Murder with Strings Attached

by Mark Reutlinger

  “Shhh!” I said and covered Aaron’s mouth. I looked around to see if anyone seemed to be listening. No one was. “Okay, we get the point.” I raised a third finger. “Third, we can convince her of some other feature of his personality that will discourage her, or at least lessen her attraction to him.”

  “And did you have any particular feature in mind?” Aaron asked. “Perhaps tell her I’m a fugitive from justice? Or a vegetarian? Or I don’t change my socks regularly?”

  “You don’t? Now you tell me,” I said. “No, I had something else in mind. Something you said about what happened in your hotel room gave me an idea.”

  “What was that? All I said was that we kind of got cozy in bed and I fell asleep.”

  “You were too tired to have sex with her?”

  “That’s right. No, I mean, even if I’d wanted to have sex with her, which I didn’t say I did. Want to, that is.” Aaron seemed to be tripping over his hasty clarifications.

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” I said. “But then the question is, do you think she wanted to have sex with you?”

  “How should I know?” Aaron’s innocent tone was almost convincing.

  Sara and I exchanged “Oh, sure” looks. I shook my head and said, “You mean you can’t tell if a sweet young thing in bed next to you is coming on to you? Really?”

  Aaron looked down at the table before answering. “Well, okay. I guess if you put it that way, she was kind of snuggling up and making like she wanted to…to pursue matters further. But I was too tired.” Then he quickly added, “And not interested anyway.”

  I ignored the qualification. “That’s what I thought. And I’ll bet that if our Ms. Logan thought that there was no chance of having sex with Aaron in the future, that the best she might accomplish is some conversation about violin history and a few warm hugs, she wouldn’t think it worth the time, effort, and cost of following him from place to place.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Well, think about it,” I said. “People only stalk other people for certain reasons. The paparazzi do it to get pictures, reporters to get a story, process servers to serve papers, and so forth. But when it’s infatuation that motivates a nubile young woman with raging hormones, you can bet it isn’t pictures or stories they’re after. Or warm hugs, for that matter. I’ve read about the groupies who follow rock stars around—not to mention tennis and golf stars and other celebrities—and it ain’t just for autographs, I can assure you. So I repeat, if Ms. Logan thought there was nothing but a strictly platonic relationship awaiting her if she caught up with Aaron, I think chances are good she’d give it up as a lost cause.”

  There was a short silence as Aaron and Sara digested this proposition. Then Sara said, “I’m not sure I agree, but I don’t have any better idea. So assuming you’re right, how do we convince the young lady that there’s no sex at the end of the rainbow?”

  Aaron jumped in: “And castration is strictly out!”

  Sara and I turned and stared at him, and Sara began to laugh. I leaned over and put my arm around Aaron and assured him that nothing so drastic would be necessary. I then went on to explain my idea, Aaron and Sara listening intently. Aaron contributed an occasional “Absolutely not!” or “You must be joking,” but I managed to soothe his feelings and dampen his objections. When I had finished, Aaron said, with more resignation than enthusiasm, “Okay, I guess it’s worth a try.”

  The script had passed its first big test.

  Chapter 25

  We three conspirators were assembled in Aaron’s suite on Sunday morning, a council of war. We had put off dealing with Jennifer Logan until we had taken care of what we considered more important business. It was time to make final preparations for the campaign. Aaron had ordered snacks and drinks from room service. An army councils best on a full stomach.

  Sara and I went back over some of the salient details of our reconnaissance in Los Altos.

  When we had finished discussing the facts on the ground, I described the outlines of my plan.

  “I think the easiest way to get into the house is as part of the cleaning crew. They come on Thursdays, so next Thursday is when we would plan to pull this off.”

  “With you posing as a maid?” Aaron asked.

  “Sure. That’s one line of work I’m thoroughly familiar with, so I can bring it off pretty easily.”

  “You mean like your maid act in my hotel in Seattle?” Aaron said, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Yes, like that. I had no problems passing for a housekeeper there.”

  “Or for a burglar,” he teased.

  Sara jumped in. “Cut it out, will you? We’ll take it as given that in Seattle, Flo made a better maid than a burglar. We assume this time will be different.”

  Aaron raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Go on, please.”

  “Thank you. Now as I say, I should have no trouble passing as a maid. It’s you who might have a problem.”

  “Me? What do you mean me? How the hell can I pass as a maid?”

  I smiled. “If not as a maid, just how did you plan to get into Sanders’ house?”

  Aaron scratched his head. He took a few peanuts from a dish on the coffee table and chewed thoughtfully on them. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I don’t know, as a…a plumber? A carpet cleaner? An exterminator?”

  “And what if they don’t happen to need a plumber next Thursday, and their carpets are clean and they don’t have a bug problem? How will you get in then?”

  “Yeah, I see that, but a maid? C’mon.”

  “It isn’t all that difficult. We get you a wig and some stage makeup, you wear pants to cover your hairy legs—at least I assume they’re hairy—and a scarf that covers as much of the top of you as possible.”

  Aaron sat there trying to picture himself in the disguise I had just described. He shook his head slowly.

  “I don’t know. I’m sure you can pass as a maid, but I don’t think I’ll fool anyone, wig or no wig.”

  I was exasperated. “I agree, and that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you from the first time you asked me to help get your violin back. If you just let me do it by myself, we have a much better chance of success than if you continue to insist on coming along.” I had been hoping that Aaron would eventually see my point and agree I should carry on alone.

  Unfortunately, Aaron saw it differently. Shaking his head slowly, he said, “I’m sorry, but I’m still coming along. I mean, you’re right. I’m making it harder for you to do your job and more likely that we’ll get caught. But I still want to do this myself. That is, with your help. I’ll understand if you decide at this late stage not to do it at all, because it’s too risky with me along. Then I’ll just try it myself, even if I have to dress up like a girl to do it. Hell, I might be pretty attractive as a cross-dresser!”

  I saw it was useless to argue, and I really didn’t want to reopen the debate over Aaron’s participation. He obviously had an obsession about getting his prize possession back himself, and because it was clearly more emotional than rational, I was not likely to talk him out of it. And I certainly was not going to let him go out there himself; it would be like sending a lamb into a wolf pack.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s get back to the plan. We go in posing as cleaners on Thursday.”

  Aaron leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Hmph,” was my only response, but I guess I did smile a bit.

  Sara saw she had better get us back on track.

  “How do you fool the real maids, or the Sanders people if they know the real maids?” she asked me.

  “Good question,” Aaron added.

  “Yes, it is a good question. Here’s what I plan to do: On Thursday morning I’ll call the TidyHome Maid Service and tell them I’m calling for Sanders and because he has some important meeting at the house that day, they should skip this week’s service. Of course I’ll generously offer on his behalf to pay for the week’s service anyway.” I took a sip of coffee t
o give them time to consider this and continued, “Then I’ll call the Sanders house and tell them I’m from the maid service and their regular crew had to be diverted for an emergency of some kind and they’re sending a substitute crew.”

  Aaron considered this. “I like that idea. But since you’re telling them it’s a new crew anyway, why not just say it’ll be a couple, a man and a woman? Maybe he’s one of the supervisors or something and they’re short-handed because of the emergency. That way we don’t risk them seeing through some silly disguise or noticing I have a pretty low voice and large biceps for a woman.”

  It was my turn to consider. Maybe Aaron had a point there. Maybe I was being stubborn about his being along and was just trying to make it harder for him, at the same time making it harder for myself as well.

  “I hate to admit it,” I said, “but you might be right. I’ve never encountered a male housecleaner myself, but I do know there are a few out there, like male secretaries or receptionists or…”

  “Or ballet dancers?” Sara put in.

  “Thank you. That’s very helpful.” To Aaron: “Actually, men often do the really tough house cleaning, the kind you need after a fire or flood. We can say you’re experienced in our disaster cleanup service or something and just helping out.”

  “What if they don’t have a disaster cleanup service?” Sara asked.

  “They do now.”

  Aaron looked much relieved. “Good. Then that’s settled. We replace the maid service. That gives us pretty much the run of the house, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, maybe, depending whether certain areas are off limits to the cleaners. But we’ll have to cross that bridge later. Meanwhile, I have to locate the uniform company that supplies TidyHome and rent a uniform that looks like theirs.”

  “What about my uniform?” Aaron asked.

  I thought about this. “Good question. I doubt they’ll have men’s uniforms, though I can ask. If not, we’ll buy you a shirt and pants that matches the colors of the maid’s uniform. That should be close enough. I hardly think they’d expect a male cleaner to wear an aproned skirt and blouse.”

  “God, I hope not!” said Aaron with feeling.

  “I also have to get a few other important items, like a special carrier built for cleaning supplies.”

  “Yeah, I guess the police probably confiscated your burglar tools,” Sara said, with just a hint of a smirk. I ignored it. “What kind of special carrier?” she asked.

  “Something that will have big brushes and such on top, and a false bottom that’ll hold a Guarneri violin.”

  Aaron nodded. “Which means you’ll need the dimensions of the violin, right?”

  “Right. And I’ll need several hundred dollars to get someone to build it in a day or two.”

  “No doubt. Anything else?”

  “Just a few odds and ends. And of course you’ll also have to wear a disguise of some kind.”

  “Why? We just decided I could go as a man.”

  “Yes, but not as Aaron Levy, the well-known celebrity. What if someone at the house is a music lover and just happens to know what you look like? One of them actually got close enough to steal your violin, remember? Hell, they might even be big fans of yours. Like Jennifer.” I really didn’t have to add that last part, but I couldn’t resist. “They did covet your violin, so they definitely know who you are.”

  “Okay, point taken. I’ll get some kind of moustache or beard or something. Okay?”

  I laughed. “Yes, that should do fine.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Sara asked. “Would you like me to put on a moustache or a wig too? I hate to be left out.”

  “Oh, I think you’re just fine being left out,” I said. “In fact, let’s hope you stay that way. If we need you for backup, it won’t be because everything went according to plan.”

  “So what do we do now?” Aaron asked. “Synchronize our watches?”

  Sara had the answer to that. “No, we go downstairs and eat. I understand they have a fabulous Sunday brunch buffet.”

  Hearing no objection to her part of the plan, Sara rose and headed for the door, grabbing her purse on the way. Aaron winked at me, rose and offered his arm, and thus we followed Sara to the elevator.

  Some plans require no discussion at all.

  Chapter 26

  Sunday afternoon, and it was time to deal with Jennifer. According to our plan, at 4:00, after an ostentatious saunter through the lobby (where he had noticed his young stalker sitting), Aaron entered the hotel café, which advertised a British-style afternoon tea. Few tables were yet taken, and Aaron sat down at a table easily observable from almost every other part of the room. Immediately a waiter came over to take his order. A few minutes later, he had before him a bone china cup and saucer and a steaming pot of tea. Not long afterward, Ms. Jennifer Logan entered the café. After glancing around the room and noticing Aaron sitting by himself, she chose a table about twenty feet away. Like Aaron, she was served almost as soon as she sat down.

  My plan had assumed that Jennifer would take her time assessing the situation before making some kind of attempt to join Aaron at his table. Sara and I were to use some pretext to sit down at her table first and start a conversation with her. Unfortunately, Jennifer immediately threw the plan into disarray. As soon as she had poured her tea, she got up, teacup in hand, and headed straight for Aaron’s table. Clearly she was going to make a frontal assault without wasting time with reconnaissance or strategic maneuvers. Obviously an amateur.

  Sara and I, who had been watching from the side of the room since Aaron first entered, knew we had to act quickly. I grabbed an empty teacup that had been abandoned nearby, turned to Sara, and said, “Follow me.” Calculating the trajectory and velocity needed to intercept Jennifer on her way to her intended target, I began walking quickly in the young woman’s direction, Sara close behind. When I was about two feet away, I turned as if to say something to Sara and “accidentally” collided with the startled Jennifer, spilling her cup of tea onto her dress and the floor in about equal parts.

  I was, of course, visibly appalled at my clumsiness and abjectly apologetic over the damage I had caused. Sara, taking her cue from me, commiserated with the offended woman and berated me for not watching where I was going. Jennifer tried to brush off both the spilled tea and the two pesky ladies surrounding her, but we would not be easily mollified. We offered to take the victim over to our table (any table that was vacant and we could claim as ours) and replace the tea we had spilled.

  “That’s really not necessary,” Jennifer insisted, as she dabbed at the wet patch on her dress with a hanky and tried to regain her composure. “I’m fine. No harm done. Really.” She smiled weakly to emphasize her point.

  But Sara and I were adamant. “I’d never forgive myself,” I said, “if I didn’t at least buy you another pot of tea and help you dry off.” And before Jennifer could protest any further, Sara and I, practically carrying Jennifer between us, maneuvered her to the nearest empty table, sat her down, and called over a waiter.

  “What kind of tea did I spill on you?” I asked.

  Jennifer was still flustered, but she answered weakly, “It was mint, I think. But you really—”

  “Nonsense,” I responded and gave the order to the waiter, together with mine and Sara’s. Then I dabbed at Jennifer’s wet dress with a cloth napkin and assumed what I hoped was a caring, sisterly manner and tone.

  “My name is Florence—you can call me Flo—and this is Sara.”

  Apparently resigning herself to this accidental tea party, Jennifer said, “I’m Jennifer. Jennifer Logan.”

  We exchanged polite conversation about the weather and the benefits of herbal tea for a few minutes as Jennifer became more comfortable with her unexpected new friends. I then brought the conversation around to where I had intended.

  “You seemed to be headed in the direction of Aaron Levy’s table. Do you know him?”

  Jennifer hesitated a mo
ment before answering, “Uh…sort of. I met him last week in Los Angeles.”

  “Really. You know, Sara and I spent quite a while talking with him yesterday.”

  Jennifer looked more closely at her two companions. “I thought I recognized you. I saw you at his table.” It was, of course, the presence of us two women at Aaron’s table that had kept her from approaching him on that earlier occasion.

  “Yes,” I admitted, “Mr. Levy is Sara’s and my absolute favorite violinist. We go to every concert of his we can and have all of his recordings. And when we saw him by himself we just couldn’t resist asking if we could join him.”

  Jennifer accepted this information neutrally, perhaps not certain whether these older ladies were to be admired as fellow groupies or resented as rivals for Aaron’s attention. “Oh, I see,” was all she responded.

  I continued, finally getting to the most important part of our charade: “Yes, and you won’t believe some of the things we found out about Mr. Levy once he’d had a few drinks and we’d all become, well, friends.”

  “Uh, good things?” Jennifer asked.

  “Oh, neither good nor bad, right Sara?”

  Sara, finally getting a chance to enter the conversation, said, “Right. Just interesting things you would never guess about someone so famous. I mean usually there’s nothing about these public personalities that hasn’t been discovered and written about a hundred times over.”

  I could see that Jennifer’s curiosity was quickly growing, to the point that now if we had told her tea was over and she could continue on her way to Aaron’s table, she probably would have refused to leave until she had all the details of what these weird ladies had learned.

  But of course no such refusal was to be necessary. Sara and I were only too glad to pass along the extraordinary information we had acquired.

  “Well,” I began, lowering my voice and adopting a conspiratorial tone, “Sara and I were not only anxious to meet our favorite violinist, but I’ll admit we were hoping we might, shall we say, spend some quality time with him.” I didn’t exactly wink at Jennifer, but I did try to assume that “you know what I mean” look on my face. I checked to see that the young woman had taken the hint. From the latter’s expression, she had.