The Butcher of Beverly Hills

by Jennifer Colt

  “We bless this woman’s memory,” I jumped in, “and commend her to . . . her Higher Power . . .”

  Reba cast a dubious look at me. I don’t think she was familiar with twelve-step speak.

  “Who is, of course, our Father in heaven. I wouldn’t be implying that she would have any gods before thee, O great and good . . . God in heaven . . .”

  Oh shit, now I was stumbling over a definition of God. Terry cut in again.

  “And so, in conclusion, we say to thee, Amen.” A little abrupt, but what the hell. This wasn’t the Crystal Cathedral and we weren’t Robert Schuller.

  Reba took a deep breath and squared her shoulders bravely. “Thank you, girls, that was just what I needed.”

  I unlocked the door and we stepped over the threshold.

  The house was in the same condition we’d left it, looking like the aftermath of a typhoon. Furniture askew, cushions flung everywhere—her friend’s house ruined, and Reba’s whole inheritance dashed to splinters.

  She gasped, shocked by the extent of the damage. She took it all in for a few moments, goggle-eyed, then finally she found her voice.

  “Well, thanks for nothing, Len,” she snorted.

  Terry rolled her eyes.

  “So where’s that painting?” Reba said.

  I pointed, then blinked.

  “It was right over there!” I yelped, running to the opposite side of the living room, dodging fallen chairs and strewn cushions.

  “Right here!” I slapped the wall. “I swear to God, it was right on this wall!”

  But the painting was gone.

  We went through the house, taking stock of the wreckage. Reba noted that the Oriental rugs were unharmed, estimating their worth in the tens of thousands.

  “Well, that’s something,” she said. “I wonder about her jewelry. She kept it in a wall safe in the office.”

  “Oh, uh, we’re pretty sure she hocked her jewelry,” Terry said.

  “Hocked her . . . oh dear.” Reba fingered a diamond pendant hanging from her own neck.

  “She might have more,” I said, trying to be optimistic.

  We went into the office and found the wall safe behind a picture. Reba didn’t know the combination, so we couldn’t take a look inside, but the outside seemed to be intact. No one had dynamited it or anything.

  I glanced at the floor and saw something we’d missed the other day—an insurance file lying on the piles of paper. I picked it up and skimmed the homeowner’s policy and the attached inventory. Surely it would list something as valuable as a Francis Bacon painting, I thought. But two careful readings of the inventory produced nothing.

  “The Bacon’s not listed on her homeowner’s policy,” I said.

  “Maybe she’d acquired it recently, and hadn’t had time to add it to the policy,” Reba said.

  “Nobody’s that busy. Besides, she’s got everything else listed, down to a gold-plated dog bowl.”

  Terry laughed. “A gold-plated dog bowl? Well, Reba, unless you want to melt it down and make a brooch out of it or something, I guess that little item will go to Lenore’s relatives, along with the dog.”

  “Lenore doesn’t have any relatives,” Reba said. “Not any that she had anything to do with, at least. Obviously there was no one she was closer to than me, if she’s left me everything in the house.”

  Terry clapped her hands. “That means we get to keep Paquito!”

  We were so overjoyed at hearing this news—already imagining the fluffy bed we would buy for him, the miniature pink motorcycle jacket to match Terry’s—that we didn’t even think of the next logical question. But Reba did.

  “Come to think of it, who’d she leave the house to?”

  The doorbell rang and we all froze.

  “Hell-o-o-o-o! Anybody ho-o-o-me? It’s Sally Firth!”

  Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. She must have been holding her finger down on the doorbell. Sally Firth was either at the wrong address or the world’s most aggressive Avon Lady.

  “It’s Sally Firth, with Century 21!”

  Century 21, the realtors?

  I hurried to the front door, Reba and Terry in tow. I swung it open and was met with a dazzling smile spread across the face of a tall skinny woman who stood on the porch, dressed head to toe in sunflower yellow, looking like a giant, anorectic bumblebee. Her brown hair was cut helmet-style, the bangs obscuring her eyes and leaving only the wide smile and long nose poking out from underneath.

  She thrust her hand out to Reba, whom she’d pegged as the lady of the house. “Sally Firth, Century 21. We spoke on the phone? And these are the Benisons.” She pointed to a well-dressed couple behind her.

  “Oh, uh—” Reba began.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Richling,” Sally said to Reba, shoving her out of the way and barging into the foyer. “May we?”

  She gestured for the Benisons to follow her in. When they saw the state of the house they did a series of comic double takes—eyes popping out to the whites, heads swiveling 360 degrees. Sally paused for a millisecond, then flashed them a blinding grin.

  “As we discussed,” she said to the Benisons, “the house is for sale as is.” She turned to Reba. “We’ll just have a look around, shall we? You go right ahead with your packing. I know you’re anxious to get to France.”

  France?

  She led the Benisons through the living room, dodging the debris as she went, behaving rather convincingly as if it weren’t there. She pointed out features like the fireplace, the ceiling beams, the doors leading to the pool in the backyard.

  Reba and Terry looked at me, as if I should know what to do. I stood open-mouthed, watching the trio continue upstairs.

  “And upstairs is the master bedroom,” Sally said, consulting her clipboard. “It has its own fireplace and its own balcony . . .”

  Oh no. Lenore’s lingerie.

  Somehow it seemed like the ultimate indignity for a roomful of strangers to see the dead woman’s boudoir looking like ground zero in a sorority house panty raid.

  “I’ll just see if there’s anything amiss in the bedroom,” I said as I bounded up the stairs past the house hunters. I dashed into the room and ripped the crotchless panties off the bedside lamp, then whipped up all the undies off the floor just as Sally and the Benisons appeared in the doorway.

  I looked up at them and smiled over the armload of lingerie.

  “Really,” Sally sniffed. She pulled the Benisons out into the hallway, her heels clunking on the hardwood.

  “Some people are such slobs . . .” she said in a stage whisper.

  I found myself getting pissed off. What was I doing? I threw the panties in a pile on the bed. There was no sense in letting this continue.

  “And this is the guest bedroom,” Sally said, as I reached out and tugged on her yellow jacket sleeve.

  “Uh, Sally,” I said. “There’s something you should know.”

  “Yes, yes, what is it?”

  I glanced at the Benisons, who were frowning at the state of the guest bedroom, shaking their heads.

  “Could you come with me for a second?”

  She sighed and followed me down the hallway, arms crossed under her breasts.

  “Mrs. Richling wasn’t a slob—” I started to say.

  “Since when? This is the worst state I’ve ever shown a house in, I don’t mind telling you. If it weren’t for the address—”

  “Sally, Mrs. Richling is dead.”

  She gasped. “What—heart attack? Did you call 911?” She ran for the stairs. “We haven’t signed a contract yet! Is she still breathing . . . ?”

  I grabbed the hem of her jacket and yanked her back from the balustrade.

  “That’s not Mrs. Richling downstairs,” I said. “That’s her friend, Mrs. Price-Slatherton. What I’m trying to tell you is that Mrs. Richling was robbed. They ransacked the house and she died on the same day. Yesterday.”

  “She was murdered in the house?” Her eyes widened under the ban
gs. “Well, I have to disclose that, I have an absolute professional obligation—”

  “No, no. She died in the hospital. Someone robbed the house while she was there.”

  “Oh.” Sally sucked in her cheeks thoughtfully. “Well what about the place in the south of France? Mrs. Richling obviously won’t be occupying it. Who’s got the contract on that?”

  “What place in the south of France?”

  “She said she was in a hurry to sell, on account of she wanted to live in her new villa. She was in a rush, said we’d take care of the contract when I came by.”

  “And she told you to come today?”

  Sally nodded her bangs.

  “When did you speak to her?”

  The Benisons peered out into the hallway. “Maybe we’d better come back another time,” Mr. Benison said.

  “Be with you in a jiff!” Sally sang. “You’ve simply got to see the kitchen. It’s got a Sub-Zero refrigerator!”

  “DON’T look in the fridge,” I said.

  The Benisons ducked back into the guest bedroom.

  “What is going on here?” Sally demanded.

  “Please, just tell me when you spoke to Lenore Richling.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, two or three days ago. She said she was recovering from an operation and would be home today. She said not to scream if she answered the front door wearing a mask. And she was moving to France later this week.”

  With what, the proceeds from the sale? But it sounded like she planned to skip the country before the house had even made it into escrow. Then I remembered . . .

  The Big Payout.

  I convinced Sally that she wasn’t going to be able to make a sale today because we didn’t know the disposition of the house in the will. I gave her my card and took hers, telling her we’d be in touch after we’d spoken to the executor of the estate.

  She was fiercely disappointed, but I didn’t think the Benisons were. They couldn’t wait to get out of the house, having correctly sensed that something wasn’t right with this picture.

  The three of them hustled out the front door, Sally apologizing all over herself for the mix-up, offering to show them a darling Cape Cod four blocks away.

  When they’d left, I turned to Reba and Terry. “The Realtor said that Lenore was moving to the south of France.”

  “With what?” Reba said.

  Terry raised her eyebrows at me.

  “Should we tell her?” I said.

  Terry nodded, plastering a mock-serious look on her face. “Oh, definitely. She’s part of the team, now.”

  I shot her a look—What team? The A-Team?

  “Yes, do!” Reba said. “Do tell me!”

  “This may come as a shock,” I said, taking her arm. “Let’s sit for a minute.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, letting me drag her along. “Nothing you say can surprise me now.”

  I led the way into the breakfast room and we seated ourselves at a glass-topped table with a view of the pool. “We’re not sure,” I said, “but we think Lenore was involved in blackmail.”

  Reba’s mouth flew open. “Blackmail?”

  “Like I said, it’s just a theory that we’re working on that seems to make sense in light of . . . recent events.”

  “What recent events?”

  “Lenore was desperate for money right before she died,” Terry said. “She sent us after Mario to get it, claiming he stole her jewels and hocked them—”

  “Why, that’s what she told me.”

  “But we found proof that she hocked them herself. She seems to have been hard up ever since her husband died. But she might have been expecting a big payday and needed the money to tide her over. We think she was working with Mario and the maid on the blackmail part.”

  “What maid?” Reba said. “Maggie or Martha or whatever her name was?”

  “A girl named Rini,” I said. “Possibly related to Mario.”

  “Well whatever happened to Maggie or Martha? She’d been with Lenore for twenty years! Dowdy thing, devoted as a dog. Missing a couple of incisors, so she never smiled. And you say she was replaced with this Rini?”

  I nodded. “By the looks of it, Lenore was scraping bottom. Maybe she had to fire Maggie or Martha because she couldn’t pay her. Anyway, we don’t think Rini was a real maid. She performed other duties.”

  Reba blinked. “What other duties?”

  “She took a baby to the park and pretended to be a nanny,” Terry said, “hanging out with the other nannies in the neighborhood, trying to get dirt on their employers.”

  “That’s the theory, anyway,” I said. “And then Lenore and Mario put the screws to the people in question, threatening to air their dirty laundry if they didn’t pay.”

  Reba’s eyes got wide and she began to nod. “Yes, yes . . . You know, Lenore always was asking a lot of questions about people. Nosy questions. She seemed morbidly interested in the misfortunes of others—”

  “We saw her at the hospital before she died,” I told Reba, “and she pleaded with us to tell an assistant in Hattrick’s office that she wasn’t in possession of some item, although she wouldn’t say what it was.”

  “But someone came here looking for this thing,” Terry said. “And tore the place up.”

  “Do you think Lenore was blackmailing the doctor?” Reba asked excitedly.

  Terry and I exchanged a look. We hadn’t thought of this—it didn’t fit with our squeeze-the-neighbors theory.

  “I guess it’s possible,” Terry said. “The message was delivered to his former assistant.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s on the ropes, professionally. About to lose his license. And it seems that everyone knows it. What could she hold over him?”

  Reba’s mental wheels began to grind. “Hmm . . . what’s worse than losing your livelihood?” she asked with a sly, Jessica Fletcher expression.

  I shrugged. “Prison?”

  “And why do people go to prison?” Reba was really getting into it, her eyes shining with intrigue.

  “Murder, extortion, fraud—” I glanced at Terry, “drugs.”

  “That’s an interesting thought,” Terry said. “Doctors have access to lots of drugs.”

  Okay, I figured we could take this speculative detour for a minute. All we had was conjecture anyway. “Reba, you went to Hattrick for a consultation. What was your impression of him?”

  “Well, I knew immediately I didn’t want the man to operate on me. I’d only gone as a favor to Lenore. This was before everyone knew about his troubles, of course.”

  “Was there anything in particular about him that you didn’t like?”

  “No, more of a general impression. Something I didn’t trust. Maybe it was the dark glasses.”

  I frowned at her. “He wore dark glasses during your consultation?”

  “He said he’d been to the optometrist and his pupils were still dilated. But I could see his eyes behind the lenses, and something about them frightened me.”

  “What?” Terry asked. “Was it the dilated pupils?”

  “Hmm . . . I don’t think so.” Reba closed her eyes to focus on her memory of Hattrick. “Oh, I know! His eyes didn’t blink. Not once in the whole time I was in the room!”

  She smiled, pleased with herself. “Isn’t that remarkable? I’d never been able to put my finger on it before, but that’s exactly what it was. He didn’t blink his eyes. I’m more observant than I knew.”

  Well, it was strange, but not necessarily indicative of anything illegal.

  “Did it seem like he was high?” Terry asked.

  “No, only five-foot-eight or so,” Reba said, “although he was sitting on a stool.”

  “What Terry means,” I said patiently, “did it seem like he was on drugs? His pupils could have been dilated for reasons that had nothing to do with optometry.”

  “Oh. Well, how would I know?”

  “Slurred speech, uncoordinated movements? Did he nod off, anyth
ing like that?”

  “No-o-o-o,” she said, thinking back. “But now that you mention it, he did wrap a rubber band around his arm and pumped his fist to get a vein, then injected himself with a hypodermic needle. He said it was Vitamin B, but I suppose it could have been drugs . . .”

  Terry threw herself down on the table, burying her head in her arms.

  Reba gave her a look. “What did I say?”

  “Reba,” I said, “the doctor is a junkie, an addict. One that’s so far gone he’ll even shoot himself up in front of a patient.”

  “Jesus,” Terry muttered, sitting back up. “I guess that’s blackmail material, all right.”

  “Lenore wanted us to give her message to Hattrick’s assistant,” I said. “Did you meet her when you were there? A gorgeous Russian he used as a model, named Tatiana?”

  “Model? No. He used his computer to show me the results. Of course, I’ve always thought I bore a resemblance to Cindy Crawford.”

  “It’s the beauty mark,” Terry said.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “This is all very interesting,” I said, “but let’s not forget why we’re here in the first place. What about the painting? There’s no record of it on her insurance. She was hurting for money, but she didn’t sell it. And now it’s missing.”

  “Well, perhaps it wasn’t hers to sell,” Reba said. “Maybe it was on loan from Suzie Magnuson and she took it back.”

  Terry was incredulous. “You think Suzie walked into the burglarized home of her friend and took it off the wall?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Reba said. “We’ll go to Suzie’s now and see if she’s got her painting. She’s only a couple of blocks away.”

  “You’re the one with the wheels,” Terry said, and we locked up the house, hopped into Reba’s Mercedes, and sped over to Suzie’s in two minutes flat.

  Suzie Magnuson lived in a redbrick Colonial mansion with a white colonnade running the length of the façade. The house sat between a granite French house topped by a mansard roof, and a stark, Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired split-level.

  Jefferson goes to Paris, then retires to Arizona.

  The neighborhood resembled Lenore’s block: open, without the massive security walls that existed on Reba’s older, more exclusive street. Nouveau riche, maybe, but still filthé riche.