Quita happened to be one of the members of the Sweet and Sour Mah-Jongg Club, which is where Wes and I first met her.
“Did you tell her about the theft?” I asked.
“I thought it would be easier in person,” Wes said.
“Oh.”
Let me back up. The Sweet and Sour Club was a loosely organized group. It was mostly social. Its members included the usual Hollywood types, each with the proper fun-loving personality, the gambler’s love of mah-jongg’s intricacies, and an all-important adjacency to disposable cash.
Buster Dubin was the leader of the Sweet and Sour Club, and Quita was his latest girlfriend. Buster tended to move through girlfriends rather quickly. He was that kind of guy. But in all fairness, it must be said that Quita had a pretty busy past herself.
Until recently, Quita had been living in this house on Wetherbee. She was the widow of the previous owner who had died only last year. Naturally, this was a whole story.
See, this new house of Wesley’s was a “celebrity” home, which is really quite a real estate coup. A celebrity connection is just the sort of thing that gives homebuyers the tingles. It sells houses. In the case of this Wetherbee house, forties leading man Richard “Dickey” McBride was the famous previous homeowner. “Dickey McBride slept here” gave this address clout. The movie star’s love life covered several live-in mistresses, five or six wives, and ended with Quita McBride.
Wes said, “Quita has never struck me as the brightest light on the dimmer board. But she’s sweet.”
Yes. Quita McBride had certainly been helpful. It was through her that Wesley first learned the Wetherbee house was coming on the market. But, in truth, we didn’t know her well. We had never really wanted to.
“She’s had a rough year,” Wes said.
When Dickey McBride dropped dead from a heart attack last year, their old home had to be sold. Quita mentioned the news at one of the mah-jongg parties. That’s how things get done here. Word of mouth. Naturally, Wesley became interested in the property as soon as she described what a wreck it was. And thanks to knowing Quita, he was able to make an offer on it well before it had a chance to make the LA Times’ Hot Properties column.
“She’s kind of a space cadet, isn’t she?” I looked at Wes. He had gotten to know her better. They’d had a few conversations as the house moved through escrow.
“She seems spacey. I don’t know if that’s an act, though. She seems to take care of herself.” Wes pulled out his key ring and opened the front door.
Inside, the house was gloomy and darkish. “Sorry. The lights don’t work right now. We’re in the middle of rewiring.”
I walked through the empty entry hall and into the dusty living room. “Oh, Wesley! This place is wonderful.”
“Do you like it?” Wes lit a candle and set it down on the mantel of a large fireplace in the living room. “It’s got such good bones, don’t you think? Look at the ceiling.”
Large wooden beams crossed high above. “It must be two stories high.”
“Sixteen feet. And we’ve been able to save the original finish on the beams.”
“I love it.” I gave my good friend a hug. “You have so much energy. You are amazing.”
He folded his arms against the slight chill in the empty room and grinned.
Just then, there was a tap at the door. It had been so light I wasn’t sure at first if I had heard anything at all.
“That’s probably Quita.” Wesley crossed to the entry hall and opened the front door.
In stepped a thin woman. She was “built,” as they used to say. Her large chest was absolutely the first thing anyone noticed about Quita. She wore her thick blond hair longer and bigger than was fashionable at the moment. Her darkly tanned face looked like a kitten’s with a pointy chin and a small mouth.
“Maddie,” Wes said, playing the host, “of course you know Quita.”
“Hi, Quita.”
“Nice to see you.”
Quita looked me over quickly and then followed Wes into the living room, which was now a huge hollow space, its dusty hardwood floors here and there covered in drop cloths, its walls in places open and exposed all the way to the studs.
Wes picked up a large piece of plastic sheeting. “Sorry about the mess.”
“No, don’t be,” Quita said. Her voice was soft. She turned back to me. “You’re Wesley’s partner, the caterer.”
“Yep.” I’d only seen Quita every week for the past six months. But some in Hollywood don’t notice the background people.
Quita looked around the empty space slowly. She wore a purply fuchsia-colored silk dress, which fit a little snugly in places over her ample curves.
“So,” Wes said, “you got all of your furniture, right?”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?” Wesley looked concerned.
“No. I didn’t. Actually.” Quita turned her slightly unfocused gaze from the ripped-open walls of the entry and tried to settle them on Wesley. She just missed. “I think they took all of Dickey’s and my things and put them in storage. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The lawyers are selling everything. Did you know that? They are. They’ll have one of those fabulous celebrity auctions. And all the money will go to Dickey’s estate, which comes to me. Only it takes scads of time. It’s ridiculous.”
“Really.” I couldn’t help but be curious. So Quita, the last wife, was getting all of Richard McBride’s money. According to the cover story in People the week he died, Dickey regretted never having children. With no other heirs, Quita was inheriting the lot. As she was forty-five years younger, it might even be argued that Quita was the “child” Dickey had dreamed of, but let’s not go there.
“So your life is moving on,” I said cleverly.
“Yes.” Quita shifted her off-center gaze from somewhere in the vicinity of Wesley to make eye contact with me, almost. I noticed Quita had watery gray eyes. She was pretty, but something was slightly off, like her tiny kittenlike nose was just a smidge too tiny.
“I would have loved to have seen the house before everything was removed. Wes said it was filled with art.”
“I have pictures. Somewhere. In one of my boxes. If you’d like to see them…”
“How cool.”
I threw Wes a look. I really doubted I’d be spending much time with Quita McBride, going through old boxes and memories. But it was a magnificently odd thought. And Wesley and I love odd.
“I’d like to see any old pictures you have of the place,” Wes said. He was the consummate rehabber, always digging for historical references. He pulled out a business card for Mad Bean Events and handed it to Quita. “If you should find any pictures, please give us a call at the work number.”
“Have you got anything at all to drink here?” Quita asked.
“Sorry,” Wes said. “No. We don’t have power right now. And the kitchen’s been gutted.”
“Oh, of course. That’s right. Can I take a look?”
“At the kitchen? Sure. I was just going to give Madeline the tour.” Wesley picked up a candle and handed it to Quita. “Just watch your step and follow…”
Wes was going to say, “Follow me.”
I caught his eye. Damned awkward, if you ask me, leading a widow around her own house especially after one has just finished ripping the place up.
“This must be so horrible for you,” I said to Quita, following her down the hallway. I noticed she was almost as tall as Holly is. Man, why is it that I am always surrounded by tall ones. I remembered something about her working as a model in the past. “It must be a shock coming back to your house and finding it under construction like this.”
It is just my way. I don’t like to dance around a dead buffalo, if one happens to be lying in the ballroom. I prefer to call everyone’s attention to the dead buffalo and suggest it be removed.
Wesley, however, winced.
Some don’t care for the direct approach. Some prefer to wait until the flies are so thick aro
und the dead buffalo it can no longer be denied. Now, where’s the sense in that approach?
“It is weird,” Quita said. “I was just in here, getting a glass of juice for Dickey…was it really a year ago?” She stared at the gutted kitchen, without so much as a countertop or cabinet or appliance, its pipes exposed.
“Sorry,” Wes said. “I thought it might not be such a good idea to meet at the house.”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
The three of us stood together in the middle of what had once been the kitchen, the candlelight flickering off our faces. Quita turned to me. “I did need to talk with Wesley about some of my property. But really, I wanted to see the house, too. I needed to see it. Dickey’s gone. The house we shared is gone. I have to remember that it’s all gone, now.”
I don’t know. There was something about the pause that lingered an extra beat, her delicate chin in the air. I could have sworn she was ready for her close-up. But then, perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps this was what it took for her to come to terms with her new lot in life.
“It’s all gone,” she repeated, her eyes misting a bit.
Yes, but, what were we sniffling about here? The house Quita moved into with Buster Dubin was much nicer than this old house had been, even before construction started. And Quita hadn’t wasted much time moving on to a new man with a new mansion. But don’t mind me. I can be horribly judgmental at times.
We stood there in silence. Well, of course, the woman had been through an awful lot in the past twelve months.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” I said to her. See. I could be nice. “Your husband died only a short time ago, I know.”
“Eleven months ago.” Quita looked at me and gave me a shy smile. “It was such a shock. So out of the blue. He was healthy. He was very healthy. And then, one night, he was…gone.”
“So sad,” I murmured. I had heard McBride had died in bed. With Quita. That had to be a shock. “How old was he?”
Quita glared at me, suddenly angry. “Yes. I know. He was seventy-five. Everyone talks about that.”
Wesley gave me a look which I took to mean “shut up already,” but I think people are too afraid of talking about feelings. Of course, Wes has on occasion suggested I am not afraid enough of these sorts of conversations, but so be it!
“I read about it in the papers. They said it was his heart.”
“Yes, yes, his heart!” Quita tossed off the words. “And, yes, Dickey had a heart condition. I know. You are thinking that I don’t want to face reality, and you know what? You are probably right.”
I smiled at Wesley. Good therapy was going on here, in this darkened, demolished kitchen.
And then Quita burst out into loud sobs. She clutched at her leaking face with both overly tanned hands, but tears gushed out all the same.
“Oh dear.”
I looked at Wesley, who really had the most smug, I-told-you-so sort of grimace on his normally handsome face. “Wes, don’t you have any Kleenex?”
Okay, sometimes “good therapy” is wet.
Chapter 5
Quita was shaking with her sobs. I was struck with how rarely one hears a grown person crying hard. It’s not a pleasant sound, with loud coughing, moaning outbursts, and harsh, rushing drags of air. In a few seconds, Wesley returned with a fresh roll of paper towels. I ripped off the cellophane, tore out a few sheets, and handed them to Quita.
Wes came close to me, and we both stood by as Quita eventually settled down.
“Don’t worry, Quita. This is probably a very healthy thing. It’s important to unload these feelings.”
“Thanks.” Quita tried to make eye contact, but failed miserably. “But I’ve been crying like this for the past…” She never finished the sentence, as new sobs welled up and drowned out her power to communicate further.
I stared at the bare walls and realized that I had developed, just in the past few minutes, an overwhelming desire to cook. This kitchen was weeks away from providing that kind of comfort. If only I could have baked something. Or put on a pot of tea, at least.
“It’s not just the house that I miss,” Quita said, picking up the story again. “And I know everyone is saying I wanted the money, but it’s not the money.”
Wesley looked mortified. All he could do was rip her off another paper towel.
“Look, none of this is your fault,” Quita said, looking at Wes. “You bought Dickey’s house, the house of the greatest star in Hollywood. Who could blame you for wanting it? Not me. And I guess you can do whatever you want with it. If ripping it up and redoing it is your thing, well go for it. You know? I just miss it. I miss my life. But that’s the past. And now that I see it with my own eyes, I think I’m starting to believe it’s really all gone. So, anyway…”
“Shall we leave the kitchen?” Wes asked.
He led the way back to the front of the house at a sprightly pace. That guy does not like a scene.
Quita’s voice had settled down, and her tears had stopped pouring out. “I’ll see you both at the party in a little while, right?” she asked us, remembering who we were and what she’d be doing later. “At Buster’s house? Oh, I look disgusting. I’ve got to go change.”
“There’s time,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
She turned to Wes. “But before I go. Where’s my mah-jongg case?”
Uh-oh. We knew this was coming. See, Wes had found the antique MJ set upstairs in this house, in the wall of Quita and Dickey’s old bedroom. This morning, just before he met me at the Farmer’s Market, he had called Quita McBride to tell her the news of his astonishing find. Wes intended to give Quita the stuff he found. He didn’t have to, legally. But of course he had wanted to. And now…Well…
“Quita, I wanted to tell you this in person.”
“What?”
“It’s about that old mah-jongg set.”
“Yes. Dickey’s old Chinese antique. I remember it. It was the one we played on when we were first dating.” Quita sighed a pretty sigh. “Dickey taught me how to play MJ. I’m so, so grateful you found it for me. I’d been looking everywhere for it. Actually, it’s been missing for years.”
“Really?”
“That’s why I was so annoyed at the Sotheby’s people. They’re doing the auction for us. The movers brought everything to Sotheby’s, and I was sure Dickey’s maj set would turn up in the mix. I specifically called and asked them if it was there. They haven’t done a complete inventory, and they said I’d have to wait. But now, you found the old maj set! And hidden in the wall!” She shook her head. “My husband could be very secretive.”
“Oh, I did find something else,” Wes said, surely to post-pone the inevitable. “In the garage we found a carton of paperbacks. Were those your husband’s?”
“No. Probably mine. That’s all I read,” Quita said.
“Really?”
“They’re great to take to the beach, you know? Dickey thought they were worthless, but I was always trying to find him a new property—something he could star in again. He preferred sci-fi. Did you know he was up for the part of Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars? He turned it down. I think he regretted that.”
No kidding.
“Remember Kangaroo Planet? That came out a little before. Dickey was magnificent in that one.”
“Wow,” Wes said. “Now that’s a movie I haven’t thought of in a long time.”
Kangaroo Planet. What a hoot—an old-style goofy sci-fi flick. I remembered seeing it years ago. I must have been in second grade.
“That was when I first fell in love with Dickey, I think,” Quita said. She seemed lost in her memories. “He was such a great actor. My sister and I were kids when our mom took us to see Kangaroo Planet. It was the first movie I remember seeing in a theater. What a trip, you know? I could never have guessed back then how I would move to California someday. Or that I’d meet—actually meet—the real, live Dickey McBride in person. Or that Dickey and I would someday…that we’d form such a close…bond.”
“Yes! Wasn’t he amazing?” Quita looked at me, happy to find a fellow fan of Dickey’s with whom to share her memories.
“Of course,” she continued, “I have the video. I make Buster watch it with me all the time.”
That must be fun for him.
But really, I was being bombarded with bizarre. Kangaroo Planet. Big Daddy Roo. And then, that long-ago little girl Quita falling for an old guy who looked, in that film, more marsupial than man.
People are odd, I reminded myself for the trillionth time since I moved to L.A. But this scene was taking odd to a totally new level. An all-time oddness high. I looked over at Wesley who must have been thinking the same thing.
Quita was hard to fathom. She currently had a cute new boyfriend—Buster Dubin, a guy we knew and liked. A young guy with plenty of money and talent. And yet, she still missed the old guy. Maybe love is blind. Or maybe there are some women for whom the best aphrodisiac is fame.
Dickey McBride. I suddenly recalled the bit in Kangaroo Planet where Dickey led them all in jet-powered hopping. Sometimes, practiced as I am in the art of restraint in the face of utter absurdity—after all, that is how I make my living—even I cannot keep a straight face. Wes, kindly, avoided making eye contact.
Quita looked out toward the purple and pink impatiens flower border that rimmed the sloped, grassy front lawn. She must have stood in this entry a thousand different times over the past decade, saying good-bye. Only on those other occasions, she hadn’t been the one expected to leave.
“But now, about Dickey’s MJ set,” Quita said, bringing us to the unavoidable subject.
Neither Wes nor I said anything.
I took another tack. “I had no idea that Richard McBride played mah-jongg. How amazing,” I said.
“My husband had played mah-jongg for years and years. Literally, from before we were born. He played with some of his dear old friends. You know Catherine Hill?”
Everyone knew Catherine Hill. She was a child star at MGM along with Dickey when he was a young singing, dancing teen heartthrob. She played plucky orphans and poor cousins to Dickey’s rich-boy parts in a long series of forties box office hits.
Dim Sum Dead Page 4