The Rita Farmer Mystery series Box Set

by Elizabeth Sims

  People call Baldwin Hills the black Beverly Hills because so many affluent African-Americans live there. It’s not far from South Central, and it’s literally uphill from it, so there you go: movin’ on up. The houses are really nice, plus you can get a view.

  Khani quickly grasped the whole picture when George and I laid out what was going on at the mission: that Amaryllis was totally under the thumb of drug boss Dale the Whale Vargas, who was using her safe haven as a base of ever-widening illegal operations.

  Unconsciously showing his street savvy, Emberton didn’t ask why we hadn’t involved the police. All George mentioned was, “The guy’s too clean for the police to get him on anything good.”

  “We can help her, but she’s not ready to let us,” I told our host. “We figure a kick from you might convince her.”

  Khani’s eyes were intent. “How can you help her?”

  George answered, “In your position, the less you know, the better.”

  Emberton looked at his wife. Cici said firmly, “They would not be in our home if they were not trustable.”

  “I feel that,” Khani said.

  I thought Cici looked tense, but never having met her, I didn’t know her normal state. A look passed from her to George—anxious? conspiratorial?—which he answered with a calm nod of reassurance. After that, she seemed to feel better. A surprisingly sharp jolt of jealousy galvanized my skin. I took a breath and let it go.

  “All right,” said Khani, “how do I approach this?”

  I advised, “First of all, you can’t treat her like your surrogate mama anymore. She’s not in control of anything right now. She’s scared and practically paralyzed. You can’t be nice to her. You can’t even talk about the five million. You have to shame her into taking back control.”

  Our host nodded. “I can guilt-trip her, yes, I do believe it. Do you know I haven’t canceled that endowment ceremony for Sunday?”

  “Oh, my God, I thought you had,” I said. “Sunday? That doesn’t give us much—”

  “Keeping my hope alive,” he interjected, “though I despaired of convincing her.”

  Until we talked through the situation, I hadn’t fully realized how many threads were entwined around Dale the Whale Vargas: the Whale as parasite on the Cubitt family, the Whale as enemy of civilized life in Los Angeles, the Whale versus Sgt. Annette Soames, the Whale versus George, the Whale versus me. All that was enough; we left out the stuff about Amaryllis’s abortionist background, and the grief-fueled predations of Diane Keever, which formed, essentially, the root from which the whole sick grapevine grew.

  The Emberton house was a whopping Colonial, somewhat like Graceland without the vulgarity, all bright carpeting and yellow furniture, all of it coolly retro. I looked around for servants, but I guess they were in the background. Cici had put out some almonds and olives, and Khani handed around glasses of iced tea.

  “The Iron Angel simply needs to know,” I emphasized, “that if she’ll trust us, George and I can help her stare down the devil.”

  “I think I can couch it in those terms,” Khani said with a smile. “May I threaten her with my disappointment, as well?”

  “Great idea,” George and I chorused together.

  “For she’s the one who gave me courage, truly,” Khani went on. “If she’s faltering now, she’s giving in because Satan seems so strong. But his is false strength, I learned that.” He sat back in his chair, his eyes on a distant memory. “It’s my duty to honor Amaryllis B. Cubitt by kicking her ass, just like she kicked mine.”

  _____

  Now, in the car, Amaryllis’s eyes were wet remembering Khani’s surprise visit that morning before breakfast. She didn’t need to tell me what he’d said. She was struggling, there in that front bucket seat. She was scared shitless. It was about eleven now.

  “I don’t know why you’re so nervous,” I said. “I mean, you’ve met Diane Keever since—the terrible night.”

  “Oh, no, sister, I haven’t. Neneng was her proxy at all times. I’ve never been inside that house, only up on the porch. Never wanted to.”

  We swept through the hot countryside on the downslope from the engine-shearing mountain pass, and into that valley of tumbleweeds, vineyards, carrots, and oil pumps.

  “How do you know she’ll be there?” Amaryllis objected uneasily.

  “You know as well as I do that she’ll be there.”

  I drove on, keeping a lid on my own unease. This meeting, this job, was mine, George and I had agreed. It made sense: I knew these women, and moreover, I knew how women behaved in company. I really could have used some chocolate right then.

  The farmhouse was as desolate as ever, with its ghostly peeling paint and sagging porch.

  Neneng pulled open the coffin-lid door. “Remember me?” I said, stepping in before she could slam it.

  The meeting was surreal and to the point. No introductions were needed.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” said Diane Keever from her wheelchair in its spot across from the piano. She was no less fierce today.

  “You have?” I was surprised.

  Neneng shot hate-rays at me.

  Mrs. Keever said, “They’ve been here.”

  Amaryllis and I glanced at each other. “Who?” I said, helping myself to a seat. Amaryllis did so as well. Neneng remained standing.

  Mrs. Keever addressed Amaryllis, “The two from your gang.”

  “What?” I said.

  The tension in the room was enough to bend steel.

  “Oh, my God,” I realized, “Wichita and Denny! Was it a short fat white girl and a thin black guy?”

  Mrs. Keever said, “They didn’t leave their cards.”

  I said, “They wanted to know about the money?”

  “They talked about drugs. It’s the same as money, these days, I guess.”

  “Where were you?” I asked Neneng.

  She looked at the threadbare rug. “I hide.” She fingered the daggerlike silver crucifix around her neck.

  Diane Keever said, “They kept asking, ‘What are you about? What are you about?’ They said something about a golden goose, and the eggs rolling downhill, as if I was supposed to understand something. They said, ‘What’s your racket?’ The girl, she said something like, ‘We have to think outside of the coop.’ I had no idea what she was—”

  “The Whale’s getting impatient,” I said.

  “Who’s the Whale?”

  “This guy we need to bring down together. Together,” I repeated. “Those two he sent? They’ll come back soon to do worse than frighten you.” I thought for a minute, then said, “His name is Dale Vargas, I believe I mentioned him when I was here before. Dale the Whale. Actually, I see he’s becoming more like an octopus, reaching into everybody’s world. None of us, individually, have been able to defeat him.”

  “Who is he, exactly?” Mrs. Keever insisted.

  I answered, “Somebody’s little boy who grew into a monster. He murdered at least five people in Tucson few years ago, and he arranged for other murders here in California. He tried to kill Kip Cubitt, Amaryllis’s grandson. I was nearby that day, and he almost got me too. His big idea is to unify all of Los Angeles via the distribution and consumption of street drugs. While he was in prison with Nathan Cubitt, Amaryllis’s son, he found out about the hush money she’s been paying you.”

  “Your son Nathan was the first messenger?” Diane asked. Amaryllis nodded.

  “And now,” I went on, “the Whale’s got his hands around Amaryllis’s throat. He’s taken over the ABC Mission by night, running his drugs and weapons and dealers through it. He wants the five million Khani Emberton has pledged to the mission. And now it looks like his soldiers are trying to find out what’s behind Amaryllis’s monthly payments to you.”

  Amaryllis sat in stony humility, staring at the photographs of young Deborah Keever on the piano.

  Mrs. Keever was like a bag of radioactive bones, danger-poison forever. Neneng paced slowly, her hands twitch
ing. When she passed the piano, she reached out and, with one finger, struck one key. Binnng! The note crystallized the air in the room.

  The blood rushed through my body, pounded up through my neck and into my head so hard that I thought I was going to have a stroke.

  If someone had walked in with a machine gun and started shooting, I’d have welcomed the change in mood.

  Finally, Amaryllis spoke.

  “Diane Keever, I asked you a long time ago for forgiveness. I didn’t expect it, and you didn’t give it.” Her eyes softened as she used all the courage in her body to look straight at her. “That’s all right. But I do ask you again: Forgive me, please, for causing Debbie’s death.”

  The old lady was waiting for it.

  “No.” She savored that one short word like a spoonful of buttercream.

  Amaryllis nodded and looked at her knees, knobby through the cloth of her flower-print skirt.

  “Now that that’s settled,” I said, “we need to be utilitarian here.”

  “You can go back to hating me later,” said Amaryllis to Mrs. Keever. “I predict I will endure your hatred and unforgiveness as long as I live. That is my life.”

  “Mrs. Keever.” I leaned forward, glancing at the studio photo of her on the piano. “I want to know why you left Paramount.”

  Mrs. Keever opened her mouth. “Ah?” She stopped, stunned, trying to figure out why I was asking.

  “Under the name Vera Luxon,” I added.

  She sighed. “I’m sure you’ve guessed why.” She turned her gaze out the window to the flat, hardworking land. I could see her remembering. “It was a great life,” she said after a few minutes. “The studio did everything. They put gorgeous clothes on me, they worked with my skin and hair, they even helped me learn to act. All they asked was that I show up on time, don’t take drugs, and don’t get pregnant.”

  “Two out of three, right?”

  “Right. Bruce and I got married immediately, but I’d broken a rule that only the stars got away with breaking. I thought I could go back to Paramount after I had Debbie, but they didn’t want me. I’d lost my opportunity.”

  “Did you like acting?”

  “Ohh,” she breathed, suddenly animated, “I loved it. I loved it. They had plans for me, you know. Mr. DeMille—Mr. DeMille!—noticed me one day walking across the lot, and he asked my name, and he said to his assistant: ‘Watch that one. She’s got it!’”

  Amaryllis broke in, “Let her sign your autograph album, sister Rita, and let’s move on. What are we gonna do?”

  But I hadn’t finished listening to our hostess. “Go on Diane,” I urged.

  “I poured everything into Debbie.” Diane Keever clasped her bony hands. “If I couldn’t succeed at the thing I loved the most, I was bound and determined she’d have the chance to.”

  “And that’s why it was so important to end her pregnancies,” I suggested.

  “I’m not ashamed of that. I paid for my role in it.” She brought herself to look at Amaryllis fully. “It makes me sick to see you.” No one spoke for a minute.

  Then Diane Keever said, “I hoped that maybe Debbie would go into acting. I know it’s wrong to expect your children to live out your own unfulfilled dreams. But sometimes—you can’t help it.”

  What a sad waste. Note to self: Don’t be a stage mother. I felt a short, intense gush of gladness that Petey was male: never to have periods, never to see your archenemy in the exact same prom dress as you, never to get pregnant and feel the pull of that insatiable little barbarian growing in your belly.

  “Were you in any pictures?” I wanted to know.

  “Oh, yes, I played little bits, waitresses and people’s younger sister, but I never starred in anything. My biggest role was in Silver Wings Over Okinawa, the war picture with Jack St. Hodge? I played a USO barmaid, and I remember I had twelve lines in that film, more than I’d ever had before. But I was already pregnant, and I just made it through shooting before I started to show.”

  And then something sensational happened. Diane Keever sat up straight in her wheelchair, shoulders back, and said, “Major Diggs, if the enemy captures you, remember that Mary Ann will wait for you, no matter how long it takes. She told me to tell you that.” Her eyes focused tenderly on the invisible face before her.

  Then, from the side of her mouth, she muttered in a rough voice, “Oh now, honey, no Japs are gonna get their hands on me!”

  She gazed up into the Major’s eyes, her body yielding just perceptibly. She whispered, “Good luck, Mike.”

  Her glance followed the invisible officer across the room and out the door. She lowered her eyes and sighed, clearly in love with Major Diggs herself, but too noble to move in on her friend’s man. She lifted her head, and she was the elderly Diane Keever again. “Wow,” said Amaryllis.

  “I can’t believe it,” I murmured. I could practically hear the shells exploding in the distance. I stared straight ahead, thinking. An idea crept into my brain. Wait, no way. Well, maybe. Maybe yeah, maybe this is it.

  Amaryllis said, “The Whale’s reign of ruination has got to stop.” Like Khani Emberton, Mrs. Keever did not ask about getting the police involved. Little wonder, the homespun extortionist.

  She did say to Amaryllis, “But this Whale—he’s just a criminal. He doesn’t deserve your money, he’s just trying to horn in.”

  “So you’ll work with us?”

  The widow nodded. “I want to protect my income.”

  She was talking about the ten thousand a month from the coffers of the ABC Mission! Damn you, I thought. Amaryllis looked wretched.

  I took a deep breath. “Can you two commit to tomorrow night?” I asked.

  “If we don’t take the son of a bitch out before Sunday,” said Amaryllis firmly, “I’m backing out of that endowment ceremony. What’s your plan, sister Rita?”

  “It’s not coherent yet, but now that both of you are in, I’m getting ideas every minute.”

  _____

  Gina had not spoken to me in two days. That wasn’t terribly unusual for Gina, actually; she always had to stew after an argument, and I’d really put her on the defensive about “Toby.” I was worried about her, but there was no way she was going to listen to me until she was ready. Besides, I knew hell was going to break loose soon at the mission, and Toby/Denny would be out of the picture one way or another.

  So I’d kept quiet, knowing they weren’t supposed to go out again until Saturday night.

  When I got home from Bakersfield, I made coffee, got out a yellow pad and a pencil, and set to work. I thought about the picture of Albert Einstein with the knife sticking in his throat, and I thought about how clean the Whale liked to keep his hands, and I thought about Diane Keever talking to her Major Diggs.

  After a while, pieces of plan began to coalesce in my head. My whole being was focused on the end goal of seeing Dale the Whale sitting in the back of a police car with a stunned expression on his face.

  At seven o’clock, Gina came home, looked surprised that I hadn’t started dinner, then flung herself on the sofa in a melodramatic swoon. “Ohhhh,” she moaned.

  I sat swiveling to and fro on my bar stool at the breakfast counter, deep into my planning, biting my knuckle, oblivious, writing. Yes, yes, a plan was jelling.

  She sighed heavily a few times. She sat up and finally broke her silence. “Rita!”

  “I—I’m thinking, hon. Uh.”

  “Rita, I need to talk to you.”

  I looked up. “What about?”

  “Toby.”

  Aha. “What about Toby?”

  “I don’t think he’s exactly who he says he is,” she blurted.

  “Yeah?”

  She hauled herself up and joined me at the counter. “He’s not a ‘business consultant.’”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you!”

  “He’s involved in some kind of secret thing.”

  “Yes. What happened?”

  “We were out walking, just
down on Melrose, and we passed by this couple of cops, and I swear one of them recognized him. There was like this I know you! in his face, you know? Toby turned away and ducked us down an alley. He is smooth, very smooth, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “He just laughed it off, but suddenly he was sweating. I said, that cop looked like he knew you, and he said oh, he’d had a run-in with him one time, he was a son of a bitching cop. I go what kind of a run-in?, but he wouldn’t say. I got this feeling all of a sudden.”

  “Gina, he works for Dale the Whale Vargas. He’s an enforcer.” She stared at me, mouth open, one of her slow gasps beginning. I said, “That cop probably knew him from some drug bust or assault charge or something. He’s this ‘Denny’ I’ve been mentioning, at the ABC Mission.”

  She completed her gasp. “Of Wichita and Denny? Oh, my God. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I could only laugh incredulously.

  “Oh, my God!” she said. “I am so creeped! Look at my hands, they’re shaking!”

  “Well, hon, now that you know, you’re going to help us nail the Whale. Calm down, now. This is complicated, and I’m trying to figure—”

  “Oh, my God, I’m remembering, oh my God, all these little moments when something wasn’t quite right, you know, some little glitch that I couldn’t figure out, but now it all falls into place. He never likes to go out in the daytime. Like a vampire! He didn’t even want to walk around on Melrose, I sort of dragged him. He’s been mighty curious about you and George. Oh, my God! That’s why he wanted to date me! He didn’t even care about me!”

  I said, “He saw us at the mission that day we helped at lunch, I realize. But as it happened, neither of us saw him very well. I really didn’t get a look at his face at all. Now, maybe it was a pure coincidence that he walked into the record shop and asked you out. Or, he might have zeroed in on us somehow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Gotten suspicious of us, somehow. Maybe we looked too…focused.”

  “I think we should just talk to the police,” said Gina. “Get them involved.”

  I threw down my pencil. “Maybe we could convince them to raid the ABC Mission. Then what? They’d find some drugs and guns, and Amaryllis would get in trouble, and maybe they’d make a few more arrests. But as far as putting a stop to the Whale—nailing him for murder, and attempted murder, and conspiracy? I’m sorry, honey, but that won’t do it. He’s got more buffers than the Godfather. His hands are clean, incredibly clean. Might as well try to nail Petey for bank robbery.” I stopped, horrified.