by Norma Lehr
“No. I haven’t heard from her. Have you?”
Reynolds’ face fell. “Unfortunately not. My concern for her whereabouts has kept me out on the course. With everything that has transpired, my game on the green is the only place I can hold myself together.” He gave her a weary glance. “Going to the office today is completely out of the question. Until we hear where Trish has fled to, I won’t be able to give my patients the flawlessly intricate work they desire.”
He gazed over Abby’s head, toward the mountains. “Go ahead, my dear. Talk to the good sheriff. Any little speck of information you can offer will surely help.”
Abby nodded. “I hope you’re right.” She began to feel a tad bit more comfortable in his presence. “Before you leave, Mr. Reynolds—”
“Please. Call me Preston. Mr. Reynolds sounds so formal.”
“Well, what I’m saying is, I’d really like to talk with you about the poker game last Friday. I can only imagine how terrible you must feel after losing your friend.”
Reynolds took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes. A deep loss for Doctor Levine’s close friends. Your mother, the doctor and I come from Kansas. We’ve known each other for decades. Kept in touch all these years. Yes, yes, quite a loss.” He rubbed his eye with a knuckle.
Did Abby detect a tear forming? Difficult to tell under the shade of the cap’s visor. “I sympathize with you, having something so horrible happen. Especially in your home.”
Reynolds dropped his finger, looked up at Abby and nodded. “Thank you, my dear. You have an understanding heart.” He coughed again. “You don’t remember me, I’m sure. I came to visit once with Trish when you were a small girl living with your grandmother. Ah, what a beautiful child you were.” He gazed deeply into her eyes. “Now you are a beautiful woman with children of your own. Twins, I understand. Wonderful blessings for you and Trish.”
Abby agreed, smiling with pride.
“I don’t know if Trish ever mentioned me over the years, but I’ve always loved your mother.” He sighed deeply. “More than once I asked her to marry me, but she refused.” His eyes took on a distant stare. “Her career always came first.”
Abby tried to recall which of Trish’s guys Reynolds happened to be. She had brought three or four to Grandma’s house in those early years. Abby always wondered if one of the visitors could be her daddy, but she couldn’t place Reynolds. Only the deceased doctor, Thomas Levine.
Right now, Abby couldn’t give a hoot about Reynolds’ lamenting over Trish, but she continued to work at sounding sympathetic. “It all sounds so sad. I’m sorry.”
Reynolds wasn’t listening now. He seemed lost in reverie. Suddenly he straightened his shoulders and adjusted his cap. “Hope we will meet again, Abby. Now I must be on my way. Appointments to keep.”
She reached out an arm to stop him. “Please wait. It’s important for me to find out what went on Friday night at the poker game. Who said what to whom. What happened after your friend … well, you know. Maybe you can recall bits of conversation. Or a comment made between the players concerning my mother.”
Reynolds checked his watch. His expression changed and he appeared to be all business now. “Yes. I can schedule you in.”
“Can we meet someplace?” In an attempt to throw off any possible suspicion about her breaking and entering, she added, “Your place, if you give me the address.”
He shook his head. “Not possible. I’ve been temporarily evicted from the premises.” He nodded over his shoulder at the station. “Some person of authority inside cordoned off my lovely home two days ago. For the present I’m staying with a friend from my club.”
“Can we meet for coffee when I’m through here?”
“Hmm.” He brought out a small, brown leather tablet and opened it to a green tab. “Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tomorrow evening?”
Abby felt confused, then a bit impatient. “You’re saying your schedule’s full till then?”
“I am afraid so. Look on the bright side. By the time we meet, Trish may have returned and she can join us.” He smiled. “I would be escorting two lovely women. What man could ask for more?” He raised his eyebrows. “What do you say? Do we have a date?”
“I really need to talk to you before then.”
“Impossible. My life is dictated by my schedule. Give me your cell number and we’ll set up a time.” He placed his hand on Abby’s shoulder. “I realize Trish is your mother and you are worried. Probably more than necessary. Trish has taken a hiatus many times in the past when things got rough. If our friend the surgeon was indeed a victim of foul play—and I sincerely hope the authorities are mistaken—Trish may think she knows something that might implicate her. If that is the case, she’ll have the good sense to stay away until the fog clears.”
Reynolds was proving to be immovable. He had his schedule to consider. She finally gave in. “Please call and let me know where we can meet.” She scribbled her number and asked for his. He handed her his card.
After a pat on her arm, he turned and briskly walked away, leaving Abby standing outside the station, dabbing her face with her hanky.
Inside the station, the air conditioner cooled Abby’s fevered brow. She sat on a padded black bench near the sliding door to compose herself after meeting up with Reynolds. The man whose house she had broken into less than an hour ago. Putting off their meeting until dinner tomorrow night might indeed be a blessing. By then the break-in to his place would be history, giving her time to get her nerves under control.
History, yeah! Hard to fathom she’d been in the police station only two days ago. So much had happened since she and Logan had found Trish’s car and came here to report her missing. Sunday! The day the ME had called Dawson to say he had cause to doubt the surgeon’s death was from natural causes. Two days—two days!
If all three card players were telling the truth, Trish hadn’t been seen by anyone since the poker game on Friday night. Today was the fourth day with no word or clue as to where she had gone. Or the worst case scenario—what had happened to her.
Abby stood and headed for the main desk. The uniformed woman with hair pulled back in a tight bun waved her on down the hall. “Miss Rollins. First office on the left. Sheriff Dawson is expecting you.”
Really? The sheriff expected her? She entered his office and was surprised and concerned to see Logan there.
He stood and nodded.
Why was he here? Had he rushed over to tell Dawson he’d seen her at Reynolds’ place? Somehow, Logan showing up as she was leaving seemed odd.
Dawson remained seated behind his cluttered desk. “Glad you could make it, Miss Rollins. I tried to get in touch with you at your aunt’s place but nobody knew where you were.” He picked up a manila folder and opened it. “Nowadays, most folks not only have a cellphone, but they keep them turned on in case someone like me,” he tapped his badge, “needs to reach them.”
Abby took a seat.
“Too bad you couldn’t make it sooner. After you called to say you were coming in, Dr. Reynolds waited a while. Said he looked forward to meeting you. Seems he has a busy schedule today and couldn’t wait for you or for the coroner’s report. Find it strange he couldn’t postpone any appointments, the doc being his best friend and all.” He rattled the file. “Or so he says.”
Abby found her voice. “I met him as I was coming in. We chatted. He didn’t say you were waiting.”
In retrospect, maybe Reynolds had purposely detained her. But why? She didn’t dwell on those thoughts. Instead, she nodded at Logan. “Sorry if I held you up. You didn’t mention you were coming here.”
Logan hunched his shoulders and offered a sidelong grin.
Dawson harrumphed. “Getting on with it … Blade Garret brought in this file. The owner of the dark car has been located. The driver may or may not have purposely tried to run you down.”
Abby jumped in. “I really don’t think they tried to run me down on purpose.” She waited but Dawso
n didn’t respond. She looked at Logan. He remained silent.
“Whatever the reason,” Dawson began again, “we’re not convinced he tried to hit you but we’re holding the driver for questioning.”
“May I ask who it is?”
“You may, but the driver is underage and we cannot release that information until we notify his parents.” He flipped the file closed. “We can thank Garret. He found the vehicle. And the driver.”
So that’s what Blade was trying to show her last night at the motel. And again this morning as she drove away from her aunt’s. She flashed back to him waving the file as she drove off.
Last night, a dark car parked across from the bungalow had pulled away from the curb right after the strange, hollow-sounding call from Heath. Could be nothing. Or could have been someone stalking her. She swallowed her fear. “How important is it? Does the car or the driver have anything to do with my missing mother?”
“We don’t know yet. We have more questions.”
A long silence filled the room while Dawson opened drawers and leaned over, searching for something.
Abby drummed her fingers on her knee. She’d have to swallow her pride, find Blade and ask him who owned the car. If he was angry enough, he might not tell her, but it was worth a try.
She spoke up. “You said you were trying to call me. Do you have information about Trish? Has someone seen her?”
The door behind Abby opened. The officer from the front desk brought in a paper and handed it to Dawson.
The sheriff studied what appeared to be a report before he carefully slipped it into the folder. “So there you have it.” Dawson stared at Logan, then Abby. “It’s been documented. I’m not at liberty to give out more information right now, but Doctor Thomas Levine, plastic surgeon, died from an overdose of a poison substance.”
Leaving Dawson’s office, Abby trailed after Logan and caught up with him outside. “Hey, wait up!” Her eyes widened. “What do you make of that? Poison killed Levine.”
Logan stopped short but didn’t immediately turn around. When he did, his expression was dour. “I don’t know if I can talk right now. Poisoned! Suicide or Murder? Do you have any idea what this means?”
“Well, yeah. Means all of you poker players are persons of interest. Dawson said it.”
“Persons of interest. Right.” He shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “Means if it’s murder, we’re suspects. You heard him. Now I can’t leave the Palms.”
“You were planning to leave today?”
Logan tapped his foot. “No. But I can’t afford to stay around here much longer. I’ve gotta get back to Reno. I have a radio station to run.”
Wow! Too bad, Logan. Men. Only concerned about their business.
Abby frowned. “I can sympathize. But I also have a business in Sacramento. Fortunately, I’ve left the store in capable hands.” She made a mental note to call Margie and find out how things were going. Explain why she hadn’t returned yesterday as planned.
He started walking toward the silver Corvette. “The difference is you can leave here whenever. I’m forced to stay.” He hesitated and turned to look back at her. “Sorry.” He waved his hand. “I’m not thinking straight. Of course you can’t leave until you find your mother.”
Yes. That was a given. Her mother must also be a person of interest in the doctor’s poisoning. Abby would stay and search until she found her.
Before he reached his car, Abby called out, “Logan, wait a minute.” She closed the distance between them. “What do you make of the ME’s report? Poison! Either Dawson doesn’t know what the substance is or he’s not telling. That night, did you see or sense anything out of the ordinary? Did Thomas have a drink that was different from the others?”
He turned and frowned. “Can we change the subject?”
Abby shrugged. “Sure.” She glanced back at the station. “But if you can help solve this case, the sooner we’ll both be out of here.”
The lines of frustration in his face relaxed. “You hungry?”
Abby patted her stomach. “Could eat a horse.”
“Come on then. Follow me to my dad’s house. I’ll cook.”
Abby pulled her chin in. “You cook?”
He grinned. “Like a New York chef.”
CHAPTER 12
On the drive to Sterling Stamm’s, Abby wondered if Thomas Levine had committed suicide or been murdered. It didn’t seem probable he would intentionally take poison. If he had been murdered, who at the poker party had a motive? Certainly not her mother. Abby recalled her mother’s stay at her condo and Trish’s deep concern over Thomas’ phone call. She’d spoken warmly of the surgeon but also mentioned his current state of fear and depression, even “paranoia.”
It had crossed Abby’s mind a couple of times that Logan might be sheltering Trish at his dad’s place. He might be taking Abby there now for a much needed reunion. Wouldn’t that be a relief? She experienced a flash of hope and revved the GEM to thirty-five.
She appreciated Logan keeping his speed down. Made it easier for her to follow in her aunt’s little car. As she drove along, her mind wandered back to Dawson. It could be her imagination, but he’d appeared to ignore her question asking for new information concerning Trish’s disappearance. He never once made eye contact with her. His stock answer, “We’ll let you know if we find out anything,” just didn’t sit right with her. Surely he wouldn’t hold back important news. Good or bad. Would he?
The coroner concluded the doctor had been poisoned. Abby figured that meant Trish probably knew something tangible. If his death truly had been a suicide, had one of the players driven him to it? Maybe through blackmail? If not, and Trish suspected he’d been murdered, she must have known something incriminating about one, or maybe all the players.
Following closely behind the Corvette, Abby worked on gathering pertinent questions to ask Logan. He had said all along he thought the doctor died of a heart attack or a stroke. Perhaps he had. Dawson hadn’t given them any information about the poison or its effects. Stroke or heart attack could have been the final result.
At North Palm Canyon Drive, Abby spotted a sign: THE MOVIE COLONY. They were now entering the Hollywood district. Logan turned east on Tachewa Drive then south to Avenida Olivos. One more block and the car made a left turn into a cul de sac. Logan stopped in front of a large Spanish ranch-style home with grapefruit trees in the front yard and a panoramic view of the San Jacinto Mountains. He waited for her to catch up.
She followed him into the driveway and slid out of the GEM. “I’m impressed. Your dad lived here among the stars?”
“And producers, directors, and writers.” His sweeping gesture took in the entire area. “Thirty houses here were occupied by celebrities between the 1930s and the ’60s. Some of them still are. Barry Manilow lives not too far from here when he’s not on stage in Vegas.” He pointed over her shoulder. “There’s Streisand’s home on the side of the hill.” He walked around to the gated backyard and Abby followed. A shiny metal sign announced: QUICKSILVER.
Inside the disc jockey’s house, Abby made a quick survey of the kitchen and open dining area. No sign of a woman there. “I need to use the bathroom. Which way?”
“Which one?” Logan shook his head. “Dad has three in this house. Take your pick. Down the hall.”
“I only need one, but if it’s okay I’ll snoop in the other two. Bathroom designs are my thing.”
Logan put a man-apron over his pale yellow shirt. “Snoop all you want. Check out the entire place.” He gave her a knowing look. “You won’t find anything of Trish’s in the bathrooms. After Dad died, she removed her things. If you’re thinking she’s here, you’re going to be disappointed.” He reached high in the cupboard and came out with a bowl. “It would be great if she was.”
Abby sighed. “One can only hope.”
Logan held up a wooden spoon. “Feel free to wander wherever. You’ll find the hall and Dad’s office a blast from the past.”<
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She headed in that direction. On the wall were enlarged posters of music artists’ album covers from the ’50s and ’60s. Midway down the gallery was a montage of publicity photos in black and white. A young Sterling, Quicksilver—handsome, with dark hair and a winning smile—gazed into the camera with pride. In one photo, probably shot at the radio station, he wore earphones and stood with his arm around Buddy Holly. In another he handed a mic across to Bobby Darin. Both singers, now deceased, were entertainers from that by-gone era.
Next in line, three glossy photos. Dinah Shore, Sarah Vaughn, and Johnny Mathis. Abby smiled and began to hum “Chances Are.” Must have been publicity shots taken at TV award ceremonies. She wandered along, reading captions of handwritten accolades and autographs given to Sterling by The Diamonds, Elvis, and The Beatles. At the next stop she angled her head. Large and in color, The Malones, their dark hair done up in pomps, were dressed alike in gold lamé. The sisters leaned forward and smiled into the camera. Abby marveled at how young they looked. Especially a very young Trish in the middle, held tight by her sisters. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen.
Abby felt flooded with sudden anger and resentment. Michael Heath had revealed how Trish’s sisters had used her at a young age. How they had encouraged her to date a mobster to further their careers. She vowed to corner Ginny and Dorie later today. This time she’d demand an explanation. Finish what she’d started last night. Those two must have figured out by now she had talked to someone who remembered them from the past. And not too fondly. It would be interesting to see what kind of story they came up with.
Moving along, she checked out two of the bathrooms and used the third, in the master bedroom, to pee. She looked around for anything of Trish’s. Even a woman’s deodorant might alert her Trish had been there recently. Unless, of course, Logan had a female friend. She nodded. Good-looking guy. Great house. Highly possible.
The entire house was immaculate. Of course it would have to be for listing purposes. Sterling’s memorabilia had been left in place. Probably Trish’s idea. His keepsakes might dazzle a buyer interested in the Hollywood Hills.