Naked Came the Phoenix

by Marcia Talley

  “And you came along like a good girl,” King said. “Did your mother know Claudia too, before she came here?”

  “Yes. They were roommates for a while in college. A very long time ago.” Careful, she told herself. Don’t say any more, don’t mention the baby. That was far too private. She had so much thinking to do!

  King was watching her struggle to say no more. “And what about you? Did you know her?” he said.

  “Not at all. I didn’t know who ran this place. I just—” I just blindly followed, she thought.

  King said nothing. He rubbed his chin.

  “So all of the new guests either knew Claudia before or came with someone who did,” Caroline said. “As though Claudia had some purpose in mind in gathering together this particular group.”

  “She didn’t do it as a friendly get-together,” King said. ″Not her style.”

  “Tell the police,” Caroline said.

  “After I find out who killed her.”

  “You? But why should you?”

  “Because her killer took the thing I came here for. I need to get that back. Then the cops can have whoever it is.”

  “That could be dangerous.”

  King threw back his head and laughed. A product of who knew how many brawls and riots, he obviously wasn’t afraid of much. Then he said, “I’d like that to mean you care about what happens to me.”

  She got to her feet, and he jumped up and again was standing too close. She had gotten up too quickly—or was it his proximity making her dizzy?—and a fantasy blew into her mind, born of resentment toward Douglas as well as King’s slow smile. Any second now he would stretch out his arms to her, pick her up lightly, run off with her into the woods and—

  ″Caroline?″ he said, still smiling, embarrassing her, knowing somehow what she was thinking.

  “Yes?”

  “What were you doing last night at two A.M.? I saw you go by my cabin.”

  “I—I—”

  He leaned down and put his mouth to her ear, and she could smell the scent of him, woody and slightly pungent.

  “I won’t tell,” he whispered. “Just give me the key you took from her.”

  “No! It wasn’t me!” She stared at him, wide-eyed. His eyes with the lightning bolts gleamed like the lake, and suddenly she thought she caught something cold and terrible in there. He could easily kill Claudia, the way he had lived for so long, lawless and wild. And he was a magician, the way he held you with his eyes and touched you and fascinated you, a master of misdirection.

  “You found Claudia, didn’t you? You had time to take it. Don’t be afraid, I won’t tell anyone else. Our secret. But I need the key.”

  “Maybe you killed her and didn’t have time to take this key you’re talking about,” she said, breathing hard. “But I sure didn’t.”

  He cocked his head, held her eyes, then nodded. “I believe you. Then your mother must have it.”

  Caroline felt the memory like a knife, saw it all again, her mother touching Claudia’s body.

  No!” She shoved him hard, taking advantage of his surprise to get him out of her way, and took off running. The long rays of sun jabbed through the haze here and there, striping the path in dark and gold, confusing her. She ran on in what she hoped was the direction of her cabin, every sense occupied with getting there and avoiding a misstep.

  Through her ragged panting she could swear she heard another breath, a panting behind her, rhythmic and determined. King David?

  Or someone else?

  Vince leaned back in his chair, which he found cloyingly comfortable, put his hands behind his head and his feet up on the granite, and listened to the noise in the corridor outside. The first one to arrive had barged right in, and Vince had kicked him out just as fast.

  All the lawyers had arrived by now, in rapid succession, importantly, noisily, tethered to their attaches, raising hell with the patrolman outside for making them wait.

  Vince did not budge. He twisted his lower lip and thought. After a while, a skittish police officer finally knocked and edged in, locking the door behind him.

  “They all out there yet?” Vince said. “Let’s see, we got lawyers for the Hollywood boozer, the husband, the macho employee, the rocker, the Madame Blavatsky lady, and the supermodel.”

  “There’s five Hermès ties and one pair of Manolo Blahnik spike heels out there, sir. The suits are all gray and black. Two of them have been waiting almost an hour. The woman lawyer just got here.”

  “Fine.”

  “They’re starting to froth, sir. Staring at their watches and barking into their cell phones. The woman has her laptop out, but the men may try to beat the door down if you don’t see them soon.”

  “I hear you, Mike. Did you offer them anything to drink?”

  “No, sir, like you said—″

  “Good, good.”

  “Sir?”

  Vince was looking out the window again. He had a nice view of the lake, not a hint of the smog up here. Birdies twittered outside and the whole scene was like a postcard. Yeah, staged for the photographer. Ten minutes before, King David and the congressman’s wife had been sitting by the lake having a heavy discussion. Then she jumped up and ran around a turn in the path, and he had lost sight of them. “Huh? Yeah?” he said.

  “How long before I start bringing them in?”

  “Listen, Mike,” Vince said, not taking his eyes off the view. “Three hours ago I asked those important people outside to answer a few questions about a murder in their freakin’ midst. And you know what they did?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They were disrespectful and uncooperative. They tried to jack me around.”

  “Not good, sir.”

  “Right you are. So I gave them time to round up some local mouthpieces, and I applied myself to other freakin’ aspects of the case. Because we got a duty, right, Mike? Rich people, that’s the problem. Exercisin’ rights poor people don’t even know they have.”

  Knock knock knock. “I need to see the detective,” an authoritative baritone announced.

  Vince motioned with his finger for Mike to come closer. “Fifteen more minutes, Mikey,” he said. “Let’em stew in it, okay?” He turned back to the papers on the table.

  “Yes, sir.” Mike threw open the door. A balding man in a thousand-dollar suit was standing there, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in fury. “Step back,” Mike ordered. “Step back there. Detective Toscana is not ready for you yet.”

  Fifteen minutes later a slightly less balding man entered, ushered by Mike, clutching a heavy briefcase as if he’d already drafted a bunch of briefs and wrapped the whole thing up. The wait had fired him up and he started talking before he even sat down. Behind him came Howard Fondulac, unshaven, uncombed, and undone. Vince switched on the tape recorder.

  “Outrageous,” the lawyer was saying. It was a routine lawyer greeting. Sort of like “hello.”

  “Please,” Vince said, feeling better than he had in hours. “Take a seat, gentlemen.” They sat down in front of the table and right away the producer, if that was what he really was, Vince was going to check him out, spoke up. “I don’t know anything. I’ve got to go back to LA right away. Important business. Meetings. Commitments.”

  “I’ll do the talking,” said the lawyer.

  “Well, tell him.”

  “My name is Eric Derrick.” He handed Vince a card engraved so deep it was practically coming apart. He had a slow Southern accent that gave Vince time to grind his teeth between words. “Mr. Fondulac was sound asleep from ten P.M. until eleven A.M. this morning. He is shocked and distressed at this situation, and he fears for his own safety since a killer appears to be running free on the property. He has booked a flight leaving in two hours, and—”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Vince said.

  “But Mr. Fondulac has important business—”

  “His current business is right here. Nobody’s leaving at the moment.”

  �
�But you can′t—there’s a murderer loose!”

  Vince just sat there and looked at him and let the inanity of that statement sink in. Eventually even the lawyer got it, if the merest hint of a blush on the top of the ears was any indication.

  “Yeah, you got that right, and we’re trying to do something about it,” Vince said finally. “Like talk to the witnesses. You mind?”

  “But I don’t know anything!” Fondulac said.

  “What do you do in Hollywood?” Vince said. “I’ve never been there myself.”

  “I’m a film producer.” Vince let him explain that and came to find out that old Howard was sort of retired right now, hadn’t done a movie in the last several years, in fact. He confessed he’d had a few health problems. Vince sympathized and told him about his arthritis, and Fondulac started relaxing and even getting a little garrulous, which made Derrick jump in, and old Howard shushed him this time.

  “I guess a week or two at a place like this would be good for me, too,” Vince said, patting his belly. “But I couldn’t take the chow, I’d miss my pasta.”

  “Oh, there’s pasta. Just no oil, you know. No cheese.”

  “I’d rather die young,” Vince said. “No, give me my food and my liquor, you know? Speaking of which, you got a good one going this morning. Hangover, right? You ever try vitamin C for that?”

  “Mr. Fondulac certainly does not have a hangover. He did not come here to be—”

  “Give it a rest, counselor. Well, Howard? Big night last night?”

  “That’s exactly why I don’t know anything,” Howard said. “I’m afraid I had too much to drink. I missed breakfast. And all the rest of it.”

  “Do that often, do you, Howard?”

  “More than I should. I know I wasn’t supposed to bring liquor in at all. I admit it, I’ve got a problem. I’ve been admitting it and surrendering and making amends and relying on my higher power for twenty-five years now, and I’ve still got a problem.”

  “What’s your poison? Let me guess, Chivas?”

  “Jack Daniel’s.”

  “Good sippin’ bourbon, if I do say so. So where’s the bottle from last night? And by the way, how big a bottle are we talkin’ about?”

  “A pint? I think a pint.”

  “That’s interesting, because we just picked up this pint bottle on the path by the bathhouse where the lady was strangled.” Vince held it up in its wrapping. “The security man says he made a round at midnight and there was no bottle. He saw it runnin’ in to see the commotion when the body was discovered. So it got laid down last night.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” Eric Derrick said.

  “That couldn’t be my bottle,″ his client said in a choked-up voice.

  “Great,” Vince said. “Then you won’t mind us taking your fingerprints just so my superiors don’t yell at me. Mike outside has the kit.”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate at this time,” the lawyer drawled.

  “Oh, yeah? I’ll decide that,” Vince said and gave him the patented Toscana glare. “You know, if we get involved in a lot of formalities, legalisms, that sort of thing, Mr. Fondulac could be here for a long, long time.”

  Fondulac and Derrick hastily convened on the far side of the office. Whispers flew. Vince looked out the window again. Strong sun now, not a soul out there enjoying the path by the lake. Eventually, the lawyer allowed as how Mr. Fondulac would give fingerprints, seeing as how he wanted to cooperate and get home.

  And they all knew he didn’t have a choice. Vince put on a cheerful look and said, “That’s great. So let’s get back to the location of that bottle.”

  “I certainly didn’t leave it there. But if my fingerprints are on it, maybe someone took it out of my trash.”

  “Ah.” They figured his prints would be on it and so the next line of obstruction had come up. They were making progress. “So you put it in the trash?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where is the trash located?”

  “In my room, of course. The plastic can in the bathroom, actually. It had a swinging lid.”

  “You specifically remember putting it in the can?”

  “Yes.”

  Vince showed his teeth. “Then we’re all set. All we have to do is confirm that. Dust the lid for prints.”

  “Maybe it didn’t get into the trash can. I might have left it on the floor. I was drunk!”

  “So you’re saying somebody came in your door late at night while you were crashed and took your empty bottle and left it on the path by the bathhouse?”

  “My God,” old Howard said in a surprised voice, turning to his lawyer. “Someone’s trying to frame me! That’s just what must have happened!”

  “Now who would do a thing like that?” Vince went on, not missing a beat.

  ″I—I can’t imagine!”

  “You had an enemy here, Howard. That must be how it went down.”

  “Yes! Yes! Raoul! That sneaky bastard. I’ll fix him. He hates me. Because I—because of a money thing. Years ago. We had a dispute. He said I owed him two hundred thousand dollars. We lost that money fair and square. It was a joint venture, a tax thing, and Claudia told me Raoul had forgotten all about it. But now I see he’s just been biding his time. Eric, you have to do something!”

  “How long ago was this? The money thing?” Vince asked.

  “Ten, twelve years ago.”

  “You and Claudia and Raoul were tight, huh?”

  And out it came. “Tight? We were business partners, that’s all. Claudia worked at this health place I went to and we got to talking, and she told Raoul about this film I was producing. I had Kevin Costner practically attached, this was before the water flick and the futuristic Pony Express one. Raoul and Claudia had some money from somewhere and they were looking for an investment.”

  Vince nodded sagely. “Hollywood,” he said.

  “The project tanked, they tank sometimes, but they took it personally. And about the same time the deal soured, Raoul got this idea that Claudia was sleeping with me. He was madly in love with her. He was insecure and jealous. So anyway I was damn surprised when she called and invited me to come, but I really needed to get away, and when she told me Lauren Sullivan was here and looking for a project, it was perfect, and Claudia said—God, she said—″ He stopped and a horrified expression came over his face.

  “Well, what’d she say?”

  “She said I deserved the full treatment.”

  “And had she started giving it to you by last night?” Vince asked.

  “He thinks I’m lying,” Howard said to his lawyer. “You check it out, Detective. It was her husband. He killed her. I don’t know why he killed her, but he got me here to frame me.”

  “But she was the one who said you deserved the full treatment,” Vince said.

  “He got her to invite me,” Howard said, less assurance in his voice. “He’s a subtle one, he is.”

  Vince said, nodding again, “I hate subtle people. All those hidden agendas.”

  “So are you going to do something about him? Arrest him?”

  “We’ll check for his prints on the bottle.”

  “He’ll have wiped them off,” Eric Derrick said.

  “You sure you didn’t take a midnight stroll last night?” Vince asked. “I get lit, I do funny things sometimes. Decide I need some air.”

  “I’m quite sure I never left my room,” Howard said.

  “Is there anything else?” said the lawyer, leaning forward.

  “Well, I have to ask, you understand. Whether you did sleep with her way back when in the Kevin Costner days. Since it might have inflamed the husband.”

  “I never laid a hand on her.”

  “Oh, come on, how could you resist? You were all going to get rich together, you were at this relaxing place together, hot tubbing and all that, she was a fine-lookin’ lady. And it would explain a lot better why the husband would go after you.”

  Howard said, “Well, just the
one time.″

  “One time only. Sure.”

  “Once or twice. She really wanted me. I was damn attractive in those days.” He smoothed back his neat, thinning hair, as if remembering thicker, more unruly days.

  “I bet.”

  “Come on, Howard,” Eric Derrick said. “Are we finished?”

  “For now,” Vince said.

  “Who’s next?” Mike said, sticking his head in. Behind him was a talking head, irate.

  “The husband.”

  Raoul de Vries came bounding in like he was aching to beat some butt on the tennis court. His tan and good health made Vince feel vaguely pissed off. He must be the stiff-upper-lip type, or else he didn’t give a flyin’ fart that his wife was dead, whatever he might have felt about her before, because there was no sign of red eyes or sadness. The second lawyer was just like the first: tall, balding, portly, and young. Vince waved them to seats and took the card. “H. David Derrick,” it read.

  “Your brother out there, H.?” Vince asked the lawyer.

  “Yes. It’s a small town. We aren’t in the same firm.”

  “You guys could be twins.”

  “We are.”

  “What’s the H stand for?”

  “Herrick. Can we move on?” He was even more humorless than his brother.

  “I bet you’re the older one. By ten, fifteen minutes,” Vince said. The devil made him do it.

  “I am the younger. Is this relevant?”

  “I guess not,” Vince said. “But I don’t know what else we’re gonna talk about. Because your client told me this morning that he wouldn’t talk to me on advice of counsel.”

  “I said without advice of counsel,” de Vries interposed. “Let me explain. A long time ago a lawyer told me to say that if I ever found myself in a police situation. It’s not that I don’t want to cooperate. My wife is dead. My heart is broken. I’m at your service.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. Really. Because it looked bad,” Vince said. “So what was this police situation you were in?”

  “I didn’t say I was in a police situation. I said if I was in a police situation.”

  “You ever done time, Mr. de Vries?”

  De Vries gave him an incredulous look and turned to Derrick Herrick or whatever the Mother Goose hell his name was.