Voices in the Wardrobe

by Marlys Millhiser

  “Why the pharmaceutical industry?” Jerry Parks leaned forward to stick his face between the seats. “That’s very interesting.”

  “Because I’m really, really pissed at them right now. How did Dr. Howard know about the VanZants and Dr. Judy?”

  “Given that we don’t know all the clients at the Spa that night or members of the film crew, I’d pick Maggie Stutzman as first choice because she found the body, the doctor’s manager Ruth Ann Singer next because she knows everything about Judd’s business, and Warren VanZant because he’s an ex. And the movie industry because I can’t sell them a screenplay,” Jerry from the San Diego Union-Tribune said. “So, you answer me a question for a change, discouraging agent-person. Did Margaret Stutzman mention seeing anybody else out at the Jacuzzi pools when Judd died? If she didn’t do it, she might have seen whoever did.”

  “I’m sure she would have said. She’s not that far gone.” Charlie felt insulted, for Maggie’s sake.

  “I don’t know most of the people there but I’d pick Dashiell Hammett any day, because he’s a jerk with a loose screw, as my first candidate for murderer, Warren VanZant second because he’s an ex, and that weird guy in the swimming pool with the aging musculature and dramatic presentation because he could be jealous that Dr. Judy gets on TV ad nauseam and he doesn’t,” Kenny said. “And Mitch Hilsten because I’m jealous of him.”

  “Raoul.” Charlie had forgotten about him.

  “He’s another good candidate,” Jerry said.

  “How do you know that?” Charlie asked him.

  “Research.”

  When they crested the ridge above the staggered and tight development to the open sea and sky, they found San Diego County police cars awaiting them. There had been another murder at the Sea Spa at the Marina del Sol.

  Fifteen

  Maggie Stutzman sat wrapped in spa towels looking rather exotic with the towel as a turban leaving only a dark curl dangling down her forehead, dark blue eyes sparking again instead of dulled. Which was not necessarily a good sign, but somehow made her beautiful. She sat with her legs crossed on the edge of the oversized swimming pool, one foot in the water.

  Charlie tried to blink away tears and it only seemed to make her nose run. Indelicate for sure. Kenny handed her a cloth handkerchief yet. People still used non-disposable nose wipes?

  As before, Charlie arrived too late to see the dead body in situ. Raoul Segundo had drowned in his pool. And while he was treating Maggie’s addictive, suicidal, destructive, and capricious temperament with soothing water relaxation and hypnosis therapy too. Maybe he put himself to sleep.

  Problem was, this time the Spa was filled with day customers, some of whom had wandered by the windows that exposed the pool from various sides and many were now being questioned by members of the homicide department of the San Diego County Sheriff’s Office, Detective Solomon no doubt among them. And here of course sat a defiant Maggie Stutzman in the thick of another murder.

  She used to be the most reasonable person Charlie had ever known. And now she defied reason like an out-of-control teenager. At the pool’s edge Sue, of the ponytail and aging bounce, rose stiffly off her knees, one of which creaked.

  “Am I glad to see you, Miss Greene. Could you take her up to your room while I help see to the day spa clients? She’s not to leave this building, you understand. I’ll get back to you in half an hour, but it’s situation-frantic right now. We’ve replaced the television up there but left the lid off the stool tank. She can plead insanity with no trouble.” Sue cocked her head, shrugged on that side, and lifted her eyebrows into her bangs, rather eloquently pronouncing Maggie’s condition unstable-extreme.

  To Charlie, her friend seemed more in control than Sue Rippon. On first arriving Charlie and both her companions were kept at the gate until their identities could be checked inside, at which time Charlie was escorted directly to the pool area and Kenny and Jerry detained in the lobby. The enormous parking lot had been nearly full. The day spa crowd must be what kept so expensive a business venture afloat.

  “Do you want Dashiell to help get her upstairs?”

  “No way, absolutely.”

  Up in the room, there was indeed no lid on the toilet tank and the television in place in the wardrobe was smaller than the last. Charlie stood looking at the latter and then turned to Maggie. “Can you still signal for the TV to go on and off with the remote when the door’s closed?”

  “You have to aim it right for the slot there. Doesn’t work as well with this smaller set. So I just turn it on and then close the door.” Maggie shed her towels and spa tank suit and headed for the shower.

  Charlie followed. “So why exactly did you bust the other TV?”

  “Don’t you mean why exactly did I kill Raoul?” Steam clouded the shower door and roiled up over it as the dark blue eyes did too. “Your priorities are weird, Greene. Now go away until I’m clean. Even crazy murderers need privacy.”

  Charlie did as she was told and took out the little black book with handy phone numbers she kept in a special pocket of her purse—handy but not used often enough to crowd the automatic dial. She’d had them all on her PDA and lost them for some reason only the wizards at Microsoft knew. She’d needed a defense lawyer herself a year ago and thought she’d ask Ernest Seligman for a reference in San Diego County for Maggie. Charlie hoped it wouldn’t come to that and knew Maggie, as a lawyer, had contacts of her own but it wouldn’t hurt to be ready for the worst. Boy, had she learned the truth of that in the last few years. Besides, Charlie had to do something about this problem.

  She explained the situation to Ernest Seligman’s assistant’s voice mail and played with the remote and armoire door until she heard the shower subside and the hair dryer rev.

  Maggie stepped out of the bathroom with that nervous giggle she’d developed, pulling a Spa T-shirt on over her bra. Waves washed at a watermelon pink sun with jagged yellow rays shooting out all around it. “Sea Spa at the Marina del Sol” in black squiggly letters intertwined rays and waves. Since she’d gained weight Maggie maxed out her cup size and the picture on her front made mountains on the sun and strange valleys in the waves. “I peed in Raoul’s pool. I was just floating around while he did his ‘Marrrgarrreett’ thing, and trying to keep my butt up and all of a sudden he hit me in the head and tried to pull me under. I kicked him away and drowned him. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Maggie, did he make any sound before he hit you in the head? I mean, was there something different in his tone, did he make a strange noise at all between the ‘Margarrreett’ thing and the blow? Did he just stop in mid-soothing word or sentence, drop your butt, and strike you, or—”

  “I think he flailed around a little bit behind me while I swam for the edge of the pool after he hit me and before he grabbed my ankle—but I can’t remember. I wasn’t hypnotized, but I was drowsy. And the shock of coming out of it all—I don’t know, Charlie.” Maggie took a pair of white capris off a hanger. “I just know that even a take-charge female like you can’t make everything right just because you want it to be.”

  “Well, I’m sure the autopsy will show it was an accident. Most sudden deaths are explainable—often for medical reasons or something—like a heart attack or stroke, aneurism.”

  “Some trouble just doesn’t go away, Charlie.” Another phony giggle and sudden tears.

  A voice in the wardrobe said, “Are you feeling frazzled and out of control? Don’t know where to turn? You may suffer from Apprehensive Ersatz Stress Syndrome. Studies show that the drug Pseudo Phren Pen may relieve symptoms and complications of this mind-threatening disease. If you think you suffer from AESS, tell your doctor about Pseudo Phren Pen! Side effects may include reduced libido, swelling, dry mouth, dizzyness, thinning hair, headache, facial rash and tics and tongue polyps.”

  “That’s why.” Maggie was one leg into the capris and tripping herself up trying to point to the closed door of the wardrobe and hop on one foot.

>   “What’s why what?”

  “The tongue polyps were just too much, so I busted the TV with the toilet tank lid. And you know, Charlie, it made me feel really good, so really good, I—Charlie, you okay? You laughing or crying?”

  “Both. Get me a Kleenex?” Charlie had backed into the bed to sit on it while she convulsed and slid off instead, landing on the footstool. “You should have seen your face morph from inflamed to euphoric in a couple of big blinks, oh help.” She was trying to hold her ribs—would they never heal?—and wipe her nose at the same time when a strange shuffling sounded at the door to the hallway and then a low whisper, “Charlie? You in there?”

  Maggie, still looking like a madwoman with her hair all roughed up and sprayed to give it lift but not yet combed back down, stepped into huaraches and opened the door.

  Kenny Cowper and Jerry Parks crept furtively inside, Kenny trying to lock the door behind them.

  “Doors don’t lock where murderous addicts have to be monitored at all times,” Maggie told them and returned to the bathroom to bring order to her hair and apply makeup. When she emerged with rosy cheeks, nature’s real blush applied by embarrassment or maybe a hot flash, Kenny was explaining how crazy it was downstairs.

  “There’re women running around with mud packs dried so tight they can’t get their mouths open enough to answer questions, others demanding their money back because they’re getting the sheriff’s department instead of the treatments they prepaid for. And Jerry finally coughed up some of his research on good old Dashiell. He’s got quite a history of drug and alcohol abuse, not to mention peeping Tomism.”

  And a voice in the armoire said, “… late-breaking news. There’s been what appears to be another murder at the popular Sea Spa at the Marina del Sol. More on the evening news.”

  Another voice in the armoire said, “Trouble sleeping at night? Try Slumber X-X-X. It’s worth staying up for.” And then a giggle and heavy breathing.

  Charlie had the weirdest thought—everybody in the room was staring at the closed door of the wardrobe. It was sort of haunting. If the ever-present TV screen had been visible, would any of them have taken notice of it?

  Detective Solomon arched an eyebrow he didn’t have—more like made a weird-shaped wrinkle where it should have been. Charlie looked again at his hair and wondered if he wore a rug. “So you kicked out because Mr. Segundo grabbed your ankle and you feared drowning. I know we’ve been over this, Ms. Stutzman, but I want to be sure I have it correct and thought you might be more comfortable answering further questions with Ms. Greene present.”

  “I would think there should be a lawyer present,” Charlie said.

  “I am merely questioning a witness about a death. Not accusing Ms. Stutzman of participating in its execution.”

  “I am a lawyer,” Maggie said, “and that last is a very poor wording.”

  “Not that kind of lawyer,” Charlie reminded her. “And not in the best decision-making shape at the moment. But right about the wording.”

  The phone on the desk bleeped and Caroline said, “I’m sorry, but there’s no one on the lobby desk now, because of all the—well you know. Sea Spa at the Marina del Sol … oh, yes. Oh, I think we do. Just a moment.” Solomon sat at the business side of the office desk and she pulled a large open appointment book away from him and toward her. He rolled his eyes and handed her a pen. Warren VanZant reached for a brochure and set it in front of her.

  “For the day, yes. We ask clients to arrive by nine a.m. You know the way? And what type of treatments were you considering? Oh, all right.” And Caroline began checking off boxes on the brochure. “Oh yes, that will be a full day. Any more would be two. And your name, home address, and phone number, please … splendid. We will welcome you tomorrow, Mr. Zeltow … I’m sure you will.”

  “That’s the fourth one in an hour,” Warren said. “Think they’ll cancel when they hear of another death here?”

  “Knowing Sou Cal, they already have and that’s the draw,” said his second wife and wrote Mr. Zeltow’s name on the brochure. He took it and looked through schedule sheets on a clipboard. “We’re filling up here. If everybody shows. We may be in trouble, especially with Raoul off the roster.”

  “Now, if we can get back to Ms.-Stutzman-on-the-roster and the question of where the two of you and little Dashiell were at the moment of uproar outside the pool gym this morning.” But he was to be interrupted yet again, this time the bleating of Charlie’s cell. “Oh Jesus, thought those things weren’t allowed in here.”

  “We strongly discourage their use by overnight guests who are treated to a more deep and restful regimen than the day spa guests. But it’s not always easy with such important people,” Caroline assured him, her tone forbearing.

  Charlie stepped out into the hall to answer. It was Ernest Seligman himself and not his snotty assistant. “Why can’t you girls stay out of trouble?” he asked fondly. “And Charlie, you know I’m retired.”

  “I thought maybe you could suggest someone down here. She’s talking to the sheriff’s detectives now, but I think her lawyer should be.”

  “Has she been accused in the deaths?”

  “Ernie, Maggie found the first body and was present at the demise of the second. And to my knowledge there are currently no other leads.”

  “Jesus, get her out of there. Who’s in charge?”

  “Detective Solomon.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “That’s good then.”

  “Not for Maggie, it isn’t. Charlie, I want you to do two things. If they haven’t charged her they can’t keep her. Either way, she’s going to need a lawyer and she’s not to say another word until she does. Keep her away from cops and reporters until she’s formally charged. Expect a call from either Wayne Hobbitt or Nancy Trujillo. I ought to be able to get a hold of one of them. I’ll give them your cell number.”

  “What’s the other thing?”

  “Put Gordy Solomon on the line. Now.”

  “I hate lawyers,” Gordy Solomon said when he handed Charlie’s cell back to her. “My brother-in-law’s a lawyer and I don’t like him much.”

  Sixteen

  The problem of course was Maggie Stutzman and Jerry Parks. Ernest Seligman warned Maggie be kept away from the press until she had a legal spokesman. They’d left Kenny Cowper and the reporter from the San Diego Union-Tribune hiding behind ruffles under Queen Victoria’s tall bed when the knocking on the door called them down to the office for questioning. The guys were still there when Charlie and the chief suspect returned.

  Charlie took Kenny aside in the only place possible and closed the bathroom door to explain the situation in whispers. “She shouldn’t be around Parks. She’ll say things we’ll all regret. I’ve got some legal help coming.”

  “I could take him to the Islandia and then come back for you and Maggie. Where’d you put his cell phone—maybe I could sneak into the ladies and redeem myself by returning it to him. He’s local press, could make things uncomfortable.”

  “Great idea, but I don’t think so. I could maybe buy him a new cell? Well, you said to dispose of it. Seemed like a good idea.”

  He just stood blinking and squinting down at her, when she told him the destination of Jerry Parks’ communication with his life. “You know, women are just really … unusual, huh? I mean you … uh, you really work at it.”

  But somehow Charlie’s author got Jerry Parks out of the room, and she assumed the Sea Spa, leaving Charlie to wonder what she would do with Maggie until he returned for them and how to get her friend to leave willingly.

  “What are you doing, Greene?” Maggie looked up from rubbing her hands and staring at the closed doors of the wardrobe, where the voices ceased only for music or sound effects.

  “I’m packing your things. We have to leave here when Kenny gets back.”

  “But I’m paid up for three more days of treatment.” Her face flushed as Charlie watched.

  “It’s not safe, Magg
ie. People are dying here.” Would Charlie be able to handle her friend at the Islandia?

  “People are dying everywhere. Get your hands off my stuff. You don’t want me to get better, do you?”

  “Yes, I do. Maybe we can get your three days back after things quiet down and someone else is found responsible for what happened to Raoul and Dr. Judy. It’s almost like you’re being set up here.”

  “Maybe I’m not remembering things right. Did you ever stop to think I might be responsible for all this? You don’t really know me, you know.”

  “You’ve been my best friend for what, five years—what do you mean I don’t know you?”

  “What’s my favorite color?”

  “Blue.”

  “Is marketing prescription drugs first to the patient instead of the physician creating a sick society?”

  “Will you turn that thing off?”

  “Why blue?”

  “Do mental health care specialists have a big stake in being indispensable, permanently? And why major drug companies don’t want you to take aspirin to shrink inflammation.”

  “Because your car’s blue and your eyes are blue?”

  “All this and more tonight on A Hundred and Twenty Minutes.”

  “Maggie, that sack of pills we brought in here when we came. What happened to it?”

  “Haven’t seen it. And my favorite color is red.”

  Thermacare heat wrap for lower back pain. An athlete’s foot treatment. Ensure—a drink for nutrition. A diabetic thing you suck on to test your blood sugar, Advil Liquid Gels for arthritis, Fibercon for blissful shitting and Beltone hearing aids touted by aging ex-movie actors. And finally the evening news. Jeez, no wonder Charlie felt buzzy. Those nachos hadn’t held out as long as she expected. She put down Maggie’s panties and sat beside her on the bed, little pops going off in her ears, tingles all over, decided weakness of the knees. And here she was in a place with no food and without a car. That cold sweaty feeling.