“What did you expect?” he growled. “If you reduce the number of cigarettes from 10 per day to 9 per day, the interval between cigarettes will increase reciprocally. Assuming that each day is the same length, the interval between cigarettes will increase by 1/9 today, or about 11.1%. Tomorrow it will increase by 1/8, or about 12.5%.”
“I want sympathy, not a lecture in mathematics.”
“She’s your girlfriend, not mine. If you ask me, you’d be a lot better off without her.”
See what I mean? Everybody was turning into a grouch.
The climax came on the day when I was down to just three cigarettes. I had decided to have them with coffee after each meal. Erika and I had finished dinner, and I lit up. So did her eyes. Pigs’ eyes are also blue.
“Freddy, haven’t you quit yet? Stefan doesn’t smoke. He also is not overweight. How are you keeping to your diet?” She surveyed me critically. “Your muscle tone could be a lot firmer. You really must exercise more.”
By now, I was spoiling for a fight. “Erika, in the last few weeks I have given up tobacco and substituted tofu for hamburger. What I may have gained in health I seem to have lost in joie de vivre. It’s not how long you live, but how much you enjoy it.”
I took one more look at that perfectly shaped nose, probably for the last time, inhaled a good deep lungful of smoke and savored it. It was more fun than I had had in weeks.
Erika took a look at me, almost certainly for the last time, then shook her head and got up from the table and left. I wasn’t even remotely tempted to follow.
I told Pete about it that evening. “And so,” I concluded, “Erika and I are no longer an item. I’m guessing that Stefan, a nonsmoker, has replaced me in Erika’s affections. Win some, lose some.”
“I think his name is Stefan Ericson. He’s a ski instructor.”
I looked at Pete. “And just how do you know this, if I may ask?”
“One evening a few weeks back, you may recall that the three of us went out to dinner. While you were away from the table, Erika said she was planning on going skiing at Mammoth and wanted to know if I knew any instructors. I recommended Stefan.”
“Oh, you did, did you? Did you have any idea that this ski instructor was going to rip off my girlfriend?”
Pete countered with a question. “Just a moment here. Weren’t you just telling me a few moments ago that you told her off?”
“Yes, but that’s because the best defense for an about-to-be-bruised ego is a good offense.” I leaned back in my chair. “I guess things worked out for the best. I’m sure it would be better for my health if I went back to my old habits. At least, for my mental health. I’m young, reasonably fit, and I’ll worry about my lungs later.” I took a deep breath. “You know, I sure wish I hadn’t asked you to dispose of those Havanas. One would really taste great right now.”
Pete went into his bedroom and emerged some thirty seconds later. With my Havanas! “I didn’t get rid of them, Freddy. I had a hunch you’d want them back.”
As I lit up, I could feel peace and tranquillity descending once more, a sensation I never felt with Erika. To be completely fair, Erika was capable of arousing feelings that you just don’t get with cigars. Reflecting on this, I recalled that Rudyard Kipling once said that a woman was only a woman, but a good cigar was a smoke. Maybe it was also Rudyard Kipling who had observed that there were other fish in the sea.
CHAPTER 5
THE ACCIDENTAL GUEST
Having spent most of my life in New York, I’ve had little experience with car rental agencies. To be perfectly frank, I’ve had little experience with cars. In New York, if you want to get some place, you take a taxi, a bus, or the subway. Or you walk.
However, it’s almost impossible to survive in Los Angeles without a car. Sure, you can do it if you have to, but because L.A. is much more spread out than New York, a car becomes almost a necessity. Especially if you want to have any kind of a social life, no matter what your definition of “social life.” So I had purchased a late model used car, which was serving me quite well until Thursday morning. I had been sitting at a stoplight, happily minding my own business, when the car behind me slammed into me. I was all right, but the car had suffered a few more-than-superficial dings, the rear axle was out of alignment, and there was damage to some of the key components that enable the car to move. At least, that’s what the mechanic in the shop said—and looking at the car, I tended to believe him. Plus, I had to get it towed to the shop because when I turned the key in the ignition, absolutely nothing happened. It would take a couple of days to get it fixed.
At least it had happened near home, so although the placing of the accident was pretty good, the timing couldn’t have been worse. I had been invited to spend the weekend at Carl and Peggy O’Hara’s ranch, out by Santa Barbara, more than a hundred miles away. They were having a weekend gathering of some friends and had even printed up invitations, including a map—they lived out in the country, where the roads aren’t always clearly marked, the way they do in L.A. with overhead signs. In the country, often the roads are marked with these little dirt-brown small pedestals on the roadside on which the name was once painted but has now faded. Thank goodness for GPS! Even though Pete didn’t have any plans for the weekend, it would have been a major imposition to ask to borrow his car for several days. So I did the obvious thing and located a car rental agency within walking distance. They had a choice of several different cars and plans, and so I opted for a subcompact for $60 for the weekend and 15 cents a mile. I wanted to save a few bucks, and the only things that would be going into the car were me and my overnight bag.
I’d heard that the California coastline between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara was well worth seeing, especially the Channel Islands, so I decided to make a day of it and departed bright and early Friday morning. The Channel Islands were certainly different. I’ve been to Jones Beach, but I didn’t see spectacular stone arches in the Atlantic, or beaches overflowing with seals, or kelp forests. I’m glad I took the time for the detour.
Looking back later over the weekend’s events, it was extremely lucky that I had indeed decided to leave early. I had Pete to thank for that, as he told me that Friday afternoon traffic heading north on the 101 turned a normal ninety-minute trip into one twice that long.
I must admit, though, when I pulled up late that afternoon at the O’Hara ranch, I did not think that I had been extremely lucky. Quite the opposite. There had been a terrific downpour Thursday night, and the access road to the O’Hara ranch was a sea of mud. The car got stuck in it a couple of times. I had to get out and dig out some of the mud, using only my hands and the few tools I could find in the emergency kit. Ever try scraping away mud with a tire iron? Consequently, when I rang at the front door, I was badly in need of a shower.
Peggy greeted me at the door. “You must have left pretty early this morning, Freddy.”
“About eight o’clock.”
“Yeah, we tried to reach you at 8:30, but you had already gone. We’re advising all our guests to take the train to Santa Barbara. We’re used to conditions like this, and Carl has a heavy-duty off-road vehicle that can fight its way through anything. Sorry I didn’t get to you in time.”
“Something happened to my cell phone, and I took it into the store. I guess I’m stranded in the previous century for this week. Oh well, it was an interesting drive up, and no real harm done, as long as you’ve got a place where I can shower and change.”
She looked me over. “Maybe I should have Carl pick up some extra soap on his next trip.” We both laughed, and I followed her up to an attractive guestroom on the second floor. Half an hour later, I was downstairs, prepared to greet my fellow guests.
I didn’t have to be a detective to figure out when they were arriving. The O’Hara’s off-road vehicle may have been reliable, but even I could tell that it was badly in need of a tune-up. I could hear the occasional misfire and engine knock when it was more than a mile away. Maybe the
car wasn’t in bad shape, though—when you’re used to the city noises, the silence of the country seems to make your hearing improve.
The O’Haras had corralled an eclectic collection of weekend guests, so I’ll list them in descending order of interest (to me). I would certainly have put Ann Robinson, a lifelong friend of Peggy’s, at the top of the list. We had some things in common—I was separated from Lisa, and Ann was recently divorced. I gathered that Ann’s presence was somewhat unexpected. Peggy had issued the invitation, and Ann had originally declined, saying that she was going to Cannes for a couple of weeks. It turned out that her departure for Cannes had been delayed for a few days, and here she was, with enough clothing and jewelry to sink a ship. I must admit I was a little nervous with Ann at first because most of my friends tend to spend their vacation weeks in upstate New York as opposed to the south of France, but after a while, we got along just fine.
Myron Wallace wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, but I had to admit he was an interesting guy. He was a food and restaurant critic for some highbrow magazine. I like food as much as the next person, but to Myron, it was a way of life. I guess one of the reasons I found Myron interesting is that I always enjoy expertise. In my line of work, the more you know about lots of things, the better. After a weekend with Myron, not only had he taught me a lot about haute cuisine, he had also given me the names of a couple of pleasant and inexpensive French restaurants in Los Angeles that he had visited incognito. When you are six feet four, bald, and have a goatee like Myron Wallace, I wonder how you can visit restaurants incognito, but maybe there is a legion of Myron Wallace look-alikes making the rounds of restaurants. I looked forward to checking out his recommendations.
Sue Fredericks was an editor. Ordinarily, I would think that an editor would be more interesting than a food critic, as the editor would be meeting writers, whereas the food critic would be meeting food. However, Sue Fredericks had deadlines to meet. The O’Haras had arranged several exploratory excursions in and around the ranch, and Sue participated in all of them. When we returned to the house, though, Sue would disappear with an assortment of proof sheets.
Tied at the bottom of the list, in terms of interest to me, were Marty Irwin and Sheila Cooke. Carl and Peggy ran a successful import-export business, and Marty was the business manager and Sheila the head of purchasing. The business was headquartered in Santa Barbara, but Marty was the type of person who looked like he’d never been outdoors in his life—pallid complexion, with bags under his eyes. You see plenty of people who look like that in big cities, but it was sort of a novelty to see one in Santa Barbara. Even though Sheila looked like she spent more time outdoors than Marty, it was clear that the two of them were soulmates—both were dedicated to business and rarely talked of anything but business. The same could have been said of Myron Wallace, but maybe I just found him more interesting because haute cuisine was more interesting than import-export.
It started out as a relaxed and pleasant weekend. Saturday we all rose about eight or nine, and Carl and Peggy served up a lavish breakfast. We packed a picnic lunch and hiked up into the mountains and returned in time for a ranch-style dinner of steak, potatoes, and salad. After dinner, we went into the living room for coffee and conversation. Either the mountains blocked TV reception—even if you had a dish—or Carl and Peggy simply didn’t believe in TV because the house didn’t have one. As a result, the long-lost art of after-dinner conversation made a comeback Saturday night. A little before midnight, Carl and Peggy appeared with a delicious hot-cider concoction. It can get awfully chilly in the California mountains. About ten or fifteen minutes later, I felt extremely tired and decided to get some sleep.
I’m basically a city boy, but I’ve always heard that the country air is supposed to make you feel more invigorated. Maybe that’s true if you are used to it. I awoke, still sleepy, at ten o’clock Sunday morning, an hour or so later than I usually get up. Actually, I was closer to groggy than to sleepy. It required an act of incredible willpower to get myself shaved and dressed, but the battle between hunger and sleep always ends—for me—in a victory for hunger. I figured that I’d better take care of both of the above items pronto because breakfast had been served about nine o’clock the previous morning, and if I didn’t get downstairs soon, there probably wouldn’t be any left.
On arriving downstairs, I discovered that I needn’t have worried. Even though it wasn’t the night before Christmas, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Well, the mice might have been stirring, but the humans certainly weren’t. I appeared to be the only one conscious. The others drifted down in ones and twos during the next hour or so. The O’Haras were the last to show up, but nonetheless managed to prepare omelets, Belgian waffles, country sausage, and popovers. I guess when you’re a good cook, you can practically do it in your sleep.
I chalked up the overall languor to the mountain air and a surfeit of fine food. Casual conversation during the weekend had disclosed that everyone but Ann lived somewhere along the California coast. The sea air must have a different effect than the mountain air because everyone else noted how well they slept.
We decided that the aforementioned omelets, waffles, sausage, and popovers constituted brunch rather than breakfast and decided to take a final hike into the neighboring mountains during the afternoon. Ann’s wardrobe would have been better suited to Cannes than a California ranch, especially as she had forgotten to bring hiking shoes, but Peggy had loaned her a pair that fit reasonably well. We returned early in the evening. Since I had a business appointment early Monday morning, I said good-bye to everyone, thanked Carl and Peggy for a pleasant weekend, and drove directly home. I dropped off my rented car, availing myself of the computerized drop-off arrangement where you just leave the car and they e-mail you the bill. I did, however, write down the mileage on the odometer just to make sure that I wasn’t getting ripped off. After that, I removed the small suitcase I had used to pack my gear and walked the couple of blocks home.
When I got to the guesthouse, the message light on the phone was blinking continually, and there was a note from Pete on the door. The note said “Urgent—see me the moment you get back!!” I decided to pick up my messages later and went over to the main house.
“What’s so urgent?” I asked.
“Carl and Peggy O’Hara have been calling the house every half hour for the past two hours. They’ve left messages on your machine. They want you to call back immediately, if not sooner.”
Maybe I was such a good guest that they wanted to make sure that I hadn’t made plans for next weekend yet. I managed to get through with no difficulty whatsoever.
It was, to say the least, an extremely interesting phone call. I was astounded to learn that Ann Robinson had discovered that she was missing approximately $400,000 worth of jewels and that I, as well as everyone else in the house, was under suspicion of robbery! The moment the theft was discovered, Carl and Peggy had called the police. A thorough search of the house, everyone in it, and their possessions had been made, but no jewelry had been found. I was the only person who had left, but the highway patrol had been unable to stop me because no one had any specifics on the car that I was driving—and not having my cell phone, I couldn’t be reached. It turned out that some of the messages on my answering machine were from Carl and Peggy, nearly frantic with worry, and one or two were from the police, inviting me in for questioning.
I sat back and digested this. I knew I wasn’t guilty, but I had to admit that I was clearly the leading suspect. After all, no one else had left the scene of the crime.
Speaking of crime, being a detective is a little like being a surgeon. There is a rumor to the effect that surgeons should never operate on someone they love because it clouds their judgment. Well, my judgment was pretty clouded at the moment, so I decided to ask Pete to take a look at it. It took me about an hour to describe the events of the weekend. Pete asked me to clarify a few points and then asked me if I had any ideas.
As
I said, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. “One possibility is that Ann Robinson is committing insurance fraud. But I guess that’s pretty unlikely. We all saw the jewels, and the police searched the house and everyone’s possessions thoroughly. They wouldn’t exclude the possibility of insurance fraud. Besides, Ann Robinson seemed pretty well fixed. She’s some sort of heiress, and if you can bring $400,000 worth of jewelry for a couple of weeks’ vacation, you’re probably not hurting.”
Pete nodded. “As you were telling the story, a couple of things occurred to me. Didn’t it strike you as a coincidence that everybody slept late on Sunday, and almost all of them mentioned how sleepy they were?”
I could have kicked myself. “Of course! You think that maybe we were all given some sort of knockout drops?”
“It seems a reasonable possibility. After all, you mentioned that, after you drank the hot cider, you suddenly felt very sleepy. Hot cider would undoubtedly mask any odd taste. Besides, you mentioned that everyone drank it. Carl and Peggy made it, but how was it served?”
I thought back. “They brought it out in a large punch bowl and threw a few logs on the fire. Then they served a cup to everyone. After that, the punch bowl just stood on the table, and everyone helped themselves. I guess that puts Carl and Peggy under added suspicion.”
“Yeah, but anyone could have done it.”
“I guess so. It looks like everyone had opportunity and means, and only Ann didn’t have a motive.”
Pete thought for a few minutes. While he was thinking, I was worrying, mostly about my future, and hoping that inspiration would strike.
All of a sudden, Pete said, “I think I’ve got an idea. Where are the jewels?”
“I don’t have them.”
“That wasn’t an accusation; it was a question. I know you don’t have them, but where are they?”
“Not at the ranch house, that’s for sure. Could they be hidden somewhere else on the ranch?”
L.A. Math: Romance, Crime, and Mathematics in the City of Angels Page 6