by Cindy Brown
“He made sex tapes.”
“What?”
“You know, amateur porn.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“He’s good,” Cheri said, leading me out of the room and down the hall. “He even won an award at the HUMP! Festival in Seattle last year.” She opened the door to another room, probably meant as a guest bedroom. “He’s his own editor too.” A couple of desks lined one wall and held a computer, editing equipment, and two large monitors. Another camera leaned against one wall.
As a normal person, I didn’t want to even think about the question that formed in my mind. As a detective, I needed to know the answer. “Did you and Carl participate in the films? As…talent?” I couldn’t make myself refer to them as actors.
“Sure.” Cheri shrugged. “Us and others.”
“Did Carl ever…perform…without you?”
She nodded.
“That didn’t bother you?”
“We have an open marriage.”
I noticed that she didn’t answer my question. Instead she led me back into the big black room, where the blue light that infused the underwater film scene lit the room, but just barely. “That’s one reason we have this room set up like this. It’s a screening room.” Cheri headed back toward the kitchen. “Let me get that photo and report for you.”
I waited in the black room, where the jellies pulsed rhythmically. I no longer found it relaxing.
“Here you go.” Cheri handed me a photo of Carl with an award (I really hoped it wasn’t from the HUMP! Festival) and a copy of the police report. I still had one question. “That nice posse member…did he wear his sunglasses indoors?”
Cheri nodded.
“Even in this room?” I waved at the black hole of a space.
“Yeah. But what does that have to do with—”
“Great, thanks.” I shook her hand. “I’ll keep in touch, and let you know when I find something.”
I didn’t tell her that I had already found something. That I had seen Carl hours after Cheri had last seen him on Thursday. At the theater. With Bitsy.
CHAPTER 44
Someone rapped on the door. Not the front door, where normal, trustworthy people knocked. The back patio sliding glass door. I grabbed a butcher knife from a wooden block on the counter and approached the door hesitantly, trying to stay out of sight. Another knock and a voice. “Ivy?”
Roger. Phew. I opened the patio door. “What are you doing—oh.”
It was Monday night, time for our singing lesson and dinner date. Roger stepped in, carrying a bottle of wine. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of the butcher knife.
“I’ve been worried about intruders,” I explained. Not just Marge’s intruder, but Creepy Silver Hank and the maybe-missing colonel.
“They don’t usually knock.” He carried the bottle of wine to the kitchen. “I already took care of both pools. I wanted to get it done before dark.”
That’s why he came round to the back. I followed him into the kitchen and put the knife back in its wooden block. Roger opened a drawer and pulled out a wine opener. “Want a glass before our lesson?” He turned and took a step toward me, so that he was a good twelve inches too close to me, as usual.
I shook my head. “Actually, this isn’t a great time.” In ten minutes, Cody would be home from his job at Safeway and I wanted to call to apologize. “Can we postpone tonight’s activities?”
“Uh, uh, uh,” Roger scolded me as he pulled the cork from the bottle. “A promise is a promise.”
“But you promised to be there!” Cody said when I finally talked to him on Tuesday evening.
Marge’s doorbell rang. “I know.” I continued the conversation on my cell as I walked down the hall. “I’m really sorry.” I opened the front door, waved Jeremy in, and kissed him quietly on the cheek. Lassie ran to greet him, butt wriggling in anticipation of a scratch.
“You promised,” Cody repeated.
“I forgot,” I said, motioning Jeremy into the great room. “It was an accident. A mistake. Everyone makes—”
He hung up.
“What’s going on?” Jeremy set a six-pack of Kilt Lifter down on Marge’s table, twisted open a beer, and handed it to me. He got one for himself and we sat at the table, where I gave him the short version of the picnic-bowling alley story, leaving out the new car part.
“You stood up your brother?” Jeremy looked at me over his beer.
“I know.”
“Don’t you like his girlfriend?”
I considered Sarah, her soft voice and shy smile. “No, she seems nice.”
Jeremy waited. He would make a good investigator.
“I guess I’m uncomfortable with Cody having a girlfriend. I’m not sure he can handle it.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I started to say “because he has a brain injury,” but stopped. Why did I think Cody’s disability precluded a romantic relationship? “I guess I need to think about that.” I stood up as a way of changing the subject. “What do you say we go All-American tonight—have pizza delivered and hit the bowling alley afterward?” I grabbed the rest of the six-pack and headed to the kitchen. Lassie followed me. Jeremy too.
“Sounds good,” he said. “What’s this?” He stopped at my dead body map, which I’d spread out on the counter between the kitchen and the dining room. “Planning to buy some golf course property?”
I put the beer in the fridge and joined Jeremy. He was right. All of the addresses bordered golf courses. Sunnydale did have more golf courses than the typical town, but still.
I explained to Jeremy that the map represented “dead body houses,” and that all of them were for sale or recently sold to Underwood…I stopped. “And they would be worth even more than the comparables I looked up because they’re all golf course properties,” I said, shaking my head. “I should have caught that. Thanks.”
“Glad to be of service, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary cowboy hat.
“Hey, maybe you can help me with another investigation question.”
He stepped closer to me, so our hips touched.
“Are you trying to distract me?” I asked.
“Maybe.” Jeremy smiled, but he didn’t move.
I plowed ahead. “Do you think someone could place an unconscious person in a car?”
“You’re thinking about Charlie?”
I nodded. If Charlie’s death wasn’t suicide, somebody put him in the driver’s seat. Maybe someone dressed as a landscaper.
“It’s tough, but not impossible. It would depend on a lot of factors: the weight of the body, the strength of the person carrying him, even how easy it is to get into the car. Here, let me show you.” Jeremy scooped me up in his arms. It felt wonderful.
“So I guess you’re strong enough and I’m light enough.” I wasn’t really that light, around one-twenty if I weighed first thing in the morning.
“Yep.”
Lassie barked in consternation. “It’s okay, boy.” I kissed Jeremy to show the pug that everything was all right. And because I wanted to.
Jeremy kissed me back as he carried me toward the garage door. I wondered if he’d carry me toward the bedroom later.
“In the scenario in my head,” I reached down to turn the doorknob, “this would all take place in the garage.”
We went through the door and down the step. “The perpetrator would break into the garage…”
“‘Perpetrator,’” said Jeremy. “I like it when you talk detective to me.”
“And lure the victim,” I said “victim” especially for Jeremy, “into the garage, where he—”
“Or she.”
“Could a woman do it?”
“Maybe a strong woman and a smaller victim. Not real likely, but you should keep your mind open.” Jeremy shifted m
y weight in his arms.
“Okay. Where he or she had already prepped the car to fill with exhaust quickly, and had the car door ajar, waiting.” I leaned down and helped Jeremy open Marge’s car door. “The attacker knocked the victim unconscious, with chloroform or something like it, and put them in the car.” I went limp for best effect.
Jeremy bent down and slid me into the car seat. “It’s kinda hard to not bump the body against the door frame,” Jeremy said. “But you can do it.”
“So my theory could work?”
“It could.”
Ha. My theory held water. I was very pleased with myself until Jeremy straightened up and looked across the top of Marge’s car at the blue Taurus next to it. “Whose car is that?”
CHAPTER 45
Jeremy didn’t carry me to the bedroom. “No one just buys someone a car!” He wasn’t shouting, but close. “There have to be strings attached.”
I nearly told him that I wouldn’t have it for long, but that would mean telling him I might leave. I kept my mouth shut. And he left.
So I was especially thrilled when I came into the dressing room on Wednesday evening to find a gorgeous bouquet of white lilies and red roses with a little card that said, “From your biggest fan.” I texted Jeremy, “Thanks for the flowers! So sweet. XXOO.” Wanting to share the Jeremy story and its happy ending, I went to the greenroom in search of Candy. Instead I found a very angry nun.
“What did you do?” Bitsy spat at me.
“Funny, I was going to ask you the same question.”
She pulled me into a corner and hissed in my ear. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, but you—” Bitsy’s face had turned the same shade as her lipstick.
“I what?” Open-ended question. Another one of Uncle Bob’s PI tricks.
“You said or did something to Carl, and now he’s gone.”
“Why do you think I did something to him?”
“He kept asking about you during our date, whether you were an actress or a detective, and how good you were. In fact, he was so distracted that he had a hard time getting it—”
“Stop.” I cut her off. “I do not want to hear the gory details. How do you know he’s gone?”
“He was supposed to see me last night and didn’t show. Not only that, but his wife called this morning to ask if I’d seen him. Found my name in his calendar.”
“Did you know he was married?”
She whipped around away from me, her black veil nearly thwacking me in the face. “You are not investigating me, young lady.”
Now I was.
After the show, I went back to Marge’s place and turned on my laptop. I began with the basic criminal checks. Lassie snored under the table (wow, that dog could snore) as I sorted through Bitsy’s dirty laundry.
Or lack of laundry. Elizabeth “Bitsy” Bright’s offenses stemmed from wearing too few clothes. She had several misdemeanors and warnings regarding “lewd acts” and “indecent exposure.” In other words, sex in public places. Eww.
Although I found Bitsy’s predilection pretty icky and a good reason to never use the rec center hot tub again, public sex didn’t seem like something she’d want to cover up (pun intended). I was sure Bitsy was hiding something, but what? Wait, the women in the rec center locker room had looked at Bitsy when I mentioned Charlie. Could he have been one of her naked partners in crime?
I plugged his name into my database. Nothing. If he’d dallied with Bitsy, he hadn’t done it publicly. Or hadn’t been caught.
I tried a different database, one that listed civil court records as well as criminal offenses. Bingo. Bitsy was hiding a husband. She had been married to Clement H. Thornberry, a resident of Prairie Home Care Center in Grand Island, Nebraska, for forty-six years. No divorce. Not only that, but Brian Thornberry, also of Grand Island, had filed a domestic abuse protection order on behalf of his father, Clement. Against Bitsy. Elizabeth “Bitsy” Bright was forbidden to threaten, assault, or have any contact with her husband. Bitsy’s son had made sure his mother couldn’t get anywhere near his dad.
I thought again about the reviews I’d found in Bitsy’s dressing room. The restraining order indicated she was capable of violence. Bitsy was too, well, bitsy to have overcome Charlie or Marge, but did she orchestrate the attacks? And where was Carl? Why had he disappeared, and was it just coincidence that Bitsy was the last to see him?
CHAPTER 46
“Lord, I am so tired.” I’d called Jeremy on the way from Uncle Bob’s office to the theater. I didn’t usually make calls while on the freeway (I know that distractibility and speed are not a great combo), but decided that five miles an hour down the 101 did not count as driving. “Crawling,” “creeping,” or “journeying across the desert at a camel’s pace,” maybe. Driving, no.
Besides, I needed to talk. First of all, it would help keep me awake. Between Lassie’s snoring and my mind cataloguing the new info about Bitsy, I was operating on about four hours of sleep.
Secondly, when Jeremy never responded to my text last night, I realized I had been hasty. Though the flowers were a gift from “my biggest fan,” the card didn’t say who exactly that was. I had the sinking feeling I might have made a big mistake.
But I’d been raised to tap dance around any potential conflict-raising topics, so instead I babbled on about not much at all. “Hey, I took my foot off the brake,” I said into the phone. “I think I moved about a foot. That’s progress, right?”
Silence.
“I wonder why they call it ‘rush hour?’ No one could rush if they wanted to.”
Nada.
“I’m really looking forward to you coming to the show tomorrow night.”
“Me too.”
Success!
“That way I can see this Roger guy who bought you a car and maybe meet whoever buys you flowers,” Jeremy said. “You know, check out the competition.”
I tried to reassure Jeremy that he had no rivals for my affection, but I could no more get myself out of that emotional traffic jam than I could sprout wings and fly above the physical one. So I was tired and grouchy when I finally got to the theater.
I scarfed down a plate of cold tater tots and chicken wings that someone (probably Zeb) had kindly left me in the dressing room, slapped on some makeup, threw on my costume, and made it to the greenroom five minutes before places.
“Ivy, hon, you look like something the cat drug in,” Candy tutted at me.
“Jeez.” Arnie stopped in front of me, chewing on his unlit cigar. “You could pack for a weekend away with those bags.”
I thought I’d covered up my puffy eyes and the dark circles under them. “Thank you all for your concern,” I said with as much grace as I could muster. “I’m just having a hard time sleeping.” I tried not to yawn. It wasn’t just the previous night. I hadn’t slept well since I’d moved into Marge’s house, probably because I was either trying to listen for an intruder or trying not to listen to Lassie snoring.
“Hell, I’m not concerned about you,” said Arnie. “I’m thinking about the show. You’re supposed to look sixteen, you know.”
Bitsy gave a little cough, then smiled innocently at me. I thought about the ace I had up my sleeve and smiled back. I wasn’t sure yet what to do with my newfound information, but I wasn’t going to keep it to myself forever.
“I’ll try some more cover-up.” I started toward the dressing room. This was bad. The producer was coming the day after tomorrow. I finally had my singing issue fixed, but now I was going to look “like something the cat drug in?”
Arnie caught up with me in the hall. “Okay, so I am a little worried about you.”
“It happens sometimes,” I said. “I just can’t sleep, then it goes on for days until I somehow break the cycle.”
“That used to happen to Marge too.” When he said her name, his whole fac
e drooped, ears included. “Hey.” His ears perked up. “She’s got some Ambien at home. You should give that a try, just to ‘break the cycle,’ like you say.”
“I don’t think I should take—”
“It’s perfectly safe, she’s not using it, and you’ll sleep like a baby. What have you got to lose?”
I dragged myself through the show that night, feeling all the time like I was some underwater ballet performer instead of a perky cabaret dancer who could climb the Alps.
After the show, I stopped at Bernice’s to water her plants, went back to Marge’s, walked Lassie around the block, and then read my copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating for an hour and a half, trying to tire myself out. I crawled into bed, shut my eyes and…“ZZZ…hngggGGng…ZZzzz…Snrkllllll.” How could a little dog make so much noise? And what was that noise in the backyard? I threw back the covers, jumped out of bed, and peeked through the blinds to see—absolutely nothing unusual. Of course. I looked at the clock: almost three a.m. I gave up and flipped on the light.
“Snork!” Lassie woke with a start. Hey, maybe he’d stay awake if I kept the light on. After all, he could sleep during the day when I wasn’t trying to.
“ZZZzzz, ZZZZhngggg.”
Nope. I padded into Marge’s bathroom. Whoa. Was that me in the mirror? Not only did I not look sixteen, I looked a good ten years older than I really was. That decided it. One little Ambien surely couldn’t hurt.
Marge’s medicine cabinet held bottles of Aleve, Motrin, several kinds of cold and allergy medicines, and a few prescription pill bottles: Ambien, Vicodin, and Gabapentin. I shook an Ambien into my hand, started to take it, and stopped.
I was taking allergy pills (spring in Phoenix, you know) and mixing drugs made me nervous ever since the time I downed my allergy meds with a big pot of coffee and was up for forty-eight hours straight. The least I could do was hop online and see if there were any drug interactions.
