by Al Roker
“Well, let’s see. I had a business meeting, a rehearsal, a show. Then, before I knew what was happening, I’d frittered away the whole day. I can send you a fax on that if you’re not taking notes.”
“A fax will not be necessary,” he said. “I was just speaking with Ms. Ingram. She’s at work and available. I believe you have her number, but if not …”
“I’ve got it. Thanks,” I said. “I’ll give her a call.”
“That would be excellent,” he said.
My next call was not to Ms. Ingram.
“So many busy signals,” Cassandra said. “Thanks for fitting me in.” There was no longer the sound of a chatty, happy lunch crowd in the background.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Your office. It’s very unpleasant, Billy. Dusty and musty.”
“Put the cleaners on it, for God’s sake.”
“I don’t have time to watch them when they’re in here.”
“Nobody watches them when I’m there,” I said. “We’ve been using the same cleaning crew since we opened. I think we can trust them to dust my office.”
“Really? Then let me tell you about trust.”
“First tell me about Margaret.”
“It’s the same story. You know she got a divorce from Otto last month?”
“I’m not that up on Margaret’s private life.” My attention was drawn to a familiar surgically rearranged figure in the far distance, heading my way across the sand. The pride of Crockaby Realty, Amelia St. Laurent. I considered going back inside the guesthouse.
“Margaret and Otto had been married for twenty-three years,” Cassandra said, as if that were a record. “She told me she grew tired of him, but, actually, it was because of Heinrich.”
“Heinrich being …?”
“Margaret’s twenty-seven-year-old boy toy.”
“Not exactly a boy.” Ms. St. Laurent paused to observe the home to her right.
“Man toy, then. Or more to the point, she’s his mommy toy.”
“Bottom-line it, Cassandra, in the middle of your busiest time of day. Why fire Margaret?”
“I thought I made that clear,” she said. “She’s smitten with Heinrich.”
“So …?”
Ms. St. Laurent had resumed her march. I stood, picked up the coffee cup, and walked to the guesthouse.
“Heinrich is an identity thief,” Cassandra said.
“You know this for a fact?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “A.W. looked into it.” A. W. Johansen, Cassandra’s paramour, was in charge of the East Coast office of a top security agency. “He said Heinrich’s MO is seducing lady cashiers, bank tellers, and the like, any female who can provide him with credit card information.”
“Last I looked, there was a law against such things.”
Just as I entered the guesthouse, Ms. St. Laurent was marching toward the villa’s sliding glass doors with a ring of keys in her hand.
“A.W. says you have to catch Heinrich with the goods,” Cassandra was saying. “Otherwise, he could say he simply had a jones for frumpy women. Oops, strike that, Billy. Matronly women. I’m trying not to be overly critical.”
“Since when?”
I entered the kitchenette and plucked a nice red apple from a now-empty bowl.
“Anyway, we could wait until he sweet-talked Margaret into providing him with our customers’ credit card information. But that would mean Margaret would be arrested, too. So I want to fire her instead.”
“Margaret’s been honest up till now,” I said. “What makes you think she’d turn crook for Heinrich?”
“Haven’t you been listening, Billy? She left her husband of twenty-three years for the creep.”
“Good point,” I said, replacing the apple, saving it for another day.
“This way, with her out of a job, Heinrich will drop her like a hot rock. She’ll be heartbroken. But she won’t be in prison. She may even go back to Otto.”
“You’re a combination Solomon and Ann Landers,” I said. “Do what you think best.”
“Don’t I always?” she said. “And Billy, in the future, please don’t wait forever to return my calls. It’s so simple, even for someone like you, who keeps fighting technology. Your phone has a touch-screen capability. You see my number on the recent call list. You press my number. My phone rings. We talk.”
“I know about the touch screen. It’s just that it was very late—”
“I don’t think you do know about the touch screen. Otherwise, you’d be more careful.”
“Come again?”
She hesitated a moment. “The touch screen. It’s possible to engage it accidentally. Something in your pocket presses against it. Or someone bumps into you in a crowd. It’s called ‘ass dialing,’ as in your ass presses the dial and—”
“I get it. So?”
“I’ve … overheard you … once or twice.”
“The damn thing can phone somebody without me knowing?”
“Well, you should be able to hear it dialing,” she said.
“Unless I’ve got the volume turned down. What have you overheard?”
“Nothing that interesting. I heard you at a meeting a couple of days ago. Mainly other people I didn’t know talking. Got bored and clicked off. I should have mentioned this before. It’s the sort of thing that could have embarrassing consequences.”
“You think? I need a new phone.”
“Touch screen is a popular feature,” she said. “You may have to just be more careful.”
That was her exit line.
I stared at the phone, the list of numbers on the touch screen, and wondered which, if any, I may have unknowingly allowed to listen in on my life.
Too late to worry about that now.
Now I needed to put the traitorous phone to use.
Gloria Ingram answered on the third ring. Her voice had a measured, unaccented sound that I associate with people who speak professionally.
After the awkward amenities, she said, “As I told Roger, I have no objection to talking with you about the night of Tiffany Arden’s murder, but it has to be off the record. I’m employed by the Bank of California, a company not known for having a broad-minded nature, even in times of plenty.”
I assured her that our conversation would be kept private.
“Then suppose you tell me exactly what you want to know,” she said.
“Would it be possible for us to meet?” I asked.
She hesitated, then asked, “When?”
“Are you free for lunch?”
“Actually, no. I’m on something of a deadline. But I can spare you a few minutes. I assume it won’t take longer than that.”
We settled on an appointment at eleven. I bid her good day and clicked off the phone, making sure I’d be able to hear it if it decided to make any calls.
I was pouring a third cup of coffee when someone began pounding on the front door.
“Mr. Blessing!” Amelia St. Laurent’s voice was just a few decibels shy of glass-breaking.
I was heading toward the door to open it when she barged in, tottering a bit on her platform wedges. “What in God’s name has been going on in the villa?” she demanded.
“Good morning, Ms. St. Laurent,” I greeted her, settling on a world-class passive-aggressive approach. “Care for a cup of coffee?”
“What went on here last night? The villa’s a disgrace.”
“That’s news to me.”
“Mr. Fitzpatrick didn’t mention it?”
That one caught me off guard. “What makes you think Fitzpatrick was here?” I asked.
“The security guards still have him listed as an occupant of the villa,” she said. “According to the log, he arrived at two a.m. and left at three-fifty-two. You didn’t see him?”
“I went to sleep at a little before midnight,” I said. “What’s up at the villa?”
“It’s an unholy mess. I came here this morning to prepare a home down the beach. When I sa
w that Mr. Fitzpatrick had been here at such an odd hour, I figured I’d better check to see if he’d disturbed anything. Thank God I did. I’ve a cleaning crew at the other home. I’ll have to deploy some of them here. Prospects are due in less than an hour.”
“Show me the damage,” I said.
I followed her from the guesthouse through the sliding glass door and into the villa. The living room looked pristine. What I could see of the formal dining room looked just fine.
Amelia St. Laurent was clip-clopping toward the den. “Just look in there,” she said. “I won’t. The sight absolutely makes me sick.”
She was overdoing it a bit. There was a strong smell of whiskey in the room that I traced to a bottle of Bushmills resting on its side in a puddle of its former contents. Other than that, the furniture had been moved around. The leather couch was several feet from the wall, with a throw rug wrapped around one leg. The giant TV screen was slightly askew. One of the leather chairs had tipped over backward.
It looked as though there’d been a struggle in the room. But it may have just been Fitz hunting for something. Maybe one of those bags that he or Des had left behind.
If that was the case, he’d been on a fool’s errand. The police gave the place a thorough vetting after Des’s death. It was doubtful they’d have missed a bag full of drugs.
“Well?” Amelia St. Laurent was waiting just outside the room.
“It’s a mess,” I allowed. “How’s the rest of the place look?”
“Passable,” she said. I took that to mean it hadn’t been touched. “This is all very annoying. I’ll be talking to Mr. Halstead at your network about this. It was my understanding that while you would be staying in the guesthouse temporarily, the villa would be unoccupied. Would you have any idea if Mr. Fitzpatrick plans any other visits?”
I shrugged helplessly.
“Well, I shall have to deploy some cleaners from the other job. Rest assured, I shall charge your network for their services.”
I gave her my blessings.
Chapter
THIRTY-EIGHT
The address Gloria Ingram had given me was in the ultra-ritzy Holmby Hills, a gated estate with rolling lawns, fish ponds, tennis courts, a pool complete with cabana, and gardens filled with rainbow-colored buds, all failing to soften or beautify a two-story granite monster of a mansion. I parked the Lexus at the end of a gravel drive, behind two large Carrying the World vans.
Gloria Ingram was standing at the door to the ugly mansion, overseeing movers in white jumpsuits as they toted furniture from the house to the vans. She was a tall, patrician woman in her forties. There was something familiar about her. Roger had said she’d been a model and a starlet before her marriage.
She gave me a cool, professional welcome and explained that her work consisted of preparing foreclosed properties for sale. “The so-called owner of this mausoleum blew the country, sticking the bank with a twenty-nine-million-dollar mortgage he’d barely dented.” She added wearily, “We’ll be lucky if we get twenty-six-five.”
As she led me into the house and a marble reception area, two men were removing a huge painting of voluptuous nude ladies cavorting rather naughtily on black velvet. They were followed by two of their associates carrying a portrait of Elvis with angel wings. A third painting rested against a marble wall, Satan behind the wheel of a speeding Maserati, leaving a trail of hellish flames in its wake. Where, I wondered, was the painting of the dogs playing poker?
“Was the mortgage walkaway a pimp?” I asked.
“A television evangelist,” Gloria replied. “Not to say you were wrong. As you can see, he had lovely taste. Usually we prefer to present a property furnished. But in this instance, I’m quite sure that would not have helped the sale.”
I followed her through rooms that showed the touch of a decorator with either an absolute lack of taste or one hell of a sense of humor. I particularly liked the mink-covered beanbag chairs in the main living room and the red-and-black sitting room with clear-plastic furniture.
“Satan’s Maserati was hanging there,” Gloria said, pointing to a red wall. “The painters are coming in tomorrow to reclaim the room from the eighth circle of hell.”
“What exactly did this evangelist evangel?” I asked.
“The power of the pill,” she said. “I gather his communion wafer was an amphetamine-laced cookie that convinced his followers they’d been miraculously healed. Alas, the district attorney proved to be something of an agnostic, and, fearing a forced relocation to a much rougher congregation, the divinity Dr. Feelgood departed in haste. So here I am.”
Indeed, she was. “I know we’ve never met,” I said. “But I get the feeling I’ve seen you before. In a film? Or on TV?”
“You’re talking about my previous life. That was long ago, Mr. Blessing. And believe me, there was nothing memorable about it. Come. We should have our chat in the kitchen. It’s the only room in this horror that doesn’t cause your eyes to bleed. I’m leaving it as is, so we won’t be disturbed by the movers.”
Apparently, the evangelist’s only evidence of taste was in his palate. The kitchen was elegant and well designed. Gloria Ingram told me he’d hired a promising young chef from Esplanade, one of the Coast’s top restaurants, and given him complete control over the room.
Gloria didn’t remember the chef’s name.
“What happened to him?” I asked, while she poured thick black coffee into two refreshingly plain mugs.
“The chef? He’s working for Roger now. That is, he’s working at La Maison Rouge.”
She placed the silver pot on the countertop and sat on a stool beside mine. “Roger was a little vague about this … What shall I call it? … Interrogation?”
“What did he tell you?”
“That you’d be asking me about that night, and I should tell you the truth. He believes you have some influence over the detective who arrested him.”
“He may be overestimating that influence.”
“I’m a little unclear on why you’re trying to help him.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess it’s because I may have caused him a lot of grief over the past twenty-two years because of a misunderstanding. If that’s the case, I owe him a lot more than spending a few minutes in the company of a beautiful woman.”
The blush made her seem ten years younger. “Well, you’ll have to help me with this. How do I begin?”
“Start with what you remember about the night.”
“I should explain something, otherwise …” She stopped speaking and stared at her coffee cup.
I had a little time.
I sipped. The coffee was good and strong. Starbucks Dark Roast, I was guessing. Sommelier, barista. Very close …
“I’ve never thought of it as being adulterous,” she said. “But I was married at the time. My husband and I … It wasn’t an ideal situation. He’d spent nearly a year making a crappy cops-and-robbers movie in Canada. And he was off again, to Moab, Utah. I was young. And being human, had needs that … were not …”
She blinked, sniffed, and straightened on the stool. “It had only been a few months since Connie … since we lost Connie. Our daughter. Actually, my husband’s daughter from a previous marriage. But her death had taken its toll on both of us, and, eventually, our marriage became part of that loss.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Water waaay under the bridge,” she said. “Anyway, to get to what you need to know, Roger and I spent all that night in a house my husband owned at the Springs. I was pretty sure Stew used to bring his bimbos there, so it seemed appropriate for me to use it to entertain Roger.”
“Stew? Stew Gentry?”
“Sorry, that was indiscreet of me. Do you know him? Oh, God, of course you do. It was at his party that you and Roger …”
“Yeah,” I said. “I like Stew.”
“He is likable,” she said, “just not terribly faithful.”
I suddenly realized why she’d seemed
so familiar. “You’re Dani’s mother,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Your daughter is a knockout.”
“And bright. And athletic. Oh, God, aren’t I the doting mom?”
“Not without cause,” I said. “Mr. Blessing—”
“Make it Billy. Please.”
“Billy, I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I’m suddenly feeling very uncomfortable about all this. I’d appreciate it if we could just wrap it up.”
“Of course. Only a question or two more. Are you absolutely certain Roger couldn’t have left while you were sleeping, driven to L.A. and back before you woke?”
“Not possible. We … stayed up through the night. We made love. We talked. We laughed. Dawn was breaking before we fell asleep. At around two the next day, we finally left the house in search of food. We were in the car when we heard about the murder. Roger went off his head. Almost drove us into a streetlamp. I thought he was going to rip the steering wheel from its post. It took all my strength to pry his fingers from it.
“Later, when he finally calmed down, he realized he’d be needing an alibi. And that was a problem. Stew is a sweetheart in normal circumstances. But if the affair had gone public, he would have assumed I’d seduced Roger to spite him. I was afraid of the consequences. You don’t want to get on Stew’s bad side.”
I’d seen that myself, close up.
“So Victor Anisette was asked to fill in for you in the alibi department,” I said.
“Victor volunteered eagerly,” she said. “You understand, we had the advantage of knowing that Roger was innocent.”
“How close are you and Roger these days?”
“I’m not lying for him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No. I just wondered if you still had much contact with him.”
“We’re old friends,” she said. “We still meet for the occasional lunch or dinner, and, if I desperately need an escort, he’s on my list. But that weekend at the Springs was the end of our … affair. There’s nothing kicks the pins out from under a romance quicker than almost getting drawn into a murder investigation.”
“Did Stew ever find out about you and Roger?” I asked.
