by Susan Kandel
I closed the file, then went back into the house.
Who put foxglove in Liz’s medicine? When did they put it there? It could’ve been yesterday morning. It could’ve been two weeks ago. Was there any way to know for sure?
It was after one when Gambino crawled into bed.
“Liz is dead,” I said, still half asleep.
“I heard,” he answered, wrapping me in his arms.
“Also, Richard came early.”
“I’m really sorry,” he replied.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I had a bad dream I’d dreamed many times before. I’m behind the wheel of a car. I don’t know how to drive, but the car is moving forward, faster and faster. I’m flying up hills, racing around corners, plunging down embankments, but no matter what I do, I can’t make it stop. I woke up in a cold sweat and reached out for Gambino. He wasn’t there. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, then pulled on my robe and walked into the living room.
Gambino was sitting on the couch with something in his hand.
I could see the L.A. Sheriff ’s Department logo glowing in the dim light. Detective McAllister’s business card.
I’d left it lying on the coffee table.
Gambino gave me a look.
“What?” I asked.
“You know exactly what,” he said. “You are to stay out of this. You had nothing to do with Liz Berman’s death. You are not responsible in any way. Please don’t make me say it again. You’ve heard the lecture.”
I had.
More than once.
But even half-asleep I knew—we both knew—that it was going to take a lot more than that to stop me.
We didn’t talk much in the morning, just “Excuse me” and “Please pass the butter” and “Have you seen my watch?” We’d talked enough the night before, not to mention that we were both pressed for time. Gambino had had a break in his murder case. There was an emergency meeting downtown. And I had a condolence call to make.
Lou was standing outside his house, smoking, when I pulled up.
He took one last drag on his cigarette, then tossed it onto the sidewalk and crushed it underfoot.
“Liz wouldn’t let me smoke inside the house,” he said, opening the car door for me. “I know it doesn’t matter anymore, but old habits die hard, you know?”
The Bermans lived in a modest English Tudor house in Carthay Circle, a middle-class enclave developed in the twenties in the shadow of Wilshire Boulevard’s Miracle Mile. I’d once seen a photograph of Norma Shearer on the red carpet at the Carthay Circle Theatre, where Gone With the Wind made its world premiere. She looked glamorous in an Adrian gown with big shoulders and a fur collar. David O. Selznick had originally cast her in the role of Scarlet O’Hara, but she received so many letters from fans who felt she was wrong for the part that she bowed out. In any case, the theater, an art deco masterpiece, was torn down in the sixties to make room for an office building. I’d passed it on my way over. It already looked like a ruin.
The house smelled like old people.
“I think we could use some fresh air in here, don’t you?” I opened a louvered window. Through the narrow panes I could see the rotary sprinkler on the front lawn spinning in circles, spraying droplets of water everywhere.
“Sure,” said Lou. “Okay.”
I moved the newspaper—yesterday’s—and sat down on the couch, which was in dire need of reupholstering. The cushions were ripped and the stuffing was starting to come out.
“Can I get you anything?” Lou took a seat opposite me in a plastic chair that resembled a wedge of coconut.
“No, thank you,” I said with a smile. “Have you been all right?”
“Oh, sure,” he said, pressing the back of his hand against his unshaved cheek. Without the usual gel, his black hair looked coarse and unruly.
“That’s good to hear.”
He fingered an unlit cigarette then stood up, yanking at his gray sweats, which had lost their drawstring. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back out with a tray of cold cuts.
“Have some deli meats,” he said. “Somebody brought them over. I’ll never eat all this myself.”
He hovered over me as I made myself a pastrami on rye. Then, satisfied, he sank into a black globe chair on casters. Above him was a huge Barbarella poster. It looked like Jane Fonda was aiming her ray gun directly at his head.
“You have some great chairs,” I said, taking a bite of the sandwich. “Um, good.”
“Liz liked to go to the Rose Bowl flea market.”
“I go every once in a while,” I said. “When I remember.”
“Liz went religiously.”
“That’s how you find the good stuff,” I said, wiping my mouth.
“They think I killed her,” he said.
“I know.” I put my sandwich down.
“I didn’t do it,” he said.
“I know.”
“Did you hear the story about how we met?” It was the first time he’d smiled since I’d been there.
“No, tell me.”
A small black cat appeared and leapt onto his lap. “I was taking this drama class,” he said, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “I already knew how to dance, thought maybe I could make Broadway if I could act, too. Liz was in the same class. I never really noticed her. She was shy, never said much, not all that good-looking, not the kind you’d pick out of a crowd. One day we had to roll around on the floor and be animals. I was a lion—king of the jungle!—because I’m that kind of idiot.”
I laughed.
“Liz was a tabby cat. And she blew everyone away. She purred, she stretched, she licked her paws with her little pink tongue. Every guy in the room wanted her. But she picked me. I’m the one who taught her to dance. She wasn’t much technically, to be honest with you, but she knew how to throw herself into it. It was a gift, you know? When she waltzed, she was a Viennese princess. When she tangoed, she was a Latin spitfire.” He stopped and stood up. The cat hit the floor with a thump. “What the hell. It’s a good story, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Except for the ending. Good story, bad ending.” The cat shot out of the room, its nails skittering across the bare wooden floor.
“I wish it could’ve been different,” I whispered.
Lou finally lit the cigarette he’d been holding. He sucked hungrily, then blew out a ribbon of smoke. “I was okay last night. I read the paper, I watched some TV. I was fine until I saw this.”
He picked a piece of paper off the coffee table and handed it to me.
“From the desk of Liz,” it said at the top.
“It was a to-do list,” he said. “It was in the glove compartment of the car. All the things she meant to get done this week.” He stubbed out his cigarette, put his head in his hands. “Listen”—his voice was muffled—“could you just go now?”
I didn’t want to leave him like that, but he insisted.
On the way out, I ran into Wren, who was getting out of a white VW convertible. She was carrying two Ralph’s grocery bags and a pink bakery box dangling from a pretty ribbon.
How thoughtful she was. How big and sad her eyes were.
We said hello, then I got in my car and pulled away from the curb. I couldn’t find a good song on the radio, so I drove home in silence.
I spent the rest of the day in the kitchen, doing dishes, reorganizing the cupboards, and baking Gambino a conciliatory apple pie.
CHAPTER 13
he water was boiling. Agatha had always felt that anything important one person had to say to another could be said in less time than it takes to make a pot of tea.
I love you, for example.
Or: I hate you.
Entire universes of meaning in a few short words. She admired such economy.
Not Rosie the ubiquitous chambermaid. Rosie didn’t understand economy.
This afternoon’s conversation came just as Agatha was attempting to relax with a piece o
f the hotel’s good apple pie. It revolved around Rosie’s family woes, which were legion: a wayward cousin, a father with gout, an unwieldy tax bill, a cuckolded brother. After what seemed a decent interval, Agatha shooed the girl away. She was eager to settle down with the books she’d borrowed from the Messrs. W.H. Smith library in Parliament Street the day before. Among them were several adventure thrillers, a selection of mysterie, and a book of romantic poetry by Charles Caverley entitled Fly Leaves. Not half an hour later, however, the latter volume slipped from her fingers as sleep overtook her.
She dreamed of the icicles on the front porch at Ashfield. When she was a small girl, she’d beg the gardener to break them off so she could pretend they were spears and she was a mighty warrior. She’d do battle until her spears melted and she was just Agatha again.
Upon waking, she bathed and dressed quickly, then made her way to the offices of the Times, which were almost ready to close for the day. She wanted to take out an advertisement. She inquired as to rates, then spent some time on the wording.
The clerk behind the desk peered at her shamelessly, finally commenting upon her resemblance to the missing novelist, Agatha Christie.
Paying him his fifteen shillings, she informed him that he had overstepped. Then she closed her purse and turned on her heel.
He ran after her, abashed. He hadn’t meant any harm. He was clearly mistaken. Why, he asked laughingly, would Agatha Christie have taken out an advertisement in the name of one Mrs. Theresa Neele of Capetown, South Africa?
Indeed, she murmured, turning her back on him once more. It was almost dark now, but she had to be certain he couldn’t see her eyes.
CHAPTER 14
ould you please stop yelling?” I begged my mother. “The people in the parking lot can hear you, for god’s sake. Hold on.” I clicked over to Annie. “Honey, please don’t cry. Hang on a second.” I clicked back over to my mother. “I have a headache. I have to go.”
Before I could click back over to Annie, the elderly gentleman sitting next to me touched my arm. “If you don’t mind my saying so, dear, you’re going to get indigestion that way. Take it from me. I’m the king of acid reflux.” He wiped some egg salad from his mouth, then asked for the check.
Monday, twelve noon. The lunch counter at Jan’s, on Beverly Boulevard. Waitresses with bouffant hairdos were serving patty melts and rice pudding to a stream of happy, busy people. I was busy but not happy, thanks to my ex-husband Richard, who’d apparently spent the night informing my nearest and dearest that I was a person of interest in a murder investigation and quite likely to face jail time.
I kept reminding my mother, when I could get a word in edgewise, that Richard was not to be trusted, but she wasn’t buying it. After all these years she was still enamored of him: Richard from the good family, Richard with the good education, Richard who looked like Cary Grant. She’d done his colors and his numbers and was well aware of what kind of head he had on his shoulders. Richard would never lie to her. I was another story.
Annie, who had a better grip on reality, let it go. She said how sorry she was about Liz. And that I shouldn’t get so upset. And that I should eat more tofu and whole grains. Before hanging up, we made a date for the six of us—Richard and Jackie, Gambino and me, Vincent and Annie—to meet at the baby store Thursday night to pick out a crib.
Call me psychic, but I predicted it wouldn’t go well.
In the meantime, I was on my way to Christietown. Ian’s assistant had left a message saying my check was ready and I could pick it up after two. That gave me just enough time to have a cup of coffee in peace. I couldn’t bear the thought of choking down more tea with a frantic Ian. Liz’s murder was all over the Sunday paper and still making headlines this morning: “Mystery Cult Death!” “Slaying at Murdertown!” They made the place sound like Jonestown. Ian was going to be beside himself.
But everything seemed just ducky when I got there. A convoy of flatbed trucks and cement mixers made their way down the access road, sounding a rousing chorus of honking horns. Red-and-orange banners blew merrily in the breeze. The birds were chirping, the jonquils stood at attention. And lining the brick path up to the Vicarage were brand-new topiary rakes plunged headfirst into the mud, each with a handle in the shape of a different murder weapon. Best of all, the parking lot was packed with Fords, Lincolns, and old Hondas with new paint jobs. I even saw a well-preserved Nash Rambler with a bumper sticker reading WORLD’S SEXIEST GRANDPA. I heaved a sigh of relief. These were Ian’s people.
Inside, it was quiet. Maybe everybody was out giving tours of the model homes. I walked to the reception desk and picked up a flyer promoting tomorrow’s big event, the first meeting of the Tuesday Night Club.
The Tuesday Night Club was Ian’s homage to Agatha Christie’s stories of the same name. In the earliest of these, Miss Marple—hoping to amuse her condescending young nephew—assembles a group of St. Mary Mead’s wittiest conversationalists. The talk turns to crime. All are aficionados. They decide to meet until each of them has presented a mystery for the others to solve. Inevitably, four of the five miss the boat. The fifth is the estimable Miss Marple. After digressing about the idiosyncrasies of Inch’s Taxi Service, the benefits of camphorated oil for a cough, or the virtues of an upright armchair for those with rheumatic backs, Miss Marple blithely, infallibly, nails the culprit.
Agatha Christie had the utmost respect for women of a certain age. Then again, she’d never met my mother.
I peeked over toward the offices.
“Anybody here?”
No answer.
I plopped down on the sofa and flipped through the latest issue of the Antelope Valley News. Then I went through Good Housekeeping. I ripped out a recipe for “Easy Beef Bourguignon” and pocketed it. Gambino loved red meat.
“Hello?” I called out. “Ian?”
Still no answer.
I went back to Good Housekeeping and read an article about the dangers of childhood vaccinations and another about organizing your closets. I hadn’t realized that all my problems could be solved with boot sleeves. Sounded like something a pirate would wear. Then I meandered back up to the reception desk. Ian’s assistant had left her handbag in full view. Louis Vuitton. Pretty pricey for an assistant. I poked at it. Felt like she had bricks in there. I walked around to the other side of the desk, opened the bottom drawer, and put the purse inside for safekeeping. Then I took a seat in her chair. Nice. Ergonomic. Nobody was going to get carpal tunnel syndrome in a chair like this. I spun around a couple of times, then idly plucked a piece of paper from her printer and read it. Ah. A memo to the wayward Christietownspeople: all window coverings visible from the exterior of any and all houses must be white or off-white in color upon pain of death.
Control freaks.
I was putting the paper back in the printer when I first heard the yelling. I leapt back to my spot on the couch. Not my business. I put my nose back where it belonged, in the classified section of the Antelope Valley News. Cars, motorcycles, jobs, lost pets.
You really couldn’t help listening, they were so loud. The voices were male, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Suddenly, I was overcome by a burning desire to stretch my legs. I started walking in the direction of the offices.
“Idiot! I trusted you to . . .”
Lost the rest of that sentence. I tiptoed farther on. By now, I was standing right outside the door.
“You think they are going to . . .”
“Cumulative-stress bullshit . . .”
“Far enough . . .”
“I suppose we’ll have to . . .”
“Fine!”
I jumped back as Ian threw open the door and walked out with a life-size cardboard cutout of the Christietown logo (old lady wielding a bloody hatchet) under his arm.
“Cece!” he said, dropping the murderous biddy to the floor.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I sputtered, bending down to help him. The fall had bent the biddy’s elbow
back at an unnatural angle.
“What are you doing standing here at the door?” he asked. “Surely you weren’t eavesdropping?”
I turned beet red. “I didn’t hear a word of what you were saying. That’s good, solid construction for you.” I pounded on the wall, praying it wouldn’t fall down on our heads.
Dov Pick came slamming out of the office next. He glared at Ian and elbowed past me without saying a word. Ian didn’t pay him much mind. He was busying himself with the old lady. He unbent her elbow, stood her up next to the assistant’s desk, then, frowning, moved her in front of the scale model of Phase 2.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
He broke into a freakish smile. “Since you ask, it couldn’t be better!”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, that Dov,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t give him another thought. He’s such a dramatist. My goodness, how he makes a fuss. He’s upset about some contracts with Browning McDuff. They want to charge us overtime for something they should’ve finished ages ago. It’s nothing at all. Codswallop.”
“Codswallop?”
“Nonsense. Cece, dear, I need your discerning eye. Do you like this over here?” He moved the biddy next to the potted palm at the entrance and stepped back to appraise his handiwork.
“Looks good,” I said. Then, “What exactly ‘couldn’t be better?’”
Ian wheeled around to face me, hands on hips. “Sales, you ninny!”
“Sales?”
“Yes, sales. They’re through the roof.”
“They are?” I asked. “Despite what’s happened?”
“Because of what’s happened.”
“But—“
“Dear Liz Berman. I will forever be grateful. It’s as if she sacrificed herself so Christietown could flourish.”
“My god, Ian!”
“Of course I’m sorry she’s dead, where are my manners? Tsk, tsk. But the publicity has been amazing. The hordes are flocking to Murdertown. They come like vultures to feast on the poor woman’s remains, and I reel them in. It’s perfect.”
He raced over to the front desk and pulled out a stack of papers.
