In case you think she was referring to my:
running with the cat
ruining a wedding
getting arrested by casino security
stealing a limo
getting arrested by casino security again
or even just not emailing her coherently the night before, you’re wrong.
She was mad because I was wearing my bikini with the padded top.
“I told you to get rid of that thing last month,” said my best friend since kindergarten.
There’s no question that Polly knows what she is talking about fashion-wise—people stop her on the street all the time and try to buy her clothes off of her (including once a stylist from the WB who offered her a job on the spot and was very surprised to learn Polly was still in high school)—but I really wish she’d get over her no-padding rule. I mean, what’s wrong with trying to help myself a little? We can’t all be B cups like her.
“Hi, Polly, it’s great to see you,” said I, taking the high road.
I looked at my friends. It had been three days since I’d seen them, and three days in Polly Time could mean a lot of changes, but she was pretty much as I’d left her. At first glance Polly looks like a typical, really pretty California girl, all long blonde hair and blue eyes and skinny tan limbs, the kind you see rollerblading at the beach. Except when Polly goes rollerblading, she wears a huge helmet and Kevlar body pads.4
Roxy and Tom’s parents had both been telenovela stars in their youths, perfect specimens of the human form, and that physical perfection had been passed down to the twins. Tom was like Antonio Banderas times ten, and Roxy was one of those people who men turn around in their seats to look at—ALL the way around—as they walk by. She’d literally caused a traffic accident last year when we were shopping on Melrose, just by crossing the street. And not, like me, because she tripped and fell running after the guy who stole Mrs. Azaji’s purse. Typical of Roxy, she didn’t even notice.5
Today Roxy was wearing a tank top with a pirate flag on it that said SURRENDER THE BOOTY, jeans, one red and blue Puma sneaker and one blue and yellow one. Tom wore jeans and a dark green Fred Perry shirt that he had clearly chosen to impress Polly. And Polly was, as always, wearing pink.6
I said, “It’s great to see all of you. But what are you doing here? What about your jobs?”
They were all working for their parents—Roxy and Tom for their dad, the Cadillac King of Southern California, repossessing cars that people were overdue paying for, and Polly as a paralegal in the law firm her mother and father founded before their first divorce—so it wasn’t that hard for them to get a Friday off, but it wasn’t exactly normal.
Roxy, with the room service menu in her lap, was busy trying to make my father understand that the ON button also turned the television OFF (geniuses really are not like other people), and Polly had gone over to root through my drawers and see what other forbidden items of clothing I’d brought with me, so I looked to Tom for an answer.
He said, “We needed a road trip.”
Tom is many things—a total fox (see above), a complete gentleman, the captain of the Medford Boys School water polo team, the number-one crush for everyone at my all-girls school (except me, because he’s too good a friend, and Polly, because she does not believe in love), funny, smart, romantic, and cutely shy around most girls—but he is a sucky liar.
“So you just happened to choose Vegas?” I interrogated.
“Um, yes.” He leaned toward me to whisper, “We didn’t know Polly would make us listen to country music all the way here. Although we did hear this one good song on the college station called ‘I Wanna Whack Your Piñata.’”
“Is that really what the song is called? That is just wrong.”
“Only to the perverted. It’s about this guy who goes to his younger brother’s birthday party. It’s good. About nostalgia for lost youth, the yearning to be free. I can sing some of it—”
I was not going to be distracted. “Nice try. What is the real reason you’re here?”
“Well, we missed you. Nothing fun happens in LA when you’re not there, Jas, you know that. No random riots, no mall brawls.”
Sadly, that part sounded like he was telling the truth.
Sherri! came over then. “Isn’t it great having everyone here?” she said. “I was so happy when Polly called yesterday and asked if they could come.”
“You knew about this? And my dad knew? And it was okay?”
“Yes. I told Cedric that I thought your cousin Alyson was a bad influence on you. That you needed your friends to keep you out of trouble.”
Is there a stepmother Hall of Fame? Because Sherri! totally deserves a plaque there. “Thank you so much,” I stammered.
“No problem. Listen, I don’t know what you’re involved in, Jas, but be careful, okay?”
I didn’t bother to deny involvement. “I will.”
“Oh, one other thing. If it has anything to do with Fiona Bristol, be extra careful.”
“Why?” I asked.
She got a serious look on her face. “Her augments.” (“Augments” is Sherri! for “fake boobs.”)
“What do you mean?”
“They’re by Dr. Neiman,” she said in a voice that made it sound like it was something profound. When I just looked blankly at her, she said, “Only a particular kind of woman went to Dr. Neiman. He’s dead now, but about ten years ago, he was well known all over LA and Hollywood because he did quality work, but he let you pay on an installment plan.”
“So Fiona got augmented on layaway? Why is that weird?”
“It means that although she’s carrying a $5,000 Hermès Kelly bag—”
“More like $7,500 with the current exchange rate,” Polly called from across the room, where she was still poking through my drawers, sighing occasionally. I am such a trial to her.
“A $7,500 purse,” Sherri! went on, “at the pool, and wearing at least $300,000 in jewelry, she didn’t always have resources. In fact, she worked hard to get where she is. Dr. Neiman was very strict about payment. There were some scary rumors about what he would do if you weren’t on time. Only the very determined—the very ambitious—went to him. Which means that there’s more to Ms. Bristol than it appears, more strength. More, well, gumption.”
“Gumption?” I asked.
“Drive. Something,” Sherri! said vaguely. “She would fight to keep what she has. I don’t know why I’m telling you this—it’s probably stupid, but just…be careful, okay, Jas? For my sake? And your dad’s?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m always careful.”
And it’s more evidence of Sherri!’s supreme excellence that, instead of rolling her eyes like my father would have, she said, “I know.”
Then she looked toward the television where Roxy and the Thwarter himself were staring mesmerized at a man demonstrating a new concept in pipe unclogging. “I’d better go get Cedric before he makes us buy one of those things. You know how he is about the Home Shopping Network.”
Yes, I did. I was still recovering from the meat “solid flavor injector” incident. “Please,” I nearly begged.
She glided over to my dad, then glided him off the couch and toward their room. I turned around to shut and lock the door behind them, and when I turned back, Polly was facing me with her hands on her hips.
“I thought you weren’t interested in the affairs of others named Fiona Bristol,” she said. “Don’t tell me we came all this way to rescue you and you’re already back to Normal Jas.”
I shook myself out of the memory of what I’d forever think of as the Meat Enema Nightmare. “Sorry?”
“Personally, I’m thrilled, sweetie,” Roxy said, putting her arm around me. “This saves us the trouble of forcing you to read People, Us Weekly, InTouch, Entertainment Weekly, and the Journal of Forensic Science for two days straight to deprogram you.”
“That’s why you came? That was the plan?”
“Part of it,” Tom said.
“You don’t want to know the rest. I believe the words ‘these dog collars would make excellent restraints’ were involved.”
“It was a brilliant idea,” Roxy said defensively. Roxy and Tom are twins DNA-wise and good-looks-wise, but opposites in almost every other way. “And we only got really cute well-made collars.” She pulled a purple leather dog collar with diamond-shaped stones on it out of a bag on the floor. “This is my favorite. We had the tag engraved to say BUBBA.”
Is this normal? Do normal people automatically assume a friend of theirs has been brainwashed and then drive 250 miles to “deprogram” her? Using gemstone-covered dog collars? I do not think so.
It was kind of sweet, though. In a severely messed-up way.
But the fact was, it was fantastic to see them. And with the way things were going, I could really use their help.
As if to remind me, Polly held up the envelope that had been pushed under my door that morning, which she’d apparently found while invading the sanctity of my underwear drawer—which is illegal, by the way. Even police cannot do that without some paperwork, so I am pretty sure best friends aren’t allowed either. Not that this would stop Polly—and said, “Explain. Now.”
Thirteen
“What’s that?” Roxy asked, tearing her eyes from Bubba’s collar to look at the paper Polly was holding.
“Oh, only a note threatening our sweet Jas if she doesn’t stay out of ‘it,’” Polly told her, then moved her eyes to me. “You were about to start explaining what you’re staying out of.”
So I did. I filled them in on everything that had happened during the last two days, right up through the gondola ride with my one true (evil) love. Their comments—
Polly: I can’t believe Fiona Bristol would walk around with a smudge on her pedicure.
Roxy: I can’t believe Alyson and Veronique consider lip gloss food.
Tom: I can’t believe anyone uses lines like that one about love at first sight. And that they work.
(Hello? Anyone hear the part about ALMOST KISSING? Why is it that me not being interested in gossip requires a full-scale intervention, while me falling in love with an evil, evil man gets no mention? Not even the barest notice? WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?)
—were not immediately helpful, but when I told them I wanted to start by finding out everything I could about Fiona Bristol, they sprang into action. Polly hoisted a pink backpack with a silver rhinestone P on it—Polly’s hobbies are organizing and BeDazzling—onto the coffee table and started pulling magazines out.
“This is the last year of articles on Fiona Bristol from the LA Times and all the majors,” she told me. “Should be enough to get us started.”
The majors, to Polly, are People, Us Weekly, TV Guide, Weekly World News, Vogue, Bust, Psychology Today, and Hot Rod; everything you need, she says, to understand modern culture. Which, if you think about it, is both true and scary.
“How did you even know I would want these? I didn’t even know I would want them. And why do they smell like Funyuns?”
Polly shrugged. “We figured if the situation was at all crazy, it was just a matter of time before you were up to your neck in it.”
“What do you mean?”
Roxy said, “Sweetie, you wouldn’t be our Jas if you weren’t.”
Great. I’m a crazy things human magnet.
We ordered room service and then got to work reading all the articles about, as Polly dubbed it, “The Terrible Tragedy of Fiona Bristol and Red Early, Star-Crossed Lovers.”
The main characters in the Terrible Tragedy were the world-famous model played by Fiona Bristol; her world-famous photographer husband played by Edgar “Red” Early (so-called because of his red hair); and, in the role of the dead man, Red’s business manager, Len Phillips.
It all started when Red came home early from a photo shoot, went into the bedroom he shared with Fiona, and found his business manager lying on the floor in front of the wall safe. In a puddle of blood.
At least that is what he said happened in his call to the police.
Len Phillips’s throat had been slit and his thumb cut off, and since the safe was open, the police originally thought it was a robbery gone bad. But as the investigation continued, the robbery idea fell apart: There was no sign that anyone had broken into the house; the safe that was open only held negatives, nothing of any real value; and, it became clear that Red Early had been with the body for more than a little while before calling the police.
Suspicious? Are candy necklaces yummy?
The official police conclusion was no surprise: Red Early was the murderer and staged it to look like a robbery to divert suspicion from himself. There was no sign of the murder weapon, which they guessed he ditched in that long time before he called the police. The motive, officials speculated, was jealousy that Len and Fiona had been having an affair, and by coming home early, Red interrupted a rendezvous.
All of which made perfect sense to me.7
In the last act of the Terrible Tragedy, Red Early was arrested. He pled not guilty, but refused to cooperate with his defense attorney, who eventually quit.8
I flipped back through the articles, skimming them.
“What’s wrong?” Polly asked. “Don’t frown like that, you’ll wrinkle.”
“I was just trying to see if they ever found the thumb. The first article mentioned it, but none of the others do.9 It’s weird for a murderer to take something like that unless he’s a real psycho.”
“I guess that means Red Early is a real psycho,” Polly said. “At least he’s locked up.”
That was when Tom looked up from the article he’d been reading. “Oh, he’s not locked up. He’s on the run. In fact, I bet he’s here right now, looking for Fiona Bristol.”
Fourteen
Apparently I’d been wrong. There was still one act of the Terrible Tragedy left to go. The last, bloody act.
Tom handed me the article he’d been reading. RED EARLY ESCAPES FROM CUSTODY IN LOS ANGELES.
“Before he quit, his lawyer got the judge to grant him bail. The next day Red took off. He’s been out for almost eight months and no one knows where to find him,” Tom said. “They think he might have had help, but no one knows who it was.10 He skipped on a million-dollar bail bond, so all the best bounty hunters are after him.”
I saw what Tom meant about him looking for Fiona. Right after he disappeared, Red sent her a letter with the cheery message: “If you give me Fred, I will leave you alone. Otherwise I will hunt you for a hundred years.”
“Ooh, a love note!” Roxy said. “What a romantic.”
I decided to assume she was kidding.11
There was a kind of bad photograph of the note in Us Weekly with the headline RED INK: THE RED EARLY NO ONE KNEW. I couldn’t tell from the picture if it had been written by the same person who sent me the “Stay Out of It” message. Some of the letters might have been the same. Or not.
And I hoped not. Because a handwriting expert had been called in by Us Weekly to study the note to Fiona and determined from the way the letters were formed and words were spaced that the writer was “organized, calculating, and unscrupulous, the classic criminal. He is usually pragmatic, but occasionally lapses into the dramatic, possibly due to a stunted childhood. He lies easily and without compunction, and probably kills the same way.” The article also suggested that the person enjoyed diverse hobbies and most likely drove a nice car.
“A nice car. Well, that helps narrow it down,” Tom said.
“I wonder what kind of car Jack drives,” I said. “I bet it’s not nice.”
“Of course you do,” Polly said, patting me on the head.
Tom pointed to a photo of Red Early in his prison uniform that accompanied the handwriting article. “Do you recognize him at all? Could he be the man you saw on the surveillance tape? Caftan Man? Like, in disguise?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get that good a look at him—it was dark the first time I saw him, and the tape wasn’t tha
t clear. There is something familiar about Red Early.” I put the picture aside. “But Caftan Man wasn’t the person Fred was running from.”
“Jack,” Polly said.
I nodded miserably. “He definitely doesn’t seem to like Ms. Bristol, and Fred was really scared of him. Maybe he is the one helping Red Early. Maybe he is working for Red, trying to kidnap Fred.” I couldn’t help it. I sighed. “I wish I just knew what his connection with them is. Why he is doing it.”
No sooner had I said that than there was a knock on the door and I got my answer.
Well, sort of.
The bellman at the door asked me if I was Miss Callihan, and then handed me an envelope.
“Who gave this to you?” I asked.
“No one. It was in a pile of items submitted to the concierge to be delivered.”
Untraceable. Of course.
On the outside my name and room number had been typed. But inside there was a ticket to Madame Tussauds wax museum and a handwritten note. My heart started to pound like crazy.
MISS CALLIHAN,
I MUST SEE YOU, ALONE. MEET ME AT MOHAMMAD ALI AT 5:30 TONIGHT SO I CAN EXPLAIN EVERYTHING AND APOLOGIZE FOR MY ABRUPT DEPARTURE TODAY. COME, IF NOT FOR MY SAKE, FOR FRED’S.
YOURS,
JACK
The writing was the same as on the first letter. The one that told me to stay out of It. And again, there were similarities to the note in the magazine. The one written by a person who “lies easily and without compunction and probably kills the same way.”
“What are you doing?” Polly asked.
“Calling Mr. Curtis. This has gone too far.”
Polly made a face, but Roxy and Tom nodded. Tom said, “I agree with Jas. She should consult a professional.”