"You're doing that mantra, aren't you?" asked Bea as the Shadow exited the park.
"Mantra?"
Bea closed her eyes and responded in a sing song cadence. "I love her for her childlike qualities. I love her for her childlike qualities."
"There are times Beatrice McNichols..."
Bea planted a smooch on her friend's cheek and all was forgiven. The ride to their friend Stephen's house was peppered with pithy philosophizing by an animated Bea. Spenser relished her chum's encyclopedic knowledge and drank in her good humor. Bea was resilient with a capital R.
If Dave or Tom or whomever did not live up to her expectations she had a fit, cussed like a drunken sailor, then promptly forgot not only the transgression but also the transgressor and began anew her quest for the perfect man. A quest she often admitted was doomed from the onset; but, as she was fond of saying, it's the journey and not just the destination that matters.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tuesday - evening
Spenser drove north on Larchmont with all the windows down. She glanced at the iconic Hollywood sign and acknowledged the sadness and wonder that it represented, from Fatty Arbuckle to Peg Entwistle and everything in between. There was something magical about a Hollywood evening. Magical and maybe just a little perverted.
“Wish we could have seen Tony Bennett at the Bowl,” lamented Bea. “I hear the new band shell acoustics are primo.”
“At $40 a pop? I think not,” countered Spenser.
“He’s worth it.” Bea inhaled deeply, then started coughing. “Ah, nothing like LA air,” she sputtered.
The best chums were on their way to visit Stephen Owen who lived in LA's chic Melrose district. He was a television set designer of modest fame with a love of all things Hollywood - early Hollywood, that is. His 1921 California bungalow was crammed with memorabilia from the silent era. He himself was a throwback. His pale, anorexic body a defiant stance against Pacific principles, like even tans and Ray-Bans. His idea of absolute beauty was Theda Bera, gaunt and ashen with black lips offering a Mona Lisa smile. He often wished that he could talk to deco ghosts and feel the pulse of unflappable flappers and unshakeable sheiks.
His acquaintances thought he was crazy. His family tolerated him. His best friends, of whom Spenser gratefully counted herself, adored him. She had been introduced to this wan wonder by her friend Toots. She still remembered the first thing he said to her as the evening’s discussion flowed from politics to religion to suppression of thought. "Imagination is the citadel of sanity in a world gone mad with complacency." Hyperbole, to be sure. But so exactly how Spenser felt.
Spenser drove past Le Petit Greek, filled to capacity even on a week night, turned left onto Clinton and pulled into a cul-de-sac lined with the inevitable palm trees and jacaranda of Lotus Land. She parked behind Kevin's Karmann Ghia, turned off the motor, and stared at the little European import. Kevin was home. This was unexpected. Kevin was never home whenever Bea and Spenser visited. Or so it seemed.
"Kevin's home?" Bea's rhetorical words floated into the yew hedges.
"This could be the end of the world as we know it," whispered Spenser.
Bea nodded agreement. Kevin Gould was so completely the opposite of Stephen that it was hard, no it was damn near impossible for anyone to imagine the two as lovers. And successful lovers at that. Kevin, a fanatical body builder, was so in the closet that no one knew of his 'preference'. Not his coworkers at the telephone company, where he was a macho lineman; not his parents, Mr and Mrs Average-All-American; not his friends; not his pastor; not anyone of even a passing acquaintance. Only Stephen's friends. And then only out of earshot of Kevin.
How these obvious opposites had remained together for nearly eight years was a mystery that rivaled the Colossus at Rhodes. Bea and Spenser exited the car and walked with some trepidation to the front door where they were greeted by Stephen, Kevin, and Romulus and Remus, Stephen's precious bookend Labrador Retrievers.
"Okay, boys, good job. I see them." Stephen grabbed the collars and pulled the convivial canines away from the door. Then he fell over them. The comedy that ensued enveloped Bea, Spenser, and Kevin as they tried to remove yelping dogs from the tangled, giggling stick of a man. Kevin lifted Stephen as he would a feather. Which Stephen was.
"Now that's entertainment," cried Stephen, wiping a joyful tear from his eye.
"You need popcorn," offered Bea, cradling Remus', or was it Romulus', smooth black head.
Stephen consumed Spenser in a wisp of a hug and then planted a wet kiss on Bea's upturned cheek. Kevin smiled enigmatically and returned to his pasta primavera.
"Kev made the most glorious Italian. If you're hungry there's plenty left." Stephen plopped unceremoniously on the opera mauve divan.
"Already ate, darling." Bea tore herself away from the dogs and joined Stephen. "Thanks, though."
Spenser sunk her height-challenged frame into her favorite plush armchair. "Had I known, Owen, I'd've foresworn my mediocre sup." She absentmindedly fondled one of the black beast's ample head.
"Sorry, my little puff pastry. Not even I knew the demigod would be staying home tonight." Stephen folded his spindle legs beneath him and cuddled Bea's arm. He quietly continued, "It's a little scary."
"I heard that." Kevin's basso profundo crashed into the porcelain Charlie Chaplin on the faux marble mantle, rattled the original "Nosferatu" movie poster over the fireplace, and settled quietly on the bronze art nouveau Clara Bow. He strode into the front room with a swagger that always reminded Spenser of John Wayne.
"I just thought I'd stick around for one of your infamous girls' night out. See what the hell it is you do when I'm not around to supervise." He folded his six-foot torso next to the divan and looked into Stephen's eyes with a sincerity that embarrassed Spenser.
"Oh, Darling," said Stephen, "you've made my year." He pecked his sweetie on the lips and turned to Bea and Spenser. "Okay, ladies, picking up jail bait on Santa Monica or d'you fancy that crack house on La Brea?"
"Very funny, Stephen." Kevin's mouth twisted in mock disgust.
"Well, no more Tarot, that's for sure. I'm still pissed at that last reading," pouted Bea.
"I only read them, Mackey. I don't endorse or guarantee their accuracy." Stephen turned his head in faux disinterest.
"Accurate? Somewhere in the ball park would be nice, for crissake."
"The cards said, 'you will meet a handsome stranger'. They never mentioned the fact that he'd be married with five kids. You want accurate, lovey, do a CPA. You want cosmic..."
"Oh, cosmic she's done," assisted Spenser grabbing a handful of potato chips from the fully laden temple to junk food on the coffee table. "CPAs, too, I think." She nearly choked on a chip from laughter.
"Very funny, Isaacs." Bea pouted even harder.
"Let's do the Catalina, shall we?" Stephen's words sputtered out from between the peanut M&Ms he'd crammed into his pygmy mouth. "John Pizzarelli, I think."
"Ooo, I love me some jazz gee-tar," oozed out of Bea’s mouth along with caramel from the pecan turtles she was nibbling.
"And here I thought these evenings were filled with debauchery." Kevin seemed almost disappointed.
"Oh, darling, we can still do jail bait if you prefer."
"Thanks, Stephen. But no."
"Quel dommage. Well, Ducks, I must spritz hair and cleanse mouth before our escapade. You know where the guest bathroom is if you need to spruce up." Stephen grabbed Kevin and the two disappeared into the boudoir.
"I think I'll take advantage," said Bea as she grabbed yet another turtle, popped it into her mouth, and headed for the art deco bath just off the kitchen.
Spenser continued munching chips as she and the dogs began a familiar tour of this extraordinary home. She touched the exquisite Lalique woman, her flowing gown an angel's wing, then traced the Welbourne print of Ida Lupino. Stephen's extensive photo collection boasted signed studio headshots of such lost luminaries as Carole Lombard, Tallulah B
ankhead, Merle Oberon, Cary Grant, Randolph Scott, and Joel McCrea.
Then she reached the piano. A small voice told her not to stop, but she didn’t listen. She hardly ever did. She knew better than to sit down at the keyboard. So, she sat down at the keyboard. She knew better than to pick up the silver framed photo next to the Chopin waltz music. So, she picked it up anyway.
It was an ordinary photo as photos went. A scene of this piano with a small group of people congregating around it, their mouths open in a perpetual aria. Stephen was at the piano. Bea and her latest in the foreground. And Spenser and Randy in the background, next to the enormous Boston fern. Spenser's face was a comic relief, while Randy's was pale with a dull, forced smile. Spenser knew better than to remember. But, she remembered anyway.
Closing her eyes, she thought of that night. They'd gotten back to Randy's apartment late from Stephen's. Randy was exhausted and had slipped into bed without performing his usual ablutions. Spenser couldn't sleep. There was something gnawing at her psyche. Something intangible, but real. A sick feeling of the world slightly off its axis.
Spenser rose from the bed and pulled down one slat of the levolors, half expecting to see skulking figures outside the window. But her prying eyes saw only the ordinary. The street lamps cast a metallic haze over the bougainvillea, hydrangeas and palms that lined Glasgow Road. Glasgow. She really liked that name. It evoked scenes of hardy Highlanders in tartan kilts.
But Scots were rare on Glasgow. The only one Spenser knew of with any certainty was sleeping just inches away from her. Randy Abernathy's naked body lay serenely upon the sheets, his long limbs glistening from perspiration. God, he was gorgeous. A Celtic god with strawberry blond hair and green eyes that cut through to the soul.
Spenser watched as her lover's chest rose and fell in a natural rhythm. There was something comforting about the darkness and quiet; about breathing in the same air as this beautiful man, but it came with an anxiety that Spenser was finding increasingly difficult to deal with. Randy had become withdrawn over the last few weeks; possessive about his time alone, unresponsive, and uncommunicative. Spenser knew the reason but that didn't help.
Randy had retreated into his own world of pain since being diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Spenser knew, understood the fear, the despondency, but could not find the words that would have made Randy feel better. How was he supposed to feel better? He’d ask. How could he feel anything but deep sadness for what he was putting Spenser through? And every time Spenser consoled him and told him that they would get through this together, Randy would cry and say how unfair it was.
Spenser left the window and sat on the bed. Her hand traced the contour of Randy's leg, around his firm calf, onto his knee, up the well-defined pelvis. She watched as Randy's sleep-filled eyes opened and caught Spenser full in his gaze. He raised his hand and gently touched her breast. Spenser pressed her own moist body against her lover's. They made sweet, tender love. It was a wonderful gift.
But the idyll did not last. Spenser remembered the next day, the day after a night of passion, of hope. She remembered coming home early from work, unlocking the door to Randy's apartment, staring dazed, unbelieving at her dead lover. He lay on the sofa, his eyes devoid of life. Dainty blue pills littered the coffee table. A grocery receipt with the simple words 'forgive me for being a coward' written shakily on the back was crumpled next to a half empty bottle of Stoli.
Spenser felt an hysteria rise until it choked her. She tried to scream, again and again, but no sound escaped. She closed her eyes and pleaded ‘make it last night again, please. Please make it last night again’. But when she opened her eyes, Randy's dead gaze was still upon her. Then she screamed. A mournful, angry shriek that raked her throat.
"Spenser...Spenser..."
Spenser opened her eyes to see the concerned look on her best friend. She replaced the photo lovingly on the piano. "We ready to go?" she asked with a bravura she most definitely did not feel.
"Ready," answered Stephen from the front room his voice mirroring Bea's concern.
"Great. Let's do jazz." Spenser grabbed her friend's arm and the two exited the Hollywood house with yipping dogs nipping at their heels, Stephen and Kevin in happy tow.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wednesday – early evening
Her best friend was gone, but Gina Mae would carry on. She was determined to find the Sunflower thief and she would do it in memory of Chloe. She’d been watching Kay strut up and down the stage in the little theatre most of the morning, telling a couple of helpers to move that light over there and that light over there. It was really boring, but Gina Mae was on a mission; after the usual Wednesday lunch of mac and cheese (Gina Mae’s favorite), she would follow Mrs Quinn-Jackson; after Mrs Q-J, she would follow Dr Saunders; after Dr Saunders, she would follow ... Well, that one was going to be very unpleasant. After Dr Saunders, Gina Mae was going to follow Ival Overoye. She really, really didn’t want to, but that was her assignment and by gosh that’s what she was going to do.
And so, that’s how her day progressed. Following the director had also been boring. Dr Saunders finished dinner (why did they have to ruin a perfectly good fried chicken with broccoli?) then went to Mr Shumway’s office for, like, ever. Gina Mae finally gave up and decided to hunt down Evil Ival. Scary, but necessary.
She saw Tony in the lobby and stopped him. “Anthony, have you seen Mr Overoye?”
Tony closed his eyes for a second then exhaled audibly. No use in trying to tell her to stop already with the Anthony bit. “Saw him going into the theatre,” he answered moving around Gina Mae.
“Thank you,” she said, hurrying through the lobby and down to the little theatre. She snuck in quietly and scanned the stage. She saw the intrepid Dr Pastor, arms flailing, saying something about a gel, which didn’t make any sense. What do lights need hair gel for? Gina Mae shook her head. She forced herself to watch for another five minutes hoping to catch sight of Overoye, but then she just couldn’t take it anymore. No one was doing anything suspicious, another word she learned from ‘The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency’, so she may as well keep looking for the maintenance supervisor.
She exited the building and ran to the wisteria arbor. Even though it was getting dark, there was still enough light to reveal her position, so she used the flowering foliage to shield her from prying eyes. Every few steps, she would peer beyond the lattice, looking for Ival the Awful. She took out the PayDay bar Tucker had given her and was just about to give up when she saw him. He was heading to the tool shed. She ran to the oleanders and crouched, watching as Overoye unlocked the door and went inside.
Gina Mae took two steps toward the shed and stopped. There on the door was an honest to gosh pirate’s flag, a skull and crossbones just like in the movies. This was scarier than anything she had conjured up in her many scenarios involving investigating Overoye’s shed. She gulped and backed away. Maybe it would be better to continue her investigation in the daylight. Yep, that would be much better.
She made her way back to the oleanders and then the arbor and then the main building. She sighed in relief as she opened the door to her own bedroom. She was safe. She unwrapped the PayDay bar and took a giant bite. And then she started to cry. Chloe wouldn’t have given up. “I miss you,” Gina Mae wept, and then she took another bite of candy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Thursday - morning
Spenser slouched in one of the lobby chairs at Markstone, her feet on the wastebasket, her chin pointing upward. "Have I ever told you how much I hate acoustical ceiling?"
"Every time you sit in that chair," answered CC, her beefy fingers plowing through the morning's orders.
"It's just so damn boring. You know? Like hardened cottage cheese; white, bland, and indigestible."
"Well, if you're thinking about eating any I gotta tell ya, the patch over the schefflera is tastier than the one over the ficus."
Spenser peered at her friend and smiled.
"Looks like Tustin, Cucamonga, and Ontario." CC placed the routing slips in order and handed the copies to Spenser. She pointed to the satchels on her counter. "Velox, pasteboard and the ad print will be ready in a minute." Her mouth twisted in a lemony sort of way. "That is, if his royal highness has finally finished tamperin' with the color." Spenser didn't have to guess who CC meant. "So, how's the set lookin'?"
"Like Broadway." Off, off, off, off Broadway.
"Tucker is more excited than I've ever seen him." CC shifted her bulk in the chair. A brief, transitory frown creased her perpetually upturned mouth.
Spenser wasn't absolutely sure she'd seen it. "You okay?"
"Yeah.” CC sighed. "No, not really. Well, maybe. Oh, I don't know."
"Well as long as there's no ambivalence."
The rotund receptionist hesitated then wheeled closer to Spenser. "Is everythin' okay at the home?"
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