“Maurice Lavender handles as much business for this agency as both Dorian and Luella put together, and he is currently without a secretary. And as far as I can see the agency is still afloat. You want to explain that to me, Tracy?”
“Secretary? You think I’m just a secretary around here? Well I have news, Charlie Greene, I—”
“Did I say secretary? I meant assistant. But that doesn’t change the—”
“Do you know lovely Larry, your sec-tar-eee, practically accused me of murdering Gloria Tuschman? Huh? Asked all sorts of personal questions? Told me you had asked him to? You want to explain that to me, Charlie?”
“Wait a minute. Your uncle. Is that Mr. Congdon?” Charlie had always wondered what the relationship was there. “Is he well enough to be bothered by all this? I mean I understood he was … do you see him often?”
“No, he travels.” The telephone tyrant tinkled—soft but relentless. “Congdon and Morse Representation,” Tracy Dewitt answered sweetly. She had a piece of chocolate wedged between her teeth.
By her own admission Tracy Dewitt was in the office the morning Gloria was murdered. She could disguise herself a lot easier than Dr. Podhurst ever could. But Tracy couldn’t carry a body over her shoulder down four flights of stairs and out to the alley. Then again there was always the elevator. She’d have had to push the trash cart through the office and out the public door to the elevator and then out to the alley from the first floor hall and then over halfway across the covered area where the parking valets lurked to get to the alley. Certainly wouldn’t be easy.
“Tracy, how well did … do you know Mary Ann Leffler?”
“I know she was a famous author, which didn’t impress me at all. I think books are for the squirrels myself. If it’s any good they’ll make a movie out of it, and I’ll go see that.”
“Was a famous author?”
“Well, what has she written since the Goliath pic? You know, the shadow thing about witches.” But Tweety had hesitated and reddened before she’d answered. A suspicious reaction to a normal question. Unless something had happened to Mary Ann and she knew about it. “Don’t you start in on me now. And stop looking at me that way, first the police, then your tame fag, and now you. I don’t have to take this, you know.”
“Larry and Lieutenant Dalrymple asked you about Mary Ann?”
“No, about Gloria and witchcraft, and everybody knows Mary Ann was into that, too, and I am not getting snared by that old guilt-by-association thing.” Tweety refused to say another word, but she was clearly shaken by something. Or was that more of Charlie’s fantasizing?
Charlie walked thoughtfully down the hall toward her office, stopped when she saw Irma Vance at her desk in front of Richard’s closed door.
“Irma, what’s the deal with Daniel Congdon? Is he terminally ill or is he a world traveler? And why does he never even pay this office a visit?”
“He is not well, but I certainly hope he’s not facing death anytime soon. Still, that is not something any of us can foresee, is it?” Irma pointedly returned her attention to the papers on her desk. Audience over. But Charlie lingered.
“You still haven’t told me why he never comes in.”
The Vance’s exasperation was evident. And that was unusual—not the exasperation, the showing of it. “Mr. Congdon is what is known in the business world as a silent partner, Charlie. He helped to capitalize the founding of the agency, participates in the profits, is consulted occasionally about business crucial to its survival, but leaves the management up to Mr. Morse.”
“Then why does he maintain an office here?”
“He’s entitled to do so if he wishes. The agency does bear his name.”
“So what’s so silent about his partnership? He’s got top billing. Have you ever seen this guy?”
Irma squinted like Tracy, tapped her pen on the desk, pursed her lips around her reconstituted teeth. But she didn’t answer Charlie’s question.
Back in her own office Charlie returned some calls and then called Larry in, asking him to close the door.
“Right, chief, I’ve got the goods on everybody here.” He pulled out a small spiral notebook like Lieutenant Dalrymple’s and glanced at the comfort of the couch.
But Charlie pointed at the client chair on the other side of her desk, trying not to linger on the memory of Ed Esterhazie suggesting she loosen her tie. “First order of business, Larry, lay off Tweety … I mean Tracy.”
“That cow? Christ, Charlie, she—”
“I mean it, Larry. No excuses. No explanations. No bullshit. No whining. Just lay off Tracy Dewitt.”
“I hate it when you get macho.”
“I know. But that’s the bottom line, so let’s cut the crap and get on with your report.”
He licked a finger and turned a page, peering over the little wire spirals of the notebook to see if she might have softened. She hadn’t. “First person I questioned was Linda Meyer, Dr. Podhurst’s receptionist. She became involved in witchcraft through Gloria Tuschman.”
16
Charlie watched the palm fronds outside her window stand perfectly still. Even the traffic on Wilshire couldn’t stir the heat today. Larry had been summoned to his cubicle by the phones, having barely begun his report on the suspects. They didn’t dare ask Tweety to take messages for Charlie right now.
Mary Ann Leffler, Keegan Monroe, and Larry Mann had all asked Charlie to look into Gloria’s murder unofficially, because they were worried their alibis were shaky. Did the fact that they asked her to snoop around mean they were innocent? Mary Ann had withheld the fact she knew the Tuschmans personally. But Charlie could swear that when she saw them at the Polo Lounge the day of the murder, Keegan and Mary Ann’s only concern was their inability to get along while writing the screenplay. What did the three of them have in common? This agency and Shadowscapes.
But Larry’s role in the deal between Goliath and Keegan Monroe on the scriptwriting was only some of the paperwork and a few phone calls. His actual involvement with Mary Ann had been, to Charlie’s knowledge, nil. Larry was definitely strong enough to haul a body around and toss it up into the bushes. Keegan kept himself in good physical shape and might well be able to. Charlie had no idea how strong Mary Ann was. Any of them could probably disguise themselves.
“Edward Esterhazie?” Larry called in from his workstation.
“Oh boy. Is he at home? Get a number.”
Charlie heard her assistant explaining that Ms. Greene wasn’t in her office right now but would call Ed back, while she was remembering Mary Ann Leffler’s apparent vision problem, her odd manner of looking at people. That didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Richard Morse had also asked Charlie to investigate, but that was because he was cheap and she was already on the payroll and he liked to get all he could out of an employee. Which simply sounded like good business unless you were the employee. Which brought up another thought. Most of Charlie’s income came from commissions, and if she spent time snooping instead of hustling, she’d come up short when it came time to pay the mortgage.
“This one’s New York. It’s Phyllis.”
“I’ll take it. Hi, Phyllis, I’ve been meaning to call you back. I’ve got none other than Steve Hunter looking at The Corpse That Got Iced. That just happened yesterday, so don’t mention it to the author until we hear something.” But Phyllis really only wanted to talk about the murder at Congdon and Morse. She had also heard that Mary Ann Leffler was missing. Charlie got off the line as soon as she could politely do so and went back to her dark thoughts.
What was the use of tallying up the people who asked her to investigate, anyway? She realized she was trying to eliminate people instead of track one of them down.
Who else had Gloria turned on to witchcraft besides Linda Meyer? Larry had met someone when he left the office to get Ding Dongs for coffee break and had come back late. Sooner or later Charlie was going to have to make him tell her who. Did Dalrymple know about this? Did he think she could ge
t Larry and perhaps others to confide things he couldn’t? Was he maybe really more interested in her ability to do this than any supposed psychic talents Charlie might or might not have? Dalrymple didn’t make any more sense than Gloria Tuschman’s murder.
“It’s Sheldon,” Larry called.
“What’s he doing up at this hour? Tell him I’ll call—no wait. I’ll take it.” Sheldon Maypo was Charlie’s security-guard screenwriter. He usually worked all night, slept all morning, and wrote all afternoon. “Shelly, I’ve got a tickle is all on your latest” (Jesus, she couldn’t even remember its name), “but very high hopes. There hasn’t been much time.”
Sheldon Maypo was downstairs at a pay phone in the hallway next to the public elevators. He had come to the FFUCWB of P for two reasons. One was to fill out an application for building security guard and the other was to see his agent.
“You lost your job at the Spaghetti Factory?” Why was it that she could remember and not the title of his screenplay? “Just a minute. Larry, what’s on the docket for lunch?”
“Nothing but murder.”
“Where can you get me a reservation for two for lunch this late?”
“El Torito would be about it.” Larry sounded petulant again. By rights the two of them should have lunched together to get away from the office long enough to discuss the information in his notebook. But Charlie had just discovered a need to talk to an unemployed security guard who also happened to be a damn good writer.
“Shelly, have you got plans for lunch? You like Mexican?”
“Charlie, just because I’m suddenly unemployed, you don’t have to—”
“It’s on my expense account, and I need some advice from a security guard.”
“In that case I’m your señor, señorita.”
“It’s really more pseudotrendy Sante Fe, which is trendy-pseudo Navajo or something, but—”
“El Torito Grill, right? They got great booze and great beans. Besides, us working stiffs get hungry enough to eat anything.”
But on her way out of her office and well into Larry’s cubbyhole, Charlie came up against the boss. Hard.
“You women, always complaining about glass ceilings. No wonder. You can’t even navigate in front of you.” Richard Morse regained his balance. “Listen up you two, party at my house tomorrow night to celebrate the Alpine Tunnel deal. I want you both there, and bring somebody so it looks more like a crowd. Kid, Stewart’s fine, I love Stewart. Charlie, you can even bring Libby. I know how hard up you are. But we’re going to do a bang-up celebration before—”
“Richard, I just got a call from Phyllis? New York? They’ve already heard of Gloria’s—”
“Everybody’s heard of Gloria, it’s the Alpine Tunnel I want to—”
“And the fact that Mary Ann Leffler is missing. Phyllis wanted to know what Congdon and Morse knew about it.”
“You know how hard it was to set up caterers and all this fast, Charlie? You want to know the names of the reporters who’ll be there? Do you want to know how bad this agency needs to do this, or how many people might be there that you should speak to while investigating the mess your agency is in, through no fault of its own? We put off the celebration because Gloria got herself killed. We better hurry up before we find out Mary Ann did, too, huh?”
“If I take time to do what you ask, I do not earn commissions or enough to pay the mortgage. I want a raise. I want it before I commit to one more of your demands for extra work.”
“That’s the problem with your generation, Charlie, you always expect instant gratification. When I was your age, my parents—”
“I am a parent.” Charlie sat down in the cubbyhole’s visitor chair. It was considered impolitic to ask—but Charlie figured the bigger agencies paid big salaries. At Congdon and Morse, and some of the others of its size that Charlie happened to know about, the base wage encouraged young agents to hustle for commissions. Truth be known, Charlie sort of enjoyed the challenge of this system. Her stomach sort of didn’t. It was considered even more inappropriate to discuss wages in front of another employee. Larry seemed to enjoy it, though.
“Don’t push your luck, honey,” her boss warned.
“Might look funny if I didn’t show up at the party tomorrow night,” Charlie said.
“Wasn’t my idea to buy an expensive condo way off in Long Beach,” Richard said.
Charlie didn’t answer.
Richard checked his watch. “I have a lunch meeting. Talk to me later this afternoon. But be there tomorrow night.”
“I have a lunch meeting, too. I’ll decide about tomorrow night after we have our discussion this afternoon.” Charlie’s heart was beating so fast she worried she sounded breathless.
Richard swore and left the cubbyhole and then added over his shoulder on his way down the hall, “Three o’clock sharp. You be here. And bring a man tomorrow night, damn it.”
Every one of Larry Mann’s beautiful teeth warred for space in a gigantic grin.
“Get me Edward Esterhazie, quick.” Charlie tried to swallow adrenaline. Her stomach didn’t like that, either.
The El Torito Grill could do fabulous margaritas, and Charlie made the mistake of having one with her favorite unemployed security guard. She spilled the beans before hers arrived under some soothing huevos and mildly serious salsa.
Sheldon Maypo looked a lot more like his name than he did a security guard. He was short and grizzled with a good-humored but highly intelligent look in his eyes. He had a white manicured beard and a black belt in karate. He took out little drugstore half glasses, similar to Luella Ridgeway’s, to read the menu and forgot to remove them. Regardless of the black belt, he had a large bulge in his torso to fit it around. Any time Charlie had seen him, Sheldon wore suspenders instead.
“Shelly, I’m sorry. Here you are unemployed, and I haven’t sold any of your stuff yet, and I can’t believe I’m dumping my problems on you. It’s not fair. Must be the margarita.”
“You need another, and so do I, and do not apologize. This is wonderful. Who knows? There might be material here. God, there’s got to be. I feel privileged to even get in on it.”
“Don’t you writers ever quit working?”
“We can’t. You think you have trouble making a living.” Shelly’s hair was sparse, and white like his beard, but his movements swift and strong, almost jerky. It was like they’d put a teenager in an old body. Charlie had felt his physical strength only in benign ways, but she had no doubt Sheldon Maypo could physically do away with anybody and hide the body as well. Which again threw out all her suppositions about those at the agency who might have killed Gloria Tuschman. The only people at Congdon and Morse smaller than Shelly were Charlie, Irma, and Luella.
“You know,” Shelly said, “if you could find out who in your building could put in a word for me and get me on the security squad there at the First Federal United Central Wilshire Bank of the Pacific building, I could question the security staff and parking valets in less threatening ways than you or your dippy homicide cop could. And now that I know something of the problem, I might even be able to nose around that party at your boss’s tomorrow night—among the staff, you know, if you could figure out a way to get me in. Hell, this all sounds like fun.”
They walked back to the agency in the curiously still air. If it was this hot in April, what would summer be like? El Torito was not far from the FFUCWB of P, and Shelly had left his car there. “There’s one thing that puzzles me more than all the rest.”
“Which is?” Charlie’s stomach felt a lot better now than after her talk with Dr. Podhurst. Maybe two margaritas and half a plate of huevos rancheros had stunned it into submission.
“Why throw the body into the bushes?”
Charlie steered her security guard up the alley, past the dumpster and the first off-alley private parking spaces, to the concrete wall. “To hide it?”
Once around the wall, victim and murderer could be seen only from the alley or by someone st
anding directly behind the gate to the house yard. A dense hedge about ten feet or more high protected the backyard of Mrs. Humphrys’ house, and the approach to the gate was angled so that you couldn’t see in from this side. Out of curiosity, Charlie tried the gate and found it locked. She had to step back halfway to the garage to see the window of the back hall on the fifth floor where the agency was located.
“I saw Mrs. Humphrys put what turned out to be Gloria’s shoe in here when I was standing at the window at the end of our hall.” The green plastic garbage can sat to the side of the garage in the alley. Did some essence of Gloria Tuschman cling to that shoe and make her think all of her was in the garbage can? Then why did Charlie imagine she heard Gloria talk about a closet this morning? “It’s got to be somebody pretending to be Gloria talking to me. And who better than her murderer? But why?” Charlie asked Sheldon Maypo. “And why me?”
“Granted, it’s the most likely, but it wouldn’t have to be someone at Congdon and Morse who did in Gloria or even someone who worked in the building. Do you have any clues as to motivation and strength of alibis here, Charlie?”
“Not really, other than that Gloria was more needed than beloved at the agency and that I’m finding out that some of the alibis I thought were solid are turning out to have holes. I suppose I can ask the lieutenant. He hinted the other day that he would share what information he could with me so I could put it in my crystal ball and come up with some kind of magic. Shelly, do you believe in psychics and crystal balls and communication with the dead?”
“Only if I’m pitching to Disney. No Charlie, there’s a human explanation to all this if only we can unclutter our minds of that paranormal junk and see it. You know, sometimes when I’m writing, I’m sitting there and nothing’s coming, or more likely all the wrong things are coming—like problems in my real life or fantasies about how rich and famous I’m going to be when you sell whatever it is—and I suddenly become aware of a quiet but shyly persistent voice, so far in the back of my skull it could be in my hair, trying to feed me the next line.”
Death of the Office Witch Page 12