“You can say that again,” she said vehemently. “I haven’t been able to get anything but temp jobs since I left my regular employment.”
“And that’s because…”
“Because all anyone wants in an office is a twenty-five-year-old with a waistline to match. I’m forty-five. Nobody wants an old woman around.”
“That’s not old,” I said sincerely.
“Ha. You must be close to my age, or you wouldn’t say that. Trust me, it’s old in the job market. I hope you never have to find that out for yourself.”
I hoped not, either.
“It probably doesn’t sound like such a big deal to you, but I liked being a receptionist. I liked meeting clients and talking to people. Now all I get are jobs filling in for people on vacation, and after they show me the coffee machine and the ladies’ room, nobody talks to me for the duration. Not unless I screw up, which I don’t do very often,” she added, with unmistakable pride.
“It must be very frustrating,” I agreed.
“You got my name from the temp agency, right? So you must know there are a lot of women in my situation. Some men, too, I guess.”
I didn’t contradict her. “A lot of people seem to have trouble finding something as good as the job they left,” I said.
“Yeah, I liked my old job. Parts of it, anyway. The clients were the best.”
“That was at Ivanova Associates,” I said, rustling some papers next to the phone to make it sound as if I were consulting my notes. “The matchmaking firm, right?”
“Right.”
“And you left there because…”
It hung in the air for a minute. “Because I was fired,” she said finally.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I told her. I hesitated. “Might I inquire whether you feel that your being asked to leave was an age-related issue?”
“Ha,” she said again. “This is all confidential, right?”
“If I use any of this information, I’ll make sure I change your name,” I promised.
“Well, it might have been age-related, in a way. They replaced me with a young girl who’s still in school. But the real reason they fired me is that I saw something I shouldn’t have.”
Oh, boy. How was I going to get her to tell me? I went fishing. “Something dishonest?”
She snorted. “In a way, but not in the business sense. I caught her having a…a tryst with one of the clients, one of the ones the service had already married off. She didn’t like anyone knowing, that was clear. I got my notice right away.”
“You caught Natasha Ivanova with a client?” I asked, a little breathlessly.
She laughed. “Not her. If you ask me, she wasn’t interested in men, period. The other one, the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth assistant. Melanie Klein.” She said it venomously.
Wow. “How did it happen?” I asked her.
“Oh, you can imagine. I came back to the office really late one night because I’d left something there. I was going to a play at the Ahmanson, so I didn’t have time to come back after work. The play was out at eleven, and by the time I got back to the office, it was after midnight.” She snickered. “Obviously, they weren’t expecting anyone to drop by.”
“What did you do?” I asked her.
“I said ‘excuse me,’ grabbed what I’d come for, and ran out.”
“Were you able to recognize the man?” I asked, as delicately as I could.
“Sure. He’d been around before. He was very good-looking and charming, and I think he was something in finance, or something like that. I heard he’d married a rich woman with a few years on her, if you know what I mean.” She laughed apologetically. “Well, I should talk. See? We all do it.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “Um, you don’t by chance remember the gentleman’s name, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” She sounded slightly alarmed. “Why are you interested in that? It doesn’t have anything to do with age discrimination.”
I’d clearly pushed too far, so I tried to backtrack. “I’m just trying to get the complete picture. Besides, it’s a great story, so I can’t help being interested. Why didn’t you ever pursue a legal course of action against Ivanova Associates?” I asked her.
She sounded a little ashamed. “I don’t know any lawyers, and I don’t have a lot of money. I hear it costs to bring suits like that.” She sighed. “When I got the letter from Ms. Ivanova, it said there had been client complaints about my work. Melanie Klein must have told her that. How could I fight it? They could probably find people to say whatever they wanted. They gave me a big fat severance check, too. Besides, I thought I’d find another job right away. You know how it is,” she said apologetically.
“Sure,” I said, feeling sorry for her. “One last question.”
“What is it?”
“Do you think there’s any connection between what you saw and Ms. Ivanova’s murder shortly after that?”
Silence. “What are you trying to say?” she asked after a minute, her voice rising in panic.
I felt guilty for upsetting her. “Nothing. I’m not suggesting anything. But she was killed just after you—”
“I don’t know anything about it. Some Mexican kid killed her, didn’t he? Why are you asking me?”
Before I could tell her, she slammed down the phone.
27
Chemistry is not some magical force. Love doesn’t just happen.
—Kathleen Wyndham advertising brochure
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Scott said to me, as we sat on his living room couch, watching the lights come on along Santa Monica Bay. He owned a perfect Spanish-style house on a bluff in Palos Verdes, near the part of the hill where couples used to park to “watch the submarine races,” the West Coast euphemism for what kids used to do in parked cars at night. I lusted after every detail of the house, from the red tile roof to the Saltillo tile courtyard. Lots of houses in P.V. have Spanish architecture, but this one was exceptional. I mean, King Juan Carlos himself would have felt right at home, if he’d happened to drop by.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t go forward till we found out more,” he said. He passed me a tray of chiles stuffed with goat cheese and piñon nuts, but I declined. I’d already had three of them, and I wanted to save room for dinner. “Now you tell me that you’ve told Melanie Klein you want to be fixed up on the sly. What were you thinking of, to do that?”
“You’re the one who said it wouldn’t be dangerous,” I pointed out, surreptitiously trying to remove a bit of goat cheese from the corner of my mouth before it fell on my new green silk pants and made an indelible grease stain. “In fact, you’re the one who suggested it in the first place.”
“That was before I knew about the wine glasses,” he protested. He handed me a cocktail napkin. “I was afraid you might do something hasty.”
“Why would you think that?” I asked him.
He grinned. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“I’m not being rash. I’m being forceful and effective,” I protested “And anyway, she agreed,” I reminded him. “Now we know for sure that Ivanova Associates is willing to find you a rich mate, even if the rich mate doesn’t know he’s being set up. They aren’t too picky about checking credentials, either. So—”
“You don’t know that for sure. Maybe they’re double-checking yours right this moment. The phony bank references won’t stand up to serious scrutiny. That’s what worries me.”
I suppressed a shudder. I didn’t want him to think I was regretting my impulse. “The point is,” I told him, “if they’re willing to do it for me, now, they’ve probably done it in the past. So that fits in with our theory, doesn’t it?”
“Possibly,” he conceded.
“Anyway, I haven’t even told you the rest,” I said.
“Is it going to ruin my appetite?” he asked.
“That depends on how delicate your digestion is,” I told him.
He laughed. “Better
wait, then. Want to help me with the pasta?”
“Sure.”
The kitchen was just as great as the rest of the house, with hand-painted tile counters and an oversized wooden table. The room was huge, too, but it was comfortable rather than high-tech. A walker stood against the wall in the corner. His father hadn’t yet come downstairs, but a newly installed electric lift, the kind that runs up the interior banister, reassured me by its presence.
“This is nice,” I told Scott.
He smiled at me, setting some vegetables out on the counter. “Yes, it is.”
I tried to look unconscious, but I probably failed. I glanced up the stairs again. Still no Mr. Crossland.
Scott handed me a utility knife. “Do you want to slice the asparagus?”
I nodded. “What are we having?”
“Just a simple sauce. Asparagus, smoked salmon, shallots, and a little light cream. It’s about as complicated as I get if I fix it myself.”
“Sounds great,” I said. “Shall I set the table when I finish this?”
“No, I’ve already set up in the dining room. Through there,” he pointed. He lifted two bottles off the counter. “White or red?”
“You choose,” I said, distracted. I walked through the doorway into the dining room. It opened onto the same view as the living room. The bay stretched out beneath my feet, twinkling with lights along the coast. Somewhere down below, far below, was my townhouse. The high-back chairs were covered with tapestry. The table was a dark carved mahogany.
There were only two place settings.
I scooted back into the kitchen and glanced up the stairs again. Maybe his father took his meals in his room. I felt a little uncomfortable, suddenly, at the possibility that I might be alone here with Scott. What if I’d given him the wrong impression (or the right one, depending on your point of view)? Cynthia had said that women were always throwing themselves at him, and I didn’t want to spoil things between us by making him think I was, too. If you wanted to keep things cool, you were supposed to meet at a restaurant or a bar. Besides, what if he was “interested” in somebody else?
“Ellen, why do you keep looking up the stairs?” Scott asked me.
I tried to keep the self-conscious note out of my voice. I was forty-four years old. I was trying to solve a murder case, not reenact some dating melodrama out of Gidget. “I was wondering when your father would be joining us,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “My father isn’t here.”
Oh. “I thought he was recuperating from hip surgery,” I persisted, as if willing it to be so would make Mr. Crossland suddenly appear in the flesh.
“He is, but he isn’t making very good progress. Remember? I told you. At his appointment the other day, the doctor decided he needed to go into a rehabilitation center for intensive physical therapy. He’ll be there at least another two weeks.”
“I see,” I said. “I hope he gets better soon.”
Scott wiped his hand on a towel and walked over to me. He stood in front of me with his arms folded. “My father isn’t much of a chaperon, Ellen. He’s seventy-eight years old and pretty frail.”
Damn the man; I couldn’t hide a thing from him. “I didn’t—” I began.
He leaned over and kissed my cheek. It sent an electric thrill right through the soles of my shoes, though I tried to appear nonchalant. “What can I say, Ellen? I promise you’re safe with me. I thought it would be easier to talk here, and I wanted you to see the house, because I was hoping you’d help me buy some paintings.”
Not only was he practically psychic, but he had the perfect answer for everything. “You really want to buy some art?” I asked him. “What kind?”
He grinned. “Something Latin, of course. And very expensive.”
I grinned back, trying not to get too carried away with thinking how much fun it would be to take him on a tour of the galleries. “My kind of client,” I told him.
“I hope so,” he said. “Anyway, it’s just dinner, I promise. If you feel the least bit uncomfortable, even with that, I’ll take you home right now.”
“Let’s eat,” I said.
Over the pasta, I told him about my conversation with Marian Walters. “I wonder if Melanie Klein and her mysterious lover could be the voices Ramon’s mother said she heard in Natasha’s office,” I speculated. “Maybe that’s why Lupe Garcia got fired, too.”
He nodded. “If it’s true that two rather low-level employees were fired because they might have known something about this relationship—and let me remind you, it’s all guesswork so far—there must have been some compelling reason for covering it up,” he said.
“Other than the fact that he was married?”
“Well, I’d say so. Of course, there was also the suggestion that he’d been matched up through the firm, and in that case, messing around with the clientele is hardly the best way to attract new business or keep the old business happy.”
“No wonder there were rumors about dissatisfied customers,” I said.
“Ha!” He was quiet a moment. “I hate to lead the witness, but you do see who the finger is pointing at, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said, toying with my fork. “Bruce Livingston. Marian’s description fits, and then there’s the Botero connection. He’s got to be central to this somehow.”
“Even if he was the one having an affair with Melanie Klein, it doesn’t mean he was Natasha’s killer,” Scott reminded me.
“Maybe Natasha found out and threatened to tell Julia,” I suggested.
“Why would she do that? She might have fired Melanie Klein’s ass, but she wouldn’t do anything so stupid as to damage her business reputation. Julia Livingston would be livid, and it’s a safe bet that all her other well-to-do friends would hear about it, too.”
“You’re probably right,” I told him. “Still, the last time I saw Julia, she looked pretty awful. She said she was sick, but maybe she’d heard something.”
He shook his head. “That’s not much to go on.”
“No, and the other thing is that Julia told me it was Valentin who introduced them, not Natasha. They weren’t even officially clients of Ivanova Associates.”
“Valentin’s the decorator, right? Maybe he worked for the service, too,” Scott said.
“Wow,” I said. “I hadn’t ever thought of that.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m way off base.”
“No, it’s brilliant. See, he meets all kinds of wealthy people through his work. He does have an exclusive clientele. He talks people into buying art, too. Maybe he steered people toward the service.”
“Or maybe he fingered the marks, like Julia Livingston.”
“That would mean that you think Bruce misrepresented his financial status in order to marry money.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” he said.
“I’ll have to see what my brother comes up with.”
“Your brother?” he asked, sounding surprised, as well he might. The last tale he’d heard about my family was my lugubrious lament on the road from Tehachapi.
I told him about the false alarm at my mother’s and my conversation with Tom. “He’s going to see what he can find out.”
“That’s great, Ellen. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Getting closer to him?”
“I don’t want to read too much into it,” I said. “I’m afraid,” I confessed. “I don’t want to push him too hard.”
“He’ll come around,” he said. He touched my hand. “Just give him a chance to get to know you.” He smiled. “What’s next on the agenda?”
My mind was racing. This detective business was exhilarating, or maybe it was the combination of wine and sexual awareness. “Actually, I’m wondering if I could get Mark to tell me if Julia Livingston was the unhappy Ivanova graduate he was dropping hints about.”
“Mark?”
“My next-door neighbor. The one you…saw at the restaurant. He’s the cardiologist.” I reminded him that Mark had a
patient who feared her husband had married her solely for her money, under false pretenses. “It could be Julia Livingston. Or if it isn’t, it’s certainly somebody else we could investigate.”
Scott set down his knife and fork across his plate. “I don’t want to puncture your balloon, but giving you information about a patient would be a violation of medical ethics. He might lose his license.”
“Hmmm,” I said, drumming the table with my fingers. I didn’t want to sound cocky, but I was sure I could find a way to worm some information out of Mark.
“Ellen?”
“Yes?”
“Promise me you won’t do any more poking around on your own unless you talk to me first. We need to work on this together. We’re getting closer to the truth, and somebody’s already tried to warn you off. It could be dangerous. I know you’re anxious to get things resolved, but please, let’s work as a team.”
Please don’t throw me into the briar patch. “I guess I could do that,” I said.
He looked at me and smiled. “Just for the record, I apologize for underestimating you. You’ve discovered much more than I ever did or could have on my own. You’ve also been incredibly brave.”
“You’re giving me too much credit,” I said.
He reached across the table and took my hand. “No, I’m not. You’ve taken big risks on this case. You’ve exposed yourself to danger and ridicule. You’ve even risked your career. Why have you done that?”
“Because I felt obligated?”
“Maybe. But haven’t you enjoyed it a little bit, too?”
“Actually, I’ve enjoyed it a lot,” I confessed. Especially right then.
“Exactly. And why is that, do you think? Maybe because you’re ready to take some risks again?”
“Is this leading up to something?” I asked him. I left my hand in his. It felt very warm, and I knew what my body was telling him, the man who could read people’s gestures so expertly. He raised my fingers to his lips and kissed them, and then released his hold.
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