Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money

by Linda L. Richards

  Donut man hesitated for a second as though debating whether this was something he should mention or not. Then he shrugged, obviously having decided it didn’t matter. “One of our guys, heading to the office, reported they saw a sports car in this area this afternoon. Would have been around one or two: right around the time you said this all happened. He said he wouldn’t have even noticed, but it was a pretty special car. And a little different for up here.”

  I didn’t have to ask, so I volunteered. “Don’t tell me: it was a chartreuse Porsche Boxster.”

  “Naw, but close. It was a Porsche all right. But it was green. Snot green.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Emily was amazed to see me standing on her doorstep. As much by my disheveled state as by the actuality of me being there. Dropping in unannounced is so not an LA thing: there’s just too much distance between places to make it really practical. Yet here I was.

  “You look like shit,” she said cheerfully as she invited me in. “I can’t even believe it. I should take a picture: cool, collected Madeline Carter looking like she’s just gotten back from safari… and the lions won.”

  “Would you believe I was in the neighborhood and just thought I’d drop by?”

  “Somehow, I would. But where the hell have you two been?” she asked, including Tycho in the conversation. His staying in the car at this point had seemed entirely out of the question. He needed a break as much as I did.

  “In the San Bernardino National Forest,” I answered blithely. “And look, I completely want to fill you in, but can I just be the guest from hell for half an hour and grab a shower? I gotta tell you: I feel a lot worse than I look.”

  “Not possible, doll. You look like hell. But, yeah: shower away. My bathrobe is on the back of the door. Use it if you want and we can burn your clothes. You and supermutt eaten in the last four or five days?”

  “I had some truly awful pizza a few hours ago. Tycho got none. If you’re offering, we’re eating.”

  Emily had a steam shower. A lot of images from that day — and even that week — are blurry, but that shower stands out in sharp and perfect relief: a lovely little island in an impossible storm. When I rejoined Emily in the living room, wrapped in her fluffy white bathrobe, I felt nearly human again.

  Like mine, Em’s apartment is not large. Both of us have sacrificed space in order to have view. However, where my vantage over Las Flores is a distant sort of overview, Emily’s relationship with the Pacific is more intimate. Emily’s place is at beach level and, even at night when you can’t see much of anything, you can hear the view.

  While I was in the shower, Emily’s living room had become an oasis. She’d gotten some incense burning and classical music was being beamed to us from the stereo. Somebody’s Requiem for Something. Soothing.

  I settled into a comfy, deep green armchair, almost large enough to be a loveseat. Emily sat on the sofa with the coffee table between us laden with four kinds of cheeses nestled happily on a plate surrounded by two kinds of grapes. On another plate, Emily had placed slices of apple, mango and avocado. A third held vegetarian paté and good European crackers. Plus there was tea and two highball glasses with about a half inch of amber liquid in each.

  “Scotch,” she said, noticing my interest. “Single malt. Ballvenie. You looked like you could use it. I gave Tycho some cat food while you were in the shower. Not much. Just enough to take the edge off. Now sit. Enjoy. And tell me what the hell is going on. And I mean now. Around mouthfuls. You have to pay for this kind of service, you know.”

  So, once again, I unburdened myself to my new friend. And, once again, she sat and listened, stopping me only occasionally with a clarifying question. A lot, I realized, had happened in a couple of days.

  “You should have taken me,” she said reproachfully when I was done.

  “I should have. You’re right. But weren’t you on set?” I hoped she had been. It frankly hadn’t occurred to me to involve her still further than she already was.

  “You’re right,” she said nodding. “I was on set. Still, you sound like you had a lot more fun than I did.”

  “Fun?”

  “Sarcasm,” she said, holding up one hand as though to ward me off. “Sorry. Kidding. So you seriously think you saw Ernie get whacked?”

  “Whacked?”

  “You know: shot, killed, murdered.”

  “I know what it means. It just sounded sort of odd coming out of your head. Sounds like movie talk,” I smiled, thinking that, all things considered, Emily was entitled to movie talk. “But, yeah. I think it was Ernie. And I think he… got… whacked.”

  “But the wife thought he cooked the whole scheme up?”

  “Yeah,” I’d forgotten that until now. Emily was right. What I’d seen put things in a whole different light. “Looks like she was wrong.” And then, what about her car? And it had to have been her car. How many chartreuse Porsches could be running around that neck of the woods? My money said not a lot. “Or maybe partly wrong? I don’t know anymore. And here I still am, stumbling into all of this stuff. What the hell do I think I’m doing? Playing detective? And then I get lost. What if Ernie is dead. And what if he died because I didn’t get there soon enough?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about that. I mean, there might be things in here you can beat yourself up over…”

  “Thanks.”

  “But that’s not one of them. What happened would have happened if you were there or not. From what you’ve said, it didn’t happen because you were there, but in spite of it. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  I did. But still. “If I’d been a little quicker…”

  “C’mon, Madeline. You know that’s just goofy. A man with a gun. And you. There’s nothing you could have done without endangering yourself.” Which I thought was fairly perceptive of Emily, not that that’s surprising. But I hadn’t even mentioned feeling somewhat guilty that I hadn’t rushed into the fray and somehow pulled ol’ Ernie out. Maybe I hadn’t even really admitted it to myself. Yet, there it was, just as Emily had laid it out. And she was right, of course. But still.

  I told Emily I wanted to check in with Tyler and talk to him about what Anne Rand had told me, plus clear my own telephone messages. I’d been gone all day and hadn’t given a single thought to the market. And no withdrawal.

  Tyler had news of his own and didn’t wait for mine. “We got another note, Madeline. This afternoon.”

  “That’s wonderful, Tyler,” then I hesitated. “Is that wonderful?”

  “I hope so. They’re asking for money this time.”

  “How much?”

  “That’s the weird part: ten grand.”

  Ten thousand dollars was a surprisingly small amount. The barbecue last week had probably cost him more than that.

  “What do they want you to do?”

  “Just take the cash down to the mailbox at the bottom of the hill tomorrow night at eleven. Tape it on, like they’ve been doing. And there’ll be a letter taped to the box telling me where I can go and pick her up.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “That’s what I thought. Because it’s not like an exchange or anything. So they might take the money and not give me Jennifer. But, like you said, it’s not much money. I have to take the chance.”

  I hang up the phone without telling him any of my news: about Anne Rand or about maybe finding boyfriend person. With the latter, I was afraid that he might go down to the surf shop himself, do some yelling and blow any chance I had of contacting the kid. And the stuff with Rand seemed too complex for the moment, involving as it did the necessity for explaining why a PI had been watching me at the house.

  I got off the phone feeling positive, though. To me it looked more and more like Jennifer was pulling the strings on this one. With trying to extort ten thousand dollars from her father, maybe she was getting close to resolving it. The two of them could worry about the discipline problems that obviously entailed. I didn’t put the situa
tion out of my mind but, at the moment, it didn’t look like there was a lot I could do.

  My voicemail let me know I had four messages.

  Mechanical voice: Six-thirty. Pee, Emmmm.

  Hiya, sweetie. I wanted to let you know I was sorry about the other day.

  Mom. I hadn’t called her back.

  You’ve told me often enough how you feel about things. And I understand it. Really, I do. Even if it didn’t seem like it. But listen, kitten, part of it is just a mom’s pride, believe that. I know you’re the best stockbroker in the world — and I tell everyone that, too. And it doesn’t seem right that the best stockbroker in the world can’t broker her mom’s stocks, if you get what I’m saying.

  Even though I’m not a broker anymore.

  Oh, I know you say you’re not a broker anymore dear, but no matter what, I know how these things work. I mean, a doctor can quit being a doctor, but he can still save lives, if you know what I mean and I’ll bet you do.

  Anyway, despite all of this rambling…

  And my mom can ramble.

  … I just wanted to tell you that I do understand and I do love you and I know everything will turn out for the very best.

  Oh mom, if you could see the day I’ve had.

  Seattle is lovely, though it’s been a bit wet.

  This was a newsflash?

  I was at Nordstrom today and bought this really lovely, sky blue jacket with very careful faux fur trim. I bought it for me, but it made me think of you.

  As ridiculous as that sounds, there was something very warm and homelike about this statement. For a second it made me smile. And it made me miss my mom. Isn’t it just goofy how the oddest things can do that?

  Well, it’s dinnertime and I’d hoped to catch you, but I think your not being home this time of night is maybe a good thing. I hope you tell me about him. Call soon!

  Mothers. The slightest fluctuation of my estrogen levels and mom is on the alert. If I’m out after nine pm she starts phrasing my wedding invitations and planning my trousseau and a layette. Dinnertime away and she’s at least hopeful. And while none of that is strictly true, it’s probably not far off, either.

  Mechanical voice: Six-forty-five. Pee, Emmmm.

  Hey Madeline. Your voice on the machine sounds really good. Sounds just like you.

  Steve. I’d never heard his voice on the phone before, but I liked the sound of it. Somehow deep and vulnerable all at once. Yummy.

  It’s possible that you’re going to think this call is incredibly pathetic. I’ve decided to risk it. I’ve been home from work exactly half an hour and I keep thinking about you, so I thought I’d call. Well, you’re not there but maybe when you do get there, you can call me.

  A hesitation. Then:

  I thought it was nice you came by the office today. Sweet. Thanks. Bye.

  Not pathetic. No. Charming, that was the word. He was charming. So why was it I kept, in one way or another, avoiding him? Strange. I’d have to think about it.

  Mechanical voice: Seven-oh-five. Pee, Emmmm.

  Hello Madeline, this is Alex Montoya. Dinner last night was lovely. I enjoyed your company very much.

  I shot Emily a glance. “It’s raining men.”

  Did her ears perk up? “What?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  I had hoped we might dine again tomorrow evening. Saturday. Please call me at your convenience.

  His accent was perfectly charming. He was perfectly charming.

  I called Steve. He answered on the first ring.

  “Yello.”

  “Hi Steve. It’s Madeline. From Langton today…”

  “I know who you are.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

  My voice smiled back. “I’m glad.”

  “What are you doing right this second?”

  “I’m at my friend Emily’s house in Huntington Beach. I had a sweaty day, so I just grabbed a shower and we’ve been sitting here having snacks and blabbing and drinking good scotch so, of course, that made me think of calling you.”

  “You’re seriously in Huntington Beach?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because I’m only a couple of beaches away. I live in Laguna.” Which made sense. I’d completely forgotten that, like Brea, Huntington Beach is in Orange County.

  He seemed to expect some kind of response to this, so I said: “Oh, cool.”

  “Yeah, very. So what are you guys up to tonight?”

  “Well, actually, I’m pretty tired. I ended up having an exceedingly busy day,” talk about understatement. “And I guess we thought we’d just blab for a while longer and I’d crash here.”

  “Now don’t even think about putting me off again, Madeline. It’s not happening, you hear?” He was cheery, but firm. “Look we’ll do something low-key. Is Emily the girl who was with you the other night?”

  Emily is 38. “She’s the one.”

  “Cool. My roommate is home tonight, too. We were just wondering what to do with ourselves and now we’ll have plans. The four of us can go out to dinner.”

  I looked at the clock in the living room. “Steve, it’s nine-thirty. Everything will be closed.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re at the beach. Things are just getting warmed up.”

  “I’ll have to ask Emily,” I said doubtfully. “Hang on.” Then, while shaking my head no, I addressed her: “Steve wants to know if we want to have dinner with him and his roommate. They’re in Laguna.”

  I am such an idiot sometimes. I mean, of course she saw me shaking my head. But here’s what she said: “What’s his roommate’s name?”

  Which I didn’t have to translate, because Steve heard. “Tristan Kelly. Tell her he’s a writer.”

  This was getting too high school. I parroted what Steve had said, adding — to both of them now — “I don’t have anything here to wear.”

  I got replies in stereo. “Emily will lend you something” and “I’ll find you something.” So I was pretty much outvoted. No one really seemed to care that I was extremely tired and had had a very hard day. In fact, when I’d hung up, and having agreed that the two of us would meet Steve and Tristan at a little restaurant not far from Emily’s place, Emily assured me that getting out and having a bit of fun was “precisely what I needed” and that it would “do me the world of good.” Which she and I both knew translated to: Steve is extremely hot so there’s a good chance his roommate will be hot and there’s no way you’re screwing up this perfectly good opportunity.

  And, understand this: high school isn’t just for sixteen-year-olds. At least, not the social aspects. Given the right associations and the right set of circumstances, any woman — regardless of age — can turn into the sort of mindless, giggling party animal she was just post-puberty. I’ve seen my mom get together with some of her school friends — this more than four decades after they’d left school. And, man: was that embarrassing. So with Emily running around blabbing mindlessly about make-up and what to wear and “I hope he’s cute” pretty soon, tired or not, I got into the spirit.

  Even though Emily’s closet was not nearly as well stocked as Brian’s appeared to have been, she pulled happy little sundresses — the kind that look cute but don’t need to be precisely the right size to work — out of her closet for both of us. We were staying at the beach, we reasoned, we could look beachy if we wanted. And even though my feet are bigger than Emily’s, she had one pair of sandals that didn’t look ridiculous on me and wouldn’t hurt, provided I wasn’t forced to walk too far.

  We left Tycho with another can of Em’s cat’s food, lots more water, instructions not to eat Puss Puss and we were off.

  I’ve always tried to make it a point not to date men who are prettier than I am. It just keeps things simpler. With Steve, I knew, I was on the point of throwing that rule out.

  The guys were already at the restaurant when we got there, and Steve looked exceptionally fine. He was tan and lean in a faintly ridiculous Hawaiian shirt, khaki short
s and sandals. I’m not someone who undresses men with her eyes, but in Steve’s case — since I’d actually seen him in that condition, and quite recently when I thought about it — I made an exception. From the look in his eyes when he saw me, I thought he might be doing the same. Our eyes met over a mutual blush, which would be cute if you weren’t inside it.

  I could tell right away that Emily liked Tristan, which was sort of a fun bonus. We sat at a round table for four — boy, girl, boy, girl. Tristan and Emily looked like a couple from the first moment. I wondered what I had set in motion. It turned out he was a screenwriter working on projects of about the same magnitude as Emily’s, which is to say no one was throwing Oscars at either of them quite yet. And they’d worked with some of the same people, so they had tons in common. He was maybe 33 or 34, but looked older, so the whole age thing seemed less heinous than the difference between Steve and me. Anyway, what with the related lines of work, the people and places in common and the fairly genuine spark that could probably be seen from the other side of the room, before very long Steve and I might as well have been alone because Tristan and Emily sure were.

  “I knew this was a good idea,” Steve said, indicating the two of them with his glass of cabernet shiraz and a satisfied grin. “In fact, when I met Emily at the Hyatt, I thought of Triss.”

  “He seems nice.”

  “Yeah, he’s a good guy. You know, both of us are kind of past the place in our lives where you have to have a roommate, but we get along so well we thought we’d keep it going until there was some reason not to,” he hesitated. Then, “I’ve just been realizing, I know next to nothing about you. Which, when you think about it, seems pretty strange.”

  “I guess. I don’t know much about you, either.”

  “It’s true, but I have a feeling there’s less to know,” I thought for a second he was talking about my vastly deeper reserves of experience due to my age. But, of course, he was not. “After all, you’re the one continually shrouded in mystery.”

  “I guess it must seem that way,” I admitted. “But, really, it’s only this week that’s made me mysterious. Honest. And then, in some ways, only as things relate to you.” I knew that sounded cryptic, but I was tired, the wine was good, the company sweet. “And I know I promised you the whole story, but not tonight, OK Steve? As it is, I think I might have a tough time keeping my face out of my soup.”