“Yes, I do. We spent most of our time together planning how to give it all away,” I said as a pang of guilt washed over me. I was still battling with my own materialistic nature. In moments of distress like this one, both aromatherapy and retail therapy call to me. I’ve had enough psychotherapy to know spas and shops don’t make troubles go away. Tell that to my itchy palm ready to run down the street to Tiffany’s or Gucci’s and try to buy a shiny bit of happiness.
As Father Martin had suggested, my black AMEX card with its no limit credit line had been hidden away in a drawer at home. The account numbers for that card, though, are emblazoned on my brain. Hearing the pain in Leslie’s voice made my heart ache. No amount of shopping could make that go away.
“Did the police tell you anything else?”
“Mostly, they asked questions. Has she been sick lately? No. Was she having memory problems? Not that I could tell. Was she sensitive to the heat? It’s only in the seventies today. What are they talking about? They kept at me with the questions about her health and I threw a fit. I told them to quit blaming her and figure out who hurt her. She was not going to end up dead on the side of the road like that without a proper investigation. They promised to treat it as a suspicious death, whatever that means. When the coroner got there, I asked for an autopsy. Apparently, that's done routinely once the police label the death as suspicious. In any case, I signed some form, so I'll get a copy of the report as soon as possible. Not that I'm sure I want to read it.”
“I'll do that if you prefer,” I offered, even though I wasn't looking forward to reading it either. “Did you see CSIs—you know crime scene investigators there too? Did they come with the coroner?” Jessica asked.
“I think so, yes, I’m pretty sure they were there. Somebody was taking photos, but that was a uniformed police officer. I remember that because it seemed so bizarre, as if they were casually taking photos at a fender-bender. Mom and I had done this silly ‘selfie’ thing when she got that new cell phone of hers. For some reason, that memory popped into my head and all I could think of was, ‘No more selfies with Mom.’ Ridiculous, huh?”
“I totally understand. I had a similar reaction to Alexis' latest health crisis.” Alexis hadn't died, but she did have a close call. “Selfies with Mom didn’t spring to mind, but ‘no more mother-daughter shopping or spa trips,’ sure did.”
Even before they had become pathways to escape from stress, Mom and I had used shopping and spa treatments as bonding rituals to bridge the gap between us. That gap had apparently been a chasm. Alexis had hidden so much from me, including longstanding problems with alcohol and drugs. The truth that my beautiful, well-educated, perfectly coiffured mother is an addict is still shocking, especially after her spectacular failure in rehab. It did shed light on the mystery behind my parents' divorce, and Mom’s withdrawal that I’d thought was rejection.
Drugs and alcohol weren’t Mom’s only addictions. My binge shopping is second to none, except for Alexis. Mom loves her stuff and so do I. What a thing to have in common, I thought letting out a pathetic sigh. I refocused on my sad, angry client. Leslie’s life had just taken a dreadful turn for any daughter.
“I am so sorry this has happened. I’m ready to help you in any way I can. Just tell me what you need.”
“I’m not sure yet. There’s her burial, her house, and the rest of her estate to address at some point. She has so many friends I need to contact… it’s all overwhelming.”
“We can handle the issues related to Beverly’s estate, together, whenever you want. Your mother made sure everything was in order, as you know. Her will, her wishes regarding burial and the disposition of her estate—all of that’s up-to-date. We can alert the funeral home about her death. Once we have a death certificate and find out when the county coroner will release her, we'll take it from there. I’ll notify them if you’d like.” It felt like a pitifully small gesture given the enormity of the loss confronting Leslie.
“Would you, Jessica? That would give me more time to let this sink in. The police will be contacting you, too. After my tantrum, the officer in charge asked me why I was so convinced Mom’s death might be foul play. Had someone threatened her or some question like that."
"What did you say?"
"I told him I didn’t know about any specific threat, but she was having trouble with her neighbors and had been involved in several legal disputes with members of her Homeowners Association. Officer Millstone was unimpressed.”
“I’m not surprised, given how many times I’ve tussled with the police.”
“He just shook his head and said, ‘If every dispute like that around here ended up in a homicide, this road would be littered with bodies.’ He knew he shouldn’t have said it the minute the words were out of his mouth and started apologizing before I could blow up again.”
“That was insensitive. I wouldn’t blame you if you’d chewed him out.” I couldn’t hide my irritation with Officer Millstone even though we’d never met.
“I was too wrung out by then to get revved up about it enough to take him on. Instead, I told him to contact you and that as my mother’s lawyer you’d have the details about her problems with neighbors. He promised to pass your name along to the person assigned as lead investigator on the case. I hope that was okay. You have the most up-to-date information on that front.”
“That’s true, although I had another meeting scheduled for this week. Maybe some new problem had come up. Did she mention that to you?”
“She might have mentioned the meeting with you. If she did say something, it was in passing and not in the context of a new fight with a neighbor. I would remember that.”
“That’s how I recall my conversation with her, too. Her request seemed matter of fact, nothing about an urgent need to meet or a new reason to battle with the Homeowners Association. I’m more than happy to speak to Officer Millstone or the lead investigator. No one threatened Beverly. Not with violence, anyway, even though there were potential legal consequences to some of the skirmishes she waged with her neighbors. It’s hard to imagine any of those confrontations leading to an assault."
You never know, though, I thought about the trouble Jim was facing. Violence isn't an act of reason. I’d also learned, during the past year, that people who resort to brutal, irrational behavior could appear lucid, even after they’ve crossed the line into malignity. Supposedly, Jim had been overheard making threats right before he lost it and engaged in a physical fight with a much larger man. The big guy ended up dead, though, so you never can tell how a physical altercation will end.
One trauma at a time, I chanted in my head, repeating a mantra I had adopted to stay focused when overwhelmed by Jim and Mom’s near simultaneous meltdowns.
“If the detective assigned to the case doesn’t call me, I’ll call tomorrow to see what’s going on. It’s good to keep up the pressure—the old ‘squeaky wheel’ logic. You should call tomorrow, too, and ask for an update just to make sure they know you’re not going to let this drop.”
“I will.” Weariness had settled in, and Leslie’s voice softened as if the fight in her had fled.
I recognized what was happening. I had gone through it all too many times in the past year. The initial shock of an awful event starts the adrenaline pumping and you get a surge of energy to act. Not always in the best, most reasonable way, but you act nevertheless. Then as the adrenaline runs out, the reality of the situation hits, and the sad, sick truth of what has happened hammers you into a state of submission.
“I’m going to go sit in the hot tub for a while. I hurt all over.”
“I’m glad you’re calling from home. I was about to offer to come and pick you up if you were still at the park. Driving after what you’ve gone through isn’t the safest thing to do.” I knew that from experience, too.
“Sandy Baxter, one of Mom’s coworkers at Desert Park Preserve, drove me home. She arranged for me to leave my car in the lot until tomorrow. The police impounded Mom’
s car. I’ll figure out what to do about cars later. I’m glad I called you. I knew you’d have some ideas about what to do next.”
Oh, yes, I thought, as the wheels turned. A to-do list was forming as I waited to hear if Leslie had anything else to say. I would not only see that the Palm Desert PD investigated Beverly Windsor’s death properly, but I’d put my team on it, too. The firm had already undertaken some background investigations regarding the individuals involved in the problems Beverly was having with the Araby Oasis Homeowners Association and her neighbors. It was time to take another look at them.
“I’m glad you called, too. I’ll ask about reclaiming Beverly’s car at some point, so you can take that off your list. You’ve done all you can for today. Try to get some rest. A soak in the Jacuzzi is an excellent idea. Eat something, too. We’ll start fresh again tomorrow. If you don’t need your car in the morning, I’ll pick you up for lunch. Not too early—around one. After lunch, I can drop you off at Desert Park Preserve and you can get your car then.”
“That sounds fine. I just want this day to end.” I heard her suddenly suck in a big breath of air. “Oh no! I forgot all about Anastasia. She’s all alone and I don’t have my car,” Leslie said, her voice breaking into sobs again.
“Don’t worry. I have a few things to wrap up for the day and then I’ll go check on her. We have a set of keys to your Mom's house here at the office, and I’m on the guest list with the guard gate. I guess Anastasia shouldn’t be left alone, should she? Do you want me to bring her to you, or should I take her home with me?”
“Please, take her with you. I can’t face her tonight. And, Jessica," Leslie said, pausing to catch her breath between sobs.
“Yes?”
“Oh, never mind. It’s nothing. Thanks.”
I felt uneasy about not asking what Leslie meant by “it’s nothing.” I let it pass, though, given how upset and exhausted she sounded. She’d been pressed to answer enough questions for one day. Questions that no one should ever be asked about a loved one or anyone else, for that matter.
“No problem. If anything occurs to you, no matter how insignificant it may have seemed at the time, write it down. We’ll discuss it tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Leslie. Please take it easy.”
The call finished, I pulled Beverly Windsor’s file from a bin on my desk. I’d planned on reading through it before I met with her. Now, I went to work adding a dismal new section to her file. I jotted down a few notes about my conversation with Leslie and let out a huge sigh. I guess I should be grateful that it had been nearly two whole weeks without a public spectacle or private disaster.
Jim’s postponement would end soon and that would likely provoke more trouble from Cassie. Her high-powered lawyer, Carlotta Dunaway, must be as good as they say. She’d kept the attention-seeking drama queen from acting out since that teary apology on the courthouse steps. In fact, the only news that had seeped out at all had been positive—staged photo ops of Cassie doing her best to play the part of a devoted mother to the adorable Destiny. The beautiful baby, only a couple of months old, smiled as her mother cuddled her on camera. Both mother and child were remarkably photogenic.
Paul and I had not seen each other since I’d learned that Alexis was moving back to the desert to recover from surgery, undergo chemotherapy, and reenter rehab. I’d called him, though, and he’d been the consummate professional, even kind-hearted, as he reassured me that there was no reason for me to remain in Los Angeles. The police had asked for a written statement about the phone call Jim had made to me the night the altercation had occurred in his Bel Air estate. I’d prepared that and given Paul a copy.
“Go home. Take care of Alexis and make sure things continue to run smoothly in the Palm Desert office. We’ll figure everything else out later.” He didn’t say a word about that indiscreet moment between us. I followed his lead and didn’t bring it up. Instead, I’d thanked him and hung up, eager to get off the phone before I could add something silly like, “sooner, rather than later, I hope.” A break was a good idea considering the ping pong match going on in my head or heart or somewhere with what felt like teenage crushes on both Paul and Frank.
“Stupid hormones, maybe.” At our most recent ‘girlfriend’ lunch, I’d said something like that to Laura about my tiramisu-lemon meringue pie dilemma. She had chortled.
“Or maybe you’re just an ordinary, red-blooded female who’s on the loose again with two gorgeous men in pursuit. Give me that problem any day.”
Since returning to work, I hadn’t had much time to consider my personal life with Paul or Frank until today when, for some reason, both men had come up. Was love, or something like it, becoming a new avenue for seeking escape? Like Mom? I wondered. After her divorce from my dad, she’d changed men almost as often as her wardrobe. That’s only counting the ones I knew about. I’m almost certain Giovanni Bortoletto is husband number four, but how could I know for sure?
Mom seemed better, but who knew about that for certain, either? I’d blithely gone along with the idea that she was on the road to recovery until she’d nearly killed herself.
“Alcoholics and addicts don’t want to be known, especially not to anyone close enough to try to stop them,” my shrink had replied when I’d asked why my mother had been so secretive and withdrawn. Suddenly, an overwhelming urge took hold. I grabbed my cell phone and hit speed-dial.
“Mom, how are you?” I asked the groggy-sounding woman who answered my call. I must have awakened Alexis from a nap, but I didn’t care. “I just have a minute, but I wanted to say I love you.”
“I love you too, Baby Girl. I must have fallen asleep. What time is it? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I just couldn’t remember if I said I loved you when I called you last night, that’s all.” I tried to keep it light. “Are you behaving yourself and doing everything they ask you to do?”
“I’m trying. You know how irritating nurses can be when they're so officious. I know they’re busy and overworked and officious is good, right? It would be nice if they cared about how you’re feeling when they asked.” I smiled. Alexis was grousing. That was a good sign.
“Hey, that’s what daughters are for—and why I called—to make sure you know I care. I’ll see you tonight. Bernadette will be with me and she’s bringing goodies. Something’s come up, so it’ll probably be later than I expected. We won't get there until after you’ve had dinner.”
“You can call it dinner if you like. Not me,” Alexis snapped. “I suppose I should be glad I can eat anything at all after the stunt I pulled. Don’t listen to my grumbling. I’m glad you called. It’ll be great to see you and Bernadette—whenever you can get here. Giovanni plans to visit so I won’t be alone. I know you have your law career to keep on track. Do what you need to do, Jinx.”
I smiled again. This time at Mom’s use of that nickname—short for my first and middle name, Jessica Alexis. Even that “Baby Girl” term of endearment didn’t bother me as it had in the past when I felt it was infantilizing. In fact, I teared up as I was about to say goodbye. Before I could utter the words, Alexis spoke again.
“I care about you, too. Are you sure everything is all right?”
“Yes. I’ll see you tonight.” It’s not all right, but talking about a friend’s dead mother in a casual phone conversation seemed wrong. I’d have to tell Mom tonight, though, before the media ran with the story about the suspicious death of a prominent local citizen. Beverly Windsor and Alexis weren't close, but they were acquaintances.
As soon as I ended that call to Mom, I called Bernadette. She was more likely to hear the news even before it became public. I didn’t want her to find you that way, either. She’d met both women and knew they were important to me. I told her the little I knew about what happened. She did not hesitate to conclude that it was foul play.
“Ay que Dios mio! Not another murderer running around bashing people on the head. This year’s starting off more than a little rough, isn’t it?”
“N
obody’s calling it a murder—not yet anyway. I’m pretty sure you’re right, Bernadette.”
“I’m sorry, Chica. You’ll figure it out. I’ll see you in a little while.”
I put the phone down and returned to rereading Beverly’s file, adding notes as I went. I felt a surge of anger that fueled a sense of determination to find Beverly’s killer.
“Beverly, you should not be lying in a ditch on the side of the road. The least we can do is find out who put you there and why!” I muttered.
8 Lending a Hand to Lady Justice
I was still anxiously reviewing materials in Beverly Windsor’s file when I heard a soft knock on my door. I looked up to see Kim Reed standing in the doorway of my office. The attractive, hip young woman was more animated than when I had first met her in the offices of Pure Platinum Productions. That’s where she’d learned to keep her mouth shut and mask her emotions. Kim was still reticent, even a little skittish at times.
Despite her personal issues, Kim was as smart as a whip and had quickly become an excellent legal assistant. At the rate she was plowing through coursework, she’d have a degree to prove it soon, too. What Kim planned to do at that point was still uncertain. She had great investigative skills. The law, a future in forensics, or a career as a private investigator were possibilities.
“Come on in. What’s up?”
“I’ve finished inputting revisions to the estate plan for Donna Peterson and have printed copies for her signature,” she said, placing the documents in my inbox. “I also prepared drafts of the transfer of trusteeship documents for Peter Kaboolian and Linda Spencer. I just emailed them to you. If they’re okay, I can forward copies to each of them for review.”
“Thanks. I’m sure they’re fine, but I’ll go over them.” I tried to conjure up a smile as Kim hovered. Kim’s dark eyes fixed me with a gaze, perhaps recognizing some unspoken message in my body language or tone of voice. The woman is a skilled people reader—skills she’d honed working for the celebrated Hollywood music producer. Reading the maniacal Mr. P.’s moods had been as crucial to Kim’s survival as learning to keep her feelings to herself.
4 A Dead Mother Page 7