All the way to Wilshire on the interminable freeway, did Charlie scheme and fantasize and rejoice in the possibilities about to come out of the Alpine Tunnel deal? No.
Did she consider the ramifications of a murder at the agency and mull over the possible candidates for murderer? No.
Did she get on the car phone and call New York? She did not.
Charlie spent the entire time trying to figure out the connection between two-hundred-dollar Rollerblades, cheerleading, high school sororities, and her own unmarried state. She knew Libby. There was a connection somewhere. And whatever it was, it would cost Charlie bucks.
This weekend when she wasn’t trimming the yard, cleaning the house, getting rid of the cat, doing the laundry and grocery shopping—she and Libby were going to have to take the time for a long talk. Charlie had never known the bliss of matrimony, nor had she known the desire. Motherhood was already more than she could handle. Libby had made it this long without a father figure, couldn’t she hang on just a few more years?
Jesus, some kids have to go without food.
Riding up the public elevator to the fifth floor of the FFUCWB of P with Maurice Lavender, Charlie received the requisite hug-grope and continued congratulations on the Alpine Tunnel deal. And then Maurice raised a handsome brow. “What is that wonderful perfume you’re wearing, sweetie? It’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Eau de Potty,” Charlie, who wasn’t wearing any, told him and sidled away to the door just as it opened.
She stepped right into Lieutenant Dalrymple’s chest. “Miss Greene, here you are. I was hoping for a few words with you before all the excitement starts. Have you had breakfast?”
Before she’d even set foot in her office, Charlie found herself, instead, facing the Beverly Hills Police Department over omelets and coffee at Sidney’s.
“Have you had any thoughts about who might have killed Gloria Tuschman and why?” he asked pleasantly and as if they both had all week to laze around the breakfast table.
“Not really. That’s your job. I have one, too, you know. Lieutenant, do you have a family?”
“A wife and two grown children, why?”
“Did your wife work outside the home while raising the children?”
“Once they were in school, certainly. You know a policeman’s pay.”
“Did she have time to solve murders, too?”
“She barely had time to clean the house, and I was no help, with my hours—ah, I see what you’re getting at. I do realize you’re busy. And I understand you have a young daughter.”
“More like frantic, and she’s fifteen, and I’m raising her myself. Between home and office and freeway, I barely have time to read submissions. Which is a big part of my job, but there’s no time for that during working hours. And I know this is going to sound incredibly cruel, but I’ve barely given poor Gloria a thought since I last saw you yesterday.” Charlie pushed her plate away and reached for her coffee. Neither she nor Libby ate breakfast at home, and this was the first cup of the day. She sniffed the warm pleasure of it and took a gulp, continuing before he could interrupt her. “Right now you are concentrating on Gloria and those murders assigned to you. Do you have time to worry about or concentrate much on those assigned to other detectives?”
He’d hardly begun on his omelet, and now he paused to break and butter a muffin. “You are a very persuasive young lady.”
“That’s my job, too.” She looked pointedly at her watch.
“You’re overlooking something important.” He took a bite of the muffin and spent forever chewing it. “Murder takes precedence.”
“Lieutenant, I really have to get on the phone to New York soon. I’ve already lost a day. This Alpine Tunnel thing could well be a megadeal here.”
“Yes,” he said dubiously and cut another piece out of his omelet, “is this something to do with Switzerland or skiing?”
“Phantom of the Alpine Tunnel, the novel.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You must have. It was on the New York Times best-seller list for twenty-eight straight weeks. Of course that was a few years ago, but—”
“Unlike murder, fame is fleeting,” he mused and continued enjoying his food, his movements precise, unhurried. “You’re not the only one who seems untouched by the receptionist’s sudden absence.”
“But we all are, don’t you see? That place is a madhouse without someone on the phones and filtering traffic through the front door and the fax … a hundred things. Clients will have seen about it on the news and be calling in worried that their business is not being seen to, that we’re so preoccupied by the murder that opportunities are being overlooked and it will affect their careers. Actors are paranoid, and so are writers. I just hope Irma came in today to take charge.”
“Gloria Tuschman’s death, then, is an inconvenience rather than a grief?”
“I feel sorry for her. Nobody wants to be dead.”
“But you didn’t like her. I have the feeling no one did. Why?”
This man was not going to be manipulated, hurried, or put off. Charlie might just as well bite the bullet and consider Gloria. “She grated on people. I never felt comfortable around her, and I doubt the others at the agency did, either. But she was very good at what she did, and I don’t think Richard realizes how hard she’s going to be to replace.”
“How did she grate on you? What was it she did that made you uncomfortable?” When Charlie just shrugged, he added, “Miss Greene, consider this a business breakfast. Time worth spending. Because it is, you know. Murder’s a nasty business but every bit as exciting as show business if—”
“Can’t you talk about anything but murder?”
“It’s not going to go away, and neither am I. So, why did Gloria Tuschman make you uncomfortable?”
“I honestly can’t put my finger on it. You can probably tell I love my job. It’s exciting and wonderful and I wouldn’t be anywhere else for the world. And she made it easier by being a good receptionist and keeping things running smoothly. We’re all in and out of the office so much, and you could always count on Gloria to know where everybody was. I just never spent a lot of time around the front desk. I’d breeze by on my way in and out. Larry picks up my mail and keeps track of my calls. I didn’t stop and talk to her much.”
“You never had lunch or coffee breaks with her?”
“Lord no. I’d grab a cup of coffee on my way in and drink it at my desk. If I didn’t have a lunch meeting, I’d probably had a breakfast meeting late and wouldn’t want lunch. One of the assistants would take a break with Gloria while another covered for her at the desk. At lunchtime she put the phones on the answering service and went out with other secretaries in the building. If I’m in, I find that a very good time to get caught up.”
“If you had no contact with her, how could she make you uncomfortable?”
“There was some contact of course. But I always had the feeling that if I stayed around her very long, she’d want something I didn’t want to give her, or try to tell me something I didn’t want to hear. I know it sounds dumb, but I avoided her whenever possible. Which doesn’t mean I killed her.”
“Something you didn’t want to hear. Something like the fact that she thought you might be sensitive to certain stimuli or even be psychic?”
“You’ve been talking to Larry Mann.” Charlie was forever passing on her irritations to her assistant.
“I overheard you talking to a dead woman, Miss Greene.” His omelet was finally gone, and he wiped his lips carefully, folded the napkin, and placed it beside his plate so it looked like it hadn’t been used. He took out his little spiral notebook again. “‘You said you were in the garbage can, not in the bushes.’”
“I was just talking to myself.”
“I don’t think so. And another thing. You have never once asked me about any of the details of Gloria’s murder. I would think natural curiosity would lead to questions here. Whether you liked
her or not, this is a woman you actually knew.” The mild-mannered homicide detective was going on the offensive. And he had all the clout in this deal. “One explanation for that could be that you already know the answers.”
“It’s only been two days, and there’s been a lot else going on. And sure, I have questions, but I figure that when the proper authorities find the answers, we’ll all know. You’re not going to answer them until you’re ready anyway. Why waste the effort? All I can tell you is I did not kill Gloria and I am not psychic. I was involved in a murder investigation last year, Lieutenant. In Oregon. And all I did was mess things up by asking questions. I learned my lesson. I will leave it all to you.” Like the good little citizen that I am. If you think I’m going to go through all that again with the Alpine Tunnel deal pending, you’re out of your mind.
“Yes, I phoned Sheriff Bennett of Moot County this morning. He spoke highly of you and sends his warm regards.”
David Dalrymple waited for Charlie to respond to this easy opening. Actually, she had some warm memories of Sheriff Bennett that she figured were warming up her complexion about now, which probably said it all anyway. She must be on some interpolice computer thing just for having been involved in that murder at Moot Point last summer.
“So what are the questions you would ask me if you thought I’d answer them?” he said. “About the murder.”
“I don’t believe this. You’re the expert on murder.”
“But I didn’t know Gloria alive. Help me, Miss Greene.”
“My questions have nothing to do with knowing Gloria. They’re the same you’d ask yourself if you had as little information as I do. What was Gloria hit with and where is that weapon? I mean in front of all of us Richard mentioned she’d been bopped, and you didn’t contradict him, so I assume someone hit her with something. How did she get from the private hall on the fifth floor, dead, past all the people who are around that time of the day, to that back alley entrance and then up into the bushes? Where were her friends and relatives at this time, like her husband, Roger, for instance? What do the guys down on valet parking have to say about all this? There’s nearly always an armed security guard hanging around somewhere, too. What about the people in the coven she claimed to be part of? I mean she was into séances, Ouija boards, you name it. The questions are endless, Lieutenant, and unless you’ve got all the answers, you have your work cut out for you. And so do I. Please? Unless you’ve decided to arrest me this minute, I need to get back.”
“On one condition.” He picked up the check. “I want you to walk with me to the end of that fifth floor hall again.”
Much to Charlie’s relief, Gloria, or someone pretending to be Gloria, did not speak to her when she and the lieutenant walked to, stood around and waited in, walked from, turned back and repeated the process, and then left that particular VIP hall on the fifth floor of the FFUCWB of P building. David Dalrymple was noticeably disappointed. But as far as Charlie was concerned, David Dalrymple was seriously weird.
Thank God Irma Vance was at the front desk when Charlie snuck behind her by way of the back hall with an unseen salute. Charlie, having come in via the VIP stairs, was now officially back on the premises unnoted, which might mean she might get something done—like work.
“Has Keegan called? Get me a line to Keegan. Hold everything else except McMullins, Ursa Major, Alpine Tunnel things. Line up how many calls I need to get through to New York otherwise. And, Larry, hurry, that damned Dalrymple has put me so far behind already—”
Charlie was actually through his cubicle and behind her desk, her pumps kicked off, her computer booting up, before she registered what her eyes had seen while her mind had been so organized. She rushed back to the cubicle that protected her office. “Larry? What’s wrong? Larry?”
Charlie hadn’t realized how high the stacks of screenplays, treatments, teleplays, manuscripts, and proposals had grown since last she’d noticed. Larry was a large person. There was his chair behind his computer keyboard, a small visitor’s chair just inside the door, a towering drop-leaf file cabinet alongside it stuffed with proposals filed alphabetically by author, and a narrow path to Charlie’s office door. Every other inch of space was stacked with material as yet unread and unalphabetized.
Larry was slumped over a pile of submissions next to his keyboard, his head buried in folded arms.
“We’ll call in Harry and Lucinda to screen some of this, and I’ll help you organize the rest right away. Hey, this is doable, trust me. Larry?” Harry and Lucinda were outside readers the agency hired on contract to help Charlie and Larry paddle through the flood. Most of the paying business came from contracted work like Keegan’s, but every now and then there was a possible Alpine Tunnel in the pile worth wading through the muck to get to.
She closed the door to the hall. “I just hate to see a beautiful man cry.”
He finally raised his head to stare at her dry eyed. “And I just hate people who say things like ‘doable.’”
“It’s not the backed-up work load, is it?”
“No, it’s Gloria.”
7
“The backed-up work load would have been easier.” Charlie slumped into the visitor’s chair.
“I don’t see how you and Richard can just blow this off and continue working like nothing happened. A woman we know was murdered right here in the building.”
“That’s work for the police, Larry. When I think of something I can do about it, I’ll stop and do it. What do you want me to do, just be upset or what?”
“When you didn’t know she was dead, but were worried about her being missing, you were upset enough to be hearing voices in the back hallway. Then when you find out she’s murdered, you seem to feel better about it.”
“Well, I could have maybe done something about her being missing. I can’t do anything about her being dead.”
“You’re fucking pragmatic for a woman.”
Charlie was never sure how to take him and didn’t want to hurt or insult him. A good assistant was worth his weight in yen, and Larry was good. So now she said carefully, “Larry, you and I are just different. We’re neither one right or wrong, just different. You see, to me pragmatic is a compliment.”
He worked up a grimace. “You know, don’t you,” he said, “that you’re everything I detest in a man?”
“Hey, if you want to take the rest of the day off, I’ll fight it out with the Vance.”
“There you go again trying to avoid things. What I want to do is talk about Gloria, not go home and stew about her murder alone. I don’t understand you, Charlie.”
Charlie didn’t understand him, either—why would you want to talk about something you were helpless to influence instead of something exciting like a megadeal you could participate in? But she had Irma hold her calls and took her assistant to the couch in her office so they could discuss Gloria in comfort. Maurice was right, Richard should get some counselors in here. But Charlie couldn’t picture him spending the money. “Excuse me for sounding pragmatic again, and I’m not questioning your feelings, but Larry, you were not that immensely fond of Gloria.”
“And you know it could have been one of us who killed her. Her husband was probably at work and has witnesses to prove it. I don’t think the police are going to buy the theory that a coven of witches waltzed in here unnoticed to do her in. You’ll notice this Dalrymple is spending a lot of time hanging around the office.”
“Around the building. There’re all kinds of offices in it. Larry, what’s really bothering you?”
He had a male model’s square jaw. When coming into the office he usually wore stylish cotton pants and a white shirt, with the sleeves carefully rolled up above the elbow and the neck open. A lightweight sport coat with patches on the elbows and a necktie in the pocket hung behind the open door to the hall for the occasional dressy lunch. He looked indefinably mussed and rumpled today, and his tan had taken on an unhealthy hue.
“I don’t believe anybody at the
agency has the airtight alibi they think they do. And I’m the only one strong enough to heave a body up into the bushes like that. I’m scared, Charlie.”
“You had no motive. And it was not necessarily just one person involved. Do you know who Richard was talking to in his office earlier that morning when Tracy heard voices?”
“Mary Ann Leffler and Keegan Monroe.”
“Before the breakfast at Universal?”
“Yeah, and that meeting didn’t last a half hour. Charlie, when I left to go over to the Chevron practically everybody was here.”
“But Gloria told me over the car phone that most everybody had come in and then left on business.”
“Probably just to needle you. She was always trying to make people feel guilty.”
“Richard, Keegan, Mary Ann, Irma?” she asked and he nodded with each name.
“And Maurice, I think. Dorian, I know,” he said. “And Tracy. I’m not sure about Luella. And when I came back the office was completely empty.”
“Have you told Dalrymple all this?”
“I don’t want to implicate myself, or irritate a killer, or lose my job.”
“You think Richard did it?”
“All I know is that now that Gloria’s gone, I’m low man on both the seniority and the clout totem poles around here. I’m not making any waves until I know what this is all about. And I was gone a little longer than just over to the Chevron for Ding Dongs for Gloria. I slipped in another errand first.”
And if he raised the first alarm about alibis someone else would probably figure that out and call him on it in front of Dalrymple. “How much longer?”
“Half hour, forty-five minutes.” He leaned forward in probably his most endearing pose, the butterscotch hair tumbling across his forehead. “You know, Charlie, I think you and I need to look into this whole business on our own before we go to the lieutenant? We know each other didn’t do it. And we’ll know better what we’re getting into that way.”
Charlie stared at her quiet phone and blank computer screen. All she wanted was to be happy and do the work she loved. Was that so much to ask of the world? “We did not go on this errand together,” she said, “so maybe you better fill me in?”