4 A Dead Mother

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “I’m pretty sure I know what it is. The judge didn’t like it, but Cassie is planning to make a public apology here on the courthouse steps. She and her defense attorney had expected to hold a press conference after the arraignment. That was before the news about Hargreaves’ death and the trouble in court.”

  “Are you kidding me? She has an attorney? What kind of lawyer lets a client show up in court and carry on the way Cassie did today?” I was overcome by disbelief. “Where was her attorney during that attempted assault? In fact, I can’t believe the judge didn’t have Cassie arrested on the spot.”

  “Hey, ‘it ain’t over ‘til it’s over.’ That’s what I meant when I said there could be more trouble for her. Maybe Cassie didn’t want to share the limelight with anyone during her performance today. I can’t imagine someone telling Cassie Carlysle-Harper what to do if she doesn’t want to do it, can you?”

  “I can,” Bernadette said. “Cassie’s a movie star. She knows how to listen to a director, although she has walked off the set a few times. And, been kicked off a few times too. I take it back. Maybe no one can tell her what to do.”

  “Whoever’s directing this horror movie needs to help the disturbed diva understand she’s playing the role of a lifetime if she hopes to get out of this situation without jail time.” There was more commotion inside the courthouse. I spotted Cassie’s publicist in the group that was gathering in the lobby. The newscaster that had eyed me earlier was on her heels.

  “Oh, no. Can you get us out of here, Jerry?”

  “Why don’t we have lunch before we go see your mom? Jerry can go with us and tell us everything else that’s going on with Jim and Cassie.” Bernadette’s eyes were lit by what I imagined must be curiosity.

  “As long as we can eat in peace without being accosted by nosy news hounds.”

  “I’ve got the perfect spot—a little gay bar not far from here. It’s one of Tommy’s favorites.” Jerry beamed a glorious smile at us as he spoke Tommy’s name. Tommy, one of my dearest friends who’s like a younger brother to me, is Jerry’s paramour. Tommy has good taste in most things, but that hadn’t included men—until he met Jerry Reynolds.

  “Sounds great. I could use a quiet place to collect my thoughts before facing Mom.”

  “Follow me!” Jerry took off at a trot. I tried to tear my eyes from the scene unfolding at the courthouse so I could keep up. As it turned out, our getaway was a piece of cake. When Cassie emerged from the courthouse, it was as if someone had turned on a vacuum cleaner, sucking the crowd toward her and her entourage. A defense attorney I recognized, Carlotta Dunaway, had joined Cassie.

  Cassie was still wearing black, but had switched from that vampy dress to a pair of dark slacks, a tank top, and a tailored jacket. She’d even exchanged the sky-high stilettos for a pair of black suede pumps with two-inch heels. She still wore the neck brace, but the cane was gone. In one hand was a long white hanky. I took that to mean the apology she was about to make was going to be a teary one.

  “Did you see that?” I asked when I caught up with Jerry and Bernadette. “She’s hired Carlotta Dunaway.”

  “It’s about time she lawyered up with someone who can straighten her out,” Bernadette said huffing and puffing a little at the pace we were moving.

  “Let’s hope so. Not just for her sake, but for ours, too. There’s enough chaos and confusion surrounding this case as it is.” Jerry slowed down as he said that, realizing that members of the media were now too busy to pursue us.

  “She’s met her match. They call Carlotta Dunaway The Real Terminator.’” Bernadette spoke with such authority on the matter that I didn’t challenge her. I relished the thought that a month or even a week might go by without Cassie and Jim purposely or inadvertently creating a disturbance.

  Remembering Jim’s bruised face, the anger and apprehension in his eyes this morning sent me hurtling back to that moment when he’d called me in an incoherent daze. The shock of hearing his voice had stunned me even before it hit me that he was in serious trouble.

  Finding out where he was and what was wrong had taken a little effort. He had quit responding to me before I could get him to confirm his location. The address Jim had given me before he went silent was wrong, but Frank had called in a favor and tracked the GPS signal from Jim’s phone to his home in Bel Air. As it turned out, more than one call had already been made to 911 from Jim’s house. Frank had sent an ambulance, though, which may have been the reason Marty Hargreaves was still alive when he got to the hospital.

  Jim was out cold by the time help arrived, according to Frank, who had called me later that night. Ambulances had transported Jim and other injured persons from his home to the ER. Frank hadn’t told me much more than that, and I hadn’t pushed the matter since I had another emergency on my hands.

  Bernadette was behind the wheel of the Cadillac Escalade in nothing flat as we raced from Rancho Mirage to the ICU at the LA Medical Center. Frank had escorted us in his car, using a siren and a light he’d placed on top of his car, to clear traffic ahead of us. The Medical Center was where EMTs had taken Alexis after a 911 call from the Malibu rehab facility. Mom had supposedly been making progress toward sobriety, but not enough, apparently.

  Too bad I couldn’t get a motion for continuance in my life. I could use a couple of week’s postponement as I tried to get the upper hand on the events unfolding faster than I could handle them. Case in point, I had lost ground on Jerry and Bernadette as I drifted back to that terrible evening.

  Suddenly, Jerry came to an abrupt stop in front of an establishment with tinted windows under a retractable awning. We hadn’t gone more than several blocks from the courthouse when he opened the door and motioned for us to enter. I looked over my shoulder to see if we were being followed. Just as I stepped to the door, a young man dashed down the street.

  “I saw him,” Jerry said as he held the door open for me. “He’s been tailing us for a block or two. He could be a tattle tale for the media, trying to keep tabs on you.”

  “At least he’s heading the other way.”

  “I’ll make sure the coast is clear before we leave the restaurant after lunch. John Wayne won’t let anyone bother us while we’re eating. This place is known for its discretion, especially when it comes to protecting the privacy of its guests.”

  “John Wayne. Truthfully?” I asked.

  “Yep. Chef and owner of True Grit.”

  True Grit looked more like an old-fashioned gentleman’s club—circa 1890s—than a bar or restaurant. That is, if you overlooked the gleaming mahogany bar at the center of the cozy, dimly-lit retreat. The bar bore a hint of the old west, but not a full-blown cowboy theme. We were seated off to one side around a polished wooden table in comfy club chairs upholstered in leather or a soft vinyl that resembled leather.

  The menu was eclectic with a focus on comfort food served “gastropub” style. Jerry instantly chose the meatloaf sandwich with chili garlic aioli and a fried egg. I decided to try their twist on chicken salad made with tarragon, apples, and pecans, served on a bed of greens with a lemon vinaigrette dressing. Bernadette ordered a duck bacon, grilled cheese sandwich with a side of homemade herbed tomato soup.

  It was only 11:30, so the lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet. We had our corner of the room all to ourselves. The waiter, who recognized Jerry as soon as we sat down, gave us the royal treatment. He brought us samples of items from the kitchen while we waited for our lunches to be served. That included small servings of spicy cashews, marinated baby vegetables, carrot roulades of goat cheese and herbs, and wasabi deviled eggs. Everything was delicious and a welcome distraction from the psychodrama du jour.

  Once we’d ordered our lunch and oohed and aahed over those samples, I felt we were reasonably safe from the media, and relaxed a little. Jerry picked up his account of Jim’s troubles. He started with what the police had discovered when they arrived at Jim’s Bel Air estate. The police had provided a version of events to the media, witho
ut all the titillating details or Jerry’s ability to filter through those details to get to the heart of the matter. As ruthless and devious as Jim was, could he really be guilty of murder?

  3 Just Dancing

  “It was obvious a brawl had occurred. The great room was trashed. Lamps tossed, tables upended, expensive artwork damaged by a glass thrown at the wall. Both Marty Hargreaves and Jim were bleeding and unconscious. Marty was sprawled out on a pile of broken glass from a coffee table that had shattered when he either fell or was shoved.”

  “I heard there had been a physical fight at Jim’s estate and they’d demolished the place. Now I get what that means. Reporters also said a party had been going on for most of the day before that,” I said.

  “Yes. A crowd of friends had come to celebrate the christening of Jim and Cassie’s baby. The party ended abruptly when Jim ordered everyone out. Staff hired to tend bar and serve food were still hanging around on the property. Police spoke to them while they were loading up their equipment and supplies. They claimed the party was in full swing when trouble started. The drinks had been flowing for hours. Drugs, too, so partygoers were ‘wired,’ according to one of the guys the police interviewed. When Jim issued that order to clear out, nobody hesitated. Not because Jim was so angry, but because no one wanted to be around when Cassie Carlysle-Harper went into a full-blown diva mode. Everybody took off—at least as far as the huge driveway where cars were parked. I guess it took a while for the valets to get the right people with the right cars when everyone rushed out of there all at once.”

  “I doubt the guests were eager to talk to the police, depending on what substances they’d consumed.”

  “True. When they realized the police were on their way, the stranded guests pushed the valets to step it up. Most had managed to make their getaway before the police arrived.”

  “Who called the police?” I asked.

  “Several people had called in about a disturbance. At least one of those calls came from the party planner. She wasn’t on the property at the time, but reported the problem to the police after one of the caterers called her terrified that ‘somebody’s going to get killed.’ When the police entered the house, and discovered they had seriously injured people on their hands, they secured it as a crime scene. At that point, they stopped the caterers and other staff members from going back into the house, although they let them continue to retrieve items from the pool and patio areas. By then, the EMTs were there too, since Frank had called them from your house in Rancho Mirage.”

  I nodded, not saying a word as I tried to put a timeline to the events as Jerry described them. Bernadette spoke up before I could ask for more clarification about when the party had started and when those calls for help had gone out.

  “I take it by seriously injured people the police meant both Jim and Marty, right?”

  “Cassie, too, according to the police report. She was in better shape than Jim and Marty, but had apparently been in on the fight too. When the EMTs checked on her, she came out of her stupor fast, and started wailing about what had gone on.”

  “That’s got to be a completely accurate account of events,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

  “The first of many versions. Others have corroborated some of what she had to say. She alleged Jim and ‘Cousin Marty,’ as she referred to Hargreaves, had gotten into a fight over her because Jim’s a ‘brute.’ According to Cassie, Jim threatened to kill Marty, and despite her efforts to calm him down, Jim assaulted him. Police also claim Cassie’s not the only one who heard Jim threaten Marty if he ever came near Cassie again.”

  “Marty Hargreaves isn’t her cousin,” Bernadette asserted. “He was fooling around with Cassie, wasn’t he?” Bernadette added with that glint in her eye again.

  “I’m glad you’re not taking notes or I’d be worried this was going to end up on the Internet,” I said.

  “Where do you think I got the idea that she was cheating on Jim? Cousin Marty wasn’t the only guy either if my sources got it right. I told you that already. You just don’t listen to me. This time, it sounds like Jim caught them red-handed.”

  “Really?” I asked Jerry. “Did my unfaithful ex-husband catch his lovely wife in a compromising situation with her Cousin Marty?” I flashed back to that horrific moment when I had walked in on the couple “in flagrante delicto,” as they say. What goes around comes around, I thought.

  “Not according to Cassie. She admits that a ‘misunderstanding’ triggered an angry outburst from Jim. He came inside from where he had been mingling with guests around the pool and found Marty and Cassie in each other’s arms. ‘Just dancing,’ she says. Apparently, Jim told Cassie to try out her acting skills on someone else, cussed her out, and called her several foul names. Coming to her defense, Cassie claims, Marty ordered Jim to go back outside.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “The master of the universe being ordered to leave his palace. I can’t imagine that worked, did it?” I shook my head.

  “No, it did not. Jim agrees that he’d called Cassie out in an angry, vulgar way when he found the two of them together. He didn’t spare Marty, either. Jim swears they were doing more than dancing—‘lip-locked’ and ‘mauling each other,’ in Jim’s words. Anyway, Hargreaves objected to Jim’s name-calling and that led to a shouting match that ended with Jim declaring that the party was over.”

  “Was there anyone else in the room with them?” I asked.

  “It’s an open space, so people were milling about, but most guests were outside where a band was playing while food and drinks were being served. The noise from the fight was loud enough that bystanders heard it. The shouting was accompanied by the sound of stuff breaking. Figuring out who was where, when, is part of what both the police and our investigators are trying to determine. The police spoke to several people who heard the shouting and witnessed Jim screaming at everyone to leave. They also said they’d missed what happened next because they hit the road when Jim said go—or tried to, given the traffic jam they found outside the house.”

  “Did Jim threaten to kill Hargreaves?” I asked.

  “He threatened Hargreaves with ‘trouble’ if he ever showed his face at the house or anywhere near his wife again. Jim swears what he meant by that was that he’d use every legal means at his disposal to nail the guy. It doesn’t sound like he bothered to clarify that point in the heat of the moment. Jim is adamant, though, that Cassie threw the first punch, and not at him but at Marty!”

  “I believe that, don’t you? She’s hot-tempered! ¡Tiene muy genio!”

  “That’s putting it mildly. She must have a history of assault already, doesn’t she?” I asked Jerry.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Cassie’s been caught on film roughing up her personal assistants and chasing tourists with shoes and handbags, using them as weapons. Her lawyers managed to settle those incidents out of court and pay off people so they wouldn’t file charges. Officially, there are numerous minor offenses on her record like disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, or public nuisance charges—depending on the jurisdiction. I’m sure her history is why the judge slapped that restraining order on her today, though.”

  “Why did she punch Marty Hargreaves?”

  “Jim says she was trying to shut Marty up. In several accounts she gave of events, Cassie made it sound like Marty blasted Jim for sullying her honor or something like that. Jim says that’s not true. He told Jim to go back outside and cool off. That’s when Jim shouted for everyone to leave. That included Marty since, as Jim pointed out, he wasn’t Cassie’s cousin or any other family member.”

  “See? I told you!” Bernadette said, interrupting Jerry. Jerry and I both nodded.

  “Jim also added that he wasn’t even a very good ‘handler,’ and Marty lost it. Marty responded to that by arguing that he was a better handler than Jim ever dreamed—in the up close and personal sense—even after Cassie had married Jim Harper.”

  “Wow! That’s worse than ordering the Lord
of the Manor to leave his castle. Did Cassie deny what Marty said?” I was astounded. Not that Jim had reaped what he’d sown, so-to-speak, but that Marty Hargreaves was so blatant about it.

  “No, but that’s when she told Hargreaves to shut the blankety-blank up. Jim’s story begins to sound self-serving after that. He says Cassie lunged at Marty, not only telling him to shut up, but also smacked the guy in the face. Without skipping a beat, he popped her one and she backed off. She picked up her drink and threw it at Hargreaves. When he went after her again, our hero, Jim, launched himself at Marty. Jim also claims that Cassie had picked up a table lamp to use as a weapon, but what happened after that’s unclear. Jim slammed into Marty. Hargreaves shoved Jim away and landed a series of punches. That’s probably true since Jim ended up with a black eye, a missing tooth, and a couple of broken ribs. Jim says that when he went down for the count, he hit his head, and stayed down. He says someone else assaulted Hargreaves after that. Forensics will try to figure out what the killer used to bash Hargreaves’ head in, presuming that’s what killed him.”

  “Aye, que Dios mio!” Bernadette crossed herself hearing about the brutality of that exchange. “Jim es un gran idiota! Marty Hargreaves was a bodyguard. Big, too!”

  “Yep. Jim doesn’t even remember calling you, Jessica, but it’s a good thing he did. One of Jim’s broken ribs had punctured a lung. As bad as this situation has turned out for him, it could have been worse if Frank hadn’t sent the EMTs when he did. Hargreaves wasn’t just bigger than Jim. He worked out a lot, and before he fell into the job as a ‘handler’ for Cassie, he had worked as a bouncer. Estúpido!”

  “Stupid drunk is my bet,” I said.

  “Worse. Drunk and stoned. Jim dodged another bullet on that front.” Jerry quit speaking as our waiter returned with our lunches. As he made the rounds this time, our server tilted his head and squinted at me. When he’d placed our meals in front of us, he smiled as if lit from within.