Voices in the Wardrobe

by Marlys Millhiser

  “The permanent staff is much smaller but there’s this incredible reservoir of unemployed woo-woo specialists down in Solana Beach to draw from, whenever we need them,” Warren VanZant told Charlie in amazement. “And they keep multiplying and coming up with new specialties. They have a place to ply their wares and the Spa takes thirty percent of their take. It’s nuts, and after two murders here we’re turning customers away, there’s so many. I don’t understand people anymore. Perhaps I never did.”

  “What I don’t understand is how you can combine a health and beauty day spa with a twenty-four hour clinic for addicts.”

  “Caroline, Judith, and I became convinced that the ambiance of a spa that coddled people would be more appropriate for those working to overcome addictions. That less of a prison atmosphere would give the addicts a cause to accomplish more and faster. The bowel cleansing and such seems extreme but many healthy non-addicts swear by it as well. And after three days your Maggie would have been massaged and coddled too. And we work with different drugs to help them, a combination of prescription and herbal, a balance if you will, once their systems are cleansed to accept the gentler but potentially more effective treatment. I am truly sorry about your Maggie and that Judith’s agent was pulled into this misunderstanding through no fault of her own. It’s a tragedy. They do happen, unfortunately. Unpredictable mentalities take a horrendous toll in this world.”

  Twenty-Three

  The area where a white Lexus drove or rolled over the cliff to the Pacific below was on the opposite side of the promontory from the earthquake crevice. Charlie, Mitch, and Warren VanZant walked across the parking lot from the ornate front gate to the edge of the pavement and the tire tracks on the other side of the yellow police tape. The tracks showed clearly in the sandy dirt between weed grasses, in places digging deeper than others as if the Lexus had been periodically gunned.

  “I have a very bad feeling about all this,” Warren said almost in a whisper. They had stopped a short way down the slope to look back up at the Spa where the dazzling light show winked on in stages, traveling across the horizon. Steep enough here for an uncontrolled car to roll and eventually gain speed but not so steep as to make it impossible to control. Were the skid marks from braking instead of gunning?

  “This place must eat money,” Mitch said.

  “It does, but makes money as well. Supports itself and us and a largely itinerant staff and the most recent extensive renovation to make it more inviting to the day spa clients. There’s not actually an off season. The place has been pretty much under renovation since it was built. Caroline and I are but the latest in a long line of renovators. Problem is, each renewal never quite gets finished before a new owner starts another. There was an HGTV special on it a couple of years ago as a matter of fact.”

  Charlie shivered in the sea breeze and wondered if her missing friends did too. She couldn’t bear to think of one or both washing around chilled by death at the bottom of the sea. Dreaded images floated around behind her eyes nonetheless and a foreboding hum surprised her breathing. Mitch put a warm arm around her shoulders as they set off again, Charlie too depressed to shrug it off.

  “Won’t Dr. Judy’s death and her backing gone, affect the bottom line here though? That’s got to be a hit,” Mitch kept prodding.

  Later, Charlie would think it strange that Warren VanZant hadn’t answered that question. Now, it was all she could do to keep her feet moving toward the precipice.

  By the time they reached it, it was too dark to determine the skid marks or lack thereof in the tracks. There was enough disturbance right at the edge to be noticeable in the waning light though, a breaking away of soil on the other side of more police tape. As if perhaps the Lexus had tipped over the edge rather than careened.

  “You can lean over to look, Charlie. I’ll hold onto you,” Mitch offered.

  She could see the inlet to the marina without even leaning over, and the surf breaking white farther out. “They could have been thrown from the car when the door came off and be caught up on a ledge and alive.”

  “There are actually some ledges and even a shallow cave along there, but rescuers sent down on ropes didn’t find anyone. A news helicopter reported seeing no one either,” VanZant said.

  Charlie held onto Mitch’s arm to grab a fast glance over the edge, dizzy nausea arriving on cue, the marina lights and their reflection about all she could see through it in the dark, the sea wind chilling the sick sweat coating her skin. She tasted hot dog and onions when her cell went off in Mitch’s pocket.

  “Thought you had this set to voice mail.”

  “I thought so too.” She carried it well away from the precipice to answer. “Libby? Where are you?”

  “I’m at Doug’s and so is Tuxedo and Mrs. Beesom—and poor Mrs. McDougall’s trying to get ready for the wedding yet. Have they found Maggie and Luella?”

  “No honey, I’ll let you know when—”

  “I’m coming down. Where do I meet you? Jacob’ll be home tomorrow because he’s mad at the convention or whatever it was. He’s such a priss.”

  “No, you can’t. I don’t need one more person to worry about now. Just—”

  “Listen up, lady, I have had it with you. You hear me? You are nothing but trouble. You are totally not trustworthy. This is the third run-in with the FBI, right? In how many years? And you have the nerve to judge me? You, who can’t go anywhere but what there isn’t a dead body or five? You, who get your family and friends in trouble. You are simply not a responsible adult. And you don’t need to worry about me now? You with an ulcer always ready to pop and a metal plate in your neck? What is it with you? I don’t know anybody who’s got a mother who’s such a big pain. Why can’t you behave yourself?”

  “Well, she does have a point,” Mitch offered tentatively when he put the cellular back in his pocket.

  “You stay out of this.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” But he held her while she cried. “Your plate’s too full right now. Maybe after you get some sleep, things’ll—”

  “Sleep!”

  “Uh … some rest, timeout, you know—”

  “It’s useless to try to reason with an alpha female-thwarted,” Warren VanZant said behind them on the way back up to the Spa.

  “Excuse me?” Charlie whirled. He was showing some exhaustion too.

  “Charlie or her daughter?” Mitch said. “Thwarted, I mean.”

  “Sounds suspiciously like both. I expect it dates back to the teens—usually does. The female expecting to dominate other females and thus impress males has to step back because of some calamity. Loses social status for whatever reason—loss of looks, economic upheaval in the family, weight gain, illness, simply changing junior or high schools and finding the pecking order too established to breach, whatever. But it becomes a lifelong curse, unfortunately.”

  “Where’d you get that crap? For one thing Charlie’s not a wolf, for another she’s very successful in one of the most cut-throat professions known to man and in Hollywood yet where people are used and thrown away like Kleenex. And she may be alpha but she’s sure not thwarted. She never had a big life-changing event in her teens. Why … oh.”

  “Nice try, Hilsten. But thanks for the support. I do appreciate you, you know.” Charlie put an arm around his waist and hugged it. Even if I’m such a shit I hate admitting it. “So Mr. VanZant, are you a shrink, educator, biologist—what?”

  “Let’s just say I’m well-read and in constant touch with experts in many fields of creature mentality. And I’ve learned more about that at the Sea Spa at the Marina del Sol than I ever wanted to know.”

  “Was your ex an alpha female-thwarted?”

  “He has an ex?” Mitch asked.

  “Dr. Judy for one. I don’t know if there are others.”

  “Judith was far from an alpha female, let alone thwarted. But your question is exactly that of an AF-T. Read catty. It’s not your fault. Nature made you that way for some reason. How did you know
about Judith and me?”

  “Dr. Grant Howard—the latest dead body.” How Howard knew, nobody had explained.

  “Oh well, it would have come to light eventually, I guess. Judith and Mrs. Howard were sorority sisters years ago. Kept in touch.”

  “The Union-Tribune was present at the time so it will probably be soon rather than eventual. You, I take it, are the father of her daughter who will lose her inheritance if she shares any of it with you?”

  “That’s ridiculous—you know nothing of Judith’s will or finances—how could you? Will that be in the Union-Tribune too?”

  “Jesus, heads up everybody,” Mitch warned in a war-zone tone. “What is this, a firing squad?”

  Lights and human shadow figures had lined the curve of asphalt parking lot above them. You couldn’t make out faces, just the spread of their stance. They appeared at even intervals, and they all wore pants. Handheld searchlights swept the earth around Charlie and her companions, then moved up their bodies to blind them.

  All Charlie could think of was that her daughter was right. Trouble just followed her around like a stray, homeless gorilla. A savage flesh-eating, homeless gorilla.

  Oh let’s just feel sorry for ourself, now when we need our cool above all else.

  “Oh shut up.” She sat in the Spa office, the FBI across the desk this time. “Oh, I didn’t mean you.”

  “Who did you mean?” Charles Green asked. Without the safari hat he looked a lot meaner.

  “I talk to myself. Myself says something and I answer it out loud by mistake.”

  “How can anyone in so brutal a profession as yours is purported to be afford such lack of discipline?” Agent Green asked.

  “Well, it isn’t easy. I guess it’s because I’m an alpha female-thwarted.”

  “She really is, Mr. Green, a true-to-type if ever there was one.” Warren VanZant appeared decidedly more uncomfortable with the FBI than he had the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department and murder. Charlie wondered what there was here to interest Agent Green. Maybe, like Charlie, VanZant had a suspicious rap sheet.

  He sat next to Charlie, Mitch on her other side. Detective Solomon leaned against a bookcase, where he could make sardonic expressions behind the federal agent’s back and study the three facing them both at the same time. Caroline fluttered in and out behind them—Charlie could actually hear her, a sort of fluttery, busy sound with breath.

  “And you, Mr. VanZant, or your wife never dispensed drugs at this facility?”

  “Sometimes we monitored guests—particularly those with major health problems and/or addictions. We often consulted with the guests’ physicians before we attempted any of the cleansing or physical stress treatments.”

  “You mean like, never administer an enema to someone with a bad heart?”

  “Not unless you’ve checked with his or her physician.”

  “Then how do you explain the mix and strength of drugs found in both Dr. Judd and Raoul Segundo?” the FBI wanted to know.

  “I can’t. It’s that simple.”

  “Many of them seem, at this stage of the investigation, to be consistent with the medications prescribed for the missing Margaret Stutzman, who now it appears is somewhere on the bottom of the sea off the cliff over there. How do you explain that?”

  “Perhaps she felt remorse and drove her friend’s car and her friend over the edge. She was not stable mentally. That’s why she was here.”

  Both the agent and the sheriff’s deputy looked to Charlie for rebuttal, but Solomon’s cell rang. He stepped out into the hall, his “ummms” and grunts still perfectly audible. “Be right down.”

  He returned to announce, “We got bodies. I’d like all of you to come down to the marina and help make identification.”

  Twenty-Four

  Charlie had left the truck illegally parked in front of the yacht club and ridden up to the Sea Spa with Mitch in his rental. FBI Agent Green insisted she ride back with him. The VanZants rode down with Solomon. Mitch drove himself.

  Charlie’s driver hadn’t even started the car before he ordered her to hand over her cellular, which Mitch still had, and asked if she realized her laptop was neither with her belongings left at the Islandia nor in her pickup.

  “I didn’t bring it.”

  “It’s not in your office either.”

  “No.”

  “Everyone in your house and your little development seems to be gone.”

  “We’re busy people. There are not many of us. And one is probably lying dead and wet to be identified at our destination.” Charlie still held out hope that it wasn’t so. How could she not?

  “You’re obviously an intelligent woman of the world. How can you ignore the seriousness of your situation?”

  “It’s not as serious as Maggie’s, is it?”

  “What would you say if I told you, we have picked up your daughter for questioning?”

  “I’d say be damned careful. That kid’s lethal.” Since she’d just recently talked to Libby, Charlie was fairly certain he lied. She couldn’t imagine what she’d left at the Islandia. Her suitcase was in the back of the extended cab of the metallic-blue Ram as was her PDA.

  He pulled over, turned on the overhead light, and asked her to empty her purse in her lap. Out came her wallet, tissue, lipstick, folded plastic hairbrush, plastic container of Tic Tacs, ballpoint, eye drops for her contacts, checkbook, sunglasses, two grocery receipts, a ticket stub, and purse lint. “What’s next? A strip search?”

  “Way you dress, you couldn’t hide a peanut.” His disapproval was palpable. The man had huge ears and tiny hair that formed a gray fuzz all over a knobby head.

  “I was right about the fallout from exposing the identity of the fanatics, wasn’t I?”

  “You have no way of interpreting any information you may think you have. You’ve fallen for a spin that is not true. You are not a specialist trained to interpret it and should not be allowed to disseminate it.”

  Charlie knew she should be allowed to feel intimidated. But she was numb to the point of hopeless. The danger here was that, according to the rabid liberals, she could just disappear and no one would have to account for it. Her mind could only dwell on what Maggie might look like after drowning in the sea, being smashed around by tides and rocks and whatever. It was impossible to imagine Luella Ridgeway with more than one hair out of place.

  The metallic-blue Ram still sat parked in the no-parking zone. She didn’t see a ticket on the windshield. Mitch leaned against it, arms crossed, eyes and jaw bristling with anger and suspicion like when he’d played Artemis Bard in Hell Hath No Pity and grabbed a guard’s super-duper bullet-spraying weapon and wiped out half a village in barely fifteen frames.

  Detective Solomon and Deputy Saucier arrived to escort her to a makeshift tarpaulin tent set up in the parking lot. “What took you so long?”

  “He had to be intimidating and convince himself my cell phone wasn’t in my purse, upset because he can’t round up my daughter, neighbors, laptop—you name it.” She stopped at the flap to the tarp morgue. “I don’t know if I can do this. Maggie was my best friend and Luella sort of a mentor. I think I’m going to puke or something.”

  But there was only one body inside. And it wasn’t Maggie or Luella either.

  Warren VanZant stood holding his wife against his chest, staring at Charlie in what her mood interpreted as gloating. The body was battered and bloated and awful, one eyeball all but squished out of the socket, but definitely that of Dashiell Hammett.

  “Good news is, it’s not your friend, Margaret Stutzman,” Gordy Solomon said. “Bad news is, she’s in even worse trouble than before.” When they exited the morgue tent it was under lights—Jerry Parks and his photographer, front and center. Jerry too seemed to be gloating.

  “Why did Detective Solomon think Maggie was in worse trouble now that Dashiell Hammett is dead? Does he think she’s still alive? That she murdered him? What?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie. But l
ook at the bright side. Maggie and Luella weren’t found near the car. So maybe they’re alive.” Mitch Hilsten had managed to smuggle Charlie away to the Motherfricker and escape an escalating media frenzy. The divers had come in, would search again in the morning for other victims. A large fish of some kind had been mistaken for another body initially, accounting for the original report of more than one.

  They had brought the VanZants too and Warren tried to comfort Caroline up on the lounge deck. Mitch and Charlie stood on the lower deck with glasses of that satin scotch. It was chilly with night and sea breeze. What was it like for Maggie right now?

  “What would old Dashiell be doing with Luella’s car? How do I keep Libby from coming down here and walking right into an FBI trap? I’m so blown away I’m just not cutting it right now, Mitch.”

  “You know, time was, the Feds would have put a tap on your phone lines, known where you were calling from. I haven’t heard they can do that with these, have you?” He pulled her cell from his pocket. “I’ll keep watch for Agent Green.”

  She had two messages. Could someone tap into her voice mail? She’d never listed this number on her letterhead or business card. But it had to be on file in the office and the office had been thoroughly gone over.

  The first was a cryptic message from Luella, “Charlie, Maggie and I are at the Sea Spa. Something’s terribly wrong here. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  Charlie plopped down on a narrow shelf bench and stared at the instrument of communication in her hand. Had she just heard the voice of a dead friend? A ghost of the once smooth scotch returned up her throat to burn her tongue.

  She sipped at another scotch in the Motherfricker’s impressive dining room where she, Mitch, and the VanZants huddled at one end of an oval table that, with the room, rendered their little group small, insignificant, and dowdy. Sidney or whoever brought in a platter of crab salad croissant sandwiches and a carafe of coffee. He studied the mood of the huddle and left the room.

  Warren and Mitch tried to discuss the scenes that would be shot in this room but their companions were so dismal they gave up.