Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money

by Linda L. Richards

  Emily showed up after about ten minutes and, between us, we managed to shift Jennifer from the car, down the stairs, to Tyler’s front door. Tasya looked at us wide-eyed, not quite comprehending, calling for Tyler while she ushered us in.

  “Madeline! Jennifer! Oh my God,” Tyler swept the teenager into his arms.

  She woke slightly at the movement. “Daddy?”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Tyler demanded. Tasya put a hand on his arm.

  “I’m not sure. Drugs I think. Though I don’t know what kind or… or if they were self-administered or given to her to keep her docile.”

  “What happened?”

  “Tyler,” Tasya interjected. “Not now. There’s plenty of time for that later. Let’s see to Jennifer first, please.”

  “Does she need a doctor?” Tyler demanded of me, but Tasya answered.

  “No. Look at her,” Tasya had pulled open one of Jennifer’s eyes and checked the pupil’s dilation. She opened the girl’s mouth and looked at her tongue and the color of her gums. She managed all of this with the quiet, competent air of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. I realized that there was more to Tasya — and her background — than met the eye. “She needs to sleep. Please, put her in her room, let me see to her.” All of Tasya’s attention was focused on Jennifer, for the moment Tyler had ceased to exist. “Please, Tyler. No more standing,” there was no room for argument in her tone. “Take her now.”

  Emily and I hovered around the foyer until, after a very few minutes, Tyler came back and motioned for us to follow him into the kitchen. He called a GP friend of his who said he’d make a house call in half an hour. Then, while he put water on for tea, Tyler looked me directly in the eye and said, “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

  “It’s sort of long story,” I started, lamely.

  He indicated for us to sit at stools at the big kitchen island. “We’ve got time.”

  Emily and I sat and I told Tyler about tracking Corby down and arranging to meet him in Malibu.

  “You told him you were auditioning him for a movie?” Tyler asked, incredulous. “Where did that come from?”

  “Air, kinda. Plus, when I went to these surf places, it seemed like a preoccupation. Being in movies.”

  “What were you guys thinking? Do you have any idea how dangerous this could have been? To you and to Jennifer?”

  We nodded, both of us feeling like chastened schoolgirls. “I think, really, we just wanted to see if Corby was involved and maybe see if we could find out where he had her or if he knew where she was.”

  Emily spoke for the first time. “We were completely blown away when she turned up in the van with him.”

  “And then you just grabbed her?” Tyler fumed.

  “Pretty much,” I said nodding.

  Though, for a few minutes, he’d looked ready to kill someone, with a single sigh, Tyler seemed to give in to whatever he was feeling. Part relief, I thought. And part defeat. He put his head in his hands. “What the hell was it all about? Do you think she did it? The kidnapping stuff. Or was it all the kid?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe it was all just some stupid prank. You’re going to need to talk to Jennifer. Later. But, even if she had nothing to do with it,” I knew I was approaching shaky ground, so I moved with caution. “There’s been stuff going on with her. With you and Tasya. Stuff that’s maybe just beginning to manifest itself in weird ways.”

  Tyler’s shoulders kind of slumped at that. “I know. I just wish I knew what the hell to do.”

  “Just love her, Tyler,” Tasya said as entered the room, coming up behind her husband and putting her hands on his shoulders. “I know you do, but I think she needs to see it more. The way, perhaps, things were before I arrived.”

  “Oh, Tasya. No,” Tyler started to protest, but Tasya shushed him.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Tyler,” she smiled. “But she is your baby. And, no matter what, she won’t be with us in this house forever. She’ll have her own life some time. Maybe soon. Right now she needs more of you,” Tasya said firmly. “Perhaps more than you were able to give her before. It’s not too late, my love. But it will be if you don’t act soon. I can see it.”

  Motioning to Emily that we should go, I told Tyler and Tasya that I’d be out all afternoon, but that I was anxious to hear how Jennifer was and that I’d love to be able to come by and see her later.

  Tyler assured me he’d call me later in the day. “And come by anytime Madeline. You too, Emily. Don’t even knock.”

  “Do you think that Corby kidnapped her?” Emily asked when we were back at the guest house.

  I shook my head. “Not so much, really. At least, however it ended up, I think she started it.”

  “God, Madeline. When I was that age, I thought acting out was cutting a class to see a movie with my friends. Not staging a kidnapping so I could go to acting school.”

  “You think she did it.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I guess. Don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “What I think doesn’t matter. I know I like her, Emily. I think she’s a good kid who is troubled right now. But I think they’re good enough people,” I pointed at the ceiling, towards Tyler and Tasya’s house, “that they can get her through it. Though some professional help probably wouldn’t be out of order, either.”

  “Look, I gotta go,” Emily said, getting up and collecting her bag. “I was supposed to be on set an hour ago,” she grinned. “I have a good excuse though. Let’s talk later, OK? I want to hear how it goes with the kid.” I nodded agreement: so did I.

  When Emily was gone I sat and collected my thoughts for a minute. Two self-kidnappings in one week was more than I could handle. In Jennifer’s case, it had been for attention. With Ernie it was definitely more complicated. Or was it? I had to find Arianna.

  I showered, wincing when the hot water met my raw knees. Afterwards I dressed carefully — the Prada again: I need to looked like a well-heeled matron. Anyway, long pants would cover the road rash I’d acquired skidding after Jennifer.

  Outside the Brentwood cafe where I’d met Mrs. Billings, the billboard was where I’d remembered. Thankfully it hadn’t been plastered over. And there was the name: “Beverly Marston, Brentwood’s Number One Realtor since 1997.” Despite the Anne Rand debacle, it stood to reason that if she had used a realtor to find the home she’d told me she and Ernie had rented, Arianna would have secured the services of the very best one.

  I used a pay phone to call Ms. Marston. I was in luck: she was in her office doing some paperwork. If I wanted to buzz on over, she told me, she had the time to discuss my needs.

  On the stairs on the way up to her office, I belatedly remembered the naked condition of the third finger of my left hand. I wear my grandmother’s engagement ring on the center finger of my right hand: a talisman. She gave it to me when I moved to New York; she had remarried and had a shiny new ring from her shiny new husband. Secretly I thought she wanted me to wear the ring because she hoped it would magically attract some keeper I’d actually keep. So far it hadn’t worked, but I wore it because it was simple and lovely and a part of my grandmother I know was dear to her. At least until she met Henry.

  On the stairs, I skooched this ring off my right hand and transferred it to the ring finger on my left. It was loose, of course, and not actually a wedding ring, but — with the stone turned inwards — it could do in a pinch.

  In person, Ms. Marston looked perhaps ten years younger than her photo had indicated. Such can be the case with photos shot to make the subject look more beautiful and glamourous. They do both of those things, but often at the price of youth. Something in the preservative chemicals of the make-up. Or the grade of linoleum the photo was shot through. In person, she was an average-looking fifty, rather than the beautiful sixty the photo had led me to expect.

  We sat on either side of the Queen Anne desk in her exquisitely appointed office. A notebook and a Waterford fountain pen
were ready on the desk beside her. As we spoke, every so often she paused to scratch my answers — or her interpretations of them — down for future reference.

  “You’re looking for a new home?” she said once we’d gotten introductions out of the way

  “That’s right. My husband has just taken a job out here,” I watched her face carefully while I spoke. “He’s heading up a local company. Based in Culver City. We’ve decided to rent in Brentwood while we get to know the area. We’ll decide where to buy later on.”

  Scratch, scratch, scratch. “Where do you live now?”

  “Connecticut,” I said, remembering what Arianna had told me. “And we’ll keep the house out there, of course. But, for now, we need something rather special. We both like our privacy and…” what would Arianna want in a home? “And something with a good address and in a neighborhood that’s not too crowded.”

  Scratch. Scratch. “Children?” She asked.

  “Not yet, but at some time, perhaps.”

  Scratch. “Do you work also, Mrs. Carter?

  “No, no. Not anymore. I have my charities. My… interests.”

  She regarded me thoughtfully for a few moments. “You know, it’s uncanny, I rented a house to a couple just a few weeks ago with very similar needs.”

  I suppressed my urge to punch my first into the air and shout, Yesss! Instead, I forced a bored look onto my face and said, “Oh, really?”

  It was her turn to look closely at me. “Yes, you know, you even look very much like her. Like the woman of the couple, I mean.”

  “And you rented them my house, I suppose?” I said it with a careless laugh. I was leading, but would she follow?

  “Yes, I suppose I did. It’s a splendid place, on Oakmont Drive. Do you know that area?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know Brentwood that well. But I like what I’ve seen. It seems quite pleasant. Just what we’re looking for.”

  “Oh, from your description, Brentwood is exactly where you and your husband will want to be. If you have time, perhaps I can take you out there for a peek? We won’t be able to go in, just drive by. But it will give me a better idea of what you’re looking for, help me hone in on the type of place you and your husband might like.”

  This was more than I had been fishing for. A guided tour to Arianna’s house. I had been hoping she’d say the street name: which would at least make my haystack a little smaller. And she had: Oakmont Drive. But now she was actually going to take me out there. I was very pleased with myself. Realtors, like brokers, are hungry creatures. Promise them food and they’ll take you anywhere. I settled myself into “call me Bev”’s Mercedes — dove gray S600 — and enjoyed my tour of Brentwood Heights.

  The Carmichael Billings house was set well back from the street in an old Brentwood neighborhood.

  “It’s not an ostentatious place at all,” Bev said. “Which is why I wanted you to see it. It wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of Djarleeng,” she looked pleased with her joke. I smiled thinly. “And it’s just five bedrooms and the teensiest little pool. Some people looking in this price range want something more… impressive. But it really is one of the better neighborhoods. That seemed important to the people I told you about, so… I thought it might be to you, as well.”

  I assured her that it was just what I was looking for and, though she insisted on taking me past several other places on a circuitous route back to the office, I told her that the first one was exactly what I wanted and the others she showed me wouldn’t do at all. She told me she’d put together a list of things to show me and would call me in a few days.

  *

  I pulled into the driveway on Oakmont without much apprehension. Arianna had been forthcoming enough with me and open enough to chatting that I didn’t think she’d mind my dropping by like this, though it amused me somewhat that it had been easier to find out where she lived than getting her phone number would have been. And she was the one who’d sicc’d a private investigator on me. I didn’t think I’d call her on it — I’d told Anne Rand I wouldn’t, for one thing — but it did sort of mean Arianna owed me.

  I wanted to talk to her for two reasons: Why had her car been spotted near Camp Arrowheart the day before? And had she had any type of contact with Ernie? If she’d tell me that, of course. But the fact that Ernie and Paul had staged their little “murder” made me think that whatever was happening was now happening fast.

  When she answered the door, Arianna stood looking at me for a moment as though trying to place me. She appeared slightly disoriented. Looked, in fact, as though she’d been crying.

  “It’s me. Madeline Carter. From the cafe the other day.”

  “Of course, Madeline. Pardon me, it’s just that… just that…” she seemed close to coming apart. “Oh, come in, please.”

  She led me poolside, “I feel the need to be outside. I hope you don’t mind,” she said, so I followed.

  As Bev had said, the pool was teeny, but it was also completely charming. It was a deep green, rather than blue, and looked to be quite deep. A diving pool, then. Deeper than allowable for modern day pools, but in the ninteen-fifties — when it looked as though the house had been built — it wasn’t unheard of to dig twelve-foot deep swimming pools. The small size, the color and the proximity of a little palm grove gave the pool area a grotto-like feeling. It looked like a relaxing spot to sit and read a book or just contemplate life. Arianna, however, didn’t look as though she was in a contemplative mood. In fact, in the unforgiving light of the outside world, she looked drawn and pale.

  There was no small talk today. She cleared her throat. In her current state, this looked like a calming effort. Some sort of preparation. I could see that it was costing her to stay glued. She didn’t waste time on preamble. “Ernest is… Ernest is dead.”

  This floored me. I’d been so convinced of my theories, the possibility of them being wrong hadn’t actually occurred to me. It just hadn’t fit. And, yet…

  “How do you know?”

  “A sheriff called me. Told me. And he said… he said,” I could see her struggling for composure. Winning. But it was training that got her there. Breeding they would have said in another era. “I have to go there.” Her voice slipped to a whisper. “Identify him.”

  “San Bernardino?” I asked.

  She looked at me sharply. “How did you know?”

  I sighed. “Long story. Maybe it’s not for right now. But it started with the note you showed me. Arrowheart.”

  “Yes, the note. I remembered that as well,” her sentences were short, choppy. As though saying these things aloud was causing her great effort. “Yesterday. I got a call. A man. It was frightening and, when I think about it, he didn’t really tell me anything, except he gave me an address. I was to be there at one o’clock yesterday afternoon. At Camp Arrowheart. And when I heard the name, I made the connection. I knew it had something to do with Ernest.”

  One o’clock, I figured, was probably about the time I went stumbling off into the land of the lost. Which meant that, whatever I saw hadn’t been staged for me at all. It was Arianna that they’d intended to lure there as witness. I had just once more blithely stumbled in. But wait, I thought: she had said that Ernie was dead. They’d found the body. So what did that do to my staged theory?

  “So you went there, at one?”

  She shook her head. “Well, I drove up there, but then I got frightened. The driveway was in disrepair. So I knew I’d have to walk in and since I didn’t know what — or who — was up there, I just got scared. I… I sat in the car for a while, and then I came home.” Her voice got very quiet and her head dropped even lower. This was obviously what she’d been thinking about when I arrived. “What if I had gone, Madeline? Maybe that’s why I was supposed to go? Maybe I was meant to save him.”

  I thought of Ernie as I’d known him: self-centered, manipulative, egocentric. Maybe he’d changed. Maybe, to inspire the sadness I could now see in this woman — his widow, I corrected mysel
f — I’d misjudged everything very badly.

  “You loved him very much, didn’t you?”

  She pulled her head up to meet these words. Her gaze met mine. And her expression was full, but I couldn’t read it. “He was my husband.” Was all she said. It took me a while to realize that this didn’t exactly answer my question.

  *

  I offered to drive Arianna down to San Bernardino. It had occurred to me that she hadn’t been in Southern California very long and probably didn’t know many people. Asking someone you’d met at a society luncheon to accompany you to view your husband’s last mortal remains just wouldn’t be… done. And viewing your husband’s body seemed to me to be something you wouldn’t want to do alone. Plus I found that, despite everything, I was coming to like Arianna. Her quiet dignity combined with her forthright manner and a very real intelligence had won me over. And the P.I.? As icky as it had made me feel, I wasn’t so sure I wouldn’t have done something similar in Arianna’s place. Anyway, I wasn’t doing anything and, to be honest, I wanted to see how it all played out.

  Arianna was mostly quiet on the drive down and I let her be. She would, I reasoned, have a lot on her mind. I knew what I was thinking: how would I be if this was me? I knew she was calmer than I would have been, but that was just part of who she was. Calm. Cool. Somewhat distant. And you don’t hook up with a guy anticipating that – some day — you’ll have to view his mortal remains. It’s just never a part of any plan.

  “After our meeting on Thursday,” she said after we’d been driving for a while, her voice only slightly punctuating the soft quiet inside the car. “I… well I had my doubts about you.”

  I risked a quick glance at her profile. She looked as though she were choosing her words with care.

  “I guess I kind of had my doubts about you, too. Pretty natural, under the circumstances.”