by Meg O'Brien
“Really? What did you find out?”
“First of all, archeologists recently found seven ancient bronze dildos in a Han dynasty tomb. Apparently this is the first time they’ve found so many from that era, around 25 A.D., but it seems they’ve found dildos in China that date back twelve thousand years. In fact, the Chinese were the first known people to make and use them. The ones they found recently were cast from a mold, which means they might have been made by an artisan who specialized in them. It might have been someone whose lifework it was.”
“Fascinating,” I said, meaning it. “But how does this relate to the murders?”
“Well, they were apparently widely used by homosexuals.”
I nodded. “I did know that. But I still don’t quite believe Arnold or Tony were gay. I think this was meant to look like a gay crime, which would have made sense to the police because there have been several in the past few months.”
“You could be right, of course. Archeologists also think the dildos uncovered in Xian could have been administered, shall we say, by eunuchs—to satisfy sexually deprived concubines.”
“Concubines? Hmm. If I’m remembering my history right, the concubines in Imperial China were second wives, who usually had few legal rights—and a very low social status.”
“Right. So they were often neglected,” Nia said, “except for the ‘help’ of the eunuchs and the dildos.” She grinned. “I wonder if the wives were okay with that? Maybe they even preferred it. Or did they have to do the laundry, cook the meals, clean house and go out and get a job besides?”
I smiled. “Now, that I would complain about.”
We sat there for long moments in silence. Finally I stretched, yawned and took up a pen.
“I appreciate all this, Nia. Now go home. And don’t forget to bill last night as overtime.”
“Okay. You really want me to close up?” she asked, looking at the delicate little French watch she always wore. “It’s only one o’clock.”
“I doubt anyone but the press will come beating down the doors this afternoon. Unless you want to hang out and play no-comment games?”
“Say no more. I’m outta here.”
Once alone, I sat there drinking coffee and pondering my fate for another hour or so. Truth is, I catnapped through the whole process, so no conclusions were reached. The only good result was that I didn’t miss the messenger who brought the new keys to my house.
Finally, I gave it all up and went home.
Stepping cautiously into my living room, I looked around. Not a soul, good or bad, in sight, and the locksmith and alarm people had both left their cards and bills on my breakfast bar, signifying that they’d done their jobs. Even so, I walked cautiously into the bedroom, throwing open the closet doors to see if anyone was lurking there. But the new locks had apparently done their job of keeping out burglars and/or murderous husbands.
For a few minutes I just sat on the side of the bed, staring at nothing. My mind and my body were so tired, they were numb. A bath, I thought. That would do the trick—if it didn’t just knock me out.
Ordinarily, I would have opened my living-room and bedroom doors to the deck, letting in a cool ocean breeze. When the sun came around to the west, it was stifling in here without that. Now, though, it seemed better to keep the doors closed and locked when I was in the tub. Funny how vulnerable a break-in can make you feel.
While the bathtub filled, I sat on the edge and called the cell-phone number Dan had given me. When he came on the line I turned away from the running water and said, “I need to know where Tony’s, Arnold’s and Craig’s bodies are, and when they’ll be available for burial. I know Craig’s murder wasn’t your jurisdiction, but can you help me with that?”
“Sure. But why?”
“There’s no one else to bury them. I’m going to talk to an undertaker and see what I can do.”
“That’s awfully nice of you,” he said. But there was a question in his voice.
“You want to know if I’m feeling guilty or something,” I guessed.
“I don’t know if I was thinking about guilt, so much as—”
“Sure you were. And yes, I feel guilty. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with my new wonderful life, I might have known what was going on in theirs.”
“From what I hear, you actually did pay a bit of attention to Tony Price,” he said.
“And where would you be hearing that from?” I said sharply.
“Oh, gossip. Here and there.”
“Yeah, well, you should know better than to believe everything you hear in this town. Tony and I were friends, and I was his agent. That’s it. No more.”
“I wasn’t suggesting there was anything more,” he said.
“Maybe not, but there was something in your voice. I told you everything there was to tell about Tony and me the other night in Brentwood. So don’t waste your time picking at it.”
There was a small silence before he said, “Mary Beth, it’s not me. It’s higher up.”
“Oh?”
“There are questions being asked, especially since Craig Dinsmore’s murder yesterday. Two of your authors, an ex-husband—”
“They don’t really think I killed them!” I blurted out.
I could almost see him shrug, as if to let me know he didn’t put much stock in the talk. But that didn’t stop me from feeling a genuine tug of fear.
“Why don’t we talk about it at dinner?” he suggested.
“No, I want to talk about it now.”
“And I can’t. Look, there are people around. Meet me at seven at the Captain’s Dinghy. You know it?”
“I know it.”
“And your old school friend is coming, too. Right?”
“Lindy? I haven’t spoken to her about it yet. Why do you want her there?”
“Just make sure you’re both there,” he said.
I tried to ignore his tone and what it meant, but it wasn’t easy. Did someone at the LAPD really think I might have killed my authors and my ex? And could they possibly think Lindy was involved as well?
That seemed crazy, and it was all I could do to remember why I’d called in the first place. As he was hanging up I said, “Wait, what about the bodies? Where are they?”
“Someone from the L.A. County Coroner’s Office would have been called to the scene when the El Segundo police were first notified,” he said. “I know the two bodies from Brentwood are still being autopsied there, and I would imagine that’s the same with the one from El Segundo. I’ll give the coroner’s office a call.”
“I can do it,” I said.
“You could, but officially, I can get more information and get it quicker. I’ll have something for you by dinner tonight. Okay?”
“You know, I was looking forward to a nice charbroiled steak for dinner. Now it sounds like Lindy and I are the ones getting grilled.”
“Just be there,” he said, hanging up.
I soaked in the bathtub and thought about Dan’s words, and the fact that there were questions being asked about me and the three murders. Finally, since I knew I was innocent, I decided not to worry too much about it at the moment. Better to think about real problems, like money.
The only other author I could think of who might have filled Tony’s shoes—at least as far as being best-selling and bringing in major bucks—was Patrick. I wondered if he’d agree to come back. I couldn’t ethically approach him with the idea, but if we did go to dinner as he’d suggested, he might bring up the idea himself—that is, if he was unhappy with his current agent. I hadn’t seen any sign of that from him, but sometimes authors are too embarrassed to admit they’ve made a mistake. Also, he’d acknowledged last night that the “big deal” that was being touted around Hollywood had not actually come together yet.
Was there a problem? I made a mental note to look for any potential openings in the conversation.
Other than that, I had four authors who were making everything from the mid-to-high five figures
writing cookbooks, how-to texts and true-crime novels. With my fifteen percent commission on those, I wouldn’t starve. But I’d have to make a lot of changes.
Building an author up to bestsellerdom is a catch-22. Publishers are reluctant to pay for publicity until the authors are selling tons of books. But without publicity, there’s no way to sell tons of books. It’s true, of course, that now and then a publisher will tap an unproven author on the shoulder—usually a new author without bad sales figures in his or her past—and “make” that author’s book a best-seller with massive amounts of publicity. Most authors, however, slug along as “midlist”—meaning that they don’t have a prayer of making it to the New York Times top ten best-seller list, at least not in their lifetime.
I yawned and pulled the plug on the bathwater. It was getting cold, and I hadn’t yet addressed my personal feelings regarding the three murders. I would probably miss Tony most, because he was such fun to be around. A world without Tony Price in it seemed dimmer somehow, not as bright as the one that existed three days ago.
As I dried myself, my thoughts turned to Lindy. I’d better call her about dinner, I thought. It was growing late, and I’d almost forgotten my little charge.
She answered immediately and sounded excited about going out.
“We’re meeting a friend of mine,” I said. “Okay?”
“Sure! The more the merrier. You know me.”
Not so much anymore, I thought, hanging up after a quick goodbye.
Looking through my closet, I wondered what I should wear for dinner with Detective Rucker. I took out a red dress, then a blue one, holding them up to me. Hey, not bad. Sexy, even.
“Too sexy for tonight,” I muttered. No sense giving Dan Rucker the wrong idea at dinner, since I wasn’t so sure how much I trusted him anymore. Finally, I dumped both dresses back into the closet and slid into jeans and a T-shirt. My worn leather jacket, which I slung over my shoulder in case the night was cool once the sun went down, completed this deliberately drab little outfit. On my feet I wore running shoes for getting a head start on my male dinner companion.
Not that I planned on having to actually run anywhere, but when one is dining with cops, one never knows.
At the Malibu Beach Inn, I took the elevator up to the third and top floor, walked down the hall and knocked on Lindy’s door. I held my breath, thinking for some reason that she might be gone. But the door was thrown open almost immediately by a Lindy Lou who looked a hundred percent better than the one who’d blown in from the streets last night.
“I thought you’d never get here!” she cried, grabbing my arm and tugging me inside. “I can’t wait to get out of here! And to a real restaurant! My God, have you any idea how long it’s been?”
I stared at the glass coffee table in front of the sofa. There was a closed pizza box on it and two bottles of wine, one of which was empty. Looking back at Lindy I saw that her face was flushed and her eyes glazed.
“Lindy, you’re drunk! And you ordered from room service again, when I told you not to!”
She laughed and spun around like a child. “No, silly! I wouldn’t do that. Now, don’t you be mad at me, Mary Beth, but I was getting bored here alone all day, and I finally just walked over to the deli across the street and down a ways, and got some food! Then I took a walk on the beach, and—”
“Lindy! I told you not to let anyone see you. You were supposed to stay right here and not even open the door! What the hell were you thinking?”
She looked immediately contrite, but that didn’t stop her from babbling on. “I was careful, Mary Beth. I made sure no one was around watching, and I put a towel around my head and wore the terry-cloth robe they give you in the bathroom, like I’d just gotten out of the shower! Here at the beach everyone dresses real casual, so I didn’t think anyone would notice a woman going to the deli with a towel on her head. And I didn’t wear any makeup. Of course, I don’t have any, but the point is, if anybody was looking for me, they never would have recognized me! I thought you’d be proud of me, Mary Beth.” Her blue eyes brimmed over with tears.
I sat on the sofa and ran my hands over my face. I was enervated rather than energized from my bath, and couldn’t think how to handle this.
“It’s okay,” I said finally. And when that wasn’t enough I said, “Really, I’m proud of you, Lindy. You did good.”
She looked somewhat mollified, and I said, “I hope you haven’t ruined your appetite with that pizza.”
“Believe me, I could eat three more of those and dinner, too. Where are we going?”
“It’s a steak house called the Captain’s Dinghy. Like I said, we’re meeting a friend of mine there, and it’ll be fun. It’s dark there, like an old English pub, dark wood, red booths and all that. No one will recognize us.”
She gave me a sharp look and her voice rose to an almost hysterical pitch. “Recognize us? Like who? You mean Roger? Is he here in L.A.? Is that why you didn’t want me to leave the room?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Lindy! I just think we should be careful after last night. Keep a low profile. Not that you’re helping things much.”
She sat next to me on the couch and began to cry. “I know you’re mad at me, but I only did what I did this afternoon because I miss my baby so much. It’s tearing me up, being away from her, and I couldn’t just sit here thinking about her. That’s all I do, think of her. All the time. And sometimes I feel like I can’t stand it anymore.”
I patted her back and did my best to soothe her. The truth was, I could understand how Lindy felt. Six years after giving up my child, I still thought of her, missed her, and worried about where she lived and whether she was being treated well. At one point I even thought of looking for her, but I never could justify interfering between her and the only mother and father she’d known all these years.
Not that getting her back would be possible, anyway, but it was a fantasy I had now and then. Taking her for walks on the beach, buying her pretty clothes, watching her grow and learn new things every day…
I forced myself to block out the sweet baby face that filled my mind, afraid that Lindy and I would drown in our own puddles.
“Let’s get cleaned up and go to dinner,” I said. “The food should be great, and we both need a change of scene.”
Lindy nodded, but then looked down at herself, still in the terry-cloth robe. “I don’t have anything to wear, though.”
I handed her a dress-shop bag I’d brought along with me. “Try this.”
She peeked inside. “Oh, Mary Beth! Are you sure?”
“Of course I am. Now, hurry up.”
She almost skipped into the bathroom, carrying the little blue and silver bag. I could hear her moving about in there as she changed into my favorite dress. Let Lindy be the sexpot tonight, I’d thought at the last minute, tossing into the bag the deep pink dress that showed off my tanned arms and legs. Lindy’s were more like porcelain, white and creamy. The kind of skin that lets you know she’s been pampered all her life, and that she’s never had much physical to do.
When I didn’t hear any sounds from the bathroom for a couple of minutes, I walked to the door and called out.
“Lindy? Aren’t you dressed yet? We have to go.”
She didn’t answer, and I tightened up. “Lindy?” I called out more loudly.
“Bruthing my teeth,” she lisped. “Be there in a min.”
Thank God. There weren’t any stairs from here to the beach three stories below, but the more I saw of Lindy Lou, the nuttier she seemed. Part of me wouldn’t have put it past her to shinny down a drain-pipe and run off to some place like Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. I could just see her there, hopscotching over the stars’ handprints in her toweled head and terry-cloth robe.
The Captain’s Dinghy was on a quiet side street in Santa Monica, not far from Pacific Coast Highway. I kept the MG’s convertible top up, all the way to the restaurant. In addition, I kept a sharp lookout to see if anyone was following us. Gerar
d Burton, Esquire, for instance. I hadn’t told Lindy about him, and I was very curious about what he’d been doing here and why he was looking for Lindy.
If he was tailing us—though I couldn’t really imagine that prim little man doing so—he was good. The cars behind us on PCH kept changing, and once we neared the restaurant there was no one behind us at all.
I’d made no special effort to disguise myself, as it seemed a silly and unnecessary idea. I gave Lindy a scarf from my back seat, though, one I keep handy for windy days with the top down. She took great care to wind it around her head turban-style, and with sunglasses and no makeup, I never would have known her.
But that didn’t mean Roger wouldn’t. If he was looking for her. And if that was the case, I could only hope he was like one of those husbands on shows like The Dating Game, who can’t even remember the color of his wife’s eyes.
When we arrived, Dan was already seated at a booth, and the maître d’ took us there, setting the menus down quietly and with none of the irritating fuss that attends dinners in the more upper-crust L.A. restaurants. A white-coated waiter filled our water glasses immediately and asked if we wanted before-dinner drinks. Lindy’s face lit up and she started to nod, but I said, “No, we’re fine.”
She glared at me, but when the waiter was gone she seemed more interested in checking Dan out.
“Lindy, this is Dan,” I said, leaving out the title “detective.” “And Dan, this is Lindy, an old friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dan said, turning on more charm than I’d seen from him before. He reached for her hand as if to shake it, but then kissed her fingers lightly. “Very nice to meet you.”
Here we go again, I thought, with Lindy getting all the guys. Why on earth had I let her wear my killer pink dress?
And what did she think of that scruffy beard scratching her knuckles?
I watched her relax and smile coquettishly from beneath her lashes. If the whole scene hadn’t been so fascinating, I might have thrown up. Fortunately, before that could happen the waiter was there again. He told us the specials—including the prices, which was nice. See, you’re already thinking of cutting down, starting with ordering from the right side of the menu. So Tony or no Tony, you’ll do fine. You won’t end up living in a park. You can sell the MG and get a Dodge Dart, sell the house and find a rundown shack in Death Valley.