Everybody Takes The Money (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries)

by Diane Patterson

  “We haven’t been introduced. My name is Drusilla Thorne.”

  “Jonathan Ricciardi.” He shook my hand firmly and didn’t linger on the touch for a second longer than needed.

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed your work day. It can be hard to get back into the flow.”

  He opened a refrigerator cube and took out a small water bottle for me. “No trouble,” he lied, not very well.

  “Are you the office manager?”

  He sat in the desk chair and glanced at the computer screen. “I’m the accountant,” he said.

  “Is that your wife?” I pointed to the picture of the preschool teacher.

  He looked at the photo on his desk with great pride. “Her name’s Alison. And my daughter, Hailey. She’s eighteen months now.”

  Hailey. The little girl Courtney had focused on at the preschool. “She’s beautiful. Looks just like you.”

  He looked down and fidgeted with a pen on his desk. “Thanks.”

  He was embarrassed at my compliment. I wanted to take a photo of his blush to remember the moment. A nice man who wanted to do his job and not cause waves. I wondered how he managed to qualify for residency within the Greater Los Angeles area with a personality like that.

  “Is this place affiliated with the financial counseling office?” I said.

  Jonathan shook his head. “No.” He emphasized the denial hard. “No, they are two separate entities. Greg started that service with some people from the church. But it’s not part of the church and we have nothing to do with it here.”

  “The church. Tarzana First Christian?”

  “Oh. You know it?”

  “I’ve been there before,” I said. “Are you a member there, too?”

  “Yes, I am. That’s how I originally met Greg.”

  “That worked out nicely,” I said, and we both laughed. “Have you been here long?”

  Jonathan looked off into the distance, then shook his head. “Going on six years.”

  Six years. The longest I’d ever been in one place in my life was probably three or four, and my only excuse for that was that I’d been a child who had no say in the matter. “Well, congratulations. Seems like this business is doing very well.”

  He blushed again and said, “Thank you,” before glancing up, startled.

  Courtney’s hand curled over my shoulder. “Dru, come on with me a moment. I want you to meet my friend Mr. H. Hey, Jonathan, I saw Alison and Hailey over at the school. They seem to be doing real well. That girl is growing like a weed. Such a sweet young lady.”

  He nodded at her without responding. His mouth had set into a firm line. Instead of the mention of his wife and daughter making him more amenable, it was making him more upset.

  I picked up the unopened bottle in front of me and stood up. “Thank you for the water, Mr. Ricciardi.”

  Courtney was all smiles as she put her arm around my shoulder in the hallway. “Let’s introduce you to Mr. H.”

  “And why do I want to meet him?”

  “He’s a real good man, Drusilla. He can help you out.”

  I stopped her in the hallway. I towered over Courtney—she was only about five centimeters taller than Stevie, which put me at about fifteen taller than her. She was also about as thin as my last few alibis, with no muscle on her at all. I backed her up against the wall. “Let’s be clear about something, Courtney. The only help I require at the moment is your asshole boyfriend dropping the assault charges against me. To that end, I want you to withdraw your affidavit. I’m going to talk to your Mr. Hitchcock, and after I do so, you’re going to follow through on your part. Or am I mistaken about what we’re doing here?”

  She pushed away from me. “I need your help, Drusilla. You need my help. We’re sisters, when all is said and done.”

  “The only person on this planet I love unequivocally is my actual sister. You aren’t her. You and I are nowhere close to being said and done. Don’t push it.”

  She opened the door with the biggest nameplate on it.

  When we walked into his office, Greg Hitchcock was leaning way back in his desk chair, phone tucked between his chin and his shoulder. He grinned like he’d just heard the world’s stupidest joke and couldn’t wait to repeat it. “That’s a ten-four, Mikey. I’ll see you on Tuesday at eight a.m. sharp. No handicap from me. Not after what you shot last time. Okay.” He hung up and sighed heavily, like arranging a golf date was the hardest thing he had to do all day.

  Then he leaned forward on the desk, clasped his hands together, his big, scratched, dulled wedding ring out front, and said, “Now what can I do for you ladies?”

  Courtney had come back here to talk to him for several minutes, and he claimed not to know why I was there.

  “My friend Drusilla here is going through a tough time,” Courtney said. “I thought maybe you could help her out.”

  “Well, if we can help her out, I’d love to. What seems to be the trouble, young lady?”

  He started rubbing the cross on his collar. He either had a nervous tic or he was trying to subliminally reinforce his Christian credentials. If my guard wasn’t already up, that would have done it.

  As the old saying goes, ‘Whenever someone starts telling you what a good Christian they are, hold on tight to your wallet.’

  “Like everyone else, I find myself slightly short of income.”

  “Well. That’s probably a tough situation for a glamorous young lady like yourself.”

  He kept calling me “young lady.” True, I was much younger than he was. But much like his pointing out the cross, his use of the term seemed to be more for my benefit than his.

  Time to play along. “I don’t know what skills I have you might find useful.”

  “We could always use a receptionist over at the Financial Counseling service. Can you answer phones?”

  “And how much does that pay?”

  He mentioned the hourly figure. Slightly above minimum wage. I smiled politely. While I had taken plenty of jobs for much less money, I also hadn’t been paying income tax on any of it. This money was for a real office job, with a W2 and everything. It was ridiculous to think anyone near an urban center in the US was supposed to live on that small an amount of money. I wondered how much the firms with my family’s name on them paid junior-level employees. As little as they could get away with, undoubtedly.

  It was time to push my luck. “I’m in a real fix, Mr. Hitchcock. Courtney says you might have some work.”

  Courtney put her hand on Hitchcock’s shoulder. “Greg is willing to help you with that.”

  Now he was Greg. Fascinating.

  “Maybe I could drive you home and we could discuss it,” Hitchcock said. “Where do you live, Drusilla?”

  “Pacific Palisades.”

  Hitchcock blinked in surprise. No one making minimum wage lived in Pacific Palisades. Or anywhere near Pacific Palisades. His gaze slid over to Courtney in a silent question. When he looked back at me, he licked his lips. “I guess driving over here would be a big commute for you.”

  The cost of gas weekly would easily eat up whatever money I earned.

  “I thought you lived near Century City,” Courtney said.

  “That’s where my lawyer works,” I said.

  “Lawyer?” Hitchcock asked. His voice dropped in register.

  At that, Hitchcock glanced at Courtney. His friendliness seemed to have vanished.

  “Why do you need a lawyer?” Hitchcock said.

  “Do you know why Courtney and I have become acquainted, Mr. Hitchcock? No? I would have thought Courtney might have mentioned something. I had an altercation with Courtney’s friend Roger yesterday. Do you know Roger?”

  Hitchcock looked puzzled for a second and then shook his head. “Who’s that?”

  “Roger has got Courtney involved in an assault case. I would be the person who was assaulted.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but you poor girl. What happened?”

  “It’s no big
deal,” Courtney said.

  “You’re not going to drop that affidavit, are you?” I said.

  “What affidavit?” Hitchcock said.

  I shook my head. “I’m done here. See you in court.”

  Jonathan looked up from his spreadsheet as I walked by. I didn’t stop to chat.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHEN I RETURNED to the house in Pacific Palisades, I had a thumping headache, a definite desire to drink myself stupid, and more questions than I’d started the day with.

  I left a message for Anne, telling her that Courtney was a pain in the ass and I had learned absolutely nothing.

  Stevie came into the kitchen, fresh from gardening. She wore a huge wide-brimmed hat, her khakis were covered in mud, and she had a giant smile on her face. “You’re back!” she said. “How did things go?”

  “My nefarious plot to force Courtney to drop her affidavit has not gone well.”

  She pushed past me to rummage in the hall closet and came up with the canister vacuum cleaner that was in the house when we first moved in.

  “Tell me about it as we get to work.”

  “Get to work doing what?”

  She led me out the kitchen door. “It’s Tuesday.”

  I didn’t work an office job and I didn’t watch television regularly. I often had no idea which day of the week it was. “And this is relevant because...?”

  “We clean out your car on Tuesdays.”

  To the best of my knowledge, I’d never cleaned out my car, on a Tuesday or on any other day. Good to know Stevie had a system, though.

  As we walked through the kitchen and outside into the garage, I told her about my visit to Greg Hitchcock’s office. Clearly Courtney had remained close to her on-screen boss from the show.

  “I did a bit of reading about him after our powwow with Anne yesterday,” Stevie said. “He’s done exceptionally well in the building business. He has projects all over Los Angeles.”

  “The economy’s turning around,” I said.

  “He seems to have expanded right during the crunch. He moved to Los Angeles ten years ago and his business has tripled every two or three years. Including in a recession.”

  “How is that possible?” I asked.

  “There must be quite a need for commercial real estate in greater Los Angeles,” my sister said.

  “Where are they putting it?” I asked.

  In the garage she already had a bucket in the garage’s laundry sink, along with a few sponges and two pairs of rubber gloves.

  She put the pink set on and held out the yellow gloves. “Here’s a pair of marigolds,” she said.

  “You seem to be doing fine without my help,” I told her. “Also, I’m in pain. Before we get started, could I have a Vicodin or something?”

  She sighed as she plugged the vacuum into the wall. Then she opened the passenger door and made a face. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Dru,” she said. “You bought another purse?”

  “I haven’t bought anything in weeks. You keep taking my money.”

  She pulled off her gloves and laid them on the roof of the car before leaning inside. She stood up again, holding a very cute clutch purse made out of needlepoint. It had a unicorn on the side and a set of keys in an attached keyring. “It’s not really your thing, is it?”

  I stood up. “That’s not mine. That’s Courtney’s. She must have left it when we drove together.”

  Stevie unzipped the purse and glanced inside.

  “Her driver’s license, ten dollars, some change, a motel room key, a phone number, and a library card.”

  “Courtney Cleary has a library card?” I asked.

  “Drusilla, be kind.”

  “Why?” When Stevie made her disappointed face at me, I sighed. “If I must. Let me see it.”

  My sister’s fingers remained firmly attached to the purse and its contents.

  I lifted my hand, palm out, and swore solemnly that the ten dollars would remain exactly where it was until such time as Courtney decided how to spend it. Only then did Stevie hand it over.

  It was definitely a cute little purse. The keyring had three keys on it: two house keys and a car key. The driver’s license was from California, not Oklahoma, and it showed her big bright blue eyes and the big bright hair. The motel key was one of those electronic cards with no identifying information on it. The purse had nothing unusual or hidden in it.

  I handed everything back to Stevie and called Courtney.

  Courtney picked up on the first ring.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “You really pulled a fast one today,” Courtney said. “I’m going to amend my affidavit to say that you’re causing problems for me. You are harassing me.”

  No way had she come up with that idea on her own. Who had given it to her? Roger, or her good friend Mr. Hitchcock?

  “Courtney!” I said sharply.

  “Drusilla, you have nothing to say to me that I care one iota about.”

  “I have your keyring and your wallet. If you ever want to drive your car again, you’re going to meet me.”

  “Oh, goshdarnit. Really?”

  “I really, really have them, and if you really, really want them back, we’re going to have to meet. And we are going to discuss that affidavit of yours again, only for realsies this time.”

  My sister was glaring at me over the roof of the car.

  Only then did I realize I had slipped into using her Oklahoma accent. Again. For Zeus’s sake, when we lived in Texas I didn’t have this much trouble avoiding taking on extra accents.

  Oh, I told myself, the happiness I’d feel when this woman was out of my life.

  Turns out I was wrong about that, too.

  * * *

  Courtney wasn’t at the construction office in Tarzana. She was in the motel she was staying at. Only she was at a new place. Even in Los Angeles, if you have one incident where somebody assaults somebody else and the cops have to intervene, you’re probably not going to be especially popular with your motel’s management. She had moved to a small motel in North Hollywood that made Mason’s look like the Ritz-Carlton. North Hollywood, despite the name, was not near Hollywood. Hollywood was in the Los Angeles basin. North Hollywood was over the ridge in the San Fernando Valley. It wasn’t one of the prettier areas of Los Angeles. The sooner I was out of there, the better.

  The Motornight Motel didn’t have bushes out front that could serve as either a hiding place or decoration. It was downright scary looking. The driveway to the front of the hotel had cracked asphalt, with weeds pushing through. The soda machine was for an off-brand, with some logo I didn’t recognize. The front doors of the motel rooms faced the cement-block wall of the building next door. The back of the motel faced a narrow side road that would have been called an alley in a proper city. All the windows had grates on them.

  I called Stevie. “This is either a hooker hangout or an addict breeding ground.”

  “Please be careful,” my sister said.

  “I don’t see anyone around,” I said. “Not even another car in the car park.”

  “How did she get there if she doesn’t have the keys to her car?” Stevie asked.

  Good point.

  I was not going to limit my options by parking in the one-lane wedge between the motel and the building next door. I parked on the giant six-lane boulevard nearby. Then I took a long walk around the block the motel sat on, noticing who was around. I didn’t see Courtney’s hatchback, and I didn’t see anyone sitting in a car who resembled Roger Sabo. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t there. He could very well be waiting for me inside the room—after all, I had no idea what kind of car he drove.

  The windows on the back of the motel were large and had an AC unit wedged into each one. The security grate was next to it, but there was a gap between the two. One room’s window had its shades open and it was easy to peer in and see some details of the room: one single overhead light fixture, a mirror mounted on the wall (no frame), and the occupa
nt.

  Courtney had the curtain open. Seriously? In this neighborhood? In this motel?

  I could have walked straight up to her window and knocked on it, but instead I walked back to the narrow front entrance, continuing to look out for Roger Sabo. All the rooms of the motel were painted a darling shade of faded orange. I knocked on the door with the number Courtney had given me, and then stood on the side of the door that would open, so that anyone inside would be facing toward the opposite corner. If Courtney wasn’t the person opening the door, I wanted a few seconds of warning.

  She looked around for a second before seeing me there. “Well, come on in then.”

  “Who else is here, Courtney?”

  “No one.”

  “I want you to open the door all the way and show me that there’s no one else in there.”

  “Who would be here?”

  “Your friend Roger.”

  “He owes me better than this.”

  “You talked to him earlier today.”

  She gaped at me for a moment, her mouth hanging open with this weird twisty curve to it. “We had a fight. Which is why I’m here.”

  A lucky guess. Make enough of them, and people only remember the times you were right. “You forget. I’m psychic. Who else is here?”

  She didn’t seem to see the contradiction between me being psychic and not knowing who else was there. “Nobody. Come on in.”

  I followed her in. I checked the bathroom, including pulling the shower curtain back. I checked the closet, which had Courtney’s suitcase and a small rectangular bag with a fat and happy cartoon bear on it. Both the bathroom and the closet were empty of Roger, though, which was all I needed. The main room was tiny and dirty. Everything was an even worse shade of orange than the door, even the things that hadn’t started that way, such as the carpeting, the curtains, and the bathroom floor. The bed was one I wouldn’t have sat on, let alone slept in. And she was the one with the curtains open.

  Not too far away was a giant, noisy, smelly boulevard. Right outside was a sidewalk anyone could pass by on. Why on Earth did Courtney keep the curtains open, when people walking by a cheap motel would have a direct view of her room? There’s simply no telling with some people.