Not One Clue: A Mystery

by Lois Greiman

  “Laney?” I said.

  She stepped out of the kitchen wearing an apron over her cutoffs and looking like June Cleaver with good hair. “You’re home early,” she said.

  “Last client didn’t show. I thought you had meetings all day.”

  “I canceled them. Did you know you have two vacuum cleaners?”

  “Weren’t you supposed to meet with …” I searched my memory banks for the name she had given me but it was gone. “God or somebody?”

  “My director. I told her the house was messy and I couldn’t make it.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Your upstairs carpet is blue.”

  “You blew off your director to clean my—” I paused. “Blue?”

  “Who knew, huh?”

  “It’s always been brown.”

  “I rented a steam cleaner.”

  “Laney,” I said, shielding my eyes from the glare of the counter and dropping my purse onto a chair. “You didn’t have to clean all this.”

  “I know, but the Department of Health can be so nasty if they get involved.”

  I made a face.

  She laughed. “My natural-health recipe box is missing.”

  “Are you serious? The rosewood one that Foxy made for you?”

  “Yup.”

  “With the Green Goo recipe?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the Brain Brightener recipe?”

  “Maybe they realized they’ve been killing themselves with their high-sucrose diet and decided to make a change.”

  “A health-conscious burglar?”

  She shrugged, letting that unlikely delusion shatter. “Or maybe they were hoping for electronics and settled for an etched wood box.”

  “You think they wanted my computer?”

  “Apparently not after they saw it,” she said. “Because it’s still here.”

  “Well, at least we know the guy was value-conscious.” I plopped down in the nearest chair. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. I’m so sorry we forgot to arm your security system.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sorry about your recipes.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” I said, and suppressed a shudder at the memory of green potable slop. “But I’m sorry I’m not sorry.”

  She sighed. “I think I remember most of the recipes. I’ll miss my jean jacket more.”

  “They took your jacket, too?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Maybe you forgot it somewhere.” She shook her head. “I shoved it into my bag on the way home from the flower shop the other night. It’s not there.”

  “Weird,” I said.

  Our gazes met. Hers was atypically solemn. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Mac.”

  I shook my head. “There’s no reason to assume this has anything to do with you.”

  “They only took two items,” she said. “They’re both mine.”

  “You have better stuff than I do. Besides, we don’t know they didn’t take more. It could take weeks before we realize what’s missing.”

  “Besides the bushel of dirt that had been ground into your carpet.”

  “And the mushrooms that were growing beside the toilet. You didn’t get rid of those, did you?”

  She smiled, but the expression was tight.

  “You think this has something to do with the letters,” I said.

  She shrugged. Her brows dipped toward her evergreen eyes. “How many crazies can be out there?”

  “This is L.A. Even you can’t count that high.”

  “I should move out.”

  “You planning to bail on me when things get dicey?”

  She caught my eye. “I’m serious.”

  “I am, too. Do you have any idea how many houses are randomly burglarized in L.A. each year?”

  “I can’t count that high?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “And you hardly live in any of them.”

  “They didn’t take your stereo.”

  “Maybe they didn’t need a twenty-year-old turntable.”

  “You said they dusted for prints?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Did they find anything?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  She nodded, then silently scrunched up her face and covered it with her palm.

  “Laney?” I said, moving toward her.

  She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and waved me away. “I know. I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” She gave me a watery glance. “I just … there’s so much. I should be running lines for the Gabriel movie. And that’s on top of the wedding. Flowers, music, seating. Did I tell you the swans are molting?”

  Swans? I gave her a look. “Why are you worried about fowl?”

  “Jeen’s mom thought we should have swans.”

  “Are you marrying his mom, too?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember. I just … I just want to be married.”

  I stifled my wince and didn’t mention the fact that evidence was, in fact, quite good that she may have lost her mind if that was the case. “To Solberg, right?”

  She gave me a look.

  “Right,” I said. “Of course.”

  “But I want to make Jeen happy.”

  “Happy!” I said, and swallowed a chuckle. “You’re the Amazon Queen. You can’t help but make him happy.”

  “That’s just the thing. I’m not the Amazon Queen, Mac. I’m not any of the things people think I am.”

  “Solberg’s not people,” I said. She gave me a scowl, so I hurried on. “Of course you’re not some half-naked jungle girl, Elaine. You’re better than that. You’re Brainy Laney Butterfield, the smartest, sweetest, most beautiful woman in the world. I’m sure Solberg would be tickled pink if you stood up in front of a justice of the peace wearing a gunnysack and eating a radish.”

  “I don’t like radishes,” she said, and pressed her knuckles against her mouth.

  “Laney!” I said, and took her hand. “What is it?”

  “My life’s a mess. And now I’ve made your life a mess, too.”

  “What are you talking about? My life has always been a mess.”

  “No, it—”

  “Oh, don’t even lie!” I said. “My upstairs carpet is blue. Blue!”

  She laughed a little and I smiled, feeling better. “You’re getting married soon,” I said. “For better or worse. Swans or no swans.”

  She nodded, then winced a little. “But what about you?”

  I looked at her askance. “What about me what?”

  “We’ve been a pair for so long. And I always thought you’d get married first.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I thought you’d find the right guy and live happily ever after so I wouldn’t have to worry about you.”

  “Happily ever—”

  “Well, you know, grouchily ever after, or whatever. I just thought you’d be … settled.”

  “Settled.”

  “And now not only are you unsettled, you’ve got some nut job breaking into your cute little house.”

  I glanced around. “It is kind of cute, isn’t it? When you can see the floor. Blue,” I mused.

  “Get over it.”

  I shook my head. “Are you saying you’re worried about me?”

  “Of course I’m worried about you.” Tears welled in her eyes again. “You’re the best person I know.”

  I stared at her an instant, then glanced over my shoulder before turning back to her. “Me?”

  “You know it’s true.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No. I … Oh crap,” she said, and rubbed her eyes with her right hand. It was the harshest language I had heard exit Laney’s mouth in years. “And now I can’t even tell when you’re kidding.”

  “You’re just tired. Lots of people don’t think I’m funny when they’re tired.”


  “Or any other time.

  “I’ve hired you a bodyguard.”

  It took a moment for me to realize what she said, at which time I canted my head and asked for clarification.

  “I can’t stand knowing you’re in danger, Mac. I can’t. I mean, I have a thousand things going on in my head and I can’t—”

  “You hired a bodyguard?”

  She took a deep, calming breath. “Yes.”

  “For me.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you’re the star.”

  “I’m not a star, Mac. I’m just a … Just a woman on my fourteenth minute of fame.”

  “Laney, you’re one in a million. You’ve been a star since the day you were born. Since the second you were conceived. Since—”

  “Please accept a bodyguard.”

  I stood there staring at her, mouth open. “I had sex for the first time in years,” I said.

  “I realize—”

  I held up my hand. “In fact, I had sex for the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth time in years. You think I want that to stop now?”

  “He doesn’t have to accompany you into the bedroom.”

  “Did I say we did it in the bedroom?”

  She stared at me for a minute, then, “Ick?” she said.

  “I hope you used some heavy-duty cleaner on the kitchen counter.”

  “Baking soda,” she said. “It’s environmentally friendly.”

  “You might want to dine in your room from now on, then,” I said, and she laughed. I squeezed her hand. “I don’t want a bodyguard, Laney.”

  “I ordered a really cute one.”

  “Is that the word you used when you called the agency?”

  “Yes. I said I wanted a cute buff one.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I really am losing my mind, aren’t I?”

  “It’s possible.”

  She blew out her breath. “That’s unfortunate. I’m kind of famous, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  She sighed. “What are we going to do?”

  I stared at her. “We’re going to figure out who broke into my cute little house.”

  “Any ideas how?”

  “We’re going to use our brains.”

  “Wow,” she said.

  29

  Love your enemies. In case your friends turn out to be dumb shits.

  —Donald Archer, whose

  friends are kind of…

  We went through every piece of mail she had, evaluated every word, considered every comma. By four in the morning I felt as if my eyes had been sandblasted and my mind fried in extra-virgin olive oil.

  I flopped back onto Laney’s bed and covered my face with my hand. “I hate people. I literally cannot tell you how much I hate people.”

  “How quickly the bliss of sex fades.”

  “Not like chocolate,” I said.

  “That stuff’ll stay on your hips forever. Unless you drink enough of my Cellulite Chaser.”

  “Oh, dear God,” I said, and covered my head with a pillow. “Please, please, please don’t make me think about your all-natural, made-from-clay-and-nothing-else recipes that …” I paused, removed the pillow, stared at her.

  “What?” Her expression had gone serious, expectant.

  “The letters …” I picked up the first one, skimmed it rapidly. “‘Natural,’” I said and retrieved the next. “‘God given.’” The next. “‘Earthy. True.’”

  “He’s not religious,” she said, glancing down at the nearest missive. “He’s a naturalist.”

  “And now your Green Goo recipe has disappeared.”

  She was frowning.

  “Who knew about it?”

  “No one,” she said. “Foxy swore me to secrecy when she gave it to me years ago.”

  “So only your hairdresser knows.”

  “Not Nadine,” she said. “She’s producing her own products. Hopes to start a natural—” Her words stumbled to a halt.

  After my meeting with Morab the sex slave, and Senator Rivera the sex addict, I had almost forgotten that I’d met Nadine. “Has she asked for your recipe?”

  “Not outright.”

  “But you think she’d like to?”

  Laney looked unhappy. “She’s a good person. Started the condors program.”

  “Which you’ve donated to,” I guessed.

  She shrugged, noncommittal. “But I still get the idea she thinks I should …” Her words trailed off again. “I mean, I thought we were friends.”

  The room went silent.

  “Is it her?” I asked into the quiet.

  She said nothing for several seconds, then glanced away. “Maybe.”

  I took a deep breath, feeling down to my soul that we’d found our culprit. “This isn’t something you should feel guilty about,” I said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “But you do.”

  “It’s just that I’ve …” She paused and shrugged.

  “Been so lucky.”

  “Blessed, really.”

  “It’s not your fault that Nadine didn’t make it big.”

  She stared at nothing, seeming to search for some way to believe she was wrong. But finally she closed her eyes and gave up. “What do we do now?”

  “I suppose we should ask the police to question her,” I said. “Or I could—”

  She jerked toward me. “You’re going to stay out of this, Mac.”

  “I know. I was just wondering who to call. I don’t know whose jurisdiction it would be. It might turn into a pissing contest.”

  “Pissing contest or not, this is their job. Not yours.”

  “I know.”

  She stared at me a moment, then nodded. “Maybe we call Rivera and let him figure it out.”

  “At four in the morning?”

  “Probably not.”

  “First thing when I wake up.”

  “You promise?”

  “Of course I promise.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “What do you think? That I want to get involved with another crazed lunatic?”

  She paused. “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “Are you kidding? In the past few years I’ve been attacked by a tight end, a psychiatrist, an investor, my brother’s friend, an octogenarian, and a cuckolded father. You think I want more of that?”

  She was still staring at me. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Listen, Brainy Laney Butterfield, my life may not be as wildly stimulating as yours but that doesn’t mean I feel a burning need to stick my nose into situations that are likely to get me …” I paused, thinking. “Holy shit,” I said, realizing the truth. “I feel a burning need to stick my nose into situations that are likely to get me killed.”

  “I know.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “You’re the shrink.”

  “Maybe we can blame it on potty training.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe it’s … It’s probably my mother. Did you know she—”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I know everything about her. But I don’t care what it is.”

  I looked at her, alarmed by the tone of her voice. And sure enough, she had tears in her eyes again.

  “I just want to make it stop,” she said. “Put it in the hands of the police.”

  Something in me resisted the idea. But I fought it down. “Okay,” I said, shaken by the realization of my own neuroses. I was pretty damned sure licensed psychologists were not supposed to be neurotic.

  She stared at me, then nodded. “I love you, Mac.”

  “I know. It’s one of the great wonders of the world.”

  “It’s a wonder you put up with me.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Through the years Laney had saved my ass in more situations than I can count. I owed her everything, including my ass.

  “Not so much,” she said.

  “You need sleep more than I do,
” I said, and reached for her hand. She gave it. I hoisted all twelve pounds of her to her feet. “Go to bed,” I said, and she wobbled off to brush her teeth.

  My brain was as fuzzy as a Georgia peach when I called Rivera first thing in the morning. He contacted the necessary people, and despite the fact that I stayed out of the way entirely (or perhaps because of) things happened quickly after that.

  I was in a session with a narcissistic who had no apparent reason for his condition when the phone rang. Shirley answered it and subsequently informed me that I should call Rivera. The lieutenant informed me that the cops had gone to Nadine Gruber’s house. When they had informed her of their suspicions about the letters, she had immediately broken into lovely, self-controlled tears and admitted her crimes. After some probing, she had even confessed to breaking into my house to obtain the lauded Green Goo recipe. There might be a sound bite on Channel 9. Apparently attractive but crazy hairstylists made good press.

  Later that night I spoke to him again.

  “So that’s it, then,” I said.

  “Disappointed?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Anticlimactic,” he said. “Boring.”

  “I like boring.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Dull is an aphrodisiac.”

  “I’d be insulted if I believed you.”

  “Believe me. If you were any more boring I’d be sleeping right now.”

  He chuckled, drew a deep breath. “How are you doing?”

  “Hush, I’m sleeping.”

  The line went quiet for a moment, then, “You did good work on this.”

  I blinked, glanced at the receiver, then scowled. “I must be more tired than I realized. I thought you said—”

  “We had a half a dozen people on this case. No one else caught the hair connection.”

  “Maybe you’re more tired than I realized.”

  “Why can’t you just take a compliment?”

  I smiled. “Lack of experience.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?” His voice was all rumbly again. I considered telling him that I hoped I’d be screwing him, but that seemed to lack a certain amount of panache. “Buying groceries,” I said instead.

  “Didn’t you do that just last month?”

  “You are a funny man, aren’t you?”

  “That’s probably why you love me.”