Twice as Dead

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  “Actually, I did.” Clark took a drink of his iced tea. “I got a partial plate, but just the first digit and couple of letters. It was a black, late-model BMW coupe. Almost new, from the looks of it.”

  Steele scowled at his next bite as if the meat were withholding information. “Those cars are a dime a dozen in Orange County, especially in that area. Every asshole’s got one. That or a black Mercedes.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Not a Porsche?”

  Steele didn’t miss a beat. “Every third asshole has one of those.”

  Clark gave Steele a half grin. “So I’ve noticed. Hardly see any pickup trucks around here. Not like back home. In Holmsbury, a fancy car would be out of place.”

  Greg shook his fork in Clark’s direction, a piece of steak speared to the end. “Dev and his people will track it down.”

  “Yes,” Clark agreed. “They’ll find the car but not the people driving it. My money’s on it being stolen. Dev agrees with me.”

  “By the way,” I asked Clark. “What were you doing across the street, anyway? We thought you were in the club all that time.”

  “I got a call on my cell and went outside to take it. I was on my way back in when that kid—you know, the one dressed as Clarice—came running out.”

  “You mean Betty Rumble?” I stuck my fork into a piece of lettuce and waited for Clark’s response.

  “Yeah, him. He seemed squirrelly, so I decided to follow him. He climbed into a beat-up silver Honda parked on the south side of the highway on a short side street and took off. Kept yelling into his phone all the way to the car that he was on his way.”

  “Betty Rumble?” Steele stopped eating and looked at me in disbelief.

  “A drag queen at the service for Shirley Pearson,” I explained.

  I turned my attention back to Clark. “Betty’s dog was having puppies. That’s why he left the service. He received a text about it.”

  “Anyway, I was on my way back to the club when I saw you and Zee waiting by my rental car.”

  Greg shook his fork again for emphasis. This time, a small chunk of eggplant was aimed at Clark. “Dev told me they never found the guy who dumped the food and ran. He took off through the kitchen and out a back door.”

  “Yeah,” Clark added. “That Marvin Gunn guy claims he doesn’t know any Scott Johnson or Scott Joyce. Seems he doesn’t know a lot of people we think he should.”

  Steele listened to everything, sucking up the information along with his beer.

  I stopped eating. “But the photo.”

  The three men turned their heads my way in a nearly choreographed move—beverages and forks held aloft as if frozen in time.

  “The photo Clarice gave me of her friends,” I explained. “Scott is in it, and so is Marvin Gunn.” I paused to recall his face. “At least I think it’s Gunn.”

  Getting up, I went looking for my purse. I found it on our dresser and retrieved the photo from it. In all the hubbub surrounding the shooting, I had forgotten to mention it to Dev.

  When I returned to the table, I handed the photo to Clark. “Doesn’t that look like Marvin Gunn?” I pointed to the guy in the back behind Clarice and Shirley.

  Clark glanced at the photo, then went into the house. He came back out toting his reading glasses. Putting them on, he studied the photo as if looking for treasure.

  “Hard to say, sis, with Gunn having a beard. It does look like him, but in some ways it doesn’t.” He covered the lower part of Gunn’s face with a finger, trying to focus on the upper half of his face. “But it’s certainly worth checking out. Seems too much of a coinkydink for all these people to be at Marvin Gunn’s bar with this look-alike in the photo.”

  “Coinkydink,” I repeated. “Dev uses that word when he’s being sarcastic.”

  Clark put the photo down. “What can I say? It’s part of our police academy training—official police jargon.”

  I resumed my place at the table next to Greg. “After meeting Scott Johnson, I’m really starting to worry about Roslyn Stevens. He really did seem unhinged.”

  Steele craned his head to look at Scott’s picture, following up with a shrug. “I would think if you were in hiding and were out in public, you’d look suspicious and frightened, too. Especially if you were at the service for a friend who was murdered and were worried you were next.”

  Clark ran a hand over his stubbly face and continued studying the photo. “Maybe, but Odelia might be on target. Even in the photo, surrounded by his supposed friends, this guy Scott looks hinky.”

  “Hinky enough to kill Joan’s father and Shirley?” I asked. “He hardly looks the type to send all those people into a panic.”

  “You never know. Though it would help to find out what all those people are hiding from in the first place.”

  Steele pushed his plate back. “Anyone looking into that?”

  I fielded the question. “I know Dev is trying to track down people who knew Roslyn Beckworth before she became Roslyn Stevens. He told me she used to attend and work at the University of Chicago, then simply disappeared.”

  “Clark and I made a call this afternoon to start our own search,” Greg added.

  Steele studied Greg with an inquisitive and eager eye. “That call wasn’t to that special friend of Grey’s, was it?”

  Before Greg could think of a fib, Clark threw out his own explanation. “We called a buddy of mine. He’s a whiz at finding out anything on anyone.”

  Although Steele is a straight arrow when it comes to the law, he has a fascination with my friendship with Willie. Steele’s almost in awe of the man, like a pimply teen obsessed with a rock star. So far, the two of them had not crossed paths except briefly by phone, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “Well,” Steele said, disappointment swelling his voice, “if Clark’s friend doesn’t work out, Grey here can rub a magic lamp and get you Superfelon.”

  Eager to change the subject, I started to get up. “Anyone want coffee?”

  “Sit, Odelia,” Greg ordered. “I’ll make coffee, and Clark will clear and get the dessert.” Steele made a move to help, but Greg stopped him. “We’ve got this, Steele.”

  “Yeah,” I said to Steele. “You can fill me in on what’s happening with Joan and her mother.”

  “You know that’s privileged information, Grey. She’s a client.”

  “And I’m your paralegal. Spill.”

  He played with the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table. “All I’m going to tell you is that it looks like we might be able to convince the insurance company that Joan’s mother knew nothing about her husband’s faked death.”

  “Do you believe she had nothing to do with it?”

  “I believe there’s a very good chance she didn’t. Nor did Joan.” Steele released the shakers and turned to look at me. “Like you said, Joan’s mother appears to be a lot like Joan—a very conservative and decent woman. I didn’t get any sense of duplicity, but I definitely got a clear understanding that his disappearance, dead or not, was the best thing that could have happened to her.”

  “Joan told me her parents didn’t have a good marriage, but that her mother would never get a divorce.”

  “Exactly. But an insurance company hell-bent on getting their money back might read that relief as a motive for fraud.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But we’re going to do our best to see that they don’t make that assumption stick.”

  “What about Joan’s stepdad? Joan’s mother is afraid to remarry him in case he might be drawn into it.”

  “We can prove they didn’t meet until two years after Alfred disappeared, so he’s in the clear as far as the fraud is concerned.”

  “Thanks, Steele. I’m sure Joan is very appreciative of your help.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Grey. I haven’t gotten her mother out of trouble yet.”

  There was a pause, so I decided to fill it by tweaking Steele’s nose. “So how’s everything going with Lori Ogle?”

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p; Steele shrugged. “The deal’s on track, but you know that.”

  “How about with Lori herself?” I pressed. “I understand she’s quite beautiful.”

  Another noncommittal shrug. “She’s okay, if you like that sort.”

  “That sort?”

  “You know, an arrogant, overachieving know-it-all.”

  “Gee, sounds like someone else we know, doesn’t it?”

  Steele turned to me with suspicion. “Why all the questions about Ogle?”

  “Just making conversation. I heard she was lovely and quite accomplished. Just wondering what your take on her was.”

  Finished with clearing the table, Clark brought out a stack of dessert dishes and forks. Greg followed with the cheesecake and a pie server. He placed the cheesecake in front of me and handed me the server, presented over his forearm like a fine sword. “Your only job, sweetheart, is to serve the dessert.”

  “So,” Steele started when I handed him a piece of cheesecake, “you coming in tomorrow or not?”

  I stopped slicing. “Why? You reneging on your offer?”

  “Not at all. I just want to know what your plans are.”

  I completed the cut, scooped out a slice of cheesecake, and plopped it on a plate. Picking it up, I handed it to Clark. “I was thinking I would stay home tomorrow and run some errands. You know, do stuff to pull myself back together.”

  Steele swallowed his first bite of dessert. “Good idea. Put your feet up. Go to the beach. Read a book.”

  “Sounds good to me, sweetheart,” Greg agreed as I handed him his dessert. Clark, his mouth full of cheesecake, nodded in agreement.

  “Tomorrow night, I thought I might go out. Something fun and different.”

  Greg gave me a curious look. “Can I come?”

  I scooped a small piece of cheesecake onto my own plate and put the pie server down. “Looks fabulous, Steele. Thanks.” Wielding my fork, I prepared to dig into the smooth and yummy desert. “You sure know the way to my heart.”

  I stuffed my mouth and chewed, again realizing Greg had been right to take the cheesecake away from me earlier. It was so rich and I was so distraught, halfway through I would have been sicker than a seventy-year-old on a Tilt-A-Whirl.

  “Is this the best cheesecake or what?” I turned to Steele. “Where did you get it? It’s authentic New York style, just the way I like it.”

  Around me, the table went quiet.

  I washed the cheesecake down with a sip of decaf coffee and looked at the men. “What?”

  Greg and Steele were exchanging looks and silent conversation. Clark was watching them, trying to pick up on their man-vibes.

  Steele cut his eyes my way. “Nice to have you back, Grey.”

  Color me confused. “Huh?”

  Greg tossed his napkin down next to his dessert plate. “Okay, what’s up?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I looked down, concentrating on cutting my next bite with the side of my fork.

  “Is this normal for her?” Clark asked. “This avoidance routine?”

  “Too normal,” Greg answered. “Out with it, Odelia. What’s cooking in that addled brain of yours?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, my ass,” tossed out Steele. He glanced at Clark. “It’s her tell, Littlejohn. Just like in poker. The minute she quick changes a subject or avoids a direct question, turn on your bullshit detector.”

  Three against one. I didn’t like the odds.

  “It’s like this,” I began.

  Steele groaned. Greg scowled. Clark looked on with interest, like I was an example in a psych class.

  “Stop it right now, guys, or I’ll go inside and not tell you a thing.”

  “Maybe you should come to work with me tomorrow, sweetheart.”

  I narrowed my eyes at my hubby. “Tomorrow is not bring-your-insane-wife-to-work day, Greg. Nor is any other day.” I went back to eating my cheesecake, attacking it with the side of the fork in small chops. “It’s just that I had an idea.” I looked up at Greg again. “You did say we needed to finish this—to find out what happened to Alfred for Joan’s sake. And I want to find out why Clarice Hollowell fired me.”

  “She fired you?” Steele laughed. “Better make sure that gets into your employee file.” He took a sip of his coffee, smiling into his cup. “Grey fired from nosiness. That’s rich.”

  “Okay,” Greg said to the table in general, “we’re getting totally off-track. Let’s just back up a moment.” He leaned forward and put a hand out to stop my attack on the cheesecake. “What exactly did you have in mind for tomorrow, Odelia?”

  “During the day or the evening outing?”

  Greg’s jaw was clenched so tight, I was sure he’d pop a vein if I didn’t tell him my plans for Monday.

  “In the morning, I thought I might run by Rambling Rose and see what I can find out from Shirley’s assistant, Amber Straight.”

  Greg’s jaw relaxed—a good sign that he didn’t think my plan too off-kilter. I tried to be just as nonchalant with the other half of my information. “Then, in the evening, I thought it might be kind of fun to check out drag queen bingo.”

  Even with the AC running, the inside of my car was growing hot as it sat on a side street just steps from the Rambling Rose office. I was on my cell phone, calling to make sure they were open. They were, but the woman on the phone, who’d introduced herself as Amber, informed me that they were not taking any new bookings at the moment. When I asked why, I was told it was because of the unexpected death of one of the owners. The way she’d said “one of the owners” made me wonder if there were more partners than Clarice.

  The call could have been made from home, but I didn’t want them to leave in the time it took me to drive from Seal Beach down to Corona del Mar. Satisfied someone was holding down the fort, Clark and I climbed out of the car and made our way into Rambling Rose.

  Greg had insisted that if I was going to run around annoying people, I had to take Clark with me. Clark had backed him up; so had Steele. My protests had fallen on three sets of deaf ears.

  Saturday afternoon, Clark had called the car rental place and explained what had happened to the back window of his rental. Sunday morning, he had driven off and returned with a different car, saying not to worry, his insurance covered it. Still, I insisted on taking my car this time. It was old, paid for, and didn’t belong to anyone but me.

  Before getting out of the car, Clark and I had gone over our cover story. Unless someone in the shop had been at the service and seen the mayhem, there was a good chance we wouldn’t be recognized.

  Marvin Gunn had made it clear that Rambling Rose represented Shirley’s new life, the life after her stint at the club, and those friends had made themselves scarce after her death. It made me wonder what part of her life was covered by the people in the photo. Were the other fugitives part of her post show-biz life, or had they been around during her time at the club, or did they overlap? Either way, the only folks I noticed from the photo who’d attended her service had been Scott Johnson and Marvin Gunn. Even Clarice had sent an understudy.

  The Rambling Rose office was just as frou-frou as its website, if not more. The roomy reception area was furnished with two floral upholstered love seats, French antiques (or reasonable facsimiles), and vases of fresh flowers. The soft tinkling of a bell announced us when we opened the front door and entered. A moment later, a short, perky blond came out of the back room carrying a hefty sample book of invitations. Her compact figure was dressed in a smart summer pantsuit of subdued peach linen, her hair an explosion of short curls. She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties. Her outfit and makeup were immaculate, reminding me of how beautiful Shirley Pearson had kept herself. It appeared to be part of the job requirement, though if this woman was in drag, I was the pope.

  She put the sample book down on a white French Provençal desk. “May I help you?” she asked in an upbeat voice with a faint girlish squeak to it. Then she noticed t
he side of my face. “My goodness, that looks painful. Are you okay?”

  Gingerly, I touched the large scrape on my right cheek. I’d done my best to cover it, but it was too big and scabby to do much except wait out the healing process. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Silly, really. My cat tripped me on Saturday, and I went down face-first on our concrete patio. Hurt like the dickens.”

  Amber smiled with sympathy, though her own face was scrape- free. She was pretty but not beautiful. With high cheekbones and a slightly upturned nose, it was the sort of face that was very cute when young but might not age well. Just to the left of her upper lip was a mole à la Cindy Crawford. It wasn’t a face I’d noticed at the memorial, but it didn’t seem totally unfamiliar either.

  I stepped up to the desk and got into character for my story pitch. Behind me, Clark nosed around, looking like a bored male dragged into the shop against his will.

  “We’re here to talk to Shirley,” I told the young woman with a smile.

  Her face took an immediate nosedive. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible.”

  I glanced back at Clark, a surprised look on my face. He acted out a sullen shrug. I turned back to the woman. “But I spoke to her a couple of weeks ago. It’s about an anniversary party for our parents. They’re going to renew their vows.” I indicated Clark. “This is my brother.”

  “I’m Amber Straight, Ms. Pearson’s assistant. Former assistant.” She flashed us her sad face again. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Ms. Pearson died last Saturday.”

  I slapped a hand over my heart. “What?” I turned to Clark. “Did you hear that, Donald?”

  Clark and I hadn’t discussed our undercover names, and from the heated glare he gave me, I’d say Donald wasn’t sitting well with him.

  “Yes, Dorcas, I did. That’s a real shame.”

  I patted the hand over my heart in a small, panicked flutter. “Oh dear, what should we do?”

  “This party’s your idea, sis. Just make sure I’m home in time for the game.”

  The game. Doesn’t matter what time of year it is, all a man has to say is the game and people automatically understand he has places to be, and soon. It could be snail racing from a pub in England, but if it’s on ESPN and/or betting is involved, it can officially be called The Game and elevated to a position of must-see TV. In this case, it was Clark’s way of making me do the heavy lifting of lying.