Everyone who called wanted to know, first, what she was doing answering the phones, and Charlie told everybody that Larry had left on an errand for her, and everybody but Irma that she was just sitting in until Irma returned.
Luella Ridgeway wanted to speak to Tracy. “What do you mean she’s not there? When will she be back?”
“She didn’t come in today. Neither did you. What’s up?”
A long silence and then a long sigh, “I don’t know if I should tell you.”
“You weren’t at the party last night, either. Richard noticed.”
“I’ll bet he did. Charlie, I didn’t go to the party because the Beverly Hills P.D. picked me up for questioning about Gloria’s murder as I was leaving the agency last night. Would you have felt like going to a party after that kind of a session?”
You couldn’t have done it. I like you. “Luella, you’d just got back from Minnesota. You hardly had time to plan anything, and how could you even think straight after what you’d been through?”
Charlie could hear the purposeless but companionable noise of a TV in the background. She would learn that afternoon just how different were the messages sent by pauses and inflections and audible breaths when the face and eyes were not there to convince you how they wished you to hear. You were not diverted by clothing or color or gestures or fake attitudes. Only the sounds of people thinking, reacting, planning what to say next.
A deep inhalation, the tinkle of ice against glass, a swallow. “I came back a few days early without telling anyone. But your buddy, Lieutenant Dalrymple, thought to check the airline schedules.”
“He’s not my buddy. He’s driving me nuts. Why the big secret about being back early? You had that vacation time coming.”
“I got back on Saturday, visited Gloria the Monday night before she was murdered. The homicide sweethearts already know this. What can it hurt if you do?”
“Luella, was Gloria blackmailing you, too?”
Tinkle, swallow, pause, inhale, surprise … “Charlie, she couldn’t have had anything on you. You’re so worn out being a mommy you couldn’t find time to—it wasn’t blackmail … exactly.” Luella must have decided she’d already said too much, because she hung up without a good-bye.
What had she meant it wasn’t exactly blackmail? It either was or it wasn’t. And hadn’t Keegan said something similar at the party last night? Charlie had no time to mull it over, for Richard Morse came on the line wanting Luella. He did not sound especially chipper.
“She didn’t come in at all today? And she didn’t come to the party.”
“She got picked up for questioning by the police as she was leaving work last night. It kind of threw her. They found out she’d returned from Minnesota on Saturday, visited the Tuschmans Monday night.”
“Aw jeeze, that damn Gloria’s even more trouble dead.” Richard’s mouth was so dry his swallow crackled. “If this doesn’t stop we’re going under, Charlie, I can feel it. Get a name as a bad luck hotel in this town and you’re shunned. Superstitious bunch in this business.” It was unlike Richard to be so pessimistic. His hangover must have been special.
“I have some news that’ll cheer you up.”
“What? They found Mary Ann Leffler alive and well? They found out who killed Gloria and we can all get back to work?”
“Not that good. But Keegan completed the Shadowscapes script, and it’s magnificent. I’ve already sent it over to Goliath.”
“Oh, that’s good. Charlie, you know I haven’t seen a mention of that party in any of the press today?”
“Probably waiting for the weekend gossip columns.”
“You think so? Image is everything. We got to appear positive to the industry or we’re all done, Charlie.”
“I have some more good news, too. But I’m not going to tell you until you tell me what Gloria was doing that still seems to have everybody over a barrel around here.”
“It was grounds for firing her, Charlie, not for murdering her. What’s this other good news? I need all I can get.”
“You don’t talk. I don’t talk. I’m sick of this, Richard. Get well, ‘babe.’”
“Hey listen, Charlie, wait. Just don’t let it go any farther, okay? Gloria was picking out certain of the unsolicited manila envelopes we get in the mail each day. She’d take ’em home and answer them as if she were more of an agent than a receptionist. Tell them they weren’t ready for Hollywood yet and offer them a subscription to one of her husband’s newsletters that would give them all the information they needed to study up and get ready for the big time at home in Georgia or Iowa before they hit L.A. They’d be way ahead of the pack when they got out here. In these newsletters Roger’d advertise books on the subjects of acting and screenwriting he’d written and printed himself in his little shop. Roger did videos for home study, and seminars, too. And he got an awful lot of inside information from Gloria. Problem was they used the agency’s name and address.”
“Jesus.”
“Amen. I found out about it when Dan Congdon came across one of these newsletters in South Carolina where some local was auditioning for background. Handed him one to prove she was a pro.”
“Your partner—he’s in the industry?”
“He dicks around with it when he feels like it. But he got his thumb stuck up his ass about this one, I can tell you. I don’t blame him. We could be ducking lawsuits, and the fraud guys could get interested. So don’t blab. Remember who pays your mortgage. This could sink us.”
“Does Dalrymple know this?”
“No, but he does know about the Tuschmans’ witchcraft newsletters. So he’s getting close. Christ, they knew gullible when they saw it and how to make a buck. Roger did books and videos on the witchshit, too. Now tell me your other good news before I asphyxiate on pathos and gall.”
“Hal Licktman called from ZIA. They have a go from CBS for Tina to write the pilot for ‘Southwestern Exposure’ and are interested in Ellen for the lead. I think she’s a shoo-in, Richard. She’s a perfect match.” What if Gloria had been on the front desk listening to this conversation? Would Roger’s next newsletter tell his students all about a new pilot being written for CBS—hint that he talked to Tina Horton or that she’d been one of his students?
“Nothing happens that fast, Charlie. There’s a catch here.”
“Hal couldn’t believe it, either. They got the call from Shapiro himself.”
He managed a dry whistle. She could almost see the protruding eyes shutter halfway and the head nod as the mind tallied the take here. “Now that’s going to make the trade papers and big. And we’ve got Ellen and Tina and Monroe. And you. Great job, kid. Now be good to your stomach and take the rest of the day off. I don’t like you being there alone.”
24
But as Charlie rose to leave, phone lights started blinking again, and she couldn’t resist finding out who else would call in or if more wonderful news was about to arrive. Richard said good things came in threes.
Tracy Dewitt was on one line, and Charlie put her on hold. The other caller was a client of Dorian’s. Charlie told him she didn’t think Dorian would be in today but would have him call back tomorrow. She switched over to Tracy, who wanted to talk to Luella.
“Glad to see you have to work the front desk, find out what it’s like, Charlie.” Why had Charlie ever thought this woman pleasant and funny? Because she used to be, damn it. She had changed her stripes somewhere Charlie hadn’t visited. “Is Luella home or what?”
“She just called in a few minutes ago for you, Tracy. Wanting to know why you weren’t here.”
“Least I was at the party last night. Richard’s really pissed at her. Where’s Irma? Or your tame fag?”
“Larry’s on an errand for me. Irma will be back shortly. Maurice was in for awhile. And we all went to the party.”
“Yeah, well you may have noticed I had a very heavy date last night. James just left about an hour ago.” Even her yawn sounded smug.
Pr
omised your rent-a-date you could get his stuff read here, didn’t you, Tweety? Hope you got a discount. “Tracy, I’ll read his damned screenplay on one condition only, and will not guarantee how soon or that I’ll take him on. Understand? Have you seen the stacks of scripts we haven’t been able to get to yet?”
“It’s just a sample, Charlie. He’d be willing to work on anything to get a foot in the door. Without an agent he can’t even get his calls returned. I mean, it’s not fair.” When Charlie didn’t answer—“Okay, what’s the condition?”
“That you tell me everything you know about Gloria using the agency to get inside information and promotion for Roger’s newsletters and mail-order courses for wannabe actors and screenwriters, and why you and Luella wanted Richard to fire her.”
Pause, breath, chewing something … “You know what Gloria told me once, Charlie? She said you were sensitive to psychic phenomena and attracted paranormal stuff without knowing it. She said it’s a natural gift, and if you’d quit fighting it, you could learn to use it to your advantage. And if you don’t cultivate it, you’ll lose it. If you cultivate your gift, you could probably figure all this out yourself.”
“Good-bye Tweety and good-bye James.”
“No wait … it was just a suggestion.” Tracy took another crunch and used the chewing time to think.
“Don’t lie to me,” Charlie made her voice low and spooky and threatening. When in Dipsville.… “I’ll know.”
“My uncle hit boiling when he came across one of Roger’s show biz newsletters and blamed me for it, thinking I’d used the agency that way.”
“Why you?”
“My mom mentioned in a letter a few months, maybe a year, ago that Uncle Dan was talking to some big deal writer who did vampires or something about maybe producing one of her books. You know, making it into a movie and—he’s her brother, and she thinks he shits gold bricks.”
“Anne Rice?”
“Kind of sounds like it. Anyway, nothing came of it, but I sent him one of Roger’s witchcraft newsletters thinking maybe it’d give him some ideas. I mean if he was into crazy, why not? He must have kept it, because he noticed it had the same editors and address as the actor-wannabe newsletter and that one named the agency so …”
“Don’t think you’ve won my cooperation yet,” Charlie prodded.
“The name Tuschman means nothing to him, see? He doesn’t even know about Gloria. She’s just the receptionist. I mean, he never comes here. So he decides it’s me. He makes a copy of the damn thing and sends it to me with a nasty letter. So I go to Luella with my problem. Well, I’m hardly going to get any sympathy from Himself-the-Dorian-jerk-off. Who else would I go to, you?”
“So you showed Luella the copy of the newsletter, and she showed it to Richard.”
“And Gloria was murdered.”
“But why did you and Luella go to him with some story about Gloria’s casting spells over the agency?”
“She was. She had to be. Charlie, she knew things she couldn’t have otherwise. Okay, maybe not casting spells. We were just trying to make a point, but some kind of magic—”
“You’ve worked the front desk enough to know how much information goes past here. It’s hard to tell from the offices if someone out here is listening in on the calls.” I’ve learned more this afternoon than I would have thought possible. But why the change in you, Tweety, and when did it happen? Charlie was willing to bet it happened since Gloria’s murder. She used to enjoy Tracy Dewitt. David Dalrymple was right, murder was changing them all in subtle ways. “Tracy, were the Tuschmans blackmailing you?”
Tracy answered in a muffled voice and hung up. Charlie thought she’d said, “Not for money.”
That last was tantalizing enough that she couldn’t dismiss the beckoning of the little chimes and blinking lights and just walk out right away. If Charlie ever won big in Las Vegas, she’d lose it all before she left town for sure.
Elaine Black called wanting to speak to her husband. When Charlie informed her Dorian hadn’t come in today she said, “Bastard,” and hung up in Charlie’s ear.
Irma called. “Where’s Larry?”
“I sent him with Keegan Monroe’s screenplay over to Goliath. Richard called in and said we should all just go home, but I don’t know how to turn the phones over to the answering service. Are you coming back?”
“It’s after five. If no one answers, the service will take over automatically.” Irma had a lot in common with Dr. Podhurst. They could both make you feel like an imbecile in seconds. “And no, I’m not coming in. Get out of there now.”
“Wait, Irma. Was Gloria blackmailing you, too?”
“You’ve been warned, Charlie.” Congdon and Morse’s executive secretary left Charlie with a dial tone.
Charlie groped around with her stockinged feet for her pumps. Edwina said she’d get claw feet from wearing them. The pointy toe of one had caught under a corner of Gloria’s desk, and in trying to extract it with her foot Charlie snagged her hose and could feel the resultant run snake up her leg to and then over her knee. It was like a ribbon of relief.
She stared at the thrown pencil halves but thought of other things instead. Three other things at once. First, in one way or another, a lot of people had warned her of the dangers of being alone at the agency.
Second, something in her head was beginning to see a pattern to all the odd bits of information she’d collected while sitting in Gloria’s chair. Not collecting psychically. Collecting rationally.
Third, this was a semicircular desk, U-shaped, and so was the little cave for the captive receptionist to scoot her lap, legs, and feet under.
Charlie knelt to grope first for her shoe with her fingers and then for the reason why there was a corner where none should be. A square, plastic-feeling thing with sharp edges, probably less than two and a half inches off the floor. Too dark in this receptionist hole to see, but she found a part of the thing’s center that moved and then another. She jiggled, explored, and worried them with blind fingers until they pulled out far enough to come free.
Charlie pushed herself backward out of the hole and stood to look at what she held, hurried to fetch her purse, slipped the tapes into it, and headed for the door. Gloria had not only listened in to office business, she’d recorded it. Had she bugged Charlie’s flowers, too?
The elevator was on its way up, and she was surprised when it stopped at the fifth floor. The door opened on a phalanx of men, all of whom she knew. But only one appeared happy to see her.
“Miss Greene, I was hoping to catch you before you left. Your phone lines have been busy.” Lieutenant Dalrymple leaned over her, Dr. Evan Podhurst on his left, Larry Mann on his right. “We’ve found Mary Ann Leffler.”
At the back and outer edges of the phalanx, Maurice Lavender looked old and ill. Dorian Black looked mussed. Murder was changing them all.
Charlie didn’t want to hear about Mary Ann. She wasn’t ready. She told Maurice about the call from ZIA and that Ellen was being considered for the part of Thora Kay. He revived enough to brush her hair with a kiss of breath. “My client thanks you, I thank you. I didn’t expect word so soon, but I knew you would pull this off, you gorgeous creature.”
“Well, Tina Horton wrote the thing,” she reminded him.
But Maurice had his card out and was already trying to get into the agency to call Ellen. Then he would call ZIA and explain how full Miss Maxwell’s schedule had become, the many scripts she’d already been asked to read and consider. And the dealing would begin.
“Elaine called for you. I told her you hadn’t been in all day and she called you a bastard,” Charlie informed Dorian. He hadn’t quite gotten all the lipstick off his face.
He ignored Charlie and asked Dalrymple, “So where is the famous writer lady?”
“I remembered Irma probably wouldn’t be coming back in and didn’t feel right about leaving you here alone, Charlie,” Larry whispered. “Glad to see you’re okay.”
Dr. P
odhurst scowled at Larry and Charlie. “Yes, Lieutenant tell us. I hope she’s all right.”
“You know, don’t you, Miss Greene?” Dalrymple asked.
“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”
“I’m going to go one better. I’m going to show you.” He guided Charlie into the elevator and punched the button.
“Well, is she all right?” Podhurst persisted as the door began to close on the three men still grouped in the hallway.
“Hardly,” came their answer, and the door shut them away. “Seems to be quite a sudden gathering on your floor, doesn’t there? And your assistant implied you were alone inside.”
“Lieutenant, I have to get home. My daughter may have a friend staying over who’s run away, and her mother will never forgive me if I leave them unsupervised. I don’t think I got more than three hours sleep last night, and I had to see a doctor first thing this morning. I don’t feel well. Do we have to do this now?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Charlie had an inkling of what Luella Ridgeway must have felt the day before. A black and white, with a uniform driving and Detective Gordon in the passenger seat, waited at the rear entrance. Dalrymple crawled in back beside Charlie, and they were off with screeching tires and sirens, playing havoc with the rush-hour congestion. Avoiding clogged freeways, they followed a tortuous route that soon had Charlie lost. But they angled generally north and west. The sun came filtered through a haze of looming moisture.
“Just got the call. Stopped to pick you up on the way.” Detective Gordon leered pleasantly over his shoulder.
“Mary Ann’s dead, isn’t she?” What would Beverly Schantz say if they arrested Charlie? Or Richard Morse, or Mrs. Beesom, or Edwina Greene, or Libby? Even the driver watched Charlie in his rearview mirror.
“Yes,” the lieutenant answered with little inflection and less sympathy. “Why were you alone at the agency this afternoon?”
“Apparently, after last night’s party, Maurice, Irma, Larry and I were the only ones to show up. I sent Larry on an errand and thought Irma would be back any minute, so I started answering the phones. Maurice had left. I ended up doing it most of the afternoon.”