by Denise Dietz
“Yes. There’s a story about the district attorney who’s handling Delly’s case. Russell Benton. What an asshole. Honestly, Maryl, if you weren’t staying here I’d go bonkers.”
“Then it’s lucky our new house needs renovations and the old one has already been signed, sealed and delivered.”
Anissa chewed a saltine cracker. “Stupid biscuits are supposed to settle my stomach. I passed the morning sickness phase weeks ago but stress is causing tidal waves. How are you feeling?”
“Great, except I’m due to hatch the first professional woman field goal kicker.”
“Tell me again how soon you’re due to hatch.”
“I think I’ve started my tenth month.”
“What?”
“You heard me. The doctor must have miscalculated.” Maryl tossed her eggs into the pan and smiled at the satisfying sizzle. She buttered four pieces of toast, and absently brushed crumbs from her maternity jeans and oversized Chien T-shirt. “Jonah and I have agreed on one name. We both like Joan.”
“Me, too. For Jonah?”
“No. Of Arc. Put your sneaks on, Anissa. It’s time we played Angie Dickenson.”
“Angie Dickenson?”
“Okay, you’re right. We both can’t be Pepper.” Maryl studied Anissa’s white slacks and white silk Hana Sung top with its goldtone buttons and black sweatshirt trim. “Cagney and Lacey,” she said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You look like Chris Cagney, except your belly has pooched and your hair—”
“Maryl!”
“We’re going to play detectives, find the person who set the fire.”
“Impossible. The police haven’t discovered one clue.”
“Nothing’s impossible. Don’t forget that Maryl Bradley, professional model with shit for brains, once edited an historical romance writer into literary sainthood. I even suggested Ed use the pseudonym Edwina Cartwright. We’ll start with the food delivery boy.”
“The food delivery boy left the studio before the fire began. He never signed the roster, but our security guard, Henry, swears he waved him in and out.”
“I don’t care, Anissa. Maybe he saw somebody lurking. Let’s find him, talk to him.”
“He doesn’t work at the delicatessen any more. Joe checked. The manager couldn’t give a home address, phone number, or name. She called him ‘The Kid.’ ”
“Okay, Cagney, that’s out first step.”
“What’s our first step?”
“The restaurant manager.” Maryl ladled her scrambled eggs onto a Wedgewood plate.
“You’re bonkers. I just said—”
“Sometimes a person will tell a pregnant Sam Spade the stuff she won’t mention to cops or lawyers. It’s a starting point, and we don’t have much time. You’re due to testify before the Grand Jury.”
“Maryl, at ten months pregnant you can’t bounce around town sleuthing. Drew will kill me if anything happens to—”
“Nothing’s going to happen.” She swallowed the last of her toast and eggs, and reached for a bag of bagels. “I once told Delly I hated Cinderella because Cinderella never took control of her life. But Delly can’t take control, she’s too sick, so we’ll have to play Fairy Godmothers.”
“Jesus! First I’m Angie, then Cagney, now a Fairy God—”
“Interpret that Grand Jury thing for me, please.”
“I’ll try.” Anissa heaved a deep sigh. “The magic words are ‘probable cause.’ The D.A.’s office brings evidence to the grand jury with the intention of seeking an indictment. That avoids the need for a preliminary hearing. Joe and Kathy preferred the grand jury since Delly wouldn’t be taken into custody. But there’s a big risk. I mean, they wouldn’t convene unless the D.A. felt he had a convincing case. He submits the evidence. If the verdict is guilty, Delly will be arrested and tried inside a courtroom.”
“Wait a minute. Slow down. The grand jury—”
“Is made up of citizens chosen by a judge. They hear the testimony in secret, then an indictment is drawn up if probable cause is determined.”
“Have a bagel. Where’s the cream cheese? How do they determine probable cause?”
“I’m not sure I grasp the legal jargon. Joe tried to explain, but I ended up memorizing terms. On my soap, people get arrested for murder and suddenly they’re spewing dialogue and wearing Nina Ricci prison garb. All I know is that arson is defined as ‘the malicious burning of a dwelling house of another.’ An arsonist is anyone who starts a fire or causes an explosion for the purpose of destroying another person’s building or occupied structure.”
“Go on,” said Maryl, her voice muffled by her bagel.
“Maxine’s death is classified as a felony murder. It could be murder in the first degree since the felony is one of a specified group—like arson, burglary, kidnapping, or rape.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Then we come to something called intent. The rationale is that criminal sanctions are not necessary for those who innocently cause harm. Oliver Wendal Holmes once said, ‘Even a dog distinguishes between being stumbled over and being kicked.’ ”
“Do they think Delly kicked Maxine Graham?”
“It’s more complicated than that. There’s something called negligent homicide where a defendant didn’t intend to bring about a particular result. A person who is acting as an automaton can’t be guilty of a crime.”
“An automaton? A human robot?”
“The classic illustration is an epileptic who strikes during seizure. Or a sleepwalker. Joe says there’s a case that took place in 1879 that involved sleepwalking.”
“Delly was drugged on tranquilizers and didn’t know what she was doing, right?”
“Prove it. Anyway, there’s a fine line between automatism, which is an involuntary act, and insanity. If it come to a guilty verdict, we’d rather have the automatism because a successful insanity defense subjects Delly to confinement. And anyway, insanity defenses are rarely successful.”
Maryl shook her head. “I see, said the blind man.”
Anissa bit into her bagel, chewed and swallowed. “A person who lacks the physical power to control an act has not committed a crime. But an automatist defendant might be just as dangerous as an insane one. Kathy said there was a case in 1955 where the defendant had been a model father until he struck his ten-year-old son on the head with a heavy mallet and threw him out the window. They found that Dad’s behavior was caused by a cerebral tumor. Therefore, he was an automatist, not guilty, and he returned to his family.”
“Good grief. Are you saying that if Delly had a cerebral tumor she’d be set free?”
“I don’t know. I sat there in that Wong-Weiss office, listening as hard as I could, and I still got lost. The case sounds circumstantial to me. Delly just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody saw her set the fire. She can’t remember anything that happened after she entered the studio, except for her dream, and she can’t really remember that.”
“I still think the best idea is to find out who really set the fire. Jonah has my car. Is your Mustang working?”
“It could hit the starting gate at Santa Anita. Drew keeps that rubber-hoofed monster in perfect condition.” Anissa belched, blushed, and patted her belly. “I’m curious, Maryl. How do Fairy Godmothers get pregnant?”
“They fuck Fairy Godfathers.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The restaurant manager admired Maryl’s blooming belly as she sat both women inside a red vinyl booth. There were three booths and two small tables since the deli did mostly take-out. On top of the faded linoleum floor was a wooden podium with cash register and telephone. A huge kitchen area, situated behind a rectangular window, completed the sparse decor.
“Call me Dawn,” said the manager, who had comfortable curves and looked like Scarlett O’Hara’s Mammy, minus the headgear.
“I can’t help you,” Dawn said, after Maryl had made her request
. “We don’t keep in touch with delivery kids. They come and go so fast.”
“How about his social security number?”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean, nope? Isn’t that against the law?”
“Jake said he’d work as contracted labor, for tips. I needed him so I let it slide.”
“Jake?”
“I told the cops I forgot his name ’cause I didn’t want to get involved, but I guess I can tell you. It’s Jake Smith.”
“Oh, great. Why not John Smith?” Anissa eyeballed the vivid wall poster depicting a pastrami sandwich, gloppy potato salad, onion rings, and green pickle spears.
Maryl studied the same poster and licked her lips. “May we see Jake’s job application, Dawn?”
“I threw it away.”
“Are you sure?”
“Uh . . . yes, ma’am.”
Maryl caught the slight hesitation and nodded toward Anissa. “My friend here works at the Morning Star studio. She’s told me how the cast and crew members all call for your food. While we were parking the car, I noticed a brand new Greek deli about to open. But I guess most people won’t change old habits, not unless someone suggests they try something different, like gyros. Do you have pita bread, Dawn? I love pita bread, it’s so healthy.” She smiled. “Are you absolutely certain Jake’s application was trashed?”
“Maybe I kept it.” Dawn returned Maryl’s smile, but her eyes reflected the implied threat. “I never have time to clean my office, so it might be buried there.”
“While you’re searching, maybe your chef can make me a hot pastrami sandwich, double pickles.”
“Maryl, you just ate breakfast,” Anissa said. “Eggs, four pieces of toast, bagels, cream chee—”
“Joan’s hungry.”
When Dawn returned, Maryl was savoring the last of her seeded rye and spicy mustard. She moved the plate aside to study the wrinkled piece of paper, a standard form.
“Lord above,” she exclaimed. “Jake gave his address as 77 Sunset Strip. There’s no phone or previous employment. His birth date is 1947. I thought he was a kid.”
“I call all my delivery people kids,” Dawn said. “Well, that’s one reason I hired Jake. He was older, more experienced.”
“Under personal recommendations he listed a name. It’s hard to read, looks like a doctor’s prescription, but I think it says Elizabeth Crown.”
“That’s another reason I hired Jake,” Dawn said, eagerly. “His reference was from a girl who used to work here. Now she waits tables at Tail O’ The Cock. She said Jake was dependable.”
“I guess our next stop is Tail O’ The Cock. We should get there just in time for lunch.” Rising, Maryl walked toward the cash register. As she fumbled inside her purse, she said, “I’m going to mention your heavenly food to my husband, Jonah Wiggins.”
“Your hubby’s Jonah Wiggins, the talk show host? Don’t leave yet, Mrs. Wiggins.” Dawn reached for the phone. Then she turned away, talked low, and hung up the receiver. “I didn’t tell you everything, Mrs. Wiggins. That girl who knows Jake is my niece, Betsy Crown. She’s an actress, and she’s home right now if you want to pay her a call. No, no. Put your wallet away, Mrs. Wiggins. The pastrami’s on the house.”
* * * * *
Betsy Crown’s house was in Glendale. Anissa maneuvered her Mustang through a maze of apartments, decorated with white pebbly exteriors and orange tile roofs. It was too chilly for swimming, but several women sunbathed next to a sparkling turquoise pool.
“You’re Charl on Morning Star,” screeched Betsy as she opened her door. She gestured Maryl and Anissa inside, then turned toward Maryl. “I know you, too. The Rosebud girl. Except you look so different, so—”
“Pregnant. There’s a new ingredient in Rosebud perfume. It’s called Eau d’ conception.”
Betsy was young and slender. Her natural color would have filled the pool’s sun worshippers with jealous hostility. She had just finished showering and her dark curls shined. A blue velour robe couldn’t hide her curves. Like Dawn, she offered red vinyl, cleverly disguised as a leather couch. Then she pointed toward an open box of taffy. “Help yourself.”
“No, thanks, we just ate,” said Anissa, sitting and watching Maryl stuff her mouth with candy.
Betsy’s fingers twiddled her robe’s sash. “Auntie Dawn says you’re trying to find Jake Smith.”
“That’s . . . ummm . . . right,” said Maryl, chewing.
“I wish I knew where he was. The police were no help at all.”
“The police?” Maryl stopped chewing.
“Jake stole some stuff from me. But when I called the cops, this sergeant or somebody said they couldn’t do anything ’cause Jake was a guest in my house. Ain’t that a piece of shit? Pardon my French, but it just proves you can’t tell the truth. I should have lied and said I was robbed by a stranger.”
“Did Jake live with you?” Maryl swallowed her taffy.
“Yes, for a while. I should have known there was something fishy about him.”
“Fishy?”
“I thought Jake was okay. Not that I couldn’t get a dozen straight actors into my bed. I mean, life. For instance, the first year’s rent on this place was a gift, paid for by an actor who, if I mentioned his name, you’d know him.”
“Is Jake an actor?”
“I guess. We met outside the Morning Star studio when I interviewed for an under-five. Didn’t get it.” Betsy swiveled her face toward Anissa. “I wonder if you could put in a good word for me? I suppose you think I have nerve asking, but if you’re not pushy in this friggin’ town, pardon my French, you can’t get anywhere.”
“Sure, Betsy. I’ll talk to Vance Booker, our casting agent.”
“Thanks.”
“You met Jake at the studio,” Maryl prompted.
“Yeah. He sounded nice. I was sore because I didn’t get hired so he bought me some drinks. Well, one thing led to another and I took him home with me. I was a little drunk and we fooled around. He was okay in that department, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he had just moved to California and was staying at some motel, so I let him bunk with me, off and on, and got him the job with my Auntie Dawn. Auntie didn’t like him.”
“Why?” Maryl reached for another piece of taffy.
“She said Jake was a strange one.” By now, Betsy’s sash had developed multiple knots.
Anissa’s gaze traveled from Maryl’s avid consumption of candy to Betsy’s fluttering fingers. “Define strange.”
“Aw, can’t we talk about something else? I have a scrapbook with all my reviews.”
“Was Jake abusive?”
“What do you mean?” Betsy shifted uncomfortably in her red vinyl armchair.
“You said he was ‘okay’ while you’re so beautiful,” Anissa clarified. “Why did you let him stay? Did he threaten you?”
Betsy hesitated. Then she said, “Jake was different. Nasty sometimes, and he’d do things that made me want . . . need more. He’d hurt me then say he was sorry. I guess he had me under a spell. I thought about him all day, even at work, all the time. I never met anyone like him before.” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “I can’t explain it . . . why I let Jake . . . he’s sick . . . you want to hear something really dumb? I was dating this neat guy and I broke up with him. We’re back together now, but if Jake came to the door, I . . . please excuse me.”
Betsy raced toward the bathroom while Anissa whispered, “I’ve never understood that masochism thing.”
Maryl nodded. “Betsy said it. Sick. I think I’ve finally lost my appetite.”
When the girl returned, Maryl cut off her apologies. “What does Jake look like, Betsy?”
“Ordinary. Dark, thinning hair, but it could be dyed. I think his natural hair color was lighter, blond or brown. He’s a couple of inches taller than me and he has big muscles. But I think he was once fat.”
“Why?”
“He works out religiously and he always looked at himself in th
e mirror, you know, as if he couldn’t believe he was thin.”
“Does Jake belong to a health club?”
Betsy shook her head. “He worked out here. I have some exercise equipment.” She pointed a slender, rosy-tipped finger toward a closed door.
“Does he have an accent?” Anissa asked. “A southern drawl? Foreign? Spanish? British?”
“Not really. Jake didn’t come from California, but . . . oh, I don’t know. Chicago, maybe? He sounded a little like Dan Ackroyd and John Beluchi in The Blues Brothers. Did you see that movie? It was a hoot. I tried out for the Carrie Fisher part, but I think it was pre-cast.”
“What kind of car does Jake drive?” Maryl leaned forward, resting her hands and chin atop her belly bulge.
“A beat-up old Dodge. Black. He said he bought it from some junkie near the community college in Pacoina. We usually drove my car, a new Toyota. Cost a mint, not to mention the fuckin’ insurance, pardon my French, but that’s why I need a steady job, for instance a part on Morning Star. You won’t forget to mention me, Charl, will you?”
“If you’ve already interviewed for an under-five, Vance will have your picture and résumé, unless they burned in the fire. I’ll nudge him a little, refresh his memory.”
“Jake probably has a California license plate,” Maryl said. “You didn’t happen to notice the letters or numbers on his plate, did you Betsy?”
“I can’t remember my own numbers. Sorry.”
“You said he stole some things. TV? Money?”
“No. I keep my tips in a cookie jar, and Jake knew it, but he took off with some clothes. And make up.”
“He stole your clothes?” Maryl raised one eyebrow.
“You sound like the cops. Look, I had some really nice stuff. For instance, a black jersey dress, mock turtleneck in front, plunging down the back, covered with sequins. I spent three hundred friggin’ dollars on it, pardon my French. I put the dress on lay-away, and it took forever to make the pay—”
“Did Jake do that often? Dress up like a woman?”
