“Tomorrow morning, first thing, I’ll go with you to this redwood house and we’ll find a way to make this guy answer the front door,” Larry said and tore a piece off the crusty baguette.
“I have to take Betty to the eye doctor.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“He had a cancellation and is open on Saturday mornings and Wilma Granger still had his card I showed her and finagled an appointment for Betty and me, too.”
Betty had thought that an even worse problem for Charlie than being the suspect in Jeremy’s murder. “I told her she shouldn’t bother you with that now, but Wilma’s just a doer, Charlie.”
“Mrs. Beesom’s eyes have always been red, Mom. Does she need new glasses?”
“Charlie, far be it from me to criticize someone as altogether as you are, but have you checked the arrangement of your priorities here?” Edward asked.
“Betty Beesom knows something she’s not telling and I’ll have several lovely hours all alone with her on the 405 to L.A. and back to pry whatever it is from her. Trust me, it has to do with Jeremy’s murder and, Libby, Mrs. Beesom has a cloudy film on her eyes called cataracts and they can be removed by laser surgery. And did you notice Edward here doesn’t wear glasses anymore? Well, he had a different eye surgery that made that possible and that everyone thinks I should have. So Betty and I will go together to see Dr. Pearlman, and, Larry and Edward, you can visit the redwood house for me at the same time and we’ll outsmart J. S. while looking innocent.”
“When did Mr. Esterhazie become Edward instead of Ed?”
“This morning just before you left for school, as I remember,” Charlie said.
Edward added, “It’s one of those adult things you don’t want to know about.”
Libby studied Doug Esterhazie’s dad with a squint and chewed on the last spear of fresh asparagus. “It’s about sex?”
Actually it was, but nobody wanted to explain erectile disfunction to Libby Abigail Greene. Especially her mother.
* * *
When it was impossible to avoid doctors, Charlie tended to look up those closer to work than to home because she could schedule them during their mutual working hours. So this was an L.A. doctor, and Charlie and Betty headed out on the 405 early the next morning. Charlie stopped at the drive-through for her latte and bagel just like it was a work day. Betty refused anything—she’d had her All-Bran and decaf.
“Does your mother really have a boyfriend, Charlie?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, she should. My Nathan died late enough in my life I didn’t have the energy to deal with anyone else. But she was widowed awful young, too young to have to be alone.”
Apparently not as young as her boyfriend.
The fog was thick this morning after the rain last night, and even on Saturday the smoke from cars on the 405 added to it to form smog. Charlie drove with headlights on, the strong coffee gradually clearing the fog of sleep from her head.
“Oh, she’s lucky to have you, Charlie. And you’re lucky to have Libby. I don’t have anybody. Never really wanted children. They always seemed messy and cranky and demanding, but now I know what I probably really knew then, if I’d bothered to pay attention. Children grow up to be responsible and dependable as you grow old and messy. They need you and all that attention early on, but you’re going to need them and attention later on. I know it’s been obvious since Jesus was born but when Jeremy came he promised he’d look after me in my old age because he didn’t have a mother or children, either. And I thought everything would be all right. Then I got too nosy and the problems started. Charlie, old people can get scared and desperate, too. And the other night when you put your arm around me and said I was your friend, I felt so good. And then we found Jeremy dead.”
“What problems started, Betty, when you got nosy?”
“Nathan, he had a boy by an earlier marriage. He was quite a bit older than me—Nathan. The boy died young and Nathan split up with the mother. He didn’t want another child. So here I am—old and alone.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Mrs. Beesom. And who is Harry, the man?”
“Oh, there’s no man, just Hairy the cat.”
“You said yesterday he would take care of everything. A cat can’t do that.”
“Don’t pay no attention to the ramblings of an old woman.”
“Who did you see at the memorial for Jeremy that upset you so you had to go to the hospital? Betty, I’m not just being nosy—the police think I killed Jeremy.”
“Have they searched your house for the gun that shot him?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, see, they don’t really suspect you. Taking you to the jail was just to worry me into a confession.”
“Did they search your house for a gun?” This conversation was growing more strange than informative and Charlie had been concentrating on it and navigating the thick fog smog and not spilling her latte so she didn’t register right away that the low little car passing her could have been red in the thick gray engulfing them, that it had the possible shape of a Ferrari and a smeared-to-indiscernible license plate, until the car disappeared into soupy air ahead. A monumental double semi passed next and demanded all her attention.
“Charlie, what happens if your hearing goes out again in this traffic and fog?”
Charlie didn’t answer Betty Beesom as Betty hadn’t answered her. Hardball seemed to be the only solution to the impasse here. And Charlie controlled the Toyota, if not the situation. She was reminded of her dream about the crash with the semi and Jeremy, Tuxedo and Hairy in the cab with him, when the Ferrari and the double semi appeared out of the fog soup ahead side-by-side yet again. But the car she imagined was the Ferrari pulled to the right with blinker flashing and disappeared on an off-ramp. Charlie relaxed some, finished her bagel, and took a last swig of latte.
“You know, Charlie, people younger and stronger than me take advantage of my weakness.”
“You know, Mrs. Beesom, they do me, too. Younger people take advantage of my weakness and older people take advantage of my strength. You’re just part of a larger world that doesn’t have a clue, either.”
“What a stupid thing to say.”
* * *
Charlie led Betty Beesom to the elevators in the FFUCWB of P building and punched the button for the fifth floor.
“We’re gonna be early. Maybe we should of stopped for pie and coffee first.”
“This isn’t the eye doctor’s office. It’s mine.” And you’re not going to get pie on Wilshire this early in the day.
“What’d we come here for?”
Charlie slid the pass card’s magnetic strip through the slot on the agency’s door to release the lock instead of answering the poor woman.
“Guess you’re mad at me, huh?” Betty blinked helplessly but followed Charlie into the reception room of Congdon & Morse, Inc. rather than be left alone in the strange hallway.
“I don’t like being lied to by a good Christian like yourself.” Charlie hated playing hardball with a white-haired neighbor with cataracts. But as long as Betty could convince herself she was doing Charlie no harm, she wouldn’t give up her secrets.
Sometimes agents came in to catch up on off hours, but the agency sounded empty this morning. Charlie hoped Dorian Black hadn’t brought in a woman, the pig.
The intestinal distress of the tiny office refrigerator, the inexorable slow drip of the faucet above the sink next to it, the huffing of the ventilation system, Mrs. Beesom’s worried sniff—all made Charlie so aware of how she depended on her overachieving hearing system. Was it still that acute, or did it just seem like it compared to the unwelcome periods of total silence?
Ruby Dillon’s desk was clean and perfect as usual. Charlie led Betty down the hall toward the front of the building, passing up Tracy Dewitt’s cubicle and the other agents’ offices to throw open Richard Morse’s door and let Betty gape at the two walls of windows on the corner office
, the huge desk, and leather furniture. “This is Richard’s office. Mine is right next door.”
And she showed Betty into Larry’s cubicle.
“Oh, this is very nice, Charlie.” The older woman tried to sound impressed. “Now we’d better get ourselves over to that doctor.”
“This is Larry’s office—mine’s right through here.” Charlie’s message light was flashing and she thought she could smell cigarette smoke. The message was from Keegan Monroe, her most valuable client, a screenwriter with incredible credits—still in demand at thirty-five. And unfortunately in Folsom Prison. He wanted to know what she thought of the new screenplay and wanted her to know he was to appear before the parole board on Monday morning.
Great, her most valuable client was just about to get out of prison and she was just about to get into one. Charlie left Betty to be impressed by Charlie’s position in the world because of her impressive office and went back to Larry’s cubicle to search for Keegan’s screenplay. Larry had loved it, and hidden it when the cops and Feds or whoever came to look into her computer files. Charlie knew where he hid things he didn’t want found.
In the towering drop-leaf file cabinet stuffed with stuff they’d probably never get to, she looked under M. It was in the first folder. The working tide—no producer in the world would refuse to look at a full screenplay by Keegan without the usual pitch first, but rarely would they use his title, either—was Open and Shut.
Charlie tucked it under her arm and tried the door of the office next to hers. To her astonishment, it opened. The air here reeked of cigarette smoke and the hole drilled through the wall this office shared with hers was much larger than a peephole now. It was large enough to stick a hand through and move A. E. Mous’s poster aside. But the office of the mysterious silent partner. Daniel Congdon, was empty.
CHAPTER 32
“I HAD NO idea you were such an important person, Charlie. Your office is so grand. And you don’t even have to do Mr. Morse’s typewriting and answer his phone.”
The whole idea of taking Betty to the office had been to force her to face the fact that Charlie had a real-world job, and Betty’s hiding the truth from herself away in her age-cocoon wouldn’t work in the real world. Or something like that.
After Dr. Pearlman had assured them both their vision could be restored by the magic laser, Betty began to revert into her self-protective fantasy self again, so Charlie decided to blow Betty away with a lunch at the Celebrity Pit. Shake her up again.
Well, the poor woman’s stomach was growling and she’d had no pie for a snack this morning. It had been a long time since her All-Bran and, as Charlie understood it, the purpose of that breakfast was that it passed through rather quickly.
Mrs. Beesom sat speechless over her iced tea—a large glass, it had taken five sugar packets to make it potable. The poor woman was puffing—too much walking for her age bracket here, even though so far most of it had been down stairs because the escalator had brought them up.
Charlie ordered herself the special and Betty the crêpes—the closest thing to pie here. And herself a glass of wine.
“Oh, do you think you should? You have to drive us all the way to Long—is that Charlton Heston up there?”
“I think he’s a plant.”
“No, the man sitting in front of that window. He’s talking to the woman across the table. Plants can’t talk.”
Betty’s first course was a crêpe filled with steamed vegetables, but saved by a rich hollandaise sauce. Betty was not overly fond of vegetables, but cooked beat raw any day. Warmed-up canned was even better. Charlie’s first course was a leafy salad. And the French bread with real butter didn’t hurt, either, but the crust was too hard for Betty to chew.
“You know, I don’t think Jeremy was shot at all,” Charlie said to get the conversation back to the particulars.
“But all that blood, Charlie.”
“Could have been a stab wound. I never saw him when he was turned over.”
“But from the picture of him in the paper—it was Jeremy.”
“Oh yes, but if he’d been shot we’d have smelled it in the car and probably on Hairy. And they’d have checked both of us for gun-powder residue on our hands.”
“So what are they up to, do you think?”
“Trying to get me to slip up, probably.” Like I’d like to get you to. “What do you suppose Jeremy meant by warning you to ‘watch out for Harry,’ Mrs. Beesom, when he warned us all of something different the other night?”
“Probably thought the cat fights in the middle of the night would startle me into a heart attack.”
The second course for Betty was two turkey-and-potato crêpes with another rich sauce even Charlie couldn’t pronounce but Betty was astonished to find could not have a Campbell’s Soup base.
“You lied about not knowing you owned Jeremy’s house, didn’t you, Betty?”
“Told me once he’d take care of me. Guess that’s what he meant. Wasn’t what I meant.”
“Do you also know where he kept his money?”
“In a bank, I suppose, like everybody else.”
“So he was paying taxes on the house for you and you didn’t know it.”
“It was sort of a trust. But the trust could pay the taxes. The designated payee doesn’t have to be the owner—like the bills on a rental are sent to the landlord’s address.”
Charlie had no idea if this was possible without Betty signing something. But this whole thing seemed so illegal and screwed up she wouldn’t doubt it.
Betty’s dessert crêpes were stuffed with cherries and blueberries in a crème she described as a burnt-sugar custard. Charlie was getting stuffed watching her eat it. How could someone that small, who mostly sat, eat all that rich food? Charlie hadn’t been able to finish the dinner salad and artichoke soup.
When the imposter coffee-pourer automatically poured them each a cup of coffee, Charlie was about to warn Betty it wasn’t decaf but Betty interrupted with, “My dear Jesus, Charlie, it’s him, Mitch Hilsten, your—”
“No, it’s not. And Betty, that coffee isn’t—”
“Yes, it is—him,” the lookalike said and handed Charlie the check with a wink. He was fairly convincing, but too young—his teeth perfect because of an orthodontist instead of capped, and his blue eyes were just blue, not powder blue.
“Things is so bad he’s waiting tables? You said he was doing very good.”
“Betty, this whole place is a setup—a campy—these-people-are-all-fakes-pretending-to-be—Betty?”
“What, Charlie? You’re looking pale all of a sudden—must be the wine. It’s not your ears again, is it? We got to get home somehow.” Betty was so frightened she looked pale, too, drank down all the coffee, and didn’t even notice the famous heartthrob, Mitch Hilsten, refilling her cup before he picked up Charlie’s credit card.
“No, it’s—I think I’ve figured out what I’ve been trying to tell myself half the week. Why do I never listen to me?”
By the time Charlie excused herself for a run to the bathroom and Betty Beesom had downed a third cup of very strong, rich coffee, Charlie’d formed a strategy for their trip home. She just hoped the poor Toyota could handle it.
* * *
“Charlie, dear, I’m so happy my eyes can be fixed.”
“I am, too, Betty. Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh yes, it was a wonderful dinner. Lunch. Lunch is what I meant—oh you’re driving too fast, aren’t you? And too close to that truck?”
“Settle down. I got you here, didn’t I? I’ll get you home. You’re so jumpy. Tell me more about Jeremy. Where did you say you met him?”
“Wish you hadn’t had that glass of wine. It’s not safe for you to be driving now, Charlie.”
Charlie swerved suddenly, not to frighten the old woman as she’d meant to but because at that moment she noticed the red Ferrari behind them. No fog or smog or double semi to give her doubts this time. How long had it been following them?
“Jeremy came over to take the second house finished on my lot—I had rights on the first.”
“Is that when you learned he would care for you in your old age and that his house would be yours when he died?” It was a red Ferrari, not necessarily the red Ferrari.
“That’s why the police think I killed him, and not that you did.”
“And when did the trouble start because of your nosiness?”
“I didn’t like him having those snotty young girls sleeping at his house. I told him so, too. That’s when the trouble started.”
“Betty, you didn’t have to be nosy to notice he had young girls at his house.”
“Charlie, I have to find a bathroom. And soon.”
* * *
It was clear and warm that evening and Charlie warmed up the deli ribs for them to eat outside. She sent Doug for beans at the diner. Libby worked tonight, so it was the Esterhazies and Larry and Maggie. Maggie brought the salad greens and strawberries, Charlie put out the deli potato salad. They sat outside talking low so as not to disturb a very disturbed eighty-three-year-old woman with cataracts and some serious secrets.
Larry and Edward had found the redwood house, but no red Ferrari and no man. There had been a female figure lurking, ducking, and hiding inside this time. Obviously reluctant to answer the door.
“That could be because the Ferrari was following us,” Charlie said, “and there’s only one way its driver could have known our destination. I think he was thrown off by our route, which was a problem with his source.”
“Mrs. Beesom?” Maggie Stutzman shook her head. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I’ve known her longer than you have. Longer than I’ve known you—and I have a problem believing that old woman would—”
“Did she really pee in your car?” Doug Esterhazie didn’t seem convinced, either.
“Doug, you’ve never had coffee at the Celebrity Pit and then gotten on the 405. Trust me.”
“And she talked?” Larry asked.
“She talked some. And the red Ferrari turned off to go to Dr. Pearlman’s, unaware that I was going to the office first. But he picked us up again there and followed us to the Pit and all the way here until we turned off the 405 because the driver knew where we lived.”
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