by Nic Saint
Chapter 11
I led Blane outside to one of the golf carts that employees use to get around the park faster.
“Hop in,” I said.
He stood staring at the cart for a few moments, an amused look on his face. “This looks like a golf cart.”
“That’s probably because it is a golf cart.”
“So this is how you get around.”
“Well, only if we need to get somewhere fast. I usually like to walk. Charlene loves these, though. She never goes anywhere on foot these days.” Though she probably should. At her age she needed to get out a lot more.
Blane got in and I punched the accelerator.
“Now I feel like Donald Trump,” he said, settling back and looking around.
“I’m sure lots of people use golf carts,” I said. “Not just Donald Trump.”
“So where are you taking me to?”
“The house. It’s where we all live,” I explained.
“All of you? Live in the same house?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Even Charlene?”
“Charlene occupies the top floor. The rest of us get the other floors. We all have our own rooms, and the ground floor is communal.”
He glanced at me. “How old are you, exactly?”
I pursed my lips. I knew what was coming. “Twenty-three.”
“And how old are your sisters?”
“Maya is a year younger than me. Marisa a year older. Why?”
“Aren’t you a little too old to still be living with mom and dad?”
I knew it. Always the same question. “I’m not living with mom and dad,” I said. “I’m living on campus. It’s a perk reserved for management.”
“You’re still living with your family.”
“I don’t see it that way,” I said, deftly steering the golf cart along a road that led along the perimeter of the park and skirted the parking lot. “I live on campus, and so does the rest of my family, since this is a family-owned park.”
“A little bit like the Partridge Family.”
“We’re nothing like the Partridge Family. For one thing, we don’t sing. Well, Maya sings, but I don’t and neither does Marisa or my parents.”
“Haven’t you ever considered moving out and living on your own?”
“No, I have not,” I said defiantly, though of course I’d considered this plenty of times. “Why would I move out? I have a great life. I live with my best friends—my sisters and my parents—”
“And Charlene, who strikes me as something of an acquired taste.”
“She’s my grandmother. You don’t honestly expect me to say bad things about my grandmother, do you?”
“No, but I can imagine it can’t be easy.”
“Well, it is. It’s super easy. I love my family and we all get along famously, so there’s really no reason for me to move out. No reason at all.” Except Maya and Marisa spend more time arguing than anyone I know, Charlene’s diva mentality sometimes annoys us all, and my folks have a habit of trying to butt into our private lives as if we were still teenagers, a stage we passed a long time ago. But I wasn’t going to admit that to this cop. It was none of his business.
He seemed to realize he was way out of line, for he abruptly changed the topic. “So how should I behave in front of your grandmother? Does she have certain rules?”
“No rules. As long as you’re respectful to her she’ll be respectful to you.”
“So can I look into her eyes?”
“Of course you can look into her eyes. Why wouldn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’ve heard stories.”
“All lies, I can assure you.”
“Is it true she favors the left side of her face and doesn’t allow anyone to sit to her right?”
“That’s just a load of crap,” I said annoyedly. “The press will write anything.”
“Good to know,” he said with a slight smile. “I wouldn’t want to piss off the grand old dame of folk music.”
“She doesn’t like to be called a folk music artist. She feels it confines her too much.”
“Oh?”
“And it’s not as if she only sings folk music. She made pop records. And she even dabbled in rock music for a while.”
“I’m sure she did,” he said softly, not hiding an amused smirk.
I looked at him sharply. “Why are you smirking?”
“I’m not smirking. I’m smiling. There’s a difference.”
“You’re smirking. You smirked when I said Charlene dabbled in rock music.”
“Come on, Mia. She never ‘dabbled in rock.’ She had an affair with one of the Rolling Stones back in the Stone Age—see what I did there—to try and catch some of the rock music market but that’s as far as that went.”
“Charlene is an accomplished singer with a vast repertoire that defies boundaries and straddles multiple genres,” I said stubbornly.
His smirk turned into a wide grin. “Sounds like you memorized that from some marketing brochure. Charlene never straddled any genres. She’s a folk singer, which is nothing to be ashamed about, by the way. Joni Mitchell is a folk singer, and so is Joan Baez. I don’t think they cavil at being labeled that way.”
“Well, Charlene does. She’s a singer—of all genres.”
He stole a glance at me. “You’re clearly devoted to your grandmother.”
“Yes, I am,” I said, a mutinous streak leading me to drive the golf cart a lot faster than our self-imposed speed limit inside the park allowed.
“Well, I certainly commend you for it.”
I glanced over. “Are you serious or are you joshing me?”
He laughed. “I’m not joshing you. From what I hear Charlene Simple is a handful. A regular diva. And the way you stand up for her is really cute.”
“Cute?” I asked, my fingers grabbing the steering wheel in a death grip. “You think me standing up for my grandmother’s legacy is cute?”
“Sure. And so is the way you all live together in that big old house. You don’t see a lot of that nowadays.”
Well, that was certainly true.
“Most teenagers can’t wait to escape their parents and strike out on their own. Seems to me you guys get along really well, and I can only admire you for it.”
God, this guy. First he practically insulted my family and me, and then he went and said something like this. “Thanks,” I said simply. “We do like each other, which helps when you’re running a family business.”
“So none of you have ever considered going out on their own? Spread your wings and move away, far from Charleneland and the family business?”
And he was back. “No, we all like it here and we wouldn’t even consider leaving.”
He held up his hands. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s true, so I suggest you start believing it.” I could have added that Maya had often talked about moving to LA and starting a singing career, and that Marisa sometimes wanted to get away from it all, and so did I, but that stuff was for Rugg ears only, and definitely not this nosy cop.
The rest of the short trip was spent in silence. I think Blane realized he’d gone too far, and that I wasn’t going to open up to him anytime soon. I actually wanted to find out more about him, but since I wasn’t prepared to talk about my personal affairs, it didn’t seem right to ask him about his.
“And here we are,” I said, expertly parking the cart into its designated spot right in front of our house. “It isn’t much, but it’s home,” I added, trying to lighten the mood that had soured during our trip.
He glanced up at the house as he stepped from the vehicle. “Nice place,” he said curtly.
The house used to be a hotel once upon a time, when the park was still a nature theme park. Its origins dated back to the sixties, and the park had been on a downhill slope until my family had stepped in, bought the place, and turned it into Charleneland. They’d moved into what used to be the hotel, and had started the
uphill battle of constructing an amusement park that could compete with the big boys.
The house resembled a Swiss chalet, with the gabled roof, the dark wood paneling and the flower boxes that adorned the windows. Even the second-floor balcony, that ran along our rooms, was made of wood, and all the windows had wood shutters. It looked like something Heidi and her grandfather would like.
I darted a quick look up at the third floor. When Charlene was in, she usually let her flag fly. She had her own balcony, the biggest one of all, and her flag was a long red banner with her picture in the middle. The flag was flying, fluttering in the breeze, which meant she was in. Great. I didn’t want to have to chase her all over Charleneland.
Chapter 12
We passed into the foyer, which once had been the lobby. Mom and Dad had kept it pretty much in its original state, only now it was a small museum dedicated to Charlene’s career, with a number of display cases presenting a selection of her most iconic dresses, and a wall bedecked with gold and platinum records from her long and illustrious career.
“Come on,” I said, as Blane admired a yellow sequined dress with feather boa and some vertigo-inducing cleavage. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
“Are you sure you don’t need to call ahead?” he asked, and he sounded a little trepidatious.
“It’s better if I don’t call,” I said. “Trust me.”
“Why is that?”
“Charlene hates talking to anyone who isn’t a huge admirer. If I’d called her she would have disappeared. She pulls a great disappearance act.”
“Sounds to me like a woman with something to hide,” said the cop.
“Or a woman with a sizable ego who’s easily bored,” I countered.
“Or that.”
I took him up the stairs. When we arrived on the landing, he asked, “So are these your rooms?”
“Why? Do you want to see my room?” I quipped.
He smiled. “Sure. Maybe we can do our homework together.”
“Yeah, right. They’re very large rooms, Blane. I’ll bet my room is as big as your apartment. It’s got a kitchenette, an en-suite bathroom, living room, bedroom… They’re more like small apartments than actual rooms.” Of course they were nothing compared to Charlene’s lodgings, but who was complaining?
“Actually I don’t have an apartment,” Blane confessed.
“Oh? You have a house?”
He grimaced. “Not exactly.”
I frowned. “So where do you live?”
“Well, I had my own apartment, but then I moved to LA. When I came back I moved in with my mom and dad.”
I halted on the step. “Wait, you live with your folks?”
“Only temporarily. Until I get back on my feet,” he was quick to say.
“And here you’re ragging me about living with my family and not striking out on my own. And you live with your parents yourself!”
“It’s only temporary,” he repeated stubbornly. “I was doing fine on my own until…”
“Until what?” I asked, still pausing on the step.
He made a throwaway gesture with his hand. “It’s not important.”
I hesitated. Luitpold had told me about his career mishap in LA. Should I grill him about it? Then I decided not to. It was none of my business. And as soon as we caught Anny Reckitt’s killer, Blane Jamison would be out of my face. So I took the next step.
“Who are you?” suddenly Maya’s voice rang out. She was leaning against the balustrade and staring up at Blane and me.
“Not now, Maya. We’re going to see Charlene.”
“You look like a cop,” Maya said. “A very hot cop.”
In spite of himself, Blane grinned. “Thanks. I guess.”
“He is a cop, and we’re going to interview Charlene,” I insisted.
“Is she a suspect in this murder business?” Maya asked. “Did she kill this doctor woman, just like Phoenix is saying?”
“Wait, what?” I asked, descending the few steps until I joined my sister on the landing. “How do you even know about that?”
“Know about it? It’s all over the news, honey. There’s even a video of Charlene and Phoenix slugging it out in front of the Haunted Ride.” She held out her phone for Blane. “Wanna see?”
Blane decided to take the bait. “Show me,” he said.
“Oh, I’m Maya, by the way,” Maya said, holding out her hand. “You may have heard of me. I had a hit with Swoosh Swoosh last year. And I have a very popular Instagram.”
“Not now, Maya,” I growled. “Just show us the video.”
“It’s on YouTube. People are commenting like crazy.”
She held out her giant phone, encrusted with fake diamonds, and Blane and I watched. I’d seen the scene live, of course, so it didn’t really take me by surprise. The number of shares and likes and comments did, however.
“It’s gone viral,” Maya confirmed. “It’s been on all the news shows, and there’s a bunch of memes and gifs doing the rounds already. Charlene finally has a big hit again!”
“Yeah, but I don’t think this is exactly what she was hoping for,” I said.
“This is going to put a lot of pressure on me,” said Blane, then he caught my eye, and quickly added, “On us.”
“Ooh. So you guys are doing this investigation together, huh?” asked Maya. “Can I join in? I’m a great sleuth—I just know I am. Like Sherman Oaks.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s Sherlock Holmes.”
She thought for a moment, cocking her head. “No, it’s Sherman Oaks.”
“Sherman Oaks is a neighborhood in LA,” Blane said helpfully.
“I know that, silly,” she said, placing her hand on the cop’s chest. “It’s named after the detective.”
Blane was speechless for a moment, while Maya’s fingers curled into his crisp white shirt. She was like a cat, her nails kneading his sizable chest. “Um…” he finally managed. “I think we better talk to Charlene now.”
“Oh,” said Maya, visibly disappointed. “So what’s your name?”
“Blane Jamison. Detective Blane Jamison.”
“I like you already, Detective Blane Jamison. Are you staying for dinner?”
“I don’t think Detective Jamison is going to be joining us, Maya,” I said.
“Why not? He’s human. He has to eat. Don’t you have to eat, Detective? Or are you a robot, like Mia here seems to think?”
“I do have to eat,” he admitted. He checked his watch. “Oh, is that the time already? We better hurry, Mia.”
And with these words, he practically raced up the stairs, leaving Maya’s fingers kneading thin air.
“He’s hot,” she said appraisingly, licking her cherry red lips. “Don’t you think he’s hot?”
“He’s a cop, Maya,” I said. “And he’s here to conduct an investigation, not to be added to your list of conquests.”
“I don’t have a list of conquests,” she said. Then she gave me a coy grin. “At least not a very long list. And I’ve never dated a hot cop before.”
“God,” I muttered, and hurried after Blane.
Blane was hesitating on the doorstep to Charlene’s apartment. He seemed unsure about how to proceed, which struck me as odd, as cops are known to knock down doors and storm into rooms without breaking stride.
“So what are you waiting for?” I asked, and gave the door a good pounding and charged right on in. “Charlene! Are you decent?!”
The little foyer was wallpapered in a pink velvet pastel, as was the rest of the apartment. The older she got, the more like Dame Barbra Cartland Charlene seemed to become. The entire place bathed in light, as usual, cast by ornate crystal chandeliers, and when we entered the living room, with its sumptuous Persian rugs on hardwood floors, antique furniture, marble hearth and pictures of hunting parties adorning the walls, Blane emitted an audible gasp.
“This is how I always imagined the Queen of England lived,” he said, his voice suddenly hushed, as if we were in th
e presence of royalty. Over the marble hearth, a large picture portrait of Charlene dominated the room. She was seated on what looked like a throne, her head held high, her face solemn, and one Corgi resting in her lap while a second one dozed at her feet.
“Does she have dogs?” Blane asked, studying the portrait. He suddenly seemed a little unsure of this entire enterprise, and I wondered if he was afraid of dogs, as so many people are.
“Just very small ones,” I assured him.
And as if summoned by the bell, Charlene’s two Corgis came running up out of Charlene’s study, gamboling and yapping happily at the sight of this newcomer. Terri and Ceci, as they were called, were actually from the same litter. They were both female and while Terri was ginger with a white belly, Ceci had a dark-haired back and a beige tummy. They sprang up at Blane, who went a little white around the nostrils, standing stock-still, his face displaying his discomfort.
“They don’t bite,” I assured him. “They’re the sweetest dogs possible.”
I crouched down next to them and they immediately transferred their attention from Blane’s legs to me. I cuddled them and they began licking my hands and my face excitedly.
“They seem… very sweet,” Blane said in a strangled voice.
I picked them both up. “Isn’t it difficult in your line of work?”
“What is?” he asked, keeping a keen eye on the dogs.
“To be afraid of dogs. I imagine you have to deal with them all the time.”
“I’m not afraid of dogs,” he said. “I just… don’t like them very much.”
“Who doesn’t like dogs?” a regal voice sounded behind me. I whirled around and saw Charlene stride into the room. She was dressed in a long white dress, that did much to accentuate her wasp-like figure, and her outrageous bosom was accentuated by a cloud of pink tulle.
Blane blinked, and I could see why. Any man being subjected to Charlene dressed like this would have an instant surge of blood to his nether regions, depriving his brain of all the necessary glucose to think straight.