The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set

by Elizabeth Sims

  Desperately, my former batterer insisted, “But things are gonna be different.”

  “Maybe. And I hope someday you find a wonderful woman to share the rest of your life with.”

  Jeff drank his coffee and nodded slowly. “You were a good mother after all.”

  “Uh, well, I wouldn’t overstate things,” I replied. “Neither of us was a very fabulous parent. But it looks like we’re both improving. Petey needs a good dad. You don’t have to be married to me to be a good dad to him.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed unhappily. “Yeah.”

  _____

  I arranged to see Tracy Beck-Rubin at the district attorney’s the following Tuesday. “Yes, fine,” she said, “I’d like to talk to you.” When we met in her office I told her my feelings about Mark Sharma and Gary’s murder. “I just know he had something to do with it. I guess I don’t have any real—”

  “Were you aware,” she interrupted, “that Gary Kwan taped his phone calls?”

  “No!”

  “He kept about a week’s worth at a time, I guess for his own butt-covering. We have Mark Sharma on tape claiming to be Gary in a phone call from a woman that night. She wanted to warn Gary about Norah Mintz. You know that knife she pulled on you? They’re running tests on it, and I’m betting—”

  “Oh, my God. Norah. Oh, my God.”

  “She’s not a very big girl. Do you think she’d had the strength to do it alone?”

  “Hell, yes. She’s this savage monkey who literally stopped at nothing. Richard had to shoot her to stop her. She’d have surprised Gary, I’m sure. Probably just walked into the office, walked right up to him, and stuck him under the ribs with that knife.”

  Tracy Beck-Rubin sighed and smiled cynically. “I wouldn’t put it past Mark Sharma to have been involved somehow. Well, when she recovers from her injuries I’m sure she’ll be ready to cooperate with us, given the situation she’ll be facing.”

  “That is excellent, Ms. Beck-Rubin.”

  “Call me Tracy.” She threw a foot up on her desk. Pantsuit today.

  “Tracy. Thank you.” I turned to go. I turned back. “You know Gary hired me to help Eileen win over the jury.”

  “Yes.”

  “That wasn’t ethical, was it?”

  “It’s a moot point now.” She saw I had something else to say, and waited.

  I said, “Uh, if I were to, uh, apply to law school? And get accepted and study hard and graduate and pass the bar and want to become a prosecutor—”

  She flashed her large teeth. “Come see me.”

  _____

  George Rowe shook his head and made an admiring exhalation. “How,” he asked, “did you get so many hunches that turned out right?”

  We were having lunch at Dorsey’s, this roadhouse-style place in Hollywood that forthrightly serves items like frogs’ legs and liver-and-onions. I’d ordered the pot roast plate—I was just starving—while George requested spaghetti and meatballs.

  I thought about George’s question, and realized something. “Well, I’ve trained myself to look for people’s motivations, you know—to put myself in their place. I didn’t just follow the money, I followed the heart.”

  The place smelled great, and it was dark and comfortable against the glare and concrete of the high-noon city outside. I think we were both tempted to have a beer, but we stuck to coffee, which tasted fine.

  We talked a marathon brain-dump about all we’d been through, and boy did it feel good. We even ordered dessert (pound cake with strawberries).

  I told him about my meeting with Tracy Beck-Rubin that morning, and about my plan to go to law school. “I’m going to stop and buy an LSAT book today as a first step.”

  “You’ll be a great lawyer,” he said. “With your intelligence and your...feeling for people.” He smiled that shy smile again. His eyes were gray, I noticed for the first time. A clear, calm gray. As I passed him the sugar for his coffee, his hand touched mine. I liked his hands, so strong and good. I liked, I realized with surprise, George Rowe.

  He mentioned playing the drums in his spare time. I was, again, surprised—he didn’t have that animalistic look you’d expect in a drummer. Reading my mind, he explained, “Jazz and ragtime demand precise playing on the drums. You have to get your head into it. I like to get it right.”

  Looking at his arms and shoulders, I could see it—the energy, the competence. “I’ve been missing a lot of gigs,” he said. “Maybe you’ll come and hear me play sometime.”

  I found myself saying, “That would be...nice!”

  He chewed some pound cake and swallowed. “How are you going to pay for law school?”

  “Well. Yeah. Gary had promised me a bonus of fifty thou if Eileen got acquitted, but needless to say I’m not going to get it. I did save a lot of what he paid me.” I perked my chin. “I’ll work, and I’ll apply for student loans. I know it’ll cost a lot, but what the hell.”

  George tapped the tines of his fork lightly on his plate. He said, “I can’t promise you anything right now, but remember I mentioned a possible reward from Fenco?”

  “Oh!”

  “Rewards are given at the discretion of the directors. You helped us break the biggest case I’ve ever investigated. I’ve talked to my bosses. Depending on how much we eventually recover, you could get—well, some tens of thousands, I’ll put it that way.”

  “Eileen’s acquittal be damned, then,” I said.

  “So where,” said George, “do you think she hid the loot?”

  “I have an idea, but of course we can’t act on it. I’m sure the police—”

  “What’s your idea?” He leaned in, forearms on the table.

  “It’s got to be in that garage. The place was so dusty I’m sure the police couldn’t have searched it thoroughly when they were investigating Gabriella’s death. I mean, what for, if the crime took place in the house? And I’m sure by now—”

  George clanked down his cup and threw fifty dollars on the table. “Let’s go.”

  “But we can’t—”

  “We sure as hell can.”

  In the car on the way, he said, “Suddenly I’m understanding something about Richard Tenaway. You read this in cop stories all the time, but I never understood it before. It’s the thrill that motivates him, just like it does me. The thrill of the hunt. He likes to be the one who gets away with something. It isn’t about what he gets. It’s the getting. Ordinary existence is too dull for him.”

  “For you, too?”

  George smiled. “Depends on what you call ordinary.”

  “Well, this is certainly—”

  “Here we are.”

  Bright daylight, quiet street. The Tenaway house hunkered lonely behind its hedges. I tagged behind as George strode up the driveway and shook the iron gate.

  “Here,” I said, “we can go through the hedge.”

  He held the branches for me. I crawled self-consciously through the greenery, my butt swerving like an ape’s.

  “Thank you,” I said politely.

  “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  The wooden door was closed as Norah and I had left it, but still broken, of course, so we walked right in.

  A row of windows over the roll-up doors let in plenty of sunshine.

  George paced around, getting initial impressions. I watched him raise dust as he moved.

  And then, before I even glanced up, I knew it.

  “The boat,” I said. The Little Gem.

  I’d remembered its gleaming hull, looking so sleek and athletic in the gloom.

  “It’s the only thing in here that’s not dusty.”

  “You’re right.” George trotted over to the winch controls. “Oh. The electricity’s off.”

  He clambered onto a tool chest and, nimbly using a broomstick to nudge the cables through the pulleys, jacked the boat down an inch at a time. “I think you might have it,” he said. “Custom-made, I’d say. Beautiful.”

  He hummed faintly as he worked
.

  “What’s that song?”

  From his face, I could see he hadn’t been conscious of humming. With an abashed smile at himself he said, “‘My Foolish Heart.’ Victor Young and Ned Washington, 1949.”

  When the Little Gem’s keel touched the floor, we clambered aboard. George flung open the engine compartment, revealing only the engine. He pulled up the seat cushions and there, neat as could be, were cardboard cartons stacked, looking heavy, courier labels still on them with Richard Tenaway’s name. The cartons measured perhaps a cubic foot apiece. There were ten of them per compartment, and there were four compartments, plus another, larger one in the bow.

  George hefted a carton to his knee and cut it open with his pocketknife. He slit the plastic lining. I don’t think he meant to spill it, but he was as excited as I was. A rush of colored stones poured onto the polished deck. There were so many, and they fell and rolled so smoothly they sounded like water. They lay in a square sunbeam on the deck.

  We said nothing. The stones were irregular and dull, being raw from the earth. But catching the sunbeam in clefts here and there, flashes of pure color ranged from deep amber to almost burgundy.

  “Imperial topazes,” said George.

  He opened another carton. This time—with a little smile—he spilled it on purpose, and a gout of green stones poured forth.

  “Emeralds,” I breathed.

  “That’s right.”

  “My God.”

  Impulsively, he opened another carton, then another. The stones piled up in the cockpit of the beautiful wooden speedboat.

  “Stop, George!”

  We laughed like pirates.

  “Look at that one.” I pointed. “It’s huge. It’s—”

  “Look,” said George. “I believe these are sapphires.” He kept opening cartons and spilling them.

  Finally he stopped to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, and the spell ebbed.

  “Too bad we can’t keep any of these,” I remarked.

  He helped me down, his arm steady as a spar, and used his phone to call his bosses, then the police. “We’ll wait for them,” he said. “They’ll secure everything. I guess it was all stones after all, unless they find cash in the bow.”

  I trailed my hand through the gorgeous riches and sighed, thinking of the women who would someday be adorned with these very gems, sparkling fire and ice.

  George said, “Come here, please, Rita.”

  He had moved to another, clearer ray of sunshine next to the workbench. He drew something from his pocket.

  “It’s true we can’t keep those,” he said, “but look here.” He held out his palm.

  A single lovely stone lay in his gallant hand. Like the others, it was rough, but it too showed a flicker of fire. Blood-orange, clean and deep.

  “This one is mine,” George said. “I bought it from the man who dug it out of the ground.” He took my hand. His eyes shone with hope. “Maybe it’ll make a nice ring.”

  I gulped in surprise.

  Softly, he said, “May I kiss you?”

  _____

  “Gramma Gladys?” I said. “I am, like, totally blind sometimes.”

  The traffic surged on Santa Monica.

  “I don’t think I’m ready. But it’s awfully tempting.”

  I felt Gramma Gladys say, Wait until you’re finished with this college business! Then decide.

  I looked up to the dry blue Los Angeles sky. A flock of pigeons passed directly overhead. Not one of them pooped.

  “Thank you, Gramma.”

  _____

  On my first day at UCLA, I was about to mount the stone steps of the law building with my new briefcase in my hand and a flutter in my heart. A car honked very loud right at the curb, dual-tone horns that made everybody nearby jump. I looked, and Serge Oatberger leaned out of a glossy black limousine, which his driver had steered right onto campus. “Rita!” he called, smiling. He stepped out and held the door open like a bellboy. “I want to talk to you!” The sun glowed on his bald tanned head.

  He shouted as if we were a long way apart, but it was really only about thirty feet. The students around me stopped and stared.

  I shook my head, amazed at this coincidence. Was it a coincidence? Serge was a theatrical guy. “No, thank you,” I said. Oatberger’s face reddened.

  “Six hundred thousand dollars, Rita!”

  “No!”

  “You’re throwing away an Academy Award!”

  “No!”

  “I’ll give you a two-picture contract!”

  “No!”

  “You’re turning your back on a marvelous career!”

  “No!”

  “None of the other actresses thought to spit in my face!”

  “No!”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

  At that I smiled.

  The limousine idled like a giant black bug.

  I said, “Yes, Serge, I do know what I’m doing.” I flung my words high. “I damn well do know what I’m doing!”

  Still smiling, I turned and ran up the steps. I stumbled, caught myself, and kept going, right on time for my first class.

  __________

  Get book group discussion stuff about The Actress here.

  THE EXTRA

  Rita Farmer Mystery #2

  “Sims, whose The Actress won high acclaim, outdoes herself…An intelligent thriller that comes together seamlessly…Sure to appeal to fans of complex plots and strong women.”

  --Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Written with a strong voice and wonderful characters, The Extra is a book that goes down easy, like a perfect cup of coffee.”

  --Crimespree Magazine

  “Brisk prose and facile storytelling…A vivid portrayal of the seamy side of urban life, and engaging characters…”

  --Booklist

  “A good thriller, taut and tough.”

  --Sullivan Co. Democrat and the Ellenville Shawangunk Journal

  Chapter 1 – Rita Meets a Bullet

  The picket line surged again, and the police, already nervous, got panicky. I know my heart was pounding. Those of us not in riot gear stayed at the edges and tried to contain the crowd. It was near noon and very hot. One protester, a rangy young woman with flower-child green eyes, stepped up to my face, shook her fist, and sneered, “How do you sleep at night?”

  As if I personally had taken a blowtorch to the earth to make it hotter. As if I personally had chained a Malaysian ten-year-old to a machine that dangerously stamped out American waffle irons.

  All up and down the picket line the protesters were doing their mightiest to provoke the cops, yelling, swearing—everything short of actually striking us. I felt especially uneasy wearing an ordinary uniform, no helmet, no riot shield.

  Someone behind the line threw a bottle. I watched it arc through the air, safely over the heads of the front-line protesters, and explode in shards against a riot shield. My goodness, that could have been recycled.

  And on that signal, the protesters’ fury amped into the red zone and they rushed us, blindly flailing their signs. Following orders, I stood my ground, narrowly missing getting brained by another bottle.

  I heard the phot! phot! of tear gas canisters being fired, and more screaming. A plume of poupon-yellow smoke began to drift my way.

  “Cut! Cut, goddamn it!”

  The director flung his cap to the ground and almost hurled his bullhorn too. He leaned riskily over the scaffold railing and bellowed, “I didn’t want the tear gas yet! The riot squad’s supposed to move in as soon as the bottle breaks! Didn’t you hear me? Where’s Stuart? And then the tear gas after they pull back! You people look like a buncha drunken sheep down there! Where’s Stuart?”

  His orange cap, embroidered with what looked like a stylized Tweety Bird, lay crown up on the oozy asphalt. We were here on a little stub of Eighth Street near the Los Angeles River, not that the river had any cooling effect, running only a few inches deep. The director continued
to holler. “And they’ve got to get in front of the non-riot police! Right away, as soon as that bottle—which by the way, good throw, see if you can do that again—breaks, because—”

  A squeal of feedback cut him off as the first assistant climbed up the scaffolding with his bullhorn. I heard him say calmly to his boss, “Look, we need to rethink this.” Then he announced, “Let’s break for lunch, the caterers are ready. Everybody back on set in forty minutes.”

  I walked past the scaffold and the orange cap with the yellow bird, the logo for the movie we were all making: The Canary Syndrome, yet another conspiracy-theory film about who’s to blame for the fact that we’re all going to hell, and not soon enough. A lackey snatched up the cap and scampered up the scaffolding. Everyone was wearing the same cap; all the crew, that is.

  Something clammy and protoplasmic nudged the back of my bare elbow. I turned to find a German shepherd the size of a minivan looking up (barely) at me. Panting cordially, he nudged me again with his nose. My friend Sylvan, in police costume as I was, held his leash.

  “Hey, Rita,” said Sylvan.

  “Hey. Where were you guys? I didn’t see you.”

  “We were about to attack the flank, over there. If he’s going to get his money’s worth out of us, he needs to shoot some stuff of the dogs taking people down well before the tear gas, so the tear gas will make sense.”

  “Man, you’re sweating like a Coke bottle.”

  He laughed. Thick shouldered and at least six two, he said cheerfully, “It’s the dog days.” Perspiration poured from Sylvan’s heavy brown face and darkened his uniform this August day. He was an animal wrangler who usually worked off-camera with the actors and critters, but sometimes he got roles handling dogs himself if he fit the scene. Big Black Fucker was the politically incorrect yet crystal-clear casting designation his agent used.

  “Thanks again,” I told him, “for helping me get this gig.”

  “Least I can do. You’ve helped me out plenty. Glad that rumor wasn’t true about you being through with acting.”