Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors

by Alex Ames

  “You cannot be serious, Calendar. It’s your thirty days; without me, you will be lost.”

  “This is not about us, at least not this time. I need your help, and I appreciate your help, but it will not work the way you thought it would, so we need a small change of plans.”

  “So I’m going to be your lackey? Or what?” Fowler’s face turned a darker shade of red. “You need my expertise, and I need to be briefed in order to be in the loop.”

  “You will be briefed, but nothing more.”

  “This is an unnecessary risk. My professional calling is at stake here, too. Remember who got you out of jail?”

  I looked him square in the face. “That is a risk you probably have figured out to the tenth of a percent with the help of your computer, but I have to take this step in order to save myself from the next big thing. There will be a life after this case; at least, I hope there will, and I need to plan for that as well. My way or the highway for both of us, Fowler.”

  Fowler threw up his arms, almost toppling his cup. “Your show, your floor. I’ll send you a subscription of Reader’s Digest when they book you for good.” He grabbed his briefcase and his jacket and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving me with the check.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A.K.A.

  To my surprise, Fowler was waiting outside of the restaurant in his car, motor running.

  I slid in beside him. “Still not enough of me?”

  “I forgot that I had to drive you home.”

  “It’s a mile, Fowler. In Redondo Beach. I could have walked.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” Fowler started to drive in the direction to my shop. “What are your first steps? Any ideas already?”

  “Believe it or not, we are already in the process of visiting the first suspect,” I told him. He started with a question but thought better of it and just shrugged, sighed, and drove.

  He parked in front of my shop and locked his car like any good European did. He turned toward my shop door, but I took his arm and led him across the street, opposite the parking lot toward Benedetto’s Pizza.

  “Signorina, what I cannot understand is: why don’t you ever order a pizza from my establishment? Is it in the dough? Is it in the sauce? Are you allergic to any of the ingredients?” Luigi Benedetto was the prototype Italian restaurant owner: black hair, overweight, white apron, and a pride that had made the Roman Empire what it had been two thousand years ago.

  “Luigi, did your pizza cook Rick leave any forwarding address? A phone number?”

  “Don’t tell me; don’t tell me…. I know, it is the cheese, is it? You don’t fancy regular mozzarella cheese? Can I indulge you with sheep cheese? Or mozzarella buffalo?”

  “You could indulge me with contact information of your former pizza dough maker!”

  “I will create one just for you. Just let me order mozzarella buffalo, and I will name a creation just after you. It is not the dough, Signorina Moonstone. I had Rick on for only two weeks. He did good work, but all he did was prepare dough according to my old family recipe. He left without notice, didn’t turn up for work on Tuesday after his day off Monday.”

  “All you can tell me is that this guy worked for you and you never had any personal data? Address, phone, social security? Nothing?”

  “I gave you the address, Signorina; I gave you what I had on file for him.”

  “But my friend here checked it out via the police, and the address and phone number are fake. They don’t exist. And the social security number will be a fake, too, we believe.”

  “Signorina, this is all the wrong approach. If that young man, Rick, had an eye on you, or you had an eye on him, it would have been so easy to ask him out for two weeks. Now that he is gone, you come, and now you stop ordering pizza from me altogether, the best pizza in South Bay, but look for a lost boy. Your assistant, Signorina Otis—”

  “Luigi, it is Signora Otis. She is married.” That fact stopped him in his tracks because he had to weigh his Catholic principles against drawing in customers with sexy young men.

  Fowler stepped forward, out of patience. “Did Mr. Dexter befriend any of your staff? The drivers or the waitresses in your restaurant?”

  Luigi let go of me finally and bore his Italian hurt pride fangs into Fowler.

  We had espressos at Starbucks around the corner, not at Luigi’s place.

  “Don’t you think that this is too easy?” Fowler was asking.

  “No, it is exactly as a professional thief would have done it,” I said, hiding my eyes behind my sunglasses. We were sitting outside on the sidewalk. I enjoyed the March sun and the warmth on my skin. It countered the dark, terrifying fears of damp and moldy jail cells that were buried deep down in my stomach.

  “So, what? Your friend Rip Delaware was a pizza dough maker at this restaurant, was working under the fake name Rick Dexter, and quit without notice. Just like probably one million hired hands before him. Probably a W2 or a social security scheme. Not that I could blame them, with a boss like that on your back all the time.”

  “He was staking me out. He knew somehow that I was going to be at the Oscar ceremony and party with Nicole Berg, and he planned his act accordingly.”

  “And he knew that two weeks beforehand? When Mrs. Berg was still going out with that photographer Sturgis? How would he have known that? Calendar, I think there was another reason to it.”

  “I didn’t say I already had everything figured out,” I defended myself.

  “From the beginning please. Why should he have anything to do with this case?”

  “Because, dear Fowler, he was the only person at the party who wasn’t searched at all.”

  That shut him up for a moment.

  I continued. “We both went into the interview. It was my turn to get searched, and they would have found nothing if not for him. He told the police about the modified necklace around my arm and ankle just as it was his turn to get searched. All energy turned toward me. They investigated my improvised jewelry cover up, grilled me, and took Rip Delaware’s statement.”

  Fowler shook his head. “That can’t be. You heard Lieutenant Graves; everyone was searched. They were still looking for drugs and all.”

  “Yes, that is true. But you can verify with Graves, if you like, and judge from his red ears. Rip was always close by. We rode with different police cars to the police station, but he was one car behind me. They took his statement in the detectives room, mine in an investigation room with open shades. I saw him from the minute they offered him a seat and a coffee until they let him sign the statement, shook his hand, and sent him home.”

  “No search. Incredible!”

  “He could have slipped the necklace into my purse from minute one.”

  Fowler added, “And probably carried the other diamond in his pocket. Cool customer. Maybe that’s why he picked you to slip the necklace. You are professionally attached to jewelry, so any suspicion would be even greater toward you. But, we still have that timing issue. Rick or Rip worked for the Italian for two week before that! How did he know that you would be invited?”

  “Come on, you don’t expect me to solve everything on the first day,” I said. But of course, he was right. There must be something else behind Rip Delaware’s involvement.

  “I will tell Graves about the missing witness and maybe the local police, too. Let them dig in their databases. We already have two names for him, Rip Delaware and Rick Dexter. And what will be your next step?”

  “Could you arrange for interviews with Swan Collins and Jeannie Anthony?” I asked Fowler.

  “With Swan Collins? Sure. But it might pose a problem. She is one of the few people who knows that you have been involved in the theft personally. Graves and Palmeri have told her about ‘the suspect,’ and don’t you think she would find it strange if the suspect turned up and started to question her about the theft?” Fowler added the third packet of sugar to his coffee.

  “Yes, but again, can’t be helped. I want to a
sk her questions from a different perspective and get a feeling for the situation.”

  Fowler jotted on his pad. “Your call. And Jeannie Anthony. Why not Pretty McAllister?”

  “I’ll try to arrange her and that Krueger producer guy a little bit more innocently through other channels,” I said.

  Fowler nodded. “I am sure it can be arranged. Graves and I will introduce you. I presume you want to talk to them alone, and I presume that you will approach Webber differently, too?”

  “You presume rightly, sir.” When he reverted to his British English idioms, Fowler was his old self again.

  “Just don’t steal any table silver while you’re there,” Fowler remarked, dryly.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Nic’s Knack

  Back at the shop, I spent the rest of the afternoon with the stack of files Fowler had left me, trying to cram as much information as possible into my head about the other cases. Later, I was tinkering in my shop, my hands and mouth on automatic cruise control for the few customers while my mind was forming the action plan for the next few days. The deal with Fowler called for a “special” investigation, Calendar style, of the suspects he had discovered. I didn’t like it, but it had to be done. All I was planning was routine for me: checking out their home and work patterns, getting into their houses and apartments, trying to find something incriminating. Something that would tie them to the Hollywood jewel cases or Rip Delaware. Well, and of course I needed to deal with Rip Delaware himself. I had a crazy stunt in mind but had to work on the details.

  Later, Fowler confirmed the Hollywood meetings with actresses Swan Collins and Jeannie Anthony and gave me the addresses.

  “My, my, Fowler, your British charm works with the leading ladies of Hollywood,” I played him a little bit.

  “Calendar, this has nothing to do with either my charm or my talents for persuasion. I simply threatened to raise their insurance premiums by one-hundred percent. Luckily, Miss Anthony is insured with us, too.” His voice sounded annoyed over the phone.

  “You can do that?” I asked cautiously, glancing at my safe in the corner. The inventory incidentally was insured with Fowler’s company, too.

  He read my mind over the phone. “Better be good to me.” Fowler’s rare attempt at American humor.

  A second after I had hung up on Fowler, the phone rang again.

  “What, again?” I assumed it was Fowler.

  “Saw your name in the papers.” A very friendly and distinguished voice that I had loved dearly once upon a time.

  My heart sank but at the same time beat a little faster—as usual when I talked to Thomas.

  “Really? I thought they had it under wraps.” I had to consciously remove my fingernails from my nibbling teeth.

  “No, I was kidding. I have my sources, as you know. They told me about your run-in with the law.”

  “How are you, Thomas-dear?”

  “Not too bad, and yourself?”

  “Thirty days left to beat the world and stand up as the winner.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Why is everyone so helpful all of a sudden?”

  “I care about you, Calendar.”

  I thought about his offer. Involving Thomas always got results but came with a debt that had to be paid at a later point in time. And I hated to be in debt. Especially with Thomas.

  “You still there?”

  “Yes. No, not right now. Maybe later when I am ahead.”

  Silence over the line, one of those parallel train of thoughts of expectations, unspoken desire, and a burdened past. It lasted for about thirty seconds, and as usual Thomas broke it.

  “So then, bye, Calendar.”

  “Bye, Thomas.”

  We were so fucked up!

  A long day behind me, I felt the excessive intake of coffee and sugar circulating in my blood. Around closing time, Annie called me into the presentation room. I found Nicole Berg waiting in the store, the black satin box in one hand and some flowers in the other.

  “I heard that you went through a terrible ordeal with the police,” she started after we exchanged hellos and cheek kisses, French style. “My agent told me. He learned about it from Swan’s ex-boyfriend, who had it from Swan’s gardener who works for him as well.”

  I laughed a little, maybe a little too easily. “Don’t tell me the grapevine was invented here in LA.”

  “The raid and the resulting arrests are the talk of the town, but they let you go, I see,” Nicole took me by the shoulders and looked me over as if to see if the day in jail had resulted in a significant loss of weight or hair volume.

  “I am out on bail because there are serious doubts whether I did it, and I decided to help with the case and support the police wherever I can,” I said bravely, but I held one finger over my lips. “But please, keep it to yourself.”

  “My lips are so sealed,” she said with a shoo-away motion of her hand. She presented me the flowers. “I wanted to thank you for the splendid companionship to the ceremony—and to the party, which was fun, as long as it lasted anyway.” She wrinkled her million-dollar nose and threw her famous smile at me.

  “Thank you! You are right. It was fun until the raid. I had fun. It was exciting and brilliant and something completely out of proportion.”

  “That is Hollywood, Cal,” Nicole said, presenting me with my jewels.

  “Did you decide whether you want to buy them or not?” I asked her, taking the box back and opening it at the same time to dazzle the customer with its beauty and fire.

  We both looked at it, and Nicole traced the line of the necklace with her long fingers. “They are so beautiful, and I must really contain myself to say ‘no’ right now. It is a lot of money for some pieces of jewelry, after all. Even the rich have their self-applied spending limits.”

  “Then I hope that your next movie will be a blockbuster again, to relieve you of the burden of the not-rich-enough,” I said, meaning it.

  “So, you are going to play detective?” Nicole inquired. “Need some connections into the business that I can help you with?”

  “I will probably come back to that offer. The guy from the insurance who covered Swan Collins’ diamonds and Pretty’s necklace will arrange for interviews with Swan and Jeannie, but I am thinking that Fowler and you both speak of ‘the business’ and that I have no clue whatsoever what it is all about. What is driving the business? Who are the players? Who are the losers?”

  Nicole beamed at me, eager to help. Her pretty screen face lit up. “You want inside connections? I can offer plenty. The man you absolutely have to talk to is Phil Krueger, the producer at Mountainview Studios. He is a good friend of mine, knows Swan and Pretty, plus all the other players in our line of work. If he doesn’t know it, no one does, and he was the organizer of Swan’s Oscar party.”

  I was truly thankful for Nicole’s help and told her so. I was especially thankful that she had pulled Phil Krueger’s name out of the hat without even cueing her.

  There was something else that was troubling me. “Say, Nicole, do you believe me that I didn’t steal Pretty McAllister’s necklace?”

  Nicole looked genuinely shocked at me. “What are you talking about, silly girl? I didn’t believe it for a minute.” She opened the jewelry box again and pointed at the pieces sparkling at us. “That is what I call beautiful. Pretty’s pretty piece was expensive trash; you probably didn’t even take a full first look at it, did you?”

  I had to admit that I hadn’t looked at half of the jewelry that other people were wearing because they hurt my professional and aesthetic pride.

  “See what I mean? Why on earth would you even consider stealing such a crappy piece when you can produce such spectacular and marvelous pieces yourself?” Nicole shook her head. “Way below your standards, Cal. And by the way, how would you have done it anyway? Steal Swan’s diamonds in the middle of a people-packed house in the middle of a party? Get serious. I wonder how the police thought it had been stolen
at the party, anyway.”

  “What do you mean? You think they haven’t been stolen at all and Swan is going for an insurance swindle?” I asked her.

  Nicole got my implication immediately. “No, I don’t think that Swan would be able to do that…. No, no, she wouldn’t pretend them stolen in order to get insurance money or whatever. What I mean, the most logical explanation would be a theft at the time of the party preparation while most of us were on the red carpet and at the ceremony. Lots of caterers and service personnel like florists and decorators running around in the house, mostly unattended. I hosted similar events in my mansion, and the only person you know personally is the lady who presents you the bill afterward.”

  I nodded. “You are right, a much better opportunity than during the party.”

  “Cal, thank you again for the rental. I have to run; the next dinner party is calling. If there is one thing I hate when I am not on the set and am trapped in this town is that you are not allowed to say ‘no’ to business invitations. You would never be invited again. Have to go. Bye.” And off she went with another peck on the cheek, a dazzling smile, and a wave at Mrs. Otis.

  “Wasn’t that Nicole Berg leaving your shop?” Mundy asked, nearly drooling as he entered the shop.

  I was again in the process of getting Mrs. Otis out of her trance-like state. “At least she believes in my innocence.”

  Mundy took over and offered Mrs. Otis a glass of water while I locked away the window displays and wound-in the shades. “Remember what I told you. Beauty in Hollywood goes less than skin deep,” Mundy philosophized. “Did she bring back your necklace?”

  “She did, and even offered me contacts in ‘the business,’” I said. I stepped outside, waved over a taxi from across the street, and put Mrs. Otis in it. “There goes a celeb-victim!”