Death of the Office Witch

by Marlys Millhiser

  “I’m not surprised Dorothy isn’t going for this. I’d have thrown you to the sharks by now. Would it help if I spoke to her? Assured her that there’s nothing happening here?”

  “Frankly, Charlie Greene, I don’t think it would be wise for her to meet you. That’s a compliment, you know. I’ll never understand how women think. They chart such hidden, tortuous routes to the simplest mental destinations, and then make such sudden, accurate darts into harbors on no map I’m familiar with.” He threw the barely started cigarette into some poor fish’s living room. “I always talk like this after a few drinks and the yacht club.”

  “You explained how harmless our relationship is and why we entered into it and she didn’t buy it.”

  “Right.” A Marine patrol boat glided out to the Queen’s Gate in the breakwater. “Charlie, you are lovely. Lovely trouble.”

  Ed gripped the metal pole railing that topped the gunwale, and Charlie ran a finger up and down its cold surface, felt a big grin concerning something completely unrelated to him answer this poor man’s confusion. She may just have discovered the blunt object that killed Gloria Tuschman.

  Charlie woke up the next morning to find Lori gone, Libby home, and Jesus Garcia in her front yard.

  “But UM, I don’t want to go shopping on Rodeo Drive. Lori and I need to practice our cartwheels and handstands.” Shimmery strands of platinum sailed across Charlie’s peripheral vision as Libby threw her hair over her shoulder in outrage. “Thought you wanted me to be a cheerleader. I can’t make the squad without practicing. Besides, I thought you were mad at me about having to go to court Monday.”

  “You don’t want to go shopping on Rodeo Drive?” Charlie swung the gray Toyota onto the ramp to the 405 and headed them north. “You’ve been begging to ever since we moved to California.”

  “You wouldn’t buy me anything anyway. It’d be too expensive.”

  “We might find a bargain.” Personally, Charlie detested shopping. One more thing to eat up time she’d rather spend otherwise. But lately it had been a way to get her daughter away from friends and television and blasting music and into neutral territory where communications weren’t so blocked. “I’ll take you out to a nice lunch.”

  “And then won’t let me eat half of it. When I run away from home it won’t be anywhere you can call somebody’s mother and check up on me, I promise you that.” The dangerous flush of anger, near tears, and “it isn’t fair” suffused the skin over Libby’s cheekbones and all around those lovely eyes.

  Charlie wondered how long before her daughter simply refused to get in the car when Charlie ordered it, and realized there wasn’t a great deal Charlie could do about it. “Why did Lori suddenly change her mind and go home this morning?”

  “Her mom was going to make waffles. Not the toaster kind. Real ones. With bacon in them, or berries on them, and homemade syrup. They’ve got this great old black waffle iron, a round one from her grandma’s mother. Lori wakes up and that’s all she can think about, talk about. Lori’s a wimp.”

  “I don’t know, sounds delicious. And maybe we can get back in time for you to get in some practice.”

  When they pulled onto Wilshire, Charlie explained she’d park in her reserved slot under the First Federal United Central Wilshire Bank of the Pacific because it would be free.

  “You are so cheap you creak.” Libby’s disdain cut cruel slashes in Charlie’s already wounded motherhood. “Look at this car, for instance.”

  “What’s the matter with it? It was brand new last year … well, the year before.” Did you notice the rusted hulk that delivered Jesus the stud?

  “It’s gray. It’s depressing. It’s obviously a year-end model they were selling off to tightwads cheap before the new cars came out. Who else would buy something the color of dead fish guts just because it’s cheap?”

  29

  Charlie slid them into her slot under the FFUCWB of P in the smoothly purring car that didn’t break down in traffic and leave her stranded to the terrors of the 405, that didn’t eat up more of her income with costly repairs. Charlie was not fond of gray, either, but she had a cancerous attachment to this little number. It didn’t turn on her, asked only for fuel and occasional tune-ups. She turned off the engine, which was so quiet you could barely tell the difference, and stroked the dashboard in a sudden fit of superstition.

  She’s just a dumb kid. Don’t listen to her, okay? We need you, baby.

  Charlie had her door open and was half out of the fish-gut colored Toyota when Libby said in what almost sounded like awe, “Is this where you work?”

  “You know, I’ve meant to bring you here, honey, but one of us is always too busy. And you have to admit it’s often you. Your social schedule is—would you like to run up and see the agency before we shop? I doubt if anyone will be there, but it might be fun to see … if we don’t spend much time at it.”

  Charlie took Libby’s insolent shrug as affirmative and guided them both up to Congdon and Morse Representation, Inc. on the public elevator. She let them into the suite with its hushed rustlings, the soft whirring of the invisible blower circulating air, the gurgle of the refrigerator in the utility niche, the creaks and rattles in the walls, all the sounds you never heard during bustling business hours. Charlie took her daughter past the front desk to the inner hall, around the corner, through Larry’s cubbyhole into her own office, explaining the use of each room along the way.

  Libby hesitated in the doorway. Charlie passed her to stand by the window and watch a derelict, cradling a paper bag and crossing Wilshire, move obediently with the lights. He disappeared into the alley behind the Beverly Pavilion across the way.

  She turned back to watch her daughter survey the work world of Charlie Greene the agent while her tormented middle levitated. Why should this kid’s immature, fickle opinion carry that much importance in the scheme of things?

  “Nice,” was Libby’s spoken judgment, her expression uncommitted. She ran her hand over the back of one of the chairs, checked out the view of Wilshire, and turned to scan Charlie’s desk and computer station, and the loaded shelves behind them. “You obviously didn’t have anything to do with the decorating.”

  “Just A. E.’s poster. The rest was here when I moved in.” But they were both trying hard not to grin. “You remember Mr. Mous. He stayed with us in New York once when he came in for Edgars week. He’s sort of short and bald, grouchy looking.”

  “And this was where Gloria the Witch sat.” Libby perched in Gloria’s chair when the tour took them back by the reception desk. She whirled it and her hair in a 360. “And now she’s dead.”

  “Let’s not get morbid. Come on, the world renowned Rodeo Drive awaits.”

  Libby wanted to see where Gloria was murdered.

  Funny, Charlie liked showing off her office and prestige in the work world, as good old Ed would have put it. But she was a lot less happy about sharing murder with this tall, graceful creature who had a razor blade for a tongue and who called her mom.

  Charlie took her daughter out to the VIP hall, stood at the window, and pointed out where the body had lain in the bushes. At least she had the kid’s attention.

  “Charlie, I’m in the trash can. Help me.”

  “Mom, who said that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything. Come on, let’s go shopping.” Charlie grabbed Libby’s arm and started them off down the hall.

  “Don’t do this to me.” The girl-woman stopped short in front of the door to the janitor’s closet, and the jolt nearly toppled Charlie. Not only was Libby taller and prettier than Charlie, all this cheerleading practice was making her stronger. Oh boy.

  “I know what I heard. I heard a woman whisper. She sounded like lots of people in New York did. She said she was in the trash can, and she was talking to someone named Charlie. Mom, she sounded an awful lot like the crabby bitch who used to answer the phones here when I’d call to get you. And she was asking you to help her. I want to know what’s happening. And I
won’t take another step until you tell me. I might not be a fancy career woman with an ulcer, but I have rights, too. Was I hearing a dead person whispering? Can they do that?”

  Charlie had never heard her daughter string that many words together that coherently. “No, of course they can’t. You know that.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I don’t know. I just know it wasn’t Gloria. Sometimes … just because we can’t explain something we assume it’s unexplainable, paranormal, some ditzy thing. But there’s always a rational explanation, Libby. Sometimes we just can’t see it because we’re too close to the problem.”

  “That’s pretty weak—even for you. This is your problem. I’m not close to it at all. But I heard what I heard, and I notice you can’t get me out of here fast enough. Which means you’re afraid. Like you were afraid of Jesus this morning, right?”

  Right. “I just want to get some shopping done so we can get you home in time to practice with Lori.”

  But Libby shrugged off Charlie’s hand and started back down the hall. She tried the door to Dr. Podhurst’s office and found it locked, stopped at the window to stare at the where-the-body-was-found scene. Then offered a graceful silhouette against the darkened window as she started down the stairs, placing a hand on the metal pole railing that probably killed Gloria Tuschman. When had those fingers become as long and graceful as the rest of her? How could anyone be so awkward at fourteen and so all in place at fifteen?

  Damn it, Libby, I forbid you to do this. “Libby, wait for me. What do you want to go down that way for?”

  Charlie was in comfortable Keds instead of killer heels today but she could still hear her shoes hitting the stairs as she raced after her daughter.

  Libby looked up from the landing below. When had she mastered that light touch with makeup? It was just right for her, highlighting the size and shape of her eyes and nose, blending out all but one or two of the zits around her mouth. With one fluid movement, this exasperating creature of Charlie’s loins turned to descend to yet another floor.

  Charlie caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs at the ground-level parking, and together they stepped out through the door that always opened from the inside but opened from the outside only with a private key.

  Charlie headed for the Toyota. Libby headed for the alley.

  “Shit.” Charlie turned to follow, the burn in her stomach flaring up.

  “Thought you gave up swearing,” Libby’s voice drifted dreamlike over her shoulder. She didn’t stop until she stood before the white concrete-block wall with the green leaves and red blossoms that showed a lot more damage from murder down here than they did from the fifth floor window.

  “How could anyone throw a dead body up there?” Libby asked.

  “I think there were probably two people involved. Remember when Mrs. McDougal made you kids leave Doug’s pool when she caught you and Doug swinging Lori by her wrists and ankles out over the water and letting go? I’ve a feeling that’s something like what happened here.”

  Libby gave Charlie a skeptical look and walked around the wall to where the bushes grew to hide it from Mrs. Humphrys’ off-alley parking and garage. Then she came back to stand at its end and look at both sides. “Sounds like you really are investigating.”

  “The world’s not giving me much choice.”

  “You know who did it?”

  “I’ve got some ideas about Gloria’s death and even who might, in a panic, carry her out of the building. But it was so stupid.” Was it a misguided attempt to draw suspicion away from the agency? “But I can’t fit Mary Ann Leffler into the picture.” I need to know where she was between the time she disappeared and the time she died.

  “Mom, you and Ed have fun last night?”

  Charlie felt the tenseness begin to seep out of her shoulders. Anything to get Libby’s mind off murder. “Yeah, I did. He’s a pretty mean dancer for a man his age.” She did an imitation of Linda Meyer doing her quick bone shake-down at Richard’s party the other night. “Even got to board the yacht.”

  “You know, I don’t really think he’s your type. I mean, I like him, but somehow I don’t see the two of you as a match.”

  “Why not?” Reverse psychology really does work. I’ll be damned. “He’s got a gorgeous big house and a yacht and a racing boat. Lots of money. He’s even good looking.”

  “He’s too old for you. You’d be fine while I was home. But when I went off to college you’d be miserable. He sits around reading all the time, and when he falls asleep he snores.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to college, were just going to get married and have babies.”

  “Well, either way, I’d be gone, wouldn’t I? You wouldn’t have anybody to have fun with.”

  “Libby, you’re the one who started all this.” Dorothy, there may be an Oz after all. “Let’s go shopping, huh?”

  But Libby walked listlessly through the first little shop. It was all leather with heavy-metal accessories. Charlie pretended interest, only to notice her daughter suddenly back out in the street waiting.

  “I’m hungry.”

  Charlie took the fretful princess to the El Torito. To hell with her own stomach cancer. Again, over Coke and tacos and enchiladas, Libby maintained she didn’t want to shop.

  “Okay, after lunch we can go back home.” Jesus will be gone by now. “I’ve got chores and shopping and reading to do. You can practice with Lori.” Maybe we can talk on the way home, when you’re fed and happy. We have to discuss what to do about the damned cat. Last day this week the animal shelter will be open.

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  “You don’t want to go home.” Charlie was picking out mostly guacamole, sour cream, beans, lettuce, tomato—staying off the salsa, but a wave of something in her abdomen got her attention.

  “I want to investigate with you.” Libby leaned across the table, dark eyes sparking. “Mo-om, don’t you see? They’re not going to expect you on a weekend. They’re going to expect you to be home expecting me to take down my panties for the gardener. Right? We can catch them off guard.” Libby crunched a taco shell so hard, her mother jumped. “Timing’s perfect.”

  “They who?” Charlie pushed her plate away. “I mean, who’s they?”

  “Whoever killed Gloria and Mary Ann. You said it would take two to get Gloria up in the bushes—so it’s they, right?”

  “Where is it you suggest we investigate?”

  “Well, if it’s Mary Ann’s death you can’t figure out, why don’t we start there? In the orange grove?”

  “Because she drowned in Rizzi Reservoir and was taken to the grove afterwards.”

  “So let’s go to Rizzi Reservoir.”

  Libby’s insouciance was gone. Waves of adolescent energy slammed across the table. Oh boy.

  “You keep saying ‘Oh boy,’” Libby noted when they were once again back in the car. “Is that supposed to substitute for ‘oh shit’ or what?”

  Charlie pretended to fight traffic and didn’t answer. Why was she doing this? Giving in to a spoiled teen’s every whim was asking for nothing but grief. Then again, they were communicating, and Libby wasn’t getting into trouble, and maybe there would be a path to the kid’s limited interest span from here. Maybe they could be friends someday. Maybe—

  “Mom, why did the guys who found Mary Ann take her to the orange grove when she was already dead?”

  “Well, first of all, they shouldn’t have moved her. The police certainly prefer citizens not tamper with dead bodies and crime scenes.” Odd that Charlie would even know two witches, let alone two dead ones whose bodies were moved after they got that way. “But they said they thought she could tell them something about how she died if she was in the place where she had played witch.”

  “Whoa … like Gloria was trying to tell you something in the hallway there where you work, huh?”

  30

  Rizzi Reservoir looked different in real life than it had on TV news the
night before. It was more your water-holding pond than your recreational spot.

  The yellow crime scene tape was gone, but the area had seen a lot of unaccustomed traffic. The thin layer of coarse gravel that was provided for limited parking had been mashed into the linings of ruts after the recent rains. And Charlie and Libby Greene were not the only sightseers today. A middle-aged couple in black leather, silver studs, and helmets waddled back and forth across the remaining crime scene scenery, effectively destroying anything that might have been of interest to future voyeurs.

  There was one other couple there, too. Gloria Tuschman’s husband, Roger, and Marvin the Shaman Grunion.

  “Libby, I think this might have been a bad idea. I think—”

  But Libby was off to join the excitement and stomping of the crime scene. It was a pretty place—if you liked pretty places for loners—sort of a mountain valley with piney-type trees giving off piney smells, a few birds and bird calls, no freeway in sight.

  Charlie decided to act natural rather than threatened until she could think of something better. She smiled and walked casually toward the two men. She could hardly pretend she didn’t know them.

  They both looked rumpled and decidedly seedy, as if they’d just stepped off a trans-Pacific flight.

  “So, what have we here? Returning to the scene of the crime?” Gloria’s husband stuck his face in Charlie’s. “Tell me, how did you get Mary Ann to drive her car into the water like that? Or did you knock her out and then push it?”

  Charlie swung her purse off her shoulder and wrapped the strap around her fist. She didn’t answer him. She didn’t back away, either. For God’s sake, stay with those people, Libby.

  “Control yourself, Roger,” Marvin warned and forced his way between them just as the other man lunged.

  Charlie watched Grunion’s back absorb the shock and then straighten as Roger Tuschman’s snarl dissolved into sobs. She stepped around them both to inspect the shaman’s face.

  He stroked the other man’s hair, tears in his own eyes. “He really loved his wife, Mrs. Greene.”