He shrugged, and then changed the subject. “You doing okay?”
“You mean because of the murder?”
He nodded. Then, in a gruff voice, as if uncomfortable with his own attempt at empathy, he said, “I know it can be hard, first time you see something like that.”
“Not as hard as being shot,” I said. I spoke from experience. Bullet wounds were one of the few things Al and I had in common.
“I don’t know. That’s different,” he said. At that moment, Al’s cell phone rang, and he sent an inquiring glance in my direction. I nodded, and he licked the syrup off his fingers and answered the phone. I could tell by his tone that he was talking to one of his talented and beautiful daughters, the younger of whom was an FBI agent in Phoenix. He was probably in for a long chat, so I decided to do some calling of my own. I dialed Kat’s number. She didn’t sound entirely glad to hear from me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Wrong? Nothing. I mean, nothing really. It’s just that I don’t think you’re going to get that house.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother-in-law says they’re not sure about selling. I mean, they aren’t sure it’s the right time. Right after Felix’s sister’s murder and everything.”
I asked in frustration. “Why not? That’s ridiculous. Don’t they want to get out of there? Isn’t the whole idea of living with such a horrible memory oppressive to them? I have to have it. We’re bursting at the seams in our apartment, and that’s even without the baby. Peter can’t get any work done because of the construction project on our block. We have got to move. And damn it, Kat. That’s my house.”
“You are so morbid, Juliet. Really you are. Why would you want to live there?”
I didn’t grace that comment with a response. After all, she had seen the living room. What was a dead body compared to hand-blown wall sconces?
“Let me show you some other houses,” Kat said. I sighed. “Come on.”
“You yourself said that everything out there is crap.”
Now it was her turn to sigh. “Well, maybe something will turn up. I mean, this place did, right?”
I was just about to beg off another fruitless house-hunting expedition when I noticed Al trying to get my attention. “One second,” I said to Kat.
“Possible insurance investigation,” he said, holding his hand over the phone.
“Really? Where?”
“Pasadena.”
I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to pick up the kids soon.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll take the meeting myself.”
I put my phone back to my ear. “Kat?” I said.
“So? Are you coming?”
“Sure. But is it okay if I bring the kids? I’ve got to pick them up from school in half an hour.”
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got Ashkon with me today. He and Isaac can entertain each other.” Kat’s son was a year younger than Isaac, and nearly three inches taller. He also outweighed my kid by a good twenty pounds. Isaac would never admit it, but Ashkon scared the bejeezus out of him.
“That’ll be great,” I said.
Al was wiping his mouth with a carefully folded napkin when I got off the phone.
“Good case?” I said.
“Probably not. But it’s billable hours. And that’s what matters, right?”
I nodded. “Call me and let me know how it goes.”
Six
KAT and I crammed our three kids into my station wagon, shoving the car seats in on top of each other in a mountain of straps, buckles, and velcro. Despite Kat’s entreaties, I wasn’t willing to risk the buttery leather of her Mercedes. I’d bought Ruby and Isaac bags of sour gummy bears as a bribe to ensure good behavior on our real estate rounds, and I knew from experience that at least two or three of the sugar-encrusted globs were going to end up adhered to someone’s butt. Better that it should be my crud-mobile that suffered the consequences of my lousy parenting.
“Just a couple, Ashkon,” Kat said, staring in horror at her son’s beatific face as he jammed the candy into his mouth, licking his fingers and giggling maniacally. Given Kat’s various food phobias, I suppose it was entirely possible that this was her child’s first experience with sugar in his life. He had crammed two-thirds of his bag of candy into his mouth, and he sat in his booster seat with the blissed-out look of someone who has just found the secret to eternal life.
“Sorry,” I said. “I probably should have asked you before I gave him those. It’s just that since Ruby and Isaac had them . . .” my voice trailed off.
“It’s fine, really,” she said, looking nauseated. Thank goodness my friend was too polite to yell at me. It probably didn’t hurt, I guess, that she was enough of a real estate agent to remember that she wanted to make a sale at some point.
“Okay, so. What do you have to show me?” I asked.
Kat reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “There isn’t much new on the market. We saw almost everything the other day. But I found one place we haven’t looked at yet.”
It took a good forty minutes to wind our way up to Mulholland Drive. The house, when we finally arrived, didn’t look too bad, if you happened to be a devotee of bad 1970s architecture. And who isn’t, really? I could barely bring myself to get out of the car, and it was only Isaac’s urgent need to get to a bathroom that convinced me to go inside.
The listing agent was waiting for us in the kitchen, and I was full of something akin to admiration when I saw the avocado green appliances and orange Formica cabinets. You’ve got to appreciate that kind of devotion to the palette of the period—and 1973 was such an interesting year for colors.
“It’s beautiful!” Ruby announced, her voice almost reverent.
“What?” I said, staring at her.
“This house. It’s just like The Brady Bunch! I want to live here, Mama. Please, can we live here?”
With Peter’s purchase of TiVo he and Ruby had lately become devotees of all the television shows we used to watch when we were kids. Ruby was absolutely obsessed with both The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family, and wandered around singing, “I Think I Love You,” and howling ‘Oh my nose!’ at odd intervals.
“You’re right, little lady, this is a beautiful home! Let’s see if we can convince your Mommy to buy it for you!”
I shot the listing agent who had made this comment a baleful scowl. He smiled back. Unlike Kat, this realtor looked the part. His blond hair was sprayed and marceled into a high wave that perched on his head like a sparrow on a tree branch. He was impeccably turned out in a black linen jacket and matching pants. I’d never before seen linen so crisp and unwrinkled. A gold ring in the shape of a horseshoe flashed on one knuckle, and it was all I could do to keep from telling him that he had the thing upside down—all the luck would leak right out of it. Worst of all, I had never met anyone so perky, not even when I had tangled with a religious cult. He had greeted Kat with an effusive hug, and begun to rave about the house as soon as we walked in the door.
My frown at his comment to Ruby seemed to faze him not at all. “This place is a true gem,” he shrilled. “Honestly, I can’t even believe I’m letting you guys in! I should be saving it for my own clients.” He waggled a reproving finger at Kat, as if my friend had forced him to open the doors of this dump to us.
“Now just look at this carpeting,” he said, flinging open the double doors to the dining room. “It’s in perfect condition, but if you don’t like it, you can tear it right up. Who knows what’s underneath. Could be parquet!”
Kat winced, and I nearly laughed. The mauve shag carpeting probably concealed something, but it was more likely to be bare cement than anything else.
The real magic of the house, however, was that it seemed to have been designed by someone with homicidal feelings toward small children. I’d never before been somewhere quite so kid-unfriendly. The circular staircases had no railings and led down to cement floo
r. I kept Isaac’s hand tightly in mine, because I didn’t trust him to avoid the spiky wrought-iron sconces that were placed just at the level of his eyes.
We drifted aimlessly through one hideous room after another, the children amusing themselves by making faces in the mirrors that lined every wall and some of the ceilings. The master bedroom was nearly the death of Ruby, although it was hardly her fault. How could she have expected that the sliding glass doors would lead to a sheer twenty-foot drop to the asphalt below.
“They must be redoing the balcony!” the agent said, Ruby swinging from his hand. I couldn’t bring myself to thank him for grabbing her collar and saving her life.
Finally, once it had become obvious that unlike the listing agent, we were not the types whose cheerfulness could not be dimmed even by peeling bathroom fixtures and water-stained ceilings, he led us out to the garden.
“It’s perfect for children. Perfect. There’s even room for a play structure!”
I followed his pointed finger with my eyes. “Where?” I asked.
“Right there!”
“In those sticker bushes?”
“It’s a xeriscape—a low-water garden. Very fashionable, and environmentally sensitive.”
I murmured something noncommittal, then found my attention distracted by the shrieks of a child. Little Ashkon had managed to impale himself on the thorns of one of those succulents.
“Oh no!” Kat screamed, tearing through the garden, tripping over the rusted patio furniture.
“Stay right here!” I ordered my children, sitting them down on the back step—the only area not overrun with child-eating thorn bushes. “Do not move!”
I ran over to help Kat. She was trying to yank Ashkon’s arm free of the barbs, but their gyrations served only to entangle him further.
“Wait!” I barked. I waded warily into the garden. Kat held her son still while I carefully disengaged him from his predator, thorn by thorn. Once he was free, Kat lifted him in her arms, and we trudged back to where my kids were sitting, quietly for once.
“Perfect for kids?” Kat snarled at the other agent, who had the grace to blush.
By the time we got back into the car, Ashkon had stopped crying, and had begun showing off his scratches to Isaac, who expressed very satisfactory awe at his friend’s bravery. I took off down the hill, as fast as I could.
“Fine,” Kat said.
“Fine, what?”
“Fine, we’ll get you the Felix house.”
“Really?” I smiled at my friend. “Really?”
She had her arms crossed over her chest, and she looked grim. “I just warn you, it’s not going to be easy. Nahid is planning a full frontal attack for when the boys decide to put the house on the market. She’s lined up a psychic to do this insane ‘ghost-clearing’ ceremony, and she’s already booked a dresser for the open house.”
“A dresser?”
“You know, like a decorator.”
“But the house is beautifully decorated!”
Kat shook her head. “If there isn’t something gilded in every room, my mother-in-law doesn’t consider it done.”
“Ah. She must love your place.”
Kat laughed bitterly. “Not a holiday goes by that she doesn’t try to foist some monstrosity off on me. You would not believe what she gave Reza for his birthday this year.”
“What?”
“I don’t even know what it’s supposed to be. It hangs from the ceiling. It’s covered in gilt sparrows.”
“Ew!!”
“My sentiments exactly. It went right into his study, with every other present she’s ever given us. At this point that room looks like Ali Baba’s cave!”
“So what do we do? How do we get me my house?”
Kat shook her head. “I don’t know. I have to think about it. If we wait until it goes on the market, we’ll be screwed. Knowing my mother-in-law, she’ll jack the price up and get a bidding war going. I wouldn’t be surprised if she manages to convince people that a dead body is good feng shui. Our only hope is to get an accepted offer before it goes on the market.”
“How do we do that? Isn’t the owner’s boyfriend Nahid’s cousin’s son or something? They’re not going to sell it to us, especially not if they know she can make them more money.”
Kat wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t know. But that’s our only hope.”
We rode in silence for a while. Then I said, “What if I went to talk to Felix? What if I offered to help with the investigation of this sister’s death? You know, in my capacity as an almost-licensed private investigator, and an experienced criminal defense attorney. I could act as his advocate with the police, that kind of thing.”
“You’re saying you want to ingratiate yourself with a murder victim’s brother, in order to buy his house on the cheap?” Kat said.
I glanced over at her. “Yeah.”
She heaved her feet on the dashboard and tapped her toes. She looked positively disgusted with me. Finally, she said, “That could work.”
Seven
WHEN we got home I foisted the kids off on their father with instructions to give me an hour’s peace and quiet.
“And you know what would be great?” I said.
“What?” Peter asked, Isaac dangling upside down from his shoulder and Ruby wrapped tightly around his legs.
“An early dinner.”
My husband glanced ostentatiously at his watch. My generally constant level of pregnancy starvation had resulted in our evening meals creeping closer and closer to the daylight hours. I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t seem to make it past five. I suppose that wouldn’t have been so bad if I weren’t always hungry again by eight. Yes, all right, I’d been eating two full suppers since the first trimester of my pregnancy. Two breakfasts, too. Also two lunches. So sue me.
“How about if we make homemade pizza?” Peter asked.
“Mmm,” I said, wondering how I’d survive until the pies came out of the oven.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll make you an extra one for tonight. And have an apple if you’re hungry now.”
Thank God I’m married to an understanding man. So sympathetic was he, in fact, that he had taken, with each pregnancy, to matching me pound for pound. Alas for him he could not breastfeed the pounds away.
I waddled off to Peter’s office and logged on to his computer. In a short while I had gathered a very detailed picture of Alicia’s brother, Murray Felix. No surprise the man went by his last name only. The name Murray conjured up many things—a bar mitzvah boy, a certified public accountant, a podiatrist with bad teeth. But Murray, the fashion designer, on the cutting edge of every trend? I don’t think so. So Felix it was. A name that was also a brand.
Felix had launched his label with a collection of old-school preppy clothes, a la Ralph Lauren, but with a twist. The men’s suits were cut a little tight, with bright colored ties that would not have passed muster at the Harvard Club. The women’s gowns looked like fairly conservative classics, but in black and white only, with necks so high and hems so low that they were nearly demure. Except they were each characterized by a plunging back nearly to the buttocks, or a cut-away section that revealed an unexpected peek of the side of a breast. The fashionistas had raved about Felix’s quirky creativity, his lush fabrics, his unexpected vision. And the hordes had responded by buying, and buying big.
Within a few years, however, other quirky, unexpected, lush designers had come on the scene, and Felix’s star had begun to fade. Then, last year, the man had come up with the marketing coup of all time. He hired as a spokesman an eighteen-year-old rapper from Compton named 9 MM and launched the line that made his career. 9 MM had a brother serving a life-sentence for murder, a mother with three crack cocaine possession convictions on her record, and more street cred than any other gangsta rapper in the business. The clothing line was called Booty Rags and, from the pictures I saw on the Web, seemed to consist primarily of gigantic cargo pants, tight shirts in vaguely
Indian patterns, and dresses of torn spandex that revealed significantly more than they covered. Booty Rags were all the rage—everyone from Hollywood starlets, to teenage nymphets, to the well-maintained and impeccably toned matrons of Beverly Hills was prancing through their days draped in the torn and bedraggled finery. For those, like me, whose bodies would not stand up to the rigors of micromini dresses and see-through tank tops, Felix sold T-shirts with ‘Booty Rags’ scrawled in a facsimile of graffiti tagging. No wonder Alicia’s brother was selling his house in Larchmont. He had moved way beyond that pleasant neighborhood, and well into the land of gated estates.
The aroma of baking pizza interrupted my Internet reverie. I followed my nose out to the kitchen and found my husband and son swathed in identical white aprons. Their hair and faces were dusted with flour, and they had rigged up a catapult system out of wooden spoons and elastic bands.
“What’s up, guys?” I asked, from what I thought was the relative safety of the doorway.
“Extra dough,” Peter said. Isaac leaned back and fired off a grayish clump. The T-shirt I was wearing had ridden up over my round belly, revealing a strip of midriff. The dough caught me right there.
“Ick,” I said, peeling off the cold clot. “Gross.”
“Yeah!” Isaac squealed. “Really gross. Like brains!”
I winced. “Ick,” I said again. “Where’s Ruby?”
“She didn’t feel like helping. She’s down on cooking for some reason. She’s in her room, playing computer games.”
I left my men to their battlefield, hoping vainly that one or the other of them would become inspired to clean up. I found Ruby hunched over the iMac she had inherited when her father upgraded his system.
“What’cha doing, kiddo?” I asked, sitting down on her bed and picking a bit of pizza dough off my stomach.
“Barbie dress up.”
Ruby’s favorite computer game was a particularly vacuous one in which she spent her time crafting outfits for Barbie to wear. Her current project looked like a bra and panties in a lime green, with fringes.
Murder Plays House Page 6