Mary gave Mitchell a grateful look and then patted Betty’s shaky hands. “We’ll get plenty of sunshine,” she tried to soothe Betty. Betty sighed, forced a weak smile to her face, and waited for breakfast.
As Betty waited for her breakfast, the killer called Mr. Walsh. “Mary Holland is coming and you’re going to do exactly as I say or die.” The woman grinned to herself. “It’s time to play a little game.”
Chapter 6
Betty sat with her mouth ajar as the yellow cab puttered down a long road lined with palm trees, bright sunlight, fresh air, and beautiful mansions that were simply breathtaking.
“My goodness,” she gasped, spotting a stone wall that reminded her of an ancient castle. The stone wall surrounded a mansion the size of Pineville; at least, that’s how it seemed to Betty. Each mansion sat on green manicured lawns surrounded by lush flower gardens, greenhouses, bathhouses, guest houses—houses that resembled tiny little mansions themselves. “How could a person live in such a place and not get lost?”
Mary sat stunned herself. Never in her life had she seen such wealth holding hands on the same street. The mansions, the yards, the stone fences, the flower gardens…everything screamed of privilege—a privilege only a select few were allowed to have. She quickly understood how the riches of being a star quickly murdered a person’s heart—and conscience. A person could certainly forget that he was human just like everybody else living in one of the mansions, sitting beside a glimmering pool, sipping cold lemonade, resting under the cover of wealth and fame…yes, a person could certainly forget he, or she, was human just like everybody else. “Those mansions are impressive,” she finally said.
Mitchell leaned over the front passenger’s seat and studied Mary and Betty. Mary, as always, looked dashing in the soft pink she was wearing. He liked how Mary allowed her hair to flow freely down over her shoulders and how the white sun hat and sunglasses made her look famous, even though she was a simple small-town woman who loved the simple things in life.
Betty, on the other hand, sat wearing a striped green dress that made her look like a green bean. The poor woman was wearing a straw hat and sunglasses big enough to swallow her face. Mitchell didn’t mind. He was very fond of Betty and was growing accustomed to her kooky ways and sense of style.
“This street is called Mansion Haven,” he explained. “You’ll find some very famous people living on this street.”
An old man who could barely see over the steering wheel, wearing a black and yellow taxicab hat, suddenly spoke in a sour tone. “I remember when this street was nothing but trees and brush,” he said, slowing down the cab and easing over to a black iron gate blocking off a long concrete driveway leading up to a mansion that was a mixture of a castle and a Victorian-style house. “In my day, a person wasn’t divided by where he lived. Don’t let these houses blind you, ladies, like they do everybody else.”
“I have my home,” Mary assured the old man. “I’m very grateful for my home, too. These mansions are very beautiful, but they don’t appeal to me.”
“That’s a good girl,” the old man told Mary. He looked at Mitchell. “You on a case again?”
“Charlie,” Mitchell replied and patted the old man on his shoulder, “the only official case I’m on is trying to track down cold clues on old cases that lead nowhere.” Mitchell threw his eyes at the mansion. “Monroe Baker lived here,” he said.
“I know, I know,” Charlie griped. “I lugged that snot around more than once.”
“Really?” Mary asked. She leaned forward in her seat.
Charlie nodded his head. “I lug a lot of these spoiled brats around,” he told Mary. “You’re my first customers of the day, but I’m sure I’ll get called back to haul somebody over to the studios or be asked to drive a few silly tourists down here to see the mansions.”
“Have you driven anyone to this exact mansion in the last couple of days?” Mary asked.
Mitchell slowly pulled out a Lucky Strike and lit it. “That’s a very good question, Mary. One I was going to ask myself,” he said, impressed.
Charlie parked the cab in front of the driveway and thought for a minute. He was seventy-two years old and his memory had become mighty stubborn. “Come to think of it, I did drive a woman here late yesterday afternoon,” he said, straining to remember his passengers from the day before. “Come to think of it, I’ve delivered that same woman here a few times.”
Mitchell worked on his Lucky Strike. Even though the morning was warm, he was dressed in his black suit in order to appear professional at all times. The cigarette, he felt, topped off his look. In Los Angeles, looks counted where brains lacked. Even though Mitchell had plenty of smarts and was a highly intelligent man, he understood the game and played along in order to mingle in with the crowd and grab the bad guys.
“Can you give me a description of the woman?” Mitchell asked in a calm voice, feeling like the mystery woman who had taken his gun in Tennessee was watching the cab from the mansion at that very moment.
“Real pretty,” Charlie said. “Blondest hair I’ve ever seen…too short for my taste though. I like a woman with long hair. My wife of fifty years who passed away two years ago had the longest hair you’d ever seen. Yes, sir.” Charlie looked down at his wrinkled hands. “I don’t intend to ever get married again,” he sighed. “No sir, I’ll go to the grave with my Rachel, the sweetest woman that ever lived.”
Mitchell reached over and patted Charlie’s shoulder again. “Charlie, what else did the woman look like?”
Charlie raised his eyes and looked at Mitchell. “Well, she was real pretty, like I said, and had blond hair. She was wearing…let me see if I can remember…oh yeah, a black coat which I thought was strange.” Charlie shook his head. “These movie people are strange all around,” he pointed out. “Anyways, that’s about all I can remember.”
“Mitchell?” Mary asked.
“The same description Monroe Baker gave to the police,” Mitchell confirmed. “She’s here, Mary.”
Mary lifted her eyes up to the mansion. The mansion stood tall, silent, and somehow…very dark and creepy instead of beautiful and appealing. Somewhere within the womb of the mansion lurked a killer that was painting the inside of the mansion black with horror.
“What do we do?” she asked Mitchell. “If that awful woman is inside, and she most certainly is, we’ll walk right into her trap.”
Mitchell puffed on his cigarette and studied on Mary’s question. Before he could answer, a flashy gray and black 1942 Pontiac Streamliner raced up behind the cab, slid to a stop, and parked. Seconds later, the driver’s side door burst open and a large man in his late fifties stormed out wearing a gray suit that cost more than Mary would ever earn in a lifetime. The man tossed on a gray fedora and marched up to the front passenger’s side door on nervous legs.
“Sit tight,” Mitchell said and climbed out of the cab. “Mr. Walsh, good morning.”
Gregory Walsh tossed his eyes at the mansion. “Is it?” he asked in a voice dripping with money and power.
Mary leaned forward and soaked in Gregory’s face. Gregory had a thick gray mustache sitting on a face that reminded her of a cruel rancher stealing land away from innocent people.
“That depends,” Mitchell said, tossing his Lucky Strike down onto the street and stomping it out. “Do you know if any rain is being forecast to come our way?” he asked in a curious voice.
Mary looked at Betty with eyes that said Now we’re getting to see the big-city stuff…the big-time stuff that we read about in books. Betty gripped her purse and closed her eyes.
Gregory glanced at the mansion again. “Look, Burbank,” he said in a low, careful voice, “I was sent here with a message. I don’t like playing errand boy, but I have…no choice.”
“We all have a choice, Mr. Walsh,” Mitchell said, feeling the bright warm sun bathing his face. “Just a minute.” Mitchell reached back into his seat, grabbed his black hat, and placed it on his head. “No sense in get
ting a sunburn.”
Gregory stared at Mitchell. “Always wearing black, huh, Mr. Tough Guy?” he said in an upset voice that worried Mary. “Well, let me tell you something: You’re not so tough. You’re nothing in my town. I had you snatched off into a corner and ordered to flip through dead files. I own Los Angeles, do you hear me? The studios own this town!”
“Mr. Walsh, you’re turning red,” Mitchell responded in a calm voice.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Gregory snapped. “Listen to me, you lousy cop, I’m here because I have to be, not because I care one ounce about your worthless life. I’m here because my own life is in danger.”
“Yes, I assumed the mystery woman—who may or may not be your daughter—has hooked her claws into you for some reason or another,” Mitchell told Gregory. Gregory’s mouth dropped open. “Now, now, Mr. Walsh, I am a detective and it is my duty to understand these matters.”
Gregory took a step back. “How did—I mean—” he stuttered and managed to catch his tongue. “Listen to me. You can’t go inside the mansion today.”
“Oh?” Mitchell asked.
“Yes,” Gregory said in a nervous voice. Realizing that Mitchell knew the truth had taken the heat out of the man’s puff of steam.
“And why not?” Mitchell asked.
“Burbank, if you care about your life and career, you’ll do as I say!” Gregory snapped and backed away toward his fancy car. Then he slipped up and let information pass from his mouth that caused tremendous damage. “Sprained ankles heal, do you hear me?! Come back in one week, do you hear me, Burbank? One week!”
“Of course…one week,” Mitchell replied.
Gregory reached the driver’s side door. “No games,” he ordered Mitchell, “or I’ll…be forced to take drastic actions.” He pointed at the cab. “That goes for your friends, too!”
“Of course, Mr. Walsh.”
Gregory jumped into his car, slammed the driver’s side door shut, and raced off. Mary quickly climbed out of the cab and hurried to Mitchell. “Sprained ankle?” she asked.
Mitchell rubbed his chin. “Charlie,” he said, leaning down into the cab, “can you find out if anyone picked up a passenger at this location last night?”
“Mac was running this part of town last night,” Charlie told Mitchell. “I drive the morning and afternoon shift. Mac takes the evening and night shift. He’s always been a night owl.”
“Can you please call Mac and find out?” Mitchell asked. “We’ll stay here.”
“There’s a payphone a few blocks over. I’ll go wake Mac up…he’s going to fuss up a storm, but business is business,” Charlie said. “Ma’am, you need to get out or come with me,” he told Betty.
Betty opened her eyes. “I’ll…get out,” she said and carefully climbed out of the cab and walked over to Mary. As soon as she was in the clear, Charlie sped off. “Oh dear,” she said, “he drives awful fast.”
Mitchell turned and studied the mansion and then he patted the gun resting on his hip—he had a spare gun at his house that he picked up after arriving in LA. “We might have been given a special key to the mansion, ladies,” he said. “Let’s hope that what I’m thinking is true.”
“This is all so confusing,” Betty said, rubbing her forehead. “All we wanted to do was put on a talent show and raise money for our wounded boys. But did that happen? No. Monroe Baker was killed…a tornado nearly ripped our town in half…and now we’re standing out in the sun scratching the back of our heads. Oh dear.”
“Betty, I was told to come directly to this mansion,” Mary explained. “The woman we’re looking for didn’t give details.”
Mitchell patted his gun again. “I know coming here without backup is very dangerous,” he told Betty, “but I’m no longer officially assigned to Bridget Carson’s case. As a matter of fact, the case has been closed and marked as ‘Unsolved.’” Mitchell stopped tapping his gun and went for another Lucky Strike. “I know our loose tiger is inside…or I thought she was…and it’s my duty to go after her, Betty. But I’m not foolish. I know that mansion very well. I know where the hidden hallway is. I know how to get inside unseen.”
Mary looked at Mitchell. “You were going to use us as bait?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, how awful.” Betty frowned at Mitchell. “You’re supposed to be our friend.”
“I am your friend,” Mitchell promised and studied the mansion. “We’ll wait until Charlie gets back. If he comes back with the news I think he will, then we’ll go inside the mansion. If not, well then, we’ll play it my way. However, I have a gut feeling that the mansion is devoid of occupancy.”
Mary looked at the mansion and thought about Gregory Walsh. “Mr. Walsh sure seemed confident that his words would hold us prisoner. Why, we could leave Los Angeles right now…just drive away. And what would happen? Would that awful woman really travel all the way back to Pineville? Would Mr. Walsh release his hunting dogs on us? I very seriously doubt it.”
“What would happen,” Mitchell explained in a very serious voice, “is that I would somehow be framed for Bridget Carson’s murder. I knew I would be thrown into the tiger’s cage once I arrived back in town, but that’s a chance I have to take.” Mitchell looked at Mary. “Mr. Walsh is after a scapegoat, Mary. I’m that scapegoat. You two, on the other hand, are too necessary to the game.”
“Game?” Betty asked.
“The woman we’re after, Betty, was like a fish out of water in Pineville. She needed to come back home in order to feel in control again,” Mitchell explained. “She’s formed a very dangerous plan that, if executed without flaw, will link me not only to Bridget Carson’s murder but to Monroe Baker’s murder as well. That will get her off the hook. But she needs help, someone with power, money, and influence. So who did she go to…dear old daddy? Maybe.” Mitchell focused on Betty. “This woman isn’t stupid, Betty, and she’s not risking her life on a frail hope that Mary will actually turn up with the photo she’s desperately searching for. No, she’s formed a different plan and a different game that will protect her.”
“My goodness,” Betty said, “this is all so confusing to me.”
Mary put her arm around Betty. “I think I’m starting to understand the game,” she said and stared at the dark mansion with eyes that were slowly starting to comprehend just how killers who roamed the streets of Los Angeles thought.
Charlie returned almost a full hour later. He pulled up to Mitchell with his elbow sticking out of the driver’s side window. “Mac didn’t pick up his blasted phone, so I had to ride to his house,” he explained in an irritated voice.
“We understand,” Mitchell told Charlie. “Thank you for doing that. What news did Mac give you?”
Charlie shoved a cigar in his mouth and turned off the cab. “Took me a minute to wake him up,” he said. “Anyways, when Mac finally crawled his sorry self out of bed and answered the door, I was able to question him about his passengers.” Charlie lit the cigar with a match and looked up at Mary and Betty. Both women, in his eyes, were very beautiful. The string bean was a nervous fritter, but so was his own wife. Maybe that’s why Charlie liked Betty. “Mac has a lousy memory like me, but he did remember picking up a woman from this address last night and taking her to the hospital.”
“Hospital, huh?” Mitchell asked and looked at Mary with curious eyes.
“Sprained ankle was the reason,” Charlie said. “Mac said the woman was in bad shape. He insisted the woman had a broken ankle, but the woman kept arguing it was just a sprain.” Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows.”
“Did Mac drive her back to this address?” Mitchell asked.
“Nope,” Charlie said. “Mac said after he picked up the woman, this part of town started to chirp with crickets.”
Mary turned away from the cab and studied the mansion. “Should we try to go inside?” she asked, wondering if the woman had set a trap of some kind in order to create a false sense of security. “M
aybe she was only faking her injury.”
“I don’t think so,” Mitchell told Mary. “I read Mr. Walsh’s eyes. The man was desperate.” Mitchell studied the mansion. “We’re in the clear.”
“But if you disobey what that horrible man told you to do,” Betty worried, “he’ll hurt you.”
“Betty, I’m a cop. And right now, the only chance I have to save my neck and catch a killer is to do my job.” Mitchell reached into his pocket, pulled out some money, and paid Charlie.
“Hey, this is too much,” Charlie said. “You overpaid me.”
“Keep the change, Charlie, and go eat at the diner tonight, on me.”
Charlie stared at Mitchell. “It’s real bad, huh?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” Mitchell confessed. He shook Charlie’s hand. “You didn’t hear a word and you don’t know anything.”
“I never do,” Charlie said. He brought the cab to life, gave Mary and Betty a concerned look, and drove away into the bright sunlight.
“Let’s go,” Mitchell said. He walked Mary and Betty up to the gate, pulled a set of keys out of his right pocket, looked around to make sure the coast was clear, and unlocked a heavy lock. “We need to hurry and get inside.”
Mary watched as Mitchell returned the keys to his pocket and pushed the gate open just enough to squeeze through. “Betty, you first,” Mitchell said.
Betty gripped her purse and nervously stepped through the gate. Mary followed, and Mitchell brought up the rear. Once everyone was through, Mitchell quickly closed and locked the gate. “When this case is finished,” he told Mary and Betty, “I’m going to put away my badge and retire. I knew City Hall was owned by the studios but when my own boss backs down and shoves me into a corner…it’s time to leave town.” Mitchell walked up the long concrete driveway leading up to the mansion before Mary could reply.
“Let’s hurry,” Mary told Betty. She grabbed her best friend’s hand and walked up the driveway, throwing her eyes into the bright green yard, around gorgeous flower beds and tall palm trees. Southern California was rugged yet very beautiful, Mary thought, raising her eyes up and soaking in a tall palm tree. The charm and beauty—the allure of fame—was tempting. All temptation left Mary when she reached the front door of the mansion and remembered Monroe Baker.
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