“That should be fun. Where did Yuri find her?” I asked.
“Nell wrote a book on bilingual children, and during some big immigration debate, the president quoted her. And she hit the best-seller list. A fluke.” She was mashing her twigs with a vengeance. “Her publisher wanted to send her on tour, but when they found out what a head case she was, they called in Yuri to fix her.”
“And Yuri got her to do Oprah?” I asked.
Kimberly shook her head. “Yuri's not God. And her book's not really Oprah. He flew to Kansas City and rented the apartment next to hers and after two weeks managed to get people into her living room to tape a short piece for a 60 Minutes segment, then got her through a series of live radio shows. A month later she came to L.A.—by bus, mind you— to work for us. Yuri had become her ‘safe person.’ She lives here, works on her next book, and teaches. She's perfect for Parashie, who's got a problem with schools and institutions, having lived in an orphanage. And Nell keeps getting better. Yuri makes her leave the house once a day and drive herself to Agoura Hills every Thursday night.”
“What's in Agoura Hills?” I asked.
“Agoraphobics Anonymous. She'll do anything for Yuri. She worships him.”
“But she didn't go on the hike yesterday.”
“No, too much open space. We're working on it.”
Nell didn't seem a likely candidate to murder Crispin and throw him down the hillside, then. “What's that like for you,” I asked, “people worshipping your husband?”
Kimberly poured boiling water over her bowl of herbs. “Normal. That's how I started out, hero worship. When I met him, I was a cheerleader and PE major at USC. I interviewed him for my journalism course and fell for him. I thought he was God.”
I sipped my coffee. “Do you still?”
“Well, if your vision of God is a Supreme Being who leaves his underwear on the floor and snores and travels too much and never takes vacations …”
“Never?”
“Never. Too many people need him.”
I looked around the überkitchen, the view out the window. “Medias-Rex must be doing well, to pay for all this.”
“MediasRex breaks even. We can't do enough volume to make big profits, not with the kind of personal attention we give.”
“So where's the money come from?”
“Oh, Yuri made his fortune back in the nineties, the currency market—Hey, Grusha,” Kimberly said, looking past me. “We're running low on pomegranate juice.”
Grusha galumphed across the kitchen to the refrigerator, scowling. I wondered what it would take to make her smile.
“Anyhow—oh!” Kimberly looked at her watch. “Gotta run.” She sealed up her bag of branches. “You come too. I'll brief you on the day's activities.”
“Is MediasRex Yuri's only business now?” I asked, handing her a twig. “Or is he still into—currencies?”
“Currencies, commodities, commercial real estate—you name it.” She poured her twig tea into a mug. “We're loaded.”
“What is this?” Grusha yelled. I jumped.
“Jesus, Grusha!” Kimberly said. “Give me a heart attack, why don't you? What is what?”
“This in my freezer. Just stuffed in here, to fall out. To crush my vegetable stock.”
“Oh!” I said. “That's mine. Frozen yogurt. I'm sorry.”
“Frozen yogurt?” Kimberly asked. “Wollie. Are you an addict?”
“Uh—no. I just—”
“I am. It's my dirty little secret. Where'd you get it? What flavor?”
“Very Vanilla,” I said. “Help yourself. I had a sudden need last night for—”
“No.” Grusha blocked my way, arms akimbo. “You don't put in my freezer without you get my permission. Not my freezer.” It was the longest speech I'd heard from her.
“I'm very sorry,” I said. “I didn't realize there were freezer rules.”
“Chill, Grusha,” Kimberly said. “Wollie's not here to—”
“Chai, she fill my freezer. Vodka, ice cream, Snickers. I throw it out. Everything.”
“Fine,” Kimberly said. “No one expected you to keep it. But Wollie's not Chai, so—”
“Never listens, her. I tell her. She listens? No. She laughs.”
“Okay, but she's dead now, so let's move on, Gru.” Kimberly walked over and placed her hands on the old woman's shoulders and began to massage them. Grusha, to my surprise, endured this for a full minute, even closing her eyes.
“I work now,” Grusha said, opening her eyes abruptly. “You go too. You—” She pointed to me.
I grabbed the offending yogurt. “No frozen foods. I don't know what I was thinking.”
Kimberly led me out of the kitchen. “Now, Zbiggo's trainer is stuck at Heathrow with visa problems, so I'll be in the gym today with him.” She walked fast, and talked faster. “You take Felix to his doctor's appointment in Beverly Hills. Afterwards, stop in Tiffany's to pick up a ring Donatella's having fixed. I'll give you the receipt. Buy Felix lunch, show him how to get the check, that sort of thing. Before he found Jesus, the guy had no social life, so you'll be doing remedial work. Yuri will want a full report when you get back. Write down everything. He loves documentation.”
“Okay. What about Vanya, by the way? I haven't seen him since—”
“Oh. Don't worry about Vanya. He's gone.”
“Why?”
She turned, startled. “Oh. We—he—had to go back. And don't worry about Stasik for today,” she added, picking up the pace again. “He was up at six this morning, tagging along with Nadja on her fifty-mile bike ride.”
“Ah, women!” a strange voice said. “Beauties!”
“Shit,” Kimberly whispered.
I turned to see Yuri approaching with the florid man from my dating class. Bad Vlad. I felt Kimberly, next to me, stiffen. Up close, I estimated Vlad to be pushing sixty. He had a full head of curly hair, a large, sensuous mouth, and a well-fed appearance. He came toward us with outstretched lips and outstretched arms, as if to capture both of us in an embrace and maybe swallow us whole, but at the last moment, he zeroed in on Kimberly.
“My love,” he said. “The little devochka. How is the sexy cheerleader?”
“Vlad, always a pleasure,” Kimberly said, her voice devoid of expression. Yuri, a step behind his companion, gave his wife a rueful smile.
“And this one!” Vlad cried. He crushed me in a full-body hug worthy of Zbiggo. His stomach met my stomach, mashing my frozen yogurt container between my breasts. The sensation was not pleasant.
“Hello,” I said, attempting to extricate myself. “My name is—”
“I know who you are!” he said. “Am I dead? Not yet, I think. Everyone knows Wollie Shelley, the toast of SoapDirt, the heroine of Biological Clock. Yes, we have television in my country also, and a woman of your attributes could never go unnoticed. We adore you. Who do you suppose got you this job?”
“Did you? Well, thanks. I'm really—”
“I insisted. Yuri, tell her! Once I knew he had seen you, on his jury, you, I said to him, ‘Yuri, we will have that girl and no other. She is divine. I must have her.’”
“Well, thank you very—”
“Yuri was not so sure. Eh, my partner? He said, ‘We know nothing about her, it's not so easy, this job,’ but what did I say? What do you think, eh?”
“I don't know,” I said. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Who cares? With a figure like that, my athletes, they will line up to come to America. Everyone will want the media training, to meet the great Wollie Shelley. The men, yes. Also the women! You know these athletes, the women—so often they are, shall we say—” He made a hand gesture that seemed to indicate hitchhiking but, in this context, I had to figure meant lesbianism. “You know what I'm saying, yes? Eh?”
This was painful. I glanced at Kimberly, who looked distressed on my behalf, and then to Yuri, who looked amused. I looked back to Vlad, who was breathing heavily.
“I'm afraid you ha
ve the advantage of me, uh, Vlad,” I said. “I take it you're Yuri's—business associate?”
“Yuri did not speak of me? Yuri!” He turned to Yuri. “You did not tell her of Vlad, who knows where all the bodies are buried?”
Yuri stepped forward and took my arm, gracefully causing Vlad to release me. “There is no way to prepare one for the force of your personality Vlad. Wollie, this is Vladimir Rosenovsky He is the head of the Eastern European League of Athletes, and my old friend. All our athletes—half our trainees—are represented by Vlad. Currently, Nadja and Zbiggo.”
“I could have sent you a dozen,” Vlad said. “Once I knew you had captured the luscious Wollie Shelley, I could have sent the whole soccer team.” Vlad turned to me. “My athletes do not want media training. They think it is school, it steals time from their sport. You are the draw. Chai closed the deal many times for us, eh, Yuri?”
Yuri folded his arms. “Athletes see only the world defined by their sport. Once here, I show them a bigger world. That is my sport.”
“Sex, for example!” Vlad said. “Sex lures them to Hollywood. This is where we need you, Wollie Shelley.”
“Yes, but I'm not having sex with anyone,” I pointed out.
“Do they need to know that?” Vlad asked, and laughed heartily. “The suggestion of sex is enough. A whiff of sex!”
“Well, Vlad,” Kimberly said, “Wollie has a very full day ahead of her, so this was delightful, but I need to drag her off now. Bye! Wollie, after you.”
I walked resolutely into the office and Kimberly followed, closing the door behind us. “My, he's colorful,” I said.
“He's a creep. I can't stand the guy. But he's the Soviet Don King, and athletes are important to us. He comes over three or four times a year.”
“Does he stay here?”
“No, he prefers hotels, so he can entertain hookers.” Kimberly gave me a folder with my day's itinerary, including Felix's medical records, and then began to collect her stuff. “We can store the yogurt in the freezer in the gym,” she said. “And I'll try not to eat it all. Come get it when you need it. Bring your own spoon.”
I refrained from pointing out that I'd never been given my full orientation and, thus, didn't know where the gym was. In the breast pocket of my blazer, I had three bugging devices given to me by Lendall Mains. One bug was destined for Kimberly and Yuri's room. If I went looking for the gym later today and accidentally found myself in the master bedroom, would that be so odd?
Except—
“Kimberly?” I said, “I have a strange question. I know you guys have a state-of-the-art surveillance system. Is it possible for someone like Vlad to—I don't know, see me eating breakfast? Or … ?” I shrugged.
“Hell, no,” she said. “You think I'm going to have some bozo watch me floss my teeth? Or walk around in my jammies? Please. Trust me, there are no cameras in this house. Elsewhere on the property, yeah. In here, no.”
Okay, that was reassuring. I closed the office door and took from my pocket a tiny plastic bag. I'd been reading the instructions on and off all morning, and now took the bug from the bag. It was a small black metal disk the size of—well, a bug. I peeled off the adhesive backing and stuck the bug on the underside of a cubbyhole shelf above the desk. “Testing, testing,” I said quietly. “This is location number one, the office. Please, God, let the adhesive hold.” If it didn't hold, if it fell off, the bug would land on the desk. That would be problematic.
I waited a few minutes. The bug stayed where it was. I walked out of the office and through the library. One bug down, two to go.
“Wollie.” Nell jumped up from behind one of the oversized armchairs.
“What?” I said, jumping myself.
“Come here.” She beckoned me over to a sofa and indicated that I should have a seat, then pressed a button on a sound system built into a wall unit. Sounds of opera pealed forth. “I found it for you,” she said loudly, adjusting the volume. “Bronwen as Liù in Turandot.”
“Thank you,” I replied, just as loudly. As I hadn't expressed a desire to hear Bronwen sing, this was naturally interesting. Nell came and sat very close to me.
“Hi,” she said, far more quietly. “We haven't talked much.”
This was an understatement. I nodded.
“We should talk outside,” she continued, nodding toward the window, “but I don't enjoy outside. The problem is this. I'm a little worried about you.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I just am. Are you feeling okay?”
“Physically? Why yes. I think so.” I thought about it. “Pretty much. Why?”
“Do you think you could be very careful not to be … alone with anyone?”
“I'm alone with you,” I pointed out.
“I mean, really alone. When there aren't people within hearing distance.”
“You mean alone with—Vlad?”
“Vlad? That goes without saying. Lock your bedroom door when Vlad's here.”
“From the inside or the outside?”
“What do you mean, the outside?”
“Grusha gave me a key to lock it.”
Nell looked startled. “They gave you Chai's old room? The purple one?”
“Yes. Why?”
Nell looked over the back of the sofa, as if making sure there was no one hiding there. “No reason. The other thing is, could you perhaps not express so much curiosity about what's going on here? Not ask too many questions?”
“You mean, the kind of questions I'm asking you now?”
“Yes. Could you not sound like a cop?”
I felt my jaw drop. “I sound like a cop?”
“Sometimes. I mean, clearly you're not one. But it's like you're doing an impersonation of a cop. Are you familiar with the term ‘nosey parker’? It's a British colloquialism. Stasik noticed. He called you a bit of a nosey parker.”
I couldn't believe how hurt my feelings were. I'd thought I was being subtle. “But—I mean, no one likes a nosey parker, of course, but I'm just trying to get my bearings and do a good job, and—”
“You're doing fine. Yuri likes you a lot. And Alik. But you'll be around longer if you just stick to your side of the street.”
I took a deep breath. “I take it Chai wasn't so good at that.”
She looked directly at me. “No one's happy about what happened to Chai, but there wasn't much crying at her funeral.” She paused, glancing toward the doorway. “These are good people. They're doing important work that they believe in. When you've lived with them long enough, you'll find that out.”
“Except for the ones I'm not supposed to be alone with.”
“Look. No system's perfect. Sometimes you have to pick a side and go with it, flaws and all. If you want to be part of something bigger than you.” Nell stood and moved to the sound system. “Beautiful, isn't it?” she asked loudly. “Heard enough?”
“Yes.” I stood too. Half of what Nell had said was too cryptic to understand and sounded vaguely cultlike. The other half of what she'd said was just scary.
I wanted to plant my bugs and be gone.
There was no one in the great room. I peeked into the kitchen. Empty. Good.
But this bug was tricky. Lendall Mains had been very clear about the need for it to be directly above the dining room table, where it would have the best chance of picking up conversations throughout the great room. The chandelier was modern, gunmetal gray. Wrought iron, with frosted glass around the little round lightbulbs. Not a bad match for the bug; much better than a crystal chandelier would've been. The problem was height. It was suspended from the mile-high ceiling. I reached up and figured I needed to be a yard taller. My heart was pounding.
Shoot. It was obvious what I had to do. I looked around and then thought to hell with it. I had to do it quick, before I lost my nerve. I took off my shoes and climbed onto a chair. This wasn't easy, as today's ensemble was a straight, knee-length skirt that didn't give me any breathing room, let alone climbing room. I had
to hitch it up a bit to even get on the chair. I reached up. I couldn't even touch the metal base of the chandelier.
I climbed onto the table. Closer.
I went back down, then climbed back up, this time in my heels. Success.
I'm six foot tall and an okay weight, but I wished I hadn't eaten two baguettes the night before. Was I heavier than place settings for twelve, plus a large soup pot? Would the pale green Plexiglas hold me?
I looked down. Mistake. An unaccustomed sensation overtook me. Vertigo?
I took out my bug, peeled off the adhesive with shaking hands, beads of sweat forming on my forehead, and gently attached it to a piece of the wrought iron that hung vertically. There was no place to hang it so that it faced downward, but this would do, right?
Wrong. It needed to face the other direction, for when people were out on the deck. Shoot. Because now the adhesive was off, and the instructions had been explicit: once the bug had adhered to a surface, it should not be expected to stick elsewhere.
To heck with it. I wasn't climbing Mount Everest twice. I reached up and removed the bug. I was pressing it into place on the opposite side when I heard an intake of breath, then, “What in the name of God do you do?”
I turned too fast and looked down too fast and was already breathing too fast. The room spun. I was still holding the chandelier, but there are things one should not count on for support, light fixtures suspended from ceilings among them. I realized this as both I and the chandelier began to sway. I let go.
And fell off the table.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I looked up to see Grusha looming over me, livid.
“Grusha,” I rasped, grabbing onto an overturned chair. “I'm okay, I just—”
“You!” Her voice was a hoarse shriek. “What is this you do?”
“I was just—”
“On my table! My table! You with your shoes!”
I struggled to find a sitting position. No bones seemed to be broken. “I'm—I will—they're actually Chai's shoes, they're— Ouch.”
“My chandelier! What do you want with my chandelier? To steal it, maybe?”
I glanced up. The chandelier still swayed, gently. “No, I—”
A Date You Can't Refuse Page 19