“Poor little rich girl, a Midwest innocent murdered in evil Los Angeles,” said Gus. “All of America is going to want the dirty details, shake their heads and cry. You realize that, right?”
I nodded, the wrench in my stomach coming to a full-tied knot when I recognized the lean form of Jesse Cand, crime reporter from the Times. He stood at the edge of the crowd, staring back at me. The guy was stalking me but I couldn’t accuse him of that. He’d say he was just doing his job. Journalists always say that as they purposefully impale your life with their favorite writing instrument. Jesse was so happy to see me, he waved. “Well, hell!” I said.
Gus joined me at the window and spotted Jesse. “Don’t worry, when we leave we’ll just run over that bag of bones.”
“A few more details here and I’ll be happy to take you up on that offer. So, date rape gone wrong?” I asked.
“No indication of foul play or violence, particularly,” said Gus. “The time of death and the issue of the phone call is fairly shaky at this point. The lab guys should be able to say for sure.”
“It’s a long line down there at the morgue.”
“You do the dance that hurries the autopsy. That’ll let people know you’re back on the job,” said Gus. “Satch gave me the number of the Riley’s family doctor, I think I’ll give him a ring.”
Gus went into the utility room to make the call.
I was standing there, settling into my receptive state, when Autumn let out a sigh. I jumped. It’s not unusual for air to suddenly escape the lips of a body, but it’s always startling. Most of the time it happens when you move the body, not when it’s just lying there. I stared and half expected she’d continue to breathe. Then I found I was hoping, willing her to breathe. I had experienced her last breath.
I leaned over the body, put my ear by her slightly open mouth. No more breath came. And in that instant I decided that something was off with this crime scene. It struck me as staged for the benefit of an audience. The way the body was found, the fact that someone called. I stared down at Autumn as if I could read the truth in her serene face, in the alluring gesture of her arm.
Gus came back into the room. “Normal kid stuff like measles and mumps, no health problems. None.”
“Are the parents coming to LA?” I asked.
“Tonight.”
“Did we get everything out of the medicine chest?”
“Medicine chest? You mean medicine cabinet, Joan.”
“Did we get it?”
“Yes. You’re thinking drugs or poison, right?”
“Seems obvious. How ’bout the icebox?”
“You mean the fridge.”
“Whatever.”
“We got that, too,” Gus said.
“What about the neighbors?” I asked.
“Nobody noticed a thing. Nada,” said Gus. “You believe that?”
“It’s a keep-to-yourself neighborhood.” We stood there silently for a moment.
I noticed the DVD, zeroed in. Gus picked up on it and pressed the eject button. A disc popped from the black mouth. I carefully pulled it out to read the title. “Blonde Venus. You know it, Gus?”
“Old Marlene Dietrich film. Play it,” he said. I popped it back in and hit play.
A line of opiated dancers in jungle costumes, complete with spears, painted shields, and feathers, synch-stepped to an African drumbeat. A convincing gorilla appeared and joined in center stage. The gorilla pulled off its furry hands to reveal the beautiful bejeweled hands of a woman, which then reached up to pull off its gorilla head. It was Marlene Dietrich in a blond Afro. She emerged from the gorilla suit in a sparkly costume singing lyrics that lamented being enslaved to the drums and the enticing sins of voodoo. The DVD stopped.
Gus nodded and I bagged it.
Standing in the bedroom doorway, Rose caught my eye and held up two bags.
“We’re in luck.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Semen from the sheets, hair samples. And, as per your request, fibers, red ones.”
“Check the vic’s shoes?” I asked.
“You know I will,” Rose said as she turned away to continue her work. It was then that I realized Rose has the uncanny ability to make her voice sound melodious and weary at the same time. A deep sorrow crept into my being, or maybe it had been there all along and something in her voice called it out of me. Yes, that was more likely.
I found Autumn’s driver’s license in an orange patent-leather handbag. She was only eighteen years old. She had credit cards—Saks Fifth Avenue, Neiman Marcus, and others.
“That’s some heavy plastic,” said Gus.
After a more thorough inspection of Autumn’s purse, I discovered a laminated card with a drawing of the Goddess Aphrodite. On the back, someone had written, “Kunda, The Malibu Psychic.” Plus, yesterday’s date and a time: one o’clock.
I flashed the back of the card at Gus and said, “I feel the need for spiritual advice.”
“Yeah,” sighed Gus, “I bet you do, too.”
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER A SHORT RIDE up the Pacific Coast Highway with the ocean and tightly packed bungalows on one side and green mountains on the other, the MALIBU PSYCHIC sign pointed down an asphalt driveway. Black tarmac wound ’round a Mexican fast-food joint and ended in front of a modest white structure that had a view of the beach. Gus and I got out of the car. It was the end of September, but the day was warming up like July, not unusual in Southern California. I looked out to the spectacular blue of the ocean and saw a well-built guy with a deep tan and long blond hair catch a colossal wave and ride it all the way until it dissipated into bubbly foam in the sand.
“Gus, did you know that there’s three types of female detectives?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What are they?”
“Nympho, lesbo, and psycho.”
“Which one am I?”
“You’re asking me?”
“I’m asking your opinion.”
“Oh, heck. I guess I’d have to say you’re a psycho.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You asked. Hey, it’s probably a compliment.”
“Is that what people think of me, that I’m a psycho?”
“Whaddya care what people think?”
“I care, okay? Don’t you?”
“Not really. Anyways, it’s a joke. You mustn’t internalize these things.”
The thing about Gus is that he psychoanalyzes everything and everybody. There’s no stopping him. The worse thing about it is he’s often right.
The tarmac guided us to the front door with yet another sign that promised us the Malibu Psychic. There was virtually no landscaping, only determined dandelions sprouting through the holes in the parking lot and a statue of a man-sized cat that stood sentry-like at the doorway. The cat was poised to strike on some invisible prey.
“You seen Carl lately?” asked Gus.
Ah yes, Carl. Ex-lover and ex-partner. Once upon a time, I had been safe in his arms. And then, it felt dangerous to even think of him. “No, I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a lame shrug.
Gus had to bring that up. I’d always possessed the knowledge that I was alone in the world. I never questioned it. I accepted it, like breathing. For a while with Carl, that had changed. My partner, Gus, believes that all problems can be solved with talk. Carl was his close buddy. We were all pretty much inseparable until recently.
“I got a feeling about this,” said Gus.
“Like what?”
“Like maybe we’re about to get a heavy dose of woo-woo.”
“Woo-woo? Is that anything like bullshit?”
“Oh, yeah. Only more glamorous and enigmatic,” Gus said.
“Well, start the show,” I said as I came face-to-face with the stone cat. Gus looked from the cat to me and back to the cat.
“What?” I asked.
“I was thinking: You have a lot of c
at energy.”
“Aw, come on,” I said. “Let’s wait until we get inside for that, shall we?”
“You said start the show.”
A tiny bell tingled above the door, announcing our arrival. Smoke curled up from a brass incense burner on a wooden desk in one corner. I could identify sandalwood, but the other fragrances eluded me. The walls featured at least twenty framed posters, dramatic depictions of goddesses: Aphrodite, Goddess of Love; Athena, Goddess of Wisdom; Pele, Hawaiian Goddess of the Volcano; some Goddess of Death.
Cards stuck in the frames indicated which was which. Chances were good that Autumn had picked up her Goddess of Love card here. Crystals dangled from the ceiling on lengths of fishing line. Back home, in the Ozarks, we have psychics, but there we call them spiritualists. They’re old ladies who sit in rocking chairs on the porch. They don’t have crystals or goddess pictures or bells, but when they tell you something, you listen.
There were a half-dozen candles burning on tables scattered about the room and several comfy puffed-up chairs. I didn’t see any voodoo dolls. An attractive woman appeared from behind a curtain and floated into the incense-smoky room. The purple silks she wore matched her startling violet eyes. Her straight honey-blond hair fell long to her hips and her push-up bra created a healthy cleavage above all the flowing purple silk. When she came toward us, I picked up the fragrance of roses and thought of my Gramma, who often used rose water as a perfume. The woman smiled at Gus and offered her hand as if for a kiss, but Gus reached out and shook it. He introduced us, then asked for Kunda. Her smile dropped off her face and she looked directly at me for the first time.
“I’m Kunda,” she said soberly. “It’s about Autumn, right?”
“How’d you know that?” Gus asked.
“I felt it here,” she said, laying her bejeweled and manicured hands upon her heart. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
I jumped right in. “Who told you that she was dead?”
“Like I said, I felt it.”
“In what capacity did you know Autumn Riley?”
She looked confused.
“Was she a client?”
“Yes.”
It was the kind of yes that passed through a lot of inner censors. My interest was piqued. I sat down on one of the comfy chairs, letting her know that I would not be leaving without some answers.
“Have a seat,” she offered Gus as she herself sank into in a pink love seat. He passed.
“Can you tell us if Autumn was involved with drugs?” I asked.
Kunda appeared wounded at the very idea. “Never. Autumn was a health nut. Everything had to be natural.” She bent her head for a moment, then raised it and continued. “She was wholesome and sweet. She had an incredible singing voice. She sang with great power.”
“Did she sing professionally?”
“Yes. Autumn told me she performed opera at the Muni in St. Louis.”
“Isn’t she a little young to be an opera singer?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I waited for Kunda to say more but she didn’t.
“Autumn wasn’t an actress?”
“She wanted to do modeling, be a film star.” I heard a slight judgment in her voice.
Gus piped in, “In your relationship with Autumn, did you use the archetype of goddesses in your, uh, counseling? Did that signify something in particular?” Gus pulled out the goddess card we found in Autumn Riley’s purse and showed it to Kunda.
“I don’t think it’s right for me to reveal private information about Autumn.”
“We believe Autumn may have been a victim of foul play. We’re conducting a murder investigation,” I said. “We’d appreciate any information you could give us that would help us understand what happened.”
Kunda bent her head down. She was beginning to annoy me and maybe she picked that up because when she spoke again she looked only at Gus.
“Aphrodite is a love goddess, the Sex Goddess. It’s an appropriate archetype to guide one’s life if your ambition is to have the masses adore you.”
“Did she have any success as an actress?” Gus asked.
“Limited. Hardly made a dime. She used the money from her trust for most expenses.”
“Like psychic readings,” I added.
Kunda shot me her best affronted look.
“How about for art?” Gus asked.
“Oh, no,” she said her eyes rolling back over to Gus in a knowing, familiar way.
“I happened to notice that she had some expensive African pieces at her place,” Gus said.
“Glenn Addams paid for that bungalow and everything in it.” Kunda’s voice fell to a deep, foreboding tone.
“Glenn Addams?” I asked. “The producer?”
“Yes, he’s a powerful force in the world of Hollywood.”
She said the word “Hollywood” as if it were despicable.
“The landlord didn’t mention a Glenn Addams,” said Gus. “How is it you know what’s in her bungalow and who paid for it?”
“Autumn told me much more than she told her landlord, I can assure you.” She touched a lavender gemstone that hung from her neck. “I feel that Autumn Spirit must move on.”
She accented this thought by gracefully lifting her hands like a magician freeing doves from a top hat.
“She is close, extremely close. I can hear Autumn Spirit breathing.”
In my mind’s eye, I saw Autumn Riley zipped up in a body bag, swaying back and forth in the coroner’s truck, on her way to the LA County morgue.
“Autumn Spirit?” I asked. Kunda nodded.
“Can Autumn Spirit tell you how she died, who killed her?” I tried to hold down the sarcasm.
“No, no. You see things differently from that world. When Autumn was alive she was struggling with dark aspects. She was learning to embrace her shadow self. To answer your question, I’m not getting a killer per se. Betrayal—a betrayer, not a killer—comes through. You have to understand my work. I’m a healer. I heal lives.”
The phone rang and Kunda floated to it, her purple silk fluttering around her like seaweed.
Gus leaned over to me and whispered, “Autumn Riley might argue that last point, if she could.” I snorted.
Kunda cooed into the phone.
Gus picked up a book from the desk and read the title to me, “A Guide for the Advanced Soul.”
“Do they have one of those for dummies?” I asked. “Or for complete idiots?”
Gus grinned and said, “Hold a problem in your mind. Then open this book to any page and there will be your answer.”
“Forget it, Gus. I’m not in the mood.” I said.
“Okay?” asked Gus. “You got a problem in your mind?”
“That’s not really a question. More like a statement, right?”
“Okay, now open this book and read what it says.”
I opened the book to see a white page with a hand-drawn Asian symbol at the top. Below that, the words: EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING AROUND YOU IS YOUR TEACHER.
“Okay,” I said. “I can agree with that.”
Gus grinned and opened his arms to say, See.
Kunda came back into the room with an agenda. Or maybe her pixie dust was wearing off.
“I’d be willing to help your investigation free of charge,” she said sitting back down in the pink love seat. “I see a damaged but still spiritually powerful man, one who has a lot to offer but who also has a lot of flaws.”
I wasn’t impressed. “How can one be damaged and still be spiritually powerful?” I asked.
“It depends on which spirits you call upon. Dark powers can be very strong.”
“Is that well-aligned with your spiritual advice? The dark powers?”
“No, not at all.” She paused. “I guess you’re thinking I wasn’t much help to Autumn.”
I wondered if she might actually be psychic or just be stating the obvious.
“But I truly had a formidable foe,” she continued. “It’s as if he
killed her, in an indirect way.”
Gus and I shared a look. He bent over and leaned on the arm of Kunda’s chair and jutted his chin toward her.
“Who’s the he?” asked Gus. Kunda just looked at him. “Glenn Addams?” Gus prompted.
This caused her to fluster, or maybe her psychic channels were jammed.
Gus stood up straight and cleared his throat. “It’s a serious crime to withhold information in a murder investigation.”
Kunda lifted her hands and fluttered them as if to shoo away bad energy. “I don’t always get the whole picture. I have blind spots just like anybody else. I’m only human.”
“That’s truthful of you,” Gus said.
“It’s hard to explain what I do for my clients.” She stopped speaking and lowered her head again.
Gus leaned forward as if he were trying to see what she was doing exactly with her head down like that. I admit, I was curious, too.
Her head popped back up and she said, “You see, only you have the key to unlock the secrets of your soul. I can show you the door. But you must have the personal power, the courage to step through the portal.”
Kunda drew in a deep breath and wrapped her fingers around the purple crystal that hung from her neck. She leaned back and her head sunk into the back of the love seat. Gus and I waited for more otherworldly insights.
“Glenn Addams points the way to unveiling the truth.”
I’d had more than enough of the mumbo jumbo. I stood up.
“You say that this producer, Glenn Addams, may have killed Autumn in an indirect way? What’s that supposed to mean exactly?” I asked.
Now, Kunda leaned forward to meet my confrontation and stared at me with her big purple eyes. I guess she was trying to see something in me. She looked searchingly over to Gus, then took his hand, clasping it in both of hers. His eyebrows shot straight up an inch on his forehead as he waited for her answer.
“People like Glenn Addams have a way of leading others down a dark, dark path and disappearing. And by then, death is already in your blood.” She let go of his hand and opened her arms out as if she had lost something.
“You’re abandoned there, wandering in the shadows, a ghost in your own life. By then, death is only a step, a thought in the wrong direction. Death is only as far away as the next deep breath of your own black potential.”
Body on the Backlot Page 3