“Raoul is worried about layoffs. He wants to get me down there and familiar with how things work in case Jan Rigermeyer … you know her, don’t you?—gets laid off.”
“I had no idea layoffs were that close. Maybe I should start looking for another job. But this is all I’ve ever done, what would I do?”
“Relax, Bertie, this is the first chance I had to tell you, but I think you have some time before you have to start looking.”
He stood up and started getting dressed while she laid there, thinking over what he’d told her. He was almost dressed when she got up and put on a ratty, old after-sex robe. He was studying his reflection in the mirror.
“I’m thinking about getting an earring... or maybe a tattoo. What do you think?”
Bertie sighed. “God,” she thought. “He’s so much younger than I am.”
Bertie had flirted with getting a tattoo a few years ago—a nice sedate rose on her hip, but then she started thinking about having a rose on her butt. That led to thinking about being called Rose Butt. That sounded like Rose Bud, which would remind people of “Citizen Kane,” which would make them think of Orson Welles, who played a newspaperman in the movie. Did she really want anyone associating the way she looked with Orson Welles? Of course not. It was that kind of sharp intuitive thinking that the young just didn’t get.
Usually it didn’t bother her but it did now.
“Why don’t you get a tattoo of an earring, that way you can have both.”
She turned toward the bedroom door but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Hey, are you going to tell me how you really got that black eye? You know I didn’t believe that bra story.”
She hesitated, then decided on the truth. “Yeah, you’re right, it wasn’t my bra strap. I dove head-first into a moving car and hit my face on the gear shift.”
He looked at her angrily.
“You know, Bertie, if you don’t want to tell me the truth, fine, but stop insulting my intelligence with these stupid stories.”
He slammed the door behind him as he left.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next three days dragged as Bertie worked and did little else, waiting for her black eye to fade. It was a merry whirl of motor-powered window blinds, the psychology of colors (calming Pepto-Bismol pink for jail cells, blue to lose weight), and other stories of great public merit.
She fondly remembered the good old days: The time she tracked down a rumor that Charlie Manson was going to endorse his favorite orange juice in a TV commercial; the three days she called D.C. dry cleaners to find the one Dick Cheney used; and the fires! the earthquakes! the explosions!
“Good times,” Bertie thought.
She resisted the urge to call Detective Madison. For what—to chat? For dinner? She realized she was lonely. Sex with Shawn really illustrated how unsatisfying the relationship was. But was she ready to give it up? No, not yet.
“Certainly makes me shallow, doesn’t it?” she thought.
Better to let the call go till the Bellingham murder was solved. She didn’t want a conflict of interest with Madison in the middle if she wrote another story about it. God, she hoped it came to that. She really wanted back in the game.
During a lull, Bertie tracked down Bella Bellingham’s address in one of the uh-oh areas of L.A., and the day her eye looked green and yellow enough to cover with makeup, she went forth to seek the lump.
The woman who lived in her car’s GPS gave her directions that led her to a narrow side street. It felt like the old buildings on both sides of the street met at the top, blocking out the sunlight, like in some old medieval city. She had to park two blocks away and as she walked back toward the Sunset Arms, looking up at its brooding facade, she caroomed into a tall male figure.
“Hey, dude, watch where you’re going,” she said, grabbing onto the man’s arm to keep from falling.
“Watch out yourself, lady.”
Oh, no. That “lady” sounded familiar. Detective Madison.
“You know, calling a woman ‘lady’ is very sexist,” she said, regaining her balance.
“Why?” he asked, “I bet you call men, man.”
She stopped, nonplussed, then smiled. “You’re right, man, I do. So how’s it going Detective Madison?”
“It’s going fine, Bertie Mallowan. How’s it going with you?”
“It’s going fine with me, too.”
They smiled at each other, but Madison’s faded as he got a good look at her. He turned her around to catch the light and peered into her face.
“Is that a black eye? Bertie, what have you been up to now? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Honestly, I’m fine,” she said. “And it’s not really black—it’s more like daffodil and chartreuse.”
“Not funny. What happened? Do you need me to search your apartment again? I’d be glad to.
Interesting undercurrents.
“No, really, I’m OK. I had a little accident Sunday. No big deal.”
He waited for an explanation.
“My friend, Kate, and I were going somewhere and she had to stop suddenly. I was holding a mirror, trying to get something out of my eye, and when she slammed on the brakes, I stuck the mirror in my eye. Honest.” Bertie was OK until she said, “honest,” and then guilt pinched at her.
“If I knew you a little bit better, I’d say that sounds just like you,” Madison said, a new smile creasing his face. “Why is it that I always feel like I’m in a ‘40s movie when I talk to you? I expect Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert to pop out from behind a blanket any second.”
Bertie was pleased. A man who knew his movies—”It Happened One Night.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “This isn’t a very good part of town, even in the daylight.”
The eye-lie had gone so well that Bertie hadn’t thought ahead. She didn’t have a story ready and didn’t want him to know she was here to see Bella Bellingham. “I asked you first,” she said.
He laughed. “I was talking to someone about a case I’m working. OK, your turn.”
It was just enough time: “I’m going to a new design studio that’s around here somewhere. They repaint old cups and dishes from thrift stores and then sell them. Very green, you know, keeps stuff out of landfills. I’m trying to find the place but I’m not very good at directions. And”—she held her watch up—”look at the time. I’ve got to get back to work for an interview at 2. Hell! I thought it would be easier to find. All these old buildings look alike, don’t they?”
“Some,” he agreed, walking down the street with her to her car. “But a lot of them are from the hey-day of the film industry. That one,” he pointed back at the Sunset Arms, “was used in a spy movie shot in the ‘30s. it’s a shame it’s been allowed to deteriorate.”
“Really?’ she asked. “That’s interesting.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“No, I mean it. I love stuff like that,” she said. She did, but not today when she was trying to get to Bella’s without him knowing.
“If we run into each other again when you have more time, I’ll take you on a tour of old-time Hollywood.”
She looked at him curiously. “How do you know about old-time Hollywood?”She could swear he blushed.
He leaned against her car. It was a warm day and he’d taken off his suit jacket. The top button of his blue button-down shirt was open and his tie was loose.
“My mother and grandmother were seamstresses in the costume department of one of the old studios. After Gramma retired, she’d watch me while Mom worked. We’d jump in her old Maxwell and drive up and down the streets. She’d point out buildings where big-name actresses lived before they were big-name actresses. She had some great stories.”
Bertie was fascinated. “Two generations in the film business .. impressive. Why didn’t you go into it?”
“Despite coming from a line of seamstresses, I can’t even sew on a button. I can’t act, and I don’t wan
t to be a stuntman. And besides, Harrison Ford had my face before I even had a chance.” The more Bertie saw him, the less she thought he looked like Harrison Ford. He had his own nice look, especially when he smiled. The crow’s feet around his eyes turned into laugh lines.
“What about your dad? What did he do?”
“He left my mom before I was born. I didn’t know him and don’t really want to.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” “Nah, how were you supposed to know? Besides, it doesn’t really bother me. I know his name, but that’s about all. It’s not even Madison, that’s my mom’s maiden name. She took it back after he left.” “By the way, what’s your first name?” Bertie asked.
“I asked you first.”
Uh-oh, the dreaded Bertha moment. “Look at the time,” she said again. “I really do have to go. Maybe I’ll see you again soon.”
“Yeah, take care of yourself. Watch out for those killer mirrors.”
He stood there watching her drive away.
She drove down the street, taking the first, second, third and fourth lefts, which brought her back to where she started. Detective Madison was gone.
As she walked back up the street to the building, she looked at it with new eyes. She could see it as a place where movies had been filmed. It was art deco without being flashy. It must have been a beautiful building when first built. Who knew what history lived there?
Bertie rang the bell outside the main door. She could see into the lobby.
It was old but the quality of the design and workmanship was still obvious. Mahogany walls gleamed from repeated polishings; a marble floor still looked creamy despite the thousands of feet that had walked it; a chandelier had rain drops of crystals dripping from it.
A squawk from the box startled Bertie. “Come up,” it said.
Bertie was amazed. No questions about who it was, what she wanted—nothing. She crossed the lobby, empty in the middle of the day, and pushed the elevator button. When the doors slid open, she entered an old-fashioned, gilt and mirrored jewel box. Why hadn’t anyone written about this building? She might talk to the architecture critic about it; if nothing else, she’d score some brownie points.
When she knocked on No. 310, Bella’s apartment, she had her press ID out and her story ready.
“Hello,” she said when the door opened. “I’m Bertie Mallowan with … “
Bella Bellingham stepped aside, letting Bertie into the apartment without a word.
When she stepped into the apartment, Bertie was speechless, too. A short hallway led to a large room, both piled with mountains of junk. Hills and mesas and cliffs and drifting dunes of junk. It was such a jumble and so dark that Bertie couldn’t distinguish individual items. As her eyes adjusted, she saw a stack of newspapers next to a pile of paper bags next to cardboard boxes teetering on collapse.
As she walked farther into the apartment, she stepped around an old bicycle frame, the rusted hulk of a stove, musty-smelling books in uneven columns, clothes huddled together in heaps as high as Bertie’s hips and too much more to take in at once. Paths wound through the towers like a maze with footprints in the dust. It was impossible to tell how many rooms there were; there could be as few as three or as many as 20. Low TV voices droned somewhere.
She followed the so-far wordless Bella to a room recognizable as a kitchen only because of a refrigerator and a stove newer than the one in the other room. In here, there were boxes of empty water bottles stacked on top of each other, a fishbowl thankfully without fish, more books, an old vending machine, and a male mannequin giving Bertie the eye.
Mingled in with the odors of mold and dust and dirty shoes was a God-awful stench, bitter and chemical, coming from a pot on the stove.
Bertie tried not to breathe and still remain conscious. “Hi!” she said brightly. “As I was saying, I’m Bertie Mallowan and—”Bella, who was wearing a muu-muu, an honest-to-God muu-muu—interrupted her.
“You’re the woman who wrote about my father.”
“Yes, I am.”
“And now you’re here because you’re going to interview me for another story just about me, aren’t you? Because you know I’m the genius behind the Bellingham line, right?”
Honestly, the word genius hadn’t occurred to Bertie but she nodded, willing to let this odd little woman take the lead.
“Well,” Bella said, “I was the one who thought up bathroom disco balls, the flashlight earrings, and umbrellas that change colors when water hits them,” she paused and took a deep breath..
Bertie stopped her. “I think they’re all wonderful.” Another fib. No, this was an outright lie. “Your father must’ve been very proud of you.” As a segue into talking about the murder stunk as bad as the gunk cooking on the stove, but Bella didn’t notice.
“My father! You’re not here to talk about my father, are you? You’re here to talk about me, right?” Her voice rose.
“Of course I am, of course, but I do think any parent would be proud of your accomplishments.”
“Yes, he as very proud.” Now Bella’s voice was almost robotic. “He loved me very much. I was his partner in development. We worked together closely. He loved me very much.”
The blank look on her face was scaring Bertie. She wanted to change the subject—now. “So what are you working on?’ she asked, moving toward the stove. “It smells, um, interesting.”
Bella looked at her oddly. “It stinks like hell. What’s wrong with you, do you have a cold?”
She’d acquired the air of a gracious hostess at a party and Bertie was relieved.
“Well, it came to me one night when I was thinking about reindeer,” Bella said. “One of the things Californians miss out on at Christmas is icicles. There are icicles back East, why shouldn’t we have some, too?”
She stopped talking and looked at Bertie, who realized a reply was expected.
“Oh, no reason at all,” she said.
“Exactly! People can hang cheap plastic ones, but that’s not good enough for our clients, who are some of the richest people in the world; they want the best. I’m working on a formula that will keep ice, real ice made of real water, from melting so fast. That way people can have icicles hanging from their homes that will last through a Christmas lawn party in the sun.”
It made an odd kind of sense, so Bertie congratulated her.
“So far I’ve got several formulas going.” Bella opened the freezer door, showing Bertie water bottles filled with a murky liquid. They reminded Bertie of the bottles in museum, filled with disgusting dead things.
“This is my latest,” Bella lifted the lid on the pot on the stove and a gust of stinkiness rose up that was so pungent, it almost knocked Bertie out.
“I think I’ve almost got it, just a few more tweaks, and I’ll have created the first real icicle that won’t melt for hours and hours. Merry Christmas.”
Christmas wasn’t for another three months.
Bertie just wanted her put the lid back on the pot. “Very nice, Merry Christmas to you, too. I’m sure your brother just loves this idea. Is he going to take over the business now?”
Bertie couldn’t figure out why Bella was taking so long to answer. She was putting the lid back on the pot and turning evveerrr sooo slllowwwly. The murmur of the TV in the other room was getting louder; Bertie couldn’t understand what was being said, but the low numbing noise was a fitting background for Bella, who showed all the animation of a wet towel.
Interesting: Bella’s lank hair, pasty face and round body that looked like unkneaded bread dough were getting larger and larger. When she finally got the lid back on the pan, the smell lessened and her face and body went back to its normal lumpy size. “Wow, icicles that make you high,” Bertie thought. “Happy new year, too.”
“Take over the business?” Bella was repeating. She seemed to be listening to something that shimmered just above the range of Bertie’s hearing. “It’s half my business, too, you know,” she said, tilting her
head in the direction of the sound only she could hear.
OK, Bertie was done with this interview. She muttered some inanity and started backing slowly out of the kitchen and toward the door. She wanted out of this stinky, claustrophobic place and away from this bizarre little woman. She knocked over a stack of hangers that fell with a loud clatter, avalanching across the floor.
The light was so murky that Bertie bumped into the pile of old books. Agatha Christie fell on her head; Herman Melville gouged her shoulder; and Charlotte Bronte banged into her ankle so hard Bertie yelped.
She turned and bolted. Before she ran out, she yelled back, “Hey thanks for talking with me, I’ll be in touch.” She slammed the door behind her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At the elevator, Bertie looked back to make sure Bella was still behind the closed door and not behind her. The corridor was empty. “Whew,” was all Bertie could muster.
She was so ready to get out of this place, historic or not. She turned to punch the elevator button when she heard a sharp creak. She jerked around again, hurting the shoulder that Herman Melville had just punched (she’d never liked him), and saw two big blue eyes peering at her through the slightly open door of the apartment closest to the elevator.
“Hello,” she said, but stayed prepared to bolt out of this crazy place. The door slammed shut, followed by the sound of a chain being unlatched. The door opened again. “Hello,” said the voice, obviously elderly, cracking but pleasant. “Are you the new delivery person from the caterer? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you’re not, you’re not wearing a white uniform and you didn’t bring any food with you. I saw you when you got here.”
“I’m Bertie Mallowan, I’m with the newspaper. Could I talk to you for a minute?” Bertie didn’t know what the woman was talking about—delivery people and caterers—but she was Bella’s neighbor and could give her some information about what Bella was doing the night of the murder.
“Will I get my name in the paper?” the voice asked, delighted.
The door opened wide, revealing a stooped little woman with a cloud of white hair and a cheerful open face.
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