by Susan Kandel
“Thanks,” I said. “Listen.” I lowered my voice. “I’m almost ready to leave. I just have some quick business with this gentleman in the vicinity of the parking lot. If I’m not—”
Ben was suddenly at my side. I tossed him the book of matches, then looked back desperately at the driver. But he already had his head in a car magazine.
“So,” said Ben, striking a match. “We’re trying this again, are we?” He lit his cigarette and took a long drag.
“Looks that way.” We’d come to the end of the block and were about to turn the corner. There were cars all around us, and people walking up and down the street. I was perfectly safe. As long as we didn’t go to the parking lot.
“Is this really what you want?” He blew one, then two smoke rings.
“What I really want,” I said, mustering every bit of courage I had, “is to ask you a couple of questions.”
He tossed his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his shoe. Then he pulled me close. “Forget that. You didn’t ask what I really want.”
We were so close now I could smell the tobacco on his lips. I could see the stubble on his chin and the fine threads of blood in the whites of his eyes, like fault lines.
“Can you guess, Cece?” he asked.
Yes. “No.”
His pupils dilated. “What I really want is to—”
“Freeze, douche bag!”
Both of us spun around. It was the limo driver, and he was pointing a gun at the place where Ben’s heart would be, if he had one.
“I came just in the nick of time, right?” The limo driver’s eyes were wide. “Man, this whole thing is such a coincidence. I’m studying to be a private investigator. It’s a correspondence course, but still. Man, I’m so frigging excited!” He was smiling so wide I thought his face was going to split open.
“Who the hell is this?” Ben asked. “Your bodyguard?”
“I think it’s about time you stopped asking questions.” I moved next to the limo driver. “The only person asking questions now is going to be me.”
“Cece, I suggest you stop while you’re ahead,” Ben said evenly. “We are standing on the corner of Sunset Boulevard. Somebody’s going to drive by and call the cops. They’re going to be here any second.”
I didn’t think so. This was Hollywood. We were obviously rehearsing a scene for our extremely low-budget film.
“I just want to know one thing,” I said. “Why did you pick me?”
“Hell if I know,” said Ben. “It was obviously the biggest mistake of my life.”
“That’s for sure,” I said defensively.
“You know that night I met you, at the Orpheum, I should’ve known better. All the signs were there. But I didn’t pay attention. Now, it seems so obvious. You are some piece of work.”
The limo driver took a step forward. “Show some respect for the lady, bad ass, or you’re going to be sorry.”
I leaned over to the limo driver and whispered, “Excuse me, what was your name?”
“Larry,” he said.
“Larry, let’s not get carried away, okay?”
“Sorry,” he said.
I cleared my throat. “Why don’t you tell me about Kansas, Ben?”
Just then a middle-aged woman wearing librarian glasses and a flowered Marimekko shift appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Larry the limo driver around the neck. Then she kneed him in the rear, flipped him around, and let loose with a flying kick to his hand, knocking the gun to the pavement.
“Jeri!” Ben cried.
“I’ve been taking Krav Maga,” she said with pride. “The martial art of Israeli commandos.”
Some instinct deep inside my reptilian brain told me to run for it while I had the chance, but I dove for the gun instead.
Unfortunately, a short guy wearing a leather baseball jacket and spotless white sneakers got there first.
Tom, I presumed.
“Pretty nifty,” he said, pointing the gun straight at his wife. “What do you think, Jeri?”
She nodded. “Our eight-year-old has that one. It comes with secret agent glasses.”
I turned to Larry, who was lying on the sidewalk, legs akimbo.
“I’m not licensed yet,” he said sheepishly. “What did you expect?”
I stuck out my hand and pulled him to his feet.
“What’s going on here, Ben?” Tom asked.
“He has no luck with women,” said Jeri, shaking her head. “I want to fix him up with my sister, but he says no.”
“We didn’t miss my Joe Namath football, did we?” Tom pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “I have to buy it back. My kid is threatening to kill me.”
“No,” said Ben. “But we should get inside.” He turned to me. “Cece, I think it’s fair to say that this date is officially over. Not to mention our relationship.”
“Wait,” I said. “I want to know about Kansas.”
“Three more lots until my football,” said Tom, hanging up the phone. “We gotta make tracks.”
“What about Kansas?” Ben asked.
“You said you’d never been anywhere near a prairie. Why does it say Kansas on your license plate frame if you’ve never been there?”
Ben sighed in exasperation. “I have no idea why I’m telling you this. My ex-wife is from Kansas City. The car used to be hers.”
“She is a very well-known actress,” said Jeri in a conspiratorial whisper. “She pays him alimony.”
“Jeri!” said Tom, pulling her away from me. “Now!”
And just like that, everything fell to bits. My plan. My theory. Everything.
Larry the limo driver waited until they’d gone inside. “I hate to be a pill, but I have to be getting back to the hotel. My shift is almost over.”
“Fine,” I said, in a daze. “I’ll just get my bolero.”
I had no idea who had killed Anita Colby.
I had no idea who had ruined Dorothy’s life.
I had no idea what to do or where to go once I got back into my car.
Or even if the Hotel Bel-Air was going to give me a validation.
I pulled open the door to Bonhams & Butterfields. There were a lot of people milling around the lobby now. I was going to get a glass of champagne for the road. Drown my sorrows. And smuggle a glass out for Larry while I was at it. He meant well. But I never got the chance. Because on my way to the buffet table, I saw someone I recognized.
A woman.
Young, twenty-five at the most.
Tiny.
I couldn’t place her at first.
She was wearing a white halter dress wrapped as tight as a bandage, a silver slave bracelet high on each arm, and flat silver mesh sandals. Her black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail.
Was she a client of Bridget’s?
A friend of Annie’s?
Then I noticed the tattoos. One on each ankle.
A fairy and Betty Boop.
It was the woman from the Andalusia.
Anita’s friend with the neon yellow bob.
Which had obviously been a wig.
I ducked behind a pillar.
She was standing by the reception desk sipping a glass of champagne like she didn’t have a care in the world.
Then someone approached her from behind and gave her a hug.
A man with sexy muscles and messy blond hair.
She turned around, laughing, and planted a kiss on his lips.
That would be Connor’s lips.
I clapped my hand to my mouth.
I’d had it all wrong.
Totally and utterly wrong.
It was them.
Jilly and Connor and the rest of them.
They’d killed Anita and made me their fall guy.
It had been so easy.
They’d watched my house. They’d seen the people who came and went. They’d figured out my life was in shambles. That I was at loose ends. Feeling guilty and vulnerable. They knew what I did for a living. T
hat I couldn’t resist a mystery.
I was such a fool.
They’d gone ahead and stolen my mail, and, with the information they’d gleaned, bought a hot pink cell phone in my name.
The rest followed like clockwork.
And now here was Jilly. After all that hard work, who could deny her a night off? She definitely deserved a splurge. Something big and oak and Gothic to add to her inexplicable Cher collection. Which meant I had just about an hour.
As I whipped open the door, one of the predatory females working at Bonhams & Butterfields grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me around. “Excuse me? Anita? Anita Colby? You wouldn’t want to forget your purchase. How exactly will you be paying for it?”
I gave her five hundred dollars in cash and grabbed my Celine Dion needlepoint pillow.
It was pink with lace trim.
It would make the perfect housewarming gift for the new neighbor.
Chapter 42
“You looking for parking?” shouted a six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound Velma, wearing the largest orange turtleneck sweater I’d ever seen. A smaller man dressed as Scooby-Doo was trailing his mistress on a leash.
I rolled down the window of my car. “That’d be great. I’ve been circling the block for twenty minutes.” Leaving me forty-five minutes, tops.
“The Mystery Machine is just up here,” said Scooby, pointing to a Lexus convertible. “We’re packing it in for the evening.”
“Too much tequila,” explained Velma.
“I love your costumes, ladies!” cried a man wearing a yellow-flowered bathing cap and coordinating paisley sarong. He was walking down the sidewalk arm in arm with another man who was wearing the same outfit in pink. They were carrying a boom box and blasting the theme song from Grease.
“Ditto!” Velma unhooked Scooby’s leash and they clambered into the car.
As they drove away from the curb, I pulled the Camry in.
After reapplying my lipstick, I put on my bolero, got out of the car, and started down Croft. It was a six-block walk to my house.
I could already hear the commotion up on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was closed from La Cienega to Doheny to accommodate the revelers. The grand marshal of this year’s parade was Mariah Carey. I passed at least three men dressed up as the petite songstress, in Members Only jackets and black spandex minis.
In West Hollywood, we revere Halloween kind of like they revere Easter in Vatican City.
At the beginning of October, around the same time the jacaranda trees start filling with their beautiful ultraviolet blooms, the windows at Trashy Lingerie start filling with trashy Cinderella, trashy sailor, and trashy schoolteacher costumes. Two weeks later, there’s a line around the block just to get in. A week after that, the more entrepreneurial homeowners on Orlando Avenue begin auctioning off their parking spaces. Lois and Marlene got $120 last year from a weirdly desperate couple from El Segundo. Then there’s the citywide doggie costume contest in the park, followed by the drag race and pageant (to take the crown, you must wear minimum two-inch stilettos), all leading up to the main event, which locals get to celebrate with half a million of their best friends.
I turned onto Orlando. There was my house. It looked so sad. So dark. I missed the place.
The lights were off at Jilly’s, too. They’d left out a bowl of candy with a sign that read TAKE ONE. After nabbing a Mounds bar, I rang the doorbell, just in case. Nobody answered. I slipped my hand between the pillar and gate and felt around until I found the latch. Then, glancing over my shoulder one last time, I let myself in, the gate swinging closed behind me.
The courtyard was covered in gravel. I walked on tiptoe for good measure. The front door was locked, which didn’t surprise me, so I decided to try the sliding glass doors around the back, which led directly into Jilly’s bedroom.
The side yard was covered by a wooden overhang crawling with morning glory vine, which Javier calls the vampire of flowers. He’s good with metaphors. As I passed, I heard a squeaking sound, followed by the pitter-patter of tiny mouse feet. No wonder the neighborhood cats liked to hang out here.
There was a series of switches by the back fence. I hit each one, illuminating, in rapid succession, the back office, the dining table, the ornamental shrubbery, and a spectacular yucca tree. The last switch triggered the pool’s waterfall. Perfect. If they came home unexpectedly, they’d hear it and head straight to the backyard, giving me just enough time to hightail it out the front door undetected.
Unfortunately, the sliding glass doors were locked.
I tried a couple of the windows, which were also locked.
I had half an hour now.
Maybe there was a spare key somewhere around here. With all the guys coming and going, you’d definitely need a spare key.
The first place I checked was underneath the mat in front of Jilly’s French doors, but that was too obvious, of course.
Then I stuck my hand inside each of the terra-cotta urns flanking the table.
No dice.
Nothing in the fuse box, either.
I knelt down and stuck my hand underneath the superexpensive chaises longes. Talk about an ideal place to hide a magnetized key holder.
No luck there, either.
But while I was on all fours, I came upon something even better than a magnetized key holder: a can of Solarcaine Aloe Extra spray, for nonstinging sunburn relief.
Jilly and I had obviously shopped the same aisle at Home Depot.
I stood up, dusted off my dress, and unscrewed the bottom of the can. And there it was, wrapped in tissue paper: a brand-new, gold-toned spare key.
I hustled over to the sliding glass doors and let myself into the house.
There wasn’t much time. I figured the war room was my best shot.
I turned on the lights and closed the door behind me. The desk took up most of the space. There were three monitors on it, arranged in a semicircle. It looked a little bit like a cockpit. I took a seat on the fancy office chair and hit the three on switches.
While waiting for the system to boot up, I went through the drawers.
I was looking for change-of-address slips, stolen utility bills, preapproved credit-card offers, bank statements. Best of all would be a credit report. If you want to commit identity theft, a credit report is the golden ticket. All you have to do to get your hands on one is pretend to be someone’s potential employer or landlord.
The top drawer was a bust. Paper. Envelopes. Clips. Staplers. Tape. Stamps. Nothing incriminating there.
The second drawer was full of receipts. Home Depot was a favored destination. Also, the local hardware store. Truck rentals. Electronics. Software. Adapters and cables. Mounts and brackets. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
The third drawer I could barely open. It contained half a dozen overstuffed yellow folders, held together by industrial-strength rubber bands. I pulled out the folder on top, slipped off the rubber band, and laid it on the desk so I could look through it more easily. It was full of large black-and-white photographs. Maybe of potential victims. Jilly and her commandos probably stalked them for a while first. The picture on top was of a middle-aged man with a Fu Manchu mustache. His name and number were printed on the back, but I didn’t recognize them from Anita’s list.
The screens were up and running now.
And would you look at that.
The first screen showed the front of Jilly’s house: the bowl of candy, which was empty now; the leaves blowing; a SpongeBob and Ali Baba strolling by.
The second screen showed the back of Jilly’s house: a couple of cats sprawled on the superexpensive chaises, but otherwise, nothing much going on. Not any more, at least.
Jilly had the place under surveillance.
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed the cameras.
If I’d been more observant, I could’ve smashed the lenses with the barrel of my shotgun. At least that’s how gangbangers holding up bodegas do it on Law & Order. But I’m no
professional. And more’s the pity.
The doorbell rang.
I jumped up and turned off the lights. Then I cowered in a corner because it seemed the thing to do.
“Anybody home?” someone yelled at the top of his lungs.
I glanced over at the first screen. Two teenaged zombies carrying bulging sacks of candy were at the front door.
The bell rang again. “Trick or treat!” they bellowed in unison.
The first zombie yanked open his sack and pulled out a forty-ounce bottle of beer. He took a slug, then passed it to his buddy, who finished it off.
I walked over to the intercom pad by the door and pressed the button so I could hear what they were saying.
“We got another, man?”
“That’s it.”
The first zombie rang the bell again. “There’s no more candy out here! And we’re in need of sustenance.”
There’s a 7-Eleven a block away. Go get yourself a Slurpee.
The first zombie started pounding on the gate.
“Shut up, man.”
“You shut up.” The first zombie peeled off his jacket, shoved it at his friend, and started climbing over the wall.
Jesus.
I hit the intercom button again. “Sorry, guys. We didn’t hear you.”
The first one slapped his thigh. The second one shook his head. “It’s Halloween, man. You’re supposed to be listening for visitors.”
“Yeah, well, we were in the back,” I said. “Inspecting our underground bunker. The end is near, I’m afraid.”
The zombies looked at each other, then tossed the empty beer bottle on the sidewalk and started running.
I sat down at the desk again, scooted the chair over to the third screen, which was in fact a computer monitor, and opened Word.
The first couple of files I checked out appeared to be financial stuff. Accounting spreadsheets, tax filings, workman’s comp—did Jilly actually pay workman’s comp? I guess her guys were more likely to get injured on the job than your average Joes.
Next I went to Safari. I wanted to check the history.
Odd.
The last ten hits all had to do with The Twilight Zone. Fan sites, episode guides, DVD sales. I never thought The Twilight Zone was as good as Alfred Hitchcock Presents, except I did like the one where a mean-spirited Telly Savalas makes an enemy of his stepdaughter’s new doll, Talky Tina. But that was hardly as chilling as the Alfred Hitchcock one where the husband is driving his wife home from the hospital after she’s been attacked and she says, “Stop! That’s him!” and the husband beats the man to death, and then they drive off and see another man, and the wife says, “Stop! That’s him!”