else would I be able to keep up with a wife who’s sixteen years younger than me? Berryhill vitamins and supplements are the best out there. Returning to Georgia and Stefan for a minute, we are so happy that they’re pregnant. They tried for so long.”
Vining knew she could be old-fashioned, but she couldn’t get used to the “we’re pregnant” term. She voiced some of her thoughts. “I know I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t understand this trend of giving birth at home in a pool of body-temperature water. Give me a hospital with lots of doctors, nurses, and pharmaceuticals any day.”
“Our midwife, Paula, will assist with the birth, but our obstetrician will be here if we need him.”
“Paula?” Vining asked. “We met a woman earlier named Paula, who we understood was your assistant.”
“Well, we have to give her something to do in the meantime. The point is, we have all the medical equipment and professional expertise necessary in case of an emergency, which we don’t anticipate. Sinclair and the baby are in ro
bust health. A baby’s brain starts absorbing information, learning about his or her world, in the womb. At birth, the process explodes. Hospitals are treacherous places. I’m not just talking about antibiotic-resistant bacteria, which is scary, but there’s the entire issue of what hospitals represent.”
As Towne warmed to his subject, he started speaking more quickly and his eyes grew intense. “We bring babies into the world in this institution whose primary functions are the management of illness and death. In our so-called advanced society, we’ve gotten so far away from the fundamentals of birth that we consider this normal. Think about it. What is normal about bringing a new human life, a new soul, onto this planet in an environment of sickness and sadness?”
The detectives were watching him with fascination, not just because of what he was saying, but also because of how worked up he was getting. The clownish looseness was gone as he became more and more tightly coiled and his eyes grew fierce.
“As far as my role, I’ll be in the birthing room and, because it’s been a good-luck charm for me, I’ll be wearing my vintage Bozo costume.” He paused for a few beats, taking in the detectives’ bewildered expressions, before laughing out loud. Thrusting both palms in front, he shouted, “Kidding!”
He smiled in the way he was famous for, scrunching his elastic face until the entire lower half was consumed by a crazy grin. The laserlike focus of his eyes dissipated and they twinkled with amusement. “Oh, boy. The looks on your faces.” He let out a long, high-pitched sigh, primly crossed his legs, folded his hands on his knee, and said in the voice of a brittle, ancient spinster aunt, “So, what else can I help you with today?”
Vining squared The Berryhill Method on the table in front of her. “Gig, are you aware that there’s a man outside your property with a sign that says, ‘Berryhill Killed Trendi’?”
“Him again?” Towne theatrically yanked a cell phone from his shirt pocket and put it to his ear. “Dad, please stop scaring the reporters. I know you think it’s funny, but not everyone is getting the joke. Please. For me.”
Kissick gave a halfhearted laugh and Vining didn’t even try. She was glad to see that Gig Towne’s luster was wearing thin on her partner.
“Honestly, Detectives…When someone, anyone, becomes as famous as Georgia Berryhill, and you’re inspiring people with your lifestyle and philosophy, and helping people turn their lives around, you also draw out the freaks. People condemn what they don’t understand. Berryhill didn’t kill Trendi. From what the LAPD detectives told me, that scumbag Vince Madrigal stabbed her.”
“Maybe you can help me understand something,” Vining began. “Ms. Talbot had a criminal past, but your pregnant wife hired her as an assistant.”
Towne’s gaze again grew intense. He turned it on Vining. “Detective, I have a criminal past as well. Trendi looked into the darkness of her soul, faced her shadows, and walked beside them into her full potential.”
“Were you acquainted with Vince Madrigal?”
Towne smirked. “He was the go-to guy if you wanted to slime someone. I knew him…and avoided him.”
Vining took out the photograph of Cheyenne, Trendi, and Fallon and set it in front of Towne. “Do you recognize the other two women with Ms. Talbot?”
Towne picked up the photo and looked intently at it. He stood and carried it to a window to study in the light. He turned it over and read the writing on the back. “Where did you get this?” His voice was somber.
“That’s not important,” Vining said.
“Something troubling you, Gig?” Kissick asked.
Towne shook his head. “I’m just surprised to see Trendi so young. Such a beautiful girl. What a tragedy.” He returned to the table, holding the photograph out for Vining.
She didn’t move to take it. “What about the other two girls? Do you know them?”
Towne seemed to be weighing his words, deciding how to respond. He set the photo in front of Vining and tapped his index finger on it. “This girl worked for Tink. Her name’s Cheyenne Leon.”
“How well do you know her?”
“Not well. She was helping Tink with the Georgia’s Girls fund-raiser. She ran some documents over to me. That was about it.”
“How long did she work for Mrs. Engleford?”
“I don’t know.”
“Those three girls look like they’re friends. Did Ms. Leon ever visit Ms. Talbot here?”
“I don’t believe so, but I’m often away.”
“What about the third girl? Fallon.”
He shook his head. “Don’t know her.”
Vining wasn’t buying it. “Something about that photo is upsetting you.”
Although he betrayed little on the surface, Vining felt him bristle. The clown persona was gone. He was hiding something.
“Trendi was murdered. I’m sad. Detectives, what does this have to do with your reason for coming here, which was to talk about Tink?”
“We want to know your impressions of Ms. Leon,” Vining said.
“I already told you. I only met her briefly.”
“We’d like to talk to your wife,” Kissick said.
“That will have to wait for another time. Sinclair is resting. She’s taken Trendi’s murder hard. She can’t add anything to what I’ve already told you.”
Vining pressed. “We understand that Ms. LeFleur is upset, but we need to talk to her before we leave.”
“She’s already tired from talking to the LAPD detectives. I don’t even want her to know about Tink right now. Talk to her all you want, but I only ask that you wait until tomorrow.”
“We can do that,” Kissick said.
Vining glowered at him.
The mantel clock began bonging once for each hour. It was eight o’clock.
“Rise and shine!” Towne abruptly burst from the chair. He pantomimed holding a bugle to his lips as he sang reveille with his lips pursed.
Kissick chuckled.
Towne kept on, making his eyes even wilder, showing the whites all the way around as he looked at Vining, who hadn’t cracked a smile.
Towne feigned collapsing, saving himself by slapping his hand on top of the table as he wheezed. “Detective Vining, you’re making me work hard. What a tough audience. But seriously, Detectives, if you have no further questions, I have an engagement.”
Towne walked them out, chatting with Kissick about his upcoming movie, which, Kissick was glad to hear, was a comedy.
“I’m through with trying to be a serious actor. My fans know best.”
Vining was glad Towne hadn’t noticed that she’d left behind the copy of The Method he’d given her.
When they reached the front entry, John Chase appeared from beneath an archway.
“John will see you out.” Towne clapped his hand around Chase’s back and onto his shoulder. “You’ve got a good man here.”
Chase smiled wanly, looking as troubled as when he’d first met them at the front gate.
They turned at the sound of a door opening above, followed by light footsteps against the tile floor. Sinclair LeFleur stepped into the balcony at the junction of the two staircases.
Vining thought she looked even more beautiful than in her photographs. Her dark hair, a mass of spiral curls that flowed past her shoulders, was scooped back from her face and held by a white headband with a silk gardenia attached to it. Her skin was porcelain, as translucent and white as the sleeveless chiffon floor-length dress she wore, which looked like a design from ancient Rome. The low scooped neckline revealed bounteous cleavage. Below the empire waist, the draped fabric did little to disguise the fact that she was hugely pregnant. Her large eyes were as black as her hair. Her Cupid’s-bow lips were rosy.
Both Kissick and Vining gasped. She took their breath away.
LeFleur grasped the iron railing with both of her fine-boned hands. She looked fragile and shaken.
Vining sensed John Chase tense at the sight of LeFleur. She glanced at him and saw him gazing dreamily at the actres
s.
Walking to stand behind LeFleur was Paula Lowestoft, the imperious woman who the detectives now knew was not just Gig’s assistant but LeFleur’s midwife.
“Funny face…” Towne walked to stand below the balcony. “Why aren’t you resting?”
“I’m sorry, Gig,” Lowestoft said, putting her hand on LeFleur’s arm. “She wanted to see what was going on.”
LeFleur looked at the detectives. “Are they from the police? Why are they still here?” Her voice was as soft and powerless as she looked.
“My love, they’re leaving,” Towne said. “It’s all taken care of. You need to rest. Paula, please help my wife rest.”
Standing behind LeFleur, the taller Lowestoft put her hands on her employer’s shoulders. LeFleur set her perfect lips and wrenched her body. Lowestoft flung her hands off as if insulted and shrugged at Towne as if she was helpless to control his wife.
LeFleur peevishly yanked the flower-adorned headband from her hair and whirled around to leave. Before she padded away in her satin ballet slippers, she looked over her shoulder. Vining thought this parting glance was directed at Chase. She turned her head slightly so she could glimpse the young officer. He was staring at her with undisguised longing.
Chase drove the detectives back to the gate in the utility vehicle, with Kissick again sitting in the rear bed.
In the front seat, Vining had to almost shout to Chase to be heard over the engine. “Ms. LeFleur is really beautiful. She’s even more beautiful in person.”
Chase said, with complete sincerity, “She’s beautiful on the inside, too.”
“Seems such an odd match, her and Gig Towne. Don’t you think?”
Chase made a small movement of his shoulders.
“Strange that they’d hire someone like Trendi Talbot—a runaway, arrested for prostitution, a drug addict. Especially now that I see how protective Mr. Towne is of Ms. LeFleur. Did Ms. Talbot have complete access to the house?”
“She lived in one of the small rooms along the pool, where my room is. Gig was giving her a break, like someone gave him a break years ago when he was in trouble. She was cleaned up. Off drugs and all that.”
