Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

—Cricket Summers: Columnist to the Stars

  Piper stood in the cool, shaded archway of Sybil Squire’s front entrance. In one hand, she clutched a potted African violet with purple blossoms. In the other, a plate of homemade date bars. Nana Ruth said that Sybil loved dates and would often drive to a little town outside of Palm Springs to buy them fresh. Dark residue on the stucco surrounding the front window was a reminder of the fire. Belle found the cleanup team’s failure to remove it annoying. She had threatened to send her handyman over to fix it on her dime, or maybe work out some kind of deal on one of those Q. Letec figurines.

  Belle had begged off going with her, using her frantic schedule as an excuse, but Piper knew better. Belle had no interest in meeting her reclusive neighbor. Having lived side by side for ten years, nothing had changed to make her want to be pals, not even the figurines she coveted. The fire merely added to the ongoing saga and confirmed Belle’s suspicions that the lady lived under a dark cloud, and she wanted no part of it.

  Piper pressed the doorbell and was immediately sorry. The chiming pealed throughout the house, going on and on. Too late, she remembered it from the day she and Belle had come over.

  On the other side of the massive mahogany door, the grating sound of bolts scraped and clanked. The door jerked open, causing her to take a startled step backward. Instead of Sybil or the female companion from the bank, a short Asian man peered out. He was about her age, mid-thirties or younger. He wore round eyeglasses with lenses so thick they magnified his eyes to enormous proportions. His gaze moved from her face to the items in her hands and back to her face. The man’s resemblance to the actor Peter Lorre was uncanny. A young, bespeckled Peter Lorre in the role of Mr. Moto, master of disguise. She loved Mr. Moto, loved the wily, charming character with his biting wit. Yet, within those initial seconds, something told her that there was nothing charming or witty about this man.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “I’m Piper Lundberg from next door.” She tipped her head in the direction of her guesthouse. “I’d like to see Ms. Squire.”

  He closed the door in her face.

  She waited, thinking he would return or that someone else would come to the door, but after five minutes, she realized she had been dismissed.

  This time she used the large, brass knocker, giving it three solid raps.

  Twice more she rapped with the brass knocker. Louder. Time passed. She exhaled and turned away. The door opened again. The dark-haired woman from the bank stood stiff and unyielding in the opening.

  “Hi, I’m from next door. We met outside the bank a while ago. Remember?” Piper asked. When the woman didn’t respond, she continued. “Could you tell Mrs. Squire that Piper Lundberg would like to see her?”

  “I thought I made it clear she wasn’t seeing people.”

  “I think I’d like to hear her tell me that, if you don’t mind.”

  “Look, Pepper—”

  “Piper.”

  “Whatever. She isn’t up to having company.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “She’s … well, let’s just say she has a problem maintaining mental balance. She gets upset if things don’t keep to a certain routine. You, Ms. Lundberg, are not a part of that routine. Now I’m sure you don’t want to upset her, do you?”

  What the hell did she mean by that? Maintaining mental balance? Was she implying that Sybil Squire was mentally incompetent?

  “No, of course I don’t want to upset—”

  The door closed again. This time with a rude finality as the bolts slammed home.

  #

  From what I observed in her stay with us, Mrs. Lundberg, I’d say Mrs. Squire’s mental state seemed perfectly normal to me.” Dr. Lowdell poured coffee into a mug, moved down the counter of the hospital cafeteria, and selected a bear claw from the tray of pastries. “As you know, this is a medical hospital, not a mental facility. We treated her for physical injuries.”

  Piper poured coffee, but passed on the pastries as she moved along with him to the cashier. He pointed to a table by the window. She had to rush to keep up with him. They pushed the littered contents of the last diner’s food to the side and took seats opposite each other. Outside, a stiff breeze played with the row of towering palms along the entire block. They swayed gently, rhythmically, as though choreographed to the canned music in the cafeteria. She’d obtained the name of Sybil’s doctor from Dr. Oates, the plastic surgeon who had pulled her from her burning house. Using Dr. Oates’ name had gotten her a brief interview with him.

  “We treated her for burns to her hands,” he said. “During her week at the clinic, I found her to be quite lucid—charming, in fact. She was eager to be done with us here, and back in her own home. If she’s exhibiting any mental deficiencies, they didn’t surface while she was under my care. Tell me again, what is your connection to Mrs. Squire?”

  “I’m her neighbor and a great admirer of hers. I’m concerned about her.”

  “Concerned in what way?”

  “Concerned for her safety. There’ve been some strange things going on next door. Things I don’t think Sybil would allow if she had a say in the matter.”

  The doctor frowned. “Such as?”

  “Yesterday when I went to the house to … to see for myself that she was … well, okay, I was told by her nurse that she wasn’t up to having visitors. She said Sybil had a problem maintaining mental balance and visitors would upset her.”

  Dr. Lowdell sipped his coffee, frowned again. “I agreed to talk with you because I thought you were a close friend. Not just a neighbor. I’m really not at liberty to discuss my patient with you, Mrs. Lundberg.”

  “I know that, Doctor. I don’t consider myself just a neighbor. I know she has a drinking problem and that alcohol and a smoldering cigarette were what put her here. I’m more than concerned.”

  He looked into her eyes. She held his gaze. He leaned back. “Mrs. Squire was admitted to the hospital for treatment for first and second degree burns, her hands primarily. She came very close to burning her house down and dying in that fire. As you know, she lived alone. I think a domestic came in every other day to cook and clean, but Mrs. Squire was the only one in the house when it caught fire. It could happen again if I let her go back there alone. I tried to persuade her to move into an assisted living facility. She flatly refused. She said that her father tried to run her life when she was a young woman and that she preferred a life of loneliness to a life of tyranny,” the doctor said. “You see, she’s somewhat of a free spirit.”

  “Yes, I know. She swims laps in the nude.”

  He smiled. “She’s a remarkable woman, but stubborn. She won’t give up her scotch and cigarettes. She’s eighty-five and it hasn’t killed her yet. In all good conscience, I could not release her without someone there to prevent what happened before. She agreed to live-in help. I made the arrangements and it was approved by social services.”

  “And this live-in help … they’re qualified?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you check on your patients once they’ve been released from the hospital?”

  He lowered the bear claw without taking a bite. “You mean a house call?”

  “Yes.”

  “As a rule, no.”

  “Could you make an exception?”

  “I can notify social services.”

  “They wouldn’t know what to look for.”

  “And what is it that I should look for, Ms. Lundberg?”

  “The patient you treated here in the clinic, a lucid and charming woman.”

  “And if I find that woman?”

  “Then you made a house call for nothing.”

  His pager went off. He checked it, rising to the feet. “Look, I’ll see what I can do,” he said. His long strides carried him out of the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Victor Robles reclaimed his daughter and manufactured a star. Transworld Artists championed her in their dark crime and detective picture
s. Her platinum hair and pale eyes—eyes as cool as icicles—mesmerized from the screen. Sybil Squire was the most sought-after gorgeous, predatory, double-crossing femme fatale of her day. At twenty-one she had fame and fortune. She had her father to thank for that. A man she hated with every fiber of her being.

  —Excerpt from the biography of Sybil Squire: The Platinum Widow

  by Russell Cassevantes

  With a bow and an exaggerated flourish, Mick handed over the footage, storyboard and shot/clip list for his documentary to Piper on Saturday. The day before they left for Hong Kong. The moment the film was hers, Piper felt a tingle run up her spine. She couldn’t wait to start on it. He trusted her to do the job on her own. She was more than qualified to piece it together. This was old-school. She was in her element. It had a great analog feel, shot over a period of years using top directors, producers, and actors. This documentary, Greatest Classics: Film Noir was a documentary any number of good editors could probably cut in their sleep. Yet she had an edge over the others. She knew the genre inside and out. Lived and breathed it. Embraced it.

  Because of Nana Ruth’s influence, she became addicted to the old thrillers in early childhood. She analyzed the classics, particularly the noir films, and studied the masters in the field. Directors like Hitchcock, Wilder, and the more modern Pankow. She yearned to get closer to film, the process, the magic. As a graduate student fresh out of UCLA, she took on low-level film jobs, assistant work to producers, directors, and studio execs, doing whatever came her way while searching for her niche. She found it in a Studio City cutting room editing a rock concert documentary, an exhilarating process. From there she went on to cut commercials, television movies, then her first major film. She was hooked. Editing held the secrets to the magic of the subjects she loved. Several years later, a director on a Mick Vogt film gave her her first big break, a chance to work directly with him as the film editor on Upper Limits, a 2003 Oscar nominee.

  At ten o’clock that evening, she began to organize the new project. Being a nocturnal creature and a sun worshiper, she preferred to work after the sun set into the early a.m. when the gray morning fog hung over the hills of LA. Two hours into the digitizing process, thunder cracked and boomed beyond the thick stucco walls.

  Rain pinged against the window, pelting it at times. This was the first rain of the season. She always looked forward to the first storm. This time a pulsing pain behind her eyes, now a full-blown headache, pounded in sync with the driving rain. She needed aspirin and to stretch.

  In the dark, she stepped to the window and drew back the drapes. Sheets of water cascaded down the glass. She scanned the house and grounds next door for any movement, any sign of Sybil Squire, as she did every night since moving into the guesthouse. She even checked the pool, knowing no one in their right mind would swim in this kind of weather. The rain beat down on the surface of the pool, violently churning it up. It resembled a piranha feeding frenzy.

  A flash of movement. Something white near the wall dividing the two houses. She pressed closer to the glass to see. That something was a person. Sybil. There was no mistaking that white hair. Wet and plastered to her head, it stood out in the darkness like a soft moon glow. She appeared to be wandering aimlessly. She fell, struggled upward only to fall again.

  Piper pulled on her raincoat and dashed down the wet concrete steps, now slick with sodden leaves. Her bare feet slapped against the concrete driveway as she ran. The gate to the Squire property resisted when she pushed at it. She used her back and shoulder to buffet the gate. It sprung open, dropping her to the ground. She pulled herself up, pushed the wet hair from her eyes, and ran into the yard, heading toward the place where she had last seen Sybil. She called her name. No response. She caught a glimpse of the whitish glow of her hair and the pale outline of her nightgown. When she reached Sybil, she was on her hands and knees.

  “Mrs. Squire, are you all right?” She shouted to be heard over the wind and rain. Piper dropped down in front of her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  Sybil came up on her knees, her back straight, her head bowed. She swiped a dirty hand through her hair, depositing a trail of debris through the wet strands. Lightning lit up the sky. Her knees were crusted with mud, leaves, and grass.

  “Mrs. Squire, what can I do to help you? Please, let me help you.”

  Sybil grabbed Piper’s forearm and squeezed. Raising her head, Sybil stared at Piper with glazed eyes, eyes devoid of expression. Eyes that in no way were close to resembling the expressive “movie” eyes she had once been so famous for.

  “I’m going to call the police,” Piper said, helping her to her feet. Sybil leaned into her. “I’m taking you to my place, right next door there, and I’m calling the police.”

  “No.” Sybil jerked back. “No police.”

  Piper smelled alcohol on her breath.

  “Okay, no police. But you’re coming to my place.”

  “Sybil. Sybil, what am I going to do with you?” the nurse shouted to be heard. “You promised, didn’t you? You promised, and then you went back on your word.” A hand wrapped around Sybil’s upper arm and yanked her away.

  “She’s coming with me,” Piper said, blocking the way.

  “This is none of your business,” the woman said. “Everything is fine. I know how to handle it.”

  “Fine? She’s soaking wet and shaking like a leaf. She was out here stumbling around in the rain, falling into the mud. What if she slipped into the pool and drowned? Is that how you handle it?”

  “You’re trespassing. Get off this property. Call the police and I’ll report you for trespassing. Then we’ll see who gets into trouble.”

  Piper turned to Sybil Squire. “Would you like to come home with me?”

  “Sybil?” the woman said her tone sharp.

  “No.” Sybil pushed Piper’s hand away from her arm. Then she allowed the nurse to put an arm around her waist and lead her away willingly, like a wayward lamb.

  Piper watched them disappear into the heavy rain. She stood there in the rain, cold feet in the wet leaves.

  Go home, the rational side of her brain said. Go home. Don’t get involved.

  #

  Piper refused to listen to the voice of reason. Early the next morning she rounded the stone wall separating the Vogt’s driveway and strode up the Squire driveway. This time she bore no gifts. She marched up the brick walkway into the arched porch and smacked the doorbell with the palm of her hand. All through the previous night, tossing and turning, unable to sleep, she had replayed the bizarre scene in the garden. What possessed Sybil to wander around in the rain so late at night? What possessed her to crawl around on her hands and knees in the dirt? Was she, as the nurse had implied, mentally incompetent? She was drunk or drugged, that was clear from the alcohol on her breath and the glazed look her in eyes. But had she lost her ability to reason? Dr. Lowdell said her mental state was intact when he treated her two weeks ago. Could a person’s mental capacity deteriorate in so short a time?

  The small, bespeckled Mr. Moto-look-a-like answered the door. An instant later the nurse appeared behind him.

  “I want to see Mrs. Squire,” Piper said, ignoring the man and talking directly to the woman. “Now. No excuses.”

  “She’s not well.”

  “Really? Why am I not surprised? It might be a bit much for a frail, elderly woman to stumble around in her nightgown in the middle of the night in a freezing rainstorm. But then, you know how to handle that sort of thing, don’t you?”

  The woman clamped her mouth shut, a grim line in a stony mask of a face. Her black eyes bored into Piper’s.

  Piper took a step forward. The nurse barred the threshold.

  “You have no right to stop me from seeing her. If she’s okay, then let her tell me so.”

  “Leave us alone.”

  “I can’t do that. Not until I’ve talked to Sybil.”

  The door began to close.

  “Dammit, I’ll sit here on the ste
p until you let me see her.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Social services might appreciate a call. Dr. Lowdell too,” Piper added.

  The door continued to close, but before it shut completely, the woman said, “Seven o’clock. She’ll see you then.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  That afternoon Mick flooded Piper with last-minute instructions for the documentary. He wanted to walk through the entire storyboard and clip list. The list was so long the documentary would need to be a mini-series to include all of them. Her mind was at the house next door. At seven that evening she would finally sit down with Sybil and find out what the hell was going on. The hours dragged, despite Belle taking over when Mick finished. They went over her first week’s schedule. As their house sitter, she would look after the place, feeding the cockatoo and watering the dozens of plants that seemed to overrun every room throughout the nine-room Tudor. Although the yard was maintained by a weekly lawn service, Piper insisted on tending the outdoor planters. That included watering, weeding, and cutting flowers for the two houses. This she did to indulge her compulsion for sunshine and fresh air when she wasn’t shut away in a dark room working.

  At three o’clock, the studio’s white Lincoln Towncar arrived to take the Vogts to LAX. The bags were loaded into the trunk. Piper hugged her friends and watched them climb into the back seat of the car. Belle lowered the window. “You have our number and our email. Remember the time difference, okay?”

  “Okay, I’ll try not to call in the middle of the night.”

  The car drove down the driveway. Piper walked backwards, waving as she went. Just before the driver pulled away from the house, Belle called out the window. “Piper! Darling, if anything goes haywire in either of the houses, call our handyman, Luke. His number’s on the fridge. He’ll take care of any problems.”

  Piper nodded, waved as the car disappeared around the bend, and then started up the steps to the guesthouse. In the yard next door, footsteps crunched on leaves. She hurried up the steps to the deck and looked over the rail into the Squire property. Mr. Moto—her name for him now—stepped into the gardening shed beyond the wall. Moments later he came out with a rake and began clearing away the pepper leaves knocked to the ground from the previous night’s downpour. The hair on the back of her neck rose. She rubbed at the goose bumps along her arms. The man gave her the creeps.