“If Ed can be Edward I can be Ernesto.” He took a yellow legal pad out of his briefcase and looked as tired as she felt. “I want you to tell me everything from the minute you got home last Friday night until you walked out of that jail at four o’clock this morning. Feel free to stop at any time and go back and fill in. The important thing is that you not leave out a thing.”
Charlie realized that this was Friday, too. The nightmare had begun only a week ago—it seemed like a month. But she began, “I will never take another vacation as long as I live, so help me God.”
When she was through, they went out to look at Jeremy’s fire-gutted house and the bombed gate.
“Blood on a pillow. You sure nobody hit you at any time during that questioning?”
“I told you I have an ulcer—and no, antibiotics won’t help it. Amuller may know nothing about Jeremy Fiedler, but he can accuse me. I know nothing about Jeremy’s death. How can I defend myself with no information on how he died?”
“He was murdered.”
“I know that. But how? Why won’t they tell me anything?”
“They assume you know. They assume you did it.” Charlie’s attorney looked at Charlie like she was handicapped, pitiable.
He opened his car door and leaned against the Lincoln with his fist on the roof, chewed on a knuckle. “I’m going to want to talk to this Betty Beesom, but not until I’ve had some sleep. The Dr. Rasmusen Officer Mason referred to is Pete Rasmusen, friend of mine. Ed Esterhazie described your hearing problem to him and he gave Ed the same answer he gave homicide. The symptoms as described are not consistent with trauma due to an explosive sound. The trauma causing your apparent hearing loss might be more psychological than physical. Told Ed to have you see a psychotherapist instead of him. Ed wanted me to tell you this because he thought you’d pop your cork and he didn’t want to be around.”
“In other words it’s all in my head. Gee, where have I heard that before?”
“Yeah, I know. You women are always so misunderstood. Look, I took you on as a client because Ed is a special friend.”
“So who needs a lawyer who thinks she’s guilty?”
“And because I trust his judgment. Ed told me about witnessing your latest loss of hearing. Ed said you winced like you’d been slapped. And then the terror came into your eyes. And then the tears. ‘Charlie doesn’t cry,’ Ed said. ‘She’s tougher than concrete. She wasn’t faking it, Ernie.’ Now that’s not going to hold up against Rasmusen in court. But it got you the best defense attorney in all of South Cal.”
He slid into the Town Car and smiled for the first time. It was the kind of smile that made you feel better. “Get some sleep, and don’t attempt any Nancy Drew stuff. You’ll really piss off police and prosecutors. And there’re a few leaks about the case in today’s P-T that might clear up some things for you.”
“You read the paper already? It just got here—you’ve been here since before dawn.”
“Nah, I heard about the leaks first.” And Charlie’s attorney backed out of the compound’s blown-up gate.
CHAPTER 30
CHARLIE THREW THE P-T on the dining room table because the table suddenly looked naked instead of clean.
She stripped off her clothes and took a long, hot shower, soaping and scrubbing from the tips of her hair to the tips of her toes twice and then again. She threw a perfectly good slacks outfit, from the underwear out, into the trash because it had been in jail.
She dared her ulcer with a mug of coffee and snuggled with it and the morning paper into the corner of the couch.
Sources, who asked not to be named, said that Jeremy Fiedler had died of a gunshot wound to the chest. The weapon had been in the car with him and though there was an attempt to make it look like a suicide there was a suspect in the case. Funny, Charlie didn’t remember any smell of gun smoke when she opened the car door and Jeremy all but fell out and Hairy Granger flew into her arms. Police were confident that an arrest would be made soon but were still asking anyone who might know the man pictured above, a photo of the corpse this time and not an artist’s drawing, to contact them at the number given below.
Oh, great. Charlie was just supposed to relax and rest up and let her attorney and J. S. Amuller take care of everything. Right. Hairy hadn’t smelled like gun smoke, either. Now there was no mistaking Jeremy Fiedler’s dead face and naked shoulders. Charlie grieved for him and for the security he had created in their fortress so wantonly destroyed with him. She didn’t believe that little “leak.” It was misinformation meant to frighten her. She didn’t believe the homicide folks had much to go on but intuition. And she felt even angrier than last night on the hard cot facing down hard women.
So instead of getting some rest, Charlie got dressed—in an outfit that could go places instead of sweats—and took the Toyota to Manic Mechanics.
Joe had a toothpick hanging out one side of his mouth and an unlit cigarette out the other. He grinned when he saw Charlie and lost them both. “You can’t afford me to fix this heap.” He slapped the Toyota’s hood. “Not that these babies ever wear out. Never forgive the Japanese for that.”
“Actually, I came to ask you more about Jonathan Phillips. Do you know where he kept the Ferrari?”
“Never asked, he never said. But it was inside someplace. Figured he had a garage for it at home. Left the Trailblazer out. Could tell by the finishes on both. Or he kept it outside under a cloth cover. But that’s asking to have it stolen. Pepe, you ever hear Phillips mention where he kept the Ferrari?”
“He never said anything to me,” the kid with the grimy face and gleaming smile said, “but the lady who came to pick him up when he left it here told me he took better care of it than he did her. She was kidding, you know.”
Charlie took a deep breath and leaned against her faithful Toyota. Ears, don’t fail me now. “Did this lady have long hair?”
“Just to her shoulders, maybe. Brown hair with gray at the roots.”
“How often did she come here?”
“I saw her maybe three, four times.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about her,” Joe Manic said. “Must be getting old. Never got a name, sort of thought she was Mrs. Jonathan Phillips.”
“She wore skirts, not pants or shorts. Skirts with sneakers and socks, no sandals. I think I seen her at Von’s once, too.” Pepe stared at the empty TV screen, searching his memory. “I do remember something about Mr. Phillips, though. I forgot yesterday. His hair changed color. I think he had more than one rug, and they didn’t match.”
There it was again, Jeremy’s hair. And her inner voice sort of alerted her again, like this was all part of what she already knew. But she didn’t.
Charlie drove along the route she’d chased the woman in the long coat, trying to find the place she’d lost her. Now that she thought about it, the woman had not been wearing slacks that night under the coat. Pepe’s skirts?
She parked the Toyota about where she thought the woman had disappeared on her and got out to walk. And to think.
This was still Belmont Shore. A series of modest homes added on to or pop-topped. No graffiti. Garages opening off alleys. The sound of a nearby bus on Xemino was muted somehow by big old trees and lush flower beds and the insulation of homes evenly spaced on small lots. No gates, a few grates at front doors and windows. One or two warnings of savage dogs on the premises. Charlie had never roamed her own neighborhood let alone those a few blocks out. There was a great deal of charm and good living going on here—in a world she’d assumed hostile and crime-ridden.
The old growth of nature and neighborhood and outwardly modest comfort on closer inspection revealed expensive cars, window coverings, landscaping, and concrete driveways. No faded or peeling paint, no broken roof tiles. One house’s spiky plantings still held pieces of toilet paper that were too high to reach. Charlie’s yard had been T-Peed three times, and Maggie’s once—which everyone considered a mistake, teens thinking it was Libby’s house. Anyway, this part
icular house also had spray-painted remarks on the sidewalk that had been painted over but not totally obliterated.
Charlie walked up and down the alleys looking in garage windows. In the third alley she found a red Ferrari. She walked around to the front door but no one answered, so she prowled around back to peek into the windows of a walk-out basement. One room held a huge array of exercise equipment, even one of those bicycles that tilted forward like those at Judy & Gym’s.
At Judy & Gym’s, she asked Judy Malakevich if a Jonathan Phillips was a member of the health club. He was not.
“We don’t give out names of members, but I can tell you he isn’t. I saw you here before. I know you’re a neighbor of that poor guy who got shot in his car.”
“I’m also looking for a woman, possibly middle-aged, shoulder-length brown hair with gray at the roots, who drives a red Ferrari and always wears skirts with anklets and sneakers instead of sandals—you don’t have to give me a name, but can you at least tell me if you’ve seen someone like that?”
“Doesn’t sound like anybody who’d come here—the Ferrari, maybe, but not the dress code. Is that the suspect the paper was talking about this morning?” Judy Malakevich leaned her hard, sleek, sweaty body closer in to Charlie. “We got a cop who works out here and he hinted the suspect was a woman.”
Actually, I’m the woman they suspect. “Well, yes, she is. She often wears a long coat, too. We neighbors have noticed her hanging around a lot. You know?”
Charlie handed her a business card that nowhere mentioned the word agent and Judy promised to ask around about this mysterious woman in anklets.
Next, Charlie drove to Von’s. She might be a prime suspect in a murder investigation, but she was still the one who had to put food on the table. She bought a mixed salad in a bag and asparagus and artichokes, chicken and fish for the grill and in quantity, because she had no idea who-all would be eating at her house and because she kept imagining the horror of prison-food-eaten-in-the-human-zoo smell. She bought deli potato salad and macaroni salad and cole slaw and cooked barbecued ribs, french bread and cat food, toilet paper and Kleenex and dishwasher detergent.
Would Libby have to go live with Edwina and her boyfriend in Boulder if Charlie went to prison? She threw some Snickers bars into the cart for the poor kid.
We’re not feeling sorry for ourselves one little bit?
Oh, yes, we are. I’m stopping at the Wine Merchant on the way home, too. So there.
Charlie had just finished piling everything in the Toyota and turned to stash the grocery cart in the provided stall when it started raining. Great, Jeremy’s bombed-out house would smell like a wet fireplace again.
Look, droopy dumps—at least you know where the red Ferrari is.
I know where a red Ferrari is.
She’d half-hoped to see the woman with the swinging hair and anklets at Von’s like Pepe had. But she saw her about a block away at the Wine Merchant instead. The woman was wearing a sweater today instead of a long coat and was just stepping out of a red Ferrari as Charlie stepped out of the wine store. She knew Charlie by sight because she slipped back into the car at first glance and tore off. By the time Charlie got back to her Toyota and headed after her, the Ferrari was lost somewhere in traffic and Charlie was left with little but the impression of a rather fragile and unhappy face.
Charlie drove slowly past the Ferrari’s house again. Unlike most of the houses in the neighborhood, it was not stucco or painted concrete block. It looked to be stained redwood with a wide deck on one side. Charlie pulled up to the curb and parked. The Ferrari wasn’t home, but she punched the doorbell and then knocked. She peered in a window off the deck and saw a shadow duck behind a kitchen counter—the shadow of a man, not a woman with shoulder-length hair.
Back at the compound, which no longer was one, Betty Beesom wandered over to hold the back door open for Charlie as she carried in groceries. “That’s an awful lot of food for two people.”
“Two people live here, but it seems like there’s usually more that eat here. And I never know. Larry’s coming back tonight, will probably stay the weekend, and you know what happens if Doug Esterhazie drops by for a snack.”
“Wish I could move that fast,” the old lady said as Charlie whirled the food from bags to cupboard and refrigerator.
Charlie stopped to study her neighbor. “Mrs. Beesom, you don’t look good.”
“Well, I made up this wonderful chicken salad for sandwiches and was going to have Wilma and Art over for dinner—I mean lunch, and they weren’t home and I was wondering if you’d had dinner—uh, lunch—yet. Made an awful lot for one old lady.”
Charlie put the milk, butter, eggs, and fruit in the refrigerator. “Chicken salad sandwiches. On pasty white bread?”
“Well, it’s white. I don’t know if it’s pasty.”
Charlie checked to be sure the fresh asparagus and deli salads were in the fridge too. “With real potato chips and real mayonnaise?”
“They’re regular—not baked or lowfat or no salt.” Poor Betty began to sweat, and it was actually chilly now with the rain. “But there’s chopped celery and onion and green peppers in the chicken salad. And lettuce to keep the juice out of the bread.”
“Iceberg lettuce?” Charlie asked sternly.
“Well—”
Charlie put her arm around her neighbor’s shoulders and guided her out the door. “Sounds marvelous, Mrs. Beesom. Let’s eat.”
There was even whole milk for Charlie’s ulcer. It tasted like cream after the one percent at home. “What’s wrong, Betty? I’m your friend. You can tell me.”
“In the paper this morning, Charlie, it said the police had a suspect in Jeremy’s murder. You and me was the only ones here. Nobody’d suspect you. You’re somebody’s mother.”
“Oh, Betty.” Charlie was facing the refrigerator door with the hummingbird magnets and yellowed picture of Mrs. Beesom’s church’s glorious gift of the sentry palm. Why hadn’t Charlie ever wondered why Betty Beesom could overlook Jeremy’s little girlfriends—considering her religious attitude about everything else? She obviously didn’t approve, but she’d done nothing about it. Then again, she was the one most dependent on him here. And it was obvious that she liked him.
Hell, we all did.
“We can alibi each other, can’t we? Even if we’re women? And Detective Amuller is sweet on you. So that just leaves me.”
“Betty, stop this. I’m the suspect here, not you. And he’s not sweet on me, he used that to get information from you.”
“Charlie, you got it all wrong. I talked to Lawyer Seligman himself this morning. He only works for murderers and bad people. I read about him all the time in the P-T. I’m just an old lady who didn’t know what she was doing.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. He’s my lawyer. I spent most of last night in a jail cell. He got me out. Listen to me. They think I did it. You and I know neither of us did.”
“Oh Charlie, I’m so sorry.”
“For what? I know you are not telling the whole truth, Betty. I know God loves you, but I know you can lie. Now Detective Amuller is going to try to use what you told him to convict me of Jeremy’s murder. And Ernesto Seligman is going to try to use what you told him to prove Amuller is wrong. Mrs. Beesom, I want you to tell me what you’re so sorry about—what you really know about Jeremy, and your owning his house, and I want you to tell me about Harry.”
“He’s a cat.”
“No, Harry. The man.”
An astonished but miraculously recovered Betty Beesom rose to wrap the half of the sandwich Charlie couldn’t eat in cellophane. “Don’t worry, dear. I can’t tell you about Harry, but I can say that he will take care of everything. It will all be just fine. I’m so relieved Mr. Seligman is not my lawyer. But Charlie, there’s another problem. And it’s much bigger. And I’m so sorry.”
CHAPTER 31
CHARLIE GRILLED THE tuna steaks in a grill pan on the stove because the on-and-off rain turne
d into long and steady. They propped open the kitchen door to let the fresh smell of the rain join them for dinner. She coated the steaks with Captain Iam’s Sinful Seafood Seasoning and served them with steamed asparagus, strawberries, macaroni salad, French bread, and wine. Not a bad meal for a little-interest, no-talent cook.
Charlie told Larry and Libby and Edward Esterhazie about the redwood house with a red Ferrari in the garage and a man who hid when she knocked on the door. “I’ll bet you anything his name is Harry.”
“Or Jonathan Phillips,” Ed said.
“Pepe and Joe at Manic’s remembered a woman who could be the one I chased before the bomb went off in Jeremy’s house. She’d pick him up when he left off one of the cars for repair. And I saw her and the Ferrari at the Wine Merchant this morning, went back to the redwood house, the Ferrari was still gone and the man still there.”
“You’ve been pretty busy for a woman who spent the night in jail,” Edward said. He was too robust and distinguished for ED. “This tuna, by the way, is excellent. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Yeah, Mom, the asparagus is even good. And it’s green.”
“A secret gourmet seasoning on the tuna and dill weed in the water under the steamer for the al dente asparagus,” Charlie said smugly.
“And the macaroni salad has the classic taste of—” Larry kissed the ends of his fingers and then unpetaled them toward his fellow diners, in a burst of gastronomic pretension, “—could it be France—no, it is, I think, Hastings—Von’s Deli, yes?”
“And a very good year for mayonnaise,” Charlie agreed. “After spending the night in jail, I’m stocking up on good memories.”
“Have you told Ernie Seligman about this redwood house and the woman at the Wine Merchant with Jeremy’s car?” Edward wanted to know.
“My tough-case lawyer didn’t want me snooping around and annoying Amuller even more. I was ordered to be a good girl and stay home and let him and the LBPD do the legwork. Seligman even questioned Mrs. Beesom. She was convinced she was the suspect reported in this morning’s P-T.”