by Jance, J. A.
“My word!” Edie exclaimed. “I completely lost track of time. The first customers just pulled up, Ali. We have to go now. I’ll call again later, but you take care of yourself. Don’t let those turkeys push you around.”
Once Ali put down the phone, she dozed for a little while, but by seven when she was wide awake, she called room service and ordered breakfast and newspapers. She managed to jump in and out of the shower before her breakfast tray showed up.
Sipping coffee, she went through the newspapers, where the homicide—yes, a Riverside Sheriff’s Department spokesman actually used the H-word—of prominent television news executive Paul Grayson was front-page news. So, unfortunately, was Ali’s picture, which turned out to be every bit as bad as Ali had predicted it would be. The caption stated: “Former L.A.-area newscaster Alison Reynolds, accompanied by noted defense attorney Victor Angeleri, leaves the Riverside County Sheriff’s Substation in Indio after identifying the body of her slain husband, Paul Grayson.”
Trying not to look at the tabloid-worthy photo, Ali turned her attention to the accompanying article. Despite the use of a banner headline and the expenditure of lots of front-page column inches, there was surprisingly little content, and hardly anything Ali hadn’t already gleaned on her own.
Today was supposed to be Paul Grayson’s wedding day. Instead, the prospective groom is now a murder victim, having fallen victim to a bizarre kidnapping/murder scheme in which he was left bound and gagged in the trunk of a stolen vehicle that was abandoned on a railroad track near Palm Springs. The stolen vehicle was subsequently struck by a speeding freight train, killing Grayson on impact. An autopsy has been scheduled for later today.
A joint homicide investigation by the Los Angeles Police Department and the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department is attempting to establish the exact chain of events from the time Grayson abruptly departed a posh bachelor party being held in his honor to the time an eastbound Burlington Northern freight train slammed into the vehicle in which he had been imprisoned.
Ali scanned the next several paragraphs, which mostly contained information she had already learned. She slowed and read more carefully when she reached the part that discussed the ill-fated bachelor party at the Pink Swan.
“We were all at the Pink Swan having a good time,” said bachelor party host and former NBC executive Jake Maxwell. “I remember someone saying there was a call for Paul. I believe he went outside to take it, and he never came back. I finally went outside looking for him and noticed his Porsche was missing from the parking lot. I just assumed he’d decided he’d had enough and gone home.”
Early yesterday afternoon, Mr. Grayson’s Porsche Carrera was found stripped and abandoned in an apartment parking lot in Banning. The Camry destroyed by the speeding train had been reported stolen earlier in the day from a vacant-lot private-vehicle sales location in Ventura. The Riverside Sheriff’s Department is asking that anyone with information on either vehicle contact them immediately.
Mr. Grayson was in the process of divorcing his wife, former local television news personality Alison Reynolds. He was due at a hearing to finalize their divorce at 10 A.M. yesterday morning. It was his failure to appear in court that prompted his fiancée, April Gaddis, to contact LAPD’s Missing Persons Unit, which immediately began conducting an investigation.
The story continued on page two, but Ali didn’t bother following it. There was nothing new here. She tried two other papers with similar results—much the same story with no additional information and with equally bad photos of Alison Reynolds. Disgusted, Ali gave up, poured another cup of coffee, and turned on her computer. Once it booted up, she logged on and went to check out her new mail. Scanning the subject lines, she saw that three of them were addressed to Fred, the guy who had objected to the fact that Ali was divorcing her husband.
Dear Fred,
You are an ignorant asshole. I hope you die.
So much for reasoned discussion. That one was unsigned, and Ali simply deleted it.
Dear Fred,
You sound just like my first husband, and you know what? It’s been years now and he still hasn’t figured out how come I took the kids and left him. I tried to tell him his actions were pulling us apart, but he didn’t want to hear it—so he didn’t hear it. It was a struggle, but money isn’t everything. I know the kids and I—two daughters and a son—are all better off.
CONNIE IN MI
Dear Fred,
Let no man put asunder? God must have heard what Fang did to Babe, and She smacked him a good one. Maybe She’ll smack you, too. Sounds like you deserve it.
CASEY THE OLD BAT
Casey was someone who wrote in often. Usually Ali posted her comments, but this time they were a little too close to the “hope you die” one. Ali deleted Casey instead. As she was about to move on, a click announced a new e-mail, this one also addressed to Fred. But what caught Ali’s attention was the sender’s address, sugarloafmama.
Dear Fred,
I agree with you. Marriage vows are sacred, but they need to be kept by both parties involved. It reminds me of that old song, about Frankie and Johnny. “He was her man but he done her wrong.” All I can say is, good riddance!
SUGARLOAFMAMA
Laughing, Ali posted Edie’s comment. Anyone who lived in or around Sedona would know exactly who Sugarloafmama was. And the fact that Edie Larson held some reasonably strong opinions on any given subject, especially her former son-in-law, wouldn’t be news, either.
Google sent me here. I thought this was a health care site. If I wanted advice to the lovelorn, I’d go to Dear Abby. You guys should get a life.
That one was unsigned and it went away. After that Ali read a whole series of comments that were essentially notes of condolence to her. One in particular stood out.
Dear Babe,
I understood exactly what you meant when you said you didn’t know what to feel and that you couldn’t cry. My divorce had been final for only two weeks when my husband committed suicide. He always said he would but I didn’t believe him. I needed him out of my life. He was into meth and gambling both, and watching him destroy himself was killing me. But I didn’t mean for him to die. For a long time I thought his death was my fault. It took three years of therapy for me to come to terms with what happened.
So please accept my condolences. I’m sure you loved Fang once. According to my therapist, I had to grieve not only for the man who was gone but also for the man who never was—and for the dream I once had about how our life together would be. Grieving for the dream is as hard as grieving for the person. Don’t be afraid to seek help if you think you need it. But it’s hard work. Harder than anything I’ve ever done.
I’ve been a cutloose fan for a long time. Through the months I know you’ve focused a lot of your anger on Twink even more so than on Fang. I understand that, as far as you’re concerned, Twink is “the other woman,” but I also suspect that she’s much younger than you are and not nearly as smart. She isn’t going to have the emotional resources you have to deal with this tragedy. Try to remember that her dreams are in ashes today, too, right along with yours.
Since your divorce from Fang wasn’t final when his death occurred, I expect that you and Twink will find your lives intertwined in unexpected ways. I hope you can find it in your heart to be kind to her and to her innocent baby as well.
Remember, God will see to it that you reap what you sow.
PHYLLIS IN KNOXVILLE
Ali was in tears by the time she finished reading Phyllis’s note. There was so much hard-won wisdom in the words and so much caring that it took Ali’s breath away. She posted the note in the comments section and then sent Phyllis a personal response.
Dear Phyllis,
Thank you for writing. Thank you for your kindness—for knowing what I was feeling and giving me comfort; for giving me much needed guidance when I was in danger of losing my way.
BABE
Several of the other notes were in the
same vein. Ali responded to them all, but the one from Phyllis was the only one she posted. That was the one that said it all and said it best. When her cell phone rang a little later, she expected the caller to be one of her parents or maybe even Chris. She didn’t expect to hear the voice of Dave Holman—Yavapai County homicide detective Dave Holman.
“I just talked to your mom,” Dave said grimly. “Is it true? Do the cops out in L.A. think you’re involved in Paul’s murder?”
In the years before Sedona had built its own high school, kids from Sedona had been bused to Mingus Mountain High School in Cottonwood. Dave Holman had been a tall skinny kid a year ahead of Ali in school. After graduation, he had joined the Marines. He went to college later, studying criminal justice. He was both a detective in the sheriff’s department and a captain in the Marine Reserves who had served two tours of duty in Iraq. He was also a much valued breakfast regular at Bob and Edie Larson’s Sugar Loaf Café.
Ali felt an initial stab of resentment that her parents had spilled the beans about what was going on in her life. Then she remembered her blog. Maybe Dave read cutlooseblog.com the same way Ali’s mother did. Maybe that was where he was getting his information—everything but her phone number, that is.
Why was it I wanted to have a blog? Ali asked herself.
“They didn’t come right out and say so,” Ali replied. “Not in so many words.”
“What words?” Dave asked. “Tell me exactly what was said.”
“They took my statement,” Ali said.
“With your attorney present, this Angel guy?”
Obviously Edie had given Dave a complete briefing on Ali’s conversation with her.
“Angeleri,” Ali corrected. “Victor Angeleri, and yes, he was there.”
“Edie says you told them about driving past the crash site, seeing the emergency vehicles, all that?”
“I had to,” Ali said. “It’s the truth. I could see those lights from miles away. Coming past Palm Springs at that time of night, I couldn’t not see them.”
“Great,” Dave muttered. “What else did they have to say?”
“I don’t know. They asked a bunch of questions. I answered them. End of story.”
“What did they say when the interview was over?”
“What do you mean?” Ali asked. “You mean, like, did they say good-bye?”
“No, I mean like, ‘Don’t leave the state without letting us know.’”
Ali paused. “Well, yes,” she said at length. “I suppose they did mention something to that effect. They told me they’d be pursuing all possible leads but it might be best if I stayed around L.A. for a while. I told them that was fine. That I had planned to be here several more days. They hinted it might take a little longer than that for them to get all their ducks in a row.”
“I’ll just bet,” Dave said. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad your mother is on her way.”
“Mom is coming here—to L.A.?”
“Yes. Edie Larson is riding to the rescue. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No,” Ali said. “As a matter of fact she didn’t. I’ll call and tell her not to come.”
“That’s probably why she didn’t mention it to you, and by now it’s too late, because she’s already on her way. I may show up, too,” Dave added. “I came to Lake Havasu to see the kids this weekend, which means I’m only four and a half hours away.”
Ali knew that since Dave’s ex-wife and her new husband had taken the children and moved to Lake Havasu City, Dave had spent at least one weekend a month going there to see them.
“Really, Dave,” she told him. “That’s not necessary. What about your kids?”
“What about them? I already did what Rich wanted me to do this weekend—which was to get him signed up for his learner’s permit. As for Cassie and Crystal? They’ll be glad to have me out of their hair. Spending weekends with me is more of a hassle for my daughters than it is anything else. I’m not nearly cool enough to suit them.”
“But it makes no sense for both you and Mom to drop everything and come running to California,” Ali argued. “I’m sure this is no big deal.”
“No big deal?” Dave repeated. “Are you kidding? Being accused of murder is always a big deal, even if you end up getting off. Ask O. J. Simpson. Ask Robert Blake. And since you obviously don’t want me to do this for you, let’s just say I’m doing it for your folks—for your mom. This is my cell phone, by the way,” he added. “Feel free to call me on it anytime if you need to.”
The truth of the matter was, Ali still had Dave’s cell phone number stored in her phone. She had needed his help once, desperately, when the abusive husband of one of her cutloose fans had come looking for Ali. But there was no way she was going to admit that to him, especially not right then.
“I still think this is silly,” she said.
“Everybody’s entitled to his or her opinion,” Dave returned. “I don’t have enough available cell phone minutes to waste time arguing about it.”
“All right,” Ali said, capitulating. “You know where to come?”
“Edie gave me the address. Rich is putting it into MapQuest right now. Unfortunately my Nissan Sentra doesn’t come equipped with the fancy-schmancy GPS you have in your Cayenne. I can’t leave until a little later, but I’ll be there.”
He hung up. Ali was still holding the phone in her hand when it rang again. “Ali?”
Helga’s near-baritone usually made people think they were talking to a man. Ali knew better. “What’s up?” Ali asked.
“Are you decent?”
“Not exactly.”
“Get that way,” Helga ordered, “and then meet us downstairs.”
“Us?”
“Victor and me,” Helga said. “We have an appointment with Ted Grantham half an hour from now.”
“With Ted?” Ali asked. “What for?”
“With Ted and with Les Jordan,” Helga replied.
“Who’s Les Jordan?”
“Paul Grayson’s estate planning attorney.”
Far be it for Paul to have one attorney when he could have two, Ali thought. Then she realized she had no room to talk.
“Why are we meeting him?” she asked.
“For a reading of the will.”
“Now?” Ali wanted to know. “Don’t people usually read wills after funerals instead of before?”
“Under normal circumstances that’s true,” Helga said. “But these circumstances are far from normal. Meet us downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
{ CHAPTER 5 }
Victor and Helga arrived together in Victor’s silver Lincoln Town Car. When Ali looked inside the vehicle, she could see that Victor took up more than half of the front seat, with the steering wheel grazing his ample belly. Helga, on the other hand, was so tiny that once Ali settled into the backseat, the top of the diminutive attorney’s hairdo didn’t clear the headrest.
“I’m not sure why we’re doing this in such an unseemly hurry,” Ali said, once her seat belt was fastened. “Yesterday we found out Paul was dead. Today’s the day he and April were supposed to get married. Couldn’t we wait a day or two and give the poor woman a chance to adjust?”
“We’re doing it now because we need to,” Victor said. “Because if the cops are going to pin a murder-for-profit motive on you, we need to know whether or not it will fly, and it may, especially if you’re still a beneficiary under the will. The cops will naturally expect that the will won’t be read until after the funeral, and they know the funeral can’t take place until after the coroner releases the body—sometime next week. In other words, reading the will now gives us an investigational leg up for at least the next several days.”
“We’re also reading it now because Ted Grantham is a spineless wuss,” Helga observed. “When I called and suggested reading the will today, he practically fell all over himself saying yes. He even suggested we go to the house to do it. He said he’d call Les Jordan and April and set it up.”
&n
bsp; Ali was dismayed. “We’re going to the house on Robert Lane?” she asked. “Couldn’t we do this somewhere else—anywhere else? Why would Grantham suggest such a thing? Why would you agree to it?”
“Because evidently he doesn’t think April’s in any condition to go elsewhere,” Helga said. “I think he also agreed to reading the will today because he’s nervous. His divorce case is in the toilet, but he still wants to be paid. Grantham may not have drafted the new will, but I’m guessing he knows the terms. He hasn’t come right out and said so—that would be a breach of client privilege—but from the way he’s acting, I’m guessing the new will has been drafted without being put into effect.”
“And I’m still the main beneficiary?”
“Right,” Helga answered. “So Grantham is making nice with us because he thinks you’ll be the one settling Paul’s estate—as well as paying any outstanding bills.”
“He’s doing this because he’s buttering us up?”
“Buttering you up,” Helga corrected. “He also said something about preserving community assets. I think he’s worried about handing things off to you before any of those assets has a chance to disappear. If that were to happen, he’s concerned he might somehow end up being held responsible.”
“What do you mean disappear?” Ali asked.
“You’ve never had the pleasure of meeting April Gaddis,” Helga said with a disdainful sniff. “Ted has met her, and so have I. Prior to meeting your husband and signing on for what she thought would be a very luxurious free ride, her greatest ambition was to become a Pilates instructor someday. She’s gorgeous but not exactly the brightest bulb I ever met. The same goes for some of the bodybuilding pals she likes to hang out with. I wouldn’t call them the salt of the earth, either. April’s bachelorette party the other night was wild enough that the cops had to be summoned to quiet things down—and that’s with her about to give birth.
“Ted’s worried that when some of the more disreputable wedding guests who’ve been staying at the house pack up to go home, some of Paul’s precious objets d’art might end up going home with them. Grantham is lobbying for you to demand a full inventory of the contents of the Robert Lane house—an immediate full inventory.”