Three Bedrooms, Two Baths, One Very Dead Corpse

Home > Other > Three Bedrooms, Two Baths, One Very Dead Corpse > Page 17
Three Bedrooms, Two Baths, One Very Dead Corpse Page 17

by James, David


  But not all was right in Mary-land. She was not well liked. Perhaps it was because she was the most successful Realtor in the Coachella Valley. Or maybe it was because she had pulled some questionable deals in her career. But whatever the reason, the rumors abounded—many of which were mostly true. She could be ruthless. She could be cold. Others said she was born without tear ducts. Old-timers called her by another name: the Dodger, a reference to the many lawsuits she had been hit with over the years. While it’s true that any Realtor, over time, will eventually face a lawsuit of some sort, Mary had endured more than her share. She liked to counter the rumors by saying that a person doing her volume of sales was just more likely to be sued—it was a pure consequence of the mathematical odds. So let’s suffice to say that Mary was both feared and hated at the same time, a reaction that suited Mary just fine, because both had been instrumental in helping her get ahead.

  Of course, a person dedicated to this pursuit of a career had to put up with minor inconveniences such as three divorces. And children so emotionally fucked up, people said Mary ran a tab at the various rehab clinics that made the Palm Springs area so famous—or infamous, shall we say. But, no matter. There’s nothing that a little money wouldn’t solve, or hide away, be they aging, sagging faces or petulant, ungrateful children. Mary was a star. More importantly, Mary was determined to remain one. Whatever the cost.

  Mary, who was usually too busy to see anyone—most of all, clients who had listed their houses with her—agreed immediately to see us.

  We were ushered into her office by a very red-and-teary-eyed Anne Clexton, who didn’t say a word but held open the door to Mary’s cavernous inner sanctum and motioned to two very comfortable client chairs that, while comfortable, were noticeably much less comfortable looking than Mary’s. They were also much smaller than Mary’s and lower to the ground. Hitler used to pull this trick (the irony not lost on Alex and me). Mary leaned back in her cathedral-sized office chair and pulled Concerned Look with Sadness #59 out of her desk drawer and put it on her face. She shook her head.

  “When is all this going to end?” she said with all the emotion of a soap-opera starlet. She pursed her lips in concern, switching to Concerned Look with Sadness of the World #604.

  But it was her smile that said it all. Every time she smiled, it looked like she was being forced to pass a large and uncooperative turd past a sphincter that was only familiar with dainty loads. You could literally see the pain on her face as the corners of her mouth folded back on themselves, exposing a row of pearly-white incisors that looked well-adapted to tearing the flesh from zebra carcasses or agents foolish enough to turn their backs on her. Her eyes were another story. She had the concentrated look as if she were depositing a clutch of eggs in the abdomen of one of her rivals, to hatch at a later time and feed upon their host.

  “Mary, Alex and I are trying to get to the bottom of this, as I’m sure you would want too.”

  “Absolutely, Cathy was a good employee. Ten years,” Mary said.

  “Eighteen,” I corrected.

  “Whatever,” Mary replied. “She was a good employee,” Mary continued, saying all that she needed to say.

  A good employee, I thought. Not friend. I began to think Mary had modeled her life on that of a robber baron of the late 1800s. What? My carriage ran over and killed your four-year-old son? Here. Have $5. No, take $10 and have him buried properly. Enjoy.

  Alex jumped right in.

  “We all would like to see this criminal brought to justice. Amanda here because Doc was poisoned in her listing. You, with all those land deals up in the Chino Cone.”

  Alex’s remark had a profound effect on Mary. Well, as profound as an emotion could exhibit on Mary’s demeanor. Her fingers tightened on the end of her armrests ever so slightly while you could actually see a wave of frost skitter up across her skin. I decided not to look at Alex after uttering this statement, instead choosing to watch the subtle reactions skating across the surface of Mary’s cadaver-like, pale skin. Mary regained her ice-like composure. Despite global warming, glaciers all over the world began heaving a collective sigh of relief: Their leader was back on the throne.

  “Alex, I do a lot of deals all over town . . . not just in the Chino Cone.”

  Alex joined in the game, throwing on Slightly Repentant Face #294.

  “Mary, I wasn’t trying to imply that you had any connection to Doc Winters’s death. I was just saying that people—and the police—are likely to assume there might be a connection. So I think it would be in everyone’s interest to band together to solve this mess . . . and catch this person. Then we can all go back to selling homes.”

  This comment seemed to calm Mary, since selling homes was all there was to life, wasn’t it?

  “Alex, I am not the only listing agent representing sellers up in the Cone. Ed Jensen has sold fifteen lots.”

  Good, Mary, turn on a colleague, like a cornered mafioso.

  It was my time to speak up. “Mary, I know he’s one of your clients, but do you have any reason to think that Marvin Sultan is connected with this?”

  “Marvin?” She hesitated. Realizing that the jig was up, she continued, “No, not at all. Marvin is a shrewd businessman, but one thing he is not is a murderer.”

  She smiled at the two of us, then looked past us at something going on over his shoulder. I saw her shake her head ever so slightly. Turning around, I saw a man with an upright dolly, stacked high with identical boxes, all of them marked with a religious cross on them. I turned back toward Mary, who looked pained at what I saw, but then when didn’t she? Another large turd passed, I guessed. Or had it?

  “Listen, I will do whatever I can to help clear things up. But I think that trying to involve me or Marvin will lead to a dead end.”

  An unfortunate choice of words. Or perhaps completely planned.

  “Like I said,” Mary spouted, “Marvin is a businessman. Why would he want to jeopardize everything he’s built up to kill someone over the sale of some lots?”

  Alex was clearly frustrated at Mary’s inability to change her story. “Mary, a lot of money is at stake here. There are millions to be made. This is the most valuable piece of land left in Palm Springs . . . practically the only large plot left . . . and it’s a prime piece of land. Fantastic views, right up against the mountain. Each lot would be priceless.”

  “Like I said before, Alex, murder is unnecessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some clients I have to go and see. Please keep me in the loop if you discover anything that could be of help.”

  Mary’s remark said it all: I am not going to lift a painted fingernail to help you two meddlers. It also seemed to imply that she wanted this unpleasant matter over with so she could get down to business full throttle. Catching Cathy’s killer wasn’t as important as making money.

  Alex and I were seen out of the office, with Mary walking us to the door to the outside. She wanted us out, that much was evident. As soon as we had gotten into Alex’s car, we shared our observations.

  “So what did you see over my shoulder? What was going on there, Amanda?”

  “You’re not going to believe it, but ol’ Mary almost took a dump when she saw me catching those boxes being wheeled into a closet.”

  “Boxes?”

  “With crosses all over them. When the guy who was pushing the dolly saw that I saw him and his cargo, he hightailed it into the closet faster than a Log Cabin Republican and closed the door behind him. I’ll bet Mary’s got a kilo of coke in there. Or the chilled hearts of her victims, for snacking on while watching TV.”

  “Well, I think we need to make a visit back here to see what Mary has to hide.”

  “When?” I asked, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

  “About thirteen hours from now.”

  “Count me in.”

  CHAPTER 17

  To Catch a Thief

  I drove home to have lunch, but before I could even enter my house, Regina appeared at my ba
ck, smiling from ear to ear.

  “C’mon,” Regina said, her face brightening with anticipation. “We’re going to see Helen Hatcher.”

  “Regina . . . why?”

  “Because I know that Helen is up to her watermelon-sized tits in this mess. I wouldn’t put it past her to kill Doc just so she could stick it to Mary Dodge. And I know that you and Alex were just at Mary Dodge’s.”

  “How did you know that? We just got back.”

  Regina smiled coquettishly. “I have my sources.”

  “Now, Regina, do you think Helen would kill someone just to clear the way for her to move in on Mary Dodge’s territory?’

  “Absolutely. Amanda, darling, this might be a small town, er, city, but these fucking broads would do just about anything to get ahead. In a way, they’re like businessmen. They think that making the deal and earning a lot of money is the most fun you can have with your pants on. Most of them are castrating bitches, so no man with half a set of balls will even stick it in them, so some of these women turn to business as a way to climax. They get an orgasm whenever they get another commission check.”

  “Well, that’s an interesting theory, Regina,” I offered, not wanting to sound like I was turning on my own kind.

  “It’s not a theory. These women are all over the place. You should have seen them in Hollywood. You think that Miss No-Wire-Hangers Joan Crawford wanted some guy’s pole in her hole?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Only if it got her somewhere. She wasn’t interested in sex. She wanted money and power. That’s what you gotta understand, Amanda. For some of these broads, murder is just another business deal. It’s just that someone upped the stakes.”

  “Gee,” I added thoughtfully, “when you put it like that, I can’t wait to see the Hatchet.”

  Helen Hatcher, like Mary Dodge, was another example of women who had gotten into the Palm Springs real-estate market in the eighties and nineties, when you almost couldn’t give homes away. But like the odor of a bad fart in an elevator, they lingered for far longer than most people wished. Yet, their businesses grew and grew and grew despite the fact that once most clients signed up with them, they never saw the principals again. They basically did a good business by the sheer weight of the fact that their lawn signs were all over town and the fact that, in 2005, you could sell homes with only one wall standing . . . if they were in the right part of town.

  Helen was one of these dinosaurs who wasn’t aware of the approaching meteorite that would soon end their Jurassic period of fame.

  I’d seen Helen around town before, but only from a distance. From up close, I got a much closer read, and what I saw wasn’t pretty. Helen was plump, but at the same time big framed, like a woman whose ancestors pulled plows themselves. She also had frosted, swoopy, Dallas, Texas, sprayed-in-place hair that came to a sharp point over her right ear. You could open cans with it. As if the hair wasn’t enough, Helen used a peachy, dry pancake makeup as her primary cover, topped off with blush that Helen apparently spread around her face with a trowel—no brush for this woman. There wasn’t a single discernable feature on this chick’s face besides her nostrils and lips. No lines, no wrinkles, not even a measly pore that hadn’t been cemented in. Her face looked like an off-color, cheap plastic doll from a sweatshop in Shanghai. And to complete her over-the-top billboard presence was lots of gold jewelry so inert it wouldn’t offend anybody, and those hideous silk dresses that hung like her face, formless and featureless.

  Now, I’m the first woman to give in to cattiness. Let’s face it, we women can sometimes be absolutely vicious to each other. But Helen was one of those women who tried way too hard at covering up flaws, only drawing attention to what she thought was a masterful cover-up, like an incompetent magician sawing a woman in half, blood pouring out from the mystery box. You couldn’t help but look . . . and be horrified.

  Now, to her background. Helen’s fierce determination to get sales earned her the nickname of the Hatchet. And to this day, she proudly displayed a bloody hatchet that had been given her by Mary Dodge back in the lean years of 1992. Mary had it beautifully framed in a box with a glass front, mounted on a black velvet background, complete with fake blood dripping from it, coagulating in mid-drip. It was one of Helen’s prized possessions. Not because it helped reinforce the idea that she could be ruthless when it came to getting listings, but because Mary Dodge had given it to her, one killer recognizing another.

  Speaking of the killer instinct, I worried about what Regina might say as we were seated across from Helen’s desk, piled high with folders.

  “Nice hatchet,” Regina commented, pulling the pin out of the grenade. “You used that thing lately?”

  “No, not recently,” Helen replied sweetly, crossing her plump fingers that ended in blood-red fingernails on top of the desk in front of us. The gold, ostentatious rings clicked as she threaded her fingers together.

  “Well, it looks like it was planted in someone’s skull a few hours ago,” Regina added, continuing her assault.

  Helen smiled sweetly again. Again, too sweetly. I’m glad she had her hands on top of the desk in plain sight, where I could see them. I’m sure they were more at home holding a snub-nosed .38.

  “Amanda . . . Regina . . .” Helen began, her face as sweet and demure as a nun hiding brass-knuckled hands behind her back. “I know you’ve come to ask me questions about me being involved in the Chino Cone, but I’ll tell you right now, well, that there’s nothing to tell quite frankly.”

  “To be frank, I didn’t know you were involved . . . until you just told me.” Touché me.

  “Amanda, let’s cut the crap,” Helen whispered. “Any Realtor with half a brain in this town is in a mad dash to snap up and assemble land up in the Cone. It’s the largest land grab in this city since the 1940s. It’s not illegal to buy and sell land, you know.”

  “It is when someone gets poisoned because of it.”

  “Amanda, dear, do you actually think I would poison someone just to get another sale?”

  “Ah, let me think about that . . .” I replied comically.

  Helen let loose a tightly controlled, pursed smile as if to say ha-ha, very funny.

  “Mary Dodge is snarfing up land like a beggar at a banquet. So is Ed Jensen. And Martha Bickerson. Even Evelyn de-half-Witt,” Helen added, punctuating the fact that the stupidest Realtor in town had jumped on the bandwagon. “Everyone is in on it.”

  “Helen, do you think Mary Dodge could be involved in the murder of Doc Winters?”

  “I won’t answer that question.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask a different question. Do you know anyone who would want to murder Doc to try and frame Mary?”

  “Everyone in this town.”

  “Could you narrow that down a little?” Regina jumped in.

  Helen smiled demurely. “Okay, anyone who isn’t in a coma.” Helen chuckled.

  “She’s hated that much?” I asked.

  “That much. But a lot of people hate me too,” Helen threw in, with a mixture of boasting and pride mixed in equal portions. After all, people hated Mary for a variety of reasons, but she wasn’t going to let Mary get all the attention. “Mostly, it’s just jealousy. Lots of people in this city resent a successful woman,” Helen said, playing the sexist card, when it clearly wasn’t warranted.

  I decided to play Helen a little, since she seemed to be in a confessatory mood.

  “So who hates you, Helen?”

  “Loser Realtors. You have to watch your back all the time, every minute. I don’t even trust my own team sometimes.”

  “Infamy, infamy, they all got it in for me,” Regina recited, probably a line from one of her acts.

  Another very-funny, ha-ha from Helen.

  Helen crossed her plump fingers on her desk in front of her, thumping the desktop and signaling that the interview was over.

  “Now, as much as I would like to stay and chat, I have some new listings to attend to,” she announced.


  Regina and I looked at each other for some sign of agreement, but Helen had decided that the interview was over and we were to leave.

  “Helen,” I said as we were being escorted out of her office, “if you remember anything that might be useful, you can call me anytime,” I offered, handing her a business card.

  She took the card in her hand and waved us good-bye. The card, I assumed, would quickly end up in the trash. Putting it in a shredder would require too much effort.

  As I drove Regina home, we both conferred that we had again learned almost nothing.

  “So we now know that everyone hates Mary Dodge.”

  “Check,” Regina replied.

  “And that everyone wants a piece of the action in the Chino Cone.”

  “Check.”

  “And that Mary Dodge is in cahoots with Marvin Sultan.”

  “Check.”

  “And that’s about it. We’re not doing a very good job, are we?”

  “Check.”

  “I guess I’m no good at this sort of thing. I was just expecting someone—anyone—to give us a clue that would break this whole case wide open.”

  “That only happens in the movies. I know . . . I was in them. Did I tell you about the time Billy Wilder stuck his hand down my pants?”

  I was not in the mood to hear yet another of Regina’s sordid and unprovable Hollywood stories, so I merely responded that I had, indeed, heard that one.

  Regina was quiet for a moment.

  “How about when Robert Mitchum asked me to wear a saddle for him?”

  “You told me that two weeks ago.”

  Regina wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, you said you got saddle sores, Regina.”

  “Oh, right. How about the time Dean Martin burned me with a cigarette?”

  “During sex?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I think he was drunk.”

  “You told me that one.”

  Regina was quiet again.

  “How about stopping for a drink at my place?” I offered.

 

‹ Prev