by Susan Kandel
Mr. Keshigian’s office was located in Westwood Village, next door to a restaurant called Noodle Planet, popular with UCLA students and other budget-minded ramen enthusiasts. I said thanks, but no thanks to the elevator and walked up the three flights. Mr. Keshigian’s secretary had her back to the door and didn’t hear me come in. She was too busy laughing uproariously into the phone. My mother laughed like that when she was watching Dick Van Dyke reruns, but only when they featured Rose Marie. I cleared my throat, and when that failed to get the woman’s attention, coughed animatedly, at which point she spun around in her chair and hung up, adopting an imperious tone her fried hair belied.
“Do you have an appointment, Ms. Caruso?” Knowing full well I did not.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said, smiling.
She buried her head in her date book and came up saying, “Do not.”
“I made it last week,” I said. “You must’ve forgotten to write it down. Check again.” Now it was my turn to be imperious.
“Your name is nowhere in here,” she snapped. “We can make an appointment now if you’d like, for another day. Right now we’re getting ready to close up shop.” She slammed the date book shut and pulled her gym bag out of a drawer.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m pretty busy in the foreseeable future. I’m getting married, and my daughter’s having a baby, and I’ve got a book due, and Mr. K. got me this job that wound up getting a couple of people killed, so I think now is a really good time. I won’t be long, I promise. Just buzz him, would you?”
She put away the gym bag and buzzed him.
Mr. Keshigian came out to greet me with his usual pro forma obsequiousness. I could only imagine the bowing and scraping the six-figure earners got. We went into his office and took seats. He put his feet up on the desk and stretched his arms behind his head. I could see my reflection in his shiny Gucci loafers.
“What can I do you for, Cece?” he asked, looking at the clock.
“I’m sorry to keep you, but I need you to help me figure something out.” Peering at his instep, I patted down my wayward hair.
“Like I told you the other day, I’m just a number cruncher.”
False modesty becomes no one. “Give it your best shot, okay?”
He shrugged noncommittally.
“Remember, you told me that everybody’s got problems?” I leaned forward. “Well, I think I found more than I bargained for.”
He licked his finger, then dabbed at a tiny green leaf on his shoe. “The Reader’s Digest version, if you don’t mind.”
Clutching the papers to my chest, I told him everything I knew, starting with AVEK’s findings that the wells providing water to Christietown were tainted with sodium perchlorate and would probably have to be shut down. As if that weren’t trouble enough, the L.A. County Waterworks District 35 had indicated that they would not be honoring their prior commitment to supply Dusk Ridge Ranch with water. This was a direct result of the former developer’s “failure to perform.” That’s where I started to get lost.
“You’re talking about WindCal?” asked Mr. K. “What, did they renege on a promise to build water-related infrastructure?”
Infrastructure. There was that word again.
I paged through the papers. “Yes,” I said. “That’s exactly it!
Dov and Avi bought Dusk Ridge Ranch after WindCal went into foreclosure, and now I think they are supposed to assume responsibility for a water-banking system WindCal never established.”
“Give me those.” Mr. Keshigian reached over and grabbed the papers out of my hands. I held my breath as he punched numbers into his calculator. “Hmm,” he said, wrinkling his brow. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Un-fucking-believable!”
“What?” I asked. “What is it?”
“According to my calculations, Dov Pick and Avi Semel are going to have to shell out five thousand seven hundred bucks per house to ensure a reliable future water supply. You’re talking seven thousand houses, that makes—oh, man, that is brutal.” He closed his eyes, as if in physical pain. “You’re talking close to forty million dollars in unanticipated costs.”
If news of this got out—the water supply being in jeopardy—nobody was going to buy a house in Dusk Ridge Ranch. If nobody bought a house, Dov and Avi were never going to get a chance to raise the extra money they needed, and the bank was going to foreclose. They’d go bankrupt. Liz must’ve found out. Silvana, too. Maybe Silvana was blackmailing Dov. Maybe that’s why she got away with red curtains.
“It’s over,” I said. “The whole thing. The Icepick is screwed.”
Mr. Keshigian laughed out loud.
“Why are you laughing?” I asked. Maybe he didn’t like my mixed metaphor.
“Nice try, but no.”
I looked at him blankly. “What do you mean no?”
“Sorry to disillusion you, Cece, but this is no big deal.”
I grabbed my papers back. “What are you talking about, no big deal?”
He sighed. “First thing they’re going to do is sue the Waterworks District to try and prevent them from turning off the tap. I’d be surprised if they haven’t done that already. Dov and Avi will argue that they aren’t responsible for WindCal’s agreements. In the first place, those agreements assume facts that are no longer true. In the second place, Dusk Ridge Ranch has gone forward and become an asset to the community. Jobs, schools, all that means a lot to city officials. Especially in Antelope Valley, which is a mess. The county’s not going to be so quick to let them go.”
“But what about the water?”
“Lawsuits take years. Dusk Ridge Ranch is going to have water for a very long time. They’ll take Christietown’s water, contaminated or not, they’ll hire somebody to say it’s fine, dump some purifiers in it, whatever. Or they’ll siphon it from the farmers. Those guys are the ones who are going to get screwed. The water in that area is unadjudicated. That means anyone with a well can get into the aquifer. Agriculture’s going to suffer, but what do those guys care about that? Eventually it’ll all be decided in court. In the meantime, they’re going to line whatever pockets they need to so they can sell every house in DRR. Christietown, too. You mark my words, before this mess ever appears before a judge, they’re going to be on to the next thing.”
I struggled to my feet. “What are you saying?”
“They’re not going to lose a dime.”
“They’re not going to lose a dime?” I repeated, incredulous.
“Trust me,” he said. “Not a single dime.”
“This is business as usual?” My voice was weak.
“Business as usual,” said Mr. K.
I felt like a washcloth that had been wrung dry.
I had nothing instead of something.
Again.
I gathered up my papers, thanked Mr. Keshigian, said goodbye to his little watchdog, and went down Wilshire to La Cienega, and up La Cienega to Orlando.
I had green lights the whole way, but it still took forever to get there.
CHAPTER 36
everal hours later I heard the key turn in the lock.
“Honey, I’m home!” Gambino called out.
I could see him from the kitchen, throwing his keys onto the coffee table, taking off his jacket, removing his holster. He was tired. His broad shoulders looked like they were carrying the weight of the world. When you’re feeling like that, you’re supposed to turn to the people you love.
I did.
On the long drive back from Mr. Keshigian’s, I made three phone calls.
One to Lael, who said sex always helped her when she was feeling down.
A second to Bridget, who insisted that shopping would do the trick.
A third to Annie, who told me to be thankful for the good things in my life.
Being the greedy sort, I was taking everyone’s advice.
“Say it again,” I called out.
“Honey, I’m home,” Gambino said, laughing.
“Thank you.” I opened th
e oven door and poked the baked potatoes with a fork. Too bad. They needed another half an hour, and I’d already dressed the salad.
Gambino came through the kitchen doorway and let out a whistle.
“This old thing? I found it at the bottom of the hamper.” Designed by the eighties minimalist Zoran, who disapproved of long nails on women and feathers on anything but birds, the dress was black silk, cut in one piece, and held together by a single knot in the back. Once somebody undid it, all two ounces would slip to the floor. But that was for later.
“Tough day at work?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Sounds like you need a martini.” I removed the shaker from the refrigerator. I’d made them just the way he liked them: straight up, very dry, very cold, with a twist.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, loosening his tie.
I am thankful for the good things in my life. “TGIF.”
“Lucky me,” he said, pouring our cocktails. “You. This drink. I must’ve died and gone to heaven.”
I looked at him over the edge of my glass. “You don’t look dead to me. Anything but.”
His pupils started to dilate. “You’re a very bad girl.”
“So I’ve been told.”
At that point, we came to a mutual decision that later was now.
After a while, the smell of the potatoes reached us in the bedroom.
“I should get up and turn on the grill,” I murmured.
“No you shouldn’t,” he said, pulling me closer.
“Contrary to the rumors, chivalry is not dead.”
He gave me a kiss, then got up and pulled on a pair of jeans. “I’ll take care of the rest. You take a shower. You have lipstick all over your face.”
I leaned forward and stroked his cheek. “That makes two of us.”
Tonight’s dinner was a re-creation of Gambino’s favorite meal from Taylor’s, an old-time chophouse on a nondescript corner in Koreatown, known for its horseshoe-shaped booths and smart-mouthed waitresses. We were starting with a Molly salad, which is iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, and onions, chopped and left to drown in a sea of blue cheese dressing; followed by two steaks charred medium rare (sure to be a challenge on my old gas grill), accompanied by baked potatoes with sour cream and chives in little ruffled paper cups. Green vegetables were superfluous. As for dessert—well, we’d started with dessert.
The phone was ringing now. I’d decided to let the machine pick up, but when I heard Dot’s voice I grabbed for the cordless on the nightstand.
“Don’t hang up!” I said. “It’s me, Cece.”
“Hello, dear,” said Dot. “How are you?”
“Good.” I tucked the phone under my ear so I could pull on some socks. My feet were cold. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
She wasn’t her usual ebullient self, not that I was surprised.
“I’m going to see you at the shower tomorrow, right?” I asked, settling back against the headboard.
“That’s why I’m calling.” Dot’s voice perked up a little. ”I wanted to see if you needed anything. I’d be happy to come early, help you set up.”
I told her I thought that everything was taken care of.
“What about party games? Who’s in charge of party games?”
I bit my lip. “No one.”
There was a long pause. Oh, what the hell.
“Would you like to be in charge of party games, Dot?”
“I’d love to,” she said. “I really need the distraction. I’ve been a little down about Silvana.”
“I know,” I said. “Me, too.”
“At least they’ve put her murderer behind bars.”
“No, they haven’t.” I paused. “You don’t mean Wren, do you?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t even want to say her name out loud. She horrifies me.”
“Dot, Wren has nothing to do with Silvana’s murder. She was arrested for murdering Liz.”
She made a clucking sound. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. It’s just a matter of time, dear, before they add the second murder charge.”
This was insane. “You must be confused. Did you talk to McAllister and Mariposa about all this?” Richard had said they’d grilled Dot for hours, but I hadn’t believed him.
“Are you referring to the cops?”
“Yes,” I said, starting to lose my patience. “The cops.”
“I most certainly did talk to them. We had a very extensive conversation. I believe I was quite helpful.”
“I didn’t realize you even knew Wren.”
“Well, it wasn’t me who knew Wren. It was Silvana.”
“Silvana knew Wren?”
“Honey,” called Gambino from the kitchen. “Where do we keep the steak knives?”
I walked toward the hallway. “We don’t have any. We use paring knives. They’re in the drawer. Sorry, Dot.”
“Oh, I’m the one who’s sorry. Here I am interrupting your dinner.”
“No, it’s fine. So what about Silvana and Wren?”
“I can’t find any paring knives in the drawer,” Gambino called out. “Which drawer?”
“Would you mind holding on for a minute?” I put Dot on hold and padded into the kitchen in my birthday suit plus socks. Wordlessly, I opened the cutlery drawer and took out the paring knives and handed them to Gambino, who said, “Oh, that drawer,” then went outside to turn the steaks.
I ran back into the bedroom and took Dot off hold. Unfortunately, she’d had a sudden attack of conscience in the interim.
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to be telling you all this,” she said, fretting. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. I should probably hang up right now.”
“Did McAllister or Mariposa tell you not to talk to anyone about this?”
“Well, no—no, they didn’t.”
“Then I don’t see how there could be a problem,” I said. “No problem at all,” I reiterated for good measure. “Wren’s already in trouble anyway.”
“I suppose you’re right. Well, it’s not much, when you come down to it. But the officers certainly took note.” She cleared her throat. “The day before the play, Silvana was walking from the Blue Boar to her house. She had gotten some scones and clotted cream to go.” Dot paused for dramatic emphasis.
“And?”
“And as she turned down her street, on her way home, thinking about the lovely snack she was about to consume, she saw Liz and Wren. In one of the gazebos.”
Were they there a day early, rehearsing? They didn’t have any scenes together. “What were they doing?”
“Fighting!” She paused again. “Screaming, yelling, carrying on something awful. And—”
“And?”
“Liz slapped Wren across the face.”
“Oh, my god.”
“That isn’t the worst of it.” Dot stopped and took a breath. “The worst of it is that after Liz hit her, Wren said—and I quote—‘You’ll be sorry you did that.’”
Silvana the gossip. She must’ve eaten it up. I’m surprised she didn’t notify the local news. Catfight! Film at eleven! “But anyone could’ve said something like that,” I said. “In the heat of the moment.”
Dot sighed. “I really don’t think so, Cece. Wren realized Silvana was standing there and had witnessed the entire ugly scene. I suppose she panicked. She was afraid that Silvana might come forward and implicate her in Liz Berman’s murder. And now not one, but two people are dead.”
Could it be true about Wren? I’d thought Dov or Ian or Avi or some combination thereof was responsible for Liz and Silvana, but, as it turned out, they didn’t have anything to hide.
Business as usual is not a motive for murder.
At least everybody keeps telling me so.
I hung up the phone, peeled off my socks, and took my shower. Then I went into the dining room to eat my fabulous dinner, which I could barely even swallow.
Gambino tried his best.
He tol
d me that Butch called him at work yesterday to let him know that the dwarf citrus trees were being delivered early next week and then the garden was done. And that his parents were coming from New Jersey and couldn’t wait to meet me.
He put on a Peggy Lee CD and we tried dancing to “Fever,” but we kept stepping all over each other.
He thought I might be upset about my Agatha Christie book, so he made me an Editor Sally voodoo doll out of his discarded potato skin and some toothpicks.
He tried to distract me by talking about his case. The dead guy had been found with one thousand dollars in his pocket. Where had he gotten it? And why hadn’t the person who killed him kept it? Meanwhile, his wife said it was hers. And his girlfriend said it was hers. What did I think, Gambino wanted to know.
I told him I wanted to talk to Wren.
He stared at me for a minute.
Maybe two.
Then he carried his plate into the kitchen and said he’d arrange it for tomorrow.
And that he was tired and was going straight to sleep.
CHAPTER 37
veryone thought he was sleeping. Roger Ackroyd, a good man, the life and soul of the peaceful village of King’s Abbott. But when you are too good—unforgiving, perhaps, of the frail
ties of others—simply said, such goodness can lead to trouble. Poor man, dead in his armchair in front of the roaring fire. First, there is the parade of suspects. Miss Russell, the housekeeper, disappointed in love. Major Blunt, the big-game hunter. He’d given the murder
weapon—a small dagger from Tunis—to Ackroyd as a gift.
The widowed sister-in-law and/or her daughter, Flora, who hadn’t a penny of their own and wouldn’t until the death of their parsimonious benefactor.
Ralph Paton, the adopted son, handsome, charming, and
plagued by gambling debts. The young secretary, too good to be true. The parlor maid with a past. The lurking butler.
Crime is so terribly revealing. Try and vary your methods as you will, your soul is nonetheless laid bare by your actions.
Indeed it was fascinating, burrowing into other people’s minds, trying to unravel the mystery of what makes one breathing, thinking individual so different from another. What makes one bold and the other timid? Why do some people keep secrets and others not? Agatha could busy herself with such thoughts for many an hour. But Archie was little interested in speculation, disinclined to abstractions. So she channeled her curiosity into her characters.
