“I know what you’re thinking,” Annie said.
“Doubtful. But, I will discover all your secrets. Why don’t you just be honest with me?” He took her hand again.
Jeez he was so flippin’ hot. And she was so flippin’ undecided if she was married, or not. “Give me forty-eight hours,” she said and pulled her hand away. It felt like it was smack on top of a Weber grill fired up for a July 4th BBQ. Her hand smoldered.
“Give me something now and I’ll float you forty-eight,” he countered.
She thought and sighed. What the hell. If Rafe incorrectly nailed her for Fuller’s murder, he’d most likely visit her in prison. “Okay. Knock yourself out, Detective.”
“I’m knocking.”
“Franco Fennedy is Dr. Derrick Fuller’s biological son.”
Rafe’s eyes widened. “No shit. That would provide some motives.”
“Yeah there.”
“Call me if you need to share more secrets. You’ve got your forty-eight. After that, you’re mine,” Rafe said.
Paint peeled off the walls of a tiny bathroom. A dingy metal medicine cabinet with tinges of rust hung above the sink. The caulking around a frosty, glassed-in shower sported cracks and black moldy patches. The shower’s sliding glass doors were opened about six inches and revealed a tub growing soap scum. The sink’s turquoise Formica countertop featured indisputable signs of its 1970s origin: little faded gold starbursts. A syringe filled with a thick injectable liquid lay on the countertop.
The Observer pulled down basic cotton underwear and exposed a small amount of flesh in the buttock area. Reached for the syringe with a medically gloved hand. Flipped the rubber top from the needle, twisted and plunged the vial’s needle into the butt cheek. The hand that held the needle shook ever so slightly in its hygienic glove. But the Observer knew it had to be done. Everything up to this moment had to be done.
Baby Blues
Description: Fresh organic Michigan blueberries covered with a dollop of homemade sweet whipped cream.
Appropriate Occasions: Getting dirty.
Best Served With: Practical decisions. The joys of parenting.
Nineteen
Stoneycliff Cheesy Cakes
Annie looked around the inside of the back of an older limo. Julia, Grady and she sat on ancient leather seats with cracks that resembled earthquake faults ready to give. They pooled their spare change jars and hired the discount limo service to chauffer them to Lewis Schuchiani’s promotion party at the law offices of Strunckle, Carbunkle and Goldstein. After all, Annie and Grady were European royalty.
The chauffer drove them down Wilshire Boulevard Corridor. They passed fancy high-rises, mid-rises, and trendy hotels that made up this neck of L.A. that segued into Beverly Hills.
Annie adjusted her wig. It was a chic coiffed bob that had approximately twenty-five pieces of tape and paperclips hidden under the thick natural silver Asian hair on top. Her facial and neck skin was pulled and taped high up onto her head under her wig. The tape created a nipped/tucked appearance on Annie’s face and neck. The paper clips that connected her taped skin ensured the whole ensemble didn’t crash down during a dramatic emotional moment, like an argument, or if the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. Her eyebrows arched in a perpetually surprised look, but not from Botox. The paperclips were a natural and immediately reversible solution. Her skin was luminous in a half a jar of foundation spatulaed on, kind of way. Her eyelids slanted upwards toward her now elfin-shaped ears.
“I feel that there’s a paperclip seriously close to impaling my brain’s Broca’s area…” Annie pointed to her head. “Which has to do with the speech center.” She shoved a finger under her wig.
Julia slapped Annie’s hand away. “Stop fidgeting. I’m an artiste. I require room to do my best work.” She dabbed more Kabuki white foundation to Annie’s face. Julia was dressed in a simple black pants suit. It made her look sexy and official like the female equivalent of Clint Eastwood when he acted the role of a secret service agent.
Annie correctly surmised that Julia was still pissed that Grady got to play Duke Stoneycliff, a bigger and juicier role, while Julia got cast as the royal couple’s bodyguard. Julia’s enthusiasm did shoot up when she insisted she dress the part and (shocker) had to shop on the Third Street Promenade for a new outfit. (Please, how many black pantsuits already sat in Julia’s closet? She just wanted more play dates with Terence, the security guard at Bob’s Bookstore.)
Annie blinked and tugged on her fake, fat, mascara-encrusted eyelashes that obscured her vision by about ninety percent. “Congrats on banging the hot guard, again. Still jealous Grady gets to be the duke?”
Julia slapped her hand away, again. “Oh thanks. I’ve been nailing him for weeks now. Besides, I could never look like a man. Therefore, Grady had to be the duke.” She leaned into Annie wielding blood red lipstick. “You are my work in progress. I got an award in high school for this, you know.”
“I know. It was called a D in Geometry.”
“Poof your lips,” Julia said. Annie poofed and Julia applied the red stain to her lips. “Besides, everybody gets at least one D in Geometry.”
“Tha was da turd tam u tuk it.”
“I feel a presence.” Grady checked out his fake silver goatee with a small hand held mirror. The Elmer’s glue under his fake goatee seemed to be dry. His wig was also Asian silver, but he didn’t need the tape or the paperclips because older men were allowed to have some wrinkles. Julia had drawn shadows on his face with makeup and created some liver spots to make him look older. “I’m a little queasy,’ Grady said. “Is Derrick here?”
“No. Ees al eddy air. U ate una alad for unch. No ukin, pees. Ony av enuv uney fo ip,” Annie squirmed away from Julia and her makeup kit. “Enough!”
Julia grabbed the mirror from Grady. “Hey!” he said.
“Check it out.” Julia held up the hand-mirror to Annie’s face.
Annie looked in the mirror. She looked like an upper-class doyenne, thirty plus years older than she actually was, who had some work done. And work when it was very expensive, but not all that natural looking. But right now, Annie was an exotic, albeit caught-in-a-wind-tunnel, senior doppelganger. “Wow! Good job on that D.”
Julia preened. “Brigadoon, junior year. A pity you couldn’t be there. Were you at choir practice or the New Testament study group?”
“The New Testaments had the best weed in all of southern Wisconsin,” Annie said.
“Julia’s jealous,” Grady said. “It’s her pattern. Probably childhood emotional trauma. Maybe toilet training took too long.”
Julia punched him on his arm.
“Ow!” Grady exclaimed. “Can I have my mirror back?”
Annie handed it to him as the limo pulled into the driveway in front of the high-rise glass building that housed the law offices of Strunckle, Carbunkle and Goldstein.
They exited the limo and hobbled with age appropriate arthritic knees, stiff backs and necks toward the shiny reflective high-rise. Annie wore a vintage pastel Chanel knock-off suit and a little box hat with netting on top of her wig. Julia trotted energetically behind them, ready to fend off the paparazzi or rabid fans. There were none to be found. They hadn’t enough money to hire fake fans.
Annie took in the small law conference room. It featured a sleek wood table with twelve modern chairs. Adjacent to the wall was a buffet table filled with upscale snacks, bottles of champagne, and a “Congratulations Lewis!” decorated flat sheet cake. Most of the twenty people in the crowd gathered to celebrate Lewis Schuchiani’s promotion to Junior Partner were co-workers.
His fiancée, Hailey Strunkle, was dressed cool with some Italian boots, a mini skirt and Tibetan prayer beads around her neck and wrists as fashion accessories. Hailey was the boss’s daughter, a smart girl, educated at Bennington. She greeted everyone by name as they entered the room, and commented on something positive about each guest. Hailey was nuts about Lewis Schuchiani and today’s event was, f
or her, as important as the preparations for Princess Di’s nuptials.
When the Duke and Duchess Stoneycliff entered the conference room, Hailey greeted them with a flawless “I’m meeting royals” curtsey. She even acknowledged their bodyguard by nodding at her. Perfect manners for a perfect wife to be. Some day, her man, Lewis, would be a partner in the firm.
“An honor to meet you, Duke and Duchess Stoneycliff. I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, even though her Google search had taken her to many “Stoneycliff Farms” sites. None of them featured royalty or were all that informative, but you couldn’t always trust the Internet.
Grady turned and stared at the buffet table. “My innards are jumping wildly with anticipation at yonder table. Cheerio,” he said as he wandered toward the buffet, closely followed by Julia.
Hailey’s eyes widened. Annie took her hand and felt Hailey’s fear of the dreaded social faux pax. “Dear Hailey, you’re almost family!” Annie said. She couldn’t move her eyebrows and the makeup melted into her eyes. She blinked and whispered, “Ignore the Duke’s dreadful manners. His tummy’s not right. It rumbles at odd times and I have to explain the gurgles and the quiet emanations of a gaseous nature. Despite popular opinion, dear Hailey, it’s not easy being a royal.”
Annie put her hand to her face and attempted a look of sorrow in order to push back paper clips that sneaked down her forehead from beneath her wig. “I’ve had nightmares that the duke’s become lactose intolerant. Cheer me up. Where’s my dear Lewis, the man of the hour?”
Hailey looked around the room. “Lewis’s mom, Roberta, arrived out of the blue. She said she had a showing for her new line and couldn’t make it, but change of schedule and here she is. I think they’re catching up. Probably in his office, 2204.”
Annie looked over at the buffet table. The duke and their bodyguard threw back the champagne and appetizers as they chatted up Strunkle employees.
A handsome young lawyer in a conservative suit eyed the duke, and slipped him his card. Interesting.
“Darling Hailey, my blood sugar’s plummeting. Let’s partake of some snackies,” Annie said.
“Absolutely,” Hailey said. They walked toward the food table and Annie picked up several mini-quiches, put them on her paper plate and bit into one.
She watched Grady blush under and around his fake facial hair. “Thank you, fine sir. But I don’t currently need representation.”
The handsome lawyer leaned into Grady and whispered, “Yeah, but you might want to share a beer and some Mexican food when you take off that ridiculous disguise. Are you an actor or a writer?”
“Oh,” Annie said. Very nice that Grady was getting some action. He tended to be a hermit when he worked on a writing project. Bummer that she’d have to deal with Lewis’s mother. Roberta Lilly Schuchiani was a fashion designer famous for funky prints on her clothing and accessories, as well as her take-no-bullshit attitude. But Annie wasn’t here for her sanity (completely gone), and her facelift wouldn’t last much longer (she estimated an hour, tops). She patted her purse. “I have a giftie for dear Lewis and it won’t keep forever,” she said to Hailey.
Annie/Duchess Myra Stoneycliff stuck her platinum head into Lewis Schuchiani’s office. She saw a perfunctory desk, a file cabinet, a bookcase, and a framed law degree from a more than decent university on the wall. But no Lewis and no Lewis’s fashionista mother, Roberta.
Annie took a seat in his office chair. She swiveled back and forth and surveyed the room. His desk was neat and tidy and featured pictures of Roberta, Hailey, and a man who resembled Lewis, who she assumed was his dad. A four-tiered metal file cabinet stood in a corner. She flipped through some files on his desk and found a white 8 X 10 envelope addressed to Lewis, no return address.
Oh, shit. She picked up the envelope, opened it, and pulled out its contents: an 8 X 10 glossy showed Roberta, about thirty years younger, making out with, shocker, Derrick Fuller. A second photo showed Derrick making out with a guy who looked suspiciously like Lewis’s dad. Huh.
Derrick stood next to the file cabinet and tapped his foot. “Did you check the file cabinet for my will?”
“Where have you been?” Annie asked. She walked two feet to the file cabinet and opened the second drawer.
“Catching up on old times.”
She looked under the file header labeled F. “Is there anyone you haven’t messed with?”
“Yes. You.”
“I beg to differ.” She pulled out a file labeled, “Fuller, Derrick.” Opened it. But nothing was there.
When a sultry voice came from the office doorway. “My, my, Duchess. It’s been so long, I don’t even remember meeting you.”
Annie turned and saw Lewis’s famous mother and clothes designer, Roberta Lilly Scuchiani. Roberta leaned against the doorframe clad in one of her new retro Age of Aquarius-inspired print wrap dresses. She was tall, about five feet ten inches without heels, and in bitchin’ shape for being in her sixties. Her hair was styled and her boney clavicles peeked out from her expensive silk scarf draped around her neck.
Annie shoved another wandering paperclip back under her wig. Time to punt. “Dahling Roberta, it’s been forever. I have a surprise for Lewis. A Stoneycliff Cheesy Cake.” Annie walked back to Lewis’s desk, pulled a saran wrapped mini-cheesecake out of her purse and placed it next to his family photo montage.
Roberta picked up the cheesecake and examined it. “I thought you spent all your time dating wealthy men with one foot in the grave. When did you diverge into pastries?”
“Well, you haven’t met my duke,” Annie said. Maybe she should skip the punt, play it dangerous and go for the first down on the fourth. “Roberta as stunning as you are, if you had an ounce of brain cells that still fired after our copious late nights at Studio 54, you would remember I always baked confections. And shared them with my friends. You were my test subjects for perfecting my future bakery.”
“Right.” Roberta eyed Annie suspiciously. “Nice brow lift, I mean forehead,” she said. “New York or L.A.?”
More like Staples, thought Annie. “Zurich.”
Roberta’s eyes narrowed. “Decent work on your neck job,” she said.
“I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about,” Annie said, patted her neck and covered tape with strands from her wig.
“Oh please, my dearest, oldest friend. Who’s your fabulous doctor? In case my neck needs work some day,” Roberta said.
Annie rolled her eyes. “Love you, Robbie, but your neck is not your best physical attribute.”
Roberta frowned and adjusted the scarf that decorated her long neck. “Oh, be an angel, and share the name of your plastic surgeon. Doctor, who?”
“Dr. Feffenhorfer of the famed Feffenhorfer Clinic.”
“I’ve never heard of him or the clinic.”
“That’s 'cause they’re very exclusive and require a prominent referral,” Annie said. Two could play at this game. “Don’t be shy, Darling. Feel free to drop my name.” Drop it into a giant vat of pudding for all the good it would do her.
“What did we do, besides Studio 54?” Roberta squinted at her.
Annie squinted back. There was something slightly off about Roberta. “Oh what didn’t we do, Robbie! Those were the days, my friend,” Annie replied. She thought hard, ground her teeth and more pieces of tape popped. Her right ear dropped half an inch. Her ears were now asymmetrical. “We thought they’d never end.”
“We’d sing and dance forever and a day?” Roberta pointed to Annie’s right ear. “Did your ear just have a stroke?”
“Face yoga. It’s all the rage. Learned it from a Swami on va-ca in Gstaad.” Annie glanced at the family pics on Lewis’s desk. Looked back up at Roberta. Something clicked. “Where’s Lewis?”
“We chatted. He just left to go to his party.”
“No. I would have passed him in the hallway.” Annie picked up the white envelope and waved it in front of Roberta’s face. “Did he show you this?”
“No.”
Annie pulled out the photos of Derrick with Roberta and Derrick with Lewis’s dad. “How about these?” she asked.
Roberta leaned in, held the photo on one end while Annie held its other end. Roberta did a double take and shook her head. “Oh, my God. I still can’t believe Derrick’s dead.”
Annie felt something shift inside her body and closed her eyes to concentrate. On her left side, she craved mani-pedis, chocolate, great communication skills, a fab purse, a hot new romantic-suspense novel, re-runs of Sex and the City, and Home Depot. On the right side of her body, Annie lusted after Hooters, White Castle sliders, Playboy, internet porn, a universal remote control, sports playoffs, more internet porn, and Home Depot. The feelings were overwhelming, confusing, and like a three car whiplash, slammed her brain back and forth, and back again.
“Roberta, stop dicking around and tell me about this photo.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.” Roberta dropped her end of the photo. “I don’t even remember who you are!” She tossed her scarf over her shoulder.
Hailey popped her head in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I know this is completely the wrong time to interrupt your reunion. But everyone’s looking for Lewis? I can’t find him and it’s freaking me out!”
A big piece of this puzzle clunked together for Annie. Lewis was being blackmailed. “Hailey, was Lewis happy about his promotion?” Annie asked.
“He was thrilled. Until a couple of days after his client, Derrick Fuller, died. He’s been depressed ever since. I keep telling him that Derrick’s passing is tragic, but he’ll get over it. Lewis doesn’t answer me. Doesn’t even see me.”
“Damn,” Annie said. “How do we get to the roof?”
Annie, Derrick, Hillary, and Roberta Schuchiani burst through the door that led from the stairwell to the roof of this Beverly Hills twenty-five-story building. Between the air ducts, AC equipment, other pipes, tubes and equipment, there was a decent view of West Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean.
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