You Know Who I Am (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries Book 2)

by Diane Patterson

  I checked some cupboards. “Didn’t we buy some wine?”

  She opened the drawer with the kitchen towels in it. I took a towel and the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon she’d hidden there. Then she opened another drawer and without even looking into it reached in and pulled out a corkscrew. “You said you would call after…”

  I used the towel to wipe off the neck of the wine bottle. “After I saw Roberto. Right. My bad. Sorry, I’ve been distracted today.”

  “I started to get scared. Like maybe you wouldn’t return. And then…” She seemed as though she were searching for the right words to say it. “And Sir Gareth came to the door. Rang the bell.”

  Oh Lord. That would have frightened her to death. Especially after this morning. I wondered what Gary wanted.

  She pulled down a teapot from its spot in the glass-fronted cabinet. “He was calling your name.”

  “Like this morning?”

  She shook her head. “No, completely different. He sounded contrite. He said, ‘I’m sorry, please come out.’ It was…” She shook her head. “He heard me moving around in here. So I hid. I picked somewhere no one would look.”

  “And you fell asleep.”

  She ran hot water into the teapot and shook it around.

  “I called your name several times.”

  Her mouth made a small o. “I must have been quite tired.”

  “Must have been.” We didn’t say anything for a few moments. The only noise was the water in the kettle revving up. Stevie had to be thinking about the same thing I was. Was she on the verge of another catatonic attack? Or was she catching up on twenty-two years of getting little to no sleep? And did she have to do this right now, when we might need to vacate the premises at a moment’s notice?

  Okay, there was little chance she was thinking that last one. But I certainly was.

  While I opened the bottle, she went to the glass cabinet, pulled out a delicate wine goblet (perfect for an aromatic red), washed it, dried it, and handed it off in time for me to pour. For all of her faults, Stevie makes an excellent companion: cook, washerwoman, and sommelier rolled into one.

  The kettle whistled and Stevie took it off the burner to let it cool down to the proper temperature for the best cup of tea. “Tell me what happened today.”

  I gave her the short version of my visit to Roberto, surgically removing both his offer of money for Stevie no longer being in my life and how relieved I had been to see him after all these years. I mentioned how surprised I felt to see pictures of my new little brother and sister. Then I told her about Vin Behar’s showing up at the Peninsula and his blackmail attempt.

  “He followed us from Las Vegas.”

  That reminded me. I needed to check the car for a sensor. Then I filled her in on what Nathaniel Ross, criminal defense attorney extraordinaire, was like. I took a large swig of the excellent Cabernet. It was fantastic. Stevie loathed anything stronger than 2% milk, but boy, had she read up on her wines.

  She poured the tea from the pot into her cup, letting it pass through a strainer. “So what is your plan?”

  “I think I need to talk to Anne da Silva. Find out what Colin was doing that he somehow dragged me into.”

  Stevie added the proper amount of milk—not cream, never cream, cream was for cretins—to her cup of tea. I sometimes mused we should move to Japan, so Stevie could study their tea ceremony in depth.

  “How are you going to talk to her? Introduce yourself as Colin’s wife?”

  “That is an excellent question.” And I didn’t have one damned idea.

  Sometimes exercise helps clear the cobwebs, so I went outside and searched the car for an hour, looking for some kind of device Vin Behar could have used to track us to Los Angeles. Nothing. Dammit.

  I showered and then lay on the living room sofa, listening to Stevie knit and wishing I could nap like a normal human being.

  “What you could do,” Stevie said, needles clicking in perfect rhythm, “is use one of the posters from the show.”

  I saw where she was going with that. “We’ll need to go to an art store.”

  “You agree this will work?” she asked.

  “It’s a brilliant plan, Stevie.”

  She gave me another wide-mouth smile. “Thank you. I know,” she said with perfect sincerity.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ANNE DA SILVA, People magazine celebrity journalist extraordinaire, was the renter of record on Colin’s apartment, though clearly he—or someone else—had been giving her the money every month to cover the rent. However, she lived somewhere else, a house in Beachwood Canyon. Which was nowhere near the beach, of course. Beachwood Canyon was the Hollywood Hills, not far from the Hollywood sign, and a few miles from Colin’s place.

  Stevie said, “The real estate listings call Beachwood ‘funky’ which apparently means run-down, yet expensive.”

  “Funky hill people,” I told myself as I drove to Anne’s house in the morning. Because of traffic I arrived at half-past nine, which seemed to be about perfect. No writer I’d ever met got started before ten, and then only with a firm deadline and a check in hand.

  I followed Stevie’s detailed instructions through the narrow and curving canyon roads. There were lots of bungalows, which must have been the realtor’s term for these small, one-story wooden houses, many of them covered with sun-warped wooden shingles. More than one looked like a thatched-roof wonder spirited in from the Emerald Isle. The streets were narrow and shady, lined with old trees that formed a canopy over the road, keeping the area cool. Or relatively cool, given how baking hot LA was supposed to get during the summer. Beachwood Canyon was an area that appealed to me much more than most of LA had so far. Not that the city appealed to me at all. I wanted to get my bracelet and be elsewhere.

  To New York? Or elsewhere? Alone or with Stevie?

  I couldn’t think about that. One problem at a time.

  Anne’s house was two-story and modern—a square white block with wide windows and red doors—in a shady stretch of a dead-end street. A Land Rover was parked outside, and, according to Stevie, Anne owned a Land Rover.

  I parked on the street and pulled the now-framed poster from A Night of Grand Guignol Magic out of the backseat. Colin was prominently featured; Kristin and I were the interchangeable blonde and brunette in the back. I wouldn’t have agreed to be on the poster if I had been recognizable in it. Colin had zero problem with showcasing himself, so that worked out well.

  It took Anne several minutes to answer my two rings of the doorbell. As soon as I came to the conclusion perhaps she’d spent the night at a friend’s house for comfort, she opened the door. Her eyes were red and puffy, she was wrapped in a blue robe much too thick to wear on such a warm day, and she had one arm wrapped around her waist. Protecting herself from the outside world. She looked like the photos Stevie had found of her. A cute, round-faced woman, with her glossy brown hair cut in a pageboy. She was wearing glasses and she had no makeup on, but this was her.

  I took a deep breath. “Ms. da Silva?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Who are you?”

  “I’m here about Colin.”

  She blinked and her mouth opened and closed a few times.

  “I’m Drusilla. Did he ever mention me?”

  She shook her head.

  Why would he, I asked myself. “Ah. Then this is fairly awkward. May I come in?”

  “Say whatever it is you came here for.”

  Okay, so she wasn’t a wimp. She was going to leave me out here on the stoop. “I worked with Colin in the magic act in Las Vegas. Did he tell you about that?” Anne nodded and I turned the poster around. It had the desired effect: She couldn’t stop staring at it. “Colin talked about you. And I thought you’d like this.”

  She pressed one fist against her mouth. Her jaw started trembling. “Oh, my God.”

  “May I put this down?” I jutted my chin toward the foyer, and she stepped aside to let me bring the picture in. I rubbed the pa
lms of my hands together to wipe away the sweat. “This brings me to the other reason I’m here. This is awkward. But I hope you can help me.” Anne folded her arms across her chest—more self-protection. “I swear to you it was only a green-card marriage, but I am Colin’s wife.”

  Her immediate reaction was crystal clear: she’d had no idea he was married. “Oh my God.” She shook her head. “Whatever. Just get out.”

  “I need your help.”

  It was a minute before she could allow herself to speak. “What? What can I help you with?”

  “The first reason I came was to see if you’d been told about what happened. To him.” I gave a weak smile. “I see you have. And you don’t have to believe this, but I understand how you must feel.”

  She stared at me for a few seconds before she shut her eyes and shook her head. “You have no idea.”

  I almost said something like, Hey, lady, I was married to him, remember? But I am nothing if not polite in the service of getting what I want. “The other reason is something he said to me the night he died.”

  Her face softened, going from hostile to curious (and still hostile). She wiped her nose with the balled-up tissue. “You talked to him?”

  “Yes, a little. We needed to discuss a few things. Divorce was at the top of my list.” I held up a hand. “You don’t need to believe me, okay? I came to Los Angeles looking for him, and when I found him, he said he and I had big trouble because of someone named Penelope. “

  At the name “Penelope,” I got Anne’s full attention.

  “He told me she had just left—”

  “He said what?” she shrieked.

  Interesting. I waited a few seconds to see if she had anything to add to that. She didn’t.

  “There was some kind of bad situation he was in because of her. He called it a ‘bloody mess.’” The irony of his using that phrase right before he died hit me as soon as the words left my mouth. “I’m hoping you can tell me who Penelope is.”

  Anne paled before my eyes. “He didn’t know her. How could he…They’d never met.” She sank to the ground, wrapping herself in a tight ball.

  Oh, Colin. Colin, you bastard. Seeing two women, who happened to be friends, and neither was aware of the other? It’s one thing to play around, it’s another not to tell everyone what the game is and who’s scoring.

  “Who is Penelope?” I repeated, softer this time.

  “She’s my…a woman I know. An actress. Penelope Gurevich. You’ve probably heard of her.”

  I pretended to think about it for a second. “No.”

  “She’s on TV.” She looked up at me. “You’re sure he said that?”

  “I’m guessing you don’t know why he might have been in trouble because of her.”

  She pursed her lips for a second, considering something. Then she said: “You were the mentalist. You did the mind-reading act.”

  Wonderful. He had mentioned my existence, except not by name and not the part where we were married. Not that it made a difference. “Yes. Among other things. But—”

  “Colin wouldn’t tell me how you did it.”

  No good magician gives away his secrets. Also, he didn’t know. “It’s magic.”

  “So read my mind. He said you were so good.”

  I was baffled by her request—didn’t she want me out of there?—until it dawned on me she wanted proof. Proof that I was the one from the act. Fine. I sat down on the ground across from her, close enough to gauge her reactions.

  “Your name is Anne. You’re a writer.” She was trying not to react, but her temple twitched. That was my baseline for a hit. “This is the first murder you’ve ever experienced of someone close.” Hit. “You told Colin to get out of that apartment, maybe even to come stay here, but he wouldn’t.” Hit. I could have told her why. Colin had a pathological need to have his own private space.

  I rattled off other things as fast as I could, some hits, some misses. Standard stuff, not hard to guess with what I knew about her from Stevie’s research. And as a finale I said, “And you really, really want to start drinking, even though you know you absolutely shouldn’t.”

  Which I thought would be safe to say about anyone on a morning after their lover had been murdered.

  When Anne’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened, I knew I’d hit the bull’s eye without even meaning to.

  “How did you know?” she said. “Colin didn’t know.”

  She seemed so bewildered by my guess I wanted to comfort her with something like, “I saw your 60-day pin.” But there was no sign on her or around us of any kind of AA involvement. I kept looking at her. “You don’t tell anybody?” I asked.

  “Not a lot, no.” She leaned against the wall. “How did you do that?”

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe you really are psychic.” She smiled weakly. “A lot of people would like to talk to you.”

  She didn’t know the half of it. “There’s only one person I need to talk to at this moment. I’m sorry I upset you. I hope your day gets better.”

  She looked up at me, pleading, wanting reassurance. “He said he was in trouble with Penelope?”

  “The bad kind of trouble. Not romantic trouble, no. He sounded as if he could barely stand her.”

  “Could barely stand who?”

  The sudden intrusion of a male voice startled me. Instead of flinching, I glanced up. There, in the doorway, was Detective Samuel Gruen. All six foot something of him, staring at me.

  “Good morning, Detective,” I said.

  Anne clutched at her robe, as though he could see right through it. “Who—”

  He held his badge out and introduced himself. “I have some questions about Colin Abbott.”

  She ran a hand through her hair, messing up those perfect bangs. “I think—just a minute.” She scurried off through her living room toward the back of the house.

  I reached my hand up to him. “Mind giving me a hand, Detective?”

  He crooked his head as he regarded me sitting on the floor. Then he gripped my hand—his skin was cool and, damn, did he have a firm hold—and I rose to my feet. Of course, when I stood up I fell against him, as though I were trying to get my balance. My hand pushed against his chest for a second. Which was long enough to answer one of my questions, which was that his physique was not only for appearances.

  “Thank you for the assist, Detective.” I looked down at my hand, which he was still holding. He dropped it.

  It’s not nice, but men are so much fun to flirt with. Particularly the ones who don’t want you to.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry, I was leaving.”

  “How do you know Anne da Silva?”

  I picked up my purse off the ground, stretching down in as slow and sinuous a movement as I could without being pronounced about it. He watched. I pointed to the framed poster. “I came here to give her that.”

  “You woke up this morning and decided first thing you’d stop by and have a talk with your husband’s girlfriend?”

  “I’m almost certain you’re not supposed to talk to me without my lawyer present.”

  From his slight nod, he was well aware of that. Perhaps he was hoping I wasn’t. “You don’t seem bothered your husband was sleeping with her.”

  “I’ll have my lawyer fax you a list of the girlfriends Colin had in Las Vegas. No, it didn’t bother me.”

  “You were going to tell me who Colin could barely stand.”

  “I’ll be happy to tell you at the proper time.”

  “This have anything to do with Penelope Gurevich?”

  I shrugged. “So many things are possible, Detective.” He was fast. I wondered what else the police had managed to find. It was time to stop talking to him. That was a good idea anyhow, nicely muscled body or no.

  Anne popped around the corner, having thrown on a polo shirt and Bermuda shorts. Her hair was still a mess but she’d washed her face.

  “It was my pleasure me
eting you, Anne.” I took her hand in mine for a light shake. “May I leave you my number?”

  She nodded and found a pad of paper and a pen on a table in the living room. Writers are so good with that sort of thing. I scribbled my new phone number in my carefully-practiced handwriting. I ripped it off the pad and handed it to her.

  “You’re leaving?” Gruen asked.

  “Alas, yes, I must be going.”

  He looked back at Anne. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Do you want to come in?”

  It hadn’t dawned on me why he’d stayed in the doorway this whole time. I laughed. “Oh yes, that’s right, it’s sort of like with vampires, isn’t it? They have to be invited in.”

  At the same time as he started to enter the house, I squeezed past him in the doorway. He froze. I said in a low voice, “See you around, I hope.”

  “You will,” he said, his voice a notch or two huskier than it had been.

  I was out on the front steps, feeling certain I’d gotten the better of him, when he added, “And yeah, I’ll take that list of names.”

  I got into my car without checking to see if the detective was still looking at me. If you check, the effect is spoiled.

  My hands were trembling a little as I put them on the wheel. Which left me wondering who’d gotten the better of whom.

  #

  I got home and gave Stevie the run-down about Anne. She had no idea her friend Penelope knew Colin, she had no idea what Colin might have been doing with Penelope that made him so scared, and, most worrisome, she was a hell of a lot more devastated by Colin’s death than I was, which looked bad in front of the detective.

  “But usually you’re good at acting,” Stevie said, which was both true and not what I wanted to hear right then.

  One of the phones rang. Since it was the one in my purse, it was the new Los Angeles number, which narrowed down the possibilities for who could be calling: Colin, Gary, the police, Roberto, Anne, or Nathaniel Ross. And I was almost entirely certain it wasn’t Colin.