by Susan Kandel
“Horses for courses,” he said stoically.
“You win some, you lose some?” I asked.
“More or less.”
The man was nothing if not a realist. I promised I’d work on her, and that we’d talk in the morning. Once he left, I gave the ladies the go-ahead. The whole way there, they had their heads together like teenagers. Occasionally, a giggle erupted into the night.
“Ridgeway Lane, Otterbourne Road, de Bellefort Avenue.” Dot was reading off street signs. “Why, those are all the names of characters from Death on the Nile.”
“What a memorable movie!” exclaimed Silvana. “My second husband and I made love in the back row of the theater on East 86th Street in New York City. We’d just come from the King Tut show at the Met.”
“Mum’s the word,” said Dot, cracking them both up.
“Anthony Powell was the costume designer,” I said, trying to keep it clean. “He had Lois Chiles wearing a pair of shoes with diamond heels that came from a millionaire’s private collection and Bette Davis in a pair of reptile shoes made from the tiny scales of twenty-six python skins.”
“Python is cheap. Like my second husband,” Silvana said, tossing her hair. “Not to mention Larry. The burly man in the green warm-up suit?” She rolled her eyes, which were gorgeous. Aquamarine. “We had a thing for a few weeks. But he believes you can get more than one use out of a paper plate. Disgusting. Here we are, darlings. Home sweet home!”
We stopped in front of one of the modest, cookie-cutter residences of Phase 1. These had gabled roofs, attached single-car garages, rows of scraggly impatiens lining the faux-brick paths, and brass door knockers shaped like tabby cats. Silvana, however, was no conformist: her house had a tin Santa sleigh on the lawn and billowy crimson-colored curtains in the window.
“Has Ian seen your curtains?” I asked her, remembering the memo I’d come across the other day in his office.
“Oh, Ian Schmian,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Dov and I have an understanding.”
Before I could press her for details, she led Dot and me inside and seated us both on a strange red velvet settee, with tufts, mahogany scrolling, and a high, asymmetrical back.
“It’s a fainting couch,” she explained, turning on various light fixtures. All the bulbs were pink. “You don’t see them much anymore. In the old days, ladies used them when they wore corsets because they couldn’t bend at the waist.”
I could see the continuing relevance of the fainting couch. Silvana’s warm-up suit was so tight I was surprised she could bend anywhere.
“I love your aesthetic,” said Dot, who hadn’t struck me as a devotee of the bordello look.
“I like a room to exude sexuality.” Silvana picked up a remote control and clicked it. Flames filled the fireplace. “Instant romance. You, me, a bearskin rug? My first husband had no taste at all for that sort of thing, more’s the pity. Impotent! But you should see the Seligmans go at it. They’re around the corner, on Medenham Wells? Old people. He was a jeweler, went bankrupt. She makes her own bagels. They never close the drapes. So what’ll it be? Champagne cocktails? Digestives?”
Dot and I both chose champagne, which Silvana served in margarita glasses embossed with red chili peppers. She poured herself some Bailey’s Irish Cream, dropped three ice cubes into the tumbler, and topped it off with a voluptuous mound of whipped cream, which she consumed accordingly.
Silvana was a gossip. Maybe she could shed some light on the situation. “You know men,” I said.
She licked some whipped cream off her upper lip by way of response.
“What do you think of Ian?”
“Ian?” Silvana looked surprised. “I don’t think anything of Ian. Befuddled?”
That was the problem. He was one way on the outside, but nobody knew what he was like on the inside.
“Is he really related to Agatha Christie?” Dot asked.
“What do you think?” Silvana snorted.
“Do you think Christietown is the big success he’d hoped?” I asked.
“How am I supposed to know?” In the mirrored-tile fireplace, I saw the reflection of a dozen Silvanas dropping ice cubes into drinks.
“You’re savvy,” I tried. “A businesswoman, someone who’s been around the block. At least that’s how it looks to me. Am I right?”
Her eyes met mine. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m asking because I brought Dot here, and I don’t want her to get involved in any shaky financial situations.”
Dot started to say something but, to her credit, didn’t.
Silvana was silent for a minute. “Have you been talking to Dov?” she finally asked, setting her drink down on the goldleaf-rimmed coffee table. Dot gave a start at the sound of glass hitting glass.
“Sorry, darling,” said Silvana.
“Dov and I chatted earlier,” I said, not untruthfully.
“Dov’s the one who’s in trouble.”
Now we were getting somewhere. “How so?”
Her hands flew up to her heart. “His lady friend left. It about killed him. I’m telling you, a person needs a liability policy for love.”
Great. Now I had the story of Dov’s love life from an insurance perspective. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, which had a white fur toilet-seat cover and excellent lighting over the sink. I looked about twenty-five years old. No wonder Silvana seemed so confident. But I had a feeling she knew more than she was saying.
“Cece? Everything okay?” Dot called out. Somewhere in the back of her mind she still thought I was having a difficult pregnancy.
“Fine!” I turned on the faucet, then sat on the edge of the tub to go through the “While You Were Out” slips again. In addition to the mother and the dry cleaner and the memorabilia and the gym, Dov had called twice, wanting to know the second time why Ian hadn’t called him back the first. That message was dated yesterday. Then there was something from a Dr. R. that read “Failure to Perform, 1200/3800, A.V. East Kern W.P.” Between that and the Viagra, it looked like Ian had personal issues I was extremely sorry I knew about. Why would a doctor leave a private message like that with a secretary? Tacky. Of course, this was all completely pointless. I wasn’t going to find out anything about Liz’s death this way. I turned off the faucet and hit the lights. I needed to get Dot home, I needed to mind my own business, I needed to believe Gambino when he told me none of this was my fault. Only I didn’t believe him, so where did that leave me?
I came out to find Dot and Silvana huddled over a lobster, which appeared to be living in the kitchen sink. Silvana said it reminded her of her second husband, the one who was cheap, not the one who didn’t like sex. The second husband did like sex, a lot.
“Isn’t he virile? I bought him three days ago, but I can’t bring myself to eat him,” she said. “I keep telling myself he’s taking the waters.”
“He must be dying,” I said. “Are you feeding him?” I was immediately sorry I’d asked because Silvana got defensive about her new pet, at which point even Dot started to lose patience with her. Which made me think of my pets. They’d probably destroyed the house by now. We had to go.
On the drive home, Dot worked on Jackie’s cousin’s baby boy’s hat, then dozed off. I was a little worried she might stab herself with the knitting needles if we hit a bump. Then the needles fell off her lap onto the floor and I stopped worrying. Dot talked in her sleep, mostly mumbo-jumbo. But at one point, I did make out, “Give me a nice two-pounder, with extra drawn butter.”
She was amusing, that Dot.
CHAPTER 21
little after eight the next morning, Gambino and I grabbed our L.A. Times and walked up the street to Hugo’s, a breakfast spot favored by Hollywood screenwriters who eat mung beans. Others are also welcome. Hugo’s has philodendrons in pots, nice waitresses, good southern exposure, and a vast number of choices when it comes to oolongs, which are teas. Both of us ordered bacon and eggs. We’re L.A. transplants. Our lives are consecrated
to keeping it real.
“Honey! There’s Robert Downey Junior,” I said, peeking over the top of my sunglasses. “He’s on his cell.”
Gambino took a slug of coffee. “Yeah, we’re old friends.”
“Ha-ha. Did you see Rob Reiner paying his check?”
“Missed him,” Gambino said. “I would have liked to see Meathead.”
“Next time.” I cut into my egg. Yolk oozed onto the plate. I sopped it up with my toast. Delicious.
“So what are you up to today?” Gambino asked.
Not sneaking into anyone’s office. Not stealing anyone’s phone messages. “Just work. What about you?”
“Solving this case would be good,” he answered.
Ditto.
“Can you pass the butter, please?” Gambino asked.
I handed him a pat. He was the only person I knew who didn’t bother unwrapping it first. He cut straight through the foil, then squeezed.
“So,” I said. “Did you find the victim’s business partner yet?”
“Nope,” he said, slathering his toast. “Jelly?”
I passed it over. “What about the ex-wife?”
“Not actually an ex. They never divorced. But yeah, we found her. She’s a counselor at a halfway house in the city of Orange. Tico and I have an appointment with her this afternoon. She says she hadn’t seen him in almost two years. He left her and the kid. He never sent money. Another pathetic story.”
The victim was found in the wee hours of the morning, around the corner from the Inmate Reception Center on Bauchet Street. He’d just served twenty-three days for driving with a suspended license. He was a small-time bad guy, a music producer who’d screwed his associates, been up on assault charges more than once, and apparently didn’t believe in paying child support. When the cops fished him out of the Dumpster, he was still wearing his white plastic ID bracelet.
“Was there another woman?” I asked, finishing my grapefruit juice.
“Naturally.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Can’t find her.”
“What about the wife? Is she telling the truth about not having seen him?”
“I won’t know until I look in her eyes.”
The waitress appeared and refilled our coffees. Gambino sloshed his around meditatively.
“What is it?” I asked, putting my hand on his.
“Nothing.”
“I love it when you open up to me,” I said with a smile.
“Sorry.”
Strange. He hadn’t touched his bacon.
“Don’t be sorry,” I said.
Something was wrong. If I knew Gambino, he’d brood for a few more days, then he’d tell me what was going on. But I didn’t want to wait. “Is it meeting Richard on Thursday?”
“No. Is that this Thursday? As in tomorrow?”
“Yes! Walt’s Baby Headquarters at six thirty. Promise me you won’t forget? I need you to make a good impression. They think I’m insane.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You remind me of my father when you do that.” My father, who’d never approved of me. My father, to whom I was always trying to prove something. Not that there was a pattern here.
Gambino looked at me across the table. “Look, are we or are we not getting married?”
So that was it. “Of course we’re getting married. Why would you think we weren’t getting married?”
“Cece. It’s taken months to organize a guest list. We’ve taken dance lessons. We’ve listened to a dozen wedding bands. We’ve tasted cakes. Father Joe is ready. But we haven’t even set a date. This is getting ridiculous.”
“That’s not fair. You know the problem. I can’t get my mother to say when she’s available to come out here. I didn’t have a chance to press her last time we talked. She was too busy yelling at me.”
“I don’t see why it matters if she’s there. You can’t stand her.”
I gave him a look. “She’s my mother.”
“Listen, I know you’re scared, but we either do this thing or we don’t. And I want to know one way or the other right now.”
“This is ridiculous. You know that I love you,” I said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“You’re giving me an ultimatum? At Hugo’s?”
He stood up. “Yes.”
I paused for a split second, which was a split second too long. I could see something in his eyes go dark.
“I can’t deal with this now,” I said, grabbing my purse. “I’ll see you tonight.”
And I left my fiancé standing there, the wreck of our breakfast all around him.
When I got home, there was an e-mail from my editor, Sally. How’s the weather? Your daughter have her baby? Seen any movie stars lately? Just checking in. No pressure. But are you done yet? Have you solved the mystery of why Agatha Christie disappeared for eleven days? Because you’re holding up our production schedule. The publishing business isn’t what it used to be. Zero tolerance for writer’s block. Company policy. Get with the program. Beware self-sabotage. But no pressure. Just checking in.
I did some nervous eating, then decided to walk the dog.
At optimum dog-walking hours (eight to ten A.M., five to seven P.M.), the neighborhood is overrun with creatures of various sizes and configurations wearing studded collars. And you should see the dogs. But that’s West Hollywood for you. I quite enjoyed it. Most of the neighbors were pretty mild, actually. The porn star down the block always put on baggy sweats to walk Hubert, his Afghan hound. Lois and Marlene favored bathrobes when out with their 3.5 dogs (the Chow, sadly, was afflicted with a canine form of alopecia). Minnie, the drag queen who owned the thrift store next to the gas station, kept to herself when promenading Prince Pierre, her Labradoodle. There was, of course, the gold guy, who liked to grease his chest up with some kind of sparkling body lotion. He had a good-looking golden retriever named Reggie. And the beagle owner, who had curtain-rod-size rings in his earlobes. Not to mention the seventyish lady from a few blocks over who had a parasol for her German boxer (they are prone to skin cancer). But aside from them, it was your average group of law-abiding citizens. Well, most of them weren’t in fact law-abiding. They were creative types with illegal garage conversions, like me. But that wasn’t such a big deal. Unless the city inspector came calling.
Buster kept lagging behind me, sniffing the trees more intently than usual. I think it was his way of punishing me for not paying enough attention to him. I bent down and nuzzled him, which seemed to do the trick. He found a nice spot of grass, important duties were performed, and we turned around. At home, I checked my phone messages (none), weighed myself (speaking of self-sabotage), checked the cupboard for food (I’d cleaned us out), and thought about doing some nervous shopping. But I accepted that nervous shopping would only cause more suffering.
Time to face reality.
Gambino needed an answer.
So did my editor.
Ladies first.
CHAPTER 22
adies first.
Maybe that was the problem with my manuscript.
I’d been thinking of this story as Agatha’s, but stories are bigger than just one person. It was Archie’s story, too.
This time, I’d begin with Archie.
Archie Christie was deeply unhappy.
I sighed. Not particularly insightful. Nonetheless, it was a start.
Archie Christie was deeply unhappy. The woman he’d married had become a stranger.
Keep going.
She wanted to talk. He wanted solitude. She wanted to travel. He wanted to stay close to home.
Better.
Then her mother died and her grief cast a pall over the household. Her emotions overwhelmed him. The truth was, he no longer loved her. He’d been seeing Nancy Neele, a twenty-eight-year-old brunette who shared his passion for golf.
It had been eighteen months. He’d fallen in love. He wanted a divorce. He left.
Two weeks
later, he returned home. Maybe he’d made a mistake. They had a daughter, after all. He’d try. He’d take Agatha on holiday to Guéthary, a tiny village at the foot of the Pyrenees. It was beautiful there—the sun, the water. Maybe they could turn back the clock. But it wasn’t so easy. He was neither able to commit to the marriage nor to end it.
Sounded familiar.
Agatha swore, in any case, that she wouldn’t give him a divorce. She threw things. She wrote a short story in which the wife is blackmailed by the other woman and jumps from a cliff side to her death. An obvious pity ploy. At least that’s how Archie would have seen it. He had no stomach for drama. He’d told her so from the beginning. There were more rows. Agatha threw a teapot. Archie refused to accompany her for a weekend in Beverley, in Yorkshire, as she’d hoped. She announced she’d go alone. He was relieved the charade was over. But she hurled accusations. Yes, he admitted, he wanted to spend the weekend with Nancy. He stormed off to work. He didn’t return home that night.
That was Friday, December 3, 1926.
The first clue Archie had that his wife was gone was a phone call from Charlotte, her secretary. Archie and Nancy were spending the weekend at the home of some friends, the Jameses. Charlotte told Archie the police had arrived at Styles that morning to inquire about Mrs. Christie’s whereabouts. Archie had no sooner hung up the phone than a police officer turned up at the Jameses’ front door to escort him home.
Of course they thought he’d killed her. It’s the husband nine times out of ten, isn’t it? All they needed was a body. They already had the car. It had been found early that morning near Newlands Corner, at the edge of a chalk pit on a rutted, twisting dirt track, only six miles from where Archie and his mistress lay sleeping. The police had given him all the details, hoping to intimidate him.
I stopped for a moment, flipped through my notes. I found a quote from Murder on the Orient Express: “One cannot escape from the facts.”
These were the facts:
The car was in an upright position with the glass screen intact.
