by Al Roker
I swung out of bed, hungover but not hungover enough to forget a couple of things that had happened just before the lights went out. Gibby lying dead in the surf. And … my hand went to my throat … someone choking me.
But my throat didn’t feel raw or even a little damaged. And never mind my still being alive, why had the strangler carried me back to the guesthouse and put me to bed?
I staggered to the window. Not much beach activity. The surf had flowed in. And caught something! There was definitely something out there in the shallow water.
Gibby!
I stumbled down the stairs, each step like a knife being shoved into my skull. I fumbled the door open and ran out across the sand.
The closer I got to Gibby, the less it looked like him. Finally, I realized it wasn’t even a man. It was a huge piece of driftwood. I ran up and down the beach for a while, but the closest thing I could find to the dead comedian was the hunk of wood.
Could I have been so wasted the night before that I fantasized the whole thing?
Breathing heavily, head ready to burst, and full of sudden self-doubt, I plodded back to the guesthouse. I almost made it.
“Mr. Blessing!”
“Good morning, Ms. St. Laurent,” I said. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not feeling …”
I stopped because she was gawking at me, jaw dropped. “What in the world?” she said.
With her were two sour-faced young women I assumed were prospective buyers. It was hard to see them fitting in with neighbors like Stew or the party-thrower Halliday. They were wearing torn tees, grungy jeans, battered Doc Martens, and more embedded metal than was dug out of Legs Diamond. I knew them. Marty and Circe Wynott, a pair of performance artists known as Split and Splat. They’d been on Wake Up, America! plugging their album, Splisterhood.
They were staring at me, too. Registering more disgust than surprise. “Ew,” they said in harmony.
“This is not Saint Tropez,” Amelia St. Laurent said haughtily.
I realized at that precise moment I was wearing only my boxers. And they were a little askew. “Sorry, ladies,” I said, straightening my shorts. “It’s been a pleasure, but I must be getting back to the guesthouse. It’s much too breezy out here.”
Brueghel sounded as if he regretted having given me his cellular number. “Let me get this straight. You think you saw some guy kill Gibby Lewis last night out at your place? What’s there to think about? You either saw it or you didn’t.”
“It wasn’t at my place,” I said. “I mean, it was near my place. Fact is, I wasn’t exactly sober …”
“It’s Saturday, Blessing.” He lowered his voice. “I promised the kid I’d spend the day with him. Don’t yank my chain, huh?”
“It’s just … the killer was choking me, detective. It was so real I can still feel it. But there’s no sign of it having happened. No rawness. No bruising.”
“You don’t always get that with a choke hold,” he said. “What else do you remember?”
“Nothing. Until I woke up in bed.”
“You think what, that the killer put you to bed? Fuck you, Blessing.” He added, away from the phone, “Forget you heard that, son. Go watch SpongeBob while I finish up on the phone.
“What do you want from me, Blessing? You can probably find the nearest AA meeting in the phone book.”
“Gibby’s not answering his phone,” I said. “I thought maybe you could try and locate him. Make sure he’s okay.”
He hesitated. “Yeah. I can do that. Uh, you sure you actually saw Jimmy Fitzpatrick night before last?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “I had a little too much to drink last night, but I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Fitzpatrick didn’t happen to mention the flight he was taking?”
“No. I think he said he was taking the next available.”
“He was booked on an Aer Lingus at nine-fifty-one yesterday morning. It would have been tight if he planned on picking up his buddy’s remains. But he didn’t do that, and he missed the flight.”
“Maybe changed his mind?”
“Maybe. But we found his rental Hummer in long-term parking at LAX. And that’s the only airline ticket we’ve come up with. So here’s my problem, on my daddy day with my boy. I’m trying to solve the murder of the original host of your goddamn TV show. I’ve got the bandleader from that show apparently missing. And now you call to tell me you think the new host of the show has been murdered.”
“I can still feel that choke hold,” I said.
“Damn it. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Should I—”
“Don’t do a fucking thi—oh … SpongeBob isn’t on? Okay, I’ll be right there, son.” Then, readdressing me, “An hour.”
He arrived with Campbell. He was wearing denim pants and a gray T-shirt with the faded full-figure image of Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry Callahan on the chest and the caption “Make My Day” on the back. She was wearing spandex workout gear. Both wore black LAPD caps and guns on their hips.
I was looking a little less official in a tomato-red Izod shirt, khaki golfing shorts, and flip-flops.
Beach activity had picked up. There were walkers, swimmers, surfers, kids playing and building sand sculptures. A windsurfer was being blown at a fast clip along the gently ruffled water. Too far out to be sure, but I thought it was Stew.
My neighbors were curious and not exactly pleased to see us as I led the detectives to where the driftwood still rested in the surf.
“You sure it was here?” Campbell asked.
“In this general area,” I said.
We were standing in front of a multimillion-dollar two-story, where what looked like three generations of a family, maybe twenty of them, from grandparents to toddlers, were seated at a long table on a redwood deck, having an elaborate brunch and trying to pretend we didn’t exist.
“Not exactly murderer’s row,” Campbell said.
“If there was evidence of a crime, the tide’s washed it away,” Brueghel grumbled. “And, oh, yeah, Blessing, did you happen to know there was a big blowout here last night? Forty, fifty cars in and out. Security has some of them listed but probably missed a few. Take quite a while to make sure somebody didn’t slip in with the partygoers.”
Especially with the gate being understaffed, I thought but did not mention. It would only make Brueghel even more sour.
We traipsed back to the guesthouse, where we trailed sand over the floor.
The detectives poked about.
Returning from the upstairs bedroom, Brueghel asked, “When you think you found Gibby Lewis’s body, did you have to step in the surf?”
I closed my eyes and tried to remember. “I think … Yes! I’m sure. My shoes should be—”
“They’re bone-dry, not a trace of sand,” he said. An accusation. “Get some sleep, Blessing. We’ll let this one slide. Everybody has a rough night every now and then, right, Mizzy?”
“No. Not everybody,” she said.
They departed, convinced I’d wasted their time with a drunken fantasy.
I went upstairs to convince myself. I picked up the shoes. They were as dry as a desert wind. But they seemed a little stiffer than I’d remembered. Like they would be if treated to a fast dry near a fireplace or even in an oven. Not exactly the shiny clue I was hoping for. But something.
Why would the killer have gone to the trouble of drying my shoes and all the rest? I immediately concocted a totally paranoid scenario. He’d realized I smelled like a winery and took the chance I’d been so drunk I wouldn’t remember or wouldn’t believe what I’d seen. And even if I did believe it and tried to tell someone, that person would take me for an inebriated asshole.
Until it became clear that Gibby was among the missing. Then what? Maybe I’d be blamed for the murder?
That whole concept fell apart the moment I realized how much simpler it would have been just to keep choking me. The killer had to get rid of one body—probably out in the oc
ean. Why not two?
I put the shoes back.
The shirt I’d been wearing last night was draped over a hanger.
If my head wasn’t throbbing, I would have slapped it. I’d forgotten to show the detectives the warning note that had been left on the Lexus. It was something real and maybe even worth their drive out.
I removed the sheet from my shirt pocket. I unfolded it and experienced a sinking WTF sensation.
The paper was blank.
I’d been as sober as an Amish picnic when I found it under the car’s windshield wiper. Vida had seen it. So had Brutus. He’d even seen the guy who left it.
I got out the phone, then stopped.
I really didn’t want to talk to Vida. Nor did I want Brutus back as my guardian angel, though that was probably foolish pride disabling my usual caution. I wasn’t afraid. The killer had had the perfect opportunity to put me away, if that’s what he’d wanted. Instead, he’d opted for a lot of bother.
It didn’t occur to me that his decision might be subject to change.
Chapter
FORTY-FOUR
What to do?
I was like a man with ADD on a coffee high. The guesthouse was too confining. I took my nerves out for a walk.
Even more people were enjoying the sun, sand, and surf. Some offered a friendly nod; others purposely avoided eye contact. Just like walking up Fifth Avenue, except for the friendly nods.
I paused at the driftwood and walked into the surf to get closer. I tried to budge it, but it seemed to be lodged in the sandy bottom.
“That’d make a lousy fire,” Stew Gentry said, walking toward me. He’d probably just returned to shore with his windboard. He was slipping a plain white tee over his head.
“I don’t remember seeing it here yesterday,” I said.
“It probably wasn’t here. The ocean is always bringing us little gifts like that.”
I joined him on the dry sand.
“How’s it going, Billy? You look like you mighta had a rough night. Were you at Halliday’s?”
“Not at Halliday’s,” I said, “but it was rough.”
“Best thing for that, come on in and have a brew.”
The words made my stomach flip over. “A little early,” I said.
“Coffee, then,” he said. “I was a little rough on you last time we talked. Have a cup of coffee and I’ll have some humble pie.”
I followed him up the beach to his property. His rolled sail and board rested beside the wooden walkway. As we passed the infamous swimming pool, I could almost hear Roger screaming at me.
Stew was at the back door, brushing sand from his bare feet. I removed my flip-flops, slapped the sand off them, then brushed my feet and slipped them back on. You can never get rid of all the sand. It’s part of the price one pays for beachfront living, along with distance to town and incredibly high taxes and devastating storms that destroy your house.
Just call me Mr. Buzzkill.
The interior of the house looked pretty much the same. Spacious and woodsy and masculine. “Park it on the couch,” Stew said, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll get the coffee.”
He disappeared past the swinging doors.
I went to the chocolate-colored leather couch and parked on it, facing a cold, white stone fireplace.
Before too long, he returned with a tray filled with a silver coffeepot, two cups, a pitcher of cream, a sugar bowl, napkins, and a plate on which rested an assortment of cupcakes the size of softballs.
“I’m gonna go get out of these wet trunks,” Stew said. “The cupcakes are part of my apology. The black-and-white is really good.”
He took the stairs two at a time. I poured a cup of coffee, ignored the cream and sugar, and tried to ignore the cupcakes, but they kept calling to me. The black-and-white one was tasty. Even better, it was soft enough not to aggravate my headache.
I picked up my coffee cup and began strolling around the large room, checking out the mounted antlers, the long snakeskin, the oil paintings, and the glass cabinet with its display of handguns and rifles and shotguns. Eventually, I made my way to the round table with the green felt cover, on which rested Stew’s photos in standing frames.
I’d looked at them before, but this time my attention was drawn to a snapshot that had been taken on the rear deck some years ago. Four people in swimsuits, smiling into the sun. Stew, a much younger version of Gloria Ingram, and a couple a few years younger than she. The girl was pretty, petite, with fair skin and a generous mouth. She looked enough like Stew that she had to be his daughter, the one whose death marked the beginning of the end for his marriage to Gloria. The boy seemed shy and a bit nerdy. He was staring at the blond girl with total adoration.
I picked up the framed photo to make sure I wasn’t letting my imagination fool me. No mistake.
The boy was a collegiate edition of Max’s assistant, Trey Halstead.
“ ‘Photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.’ That’s a Susan Sontag quote.” Stew was standing near the staircase, freshly dressed in white slacks and shirt, and staring at me with mild curiosity. He crossed the big room, using that unique high-right-shoulder lope I remembered from his movies.
“I guess Sontag must have spent a lot of her later years thinking about photography,” I said.
“When you love somebody, you do tend to share their lives.” He took the frame from me, studied the photo. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were shiny, and he was probably as close to tears as movie heroes were allowed. “ ‘Time’s relentless melt.’ Damn if that doesn’t hit the nail right on the head.”
“I didn’t know you and Trey were friends.”
“Since he was a baby. Boy grew up next to us. That was when we lived in San Marino. His daddy was a photographer. He took that picture. Gone now, poor fella. He knew his business, sure enough.”
He replaced the frame on its exact spot on the table. “Funny about that photo of the four of us. As many times as I’ve lost myself in it, I never see anybody but Connie. She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”
I nodded. There were a thousand things going on in my head. Connections being made. Conclusions being drawn. Or was I leaping to them?
“Something botherin’ you, Billy? Spit it out.”
“Connie and Trey were close?”
“Planning to marry when she graduated in two years.”
“How long ago was the photo taken?”
“Twenty-four years, seven months, and eight days. Connie was home from Skidmore that summer, the best I ever spent. You sure you don’t want a brew? I think I could use one.”
“I’m fine with my coffee.”
“The coffee. Yeah, I should probably go with that, too. Let’s you and me palaver, amigo.” He delivered that last line sarcastically, a mockery of his movie image.
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to run out of the house. Another part thought that part was being foolish. By then the schizo discussion was moot. His arm was around my shoulders, and he was herding me toward the coffee.
He indicated I should take the couch, while he sat on a chair to my left. “How’d you like the cupcake?” he asked.
“Good.”
“Don’t go reading too much into that picture, Billy.”
“It’s worth at least a thousand words,” I said.
He picked up one of the remaining cupcakes, broke off a piece, and ate it. “When I was a boy, I used to read mystery stories,” he said. “I was particularly fond of the whodunits. Ellery Queen, Nero Wolfe, Sherlock, of course. I even made a whodunit, maybe forty years ago. Some too-smart screenwriter ripped off a book by a novelist named Donald Westlake. Turned it into a Western and decided to sell it as an original script.
“Hell, I’d never heard of Westlake. Nor had the studio’s story people, the producers, or the horse’s ass directing the film. Problem was, there was a very unique twist in the story. And shortly after the film was released, we all became very aware of Mr. Westlake. And his attorney.
” He chuckled.
It was the kind of amusing vignette he’d told when I’d interviewed him on the morning show. Now it seemed a little off point.
I stood up. “I’d better be going, Stew.”
“Just settle down, now, podnah. What’s your hurry?” He glanced at his watch. “Dani’ll be back almost anytime now, and we’ll all go have ourselves a nice seafood lunch at Beau Rivage. Meanwhile, lemme finish up on my little parable. Okay?”
Actually, it wasn’t okay. Not even close. But I looked at this man I thought I knew, sitting there, calmly nibbling on a cupcake, waiting to take his daughter to lunch, and I decided I might as well hear him out.
I sat down.
He smiled, took a sip of coffee to wash down the cake. “So, to return to this Western whodunit tale I’ve been apparently boring you with, our director decided he was too hip to use that time-honored scene where everything gets explained. He felt the script’s twist was so good, it wasn’t needed. ‘We’ve knocked their socks off with this gimmick,’ I remember him braying. ‘They won’t even miss the explanation until after they’ve left the theater. And by then, who the fuck cares?’
“That was the biggest financial turkey I ever unleashed on the moviegoing public. And that includes the stinker I just finished that they’re now spending millions of extra dollars on, hoping a conversion to 3-D is gonna turn it into a silk purse.
“My point, Billy, is we all want explanations. So why don’t we start with your explanation about what you think that picture means?”
I said nothing.
“C’mon, Billy. Something’s made you jumpy as a cat, and we can’t straighten this out until you tell me what’s going on up here.” He pointed to his well-groomed head. The gesture may have been innocent, but it looked suspiciously as though he was pointing a thumb-and-forefinger gun at his temple.
He was older than me, but he was bigger, and in way better shape. I doubted I could make it to the door, even if I tried. And I still wasn’t convinced I was in trouble. So what the hell? I might as well find out.
“It’s a little surprising to discover that you’re only one degree of separation from Des O’Day,” I said.
