“What were the questionable aspects?” I said.
“The whole thing was hinky. She made a police report of a break-in, but there was no sign of forced entry. The maid and the chauffeur both had the evening off, said they went to a movie and dinner. But when they were asked what movie they had seen, they had a sudden attack of amnesia. Couldn’t remember the story, who was in it, nothing. They said that they were tired and overworked, and may have slept through most of it.”
“Uh-huh,” Terry said, smiling. “Pretty hinky, all right.”
“But the police found a letter of resignation from them, dated Tuesday. That’s the day they estimate Mrs. Magnuson . . . died. I actually saw them hustling away with their suitcases earlier in the day.”
“Do the police consider them suspects in her murder?”
He hitched up his eyebrows curiously.
“We know she was killed,” I told him.
“How’d you find out?”
“Confidential source,” Terry said.
“Well, the servants haven’t been ruled out completely, and they’re certainly suspects in the attempt to defraud Whitechapel. But as of yet, they haven’t been located.”
“Where was Mrs. Magnuson when the alleged burglary occurred?” I said.
“She claimed she was playing canasta with some other ladies, and it checked out.”
Terry gave me a quick sideways glance. “So how long had you had her under surveillance?”
“For a few weeks, ever since she reported the burglary. The day her body was discovered, I’d been pulled away. I had to run over to another house to do an inspection, and I guess that’s when you found her.”
“Do the police know about your surveillance?” I said.
“Hell, yeah. They’ve got my tape from the night of the murder. I got an image of someone going into her house.”
“You did?” we both said at once.
He nodded, pleased. Then his smile turned down. “Unfortunately, whoever it was is dressed in dark clothes and a hat, and his face isn’t visible. They have their experts working on it right now, or I’d show it to you.”
“Amazing,” I said.
“Okay, your turn. How did you know about the Bacon?” he said, squinting at us.
“We saw it at the home of another friend of our aunt’s, Lenore Richling.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He clamped a hand over his mouth, suddenly conscious of appropriate office conduct. “Sorry.”
He jumped up from his desk to close the door, then rushed back to his seat and whooshed into it, oblivious of the comic effect. “I was at Lenore Richling’s when the call came through about Mrs. Magnuson!”
“You insured Mrs. Richling, too?” Terry asked him.
“Yeah, it was all set up through her lawyer.”
I looked over at Terry. “Hugh Binion?” I said.
“Yeah,” Sidney said, laughing. “Puke Pinhead, I call him.”
We laughed along with him, and it eased the tension in the small room.
“So, this is great,” Sidney said. “Is the painting still there?” I heard his foot thumping again, and realized he was practically jumping up and down at the prospect of running over to Lenore’s to recover the painting. He probably got a bonus in cases like this, and though I hated to disappoint him, I hoped our news would stop the thumping. It was making me feel like he was slightly unhinged.
“No,” I told him. “It’s gone.”
“Oh.” The thumping ceased and his facial muscles went flaccid with disappointment.
“Our aunt was Lenore Richling’s beneficiary,” I explained to him. “She was supposed to inherit the contents of the house. We took her over there the morning after Lenore died, but the painting had apparently been stolen.”
“Shit, not again!” He pounded the desk. “Can you describe it to me?” he asked to be sure. “The painting you saw at Mrs. Richling’s?”
“Yeah, it was a man seated on a wooden chair, with a kind of floating smile. He was facing down into the left-hand corner of the canvas.”
“You an art major?”
“No, but I did take an art history class at UCLA, and I recognized the style and some of Bacon’s trademark items, like the watch, the cigarette butts, and the naked lightbulb.”
Sidney wasn’t convinced. He reached over into his filing cabinet and riffled through some hanging files, pulling out a color slide. He handed it to me, and I held it up to the light of the window.
“That’s definitely the painting I saw,” I said, feeling my shoulders loosen. I would have felt like the world’s biggest dingbat if I’d been wrong about the whole thing.
“So what’s going to happen to the claim for three million?” Terry said.
Sidney shrugged. “If we can’t recover the painting, it’ll become part of Mrs. Magnuson’s estate. It’s being administrated by Binion, and he’s after us big time for the money. Threatening to sue and everything.”
“Just out of curiosity, did Mrs. Magnuson have any heirs?” I asked.
Sidney smiled and shook his head. He knew where I was going with this.
“So,” I continued, “Binion’s in charge of the estates of two recently deceased women whose deaths were untimely, to say the least. And the missing painting will add three million to the kitty.”
“Looks that way,” Sidney said with a fatalistic sneer.
“This just keeps getting hinkier, doesn’t it?” Terry said.
There wasn’t much more to say. We got up to leave, promising to let him know if we got any good scoop. He said he’d do the same, especially when it came to the identification of a suspect in Suzie Magnuson’s murder.
But when we got to the door, I had a sudden inspiration.
“Hey, do you mind if we have a look at that police report?” I asked Sidney. “The original one for the break-in at Suzie Magnuson’s house, when she reported the Bacon stolen?”
“Sure.” He rustled through some more files and produced the report.
I scanned it quickly, noting the time and date of the report, the claim of theft, the chauffeur and maid’s statements, etc. Then I saw something that almost made me jump.
I handed the report to Terry and pointed to the names of the responding officers. One of them was Dinah Lott.
“What?” Sidney said, seeing my obvious interest.
“Nothing.” I handed the report back to him. “Just a little déjà vu. Thanks a lot, Sidney.”
Terry and I left the office in thoughtful silence and remained that way during the twenty-one-floor trip down to the garage.
“Pretty interesting, Dinah being the responding officer at Suzie’s fake burglary,” I said when we got to the bike.
“What of it?”
“I don’t know. It just seems funny that she took the burglary report and was also there directing traffic after Suzie was killed.”
“Yeah, but she’s a cop, it’s her beat. Beverly Hills is only a couple of miles square.”
“But when she was pretending to be so open with us at Barney’s, she was actually withholding an important piece of information—the burglary at Suzie’s house.”
“Hey, she gave us more than we gave her,” Terry said, swinging her leg over the bike.
I shrugged. “So Suzie was defrauding the insurance company, with the help of her buddy Lenore.”
“Three million would buy a lot of umbrella drinks on the Riviera.”
“Was that the Big Payout?” I wondered. “They were waiting for the insurance company to come through on the claim?”
“Don’t know,” Terry said, revving the engine. “Sounds like there was a lot of red tape and a possible legal hassle. Maybe when they realized it wouldn’t be so quick in coming, they went for another big kill.”
“And got themselves killed for it.”
Terry said she’d felt the cell phone vibrating in her pocket while we were on the freeway, but decided to answer the call from home.
We opened the front door
and were greeted by our new little pets, who wiggled their little behinds in excitement, licking our hands and prancing around at our feet. When we got through petting them, Terry checked the display window on the cell phone and found a return number that neither of us recognized.
“Hmmm,” Terry said. “Want to take a flyer on who the mystery caller is?”
I held up my hands. “I can’t begin to guess.”
“Maybe it’s Janice, ready to spill the beans on the whole drug-dispensing operation.”
“As if,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Probably a phone solicitor.”
I picked up the extension to listen in as Terry dialed the number from the land line. To my surprise, Janice did indeed answer (chalk up another one for Terry’s intuition), but she was clearly not in the doctor’s office.
“I’m at a pay phone in the coffee shop,” Janice said, sounding bone-weary. “I didn’t want anyone to know I was talking to you—”
Terry decided to deploy her sandbags straightaway. “We know about the doctor’s drug trade, Janice.” There was no response, but I thought I heard sniffling on the line. “And there’s something else you should know. One of the doctor’s customers was found dead—murdered—with a bunch of your goodies in the room.”
“Who?” Janice said, sounding like a frightened little girl.
“Suzie Magnuson.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“My . . . God,” Janice whispered. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“The walls are closing in on you, girl,” Terry said, pressing her cruel advantage. “You’ve got to tell somebody what you know.”
“But my son . . .” Janice moaned.
I felt a knife go into my gut. “It will be even worse for him if you don’t do something,” I told her.
She sighed, then seemed to make up her mind. Her voice came out stronger, more resolute. “Can you meet me at the office? I’ll show you some things. Evidence. Then maybe you can advise me what to do.”
I waved my hands at Terry, frowning.
“Yeah,” Terry said into the phone, ignoring me. “We can do that. What time?”
“Come by at eight o’clock. Everyone will be gone.”
“What about the doctor?”
Janice made a disgusted sound. “The doctor’s in Rio, for all I know. I don’t think he’s coming back. Don’t know why I bother hauling my ass in anymore.”
“All right. We’ll be there at eight,” Terry said. “Keep your chin up. It’s going to be okay.”
Janice laughed bitterly. “Right.”
Afterward, I had a rapid sinking feeling, like something really bad was about to happen. I tried to read Terry’s face, to see if she had the feeling, too.
“Was that a little too easy?” I asked her.
She gave me her best Now what? glare.
“I didn’t expect Janice to roll over that quickly. People don’t usually just jump up and implicate themselves in criminal conspiracies.”
“That’s why you slam them right away,” Terry said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You knock ’em off balance. That way they don’t have time to BS you.”
I went upstairs to change into some sleuthing clothes, with Terry following along behind me. “But why is she going to confess everything to two women she’s met only twice?” I said, as I zipped up my miss sixties jeans, slipping on some raspberry-colored Pumas. I topped it with a hooded pullover.
“Know what I think?” Terry said. “She’s been wrestling with her conscience for a long time. She didn’t mean to get involved with illegal drug dealing. She’s a hardworking single mom who got swept up in things and now she’s stuck. She’s probably grateful we’re forcing her hand, especially if people are getting killed.”
“I don’t know—”
“Hey, who’s the one with the golden gut?”
“You are,” I admitted grudgingly. “Usually.”
“And I’m telling you, Janice is a good egg. Don’t worry. She’ll make a deal and be outta there with minimum time served. Maybe no time at all, thanks to our early warning.”
Since we had an hour to kill before we met Janice, we decided to go by the Dauphine. We were going to try to talk to the desk clerk and persuade her to open one of the gift baskets for a little peek inside. Toblerone and OxyContin, anyone?
We parked a block away so the garage attendant couldn’t alert anyone that we were on the way. But we’d have to go in the front door, and there was little doubt that Alphonse would pop up in our faces soon after we got there. If he did present himself, we planned to fake him out. Ask him direct questions about Suzie Magnuson’s “overdose” to see if he blanched or stammered or pulled out an ice pick and stabbed us.
This time around, the doorman didn’t smile. He picked up a phone next to the outdoor bellhop station and I assumed we’d been fingered, but we walked on into the lobby anyway. The blonde Burger King girl was indeed behind the counter. She looked up without any apparent recognition.
“Hello? May I help you?” Pert and professional.
I was tempted to ask her to supersize our order.
“Hi,” Terry said. “We were here a few days ago, visiting the lady who called herself Mrs. Templeton, remember?”
The girl pointed a pen at Terry, wagging it. “Oh, yeah.”
“We’re fine,” I said, even though we hadn’t been asked.
“We were here when she had her, you know, ear problem,” Terry said.
“Uh-huh.” The girl was getting cooler by the second. I read her name tag. Sandy Gratz. Might want to rethink that one if she had show business aspirations.
“Well, Sandy,” Terry said, “Mrs. ‘Templeton’ is dead.”
“Oh!” Sandy gasped. “Oh, how terrible!”
“And so is Mrs. Suzie Magnuson,” I said. “She was here at the same time. Remember her?”
“Mrs. Magnuson OD’d on prescription drugs,” Terry added, omitting any mention of the stabbing.
Sandy blinked a few times, her blue eyes wide, cheeks going spotty red.
I felt a tingling at the back of my neck and sensed that Alphonse was about to appear in a puff of smoke, so I slipped our card onto the counter. Sandy glanced at it, but made no move to pick it up.
“Well, it’s you again,” Alphonse sang as he exited the executive offices behind the registration desk, the place where Sandy had said the baskets were assembled. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her palm the business card, slipping it into her jacket pocket.
“Hello, Alphonse,” Terry said.
“Monsieur Alphonse,” he corrected her, and I gathered we were no longer on a first-name basis. “What are you do-ing here?”
“We’re making a few inquiries,” I said.
Alphonse cut his eyes to Sandy. She gave her head a little shake, as if to assure him that she’d said nothing to me.
“I have nozzing to say to your inquiries,” he said, glaring. “And you are not a guest of ze hotel.”
“I know,” Terry said. “We were thinking we’d go to your lovely piano bar for a little drinky-poo. Care to join us?”
Alphonse gave a curt nod to the doorman. He swung the door wide open, looking like he’d throw us out bodily if we didn’t leave by the count of three.
“No, I don’t sink zat’s a good idea. I sink you should go somewhere more appropriate for you. Ze Airport Holiday Inn, perhaps?”
Terry leaned on the counter and stuck out her chin.
“Sure. Happy to. But we were just wondering—what with Easter coming up and everything—could we buy a few of those gift baskets from you? You know, like the one you sent home with Mrs. Magnuson just before she croaked?”
Alphonse’s nostrils flared outward. “What are you implying?”
“I’m implying that those gift baskets would make terrific Easter presents,” Terry said, all smiling innocence.
“Get out!” Alphonse fairly screamed.
Terry let out an exagger
ated sigh. “Oh well, Ker. I guess we’ll just have to keep shopping for all those rich old ladies on our list.”
She pushed herself away from the counter, eyes fixed on Alphonse’s. Then she sauntered toward the front door, pointing to the elaborate flower arrangements that reminded me of science fiction monsters, with their gnarled Japanese twigs, beaked orange flowers, and elephant-ears with the penile protuberances.
“Killer flowers,” Terry said, giving Alphonse a little finger wave good-bye. “Ciao!”
When we got back to the bike, Terry was wearing a huge grin. “We hit a nerve, baby. A big hairy nerve.”
“Yeah, but what does it get us?” I wondered. “Alphonse won’t let us near the place again. We won’t be able to talk to the housekeeping staff—”
Terry shrugged. “The girl’s got our card. And now she’s got the word on a couple of suspicious deaths. She might come back to us with some information.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Also, backing Alphonse in a corner might force him into making a move.”
I gulped. “A move on us?”
She punched me in the arm. “Now don’t go all wimpy on me. Can you picture Alphonse getting violent? Please. He wouldn’t want to muss his suit.”
I gave her a game little smile and hopped on the bike, sincerely hoping she was right. It was a very nice suit, but whoever said homicidal maniacs couldn’t be snappy dressers, as well?
We arrived at Hattrick’s office at 7:59. The coffee shop next door was closed. The hallway was dark on the other side of the glass door, which strangely enough, was unlocked.
“Not locked?” I said, as Terry pulled open the door. “At this hour?”
“Janice probably left it open for us.” Terry led the way and we walked down to the elevator bank.
“Come on, let’s take the stairs,” Terry said. “We don’t want to risk running into anyone in the elevator.”
“Isn’t it kind of . . . dark?” I said.
“Scaredy-cat.” She entered the stairwell and bounded up the stairs two at a time to show off. I followed, shaking my head, listening to her boots slap the concrete.
The Butcher of Beverly Hills Page 18