A Clause for Murder

by Jill Shure

  Garcia frowned. &ldquoWho were these men you both dated?&rdquo

  I tried to recall them all. But it seemed she&rsquod gone after every guy I&rsquod ever known. Gosh, it&rsquos hard to remember. &ldquoDarren Blake. But he was no big deal and&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoTommy Sims?&rdquo

  &ldquoSure, I mean, I just heard about Courtney and him after&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoDid her dating Tommy bother you?&rdquo Garcia asked.

  &ldquoHardly. I haven&rsquot seen him for&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoDid you notice whether Miss Farrow left with Mr. Sims or anyone else that night?&rdquo

  &ldquoNo, I was probably in the shower.&rdquo

  He frowned, his heavy dark brows angling up curiously. &ldquoDo you normally shower at parties?&rdquo

  &ldquoWe all went swimming. I wanted to rinse off afterward and warm up.&rdquo

  &ldquoWas that before or after you and Miss Farrow quarreled?&rdquo

  My heart jumped to my throat. Suddenly, the air conditioning seemed to have conked out. &ldquoWho told you we quarreled?&rdquo Probably Arlene&rsquos ex-boyfriend Eric, that gorilla.

  Garcia&rsquos indifferent demeanor reminded me of my own silent close after I&rsquove offered the client a choice between two policies. So, would you like to sign up for the Lexus for a thousand a month or would you prefer the Chevy Lumina for six hundred?

  &ldquoWe didn&rsquot really quarrel,&rdquo I explained. &ldquoIt was just a little mis&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoHis name, please.&rdquo

  &ldquoKen Blanchard.&rdquo

  &ldquoThe ex-third baseman for the Padres?&rdquo

  I hung my head and nodded.

  Garcia chuckled. &ldquoI heard he swung his bat hard with the ladies.&rdquo

  &ldquoGood in the field and at the plate,&rdquo Sorensen added.

  Apparently, Garcia and Sorensen found some things very funny.

  Ken had spent a measly six months as a baseball star of the local team just before his first marriage. But he&rsquod acquired a lifetime&rsquos reputation for his popularity with women. Unfortunately, his ankle snapped and his ball career landed in the ozone. Too bad his notoriety with women hadn&rsquot.

  &ldquoSo you fought over Ken. Mind telling us what happened?&rdquo Garcia said.

  I carefully chronicled how the incident came about.

  &ldquoHow many drinks would you say Miss Farrow had?&rdquo

  &ldquoI never actually counted.&rdquo

  &ldquoCertainly you wouldn&rsquot let a drunken friend drive home alone.&rdquo

  &ldquoI guess I never considered her a friend.&rdquo

  The men exchanged looks.

  &ldquoAn enemy then,&rdquo Garcia concluded. &ldquoSomeone you might want dead.&rdquo

  &ldquoAbsolutely not. I meant we weren&rsquot close.&rdquo

  &ldquoWhat alcoholic beverages did you serve that night?&rdquo

  &ldquoBeer, wine, tequila.&rdquo

  &ldquoDid you ever say you wished her dead?&rdquo

  &ldquoNo, I ...&rdquo What had I said? She&rsquod enraged me enough to say almost anything. &ldquoI don&rsquot remember my exact words. Look, she must&rsquove had too many drinks. But I lost track of her for most of the evening.&rdquo

  &ldquoWe were told Courtney danced with Ken. Is that right?&rdquo

  &ldquoYes, he, they&mdashbut Ken didn&rsquot respond to her. He never&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoThen why did she throw coffee at you?&rdquo

  A margarita, I thought, not bothering to correct them. &ldquoI guess she was drunk.&rdquo

  &ldquoThen what happened?&rdquo

  &ldquoKen and I stayed for a while to talk and listen to music.&rdquo

  &ldquoAround what time did you and Blanchard leave?&rdquo

  My mother hadn&rsquot been this tough back in high school. &ldquoAround one.&rdquo

  &ldquoWith Blanchard?&rdquo Garcia asked.

  &ldquoIn separate cars.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut you met later?&rdquo

  &ldquoYes,&rdquo I admitted staring at the carpet. &ldquoHe stayed over long enough to have eggs and toast for breakfast.&rdquo

  Sorensen&rsquos face stayed impassive. But I thought Garcia&rsquos expression was judgmental as he leaned close enough for me to see he needed to trim his nose hairs.

  &ldquoHow did you meet Miss Farrow?&rdquo Garcia asked, taking a new direction.

  &ldquoI sold her insurance when she moved here. Life and health.&rdquo

  &ldquoAny chance Mr. Blanchard returned last night for an encore and would be willing to vouch for you?&rdquo Garcia asked, his dark pouched eyes studying me as if he could read my soul.

  I felt my face flush. I stared at my bare feet, at my toes which had a fresh coat of polish thanks to my preparations for Saturday night. &ldquoI&rsquom not really seeing Ken anymore.&rdquo

  Sorensen scribbled in his little notebook for what seemed like forever. I thought he might be starting a novel.

  &ldquoLook, I never hurt another person in my life,&rdquo I said. &ldquoI&rsquom an honest, law-abiding citizen&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoWe&rsquore just trying to clear up a few facts, Ms. Ross. Her boss, aunt, and boyfriend are all worried and so am I. That was too nice a car to abandon. And judging by her mail and newspapers, she left in a hurry.&rdquo

  Her boss? Her boyfriend? Which boyfriend? She&rsquod had a regiment of them. &ldquoBelieve me, I&rsquom as confused as you are. But you have to realize, I hardly knew her.&rdquo

  Garcia narrowed his eyes.

  &ldquoOkay, we socialized, but I never really knew her.&rdquo

  &ldquoShe was a woman who made other women jealous, I&rsquom told.&rdquo

  &ldquoShe was&mdasha pain in the ass. That doesn&rsquot mean&mdash&rdquo

  &ldquoAbout how many times would you say you&rsquove seen her this past year?&rdquo

  I used my fingers to figure. &ldquoMaybe fifteen. I&rsquom not sure.&rdquo

  &ldquoSeems like a lot for someone you hardly knew.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut that&rsquos including monthly meetings with my sorority sisters.&rdquo

  &ldquoAnd the other times?&rdquo

  &ldquoChristmas parties, dinners, get-togethers. Maybe we had dinner with another girlfriend once or twice.&rdquo

  &ldquoSo she wasn&rsquot a stranger.&rdquo

  &ldquoI meant, she never opened up to me.&rdquo

  &ldquoNo heart-to-hearts over men?&rdquo

  I knew where this was heading: Right back to my argument with Courtney Saturday night and her disappearance Sunday night. &ldquoOkay, I&rsquoll say it. Courtney may have been beautiful, but she had this need to prove she was at the top of the heap. She needed to triumph over other girls, steal their boyfriends, flirt with their husbands. It didn&rsquot make me love her. But Saturday night was about Ken, and he came home with me. So why would I hurt her?&rdquo

  Garcia rubbed the stubble on his chin and studied me. &ldquoYou&rsquore sure it wasn&rsquot about Tommy Sims?&rdquo

  &ldquoTommy Sims? Are you joking?&rdquo

  &ldquoDo I look funny?&rdquo

  I sighed. &ldquoWe used to work together. And he came to the party. I guess I might&rsquove waved at him once.&rdquo

  &ldquoNothing more? No relationship beyond work?&rdquo

  They probably had all the answers before they asked the questions. &ldquoOkay, I used to see him, too. Briefly. No big deal.&rdquo

  &ldquoThat makes three guys you liked that Courtney went after.&rdquo

  &ldquoIf you say so. I never was very good at math.&rdquo

  &ldquoTommy Sims is one of the people who reported her missing. They had a date Sunday night but she never showed.&rdquo

  &ldquoI know. You already told me.&rdquo So had Lisa, Arlene, and the late-night news. I still couldn&rsquot believe Tommy had fallen so hard for anyone. Because Tommy was a notorious heartbreaker. He usually dallied with at least three women at once. He&rsquod even bragged to one of my friends about going fishing down in

  Mexico the day before our party with another girl&mdashnot Courtney.

&nbs
p; So why get unraveled because Courtney stood him up? Unless his attachment to her had set him on a new path.

  Coming out of my reverie, I discovered Garcia scrutinizing me like he was sizing me up for prison wear.

  &ldquoI don&rsquot know anything about Tommy or Courtney,&rdquo I said. &ldquoI only know she came onto Ken Saturday night. And when he didn&rsquot bite she made a scene.&rdquo

  &ldquoDo you know if she had any money problems or another reason she might decide to disappear?&rdquo

  &ldquoNot as far as I know. She seemed to have everything. Looks, money, men&mdashnot that I knew many personal details.&rdquo

  &ldquoDid you hear from her after the party? Between Saturday night after your fight and Monday morning?&rdquo Garcia asked.

  I studied his face, the five o&rsquoclock shadow, the hound dog eyes, the chunky nose. Did he already know Courtney had left me a phone message? &ldquoShe called me Sunday afternoon and asked me to call her. She claimed she had something to show me.&rdquo

  &ldquoSunday afternoon around what time?&rdquo

  I reluctantly trudged over to my answering machine and replayed her message.

  &ldquoAround two,&rdquo Garcia concluded scribbling more notes. &ldquoAny idea what she intended to show you?&rdquo

  &ldquoMaybe she bought a new diamond bracelet she thought I&rsquod admire. Really, Detective Garcia, I&rsquom not a mind reader. I have no idea why she called. I was out working at the time.&rdquo

  &ldquoOn a Sunday?&rdquo

  &ldquoI sell insurance. It&rsquos a good day to find people home. I&rsquoll be happy to give you the client&rsquos name and phone number.&rdquo

  After twenty minutes, Garcia and Sorenson politely thanked me and left. That night I discovered there are situations that even ice cream and a favorite movie can&rsquot ease. I spent a turbulent night wondering what Courtney had intended to show me. Whether or not she was dead. What prison would be like and where Ken was. Not that I would stoop to calling him.

  The next morning, after a client canceled, I drove up to Arlene&rsquos house. It took me an hour to get there thanks to the freeway congestion that escalates every day, but which becomes impossible in August due to the Del Mar track, the Zoo, Sea World, Legoland, and a magnificent coastline loaded with beaches. As always, Arlene&rsquos black SUV sat in her driveway. Her back door was unlocked, and she was in her favorite position, prone on the sofa by the TV in sweats. Waves of ominous soap opera music filled the house, and soft drinks, chips, and salsa rested on the coffee table. According to my watch, it was just after ten in the morning.

  Without a word, I dropped down beside her, helped myself to the goodies, and fell into watching TV, too. At last Arlene&rsquos soap broke for a commercial and I told her about my visit from the police.

  &ldquo... I think I got ten minutes of sleep last night. What&rsquos gonna happen to Sofia if I go to jail?&rdquo I wailed.

  &ldquoYou&rsquore not going to jail. I called a friend of mine&mdasha gal I knew in the Marines who&rsquos with the Newark police now. She said the locals will probably just file a missing person report. Apparently, plenty of people go AWOL voluntarily. Husbands avoiding alimony. Burned out housewives. People who can&rsquot pay their bills. But when somebody complains or contacts the police, no matter how soon they do it, the police make out a report. The report goes into a national information center where there&rsquos a huge database&mdashin case a body turns up and they need to match prints, dental records, or DNA,&rdquo Arlene explained.

  &ldquoBut why would Courtney leave me that message and then disappear?&rdquo

  &ldquoTo torture you. Or maybe it&rsquos completely unrelated.&rdquo

  &ldquoBut what about those news alerts when a teenager doesn&rsquot come home or a senior disappears from a nursing home?&rdquo I said.

  &ldquoI guess when someone&rsquos predictable, people get concerned. But with Courtney ... she never had a concrete schedule. At least nothing she ever told me about,&rdquo Arlene said.

  &ldquoStill feel like taking a drive down to La Jolla? I&rsquod like to see if she really has disappeared.&rdquo

  Arlene pointed the remote, turning the TV off. &ldquoWhat else have I got to do? Meredith just lost her baby. Zack has amnesia. And Dane is cheating on Bianca.&rdquo

  Once again, I debated mentioning how Arlene&rsquos alimony was killing her ambition. How she&rsquod be better off spending her days telling people about deadly illnesses and death benefits like I do. On the other hand, hanging out in my pajamas and watching soaps and game shows appealed to me. So I couldn&rsquot say who was better off.

  Beautiful, posh La Jolla rests behind Mt. Soledad and meanders down to the Pacific and several glorious beaches. Too bad the roads are so congested; it&rsquos like trying to get in and out of a boring meeting quickly. Fifty minutes later, Arlene directed me to a small modern building overlooking the Pacific. With my stomach churning from nerves, we parked a few blocks away and arrived at Courtney&rsquos place just before noon. Courtney had mentioned having something she wanted to show me. But did I want to see it? What if she had a collection of pictures with Ken&rsquos head between her legs?

  We wound our way through a maze of walkways past a three-story building complex with red-tiled roofs that faced the beach. In seconds we reached Courtney&rsquos private entrance, a door hidden behind brilliant pink bougainvillea and a stucco wall. I rang the bell twice. We waited, listening for footsteps or Courtney&rsquos, &ldquoWho&rsquos there?&rdquo

  A minute later, we were still scratching our heads and smelling the salty ocean air. I rang again and pressed my ear to the door hoping for sounds inside the condo. Without luck.

  I finally resorted to banging the brass door knocker and bellowing, &ldquoCourtney!&rdquo

  When this proved fruitless, Arlene reached behind a cactus plant and produced a key.

  &ldquoWow. How&rsquod you know about that?&rdquo I asked.

  &ldquoI saw her hide it there once. Here, put these on.&rdquo She handed me a pair of latex gloves. &ldquoFor fingerprints.&rdquo

  I stared down at the gloves. &ldquoThese seem a little drastic.&rdquo

  &ldquoBetter safe than sorry. Now stand back. I&rsquoll go first.&rdquo She sounded as if we were storming a bunker. Arlene opened the door, then cautiously led me inside.

  Right off a bad stale smell hit me. &ldquoCourtney? Courtney?&rdquo I called, listening for the shower, someone rummaging in a closet, or the whine of a hair dryer. But silence hovered in the air along with the stale smell. Courtney&rsquos place had never looked worse either. The few times I&rsquod been here it had sparkled like the lobby of a Four Seasons Resort. I&rsquod always been impressed by the costly antiques, artwork, and wall-to-wall marble. Not to mention the fresh flowers everywhere. I could still recall Courtney sticking her nose in the middle of a giant floral arrangement on her dining room table and cooing, &ldquoThese came from this rich old guy who saw me playing tennis at La Costa. He bribed the tennis pro just to get my name and address so he could send me these. Aren&rsquot they gorgeous? Don&rsquot you just adore fresh flowers?&rdquo

  &ldquoThey give me ringworm,&rdquo I&rsquod retorted.

  &ldquoHow awful for you. But then you have so many strange ailments, don&rsquot you? Watch out or you&rsquoll end up a lonely old eccentric.&rdquo

  I&rsquod stood there speechless, too stunned to drum up a sarcastic retort. I felt like a large, inarticulate sponge. Because after clothes, insurance, car payments, dental bills, and the other unexpected expenses that pop up for Sofia and me, flowers don&rsquot fit into our budget. And my recent admirers were more likely to pick dandelions off a neighbor&rsquos lawn than fork over a credit card at a flower shop.

  However, today Courtney&rsquos condo looked exactly like my place&mdashlike a roadside accident. Clothes and underwear covered the sofa and chairs. A newspaper was spread over the dining room table and nail polish bottles, magazines, and mail rested on top. A slim strong box, where she must have kept important papers, lay open and empty on the floor.

 
In her kitchen&mdashan interior designer&rsquos dream&mdashdirty dishes were piled everywhere. Flies buzzed around a full garbage pail. It looked as if Courtney had been conducting a science experiment to see how fast she could attract roaches. And judging by the dust covering everything, her cleaning lady had packed up her mop and feather duster weeks ago. I couldn&rsquot help wondering if Courtney really had skipped town. Or would she suddenly emerge from her room in a stained robe with curlers in her hair and a green rejuvenating mask on her face?

  More likely, she&rsquod strut out in some lace thing surrounded by marabou feathers, her feet ensconced in satin mules. Or, she&rsquod waltz through the front door with a glorious tan having just returned from the Caribbean with a muscle-bound stud, somebody else&rsquos husband.

  Mostly, I kept imagining myself opening a closet and finding dear Courtney hanging from a hook, her eyes wide, a stunned expression on her face, somebody&rsquos severed dick in her hand.

  Feeling spooked, I escaped onto her balcony and inhaled the salty Pacific air ripping in from the west along with a little reality. Why had Courtney called me? To waste my time or play a cruel joke on me? Or did she really have something to show me?

  A moment later, I found Arlene kneeling beside Courtney&rsquos gilded antique desk.

  &ldquoWhat&rsquore you looking for? And what if she comes home and finds us here? This feels very illegal.&rdquo

  &ldquoRelax, she&rsquos probably dead,&rdquo Arlene said.

  &ldquoDon&rsquot say that. It gives me the creeps. Besides, you already convinced me that she disappeared voluntarily. And if she does suddenly waltz through that door, she&rsquoll be pretty annoyed to find you digging through her papers and me pawing through her underwear drawer.&rdquo Which I just happened to open. I studied a pair of leopard print thong undies. Apparently, Courtney liked animal prints on everything from her thongs to her pasties.

  &ldquoAlthough with her money she could be skiing in Austria or studying chimpanzees in Africa,&rdquo I said, holding up a lace nightie to see if it would look sexy on me.