Phil leaned forward in his chair. “No kidding? You know who it is?”
“We believe so,” Mother said.
“Anyone I know?” Phil asked.
“Intimately,” she replied.
He frowned. “Who?”
From behind Mother, I said, “You.”
Phil chuckled. But when we didn’t join in, his smile faded. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid we are,” Mother said. “We have a witness who saw you talking to Camilla at the back of her shop shortly before she was killed.”
Mother had taken a small liberty with that—the witness had seen someone who might have been Phil. . . .
“Who was this witness?” Phil demanded.
“Someone reliable,” Mother answered coolly. “A most reliable witness indeed.”
I said, “So much for you working here that entire afternoon.”
The producer/director stood, and Mother’s hand moved into her bulging coat pocket, while I took an extra step back.
“All right,” Phil said, his face and shoulders slackening. “I did call on Camilla—at about a quarter to three, for half an hour. But I sure as hell didn’t kill her. Come on, Vivian, Brandy. You know me better than that!”
Mother, all business, asked, “What was the purpose of this meeting?”
“To discuss the . . . ah . . . terms of a new contract.”
I said, “By which you mean capitulating to her blackmail.”
Phil raised his chin. “I prefer to think of it as a raise—and we were at odds over how big a raise, I admit—but her continued services were essential to the success of the series. Every good story needs a villain.”
Were we looking at the villain of ours?
Mother asked, “And Camilla agreed to your terms?”
“Finally she did,” Phil said.
I asked, “What happened next?”
Phil looked at me. “What do you think happened next? I left!”
Mother asked, “At what time?”
“I don’t know exactly.... About three thirty, I guess. And yes, she was still alive when I left there! Come on, you two!”
Some crossness came into Mother’s voice. “I don’t see why you didn’t share all this with us before.”
Phil spread his hands; his expression was kind of pitiful. “Because I didn’t want to get involved in one of your amateur sleuthing sessions, that’s why! I had a television show to produce, in case you’ve forgotten, and I’m barely making deadline as it is!”
Mother shifted her stance, and focus. “What do you know about an antique frame that Camilla bought from the Kleins the afternoon she was killed?”
“A what?”
I said, “Large picture frame. On the ornate side.”
Exasperation crept into his voice. “Why would I know anything about a picture frame? What are you two talking about?”
Mother said, “It was used to smuggle narcotics into Serenity. And I have it from an inside and most reliable underworld source that the origin of this contraband was California.”
Phil’s eyes showed white all around. “And because I’m from California, that makes me the bad guy? Do you really assume the drugs were for me because, hey, I’m from L.A. and everybody in the entertainment biz is hooked on something?”
“Dear,” Mother replied, “I’ve seen you take pills on set that I don’t believe are aspirin. I never commented before, because I’m not one to pry into the business of others.”
Kind of amazing that she said that with a straight face.
The producer/director let out an angry sigh, turned abruptly, walked over to a desk, pulled open a drawer, removed something, and came back.
Thrusting a prescription bottle in Mother’s face, Phil snapped, “These are for back pain. I used to be a stuntman before I was a producer.”
That didn’t mean he wasn’t still hooked on them.
He was saying, “Do I have to tell you that I work long days, and sometimes these old pains recur? And sometimes new ones—a little lower down!”
Mother and I exchanged glances: had we been wrong about a trusted colleague?
Pocketing the bottle, Phil said, “Now, I’ve got a rough cut of our final episode of the season to send to the network. . . and a flight to catch. Or to put it in your terms, to make my getaway!” Fuming, he returned to the chair and the waiting screens.
“We may owe you an apology,” Mother said.
Phil said nothing, his back to us.
“We’ll let you know,” she added.
And we left.
A few minutes later, Mother and I were seated in the car.
“Do you believe him?” I asked.
“Do you?”
“I think maybe.” I shrugged, then started the car. “Where to now?”
“The library, dear. We have a rendezvous with Heather.”
I couldn’t believe that the former dispatcher, now a forensics tech, was still snitching for Mother. What did Mother have on her?
When we arrived in the south stairwell, Heather was waiting for us and looking none too happy about it.
“I don’t know why you insisted on this meeting,” the woman said, directing her ire at Mother. “I told you there was no match for that partial print.”
I looked at Mother. “What’s she talking about?”
“There was an unidentified partial print on the corn husker. . . . Now, please, no more interruptions.” Mother addressed Heather. “I don’t mean to impugn your integrity, dear. But I suspect there was a match.”
Her snitch’s hesitance on answering gave Mother the opening to pounce. “Aha! I guessed right. Whose did it match?”
Heather’s eyes went to me, with something akin to . . . what? Sorrow? Sympathy?
Why would she look at me like that? Unless . . .
I said, “The partial print belonged to Tony, didn’t it?”
My heart was pounding.
Heather said, “Brandy, a partial-print match is not conclusive. It’s nothing that would hold up in court. There could be other matches with prints that are not in the system.”
But I knew, thanks to Mother, that a witness had seen Tony leaving the back of Camilla’s shop around a quarter to four. I slumped down and sat on a dirty cement step.
“Dear,” Mother said, bending down to pull me gently to my feet, “don’t despair. It’s within the realm of possibility that Tony may have quite innocently touched the corn husker when he saw Camilla either time.”
I nodded, but my stomach was churning.
In the meantime, Heather was about to slip away when Mother stepped between her and the door. “Just one more question, dear.” A stray thought distracted her. “Didn’t you always love it when Columbo would do that just when a suspect was thinking he’d wriggled off the hook?”
Heather frowned. “Is that the question?”
“No, no! I’m wondering about a certain Rodney Evans, purported to be a fence of some kind.”
The frown deepened. “What does he have to do with any of this?”
“That is the question, dear, as Shakespeare once said.”
Heather sighed. “Well, he’s a slick customer who, as you put it, wriggled off the hook plenty of times around here. But I doubt he’s part of this.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No local address anymore. Moved out of the area. I’ve no idea where.”
Mother glanced at me, then said to Heather, “We think Mr. Evans may be back in the area. He may have broken into our house last Thursday.”
“Really? Did you report it?”
“Well, no . . .”
“Then why do you expect police help?” Heather’s lips tightened in irritation. “Vivian, we’re done here. Not just done now, but hereafter. Don’t ever contact me again. I’m not going to risk my career by giving you police information.” She reached for the door handle. “And about that topless party picture you have of me wearing a hands-free beer hat? Put it on the Internet
, for all I care!”
The stairwell door slammed shut after her.
Mother sighed. “Now I’ll have to find myself a new PD snitch. There has to be a better way for me to get inside information. That photo cost me twenty-five dollars!”
“Mother?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I want to go home. Right now.”
“It’s Tony, isn’t it?”
“You drive.”
“Happy to.”
I was that upset.
* * *
As soon as I got in the house, I dropped my coat and purse on the floor and headed upstairs.
“Go have a good cry, dear,” Mother called after me. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t imagine ever eating anything again.
In my Art Deco bedroom, I stripped down to my undies, then crawled under the covers. Sushi had followed me upstairs and jumped up on the bed.
I’m a side sleeper, and normally, she positioned herself in back of my bent knees; but if Soosh sensed I was sad, she curled up against my stomach; and if she sensed I was really sad, she lay on my pillow, with her head in the crux of my neck, tongue reaching out now and then to lick my tears. (I’d like to believe Sushi was that perceptive, but maybe she just liked the salt.)
Anyway, for a long while I just lay there blubbering, thinking of Tony, and if this book were a movie, right now there would be a montage of our relationship: the day we first met as adversaries and he gave me his handkerchief and told me to stop sniffling and blow my nose; the time I was depressed, and as a joke, Mother made me a clubhouse out of a blanket and chairs, like she used to for little Brandy, and while I was under there, eating chocolate cake, Tony arrived and gamely joined me; the night at his cabin when he saved my life from an assassin’s bullet that was meant for him; our secret rendezvous in a New York hotel after he went into WITSEC; our last romantic day together at his cabin, just before Camilla arrived on his doorstep. . . .
And now Tony and I were being pulled apart once again . . . perhaps for a very long time, if he really had killed Camilla.
But that just couldn’t be possible! Could it . . . ?
I must have finally cried myself to sleep, because the room was dark when Mother gently shook me awake.
“Get up, dear,” she said softly. “I need you to come downstairs.”
As she left, I looked at the clock—7:46 p.m.—then crawled out of bed, put my clothes back on, and did as my mother had told me.
In the music room/library/den, Mother was standing in front of the suspect-arrayed blackboard, and she gestured for me to sit on the piano bench. A TV tray was in front of it with a steaming bowl of Danish gule ærter (split-pea soup), a grilled cheese sandwich, and hot coffee.
While I sat, Mother picked up the eraser from the lip of the blackboard, then, to my astonishment, wiped the board clean! She had never done that before during a case.
Then Mother turned and said, “Rather than listing motive and opportunity, dear, what we need is a time line—a time line of who saw Camilla, and when, on that fateful day. One other thing.”
“Yes?”
“Eat your soup while it’s hot.”
I dutifully dipped spoon into bowl.
“When did Tony see Camilla that morning?” Mother asked, then added, “It’s not really all that relevant, but we’ll record it, anyway.”
“He came to see me about ten thirty,” I said, “so right before that.”
She turned to the board, chalk in hand. “Let’s see . . . Dexter went to her shop to try to buy the frame back about three that afternoon, with Phil still in back. Then Dexter left the shop about three fifteen.” The chalk was squeaking on the board. “We don’t know exactly when Phil got to Camilla’s, but he said he departed about three twenty. Accepting that at face value, Tony must have arrived shortly after, around three thirty, and was seen leaving by Miguel at about three forty-five. Then you found Camilla a little after four.”
“Who’s Miguel?”
“My witness. Lives across the alley. A rear window, like in Hitchcock. Now . . .”
Mother stepped back from the board.
TIME LINE:
10:00 a.m. until 10:30 a.m. Tony
3:00 p.m. until 3:15 p.m. Dexter
2:45 p.m. (?) until 3:20 p.m. Phil
3:30 p.m. until 3:45 p.m. Tony
4:05 p.m. Brandy
Mother said, “Dear, twenty minutes elapsed between when Tony left Camilla alive and you found her deceased—time enough for any one of these people to have come back and done the deed . . . or someone not on the list.”
“Like Gerald Klein maybe?” I asked.
“Like Gerald Klein maybe.” Mother stepped closer to me. “Are you too downhearted to indulge in a little clandestine sleuthing with your mother this evening?”
“Let me guess. You want to break into the auction house? Again?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “That’s where it all began—and perhaps that’s where it all will end. In any event, I think it’s about time we found out what was going on in that place.”
“Okay. But how do we get past their security system? Their cameras may be for show, but their alarm system isn’t. We’ll need their code.”
Mother smiled slyly. “When we were there this morning, I noticed that four numbers on the security pad were fainter than the others.”
“That’s a lot of combinations to punch in before the alarm goes off.”
Mother said, “The numbers happen to be the last four digits of the phone number there. I feel confident that’s the code. A chance worth taking, don’t you think?”
“I hope so. Otherwise, you’ll be directing and I’ll be stage-managing The Penis Papers in stir.”
I went upstairs to get into my burglar clothes (that I have such an outfit waiting on a hanger says way too much about me), and as I finished dressing, my cell, on the nightstand, rang.
“Hi,” Tony said.
“Hi.”
“I’m on standby for a flight but, with any luck, should be in Serenity around ten. Mind if I drop by?”
“Make it in the morning, okay?”
“Sure.” Pause. “Everything all right?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“I need the truth.”
“Well, of course!”
I waited a beat before asking, “Did you see Camilla around three thirty the afternoon she died?”
Silence.
Then: “I did. To ask her again for a divorce, but she wasn’t having any, so I left. I should have told you, but I didn’t want to upset you any further.”
“Didn’t exactly work, did it?”
“Honey, I’m sorry. I did tell Mia about it—it’s in her report—and also that I may have touched the corn husker on the desk. It was just you I was protecting.”
I couldn’t help sighing with relief.
“Brandy? Brandy, you didn’t really think I might’ve killed Camilla, did you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I lied. “Did you think I might have killed her?”
“No.”
Sometimes not being totally honest is a good thing.
“Brandy . . . I love you.”
“I love you, too. See you tomorrow.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, tears running down my face, happy ones this time. Sushi came out of somewhere and licked my face, enjoying the salty repast. Then I wiped my face on my burglar sleeve and went downstairs.
Mother was waiting in the foyer, coat over her own black ensemble. “I’ve got everything we’ll need, dear. Are you ready?”
I nodded. “Let’s go.”
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
If you intend to have your collection go to your heirs, make them aware of its value and how best to dispose of it when the time comes. They may not be into collecting Buster Brown shoes memorabilia. The dog’s name is Tige, by the way.
Chapter Ele
ven
Cuckoo Ha-chew!
By ten at night, it was dark enough outside that Mother didn’t feel it necessary to wait until the witching hour before we broke into the Kleins’ auction house, though she did bemoan losing the mood the “witching hour” term brought.
As I turned into the gravel parking lot, I cut the car lights so we wouldn’t be seen driving in, though at this time on a Sunday night it seemed unlikely anyone at the business would be there to see us. Even so, precautions were always worth taking, and I made my way slowly around to the back.
The graveled lot did not extend around to the other side of the building, but I parked the C-Max there, anyway, on the grass, nicely out of sight, should a patrolling squad car swing by. Mother in her basic burglar black and I in the gray sweatshirt and jeans I’d been arrested in not long ago, we exited the car and made our way in the dark to the back door. There she retrieved two small Mag flashlights from her fanny pack, handed them to me, then from a little pouch extracted two metal picks. While she worked her magic on the lock, I kept a sharp lookout.
When the bolt clicked, Mother whispered, “Easy peasy, dear! Be ready with the flashlights, now.”
As the door opened, a high, shrill warning sound—not loud—emanated from somewhere, indicating that we had about a minute before the alarm would go well and truly off.
Quickly, I closed the door, then aimed a flashlight on the nearby security keypad as Mother played her “educated hunch” (as she called it) and entered the four last digits of the Kleins’ business phone number. I hoped she was right—no female wants to get arrested in the same outfit twice.
The high-pitched noise ceased. I smiled to myself. Seemed there would be no jailhouse production of The Penis Papers in my immediate future, after all!
I handed Mother her flashlight, and we both beamed our dueling shafts of light around the packing room X-Files-style (much cooler than cell-phone glow).
“What exactly,” I asked, whispering for no good reason, “are we looking for?”
She had moved forward and was now edging along the long mail table, where the half dozen sealed cartons we’d seen previously awaited being sent out to buyers.
Antiques Frame Page 17