Voices in the Wardrobe

by Marlys Millhiser

  Luella called Charlie in for the local news. It began with the death of another burn victim from the explosion and fire at the Celebrity Pit. Then a quick clip from an interview with Mitch Hilsten about his plans for filming at a marina up the coast in North County and taking some clever camel shots out at the Wild Animal Park.

  “Serious action, romance, great script, special effects—this story has it all,” Mitch said with a penetrating squint leveled at the camera that brought a sigh from Maggie and a snort from Kenny Cowper.

  Luella peered around into Charlie’s face to check her reaction and then sat back. “He’s learning to talk the talk.”

  “Has to if he’s going to survive.” Even Charlie heard the regret in her voice. She’d liked the old Mitch better. She must be getting old. An update on murder at the Sea Spa at the Marina del Sol, with the addition of Raoul Segundo. “Sounds like a stage name.”

  “… another mysterious murder, this time at the Hyatt Islandia. Dr. Grant Howard, founder and president of the well-known San Diego Film Institute, was found this morning by housekeeping in his room—”

  A rattling at the door startled them all and the impossible coincidence of a voice, “Housekeeping!”

  Kenny grabbed the Do Not Disturb sign off the doorknob inside and explained, “I’m not ready yet.”

  “Hokay, I cumb back.”

  He slipped the sign over the outside handle, bolted the bolt, and put on the chain.

  “… shock from all who knew him. Details are sketchy at this time but Dr. Howard and his film institute,” the voice on the TV in the wardrobe said, “was hosting screenwriter Keegan Monroe who penned the smash hit at Cannes, Open and Shut, starring Treat Devoe and Bella Burgoine, as well as the sleeper, Phantom of the Alpine Tunnel, several years ago. We’ll keep you posted on this late breaking news. Now back to NBC and the current war—”

  Luella clicked the war away. Charlie left them all looking at each other and took her clothes into the bathroom to dress and take time to think. When she came out the others had hardly moved. Maggie thumbed through a glossy magazine. Her cheeks were wet. Kenny wrote in a spiral notebook, looking up to stare inward.

  Luella, out on the balcony, held up the inside of an index finger, extended outward, in a “just a minute” motion, and ended a conversation on her cell. “Charlie, shouldn’t you try to get a hold of Maggie’s lawyer? She’s probably on her way.”

  All four of them glanced occasionally at the door to the hall, expecting the law to arrive any second. Charlie replaced Luella Ridgeway on the balcony to make the call and caught Nancy Trujillo at rush hour crawl, stop, crawl, stop on the 8, not far and indeed on her way. She’d just heard of the murder at the Islandia on her car radio. “Tell me Margaret Stutzman spent no time there alone last night, Ms. Greene.”

  “I’ve been with her since we got here, but we slept in a friend’s room instead of mine and another friend told me my room, two doors down, is crawling with police this morning. I don’t know if they’ll even let you up to this hallway.”

  “I’ll want a lot more questions answered but there may not be time now if the police are two doors away. I’m going to park in a lot down the bay a ways and walk along the marina boardwalk. How many cells do you have in that room right now besides the one you’re using? That aren’t Margaret’s either?”

  “Two.”

  “I’ve got yours, give me the other two numbers, quick.”

  When Charlie had, the lawyer cautioned, “If any of you are being questioned and your cell rings don’t answer it. If you are ordered to, say ‘Yes?’ instead of ‘Hello’ or ‘This is Charlie’ or whatever and I’ll hang up and try someone else. Give my number to your friends and when anyone can get info out, call me.”

  “Can’t you do anything now?”

  “Not much until she’s charged. Hang in, I’ll be close.”

  “How did you know?” Charlie asked Luella. “How did you know Maggie and I shouldn’t stay in our room last night?”

  “How’d you know I’d get out in time?” Kenny had to add.

  “I didn’t, I swear. It’s just my over-organized brain trying to cover all the bases. And everyone at the Sea Spa knows Charlie’s sort of looking after Maggie. Somebody there who knew Charlie was here might figure Maggie would be in the same room like they were at the Spa. And there does appear to be an attempt to link her to the murders at the Spa—I don’t know. It just seemed like a good idea.”

  Charlie sat on the bed next to Maggie, “How you doing, kid?”

  Tears still welled in those beautiful eyes but her cheeks were dry. “I’m making it. Just missing my Nasonex. It was in the drug bag I never got back.”

  “Oh, I snort that,” Luella said. “For my allergies.”

  “Was there any one doctor monitoring all the stuff you were on, Maggie?”

  “Obviously not. Have you seen this, Charlie? The Sea Spa’s in here. Sounds very legit in this write-up.” Those eyes spit defiance again.

  Luella took a nasal spray bottle from her purse, shook it hard, and handed it to Maggie. Charlie took the magazine, San Diego County Tourist Guide, from Maggie’s lap. It was a slick production touting all the things tourists and conventioneers might like to do to leave money in the area. The lead story was “The Day Spa Phenom, Wave of the Future?” The VanZants posed in front of the fancy wrought iron gate, Warren towering behind Caroline, Raoul off to one side, Sue Rippon the other—the latter two with arms crossed in front of them—and behind the four a good hint of the luxury accommodations and gardens. A professional head shot of Dr. Judy alone farther down on the page.

  “Maggie, before or sometime during the time I passed out from drugged fruit and cheese in our room at the Sea Spa, I imagined I heard you screaming. Was that me hallucinating or what?”

  “I went into the bathroom and the shower door was open and there was this hole in the tile. It had an eye in it. I yelled and the hole disappeared.”

  “Sounds like dear Dashiell, the handyman.” Charlie’s cell tweedled and she fully expected a cop to be on the other end, but it was Keegan.

  “Is there any way you could sneak down here and help teach a course this morning? Natives are restless. I assume you’ve heard about Howard.”

  “Yes, and the hallway’s full of investigators near my room at last report. I’m not in it, but close enough to be seen sneaking out of the one I’m in.”

  “My room was thoroughly gone over as well, but I’m told I have leave to carry on for the Institute. We’ll be in the same room we used yesterday to hear the pitches and where your panel was, if you can make it.”

  “You know what would be cool,” Kenny said when she’d explained Keegan’s request, “is if you and I could go down to the conference where we belong, Luella could sneak Maggie out to meet her lawyer, and housekeeping could get into this room without drawing attention to it by banging on the door again.”

  It sounded good but too easy, still they took a chance. Kenny went first while the rest stowed all signs of woman’s wear behind closet doors where Luella assured them housekeeping never looked. The only giveaway was the size of the breakfast and the number of towels used by one occupant. Maybe he had a lady up last night. And she stayed for breakfast and showered twice.

  Kenny went first and called to say it looked clear if they turned the other way from Charlie’s room and took the stairs instead of the elevator, while Luella set up a place to meet Nancy Trujillo. Luella left next, sent for Maggie, and Charlie escaped last. The housekeeping cart was just across the hall, the door to her room down the hall open, and she could hear voices in there, but hurried the other way to the stairs, head down. Had to be a trap. It was too easy.

  Listen dufus, you know what’s going on. The cops don’t know the whole story yet—probably haven’t connected people from both the Spa and the workshop yet. Probably other murders in town, you know.

  Charlie had to admit her inner self made sense but still—the only thing she was totally co
nvinced of was the expedience of having everyone armed with a cellular.

  She stepped off the elevator to see two things at once, Detective Solomon talking to Keegan Monroe in the hall outside the conference room and a woman arranging a book display on a cleverly built expandable and foldable table with three levels. The woman and her display were way too close to the elevator and Charlie put a finger to her lips before she ducked behind a potted fern.

  This put her in a dark corner facing the elevator’s shiny doors that mirrored a good section of the hall. In fact she could see herself peering from behind the fern, more like a fern tree. She met the gaze of the startled woman she’d hoped to hush, and behind her, saw Solomon turn and walk into the bar which was directly across from the conference room.

  At the end of the wide hallway the outside glass doors opened to the center courtyard containing a lovely garden and the pool, with curving walkways to the lobby building, business conference centers, a seafood restaurant, and yet more marina.

  Mitch Hilsten had given Charlie CDs of the old Monty Python films and clips from the Flying Circus TV shows when she was recovering from her accident on the 405 and she was reminded of them now as the display woman kept staring back in the mirrored elevator doors, nodding and smiling at Charlie like an idiot. Her hair a shoulder-length brown shag with suspicious red highlights, her shape like facing parentheses between neck and knees, she wore small glasses and a big smile, a red checked sleeveless, waistless dress to midcalf and black rubber sandals. Charlie guessed her to be somewhere in her late forties, early fifties and probably fifty pounds overweight.

  The woman looked around and then suddenly slipped over to hand Charlie a book. “Something to read while you hide. But you have to give it back. Or pay for it. But you can have it for author’s discount.”

  She returned to her display table and unlike before looked everywhere but at Charlie and her fern tree. Mostly she smiled with a resigned hopefulness as the attendees filed past her to the conference room, avoiding her eyes and her display. Charlie would have pranced right on by her too if she hadn’t seen Solomon in the hall first. She’d early on avoided her book authors’ signings for this very reason. Charlie might be a tough Hollywood agent but watching hopeful authors embarrass themselves was more than she could stomach.

  This one had the unfortunate name of Mary Keene and her novel was Murder in the Midlands. Charlie expected it to be a first novel and self-published but was astonished to find it the author’s third in a series published by Simon and Shooter. Might as well have been titled Murder on the Midlist if she had to resort to this. Charlie looked up from a bloodstained piece of clothing and what might be an eyeball attached to something hidden in a ball of dirt on the book jacket to see Kenny alone in the hall with Mary Keene.

  “Hey, Charlie, glad you could make it out from behind your tree, but you looked real colorful back there,” Kenny said when she joined them.

  Charlie glanced at the elevator doors to discover they showed her hidey hole plainly from here. Made sense if she could see here plainly from there. “I was trying to avoid Solomon. Did he see me? What did he want?”

  “He was looking for Maggie. Told him she was meeting her lawyer. Did you know Mary here has my old agent?”

  Charlie wondered if big deal agent Jeth Larue ever worked up the courage to attend any of his authors’ signings, watch the baleful show of their attempts to swim upstream.

  Both she and Kenny bought a book, at cover price—most likely the only two Mary Keene would sell this day.

  Nineteen

  I have published thirteen books in the last ten years, three of them bestsellers and written four prize-winning screenplays, plus I spend three months a year conducting workshops that provide concise and easy ways to break into markets of all kinds for beginning writers and how to break through the high income ceiling for publishing writers stuck in the midlist doldrums. One-day, ten-hour intense workshop with an editor and representative on hand to look at your material. All for $170 (lunch not included). Bestselling author Harry Wicks can show you how IN JUST TEN HOURS!

  Harry’s e-mail address and phone and fax numbers followed so that potential attendees could find out when he was speaking in their area. There was a picture included on the flyer of this amazing person in blue jeans and T-shirt who appeared to be a likeable everyday Joe with a friendly grin and short-cropped hair.

  Other than the photo, the flyer was in colorful oranges and greens and they had been on every chair in the conference room this morning. The students arrived before a conference staff understandably in disarray with the murder of their leader. Belated attempts to gather up these advertisements for someone else’s sucker scheme had been unsuccessful and many stuck out of the back pockets of denim jeans or front shirt pockets now. Kenny showed Charlie his. More grist for his exposé.

  She sat at the back of the room with him as Keegan Monroe talked about techniques of writing film scripts and made fun of his own success while writing in prison—somehow that experience tended to focus him. Kenny leaned over and whispered, “Scuttlebutt has it Howard was forcibly drowned in his tub.”

  “He’s got a bathtub? All we have are showers.”

  “He has a complimentary suite because he brings the Institute workshop here and it has a Jacuzzi. But should anyone want to connect your friend Maggie to another murder—there does seem to be a pattern here. I think Luella Ridgeway may have had a point in insisting we get her out of your room.”

  “But who is connected with both the conference and the Sea Spa?”

  “You, me, Maggie, Luella, Jerry Parks, and Mitch Hilsten, to name a few. Did we ever determine how Grant Howard knew the VanZants? I forget.”

  But it was time for Charlie to take the podium. The sharks had the afternoon shift. The last faculty member, Sarah Newman the story editor, was probably busy consoling her suddenly widowed sister.

  Come to find out, Mary Keene was not only Jethro Larue’s client, she was also Brodie Caulfield’s mother. Charlie discovered this when she and Kenny had lunch with the two at the hotel’s Baja Café just across the hall and through the bar from the conference room. They had saved a place for Keegan, who was surrounded by attendees with questions. Box lunches came with the registration for conferees so this seemed like a safe enough haven for now. Charlie didn’t want to get too far away from Maggie who she hoped was busy planning strategies with her lawyer and Luella Ridgeway about now.

  “So, do you want to see more?” Brodie asked Charlie and poured himself some margarita from the pitcher in the middle of the table.

  “Excuse me?” She took a sip of the house merlot and tried to come down off the cliff of godwhat’llhappennext.

  “You asked for a treatment, I gave you one yesterday. What do you think?”

  “Brodie, I’m going to be honest with you. I haven’t read it yet.”

  “Christ, she went from the Bahia straight to a murder scene. Get a heart, man,” Kenny came to her defense.

  “You haven’t lost it?”

  “I know right where your treatment is and first chance I get, I promise to let you know.” It damn well better be in Kenny’s closet.

  Brodie’s mother peered over her little glasses. They were rectangles on their sides and gray-tinted. “I know you now. You’re Mitch Hilsten’s agent.”

  “No, I handle writers. He’s just a friend and with a different agency altogether.”

  “Anyway, Ma, you should have heard her take out this self-important smartass in there this morning. The jerk started challenging every last thing she said.”

  “There’s one in every crowd, I frankly thought it was going to be you, Brodie, until this guy showed up.”

  “So what did she do?” Mary Keene shared some facial expressions with her son but otherwise there was little similarity.

  “She just stood up there with her mouth shut, for five of the longest minutes. We were all embarrassed for her and the dork who made it all possible. Finally she says, �
��We just wasted five minutes and more when you consider this gentleman’s intrusions. My time is worth more to me than that, it’s frankly worth more to me away from here. His time must be worth more to you than mine. Yours is apparently unlimited.’”

  “You’ll have to admit, Charlie, yours is a very unpopular message,” Kenny said when the tacos arrived. “Anyway, Institute staff reluctantly escorted the offender out of the room. I think they agreed with him more than Charlie. I can’t believe you didn’t see it when they shoved him out the door, Mary.”

  “The Institute staff had already convinced hotel security to shut me down too.”

  “Contract up for renewal?” Charlie asked.

  “Yeah, and the numbers aren’t there. It’s tough. I’ve done everything but mug Oprah. Takes a lot of energy and money. Nothing seems to work anyway.”

  “God, I can’t believe it. I’d kill to be published by Simon and Shooter.” Kenny put one of his tacos on a side plate for Charlie who’d ordered only a dinner salad after her heavy breakfast. “At least I used to think so.”

  “Numbers are numbers no matter where you go. Brodie keeps telling me I need a gimmick. I know lots of writers with great gimmicks and they’re not getting anywhere either.”

  “From what I’ve understood from an admittedly quick review of the jacket copy, this seems to be a series aimed at older women, which is wise since they make up a large proportion of readers, but the market therefore is inundated with that kind of story. You’ll notice younger males making up the majority of hopefuls at this conference—perhaps not the target audience for you.” Charlie took a bite of the taco and realized it had the same filling with different spicing as her omelet this morning. This was a shellfish taco and simply wonderful, with a shredded cabbage topping.