The Middle Sister
Page 22
Zara’s mouth dropped. She spoke slowly and deliberately, anger building in her voice. “Are you saying Cinnamon Strauss had something to do with my sister’s death, and she was trying to profit from it?”
“My theory is that Cinnamon found Lillie either recently deceased or barely alive. Instead of calling the paramedics, she grabbed almost all the coke and cash, and absconded with it.”
She yanked a cigarette out of her purse and shoved it in her mouth. Her hands didn’t move with the usual dexterous grace, and she forgot to light this one. “Well, if that’s what Cinnamon did, all I have to say is burn, witch, burn.”
I said, “Lillie was dealing, and Rod was helping her with the sales. I’m not one-hundred percent certain where she got the inventory, but I’d give odds on Marty Trask. That would also make Marty a suspect in Rod’s disappearance, which I suspect will be an unsolved mystery.”
“Why would Marty do that to Rod?”
“Because Marty had the hots for your sister, and if he and his boys found the cash and coke in Rod’s house, they would infer that Rod found Lillie recently deceased or nearly so, and he took the valuables and ran, instead of trying to save her.”
Zara nodded grimly. “I’m sure Marty was waiting for an opportunity to move in on Lillie. And it makes sense she was selling drugs to raise some quick cash. And it would be just like her to do something vulgar like drug sales. What else do you know about Lillie’s final situation? I hope she didn’t die horribly.” She pulled the unlit cigarette from her mouth and tossed it underhand toward the ashtray on the side table. She almost made the shot.
I wasn’t sure about the medical details of a cocaine overdose, but there was no reason to stick it to Zara any more than I had to. “The autopsy report isn’t in, but the cops are pretty sure it was an OD. The coke tested almost pure. She probably wasn’t used to a product that had hardly been stepped on, and she snorted too much. She probably passed out and didn’t wake up. When I saw her, there was no sign of struggle or distress.”
She leaned across the table and pulled the limerick back toward her. “Rod Damian should have been more protective of Lillie and more of a man.” She read the limerick slowly and smiled. Her smile was more like a grimace. It went so wide, it put lines in her forehead. “Cinnamon always had a flair for language and drama. She had a degree in English from UCLA, heavy minor in theater arts. She was in an acting workshop for a while, and she took a shot at writing television comedies. She was very funny and witty, had a real talent for broad humor. A total waste of talent.”
I made no response.
She pushed the sheet back toward me. “Based on this elaborate hypothetical story of yours, would you recommend I take the stand in my own defense?”
“Usually, the defense attorney would say no, but you’re a special case. You can sit in the witness chair with just a trace of makeup on your face and your dress down to your ankles, looking like the etiquette coach at a convent. The prosecution will not rattle you, and if they play rough, you will hold your head high, suffer bravely, and swing the jury in your favor. But I doubt you will be required to perform. The DA won’t want to risk taking a pratfall, not with shaky evidence and an election coming up.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’ll have to meet with my detective friend Rocky Platt and tell what I know.”
“I suppose you have no choice. I fully understand.”
“What are you going to do?”
“On Monday I have to run an errand or three. I have to go to the Bentley dealer and finalize the order on my new car and fill out some papers . . . plus I have to give them a big check or make some other arrangement, and that means I’ll have to stop at the bank. And I suppose I’ll have to drop by my attorney’s office and have a little talk with him regarding the matter you’ve brought up. He will probably tell me to keep my mouth shut, so I shouldn’t be discussing it any further on this lovely day, should I?”
I stood up and looked out at the vista. “You were right. This is a glorious day . . . in terms of weather.”
I picked up the empty pizza box and my tray, she picked up her tray, and we descended the stone stairway. On the way down, she rubbed against me a couple of times, seemingly to keep her balance.
At the pool, she set her tray on a table, took the pizza box and tray from my hands, and consolidated everything into a neat stack. “I’ll take care of this later.” She took a knee at the edge of the water and gave it a playful splash. “This would be a lovely afternoon to just forget everything and jump in the pool.”
I was looking at the three bronze mermaids when Zara positioned herself next to the statue showing her likeness. She leaned against it, her face adjacent to a large, slightly upturned breast. The sculptor had done a good job of capturing Zara’s face—or at least her facial features. The statue’s smile was beatific, like Joan of Arc at the pearly gates. Zara’s smile was confident and regal.
She said, “What are you waiting for?”
It was perfectly quiet behind the Manning residence. No distant lawnmowers, no barking dogs, no chirping birds, no wind noise. Immersed in pure silence, Zara and I stood and looked at each other long enough to fully understand the situation.
The screen door to the living room slid open. Arden stepped outside and said, “Why isn’t everyone in the pool? Are you comatose?” She was barefoot, wearing a blue and white mini dress. She disappeared inside, and within seconds, classical music came from hidden outdoor speakers. It sounded like the composer Leo Delibes, but I could have been wrong. I also could have been distracted.
Arden reappeared with a stack of folded pale-blue towels under her arm. She ran around the pool to Zara and me and set the towels next to the lunch trays. “Guess what I brought! Peaches that were air-freighted in from South America, and two quarts of the best vanilla ice cream in town. We’re going to have the best dessert in town.” She ran back into the house.
Zara said, “I remember when I was that energetic.”
Arden reappeared, having lost all her clothing. She strolled slowly to the diving board, walked out to the end, and bounced the board in a measured, playful rhythm, with her arms out for balance. She wasn’t in time with the music, but she didn’t clash with it. Her shoulder-length hair bounced and waved around her head. Otherwise, she was as smooth as a crystal statue, all the way down to her red toenails.
Zara said, “She’s quite a specimen. She goes to the gym all the time, doesn’t have a blemish on her.”
“She would do anything to protect her big sister, wouldn’t she?”
“Pretty much.”
Arden continued to bounce.
Zara sat on the base of the mermaid sculpture and removed her shoes and socks. She stood and dropped her hoodie. All the other garments dropped, and she carefully removed a gold wristwatch and set it on the discarded clothing. Then she stepped to the pool and dropped into the water.
Arden dove into the pool with almost no splash and swam underwater toward us. She was a strong swimmer. She came up next to her sister, swept her hair back from her face, and looked up at me with her cherubic smile. Zara looked up at me with her what-are-you-waiting-for smile.
Arden said, “What are you looking at, Jack Salvo?”
“Two pretty faces and two pairs of world-class tits. What else would I be looking at? Do you know about your big sister’s alleged misdeeds?”
She nodded. “In a vague, general sort of way.”
“How long have you known?”
“I’ve certainly known for the last few days, since a virile, somewhat brash knight without shining armor landed in the middle of our family.”
“What kind of judgment did you make?”
“My judgment is that my sister is imperfect and virtuous. Regarding a final judgment on your virility, the jury is still out on that one. You’re not going to ruin the pool party, are you?”
“I’m not a guest. I’m just the hired help.”
Neither of the
Manning sisters had a response to that one, and I had nothing further to offer, so I walked around the pool, back through the house, and out the front door. On the way to my car, I veered by the flower-encircled fountain at the center of the parking court. Instead of an early spring bouquet, I got a whiff of something else. Maybe it was Lillie Manning’s bloated carcass or Cinnamon Strauss’s barbequed carcass. Maybe decaying flowers on Luis Reguillo’s grave.
As I drove down the hill, I started laughing at myself. I had to admit that when the Manning sisters suggested I take off my clothes and jump into the pool, I gave it a thought. A few minutes later, the traffic brought me to a stop on Sunset Boulevard directly over the San Diego Freeway. I didn’t feel like laughing any more. While I waited for the traffic light, I opened all the windows so I could bathe in the cleansing effect of vehicle exhaust.
Contents
Chapter: 1
Chapter: 2
Chapter: 3
Chapter: 4
Chapter: 5
Chapter: 6
Chapter: 7
Chapter: 8
Chapter: 9
Chapter: 10
Chapter: 11
Chapter: 12
Chapter: 13
Chapter: 14
Chapter: 15
Chapter: 16
Chapter: 17
Chapter: 18
Chapter: 19
Chapter: 20
Chapter: 21
Chapter: 22
Chapter: 23
Chapter: 24
Chapter: 25
Chapter: 26
Chapter: 27
Chapter: 28
Chapter: 29
Chapter: 30
Chapter: 31
Chapter: 32
Chapter: 33
Chapter: 34
Chapter: 35
Chapter: 36
Chapter: 37
Chapter: 38
Chapter: 39
Chapter: 40
Chapter: 41
Chapter: 42
Chapter: 43
Chapter: 44